Little Jenny was an only child. Now, I suppose you think she was a

great, petted cry-baby. “Petted” she certainly was, but all the petting

in the world could not spoil Jenny. If you should miss her from the

parlor, ten to one she would be found binding a wet napkin round the

forehead of her mother’s cook, to cure her headache, or applying a bit

of court-plaster to her cut finger. Sally used to say that the dark,

underground kitchen seemed to grow lighter whenever Jenny flitted

through it with her sunshiny face. Now, perhaps you think that Jenny was

a beauty; there, again, you are mistaken; for she had light-blue-gray

eyes, a pug-nose, and a freckled skin. But what of that? Did it ever

enter your head when you kissed your mamma whether she was handsome or

not? Is not every person whom we _love_, handsome to us? Certainly. And

I would defy any body to be with Jenny ten minutes, and not love her.

Even the milkman, who brought such a wholesome odor of clover and

hayfields into the city kitchens, always had a pretty little nosegay

slyly tucked away among his milk-cans for Jenny. A ball-room belle might

have turned up her nose at it; for often it was only a simple bunch of

red and white clover, with one or two butter-cups to brighten it up; but

to Jenny it was quite as beautiful as the scentless hot-house

Camelia—yes—and more so; for a Camelia always reminds one of a beautiful

woman without a soul.

Then—beside the milkman, there was Shagbark, the grocer’s boy, for whom

Jenny had once opened the back gate, when Sally’s hands were in the

dough; I should like to have counted the great three-cornered nuts he

used to empty on the kitchen-table, from his pockets, for Jenny, every

time he brought in a pound of tea or sugar. Oh, I can tell you that a

good-humored, smiling face, and a voice made musical by a kind heart,

are worth all the beautiful Camelia faces that ever peeped from under a

green vail.

Jenny was quite a little musician. She could hum tunes correctly before

she could speak plain; and as soon as she was high enough to reach her

little hands up to the piano-keys, she began to play “by ear,” for she

could not read a note of music. When she heard fine singing, it seemed

to throw her into an ecstacy of pleasure; her plain face grew so

luminous and beautiful, that you would hardly know it to be little

freckled Jenny’s. Her kind father and mother procured her good teachers,

and Jenny was not discouraged at the idea of practicing, as, I am sorry

to say, are some little girls; for she knew that nothing great is ever

attained without patient labor; and long before even Sally was up in the

morning, Jenny would be running up and down the scales, as fast as her

little fat fingers could fly. Sally used to say, as she set the

breakfast-table, that “she did not like that tune as well as Yankee

Doodle.” This made Jenny laugh very heartily, but she did not pain Sally

by calling her an ignoramus for saying so. And so things went on very

pleasantly in Jenny’s home, as is always the case where each one strives

to make the other happy.

Little Jenny was in the habit of watching for her father to come home;

and when she heard his step in the hall, she would bound down stairs

like a little antelope, and jump into his arms, and kiss his face, just

as if it were not all covered with beard, whiskers, mustaches, and

things. One day she seated herself at the front window, as usual, to

wait his turning the corner of the street which led toward the house.

“There he comes!” exclaimed Jenny; and then her little hands fell at her

side, and she bent her head forward, and pressed her bright face close

to the window-pane. _Was_—that—her—papa, walking so slowly, like an old

man, his head bent down upon his breast, and never one look for his

little girl? He must be sick—and Jenny ran down stairs, and out at the

front door, to meet him on the threshold.

When she asked him, “Was he sick?” he said “No;” but his voice trembled,

and a great warm tear fell on Jenny’s face, as he bent over her; and as

he turned from her to meet her mamma, Jenny heard him say, “God shield

the little lamb;” then Jenny’s mamma told her that “she had better go

and practice her music-lesson;” and then Jenny’s father and mother had a

long—long talk; and when they came in to dinner, her mamma’s eyes were

red with weeping, and her father looked as though he had had a fit of

sickness.

Little Jenny asked no questions, for she had a great deal of delicacy,

and she knew that if it was proper she should know what troubled her

father, that he would tell her; but every time he helped his little

daughter to any thing at the table, she would kiss his hands, and at the

dessert, she put the biggest orange and largest bunch of grapes upon his

plate. Her papa’s heart seemed too full to thank her, but his eyes

brimmed with tears, as he laid his hand on her little brown head.

The truth was, Jenny’s father had failed, and lost all his money; and

when he looked at Jenny, and thought that he might die before he could

earn any more, and leave her, and her mamma, helpless in the world, it

was too bitter a thought for him to bear: then the people to whom he

owed the money which he had hoped to pay, were coming to take away all

the furniture, and fine things; and Jenny’s favorite piano, of course,

must go with the rest; and he could not find heart to say a word to her

about it.

Well, the day came on which all the things were to be sold; and nobody

_yet_ had had courage to tell Jenny—good little Jenny, who never gave a

minute’s pain to any body in her life, not even to a little fly. Jenny

wondered what made Sally, and all the family look so strangely at her,

but she was put off with excuses of one kind and another, and so the

bewildered child went to her old friend the piano, for comfort.

As she was playing, she heard a strange voice in the hall; then the door

opened, and her father came in with the butcher, of whom he had

purchased all the meat for the family since they had lived in that

house.

Then—Jenny’s father put his arm around his little girl, and told her

that the butcher had come to take her piano for some money which he owed

him. Jenny looked at her father as though she could not believe her

ears—then she looked at the piano—then at the butcher—while great tears

gathered slowly in her eyes.

Now, the butcher was a great rough fellow, with a fist like a

sledge-hammer, and a voice like a bass drum; he had killed many a fat

little calf, and bleating lamb, in his day; but he had never met such a

sweet, pleading, tearful look, as Jenny gave him that minute, and he

melted down under it, just like a pile of snow when the warm sun kisses

it.

Rubbing the corner of his white butcher’s frock into his eyes, and

turning to Jenny’s father, he said,

“_I’m_ not the fellow to take that little girl’s piano away from her;

and, what’s more, I won’t!” and before Jenny could thank him, he, and

the carman whom he had brought to carry away the piano, were through the

door and out of sight.

Now, shouldn’t you like to _hug_ that butcher? I should. I tell you what

it is, the best hearts are oftenest found under the roughest coats; and

this Jenny’s father and mother soon found out, for the gay people who

had eaten their dinners and drank their wine, took flight as soon as

Poverty came in and sat down at the table with them.

The good butcher did not lose sight of little Jenny, I promise you; he

not only forgave her father’s debt but offered to lend him some money to

begin business again. What do you think of that?

By-and-by Jenny grew up a big girl, and learned a deal more about music;

then she gave lessons on her piano, and helped her father, and beside

that played the organ on Sunday in one of the churches. This was very

lucky, for her father, through disappointment and too close attention to

business, was taken sick, and was unable to earn any more money.

By-and-by trouble overtook the good butcher too, and he had a long, and

painful, and expensive sickness. Did Jenny forget her benefactor now?

Did she draw down her face and her purse-strings and tell him to “trust

in Providence?” Did she try to hunt up some fault, which he might at

some time in his life have committed, and make that a cover for her

parsimony, and an excuse for not helping him in his necessity? Not she.

She stood by his bed, gave him his medicines, brought him wine, jellies,

and broths, sang to him, read to him, prayed God to save his life, and

was as much of an angel as she could be, and be flesh and blood. But the

good butcher died, and left a little orphan daughter. Oh, how far the

influence of one good deed may reach! He had not laid up money for her

in “The Bank of Commerce,” or “The City Bank,” or “The Exchange Bank,”

but he had laid a treasure up for her in the BANK OF HEAVEN, by his many

benevolent and charitable deeds, and God remembered it; and Jenny took

the little weeping Susy home, and fed her, and clothed her, and sent her

to school, and taught her to sing and play; and none who listen to the

sweet voice, or look upon the sweet face of the butcher’s daughter, as

she sings in one of our great churches of a Sunday, know this little

story that I have been telling you.

Oh, _never_ believe, dear children, that a good deed goes unrewarded.

Angels bend to see it, and a richer, sweeter song, rings through the

golden streets of heaven, whenever the strong, loving hand of compassion

is held out to the weak, unfortunate and despairing.

THE TWO BABES.

“Cannon thundering, bells pealing, flags waving, illuminations, military

parades, peasants, nobles and princes, all crowding to that big house!

What the mischief is all this fuss about? Some great victory perhaps.

No; as sure as your name is Johnny, it is all about an hour-old baby;

but for all that, you had better not speak of him, without taking your

hat off; that baby is of some consequence, I can tell you, for all he

lies there, wheezing and sneezing, winking and blinking, like an

astonished little pup.

Long before he came to town, there were more baby-clothes made up for

him than he could wear, should he stay a baby twenty years; and all

loaded with lace and embroidery, and finified with silk and satin; and

the people left their workshops, and ran to see them, as if they had not

another minute to live. Then there were half a dozen rooms, all prepared

for his expected little cry-babyship; for you had better not believe

that he was going to stay in _one_ room, like any common baby; not he!

