One o’clock at night, and this is Niagara. It might as well be Boston
Frog Pond, for all the enthusiasm has been shook, and jolted, and
stunned, and frightened out of us getting to it. And now here it is one
o’clock at night. I suppose not a bit of supper is to be had for poor
Nelly and me, although we have eaten nothing since we had that
scrambling twelve o’clock dinner. What a big hotel! bless us—there is a
supper though all ready; for they are used to little accidents, called
collisions, this way, and feed the survivors with as much alacrity as
they bury the dead; to be sure there is a supper—chicken—oh, Nelly!
chicken and hot tea. Sorry figures we cut by the light of the bright gas
chandeliers, with our jammed bonnets and torn riding-dresses, but who
cares? I am sure black John don’t; he is just as civil as if we were as
presentable as a Broadway belle; certainly he is used to it; he is used
to seeing ladies emerge from begrimed caterpillar riding-habits into all
sorts of gay butterfly paraphernalia; John is charitable; he always
suspends his judgment of passengers till the next morning at breakfast;
then he knows who is who. If a lady takes diamonds with her coffee, he
knows she talks bad grammar, and is not what she would have people think
her; he is not surprised to have her find fault with every thing from
the omelette to the Indian cake. He expects to see her nose turned up at
every thing, just as if she had every thing better at home.
She does not impose on John—he waits upon her with a quiet twinkle in
his eye, which says as plain as a twinkle can say: I have not stood
behind travelers’ chairs these two years for nothing; that game has been
played out here, my lady; but when a lady comes down to breakfast in a
modest-colored, quiet-looking breakfast robe, with smooth hair,
neatly-slippered feet, and a very nice collar, and speaks civily and
kindly to him, John knows he sees a real lady, whether she owns a
diamond or not—and her pleasant “Thank you,” when he has taken some
trouble to procure her what she desires, wings his feet for many a hard
hour’s work that day. I wish ladies oftener thought of this. I wish they
did not think it beneath them, or were not too indifferent or
thoughtless to attend to it. “What is that noise, John?” “Oh, them’s the
Rapids, ma’am.” “Rapids? sure enough, we almost forgot we were at
Niagara; how very dismal they sound!” John laughs and says, “You are
tired to-night, ma’am; when you look at them in the morning you will
like ’em; most ladies does.” But poor Nelly is half asleep over her
plate, so we will go to bed. What a little box of a chamber! not a
pretty thing in it but Nelly; a table, a chair, a bed, a bureau, and a
candle on it; the window shaking as if it had St. Vitus’s dance; the
Rapids, as John calls them, roaring like mad under the window. I can’t
stand the rattling of that window. I’ll stop it with the handle of a
tooth-brush. I suppose I have a tooth-brush left, if the cars did run
off the track; oh, yes! “Now tumble into bed, Nelly. What a dismal thing
those Rapids are, to be sure. I feel as if I were out at sea in an
egg-shell boat. I wonder how they will look in the morning? don’t you,
Nelly?” No answer. “Nelly’s asleep; I wish I could sleep, but I’m sure
those horrid Rapids will give me the night-mare.”
“Morning? you don’t mean that, Nelly! and you look as bright as if the
cars had kept right end up all the way here. Does the sun shine, Nelly?
Open the blinds and see. No? what a pity. ‘A great river under the
window!’ why, pussy, that river is the Rapids; I don’t wonder they shake
the window so; how they tumble about! Now, we will dress and breakfast,
and then, no! for the Falls. You and I are not to be frightened at a few
rain-drops, Nelly; we have had too many drenchings running to and fro
from printing-offices for that. That’s right, Nelly, dip your face into
the washbasin, it will make your eyes strong and bright; now smooth your
hair, and put on the plainest dress you can find, but let it be very
clean. I hope your finger-nails and teeth are quite nice, and then pull
your stockings smoothly up; of all things don’t wear wrinkled stockings.
Put stout boots on; don’t be afraid of a thick sole, Nelly; every thing
looks well in its place; and a thin shoe on Goat Island would be quite
ridiculous.
“You are glad to get out of that stifled bed-room? so am I. What a nice
wide breezy hall this is! Oh, there are more travelers who have just
arrived, and there are some more who are just leaving; and there comes
the servant to say breakfast is ready; gongs are out of fashion, I am
glad of that; I would run a mile to escape a gong; and beside, no
hospitable landlord, I think, would set such a machine in motion to
disturb sick and weary travelers, who prefer a longer sleep. Ah, this
landlord knows what he is about, I am sure of that; you can generally
judge of any house by the manners of the servants. How well trained they
are here, how quiet, how prompt! Good fellows; I hope they get well
paid, don’t you, Nelly? I hope they have a comfortable place to sleep,
when the day is over, don’t you? All black? I am glad of that, too; I
like black people; they are such a merry people, they are so easily made
happy, they are so affectionate, they are so neat. Oh, what nice bread
and coffee! Don’t touch those omelettes, Nelly; take a bit of beefsteak
and here’s some milk—_real_ milk; it is so long since I have tasted any,
that it seems like cream!
“Who are those people? How do I know, little puss? I dare say they are
asking the same question about us! You don’t like that lady’s face? Why
not? She don’t look as if she could laugh. That’s a fact, Nelly. She is
as solemn as an owl. But perhaps she is in trouble, who knows? We must
not laugh about her. Come, Nelly, let us get up and go to the Falls. Tie
on your bonnet; what a nice fresh air! See the shops, Nelly! shops at
Niagara, who would have thought it? and curiosities of all sorts to
sell! Well, never mind them now. Want a carriage? want a cab? Of course
we don’t—look at our democratic thick-soled shoes! what’s the use of
having feet, if we are not to be allowed to use them? No, of course we
don’t want a carriage; we feel, Nelly and I, as if we were just made;
don’t you see how we step off? No, keep your carriages for infirm,
proud, and lazy people. Carriage—who can run in a carriage? who can
skip? This way, Nelly, over the little bridge? Oh—pay toll here! Do we?
Twenty-five cents. And please register our names! Oh yes, of course—Mrs.
Nelly, and Miss Nelly. What are you laughing at, puss? come along; oh,
see this pretty island! now you see the use of thick shoes—off into that
grass, and pick me some of those wild-flowers. Oh, Nelly, there are some
blue, and pink, and purple—get a handful, Nelly! Oh, how delicious it is
to be alive; skip, Nelly, run, Nelly, sing Nelly.
“A real Indian? Where? Oh, that’s not a real Indian, no more than you or
I. She’s a pretty little sham Indian; but what are her pin cushions and
moccasins to these wild-flowers? No, no, little girl, don’t stop us with
those things; we left shopping in New York. Goat Island was not made for
that, I’m sure; come Nelly! A boy with crosses made of Table-rock; how
they plague us—we don’t want to buy any crosses, we are cross enough
ourselves, because you keep bothering us so; we came to see the Falls,
not to do shopping. Come away, Nelly! Oh, Nelly—look! look!”
But why describe the Falls to you, when all your school geographies have
a picture of it? when your teacher has taken all the school to see a
panorama of it? when your Uncle George, and Aunt Caroline, and Cousin
James have seen it? and yet no tongue, no pen ever could, ever has
described its beauty, its majesty. I would that I had never heard it
attempted; I would that I had never heard of Niagara; I would that I had
come upon it unawares some glorious morning before Indian girls had
peddled moccasins there, or boys, had profaned it by selling pictures
and crosses; I would have knelt on that lovely island, and seen God’s
majesty in the ceaseless, roaring torrent; God’s smile in the bright
rainbow, hung upon the fleecy mist; God’s love in making earth so
beautiful, for those who forget to thank Him for it. I would lead _him_
there who says there is no God, that he might hear His voice, and see
His glory.
But no two persons look on Niagara with the same eyes. You can not see
it through my spectacles; some it animates and makes jubilant; others it
depresses and terrifies; some hear in it the thunder and lightning of
Sinai; others hear in it the voice of Him who stilled the raging waves
with “Peace, be still!”
Yes, I was glad to have seen Niagara, but I was not sorry to leave it.
Its rushing torrent threw a shadow over my spirit. Its monster jaws
seemed hungry for some victim, other than the unconscious leaves which
it whirled so impatiently and disdainfully out of sight. Its
never-ceasing roar seemed like the trumpet-challenge to battle, telling
of mangled corpses and broken hearts. No;—dearer to me is the silvery
little brook, tripping lightly through green meadows, singing low and
sweet to the nodding flowers, bending to see their own sweet beauty
mirrored in its clear face. I like not that all Nature’s gentle voices
should be tyrannically hushed to silence, drowned by a despot’s
deafening roar. Give me the low murmur of the trees; I like the hum of
the bee; I like the flash of the merry little fish; I like the little
bird, circling, darting, singing, skimming the blue above, dipping his
blight wings in the blue below; I like the cricket which chirps the
tired farmer to sleep; I like the distant bleat of the lamb, the faint
lowing of the cow; I lay my head on Nature’s breast, in her gentler
moods, and tell her all my hopes and fears, and am not ashamed of my
tears. But she drives me from her when she roars and foams, and flashes
fierce lightning from her angry eyes; I close my ears to her roaring
thunder. But when, clearing the cloud from her brow, she hangs a rainbow
on her breast, throws perfume to the pretty flowers, and smiles
caressingly through her tears—ah, then I love her; then she is all my
own again.
Here I have been running on! and all this while you have been waiting to
know the rest of my story. Well, Nelly and I started to go back to New
York. Nelly did not like the idea of trusting herself in the cars, nor,
to tell the truth, did I; but there was no help for it: besides, it is
not wise to be a slave to one’s fears. So we tried to forget all about
it. A girl who lived with me once remarked, there is always something
happening most days. So we soon found amusement. An old lady in the
cars, when she had smelled up all her camphor and eaten all her
lozenges, commenced asking me questions faster than I could answer, and
looking at Nelly through her spectacles. Some of her questions were very
funny, and, from any body but an old lady, would have been impertinent;
but we answered them all, for it was very evident she did not ride in
the cars every day, and was determined to get her money’s worth. Poor
old lady! I suppose she had lived all her life in some small village
where there was only a blacksmith’s shop and a meeting-house, and where
every body knew what time every body got up, and what they had for
breakfast. Nice old lady! I hope somebody gave her a good cup of tea,
and a rocking-chair, when she got home, which, I regret to say, was the
first stopping-place after we left Niagara.
