Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: The Rag Pickers.]
THE RAG PICKERS,
AND
Other Stories.
BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE,
AUTHOR OF "TIM THE SCISSORS GRINDER," "SEQUEL TO TIM,"
"THE BOUND BOY," "THE PRIZE BIBLE,"
"TIM'S SISTER," ETC.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY HENRY HOYT,
NO. 9 CORNHILL.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
HENRY HOYT,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the District of Massachusetts.
DAKIN & DAVIES,
Electrotypers and Stereotypers,
21 Cornhill, Boston.
CONTENTS.
THE LITTLE RAG PICKER.
CHAPTER I. THE RAG AND COAL FIELD.
CHAPTER II. THE COUNTERFEIT DOLLAR.
EDDY AND HIS FISHES.
CHAPTER I. THE CRUEL BOY.
CHAPTER II. EDDY'S RESOLUTION.
WILLIE'S GRAVE.
CHAPTER I. VISIT TO THE GRAVEYARD.
CHAPTER II. WILLIE'S HAPPY DEATH.
THE SUBSTITUTE.
CHAPTER I. GRANDMA FROST.
CHAPTER II. THE SOLDIER.
CHAPTER III. JOTHAM'S DEATH.
THE HOSPITAL.
CHAPTER I. ALICK'S DYING SONG.
CHAPTER II. THE PATIENT CHILD.
JOHNNY'S FRETTING.
CHAPTER I. JOHNNY'S HOME.
CHAPTER II. JOHNNY'S RESOLUTIONS.
The Little Rag Picker.
CHAPTER I.
THE RAG AND COAL FIELD.
"DADDY, isn't it almost time to go home?" called out little
six-year-old Dilly Hogan. "Daddy, I'm tired, I am; I want to go home
and see mammy."
Her father, or Bill Hogan as he was called by his companions, was a
man, with a hard, stern face. He heard his little girl, no doubt, for
she was on the ground, close to his feet; but he made no answer.
I suppose you will want to know what poor Dilly had been doing to tire
her so. Had she been throwing ball, or rolling hoop, or jumping rope?
No.
Had she been playing with her dollies, putting on and taking off their
best dresses, until she was tired with play? Oh, no!
Dilly knew nothing of these amusements, except as she sometimes saw
children playing in the streets, or a little miss carrying a large
dolly almost as smartly dressed as herself.
What was Dilly doing then? Why, she was a rag and coal picker. As soon
as she was out of bed in the morning, she had some Indian porridge or
a piece of dry bread, or sometimes a potato, and then she started off
with her father, mother, and brothers, to pick rags, old paper, or coal.
Perhaps you have never heard of a coal field, and so I will tell you
about it. Near almost all large cities some place is set apart where
the rubbish gathered from the streets is carried. Persons who live in
nice houses do not like to have old coal, broken crockery, or rags
lying around their small yards, and so they gather all these things
into barrels or boxes, and men go round with carts and take them away.
These they carry and empty all over the great field kept for the
purpose; and here men, women, and children go and gather up what they
please.
This is a hard way to get a living, but the poor people who worked at
it were glad to do anything to keep them from starving. The first man
or woman who went into the field had the right to make choice of the
place where he would work; so he walked quickly over the ground to see
if one place looked better than another; and then he set himself to
work, knowing that whatever he found would be his own.
Here old cinders, broken crockery, decayed potatoes or pumpkins, were
thrown into the same heap with dirty house-cloths, old paper, or any
kind of rubbish.
Some of the men who worked hero lived a few miles out of town, and were
able to make a better living by keeping a horse and cart, and carrying
away for sale so much of the coal as their neighbors wished to sell.
Here it was that poor Dilly had worked for ten long hours. Do you
wonder she was tired? Oh, how she longed to jump up and run about, for
her limbs ached from being bent under her. When she stopped just for
a moment to look about, her father said, "Mind your work, Dilly!" or
"Child, let other folks alone, and mind your own business!"
Then the little girl bent over her basket, her face growing every
moment more sad, and wondering whether she should have to pick coal
every day of her life.
To make the best of it, this was a bad school for Dilly to be brought
up in, for she heard men, women, and even children swearing around her;
and very often persons quarrelling about the lots they had marked out.
But there was one reason why the child was very anxious to go home.
Only the night before God had sent her a baby brother, and she was just
allowed to take a peep at him, as he lay on the straw pallet by her
mother, before her father called her to go to work.
At last her father halloed to a man going by with an old shaky cart, to
draw up and take his coal.
Dilly sprang to her feet, jumping with joy.
"Do keep still, can't ye?" cried Pat, her brother, in a surly tone.
"And what for would ye grudge the child the little comfort she has?"
said Bill Hogan, turning toward his son in a threatening manner.
"And aren't ye glad to go home and see the baby, Pat?" inquired the
child, laying her hand caressingly on his arm.
The boy shook her off without replying, and presently, her father
having received the small sum due him for coal and junk, started to
leave the field.
All around them the rag pickers were crying out for the carts,
impatient to be gone, and Dilly, passing some children of her
acquaintance, in a glad tone said, "I've got a baby, I have!"
When they were near the street where they lived, Bill Hogan stopped at
a grocer's to buy some meal and a loaf of bread. He wanted to buy an
ounce of tea for his sick wife, but after looking at the few coppers
left in his hand, turned with a sigh from the counter.
