the exertions of that frail young creature on whom only the sun of
sixteen years was beaming. There were no friends on whom they might
depend, for their mother’s relatives lived somewhere in the far South;
and had Delle even known _where_ they lived, there was far too much
independence and self-reliance in her nature to impose on them the
maintenance of five strange children, which she felt could not be a very
agreeable accession to any family; and her heart was so filled with
almost _parental_ affection for those young beings, that she could not
bear to think of subjecting them to the possible hard treatment of
unsympathizing relatives.
Delle’s next-door neighbor was an old woman, who, though poor as the
children themselves, and dependent upon her own feeble exertions for
support, had taken the deepest interest in this parentless family. She
it was who proposed to Delle that she should go to her father’s brother,
who lived in a town further to the west, and pray that he would help
them in their need. This was the day after Mr. Hogg’s funeral, and the
old “lady” had dropped in to console the children, bringing with her
provisions for them which she could ill spare from her own little store.
I was gone from home that year, but many times since I have heard Delle
speak with tears of gratitude of the kindness of the good old Mrs. Jones
at that crisis of their lives. She came to advise with Delle, as I have
said, and even went so far in her Christian charity (by the way, though
in the very act of constructing a fit and proper sentence, I must pause
to say the ever-to-be-lamented Hood erred when he wrote so musically,
“Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian Charity
Under the sun;”
because there _is_ plenty of charity and sympathy in the world, if
people were only so wise as to know where to look for it. Do you think
to find fragrance in the dahlia, and the bright-hued tulip-flowers? Vain
will be your seeking. Go into the woods and fields, along the banks of
the little stream—search in _such_ places, you will not return
successless, you will come back with your hands _filled_ with fragrant
violets and wild-roses!) as to offer to take charge of the younger
member of the family during her necessary absence, and also to endeavor
to gather from the neighbors sufficient funds to carry her to those
friends. But to all these kind proposals, greatly astonished was the
good woman by Delle’s firm refusal.
“No,” said she, “Mrs. Jones, I remember when our misfortunes overtook us
three years ago; father wrote to uncle, and told him of our necessities,
begging him to assist us, but uncle made such answer, that _I_ will
never repeat those requests; no, Mrs. Jones, though I should starve! But
we shall not starve, neither shall my little ones come on the town. You
know that after I left school, for some time I taught Charley and
Georgy, and Jane, and I have learned them a great deal, beside improving
myself, and this is what I’ll do. I’ll open a small school for children,
and the neighbors—will they patronize me for my poor dear mother’s
sake—oh, I will try, and teach so well!”
Poor Delle’s voice was not quite firm as she disclosed these projects to
the kind-hearted old woman, but she did not cry; there was not a tear in
her soft, down-cast eyes—but Mrs. Jones did weep outright when she
looked on the excited young girl, and saw the flashes of color which
betrayed her emotion, deeply tinging her cheek one moment, and the next
leaving it colorless. _She_ did weep, I say, and for some minutes made
no answer to Delle’s inquiry; this sympathy which the old woman evinced,
emboldened the maiden to speak again, for she felt _she_ had no time to
weep then—she must _act_.
“Do you think, dear Mrs. Jones, I shall succeed? Will the people be
afraid to send their children to me because I am so young? Oh, if you
will but speak to a few, just a few people, and tell them how I will try
to do justice to their little ones. And tell them, yes, tell them, Mrs.
Jones, that I do it to give bread to _my_ children; they have always
known me, they need not fear I will neglect theirs.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, hurriedly, starting up and wiping her
eyes, “I’ll go this minute; bless your noble heart! they _shall_ send
their children to your school. I’ll be bound you’ll do justice to
’em—when shall I tell ’em you’ll open?”
“To-day—to-morrow—any day; let them come here, I shall be ready for
them, I have no time to wait or to waste.”
