the great avenue. It was quieter here; there were fewer carriages or
foot passengers, so that on the wide road, even a small group was
plainly seen, and happening to glance backwards, I saw a sad little
procession making its way slowly along. Two men, dressed in black, were
carrying a little coffin--no heavy burden, it was plain--yet heavy was
the sorrow of the two mourners following close behind. It was but the
funeral of a tiny child, a baby, or scarce more than a baby to judge by
the size of the coffin, "the only one" of the poor father and mother
alone in their grief, who walked behind. They were of the very poor
class of Paris working people, though decently clad, as is almost always
the case in France, but too poor to have got mourning for themselves,
even for the funeral of their child. The woman, it is true, had a black
skirt, but over it she wore, perhaps to conceal its shabbiness, a clean
checked cotton apron, and the poor father had no attempt at mourning,
except a little band of rusty black fastened round the left sleeve of
his blue working blouse. They were both weeping, the mother openly, her
poor eyes swollen and red as if with many hours of tears, the husband
trying to keep calm, as he from time to time wiped his weather beaten
cheeks with his sleeve. Their poverty was shown in another way; there
was not a single flower, much less a wreath or cross on the little
black-draped coffin--so sad, so piteously desolate a funeral it has
seldom been my lot to see in Paris. Yet poor as it was, it met with the
outward marks of respect and sympathy which I often wish we could see in
England, for every head was uncovered as it passed on its sorrowful way.
I stood still for an instant to watch it; suddenly a small figure,
rushing across the road, darting nimbly in front of a quickly advancing
carriage, as if afraid of being too late, caught my eyes. It was my
little friend of the violets! There was no mistaking him--and his
grandfather's, it seemed to me, almost familiar figure, waiting and
looking after the child from the other side of the road. What is the boy
in such a hurry for? Ah--I see now, and my own eyes are not free from
tears.
Breathless and eager he runs up to the poor little procession, with
blushing face and gentle hands he lays on the tiny coffin his treasured
violets--beautiful in themselves, doubly beautiful as the gift of a
sweet and pitiful heart--and without waiting for the thanks ready to
burst forth from the over-laden hearts of the two parents, hastens back
again to his old grandfather, whose face I can distinguish lit up with a
smile of tender approval.
"God bless him," the poor father murmurs. I am near enough to hear
it--"God bless him," the weeping mother repeats.
"God bless him," I whisper to myself.
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren,
ye have done it unto Me."
[Illustration]
A CANARY TRAGEDY.
[Illustration]
When I was a little girl--that is about three years ago--I am now
thirteen--my own particular pets were a pair of canaries. We had lots of
other pets; it would take me a very long time merely to give you the
list of them even without telling you anything about them, and all their
adventures and funny ways. But a good many of them had in one way or
another come to grief, poor things, and as my brothers grew older and
had less time to take care of them, my mother said we must really give
up having so many.
[Illustration]
So one summer, just before the holidays, there was a regular
flitting--the turtle-doves we gave to a little neighbour, a very gentle
boy, who we knew would be kind to them; the old crow was taken to a
house more in the country than ours, where there were plenty of nice,
dark, crowy-looking trees; the rabbits were already all dead, and so was
the tortoise, and as one of the dormice had got loose and gone off to
live with the house-mice, we sent the other to a friend who had several.
There remained only the dog, whom _of course_ we couldn't give away and
my canaries, whom I got leave to keep.
These canaries had a history of their own. One, we had reared ourselves
from an egg, and as it was the only baby canary that had grown up of all
we had had, we did think it very remarkable. Its name was "Frise-tete,"
which means "curly head," because it had a funny little tuft of yellow
feathers right on the top of its head, and he was the cock canary,
though Frise-tete sounds more like a girl's name, doesn't it? And the
little hen canary was called "Coo-coo," because when she first came to
us she really did make a sort of cooing noise. Where she came from we
never knew--she flew in at the open window of the schoolroom one day,
having evidently got out of her cage and lost her way. She was a
sweet-tempered little bird, but not at all sharp or clever. She didn't
seem to mind in the least that she had got into a strange place, but was
quite content and happy to take up house, or "cage," with Frise-tete.
This little couple made the last of our pet canaries, and they were
always counted mine. I think we had had Frise-tete two years, and
Coo-coo more than a year, when there came the clearing-out of pets that
I told you of. But we never knew Coo-coo's age exactly, you see.