In a few minutes they were at their own door. Dilly pulled her hand
from her father, and darted up the rickety stairs.
"I want to see my baby!" she exclaimed, in an eager tone.
"Hush, child, the poor little cratur's slaping," said the mother softly.
Mrs. Hogan was sitting up on the straw, leaning against the side of the
wall, trying to mend an old shirt for her husband. Her face was very
pale, and as Bill and Pat came up the stairs, she cast a wishful glance
at them. It said as plainly as looks could speak, "I am hungry. Have
you brought me anything?"
The man did not reply, but calling Pat to pick up a few sticks, he took
the only kettle in their possession, and went to a neighboring pump for
some water.
When he returned, Dilly was on her knees by the bed, making the room
ring with her merry laugh, as she touched by turns the soft cheeks and
the rosy fingers of the baby boy.
"Will ye have a piece of the loaf now?" inquired Bill.
"Have ye enough for all?" she asked, with motherly anxiety.
He sighed as he broke a piece and put it into her hand.
Half an hour later the porridge was ready, and Dilly reluctantly left
the baby to eat her portion. What was her delight to see a beautiful
china cup in her father's hand, and to hear him say, "There, Dilly, I
found that to-day among the old rubbish, and I saved it for you."
"It's always for Dilly ye're saving," muttered Pat sullenly.
"Get ye off to bed," said his father sternly, "I've enough to bear
without your grumblings."
The next day when they reached the field, they found two women
quarrelling about a lot which both of them had chosen; but without
making any effort to settle their difficulty, Mr. Hogan called his
children to follow him and went off to the farther end of the field.
The lot he chose happened to be a very poor one, and long before night
he had cleaned it of everything that was valuable.
Leaning his head on his hands he sighed heavily.
"We must all starve together," he said again and again. "There is no
use in trying any longer. Now there's another mouth to feed, and winter
coming on, there is nothing for us but to die."
Dilly heard her father and began to cry, but presently she went close
to him, put her arms around his neck and laid her warm cheek against
his.
If Dilly had been taught as you have, my little reader, she could have
whispered words of comfort in his ear. She could have told him that God
would take care of them, that he watches the sparrows, and gives the
young ravens their food, and surely he will not forget the creatures he
has made to love and serve him.
But though our little rag picker was a warm-hearted, loving child, she
knew nothing about God, nor about the dear Saviour, who came into the
world. So she only put her arms round him and said, "I love ye, daddy,
I do."
Even this made the man feel much better. His face grew soft as he gazed
at her, and his breast heaved as he said—
"After all, Dilly, I'd be worse off without ye; and now as we can't do
any more here to-day, we will go home."
Leaving Pat to watch by their rags and coal till the carts came round,
they walked briskly on, for the man had determined to take advantage of
the opportunity and go through a street where a partly-burned house was
being pulled down, in hope of getting some half-burned sticks of wood.
The gentleman who owned the place happened to be there, and seeing that
Bill was sober and looked extremely destitute, he told him he might
carry away as much wood as he could until dark.
"Now we wont have to starve, will we, daddy?" cried Dilly, jumping up
and down in her joy.
"No danger of that, I hope," said the gentleman.
Mr. Hogan put his hand quickly to his breast, and turned away suddenly
without saying a word.
"Come, little girl, you shall tell me all about it," continued the
stranger kindly. "Don't you have enough to eat?"
"Oh, yes," she said, "and when I go home I shall have some porridge in
my pretty cup. I've got a new baby, too. He's real funny, but he can't
open his eyes yet—he's too little."
Before Dilly had finished her story, her father had gathered a large
pile of wood, and tied it together with a cord he found in the street.
This he took on his back, and then turning to the gentleman said, "I
have five mouths to feed, and if ye could recommend me some work better
than picking rags, I'll bless ye as long as I live."
Then turning to Dilly, he said, "Come child," and adding, "with your
leave, sir, I'll be back soon," walked rapidly away.
The last load had been piled up against the wall, and the family were
about retiring to their rest, when a knock was heard at the door,
and Dilly sprang joyfully forward to meet her acquaintance of the
afternoon. A young lady accompanied him, whom he introduced as his
daughter.
"Father told me about the little girl with her new baby," said the
lady, smiling, as she patted the child's head, "and I came to ask her
to go to sabbath school. I am getting up a class for myself."
"We were Protestants in the old country," said Mrs. Hogan, "and I'd be
thankful indeed to have her go, but it's yourself'll be loth to take
her, I'm thinking, when ye know she owns no clothes but what she has on
this minute."
"Oh, I'll make her some clothes," urged the lady, "if you'll let her
come, and the boy, too! Only you must promise to keep them clean for
Sunday."
"I'm so glad," said Dilly, dancing about on her toes. "I'll be ever so
good, I will."
"I am sorry to see you looking so feeble," added the lady, turning
toward the corner where Mrs. Hogan lay with her infant at her breast.
"Thank you, miss," replied the woman, gratefully. "If I had a lighter
heart, I'd be better at once, though the poor baby is only two days
old."
"I wish to have the yard, where you saw the wood, cleared of the burnt
rubbish," remarked the gentleman, who had been a smiling witness of his
daughter's success, and of Dilly's delight. "If you can do no better, I
will give you employment there for a few days."
Mr. Hogan gratefully accepted the proposal, saying, "I shall be glad,
sir, to do anything that is honest. It is a hard business to fill five
mouths with what one can earn by rag picking."
