Must fly this stormy weather;
Good bye!--my friends are setting out;
We always go together.
ARAMINTA.
Stay just a moment! Tell me how
You're going? _Wings_ will weary;
And there's no steamboat in the sky;
The way is long and dreary.
ROBIN.
There's One above, who will not see
A sparrow fall unheeded;
He, 'Minta, will watch over me,
And give me strength when needed.
I'm going where the orange glows,
Like gold, thro' the emerald leaves, love;
I'm going where its richest rose
The laughing summer weaves, love.
ARAMINTA.
But tell me, Robin, how you'll find
The route you want to glide on;
There are no sign-posts in the air,
Not even a road to ride on!
ROBIN.
Ah, little one! I cannot err,
With His true hand to guide me;
His care is ever o'er my way,
His helpful love beside me.
[Illustration]
THE BABY-HOUSE.
Are there any of you, my young friends, so young or so ignorant as to
believe that, if you might go to the beautiful toy shops, and had but
money enough to buy just what toys you fancy, you should be quite happy?
You have heard of Napoleon, the great Emperor of France, and perhaps you
have heard of his wife, the lovely Empress Josephine. She had a
daughter, Hortense, who was married to the King of Holland, Napoleon's
brother. The Queen of Holland had children, dearly beloved by their
grandmother Josephine. One year, as the Christmas holidays approached,
she sent for those artisans in Paris who manufacture toys, and ordered
toys to be made expressly for her grandchildren, more beautiful and more
costly than any that were to be bought. Her commands were obeyed--the
toys arrived in Holland at the right time, and on Christmas morning were
given to the children. For a little while they were enchanted; they
thought they should never see enough of a doll that could speak, wild
beasts that could roar and growl, and birds that could sing.
But, alas! after a few hours, they were tired of a doll that could say
nothing but ma--ma, pa--pa, of beasts that growled in but one tone, and
the birds that sang the same note. Before evening the toys were strewn
over the floor, some broken, all neglected and deserted; and the mother,
on coming into the apartment, found one of the little princes crying at
a window that overlooked a court, where some poor children were merrily
playing.
"Crying _to-day_, my son?" she exclaimed. "Oh! what would dear
grandmamma say?--what are you crying for?"
"I want to go and play with those children in that pretty dirt, mamma."
This story was brought to my mind last Christmas eve. I went to see a
very good neighbour of ours, Mrs. Selby, a carpenter's wife. The whole
family are industrious and economical, and obliged to be so, for Mr.
Selby cannot always get work in these times. He will not call them
_hard_ times. "It would be a shame to us," he says, "to call times hard
when we never go hungry, and have decent clothes to cover us, and have
health on our cheeks, and love in our hearts."
And, sure enough, there was no look of hard times there. The room was
clean and warm. Mrs. Selby was busy over her mending basket, putting a
darn here, a button in this place, and a hook and a eye there, to have
all in order for Christmas morning. Her only son, Charles, was very busy
with some of his father's tools in one corner; not too busy, though, to
make his bow to me, and draw forward the rocking-chair. I wish I could
find as good manners among our drawing-room children, as I see at Mrs.
Selby's. Sarah and Lucy, the two girls, one eleven, the other ten years
old, were working away by the light of a single lamp, so deeply engaged
that they did not at first notice my entrance. "Where is little Nannie?"
I asked. "She is gone to bed--put out of the way," replied Mrs. Selby.
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed the girls. "Well, then--have not you banished
her?" "Banished? No, mother--Oh! mother is only teasing us;" and they
blushed and smiled.
"Here is some mystery," said I; "what is it, Sarah?" "Mother may tell if
she pleases, ma'am," said Sarah. Mother was very happy to tell, for all
mothers like to tell good of their children.
"You know, ma'am, the children all doat on little Nannie, she is so much
younger than they--only five years old--and they had a desire to have
some very pretty Christmas gift for her; but how could they, they said,
with so little money as they had to spend? They have, to be sure, a
little store. I make it a rule to give each a penny at the end of the
week, if I see them improving in their weak point." "Weak point! what is
that, Mrs. Selby?" "Why, ma'am, Charles is not always punctual at
school; so I promised him that if he will not be one half minute
behindhand for a week, he shall have a penny. Sarah, who is a little
head over heels, gets one for making the beds and dusting neatly. And
Lucy--Lucy is a careless child--for not getting a spot on her apron. On
counting up Charles had fifty-one pennies Sarah forty-eight, and Lucy
forty-nine."
