[Illustration: THE SPOTTED DEER.]
SNOW-BERRIES.
A BOOK FOR YOUNG FOLKS.
BY ALICE CARY.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.
PRELUDE.
My little men and women
Who sit with your eyes downcast,
Turning the leaves of the Snow-Berries
Over and over so fast,
I know as I hear them flutter
Like the leaves on a summer bough,
You are looking out for the story about
The fairies,--aren’t you, now?
And so it is wise to tell you
That you need not turn so fast,
For there isn’t a single fairy-tale
In the book from first to last.
My Muse is plain and homespun,--
Quite given to work-day ways,--
And she never spent an hour in the tent
Of a fairy, in all her days.
She is strongest on her native soil;
And you will see she sings
Little in praise of elfs and fays,
And less of queens and kings.
“Be sure, the beautiful violet
In the grass no longer glows,
But we may get a-burning yet,
Some little lamp of a rose!”
So out we ran to the meadows,
Though the time of flowers was done,
And after us ran our shadows,--
Three and three, and one.
All up and down the rivulets
That shaved so close to the sand,
And all across the lowland moss,
And across the stubble land;
And deep, and deeper into the wood,
And under the hedge-row wall;
To the Callamus Pond, and on beyond,
And never a flower at all!
Footsore, weary, and heart-sick,
We had tramped for three long hours,
When a voice so proud cried out aloud,
“The flowers! I’ve found the flowers!”
Fast we flew to the top of the hill,
And fast and faster down,
And full in sight limbs shone so white
From the thicket dull and brown.
The turf slides back, and farther back,
We are there, we are under the trees!
And our eager hands are breaking the wands
Of the milk-white snow-berries!
We had had a tramp, through cold and damp,
Of three right weary hours,
But we did not grieve, if you believe,
That our berries were not flowers!
But each with a sheaf on his shoulder,
As white as the whitest foam,
We struck across the lowland moss,
And into the lights of home.
So, my little men and women,
Who sit with your eyes downcast,
Turning the leaves of the Snow-Berries,
So eagerly and so fast,
When that you fail to find the tale
Of airy fancy bred,
You may even get some pleasure yet
From the stories in their stead.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
PAGE
THE SPOTTED DEER 1
TWO BIRDS 26
TO THE BOYS 28
COUNTING THE CHICKENS 29
ADVICE 30
TALK WITH A TREE 31
A NEW-YEAR’S LESSON 32
THE BURNING PRAIRIE 35
PART II.
THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER 39
THE COW-BOY 58
LITTLE ELLIE 60
THE BRICKMAKER’S BOY 62
FAIRY FOLK 64
LESS OR MORE 65
FINE TALK 66
PART III.
THE WEAVER’S DAUGHTERS 69
THREE LITTLE WOMEN 86
PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES 88
ELIJAH AND I 89
A FISHERMAN 90
AMY TO HER FLOWERS 92
AUTUMN THOUGHTS 94
PART IV.
THE MAN WHO STOLE A COW 97
THE POTTER’S LUCK 118
A POET’S WALK 121
THE SNOW-FLOWER 122
EASY WORK 124
COURAGE 125
JENNY AND I 126
PART V.
THE CHARMED MONEY 129
TO A STAGNANT POND 155
THE POET TO THE PAINTER 158
ONLY A DREAM 160
INVENTORY OF A DRUNKARD 162
HUNTER’S SONG 163
HAGEN WALDER 164
A GOOSE AND A CROW 167
PART VI.
THE MAN WITH A STONE IN HIS HEART 171
CATY JANE 196
THE STREET BEGGAR 201
EVIL CHANCE 202
PLEA FOR THE BOYS 203
WORK 204
COUNSEL 205
PART I.
THE SPOTTED DEER.
THE SPOTTED DEER.
The sun was growing large toward the setting, and the light, more red
than golden, shining more and more faintly along a great mass of woods
that reached backward and upward along the slope, till their tops
seemed to touch the sky, almost, and the red and scarlet and yellow
of the foliage--for it was autumn--to be giving their colors to the
clouds, when an adventurer made fast his boat on the shore of the
Ohio immediately opposite Little Sandy Creek; and, having given some
directions to his men, proceeded, accompanied only by his dog, to climb
the ascent along which the village of Lewisburgh was sprinkled.
The villagers, as the stranger soon found, were but recent settlers
on the land,--a tract of twenty thousand acres, extending along the
river, and granted them by Congress in consideration of the frauds and
impositions practised upon them in their earlier settlement of the
neighboring town of Galliopolis.
They were mostly French, or the descendants of French emigrants,--a
gay, primitive sort of people, half thrifty, half negligent in their
habits, and in some sort refined in their rudeness, and cultivated in
their ignorance.