CHAPTER II.
THE COUNTERFEIT DOLLAR.
PAT, however, continued in his old employment. He was entirely
different from Dilly, who was a favorite with all the children, on
account of her loving heart and cheerful temper. Pat was both selfish
and sullen. He was ready to quarrel at the least offence of his
companions. When the rude boys saw him come alone to the field, and
select a spot for himself to clear, they said, "Now for some fun!"
They watched their chance when he had made a pile of coal and another
of rags, and came up toward him as if for a friendly chat. Suddenly
they threw themselves down, thus overturning all his work and obliging
him to commence again.
Pat sprang to his feet and doubled his fist, screaming with anger.
"Come, now, be still, will ye?" cried one of them. "What harm have we
done ye, anyhow?" At the same time he winked to his companions, to
carry on the sport.
Pat saw the glance. He flew at the lad; and the affair might have
become serious, had not an older man who was quietly at work near by
interfered. He had witnessed the whole proceedings, and told the boys
they had no business with Pat's lot, any way.
He separated them with some difficulty, and then returned to his work.
Pat had been pleased when his father told him he might work alone, and
have all he could earn; but now he found it not so pleasant. Though he
would not have confessed it, he missed Dilly's cheerful voice and sunny
smile. The morning seemed very long, and by the time he sat down to
eat a crust of bread which he had brought for his dinner, he had half
determined to go home.
A few days before this, a party of ladies and gentlemen came into the
field to watch the men, women, and children at their work. They stopped
near the lot his father had selected and began to talk with a couple
who were busily engaged in sorting rags. Pat had been near enough to
hear what was said.
"You have a large pile of rubbish there," said one lady. "Do you make
much by it?"
"And sure, ma'am," the woman answered, "we get a living; but it's a
hard way."
"Tell us how you manage," said a gentleman.
"It's jist this way, sir," interrupted the man. "We comes here and
takes each our own lot, striving, of coorse, for the best, sure. Then
we sets ourselves to work to find what we can. Sometimes there's very
little, and then again, there's more. My woman and I first picks out
all the coal, putting it in one pile, and the junk in another, like
this."
"But what can you do with those rotten pumpkins and potatoes?"
"And sure, that's a fine chance for us, ma'am. We live out of the city
a bit, and kape a cow and a pig, besides a horse and a hen; so it's bad
luck, indeed, if we don't find something to feed them all with."
"You are better off than I thought," rejoined the lady, smiling. "I
suppose you own a cart, too, and carry your treasures home in it."
"Indeed, we do, ma'am; and that is it carrying off junk. We hires it
out to our neighbors to carry their coal home, and their rags to the
junk store. Ye'd laugh, ma'am, when we gets home, to see the craters
jump into the cart to get their supper."
"You seem to make a very good living," remarked one of the gentlemen.
"We don't complain, sir," answered the man frankly. "We're not beholden
to the city for a penny since we first landed in the States."
"Do you ever find anything of value money or jewels?"
"Feth, sir, and that's seldom. I wont deny we do find a little money."
"Well, I hope you'll make a good day of it to-day," said the lady,
turning to another group.
Ever since he had heard that money was occasionally found with the
other rubbish, Pat had been eagerly searching for some. This was why
he had been so pleased to be alone. Every bit of broken glass or
shining paper upon which the sun shone was eagerly seized and carefully
examined.
After the rude boys left him to his work, Pat slowly went on sorting
his piles again. He was quite discouraged, and wished he was anything
in the world but a rag and coal picker. Suddenly he rushed forward to
pull a pile of rubbish nearer to his seat when a torn envelope fell at
his feet. He was just about to throw it away when it occurred to him to
see whether it contained anything. He put in his soiled fingers, and to
his astonishment pulled out a bank-bill—a one dollar bank-bill!
His first impulse was to secrete it,—glancing around to see whether any
one had been watching him,—and then to go on rapidly with his work, as
if nothing unusual had happened to him.
His heart beat faster than ever, as he remembered how much a dollar
would buy!—a pair of boots, or a new jacket. Yes, he had seen a jacket
at the secondhand store costing just one dollar.
Once, to be sure, he did think how poorly his mother was dressed;
and how much good the money would do her; but, no; he would keep it
himself. He had found it, and it was his.
As night approached he sold his coal and junk to the man who owned
a cart and could more readily dispose of them, then hurried away to
procure his new jacket before he went home.
The shop was already lighted when he reached it. He pointed to the
jacket, which he was pleased to see had not been sold; tried it on,
and it proved a very good fit. He buttoned it tightly to his chin,
and found it exceedingly comfortable. Then he took the envelope from
his pocket, and detaching the bill passed it to the merchant and was
walking off, when the man called out, angrily,—
"Here, you young rascal, you just take that 'ere coat right off! Your
money aint worth one copper! It's counterfeit."
"Counterfeit!" stammered Pat, ready to cry. "What is a counterfeit?"
"Don't you think to try any of your dodges on me," screamed the man,
"I've cut my eye-teeth, I tell you. Take it off, I say, or I'll have
the police here."
"I don't know what you mean," faltered Pat, beginning to sob. "You said
'twas a dollar, and I give you a dollar."
"No, you didn't, you only give me a counterfeit, and here 'tis,"
tearing the bill in halves.
Pat started forward to rescue his money, now really angry. "It's mine,"
he screamed. "I found it in the rags."
