Bessie, "and I won't ask any more." For Bessie's mother had long been
sick, and was going now for her health.
Her mother smiled and kissed her. "Yes, I will bring that if I can,
but there must be something else; how would you like a set of tools
for this famous garden?"
Bessie's eyes shone with joy. "What! a whole set,--rake, and hoe, and
trowel, such as the gardener uses?"
"Exactly, only they'll be small enough for your little hands; and
there'll be a shovel besides, and a wheelbarrow, and a water-pot."
So Bessie did not cry when her mother went away, though she loved her
as well as any one possibly could. She thought of all the bright
things, of the pleasant journey and the better health; and then,--then
of her pretty set of tools, and the handsome garden they would make!
It was too late to go back to the hill that evening; and on the morrow
Bessie awoke to find it raining fast. She went into her Aunt Annie's
room with such a mournful face. "O aunty, this old rain!"
"This new, fresh, beautiful rain, Bessie; what are you thinking about?
How it will make our flowers grow! and what a good time we can have
together in the house!"
"I know it, Aunt Annie, but you'll think me so careless!"
"To let it rain!"
"No,--don't laugh, aunty,--to leave your nice basket out-of-doors all
night, and now to be soaked and spoiled in this--this--beautiful
rain." Bessie's countenance did not look as though the beautiful rain
made her very happy.
And good Aunt Annie, seeing how much she was troubled, only said, "You
must be more careful, dear, another time; come and tell me all about
it. Perhaps my Bessie has some good excuse; I can see it now in her
eyes."
"Yes, indeed, I have," said Bessie, wiping away her tears. And the
little girl crept close to her aunty's side, and told her of her
beautiful time the day before, and of the bird, and squirrel, and
toad; and how the basket rolled away down hill in the steepest place,
and then how the bell rang, and she couldn't wait to find it.
"And you did exactly right, dear," said Aunt Annie. "If you had
lingered, your mother would have had to wait a whole day, or else go
without seeing you. When I write, I shall tell her how obedient you
were, and I know it will please her more than anything else I shall
have to say."
Dear Aunt Annie, she had always a word of excuse and of comfort for
every one! Bessie was too small to think much about it then. She only
pressed her little cheek lovingly against her aunty's hand, and
resolved that, when she grew up to a young lady, she would be just as
kind and ready to forget herself as Aunt Annie was.
Ah, it was not Bessie's lot to grow up to a woman in this world!
Before the ground was dry enough for her to venture out in search of
her basket, she was seized with a fever, and in a few days shut up her
sweet eyes, as the flowers shut their leaves together, and never
opened them again.
Then the summer passed, and the grass grew green and faded, and
snow-flakes began to fall on a little grave; and Aunt Annie quietly
laid aside the set of garden tools that had come too late for
Bessie's use, and only made her mother feel sad and lonely when she
looked upon them now. And all this time, what had become of the
basket?
As it fell from Bessie's hands that bright spring afternoon, it had
lodged in a grassy hollow, that was all wound about, like a nest, with
roots of the tall birch and maple trees; close among the roots grew
patches of the lovely scented May-flower; and all the rest was long
fine grass, with a tiny leaf or a violet growing here and there.
The roots in the basket dried away, and died for want of water; but
the earth that Bessie had dug with them was full of little seeds,
which had been hiding in the dark for years, awaiting their chance to
grow.
Broader and darker grew the leaves on the shady boughs above, higher
and higher grew the grass, and all but hid Bessie's basket. "Coming,
coming, coming!" the bird sang in the boughs; but Bessie never came.
So the summer passed; and when autumn shook the broad leaves from the
trees, and some went whirling down the hill, and some sailed away in
the brook, some lodged in Bessie's basket; a few to-day, and a few the
next day, till the snow came, and it was almost full to the brim.
Sometimes there would come a hoar-frost, and then it was full of
sparkling flowers so airy that the first sunbeam melted them, but none
the less lovely for that; and they melted, and went down among the
leaves, and seed, and sand, and violet-roots.
In spring the May-flowers perfumed the hollow with their sweet, fresh
breath; but no one gathered them. The leaves and the grass nestled
close to Bessie's basket, as if they remembered her; and drops of rain
dripped into it from the budding boughs, and sparkled as they dropped,
though they were full of tiny grains of dust and seed; and thus
another summer passed, and no one knew what had become of Bessie's
basket.
The bird sang, "Coming, coming!" but she never came.
So the third spring came round; and Aunt Annie was putting her closet
in order one day, rolling up pieces, and clearing boxes, and smoothing
drawers, when she came upon a little bundle. It was the bags, and
work, and spools of thread--all old and yellow now--which she had
poured out that morning in spring, in order to give the basket to her
little niece.
