Transcriber's Notes:
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" in bold Gothic font are surrounded by ==double equals==.
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[Illustration]
CHILD LIFE IN PROSE.
EDITED BY
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
==Illustrated.==
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.
==The Riverside Press, Cambridge.==
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
TWENTY THIRD IMPRESSION.
[Illustration]
"We behold a child. Who is it? Whose is it? What is it? It is in the
centre of fantastic light, and only a dim revealed form appears. It is
God's own child, as all children are. The blood of Adam and Eve,
through how many soever channels diverging, runs in its veins; and the
spirit of the Eternal, which blows everywhere, has animated it. It
opens its eyes upon us, stretches out its hands to us as all children
do. Can you love it? It may be heir of a throne,--does it interest
you? Or of a milking-stool,--do not despise it. It is a miracle of the
All-working; it is endowed by the All-gifted. Smile upon it, it will a
smile give back again; prick it, it will cry. Where does it belong? In
what zone or climate? It may have been born on the Thames or the
Amazon, the Hoang-ho or the Mississippi. It is God's child still, and
its mother's. It is curiously and wonderfully made. The inspiration of
the Almighty hath given it understanding. It will look after God by
how many soever names he may be called; it will seek to know; it will
long to be loved; it will sin and be miserable; if it has none to care
for it, it will die."
JUDD'S _Margaret_.
PREFACE.
The unexpectedly favorable reception of the poetical compilation
entitled "Child Life" has induced its publishers to call for the
preparation of a companion volume of prose stories and sketches,
gathered, like the former, from the literature of widely separated
nationalities and periods. Illness, preoccupation, and the inertia of
unelastic years would have deterred me from the undertaking, but for
the assistance which I have had from the lady whose services are
acknowledged in the preface to "Child Life." I beg my young readers,
therefore, to understand that I claim little credit for my share in
the work, since whatever merit it may have is largely due to her taste
and judgment. It may be well to admit, in the outset, that the book is
as much for child-lovers, who have not outgrown their child-heartedness
in becoming mere men and women, as for children themselves; that it is
as much _about_ childhood, as _for_ it. If not the wisest, it appears to
me that the happiest people in the world are those who still retain
something of the child's creative faculty of imagination, which makes
atmosphere and color, sun and shadow, and boundless horizons, out of
what seems to prosaic wisdom most inadequate material,--a tuft of grass,
a mossy rock, the rain-pools of a passing shower, a glimpse of sky and
cloud, a waft of west-wind, a bird's flutter and song. For the child is
always something of a poet; if he cannot analyze, like Wordsworth and
Tennyson, the emotions which expand his being, even as the fulness of
life bursts open the petals of a flower, he finds with them all Nature
plastic to his eye and hand. The soul of genius and the heart of
childhood are one.
Not irreverently has Jean Paul said, "I love God and little children.
Ye stand nearest to Him, ye little ones." From the Infinite Heart a
sacred Presence has gone forth and filled the earth with the sweetness
of immortal infancy. Not once in history alone, but every day and
always, Christ sets the little child in the midst of us as the truest
reminder of himself, teaching us the secret of happiness, and leading
us into the kingdom by the way of humility and tenderness.
In truth, all the sympathies of our nature combine to render childhood
an object of powerful interest. Its beauty, innocence, dependence, and
possibilities of destiny, strongly appeal to our sensibilities, not
only in real life, but in fiction and poetry. How sweetly, amidst the
questionable personages who give small occasion of respect for manhood
or womanhood as they waltz and wander through the story of Wilhelm
Meister, rises the child-figure of Mignon! How we turn from the light
dames and faithless cavaliers of Boccaccio to contemplate his
exquisite picture of the little Florentine, Beatrice, that fair girl
of eight summers, so "pretty in her childish ways, so ladylike and
pleasing, with her delicate features and fair proportions, of such
dignity and charm of manner as to be looked upon as a little angel!"
And of all the creations of her illustrious lover's genius, whether in
the world of mortals or in the uninviting splendors of his Paradise,
what is there so beautiful as the glimpse we have of him in his _Vita
Nuova_, a boy of nine years, amidst the bloom and greenness of the
Spring Festival of Florence, checking his noisy merry-making in rapt
admiration of the little Beatrice, who seemed to him "not the daughter
of mortal man, but of God"? Who does not thank John Brown, of
Edinburgh, for the story of Marjorie Fleming, the fascinating
child-woman, laughing beneath the plaid of Walter Scott, and gathering
at her feet the wit and genius of Scotland? The labored essays from
which St. Pierre hoped for immortality, his philosophies,
sentimentalisms, and theories of tides, have all quietly passed into
the limbo of unreadable things; while a simple story of childhood
keeps his memory green as the tropic island in which the scene is
laid, and his lovely creations remain to walk hand in hand beneath the
palms of Mauritius so long as children shall be born and the hearts
of youths and maidens cleave to each other. If the after story of the
poet-king and warrior of Israel sometimes saddens and pains us, who
does not love to think of him as a shepherd boy, "ruddy and withal of
a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look upon," singing to his
flocks on the hill-slopes of Bethlehem?
