Yes, at the menagerie.

Pooh! that was no more a lion than your little baby-sister is a

full-grown woman; to be sure this lion had a stout old lion for its

father, and a lioness for its mother; but that does not make it a lion,

though the keeper of the menagerie might tell you so till he is black in

the face.

Why?

Because lions that you see at menageries are taken from their mothers

before they are weaned. They are then carried away from their native

forests, where they might have run about and grown hearty and strong,

and fed, not on the milk of the old lioness, but on whatever their

keepers see fit to give; then they are cramped up in close unwholesome

cages, where they can scarce turn round; what chance have they of

growing up to look like lions? Instead of that bold, kingly look, that

magnificent form and flowing mane, which they would have had, if the old

lioness had brought them up according to _her_ notions, their shapes

become mean and poor, their manes thin, their look unhappy and

broken-spirited, and their whole appearance very miserable. Ah, a wild

lion is quite another affair, as you would soon find, could he but

crunch your little heads between his jaws.

Now _I_ should like to see a real forest lion, at a safe distance of

course; I should wish to be up on a tree, or on top of a high mountain

perhaps. _He_ is not afraid of any thing, not he! he comes tramping

along, cracking the bushes as he goes, and sniffing round to find two or

three big men to make a luncheon of. A little kid would be only a

mouthful for him. Lions are like cats in one respect: they do not kill

at once, and put the poor creature out of his misery, any more than

pussy does the poor frantic little mouse. The lion stands and looks the

man in the eye, and makes believe he is going to eat him in about a half

a minute, and when he has frightened the poor fellow almost to death, he

gives him a great slap with his paw, or flaps his great bushy tail in

his face, as if to say, how do you like that? this is only the

beginning, old fellow, I will chew you up pretty soon. I don’t like that

in the lion; it is too petty and mean for such a great grand creature. A

lion will never eat a dead body; he likes warm, live creatures, and if,

when he has killed one for the fun of it, he finds that he is not hungry

enough to eat the whole of him at one standing, he never goes back again

afterward to take another meal, he would scorn to do that; he leaves

such second-hand pickings to such poor miserable loafers as jackals and

hyenas, and strides off with his great grand nose up in the air, as if

to say, the best is good enough for me.

When a lion and lioness leave their home in the forest to take a ramble,

the lioness always goes first and leads the way; and when she stops in

her walk, the old lion stops too, till she is ready to go on. Ask your

mother if she don’t think that’s about the proper way to do things? When

they come to an Arab’s tent where they mean to get their supper, the

lioness lies down a short distance off, while the old lion bounds in and

snatches whatever he thinks madam will like best, and then lays it down

at her feet. He looks on all the time she is eating it with a great deal

of satisfaction, and never thinks of touching a bit till she has had

enough. Just tell your father that!

When the lioness’s little baby-cubs are born, she does not leave them

(even for an instant), for a great many days; the old lion goes to

market, as he ought, and brings home the family dinner. When the little

baby-lions are three months old, and have got all their teeth (a great

many lion-babies, like other babies, die getting their teeth), when they

have got all their teeth, not before, the affectionate mother lioness

goes out for a walk to get them food; but she only stays two or three

hours. I wish those foolish young mothers, who go to balls and dance

till daylight, while their poor little hungry babies are screaming

themselves sick, would take pattern by the old lioness. Well, when she

comes back from her walk, she brings along some mutton (we won’t be

particular about asking her where she got it, because she might give us

a rough answer). Then she carefully skins the mutton, and after tearing

it into small bits, she gives it to her baby-lions to eat.

The old pa-lion does not like to stay with his little babies, because

their frolics disturb his dignity; so he won’t sleep in the same place

with them and their mother, but chooses a place near by, where the old

lady can roar after him if any thing happens. If I were she, some night,

when the old fellow was fast asleep, I would take my little cubs, and

creep off, where his “dignity” would never be disturbed by my babies

again—what! not play with my pretty smart little babies? Solemn old

goose, I say! When the old lion takes his young ones out to hunt, if the

poor little things seem afraid of any strange noise they hear, he just

puts his mouth close to their ear, and roars into it, loud as thunder,

as if to say, stop that now, you cubs! or I’ll give you something worth

while to be afraid of. And now I will tell you a curious thing: this

lion, so strong, so grand, so terrible, whose roar makes the strongest

man’s heart to quake, this lion has his deadly foe in the shape of

flies. Often lions have ulcers on their bodies, the flies get into them,

and make them very sore and corrupt; and the lion not knowing how to rid

himself of them, they soon put an end to his life. Ah, you old forest

Goliath! strong and brave as you are, you yet have your David!

THE CRIPPLE.

A crowd! a crowd! a crowd! Well, what of that? You must have come from

the country, or you would not stop to look at a crowd in New York.

Nothing short of an earthquake ever astonishes a New Yorker. Ah, but

this is a very serious matter; a little girl has been run over by the

street-cars, and lies there on the pavement, maimed, bleeding, and

senseless. Well, she should have been more careful; well, she should not

have been playing in the street; well, she should have been at home with

her mother. Suppose she had no home which deserved the name? Suppose she

had no mother? What is a mother? You throw your little arms around the

neck of that sweet gentle woman near you, who has loved you, cared for

you, watched over you, ever since you can remember; and that is your

answer. Well, then, by that touching reply, I tell you, that the poor

little crippled Lucy, though she has a mother, is motherless. Ah, I see

by the tear in your eye that you have rightly read my riddle. You look

pityingly in my face, and say, Oh what will become of her? What will she

do now that she is hurt so badly, perhaps dying, if her own mother does

not love her? You remember when you had the measles, how you were moved

into your mamma’s room, and had a nice soft bed to lie on, with snowy

pillows and quilt, and how gently your mother glided about you, now

stooping to kiss your hot forehead, now bathing your feverish hands, or

moistening with cool drink your parched lips; how she was never tired

waiting on you, though her face was so very pale; how she brought you

every little toy you fancied you wanted, although she knew that the

moment you had it you would want it taken away again; you remember, when

she brought you your medicine, that she did not deceive you into

swallowing it by telling you it was “sweet” or “good;” but that she said

it was very disagreeable indeed to take, and that she did not wonder you

did not like it, and that she wished she could take it for you; and you

remember how pitiful she looked as she said this, and how it gave you

courage to drink it down at one swallow, without making a single

complaint. And then you remember the good old doctor whom your mother

sent for to come and see you; that kind old man, with snow-white hair,

and a big old-fashioned watch-chain and seals that he gave you to play

with, and shoes that did not creak a bit; that pleasant old doctor, who

was acquainted with you as long back as your mother was, and who knew

the history of every tooth in your head. How nice it was to have him

walk up to your bed, beside your mother, and say so cheerfully, “Mary,

my dear, we will soon have you driving hoop and picking dandelion

blossoms in the park;” and then, when he went away, you remember how

your mother drew the window-curtain, and, seating herself by the bed,

sang very, very low, almost as low as a little humming-bird’s drowsy

hum, some pretty little song, to lull you to sleep!

Oh, yes, you have not forgotten it, and you ask me again, What will poor

little crippled Lucy do, without all this love and comfort, and without

a kind mother?

Now just suppose it to be several weeks from the time when little Lucy

was run over. Take hold of my hand and come with me. You see that large

house yonder, standing back from the street? You see those bright green

grassy banks in front of it, and those fine old trees? Well, that is the

Hospital, where people who meet with sad accidents are carried, to be

cured by the doctors, who do not make them pay money for it, unless they

can afford it. There poor little Lucy has been seven long weeks. Let us

go in and see her. Up, up the steep steps; I am glad the house stands

back so far from the street, because the noise of the passing carriages

will not disturb those sick people. Queen Anne gave them this house. I

had as lief kiss the hem of her robe as not, for doing it. Up—up—there

you are; now step into the hall; what a nice wide one it is, and how

deliciously the cool summer breeze plays through it. Oh how glad I am

the sick have such a nice place! “All right!” the porter says, as we

show him a paper which one of the doctors has given us, to admit us

whenever we please;—“all right!”—yes, all right; right that there should

be such a fat, wholesome-looking, smiling, pleasant-voiced head-nurse

for the sick to look at and draw strength from: I am very sure that,

were I sick, the sight of her roly-poly limbs, and rosy face, would make

me better every time her clean gingham dress and snow-white apron swept

past.

[Illustration]

See what a row of beds are in that long room, and a sick person in each.

But we will not stop to look at them now, we have come to see Lucy, poor

little crippled Lucy. There she lies in that cot yonder, next the

window, with her little snow-flake of a hand lying outside the white

coverlid; she raises her pale face from the pillow, and her eyes grow

bright, for she knows that I love and pity her; she can’t move much, for

(it will make you feel so bad that I can hardly bear to tell you) she

has had her leg cut off, where the cars crushed it. She does not

complain, as she shews you the bandaged stump that is left, but her

sunken eyes, and the little drooping wrists, not much bigger than your

papa’s cane, tell what she has suffered. Suppose I should tell you she

had had it cut off _twice_? Poor, poor Lucy; the doctors cut it off

first at the ankle, hoping to save the rest of the leg, but afterward,

they found it must be taken off higher up, just above the knee, and the

dear patient suffering child went through with the agony all over again.

