sisters. You may not like to own it, and would not, perhaps, confess it
if you were asked, yet it is so; for I know you, though I have not seen
you. You don’t care to kiss them night and morning; but if they are loth
to go without this affectionate salute, then you merely put up your cheek
to be operated on, and look quite like a martyr while it is being done.
You are too grand to play with them, although they are quite willing to
let you have your own way; they would always be the horses, and let you
drive, or let you have first “turn” at any game you like to suggest.
But no; girls are such “muffs” at any sensible games; all very well for
tea-parties and skipping-ropes. They can’t give backs for leap-frog, they
have no idea of throwing a ball, and they could no more spin a top than
make one.
You don’t care to take baby out in your arms, though your sister,
perhaps, has had her all the afternoon, and is really very tired; for
though they call her “Toddles,” she has no idea of walking at present.
You don’t like even to go out to walk with your sisters, ever since the
day when you were prevented going out walking with Tom Hawkins and Harry
Wilkins, having promised your mother you would take the girls. I knew how
ashamed you felt when you met your school-fellows, and they shouted out,
“There’s a big girl! Take care of the baby, Dick!”
Now, young gentleman, I advise you to get out of these ways as soon as
possible. You are now at a very disagreeable age, and when you are a
little older you will wonder you could ever have been so “uppish.” I
don’t doubt you will get over all this nonsense when you go out in life,
and have to leave home; then you will miss the many little acts that your
eldest sister, just about your own age, used to perform.
Dressing hurriedly of a dark winter’s morning, there goes a button! Never
mind, let’s pin the shirt. Not long after, stooping down, or lifting a
heavy parcel, or something else, gives you a hint about your substitute
for a button, by a sudden prick, that makes you think of dear old Susy
and her nimble fingers.
Going errands in the snow and wet, you feel your toes uncommonly cold;
you put them up close to the fire in the shop while you are waiting to be
served, or you do the “double shuffle” with your feet over a railing or
on the pavement; but something better might be done if only Susy had your
stockings, and darned these great holes through which your toes project.
Sooner or later, boys, you would think you had been very foolish in not
having valued your sisters more. Well, never mind; they will soon forget
any little want of attention, and we will cease to remind you what
awkward customers you once were—that is, if you try and make up for it.
Ah! Charley Forder cared for his sister, I can tell you. “But who was
Charley Forder!” Well, listen.
He was the eldest child of his parents, who lived at Lingford, a small
town on the sea-coast.
His father was a sailor in the navy, and was now away on a four-years’
voyage to the Pacific. Mrs Forder had enough to do to look after her
family, and help support them, by taking in plain needle-work; but
Margaret, who was now ten years old, and a big girl for her age, was
able to help her mother in minding her younger sisters. Charley, who
was sixteen, had been a sailor boy for some two years; but his father,
wishing him to be nearer home than he was likely to be, had entered him
in the merchant service; and he was apprenticed to a firm whose vessels
called in at Lingford.
His mother was very sorry to part with Charley, as he was a real comfort
to her. He was always willing to rock the cradle, or look after little
“Puss,” as he called his second sister; and then, when all the work was
done, he would go out for a run with them on the down, or else stroll
down to the beach, and watch what was going on. He and Margaret used to
talk like grown-up people in their plans for helping their mother, for
they knew that there was only what she earned and father’s half-pay to
maintain them all.
“I tell you what ’tis, Madge, I shall leave here, and be doing something
for myself, and for you all,” said Charley, one day, on the beach.
“And so shall I, Charley; why, I’m bigger than Susan Carter, and she’s
in a place, and gets a shilling a week, and does not cost her mother
anything, ’cos her missus gives her her old clothes.”
“No, that won’t do; you must stay at home and look after the little ones,
so that mother will have more time for her work, and I’ll be off; that
will be one less to keep.”