They were generally farmers in a small way, each having a few acres
of ground attached to his cottage, upon which he raised vegetables,
grapes, and corn.
Almost every house had its flower-garden, its bird-cages at the window,
and its pet animals about the door, and here and there in the outskirts
of the village stood a tent or a wigwam where Indians, to whom this
people were very friendly, carried on their trades,--making baskets
of birch bark, bags of bead-work, and other articles of a trifling
and ornamental character. The cottages were generally painted or
whitewashed, and together with the tents and wigwams gave the town a
romantic and picturesque appearance.
The sunset light, falling upon and brightening the mists of the river,
gave a charming effect to the beauty which the landscape would have
possessed at any time; and the numberless children engaged in careless
sports, together with a great variety of pets, sporting with and among
them, completed the enchantment of the scene.
We have said the grounds about the houses were devoted chiefly to corn
and vegetables; but the peach-orchards with which the surrounding hills
were planted afforded the chief source of income, yielding as they
do without much cultivation. They procured them coffee, delf-ware,
cutlery, and such simple articles of finery as the women desired,
leaving abundant time for those pleasurable and healthful activities of
which they were so fond.
It was September, with one of those mild, cloudy atmospheres that have
the balminess of spring, and with the shadows came the young people
out into the gardens,--the youths wearing blue jackets and trousers,
which their mothers had spun and woven for them, and the maidens,
party-colored dresses made in the gayest fashions which memory or
invention could suggest.
Some of the more sober matrons brought out their wheels, or
needle-work, and, under the trees, continued sewing and spinning till
the last light faded from the hill-tops, and the bright stripes that
variegated the woods were lost in one general and sombre hue.
The older men gathered near these industrious housewives, and, as
they chatted of days gone by, polished their guns or mended their
fishing-tackle; while the smaller children instructed the pet animals,
of which we have spoken, in various ingenious tricks, until, wearied
out, they sunk on the grass among them, and fearlessly fell asleep; so
primitive and simple were the habits of these people.
The strange gentleman, as he leisurely strolled from one part of
the village to another, found himself the object of much respectful
admiration and attention: the old women smiled, for he was handsome,
and when do women cease to give such recognition to handsome faces?
the old men lifted their caps with an exceeding elegance of manner,
and smiled, too, a little less graciously perhaps, while the children
ran up to him and made overtures toward acquaintance by presents of
flowers and grapes. On the shoulder of one little creature a tame
blue-jay would be fluttering, and give its noisy welcome, and on the
head of another the paroquet, making such signs of gladness as it had
been taught to make, and the summer duck and the peacock, meantime,
would walk before him, spreading out their brilliant plumage as if in
contribution to his pleasure.
This sociability and friendship on the part of the children and
their pets begot in the heart of the stranger a sympathetic and
kindly interest almost at once, and his address so won upon these
unsophisticated people that they extended to him an invitation to sup
with them under the trees, and afterward join in the dance of the
evening.
From the novelty of the suggestion, our adventurer entered into it with
great heartiness, and a vivacity scarcely exceeded by his demonstrative
entertainers. Almost every house contributed its quota of milk,
wine, and peaches to the little festival, while he himself furnished
his share in white biscuits, which he caused to be brought from the
boat,--a donation than which nothing could have proven more acceptable,
the settlers having subsisted for several months continuously on bread
composed chiefly of maize.
Never was supper more cheerful, never was gayety more harmless; and as
for the stranger, it was rather as if some dear friend had come back to
his home, than as though an adventurer were by chance amongst them for
an hour.
Three youths were in readiness with flutes and violins, to strike up
after the viands had received due honor, the lads and lasses, not
without effort, having restrained their impatience for more congenial
merriment till the rural repast was concluded.
By and by the moon came up in full-orbed glory. Hundreds of candles
fixed in the trees contributed to the illumination; and such a picture
of rustic enjoyment as was presented we can only hope to outline
imperfectly. The women put away their wheels, the men their guns and
fishing-tackle; young mothers sung their babes to sleep, and, laying
them on the grass, covered them with their shawls, and leaving the
faithful dogs to tend them, ran to join the dance with hearts as light
as their footsteps. All seemed young alike. Old Frenchmen, lively as
their grandchildren, were capering about in crimson caps; while their
wives, in dresses of the fashion of the time of Louis XIV., gossiped
with one another with still more animated volubility; and the young
people of both sexes, habited in holiday costumes, lit up the shady
places with their bright blushes as they “tript it to and fro on the
light fantastic toe.” Numbers of the domestic animals I have mentioned
followed their masters confidently among the graceful and merry
circles, contributing to the picturesque and inartificial beauty of the
scene.
