the wheel hummed briskly as Hetty sung softly to herself with a cheerful
face, though there were white hairs among the brown, and her eyes had a
thoughtful, absent look at times. Dandelion, more chubby and cheery than
ever, sat at her feet, with the sunshine making a golden glory of his
yellow hair, as he tried his new boat in the tub of water his mother
kept for her little sailor, or tugged away with his fat fingers at a big
needle which he was trying to pull through a bit of cloth intended for a
sail. The faithful little soul had not forgotten his father, but had
come to the conclusion that the reason his boats never prospered was
because they hadn't large enough sails; so he was intent on rigging a
new boat lately given him, with a sail that could not fail to waft Ben
safely home. With his mouth puckered up, his downy eyebrows knit, and
both hands pulling at the big needle, he was so wrapped in his work that
he did not mind the stopping of the wheel when Hetty fell into a
reverie, thinking of the happy time when she and Ben should meet again.
Sitting so, neither heard a step come softly over the sand; neither saw
an eager, brown face peer in at the door; and neither knew for a minute,
that Ben was watching them, with a love and longing in his heart that
made him tremble like a woman.
Dandelion saw him first; for, as he pulled the thread through with a
triumphant jerk, the small sailmaker lost his balance, tumbled over,
and lay staring up at the tall man with his blue eyes so wide open, they
looked as if they would never shut again. All of a sudden, he shouted,
with a joyful shout, 'Daddy's tummin'!' and the next instant, vanished,
ship and all, in the arms of the man who wore the rough jacket. Over
went the spinning-wheel, as Hetty vanished likewise; and for a time
there was nothing but sobbing and kissing, clinging, and thanking Heaven
for its kindness to them. When they grew quieter, and Ben got into his
old chair, with his wife on one knee and his boy on the other, he told
them how he was wrecked in the gale, picked up by an outward-bound ship,
and only able to get back after months of sickness and delay.
'My boaty fetched him,' said Dandelion, feeling that every thing had
turned out just as he expected.
'So it did, my precious; leastways, your faith helped, I haven't a
doubt,' cried Hetty, hugging the curly headed prophet close, as she told
Ben all that had happened.
Ben didn't say much, but a few great tears rolled down the rough blue
jacket, as he looked from the queer sail with its two big stitches to
the little son, whose love, he firmly believed, had kept him safe
through many dangers and brought him home at last.
When the fine new boat was built, no one thought it strange that Ben
named it 'Dandelion;' no one laughed at the little sail which always
hung over the fire-place in the small house: and long years after, when
Ben was an old man, and sat by the door with his grand-children on his
knee, the story which always pleased them best was that which ended with
the funny words, 'Daddy tummin' soon.'
_MADAM CLUCK AND HER FAMILY._
There never was a prouder mamma than Madam Cluck when she led forth her
family of eight downy little chicks. Chanticleer, Strut, Snowball,
Speckle, Peep, Peck, Downy, and Blot were their names; and no sooner
were they out of the shell than they began to chirp and scratch as gaily
as if the big world in which they suddenly found themselves was made for
their especial benefit. It was a fine brood; but poor Madam Cluck had
bad luck with her chicks, for they were her first, and she didn't know
how to manage them. Old Aunt Cockletop told her that she didn't, and
predicted that 'those poor dears would come to bad ends.'
Aunt Cockletop was right, as you will see, when I have told the sad
history of this unfortunate family. The tragedy began with Chanty, who
was the boldest little cockadoodle who ever tried to crow. Before he had
a feather to his bit of a tail, Chanty began to fight, and soon was
known as the most quarrelsome chick in the farm-yard. Having pecked his
brothers and sisters, he tried to do the same to his playmates, the
ducklings, goslings, and young turkeys, and was so disagreeable that all
the fowls hated him. One day, a pair of bantams arrived,--pretty little
white birds, with red crests and nice yellow feet. Chanty thought he
could beat Mr. Bantam easily, he was so small, and invited him to fight.
Mr. B. declined. Then Chanty called him a coward, and gave Mrs. B. a
peck, which so enraged her spouse that he flew at Chanty like a
gamecock, and a dreadful fight followed, which ended in Chanty's utter
defeat, for he died from his wounds.
Downy and Snowball soon followed; for the two sweet little things would
swing on the burdock-leaves that grew over the brook. Sitting side by
side, the plump sisters were placidly swaying up and down over the clear
brown water rippling below, when--ah! sad to relate--the stem broke, and
down went leaf, chickens and all, to a watery death.