From the car-windows Nelly and I saw the Catskill Mountains. O the
lovely changing hues of their steep and misty sides; the billowy clouds
that rolled up, and rolled over, and rolled off;—then the far-off
summit, now hidden, now revealed, lying against the sky, tempting us to
see from thence the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them. And so
we will, some day. I will tell you what we see.
Night came, and we had not yet reached New York. Nelly was dusty, and
hungry, and tired; but she was a good traveler, and made no complaint.
The cars were dashing along through the darkness, close by the edge of
the Hudson River, and Nelly clasped my hand more closely as she looked
out of the windows upon its dark surface, and sighed as if she feared
some accident might tip us all over into it. But no such accident
occurred, and by-and-by the bright gas-lights of New York shone and
sparkled; and the never-failing gutter odor informed us that we were
back again upon its dusty streets.
THE MORNING-GLORY.
“How did Luly look?” Her eyes were brown, her hair was brown, too; she
was very pale, and slender, and had a soft, sweet voice, just such a
voice as you would expect from such a fragile little girl. Luly did not
like to be noticed: she was fond of being by herself, and would often
sit for an hour at a time, quite still, with her slender hands crossed
in her lap, thinking; her cheek would flush, and her eye moisten, but no
one knew what Luly was thinking about. Luly did not love to play; she
did not care for dolls, or baby-houses; she never jumped rope, or drove
hoop, or played hunt the slipper; this troubled her mother, who knew
that all healthy young creatures love to play and frolic; and so she
brought Luly all sorts of pretty toys, and Luly would say very sweetly,
“Thank you, dear mamma,” and put them on the shelf, but she never played
with them, and seemed quite to forget that they were there. Luly’s
grandmother shook her head, and said, “Luly will die; Luly will never
live to grow up.”
If Luly heard any one speak in a harsh, cross voice, she would shiver
all over, as if some cold wind were blowing upon her; and if she saw two
persons quarreling, she never would be satisfied till she had made peace
between them. One day, before she could speak plain, her mother sent her
down to the kitchen on an errand; when she got to the door, she stood
still, for the cook and the chambermaid were very angry with each other;
one was saying “You did,” and the other “I didn’t,” in very loud tones,
and their faces were very red with passion. Luly stood in the door-way,
looking, listening, and trembling, as she always did at any such sight.
Tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and unable to bear it any longer, she
stepped between them, and clasping her little hands, said in her broken
way, with her sweet, musical voice, “Oh, don’t _condict_, please don’t
_condict_.” So the girls stopped contradicting, ashamed before a little
child, “for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Luly never disobeyed her mother—never—never. If her mother told her not
to go out in the garden without her leave, and then went away for an
hour, she was just as sure that Luly had obeyed her, as if she had been
there to see; and yet, every night when this little girl went to bed,
she would say, as she laid her head upon the pillow, “Mother, do you
think God will forgive all my sins to-day? I hope he will, _I hope I
haven’t made God sorry, mother_;” and when her mother said, “Yes, I know
he will forgive you, Luly,” she would smile so peacefully, and say: “Now
you can go down stairs, mother.” Luly never was afraid of God; she never
thought or spoke of His “punishing” her; but she loved Him so much that
it was a great grief to her to think that she might have “made Him
sorry,” as she called it. One morning when she woke, one beautiful
summer morning, when the scent of the roses came in at the open window,
when the dew-drops were glistening, and the green trees waving, and the
birds singing, she crept out of her little crib, and stood at her window
looking out on the fair earth, with her little hands clasped, her eyes
beaming, and her cheek glowing.
“What is it, Luly?” said her mother, as tears rolled slowly down Luly’s
cheeks.
“I want to see Him,” whispered Luly.
“Who, my child?”
“God.”
Then Luly’s mother thought of what her grandmother had said: “Luly will
not live; Luly will die,” and she clasped her little girl tightly to her
breast, as if she feared even then she would go from her.
But no mother’s clasp could hold little Luly; no mother’s tears could
bribe the Death Angel. Rose-red grew the cheek, then white as snow, the
little hands grew hot, then icy cold, the soft eye bright, then dim, and
she who never grieved us living, grieved us dying.
A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.
I wish I knew what that cow is thinking about; how lazily she stands
there, switching her sides with her tail, and looking up and down the
meadow. I am no judge of cows, but I think that is a pretty cow. Any
lady might be proud of her great, soft brown eyes. I am glad she does
not know that one of these days, the butcher will thump her on the head
and sell her for beef; I am glad she does not know that the pretty
little calf, which frolics by her side, will be eaten for veal, next
week. Munch away, old cow, and enjoy the fresh clover while you can; I
don’t believe you have any idea what a pretty picture you and your baby
calf make, as you stand with your hoofs in that brook and bend your
heads to drink. I like to think, though I know it is not so (because you
have no soul, old cow), that when you raise your head from the brook and
lift it toward the sky, you are thinking of Him who made the pretty
clover grow and the sparkling brook to flow. And now the little calf is
nursing. Pull away, little rogue? if _you_ have not a better right to
your mother’s milk than Sally, the dairy-maid, I will agree to go
without butter; pull away, it does me good to see you; now kick up your
heels and run like mischief over the meadow; see the old cow blink and
wink, as she looks after her, as if to say, Well, well, I was young
myself, once; calves will be calves, spite of cows. And there is a hen
and her cunning little chickens; I should like to catch that tiny white
one, which blows over the meadow like a piece of cotton wool, and cuddle
her right up in my neck; I am sure the old hen would not object if she
knew how I liked chickens; but she don’t, and she would probably take me
for a highwaywoman, and I can’t have my character called in question
that way, even by a hen; beside her beak is sharp, and so are her claws:
I think I had better admire her little soft white baby at a distance.
Nice little thing, how glad I am it does not have to be fixed up in lace
and embroidery, every morning, and have a nurse rubbing its nose enough
to rub it off, every time a stray breeze makes it sneeze; how glad I am
the little thing can roll and tumble in the grass, instead of being
stewed up in a hot nursery and sweltered under a load of crib-blankets,
till all its strength oozes out in perspiration; dear little chick, I
hope you will find plenty of little worms to eat, and I hope no old
rooster will cuff your ears for doing it; I hope you will have the
downiest side of your mother’s wing to sleep under, and plenty of meal
and water when worms are scarce. But, see! there’s a shower coming up;
you had better scamper under the shed; don’t you hear the thunder,
little chick? don’t you see that beautiful zig-zag lightning darting out
of that dark cloud? and don’t you see that lovely blue sky over yonder,
peaceful as the good man’s soul, when the cloud of trouble threatens
him? No, little chick, you don’t notice it a bit; you are only chasing
after your mother, and trying to dodge the rain-drops; well, pretty as
you are, I had rather be born with a soul; I am glad my soul will live
millions of years after you are dead; I want to know so much that
puzzles me here on earth, but which I am willing to believe is all
right, until God Himself explains it all to me. I am glad I am not a
little chick without a soul, because I want to learn about these things
in heaven.
[Illustration]
THE CIRCUS.
What a mob of boys! There’s Bill Saunders, and Ned Hoyt, and Tom Fagin,
and Lewis Coates, and John Harris; and, sure as the world, there’s that
little tomtit, Harry Horn, without a sign of a cap on, jumping up and
down as if there were pins in his trowsers. What _can_ be the matter, I
wonder? Now they shout, “Hurra—hurra!”—but then boys are always
screaming hurra. I have done breaking my neck leaning out of the window
to see what is the matter. I won’t look at the little monkeys. There it
goes again—“Hurra! hurra!” One would think General Washington,
Lafayette, or some other great person, was coming down street. Now they
move one side—ah, now I see what all the fuss is about! A great flaming
red and yellow handbill is posted on the fence; and on it is written,
“Pat Smith’s Circus! next Wednesday afternoon and evening.” Circus! no
wonder little Harry Horn forgot to put his hat on, and jumped up and
down as if he were trying to jump out of his trousers. If there is any
thing that drives boys crazy, it is a circus. I should like to know why;
I have a great mind to go to Pat Smith’s Circus myself, just to find
out; for I never was in a circus in my life. Yes, I will go, and I will
take Nelly; she never was in a circus either. No, I won’t; I will leave
her at home with black Nanny. No, I wont; I will take black Nanny too;
but then I am not sure Pat Smith allows colored people in his circus.
“Well, if he is such a senseless Pat as that, he may go without three
twenty-five cent pieces, that’s all, for Nanny likes a little fun as
well as if her skin were whiter; and if Nanny can’t come in, Nelly and I
won’t. But Nanny can; Pat is not such a fool. So, come along, Nanny;
come along, Nelly; it don’t matter what you wear. Walk a little faster,
both of you; we must get a good seat, or we shall lose half the fun.
Short people are apt to fare badly in a crowd. Here we are! This a
circus! this round tent? How funny! Music inside; that’s nice; I like
music; so do Nelly and Nanny. Here’s your money, Mr. Pat Smith.
Goodness! you don’t mean that we have got to clamber up in those high,
ricketty-looking seats, without any backs? Suppose we should fall
through on the ground below? Suppose the seats should crack, and let all
these people down? I think we’ll climb up to the highest seat, for in
case they do break, I had rather be on the top of the pile than
underneath it. That’s it; here’s a place for you, Nanny. Bless me, what
a “many people,” as little Harry Horn says. Little babies, too, as I
live;—well, I suppose their poor tired mothers wanted a little fun too;
but the babies are better off than we, because they can have a drink of
milk whenever they are thirsty. Ah, I was a little too fast there, for
Pat Smith has provided lemonade, and here comes a man with a pailful.
