DIED OF A BROKEN HEART.
"IN just such a place as I have described to you I was born," continued
Mackey. "The first thing I remember clearly, I was hanging on my
mother's back with both my arms round her neck, as she ran along one
of the vines I have spoken of, which formed a bridge across a rapid
roaring stream. My father was before us, and just as we reached the
middle of the bridge, he stopped, and began shaking it in play. I
screamed with terror, for I thought we should certainly fall, and my
mother called on him to stop, telling me at the same time that there
was no danger. When my father saw that I was really frightened, he
ceased his play, and brought me a ripe date to comfort me.
"O, we used to have fine frolics in those woods. There were a great
many of us, and we were all very friendly together. Now and then we
young ones got into a quarrel, but we soon made friends again. We had
plenty of fruit and nuts, nice tall trees to play and sleep in, and
nothing to fear except the snakes and wildcats."
"I should think a wildcat would have had hard work to catch you,"
remarked Binney.
"Yes, if I saw him first; but then, you know, he might pounce upon me
unawares. Well, in this way I lived for the first long happy year of my
life. One unlucky day, however, I left my father and mother on a tree,
and went away by myself into the woods for a ramble. I travelled along
at leisure, now and then stopping to gather dates, or some other fruit,
till I found myself upon the sea-shore, and then I thought I would go
down to the beach and see what I could find there.
"I noticed a tall ship on the water, and some sailors in a boat near
the shore; but I had seen them before, and did not feel any alarm, as
I was quite sure of my ability to keep out of their way. I saw some
broken biscuits lying under the tree, and I thought I would go down
and examine them. I took a bit very cautiously at first, and finding
it very nice, was proceeding to make a hearty meal, when all at once I
found myself caught in a net, while at the same moment a sailor sprang
from a thicket near by, and made me prisoner. O how I did scratch and
bite, but it was of no use. I could not get away.
"The sailor was very much pleased with his prize. He carried me on
board the ship, and gave me to the captain, who received me kindly,
admired my fine fur and long bushy tail, and offered me all sorts
of good things to eat. But you may guess I had not a great deal of
appetite at that time. From the ship I could see the shore and the
green woods, and I almost fancied I could hear my father and mother
calling me.
"The next day the ship sailed away. I saw the woods sink lower and
lower, and the land grow more and more dim and distant, till at last it
faded away entirely, and nothing met my eyes but water, water in every
direction. I was very sad at first, and almost thought my heart would
break. But the captain and all the men were kind to me; I had plenty to
eat and drink, and abundance of playmates, and I began to find out that
running up and down the ropes was almost as good fun as climbing trees.
Once I fell into the water. I gave myself up for lost at that time,
for I cannot swim at all; but one of the men threw me a rope, which I
caught, and he hauled me on board wrapped me up in a blanket to warm
me. After that I was more careful.
"After a voyage of many months I came to this country, and the captain
gave me to our master. I am very happy here. The days are cold and
dark, and there are no pretty trees; but every one is kind to me, and
now that I have you to play with, my dear, good old Binney, I am as
contented as if I were at home in Madagascar."
So saying, Mackey put his little arms round Binney's neck, and gave him
a good hug; and when Mrs. Smith came up to see what had become of her
pets, she found them fast asleep together in the nest which they had
made.
And now I come to the end of Binney's history; a very melancholy end,
I am sorry to say. Mr. B— had occasion to leave town for a while, and
thinking that a change would be good for Binney, who had grown fat
and lazy from too much good living, he sent him to the Tower, where a
number of wild animals were kept at that time. Cops, who had the charge
of these animals, received Binney with pleasure, and treated him with
the greatest possible kindness.
But the change was a sad one for poor Binney. He missed the liberty he
had enjoyed in his master's house; he missed his merry little playmate,
the lemur; and above all, he pined for his kind friend, Mrs. Smith. He
grew thin and weak, moped about all day, and would take no food except
a few raisins now and then. At last Mr. Cops grew so much alarmed about
his health that he determined to carry him home again. But it was too
late. The beaver's heart was broken. As soon as he saw his old friend,
he gave a little cry of joy, crept to his favorite place under her
chair, and died!