"Oho!" said the merchant, beginning to understand. "So you found it,
hey? Well, I'm sorry for you; but 'twasn't a real dollar; it only
looked like one. When you get a real dollar I'll sell you the jacket."
Poor Pat went home very much crestfallen. "I hate rag picking," he
exclaimed, entering the room he called home.
"See what a nice supper I've got," cried Dilly. "I can take good care
of baby. Only think, Pat, there's potatoes, and porridge, too. I'm so
glad, I am."
"The lady has been here again," said Mrs. Hogan, trying to cheer her
boy. "She has persuaded the gentleman to give your father work on the
lumber-wharf."
This was indeed true. This kind man, who was a well known friend to the
poor, inquired the character of Mr. Hogan, and, finding him to be a man
of strictly temperate habits, resolved to give him steady employment.
The young lady, too, had been as true as her word. She had this day
brought clothes for the two children, besides many articles for their
parents, and the baby.
Pat was quite comforted when he found that he had a jacket quite as
good as the one at the shop. The next sabbath he went with Dilly to
sabbath school; and, after this, continued to attend regularly. They
both learned to read the Bible and to obey the commands of God.
Our little rag picker is a rag picker no longer; but she is good Dilly,
still, with her warm heart and cheerful temper. She has learned about
the Saviour, and how he loves good children, and every day she tries to
please him.
Pat did not long continue in the business after his father left it.
The lady insisted that he ought to attend the day school, that he
might be prepared to be a more useful man. This he did for nearly a
year, filling up his time when out of school by carrying parcels for a
neighboring grocer, and thus earning something toward his own support.
Now, little girl or boy, can you guess why I have written this story
for you? It is that you may be grateful to God, who has given you a
pleasant home and enough to eat; that he has given you friends to teach
you about the Saviour, and that you may learn to do as the kind lady
did—to pity and do good to those who are poor and distressed.
Eddy and His Fishes.
CHAPTER I.
THE CRUEL BOY.
"EDDY! please don't hurt so. I can't bear to see you!" sobbed little
Susy, wiping her eyes with the back of her fat hand.
"What a baby you are, to cry just for these little fishes," replied
Eddy, in a contemptuous tone. "I don't believe they can feel anything."
"They do! they do! See how they kick about."
Eddy laughed aloud, "ha! ha! ha! who ever heard of fishes kicking? Now
here's a fat fellow, I'll cut him up, and see him kick."
Susy, with a fresh burst of tears ran toward the house.
"What's the matter, my dear?" inquired her aunt, coming to the door.
The child hung her head. She did not like to complain of her cousin,
but as the lady insisted, and asked again, "Where is Eddy? What is he
doing?" she began,—
"We went down to the brook and a boy was there catching little mite of
fishes; and when he had done, he gave us some to fry for our dinner,
but Eddy said he didn't want to eat them, so he put them on a board and
chopped 'em all up with his hatchet."
The lady gave a scream of horror. "Where is he? Show me quick, Susy."
"It makes me ache, in here," sobbed the child, putting her hand to her
breast. "I can't bear to see him hurt them."
Mrs. Lander did not speak, but her face was very pale, and she hurried
on to the place where Eddy was still at his cruel sport.
The boy was so intent upon his wicked employment that he did not hear
their steps; but threw his hatchet to the ground quickly when he heard
his mother's voice calling, "Stop, Eddy! Stop at once!"
Oh, what a scene that was! On the top of an old wall lay a piece of
board covered with pieces of the fishes. Their pretty, shining scales
glistening in the sun. One, the last of the number, lay with a piece
chopped off its tail, writhing in its agony.
Tears filled the lady's eyes, as she turned with a shudder to the boy,
and exclaimed,—
"O Eddy! O my son! what will become of you? what a cruel, wicked boy
you are!"
"They're mine," cried the child, his face growing very red. "A boy at
the brook gave them to me." He glanced angrily at his cousin, because
she had, as he thought, called his mother.
Mrs. Lander shook her head. "I couldn't have believed you would do
so," she said, in a sorrowful tone. "See," she added, picking up the
hatchet, "this is covered with the blood of the poor creatures. You
have made such a wicked use of your uncle's present, that I shall take
it away from you."
"It isn't yours! you've no right to! Uncle said it was to be my own!"
shouted the boy, now in a fury of passion. He even tried to snatch it
from her hands, and when he found he could not, he threw himself on the
ground, kicking and screaming with all his might.
"Eddy, stop this minute, and come with me," said Mrs. Lander, in a
firm, decided tone. She took him by the hand, and though he dared not
disobey; yet he showed by his struggles that he went reluctantly. He
was a boy of quick passions, but the fit of temper soon passed away;
and by the time they reached the house, he looked and felt really
ashamed of his conduct.
Mrs. Lander led him away to a room by himself, and then left, after
telling him she wanted him to reflect upon his cruelty and bad temper;
poor little Susy following her to her chamber, where she seated herself
on a low stool, looking very sober indeed.
Mrs. Lander had been cutting work, and now returned to it with a sad
countenance. For some time not a word was spoken, but at last, the lady
noticed that Susy looked pale, and said, "You had better run out and
play, my dear; or get your dollies? and dress them for a walk."
"Please, aunt," said the soft voice, "I don't feel like playing now;"
and then, in a minute, she lifted her eyes wistfully to her aunt's face
as she asked, "Wont God forgive Eddy this time? I don't want him to be
naughty any longer."
