A STORY FOR THE CHILDREN.
In the outskirts of a large city, a little way out in the cool and
pleasant country, there stands a little one-story house, which was once
painted a light yellow, but which time and storm have turned to a dull,
brown color. A little plot of ground attached, shaded by one noble oak
tree, seemed turned into a perfect fairy bower of red and gold and green
and purple, when summer suns shone down upon its beds of blooming
four-o’clocks, correopsis, and larkspurs, in their setting of dainty
foliage. All day long, the birds warbled or twittered to each other in
the tree-top, where a nest of young robins was safely hidden from the
prying eyes of too curious school-boys. Such stores of wonderful seeds,
buds, and flowers did these birds know of at a no-distant place; such
cherries and berries, which they could enjoy to their hearts’ content,
after carefully providing for their half-famished young!
But of all the delightful spots these joyful birds had visited, not one
seemed so suitable for their home as the plumy tops of this old oak
tree, which cast its genial shade over the little old brown house, and
here a nest was built,—five little, spotted eggs were carefully covered
up by the mother-bird, which by-and-bye burst open and disclosed five
little hungry bills, wide apart, gasping for food.
What a happy summer was this! Father Robin bustling about, looking very
important, bringing a dainty worm or toothsome berry to feed his
children upon, or perching upon the topmost bough of the tree, and
filling the air with the music of his joyful songs; while the dainty,
careful mother, prudent Mrs. Jenny, anxiously watched her little ones,
lest some harm should come to them, or talked to them in her quaint
bird-fashion, with now and then a little chirp of encouragement, when
one would attempt to try its wings for a tiny flight amid the leaves.
But I have something to tell you about the inmates of the little old
brown house, which contained two tiny rooms, a kitchen and a bed-room.
The floors of these rooms were always white and shining; pretty pink
curtains hung at the windows, a few chairs, a table and a little stove
were in the outer room; while the inner apartment contained a neat,
white bed, a stand, and one chair.
But two persons lived in this little home,—a pale, delicate woman, who
was stitching her life away by constant sewing (for she made cheap
clothing for a firm in the big city),—and a little girl about six years
old. This little girl had bright blue eyes, and brown, curling hair; her
name was Fannie, and she lived here alone with her dear mamma. Fannie’s
papa had been in the spirit world for three years, and her mamma was
obliged to do the sewing in order to earn bread and shelter for herself
and little one.
Little Fannie used to help her dear mamma by threading needles, sewing
tags on the work,—tags are tickets with the number of the garment
written on them,—and picking up the litter on the floor.
Fannie Davis was a very happy little girl; she had but few toys, and
these were old, nearly worn-out playthings, which had seen better days;
but she loved to play in the little garden, and watch the flowers,
pulling out old weeds and picking the flower-seeds as they ripened. She
would listen to the birds for hours, and talk to them in her childish
way. They were her companions, for she had no playmates, and it was a
happy summer for this little girl when the robins built their nest in
the old tree.
But, alas, a terrible storm of wind and rain came one night, and brought
disaster to the birdies’ home. The nest became detached from its
fastenings and fell, catching upon a lower branch of the tree. The old
birds were not harmed, but two of their young ones were killed, and
another was lying on the ground with a broken wing. In this condition
little Fannie found them in the morning, when the storm had disappeared
and the sun was shining bright. Poor little thing, how she cried as she
buried the two tiny birds in the garden, and placed a handful of her
choicest flowers upon their grave. The little wounded bird she carried
into the house, her mother tied up its broken wing with a cotton string,
and fed it with bread-crumbs. Fannie made a little, soft nest for the
bird from some pieces of old linen, and kept it until it was strong and
well, when she let it go again out into the bright world to find its
parents, its two brother birdies, and its nest repaired and straightened
in the old tree.
But something really wonderful—so it appeared to the little
girl—happened. While the poor little bird had remained a wounded
prisoner under Fannie’s care, it had become very tame and would eat its
food from her hand, and now that it had grown strong and well, the
little girl felt sad at losing her friend; for she felt that she could
no longer keep him and pet and feed him as she once did.
