"If I will give you this poor little creature, will you feed it, and
keep it warm, and try to raise it?"
"Oh, yes, indeed I will--thank you kindly, sir," she joyfully replied;
and he put the lamb in her arms, and she wrapt it carefully in her
cloak, and ran home with it.
Nannie's mother warmed some milk for the new pet, and fed him. Then
she made him a nice soft bed near the fire, and before night he
stopped shivering, and grew so strong that he was able to stand on his
slender little legs, though rather unsteadily at first; and, the
next day, he was running and playing about the house.
[Illustration]
The children called this lamb, _Snowdrop_, both because he was so snowy
white and delicate, and because he had been found in the early spring.
Well, Snowdrop grew and flourished, and proved himself to be a
remarkably clever and lovable pet. He was very fond of the children,
especially of Nannie, who was more tender and motherly toward him than
her thoughtless little sister. And, next to her parents, and brothers,
and Ollie, Nannie certainly loved her lamb. She fed him, washed him,
played with him, and took him with her wherever she went. At night, he
slept on his little bed of straw and old clothes in her chamber; and,
in the morning, when he awoke, he would go tap-tapping over the floor
to her bedside, put up his nose against her cheek, and cry, "Ma!"
Nannie always wakened at this, and, after embracing her pet, got up and
dressed directly.
One sunny May morning, as Nannie and Ollie sat before the cottage door,
with their playmate, a neighbor's daughters--pretty Susan Smith and her
little sister Mollie, came up, and stopped for a moment to speak to the
children.
These girls were going to market; Susan, with a cage full of young
pigeons on her head, and Mollie carrying a basket of fresh eggs.
Susan was a merry, teasing girl, and she began to advise Nannie to take
the lamb to market, and sell him.
"Seeing that he is so fat and clean, he will be sure to fetch a good
price," she said.
Nannie was shocked at this, and throwing her arms about her pet, she
cried--
"I wouldn't sell my darling Snowdrop to a naughty, cruel butcher, for
all the world! I'll never, _never_ let him be killed!"
While the girls were talking, young Robert Grey, the farmer's son, rode
up on his pretty black horse, and stopped too; it may be because of
Susan Smith--for the two were famous friends. He heard Nannie's reply
about the lamb, and looking down kindly upon her, said--
"If you are ever obliged to part with your pretty pet, my little
girl, you need not sell him to the butcher, but bring him up to the
farm-house, and I will buy him, and he shall not be killed."
Nannie thanked him very prettily, and he rode away with the merry
market girls.
A few days after this, little Ollie was taken down with a fever, and
was very ill for several weeks. At last, she began to get well very
slowly; and then came the hardest time for her mother and sister--for
she was fretful, dainty, and babyish, and cried a great deal for
luxuries which her poor parents were not able to purchase for her.
One afternoon, she cried incessantly for some strawberries, for she
had heard they were in market. Strawberries are very dear in England,
and Mrs. Tompkins could not buy them, for she had spent all her little
stock of money for medicines; and now she felt so sad for the child
that she could not help crying herself. When Nannie saw this, she put
on her bonnet, and, calling Snowdrop, slipped away over the fields to
the farm-house. When she came back, she was alone, but she put several
bright shillings into her mother's hand, and choking down her sobs,
said--
"There, mamma, I've done it! I've gone and sold Snowdrop--now take the
money and buy Ollie the strawberries and other things."
Mrs. Tompkins kissed and blessed her "good little daughter," and went
away and bought the fruit; and Ollie ate it eagerly and went to sleep
very happy.
You may be very sure that Nannie did not eat any of the berries. She
felt as though the smallest one among them would choke her. She did
not utter a word of complaint, however, and kept back her tears till
she went up to bed, alone. Then she could scarcely say her prayers for
weeping, and when she came to repeat her sweet little evening hymn, she
said the first lines in this way--
/*
"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless _my_ little lamb to-night!"
*/
Here she quite broke down, and was only able to sob out--
"Oh, yes, dear Jesus, do bless poor Snowdrop, for he's away off among
strangers! Please to make people good to him--for you used to love
little lambs and children too."
Just at this moment, Nannie heard a plaintive familiar cry--"Ma! Ma!"
