been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James
the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to
the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the
southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low
green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of
upland. Through these, a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed,
rippled, and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden-side, wound,
silently and scarcely visible, to a still larger stream, known as the
Country Brook. This brook in its turn, after doing duty at two or
three saw and grist mills, the clack of which we could hear in still
days across the intervening woodlands, found its way to the great
river, and the river took it up and bore it down to the great sea.
I have not much reason for speaking well of these meadows, or rather
bogs, for they were wet most of the year; but in the early days they
were highly prized by the settlers, as they furnished natural mowing
before the uplands could be cleared of wood and stones and laid down
to grass. There is a tradition that the hay-harvesters of two
adjoining towns quarrelled about a boundary question, and fought a
hard battle one summer morning in that old time, not altogether
bloodless, but by no means as fatal as the fight between the rival
Highland clans, described by Scott in "The Fair Maid of Perth." I used
to wonder at their folly, when I was stumbling over the rough
hassocks, and sinking knee-deep in the black mire, raking the sharp
sickle-edged grass which we used to feed out to the young cattle in
midwinter when the bitter cold gave them appetite for even such
fodder. I had an almost Irish hatred of snakes, and these meadows were
full of them,--striped, green, dingy water-snakes, and now and then
an ugly spotted adder by no means pleasant to touch with bare feet.
There were great black snakes, too, in the ledges of the neighboring
knolls; and on one occasion in early spring I found myself in the
midst of a score at least of them,--holding their wicked meeting of a
Sabbath morning on the margin of a deep spring in the meadows. One
glimpse at their fierce shining heads in the sunshine, as they roused
themselves at my approach, was sufficient to send me at full speed
towards the nearest upland. The snakes, equally scared, fled in the
same direction; and, looking back, I saw the dark monsters following
close at my heels, terrible as the Black Horse rebel regiment at Bull
Run. I had, happily, sense enough left to step aside and let the ugly
troop glide into the bushes.
Nevertheless, the meadows had their redeeming points. In spring
mornings the blackbirds and bobolinks made them musical with songs;
and in the evenings great bullfrogs croaked and clamored; and on
summer nights we loved to watch the white wreaths of fog rising and
drifting in the moonlight like troops of ghosts, with the fireflies
throwing up ever and anon signals of their coming. But the Brook was
far more attractive, for it had sheltered bathing-places, clear and
white sanded, and weedy stretches, where the shy pickerel loved to
linger, and deep pools, where the stupid sucker stirred the black mud
with his fins. I had followed it all the way from its birthplace among
the pleasant New Hampshire hills, through the sunshine of broad, open
meadows, and under the shadow of thick woods. It was, for the most
part, a sober, quiet little river; but at intervals it broke into a
low, rippling laugh over rocks and trunks of fallen trees. There had,
so tradition said, once been a witch-meeting on its banks, of six
little old women in short, sky-blue cloaks; and if a drunken teamster
could be credited, a ghost was once seen bobbing for eels under
Country Bridge. It ground our corn and rye for us, at its two
grist-mills; and we drove our sheep to it for their spring washing, an
anniversary which was looked forward to with intense delight, for it
was always rare fun for the youngsters. Macaulay has sung,--
"That year young lads in Umbro
Shall plunge the struggling sheep";
and his picture of the Roman sheep-washing recalled, when we read it,
similar scenes in the Country Brook. On its banks we could always find
the earliest and the latest wild flowers, from the pale blue,
three-lobed hepatica, and small, delicate wood-anemone, to the yellow
bloom of the witch-hazel burning in the leafless October woods.
Yet, after all, I think the chief attraction of the Brook to my
brother and myself was the fine fishing it afforded us. Our bachelor
uncle who lived with us (there has always been one of that unfortunate
class in every generation of our family) was a quiet, genial man, much
given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the great pleasures of
our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill,
Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook.
