cake shops. Now and then he glanced at them, and thought how very rich
and happy those people must be who lived upon such dainty food. But he
was, generally, too busy in earning his own food--by selling
matches--to leave him much time for lingering about such tempting
places. As for buying his dinner, when he had one, he looked out for
the dried-fish stalls, where he could get a slice of brown fish ready
cooked, and carry it off to some doorstep, where he could dine upon it
heartily and contentedly, provided no policeman interfered with his
enjoyment.
But to-day the weather had been altogether too bad for any person to
come out of doors, except those who were bent on business; and they
hurried along the muddy streets, too anxious to get on quickly to pay
any heed to Tim, trotting alongside of them with some damp boxes of
matches to sell. The rainy day was hard upon him. His last meal had
been his supper the night before--a crust his father had given him,
about half as big as it should have been to satisfy him. When he awoke
in the morning, he had already a good appetite, and ever since, all
the long day through, from hour to hour, his hunger had been growing
keener, until now it made him almost sick and faint to stand and stare
at the good things displayed in such abundance inside the shop window.
Tim had no idea of going in to beg. It was far too grand a place for
that; and the customers going in and out were mostly smart young
maid-servants, who were far too fine for him to speak to.
There were bread shops nearer home, where he might have gone, being
himself an occasional customer, and asked if they could not find such
a thing as an old crust to give him; but this shop was a very
different place from those. There was scarcely a thing he knew the
name of. At the back of the shop there were some loaves; but even
those looked different from what he, and folks like him, bought. His
hungry, eager eyes gazed at them, and his teeth and mouth moved now
and then, unknown to himself, as if he was eating something
ravenously; but he did not venture to go in.
At last Tim gave a great start. A customer, whom he knew very well,
was standing at the counter, eating one of the dainty bunns. It could
be no one else but his own teacher, who taught him and seven and eight
other ragged lads like himself, in a night school not far from his
home. His hunger had made him forgetful of it; but this was one of the
evenings when the school was open, and he had promised faithfully to
be there to-night. At any rate, it would be a shelter from the rain,
which was beginning to fall steadily and heavily, now the sun was set;
and it was of no use thinking of going home, where he and his father
had only a corner of a room, and were not welcome to that if they
turned in too soon of an evening. His teacher had finished the bunn,
and was having another wrapped up in a neat paper bag, which he put
carefully into his pocket, and then stepped out into the street, and
walked along under the shelter of a good umbrella, quite unaware that
one of his scholars was pattering along noiselessly behind him with
bare feet.
All Tim's thoughts were fixed upon the bunn in his teacher's pocket.
He wondered what it would taste like, and whether it would be as
delicious as that one he had once eaten, when all the ragged school
had a treat in Epping Grove--going down in vans, and having real
country milk, and slices of cake to eat, finishing up with a bunn,
which seemed to him as if it must be like the manna he had heard of at
school, that used to come down from heaven every morning before the
sun was up. He had never forgotten that lesson; and scarcely a morning
came that he did not wish he had lived in those times.
The teacher turned down a dark, narrow street, where the rain had
gathered in little pools on the worn pavement, through which Tim
splashed carelessly. They soon reached the school door; and Tim
watched him take off his great-coat, and hang it up on the nails set
apart for the teachers' coats.
Their desk was at a little distance; and he took his place at it among
the other boys, but his head ached, and his eyes felt dim, and there
was a hungry gnawing within him, which made it impossible to give his
mind to learning his lessons, as he usually did. He felt so stupefied,
that the easiest words--words he knew as well as he knew the way to
the Mansion House, where he sold his matches--swam before his eyes,
and he called them all wrongly. The other lads laughed and jeered at
him, and his teacher was displeased; but Tim could do no better. He
could think of nothing but the dainty bunn in the teacher's pocket.
At last the Scripture lesson came; and it was one that came home to
Tim's state. The teacher read aloud first, before hearing them read
the lesson, these verses: "And Jesus, when he came out, saw much
people, and was moved with compassion toward them, because they were
as sheep not having a shepherd: and he began to teach them many
things. And when the day was now far spent, his disciples came unto
him," etc. Read Mark vi. 34-44.