Circus lemonade!—no, I thank you; it may be very good, but I prefer
taking your word for it. How the people flock in! What’s that coming in
at yonder door? Nanny! Nelly!—look! Is it a small house painted
slate-color? No—it is an elephant—a live elephant. What a monster! what
great flapping ears! what huge paws! and what a rat-ty looking tail! I
don’t like his tail; but his trunk is superb. I am afraid he has had a
deal of whipping to make him behave so well. How he could make us all
fly, if he chose; what mince-meat he could make of those little fat
babies yonder. I am glad he don’t want to; they are too pretty to eat.
What are they going to do with him, I wonder? It can’t be that they mean
to make him walk up that steep pair of stairs. Yes—see him! Would you
believe such a great monster could do it so gracefully? He lifts his
paws as gently as a kitten. Now that’s worth seeing; but how in the
world are they going to get him down, now that he has reached the top?
See—he is going to back down; not one false step does he make; now he
has reached the bottom. Clever old monster! It seems a shame to make
such a great, grand-looking, kingly creature, perform such
dancing-master tricks. Now his master lies flat on his back on the
ground, and the old elephant is going to walk over him. Suppose he
should set that great paw of his on his master’s stomach, and crush him
as flat as a pancake? No; see how carefully he steps over him with those
big legs; never so much as touching his gay scarlet-and-white tunic.
Splendid old fellow, to have so much strength, and yet never use it to
the harm of those who torment him with all this nonsense. How I should
like to see you in your native jungles, old elephant, with all your baby
elephants; your little big babies, old fellow. There he goes. I am glad
they have done with him. It makes me sad to see him. Good-by, old
Samson.”
What now? a lady on horseback, Mr. Pat Smith’s wife; she sits her horse
very well, but that’s nothing remarkable; I can sit a horse as well as
that myself; but I couldn’t make a leap on his back over that
five-barred gate—mercy, no—he will break her neck, I know he will; I am
afraid Mr. Pat Smith wants a second wife. Oh, see, the horse has come
down safe with her on the other side of the gate; now she is going to
try it again; what a woman that is! I hope Mr. Pat Smith gives her half
the money that he takes this hot night, for I am sure she has earned it;
but wives don’t always get what they earn, and I dare say Mrs. Pat Smith
don’t.
Now here come a parcel of fellows in white tights, tight as their skin,
tumbling head over heels, up side down, standing on each others’ heads,
and cutting up untold and untellable capers. I must say their strong
limbs are quite beautiful, just as God intended limbs should grow, just
as I hope yours will grow, one of these days, though I think it may be
done without your being a circus tumbler. See how nimble they are, and
how like eels they twist and squirm about, leaping on each others’
shoulders like squirrels, leaping down again, running up tall poles and
sitting on the top and playing there with half a dozen balls at once,
which are tossed up at them from below. It is really quite wonderful,
and yet I can’t help thinking had they taken as much pains to learn
something really useful, as they have to learn to be funny, how much
good they might do; for, after all, a monkey, or a squirrel, or an
ourang-outang could do all that quite as well as a man, who is so much
superior to them, quite as gracefully, and without any teaching, too;
but, bless me, a circus is no place to think, and yet I wish those men’s
heads were as well trained as their heels; if you listen you will find
out they are not; just hear those stupid jokes they are making, how
badly they pronounce, how ungrammatically they express themselves, and
hear—oh, no—_don’t_ hear that! what a pity they should say any thing
_indelicate_ before ladies and pure little children. _Now_ I know why
fathers and mothers do not like their little boys and girls to go to the
circus. Mr. Pat Smith, Mr. Pat Smith, you must leave off those stupid
bad jokes, if you want to draw ladies and little children.
I wish somebody would get up a _good_ circus without these faults. I can
not think so badly of the people as to believe that they would like it
less if it were purified. I think it might be made a very pleasant and
harmless amusement for little children, who seem to want to go so much,
and who have often felt so badly because their parents were not willing.
Perhaps there _are_ such good circuses, that I may not have heard of. I
like good schools, I like study, but I should like to write over every
school-room door:
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
WHAT EVERY LITTLE CHILD MAY SEE.
I hope you love to look at the bright sunsets; oh the joy they are to
me! Yesterday it had been raining all day; dark, gloomy clouds hovered
overhead; the birds and the children were nested out of sight; the hens
crept up under the shed corners, and the old cows stood patiently
waiting under the trees for the sun to shine out. It shone at last, and
oh, with what a glory; I wished I had a hundred eyes to gaze, for every
moment the lovely hues changed to hues more beautiful—sapphire, topaz,
emerald, ruby, opal, amethyst, diamonds. Overhead, the mottled gold and
purple; in the west, a field of blue, clear and pure as a baby’s eyes,
with fringes of brown, like its sweet-drooping lashes; farther still,
floated golden clouds, bright enough to bear the baby’s spirit to
heaven; while in the east, the dark heavy, rain-clouds, were rolled up
and piled away; back of the snow-white cottages, back of the tall
church-spire, which pointing upward seemed to say, Praise him who made
us all. Who could help it? Oh, if earth is so lovely, what must heaven
be? if God’s foot prints are so beautiful, what must be His throne?
Evening came, and all this glory faded out only to be replaced by
another; countless stars, sparkled and glittered over head; then came
the moon, slowly; veiling itself bride-like in fleecy clouds, as if not
to dazzle us with her beauty. On came the still midnight; when sleep
fell like flower-dew on weary lids; when the whispering leaves told each
other all their little secrets, and the queen moon glided about,
silvering the poor man’s roof while he slept, as if it had been a
palace. Morning came, and the jealous sun shot forth at her a golden
arrow, to tell her that her reign was past. She grew pale, and moved
slowly on, one little star keeping her kindly company. Up flashed the
sun, brighter for his eclipse. The flowers and the children opened wide
their dewy eyes; the dew-drops danced, the little birds shook their
bright wings, tuned their throats, and trilled out a song, oh, so
bright, so joyous. God listened for man, but he was dumb.
A STORY FOR BOYS.
Now, boys, I am going to write a story for you. I don’t know why I have
written more stories for girls than for boys, unless it is because all
the boys I ever had have been girls. Sometimes I have been sorry this
was so, because I think boys can rough it through the world so much
better than girls, especially should the latter have the misfortune to
lose their father when they are young. I hope this is not the case with
you; it is very sad for young eyes to be watching the way he used to
come, and see only other happy gleeful children with their living,
breathing, loving, fathers.
But I will not talk about this now. I want to tell you that I do love
boys, though I am very much afraid of them.
Afraid?
Yes; now you need not look so innocent, just as if you never, when a
lady had picked her way carefully through the sloppy streets, jumped
into a big puddle near her, and sent the dirty water all over her nice
white stockings, and pretty gaiter boots—ah—you see I know you; just as
if you hadn’t come rushing round a corner when you were playing tag, and
knocked the breath out of a woman before she could say “Don’t;” just as
if you didn’t eat peanuts in an omnibus and let the wind blow the shells
into her lap; just as if you didn’t put your muddy shoes up on the
omnibus seat, and soil the cushions, and spoil ladies’ dresses; just as
if you did not—you rogues—say saucy things to bashful little girls, at
which your schoolmates Tom Tules and Sam Hall would burst into a loud
laugh and the poor little girl would have to go a long way round to
school the next morning merely to get rid of you. I should be sorry to
believe that you know how much pain you sometimes give a little girl in
this way: perhaps her mother is a widow and has to earn her own living,
and can not spare time every morning to go with her daughter to school,
or to call for her when school is done; and it pains her very much to
have to send the weeping child who is so afraid of you, out alone; and
she sighs when she thinks of the time when that child’s father was
alive, and they had plenty of money to hire a nurse-maid to see that she
did not get run over or troubled on her way.
I don’t believe you think of this, when you slyly pull their curls as
you go by, or make believe snatch their satchels, or elbow them off the
sidewalk, to please that naughty Frank Hale, who says, “’Tis fun.” I am
sure you never thought seriously of all I have just told you, or you
would not do it.
A stupid boy who never wants “fun” will never be good for any thing. But
it is not “fun” to give pain to the weak, timid, and helpless; it is not
fun to play the tyrant. Oh, no, no. It is fun to play ball, and
hop-scotch; and it is fun to skate, and slide, and “coast,” as the
Boston boys call it (_i.e._, go down a steep, icy hill on a sled); but
this steep, icy hill should not be in the street, where horses and
carriages are, crossed by other streets, through which people are
passing. A little boy was once coasting very fast down such a hill as
this, and when a very prim maiden lady was picking her way across it. On
came the boy, like lightning, tripped up her heels, and carried her down
on his sled, on top of him, to the bottom of the hill. She was,
fortunately, not hurt. She got slowly up, smoothed out her rumpled
dress, bent her bonnet straight, put her spectacles on the end of her
nose, and looking at the little boy (who stood there quite as much
astonished as she at what he had done), she remarked, “Young man, it was
not my intention to have come this way!” He got off easily, didn’t he?
But had he broken any of her bones, a policeman would perhaps have rung
at his father’s door some time that day, and his father would have been
obliged to pay a fine, because his boy broke the law by “coasting” in
the streets—(that’s Boston law). And beside that, had the lady been
poor, his father would have had to pay a doctor for mending her bones.
Don’t think I do not approve of coasting in safe places. It is what boys
call “prime.” I like to coast as well as you do; and when you get a nice
sled, with good “runners,” I should like to try it. If it goes like
chain-lightning, you may name it Fanny Fern; but if it twists round at
every little thing in the path, and don’t go straight ahead, you may
call it—what you like; but don’t you dare to name it after me.
KATY’S FIRST GRIEF.
