one morning, about day-break, I was awakened from a troubled sleep by
the sound of a rushing wind, and rushing up, I went on deck. A violent
rain was falling, and the wind was rising at the same time, which is a
very uncommon circumstance. It blew in a direction to favour our escape;
and think, my dear ones, what was my joy and thankfulness, when I saw
the ice dividing before us, and leaving a broad, clear path, as far as
the eye could reach. The rain loosened the ice from the sails, and it
fell on the deck in thin sheets; the sails filled, and we began to move
rapidly toward home. Did I not tell you right, when I said Divine
Providence helped us out without much aid from us?
"We had prepared to tow the schooner (to which Robert belonged) behind
us, but considering that she would check the speed of our ship, and
feeling the necessity of making all possible haste to escape from the
regions of ice, I put three of our most capable hands into her, with
Robert, and directed them to follow my ship as near as they could. When
we were in the open sea, it was a pleasure to look back and see the
little craft clipping along through the waves, following on like a
greyhound in the chase, leaving ice and icebergs far behind.
"Our voyage home was prosperous and pleasant. The remembrance of dangers
and sufferings, made every blessing more thankfully acceptable, and I
hope we all returned better and wiser men."
[Illustration]
THE CHILD AT PRAYER.
As the Lady of Lindorf entered the chapel, she beheld a little girl,
of about eight years old, alone, and dressed entirely in black,
kneeling upon the steps of the altar. The child prayed so fervently,
that she paid no attention to what was passing by her. Tears were
streaming down her blooming cheeks, and her beautiful and innocent
countenance had an expression of melancholy resignation and pious
fervor beyond description.
The lady felt the sincerest pity and greatest good-will towards the
praying child. She would not disturb her in her devotions; and only when
the little girl arose did the lady approach her:--"You are very
sorrowful, dear child," she said softly; "why do you thus cry?"
"Alas!" answered the child, and tears flowed afresh down her cheeks; "a
year ago this very day I lost my father, and this day last week they
buried my mother."
"And for what have you prayed to God?" asked the lady.
"That he would take pity upon me," answered the child; "I have no refuge
but Him. True, I am still with the people with whom my parents lodged,
but I cannot stay there; the master has told me again that I must go
to-morrow. I have a few relatives in the town, and wish very much that
one or the other would take charge of me. The good priest, also, who
often visited my mother in her illness, and showed her a deal of
kindness, told them plainly that it was their duty to do so, but they
cannot agree among themselves which of them is to take the care of
bringing me up: nor can I complain, for they have many children, and
nothing but what they earn by their daily labour."
"Poor child! it is no wonder that you are sorrowful."
"I came here very sorrowful," replied the child; "but God has suddenly
removed all grief from my heart. I now feel comforted. I have no further
anxiety than to live ever after His will, so that He may take pleasure
in me."
The words of that innocent child, and the sincerity that appeared
through her tearful eyes, went to the heart of the noble lady.
She looked at her with the tenderness of a mother, and said "I
think that God has heard your prayer, dear little one; keep to your
resolution--remain ever pious and good, and be comforted, and you
will find help. Come with me."
The good child looked at the lady with astonishment:--"But where?" asked
she. "I must not; I must go home."
"I know the good priest who you said had been so kind to your mother,"
said the lady. "We will go to him, and I will arrange with him how to
help you."
Saying this, she took the child by the hand, who went joyfully with her.
The excellent curate, a man rather advanced in years, and of a venerable
aspect, rose from his writing-table on the approach of the lady. She
told him how she had just become acquainted with the child; and then
desired the little one to leave her with the curate, and amuse herself
in the garden awhile, as she wished to speak to him privately.
"My dear sir," said she, "I have a great desire to take this child, and
supply to her the place of a mother. My own children all died at a
tender age, and my heart tells me that I can love this little one.
Still, I wished to know whether you, who knew the parents well, would
advise me to do so. What do you say to it? I wish to mark my short
course on earth by some benevolent action. Do you think that the
benefits I mean to bestow on that child will be well conferred?"
