not because it was right to be good, but because she wished to be
beautiful. Three times she sought the grotto, and three times she left
in tears; for the golden specks grew dim at her approach, and the
golden wands were still crossed, to shut her from the Immortal
Fountain. The fourth time she prevailed. The purple Fairies lowered
their wands, singing,--
Thou hast scaled the mountain,
Go, bathe in the Fountain;
Rise fair to the sight
As an angel of light;
Go, bathe in the Fountain!
Marion was about to plunge in, but the queen touched her, saying,
"Look in the mirror of the waters. Art thou not already as beautiful
as heart can wish?"
Marion looked at herself, and saw that her eye sparkled with new
lustre, that a bright color shone through her cheeks, and dimples
played sweetly about her mouth. "I have not touched the Immortal
Fountain," said she, turning in surprise to the queen. "True," replied
the queen, "but its waters have been within your soul. Know that a
pure heart and a clear conscience are the only immortal fountains of
beauty."
When Marion returned, Rose clasped her to her bosom, and kissed her
fervently. "I know all," said she, "though I have not asked you a
question. I have been in Fairy Land, disguised as a bird, and I have
watched all your steps. When you first went to the grotto, I begged
the queen to grant your wish."
Ever after that the sisters lived lovingly together. It was the remark
of every one, "How handsome Marion has grown! The ugly scowl has
departed from her face; and the light of her eye is so mild and
pleasant, and her mouth looks so smiling and good-natured, that to my
taste, I declare, she is as handsome as Rose."
_L. Maria Child._
THE BIRD'S-NEST IN THE MOON.
I love to go to the Moon. I never shake off sublunary cares and
sorrows so completely as when I am fairly landed on that beautiful
island.[A] A man in the Moon may see Castle Island, the city of
Boston, the ships in the harbor, the silver waters of our little
archipelago, all lying, as it were, at his feet. There you may be at
once social and solitary,--social, because you see the busy world
before you; and solitary because there is not a single creature on the
island, except a few feeding cows, to disturb your repose.
[A] Moon Island, in Boston harbor.
I was there last summer, and was surveying the scene with my usual
emotions, when my attention was attracted by the whirring wings of a
little sparrow, that, in walking, I had frightened from her nest.
This bird, as is well known, always builds its nest on the ground. I
have seen one, often, in the middle of a cornhill, curiously placed in
the centre of the five green stalks, so that it was difficult, at
hoeing time, to dress the hill without burying the nest.
This sparrow had built hers beneath a little tuft of grass more rich
and thickset than the rest of the herbage around it. I cast a careless
glance at the nest, saw the soft down that lined it, the four little
speckled eggs which enclosed the parents' hope. I marked the multitude
of cows that were feeding around it, one tread of whose cloven feet
would crush both bird and progeny into ruin.
I could not but reflect on the dangerous condition to which the
creature had committed her most tender hopes. A cow is seeking a bite
of grass; she steps aside to gratify that appetite; she treads on the
nest, and destroys the offspring of the defenceless bird.
As I came away from the island, I reflected that this bird's
situation, in her humble, defenceless nest, might be no unapt emblem
of man in this precarious world. What are diseases, in their countless
forms, accidents by flood and fire, the seductions of temptation, and
even some human beings themselves, but so many huge cows feeding
around our nest, and ready, every moment, to crush our dearest hopes,
with the most careless indifference, beneath their brutal tread?
Sometimes, as we sit at home, we can see the calamity coming at a
distance. We hear the breathing of the monster; we mark its great
wavering path, now looking towards us in a direct line, now
capriciously turning for a moment aside. We see the swing of its
dreadful horns, the savage rapacity of its brutal appetite; we behold
it approaching nearer and nearer, and it passes within a hairbreadth
of our ruin, leaving us to the sad reflection that another and another
are still behind.
Poor bird! Our situations are exactly alike.
The other evening I walked into the chamber where my children were
sleeping. There was Willie, with the clothes half kicked down, his
hands thrown carelessly over his head, tired with play, now resting in
repose; there was Jamie with his balmy breath and rosy cheeks,
sleeping and looking like innocence itself. There was Bessie, who has
just begun to prattle, and runs daily with tottering steps and lisping
voice to ask her father to toss her into the air.
