FROM MARY HOWITT’s “DIAL OF LOVE AT NOON-DAY.”
In a valley deep a little stream did run,
Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;
By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,
And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.
The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,
Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,
Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowers
Of the valley meadow, till the cruel mowers
Came, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,
And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!
Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,
Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.
Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,
Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—
Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—
Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.
The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,
But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.
[Illustration: The Goat of the Welsh Guards]
The Regimental Goat.
Goats are the oddest creatures that can be imagined, and are as varied
as to species as they are as to tricks. He is a sheepish looking
animal, but nothing at all like the sheep in its habits. He can bear
heat and cold, wind and storm—it is only very severe cold that kills
him, as it did my poor “Billy,” in St. John’s Churchyard, seven years
ago. The inconstancy of his disposition is marked by the irregularity
of his actions. He walks, stops short, runs, leaps, approaches,
retires, shows or conceals himself, or flies off, as if actuated by
mere caprice, and without any other cause than what arises from an
eccentricity of temper. Yet he is a very docile and attached beast.
He can be made to draw a carriage, and patiently submits to labour.
He will also bear a saddle, and in some mountain countries it is no
uncommon thing to see little children mounted on goats, who ride with
great ease, and sometimes with great speed. These goats are very fond
of horses, and horses are very fond of them. I have often found our
poor “Billy” standing on the back of “Bessie,” the mare, when the
stable-door has been opened of a morning. They are, too, from their
very nature, prone to climb: and master “Billy,” not always content
with “Bessie’s” back as a mountain, on one occasion leaped from the
wall of the dung-pit on to a higher wall, and from that to the tiles
of the stable, and from there he soon mounted to the top of the roof;
and after capering about there for some time, he, evidently pleased
with the mountain-like elevation, bounded to the roof of another
house, from that to a third, and so on from roof to roof, over half
the houses in the town. It was difficult to know what to do—“Billy”
would not come down till he liked. It was of no use to call “Billy,
Billy,” and to hold up bunches of hay or Shrewsbury cakes—“Billy” only
snorted at them; and every person over whose roof “Billy” pattered had
a reverential fear for their tiles, and the outcry was loud to get him
from them. One “savage bear” proposed to shoot him, a “cunning old fox”
proposed to throw a lasso over him, but to no purpose. “Billy” was
delighted with his elevated position, and felt as proud as if he had
been called to the chair at a public dinner, and felt no desire to come
down whatever. It so happened, however, that being Whit-Monday—Punch’s
Holiday—the parish engines had to be called out for exercise, and the
principal churchwarden of the place, the renowned Robert Balderdash,
Esq., proposed that the water-spout should be brought to bear upon
Billy. After some remonstrance on the part of Jemmy Barerib, the
Secretary of the Teetotallers, at the unnecessary waste of water, the
engine made play, and poor Billy was soused over head and ears, and
nearly knocked over by the force of the water, whereupon he snorted and
rose on his hind legs, and kicked and scampered homewards as fast as
his legs would carry him.
It is not an uncommon thing to find goats attending an army on its
march, and in some of those provinces which the Russian Emperor wishes
to steal from the Turks, herds of goats follow in the rear of the
Turkish troops. They are generally milch goats, and afford an agreeable
supply of milk to the officers and others of the various regiments. One
of our own regiments had a couple of goats attached to it; the last
pair had been presented to it by Her Majesty the Queen, but one of
these having died, the remaining one now does duty alone, as you see
him in the picture.
Some goats have been taught very extraordinary tricks. They have been
taught to climb a very high pole, by the aid of small pegs let into
its sides, and then to balance themselves on its top. They have also
been trained to take enormous leaps through blazing circles of fire: to
dance to the sound of a tabor, and to do such wonderful things, that
I am ashamed to relate them to you, for fear you would not believe
me—therefore, let this be sufficient for a Chapter on Goats.
[Illustration]
The Rain; or, the Child, the Fairy, and the Magic Bird.