In the compilation of this volume the chief embarrassment has arisen
from the very richness and abundance of materials. As a matter of
course, the limitations prescribed by its publishers have compelled
the omission of much that, in point of merit, may compare favorably
with the selections. Dickens's great family of ideal children, Little
Nell, Tiny Tim, and the Marchioness; Harriet Beecher Stowe's Eva and
Topsy; George MacDonald's quaint and charming child-dreamers; and
last, but not least, John Brown's Pet Marjorie,--are only a few of the
pictures for which no place has been found. The book, of necessity,
but imperfectly reflects that child-world which fortunately is always
about us, more beautiful in its living realities than it has ever been
painted.
It has been my wish to make a readable book of such literary merit as
not to offend the cultivated taste of parents, while it amused their
children. I may confess in this connection, that, while aiming at
simple and not unhealthful amusement, I have been glad to find the
light tissue of these selections occasionally shot through with
threads of pious or moral suggestion. At the same time, I have not
felt it right to sadden my child-readers with gloomy narratives and
painful reflections upon the life before them. The lessons taught are
those of Love, rather than Fear. "I can bear," said Richter, "to look
upon a melancholy man, but I cannot look upon a melancholy child.
Fancy a butterfly crawling like a caterpillar with his four wings
pulled off!"
It is possible that the language and thought of some portions of the
book may be considered beyond the comprehension of the class for which
it is intended. Admitting that there may be truth in the objection, I
believe with Coventry Patmore, in his preface to a child's book, that
the charm of such a volume is increased, rather than lessened, by the
surmised existence of an unknown amount of power, meaning, and beauty.
I well remember how, at a very early age, the solemn organ-roll of
Gray's Elegy and the lyric sweep and pathos of Cowper's Lament for the
Royal George moved and fascinated me with a sense of mystery and power
felt, rather than understood. "A spirit passed before my face, but the
form thereof was not discerned." Freighted with unguessed meanings,
these poems spake to me, in an unknown tongue indeed, but, like the
wind in the pines or the waves on the beach, awakening faint echoes
and responses, and vaguely prophesying of wonders yet to be revealed.
John Woolman tells us, in his autobiography, that, when a small child,
he read from that sacred prose poem, the Book of Revelation, which has
so perplexed critics and commentators, these words, "He showed me a
river of the waters of life clear as crystal, proceeding out of the
throne of God and the Lamb," and that his mind was drawn thereby to
seek after that wonderful purity, and that the place where he sat and
the sweetness of that child-yearning remained still fresh in his
memory in after life. The spirit of that mystical anthem which Milton
speaks of as "a seven-fold chorus of hallelujahs and harping
symphonies," hidden so often from the wise and prudent students of the
letter, was felt, if not comprehended, by the simple heart of the
child.
It will be seen that a considerable portion of the volume is devoted
to autobiographical sketches of infancy and childhood. It seemed to me
that it might be interesting to know how the dim gray dawn and golden
sunrise of life looked to poets and philosophers; and to review with
them the memories upon which the reflected light of their genius has
fallen.
I leave the little collection, not without some misgivings, to the
critical, but I hope not unkindly, regard of its young readers. They
will, I am sure, believe me when I tell them that if my own paternal
claims, like those of Elia, are limited to "dream children," I have
catered for the real ones with cordial sympathy and tender solicitude
for their well-being and happiness.
J. G. W.
AMESBURY, 1873.
CONTENTS.
STORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
PAGE
LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 13
WHY THE COW TURNED HER HEAD AWAY _Abby Morton Diaz_ 22
THE BABY OF THE REGIMENT _T. W. Higginson_ 27
PRUDY PARLIN "_Sophie May_" 38
MRS. WALKER'S BETSEY _Helen B. Bostwick_ 43
THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE _Grace Greenwood_ 54
ON WHITE ISLAND _Celia Thaxter_ 58
THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN _T. B. Aldrich_ 64
A YOUNG MAHOMETAN _Mary Lamb_ 76
THE LITTLE PERSIAN _Juvenile Miscellany_ 81
THE BOYS' HEAVEN _L. Maria Child_ 83
BESSIE'S GARDEN _Caroline S. Whitmarsh_ 87
HOW THE CRICKETS BROUGHT GOOD FORTUNE _P. J. Stahl_ 97
PAUL AND VIRGINIA _Bernardin de Saint Pierre_ 101
OEYVIND AND MARIT _Björnsterne Björnsen_ 109
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN _Charles Dickens_ 119
AMRIE AND THE GEESE _Berthold Auerbach_ 131
THE ROBINS _John Woolman_ 135
THE FISH I DIDN'T CATCH _John G. Whittier_ 137
LITTLE KATE WORDSWORTH _Thomas De Quincey_ 142
HOW MARGERY WONDERED _Lucy Larcom_ 145
THE NETTLE-GATHERER _From the Swedish_ 149
LITTLE ARTHUR'S PRAYER _Thomas Hughes_ 156
FAITH AND HER MOTHER _Elizabeth Stuart Phelps_ 161
THE OPEN DOOR _John de Liefde_ 165
THE PRINCE'S VISIT _Horace Scudder_ 167
FANCIES OF CHILD LIFE.
THE HEN THAT HATCHED DUCKS _Harriet Beecher Stowe_ 175
BLUNDER _Louise E. Chollet_ 185
STAR-DOLLARS _Grimm's Household Tales_ 192
THE IMMORTAL FOUNTAIN _L. Maria Child_ 193
THE BIRD'S-NEST IN THE MOON _New England Magazine_ 201
DREAM-CHILDREN: A REVERY _Charles Lamb_ 204
THE UGLY DUCKLING _Hans Christian Andersen_ 209
THE POET AND HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER _Mary Howitt_ 220
THE RED FLOWER _Madame De Gasparin_ 226
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END _German of Carove_ 229
MEMORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 253
MADAME MICHELET 262
JEAN PAUL RICHTER 271
CHARLES LAMB 276
HUGH MILLER 281
WALTER SCOTT 286
FREDERICK DOUGLASS 290
CHARLES DICKENS 297
STORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
STORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE.
[Illustration: D]
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, and little Annie
stands on her father's door-steps, trying to hear what the man with
the loud voice is talking about. Let me listen too. O, he is telling
the people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal tiger, and a
horse with horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries,
have come to town, and will receive all visitors who choose to wait
upon them! Perhaps little Annie would like to go. Yes; and I can see
that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street, with
the green trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine, and
the pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had
just swept them with her broom. She feels that impulse to go strolling
away--that longing after the mystery of the great world--which many
children feel, and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall
take a ramble with me. See! I do but hold out my hand, and, like some
bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering
upwards from her white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across
the street.
Smooth back your brown curls, Annie; and let me tie on your bonnet,
and we will set forth! What a strange couple to go on their rambles
together! One walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a heavy
brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl
trips lightly along, as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand,
lest her feet should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I have a
smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown
ladies that could entice me from the side of little Annie; for I
delight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless
child. So come, Annie; but if I moralize as we go, do not listen to
me; only look about you and be merry!
Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses, and
stage-coaches with four, thundering to meet each other, and trucks and
carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from
the wharves; and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will be smashed
to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a
wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a
tumult? No: she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on
with fearless confidence,--a happy child amidst a great throng of
grown people, who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they
would to extreme old age. Nobody jostles her; all turn aside to make
way for little Annie; and, what is most singular, she appears
conscious of her claim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with
pleasure! A street musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder
church, and pours forth his strains to the busy town, a melody that
has gone astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices, and
the war of passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None but
myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the
lively tune, as if she were loath that music should be wasted without
a dance. But where would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in
their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with
age; some feeble with disease; some are so lean that their bones
would rattle, and others of such ponderous size that their agility
would crack the flagstones; but many, many have leaden feet, because
their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad thought that I
have chanced upon. What a company of dancers should we be? For I, too,
am a gentleman of sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us
walk sedately on.
[Illustration]
It is a question with me, whether this giddy child or my sage self have
most pleasure in looking at the shop windows. We love the silks of sunny
hue, that glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods'
men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver and the chased
gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at
the window of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks for a glimpse
of her passing figure in the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware
stores. All that is bright and gay attracts us both.
Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood, as well as
present partialities, give a peculiar magic. How delightful to let the
fancy revel on the dainties of a confectioner; those pies, with such
white and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery whether rich
mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant apple, delicately
rose-flavored; those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty
pyramid; those sweet little circlets, sweetly named kisses; those
dark, majestic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of an
heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered with
sugar! Then the mighty treasures of sugar-plums, white and crimson and
yellow, in large glass vases; and candy of all varieties; and those
little cockles, or whatever they are called, much prized by children
for their sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, by
love-sick maids and bachelors! O, my mouth waters, little Annie, and
so doth yours; but we will not be tempted, except to an imaginary
feast; so let us hasten onward, devouring the vision of a plum-cake.
Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind,
in the window of a bookseller. Is Annie a literary lady? Yes; she is
deeply read in Peter Parley's tomes, and has an increasing love for
fairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribe,
next year, to the Juvenile Miscellany. But, truth to tell, she is apt
to turn away from the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty
pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop window the
continual loitering-place of children. What would Annie think if, in
the book which I mean to send her on New Year's day, she should find
her sweet little self, bound up in silk or morocco with gilt edges,
there to remain till she become a woman grown, with children of her
own to read about their mother's childhood. That would be very queer.
Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me onward by the hand,
till suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. O my
stars! Is this a toyshop, or is it fairyland? For here are gilded
chariots, in which the king and queen of the fairies might ride side
by side, while their courtiers, on these small horses, should gallop
in triumphal procession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too,
are dishes of china-ware, fit to be the dining-set of those same
princely personages when they make a regal banquet in the stateliest
hall of their palace, full five feet high, and behold their nobles
feasting adown the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and
queen should sit my little Annie, the prettiest fairy of them all.
Here stands a turbaned Turk, threatening us with his sabre, like an
ugly heathen as he is. And next a Chinese mandarin, who nods his head
at Annie and myself. Here we may review a whole army of horse and
foot, in red and blue uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all
kinds of noiseless music; they have halted on the shelf of this
window, after their weary march from Liliput. But what cares Annie for
soldiers? No conquering queen is she, neither a Semiramis nor a
Catharine; her whole heart is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with
such a fashionable stare. This is the little girl's true plaything.
Though made of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage,
endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a
heroine of romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand shadowy
scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world with which children
ape the real one. Little Annie does not understand what I am saying,
but looks wishfully at the proud lady in the window. We will invite
her home with us as we return. Meantime, good by, Dame Doll! A toy
yourself, you look forth from your window upon many ladies that are
also toys, though they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of
toys, though they wear grave visages. O, with your never-closing eyes,
had you but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before them,
what a wise doll would you be! Come, little Annie, we shall find toys
enough, go where we may.
Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It is curious, in the
most crowded part of a town, to meet with living creatures that had
their birthplace in some far solitude, but have acquired a second
nature in the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that canary-bird,
hanging out of the window in his cage. Poor little fellow! His golden
feathers are all tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have
glistened twice as brightly among the summer islands; but still he has
become a citizen in all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half
so well without the uproar that drowns his music. What a pity that he
does not know how miserable he is! There is a parrot, too, calling
out, "Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!" as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be
talking about her prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a
pretty Poll, though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she had
said "Pretty Annie," there would have been some sense in it. See that
gray squirrel, at the door of the fruit-shop, whirling round and round
so merrily within his wire wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill, he
makes it an amusement. Admirable philosophy!
Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman's dog in search of his
master; smelling at everybody's heels, and touching little Annie's
hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain have
patted him. Success to your search, Fidelity! And there sits a great
yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat,
gazing at this transitory world, with owl's eyes, and making pithy
comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. O sage
puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of
philosophers!
Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier, and his
ding-dong bell! Look! look at that great cloth spread out in the air,
pictured all over with wild beasts, as if they had met together to
choose a king, according to their custom in the days of Æsop. But they
are choosing neither a king nor a president, else we should hear a
most horrible snarling! They have come from the deep woods, and the
wild mountains, and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do
homage to my little Annie. As we enter among them, the great elephant
makes us a bow, in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bending
lowly down his mountain bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out
behind. Annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of the
elephant, who is certainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. The
lion and the lioness are busy with two beef-bones. The royal tiger,
the beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a
haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recalling the fierce
deeds of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such
inferior animals, from the jungles of Bengal.
Here we see the very same wolf,--do not go near him, Annie!--the
self-same wolf that devoured little Red Riding-Hood and her
grandmother. In the next cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless
howled around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own forests, are
fellow prisoners and most excellent friends. Are there any two living
creatures who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be
friends? Here sits a great white bear, whom common observers would
call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be only absorbed in
contemplation; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of his
comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little
cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear
of sentiment. But O, those unsentimental monkeys! the ugly, grinning,
aping, chattering, ill-natured, mischievous, and queer little brutes.