We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying-lot
to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll
through the woods and along the brookside. I remember my first fishing
excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in
my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first
fishing-pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through
the woods and meadows. It was a still sweet day of early summer; the
long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the
leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than
ever before. My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best
haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable
point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited
anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of
the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it. "Try
again," said my uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. "Now for
it," thought I; "here is a fish at last." I made a strong pull, and
brought up a tangle of weeds. Again and again I cast out my line with
aching arms, and drew it back empty. I looked to my uncle appealingly.
"Try once more," he said; "we fishermen must have patience."
Suddenly something tugged at my line and swept off with it into deep
water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun.
"Uncle!" I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got
a fish!" "Not yet," said my uncle. As he spoke there was a plash in
the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into
the middle of the stream; my hook hung empty from the line. I had lost
my prize.
[Illustration]
We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in
comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it
the young folks don't agree with us. Our griefs, modified and
restrained by reason, experience, and self-respect, keep the
proprieties, and, if possible, avoid a scene; but the sorrow of
childhood, unreasoning and all-absorbing, is a complete abandonment to
the passion. The doll's nose is broken, and the world breaks up with
it; the marble rolls out of sight, and the solid globe rolls off with
the marble.
So, overcome by my great and bitter disappointment, I sat down on the
nearest hassock, and for a time refused to be comforted, even by my
uncle's assurance that there were more fish in the brook. He refitted
my bait, and, putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my
luck once more.
"But remember, boy," he said, with his shrewd smile, "never brag of
catching a fish until he is on dry ground. I've seen older folks doing
that in more ways than one, and so making fools of themselves. It's no
use to boast of anything until it's done, nor then either, for it
speaks for itself."
How often since I have been reminded of the fish that I did not catch!
When I hear people boasting of a work as yet undone, and trying to
anticipate the credit which belongs only to actual achievement, I call
to mind that scene by the brookside, and the wise caution of my uncle
in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb of universal
application: "NEVER BRAG OF YOUR FISH BEFORE YOU CATCH HIM."
_John G. Whittier._
LITTLE KATE WORDSWORTH.
When I first settled in Grasmere, Catherine Wordsworth was in her
infancy, but even at that age she noticed me more than any other
person, excepting, of course, her mother. She was not above three
years old when she died, so that there could not have been much room
for the expansion of her understanding, or the unfolding of her real
character. But there was room in her short life, and too much, for
love the most intense to settle upon her.
The whole of Grasmere is not large enough to allow of any great
distance between house and house; and as it happened that little Kate
Wordsworth returned my love, she in a manner lived with me at my
solitary cottage. As often as I could entice her from home, she walked
with me, slept with me, and was my sole companion.
That I was not singular in ascribing some witchery to the nature and
manners of this innocent child may be gathered from the following
beautiful lines by her father. They are from the poem entitled
"Characteristics of a Child Three Years Old," dated, at the foot,
1811, which must be an oversight, as she was not so old until the
following year.
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,
And feats of cunning, and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock chastisement, and partnership in play.
And as a fagot sparkles on the hearth
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round,
And take delight in its activity,--
Even so this happy creature of herself
Was all-sufficient. Solitude to her
Was blithe society, who filled the air
With gladness and involuntary songs."
It was this radiant spirit of joyousness, making solitude, for her,
blithe society, and filling from morning to night the air with
gladness and involuntary songs,--this it was which so fascinated my
heart that I became blindly devoted to this one affection.
In the spring of 1812 I went up to London; and early in June I learned
by a letter from Miss Wordsworth, her aunt, that she had died
suddenly. She had gone to bed in good health about sunset on June 4,
was found speechless a little before midnight, and died in the early
dawn, just as the first gleams of morning began to appear above Seat
Sandel and Fairfield, the mightiest of the Grasmere barriers,--about
an hour, perhaps, before sunrise.