Little Katy, so they told me, was an only child. I don’t know how that
could be, when she had two little sisters in heaven. But Katy had never
seen them; they turned their cheeks wearily to the pillow and died years
before she was born. Katy had heard her mamma speak of them, and she had
seen their little frocks and shoes, and a little blue silk hood, trimmed
round the face with a soft white fur, soft as the baby’s velvet skin;
and she had seen a dry crust of bread, with the marks of tiny teeth in
it, carefully put away in the drawer; and a small string of coral beads,
red as the baby’s lip; and she had seen her mother put her fingers
through the sleeve of a little fine cambric shirt, and look at it till
tears blinded her eyes. Katy was not strong herself; her mother was very
much afraid that she would die too; she was very careful always to tie
her tippet closely about her throat, when she went out, and to see that
her feet were warm, and her little arms covered. There were very few
days in which Katy felt quite well, and I don’t suppose she could help
crying and fretting a great deal; she wanted to be in her mother’s lap
all the while, and did not like to have strangers come in and talk to
her mother. That could not be helped you know, and then Katy would cry
very loud, and nothing seemed to pacify her.
As she grew older, her mother took such good care of her, that her
health began to improve, and she grew stronger; but she had been petted,
and had her own way so much (because they disliked to trouble her when
she was sick) that she had become very selfish; she liked nobody to
touch her toys, or even look at them. This was a pity. One morning Katy
woke, climbed up in her crib, and called out “Mamma!” but there was no
mamma there. “Papa!” there was no papa either. This was something very
uncommon; for they were always there when she woke in the morning. Then
Katy set up a great cry, louder than you would ever believe such a
little bit of a thing could cry, and then a strange woman came in, and
said, “Hush!” and then Katy screamed louder than ever, and grew very red
in the face, and said, “I won’t hush, I want my mamma—I will have my
mamma!” and then Katy’s papa came up and whispered to the strange woman,
and then the strange woman nodded her head and went out of the room; and
then Katy’s papa told Katy that her mamma was in the other room, and
that, if she would be a good girl, and stop crying, and let him dress
her, she should go and see her. Katy had a great mind not to stop, but
she wanted so much to see her mamma that she made up her mind she would;
so her papa put on her little petticoats, and as he never had dressed
his little girl, he buttoned them before, instead of behind; and then
Katy had a cry about that, and then her papa was a great while finding
out how her frock fastened; he saw some “hooks” on it, but he could not
find any “eyes” to hook them into, and so he told Katy, who kept
wriggling round on his lap like a little eel, slipping off his knee, and
slipping back, and fretting like a little tempest to see “mamma;” then
papa’s forehead began to have great drops of perspiration on it, as he
fumbled away at the little frock with his big fingers, and by-and-by he
found out that there were things called “loops,” so small he could
hardly see them, to hold the hooks, instead of eyes, and then he said,
drawing a long breath, “Now, little Katy, I’ll have you dressed in a
twinkling!” so he fastened it, and then put on her stockings, and one
shoe; but when he looked for the other, it was nowhere to be found; it
was not in the crib, nor under it, in the closet, or in the bureau
drawers; it was not anywhere, that he could see. Katy wanted to go
without it, but her papa said, no, she would get cold: and then Katy set
up another of her great cries, and just as two big tears, big enough to
wet the whole front of her frock, came rolling down, her papa found the
little red shoe under the wash-stand. Then he put it on, and saying,
“Now, Katy,” he took her in his arms, and carried her through the entry,
into the “best chamber;” it was so dark, with all the blinds shut and
the curtains drawn, that Katy at first could not see who or what was in
it. In a minute or two her eyes got used to the dim light, and then she
saw her mamma on the bed, and a little white bundle of something lying
on her arm. Katy’s papa moved a little nearer, and whispered to Katy,
“See, mamma has a cunning little brother for you to play with.” Katy
looked at him a minute, and then her face puckered up all over, and she
burst out into _such_ a cry, you never heard the like; “I don’t want
him—I don’t want him, _I_ want to lay on mamma’s arm, I don’t want any
little brother!” Then the strange woman motioned to Katy’s papa to take
her out of the room, and then Katy clung to the bed-post, and cried
louder than ever, “No, no—take him away, take him away—I don’t want that
little brother!”
Poor little Katy—you should have heard her sob, going down stairs; all
that papa could say did not comfort her. He took her on his lap to the
breakfast table, gave her some _real tea_ out of his saucer, and let her
eat with mamma’s nice silver fork; it did no good, not more than a
minute at a time; she could not forget that “little brother,” who was
cuddled up so comfortably in her place on mamma’s arm. And now even papa
could not stay any longer with Katy, for it was already past nine
o’clock, and he must go down town to attend to his business; so he
called Bridget, and told her to keep Katy in the parlor with her
playthings, till her mamma sent for her; and kissing his little sobbing
girl, he went away. Papa and mamma both gone! what _should_ Katy do?
Bridget tried to comfort her, and sang her a song, called “Green grow
the rushes, O,” but it was of no use. Then the strange woman came down
to eat her breakfast. Katy wiped the tears out of her eyes, and looked
at her from under the corner of her apron. The strange woman sat down to
her breakfast, and ate away; how she _did_ eat! one egg—two eggs—three
eggs—two cups of coffee, and several slices of bread and butter; then
she said to Bridget, “Where’s that crying child? Mrs. Smith wants to
have her brought up-stairs; I never heard of such a thing since I went
out nursing, as having such a troublesome little thing in a sick
chamber. She will make her mother sick with her fussing, and so I told
her; but she told me to bring her up when I had done my breakfast, and
to I suppose I must; where is she?”
“There,” said Bridget, pointing to Katy, cuddled up in the corner, so
afraid of the strange woman, that she had forgotten to cry.
“Sure enough—well—I am glad to see you are in a better temper, Miss
Katy; your mother wants you to go up-stairs, but I can tell you that you
won’t stay there long, unless you are as hush as a mouse; for I have
come here to take care of her, did you know that? and I never allow
naughty children to stay with their sick mothers. Now, if you will
promise to be good, I will take you up-stairs; will you promise?”
Katy’s under lip quivered a little, but not a word came out of it.
“Say, will you be good?”
No answer.
“Well, then, you can stay down stairs, that’s all, I sha’n’t take you
up-stairs.” Then the strange woman took a cup and saucer in her hand and
went up into the sick room.
Then Katy cried so hard and so loud.
Katy’s sick mother turned her head on the pillow and sighed. “Is that
Katy, crying, Mrs. Smith?” she asked of the strange woman, who just then
came in to the door.
“Oh, don’t you be bothering your head now about your family,” said Mrs.
Smith, pouring a little gruel into the cup.
“It is very well to say that,” said Katy’s mamma; “Katy has been a
sickly child always, and I can’t help feeling anxious about her. We have
been obliged to fondle her more on that account; I am sure she will
outgrow her pettishness, as she gets her health, and it is very hard to
turn her off so all at once; it is hard for grown people to bear it,
when another person steps in and takes their place with a friend whom
they love, and how can you expect a little sick child to feel willing
and happy about it all at once?”
“Well, I told her she could come up, if she would promise to be good,
but she wouldn’t, and so I left her down there; I can’t have her here
fretting you.”
Katy’s mamma laid her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes for a
moment, and sighed again; then she said, “It frets me much more to hear
her cry down stairs; I think I can make it all right to her about the
baby if she comes up here.”
“Just as you please, of course,” said Mrs. Smith, giving her gingham
apron a twitch; “just as you please; but you must recollect, if the
child frets you into a fever, the blame will be laid at my door. Oh,
just as you please, of course, you are mistress of the house; but I
always likes to see ladies a little reasonable;” and Mrs. Smith went
into the entry and told Bridget to bring up Katy to see her mamma.
Now Katy was, on the whole, a good little girl, as good as she could be,
with all the pains and aches and ails she had; she was very affectionate
too, and loved her papa and mamma very very dearly, and believed every
thing they told her, and they had patience with her faults, believing
that when her health was better she would be less fretful. That was why
her mamma was troubled at what the nurse had said to her little grieved
sorrowful daughter; and that was why, though she felt very sick, she
sent for her to try and make her feel happy. Oh, you never will know,
any of you, until you have little children of your own, how strong a
_mother’s_ love is.
Well, little Katy crept into her mother’s room, and sidled up to the
bed, with an eye on the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, as if she feared
every moment that she would snatch her up, before she could get to her
mother’s bedside.
Katy’s mother put out her pale hand and took hold of her little
daughter’s trembling fingers. Katy was trying to choke down the tears,
but one of them fell upon her mother’s hand. Then Katy’s mother told her
to climb upon a chair and get carefully on the bed.
Katy did not look at Mrs. Smith, though she heard her mutter something,
but scrambled upon the bed as her mother told her.
“Katy, look here,” and her mamma unrolled the soft folds of a little
fleecy blanket, and there lay a little baby, so little, so cunning, with
such a funny little fuzz all over its head, and such little pink bits of
fingers.
“Katy, I want you to help me take care of this little brother; I am
sick, and can not wait upon him, and I want you to hand me his little
blankets, and frocks, and shoes, and caps; and I want you to pat him
with your little soft hand when he cries. See, he is no bigger than your
big doll; and by-and-by, when he is a little older, you shall sit in
your little rocking-chair, and rock him and get him to sleep for me; and
when he gets fast asleep, you and I will put him in the cradle, and tuck
him all up nice and warm, and you shall sit by him and sing him the
little song papa taught you. He is your little live doll, and can open
and shut his eyes—see there!”
“Yes, I see,” said Katy, in a soft whisper, and the ugly frown all went
away from her pretty white forehead. “I see. Has he got any toes?”