Mackey's destiny was not so mournful. His master thought he would be
sorrowful without the society of his old friend, so he sent him to the
Regent's Park gardens, where there are a great many wild animals of all
descriptions. Here they gave him a nice house, and a pretty little wife
of his own species, with whom he lived long and happily, and for all I
know, he may be living yet.
THE EXHIBITION IN THE BARN.
[Illustration]
TOM, Charley, and Sue were making a visit to their cousins, and it was
rather trying to have a rainy day. In the first place, it was in the
spring, and they had expected to have a delightful ramble after early
flowers that very morning; in the next place, the house was a small
one, and there were eight children besides the older people who lived
in it, so there was not room for any very extensive in-door plays. Who
wanted to sit down and read in all that hubbub, or to play "What is my
thought like?" or "Capping Poetry," when the snow was all gone?
Whatever feelings were entertained by the young people, they were
fully, though secretly, reciprocated by the older ones, who thought
with dismay of what their ears must endure before the sun shone again.
Therefore, when Charley flung up his cap, (which he always had
conveniently by him, even in the house, notwithstanding his mother's
lessons upon good manners,) and shouted, "I have it! Let's have an
exhibition in the barn!" the proposition was received with universal
acclamation.
It was Charley's private idea that since the number of children was
much greater than the number of "grown-ups," as he irreverently called
them, it would be more satisfactory, and more like a real exhibition,
if some of the little ones were to act as audience instead of
performers. But Charley was a very kindhearted boy, and did not like to
say this, so he consulted his Aunt Mary on the subject.
"Ah, my dear," said she, "to be sure it would be more like a real
exhibition if you should do so, but I don't think it would be more
satisfactory. I think you will give satisfaction to a greater number of
people by letting all take part."
"Done," said Charley, running into the room where the other children
were.
"Boys and girls come out to play
In the barn upon the hay,
Hooray!"
And the eleven took up their line of march in the proposed direction.
"I'll tell you," said George; "we can have this little low haymow for
the stage, it's first-rate; almost all the hay is gone, and we can
pitch the rest of it back into one corner."
This was speedily done, though not without some delay, caused by Tom
and Fred, who, younger than their brothers, had not their business
turn, and persisted in turning somersaults on the fragrant hay.
"What shall we do for a curtain?" said George. "We never can get along
without one."
"I know," said his sister Alice; "there's that red patch bed quilt: I
guess mother will let us have that."
So the bed quilt was procured, and put up in a very satisfactory
manner, though, as a true story-teller, I am bound to relate that to
its latest days it bore the marks of some small nails which were driven
through it with the utmost care by George, who thought it as well to do
it first, and confer with his mother about it afterwards.
"But now," said he, in some perplexity, as he surveyed his completed
work, "how are we going to work to make it stay up while we speak our
pieces?"
"That's no matter," said Sue; "we only want a curtain while we are
getting ready. We can come in front of it when we get ready to speak."
"I did when I speaked my piece at the exsmishun," squeaked little Ben
in a small voice.
But little Ben was immediately hissed down, for Charley and George
felt that they never could endure the humiliation of coming before the
curtain, instead of having the curtain rise before them.
"I'll tell you," said Charley, "let some of the little ones stand and
hold the curtain back while we are speaking."
"Yes," said Alice, with the kindest intentions, "Ben can do that. It'll
be just as nice as speaking, Ben, because then the people can see you
all the time. Besides, you haven't any piece to speak."
"Yis I hev," said Ben, opening his round blue eyes with an injured
look; "I kin speak the one I speaked at the exsmishun."
Now the fact was, on the memorable occasion alluded to, Master Ben had
found himself, to his astonishment, all abroad the moment he appeared
before the curtain, and after having repeated the last two lines of
the second verse, followed by the first two of the fourth, he had
ignominiously retreated. But, he had been applauded, and applause is
sweet to youth, so he had no objection to winning new laurels on the
present occasion.
