and probably from death, now formed the resolution to save his master
too. He had not much time to plan, for he learned that the duke was to
be beheaded the following week. It so happened that the son of his
brother Solomon, the ferryman, belonged to the National Guard, and was
stationed at the prison to guard it. If he could only secure him to
engage in the enterprise, he felt that he could succeed. It was a
difficult thing to get a word to say to any member of the National
Guard. But old Richard had done many kind things for his nephew, and
he succeeded in getting a note to him through the post office,
appointing a time, when he was off duty, to meet him. Richard opened
the whole enterprise freely to his nephew, and told him all the great
injustice that had been done a noble family, and the sufferings
through which the different members had passed.
The duke was informed that he was to be beheaded next day, and his
door was marked by the prison-keeper as the room of a man who was to
be executed the following morning. The good man knelt in prayer after
the intelligence had been conveyed to him, and said,--
"To whom shall I go for help and courage, this last night of my life,
but to thee, O Lord? Thou knowest best what will happen to me. If it
be in accordance with thy will, permit me to see my wife and children
again. If thou seest that it is not best for thy glory that I should
live, then I will obey willingly. Thy will, not mine, be done."
[Illustration: "FATHER, FATHER! THAT IS THE VERY TUNE WHICH WE WERE
SINGING TOGETHER THE NIGHT THAT YOU WERE ARRESTED." See page 327.]
That was a noble prayer. Scarcely had the last word fallen from his
lips, when he heard somebody gently lifting the latch of his door, and
inserting the key.
"Save yourself," whispered the person who entered, who was none other
than old Solomon's son, to whom Richard had confided his enterprise.
It was two o'clock in the morning, the very best time to accomplish
his purpose.
"Put on these clothes," said he, as he unfolded a soldier's uniform;
"take this hat, and here is a gun. As quickly as you possibly can,
transform yourself into a soldier."
They escaped in safety from the prison, accompanied by the faithful
Richard, and went as rapidly as they could towards the Rhine. They
reached old Solomon's ferry house. The young man knocked gently at the
window, and asked his father to come out as soon as possible and take
the duke over the river.
"Are you not going to take your little girl with you?" said the old
ferryman.
"What little girl?" asked the duke.
"Your little daughter, whom my brother has brought here this very day;
and she is as sweet a child as I ever saw in my life. She lies asleep
now in the corner of the room."
This was news which the nobleman did not expect to hear, and he was
almost overcome with joy. But he had no time to spend in greeting,
except to give his dear Lillie a kiss. Soon they were over the Rhine;
but before reaching the bank on the opposite side, they were fired at
by soldiers who had come in search of them. A bullet passed through
the top of the duke's high soldier hat, but he was not harmed, and
escaped in safety.
The great task for him to accomplish now was to find his wife and boy,
though he had but little hope of ever finding them. Old Richard had
enough money to buy the duke a horse; so the father mounted the horse,
and took his little daughter on the saddle with him. They travelled
over the mountains and through the vales, asking, whenever they met
any person, to tell them if they knew of any strangers in that section
of the country. But nobody gave any information.
Old Richard was yet with them, for he had still enough money left to
buy a mule, and he rode beside his good master and Lillie until the
17th of July arrived, and that was Lillie's birthday. The duke
determined that they three should stop and celebrate it by taking a
little rest and a good meal in a cottage by the wayside. Having
finished their dinner, they went out of doors and looked about the
beautiful yard, which was all blooming with flowers. A bird cage was
hanging by the side of the door, and the bird was singing the tune to
these words:--
"Take courage, bird;
Our Father says,
In winter's storms
And summer's rays
You have no barns,
You sow no wheat,
But God will give you bread to eat."
Lillie was astounded at again hearing that sweet melody, and she
exclaimed,--
"Father, father! that is the very tune which we were singing together
the night that you were arrested."
The little bird went over it two or three times, and the father
said,--
"You are right, my dear child. That is the melody--not a note is
wanting. This is truly wonderful. I do believe that this bird has been
taught to sing that song by Carl and your good mother. O, Richard, can
you not find out how this bird came here?"
Richard said in reply,--
"I will do all I can, but I am afraid that it will be very difficult."
