"I want those little birds," he replied rather bluntly.
"Those birds!" she answered, "why, did not Auguste give you part of the
money? I told him to."
"I don't want any money," said Leon, "I want the birds back again. It
wasn't good of you to buy them--their father and mother are grieving
for them. It was a wicked thing to steal away their little ones, and
the nice nest they had worked so hard to make. Aint you afraid that
they will fly up to God and tell him all about it? And how would you
feel to have some great giant's boy come and steal _your_ little one,
and carry it away in that pretty nest, there?"
At first, the Countess smiled at this earnest little speech--then the
tears rushed to her eyes; she bent down and kissed her sleeping babe,
then, turning to Leon, she laid her hand caressingly on his head,
saying, "I thank you, my dear child, for the lesson you have taught me.
Surely you shall have the little robins back again. I have done wrong
to buy them. I ask pardon of you, and of God."
"And of the birds," added Leon.
"And of the birds," repeated the Countess, smiling a little at the
child's simplicity.
So Leon received the nest of little young robins, and took it safely
back to the old oak tree in the forest. He stopped on the way to
dig some worms, with which he fed his little feathered friends, who
were getting quite clamorous with hunger. When he had fixed the nest
securely in its old place, he hid himself in a clump of bushes near by,
to watch for the coming of the old birds. All the afternoon he watched
and waited, and still they did not come.
At last, when it was almost twilight--the time for flowers and little
birds to go to sleep, he saw the two robins--he was sure they were the
same birds--come slowly winging their way towards the oak. It seemed
they could not sleep away from their home, although it had been made so
desolate. The male bird flew in among the upper branches, and perched
on one of them; but the female bird stopped in a tree near by. It
appeared that she was hardly equal to the sight of the dear old place.
Soon Leon saw the male bird flutter on his perch, and turn his head
quickly this way and that. He had heard those little complaining voices
chirping below him!--then he darted downward and hovered over the nest
a moment, to be sure they were all there, then flew to his mate, to
tell her the glad news. In another moment, they were both back by the
nest, hopping and hovering about it--chirping joyfully and lovingly in
answer to the eager little chirps of their young ones. Late as it was,
they flew about, and got up a nice little supper of worms for their
darlings. After that, while the mother-bird spread over them her soft
warm wings, and hushed them to sleep with the happy beating of her
heart, the father bird flew up to a branch above them, and burst into a
glad, delicious song.
"He is thanking God," said Leon softly to himself, reverently taking
off his little cap, and making the sign of the cross--"he is thanking
God."
The Story of Grace Darling.
On the lonely little island of Brownsman, one of the Farne group, on
the coast of Northumberland, England, lived William Darling, lighthouse
keeper, a brave, honest, intelligent man. Grace, his daughter, the
youngest of seven children, was courageous like her father, good and
gentle like her mother. She was a quiet, modest girl, with a slender
form, a beautiful face, and the sweetest smile in the world.
The Farne Islands are very wild and desolate, being little better than
piles of black rocks towering above the dismal, roaring seas of that
stormy and perilous coast. In calm weather they are surrounded by a
fringe of white surf, and in times of storm they are almost overwhelmed
by the great, raging surges. Through the channels between these islands
the sea rushes like swollen torrents; and here, before beacons were
built upon the rocks, occurred many shipwrecks. Even now they are very
dangerous spots, for in spite of those friendly lights glimmering
through the blackness of the tempest and the night, the force of the
gale will sometimes drive vessels headlong upon the rocks, dash them to
pieces, and scatter them over the boiling deep.
The Brownsman was the outermost of the Farne Islands--the last rocky
foothold of human life; and beyond it was a vast expanse and an awful
depth of sea. It had scarcely any vegetation, but stood out from the
water, bare and black and bleak. The jagged cliffs, and dim, sounding
caves, were alive with seabirds--almost the only living creatures to
be seen on the island, out of the family at the lighthouse.
In this strange, lonely place, Grace Darling passed her earliest years.
She was a shy and thoughtful child, and learned to take pleasure in
the wild and dreary scenery around her. Shut out from the world, as
she and her dear ones were, it seemed to her they were all the nearer
heaven;--denied social pleasures and consolations even while living,
toiling, watching for their fellow beings, she felt that God would
remember them and protect them. To her the black stone hills of those
desolate islands, standing bare-headed under the gray sky, were grander
than towers or cathedrals could be; and the stars and the moon shone
as tenderly above the wild, rough perch on the lighthouse rock, as on
palaces and sweet Italian gardens.
She loved the lighthouse, the guide and saviour of tempest-tossed
mariners. She loved the labors of her brave father, and the sports
of her hardy brothers; she loved the shy sea-birds--some of these she
tamed, by gentle advances and companionship, till they would stoop
their swift wild wings to her hand. She loved the sea when it was
calm--when the bright waves came running up the sandy beach, and seemed
to prostrate themselves before her, caressing her small white feet with
soft, cool kisses; and in storm she did not fear it. When it would
break on the rocks with a hoarse, threatening sound, and dash over her
a shower of angry spray, she would laugh and say, "Roar away, old sea!