"No, mother," said Lucy; "Sarah had forty-eight, and I forty-seven."
"Ah, so it was; thank you, dear, for correcting me." "But Lucy would
have had just the same as I, only she lost one penny by breaking a
tea-cup, and it was such cold weather it almost broke itself."
I looked with delight at these little girls, so just and generous to one
another. The mother proceeded: "Father makes it a rule, if they have
been good children, to give them two shillings each, for holidays; so
they had seventy-five pennies a-piece."
"Enough," said I, "to make little Miss Nannie a pretty respectable
present."
"Ah, indeed, if it were all for Nannie? but they gave a Christmas
present to their father and to me, and to each other, and to the poor
little lame child, next door; so that Nannie only comes in for a sixth
part. They set their wits to work to contrive something more than their
money would buy, and they determined on making a baby-house, which they
were sure would please her and give her many a pleasant hour when they
were gone to school. So there it stands in the corner of the room. Take
away the shawl, girls, and show it to Miss----. The shawl has been
carefully kept over it, to hide it from Nanny, that she may have the
pleasure of surprise to-morrow morning." The shawl was removed, and if
my little readers have ever been to the theatre, and remember their
pleasure when the curtain was first drawn up, they can imagine mine. The
baby-house was three stories high--that is, there were three rooms, one
above the other, made by placing three old wooden boxes one on the
other. Old, I call them, but so they did not appear: their outsides had
been well scoured, then pasted over with paper, and the gum arabic was
put on the paper, and over that was nicely scattered a coating of
granite-coloured smalt. The inside wall of the lower room, or kitchen,
was covered with white paper, to look like fresh white wash; the parlour
and chamber walls were covered with very pretty hanging-paper, given to
the children by their friend, Miss Laverty, the upholsterer. The kitchen
floor was spread with straw matting. Charles had made a very nice
dresser for one side, and a table and a seat resembling a settee, for
the other. The girls had created something in the likeness of a woman,
whom they called a cook; the broom she held in one hand,--they had made
it admirably,--and the pail in the other was Charles' handy-work. A
stove, shovel and tongs, tea-kettle and skillet, and dishes for the
dresser they had spent money for. They were determined, first, to get
their _necessaries_, Sarah said, (a wise little house-wife,) if they
went without everything else. The kitchen furniture, smalt and gum
arabic, had cost them eighteen-pence--just half their joint stock. "Then
how could you possibly furnish your parlour and chamber so beautifully?"
"Oh, that is almost all our own work, ma'am. Charlie made the frames of
the chairs and sofas, and we stuffed and covered them." "But where did
you get this very pretty crimson cloth to cover them, and the materials
for your carpet and curtains?" The parlour carpet was made of dark
cloth, with a centre piece of flowers and birds, very neatly fashioned,
and sewed on. The chamber carpet was made of squares of divers coloured
cloth.
The cloth for the centre-table was neatly worked; the window-curtains
were strips of rich coloured cotton sewed together; the colours matched
the colours of the carpet. To my question to Sarah, where she had got
all these pretty materials, she replied, "Oh, ma'am, we did not buy them
with _money_, but we bought them and paid for them with labour, father
says."
These little girls were early beginning to learn that truth in political
economy, that all property is produced and obtained by labour. "Miss
Laverty, the upholsteress, works up stairs; we picked hair for her, and
she paid us in these pieces."
"The centre-table, bedstead, and chairs," said the mother, "and the
wardrobe for the bed-chamber, Charlie made. The bed-sheets, pillows,
spreads, &c., the girls made from pieces _fished_, as they say, out of
my piece-basket. The work was all done in their play hours; their
working time is not theirs, and therefore they could not give it away."
"I see," said I, looking at some very pretty pictures hanging around the
parlour and chamber walls, "how these are arranged; they seem cut out of
old books, pasted against pasteboard, and bound around with gilt paper;
but pray tell me how this little mamma doll was bought, and the little
baby in the cradle, and this pretty tea-set, and the candle-sticks, and
the book-case and flower-vase on the centre-table, and the parlour
stove. Charlie could make none of these things; you could not contrive
them out of Miss Laverty's pieces; and surely the three sixpences left
after your expenditure for the kitchen, would go very little way towards
paying for them."