'I'm the most unlucky hen ever hatched!' groaned poor Madam Cluck; and
it did seem so, for the very next week, Speckle, the best and prettiest
of the brood, went to walk with Aunt Cockletop, 'grasshoppering' they
called it, in the great field across the road. What a nice time Speckle
did have, to be sure; for the grasshoppers were lively and fat, and aunt
was in an unusually amiable mood.
'Never run away from anything, but face danger and conquer it, like a
brave chick,' said the old biddy, as she went clucking through the
grass, with her gray turban wagging in the wind. Speckle had hopped away
from a toad with a startled chirp, which caused aunt to utter that
remark. The words had hardly left her beak, when a shadow above made her
look up, give one loud croak of alarm, and then scuttle away, as fast as
legs and wings could carry her.
Little Speckle, remembering the advice, and unconscious of the danger,
stood her ground as a great hawk came circling nearer and nearer, till,
with a sudden dart he pounced on the poor chicken, and bore it away
chirping dismally,
'Aunty told me not to run. Oh, dear! oh, dear! What shall I do?'
It was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Cluck; and Aunt Cockletop didn't show
herself for a whole day after that story was known, for every fowl in
the yard twitted her with the difference between her preaching and her
practice.
Strut, the other son, was the vainest chick ever seen; and the great aim
of his life was to crow louder than any other cock in the neighbourhood.
He was at it from morning till night, and everyone was tired to death of
hearing his shrill, small voice making funny attempts to produce hoarse
little crows, as he sat on the wall and stretched his yellow neck, till
his throat quite ached with the effort.
'Ah! if I could only fly to the highest beam in the barn, and give a
splendid crow that everyone could hear, I should be perfectly happy,'
said this silly little fowl, as he stared up at the loft where the old
cock often sat.
So he tried every day to fly and crow, and at last managed to get up;
then how he did strut and rustle his feathers, while his playmates sat
below and watched him.
'You'll fall and get hurt,' said his sister Blot.
'Hold your tongue, you ugly little thing, and don't talk to me. I'm
going to crow, and can't be interrupted by any silly bit of a hen. Be
quiet, down there, and hear if I can't do it as well as daddy.'
The chicks stopped scratching and peeping, and sat in a row to hear
Strut crow. Perching himself on the beam, he tried his best, but only a
droll 'cock-a-doodle-doo' came of it, and all the chicks laughed. That
made Strut mad, and he resolved to crow, even if he killed himself doing
it. He gave an angry cluck, flapped his wings, and tried again. Alas,
alas, for poor Strut! he leaned so far forward in his frantic effort to
get a big crow out, that he toppled over and fell bump on the hard
barn-floor, killing himself instantly.
For some time after this, Mrs. Cluck kept her three remaining little
ones close to her side, watching over them with maternal care, till they
were heartily tired of her anxious cluckings. Peep and Peck were always
together, being very fond of one another. Peep was a most inquisitive
chicken, poking her head into every nook and corner, and never satisfied
till she had seen all there was to see. Peck was a glutton, eating
everything she could find, and often making herself ill by gobbling too
fast, and forgetting to eat a little gravel to help digest her food.
'Don't go out of the barn, children. I'm going to lay an egg, and can't
look after you just now,' said their mother one day.
'Yes, ma'am,' chirped the chickens; and then as she went rustling into
the hay-mow, they began to run about and enjoy themselves with all their
might. Peep found a little hole into the meal-room, and slipped in, full
of joy at the sight of the bags, boxes, and bins. 'I'll eat all I want,
and then I'll call Peck,' she said; and having taken a taste of every
thing, she was about to leave, when she heard the stableman coming, and
in her fright couldn't find the hole, so flew into the meal-bin and hid
herself. Sam never saw her, but shut down the cover of the bin as he
passed, and left poor Peep to die. No one knew what had become of her
till some days later, when she was found dead in the meal, with her poor
little claws sticking straight up as if imploring help. Peck meanwhile
got into mischief also; for, in her hunt for something good to eat, she
strayed into the sheep-shed, and finding some salt, ate as much as she
liked, not knowing that salt is bad for hens. Having taken all she
wanted, she ran back to the barn, and was innocently catching gnats when
her mamma came out of the hay-mow with a loud. 'Cut-cut-cut-ca-dar-cut!'
'Where is Peep?' asked Mrs. Cluck.
'Don't know, ma. She'--there Peck stopped suddenly, rolled up her eyes,
and began to stagger about as if she was tipsy.
'Mercy on us! What's the matter with the chick?' cried Mrs. Cluck, in
great alarm.
'Fits, ma'am,' answered Doctor Drake, who just then waddled by.
'Oh! what can I do?' screamed the distracted hen.