I am sure you wouldn't be in such a rage if the winds hadn't provoked
you. By and by you will get good, and feel sorry, and creep up the
sands all calm and smiling, to make friends with me again;--and I'll
forgive you, you dear old sea, if you won't do any mischief now, and
will leave me all the pretty shells and mosses you are tossing up on
the shore."
And Grace dearly loved mosses and shells. She knew all the little caves
and coves and sandy nooks where they were to be found, and the best
time to look for them, and used to come home from her solitary rambles
with her little apron full of treasures, dearer to her simple heart
than rare exotics, or costly gems. She said the bright-colored mosses
were sea-flowers, torn by the thieving waves out of the mermaids'
gardens--and that the shells were the houses or pleasure-boats of the
little sea-fairies.
So it was that Grace Darling was not discontented with her lot, nor
with her lonely home, where love and God dwelt--did not fear tempest,
nor night, nor raging seas, nor the world; but grew up courageous,
trustful, unselfish, and "pure in heart."
When Grace was about eleven years old, her father removed from the
lighthouse of the Brownsman to that of the Longstone, a neighboring
island. And here it was, that on the 7th of September, 1838, when she
was about twenty-two, she performed the heroic act which made her sweet
name a blessed "household word" the world over.
The steamer _Forfarshire_, on her voyage from Hull to Dundee, in a
terrible gale, struck on a rock amidst the Farne Islands. Immediately a
portion of the crew, cowardly and selfish men, lowered the long-boat,
leapt into it, and left the captain, his wife, their comrades, and all
the passengers, to their fate! In a short time, a huge wave lifted
up the entire vessel, then, letting it fall violently, broke it in
two parts upon the sharp rock. The after part, on which were the
captain, his wife, and many passengers, was carried off and soon dashed
to pieces--the fore part, on which were five of the crew and four
passengers, remained on the rock. In the little fore cabin, into which
every now and then washed the waves, was a woman by the name of Sarah
Dawson, with two young children--and piteously, hour after hour, came
up to those on deck, the frightened cries of the poor creatures down
there in the dark and cold alone. But by and by those cries died away
and were still.
The sufferers remained on the wreck, exposed to the fury of the
tempest, and expecting every minute to be washed away, all that
long, long night. In the morning they were seen from the Longstone
lighthouse, about a mile distant. Only Mr. Darling, his wife, and
daughter Grace were at home. The storm had somewhat abated, yet the
sea ran high, and the surf around the islands and hidden rocks seemed
dashing up into the very clouds. It was dark and misty, and the
sufferers on the wreck could be but dimly seen through the distance
and the storm. Yet Grace saw them clear enough with her tender,
sympathizing _heart_--saw all their peril, their fear, their agony,
and, looking into her father's face, she said firmly--
"Papa, those poor people _must_ be saved!"
Mr. Darling shook his head sadly, and then she added,
"You and I must do it. We will go to them in our boat--we can perhaps
bring them all away in that."
"Impossible, my child--no boat could live in such a sea. We must leave
them in God's hands!"
"No, papa, God has given them into ours; and He will protect us in
seeking to rescue them--we can but try."
So Grace won over her father to her noble undertaking, and they two
launched the boat, and rowed off bravely toward the wreck. Mrs. Darling
not only did not object to their going, though she knew all the
dreadful peril of their enterprise, but helped to launch the boat. I
think she was not less heroic than either her husband or her daughter.
It was ebb tide, or the boat could not have passed between the
islands--but it would be flowing before they could hope to return,
which would render it impossible for them to row up to their island
alone--so unless they could reach the wreck, and get rowers from there,
they would be obliged to stay outside till the next ebb tide, exposed
to the greatest peril. All this they knew.
The most serious danger they incurred was that of their boat being
dashed by the furious waves so violently against the rock on which the
ship had struck, as to break it to pieces instantly. As they drew near,
Grace's firm lips moved in prayer, and her father's weather-browned
face grew pale. But the same good God who had guided them through the
wild white surf, and over the treacherous hidden reefs, sent a smooth
strong wave, that gently lifted the prow of their boat on to the rock.
They reached the wreck in safety, to the unspeakable joy and amazement
of the poor people there. In the cabin they found Mrs. Dawson, nearly
dead, with her arms clasped about her two children, both quite dead.
All were lowered into the boat, and safely rowed to the Longstone,
where Mrs. Darling received them warmly, and cared for them with
motherly tenderness.
