at the second, a young gentleman and lady were so busy talking that they
never turned their heads, and at the third, a servant came out and told
them to go away, because some one was sick. At the fourth, some people
let them sing all their songs and gave nothing. The next three houses
were empty; and the last of all showed not a single face as they looked
up anxiously. It was so cold, so dark and discouraging, that Tessa
couldn't help one sob; and, as he glanced down at the little red nose
and wet figure beside him, Tommo gave his harp an angry thump, and said
something very fierce in Italian. They were just going to turn away; but
they didn't, for that angry thump happened to be the best thing they
could have done. All of a sudden a little head appeared at the window,
as if the sound had brought it; then another and another, till there
were five, of all heights and colors, and five eager faces peeped out,
smiling and nodding to the two below.
'Sing, Tessa; sing! Quick! quick!' cried Tommo, twanging away with all
his might, and showing his white teeth, as he smiled back at the little
gentle-folk.
Bless us! How Tessa did tune up at that! She chirped away like a real
bird, forgetting all about the tears on her cheeks, the ache in her
hands, and the heaviness at her heart. The children laughed, and clapped
their hands, and cried 'More! more! Sing another, little girl! Please
do!' And away they went again, piping and playing, till Tessa's breath
was gone, and Tommo's stout fingers tingled well.
'Mamma says, come to the door; it's too muddy to throw the money into
the street!' cried out a kindly child's voice as Tessa held up the old
cap, with beseeching eyes.
Up the wide stone steps went the street musicians, and the whole flock
came running down to give a handful of silver, and ask all sorts of
questions. Tessa felt so grateful that, without waiting for Tommo, she
sang her sweetest little song all alone. It was about a lost lamb, and
her heart was in the song; therefore she sang it well, so well that a
pretty young lady came down to listen, and stood watching the
bright-eyed girl, who looked about her as she sang, evidently enjoying
the light and warmth of the fine hall, and the sight of the lovely
children with their gay dresses, shining hair, and dainty little shoes.
'You have a charming voice, child. Who taught you to sing?' asked the
young lady kindly.
'My mother. She is dead now; but I do not forget,' answered Tessa, in
her pretty broken English.
'I wish she could sing at our tree, since Bella is ill,' cried one of
the children peeping through the banisters.
'She is not fair enough for the angel, and too large to go up in the
tree. But she sings sweetly, and looks as if she would like to see a
tree,' said the young lady.
'Oh, so much!' exclaimed Tessa; adding eagerly, 'my sister Ranza is
small and pretty as a baby-angel. She could sit up in the fine tree, and
I could sing for her from under the table.'
'Sit down and warm yourself, and tell me about Ranza,' said the kind
elder sister, who liked the confiding little girl, in spite of her
shabby clothes.
So Tessa sat down and dried the big boots over the furnace, and told her
story, while Tommo stood modestly in the background, and the children
listened with faces full of interest.
'O Rose! let us see the little girl; and if she will do, let us have
her, and Tessa can learn our song, and it will be splendid!' cried the
biggest boy, who sat astride of a chair, and stared at the harp with
round eyes.
'I'll ask mamma,' said Rose; and away she went into the dining-room
close by. As the door opened, Tessa saw what looked to her like a fairy
feast,--all silver mugs and flowery plates and oranges and nuts and rosy
wine in tall glass pitchers, and smoking dishes that smelt so
deliciously she could not restrain a little sniff of satisfaction.
'Are you hungry?' asked the boy, in a grand tone.
'Yes, sir,' meekly answered Tessa.
'I say, mamma; she wants something to eat. Can I give her an orange?'
called the boy, prancing away into the splendid room, quite like a fairy
prince, Tessa thought.
A plump motherly lady came out and looked at Tessa, asked a few
questions, and then told her to come to-morrow with Ranza, and they
would see what could be done. Tessa clapped her hands for joy,--she
didn't mind the chilblains now,--and Tommo played a lively march, he
was so pleased.
'Will you come, too, and bring your harp? You shall be paid, and shall
have something from the tree, likewise,' said the motherly lady, who
liked what Tessa gratefully told about his kindness to her.
'Ah, yes; I shall come with much gladness, and play as never in my life
before,' cried Tommo, with a flourish of the old cap that made the
children laugh.
'Give these to your brothers,' said the fairy prince, stuffing nuts and
oranges into Tessa's hands.
'And these to the little girl,' added one of the young princesses,
flying out of the dining-room with cakes and rosy apples for Ranza.