[Illustration]
That summer we were going in different directions. My two big sisters
were to spend it with our grandmother, and one of my brothers with them.
The other brother and I were to go to Germany with Mamma. We were very
proud of being chosen to go with her, and we had never been to Germany
before, at least not to stay any length of time there, and we were in
great spirits about it. There was only one thing that troubled me, and
that was about the canaries. I was so afraid Mamma would not consent to
take them, and yet I could not bear the idea of leaving them behind. I
was sure that the person who was to take care of the house would forget
to feed them, or let the cat get to them or something, and at last I
told Mamma that I really would be too unhappy if I mightn't take them.
Mamma was very kind--she didn't like the idea of the pretty little
couple being starved or killed any more than I did, still she warned me
that I should find them a good deal of trouble on the way, and that I
mustn't grumble at it, which, of course, I promised I wouldn't.
So when we set off late one hot summer evening, on our long journey, I
carried carefully, a queer-looking package in one hand. It was the cage,
all covered up in a sort of brown holland bag, which contained my
beloved Frise-tete and Coo-coo.
They _were_ a great worry. I often wished I had left them at home, I can
assure you. We had to travel two nights, and most part of two or three
days before we got quite to our journey's end, though we stopped two or
three times on the way, and it was so hot that we felt very tired and
uncomfortable, and it was not easy to keep good-humoured even without
the birds! Very often I had to sit with the cage on my knee if the
railway carriage happened to be rather low, and there was not room for
it up beside the cloaks and rugs. And then I had to have water in a
bottle to keep the poor things supplied, and very often it spilt all
over, and so did the seed, and our fellow passengers looked very cross
at me. And sometimes at the stations, the guards and railway people
wouldn't let me pass without undoing all the cover and everything to see
what the wonderful bundle was. Oh, we were very glad when we found
ourselves at last safe at the place we were to stay at! It was a very
old-fashioned little town, but it was almost like being in the country.
There were such beautiful walks all about, and from the end of every
street one could see the fields and trees, so you see it wasn't a bit
like a town.
We had rooms in a very nice funny old hotel. Mamma said it was quite
like an old-fashioned English inn, such as they used to be in the
coaching days. The ceilings were low, and the staircase very wide, and
the furniture _so_ old-fashioned. We had a nice large sitting-room, and
two bed-rooms out of it, and on the wide window-sill of our bedroom I
established Frise-tete and Coo-coo. They were very sensible, poor
things, they only fluttered and fussed about for a short time, and then
settled down quite contentedly, which, I am sure, was very good
behaviour after being so much covered up.
[Illustration]
I could tell you lots of stories about our life in the old German town,
but I must remember that this story is to be all about the canaries. It
was beautiful sunny weather, and they spent nearly their whole time at
the open window--I used only to bring them in at night. And every
morning I cleaned the cage out nicely, and put fresh sand and water, and
seed, and groundsel. The people at the opposite side of the street got
to know me quite well by sight, and would smile and nod to me. And all
was as happy as possible till one sad day which I will tell you about.
Mamma had two or three times said to me, "Take care, Sally, when you put
the cage on the window-sill to see that it is quite steady. The sill is
broad and even, inside, but outside the stone slopes downward," and I
_had_ always taken care.
But this morning, just as I had finished cleaning and all, I saw a piece
of sugar on the table, which, it suddenly struck me would be a nice
treat for the canaries. I sprang across the room hastily to get the
sugar, and was just turning back with it, when a smashing, crashing
noise made me start. It was--no I can hardly tell it, even now I
remember the horrible feeling--it was the cage falling, _fallen_ out of
the window, down into the street below. I screamed and rushed into the
furthest corner of the room, shutting my eyes and clasping my hands over
my ears. It was very silly I know, but I was really almost out of my
mind.
"They are dead, they are killed!" I cried screaming again so loud that
Mamma rushed in from the next room to see what was the matter. She saw
it in an instant without my speaking, and indeed I was by this time
choking with sobs.
"Stay there, Sally," said she, and down stairs she ran. I just took my
fingers out of my ears for an instant, but I heard a hubbub in the
street below, and I shuddered and put them back again. It was _too_
horrible.
