Good, and sweet, and pretty”—and then he smiled at Sue—
“She said I could learn a simple piece, learn it, and speak it well;
I didn’t want anything _simple_, I wanted a piece that would _tell_.
“And so I chose for my first attempt: ‘The Seminole’s Reply,’
You’ll find it in some old reader—tells how Indians defy—
And Kate she taught it to me, taught me to speak each line—
’Twas for the exhibition; I practiced what hours were mine.
“I practiced when I went after the cows, when I went to gather eggs,
And frightened the hens and roosters off of their yellow legs.
Up in the garret chamber, back the old rafters gave:
‘I ne’er will ask you quarter, and I ne’er will be your slave!’
“The day of exhibition came, as all such days will come,
The schoolroom was packed and crowded—all of them went from home—
And I sat there and trembled, from my shining boots to my crown,
And wished that the floor might open and quietly let me down.
“At length I mounted the platform, but how, I never knew,
I knew they had called upon me, and somehow I must get through.
I made my bow, I know I did, I raised my head to speak,
Then the people swam around me, I felt my knees grow weak—
“‘Blaze! with your serried columns!’ ’twas to sound like a clarion’s
call,
I opened my mouth, and formed the words, but I didn’t _blaze_ at all.
My throat was parched and swollen, there was ringing in my ears,
There was blackness all around me, I forgot my awful fears.
“I reeled, and then plunged headlong down from my lofty place,
And next I was out in the dooryard with water on my face,
And Kate was bending over me, fanning, to give me air,
And mother was gently bathing that wound near the edge of my hair.
“And that was how I got the scar; but, boys, _I didn’t give in_,
I resolved as old Demosthenes, sooner or later to win.
I resolved to be an orator, then and there, that day,
And so I never faltered, though to me ’twas a thorny way.
“But, let me tell you one thing, here: whatever you aim to do
You’ll be pretty sure to do it, if you _will_ to carry it through.”
And then the lecturer said: “My boys, it is late and we must part.”
But father said: “Robert and Christopher, take that lesson to heart.”
EMILY BAKER SMALLE.
_Volume 13, Number 42._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_August 21, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: “I WEAR TROUSERS, AND YOU DON’T!”]
A PACKAGE FOR ROSE.
NO. II.
THEY found the scissors in Mrs. Harrison’s work basket and then sat
down together on the doorstep to open the package. When the outside
paper was taken off they saw there were really two small packages, both
wrapped alike in white paper, but one was square and flat, and the
other round and slender,—indeed one might almost have guessed it to
be, as Rose said, a very large stick of candy.
“Oh, let me open the round one!” cried Priscilla.
“No, I want to open that myself,” said Rose, “but I’ll let you open the
other.”
“Well,” answered Priscilla pleasantly, “I will.”
So saying, she began to tear off the paper, but stopped at an
exclamation from Rose.
“See! see! Priscilla, this is old gold satin!”
Sure enough. The round roll proved to be a banner, fastened to a
slender brass rod, and finished with a fringe of bright little stars.
There was a spray of blue forget-me-nots painted upon it, and as Rose
held it up in the sunlight, both girls declared that it was very
beautiful indeed.
“Isn’t aunt Alice lovely to send me this,” cried Rose, after they had
examined it to their full satisfaction. “But I can’t see how it’s an
answer to my letter.”
“Maybe this is the answer,” said Priscilla, taking up the other
package. “See, it’s just sheets of paper, fastened together, and lots
of writing on them.”
“Yes,” said Rose, “it’s a letter. Why, no it isn’t,” she added. “Oh
goody! goody! it’s a story! aunt Alice does tell splendid stories, but
I never thought of her writing one. Come, let’s read it.”
The pages of the paper were neatly fastened together, and every word
was so plainly written that the two girls could easily read them.
Rose began as follows:
THE PERFUMED MANTLE.
Long ago, in a small village whose cottages clustered upon a mountain
slope, a great number of people had come together to celebrate a fair
which was held each year for the benefit of that district.
Some had come to sell and some to buy, but many were there for pleasure
only. Hucksters and villagers, peasants, and venders of trinkets, or of
useful articles—all were there in bustling confusion.
Among the crowd had come a man whom no one could recollect having seen
before, and yet he spoke to each whom he met, calling him by name.