Tessa didn't know what to say; but her eyes were full, and she just took
the mother's white hand in both her little grimy ones, and kissed it
many times in her pretty Italian fashion. The lady understood her, and
stroked her cheek softly, saying to her elder daughter, 'We must take
care of this good little creature. Freddy, bring me your mittens; these
poor hands must be covered. Alice, get your play-hood; this handkerchief
is all wet; and, Maud, bring the old chinchilla tippet.'
The children ran, and in a minute there were lovely blue mittens on the
red hands, a warm hood over the black braids, and a soft 'pussy' round
the sore throat.
'Ah! so kind, so very kind! I have no way to say "thank you;" but Ranza
shall be for you a heavenly angel, and I will sing my heart out for your
tree!' cried Tessa, folding the mittens as if she would say a prayer of
thankfulness if she knew how.
Then they went away, and the pretty children called after them, 'Come
again, Tessa! come again, Tommo!' Now the rain didn't seem dismal, the
wind cold, nor the way long, as they bought their gifts and hurried
home, for kind words and the sweet magic of charity had changed all the
world to them.
I think the good spirits who fly about on Christmas Eve, to help the
loving fillers of little stockings, smiled very kindly on Tessa as she
brooded joyfully over the small store of presents that seemed so
magnificent to her. All the goodies were divided evenly into three parts
and stowed away in father's three big socks, which hung against the
curtain. With her three dollars, she had got a pair of shoes for Nono, a
knit cap for Sep, and a pair of white stockings for Ranza; to her she
also gave the new hood; to Nono the mittens; and to Sep the tippet.
'Now the dear boys can go out, and my Ranza will be ready for the lady
to see, in her nice new things,' said Tessa, quite sighing with pleasure
to see how well the gifts looked pinned up beside the bulging socks,
which wouldn't hold them all. The little mother kept nothing for herself
but the pleasure of giving everything away; yet, I think, she was both
richer and happier than if she had kept them all. Her father laughed as
he had not done since the mother died, when he saw how comically the old
curtain had broken out into boots and hoods, stockings and tippets.
'I wish I had a gold gown and a silver hat for thee, my Tessa, thou art
so good. May the saints bless and keep thee always!' said Peter Benari
tenderly, as he held his little daughter close, and gave her the
good-night kiss.
Tessa felt very rich as she crept under the faded counterpane, feeling
as if she had received a lovely gift, and fell happily asleep with
chubby Ranza in her arms, and the two rough black heads peeping out at
the foot of the bed. She dreamed wonderful dreams that night, and woke
in the morning to find real wonders before her eyes. She got up early,
to see if the socks were all right, and there she found the most
astonishing sight. Four socks, instead of three; and by the fourth,
pinned out quite elegantly was a little dress, evidently meant for
her--a warm, woollen dress, all made, and actually with bright buttons
on it. It nearly took her breath away; so did the new boots on the
floor, and the funny long stocking like a grey sausage, with a wooden
doll staring out at the top, as if she said, politely, 'A Merry
Christmas, ma'am!' Tessa screamed and danced in her delight, and up
tumbled all the children to scream and dance with her, making a regular
carnival on a small scale. Everybody hugged and kissed everybody else,
offered sucks of orange, bites of cake, and exchanges of candy; every
one tried on the new things, and pranced about in them like a flock of
peacocks. Ranza skipped to and fro airily, dressed in her white socks
and the red hood; the boys promenaded in their little shirts, one with
his creaking new shoes and mittens, the other in his gay cap and fine
tippet; and Tessa put her dress straight on, feeling that her father's
'gold gown' was not all a joke. In her long stocking she found all sorts
of treasures; for Tommo had stuffed it full of queer things, and his
mother had made gingerbread into every imaginable shape, from fat pigs
to full omnibuses.
Dear me! What happy little souls they were that morning; and when they
were quiet again, how like a fairy tale did Tessa's story sound to them.
Ranza was quite ready to be an angel; and the boys promised to be
marvellously good, if they were only allowed to see the tree at the
'palace,' as they called the great house.
