A parents' shelt'ring home, that earthly heaven,
Where ceaseless care, where tireless love and true,
Nurse thy young life as flowers are nursed by dew.
E'en as the flowers, for the dear debt they owe,
Bloom, and sweet odors in rich meed bestow,
Let the fair blossoms of thy love and duty
Cluster about thy home in fragrant beauty.
Never from eye or lip be seen or heard
The sullen glance or the rebellious word,
And never wilfully or heedless pain
The tender hearts that cannot wound again.
But fond caress, sweet smile and loving tone,
Obedience prompt and glad, be thine alone,
For filial love, like mercy, is twice blest;
While to the parent of earth's joys the best,
Richer than treasures of the land or sea,
It wins God's blessing, O my child, for thee!
[Illustration: MY MOTHER.]
REGINALD'S FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS.
One frosty morning in January two delicate-looking children were
sitting before a blazing fire in a long, low nursery with oak rafters
running across the ceiling. Between them lay a great shaggy dog.
"You will take good care of Rover whilst I am away?" said the boy,
winding his fingers in Rover's shaggy hair and leaning his head
against him.
"Yes; he shall go for a walk with me every day, and in the twilight I
will talk to him about you," answered Alice. "You might send messages
to him in your letters," she added.
"Would you understand them, old fellow?" asked Reginald, lifting up
the dog's head and looking into his eyes.
The dog wistfully returned his master's gaze and gave him his paw.
"I believe he understands," said Reginald, throwing his arms round the
dog's neck. "Oh, Rover, Rover, if I could only take you with me!"
"It would not be so bad then," sighed Alice.
"It won't be really bad when I get accustomed to it. Just at first it
may be strange, but I shall be sure to like one, at any rate, out of
the forty boys. It is going out into the world, and my father says it
is well for a boy to learn his level early. On the whole, I am glad I
am going; it is only the first bit of it that one is not sure about."
* * * * *
It was a large room, with desks and benches on either side, and an
aisle, as Reginald called it, up the middle. It had four large windows
looking out on the playground, and a fireplace at each end, round
which some dozen or two of boys were clustered.
Reginald advanced toward the fireplace at the lower end of the room,
hoping that some one might speak to him and rid him of the strange,
uncomfortable feeling that crept over him; but none of the boys spoke,
though they regarded him critically, as if measuring the sort of being
he was before committing themselves to any closer acquaintance.
So he sat down on a bench halfway down the school-room, tried to look
unconscious, and half wished himself at home again.
"Have any of you fellows got a knife? I want to cut this piece of
string," said a tall boy, addressing the group generally.
In a moment Reginald had taken out his new knife and offered it to the
speaker.
"Ah!" said Thompson, the tall boy; "a capital knife. Much obliged;
will borrow it for the present;" and after using it he quietly put it
into his pocket.
Some of the boys laughed. One of them, however, murmured, in an
undertone, "What a great shame!"
Reginald's color rose. He walked straight up to Thompson:
"Will you please to give me my knife again?"
Thompson looked surprised:
"No; I shall please to do nothing of the kind. You offered it, and I
accepted it. An offer's an offer."
"I lent it to you to cut the string."
"You did not say so."
"I do not think it just of you to take my knife in that way," said
Reginald, thoroughly aroused; "and if you do not return it at once, I
shall speak to Dr. Field about it."
"Oh!" said Thompson, coolly; "you're a sneak, are you?"
[Illustration: INDUSTRIOUS REGINALD.]
The boys, who had been gathering round Reginald, admiring his spirit
in confronting the tall boy, now drew back, and the words "tell-tale!"
"blab!" "sneak!" were distinctly heard. And Reginald found himself
standing alone, deserted by those who had drawn near in sympathy with
him, for Thompson was the tyrant of the school.
Presently, when the boys had returned to their places by the fire, and
Reginald was apparently forgotten, a merry-looking boy a year older
than himself sat down by him.
"No," said he; "you must not say anything to Dr. Field. You must let
your knife go, and learn wisdom for the future."
Reginald looked up.
"It's mean and unfair," he said.
"That may be, but the boys would say it was meaner still to complain.
One has to put up with things of this sort at school, and make the
best of them."
"What's your name?" asked Reginald, suddenly, for there was something
about the boy that he liked, and he thought this might be the one who
was to be his friend.
"Barton. And yours?"
"Reginald Murray."
"Murray's enough, without the other."
"I should like you to be my friend."