Among these animals were raccoons and opossums, both as tame as young
pigs; also a curious little animal called the ground-hog, which could
never be so far tamed by any amount of kindness as not to snap at
the hand that offered it food; but the most remarkable and perhaps
interesting of all the animals was a huge cub-bear, that was as full of
playful tricks as a monkey, taking from time to time some one of the
children between its paws, and rolling and tumbling on the ground with
it as though it were going to tear it to pieces, and may be devour it
into the bargain.
Some of the Indian women and children drew near and gazed on the
scene with a strange mixture of the grave and the mirthful in their
faces; and it was remarkable to observe with what fondness the wild
creatures--birds and beasts--gathered about them. Here a youth might be
seen with a wolf or ground-hog, and perhaps one or two other animals,
between his legs, and there a young squaw, with all her black hair
hidden by the splendors of the wings that were fluttering on her
shoulders.
The Indian men kept mostly at a distance, but one rawboned hunter was
persuaded at last to perform the war-funeral and the marriage-dance,
both of which he gave in grand style; and so the festivities, or the
more mirthful of them, came to an end. The old people, who had been
sitting on the benches ranged along the walks, arose and went home,
chattering and gesticulating as they went. The mothers took up their
babies, and the dulcet symphonies fell to a lower and lower key, till
by and by they faded down to silence, and quiet took up her melancholy
reign.
The heart of the stranger was sad as he took his separate way to the
boat that, curtained with mists, lay hugging the shore; for there is a
power sometimes in the intercourse of a few hours that holds us like
the friendship of years, and makes us feel poor and lonesome as we let
go some hand whose single pressure has given us the assurance of a
kindness that shall assert itself in eternity, if not in time.
He was half way down the slope, and could already see the yellow-capped
heads of the river-waves, and hear the whistling and talking of the
distant raftsmen as they paddled their slow way to the music of the
whippoorwills, when suddenly a sound unlike what his ear was tuned
to struck upon his attention and jangled to discord all his sweet
imaginings.
It was not a sobbing nor crying, but a helpless, hopeless moaning that
was more sorrowful to hear than either, for it indicated a heart, not
so much crushed by sudden misfortune as wearied out by long suffering.
Standing still to listen, our adventurer perceived a rude habitation by
the roadside, from the windows of which streamed no light, and about
which grew no flowers. Indeed there was not so much as a tree or a
patch of green grass between the doorsill and the highway.
A little way from this dreary habitation, seated on a mossy log, and
mournfully caressing two beautiful deer that stood on either side of
her, was a young girl, apparently in deep distress. One of these deer
was as white as milk, with the exception of a few red freckles on the
breast and one of the flanks; the other, was as spotted as a leopard.
Both seemed exceedingly fond of her; and while the one was rubbing its
graceful head against her bare shoulder,--jangling a bell which was
attached to a shining collar it wore on its neck,--the other licked the
hands which lay idly folded in the girl’s lap.
Her feet had just touched that marvellously beautiful, but also sadly
uncertain ground where childhood and womanhood meet, and perhaps the
time and the situation lent their charm; at any rate, she had that
about her which drew and fixed the eyes of the stranger. He could not,
perhaps, have himself expressed the peculiar nature of the interest
awakened in him, as the sorrowful face looked out from its cloudy
tresses with an expression of gentle appeal. He at once approached,
and, under pretence of the greatest admiration for the spotted deer,
made a proposal for their purchase.
Was there anything under the sun that would induce the fairy-like
keeper of these singularly beautiful creatures to part with them for
good and all? How came she by them? O, he was enchanted, especially
with the more spotted of the two.
“Tell me, will you part with them for any price?” And bending low, the
stranger waited in silence for her answer.
“O no, sir,” replied the young girl, speaking English with an accent
that betrayed her French origin. “I would not part with them for a
whole lapful of gold; they are my only friends!” and she caught back
her heavy hair and bent her great dark eyes upon the stranger as she
spoke, with an earnestness that drew him almost to her feet.
“Your only friends! how can that be, my pretty one? Surely you are
deserving a kinder fate,” he said.
She did not let fall the gathered-up tresses to conceal the blushes
tangling redly along her cheeks. She was too ingenuous, and too
unaffectedly friendless to receive from the stranger’s words any
meaning, save that of genuine kindness. On the contrary, she told
him all her little story with a confiding artlessness and simplicity
that must have touched the best feelings of his manhood, and made him
friendly if he had not previously been so.
When she was no higher than her spotted deer, she said, her good mother
died and was carried away and left on the hill that stood up so dark
and so high between the yellow woods and the river,--their few cows and
simple furniture were sold to defray the expenses of a long illness,
and procure something a little better than charitable support for
herself.