'Nothing, ma'am; it's fatal.' And the doctor waddled on to visit Dame
Partlet's son, who was ill of the pip.
'My child, my child! don't flap and stagger so! Let me hold you! Taste
this mint-leaf! Have a drop of water! What shall I do?'
As poor Mrs. Cluck sighed and sobbed, her unhappy child went scuffling
about on her back, gasping and rolling up her eyes in great anguish, for
she had eaten too much of the fatal salt, and there was no help for her.
When all was over they buried the dead chicken under a currant bush,
covered the little grave with chickweed, and the bereaved parent wore a
black string round her leg for a month.
Blot, 'the last of that bright band,' needed no mourning for she was as
black as a crow. This was the reason why her mother never had loved her
as much as she did the others, who were all white, gray, or yellow.
Poor little Blot had been much neglected by every one; but now her
lonely mamma discovered how good and affectionate a chicken she was, for
Blot was a great comfort to her, never running away or disobeying in any
way, but always close to her side, ready to creep under her wing, or
bring her a plump bug when the poor biddy's appetite failed her. They
were very happy together till Thanksgiving drew near, when a dreadful
pestilence seemed to sweep through the farm-yard; for turkeys, hens,
ducks, and geese fell a prey to it, and were seen by their surviving
relatives featherless, pale, and stiff, borne away to some unknown place
whence no fowl returned. Blot was waked one night by a great cackling
and fluttering in the hen-house, and peeping down from her perch saw a
great hand glide along the roost, clutch her beloved mother by the leg,
and pull her off, screaming dolefully, 'Good-by, good-by, my darling
child!'
Aunt Cockletop pecked and croaked fiercely; but, tough as she was, the
old biddy did not escape, and many another amiable hen and gallant
cockadoodle fell a victim to that mysterious hand. In the morning few
remained, and Blot felt that she was a forlorn orphan, a thought which
caused her to sit with her head under her wing for several hours,
brooding over her sad lot, and longing to join her family in some safe
and happy land, where fowls live in peace. She had her wish very soon,
for one day, when the first snowflakes began to flutter out of the cold
gray sky, Blot saw a little kitten mewing pitifully as it sat under the
fence.
'What is the matter, dear?' asked kind Blot.
'I'm lost, and I can't find my way home,' answered the kitten, shivering
with cold. 'I live at the red farm-house over the hill, only I don't
know which road to take.'
'I'll show you. Come at once, for night is coming on, and the snow will
soon be too deep for us,' said Blot.
So away they went, as fast as their small legs could carry them; but it
was a long way, and dusk came on before the red farm-house appeared.
'Now I'm safe; thank you very much. Won't you come in, and stay all
night? My mother will be glad to see you,' said the kit rubbing her soft
white face against Blot's little black breast.
'It's against the rule to stay out all night, and I promised to be in
early; so, good-by, dear.' And off trotted Blot along the snowy road,
hoping to get home before the hen-house door was shut. Faster and faster
fell the snow darker and darker grew the night, and colder and colder
became poor Blot's little feet as she waded through the drifts. The
firelight was shining out into the gloom, as the half-frozen chicken
came into the yard, to find all doors shut, and no shelter left for her
but the bough of a leafless tree. Too stiff and weak to fly up, she
crept as close as possible to the bright glow which shone across the
door-step, and with a shiver put her little head under her wing, trying
to forget hunger, weariness, and the bitter cold, and wait patiently for
morning. But when morning came, little Blot lay frozen stiff under a
coverlet of snow: and the tender-hearted children sighed as they dug a
grave for the last of the unfortunate family of the Clucks.
_A CURIOUS CALL._
I have often wondered what the various statues standing about the city
think of all day, and what criticisms they would make upon us and our
doings, if they could speak. I frequently stop and stare at them,
wondering if they don't feel lonely; if they wouldn't be glad of a nod
as we go by; and I always long to offer my umbrella to shield their
uncovered heads on a rainy day, especially to good Ben Franklin, when
the snow lies white on his benevolent forehead. I was always fond of
this old gentleman; and one of my favourite stories when a little girl,
was that of his early life, and the time when he was so poor he walked
about Philadelphia with a roll of bread under each arm, eating a third
as he went. I never pass without giving him a respectful look, and
wishing he could know how grateful I am for all he had done in the
printing line; for, without types and presses, where would the books be?
Well, I never imagined that he understood why the tall woman in the big
bonnet stared at him; but he did, and he liked it, and managed to let me
know it in a very curious manner, as you shall hear.