But I think little birds are grateful creatures; they do not forget a
kindness. In the warm summer weather Mrs. Davis always left the window
open at night, that fresh air might enter her dwelling; and you may
judge of Fannie’s delight to find her little bird entering the house
every morning. He would perch upon her shoulder, eat seeds or crumbs
from her mouth and hand, and chirp and warble his little songs to her in
an ecstasy of glee. Every morning regularly did this occur; the bird
would enter the open window, remain about half an hour to delight his
benefactress, and then soar away to his home on the tree-top, or to
other pleasant places in the neighborhood.
One bright, pleasant day in August, as little Fannie sat playing with
her flowers and pebbles in the garden, she espied the face of a little
boy, framed in by a mass of sunny-brown hair, and half covered—as if
from shyness—with a white straw hat, bound with a bright blue ribbon,
upon the other side of the fence. The stranger was peeping at her with
sparkling, roguish brown eyes, and seemed half inclined to speak.
Springing from the ground, Fannie opened the gate and called: “Would you
like to come in here and see my flowers, little boy?”
The stranger smiled and advanced, and in a few minutes was chatting with
our little girl as though he had always known her. He told her his name
was Franklin Hedge, that he lived in a beautiful, large, white house
ever so far away,—the “ever so far” was about two miles farther into the
country,—that he had a dear mamma, and a splendid papa, with big, black
whiskers; that he had no brothers and sisters, but he guessed God was
going to bring him a little sister soon, cause he had asked for one so
many times; that he had horses and carriages and playthings, “and the
_biggest garden_, with all kinds of flowers growing in it.” He was out
riding with his teacher today, and his teacher had let him play outside
while she went into a house to see a sick friend; it was only a little
ways off, and he had strayed this way while waiting for her.
To all this Fannie listened with breathless delight; she had never seen
such wonderful things as this little boy said he owned; he looked so
cool and pretty in his spotless white suit, and seemed so kind, so
different from the boys she had seen throwing stones, that he seemed
like an angel from another world.
For an hour these two children chatted and played in the garden; Fannie
showing Frankie how to make necklaces of flowers and stems, and Frankie
initiating Fannie into some of the mysteries of boyish games. Once, Mrs.
Davis called to know who Fannie was playing with, but the little girl
satisfied her mother about that, and returned to her new friend,
bringing a glass of fresh milk which he drank with much enjoyment.
But all pleasant things seem to have an end on earth, and pretty soon
these friends were called upon to part. A carriage, drawn by a sleek
white horse, and driven by a lady, appeared coming up the road. Frankie
recognized his teacher, who was looking anxiously up and down the road,
and kissing Fannie Davis good-bye, ran out to meet her; he was lifted
into the carriage, and in a few moments whirled from sight.
For many long weeks after this day, Fannie talked constantly of her
little friend Frankie, and wondered when he would come to see her again;
but the weeks deepened into months, the flowers drooped their heads and
withered away, leaving only dry, brown seeds, which the little girl
carefully gathered and laid away; the leaves drifted from the old oak
tree, leaving the branches brown and bare; the robin’s nest was
deserted, for all the birds had flown away to a sunnier, warmer clime,
to spend the winter; and still Frankie did not come. Fannie could not
play out in the garden now, except for a little while on the sunniest
days; she missed the morning greeting of her little pet robin sadly, but
she liked to think of him as happy in some warmer place, and to look
forward to the coming spring, when he would return to the old tree.
Mrs. Davis had been growing paler and thinner all summer; a bad cough
frequently racked her frame, and distressing pains in the side gave her
great uneasiness. It was now a difficult task to carry her work to and
fro to the shop in the city; yet she felt it must be done, and there was
no one to do it but herself. Upon the scanty proceeds of her toil
depended the existence of herself and little one. For herself she did
not mind so much; but for her little girl she was all anxiety.
A kind-hearted doctor, who lived in the vicinity of the little old brown
house, called in occasionally, leaving some dark mixture in a bottle,
which the patient woman took with the hope of gaining strength; but the
days and weeks flew by, bringing but little relief.