A loving fairy watched over the slumbers of a beautiful child. The
little maiden seemed to be dreaming uneasily, for she turned often in
her sleep, then she rubbed a little ring on her finger, and then waving
her arm upwards, she sang:—
“Rain, rain,
Go away.
Come again
Another day—
Little Johnny
Wants to play.”
“Mary! Mary! my pretty one!” said the kind fairy, “what is the matter?
That magic ring, which I gave you,—you have been rubbing it for the
last ten minutes,—what is it you want with me?”
“Did I rub the ring?” said Mary, starting up; “I did not know that:—but
I do want you, dear fairy. You must know that I and my brother Johnny
are invited to my auntie’s to-morrow, provided it be fine weather. It
has been raining almost every day for the last week, and last night it
looked very black, as if it would rain again. Now, dear fairy, grant me
a favour?—Give me and Johnny a fine day for our visit to auntie’s.”
The fairy looked tenderly on the child, but yet grave. “Mary, my sweet,
did I not tell you, when I gave you the magic ring, that you were not
to summon me except when you wanted comfort, or advice, or help to
strengthen your character? I said you were never to ask gifts of me,
nor any change of _outward_ circumstances. However, it is well you have
called me; for I have something to tell you. I am about to leave the
Fairy realm for a short time, and during my absence I cannot answer the
rubbing of the ring. But I will not leave you without some help. Until
my return, I will lend you one of the birds that sing in the gardens of
our Fairy-land.”
The fairy struck three times with her wand upon the floor, and a moment
or two afterwards three or four little hands were lifted up, holding a
golden bird-cage, with a beautiful canary in it.
“There, my child, cherish this little bird tenderly. Let the door of
its cage be open all day, that it may wander about the garden where it
will. It will not go away from you very far. Every night it will sleep
in its cage.”
Mary looked on the little bird, and was greatly pleased. She put her
lips to the golden wires, and the pretty little creature came and
kissed them. She opened the door, and it flew upon her finger and sang,
and with its pretty round eyes looked into hers, and played with its
beak about her pretty mouth.
“Oh, fairy! dear fairy! a beautiful bird indeed! I will take great care
of it, for I love it tenderly.”
“My child,” said the fairy, “I have lent you this beautiful creature
for your good, not for your amusement merely. This little bird has
the power of speaking to you when you need it. Listen attentively to
his songs, and let the meaning and spirit of them sink deep into your
heart.”
So saying, the fairy went away, and left Mary alone with the bird.
For awhile the pleasure of looking at it quite filled her mind.
Its beautiful plumage, its little round sparkling eye, its pretty,
affectionate ways, its clear, sweet note, were always delightful and
charming. After a time, however, she remembered the day’s pleasure that
had been promised to her at her aunt’s, and she lifted up the blind of
the window to look at the weather.
O dear! dear! it rained worse than ever!—Drip, drip, drip—patter,
patter, patter. Little bits of spongy cloud kept scudding overhead,
sometimes black and sometimes grey, sometimes dropping a good drenching
shower, and sometimes only a drizzling sheet of spray. The roads were
soft and miry, with little pools of water here and there, through which
the horses and carts passed with a splashing sound. Mary sighed. She
thought of her aunt’s beautiful garden and meadow, of the games of play
with her cousins, of the swing under the boughs of the mulberry tree,
of the pet lamb and the little dog, and little Johnny trotting about
and enjoying it all; and then she looked out into the gloomy rain. How
vexatious! “Rain, rain, go away!” the lips of the little maiden pouted,
and presently she began to cry.
“Swe-et!—swe-et!” said the little bird, from his golden cage, and then
he broke out into song:—
“Oh! Foolish little maid to pray
The fruitful rain to go away.
Showers as well as sunbeams fall,
From that deep Soul which loveth all;
Dark or bright, the Heavens are full
Of mercies—sweet and beautiful.”