So slender a fortune was soon exhausted, of course, and our
story-teller, whose name was Eveline, was elbowed and jostled about,
now here, now there,--now in the way, and now out of the way,--now
in the village, and now perhaps in the wigwam of some Indian
hunter,--drudging with the squaws part of the time, and shooting with
the bow and arrow the other part. In the spring-time she spun flax,
in the summer she carded wool, in the time of the grape harvest she
gleaned, and, in short, did what she could find to do; for it is the
misfortune of poverty, that it has not a choice even of its work.
At length she fell into the hands of the penurious old woman with whom
she still lived, and for whom she spun all day, and far into the night
sometimes.
“And where did you find these friends?” asked the stranger, seating
himself on the mossy log a little way from her, and doing his best to
win her favor through the praises he bestowed upon her beautiful pets.
Then he told the two deer in a most playful way, what blessed fortune
had befallen them when they fell into the hands of the little maid who
was their mistress, and asked them if they loved her as so gentle and
good a maiden deserved to be loved.
“O yes!” answered Eveline for them, not in the least embarrassed by
the implied compliment. “O yes, they love me with all their two little
hearts!”
Then, as she knitted up her long hair on her fingers, and ravelled it
out again, she told him, with a generous eagerness to oblige, how she
had been used to bring home the cows from the meadow away beyond the
orchard, and farther off than he could see, and how tired her feet
would grow in the lonesome path for the want of company, and how,
happening one night to meet an old man who was peddling fawns, she gave
her ear-rings in exchange for two of them, hoping by her spinning she
should soon be able to replace the rings. “But I never have been,” she
concluded, with a sigh that betrayed her fondness for ornaments and the
sacrifice she had made in behalf of her beautiful favorites.
“Suppose I should give you the prettiest pair of ear-rings in the
world,--coral drops, with gold setting,”--said the adventurer,
unknitting her black hair from her hand and folding it within his own
as he spoke, “what would you give me in exchange,--the two deer?”
Eveline looked bewildered for a moment, and then tears began filling up
her beautiful eyes at the thought of parting from her only companions.
“No, no,” she said at last, “I cannot give them up, for you must know,
sir, they love me, and even the pretty ear-rings you promise me could
not buy me that; besides, the old woman, who is my mistress, would
steal them from me as she did my red ribbon to-night, keeping me away
from the dance. O sir, it was breaking my heart when you came.”
And with a charming simplicity she went on asking questions about the
evening gayeties, now bursting into tears at the remembrance of the
sweet red ribbon with which her hard mistress had adorned her own ugly
person, while herself was wrongfully compelled to mope at home; and now
laughing and blushing at the stranger’s eloquently expressed regrets
that he should not have had the pleasure of dancing with her.
“Ah, but you will come some other evening!” she cried, with the eager
hopefulness of one who had never known a pleasure like that; and then
she said, if it would really please him to dance with her, she would
weave a bright garland of flowers for her head, and wear her blue
bodice and scalloped petticoat!
What an honor and delight she would have, to be sure; and wouldn’t
the young girls all envy her, and wouldn’t the old woman who was her
mistress grow black in the face as a cloud, with angry irritation! And
as long as she lived the memory of that night would be like a blessed
candle burning away behind her in the dark! What evening might she
expect to see him, and would he not come very, very soon? How lovely
she appeared as she waited with eager uplifted face for his reply, her
cheeks like two red roses, and the beating of her heart making the
ruffled cape that was tied across her bosom flutter again.
The stranger was evidently touched by the simple sincerity of the fresh
young beauty, and bent his admiring eyes very near the roselit cheek
as he explained to her the little probability there was of their ever
meeting again, even for a single evening.
“I am but a rude traveller, my pretty one,” he said, “in love with
adventure, and liking the woods and the fields, the birds, the beasts,
and the curious insects of the air, better than I like the homes of men
and the tameness and commonness of civilized society.”
If life could be all one moonlit evening, and all a dance, and if
he could dance with her, why it would be very nice and pleasant,
but that could not be; his boat was waiting even then on the near
river, just beyond the green fringe of willows that she could see so
plain,--waiting to bear him, he knew not where, but somewhere far
enough away from her, he was afraid.
“No, no, my child,”--and he sighed as he spoke,--“it is not likely we
shall ever meet again in this world; but before long you will find a
lover to dance with, and then you will forget you have ever seen the
boatman who sits beside you now, I dare say.”