"Dear child!" said Aunt Annie, "why have I never looked for the lost
basket? The poor little garden must be swept away, but it would be
pleasant to go where her sweet footsteps trod on that happy
afternoon."
So she went, all by herself, in the same direction which she had
watched Bessie take; and it seemed as if the little one were skipping
before her through the garden, the gate,--the gap in the hedge was not
large enough for Aunt Annie,--across the meadow that shone again with
starry dandelions, along by the brook, and up the hill, till she was
lost from sight among the trees.
How sweet and fresh it was in the lonely wood, with the birds, and the
young leaves, and starry wild flowers, and patches of pretty moss! Did
Bessie wait here and rest? Did she climb this rock for columbines? Did
she creep to the edge of this bank, and look over?
So Aunt Annie seated herself to rest among the moss and roots and
leaves; she picked columbines, climbing by help of the slender
birch-trees; she went to the edge of the bank, and looked down past
all the trees, and stones, and flowers, to the little brook below. And
what do you think she saw?
What do you think made the tears come in Aunt Annie's eyes so quickly,
though she seemed so glad they must have been tears of joy?
After a while Aunt Annie turned to go home. Why did she put the boughs
aside so gently, and step so carefully over the soft moss, as if she
feared making any sound. Can you think?
She found Bessie's mother seated at work with a sad face, and her back
turned towards the window.
"O," said Aunt Annie, "how dark the room is, with all these heavy
curtains! and how still and lonesome it seems here! You must come
this moment and take a walk with me out in the sunshine; it will do
you good."
Bessie's mother shook her head. "I don't care for sunshine to-day; I
would rather be lonely."
Then Aunt Annie knelt by her sister, and looked up with those sweet
eyes none could ever refuse. "Not care for sun, because our dear
little Bessie has gone to be an angel! O, you must see the field all
over buttercups and dandelions, like a sky turned upside down,--it
would have pleased her so! and you must see the brook and woods; and
then I have such a surprise for you, you'll never be sorry for laying
aside your work."
"Is it anything about Bessie?" the mother asked, as they went down the
steps, out into the bright, beautiful sunshine.
"Yes, yes! Everything makes you think of her to-day; I can almost see
her little footsteps in the grass. A bird somewhere in the wood sung
her very name,--and so sweetly, as if he loved her,--'Bessie, Bessie,
Bessie,' as if he were thinking of her all the while!"
They reached the wood soon, for Aunt Annie seemed in haste, and
hurried Bessie's mother on; though she had grown so happy all at once,
that she wanted to wait and look at everything,--the little leaves in
the ground, and the grass-blades, and clover, and bees even, seemed to
please her.
When you find people sad, there is nothing in all the world so good as
to take them out in the sun of a summer day. You must remember this;
it is better than most of the Latin prescriptions doctors write.
When they were fairly within the wood, at the brow of the steep bank,
Aunt Annie parted the branches with both her hands, and said, "You
must follow me down a little way; come."
O, as Aunt Annie looked back, it seemed as if she had brought all the
sunshine in her dear face! "Don't think of being afraid," she said;
"why, Bessie came down here once! I have found her basket, I've found
her beautiful garden!"
Yes, that was the secret! You remember the spot into which Bessie's
basket fell; all intertwined like a bird's-nest with roots of the
great tall trees; all green and soft with the fine grass that grows in
the woods. Here it had lain ever since. Here it was.--
But you cannot think how changed! The violet-roots, the leaves, dust,
rain, frost, seed,--you remember how they filled it, and withered to
leave room for more, day by day, week by week.
Now these had mingled together, and made rich earth; and the seeds had
grown, the tiny seeds, and were dear little plants and flowers, that
hung about the edge, and crept through the open-work sides, with their
delicate green leaves, and tendrils, and starry blossoms!
Violet, chickweed, anemone, spring-beauty, and dicentra, that children
call "Dutchman's breeches," with its pearly, drooping flowers,--these
had tangled into one lovely mass of leaves and blossoms, just such as
would have made our Bessie sing for joy.
Yet you have not heard the best; Aunt Annie's footsteps on the moss
would not have disturbed these. Right in the midst of the flowers in
Bessie's basket a little gray ground-sparrow had built her nest of
hair and moss, and there she was hatching her eggs! As they drew
nearer, the little bird looked up at the ladies with his bright brown
eye, and seemed to say, "Don't hurt me; don't, for Bessie's sake!"
No, they would not hurt Bessie's bird for the whole wide world. They
went quietly home, and left him there watching for his mate, who had
flown up towards the sky to stretch her wings a little.
Slowly, hand in hand, the sisters passed once more through the wood.
They could not bear to leave so sweet a place. And all the while
Bessie's bird sang to them his strange song, "Coming, coming, coming!"