Tim listened with a swelling heart, and with a feeling of choking in
his throat. He could see it all plainly in his mind. It was like their
treat in Epping Grove, where the classes had sat down in ranks upon
the green grass; and O, how green and soft the grass was! and the
teachers had come round, like the disciples, giving to each one of
them a can of milk and great pieces of cake; and they had sung a hymn
all together before they began to eat and drink. Tim fancied he could
see our Saviour as once he had seen him in a beautiful picture, with
his hands outstretched, as if ready to give the children surrounding
him anything they wanted, or to fold them every one in his loving
arms. He thought he saw Jesus, with his loving, gentle face, standing
in the midst of the great crowd of people, and asking the disciples if
they were sure they had all had enough. Then they would sing, thought
Tim, and go home as happy as he had been after that treat in Epping
Grove. All at once his hunger became more than he could bear.
"O, I wish He was here!" he cried, bursting into tears, and laying his
rough head on the desk before him. "I only wish He was here."
The other lads looked astonished; for Tim was not given to crying; and
the teacher stopped in his reading, and touched him to call his
attention.
"Who do you wish was here, Tim?" he asked.
"Him," sobbed the hungry boy; "the Lord Jesus. He'd know how bad I
feel. I'd look him in the face, and say, 'Master, what are I to do? I
can't learn nothink when I've got nothink but a griping inside of me.'
And he'd think how hungry I was, having nothink to eat all day. He'd
be very sorry--he would, I know."
Tim did not lift up his head; for his tears and sobs were coming too
fast, and he was afraid the other lads would laugh at him. But they
looked serious enough as the meaning of his words broke upon them.
They were sure he was not cheating them. If Tim said he had had
nothing to eat all day, it must be true; for he never grumbled, and he
always spoke the truth. One boy drew a carrot out of his pocket, and
another pulled out a good piece of bread, wrapped in a bit of
newspaper, while a third ran off to fetch a cup of water, having
nothing else he could give to Tim. The teacher walked away to where
his coat was hanging, and came back with the bunn which he had bought
in the shop.
"Tim," he said, laying his hand kindly on the lad's bowed-down head,
"I am very sorry for you; but none of us knew you were starving, my
boy, or I should not have scolded you, and the lads would not have
laughed at you. Look up, and see what a supper we have found for you."
It looked like a feast to Tim. One of the boys lent him a pocket
knife to cut the bread and carrot into slices, with which he took off
the keen edge of his hunger; and then he ate the dainty bunn, which
seemed to him more delicious than anything he had ever tasted before.
The rest of the class looked on with delight at his evident enjoyment,
until the last crumb had disappeared.
"I could learn anything now," said Tim, with a bright face; "but I
couldn't understand nothink before. Then you began telling about the
poor folks being famished with hunger, and how Jesus gave them bread
and fishes, just as if he'd been hungry himself some time, and knew
all about it. It is bad, it is. And it seemed such a pity he weren't
here in the city, and I couldn't go to him. But, I dessay, he knows
how you've all treated me, and I thank you all kindly; and I'll do the
same by you some day, when you've had the same bad luck as me."
"Yes," said the teacher, "Jesus knew how hungry you were; and he knew
how to send you the food you wanted. Tim, and you other lads, I want
you to learn this verse, and think of it often when you are grown-up
men: 'Whosoever shall give to one of these little ones a cup of cold
water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, He shall
in no wise lose his reward.'"
ENVY PUNISHED.
A Burmese potter, it is said, became envious of the prosperity of a
washerman, and to ruin him, induced the king to order him to wash one
of his black elephants white, that he might be "lord of the white
elephant," which in the East is a great distinction.
The washerman replied that, by the rules of his art, he must have a
vessel large enough to wash him in.
The king ordered the potter to make him such a vessel. When made, it
was crushed by the first step of the elephant in it. Many times was
this repeated; and the potter was ruined by the very scheme he had
intended should crush his enemy.
[Illustration: WINGS.]
WINGS.
"If I only had wings like you!" said Addie Lewis, speaking to her pet
bird as she opened the cage door.
"Chirp, chirp!" answered the bird, flying out and resting on Addie's
finger.
"Ah, birdie, if I only had your wings!"
"Wings!" spoke out Addie's mother. "You have wings," she said, in a
quiet way.
Addie looked at her shoulders, and then at her mother's. "I don't see
them," she said, with a little amused laugh.
"We are using them all the while," said Mrs. Lewis. "Did you never
hear of the wings of thought?"
"Oh! That's what you mean? Our thoughts are our wings?"