Then Katy’s mother showed Katy the little bits of pink toes all curled
up in a heap on his funny little foot. And then Katy’s mother said, that
her head ached so badly, she must try to sleep, but that she wanted Katy
to sit in the chair beside the bed, very still, and take care of the
little baby, while she slept; and Katy looked quite pleased, and said
she would. So every time the little baby breathed hard, Katy would pat
the quilt with her forefinger, but she never spoke a word any more than
a little mouse. And all that day she staid in her mamma’s room and did
exactly as she told her; and when her papa came home, she went down
stairs with him, and drank some “real tea” out of his saucer, and put a
piece of butter on his plate, because she said she promised to help
mamma while she was sick; and then her papa undressed her and put her to
sleep in his bed; but after she had said, “Now I lay me” and “Our
Father,” her little lip quivered, and looking up in her papa’s face, she
said, “Are you sure my mamma can love little brother and me too?” and
when her papa said, “Yes, I am sure,” she believed him, because she knew
he never told her wrong, and then she laid her head quietly down to
sleep.
I could not tell, when a great many weeks had gone by, how she learned
to love her little brother, how dearly she loved to help wash him and
dress him, and smooth his soft silky hair; how patiently she picked up
his playthings when he grew bigger, and gave him all her own too; and
how pretty she looked as she sat in her little chair, holding him and
peeping into his bright blue eyes. Oh Katy’s mamma knew better about her
own little girl than the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, did. She knew how
badly a little child’s heart may sometimes ache, and how a few kind
words, said at the right time, may cure it and make it happy.
Love your mother, little ones.
OUR NEW DOG DASH.
Dash! go away! how do you suppose I can write when you are jumping at my
elbow, playing with my robe-tassels, and cutting up such antics, as you
have been this last half hour? I know it is a pleasant morning, as well
as you do; I should like a ramble as well as you would; but business is
business, Dash, and neither you nor those great fleecy-white clouds,
sailing so lazily over the blue sky; neither the twitting birds, nor the
sweet soft air, every breath of which makes my blood leap; neither the
fresh green grass, nor the pretty morning-glories which have opened
their blue eyes under my window, can get me out of this chair till my
work is done. So, go away, Dash; you need not sniff, and bark, and jump
up on the window-sill that way; you don’t know me, or you would know
that, in my dictionary, won’t _means_ won’t. Beside, what is to hinder
you from going out by yourself, I’d like to know? Dog-days are over, no
policeman or covetous boy, in want of half a dollar, will knock you on
the head. Why not go out by yourself till I get ready to come, if you
are in such a mortal hurry? What are you afraid of? That solemn flock of
geese? those hens and roosters? or that great Newfoundland dog, who
looks big enough to swallow you at a mouthful? or that steady old brown
cow? A pretty fellow you are to be afraid! you who fell upon poor puss,
shook her, and chased her up-stairs and down, and in my lady’s chamber,
till her back had a hump as big as any camel’s, and her eyes looked like
two great emeralds; oh, you blustering little coward! Suppose that great
Newfoundland dog should serve you in that fashion! That’s why you are
afraid to go out of doors without me, sir, is it? Ah ha!—none of us so
big but we can find our match, let me tell you. Remember that, next time
you shake a poor harmless pussy, because you were jealous of a saucer of
milk I gave her. Let me tell you, sir, ladies first, after that the
gentlemen. Where were you brought up, I would like to know, that you
have not learned that? Let me see you ruffle one hair of my little
Maltese pussy, sir, and I will—no I won’t, for here comes my husband,
your master. I like to have forgotten what I told you just now, that
none of us are so big but we can find our match. Never fear, Dash, I
won’t touch you; for I’ve found mine.
[Illustration]
FUN AND FOLLY;
A STORY FOR THOUGHTLESS BOYS.
Halloo! there’s old John coming down the street, top of a load of straw,
in that crazy old cart, with that old skeleton of a horse. Gemini! what
a turn out, isn’t it Bob? what fun it would be to step up behind the
cart, and set that straw on fire with a match; I say, Bob, wouldn’t the
old fellow jump down quicker? Let’s do it.
Bob, always ready for “fun,” took a match, and applying it to the dry
straw, in an instant set it all of a blaze; then they both ran off, and
hid behind a wall to see what would come of it.
Down scrambled old John, head first, and rolled off into the road; the
horse feeling the heat, started, and the wheel of the cart passing over
old John’s head, left him bleeding and almost lifeless, on the ground.
“Think he’s dead?” whispered Bob with white lips. “I didn’t mean to hurt
him, I only wanted a little fun Sam.”
“They’ll put us in jail if they find us,” said Sam, “oh what shall we
do; old John will die, he don’t move a bit;” and the naughty boys crept
still more closely together behind the wall.
Old John was not dead; only stunned and bleeding; a farmer who came by,
seeing him, took him up in his cart, and carried him to the almshouse:
and there we will leave him groaning on his small bed, while I tell you
his story.
John was once Teller in a bank. Do you know what a teller does? He
counts over all the money that is brought into the bank, and gives an
account of it to the president of the bank, and the directors. Of course
he has to be very careful never to make a mistake in counting; or to
mislay even a sixpence; lest the president and the directors of the bank
might think he had stolen it. John was very careful and very honest; and
all the people who had dealings with him, liked him very much; thousands
and thousands of dollars passed through his fingers every day, but he
never had a wish to steal a cent; although there were a great many
things he could think of, which he wished to buy. At last John got
married. His wife was a young girl, named Ellen Norris; she had bright
black eyes, rosy lips and two very pretty dimples in her cheeks; John
thought he had never seen any thing half so bewitching as those dancing
dimples: he was half crazy, when Ellen said yes, to his question, “Will
you marry me;” he thought Ellen loved him as well as he loved her, and
that they could be as happy together as two robins in one nest. But I am
sorry to say, that Ellen did not really love John; she was as poor as
she was pretty, and had married him because she supposed he would buy
her beautiful dresses, ribbons, and things, to set off her beauty; so
after they were married, she kept coaxing for this thing, and coaxing
for that, and coaxing for the other; and how could poor John bear to say
no, to those two pretty dimples? So he bought one piece of furniture
after another, that he knew he could not afford to buy; and silks and
satins for Ellen, and hired carriages for her to ride in; and bought
every thing which she took it into her foolish head, and selfish heart,
to fancy. By-and-by, he found that he had used up all the money which
belonged to him; but still Ellen kept coaxing and teazing; and one day
when John, for the first time, ventured to say he could not buy
something she wanted, Ellen burst into tears, and told John that he did
not love her. John could not bear that; so he kissed her, and told her
she should have it; but as he went down to the bank, his lips were very
white, and there was a strange troubled look in his face, which was
never seen there before. That night he put a roll of bills in Ellen’s
hand, but long after she was sleeping, dreaming I suppose, of all the
fine things money would buy, John might be seen pacing up and down the
floor, and now and then striking his forehead with his clenched fist.
Many times after this, Ellen had rolls of bills, and many nights John
walked the floor, in the way I have told you.
At last there came a day when Ellen waited for John to come home to
dinner—waited—waited—waited—but he did not come. Instead, there came the
messenger of the bank, and told her that John was put in jail to be
tried for taking money from the bank that was not his. The messenger
pitied Ellen, because she was so young, and because he believed her to
be a good and loving wife; and he would have rather given a great deal
of money, than to have told her such bad news, if he had had it to give.
Every body was so astonished when they heard about John; every body had
thought him “such a good fellow;” nobody knew how that foolish, selfish
woman, had led him on to steal with her dimples and her tears. No—for
John never told of it; not even to excuse himself; not even when his
heartless wife refused to go and see him in jail; and when she packed up
the silks, and ribbons, which had sent John to State Prison, and went
off without saying good-by, after she found that he could not buy her
any more. Not a word did poor John say against his wife; not a word
would he hear any body else say, because she had deserted him in his
trouble.
Poor John! he was sentenced to State Prison for several years; the best
years of his life; when he was young, strong, and hearty; they shaved
off his brown hair, put on the prison dress, and set him to work cutting
stone. John made no complaint, he said it was just, that he had deserved
his punishment: he did just as he was bid, but the light died out from
his fine bright eye, his head drooped upon his breast, and when the
day’s toil was over and the officer had locked him up for the long
lonely night, into his narrow dark cell, could you have passed in, you
would have seen him tossing on his straw bed, and now and then you might
have heard him groan, “Oh, Ellen! Ellen!”
When he had staid his time out in prison, the officers took off his
prison clothes, and gave him a new suit to go away with. John stood
looking at them; the light fell from the window upon the face of the
same man, who stood in that spot five years before, to have that prison
uniform put on. Oh, how changed. Now his brown hair, was snow-white with
sorrow; his eye dim, and his frame bent like an old man of fourscore.
John looked at the new clothes they brought him; why should he put them
on? where should he go? who on the wide earth would befriend the poor
convict?
So poor John went staggering out through the heavy gate, as the warden
unlocked it with his huge key, and slouched his hat over his eyes, as if
he could not bear that even the sun should see his face, and wandered
forth—he knew not whither. At last he came to a little village, and
there in the woods, away from the curious gaze, away from the scornful
finger, he built him a little cabin of boughs and logs; and now and then
he wandered down to the village, and the farmers would give him a basket
of potatoes, or a little meat, or corn.
This was the old man whom Bob thought it would be fun to tease; whose
straw he set on fire, and who lay mangled and bleeding by the way-side,
with none to care for him.
It is a pleasant afternoon, the warm sun shines on the sweet flowers,
and the birds sing on, as if grief, and care, and sorrow had never
entered this bright and beautiful world of ours. A hearse winds slowly
down beneath the waving trees; no carriages follow it, and there are no
mourners on foot; only the sexton stands at the grave, waiting to lay
old John’s head on its last peaceful pillow. Poor John—death has knocked
off his last fetter. He who forgave the thief on the cross, will surely
show him mercy.
HISTORY OF A FAMILY OF CATS.
Mrs. Tabby Grimalkin, a highly respectable gray cat, had lived for
several years with a maiden lady by the name of Stevens, in whose house
she had lately reared five interesting young Grimalkins, of various
sorts and sizes.
She was a most watchful and affectionate mother, and had endeavored, to
the best of her ability, to bring up her kittens in the manner best
approved by all sensible and well-bred cats.
They were allowed to remain with their mother, until the critical period
of weaning was past, when Miss Stevens declared one day, in Mrs.