It makes one cry to think of it. But see, Lucy don’t cry, I wish she

would; she is so much like an angel that I am afraid we shall lose her,

after all, though the doctor says she will “get well, slowly.” She likes

the flowers I bring her; she likes the little dainty doll too, with its

changes of dresses, and skirts and aprons and bonnets; for she gets

tired looking at that long row of beds, with a groaning sick person in

each; at that row of windows too, down the long hall; she wearies of

moving her little wasted forefinger, round and round the figures on her

bed-quilt; she wearies of looking at her little stump of a limb, and

wondering how she shall learn to walk with only one leg, and she wearies

lying in one position hour after hour, without turning over. I don’t

wonder. I thought as I sat there, how I should like to hang some

pictures on those bare walls, for those sick folks to look at and think

about, as they lie there; how I should like to give them all a fresh

bunch of flowers every day; and how sad it was, when they were sick and

nervous and weak, to see a patient in the next bed die, before their

eyes, and be carried out. All these thoughts passed through my mind, as

I sat fanning little Lucy; and it made me happy to see her turning over

the doll’s little gay-colored dresses, and trying them on, one after

another, and saying “How pretty!” Lucy wanted a name for the doll I

brought her, so I gave it the name of “Fanny.” Lucy did not know _why_ I

chose that name, though you and I do. But we must go now, for the

pleasant-looking fat nurse has brought Lucy her dinner, and I think that

will do her more good than we can; but stop a minute, Lucy, should you

like me to bring you a little book, next time I come? (Oh, dear, how

_could_ I ask the child? see, she hangs her head, she “can’t read,”

although she is seven years old). Well, can you sew, Lucy? Yes, she can

sew. Oh, that’s nice; then you shall have a little thimble, some

needles, some spools, a pair of scissors, and some silk to make your

doll some dresses, and a box to keep them all in; that’s what you shall

have, you poor little patient lamb-like Lucy. You are a living sermon,

and if I am not better for seeing you, it will not be because I don’t

need improving.

THE TRUANT.

Johnny thought he knew better than his mother what was best for boys.

Johnny’s mother thought it was not safe for boys to play about the

streets. Johnny thought that was all nonsense. As Johnny could not get

leave to play in the street, he thought he would play there without

leave. One fine day, he snatched his cap slyly, when his mother was

busy, and stepped out at the front door, and whipped round the corner in

less time than I have taken to tell you about it. Wasn’t it delightful?

What was the use of being a boy, if he must be tied to his mother’s

apron-string, like a whimpering cry-baby of a girl? Other boys played in

the street, plenty of them. True, they did not always have whole rims to

their hats, and their jackets were buttonless, and their knees were

through their trowsers; but what of that? They were “first-rate fellows

to play.” True, they used bad words now and then, but he, Johnny, was

not obliged to do so. His mother was a very nice mother, and he loved

her; but his mother never was a boy, and how could she tell what boys

wanted? He did not mean to disobey her—oh, no; he only meant—pshaw! what

was the use of wasting time thinking about that. Halloo! there’s an

organ-grinder with a monkey; and there’s a man with three little fat

pups to sell, black pups, with white paws, and curly drooping ears, and

tails so short that they can’t even wag them; and there’s a shop-window

with marbles and fire-crackers—what a pity he had no pence! And there’s

a boy stealing molasses out of a hole in a hogshead by sucking it

through a straw; and there are two boys at a fruit-stall—one talks to

the old woman who keeps it, while the other slyly pockets an apple,

without paying for it; and there’s a boy sprawling in the middle of the

street, who tried to steal a ride on an omnibus step, and got a smart

cut on his temple for his pains; and there—yes—there’s Tom Thumb’s

carriage on a high cart. What funny little ponies. How Johnny wishes he

were General Tom Thumb, instead of plain Johnny Scott. Silly boy, as if

it were not better to be a fine full-grown man, able to fight for his

country if she needed him, as Johnny will be some day, than to be passed

round the country for a little hop o’ my thumb puppet show? And yonder

is a great stone building. What can it be? Perhaps a bank. No, it is too

big for that. What a great heavy door it has. It is not a meeting-house.

No—and Johnny drew nearer. Now the big gate opens, and a crowd of people

gather outside. Johnny goes a little nearer; nearer, nearer still; now

he sees a cart stop before the door. ’Tis not a baker’s cart, nor a

grocer’s cart, nor a milkman’s cart—but never mind the cart.

See! inside the gate across that fenced yard, come a dozen or more boys,

about Johnny’s age, and a man with them. Who are they? What are they

there for? Why is that man with them? And where are they going? Johnny

edges a little nearer. Now he has one foot inside the gate, for the

little boys are passing through, and he wants to look at them. Now they

have all passed through. Where are they going in that cart?

“Come along, you little scapegrace. None of your lagging behind,” says

the man who was with the boys, seizing Johnny roughly by the shoulder.

“Come along, don’t you pull away from me. Come, it is no use crying for

your mother—you should have thought of her before you stole those

peaches. Where you are going? You know well enough that the Judge has

sent the whole gang of you to Blackwell’s Island and there’s the city

cart to take you there; and I am the man to put you into it, and see

that you go. None of your kicking, now. Come along, or it will be the

worse for you.” And he seized Johnny, and lifting him by his trowsers

into the cart as easily as you would handle a kitten, he locked him in

with the other boys, and told the driver to go ahead. “Stop there,” said

a man in the street to the driver; “stop there. That little fellow don’t

belong to those bad boys. His name is little Johnny Scott. His mother is

a neighbor of mine, a very nice woman too. I know her very well. He was

only looking round the gate of ‘The Tombs’ to see what was going on. Let

him out, I say. I will see him safe home. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, this comes

of running about the street. You might have been carried to Blackwell’s

Island, had it not been for me. What do you suppose your mother would

say to see you here?”

Sure enough, that’s what Johnny thought, as he clambered out of the

prison-wagon and wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve. Sure enough, how

could he ever look her in the face?

But his mother did not punish him. No, she thought rightly that he had

punished himself enough; and so he had. It was a good lesson to him, and

for a long time he was ashamed to go out into the street, for fear some

boy who was looking on that day, and had seen him pushed into the

prison-cart, would halloo after him, “There goes a Blackwell Island

boy.”

BESSIE AND HER MOTHER.

Bessie was very fond of reading. Well, I think I hear some of you say, I

hope you are not going to find fault with that. Oh, but I am, though;

because as wise old Solomon said thousands of years ago, there is a time

for every thing. Bessie did not believe this; she thought that time was

never made to sew; she thought that time was never made to dust, or

sweep, or keep herself tidy, or attend to visitors, or go of errands, or

do any thing, in fact, but read, read, read, from Monday till Saturday,

and Saturday till Monday. She would sit down with a story-book in her

hand, the first thing after breakfast, the sun shining in through the

closed windows upon an un-made bed, which needed airing, upon dresses,

shoes, and stockings, which needed putting away, upon her own unsmoothed

locks, unbrushed teeth, uncleansed finger-nails, and torn morning-dress;

what do you think of that? Then her mother would call, “Bessie!” and

Bessie would answer “Yes,” without stirring or raising her eyes from the

story-book; then her mother would call again, “Bessie!” louder than

before, and then Bessie would begin to move slowly across the room,

still reading, to see what was wanted; then her mother would tell her to

“go down and tell the cook to make apple dumplings for dinner;” then

Bessie, with her mind still on the book, would go down and tell Sally

“_not_ to make apple dumplings for dinner;” then her mother would tell

her to “shut the front entry-door, where the hot sun was beating in;”

then Bessie would go and shut the china-closet door instead; then her

mother would say, “Bessie, have you mended your stockings this week?”

and Bessie would answer, without knowing what she was talking about,

“Yes, mother;” and then that afternoon, Bessie’s mother would tell her

to “get ready to go out with her;” and then Bessie would say, “I have no

stockings mended to wear;” and then her mother would remind her of what

she said about it, and Bessie would look at her as bewildered as if she

had been dreaming, for she did not know when she told her so what she

was saying. Was it right for Bessie to do so? and was it wrong in

Bessie’s mother, who knew how necessary it is for girls to be tidy, and

orderly, and neat, to tell Bessie that she must only read so much a day,

and that, not before she had attended to all these things which I have

said she was in the habit of neglecting? Was it wrong for Bessie’s

mother to insist upon her going into the kitchen sometimes, and learning

how to clean silver, and how to cook and make pies and cakes? was it

wrong for her to oblige her to keep her thimble and scissors in her

work-basket, instead of on the piazza-floor, and her shawl in the drawer

instead of under the bed? was it wrong for her to make her lace up her

gaiters neatly, instead of letting the strings tangle round her feet? It

would have been much less trouble to Bessie’s mother had she allowed her

to take her own way about these things, instead of trotting up-stairs

and down to see what she was about, and how things looked in her room;

but Bessie’s mother knew that a woman is always disgusting, no matter

how much she knows, or has read, unless she is neat and tidy in her

habits, and that she is not worthy the name of a woman, if she can not

take proper care of her house, or is too indolent, or slovenly to do it;

she loved her daughter better than she did her own ease, and she knew,

spite of Bessie’s tears, that it were cruel kindness to heed them; she

knew that many a man has become a drunkard because he never found any

thing fit to eat on his table, or his house in decent order when he came

home; it is quite as necessary for a woman to know how to make wholesome

bread and puddings, as it is that she should read, and study, and be

able to talk about books, or even to write them herself; yes, though she

may be able to have cooks and chambermaids to do her work. Suppose she

wants a pudding for dinner; suppose she has a cook who does not like to

work any better than her mistress if she can help it; and suppose the

cook not caring to take trouble to make the pudding, tells her ignorant

mistress, that “there is not time now to make and boil it before

dinner.” Such things have been done, and many a fine lady, I can tell

you, has been obliged to go without her pudding, because she did not

know enough to tell the cook that what she said was not true.