“O, how can you say so?” answered Eveline. “If I am not to dance with
you, I shall never dance at all, but spin and spin till I spin me a
shroud.” Then she hung her head and made no effort to conceal the tears
that came to her innocent eyes; and her lately happy heart ceasing to
flutter in her bosom, like a bird that is learning to fly, lay there as
still and as heavy as lead. “If I had only the red ribbon to give you,
so that sometimes when you happened to see it you might remember me!”
she said, at last; “but the old woman has stolen my ribbon, and that is
the only ornament I ever had, except the ear-rings, that I parted with
as I told you. Ah, it is too bad that I have nothing to give you!”
Then the stranger told her not to fret because the old woman had stolen
her ribbon. “And for that matter, you shall have another,” he said, “if
you will only give me the deer. I can send it with the ear-rings, you
know.” And then he told her, seeing that she was not quite satisfied,
lightly touching her fair young head as he said it, that he would
take, of choice, one of the long shining tresses that fell adown
her shoulder. “And would you indeed prize a lock of my hair?” cries
Eveline, in innocent surprise, “cut it off then!” And she leaned her
head down to him, singling one long rippling curl from the rest.
Such simple confidence was not to be trifled with, and rising, the
stranger said in an altered tone that he must not deprive her of the
shining tress, much as he would prize it, but that he still hoped she
would be persuaded to give him one of her beautiful pets,--the one with
only the spotted flank, or the one with the skin like a leopard,--just
as she chose. “I know how much you love them, but for my sake!” he went
on,--and then he said, no, not for his sake, but for the sake of those
coral ear-rings all set in gold that he was going to send back to her!
And while she hesitated, he said, perhaps just to say something, that
he would have the spotted deer; and he fell to coaxing and petting it
with all his might. The deer, being very tame, responded to his kind
words by going close to him and eating grass from his hand, and by a
variety of fond and playful actions which it had been taught.
“And would you really send me the ear-rings, and such lovely ones as
you say?” inquired the girl, almost persuaded, as it seemed. Then her
eyes fell, and in a changed voice she said: “But why, sir, do you
choose the spotted, and not the white deer? I think, of the two, I
would rather part with the white one.”
And putting her arms around the neck of the spotted deer, she drew it
close to her bosom, and began prattling to it in the tenderest manner.
No, no, she could not part with that! The white one was not so fond
of her, and was surely not so pretty. Why, Spotty would follow her all
day long. She almost thought he understood every word she spoke, and
sometimes he would even come into the house and lie by the side of her
little low bed all the night.
Then she made a confidant of her beautiful Spotty, and told him that
his little mistress loved him better than anything else in all the
world! Sell him for ear-rings, indeed! No, not though they were as
big and as splendid as the new moon! Then she did actually kiss the
forehead of the deer, and whispered something so close in his ear that
the stranger could not hear what she said, but something that was
doubtless very pretty, if the dumb thing could only have understood it.
“And so you like your spotted deer the best?” the stranger said, as
soon as he could get the attention of the young girl.
“O yes, so much the best! Don’t you see how fond of me he is?”
“Very well, you may keep your Spotty. I think, on the whole, I prefer
the hind. Come, my beauty!” and he took the ear of the white deer in
his hand, as though he would lead it away.
Instantly the girl pushed off his hand and took the head of the white
hind in her lap. “No, no! my poor Whity, your little mistress will not
see you abused that way, not she!” Then to the stranger: “She is used
to caresses, I assure you, and not to having her ears pulled.”
“But I thought you said she was not pretty, and you did not care for
her,” answered the stranger; “and I thought, too, she was my property,
and not yours! Did you not bargain her away for the ear-rings?”
“No, I did not bargain Whity away at all; it was Spotty I bargained
away, and then I took Spotty back, so that neither one is yours.”
Then she began talking to Whity just as she had done to Spotty before.
“Suppose you are not so very pretty,” she said; “is your little
mistress going to sell you away for that! No indeed! her heart is not a
lump of ice, and she could not be so cruel, not for all the ear-rings
under the sun. Is it your fault that you are not beautiful? No, it is
not your fault, but you _are_ beautiful! O, so beautiful! there never
was a deer in all the world so beautiful as my own little Whity!”
She could part with Spotty best; he was sturdy and independent, and did
not need her half so much as poor timid Whity.
Then the stranger said she might choose between her deer, but one of
them he must have. And then he drew a picture of Eveline in her blue
bodice and scalloped petticoat, dancing on the green with the very
handsomest of all the young fellows in the village. “And what would you
not give, then, for the coral ear-rings?” he concluded.
Here was a dazzling temptation. Would the stranger be very good to poor
Spotty, just as good and kind as was his own mistress? To be sure he
would; never deer in the world fared half so royally as Spotty should
fare.
After some further talk, it was concluded between them that he
should take Spotty and send back to her the ear-rings from the next
landing-point. Then he took from his finger a small gold ring; would
Eveline wear that in token of his promise, and perhaps, too, as a
reminder of himself? It was a poor trifle, but he had nothing better to
offer.