Grimalkin’s hearing, that such a scampering round her kitchen was not to
be endured, and that she intended the next day to distribute them round
the neighborhood among her friends.
This was sad news for their mother, as you may suppose; but after
turning it over in her mind several times, she concluded it was better
than having them strangled or drowned, and forthwith began to give them
advice as to their conduct when away from her.
They all set up a piteous mewing at their hard fate, but with one shake
of her paw she shut up their mouths and went on with her speech. She
especially forbade their associating promiscuously with all the cats in
the neighborhood, or attending any moonlight concerts without her leave.
She told them any time when they needed exercise, they could call for
each other, and come down to the maternal wood-shed, when she would be
most happy to see them; and she would occasionally, when mousing was
scarce, and there was nothing going on, return their call.
So Muff, and Jet, and Brindle, and Tabby, and Spot lay down by their
mother’s side for the last time, and purred themselves to sleep; as for
their mother, she wandered up and down the yard half the night, in a
very unquiet frame of mind, occasionally returning, to look at her
kittens, who lay cuddled up in a bunch in blissful unconsciousness.
About a month after this, I was one day passing through the yard, and
who should I spy but Mrs. Grimalkin, surrounded by her family, the
happiest cat in all Pussdom. I stepped softly behind the door,
determined for once to play eaves-dropper, and hear what was going on.
Muff “had the floor,” and was giving her mother an account of the
treatment she met in the family she lived with. She said there were four
ungovernable children, who amused themselves when out of school in
trying to see whether her tail and ears were really fastened on tight or
not. Then they had stroked her back the wrong way, till every hair stood
up, as if it was frightened; had shut her up in a shower-bath, and
turned water on her till she had fits, and never found her comfortably
snoozing in a warm corner, that they did not rouse her up to make her
run round after a ball, till she was as crazy as a fly in a drum. In
short, mother, said she, I’ve heard people say such a one “leads a dog’s
life of it.” I say, let them try a cat’s life once.
As soon as she had finished, up jumped her brother Jet. He was as black
as a little negro, with the exception of four little milk-white paws; he
had little shining black eyes, and whiskers as trim as any modern
dandy’s. He had no such misfortune to relate, not he. He slept on a rug,
in the corner of his mistress’s parlor, and had a nice chicken-bone to
pick, and a saucer of milk to drink, when he wanted it. His mistress was
an old lady, and she had such nice little parties to tea, and they all
made a pet of him, and it was so amusing to lie curled up on the rug,
and hear them talk over all the gossip of the village. So, with a very
complacent look, as if he had quite fulfilled his destiny, he trimmed
his whiskers, and sat down on his hind paws, to hear what his sister
Brindle had to say.
Poor Brindle was very bashful, and it was a long time before she could
speak at all. She looked thin and bony, as if the world in general, and
her mistress in particular, had snubbed her; indeed she acknowledged
that she was half starved, and beaten every day beside, for stealing
food enough to keep her bones together. Here she was seized with a
horrid fit of coughing, which so distressed her mother, that she forbade
her talking any more, and told her to stay and spend the night with her,
and she would give her some supper, and some catnip, to cure her cough.
It was now Spot’s turn. She said she had her story all “cut and dried,”
but really she had been so shocked at the idea that Brindle had been
stealing, that she thought it was a chance if she could recollect any of
it. She said, for her part, she should be ashamed to have any cat in the
neighborhood know that she was related to her. Here her mother sprang at
her and gave her a box on the ear; and told her, that her grandmother,
Mrs. Mouser, who was as correct a cat as ever mewed, brought her (Mrs.
Grimalkin) up, to find her living when and where she could, and that
every cat that had been born since Adam’s cat (if he had any), had done
the same, and she never could find out that they were expected to do any
differently. Spot looked a little ashamed, for in fact she had taken
many a sly nibble herself, and her mother knew it.
Just then she seemed to be looking at the opposite corner of the
wood-shed; her mother’s eyes following the direction of hers, espied a
strange cat looking very intently at Spot. Mrs. Grimalkin walked up to
him, and with a scratch gave him to understand that his room was better
than his company; and though he protested he had only come in a quiet
way, to wait upon Miss Spot home, another scratch from her mother
settled the matter without any useless words.
As soon as quiet was restored, little Tabby jumped up, in a state of
great excitement, and said, she had that day caught her first mouse,
which she brought forward and laid as a trophy at her mother’s feet.
Tabby evidently had not recovered from the excitement of the capture,
for her little eyes snapped, like two fire coals, and she kept moving
her tongue about her mouth, as if she just longed to eat him up herself.
She told her mother, it made her feel bad when he first began to squeal,
and she was so little, she thought it rather doubtful, at first, whether
the mouse would eat her, or she should eat the mouse; and as for
squealing, she concluded, there must be a first time for every thing,
and she had got to get used to that.
It was getting late, and Mrs. Grimalkin rose, and put it to vote, who
should have the mouse for supper, and without a dissenting voice, even
from Spot, it was unanimously awarded to poor starved Brindle. So
bidding her and their mother good-night, the rest walked home by the
light of the moon, Spot occasionally looking round, to see if she could
see any thing of her discarded lover.
For my own part, I came out of my hiding-place deeply interested in the
welfare of Mrs. Grimalkin’s family, and fully determined that I would
treat my kitty kindly, and feed her so well that she should never
complain.
THE POOR-RICH CHILD.
“I never saw such a little torment as that child, never; he’s just the
mischievousest little monkey that ever was made; nothing in the house
will stand before him. I wish his mother would take a little care of
him, and make him behave. I should like to whip him an hour without
stopping. I do believe he is the worst boy who ever lived.”
No—Eddy was not the worst boy who ever lived; I am sure he does not look
like it. He hears what Betty says, about wanting “to whip him an hour
without stopping:” but he does not pout, or kick out his foot, or throw
his ball after her; he picks up a bit of string, and begins to play
horse with a chair, as good-humoredly as if Betty had said he was the
best boy in the world. No—Eddy was not a bad boy; but, like a great many
other children who did not deserve it, he got that name. I will tell you
about it. Eddy’s mother did not like the care of children; she liked to
go shopping, and buy handsome dresses, and spend a great deal of time in
talking with dressmakers about trimming them; and after she got them
finished, she liked to sit down in her handsome parlors, and fold her
white hands, and admire herself, till somebody or other called to admire
her; or else she liked to walk out in the street, and hear people
say—“Splendid! beautiful! what taste Mrs. Van Wyck always shows in her
dress!” Then she was happy! that repaid her for all the pains she had
taken to make a doll of herself; but when she came home, and her little
boy, whom perhaps she had not seen before that day, ran into the hall
and said, “Mamma!” Mrs. Van Wyck caught her beautiful dress quickly up
in her hand, and said, “Martha! do take that child away; I am sure he
will ruin my dress.” Then Martha would take Eddy up into the nursery,
and shut the door, and call him a little plague; and Eddy would stand at
the nursery window, and look out into the neighbors’ yards; and see, for
the hundredth time, a long row of wooden sheds, with clothes dangling on
the lines, and a long row of tall brick houses and tall brick chimneys;
and then he would turn away and take up his top, and then his cart, and
then his marbles; and then he would look at Betty, who had thrown
herself down on the bed to read a novel; and then Eddy would say,
timidly, “Betty?” and Betty would answer, “Be quiet, can’t you?” and
then Eddy would wander round the small, hot nursery again; and then he
would say, “Betty, won’t you please take me out to walk? I am so tired
and hot, Betty;” and Betty would say, “No, there’s no need of your
walking; go draw your cart, and let me alone; what a plague you are!”
and then Eddy would pick up a pair of scissors on the floor, and seeing
a piece of white cloth lying on the table, he would begin to cut
it—because the poor tired child didn’t know what else to do; and
by-and-by Betty would get through with her novel, and the first thing
Eddy knew she would shake him half out of his jacket, and scream out,
“You little torment! you have cut my night-cap into inch pieces;” and
when Eddy said, “I did not know that piece of cloth was a night-cap,
Betty,” she would say, “Don’t you tell me that, you little fibber; you
did it on purpose, I know you did.”
After a while Eddy’s father would come home, and Eddy would run out in
the hall, and say, “Papa, here’s Eddy;” and his father would say, “So I
see, and I suppose you want a top or a ball, don’t you?” and Eddy would
say, “No, I want you, papa;” and then his father would say, “Not now,
Eddy, by-and-by.” But “by-and-by” never came to poor Eddy, for his
father was a very long time eating dinner, and then came wine, and then
came cigars, and then came company; and Eddy was hurried off to bed,
only to begin another day just like it, on the morrow. You see how it
was; he was an active little fellow; he could not keep still; nobody
talked to him, they gave him nothing to do; and when he got into what
they called “mischief,” then they said he was a bad boy. Oh how many
such little suffering, rich people’s children I have seen; a thousand
times more to be pitied than the children of poor parents.
One night Eddy awoke and said, “Betty!” Betty wanted to sleep, so she
pretended she did not hear him; Eddy tossed about his little bed, a
while longer; and then his throat felt so bad he said again, “Betty!”
but Betty never spoke, and it was all dark; so little patient Eddy lay
back again on his pillow—lay there all night without any one to take
care of him. In the morning, Betty roused up and said, “Get up, Eddy;”
but Eddy did not move; then Betty went to his little bed, and shook his
arm; then she peeped into his face; she had never seen Eddy look that
way before. Every body in the house now came to look at Eddy; then the
doctor came and looked at him; but death had stepped in before him; that
poor little throat was filling, filling; the doctor could do nothing. He
said Eddy died of croup. You and I know he was murdered. Died as
hundreds of children die every year, of wicked neglect. Oh, there is
room for children in Heaven; they are never “in the way” there—that’s
one comfort.
THE HOD-CARRIER.