Barton glanced at the large dark eyes that were fixed upon him, and at
the delicate and somewhat mournful face, and felt attracted also.
"I think I shall like you," he returned; "but I must wait and see how
you go on. I think you've the right spirit; but you must take my
advice about the knife. Will you?"
There was a struggle in Reginald's mind. It was very hard to give up
the knife that Alice had saved up her pocket-money to buy for him.
Still, Barton had been at school for some time, and knew better than
he what ought to be done, so he answered, "I will."
But Barton was not prepared for his manner of carrying out the
decision. To his great surprise, Reginald marched straight up to
Thompson. "I shall not," he said, "speak to Dr. Field about the knife.
It's unfair and unjust of you to take it, and I sha'n't be friends
with you as long as you keep it. But Barton says it would be telling
tales if I made a complaint."
Some of the younger boys stood quite aghast at Reginald's boldness;
one or two even murmured, "Well done!"
Thompson stared, half in astonishment, half in anger. "You're too
fast, young sir; you'll have to be put down, I see," said he. But he
did not give Reginald his knife again.
School was indeed a new world to Reginald. He made friends and found
enemies; he worked hard--indeed, often sat up by candle-light to
prepare examples for the next day. He played well, and on the whole
was tolerably popular. Thompson, however, still kept the knife, using
it upon all occasions, which caused a thrill of indignation to go
through Reginald's delicate frame.
"If I can't get it one way, I will another," thought he; and he
brooded over the knife until he magnified every word that Thompson
said into a series of insults to himself, and Thompson, pleased with
the power he possessed over the boy, exercised it on all occasions.
So the spring went by, and the summer came, and the days slipped away,
and the holidays were close at hand.
"If I were strong enough, I would fight him for it," said Reginald to
Barton, one day, when Thompson had been more than usually aggravating.
The remark was repeated to Thompson, who was standing by the side of
the river that ran at the foot of the playground.
At that moment Reginald drew near.
"So you would like to fight me if you were big enough?" said he, with
a sneer.
"I should!" answered Reginald, warmly.
"Ah! it's a bad state of feeling. If the knife causes such wicked
thoughts, the best way is to get rid of it. So here it goes, and there
is an end of it!" And drawing the knife from his pocket, he flung it
into the river. It fell short of where he intended, and Reginald saw
his beloved knife through the clear river, lying within what he
supposed to be an easy reach. Without a moment's thought he jumped in
after it, regardless of the cry that rose, "The water's deeper than it
looks!"
His hand had, as if by instinct, grasped the knife, but as he tried to
struggle back through the swiftly-running water he got confused, for,
as the boys had called out to him, it was a great deal deeper than it
looked, and just there the ground shelved suddenly, and Reginald,
taking a false step, lost his footing.
There was a general outcry, which brought Dr. Field and a visitor who
had just arrived to the spot:
"Murray's in the river!"
And they pointed to the spot where the poor boy had sunk.
With such a cry as the boys long remembered, the visitor had plunged
into the water, and had caught the boy, who had risen for the last
time, by the arm.
And the next thing that the boys knew was that a white, dripping form
was carried through the playground into the house.
Then a whisper went round, "It was his father."
Then a whispered question, "Is he dead?"
And Thompson shuddered as he heard it.
But Reginald did not die; he opened his eyes to find his father
clasping his hand. At first he could remember nothing, then he looked
round anxiously: "Is the knife safe? I went to pick up my knife."
Then he closed his eyes and remained for a long time silent; and when
he spoke again, it was in the wild ravings of delirium.
The shock had been too much for the delicate boy. Fever came on, and
it was weeks before he could be moved home. And then he was ordered to
the South, and Italy was the chosen place in which Mr. and Mrs. Murray
and their two children should sojourn until Reginald should have
completely recovered his health.
And this time Rover was to go with his young master.
The day before Reginald left home a carriage drove up to the door, and
Thompson stepped out of it.
He and Reginald were alone for a quarter of an hour, and they parted
friends.
"I have my knife now, Thompson," said Reginald, "and so the quarrel is
over."
And Thompson returned to Dr. Field's a better and a wiser boy. He
never bullied any one again.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: {Three kittens, two wrestling and one clasping a ball
in its front paws}]
CLEOPATRA.
We've called our young puss Cleopatra;
'Twas grandpa who named her like that.
He says it means "fond of good living"--
A queer enough name for a cat!
She leads the most lovely existence,
And one which appears to enchant;
Asleep in the sun like a snow-flake
That tries to get melted and can't;
Or now and then languidly strolling
Through plots of the garden, to steal
On innocent grasshoppers, crunching
Her cruel and murderous meal!