As I looked upon these sleeping innocents, I could not but regard them
as so many little birds which I must fold under my wing, and protect,
if possible, in security in my nest.
But when I thought of the huge cows that were feeding around them, the
ugly hoofs that might crush them into ruin, in short, when I
remembered _the bird's-nest in the Moon_, I trembled and wept.
But why weep? Is there not a special providence in the fall of a
sparrow?
It is very possible that the nest which I saw was not in so dangerous
a situation as it appeared to be. Perhaps some providential instinct
led the bird to build her fragile house in the ranker grass, which the
kine never bite, and, of course, on which they would not be likely to
tread. Perhaps some kind impulse may guide that species so as not to
tread even on a bird's-nest.
There is a merciful God, whose care and protection extend over all his
works, who takes care of the sparrow's children and of mine. _The very
hairs of our head are all numbered._
_New England Magazine._
[Illustration]
DREAM-CHILDREN: A REVERY.
Children love to listen to stories about their elders when _they_ were
children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a
traditionary great-uncle or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in
this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to
hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house
in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa
lived) which had been the scene--so, at least, it was generally
believed in that part of the country--of the tragic incidents which
they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children
in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and
their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the
chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin
Redbreasts! till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a
marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon
it.--Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to
be called upbraiding.
Then I went on to say how religious and how good their
great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody,
though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had
only the charge of it (and yet, in some respects, she might be said to
be the mistress of it too), committed to her by the owner, who
preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had
purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it
in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the
great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay,
and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and
carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and
looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they
had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry
gilt drawing-room.
Here John smiled, as much as to say, "That would be foolish indeed."
And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by
a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry, too, of the
neighborhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her
memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good,
indeed, that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great part
of the Testament besides.--Here little Alice spread her hands.
Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their
great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was
esteemed the best dancer,--here Alice's little right foot played an
involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted,--the
best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called
a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend
her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright,
because she was so good and religious.
Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of
the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two
infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great
staircase near where she slept, but she said "those innocents would do
her no harm"; and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I
had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or
religious as she,--and yet I never saw the infants.--Here John
expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.
Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to
the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend
many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve
Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads
would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how
I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its
vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry,
and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed
out,--sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had
almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man
would cross me,--and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the
walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were
forbidden fruit, unless now and then,--and because I had more pleasure
in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew-trees, or the
firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir-apples, which were
good for nothing but to look at,--or in lying about upon the fresh
grass with all the fine garden smells around me,--or basking in the
orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening too, along with
the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth,--or in watching the
dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the
garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the
water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings;
I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the
sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common
baits of children.--Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a
bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated
dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the
present as irrelevant.
[Illustration]
Then, in a somewhat more heightened tone, I told how, though their
great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an
especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L----,
because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the
rest of us; and instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some
of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but
an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the
county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out; and
yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much
spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries; and how their
uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the
admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most
especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back, when I was a
lame-footed boy,--for he was a good bit older than me,--many a mile,
when I could not walk for pain; and how in after life he became
lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough
for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently
how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when
he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had
died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and
death; and how I bore his death, as I thought, pretty well at first,
but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or
take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I
had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how
much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his
crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with
him (for we quarrelled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and
was as uneasy without him as he their poor uncle must have been when
the doctor took off his limb.
Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning
which they had on was not for their Uncle John; and they looked up,
and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some
stories about their pretty dead mother.
Then I told how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in
despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W----n; and, as
much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness,
and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens,--when suddenly, turning
to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such
a reality of representment that I became in doubt which of them stood
there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood
gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding,
and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features
were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely
impressed upon me the effects of speech: "We are not of Alice, nor of
thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum
father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only
what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe
millions of ages before we have existence and a name";--and
immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor
arm-chair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget
unchanged by my side,--but John L---- (or James Elia) was gone forever.
_Charles Lamb._
[Illustration]
THE UGLY DUCKLING.