Alice thought it unwise to allude to his former defeat, so she only
said, "O, you've forgotten it, Ben."
"No, I haven't," said Ben, still in an aggrieved tone. "You see—
"Twintle, twintle, little star,
How I wonder—how I wonder—how I wonder—"
"How I wonder what comes next," suggested Fred.
"No, that ain't it," said Ben. "How I wonder—how I wonder—"
"How I wander from the subject," suggested George. "I'll tell you what,
Ben, you'll think it is splendid to hold up the curtain. You may wear
my soldier cap if you want to, and I guess mother 'll let you have the
peacock's feather over the looking-glass to put in it."
"Yes," said Alice, "and you may have my red scarf for a sash."
Thus solicited, Ben very prudently refrained from any further
speculations about the star, and addressed himself to the work of
collecting the articles necessary for his adornment.
"Now, in the first place," said Charley, "we want one good, long
dialogue, and then we'll each speak a piece besides."
"I don't see how we are going to learn a dialogue in such a little
while," said Sue.
"I know what we can do," said Alice; "we can have a charade, and then
we shan't have to learn it beforehand."
"And whatever we may do," said Charley, "we must have a band of music."
"How are you going to get it?" asked Tom.
"Well, that's what I don't know," said Charley, considering. "I suppose
Uncle George wouldn't let us move the piano out here for such a little
while, would he?"
"No, indeed," said Alice, who loved music, and had no idea of having
her piano banged about in that style.
"See here," said Fred, "I can play the clappers."
"And I can beat my drum," said Jamie.
"I can play on the jews-harp," said Tom.
"O, just let me play on my 'monicon," squeaked little Ben.
"Well," said Charley, "that's capital; and you whistle, George, and
then they'll know what tune it is. And let me take your trumpet, and I
know I can come in, in time."
"I think it will be splendid," said Jamie.
And according to the ideas of some, it was probably splendid. The
family assembled in the barn soon after dinner, for it had taken
all the morning for the preparations. One bench held the whole
audience—Aunt Mary, Uncle George, Grandma, and Patty, the maid.
The eleven performers were unseen, but not unheard behind the curtain.
Then the six boys appeared in front, each with a red scarf round his
waist, to signify that they were a band in uniform. As Charley had
suggested, by the efforts of George, who was a good whistler, the
listeners were enabled to distinguish the tune of "Rally round the
Flag," though their efforts to decide what it was were made somewhat
difficult by the drum, which came in invariably upon the wrong beat of
the measure, by the clatter of the clappers, which threatened to drown
everything else, and by the plaintive wail of the harmonicon, upon
which Ben had as yet learned to produce but two sounds, one by blowing
out and the other by blowing in.
The applause at the close of the piece was so pleasing that Charley was
just proposing that they should repeat it, when the cheering ceased,
Uncle George saying that it would really be unfair to take advantage of
their willingness to accommodate when they had paid an admission fee
sufficient to entitle them to hear each piece once.
The next article on the programme was a poem, beginning, "The boy stood
on the burning deck," recited by Master Jamie, the curtain, meanwhile,
being held up by Master Ben, gorgeous in his cap and feather.
Directly after this followed a duet from Alice and Sue—"Two merry
hearts are we," which was very prettily sung. Next, Tom appeared before
the curtain, a great bustle going on behind it at the same time, and
recited a humorous poem, which concluded with a moral, stating that
"Vinegar never catches flies."
Then there was a prolonged pause of preparation for the central
attraction—the charade. Then those who did not appear in the first
scene came out and took their places in the audience, and the curtain
rose. Behold a ricketty old chaise-top, to which a rocking-horse was
harnessed! In the chaise sat Charley, with a sermon of Uncle George's
in his hands, a tall hat on his head, and grandma's spectacles across
his nose. Behind the chaise stood George, with a bell in his hand,
which he rang ten times, the first nine times slowly and the tenth
quickly.
"That must mean just half-past nine o'clock. Just the hour of the
'earthquake shock,'" said Aunt Mary.