In a few minutes Mamma came up, carrying something in her hand, and
looking very sad.
"Sally dear, I am very sorry for you," she said, "but it might have been
still sadder. Coo-coo seems very little the worse--she has had a
wonderful escape. But poor Frise-tete is dead. I have brought him up--I
think he must have been killed at once, and not have suffered."
It was some time before she could persuade me to look at my poor pet.
It was indeed a sad sight. Even the death of a little bird is sad, I
still think. His pretty yellow feathers all rumpled and torn, his bright
eyes glazed and filmy.
"Oh, my dear, sweet Frise-tete," I said. "To think that I should have
brought you all the way from home for this."
And poor Mamma was so sorry for me that she actually cried too!
We made a little coffin out of some cardboard, and wrapped him in
cotton-wool, and buried him in the old garden of the inn. That was the
end of our canary nursling. I have a good deal more to tell you about
Coo-coo, but for the present I will leave off with this piece of advice.
"Never put bird-cages on the window-sill."
[Illustration]
COO-COO'S SECOND HUSBAND.
[Illustration]
I told you the sad end of poor Frise-tete, but the history of Coo-Coo is
by no means finished yet. She had not escaped without any injury, though
at first we thought she was not hurt. But as soon as she recovered a
little from her dreadful fright we saw to our great sorrow that one of
her wings hung down in a most sad and helpless manner. I turned away
shuddering.
"Is it quite broked, Mamma?" asked my little brother Charley. He looked
at it with the greatest interest and curiosity. "Horrid little boy, I
said to myself! And it does seem sometimes as if boys had very little
feeling, though I don't really think so of poor Charley.
"Oh, Mamma," I said, still shutting my eyes, "if she is so badly hurt,
it would be better to put her out of her agony at once. Couldn't you
give her chloroform or some stuff like what they kill horses with in the
streets in Paris?"
"It's not so bad as all that," said Mamma cheerfully. "Sally, you
mustn't be silly. Open your eyes--there is nothing dreadful to see."
I had to open my eyes then--Mamma was holding Coo-coo tenderly in her
hand. I wondered how she had courage to do it. The poor little thing
seemed to know her, and to nestle down confidingly.
"I don't think it hurts her except when she tries to stick it out," said
Charley.
"No, I don't think it does," said Mamma, "but I'd like some one who
understands little birds, to see her."
"If the gracious lady will excuse me saying so," said the landlord's
daughter, who was standing close by full of sympathy, "there is a
gentleman near here who makes it his business to bring up little
canaries from eggs. He is very clever. We might go to see him, and ask
him to look at the poor wing."
"Certainly," said Mamma, "that would be a very good idea. But I don't
quite know how to take Coo-coo. I am afraid it is not good for her to
hold her so long in my hand, and the cage is completely smashed."
"We have an empty cage--a very small one, that used to hang at the door
with our old starling," said the good-natured Anna, and off she ran for
it.
We settled Coo-coo as well as we could with some cotton-wool for her to
rest upon. But once in the cage, so long as she did not attempt to
flutter about, she did not seem very bad, and my spirits rose a little.
Still we must have seemed rather a doleful procession making our way
along the street, for my face and eyes were swollen with crying, and
Charley looked very grave, as we followed Mamma and Anna, Mamma carrying
the starling's cage containing poor Coo-coo, as if it was the most
wonderful treasure that ever was seen. And all the people came out of
the shops and houses to look at us, for already the news had spread of
the terrible misfortune that had happened to the little "foreign" lady,
and several people whose shops we had sometimes been to nodded their
heads, and said, "Poor little Miss," very sympathizingly, as we passed.
I couldn't help feeling rather ashamed, and I wished my eyes were not
quite so red.
[Illustration: "The Canary-gentleman."]
It was such a funny place where the gentleman of the canaries, as Anna
called him, lived. We went down a very narrow passage, and, across a
little court-yard and down another passage and up a rickety stair and at
last found ourselves in a room filled with birds--nothing but birds, and
all canaries! There were cages and cages full of them--grown up ones and
old ones, and baby ones just hatched. Some were singing brilliantly, so
that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak, and the man who had come
forward to meet us took us into another room, a little kitchen, where
there were only one or two cages and no noise.