The good man lifted his eyes to heaven, and tears of joy were glistening
in them, as, folding his hands, he said, "The holy providence of God be
ever praised! You could not, lady, do a greater act of mercy; neither
could you easily find a more pious, well-behaved, and intelligent child,
than the little Sophy. Both her parents were honest people, and true
Christians. They begun to give this, their only one, a good education,
but, alas! they did not live to finish it. I shall never forget with
what grief the dying mother looked upon this dearly beloved child, who
was sobbing upon her death-bed; with what confidence, nevertheless, she
looked towards heaven, and said; 'Thou Father in heaven wilt also be a
father on earth, and wilt give my daughter another mother: I know this,
and die comforted.' The words of the good parent are now come to pass,
and it is obvious that the Divine Providence has selected you, gracious
and worthy lady, to be this child's second mother: for this you were
called to this town--for this, God put it in your mind to visit His
temple before your departure. It is evidently his work; let his holy
providence be gratefully acknowledged!"
The worthy curate now called in the poor orphan, and said, "See, Sophy,
this kind and devout lady wishes to be thy mother:--this is a great
happiness that God bestows upon thee. Wilt thou go with her, and be to
her a good daughter?"
"Yes," answered Sophy gladly, and tears of joy prevented her saying
more. She thanked her benefactress with her looks, and kissed her hand
in silence.
"See, my child," continued the curate, "how God cares for thee: when
thy late mother was lying on her death-bed He had already conducted
thy second mother here, unknown to us, nor has He allowed her to
depart without having first found thee, and adopted thee. Know,
in this, His fatherly care;--love with all thy heart the good and
merciful God, who so evidently takes care of thee--trust in him, and
keep his commandments. Be as good and obedient a child towards this
thy new mother, which He has given thee, as thou wast towards thy
mother which is now dead, and then this kind lady will rejoice in
thee, and thou shalt prosper. One thing remember especially,--in thy
future life, sorrow and misfortune cannot be kept entirely aloof; but
when it does come, pray with the same child-like trust with which thou
hast been taught; and as God has helped thee now, he will help thee
again."
The child's relatives were now summoned, and made no sort of objection
to the arrangement; on the contrary, they were well pleased. Their
satisfaction was still more increased by the Lady of Lindorf's declaring
she would take Sophy as she was, and leave her mother's little legacy,
together with her own clothes, to them and to their children. Sophy only
wished for a few religious books as a remembrance of her mother, and
these were willingly granted to her.
Early the next morning the Lady of Lindorf departed for her castle,
accompanied by Sophy.
[Illustration]
THE CHILD ANGEL.
"Come, come," said the bright angel,
In a whisper sweet and low,
"To yonder stream so lonely
Together let us go."
And the child made haste to follow
The guide she could not see,
For she said, "A sweet child angel
Is whispering to me."
The morning sun shone brightly
Through the branches overhead,
And summer leaves upon the ground
Their dancing shadows spread.
And still, upon the cool, green earth
The trembling dew-drops lay,
And fell in showers, beneath her touch,
From every leaf and spray.
Yet onward, onward went the child
Without a thought of fear,
For the voice of the sweet angel
Still sounded in her ear.
And now the path is hidden
By branches bending low,
And, pausing there, she listens
To hear the waters flow;
And from the opening blossoms,
That smile beside her feet,
She twines, with ready fingers,
A wreath, for angel meet.
The deep and waveless river
Spread out before her lies,
And she sees the fair child angel
Look fondly in her eyes.
One cry of joy she utters,
Her arms extending wide
To clasp the lovely phantom
Beneath that treacherous tide.
Weep not, thou childless mother,
Above that beauteous clay,
For the voice of blessed angels
Has called the soul away.
Think, when thy lips are pressing
That pure and marble brow,
In heaven thy own child angel
Is living for thee now.
THE STORM.
You have heard of Switzerland, my dear young readers. You have heard
of its high mountains--its lovely streams--its pretty flowers--and
bright sunshine in summer. You have heard, too, of its deep snows in
winter--its frozen waters--and its fearful storms;--its beautiful
lakes--one moment calm, soft and bright--the next changed into furious
commotion, throwing its angry waters high into the air. There, many a
little boat, that had gone out upon its smooth waters, confident that
there could be no danger, has been lost, after struggling long and
fearlessly with the waves, and sunk to rise no more.