Then all the gray-haired old men, and beautiful women, bent over his

magnificent cradle, and declared him to be the most splendid baby that

ever was born; and it was as much as his nurse’s life was worth to stick

a pin into him, or wash his little flabby nose the wrong way, or tie his

frock a tenth of an inch too tight or too loose, or nurse him a minute

too long or too short, or allow an impertinent sunbeam to make him

sneeze, when he didn’t want to. Oh, he was a great baby that! Even his

playthings were gold crosses and ribbons, that kings have been known to

cut each other’s heads off for, scrambling which should wear. Step

softly—bend low before his cradle; royal blood flushes that little face.

He is the _King of Algiers_.

Peep with me into yonder stable; the door is a-jar; there is nothing

there to frighten you. The light glances through a chink in the roof

upon the meek, submissive cattle, who with bowed heads, drowsily dose

the listless hours away. Is there nothing else in the stable? Look

again. Yes, there in yonder corner, sits a fair young mother. Her coarse

mantle is wrapt around her shrinking form, and her small head is

drooping, partly with weariness, partly with tender solicitude for the

new-born babe upon her lap. No rich wardrobe awaits the little stranger;

clothed only in his own sweet loveliness, he slumbers the quiet hours

away. But see! above that stable glows a star, brighter than ever

glittered on the breast of earthly prince or king; and above that star

is a city, “which hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to shine in

it, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light

thereof;” and that is the Heavenly Home of the lowly “Babe of

Bethlehem.”

THE LITTLE SISTERS.

Hark! there is a bird singing—the first one I have heard this spring.

How can you expect me to sit looking this stupid sheet of paper in the

face, when that pretty bird is calling me out-doors, with all his sweet

might? I have a great mind to throw my inkstand right out of the window!

No I won’t; it might hit that bent old woman, who is raking the gutter

with her long iron poker. Oh, it is hard enough for young people to be

poor; but to be poor, feeble, and gray-headed—oh, ’tis very sad! The

_young_ heart is always hopeful; it can bear a great deal of

discouragement; it leaps to a bird’s sweet trill, or a patch of green

grass, or a bit of blue sky, although its owner may be covered with

rags, and knows not where he shall get his next meal, or find his next

night’s shelter.

The other day, I saw two little bits of girls, with tangled hair, dirty

skins, bare legs, and ragged skirts, crouching down upon the pavement,

and clapping their little tan-colored hands, because they had found—what

do you think? A diamond? No—they never saw such a thing; though could

they have seen their own eyes just then in a looking-glass, they might

have found out how diamonds look. Had they found a sixpence or a

shilling? No, I think by their appearance, they might never have seen so

much money. “A London doll, with blue eyes, and red checks, and flaxen

curls?” No; all the dolls they ever saw were made of old newspapers

rolled up. What then? Why, two little blades of grass, that even the

mayor, aldermen, and Common Council could not keep from struggling up

through the pavement, to tell those poor little children that spring had

come. No more little shivering toes and fingers, no more imprisonment in

a dark, damp, underground cellar room, gloomy enough to chill even the

light, hopeful heart of a little child. No, indeed! Oh, but they were

lovely, those two tiny blades of grass! and the children lay flat down

on their stomachs upon the pavement, and called it their “little

garden,” and kicked their poor thin calves up in the air, and were

happier with their treasure, than many a rich man, worth millions, with

his hot-house and conservatory full of costly flowers and mimic

fountains, whose beauty he scarce notices, for thinking of some great

ship of his, off on the water, and trembling for fear she may be lost,

with her rich freight of silks and laces.

“Get out of the way, there,” growled a pompous old gentleman, with a big

waistcoat, and a gold-headed cane, thrusting the two children rudely

aside, as he strutted past; “Dirty little vagabonds—ought to be sent to

‘the Island.’ Pah!” “Yes—off with you,” said the policeman, bowing low

before the gold-headed cane and the golden calf who carried it; “off

with you, d’ye hear?”

“He has trod on our pretty garden,” whimpered the distressed little

things, looking back; “he has spoiled our garden,” and they rubbed their

dirty little fists into their eyes.

“Dis—gust—ing,” replied a lady, whose flounces the children had run

against in their endeavor to “get out of the way.” Poor things—ever

since they were born they had heard nothing but “get out of the way;”

they had begun to think the world was not intended for children. Ah! but

another lady who is coming along, and who has watched the whole scene,

does not think so.

“Would you like this—and this?” said she, putting in their hands two of

those delicious little bouquets, sold by the flower-girls of New York.

A shilling to give so much happiness! Who would have thought it? How the

smiles drank up the tears on those little faces? Was there ever any

thing so beautiful as those forget-me-nots? See those little bare feet

trip so lightly home with them; now they crawl down into the dark cellar

room. Comfortless enough, is it not? Their mother stands wringing out

her husband’s red-flannel shirts, at the wash-tub; both children begin

at once to tell about “the lady who gave them the flowers,” and their

mother wipes the suds from her hands, and gets an old cracked mug, and

places the violets in it, up against the dingy window-pane; and now and

then she stops to smell them, for she has not always lived in the dirty,

close, dark alleys of the city, and the odor of those violets brings the

tears to her faded eyes, once as blue as they; but she must not think of

that; and bending over them once more, with an “Ah me!” she goes back

again to her work: for well she knows that by-and-by a step will be

heard stumbling down those stairs, and a man’s voice—not singing,

cheerily, because his home, his wife and children are so near, but

cursing—cursing that patient, toiling woman, cursing those half-starved

innocent little girls. Oh, what could have turned that once kind man

into such a cruel brute? Ask him, who, for a few paltry pence, sells the

_Rum_ that freezes the hearts of so _many_ little girls’ fathers, and

sends their patient, all-enduring mothers weeping to the grave!

OURS; OR, A LOOK BACKWARD.

Yes, Swissdale was ours! The title-deeds were “without a flaw,” so

lawyer Nix informed us. Ours—the money was paid down that very day.

Those glorious old trees were ours; tossing their branches hither and

thither, as if oppressed with exuberant animal life; or stooping to

caress the green earth, as if grateful for its life-sustaining power.

Ours were the broad sloping meadows, dotted with daisies and clover,

waving responsive to every whisper of the soft west wind; ours were the

dense woods, which skirted it, where the sentinel squirrel cocked up his

saucy eye, then darted away to the decayed tree-trunk, with his smuggled

mouthful of acorns; ours the pretty scarlet berries, nestled under the

tiny leaves at our feet; ours the rose-tinted and purple anemones, whose

telltale breath betrayed their hidden loveliness; ours the wild rose,

fair as fleeting; ours the green moss-patches, richer than courtly

carpet, trod by kingly feet; ours the wondrously fretted roof, of oak

and maple, pine and chestnut, now jealously excluding the sun’s rays,

now by one magic touch of their neighborly leaves, making way that their

bright beams might crimson the heart of some pale and tremulous flower,

languishing like a lone maiden for the warm breath of Love. Ours were

the robins and orioles, sparrows and katy-dids; ours the whip poor-will,

wailing ever amid marshy sedge, where the crimson lobelia, more gorgeous

than kingly robes, defied the covetous eye, and timorous foot. Ours the

hedges, tangled with wild grape, snowy with blossoming clematis, woven

with sweet briar, guarded by its protecting thorns. Ours the hill-side;

where the creeping myrtle charily hid under the tall grass its cherished

blue-eyed blossoms; ours the gray old rocks, whose clefts, and fissures,

the golden moss made bright with verdure; ours the valley lillies,

ringing ever their snow-white bells for the maidens’ bridal. Ours the

bower-crowned, vine-wreathed, hill-summit, whence with rapt vision we

drank in that broad expanse of earth, and sea, and sky, in all its

waving, glowing, sparkling, changing, glorious beauty!—one perpetual

anthem to Him, who hath neither beginning nor end of days.

Ours was the little blue-eyed one, who, though of infant stature,

measured thought with angels; and with finger on hushed lip and lambent

eyes, listened to voices, alas! all unheard by us, that were wooing her

fragile form away.

“Ours—” was she? God rest thee, Mary—naught is left us now, but this

sweet memory, and our falling tears!

But we were not the only ones who had exultingly said, “Swissdale is

ours.” One fine morning I stood upon the lawn, under the broad spreading

trees, watching the mist, as it slowly rolled off the valleys, and up

the hill sides. The air was laden with fragrance and music, and the

earth bright with beauty. I heard a stifled sob near me! Oh, who could

sorrow on such an Eden morning? I turned my head. Three young sisters,

clad in sable, with their arms about each other, were looking at a

luxuriant rose-vine whose drooping clusters hung above my door.

“Our mother planted it,” they sobbed—“she died in that room,” pointing

to the second window, over which the rose-vine—_her_ rose-vine had

clambered up.

“Could they roam over the old place?” I pressed a hand of each, and

nodded affirmatively, for their tears were infectious.

There are sorrows with which a stranger may not inter-meddle; but hour

after hour passed, and still those sable-clad sisters sat, on the

hill-summit, with their arms about each other, mingling their tears. Oh,

how plaintive to them the blithe song of the bird of the _unrifled_

nest, the musical murmur of the careless brook! Every twig, every tree,

every flower, had its sorrowful history!