It was beautiful in the country; it was summer-time; the wheat was
yellow; the oats were green, the hay was stacked up in the green
meadows, and the stork paraded about on his long red legs, discoursing
in Egyptian, which language he had learned from his mother. The fields
and meadows were skirted by thick woods, and a deep lake lay in the
midst of the woods. Yes, it was indeed beautiful in the country! The
sunshine fell warmly on an old mansion, surrounded by deep canals, and
from the walls down to the water's edge there grew large
burdock-leaves, so high that children could stand upright among them
without being perceived. This place was as wild and unfrequented as
the thickest part of the wood, and on that account a duck had chosen
to make her nest there. She was sitting on her eggs; but the pleasure
she had felt at first was now almost gone, because she had been there
so long, and had so few visitors, for the other ducks preferred
swimming on the canals to sitting among the burdock-leaves gossiping
with her.
At last the eggs cracked, one after another, "Tchick! tchick!" All the
eggs were alive, and one little head after another peered forth.
"Quack, quack!" said the Duck, and all got up as well as they could;
they peeped about from under the green leaves; and as green is good
for the eyes, the mother let them look as long as they pleased.
"How large the world is!" said the little ones, for they found their
present situation very different from their former confined one, while
yet in the egg-shells.
"Do you imagine this to be the whole of the world?" said the mother;
"it extends far beyond the other side of the garden to the pastor's
field; but I have never been there. Are you all here?" And then she
got up. "No, not all, but the largest egg is still here. How long will
this last? I am so weary of it!" And then she sat down again.
"Well, and how are you getting on?" asked an old Duck, who had come to
pay her a visit.
"This one egg keeps me so long!" said the mother, "it will not break.
But you should see the others! they are the prettiest little ducklings
I have seen in all my days; they are all like their father,--the
good-for-nothing fellow, he has not been to visit me once!"
"Let me see the egg that will not break!" said the old Duck; "depend
upon it, it is a turkey's egg. I was cheated in the same way once
myself, and I had such trouble with the young ones; for they were
afraid of the water, and I could not get them there. I called and
scolded, but it was all of no use. But let me see the egg. Ah, yes! to
be sure, that is a turkey's egg. Leave it, and teach the other little
ones to swim."
"I will sit on it a little longer," said the Duck. "I have been
sitting so long that I may as well spend the harvest here."
"It is no business of mine," said the old Duck, and away she waddled.
The great egg burst at last. "Tchick! tchick!" said the little one,
and out it tumbled; but O, how large and ugly it was! The Duck looked
at it. "That is a great, strong creature," said she; "none of the
others are at all like it. Can it be a young turkey-cock? Well, we
shall soon find out; it must go into the water, though I push it in
myself."
The next day there was delightful weather, and the sun shone warmly
upon the green leaves when Mother Duck with all her family went down
to the canal; plump she went into the water. "Quack, quack!" cried
she, and one duckling after another jumped in. The water closed over
their heads, but all came up again, and swam together in the
pleasantest manner; their legs moved without effort. All were there,
even the ugly, gray one.
"No! it is not a turkey," said the old Duck; "only see how prettily it
moves its legs! how upright it hold itself! it is my own child: it is
also really very pretty, when one looks more closely at it. Quack!
quack! now come with me, I will take you into the world, introduce you
in the duck-yard; but keep close to me, or some one may tread on you;
and beware of the cat."
So they came into the duck-yard. There was a horrid noise; two
families were quarrelling about the remains of an eel, which in the
end was secured by the cat.
"See, my children, such is the way of the world," said the Mother
Duck, wiping her beak, for she, too, was fond of eels. "Now use your
legs," said she; "keep together, and bow to the old duck you see
yonder. She is the most distinguished of all the fowls present, and is
of Spanish blood, which accounts for her dignified appearance and
manners. And look, she has a red rag on her leg! that is considered
extremely handsome, and is the greatest distinction a duck can have.
Don't turn your feet inwards; a well-educated duckling always keeps
his legs far apart, like his father and mother, just so,--look! now
bow your necks, and say, 'quack.'"
And they did as they were told. But the other ducks who were in the
yard looked at them, and said aloud, "Only see! now we have another
brood,--as if there were not enough of us already; and fie! how ugly
that one is! we will not endure it." And immediately one of the ducks
flew at him, and bit him in the neck.