Beside, suppose this lady who knows so much about books, should get into

difficulty with her servants, and they should all go off and leave her;

must her husband go without his dinner because she can not, at a

moment’s notice, get more servants to cook for her? how helpless such a

woman is—how ashamed she must feel, as her husband puts on his hat and

goes to an eating-house to get his dinner. Bessie did not think of all

this, but her mother did. By-and-by when Bessie grew up, and was

married, and had a nice pretty house, she knew how to mend her husband’s

clothes and get him a good dinner, as well as she did how to talk with

him about books, and other things in which he was interested; and when,

looking round his comfortable home, he kissed his wife, and said,

“Bessie you are my treasure,” Bessie would point to the little

grave-yard within sight of her window and as her tears fell fast she

would say, “Oh, if I could but thank my mother now for all she did for

me when I was so naughty and wayward.”

Think of this, dear children, when you pout to lay down an interesting

story-book, when your mother calls you to do some necessary work; and

don’t wait till the tombstone lies heavy on her breast before you

believe that she knows better than you what is best for you.

RED-HEADED ANDY.

What should you do were your mother to fall down in a fit? stand still

and scream? or run out of the house, and leave her lying half-dead upon

the floor? Or, should you have what people call, “presence of mind?”

that is, call for somebody to help her, and do all you could for her

till they came. It is a great thing to have “presence of mind;” there

are very few grown people who have it; there are plenty of people when a

bad accident happens, who will crowd round the sick person, keep all the

good fresh air away from him; wring their hands, say oh! and ah! and

shocking! and dreadful! but there are few who think to run quickly for

the doctor, or bring a glass of water, or do any one of the thousand

little things which would help so much to make the poor sufferer better.

If grown people do not think of these things, we certainly should not be

disappointed if children do not; and yet, wonderful, though it may be,

they are often quicker-witted at such a time than their elders. I will

tell you a story, to show you that it is so.

Andy Moore, was a short, stunted, freckled, little country boy; tough as

a pine knot, and with about as much polish. Sometimes he wore a hat, and

sometimes he didn’t; he was not at all particular about that; his shaggy

red hair, he thought, protected his head well enough; as for what people

would think of it—he did not live in Broadway, where one’s shoe-lacings

are measured; his home was in the country, and a very wild, rocky

country, at that; he knew much more about chip-munks, rattle-snakes, and

birds’-eggs, than he did about fashions; he liked to sit rocking on the

top of a great tall tree; or standing on a high hill, where the wind

almost took him off his feet; he thought the sunset, with its golden

clouds, “well enough,” but he delighted in a thunder-storm; when the

forked lightning darted zig-zag across the heavy black clouds, blinding

you with its brightness; or when the roaring thunder seemed to shake the

very hills, and the gentle little birds cowered trembling in their nests

for fear.

Andy’s house was a rough shanty enough, on the side of a hill; it was

built of mud, peat and logs, with holes for windows; there was nothing

very pleasant there; his mother smoked a pipe when she was not cooking

or washing, and his father was a day laborer who spent his wages for

whisky and tobacco. No wonder that Andy liked to rock on the top of the

tall trees, and liked the thunder and lightning better than the eternal

jangling of their drunken quarrels. Andy could hear the hum of busy life

in the far-off villages; but he had never been there; he had no books,

so he did a great deal of thinking, and he hoped some day to be

something beside just plain Andy Moore, but how or when, the boy had not

made up his mind. In the mean time, he grew, and slept, and ate, and

thought—the very best thing at his age that he could have done,

anywhere, had he but known it.

There was a railroad track near the hut of Andy’s father; and Andy often

watched the black engine, with its long trail, as it came fizzing past,

belching out great clouds of steam and smoke, and screeching through the

valleys and under the hills like a mad demon. Although it went by the

hut every day, yet he had never wished to ride in it; he had been

content with lying on the sand bank, watching it disappear in the

distance, leaving great wreaths of smoke curling round the treetops. One

day as Andy was strolling across the track, he saw that there was

something wrong about it; he did not know much about railroad tracks,

because he was as yet quite a little lad, but the rails seemed to be

wrong somehow; and Andy had heard of cars being thrown off by such

things. Just then, he heard a low distant noise; dear, dear, the cars

were coming, coming then! He was but a little boy, but perhaps he could

stop them in some way, at any rate there was nobody else there to do it.

Andy never thought that he might be killed himself; but he went and

stood right in the middle of the track, just before the bad place on it,

that I have told you about, and stretched out his little arms as far as

he could. On, on came the cars, louder and louder. The engineer saw the

boy on the track, and whistled for him to get out of the way; Andy never

moved a hair; again he whistled; Andy might have been made of stone, for

all the notice he took of it; then the engineer of course had to stop

the train, swearing as he did so, at Andy, for “not getting out of the

way;” but when Andy pointed to the track, and he saw how the brave

little fellow had not only saved his life but the lives of all the

passengers, his curses changed to blessings, very quick. Every body

rushed out to see the horrible death they had escaped, had the cars

rushed over the bad track and tossed headlong down the steep bank into

the river. Ladies kissed Andy’s rough freckled face, and cried over him;

and the gentlemen, as they looked at their wives and children, wiped

their eyes and said “God bless the boy;” and that is not all, they took

out their porte-monnaies and contributed a large sum of money for him;

not that they could ever repay the service he had done them; they knew

that; but to show him in some way beside mere words, that they felt

grateful. Now THAT boy had presence of mind. Good, brave little Andy!

The passengers all wrote down his name, Andy Moore, and the place he

lived in; and if you want to know where Andy is now, I will tell you. He

is in college; and these people whose lives he saved, pay his bills and

are going to see him safe through. Who dare say, now, when a little

jacket and trowsers runs past, “It is only a boy!”

LITTLE NAPKIN.

I am sure I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Poor little “Napkin!”

Of course you know that “Napkin” is Louis Napoleon’s little baby;

perhaps you don’t know that his mamma does not nurse him herself. I

wonder does she know how much pleasure she loses by not doing it? I

wonder does she know how sweet it is to wake in the night, and find a

baby’s soft little hand on her neck, and his dear little head lying upon

her arm? I wonder does she know how beautiful a baby is when it first

wakes in the morning, raising its little head from the pillow, and

gazing at you with its lustrous eyes and rosy cheeks, so like a

fresh-blown dewy flower? I wonder does she know how delicious it is to

give the little hungry rogue his breakfast? No, no; poor Eugenia! poor

empress! She knows nothing of all this. She has had all a mother’s pain,

and none of a mother’s pleasure. She hires a woman to nurse and sleep

with little “Napkin;” she never sees how sweet he looks in the bath, the

water dripping from his round polished limbs; she never puts his little

fat arms into the cunning little sleeves of his clean white robe, or

puts his little foot, with its rosy-tipped toes, into the little warm

stocking. I wouldn’t be the empress, no, not for all her beauty and

diamonds, if I could not do all this for my little “Napkin.” The

handsomest dresses in all Paris would not comfort me any if I knew

Madame Baut, or Madame any body else, was giving my little Napkin his

milk, instead of myself; no, indeed. I should be afraid, too, all the

time, that some pin was pricking him, or that his frock-strings were

tied too tight, or that Madame Baut, or whoever the nurse is, would—but

what is the use of talking about it? I would not have any Madame Baut.

What is the use of being empress, if you can’t do as you like,

especially with your own baby? One might as well be a slave-mother. I

had rather be that Irish woman yonder, hanging out her husband’s clothes

in the meadow, while her baby creeps after her on all fours, picking

butter-cups. Not nurse my own baby! Not wash him, dress him, or sleep

with him? Ah, Monsieur Louis Napoleon, it is lucky _I_ am not Eugenie.

If you wanted your empress, I am afraid you would have to come to little

Napkin’s nursery for her. “Happy as a queen.” It makes me laugh when any

body says that; or happy as an empress, either. I don’t want half a

dozen maids of honor to dress and undress me, and put me to bed. I don’t

want them following at my heels whenever I walk in the halls, gardens,

or drawing-rooms. I should go crazy at the thought of it. I should lock

the door on the whole of them. I wouldn’t be dressed so many times a

day. I wouldn’t have so much twisting, and braiding, and curling, and

plaiting of my hair. I wouldn’t call my husband “Sire!” Sire! Just

imagine it? How you would laugh to hear your mother call your father

“Sire.” No, I would say, Napoleon, or Nappy (just as the whim suited

me), suppose we put our little “Napkin” in the basket-wagon, and draw

him to the Tuileries; and then I, the empress, would—but, thank

goodness, I am _not_ an empress. I am very sure if I were, I should get

my head cut off.