But before the words were out came a crash and a bang; over went the
chaise, and it was buried in an instant under a load of hay pitched
upon it by the little boys, from the midst of which Charlie's head
presently rose, in a rather fouled condition, and an expression of
bewilderment on his countenance. This was the point at which the
curtain should have fallen, and fall it did, though quite unconsciously
on Ben's part, since he was so lost in admiration of the scene that he
forgot his duty of holding it up, instead of remembering his duty of
letting it fall.
"I guess that means 'shay,'" said grandma, wisely.
Another tremendous bustle behind the curtain. Then it rose again.
Alice, in a dress of her grandmother's, with spectacles and knitting,
sat by a little work-table; Sue, with a basket of mending, was on the
other side; Emma sat on a stool reading aloud, and the little twins
were playing with their blocks on the floor.
"Hush!" said Alice, laying down her knitting; and the others listened,
too. "I think I hear a noise. Daughter, wont you look and see what it
is?"
So Sue pretended to go to a window and look out. "I don't see
anything," said she, and sat down again.
Emma began to read.
"Stop a minute," said Alice again. "I'm sure I heard a noise."
"And so do I," said Sue, starting up.
"It makes me think of the old times of the war, when I was a girl,"
said Alice.
"Why, there's a war now, grandma," said Emma.
"Yes, yes, child," said Alice, hastily. "What is that noise?"
At that instant there was a shrill whoop from behind the breastwork
of hay thrown up in the corner, and all the boys—except Ben, who,
notwithstanding the glory of his dress, looked on sorrowfully—arrayed
in tall caps adorned with rooster's feathers, and with such toy muskets
and tin swords as are to be found in the garret of any house where
there are four boys, rushed in and seized hold of the girls, who had
risen with what was meant for a terrified look, though Emma could not
refrain from snickering a little.
"In the name of Jefferson Davis, you are prisoners!" said Charley in a
stentorian voice, who wore the tallest feathers and the longest sword.
Then the girl took to tears, and the boys to threats, and finally the
boys led the girls off captives, after a very amusing and exciting
scene.
Then George appeared again, and stated that in acting the syllables of
the word they had acted the whole; and Aunt Mary won a great reputation
for smartness, because she guessed it was "charade" (shay-raid).
Now followed a scene between Brutus and Cassius, performed by Charley
and George.
Then Emma sang the touching ballad of the "Three little kittens." Fred
was eloquent as Rienzi addressing the Romans, and the twins recited in
concert,—
"Very little things are we;
O, how good we ought to be.
Never quarrel, never fight,
That would be a shocking sight."
After this Charley gave a finishing touch to the entertainment by an
original epilogue.
"Dear friends, we're about to part,
And I hope from my heart,
That you think we've been smart.
We've done our best,
With a great deal of zest.
It must be confessed,
Since our riddle you guessed,
That you are smart, too,
And therefore, adieu."
And so the rain did no harm, after all, to anything but the patch bed
quilt; and Aunt Mary said that was of no consequence but it would have
been right to ask her before driving the nails through it. And though
George at first felt rather ashamed of himself on account of the bed
quilt, the exhibition closed with a very pleasant feeling all around.
THE MOTHER'S LEGACY.
[Illustration]
THE sun had gone down behind the steeples and chimneys of the city, and
left a bright sky in the west to conclude a day which was a happy New
Year's day to many hearts.
But there were others in that city who saw nothing in the bright red
sky to assure them that the new year was likely to prove to them any
better than the old, and who would have been glad enough, amid many
years of want and sorrow, to have one happy new year.
Mr. Ellison had been calling on a friend, and had just stepped from
door when he was accosted by a young girl, who asked, "Please, sir, do
you know of any one wanting a nurse-girl?"
He looked earnestly at the face before him, and replied, "I have a
little boy at home who lost his nurse lately, but you look rather young
for that position. What is your name?"
"My name is Norah, sir; my mother is dead, and I live with Judy
Finegan; but the times are too hard for her to keep and feed me any
longer. I would try to suit you, sir, if you would take me."
