little children were playing, in a pretty little village in the State
of South Carolina. "Robert," said little Nina, to a dark-eyed boy of
twelve years, "I'm tired of staying in this unfurnished room; it isn't
pretty. Hasn't mother most done baking, Robert? Can't we go into the
kitchen? I'm afraid of the Indians, too, without mamma."
Robert took his little sister in his arms, and stroked her little black
head, and kissed her cheek, and then he drew himself proudly up,
saying, "Nina? Do you see that gun? Well, it is loaded, and I know how
to use it."
"Oh, Robert!" said Nina, "hush! Is not that mamma screaming? Oh,
Robert, hide me--the Indians--the Indians!"
Robert had just time to seize his gun, when a tall Indian opened the
door, and receiving the contents of it in his face, fell, quivering, to
the floor.
Bald Eagle, the chief of the party, heard the report of Robert's gun,
and rushed in with a dozen Indians. Robert, with his eye flashing, was
standing over the dead Indian, with one arm round his little sister,
who was clinging to his jacket.
Bald Eagle admired bravery; so, when the other Indians seized Robert by
the hair to tomahawk him, for killing their comrade, he said, "No;--the
pappoose is brave enough to make a chief. He shall go home with Bald
Eagle and be his son."
The Indians frowned, for they thirsted for somebody's blood. They
seized hold of Nina's long curls to kill _her_; but Robert clung to the
old chief's knees, and, though he didn't think much of girls or women,
Bald Eagle said, "She shall live--to please the boy."
The Indians lowered their tomahawks, for they didn't dare to disobey
Bald Eagle, and led Nina and Robert out of the house, which had been
set on fire and was beginning to burn.
As they passed the kitchen door, Nina gave a loud scream, for there lay
her mother, across the threshold, quite dead. The old chief lifted his
tomahawk, frowning at her fiercely from beneath his nodding plume, and
Robert whispered, "Hush, Nina, or they will kill you, too;" and Nina
stifled her sobs, and permitted the Indians to lead her away.
What a weary, weary march they had of it, through the forest; and how
Nina shrunk when the Indians lifted her up to carry her in their arms;
how she looked imploringly at Robert, and how he smiled and nodded, and
tried to make her feel as if he would protect her always. How
frightened she was when Bald Eagle tied a cord to Robert's hands every
night, and fastened the end of it to his wrists before he went to
sleep; and how she used to lie awake and look at those grim old
Indians, sleeping there on their blankets, and think of her mother,
till it seemed as though God must be dead, or such wicked men wouldn't
be alive.
After many, many miles had been traveled over, they reached the Indian
camp, where the squaws and pappooses and old men lived. The old squaws
walked round Nina, and turned her about, and then they gave her some
food which she couldn't eat, because she wanted to cry so much; and
they gave her a blanket, to wrap round her, and taught her how to sew
beads on bags and moccasins, and put a pair of pewter earrings in her
ears, and combed her hair all back, and named her "The Little Fawn,"
and tried to make a little Indian of her.
Bald Eagle was very fond of Robert. He named him "The Young Eagle;" and
gave him a bow and arrow, and a gun; and took him out hunting; and
every time he shot a bird, or wounded a deer, he would pat him on the
head and say: "Good,--by and by scalp the pale faces."
Robert never contradicted Bald Eagle, but appeared as if he were quite
contented, and tried to shoot as well as he could, to please him; and
so Bald Eagle gave him much more liberty to run about, and thought
every thing he did was about right.
But Robert had a great many thoughts passing in that little head of
his, that Bald Eagle knew very little about. He couldn't look at Nina's
little pale, sorrowful face without resolving to get away as soon as he
could. It made his heart ache to see her wrapped in that ugly blanket,
sitting there sewing beads, instead of learning to read and spell and
write; and whenever he got a chance he would whisper something in her
ear that would make her smile, and nod her little head, and press his
hand confidingly.
Bald Eagle had a brother-in-law named "Winged Arrow," because he could
run so fast. He was a white man that had been taken captive by the
Indians some years before, and had married Bald Eagle's sister. Robert
liked him,--perhaps, because he was a pale face; perhaps, because he
thought he might pity him and Nina enough to help them get away some
time; so, he used to stay all he could with Winged Arrow, and bring him
game that he shot; and Nina worked a pair of moccasins for his squaw;
and Winged Arrow was a very good friend to them.