And the matter was talked over, and a letter written to the father; and
when his consent was gained, after several months’ interval, Charley
joined a schooner that was engaged in the fruit trade, and went between
Valencia and London. The vessel was just going out for a cargo, and
it was expected she would call in at Lingford. It would be a good
opportunity for Mrs Forder to get up some clean linen for Charley, and
also something out of the way of junks of salt pork and biscuit for him
to eat. The children had the bundle of clothes and the tin of good things
in readiness on the beach, and waited for the “Stirling Castle” as she
came round the point. It was a windy day, so Margaret thoughtfully set
baby on a rock, with her back to the sea, not minding how she herself was
blown about; and little “Puss” was too intent on seeing Charley to think
of herself at all.
At last a vessel hove in sight, and neared the land, a boat put off for
the shore, with Charley in her, bearing a letter to one of the partners,
which he was to deliver, to wait an answer, and then return at once.
The lad had just time to run in to his mother and thank her for her
kindness, after embracing his sisters on the beach. Poor boy! he was
obliged to tear himself away. He tried to be merry, and told Madge she
had given him a _smack_ when she kissed him, but perhaps he should have a
_schooner_ some day; but it was with a heavy heart he left them.
That evening the fresh meat was taken with salt tears trickling down his
face, yet he felt happy when he rose from his knees and turned into his
hammock.
Good-bye, Charley—God bless you!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MY GRANDFATHER.
Among the pleasantest recollections of my youth are the memories of my
dear grandfather.
I have a very distinct remembrance of the satisfaction I felt when I
presented myself at church for the first time in jacket and trousers; and
a much clearer one of having discovered in the depths of the pocket of
the latter garment a fourpenny bit, than of anything the minister said
that day.
I recall my feelings on breaking up at the end of my first half, away
from heme at boarding-school. That was very jolly; and if I stopped to
relate them, I could jot down several occasions, the remembrance of which
I have never lost; but, as I said, the pleasantest recollections of my
youth are concerning my grandfather.
He lived at no great distance from us, and so we often saw him; in fact,
he made it his duty, and I am sure it was his pleasure, to come and see
us once every fortnight. If he had lived at a distance, and had only come
to us once a year, say at Christmas time, we should, of course, have been
very glad to see him; but then we should not have learned to respect or
love him as we did.
It is no very difficult thing to make one’s-self popular with youngsters,
if one brings them presents; and especially at Christmas, when most
people’s hearts are more than usual kindly disposed; so that if a person
could not make himself agreeable then, he must be a bear. Had grandfather
only paid us these annual visits he might, by an effort, have impressed
us very favourably even had he not been particularly fond of children;
but these frequent visits, when we saw him under varied circumstances,
sometimes under trial, sometimes in bodily pain, sometimes anxious about
some of his children or grandchildren, gave us so many opportunities of
observing that he was always the same to us youngsters. The rattle of his
stick on the railings would bring us down to the door at once, however
interestedly we were engaged; and though we were always delighted to see
him, I must say that our hearts beat with a throb of curious joy when
we noticed, as we were sure to do in a moment, that his pockets looked
at all bulky. The contents were never disclosed until after dinner; the
delay kept up our interest, and I think also it was a little generalship
on his part, as it gave him an opportunity of having forty winks whilst
we were engaged with our presents, either eating them, if they were for
consumption, or amusing ourselves with them, if they were for recreation.
After the real nap would come an assumed one. We could always tell where
the one ended and the other began by the smile that played round his
mouth as he opened one eye, and then shut it up quickly, if we were
looking. Then he was supposed to be a sleeping giant, or a grizzly bear,
and we tried to get near him and touch him, and fly off before he could
reach us. How angry he would pretend to get at our impudence; how
severely he appeared to feel our tiny slaps; what dreadful threats he
uttered, the severest of which, “seeing our noses above our chins,” was
always received by us with defiant laughter.
I need not say we ran some terrible risks until success making us very
bold, we put ourselves entirely within reach of the enemy, were fairly
caught, and were mercilessly tickled.