Ah! how little I thought as I looked at that weeping group—that years

hence—I too, should make to that very spot, the same sorrowing

pilgrimage! That strange eyes should moisten for _me_, when I asked

leave to roam over the “old place;” that I, too, with streaming eyes,

and tremulous finger should point to the trees and vines which _my_ dead

had planted.

Wise as merciful is the Hand which draws before our questioning eyes the

vail of the future!

CHILDREN’S TROUBLES.

I believe in children, and I can’t say that of all grown-up people, by a

great deal. For instance, I don’t believe in an editor who feels too

important or too busy to say a word now and then to the children of his

subscribers. I would not give a copper for him; I don’t care how much he

knows about politics (which you and I always skip when we read his

paper) if he does not love children he is not the editor for me—there is

something wrong about him. Why need he put on such big airs? Ten to one,

if we inquired, we should find out he was once a little boy _himself_;

cried for sugar candy; was afraid of the dark, and ran screaming to his

mother whenever he saw a poor, harmless, old black man. He put on big

airs indeed! that’s a joke! I’ve a great mind to set up a paper for you

myself, and not notice the grown-up folks at all. Wouldn’t it be fun?

But you see I have my own ideas about things—and there’s your Aunt

Nancy, who was born and brought up when children were thumped on the

head for asking the reason for things. She would take up our little

paper, and scowl at it over her spectacles. Other papers for children

generally keep an eye out for Aunt Nancy—and papers for big people too,

for the matter of that. But _I_ couldn’t do it. Your Aunt Nancy believes

that children should talk, move, and act as if they were a hundred years

old. I respect your Aunt Nancy, but I can’t believe in that; and what is

more, I am sure that God does not. I believe that the merry laugh of a

little child is just as sweet in His ear, as the little prayer it lisps.

He loves you all; oh, how much! He _likes_ you to be happy; He _made_

you to be happy as well as good. And He never—_never_ thinks, great as

He is, that what little children say or think, is “of no consequence.”

And though He keeps the sun, moon, and stars in their right places, and

holds the roaring winds and the great mighty sea in His fists, and makes

all the trees and flowers, and birds and beasts, and human beings all

over the earth, He is never “so busy” that He can not bend down His ear

whenever a little child sobs, or, looking up to Heaven, calls Him

“Father.”

Well, you see, it looks very small when an editor or any body else,

thinks himself too important or too busy to remember the dear little

children whom God can watch over so lovingly. I don’t like it; and I

don’t like a great many other things you children have to bear, and

sometimes I get so troubled about it, that I want to go all round

battling for your rights.

Now, the other day I saw a lady very gayly dressed, leading along her

little girl by the hand. It was a bitter cold day, and by-and-by this

lady met a lady friend of hers, and they both stopped just as they

reached a corner where the wind blew the coldest, to admire each other’s

new bonnets and cloaks. Now, though the lady had wrapped _herself_ up

warmly in furs, her little girl’s legs, for two inches above her pretty

gaiter-boots, were quite bare, and the cold wind nipped her little

calves till they were quite purple, and she began to cry, as well she

might; but her mamma only shook her impatiently, and went on for half an

hour longer, talking about the fashions—foolish fashions, which tell

foolish mammas to let their little children go bare-legged in winter,

and tell them that a muslin ruffle will keep their little calves warm

enough.

Now I did not know the name of that little girl; so, when I looked day

after day at the list of deaths, I could not tell whether God had taken

her up to heaven or not, but I hoped so, because I did not want her to

suffer, and because I thought that a mother who would be so foolish as

to do that, would make a great many other very sad mistakes in bringing

up her little girl.

Yes, I felt very badly about it; and I felt badly about my little friend

George, the other day. George goes to school; he has a great many

lessons to get out of school. He is a very conscientious little boy, and

can not be tempted away from his lessons after he sits down to learn

them; so, when it was proposed the other night, after tea, to take him

to some place of amusement, he said, “I would rather not go, because I

am not sure that I have my French lesson perfectly for to-morrow.” So he

staid at home and studied it, and the next morning trudged off to

school, quite happy in the thought that he knew it perfectly.

Now, the boys in George’s school have a bad way of “telling” each other

in the class. George is too honest to do this; he neither will tell

them, nor let them tell him.

Poor little George! he missed in his lesson that morning, although he

had tried so hard to learn it. The teacher reprimanded him (that means

scolded him), and gave him a bad mark, while the naughty boys who had

scarcely looked at their lessons got _good_ marks, because they peeped

in the book and told each other the answers.

Poor little George!

He came home, with his large brown eyes full of tears, looking sick and

discouraged. He could not eat a bit of dinner, though there was roast

turkey and plum-pudding. His little heart was almost broke.

So I took him in my lap, and I told him that a great many men and women,

too, all over the world, were suffering just such injustice; that when

they tried hardest to do right, they got no credit for it from their

fellow-creatures, and often had “bad marks” for it just as he did, and

that it really seemed to them sometimes as if the lazy and deceitful

prospered most.

But then I told little George that it was only in _seeming_ that they

prospered, because God, who, as you know sees every thing, and is never

careless or short-sighted as George’s teacher was, never lets those who

do right suffer for it. He may take His own time to right them, (which

is always the best time), but He _does_ it; and I told George that those

naughty boys would grow up ignorant though they _did_ get good marks,

and that he would grow up to be well educated and useful if he did get

bad ones when he did not deserve them; and I told George that one of

these days, when they all grew up, that while those lazy, ignorant

fellows found it impossible to earn a living, and what was worse, had no

heart to do good, some College which wanted a splendid president, would

write a letter to George and make him one, and he could become at once

both honorable and useful.

Yes, my children, just so surely as the bright sun shines over your dear

little heads, our loving God, who writes down in His book every act of

injustice and wrong-doing, even to little children, will, if you only

work on with a brave, patient heart, turn all your trials into

blessings.

_True as heaven—Aunt Fanny knows it._

THE VACANT LOT.

So they call it. Vacant? I wonder have they noticed its tenants? The

noisy flock of geese, which waddle in procession to greet the rising

sun, with a screech of delight; unfurling and clapping their huge snowy

wings, as if to say, “Ah, we can have it all our own way, now, while

yonder sluggards slumber.” Not so fast: yonder, with solemn step and

slow, struts a pompous old rooster, whose blood-red crest defies

goose-dom, and all its waddling works. See how meekly those wives of

his—black, brown, white and speckled, tag behind his rooster-ship; too

happy to pick up the smallest fragment of a worm which his delicate

appetite disdains—and even that is to be approached at a proper distance

from this two-footed Nero, or a handful of feathers remind their

hen-ships that the lord of the harem is, and will be, cock of the walk.

Pompous old tyrant! you should have a little tar mixed with your

feathers. I could laugh at your ridiculous struttings, were you not the

type of many a biped of whom _human_ laws take no notice.

Vacant lot?

See yonder urchin, who has crept from his bed while “mammy” is sleeping,

that he may enjoy an unrebuked frolic with the hens and geese. Could any

artist improve him? The red-flannel night-gown, scarce reaching to the

bare fat calves, and falling gracefully away from the ivory shoulders;

the little snowy feet, scarce bending the dewy grass; the white arms

tossed joyously over the curly brown head. Pretty creature! that ever

time should transform you into a swearing, drinking, roystering,

bar-room loafer.

Vacant lot?

What could be more picturesque than the group round yonder pump? Those

big Newfoundland dogs shaking the glistening drops from their shaggy

sides. The master, and his two horses neighing, plunging, rearing,

tossing their flowing manes and tails, and rolling upon the grass, hoofs

uppermost, in uproarious fun; while the pretty occupant of the

red-flannel night-gown, claps his dimpled hands in fearless ecstacy.

Vacant lot?

That old pump is a picture, any hour in the twenty-four. The matron,

with her round white arms bared to the shoulder, poising the well-filled

pitcher, the wee babe hanging at her skirts; the toil-worn father,

laving his flushed brow and soiled hands, and quaffing the cool nectar.

Were I an artist, the rosy morning light should show me no prettier

pictures than may be found in “the vacant lot.”

“FOOLISH NED.”

So they call him. I have seen many persons who thought themselves quite

in their senses, more foolish and less useful than Ned. Ned does an

errand very correctly; he brings home the marketing as promptly as you

could do it. He flies a kite for little Sam Snow till its tail is lost

in the clouds, and the boys are lost in astonishment; he makes little

boats for the school-children to sail in the pond; he carves wooden

whistles; nobody can make a better horsewhip out of common materials; he

picks up all the runaway babies in the neighborhood and carries them

safely home to their mothers; he leads the gray horse to water, and rubs

his glossy coat as well as any groom. I do not think he can read, at

least not as you and I were taught to read; he sees the blue sky, and

the green grass, and the flowers; he stops short and listens when a

little bird sings; he looks up into the tall trees, and watches the

shifting sunbeams light up their leaves; he lies under the tree-shadows

and gazes, well pleased, at the soft white clouds. Who shall say that in

their graceful flight they drop no message from their Maker (unheard by

us) to “Foolish Ned?”

