rather have had such a playmate than all the toys his father bought
him. His little heart was brim full of love, and his birds, and
rabbits, and ponies were well enough, but they couldn't say, "Georgey,
I love you;" neither could he make them understand what he was thinking
about; so he wearied of them, and would often linger in the street, and
look after the little groups of children so wistfully, that I quite
pitied him. I used to think that, with all his money, he wasn't half as
happy as little Pat and Neil Connor, two little Irish brothers who
played hop-scotch every day under my window.
* * *
It was a very cold day in January. Jack Frost had been out all day on a
frolic, and was still busily at work. He had drawn all sorts of
pictures on the window panes, such as beautiful trees and flowers, and
great towering castles, and tall-masted ships, and church spires, and
little cottages, (so oddly shaped); beside birds that "Audubon" never
dreamed of, and animals that Noah never huddled into the ark. Then he
festooned all the eaves, the fences, and trees, and bushes with crystal
drops, which sparkled and glittered in the sunbeams like royal
diamonds--then he hung icicles on the poor old horses' noses, and
tripped up the heels of precise old bachelors, and sent the old maids
spinning round on the sidewalks, till they were perfectly ashamed of
themselves; and then he got into the houses, and burst and cracked all
the water pitchers, and choked up the steady old pump, so that it might
as well have been without a nose as with one, and pinched the cheeks of
the little girls till they were as red as a pulpit cushion, blew right
through the key hole on grandpa's poor, rheumatic old back, and ran
round the street corner, tearing open folks' cloaks, and shawls, and
furred wrappers, till they shook as if they had an ague fit. I verily
believe he'd just as quick trip up our minister's heels as yours or
mine! Oh, he is a graceless rogue--that Jack Frost! and many's the time
he's tipped Aunt Fanny's venerable nose with indigo.
Georgey didn't care a penny whistle for the fellow, all muffled up to
the chin in his little wadded velvet sack, with a rich cashmere scarf
of his mother's wound about his neck, and a velvet cap crushed down
over his bright, curly head.
How the sleighs did fly past! with their gaily fringed buffaloes, and
prancing horses necklaced with little tinkling bells. How merry the
pretty ladies peeped from out their gay worsted hoods! Oh! it was a
pretty sight,--Georgey liked it--everybody moved so briskly, and seemed
so happy!
What ails Georgey now? He has crossed the street, stopped short, and
the bright color flushes his cheeks, till he looks quite beautiful. Ah!
he has spied a little apple girl, seated upon the icy pavement. The
wind is making merry with her thin rags,--her little toes peep, blue
and benumbed, from out her half-worn shoes,--and she is blowing on her
stiffened fingers, vainly trying to keep them warm.
Georgey looked down at his nice warm coat, and then at Kate's thin
cotton gown. Georgey never was cold in his life, never hungry. His eyes
fill--his little breast heaves. Then quickly untwisting the thick, warm
scarf from his little throat, he throws it round her shivering form and
says, with a glad smile, _That will warm you!_--and bounds out of sight
before she can thank him. Old Mr. Prince stands by, wiping his eyes,
and says, "God bless the boy!--that's worth a dozen sermons; I'll send
a load of wood to little Kate's mother."
MAY MORNING.
Oh, May is a coquette! Don't trust her. She will smile on you one
minute, and frown on you the next--toss you flowers with one hand, and
hail stones with the other. _I_ know her. Many's the time she has
coaxed me out of a good, warm bed, wheedled me into the fields in a
white dress and thin shoes, and then sent me home wet as a drowned
kitten, with a snapping headache, to a cold breakfast.
Yes--I used to "go a-Maying."
Such a watching of the clouds and weather-cock the night before; such a
fixing of sashes, and wreaths, and hats, and dresses; so many charges
to Betty, the cook, to wake us up by daylight; such a wondering how
mother and father could lie a-bed of a May morning;--such a tossing,
and twisting, and turning, the night before; such a putting aside of
muslin curtains, to see if it wasn't "most daylight;" such surprise
when Aunt Esther came creeping up stairs, shading her night-lamp and
saying, "it was only ten o'clock!" Such broken slumbers as we had--such
funny dreams--and such a galvanic jump out of bed the next morning,
when Betty gave us one of her pump-handle shakes. Then such a time
washing, and combing, and dressing! such long faces when a great
thumping rain drop fell upon the window! such a consultation as to the
expediency of wearing our "best clothes;" such clapping of hands when
the sun finally shone out again; such fears lest Anna Maria and Sarah
Sophia's mother wouldn't let them come to meet us as they promised.