“Ah, little bird! is that you, dearest?” said Mary; “I did not mean to
ask anything improper. I know the rain is very beautiful; but then so
much of it, you know—and just at this time, too, when we are invited to
auntie’s! O! really, little bird, it is very, very——”
But the little bird would not hear more. He drowned her voice with loud
carollings, and he kept on singing all the day, while the rain fell and
pattered against the window-panes. All the day long it rained without
ceasing. When the evening came, it held up for awhile, but the sky was
still dark and lowering. Mary retired to her bed-room for the night,
and placed her little bird on the dressing-table near the window; and
when she had said her evening prayer, and lain down on her pillow with
a quiet heart, the little creature gave one long-drawn note of song,
and a calm sleep came over both bird and child. Once during the night,
the veil of clouds parted for a moment, and a glowing little star sent
a ray of its beauty into the room; but the darkness folded over it
again, and when the morning came and Mary got up, it rained. Again!
Still disappointment! Little Johnny, at the breakfast-table, kept on
asking why he did not go to auntie’s; and it required a good deal of
talking and coaxing to keep him from crying about it.
Just as breakfast was over, who should ride up to the door but Thomas,
auntie’s groom, mounted on a beautiful bay mare, but splashed up to
the very saddle-girths, with mud and mire. Thomas brought a letter
to Mary’s mamma, to say that the visit of the children would better
be put off for a few days. At present, the lawn was soddened with
water, and all the paths were wet and muddy. As the children wanted
to amuse themselves out of doors, they must wait not only till the
weather was fine, but also till the ground was dry. Now, to the ears
of poor Mary and little Johnny, this sounded like a putting off of the
invitation altogether. Johnny cried about it sadly, and Mary, partly
out of love to him, and partly from her own disappointment, felt much
inclined to cry too. She ran up to her bed-room, and tried to drive
back the tears, by thinking of something bright and cheerful; but it
was very difficult, for the pattering of the rain went on, and as the
drops broke and melted on the window, they ran down it like tears. The
furniture of the room was clammy and unpleasant to the touch, and now
and then a big rain-drop fell down the chimney into the fire-place,
and sounded on the bright fender. Altogether, it was very dismal. Mary
looked up to her little bird; his round bright eye twinkled as bright
and happy as ever. She remembered what he had said about the skies
being always full of beauty, and she knew that it was true; but still
she did long for the sunshine, and she could not help talking to her
little pet about it:—“Oh, when will the sunshine come, my pretty bird?
when will the sunshine come?”
“Swe-et! swe-et?” said the bird:—
“When the troubled breast is still,
And duty guides and shapes the will;—
When holy feelings upward stray,
And meet the love of Heaven mid-way—
In the heart without guile
The sweet sunbeams shall smile,
And joy all around,
Like music-drops, sound.”
“Ah, little bird, you talk just like the fairy!—She speaks to me about
the inward sunshine; but, dear little bird, I want to know when the
outward sunshine will come?”
The bird was silent. Presently it hopped out of its cage—perched upon
her finger—kissed her on the lips—and passed its little bill up and
down her cheek, in such a fondling way, that she felt tears of love
and tenderness in her eyes. She caressed the little bird, and thought
no more of the rain; and she made up her mind, that happen what might,
rain or sunshine, disappointment or not, she would leave off her
murmuring. So, with a calm bright countenance, she went about all her
duties; and little Johnny, touched by her kindness, and amused by her
playfulness, grew quite content to have the promised visit to auntie’s
put off for a little while.
The whole week continued showery. Some days there were several hours
of sunshine, which seemed to give promise of brighter weather; then
came an hour of rain, which drenched the gardens and the roads, and
made play out-of-doors impossible. But now, it had no effect on the
temper of little Mary. She would have liked fine weather better than
wet, a great deal better indeed; but she was gradually learning to
bear disappointment; the inward sunshine was brightening in her heart.
One day, when there had been a good many intervals of sunshine, and the
showers had passed over quickly, she was playing with little Johnny
in the parlour, when she suddenly heard her bird singing loudly, and
calling to her with his “swe-et! swe-et!”
“Ah! my pretty one! I am coming! Darling has got something to say to
me!”