Winter was almost at hand; Mrs. Davis had been unable to provide for its
approach, and she knew not what to do. At last she had been forced to
give up her work. She had but a little wood, flour, and meal in the
house; the snow came drifting down, at first very slowly, but soon
increased in rapidity, until at last the ground was covered with a
carpet so pure and spotless and clear that even angel feet might tread
upon it; yet bitterly cold and uncomfortable to the poor, bare,
suffering feet of those mortals who are without clothing and fire.
Down, down came the feathery snow; darkness fell upon the silent house;
little Fannie crept to her mother’s side beneath the bed-covering, and
was clasped in her tender arms. Sweet sleep visited the child; but none
came to bless the weary eyes of the dying mother; for now the poor woman
knew the truth,—her hours on earth were numbered. Oh, how she prayed for
the good doctor to come and visit her; but he was far away by the side
of another sick and suffering one, and knew not of her desire. Only one
thought possessed the mind of the sleepless woman,—the future welfare of
her little girl. If she could be satisfied of this, she would be content
to pass to the spirit world, where she knew her dear husband was waiting
to welcome her.
The storm passed with the night; the morning sun shone upon the
snow-covered home of our friends, and streamed in upon a little group
gathered around the bed of Mrs. Davis: little Fannie weeping pitifully,
and clinging to the cold, lifeless hand of that form that had once
contained the spirit of her mother; the good, kind doctor, whom I have
spoken of, and a beautiful lady robed in mourning garments, with a face
as pale as the face of the dead.
Mrs. Davis had passed away peacefully, for the doctor had assured her
that her little one should be taken care of. He was now preparing to
leave, to send some one to look after the house, and prepare for the
funeral service of the departed.
You will remember the little boy, Frankie Hedge, who spent a pleasant
hour in the garden of the little brown house, one sunny summer day, in
company with little Fannie. Well, Frankie had not forgotten his little
playmate of an hour; many times would he speak of her to his mamma and
papa, and they had promised him that when he returned from the sea-side,
where he was going with them for a few weeks, he should again see the
little girl he had taken such a liking to.
But, alas, Frankie Hedge, who went to the sea-side a strong and happy
boy of eight years, returned at the end of six weeks a pale and helpless
invalid. Frequent bathing in the ocean spray, and remaining in the water
too long at a time, weakened his constitution to such a degree that when
a chill seized him one cloudy morning, while splashing about with his
companions in the water, it was with the utmost difficulty he was
brought to land in a senseless condition. From that time he weakened and
pined away; all that human love or physician’s skill could do was done,
but without avail; and now, when the December winds howled about the
splendid residence of his father, he lay panting and moaning, his face
as white as the snowy pillows upon which it rested, and his eyes grown
large and sorrowful, seeking rest and strength from the gentle face of
his mother, who bent above him.
Often, in his hours of illness, had he spoken to his parents of little
Fannie Davis, telling of the many fine times he meant to have with her
when he got well; but now he knew he should never get stronger in this
world, and so it was that on this cold December evening, when the snow
was flying thick and fast without, and the gentle, subdued light of the
sick chamber fell upon the costly furniture, the rosy curtains, the
silver ornaments of the mantel, lighting them up with a mellow glow, and
shining upon the pallid faces of the anxious parents, Frankie entreated
his mother to go for Fannie Davis, and bring her to him.
Kind Dr. May, who was in attendance, said he knew the little girl and
her poor, sick mamma, and he would go for her himself. But this would
not do; nothing would pacify the sick child until his mother promised
that in the morning she would go in the sleigh with the good doctor,
find Fannie, and bring her to Frankie’s side.
“Oh, I am so glad, mamma,” said the child; “there is a nice, tall man
here, and he is so glad too. I saw him that day in the garden where
Fannie lives; he told me he was Fannie’s father. He says pretty soon
Fannie will have no mamma on earth. Do bring her here, mamma, and
perhaps when she has no mamma, and you have no little boy, she will be
your little girl, and stay with you forever; ’cause I will be will be
with the angels; but I will come to see you sometimes.”
