ruler; "what's got into the children?" Whether the monkey thought the
flourish which the teacher's ruler took was a signal for a fight or
not, I never knew; but certain it is he began to scream and shake his
chain. The children laughed louder than ever. Aunt Thankful turned
round, saw what the trouble was, and raised her hands. The monkey
construed this as an act of war, and with a single jump landed on the
desk. Here for a few moments he made the papers fly pretty nimbly. He
upset the inkstand, scattered the sandbox and pens, screaming all the
while like mad. After he had experimented long enough, he gave
another jump out of the window; and that was the last we saw of him.
Aunt Thankful looked as white as a sheet. She was taken by surprise,
and seemed really frightened.
"Marcy on us," she said, as soon as she could find words, "what a
dreadful creature! You may go to your seats, children; I guess you can
be excused for laughing."
The poor lady proceeded to pick up her papers, and set matters to
rights. It was quite a task. The ink had run over all her papers and
into her desk. For years after, that ink spot was pointed out by the
children to the new comers, and the story of the monkey had to be
related.
Before noon the organ grinder had wakened from his after-dinner sleep,
and finding out that his monkey had been into mischief, concluded that
it was best to be off. He was not seen in the village any more.
Aunt Thankful kept school afterwards for several years, and then age
compelled her to give up her office. About that time, and just when
she wanted it most, one of the inhabitants of our village left her
three thousand dollars in his will, as a "mark of his esteem." Surely
never was charity more properly bestowed, or more gratefully received.
I don't think there was a person in the world who envied her the gift,
or thought it undeserved.
M. H.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: {The children at the bottom of the basement steps}]
HOW A GOOD DINNER WAS LOST.
Ting a ling ling! a ling ling! ling ling! ling! So went the dinner
bells--first mamma's, then Mrs. Green's, Mrs. Brown's, Mrs. White's,
and all the other neighbors' with colored names. It was everybody's
dinner hour; and by the way, is it not funny how everybody gets hungry
together?
Dinner was to be eaten at the healthy, good old-fashioned hour of
noon, between the two sessions of school. The children were just fresh
from slates, with long, crooked rows of hard figures, and heavy
atlases, with unpronounceable towns and rivers that would not be found
out. There were chickens and dough-balls for dinner. The smell of them
made the children ravenous; and they very nearly tripped up Maria and
her platter in their haste to reach the table.
Mamma looked around to see if they were all there, and counted on her
fingers,--
"Baby, Jelly, Tiny--Tiny, where's Bunch?"
"Why, I thought she was in the kitchen," said Tiny, looking wistfully
at the tempting drumsticks. "Papa, won't you please help us little
folks first--just to-day? 'cause we're so awful hungry."
[Illustration: {A bunch of poppy heads}]
"Tiny, I do believe that Bunch has gone down to the Midgetts'. You
must go and find her before you eat your dinner; and hurry, now."
"O, dear! can't she hear the dinner bell just as well as I can?" and
off flew Tiny, with the streamers of her jockey standing straight out
behind her, and her new buttoned shoes spattering water from every
mud-puddle in her way.
We were not invited; so we can't stay to dinner; but perhaps we will
have time to learn something about the little ones while Tiny is
hunting her tardy sister Bunch.
Her name was not really Bunch; that is, she was not christened so. At
school she answered "Present" at roll-call to the prettier name of
Florence; but uncle Tim--he's such a jolly fellow!--said, when he
first held her in her delicately-embroidered blankets, that she was
such a bouncer, so red and so dumpy, that she would never be anything
but a bunch; and so dubbed, she carries the name to this day. But did
not she disappoint him, though! for, in some unaccountable way, she
daily stretched long, and flattened out, and became thin and bony. Her
collar-bone grew to be a perfect shelf, and her stockings got a very
awkward fashion of wrinkling about her ankles.
Soon after, when Tiny's little red face began to screw and squint at
uncle Tim, she was such a mite that he was sure to be right this time
if he nicknamed her Tiny; and she was so little, that an ordinary
pillow made her a bed of a comfortable size; and all the old cronies
in the village whispered that the new baby would either die off pretty
quick, or live to be a second Mrs. Tom Thumb. But Tiny lived, and
spited them, and waxed fat and bunchy, while Bunch astonished them all
by waning lean and tiny.
Jelly's name came no one knew how. Some mischievous sprite probably
whispered it to her; for she persisted that it was her name; and so
she was indulged in it.