Over and above my love for her, I had always viewed her as an
impersonation of the dawn, and of the spirit of infancy; and this,
with the connection which, even in her parting hours, she assumed with
the summer sun, timing her death with the rising of that fountain of
life,--these impressions recoiled into such a contrast to the image of
death, that each exalted and brightened the other.
I returned hastily to Grasmere, stretched myself every night on her
grave, in fact often passed the whole night there, in mere intensity
of sick yearning after neighborhood with the darling of my heart.
In Sir Walter Scott's "Demonology," and in Dr. Abercrombie's
"Inquiries concerning the Intellectual Powers," there are some
remarkable illustrations of the creative faculties awakened in the eye
or other organs by peculiar states of passion; and it is worthy of a
place among cases of that nature, that in many solitary fields, at a
considerable elevation above the level of the valleys,--fields which,
in the local dialect, are called "intacks,"--my eye was haunted, at
times, in broad noonday (oftener, however, in the afternoon), with a
facility, but at times also with a necessity, for weaving, out of a
few simple elements, a perfect picture of little Kate in her attitude
and onward motion of walking.
I resorted constantly to these "intacks," as places where I was little
liable to disturbance; and usually I saw her at the opposite side of
the field, which sometimes might be at the distance of a quarter of a
mile, generally not so much. Almost always she carried a basket on her
head; and usually the first hint upon which the figure arose commenced
in wild plants, such as tall ferns, or the purple flowers of the
foxglove. But whatever these might be, uniformly the same little
full-formed figure arose, uniformly dressed in the little blue
bed-gown and black skirt of Westmoreland, and uniformly with the air
of advancing motion.
_Thomas De Quincey._
[Illustration]
HOW MARGERY WONDERED.
[Illustration]
One bright morning, late in March, little Margery put on her hood and
her Highland plaid shawl, and went trudging across the beach. It was
the first time she had been trusted out alone, for Margery was a
little girl; nothing about her was large, except her round gray eyes,
which had yet scarcely opened upon half a dozen springs and summers.
There was a pale mist on the far-off sea and sky, and up around the
sun were white clouds edged with the hues of pinks and violets. The
sunshine and the mild air made Margery's very heart feel warm, and she
let the soft wind blow aside her Highland shawl, as she looked across
the waters at the sun, and wondered!
For, somehow, the sun had never looked before as it did to-day;--it
seemed like a great golden flower bursting out of its pearl-lined
calyx,--a flower without a stem! Or was there a strong stem away
behind it in the sky, that reached down below the sea, to a root,
nobody could guess where?
Margery did not stop to puzzle herself about the answer to her
question, for now the tide was coming in, and the waves, little at
first, but growing larger every moment, were crowding up, along the
sand and pebbles, laughing, winking, and whispering, as they tumbled
over each other, like thousands of children hurrying home from
somewhere, each with its own precious little secret to tell. Where did
the waves come from? Who was down there under the blue wall of the
horizon, with the hoarse, hollow voice, urging and pushing them across
the beach to her feet? And what secret was it they were lisping to
each other with their pleasant voices? O, what was there beneath the
sea, and beyond the sea, so deep, so broad, and so dim too, away off
where the white ships, that looked smaller than sea-birds, were
gliding out and in?
But while Margery stood still for a moment on a dry rock and wondered,
there came a low, rippling warble to her ear from a cedar-tree on the
cliff above her. It had been a long winter, and Margery had forgotten
that there were birds, and that birds could sing. So she wondered
again what the music was. And when she saw the bird perched on a
yellow-brown bough, she wondered yet more. It was only a bluebird, but
then it was the first bluebird Margery had ever seen. He fluttered
among the prickly twigs, and looked as if he had grown out of them, as
the cedar-berries had, which were dusty-blue, the color of his coat.
But how did the music get into his throat? And after it was in his
throat, how could it untangle itself, and wind itself off so evenly?
