CHAPTER XI.

NATURAL CONSEQUENCES.

It is summer again—“the leafy month of June”—and in the spacious,

well-kept grounds of Richard Howland hundreds of roses are blossoming,

but none so fair and beautiful to the owner of these grounds as the rose

which blossoms within the house—the brighthaired, gentle Alice, who,

when the grief-laden clouds of adversity were overshadowing her life,

did not dream that she could ever be as happy as she is in her new home.

The grass-grown grave in the quiet valley is not neglected, nor he who

rests there forgotten, but though her tears fall often on the sod, she

cannot wish the blind man back in a world which was so truly dark to

him.

And Alice has learned to be happy in her luxurious home—happy in the

tender love which Miss Elinor ever lavishes upon her, and happy, too, in

the quiet brother-like affection of him who seems to her the embodiment

of every manly virtue. He does not talk often with her, for Richard

Howland deals not so much in words as deeds, but in a thousand little

ways he tells her he is glad to have her there. And this is all he tells

her, so that neither she nor his more discerning sister dream how sweet

to him is the music of the childish voice, which often in the gathering

twilight sings some song of the olden time; nor do they know, when

returning home at night, how wistfully he glances toward the window

where Alice is wont to sit, and if they did know it, they could not

fathom his meaning, for when the golden hair and bright young face is

there, he always turns aside, lingering without, as if within there were

no maiden fair, whose eyes of blue played wilder notes upon his

heart-strings than the dark, proud orbs of Adelaide had ever done. Even

he does not know he loves her, so quietly that love has come—creeping

over him while he slept—stealing over him when he woke—whispering to him

in the dingy counting-room, and bidding him cast frequent glances at the

western sky, to see if it were not time that he were home. He only knows

that he is very happy, and that his happiness is in some way connected

with the childish form which flits before him like a sunbeam, filling

his home with light and joy. It had never occurred to him that she might

sometime go away, and leave in his household a void which no other one

could fill, and when one day, toward the last of June, his sister said

to him, “Alice has received a letter from an old friend of her mother,

asking her to take charge of the juvenile department of a young ladies’

seminary in B——,” he started as if he had been smitten with a heavy

blow.

“Alice teach school!” he exclaimed. “Alice go away from—me—from you, I

mean. Preposterous! She don’t, of course, think of accepting the offer?”

“Yes, she does. I’d no idea she had so much decision,” and Miss Elinor’s

scissors cut quite a hole in the embroidery on which she has worked ever

since we knew her. “I remonstrated when she told me she should return an

affirmative answer, but it did no good. She never intended long to

burden people on whom she had no claim, she said. She would rather be

independent, and though she was very happy here, she felt it her duty to

earn her own living, now that an opportunity was presented.”

“Earn her own living,” repeated Mr. Howland, “just as though she cost

anybody anything. There is some other reason, and if I didn’t know you

as well as I do, I should be inclined to think the fault was with you.

Maybe you do sometimes scold her, Elinor?” and he fixed his eyes

inquiringly upon his sister’s face.

Miss Elinor had striven hard to restrain the tears which thoughts of

parting with her favorite induced, and thus far she had succeeded, but

when she heard her brother’s remark, they burst forth at once.

“_Me_ scold Alice?” was all she could articulate, as with a deeply

injured air she left the room, while her brother, seizing his hat,

hurried off to the store, where he remained the entire day, trying to

think how it would seem to him when he knew that Alice was gone.

_It didn’t seem at all_, either to him or to his clerks, for never

before had he been so irritable and cross, finding fault with the most

trivial matters; chiding the cash-boy for moving too fast, and the head

clerk for moving too slow; refusing to trust the widow Simpson, whom he

had trusted all his life, and making himself so generally disagreeable

that the young men in his employ were not sorry when, about five

o’clock, they saw him start for home.

“I’m glad he’s gone, anyway, dern him!” muttered Check, who had been,

perhaps, the greatest sufferer, and with a most contemptuous whistle he

looked after the retreating figure of his master.

Alice was not in the yard—nor in the parlor—nor in the house. He knew it

by that indefinable feeling which we experience when the one we love the

best is absent.

“She had gone to walk by the river,” Miss Elinor said, when questioned,

asking him in the same breath why he didn’t come home to dinner.

“I was not hungry,” he replied. “The prospect of losing Alice has taken

my appetite away. Do you think she would stay with us, if I were to

adopt her as my daughter?”

Miss Elinor didn’t think anything. She had not quite forgiven his unjust

remark in the morning, and failing to obtain satisfaction from her, he

started in quest of Alice, who, he was sure, would listen favorably to

his plan of adoption. The tree where she and her father sat on that

afternoon when she had come so near to death, was her favorite resort,

and here he now found her, thinking of the coming time when she would be

gone. It had cost her a struggle to decide the matter, but it was best,

she thought; she could not always be dependent, and that very night she

would answer “Yes.” But she wondered why she should feel so sad, or why

the thought of leaving Mr. Howland should make her pain harder to bear.

“I shall miss both him and his sister so much,” she unconsciously said

aloud, “I shall miss them both, but him the most.”

“Why then do you go?” came to her startled ear, and Richard Howland

stood before her.

Springing to her feet she blushed and stammered out something about the

watch-dog Ponto, whom she should miss. But it would not do. Mr. Howland

was not to be deceived, and in her telltale face he knew the watch-dog

Ponto meant himself.

“Alice,” said he, “sit down with me upon the bank, and tell me why you

wish to leave us.”

Alice obeyed, but neither of them spoke until Mr. Howland, growing

suddenly very bold, wound his arm around her waist, and drew her to his

side. It was the first time in his life he had ever found himself in a

position like this, and though it was very novel—very strange—he liked

it. He forgot, too, all about the adoption, and bending low, so that in

case of an emergency his lips could touch her cheek, he whispered:

“Alice—”

But what else he said the murmuring river never told, neither the summer

air which lifted the shining tresses falling over his arm, nor yet the

little bird, which from the overhanging bough looked archly down upon

them, shutting its round, bright eye with a knowing look as if it

understood that scene. It did understand, and the sight of them sitting

there thus brought to mind the dainty nest up in the maple tree, where

its own loved mate was waiting, and when at last the maiden lifted up

her head, it plumed its wings for flight and flew away, singing as it

flew.

“She’s won—she’s won.”

That night Alice, instead of Mr. Howland, was missing from the table,

and when Miss Elinor sought her in her room, she was surprised at the

abruptness with which the young girl threw her arms around her neck and

whispered:

“I am happy—oh, so happy.”

Then, with the twilight shadows gathering around, Alice told her story

to the wondering lady, who in her joy forgave her brother for his unjust

insinuation, and folding the orphan girl lovingly in her arms, she told

her how gladly she should welcome her as a sister. It was known ere long

all over town that the wealthy Mr. Howland was to wed the blind man’s

daughter, and the rude brown rafters of the cottage in the hollow never

witnessed so fierce a storm of passion and of tears as on the night when

first to Adelaide came tidings that the man she so much loved had given

himself to another. To William Huntington, however, the news brought joy

and gladness. He had recovered from his broken limb, but his health did

not improve, and now he seldom left his home. Still he did whatever he

could do for his family, and the little yard in front of his house was

filled with flowers, which he tended with the utmost care, and sold in

small bouquets to such of the villagers as wished to buy. When he heard

that Alice was to be a bride ere the summer days were gone, he set apart

his choicest flowers, watching them with jealous care, and experiencing

a childish delight in thinking how he would form a rare bouquet, worthy

of her to whom it should be given.

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, Mr. Howland

said, and so one balmy night, when the harvest moon was in its infancy,

St. Luke’s Church was filled to overflowing, and the same man, who, over

Hugo Warren’s grave, had read the burial service, now spoke the solemn

words which made one flesh of two. And when the rite was ended and Alice

was a bride, from the three towers of Oakland there rang a merry peal,

for Mr. Howland was greatly honored by the citizens who thus would keep

his wedding night.

Across the grassy meadow, up the wooded hill, and down into the hollow,

floated the music of those bells, awakening an answering note of joy in

every heart save that of the wretched Adelaide, who, grinding her teeth

together, fled to her lonely garret and stuffed cotton in her ears, so

as to shut out the hateful sound, which told her of her rival’s

happiness. Anon, and from the rocky heights which overlooked the town,

and from the village green, there shone a lurid light. Bonfires had been

kindled by the workmen from the factory and shop, and among the boys who

danced around the blazing fire, none threw his hat so high or cut so

many antics as did the little Check, who in his bran-new suit, the gift

of Mr. Howland, forgot his grievances on that memorable day when his

master tried to see how it would seem, to live without Alice Warren.

From her window Adelaide looked out upon the scene, shedding bitter

tears of envy and of rage, then, wishing she had never seen the light of

day she sought her solitary pillow and cried herself to sleep, while the

song and the dance moved joyously on, and the gentle bride, in her robes

of white, looked lovingly up to him who was her all in all. Nor were the

inmates of the brown house in the hollow forgotten by Alice in her

prosperity. From Mr. Huntington she had received a beautiful bouquet; it

was all, save his blessing, that he had to give, he said, and Alice

prized it the more when she knew how carefully he had watched each

opening bud, shielding it alike from storm and noonday heat.

“I will remember him for this,” she thought, and many a timely gift

found its way to the brown cottage where it was sorely needed, for as

the fall advanced Mr. Huntington grew worse, and to the other labors of

his family was added the task of ministering to him and providing for

his wants.

As yet, no rent for the cottage had been paid, and Miss Elinor, when she

remembered the ugly name which Adelaide had called her, secretly wished

she might be turned into the street. But her brother was more forgiving,

and when Alice’s birthday came, he gave her the brown house in the

hollow, telling her playfully that she must collect the rent of her own

property!

“And I _would_ do it too,” spoke up Miss Elinor, who, nevertheless, was

just as sure then of what Alice intended to do as she was next morning

when she saw upon her sister’s writing-desk a receipt in full for the

rent, and heard Alice bid a servant take it, with sundry other things,

to the brown house in the hollow as a Christmas gift from her.

Surely it is more blessed to give than to receive, and the prayer which

the sick man breathed for Alice Howland was worth far more to her than

the paltry sum which she had lost by doing what she did. Adelaide, too,

was softened, for the pangs of poverty were beginning to be keenly felt,

and when the servant turned to go, she said to him, with quivering lip:

“Tell Mrs. Howland that _I_ thank her.”