And in a moment old Mrs. Jones (blessed be her memory!) was gone on her
errand of mercy; and then, yes, as a true historian, I _must_ say,
Delle’s tears did burst forth, resisted no longer. The children left
their broken toys and their play, when they saw their sister weeping,
and came softly and stood beside her—every little face that had a
moment before been covered with smiles, wore a most touching, solemn
expression, when they saw how grieved she was; Jane laid her head on
Delle’s knee and wept too, scarcely knowing why; and little Willy crept
into her arms, and while he nestled there so lovingly, he brushed away
her tears with his tiny hand, saying, “Dear, dear Delle, don’t cry, we
all love you so dearly.”
But the words and sympathy of the children only brought the tears faster
to her eyes, even while they fell like balm on her heart. Was she not
_rich_ in the love of those children? What a pleasure would it be to
labor for them, and to see them guided by her hand, growing up in
goodness and knowledge; and again, in that home, before God she vowed
she would be unceasingly faithful to her dead mother’s charge.
Two years passed away, and Delle’s school was continued with the
greatest success; indeed, it had become _the_ child’s school of our
village. You should have seen her in the school-room of her now
comfortable home, amid the multitudes of youth who gathered around her,
whose “young ideas” she was teaching to “shoot” in the right direction.
You should have seen her in the hours when she was alone in her home
with her brothers and invalid sister. How unabated was her tender and
watchful care of the fragile Jane; how unceasing her efforts to secure
the comfort and happiness of the poor girl; how happy she herself was
when a smile and visible contentment on the part of the sufferer was
returned for all her pains. You should have seen her encouraging, or
mildly reproving, or joining the three light-hearted boys in their
sports, who regarded her with the deference and affection they would
have shown toward a parent. You should have seen her on the Sabbaths
when she went with the children, whom _her_ diligence and perseverance
fed and clothed, to the village church, teaching them by her example to
“remember their Creator in their youth.” You should have watched her
when she went with them to the church-yard, to the place where their
parents were buried—a little spot which their hands had made beautiful
as a garden. You should have seen Delle at such times to have rightly
and fully estimated her worth. Those only who saw her and knew her in
all these lights, _could_ know her truly; for as she grew nigh to
womanhood, there was a dignity and reserve in her manners, resulting
from the manifold trials to which she had been exposed, which made her
not readily understandable to those who had not known her from
childhood.
Do you abominate parties? So do I. But follow me this once, ’tis a
beautiful moonlight night, to yonder well-lighted mansion. I have trod
through it oftentimes, and with me for your guide, there is no possible
danger of losing your way. Here we are in the midst of the gay
assemblage; what profusion of flowers, what pleasant voices and bright
smiles, and happy hearts; and, hark! there are sounds of music and of
dancing feet. Let us wander, now, through the rooms, _in spirit_, and
amuse ourselves for a moment with “seeing what is to be seen,” and
hearing what is to be heard; and if there be any malice in our remarks,
we can keep our own secret, and not expose those “modern belles” to more
ridicule than very naturally they draw forth from common, ordinary
observers; nor will we say any thing _aloud_ about that nondescript sort
of personage yclept a fashionable beau, whose culminated faculties
emerge before the public in the shape of unmitigated _non_sense.
Ah, what an unexpected relief—the belabored piano is resting now; the
incessant battering and twisting of the keys, which, alas! rarely open
the real gates of glorious music, is stilled—the harp is twanged no
more—the guitar is silenced, yet the music-room is filled, and every
sound is hushed, and they await in expectancy a somewhat—there it is!
Heard you ever the like. That _is music_! keep silent, it will not do to
criticise _such_ singing. How melodiously the words gush forth; they are
new, but how distinctly they are pronounced! The song is finished. What,
not one concluding, prolonged trill of approved flourish? No—for it is
finished.
See how they crowd round the pale, sweet-faced girl who has filled the
room with such melody, and all, excepting the performers who have so
prodigiously exerted themselves on the musical instruments, entreat for
_one_ more song. And while she stands silently for a moment, see the
delighted countenance of the tall, well-formed gentleman who stands near
her; listen, he is saying in the lowest possible tone, “pray, lady, sing
once more.” And the lady heard his words, and as she raises her eyes to
the stranger, a scarcely perceptible flush is on her pale face. Again
her eyes are drooping, and the rich voice is doing ample justice to Mrs.