"Leave him alone," said the mother; "he is doing no one any harm."
"Yes, but he is so large, and so strange-looking, and therefore he
shall be teased."
"These are fine children that our good mother has," said the old Duck
with the red rag on her leg. "All are pretty except one, and that has
not turned out well; I almost wish it could be hatched over again."
"That cannot be, please your highness," said the mother. "Certainly he
is not handsome, but he is a very good child, and swims as well as the
others, indeed rather better. I think he will grow like the others all
in good time, and perhaps will look smaller. He stayed so long in the
egg-shell, that is the cause of the difference"; and she scratched the
Duckling's neck, and stroked his whole body. "Besides," added she, "he
is a drake; I think he will be very strong, therefore it does not
matter, so much; he will fight his way through."
"The other ducks are very pretty," said the old Duck. "Pray make
yourselves at home, and if you find an eel's head you can bring it to
me."
And accordingly they made themselves at home.
But the poor little Duckling who had come last out of its egg-shell,
and who was so ugly, was bitten, pecked, and teased by both Ducks and
Hens. "It is so large!" said they all. And the Turkey-cock, who had
come into the world with spurs on, and therefore fancied he was an
emperor, puffed himself up like a ship in full sail, and marched up to
the Duckling quite red with passion. The poor little thing scarcely
knew what to do; he was quite distressed because he was so ugly, and
because he was the jest of the poultry-yard.
So passed the first day, and afterwards matters grew worse and worse;
the poor Duckling was scorned by all. Even his brothers and sisters
behaved unkindly, and were constantly saying, "The cat fetch thee,
thou nasty creature!" The mother said, "Ah, if thou wert only far
away!" The Ducks bit him, the Hens pecked him, and the girl who fed
the poultry kicked him. He ran over the hedge; the little birds in the
bushes were terrified. "That is because I am so ugly," thought the
Duckling, shutting his eyes, but he ran on. At last he came to a wide
moor, where lived some Wild Ducks; here he lay the whole night, so
tired and so comfortless. In the morning the Wild Ducks flew up, and
perceived their new companion. "Pray, who are you?" asked they; and
our little Duckling turned himself in all directions, and greeted them
as politely as possible.
"You are really uncommonly ugly!" said the Wild Ducks; "however, that
does not matter to us, provided you do not marry into our families."
Poor thing! he had never thought of marrying; he only begged
permission to lie among the reeds and drink the water of the moor.
There he lay for two whole days; on the third day there came two Wild
Geese, or rather Ganders, who had not been long out of their
egg-shells, which accounts for their impertinence.
"Hark ye!" said they, "you are so ugly that we like you infinitely
well; will you come with us, and be a bird of passage? On another
moor, not far from this, are some dear, sweet Wild Geese, as lovely
creatures as have ever said 'hiss, hiss.' You are truly in the way to
make your fortune, ugly as you are."
Bang! a gun went off all at once, and both Wild Geese were stretched
dead among the reeds; the water became red with blood; bang! a gun
went off again; whole flocks of wild geese flew up from among the
reeds, and another report followed.
There was a grand hunting party; the hunters lay in ambush all around;
some were even sitting in the trees, whose huge branches stretched far
over the moor. The blue smoke rose through the thick trees like a
mist, and was dispersed as it fell over the water; the hounds splashed
about in the mud, the reeds and rushes bent in all directions; how
frightened the poor little Duck was! he turned his head, thinking to
hide it under his wings, and in a moment a most formidable-looking dog
stood close to him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes
sparkling fearfully. He opened wide his jaws at the sight of our
Duckling, showed him his sharp white teeth, and splash, splash! he was
gone,--gone without hurting him.
"Well! let me be thankful," sighed he; "I am so ugly that even the dog
will not eat me."
And now he lay still, though the shooting continued among the reeds,
shot following shot.
The noise did not cease till late in the day, and even then the poor
little thing dared not stir; he waited several hours before he looked
around him, and then hastened away from the moor as fast as he could;
he ran over fields and meadows, though the wind was so high that he
had some difficulty in proceeding.