When Ned’s hat and coat are old, it does not fret him; when a bank

fails, Ned laughs all the same; he likes Winter; he likes Summer; he

likes Spring; he makes garlands of the Autumn leaves, and glides with

nimble foot over the ice-bound brook. He stands at the church porch, and

bows his head, as the grand old organ sends out on the summer air its

holy anthem-peal. And yet, they who with careless foot cross its sacred

threshold, call him “_Foolish_ Ned!”

Unto whom much is given; of him (only) shall God require much.

[Illustration]

GREENWOOD.

Come—let us go to Greenwood. Where’s Greenwood? Oh, I forgot you were

not a little New Yorker. Greenwood is the great cemetery, or

burial-place, of the New Yorkers, on Long Island, and a very lovely

place it is, too. I like to see burial-places filled with flowers, and

waving trees, and sparkling fountains; I do not like that death should

be made a gloomy thing. I do not like that children should lie awake

nights in shuddering fear of it. Were you away on a journey from your

pleasant home, and were your dear father to send a messenger for you to

come to his arms, would you say, No, the messenger is ugly, I do not

like his looks, I would rather never see my father than to go with him?

Would you not say to yourself, it is but a short journey, I can trust a

dear father who has been so kind to me, and who loves me so well, I will

put my hand in that of the messenger he has sent, and go with him; my

father surely knows what is best for me, I have never had any thing but

kindness at his hands. Now why can not you think thus of the messenger

whom your _Heavenly_ Father sends for you, even though his name is

Death? Now, I do not like you to be afraid of death; I do not like you

to pray to God because, if you do not, you are afraid he will do

something dreadful to you. Oh, never pray that way, pray to him just as

you would run up to your mother and throw your arms about her neck and

love her, and thank her because she was so good and kind to you, not

because you are afraid she will whip you. That is the way God wants you

to pray to him. I am sure of it; and I am sure he loves you even better

than your mother, and were she to die, would watch over you tenderly,

for he takes special care of little orphans. No, do not think gloomily

of the good loving God, or of His messenger, Death. Love him—how can you

help it, when you see this beautiful earth He has made for you, and read

all His sweet words that have comforted so many who are now happy with

Him, beyond what you or I ever dreamed of.

But I must tell you about Greenwood, and how glad I was to see the

pretty flowers blooming over the graves, and the long graceful willow

branches dipping into the silver lakes, and then streaming out on the

fresh wind as if they were too full of happiness to keep still. I liked

the little squirrels which ran across the path, with their tails curled

saucily over their backs, and their black eyes twinkling sociably at us

as we passed. I saw some graves there of little children; there were no

tombstones or monuments over them; their fathers and mothers had brought

them to this country from far away beyond the blue sea, and in that

country it is the custom, when a little child dies, to place all his

little toys on the grave, with a little glass case over them (not to

keep them from thieves, oh, no, I can’t believe that any thief who ever

stole, would touch a little dead child’s toys, nobody is bad enough for

that); the glass case was to keep the rain from spoiling them, because

often the father and mother, little brothers and sisters, would like to

come and look at them, and think of their little Wilhelm, or little

Meta. On one little boy’s grave was a little rusty cannon, which he used

to play with, on another, only a pair of half-worn little shoes, with

the strings tied together, very coarse homely little shoes, with the

little toes turned up, just as the child’s foot had shaped them. I think

the little boy was too poor to have playthings, and this was all his

sorrowing mother had to tell us that her little boy lay dead beneath.

The tears came into my eyes when I saw them, not for the little dead

boy, oh, no, I was glad he had gone home to God, but for his lonely

mother, for I too, have little half-worn shoes, but the tiny feet which

used to wear them, I may never see or hear again in this world, but

heaven is not so far off from me, since little “Mary” went there, and I

think that is why God often takes our dear ones to keep for us, just as

the shepherd when he takes the lamb in his arms, knows that the mother

will want to follow.

Well, then I saw another little grave and under the glass-case upon it

was a little doll, a tiny tea-set, and three locks of hair, golden,

brown, and black, cut from the little heads that lay pillowed there. On

another grave was a riding-whip and a little horse, with the reins lying

idly about his neck; there are no little busy fingers now “to

make-believe ride;” but the little boy who used to play with them knows

more now than the most learned person on earth, and perhaps if you and I

go to heaven, as I hope we shall (not because we are “afraid of hell”

but because we want to be there with “our Father”), if we should go

there, perhaps that very little boy will sing us the first sweet song of

welcome. Who knows?

After wandering round Greenwood a long while, and seeing many, many

beautiful things, I got into the cars to come back to New York; beside

me I saw two little girls, one about five years and the other three. I

could scarcely see their bright black eyes for the curls which hung over

them. The younger was playing with a bunch of flowers, humming the while

a simple little song, just as if she were all alone by herself, instead

of amid a car full of people. Presently the little five year old girl

looked up in my face; then she said with a very sweet little voice,

“Have you been to Greenwood?”

“Yes, dear.”

“There’s _a_ many people dead there, ain’t there?”

“A great many.”

“Are any of your peoples dead?”

“Yes, my dear,” said I.

“Is?” (and the little creature put her hand in my lap, as if that

brought us nearer to each other), “Is? we just put little brother in

Greenwood.”

“What ailed him?” said I.

“Sick,” answered the little girl, playing with my bracelet.

“Mother is dead too, mother is in Greenwood, we put _her_ there two

weeks ago.”

“What ailed your mamma?”

“Sick,” answered the little one again.

“I hope you have a father,” said I, looking around the cars, for the

little sisters seemed quite alone.

“Yes, out there (pointing out on the platform to a man with black crape

on his hat, who was—shall I tell you? laughing and joking with some men

outside), that’s father.”

“Yes, that’s father!” sang the little one, twisting her flowers, “that’s

father.”

Poor little things.

“I loved mother,” said the elder girl, as she saw my eyes moisten;

“mother loved me too. I used to go to store for mother; when she died

she kissed me, and gave me her parasol;” and the poor child drooped her

head over my hand with which she was playing.

“Do you know that you will see your mother again?” said I.

“No! shall I?”

“Yes; she will not come here; but God will take you to see her, if you

are a good child.”

“I’m glad;” said she, softly.

“Don’t go away,” said she, as the cars stopped for me and my party to

get out.

“Rock-a-baby—by-baby,” sang the happy little sister, still twisting the

flowers.

I kissed them both. I looked into their father’s face, as I passed him

on the platform. I read nothing there that made my heart happier when I

thought of his little girls; but I looked up in the bright blue sky, and

I read there that “not a sparrow falls to the ground without God’s

knowledge,” and I knew that He who cares for the sparrows, would surely

care for the motherless little sisters.

BED-TIME.

“Just half an hour; only just half an hour more, mother.”

“Not one minute, Tommy—you have been saying ‘just half an hour more,’

these two hours; I think you would keep on saying so till daybreak, if I

would let you set up all night; little boys should go to bed early, that

they may get up early.”

“I wish there was no such thing as bed,” muttered Tommy, as he picked up

his playthings, and followed his mother up-stairs.

“I am sorry to hear you say that, my boy; bring me your night-gown, and

while I am undressing you, I will tell you a little story.

“The other night I was lying in my bed awake; it was between eleven and

twelve o’clock; it was a damp, chilly night, but there are always plenty

of people about the New York streets, long after twelve o’clock. I lay

there listening to a hand-organ beneath my window; I don’t like

hand-organs much, but this was a very good one, and the tunes were

sweet, mournful tunes, such as I like best to listen to. The organist

played as long as he could get any pennies, and then strapping his organ

across his back trudged off. Lulled by the sweet music, I was just

falling asleep, when I heard a child’s scream beneath the window—then

another—then another; then the words ‘Oh—don’t! oh—don’t! let me go—oh,

dear—oh, dear!’ What could a little child be doing out in the street at

that time of night? and who could be hurting it? I flew to the window

and opened it. There was a great crowd beneath the window, for the

little girl had screamed so loud that every body had run, as I did, to

know what was the matter. At first I could not make out what it all

meant; it seemed so strange that not one of all those people who were

looking on, should take the little girl away from that great tall man,

who was holding her so tight, while she still kept on screaming, ‘Oh,

don’t! oh, let me go!’

“Not only did they not take hold of him, but they moved on one side to

let him go off with the little girl, who was throwing herself about in

his arms, as if she were wild with fear. Presently the man who had the

child, passed under a bright gas-light, and as he did so I saw a _star_

glitter upon his broad breast. A policeman! that was why nobody meddled

with him then; but what naughty thing could a little girl like that have

done, that she must be carried off by a policeman at twelve o’clock at

night? Surely—surely—so young a child as that could not have done any

thing so _very_ bad.