She sprang up from her knees, and ran to the window--and there, right
down before her, in the moonlight, stood Snowdrop! In a minute, she
had him in her arms, and was hugging him to her heart!
On the lamb's neck hung a little letter, saying that he was sent back
as a present to Nannie, from Robert Grey.
I need hardly tell you that Snowdrop was never sold again. He lived
with Nannie till she was a woman, and he a very venerable sheep; and
then he died a peaceful death, and was buried in the garden, and real
snowdrops grew over his grave.
My First day in Trowsers.
"Love was once a little boy," the old song says, and so was I; though
I cannot flatter myself that beyond this there is any point of
resemblance between Love and me,--stay, there is one strong one--I was
extravagantly fond of shooting with a bow and arrow, and we all know
that Love does nothing else but travel about shooting his little arrows
into folks' hearts. _I_ never shot anything but bull-frogs.
But I haven't got to my "trowsers" yet, have I? I don't see what made
me think about Love here, for if poets and painters tell the truth,
_he_ never knew anything about trowsers--at least, he never _had_ any.
I had toddled patiently through nearly four years of that period in the
life of boys when there is little in their dress to distinguish them
from girls, and which period is therefore a most aggravating memory to
boys in general, when my mother astounded and delighted me one morning
by the announcement that I was to have a pair of trowsers--that they
were even then almost finished. What a whirl my little head was in all
that day, to be sure! How my incipient manhood swelled and swaggered,
impatient of the trammels of frocks and pantalettes! What dreams I had
that night!
The next morning the trowsers came home, and had they been the jewelled
robes in which I was to be proclaimed emperor of half the world, I
could scarcely have looked upon them with more pleasure and pride--
simple little India-nankeen trowsers, as they were, with buttons of
pearl, and white embroidery of linen braid.
It was a bright morning in early June, and my mother decided that I
might have them on at once. Oh, the pride of that day! What a space of
time seemed to stretch between it and the yesterday! From what an airy
height of scorn did I look down upon the whole race of frocks--even
that one of crimson and black which only twenty-four short hours
before, it had been the topmost delight of my little heart to be
allowed to wear!
I was passed from hand to hand throughout the household--receiving
admiring criticisms, and growing prouder and prouder; particularly when
old Wangie, the cook, who was chief among my friends, exclaimed--"Bress
de chile, he look grand as a king!"
I then begged my mother to let me sit out on the front step, "to see
the wagons and folks go by," I said; but in reality, I am afraid, I
only wanted to show my new trowsers. She said I might, and tied my hat
on for me. I had not been there many minutes, before along came half a
dozen of the youngest of the village boys, among them my cousin Philip,
two years older than I. So long as I was in frocks, they had only
condescended to greet me now and then in passing, with a--"Well, little
'un!"
But now I had emerged from the chrysalis of frocks--I was a boy--one
of themselves, and entitled to consideration. So they stopped to talk
with me, and look at my trowsers. They quite took down my pride by
saying, in a patronizing tone--"They'll _do_ for the first ones." But I
remembered what Wangie had said, and managed to still keep up my grand
feeling.
Presently they said they were going over into the meadow, to gather
violets and buttercups, and asked me to go with them.
I said, quickly--"I'll go ask"--I was going to say "I'll go ask
mother," but, just then, came the proud remembrance of my trowsers,
and I thought to myself--"I am too big and too old to be asking mother
every time I want to do anything; I'll go _without_ asking." So I took
Philip's hand, and off we started.
We went up a little hill and clambered through a fence, and there lay
the meadow before us--oh, so lovely!--its rich robe of green grass
pinned with buttercups--buttercups that seemed to have made captive
the sunbeams that brought them life, so golden-bright and beautiful
they were; and violets, upon which in tribute to their modesty, the sky
had bestowed its color with its dew. Everything was in the first glad
impulse of a new life.
The hill ran around two sides of this meadow, and right at the junction
of the two sides, about half way down the slope, there was a little
spring of clearest, coolest water. The half of a small barrel, with
the head knocked out, had been sunk down about the fountain, and the
space around it filled in tightly with gravel. By this means the little
spring was forced to fill up the barrel, into which the people dipped
their pitchers and buckets, before it got a chance to go idling, and
singing, and splashing, as it did afterwards, away through the green
grass, over the white pebbles, to the great dark woods beyond the
meadow.