Such a tip-toeing over wet sidewalks, out into the country; such a talk
after we got off the brick pavements, as to which was the prettiest
road; such a wondering what _had_ become of all the flowers; such
regrets that we didn't think to fill our pockets with crackers; such a
picking out of pebble stones from thin shoes; such a drawing up of thin
shawls over shivering shoulders; such a dismay when a great black cloud
emptied itself down on our "best clothes;" such congratulations when
our good-natured, rosy-faced, merry milkman meeting us, stowed and
wedged us away amid his milk-cans, to bring us safely back to the city.
Such a creeping in the back way, lest "that torment of a Tom" should
laugh at us; such a coaxing of Betty to cook us a good, hot breakfast;
and such a gaping and yawning in school for a week after.
Oh! you know all about it,--everybody knows that it is just as sure to
rain on a May morning, as it is to thaw when your schoolmaster attempts
to treat himself and you to a sleigh-ride on _your_ hoarded ninepences!
So take my advice and turn your back on May--she is a fickle little
gypsey. Ask the first Irishman you meet if June isn't the month to go
a-Maying?--June, with her light, green robe, and violet-slippered feet,
and sweet, warm breath, and rose-garlanded hair? ah, June is the month
to go a-Maying! Pat will tell you so.
THE LITTLE DANDELION MERCHANT.
Tattered straw hat, buttonless jacket, and shoeless feet. That is a
large basket for so young a lad as Jemmy to carry. He brushed the dew
from the grass this morning by daylight; his stock in trade consisting
of only a jack-knife and that basket; but "Uncle Sam" owns the
dandelions, and Jim is a Yankee, (born with a trading bump,) and
ninepence a basket is something to think of. To be sure he has cut his
bare feet with a stone, but that's a trifle. See, he is on his way to
the big house yonder, for the old housekeeper and her mistress have
both a tooth for dandelions. Jemmy swings the tattered part of his hat
round behind, and using a patch of grass for a mat, steps lightly up
the avenue.
How still and mirror-like the little pond looks. How gracefully the
long willow-tips bend to kiss the surface; how lazily the little gold
fish float beneath. There is not air enough to shake the perfume from
out the locust blossoms, and old Bruno has crawled into the shade,
although the sun is not two hours high.
What a fine old house! and how many dandelions somebody must have dug
to buy it!--Jemmy's arithmetic couldn't compute it; and that fine
statue, too, on the brink of the pond, with its finger on its lip;
(it's no use, is it Jemmy?) the birds won't "hush" for the daintiest
bit of marble ever sculptured; nested to their minds; no taxes to
pay;--nothing to do but warble. May no sportsman's gun send them
quivering through the branches.
Now Jemmy has reached the kitchen door, and gives a modest rap. Smart
"Tim," the footman, opens it, and with one application of his
aristocratic toe, sends the dandelion basket spinning down the avenue!
Jemmy's Yankee blood is up; his dark eyes flash lightning, he clenches
his brown fist, sets his ivory teeth together, and brings his little
bare foot down on the gravel-walk, with an emphasis; but he sees it is
no use, he is no match for the pampered footman; and great rebellious
tears gather in his eyes, as he picks up his scattered treasures,
saying,--"Ninepence would have bought my book."
"Would it, Jemmy? Well--here it is--'the fairies' have sent it you."
What a pretty picture he makes, as he pushes back his thick locks, and
flashes those great, dark, Italian eyes--it is worth a hundred
ninepences to see such a beaming face.
After all, dear reader, one need not be a "Rothschild," to make a
fellow creature glad. Happiness is a cheaper thing than we are apt to
think.
WALTER WILLET.
Did you ever live in a hotel? I dare say you may have, (some time or
other, when you have been on a journey.) Perhaps your _home_ is in a
hotel. I hope not; because a good, cozy, quiet house of one's own, away
from noise and bustle, is so much better for little children--and grown
people too.
Walter lived in a hotel, with his father and mother and two little
sisters. Walter was very tired of it. His mother never staid in the
nursery; she was always down in the drawing-room, talking to
finely-dressed ladies; and, when his father came home from the store,
he never played with his little boy, but went into the gentlemen's
room, to smoke cigars.