Or lapping from out of her saucer--
The dainty and delicate elf!--
With appetite spoiled in the garden,
New milk that's as white as herself.
Dear, dear! could we only change places,
This do-nothing pussy and I,
You'd think it hard work, Cleopatra,
To live, as the moments went by.
Ah! how would you relish, I wonder,
To sit in a school-room for hours?
You'd find it less pleasant, I fancy,
Than murdering bugs in the flowers.
EDGAR FAWCETT.
DECLAMATION.
SHAKSPEARE.
She sat in her eternal house,
The sovereign mother of mankind;
Before her was the peopled world,
The hollow night behind.
"Below my feet the thunders break,
Above my head the stars rejoice;
But man, although he babbles much,
Has never found a voice.
"Ten thousand years have come and gone,
And not an hour of any day
But he has dumbly looked to me
The things he could not say.
"It shall be so no more," she said;
And then, revolving in her mind,
She thought, "I will create a child
Shall speak for all his kind."
It was the spring-time of the year,
And, lo! where Avon's waters flow,
The child, her darling, came on earth
Three hundred years ago.
There was no portent in the sky,
No cry, like Pan's, along the seas,
Nor hovered round his baby mouth
The swarm of classic bees.
What other children were he was;
If more, 'twas not to mortal ken;
The being likest to mankind
Made him the man of men.
Before he came, his like was not,
Nor left he heirs to share his powers.
The mighty mother sent him here
To be her voice and ours;
To be her oracle to man;
To be what man may be to her;
Between the Maker and the made
The best interpreter.
RICHARD H. STODDARD.
SMILES AND TEARS.
Both sword and guns are strong, no doubt,
And so are tongue and pen,
And so are sheaves of good bank-notes,
To sway the souls of men;
But guns and swords, and gold and thought,
Though mighty in their sphere,
Are often poorer than a smile,
And weaker than a tear.
NICOLO'S LITTLE FRIEND.
"Nicolo, Nicolo, where are you? Where have you hidden yourself? Come
here; I want you."
It was a very bright-eyed little girl who spoke these words--under a
bright sky, too--the sunny sky of Italy.
But Nicolo, a boy some years older than herself, looked far from
bright or happy; he was lying full length on the ground in the
sunlight; but his face was overcast and melancholy.
"Lazy fellow!" said little Gianetta, laughingly, as she came up to
him; "I am out of breath calling to you. Come along; I want you.
Mother has done with me, and we can make some music together."
But Nicolo shook his head, though he smiled at his little friend.
"What is it?" asked Gianetta. "Why can't you come? Is it the father
again?"
Nicolo sighed. He was a cheerful, happy-tempered boy by nature. And
yet Gianetta often found him looking very sad.
"Tiresome, bad man!" broke forth the little girl. "He has been
scolding you again; but no. Stop; I will say no wicked things of him,
for he is your father; and we must honor our parents, be they bad or
good, Father Clement says. But tell me, Nicolo, what has he said or
done?"
"It is nothing," said Nicolo, rousing himself at length--"nothing, my
little Gianetta; but it wearies me. It is the old tale; he likes not
my music--thinks it an excuse for idleness. Listen, little one. I make
my plans now. I cannot bear this life. I must do as he wishes--learn a
trade or somewhat, and give up my violin."
"That you never shall do," said Gianetta, earnestly. "You think me
naughty, Nicolo; but I am not. I only see it plainer than you or your
father. God has given you this talent,--this great one,--and you shall
not hide it, you shall not bury it." The little girl's face was so
eager, that Nicolo smiled at her.
But she went on, more excitedly:--
"Get up this moment, Nicolo, and come in with me. We will play
somewhat together. Your father never scolds you when I am by. And you
shall not give up your music."
The boy, half in earnest, and half amused, let the child drag him into
a little house near, put his violin into his arms, and then seat
herself at the piano, while in the distance sat Nicolo's father,
gloomily watching the pair.
"Begin," said Gianetta, "and tell me when I play wrongly."
But for such a mere child, Gianetta played with marvellous
correctness. As for Nicolo, his countenance cleared with every sound
that he drew from his beloved violin; he forgot his gloomy father; he
thought no longer of his dull, sad home. He was wrapped in that
wonderful content which the possession of some great talent gives.
With the last chord the brightness faded, however, out of his face.
"Take me home now," said the little girl.