One day he and Robert were out hunting together, and Robert told him
how much he wanted to get away with Nina; and then Winged Arrow told
him that he was getting tired of Indian life, too; and that very soon
there was to be a hunting party, when all the Indians would go away for
two days, leaving Nina and Robert with the squaws and some old chiefs,
and that he (Winged Arrow) was to go, too. But he said that he would
pretend to hurt his foot just as they started, so as to be left behind;
and then he would manage to get away with Nina and Robert.
Robert didn't jump up and down and clap his hands;--no; he had lived
among the Indians too long for that; he just nodded, as gravely as if
he were sitting with Bald Eagle over a council fire, and they separated
and went into the wigwam.
Well, the hunting day name, and Winged Arrow managed to get left; and
after the Indians had all gone, Nina, who sat making moccasins, asked
the old squaw to let her play with Robert outside the wigwam. At first,
she said no; but Winged Arrow said he would watch them; so she gave
them leave.
They played about some time, running in and out of the wigwam, and then
going off, gradually, farther and further. By and by Winged Arrow
joined them, and getting out of sight, he caught Nina in his arms, and
made good his name never stopping to breathe till they were miles and
miles away from the encampment.
Toward nightfall of the second day, they halted for a few minutes, when
a dog bounded past them, that belonged to the tribe. Winged Arrow knew
that unless the dog was instantly killed, he would run back and betray
them. He did not dare to shoot him with his rifle, on account of the
noise; so he told Robert to fire an arrow at him; and then Winged Arrow
knocked him in the head with his gun, and hid him under the bushes.
Then Winged Arrow put his ear to the ground and listened; then he
caught up Nina and ran (telling Robert to follow) till they came to a
stream in which they all waded for some distance, to throw their
followers off the trail. Then Winged Arrow stepped out and put Nina up
in a great tree, and Robert and he got up in another. Before long Bald
Eagle and several other Indians came along, listening and peeping, and
finally halted under the very trees where they were; and some of the
Indians proposed building a council fire and staying there all night,
but Bald Eagle objected; so they rested a while and then moved on.
You may be sure that the children were in a dreadful fright, and very
glad, when they came down, to be on the Indians' trail, instead of
having them on theirs.
Winged Arrow made up his mind to take the children to Charleston, where
the American army was; so, they traveled cautiously on, not meeting any
more Indians, till they reached the American camp in safety.
Robert and Nina were so glad to get among white people again, even
though they were strangers. The General was very kind, and promised to
protect them.
It was not long before Bald Eagle found them out. He really loved
Robert, and was quite determined to have him back. When he saw him
again, although he was an Indian, he almost cried for joy.
The General asked Robert if he wished to go back with Bald Eagle.
Robert put his arms around Nina and said, "No!" Bald Eagle looked very
sorrowful, but the General wouldn't let him have the children; so he
had to go away home, to his old squaw, without 'em.
Winged Arrow found kind friends who gave him some work to do, and he
and Robert and Nina lived together very happily. You never would have
guessed, had you seen Nina in her little calico dress and white apron,
with her curls hanging about her face, that she had ever made
moccasins, or worn a blanket in an Indian wigwam.
As to Robert, if your father could have heard his speeches, he wouldn't
have been sorry that "a chief" was spoiled, to make a lawyer.
A STREET SCENE.
I was taking a walk, some mouths since, when I saw a carriage driving
at a furious rate over the pavements. Inside was a woman, with a
handkerchief bound under her chin, spotted with blood, and in her lap a
little girl with her arm in a sling, and drops of blood upon her collar
and face.
The woman was pretty, spite of the blood-stained handkerchief about her
face, and was caressing the frightened girl upon her lap in such a
gentle, womanly way, that I concluded she must be her mother. On the
box, with the coachman, was a police officer. What could it all mean?
I will tell you.
Some years ago, in one of the handsomest houses in New-York, lived a
lady and her husband, and a little girl named Rosa. They had plenty of
money, plenty of servants, and, of course, plenty of friends. They had
a fine carriage and horses, and every day you might have seen Mrs.
Simon, dressed like a queen, seated upon the velvet cushions, with
black John, the coachman, upon the box, and black Peter, the footman,
standing behind, while little Rosa, as gay as a little paroquet, peered
out from her little plumed hat, laughing merrily at all the fine sights
she saw.
The shop-keepers flew round as if they had St. Vitus' dance, when Mrs.
