brute, who, although his master was away twenty years, fighting the
Trojans and wandering about the world, did not forget him, but kept
one glad wag of affection in his old tail for his return, then dropped
dead--down to the "Neptunes" and "Neros," the "Lions" and "Carlos" of
which everybody knows;--but we once heard one which we think very few,
if any of you, can have heard.
A friend of ours had three dogs,--two tolerably big ones and one
little one. The big dogs he had had several years, but the little one,
a Scotch terrier, had been bought only a few months before the time I
am telling of.
About half a mile from our friend's house there was a mill, and the
miller kept a large mastiff dog, who had always been very quiet and
peaceable, until just about the time this little terrier came into the
neighborhood, when there began a succession of battles between the
mastiff and our friend's two big dogs. These battles became so frequent
and so fierce, that they attracted the serious attention of both the
miller and our friend.
What could it be that had made of these dogs such sudden and bitter
enemies? Nobody could tell. But the poor creatures were never without
a lame leg, a torn ear, or hurt eye; for as soon as the wounds of one
battle got well, and often before, there would be another, even more
bloody than the last, until our friend made up his mind that he must
either shoot his dogs, or give them away to somebody that lived farther
from the mill.
One bright morning, while things were in this condition, the miller
was leaning out over the half-door of the second story of the mill,
when he noticed our friend's little terrier trotting down the road,
with his ears and tail set up very gaily. He thought it queer that
the little fellow should be so far away from home alone--so, without
exactly knowing that he did so, he watched him. He came running along,
first on three legs, then on four--in that funny way that little dogs
do, sometimes, you know--right down to where the miller's dog was lying
stretched at full length in the sun.
The miller's dog took no notice of him at first, but kept lazily
blinking his eyes and now and then snapping a saucy fly off his side;
but the little dog began to walk around and around him, apparently
saying something, in dog-talk, which seemed to make him uncomfortable,
and to gradually rouse him up and make him angry, for he stuck up his
tail and bristles, and began to walk around too, growling and looking
very ferocious. This seemed to be all the little terrier wanted, for
he trotted off up the road, leaving the other to growl to himself. The
miller then went to his work, forgetting all about the matter until
some ten minutes afterwards, when chancing to look out the door, what
should he see but the little terrier, followed by the _two big dogs_ of
our friend, running toward the mill, and looking as though they were a
good deal excited about something.
Thinking it possible that the trouble between his own and neighbor's
dogs might now be explained, he went to the door and carefully watched
the movements of the animals.
Our friend's two big dogs followed the little one until they came just
opposite the mill, when they stopped in the road, bristled up their
backs, and began to walk round and round after each other, snarling
and looking dreadfully savage, while the little terrier went over to
the miller's dog, who had already begun to put on his fierce looks,
and entered into a growling conversation with him, which grew more and
more violent, till the two parties got nearer and nearer, and finally
pounced upon each other, and began a most terrific fight. As soon as
this was accomplished, the little terrier coolly seated himself in the
sun by the mill, to "see it out."
The secret was out at last. The little terrier had been playing the
part of mischief-maker between his master's and the miller's dogs,
just for the pleasure of seeing them fight. He had gone down to the
miller's dog, and told him, probably, that our friend's two dogs had
said that his tail was not so long as theirs, nor, consequently, his
coat so fashionable, nor were his manners so elegant; neither, being
only a miller's dog, was his position in society so distinguished as
theirs--nor was he altogether so well-bred and gentlemanly a dog as
either of themselves.
This, of course, would make any miller's dog who was so foolish as
to be sensitive about such matters, very angry; but a sober-minded,
cool-headed miller's dog, would first, before getting angry, have
found out whether all these things were _true_; if so, he would then
have ever after treated our friend's two dogs with the silent contempt
they deserved. But it seems this miller's dog was not sober-minded,
or cool-headed, for he at once got very angry, and turned about, and
said a great many insulting things of our friend's two dogs, which
the little terrier very carefully remembered, and trotted back and
repeated to them, with some nice little additions of his own. Whereupon
they too--without thinking whether this little trickstering Iago of
a terrier was not imposing upon them, appear to have immediately
declared their intention of chastising the insolence of this low-bred
miller's dog; which intention we suppose the little terrier ingeniously
applauded, so that they allowed him to lead them off by their noses,
as it were, to the mill, where they got into a fight, and got sorely
bitten by the miller's dog (who was bigger than they, and had a much
_longer_ tail), besides being thoroughly drenched with cold water by
the miller himself, as did also the miller's dog--just as they all
deserved, for being so silly and foolish as to take everything that a
little gossipping busy-body of a terrier had told them for truth.