Annie does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks her pure,
instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her mind unquiet, because it
bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. But here is a little
pony, just big enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he
gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band
of music. And here,--with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a
riding-whip in his hand,--here comes a little gentleman, small
enough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the
gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Merrily, merrily
plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the
little old gentleman. Come, Annie, into the street again; perchance we
may see monkeys on horseback there!
Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annie
ever read the Cries of London City? With what lusty lungs doth yonder
man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comes
another mounted on a cart, and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast
from a tin horn, as much as to say "Fresh fish!" And hark! a voice on
high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing
that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot, and
darksome caverns, into the upper air. What cares the world for that?
But, welladay! we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the scream of a
little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart,
sharp, slapping sound, produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie
sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe. Lo! the
town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he
tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book, or a show of
beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than
any in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in
his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried
motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the
sounds are scattered forth in quick succession, far and near.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the din of the town; it
drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and draws each man's mind
from his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and
ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to
the cellar-kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen.
Who, of all that address the public ear, whether in church or
court-house or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the
town-crier? What saith the people's orator?
"Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five years old, in a blue
silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel
eyes. Whoever will bring her to her afflicted mother--"
Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found. O my pretty Annie, we
forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair, and
has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go
my hand! Well, let us hasten homeward; and as we go, forget not to
thank Heaven, my Annie, that, after wandering a little way into the
world, you may return at the first summons, with an untainted and
unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But I have gone too far
astray for the town-crier to call me back.
Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, throughout my
ramble with little Annie! Say not that it has been a waste of precious
moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a revery of
childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice.
Has it been merely this? Not so; not so. They are not truly wise who
would affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of
aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple
thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth, for little cause or
none, their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on us
is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost
forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as
yesterday; when life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether
to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal away from
the society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an
hour or two with children. After drinking from those fountains of
still fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, to
struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fervently as ever,
but, for a time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more
lightly wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie!
_Nathaniel Hawthorne._
WHY THE COW TURNED HER HEAD AWAY.
[Illustration]
"Moolly Cow, your barn is warm, the wintry winds cannot reach you, nor
frost nor snow. Why are your eyes so sad? Take this wisp of hay. See,
I am holding it up? It is very good. Now you turn your head away. Why
do you look so sorrowful, Moolly Cow, and turn your head away?"
"Little girl, I am thinking of the time when that dry wisp of hay was
living grass. When those brown, withered flowers were blooming
clovertops, buttercups, and daisies, and the bees and the butterflies
came about them. The air was warm then, and gentle winds blew. Every
morning I went forth to spend the day in sunny pastures. I am thinking
now of those early summer mornings,--how the birds sang, and the sun
shone, and the grass glittered with dew! and the boy that opened the
gates, how merrily he whistled! I stepped quickly along, sniffing the
fresh morning air, snatching at times a hasty mouthful by the way; it
was really very pleasant! And when the bars fell, how joyfully I
leaped over! I knew where the grass grew green and tender, and
hastened to eat it while the dew was on.
"As the sun rose higher I sought the shade, and at noonday would lie
under the trees chewing, chewing, chewing, with half-shut eyes, and
the drowsy insects humming around me; or perhaps I would stand
motionless upon the river's bank, where one might catch a breath of
air, or wade deep in to cool myself in the stream. And when noontime
was passed and the heat grew less, I went back to the grass and
flowers.
"And thus the long summer day sped on,--sped pleasantly on, for I was
never lonely. No lack of company in those sunny pasture-lands! The
grasshoppers and crickets made a great stir, bees buzzed, butterflies
were coming and going, and birds singing always. I knew where the
ground-sparrows built, and all about the little field-mice. They were
very friendly to me, for often, while nibbling the grass, I would
whisper, 'Keep dark, little mice! Don't fly, sparrows! The boys are
coming!'
"No lack of company,--O no! When that withered hay was living grass,
yellow with buttercups, white with daisies, pink with clover, it was
the home of myriads of little insects,--very, very little insects. O,
but they made things lively, crawling, hopping, skipping among the
roots, and up and down the stalks, so happy, so full of life,--never
still! And now not one left alive! They are gone. That pleasant
summer-time is gone. O, these long, dismal winter nights! All day I
stand in my lonely stall, listening, not to the song of birds, or hum
of bees, or chirp of grasshoppers, or the pleasant rustling of leaves,
but to the noise of howling winds, hail, sleet, and driving snow!
"Little girl, I pray you don't hold up to me that wisp of hay. In just
that same way they held before my eyes, one pleasant morning, a bunch
of sweet clover, to entice me from my pretty calf!