Home was only across the street; but Gianetta wanted another word in
private with her friend.
"Nicolo," she said, gravely, "never speak more of giving up the music;
it is not to be. I am sorry for you, my poor boy; I know it is a hard
life, but--"
"But I will make a name for myself at last," said Nicolo, catching her
enthusiasm; "and then, perhaps, my father will have faith in me. Till
then I will be brave, little one; so good night."
It _was_ a hard life for Nicolo--his mother dead, his father with no
care for his son's one great passion--music. Many a time the boy's
spirit failed, and he even grew to doubt his own powers under the cold
glance and cruel taunts which daily met him.
He was sitting one day, feeling even sadder than usual,--discontented
even with the sounds he drew from his instrument,--when Gianetta's
mother stood in the doorway.
"The child is ill," she said, hurriedly--"very ill, and calls ever for
you. Come."
So Nicolo went, and, though tossed with fever, his little friend
smiled on him. There was, however, a longing look in her eyes; but her
parched lips could not form a word.
"Is it the violin?" asked Nicolo, softly.
She smiled again, and Nicolo fetched his treasure.
"A sleeping song?" he questioned.
The little face grew calm and soft at his question. Sweetly the music
floated through the room, stilling the little sufferer, and comforting
the watchers. When he had finished, Gianetta stretched out her arms.
"Thank you, dear Nicolo," she said; "that was pleasant. Now I shall
sleep; but _you_ must never sleep; you have much else to do; you must
go out into the world, and be famous--go away far, far from here. Do
you mind my words? Will you remember them?"
And she lay back exhausted on her pillow, never more to ask for music
in this world. Gianetta was listening even then to the angels' song.
That night Nicolo sat beside the dead body of his little friend.
Lights burned, flowers were scattered round her, and prayers were said
without ceasing in all those long hours. It was the custom of the
country; it did not disturb the dead, and it comforted the living.
And when morning dawned, the friendless boy went back to his little
room across the road, and there he poured out his heart in a farewell
strain to his dear companion who had thus suddenly been snatched from
him.
There was no more now to be done but to fulfil her last command--to
go out into the world, and to make himself famous.
Did he do so?
Ask those who love music, and hold dear all great names in its roll of
fame, if they ever heard of Nicolo Paganini; for it is of his boyhood
that I write.
How far he owed his success in life to a little girl, each reader may
judge for himself. She certainly inspired him with courage when he was
very down-hearted; and through all his brilliant career, I think he at
least must always have remembered her with gratitude.
H. A. F.
A CHILD'S PETITION.
O thou above,
From whose great love
The world all good receives,
Make me as bright
With thy blessed light
As a rose with all her leaves.
Wash me as clean
From every sin,
O pitiful, pitiful One;
And make me shine
With thy grace divine,
Like a lily with the sun.
Take pride away,
Dear Lord, I pray,
And make me pure and true,
That I may be fed
On thy living bread,
As the daisy is fed on the dew.
Help me still
To do thy will
Till life has passed away,
And in the dark
To sing like a lark
At the golden gate of the day.
THE TRUANT.
"What's the matter with Neddy Oram?" I said as a noise outside drew me
to the window, and I saw old Mrs. Oram dragging her grandson along the
street. She looked angry and determined.
"He's played truant, I guess," answered my little girl as she came to
my side. "He played truant last week, and Mr. Jonas made him stand on
one foot ever so long a time. And when he got tired and put the other
one down, he switched him on the leg. Oh dear! I don't want to go this
morning. I wish Neddy wouldn't play truant, nor be bad in school! He's
such a nice boy, and I can't bear to see him whipped. Mr. Jonas will
cut him dreadfully, I know he will, for he said he'd take the skin off
of him if ever he played truant again."
Neddy was a nice boy, as my little girl said. He was bright and
active, kind-hearted and generous. I never saw him do a mean or
selfish thing. But he had a free, rather reckless spirit and a will
that was stubbornness itself when aroused. Kindness softened, but
anger hardened, him.
Neddy's father and mother were both dead, and the boy lived with his
grandmother, who was rather a hard woman, and believed more in the
power of force than in the power of kindness.
As soon as I understood the case I put on my bonnet hastily and ran
after Mrs. Oram, hoping to come up with her before she reached the
school-room. I was a few moments too late for this, but in time to
have a word with Mr. Jonas, who stood at the door holding the
struggling boy firmly by the arm.