Then would come a more vigorous romp sometimes in the hall, at his
suggestion, lest we should disarrange the parlour too much. He was
always more than a match for us, both with his arms and legs; but in our
desperate struggles, when I would try to trip him up, and my sister to
pull him down, he would pretend to be almost conquered. This gave great
zest to the fun, and made it much more enjoyable than if he had, as he
might have done, turned us over on our backs like sailors do the turtle
on the sands; and at tea time, when we related the encounters, he took
good care to break in with some such remark as—“Ah! I must look out when
you get a little bigger,” or else rubbed his shoulder, as if by our
gigantic efforts we had nearly pulled his arm out of the socket. Though
defeated, we were never humiliated; and his sweet, amiable disposition
was seen in all his conduct. He always tried to make the most of every
one; he would always encourage, or draw out whatever was in them, unless
he met with any one very forward or conceited.
Then, after tea, before we went to bed, we gathered round him. I used
to sit on his knee until my mother declared I was too big to be nursed;
but my sister had that privilege long after she had outgrown the size at
which I had to give it up. There were some old stories and jokes that we
insisted on having every time he came; and so well did we know them that,
when, for fun, he would vary them, or omit portions, we at once detected
him, and would have the “full, true, and particular account.”
Always before he left us he would gradually get us sober; not suddenly
repressing our laughter, or jerking his face into a solemn expression,
but generally leading round the last story or subject in the direction
of religion. I can never forget the Bible stories as he told them; he
made the characters so real and lifelike by telling us of them in a
plain, simple way, and by looking at them from a child’s stand-point. We
never tired of hearing of the Good Shepherd; he made Jesus appear to us
as especially the Saviour of little children; and as he unfolded to us
the tender, pitying, gentle love of Christ, we nestled close into him,
and fancied we were indeed His lambs, and that His very arms were folding
us to His bosom.
Since then, Ethel has been welcomed into the heavenly fold by Jesus
himself; and I—well, trust I am not wandering away from Him; at all
events, I know I am nearer than I should have been had I not been blessed
with such a grandfather.
I often think of him, but especially when Christmas comes round. It was
on Christmas Day that he last visited us. We were sitting round the fire,
before the lights were lit for tea, and as usual, Ethel and I were close
to him. He was holding each of us by the hand, and, raising us, we stood
at his side. He was speaking about the Babe of Bethlehem; he said he
felt, soon, very soon, he too, like the shepherds, should see Him, though
not as they saw Him. Presently I felt a tear fall on my hand, and then
another; at length the tears fell fast, and the words stopped. Looking
up in his face, Ethel said, “Are you ill, grandpa?” “No, my child,” he
replied, “I was thinking how long I should have to wait in heaven until
the Shepherd fetched my darlings and His.”
He died before the New Year, and he had not long to wait for little Ethel.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL.
Many places there surely are in London that it would do one good to
visit—many places to which you have never been, and many more to which we
have never been together. I don’t mean peepshows, or waxworks, or places
of amusement at all; but places that are set apart for some wise, and
good, and holy objects, places where something, at all events, is done to
lessen the misery and wretchedness that everywhere surround us. One such
place is the Hospital for Sick Children, in Great Ormond Street, and if
you have never been there—I trust you never have been as an inmate—you
will be interested in tracing my steps.
My visit was a very recent one, and I may say I had you, my young
readers, in my mind as I went.
Waiting a short time in a large reception-room, I had time to observe
that the house formerly was a mansion, and I found out that a hundred
years ago men of literature and science assembled here. Here Addison and
Pope and Swift met and talked, sometimes gravely and sometimes gaily; but
now the present little inhabitants forbid one’s gaiety, at all events.
Then children’s feet ran up and down those broad oak stairs; but now the
children that pass up are borne, helpless and afflicted. Then the rich
paintings on the walls, the gilding on the ceiling, the cornices and
figures, were objects of no wonder to those who saw them so frequently;
but now they are looked upon with childish admiration, and even delight.
Ah! but the children are not left to be pleased with things they cannot
handle; for, look! did you ever see so many toys in one room, that was
not a shop? This used to be the drawing-room; but it is now hung round
with pictures of child life, and is filled with little beds, in each of
which is a poor suffering little girl.