Near their home was a vacant lot--vacant, excepting for a one-story
shanty, with a cellar, piles of broken crockery, old shoes, dislocated
hoop skirts, and bushes of rank stramoniums, with their big, poisonous
blossoms. Cows strayed in the lot, munching the ugly snarls of grass,
and the neighbors' pigs and fowls made a daily promenade through the
wilderness of refuse.
Although it seemed a very unattractive place for a neat little girl to
visit, now especially, since a pipe of the great sewer had overflowed,
and had deluged parts of the ground. But to that miserable shanty
mamma believed her little Bunch to have strayed; and there Tiny found
her, seated on a log of wood in the corner of the largest room, with
her apron thrown over her face and the Midgett girls--there were two
of them--first staring at her, and then winking at each other.
"Bunch," said Tiny, "Bunch, mamma says to hurry right straight home;
and guess what there is for dinner. Chicken pot-pie, and it's my turn
to have the wish-bone! Why, Bunch, what's the matter with you? What a
baby! You're always forever a-crying about something or other. Come on
now. I'm going right home; and you'll get an awful punishing for
coming here!"
The eyes of the Midgett girls glared at her and the insult.
"O, dear! O, dear!" sobbed Bunch, just peeping from one corner of her
apron at the outer door.
"O, dear, what?" snapped Tiny, in such a hurry for a drumstick.
"Tiny, did you see anything on the front stoop when you came in?"
asked Bunch, her eye still peeping at the outer door.
"Any what?"
"O, any--any cats--any wildcats?"
"Wildcats--what are they?"
"O!" said the Midgetts, shouting together; "wildcats! dreffle ones!
my! yes! green eyes! awful cats, that spit fire out o' their mouths,
and claws that'll scratch yer to death;" imitating the clawing with
their long dirty fingers quite in the face of poor Bunch, who
immediately retired to the seclusion of her apron, and continued her
frightened sobs.
"O, where? where?" asked Tiny, excitedly, opening wide her big blue
eyes, and glancing uneasily in every corner.
"Why, jist out o' there, hid under the stoop; an' when yer go out,
they'll pounce onto yer."
"O," said Tiny, bravely, "'tain't so! I don't believe it. There wasn't
any there when I came in."
"That's because they was asleep, then," said Ann Matilda. She had red,
fiery red hair, was freckled, and had tusks for teeth. "They've just
got woke up now; and they're hungry, too."
"So am I," said Tiny. "Come, Bunch, let's hurry past, and they can't
touch us; besides, you know no wild animals live about here nowadays."
"O, but these ones are what comes up out of the sewer," instructed
the Midgetts.
Tiny's courage began quickly to ooze away, and every bit of it
deserted her when she and Bunch just put their noses outside of the
door, and heard a most ferocious ya-o-o-ing from--well, they could not
tell where.
Of the Midgett tribe, there was no one at home but the two girls.
There was no Mr. Midgett, but there was a Mrs. Midgett, who was out
washing. The children had seen her plunging her hard, red arms into
the soap suds, over their mother's wash-tub. She probably had a hard
time managing a living. They were very poor. Sometimes the girls got
employment as nurse girls or as extra help in the neighbors' kitchens;
but no one cared particularly to employ them, they were so vulgar,
indolent, and slovenly. So they subsisted on the odd bits of broken
victuals which they begged from door to door in baskets. Some people
said they always gathered so much, that they must keep a
boarding-house to get rid of the stuff; but I always regarded this as
a fine bit of sarcasm. The Midgett mansion was a forbidden haunt of
the children; but on this day Bunch had gone, for the last time, on
special business of her own.
On Christmas last, Santa Claus had visited their home, and left for
each a pretty doll of the regulation pattern, with blue eyes, and
golden crimpy hair, dressed in billowy tarleton, and the height of
fashion, the beauty of which dolls quite bewildered the unaccustomed
eyes of the Midgetts when the children took their young ladyships for
an airing. And so one day the Midgetts borrowed them for a minute,
while the children neglected their responsibilities, leaving them on a
door stone, while they crowded for a closer peep at the mysterious
dancers in a hand-organ. From that day to this the whereabouts of the
dollships has remained a solemn secret from the knowledge of all but
the Midgetts. And it was to them Bunch had gone for a clew to her
treasure.
"O," said Keziah Jane, "while we was a-standin' a-waitin' for yous two
to git away from the music, and give us a chance to peek in at the
dancin', the black feller what lives down the sewer come, and snatches
'em away; and we chases him like fury, and he run; and we never seed
those ere dolls agin--nor him nor the dolls."