His manner was dignified, quiet and gentle, and he said that he came
neither to buy nor sell, but that he had a wonderful cloak which he
would give for the asking. He said, moreover, that it was the safeguard
which all travellers wore who journeyed to the Pleasant Land.
Now this kingdom, as the people well knew, lay just beyond their own
boundary, toward the setting of the sun; and indeed many of them had
wished that they might sometime go thither, for they had heard wondrous
reports of its beauty and of the happiness of its people. But they had
been deterred from setting out by their affairs at home, and by certain
sayings that had got abroad concerning the difficulties of the way. So
when the stranger spoke thus, a large number of the people gathered
around, and began to comment on the cloak, which hung upon the man’s
arm and was of some soft woollen goods. It gave out too, a scent more
delicate and sweet than the fragrance of any flower that blooms.
Their criticisms were various. One old peasant said that while he
should like to own the cloak, he feared its elegance might excite the
contempt of his neighbors, who heretofore had never seen him clothed in
anything but coarse garments.
A woman at his elbow also had a voice in the matter.
“The opinion of the neighbors,” said she, “would have little weight
with me. But such a cloak hanging from the shoulders would greatly
hinder one when at work.”
“Yea, that it would,” answered another, “and work we must, if we would
lay up dowries for our daughters, or buy a bit of land for our sons.
We have none of us time to journey towards that Western country,” she
added reflectively.
Just then a youth wearing the heavy shoes and blouse of a workman drew
near. After asking some questions, of the way that led to the Pleasant
Land, he declared his intention of setting out that very hour, but
added that he should have no need of the mantle, for he was young and
sturdy and used to depending upon himself.
“Yet take the cloak!” urged the stranger, “for I have never known any
traveller to reach the kingdom without one.”
The youth, however, shook his head, and, laughing lightly, waved his
hand in farewell to the people.
He turned his face confidently toward the West, taking a narrow path
that led over the mountain, and thence into a little valley.
It was a quiet, peaceful way bordered by grass of a tender green and by
flowers whose delicacy showed that they were the blossoms of spring.
One end of the vale was almost shut in by the rocky walls of two high
mountains, and the pass between them was barred by a massive gate.
Toward this gate the narrow footpath tended. The youth still felt fresh
and vigorous and it was not long ere he had reached the portal where at
each hand he now beheld a sentinel.
“Few are the days of the journey,” said the first.
“And, alas! wearisome and profitless to him who weareth not the mantle
of loving kindness,” said the second.
Immediately the great gate turned noiselessly on its hinges, and when
it closed again the youth had entered what proved to be a busy city,
with people of all descriptions hurrying along the streets. Two things
were most noticeable: there was no one amid all the throng who did
not carry a burden of some kind, and there was not one who had not
something peculiar to himself which was an annoyance to all whom he met.
“Ah ha!” cried the youth, “I see how it is. If one wants to get through
this crowd in any comfort he must use a sharp tongue, and elbows or
fists to the best advantage.”
So saying, he set out again upon his way, but was soon met by a band
of merry-makers, who seemed inclined to take up most of the path.
“Now for it!” said the youth to himself, and, setting his arms akimbo
he attempted to push his way among them. But it was not without several
hard blows that he escaped and passed on, so perfectly did the company
imitate his manner and attempt to bar his way.
The next to claim his attention was a woman carrying a heavy
basket—and more especially as the basket was set around with thorns.
“Let me but escape their sharp points,” cried the youth, “and I care
little how hard they press her.”
The result of the encounter was some scratches to both travellers,
which might have been saved if each had sought to spare his neighbor
pain.
Thus it went from day to-day, sometimes with sharp words, occasionally
with blows, but oftener a slight push from one passer to the other,
until at last we must leave the youth to pursue his hopeless journey,
while we return to the village whence he had set out.
HAZLETT.
CAUSE FOR COMPLAINT.
“I DON’T like grandma at all,” said Fred,
“I don’t like grandma at all,”
And he drew his face in a queer grimace;
The tears were ready to fall,
As he gave his kitten a loving hug,
And disturbed her nap on the soft, warm rug.
“Why, what has your grandma done?” I asked,
“To trouble the little boy?
O what has she done, the cruel one,
To scatter the smiles of joy?”
Through quivering lips the answer came,
“She—called—my—kitty—a—horrid—name.”
“She did? are you sure?” and I kissed the tears
Away from the eyelids wet.
“I can scarce believe that grandma would grieve
The feelings of either pet.
What did she say?” “Boo-hoo!” cried Fred,
“She—called—my—kitty—a—_quadruped_!”
—_Selected._
MOZART.
PART I.
NOW I seem to see some of you Pansies skipping this article, because
you think is a biographical sketch of the great musician Mozart, and
possibly you “don’t like biographical sketches.” Or if you do, those
of you who are members of the “P. S.” have read all about Mozart in
your book—“Great Composers.” But let me assure you at the beginning
that while this is a biographical sketch, and as true a one as ever
was written, and about a person named Mozart, who was something of a
musician, possibly you will not pass it by so scornfully when I tell
you this Mozart is a cat!
[Illustration: MOZART.]
He belonged to a family which is quite small, I believe, though its
members are very large, so that when he was but two or three months
old, he was as large as many ordinary cats, while his mother was
positively colossal!
The way I came to get Mozart was this: his mother, brothers and
sisters, and he, were owned by my auntie May, and this same auntie
was, once upon a time, about to move from her home in New York, to
New Jersey. Knowing how I loved cats, when my mother was visiting
her, she proposed that one of the kittens should be taken home to me.
So, on the morning of my father and mother’s start, one was procured,
and imprisoned in a willow basket which was tied with strong cord.
Just as the good-bys were being said, when the basket was reposing
in the bottom of the sleigh, and as the driver was raising his reins
preparatory to the start, my uncle called out, “Don’t step on the
kitten!” To which the driver responded, “It ain’t here!” and grinned
broadly, as the disappointing animal jumped to the ground, and sped
across the snow to the stable. There was no time to recapture him,
for they were then almost afraid they would miss the train, and the
sleigh-bells jingled as the sleigh ran down the hill to the depot, the
occupants thereof looking curiously at the empty basket in the bottom.
“How did he get out?” was the question; and became the question for
discussion on the train, as all day my mother and father whizzed along
from New York into Pennsylvania. The basket had been found to be just
as securely tied as it was when the kitten had first been placed
therein, and the only explanation that could be given when my parents
reached home was, that the kitten _had_ been in the basket, and was
_not_! Which explanation was, as you may not be surprised to hear,
exceedingly unsatisfactory to me, for I dearly loved, and do dearly
love all members of the feline kingdom. I never see one but I feel that
I must stop and pat its soft fur.
But so far, instead of telling you how I did get Mozart, I have been
telling you how I did _not_ get him!
It was about a week after my father and mother had reached home, when,
one morning, as we were seated at the breakfast table, the door-bell
rang, and an expressman appeared, with a grin on his face that seemed
literally to reach from one ear to the other! “’Ere’s a cat!” he
exclaimed, and forthwith produced a box a foot or two square, the top
of which was decorated, in good-sized letters, with this injunction:
“THIS SIDE UP WITH CARE!”
As the official brought it into the hall, the listeners and lookers-on
heard a prolonged “Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” which seemed to echo and re-echo,
and at last died away into silence.
“It is the kitten that we didn’t bring!” said my mother, while I ran
for a hammer and chisel with which to open the box. When the operation
was performed, there jumped out a large, yellow, cat-like kitten, which
escaped as far as possible from us, as we tried to grasp it, repeating
its mournful, yet decisive cry of—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!”
Strange to say, he did not recognize us as friends, immediately, but
preferred to wait until he formed a closer acquaintance before he was
victimized by our embraces or pettings, so he was consigned to the
cellar, where he spent much of his time. When we would try to get him
up, unless we succeeded in finding him asleep, he would climb a beam,
and with great agility elude our efforts to capture him.
Having heard many stories of cats returning to their former homes,
and having had some experience in that line ourselves, we were
careful to keep Mozart in the house, lest he should make his escape
and be seen no more. If he did manage to get out of the kitchen
door in a clandestine manner, a ridiculous procession was formed of
the bareheaded members of our family, and no peace was given the
poor animal, until, after racing around the yard once or twice, he
surrendered to our clutches. Truly our anxious efforts to capture
the unwilling prisoner must have been a ludicrous sight to any
unsympathizing spectator.
We let Mozart sleep in the kitchen, and this gave him the chance
he apparently coveted, of sleeping on the table, which he did so
obstinately, that we were finally compelled to resort to the expedient
of turning the table on its side every night, so that if he slept on
it, it would have to be in direct resistance to the law of gravitation!
Mozart also showed a great desire to make the table his dining-room,
though this freak was explained on the arrival of my auntie May, who
said that he had eaten on an old table in the barn at home. He also
probably slept there. But with us he was obliged to make his couch on
some old pieces of carpeting.
I now remember that I have not yet given a thorough description of my
hero, and as that is properly one of the first things to do in a sketch
of this kind, I must hasten to it. Mozart was clothed with a stationary
garment of brownish-yellow fur—I do not know whether the artists would
call it chrome yellow, yellow ochre, Naples yellow, or what. This
garment was at regular intervals striped with rings of a darker shade,
and these went completely around his body.
These rings reached their abrupt termination at the tip of the wearer’s
tail. It is quite proper to insert just here the fact that once upon a
time one of them fell off, and was found, a little wad of dark yellow
fur, on the floor of the dining-room.
Mozart had eyes of a rather uncertain color (a peculiarity of his
family, which you perhaps have observed), but they were probably nearer
the color of his fur than any other of which I think. His head was
shapely, and his ears and caudal appendage were graceful. Thus endeth
the description of his personal appearance.
The reason for naming Mozart as I did, will be obvious when I state
that he had unmistakable musical talent. As I cannot conscientiously
praise his voice, I will remain silent about it, simply saying that
it was very expressive, and that is more than can be said of some of
the so-called fine singers of this country. His vocal organs seemed
exceedingly devoid of elasticity, for their use was always confined to
the one syllable and note—“Waa-a-a-a-a-a!” differing only in pitch and
the length of time it was prolonged.
This difficulty prevented us from always comprehending Mozart’s
language, save by his accompanying gestures and actions, and by the
surrounding circumstances. But I have said more about his voice than I
intended. As I said before, he had unmistakable musical talent. If he
had not a musical voice, he had a musical ear (two of them, indeed!)
and would listen with rapturous delight to any music. If anyone was
playing on my piano, he would come and sit by the side of it, and
either listen intently or try to find out by his whiskers from whence
the sound proceeded. But if, while he was making these investigations,
the piano would play very loud for a moment, he would shrink away, much
frightened by the noise. If it was a special friend of his who was
playing, he would sometimes jump into the person’s lap, getting as near
as possible to the keys. Any rational and unprejudiced persons giving
heed to these statements, will believe what I said about Mozart’s ears,
I am sure.
Unlike most of his sex, the second John Chrysostom Wolfgang Theophilus
Mozart (for we had given him the full name of the great musician,
calling him simply Mozart for short) seemed to take an interest in the
art of sewing. I may record as a proof of this that when my aunt Julia
would be sewing on her machine, my hero would jump up into the vacancy
between her spinal column and the chair, and there remain until he was
dismissed. If he had been allowed a longer time to stay there than
_was_ given him, he would, probably, not have left so soon, but as to
that I cannot positively speak.
Before recording the following incident I will repeat the aforesaid
statement that every word of this biographical sketch is strictly
true, and unto that fact I will set my signature and seal, any time you
wish. (Possibly that is one particular in which this differs from most
biographical sketches.)
Mozart’s saucer from which he was in the habit of eating and drinking,
stood out in the kitchen by the sink. On the day of which I speak, he
came in and told in plaintive accents that something was the matter.
As I have remarked heretofore, he always left us in uncertainty as to
_what_, for a time, at least. When questioned, however, he earnestly
smelled of his empty saucer, and then, jumping up on the sink, put
his paw on the cold water faucet, and then, descending, repeated his
summons for aid. The saucer was speedily filled with water, and he
drank long and eagerly.
This same incident was repeated in every particular, at another time,
with the faucet in the bath-room upstairs.
On one occasion Mr. Mozart did a most disgraceful thing—one that was
enough to bring disrepute on any family—namely, he ran away. There
were several cats living around our barn in those days, and whether he
eloped with one of them or not, I never heard, but certain it was that
he disappeared, and no trace of him could be found.