The owner of this spring, to protect it from the sun in hot weather,
and to keep the cows away from it, when they were pasturing in the
meadow, had built a little stone wall and arch around and partly over
the barrel. The front part of this wall slanted backward (like the top
of a gig or chaise when it is pushed half way back), so that the top
of the archway, which was nicely sodded and seemed like a part of the
hill, came directly over the barrel; to this front wall an old outside
cellar-door had been hung; but rust and much use had broken its
hinges, and, at the time I write of, it had to be lifted off and on.
That morning, for some reason, they had not put it on, after getting
water, but had left it up on the archway, with about one-third of it
reaching over the edge.
After we had tired of gathering flowers, we all went up to this spring
to drink, and see an old bull-frog that had lived there all alone
for years. He used to sit up in a dark corner, on a large stone, all
the summer through. He had never, in the memory of the oldest of us,
been seen anywhere but upon that one stone, and he sat so still that
he seemed more like a statue of a frog, than a real, live one. After
sunset, above all the other "voices of the night," you could hear his
deep bass through half the length of the village. We used to call him
the village "Watchman," because his croaking sounded so exactly like
the cry of watchmen--"All's well!" "All's well!"
I had heard Philip describe the "Watchman's" great eyes that never
winked, and his ghostly stillness; I had heard his cry too, and
it was with not a little awe--I am not sure there was not some
_fear_ mixed with the awe--that I approached the domicil of this
village-wonder--this patron-saint of the spring. Philip pointed up into
the dark corner, and at first I could only see two great solemn eyes;
but presently I could make out the white throat, webbed feet, and dingy
green back of the famous animal.
I was rather disappointed that he was not bigger and fiercer looking,
for I had fancied that he must be something like the great dragon with
which St. George had such a terrible time, only more tame, and not
_quite_ so big. But there was something in his quiet, steady look that
I could not get my eyes away from; so I looked at him and he looked at
me, till Philip took me by the hand, saying--"Come; we're going to sit
up on the old door there, in the sun, and try who likes butter."
We all got seated on the door, and they proceeded to test each other's
love for butter, by holding a buttercup under their chins. If it made
a golden reflection upon their throats, it was a sure sign they _did_
like butter; if it made no reflection, then they did _not_ like it.
After it was decided that I had a strong regard for butter, my thoughts
returned to the old bull-frog, and I crawled along to that corner of
the door which overhung the spring, and lay down flat on my stomach, to
get a good view of him. I had not lain there long before the boys got
through with their buttercup experiment, and proposed to go home, as
it was nearly dinner-time, they thought. With one accord they jumped
off the door, and, quick as a flash, it tilted up, and headforemost I
went, for all the world just like a bull-frog, plump into the spring!
The barrel was not wide enough for me to turn around in, even if I
had thought of it. But I only thought, for an instant, how bright and
pretty the sandy bottom was, through which the up-springing water
came bubbling softly against my lips and cheek--then my head seemed
to become very full--I felt as though I were choking, and there was
a sound in my ears like that of a wind in the woods; then everything
grew dark and seemed to stop. The boys were so frightened they could
do nothing, and there I stuck. There I might have stuck till my little
legs had grown so stiff, and still, and cold, that it had been beyond
the power of even India-nankeen trowsers to wake them into life, and
warmth, and vanity again.
But, happily for me, there was a woman spinning just outside the door
of the little house on the hill, who, with the instinctive watchfulness
which mothers have for all children, had kept her eye upon us all the
time, and when I was tilted into the spring, she ran quickly down,
seized me by the heels, drew me out, and carried me, all white and
cold as death, to my mother. By the time she reached our house, there
was a little fluttering of the heart, which, after they had rubbed me
awhile with flannels dipped in hot rum, gradually increased to the
usual regular beat; soon the lips grew red again, and directly the
eyes opened. They were a little vacant and glassy at first, and I felt
bewildered, but it was not long before I remembered all about the whole
affair.