Is there not a moral somewhere in all this?
Willie Watson.
Once on a time, I cannot just say when, but it was years on years ago,
there lived near a pleasant village in England, a nice, kind-tempered,
elderly woman, whom the neighbors called "dear old Dame Watson." She
was not rich, this worthy dame, but she would never allow herself to be
called poor, for as she had a comfortable home, and was industrious and
healthy, she never felt want. She was a very neat seamstress, and so
diligent and obliging that she never lacked employment.
Dame Watson was a widow and childless, but she had living with her,
two orphan children of her youngest son. William Watson was long the
comfort of her sad widowhood, but when he grew to be a man, he chose
the hard and dangerous life of a sailor. After awhile there came a long
war-time, and there was fighting on the sea as well as on the land, and
at last poor William was killed in a battle between two great ships.
Then he was let down into the deep sea, to where the water is always
still and clear--where the drifting silver sand covered him like a
grave-mound--where the long sea-weed waved over him like grass, and
bright mosses and beautiful shells shone round him like flowers.
When the news of the brave sailor's death reached his home, his mother,
who had seen a great deal of trouble and learned to submit to God's
will, bowed her head and prayed; and soon the good Lord gave her
strength, so that she wiped away her tears, and went about her daily
duties; but William's young wife was ill and weak and could not bear
her grief, but pined away fast and died, leaving a little daughter and
a baby son to the care of their grandmother.
These children were a great charge to the good woman, you may
depend--but still they comforted her, and made the cottage cheerful;
so she never fretted about the trouble. Kitty Watson was a bright,
intelligent, good-tempered little girl, and so rosy, fat, and funny
that nobody could look at her without smiling. Kitty was handy and
industrious, and for all her merry, frolicsome ways, was a great help
to her grandmamma, in the cottage and garden.
Willie grew to be a fine handsome hearty child, full of play and
laughter and chatter, and was the pet and darling of the whole
neighborhood.
The cottage garden was very small, yet, with care and industry, Dame
Watson was able to raise in it not only vegetables enough for her
own use, but a few choice salads, peas, and cauliflowers, which she
disposed of to the Rector of the parish, whose learned old gardener
could not grow anything so fine, though he boasted that he once
gardened for a real lord.
At first, Dame Watson used to carry these to the rectory in a
hand-basket, but at last, she hit upon a plan for saving herself time
and trouble. She had a house-dog that was the petted playfellow of
little Willie, and which she treated kindly for the child's sake,
though she had no love for dogs in general, and Bran's laziness and
voracious appetite tried her very much. Now, she resolved to make him
useful, so she had a little cart and harness made, and taught him to
draw the baskets of vegetables from the cottage to the rectory, with
Kitty for a driver or leader. Bran was strong, though he was not very
large--he was good and intelligent, and always did the best he knew
how. The widow said that though the dog grew thin and had pretty much
given up frolicking, she knew he must be happier in his conscience for
earning his living; but perhaps Bran had his own private opinion on
this matter.
One morning, little Master Willie insisted on riding over to the
rectory on top of the load of vegetables. There he sat, grand as a
lord, flourishing his whip over poor Bran, who pulled and panted
along and thought his lot was a very hard one indeed, almost too much
for patient dog-nature to bear. And so it was, for the baskets were
uncommonly heavy--Willie was fat, and Kitty too full of frolic to think
of helping, even by pushing when they were going up hill. But how
Willie enjoyed his ride, selfish, thoughtless little fellow! He laughed
and shouted and flung his arms about, and bounced up and down, and
kicked with delight.