Your name is George, eh? well that is a good name: I will tell you a
story about a little boy of that name. He was the son of a farmer, in
the town of Jackson, Washington county, State of New York, who was
called “Butter John,” on account of his keeping a large dairy in that
place. Little George, the son of “Butter John,” was about six years old
when war was declared between England and the United States. He was
lying one evening in his little bed, when his Uncle Robert came in and
told his father the news. Little George did not say any thing, but he
lay very still and listened, and thought a great deal about the coming
war with the British. Not long after this, one afternoon, his mother
took him with her to gather some fruit in the orchard. It was a
beautiful day; the sun shone very brightly, when suddenly little George
heard something which sounded like distant thunder, and yet it could not
be thunder, because there was not a single cloud in the blue sky. Hark!
there it is again! what can it be? thought George. At last George put
his ear to the ground and heard—what do you think? the low booming of
artillery. George jumped up with his face all aglow and his eyes
sparkling, and said, “Mother, our folks are certainly whipping the
British, on the lake.” “Sure enough,” said his mother, “I shouldn’t
wonder if you were right, George.” And the very next day they heard of
Commodore McDonough’s victory over the British, on Lake Champlain.
Little George was all excitement about the battle; he could think and
talk of nothing else. A few days afterward, the British prisoners were
to be brought along the road, and to pass within a mile of George’s
father’s house. George ran to his father and mother and said, “Oh, do
let me go and see them, won’t you, father? won’t you, mother?” They both
said no, thinking it best for such a little fellow to stay at home. This
was a dreadful disappointment to George, who had the greatest desire to
look at those British prisoners; he sat down on the door-step of his
father’s farm-house and thought over it, and thought over it, and
wondered why he _couldn’t_ go, just to take one peep and see what those
British fellows looked like, and, for the first time in his life, he
made up his mind not to obey his father and mother, whom he loved so
much, but to go. So he looked all about to see if any body was watching
him; no, the coast was clear, off he started across the fields, as fast
as his little legs could carry him, to see the British, never stopping
to get his hat, to cover his little bare head: hats might be had any
day, but the British were a rarity.
By-and-by he reached the road, where he had heard people say they were
to pass, and seating himself by the side of it, he waited with great
round eyes of wonder to see them come along; and as they came, he
counted three hundred prisoners and sixty guards to take care of them,
lest they should run away. By-and-by they all halted in the pleasant
green fields to eat their dinner. George wanted dreadfully to go close
up to them, but he was a little afraid; he did not know but they might
want to dine off of him; but his curiosity got the better of his fears,
and after watching them for a while, he climbed over the fence. The
soldiers spied him, and beckoned to him to come see them. He was in for
it then, Master George! however, he went boldly up to them, and they
began talking and laughing with him very pleasantly, and by-and-by they
liked him so well, that they coaxed him to eat dinner with them; so
George who had never eaten with the British, thought he would try that
too, and so down he sat with them to dinner. One of the soldiers said to
him, “You will make a capital soldier when you get bigger.” This pleased
Master George hugely, and made him feel as grand as a corporal; he held
up his head, when—lo and behold, who should he see but his father, who
had come to catch the little bare-headed runaway. _Then_ George was
afraid in good earnest, for he expected a tremendous spanking; but
luckily for him, his father, old “Butter John,” became so interested
hearing the soldiers tell about the battle, that he forgot all about
spanking George, and did not even scold him.
[Illustration]
I told you George’s father was a farmer, and farmers in those days had
very few books; but as soon as George learned to read, he got hold of
those few, and every evening he would read so long as his candle would
burn, and before he was twelve years old, he had read all those books,
“Life of Washington,” “Cook’s Voyages,” “Carver’s Travels,” “Plutarch’s
Lives,” “Josephus’s Works,” and “Hume and Smollett’s History of
England.” Pretty well that, for a little farmer boy only twelve years
old. Sunday he was not allowed to read these books, but on that day he
read the Bible with his mother, and what Mr. Scott, a minister, had
written about the Bible. George used to get up very early in the
morning, just as all boys have who ever became any thing in the world;
your lie-a-beds are always drones in the hive. I dare say he used to do
some of his reading then; I know he did not get time during the day,
because he had to do “chores,” as they call it, on the farm of his
father “Butter John,” and as this farm had five hundred acres in it, and
plenty of cattle on it to be taken care of, you may be sure Master
George had no extra time for reading; but somehow he managed to read a
book called “Life of William Ray,” which told all about a boy who left
his father’s farm, and went off to seek his fortune in the world. This
book bewitched George who was tired of farm-work, and was quite as
anxious now when he was a big boy, to see what the world was made of, as
he was when six years old, to see what the British were made of. He
spoke to his father about it, when he was seventeen, but the sturdy old
farmer shook his head and said no. He wanted George at home to do
farm-work.
About this time there was a great talk in the neighborhood about the
Erie Canal, and George began thinking about that; for you must know
that, when he was a little fellow, he used to be very fond of building
all sorts of things; he would get boys together and build miniature
bridges and dams, and every chance he could get, he would go among
mechanics and watch them at their work. The truth was, nature did not
cut him out for a farmer, but his father, good old man, did not see it,
perhaps because he was so busy with his dairy and his cattle, perhaps
because, like almost all fathers, he wished him to follow the same
profession which he followed, and this is natural enough; but if a boy
will make a better architect or builder than he will a farmer, I think
it is a pity he should not be one; mothers see quicker than fathers
generally, what their boys are cut out for, and George’s mother, as she
watched him build the little bridges with the boys, said, “You never
will be a farmer, George!” and she said right.
At last George said to his father, “Father, I have made up my mind to go
away from home to see what I can do.” The cautious old farmer shook his
head again, told George that he would regret it, that he did not know
what it was to be away from home. But George was a young man now, and he
felt restless and unhappy on the farm, where his old father was so
contented to stay year after year, and dig, and plant, and plow, and
reap, and make butter and cheese. I suppose he thought George was so
safe there, and comfortable, that it was a pity for him to trudge off
like a peddler with his pack on his back to seek his fortune. He knew
the world was a tough place to make fortunes, and he had an idea that
George, his boy George, was not the fellow to find one, at any rate away
from the farm; but George’s heart was set upon going, and go he did,
though he had no money to start with, and nothing in the world but the
clothes on his back. He went straight to an uncle of his and worked for
him till he had earned forty dollars, and then started for Troy, New
York, where he hired himself out as a day laborer, at one dollar a day,
to wait on some stone masons, who were engaged in building. George knew
that to learn a trade thoroughly it is necessary to begin at the
beginning, and not to be above doing the smallest job; he wanted to
learn every thing from brick-laying to stone cutting, and so he went
afterward to a man who was going to build a house, and worked for him
all that season, laying brick, cutting stone, and learning every thing
he could learn at the mason’s trade, as diligently as he knew how. Poor
industrious George: after working so hard all summer, the man he worked
for could not pay his workmen in the fall, what he owed them; was not
that too bad? I expect when “Butter John” heard of that he said, “I told
him so; I told George he would regret going away from the farm.” But
George was not discouraged; he went in a straight-forward manly way to
the man with whom he had boarded while he was at work, and said: “Mr.
Noel, my master, Mr. Galt, has not paid me the money he owed me, and so
I can not pay my board bill as I expected to do, but I am going to get
some more work to do, and just as soon as I get paid for it, you shall
have your money.” Did Mr. Noel bluster and scold, and put him in jail?
No, he had sense enough to know that if a man has no money to pay his
debts, he surely can not earn any, when he is shut up in jail; beside he
trusted in George, and saw he was a good fellow, who meant to be honest,
so he said pleasantly, “Time enough George,” and then George walked
twenty-two miles, to hire himself out to lay brick until cold weather,
and this time he got his pay for it. Now did he forget his promise to
Mr. Noel, who was twenty-two miles off? Did he run farther off with what
he had earned, and say that good Mr. Noel might whistle for his pay, as
many a dishonest man has done, who wears a finer coat than honest George
did then? No—that’s what he didn’t. He started for Hoosack Four Corners
at very short notice, where he paid every single cent he owed Mr. Noel.
What do you think of that? forty-four miles to walk in one day to pay an
old debt, twenty-two miles there, and twenty-two back. I call that an
honest deed, and the young man who did it, a young man to be honored and
believed in.
Well, George trudged back again, as I told you, with a light heart, and
a light pocket too, for not a cent had he left in it; but what of that?
he was young, healthy and hopeful. What could Misfortune do to him? She
knew it was no use, so she left George for some poor whining wretch, who
sniveled at the first discouragement he met with and spent his breath,
not in working, but in saying “I can’t.”
Well, George kept on working and studying too; every chance he got he
bought a few books and read them thoroughly and well, and when he had
mastered them, he would look about for more, for he was anxious to lay
up something better than money, a good education, which is in fact,
always a fortune to its possessor; better than bank stock, because
nobody can swindle or cheat you out of it. By the time he was twenty
George had saved one hundred and fifty dollars; perhaps you may think
that was not a great deal of money. Ah, you don’t know what it is to be
poor, and earn every cent by hard labor, or you would not think so. You
don’t know how delicious it is, after a tough struggle, to become
independent and eat bread of your own earning. Part of the money George
had earned he spent in books again and with the remainder of it, and the
little library he had collected, he started for Pennsylvania. George now
understood thoroughly the building of locks, bridges and all sorts of
mason work. All this time he had hired himself out to do work for other
people.
It occurred to George now, that he was fit to become a master-workman
himself; _i.e._ agree to build a bridge or some such thing, and hire men
to work under him; he was certain that he knew quite as much as a great
many other men who did this; in fact, a master-workman who employed
George, told him one day, that he was a great fool to be working for
him, when he (George) knew more than he did. But just then he was taken
with fever and ague, and had to lie by a while; he thought he would then
to go home to his native place, and perhaps that might help him, but he
did not go to his father’s and live on the old man, not he; he was too
proud, now that he was a grown man, to live on his parents, and hear the
neighbors say that he “had come to sponge them out of their money;” no,
he paid his own board at a tavern near, till he got better; then he
worked again perseveringly—worked—worked—though still troubled with an
ague chill every day; and now he had earned $2,350—hurrah for George!