Heman’s splendid poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.” Is not the
wild, drear scene before you—can you not see it all as she sings, how
“The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed.”
And again they are beseeching for but one more song; but see how mildly,
yet so firmly, that they cannot doubt she means to sing no more, does
she decline. No one essays to charm the ear now after _such_
singing—and already they are beginning to pour out of the music-room,
whither _her_ voice had drawn them. But, see! there is one who remains
standing, as spell-bound, beside the lady. Who is this stranger? A city
gent, but to-day arrived from the East, at the residence of his
relative, _our_ hostess. How refined he is in manner and dress, and
apparently not tinged with coxcombry at all, yet this may be the effect
of an education conducted solely with the intent to please and catch the
world’s eye, as well as of good sound common sense. At all events, if he
_is_ puffed up with inordinate vanity because Heaven has suffered him to
attain the ordinary stature of manhood, in the possession of a fine,
intelligent face, he conceals it with consummate skill, does he not?
That is one thing in his favor, for a proper appreciation of the rarity
of such an instance _vide_ the Book of Human Life. They are in the midst
of a most agreeable conversation; happily, the gentleman touches on the
right topics to interest the maiden; you can tell that by her manifest
attention, and pleasure, as well as by the spirit with which she carries
on her part of the conversation. Suddenly and abruptly he has left her.
Ah! the hostess has entered the room, and he is speaking with her
rapidly. Now, leaning on his arm, she approaches the pale little lady
standing beside the piano, and makes Mr. Alfred Livingstone, whose most
unreserved admiration she had won, acquainted with Miss Delleparetta
Hogg! Do but see that sudden lifting of the gentleman’s eyebrows, the
half frown on his forehead, and the ill-concealed smile of his lips,
which even his “good breeding” cannot wholly banish, as he listens to
her name; fortunate for Delle is it that her eyes are just now cast
down; but never seemed she more fair, graceful and lovable than now,
while she stands confessing to that outrageous name!
Despite this little drawback, the city gentleman seems in a fair way of
falling desperately in love with Delle. Not for a moment since her first
song has he left her side; and now she has gone so early from the gay
company, because she thinks of the dear ones at home, waiting to hear
all about the party—and he accompanies her. Delle seldom appears in
such scenes—but the heart beating beneath those eyes which never shone
so brightly before is not weary; she feels no fatigue because of the
unwonted excitement. And to-morrow, when she sits in her pleasant
school-room again, initiating her pupils in the mysteries of
common-sense, which no teacher ever knew how to teach more successfully,
_perhaps_ those words which Alfred Livingstone has spoken to her, will
not be _quite_ forgotten.
* * * * *
A fortnight passed away, and three weeks, and a month, still young
Livingstone tarried in our dull village; and every night his tall figure
might be seen wending its way up our beautiful street to the tasteful,
cheerful home of Delle. And it grew at last to be not the most wonderful
sight in the world to see the poor school-teacher taking the walk she so
much needed, after the close confinement of the day, not with her usual
companion, her oldest brother, but with the stately youth already named.
It was a happy month to Delle, if we might judge from appearance. One
could not but see there was a certain lightness in her step, and a
general joyousness in her whole appearance, that was alone wanting in
former times to make her beautiful. But at the end of the month it
became necessary that Livingstone should return to his city home; and
the last we to the opposite saw of him, he was emerging from the
cottage-home of Delle, as the whistle of the approaching cars was
heard—and he was gone; and the children had a holyday!
They who prided themselves on being learned in such matters, said that
every week brought with it regularly a letter from —— to Delle, and
that _very_ often the western mail bore a most lady-like (in its outward
garb) epistle to the eastern city. Then, when all this was currently
reported and believed, some wise head, judging from appearances, added
to the story the information, that early in the spring Delle was to
discontinue her school altogether.
How near “they” came to the right of the story, let us try and find out,
which I think having earnestly set ourselves about it, we shall do
suddenly.
Just imagine Alfred Livingstone, two or three months after his return
from his country sojourning, seated, alone, in his exquisitely furnished
apartment at the Astor, before a table covered with writing materials.