"Poor thing! It was the only one I had! So gay and sprightly! Such a
playful, frisky, happy young thing! It was a joy to see her caper and
toss her heels about, without a thought of care or sorrow. It was good
to feel her nestling close at my side, to look into her bright,
innocent eyes, to rest my head lovingly upon her neck!
"And already I was looking forward to the time when she would become
steady and thoughtful like myself; was counting greatly upon her
company of nights in the dark barn, or in roaming the fields through
the long summer days. For the butterflies and bees, and all the bits
of insects, though well enough in their way, and most excellent
company, were, after all, not akin to me, and there is nothing like
living with one's own blood relations.
"But I lost my pretty little one! The sweet clover enticed me away.
When I came back she was gone! I saw through the bars the rope wound
about her. I saw the cart. I saw the cruel men lift her in. She made a
mournful noise. I cried out, and thrust my head over the rail,
calling, in language she well understood, 'Come back! O, come back!'
"She looked up with her round, sorrowful eyes and wished to come, but
the rope held her fast! The man cracked his whip, the cart rolled
away; I never saw her more!
"No, little girl, I cannot take your wisp of hay. It reminds me of the
silliest hour of my life,--of a day when I surely made myself a fool.
And on that day, too, I was offered by a little girl a bunch of grass
and flowers.
"It was a still summer's noon. Not a breath of air was stirring. I had
waded deep into the stream, which was then calm and smooth. Looking
down I saw my own image in the water. And I perceived that my neck was
thick and clumsy, that my hair was brick-color, and my head of an ugly
shape, with two horns sticking out much like the prongs of a
pitchfork. 'Truly, Mrs. Cow,' I said, 'you are by no means handsome!'
"Just then a horse went trotting along the bank. His hair was glossy
black, he had a flowing mane, and a tail which grew thick and long.
His proud neck was arched, his head lifted high. He trotted lightly
over the ground, bending in his hoofs daintily at every footfall. Said
I to myself, 'Although not well-looking,--which is a great pity,--it
is quite possible that I can step beautifully, like the horse; who
knows?' And I resolved to plod on no longer in sober cow-fashion, but
to trot off nimbly and briskly and lightly.
"I hastily waded ashore, climbed the bank, held my head high,
stretched out my neck, and did my best to trot like the horse, bending
in my hoofs as well as was possible at every step, hoping that all
would admire me.
"Some children gathering flowers near by burst into shouts of
laughter, crying out, 'Look! Look!' 'Mary!' 'Tom!' 'What ails the
cow?' 'She acts like a horse!' 'She is putting on airs!' 'Clumsy
thing!' 'Her tail is like a pump-handle!' 'O, I guess she's a mad
cow!' Then they ran, and I sank down under a tree with tears in my
eyes.
"But one little girl stayed behind the rest, and, seeing that I was
quiet, she came softly up, step by step, holding out a bunch of grass
and clover. I kept still as a mouse. She stroked me with her soft
hand, and said,--
"'O good Moolly Cow, I love you dearly; for my mother has told me very
nice things about you. Of course, you are not handsome. O no, O no!
But then you are good-natured, and so we all love you. Every day you
give us sweet milk, and never keep any for yourself. The boys strike
you sometimes, and throw stones, and set the dogs on you; but you give
them your milk just the same. And you are never contrary like the
horse, stopping when you ought to go, and going when you ought to
stop. Nobody has to whisper in your ears, to make you gentle, as they
do to horses; you are gentle of your own accord, dear Moolly Cow. If
you do walk up to children sometimes, you won't hook; it's only
playing, and I will stroke you and love you dearly. And if you'd like
to know, I'll tell you that there's a wonderful lady who puts you into
her lovely pictures, away over the water.'
"Her words gave me great comfort, and may she never lack for milk to
crumb her bread in! But O, take away your wisp of hay, little girl;
for you bring to mind the summer days which are gone, and my pretty
bossy, that was stolen away, and also--my own folly."
_Abby Morton Diaz._
[Illustration]
THE BABY OF THE REGIMENT.
We were in our winter camp on Port Royal Island. It was a lovely
November morning, soft and spring-like; the mocking-birds were
singing, and the cotton-fields still white with fleecy pods. Morning
drill was over, the men were cleaning their guns and singing very
happily; the officers were in their tents, reading still more happily
their letters just arrived from home. Suddenly I heard a knock at my
tent-door, and the latch clicked. It was the only latch in camp, and I
was very proud of it, and the officers always clicked it as loudly as
possible, in order to gratify my feelings. The door opened, and the
Quartermaster thrust in the most beaming face I ever saw.