Ah yes, Eveline would take the ring, and wear it,--not in token of his
promise, and not to remind her of a stranger. He would never seem a
stranger to her, and she would require nothing to remind her of him;
but for all that, she would take the ring.
So he took her hand, and when he had put the ring on it, said it was
now time to say good by.
But Eveline kept the hand, like the sweet, simple child that she
was, saying she would walk with him to the river-side, and watch the
vanishing boat till it was quite out of sight. “And then I will go back
alone,” she said; “and then, and then,--why then I do not know what I
shall do!”
So they walked together, the two deer following, through the mingling
lights and shadows, and toward the misty borders of the river, which
they reached at last, and could see through the swaying boughs of the
willows the waiting boat.
A few moments they stood in silence on the shore, Eveline little
guessing the charming picture she made,--the misty moonlight all round
her, and the graceful head of her spotted deer beneath her hand, while
the white one stood a little way off scarcely distinguishable from the
surrounding mist.
“Be sure I will take the best care of your beautiful pet,” said the
stranger, as he was about leaping into the boat, “for your sake, my
dear child, if not for his; so you need not fear to trust him away from
you.”
Eveline was sobbing now, sobbing so she could hardly speak; and all at
once she threw her arms around the neck of her favorite, and, holding
it fast, said she could not let it go; he might have the white one, but
the spotted one she must keep, she really did love him best after all!
“Then Whity it shall be; come, Whity, my beauty, come!” And the
stranger began to coax and pet the white hind; but she would not come,
shying off and snuffing the air instead. Then calling two of his men,
he told them to bring her aboard by main force.
“No!” cries the little mistress in an angry voice. “She shall go of
her own free will, or she shall not go at all. I will never stand by
and see her pulled and dragged from me as though she were the worst
creature in the world, instead of the best.”
“Then persuade her yourself,” said the stranger; “you know how to coax
her into anything, I dare say.”
“Yes, but I will not persuade her to leave me! I have not so much love
that I can afford to do that. If she is a mind to follow you, I must
part with her, that is all; but I will never coax her to do so,--never,
never!”
“Then I suppose I must go alone, after all,” said the stranger, sadly.
“And you, my pretty one, remember that you cannot have your white hind
for an ornament when the day of dancing comes again.”
“I shall never want to dance,” answered Eveline, “not if I cannot
dance with you!” And she lifted her face to him, all eloquent with its
innocent sorrow.
Then he told her that her life could not be more lonely than his, going
through the wide world,--in wilderness places, and in deserts, with
only two or three rude men for companions.
By this time the white hind had come back to its mate and its mistress,
and, drawing its head close to her, Eveline asked it in whispers if it
would like to go with the stranger and sail away down the beautiful
river, pointing as she did so to the boat. It was perhaps in answer
to the motion of her hand that the hind immediately stepped nearer to
the shore. “Ah, then, she is yours, sir,” said Eveline, every word
a separate tremble; “but I don’t want the ear-rings. I can’t sell
anything I love.” Then she gave him special charge about the feeding
and general keeping and care,--indeed, a mother who was parting with
her baby could hardly have been more tender in her entreaties and
directions. “The poor thing is so used to me,” she said, “what will it
do?”
“There is one thing that you can do,” answered the boatman, “since you
love your pet so very much. You can go along and be its keeper.”
Eveline was smiling and blushing and trembling all at once now, and the
boatman went on: “I see only one difficulty, I am afraid the pretty
creature, being so fond of the mistress, will not care at all about the
master!”
“But I will teach her to love you!” cries the little maiden, eagerly.
“And how, my lady of the woodland,” answered the boatman, “will you
contrive to do this?”
“Just by loving you myself,” she said. “There is no teaching like
example, you know.” And she looked up in his face with a sweet
sincerity, that charmed the stranger more than he had ever been
charmed by any beautiful bird or bright flower, or by anything lovely
that he had ever seen.
She would go, to be sure she would go, “But O, sir, how are you to get
me over this wet sand-bar that lies between the bank and the boat?”
There was witchery in the trust and the timidity, alike.
“Why, this way, my pretty mistress of the fawns,” he answered; and
putting his arm about her waist, sprung with her clear across the
sand-bar and into the boat. Of course the deer followed, and directly
all three were sailing away together toward the golden colors of the
sunset, the master of the boat singing as they sailed,--
“Night, with all thy stars look down,
Darkness, weep thy holiest dew,--
Never smiled the inconstant moon
On a pair so true.”