Her red lips quivered, and she choked back a sob as she gazed earnestly
at her aunt, waiting for a reply, but the lady did not speak for a
moment. She drew Susy to her side and kissed her tenderly, and then
taking her by the hand led her away to Eddy's room.
The little fellow was very quiet now. He ran eagerly to his cousin and
drew her into the room, and then, in a humble tone, said, "I'm very
sorry, mamma, I vexed you. I've got over my passion now."
She put her hand on his head, but she did not smile; indeed her face
looked very, very sad.
"Please forgive me?" urged the boy.
"Yes, I will gladly forgive you, Eddy; but your conduct makes me
very unhappy. What comfort can I expect from a child, who, on every
trifling occasion, gives way to his passionate temper? And then think
how displeasing your behavior, this morning, has been to your heavenly
Father. Have you asked him to forgive you?"
Eddy blushed as he hung his head.
"No, mamma," he faltered; "but I will now."
They knelt together, Mrs. Lander and her boy, with Susy close by his
side, her loving face beaming with satisfaction. The lady' prayed
first—that her son might truly repent of his sins and earnestly ask the
help of God to become a good boy; then Eddy said his little prayer,
begging forgiveness for all that he had done displeasing to his
heavenly Father.
After this, Susy kissed him and smiled as she said, "I'm glad you're
good, now, Eddy."
As his mother left the room, Eddy wondered that she said nothing about
the fishes. Usually, after she had forgiven him his heart was light,
and he loved to sit near her and watch her smiles; but now she sat busy
with her work, and he thought her face was very sober.
CHAPTER II.
EDDY'S RESOLUTION.
WHEN Eddy went to his room for the night, his mother always went with
him, and, as he said, they had a fine time together. First he knelt
by his low chair and repeated his prayers and hymns, and then she
added a few simple petitions, asking the protection of God through the
night. After this he loved to call to mind the actions of the past day,
to receive praise when he had tried to conquer his quick temper, or
encouragement to do better when he confessed his faults. On the evening
following this day, Mrs. Lander summoned them earlier than usual, and
then said, "I have a story, a true story, to tell you—one which I want
you, Eddy, to remember as long as you live."
"There was once a little boy, whom I will call James. When he was very
young he began to show a cruel disposition. He loved to stand near the
window and pull the wings off the flies. Then he would laugh and clap
his hands to see how they writhed about in their agony."
"As he grew older he tormented every animal on the place. One day he
caught two kittens, and having tied their tails together, hung them
over the clothes-line. Then he ran to call his companions, and tried to
make them enjoy the cruel sport as much as he did. When his sister came
home from school, and found what he was doing, she burst into tears.
Instead of soothing her by the promise that he would never do so again,
he laughed as he related the torture of the poor kittens."
"His father had a favorite dog, named Frisk, a faithful creature, to
whom all the family were attached; but so dreadfully cruel was this
wicked boy, that one day when his parents were absent from home, he
found a large piece of board, and nailed Frisk to it by his four legs,
each being stretched to its utmost length."
"The poor dog whined and cried most piteously, but James persevered
until the poor creature was firmly fastened to the board. Having done
this, he ran to cell his sister, and stood laughing at her distress."
"'Oh, take him off! take out the nails quick! he'll die!' screamed
the poor girl. 'O James, see how the blood runs!' Finding he would
not listen to her entreaties, she ran to the nearest house to call
a neighbor; and they had just succeeded in releasing Frisk from his
dreadful position, when her parents drove into the yard."
"'If he were my boy,' said the neighbor, after he had related in what
a situation he found the poor dog, 'If he were my boy, I should give
him a taste of the horsewhip for his cruelty. I've heard of his tricks
before to-day.'"
"James was whipped most severely, besides being confined to his room
for two days; but it did him no good. Only the next week, in a fit of
passion, he threw one of the kitties into a boiler of hot water, where
it died in dreadful agony."
"James was a bright boy in his studies, and almost always stood at the
head of his class at school, but his schoolmates despised him for his
fiery temper and his cruel disposition. He seemed to like nothing so
well as to see others suffer. Even the little children at the school
were afraid of him, for he often fixed pins in the cracks of their
seats, so as to make them scream with pain, or hid their dinner-pails,
and then laughed when they cried with hunger."
"I cannot stop to tell you all the wickedness of James's early life;
but must pass over a great many years, till the time he was a man. He
was quite distinguished for his learning, and having sense enough to
conceal his wickedness, he had come to occupy an important station in
society."
"One day a man who owed him a bill, entered his office, when, in order
to avoid paying it, James struck the man a violent blow which killed
him. Then he cut the body into small pieces, burning some of it, and
hiding the rest. He was suspected of the crime, tried, condemned, and
hung; and this was the end of the cruel boy."
"O mamma!" cried Eddy, "I'll never do so again. I'll never be cruel any
more!"
Susy sat wiping away her tears with her dimpled hand, when Mrs. Lander
called them both to her side. "Do you wonder, now, my dear, that I
was so distressed this morning when I saw you chopping up the little
fishes! My heart ached lest you should become like that wicked man."
"I never will hurt anything again," urged Eddy, trying to keep back his
tears. "I will try to be kind to them, as Susy is."