Here they lie so patiently, so uncomplainingly—not because a stranger is
visiting them, but this is the character the nurses give them. Who shall
say how much is owing to the gratitude they bear for the comforts they
have, which they never had at home, and for the kindness with which they
are supplied? I did not hear one cry, or moan, or complaint, except from
a little fellow suffering from fits, which seemed to have confused his
mind as to the ownership of a two-horse omnibus with which another boy
was playing. The fact was, his own had been placed on one side by the
nurse as a little act of discipline.
Over each bed there is a little platform, on which are placed the
child’s toys. Some were sitting up playing with theirs. One little girl
had fallen asleep, placing the greatest confidence in a number of wild
animals that lay upon the pillow beside her; another, a tiny little thing
of three years of age, who was suffering from skin disease, sat up in her
bed looking very sad, which even the presence of three rag dolls at her
feet could not remove. Ah! perhaps had it been some of you, there would
have been something worse than a sad look—even cries or tears.
Others were sleeping sweetly, forgetful of their pain and suffering,
dreaming, perhaps, of the time when they ran and frisked about, which
some of them would never do again. For instance, here is a child, only
six years old, that has lost her leg—cut off up to the thigh, for hip
disease. Poor child, she does not even know that it is gone; but sad as
this may appear, it really shows how skillfully the doctor did his part,
and how tenderly the nurse did hers, and also how mercifully her heavenly
Father provided the chloroform that prevented her feeling any pain.
I said they all had their toys—that is, each child its own. There
are some large toys, such as a beautiful doll in a glass case and a
musical-box which shows a number of funny old figures playing various
instruments, that belong to the room. The Queen sent this last one; but
the smaller toys, that she herself bought when in Germany, and sent here,
were given to the children to play with, and to take away when they
left. Most of those who had them had gone away; still I saw two of Her
Majesty’s toys, and was glad to find they were just ordinary ones, that
would amuse any child. There was a man on a stand driving three sheep to
market, with a dog behind him. The white leather invited me to press the
bottom, but the squeak was gone; but had it been there I could not have
told you whether it was intended to be the man, or the dog, or the sheep,
making the noise. I was more successful with a bird in a cage, for here
the cage decidedly squeaked, and saved the bird the trouble.
At Christmas time there was a large Christmas tree provided, when several
former patients were invited, and the presents from the Queen and from
others were distributed.
I noticed also that Prince Alfred had sent a large lion with a woolly
mane—not so ample as it might have been, but perhaps it had been deprived
of its wool by little people who wanted a memento of this royal present.
I hear that lately the youngest prince was much pleased at having to
select a number of toys for the children; whilst two of the Princesses
have on more than one occasion sent little garments for the children made
by themselves.
But we must go upstairs to the boys’ ward, where the same order and
cleanliness and comfort are seen. The first thing that strikes me is a
rocking horse, in a worse state than any inmate, for he has lost his
head. Ah! I am glad to see that, for it tells me that the dear boys have
had many a ride on him.
But here are many poor little fellows who will not be able to ride for
a long while—some never again. Here is one that has had his leg cut off
above the knee, only a fortnight ago, and yet he is cheerful and happy,
and, I am glad to say, is getting on favourably. I asked him if he was in
pain, and he said, “Not now; but I often feel great pain in my toes at
night.” Strange as it may seem, this is borne out by others, for I have
heard of many cases of persons complaining of pains in their feet, or of
suffering from corns years after their feet, and corns too, have been
removed.
Another boy cannot move his chin from his chest, through contraction
of the muscles, caused by being burnt. Poor boy, he looks very sad and
wretched, but he, too, has his toys, and he, too, murmurs not.
I hope all these—both boys and girls—will soon get into the convalescent
ward, where there is plenty to interest them.
There are plenty of toys and plenty of books; and then two doves in a
cage, and gold fish swimming in an aquarium, and last of all a shaggy
dog—all alive. This last inmate was asleep, and so I asked the nurse if
he was convalescent too, and she told me that he liked being in that
ward. I dare say he does; he prefers the company of children who can move
about and play with him rather than of those who are in bed.
I have been over the house. I am nearly at the end of my paper. But you
would like to hear a word about the institution, and how it is supported.