After this the child fell asleep, and in the morning, when the sun was
shining on the freshly-fallen snow, Mrs. Hedge was taken in the doctor’s
sleigh to the home of Fannie Davis; and that is how they found the dying
woman and the weeping child.
Kind, gentle Mrs. Hedge found it impossible to persuade little Fannie to
leave her mother’s side; so after the spirit of the suffering woman had
passed peacefully away, she was obliged to return to her home, leaving
the little girl in charge of a good woman whom the doctor had found to
remain with and care for her, until after the funeral of the body of
Mrs. Davis; for it is only the body, dear children, that has to be laid
away from sight; the real person lives, and is not cold and senseless;
but if he or she has been good, happiness is theirs, and they find a
beautiful, sweet home in company with their dear friends. Mrs. Davis had
met her dear husband and parents, and found a bright home awaiting her,
but she had not forsaken nor forgotten her little girl, who was left on
the earth seemingly alone.
Frankie Hedge expressed no feeling of disappointment when his mother
returned without Fannie. “I knew she wouldn’t come,” said he to her as
she entered the room, after removing her rich cloak and furs. “I told
papa she wouldn’t come. I saw her papa again a few moments ago, and
there was a lady with him with such a sweet, pretty face. It made me
think of you, mamma, it looked so kind and good, and then I knew
Fannie’s mamma was dead and that was her.” Mrs. Hedge kissed her little
boy, and said she thought Fannie would come by-and-bye, after the
funeral of her mother’s body. “Oh, yes, she will come, mamma; her papa
told me so, and I can wait, because I’m not going to leave you for some
time yet. I saw dear grandma last night, and she kissed me and said:
‘Not till the March winds blow, my lamb, will we be ready to take you to
our spirit home.’”
The eyes of the listening parents filled with tears; they knew their
darling was traveling fast to the Summer-land, yet they did not grieve
as some people grieve when their loved ones pass away; for they knew he
could come back to them. They did not think he was dreaming, as the
doctor did, when he talked of seeing Fannie’s papa and his own grandma,
because they knew the angels are ever around striving to make their
presence known to their friends.
In three days Fannie Davis was brought to the home of Frankie Hedge.
Poor little thing! how her eyes lighted up at the sight of the little
boy waiting anxiously to receive her. What an affectionate meeting was
this! You would have thought it a meeting between a long-lost brother
and sister; but the angels knew and understood. Both children had
changed since that long past summer day when they met and parted. For
while Frankie had grown pale and wan from pain and weakness, Fannie had
lost her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes from long confinement and grief
from the illness and death of her mother.
Nothing would satisfy Frankie Hedge now but a promise that Fannie should
stay with him while he remained in the body, and this desire was
granted.
Sorrow of her own had filled the heart of Mrs. Hedge with pity and
sympathy, which soon grew into love for the little orphan; and Mr.
Hedge, who declared Fannie looked very much like a little sister of his
who passed away many years ago, took her into his heart at once.
A little room, opening off the hall where Frankie’s chamber was
situated, was fitted up for little Fannie. A beautiful carpet of blue
ground, with white lilies strewn upon it, covered the floor; a tiny bed
of spotless linen and lace, pretty furniture of blue and white, a few
pretty pictures upon the pink-tinted walls, and blue and white curtains
at the window, completed the furnishing of the room. This apartment was
a continued charm to our little girl. Never in her life had she beheld
anything so beautiful, and she would sometimes hold her breath and pinch
her arm, to see if she was not dreaming.
Mrs. Hedge had undertaken also to clothe the child, not in somber
garments of black, but in dainty dresses of creamy white cashmere, which
filled her spirit with delight, and made her wish for her mamma to come
back and see her.
The two children were constant companions now during the day, save when
Fannie was absent at her meals, or taken out for an airing by Frankie’s
governess. Dr. May declared Frankie very much improved since Fannie
came, and Mr. and Mrs. Hedge began to hope that health and strength
would soon return to him.