One night I stood alone upon a high rock, which projected over the Lake
of Lucerne, and saw what I have imperfectly described to you.
I had been on the mountains all day--a bright, beautiful day. I had
climbed the hills, where nothing was to be seen but grey stone; I had
passed on to others, and found them covered with lovely flowers--growing
in every spot where they could find any soil--and some large trees,
that, spreading wide their branches, allowed me often to sit down in the
cool shade to watch the gay butterflies around me, and to contemplate
that glorious and almighty Parent--the Creator of all that is beautiful
and good, and the Author of all good feelings and affections, and who
enables us to enjoy all which He has made.
The sun was setting, and there was a bright red glow over the lake, that
lay like a large sheet of glass, smooth and bright; and that was only
stirred when the trout leaped high in the air--as if to look once more
upon the sun before it went to rest; and then sinking down, they left a
bright round ring on the lake, that soon passed away, leaving all smooth
again.
In a little time the waters began to move, and there was a low sound of
wind, that soon rose into a storm; and then the waves dashed furiously
against the cliffs, as I have before described; when a boat, with a man
and a child, which I had been watching for some time before, sailing
gently on the water, was now high on the crested wave--now cast suddenly
down; and each time I feared it was lost. All I could do was, to pray to
Him, who could say to the wind, and the storm, "Be still!" But their
time had come, and God saw it best to take this father and child to
Himself. I watched the boat till it came very near,--so near that I
could see every stroke of the oar--every look of the poor man, who
seemed to use all his force--but in vain.
The little child, who was seated in the bottom of the boat, looked up
into his father's face, as if to learn there, what hope was left; but he
neither moved, nor uttered one cry of fear. At last, when every chance
of saving their lives was past--when each moment brought them nearer and
nearer the fatal rock, on which it must be dashed to pieces, the oars
dropped from the father's hand; and throwing his arms around his child,
in one moment they were gone below the wave--and I saw them no more.
They went down into the deep waters together--and together they will
rise, I doubt not, to live in heaven with _their_ Saviour, and our
Saviour for ever; for the man had lived, as I afterwards learned, the
life of a true Christian, and was now removed, with his child, to a
state of existence where the "wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest."
[Illustration]
SOMETHING ABOUT DOGS.
"Come, little boys and girls, and let us have some talk about that kind
and useful creature, the Dog.
[Illustration]
"_The Shepherd's Dog_ takes care of the sheep as they graze on the hills
and plains; at night he drives them safely into the fold; and if a sheep
or a lamb were lost, he would not rest till he had found it, and brought
it back to the flock.
"_The Esquimaux_ sits in his sledge, wrapped from head to foot in warm
fur, and his dogs draw him swiftly along many miles over the ice and
snow.
[Illustration]
"_The Hound_ is used to hunt the sly fox, that steals our chickens.
"_The Newfoundland Dogs_ are so fond of water, and are so large and
strong, that they have saved many people from being drowned. If one of
them were to see a child fall into the water, he would immediately jump
in after it, and quickly bring it to land.
[Illustration]
"Then we must not forget the pretty _Spaniel_:--he has silky ears, and
a curly tail;--or _Little Shock_, whose long bushy hair nearly covers
his eyes. These are great favourites with children, and play almost as
many pranks as their young masters.
"Dogs are so fond of those who are kind to them, that they would do
anything to protect them from harm.
"Sometimes they will not leave their master even after he is dead, but
will sit by the body as long as they can, and moan very sadly, and at
last lie down on the grave and die too."
OLD OAK CHEST.
[Illustration]
THE MORNING WALK.
"Come, George! come, my little son," said Mrs. Hope to her sleeping boy,
one bright morning in June, laying her hand upon him, and endeavouring
to awake him.
George roused up for a moment, and then fell off again to sleep. He felt
heavy and dull.
"Come, George!" urged his mother, again disturbing him. "Emily is up and
dressed for a walk. And the sun is up, too."
This time the little boy opened his eyes, rubbed them, stretched
himself, half arose from his pillow and then sunk down again and went to
sleep.
"A little more sleep and a little more slumber," said Mrs. Hope,
smiling. "Ah, George! I'm afraid you will be a sad sluggard. Come! come!
this will never do!" and she shook him harder than before.