Grace, when she reached the lighthouse, was much exhausted with rowing,
and almost fell into her mother's arms as she stepped ashore. But she
roused her energies, and nerved her noble heart anew, for the sake of
the poor sufferers. Without waiting to remove her own wet clothes,
or even to wring the sea-water from her long dark hair, she devoted
herself to their relief and comfort. She gathered them around the
fire--she gave them food, warm drink and dry clothing. Very tenderly
she consoled those who had lost property and friends by the wreck. She
took the hands of old seamen who had grown as weak as women through
suffering, and told them of One who pitied them, "even as a father
pitieth his children." She took the childless Mrs. Dawson in her arms,
laid her poor distracted head on her breast, and wept with her.
The storm continued so violent that the sufferers were obliged to
remain at the lighthouse for several days, as were also a boat's crew
who came to their rescue from North Sunderland, too late, and could not
return. Yet all were treated most hospitably and kindly--Grace gave up
her bed to poor Mrs. Dawson, and slept on a table.
At last the storm passed over, and was succeeded by calm and
sunshine--the ship-wrecked guests went to their homes, some rejoicing
and some sorrowing, but all bearing hearts warm with gratitude toward
their deliverers. Doubtless some of those rescued men and women are
yet living, and perhaps on stormy nights, when the winds roar and
the sea thunders against the rocky shore, they gather their children
or grandchildren about them and tell the story of the wreck of the
_Forfarshire_, of their awful peril and wonderful deliverance.
Grace Darling and her father would soon have forgotten their heroic act
had they been left to do so. But the people they had saved, in their
gratitude and wonder, told the story wherever they went. Accounts of it
appeared in all the papers, and flew over the world. The bleak island
and lonely lighthouse were visited by thousands, eager to get a sight
of the noble heroine and her brave old father. Costly presents and
tributes of admiration poured in upon them from all quarters. The Duke
and Duchess of Northumberland invited them over to Alnwick Castle, and
presented Grace with a gold watch;--the Humane Society passed a vote
of thanks for her heroism, and sent her a handsome piece of plate. A
public subscription was raised for her benefit, and amounted to about
seven hundred pounds--some three thousand five hundred dollars.
All this fame and applause for what seemed to her a simple act of
humanity, surprised and almost overwhelmed the modest girl. She shrank
from the curious looks of strangers who thronged to see her, and became
more shy and reserved than ever--she refused all invitations to go out
into the world--but dividing many of her gifts between her brothers and
sisters, she remained with her father and mother at the lighthouse,
cheerfully fulfilling her humble domestic duties. God had made her very
noble, and the whole world could not spoil her.
But not long was her beautiful, heroic life to brighten that lone and
desolate spot. In the fall of 1841 she fell into delicate health, and
symptoms of consumption soon manifested themselves. She was removed to
the house of her sister at Bamborough, on the coast. It was thought
she would get better when the Spring came--but it was not so. She still
continued to fail--to fade and fade away. She was taken to Alnwick,
from which she was to proceed to Newcastle for medical advice. While
at Alnwick, the Duchess of Northumberland treated her with all a
sister's kindness--sent her own physician to her--supplied her with
every luxury, and better than all, went often to see her, very plainly
dressed, and without a single attendant. She had the good sense to
lay aside as it were, her coronet--forget her title before the better
nobility of that dying girl--and so proved herself something far
greater than a Duchess--a true and loving woman.
Grace was soon taken back to Bamborough, that she might meet death with
all her loved ones around her. And there, in the place where she was
born, she died, on the 20th of October, 1842. She took leave of all
her friends calmly, and very tenderly--giving to each one something
to keep in remembrance of her--then meekly folded her hands on her
breast, and slept in God's peace. She was buried within sound of the
sea--within sight perhaps of the lighthouse, and the rock of the
wreck--and the sea seems to mourn for her now, and the lighthouse and
the rock are her monuments.
Yet, though Grace Darling should be forgotten on earth, though the
lighthouse should fall--the rock crumble away--the sea cease to murmur
of her--her name shall not perish, for it is written in the Lord's
"Book of Life," and she dwells now where storms and death cannot come,
and where "there is no more sea."
Hymn,
WRITTEN FOR A SABBATH SCHOOL PIC-NIC.
Our dear Lord Jesus, thou didst call
Young children once to thee--
Didst hold them in thy loving arms,
And bless them tenderly;--
Now, like those children, let us come
And gather round thy knee.
Oh teach us that God dwelleth here--
These woods his leafy shrines--
That incense rises from the flowers,
And fragrant swinging vines,
And wordless psalms swell up from out
The solemn sounding pines.
Oh teach us to behold where'er
Our joyous footsteps rove,
The emblems of a Father's care
And tokens of his love--
In sunshine smiling on the sward,
In clouds that brood above.
His glory in the golden morn,
His peace in noon's repose,
His goodness in the twilight shades
That softly round us close--
"The beauty of his holiness"
In every wilding rose.
Oh hear our hymn and bless our feast,
And smile upon our play--
Oh fill our hearts with thy dear love,
And keep us glad and gay,
And sinless as the little birds,
Throughout this summer day.
* * * * *
THE END.