Another year has nearly gone, and from the windows of the cottage there

shines a glimmering light, while gathered round the hearth three lonely

women sit. They are now indeed alone—the bed in the corner is empty—the

husband and father is gone. When the last May flowers were blooming, and

the voice of spring was on the hills, strong men carried him out into

the open air, and in the village churchyard, not far from Hugo Warren’s

grave, they laid the weary one to rest. William Huntington had saved the

life of Richard Howland’s wife, and for this reason his family were not

neglected, though Miss Elinor took good care that not enough assistance

should be given to them “to keep the trollop, Adelaide, from working.”

In Richard Howland’s home all is joy and gladness, and though the

curtains of one room are dropped, and the blinds are closely shut, it is

only because the fussy old nurse will have it so, and not because the

young mother is in any danger now. In the crib there sleeps a sturdy

boy, and the bottom of his cambric petticoat is trimmed with the

veritable embroidery which we have often seen in the hands of Miss

Elinor, who is the baby’s aunt.

She had fully expected that it would bear her name, but it proved a

Betsey Trotwood affair, and when the Christmas bells are ringing, and

the star of Bethlehem gleams on the walls of the old stone church, she

will stand as sponsor for the little boy, to whom in memory of the blind

man now singing to the praise of Bethlehem’s child, will be given the

name of “Hugo Warren.”

THE END

OF

ALICE AND ADELAIDE.

RED-BIRD.

A BROWN COTTAGE STORY.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

It was Christmas morning, and everywhere the merry bells were ringing

and telling again the story, which, though more than eighteen hundred

years old, is always sweet, always new—the story of Bethlehem’s babe,

for whose birthday we keep the Christmas-tide. All over the northern

hills the December snow was lying, and the wind was sharp and cold as it

went singing past the windows of the houses where so many eager, happy

children ate their Christmas cakes, or counted their Christmas toys. But

far away in the south land it was like summer still, and the

orange-trees were fresh, and green, and beautiful, with the yellow fruit

and the white blossoms showing among the leaves. Upon the highest branch

of a tall orange-tree which grew upon the bank of the river St. John, a

Red-bird was sitting, and listening to a Paroquet, which, on a magnolia

near by, was dressing its bright plumage, and talking to his neighbor,

the Red-bird.

After wishing him a merry Christmas, he said:

“And so, Mrs. Red, you are still alive! Why, we all thought you were

dead, and Mr. Red wore mourning for a month, and then—but never mind.

Have you been up to the old nest among the yellow jasmine? If not, I

advise you to stay away; but say, where have you been this year or more?

Tell me about it.”

It seemed strange to me, who was sitting on a bench beneath the

magnolia-tree, to hear birds talking together after this fashion, and

remembering the children at the North who had never seen a Paroquet, nor

a magnolia, nor a Red-bird, nor an orange-tree, I said to myself, I will

write down what these birds are saying, and sometime, perhaps, I’ll send

it to the little ones at home.

And this, as nearly as I could understand it, was the story the Red-bird

told.

CHAPTER II.

THE STORY.

“You may well ask me where I have been, Mr. Paroquet,” said the

Red-bird, “but you can keep your Merry Christmas to yourself, for it is

not a merry Christmas with me. My heart is as heavy as lead, and if it

were not that I dreaded the cold so much, I’d fly to the North, where

they are having a grand time to-day with their Christmas trees, and the

children all so happy.”

“Fly to the North!” said Mr. Paroquet, with a shudder. “Fly to that

horrid place where they have ice and snow the year round, with nothing

green or bright, unless it’s that Christmas-tree you speak of! Pray, may

I ask what kind of a tree that is? Is it like this magnolia, or that

palm across the river, waving its fans in the breeze, or that

orange-tree where you are sitting? And what kind of fruit does it bear?

Icicles, or what?”

“Icicles!” And Mrs. Red laughed a merry, rippling kind of laugh which

did me good to hear, for there was something very sad in the expression

of her face, as if she had lost every friend she ever had. “Little you

know of the North and what they have there. I’ll wager now you never

heard of the place before.”

“Haven’t I, though?” Mr. Paroquet returned. “Didn’t one of those men

from the North shoot the first Mrs. Paroquet one morning, just after

breakfast, when she had gone out to take the air, and I was watching the

three little birds in the nest? And didn’t he take her away to that

place they call New York, and didn’t I hear afterward from a robin who

comes down here every winter that they _stuffed_ her, and put glass eyes

in her, and strung her on a wire frame, and set her up in somebody’s

parlor for an ornament, to be admired? My dead wife _stuffed_!—and such

a time as I had with the little ones, who kept tumbling out of the nest,

and who had such appetites that I was almost worn out with hunting

things for them to eat, and was obliged to get another Mrs. Paroquet to

help me do the work. Of course, I know about the North; but pray go on

and tell me how you happened to be there, and why you are here again.”

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Red, “I’d like to tell some body. You remember my

old home up the river, where the stream is so narrow that the boats

almost touch the shore as they pass. There’s a splendid mass of yellow

jasmine there, with lots of white dogwood, and Cherokee roses, and

orange-trees, and palms, and magnolias, and water oaks, and there I had

my nest, all covered up with flowers and leaves.

“I was very happy in my soft, warm nest, with Mr. Red, and four of the

prettiest little birds you ever saw just hatched and wanting a mother’s

care so badly. But one morning I saw coming down the river one of those

big boats, full of people, who kept firing at the poor alligators

sunning themselves in the warm spring air. At last the boat stopped, and

some of the men got out and began to look around and fire at anything

they saw; and one shot hit me under my wing, so that I could not fly,

but dropped to the ground, half dead with pain and fright, but still

having sense enough to be glad that it was I who was hurt instead of Mr.

Red, who flew away to the top of the very tallest palm-tree in sight,

where he sat and watched while a man picked me up and said:

“‘See, she is not dead; she is only wounded. I shall take her to my wife

at the hotel. She has wanted a Red-bird so much.’

“What a hotel was, or where he meant to take me, I did not know, and for

a time I must have been unconscious, for the next I knew I was on the

boat covered over with a kind of wire screen, which kept me a prisoner.

I could not get away, though I beat my head against the screen until it

ached almost as hard as the place under my wing.

“Oh! what a change it was from my lovely nest among the oranges, and

magnolias, and jasmines, to that dreadful wooden box in which they put

me at the hotel, and which they called a cage. I think my new mistress

meant to be kind to me, for she stroked my feathers very gently, and

called me a ‘poor little thing,’ and brought me so many things to eat.

But I could touch none of them, I was so home-sick and lonely, and my

heart was aching so for the dear home up the river, and the little

birdies there, who were sure to cry for me when the dark night came on

and I was not there to shelter them. Would Mr. Red do it? I wondered,

and I was afraid he wouldn’t; for, though the very best of all the

Red-birds on the St. John’s, he did not always like to be bothered with

the children, especially when he was tired and a little cross.”

“But he did, though,” interrupted Mr. Paroquet. “He took care of them

for quite a while after you went away. I used to see him hunting worms,

and seeds and things; and he’d go every day to the top of that palm you

spoke of, and watch to see if you were not coming back. After

awhile—well, you remember old Mr. Red, whose nest was near yours on a

sour orange-tree, and whose pretty little grand-daughter, Spotted-Wing,

with the shining feathers and so many airs, you did not fancy much?

“Yes, I remember her,” Mrs. Red answered very sadly, I thought, and Mr.

Paroquet continued:

“She used to fly up to that palm, too, and balance herself way out on

the very tip of the longest green fan, and help him watch for _you_,

because she was so anxious for you to come back and relieve him of his

family cares, and then her eyes were younger than his, and could see

farther, you know.”

And as he said this Mr. Paroquet rolled both of his eyes quite out of

sight in what I thought a very disagreeable, insinuating manner. But

Mrs. Red did not seem to notice, and went on with her story:

“I am glad if he was good to the children, and missed me a little, for I

was so home-sick for him, that I could neither sleep nor eat, and I

heard my mistress say she was afraid I would starve to death. And I was

afraid, too, for had I been disposed to eat I could not have touched

what she brought me—sweet potato, cake, and bread and sugar, as if that

were proper diet for a bird. I had a great deal of attention from the

guests of the hotel. It was the St. James, I heard them say, and it was

full of people who did nothing but eat, and sleep, and dress for the

parlors or the piazzas, where the young ones used to walk sometimes of

an evening. At last, one morning very early, before anybody was up

except a few of the servants, I was sitting on my perch in a new cage,

with my head down, thinking so hard that I heard nothing until suddenly

I was startled by a strange voice with a decidedly foreign accent, close

to the bars of my cage.

“‘Halloo, Miss Red-top,’ it said, ‘seems to me you are down in the mouth

this morning. Guess you didn’t sleep well. What’s the matter with you?

Look up and speak to a fellow, can’t you?’

“So I looked up and saw a big round fat robin, with a breast red and

shining, and a very good-natured face, and eyes which were very curious

and inquisitive, as if he meant to know everybody’s business, and help

them attend to it, too.”

“I’ll bet that’s the very robin who brought me news of my stuffed wife,”

interposed Mr. Paroquet. “He knows everybody, and can trace their family

back to the time when Mr. Noah let the first bird out of the ark. He

comes here every winter for his health, he says, and he stops along by

the way, and so gets all the news.”

“Maybe it was the same,” Mrs. Red replied. “But he was very kind to me,

and asked me a great many questions, and when he heard my story, he said

if it were not so warm he’d go up the river and find Mr. Red, and tell

him about me. I thanked him and said that would do no good as I could

not get out of prison, and should die there very soon.

“‘No, you won’t,’ he answered, cheerily. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

“Then, after eyeing me awhile, he continued:

“‘Why, Miss Red-top, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. You are starved!

Look at that sweet potato and frosted cake. You’ll have dyspepsia sure.

What you want is a good fat bug, and seeds of some kind. Just keep up

your courage, and I’ll fix you.’

“So saying, he flew away to a neighboring garden, while I thought how

good he was to me, an entire stranger, though I did wish he would not

call me _miss_. It made me feel ashamed when I remembered Mr. Red and

the nest among the jasmine.

“When my mistress came to see me, after breakfast, bringing the usual

sweet potato, and broiled fish and bits of bread, she found a part of a

bug in my cage, and a piece of fig which my new friend had found near

one of the dining-room windows and brought to me. Great was her wonder

as to where it came from, but as I could not talk to her, though able to

understand all she said, I do not suppose she ever knew about the robin

who came to see me every morning before there was much stir in the

hotel, and kept me so well supplied with such things as I liked, that I

began to recover my health and my spirits, too, though my heart was

always aching for the nest up the river, and the babies I left in it.