The first words I spoke were to ask about my trowsers. They brought
them in to me, all wet and soiled, where they had rubbed against the
green sedges about the spring. The sight of them in this condition
distressed me so much that old Wangie, who had been running about
wringing her hands and crying--"Oh, little massa am dead, sartin!"--
but who was now overjoyed to find that I was not, declared they should
be washed and ironed that very day. She started off with them in such
a hurry that she trod on the tail of her favorite cat, Jim, who was
washing his face with his paw by the door. Wangie (bless her old black
face!--she's dead now;) would have stopped and petted the poor cat,
usually, but this time to the great astonishment of all, for she had
the kindest heart in the world, she gave him a prodigious kick, which
sent him full two yards down the hall.
My mother had learned all about the accident from the boys and the
woman who saved me, and when, after a few hours, I was able to get up,
she took me quietly into her room and explained to me how wrong it
was to go over to the meadow without asking her permission, and told
me that, although I had been pretty severely punished already, yet,
in order to make me remember never to do so again, she should put my
trowsers away in the drawer for two weeks, during which I was to wear
frocks again.
What a blow was this to me! How all my pride and glory of the morning
were humbled to the earth! All the little world of hopes and vanities
which my foolish heart had wrought, was scattered to chaos again! I
bore up under it pretty well the rest of the day, ate my supper in
silence, and went quietly to bed; but after mother had gone down, and
I was left alone, I could stand it no longer. I lay there in the dark
sobbing and sobbing, till I sobbed myself to sleep.
So ended _my first day in trowsers_!
The Stolen Birds' Nest.
"In these summer bushes
Listen to the thrushes--
Hear the robin and the wren call from tree to tree:
Hear how all day long
The woods o'erflow with song,
And how every leafy branch blooms with melody!
Do you not feel sorry,
Seeing me in sadness,
When the other little birds are so full of gladness?"
Clarence Cook.
In one of the sunniest and sweetest countries in the world, the south
of France, lived my heroes, two little peasant boys, named Auguste
and Leon Duval. Their fathers were brothers, and vine growers on the
estate of the Count de Vallence. The little cousins were excellent
friends, and almost always seen together, following their fathers
through the beautiful vineyards, gathering up the branches which they
had pruned away, or helping to pick grapes at vintage-time, or straying
through the grand old woods of the chateau, searching after nuts and
wild berries. They usually agreed very well, both in work and play, but
they sometimes had their little quarrels like too many other children.
Auguste was full two months the elder, and he was apt to presume upon
that, and be proud and overbearing towards Leon. He was shrewd and
somewhat selfish, and frequently took advantage of his cousin, who was
almost too confiding and generous. They were beautiful boys; perhaps
Auguste was the most admired of the two, for he had a rich brown
complexion, with glowing cheeks and lips, glossy raven curls, and
bold, black, handsome eyes. Leon was the fairer; he had brown hair,
and deep, soft, brown eyes, which however, could flash in anger; lips
like wild rose leaves, fresh and sweet, but which could curl in scorn
at cruelty and meanness. Usually his face wore a very mild and amiable
expression, and if Auguste was the most admired, Leon was the most
loved.
In the woods of the chateau the cousins sometimes met the Countess
Marie, the pretty young wife of the Count de Vallence, who loved to
walk in the cool, green forest paths. She was attracted by the beauty,
simplicity, and arch playful ways of the merry boys, and often whiled
away an hour in talking with them and watching them in their sports.
Once she took them with her to the chateau, and showed them the lofty
rooms, the pictures, statues, fountains, and conservatories, enjoying
much their wonder and pleasure. That which gave them most delight was
the aviary, where there was a fine collection of talking and singing
birds--magpies, parrots, macaws, canaries, goldfinches, English
black-birds, and many other kinds. As they were looking at these, the
countess said to the old servant who had charge of them,--"Pierre, why
have we no robins?"
"I did not know that my lady would care for such common birds,"
answered the old man.
"Care for them! I think they are the sweetest songsters in the world.
I once saw one at Paris that could sing several opera airs. Could you
teach them to sing so, Pierre?"
"Yes, my lady, if I had them young," he replied.
"Well, then, we must have some," said the lady, decisively; "my
bird-choir is not complete without them; so remember, Pierre!"