He made inquiries of the man who owned the bird, and who had furnished
them with the dinner, as to where the bird came from. The Tyrolese
replied,--
"I don't know where it came from, except that a young man who passed
along the road, and who lives about three miles from here, sold it to
me for a trifling sum one day. I was pleased with its appearance,
because it was a beautiful bird, and the price was very low."
Then Richard said,--
"Can you not see that young man, and find out where he got it from?"
"I will do so if you wish," he answered.
Richard then told him to report as soon as possible what he had
learned.
That afternoon, about five o'clock, the young man was brought to
Richard and the duke, and inquiries were made as to where he got the
bird. He said that he did not know where it came from exactly, except
that it was found one day after it had escaped from somebody's cage.
He did not know who owned it, or else he would have taken it to its
owner.
"Where was it you found it?" said the duke.
"About ten miles from here, when I was going to see my mother, who
lives a great many miles away."
"Do you know whether any strangers are in that neighborhood?" asked
the duke.
"I heard my mother say that there were a lady and a little boy living
some three miles the other side of her house, and that she was a very
good woman."
"Did you ever see the boy yourself?" inquired the duke.
"Yes, I saw the boy going to school."
The duke, on making further inquiries as to his appearance, came to
the conclusion that the boy whom he had seen was probably none other
than Carl. He accordingly made his arrangements to go to the place of
which the young man had spoken.
That night he reached the house where this good lady and her son were
boarding. True enough, the duke and little Lillie were in the presence
of the duchess and Carl. It was a happy meeting, far beyond my power
to describe. Their gratitude to their heavenly Father for preserving
them to each other knew no bounds. It was an hour of such happiness as
is seldom permitted any one to enjoy.
They sat up late that night and recounted their experiences to each
other, and then the duke revealed the secret of his coming to that
house; that it was a canary bird which had been the instrument of his
finding her and Carl. They spent a few days in great happiness there,
and made a bargain with the man who owned the canary bird which had
escaped from Carl's cage to get it back again.
Two years passed on, and peace and quiet were again restored to
France. The duke and his family were permitted to return to his
castle, and the government made him ample reparation for all the
losses that he had incurred. They took with them their little canary
bird, which had lost none of its sweet notes by the lapse of time.
One day a magnificent new piano arrived from Paris, and after tea the
duke said,--
"Now we will try the piano in our own quiet home. What shall we sing?"
asked he.
The duchess, and Carl, and Lillie all answered with one voice,--
"We must sing our bird song."
"Take courage, bird;
Our Father says,
In winter's storms
And summer's rays
You have no barns,
You sow no wheat,
But God will give you bread to eat."
THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT.
Not all the streets that London builds
Can hide the sky and sun,
Shut out the winds from o'er the fields,
Or quench the scent the hay swath yields
All night, when work is done.
And here and there an open spot
Lies bare to light and dark,
Where grass receives the wanderer hot,
Where trees are growing, houses not;
One is the Regent's Park.
[Illustration: THE GOATS.]
Soft creatures, with ungentle guides,
God's sheep from hill and plain,
Are gathered here in living tides,
Lie wearily on woolly sides,
Or crop the grass amain.
And from the lane, and court, and den,
In ragged skirts and coats,
Come hither tiny sons of men,
Wild things, untaught of book or pen,
The little human goats.
One hot and cloudless summer day,
An overdriven sheep
Had come a long and dusty way;
Throbbing with thirst the creature lay,
A panting, woollen heap.
But help is nearer than we know
For ills of every name;
Ragged enough to scare the crow,
But with a heart to pity woe,
A quick-eyed urchin came.
Little he knew of field or fold,
Yet knew enough; his cap
Was just the cap for water cold--
He knew what it could do of old;
Its rents were few, good hap!
Shaping the brim and crown he went,
Till crown from brim was deep.
The water ran from brim and rent;
Before he came the half was spent--
The half, it saved the sheep.
O, little goat, born, bred in ill,
Unwashed, ill-fed, unshorn!
Thou meet'st the sheep from breezy hill,
Apostle of thy Saviour's will,
In London wastes forlorn.
Let others say the thing they please,
My faith, though very dim,
Thinks He will say who always sees,
In doing it to one of these
Thou didst it unto him.
FROM BAD TO WORSE.
Come, children, leave your playing,
And gather round my knee,
And I'll tell you a little story:
Away across the sea,
In a meadow where the mosses
And the grass were frozen brown,
Three little maids sat milking
One day as the sun went down--
Not cows, but goats of the mountain;
And before their pails were full,
The winds, they pierced like needles
Through their gowns of heavy wool.