"Yes; and our minds can fly with these wings higher and farther than
any bird can go. If I read to you about a volcano in Italy, off you go
on the wings of thought and look down into the fiery crater. If I tell
you of the frozen North, you are there in an instant, gazing upon icy
seas and the wonders of a desolate region. The wings of an eagle are
not half so swift and strong as the wings of your thought. The very
king of birds would perish in regions where they can take you in
safety."
[Decoration]
[Illustration: {Squanko sitting on a wide window ledge}]
SQUANKO.
"What a name for a dog, auntie!"
"_Name!_ Why, Frank, when you hear the whole, like the Queen of Sheba,
you'll say the half has not been told you."
"Why, didn't you find Squanko quite enough for one dog?"
"His full name," said my aunt, loftily, "is Squanko Guy Edgerly
Patterson."
She rolled out these resonant titles with due gravity, and Squanko,
turning his bright eyes from one to the other, solemnly wagged his
tail, as if to signify approval.
I was a New Hampshire boy, and this was my first visit to the city. My
experience with dogs previously had been that of a country boy bred up
among sportsmen. I had known several highly-trained hounds, and famous
bird dogs, though my ideal of canine perfection was that marvel of
sagacity, the shepherd dog. Still, my first love among dogs had been a
noble old hound, who, though sightless from age, would follow a rabbit
better than any young dog was capable of doing. The scent of powder
brought back his lost youth. Let him hear the loading of a gun,--or
the mere rattle of a shot-pouch was enough,--he would break out into
the wildest gambols, dashing hither and yon, in an ecstasy of delight.
Running headlong against rock or tree, as he was liable to do, only
tempered his zeal for a moment; the next, he was tearing along more
madly than ever. Dear old Trim! I had shed a boy's hot tears over his
grave on the hill-side, and I was not ashamed of it either.
I felt a tenderness for Squanko. The yellow spots which marked his
white fur reminded me of Trim's. Remembering the accomplishments of my
lost favorite, I ventured another question.
"What is he good for, aunt Patterson? Can he hunt?"
"Good for!" ejaculated my aunt--"_good for!_ I couldn't keep house
without him." A certain fine disdain curled her lip; she had utterly
ignored my second question. Completely quenched, I was fain to accept
Squanko at once, hunter or no hunter.
And we were, on the whole, pretty good friends, in spite of the
battles we fought, nearly every evening, for the possession of the
lounge. It made small difference to Squanko if I was beforehand with
him. Though quite a large dog, he would creep up behind me, slowly
insinuating himself between me and the back of the lounge. Then,
watching his opportunity, he would brace his feet suddenly, and more
than once the execution of this manoeuvre sent me rolling,
ignominiously, upon the floor.
The intruder ousted, his majesty would settle himself for a nap, not
heeding in the least the shouts of laughter which his triumph never
failed to evoke.
On all occasions (excepting only nights, when he slept tranquilly on a
rug in my aunt's room) he felt it his duty to keep watch and ward over
the premises. His favorite perch, in sunny mornings, was in the window
of my aunt's chamber. If by any chance the white curtain had not been
looped up, as usual, leaving the window sill exposed, Squanko went
down for help, and by whining, pulling his mistress's dress and
similar arts, persuaded her to go up and remove the obnoxious
curtain. Carefully seating himself upon the sill, which was all too
narrow for his portly figure, he would fall to work, by barking
furiously at every person--man, woman, or child--who presumed to pass
up or down the street. Most fortunately for him, the window he
occupied overlooked the lawn at the side of the house, instead of the
pavement in front; for on several occasions his fury became so
ungovernable, that he barked himself sheer off his foundation.
Catching a glimpse of his whirling figure, my aunt rushed out, armed
with a bottle of liniment; and while she bathed his imperilled legs,
she strove also to soothe his outraged feelings. For the time all
vanity seemed to have been dashed out of him; but comforted by
sympathy and caresses, he again mounted his perch, and barked with
undiminished ardor.
At table, my aunt always occupied what is termed an office chair.
Being quite small in person, a portion of the great leather cushion,
at the back, was left vacant. Squanko rarely failed to possess himself
of this vantage-ground, and squatting thereon, peered wisely over his
mistress's shoulder, as if studying the problem of what portion of the
goodly meal before him might safely be counted on as a remainder.