"It is too cold to stand here; tell me where you live, and I will call
and see you in the morning." And receiving her answer, he passed on.
[Illustration]
"My dear," said Mr. Ellison to his wife, as they sat at their pleasant
tea-table, "I heard of a nurse for you to-day. Are you suited yet?"
"No. Where did you meet with her?"
Mr. Ellison related the circumstances, and continued: "There was
something in the girl's face that particularly interested me. The fact
is, I believe she looks like you."
Mrs. Ellison smiled. "It was probably nothing but your kind heart,
which allows itself to be interested in a case of suffering where
another would be unconcerned. But seriously, husband, if I should take
so young a nurse, I fear, instead of relieving me, she would add to my
perplexities."
"Well, what say you, Aunt Hannah?" asked Mr. Ellison of a prim,
but mild-looking old lady in the quaint Quaker dress, who had been
listening to the conversation.
"What do I say? Why, that in this matter thee has erred more than is
thy wont. Thee knows that a girl taken from the streets of this wicked
city is not a fit companion for thy innocent little Kate, who, though
only six years old, is an apt scholar. I wonder at thee, John, for
thinking of it;" and Aunt Hannah replaced her spectacles, and looked
gravely at her nephew.
"But, Aunt," answered Mr. Ellison, warmly, "this, I am sure, is no
common street vagrant; besides, we have not decided the matter; Mary
will go with me to see her in the morning, and if she is not satisfied,
there is an end of it."
"Well, well, nephew, thee knows my mind, and thee can do as thee
pleases."
Though wearied by her walk, Norah burst joyfully into the humble room
she called home. "I saw a kind looking gentleman that wants a nurse,
and he promised to come and see me in the morning. Now I shall earn
money, and buy all you need, and you shall have a doctor, for you are
growing pale and thin."
It was a homely and thoroughly Irish face that turned to Norah, and a
kind voice that sought to calm the excited child.
"Be quiet, honey; ye mustn't be afther making such a time o' it, at all
at all. The promises o' great folks are not as it is wid de poor, and
ye may niver see the gintleman again, nor de likes o' him. I have seen
de likes o' it before now. Come and eat your supper," she continued,
taking at the same time a cup containing some broken pieces of bread
and meat, which had been simmering over the fire.
Norah finished her supper, and then throwing herself on a little straw
pallet, which she drew up to the fire, was soon sleeping as peacefully
as though she rested on a bed of down.
Judy waited until the regular breathing betrayed Norah's sound slumber;
then going to a chest, she took from it a worsted dress, which she had
already commenced to alter into one of smaller size. By the light of a
penny candle and the flame of the fire, which was occasionally supplied
with pieces of an old tub, the dress was completed, and with a mingled
look of admiration and regret she laid it on the chest, and lay down by
the side of Norah.
By morning's dawn she was again astir. While scrubbing the door-step
a wagon load of potatoes stopped just in front of the house to allow
a train of carriages to pass. Judy gazed with wistfulness toward the
wagoner, which, though she was silent, he could not fail to understand.
"Here, ma'am, take a couple; I own but a peck of them myself, or you
would be welcome to more." And grasping as many as his brawny hand
could hold, he threw them into her apron, whipped up his horses, and
drove on.
"What's up?" said Dick Carrow, talking to himself. "'Pears as if my
mouth would whistle in spite of me, and my heart is as light as a
feather." It was his kind act which had brought its own reward.
Judy leaned over the fire, her face brimful of honest joy, and stole a
glance at Nora, who went, by her direction, to get the dress prepared
for her; but great was the good woman's surprise to see the child throw
herself upon it, and burst into a flood of tears.
"Doesn't it plaze you," asked Judy, who, expecting to see
demonstrations of joy, did not know how to offer consolation.
"You know I like it," said Norah, as soon as she could speak; "but you
have cut up your only decent dress, and now what will you do?"