"To tell the truth, ma'am," said Mrs. Selby, "the girls were at their
wits' ends. Miss Laverty could not afford to pay them money for their
work. I had got almost as much interested in fitting up the baby-house
as they, and would gladly have given them a little more money, but I had
not a shilling to spare. Sarah and Lucy laid their heads together one
night after they went to bed, and in the morning they came to me and
told me their plan.
"We have always a pudding-pie on Sunday instead of meat. 'Can't you,
mother,' said they, 'reckon up what our portion of the pie costs?--Make
one just large enough for you, and my father, and Nannie, and we will
eat dry bread, and then, with the money saved, added to our three
sixpences, we will get what we can.' At first I thought it rather hard
upon the children, but my husband and I talked it over together, and we
concluded, as it was their own proposal, to let them do it. We thought
it might be teaching them, ma'am, to have love, as one may say, stronger
than appetite, and work their little self-denial up with their love, and
industry, and ingenuity. Poor people, such as we, cannot do what rich
people can, for the education of their children. But there are some
things we can do, which rich people can't--our poor circumstances help
us. When our children want to do a kindness, as in this matter of the
baby-house, they can't run to father and mother, and get money to do it
with; they are obliged to think it out, and work it out, as one may say:
and I believe it is the great end of education, ma'am, to make mind,
heart, and hand work."
Again I looked at the baby-house, and with real respect for the people
who had furnished it. The figures on the carpet, the gay curtains,
tables, chairs, &c., were all very pretty, and very suitably and neatly
arranged, but they were something more,--outward forms, into which
Charles, Sarah, and Lucy had breathed, a soul instinct with love,
kindheartedness, diligence, and self-denial.
* * * * *
Now, I ask my young friends to compare the gifts of the poor carpenter's
children to those of the empress. Hers cost a single order, and a great
deal of money,--theirs, much labour and forethought. If the happiness
produced in the two cases, to both giver and receiver, were calculated,
which would be the greatest amount? And which, in reality, were the
richest--the rich empress's grandchildren, or the poor carpenter's
little family?
[Illustration]
FIDELITY AND OBEDIENCE.
"Isabelle: Isabelle! where are you?" but no Isabelle answered; and Mrs.
Howard, her mother, was just going to send some of the servants after
her, when Bruno, a large Newfoundland dog, rushed into the hall, and
caught hold of her dress in his mouth. He was wet, and seemed very
anxious for her to follow him; accordingly, Mrs. Howard called the
gardener, and followed Bruno, who seemed delighted.
There was a large pond at the foot of the garden, and it was towards
this that the dog ran; and as they were proceeding along, a suspicion
entered the mother's mind, which caused her to hurry forward; need I say
that it was of her child she thought--her darling Isabelle? Soon they
reached the pond, and there, on the bank, lay her daughter; but her eyes
were closed, and her cheeks so white that she seemed dead. Mrs. Howard
uttered a shriek of mingled joy and anguish--joy, that she was out of
the pond, and fear that she might not live.
She sprang forward and raised her from the ground--she put her hand on
her child's heart--and, oh! happiness! she felt it beat. Isabelle was
immediately carried home, and a physician was sent for, and he said that
she was not hurt in any way,--that fright, only, had caused her to
faint.
Bruno, the faithful Bruno, was given to Isabelle for her playmate and
protector; and often might the two be seen bounding over the lawn, and
through the meadows; and when the little girl was tired, Bruno would
seat himself under the shade of some tree, while Isabelle would make him
her pillow, and when she was rested, away they would run again. But this
was on holidays; for Isabelle was a studious little girl, and did not
spend all her time in play.
I suppose my little readers are all this time wondering why I do not
tell them how Isabelle came to fall into the pond: I must beg pardon for
my neglect, and repair the error by telling them. Well, Isabelle had
leave to play in the garden with Bruno, and, as she was rambling by the
pond, she saw a beautiful tuft of blue violets; and as she knew her
mother was very fond of violets, she wished very much to get them for
her; and though she had been told never to walk near the edge of the
banks, she thought she should be able to get the flowers without danger;
but in reaching for them, her foot slipped, and she fell over into the
water.