They heard it till the wood was out of sight.
"Yes, there are always good things coming as well as going," Aunt
Annie said, softly, "if we are patient and wait. The dear child's
basket has grown more useful and lovely because she lost it that
bright day."
"And our lost darling?" Bessie's mother began to ask, and looked in
Aunt Annie's eyes.
"Our Bessie's flowers do not fade now; there is no cold winter in
heaven; she cannot lose her treasures there. And hasn't she grown more
useful and lovely, living among the angels all this while?"
Then, from afar in the woods, they heard the low, sweet voice, that
thrilled forth, "Coming, coming!" and Bessie's mother smiled, and
said, "She cannot come to us, but we soon shall go to her; and O, our
darling's hand in ours, how gladly shall we walk in the Eternal
Garden!"
_Caroline S. Whitmarsh._
[Illustration]
HOW THE CRICKETS BROUGHT GOOD FORTUNE.
My friend Jacques went into a baker's shop one day to buy a little
cake which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose
appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him.
He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he
waited for his change, a little boy six or eight years old, in poor,
but perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker's shop. "Ma'am," said
he to the baker's wife, "mother sent me for a loaf of bread." The
woman climbed upon the counter (this happened in a country town), took
from the shelf of four-pound loaves the best one she could find, and
put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jacques then first observed the thin and thoughtful face of
the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the round, open
countenance of the great loaf, of which he was taking the greatest
care.
"Have you any money?" said the baker's wife.
The little boy's eyes grew sad.
"No, ma'am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but
mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it
to-morrow."
"Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jacques came forward for his money. He had put his purchase
into his pocket, and was about to go, when he found the child with the
big loaf, whom he had supposed to be half-way home, standing
stock-still behind him.
"What are you doing there?" said the baker's wife to the child, whom
she also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"
"O yes, ma'am!" said the child.
"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait
any longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will
get a scolding."
The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.
The baker's wife went up to him, and gave him a friendly tap on the
shoulder. "What _are_ you thinking about?" said she.
"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is it that sings?"
"There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"
My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing,
unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers'
houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the
bread sings when it bakes, as apples do."
"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are
crickets. They sing in the bakehouse because we are lighting the oven,
and they like to see the fire."
"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"
"Yes, to be sure," said she, good-humoredly. The child's face lighted
up.
"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would
like it very much if you would give me a cricket."
"A cricket!" said the baker's wife, smiling; "what in the world would
you do with a cricket, my little friend? I would gladly give you all
there are in the house, to get rid of them, they run about so."
"O ma'am, give me one, only one, if you please!" said the child,
clasping his little thin hands under the big loaf. "They say that
crickets bring good luck into houses; and perhaps if we had one at
home, mother, who has so much trouble, wouldn't cry any more."
"Why does your poor mamma cry?" said my friend, who could no longer
help joining in the conversation.
"On account of her bills, sir," said the little fellow. "Father is
dead, and mother works very hard, but she cannot pay them all."
[Illustration]
My friend took the child, and with him the great loaf, into his arms,
and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile the baker's wife,
who did not dare to touch a cricket herself, had gone into the
bakehouse. She made her husband catch four, and put them into a box
with holes in the cover, so that they might breathe. She gave the box
to the child, who went away perfectly happy.
When he had gone, the baker's wife and my friend gave each other a
good squeeze of the hand. "Poor little fellow!" said they both
together. Then she took down her account-book, and, finding the page
where the mother's charges were written, made a great dash all down
the page, and then wrote at the bottom, "Paid."
Meanwhile my friend, to lose no time, had put up in paper all the
money in his pockets, where fortunately he had quite a sum that day,
and had begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the
little cricket-boy, with her bill receipted, and a note, in which he
told her she had a son who would one day be her joy and pride.
They gave it to a baker's boy with long legs, and told him to make
haste. The child, with his big loaf, his four crickets, and his little
short legs, could not run very fast, so that, when he reached home, he
found his mother, for the first time in many weeks with her eyes
raised from her work, and a smile of peace and happiness upon her
lips.
The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black
things which had worked this miracle, and I do not think he was
mistaken. Without the crickets, and his good little heart, would this
happy change have taken place in his mother's fortunes?
_From the French of P. J. Stahl._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
On the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above Port Louis in
the Mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former
cultivation, are seen the ruins of two small cottages. Those ruins are
situated near the centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and
which opens only toward the north. On the left rises the mountain,
called the Height of Discovery, whence the eye marks the distant sail
when it first touches the verge of the horizon, and whence the signal
is given when a vessel approaches the island. At the foot of this
mountain stands the town of Port Louis. On the right is formed the
road, which stretches from Port Louis to the Shaddock Grove, where the
church bearing that name lifts its head, surrounded by its avenues of
bamboo, in the midst of a spacious plain; and the prospect terminates
in a forest extending to the farthest bounds of the island. The front
view presents the bay, denominated the Bay of the Tomb; a little on
the right is seen the Cape of Misfortune; and beyond rolls the
expanded ocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited
islands, and, among others, the Point of Endeavor, which resembles a
bastion built upon the flood.