"That is right, my dear boy. If ever you feel inclined to be cruel,
think of the sad end of James; think of what the Bible tells you, 'The
merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' and pray God to help you
to be merciful. Remember, too, my dear Eddy, that unless you learn to
conquer your hasty temper, you will do many things while, in a passion,
which you will afterwards regret. Every time you check yourself and
control your temper, it will become easier for you to do so, while
every time you give way to it, you make it more difficult to reform."
"But, mamma," cried Eddy, "sometimes I'm as pleasant as possible, and
cook, or the nurse, worry me, and make me mad. It's not my fault then.
I'd be good enough, if I was let alone."
"It is wrong in any one to try to vex you, my child," said his mother;
"but that does not excuse you for doing wrong. We must all expect to
meet with trials, but we must not give way to them. Ever since your
uncle Edward gave you a drum and sword, you have liked to play soldier.
Now, I'll tell you a good game, one which the Bible recommends. Call
your quick temper, your impatience, and fretfulness, your enemies, and
fight them as much as you please. Be too much of a man and a soldier to
let your passion gain the victory over you; but fight till you conquer,
then you may beat the drum over every successful battle."
Eddy's eyes flashed with a new light. He stood up proudly, gazing first
at his mother, then at Susy, and at last exclaimed, "I'll do it!"
Willie's Grave.
CHAPTER I.
VISIT TO THE GRAVEYARD.
DID you ever go into a graveyard, and walk around among the graves? Did
you ever measure whether any of the little mounds were shorter than you?
I am going to tell you a true story about a grave I once saw. It was
on a lovely June day, that, in company with some friends, I took the
cars to visit a large cemetery in the State of New York. As we were all
strangers, we paid a man, whom we found near the gate, to show us the
way through the winding paths, to the handsomest parts of the place. As
we walked along, on every side of us were splendid monuments marking
the spot where some dear father or mother or child had been buried.
Presently I heard the voices of children, and then a sweet, musical
laugh. I hurried on to the edge of a lovely lake, and there saw a dear
little girl throwing crumbs from her basket to some beautiful white
swans that were springing from the water to catch them. Her brother, a
year or two older than she, was standing by her side, looking pleased
to see her so happy.
"What is your name, little girl?" I asked.
She gave me a quick glance from under her long lashes, and then softly
answered, "Lily."
I smiled as I took her hand in mine; and then her brother said, "Her
name is Lily Oliver. We come here almost every day to feed the swans,
and bring flowers for mother's grave."
He glanced toward a handsome monument, close by, and Lily explained,
"Mamma's in there. She's waiting for Berty and me, 'cause we're going
up to God with her."
"She told us she'd wait," urged the boy, fixing his earnest eyes on
mine. "Every night we pray to God to let us go quick, because we want
to see her so."
There was a quiver in his voice, which brought tears to my eyes. For a
moment I could not speak, my heart ached so much for these dear little
ones whose mother was in heaven.
I held a hand of each as I said, "I'm sure if you are good children,
and try to please the Saviour, that he will send his angels to watch
over you, and at last take you, with your mother, to the happy world
where he lives."
Lily smiled and nodded her head as I walked away; and presently I heard
her sweet voice laughing merrily as the pretty birds sprang up to catch
a crumb from her hand.
We passed one small yard almost hidden among the trees, where by the
side of a low, green mound, was a flat piece of white marble, with a
dog carved on the top of it.
This, our guide told us, was where a little boy was buried who had been
drowned. The dog was carved like one who had tried to save his young
master's life. He held the clothes of the drowning boy in his teeth,
until help came, but they were so exhausted that they both died.
Then we came to a short grave, only as long as your baby brother. There
was a piece of wood at the head of it, and painted on it were the
simple words, "OUR JAMIE."
Lying on the grass which grew over it, was a tiny red shoe—the toe all
sucked just as little babies love to suck their shoes; and tied to the
end of the string were four large buttons. I wanted to stop there, and
think about the dear babe who had so early been called to its home in
the skies; but a young woman came up, and snatching the little shoe
began to kiss it and weep over it.
"That is the mother," said our guide; and so we turned away that we
might not intrude on her grief.
We walked slowly on, for our hearts ached for the weeping mother, and
presently the guide led us up quite a steep path, to a family tomb
built in the side of the hill. The door leading down the steps was
in front; but it did not look at all like a place for the dead. It
looked far more like a child's play-house. There were posts at the four
corners of the yard, and an iron chain running from one to another.
Opposite the door to the tomb was a gate from which a walk led into the
yard. It was not covered with gravel like the others, but with little
round pebbles from the seashore, mingled with sparkling shells. On one
side was a large rocking-horse, which had been out so long in the rain
and storm, that the saddle was damp with mildew, and the paint was
quite washed off the rockers.
On the other side of the walk was a small wheelbarrow, half full of
little pebbles.
"Do you know who is buried here?" I asked the guide.
"We must walk along," he said hurriedly, without answering my question.
"There's a funeral coming up this path."
I was sorry to go away, for I wanted to hear about the little boy or
girl who had been called away from its toys. I wanted to ask whether
the child had loved God, and had gone to live with the Saviour; but
there was no time, now. We turned off into a side path, and then after
the procession of mourners had passed on, we followed to an open grave
where a child was to be buried.
We all stood back while the men lowered the small coffin into the
ground, and then I ventured near and looked down the narrow vault. I
thought of the time when my little babe was buried from my sight, and
the tears flowed down my cheeks.
"Did you ever lose a child?" sobbed a woman near me, catching hold of
my arm.