Yet Squanko had his grievances. One was, not being allowed the freedom
of the garden. If he went out, my aunt's careful hand hastened to link
the long chain, attached to his house, to his collar. She had a
chronic fear of his running away.
Squanko utterly disdained to occupy the bed of straw which graced his
dwelling, but climbing to a board which surmounted the ridge of the
roof, would lie upon that narrow ledge, ready to pounce upon any one
who ventured near.
Missing him one morning, both here and on the window-sill, one of the
wee Johnnys of the neighborhood, who stood in wholesome awe of
Squanko, put his curly head in at the doorway.
"Where's Squanko, Mrs. Patterson?"
"Gone to walk."
"_Gone to walk_," chuckled Johnny, bursting with merriment. "That's
funny--_a dog gone to walk_!"
Squanko's _walk_ was rarely omitted; generally it was performed under
my aunt's tutelage, when she went a little way with her husband, whose
business took him to the city every morning. If, for any reason, Mrs.
Patterson let her husband go to the cars alone, she sent Squanko off
by himself, with strict orders to return speedily, which direction he
had never failed to obey.
Besides his chain, Squanko had one other trial to endure--a thorough
ablution once a week. Bathing was his aversion; still, he had been
obliged to submit to it from his puppyhood, and Mrs. Patterson was
inexorable. A dog who was not faultlessly clean could have no place in
the arrangements of her household. In and about her dwelling all was
spotlessly neat. Everything susceptible of polish shone, from the
window-panes, and the great cooking-stove, to Squanko's white coat. In
vain were his protests, his indignant snorts and sneezes, his
incipient growls; into the tub of warm water he had to go, while the
scrubbing-brush performed its office upon his fat sides. Having been
duly washed and wiped, he always indulged in a vicious shake or two,
producing a sort of mist in his immediate vicinity. After being
wrapped in his own blanket shawl, he was placed on the lounge, to
repose while drying. His luxurious nap completed, he would emerge
from his retirement, his short white hair shining like satin,--as
clean a playfellow as one might desire. His temper,--not usually of
the best,--after one of these baths, would remain sunny for hours.
But Squanko--like many another spoiled darling,--was not content with
the home where he was so petted and indulged.
As his master opened the door to go into the garden, one evening,
Squanko rushed past him, and made for the street. In vain our hurried
search, up and down, in the dark spring night. In vain his mistress's
frantic calls. If Squanko was hidden in some nook hard by, and heard
her entreaties, his heart must have been harder than a stone. That
hasty exit was the last we ever saw of him. Night after night my
uncle, coming home from the city, inquired for Squanko, only to
receive the sad reply,--
"No, Roy! We never--never shall see Squanko again."
Soon a fat, brindled puppy was installed in the vacant place. Day by
day he grew, both in bulk and in the affections of the family. My aunt
named him "Trouble." All the devotion which had been Squanko's was
straightway lavished on him.
When, in process of time, the tidings were borne to my aunt's ears,
that Squanko, forgetful of former friends, was leading a jolly
existence in a neighboring town, she only replied, with a toss of her
head, "Let the ungrateful imp stay there. Trouble is worth a dozen of
him!"
F. CHESEBORO.
[Decoration]
"THE SWEET ONE FOR POLLY."
Polly had expected to be very happy in getting ready for the party;
but when the time came she was disappointed, for somehow that naughty
thing called envy took possession of her, and spoiled her pleasure.
Before she left home she thought her new white muslin dress, with its
fresh blue ribbons, the most elegant and proper costume she could
have; but now, when she saw Fanny's pink silk, with a white tarlatan
tunic, and innumerable puffings, bows, and streamers, her own simple
little toilet lost all its charms in her eyes, and looked very babyish
and old-fashioned.
Even Maud was much better dressed than herself, and looked very
splendid in her cherry-colored and white suit, with a sash so big she
could hardly carry it, and little white boots with red buttons.
They both had necklaces and bracelets, ear-rings and brooches; but
Polly had no ornament except the plain locket on a bit of blue velvet.
Her sash was only a wide ribbon, tied in a simple bow, and nothing but
a blue snood in the pretty brown curls. Her only comfort was the
knowledge that the modest tucker drawn up round the plump shoulders
was real lace, and that her bronze boots cost nine dollars.