The next morning, when they were getting ready to send the baskets
over to the rectory, Bran's harness was found so gnawed and torn that
it could not be used. The widow said that the rats had been at it--but
Bran, naughty dog, knew better. The good dame had a new one made, but
when she went to put it on to Bran he gave a dreadful howl and ran
away, as fast as he could. After a day or two, he came back, bringing
a huge mastiff, which he introduced to his mistress, as a better
cart-horse than himself. The widow was so much amused by this cunning
trick that she made use of the stray mastiff and let Bran go back into
his old lazy ways.
I cannot stay to tell you any more of Willie's childhood. He was always
a good boy at home, and a diligent scholar at school; so everybody
liked and respected him. When he grew to be a young man the good
Rector got him a situation in a London counting-house. There he always
remembered his grandmamma's teachings, and was prudent, industrious,
and honest; so he rose and rose, till he became a great, rich merchant,
and was knighted by the king. He married a beautiful lady and they had
children--some half dozen I believe, and I have heard that they were
all handsome and clever and good. Kitty Watson never married, but she
always had a pleasant home with her brother.
At last Sir William (for that was his title now) bought the estate on
which his grandmamma's cottage stood, and built a fine house on it. He
would not have the cottage torn down, but kept it carefully for the
dear old dame's sake, though she had been gone to Heaven ten years or
more.
The first time that Sir William and his family drove over to the
rectory, in their grand yellow-bodied coach, with a big-wigged coachman
on the box and two footmen in smart liveries behind, the good merchant
said to his sister--"Do you remember, Kitty, my first ride over this
road on the little dog-cart? Oh never, never have I enjoyed a ride half
as much as that. I never shall have such another, for I never can be
_little Willie_ again."
The Tale of our Kite.
One bright October afternoon, when I was about twelve years old, for
some reason there was no school; so half a dozen of us went out into a
great field that adjoined our play-ground, to try a new kite which we
had hired one of the big boys, who was a great hand at such things, to
make for us.
It was a handsome round-headed kite, with a broad jolly face very
cleverly painted on it. Because of this face, we gave it the name of
"Diddle Diddle Dumpling," in honor of that old rhyme, in which a youth
named "John" is said to have gone to bed with "one stocking off and
one stocking on."
The first time we tried to raise it, like the negro minstrel's chicken,
its "tail" was "too short to fly high," and it went darting and
pitching and bobbing its jolly head about in so many directions, and in
such queer, drunken ways, that if we had not known Diddle to be a most
proper individual, we should have supposed he had been taking something
to drink, and it had "gone to his head." But, as I said above, the
trouble was not with his _head_; and besides, although it is the nature
of kites usually, to "get high" whenever they have a chance, we knew
that Diddle had never got so.
After we had added another bob or two, and pinned (I was half afraid
the _pin_ would make him dart about more than ever) a tuft of slashed
paper to his tail, we tried him once more.
One boy climbed up on the fence, and held Diddle as high as he
could--another held his tail, which was already squirming about, but I
think it was the wind and _not_ the pin, that made it--while I held the
string and was to do the running. When they cried "Ready!" I started,
at the top of my speed, across the field towards the woods, which were
about a quarter of a mile off.
At the first bound I made, up shot Diddle like a rocket, with his long,
graceful tail streaming behind him;--up, and up, and up, till the
distance seemed to rub his jolly face out. First the laughing wrinkles
disappeared, then his eyes, then his fat rosy cheeks melted away; and,
last of all, his fiery nose went out, and there was nothing to be seen
of our kite but a little speck floating like a bird away up in the blue
heaven.
By this time we had almost reached the woods, and had climbed up on a
fence to rest, and watch Diddle.
We had not sat there long, before _bang_! went a gun just behind us.
We had been so still, and the report was so sudden and so near, that
we were nigh tumbling off the fence from the shock. We turned around
just in time to see a flock of blackbirds rise out of the woods like
a drift of black leaves carried up by a swoop of wind. At first they
rose almost straight up into the air, and then swept away over the
school-house, directly toward our kite, which they soon hid from our
sight entirely.
Some minutes passed before we got sight of poor Diddle again, and very
soon after we decided that it was time to get him down and go home.
So I began to pull in the string, while the other boys took turns in
winding it up.
Nearer and nearer he came; but just as his flaming nose began to show
itself clearly, we noticed a black spot which seemed to be almost
directly over it. We all wondered what this could be, for we knew it
was not there when Diddle went up.