And where had the bluebird flown from, across the snow-banks, down to
the shore of the blue sea? The waves sang a welcome to him, and he
sang a welcome to the waves; they seemed to know each other well; and
the ripple and the warble sounded so much alike, the bird and the wave
must both have learned their music of the same teacher. And Margery
kept on wondering as she stepped between the song of the bluebird and
the echo of the sea, and climbed a sloping bank, just turning faintly
green in the spring sunshine.
The grass was surely beginning to grow! There were fresh, juicy shoots
running up among the withered blades of last year, as if in hopes of
bringing them back to life; and closer down she saw the sharp points
of new spears peeping from their sheaths. And scattered here and there
were small dark green leaves folded around buds shut up so tight that
only those who had watched them many seasons could tell what flowers
were to be let out of their safe prisons by and by. So no one could
blame Margery for not knowing that they were only common
things,--mouse-ear, dandelions, and cinquefoil; nor for stooping over
the tiny buds, and wondering.
What made the grass come up so green out of the black earth? And how
did the buds know when it was time to take off their little green
hoods, and see what there was in the world around them? And how came
they to be buds at all? Did they bloom in another world before they
sprung up here?--and did they know, themselves, what kind of flowers
they should blossom into? Had flowers souls, like little girls, that
would live in another world when their forms had faded away from this?
Margery thought she should like to sit down on the bank and wait
beside the buds until they opened; perhaps they would tell her their
secret if the very first thing they saw was her eyes watching them.
One bud was beginning to unfold; it was streaked with yellow in little
stripes that she could imagine became wider every minute. But she
would not touch it, for it seemed almost as much alive as herself. She
only wondered, and wondered!
But the dash of the waves grew louder, and the bluebird had not
stopped singing yet, and the sweet sounds drew Margery's feet down to
the beach again, where she played with the shining pebbles, and sifted
the sand through her plump fingers, stopping now and then to wonder a
little about everything, until she heard her mother's voice calling
her, from the cottage on the cliff.
Then Margery trudged home across the shells and pebbles with a
pleasant smile dimpling her cheeks, for she felt very much at home in
this large, wonderful world, and was happy to be alive, although she
neither could have told, nor cared to know, the reason why. But when
her mother unpinned the little girl's Highland shawl, and took off
her hood, she said, "O mother, do let me live on the door-step! I
don't like houses to stay in. What makes everything so pretty and so
glad? Don't you like to wonder?"
Margery's mother was a good woman. But then there was all the
housework to do, and if she had thoughts, she did not often let them
wander outside the kitchen door. And just now she was baking some
gingerbread, which was in danger of getting burned in the oven. So she
pinned the shawl around the child's neck again, and left her on the
door-step, saying to herself, as she returned to her work, "Queer
child! I wonder what kind of a woman she will be!"
But Margery sat on the door-step, and wondered, as the sea sounded
louder, and the sunshine grew warmer around her. It was all so
strange, and grand, and beautiful! Her heart danced with joy to the
music that went echoing through the wide world from the roots of the
sprouting grass to the great golden blossom of the sun.
And when the round, gray eyes closed that night, at the first peep of
the stars, the angels looked down and wondered over Margery. For the
wisdom of the wisest being God has made ends in wonder; and there is
nothing on earth so wonderful as the budding soul of a little child.
_Lucy Larcom._
[Illustration]
THE NETTLE-GATHERER.
Very early in the spring, when the fresh grass was just appearing,
before the trees had got their foliage, or the beds of white campanula
and blue anemone were open, a poor little girl with a basket on her
arm went out to search for nettles.
Near the stone wall of the churchyard was a bright green spot, where
grew a large bunch of nettles. The largest stung little Karine's
fingers. "Thank you for nothing!" said she; "but, whether you like it
or not, you must all be put into my basket."
Little Karine blew on her smarting finger, and the wind followed suit.
The sun shone out warm, and the larks began to sing. As Karine was
standing there listening to the song of the birds, and warming herself
in the sun, she perceived a beautiful butterfly.