Gradually, too, I began to have a great liking for Mr. Red-Breast, as I

called him at first, though he insisted that I should say Robin, as that

was more familiar. At home they all called him Robin, and no one ever

mistered him, he said, except Mrs. Robin, when she began to help him

build the nest in the mountain ash, which he told me grew in the garden

where he lived at the North.

CHAPTER III.

ROBIN’S HOME.

“One morning when he came to see me as usual, complaining of the heat,

and saying he should soon be starting for home if the weather continued

like this, he found me very sad and anxious, for only the night before I

had heard my mistress say that she intended taking me North with her,

and should, perhaps, give me to a friend who had asked her to bring her

a bird from the South. This was a deathblow to all my hopes, for as day

after day I had watched the piles of baggage and the crowds of people

which left the hotel, and heard the waiters say they were starting for

home, I thought to myself the day will come when my mistress will go,

too, and then she will surely set me free, and I fancied the surprise

and joy of Mr. Red and the little ones, when I flew down upon them some

evening.”

“About how long was this after your capture?” asked the Paroquet, and

Mrs. Red replied:

“Three, or four, or five weeks. I don’t quite remember.”

“Ah!” and Mr. Paroquet nodded very knowingly. “I reckon he might have

been surprised to see you, and glad, of course, very glad, and Miss

Spotted-Wing, too, for she was at the jasmine nest every day by that

time, helping take care of the children, and must have been pretty well

tired out.”

“Yes,” and Mrs. Red spoke sorry-like, as she always did when

Spotted-Wing was mentioned, but if she understood the Paroquet’s meaning

she gave no sign, and went on with her story.

“All my hopes were blasted now, for if my mistress took me away with her

that was the end to my dream of freedom, and I was feeling so wretched

and heart-sick when Robin came, as usual, and to him I told my trouble,

asking what the North was like, and if, as I had heard, it snowed there

all the time, though what snow was I did not then know, any more than

you knew what icicles were when you asked if they grew on Christmas

trees.

“‘Snow all the time!’ and Robin laughed so loudly that I was afraid he

would awaken the lady on whose window-sill he was sitting. ‘That is one

of your mistaken ideas of the North. Snow all the time! No, nor half the

time, though we do have some pretty heavy north-easters when the wind

blows enough to shake your feathers off; but that is in the winter, when

such as you are in the warm house, hanging by the windows, where you can

look out and see the snow drifting down through the trees, as the leaves

of the dogwood and Cherokee roses fall in high wind. But it is the

summer that is just glorious up there! Do you see that patch of green?’

and he nodded toward a yard not far away, which I had before noticed,

and thought very fine.

“‘Well, the people who live there have sowed some kind of grain to make

believe it was grass, but, dear me, it is no more like the turf at the

North than your sand is like our clay. I wish you could see our

beautiful lawns and meadows; they are just like a piece of green velvet.

There is grass everywhere, and such flowers as we have in the summer

time; such roses! No Cherokees, to be sure, but all the other kinds,

with names I cannot begin to pronounce. And there is some smell to the

lilacs, and honeysuckles, and the June pinks, and the English violets,

and I can’t begin to tell you what else, except that the beds and

borders are one blaze of beauty and brightness from early June till the

frost comes in the fall.’

“‘Do you have magnolias there?’ I asked, and he answered slowly, ‘Well,

now, Miss Red, we don’t have magnolias, nor orange blossoms, nor

jasmines, and such like, but we have pond lilies, which to my mind beat

everything else in the world. I wish you could see my home, or rather

the garden where I was born, and have lived all my life. It is so

lovely, with its grass and evergreens, and mountain ash and

horse-chestnuts, and so many crooked little paths winding here and

there, and arbors covered with woodbine, and grape-vines, and roses, and

in the summer so many baskets and tall white things filled with flowers;

and, oh my, if you could just see the cherry-trees! It makes my mouth

water now to think of the luscious fruit of which we robins can have all

we want. There is one tree which my mistress says belongs to the boys

and birds, and such squabbles as we have over it. I don’t much like the

boys, for they will leave cherries any time to break up a bird’s nest,

and I’ve seen some sad sights in my time; though in the garden

everything was peaceful and quiet, for my mistress takes care of the

birds, and sometimes in spring, when the snow comes late, and we cannot

find any worms, she gives us bread crumbs to eat, and we are not afraid

of her, though she comes very near to us. My nest was up under the

eaves, and near a chamber window, where I felt so safe and secure,

knowing that nothing could ever touch the pretty blue eggs which Mrs.

Robin laid every spring and summer. Neither boy nor cat could reach us

there.’

“‘Cat?’” I said. “‘Cat! Pray what is that? I never heard of a cat

before.’

“‘Never heard of a cat?’ Mr. Robin repeated, and now he laughed so

loudly that the lady in the room upon whose window-sill he was sitting

turned the shutter, and looked out to see what all the chattering was

about.

“‘Seems to me the birds make a great noise this morning. They have been

at it more than an hour,’ I heard her say, and then she went on with her

dressing, while Robin continued:

“‘Never heard of a cat! Why, where were you raised, that your education

was so neglected? But I forgot that you Red-birds lead a kind of

Bohemian life apart from civilization, and so fail to learn a great many

things which we robins, who are in society all the time, take

naturally.’

“I had before observed that Mr. Robin, though given to a good deal of

slang, sometimes went off into strains which I could not understand, and

this was one of them, for I had not the remotest idea what he meant by

civilization or Bohemian either, and I said so to him, whereupon he

laughed again, and told me that the free and easy life I led up the

river with Mr. Red and the little Reds, and the jasmines, and Cherokees,

and alligators was Bohemian, while it was the very top of civilization

and society to be shut up in a gilded cage as I was, with no chance of

escape. At the risk of seeming very vulgar and ignorant in his eyes, I

told him I liked Bohemian best, even if I had never heard of a cat, and

then I questioned him again of that creature, was it a bird, or a beast,

or what?’

‘A _beast_ most decidedly,’ he said; ‘a _vile, ugly beast_,’ and by ugly

he meant bad, for he said cats looked well enough, and he had even heard

his mistress call one she had ‘a darling little beauty,’ but he did not

see it. They had fur instead of feathers, four legs instead of two, with

a long streamer behind which was called a tail, and which was anything

but handsome. Then they were the natural enemies of birds, which they

caught and ate whenever a chance occurred.

“‘Eat birds! Eat my little Reds!’ I exclaimed, in horror, and he

replied:

“‘Yes, quicker than wink if they could get at ’em; and they are so sly

and creeping-like that they are upon you before you know it, and they

keep us in a constant fret when we are teaching our young ones to fly.’

“‘Then there is something bad even at the North, which you describe as

so perfect,’ I said, a little maliciously.

“‘Why, yes,’ he answered, slightly crestfallen. ‘We have cats there, but

then there’s no place just exactly right, you know. There’s a _cat_ or

something everywhere.’

“I knew that ‘by cat or something,’ he meant an annoyance of some kind,

and I thought of the yellow jasmines up the river, and said to myself,

‘There’s no cat there;’ and then, when I remembered how Mr. Red had

sometimes troubled me with his indolent habits, and his familiar way of

talking to that pert Miss Spotted-Wing, I thought that might perhaps

have been a cat, or at least a kitten, as Robin said the little cats

were called.

“And then he told me of a kitten which came to his mistress’ door one

wintry day when the snow was blowing, as he said, great guns, and the

mountain ash almost bent up double before the driving wind. His mistress

heard the cry, and saw the kitty looking in at the window and begging to

come in; and as both she and the master were fond of cats he waded out

into the snow and brought the kitty in, and gave it milk in a china

saucer in the parlor, and petted it more than they did old Fanny, a

highly respectable cat, who had lived with them a long time, and who did

not at first take kindly to _Jim_—that was what they called the

intruder—but spit at him, and boxed his ears, and growled if he came

near her. But Jim was not to be repressed, and cared nothing for Fanny’s

growls, or spits, or boxes, but seized every opportunity to jump at her

from under chairs and tables, and to spring at her tail, until the old

cat’s life was almost a burden to her. At last, however, Jim conquered,

and the two were the best of friends, Fanny treating him as if he had

been her own, giving him more than half the milk, and even waking him up

when the dinner-bell rang, if he happened to be sleeping in the

easy-chair near the fire, where he took his usual nap.

“‘After a time,’ said Robin, ‘old Fanny died, and was buried in the

garden, under the plum-tree, and then Jim was really the master of the

house, for I never knew a cat petted as my mistress petted him. And for

a cat he was very handsome. He did not grow tall and long, as cats

usually do, but was short, and fat, and round as a ball, with fur which

shone like satin, and a white spot under his chin. I did not wonder my

mistress liked him, he was so playful and affectionate; but it used to

make me sick sometimes when she actually kissed him and called him a

darling. But when one morning he caught a little striped snake, and

carried it to her in triumph, and persisted in keeping it and tossing it

in the air in spite of all her efforts to make him drop it, I noticed

that she did not fondle him for a week; and I think she put him in the

bath-tub, for I saw him lying in the sun, looking very wet and forlorn.

But his fur was soon dried, and he raced about the grounds like a mad

creature, catching grasshoppers and flies, and worrying almost to death

a highly respectable toad, who lived near the cellar door, outside.’

CHAPTER IV.

LITTLE STUPID.

“All this time I had felt no fears for the pretty blue eggs in our nest

under the eaves, and with Mrs. Robin I was very happy watching them

until the shells cracked open and four little birds appeared. They were

our first, and we were so proud and fond of them, and nursed them with

so much care, until one beautiful summer morning when we thought them

old enough to begin to learn to fly. I shall never forget that day, and

it all comes back to me now so vividly, the bright sunshine, the shadows

on the grass, the ripe cherries on the trees, and our little ones

hopping about on the walks, and then flying a few feet. I had taken the

precaution to see that Jim was asleep in his chair, and so had no fear

of him. Three of our children were sitting on the branch of a tree; but

the fourth, who had never seemed quite as bright as the others, and whom

we called Stupid, was in the grass pecking away at a cherry, while I was

hunting about for more, when suddenly Mrs. Robin gave a terrible scream,

and darted past me so swiftly that I felt kind of dizzy like and

frightened, and flew up into a honeysuckle, where I was out of danger,

and could look around and see what Mrs. Robin was so excited about. I

never thought of Stupid, and my blood curdled in my veins, and I went a

little higher up in the honeysuckle, when I saw that Jim had him in his

mouth, and was bounding through the grounds with Mrs. Robin in hot

pursuit, uttering such dreadful cries that out came my mistress with her

parasol, and the cook with the broom, and the housemaid with the duster,

and all took after Jim, on whose back Mrs. Robin finally pounced,

pecking him so with her beak that he dropped his victim and turned to

defend himself. But it was too late; poor little Stupid was dead, and

that night there were only three little birds in our nest, and Mrs.