"I want you to promise me one thing," I said, laying my hand on the
schoolmaster's. I spoke in as quiet a voice as I could assume, but
very seriously. My words and manner threw Mr. Jonas off of his guard.
His hold on the boy relaxed, and in the next instant Neddy was beyond
his reach and running off as fast as his feet could carry him.
"After him!" cried the schoolmaster, greatly excited. "After him, John
Wilkins!"
A large, coarse-looking boy started forward, and was about passing
through the door, when I put my hand on him, and pressing him back
said,
"Wait a moment, John. Maybe, after I've said a word to Mr. Jonas,
he'll not want you to go. Tell him to wait, Mr. Jonas; do, now,
because I want you."
I softened my voice to a persuasive tone, and so made my interference
effectual. The schoolmaster told John Wilkins to go back to his seat.
Mrs. Oram had started after her troublesome grandson on the instant of
his escape, and so I was left alone with the excited teacher.
"Now, don't be angry with me," said I, "nor tell me to go away and
mind my own business. Two heads are sometimes better than one; and
it's my opinion that if you and I put our heads together, we can save
this poor boy from being ruined. There is a great deal of good in
him, but as things go now I'm afraid it will be lost. With natures
like his, 'love has readier will than fear.' His grandmother doesn't
know how to manage him. Let us try to show her a better way."
[Illustration: THE TRUANT.]
By the time I had said this the thoughts of Mr. Jonas had become
clearer and his anger against Neddy much abated. I saw this in his
face.
"Let the boy go now," I added. "After school come and see me, and
we'll have a long talk over the matter. But promise me one thing."
"What is that?" he asked.
"If old Mrs. Oram brings Neddy back to-day, don't punish him."
"Very well. It shall be as you say," answered the schoolmaster.
That evening Mr. Jonas called to see me. He was a better man, on the
whole, than he was a schoolmaster. Out of school he was kind and
genial, but as a teacher he was not always as wise and as patient as
he should be. Like Neddy's grandmother, he believed more in the power
of force than he did in the power of kindness. His rod was always in
sight, and too often in his hand. He ruled by fear, and not by love.
"Did Neddy come back to school?" I asked.
Mr. Jonas shook his head gravely.
"Oh, mother," cried my little girl, rushing into the room just at this
moment, "Neddy Oram's lost or run away!"
She stopped on seeing Mr. Jonas; her face, that had been a little
pale, flushed deeply, and her eyes had an angry flash. "And it's all
your fault!" she added, with a sudden brave indignation in her tiny
voice as she turned on the schoolmaster and looked at him steadily.
"My fault!" said the schoolmaster, in a startled voice.
"Yes, sir. It's all your fault. If you hadn't made him stand on one
leg until he was almost tired to death, and switched him when he put
the other down, and if you hadn't said you'd cut the skin off of him,
he wouldn't have run away."
And here little Carrie burst out crying, and buried her face, sobbing,
in my lap.
"Brave talk for my timid little girl, Mr. Jonas," I said, in an
undertone, "but all true, I'm afraid."
"What is true?" he asked, looking bewildered.
"All that Carrie has said. This way you have of flogging children does
more harm than good. A man of your clear mind and kindly nature might
surely find some better way to govern your scholars."
Mr. Jonas did not answer. There was a look of pained surprise on his
face.
"Run away, lost!" he exclaimed, after a few moments, rising to his
feet. His manner had become suddenly agitated. "Poor boy! I must see
about this;" and he went out hastily.
When Neddy Oram, who was only ten years old, escaped from the
schoolmaster, he went directly home and hid himself in the garret,
behind some boxes and old furniture. He ran so much faster than his
grandmother that she lost sight of him and did not see him go into the
house. So no search was made for him in the garret. Like some poor
hunted animal that had gained a place of safety, he crouched panting
in his hiding-place, enjoying for a time a sweet sense of security.
But Neddy could not long forget how small and weak and dependent he
was. It was all very well to hide away from his grandmother, but how
was he to get anything to eat?
"Run away!" said a voice that spoke inside of him, but so loud and
clear that he almost started. "Run away!" repeated the voice.
"Grandmother Oram will find you out up here and take you back to
school, and Mr. Jonas will switch you half to death."
I wonder who it was that said this, or how a voice could speak inside
of Neddy Oram? It was a bad spirit, I think, that wished to do him
harm. We may often hear these bad spirits speaking in our thoughts and
telling us to do naughty things. Good spirits speak in our thoughts as
well as bad ones, and they tell us to do what is right, to be kind and
generous and loving and true.