Little Napkin had an uncle named Napoleon Charles, who died when he was

very young. One day he was sitting with his mamma, Hortense, at a window

of her beautiful palace, which looked out on the avenue. It had been

raining very hard, and the avenue was filled with little puddles of

water, in which some barefooted children were playing with little boats

made of chips. The little Prince Napoleon Charles was beautifully

dressed, and had more costly toys to play with than I suppose you or I

ever saw in our lives, some of which were given him by his good, dear,

beautiful grandmother Josephine, whom all France, and indeed every body

who ever heard of her, loved. But the little Prince Napoleon Charles did

not seem to care for the beautiful presents, nor his beautiful clothes,

nor the splendid furniture of the palace, but stood looking out of the

window on the avenue.

His mamma, noticing it, said, “So, my son, you do not thank your

grandmamma for all her kindness and those pretty presents she sent you?”

“Oh, yes, mamma,” said little Napoleon Charley, “but grandmamma is so

good, I am used to it; but look at those little boys, mamma.”

“Well,” said his mother, “what of them? Do you wish you had some money

to give them?”

“No; papa gave me some money this morning, and it is all given away.”

“Well, then, what ails my dear child? What do you want?”

_“Oh,” said the little prince, hesitatingly, “I know you won’t let me;

but if I could run about in that beautiful puddle, it would amuse me

more than all good grandmamma’s presents!”_

You whose fathers are not rich, and who envy other children their fine

clothes, fine toys, and fine carriages, must remember this little story.

There are plenty of rich men’s children who would be glad to part with

all these things, could they only make “dirt-pies,” and splash their

bare toes in the gutters, as you do. All is not gold that glitters;

believe this, and it will cure you of many a heartache.

THE SPOILED BOY.

If there ever was a boy who needed a dose of the old-fashioned medicine

called “oil of birch,” it was Tommy Sprout. He had scowled and fretted

till his face looked like a winter-apple toward spring, all shriveled,

and spotted, and wrinkled. The moment Tommy sat down to table, before

the rest of the family had a chance to get settled in their chairs,

Tommy would begin this fashion: “I say Ma” (Tommy pronounced it “Mha,”

through his nose), “I say mha, give me some milk, quick!”

Then his “mha,” instead of sending him away from the table, as she

should have done, would say,

“Presently, my son; wait a few minutes, till I have poured out the

coffee!”

“I whon’t whait, I say, mha, I whon’t whait; so there, now;” and Tommy

would catch hold of his mother’s arm and jerk the coffee all about.

“Come now, mha, gim’ me my mhilk, quick!”

Then his mother would stop pouring out the coffee, no matter how many

older persons than Tommy were waiting for it, and give him his milk,

which he would drink down, hardly stopping to breathe, making a noise

like a little pig who is sucking his corn out of a trough. Then he would

set down his cup, wipe his mouth on his jacket sleeve, catch hold of his

mother’s elbow, and say, “Mha, give me an egg!”

“Wait my son, till I can fix it for you.”

“No I won’t; I want to fix it myself; I say, give me one.”

“Oh, Tommy, what a boy you are; well, take it, then;” and his mother

would give him an egg.

Then Tommy would begin to pound the shell with his tea-spoon, and pretty

soon it would break, and the egg would fly all over him, and all over

the table-cloth, while Tommy tried to ladle it up with his tea-spoon.

Then he would cram a great wedge of bread and butter into his mouth, and

before it was half swallowed, he would ask his “mha” where the hammer

was, “’cause he and Sam Gill were going to make a prime box;” and when

he had found out where it was, he would jump up and fly through the

door, leaving it wide open, and his mother would get up and shut it, and

say for the hundredth time, “Did you ever?”

One day Tommy was sitting astride the garden-gate, playing horse, when a

lady came up to call on his mother. Tommy sat still, and never offered

to let her pass in.

“Let me come in, my dear, please,” said the lady.

“Get up, Dobbin, get up, old hoss,” said Tommy lashing the gate with a

willow switch, without answering the lady.

“Let me pass, will you, dear?”

“No, I won’t; I’m playing hoss; you may just go round to the back gate.”

So the lady went round to the back gate, wetting her feet in the dewy

grass. Tommy’s mother was quite surprised when the lady appeared

suddenly before her kitchen window, where she was making cake, instead

of ringing at the front door, as visitors always did; and when she found

out how it was, she said again, “Did you ever?”

Tommy went on lashing his “hoss.”

Tommy was a great cry-baby; though he was very fond of plaguing other

people, he was not quite so fond of being teazed himself; if a boy did

but point at him, he would run screaming in to his mother like a mad

bull, and she would hug him up, and wipe his great red face with her

pocket-handkerchief, and give him a piece of frosted cake to comfort

him.

“Did you ever?”

Well, you can imagine what sort of a man such a boy would make, when he

grew up. When he was twenty, he got married, and brought his wife home

to his mother’s to live; his father had been dead many years. Ah, then

the poor old lady, his mother, reaped the bitter fruit of the seed she

had sown. Tom ordered her round like a servant; sitting with his feet up

in a chair, while she limped up-stairs and down to wait upon him. Poor

old lady; she saw too late the sad mistake she had made; and how cruel

had been her kindness to Tommy. By-and-by she died; Tom’s wife had been

driven off long before by her husband’s bad conduct, and now he was all

alone at the old farm-house. Then he was taken with a shocking

rheumatism in all his limbs; he could not even so much as lift a finger

to help himself; he had no friends now to come in and comfort him,

because he had made all his acquaintances dislike him; he had nobody but

the doctor, and “old Maggie,” whom he hired to come and make his tea,

and there he lay on the bed groaning and swearing. Oh! it would chill

your blood to hear him—you, whom I hope, never take the dear and holy

name of God in vain. Nobody pitied him, because, they said, “he had been

so bad.”

One Sunday Tom lay in bed groaning; the sun streamed in through the

half-closed shutters, and the little motes were swimming round in the

sunbeams; the window was partly open, and the scent of the clover

blossoms and new-mown hay floated in on the summer air. Sabbath-school

was over, for the little children were singing their parting hymn; and

this was what they were singing:

“Abide with me! fast falls the eventide;

The darkness thickens; Lord, with me abide;

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!

“Swift to the close ebbs out life’s little day;

Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see,

Oh, Thou who changest not, abide with me!”

Very sweet were those little childish voices; very sweet were the words

they sang. It was a long, long time since Tom had shed a tear; but he

did so now. Poor, wicked, lonely Tom! and long after the childrens’ eyes

were closed, like flowers, in sleep, as he lay awake, that night, the

words came to him, again and again, “Help of the helpless, oh, abide

with me!”

I told you that none of Tom’s acquaintances wanted to go near him,

because he was so bad. Oh, is it not well that God does not feel so

toward us, sinners? that He pities us because we are so bad and wicked?

and that when every body forsook poor bad Tom, He drew near to him, in

the voices of the dear little children, softening his icy heart, as the

sun melts the snow? What else could have made Tom willing to linger and

to suffer, longer or shorter, as God willed it? What else made him ask

old Maggie’s pardon for his oaths and rough words to her? What else

could have made him so lamb-like, those two long, painful years, before

Death came to set the spirit free, from his worn-out body? None, during

all that time, ever heard a complaint from the lips once so full of

curses; but often, in the night-time, as the traveler passed the old

farm-house, he would stop to listen to these words, from poor sleepless,

but happy Tom:

“Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!”

PUSS AND I.

Muff, come here! Don’t stop to clean your paws, that is only an excuse

for not minding, you naughty little mischief. Come here, Muff; you need

not play with my watch-chain or your tail either. I do not wonder that

you dislike to look me in the eye, you are not the first guilty one who

has dreaded to look in the eye of the person whom they had wronged.

Muff, who jumped upon the marble table and frightened the poor

gold-fish, by putting a paw into the glass globe? who went down cellar

and lapped milk out of the pan? who jumped on the breakfast-table, and

helped herself to beefsteak, before her mistress could get down to

table? who flew at the looking-glass-doors of my new secretary, to play

with another Muff, who seemed to play with her? who scratched and

defaced the rosewood ornaments upon the side of the secretary, with her

sharp claws? who took a nap on the velvet sofa, without asking

by-your-leave? and, worse than all, Muff, oh, Muff, who stole into my

chamber, before I woke, in the morning, and, with one spring, lit on my

astonished face, startling me into a headache for the rest of the day?

what have you got to say to all that, Miss Muff?

Well, in the first place, if you please, madam, I will answer your

question (Yankee fashion) by asking another. Whose cook was it who threw

her apron over me, when I was quietly taking a walk in the street one

day, and brought me here without saying by-your-leave, for a play-mate

for your own little girl? As to the “gold-fish,” I did put my paw on the

glass globe, there’s no use denying that, because you peeped into the

parlor just as I was doing it; but that does not prove that I wanted to

kill and eat them, and if I did, did not you buy a fresh lobster this

morning, of the market-man, and tell your cook to boil him, boil him

_alive_? if you kill creatures for your dinner how should a poor little

cat be expected to do better?