About twenty years ago the first little girl was admitted, and since then
they have been able to increase their number of beds as their means have
allowed them. Now there are many more; but how few when there are so
many poor children who should be here. If my young readers would reflect
that more than 21,000 children under ten years of age die in London
every year, they would wish to do something for the hospital. Can you do
anything? Why, yes. I saw a beautiful scrap-book that had been made and
sent by a lady; some of you boys and girls could make some plainer ones.
In India, when some Hindoo girls heard about the Hospital, they sent over
several dolls dressed in Hindoo costume.
Your contributions might not be large, but you would help to cheer the
afflicted and the suffering, and you would draw down a blessing into your
own hearts while you thus ministered unto your Saviour, by ministering to
his little ones.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MY FIRST BEAR.
[_Extracted from a Letter from a Gentleman in the Civil Service of India
to a friend in England._]
In my last letter I told you I had gone to the hills for a holiday for
the benefit of my health; and you will now be glad to hear that I am all
the better for the change. After the heat of Calcutta, the freshness
of the atmosphere here is most exhilarating, and out-of-door exercise,
instead of being irksome or fatiguing, is positively most refreshing. I
often wish you and Bessie and Fred were here, for I know you would enjoy
it immensely. We are very quiet up here; there are some nice families
resident here; then there are some of our men and a few army officers;
and though we are not gay as society is in our cities, we are not without
opportunities of recreation and pleasure.
“But I must tell you of a most amusing adventure that befel me here
shortly after my arrival, which I do all the more readily, as it was
considered quite an event for this place.
“Wanting to see if there was any shooting in the neighbourhood, I got
four natives to accompany me to a rocky and mountainous district some
few miles from here. I selected this spot, as I had heard that some time
before a bear had been seen in the woods. I furnished my guides with
guns and ammunition; and with a good stock of provender we started. The
way was enlivened by the recital, by the natives, of the daring exploits
they would perform, and of the unflinching courage which each of them
possessed. They spoke of bears and even lions with the greatest contempt,
and assured me that their experiences in shooting these wild beasts was
most extensive.
“To tell you the truth, though I had heard about the bear, I was not
very sanguine about meeting one, but I fortunately provided myself and
companions with shot suited to his capacity. I might just as well have
supplied my companions with peas—but there, I am anticipating. To come
to the point, then, at once. We really did come across the bear, or,
rather, he came across us; for whilst we were on some high rocks, one of
the natives espied Master Bruin in the woods, trotting towards us. They
all shouted at the top of their voices, in the hope of driving him off,
but seeing that he was not to be so easily diverted, they then begged me
to fire, as they very considerately said they should like me to have the
honour of killing him.
“I knew if I did not, they would not, and that perhaps Bruin might kill
some of us; so waiting till he came clear of the trees, so that I could
get a good shot at him, I fired one barrel, and struck him somewhere in
the head without killing him. It arrested his progress, however, and he
stood still.
“He was now not more than a few yards from me; between us there was a
deep ravine, which the bear could have easily cleared at a bound, but
he thought better of it; and whilst he was reflecting on what course to
take, I discharged my second barrel into his shoulder. This was enough
for him; he turned round and retired into the woods.
“Where were my companions all this time?” you ask. They were behaving
themselves in the most gallant manner. At the near approach of the bear
they showed signs of fear; and when he came to the edge of the cliff, and
seemed as if he would be on us with a bound, they all fell back in the
greatest fright. One let his gun fall from his hand, and it fell down the
ravine; two of them _fairly_, or, as I should say, _unfairly_, turned
tail and ran off; and the fourth, running backwards, fell over a bush and
performed an involuntary summersault. When they satisfied themselves that
the bear had made off, and was not likely to be seen again, they plucked
up courage to return, not at all ashamed of their cowardice. In fact, two
of them had the effrontery to say that they were running off to get a
shot at him from a point higher up on the rocks.
“However, even then they were too much afraid to show me the way up
through the valley into the wood, as the ravine was rather wider than
I cared to jump; and as it was getting late, and I was somewhat tired
(not being quite so much up to work on my legs as I used to be in the
Highlands), and I had to walk home, I was obliged to leave the issue of
my shots doubtful.