He was a shoemaker as well as a birdfancier--he had on a leather apron,
and he had a half-made boot in his hand when we went in. But plainly,
what he considered his real calling in life was canaries--I think indeed
he thought the world was made for canaries, and he only looked at us
with interest because "we belonged to Coo-coo," as Charley said.
"It is not broken," he said, after he had carefully examined the poor
wing, stretching it out in a way that made me shiver to see; "it is only
sprained. It will get better, but it will perhaps never be quite well.
See--this is all that can be done," and he took a feather from a cup
with some fine oil in it, standing on a table. "You must paint it with
oil--so--two or three times a day. You see?" and Mamma nodded her head,
and said, yes, she quite understood.
"She will get better," repeated the man, "she will not die of her wing,
but she will die of loneliness. You must get her a companion."
I came forward eagerly.
"Mamma," I said, "would he sell us one? I have two marks." A mark is the
same as a shilling.
Mamma asked him the question. He looked round his many cages doubtfully.
"I did not want to sell any just now," he said, and I really don't think
he did. "But it would be a shame for her to pine to death. Yes--I can
let you have one of these young birds for three marks. Choose which you
like," and he pointed to a cage containing three or four.
"I have only two marks," I whispered.
[Illustration]
"And there is a new cage to get," said Charley. But Mamma was very kind.
"I will help you," she said. "Yes, sir, we will take one of these. You
are sure they will be friends?"
"No fear," said the man in his queer, jerky way, "and this young bird
will sing like a heavenly angel next spring. Will you take him now, or
shall I bring him this evening?"
"We have to get a new cage," said Mamma; "I should be glad if you would
bring him."
Then we set off again with Coo-coo in the starling's cage, and we had
another procession down the street to the ironmonger's shop, where we
chose a beautiful cage. It was awfully kind of Mamma, wasn't it?
And that evening after poor little Frise-tete was buried in the garden
under a little rose-bush we made the new cage all ready, and Coo-coo
and the new bird, whom we fixed to call "Fritz," as he was a German,
took up their quarters in it. They were very good friends--indeed
Charley and I thought it rather horrid of Coo-coo to be so quickly
consoled.
"I don't believe she has any heart at all," I said. "I don't believe a
bit that she would have pined alone."
But the "canary-gentleman," every time he came--and he was really very
good, he came every two or three days to see how the wing was and would
not take any more money--assured us that if she had not had a companion
she would have died.
And certainly I must say that Fritz deserved her to like him. He was so
good to her. You could scarcely believe a little bird could have had so
much sense. For some days she could only move about stiffly, and it was
difficult for her to pick up seeds. And just fancy, Fritz used to bring
her seeds in his beak and feed her! It was the prettiest sight possible.
Her wing never got quite well, though it left off hurting her. But she
never could stretch it out quite evenly with the other. And about a year
ago, after two years of peaceful life with Fritz, she died quite
suddenly. She was perfectly well the evening before, and early the next
morning she was lying in a little rumpled-up heap in a corner, dead!
Poor Coo-coo--they thought she died of old age. I can't help wondering
where birds go to when they die--they are so innocent!
Still they are very heartless. That very morning beside his poor little
dead wife, Fritz was pecking away at his seeds and singing as if nothing
were the matter. So we have not troubled to get a new companion for him,
and when he dies I don't much think I shall care to keep any more pet
birds. He is very alive at present however. He really sings so very
loudly sometimes that we are obliged to cover him up with a dark cloth
to pretend it is night.
I hear him carrolling away now as brilliantly as possible!
HARRY'S REWARD
[Illustration: HARRY'S REWARD.
By Mrs. Molesworth.]
"I hate the sea, I hate bathing, and I don't want to learn to swim.
What's the use of learning to swim? I'm not going to be a sailor. I
don't like ships, and I don't want ever to go in one, and I just wish,
oh, I do wish papa hadn't come here!"
"Harry! how can you?" said his sister Dora. "Papa who is so kind, and
when we have all been looking forward so to his coming."
"I know--that's the worst of it," said Harry. "I've been looking forward
as much as any one, and now it's all spoilt by his saying I must learn
to swim."