Bruno immediately plunged in, and brought her safe to the bank, as we
have seen; but Isabelle learnt a good lesson, which she never forgot,
and that was, obedience to her parents; for with obedience to their
commands, they will be always more pleased and happy, than with the most
lovely flowers in the field.
[Illustration]
BESSIE LEE.
In an old school-house in one of our rural villages, one beautiful
summer's day, a group of merry children were assembled. Some were
hurrying with their lessons, while others were turning listlessly from
their books to gaze with anxious faces upon the clock, which ticked
loudly (and very slowly on this particular day) in the corner. An
afternoon holiday had been promised, and an excursion to a not far
distant wood, for the purpose of gathering berries. No wonder, then, all
looked pleased and happy.
At length, the long-wished-for hour arrived. A waggon appeared at the
door to convey the younger children and the basket to the entrance of
the wood, and the elder scholars tripped gaily on--each one with a
well-filled basket in hand to contribute to the repast "under the
greenwood tree." It was not long ere they reached the wood.
"Oh, how cool!" one exclaimed, as the breeze sighed through the trees
and rustled the green leaves; "and how shady!" another cried, as she
walked beneath the spreading branches.
Near the entrance of the wood, meandered a clear stream, and the soft,
rich grass sloped gently to the bank, while the branches of an old elm
tree fell partly on the water, and formed a fairy-like nook; and here
the children stopped,--'twas the very spot for their feast, before they
gathered their berries. The baskets were quickly opened, and the
contents spread upon the mossy bank. But who was to do the honours of
the table? Their choice quickly fell upon a beautiful girl, the daughter
of the minister. Bessie Lee was indeed beautiful; her golden hair
clustered round her face, and her eyes, of the colour of the noonday
sky, shaded by their dark lashes, gave an unusually lovely expression to
her countenance;
"And her laugh, full of life, without any control,
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul."
No wonder, then, she was loved by all--rich and poor, young and old. A
wreath of wild flowers was twined by the happy subjects, and the lovely
queen was crowned. And then they separated to gather the berries, going
in different directions, but intending to meet by the spring ere they
returned home.
Bessie hurried eagerly on towards the interior of the woods, but she
went not alone; her cousin, Harry Morton, about her own age, accompanied
her to help to fill her basket. Hand in hand they wandered, ever and
anon stopping to gather the clustering berries, or the bright flowers,
that grew in their path. They heard the voices of their companions, but
soon the sound died away in the distance. Yet they pressed on,
conversing gaily;--but the baskets were filled, and should they not
return, asked Harry of his cousin. She looked up,--the sun was shedding
his declining rays through the trees, and the woods were flooded with
golden light.
"I did not know it was so late," exclaimed Bessie: "we shall be missed,
and our schoolmates will be waiting by the spring; we shall have to walk
fast."
They turned to retrace their steps and hastened on. "Surely," said
Henry, "this is not the way we came; the trees are closer together, and
I do not see the big chestnut we said we would have for a landmark."
"Oh," cried Bessie, "that is farther on; it was just where the two roads
met;--we shall soon be there--don't you think so?" The poor boy did not
answer; he felt that they had lost their way, and he feared to tell his
cousin, for timid as a fawn she had always been.
"Are you tired, Bessie?" He looked into her face; the flush of hope had
disappeared, and her faltering steps could scarce support her. He
placed his arm around her slender waist; "Lean upon me, cousin; you are
fatigued."
"Oh, Henry!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears; "we are lost; and my
poor mother, how will she feel? We shall never see her again; we shall
have to stay in this dark place all night--and the bears and lions--oh,
what shall we do?"
"Do not cry, dear cousin; there are no wild animals here now; there is
nothing to hurt us here. The woods in this part are free; and don't you
know what we read this morning,--there were no lions in this country?"
And so he tried to comfort her, and poor Bessie dried her eyes and tried
to smile. "We are like the 'Babes in the Wood,' Harry; only I am afraid
there are no pretty robins who will cover us up with leaves, and watch
over us."
The last rays of the sun faded away, and the golden-fringed clouds
melted into blue. The full moon rose high in the heavens, and the bright
stars shone calmly down on the lost ones. Exhausted, the cousins sank
upon the grass, under an old tree, whose friendly branches stretched far
and wide to shelter them.