Faster and faster I pulled in the string, and nearer and nearer came
the kite, when what should the spot be but a dear little _blackbird_,
perched quietly on the upper rim of it! But what made him sit there? we
wondered. Why didn't he fly away and join his companions, that were now
just vanishing into the far distance? Nearer and nearer it came, to our
very feet.--
_He was dead!_
One little crimson drop that had rolled down his glossy breast, and
fallen upon Diddle's cheek, like a tear of blood, told the story. He
had been shot.
Poor little bird! He had flown up with the others, and had tried to
follow them; but, faint with pain and bleeding, he could not keep up,
and so, as the flock was passing our kite, he had settled down upon
that, hoping, may be, that the pain in his little breast would get
better soon. But, alas! his gold and crimson wings were never again to
beat the sunny air as he piped his blithe gossip to his dusky-winged
mate: they were folded at his sides, and would be still for ever.
[Illustration]
We did not say much to each other, and what we did say, was in a lower
and softer tone than usual; for the piteous history of the little bird
had touched our hearts.
At first we decided to make a little coffin and bury him. But,
suddenly, I remembered that my uncle, the doctor, sometimes stuffed
birds and animals; so I proposed that we should go to him, tell the
story, and ask him to stuff our blackbird. Uncle was a kind-hearted
man, and, after listening to the story, which he said was a very
singular one, he promised to stuff the bird.
In about ten days he gave it back to us, looking almost alive. We took
it, fixed its little feet on the kite, just as they had been, and
persuaded our teacher to put it up on the top of his mineral cabinet;
and there it stood all the rest of the time I went to that school.
May be it stands there yet.
Philip Annesley's Return.
It was a stormy November night, many years ago, in an old town in old
England. Without, the wind howled and the rain poured, but within the
happy and comfortable home of Doctor Annesley, all was quiet, warmth,
and brightness. A cheerful circle was gathered round the hearth.
There was Doctor Annesley himself, a tall, handsome man, standing in
the ruddy firelight, tossing the baby in his arms, while two young
children, a boy and a girl, stood before him, one affectionately
clasping his knee, yet both, with their father, listening respectfully
to their Grandpapa, old Sir Hugh Annesley, who was relating a story
of his boyhood. By a table sat Mrs. Annesley, the Doctor's good and
beautiful wife, busy with her sewing, yet not too busy to attend to the
low-voiced talk of her eldest son, a noble boy of about ten years.
"It seems so strange, mamma," he said, "to think of Grandpapa ever
having been a little boy like me! 'tis harder a great deal, than to
think of my tall papa as small, like brother Harry, because _he_ has
such long beautiful hair, and such a full, rosy face, and can laugh and
play as merrily as any boy. So could Uncle Philip. But Grandpapa has
thin, white hair, and such dim, deep eyes--he stoops and trembles, and
looks very sad sometimes. He scarcely ever plays with us, and never
laughs in the merry way he used to, when Uncle Philip told him funny
stories. I wish Uncle Philip would come home! Why don't he, mamma?"
"Hush, Herbert!" said Mrs. Annesley in a low tone, "remember, I
have told you to be very careful not to speak of _him_ before your
Grandpapa. Your Uncle Philip was a wild, passionate, self-willed boy,
and though we all loved him dearly, he has caused us much sorrow by
his misconduct. He was Grandpapa's youngest, darling son, yet gave him
a great deal of trouble by refusing to do as he wished to have him;
and finally, almost broke his heart, by running away from college, and
going to sea. Several years have passed since we heard from him, and it
is sorrow and anxiety about him, more than old age, that has whitened
dear Grandpapa's hair, dimmed his eyes, and bowed him toward the grave.
This, my love, is the reason that you must not speak of your Uncle
Philip."
Just at this moment there came a quick ring at the door, and a servant
soon entered, bringing a message to the Doctor. A sailor, just off the
sea, was thought to be dying of fever at the hospital, and had sent for
him.