Simon's carriage stopped at their door, with the glossy, sleek-coated
horses and their silver-mounted harness, and the liveried servants.
They bowed and smirked, and skipped round, and pulled little "Cash's"
ears for not getting her "change" quicker, and offered to send home
any, and all, and every bundle she chose to order, quicker than chain
lightning, if it were only a paper of No. 6 needles.
When she got into her carriage again, and rode down Broadway, whiskered
gentlemen on the pavement hoisted their beavers, and bent themselves as
low as their corsets would possibly allow, and ladies nodded, and
showed their pretty little teeth, and declared that Mrs. Simon was "a
perfect little love."
From all this show and luxury, she came down to an empty purse, and a
widow's weeds. Her husband lost all his property at once. Money was all
the poor man had ever cared for. He had not the courage to live and
look his misfortune boldly in the face, but took his own life, (like a
coward,) and left his dainty wife and child to bear _alone_ the cross
that his manly shoulders couldn't carry.
Well, Mrs. Simon buried her husband, and then looked about her for her
friends; but alas! they had all fled, like butterflies, with the
sunshine. Her fine house, furniture and carriage and horses, were all
taken from her, to pay her husband's debts; and she wandered forth, no
one knew whither.
My dear children, it is a very sad thing to be proud and poor. Mrs.
Simon was very proud. She could not make up her mind to work. She
fancied, poor mistaken woman, that it would degrade her. She didn't see
that all whose opinion is worth caring for, would respect her the more,
for her striving to earn bread for herself and her child.
So she sat and cried, and worried herself almost sick, instead of
looking at little Rosa, and then stepping out, with a brave heart, and
saying: I have been rich; I am now poor:--I want some work to do. She
couldn't bring her mind to _that_; so, as I told you, she disappeared,
nobody knew whither, and the world went on just the same without her.
Other gay carriages rolled up and down Broadway, with the glittering
harness, and sleek horses, and pampered servants; bearing ladies as gay
and as pretty as Mrs. Simon. None of them asked what had become of
their old friend; they were all too busy about their own affairs;
frolicking and dancing away their lives, just as if they were to live
that way forever.
Where was Mrs. Simon? If you had looked into a house where wicked
people dwell, who live by breaking all God's commandments, there you
would have found her and little Rosa.
Was she happy there? Can any body be happy who makes up his mind to do
wrong? No; poor woman; she dreaded nothing so much as her own thoughts;
and sometimes when Rosa bounded into the room, she would start us if a
serpent had stung her. She didn't think when she went there, that
sickness and death would come to her in that wretched place; but they
did. And what was to become of little, innocent Rosa? Must she die and
leave her _there_? The thought of it made great drops of agony start
out on her pale face. She looked about her. There were none there who
feared either God or man, and her moments were fast numbering. She
called to her bedside one of the inmates who had been kind to her--a
young girl, whose heart was not hard and stony. She said to her, with
her hands clasped,
"Promise me, before I die, that you will get Rosa away from this
wretched place--quick--promise!"
"I will, I will!" said the young girl, wiping the death-damp from her
forehead.
The grave closed over poor Mrs. Simon and her errors; and poor little
Rosa sobbed as if she had been the best mother in the world; and then
the young girl, of whom I have spoken, whispered to Rosa that _she_
would be kind to her,--and so she was; for Mrs. Simon's death had made
her think of a great many good thoughts, and she wanted to get away,
too, and live where God was feared.
_Now_ you know who were in the carriage that was driving away with the
police officer. It was that young girl and little Rosa. The man in
whose house she lived, caught her going away with the child, and cut
her with a knife that such people always carry. That's why the blood
was on her cheek, and on Rosa's dress. And then, in the struggle to get
Rosa away, he broke her little arm with his rough grasp; so she had it
"in a sling." Perhaps they might not have got away at all, had not a
police-man heard their screams and helped them off. The man in whose
house they had been, was sent to "The Tombs" (a place in New York for
such people,) and then he was sentenced to the Penitentiary; and Rosa
was very glad to hear that, because she trembled all over for fear he
would get her again.
Dear little Rosa! the fright, and her grief, and the broken arm
together, threw her into a fever; and for a long while it was feared
she would die; but you will be glad to know that she got well, and that
I have seen her since, with her face as full of sunshine as if a cloud
had never passed over it; and that I have heard her, with some other
little children, in a school, saying: "Suffer little children to come
unto me, and forbid them not;" and you can't tell how happy this made
me, after hearing her sad story.