“But the policeman carried her off, still shrieking, and as her voice

died away in the distance, I could still hear ‘Oh don’t! oh let me go!’

and then the crowd scattered, and every body went home; and I went back

to bed, and dreamed that the little girl was going to be hung, and that

I saved her. Not till the next morning, could I find out what was the

cause of the trouble. The little girl’s name was Ann Mahon. Her father

and mother were Irish, and lived in a cellar, with a great many people,

black and white, who were all very bad and idle. Little Ann had never

lived in any other way than this; she was born in a cellar; and had been

beaten and starved and abused, till she was not more than half the size

of children of her own age. Her father and mother were both drunkards;

they were too idle to work for a living, so they sent poor little Ann

out into the streets at nine o’clock at night, to beg money; thinking

that people would pity a little girl so much for being all alone at that

time of night, that they would certainly give her something. But to make

sure of her getting it, they told little Ann, when they pinned the thin

ragged dirty shawl over her little brown head, that if she sat down on

the steps anywhere, and went to sleep, or did not bring some money when

she came back, they would whip her, till she was almost dead. So the

poor little thing went out, and pattered up and down the cold pavements,

with her bare, weary feet, hour after hour, never daring to sit down a

moment to rest herself, running up to the gentlemen who were hurrying

home, with ‘A penny please sir? a penny please sir?’ Now, a lady would

come along, a bright beautiful lady, with a gay cloak, just from the

theater or opera, leaning on a gentleman’s arm, her eyes flashing like

the diamonds in her bosom; she would hear little Ann’s ‘A penny please,’

as she stepped into her carriage, and gathering up her beautiful clothes

in her snowy fingers, lest Ann should soil them, would turn away and

pass on, and the gentleman with her, would say, ‘What a pest these

beggars are.’ Sometimes some gentlemen who had little girls at home like

Ann, would put their hands in their pockets, and give her a penny, and

say kindly, ‘Run home, my dear, out of the street,’ but the poor child

did not dare to go, till she had more pennies, and so she wandered on.

‘By-and-by little Ann heard the organ under my window; she liked the

music, it sounded like kind words to her, and poor Ann had heard so few

of those, in her little lifetime; so she drew closer to the crowd to

listen still saying, in a low voice, ‘Penny please, penny please,’ to

the people who stood there; for she did not dare to stop saying it on

account of what her mother had told her, and because it was getting

late, and she had as yet only two pennies.

“Presently little Ann felt a heavy hand on her shoulder; she started,

and turned round—there was a tall policeman! Little Ann screamed; she

knew well enough what a policeman was—poor little girl, she had seen the

bad people among whom she was forced to live, hide away from them, many

a time; and she had seen them, when the policeman caught them, struggle,

and kick, and scream, to keep from being carried to prison; no wonder

that little Ann screamed out, ‘Oh, don’t—let me go—oh, don’t!’ as the

policeman lifted her up in his arms, just as he would a feather, to

carry her off, as she thought, to jail.

“But that was not what the policeman was going to do; he was only going

to take her to the watch-house, and keep her safely till morning, and

then have her show him where her parents (who sent the poor thing out

nights) lived; that he could take them and have them punished for doing

it; that was what the policeman was going to do with little Ann; but the

poor child did not know that, nor if she had, would it have comforted

her any to have been told that her father and mother were to be sent to

jail, and she to the almshouse; for bad as they were, they were all she

had to care for; and so the poor little friendless thing clung to them.

No, Ann did not know where she was going or what for, and the policeman

being used to seeing misery, did not take any trouble to explain, or to

quiet her, as he should have done; so when poor Ann had screamed till

she was all tired out, she fell asleep in the dreary watch-house, with

the policemen.

“What do you think that little girl would have given, Tommy, for a nice

safe home like this; a clean warm little bed, and a kind mother to

undress her every night, and put her into it? Think of that, my boy,

when you scowl, and pout, and wish that ‘there never was such a thing as

a bed.’”

SOLILOQUY OF OVERGROWN FIFTEEN.

I sprang up, like Jonah’s gourd, in a night; I am as tall as a

bean-stalk and as green; I am thick where I ought to be thin, and thin

where I should be thick; I am too big to drive hoop, and not old enough

to wear one; too tall to let my hair loose on my shoulders, and not old

enough to fix it up with a comb; I am too large to wear an apron, and I

can’t keep my dress clean without one; I have out-grown tucks, and am

not allowed to wear flounces; I have to pay full price in the omnibuses,

and yet gentlemen, because of my baby-face never pull the strap for me;

I have lost my relish for “Mother Goose,” and am not allowed to read

love-stories; old men have done giving me sugarplums, and young men have

not begun to give me “kisses;” I have done with gingerbread hearts and

nobody offers me the other sort; I have given up playing with

“doll-babies,” and am forbidden to think of a husband; if I ask my

mother for a “dress-hat,” she says “Pshaw! you are nothing but a child;”

if I run or jump in the street, she says, “My dear, you should remember

that you are a young lady now.” I say it’s real mean; so there, now, and

I don’t care.

A TEMPERANCE STORY.

Charley Colt’s father was a grocer. There was a great sign stuck up on

the corner with a sugarloaf painted on either end; and outside the door

were hogsheads of “Jamaica brandy,” and “Old Cogniac.” He was not a

temperance man of course; temperance was not so much talked about in

those days as it is now; it was a matter of course that drunkards went

reeling home from such places as Mr. Colt’s, and nobody seemed to think

the worse of the man who sold such maddening stuff. Many a poor

heart-broken woman turned away her head when the fat, jolly Mr. Colt

walked, on Sundays, into the best pew in church, and sat up as straight

as if he had not taken the bread out of the mouths of so many widows and

their children. Nobody thought the worse of Mr. Colt for taking, for

liquor, all the wages which a poor man had been all the week earning,

instead of telling the foolish fellow to take it home to his destitute

family. Mr. Colt slept just as soundly as if he had not been doing this

for years; and the law did not meddle with him for it; and as to that

old-fashioned book, the Bible, which says, “Love thy neighbor as

thyself,” Mr. Colt never troubled himself to wipe the dust from its

covers. Mr. Colt had a bright little boy named Charley, of whom he was

very fond; he was an only child. Charley spent all his time in the store

when he was not in school, listening to the men who came there to drink,

as they lounged round the door, or sat on the counter, or perched

themselves on top of the barrels of whisky and rum. Sometimes they would

ask him questions, to see what queer old-fashioned answers he would

make, and then his father would wink with one eye and say “Oh, he’s a

case, that boy, he is going to college one of these days, and going to

be a gentleman, ain’t you, Charley?” and then the men would set him up

on the barrels and give him the sugar and rum in the bottom of their

glasses, and then Charley would talk so fast and so loud that you would

think he was crazy, and so things went on at the grocer’s till Charley

was a big boy, big enough to go to college. Then his father fitted him

out with a great many fine clothes, because he said his handsome Charley

should be a gentleman, and gave him a purse full of money, and told him

to hold up his head, and not let any body tread him down. And Charley

opened his bright eyes and shook his thick curls, and said, whoever

wanted to get the better of him would have “to get up early in the

morning.” And so off he went to college “to be made a gentleman of.”

When Charley got there, he found out that the way to be a gentleman in

college was to insult his teachers, break windows, run up great long

bills at the tailor’s, the hatter’s, the pastry cook’s, and the eating

and drinking saloons.

It was very easy work, and when he got through, the bills were sent to

his father to pay. As to his lessons, his father had never said any

thing about those—it was stupid work studying, well enough for poor

men’s sons, whose fathers were not rich, and who would have to earn

their own living, but all he was sent there for, was to learn to be a

gentleman. His teachers reproved him for neglect of study, and Charley

plainly told them it was none of their business to speak to a gentleman

in that way; and when his tutor told him that he must not use such

language to him, he knocked the tutor down with his gentlemanly fists.

To be sure he was drunk when he did it, but the tutor did not seem to

think much, even of that gentlemanly excuse, and so Charley was

expelled—that is, sent away from college, and went back again to his

father. Mr. Colt did not keep the store now; he had made so much money,

making drunkards, that he could afford to sell out all his rum-barrels

to another man, who wanted to get rich too, by breaking women’s hearts,

and starving poor innocent children. Mr. Colt now lived in a fine large

house, with great high stone steps like a palace, and a great bronze

lion on each side of the door. There were beautiful sofas and chairs

inside, and mirrors the whole length of the wall, from floor to ceiling.

The carpets were as thick and soft as the moss-patches in the woods, and

the flowers in them so beautiful that you hesitated to put your foot on

them. Then there was silver, and cut-glass, and porcelain, and a whole

army of servants, all bought with the poor drunkards’ money; and Mr.

Colt walked up and down his rooms, and thought himself a good man, and a

gentleman. Charley Colt thought it was all very fine when he came back

from college. But what he liked better than any thing else was his

father’s wine-cellar. He smoked and drank, and drank and smoked, and

lolled around the streets to his heart’s content. One night he was

brought home very drunk, by two policemen, who had found him quarreling

in the street; his head was badly cut, and his fine clothes were soiled

and covered with mud, and his hat was so bruised, that you could not

have told what shape it was when it was made.

Old Mr. Colt was sitting in his handsome parlor, in his dressing-gown

and slippers, reading the evening paper, when the policemen rang at the

door; hearing a scuffling in the entry, he opened the door of the parlor

and there was his son, bruised, ragged, dirty, bleeding, and dead drunk.