"Sh! sh!" cautioned Ann Matilda. "Who's that a-knockin' at the door?
Run quick in the bed-room, and hide under the bed. Maybe it's that ere
black feller, or those wildcats."
Scramble under the dirty bed went the two little girls while the door
was opened. Only Jelly; no black man, nor wildcats, either. Jelly, and
unharmed; Jelly sent from mamma to escort her naughty sisters home,
but who was readily frightened into remaining with them; and so there
were three little entertainers for the Midgett ogresses that
afternoon.
In the course of a half hour came another rapping at the door. What a
reception the Midgetts were having! Keziah Jane pushed the children
under the bed, while Ann Matilda opened the door. This time it was the
grown-up sister Rosa.
O, how the children's hearts throbbed when they heard Rosa's pleasant
voice! but they dared to speak never a word; for Keziah Jane crawled
down on the floor close beside the bed, and looked hard at them with
her wicked black eyes, and said,--
"Wildcats!"
"Are my little sisters here?" asked Rosa.
O, how they wished she was just near enough so they might pull her
dress!
"O, no, mem!" said red-headed Ann Matilda, with the door opened on a
most inhospitable crack. "O, no, indeed! they haven't been here in a
month. I seed 'em a-goin' to school with their books jest as the town
clock struck'd two."
"How strange!" thought Rosa. "They wouldn't have gone back to school
without their dinners."
And when she reached home, she told uncle Tim that she half believed
they were there, though what could entice them to the horrible hut she
could not imagine.
"O my! how cramped up my neck is!" said Bunch.
"O, O, how hungry I am!" cried Tiny, remembering the drumsticks.
"I don't like it here, and I want to go home," sobbed Jelly.
"Well, get up, then, and le's hev dinner," said the Midgetts.
Dinner! There were old baked potatoes, and a mess of turnips, and a
bite of fried beefsteak, all mixed in a heap in a rusty tin pan on the
table; and Tiny whispered to Bunch that there was "a piece of the very
codfish balls which were on mamma's breakfast table." Her appetite had
deserted her, Bunch had cried hers away, and Jelly had left hers at
her own bountiful table. But the Midgetts ate, and enjoyed.
"Now," said they, "if you'll be real good, and mind, we'll give you a
gay old treat. Want to go a-swimmin'? We dunno as we mind a-givin' yer
a little pleasure, pervidin' yer'll mind, and not go near the closet
where the black snake lives."
"O," shouted the children, "we don't want to go near any snakes!"
"Besides, we can't swim," said Tiny.
"Well, we'll show yer how," said Keziah Jane; "besides, yer all look
jest's if a good bath wouldn't hurt yer--don't they, Ann Matilda?"
Ann Matilda laughed, and said yes, looked down at her own bare feet,
and bade the children to "be a-takin' off their shoes and stockin's."
"Now, then, foller me," said Keziah Jane, opening the door which led
to the cellar stairs.
The children looked down into the black hole, and shrank back with
fear. The stairs ended in a pool of black, muddy water, in much the
same way that they do in a _bona fide_ swimming-bath. You will
remember that a pipe of the sewer had burst, and the dirty water had
overflowed the Midgetts' cellar. To wade about in this had been the
recreation of the Midgetts for days.
"Come on now," said they; "lift up your dresses, and come along."
The cellar was growing every minute lighter the longer they were in
it; and soon the children lost their fear, and began to paddle about
with their naked feet, taking excellent care to steer clear of the
closet containing the black snake.
"It's getting awful, awful dark," said Jelly.
"That's so," said Bunch, wondering, and looking up to see why the
small window gave so little light. Something outside moved just then.
The window was opened, and there were two faces looking down at
them--two faces full of astonishment. They belonged to Rosy and uncle
Tim.
"Children, get right out of that filth, and go up stairs," ordered
Rosy.
Up stairs they went, one hanging behind the other, and entered the
room from the cellar just as Rosy came in at the front door. Can you
imagine how they must have looked, drenched and spoiled with the
impure water from the dainty ruffles at their throats to the very
nails of their toes? Like drowned rats! Rosy only said, with a
withering glance at the Midgetts,--
"Never come to our house again for cold pieces."
Then bidding the children gather up their stockings and shoes, she
marched them off barefooted between herself and uncle Tim. Tiny's new
buttoned shoes had found a watery grave; for, as the bathers came up
stairs, one of the Midgett feet pitched them gracefully into the
cellar.