Then he thought it was about time to treat himself to a gold watch.
George always thought it the cheapest in the end to buy a _thoroughly
good article_, even should it cost more at first; and there’s where he
was right; so he went to Marquand, a jeweler in Broadway, and purchased
a watch worth $300—what do you think of that? Well—after he had treated
himself to a watch, what does the fellow do but treat himself to a wife.
I don’t know what she cost him; a few blushes I dare say, a gold ring I
know; to say nothing of the fee for the minister who married them; but I
rather think it paid. After his marriage, as he had plenty of money, he
thought he would live a while without working; but he was too good a
fellow to relish an idle life; he did not believe we were made only to
enjoy ourselves. So, like a sensible man he engaged to make part of the
famous “Croton-water Works,” which all New York boys have heard of. His
part of the work was in “Sleepy Hollow,” which Washington Irving has
made so famous. Well, there he lived peaceably and happily with his
wife; there he had two dear little children, named Josephine and Mary
Alice, and there little Mary closed her bright eyes, and went away with
“The Good Shepherd,” who loveth the little lambs. I could tell you a
great deal more about George, how he, after a while went to Europe, and
visited all the great foreign cities; how, when he came back, he found
that his old father had got into debt, and how George, like the good
fellow he was, paid all the old man’s debts, with his own earnings; How
happy he must have been to do that for Butter John! How he built “the
High Bridge;” how he built a great thumping steamer, called the
_Oregon_; how he launched her (that was a splendid sight, I know); and
how he bought another steamer, called the _Neptune_, for I tell you
this, George couldn’t be idle to save him—it was not in him; how,
afterward he built steamers to carry the United States Mail to
California viâ New Orleans and Chagres; and that was a great benefit to
his country, greater than I can tell you; how he purchased the Staten
Island ferry; how he purchased property in Fifth Avenue, one of the
finest streets in New York, and how he went there to live; how there is
every thing elegant and comfortable in his house, but what he most
values, a splendid library; how he preserves and shows to this day in
that library, the old thumbed, dog’s-eared arithmetic, and other books,
which he used to pore over when he was a poor boy; and how he can look
around his beautiful home and think that it was all honestly and hardly
earned, “beginning at the foot of the ladder” (sure enough), as a
hod-carrier. Can you wonder that such a man, of such honesty, and
energy, and intelligence, should be put up for the highest office our
country has to give? Can you wonder that thousands of his
fellow-citizens said, in September, 1855, “Give us George—GEORGE LAW—for
President of the United States!”
THE TOM-BOY.
“For shame, Maria!”
I turned my head. A little girl was just clambering down from a pile of
boards in a vacant lot near the house. It was Saturday afternoon; and
all the long week “Maria” had been shut up in a school, from nine
o’clock till two, although she was only seven years old; and every
afternoon, when she should have been playing, she was trying to cram her
poor bewildered head with great long lessons, which some stupid person
had made for little children, full of great big words, which it was
impossible for her to understand, even if she could manage to commit
them to memory. No wonder Maria was glad when Saturday afternoon came
and lessons and school were over for one week at least; no wonder she
skipped off into “the vacant lot,” and climbed up and down the pile of
boards, to stretch her poor little cramped limbs, and to see if there
was really any life left in them; and a very good time she had been
having of it, too; jumping off of one end of the pile down on the soft
grass, then making a “teeter,” by pulling out one of the boards and
balancing it on the others; she on one end, now sailing up so high! and
Sarah Jane Clarke on the other, going down so low! and now and then both
would roll off into the grass and laugh so merrily; then they would pelt
each other with handfuls of grass, and chase each other round the pile
of boards, till their pale cheeks were as red as fresh-blown roses; to
be sure Maria had torn a hole in a shilling calico apron; but that is
easily repaired, much more easily than a crooked spine, much more easily
than a diseased brain; but I suppose Mrs. Mott did not think of this
when she frowned on her little daughter, and said, “For shame, Maria,
what a tom-boy.” She never had heard, as I have, a poor worn-out little
girl, tossing from side to side in her bed, at night, repeating parts of
her grammar and geography _in her sleep_, and dreaming that she was
being punished for not getting them more perfectly. She never stood over
a little girl who was dying—dying because her little brain had been
worked at school harder than her little feeble growing body could bear.
Ah, if she had, she would have been so glad to have seen the rose bloom
on the pale cheeks of her little daughter, that Saturday afternoon, that
she would never have minded the torn apron, or made the child ashamed of
what was really proper and good for her to do; what it would have been
well for Maria had she done every afternoon of her life.
“Tom-boy?” no, a girl is not a tom-boy for playing “teeter” and climbing
boards; no more than her brother is a girl, because he sometimes sits on
a chair. I say romp; I say shout; I say fly kites; play ball; drive
hoop; climb sheds and fences, tear your aprons (mind you learn to mend
them yourself), soil your hands and faces, tangle your hair, do any
thing that’s innocent, but _don’t_ grow up with crooked backs, flat
chests, sallow faces, dull eyes and diseased brains; _your_ mother, and
yours, and yours, I hope, think as I do about these things. Ask them.
Maria’s mother did not think so. So she went on frowning at her little
daughter, every time she saw her using her limbs, and reproved her as
severely for tearing her apron as she would had she told a lie, and
perhaps more so. So Maria studied and grew crooked, grew crooked and
studied until she was sixteen years old; then her mother sent her to
Professor Cram-all’s school “_to be finished_.” This gentleman used to
give his young ladies longer and harder lessons than their brothers had
in college, and was very proud of his scholars and his school. So Maria
used to sit up every night till eleven and twelve o’clock, getting her
lessons, beside being in school from nine in the morning till three; and
Maria’s mother thought it was a grand school, and Professor Cram-all,
the very king of teachers. Well, Maria staid there two years, and “_got
finished_,” and when she came from there, she went straight to a
“water-cure establishment” (your mother will tell you what that is), and
there she is now, trying to get her poor crooked back straightened. Poor
sick girl, what good does all her Greek and Latin do her now? Ah! had
her mother only let her play as well as study, study less and play more,
until her limbs grew stronger. I know she thinks so now, when she drives
out to the water-cure establishment, to see her dying daughter. And yet
her mother _meant_ to do right—when she was young, she never was taught
at all, and so she grew up very ignorant; this often made her ashamed
when she was a lady, and so she determined that her daughter, Maria,
should know every thing; and in her hurry to do this she forgot her poor
little childish body altogether. So I say, again, to all of you, don’t
mind being called “a tom-boy”—run, jump, shout, fly kites, climb boards,
tangle your hair, soil your hands and tear your aprons, and Nature will
reward you with strong straight backs, full chests, bright eyes, rosy
cheeks, and a long life.
THE LITTLE MUSICIAN.
“Little nuisance!”
So said a young school-girl who sat next me in the city cars. She was
out of humor; perhaps she had an imperfect lesson at school; perhaps she
was weary of sitting in a close room so many hours; perhaps her head
ached badly, and she was faint for her dinner.
“Little nuisance!” Who was a little nuisance? It was a poor boy, who had
first paid his five pennies to the conductor, and had commenced playing
on an accordeon, in the hope of getting some money from the gentlemen
and ladies in the car. Some scowled, some pouted, and some, like the
young lady I have mentioned, loudly called him “a nuisance.” Still the
boy played on, though with a weary, spiritless look in his young face,
as if to say, “I know it is poor music, very poor, to ears which are
used to opera or concert singing; but have pity on a poor boy, who would
earn a few honest pence for his bread, who will not steal, and dislikes
to beg.” It was of no use. The gentlemen were busy reading their
newspapers, the ladies in taking care of their hooped skirts and
flounces. “Lily Dale” charmed them not, nor “Auld Lang Syne.” There were
diamond pins flashing in the sunlight from gentlemen’s shirt bosoms,
rubies and emeralds from ladies’ fingers, and a massive gold bracelet
clasped a snowy arm that was never pinched by cruel want. Little
parcels, too, the ladies had, from which peeped costly purchases in
embroidered lace and muslins. Little boys were with them, so unlike the
little musician, in their silk-velvet jackets, frilled collars, and
plump rosy faces, that one could hardly believe both to belong to the
same human family.
Still the boy played on, with the old, weary, spiritless look, with his
soft eyes fixed upon those unsympathizing faces: silver and gold
glistened through the net-work of dainty purses, but not for him. One
more tune the child played; then, folding his accordeon up under his
arm, he stepped from the car, and was out of sight.
Where? In the great busy city? Did he sink down fainting from hunger and
fatigue, feeling that God and his good angels had left him? Did he stand
before some broker’s shop-window, as I have seen many a little ragged
child stand, counting the shining piles of dollars, half-dollars, and
quarters, and the great round gold pieces—only one of which would make
his weary feet to leap for joy? God help the lad! Did he look at them,
with hungry eyes, and count them over and over, till wrong seemed to him
to be right, and the little hand that never was stained by dishonesty
became foul with crime? No—it were sad to be hungry and houseless; but
it were sadder yet to be shut up in a prison—a bad conscience keeping
him tormenting company.
Where did he go?—the “little nuisance”—where? The papers told me the
next morning. Listen:
“A little boy who is accustomed to play the accordeon in the
street-cars, in stepping from the Fulton ferry-boat to the pier, last
evening, accidentally lost his footing, and was drowned.”
No more fault-finding voices to ask why don’t the lad earn his living,
or call him “a nuisance” when he tried the only thing he could do, and
failed; no more returns at nightfall with leaden feet, and empty
pockets. The boats plough on just as merrily; the water dances and
sparkles all the same as if the light in his blue eyes were not quenched
forever.
Where is the little nuisance? where?
Ask them who, through much tribulation, have washed their robes white,
who neither thirst nor hunger any more, and in whose song is no jarring
discord. Of such is the little musician!
LIONS.
Did you ever see a live lion?