Little Ranza was accepted with delight by the kind lady and her
children, and Tessa learned the song quite easily. The boys _were_
asked; and, after a happy day, the young Italians all returned, to play
their parts at the fine Christmas party. Mamma and Miss Rose drilled
them all; and when the folding-doors flew open, one rapturous 'Oh!'
arose from the crowd of children gathered to the festival. I assure
you, it was splendid; the great tree glittering with lights and gifts;
and, on her invisible perch, up among the green boughs, sat the little
golden-haired angel, all in white, with downy wings, a shining crown on
her head, and the most serene satisfaction in her blue eyes, as she
stretched her chubby arms to those below, and smiled her baby smile at
them. Before any one could speak, a voice, as fresh and sweet as a
lark's, sang the Christmas Carol so blithely that every one stood still
to hear, and then clapped till the little angel shook on her perch, and
cried out, 'Be 'till, or me'll fall!' How they laughed at that; and what
fun they had talking to Ranza, while Miss Rose stripped the tree, for
the angel could not resist temptation, and amused herself by eating all
the bonbons she could reach, till she was taken down, to dance about
like a fairy in a white frock and red shoes. Tessa and her friends had
many presents; the boys were perfect lambs, Tommo played for the little
folks to dance, and every one said something friendly to the strangers,
so that they did not feel shy, in spite of shabby clothes. It was a
happy night: and all their lives they remembered it as something too
beautiful and bright to be quite true. Before they went home, the kind
mamma told Tessa she should be her friend, and gave her a motherly kiss,
which warmed the child's heart and seemed to set a seal upon that
promise. It was faithfully kept, for the rich lady had been touched by
Tessa's patient struggles and sacrifices; and for many years, thanks to
her benevolence, there was no end to Tessa's Surprises.
_BUZZ._
I live high up in a city house all alone. My room is a cosy little
place, though there is nothing very splendid in it,--only my pictures
and books, my flowers and my little friend. When I began to live there,
I was very busy and therefore very happy; but by-and-by, when my hurry
was over and I had more time to myself, I often felt lonely. When I ate
my meals I used to wish for a pleasant companion to eat with me; and
when I sat by the fire of evenings, I thought how much more social it
would be if some one sat opposite. I had many friends and callers
through the day, but the evenings were often rather dull; for I
couldn't read much, and didn't care to go out in the stormy weather.
I was wishing for a cheerful friend one night, when all of a sudden I
found one; for, sitting on my hand, I saw a plump, jolly-looking fly. He
sat quietly staring at me, with a mild little hum, as if to say,--
'How are you? You wanted a friend, and here I am. Will you have me?'
Of course I would, for I liked him directly, he was so cheery and
confiding, and seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him. All his
mates were dead and gone, and he was alone, like myself. So I waggled
one finger, by way of welcome, fearing to shake my hand, lest he should
tumble off and feel hurt at my reception. He seemed to understand me,
and buzzed again, evidently saying,--
'Thank you, ma'am. I should like to stay in your warm room, and amuse
you for my board. I won't disturb you, but do my best to be a good
little friend.'
So the bargain was struck, and he stopped to tea. I found that his
manners had been neglected; for he was inclined to walk over the butter,
drink out of the cream-pot, and put his fingers in the jelly. A few taps
with my spoon taught him to behave with more propriety, and he sipped a
drop of milk from the waiter with a crumb of sugar, as a well-bred fly
should do.
On account of his fine voice, I named him Buzz, and we soon got on
excellently together. He seemed to like his new quarters, and, after
exploring every corner of the room, he chose his favourite haunts and
began to enjoy himself. I always knew where he was, for he kept up a
constant song, humming and buzzing, like a little kettle getting ready
to boil.
On sunny days, he amused himself by bumping his head against the window,
and watching what went on outside. It would have given me a headache,
but he seemed to enjoy it immensely. Up in my hanging basket of ivy he
made his bower, and sat there on the moss basking in the sunshine, as
luxuriously as any gentleman in his conservatory. He was interested in
the plants, and examined them daily with great care, walking over the
ivy leaves, grubbing under the moss, and poking his head into the
unfolding hyacinth buds to see how they got on.
The pictures, also, seemed to attract his attention, for he spent much
time skating over the glasses and studying the designs. Sometimes I
would find him staring at my Madonna, as if he said, 'What in the world
are all those topsy-turvy children about?' Then he'd sit in the middle
of a brook, in a water-color sketch by Vautin, as if bathing his feet,
or seem to be eating the cherry which one little duck politely offers
another little duck, in Oscar Pletch's Summer Party. He frequently
kissed my mother's portrait, and sat on my father's bald head, as if
trying to get out some of the wisdom stored up there, like honey in an
ill-thatched bee-hive. My bronze Mercury rather puzzled him, for he
could not understand why the young gentleman didn't fly off when he had
four wings and seemed in such a hurry.