What famous times the children had together! Frankie possessed numerous
toys and picture-books, which were a source of never-failing delight to
the little girl; besides, he would tell her of the places where he had
been, and things he had seen, until her little eyes would grow round
with wonder and pleasure. But best of all would she love to listen to
him, as he told of the visits of her mamma and papa, and his own
grandmamma to his bedside, and what they said to him; and she would
wish, oh, so much, that she could see and hear them too, and it made her
very happy to learn that her mamma and papa were happy in a sweet home,
and they came back every day to Frankie, to send their love to their
little girl.
So time sped rapidly away, and it was soon the first of February. The
clear, white frost covered the ground, which shone in the beautiful
sunlight of morning, or the glittering moonlight of evening, like
countless sparks of brilliant light. All was fair, calm, and serene.
Within doors it was the same; not a breath of discord, not a ripple of
inharmony came to disturb the quiet peace of that little household.
A beautiful cabinet-organ stood in the recess of Frankie’s room, and
sometimes, when the twilight fell, the little boy would ask his mamma
not to have the gas lighted, but to play on the organ; and as the quiet
shadows of early evening fell, the good lady would play softly and
sweetly to the listening ears of the delighted children. At this hour
the presence of the angels became visible to Frankie, and he would talk
with them, as though they were in the body.
One evening, about the middle of the month, Mrs. Hedge sat in a large
easy-chair, holding her little boy in her lap; he had been very restless
and uneasy all day, and to soothe him into quiet his mother had taken
him in her arms. Little Fannie sat a short distance from them, her soft,
blue eyes fixed in a dreamy gaze. Mr. Hedge had just come in, and stood
looking sadly down upon his suffering child.
Suddenly, Fannie arose, passed to the organ, seated herself upon the
stool, and began running her fingers over the keys, producing a soft,
sweet melody. Presently she began to sing a beautiful song, still
playing an accompaniment to the words.
Frankie’s parents were astonished beyond measure, even while delighted
at this wonderful performance of the little girl, who had never played a
note upon any musical instrument in her life; but the little boy himself
viewed the scene with calmness and pleasure. Afterward, he told them all
that he had seen a beautiful lady touch Fannie by the hand, lead her to
the organ, and guide her fingers over the keys.
The song which Fannie sang Mrs. Hedge recognized as a favorite air of a
very dear sister of hers, who had long since passed to the spirit world,
and by the description her little boy gave of the lady he saw at
Fannie’s side, she was convinced that it was really her sister, come
back to sing to her once again.
Every evening after this would the sweet spirit come, take control of
the little girl, and sing and play to her delighted listeners; Frankie
never failing to see and speak to her, as well as other spirits present,
and to convey to his parents the messages of love and consolation they
would bring. It seemed as though heaven had indeed come down to that
sick chamber, and that angels dwelt within the home.
These were sad but happy days for Mr. and Mrs. Hedge. They now knew that
nothing—not even their great love—could keep their little boy in the
body; his strength was failing fast, but his spirit powers were gaining
so rapidly that he could see the angels at any time. Many a sacred hour
did the parents spend in communion with their spirit friends through the
powers of these two children brought so strangely together; and even
while they sorrowed to part with their darling, they rejoiced to know
that he would be happy in the spirit world, where they would some day
join him, and that while they remained on earth he would return to
comfort and bless them.
Frankie himself was perfectly calm and happy in all but one thing; he
was troubled and perplexed about his little friend Fannie; it was
strange how these children had become attached to each other. Fannie,
who had always been an active little girl, would sit upon the side of
the bed for hours at a time, holding Frankie’s hand, and talk or sing to
him until he fell asleep, or it was time for her to leave him for her
food or walk.
As yet, the little boy had not mentioned his trouble to anyone: but at
length, as the end drew near, he resolved to do so. It was evening, the
curtains were drawn, and the mellow light shone through the gas-globes.