But after sin, remorse is sure to come, and conscience speaks earnestly
to the sinner, so “in the stilly night,” when “slumber’s chains _had_
bound” the inmates of our house, some of them were awakened by mournful
and heart-rending sounds coming from the rear of the house. Under some
circumstances, we might have thought we were being serenaded; one of
the members of the household was despatched to the back door, to admit
the runaway! The lost had returned! the prodigal had come home! And as
he rested once more on his couch of carpeting, how sweet it must have
smelled to him (in which respect he would have differed from us), and
how soft it must have felt, because his conscience was at rest, and
because he could once more sleep the sleep of the innocent! Some of
his feline friends had returned to the door with him, and had uplifted
their voices with his, but only the proper inhabitant of the house was
admitted.
PARANETE.
SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.
P.—PRENTISS, ELIZABETH.
IN a volume of nearly six hundred pages, the husband of this gifted
woman tells the story of her life, or rather he lets her tell it in
extracts from her letters and journal. In the little space allotted me
for a sketch of Mrs. Prentiss, I can only give you a few facts of her
life. When you are older you must read this volume and learn more about
her. She was the daughter of a clergyman, a highly gifted man, and one
who was no less remarkable for his piety than for his learning, and
after reading a sketch of Edward Payson, one is not surprised that the
daughter of such a man should develop into a remarkable woman. Mrs.
Prentiss was born at Portland, Maine, October 26, 1818. You would like
to know about her as a child? She is described as “a beautiful child,
slender, dark-eyed, light-footed, very quiet, evidently observant,
saying little, affectionate, yet not demonstrative.”
She was devotedly attached to her father, and the impression which the
teachings of his beautiful, godly life made upon her childish mind was
never effaced. Though he died when she was only nine years old, her
recollections of him are said to have been remarkably vivid.
She could tell how he looked and talked and acted, things he said and
did. Once coming upon him suddenly she found him engaged in prayer,
and so lost in communion with God that he did not become conscious of
her presence; and she afterwards said that she never forgot the scene,
neither did its influence upon her cease while she lived. She was never
strong, having inherited a nervous temperament along with a feeble
constitution. Once when she was grown to womanhood she said, “I never
knew what it was to feel well.”
At the age of twelve years she was very ill with a fever, so ill
that the family thought the hour had come when they must part with
Elizabeth. But she was spared, perhaps in answer to the mother’s
prayers, for that mother recorded in her journal the circumstance of
her illness and restoration with a comment upon God’s goodness in
sparing the child, wondering whether it might be to the end that
she would one day devote herself to the Saviour and do something for
the honor of religion. And in the spring of the following year, this
child of many prayers, publicly confessed her faith in Christ, and was
enrolled among his people.
She grew to girlhood developing a lovely Christian character, also
showing a marked talent in composition. She contributed when quite
young to the _Youth’s Companion_. As she passed on through her girlhood
into womanhood she became her mother’s faithful friend and assistant,
thoughtful for her comfort, and also a tender sympathizing friend
towards her brothers.
I want to copy for you a little bit of verse which she wrote for the
_Youth’s Companion_, which I think will please some of our little folks.
What are little babies for?
Say! say! say!
Are they good-for-nothing things?
Nay! nay! nay!
Can they speak a single word?
Say! say! say!
Can they help their mother’s sew?
Nay! nay! nay!
Can they walk upon their feet?
Say! say! say!
Can they even hold themselves?
Nay! nay! nay!
What are little babies for?
Say! say! say!
Are they made for us to love?
_Yea!_ YEA! YEA!!!
A friend says of her: “Human nature seems to have been her favorite
study. There seemed to be no one in whom she could not find something
to interest her, none with whom there was not some point of sympathy.”
And now I wonder if you have guessed, or if you knew all the while that
this remarkable woman was the author of some of your favorite books!
The Susy books! ah! your mothers will tell you that these books were
_their_ favorites as well as your own! _Susy’s Six Birthdays_ was
published thirty-three years ago, then followed the others of the
series, and _Flower of the Family_, and _Peterchen_ and _Gretchen_, and
_Tangle Thread_, _Silver Thread_ and _Golden Thread_, besides many
others, up to twenty-five volumes. The book which has been more widely
read than any other of her works is probably “Stepping Heavenward.”