"Why, bless your heart, if that is all," said Judy, "I can soon tell ye
what I will be afther, doing for myself, I will wear what I have, till
Miss Norah, the darlint, buys me an illegant one wid flowers as big as
me hand. It's a real fit anyhow;" and she surveyed Norah in it with
admiring eyes; "not a dressmaker in the city could bate it."
After watching from eight o'clock until ten, Norah was at last rewarded
by a sight of Mr. Ellison and his wife.
She opened the door in answer to their knock, and gave to Mrs. Ellison
the only chair the room afforded, while Mr. Ellison seated himself upon
the chest.
"Judy stepped into a neighbor's to borrow a tub," said Norah, as she
leaned against the fire-place, her face coloring as she saw the lady
looking intently upon her.
Aunt Hannah's suggestions in regard to little Kate had led Mrs. Ellison
almost to determine not to engage the girl, and yet in talking with
her an interest was awakened. Surely she had seen that face before—but
where? The sweet expression of the mouth, the blue eyes, shaded by
their dark lashes, seemed as the reminiscence of an early dream.
"John, I have it now," she suddenly exclaimed. "It is my sister Ella's
face. I was young when Ella married and went to India, but I am sure
the resemblance is close. Could this girl possibly be in any way
connected with her?"
Before Mr. Ellison could reply, Judy came in. In answer to their
questions she told her story.
"It was fourteen years ago last summer I came over in a ship to this
counthry. My man Michael and my baby were wid me when I started, but
two days afther we sailed my baby died, and was buried in the say. My
heart was well-nigh broke, and as I sat crooning one day, a lady wid a
baby about the age of mine, came to me and put her on my lap. I felt
the betther for that, madam; and many a time afther that day I nursed
and carried the little baby, and she learned to love me, I assure ye of
that.
"The lady told me about herself; how she had been to a far off
counthry, where her husband died. Then she started to come home, and
many weary months was she on the way, sometimes obliged to lay by for
weeks, until her money was spint, and then she feared she niver should
see her own counthry. She resaved no answer to the many letters she had
sint; and when she rached Liverpool she had barely enough money to pay
her passage to New York.
"The second week we were on the wather the cholera broke out, and the
misery of that time I shall niver forget. I was one of the first taken
down with it, but I soon got over it; but och, my dear good lady, there
was poor Michael, my husband; he died in sax hours afther he was taken.
"The first day I went on deck, I saw the mother and child. The baby
put out its hands to come to me, and the mother too gave me a welcome.
'Judy,' she said, and I shall never forget her swate pale face as she
talked, 'I have a treasure to commit to your hands. I fale sure that I
shall not rache New York, and I want you to care for my child until you
can put her in my sister's hands. I have left all the directions in my
dressing-case.'
"I promised, and took the child to kape that night, for I saw she was
not well at all. And thin they waked me in the night to go to the lady.
Sure enough it was the cholera, and by noon next day she was dead. I
niver could find the dressing-case, and the only thing belonging to her
was a book, and that was in her hand, they told me, when she was taken
sick."
Here Judy handed Mrs. Ellison a small pocket Bible, handsomely bound.
The lady gave but one glance. The words written inside, "Ella Campbell,
from her husband," told the whole story, and she clasped closely to her
breast her sister's orphan child.
"Who can doubt there is a Providence that directs our steps?" said
Mr. Ellison to Aunt Hannah, as they sat the same evening talking over
the wonderful discovery. "She will take her mother's name. Judy gave
her the name of her own child when she took her; she did not know or
remember the child's real name."
"And what will thee do with Judith?"
"We have secured her as nurse, and in this we have great cause for
thankfulness, for one who has acted so faithfully and tenderly by our
niece, will not fail to do her duty.
"We intend to provide for her the rest of her life. For Ella, we will
at present procure a governess. She is not backward naturally, and I
have no doubt she will do justice to her teachers."
It is needless to say that Mr. Ellison's predictions were verified.
Ella became, in all things, a dear child and companion for her aunt,
while mother Judy, as she continued to call her foster mother, found a
comfortable home at Mr. Ellison's as long as she lived.
THE END.