Robin never spoke to me but once, and that was to call me a coward for

hiding in the honeysuckle, instead of fighting as she did. If there was

anything she despised, it was a _sneak_, she said, and for a whole week

she was very cool and distant toward me, and would not believe me at all

when I told her how sorry I was for my apparent want of courage, and

that I stood back to look after our other young ones, and see that no

harm came to them, while she, and my mistress, and the cook and the

housemaid did battle with Jim.

“‘That was our first quarrel and our first sorrow, and I may say our

last, for before we had any more eggs in our nest the horrid Jim was

dead. Just what ailed him I never knew, but Mrs. Robin said he had been

fed too high, and possibly she was right. At any rate he grew very thin,

and sick, and weak, and we watched him anxiously, feeling glad to see

him suffer when we remembered Stupid, but sorry for our mistress, who

nursed him so carefully, and cried that morning when they found him dead

on the grass, with the rain falling heavily upon him. They buried him

under the plum-tree, by the side of Fanny; and there’s not even a kitten

about the house now, for they made such work with the lace curtains,

jumping at each other through them, and scratched up the flower-beds so,

that my mistress grew tired of them, and there’s nothing in that garden

to trouble us birds. But our nest is not now up under the eaves, for

they have torn the house down over our heads two or three times, and our

home is in a big horse-chestnut, where the leaves are so thick that not

a boy in the neighborhood has ever suspected where we live.’

“Here the robin stopped to rest, for he had talked so fast, and used so

many large words, that he was quite out of breath; and as by that time

the people began to come out on the piazza for the fresh morning air, he

flew away to a live-oak-tree, and began to sing merrily.”

Here the Red-bird paused, and from my seat beneath the magnolia I looked

at the Paroquet just in time to detect him trying to hide a yawn, as if

he were slightly tired with Robin, and Stupid, and Jim, and cats

generally. But perhaps I was mistaken, for after a moment he asked:

“Where is Mrs. Robin now? Do you know if she is dead or alive?”

“Dead,” answered the Red-bird. “Robin told me that she was with him two

winters ago, near Tallahassee, and that they built a nest there—almost

the first in Florida, for as a general thing robins do not nest here;

but they did, and were very happy, too, until poor Mrs. Robin was

killed—shot by one of the soldiers who used to be so thick in those

parts.”

“It’s the same fellow I know,” returned the Paroquet, “a great gossip;

but go on—you certainly have more to tell.”

“Oh, yes, a great deal more,” said Mrs. Red; “but my story takes me now

to the North, for my mistress left Florida a few days after my long talk

with Robin; and after a three days’ voyage by sea, during which I was so

sick that I hoped I should die, we reached a place they called New York,

and there I changed owners. It seems my mistress lived very far to the

West, and as she had found it some trouble to travel with me, she gave

me to a friend of hers whom she met at the hotel, and who took even

better care of me than she had done, for sometimes she had forgotten to

give me any water for an entire day, and had otherwise neglected me. But

my new mistress was very kind, and petted me a great deal, and called me

some of the names Robin had said his mistress gave to her cat Jim. I

missed Robin, and wondered if I should ever see him again. It was not

likely, I thought, for of course his home and mine must be miles apart.

“We were going home very soon, I heard my mistress say, and one morning

we left the noisy city, and when we stopped it was so late and so dark

that I could not see where we were, or what the house was like. It was

very quiet and still, and I was so tired and worn with the journey that

I slept soundly until morning, and was only awakened by the housemaid

when she came to open the shutters. It was a funny kind of a house,

unlike anything I had ever seen before, which was not strange, perhaps,

inasmuch as I had only been in big hotels. Still I think it was

different from most houses, for the rooms all opened into each other,

with no doors to shut, if one had wished to shut them; and there were

queer nooks and corners, everywhere, and pleasant places to sit, and

read the books upon the shelves. I really began to feel quite literary

and learned myself, there were so many books, and pictures, and curious

things from foreign parts, the names of which I did not then know, but I

learned these afterward from hearing the people, who came to see my

mistress, talk about them. There were Madonnas, and saints, and angels

from Florence, and Rome, and Dresden, and dancing girls from Pompeii,

and Apollos, and Venuses, and vases, and shells, and tables, and more

things than I can remember now. I think my mistress wrote books, for

there used often to be ink spots on her fingers, and a very tired look

on her face when she came from a room upstairs which they called the

library, and where she spent most of her mornings.

“It must have been April when I went to my new home, and one morning I

saw what a snow-storm was for the first time in my life. My cage was

hung in such a pretty little nook off from a bay window where a great

many flowers were kept, and there were windows on three sides, so that I

could look out into the yard, and see the big snowflakes sifting down

through the trees, until the ground was completely covered with a soft

carpet of white, and the little birds which had been flitting about for

several days, hid themselves in the evergreens, and I heard my mistress

say she must throw them some crumbs if the weather continued so cold.

And that made me think of Mr. Robin, and what he had told me of his

mistress feeding the birds. Where was he, I wondered, and where was his

home, and I wished so much that I might see him again, if only to ask if

there was any news from the South, where I left all that made life

pleasant to me. I was always thinking of the old home among the

jasmines, and it was especially kept in my mind by a stuffed bird which

hung on a shelf in one corner of the nook where my cage was hung. My

mistress brought it and put it there one morning, and said to me very

friendly-like: ‘There, little Reddy, that will remind you of home, and

who knows but poor Greenie came from the same place with yourself?’ It

was a Paroquet, with such lovely green and golden feathers.”

“With a brownish tinge on the breast?” Mr. Paroquet asked, somewhat

anxiously, and Mrs. Red replied:

“Yes, I noticed that particularly—the mottled appearance of the breast,

where there was a spot of bright yellow.”

“My first wife, I’ll wager my head!” exclaimed Mr. Paroquet, very much

awake now, and excited, it seemed to me, for he flew from the magnolia,

where he had been sitting in a sleepy kind of way, to the orange-tree,

where he alighted close to Mrs. Red, and continued: “My wife, from your

description; the one they carried away and stuffed, so Robin said. Do

you think she _was_ stuffed—think she was really dead, or will she be

coming back some day when I don’t expect her?”

“Dead? Of course she was dead,” returned Mrs. Red, rather scornfully.

“She never spoke nor moved, all the time I was there, but just stared at

me with those dreadful glass eyes, which made me feel so uncomfortable.

You need have no fears of her coming back.”

“Oh, well,” returned Mr. Paroquet, brightening up a little. “Not that I

shouldn’t be very glad to see her; very glad, of course, but then, you

see, there’s the present Mrs. Paroquet, who might not be so glad, and

that would make it rather awkward. Nobody can be dead a year, and come

back, without being a very little in the way, for they are sure to find

their places filled, or at least bridged over.”

To me, who, you will remember, was sitting on a bench listening to the

conversation of these birds, the Paroquet’s assertion was startling, and

for a few moments I forgot what the birds were saying, while I asked

myself:

“Is it true that if I were to die, and go away into the darkness and

silence of the grave, and then after a year could come back to the

friends who had wept so bitterly when I left them, is it true that I

should find myself in the way—my place filled, or bridged over with new

loves and interests, which my sudden return would disturb and mar?”

And then I thought of a little blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, whom we

called Nellie, and whose grave had been on the hill-side more than a

dozen years. If she could come back again, would she not find a warm

welcome from the mother who never mentions her without the hot tears

springing to her eyes! Would Nellie be in the way? Oh, no, not the

_little_ Nellie who died that winter day so many years ago, the child

Nellie, whose chair is in the corner yet, and whose picture looks down

upon us from the wall. _She_ could never be in the way, though the

_woman_, the Nellie of twenty years, might be strange at first to the

mother twelve years older now, with fuller and larger experiences of

life, and habits of making plans with Nellie left out of them; but there

could be no real jarring of new loves and interests; there could only be

a deep joy and thankfulness for the Nellie alive again. So I reasoned—so

I decided, and then turned back to the birds, who were still at their

talk, and had passed from the snow-storm of April to the month of May,

when Mrs. Red’s cage was first hung in a mountain ash which grew in the

garden of her new home.

CHAPTER V.

BLACK-EYES AND BRIGHT-HAIR.

“The day was so bright,” she said, “and the grass so green, and the yard

so beautiful, that for a time I could only look around me and admire the

many pretty things scattered about the grounds. And as I looked it

seemed to me I must have been there before, everything was so familiar,

even to the iron deer with Southern moss upon his horns. Had I dreamed

of all this, or what was it? I asked, and my head was beginning to ache

with trying to recall something in the past, when suddenly a voice,

which I remembered perfectly, called out:

“‘Halloo, Miss Red, if this don’t beat all. Here you are away up here on

my own ground. How did it happen? And what do you think of the North

now?’

“It was Robin, of course, and to my great delight I found that I was

actually in the very garden he had described to me, that my mistress was

his mistress, and that his nest was up in one of the tall horse

chestnuts, which grew at the entrance of the grounds. And there was

another Mrs. Robin now, a pretty little bird, who arched her neck so

gracefully and looked so shyly at me from her bright eyes when Robin

brought and introduced her to me. They were very happy together—Mr. and

Mrs. Robin—and I in part forgot my own sorrows and loneliness in

watching them day by day as they flew in and out of the nice soft nest

in the chestnut tree, and made wide circles in the air just as I used to

do away down on the river.

“At last Robin came to me with a very important air, and told me there

were four blue eggs in the nest, and Mrs. Robin was sitting on them to

keep them warm, and he was going to hunt worms for her from the mound of

earth just turned up in the garden. They were Mrs. Robin’s first eggs,

and she scarcely left them at all until the shells were broken and I

heard there were four young birds in the nest. Oh, how proud little Mrs.

Robin was! What care she took of her babies—more care, indeed, than

Robin, who was growing old and fat, and indisposed for work, and who

sometimes called her nervous and fussy, and told her that nothing could

harm her children as long as they staid up in that tall tree. Still Mrs.

Robin was very watchful and vigilant, and looked askance at every boy

who passed on the walk, and even at Harry and Grey and Gifford, little

boys who came sometimes to play in the garden, and who could no more

have climbed to the nest than they could have gone to the steeple of the

church just showing above the trees in the distance.