“Lapped milk out of a pan,” did I? don’t you often, when you pass into a

confectioner’s shop, pick up bits of candy and peppermint-drops, and put

them in your mouth, while you are wailing to be waited upon? People who

live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, mistress! As to helping

myself “to beefsteak,” if your girl had not kidnapped me, and brought me

to this bran-new house, where there is not a sign of a mouse to be had,

I would not have been obliged to steal your beefsteak. With regard to

“looking in the glass,” the less you say about that, the better.

Where’s the harm if I did want to trim my whiskers a little, and admire

my soft white paws, I am not the only person in this house who looks in

the glass, I reckon. I also plead guilty to “taking a nap on your velvet

sofa,” but I will leave it to any outsider, if I did not look better on

it than did the _boots of that gentleman_ who called to see you the

other evening, and who certainly _ought_ to know what velvet sofas were

intended for.

Yes, and I jumped on your face in the morning too, I am not going to

back out of that, but you must recollect that you have a way of sleeping

too long in the morning; and that I never can get my breakfast till your

ladyship has had yours; as to the headache you say I gave you by doing

it, it is my opinion, that the preserves, and hot biscuit, you ate for

tea the night before, were answerable for that. But what a fool I am to

waste words with a woman who lays down one rule of right for her cat,

and another for herself; thank goodness there’s a mouse, the first I’ve

seen here, now you’ll see science, or my name is not kitty; keep your

old cold beefsteak and welcome, and I will take my first independent

meal in this house, off hot mouse, and no thanks to you.

LUCY’S FAULT.

Lucy had long silken golden curls, they fell quite to her waist. Her

mother did not “do them up” in paper; her hair curled naturally. Lucy

was not proud of her curls; she did not care any thing about them;

ladies in the street, often stopped her to look at them: and her little

playmates often said, “I wish my hair curled like Lucy’s,” but Lucy

always said, “I wish they were off.”

One day Lucy went to her mother, and said: “May I have my curls cut

off?”

“No,” said her mother, “I should not like to have them cut; I think it

would be a great pity, they are so soft, so long, and so even; your head

is always full of notions, run away and play.”

Lucy went away, but she kept thinking about her hair, and wishing her

mother would let her have it all cut off, and when Lucy once got her

heart set on any thing, she never would be satisfied till she got it.

A few days after, she thought she would try again, so she said, “Mother,

if you would only let me go to Mr. Wynne, the barber, and have my hair

cut close; may I mother?”

“Yes,” said her mother.

Lucy looked up in astonishment. “May I really? Do you know what you are

saying?”

“Yes.”

Up sprang Lucy, her long golden curls streaming out behind her like a

vail, up three steps at a time to her room, to get her bonnet and shawl,

then down three stairs at a time to her mother, to get the money to pay

Mr. Wynne for cutting her hair. Lucy never asked any one to go with her,

she was a very independent little girl, she knew the way to the

barber’s, because her father used to go there to get shaved, and when

Lucy was much smaller, he used sometimes to take her with him.

So Lucy soon found the shop; there were no customers in it. Lucy was

glad of that; nobody to bother her; but unfortunately Mr. Wynne was not

in, either. But Lucy was determined that she would not be disappointed,

so when the barber’s assistant said,

“What do you want of Mr. Wynne?”

She answered, “I want him to cut off my curls.”

“Cut your curls?” replied the man; “were they my sister’s, I would not

have them cut off for a five dollar bill; one don’t see such curls as

yours every day, miss.”

“They must be cut,” said little Lucy, shutting her lips together very

firmly. “Why can’t you cut them for me?”

“Not I,” said the assistant, “at least not till Mr. Wynne comes in.”

“My mother knows about it,” said Lucy, with a vexed toss of her curls,

“see, here is the money to pay you for cutting my hair.”

“Perhaps so—perhaps so!” said the assistant, “but I should rather not

put scissors to that hair, till Mr. Wynne tells me to. I expect him in

soon—you can wait, miss, if you choose.”

Lucy did choose; so untying her bonnet-strings, she seated herself

before a cage, in which hung a red and green poll parrot, who cocked his

head one side, and looking at her with a doleful twist in his red eye,

said,

“Poll’s sick!”

Lucy had never seen a poll parrot before, and she looked this way and

that way, as if she could not believe that the bird said this.

Then the poll parrot said,

“Give Poll some sugar! Poll’s sick!” and before Lucy had done laughing

at this, he said,

“Want to be shaved? take a seat.”

“No,” said Lucy, laughing; “but I want my hair cut!”

The poll parrot cocked his head on one side again, and whined out,

“Poll’s sorry!”

“He don’t know what he is talking about, does he?” asked Lucy, looking a

little abashed. “Any way I shall have my curls cut, Miss Polly; see if I

don’t!”

“Your curls cut—_that_ hair cut!” exclaimed old Mr. Wynne, coming in at

the door; “not at my shop, you little rogue. What do you suppose your

mother would do to me? I’ll be bound she sets her life by ’em: Many a

lady who brings her little girl here to have her hair curled with the

curling-tongs, when she is going to a party, would give her eyes for

these natural curls of yours. No, no, Miss Lucy, you would get me into a

pretty scrape there at home. Ah! when you are a little older, you will

not be in such a hurry to part with ’em, to my thinking—better run home

to your ma, Miss Lucy!”

“My mother sent me here,” said Lucy; “and see here is the money to pay

you for cutting my hair.”

[Illustration]

“Now really, Miss Lucy? honor bright?

“Really and truly,” said Lucy.

“Well—it’s a sin and a shame; but I’ll do it if your ma said so; look

here, Jacob!” and Mr. Wynne lifted the heavy curls on his finger; “not

an uneven hair in ’em, Jacob, and just as soft as silk.”

“Make a dozen frizettes,” said Jacob; “a good job for us, any how.”

“Yes; and if it was a boy’s hair I shouldn’t mind. I hate to see a boy

curled and befrizzed; I think somehow it puts puppy notions in his head,

that he don’t ever get rid of; but a little girl is another matter. St.

Paul says, you know.”

“Never mind St. Paul;” said Jacob, “it will make at least a dozen

frizettes, good full ones at that!”

“Well—here goes then, Miss Lucy,” and snipping the sharp shears, down

fall the curls in a golden shower one after another upon the floor.

Jacob meanwhile looked on in delighted astonishment.

“There miss,” said old Mr. Wynne, rubbing some cologne over her cropped

head, “I think it is a chance if your own mother would know you now.”

“Never fear,” said Lucy, passing her hand over her shaven crown; and

tying on her bonnet without stopping to look in the glass.

“It has really quite changed her,” said Mr. Wynne, pocketing his

shilling, as Lucy went out the door; “but as you say, Jacob, those curls

are worth something to us.”

On flew Lucy, as if wings were at her heels, and bursting into the

parlor, where her brothers, and sisters, and mother were sitting,

twitched off her bonnet, and stood to be admired.

Such a shout!

“What’s the matter?” said the astonished Lucy.

“Look in the glass—only look in the glass,” was all the merry laughers

could say. “Oh, Lucy, what a fright you are!”

“An escaped bedlamite,” said her brother John.

Lucy ran to the glass—the blush which overspread her cheeks and temples

might plainly be seen crimsoning the very roots of her shaved hair. “Did

old Mr. Wynne put a bowl on your hair, and cut it to the shape of it?”

asked John, holding his sides.

Poor Lucy! She did not expect that old Mr. Wynne would make her so

ridiculous a figure. Rushing up-stairs into her room and into bed, she

sprang between the sheets, and drawing them tightly over her unfortunate

head, sobbed out her vexation.

By-and-by her mother came up.

“Lucy.”

“Oh, mother, I did not think he would make me such a fright. Why did you

let me go, mother?”

“Because I thought the loss of my little daughter’s curls would be but a

small sacrifice, should it cure her of that impetuous, impatient spirit

which leads her into so many difficulties. I could easily, my dear

child, have cut your curls (were it advisable to do so) in such a way as

not to disfigure you; but, as usual, you asked no advice, and thought

you knew best about it. Mr. Wynne is much better at scraping men’s chins

than at cutting young girls’ hair.”

“But can’t you fix me up a little, mother? I don’t want John to call me

‘a bedlamite.’”

“Don’t lie a-bed then, Lucy.”

Lucy was too troubled to laugh; but she got up slowly, and her mother

managed, with a comb, a brush, and a little water, to coax up the few

hairs she had left, as only a mother’s fingers know how.

Now, when Lucy has any pet plan in that little head of hers, she always

goes to her mother first, and says, “Tell me what you think about it,

mother.”

UNTIDY MARY.

“Oh, Mary, Mary, how your room looks! Books, scissors, pincushions,

spools, dresses, shoes and stockings, all lying pell-mell upon the

floor. One would think your bureau-drawers had been stirred up with a

pudding-stick; and as to your closets, it makes me quite sick to peep

into them. “You cleaned it up?” Yes, I know you did, about a week ago,

and ever since, after having used any thing, you have thrown it down

just where it came handiest, instead of putting it in its place. You are

only a little girl—I know that, too; but women are made out of little

girls, and wives and mothers out of women; and most likely as you keep

your room now, and all your little property in the way of books and

toys, just so you will keep your house when you are mistress of one.