"Colonel," said he, "there are great news for the regiment. My wife
and baby are coming by the next steamer!"
"Baby!" said I, in amazement. "Q. M., you are beside yourself." (We
always called the Quartermaster Q. M. for shortness.) "There was a
pass sent to your wife, but nothing was ever said about a baby. Baby
indeed!"
"But the baby was included in the pass," replied the triumphant
father-of-a-family. "You don't suppose my wife would come down here
without her baby! Besides, the pass itself permits her to bring
necessary baggage; and is not a baby six months old necessary
baggage?"
"But, my dear fellow," said I, rather anxiously, "how can you make the
little thing comfortable in a tent, amidst these rigors of a South
Carolina winter, when it is uncomfortably hot for drill at noon, and
ice forms by your bedside at night?"
"Trust me for that," said the delighted papa, and went off whistling.
I could hear him telling the same news to three others, at least,
before he got to his own tent.
That day the preparations began, and soon his abode was a wonder of
comfort. There were posts and rafters, and a raised floor, and a great
chimney, and a door with hinges,--every luxury except a latch, and
that he could not have, for mine was the last that could be purchased.
One of the regimental carpenters was employed to make a cradle, and
another to make a bedstead high enough for the cradle to go under.
Then there must be a bit of red carpet beside the bedstead; and thus
the progress of splendor went on. The wife of one of the colored
sergeants was engaged to act as nursery-maid. She was a very
respectable young woman, the only objection to her being that she
smoked a pipe. But we thought that perhaps Baby might not dislike
tobacco; and if she did, she would have excellent opportunities to
break the pipe in pieces.
In due time the steamer arrived, and Baby and her mother were among
the passengers. The little recruit was soon settled in her new cradle,
and slept in it as if she had never known any other. The sergeant's
wife soon had her on exhibition through the neighborhood, and from
that time forward she was quite a queen among us. She had sweet blue
eyes and pretty brown hair, with round, dimpled cheeks, and that
perfect dignity which is so beautiful in a baby. She hardly ever
cried, and was not at all timid. She would go to anybody, and yet did
not encourage any romping from any but the most intimate friends. She
always wore a warm, long-sleeved scarlet cloak with a hood, and in
this costume was carried, or "toted," as the soldiers said, all about
the camp. At "guard-mounting" in the morning, when the men who are to
go on guard duty for the day are drawn up to be inspected, Baby was
always there, to help to inspect them. She did not say much, but she
eyed them very closely, and seemed fully to appreciate their bright
buttons. Then the Officer-of-the-Day, who appears at guard-mounting
with his sword and sash, and comes afterwards to the Colonel's tent
for orders, would come and speak to Baby on his way, and receive her
orders first. When the time came for drill she was usually present to
watch the troops; and when the drum beat for dinner she liked to see
the long row of men in each company march up to the cook-house, in
single file, each with tin cup and plate.
During the day, in pleasant weather, she might be seen in her nurse's
arms, about the company streets, the centre of an admiring circle, her
scarlet costume looking very pretty amidst the shining black cheeks
and neat blue uniforms of the soldiers. At "dress-parade," just before
sunset, she was always an attendant. As I stood before the regiment, I
could see the little spot of red, out of the corner of my eye, at one
end of the long line of men, and I looked with so much interest for
her small person, that, instead of saying at the proper time,
"Attention, Battalion! Shoulder arms!" it is a wonder that I did not
say, "Shoulder babies!"
[Illustration]
Our little lady was very impartial, and distributed her kind looks to
everybody. She had not the slightest prejudice against color, and did
not care in the least whether her particular friends were black or
white. Her especial favorites, I think, were the drummer-boys, who
were not my favorites by any means, for they were a roguish set of
scamps, and gave more trouble than all the grown men in the regiment.
I think Annie liked them because they were small, and made a noise,
and had red caps like her hood, and red facings on their jackets, and
also because they occasionally stood on their heads for her amusement.
After dress-parade the whole drum-corps would march to the great
flag-staff, and wait till just sunset-time, when they would beat "the
retreat," and then the flag would be hauled down,--a great festival
for Annie. Sometimes the Sergeant-Major would wrap her in the great
folds of the flag, after it was taken down, and she would peep out
very prettily from amidst the stars and stripes, like a new-born
Goddess of Liberty.