"Tiny," said Bunch, as they walked mournfully home, amid the
astonished gaze of the returning school children. "I don't believe
there was a wildcat there any of the time."
"No, nor a black man in the sewer," said Tiny.
"Nor a black snake in the closet," said Jelly.
But there were a hot bath and clean clothing at home for them, and
warm beds. Whether there was anything more severe than a good lecture,
I will leave you to guess; for mamma said they were old enough to know
better than to believe in any such ridiculous nonsense, all excepting
little Jelly.
I should be ashamed to finish the conclusion of the affair; for what
do you think, children? It all actually happened, once upon a time, to
myself and two of my sisters.
FANNIE BENEDICT.
Mirth is a medicine of life:
It cures its ills, it calms its strife;
It softly smooths the brow of care,
And writes a thousand graces there.
LAME SUSIE.
"Children," said Miss Ware to her little band of scholars, "Susie Dana
is coming to school next Monday. She is lame, and I want you to be
kind and thoughtful toward her. She does not show her lameness until
she commences to walk, and then you can see that one of the fat little
legs is longer than the other, which makes her limp. So do not watch
her as she walks. Be sure not to run against her in your plays, and
don't shut her out from them because she cannot run and jump as you
do, but choose, some of the time, plays in which she can take part.
Remember, I make this rule: When you leave the room at recess or after
school, wait, every one of you, in your places till she has passed
out; then she will not be jostled or hurt in any way. Her lameness is
a hard trial for a little girl. She would like to run and dance as
well as any of you, and I do hope you will feel for her, and at least
not make her burden heavier. How many, now, will promise to try to
make her happy?"
Every hand was instantly raised, and the children's clear, honest eyes
met their teacher's with a look which was a promise.
You have read stories, no doubt, of lame, blind or deformed children,
and poor ones in patched clothes, who met treatment from others harder
to endure than their poverty, privation or pain. Sometimes their
schoolmates have been foolish and cruel enough to shun them, cast them
out from their plays and pleasures, brush roughly against them, talk
about, and even ridicule, them. But I hope it is not often so. In this
case it was by far the reverse.
These children remembered their pledge, and they made Susie so happy
that she almost forgot her lameness. She was a cheerful, pleasant,
good little girl, and her schoolmates, who had begun by pitying her
and trying to help her, soon loved to be with her.
"May I sit with Susie, Miss Ware?" became a frequent request.
"Susie dear, here's a cake I've brought you," one would say at recess.
"Take half my apple, Susie."
[Illustration: NOTHING SHALL HURT YOU.]
One day, as Susie was on her way to school she met a large drove of
oxen. Poor little girl! she was very much frightened, and the big blue
eyes were fast filling with tears when Harry Barton, one of the
school-boys, stepped up before her and said, "Don't cry, Susie. I will
take care of you. Nothing shall hurt you while I am here." And right
bravely he stood before her until the last one had passed, and then
took Susie to school, kindly helping her over the rough places.
So the seasons wore on, and Susie, who, though she ardently desired to
learn, had dreaded going among other children, was always happy with
them. She loved her teacher and schoolmates, and made such progress as
she could not have done had these things been different.
The summer vacation was over. The glorious days of early autumn, with
sunshine glinting through the crimson foliage, dropping nuts and
golden harvests, passed swiftly away, and cold weather came.
The school-room was pleasant still with its cheery fire and bright
faces. One day, when all were busy as usual, a cry rang out,
"Fire! Fire! The school-house is on fire!"
Books and pens dropped from trembling hands, little faces paled, and
eager, appealing eyes turned instantly to the teacher.
"Run, children!" she said, hurriedly.
Only one moved--lame Susie. She limped along as fast as she could, and
all the rest, frightened as they were, remained in their places till
she was safe outside the walls. Then with a rush they cleared the room
almost in an instant. Even in that time of peril and dread they
remembered their duty and kindness toward her, and gave her the
richest proof in their power of their thoughtful love. Not mere
obedience to a rule could have prompted this unselfish act, and as
such a proof she must have felt it.
It is a beautiful illustration, as it is a _true_ one, of God's love
for all living and for all times.
"As ye would they should do to you, do ye to them."
[Decoration]
[Illustration: {Pepper the dog is told a secret}]
THE SECRET.
Pepper Baker, don't you tell!
If you ever do, I'll-- Well,
I'll do something you'll remember
Till the last day of December.