The nursery was very small, and Walter's two little sisters cried a
great deal--sometimes from pain, and sometimes because Betty, the
nurse, got cross and shook them roughly, and took no pains to amuse
them when their mother staid away such a long, long while. So, little
Walter didn't fancy staying in the nursery much, and as he was not
allowed to go into the drawing-room, for fear his shirt-collar might be
tumbled, or his jacket on awry, or his boots have a mud speck on them,
the poor child had nothing left to do but wander round the hall and
lobbies, and see the chambermaids sweep the rooms, and hear the waiters
swear at each other, and watch the stages and trunks and passengers
come and go.
When Walter wearied of this, he'd creep into the "bar-room," and watch
the clerk pour out brandy, and wine and whiskey for the gentlemen to
drink. Walter liked to see them drink it, because it made them laugh so
hard, and clap each other on the back, and tell such funny stories; and
then, sometimes, they would call to him and feed him with the sugar and
brandy in the bottom of the tumbler; and Walter thought it very sweet
and nice, and made up his mind that when _he_ grew to be a man, he'd
have just as much brandy as ever he could drink.
Walter's mamma didn't think, as she sat there in the drawing-room,
dressed like a French doll, that her little curly headed Walter was
learning how to be a drunkard; no, she was a careless young mamma, and
didn't think, (perhaps she didn't know,) how closely little children
must be watched, to make them grow good men and women.
Sometimes Walter went down to peep into the kitchen. There is always a
great deal going on in a hotel kitchen,--so many turkeys and chickens
and birds and fish to fix for dinner. Walter liked to see them roast a
little pig whole, and then put an ear of corn in his mouth and lay him
on a plate--or make a lobster salad look like a turtle, or a boiled ham
like a _pork_-upine! Then Pietro, the cook, was worth looking at,
himself. He was a great six-footer of an Italian; with eyes--(my
senses, how big and how black they were!) Walter thought he must look
like the robbers that his uncle John, who had been across the seas,
used to tell about. Then, Pietro had such big, fierce whiskers, too,
and always wore a bright scarlet cap, with a long gilt tassel, and
altogether, for a cook, he looked very picturesque--(Aunt Fanny knows
that's a long word, but you must look it out in the dictionary.) When
Pietro got angry with any of the waiters, I promise you he'd make his
frying-pan fly across the kitchen as if it were bewitched, and then
poor little Walter would fly up stairs as fast as his little fat legs
could carry him.
But Pietro was not always cross, for all he looked as though he had
been fed on thunder; no--he often tossed Walter a bunch of raisins, or
a rosy apple; and it was quite beautiful when he _did_ smile, to see
his white teeth glitter. Sometimes, when he was waiting for some dish
to cook, he would take Walter on his knee, and tell him of his own
beautiful bright Italy, where the skies were as soft and blue as
Walter's eyes, and where (if we might believe Pietro) one might dance
and sing and eat grapes forever, without working for them; but when
Walter looked up innocently and said, "then why didn't you stay there,
Pietro?" Pietro would drop him as if he had been a red-hot potatoe, and
hiss something in Italian from between his teeth, that poor little
Walter could not begin to understand; but as he was a pretty sensible
little boy, he always took himself off till Pietro felt better natured,
and asked him no more questions.
One rainy day Walter had wandered all over the hotel, trying to get
amused. The nurse had a friend call to see her, and she had given his
little sisters all Walter's playthings, to keep them quiet, that they
need not trouble _her_; and Walter's mamma told him, when he put his
little head into the drawing-room, that "she didn't care what he did,
if he didn't bother _her_;" so the poor little fellow was quite at his
wits' ends to know what to do with himself. Finally it struck him that
it would be fine fun to "play fish." So he went to one of his mother's
drawers and got a long string, on the end of which he fastened a
crooked pin; then he went way up--up--up--so _many_ flights of stairs,
to the very highest entry he could find, way to the top of the house;
from there the stair-case wound round, and round, and round, like a
cork-screw, down into the front entry, far enough to make you dizzy to
look over.
Well, Walter let down his line, and then he reached over his little
curly head to see how far it went. Poor, merry, bright-eyed little
Walter!--how can I tell the rest? Over he went, beating and bruising
his little head--down--down--till he reached the marble floor in the
lower entry, where he was taken up--_dead_!
His young mamma cried very hard,--but that didn't bring back her poor,
neglected little boy; but it made her a better mother. She loves to
stay in the nursery now, with Walter's little sisters nestled in her
lap; and sometimes when they smile, she will part the sunny curls from
their little foreheads, and the tears will fall like rain drops on
their rosy faces, as she remembers her poor, darling, mangled, little
Walter.
CHILDREN, DID YOU EVER HEAR OF MR. "THEY SAY?"