Dr. Annesley did not hesitate for an instant to leave the comfort and
pleasant talk he was enjoying, to go where duty called him through
the tempestuous night, and not one of his loving family thought of
murmuring or remonstrating. He did not return until morning, and then
he brought some one with him, wrapped in shawls and blankets--his
patient--whom he lifted carefully from the carriage in his strong
arms, carried gently into the house and laid on a bed, in a room which
had long been unoccupied, but which Mrs. Annesley, at her husband's
request, had prepared for an invalid inmate, that very morning.
About half an hour after this arrival, Dr. Annesley entered his
father's chamber. He found the good old man sitting by his window,
reading over the Psalms, in a low, fervent tone. He was so absorbed
that he did not notice the approach of his son, till a hand was laid
gently on his shoulder.
"Why bless me, Hugh," he exclaimed, "how you startled me! pray what
brings you here so early?"
"Unusual business, dear father," replied the Doctor, "I have something
of much moment to tell you. Do you think you can bear it?"
"I will try," answered the old man bracing himself, yet trembling
visibly.
"Well, father, the young sailor whom I was called to see last night,
was--"
"Oh, I know! I know! my poor, lost boy! my Philip!" cried Sir Hugh,
covering his pale face with his hands. "Is he dead?"
"No, dear father, and he may possibly recover. He is very penitent and
sorrowful. He says he would have written to you long ago, if he had
dared--that he was on the way home when he was taken ill--coming to
entreat your forgiveness, and that if you will grant it to him now, he
can die content."
"And he shall have it!" cried Sir Hugh, "for I too often erred through
over-indulgence, and sometimes through over-severity. I will go to him
at once. Get me my cloak, my hat!"
"You will not need them," said the Doctor, smiling; "Philip is in his
old room."
When the father and brother reached the bedside of the young sailor,
they found that he had fallen asleep. He looked very ill; his sun-burnt
face had grown almost fair in his long sickness--his sunken cheeks
were slightly flushed with fever, and his long hair was scattered in
disorder over the pillow.
As Sir Hugh gazed upon the sad face before him, he seemed to see in it
the face of his dear dead wife, and what was more strange, that of his
first-born son who died in early childhood.
When at length the young man opened his eyes, and saw his father
bending over him, he seemed frightened and turned away his face. But
the old man clasped him tenderly in his arms, as though he had been
a child, and murmured with tears, "Philip, my son, my darling boy! I
thank God, who has given you back to me!"
"Oh, father! do you indeed forgive me for all, _all_?" cried poor
Philip, winding his thin arms about his old father's neck.
"As I hope to be forgiven," said Sir Hugh, solemnly.
* * * * *
They kept not exactly a "merry," but a very happy Christmas that
season at Annesley House. There were no invited guests present, but
Uncle Philip, now convalescent, left his chamber for the first time
that evening, and was wheeled in his easy chair into the noble old
dining-hall, to the boundless delight of the children.
"Mamma," said Herbert softly, "how young and handsome Grandpapa looks
to-night!"
"I know why," said little Harry, with a very wise look, "it's all for
Uncle Philip; 'cause he's getting well, and 'cause he wasn't drowned in
the great deep sea!"
When Dr. Annesley came to read a portion of Scripture for the evening
service, Philip, who sat close beside his aged father, said, shading
his face with his hand, "Brother, will you please to read the parable
of the Prodigal Son."
When the Doctor ceased reading, he saw that Philip had dropped his face
on his father's shoulder, and that the old man had laid his hand on his
son's head, and was looking upward for God's blessing on the repentant
prodigal. And God did bless him, and made him ever after a faithful son
and a good man. And God blessed all that household, for they loved him
and one another, and strove to do good to all the world.
Snowdrop.
Little Nannie Tompkins was the daughter of a poor laborer, who lived
in a humble cottage, by the roadside, near a small market-town, in the
north of England. Nannie had two brothers older than herself, away at
service, and a sister about two years younger, a gentle, pretty child,
whose name was Olive--but she was always called Ollie.
The Tompkinses were the tenants of Farmer Grey, a good, amiable man,
kind to the poor, and very tender to little children, birds, and
animals--to everything that needed help and protection.
One chilly day, in the early spring, as Nannie was out in the fields,
searching along the brooks for cresses, and under the hedges for the
first violets, she met Farmer Grey, carrying a little lamb in his arms.
He said he had found it in the field, curled down against its dead
mother, and perishing with hunger and cold.