Old Mr. Colt had often seen other men’s sons, whom he had helped to make

drunkards, in this condition, without being at all troubled by it; but

his _own_ son—his fine handsome Charley—his only child—to look so

beastly—to be so degraded—ah, that was quite another thing. His brain

reeled, his knees tottered under him, his hand shook as if he had the

palsy; then, for the first time in his life, he knew the misery he had

brought to other firesides, other happy homes. All that night he walked

up and down the floor of those splendid rooms; now he remembered the

poor women who used to come to his shop to coax home their drunken sons

and husbands, and all the fine furniture in his rooms seemed to be

stained with their tears; now he remembered an old gray-haired man, who

prayed him with clasped hands never to sell his son another drop of that

maddening drink; and then there seemed to come a hand-writing on the

wall, and this it was: “With what measure ye mete, it shall be meted to

you again!” and the wretched old man bowed his head upon his breast and

said, “Oh, God, thou art just!”

ALL ABOUT HORACE.

Now what is that little boy crying for? A rocking-horse? Some marbles? A

bat and ball? A pair of skates? What a curious-looking boy he is! Thin,

small, stooping, awkward; but what clear blue eyes; and what a

singularly sweet innocent expression in his colorless face. Every body

hates to see him cry, because every body loves Horace. His father and

mother are poor, hard-working people, and have other children beside him

to take care of; and each one must do something toward helping support

the family, too. Horace’s mother works in the field, hoes, rakes up the

hay, plants, and digs, just like his father: perhaps you think she must

get so tired doing all this, and in door women’s work beside, that she

could have no time at all to attend to her little boy, Horace. Don’t you

believe it; women in those days were made of better stuff than most of

the women of our day. Horace’s mother could not have planted potatoes or

raked hay, in corsets or a hoop-skirt. She could not have done it had

she lived on cake, cordial, pies and confectionery. She could not have

done it had she slept in close, heated apartments. She did none of all

those foolish things. Neither was she cross or ill-tempered, nor did she

beat and push little Horace round and tell him that he was always in the

way, as some poor, tired, hard-working women do; not she—she was the

merriest, jolliest, funniest, story-telling-est woman you ever heard of;

went singing after the hay-cart, singing to the plow, singing to the

barn-yard, singing to dinner, and singing to bed. That robbed labor of

half its weariness, and winged the feet of every body about her; so

little Horace was not afraid to follow his mother about. No matter how

busy she was, she always found time to speak a pleasant word to her

fair-haired little boy. And _such_ stories as she told him, and such “a

lot” of them, fairy stories, and “old legends,” why, she was as good as

a whole library of child’s story-books; and better too, because half of

those are written either so that children can not understand them, or so

babyish as to disgust them. She was better than any story-book, you may

be sure, and Horace would have run his legs off for her any day, as well

he might.

But I have not told you yet, what Horace was crying about. Well, it was

because he had missed a word and lost his place in the class. You must

know that Horace was a famous speller; but the best sometimes are caught

tripping, and so it proved with him, and it mortified him so much that

he could not choke the tears away. Now, perhaps you think the boys who

got above him in the class were glad of this; perhaps you have known

boys who have felt so. Horace’s schoolmates did not: they all loved him

because he was so good and gentle, and when they saw how badly he felt,

they refused to go above him: that dried up his tears very quick. There

is nothing like kind words and deeds to dry up tears; try it, and you

will see.

Little Horace’s fame as a speller (you must not think because he

occasionally tripped at it, that this was not true, any more than that

because there are some hypocrites that there is nothing in

religion)—little Horace’s fame as a speller went all over the country.

There was an old captain of a vessel who lived on a farm near, and who

had heard of him; whenever he met the boy he would say, “Horace, how do

you spell Encyclopædia?” or “Kamschatka,” or “Nebuchadnezzar.” Then he

used to lend him books to read, and question him about them afterward,

and I promise you that Master Horace was always able to answer any of

his questions, for he did not read “skipping” as do some boys. The old

captain was kind to Horace’s brother, too; and gave him a sheep, and a

load of hay to feed the sheep on, one winter.

Horace found another friend, too, for good boys who are eager to learn,

no matter how poor they may be, always get on somehow; this friend was a

minister who used to teach him grammar, for the pleasure of teaching

such a bright little fellow. Sometimes, to see whether he had understood

what he had been taught, he would tell him wrong, but Horace could not

be caught that way; when he had once understood a thing he stuck to it,

and it was of no use trying to shake his belief in it.

Perhaps you are thinking that he was not good for any thing but study;

there again you are mistaken. He was just as good at farm-work, and just

as thorough as he was at study. Sometimes, when his father had set

Horace and his brothers a task to do while he went away from home, his

roguish brother would say, “Come, Hod, let’s go fishing!” Did he go?

This was his answer, I want you to remember it, “Let us do our stint

first!” Horace could play, too; he could catch more fish than all the

other fellows put together; but shooting, which the other boys were so

fond of, he disliked; when they went to murder a little bird or rabbit,

he would lie down and stuff his ears full of grass till the murder had

been done; he could not bear to hear a gun go off, and he could not bear

to see these creatures killed. Why he did not feel so about fish seems

strange to me, but then he was a strange boy altogether.

I dare say you wonder, when his friends were so poor, how he got books,

and where, and when, he found time amid the farm-work to read them, and

how he learned to read at all. I will tell you; you are not tired, are

you? I am not. You see when he was only two years old, he used to lie on

the floor with the big Bible, and pore over it, and pick out the

letters, and ask questions about them. The fact was, the child taught

himself; he could read at three years any child’s book, and at four, any

book you could bring him; and what is funnier, at four years he could

read a book up side down, or sideways as well as right side up. He

learned all this, not because he was told to, but of his own accord, and

because he loved it. The nearest school-house was a mile and a half from

home, and when he was six, he began to go to it. Sometimes tremendous

snowstorms would blow over the New Hampshire hills, where Horace lived,

and many a little fellow was lost in the snow-drifts, or frozen to

death. This did not keep Horace at home, and when he could not wade

through the snow himself, he would mount on the shoulders of a

good-natured schoolmate, who was stouter and bigger, and who would even

pull off his own mittens, and draw them over Horace’s little hands to

keep them from freezing. Do you think you would have taken as much pains

as did Horace, to learn? or would you have clapped your hands when the

noiseless snowflakes came sailing lazily down, because they would afford

you an excuse for staying at home, to pop corn in the big old-fashioned

fire-place.

Speaking of the big fire-place, reminds me to tell you another thing

about Horace. All his evenings he spent in reading; he borrowed all the

books he could muster for miles round. Poor people can not afford to

burn many candles or lamps; but this was not to keep Horace from reading

the borrowed books. How could he read without a light? ah—that’s just

the question. He collected together in a safe place a parcel of

pine-knots, and when it came evening he set one of those up in the great

big chimney-corner, set it on fire, and then curled himself up, like a

kitten on the hearth, and read away with all his might; neighbors

dropped in to talk with his father and mother, but he neither saw nor

heard them, nor they him, the still, puny, busy little reader. It was

like waking up a person from a sound sleep, to rouse him from his dear

book. Sometimes his little schoolmates would come in to spend the

evening, for they liked Horace’s mother as well as Horace, and had often

listened to the pretty stories she used to tell; they did not like him

to lie on the hearth and read, when they wanted to play; so they would

go up and seize him by one leg, and draw him away from the pine knot and

the book. Horace would quietly get on his legs and walk straight back

again, without showing the least anger; then they would snatch away his

book and hide it, thinking in that way to get him to play with them;

then he would very quietly go and get another book and lie down again to

read. What could you do with such a boy? Why, let him read, of course.

The boys couldn’t quarrel with him, because he was always so

good-natured; beside, his learning was a mighty good thing for them;

even boys twice his age, wanted him to explain sums they could not

understand, or other lessons too, which never puzzled his little flaxen

head a bit. Ah, he was a great boy, that Horace, for all he was so

little.

One day he went into a blacksmith’s shop, and was looking on so intently

while the blacksmith shoed the horses, that the blacksmith said to him,

“I think you had better come and learn my trade.”

“No,” said little Horace, with quite a determined air, “I am going to be

a printer.” The blacksmith laughed, as well he might, that such a little

button of a boy, should already have made up his mind so decidedly about

what puzzles young men at the age of twenty; but Horace always knew his

own mind and was not afraid, when it was proper for him to do so, to

speak it.

And now I suppose you would like to know whether this little fellow ever

_did_ become a printer? whether all this learning ever did him or any

body else any good; and what became of such a queer boy any how.

Well, his father lost what little property he had, and Horace, who was

always a kind son, helped him all he could, and when he thought it would

be helping his father best, to try to support himself, he started off

with a clean shirt under his arm to seek his fortune, and learn to be a

printer. I could not tell you all the disappointments and

discouragements this bright little fellow met with, or how nobly he bore

up under them all; but I will tell you how at last he came to New York,

where so many rich men live, who like himself first came to the city on

foot, with only a few cents in their pockets, and a change of clothes

tied up in a bundle, and slung over their shoulders. It costs so much to

live in New York that Horace tried at several places before he could

find lodgings where he could afford to stay. He did not care for

delicacies, he had been used at home to sit round a howl of porridge

with his father and mother, brothers and sisters, and all eat with the

same spoon out of the family bowl. After making many inquiries he found

at last a cheap place, and after taking breakfast there, set out to

wander through the city in search of employment.