But there is no need to linger any longer; my young reader no doubt
guesses the end of the story, and can make for himself a picture of the
boat, as, dividing the silver waves below, and the yellow moonlight
above, it bore away the artless and gentle keeper of the spotted and
white deer, to the realization, let us hope, of brighter dreams than
even the promised ear-rings suggested.[A]
[A] This little story is based upon an account which I found in a
volume printed about sixty years ago, and entitled “Travels in America.”
TWO BIRDS.
In the blithe and budding weather
Of an April-time of yore,
Two wild-birds sat together
In the peach-tree at my door.
And each was gayly furnished,
And in beauty all complete,
From the topknot brightly burnished
To the rosy little feet.
Now under shadows winging,
And now hopping forth to view,
To the other each was singing,--
Thus the prouder of the two,--
Thus only, “Pretty! Pretty!”
In a low, caressing strain,
While in answer, “Sweety! Sweety!”
Softly sounded back again.
The buds to flowers were starting,
And the young leaves came in sight,
While they stayed together courting
In the peach-tree; but one night
They vanished. Swift with duties
Ran the time into the past,
Till I found my truant beauties,
As I knew I should, at last.
Making tender, twittering hushes,
That were sweet as any words,
Flying in and out the bushes
With a flock of little birds.
The snow stayed all unmelted,
And the winds of winter beat
On the boughs that lately tilted
Under rosy little feet,
When I heard a bird thus crying,
From the cold and frozen ground,
To the mate above him flying,
Half-distracted, round and round:--
“My wings are stiff and sleety,
I am dying in my bed,--
I am dying, darling.” “Sweety.”
That was every thing she said.
TO THE BOYS.
Don’t you be afraid, boys,
To whistle loud and long,
Although your quiet sisters
Should call it rude or wrong.
Keep yourselves good-natured,
And if smiling fails,
Ask them if they ever saw
Muzzles on the quails!
Or the lovely red-rose
Try to hide her flag,
Or the June to smother all
Her robins in a bag!
If they say the teaching
Of nature isn’t true,
Get astride the fence, boys,
And answer with a Whew!
I’ll tell you what it is, boys,
No water-wheel will spin,
Unless you set a whistle
At the head of every pin.
And never kite flew skyward
In triumph like a wing
Without the glad vibration
Of a whistle in the string.
And when the days are vanished
For idleness and play,
’Twill make your labors lighter
To whistle care away.
So don’t you be afraid, boys,
In spite of bar and ban,
To whistle,--it will help you each
To make an honest man.
COUNTING THE CHICKENS.
Come, Joe! come, Johnny! the chickens are out,
As true as I am alive!
Let me count,--one, two, three, four,--
O, if I can find but one more
Of the beauties, that will be five!
Just look and see how they hop about!
And see what a pretty thing
The little gray one is, and oh!
There _is_ another one! see it, Joe,
With its head through its mother’s wing!
My dainty darlings, be still, be still!
Just a minute till I can see
Which is prettiest,--that with down
Softly yellow and striped with brown,
Or that with the golden bill.
That one is cunning, with back and breast
Black as a raven, and so small,--
No bigger than one of its mother’s eggs,
And the tiniest little rosy legs,--
I hardly saw it at all.
I will double up my hand to a nest,
Afraid though I am of the mother hen,
And put them into it one by one,
The gray, the yellow, the black, and dun,
And see which is prettiest then!
ADVICE.
Do not look for wrong and evil,--
You will find them if you do;
As you measure for your neighbor
He will measure back to you.
Look for goodness, look for gladness,
You will meet them all the while;
If you bring a smiling visage
To the glass, you meet to smile.
TALK WITH A TREE.
Standing straight up in the glory
Of God’s sunshine, O my tree,
I would know thy wondrous story,--
Wilt thou speak and tell it me?
With head in the sun and feet in the ground,
My heart it keepeth sweet and sound,
And evermore I grow and grow,
And this is all I know.
Rough and wild and many-jointed,
Thou art clothed with gracious hues,
And thy body is anointed
Nightly with the pleasant dews.
The sun and the storm I gladly greet,
And my heart it keepeth sound and sweet,
And my head is high and my root is low,
And this is all I know.
All thy blossoms come in season,--
In their time thy fruits come in,--
Canst thou give to me a reason?
Thou dost neither toil nor spin.
Deep I strike my roots in the ground,
And my heart it keepeth sweet and sound,
And my buds they bloom, and my fruits they glow,
And this is all I know.
From thy roots in silence pushing
Through the dark and gloomy ground,--
From thy boughs with blossoms blushing,--
From thy heart so sweet and sound,
Thou seemest to tell me, tree of mine,
We are not all earthy nor all divine,
But sown in corruption to be raised
Incorruptible,--God be praised.