About once a month, some inspecting officer was sent to the camp by
the General in command, to see to the condition of everything in the
regiment, from bayonets to buttons. It was usually a long and tiresome
process, and, when everything else was done, I used to tell the
officer that I had one thing more for him to inspect, which was
peculiar to our regiment. Then I would send for Baby to be exhibited;
and I never saw an inspecting officer, old or young, who did not look
pleased at the sudden appearance of the little, fresh, smiling
creature,--a flower in the midst of war. And Annie in her turn would
look at them, with the true baby dignity in her face,--that deep,
earnest look which babies often have, and which people think so
wonderful when Raphael paints it, although they might often see just
the same expression in the faces of their own darlings at home.
Meanwhile Annie seemed to like the camp style of housekeeping very
much. Her father's tent was double, and he used the front apartment
for his office, and the inner room for parlor and bedroom, while the
nurse had a separate tent and wash-room behind all. I remember that,
the first time I went there in the evening, it was to borrow some
writing-paper; and while Baby's mother was hunting for it in the front
tent, I heard a great cooing and murmuring in the inner room. I asked
if Annie was still awake, and her mother told me to go in and see.
Pushing aside the canvas door, I entered. No sign of anybody was to be
seen; but a variety of soft little happy noises seemed to come from
some unseen corner. Mrs. C. came quietly in, pulled away the
counterpane of her own bed, and drew out the rough cradle, where lay
the little damsel, perfectly happy, and wider awake than anything but
a baby possibly can be. She looked as if the seclusion of a dozen
family bedsteads would not be enough to discourage her spirits, and I
saw that camp life was likely to suit her very well.
A tent can be kept very warm, for it is merely a house with a thinner
wall than usual; and I do not think that Baby felt the cold much more
than if she had been at home that winter. The great trouble is, that a
tent-chimney, not being built very high, is apt to smoke when the wind
is in a certain direction; and when that happens it is hardly possible
to stay inside. So we used to build the chimneys of some tents on the
east side, and those of others on the west, and thus some of the tents
were always comfortable. I have seen Baby's mother running, in a hard
rain, with little Red-Riding-Hood in her arms, to take refuge with the
Adjutant's wife, when every other abode was full of smoke; and I must
admit that there were one or two windy days that season when nobody
could really keep warm, and Annie had to remain ignominiously in her
cradle, with as many clothes on as possible, for almost the whole
time.
The Quartermaster's tent was very attractive to us in the evening. I
remember that once, on passing near it after nightfall, I heard our
Major's fine voice singing Methodist hymns within, and Mrs. C.'s sweet
tones chiming in. So I peeped through the outer door. The fire was
burning very pleasantly in the inner tent, and the scrap of new red
carpet made the floor look quite magnificent. The Major sat on a box,
our surgeon on a stool; "Q. M." and his wife, and the Adjutant's wife,
and one of the captains, were all sitting on the bed, singing as well
as they knew how; and the baby was under the bed. Baby had retired for
the night,--was overshadowed, suppressed, sat upon; the singing went
on, and she had wandered away into her own land of dreams, nearer to
heaven, perhaps, than any pitch their voices could attain. I went in
and joined the party. Presently the music stopped, and another officer
was sent for, to sing some particular song. At this pause the
invisible innocent waked a little, and began to cluck and coo.
"It's the kitten," exclaimed somebody.
"It's my baby!" exclaimed Mrs. C. triumphantly, in that tone of
unfailing personal pride which belongs to young mothers.
The people all got up from the bed for a moment, while Annie was
pulled from beneath, wide awake, and placid as usual; and she sat in
one lap or another during the rest of the concert, sometimes winking
at the candle, but usually listening to the songs, with a calm and
critical expression, as if she could make as much noise as any of
them, whenever she saw fit to try. Not a sound did she make, however,
except one little soft sneeze, which led to an immediate flood-tide of
red shawl, covering every part of her but the forehead. But I soon
hinted that the concert had better be ended, because I knew from
observation that the small damsel had carefully watched a regimental
inspection and a brigade drill on that day, and that an interval of
repose was certainly necessary.
Annie did not long remain the only baby in camp. One day, on going out
to the stables to look at a horse, I heard a sound of baby-talk,
addressed by some man to a child near by, and, looking round the
corner of a tent, I saw that one of the hostlers had something black
and round, lying on the sloping side of a tent, with which he was
playing very eagerly. It proved to be his baby,--a plump, shiny thing,
younger than Annie; and I never saw a merrier picture than the happy
father frolicking with his child, while the mother stood quietly by.
This was Baby Number Two, and she stayed in camp several weeks, the
two innocents meeting each other every day in the placid indifference
that belonged to their years; both were happy little healthy things,
and it never seemed to cross their minds that there was any difference
in their complexions. As I said before, Annie was not troubled by any
prejudice in regard to color, nor do I suppose that the other little
maiden was.