[Illustration]

You boys, who have always been fed, clothed, and lodged, by your kind

parents, and who take it as a matter of course, can have little idea

what weary discouraging, disheartening work, this search for employment

is—how roughly harsh words fall upon the ear, used only to loving tones;

how hard it is to smother down angry feelings when you are wrongfully

suspected; how tough it must have been for Horace, who was so happy over

the family bowl of porridge, because love sweetened it, when on his

first application for employment, the gentleman to whom he spoke looked

sharply at him, saying, “My opinion is, that you are a runaway

apprentice, and you had better go home to your master,” and when Horace

tried to explain that it was not so, the gentleman stopped him short

with, “Be off about your business, and don’t bother me.” But this rough

answer did not discourage Horace, who kept on, all that day, going

up-stairs and down into different offices asking for employment and

receiving the same chilling “No.” Ah, I can tell, I, who have tried it,

how weary and forlorn he must have felt, that Friday night, as he went

home to his cheap lodgings, and how hopeless seemed the idea of

commencing again the next morning, and returning again the next night

with no better success. Sunday came, and Horace, as many have done

before him, went to church with his troubled spirit, and forgot the body

and all its little petty needs, the earth and all its little toils and

cares, and came away, as “the poor in spirit” always come from God’s

temple, rich in blessing.

The next day, Horace heard of a place where he might probably find

employment. Did he say, “It is no use, I have spent two whole days now,

wandering up and down the city, in and out of offices, for nothing?” No,

he did not say this; he was on the steps of the printing-office at half

past five in the morning. Not a soul was there but himself, and Horace

sat down upon the steps to wait till it was open, poor fellow, with his

bundle on his knees, pale and anxious, and there waited and waited a

long, long while before any one came. By-and-by, one of the journymen

who worked in the office, came, and sat down on the steps too, and began

talking with Horace. _That_ man had a heart, and he pitied Horace, whom

he believed to be a good, honest fellow, and whom he resolved to

befriend. When the office was opened he took him into it. Every body who

came in laughed at Horace, because he was dressed in such a shabby way.

Did he mind that? Of course he did not, no more than you would mind the

barking of your dog, Tray. The foreman in the office looked at him, the

apprentices looked at him, they all looked at him, and thought that such

a countrified-looking fellow must, of course, be a fool, and it was all

nonsense to try him; however, to oblige the kind journeyman who brought

him in, they consented to give him a piece of work to do, the only work

they had, and a very difficult job, so much so that several in the

office had tried and given it up in despair. Well, Horace, nothing

discouraged, went right at it with a will. By-and-by the master of the

office came in, and glancing at Horace, asked the foreman,

contemptuously, what he had hired that fool for?

“He is the best we could get, and we must have somebody,” was the

answer.

“Well,” said the vexed man, “pay him off to-night and send him about his

business.”

Did they send him off? Not they; not by six dollars, which they were

glad to pay him every week, for the sake of keeping such a good workman

in their office. The men and boys in the office, nick-named him “the

Ghost,” on account of his pale complexion. I could not tell you all

their tormenting tricks, which never kept Horace from working steadily

on; or how they got the black, inky, printer’s balls, and rubbed them

all over his yellow hair, and played other roguish tricks to torment

him; and how he kept steadily on with his work, never getting angry,

never noticing their nonsense, till they were forced to let him alone,

for it is no fun to keep on trying to plague any body who don’t mind it

a bit. I couldn’t tell you all his adventures, but I will tell you that

when he earned money he always sent nearly the whole of it to his father

and mother, never buying what young lads like best to spend money for,

in the way of eatables and new clothes. I will tell you that he did

become a printer, and astonished every body by his learning and

intelligence; that he not only became a printer but an editor, and a

member of Congress, and what is better, always in his paper takes the

part of the working-people and farmers, among whom he was brought up,

instead of turning his back upon them and getting proud because he grew

rich; and famous—he tells them all about new plows, and new breeds of

cattle, and how to manage their farms to the best advantage, and always

has a kind, encouraging word for those who, like himself, are struggling

to get on in the world without friends or fortune; and that is the best

part of the whole. And now, when the carrier drops his paper at your

father’s door, I want you to read the articles Horace Greeley writes for

it, and feel proud, if he does not, of him and of the NEW YORK TRIBUNE.

A WALK I TOOK.

Did you ever see the New York Battery? Of course you have, if you are a

New Yorker. You have stood a thousand times looking toward Staten

Island, over the blue water, and seen the gallant ships, and the little

pleasure-boats, and the mammoth steamers, and listened to the far-off

“yeave-ho,” of the good honest sailors, and felt the fresh sea-breeze

fan your heated cheek; sat down under the shady trees, and watched the

children roll upon the grass, and heard their merry shouts. Not the

children of the rich—no; luckily for poor children, the Battery, one of

the most beautiful spots in New York, was long ago voted

“unfashionable;” after that, of course, it would never do for any body

who wished to be thought any body, to walk there, and to admire this

beautiful view or enjoy the cool shade of the lovely trees—no, indeed.

So these fashionables left the beautiful Battery to the poor people, and

I thanked God for it, as I sat there under the trees, one hot summer

afternoon, and saw them come streaming in through the gates, from the

filthy alleys, and by-streets, with their little barefooted children,

and their care-worn anxious-looking wives. They had it all to themselves

now, no fear of intruding, for, as I told you, nobody who cared to be

thought fashionable would ever dare to venture there, much less sit down

beside them on the benches. But I was not fashionable, so I sat there

and watched the face of the tired, worn-out mother, and saw her faded

eye brighten, as it rested on the blue water and the beautiful sunset

clouds, enjoying the cool wind as it lifted the tangled curls from her

sick baby’s face. Her poor little baby! who had been shut up in a dark

underground room all day, while his mother stood scrubbing out clothes

at the wash-tub—ah! it was quite another thing for them this fresh

sea-breeze, this pretty grassy velvet carpet, dotted with butter-cups

and dandelion blossoms. The little baby hardly knew its own mother’s

face, it looked so pleasant and fresh and happy; hardly knew her voice,

which grew softer and sweeter, though she did not know it, as she felt

that God had made some things for the poor as well as the rich; and as I

sat beside them, and watched the little pale baby tumble round on the

soft grass, picking butter-cups, I thanked God, as I told you before,

that the Battery had become “unfashionable,” so that these poor

creatures and I, could go there and enjoy all this beauty without having

it spoiled by their foolish presence. Just as I was going away from the

Battery, thinking of these things, I saw a group of emigrants before me,

who had just landed from some ship. How oddly they were dressed! Most of

them were young, hale, and strong; and glad to leap from the rocking

vessel to the shore, which they had been told was the “poor man’s

paradise.” On they went, gazing bewilderingly about, jostled hither and

thither as they passed through the streets. Strange sights, strange

sounds, strange faces all. There was nothing there to remind them of the

old “fatherland.” How odd the vehicles, how curious the houses, how new

the dresses; how little all the busy people about them seemed to care

what became of the poor emigrants in a strange land.

Now, as the emigrants pass along, still gazing, still wondering, they

see a church. They understand that! Ah! the great loving heart of God

beats for his children in all lands, beneath all skies! And so the poor

emigrants stopped, and the old man reverently uncovered his silver head;

the child hushed its gleeful prattle; the rosy maiden checked her merry

laugh, and with one accord they all knelt upon the pavement, to render

thanks to Him who held the winds and waves in the hollow of His hand,

and who had brought them safely to this foreign land.

It was a holy and beautiful sight! The man of business stared at that

kneeling group as he rushed by, and for the first time for many, many a

day, he thought of the long-forgotten prayer at his dead mother’s knee;

and the half-way Christian crimsoned with shame, as he looked at these

poor emigrants, and remembered how the noisy voices of the world had

drowned for him the still, small whisper of God’s Spirit.

Ah! my dear little children, believe me, there are many good sermons

which are never preached in churches.

SUSY FOSTER.

Don’t know Susy Foster? bless me! I thought every body knew Susy. Did

you never meet her trudging to school, with her satchel and her

luncheon? did you never look at her and wonder how people could ever

call Susy Foster “homely?” Did you never notice how many different

shades of color her eyes would take while you were talking to her? and

how the blood would come and go on her pale cheek? Did you never notice

her stoop to pick up a cane for some old man, whose limbs were so stiff,

that it was difficult to do it for himself? Did you never see her help

some younger child safely across the muddy, crowded street? Did you

never see her give away her scanty luncheon to some little girl who had

eaten no breakfast? Did you never see her walk _round_ an ant hill on

the sidewalk, instead of walking _over_ it? Did you never see her in

school recess, helping some child, whose wits were not as quick as her

own, to do a puzzling sum in arithmetic, or teach her some long word in

geography? Did you never see her thoughtfully tie up a little

schoolmate’s shoe, for fear the loose string would trip her on the

sidewalk? or untie a knot in her bonnet-strings, or pin her cloak

together for her when the button came off? Did you never see her put her

arm round a little child, who was crying because her school-fellows had

made fun of a big patch on her gown? Did you never hear her sing when

school was over, “I want to be an angel?” and did tears never dim your

eyes, that a little thing like her, who was only a poor little

errand-girl, apprenticed to Miss Snip, the milliner, and who never knew

what it was to be loved by father, or mother, brother or sister, should

be so much kinder to every body, and so much better than yourself, who

had all these and many more blessings? Susy Foster homely? I never saw

her little brown head, but there seemed to me to be a halo round it,

such as one sees on pictures of the infant Jesus. Susy Foster homely?