A NEW-YEAR’S LESSON.
The house was little and low and old,
But the logs on the hearth burned bright,
And two little girls with locks of gold
Were playing in the light;
And their hearts were glad and their laughter gay,
For the morrow would bring the New-Year’s day.
The house was little, the house was low;
But cheerily shone the light
Out of the window and over the snow
(For the ground with snow was white),
Cheerily shimmered and shone about,
As if there were fire within and without.
An ancient, gnarled, and knotty tree
Hung all about the eaves;
So the little house just seemed to be
A bird’s-nest in the leaves;
And the little girls, in homespun dressed,
Just like the nestlings of the nest.
And still as the wind with sharp teeth snapped
A leaflet sere and brown,
Right merrily their hands they clapped
To see it sliding down,
Past the firelight’s ruddy glow,
To the fire that seemed to be in the snow.
“O mother, mother!” they cried with a will,
Their cheeks to the window pressed,
And peeping shyly over the sill,
Like birdlings over the nest,
“See how it flutters and flies about;
It thinks there is fire in the snow, no doubt.”
And then they laugh and shout with glee,
And tell how wild it whirls,
And call it crazy as it can be,
“You foolish little girls!”
The mother sadly and sweetly said,
Laying a hand on each golden head:--
“Suppose that leaf a crazy thing,
My darlings; even suppose
It thought the firelight glimmering
Out there upon the snows,
The same as the fire upon the hearth,
Why, that were not a cause for mirth!”
And then she says, as pearl on pearl
Her pale cheek trickles down:
“It makes me think of the beggar-girl
We saw in the streets of the town;
Her hand as little and brown as a leaf,--
Just such a picture of houseless grief.
“By some sharp breath of fortune whirled
Away from her mother’s knee,
She is left to flutter about the world,
The same as the leaf of a tree;
No roof for her, my dears, you know,
Nor fire, except the fire in the snow.
“In her poor hand, so brown and cold,
No New-Year’s gift will shine.”
Dropped low was each shining head of gold.
“I wish I could give her mine!”
Cry both little girls, as they see the glow
Of their New-Year’s fire outside in the snow.
THE BURNING PRAIRIE.
The prairie stretched as smooth as a floor,
Far as the eye could see,
And the settler sat at his cabin door
With a little girl on his knee,
Striving her letters to repeat,
And pulling her apron over her feet.
His face was wrinkled, but not old,
For he held an upright form,
And his shirt-sleeves back to the elbow rolled,
They showed a brawny arm;
And near in the grass, with toes upturned,
Was a pair of old shoes, cracked and burned.
A dog with his head betwixt his paws
Lay lazily dozing near,
Now and then snapping his tar-black jaws
At the fly that buzzed at his ear;
And near was the cow-pen, made of rails,
And a bench that held two milking-pails.
In the open door an ox-yoke lay,
The mother’s odd redoubt,
To keep the little one at her play
On the floor from falling out;
While she swept the hearth with a turkey-wing,
And filled her tea-kettle at the spring.
The little girl on her father’s knee,
With eyes so bright and blue,
From A B C to X Y Z
Had said her lesson through,
When a wind came over the prairie-land,
And caught the primer out of her hand.
The watch-dog whined, the cattle lowed,
And tossed their horns about;
The air grew gray as if it snowed;
“There will be a storm, no doubt!”
So to himself the settler said;
“But, father, why is the sky so red?”
And the little girl slid off his knee,
And all of a tremble stood;
“Good wife,” he cried; “come out and see!
The clouds are as red as blood!”
“God save us!” cried the settler’s wife,
“The prairie’s afire! We must run for life!”
She caught the baby up. “Come! come!
Are ye mad? to your heels, my man!”
He followed, terror-stricken, dumb,
And so they ran and ran;
Close upon them the snort and swing
Of buffaloes, madly galloping.
The wild wind like a sower sows
The ground with sparkles red,
And the flapping wings of bats and crows
Through the ashes overhead,
And the bellowing deer and the hissing snake,--
What a swirl of terrible sounds they make!
No gleam of the river water yet!
And the flames leap on and on!
A crash, and a fiercer whirl and jet,
And the settler’s house is gone!
The air grows hot. “This fluttering curl
Would blaze like flax,” says the little girl.
And as the smoke against her drifts,
And the lizard slips close by her,
She tells how the little cow uplifts
Her speckled face from the fire;
For she cannot be hindered from looking back
At the fiery dragon on their track.
They hear the crackling grass and sedge,
The flames as they whir and rave;
On, on! they are close to the water’s edge!
They are there, breast-deep in the wave!
And lifting their little ones high o’er the tide,--
“We are saved, thank God! we are saved!” they cried.