At the entrance of the valley which presents those various objects,
the echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of
the winds that shake the neighboring forests, and the tumultuous
dashing of the waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs; but
near the ruined cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects
which there meet the eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a
surrounding rampart. Large clumps of trees grow at their base, on
their rifted sides, and even on their majestic tops, where the clouds
seem to repose. The showers, which their bold points attract, often
paint the vivid colors of the rainbow on their green and brown
declivities, and swell the sources of the little river which flows at
their feet, called the river of Fan-Palms.
Within this enclosure reigns the most profound silence. The waters,
the air, all the elements, are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat
the whispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long
points of which are gently agitated by the winds. A soft light
illumines the bottom of this deep valley, on which the sun shines only
at noon. But even at break of day the rays of light are thrown on the
surrounding rocks; and their sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of
the mountain, appear like tints of gold and purple gleaming upon the
azure sky.
Here two mothers, widowed by death and desertion, nursed their
children, with the sight of whom the mutual affection of the parents
acquired new strength.
Madame de la Tour's child was named Virginia; her friend Margaret's,
Paul. They loved to put their infants into the same bath, and lay them
in the same cradle; and sometimes each nursed at her bosom the other's
babe.
"My friend," said Madame de la Tour, "we shall each of us have two
children, and each of our children will have two mothers."
Nothing could exceed the attachment which these infants early
displayed for each other. If Paul complained, his mother pointed to
Virginia, and at that sight he smiled and was appeased. If any
accident befell Virginia, the cries of Paul gave notice of the
disaster, and then the dear child would suppress her complaints when
she found that Paul was unhappy. When I came hither, I used to see
them tottering along, holding each other by the hands and under the
arms, as we represent the constellation of the Twins. At night these
infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the
same cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms, pressed close together, their
hands thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping locked in one
another's arms.
When they began to speak, the first names they learned to give each
other were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer
appellation. Their education served to increase their early
friendship, by directing it to the supply of each other's wants. In a
short time, all that regarded the household economy, the care of
preparing the rural repasts, became the task of Virginia, whose labors
were always crowned with the praises and kisses of her brother. As for
Paul, always in motion, he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed
him with a little hatchet into the woods; and if in his rambles he
espied a beautiful flower, fine fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the
top of a tree, he would climb up, and bring it home to his sister.
When you met one of these children, you might be sure the other was
not far off. One day, as I was coming down the mountain, I saw
Virginia at the end of the garden, running toward the house, with her
petticoat thrown over her head, in order to screen herself from a
shower of rain. At a distance, I thought she was alone; but as I
hastened toward her, in order to help her on, I perceived that she
held Paul by the arm, almost entirely enveloped in the same canopy,
and both were laughing heartily at being sheltered together under an
umbrella of their own invention. Those two charming faces placed
within the swelling petticoat recalled to my mind the children of Leda
enclosed within the same shell.
[Illustration]
Their sole study was how to please and assist each other; for of all
other things they were ignorant, and knew neither how to read nor
write. They were never disturbed by inquiries about past times, nor
did their curiosity extend beyond the bounds of their mountain. They
believed the world ended at the shores of their own island, and all
their ideas and affections were confined within its limits. Their
mutual tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the
activity of their souls. Their tears had never been called forth by
tedious application to useless sciences. Their minds had never been
wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms unconscious of
ill. They had never been taught not to steal, because everything with
them was in common; or not to be intemperate, because their simple
food was left to their own discretion; or not to lie, because they had
no truth to conceal. Their young imaginations had never been terrified
by the idea that God has punishments in store for ungrateful children,
since with them filial affection arose naturally from maternal
fondness.
Thus passed their early childhood, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude
of a bright day. Already they partook with their mothers the cares of
the household. As soon as the crow of the cock announced the first
beam of the morning, Virginia arose, and hastened to draw water from a
neighboring spring; then, returning to the house, she prepared the
breakfast. When the rising sun lighted up the points of the rocks
which overhang this enclosure, Margaret and her child went to the
dwelling of Madame de la Tour, and offered up together their morning
prayer. This sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded their first
repast, of which they often partook before the door of the cottage,
seated upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain; and while the
branches of that delightful tree afforded a grateful shade, its solid
fruit furnished food ready prepared by Nature; and its long glossy
leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the want of linen.