I shan't ask you if you ever saw him, because I know that, like other
cowards, he generally skulks out of sight; but I'm very sure if you
could get a peep at him, you would find that he had a "cloven foot."
But if I can't tell you _who_ Mr. "They Say" is, I can tell you _what_
he is.
It quite drives him frantic to see any person happier than himself, or
more fortunate; and as sure as any one gets more love, or more money,
than he has, he will knit his ugly brows to contrive somehow to give
them the heart-ache. Sometimes he will do it in one way, and sometimes
in another; sometimes he will do it by shrugging his shoulders, shaking
his head, and looking as if he _could_ say something dreadful bad about
a person, if he only had a mind to. He has made many a poor woman, who
had no brave arm to strike the coward down, weep her bright eyes dim,
till she longed to lay her aching head with the silent company in the
quiet church-yard.
You'd suppose that nobody who owned a heart, would ever choose the
society of such a wicked villain. You'd suppose nobody who loved God,
would ever listen to him, or repeat his false sayings; but, alas!
people are so fond of hearing "something new," that they can't make up
their minds to turn their backs upon him; so they sit, and smile, and
listen, till he has nothing more to tell, and then they draw down their
faces, and tell him he "_ought not to talk so_!"--just as if Mr. "They
Say" didn't see that they were perfectly delighted with him? Certainly,
he goes off laughing in his sleeve to think they suppose him such a
fool.
Mr. "They Say" is a very great traveler. It is astonishing how much
ground he can get over without the help of steamboats, cars, stages, or
telegraph wires. He may be found in a thousand places at once--in every
little village in the United States--in every house and shop and hotel
and office. _Editors_ are very fond of Mr. "They Say." They always give
him the best chair in the office, for he is an amazing help to them. In
fact, it is Aunt Fanny's opinion, that their newspapers would die a
natural death without him. To be sure, he sometimes gets them into
shocking scrapes with his big fibs; but they know how to twist and turn
out of it.
Yes, Mr. "They Say" is a cowardly liar! He couldn't look an honest man
straight in the eye, any more than he could face a cannon ball. He
would turn as pale as a snow-wreath, and melt into nothing just about
as quick.
Oh! Aunt Fanny knows all about him. So when he comes on _her_ track,
she looks straight at her inkstand, and minds her own business. She
knows that nothing plagues the old fellow like being treated with
perfect indifference. _That's_ the way to kill him off!
THE LITTLE MARTYR.
How brightly the silver moon shines in that little bow window! Let us
peep in. What do you see? A little girl lies there sleeping. She is
very fair--tears are upon her cheeks--she sighs heavily, and clasps a
letter tightly to her little bosom.
She is young to know sorrow. Life's morning should be all
sunshine;--clouds come at its noon and eve.
* * *
Listen! some one glides gently into Nettie's room. It is a very old
lady, but her form is drawn up as straight as your own, though her face
is seamed with wrinkles and her hand trembles with age. She is stern
and hard-featured. Should you meet her anywhere you would feel a chill
come over you, as if the bright sun were clouded. You never would dare
to lay your head upon her lap, and you would not think of kissing her,
any more than you would a stone post.
See! she creeps up to Nettie's bed, and a heavy frown gathers on her
wrinkled face as she spies the letter on her bosom. Now she draws it
from between the child's fingers, reads it, mutters something between
her closed teeth, and then burns it to cinders in the candle; then she
shakes her head, and frowning darkly at little Nettie, glides,
spectre-like, out of the room.
* * *
The same bright moon shines in at a window in the city. It is past
midnight, but a lady sits there, toiling, toiling, toiling, though her
lids long ago drooped heavily, and the candle is nearly burned to the
socket. _Why_ does she toil? Why does she sigh? Why does she get up and
walk the floor as if afraid that sleep may overtake her?
Ah! a mother's love never dies out. That lady is Nettie's mother. She
has something to work _for_;--she is trying to earn money enough (cent
by cent) to bring home, and clothe and feed that poor little weeping,
home-sick Nettie, who cried herself to sleep, with her mother's letter
hugged to her bosom.
The old lady whom you saw burning Nettie's letter, was her grandmother.
She was very jealous of Nettie's mother, because her son (Nettie's
father,) loved her so well; and after he died she revenged herself upon
her, by giving her all the pain she could. She promised if Nettie would
come and live with her to be kind to her; and as Nettie's mother and
little sister Ida hadn't enough to eat, Nettie had to go and live with
the old lady. She cried very hard, and her mother cried too, and so did
Nettie's little sister Ida; but the old lady promised that Nettie
should come often and see them, and that they should come and see her.