The paper over which his pen is hovering is unstained yet by the
ink—for he is arrested by voices speaking in the adjoining room, which
are neither hushed nor moderate, they are speaking with all the freedom
of tone one is wont to indulge in at home. Do but hear them and watch
him!
“Where in all the world did you hear that?” asked one.
“What?” responded the other, carelessly.
“That you were speaking about at Howard’s, that Fred Livingstone, prince
of beaux and gentlemen, is going to marry a dowdy little country Miss?”
“Hear it!” ejaculated the other, “why it’s the town talk.”
“But who is she—is she rich, or beautiful? Something she must be beyond
the common to win him. Who are her relations? What—”
“Stop, stop—how shall I wade through all these questions. What an
inquisitor you’d make! but I acknowledge that for once your curiosity is
laudable. First, as to _who_ she is? She is the daughter of some
miserable low family, remarkable for nothing but their poverty. Second,
_what_ is she? A country school-teacher, who spends her days in teaching
a set of insufferable children their ab-abs. Is she a beauty? Don’t
know, deponent saith not. She sings well though, and you know music was
always Fred’s hobby—he says he abominates this fashionable singing.”
“Well, but you haven’t told me her name.”
“Ah, that’s the horrible part of the thing. Listen while I try to
pronounce it, and then say wonders will never cease. The name of this
captivator, this charmer of ‘the greatest match in town,’
is—Delleparetta Hogg! Do but think of _his_ asking, in his bland voice,
_Miss Hogg_, to favor him with a song!”
“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the other, after a moment’s silence, for
he had seemed struck dumb with amazement; and then the hopeful
conversationists burst into such a roar of laughter as quite drowned the
noise of the crash with which Alfred Livingstone’s hand was brought down
on his writing-desk, making in its descending progress the most dreadful
marks on his paper, which, in their confusion and blackness, perhaps
resembled closely the color and confusion of his thoughts at that
present moment.
Now be it known that this unfortunate name of his lady-love had been the
sorest of all points with Alfred Livingstone, Esq. Indeed, it had
instituted a series of doubts in his mind which were there agitated for
a long time, before he arrived at the brave conclusion that he _would_
marry her, name and all—that is, supposing he could win her consent.
But to be jested with by his city friends, and in _his_ circle, on
_such_ a subject, the very thought was insupportable. He had hoped with
all his heart that her name would never elapse till he introduced her,
to the envy of all the town, as Mrs. Livingstone.
But now it was all over; his love was not proof against such a
trial—such a mortification _he_ thought it—for her name was a most
indisputable fact, a tangible thing on which his friends and enemies
might harp to his continual agony. There was but one remedy—a desperate
one it was—but there was _no other_ remedy, or way of escape. It took
him not long to concoct and despatch that letter which he had _meant_ to
fill with kind and loving words. Poor Delle, she never quite understood
that cruel epistle; but there was one thing about it she could
sufficiently comprehend, that all was passed that ever could pass
between her and Alfred Livingstone.
The next morning the elegant Mr. Livingstone laid his hand, and
_heart_,(?) and fortune, and _name_, at the feet of the most
accomplished and brilliant “belle of the season,” which, I scarcely need
say, when it was held in consideration, that he was “the greatest match
in town,” was without hesitation accepted.
* * * * *
Delle’s school was carried on as usual; there was no cessation or
holyday when that letter of renouncement came to her. She had lived
through and borne nobly sharper griefs than was hers when she read _his_
strange, cold words. With renewed diligence she turned to her
occupation—that was not “gone”—but it was a hope that struggled long
in her heart, that the recreant would at least write to explain—that he
would tell her _there was no meaning to his words_. Such an explanation
never came, however. The school continued, I said, and it continues
still; and one would scarcely think, to look on the self-possessed,
noble young lady at its head, that she had had _such_ an experience in
love matters.