Just as the Countess was dismissing her little friends at the hall
door, the Count de Vallence entered. He was a stern, haughty man, and
now seemed astonished and shocked at seeing his countess making so much
of a couple of peasant boys. He drew down his black eyebrows, and
looked so grim, that they were glad to escape, and the good Countess
never took them there again.
Shortly after this visit, it happened that one day while little Leon
was alone in the woods, searching for berries, he discovered a nest
of young robins, built in a snug, shady place, against a large branch
of an old oak tree. Leon stood for a long time silently watching the
little, downy, chirping things, and the happy parent-birds, who were
bringing them food, and dropping it into their wide gaping bills. They
patiently flew back and forth, and brought worms, flies, and berries,
till the greedy little bills gaped and chirped no more--then the good
father-bird perched on a limb above the nest, began singing a sweet,
tender song, while the kind mother-bird brooded over her darlings, as
the dewy twilight was coming on.
Leon was so delighted with his new-found treasure, that the next
morning he brought his cousin to the spot. When Auguste saw the nest,
his eye flashed with eager joy.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "how lucky we are to find a nest of young robins
for the dear Countess! Let us take them to her, and she will give us
more money than we have ever seen in the world;" and Auguste began
immediately to climb the old oak tree.
"Oh don't, don't, cousin Auguste!" cried Leon, clinging about him.
"It would be a cruel, wicked thing to steal away those poor little
birds--don't you see how dearly the old birds love them?"
Auguste thrust him back, exclaiming angrily--"Didn't the Countess say
she wanted some young robins for her aviary?--then how dare you say it
would be wicked to get them for her!" But Leon answered sturdily--
"The good _curé_ says God takes care of the birds--He gave the little
robins to the old ones, just as He gave us to our fathers and mothers;
so it _must_ be wicked to steal them away. And now, cousin dear, do
come down and let them be."
But Auguste had already grasped the nest. He tore it away from its
place, and slid with it down the tree. The old birds flew about him in
the utmost distress, uttering wild, piercing cries of fear and sorrow.
Leon's tender heart was touched by their grief--he expostulated and
pleaded with his cousin, and then, seeing that entreaties were in vain,
grew very angry--he even doubled up his little fists, and was about
to fight for the liberation of the tiny captives. But he remembered
in time the pious teachings of his mother and the good _curé_, and
returned home, with a swelling heart and tearful eyes, while his cousin
hurried off to the chateau, with the robins.
When Leon told his mother the story of the birds, she was very
indignant, and started to seek Auguste's father, and ask him to send
after the cruel boy, and compel him to restore the young robins to the
old ones, for her kind mother-heart felt for them very much. But when
Leon told her that they were taken for the Countess, she sat down to
her work again, and said it was all well, for she had a great awe of
the great lady.
Leon hoped in his heart that the good Countess would refuse the birds,
and send Auguste back with the nest; so he waited as patiently as he
could for his cousin's return. He came back, however, without the nest,
triumphantly jingling a handful of silver coin.
"See," he cried, "what the Countess gave me for the robins! Here, Leon,
is your share."
Leon took the money, but only to fling it all indignantly at his
cousin's feet, bursting into tears as he did so. Some may think I
ought to be sorry to tell of this fit of passion in my noble little
hero, but I am not. While the angry tears were yet flowing, he rushed
out of his father's cottage, and ran towards the chateau. He did not
stop to rest, or slacken his pace till he reached the great hall door.
Then he paused, and the thought of the dusky arches of the old hall,
hung with faded banners, and the grim statues in armor standing along
its walls, and that stern, black-bearded Count, whom he might meet,
almost took away his courage. He stood poised on the tips of his toes,
with his hand on the great knocker, hesitating and fearing, when, all
at once, he seemed to hear again the wild, mournful cry of the poor
mother-robin!--then his heart grew brave, and he boldly sounded the
knocker.
When a servant went to the Countess and told her that another little
peasant boy wanted to see her, she happened to be in the nursery,
paying a visit to her baby-son, the heir to the title and estates of
the Count de Vallence. She was sitting by his side, fondly watching
him, as he lay asleep in a beautiful little cradle, all satin and down,
and fine linen and rich lace. The lady looked surprised when she saw
Leon's flushed and tearful face.
[Illustration]