But she only said so to get Nettie away. After she got her she was very
unkind to her, and used to tell her that her mother "was a foolish
woman--not fit to bring her up"--and when Nettie got up to leave the
room, because she couldn't bear to hear her talk against her dear
mother, the old lady would shake her, and bring her back, and sit her
down on the chair so hard as to make her cry with pain, and then force
her to hear all she had to say.
You may be sure that all this made poor little Nettie feel very
miserable. She had nothing to amuse her; she wasn't allowed to drive
hoop, because it was "boy's play;" she wasn't allowed to go to walk,
for fear she would "wear her shoes out;" she wasn't allowed to read
story-books, for fear she "wouldn't study;" she wasn't allowed to play
with dolls, because "it was silly;" she mustn't go visiting, because
"it wasn't proper;" she mustn't have a playmate come to see her,
because "it made a disturbance;" she couldn't have a kitten, because
"animals were a nuisance;" she mustn't talk to her grandmother, because
"little girls must be seen and not heard." So she sat there, like a
little automaton, and watched the clock tick, and counted the times her
grandmother put on and took off her spectacles, and thought of her
mother and little sister till she bit her finger nails so that they
bled.
Once in a great while, when Nettie had worried her self nearly sick,
she got leave to go and see her mother. Then her grandmother always put
on her worst clothes, to try to make her ashamed to go, and when she
found that Nettie didn't care for her clothes, if she could only see
her mother, she scolded and fretted and worried her, and gave her so
many charges to come home at a particular hour, else she should be
punished, that poor Nettie didn't enjoy her visit at all, but would
start and turn pale every time she heard a clock strike, and get so
nervous as to bring on a bad headache; and then, when she got home, the
old lady would say that it was just like her mother to make her sick,
and that she shouldn't go again.
Perhaps you'll ask if Nettie's mother never went to see her. You know
it costs money to go in the cars, and Nettie's mother had no money,
though she tried hard to earn it. Once in a while she could save up
cents enough to carry her there; but she always had to carry something
in her pocket for little Ida and herself to eat, for the old lady
wouldn't offer them even a glass of water, because she didn't want them
to come and see Nettie.
When they got there poor little Nettie would meet them at the door,
with a troubled, frightened look upon her face; and without speaking a
word, would lead them through the entry by the hand into her own little
room; then she'd close the door, and after looking timidly about the
room, jump into her mother's lap and kiss her hands and face, and cry
and laugh, and hug little Ida; and Ida and her mother would cry too,
and then Nettie would ask, sobbing, "if her mother hadn't earned money
enough yet to take her away," and say that she'd rather starve with her
mother, than live there, she was so wretched. And Nettie's mother would
kiss her, and soothe her, and tell her how late she sat up toiling to
get money; and then Nettie would cry for fear her mother would get
sick, and then they'd all kiss each other, and almost _wish_ that God
would let them die (then) just as they were--_together_.
* * *
Again the silver harvest-moon shines down upon the silent city. Through
a curtained window its rays fall softly upon a bed, where lies a lady
sleeping. See! she smiles! _What! Nettie's mother smile?_ Ah, yes; for
_Nettie's_ golden head is pillowed on her breast. Nettie's loving arms
are twined about her neck. God is good;--the "barrel of meal" does not
fail, nor the "cruse of oil." Well may Nettie's mother smile, now that
all she craves on earth is in her clasping arms.
SELFISH MATTHEW.
Such a selfish boy as Matthew was! You wouldn't have given a fig to
play with him. He had carpenters' tools and books, and chequers and
chess, and drawing materials, and balls and kites, and little ships and
skates, and snow-shovels and sleds. Oh! I couldn't tell you _all_ he
had, if I talked a week.
Well, if you went in of a Saturday afternoon to play with him, he'd
watch all these things as closely as a cat would a mouse; and if you
went within shooting distance of them, he'd sing out,--"D-o-n-'t;
t-h-a-t-'s m-i-n-e!" Of course it wasn't much fun to go and see him.
You'd got to play everything he wanted, or he'd pout and say he
wouldn't play at all. He had slices of cake, that he had hoarded up
till they were as hard as his heart; and cents, and dimes, and half
dimes, that he used to handle and jingle and count over, like any
little miser. All the beggars in the world couldn't have coaxed one out
of his pocket had they been starving to death.