Are you not glad that there are good, true, kind hearts left in the
world, who remember that Jesus said, "_Feed my lambs_"?
LETTER FROM TOM GRIMALKIN TO HIS MOTHER.
MY DEAR MAMMA GRIMALKIN: How _could_ you let Miss Nipper take
me away from you? I am so miserable, that I have not run around
after my tail once since I came here. There's nothing here to amuse
me, not even a fly in the room to catch, for Miss Nipper won't have
one about. There she sits, knitting--knitting--knitting--in the
chimney corner. If she'd only drop her ball now and then, it would
be quite a pretty little excitement for me to chase it round, you
know; but she never drops her ball, nor her handkerchief, nor even
leaves an old shoe round for me to toss about--and as to playing
with her apron strings, I should as soon think of jumping into the
cradle of Queen Victoria's baby.
I should like to hop up in the chairs now and then, by way of
variety, but I don't dare,--or up on the window seats, to see
what's going on in the street; but she won't let me. Goodness knows
she needn't be afraid my paws are dirty, for I haven't been over
the threshold since I came here, for a breath of fresh air; beside,
every morning she souses me head over heels in a tub of water, till
I hear all sorts of sounds, and see all sorts of sights; and then
roasts my brains out drying me between the andirons. Ah, it's very
well for people to talk about "leading a _dog's_ life of it."
_I_ say, let 'em try a _cat's_.
Now I am about old enough to begin to go into society a little, and
there are a plenty of well-bred cats here in the neighborhood, with
beautiful voices, who give free concerts every moonlight night, but
Miss Nipper won't let me stir a paw. I don't think I shall stand it
much longer; for the other day, when she went out of the room, I
hopped up on the table, and noticed that my whiskers had begun to
grow considerable large, and that set me to examining my
_claws_. You understand!
How does Tabby do? Have you weaned her yet? Don't she ever feel
sorry, now I am away, that she used to nurse so much more than her
share? She needs to have you cuff her ears now and then, that
Tabby. She never had any sisterly affection for me, although one of
my eyes was a week longer getting open than hers. I shan't forget
it in a hurry. I often think it over, as I lie here on the
hearth-rug, listening to the everlasting click, click of Miss
Nipper's knitting-needles. Oh, it's a very hard case, Mother
Grimalkin, for a kitty with such a warm heart, and such a frisky
disposition as I have, to do nothing but think such miserable
thoughts, and lie here staring the ashes in the fire-place out of
countenance.
Miss Nipper is so stingy of her milk, too, that my ribs are all
pricking through my fur; besides, you will be concerned to learn
that I'm growing up as ignorant as a young Hottentot: for how can
I learn to catch mice, boxed up in a parlor without any closets?
Answer me that, and please write soon to your afflicted son,
TOM GRIMALKIN.
WHAT CAME OF AN OMNIBUS RIDE,
AND
"ONE PULL TO THE RIGHT!"
Some time ago, (no matter _when_;--little folks shouldn't be curious!)
I was riding in an omnibus with some half-dozen well-dressed ladies,
and white kidded gentlemen.
At a signal from somebody on the sidewalk, the driver reined up his
horses, and a very old man, with tremulous limbs and silvery locks,
presented himself at the door for admission. The driver shouted through
the sky-light, "Room for one more, there, inside;"--but the gentlemen
looked at the old man and frowned, and the ladies spread out their
ruffled skirts, for his hat was shabby, and his coat very threadbare.
_He_ saw how it was, and why there was "no room," and meekly turned
about to go down the steps, when a fine-looking young man, who sat next
to me, sprang to the door, and seizing him by the arm, said, "Take my
place, sir; you are _quite_ welcome to it. I am young and hearty; it
won't weary me to walk"--and kindly leading the old man to the vacant
seat, he leaped from the steps and walked briskly down the street,
while I looked admiringly after him, saying to myself, "That young man
has had a good mother."