"Don't you see, George, that your sister is all dressed, and that the
sun is streaming in at the window?" she continued, as her boy started
up quickly. "Come, be quick now, or every bright dew-drop will be
kissed from the leaves and blossoms before we can get into the fields."
"I don't care about going, mother," replied George, sinking back upon
his pillow. "You and Emily can go this time. To-morrow morning I will go
with you."
"And to-morrow morning you will feel just as dull and sluggish as you do
now. No, no, George; now is the time. So, come, rouse yourself up, and
don't keep us waiting for you any longer."
As the mother said this, she lifted her little boy from his bed, and,
seating him on her lap, first of all washed his face in a basin of cool,
clean water. This made him as bright as a new shilling. In a little
while he was all ready for the walk; and then mother, George, and Emily,
accompanied with gay little Fido, who went barking before them, started
off for their morning walk.
"An't you glad, now, that you got up to go with us, George?" asked
Emily, as they tripped along, and drank in the pure morning air.
"Oh, yes. I wouldn't be in that warm bed, feeling as dull as I did, for
anything. I'm so glad that mother made me get up."
"It was because I knew what was best for you, my son, that I made you
get up. I knew that the fresh morning air would not only be good for
you, but that when you once breathed it, and exercised in it, you would
feel like a new person."
"Oh, see that beautiful butterfly!" Emily exclaimed, pausing near a
sweet-briar bush, upon one of the delicate blossoms of which reposed a
large butterfly, with wings glowing in colours the richest and most
varied, gently fanning the pure air.
"Shall I catch it, mother?" eagerly asked George, taking off his cap,
and beginning to move stealthily towards the sweet-briar bush.
"No, my child," said Mrs. Hope, laying her hand gently on the boy's arm,
and detaining him.
"But, mother, it is such a beautiful one, I should like to take it home
and shew it to father."
"And what do you think your father would say, if you were to take him
that gay insect?"
"He would call it very pretty, I am sure, and say I was a good boy for
bringing it to him."
"No, George," replied his mother. "He would more probably say,--'George,
my dear boy, I am grieved that you have crushed, and soiled, and hurt
this pretty creature. See, how the beautiful colours have already faded
from its wings! See, how it droops in my hand, unable to fly as it did a
little while ago from flower to flower, a gay and happy thing. You were
wrong, my dear boy, to have touched so delicate a creature, born only
for the sunshine and the flowers, and too fragile to be handled by
anything ruder than a summer breeze.'"
"But I won't hurt it, mother."
"You could not possibly touch it, my dear, without hurting the delicate
thing. Your little fingers, that to my hands are soft and smooth, would
be so rough to the wings of a butterfly, as to rasp off the rich
painting that adorns them, and even to crush their delicate frame-work.
And I am sure my boy would not wish to hurt any of God's creatures."
"Oh, no, mother! I wouldn't hurt that butterfly for the world. But see,
it has risen up from the flower, and now away it goes, floating along
like a pretty blossom with wings. And there goes Fido, barking after it.
Foolish dog! You can't catch the pretty butterfly."
"See, mother, here is a bee, right in the middle of this large flower,"
said George, looking up into his mother's face with a glow of pleasure
upon his own. "He is getting honey, is he not?"
"Yes, dear. The bee is a very industrious little creature, and when the
blossoms are out he is up with the sun, and works all through the day,
busily engaged in procuring honey for his winter's store. You never find
him asleep after the sun is risen, as my little boy was this morning."
"But then, mother," said George, as they all walked on, and left the bee
and the sweet-briar bush, "I don't have to gather honey as the bee does.
I am a little boy, and don't have to work to lay up bread in the
winter."
"Can't you teach your brother a better lesson than that, Emily?" said
Mrs. Hope, turning to her little girl. "Don't you remember the talk we
had yesterday about the use of learning, and how necessary it was for
us, like the bee in spring and summer, to lay up a store of knowledge in
our minds, against the winter of old age?"