"O, the first I have seen this year! What sort of summer shall I have?
Let me see your colors. Black and bright red. Sorrow and joy in turn.
It is very likely I may go supperless to bed, but then there is the
pleasure of gathering flowers, making hay, and playing tricks."
Remembrance and expectation made her laugh.
The butterfly stretched out its dazzling wings, and, after it had
settled on a nettle, waved itself backwards and forwards in the
sunshine. There was also something else upon the nettle, which looked
like a shrivelled-up light brown leaf. The sun was just then shining
down with great force upon the spot, and while she looked the brown
object moved, and two little leaves rose gently up which by and by
became two beautiful little wings; and behold, it was a butterfly just
come out of the chrysalis! Fresh life was infused into it by the warm
rays of the sun, and how happy it was!
The two butterflies must have been friends whom some unlucky chance
had separated. They flew about, played at hide-and-seek, waltzed with
each other, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves in the
bright sunshine. One flew away three times into a neighboring orchard.
The other seated itself on a nettle to rest. Karine went gently
towards it, put her hands quickly over it, and got possession both of
the butterfly and the nettle. She then put them into the basket, which
she covered with a red cotton handkerchief, and went home happy.
[Illustration]
The nettles were bought by an old countess, who lived in a grand
apartment, and had a weakness for nettle soup. Karine received a
silver piece for them. With this in her hand, the butterfly in her
basket, and also two large gingercakes which had been given to her by
the kind countess, the happy girl went into the room where her mother
and little brother awaited her. There were great rejoicings over the
piece of silver, the gingercakes, and the butterfly.
But the butterfly did not appear as happy with the children as the
children were with the butterfly. It would not eat any of the
gingerbread, or anything else which the children offered, but was
always fluttering against the window-pane, and when it rested on the
ledge it put out a long proboscis, drew it in again, and appeared to
be sucking something; however, it found nothing to suit its taste, so
it flew about again, and beat its wings with such force against the
window-pane, that Karine began to fear it would come to grief. Two
days passed in this way. The butterfly would not be happy.
"It wants to get out," thought Karine; "it wants to find a home and
something to eat." So she opened the window.
Ah, how joyfully the butterfly flew out into the open air! it seemed
to be quite happy. Karine ran after it to see which way it took. It
flew over the churchyard, which was near Karine's dwelling. There
little yellow star-like flowers of every description were in bud;
among them the spring campanula, otherwise called the morning-star.
Into the calyxes of these little flowers it thrust its proboscis, and
sucked a sweet juice therefrom; for at the bottom of the calyx of
almost every flower there is a drop of sweet juice which God has
provided for the nourishment of insects,--bees, drones, butterflies,
and many other little creatures.
The butterfly then flew to the bunch of nettles on the hill. The large
nettle which had stung Karine's finger now bore three white
bell-shaped flowers, which looked like a crown on the top of the
stalk, and many others were nearly out. The butterfly drew honey from
the white nettle-blossoms and embraced the plant with its wings, as
children do a tender mother.
"It has now returned to its home," thought Karine, and she felt very
glad to have given the butterfly its liberty.
Summer came. The child enjoyed herself under the lime-trees in the
churchyard, and in the meadows where she got the beautiful yellow
catkins, which were as soft as the down of the goslings, and which she
was so fond of playing with, also the young twigs which she liked
cutting into pipes or whistles. Fir-trees and pines blossomed and bore
fir-cones; the sheep and calves were growing, and drank the dew, which
is called the "Blessed Virgin's hand," out of the trumpet moss, which
with its small white and purple cup grew on the steep shady banks.
Karine now gathered flowers to sell. The nettles had long ago become
too old and rank, but the nettle butterflies still flew merrily about
among them.
One day Karine saw her old friend sit on a leaf, as if tired and worn
out, and when it flew away the child found a little gray egg lying on
the very spot where it had rested, whereupon she made a mark on the
nettle and the leaf.