"Yes," I said; "it was my first, and then, my only one."
"Did it die suddenly?"
I bowed my head.
"Then you can pity me. Yesterday, my darling Amy was as well as ever.
Her father brought in some cherries, and she begged for some. I gave
her three. Oh, how she jumped and screamed with joy!"
Hero the poor mother began to cry and sob so violently that she could
not speak. A young woman near tried to soothe her, and presently said,
turning to me, "Poor little Amy got a cherry-stone down her windpipe,
and it killed her."
"Oh, dear!" sobbed the weeping mother. "Only yesterday she was alive,
and so happy; I can't go home without her! Oh, what shall I do?"
"Can't you trust her with her Savior?" I asked. "You know how he loved
little children. It was very hard for me, at first; but now it comforts
me to think that my baby boy is happy in heaven. He wears—"
"'A crown upon his forehead
A harp within his hand.'"
"He is clothed with spotless robes and with the choir of infant
worshippers is singing praise to the Lamb forever. Doesn't it comfort
you to think of Amy there?"
She wiped away her tears and said, softly, "I should love to think of
her in heaven; but, oh, I shall be dreadfully lonesome without her."
I put out my hand and she shook it as if she could not bear to part.
When we were almost out of sight, I looked back, and she was weeping
bitterly, while the sexton began to throw the earth upon the coffin.
CHAPTER II.
WILLIE'S HAPPY DEATH.
As we passed the yard where we had seen the rocking-horse, we found two
ladies standing near the gate. Presently one of them took a key from
her pocket, unlocked it and went in; and then a gentleman of our party
recognized in her an old friend.
"This is where our dear Willie is buried," said the lady. "His mother
made me promise to come very often to visit the place."
"The last time I saw him, he was riding on his rocking-horse," replied
the gentleman, gazing round him with new interest.
"Do you remember how he loved to sing?"
"Yes, ah, yes! but, his songs are ended, now."
"No, indeed!" exclaimed the lady, earnestly; "they are but just begun;
I often think how he used to walk with me hour after hour on the beach,
humming to himself his favorite hymn,—
"'I have a Father in the promised land,
I have a Father in the promised land.
My Father calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"How little his mother or any of us realized that his Father was
calling him."
"Dear child!" I exclaimed, trying to keep back my tears. "And was he
willing to go at last?"
"He was almost impatient to be gone. One day his mother sat bathing
his hot head, and she said, 'Willie, are you going to leave mother all
alone? I thought you loved your sea-side home,—that you liked to hear
the waves roar and dash up against the rocks; I didn't think you would
be so glad to leave us all.'"
"He looked sadly in her face for a minute, drew her hand to his mouth
and kissed it, and then smiles lighted up his pale face as he began to
sing,—
"'I have a Saviour in the promised land,
I have a Saviour in the promised land.
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"'Don't cry so, mother,' he said, as he felt her tears drop on his
hand; 'do let me sing the rest.' And then in a voice almost of rapture
he went on,—"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,
I'll away, I'll away to the promised land.
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"Not an hour before he died, and after he seemed to have lost
consciousness, we heard a low, murmuring sound, and on listening
intently he was once more repeating these words. I love to come here,"
added the lady, looking with moistened eyes at the playthings which had
belonged to her beloved nephew, "but I love still better to think of
him as he is now—a bright angel before the throne of God, tuning his
harp to the praises of God forever and forever."
Dear little boy or girl who may road this story of Willie's grave, will
you not try to live so that when your heavenly Father calls, you will
gladly obey the summons to heaven? This lovely child was surrounded by
everything to make life pleasant. He lived by the sea, where he could
see the ships ride by in all their grandeur. He could wander along the
smooth beach and pick up glistening shells and stones. His parents had
money, and were ready to grant every desire of his heart; and yet he
was willing to leave all, and lay his body to rest in the ground. Why
could he do this? It was because he had a Friend—a Father—a Saviour in
heaven, whom he loved better than the rolling ocean, his pleasant home,
or even than his earthly parents.
For more than two years Willie had tried to please this heavenly
Friend, by keeping his commandments, by honoring his father and mother,
being kind to his brother, correcting the faults in his temper, and
doing good to those about him.
This was the reason why Willie could answer so cheerfully when God
called him home,—
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
The Substitute.
CHAPTER I.
GRANDMA FROST.
"I'm glad that old woman don't live at our house," exclaimed Helen
Dobbs, in a petulant tone. "Is she any relation of yours, or what is it
makes you wait on her so?"
"Oh, there's a sad story about her," answered Jane. "I must get mother
to tell you about her son."
"Well, I know I wouldn't be bothered with her. Just think how often she
calls you to do something, when we're having such a good time at our
play."
"Yes, I know; and I'm sorry to say that often I am angry to be
interrupted. Then she is sometimes cross herself; and I have to think
of all we owe her before I can readily oblige her. But mother says,
instead of hurting me, all this discipline will do me good, if I keep
my own heart right."
"I'm sure, Jane, I don't know what you mean."
"Well, perhaps I don't explain it right. But I'll try to tell you. One
day, Grandma Frost—we always call her grandma, though she's no relation
to us—was sick, or nervous, or cross, and as I was going down stairs I
heard her speak quite sharply to mother. I was real angry; you know, I
have naturally a very passionate temper, though I do try to control it,
so I ran right into the room with my face as red as fire."