She is not homely, now. The bright sun, as it slants across the village

green, goes down upon the little childish group who come tripping out of

the old school-house, but Susy is not among them, her seat in school is

vacant, her satchel lies idly on the shelf. Miss Snip still scolds and

frets, but Susy does not hear her; the spider weaves his busy web upon

the wall in Susy’s garret, but there are no little curious lonely eyes

to watch him. The old blind man at the street corner, stands leaning on

his staff, listening till he is weary, for Susy’s pleasant voice. He did

not see the poor’s hearse, as it rumbled past him with little Susy in

it; but some day the film will fall from his sightless eyes—_not

here_—and he _will_ see Susy, and many like her, of whom the earth was

not worthy.

“FEED MY LAMBS.”

What can that gentleman be doing with all those children? there is one

whole car quite filled with them. He is not their father, that is very

certain, though he is as kind to them as if he were. No, he can not be

their father. Some of those little faces are I Irish, some Scotch, some

French. They all look happy, and yet they are leaving father and mother,

brothers and sisters, never more perhaps to meet them again in this

world.

“Happy?” you exclaim; “happy” to go away thus from home and friends?

Suppose that home were at the “Five Points?” suppose their fathers and

mothers drank, and stole, and quarreled, and taught those children to do

the same, till their very souls sickened at the name of home? till even

the grave, dark and gloomy as it appears to fresh young life, would seem

a safer, better, happier place? What then? Then suppose a good man, with

his heart full of compassion for those little suffering, tempted, and,

as yet, innocent children, should lay his hand of blessing on their

heads, as Jesus did, and say, “Come unto me.” Suppose he should tell

them that if they would leave these wretched homes he would take them

thousands of miles away from the great swarming city, into the country,

where the air is pure and fresh as the hearts of the people, among whom

he would find them happy homes; where they would be taught to read and

write, and never be beaten because they were unwilling to steal or lie.

Suppose I should tell you that this gentleman, Mr. Van Meter, has taken

many, many cars full of such children, to the far West, and that many of

them have been adopted as own children into families who love all that

is good, and to whom God has given means to provide for all their wants.

Oh, what a change from the dirty, dark, noisome dens of the Five Points;

no wonder the little children feel happy; no wonder they look up in Mr.

Van Meter’s cheerful face, with eyes brim-full of trust and tenderness;

no wonder they put their little hands in his and say, “Take us, we will

go wherever you tell us;” and no wonder that his heart swells when,

months after he leaves them in their new homes, he receives their

letters, thanking him for bringing them there, and telling him how much

they have learned, and how kind are their new friends, and how one of

them is to be a farmer, and one a doctor, and one a minister; and then

they beg him to bring away more children from those dreadful places, to

the good and beautiful homes of the West. And well they may beg for

their old playmates, the poor children who are left behind; oh, you can

have no idea how wretched, how dreadful, are the lives they lead. Not

long since, two young girls, five and nine years old, were living alone

in a miserable room, with no fire, no food, and scarcely any clothing;

but they were thankful even for a shelter at night, and in the day, they

begged from door to door, for a mouthful of food; it was pitiful how

hungry they were; it was pitiful their pinched, care-worn, old little

faces. One day when they came home from begging, they found their

landlord in the old dirty desolate room they called their home. He had

come for the money they were to pay him for the use of it.

“Money?”

The poor little frightened girls looked up in his face.

“Money?”

They had none to give—not a cent; and so they were turned into the

street.

Taking hold of each other’s hands, and wiping, with their ragged aprons,

the fast falling tears, on they went, those little sisters, past happy

homes, where rosy, well-fed children peeped at them from out richly

curtained windows; past many a little happy face, upon the sidewalk,

never stained with such bitter, desolate tears; past the good, past the

bad, past the indifferent, up to the gate of a large stone building,

where they stopped, knocking with their little half-frozen fingers. Why

should the little sisters knock there? That is a prison; they have

committed no crime—why should the little sisters knock there?

Because their father and mother are there—because they have no home on

the wide earth if that wretched prison can not be their home. Do you

wonder now, that Mr. Van Meter begs people to give him money, that he

may take such children away from sin and suffering, to the pure homes of

the beautiful West? I know your heart says with mine, God speed!

TWO LIVE PICTURES.

I wish I were an artist. I would paint two pictures that I saw to-day.

This was the first.

At the basement window of a house I passed, sat a mother and her little

sick girl. On the window was a tumbler containing some physic, into

which the mother had just dipped a spoon, which she was holding to the

sick child’s mouth. You should have seen that little girl’s disgusted,

shuddering face, as she turned it away from the spoon, over her right

shoulder. I doubt if the physic itself was “worse to take!”

This was the second picture.

A little girl, about five years old, had been sent, by her mother, to

the butcher’s, for a beefsteak, with an open basket. She had done her

errand, and was tripping home with the meat, singing as she went, when a

great bouncing Newfoundland dog came toward her, and with a bound,

placed his two fore-paws on her shoulder, while the poor child reached

her little arms as high as they would go, above her curly head, to save

the precious beefsteak. There, now, there are two subjects, for any of

you who can draw. I only wish I could, and I would have had them in this

very book.

A RIDDLE;

OR, MAMMA’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

“Hurrah for Christmas! How it snows! how it blows! who cares? who’s got

a Christmas present?”

“Mother! well, what has mother got in her stocking? Nothing?—that’s too

bad.”

“Aye; but I did not say she had nothing; I said she had nothing _in her

stocking_.”

“Did not Santa Claus bring her any thing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why not put it in her stocking, then?”

“It was too big.”

“What can it be? Tell us; a work-table?”

“No.”

“A rocking-chair?”

“No.”

“A new silk dress?”

“No.”

“A muff?”

“No.”

“A writing-desk?”

“No.”

“A picture? an ottoman? a statue? a new bonnet?”

“No—no—no—no!”

“Pshaw, it was nothing.”

“But I tell you it was something!”

“Something? then, a table-bell?”

“No; it is not a bell now, but it may be.”

“Not a bell now, but may be! Oh, pshaw, we give it up; tell us, what is

it?”

“Well then—a live baby!”

THANKSGIVING.

To-morrow is Thanksgiving.

No joyful clapping of hands when this was said, and the newspaper laid

down in which the Thanksgiving proclamation had just been read. No

little eyes brightened, or rosy lips said, “How nice—how glad I am!” and

yet the little group, gathered there around the warm fire, were well fed

and well clothed; there would be the usual turkey, and mince-pie, and

plum-pudding at the Thanksgiving dinner; but grandpapa would not be

there. Grandpapa was “gone!” What was Thanksgiving, without grandpapa’s

silver head at the table? Little curly heads would miss the trembling

hands of blessing; little ears would listen vainly for the faltering

kindly voice; little eyes would watch when the hall door opened, but

hear no tottering footstep; there would be no loving strife now, who

should put away his “staff.” Grandpapa has a surer Staff now.

Dear old grandpa! who ever heard him speak a fretful, unkind word? No

need to say Hush, children, grandpa is coming—no need to put away the

humming-top, marbles, or ball; no need to draw down the merry little

faces; no need for little chests to heave the half-stifled, disappointed

sigh; no, indeed; grandpa’s hands trembled, grandpa’s feet tottered,

grandpa’s forehead was seamed with wrinkles, and his hair was

snow-white; but grandpa’s heart was fresh and green, and the sparkle in

his eye was as merry as when he was a little boy himself.

Oh, what will Thanksgiving be without grandpa? Did grandpa ever think

his children were not his children, because they were grown up, and had

married, and left their old home? Did grandpa ever scowl at them when

trouble and poverty came, as if it were a crime to be sick or poor? Was

grandpa only glad to see them when they were rich and prosperous, and

did he love them only when the world noticed them? No—no—else they would

not all say to-day,

“Oh, what will Thanksgiving be without grandpa?” Dear old grandpa—there

will be no sorrow mixed with his Thanksgiving to-morrow. You will all, I

am sure, give thanks for that; his eyes are no longer dim, but the

glorious things he sees, neither you or I may know, till our earthly

Thanksgivings are over. No pillow to place for the feeble head, there is

no sickness there; no cooling draught for the parched lips, for there is

no more thirst; neither does he hunger any more; no need to trim the

watcher’s midnight lamp, there is no night there. Oh, happy, blessed,

sainted grandpapa. Surely the memory of Thanksgiving we will keep, and

_it shall not be without thee_!

THE END.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.