“At last, when the birds were old enough to be taught to fly, an event

occurred which threw Mrs. Robin into a wild state of excitement. I had

several times heard my mistress and the cook talking together of some

people who were coming to spend a portion of the summer, and I had

caught the names of Florence and Johnnie, but who Florence and Johnnie

were I did not know or particularly care, for it mattered little to me

who came or went. I was never molested, and my daily wants were supplied

with great regularity. And still I did have some little curiosity with

regard to the expected guests, on whose account the whole household was,

for a few days, in an unusual commotion. On the afternoon when they

arrived my cage was hanging in a little archway at the rear of the

grounds, and so I heard and saw nothing until Robin, who had been absent

for a few hours, came home, and stopped for a moment on a shrub near me

to rest and chat awhile, as he was in the habit of doing. In fact, I had

sometimes thought that Mrs. Robin, whom, since the birth of the birds,

he had called little Motherdy, while she in return had called him

Fatherdy, was more than half jealous of me because of Robin’s

sociability. At all events he never sat near me long before she joined

him and made some excuse to get him away. So I was not surprised to see

her flying toward us from the cherry-tree, where she had been pecking

away at a half-ripe cherry. As she came near I saw at a glance that

something was the matter, and so did Robin, and he called out in his

cheery, teasing way:

“‘Well, little Motherdy, what’s up now, that your feathers seem so

ruffled, and you so excited? Anything happened to the young ones, or

what is the matter?’

“‘Matter!’ she repeated. ‘Matter enough. What do you think has come

right into our midst to worry our birds to death?’

“‘Cats, maybe,’ he said; and she replied:

“‘Cats! No, something worse than that. Two children, boy and girl, and

by the looks of the luggage they have come to stay, and there’s an end

of all peace for us. Why, the boy has already spied me, and actually

thought he could reach me, and I on the top of the Brockway house. You

would far better have put our nest in the evergreens across the street,

where I wanted it. But no, you must stay in that old place just because

you used to live there with the other one, who I wish was here now. Such

a time as I am going to have with those children! Afraid for my life and

the babies every minute!’

“I had known before that Motherdy, though a nice little thing, had a

temper, and that she was sometimes given to being jealous of the first

Mrs. Robin, and that she had opposed the old nest in the chestnut tree,

because Mrs. Robin 1st had lived there. But she was so pretty, and had

such graceful ways, that Robin never lost his temper, no matter how

unreasonable she might be, and now he only laughed good-humoredly and

made light of her fears, saying his mistress would never allow any one

to disturb the birds, and as for the evergreens across the street, where

she had wanted him to build a new nest, she would have been no safer

there, for was not Harry over there, and Grey, and were they not both

larger than this Chicago boy who had so alarmed her?

“‘You are nervous, little Motherdy,’ he said. ‘You have _boy_ on the

brain. Hadn’t you better go home? Some boy may have stolen your babies,

nest and all.’

“Motherdy was too angry to reply, and flew away rapidly, followed soon

by Robin, who, I suppose, made his peace with her, for they were out

together early the next morning, hunting for worms and grasshoppers, and

talking lovingly in the language which birds understand. And still I

could see that both were rather anxious for the appearance of the

children, Florence and Johnnie, and so was I, for I had heard the sound

of voices from the house—sweet, musical voices, such as children always

have—and I thought I could tell which was Florence and which was

Johnnie, for one I knew was two or three years older than the other.

“At last they came into the grounds with a laugh and a bound, and from

the ridge-pole of the Brockway house Fatherdy and Motherdy were watching

them, while I, in my cage, looked eagerly and curiously at them. How

pretty they were in their white dresses and gay sashes—Florence with her

pale face and starry eyes of black, which seemed to see everything at

once, and Johnnie with his great round blue eyes, the color of the

robin’s eggs, and his beautiful golden hair falling in curls about his

neck. ‘Black-Eyes’ and ‘Bright-Hair’ I named them at once, and I watched

them as they started to run up the gravel walk. Bright-Hair, whose

little feet had just commenced to walk, fell down, of course, and bumped

his nose and soiled his clean white dress; but he did not seem to mind

it at all, but, man-like, got up again and started after Black-Eyes, who

had spied a little arbor under an apple-tree, which she decided was just

the place for the mud pies she was longing to make, as no child’s life

in the country is complete without a trial of making and baking pies.

Then she saw me next, and both came rushing to me, and Bright-Hair

wanted to ‘take, take,’ and stretched his little hands toward me, and

tried to climb the lattice, in the archway of which I was hanging. But I

was far above his reach, and looked down upon him fearlessly as he tried

in vain to get me.

“What lovely children they were, and those were very happy days when I

watched them flitting about the grounds or making their mud pies in the

grapevine arbor. I think the cook must have been very good-natured, for

she gave up her muffin-rings, and sponge-cake tins, and iron spoons, and

a pan and dipper for the bakery, and even brought a box of dirt, which

little Florence called flour; and then the mud pie business began in

earnest, and Johnnie’s fat white arms were besmeared above his elbows,

and his face was covered with mud, and Florence was not much better, as

in her long-sleeved gingham apron she worked industriously at her pies

and cakes, which were made into wonderful shapes, and baked on a griddle

in the sun.

“Sometimes Maggie and Harry, and Grey and Sophie and Louise came to

help, but the girls were almost too old for mud pies, and Grey was

afraid of soiling his clothes, and Harry fonder of chasing a kitten

which had strayed into the yard the day after the children came, and

which my mistress kept as a plaything for them, and so Black-Eyes and

Bright-Hair had the pies mostly to themselves. It was difficult to tell

which Bright-Hair liked the best—the pies or the kitten, which he called

the ‘_cart_,’ or the little robins, which were just learning to fly, and

who hopped about in a very stupid way, while little Motherdy watched

narrowly and nervously to see that no harm came to them, either from the

cat, or Bright-Hair, who always started for them when he saw them in the

grass, and seemed greatly disturbed because they flew away just before

he had reached them.

“One afternoon there was a garden party for the children, and I think I

never saw a finer sight than it was to see all those little girls and

boys in their best clothes, which did not look quite so fresh and nice

when they went home, as when they came. Oh, what fine times they had

playing upon the lawn, and in the different arbors, which were fitted up

with dollies, furniture, and called by different names. There was the

‘Doll’s Drawing-room,’ where the larger dolls sat solemn and still in

their chairs, and there was a sleeping room for the dolls, and

Apple-Tree Hotel and a restaurant near by, where the children had

macaroons, and took weak lemonade through straws; but the thing which

pleased them most was the wheel chair, in which all the children had a

ride before the day was done.

“That afternoon, Motherdy kept her robins out of sight, and did not

allow them once to fly down into the grass, lest some harm should befall

them. She was not afraid of Bright-Hair nor Black-Eyes, nor Harry, nor

Grey, nor Maggie, nor Gifford, she said, but she distrusted some of the

larger boys, who ran so fast and made so much noise, and she kept her

children at home greatly against their will. They were not afraid, and I

think had really become attached to Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair, and so

had the Fatherdy and Motherdy birds, who liked to see them round, and

thought the grounds were prettier because they were there. I thought so,

too, and when at last their father came and took them away, I felt more

lonely and desolate than I had done in weeks, while my friends, Mr. and

Mrs. Robin, with their four young ones, flew up to the ridge-pole of the

house, and watched the huge thing which bore them away until it was out

of sight, and there was nothing to be seen but a ring of smoke away to

the west, where they were gone. I remember that my mistress came out to

the arbor where the children had played, and cried a little as she

picked up the spoons, and plates and dishes which had been used for

their mud pies, some of which were still baking in the sun.

“I pass rapidly over the remainder of the summer and the fall, when Mr.

and Mrs. Robin bade me good-by, and, with their family started for the

South. How I longed to go with them, and how many messages I sent to Mr.

Red and my own little ones, should they chance to meet them. And then

the days were very long and dreary, until little Florence came again to

pass the holidays with her auntie, and there was a Christmas-tree in the

church, and I was taken there in my cage and hung near the chancel,

where I could see all the fine doings which were so new and strange to

me. But I soon began to understand it, and watched the ladies with a

great deal of interest as they filled the tree with every conceivable

toy for the children, who, when it was done, came crowding in, and

filled nearly half the church. What carols they sang of the ‘Wonderful

Night,’and ‘Jesus of Bethlehem,’ and how the organ filled the church and

even made the floor tremble, as the organist played with both hands and

feet, and the children’s voices rose louder and clearer as they sang of

a Saviour’s birth. I really began to feel quite like a churchman myself,

or at least like a church bird, though I _did_ wonder why I was there.

But I soon found out, for as name after name was called, and the

children came trooping up to receive their gifts, I heard at last little

Florence called, and, to my surprise, I was given to her as a Christmas

gift from her auntie. I knew that she was very fond of me, and called me

a great many pet names, and gave me more things to eat than I could

possibly take, but I had never dreamed of belonging to her, and when I

found that I was to go with her to her home in Chicago, where

Bright-Hair lived, I felt at first sorry to leave my former mistress,

who had been so kind to me. And there was Robin, whom I might never see

again, and the beautiful garden where I had spent so many pleasant days.

But it could not be helped, and within a week or two I was hanging in a

bay window in my new home in the city, and I was very happy there, too,

with Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair for my companions. Children do cheer up

a house wonderfully, and I learned to listen to their merry voices, and

wait anxiously for their appearance in the morning. As the winter wore

away and the spring came on, little Florence, who was always a pale,

delicate child, seemed to grow paler and thinner every day, until at

last she refused to eat anything, and in the summer they took us all to

their country home, a few miles from the city, where she improved

rapidly, and ran about the grounds as merrily as ever. But when the

autumn came and the winds blew cold from the lake, she began to droop

again, and I heard them say they must take her South, where it was

always warm and sunny.

“Then my heart began to beat so fast with wondering if she would take me

with her. I half believed she would, she loved me so much—and she did,

and we came to the same hotel where I was first a prisoner, and my cage

was hung again in the old place, where through the trees of oak and

orange I could see glimpses of the river, and the boats as they went up

and down.”

“Really, now, it is all quite like a story. Have you seen Robin? and how

did you get away?” Mr. Paroquet said, hopping up and down, first on one

foot and then on the other, as if he were growing tired.

Mrs. Red noticed this, and hastened on.