"I can go no farther," cried Bessie; "my head aches, and I feel so
tired. Oh, if I could only see mother,--she will be so frightened. Do
you think any one will come to find us?"
"Do not feel so bad," said Henry; "nothing will hurt us. God will take
care of us, and it will soon be morning, and then we can easily find
our way out of the woods. Your father will send some one for us, or he
may come himself, who knows?"
"Hark!" cried Bessie, springing to her feet; "did you not hear a noise?
Something rustled in the grass; I am sure it was a snake." She clung
closer and closer to Harry, and it was with difficulty he could soothe
her. He told her how groundless were her fears; that a protecting
Providence watched over them, and they would not be harmed.
He wrapped her shawl closer around her, for the night air was chilly to
her tender frame. "The soft grass shall be your bed, Bessie, and I will
watch over you; but first let us say our evening prayer, just as if we
were at home." Together the cousins knelt down and offered their humble
petition to the Most High, and then they lay down on their mossy bed to
sleep,--Bessie, with her head pillowed on the breast of Harry; his arm
supported her, and so they slept. Sweet visions of home haunted their
dreams, and their parents' loved faces smiled upon and blessed them.
It was morning; the sun was just rising, and a faint light was diffused
through the trees, and the birds were carolling forth their matin songs.
Bessie still slept--the innocent sleep of childhood. Henry lay in the
same position, for he would not disturb her. For hours he had lain
listening to every sound.
At length Bessie awoke; she looked around,--"Where am I?" were the first
words that escaped her lips. She looked at Henry. "Oh! I remember now;
we have been here all night. Do you think we shall get home to-day?"
"Oh, yes;" said her cousin, gaily. "I am so glad you have rested so
well. We will soon set out, and perhaps we shall get home to breakfast.
But eat some of the berries, Bessie, and then we will try to find our
way out of the wood."
She tasted the berries, but pushed them aside. "I cannot eat; I feel,
Harry, if we do not soon get home, I shall never eat again."
"Oh! do not grieve so, dear, dear Bessie. Look, the sun is shining
brightly through the trees; so _that is_ east, and you know the woods
lie west of the school-house; so we will walk towards the sun, and then
we will soon see dear home." He placed his arm carefully around her, and
they set out, her steps still faltering.
Mile after mile they thus walked, for they had wandered far the
preceding night. At times the trees grew thinner, and they would
congratulate themselves they were almost home; but then again they could
hardly find their way through the overgrown path.
"I cannot go much farther, Harry; for my head throbs almost to bursting,
and I am so dizzy, I can hardly see." Bessie stopped and leaned for
support against a tree; her hat fell back and revealed her face deadly
pale. Poor Harry gazed upon her in despair. What if she should die there
in the wood, away from all that loved her? The thought was agony,--the
scalding tears started to his eyes. He took hold of her hand; "Bessie,
speak to me; lean upon me--we will soon be home, only think so."
At that instant, a plunge was heard in a neighbouring bush. Bessie, too,
heard it; it recalled her fleeting senses. She looked up,--a beautiful
dog came bounding towards her. She stretched out her arms; "'Tis Carlo;
dear, dear Carlo!" The dog crouched at her feet. She stooped to embrace
the animal--the tear-drops glistened in her eyes and fell warm upon the
faithful creature. "Oh, Harry! he has come to save us; we shall see home
once more."
But she was too weak to walk, and how was he to bear her home?
Delicately formed himself, and worn out with fatigue and watching nearly
the whole night, he could scarce bear his own weight. Carlo bounded
gaily on, inviting them to follow. A voice was heard in the distance,
calling on their names,--"Bessie! Harry!" He tried to answer, but his
voice was low and feeble. "Bessie, let me help you; I hear voices; let
us try to meet them; I will support you." He raised her from the ground
and tried to bear her on. The voices approached nearer and nearer;
again he essayed to answer,--this time he was heard. They saw some one
coming rapidly towards them, and recognised Bessie's father. He hurried
on, and received the almost insensible form of his child in his arms. He
was accompanied by some of his neighbours, who supported Harry home.
Scarce half an hour elapsed, ere Bessie was laid in her mother's arms.
Carlo, half maddened with joy, frisked and gambolled round them. In vain
poor Bessie tried to tell her story, but tears and sobs choked her
voice.