As I look out, the first thing I see is the great gilt eagle on the
City-Hall dome. There he sits, with open wings, all day long, looking
down on the people, who must appear like ants scampering busily to and
fro about an ant-hill. The sun shines on him splendidly in the morning;
the gay flag waves and rustles in the wind above him sometimes; and the
moonlight turns him to silver when she comes glittering up the sky.
When it rains he never shakes his feathers; snow beats on him without
disturbing his stately repose; and he never puts his head under his wing
at night, but keeps guard in darkness as in day, like a faithful
sentinel. I like the big, lonely bird, call him my particular fowl, and
often wish he'd turn his head and speak to me. One night he did actually
do it, or seemed to; for I've never been able to decide whether I
dreamed what I'm going to tell you, or whether it really happened.
It was a stormy night! and, as I drew down my curtain, I said to myself,
after peering through the driving snow to catch a glimpse of my
neighbour, 'Poor Goldy! he'll have a rough time of it. I hope this
northeaster won't blow him off his perch.' Then I sat down by my fire,
took my knitting, and began to meditate. I'm sure I didn't fall asleep;
but I can't prove it, so we'll say no more about it. All at once there
came a tap at my door, as I thought; and I said 'Come in,' just as Mr.
Poe did when that unpleasant raven paid him a call. No one came, so I
went to see who it was. Not a sign of a human soul in the long hall,
only little Jessie, the poodle, asleep on her mat. Down I sat; but in a
minute the tap came again; this time so loud that I knew it was at the
window, and went to open it, thinking that one of my doves wanted to
come in perhaps. Up went the sash, and in bounced something so big and
so bright that it dazzled and scared me.
'Don't be frightened, ma'am; it's only me,' said a hoarse voice. So I
collected my wits, rubbed my eyes, and looked at my visitor. It was the
gold eagle off the City Hall! I don't expect to be believed; but I wish
you'd been here to see, for I give you my word, it was a sight to
behold. How he ever got in at such a small window I can't tell; but
there he was, strutting majestically up and down the room, his golden
plumage rustling, and his keen eyes flashing as he walked. I really
didn't know what to do. I couldn't imagine what he came for; I had my
doubts about the propriety of offering him a chair; and he was so much
bigger than I expected that I was afraid he might fly away with me, as
the roc did with Sindbad: so I did nothing but sidle to the door, ready
to whisk out, if my strange guest appeared to be peckishly inclined. My
respectful silence seemed to suit him; for, after a turn or two, he
paused, nodded gravely, and said affably, 'Good-evening, ma'am. I
stepped over to bring you old Ben's respects, and to see how you were
getting on.'
'I'm very much obliged, sir. May I inquire who Mr. Old-Ben is? I'm
afraid I haven't the honour of his acquaintance.'
'Yes, you have; it's Ben Franklin, of City-Hall yard. You know him; and
he wished me to thank you for your interest in him.'
'Dear me! how very odd! Will you sit down, sir?'
'Never sit! I'll perch here;' and the great fowl took his accustomed
attitude just in front of the fire, looking so very splendid that I
couldn't keep my eyes off of him.
'Ah! you often do that. Never mind; I rather like it,' said the eagle,
graciously, as he turned his brilliant eye upon me. I was rather
abashed; but being very curious, I ventured to ask a few questions, as
he seemed in a friendly mood.
'Being a woman, sir, I'm naturally of an inquiring turn; and I must
confess that I have a strong desire to know how it happens that you
take your walks abroad, when you are supposed to be permanently engaged
at home?'
He shrugged his shoulders, and actually winked at me, as he replied,
'That's all people know of what goes on under, or rather over, their
noses. Bless you, ma'am! I leave my roost every night, and enjoy myself
in all sorts of larks. Excuse the expression; but, being ornithological,
it is more proper for me than for some people who use it.'
'What a gay old bird!' thought I, feeling quite at home after that.
'Please tell me what you do, when the shades of evening prevail, and you
go out for a frolic?'
'I am a gentleman; therefore I behave myself,' returned the eagle; with
a stately air. 'I must confess, I smoke a great deal: but that's not my
fault, it's the fault of the chimneys. They keep it up all day, and I
have to take it; just as you poor ladies have to take cigar smoke,
whether you like it or not. My amusements are of a wholesome kind. I
usually begin by taking a long flight down the harbour, for a look at
the lighthouses, the islands, the shipping, and the sea. My friends, the
gulls, bring their reports to me; for they are the harbour-police, and I
take notes of their doings. The school-ship is an object of interest to
me, and I often perch on the mast-head, to see how the lads are getting
on. Then I take a turn over the city, gossip with the weathercocks, pay
my compliments to the bells, inspect the fire-alarm, and pick up
information by listening at the telegraph wires. People often talk about
"a little bird" who spreads news; but they don't know how that figure of
speech originated. It is the sparrows sitting on the wires, who receive
the electric shock, and, being hollow-boned, the news go straight to
their heads; they then fly about, chirping it on the housetops, and the
air carries it everywhere. That's the way rumours rise and news spread.'