I'm afraid he was a trifle vain, for he sat before the glass a great
deal, and I often saw him cleaning his proboscis, and twiddling his
feelers, and I know he was 'prinking,' as we say. The books pleased him,
too, and he used to run them over, as if trying to choose which he
would read, and never seemed able to decide. He would have nothing to
say to the fat French Dictionary, or my English Plays, but liked Goethe
and Schiller, Emerson and Browning, as well as I did. Carlyle didn't
suit him, and Richter evidently made his head ache. But Jean Ingelow's
Poems delighted him, and so did her 'Stories told to a Child.' 'Fairy
Bells' he often listened to, and was very fond of the pictures in a
photograph book of foreign places and great people.
He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a little Swiss chalet,
standing on the mantel-piece, and thought it a charming residence for a
single gentleman like himself. The closet delighted him extremely, and
he buzzed in the most joyful manner when he got among the
provisions,--for we kept house together. Such revels as he had in the
sugar-bowl; such feasts of gingerbread and grapes; such long sips of
milk, and sly peeps into every uncovered box and dish! Once I'm afraid
he took too much cider, for I found him lying on his back, kicking and
humming like a crazy top, and he was very queer all the rest of that
day; so I kept the bottle corked after that. But his favorite nook was
among the ferns in the vase which a Parian dancing-girl carried. She
stood just over the stove on one little toe, rattling some castanets,
which made no sound, and never getting a step farther for all her
prancing. This was a warm and pretty retreat for Buzz, and there he
spent much of his time, swinging on the ferns, sleeping snugly in the
vase, or warming his feet in the hot air that blew up, like a south
wind, from the stove.
I don't believe there was a happier fly in Boston than my friend Buzz,
and I grew fonder and fonder of him every day; for he never got into
mischief, but sung his cheery song, no matter what the weather was, and
made himself agreeable. Then he was so interested in all I did, it was
delightful to have him round. When I wrote he came and walked about over
my paper to see that it was right, peeped into my ink-stand, and ran
after my pen. He never made silly or sharp criticisms on my stories, but
appeared to admire them very much; so I am sure he was a good judge.
When I sewed, he sat in my basket, or played hide-and-seek in the folds
of my work, talking away all the while in the most sociable manner. He
often flew up all of a sudden, and danced about in the air, as if he was
in such a jolly mood he couldn't keep still, and wanted me to come and
play with him. But, alas! I had no wings, and could only sit stupidly
still, and laugh at his pranks. That was his exercise, for he never went
out, and only took a sniff of air now and then when I opened the
windows.
Well, little Buzz and I lived together many weeks, and never got tired
of one another, which is saying a good deal. At Christmas I went home
for a week and left my room to take care of itself. I put the hyacinths
into the closet to be warm, and dropped the curtain, so the frost should
not nip my ivy; but I forgot Buzz. I really would have taken him with
me, or carried him down to a neighbour's room to be taken care of while
I was away, but I never thought of him in the hurry of getting my
presents and myself ready. Off I went without even saying 'good-bye,'
and never thought of my little friend till Freddy, my small nephew, said
to me one evening at dusk,--
'Aunt Jo, tell me a story.'
So I began to tell him about Buzz, and all of a sudden I cried out,--
'Mercy on me! I'm afraid he'll die of cold while I'm gone.'
It troubled me a good deal, and I wanted to know how the poor little
fellow was so much that I would have gone to see if I had not been so
far away. But it would be rather silly to hurry away twenty miles to
look after one fly: so I finished my visit, and then went back to my
room, hoping to find Buzz alive and well in spite of the cold.
Alas, no! my little friend was gone. There he lay on his back on the
mantel-piece, his legs meekly folded, and his wings stiff and still. He
had evidently gone to the warm place, and been surprised when the heat
died out and left him to freeze. My poor little Buzz had sung his last
song, danced his last dance, and gone where the good flies go. I was
very sorry and buried him among the ivy roots, where the moss lay green
above him, the sun shone warmly on him, and the bitter cold could never
come. I miss him very much; when I sit writing, I miss his cheerful
voice and busy wings; at meals there is no tiny little body to drink up
spilt drops and eat the crumbs: in the evenings, when I sit alone, I
want him more than ever, and every day, as I water my plants, I say,
softly,--
'Grow green, ivy, lie lightly, moss, shine warmly, sun, and make his
last bed pleasant to my little friend.'
_THE CHILDREN'S JOKE._
'"You can't do this" and "you mustn't do that," from morning to night.
Try it yourself and see how you'd like it,' muttered Harry, as he flung
down his hat in sulky obedience to his father's command to give up a
swim in the river and keep himself cool with a book that warm summer
evening.