There is another report circulating extensively in our neighborhood just
now, relative to Delle’s movements in the coming spring. I will not
vouch for its truth. I have not dared ask _her_ if it be true; but
people _do_ say that a rich bachelor in our neighborhood, is then to
relieve her of that odious name which is now so indisputably hers; and
that at that happy time she will take up her abode, with the children
who are her constant care, in his beautiful mansion. If this be true, it
is hardly necessary for me to ask what kind of wife you think she’ll
make. I _know_ your thoughts already on this subject; and if you be a
gentleman, I fancy that I hear you “heaving a sigh,” and longing for
just such a wife, because _you_ are, of course, far too sensible to
think _there’s any thing in a name_!
Some say this is no love match—that Delle will only marry this
bridegroom elect for the purpose of ridding herself of the fatigues of
school-teaching, arguing from the fact, I suppose, that he is so
_un_like Alfred Livingstone in all respects; and that he is so much
older than she—and his hair is already tinged with gray; beside he is
an odd sort of man, as is usually the case with old bachelors. Be this
as it may, whether Delle is so foolish as to marry for love (which
generally turns out to be such a delusion) or not, of this thing be
convinced, reader, the marriage will be a happy one, for everybody knows
he is as “kind as kind can be;” and she—but I’ve already said enough
about her; and after all, if she derives but one benefit from the union,
it will not be a small one—for will not that name, that horrid name of
hers, be merged in partial forgetfulness? Don’t call names _trifles_! By
hers she lost him whom she did truly love, and who, perhaps, was not,
strange as it may seem that I should say so, wholly unworthy of her
love; for in very deed and truth, he had but one weak side, and that was
most mortally pierced by the sharp arrow pointed with _her name_.
If there be one whose eyes have followed the jottings of my pen thus
far, let me say to such an one another word about _proper nouns in
particular_. If with most philosophic indifference you have, after
mighty struggles, brought yourself to repeat with the chiefest of bards,
on thinking of your own high-sounding misfortune,
“What’s in a name?”
please let me advise you “lay your mouth in the dust,” remembering, my
word for it, that there is something “considerable, if not more,” in a
name—especially in such an one as Miss Delleparetta Hogg—poets and
philosophers “to the contrary notwithstanding,” which I hope and pray
for your edification and enlightenment I have satisfactorily proved.
* * * * *
GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. XII.
[Illustration: THE DUNLIN. (_Tringa Variabilis._ TEMMINCK.)]
The Dunlin, or Ox-bird, or Purre, is well entitled to the epithet
“_variabilis_,” from the great difference between its summer and winter
plumage. It is the Purre in summer and the Dunlin in winter in England,
while in the United States it is called most commonly the Red-backed
Sandpiper. In winter these birds assemble in small parties, following
the tide on the oozy shores and estuaries near the sea. When undisturbed
they run rather swiftly, and utter a sort of murmuring note, but when
they are alarmed and forced to take wing, they utter a querulous and
wailing scream. In the autumn they are seen around Vera Cruz, and may be
bought in the markets of Mexico, while many, in their winter dress,
remain throughout the winter within the limits of the Union. At times
they frequent the coast of the Carolinas in great numbers about
February, leading a vagabond life, and swayed hither and thither by
every change in the temperature.
In the Middle States, the Dunlins arrive on their way to the North in
April and May, and in September and October they are again seen pursuing
the route to their hybernal retreat in the South. At these times,
according to Nuttall, they mingle with the flocks of other strand birds,
from which they are distinguishable by the rufous color of their upper
plumage. They frequent the muddy flats and shores of the salt marshes,
at the recess of the tide, feeding on the worms, insects and minute
shell-fish which such places generally afford. They are very nimble on
the strand, frequenting the sandy beaches which bound the ocean, running
and gleaning up their prey with great activity on the reflux of the
waves. When, says Nuttall, in their hybernal dress they are collected in
flocks, so as to seem at a distance like a moving cloud, performing
their circuitous waving and whirling evolutions along the shores with
great rapidity, alternately bringing its dark and white plumage into
view, it forms a very grand and imposing spectacle of the sublime
instinct and power of Nature. At such times, however, the keen gunner,
without losing much time in contemplation, makes prodigious slaughter in
the timid ranks of the Purres, while, as the showers of their companions
fall, the whole body often alight, or descend to the surface with them,
until the greedy sportsman becomes satiated with destruction.