That’s why I speak to you about it. That’s why it is so important you

should learn _now_ to be tidy and neat.”

Now I will tell you what I would like you to do. It does not matter to

me whether you have plenty of servants in the house or not. I would like

you to make your own bed every morning. Not _spread_ it up, but _make_

it up. You may need help to turn over your mattress, but that done, the

rest is easy. Then I would like you to sweep your room. Then I would

like you to dust it. Then I would like you to place every article in the

room where it would look best and prettiest. Then wind up all your

spools of cotton, and disentangle all the odds and ends in your

work-basket. Now I am ready to sit down in that chair opposite, and tell

you a story. If you think I could have done it just as well while things

were in such disorder, you are mistaken. I would have swept and dusted

it myself first. What is the story to be about? Don’t be in a hurry. I

have to do every thing after my own fashion, and I have not got through

with what I had to say yet. Just look round your room. Don’t you feel a

pleasure in seeing that nice smooth bed without a hump in it? and those

nice smooth pillows set up against the head-board? Does not your

looking-glass look better, now the fly-specks are wiped off? and the

rounds of your chairs and your bureau, for being dusted? does not your

wash-bowl look better emptied of its dirty water, with the pitcher set

in it, and the nice white towel spread over? do not your dresses look

better on the closet-pegs than on the floor, and your bonnet in its

band-box instead of on a chair? and does it not give you pleasure that

you know how to wait upon yourself, without jerking the bell-wire for a

poor tired servant to do it for you? “Yes?” That’s right. Now I will

tell you the story.

Once on a time.

No, that won’t do, every body begins a story that way.

When I was a little girl I—that won’t do either, because it was such a

while ago that perhaps you will think I can’t remember correctly.

Nonsense, supposing I couldn’t, a story is a story, isn’t it? You need

not laugh.

When I was a little girl, children used to “go to catechize,” as they

called it then, _i.e._, the minister, once a month, collected all the

children of his church, in a vestry, to recite the lessons he had given

out to them, in the catechism. Some of the answers in this catechism

were long, and all of them difficult for a child to understand. Now

there was one defect (if you choose to call it so) about me, which has

stuck by me ever since. It is next to impossible for me to commit to

memory any thing I do not fully understand. To be sure, when I stated my

difficulty, they explained it; but the mischief was, that the

explanation was often harder still to comprehend than the thing

explained; now you see why I used to dread “catechism afternoons.” Most

of the girls had the parrot-faculty of rattling off the answers in a

manner, to me, truly astonishing and discouraging. Then I had a very

thin skin, and a very distressing habit of blushing through it, when

spoken to, of which I was very much ashamed; added to this, every little

girl who was called upon to answer a question, had to stand up and look

“the minister” in the eye, while she did it. See now what a double and

twisted distress there was about it. Then all the parrot-girls called me

“stupid.” Now I knew that I was _not_ stupid, but that was small comfort

when every body thought so. I thought it over and cried about it, and

thumbed my catechism, thinking perhaps that was the way to “have it at

my finger ends,” as people often say; and then I cried again, for that

word “stupid,” troubled me. Now the very next lesson contained a very

long and very hard answer, that I was very sure, for that reason, would

come to me. I read it over; it might as well have been Greek or Latin

for all I could make of it. No, it was of no use, I never could learn

it, that point was settled. I shut up my catechism and folded my hands;

perhaps they were right, after all, perhaps I was “stupid,” and I cried

again.

No, I was _not_ stupid. I sprang up and wiped my tears away; I looked in

the glass, my face was not handsome, certainly, but it was not a stupid

face, it was as bright as the faces of those parrot-girls, at any rate;

well I just locked the door, and sat down on a cricket very resolutely,

in the middle of the room, opened the catechism, laid it in front of me,

then with my elbows on my knees and my fingers in my ears, to keep out

all sounds, I studied away as if my life depended on it; the butterflies

flew into the window and folded their bright wings, but it was of no

use—the swallows twittered at me, “Never mind your catechism, only look

at us;” but I took no notice of them. The flies lit on the end of my

nose, I took my fingers out of my ears, gave them a good cuff and began

to study again; a little mouse blinked his black eyes at me, from the

closet-door, but I was neither to be frightened or coaxed away from that

catechism.

I said nothing about my learning it to any body, but all dinner time I

kept muttering it softly over to myself. Well, three o’clock came, and

so did the big girl who always went with me “to catechize,” and who

always knew her lesson, to every comma and semicolon, and thought me the

greatest little dunce who ever wore a pinafore. Well the vestry was full

when we got there, as usual, of rows of children on rows of benches, in

their “go to meetin’” bonnets and shoes, with their pocket-handkerchiefs

and catechisms, waiting for the minister.

By-and-by he came, took off his black hat, set it under the

spindle-legged table, pulled off his black gloves, put them in his black

hat, seated himself in the big leather arm-chair, used his handkerchief

twice, looking round over the benches the while to see if any lamb of

his fold was missing, and then opening the catechism and glancing over

its passages, asked the question the answer to which I had been studying

all the day, then he paused and glanced round the room to select the

little girl whom he intended should answer it. I watched his black eye,

and it was a very beautiful one, pass by all the Susans and Janes and

Claras and Lucys and finally, rest on me, as I knew it would.

To my astonishment, I did not feel myself blush, or tremble as usual;

and when he said, “Susan, can you answer this question?” I stood erect,

and was about to begin, when the big girl who came with me, thinking I

was about to make a fool of myself, and disgrace her, jumped up too, and

said, “I am sure she can’t say that long one, sir.” Not deigning to

notice the interruption, and fixing my eye on a peg in the wall, I went

straight through the long answer like a well-trained locomotive, never

stopping to take breath till I had jerked out the last syllable.

Did I ever blush after that? Not I. Did I hold up my head while there?

To be sure I did, but when I sat down, Clara jerked my sleeve, and said,

pouting, “You are the oddest, most provoking little thing I ever saw,

and nobody ever knows what you are going to do next. I never felt so

silly in all my life; it is the last time I will come to catechize with

you.” But one thing is very certain, those parrot-girls never called me

stupid afterward, and what was worth a mine of gold to me, when I went

out of the vestry, the minister laid his hand of blessing on my head,

and, gave me a smile, I am sure, as radiant as the one he now wears in

heaven.

[Illustration]

A LUCKY IRISH BOY.

“Halloo there! little fellow, what are you doing here, on my door-step?

why don’t you run home to your dinner?”

“I was waiting for you to come home, thinking you’d give me some,” said

the boy.

The gentleman smiled, and looked in Johnny’s face; there was nothing

vicious in it; it was a bright, honest little face, lit up by a pair of

round blue eyes, and shaded by locks of tangled brown hair; there was

nothing impertinent in his answer to Mr. Bond, had you heard the tone in

which he made it.

“Where do you live?” asked the gentleman.

“I don’t live, I stay round.”

“Who takes care of you?”

“Nobody.”

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“In that big stone house.”

“Don’t tell fibs,” said Mr. Bond; “I know the gentleman who lives

there.”

“Ask him, then,” said Johnny, with his chin comfortably resting on the

palms of his hands, “I never tell a lie.”

“Well, then, tell me how you came to sleep there.”

“Why, you see, sir, I was sitting on the gentleman’s steps when he came

home in the evening, and he asked me what I was there for, and why I did

not go home and go to bed; and I told him that I was waiting for him to

come home, thinking perhaps he would give me a bed, and he did, sir, in

the coach-house; and that’s how I came to sleep there.”

“I see,” said Mr. Bond, laughing; “but I hope you would not be willing

always to live on people that way, even if they would let you; a strong

healthy boy like you, might earn his living. Would you like to get work

to do?”

“Ay,” said Johnny, “and send the money to my mother in Ireland.”

“Have you no friends out of Ireland?”

“No, sir.”

“What made you think I would give you some dinner?”

“Because every body is kind to me,” said little Johnny, looking

trustfully up in Mr. Bond’s face.

No wonder, thought Mr. Bond. “Well Johnny, I’ll give you some dinner,

and then I must try to find you some work; did you ever hear the old

rhyme,

“‘Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do?’

“Come in, come to the kitchen with me; here, Betty, give this boy a good

dinner, quick as you can, and after I have eaten mine I want to see him

again.”

“Dinner! I guess so,” muttered Betty; “I wonder if master thinks I

roasted those chickens, and made those apple tarts, and custards, for

that little rag-a-muffin, that dirty little hop o’ my thumb?”

“Can’t I help you lift that pot off the fire,” asked Johnny, as Betty’s

face grew red, trying to move it.

“You? well I don’t know but you kin,” said the mollified and astonished

Betty; “why yes, you may if you have a mind to; what put that into your

head? and what made you speak so civil to me after I spoke so cross to

you; there’s something under that, I reckon;” and Betty looked at him

sharply; poor Betty, she had been knocked round the world so roughly,

that she had learned to suspect every body.