The children had kissed each other “good night,” and Fannie had retired
to her rest. Mr. and Mrs. Hedge were sitting with their sick boy; the
nurse and physician had retired, and all was quiet throughout the house.
“Mamma and papa,” said the child, “there is one thing I want so much, so
much; I am going to leave you very soon now; grandma told me this
morning she would soon come for me; but I want you to promise me
something before I go.”
“What is it, my darling?” asked his mother, as she kissed his pale brow.
“I want you to keep Fannie always with you, and let her be your little
girl. She will be your comfort. The spirits want this, too; I think they
sent me to her last summer, and they brought her to us. Please, mamma
and papa, say she may always stay here with you.”
“Yes, dear,” answered the father, “your mamma and I decided this some
time ago. We can never part with the little one willingly. She is too
precious to us, and she has been too dear to our little boy for us to
let her go from us.”
A smile of joy flashed over the child’s features; he was at rest now;
nothing else could disturb him, for he was near the gates of the
Summer-land. His little friend was to be cared for; that was all he
could desire. With a loving kiss and grateful glance to his dear
parents, he sank into a sweet and dreamless sleep.
The March winds came and whistled around the old, stately house; the
white snow still lay upon the ground. It had been an unusually cold
winter; many poor souls had felt the biting blast; but little Fannie
Davis, cared for by loving friends and guardian spirits, had been
mercifully protected from all want and suffering.
It was twilight,—the angel’s hour in that home of wealth and splendor.
Mr. and Mrs. Hedge, good doctor May, the gentle old nurse, and little
Fannie Davis were gathered around the couch of the child whose mortal
life was fast ebbing away. But there was a far larger company gathered
in that silent room,—angelic beings came to take the loved one home, and
these the eyes of the child watched with solemn delight. Calmly,
sweetly, gently, his soul passed out from the body, to be met by loving
welcome, and borne to the blooming bowers of Summer-land, where all is
beauty, gladness, and joy.
Tender hands robed the little form of clay in garments of spotless
white, adorned it with rare and fragrant flowers, and with many caresses
and tears, consigned it to its last resting-place. But the little boy,
Frankie, now glad and strong and free, still lived in a beautiful home,
from which he could return to those he loved.
Three days after the burial of the body, Mr. and Mrs. Hedge were seated
together, conversing sadly of the late events. Little Fannie, who was
present, seemed to pay no attention to their conversation; the poor
child had grown strangely silent and sad of late, for she missed her
little companion more than tongue can tell.
Suddenly her form straightened, her eyes brightened, and a smile spread
over her features. “Oh, Frankie, Frankie,” she exclaimed; “he is
here—see! see! How good and bright he looks!”
In a moment her eyes closed, her features changed, and passing to the
side of the sofa, where the elder parties were seated, she embraced them
fondly, and in Frankie’s well-known tones addressed them, telling of his
pleasure, his beautiful home, how well and strong he had grown; telling
of the dear ones with him, and expressing his delight at the opportunity
of returning to his dear, dear parents.
What a happy hour was this!—their dear one returning to speak to them.
Tears of joy fell from their eyes, and the sorrowing parents were lead
to rejoice in the goodness and mercy of our Father in Heaven.
Often after this was the scene repeated; almost daily, Frankie would
return, and control little Fannie to speak to his father and mother;
many times he appeared to the little girl, and the children would play
together, as though both were in the form; so that loneliness and sorrow
vanished from the hearts of all, and it indeed seemed that their dear
one had never died.
Mr. and Mrs. Hedge never had cause to regret adopting Fannie Davis; she
was the light and life of their household, through whom the angels came
and ministered to weary hearts. Many a life has been comforted, many a
home brightened by the messages of love, hope, and cheer, given through
her organism by good spirits. She is now a young lady,—sweet, gentle,
and lovable,—whose purest happiness comes to her life when she is
comforting the sad, and assisting the needy. Spirit Frankie, with her
own dear father and mother, and many other angels, guard and guide her
on in her useful mission of helpfulness and love. Thus, you may see,
dear children, how the angels ever care for those in need.