Poor Polly, with all her efforts to be contented, and not to mind
looking unlike other people, found it hard work to keep her face
bright and her voice happy that night. No one dreamed what was going
on under the muslin frock, till grandma's wise old eyes spied out the
little shadow on Polly's spirits, and guessed the cause of it. When
dressed, the three girls went up to show themselves to the elders who
were in grandma's room, where Tom was being helped into an agonizingly
stiff collar.
Maud pranced like a small peacock, and Fan made a splendid courtesy,
as every one turned to survey them; but Polly stood still, and her
eyes went from face to face with an anxious, wistful air, which seemed
to say, "I know I'm not right; but I hope I don't look very bad."
Grandma read the look in a minute; and when Fanny said, with a
satisfied smile, "How do we look?" she answered, drawing Polly toward
her so kindly, "Very like the fashion-plates you got the patterns of
your dresses from. But this little costume suits me best."
"Do you really think I look nice?" and Polly's face brightened, for
she valued the old lady's opinion very much.
"Yes, my dear; you look just as I like to see a child of your age
look. What particularly pleases me is, that you have kept your promise
to your mother, and haven't let any one persuade you to wear borrowed
finery. Young things like you don't need any ornaments but those you
wear to-night,--youth, health, intelligence, and modesty."
As she spoke, grandma gave a tender kiss that made Polly glow like a
rose, and for a minute she forgot that there were such things in the
world as pink silks and coral ear-rings.
[Illustration: "THE SWEET ONE FOR POLLY."]
She only said, "Thank you, ma'am," and heartily returned the kiss;
but the words did her good, and her plain dress looked charming all of
a sudden.
"Polly's so pretty, it don't matter what she wears," observed Tom,
surveying her over his collar with an air of calm approval.
"She hasn't got any bwetelles to her dwess, and I have," said Maud,
settling her ruffled bands over her shoulders, which looked like
cherry-colored wings on a stout little cherub.
"I did wish she'd just wear my blue set, ribbon is so very plain; but,
as Tom says, it don't much matter;" and Fanny gave an effective touch
to the blue bow above Polly's left temple.
"She might wear flowers; they always suit young girls," said Mrs.
Shaw, privately thinking that her own daughters looked much the best
yet, and conscious that blooming Polly had the most attractive face.
"Bless me! I forgot my posies in admiring the belles! Hand them out,
Tom;" and Mr. Shaw nodded toward an interesting-looking box that stood
on the table.
Seizing them wrong side up, Tom produced three little bouquets, all
different in color, size, and construction.
"Why, papa, how very kind of you!" cried Fanny, who had not dared to
receive even a geranium leaf since the late scrape.
"Your father used to be a very gallant young gentleman once upon a
time," said Mrs. Shaw, with a simper and sigh.
"Ah, Tom, it's a good sign when you find time to think of giving
pleasure to your little girls."
And grandma patted her son's bald head as if he wasn't more than
eighteen.
Thomas, Jr., had given a somewhat scornful sniff at first; but when
grandma praised his father, the young man thought better of the
matter, and regarded the flowers with more respect as he asked, "Which
is for which?"
"Guess," said Mr. Shaw, pleased that his unusual demonstration had
produced such an effect.
The largest was a regular hot-house bouquet of tea-rosebuds, scentless
heath, and smilax; the second was just a handful of sweet-peas and
mignonette, with a few cheerful pansies and one fragrant little rose
in the middle; the third, a small posy of scarlet verbenas, white
feverfew, and green leaves.
"Not hard to guess. The smart one for Fan, the sweet one for Polly,
and the gay one for Pug. Now, then, catch hold, girls;" and Tom
proceeded to deliver the nosegays with as much grace as could be
expected from a youth in a new suit of clothes and very tight boots.
"That finishes you off just right, and is a very pretty attention of
papa. Now run down, for the bell has rung; and remember not to dance
too often, Fan; be as quiet as you can, Tom; and, Maud, don't eat too
much supper. Grandma will attend to things, for my poor nerves won't
allow me to come down."
With that Mrs. Shaw dismissed them, and the four descended to receive
the first visitors.
LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
[Decoration]
THE ACCIDENT.
Tom named his velocipede Black Auster, in memory of the horse in "The
Battle of Lake Regillus," and came to grief as soon as he began to
ride his new steed.
"Come out and see me go it," whispered Tom to Polly, after three days'
practice in the street, for he had already learned to ride in the
rink.