“What did you do it for, I say, you queer thing?” asked Betty, standing

before him.

“I wanted to help you,” said Johnny, “you looked so hot and tired.”

“And cross, hey?” said Betty, suspiciously; “why didn’t you say cross,

and done with it? well never mind, I won’t pester you, and I’ll give you

some dinner, so long as master says so, but I can’t say I have much

faith in beggar children; its ‘God bless you,’ if you give them what

they want, and it’s something else, that I won’t repeat, if you don’t;

that’s the upshot on’t, but sit down in that chair, and munch your bread

and butter, and don’t you dare to lay hands on them silver forks now,

d’ye hear?”

As Betty said this, and as she crossed the kitchen with a pot of hot

water, her foot slipped on an apple-paring, and she would have fallen

and scalded herself badly, had it not been for Johnny, who sprang to

help her.

“Now what do you do that for?” asked Betty again, when she had wiped up

the puddle of hot water from the floor; “you are the queerest young one

I ever saw. Don’t you ever get mad when people snap you up; I can’t

stand it a minute. I guess you are better than you look, after all; I

will give you some chicken when master has done with it; it is lucky

that hot water didn’t splash all over me, what’s your name?”

“Johnny.”

“Johnny what?”

“That’s it,” said Johnny—“Johnny Watt; how did you know?”

“Don’t be poking fun at me;” said Betty; “where’s your mother?”

“In Ireland.”

“Do tell if you are all alone over here?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you know nobody?”

“No.”

“Where do you—how do you—mercy on us! I never hearn of such a thing. How

old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Why didn’t you stay to home?”

“Because we had nothing to eat, and I wanted to come here, and earn

money, and go back and buy something for my mother; and I told the

captain so, and he said he would bring me over, if I thought I could

take care of myself when I got here.”

“Well, how was I to know all that?” said Betty, penitently. “I’ve got a

mother too. Won’t you have another bit of bread and butter? don’t you

like sugar on your bread and butter? I wish master would be done with

them chickens, so that I could give you a drumstick. Ah, here comes the

dish; set it down here, Sukey; this child don’t know a living soul out

of Ireland, and has come away on here to earn his own living; have this

side-bone, Johnny? and this wing? To think I should have spoken so cross

to the child; but how was I to know that he was all alone in the world?

these children who come begging to the back door here, tell such fibs,

and are such little cheats—it’s enough to dry up all the milk of human

kindness in a body; eat away, Johnny! I hope master will keep you here,

you might run of errands, and the like, for old Pomp is growing stiff in

the joints, and there’s a power of running to be done, for mistress is

as full of notions as an old maid; but that’s always the way with folks

that has no children.”

“You think so, do you, Betty?” said Mr. Bond, laughing; “well, I don’t

think you will have that to say after to-day; there will be _one_ child

in the house, at least; I have been talking to Pomp about keeping Johnny

to help in the carriage-house, and do little jobs generally; and if you

can tidy him up, Betty, for Mrs. Bond is not willing to have any trouble

about it, he can stay. I think a little water, a hard brush, and a new

suit of clothes would improve him; and Pomp says that he can sleep with

him in the chamber over the carriage-house.”

You would hardly have known Johnny the next morning, he looked so spruce

and tidy and handsome, as he ran up-stairs and down, in a pair of soft

shoes, which Betty had carefully provided him, lest he should shock Mrs.

Bond’s nerves. Poor useless Mrs. Bond, who had been brought up to be a

fine lady, and who thought one proof of it, was to be constantly talking

of “her nerves;” poor unhappy Mrs. Bond, who never thought of any thing,

or any body save herself; who never knew the luxury of doing a kind

action, and whose greatest pleasure consisted in making every body wait

upon her. It would have been a blessing had her house caught fire, and

turned her out of doors, and had she been obliged to work for her

living; I think nothing else would have cured “her nerves,” or made her

understand that there were other people in the world beside herself. I

am sure little Johnny was five times as happy as she, with all her

wealth. It was like a glimpse of sunshine to see his face after looking

at hers, all knotted up with selfishness and discontent. I think Mr.

Bond thought so too; I think he was glad to escape from her and her

poodle, the long winter evenings, and teach Johnny to read and write in

the library, and I think he hardly imagined, when he did so, that the

poor little Irish boy would one day be taken in as a partner in the firm

of “Bond & Co.;” but so it was, and a very good partner he proved to be;

and many a bright gold-piece he sent over to Ireland for his old mother,

and many a warm shawl he bought for his friend Betty, who was so afraid

the first day he came, to have him in the same room with the “silver

forks.” Poor old Betty, she could not bear joking about it now; she said

“it made her feel like crawling through the key-hole,” but then, as she

said, how should she know that she was “entertaining an angel unawares?”

THE

CHILD PRINCE AND THE CHILD PEASANT.

You know that Queen Victoria has a brood of little children; fat little

cubs they are, too, if we may trust the pictures of them that we see in

the shop-windows; and although they are a queen’s children, I will bet

you a new kite that you have more cake and preserves and candy than they

ever had all together in their lives, for English people do not allow

their children such unwholesome things. Their rosy cheeks come of good

roast beef and mutton, dry bread, and very plain puddings, with plenty

of sweet milk. That is the way to make stout, healthy boys and girls.

Victoria is a right good, sensible mother; her children, though they are

princes and princesses, do not go unpunished, you may be sure, when they

do naughty things. She wants to make them fit to rule England when they

are called to do so; and in order to do that properly and wisely, she

knows that they must first learn to rule themselves. Not long since she

went with her little family to the Isle of Wight. While there, her young

son, the Prince of Wales, took it into his royal little head to pick up

shells by the sea-shore. While doing this, his little lordship noticed a

poor little peasant-boy who had picked quite a basket-full of pretty

shells for himself. The naughty little prince thought it would be good

fun to knock the poor boy’s basket over, and spill out all his shells;

so he gave it a kick with his royal little foot, and away it went! Now,

the little peasant-boy did not relish that sort of fun as well as the

prince. He quietly picked them all up, replaced them in his basket, and

then said, “Do it again if you dare,” for he knew he had _his_ rights as

well as the prince. Up went the prince’s naughty little foot again, and

over went the peasant-boy’s shells. Very soon after, the prince went

crying home to his mother, Victoria, with a bloody nose and a swelled

face. Victoria asked him where he had been, and how he got hurt so

badly; and the prince told her that the little peasant-boy had done it,

because he (the prince) had kicked over his basket of shells. Did

Victoria hug up the little prince, and say, “You poor, dear little

child, how _dare_ that good-for-nothing little peasant-boy lay his hands

on my noble little son? I will send and have him severely punished for

his impertinence?” Did she, the queen, say this to the little bruised,

crying prince? No, indeed. She looked him sternly in the eye, and said,

“The peasant-boy served you just right, sir. I hope you will always be

thus punished when you do so mean an action.” Then she sent for the

little peasant-boy, made him some presents, and provided his father with

means to give him an education. Was she not a sensible mother? and was

not this a good lesson for the little proud prince? I warrant you he

will remember it all his life long, and when he gets to be king, if he

is half as sensible as his mother, he will thank her for it. Another

good thing I must tell you of Queen Victoria; they say that she has each

of her children taught some trade; so that if Fortune’s wheel should

turn round so fast as to whirl them off the throne some day, they would

then be able to get their own living. I like Queen Victoria, and I hope

her little family will grow up to be a great comfort to her, for a

mother is a mother, all the world over, whether she wears a crown on her

head or not, and queens have a great deal of care, and much less

happiness than you think.

THE WILD ROSE.

Maud was a funny little thing; she was so fat that she could scarcely

waddle. Her eyes were so round, and so black, and so full of fun! her

cheeks so plump and red, her shoulders so white and dimpled, and her

hands looked like two little white pincushions. Maud was a country

child, as you might know. Her parents were good, honest farming-people,

who were not afraid of rain, or sun, or dew; who worked hard from

Saturday till Monday, and from Monday till Saturday again; who owed

nobody a cent, owned the farm they lived on, and were as contented and

happy as two persons could possibly be.

Maud had no nursery-maid—not she. Maud took care of herself, and liked

it right well too. She toddled round after her mother, into the

dairy-room, into the kitchen, up chamber, out to the well, over to the

barn, crowing, laughing, tumbling and picking herself up again, for her

mother was too busy to stop to do it; eating bits of bread, drinking

drops of milk, peeping into every thing she saw, and educating herself,

as nobody else could possibly do; and when she tumbled into her little

bed at night, she slept so soundly, that the old rooster had hard work

to crow her awake the next morning. Maud’s playthings were corn-cobs,

squashes, clothes-pins, rusty nails, broken broom-handles, bits of

string, and a broken snuff-box—then there were the hens and chickens,

who went in and out of the house whenever they liked, and the old horse,

who often stepped his hoofs inside the back door, to see how things were

going on; beside a little lamb and a flock of geese, who made noise

enough for a small regiment. Yes, Maud had enough to do. It is city

children, with a whole nursery full of toys and half a dozen nurses to

take care of them, who are always crying because they “don’t know what

to do.”

One morning, when little Maud was sitting on the door-step watching the

old hens catch grasshoppers, a woman came through the gate and up the

path toward the house. Maud did not run away; she liked the looks of the

strange woman with moccasins on her feet, embroidered in bright-colored

beads, with a gay blanket pinned round her shoulders, and a man’s hat on

her head, with a bright red feather in it.

“Pretty papoose,” said the Indian woman, looking at little Maud’s rosy

face and black eyes; “pretty papoose;” and down she sat beside Maud on

the door-step. Maud did not know that papoose meant baby. In fact, she

did not think any thing about it, she was so busy looking at something

on the Indian woman’s back that was bobbing up and down inside her

shawl. Maud thought perhaps it was a cat or a kitten, and she put out

her little hand to feel of it.

“Want to see Indian papoose,” said the strange woman to Maud, and

reaching her hands up over her head, she pulled off her back from under

her shawl, a little brown Indian baby, with twinkling black eyes, and

hair as black as ink.

Maud’s mother hearing some one talking on the door-step, came out with

her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and spots of flour all over her

check apron, for she was making some good country pies. When she saw the

Indian woman, she took her papoose in her arms, and invited her to come

in to the kitchen and get some dinner; for country folks are always kind

to travelers. So the woman said, “Good,” and went in, and the little

brown baby seemed to think it was “good” too, when Maud put a crust of

bread in its fist for it to nibble. Then the Indian woman asked leave to

light her pipe, for she was as fond of smoking as any Broadway loafer,

and down she sat on the kitchen door-step—puff—puff—puff—while Maud’s

mother stepped round to get her breakfast ready. The little Indian

papoose did not laugh when Maud said “boo” to it, and touched its dusky

chin with her little white forefinger. It looked as solemn as a judge,

as it lay there twinkling its beadlike black eyes. Little sociable Maud

did not like that; when she played with her spotted kitty, the

good-natured kitty always said “purr—purr—purr;” when she went out to

see the little frisky, pink, and white pigs, they ran up to the side of

the pig-stye and said, “ugh! ugh! ugh!” when she met the old rooster, he

halloed out as loud as he could, “cock-a-doodle-do!” the horse said

“neigh!” the cow said “moo!” the dog Ponto said “bow-wow!” and that

little Indian papoose was as dumb as a dead toad, and would not even

laugh. Maud did not like such solemn babies.

When the Indian woman had eaten her breakfast, she said “good” again;

then she asked Maud’s mother if she and the other Indians could have

some trees which stood on the farm, “down in the lot;” they wanted the

bark from them to make into baskets to sell, to buy blankets with.

Maud’s mother said “she would ask John,” meaning Maud’s papa; and if he

said yes, they might have them; but John was gone off in the fields,

nobody knew where. And so the Indian woman knocked the ashes out of her

pipe, strapped the solemn little papoose on her back, and tramped off,

down the road, looking like a picture in her gay feathers, and bright

blanket, as she wound in and out among the trees.

Perhaps you think because Maud’s papa had to plow, and hoe, and rake,

and dig, that he had no time to play with his little girl. Ah, you are

mightily mistaken; the minute the old farmer turned the corner of the

road, which led up to the house, he gave a loud whistle for little Maud;

she heard it, with her little sharp ears, and out she toddled, out the

gate, and down the road, with her brown hair blowing about her rosy

face, and her eyes all a glow with love and fun; then the old farmer

would open his arms wide to catch her, and then she would laugh such a

musical laugh that it made the little birds jealous; and then the old

farmer would hoist Maud up on his broad, strong shoulder, her fat little

calves dangling, and one round arm thrown about his neck, and away they

would go under the trees, home. Then when they got there, they went into

the kitchen (the floor of which was as white as snow), and the farmer

would wash his sun-burned face, and honest brown hands, and then sitting

down to the supper-table with his good wife opposite him, and Maud on

his knee, he would thank God for them both, and ask His blessing on

their supper; and the setting sun streaming in at the window on his

silver hair, would light up little Maud’s sweet innocent face till you

could almost believe it to be an angel’s.

After John, and his wife, and Maud, had finished their supper, Maud’s

mother told John what the Indian woman said about wanting the bark of

his trees to make baskets of.

John crossed his arms on the table, and leaning over it, so as to look

his wife full in the face said, “Jenny! I can understand why the Lord

made snakes, and musquitoes, and rats, and cockroaches, but I never

could understand why an Indian was made. Now, I don’t want to hate any

thing He has seen fit to make; but I should rather no Indians would

cross my path. As to the trees, I can find a better use for them than to

make Indian baskets of them, and so I told one of the tribe whom I met

over yonder in the woods, a cut-throat looking rascal he was too.”

“Oh, John,” said Jenny, looking fearfully at little Maud; “I am always

so careful to be friendly with those Indians.”

John laughed heartily, and getting up stretched out his brawny arms, as

if it were impossible for any danger to come near any one whom _he_

loved.

It was twelve o’clock of a bright Saturday noon. John’s wife had been

very busy all the morning making pickles; now she took in her hand the

huge bell to call John in to dinner, and rang it loudly outside the

door. John heard its clear sharp tones, and stopping only to plow to the

end of a furrow, unyoked his oxen, and trudged whistling home. “Where is

Maud?” he asked, as he sat down to his smoking-hot dinner. “Out in the

garden,” said his wife, “busy as a bee, picking berries in her little

tin pail.”

John went to the door and whistled, shading his eyes with his hand, as

he did so, to see if his pet were near.

He listened; no merry laugh met his ear. Ah, Maud must be hiding, for

fun, amid the tall currant-bushes; the little rogue! and John crossed

over the garden, to look for her. No, she was not there; nor swinging on

the low branches of the great apple-tree; nor up in the barn, where the

old horse contentedly munched his oats, and the little gray mice

scampered over the floor, for grain; nor up on the log, peeping into the

pig-stye; nor at the spring, looking at the darting little fish. Where

was she? John went back to the house.

“The Indians!” was all Maud’s mother could whisper, through her white

lips, as her husband returned alone.

“Pshaw!” said John, but his brow grew dark, and snatching up his hat, he

darted across the fields and plunged into the woods.

Maud’s mother stood in the door-way, looking after him and helplessly

wringing her hands. When he disappeared she went back into the kitchen,

and set the untasted dinner down to the fire, for John, and moved about

here and there as if it were a relief to her not to sit still. Maud’s

kitty came up and purred round her feet, and then Maud’s mother, unable

to keep back the tears, bowed her head upon her hands and wept aloud.

The long afternoon crept slowly on; the sun stole in to the west

sitting-room window; and still no tidings of little Maud or John. It was

so weary waiting; if she had only gone with John to look for her child;

but it was too late now. No, why should not she look too? any thing were

better than sitting there, hour after hour, in such misery. Throwing a

shawl over her head, Maud’s mother passed through the gate and out into

the open fields. Oh, how desolate they looked to her now: and yet the

ripe grain waved before the breeze, the trees bent to the ground with

their golden fruit, and large fields of buckwheat waved their snowy

blossoms, to reward the farmer’s industry and care. But what were rich

crops to them if Maud were not found? Maud, for whom they toiled so

gladly, early and late; Maud, the sunshine of their cottage home? and

then the poor mother thought of all her pretty little winning ways; she

remembered how that very morning, she had climbed upon a chair, when she

was busy in the dairy-room, and put up her rosy mouth to kiss her. Oh,

if harm should come to her! No, surely God would care for one so pure

and innocent.

Hark, what is that? other footsteps beside hers are in the woods. Can it

be John? John and Maud? No, it is an Indian; she sees the fluttering

blanket, the red feather, ’tis the very woman who smoked the pipe in her

own kitchen, but yesterday. Oh, surely _she_ could not have stolen Maud,

and the poor troubled mother strained her eyes and pressed her hand

tightly over her heart. The Indian woman had something in her arms, but

the blanket is wrapped about it, it is not her own baby, no, that is

strapped as usual upon her back; now she lifts the blanket; ’tis Maud,

Maud! and with a wild cry, the poor mother runs to the Indian woman, and

clasping her feet, says, “I was kind to _your_ child. Oh, give me

_mine_.”

And then the Indian woman told her, partly by signs partly by words,

that one of the tribe, to whom John had spoken about the trees, stole

Maud, because he was angry with John, and brought her away to their

encampment; but that when she saw the child she remembered her, and told

the Indian (who was her own brother), that he must not harm Maud, but

must give the child to her to take back, because its mother had fed her

and lighted her pipe at her fire, and so Nemekee gave up Maud, and the

good Indian woman was hurrying back with the child to her own home. Poor

little Maud, she was too frightened to cry, but she reached out her

little trembling hands to her mother, and nestled her head in her bosom,

like a timid little dove when the hungry hawk is near.

At nightfall, John came slowly home; he looked a year older since

morning; no tidings yet of the little wanderer. He had been to the spot

of the Indian encampment, but the tents were gone, and only a blackened

heap, where they had cooked their food, marked the spot. What should he

tell his poor weeping wife?

Ah! there were tears and smiles under that little cot-roof, that night;

nor did John and his wife forget to thank Him who noteth even the fall

of the sparrow, and who had safely returned their little lost lamb.

JENNY AND THE BUTCHER.