'If you'll allow, I'll make a note of that interesting fact,' said I,
wondering if I might believe him. He appeared to fall into a reverie
while I jotted down the sparrow story, and it occurred to me that
perhaps I ought to offer my distinguished guest some refreshment; but,
when I modestly alluded to it, he said, with an aldermanic air, 'No,
thank you; I've just dined at the Parker House.'
Now, I really could _not_ swallow that; and so plainly betrayed my
incredulity, that the eagle explained. 'The savoury smells which rise to
my nostrils from that excellent hotel, with an occasional sniff from the
Tremont, are quite sufficient to satisfy my appetite; for, having no
stomach, I don't need much food, and I drink nothing but water.'
'I wish others would follow your example in that latter habit,' said I,
respectfully, for I was beginning to see that there was something in my
bird, though he _was_ hollow. 'Will you allow me to ask if the other
statues in the city fly by night?'
'They promenade in the parks; and occasionally have social gatherings,
when they discuss politics, education, medicine, or any of the subjects
in which they are interested. Ah! we have grand times when you are all
asleep. It quite repays me for being obliged to make an owl of myself.'
'Do the statues come from the shops to these parties?' I asked,
resolving to take a late walk the next moonlight night.
'Sometimes; but they get lazy and delicate, living in close, warm
places. We laugh at cold and bad weather, and are so strong and hearty
that I shouldn't be surprised if I saw Webster and Everett flying round
the Common on the new-fashioned velocipedes, for they believed in
exercise. Goethe and Schiller often step over from De Vries's window, to
flirt with the goddesses, who come down from their niches on
Horticultural Hall. Nice, robust young women are Pomona and Flora. If
your niminy-piminy girls could see them run, they would stop tilting
through the streets, and learn that the true Grecian Bend is the line of
beauty always found in straight shoulders, well-opened chest, and an
upright figure, firmly planted on active feet.'
'In your rambles don't you find a great deal of misery?' said I, to
change the subject, for he was evidently old-fashioned in his notions.
'Many sad sights!' And he shook his head with a sigh; then added,
briskly, 'But there is a deal of charity in our city, and it does its
work beautifully. By the by, I heard of a very sweet charity the other
day,--a church whose Sunday school is open to all the poor children who
will come; and there, in pleasant rooms, with books, pictures, kindly
teachers, and a fatherly minister to welcome them, the poor little
creatures find refreshment for their hungry souls. I like that; it's a
lovely illustration of the text, "Suffer little children to come unto
me;" and _I_ call it practical Christianity.'
He did like it, my benevolent old bird; for he rustled his great wings,
as if he wanted to clap them, if there had only been room; and every
feather shone as if a clearer light than that of my little fire had
fallen on it as he spoke.
'You are a literary woman, hey?' he said suddenly, as if he'd got a new
idea, and was going to pounce upon me with it.
'Ahem! I do a little in that line,' I answered, with a modest cough.
'Then tell people about that place; write some stories for the children;
go and help teach them; do something, and make others do what they can
to increase the sabbath sunshine that brightens one day in the week for
the poor babies who live in shady places.'
'I should be glad to do my best; and, if I'd known before'--I began.
'You might have known, if you'd looked about you. People are so wrapt up
in their own affairs they don't do half they might. Now, then, hand me a
bit of paper, and I'll give you the address, so you won't have any
excuse for forgetting what I tell you.'
'Mercy on us; what will he do next?' thought I, as he tweaked a feather
out of his breast, gave the nib a peck, and then coolly wrote these
words on the card I handed him: '_Church of the Disciples. Knock and it
shall be opened!_' There it was, in letters of gold; and, while I looked
at it, feeling reproached that I hadn't known it sooner, my friend,--he
didn't seem a stranger any more,--said in a business-like tone, as he
put back his pen, 'Now I must be off. Old Ben reads an article on the
"Abuses of the Press at the present day," and I must be there to
report.'
'It must be very interesting. I suppose you don't allow mortals at your
meetings?' said I, burning to go, in spite of the storm.
'No, ma'am. We meet on the Common; and, in the present state of the
weather, I don't think flesh and blood would stand it. Bronze, marble,
and wood are sterner stuff, and can defy the elements.'
'Good evening; pray, call again,' I said, hospitably.