“Yes, I have seen Robin; it was up the river, where he is spending the

winter with Mrs. Robin, who is as bright, and pretty, and spirited as

ever—but I must tell you how I came to be up the river myself. My dear

little mistress, Florence, knew that my home was once in this part of

the country, and a few days ago, when she gave me my breakfast of seeds

and figs, she talked to me in her usual loving way, and said:

“‘You know my mamma says I am not getting well here as fast as I ought,

and she is going to take me to St. Augustine, down by the sea, and so,

poor little Reddie, I love you ever and ever so much, but I’ve been

thinking and thinking how dreadful it would be for me to be shut up as

you are, and taken away where I never could see my papa, or mamma, or

Johnnie any more. Maybe, though, you haven’t a papa, or mamma, or

Johnnie. I guess birds never have such things, like us girls, but you

may have had some little birds in some nest somewhere, and maybe you can

find your way home to that nest, and so, you precious old Reddie, I am

going to make you a present of your freedom. I am going to open the door

of your cage, and let you go—so!’

“And here she opened the door suddenly, and gave the cage a shake which

sent me out upon the piazza.

“If I had stopped a minute to consider, I might have hesitated about

leaving the cage which had been my home so long, and to which I was

really very much attached, but just as I hopped out upon the floor, some

children came running round the corner and frightened me so, that I

instantly flew to the top of a tree near by. It was my first experiment

in flying for almost two years, and it seemed so natural, so delightful,

to beat the air with my wings once more, and freedom seemed so sweet

that I could not go back, but sat for a moment looking at the empty cage

and my little mistress standing by it with a sorry look on her face, as

if she had not quite expected me to leave her so readily. Then I thought

of the nest in the jasmine, and of Mr. Red, and the happy life I had

lived with him among the orange-trees and magnolias, and I said to

myself, ‘I must go there,’ and while my mistress was looking up at me

with those bright black eyes of hers, I flew away as fast as my wings

could take me, in the direction of my old home. But not being accustomed

to flying, I soon grew tired, and stopped many times to rest and look

down from some tall tree upon the river, which had never seemed so

beautiful to me as it did that day.

CHAPTER VI.

CONCLUSION.

“It was late in the afternoon when I reached the clump of jasmine where

I had left my little ones, and though I knew that by this time they were

grown-up birds, and possibly had families of their own, I could not help

feeling as if I should find them just as I had left them, hungry, noisy,

and so glad to see me. It was very still in the thicket, and not a

single bird of any kind was to be seen. But this did not surprise me

much, for it was the time of day when the old birds would naturally be

off after the little ones’ supper. They would soon be coming back, and I

thought how delighted Mr. Red would be, and how startled, too, when he

found me waiting for him just as I used to do.”

“I reckon he was startled, too,” interrupted the Paroquet. “But pray

hurry on. I _was_ getting a little tired, but I’m all attention now. You

waited, you say, for Mr. Red to come, and didn’t you go near the old

nest till he came?”

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Red, “I went to the nest the first thing, and found

it just as I had seen it in my dreams so many times, and right at the

bottom, huddled together, were three little ones about the size of mine

when I left them. And for an instant I forgot myself and thought they

_were_ mine, and flew down so close to them that they awoke and began to

scramble toward the top of the nest and open their mouths as if they

were hungry. On the right wing of two of them little brown spots were

beginning to show, and then I _knew_, and grew sick and faint, and more

sorry than I had been since the day I was stolen away, and with such a

different kind of sorrow, too.

“Always before in the midst of my sharpest pain there had been a kind of

comfort in thinking that Mr. Red remembered and longed for me just as I

longed for and remembered him, but now I knew better. Those birds in the

nest were not my birds. Spotted-Wing was their mother. I was forgotten;

my place was filled; nobody wanted me there, and I felt as if my throat

would burst with the lump which kept rising in it.

“And while I waited, sitting high above the nest where I could look down

into it, there was a whiz and whir in the air, and Spotted-Wing came

home, looking a little older than when I saw her last, but quite as

pretty and very happy. I was obliged to own that to myself, as I sat and

watched her feeding her young ones, and every now and then turning up

her head as if listening for some one. Just so I used to listen and just

so I used to act when Mr. Red was coming home, as he did at last, and

Spotted-Wing flew out a little way to meet him, and rubbed her bill

against his, and kept at his side as he flew so near to me that the air

set in motion by his wings stirred my feathers, and I could have touched

him had I tried.

“Oh, little did he dream who it was that sat and watched him until it

grew dark, and all was still in the dear old nest which was once my

home. When I could no longer see him and knew that he was asleep, I said

good-by to him forever, and flew away to the palm-tree; where I staid

till morning, and then I started down the river, caring nothing where I

went or what became of me, and feeling an indescribable longing for the

cage I had quitted and the little mistress I had left.

“It was then that I came suddenly upon Robin, who is living near Green

Cove Spring, and who was both astonished and delighted to see me. My

face must have told him that I knew the worst, for he only said:

“‘Poor little Reddie, it is rather hard, but it’s the way of the world.

I s’pose you didn’t see your own children. One of them is dead, and the

others are far up the river, near Enterprise, with families of their

own, and as likely birds as you could wish to see. They think you dead,

and so does Mr. Red, of course.’

“Both Robin and Motherdy were very kind to me, and I staid with them all

that day and night, and they brought me my supper and tried to cheer me

up, but nothing can ever make me happy again unless it be to find myself

in the cage once more, with Florence and Johnnie to pet me. But even

that pleasure is denied me, for when I left Robin I went back to

Jacksonville and the hotel, hoping to find my mistress. But she had gone

down by the sea, and it is a long way there, and I might get lost, and

not find her after all, so I have given it up, and what I shall do with

myself now I am sure I don’t know.”

“Do?” repeated the Paroquet, who began to evince a friendliness I had

not given him credit for. “Why, make the best of it, of course, and if

you are so anxious to find Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair again, go over to

St. Augustine after them. It is not so very far: I’ve been there. I know

the way. I’ll go with you and start now, to-day, if you like. It’s up

the river a ways, and then across the wildest, swampiest piece of

country you ever saw. But St. Augustine is lovely—some like that North

you are so delighted with, and maybe you will make up your mind to stay

there if you do not find the children.”

“And I almost know I shall not,” returned Mrs. Red, who seemed to be

quite discouraged, “for how shall I know where to look for them?”

“Look! Why, look everywhere, at all the hotels and boarding-houses, but

mostly at the Old Fort and in a square they call the Plaza. Children all

like to play there. We shall find them, don’t you fear, so come; it is

getting almost noon, and we ought to be off. We will fly across the

river first, and then hunt a bug or two for dinner, before we start

again, so here goes.” And spreading his beautiful green wings, the

Paroquet flew swiftly away, followed by Mrs. Red, who moved more slowly,

for she was tired, and had not much heart or courage left.

I was half afraid she would drop into the water, but the Paroquet

evidently encouraged her to exert herself as much as possible, and at

last I was glad to see that they were fairly over the river, and resting

on a live-oak tree. Then I started as from a dream, and wondered if it

were really true that I had heard birds talk together, and if poor

Reddie would ever find Florence and Johnnie again, and be happy once

more. I hoped she would, and that I might know it; and I did, for when

the spring came, and, with many other travelers, I started for home on

the _City of Savannah_, I noticed upon the boat two lovely children, a

boy and girl, one with beautiful black eyes, and the other with eyes as

blue as the April sky over our heads. _Fornce_ the little boy called his

sister, and then I guessed at once I had found Black-Eyes and

Bright-Hair, and remembering Mrs. Red I said to the little girl one day:

“Isn’t your name Florence and your brother’s name Johnnie, and don’t you

live in Chicago?”

“Why, yes,” she answered, looking curiously at me. “How did you know

that?”

“Oh, I guessed it,” I said, and then I added: “Did you ever have a

Red-bird in a cage, which you let go one morning?”

“Yes,” she replied; “but I think I have her again. I’m almost sure of

it. She is in my stateroom. Don’t you want to see her?”

Of course I wanted to see her, though as Red-birds are much alike, I

knew I could not tell if this were the one whose sad story I had heard

on Christmas morning. But when Florence told me the particulars of its

recapture I was sure of it, and rejoiced that poor little Reddie was

happy with its friends, Florence and Johnnie. They were at the Old Fort

in St. Augustine one morning, Florence said, and one of the Indians kept

as prisoners there, was teaching her how to use the bow and arrow, while

Johnnie stood by begging to “_soot too_,” when suddenly a Red-bird,

which seemed to be very tired, flew down at her feet, and kept hopping

around close to her, while Johnnie tried to catch it, and the young

Indian suggested making it a mark to shoot at. But from this Florence

recoiled in horror, and, stooping toward the bird, she said:

“I believe it’s my very own dear old birdie I used to have in a cage.

Are you mine, Reddie?” and she held her hands toward it, when Reddie

flew up to her shoulder, and caressed her face, and neck, and hair with

its bill, nestling close to her, as if it did not wish to be let go

again.

So Florence took her back to the hotel where she was stopping, and,

bringing out the cage, opened the door and set it before Reddie, who

instantly went into it, and springing up to the perch, began to swing

back and forth as if perfectly delighted with its quarters; nor could it

be tempted to come out of the cage, although the door was left open the

entire day.

“Then I knew for sure it was mine,” Florence said, “and that it wanted

to come and live with me again; though it is very funny how she found

her way here, and why she did not go back to the nest, which I am sure

she used to have somewhere in Florida.”

I could have told her what I knew, and made her eyes blacker and larger

than they were, but when I remembered the little girls and boys at home

who had asked so often for a story which they could understand, I said

I’ll wait, and some day when I feel like it I will write it, and so let

other children, whose names I do not know, but whom I love because they

are children, read the story which I heard the Red-bird tell that

Christmas morning when I sat under the magnolia-tree far away in

Florida.

THE END

OF

RED-BIRD.

RUTH AND RENA.

CHAPTER I.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD.

It was Christmas Eve, and the first snow of the season lay upon the

fields of Oakfield, and the wintry wind blew cold and chill through the

leafless trees in the yard and shook the windows of the old red

farm-house, where Uncle Obed Harris lived, and where in his comfortable

kitchen he sat waiting for the supper which his wife, whom everybody

knew as Aunt Hannah, or Grandma Harris, was putting upon the table.

Across the common and distant from the house a quarter of a mile or

more, the stone church was seen with lights shining from every pane of

glass, for the worshippers at St. Mark’s had that night, in addition to

their usual Christmas-tree, an illumination in honor of Bethlehem’s

child, born amid the Judean hills so many years ago. And ever and anon

as Uncle Obed took his tea he heard the merry sound of sleigh-bells and

the happy voices of the children as they went tripping by, excited and

eager to know what the tree held for them on its many and beautiful

branches of green.