"'I shouldn't think you would speak so,' I exclaimed, 'when mother does
nothing but wait upon you from morning till night.'"
Helen laughed aloud. "That's right! What did the old woman say?"
"No. I knew I was doing wrong; at least as soon as I had spoken. And
when mother fixed her eyes upon me in such a grieved way, I was sorry
enough to bite my lips off. 'Go out of the room,' grandma said. I ran
to my chamber, and had a great cry. Then mother came in and sat down
by me, and talked, oh, so beautifully! I cried harder than ever, but
I wasn't angry then; and ever since, when she asks me to do something
which I dislike I have only to stop a moment and call to mind what
mother said, to be ready to do anything grandma asks."
"Well, you may do it if you like," cried Helen, her nose turned up in
a most contemptuous manner; "but I shan't be such a fool as to humor
all her whims. All I can say is, that if such an old woman were at our
house I'd soon make her mend her manners or I'd contrive some way to be
rid of her."
"You wouldn't say so, if you knew how she came to be here," was the
tremulous reply. "I can't tell you, for I always begin to cry, but
mother will; I'll ask her this very evening."
Company called, however, which prevented this; and a day or two of
Helen's visit passed, without her learning the reason for Mrs. Dobbs's
great kindness and forbearance with a woman, evidently from a low
station in life, and who exhibited no gratitude for such favors.
One morning Mrs. Dobbs accompanied her husband to the city, about four
miles distant, and Jane was away on an errand. Helen, therefore, was
left to amuse herself as she pleased. She read in the library until she
was tired, and then sauntered through the hall up-stairs to her own
chamber.
As she passed Mrs. Frost's room she heard a querulous voice, calling,
"Miss Dobbs!" "Jane! Jane!"
Helen, naughty girl that she was began to laugh. "Now I'll have some
fun," she thought.
She kept quiet, and the calling ceased; but the moment she began to
make her boots squeak, the old lady cried, "Jane!" "Miss Dobbs! I want
yer."
"I have a great mind," said Helen to herself, "to go in and give her a
real blowing up. I'm sure she deserves it, and it's somebody's duty;
for she does abuse, Mrs. Dobbs shamefully." She started to go into the
room just as the old lady began to sob out, "I might as well be dead
and laid by the side of Jotham; for nobody cares for me now."
"What are you crying for?" inquired Helen, walking toward the bed.
"Where's Miss Dobbs?"
"Gone to the city."
"And Jane, too?"
"No; Jane has gone down to the store."
"They might have told me they were going," faltered the old woman,
beginning to cry again.
"'Tisn't very likely Mrs. Dobbs would ask your leave every time she
wished to go out," answered Helen, her anger getting the better of her
prudence. "I think 'twould appear much better in you to be thankful
that you have a good home here, instead of finding fault all the time
as you do. I'm sure everybody sees how Mrs. Dobbs and Jane make slaves
of themselves to put up with your whims."
Mrs. Frost grew deadly pale, and caught her breath with difficulty; but
without noticing it, Helen went on;
"Even the servants complain of your ill temper; and Hannah gave notice
yesterday that she must leave if she couldn't get better rest, for what
with your scolding and whining she didn't sleep half the night. I'm
sure if they have to keep you here, I don't see what you want to make
yourself so disagreeable for."
The old woman threw up her hands, as if her distress was beyond
her power to express, and then sank back on the pillow, with such
unmistakable marks of suffering that Helen became alarmed.
She flew to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, and then dashed a
tumbler full of water in the sick woman's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" cried Hannah, rushing into the room.
"I was only talking to her, and she fell right back," responded the
young girl.
"Well, let me come, for you look about as pale as she does. Why, I
declare! I do believe she's dead or in a swoon. Ring again, miss; will
you, for the cook? I'm sure, I don't think mistress can blame me, for I
only ran down to do some little chores; and I left her asleep, too."
Mrs. Peasely, the cook, now made her appearance; and a moment after
Jane came running gaily up the stairs.
"Why, Helen, what are you crying about?" she said putting her arms
round her friend's neck.
"Don't speak to me now!" was the impatient response. "I'm frightened
almost to death."
"Jane," called out Mrs. Peasely, coming to the door, "Do run and find
somebody to go for the doctor. I do wish your mother was here."
The young girl darted to the side of the bed, gave one lingering glance
at the pale form lying there, and then sprang forward exclaiming, "I'll
go myself; I saw him riding down the street."
Before the doctor came, Mrs. Dobbs returned from town. Mrs. Frost,
under the vigorous measures of the cook, had revived from her long
swoon, and was lying quiet and apparently asleep, while Helen was in
her room writing a request to her mother to send for her to go home.
Jane came in and began to expostulate. "Why!" said she, "your mother
gave you leave to stay all summer."
Helen burst into tears. "I wouldn't stay here when that old woman dies;
no, not for the world." She shuddered as she added, "I don't like to be
in the house when there are death and funerals."
"We must all die, sometime," murmured Jane, in a thoughtful tone.
"But," she added after a minute, "mother doesn't think she will die at
present; she says she has been subject to these faint turns ever since
Jotham died; only she staid in this longer than usual."
"I heard her speak of Jotham," said Helen, growing very red. "Was he
her son?"
"Yes, but I can't bear to think about him." Tears gushed to Jennie's
eyes; but she put her hand on her friend's letter, and saying, "Don't
send it!" left the room.