We drove on, and the more I looked at the old man's silver hairs, and
fine, honest face, the more indignant I felt, at the way he had been
treated. Whether he read my thoughts in my countenance, or not, I can't
say; but, after most of the passengers had got out, he moved up to me
and said, "Good boy--good boy--wasn't he? My dear, (and here his voice
sunk to a confidential whisper,) I have got money enough to buy out all
the upstart people that filled this omnibus, twenty times over, but I
like this old coat and hat. They are as good as a crucible. Help me to
find out the true metal. Good morning, my dear. Thank you for your
pity, just as much as if I needed it"--and the old man pulled the
strap, got out of the omnibus, and hobbled off down street.
Some time after, I advertised for lodgings, and was answered by a widow
lady. I liked the air of her house, it was so neat and quiet; and then,
the flowering plants in the window were a letter of recommendation to
me. Your cold-hearted, icicle people never care for flowers; (you may
write that in the fly-leaf of your primer.) But what particularly
pleased me, at Mrs. Harris', was the devotion of her son to his mother.
I expected no less, because the minute he opened the door, I saw that
he was the same young man who gave up his seat in the omnibus to the
old gentleman.
John did all the marketing and providing as wisely and as well as if he
were seventy, instead of seventeen. He wheeled his mother's arm-chair
to the pleasantest corner; handed her her footstool, and newspaper, and
spectacles; offered her his arm up stairs and down, and spent his
evenings by _her_ side, instead of joining other young men in racing
over the city to find ways to kill time.
It was a beautiful sight, in these days, when beardless boys come
stamping and whistling into their mother's presence, with their hats
on, and call her "the old woman."
I spent a pleasant autumn under Mrs. Harris' quiet roof. And now,
winter had set in, with its nice long evenings. John came in to tea,
one night, with his bright face over-clouded. His mother was at his
side in an instant. John's master had failed, and John was thrown out
of employment!
Then I learned, that it was only by the strictest economy, and hoarding
of every cent of John's small salary, that the house rent was paid and
the table provided.
And now, so the widow said, the house must be given up, for John might
be a long while getting another place; clerkships were so difficult to
obtain; and they must not think of running in debt.
It was _such_ a pity. We were all so comfortable and happy there, in
that cozy little parlor, with its sunny bow window full of flowers, and
its bright Lehigh fire, and softly cushioned chairs; that cozy parlor,
where the little round table, with its snowy cloth, had been so often
spread; and the fragrant coffee, and delicate tea-biscuit, and racy
newspaper had been so often discussed; where John, in his slippers and
dressing-gown, with his dark hair pushed off his broad forehead, read
to us page after page of some favorite author, while the wind was
welcome to whistle itself dumb outside the threshold, and old Winter to
pile up the snow at the door till he got tired of it.
It _was_ hard!
John walked up and down the floor, with his hands crossed behind, and
Mrs. Harris went round the room, hunting after her spectacles, when
they were comfortably reposing on the bridge of her fine Roman nose.
A knock at the door!
A note for John!
"Enclosed, find $500, to pay Mr. John Harris' house rent for the
coming year.
A FRIEND."
John rubbed his eyes, and looked at his mother; his mother looked at
me; and I looked at both of them; and then we laughed and cried, till
we nearly had regular hysterics.
But who was the "Friend"? That was the question. We were all born
Yankees, and did our best at "guessing;" but it didn't help us. Well,
at any rate, it was very nice, all round. I hadn't to be routed. No,
nor John, nor his dear old mother. And pussy purred round as if she had
as much reason to be glad as any of us; and the canary trilled so sharp
a strain that we were obliged to muffle his cage and his enthusiasm,
with John's red silk pocket-handkerchief.
Mrs. Harris and I had not got our feminine tongues still, the next day,
when John came back, in the middle of the forenoon, with another
riddle, to drive our womanly curiosity still more distracted. He was
requested to call immediately--so a note, he had just received,
read--at Mr. ---- & Co's, and "accept the head clerkship, at a salary
of $1,400 a year; being highly recommended by a person whose name his
new employers decline giving."
That was a greater puzzle still. John and his mother had rich
relations, to be sure; but, though they had always been interfering in
all their plans for making a living, they never had been known to
_give_ them anything except--_advice_, or to call on them _by
daylight_; and it wasn't at all likely that the "leopard would change
his spots," at that late day. No; it couldn't be John's rich relatives,
who were always in such a panic lest upper-tendom should discover that
their cousins, the Harrises, lived in an unfashionable part of the
town, dined at one o'clock, and noticed trades-people and mechanics.
We were too sensible to believe in fairies, and who the mischief was
emptying the "horn of plenty" in that way at our feet, was the
question.