It was thirteen years since Uncle Obed had been inside his church on

Christmas Eve, and during all these years he had nursed only bitter

memories of the night when his daughter, Agatha, had made such glorious

music in the organ loft, and then sang so sweetly the “Peace on earth,

good will toward men,” with a soft look of ecstasy upon her face which

the proud old father thought sprang wholly from a love divine, never

dreaming of the terrible blow in store for him, when, after the services

were over, he waited in vain for Agatha to join him on his homeward

walk; Agatha did not come either then or ever after, and he heard next

day of a marriage performed by a justice of the peace and knew from the

note sent to him that Agatha was gone with the young man whom he had

forbidden her ever again to speak to if she cared to be his daughter.

“You must choose between Homer Hastings and me,” he had said, and she

had chosen, and his door was henceforth barred against her, and she knew

it, and accepted the situation, and wrote once or twice to her mother

from New York, and said that she was happy, and told of a little girl

baby, whom she called _Ruth_, and who had her grandmother’s soft brown

eyes and hair.

Then for a time they lost all trace of her until a letter came, telling

them her husband was dead and asking if she might come home; Aunt Hannah

pleaded with Uncle Obed then, begging him to go for their child and the

little one, who would brighten their lonely lives, but he said: “No, she

has made her bed and now she must lie in it. She was my _eyes_, and when

they are once pulled out you can’t put them in again.”

Uncle Obed and his wife had married late in life and were old when

Agatha was born, and it seemed as if the father loved her more for this,

and her desertion of him for a worthless fellow, whose only virtue was

his handsome face, had hurt him cruelly, and he would not forgive, and

he kept aloof from the Christmas-tree, which was each year set up in the

church where other fingers than Agatha’s swept the organ keys, and

another voice sang “Glory to God on High.” But he was going to-night; he

had promised his wife that he would, and Aunt Hannah’s face had been

brighter all the day for that promise, and her step brisker and lighter

as she prepared the basket of presents for the poor children of the

parish, thinking, as she folded up a pair of lamb’s wool stockings, of

the little Ruth whom she had never seen, and whose feet they would just

fit. Where was she now, and where was Agatha that wintry day when the

snow was drifting down so swiftly, and the wind was blowing so hard over

her native hills. Something seemed to bring the absent one nearer to

Aunt Hannah, and she almost felt the touch of the chord which was to

have a beginning that night far away in New York and which would reach

even to her lonely home and make it bright as the sunshine, which, as

the day wore to a close, came through the dull gray clouds and fell soft

and warm upon the pure white snow.

There was a great crowd in the church that night, and Uncle Obed felt a

throb of pain cut like a knife through his heart when he saw the gaily

decorated tree, and heard the organ peal and the children’s voices

telling of the “wonderful night” when

“Angels and shining immortals,

Crowding the ebony portals,

Fling out their banners of light, on this

Wonderful, wonderful, night.”

He was thinking of thirteen years ago, and the golden head he saw in the

gallery where Agatha sat in her bright beauty playing her Christmas

songs. But his wife’s thoughts were more with Ruth, the unknown child,

and as one after another the little ones went up the aisle, she prayed

softly to herself, “God grant me life to see her some day before this

very railing.”

And God, who hears and answers the prayer of faith, heard and answered

hers, though in a different way from what she had expected. As if the

sight of the Christmas-tree and the happy, joyous faces of the children

had softened Uncle Obed’s heart, he talked much that night of Agatha and

the baby, as he always designated Ruth, who, if living, was then twelve

years old at least.

“They haunt me,” he said; “and it seems as if Aggie was here in this

very room telling me to do something—I can’t make out what.”

“She has been close to me all day, too,” Aunt Hannah replied, “she or

the little one; and before the train came in I was foolish enough to go

to her old room to see if all was right in case she came. You know, it

is just as she left it, only the curtains are new.”

“Yes, yes, I know, wife,” and Uncle Obed lifted his head suddenly.

“Should I be an old fool to go to New York to-morrow and inquire?”

Aunt Hannah had done with kissing years ago, but now her arms were

around her husband’s neck in a trice, and her cheek was laid to his as

she kissed him fervently, while the great tears choked her utterance and

kept her from answering. But she was understood, and the next morning,

while the bell was ringing for church and the Christmas sun was shining

brightly over the earth, Uncle Obed sat in a corner of the car which was

taking him to New York and, as he hoped, to the lost ones he sought.

Aunt Hannah ate her Christmas dinner alone that day, and after it was

over went to Agatha’s room and kindled a fire upon the hearth, and felt

her pulse beat with a new hope as she watched the flames lapping the

bits of pine and then leaping up the chimney mouth.

“He may not be home in three or four days,” she said to herself, “but

it’s well to be ready; and the room needs airing so much.”

So she opened both the windows, and brushed the snow from the stools,

and made the bed up fresh and clean, and gave the pillows a loving pat

as she put them in their places, and moved Agatha’s favorite chair

nearer to the fire, and put the book of Psalms upon it, with

“Doddridge’s Rise and Progress,” and by way of variety laid beside them

one of the Waverly Novels which Agatha used to like so much and prefer

to Doddridge or the Psalms. This done, she shut the windows but left the

blinds open to let the sunshine in, thinking to herself as she went out

and closed the door, “I’ll build a fire every day until he comes back

with ’em.”

Alas for Aunt Hannah praying so often and waiting so anxiously for him

and them, she little knows how long and severely her faith is to be

tested, or of the rich fruition which will crown that faith at last.

CHAPTER II.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK.

There was no snow in New York that Christmas Eve, but the wind seemed

colder for that, as it blew in sharp biting gusts through the dark

streets and alleys, and sweeping up a long flight of rickety stairs to

one of those tenements where the poor live,—God only knows how,—crept

through the wide cracks of a room where two little girls crouched before

the fire, which the elder of them was trying to coax into a blaze. She

had been out all day in the crowded streets offering her pins and

shoe-lacings and matches, first to one and then to another of the gay

throng hurrying by, all, or nearly all, in too great haste to notice

her, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger though she was. Had

they done so, they would have seen that she was no ordinary child, and

her soft brown eyes, and sweet pale face, would have attracted attention

to her at once. But it was the day before Christmas, and though money

was spent by the thousands for toys which would please for an hour, and

then lie idly upon some nursery floor, only twenty-five cents of it came

to poor little Ruth, who wanted it so much, and whose eyes had in them a

wistful, anxious look every time she offered her wares for sale. She did

not tell a pitiful tale of her mother, dead six months before, or of the

poverty and the sorrow, as one article after another was sold for food

and fuel, until the comparatively comfortable home was bare of nearly

everything, save the absolute necessities for daily use. Neither did she

tell of her struggles to earn bread for herself and Rena, darling little

five-years old Rena, whose eyes were like the violets of spring, and

whose hair was golden in the sunshine, with a tinge of red upon it. Poor

little Rena, who kept the house at home while Ruthy was away,—who washed

the two plates and the one mug they shared between them, and swept the

floor and washed the hearth, and wiped the dingy paint, as her mother

had done when it was not as dingy as now, and did it more than once to

pass away the long, lonely hours of Ruth’s absence. She had been told

never to play with the children in the street, and her dead mother’s

command was sacred to the conscientious child, who contented herself

with looking from the windows of the fourth story, where she lived, down

upon the moving, everchanging crowd in the narrow street below.

And here she sat waiting for Ruth, as the short December day drew to a

close, and the cold night shut down over the great city. She knew all

about Christmas eve and Santa Claus, and many times that day she had

said to herself, “I wish Santa Claus would bring Ruthy something,” and

once she thought to go herself upon the walk and beg a few pennies for

“Ruthy’s present,” as she had seen children do, but this had been

forbidden, and so she sat in her chair by the window and watched and

thought of many things, and among others, of the story of Bethlehem,

which she liked so much. The lowly manger, the mound of hay, the

meek-eyed oxen with their long white horns, were things she never tired

of. But she delighted most in the baby, the little boy and his mother,

and she had so wanted a book full of pictures which should tell her all

about it. There _was_ such a one called “That Sweet Story of Old.” Ruthy

had said, and Rena had made many plans for getting it when she was

older, while Ruth, too, had her own darling scheme with regard to it,

and every day for a month, she had put by a few pennies from her little

earnings, and eaten less herself, in order to save enough to buy the

book, as a Christmas gift to Rena. She had almost enough that morning

when she went out, but the day was not a good one for her trade. Nobody

wanted boot-lacings and pins, when in all the shop windows, there were

so many beautiful things, and if she bought the book, she must go

without her supper. But she did not care for that, though she was very

hungry, and the smell of the food which came to her so often from the

many basement kitchens, nearly drove her wild. Still she did not falter,

and when at last she turned into the narrow street, and ascended the

long, steep stairway, the book was under her shawl, and she had only two

buns and a hot roll in her hands. These she had bought far up town, at

Purssell’s, as a treat for little Rena, to whom a lady had once given a

Bath bun, and who had talked of it ever since.

Rena was off her guard, and in thinking of Bethlehem had fallen asleep

and let the fire go out, so that it was dark and cheerless enough when

Ruth entered the room; but though very cold and tired, she did not care

for Rena’s remissness, as it gave her time to hide the book which was to

be a great surprise on the morrow when it was fairly Christmas day.

Putting it carefully away she lighted the lamp and then tried to

rekindle the fire. The noise awoke Rena, who was soon beside her on the

hearth and looking into her face to see if the day had been a good one.

To little Rena _good_ days meant a bit of meat for supper with perhaps a

piece of pie, and a warm fire in the evening, and she saw that none of

these luxuries were in store for her that night, and the old, patient,

but sad look came back to her face as she wound her arms around Ruthy’s

neck and said:

“You didn’t get much; but no matter, you’ve got _me_.”

Yes, Ruth had little Rena, and forcing down a great sob just as she had

forced it down the livelong day when she remembered other Christmas

tides, she held her darling sister close to her and parted her

bright-hair from her brow, and told her of the nice Bath buns from

Purssell’s and the roll for breakfast, and said she did not want

anything herself, as she had had her supper, meaning a part of an apple

she had found near a fruit stand.