And as one hand, then the other,
They tried to warm in their laps,
The bitter weather froze their breath
Like fur about their caps.
And so, as they sat at their milking,
They grew as still as mice,
Save when the stiff shoes on their feet
Rattled like shoes of ice.
At last out spoke the youngest
As she blew on her finger-nails:
I have planned a plan, sweet sisters:
Let us take our milking-pails,
And go to the side of the mountain
As fast as we can go,
And heap them up to the very top
From the whitest drifts of snow;
And let us build in the meadow
Where we will milk our goats at night
A house to keep us from the cold,
With walls all silver white.
We will set the door away from the wind.
The floor we will heap with moss,
And gather little strips of ice
And shingle the roof across.
Then all the foolish maidens,
They emptied their pails on the ground,
And bounded up the mountain-side
As fast as they could bound,
And came again to the meadow
With pails heaped high with snow,
And so, through half the night, the moon
Beheld them come and go.
But when with the daybreak roses
The silver walls shone red,
The three little foolish maidens
Were lying cold and dead.
The needles of the frost had sewed
Into shrouds their woollen coats,
And with cheeks as white as the ice they lay
Among their mountain goats.
ALICE CARY.
[Illustration: GRACIE AND HER FATHER.]
MY STORY.
Many years ago, when the sky was as clear, the flowers as fragrant,
and the birds as musical as now, I stood by a little mahogany table,
with pencil and paper in hand, vainly trying to add a short column of
figures. My small tin box, with the word _Bank_ in large letters upon
it, had just been opened, and the carefully hoarded treasure of six
months was spread out before me. Scrip had not come into use then; and
there were one tiny gold piece, two silver dollars, and many quarters,
dimes, half-dimes, and pennies. For a full half hour I had been
counting my fingers and trying to reckon up how much it all amounted
to; but the problem was too hard for me. At last I took pencil and
paper, and sought to work it out by figures.
"What are you doing, Gracie?" pleasantly inquired my father, entering
the room with an open letter in his hand.
"O, papa! is that you?" I cried, eagerly turning towards him. "Just
look--see how much money I've got! John has just opened my bank. It is
six months to-day since I began to save, and I've more than I
expected."
"Yes, you are quite rich."
"So much that I can't even count it. I've done harder sums in addition
at school; but somehow, now, every time I add, I get a different
answer. I can't make it come out twice alike."
"Where did you get that gold piece?"
"Why, don't you know? _You_ gave it to me for letting Dr. Strong pull
out my big back tooth."
Father laughed.
"Did I?" said he; "I had forgotten it. But where did you get those two
silver dollars?" he inquired.
"O, grandmother gave me this one. It's _chicken_ money. She gave it to
me for feeding the chickens every morning all the while I staid there;
and the other is _hat_ money. Aunt Ellen told me if I'd wear my hat
always when I went out in the sun, and so keep from getting
sun-burned, that she would give me another dollar; and she did."
"Where did the remainder come from?"
"Mostly from you, papa. You are always giving me money. These two
bright, new quarters you gave me when you looked over my writing-book,
and saw it hadn't a blot. How much is there in all?" I earnestly
asked.
Father glanced at the little pile, and smilingly said,--
"Seven dollars and ten cents. That's a good deal of money for a little
girl only nine years old to spend."
"And may I spend it just as I please?"
"Certainly, my dear; just as you please. It's a great thing for little
people to learn to spend money wisely."
Saying this, he seated himself by the window, and drawing me towards
him, placed me upon one knee.
"Gracie, dear, I have just received a letter from grandmother. She
proposes that I come to Vermont and bring you; that I remain as long
as business will admit, and leave you to pass the summer just as you
did last year. How would that suit?" fixing his kind dark eyes full
upon my upturned face to read my changing thoughts.
"O, I should like it very much!" I quickly exclaimed, clapping my
hands with delight. Then I reflected a moment, and a shadow fell over
my prospective happiness.
"On the whole, papa," I said, earnestly, "I think I had better go, and
not stay any longer than you can stay. I am all the little girl _you_
have, and you are all the parent _I_ have, and we should be very
lonely without each other."
I felt his warm, loving kiss upon my cheek as he folded me to his
heart, and a tear fell on my forehead. For two years I had been
motherless; but a double portion of pity and tenderness had been
lavished upon me by my indulgent father. He was a New York merchant of
ample means. Our home was elegant and tasteful.
The home of my father's only surviving parent, my doting grandmother,
whom we were designing to visit, was a plain, unpretending farm-house,
snuggly nestled up among the hills of Vermont. There were tall poplar
trees and a flower-garden in front, a little orchard and a whole row
of nice looking out-buildings in the rear. There was no place on earth
so full of joy for me. The swallows' nests on the barn; the turkeys,
geese, and chickens; the colt, lambs, and little pigs; in short,
everything had an ever-increasing attraction, far exceeding any
pleasures to be found within the limits of the crowded city.
The prospect of another visit to Woodville filled my heart with
intense delight.
A week passed, and on one of the sunniest and freshest of June
mornings we started for Vermont. I was exceedingly fond of travelling
in the cars, and it seemed as if a thousand sunbeams had suddenly
fallen upon my young life. The train left New York, and we found
ourselves rapidly whirling past hills, forests, towns, and villages.
Sometimes we were flying through dark, deep cuts, then crossing
streams and rich green fields and meadows.
We expected to reach grandmother's that evening. I had written to
inform her of our coming. One hour after another passed. The day was
declining, and the sun was slowly sinking in the west.
"How much longer have we to go?" was the question I had asked for the
fiftieth time at least.
"About another hour's ride, Gracie," smilingly answered my father. "I
think we shall reach Woodville about eight."
The cars continued to hurry on till we were within a few rods of the
station.
The bell was ringing its usual warning, and the bell from a train from
behind was beginning to be heard. We had commenced to switch off, to
allow the express train to pass. But by some carelessness or
miscalculation our train was a minute too late. Father and I were
comfortably occupying one of the front seats of the rear car; and I
was in a state of impatient excitement to reach our destination. But
there came, in an instant, a stunning, frightful crash; and I was
thrown violently forward. What followed for the next ten minutes I do
not know.
I think I must have been in a semi-unconscious state, for I have a dim
recollection of strange sounds, confusion, anxiety, and terror. Strong
hands seemed to pull me out from under a heavy weight, and gently lay
me down. I felt dizzy and faint. I opened my eyes, and light came
gradually to my darkened vision. A gentleman stood over me with his
fingers upon my wrist. A kind, sunny-faced old lady was wetting my
head.
"Are you much hurt?" she tenderly inquired, gazing upon me in
undisguised anxiety.
"What's the matter? Where am I?" I cried, springing up and gazing
wildly around.
In a moment my eye caught sight of the broken rear car. There were
several wounded and bleeding people about me. I saw the front cars
emptied of passengers, who were actively employed in caring for the
injured. I comprehended in an instant that there had been an accident.
"My father! my father!" I cried.
"You shall see him soon," soothingly answered the gentleman by my
side. "Drink this;" and he held to my mouth a glass of something
pleasant and pungent. I drank its entire contents. I think it helped
to quite restore me. I ran wildly about in search of my missing
parent. There was a little group of men and women a short distance
off. I hurried towards it, and recognized Peter, my grandmother's man,
who had come to meet us at the station.
"Where is my father?" I said in a voice hardly audible from terror,
seizing Peter's arm.
Before he could reply, I saw father, white and motionless, upon the
ground.
"He is dead!" I shrieked, springing towards him, and convulsively
throwing my arms about him.
"He is stunned, _not_ dead, my child," said the physician, kindly
drawing me away, to minister to him. "We hope he will soon be better."
In spite of his soothing words and tones, I read the truth in his
face; that he feared life was almost extinct.
"O, what can I do? Save him! save him! You must _not_ let him die! you
must _not_!"
"My poor child, I will do all I can," replied the physician, touched
by my distress.
But no efforts to restore my father to consciousness availed anything.
There was a deep, ugly cut on one side of his head. No other external
injury could be found; yet he had not spoken or moved since he was
taken out from the broken car.
The accident had occurred but a few rods from the station; and as
grandmother's house was scarcely a mile distant, Peter strongly urged
that he should be taken there at once. Accordingly a wagon was
procured. The seats were taken out, and a mattress placed upon the
bottom, and father was carefully laid upon it; and Peter drove rapidly
home, while I followed with the doctor in his buggy. A man had been
sent in advance of us to inform grandmother of our coming. She met us
at the door with a pallid face, but was so outwardly calm, that I took
courage from beholding her.
Father was laid upon a nice, white bed, in a little room on the ground
floor; and again every means for restoring him was resorted to. Still
he remained unconscious.
The hours went on. The old family clock had just struck two, and we
were watching and working in an agony of suspense.
I had not left my father's bedside, till the low, indistinct
conversation between the doctor and grandmother, in the next room,
fell upon my ear.
"There is life yet," said he. "I thought once he had ceased to
breathe."
"And you are quite sure he does?" she inquired.
"Yes. I held a small mirror over his face; and the mist that gathered
upon it proves there is still faint breathing."
I shuddered and ran out to them.
"You think he will die!" I cried, seizing grandmother's hand with
desperate energy.
"I cannot tell, dear Gracie. His life, like yours and mine, is in the
hands of God. We cannot foresee his purposes. We can only submit to
his will."
Saying this, she returned with the doctor to the sick room, and I was
left alone.
The prospect of being deprived of my only surviving parent almost
paralyzed me. I looked out of the open window. It was a calm, clear
summer night. The moon shone out in all its glory and brilliancy, and
the stars twinkled as cheerily as though there was no sorrow,
suffering, or death in the world.
I sprang towards the door and closed it, and then threw myself upon my
knees, and poured out my great anguish into the pitying ear of the
heavenly Father.
"O, good, kind Father in heaven, do hear and quickly answer me. Do
save my own dear papa from death. Mother, Bessie, and little Fred have
all gone to live with thee; and he is all I have left. Do, I entreat
thee, help him to get well; I will be more kind, and generous, and
obedient than I have ever been before, and will try to please thee as
long as I live."
I arose comforted and strengthened. Returning to my father's room, I
saw the doctor with his fingers upon his wrist again.
"A faint pulse," he said, turning towards grandmother.
Another hour passed. The breath was perceptible now, and the doctor
looked more hopefully.
Morning came, and the glad sunlight streamed in through the windows.
Father remained in a deep stupor, but manifested more signs of life
than at any time since the accident. He had moved slightly several
times, and as the hours went on his breathing became more natural and
regular.
Suddenly he opened his eyes and gazed feebly around.
"Father, dear father, are you better?" I cried in a choking voice.
He smiled faintly, then closed his eyes again, and sank into a sweet,
refreshing slumber.
Another day came, bringing joy immeasurable to all of us. Father was
conscious and rallying fast, and before night the doctor assured us
all danger was past. The weeks went on.
June went out and July came in. We had been nearly a month in
Woodville; and how different my visit had resulted from the season of
perfect happiness I had so ardently anticipated!
Father was gradually regaining his former health; and although the
wound on his head was but partially healed, he was pronounced doing
admirably by the attentive physician.
He was now able to go out, and we took many long rides together,
keenly enjoying the beautiful scenery and the pure air. As strength
increased, the necessity of returning to his business pressed upon my
father, and the first week in September was appointed for our
departure.
On the last Sunday of our sojourn in Woodville, grandmother and I went
in the morning to church. There had just been a fearfully destructive
fire in one of the neighboring towns, and a large number of people
were homeless. The minister announced that at the close of the
afternoon service, a collection would be taken up for the sufferers,
and he strongly urged a generous contribution from his parishioners.
I had hitherto paid little heed, when in church, to what the minister
said; but since the dreadful accident and father's almost miraculous
recovery, I had been far more thoughtful and attentive than formerly.
My heart went out in deep sympathy and pity for the poor men, women,
and children who were made houseless in a single night, and I ardently
longed to do the little in my power to relieve them.
So, during the intermission between the services, I took out the money
I had brought with me, and which father had told me I was free to
spend as I pleased. I tied it up in my handkerchief. There was too
much for my pocket-book to conveniently hold, for it was all of the
carefully hoarded treasure of my bank. It was my design to put it into
the contribution-box.
Grandmother did not go to church in the afternoon; but father decided
to go, and I accompanied him. After the services were over, two men
arose and began to pass round the boxes to collect money for the
people whose homes had been burned. As I beheld one of them coming
slowly up the aisle, stopping at every pew, I was in a flutter of
excitement. It was a novel thing for me to put money into the
contribution-box, and my heart beat violently.