"O, yes, mother, I remember that I said, just as George did just now,
that it wasn't as necessary for me to work as the bee, for I had kind
parents who provided everything for me. And then you told me that I had
been made very different from the bee; that the bee had not a mind as I
had; and, therefore, that it only required food to supply the natural
wants of its body, which food it industriously obtained and stored up in
the season when it could be found. You then told me that I had a
spiritual body as well as a natural body, and that my spiritual body
required food as well as my natural body; that to learn about everything
that my parents and teachers wished me to learn about, was the way to
store up food for this spiritual body, which would require more and more
food, the older I grew; and that, at last, when I became very old--when
the winter of life came, I would not be able to store up food as in
early life, but would have to live upon that already laid by."
By this time the mother and her children had extended their morning walk
as far as was intended, and then they turned their steps towards home.
In passing the sweet-briar bush, the bee and the butterfly were recalled
to the minds of the children; and George said, that whenever he passed
that bush he should remember that his fingers were too rough for a
butterfly's wings; and that, like the bee, he must diligently store up
food for the mind, in early years, that he might have a full supply when
the winter of old age should come upon him.
At the breakfast table they met their father, and George told him all
about what they had seen, and what their mother had said to them, and
how determined he was to be like the diligent bee.
[Illustration]
THE OSTRICH.
[Illustration]
There are many large and respectable birds;--the long-legged stork, the
crane, the bustard, the heron, the eagle, the vulture, the cassowary;
but all these are mere dwarfs compared with the _ostrich_. This bird is
often nine or ten feet in height, and is as remarkable for its great
strength and swiftness, as for its size. Neither the swiftest horse nor
fleetest hound can compete with the ostrich in speed; but, fleet as the
whirlwind, he sweeps over the sandy wastes of Africa. And this is indeed
fortunate for him, since, although a bird, he is unable to fly. He has
feathers only upon his wings and tail, the rest of his body being
covered with hair. The ostrich has eyelashes upon the upper lid, and
can, like quadrupeds, see a thing with both eyes at once; although other
birds look sideways, and use but one eye at a time. His bare, plump feet
are furnished with only two toes or claws; and his stomach can digest
the hardest substances,--wood, stone, leather, metals, and glass.
It was imagined that the ostrich was a very stupid bird, because, when
pursued, it thrusts its head into the nearest hole, apparently imagining
that when _he_ sees nobody, he cannot himself be seen. The fact,
however, is, that when quite exhausted by a long pursuit, it shields its
head, because it is the most tender and weakest part, and surrenders the
rest of the body to its pursuers. Had the ostrich been in any way as
stupid as the goose, the race would long ago have been extirpated, as it
has many enemies both among men and animals. It is, on the contrary, a
very prudent bird, and in a clear field extremely difficult to catch,
for it takes flight the moment its quick sight threatens it with the
slightest danger; and as it lives in the deserts of Arabia and Africa a
few minutes is sufficient to carry it beyond the sight of its pursuers.
As the ostrich belongs to the same species as fowls, it leads, as they
do, a domestic life. Every ostrich family consists of one male bird
and five females, who keep constantly together. These birds have a
common nest, which consists merely of a hole in the sand, protected
by a wall of sand. Every egg stands upon its pointed end, in order to
take as little room as possible. When there are from ten to twelve
eggs in the nest, they begin to sit upon them alternately, the female
by day and the male by night; as, from his superior strength, he is
better able to guard the nest from the attack of the wild-cats, which
are allured by the eggs; and that he understands how to protect it,
is proved by the dead bodies of these animals being found in the
neighbourhood of the nests. During the brooding, the female continues
to lay until the nest is full; and it generally contains about thirty
eggs. They also lay eggs on the outside of the nest, with which to
feed the young ostriches, which, as soon as hatched, are as large as
full-grown fowls; and, like fowls, immediately begin to eat greedily.
The parent birds break one egg after another, until the young are
strong enough to find their own food. The size of the egg is in
proportion to the size of the bird; it is as large as a child's head,
and yields as much nourishment as four-and-twenty hen's eggs. Four
hungry men may make a good meal on one. The shell is so extremely hard
and close, that it remains fresh for a considerable time; and in the
desert countries is a real treasure.
THE VIOLET.--MODESTY.
The fragrance of the violet is noticed when the flower itself is not
seen--just as benevolent persons' actions are sometimes known and felt,
while the _actors_ remain out of sight.