Pepper, look me in the eye!
You must be as shy, as shy--
Play, you don't know where I'm going,
Don't know anything worth knowing!
When the bell for breakfast rings,
I will bring you cakes and things;
Don't go down till Ben calls, "Pupper,
Pupper; come and 'ave your supper!"
What I've told you no one knows,
Only you, and I, and Rose
(Maybe she has told her kitty),
No one else in Boston city.
Pepper, look at me, and say
With your eyes,--look straight this way,--
With your teeth, and mane so shaggy,
With your ears and tail so waggy,--
"I will never, never tell.
They may tie a ding-dong-bell
To my little tail so waggy,
Singe my ears and coat so shaggy.
"They may drown me in the well,
All because I will not tell."
That will do, you grim old Quaker!
I can trust you Pepper Baker.
MARY R. WHITTLESEY.
SILVER AND GOLD.
Silver or golden, which is the best--
Which with God's love is most richly blest?
Which is the fairer I cannot tell,
Grandfather dear or my baby Bel.
The soft twilight hour, when shadows fall,
To little Bel seems the best of all;
Then grandfather lays aside his book;
He cannot resist the pleading look.
There's room for two in the great arm-chair;
His arms enfold her with loving care;
Upturned is a smiling, rosy face;
Two dimpled arms have found their place.
Sweet eyes of hazel, so clear and bright,
Look up with a happy, loving light;
The curls are golden that softly stray,
While breezes amid their sunshine play.
Little she dreams of sorrow and care;
Life is unknown, and to her seems fair.
As years roll by the face may grow old;
But the loving heart will never grow cold.
[Illustration: SILVER AND GOLD.]
When the hand of Time on her head is laid,
The lustre of gold must surely fade;
But lovely is even a silver frost,
If truth and goodness have not been lost.
Pride and passion have left no trace
On the old man's placid, saintly face;
The journey so long is almost done--
The strife is over, the victory won.
The voice that speaks is gentle and deep;
Surely it means God's grace to keep.
Eyes like the heavens so darkly blue;
Surely God's love is shining through.
Forehead so noble, calm, and fair;
Surely God's peace is resting there.
The snowy locks are a silver crown;
Softly the blessing of God came down.
Silver or golden, which is the best--
Which with God's love is most richly blest?
Which is the fairer I cannot tell,
Grandfather dear or my baby Bel.
ELLIS GRAY.
TWO MORNINGS.
Step softly; the baby sleeps;
Drop the curtains, and close the door;
Baby sleeps, while mother weeps--
Sleeps, never to waken more.
Not a breath disturbs his repose;
The blossom he wears has forgotten to blow.
Once his two cheeks were red as a rose;
Now they are lilies, you know.
Morning will come, with its sweet surprise,
Waken the flowers, and scatter the dew;
But never again shall the baby's eyes
Watch the sunbeams break through.
Yet in heaven his morning is growing
To fairer dawning than ours has known--
A fountain of light forever flowing
Forth from the great white throne.
[Illustration: {Tim gazes at the goods in the confectioner's window}]
TIM, THE MATCH BOY.
Tim had been standing for a long while gazing in at the confectioner's
window. The evening was drawing in, and ever since morning a thick,
unbroken cloud had covered the narrow strips of sky lying along the
line of roofs on each side of the streets, while every now and then
there came down driving showers of rain, wetting him to the skin.
Not that it took much rain to wet Tim to the skin. The three pieces of
clothing which formed his dress were all in tatters. His shirt, which
looked as if it never could have been whole and white, had more than
half the sleeves torn away, and fell open in front for want of a
collar, to say nothing of a button and button-hole. The old jacket he
wore over it had never had any sleeves at all, but consisted of a
front of calf-skin, with all the hair worn away, and a back made with
the idea that it would be hidden from sight by a coat, of coarse
yellow linen, now fallen into lamentable holes. His trousers were
fringed by long wear, and did not reach to his ankles, which were blue
with cold, and bare, like his feet, that had been splashing along the
muddy streets all day, until they were pretty nearly the same color as
the pavement. His head was covered only by his thick, matted hair,
which protected him, far better than his ragged clothes, from the rain
and wind, and made him sometimes dimly envious of the dogs that were
so far better off, in point of covering, than himself. His hands were
tucked, for warmth, in the holes where his pockets should have been;
but they had been worn out long ago, and now he had not even
accommodation for any little bit of string, or morsel of coal, he
might come across in the street.