"I only wish _I_ could learn!" sighed Dora. She was two years older than
Harry, but she had lately had a bad fever. The family had come to the
seaside to give her change of air, but not for some weeks yet, if at
all this summer, was poor Dora to be allowed to bathe. And she loved the
sea, and bathing, and boating, and everything to do with the sea. She
was like her father, who, though not a sailor, had travelled much and
far, both by land and water; whereas Harry "took after," as the country
people say, his mother, who had lived in her youth in a warm climate,
and shivered at every breath of cold or even fresh air. It did not
matter so much for a delicate lady to be afraid of the wind and the sea,
but it was a great pity for a healthy boy to be fanciful or timid; and
Harry's mother herself was very anxious that he should become more
manly. She was very disappointed that she could not get him to bathe
when they came to the seaside, but it was no use, and she and nurse and
Dora all agreed that the only thing to do was to "wait till Papa came."
Papa had come now, and Harry had had his first "dip." It wasn't so
_very_ bad after all, but just when he was getting up his spirits again,
and thinking ten minutes or so every morning were quickly over, all his
fears and dislike grew worse than ever when his father told him that in
a day or two he should begin to teach him to swim.
"Everybody, especially every English man and boy, should know how to
swim," Papa had said. "There is never any knowing the use it may be of,
both for one's self and others."
"Isn't it very hard to learn?" Harry asked, not venturing to say more.
"It takes some patience," his father said. "But by the time I have to
go--in three weeks or so--you should be able to swim fairly well, if you
have a lesson every day."
And Harry came home to tell Dora his troubles, which he worked himself
up to think were very great ones indeed.
There was no shirking it however. Papa, though very kind, was very
firm, and once he said a thing, it had to be done. So with a rather
white face, and looking very solemn, poor Harry set off every day for
his swimming lesson.
He was a quick and clever boy, and a strong boy, and this his father
knew. He would not have forced Harry to do anything for which he was
unfit, or that could have done him any harm. And after the first shivers
of fear and tremulous clinging to his father's hand were got over, it
went on better and faster than could have been expected. Harry didn't
mind its being difficult once he had left off being afraid, and a day or
two before his father had to leave them, Harry had the pleasure of
hearing him say to his mother, "He swims already very nearly as well as
I do myself."
Now I shall tell you why I have called this little story "Harry's
Reward."
Seacliff, the place at which these children were spending the summer,
was not a fashionable watering-place, with terraces and donkey-carriages
and bathing-machines, but a little village, where one or two cottages
were to be had for the season. There were also a few gentlemen's houses
in the neighbourhood, so that in fine weather merry groups met at the
little sheltered bay among the rocks, where the bathing was pleasantest.
One day, not very long before they were to leave Seacliff, Harry, having
finished his own morning swim, set off to walk home at his ease,
whistling as he went. He had chosen what was called the high path, a
footpath up above the lane, which was the regular road from the village
to the beach, but from which the lane could be seen all the way.
It was a lovely morning--bright and peaceful--and Harry, as he went,
wished that poor Dora had got leave to bathe.
[Illustration]
"Next year," he thought, "I hope we shall come again, and then what fun
we shall have. Dolly will learn to swim in no time."
Suddenly a sound disturbed his pleasant thoughts. A horse and cart or
carriage of some kind was rushing wildly along, coming nearer and
nearer. Surely the horse, or pony, as Harry now saw it to be, was
running away. The boy who had never been a coward except about "sea
things," tumbled down the steep grassy slope in no time, and stood in
the middle of the road eager to see what he could do. The flying vehicle
was near enough now for him to see that it was the pony-carriage of two
girls, a little older than Dora, whose home was one of the pretty houses
a little way from Seacliff. He had often seen them drive down in it to
the shore to bathe.
But what a queer figure was driving now. The pony was not running away,
on the contrary, it seemed as if it could not run fast enough to please
the driver; a girl with hair streaming, dressed only in a blue flannel
bathing gown, streaming too, who stood upright in the carriage, lashing
the poor pony as if she were mad, while from time to time she screamed,
in a shrill and yet choking voice, "Help, help--for God's sake, help!"
"What is it?" screamed Harry too, as she passed. She would not stop, but
she threw back some words on the wind.
"My sister--Alice--drowning. Going to the village to fetch some one--can
swim."
And then again came the terrible cry, as if she hardly knew what she was
saying, "Help, help!"
"Oh," thought Harry, "if she could have stopped and taken me back, we'd
have been at the shore in a moment. _I_ can swim. _I_ can swim."