'Of course I should like to mind my parents. Good children always do,'
began Mr. Fairbairn, entirely forgetting the pranks of his boyhood, as
people are apt to.
'Glad I didn't know you then. Must have been a regular prig,' growled
Harry under his breath.
'Silence, sir! go to your room, and don't let me see you till tea-time.
You must be taught respect as well as obedience,' and Mr. Fairbairn gave
the table a rap that caused his son to retire precipitately.
On the stairs he met his sister Kitty looking as cross as himself.
'What's the matter with you?' he asked, pausing a minute, for misery
loves company.
'Mamma will make me dress up in a stiff clean frock, and have my hair
curled over again just because some one _may_ come. I want to play in
the garden, and I can't all fussed up this way. I do hate company and
clothes and manners, don't you?' answered Kitty, with a spiteful pull at
her sash.
'I hate being ordered round everlastingly, and badgered from morning
till night. I'd just like to be let alone,' and Harry went on his way
to captivity with a grim shake of the head and a very strong desire to
run away from home altogether.
'So would I, mamma is so fussy. I never have any peace of my life,'
sighed Kitty, feeling that her lot was a hard one.
The martyr in brown linen went up, and the other martyr in white cambric
went down, both looking as they felt, rebellious and unhappy. Yet a
stranger seeing them and their home would have thought they had
everything heart could desire. All the comforts that money could buy,
and all the beauty that taste could give seemed gathered round them.
Papa and mamma loved the two little people dearly, and no real care or
sorrow came to trouble the lives that would have been all sunshine but
for one thing. With the best intentions in the world, Mr. and Mrs.
Fairbairn were spoiling their children by constant fault-finding, too
many rules and too little sympathy with the active young souls and
bodies under their care. As Harry said, they were ordered about,
corrected and fussed over from morning till night, and were getting so
tired of it that the most desperate ideas began to enter their heads.
Now, in the house was a quiet old maiden aunt, who saw the mischief
brewing, and tried to cure it by suggesting more liberty and less
'nagging,' as the boys call it. But Mr. and Mrs. F. always silenced her
by saying,--
'My dear Betsey, you never had a family, so how _can_ you know anything
about the proper management of children?'
They quite forgot that sister Betsey had brought up a flock of
motherless brothers and sisters, and done it wisely and well, though she
never got any thanks or praise for it, and never expected any for doing
her duty faithfully. If it had not been for aunty, Harry and Kitty would
have long ago carried out their favorite plan, and have run away
together, like Roland and Maybird. She kept them from this foolish prank
by all sorts of unsuspected means, and was their refuge in troublous
times. For all her quiet ways, aunty was full of fun as well as sympathy
and patience, and she smoothed the thorny road to virtue with the
innocent and kindly little arts that make some people as useful and
beloved as good fairy godmothers were once upon a time.
As they sat at tea that evening papa and mamma were most affable and
lively; but the children's spirits were depressed by a long day of
restraint, and they sat like well-bred mutes, languidly eating their
supper.
'It's the warm weather. They need something bracing. I'll give them a
dose of iron mixture to-morrow,' said mamma.
'I've taken enough now to make a cooking-stove,' groaned Kitty, who
hated being dosed.
'If you'd let me go swimming every night I'd be all right,' added Harry.
'Not another word on that point. I will _not_ let you do it, for you
will get drowned as sure as you try,' said mamma, who was so timid she
had panics the minute her boy was out of sight.
'Aunt Betsey let her boys go, and they never came to grief,' began
Harry.
'Aunt Betsey's ideas and mine differ. Children are not brought up now as
they were in her day,' answered mamma with a superior air.
'I just wish they were. Jolly good times _her_ boys had.'
'Yes, and girls too, playing anything they liked, and not rigged up and
plagued with company,' cried Kitty, with sudden interest.
'What do you mean by that?' asked papa good-naturedly; for somehow his
youth returned to him for a minute, and seemed very pleasant.
The children could not explain very well, but Harry said slowly,--
'If you were to be in our places for a day you'd see what we mean.'
'Wouldn't it be worth your while to try the experiment?' said Aunt
Betsey, with a smile.
Papa and mamma laughed at the idea, but looked sober when aunty added,--
'Why not put yourselves in their places for a day and see how you like
it? I think you would understand the case better than any one could
describe it, and perhaps do both yourselves and the children a lasting
service.'
'Upon my word, that's a droll idea! What do you say to it, mamma?' and
papa looked much amused.