And hungry little Rena ate a bun, sitting on the floor by the fire, for

neither of the girls thought it worth while to set the table just for a

single bun! And as Rena ate she talked of Christmas and Christmas trees,

and asked Ruth to tell her again of the tree which she saw once, and

which had on it a doll and a paper of candy for her. “Jesus’ birthday

party” Rena called the Christmas eve festival, and as she warmed her

blue hands by the fire, she wished that she might go to His “party” and

get “oh, lots of things—some new shoes and stockings, and a doll that

would squeak, and some mince pie, and that story of Jesus—only, Ruthy,

I’d give them all to you, ’cause you goes in the cold, but I’d keep the

book about the pretty Bethlehem child,” she said, as she stuck out her

little feet with her ragged shoes and looked ruefully at them.

Poor little Rena, there were shoes and stockings both, just fitted to

her cold feet, in the basket Aunt Hannah carried to the Oakfield church

that afternoon, but Rena knew nothing of them, and she kept on talking

to Ruth, asking finally what it was their mother had said about her old

home in the country where there was grass in summer, with flowers and

birds, and always enough to eat and “Jesus’ birthday party” every year

in the church.

So Ruth told her again of the house of which she had heard so much from

her mother; and Rena asked:

“If we’ve a grandpa and grandma there, why doesn’t they come for us?

It’s so cold here, Ruthy, and I’s so hungry, too. I want the other bun

so bad, and I’s savin’ it for you.”

There were great tears on Rena’s cheeks as she confessed that her hunger

was greater than her spirit of self-denial could endure. She had meant

to keep the other bun for Ruthy’s breakfast, but, as she said, she was

“so hungry,” and Ruth made her eat it, and then to save the fire, they

crept into bed, but not until their prayers were reverently said, Rena

venturing to improvise a little and ask God “to send them a great big

fire, which should make them, oh, as warm as toast—and let her sometime

go to His Son’s birthday party and get something from the tree, please,

for Christ’s sake; good night, and don’t let us be cold any more, amen.”

This was Rena’s prayer, and then nestling close to Ruth, she whispered,

“God is here, isn’t He; in this room?”

“Yes,” was Ruth’s reply.

“And hears me pray when I say ‘please, for Christ’s sake?’ And I am sure

he _will_, for mamma said so, and we’ll be warm to-morrow, Ruthy, you

and I; oh, so warm, with a big fire—fire—for Christ’s sake—please.”

The words were far apart and indistinct for little Rena was fast falling

into dreamland. But so long as consciousness remained, there was a

prayer in her heart for “fire—a big fire to warm us, please.”

And God, who was there, in that humble room, and heard their prayer,

answered it in His own way, which was not exactly little Rena’s way.

CHAPTER III.

THE FIRE.

The Christmas Eve Festivals were over, and night brooded silently over

the great city, until the clock on Trinity rang for twelve; then a few

moments went by, and the great bell at Jefferson market sent forth its

warning, which was caught up and repeated faster, louder, more

excitedly, as the mad flames, let loose from the nooks and corners where

they had perhaps been smoldering through the day, leaped high in the air

and ran riotously over the roofs of the old tenement house on —— street,

where Ruth and Rena lay sleeping. “Fire,—fire,—” how the cry sounded

through the streets, and what a clatter the firemen and the people made

and how the women shrieked and the children cried, and nobody but God

thought of Ruth and Rena. He was taking care of them, and woke Ruth just

as the flames looked for an instant into the room, already filled with

smoke, and then were subdued by a powerful jet of water, which left all

again in darkness.

Ruth knew what it meant, and with a gasp of suffocation sprang from the

bed, and groping her way to the door, opened it wide, hoping to admit

the fresh air, without which she knew she must smother. But only thick,

dark billows of smoke came rolling in, filling her lungs and eyes and

mouth, as she tried to find her way back to her sister to whom she

shrieked, “Wake, Rena; the house is on fire. Run for your life.”

The cry awoke Rena, who staggered toward the door, more by chance than

design. Fortunately for her, it was still open, and, blinded by smoke,

and wild with fright, she rushed down the stairway, and escaped unharmed

into the street below, where the excited throng of people were running

and shrieking, and where she would have been trampled to death, if a

city missionary, had not found her as, in her night dress, with her

little white feet nearly frozen, she ran hither and thither, sobbing in

a pitiful kind of way for “Ruthy” to come and get her. One of the

mission houses received her, and when the Christmas dawn broke over the

city, and the bells were pealing merrily she lay on one of the little

cots asleep, her lips occasionally whispering softly, “Come, Ruthy,

come.”

The fright and exposure brought on a low fever, and for weeks kind

nurses watched by her trying to make out something from her not very

clear story.

“Mother’s dead,” she said, “I haven’t any papa; Ruthy and me lives

alone, and sells pins and things, only Ruthy sells ’em and I keep house,

and she’s burned, and I’s Rena Cutler and she isn’t.”

This was her story, and as nothing more could be learned of her or of

the Ruth of whom she talked, and as it was known that several had

perished in the flames, it seemed probable that Ruth was one of them;

and Rena’s fever ran higher, and she talked of the baby of Bethlehem and

Jesus’ birthday party, and the buns from Purssell’s, but after a time

she grew better, and was interested in things around her, and was a

great favorite with every one and happy in her new home, where all the

influences were calculated to strengthen the good there was in her when

she lived with Ruth in the old house.

But she never forgot “poor Ruthy,” whom she believed to have been burned

to death, and every night she prayed that God would make her “good

enough to go some day to Heaven where Ruthy and mother were; amen, for

Christ’s sake, please.”

CHAPTER IV.

RENA AT UNCLE OBED’S.

Uncle Obed had not found his lost daughter in New York, or any trace of

her; but he heard of the fire, and he went down and looked at the ruins,

and stood close to the place where little Rena came shrieking down the

stairs into the streets; then he went to the Mission House on Sunday and

heard the children sing their songs, and saw them take their evening

meal, and went into the room where little Rena lay and saw her

bright-hair on the pillow and just the outline of her pale face, and

heard she was one of the little ones rescued from the fire. He left ten

dollars with the matron to be used for her and “the other wee ones, God

bless them!” and then went home and told Aunt Hannah, who all the winter

long worked for that Home in New York, and sent to it more than one

garment which happened to fit Rena.

And so five years went by, and then there came to Oakfield one day an

agent for the Home, and with him several little girls for whom places

were wanted. Rena was among them, and in her soft blue eyes and pretty

face there was something which appealed strongly to the sympathy of Aunt

Hannah, who took the child for her own and brought her home and put her

in the room which had been Agatha’s, and gave her so much love and

kindness that the little girl sometimes wondered “if Heaven, where Ruthy

was, could be better than this.”

There in Oakfield she saw, for the first time, the Christmas-tree in all

its glory, and “Rena” was called so many times, that at last when she

came back with a huge doll which Aunt Hannah had worked at in secret for

weeks, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically, so great

was her happiness. That was to her in truth “Jesus’ birthday party,” and

when that night she knelt alone in her room, she thanked Him in her

quaint way for all the joy and brightness crowning her young life, and

then, with a sigh as she remembered poor Ruthy, asked that if there were

Christmas trees in Heaven, Ruthy might see one and get everything she

wanted, just as she had done.

Here Rena paused with a thought of the book she had coveted so much, and

which Ruth had promised to buy as soon as she saved money enough. Rena

had never seen the book, for Grandma Harris, as the child called her,

knew nothing of it, and the nearest Rena had been to possessing it was

on that night when Ruth had hidden it away so carefully against the

morning which dawned upon them amid smoke and flame. The book had burned

to ashes; Rena was there at Grandpa Harris’s; and Ruth, as she believed,

was in Heaven with the mother whom Rena could scarcely remember. Fright

and sickness had driven some things from her mind, but Mr. and Mrs.

Harris knew that she was picked up on the street on the night of a fire

and that her name was Rena Cutler. They knew, too, about poor Ruth, and

Grandma Harris had wept more than once over the two little girls living

alone in the cold, forlorn chamber of the dreary tenement house. So much

Rena could tell, but when it came to her mother she remembered nothing

except that she was good, and sick, and died; and so grandma never

suspected the truth, or dreamed why the orphan seemed so near to her and

her husband, both of whom would have been very lonely now without the

little girl to whom they had given their name, so that she was known to

everybody as Rena Harris.

CHAPTER V.

DAISY.

Swiftly the years came and went till Rena had been for more than four

years in Oakland, and was a fair, sweet-faced girl of thirteen, when one

day, toward the last of August there came to the farm-house from the

hotel on the hill across the river, a young man whom Rena had seen in

church and who she had heard was stopping in town with his wife.

Occasionally he had driven by the farm-house, and Rena had caught sight

of a pale, beautiful face which had made her heart throb quickly with a

feeling she could not define. It was a young girlish face, and Rena was

surprised when she heard that the lady was the young man’s wife, and

very sorry and grieved when she further heard that she was crazy.

“Not quite right in her mind,” George Rivers said, when he came to the

farm-house to ask if they would take his poor “Daisy” for a few weeks

“She lost her baby six months ago,” he said, “and she’s been strange

ever since. I brought her to the country hoping a change from the city

would do her good, and I think she is improving. We have driven by here

several times, and for some reason she has taken a great fancy to this

place, and says she could sleep and should get well if she were here, so

I called to ask if you will take her.”

The price offered was remunerative, and as dollars were not so very

plenty with the old couple they consented at last to take the young

lady, whom her husband called Daisy, and whom Rena felt that she should

love so much. She was a wonderfully beautiful little creature, not much

taller than Rena herself, and her soft, brown eyes had in them an

expression so sad and pitiful, that Rena could scarcely keep back the

tears when she saw her coming in leaning upon her husband’s arm. There

had been talk of a nurse to look after her when George returned to the

city, but Rena had begged so hard for that office that Mr. Rivers had

consented and Rena was to attend her, and she came at once to the

invalid and showed her to the large, pleasant chamber which adjoined her

own, and which overlooked the town and the hill country beyond.

“This is so nice—so like a dream I’ve had of something. I shall be

better here,” Daisy said, as she leaned from the window and looked out

upon the yard and garden below.

“Can I do anything for you? I am to be your little maid. I am Rena

Harris.”

This was what Rena said as the lady turned from the window, and Daisy’s

brown eyes looked wonderingly at her, while a deep flush suffused the

white face for an instant and then left it paler than before.

“Rena, Rena,” she repeated; “I never knew but one, and she is with the

angels. I called baby _Irene_, and she died too. Rena; it’s very strange

that you should have that name.”

Daisy was talking to herself now, for at the first mention of _Irene_,

Rena had darted down stairs to Aunt Hannah, exclaiming: