The Play-day Book: New Stories for Little Folks
Date: 2022-03-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's stories

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Title: The Play-day Book: New Stories for Little Folks

Author: Fanny Fern

Illustrator: Frederick M. Coffin

Release date: March 6, 2022 [eBook #67570]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Mason Brothers, 1857

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAY-DAY BOOK: NEW STORIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS ***

Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE
PLAY-DAY BOOK:
NEW STORIES
FOR LITTLE FOLKS.

BY FANNY FERN.

ILLUSTRATED BY FRED. M. COFFIN.

NEW YORK:

PUBLISHED BY MASON BROTHERS,

108 AND 110 DUANE-STREET.

1857.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by

MASON BROTHERS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York.

STEREOTYPED BY
THOMAS B. SMITH,
82 & 84 Beekman St.
PRINTED BY
C. A. ALVORD,
15 Vandewater St.

PREFACE.

Since “Little Ferns” was published, I have had many letters, and messages, from little children all over the country, asking me “to write them soon another little book of stories.” Here is one that I have prepared for you and them: I hope you will like it; for some of you, it will be too young a book; for some of you, too old; those for whom it is too young, will perhaps read it to little brothers and sisters; those for whom it is too old now, can look at the pictures and learn to read, little by little, by spelling out the words in the stories. I call it “The Play-Day Book;” because I made it to read when you are out of school, and want to be amused. If, while you are looking only for amusement, you should happen to find instruction, so much the better.

Fanny Fern.

CONTENTS.

| Page
A Rainy Day | 7
The Boy who wanted to see the World | 25
The Journey | 35
A Peep out of my Window | 61
The Circus | 64
What every little Child may see | 70
A Story for Boys | 72
Katy’s First Grief | 76
Our new dog Dash | 87
Fun and Folly | 89
History of a Family of Cats | 96
The Poor-Rich Child | 102
The Hod-Carrier | 107
The Tom-Boy | 120
The Little Musician | 124
Lions | 128
The Cripple | 133
Bessie and her Mother | 145
Red-Headed Andy | 150
Little Napkin | 155
The Spoiled Boy | 160
Puss and I | 166
Lucy’s Fault | 169
Untidy Mary | 176
A Lucky Irish Boy | 183
The Child Prince and the Child Peasant | 191
The Wild Rose | 194
Jenny and the Butcher | 204
The Two Babes | 212
The Little Sisters | 215
Ours; or, a Look Backward | 220
Children’s Troubles | 224
The Vacant Lot | 230
“Foolish Ned” | 233
Greenwood | 235
Bed-Time | 242
Soliloquy of Overgrown Fifteen | 248
A Temperance Story | 250
All about Horace | 256
A Walk I took | 269
Susy Foster | 273
“Feed my Lambs” | 276
Two Live Pictures | 280
A Riddle | 282
Thanksgiving | 284

A RAINY DAY,
AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

“Oh, dear, I knew it would rain to-day, just because I didn’t want to have it; every thing is so dark, and cold, and gloomy; drip—drip—drip—oh, dear! had I made the world, mother, I never would have made a drop of rain.”

“What would the cattle have had to drink, then?”

“I am sure I don’t know; I don’t see why they need drink. I could drink milk, you know, mother.”

“But if it didn’t rain the grass would all dry up, and then the cows would give no milk.”

“Well, I don’t know any thing about that. I know I don’t like rain, any how; do you like a rainy day, mother?”

“Yes, very much: it gives me such a nice chance to work; I have nobody to interrupt me. I can do a great deal on a rainy day.”

“But I have no work, mother.”

“Ah, that is just the trouble: time lies heavy on idle hands; suppose you wind these skeins of silk into nice little balls for my work-basket?”

“So I will; won’t you talk to me while I am doing it? tell me something about yourself, when you was a little girl—little like me; tell me the very first thing you can ever remember when you was a tiny little girl.”

“Bless me, that was so long ago that you will have to give me time to think. Can you keep your chattering tongue still five minutes, while I do it?”

Susy nodded her head, and fixed her eye very resolutely on a nail in the wall.

A long pause.

“Hum—hum,” muttered Susy pointing to her lips, as her mamma moved in her chair.

“Yes, you can speak now.”

“Have you thought of it, mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s nice; let me get another card to wind that skein on, when I have done this; I hope it is a long story, I hope it is funny, I hope there ain’t any ‘moral’ in it. Katy Smith’s mother always puts a moral in; I don’t like morals, do you, mother?”

Susy’s mother laughed, and said that she didn’t like them when she was her age.

“There now—there—I’m ready, now begin; but don’t say ‘Once on a time,’ I hate ‘Once on a time;’ I always know it is going to be a hateful story when it begins ‘Once on a time.’”

“Any thing more, Susy?”

“Yes, mother: don’t end it, ‘They lived ever after in peace, and died happily.’ I hate that, too.”

“Well, upon my word. I did not know I had such a critic for a listener. I am afraid you will have to give me a longer time to think, so that I can fix up my story a little.”

“No, mother, that’s just what I don’t want. I like it best unfixed.”

“Well, the first thing I remember was one bitter cold Thanksgiving morning, in November. My mother had told me the night before that the next day was Thanksgiving, and that we were all invited to spend it ten miles out of town, at the house of a minister in the country.”

“Horrid!” said Susy; “I know you had an awful time. I am glad I wasn’t born, then. Well—what else?”

“We were all to get up and breakfast the next morning by candle-light, so as to take a very early start, that we might have a longer stay at Mr. Dunlap’s. My mother told me all about it the night before, as she tucked me up in my little bed, after which I saw her go to the closet and take down a pretty bright scarlet woolen frock and a snow-white apron to wear with it, with a nice little plaited ruffle round the neck; then she laid a pair of such snow-white woolen stockings side of them, and a pair of bright red morocco shoes.”

“How nice—were you pretty, mother?”

“Of course my mother thought so; I think I looked very much as you do now.”

Susy jumped up, and looked in the glass.

“Then you had light-blue eyes, a straight nose, a round face, and yellow curly hair? Did you, mother, certain, true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, mother.”

“Well, then, my mother went down stairs.”

“Didn’t she kiss you, first?”

“Oh, yes, she always did that.”

“And heard you say your prayers?”

“Yes.”

“Our Father, and, Now I lay me?”

“Yes.”

“How queer for you to say my prayers when you were a little girl. I am glad you said my prayers. Well, mother.”

“Then I lay a long while thinking about the visit.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“Any body with you?”

“No.”

“Wern’t you afraid?”

“Not a bit.”

“You funny little mother—well.”

“And by-and-by I went to sleep, and slept soundly till morning. Long before daylight my mother lifted me out of bed, washed and dressed me by a nice warm fire, and then took me down in her arms to breakfast. I had never eaten breakfast by candle-light before. I liked the bright lights, and the smell of the hot coffee and hot cakes, and my mother’s bright, cheerful face. It did not take us long to eat breakfast, but before we had done the carriage drove up to the door. Then my mother wrapped some hot bricks upon the hearth in some pieces of carpet.”

“What for?”

“To keep our feet warm in the carriage, while we were riding, and then she pulled another pair of warm stockings over my red shoes and stockings, and put on my wadded cloak, and tucking my curls behind my ears, tied a blue silk hood, trimmed with swan’s down under my chin, and putting on her own cloak and bonnet, led me to the door.

“I had never seen the stars before; they glittered up in the clear blue sky, oh, so bright, so beautiful! The keen frost-air nipped my little cheeks, but when they lifted me into the carriage, I was sorry not to see the pretty stars any longer; they wrapped up every thing but the tip end of my nose, in shawls and tippets, and though I could not see the bright stars any more, I kept thinking about them; I wondered what kept them from falling down on the ground, and where they staid in the daytime, and how long it would take me to count them all, and, if one ever did fall down on the ground, if it would be stealing for me to keep it for ‘my ownty doan-ty.’

“I was not used to getting up so early, so the motion of the carriage soon rocked me to sleep, and when I awoke it was broad daylight, and the carriage had stopped at the minister’s door. Oh, how the snow was piled up! way to the tops of the fences, and all the trees were bending under its weight; every little bush was wreathed with it; the tops of the barns, and sheds, and houses, were covered with it; and great long icicles, like big sticks of rock candy, were hanging from the eaves. I liked it most as well as the pretty stars; I was glad I had seen them and the soft white snow.

“Then the minister, and his wife and boys came out, and we went in with them to a bright fire, and the coachman put up his horses in the barn, and went into the kitchen into the big chimney-corner, to thaw his cold fingers. They gave me some warm milk, and my mother some hot coffee, and then the grown people talked and talked great big words, and I ran about the room to see what I could see.”

“What did you see?”

“First, there was a Maltese cat, with five little bits of kittens, all curled up in a bunch under their mother, eating their breakfast; by-and-by the old cat went out in the kitchen to eat hers, and then I took one of the kittys in my white apron, and played baby with it. It purred and opened its brown eyes, and its little short tail kept wagging. I could not help thinking the little country kitty was glad to see some city company. Then I got tired of the kitty, and went up to the corner of the room to look at some shells, and the minister’s boy told me to put them up to my ear, and they would make a sound like the sea, where they came from; I asked him if they were alive? and he laughed at me; and then my face grew as red as my frock, so that I had to hide it in my white apron.

“Then, after a while, the bells rang for church, for the minister was going to preach a Thanksgiving sermon; and my mother said that she was going with him and his wife to hear it; but that she would be back soon, and that I might stay, while she was gone, in the warm parlor, with the kitty and the shells; and that the minister’s boy would stay with me if I didn’t like to stay alone. Then I crept up into my mother’s lap, and whispered that I did not like the minister’s boy because he had laughed at me, and that I wanted his mother to take him away with her to church, and leave me all alone with the kittys and the shells; then the minister’s boy laughed again when they told him, and said ‘I was a queer one;’ but I didn’t care for that, when I saw him tie on his cap and pull on his mittens to go off. So they opened the door of the sitting-room into the kitchen, that Betty might see I did not catch my apron on fire, and then they went to church.”

“Didn’t they leave you any thing to eat?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot that; I had a plate of ‘Thanksgiving cookies,’ as they called them, and as soon as the door was shut, I took the plate in my lap and never stopped till I had eaten them all up.”

“Wasn’t you a little pig, mother?”

“Not so very piggish, after all, because I was so astonished with my candle-light breakfast, before starting from home, that I forgot to eat any thing. So, you see, I was very glad of the cookies.”

“I am glad the minister’s boy did not stay, mother; I dare say he would have eaten them all up. Didn’t you get tired before church was out, mother?”

“No; I looked out of the window a long while, at the pretty white snow; and by-and-by I saw a cunning little bird pecking at the window; it was all white but its head, and that was black. I wanted to open the window and let it in; I thought it must be cold, but I was afraid the minister’s wife would not like it if the snow should fly in from the window-sill on her nice carpet; just then Betty the cook came in, and she told me that it was a little snow-bird, and that she thought it had become quite chilled, for the frost lay thick on the windows; Betty said she would open the window, and in it flew on the carpet; then I tip-toed softly up and caught him; he fluttered a little, but I think he liked my warm hand. Betty told me to put him in my bosom, and so I did; and then he got warm as toast, and the first thing I knew; out he flew, and perched on top of a rose geranium in the window; then I gave him some cookie crumbs, and he ate them, and then he began pecking at the window, and Betty said she thought he wanted to get out to his little mates outside. I did not want him to go, I liked him better than the kittys or the shells, but when Betty said that perhaps the cat would catch and eat him, I said, ‘Let him go;’ so she opened the window, and away he flew.

“Then I did not know what to do; I wished the minister would not preach such a long sermon, and keep my mother away. I wondered what we were going to have for dinner, for I began to smell something very nice in the kitchen, and I wished more than ever that sermon was over. I went and peeped through the crack of the door into the kitchen, to find out what smelt so good, and I saw, oh, such a big fire-place, you might almost have played blind-man’s buff in it, only I supposed that ministers would not let their children play blind-man’s buff; and front of the fire-place was a great tin-kitchen, and in the tin-kitchen was a monstrous turkey, and front of the turkey kneeled Betty, putting something on it out of a tin box.

“I said, ‘Betty, what is that tin thing?’

“Betty said, ‘It is a dredging-box, you little chatterbox;’ and then the red-faced coachman, who was toasting his toes in the chimney-corner, laughed, and said, ‘Come here, sis!’

“I did not go. I did not like to be laughed at, and I was not his sis; but still I kept smelling things through the door-crack, because I had nothing else to do, and because I liked the good smell. I saw Betty take out three pies to warm; one, she said, was mince, and I thought when I got a piece how I would pick out all the nice raisins and eat them; the other was pumpkin, and the other was an apple pie; then there was a large chicken pie, and a cold boiled ham, and some oysters; I knew my mother brought the ham and oysters from the city, because I heard her talking about it at home; and then I wondered if folks who went to eat dinner with ministers had always to bring a part of their dinners. Then Betty came in to set the table for dinner; I was afraid she would not put on a plate for me, and that I should have to wait in the corner till the big folks had eaten up all the good things; but she did, and set up a little high chair with arms, that the minister’s boy used to sit in when he was little. I told Betty I did not like the minister’s boy’s chair, and that I wouldn’t sit in it; and then Betty said, ‘Sho, sho—little girls must be seen and not heard.’ I asked Betty what that meant, and then she and the red-faced coachman laughed again, and the coachman said, ‘Sis, it is fun talking to you.’ Then I heard a great noise in the entry, such a stamping of feet, and such a blowing of noses; sure enough meeting was done; I was so glad, for I knew the turkey was.

“Then the minister said, ‘Come to me, little one.’”

“Oh, mother! I am so sorry; I suppose he wanted you to say your catechism, when you were so hungry; did you go?”

“I stood with my finger in my mouth, looking him in the face, and thinking about it. I liked his face; it was not cross, and there was a pleasant smile about his mouth, and a soft sweet look in his eyes; so I went slowly up to him. I was glad he did not call me ‘sis,’ like the coachman; I did not like to be called sis; I wanted people to be polite to me, just as they were to my mother.”

“What did he say to you, mother? Did he make you say the catechism?”

“No; he pushed my curls back off my face, and kissed my forehead; then he asked me if I liked to hear little stories?”

“Did he? Why, what a nice minister!”

“I said, ‘Yes; do you know any? I know some.’

“Then the minister asked me what I knew.

“Then I said,

“‘Two wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl; if the bowl had been stronger, my tale would have been longer.’ Then the minister laughed and asked me if I believed that; then I said ‘Yes, it is printed in a real book, in my Mother Goose, at home;’ and then the minister told me to ‘say some more Mother Goose,’ and then I told him all about ‘Old Mother Hubbard, who went to the cupboard,’ and ‘Jack and Gill,’ and ‘Four-and-twenty black-birds,’ and ‘Little Bo-peep;’ and then the minister laughed and said, ‘Mother Goose forever!’ I did not know what that meant, and I did not dare to ask, because the ministers boy came into the room just then, and said, ‘What a nice baby you have got on your knee, father;’ and that made my face very red; and I asked the minister to let me get down, and then the minister’s boy came up to me and said, ‘Sis!’ and I said, pouting, ‘I ain’t sis, I am Susy;’ and then he laughed, and said again, ‘What a queer one!’ and began pulling the cat’s tail.”

“How ugly—I wish I’d been alive then, I would have pulled his hair for teasing my mother so. What happened next, mother?”

“Then Betty brought in the roast turkey, and the hot potatoes, and the oysters, and things; and then the minister himself lifted me up in my high chair, between him and my mother, and then he folded his hands and said a blessing.”

“Was it very long, mother?”

“No, only a few words, and then he carved the turkey, and gave me the wish-bone.”

“Why, mother, he was not a bit like a minister; was he? Well?”

“Then I ate, and ate, and ate; and the minister gave me all the plums out of his pie, because he said that he could not find four-and-twenty black-birds to put in it; and after dinner he picked out my nuts for me; and when his boy called me ‘Sis,’ he said, ‘John, behave!’ After dinner, I asked the minister if he knew how to play cat’s-cradle; he said he used to know once; then he said to his wile, ‘Mother, can’t you give us a string, this little one and I are going to play cat’s-cradle.’ He was such a while learning that I told him I did not think ministers could play cat’s-cradle; but his wife said he was stupid on purpose, to see what I would do; he got the string into a thousand knots, and I got out of patience, and then I wouldn’t teach him any more; then he told me to see if I could spell cro-non-ho-ton-thol-o-gus, without getting my tongue in a kink. Then the minister’s boy said, ‘Try her on Po-po-cat-a-pet-el, father.’ Then the minister and I played ‘Hunt the Slipper,’ and ‘Puss in the Corner,’ and ‘Grand Mufti,’ and I was so sorry when a man drove up to the door, in a sleigh, and carried the minister off to see a poor sick woman.”

“Why, mother, I never heard of such a kind of a minister as he was. I thought ministers never laughed, and that they thought it was wicked to play; and that’s why I don’t like them, and am afraid of them. I wish our minister, Mr. Stokes, was like that minister you have been telling about; then I wouldn’t cross over the street when I see him coming. Do you think Mr. Stokes likes little children, mother? When he sees me he says, ‘How is your mother, Susy?’ but he never looks at me when he says it, and goes away after it as fast as ever he can; but what else happened at your minister’s, mother?”

“Well, by that time, the sun began to go down, and the frost began to thicken on the windows; and though the large wood fire blazed cheerfully in the chimney, my mother said we had such a long, cold ride before us, that it was time we were starting. So I went out in the kitchen to tell the red-faced coachman to tackle up his horses, and there he lay asleep on the wooden settle.”

“What is a settle?”

“A rough kitchen-sofa, made of boards, with a very high back. I touched his arm, and he only said, as he turned over, ‘Whoa, there—whoa!’ ‘John,’ said I, ‘we want you to tackle up the horses; my mother wants to go home, John.’

“‘Get up, Dobbin, get up, Jack,’ said John, without opening his eyes.

“‘John,’ said I, right in his ear, for I was getting tired.

“‘Oh, that’s you sis, is it?’ said John, springing up, and knocking over the old settle with a tremendous noise. ‘Bless my soul, that’s you;’ and then he burst into a loud laugh, and I found out that he had not been asleep a bit, and only did so to plague me.

“Well, we warmed the bricks again; and wrapped them up with the old pieces of carpet, to put under our feet, and I drank some warm milk, and the minister’s wife put some cookies in my bag, and tied my soft blue silk hood round my face, and as she did it, she sighed such a long sigh, that I said,

“‘Does it tire you to tie my hood?’

“‘No—no—no—no’—and then a great big tear came rolling down her cheek, and then she said, ‘There is a little silken hood like yours in the drawer up-stairs, but I have no little rosy face to tie it round now;’ and I stopped and thought a minute, for at first I did not understand; and then I said softly,

“‘I’m sorry.’

“And then she wiped away her tears, and said, ‘Don’t cry dear; you looked like her, in that little hood; but God knows better than we do—I shall see her again some day.’

“Then she kissed me, and put me into the carriage, and John cracked his whip, and we were just starting, when the minister’s boy came running out with my little bag, and said,

“‘Here’s your bag, sis; kiss me and you shall have it.’

“‘I wouldn’t kiss you, no—not for twenty bags,’ said I; ‘I love your mother, and I love your father; but I ain’t “sis” and I don’t love you, and I won’t kiss you.’

“‘Queer one—queer one,’ said he, tossing my silk bag into the carriage, and making a great snow-ball with his hands to throw at John.”

“Hateful thing.”

“You must not say that, Susy.”

“Why not?”

“Because that minister’s boy is your father.”

“Oh—oh—oh,” screamed Susy, hopping up and down, “did I ever—did I ever—who would have thought it, that such a hatef—I mean that such a—boy should make such a dear papa, oh, mother; oh, I am so happy, it is so funny.”

“Happy on a rainy day, Susy. I thought an hour ago that you were the most miserable little girl in the world, because you could not make the sun shine.”

“You are my sunshine, mother.”

“And papa, that hatef—”

“Now don’t, mother. I would never have said, so—never, if I had known—but how could I tell he was going to turn out my papa? any more than you could—when he used to call you sis.”

“Sure enough, Susy.”

THE
BOY WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD.

“Nothing but school, school—I am tired of it; I am tired of living at home; I am tired of every thing. My father is kind enough, so is my mother; but I want to be a man for myself. I am a very tall boy of my age; I am sure it is time I had off my round jacket. I want to see the world; I don’t believe it is necessary for a fellow to swallow so many Greek and Latin dictionaries before he can do it. I have a great mind to ‘clear out;’ there is a quarter of a dollar up in my box, and I am a ‘prime’ walker; pooh—who cares? They should not tie a fellow up so, if they don’t want him to run off. I can’t stand it; I will go this very day; of course I sha’n’t want any clothes but those I have on my back; they ought to last me a year; they are right out of the tailor’s shop. He didn’t know, when he made them, what a long journey they were going; who knows but one of these days, this very suit of clothes may be shown in a glass case, to crowds of people, as the very suit that the famous traveler, John Sims, wore when he was a boy. I like that! I never could see the use of keeping boys cooped up at home. Who wants to be a walking dictionary? I don’t. I feel as if I could go round the world and back again in twenty minutes; no—not back; you don’t catch me back in a hurry! I should like to see myself come sneaking home, after Bill Jones, and Sam Jackson, and Will Johnson, and all the fellows in the street, had heard I had run off. Of course they’ll miss me awfully; I am ‘prime’ at ‘hop-scotch,’ and ‘bat-and-ball,’ and ‘hockey.’ I can stand on my head longer than any fellow among them; and when it comes to leaping over a post—ah, just ask my mother how many pairs of trousers I have stripped out doing it. I guess Jack Adams will miss me in the geography class; he always expects me to tell him his lesson; stupid dunce! I guess the school-master will miss me, too, for I was always the show-off-fellow, when company came into school; they can’t say I didn’t study my lessons well; but I am sick of it, crammed to death, and now I’m off. I wonder if I shall ever be sick when I am on my travels; that would be rather bad; mother is so kind when a fellow is sick: pshaw—I won’t be sick—who’s afraid? who’s a cry-baby? not I; I am John Sims, the great traveler that is to be—hurrah! I wonder who will have my old sled ‘Winded Arrow?’ I dare say sis will be going down hill on it; what a plague sisters are. Dora always has the biggest piece of pie; not that I care about it—I am too much of a man; but it is confoundedly provoking; if you try to have a little fun with girls; they holler out, ‘Oh, don’t, you hurt!’ and they bawl for just nothing at all, except to get their brothers a boxed ear. I can’t bear girls; I never could see any use in them. Now, if Dora had been a boy—ah, that would have been fun; he could have gone off with me on my travels; well—never mind about that, it is time I was going, if I mean to go to-day; father will be home to dinner soon, and then my plan will be all knocked in the head; I shall be sent out of an errand, or some such thing. I guess I will go out at the back door; it is ridiculous, but somehow or other I feel just as if every body knew what I was going to do; but once round the corner—down —— street—and off on the railroad track, and they may all whistle for Johnny Sims, the famous traveler.”

“Thump—thump—thump! I wonder who that is, knocking at my front door,” said Betty Smith; “I hope it is not the minister! I can’t leave these preserves for any body! thump—thump! What a hurry some folks are in, that they can’t give a body a chance to wipe their sticky fingers on a roller; nobody comes here but the peddler and the tinman, unless it is the minister; who can it be?” and Betty opened the door, and hurled from between her teeth, her usual blunt, “What do you want?”

“A piece of bread, if you please; I’ve taken such a long walk, and I am very hungry.”

“Where did you come from?” asked Betty, “and where are you going? and why didn’t you put a piece of bread or something in your pocket before you started, hey?”

“I did not think I should be so hungry,” said the boy.

“Well—where are you going now, any how?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? that’s a pretty story! how did you come by those good clothes? I’ll bet a sixpence you stole ’em; they are genuine broadcloth—fine as our minister wears—and you begging for a piece of bread! I can’t put that and that together. You don’t get any bread from me, till you open your mouth a little wider, my young mister, and tell me what you are up to. I shouldn’t wonder if you were sent here by some bad people, or something, to see if my man was to home; I can tell you now that he ain’t, but there’s a gun behind that kitchen door that’s better than forty of him, and I know how to handle it, too. Do you hear that, now? I’ll have you taken to—taken to—I’ll have something done to you—see if I don’t; if you don’t tell me in two minutes who sent you to my house!” said the curious Betty. “I don’t believe you are hungry—it is all a sham!”

“I am, really,” said the boy. “Nobody sent me here; I never did any thing bad. Won’t you give me a piece of bread, and tell me what road this is?”

“He’s crazy!” said Betty, looking close into the boy’s eyes.

“No, I am not crazy. I—I—I don’t know the way home.”

“Where is your home?”

The boy hesitated, and hung his head.

“Tut, now, if you want your bread,” said Betty, growing more and more curious, snatching a fragment of a loaf, and holding it up before him—“if you want this now, tell me where you live?”

“In the city,” said the boy.

“Ten miles off! Did you walk all that?”

The boy nodded.

“Did your pa and ma know it?”

“No.”

“Come now, here’s another slice,” said Betty, “and I’ll put some butter on it, if you’ll tell me what you did it for?”

“I wanted to run away.”

“Goodness! What for? Did your folks treat you bad?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I wanted to travel.”

“Ha—ha—ha—ha!” said Betty, holding on to her sides. “That’s too good—too good—and got tired a’ready—ha! ha!—and want to find the way home! Smart traveler you are! How do you expect to get back to-night? It is most sundown now.”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, sadly.

“Nor I,” said Betty. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll give you a supper and a bed to-night; and my man is going in to market at four o’clock to-morrow morning, with some vegetables; and he will give you a lift, if I ask him. How’ll that do?”

“Thank you,” said the boy; “but—”

“But?” said Betty. “Oh yes, you are thinking of what a pucker your pa and ma will be in about you, all night. Well, you should have thought of that afore you started. It can’t be helped now. I know my man won’t budge an inch before four o’clock in the morning; he’s just as sot as the everlasting hills. There he comes now. I guess he’ll wonder where I picked up you.”

“Halloo! Betty,” said Richard, rattling up to the door with his team. “What boy is that?”

“Why, Richard!”

“Why, Johnny!”

“What does all that mean?” said the astonished Betty, as the little boy flew into her husband’s arms. “What on earth does that mean? Did you ever see him before?”

“Well, I should think I had,” said Richard, “seeing that I have found his pa in vegetables all summer; and this boy, every blessed morning, has jumped on to my team for me to give him a lift on his way to school. Should r-a-t-h-e-r think I had seen him before, Betty; but how he came out here, that’s what I want to know—didn’t know as ever I told him where I lived.”

“You never did,” said Johnny. “I have been a bad boy, Richard—I ran away from home. I read books about boys that went off to see the world, and I thought it would be fun.”

“Well!” said Richard, laughing; “you are not the first fellow who has found out that bread and butter and money don’t grow on the bushes. Now I suppose you are quite ready for me to carry you back?”

“Yes,” said Johnny.

“Well, eat your supper, and then be off to bed, for I shall start before the hens are awake; and mind you tell your folks that I had no hand in your going off. It looks rather suspicious, you see—coming straight out to my house. Lucky you did not fall into worse hands; and, Betty, you might as well brush up his dirty shoes and take a little dust off his jacket and cap. I can always tell a boy that hasn’t seen his mother for four-and-twenty hours. Ah, Johnny, nothing like a mother. Don’t you be too proud, now, to ask her pardon for running off; you young scapegrace.”

“No I ain’t,” said Johnny.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Richard.

“I was thinking,” said Johnny, as he watched Betty dusting his jacket, “what a silly boy I was, and how I thought that one of these days every body would want to see the jacket and trowsers that the great traveler John Sims had on, when he first started on foot to go round the world.”

“Never mind that,” said Richard, laughing; “it will be a cheap suit of clothes for you, if it only teaches you that a good home is the best place for boys, and a good father and mother the very best of friends.”

“Wake up, wake up,” shouted Richard, shaking John by the shoulder the next morning, “my team is all harnessed, and at the door; and Betty has some smoking-hot coffee down stairs; wake up, Johnny, and we’ll get into town time enough to eat breakfast with your mother.”

Johnny jumped out of bed, and in his hurry, put his legs into the sleeves of his jacket: he was not used to dressing in the dark; the hot coffee was soon swallowed, and jumping into the market cart beside John, they rattled off by starlight down the road. Richard did not talk much, he was thinking how much money his turnips, and carrots, and beets, and parsnips, would bring him, so that Johnny had plenty of time to think. Every mile that brought them nearer to the city made him feel more and more what a naughty boy he had been, to distress such a good father and mother; so that he was quite ready when the market cart rattled over the paved streets of the city, and up to his father’s door, to say all that such a foolish boy should say, when his parents came out to meet him; nor did he get angry when “the fellows” joked him about his “long journey round the world.” And when they found he could laugh at his own folly, as well as they, they soon stopped teasing him. Johnny has some little boys of his own now, and when they begin to talk big, he always tells them the story of “John Sims, the famous traveler.”

THE JOURNEY.

CHAPTER I.

Did you ever go a journey with your mother? No? Little Nelly did; it was great fun for her to see her mother pack the trunk. She had no idea before how much may be got into a trunk by squeezing. She thought it full half a dozen times, and laughed merrily when her mother pressed down the things with her hands, and piled as many more on top of them. Nelly and her mother were going to Niagara; that is a long way from New York. They went to bed very early the night before, for they knew that they must be up and off by daylight, breakfast, or no breakfast; for the cars do not wait for hungry people, as you may have found out. Long before daylight Nelly put her hand on her mother’s face, and said, It is time to get up, mother, and sure enough it was; so they both sprang out of bed, washed their eyes open, hurried on their clothes, and, I wish I could say, eat their breakfast, but unfortunately Nelly and her mother were boarding at a hotel. Now, perhaps you do not know that the servants in the New York hotels set up nearly all night, to wait upon people who stay out late at theaters, and like a nice dainty supper when they get home; and to take care of strangers, too, who arrive late at night; so you can imagine how tired they are, and how soundly they sleep, poor fellows, in the morning. Many of them are most excellent people, who bear without complaint all the hard words they get from those, whose chairs they stand behind, and who consider themselves privileged for that reason to insult and abuse them. No matter how weary they are, they must dart like a flash of lightning wherever they are sent, and get sworn at and abused even then for not going quicker. I remember well a middle-aged man who was waiter in a hotel where I once lived. He was as truly a gentleman as your own father. I could not bear that he should answer the bell when I rang it; it seemed to me that I should rather wait upon him. I could not bear that he should bow his head so deferentially every time he spoke to me, or be so troubled if my tea or coffee was not just as I was accustomed to have it. I could not bear that he should beg my pardon for every little omission or accident, so seldom occurring, too. I almost wished he would say something impudent or saucy; it made me so uncomfortable to see such a fine, dignified, gentlemanly man waiting upon my table, waiting upon people in the house, too, who were not fit to wipe his shoes; running hither and thither at the call of capricious, ill-bred children, whose wealthy parents had never taught them that servants have hearts to feel, and that they should be humanely treated. Ah, you should have seen our John; his manners would not have disgraced the White House. In fact I should not be surprised any day to hear that he was its master; for he who fills an inferior position faithfully and well, is he who oftenest rises to the highest. Remember that!

Well, as I was telling you, before I began about John, when Nelly and her mother got up, the poor, sleepy servants, who had not been in bed more than an hour or so, were not up, so Nelly nibbled a cracker and drank a glass of water, and she and her mother jumped into the carriage and were driven to the dépôt. How odd Broadway looked by early daylight! No gayly dressed ladies swept the pavements with their silken robes; no dandies thumped it with their high-heeled boots and dapper canes; no little girls, dressed as old as their mammas, glided languidly up and down, with their hands folded over their belts and an embroidered handkerchief between their kidded fingers. No—none but the useful class of the community were stirring: market-men, from the country, with their carts laden with lettuce, parsnips, cabbages, radishes, and strawberries, covered over with a layer of fresh, green grass, the very sight and odor of which made one long to be where it grew. Then there were milkmen, driving enough to tear up the pavement; then there were rag-pickers, gray with dirt, raking the gutters; then there were shop-boys and office-boys by the score, who had crossed the ferries to their work, for board in New York is expensive business; then there were tailoresses and sempstresses, more than I could count, with their shawls drawn round their thin shoulders, and their faces shrouded in their barege vails; then there were poor, tired news-boys asleep in entries and on steps, while others of their number rushed past with their bundles of damp papers. Little Nelly saw it all, for her eyes were sharp and bright; and now she is at the dépôt. All is hurry, skurry; carriages, cab-men, passengers, and baggage. Nelly’s eyes look wonderingly about her, and she keeps close to her mother, for the loud shouts of the men frighten her; now she is safe in the cars—how pale, sleepy, and cross every body looks! They hang up their traveling-bags on pegs over their heads, they fold up their shawls for cushions, they examine their pockets to see if their purses and checks are all right, they shrug their shoulders and pull down the windows to keep out the steam from the car boiler, for we are not yet out of the dépôt, they put their feet upon the seat, coil themselves up into a ball, and wonder why the cars don’t start. Siz—z—z, off we go—good-by New York, with your dust, and din, and racket—good-by to your sleepy belles, who are dreaming of last night’s ball, and getting strength to go to another; good-by to the gray old men who toil so hard to find them in dresses and jewels; good-by to their thoughtless sons, who spend so freely what they never earn; good-by to the squalid poor of whom they never think, though they may some day keep them wretched company; good-by to the poor old omnibus horses, who trot and stumble, stumble and trot, till one’s bones ache to look at them; good-by to the merry, sun-burned drivers, who so courteously rein up their horses, when ladies want to trip across the slippery streets; good-by to the little flower-girls, who manufacture those tempting little baskets of pinks, geraniums, and roses; good-by to the pretty parks, with their fountains and trees, nurses and children; good-by to the prisons, which often shut up better people than many whom the judges suffer to go unpunished at large; good-by to the hospitals with their groaning patients, watchful nurses, and skillful doctors. Good-by, we shall not be missed, no more than the pebble which some idle school-boy tosses into the pond, and which disappears and is thought of no more. Good-by, busy, dirty, noisy, crowded, yet delightful New York, for we are off to Niagara.

CHAPTER II.

How hot it is, how dusty—how hungry we all are. I hope we shall soon stop to dinner, for our stock of crackers and patience is exhausted, and nothing is left of the oranges but the peel. Ah, here we are! Only ten minutes to eat; what can the conductor be thinking about; does he take us for boa-constrictors? or does he think that, like the cows, we can store in our food and chew it whenever we get a chance? The fact is, he does not think any thing about it; all he cares for is to pack us all in the cars again and start at the last of the ten minutes. So I suppose we must elbow our way into the dining-room with the rest and scramble for a seat! “Beef, pork, mutton, veal, chicken, what’ll you have, ma’am?” “What’ll I have? oh, any thing, something, only be quick about it, please, for this little girl looks paler than I like to see her. Lamb and green peas, that will do; but, oh, dear, where’s our knife and fork? Turn round, Nelly, take that spoon and begin on the peas, we can’t stop for trifles. There’s that horrid fizzing of the car boiler, which warns us that we must swallow something or go hungry till bedtime. And here’s a custard, but no spoon; next time I travel I will carry a knife, fork, and spoon in my pocket. I wonder if the people who keep this eating-place forget these things on purpose, so that we need not eat our ten minutes’ worth of food? and we so hungry, too.” “Have an orange, ma’am?” “Of course I will: I have not had any thing else.” “Passengers ready—passengers please settle.” Poor Nelly swallows the last bit of custard and looks wistfully at those we leave behind, and we pay for our comfortless dinner, and scramble back into the cars. “All aboard.” Off we go again. The fat old lady in front of us goes to sleep; the gentlemen get out their newspapers. I wonder do they know how many people have ruined their eyesight trying to read in the cars? It is a losing way of gaining time, Mr. Editor; take my advice and put your papers in your pockets to read when you get to the next stopping-place. There is a woman taking out a needle and thread to sew—that is worse yet—but every body imagines they know best about such things, so I’ll not interfere. Here comes a boy into the cars with some books to sell. Little Nelly pinches my arm slily and looks very wise; she has spelt out, with her bright eyes, among the other books. “Fern Leaves.” Nelly is a bit of a rogue, so she says to the boy, “Have you Fern Leaves?” “Yes, miss, and Second Series and Little Ferns, too.” And he hands them to me. Nelly touches my foot under the seat, and looks as grave as a judge, while I turn over the pages, and when I ask the little boy who wrote Fern Leaves, she does not laugh, but looks straight out of the window at a cow munching grass by the road side, as if it were a matter of no concern at all to her. The little bookseller repeats my question after me, “Who wrote Fern Leaves?” and looks bewildered, then, after scratching his head, he answers, with the air of one who has hit it, “Fanny’s Portfolio, ma’am.” We did not buy the books, we had seen them before. But not till the last rag of the little bookseller’s torn jacket had fluttered through the door, did Nelly’s gravity relax: you should have seen, then, the comical look she gave me behind her pocket handkerchief, and heard her ringing laugh, well worth writing a book for, and which nobody understood but we two, and that was the best part of the joke.

By-and-by there was a quarrel in the cars about seats, for selfish people travel as well as the good-natured. A cross-looking man, with a wife to match, had monopolized two entire seats, in one of which they sat, and on the other placed their feet and their carpet-bags. It was not long before a large, well-dressed gentleman, with his wife, requested leave to sit on the seat occupied by the cross gentleman’s carpet-bags; to which the cross man replied, with a growl, and without taking down his feet, that that seat was engaged to some persons who had just stepped out. This was a fib; but the gentleman supposing it to be true, led the lady back to the sunny seat which she had just left, and which had given her a bad headache. An hour after, the big gentleman stepped up to the cross man and says, “Your friends are a long time coming, sir.” You should have seen the cross man then; how he sprang to his feet like a little bristly terrier dog, which he strikingly resembled; how he tauntingly asked the big, well-dressed man, how it happened that such an aristocrat as he did not hire an entire car for his lordship and her ladyship (meaning his wife). “I should have done so,” replied the gentleman, in a very low tone, as he turned on his heel, “had I known that pigs were allowed to travel in this car.” The laugh and the whisper, “Good enough for him!” which followed, might have abashed any body but our terrier, who stepped up to the principal laugher, who sat next me, and putting his face close to his, hissed between his shut teeth, “Shut up!” Nelly did not know what “shut up” meant, but she knew the meaning of the doubled-up fist which the terrier thrust into our neighbor’s face, and looked up at me to see whether there was any danger of our being thumped or not. Seeing only a smothered smile on my face, and the conductor approaching to set matters to rights, she soon became quiet.

On we flew, past houses, fences, trees, cows, sheep, and horses, some of whom pricked up their ears for a minute, then went lazily on munching grass, as much as to say, “That’s an old story;” others, finding an excuse in it for a frolic, raced over the meadows, and kicked up their heels, as if to say, “Just as if nobody could run but you!”

Hark! what’s that? Nobody answers; but the cars tip half-way over, we are all thrown in a heap on the floor, the window-glass comes smashing in, and the hot steam rushes in. A great fat man doubles me up over a seat, trying, like a great coward as he is, to climb over me to get out the window. We don’t know yet what has happened; but, “Get out of the cars!” says the conductor, “quick!” The window is too small to let out the fat man, so he kindly allows me the use of my ribs again, which must have been made of good material, or they would have been broken as he bent me over that seat. I snatch Nelly, poor pale Nelly! who never screams or speaks, for she is a real little Spartan—and we all clamber out into the tall, wet meadow-grass. Then, the danger over, great big tears roll out of Nelly’s eyes, and with an hysterical laugh, as she looks at the broken cars, she sobs out, in a half sorrowful, half droll way, this nursery snatch—“All of a sudden, the old thing bursted!”

“Any body hurt?” ask the pale, anxious passengers, as they creep out one by one. “No—nobody’s hurt.” “Ah yes—ah yes—the poor brakeman is badly scalded—poor fellow.” Now the country people come flocking out of the farm houses—good, honest, kind souls—and they make a litter, and they put the wounded man upon it, and bear him slowly away over the green fields, under the drooping trees, carefully, carefully, heeding his groans, into the nearest farm-house; then the doctor’s chaise drives hurriedly up, and after a time, word is brought us that he will not die. Little Nelly cries and laughs again, for she is very nervous from the fright. And the conductor says, “Have patience, ladies; we will soon get another car;” and some go into barns, and some go into houses, for the rain is falling; and the poor watchmaker, whose trunk was broken to pieces, stands looking at the fragments of broken watches, and saying big words about damages and the railroad company. But every body else is so glad to be alive, and to be in possession of sound limbs, that they do not think of their baggage. And after a while the new car comes, for every body helps us, and we all climb up into it, and the color comes back to the lips of the ladies; and the great fat coward, who bent me double over the seat, takes precious good care to sit near the door, ready for a jump if any thing else turns up, or turns over.

CHAPTER III.

One o’clock at night, and this is Niagara. It might as well be Boston Frog Pond, for all the enthusiasm has been shook, and jolted, and stunned, and frightened out of us getting to it. And now here it is one o’clock at night. I suppose not a bit of supper is to be had for poor Nelly and me, although we have eaten nothing since we had that scrambling twelve o’clock dinner. What a big hotel! bless us—there is a supper though all ready; for they are used to little accidents, called collisions, this way, and feed the survivors with as much alacrity as they bury the dead; to be sure there is a supper—chicken—oh, Nelly! chicken and hot tea. Sorry figures we cut by the light of the bright gas chandeliers, with our jammed bonnets and torn riding-dresses, but who cares? I am sure black John don’t; he is just as civil as if we were as presentable as a Broadway belle; certainly he is used to it; he is used to seeing ladies emerge from begrimed caterpillar riding-habits into all sorts of gay butterfly paraphernalia; John is charitable; he always suspends his judgment of passengers till the next morning at breakfast; then he knows who is who. If a lady takes diamonds with her coffee, he knows she talks bad grammar, and is not what she would have people think her; he is not surprised to have her find fault with every thing from the omelette to the Indian cake. He expects to see her nose turned up at every thing, just as if she had every thing better at home.

She does not impose on John—he waits upon her with a quiet twinkle in his eye, which says as plain as a twinkle can say: I have not stood behind travelers’ chairs these two years for nothing; that game has been played out here, my lady; but when a lady comes down to breakfast in a modest-colored, quiet-looking breakfast robe, with smooth hair, neatly-slippered feet, and a very nice collar, and speaks civily and kindly to him, John knows he sees a real lady, whether she owns a diamond or not—and her pleasant “Thank you,” when he has taken some trouble to procure her what she desires, wings his feet for many a hard hour’s work that day. I wish ladies oftener thought of this. I wish they did not think it beneath them, or were not too indifferent or thoughtless to attend to it. “What is that noise, John?” “Oh, them’s the Rapids, ma’am.” “Rapids? sure enough, we almost forgot we were at Niagara; how very dismal they sound!” John laughs and says, “You are tired to-night, ma’am; when you look at them in the morning you will like ’em; most ladies does.” But poor Nelly is half asleep over her plate, so we will go to bed. What a little box of a chamber! not a pretty thing in it but Nelly; a table, a chair, a bed, a bureau, and a candle on it; the window shaking as if it had St. Vitus’s dance; the Rapids, as John calls them, roaring like mad under the window. I can’t stand the rattling of that window. I’ll stop it with the handle of a tooth-brush. I suppose I have a tooth-brush left, if the cars did run off the track; oh, yes! “Now tumble into bed, Nelly. What a dismal thing those Rapids are, to be sure. I feel as if I were out at sea in an egg-shell boat. I wonder how they will look in the morning? don’t you, Nelly?” No answer. “Nelly’s asleep; I wish I could sleep, but I’m sure those horrid Rapids will give me the night-mare.”

“Morning? you don’t mean that, Nelly! and you look as bright as if the cars had kept right end up all the way here. Does the sun shine, Nelly? Open the blinds and see. No? what a pity. ‘A great river under the window!’ why, pussy, that river is the Rapids; I don’t wonder they shake the window so; how they tumble about! Now, we will dress and breakfast, and then, no! for the Falls. You and I are not to be frightened at a few rain-drops, Nelly; we have had too many drenchings running to and fro from printing-offices for that. That’s right, Nelly, dip your face into the washbasin, it will make your eyes strong and bright; now smooth your hair, and put on the plainest dress you can find, but let it be very clean. I hope your finger-nails and teeth are quite nice, and then pull your stockings smoothly up; of all things don’t wear wrinkled stockings. Put stout boots on; don’t be afraid of a thick sole, Nelly; every thing looks well in its place; and a thin shoe on Goat Island would be quite ridiculous.

“You are glad to get out of that stifled bed-room? so am I. What a nice wide breezy hall this is! Oh, there are more travelers who have just arrived, and there are some more who are just leaving; and there comes the servant to say breakfast is ready; gongs are out of fashion, I am glad of that; I would run a mile to escape a gong; and beside, no hospitable landlord, I think, would set such a machine in motion to disturb sick and weary travelers, who prefer a longer sleep. Ah, this landlord knows what he is about, I am sure of that; you can generally judge of any house by the manners of the servants. How well trained they are here, how quiet, how prompt! Good fellows; I hope they get well paid, don’t you, Nelly? I hope they have a comfortable place to sleep, when the day is over, don’t you? All black? I am glad of that, too; I like black people; they are such a merry people, they are so easily made happy, they are so affectionate, they are so neat. Oh, what nice bread and coffee! Don’t touch those omelettes, Nelly; take a bit of beefsteak and here’s some milk—real milk; it is so long since I have tasted any, that it seems like cream!

“Who are those people? How do I know, little puss? I dare say they are asking the same question about us! You don’t like that lady’s face? Why not? She don’t look as if she could laugh. That’s a fact, Nelly. She is as solemn as an owl. But perhaps she is in trouble, who knows? We must not laugh about her. Come, Nelly, let us get up and go to the Falls. Tie on your bonnet; what a nice fresh air! See the shops, Nelly! shops at Niagara, who would have thought it? and curiosities of all sorts to sell! Well, never mind them now. Want a carriage? want a cab? Of course we don’t—look at our democratic thick-soled shoes! what’s the use of having feet, if we are not to be allowed to use them? No, of course we don’t want a carriage; we feel, Nelly and I, as if we were just made; don’t you see how we step off? No, keep your carriages for infirm, proud, and lazy people. Carriage—who can run in a carriage? who can skip? This way, Nelly, over the little bridge? Oh—pay toll here! Do we? Twenty-five cents. And please register our names! Oh yes, of course—Mrs. Nelly, and Miss Nelly. What are you laughing at, puss? come along; oh, see this pretty island! now you see the use of thick shoes—off into that grass, and pick me some of those wild-flowers. Oh, Nelly, there are some blue, and pink, and purple—get a handful, Nelly! Oh, how delicious it is to be alive; skip, Nelly, run, Nelly, sing Nelly.

“A real Indian? Where? Oh, that’s not a real Indian, no more than you or I. She’s a pretty little sham Indian; but what are her pin cushions and moccasins to these wild-flowers? No, no, little girl, don’t stop us with those things; we left shopping in New York. Goat Island was not made for that, I’m sure; come Nelly! A boy with crosses made of Table-rock; how they plague us—we don’t want to buy any crosses, we are cross enough ourselves, because you keep bothering us so; we came to see the Falls, not to do shopping. Come away, Nelly! Oh, Nelly—look! look!”

But why describe the Falls to you, when all your school geographies have a picture of it? when your teacher has taken all the school to see a panorama of it? when your Uncle George, and Aunt Caroline, and Cousin James have seen it? and yet no tongue, no pen ever could, ever has described its beauty, its majesty. I would that I had never heard it attempted; I would that I had never heard of Niagara; I would that I had come upon it unawares some glorious morning before Indian girls had peddled moccasins there, or boys, had profaned it by selling pictures and crosses; I would have knelt on that lovely island, and seen God’s majesty in the ceaseless, roaring torrent; God’s smile in the bright rainbow, hung upon the fleecy mist; God’s love in making earth so beautiful, for those who forget to thank Him for it. I would lead him there who says there is no God, that he might hear His voice, and see His glory.

But no two persons look on Niagara with the same eyes. You can not see it through my spectacles; some it animates and makes jubilant; others it depresses and terrifies; some hear in it the thunder and lightning of Sinai; others hear in it the voice of Him who stilled the raging waves with “Peace, be still!”

Yes, I was glad to have seen Niagara, but I was not sorry to leave it. Its rushing torrent threw a shadow over my spirit. Its monster jaws seemed hungry for some victim, other than the unconscious leaves which it whirled so impatiently and disdainfully out of sight. Its never-ceasing roar seemed like the trumpet-challenge to battle, telling of mangled corpses and broken hearts. No;—dearer to me is the silvery little brook, tripping lightly through green meadows, singing low and sweet to the nodding flowers, bending to see their own sweet beauty mirrored in its clear face. I like not that all Nature’s gentle voices should be tyrannically hushed to silence, drowned by a despot’s deafening roar. Give me the low murmur of the trees; I like the hum of the bee; I like the flash of the merry little fish; I like the little bird, circling, darting, singing, skimming the blue above, dipping his blight wings in the blue below; I like the cricket which chirps the tired farmer to sleep; I like the distant bleat of the lamb, the faint lowing of the cow; I lay my head on Nature’s breast, in her gentler moods, and tell her all my hopes and fears, and am not ashamed of my tears. But she drives me from her when she roars and foams, and flashes fierce lightning from her angry eyes; I close my ears to her roaring thunder. But when, clearing the cloud from her brow, she hangs a rainbow on her breast, throws perfume to the pretty flowers, and smiles caressingly through her tears—ah, then I love her; then she is all my own again.

Here I have been running on! and all this while you have been waiting to know the rest of my story. Well, Nelly and I started to go back to New York. Nelly did not like the idea of trusting herself in the cars, nor, to tell the truth, did I; but there was no help for it: besides, it is not wise to be a slave to one’s fears. So we tried to forget all about it. A girl who lived with me once remarked, there is always something happening most days. So we soon found amusement. An old lady in the cars, when she had smelled up all her camphor and eaten all her lozenges, commenced asking me questions faster than I could answer, and looking at Nelly through her spectacles. Some of her questions were very funny, and, from any body but an old lady, would have been impertinent; but we answered them all, for it was very evident she did not ride in the cars every day, and was determined to get her money’s worth. Poor old lady! I suppose she had lived all her life in some small village where there was only a blacksmith’s shop and a meeting-house, and where every body knew what time every body got up, and what they had for breakfast. Nice old lady! I hope somebody gave her a good cup of tea, and a rocking-chair, when she got home, which, I regret to say, was the first stopping-place after we left Niagara.

From the car-windows Nelly and I saw the Catskill Mountains. O the lovely changing hues of their steep and misty sides; the billowy clouds that rolled up, and rolled over, and rolled off;—then the far-off summit, now hidden, now revealed, lying against the sky, tempting us to see from thence the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them. And so we will, some day. I will tell you what we see.

Night came, and we had not yet reached New York. Nelly was dusty, and hungry, and tired; but she was a good traveler, and made no complaint. The cars were dashing along through the darkness, close by the edge of the Hudson River, and Nelly clasped my hand more closely as she looked out of the windows upon its dark surface, and sighed as if she feared some accident might tip us all over into it. But no such accident occurred, and by-and-by the bright gas-lights of New York shone and sparkled; and the never-failing gutter odor informed us that we were back again upon its dusty streets.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

“How did Luly look?” Her eyes were brown, her hair was brown, too; she was very pale, and slender, and had a soft, sweet voice, just such a voice as you would expect from such a fragile little girl. Luly did not like to be noticed: she was fond of being by herself, and would often sit for an hour at a time, quite still, with her slender hands crossed in her lap, thinking; her cheek would flush, and her eye moisten, but no one knew what Luly was thinking about. Luly did not love to play; she did not care for dolls, or baby-houses; she never jumped rope, or drove hoop, or played hunt the slipper; this troubled her mother, who knew that all healthy young creatures love to play and frolic; and so she brought Luly all sorts of pretty toys, and Luly would say very sweetly, “Thank you, dear mamma,” and put them on the shelf, but she never played with them, and seemed quite to forget that they were there. Luly’s grandmother shook her head, and said, “Luly will die; Luly will never live to grow up.”

If Luly heard any one speak in a harsh, cross voice, she would shiver all over, as if some cold wind were blowing upon her; and if she saw two persons quarreling, she never would be satisfied till she had made peace between them. One day, before she could speak plain, her mother sent her down to the kitchen on an errand; when she got to the door, she stood still, for the cook and the chambermaid were very angry with each other; one was saying “You did,” and the other “I didn’t,” in very loud tones, and their faces were very red with passion. Luly stood in the door-way, looking, listening, and trembling, as she always did at any such sight. Tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and unable to bear it any longer, she stepped between them, and clasping her little hands, said in her broken way, with her sweet, musical voice, “Oh, don’t condict, please don’t condict.” So the girls stopped contradicting, ashamed before a little child, “for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Luly never disobeyed her mother—never—never. If her mother told her not to go out in the garden without her leave, and then went away for an hour, she was just as sure that Luly had obeyed her, as if she had been there to see; and yet, every night when this little girl went to bed, she would say, as she laid her head upon the pillow, “Mother, do you think God will forgive all my sins to-day? I hope he will, I hope I haven’t made God sorry, mother;” and when her mother said, “Yes, I know he will forgive you, Luly,” she would smile so peacefully, and say: “Now you can go down stairs, mother.” Luly never was afraid of God; she never thought or spoke of His “punishing” her; but she loved Him so much that it was a great grief to her to think that she might have “made Him sorry,” as she called it. One morning when she woke, one beautiful summer morning, when the scent of the roses came in at the open window, when the dew-drops were glistening, and the green trees waving, and the birds singing, she crept out of her little crib, and stood at her window looking out on the fair earth, with her little hands clasped, her eyes beaming, and her cheek glowing.

“What is it, Luly?” said her mother, as tears rolled slowly down Luly’s cheeks.

“I want to see Him,” whispered Luly.

“Who, my child?”

“God.”

Then Luly’s mother thought of what her grandmother had said: “Luly will not live; Luly will die,” and she clasped her little girl tightly to her breast, as if she feared even then she would go from her.

But no mother’s clasp could hold little Luly; no mother’s tears could bribe the Death Angel. Rose-red grew the cheek, then white as snow, the little hands grew hot, then icy cold, the soft eye bright, then dim, and she who never grieved us living, grieved us dying.

A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.

I wish I knew what that cow is thinking about; how lazily she stands there, switching her sides with her tail, and looking up and down the meadow. I am no judge of cows, but I think that is a pretty cow. Any lady might be proud of her great, soft brown eyes. I am glad she does not know that one of these days, the butcher will thump her on the head and sell her for beef; I am glad she does not know that the pretty little calf, which frolics by her side, will be eaten for veal, next week. Munch away, old cow, and enjoy the fresh clover while you can; I don’t believe you have any idea what a pretty picture you and your baby calf make, as you stand with your hoofs in that brook and bend your heads to drink. I like to think, though I know it is not so (because you have no soul, old cow), that when you raise your head from the brook and lift it toward the sky, you are thinking of Him who made the pretty clover grow and the sparkling brook to flow. And now the little calf is nursing. Pull away, little rogue? if you have not a better right to your mother’s milk than Sally, the dairy-maid, I will agree to go without butter; pull away, it does me good to see you; now kick up your heels and run like mischief over the meadow; see the old cow blink and wink, as she looks after her, as if to say, Well, well, I was young myself, once; calves will be calves, spite of cows. And there is a hen and her cunning little chickens; I should like to catch that tiny white one, which blows over the meadow like a piece of cotton wool, and cuddle her right up in my neck; I am sure the old hen would not object if she knew how I liked chickens; but she don’t, and she would probably take me for a highwaywoman, and I can’t have my character called in question that way, even by a hen; beside her beak is sharp, and so are her claws: I think I had better admire her little soft white baby at a distance. Nice little thing, how glad I am it does not have to be fixed up in lace and embroidery, every morning, and have a nurse rubbing its nose enough to rub it off, every time a stray breeze makes it sneeze; how glad I am the little thing can roll and tumble in the grass, instead of being stewed up in a hot nursery and sweltered under a load of crib-blankets, till all its strength oozes out in perspiration; dear little chick, I hope you will find plenty of little worms to eat, and I hope no old rooster will cuff your ears for doing it; I hope you will have the downiest side of your mother’s wing to sleep under, and plenty of meal and water when worms are scarce. But, see! there’s a shower coming up; you had better scamper under the shed; don’t you hear the thunder, little chick? don’t you see that beautiful zig-zag lightning darting out of that dark cloud? and don’t you see that lovely blue sky over yonder, peaceful as the good man’s soul, when the cloud of trouble threatens him? No, little chick, you don’t notice it a bit; you are only chasing after your mother, and trying to dodge the rain-drops; well, pretty as you are, I had rather be born with a soul; I am glad my soul will live millions of years after you are dead; I want to know so much that puzzles me here on earth, but which I am willing to believe is all right, until God Himself explains it all to me. I am glad I am not a little chick without a soul, because I want to learn about these things in heaven.

THE CIRCUS.

What a mob of boys! There’s Bill Saunders, and Ned Hoyt, and Tom Fagin, and Lewis Coates, and John Harris; and, sure as the world, there’s that little tomtit, Harry Horn, without a sign of a cap on, jumping up and down as if there were pins in his trowsers. What can be the matter, I wonder? Now they shout, “Hurra—hurra!”—but then boys are always screaming hurra. I have done breaking my neck leaning out of the window to see what is the matter. I won’t look at the little monkeys. There it goes again—“Hurra! hurra!” One would think General Washington, Lafayette, or some other great person, was coming down street. Now they move one side—ah, now I see what all the fuss is about! A great flaming red and yellow handbill is posted on the fence; and on it is written, “Pat Smith’s Circus! next Wednesday afternoon and evening.” Circus! no wonder little Harry Horn forgot to put his hat on, and jumped up and down as if he were trying to jump out of his trousers. If there is any thing that drives boys crazy, it is a circus. I should like to know why; I have a great mind to go to Pat Smith’s Circus myself, just to find out; for I never was in a circus in my life. Yes, I will go, and I will take Nelly; she never was in a circus either. No, I won’t; I will leave her at home with black Nanny. No, I wont; I will take black Nanny too; but then I am not sure Pat Smith allows colored people in his circus. “Well, if he is such a senseless Pat as that, he may go without three twenty-five cent pieces, that’s all, for Nanny likes a little fun as well as if her skin were whiter; and if Nanny can’t come in, Nelly and I won’t. But Nanny can; Pat is not such a fool. So, come along, Nanny; come along, Nelly; it don’t matter what you wear. Walk a little faster, both of you; we must get a good seat, or we shall lose half the fun. Short people are apt to fare badly in a crowd. Here we are! This a circus! this round tent? How funny! Music inside; that’s nice; I like music; so do Nelly and Nanny. Here’s your money, Mr. Pat Smith. Goodness! you don’t mean that we have got to clamber up in those high, ricketty-looking seats, without any backs? Suppose we should fall through on the ground below? Suppose the seats should crack, and let all these people down? I think we’ll climb up to the highest seat, for in case they do break, I had rather be on the top of the pile than underneath it. That’s it; here’s a place for you, Nanny. Bless me, what a “many people,” as little Harry Horn says. Little babies, too, as I live;—well, I suppose their poor tired mothers wanted a little fun too; but the babies are better off than we, because they can have a drink of milk whenever they are thirsty. Ah, I was a little too fast there, for Pat Smith has provided lemonade, and here comes a man with a pailful. Circus lemonade!—no, I thank you; it may be very good, but I prefer taking your word for it. How the people flock in! What’s that coming in at yonder door? Nanny! Nelly!—look! Is it a small house painted slate-color? No—it is an elephant—a live elephant. What a monster! what great flapping ears! what huge paws! and what a rat-ty looking tail! I don’t like his tail; but his trunk is superb. I am afraid he has had a deal of whipping to make him behave so well. How he could make us all fly, if he chose; what mince-meat he could make of those little fat babies yonder. I am glad he don’t want to; they are too pretty to eat. What are they going to do with him, I wonder? It can’t be that they mean to make him walk up that steep pair of stairs. Yes—see him! Would you believe such a great monster could do it so gracefully? He lifts his paws as gently as a kitten. Now that’s worth seeing; but how in the world are they going to get him down, now that he has reached the top? See—he is going to back down; not one false step does he make; now he has reached the bottom. Clever old monster! It seems a shame to make such a great, grand-looking, kingly creature, perform such dancing-master tricks. Now his master lies flat on his back on the ground, and the old elephant is going to walk over him. Suppose he should set that great paw of his on his master’s stomach, and crush him as flat as a pancake? No; see how carefully he steps over him with those big legs; never so much as touching his gay scarlet-and-white tunic. Splendid old fellow, to have so much strength, and yet never use it to the harm of those who torment him with all this nonsense. How I should like to see you in your native jungles, old elephant, with all your baby elephants; your little big babies, old fellow. There he goes. I am glad they have done with him. It makes me sad to see him. Good-by, old Samson.”

What now? a lady on horseback, Mr. Pat Smith’s wife; she sits her horse very well, but that’s nothing remarkable; I can sit a horse as well as that myself; but I couldn’t make a leap on his back over that five-barred gate—mercy, no—he will break her neck, I know he will; I am afraid Mr. Pat Smith wants a second wife. Oh, see, the horse has come down safe with her on the other side of the gate; now she is going to try it again; what a woman that is! I hope Mr. Pat Smith gives her half the money that he takes this hot night, for I am sure she has earned it; but wives don’t always get what they earn, and I dare say Mrs. Pat Smith don’t.

Now here come a parcel of fellows in white tights, tight as their skin, tumbling head over heels, up side down, standing on each others’ heads, and cutting up untold and untellable capers. I must say their strong limbs are quite beautiful, just as God intended limbs should grow, just as I hope yours will grow, one of these days, though I think it may be done without your being a circus tumbler. See how nimble they are, and how like eels they twist and squirm about, leaping on each others’ shoulders like squirrels, leaping down again, running up tall poles and sitting on the top and playing there with half a dozen balls at once, which are tossed up at them from below. It is really quite wonderful, and yet I can’t help thinking had they taken as much pains to learn something really useful, as they have to learn to be funny, how much good they might do; for, after all, a monkey, or a squirrel, or an ourang-outang could do all that quite as well as a man, who is so much superior to them, quite as gracefully, and without any teaching, too; but, bless me, a circus is no place to think, and yet I wish those men’s heads were as well trained as their heels; if you listen you will find out they are not; just hear those stupid jokes they are making, how badly they pronounce, how ungrammatically they express themselves, and hear—oh, no—don’t hear that! what a pity they should say any thing indelicate before ladies and pure little children. Now I know why fathers and mothers do not like their little boys and girls to go to the circus. Mr. Pat Smith, Mr. Pat Smith, you must leave off those stupid bad jokes, if you want to draw ladies and little children.

I wish somebody would get up a good circus without these faults. I can not think so badly of the people as to believe that they would like it less if it were purified. I think it might be made a very pleasant and harmless amusement for little children, who seem to want to go so much, and who have often felt so badly because their parents were not willing. Perhaps there are such good circuses, that I may not have heard of. I like good schools, I like study, but I should like to write over every school-room door:

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

WHAT EVERY LITTLE CHILD MAY SEE.

I hope you love to look at the bright sunsets; oh the joy they are to me! Yesterday it had been raining all day; dark, gloomy clouds hovered overhead; the birds and the children were nested out of sight; the hens crept up under the shed corners, and the old cows stood patiently waiting under the trees for the sun to shine out. It shone at last, and oh, with what a glory; I wished I had a hundred eyes to gaze, for every moment the lovely hues changed to hues more beautiful—sapphire, topaz, emerald, ruby, opal, amethyst, diamonds. Overhead, the mottled gold and purple; in the west, a field of blue, clear and pure as a baby’s eyes, with fringes of brown, like its sweet-drooping lashes; farther still, floated golden clouds, bright enough to bear the baby’s spirit to heaven; while in the east, the dark heavy, rain-clouds, were rolled up and piled away; back of the snow-white cottages, back of the tall church-spire, which pointing upward seemed to say, Praise him who made us all. Who could help it? Oh, if earth is so lovely, what must heaven be? if God’s foot prints are so beautiful, what must be His throne?

Evening came, and all this glory faded out only to be replaced by another; countless stars, sparkled and glittered over head; then came the moon, slowly; veiling itself bride-like in fleecy clouds, as if not to dazzle us with her beauty. On came the still midnight; when sleep fell like flower-dew on weary lids; when the whispering leaves told each other all their little secrets, and the queen moon glided about, silvering the poor man’s roof while he slept, as if it had been a palace. Morning came, and the jealous sun shot forth at her a golden arrow, to tell her that her reign was past. She grew pale, and moved slowly on, one little star keeping her kindly company. Up flashed the sun, brighter for his eclipse. The flowers and the children opened wide their dewy eyes; the dew-drops danced, the little birds shook their bright wings, tuned their throats, and trilled out a song, oh, so bright, so joyous. God listened for man, but he was dumb.

A STORY FOR BOYS.

Now, boys, I am going to write a story for you. I don’t know why I have written more stories for girls than for boys, unless it is because all the boys I ever had have been girls. Sometimes I have been sorry this was so, because I think boys can rough it through the world so much better than girls, especially should the latter have the misfortune to lose their father when they are young. I hope this is not the case with you; it is very sad for young eyes to be watching the way he used to come, and see only other happy gleeful children with their living, breathing, loving, fathers.

But I will not talk about this now. I want to tell you that I do love boys, though I am very much afraid of them.

Afraid?

Yes; now you need not look so innocent, just as if you never, when a lady had picked her way carefully through the sloppy streets, jumped into a big puddle near her, and sent the dirty water all over her nice white stockings, and pretty gaiter boots—ah—you see I know you; just as if you hadn’t come rushing round a corner when you were playing tag, and knocked the breath out of a woman before she could say “Don’t;” just as if you didn’t eat peanuts in an omnibus and let the wind blow the shells into her lap; just as if you didn’t put your muddy shoes up on the omnibus seat, and soil the cushions, and spoil ladies’ dresses; just as if you did not—you rogues—say saucy things to bashful little girls, at which your schoolmates Tom Tules and Sam Hall would burst into a loud laugh and the poor little girl would have to go a long way round to school the next morning merely to get rid of you. I should be sorry to believe that you know how much pain you sometimes give a little girl in this way: perhaps her mother is a widow and has to earn her own living, and can not spare time every morning to go with her daughter to school, or to call for her when school is done; and it pains her very much to have to send the weeping child who is so afraid of you, out alone; and she sighs when she thinks of the time when that child’s father was alive, and they had plenty of money to hire a nurse-maid to see that she did not get run over or troubled on her way.

I don’t believe you think of this, when you slyly pull their curls as you go by, or make believe snatch their satchels, or elbow them off the sidewalk, to please that naughty Frank Hale, who says, “’Tis fun.” I am sure you never thought seriously of all I have just told you, or you would not do it.

A stupid boy who never wants “fun” will never be good for any thing. But it is not “fun” to give pain to the weak, timid, and helpless; it is not fun to play the tyrant. Oh, no, no. It is fun to play ball, and hop-scotch; and it is fun to skate, and slide, and “coast,” as the Boston boys call it (i.e., go down a steep, icy hill on a sled); but this steep, icy hill should not be in the street, where horses and carriages are, crossed by other streets, through which people are passing. A little boy was once coasting very fast down such a hill as this, and when a very prim maiden lady was picking her way across it. On came the boy, like lightning, tripped up her heels, and carried her down on his sled, on top of him, to the bottom of the hill. She was, fortunately, not hurt. She got slowly up, smoothed out her rumpled dress, bent her bonnet straight, put her spectacles on the end of her nose, and looking at the little boy (who stood there quite as much astonished as she at what he had done), she remarked, “Young man, it was not my intention to have come this way!” He got off easily, didn’t he? But had he broken any of her bones, a policeman would perhaps have rung at his father’s door some time that day, and his father would have been obliged to pay a fine, because his boy broke the law by “coasting” in the streets—(that’s Boston law). And beside that, had the lady been poor, his father would have had to pay a doctor for mending her bones. Don’t think I do not approve of coasting in safe places. It is what boys call “prime.” I like to coast as well as you do; and when you get a nice sled, with good “runners,” I should like to try it. If it goes like chain-lightning, you may name it Fanny Fern; but if it twists round at every little thing in the path, and don’t go straight ahead, you may call it—what you like; but don’t you dare to name it after me.

KATY’S FIRST GRIEF.

Little Katy, so they told me, was an only child. I don’t know how that could be, when she had two little sisters in heaven. But Katy had never seen them; they turned their cheeks wearily to the pillow and died years before she was born. Katy had heard her mamma speak of them, and she had seen their little frocks and shoes, and a little blue silk hood, trimmed round the face with a soft white fur, soft as the baby’s velvet skin; and she had seen a dry crust of bread, with the marks of tiny teeth in it, carefully put away in the drawer; and a small string of coral beads, red as the baby’s lip; and she had seen her mother put her fingers through the sleeve of a little fine cambric shirt, and look at it till tears blinded her eyes. Katy was not strong herself; her mother was very much afraid that she would die too; she was very careful always to tie her tippet closely about her throat, when she went out, and to see that her feet were warm, and her little arms covered. There were very few days in which Katy felt quite well, and I don’t suppose she could help crying and fretting a great deal; she wanted to be in her mother’s lap all the while, and did not like to have strangers come in and talk to her mother. That could not be helped you know, and then Katy would cry very loud, and nothing seemed to pacify her.

As she grew older, her mother took such good care of her, that her health began to improve, and she grew stronger; but she had been petted, and had her own way so much (because they disliked to trouble her when she was sick) that she had become very selfish; she liked nobody to touch her toys, or even look at them. This was a pity. One morning Katy woke, climbed up in her crib, and called out “Mamma!” but there was no mamma there. “Papa!” there was no papa either. This was something very uncommon; for they were always there when she woke in the morning. Then Katy set up a great cry, louder than you would ever believe such a little bit of a thing could cry, and then a strange woman came in, and said, “Hush!” and then Katy screamed louder than ever, and grew very red in the face, and said, “I won’t hush, I want my mamma—I will have my mamma!” and then Katy’s papa came up and whispered to the strange woman, and then the strange woman nodded her head and went out of the room; and then Katy’s papa told Katy that her mamma was in the other room, and that, if she would be a good girl, and stop crying, and let him dress her, she should go and see her. Katy had a great mind not to stop, but she wanted so much to see her mamma that she made up her mind she would; so her papa put on her little petticoats, and as he never had dressed his little girl, he buttoned them before, instead of behind; and then Katy had a cry about that, and then her papa was a great while finding out how her frock fastened; he saw some “hooks” on it, but he could not find any “eyes” to hook them into, and so he told Katy, who kept wriggling round on his lap like a little eel, slipping off his knee, and slipping back, and fretting like a little tempest to see “mamma;” then papa’s forehead began to have great drops of perspiration on it, as he fumbled away at the little frock with his big fingers, and by-and-by he found out that there were things called “loops,” so small he could hardly see them, to hold the hooks, instead of eyes, and then he said, drawing a long breath, “Now, little Katy, I’ll have you dressed in a twinkling!” so he fastened it, and then put on her stockings, and one shoe; but when he looked for the other, it was nowhere to be found; it was not in the crib, nor under it, in the closet, or in the bureau drawers; it was not anywhere, that he could see. Katy wanted to go without it, but her papa said, no, she would get cold: and then Katy set up another of her great cries, and just as two big tears, big enough to wet the whole front of her frock, came rolling down, her papa found the little red shoe under the wash-stand. Then he put it on, and saying, “Now, Katy,” he took her in his arms, and carried her through the entry, into the “best chamber;” it was so dark, with all the blinds shut and the curtains drawn, that Katy at first could not see who or what was in it. In a minute or two her eyes got used to the dim light, and then she saw her mamma on the bed, and a little white bundle of something lying on her arm. Katy’s papa moved a little nearer, and whispered to Katy, “See, mamma has a cunning little brother for you to play with.” Katy looked at him a minute, and then her face puckered up all over, and she burst out into such a cry, you never heard the like; “I don’t want him—I don’t want him, I want to lay on mamma’s arm, I don’t want any little brother!” Then the strange woman motioned to Katy’s papa to take her out of the room, and then Katy clung to the bed-post, and cried louder than ever, “No, no—take him away, take him away—I don’t want that little brother!”

Poor little Katy—you should have heard her sob, going down stairs; all that papa could say did not comfort her. He took her on his lap to the breakfast table, gave her some real tea out of his saucer, and let her eat with mamma’s nice silver fork; it did no good, not more than a minute at a time; she could not forget that “little brother,” who was cuddled up so comfortably in her place on mamma’s arm. And now even papa could not stay any longer with Katy, for it was already past nine o’clock, and he must go down town to attend to his business; so he called Bridget, and told her to keep Katy in the parlor with her playthings, till her mamma sent for her; and kissing his little sobbing girl, he went away. Papa and mamma both gone! what should Katy do? Bridget tried to comfort her, and sang her a song, called “Green grow the rushes, O,” but it was of no use. Then the strange woman came down to eat her breakfast. Katy wiped the tears out of her eyes, and looked at her from under the corner of her apron. The strange woman sat down to her breakfast, and ate away; how she did eat! one egg—two eggs—three eggs—two cups of coffee, and several slices of bread and butter; then she said to Bridget, “Where’s that crying child? Mrs. Smith wants to have her brought up-stairs; I never heard of such a thing since I went out nursing, as having such a troublesome little thing in a sick chamber. She will make her mother sick with her fussing, and so I told her; but she told me to bring her up when I had done my breakfast, and to I suppose I must; where is she?”

“There,” said Bridget, pointing to Katy, cuddled up in the corner, so afraid of the strange woman, that she had forgotten to cry.

“Sure enough—well—I am glad to see you are in a better temper, Miss Katy; your mother wants you to go up-stairs, but I can tell you that you won’t stay there long, unless you are as hush as a mouse; for I have come here to take care of her, did you know that? and I never allow naughty children to stay with their sick mothers. Now, if you will promise to be good, I will take you up-stairs; will you promise?”

Katy’s under lip quivered a little, but not a word came out of it.

“Say, will you be good?”

No answer.

“Well, then, you can stay down stairs, that’s all, I sha’n’t take you up-stairs.” Then the strange woman took a cup and saucer in her hand and went up into the sick room.

Then Katy cried so hard and so loud.

Katy’s sick mother turned her head on the pillow and sighed. “Is that Katy, crying, Mrs. Smith?” she asked of the strange woman, who just then came in to the door.

“Oh, don’t you be bothering your head now about your family,” said Mrs. Smith, pouring a little gruel into the cup.

“It is very well to say that,” said Katy’s mamma; “Katy has been a sickly child always, and I can’t help feeling anxious about her. We have been obliged to fondle her more on that account; I am sure she will outgrow her pettishness, as she gets her health, and it is very hard to turn her off so all at once; it is hard for grown people to bear it, when another person steps in and takes their place with a friend whom they love, and how can you expect a little sick child to feel willing and happy about it all at once?”

“Well, I told her she could come up, if she would promise to be good, but she wouldn’t, and so I left her down there; I can’t have her here fretting you.”

Katy’s mamma laid her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed again; then she said, “It frets me much more to hear her cry down stairs; I think I can make it all right to her about the baby if she comes up here.”

“Just as you please, of course,” said Mrs. Smith, giving her gingham apron a twitch; “just as you please; but you must recollect, if the child frets you into a fever, the blame will be laid at my door. Oh, just as you please, of course, you are mistress of the house; but I always likes to see ladies a little reasonable;” and Mrs. Smith went into the entry and told Bridget to bring up Katy to see her mamma.

Now Katy was, on the whole, a good little girl, as good as she could be, with all the pains and aches and ails she had; she was very affectionate too, and loved her papa and mamma very very dearly, and believed every thing they told her, and they had patience with her faults, believing that when her health was better she would be less fretful. That was why her mamma was troubled at what the nurse had said to her little grieved sorrowful daughter; and that was why, though she felt very sick, she sent for her to try and make her feel happy. Oh, you never will know, any of you, until you have little children of your own, how strong a mother’s love is.

Well, little Katy crept into her mother’s room, and sidled up to the bed, with an eye on the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, as if she feared every moment that she would snatch her up, before she could get to her mother’s bedside.

Katy’s mother put out her pale hand and took hold of her little daughter’s trembling fingers. Katy was trying to choke down the tears, but one of them fell upon her mother’s hand. Then Katy’s mother told her to climb upon a chair and get carefully on the bed.

Katy did not look at Mrs. Smith, though she heard her mutter something, but scrambled upon the bed as her mother told her.

“Katy, look here,” and her mamma unrolled the soft folds of a little fleecy blanket, and there lay a little baby, so little, so cunning, with such a funny little fuzz all over its head, and such little pink bits of fingers.

“Katy, I want you to help me take care of this little brother; I am sick, and can not wait upon him, and I want you to hand me his little blankets, and frocks, and shoes, and caps; and I want you to pat him with your little soft hand when he cries. See, he is no bigger than your big doll; and by-and-by, when he is a little older, you shall sit in your little rocking-chair, and rock him and get him to sleep for me; and when he gets fast asleep, you and I will put him in the cradle, and tuck him all up nice and warm, and you shall sit by him and sing him the little song papa taught you. He is your little live doll, and can open and shut his eyes—see there!”

“Yes, I see,” said Katy, in a soft whisper, and the ugly frown all went away from her pretty white forehead. “I see. Has he got any toes?”

Then Katy’s mother showed Katy the little bits of pink toes all curled up in a heap on his funny little foot. And then Katy’s mother said, that her head ached so badly, she must try to sleep, but that she wanted Katy to sit in the chair beside the bed, very still, and take care of the little baby, while she slept; and Katy looked quite pleased, and said she would. So every time the little baby breathed hard, Katy would pat the quilt with her forefinger, but she never spoke a word any more than a little mouse. And all that day she staid in her mamma’s room and did exactly as she told her; and when her papa came home, she went down stairs with him, and drank some “real tea” out of his saucer, and put a piece of butter on his plate, because she said she promised to help mamma while she was sick; and then her papa undressed her and put her to sleep in his bed; but after she had said, “Now I lay me” and “Our Father,” her little lip quivered, and looking up in her papa’s face, she said, “Are you sure my mamma can love little brother and me too?” and when her papa said, “Yes, I am sure,” she believed him, because she knew he never told her wrong, and then she laid her head quietly down to sleep.

I could not tell, when a great many weeks had gone by, how she learned to love her little brother, how dearly she loved to help wash him and dress him, and smooth his soft silky hair; how patiently she picked up his playthings when he grew bigger, and gave him all her own too; and how pretty she looked as she sat in her little chair, holding him and peeping into his bright blue eyes. Oh Katy’s mamma knew better about her own little girl than the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, did. She knew how badly a little child’s heart may sometimes ache, and how a few kind words, said at the right time, may cure it and make it happy.

Love your mother, little ones.

OUR NEW DOG DASH.

Dash! go away! how do you suppose I can write when you are jumping at my elbow, playing with my robe-tassels, and cutting up such antics, as you have been this last half hour? I know it is a pleasant morning, as well as you do; I should like a ramble as well as you would; but business is business, Dash, and neither you nor those great fleecy-white clouds, sailing so lazily over the blue sky; neither the twitting birds, nor the sweet soft air, every breath of which makes my blood leap; neither the fresh green grass, nor the pretty morning-glories which have opened their blue eyes under my window, can get me out of this chair till my work is done. So, go away, Dash; you need not sniff, and bark, and jump up on the window-sill that way; you don’t know me, or you would know that, in my dictionary, won’t means won’t. Beside, what is to hinder you from going out by yourself, I’d like to know? Dog-days are over, no policeman or covetous boy, in want of half a dollar, will knock you on the head. Why not go out by yourself till I get ready to come, if you are in such a mortal hurry? What are you afraid of? That solemn flock of geese? those hens and roosters? or that great Newfoundland dog, who looks big enough to swallow you at a mouthful? or that steady old brown cow? A pretty fellow you are to be afraid! you who fell upon poor puss, shook her, and chased her up-stairs and down, and in my lady’s chamber, till her back had a hump as big as any camel’s, and her eyes looked like two great emeralds; oh, you blustering little coward! Suppose that great Newfoundland dog should serve you in that fashion! That’s why you are afraid to go out of doors without me, sir, is it? Ah ha!—none of us so big but we can find our match, let me tell you. Remember that, next time you shake a poor harmless pussy, because you were jealous of a saucer of milk I gave her. Let me tell you, sir, ladies first, after that the gentlemen. Where were you brought up, I would like to know, that you have not learned that? Let me see you ruffle one hair of my little Maltese pussy, sir, and I will—no I won’t, for here comes my husband, your master. I like to have forgotten what I told you just now, that none of us are so big but we can find our match. Never fear, Dash, I won’t touch you; for I’ve found mine.

FUN AND FOLLY;
A STORY FOR THOUGHTLESS BOYS.

Halloo! there’s old John coming down the street, top of a load of straw, in that crazy old cart, with that old skeleton of a horse. Gemini! what a turn out, isn’t it Bob? what fun it would be to step up behind the cart, and set that straw on fire with a match; I say, Bob, wouldn’t the old fellow jump down quicker? Let’s do it.

Bob, always ready for “fun,” took a match, and applying it to the dry straw, in an instant set it all of a blaze; then they both ran off, and hid behind a wall to see what would come of it.

Down scrambled old John, head first, and rolled off into the road; the horse feeling the heat, started, and the wheel of the cart passing over old John’s head, left him bleeding and almost lifeless, on the ground.

“Think he’s dead?” whispered Bob with white lips. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, I only wanted a little fun Sam.”

“They’ll put us in jail if they find us,” said Sam, “oh what shall we do; old John will die, he don’t move a bit;” and the naughty boys crept still more closely together behind the wall.

Old John was not dead; only stunned and bleeding; a farmer who came by, seeing him, took him up in his cart, and carried him to the almshouse: and there we will leave him groaning on his small bed, while I tell you his story.

John was once Teller in a bank. Do you know what a teller does? He counts over all the money that is brought into the bank, and gives an account of it to the president of the bank, and the directors. Of course he has to be very careful never to make a mistake in counting; or to mislay even a sixpence; lest the president and the directors of the bank might think he had stolen it. John was very careful and very honest; and all the people who had dealings with him, liked him very much; thousands and thousands of dollars passed through his fingers every day, but he never had a wish to steal a cent; although there were a great many things he could think of, which he wished to buy. At last John got married. His wife was a young girl, named Ellen Norris; she had bright black eyes, rosy lips and two very pretty dimples in her cheeks; John thought he had never seen any thing half so bewitching as those dancing dimples: he was half crazy, when Ellen said yes, to his question, “Will you marry me;” he thought Ellen loved him as well as he loved her, and that they could be as happy together as two robins in one nest. But I am sorry to say, that Ellen did not really love John; she was as poor as she was pretty, and had married him because she supposed he would buy her beautiful dresses, ribbons, and things, to set off her beauty; so after they were married, she kept coaxing for this thing, and coaxing for that, and coaxing for the other; and how could poor John bear to say no, to those two pretty dimples? So he bought one piece of furniture after another, that he knew he could not afford to buy; and silks and satins for Ellen, and hired carriages for her to ride in; and bought every thing which she took it into her foolish head, and selfish heart, to fancy. By-and-by, he found that he had used up all the money which belonged to him; but still Ellen kept coaxing and teazing; and one day when John, for the first time, ventured to say he could not buy something she wanted, Ellen burst into tears, and told John that he did not love her. John could not bear that; so he kissed her, and told her she should have it; but as he went down to the bank, his lips were very white, and there was a strange troubled look in his face, which was never seen there before. That night he put a roll of bills in Ellen’s hand, but long after she was sleeping, dreaming I suppose, of all the fine things money would buy, John might be seen pacing up and down the floor, and now and then striking his forehead with his clenched fist.

Many times after this, Ellen had rolls of bills, and many nights John walked the floor, in the way I have told you.

At last there came a day when Ellen waited for John to come home to dinner—waited—waited—waited—but he did not come. Instead, there came the messenger of the bank, and told her that John was put in jail to be tried for taking money from the bank that was not his. The messenger pitied Ellen, because she was so young, and because he believed her to be a good and loving wife; and he would have rather given a great deal of money, than to have told her such bad news, if he had had it to give. Every body was so astonished when they heard about John; every body had thought him “such a good fellow;” nobody knew how that foolish, selfish woman, had led him on to steal with her dimples and her tears. No—for John never told of it; not even to excuse himself; not even when his heartless wife refused to go and see him in jail; and when she packed up the silks, and ribbons, which had sent John to State Prison, and went off without saying good-by, after she found that he could not buy her any more. Not a word did poor John say against his wife; not a word would he hear any body else say, because she had deserted him in his trouble.

Poor John! he was sentenced to State Prison for several years; the best years of his life; when he was young, strong, and hearty; they shaved off his brown hair, put on the prison dress, and set him to work cutting stone. John made no complaint, he said it was just, that he had deserved his punishment: he did just as he was bid, but the light died out from his fine bright eye, his head drooped upon his breast, and when the day’s toil was over and the officer had locked him up for the long lonely night, into his narrow dark cell, could you have passed in, you would have seen him tossing on his straw bed, and now and then you might have heard him groan, “Oh, Ellen! Ellen!”

When he had staid his time out in prison, the officers took off his prison clothes, and gave him a new suit to go away with. John stood looking at them; the light fell from the window upon the face of the same man, who stood in that spot five years before, to have that prison uniform put on. Oh, how changed. Now his brown hair, was snow-white with sorrow; his eye dim, and his frame bent like an old man of fourscore. John looked at the new clothes they brought him; why should he put them on? where should he go? who on the wide earth would befriend the poor convict?

So poor John went staggering out through the heavy gate, as the warden unlocked it with his huge key, and slouched his hat over his eyes, as if he could not bear that even the sun should see his face, and wandered forth—he knew not whither. At last he came to a little village, and there in the woods, away from the curious gaze, away from the scornful finger, he built him a little cabin of boughs and logs; and now and then he wandered down to the village, and the farmers would give him a basket of potatoes, or a little meat, or corn.

This was the old man whom Bob thought it would be fun to tease; whose straw he set on fire, and who lay mangled and bleeding by the way-side, with none to care for him.

It is a pleasant afternoon, the warm sun shines on the sweet flowers, and the birds sing on, as if grief, and care, and sorrow had never entered this bright and beautiful world of ours. A hearse winds slowly down beneath the waving trees; no carriages follow it, and there are no mourners on foot; only the sexton stands at the grave, waiting to lay old John’s head on its last peaceful pillow. Poor John—death has knocked off his last fetter. He who forgave the thief on the cross, will surely show him mercy.

HISTORY OF A FAMILY OF CATS.

Mrs. Tabby Grimalkin, a highly respectable gray cat, had lived for several years with a maiden lady by the name of Stevens, in whose house she had lately reared five interesting young Grimalkins, of various sorts and sizes.

She was a most watchful and affectionate mother, and had endeavored, to the best of her ability, to bring up her kittens in the manner best approved by all sensible and well-bred cats.

They were allowed to remain with their mother, until the critical period of weaning was past, when Miss Stevens declared one day, in Mrs. Grimalkin’s hearing, that such a scampering round her kitchen was not to be endured, and that she intended the next day to distribute them round the neighborhood among her friends.

This was sad news for their mother, as you may suppose; but after turning it over in her mind several times, she concluded it was better than having them strangled or drowned, and forthwith began to give them advice as to their conduct when away from her.

They all set up a piteous mewing at their hard fate, but with one shake of her paw she shut up their mouths and went on with her speech. She especially forbade their associating promiscuously with all the cats in the neighborhood, or attending any moonlight concerts without her leave. She told them any time when they needed exercise, they could call for each other, and come down to the maternal wood-shed, when she would be most happy to see them; and she would occasionally, when mousing was scarce, and there was nothing going on, return their call.

So Muff, and Jet, and Brindle, and Tabby, and Spot lay down by their mother’s side for the last time, and purred themselves to sleep; as for their mother, she wandered up and down the yard half the night, in a very unquiet frame of mind, occasionally returning, to look at her kittens, who lay cuddled up in a bunch in blissful unconsciousness.

About a month after this, I was one day passing through the yard, and who should I spy but Mrs. Grimalkin, surrounded by her family, the happiest cat in all Pussdom. I stepped softly behind the door, determined for once to play eaves-dropper, and hear what was going on.

Muff “had the floor,” and was giving her mother an account of the treatment she met in the family she lived with. She said there were four ungovernable children, who amused themselves when out of school in trying to see whether her tail and ears were really fastened on tight or not. Then they had stroked her back the wrong way, till every hair stood up, as if it was frightened; had shut her up in a shower-bath, and turned water on her till she had fits, and never found her comfortably snoozing in a warm corner, that they did not rouse her up to make her run round after a ball, till she was as crazy as a fly in a drum. In short, mother, said she, I’ve heard people say such a one “leads a dog’s life of it.” I say, let them try a cat’s life once.

As soon as she had finished, up jumped her brother Jet. He was as black as a little negro, with the exception of four little milk-white paws; he had little shining black eyes, and whiskers as trim as any modern dandy’s. He had no such misfortune to relate, not he. He slept on a rug, in the corner of his mistress’s parlor, and had a nice chicken-bone to pick, and a saucer of milk to drink, when he wanted it. His mistress was an old lady, and she had such nice little parties to tea, and they all made a pet of him, and it was so amusing to lie curled up on the rug, and hear them talk over all the gossip of the village. So, with a very complacent look, as if he had quite fulfilled his destiny, he trimmed his whiskers, and sat down on his hind paws, to hear what his sister Brindle had to say.

Poor Brindle was very bashful, and it was a long time before she could speak at all. She looked thin and bony, as if the world in general, and her mistress in particular, had snubbed her; indeed she acknowledged that she was half starved, and beaten every day beside, for stealing food enough to keep her bones together. Here she was seized with a horrid fit of coughing, which so distressed her mother, that she forbade her talking any more, and told her to stay and spend the night with her, and she would give her some supper, and some catnip, to cure her cough.

It was now Spot’s turn. She said she had her story all “cut and dried,” but really she had been so shocked at the idea that Brindle had been stealing, that she thought it was a chance if she could recollect any of it. She said, for her part, she should be ashamed to have any cat in the neighborhood know that she was related to her. Here her mother sprang at her and gave her a box on the ear; and told her, that her grandmother, Mrs. Mouser, who was as correct a cat as ever mewed, brought her (Mrs. Grimalkin) up, to find her living when and where she could, and that every cat that had been born since Adam’s cat (if he had any), had done the same, and she never could find out that they were expected to do any differently. Spot looked a little ashamed, for in fact she had taken many a sly nibble herself, and her mother knew it.

Just then she seemed to be looking at the opposite corner of the wood-shed; her mother’s eyes following the direction of hers, espied a strange cat looking very intently at Spot. Mrs. Grimalkin walked up to him, and with a scratch gave him to understand that his room was better than his company; and though he protested he had only come in a quiet way, to wait upon Miss Spot home, another scratch from her mother settled the matter without any useless words.

As soon as quiet was restored, little Tabby jumped up, in a state of great excitement, and said, she had that day caught her first mouse, which she brought forward and laid as a trophy at her mother’s feet. Tabby evidently had not recovered from the excitement of the capture, for her little eyes snapped, like two fire coals, and she kept moving her tongue about her mouth, as if she just longed to eat him up herself. She told her mother, it made her feel bad when he first began to squeal, and she was so little, she thought it rather doubtful, at first, whether the mouse would eat her, or she should eat the mouse; and as for squealing, she concluded, there must be a first time for every thing, and she had got to get used to that.

It was getting late, and Mrs. Grimalkin rose, and put it to vote, who should have the mouse for supper, and without a dissenting voice, even from Spot, it was unanimously awarded to poor starved Brindle. So bidding her and their mother good-night, the rest walked home by the light of the moon, Spot occasionally looking round, to see if she could see any thing of her discarded lover.

For my own part, I came out of my hiding-place deeply interested in the welfare of Mrs. Grimalkin’s family, and fully determined that I would treat my kitty kindly, and feed her so well that she should never complain.

THE POOR-RICH CHILD.

“I never saw such a little torment as that child, never; he’s just the mischievousest little monkey that ever was made; nothing in the house will stand before him. I wish his mother would take a little care of him, and make him behave. I should like to whip him an hour without stopping. I do believe he is the worst boy who ever lived.”

No—Eddy was not the worst boy who ever lived; I am sure he does not look like it. He hears what Betty says, about wanting “to whip him an hour without stopping:” but he does not pout, or kick out his foot, or throw his ball after her; he picks up a bit of string, and begins to play horse with a chair, as good-humoredly as if Betty had said he was the best boy in the world. No—Eddy was not a bad boy; but, like a great many other children who did not deserve it, he got that name. I will tell you about it. Eddy’s mother did not like the care of children; she liked to go shopping, and buy handsome dresses, and spend a great deal of time in talking with dressmakers about trimming them; and after she got them finished, she liked to sit down in her handsome parlors, and fold her white hands, and admire herself, till somebody or other called to admire her; or else she liked to walk out in the street, and hear people say—“Splendid! beautiful! what taste Mrs. Van Wyck always shows in her dress!” Then she was happy! that repaid her for all the pains she had taken to make a doll of herself; but when she came home, and her little boy, whom perhaps she had not seen before that day, ran into the hall and said, “Mamma!” Mrs. Van Wyck caught her beautiful dress quickly up in her hand, and said, “Martha! do take that child away; I am sure he will ruin my dress.” Then Martha would take Eddy up into the nursery, and shut the door, and call him a little plague; and Eddy would stand at the nursery window, and look out into the neighbors’ yards; and see, for the hundredth time, a long row of wooden sheds, with clothes dangling on the lines, and a long row of tall brick houses and tall brick chimneys; and then he would turn away and take up his top, and then his cart, and then his marbles; and then he would look at Betty, who had thrown herself down on the bed to read a novel; and then Eddy would say, timidly, “Betty?” and Betty would answer, “Be quiet, can’t you?” and then Eddy would wander round the small, hot nursery again; and then he would say, “Betty, won’t you please take me out to walk? I am so tired and hot, Betty;” and Betty would say, “No, there’s no need of your walking; go draw your cart, and let me alone; what a plague you are!” and then Eddy would pick up a pair of scissors on the floor, and seeing a piece of white cloth lying on the table, he would begin to cut it—because the poor tired child didn’t know what else to do; and by-and-by Betty would get through with her novel, and the first thing Eddy knew she would shake him half out of his jacket, and scream out, “You little torment! you have cut my night-cap into inch pieces;” and when Eddy said, “I did not know that piece of cloth was a night-cap, Betty,” she would say, “Don’t you tell me that, you little fibber; you did it on purpose, I know you did.”

After a while Eddy’s father would come home, and Eddy would run out in the hall, and say, “Papa, here’s Eddy;” and his father would say, “So I see, and I suppose you want a top or a ball, don’t you?” and Eddy would say, “No, I want you, papa;” and then his father would say, “Not now, Eddy, by-and-by.” But “by-and-by” never came to poor Eddy, for his father was a very long time eating dinner, and then came wine, and then came cigars, and then came company; and Eddy was hurried off to bed, only to begin another day just like it, on the morrow. You see how it was; he was an active little fellow; he could not keep still; nobody talked to him, they gave him nothing to do; and when he got into what they called “mischief,” then they said he was a bad boy. Oh how many such little suffering, rich people’s children I have seen; a thousand times more to be pitied than the children of poor parents.

One night Eddy awoke and said, “Betty!” Betty wanted to sleep, so she pretended she did not hear him; Eddy tossed about his little bed, a while longer; and then his throat felt so bad he said again, “Betty!” but Betty never spoke, and it was all dark; so little patient Eddy lay back again on his pillow—lay there all night without any one to take care of him. In the morning, Betty roused up and said, “Get up, Eddy;” but Eddy did not move; then Betty went to his little bed, and shook his arm; then she peeped into his face; she had never seen Eddy look that way before. Every body in the house now came to look at Eddy; then the doctor came and looked at him; but death had stepped in before him; that poor little throat was filling, filling; the doctor could do nothing. He said Eddy died of croup. You and I know he was murdered. Died as hundreds of children die every year, of wicked neglect. Oh, there is room for children in Heaven; they are never “in the way” there—that’s one comfort.

THE HOD-CARRIER.

Your name is George, eh? well that is a good name: I will tell you a story about a little boy of that name. He was the son of a farmer, in the town of Jackson, Washington county, State of New York, who was called “Butter John,” on account of his keeping a large dairy in that place. Little George, the son of “Butter John,” was about six years old when war was declared between England and the United States. He was lying one evening in his little bed, when his Uncle Robert came in and told his father the news. Little George did not say any thing, but he lay very still and listened, and thought a great deal about the coming war with the British. Not long after this, one afternoon, his mother took him with her to gather some fruit in the orchard. It was a beautiful day; the sun shone very brightly, when suddenly little George heard something which sounded like distant thunder, and yet it could not be thunder, because there was not a single cloud in the blue sky. Hark! there it is again! what can it be? thought George. At last George put his ear to the ground and heard—what do you think? the low booming of artillery. George jumped up with his face all aglow and his eyes sparkling, and said, “Mother, our folks are certainly whipping the British, on the lake.” “Sure enough,” said his mother, “I shouldn’t wonder if you were right, George.” And the very next day they heard of Commodore McDonough’s victory over the British, on Lake Champlain. Little George was all excitement about the battle; he could think and talk of nothing else. A few days afterward, the British prisoners were to be brought along the road, and to pass within a mile of George’s father’s house. George ran to his father and mother and said, “Oh, do let me go and see them, won’t you, father? won’t you, mother?” They both said no, thinking it best for such a little fellow to stay at home. This was a dreadful disappointment to George, who had the greatest desire to look at those British prisoners; he sat down on the door-step of his father’s farm-house and thought over it, and thought over it, and wondered why he couldn’t go, just to take one peep and see what those British fellows looked like, and, for the first time in his life, he made up his mind not to obey his father and mother, whom he loved so much, but to go. So he looked all about to see if any body was watching him; no, the coast was clear, off he started across the fields, as fast as his little legs could carry him, to see the British, never stopping to get his hat, to cover his little bare head: hats might be had any day, but the British were a rarity.

By-and-by he reached the road, where he had heard people say they were to pass, and seating himself by the side of it, he waited with great round eyes of wonder to see them come along; and as they came, he counted three hundred prisoners and sixty guards to take care of them, lest they should run away. By-and-by they all halted in the pleasant green fields to eat their dinner. George wanted dreadfully to go close up to them, but he was a little afraid; he did not know but they might want to dine off of him; but his curiosity got the better of his fears, and after watching them for a while, he climbed over the fence. The soldiers spied him, and beckoned to him to come see them. He was in for it then, Master George! however, he went boldly up to them, and they began talking and laughing with him very pleasantly, and by-and-by they liked him so well, that they coaxed him to eat dinner with them; so George who had never eaten with the British, thought he would try that too, and so down he sat with them to dinner. One of the soldiers said to him, “You will make a capital soldier when you get bigger.” This pleased Master George hugely, and made him feel as grand as a corporal; he held up his head, when—lo and behold, who should he see but his father, who had come to catch the little bare-headed runaway. Then George was afraid in good earnest, for he expected a tremendous spanking; but luckily for him, his father, old “Butter John,” became so interested hearing the soldiers tell about the battle, that he forgot all about spanking George, and did not even scold him.

I told you George’s father was a farmer, and farmers in those days had very few books; but as soon as George learned to read, he got hold of those few, and every evening he would read so long as his candle would burn, and before he was twelve years old, he had read all those books, “Life of Washington,” “Cook’s Voyages,” “Carver’s Travels,” “Plutarch’s Lives,” “Josephus’s Works,” and “Hume and Smollett’s History of England.” Pretty well that, for a little farmer boy only twelve years old. Sunday he was not allowed to read these books, but on that day he read the Bible with his mother, and what Mr. Scott, a minister, had written about the Bible. George used to get up very early in the morning, just as all boys have who ever became any thing in the world; your lie-a-beds are always drones in the hive. I dare say he used to do some of his reading then; I know he did not get time during the day, because he had to do “chores,” as they call it, on the farm of his father “Butter John,” and as this farm had five hundred acres in it, and plenty of cattle on it to be taken care of, you may be sure Master George had no extra time for reading; but somehow he managed to read a book called “Life of William Ray,” which told all about a boy who left his father’s farm, and went off to seek his fortune in the world. This book bewitched George who was tired of farm-work, and was quite as anxious now when he was a big boy, to see what the world was made of, as he was when six years old, to see what the British were made of. He spoke to his father about it, when he was seventeen, but the sturdy old farmer shook his head and said no. He wanted George at home to do farm-work.

About this time there was a great talk in the neighborhood about the Erie Canal, and George began thinking about that; for you must know that, when he was a little fellow, he used to be very fond of building all sorts of things; he would get boys together and build miniature bridges and dams, and every chance he could get, he would go among mechanics and watch them at their work. The truth was, nature did not cut him out for a farmer, but his father, good old man, did not see it, perhaps because he was so busy with his dairy and his cattle, perhaps because, like almost all fathers, he wished him to follow the same profession which he followed, and this is natural enough; but if a boy will make a better architect or builder than he will a farmer, I think it is a pity he should not be one; mothers see quicker than fathers generally, what their boys are cut out for, and George’s mother, as she watched him build the little bridges with the boys, said, “You never will be a farmer, George!” and she said right.

At last George said to his father, “Father, I have made up my mind to go away from home to see what I can do.” The cautious old farmer shook his head again, told George that he would regret it, that he did not know what it was to be away from home. But George was a young man now, and he felt restless and unhappy on the farm, where his old father was so contented to stay year after year, and dig, and plant, and plow, and reap, and make butter and cheese. I suppose he thought George was so safe there, and comfortable, that it was a pity for him to trudge off like a peddler with his pack on his back to seek his fortune. He knew the world was a tough place to make fortunes, and he had an idea that George, his boy George, was not the fellow to find one, at any rate away from the farm; but George’s heart was set upon going, and go he did, though he had no money to start with, and nothing in the world but the clothes on his back. He went straight to an uncle of his and worked for him till he had earned forty dollars, and then started for Troy, New York, where he hired himself out as a day laborer, at one dollar a day, to wait on some stone masons, who were engaged in building. George knew that to learn a trade thoroughly it is necessary to begin at the beginning, and not to be above doing the smallest job; he wanted to learn every thing from brick-laying to stone cutting, and so he went afterward to a man who was going to build a house, and worked for him all that season, laying brick, cutting stone, and learning every thing he could learn at the mason’s trade, as diligently as he knew how. Poor industrious George: after working so hard all summer, the man he worked for could not pay his workmen in the fall, what he owed them; was not that too bad? I expect when “Butter John” heard of that he said, “I told him so; I told George he would regret going away from the farm.” But George was not discouraged; he went in a straight-forward manly way to the man with whom he had boarded while he was at work, and said: “Mr. Noel, my master, Mr. Galt, has not paid me the money he owed me, and so I can not pay my board bill as I expected to do, but I am going to get some more work to do, and just as soon as I get paid for it, you shall have your money.” Did Mr. Noel bluster and scold, and put him in jail? No, he had sense enough to know that if a man has no money to pay his debts, he surely can not earn any, when he is shut up in jail; beside he trusted in George, and saw he was a good fellow, who meant to be honest, so he said pleasantly, “Time enough George,” and then George walked twenty-two miles, to hire himself out to lay brick until cold weather, and this time he got his pay for it. Now did he forget his promise to Mr. Noel, who was twenty-two miles off? Did he run farther off with what he had earned, and say that good Mr. Noel might whistle for his pay, as many a dishonest man has done, who wears a finer coat than honest George did then? No—that’s what he didn’t. He started for Hoosack Four Corners at very short notice, where he paid every single cent he owed Mr. Noel. What do you think of that? forty-four miles to walk in one day to pay an old debt, twenty-two miles there, and twenty-two back. I call that an honest deed, and the young man who did it, a young man to be honored and believed in.

Well, George trudged back again, as I told you, with a light heart, and a light pocket too, for not a cent had he left in it; but what of that? he was young, healthy and hopeful. What could Misfortune do to him? She knew it was no use, so she left George for some poor whining wretch, who sniveled at the first discouragement he met with and spent his breath, not in working, but in saying “I can’t.”

Well, George kept on working and studying too; every chance he got he bought a few books and read them thoroughly and well, and when he had mastered them, he would look about for more, for he was anxious to lay up something better than money, a good education, which is in fact, always a fortune to its possessor; better than bank stock, because nobody can swindle or cheat you out of it. By the time he was twenty George had saved one hundred and fifty dollars; perhaps you may think that was not a great deal of money. Ah, you don’t know what it is to be poor, and earn every cent by hard labor, or you would not think so. You don’t know how delicious it is, after a tough struggle, to become independent and eat bread of your own earning. Part of the money George had earned he spent in books again and with the remainder of it, and the little library he had collected, he started for Pennsylvania. George now understood thoroughly the building of locks, bridges and all sorts of mason work. All this time he had hired himself out to do work for other people.

It occurred to George now, that he was fit to become a master-workman himself; i.e. agree to build a bridge or some such thing, and hire men to work under him; he was certain that he knew quite as much as a great many other men who did this; in fact, a master-workman who employed George, told him one day, that he was a great fool to be working for him, when he (George) knew more than he did. But just then he was taken with fever and ague, and had to lie by a while; he thought he would then to go home to his native place, and perhaps that might help him, but he did not go to his father’s and live on the old man, not he; he was too proud, now that he was a grown man, to live on his parents, and hear the neighbors say that he “had come to sponge them out of their money;” no, he paid his own board at a tavern near, till he got better; then he worked again perseveringly—worked—worked—though still troubled with an ague chill every day; and now he had earned $2,350—hurrah for George! Then he thought it was about time to treat himself to a gold watch. George always thought it the cheapest in the end to buy a thoroughly good article, even should it cost more at first; and there’s where he was right; so he went to Marquand, a jeweler in Broadway, and purchased a watch worth $300—what do you think of that? Well—after he had treated himself to a watch, what does the fellow do but treat himself to a wife. I don’t know what she cost him; a few blushes I dare say, a gold ring I know; to say nothing of the fee for the minister who married them; but I rather think it paid. After his marriage, as he had plenty of money, he thought he would live a while without working; but he was too good a fellow to relish an idle life; he did not believe we were made only to enjoy ourselves. So, like a sensible man he engaged to make part of the famous “Croton-water Works,” which all New York boys have heard of. His part of the work was in “Sleepy Hollow,” which Washington Irving has made so famous. Well, there he lived peaceably and happily with his wife; there he had two dear little children, named Josephine and Mary Alice, and there little Mary closed her bright eyes, and went away with “The Good Shepherd,” who loveth the little lambs. I could tell you a great deal more about George, how he, after a while went to Europe, and visited all the great foreign cities; how, when he came back, he found that his old father had got into debt, and how George, like the good fellow he was, paid all the old man’s debts, with his own earnings; How happy he must have been to do that for Butter John! How he built “the High Bridge;” how he built a great thumping steamer, called the Oregon; how he launched her (that was a splendid sight, I know); and how he bought another steamer, called the Neptune, for I tell you this, George couldn’t be idle to save him—it was not in him; how, afterward he built steamers to carry the United States Mail to California viâ New Orleans and Chagres; and that was a great benefit to his country, greater than I can tell you; how he purchased the Staten Island ferry; how he purchased property in Fifth Avenue, one of the finest streets in New York, and how he went there to live; how there is every thing elegant and comfortable in his house, but what he most values, a splendid library; how he preserves and shows to this day in that library, the old thumbed, dog’s-eared arithmetic, and other books, which he used to pore over when he was a poor boy; and how he can look around his beautiful home and think that it was all honestly and hardly earned, “beginning at the foot of the ladder” (sure enough), as a hod-carrier. Can you wonder that such a man, of such honesty, and energy, and intelligence, should be put up for the highest office our country has to give? Can you wonder that thousands of his fellow-citizens said, in September, 1855, “Give us George—George Law—for President of the United States!”

THE TOM-BOY.

“For shame, Maria!”

I turned my head. A little girl was just clambering down from a pile of boards in a vacant lot near the house. It was Saturday afternoon; and all the long week “Maria” had been shut up in a school, from nine o’clock till two, although she was only seven years old; and every afternoon, when she should have been playing, she was trying to cram her poor bewildered head with great long lessons, which some stupid person had made for little children, full of great big words, which it was impossible for her to understand, even if she could manage to commit them to memory. No wonder Maria was glad when Saturday afternoon came and lessons and school were over for one week at least; no wonder she skipped off into “the vacant lot,” and climbed up and down the pile of boards, to stretch her poor little cramped limbs, and to see if there was really any life left in them; and a very good time she had been having of it, too; jumping off of one end of the pile down on the soft grass, then making a “teeter,” by pulling out one of the boards and balancing it on the others; she on one end, now sailing up so high! and Sarah Jane Clarke on the other, going down so low! and now and then both would roll off into the grass and laugh so merrily; then they would pelt each other with handfuls of grass, and chase each other round the pile of boards, till their pale cheeks were as red as fresh-blown roses; to be sure Maria had torn a hole in a shilling calico apron; but that is easily repaired, much more easily than a crooked spine, much more easily than a diseased brain; but I suppose Mrs. Mott did not think of this when she frowned on her little daughter, and said, “For shame, Maria, what a tom-boy.” She never had heard, as I have, a poor worn-out little girl, tossing from side to side in her bed, at night, repeating parts of her grammar and geography in her sleep, and dreaming that she was being punished for not getting them more perfectly. She never stood over a little girl who was dying—dying because her little brain had been worked at school harder than her little feeble growing body could bear. Ah, if she had, she would have been so glad to have seen the rose bloom on the pale cheeks of her little daughter, that Saturday afternoon, that she would never have minded the torn apron, or made the child ashamed of what was really proper and good for her to do; what it would have been well for Maria had she done every afternoon of her life.

“Tom-boy?” no, a girl is not a tom-boy for playing “teeter” and climbing boards; no more than her brother is a girl, because he sometimes sits on a chair. I say romp; I say shout; I say fly kites; play ball; drive hoop; climb sheds and fences, tear your aprons (mind you learn to mend them yourself), soil your hands and faces, tangle your hair, do any thing that’s innocent, but don’t grow up with crooked backs, flat chests, sallow faces, dull eyes and diseased brains; your mother, and yours, and yours, I hope, think as I do about these things. Ask them.

Maria’s mother did not think so. So she went on frowning at her little daughter, every time she saw her using her limbs, and reproved her as severely for tearing her apron as she would had she told a lie, and perhaps more so. So Maria studied and grew crooked, grew crooked and studied until she was sixteen years old; then her mother sent her to Professor Cram-all’s school “to be finished.” This gentleman used to give his young ladies longer and harder lessons than their brothers had in college, and was very proud of his scholars and his school. So Maria used to sit up every night till eleven and twelve o’clock, getting her lessons, beside being in school from nine in the morning till three; and Maria’s mother thought it was a grand school, and Professor Cram-all, the very king of teachers. Well, Maria staid there two years, and “got finished,” and when she came from there, she went straight to a “water-cure establishment” (your mother will tell you what that is), and there she is now, trying to get her poor crooked back straightened. Poor sick girl, what good does all her Greek and Latin do her now? Ah! had her mother only let her play as well as study, study less and play more, until her limbs grew stronger. I know she thinks so now, when she drives out to the water-cure establishment, to see her dying daughter. And yet her mother meant to do right—when she was young, she never was taught at all, and so she grew up very ignorant; this often made her ashamed when she was a lady, and so she determined that her daughter, Maria, should know every thing; and in her hurry to do this she forgot her poor little childish body altogether. So I say, again, to all of you, don’t mind being called “a tom-boy”—run, jump, shout, fly kites, climb boards, tangle your hair, soil your hands and tear your aprons, and Nature will reward you with strong straight backs, full chests, bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and a long life.

THE LITTLE MUSICIAN.

“Little nuisance!”

So said a young school-girl who sat next me in the city cars. She was out of humor; perhaps she had an imperfect lesson at school; perhaps she was weary of sitting in a close room so many hours; perhaps her head ached badly, and she was faint for her dinner.

“Little nuisance!” Who was a little nuisance? It was a poor boy, who had first paid his five pennies to the conductor, and had commenced playing on an accordeon, in the hope of getting some money from the gentlemen and ladies in the car. Some scowled, some pouted, and some, like the young lady I have mentioned, loudly called him “a nuisance.” Still the boy played on, though with a weary, spiritless look in his young face, as if to say, “I know it is poor music, very poor, to ears which are used to opera or concert singing; but have pity on a poor boy, who would earn a few honest pence for his bread, who will not steal, and dislikes to beg.” It was of no use. The gentlemen were busy reading their newspapers, the ladies in taking care of their hooped skirts and flounces. “Lily Dale” charmed them not, nor “Auld Lang Syne.” There were diamond pins flashing in the sunlight from gentlemen’s shirt bosoms, rubies and emeralds from ladies’ fingers, and a massive gold bracelet clasped a snowy arm that was never pinched by cruel want. Little parcels, too, the ladies had, from which peeped costly purchases in embroidered lace and muslins. Little boys were with them, so unlike the little musician, in their silk-velvet jackets, frilled collars, and plump rosy faces, that one could hardly believe both to belong to the same human family.

Still the boy played on, with the old, weary, spiritless look, with his soft eyes fixed upon those unsympathizing faces: silver and gold glistened through the net-work of dainty purses, but not for him. One more tune the child played; then, folding his accordeon up under his arm, he stepped from the car, and was out of sight.

Where? In the great busy city? Did he sink down fainting from hunger and fatigue, feeling that God and his good angels had left him? Did he stand before some broker’s shop-window, as I have seen many a little ragged child stand, counting the shining piles of dollars, half-dollars, and quarters, and the great round gold pieces—only one of which would make his weary feet to leap for joy? God help the lad! Did he look at them, with hungry eyes, and count them over and over, till wrong seemed to him to be right, and the little hand that never was stained by dishonesty became foul with crime? No—it were sad to be hungry and houseless; but it were sadder yet to be shut up in a prison—a bad conscience keeping him tormenting company.

Where did he go?—the “little nuisance”—where? The papers told me the next morning. Listen:

“A little boy who is accustomed to play the accordeon in the street-cars, in stepping from the Fulton ferry-boat to the pier, last evening, accidentally lost his footing, and was drowned.”

No more fault-finding voices to ask why don’t the lad earn his living, or call him “a nuisance” when he tried the only thing he could do, and failed; no more returns at nightfall with leaden feet, and empty pockets. The boats plough on just as merrily; the water dances and sparkles all the same as if the light in his blue eyes were not quenched forever.

Where is the little nuisance? where?

Ask them who, through much tribulation, have washed their robes white, who neither thirst nor hunger any more, and in whose song is no jarring discord. Of such is the little musician!

LIONS.

Did you ever see a live lion?

Yes, at the menagerie.

Pooh! that was no more a lion than your little baby-sister is a full-grown woman; to be sure this lion had a stout old lion for its father, and a lioness for its mother; but that does not make it a lion, though the keeper of the menagerie might tell you so till he is black in the face.

Why?

Because lions that you see at menageries are taken from their mothers before they are weaned. They are then carried away from their native forests, where they might have run about and grown hearty and strong, and fed, not on the milk of the old lioness, but on whatever their keepers see fit to give; then they are cramped up in close unwholesome cages, where they can scarce turn round; what chance have they of growing up to look like lions? Instead of that bold, kingly look, that magnificent form and flowing mane, which they would have had, if the old lioness had brought them up according to her notions, their shapes become mean and poor, their manes thin, their look unhappy and broken-spirited, and their whole appearance very miserable. Ah, a wild lion is quite another affair, as you would soon find, could he but crunch your little heads between his jaws.

Now I should like to see a real forest lion, at a safe distance of course; I should wish to be up on a tree, or on top of a high mountain perhaps. He is not afraid of any thing, not he! he comes tramping along, cracking the bushes as he goes, and sniffing round to find two or three big men to make a luncheon of. A little kid would be only a mouthful for him. Lions are like cats in one respect: they do not kill at once, and put the poor creature out of his misery, any more than pussy does the poor frantic little mouse. The lion stands and looks the man in the eye, and makes believe he is going to eat him in about a half a minute, and when he has frightened the poor fellow almost to death, he gives him a great slap with his paw, or flaps his great bushy tail in his face, as if to say, how do you like that? this is only the beginning, old fellow, I will chew you up pretty soon. I don’t like that in the lion; it is too petty and mean for such a great grand creature. A lion will never eat a dead body; he likes warm, live creatures, and if, when he has killed one for the fun of it, he finds that he is not hungry enough to eat the whole of him at one standing, he never goes back again afterward to take another meal, he would scorn to do that; he leaves such second-hand pickings to such poor miserable loafers as jackals and hyenas, and strides off with his great grand nose up in the air, as if to say, the best is good enough for me.

When a lion and lioness leave their home in the forest to take a ramble, the lioness always goes first and leads the way; and when she stops in her walk, the old lion stops too, till she is ready to go on. Ask your mother if she don’t think that’s about the proper way to do things? When they come to an Arab’s tent where they mean to get their supper, the lioness lies down a short distance off, while the old lion bounds in and snatches whatever he thinks madam will like best, and then lays it down at her feet. He looks on all the time she is eating it with a great deal of satisfaction, and never thinks of touching a bit till she has had enough. Just tell your father that!

When the lioness’s little baby-cubs are born, she does not leave them (even for an instant), for a great many days; the old lion goes to market, as he ought, and brings home the family dinner. When the little baby-lions are three months old, and have got all their teeth (a great many lion-babies, like other babies, die getting their teeth), when they have got all their teeth, not before, the affectionate mother lioness goes out for a walk to get them food; but she only stays two or three hours. I wish those foolish young mothers, who go to balls and dance till daylight, while their poor little hungry babies are screaming themselves sick, would take pattern by the old lioness. Well, when she comes back from her walk, she brings along some mutton (we won’t be particular about asking her where she got it, because she might give us a rough answer). Then she carefully skins the mutton, and after tearing it into small bits, she gives it to her baby-lions to eat.

The old pa-lion does not like to stay with his little babies, because their frolics disturb his dignity; so he won’t sleep in the same place with them and their mother, but chooses a place near by, where the old lady can roar after him if any thing happens. If I were she, some night, when the old fellow was fast asleep, I would take my little cubs, and creep off, where his “dignity” would never be disturbed by my babies again—what! not play with my pretty smart little babies? Solemn old goose, I say! When the old lion takes his young ones out to hunt, if the poor little things seem afraid of any strange noise they hear, he just puts his mouth close to their ear, and roars into it, loud as thunder, as if to say, stop that now, you cubs! or I’ll give you something worth while to be afraid of. And now I will tell you a curious thing: this lion, so strong, so grand, so terrible, whose roar makes the strongest man’s heart to quake, this lion has his deadly foe in the shape of flies. Often lions have ulcers on their bodies, the flies get into them, and make them very sore and corrupt; and the lion not knowing how to rid himself of them, they soon put an end to his life. Ah, you old forest Goliath! strong and brave as you are, you yet have your David!

THE CRIPPLE.

A crowd! a crowd! a crowd! Well, what of that? You must have come from the country, or you would not stop to look at a crowd in New York. Nothing short of an earthquake ever astonishes a New Yorker. Ah, but this is a very serious matter; a little girl has been run over by the street-cars, and lies there on the pavement, maimed, bleeding, and senseless. Well, she should have been more careful; well, she should not have been playing in the street; well, she should have been at home with her mother. Suppose she had no home which deserved the name? Suppose she had no mother? What is a mother? You throw your little arms around the neck of that sweet gentle woman near you, who has loved you, cared for you, watched over you, ever since you can remember; and that is your answer. Well, then, by that touching reply, I tell you, that the poor little crippled Lucy, though she has a mother, is motherless. Ah, I see by the tear in your eye that you have rightly read my riddle. You look pityingly in my face, and say, Oh what will become of her? What will she do now that she is hurt so badly, perhaps dying, if her own mother does not love her? You remember when you had the measles, how you were moved into your mamma’s room, and had a nice soft bed to lie on, with snowy pillows and quilt, and how gently your mother glided about you, now stooping to kiss your hot forehead, now bathing your feverish hands, or moistening with cool drink your parched lips; how she was never tired waiting on you, though her face was so very pale; how she brought you every little toy you fancied you wanted, although she knew that the moment you had it you would want it taken away again; you remember, when she brought you your medicine, that she did not deceive you into swallowing it by telling you it was “sweet” or “good;” but that she said it was very disagreeable indeed to take, and that she did not wonder you did not like it, and that she wished she could take it for you; and you remember how pitiful she looked as she said this, and how it gave you courage to drink it down at one swallow, without making a single complaint. And then you remember the good old doctor whom your mother sent for to come and see you; that kind old man, with snow-white hair, and a big old-fashioned watch-chain and seals that he gave you to play with, and shoes that did not creak a bit; that pleasant old doctor, who was acquainted with you as long back as your mother was, and who knew the history of every tooth in your head. How nice it was to have him walk up to your bed, beside your mother, and say so cheerfully, “Mary, my dear, we will soon have you driving hoop and picking dandelion blossoms in the park;” and then, when he went away, you remember how your mother drew the window-curtain, and, seating herself by the bed, sang very, very low, almost as low as a little humming-bird’s drowsy hum, some pretty little song, to lull you to sleep!

Oh, yes, you have not forgotten it, and you ask me again, What will poor little crippled Lucy do, without all this love and comfort, and without a kind mother?

Now just suppose it to be several weeks from the time when little Lucy was run over. Take hold of my hand and come with me. You see that large house yonder, standing back from the street? You see those bright green grassy banks in front of it, and those fine old trees? Well, that is the Hospital, where people who meet with sad accidents are carried, to be cured by the doctors, who do not make them pay money for it, unless they can afford it. There poor little Lucy has been seven long weeks. Let us go in and see her. Up, up the steep steps; I am glad the house stands back so far from the street, because the noise of the passing carriages will not disturb those sick people. Queen Anne gave them this house. I had as lief kiss the hem of her robe as not, for doing it. Up—up—there you are; now step into the hall; what a nice wide one it is, and how deliciously the cool summer breeze plays through it. Oh how glad I am the sick have such a nice place! “All right!” the porter says, as we show him a paper which one of the doctors has given us, to admit us whenever we please;—“all right!”—yes, all right; right that there should be such a fat, wholesome-looking, smiling, pleasant-voiced head-nurse for the sick to look at and draw strength from: I am very sure that, were I sick, the sight of her roly-poly limbs, and rosy face, would make me better every time her clean gingham dress and snow-white apron swept past.

See what a row of beds are in that long room, and a sick person in each. But we will not stop to look at them now, we have come to see Lucy, poor little crippled Lucy. There she lies in that cot yonder, next the window, with her little snow-flake of a hand lying outside the white coverlid; she raises her pale face from the pillow, and her eyes grow bright, for she knows that I love and pity her; she can’t move much, for (it will make you feel so bad that I can hardly bear to tell you) she has had her leg cut off, where the cars crushed it. She does not complain, as she shews you the bandaged stump that is left, but her sunken eyes, and the little drooping wrists, not much bigger than your papa’s cane, tell what she has suffered. Suppose I should tell you she had had it cut off twice? Poor, poor Lucy; the doctors cut it off first at the ankle, hoping to save the rest of the leg, but afterward, they found it must be taken off higher up, just above the knee, and the dear patient suffering child went through with the agony all over again. It makes one cry to think of it. But see, Lucy don’t cry, I wish she would; she is so much like an angel that I am afraid we shall lose her, after all, though the doctor says she will “get well, slowly.” She likes the flowers I bring her; she likes the little dainty doll too, with its changes of dresses, and skirts and aprons and bonnets; for she gets tired looking at that long row of beds, with a groaning sick person in each; at that row of windows too, down the long hall; she wearies of moving her little wasted forefinger, round and round the figures on her bed-quilt; she wearies of looking at her little stump of a limb, and wondering how she shall learn to walk with only one leg, and she wearies lying in one position hour after hour, without turning over. I don’t wonder. I thought as I sat there, how I should like to hang some pictures on those bare walls, for those sick folks to look at and think about, as they lie there; how I should like to give them all a fresh bunch of flowers every day; and how sad it was, when they were sick and nervous and weak, to see a patient in the next bed die, before their eyes, and be carried out. All these thoughts passed through my mind, as I sat fanning little Lucy; and it made me happy to see her turning over the doll’s little gay-colored dresses, and trying them on, one after another, and saying “How pretty!” Lucy wanted a name for the doll I brought her, so I gave it the name of “Fanny.” Lucy did not know why I chose that name, though you and I do. But we must go now, for the pleasant-looking fat nurse has brought Lucy her dinner, and I think that will do her more good than we can; but stop a minute, Lucy, should you like me to bring you a little book, next time I come? (Oh, dear, how could I ask the child? see, she hangs her head, she “can’t read,” although she is seven years old). Well, can you sew, Lucy? Yes, she can sew. Oh, that’s nice; then you shall have a little thimble, some needles, some spools, a pair of scissors, and some silk to make your doll some dresses, and a box to keep them all in; that’s what you shall have, you poor little patient lamb-like Lucy. You are a living sermon, and if I am not better for seeing you, it will not be because I don’t need improving.

THE TRUANT.

Johnny thought he knew better than his mother what was best for boys. Johnny’s mother thought it was not safe for boys to play about the streets. Johnny thought that was all nonsense. As Johnny could not get leave to play in the street, he thought he would play there without leave. One fine day, he snatched his cap slyly, when his mother was busy, and stepped out at the front door, and whipped round the corner in less time than I have taken to tell you about it. Wasn’t it delightful? What was the use of being a boy, if he must be tied to his mother’s apron-string, like a whimpering cry-baby of a girl? Other boys played in the street, plenty of them. True, they did not always have whole rims to their hats, and their jackets were buttonless, and their knees were through their trowsers; but what of that? They were “first-rate fellows to play.” True, they used bad words now and then, but he, Johnny, was not obliged to do so. His mother was a very nice mother, and he loved her; but his mother never was a boy, and how could she tell what boys wanted? He did not mean to disobey her—oh, no; he only meant—pshaw! what was the use of wasting time thinking about that. Halloo! there’s an organ-grinder with a monkey; and there’s a man with three little fat pups to sell, black pups, with white paws, and curly drooping ears, and tails so short that they can’t even wag them; and there’s a shop-window with marbles and fire-crackers—what a pity he had no pence! And there’s a boy stealing molasses out of a hole in a hogshead by sucking it through a straw; and there are two boys at a fruit-stall—one talks to the old woman who keeps it, while the other slyly pockets an apple, without paying for it; and there’s a boy sprawling in the middle of the street, who tried to steal a ride on an omnibus step, and got a smart cut on his temple for his pains; and there—yes—there’s Tom Thumb’s carriage on a high cart. What funny little ponies. How Johnny wishes he were General Tom Thumb, instead of plain Johnny Scott. Silly boy, as if it were not better to be a fine full-grown man, able to fight for his country if she needed him, as Johnny will be some day, than to be passed round the country for a little hop o’ my thumb puppet show? And yonder is a great stone building. What can it be? Perhaps a bank. No, it is too big for that. What a great heavy door it has. It is not a meeting-house. No—and Johnny drew nearer. Now the big gate opens, and a crowd of people gather outside. Johnny goes a little nearer; nearer, nearer still; now he sees a cart stop before the door. ’Tis not a baker’s cart, nor a grocer’s cart, nor a milkman’s cart—but never mind the cart.

See! inside the gate across that fenced yard, come a dozen or more boys, about Johnny’s age, and a man with them. Who are they? What are they there for? Why is that man with them? And where are they going? Johnny edges a little nearer. Now he has one foot inside the gate, for the little boys are passing through, and he wants to look at them. Now they have all passed through. Where are they going in that cart?

“Come along, you little scapegrace. None of your lagging behind,” says the man who was with the boys, seizing Johnny roughly by the shoulder. “Come along, don’t you pull away from me. Come, it is no use crying for your mother—you should have thought of her before you stole those peaches. Where you are going? You know well enough that the Judge has sent the whole gang of you to Blackwell’s Island and there’s the city cart to take you there; and I am the man to put you into it, and see that you go. None of your kicking, now. Come along, or it will be the worse for you.” And he seized Johnny, and lifting him by his trowsers into the cart as easily as you would handle a kitten, he locked him in with the other boys, and told the driver to go ahead. “Stop there,” said a man in the street to the driver; “stop there. That little fellow don’t belong to those bad boys. His name is little Johnny Scott. His mother is a neighbor of mine, a very nice woman too. I know her very well. He was only looking round the gate of ‘The Tombs’ to see what was going on. Let him out, I say. I will see him safe home. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, this comes of running about the street. You might have been carried to Blackwell’s Island, had it not been for me. What do you suppose your mother would say to see you here?”

Sure enough, that’s what Johnny thought, as he clambered out of the prison-wagon and wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve. Sure enough, how could he ever look her in the face?

But his mother did not punish him. No, she thought rightly that he had punished himself enough; and so he had. It was a good lesson to him, and for a long time he was ashamed to go out into the street, for fear some boy who was looking on that day, and had seen him pushed into the prison-cart, would halloo after him, “There goes a Blackwell Island boy.”

BESSIE AND HER MOTHER.

Bessie was very fond of reading. Well, I think I hear some of you say, I hope you are not going to find fault with that. Oh, but I am, though; because as wise old Solomon said thousands of years ago, there is a time for every thing. Bessie did not believe this; she thought that time was never made to sew; she thought that time was never made to dust, or sweep, or keep herself tidy, or attend to visitors, or go of errands, or do any thing, in fact, but read, read, read, from Monday till Saturday, and Saturday till Monday. She would sit down with a story-book in her hand, the first thing after breakfast, the sun shining in through the closed windows upon an un-made bed, which needed airing, upon dresses, shoes, and stockings, which needed putting away, upon her own unsmoothed locks, unbrushed teeth, uncleansed finger-nails, and torn morning-dress; what do you think of that? Then her mother would call, “Bessie!” and Bessie would answer “Yes,” without stirring or raising her eyes from the story-book; then her mother would call again, “Bessie!” louder than before, and then Bessie would begin to move slowly across the room, still reading, to see what was wanted; then her mother would tell her to “go down and tell the cook to make apple dumplings for dinner;” then Bessie, with her mind still on the book, would go down and tell Sally “not to make apple dumplings for dinner;” then her mother would tell her to “shut the front entry-door, where the hot sun was beating in;” then Bessie would go and shut the china-closet door instead; then her mother would say, “Bessie, have you mended your stockings this week?” and Bessie would answer, without knowing what she was talking about, “Yes, mother;” and then that afternoon, Bessie’s mother would tell her to “get ready to go out with her;” and then Bessie would say, “I have no stockings mended to wear;” and then her mother would remind her of what she said about it, and Bessie would look at her as bewildered as if she had been dreaming, for she did not know when she told her so what she was saying. Was it right for Bessie to do so? and was it wrong in Bessie’s mother, who knew how necessary it is for girls to be tidy, and orderly, and neat, to tell Bessie that she must only read so much a day, and that, not before she had attended to all these things which I have said she was in the habit of neglecting? Was it wrong for Bessie’s mother to insist upon her going into the kitchen sometimes, and learning how to clean silver, and how to cook and make pies and cakes? was it wrong for her to oblige her to keep her thimble and scissors in her work-basket, instead of on the piazza-floor, and her shawl in the drawer instead of under the bed? was it wrong for her to make her lace up her gaiters neatly, instead of letting the strings tangle round her feet? It would have been much less trouble to Bessie’s mother had she allowed her to take her own way about these things, instead of trotting up-stairs and down to see what she was about, and how things looked in her room; but Bessie’s mother knew that a woman is always disgusting, no matter how much she knows, or has read, unless she is neat and tidy in her habits, and that she is not worthy the name of a woman, if she can not take proper care of her house, or is too indolent, or slovenly to do it; she loved her daughter better than she did her own ease, and she knew, spite of Bessie’s tears, that it were cruel kindness to heed them; she knew that many a man has become a drunkard because he never found any thing fit to eat on his table, or his house in decent order when he came home; it is quite as necessary for a woman to know how to make wholesome bread and puddings, as it is that she should read, and study, and be able to talk about books, or even to write them herself; yes, though she may be able to have cooks and chambermaids to do her work. Suppose she wants a pudding for dinner; suppose she has a cook who does not like to work any better than her mistress if she can help it; and suppose the cook not caring to take trouble to make the pudding, tells her ignorant mistress, that “there is not time now to make and boil it before dinner.” Such things have been done, and many a fine lady, I can tell you, has been obliged to go without her pudding, because she did not know enough to tell the cook that what she said was not true.

Beside, suppose this lady who knows so much about books, should get into difficulty with her servants, and they should all go off and leave her; must her husband go without his dinner because she can not, at a moment’s notice, get more servants to cook for her? how helpless such a woman is—how ashamed she must feel, as her husband puts on his hat and goes to an eating-house to get his dinner. Bessie did not think of all this, but her mother did. By-and-by when Bessie grew up, and was married, and had a nice pretty house, she knew how to mend her husband’s clothes and get him a good dinner, as well as she did how to talk with him about books, and other things in which he was interested; and when, looking round his comfortable home, he kissed his wife, and said, “Bessie you are my treasure,” Bessie would point to the little grave-yard within sight of her window and as her tears fell fast she would say, “Oh, if I could but thank my mother now for all she did for me when I was so naughty and wayward.”

Think of this, dear children, when you pout to lay down an interesting story-book, when your mother calls you to do some necessary work; and don’t wait till the tombstone lies heavy on her breast before you believe that she knows better than you what is best for you.

RED-HEADED ANDY.

What should you do were your mother to fall down in a fit? stand still and scream? or run out of the house, and leave her lying half-dead upon the floor? Or, should you have what people call, “presence of mind?” that is, call for somebody to help her, and do all you could for her till they came. It is a great thing to have “presence of mind;” there are very few grown people who have it; there are plenty of people when a bad accident happens, who will crowd round the sick person, keep all the good fresh air away from him; wring their hands, say oh! and ah! and shocking! and dreadful! but there are few who think to run quickly for the doctor, or bring a glass of water, or do any one of the thousand little things which would help so much to make the poor sufferer better. If grown people do not think of these things, we certainly should not be disappointed if children do not; and yet, wonderful, though it may be, they are often quicker-witted at such a time than their elders. I will tell you a story, to show you that it is so.

Andy Moore, was a short, stunted, freckled, little country boy; tough as a pine knot, and with about as much polish. Sometimes he wore a hat, and sometimes he didn’t; he was not at all particular about that; his shaggy red hair, he thought, protected his head well enough; as for what people would think of it—he did not live in Broadway, where one’s shoe-lacings are measured; his home was in the country, and a very wild, rocky country, at that; he knew much more about chip-munks, rattle-snakes, and birds’-eggs, than he did about fashions; he liked to sit rocking on the top of a great tall tree; or standing on a high hill, where the wind almost took him off his feet; he thought the sunset, with its golden clouds, “well enough,” but he delighted in a thunder-storm; when the forked lightning darted zig-zag across the heavy black clouds, blinding you with its brightness; or when the roaring thunder seemed to shake the very hills, and the gentle little birds cowered trembling in their nests for fear.

Andy’s house was a rough shanty enough, on the side of a hill; it was built of mud, peat and logs, with holes for windows; there was nothing very pleasant there; his mother smoked a pipe when she was not cooking or washing, and his father was a day laborer who spent his wages for whisky and tobacco. No wonder that Andy liked to rock on the top of the tall trees, and liked the thunder and lightning better than the eternal jangling of their drunken quarrels. Andy could hear the hum of busy life in the far-off villages; but he had never been there; he had no books, so he did a great deal of thinking, and he hoped some day to be something beside just plain Andy Moore, but how or when, the boy had not made up his mind. In the mean time, he grew, and slept, and ate, and thought—the very best thing at his age that he could have done, anywhere, had he but known it.

There was a railroad track near the hut of Andy’s father; and Andy often watched the black engine, with its long trail, as it came fizzing past, belching out great clouds of steam and smoke, and screeching through the valleys and under the hills like a mad demon. Although it went by the hut every day, yet he had never wished to ride in it; he had been content with lying on the sand bank, watching it disappear in the distance, leaving great wreaths of smoke curling round the treetops. One day as Andy was strolling across the track, he saw that there was something wrong about it; he did not know much about railroad tracks, because he was as yet quite a little lad, but the rails seemed to be wrong somehow; and Andy had heard of cars being thrown off by such things. Just then, he heard a low distant noise; dear, dear, the cars were coming, coming then! He was but a little boy, but perhaps he could stop them in some way, at any rate there was nobody else there to do it. Andy never thought that he might be killed himself; but he went and stood right in the middle of the track, just before the bad place on it, that I have told you about, and stretched out his little arms as far as he could. On, on came the cars, louder and louder. The engineer saw the boy on the track, and whistled for him to get out of the way; Andy never moved a hair; again he whistled; Andy might have been made of stone, for all the notice he took of it; then the engineer of course had to stop the train, swearing as he did so, at Andy, for “not getting out of the way;” but when Andy pointed to the track, and he saw how the brave little fellow had not only saved his life but the lives of all the passengers, his curses changed to blessings, very quick. Every body rushed out to see the horrible death they had escaped, had the cars rushed over the bad track and tossed headlong down the steep bank into the river. Ladies kissed Andy’s rough freckled face, and cried over him; and the gentlemen, as they looked at their wives and children, wiped their eyes and said “God bless the boy;” and that is not all, they took out their porte-monnaies and contributed a large sum of money for him; not that they could ever repay the service he had done them; they knew that; but to show him in some way beside mere words, that they felt grateful. Now THAT boy had presence of mind. Good, brave little Andy! The passengers all wrote down his name, Andy Moore, and the place he lived in; and if you want to know where Andy is now, I will tell you. He is in college; and these people whose lives he saved, pay his bills and are going to see him safe through. Who dare say, now, when a little jacket and trowsers runs past, “It is only a boy!”

LITTLE NAPKIN.

I am sure I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Poor little “Napkin!” Of course you know that “Napkin” is Louis Napoleon’s little baby; perhaps you don’t know that his mamma does not nurse him herself. I wonder does she know how much pleasure she loses by not doing it? I wonder does she know how sweet it is to wake in the night, and find a baby’s soft little hand on her neck, and his dear little head lying upon her arm? I wonder does she know how beautiful a baby is when it first wakes in the morning, raising its little head from the pillow, and gazing at you with its lustrous eyes and rosy cheeks, so like a fresh-blown dewy flower? I wonder does she know how delicious it is to give the little hungry rogue his breakfast? No, no; poor Eugenia! poor empress! She knows nothing of all this. She has had all a mother’s pain, and none of a mother’s pleasure. She hires a woman to nurse and sleep with little “Napkin;” she never sees how sweet he looks in the bath, the water dripping from his round polished limbs; she never puts his little fat arms into the cunning little sleeves of his clean white robe, or puts his little foot, with its rosy-tipped toes, into the little warm stocking. I wouldn’t be the empress, no, not for all her beauty and diamonds, if I could not do all this for my little “Napkin.” The handsomest dresses in all Paris would not comfort me any if I knew Madame Baut, or Madame any body else, was giving my little Napkin his milk, instead of myself; no, indeed. I should be afraid, too, all the time, that some pin was pricking him, or that his frock-strings were tied too tight, or that Madame Baut, or whoever the nurse is, would—but what is the use of talking about it? I would not have any Madame Baut. What is the use of being empress, if you can’t do as you like, especially with your own baby? One might as well be a slave-mother. I had rather be that Irish woman yonder, hanging out her husband’s clothes in the meadow, while her baby creeps after her on all fours, picking butter-cups. Not nurse my own baby! Not wash him, dress him, or sleep with him? Ah, Monsieur Louis Napoleon, it is lucky I am not Eugenie. If you wanted your empress, I am afraid you would have to come to little Napkin’s nursery for her. “Happy as a queen.” It makes me laugh when any body says that; or happy as an empress, either. I don’t want half a dozen maids of honor to dress and undress me, and put me to bed. I don’t want them following at my heels whenever I walk in the halls, gardens, or drawing-rooms. I should go crazy at the thought of it. I should lock the door on the whole of them. I wouldn’t be dressed so many times a day. I wouldn’t have so much twisting, and braiding, and curling, and plaiting of my hair. I wouldn’t call my husband “Sire!” Sire! Just imagine it? How you would laugh to hear your mother call your father “Sire.” No, I would say, Napoleon, or Nappy (just as the whim suited me), suppose we put our little “Napkin” in the basket-wagon, and draw him to the Tuileries; and then I, the empress, would—but, thank goodness, I am not an empress. I am very sure if I were, I should get my head cut off.

Little Napkin had an uncle named Napoleon Charles, who died when he was very young. One day he was sitting with his mamma, Hortense, at a window of her beautiful palace, which looked out on the avenue. It had been raining very hard, and the avenue was filled with little puddles of water, in which some barefooted children were playing with little boats made of chips. The little Prince Napoleon Charles was beautifully dressed, and had more costly toys to play with than I suppose you or I ever saw in our lives, some of which were given him by his good, dear, beautiful grandmother Josephine, whom all France, and indeed every body who ever heard of her, loved. But the little Prince Napoleon Charles did not seem to care for the beautiful presents, nor his beautiful clothes, nor the splendid furniture of the palace, but stood looking out of the window on the avenue.

His mamma, noticing it, said, “So, my son, you do not thank your grandmamma for all her kindness and those pretty presents she sent you?”

“Oh, yes, mamma,” said little Napoleon Charley, “but grandmamma is so good, I am used to it; but look at those little boys, mamma.”

“Well,” said his mother, “what of them? Do you wish you had some money to give them?”

“No; papa gave me some money this morning, and it is all given away.”

“Well, then, what ails my dear child? What do you want?”

“Oh,” said the little prince, hesitatingly, “I know you won’t let me; but if I could run about in that beautiful puddle, it would amuse me more than all good grandmamma’s presents!”

You whose fathers are not rich, and who envy other children their fine clothes, fine toys, and fine carriages, must remember this little story. There are plenty of rich men’s children who would be glad to part with all these things, could they only make “dirt-pies,” and splash their bare toes in the gutters, as you do. All is not gold that glitters; believe this, and it will cure you of many a heartache.

THE SPOILED BOY.

If there ever was a boy who needed a dose of the old-fashioned medicine called “oil of birch,” it was Tommy Sprout. He had scowled and fretted till his face looked like a winter-apple toward spring, all shriveled, and spotted, and wrinkled. The moment Tommy sat down to table, before the rest of the family had a chance to get settled in their chairs, Tommy would begin this fashion: “I say Ma” (Tommy pronounced it “Mha,” through his nose), “I say mha, give me some milk, quick!”

Then his “mha,” instead of sending him away from the table, as she should have done, would say,

“Presently, my son; wait a few minutes, till I have poured out the coffee!”

“I whon’t whait, I say, mha, I whon’t whait; so there, now;” and Tommy would catch hold of his mother’s arm and jerk the coffee all about. “Come now, mha, gim’ me my mhilk, quick!”

Then his mother would stop pouring out the coffee, no matter how many older persons than Tommy were waiting for it, and give him his milk, which he would drink down, hardly stopping to breathe, making a noise like a little pig who is sucking his corn out of a trough. Then he would set down his cup, wipe his mouth on his jacket sleeve, catch hold of his mother’s elbow, and say, “Mha, give me an egg!”

“Wait my son, till I can fix it for you.”

“No I won’t; I want to fix it myself; I say, give me one.”

“Oh, Tommy, what a boy you are; well, take it, then;” and his mother would give him an egg.

Then Tommy would begin to pound the shell with his tea-spoon, and pretty soon it would break, and the egg would fly all over him, and all over the table-cloth, while Tommy tried to ladle it up with his tea-spoon. Then he would cram a great wedge of bread and butter into his mouth, and before it was half swallowed, he would ask his “mha” where the hammer was, “’cause he and Sam Gill were going to make a prime box;” and when he had found out where it was, he would jump up and fly through the door, leaving it wide open, and his mother would get up and shut it, and say for the hundredth time, “Did you ever?”

One day Tommy was sitting astride the garden-gate, playing horse, when a lady came up to call on his mother. Tommy sat still, and never offered to let her pass in.

“Let me come in, my dear, please,” said the lady.

“Get up, Dobbin, get up, old hoss,” said Tommy lashing the gate with a willow switch, without answering the lady.

“Let me pass, will you, dear?”

“No, I won’t; I’m playing hoss; you may just go round to the back gate.”

So the lady went round to the back gate, wetting her feet in the dewy grass. Tommy’s mother was quite surprised when the lady appeared suddenly before her kitchen window, where she was making cake, instead of ringing at the front door, as visitors always did; and when she found out how it was, she said again, “Did you ever?”

Tommy went on lashing his “hoss.”

Tommy was a great cry-baby; though he was very fond of plaguing other people, he was not quite so fond of being teazed himself; if a boy did but point at him, he would run screaming in to his mother like a mad bull, and she would hug him up, and wipe his great red face with her pocket-handkerchief, and give him a piece of frosted cake to comfort him.

“Did you ever?”

Well, you can imagine what sort of a man such a boy would make, when he grew up. When he was twenty, he got married, and brought his wife home to his mother’s to live; his father had been dead many years. Ah, then the poor old lady, his mother, reaped the bitter fruit of the seed she had sown. Tom ordered her round like a servant; sitting with his feet up in a chair, while she limped up-stairs and down to wait upon him. Poor old lady; she saw too late the sad mistake she had made; and how cruel had been her kindness to Tommy. By-and-by she died; Tom’s wife had been driven off long before by her husband’s bad conduct, and now he was all alone at the old farm-house. Then he was taken with a shocking rheumatism in all his limbs; he could not even so much as lift a finger to help himself; he had no friends now to come in and comfort him, because he had made all his acquaintances dislike him; he had nobody but the doctor, and “old Maggie,” whom he hired to come and make his tea, and there he lay on the bed groaning and swearing. Oh! it would chill your blood to hear him—you, whom I hope, never take the dear and holy name of God in vain. Nobody pitied him, because, they said, “he had been so bad.”

One Sunday Tom lay in bed groaning; the sun streamed in through the half-closed shutters, and the little motes were swimming round in the sunbeams; the window was partly open, and the scent of the clover blossoms and new-mown hay floated in on the summer air. Sabbath-school was over, for the little children were singing their parting hymn; and this was what they were singing:

“Abide with me! fast falls the eventide;
The darkness thickens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!

“Swift to the close ebbs out life’s little day;

Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see,
Oh, Thou who changest not, abide with me!”

Very sweet were those little childish voices; very sweet were the words they sang. It was a long, long time since Tom had shed a tear; but he did so now. Poor, wicked, lonely Tom! and long after the childrens’ eyes were closed, like flowers, in sleep, as he lay awake, that night, the words came to him, again and again, “Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!”

I told you that none of Tom’s acquaintances wanted to go near him, because he was so bad. Oh, is it not well that God does not feel so toward us, sinners? that He pities us because we are so bad and wicked? and that when every body forsook poor bad Tom, He drew near to him, in the voices of the dear little children, softening his icy heart, as the sun melts the snow? What else could have made Tom willing to linger and to suffer, longer or shorter, as God willed it? What else made him ask old Maggie’s pardon for his oaths and rough words to her? What else could have made him so lamb-like, those two long, painful years, before Death came to set the spirit free, from his worn-out body? None, during all that time, ever heard a complaint from the lips once so full of curses; but often, in the night-time, as the traveler passed the old farm-house, he would stop to listen to these words, from poor sleepless, but happy Tom:

“Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!”

PUSS AND I.

Muff, come here! Don’t stop to clean your paws, that is only an excuse for not minding, you naughty little mischief. Come here, Muff; you need not play with my watch-chain or your tail either. I do not wonder that you dislike to look me in the eye, you are not the first guilty one who has dreaded to look in the eye of the person whom they had wronged. Muff, who jumped upon the marble table and frightened the poor gold-fish, by putting a paw into the glass globe? who went down cellar and lapped milk out of the pan? who jumped on the breakfast-table, and helped herself to beefsteak, before her mistress could get down to table? who flew at the looking-glass-doors of my new secretary, to play with another Muff, who seemed to play with her? who scratched and defaced the rosewood ornaments upon the side of the secretary, with her sharp claws? who took a nap on the velvet sofa, without asking by-your-leave? and, worse than all, Muff, oh, Muff, who stole into my chamber, before I woke, in the morning, and, with one spring, lit on my astonished face, startling me into a headache for the rest of the day? what have you got to say to all that, Miss Muff?

Well, in the first place, if you please, madam, I will answer your question (Yankee fashion) by asking another. Whose cook was it who threw her apron over me, when I was quietly taking a walk in the street one day, and brought me here without saying by-your-leave, for a play-mate for your own little girl? As to the “gold-fish,” I did put my paw on the glass globe, there’s no use denying that, because you peeped into the parlor just as I was doing it; but that does not prove that I wanted to kill and eat them, and if I did, did not you buy a fresh lobster this morning, of the market-man, and tell your cook to boil him, boil him alive? if you kill creatures for your dinner how should a poor little cat be expected to do better?

“Lapped milk out of a pan,” did I? don’t you often, when you pass into a confectioner’s shop, pick up bits of candy and peppermint-drops, and put them in your mouth, while you are wailing to be waited upon? People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, mistress! As to helping myself “to beefsteak,” if your girl had not kidnapped me, and brought me to this bran-new house, where there is not a sign of a mouse to be had, I would not have been obliged to steal your beefsteak. With regard to “looking in the glass,” the less you say about that, the better.

Where’s the harm if I did want to trim my whiskers a little, and admire my soft white paws, I am not the only person in this house who looks in the glass, I reckon. I also plead guilty to “taking a nap on your velvet sofa,” but I will leave it to any outsider, if I did not look better on it than did the boots of that gentleman who called to see you the other evening, and who certainly ought to know what velvet sofas were intended for.

Yes, and I jumped on your face in the morning too, I am not going to back out of that, but you must recollect that you have a way of sleeping too long in the morning; and that I never can get my breakfast till your ladyship has had yours; as to the headache you say I gave you by doing it, it is my opinion, that the preserves, and hot biscuit, you ate for tea the night before, were answerable for that. But what a fool I am to waste words with a woman who lays down one rule of right for her cat, and another for herself; thank goodness there’s a mouse, the first I’ve seen here, now you’ll see science, or my name is not kitty; keep your old cold beefsteak and welcome, and I will take my first independent meal in this house, off hot mouse, and no thanks to you.

LUCY’S FAULT.

Lucy had long silken golden curls, they fell quite to her waist. Her mother did not “do them up” in paper; her hair curled naturally. Lucy was not proud of her curls; she did not care any thing about them; ladies in the street, often stopped her to look at them: and her little playmates often said, “I wish my hair curled like Lucy’s,” but Lucy always said, “I wish they were off.”

One day Lucy went to her mother, and said: “May I have my curls cut off?”

“No,” said her mother, “I should not like to have them cut; I think it would be a great pity, they are so soft, so long, and so even; your head is always full of notions, run away and play.”

Lucy went away, but she kept thinking about her hair, and wishing her mother would let her have it all cut off, and when Lucy once got her heart set on any thing, she never would be satisfied till she got it.

A few days after, she thought she would try again, so she said, “Mother, if you would only let me go to Mr. Wynne, the barber, and have my hair cut close; may I mother?”

“Yes,” said her mother.

Lucy looked up in astonishment. “May I really? Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes.”

Up sprang Lucy, her long golden curls streaming out behind her like a vail, up three steps at a time to her room, to get her bonnet and shawl, then down three stairs at a time to her mother, to get the money to pay Mr. Wynne for cutting her hair. Lucy never asked any one to go with her, she was a very independent little girl, she knew the way to the barber’s, because her father used to go there to get shaved, and when Lucy was much smaller, he used sometimes to take her with him.

So Lucy soon found the shop; there were no customers in it. Lucy was glad of that; nobody to bother her; but unfortunately Mr. Wynne was not in, either. But Lucy was determined that she would not be disappointed, so when the barber’s assistant said,

“What do you want of Mr. Wynne?”

She answered, “I want him to cut off my curls.”

“Cut your curls?” replied the man; “were they my sister’s, I would not have them cut off for a five dollar bill; one don’t see such curls as yours every day, miss.”

“They must be cut,” said little Lucy, shutting her lips together very firmly. “Why can’t you cut them for me?”

“Not I,” said the assistant, “at least not till Mr. Wynne comes in.”

“My mother knows about it,” said Lucy, with a vexed toss of her curls, “see, here is the money to pay you for cutting my hair.”

“Perhaps so—perhaps so!” said the assistant, “but I should rather not put scissors to that hair, till Mr. Wynne tells me to. I expect him in soon—you can wait, miss, if you choose.”

Lucy did choose; so untying her bonnet-strings, she seated herself before a cage, in which hung a red and green poll parrot, who cocked his head one side, and looking at her with a doleful twist in his red eye, said,

“Poll’s sick!”

Lucy had never seen a poll parrot before, and she looked this way and that way, as if she could not believe that the bird said this.

Then the poll parrot said,

“Give Poll some sugar! Poll’s sick!” and before Lucy had done laughing at this, he said,

“Want to be shaved? take a seat.”

“No,” said Lucy, laughing; “but I want my hair cut!”

The poll parrot cocked his head on one side again, and whined out,

“Poll’s sorry!”

“He don’t know what he is talking about, does he?” asked Lucy, looking a little abashed. “Any way I shall have my curls cut, Miss Polly; see if I don’t!”

“Your curls cut—that hair cut!” exclaimed old Mr. Wynne, coming in at the door; “not at my shop, you little rogue. What do you suppose your mother would do to me? I’ll be bound she sets her life by ’em: Many a lady who brings her little girl here to have her hair curled with the curling-tongs, when she is going to a party, would give her eyes for these natural curls of yours. No, no, Miss Lucy, you would get me into a pretty scrape there at home. Ah! when you are a little older, you will not be in such a hurry to part with ’em, to my thinking—better run home to your ma, Miss Lucy!”

“My mother sent me here,” said Lucy; “and see here is the money to pay you for cutting my hair.”

“Now really, Miss Lucy? honor bright?

“Really and truly,” said Lucy.

“Well—it’s a sin and a shame; but I’ll do it if your ma said so; look here, Jacob!” and Mr. Wynne lifted the heavy curls on his finger; “not an uneven hair in ’em, Jacob, and just as soft as silk.”

“Make a dozen frizettes,” said Jacob; “a good job for us, any how.”

“Yes; and if it was a boy’s hair I shouldn’t mind. I hate to see a boy curled and befrizzed; I think somehow it puts puppy notions in his head, that he don’t ever get rid of; but a little girl is another matter. St. Paul says, you know.”

“Never mind St. Paul;” said Jacob, “it will make at least a dozen frizettes, good full ones at that!”

“Well—here goes then, Miss Lucy,” and snipping the sharp shears, down fall the curls in a golden shower one after another upon the floor. Jacob meanwhile looked on in delighted astonishment.

“There miss,” said old Mr. Wynne, rubbing some cologne over her cropped head, “I think it is a chance if your own mother would know you now.”

“Never fear,” said Lucy, passing her hand over her shaven crown; and tying on her bonnet without stopping to look in the glass.

“It has really quite changed her,” said Mr. Wynne, pocketing his shilling, as Lucy went out the door; “but as you say, Jacob, those curls are worth something to us.”

On flew Lucy, as if wings were at her heels, and bursting into the parlor, where her brothers, and sisters, and mother were sitting, twitched off her bonnet, and stood to be admired.

Such a shout!

“What’s the matter?” said the astonished Lucy.

“Look in the glass—only look in the glass,” was all the merry laughers could say. “Oh, Lucy, what a fright you are!”

“An escaped bedlamite,” said her brother John.

Lucy ran to the glass—the blush which overspread her cheeks and temples might plainly be seen crimsoning the very roots of her shaved hair. “Did old Mr. Wynne put a bowl on your hair, and cut it to the shape of it?” asked John, holding his sides.

Poor Lucy! She did not expect that old Mr. Wynne would make her so ridiculous a figure. Rushing up-stairs into her room and into bed, she sprang between the sheets, and drawing them tightly over her unfortunate head, sobbed out her vexation.

By-and-by her mother came up.

“Lucy.”

“Oh, mother, I did not think he would make me such a fright. Why did you let me go, mother?”

“Because I thought the loss of my little daughter’s curls would be but a small sacrifice, should it cure her of that impetuous, impatient spirit which leads her into so many difficulties. I could easily, my dear child, have cut your curls (were it advisable to do so) in such a way as not to disfigure you; but, as usual, you asked no advice, and thought you knew best about it. Mr. Wynne is much better at scraping men’s chins than at cutting young girls’ hair.”

“But can’t you fix me up a little, mother? I don’t want John to call me ‘a bedlamite.’”

“Don’t lie a-bed then, Lucy.”

Lucy was too troubled to laugh; but she got up slowly, and her mother managed, with a comb, a brush, and a little water, to coax up the few hairs she had left, as only a mother’s fingers know how.

Now, when Lucy has any pet plan in that little head of hers, she always goes to her mother first, and says, “Tell me what you think about it, mother.”

UNTIDY MARY.

“Oh, Mary, Mary, how your room looks! Books, scissors, pincushions, spools, dresses, shoes and stockings, all lying pell-mell upon the floor. One would think your bureau-drawers had been stirred up with a pudding-stick; and as to your closets, it makes me quite sick to peep into them. “You cleaned it up?” Yes, I know you did, about a week ago, and ever since, after having used any thing, you have thrown it down just where it came handiest, instead of putting it in its place. You are only a little girl—I know that, too; but women are made out of little girls, and wives and mothers out of women; and most likely as you keep your room now, and all your little property in the way of books and toys, just so you will keep your house when you are mistress of one. That’s why I speak to you about it. That’s why it is so important you should learn now to be tidy and neat.”

Now I will tell you what I would like you to do. It does not matter to me whether you have plenty of servants in the house or not. I would like you to make your own bed every morning. Not spread it up, but make it up. You may need help to turn over your mattress, but that done, the rest is easy. Then I would like you to sweep your room. Then I would like you to dust it. Then I would like you to place every article in the room where it would look best and prettiest. Then wind up all your spools of cotton, and disentangle all the odds and ends in your work-basket. Now I am ready to sit down in that chair opposite, and tell you a story. If you think I could have done it just as well while things were in such disorder, you are mistaken. I would have swept and dusted it myself first. What is the story to be about? Don’t be in a hurry. I have to do every thing after my own fashion, and I have not got through with what I had to say yet. Just look round your room. Don’t you feel a pleasure in seeing that nice smooth bed without a hump in it? and those nice smooth pillows set up against the head-board? Does not your looking-glass look better, now the fly-specks are wiped off? and the rounds of your chairs and your bureau, for being dusted? does not your wash-bowl look better emptied of its dirty water, with the pitcher set in it, and the nice white towel spread over? do not your dresses look better on the closet-pegs than on the floor, and your bonnet in its band-box instead of on a chair? and does it not give you pleasure that you know how to wait upon yourself, without jerking the bell-wire for a poor tired servant to do it for you? “Yes?” That’s right. Now I will tell you the story.

Once on a time.

No, that won’t do, every body begins a story that way.

When I was a little girl I—that won’t do either, because it was such a while ago that perhaps you will think I can’t remember correctly. Nonsense, supposing I couldn’t, a story is a story, isn’t it? You need not laugh.

When I was a little girl, children used to “go to catechize,” as they called it then, i.e., the minister, once a month, collected all the children of his church, in a vestry, to recite the lessons he had given out to them, in the catechism. Some of the answers in this catechism were long, and all of them difficult for a child to understand. Now there was one defect (if you choose to call it so) about me, which has stuck by me ever since. It is next to impossible for me to commit to memory any thing I do not fully understand. To be sure, when I stated my difficulty, they explained it; but the mischief was, that the explanation was often harder still to comprehend than the thing explained; now you see why I used to dread “catechism afternoons.” Most of the girls had the parrot-faculty of rattling off the answers in a manner, to me, truly astonishing and discouraging. Then I had a very thin skin, and a very distressing habit of blushing through it, when spoken to, of which I was very much ashamed; added to this, every little girl who was called upon to answer a question, had to stand up and look “the minister” in the eye, while she did it. See now what a double and twisted distress there was about it. Then all the parrot-girls called me “stupid.” Now I knew that I was not stupid, but that was small comfort when every body thought so. I thought it over and cried about it, and thumbed my catechism, thinking perhaps that was the way to “have it at my finger ends,” as people often say; and then I cried again, for that word “stupid,” troubled me. Now the very next lesson contained a very long and very hard answer, that I was very sure, for that reason, would come to me. I read it over; it might as well have been Greek or Latin for all I could make of it. No, it was of no use, I never could learn it, that point was settled. I shut up my catechism and folded my hands; perhaps they were right, after all, perhaps I was “stupid,” and I cried again.

No, I was not stupid. I sprang up and wiped my tears away; I looked in the glass, my face was not handsome, certainly, but it was not a stupid face, it was as bright as the faces of those parrot-girls, at any rate; well I just locked the door, and sat down on a cricket very resolutely, in the middle of the room, opened the catechism, laid it in front of me, then with my elbows on my knees and my fingers in my ears, to keep out all sounds, I studied away as if my life depended on it; the butterflies flew into the window and folded their bright wings, but it was of no use—the swallows twittered at me, “Never mind your catechism, only look at us;” but I took no notice of them. The flies lit on the end of my nose, I took my fingers out of my ears, gave them a good cuff and began to study again; a little mouse blinked his black eyes at me, from the closet-door, but I was neither to be frightened or coaxed away from that catechism.

I said nothing about my learning it to any body, but all dinner time I kept muttering it softly over to myself. Well, three o’clock came, and so did the big girl who always went with me “to catechize,” and who always knew her lesson, to every comma and semicolon, and thought me the greatest little dunce who ever wore a pinafore. Well the vestry was full when we got there, as usual, of rows of children on rows of benches, in their “go to meetin’” bonnets and shoes, with their pocket-handkerchiefs and catechisms, waiting for the minister.

By-and-by he came, took off his black hat, set it under the spindle-legged table, pulled off his black gloves, put them in his black hat, seated himself in the big leather arm-chair, used his handkerchief twice, looking round over the benches the while to see if any lamb of his fold was missing, and then opening the catechism and glancing over its passages, asked the question the answer to which I had been studying all the day, then he paused and glanced round the room to select the little girl whom he intended should answer it. I watched his black eye, and it was a very beautiful one, pass by all the Susans and Janes and Claras and Lucys and finally, rest on me, as I knew it would.

To my astonishment, I did not feel myself blush, or tremble as usual; and when he said, “Susan, can you answer this question?” I stood erect, and was about to begin, when the big girl who came with me, thinking I was about to make a fool of myself, and disgrace her, jumped up too, and said, “I am sure she can’t say that long one, sir.” Not deigning to notice the interruption, and fixing my eye on a peg in the wall, I went straight through the long answer like a well-trained locomotive, never stopping to take breath till I had jerked out the last syllable.

Did I ever blush after that? Not I. Did I hold up my head while there? To be sure I did, but when I sat down, Clara jerked my sleeve, and said, pouting, “You are the oddest, most provoking little thing I ever saw, and nobody ever knows what you are going to do next. I never felt so silly in all my life; it is the last time I will come to catechize with you.” But one thing is very certain, those parrot-girls never called me stupid afterward, and what was worth a mine of gold to me, when I went out of the vestry, the minister laid his hand of blessing on my head, and, gave me a smile, I am sure, as radiant as the one he now wears in heaven.

A LUCKY IRISH BOY.

“Halloo there! little fellow, what are you doing here, on my door-step? why don’t you run home to your dinner?”

“I was waiting for you to come home, thinking you’d give me some,” said the boy.

The gentleman smiled, and looked in Johnny’s face; there was nothing vicious in it; it was a bright, honest little face, lit up by a pair of round blue eyes, and shaded by locks of tangled brown hair; there was nothing impertinent in his answer to Mr. Bond, had you heard the tone in which he made it.

“Where do you live?” asked the gentleman.

“I don’t live, I stay round.”

“Who takes care of you?”

“Nobody.”

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“In that big stone house.”

“Don’t tell fibs,” said Mr. Bond; “I know the gentleman who lives there.”

“Ask him, then,” said Johnny, with his chin comfortably resting on the palms of his hands, “I never tell a lie.”

“Well, then, tell me how you came to sleep there.”

“Why, you see, sir, I was sitting on the gentleman’s steps when he came home in the evening, and he asked me what I was there for, and why I did not go home and go to bed; and I told him that I was waiting for him to come home, thinking perhaps he would give me a bed, and he did, sir, in the coach-house; and that’s how I came to sleep there.”

“I see,” said Mr. Bond, laughing; “but I hope you would not be willing always to live on people that way, even if they would let you; a strong healthy boy like you, might earn his living. Would you like to get work to do?”

“Ay,” said Johnny, “and send the money to my mother in Ireland.”

“Have you no friends out of Ireland?”

“No, sir.”

“What made you think I would give you some dinner?”

“Because every body is kind to me,” said little Johnny, looking trustfully up in Mr. Bond’s face.

No wonder, thought Mr. Bond. “Well Johnny, I’ll give you some dinner, and then I must try to find you some work; did you ever hear the old rhyme,

“‘Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do?’

“Come in, come to the kitchen with me; here, Betty, give this boy a good dinner, quick as you can, and after I have eaten mine I want to see him again.”

“Dinner! I guess so,” muttered Betty; “I wonder if master thinks I roasted those chickens, and made those apple tarts, and custards, for that little rag-a-muffin, that dirty little hop o’ my thumb?”

“Can’t I help you lift that pot off the fire,” asked Johnny, as Betty’s face grew red, trying to move it.

“You? well I don’t know but you kin,” said the mollified and astonished Betty; “why yes, you may if you have a mind to; what put that into your head? and what made you speak so civil to me after I spoke so cross to you; there’s something under that, I reckon;” and Betty looked at him sharply; poor Betty, she had been knocked round the world so roughly, that she had learned to suspect every body.

“What did you do it for, I say, you queer thing?” asked Betty, standing before him.

“I wanted to help you,” said Johnny, “you looked so hot and tired.”

“And cross, hey?” said Betty, suspiciously; “why didn’t you say cross, and done with it? well never mind, I won’t pester you, and I’ll give you some dinner, so long as master says so, but I can’t say I have much faith in beggar children; its ‘God bless you,’ if you give them what they want, and it’s something else, that I won’t repeat, if you don’t; that’s the upshot on’t, but sit down in that chair, and munch your bread and butter, and don’t you dare to lay hands on them silver forks now, d’ye hear?”

As Betty said this, and as she crossed the kitchen with a pot of hot water, her foot slipped on an apple-paring, and she would have fallen and scalded herself badly, had it not been for Johnny, who sprang to help her.

“Now what do you do that for?” asked Betty again, when she had wiped up the puddle of hot water from the floor; “you are the queerest young one I ever saw. Don’t you ever get mad when people snap you up; I can’t stand it a minute. I guess you are better than you look, after all; I will give you some chicken when master has done with it; it is lucky that hot water didn’t splash all over me, what’s your name?”

“Johnny.”

“Johnny what?”

“That’s it,” said Johnny—“Johnny Watt; how did you know?”

“Don’t be poking fun at me;” said Betty; “where’s your mother?”

“In Ireland.”

“Do tell if you are all alone over here?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you know nobody?”

“No.”

“Where do you—how do you—mercy on us! I never hearn of such a thing. How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Why didn’t you stay to home?”

“Because we had nothing to eat, and I wanted to come here, and earn money, and go back and buy something for my mother; and I told the captain so, and he said he would bring me over, if I thought I could take care of myself when I got here.”

“Well, how was I to know all that?” said Betty, penitently. “I’ve got a mother too. Won’t you have another bit of bread and butter? don’t you like sugar on your bread and butter? I wish master would be done with them chickens, so that I could give you a drumstick. Ah, here comes the dish; set it down here, Sukey; this child don’t know a living soul out of Ireland, and has come away on here to earn his own living; have this side-bone, Johnny? and this wing? To think I should have spoken so cross to the child; but how was I to know that he was all alone in the world? these children who come begging to the back door here, tell such fibs, and are such little cheats—it’s enough to dry up all the milk of human kindness in a body; eat away, Johnny! I hope master will keep you here, you might run of errands, and the like, for old Pomp is growing stiff in the joints, and there’s a power of running to be done, for mistress is as full of notions as an old maid; but that’s always the way with folks that has no children.”

“You think so, do you, Betty?” said Mr. Bond, laughing; “well, I don’t think you will have that to say after to-day; there will be one child in the house, at least; I have been talking to Pomp about keeping Johnny to help in the carriage-house, and do little jobs generally; and if you can tidy him up, Betty, for Mrs. Bond is not willing to have any trouble about it, he can stay. I think a little water, a hard brush, and a new suit of clothes would improve him; and Pomp says that he can sleep with him in the chamber over the carriage-house.”

You would hardly have known Johnny the next morning, he looked so spruce and tidy and handsome, as he ran up-stairs and down, in a pair of soft shoes, which Betty had carefully provided him, lest he should shock Mrs. Bond’s nerves. Poor useless Mrs. Bond, who had been brought up to be a fine lady, and who thought one proof of it, was to be constantly talking of “her nerves;” poor unhappy Mrs. Bond, who never thought of any thing, or any body save herself; who never knew the luxury of doing a kind action, and whose greatest pleasure consisted in making every body wait upon her. It would have been a blessing had her house caught fire, and turned her out of doors, and had she been obliged to work for her living; I think nothing else would have cured “her nerves,” or made her understand that there were other people in the world beside herself. I am sure little Johnny was five times as happy as she, with all her wealth. It was like a glimpse of sunshine to see his face after looking at hers, all knotted up with selfishness and discontent. I think Mr. Bond thought so too; I think he was glad to escape from her and her poodle, the long winter evenings, and teach Johnny to read and write in the library, and I think he hardly imagined, when he did so, that the poor little Irish boy would one day be taken in as a partner in the firm of “Bond & Co.;” but so it was, and a very good partner he proved to be; and many a bright gold-piece he sent over to Ireland for his old mother, and many a warm shawl he bought for his friend Betty, who was so afraid the first day he came, to have him in the same room with the “silver forks.” Poor old Betty, she could not bear joking about it now; she said “it made her feel like crawling through the key-hole,” but then, as she said, how should she know that she was “entertaining an angel unawares?”

THE
CHILD PRINCE AND THE CHILD PEASANT.

You know that Queen Victoria has a brood of little children; fat little cubs they are, too, if we may trust the pictures of them that we see in the shop-windows; and although they are a queen’s children, I will bet you a new kite that you have more cake and preserves and candy than they ever had all together in their lives, for English people do not allow their children such unwholesome things. Their rosy cheeks come of good roast beef and mutton, dry bread, and very plain puddings, with plenty of sweet milk. That is the way to make stout, healthy boys and girls. Victoria is a right good, sensible mother; her children, though they are princes and princesses, do not go unpunished, you may be sure, when they do naughty things. She wants to make them fit to rule England when they are called to do so; and in order to do that properly and wisely, she knows that they must first learn to rule themselves. Not long since she went with her little family to the Isle of Wight. While there, her young son, the Prince of Wales, took it into his royal little head to pick up shells by the sea-shore. While doing this, his little lordship noticed a poor little peasant-boy who had picked quite a basket-full of pretty shells for himself. The naughty little prince thought it would be good fun to knock the poor boy’s basket over, and spill out all his shells; so he gave it a kick with his royal little foot, and away it went! Now, the little peasant-boy did not relish that sort of fun as well as the prince. He quietly picked them all up, replaced them in his basket, and then said, “Do it again if you dare,” for he knew he had his rights as well as the prince. Up went the prince’s naughty little foot again, and over went the peasant-boy’s shells. Very soon after, the prince went crying home to his mother, Victoria, with a bloody nose and a swelled face. Victoria asked him where he had been, and how he got hurt so badly; and the prince told her that the little peasant-boy had done it, because he (the prince) had kicked over his basket of shells. Did Victoria hug up the little prince, and say, “You poor, dear little child, how dare that good-for-nothing little peasant-boy lay his hands on my noble little son? I will send and have him severely punished for his impertinence?” Did she, the queen, say this to the little bruised, crying prince? No, indeed. She looked him sternly in the eye, and said, “The peasant-boy served you just right, sir. I hope you will always be thus punished when you do so mean an action.” Then she sent for the little peasant-boy, made him some presents, and provided his father with means to give him an education. Was she not a sensible mother? and was not this a good lesson for the little proud prince? I warrant you he will remember it all his life long, and when he gets to be king, if he is half as sensible as his mother, he will thank her for it. Another good thing I must tell you of Queen Victoria; they say that she has each of her children taught some trade; so that if Fortune’s wheel should turn round so fast as to whirl them off the throne some day, they would then be able to get their own living. I like Queen Victoria, and I hope her little family will grow up to be a great comfort to her, for a mother is a mother, all the world over, whether she wears a crown on her head or not, and queens have a great deal of care, and much less happiness than you think.

THE WILD ROSE.

Maud was a funny little thing; she was so fat that she could scarcely waddle. Her eyes were so round, and so black, and so full of fun! her cheeks so plump and red, her shoulders so white and dimpled, and her hands looked like two little white pincushions. Maud was a country child, as you might know. Her parents were good, honest farming-people, who were not afraid of rain, or sun, or dew; who worked hard from Saturday till Monday, and from Monday till Saturday again; who owed nobody a cent, owned the farm they lived on, and were as contented and happy as two persons could possibly be.

Maud had no nursery-maid—not she. Maud took care of herself, and liked it right well too. She toddled round after her mother, into the dairy-room, into the kitchen, up chamber, out to the well, over to the barn, crowing, laughing, tumbling and picking herself up again, for her mother was too busy to stop to do it; eating bits of bread, drinking drops of milk, peeping into every thing she saw, and educating herself, as nobody else could possibly do; and when she tumbled into her little bed at night, she slept so soundly, that the old rooster had hard work to crow her awake the next morning. Maud’s playthings were corn-cobs, squashes, clothes-pins, rusty nails, broken broom-handles, bits of string, and a broken snuff-box—then there were the hens and chickens, who went in and out of the house whenever they liked, and the old horse, who often stepped his hoofs inside the back door, to see how things were going on; beside a little lamb and a flock of geese, who made noise enough for a small regiment. Yes, Maud had enough to do. It is city children, with a whole nursery full of toys and half a dozen nurses to take care of them, who are always crying because they “don’t know what to do.”

One morning, when little Maud was sitting on the door-step watching the old hens catch grasshoppers, a woman came through the gate and up the path toward the house. Maud did not run away; she liked the looks of the strange woman with moccasins on her feet, embroidered in bright-colored beads, with a gay blanket pinned round her shoulders, and a man’s hat on her head, with a bright red feather in it.

“Pretty papoose,” said the Indian woman, looking at little Maud’s rosy face and black eyes; “pretty papoose;” and down she sat beside Maud on the door-step. Maud did not know that papoose meant baby. In fact, she did not think any thing about it, she was so busy looking at something on the Indian woman’s back that was bobbing up and down inside her shawl. Maud thought perhaps it was a cat or a kitten, and she put out her little hand to feel of it.

“Want to see Indian papoose,” said the strange woman to Maud, and reaching her hands up over her head, she pulled off her back from under her shawl, a little brown Indian baby, with twinkling black eyes, and hair as black as ink.

Maud’s mother hearing some one talking on the door-step, came out with her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and spots of flour all over her check apron, for she was making some good country pies. When she saw the Indian woman, she took her papoose in her arms, and invited her to come in to the kitchen and get some dinner; for country folks are always kind to travelers. So the woman said, “Good,” and went in, and the little brown baby seemed to think it was “good” too, when Maud put a crust of bread in its fist for it to nibble. Then the Indian woman asked leave to light her pipe, for she was as fond of smoking as any Broadway loafer, and down she sat on the kitchen door-step—puff—puff—puff—while Maud’s mother stepped round to get her breakfast ready. The little Indian papoose did not laugh when Maud said “boo” to it, and touched its dusky chin with her little white forefinger. It looked as solemn as a judge, as it lay there twinkling its beadlike black eyes. Little sociable Maud did not like that; when she played with her spotted kitty, the good-natured kitty always said “purr—purr—purr;” when she went out to see the little frisky, pink, and white pigs, they ran up to the side of the pig-stye and said, “ugh! ugh! ugh!” when she met the old rooster, he halloed out as loud as he could, “cock-a-doodle-do!” the horse said “neigh!” the cow said “moo!” the dog Ponto said “bow-wow!” and that little Indian papoose was as dumb as a dead toad, and would not even laugh. Maud did not like such solemn babies.

When the Indian woman had eaten her breakfast, she said “good” again; then she asked Maud’s mother if she and the other Indians could have some trees which stood on the farm, “down in the lot;” they wanted the bark from them to make into baskets to sell, to buy blankets with. Maud’s mother said “she would ask John,” meaning Maud’s papa; and if he said yes, they might have them; but John was gone off in the fields, nobody knew where. And so the Indian woman knocked the ashes out of her pipe, strapped the solemn little papoose on her back, and tramped off, down the road, looking like a picture in her gay feathers, and bright blanket, as she wound in and out among the trees.

Perhaps you think because Maud’s papa had to plow, and hoe, and rake, and dig, that he had no time to play with his little girl. Ah, you are mightily mistaken; the minute the old farmer turned the corner of the road, which led up to the house, he gave a loud whistle for little Maud; she heard it, with her little sharp ears, and out she toddled, out the gate, and down the road, with her brown hair blowing about her rosy face, and her eyes all a glow with love and fun; then the old farmer would open his arms wide to catch her, and then she would laugh such a musical laugh that it made the little birds jealous; and then the old farmer would hoist Maud up on his broad, strong shoulder, her fat little calves dangling, and one round arm thrown about his neck, and away they would go under the trees, home. Then when they got there, they went into the kitchen (the floor of which was as white as snow), and the farmer would wash his sun-burned face, and honest brown hands, and then sitting down to the supper-table with his good wife opposite him, and Maud on his knee, he would thank God for them both, and ask His blessing on their supper; and the setting sun streaming in at the window on his silver hair, would light up little Maud’s sweet innocent face till you could almost believe it to be an angel’s.

After John, and his wife, and Maud, had finished their supper, Maud’s mother told John what the Indian woman said about wanting the bark of his trees to make baskets of.

John crossed his arms on the table, and leaning over it, so as to look his wife full in the face said, “Jenny! I can understand why the Lord made snakes, and musquitoes, and rats, and cockroaches, but I never could understand why an Indian was made. Now, I don’t want to hate any thing He has seen fit to make; but I should rather no Indians would cross my path. As to the trees, I can find a better use for them than to make Indian baskets of them, and so I told one of the tribe whom I met over yonder in the woods, a cut-throat looking rascal he was too.”

“Oh, John,” said Jenny, looking fearfully at little Maud; “I am always so careful to be friendly with those Indians.”

John laughed heartily, and getting up stretched out his brawny arms, as if it were impossible for any danger to come near any one whom he loved.

It was twelve o’clock of a bright Saturday noon. John’s wife had been very busy all the morning making pickles; now she took in her hand the huge bell to call John in to dinner, and rang it loudly outside the door. John heard its clear sharp tones, and stopping only to plow to the end of a furrow, unyoked his oxen, and trudged whistling home. “Where is Maud?” he asked, as he sat down to his smoking-hot dinner. “Out in the garden,” said his wife, “busy as a bee, picking berries in her little tin pail.”

John went to the door and whistled, shading his eyes with his hand, as he did so, to see if his pet were near.

He listened; no merry laugh met his ear. Ah, Maud must be hiding, for fun, amid the tall currant-bushes; the little rogue! and John crossed over the garden, to look for her. No, she was not there; nor swinging on the low branches of the great apple-tree; nor up in the barn, where the old horse contentedly munched his oats, and the little gray mice scampered over the floor, for grain; nor up on the log, peeping into the pig-stye; nor at the spring, looking at the darting little fish. Where was she? John went back to the house.

“The Indians!” was all Maud’s mother could whisper, through her white lips, as her husband returned alone.

“Pshaw!” said John, but his brow grew dark, and snatching up his hat, he darted across the fields and plunged into the woods.

Maud’s mother stood in the door-way, looking after him and helplessly wringing her hands. When he disappeared she went back into the kitchen, and set the untasted dinner down to the fire, for John, and moved about here and there as if it were a relief to her not to sit still. Maud’s kitty came up and purred round her feet, and then Maud’s mother, unable to keep back the tears, bowed her head upon her hands and wept aloud.

The long afternoon crept slowly on; the sun stole in to the west sitting-room window; and still no tidings of little Maud or John. It was so weary waiting; if she had only gone with John to look for her child; but it was too late now. No, why should not she look too? any thing were better than sitting there, hour after hour, in such misery. Throwing a shawl over her head, Maud’s mother passed through the gate and out into the open fields. Oh, how desolate they looked to her now: and yet the ripe grain waved before the breeze, the trees bent to the ground with their golden fruit, and large fields of buckwheat waved their snowy blossoms, to reward the farmer’s industry and care. But what were rich crops to them if Maud were not found? Maud, for whom they toiled so gladly, early and late; Maud, the sunshine of their cottage home? and then the poor mother thought of all her pretty little winning ways; she remembered how that very morning, she had climbed upon a chair, when she was busy in the dairy-room, and put up her rosy mouth to kiss her. Oh, if harm should come to her! No, surely God would care for one so pure and innocent.

Hark, what is that? other footsteps beside hers are in the woods. Can it be John? John and Maud? No, it is an Indian; she sees the fluttering blanket, the red feather, ’tis the very woman who smoked the pipe in her own kitchen, but yesterday. Oh, surely she could not have stolen Maud, and the poor troubled mother strained her eyes and pressed her hand tightly over her heart. The Indian woman had something in her arms, but the blanket is wrapped about it, it is not her own baby, no, that is strapped as usual upon her back; now she lifts the blanket; ’tis Maud, Maud! and with a wild cry, the poor mother runs to the Indian woman, and clasping her feet, says, “I was kind to your child. Oh, give me mine.”

And then the Indian woman told her, partly by signs partly by words, that one of the tribe, to whom John had spoken about the trees, stole Maud, because he was angry with John, and brought her away to their encampment; but that when she saw the child she remembered her, and told the Indian (who was her own brother), that he must not harm Maud, but must give the child to her to take back, because its mother had fed her and lighted her pipe at her fire, and so Nemekee gave up Maud, and the good Indian woman was hurrying back with the child to her own home. Poor little Maud, she was too frightened to cry, but she reached out her little trembling hands to her mother, and nestled her head in her bosom, like a timid little dove when the hungry hawk is near.

At nightfall, John came slowly home; he looked a year older since morning; no tidings yet of the little wanderer. He had been to the spot of the Indian encampment, but the tents were gone, and only a blackened heap, where they had cooked their food, marked the spot. What should he tell his poor weeping wife?

Ah! there were tears and smiles under that little cot-roof, that night; nor did John and his wife forget to thank Him who noteth even the fall of the sparrow, and who had safely returned their little lost lamb.

JENNY AND THE BUTCHER.

Little Jenny was an only child. Now, I suppose you think she was a great, petted cry-baby. “Petted” she certainly was, but all the petting in the world could not spoil Jenny. If you should miss her from the parlor, ten to one she would be found binding a wet napkin round the forehead of her mother’s cook, to cure her headache, or applying a bit of court-plaster to her cut finger. Sally used to say that the dark, underground kitchen seemed to grow lighter whenever Jenny flitted through it with her sunshiny face. Now, perhaps you think that Jenny was a beauty; there, again, you are mistaken; for she had light-blue-gray eyes, a pug-nose, and a freckled skin. But what of that? Did it ever enter your head when you kissed your mamma whether she was handsome or not? Is not every person whom we love, handsome to us? Certainly. And I would defy any body to be with Jenny ten minutes, and not love her. Even the milkman, who brought such a wholesome odor of clover and hayfields into the city kitchens, always had a pretty little nosegay slyly tucked away among his milk-cans for Jenny. A ball-room belle might have turned up her nose at it; for often it was only a simple bunch of red and white clover, with one or two butter-cups to brighten it up; but to Jenny it was quite as beautiful as the scentless hot-house Camelia—yes—and more so; for a Camelia always reminds one of a beautiful woman without a soul.

Then—beside the milkman, there was Shagbark, the grocer’s boy, for whom Jenny had once opened the back gate, when Sally’s hands were in the dough; I should like to have counted the great three-cornered nuts he used to empty on the kitchen-table, from his pockets, for Jenny, every time he brought in a pound of tea or sugar. Oh, I can tell you that a good-humored, smiling face, and a voice made musical by a kind heart, are worth all the beautiful Camelia faces that ever peeped from under a green vail.

Jenny was quite a little musician. She could hum tunes correctly before she could speak plain; and as soon as she was high enough to reach her little hands up to the piano-keys, she began to play “by ear,” for she could not read a note of music. When she heard fine singing, it seemed to throw her into an ecstacy of pleasure; her plain face grew so luminous and beautiful, that you would hardly know it to be little freckled Jenny’s. Her kind father and mother procured her good teachers, and Jenny was not discouraged at the idea of practicing, as, I am sorry to say, are some little girls; for she knew that nothing great is ever attained without patient labor; and long before even Sally was up in the morning, Jenny would be running up and down the scales, as fast as her little fat fingers could fly. Sally used to say, as she set the breakfast-table, that “she did not like that tune as well as Yankee Doodle.” This made Jenny laugh very heartily, but she did not pain Sally by calling her an ignoramus for saying so. And so things went on very pleasantly in Jenny’s home, as is always the case where each one strives to make the other happy.

Little Jenny was in the habit of watching for her father to come home; and when she heard his step in the hall, she would bound down stairs like a little antelope, and jump into his arms, and kiss his face, just as if it were not all covered with beard, whiskers, mustaches, and things. One day she seated herself at the front window, as usual, to wait his turning the corner of the street which led toward the house. “There he comes!” exclaimed Jenny; and then her little hands fell at her side, and she bent her head forward, and pressed her bright face close to the window-pane. Was—that—her—papa, walking so slowly, like an old man, his head bent down upon his breast, and never one look for his little girl? He must be sick—and Jenny ran down stairs, and out at the front door, to meet him on the threshold.

When she asked him, “Was he sick?” he said “No;” but his voice trembled, and a great warm tear fell on Jenny’s face, as he bent over her; and as he turned from her to meet her mamma, Jenny heard him say, “God shield the little lamb;” then Jenny’s mamma told her that “she had better go and practice her music-lesson;” and then Jenny’s father and mother had a long—long talk; and when they came in to dinner, her mamma’s eyes were red with weeping, and her father looked as though he had had a fit of sickness.

Little Jenny asked no questions, for she had a great deal of delicacy, and she knew that if it was proper she should know what troubled her father, that he would tell her; but every time he helped his little daughter to any thing at the table, she would kiss his hands, and at the dessert, she put the biggest orange and largest bunch of grapes upon his plate. Her papa’s heart seemed too full to thank her, but his eyes brimmed with tears, as he laid his hand on her little brown head.

The truth was, Jenny’s father had failed, and lost all his money; and when he looked at Jenny, and thought that he might die before he could earn any more, and leave her, and her mamma, helpless in the world, it was too bitter a thought for him to bear: then the people to whom he owed the money which he had hoped to pay, were coming to take away all the furniture, and fine things; and Jenny’s favorite piano, of course, must go with the rest; and he could not find heart to say a word to her about it.

Well, the day came on which all the things were to be sold; and nobody yet had had courage to tell Jenny—good little Jenny, who never gave a minute’s pain to any body in her life, not even to a little fly. Jenny wondered what made Sally, and all the family look so strangely at her, but she was put off with excuses of one kind and another, and so the bewildered child went to her old friend the piano, for comfort.

As she was playing, she heard a strange voice in the hall; then the door opened, and her father came in with the butcher, of whom he had purchased all the meat for the family since they had lived in that house.

Then—Jenny’s father put his arm around his little girl, and told her that the butcher had come to take her piano for some money which he owed him. Jenny looked at her father as though she could not believe her ears—then she looked at the piano—then at the butcher—while great tears gathered slowly in her eyes.

Now, the butcher was a great rough fellow, with a fist like a sledge-hammer, and a voice like a bass drum; he had killed many a fat little calf, and bleating lamb, in his day; but he had never met such a sweet, pleading, tearful look, as Jenny gave him that minute, and he melted down under it, just like a pile of snow when the warm sun kisses it.

Rubbing the corner of his white butcher’s frock into his eyes, and turning to Jenny’s father, he said,

“I’m not the fellow to take that little girl’s piano away from her; and, what’s more, I won’t!” and before Jenny could thank him, he, and the carman whom he had brought to carry away the piano, were through the door and out of sight.

Now, shouldn’t you like to hug that butcher? I should. I tell you what it is, the best hearts are oftenest found under the roughest coats; and this Jenny’s father and mother soon found out, for the gay people who had eaten their dinners and drank their wine, took flight as soon as Poverty came in and sat down at the table with them.

The good butcher did not lose sight of little Jenny, I promise you; he not only forgave her father’s debt but offered to lend him some money to begin business again. What do you think of that?

By-and-by Jenny grew up a big girl, and learned a deal more about music; then she gave lessons on her piano, and helped her father, and beside that played the organ on Sunday in one of the churches. This was very lucky, for her father, through disappointment and too close attention to business, was taken sick, and was unable to earn any more money. By-and-by trouble overtook the good butcher too, and he had a long, and painful, and expensive sickness. Did Jenny forget her benefactor now? Did she draw down her face and her purse-strings and tell him to “trust in Providence?” Did she try to hunt up some fault, which he might at some time in his life have committed, and make that a cover for her parsimony, and an excuse for not helping him in his necessity? Not she. She stood by his bed, gave him his medicines, brought him wine, jellies, and broths, sang to him, read to him, prayed God to save his life, and was as much of an angel as she could be, and be flesh and blood. But the good butcher died, and left a little orphan daughter. Oh, how far the influence of one good deed may reach! He had not laid up money for her in “The Bank of Commerce,” or “The City Bank,” or “The Exchange Bank,” but he had laid a treasure up for her in the Bank of Heaven, by his many benevolent and charitable deeds, and God remembered it; and Jenny took the little weeping Susy home, and fed her, and clothed her, and sent her to school, and taught her to sing and play; and none who listen to the sweet voice, or look upon the sweet face of the butcher’s daughter, as she sings in one of our great churches of a Sunday, know this little story that I have been telling you.

Oh, never believe, dear children, that a good deed goes unrewarded. Angels bend to see it, and a richer, sweeter song, rings through the golden streets of heaven, whenever the strong, loving hand of compassion is held out to the weak, unfortunate and despairing.

THE TWO BABES.

“Cannon thundering, bells pealing, flags waving, illuminations, military parades, peasants, nobles and princes, all crowding to that big house! What the mischief is all this fuss about? Some great victory perhaps. No; as sure as your name is Johnny, it is all about an hour-old baby; but for all that, you had better not speak of him, without taking your hat off; that baby is of some consequence, I can tell you, for all he lies there, wheezing and sneezing, winking and blinking, like an astonished little pup.

Long before he came to town, there were more baby-clothes made up for him than he could wear, should he stay a baby twenty years; and all loaded with lace and embroidery, and finified with silk and satin; and the people left their workshops, and ran to see them, as if they had not another minute to live. Then there were half a dozen rooms, all prepared for his expected little cry-babyship; for you had better not believe that he was going to stay in one room, like any common baby; not he! Then all the gray-haired old men, and beautiful women, bent over his magnificent cradle, and declared him to be the most splendid baby that ever was born; and it was as much as his nurse’s life was worth to stick a pin into him, or wash his little flabby nose the wrong way, or tie his frock a tenth of an inch too tight or too loose, or nurse him a minute too long or too short, or allow an impertinent sunbeam to make him sneeze, when he didn’t want to. Oh, he was a great baby that! Even his playthings were gold crosses and ribbons, that kings have been known to cut each other’s heads off for, scrambling which should wear. Step softly—bend low before his cradle; royal blood flushes that little face. He is the King of Algiers.

Peep with me into yonder stable; the door is a-jar; there is nothing there to frighten you. The light glances through a chink in the roof upon the meek, submissive cattle, who with bowed heads, drowsily dose the listless hours away. Is there nothing else in the stable? Look again. Yes, there in yonder corner, sits a fair young mother. Her coarse mantle is wrapt around her shrinking form, and her small head is drooping, partly with weariness, partly with tender solicitude for the new-born babe upon her lap. No rich wardrobe awaits the little stranger; clothed only in his own sweet loveliness, he slumbers the quiet hours away. But see! above that stable glows a star, brighter than ever glittered on the breast of earthly prince or king; and above that star is a city, “which hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof;” and that is the Heavenly Home of the lowly “Babe of Bethlehem.”

THE LITTLE SISTERS.

Hark! there is a bird singing—the first one I have heard this spring. How can you expect me to sit looking this stupid sheet of paper in the face, when that pretty bird is calling me out-doors, with all his sweet might? I have a great mind to throw my inkstand right out of the window! No I won’t; it might hit that bent old woman, who is raking the gutter with her long iron poker. Oh, it is hard enough for young people to be poor; but to be poor, feeble, and gray-headed—oh, ’tis very sad! The young heart is always hopeful; it can bear a great deal of discouragement; it leaps to a bird’s sweet trill, or a patch of green grass, or a bit of blue sky, although its owner may be covered with rags, and knows not where he shall get his next meal, or find his next night’s shelter.

The other day, I saw two little bits of girls, with tangled hair, dirty skins, bare legs, and ragged skirts, crouching down upon the pavement, and clapping their little tan-colored hands, because they had found—what do you think? A diamond? No—they never saw such a thing; though could they have seen their own eyes just then in a looking-glass, they might have found out how diamonds look. Had they found a sixpence or a shilling? No, I think by their appearance, they might never have seen so much money. “A London doll, with blue eyes, and red checks, and flaxen curls?” No; all the dolls they ever saw were made of old newspapers rolled up. What then? Why, two little blades of grass, that even the mayor, aldermen, and Common Council could not keep from struggling up through the pavement, to tell those poor little children that spring had come. No more little shivering toes and fingers, no more imprisonment in a dark, damp, underground cellar room, gloomy enough to chill even the light, hopeful heart of a little child. No, indeed! Oh, but they were lovely, those two tiny blades of grass! and the children lay flat down on their stomachs upon the pavement, and called it their “little garden,” and kicked their poor thin calves up in the air, and were happier with their treasure, than many a rich man, worth millions, with his hot-house and conservatory full of costly flowers and mimic fountains, whose beauty he scarce notices, for thinking of some great ship of his, off on the water, and trembling for fear she may be lost, with her rich freight of silks and laces.

“Get out of the way, there,” growled a pompous old gentleman, with a big waistcoat, and a gold-headed cane, thrusting the two children rudely aside, as he strutted past; “Dirty little vagabonds—ought to be sent to ‘the Island.’ Pah!” “Yes—off with you,” said the policeman, bowing low before the gold-headed cane and the golden calf who carried it; “off with you, d’ye hear?”

“He has trod on our pretty garden,” whimpered the distressed little things, looking back; “he has spoiled our garden,” and they rubbed their dirty little fists into their eyes.

“Dis—gust—ing,” replied a lady, whose flounces the children had run against in their endeavor to “get out of the way.” Poor things—ever since they were born they had heard nothing but “get out of the way;” they had begun to think the world was not intended for children. Ah! but another lady who is coming along, and who has watched the whole scene, does not think so.

“Would you like this—and this?” said she, putting in their hands two of those delicious little bouquets, sold by the flower-girls of New York.

A shilling to give so much happiness! Who would have thought it? How the smiles drank up the tears on those little faces? Was there ever any thing so beautiful as those forget-me-nots? See those little bare feet trip so lightly home with them; now they crawl down into the dark cellar room. Comfortless enough, is it not? Their mother stands wringing out her husband’s red-flannel shirts, at the wash-tub; both children begin at once to tell about “the lady who gave them the flowers,” and their mother wipes the suds from her hands, and gets an old cracked mug, and places the violets in it, up against the dingy window-pane; and now and then she stops to smell them, for she has not always lived in the dirty, close, dark alleys of the city, and the odor of those violets brings the tears to her faded eyes, once as blue as they; but she must not think of that; and bending over them once more, with an “Ah me!” she goes back again to her work: for well she knows that by-and-by a step will be heard stumbling down those stairs, and a man’s voice—not singing, cheerily, because his home, his wife and children are so near, but cursing—cursing that patient, toiling woman, cursing those half-starved innocent little girls. Oh, what could have turned that once kind man into such a cruel brute? Ask him, who, for a few paltry pence, sells the Rum that freezes the hearts of so many little girls’ fathers, and sends their patient, all-enduring mothers weeping to the grave!

OURS; OR, A LOOK BACKWARD.

Yes, Swissdale was ours! The title-deeds were “without a flaw,” so lawyer Nix informed us. Ours—the money was paid down that very day. Those glorious old trees were ours; tossing their branches hither and thither, as if oppressed with exuberant animal life; or stooping to caress the green earth, as if grateful for its life-sustaining power. Ours were the broad sloping meadows, dotted with daisies and clover, waving responsive to every whisper of the soft west wind; ours were the dense woods, which skirted it, where the sentinel squirrel cocked up his saucy eye, then darted away to the decayed tree-trunk, with his smuggled mouthful of acorns; ours the pretty scarlet berries, nestled under the tiny leaves at our feet; ours the rose-tinted and purple anemones, whose telltale breath betrayed their hidden loveliness; ours the wild rose, fair as fleeting; ours the green moss-patches, richer than courtly carpet, trod by kingly feet; ours the wondrously fretted roof, of oak and maple, pine and chestnut, now jealously excluding the sun’s rays, now by one magic touch of their neighborly leaves, making way that their bright beams might crimson the heart of some pale and tremulous flower, languishing like a lone maiden for the warm breath of Love. Ours were the robins and orioles, sparrows and katy-dids; ours the whip poor-will, wailing ever amid marshy sedge, where the crimson lobelia, more gorgeous than kingly robes, defied the covetous eye, and timorous foot. Ours the hedges, tangled with wild grape, snowy with blossoming clematis, woven with sweet briar, guarded by its protecting thorns. Ours the hill-side; where the creeping myrtle charily hid under the tall grass its cherished blue-eyed blossoms; ours the gray old rocks, whose clefts, and fissures, the golden moss made bright with verdure; ours the valley lillies, ringing ever their snow-white bells for the maidens’ bridal. Ours the bower-crowned, vine-wreathed, hill-summit, whence with rapt vision we drank in that broad expanse of earth, and sea, and sky, in all its waving, glowing, sparkling, changing, glorious beauty!—one perpetual anthem to Him, who hath neither beginning nor end of days.

Ours was the little blue-eyed one, who, though of infant stature, measured thought with angels; and with finger on hushed lip and lambent eyes, listened to voices, alas! all unheard by us, that were wooing her fragile form away.

“Ours—” was she? God rest thee, Mary—naught is left us now, but this sweet memory, and our falling tears!

But we were not the only ones who had exultingly said, “Swissdale is ours.” One fine morning I stood upon the lawn, under the broad spreading trees, watching the mist, as it slowly rolled off the valleys, and up the hill sides. The air was laden with fragrance and music, and the earth bright with beauty. I heard a stifled sob near me! Oh, who could sorrow on such an Eden morning? I turned my head. Three young sisters, clad in sable, with their arms about each other, were looking at a luxuriant rose-vine whose drooping clusters hung above my door.

“Our mother planted it,” they sobbed—“she died in that room,” pointing to the second window, over which the rose-vine—her rose-vine had clambered up.

“Could they roam over the old place?” I pressed a hand of each, and nodded affirmatively, for their tears were infectious.

There are sorrows with which a stranger may not inter-meddle; but hour after hour passed, and still those sable-clad sisters sat, on the hill-summit, with their arms about each other, mingling their tears. Oh, how plaintive to them the blithe song of the bird of the unrifled nest, the musical murmur of the careless brook! Every twig, every tree, every flower, had its sorrowful history!

Ah! how little I thought as I looked at that weeping group—that years hence—I too, should make to that very spot, the same sorrowing pilgrimage! That strange eyes should moisten for me, when I asked leave to roam over the “old place;” that I, too, with streaming eyes, and tremulous finger should point to the trees and vines which my dead had planted.

Wise as merciful is the Hand which draws before our questioning eyes the vail of the future!

CHILDREN’S TROUBLES.

I believe in children, and I can’t say that of all grown-up people, by a great deal. For instance, I don’t believe in an editor who feels too important or too busy to say a word now and then to the children of his subscribers. I would not give a copper for him; I don’t care how much he knows about politics (which you and I always skip when we read his paper) if he does not love children he is not the editor for me—there is something wrong about him. Why need he put on such big airs? Ten to one, if we inquired, we should find out he was once a little boy himself; cried for sugar candy; was afraid of the dark, and ran screaming to his mother whenever he saw a poor, harmless, old black man. He put on big airs indeed! that’s a joke! I’ve a great mind to set up a paper for you myself, and not notice the grown-up folks at all. Wouldn’t it be fun? But you see I have my own ideas about things—and there’s your Aunt Nancy, who was born and brought up when children were thumped on the head for asking the reason for things. She would take up our little paper, and scowl at it over her spectacles. Other papers for children generally keep an eye out for Aunt Nancy—and papers for big people too, for the matter of that. But I couldn’t do it. Your Aunt Nancy believes that children should talk, move, and act as if they were a hundred years old. I respect your Aunt Nancy, but I can’t believe in that; and what is more, I am sure that God does not. I believe that the merry laugh of a little child is just as sweet in His ear, as the little prayer it lisps. He loves you all; oh, how much! He likes you to be happy; He made you to be happy as well as good. And He never—never thinks, great as He is, that what little children say or think, is “of no consequence.” And though He keeps the sun, moon, and stars in their right places, and holds the roaring winds and the great mighty sea in His fists, and makes all the trees and flowers, and birds and beasts, and human beings all over the earth, He is never “so busy” that He can not bend down His ear whenever a little child sobs, or, looking up to Heaven, calls Him “Father.”

Well, you see, it looks very small when an editor or any body else, thinks himself too important or too busy to remember the dear little children whom God can watch over so lovingly. I don’t like it; and I don’t like a great many other things you children have to bear, and sometimes I get so troubled about it, that I want to go all round battling for your rights.

Now, the other day I saw a lady very gayly dressed, leading along her little girl by the hand. It was a bitter cold day, and by-and-by this lady met a lady friend of hers, and they both stopped just as they reached a corner where the wind blew the coldest, to admire each other’s new bonnets and cloaks. Now, though the lady had wrapped herself up warmly in furs, her little girl’s legs, for two inches above her pretty gaiter-boots, were quite bare, and the cold wind nipped her little calves till they were quite purple, and she began to cry, as well she might; but her mamma only shook her impatiently, and went on for half an hour longer, talking about the fashions—foolish fashions, which tell foolish mammas to let their little children go bare-legged in winter, and tell them that a muslin ruffle will keep their little calves warm enough.

Now I did not know the name of that little girl; so, when I looked day after day at the list of deaths, I could not tell whether God had taken her up to heaven or not, but I hoped so, because I did not want her to suffer, and because I thought that a mother who would be so foolish as to do that, would make a great many other very sad mistakes in bringing up her little girl.

Yes, I felt very badly about it; and I felt badly about my little friend George, the other day. George goes to school; he has a great many lessons to get out of school. He is a very conscientious little boy, and can not be tempted away from his lessons after he sits down to learn them; so, when it was proposed the other night, after tea, to take him to some place of amusement, he said, “I would rather not go, because I am not sure that I have my French lesson perfectly for to-morrow.” So he staid at home and studied it, and the next morning trudged off to school, quite happy in the thought that he knew it perfectly.

Now, the boys in George’s school have a bad way of “telling” each other in the class. George is too honest to do this; he neither will tell them, nor let them tell him.

Poor little George! he missed in his lesson that morning, although he had tried so hard to learn it. The teacher reprimanded him (that means scolded him), and gave him a bad mark, while the naughty boys who had scarcely looked at their lessons got good marks, because they peeped in the book and told each other the answers.

Poor little George!

He came home, with his large brown eyes full of tears, looking sick and discouraged. He could not eat a bit of dinner, though there was roast turkey and plum-pudding. His little heart was almost broke.

So I took him in my lap, and I told him that a great many men and women, too, all over the world, were suffering just such injustice; that when they tried hardest to do right, they got no credit for it from their fellow-creatures, and often had “bad marks” for it just as he did, and that it really seemed to them sometimes as if the lazy and deceitful prospered most.

But then I told little George that it was only in seeming that they prospered, because God, who, as you know sees every thing, and is never careless or short-sighted as George’s teacher was, never lets those who do right suffer for it. He may take His own time to right them, (which is always the best time), but He does it; and I told George that those naughty boys would grow up ignorant though they did get good marks, and that he would grow up to be well educated and useful if he did get bad ones when he did not deserve them; and I told George that one of these days, when they all grew up, that while those lazy, ignorant fellows found it impossible to earn a living, and what was worse, had no heart to do good, some College which wanted a splendid president, would write a letter to George and make him one, and he could become at once both honorable and useful.

Yes, my children, just so surely as the bright sun shines over your dear little heads, our loving God, who writes down in His book every act of injustice and wrong-doing, even to little children, will, if you only work on with a brave, patient heart, turn all your trials into blessings.

True as heaven—Aunt Fanny knows it.

THE VACANT LOT.

So they call it. Vacant? I wonder have they noticed its tenants? The noisy flock of geese, which waddle in procession to greet the rising sun, with a screech of delight; unfurling and clapping their huge snowy wings, as if to say, “Ah, we can have it all our own way, now, while yonder sluggards slumber.” Not so fast: yonder, with solemn step and slow, struts a pompous old rooster, whose blood-red crest defies goose-dom, and all its waddling works. See how meekly those wives of his—black, brown, white and speckled, tag behind his rooster-ship; too happy to pick up the smallest fragment of a worm which his delicate appetite disdains—and even that is to be approached at a proper distance from this two-footed Nero, or a handful of feathers remind their hen-ships that the lord of the harem is, and will be, cock of the walk. Pompous old tyrant! you should have a little tar mixed with your feathers. I could laugh at your ridiculous struttings, were you not the type of many a biped of whom human laws take no notice.

Vacant lot?

See yonder urchin, who has crept from his bed while “mammy” is sleeping, that he may enjoy an unrebuked frolic with the hens and geese. Could any artist improve him? The red-flannel night-gown, scarce reaching to the bare fat calves, and falling gracefully away from the ivory shoulders; the little snowy feet, scarce bending the dewy grass; the white arms tossed joyously over the curly brown head. Pretty creature! that ever time should transform you into a swearing, drinking, roystering, bar-room loafer.

Vacant lot?

What could be more picturesque than the group round yonder pump? Those big Newfoundland dogs shaking the glistening drops from their shaggy sides. The master, and his two horses neighing, plunging, rearing, tossing their flowing manes and tails, and rolling upon the grass, hoofs uppermost, in uproarious fun; while the pretty occupant of the red-flannel night-gown, claps his dimpled hands in fearless ecstacy.

Vacant lot?

That old pump is a picture, any hour in the twenty-four. The matron, with her round white arms bared to the shoulder, poising the well-filled pitcher, the wee babe hanging at her skirts; the toil-worn father, laving his flushed brow and soiled hands, and quaffing the cool nectar. Were I an artist, the rosy morning light should show me no prettier pictures than may be found in “the vacant lot.”

“FOOLISH NED.”

So they call him. I have seen many persons who thought themselves quite in their senses, more foolish and less useful than Ned. Ned does an errand very correctly; he brings home the marketing as promptly as you could do it. He flies a kite for little Sam Snow till its tail is lost in the clouds, and the boys are lost in astonishment; he makes little boats for the school-children to sail in the pond; he carves wooden whistles; nobody can make a better horsewhip out of common materials; he picks up all the runaway babies in the neighborhood and carries them safely home to their mothers; he leads the gray horse to water, and rubs his glossy coat as well as any groom. I do not think he can read, at least not as you and I were taught to read; he sees the blue sky, and the green grass, and the flowers; he stops short and listens when a little bird sings; he looks up into the tall trees, and watches the shifting sunbeams light up their leaves; he lies under the tree-shadows and gazes, well pleased, at the soft white clouds. Who shall say that in their graceful flight they drop no message from their Maker (unheard by us) to “Foolish Ned?”

When Ned’s hat and coat are old, it does not fret him; when a bank fails, Ned laughs all the same; he likes Winter; he likes Summer; he likes Spring; he makes garlands of the Autumn leaves, and glides with nimble foot over the ice-bound brook. He stands at the church porch, and bows his head, as the grand old organ sends out on the summer air its holy anthem-peal. And yet, they who with careless foot cross its sacred threshold, call him “Foolish Ned!”

Unto whom much is given; of him (only) shall God require much.

GREENWOOD.

Come—let us go to Greenwood. Where’s Greenwood? Oh, I forgot you were not a little New Yorker. Greenwood is the great cemetery, or burial-place, of the New Yorkers, on Long Island, and a very lovely place it is, too. I like to see burial-places filled with flowers, and waving trees, and sparkling fountains; I do not like that death should be made a gloomy thing. I do not like that children should lie awake nights in shuddering fear of it. Were you away on a journey from your pleasant home, and were your dear father to send a messenger for you to come to his arms, would you say, No, the messenger is ugly, I do not like his looks, I would rather never see my father than to go with him? Would you not say to yourself, it is but a short journey, I can trust a dear father who has been so kind to me, and who loves me so well, I will put my hand in that of the messenger he has sent, and go with him; my father surely knows what is best for me, I have never had any thing but kindness at his hands. Now why can not you think thus of the messenger whom your Heavenly Father sends for you, even though his name is Death? Now, I do not like you to be afraid of death; I do not like you to pray to God because, if you do not, you are afraid he will do something dreadful to you. Oh, never pray that way, pray to him just as you would run up to your mother and throw your arms about her neck and love her, and thank her because she was so good and kind to you, not because you are afraid she will whip you. That is the way God wants you to pray to him. I am sure of it; and I am sure he loves you even better than your mother, and were she to die, would watch over you tenderly, for he takes special care of little orphans. No, do not think gloomily of the good loving God, or of His messenger, Death. Love him—how can you help it, when you see this beautiful earth He has made for you, and read all His sweet words that have comforted so many who are now happy with Him, beyond what you or I ever dreamed of.

But I must tell you about Greenwood, and how glad I was to see the pretty flowers blooming over the graves, and the long graceful willow branches dipping into the silver lakes, and then streaming out on the fresh wind as if they were too full of happiness to keep still. I liked the little squirrels which ran across the path, with their tails curled saucily over their backs, and their black eyes twinkling sociably at us as we passed. I saw some graves there of little children; there were no tombstones or monuments over them; their fathers and mothers had brought them to this country from far away beyond the blue sea, and in that country it is the custom, when a little child dies, to place all his little toys on the grave, with a little glass case over them (not to keep them from thieves, oh, no, I can’t believe that any thief who ever stole, would touch a little dead child’s toys, nobody is bad enough for that); the glass case was to keep the rain from spoiling them, because often the father and mother, little brothers and sisters, would like to come and look at them, and think of their little Wilhelm, or little Meta. On one little boy’s grave was a little rusty cannon, which he used to play with, on another, only a pair of half-worn little shoes, with the strings tied together, very coarse homely little shoes, with the little toes turned up, just as the child’s foot had shaped them. I think the little boy was too poor to have playthings, and this was all his sorrowing mother had to tell us that her little boy lay dead beneath. The tears came into my eyes when I saw them, not for the little dead boy, oh, no, I was glad he had gone home to God, but for his lonely mother, for I too, have little half-worn shoes, but the tiny feet which used to wear them, I may never see or hear again in this world, but heaven is not so far off from me, since little “Mary” went there, and I think that is why God often takes our dear ones to keep for us, just as the shepherd when he takes the lamb in his arms, knows that the mother will want to follow.

Well, then I saw another little grave and under the glass-case upon it was a little doll, a tiny tea-set, and three locks of hair, golden, brown, and black, cut from the little heads that lay pillowed there. On another grave was a riding-whip and a little horse, with the reins lying idly about his neck; there are no little busy fingers now “to make-believe ride;” but the little boy who used to play with them knows more now than the most learned person on earth, and perhaps if you and I go to heaven, as I hope we shall (not because we are “afraid of hell” but because we want to be there with “our Father”), if we should go there, perhaps that very little boy will sing us the first sweet song of welcome. Who knows?

After wandering round Greenwood a long while, and seeing many, many beautiful things, I got into the cars to come back to New York; beside me I saw two little girls, one about five years and the other three. I could scarcely see their bright black eyes for the curls which hung over them. The younger was playing with a bunch of flowers, humming the while a simple little song, just as if she were all alone by herself, instead of amid a car full of people. Presently the little five year old girl looked up in my face; then she said with a very sweet little voice,

“Have you been to Greenwood?”

“Yes, dear.”

“There’s a many people dead there, ain’t there?”

“A great many.”

“Are any of your peoples dead?”

“Yes, my dear,” said I.

“Is?” (and the little creature put her hand in my lap, as if that brought us nearer to each other), “Is? we just put little brother in Greenwood.”

“What ailed him?” said I.

“Sick,” answered the little girl, playing with my bracelet.

“Mother is dead too, mother is in Greenwood, we put her there two weeks ago.”

“What ailed your mamma?”

“Sick,” answered the little one again.

“I hope you have a father,” said I, looking around the cars, for the little sisters seemed quite alone.

“Yes, out there (pointing out on the platform to a man with black crape on his hat, who was—shall I tell you? laughing and joking with some men outside), that’s father.”

“Yes, that’s father!” sang the little one, twisting her flowers, “that’s father.”

Poor little things.

“I loved mother,” said the elder girl, as she saw my eyes moisten; “mother loved me too. I used to go to store for mother; when she died she kissed me, and gave me her parasol;” and the poor child drooped her head over my hand with which she was playing.

“Do you know that you will see your mother again?” said I.

“No! shall I?”

“Yes; she will not come here; but God will take you to see her, if you are a good child.”

“I’m glad;” said she, softly.

“Don’t go away,” said she, as the cars stopped for me and my party to get out.

“Rock-a-baby—by-baby,” sang the happy little sister, still twisting the flowers.

I kissed them both. I looked into their father’s face, as I passed him on the platform. I read nothing there that made my heart happier when I thought of his little girls; but I looked up in the bright blue sky, and I read there that “not a sparrow falls to the ground without God’s knowledge,” and I knew that He who cares for the sparrows, would surely care for the motherless little sisters.

BED-TIME.

“Just half an hour; only just half an hour more, mother.”

“Not one minute, Tommy—you have been saying ‘just half an hour more,’ these two hours; I think you would keep on saying so till daybreak, if I would let you set up all night; little boys should go to bed early, that they may get up early.”

“I wish there was no such thing as bed,” muttered Tommy, as he picked up his playthings, and followed his mother up-stairs.

“I am sorry to hear you say that, my boy; bring me your night-gown, and while I am undressing you, I will tell you a little story.

“The other night I was lying in my bed awake; it was between eleven and twelve o’clock; it was a damp, chilly night, but there are always plenty of people about the New York streets, long after twelve o’clock. I lay there listening to a hand-organ beneath my window; I don’t like hand-organs much, but this was a very good one, and the tunes were sweet, mournful tunes, such as I like best to listen to. The organist played as long as he could get any pennies, and then strapping his organ across his back trudged off. Lulled by the sweet music, I was just falling asleep, when I heard a child’s scream beneath the window—then another—then another; then the words ‘Oh—don’t! oh—don’t! let me go—oh, dear—oh, dear!’ What could a little child be doing out in the street at that time of night? and who could be hurting it? I flew to the window and opened it. There was a great crowd beneath the window, for the little girl had screamed so loud that every body had run, as I did, to know what was the matter. At first I could not make out what it all meant; it seemed so strange that not one of all those people who were looking on, should take the little girl away from that great tall man, who was holding her so tight, while she still kept on screaming, ‘Oh, don’t! oh, let me go!’

“Not only did they not take hold of him, but they moved on one side to let him go off with the little girl, who was throwing herself about in his arms, as if she were wild with fear. Presently the man who had the child, passed under a bright gas-light, and as he did so I saw a star glitter upon his broad breast. A policeman! that was why nobody meddled with him then; but what naughty thing could a little girl like that have done, that she must be carried off by a policeman at twelve o’clock at night? Surely—surely—so young a child as that could not have done any thing so very bad.

“But the policeman carried her off, still shrieking, and as her voice died away in the distance, I could still hear ‘Oh don’t! oh let me go!’ and then the crowd scattered, and every body went home; and I went back to bed, and dreamed that the little girl was going to be hung, and that I saved her. Not till the next morning, could I find out what was the cause of the trouble. The little girl’s name was Ann Mahon. Her father and mother were Irish, and lived in a cellar, with a great many people, black and white, who were all very bad and idle. Little Ann had never lived in any other way than this; she was born in a cellar; and had been beaten and starved and abused, till she was not more than half the size of children of her own age. Her father and mother were both drunkards; they were too idle to work for a living, so they sent poor little Ann out into the streets at nine o’clock at night, to beg money; thinking that people would pity a little girl so much for being all alone at that time of night, that they would certainly give her something. But to make sure of her getting it, they told little Ann, when they pinned the thin ragged dirty shawl over her little brown head, that if she sat down on the steps anywhere, and went to sleep, or did not bring some money when she came back, they would whip her, till she was almost dead. So the poor little thing went out, and pattered up and down the cold pavements, with her bare, weary feet, hour after hour, never daring to sit down a moment to rest herself, running up to the gentlemen who were hurrying home, with ‘A penny please sir? a penny please sir?’ Now, a lady would come along, a bright beautiful lady, with a gay cloak, just from the theater or opera, leaning on a gentleman’s arm, her eyes flashing like the diamonds in her bosom; she would hear little Ann’s ‘A penny please,’ as she stepped into her carriage, and gathering up her beautiful clothes in her snowy fingers, lest Ann should soil them, would turn away and pass on, and the gentleman with her, would say, ‘What a pest these beggars are.’ Sometimes some gentlemen who had little girls at home like Ann, would put their hands in their pockets, and give her a penny, and say kindly, ‘Run home, my dear, out of the street,’ but the poor child did not dare to go, till she had more pennies, and so she wandered on.

‘By-and-by little Ann heard the organ under my window; she liked the music, it sounded like kind words to her, and poor Ann had heard so few of those, in her little lifetime; so she drew closer to the crowd to listen still saying, in a low voice, ‘Penny please, penny please,’ to the people who stood there; for she did not dare to stop saying it on account of what her mother had told her, and because it was getting late, and she had as yet only two pennies.

“Presently little Ann felt a heavy hand on her shoulder; she started, and turned round—there was a tall policeman! Little Ann screamed; she knew well enough what a policeman was—poor little girl, she had seen the bad people among whom she was forced to live, hide away from them, many a time; and she had seen them, when the policeman caught them, struggle, and kick, and scream, to keep from being carried to prison; no wonder that little Ann screamed out, ‘Oh, don’t—let me go—oh, don’t!’ as the policeman lifted her up in his arms, just as he would a feather, to carry her off, as she thought, to jail.

“But that was not what the policeman was going to do; he was only going to take her to the watch-house, and keep her safely till morning, and then have her show him where her parents (who sent the poor thing out nights) lived; that he could take them and have them punished for doing it; that was what the policeman was going to do with little Ann; but the poor child did not know that, nor if she had, would it have comforted her any to have been told that her father and mother were to be sent to jail, and she to the almshouse; for bad as they were, they were all she had to care for; and so the poor little friendless thing clung to them. No, Ann did not know where she was going or what for, and the policeman being used to seeing misery, did not take any trouble to explain, or to quiet her, as he should have done; so when poor Ann had screamed till she was all tired out, she fell asleep in the dreary watch-house, with the policemen.

“What do you think that little girl would have given, Tommy, for a nice safe home like this; a clean warm little bed, and a kind mother to undress her every night, and put her into it? Think of that, my boy, when you scowl, and pout, and wish that ‘there never was such a thing as a bed.’”

SOLILOQUY OF OVERGROWN FIFTEEN.

I sprang up, like Jonah’s gourd, in a night; I am as tall as a bean-stalk and as green; I am thick where I ought to be thin, and thin where I should be thick; I am too big to drive hoop, and not old enough to wear one; too tall to let my hair loose on my shoulders, and not old enough to fix it up with a comb; I am too large to wear an apron, and I can’t keep my dress clean without one; I have out-grown tucks, and am not allowed to wear flounces; I have to pay full price in the omnibuses, and yet gentlemen, because of my baby-face never pull the strap for me; I have lost my relish for “Mother Goose,” and am not allowed to read love-stories; old men have done giving me sugarplums, and young men have not begun to give me “kisses;” I have done with gingerbread hearts and nobody offers me the other sort; I have given up playing with “doll-babies,” and am forbidden to think of a husband; if I ask my mother for a “dress-hat,” she says “Pshaw! you are nothing but a child;” if I run or jump in the street, she says, “My dear, you should remember that you are a young lady now.” I say it’s real mean; so there, now, and I don’t care.

A TEMPERANCE STORY.

Charley Colt’s father was a grocer. There was a great sign stuck up on the corner with a sugarloaf painted on either end; and outside the door were hogsheads of “Jamaica brandy,” and “Old Cogniac.” He was not a temperance man of course; temperance was not so much talked about in those days as it is now; it was a matter of course that drunkards went reeling home from such places as Mr. Colt’s, and nobody seemed to think the worse of the man who sold such maddening stuff. Many a poor heart-broken woman turned away her head when the fat, jolly Mr. Colt walked, on Sundays, into the best pew in church, and sat up as straight as if he had not taken the bread out of the mouths of so many widows and their children. Nobody thought the worse of Mr. Colt for taking, for liquor, all the wages which a poor man had been all the week earning, instead of telling the foolish fellow to take it home to his destitute family. Mr. Colt slept just as soundly as if he had not been doing this for years; and the law did not meddle with him for it; and as to that old-fashioned book, the Bible, which says, “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” Mr. Colt never troubled himself to wipe the dust from its covers. Mr. Colt had a bright little boy named Charley, of whom he was very fond; he was an only child. Charley spent all his time in the store when he was not in school, listening to the men who came there to drink, as they lounged round the door, or sat on the counter, or perched themselves on top of the barrels of whisky and rum. Sometimes they would ask him questions, to see what queer old-fashioned answers he would make, and then his father would wink with one eye and say “Oh, he’s a case, that boy, he is going to college one of these days, and going to be a gentleman, ain’t you, Charley?” and then the men would set him up on the barrels and give him the sugar and rum in the bottom of their glasses, and then Charley would talk so fast and so loud that you would think he was crazy, and so things went on at the grocer’s till Charley was a big boy, big enough to go to college. Then his father fitted him out with a great many fine clothes, because he said his handsome Charley should be a gentleman, and gave him a purse full of money, and told him to hold up his head, and not let any body tread him down. And Charley opened his bright eyes and shook his thick curls, and said, whoever wanted to get the better of him would have “to get up early in the morning.” And so off he went to college “to be made a gentleman of.”

When Charley got there, he found out that the way to be a gentleman in college was to insult his teachers, break windows, run up great long bills at the tailor’s, the hatter’s, the pastry cook’s, and the eating and drinking saloons.

It was very easy work, and when he got through, the bills were sent to his father to pay. As to his lessons, his father had never said any thing about those—it was stupid work studying, well enough for poor men’s sons, whose fathers were not rich, and who would have to earn their own living, but all he was sent there for, was to learn to be a gentleman. His teachers reproved him for neglect of study, and Charley plainly told them it was none of their business to speak to a gentleman in that way; and when his tutor told him that he must not use such language to him, he knocked the tutor down with his gentlemanly fists. To be sure he was drunk when he did it, but the tutor did not seem to think much, even of that gentlemanly excuse, and so Charley was expelled—that is, sent away from college, and went back again to his father. Mr. Colt did not keep the store now; he had made so much money, making drunkards, that he could afford to sell out all his rum-barrels to another man, who wanted to get rich too, by breaking women’s hearts, and starving poor innocent children. Mr. Colt now lived in a fine large house, with great high stone steps like a palace, and a great bronze lion on each side of the door. There were beautiful sofas and chairs inside, and mirrors the whole length of the wall, from floor to ceiling. The carpets were as thick and soft as the moss-patches in the woods, and the flowers in them so beautiful that you hesitated to put your foot on them. Then there was silver, and cut-glass, and porcelain, and a whole army of servants, all bought with the poor drunkards’ money; and Mr. Colt walked up and down his rooms, and thought himself a good man, and a gentleman. Charley Colt thought it was all very fine when he came back from college. But what he liked better than any thing else was his father’s wine-cellar. He smoked and drank, and drank and smoked, and lolled around the streets to his heart’s content. One night he was brought home very drunk, by two policemen, who had found him quarreling in the street; his head was badly cut, and his fine clothes were soiled and covered with mud, and his hat was so bruised, that you could not have told what shape it was when it was made.

Old Mr. Colt was sitting in his handsome parlor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, reading the evening paper, when the policemen rang at the door; hearing a scuffling in the entry, he opened the door of the parlor and there was his son, bruised, ragged, dirty, bleeding, and dead drunk.

Old Mr. Colt had often seen other men’s sons, whom he had helped to make drunkards, in this condition, without being at all troubled by it; but his own son—his fine handsome Charley—his only child—to look so beastly—to be so degraded—ah, that was quite another thing. His brain reeled, his knees tottered under him, his hand shook as if he had the palsy; then, for the first time in his life, he knew the misery he had brought to other firesides, other happy homes. All that night he walked up and down the floor of those splendid rooms; now he remembered the poor women who used to come to his shop to coax home their drunken sons and husbands, and all the fine furniture in his rooms seemed to be stained with their tears; now he remembered an old gray-haired man, who prayed him with clasped hands never to sell his son another drop of that maddening drink; and then there seemed to come a hand-writing on the wall, and this it was: “With what measure ye mete, it shall be meted to you again!” and the wretched old man bowed his head upon his breast and said, “Oh, God, thou art just!”

ALL ABOUT HORACE.

Now what is that little boy crying for? A rocking-horse? Some marbles? A bat and ball? A pair of skates? What a curious-looking boy he is! Thin, small, stooping, awkward; but what clear blue eyes; and what a singularly sweet innocent expression in his colorless face. Every body hates to see him cry, because every body loves Horace. His father and mother are poor, hard-working people, and have other children beside him to take care of; and each one must do something toward helping support the family, too. Horace’s mother works in the field, hoes, rakes up the hay, plants, and digs, just like his father: perhaps you think she must get so tired doing all this, and in door women’s work beside, that she could have no time at all to attend to her little boy, Horace. Don’t you believe it; women in those days were made of better stuff than most of the women of our day. Horace’s mother could not have planted potatoes or raked hay, in corsets or a hoop-skirt. She could not have done it had she lived on cake, cordial, pies and confectionery. She could not have done it had she slept in close, heated apartments. She did none of all those foolish things. Neither was she cross or ill-tempered, nor did she beat and push little Horace round and tell him that he was always in the way, as some poor, tired, hard-working women do; not she—she was the merriest, jolliest, funniest, story-telling-est woman you ever heard of; went singing after the hay-cart, singing to the plow, singing to the barn-yard, singing to dinner, and singing to bed. That robbed labor of half its weariness, and winged the feet of every body about her; so little Horace was not afraid to follow his mother about. No matter how busy she was, she always found time to speak a pleasant word to her fair-haired little boy. And such stories as she told him, and such “a lot” of them, fairy stories, and “old legends,” why, she was as good as a whole library of child’s story-books; and better too, because half of those are written either so that children can not understand them, or so babyish as to disgust them. She was better than any story-book, you may be sure, and Horace would have run his legs off for her any day, as well he might.

But I have not told you yet, what Horace was crying about. Well, it was because he had missed a word and lost his place in the class. You must know that Horace was a famous speller; but the best sometimes are caught tripping, and so it proved with him, and it mortified him so much that he could not choke the tears away. Now, perhaps you think the boys who got above him in the class were glad of this; perhaps you have known boys who have felt so. Horace’s schoolmates did not: they all loved him because he was so good and gentle, and when they saw how badly he felt, they refused to go above him: that dried up his tears very quick. There is nothing like kind words and deeds to dry up tears; try it, and you will see.

Little Horace’s fame as a speller (you must not think because he occasionally tripped at it, that this was not true, any more than that because there are some hypocrites that there is nothing in religion)—little Horace’s fame as a speller went all over the country. There was an old captain of a vessel who lived on a farm near, and who had heard of him; whenever he met the boy he would say, “Horace, how do you spell Encyclopædia?” or “Kamschatka,” or “Nebuchadnezzar.” Then he used to lend him books to read, and question him about them afterward, and I promise you that Master Horace was always able to answer any of his questions, for he did not read “skipping” as do some boys. The old captain was kind to Horace’s brother, too; and gave him a sheep, and a load of hay to feed the sheep on, one winter.

Horace found another friend, too, for good boys who are eager to learn, no matter how poor they may be, always get on somehow; this friend was a minister who used to teach him grammar, for the pleasure of teaching such a bright little fellow. Sometimes, to see whether he had understood what he had been taught, he would tell him wrong, but Horace could not be caught that way; when he had once understood a thing he stuck to it, and it was of no use trying to shake his belief in it.

Perhaps you are thinking that he was not good for any thing but study; there again you are mistaken. He was just as good at farm-work, and just as thorough as he was at study. Sometimes, when his father had set Horace and his brothers a task to do while he went away from home, his roguish brother would say, “Come, Hod, let’s go fishing!” Did he go? This was his answer, I want you to remember it, “Let us do our stint first!” Horace could play, too; he could catch more fish than all the other fellows put together; but shooting, which the other boys were so fond of, he disliked; when they went to murder a little bird or rabbit, he would lie down and stuff his ears full of grass till the murder had been done; he could not bear to hear a gun go off, and he could not bear to see these creatures killed. Why he did not feel so about fish seems strange to me, but then he was a strange boy altogether.

I dare say you wonder, when his friends were so poor, how he got books, and where, and when, he found time amid the farm-work to read them, and how he learned to read at all. I will tell you; you are not tired, are you? I am not. You see when he was only two years old, he used to lie on the floor with the big Bible, and pore over it, and pick out the letters, and ask questions about them. The fact was, the child taught himself; he could read at three years any child’s book, and at four, any book you could bring him; and what is funnier, at four years he could read a book up side down, or sideways as well as right side up. He learned all this, not because he was told to, but of his own accord, and because he loved it. The nearest school-house was a mile and a half from home, and when he was six, he began to go to it. Sometimes tremendous snowstorms would blow over the New Hampshire hills, where Horace lived, and many a little fellow was lost in the snow-drifts, or frozen to death. This did not keep Horace at home, and when he could not wade through the snow himself, he would mount on the shoulders of a good-natured schoolmate, who was stouter and bigger, and who would even pull off his own mittens, and draw them over Horace’s little hands to keep them from freezing. Do you think you would have taken as much pains as did Horace, to learn? or would you have clapped your hands when the noiseless snowflakes came sailing lazily down, because they would afford you an excuse for staying at home, to pop corn in the big old-fashioned fire-place.

Speaking of the big fire-place, reminds me to tell you another thing about Horace. All his evenings he spent in reading; he borrowed all the books he could muster for miles round. Poor people can not afford to burn many candles or lamps; but this was not to keep Horace from reading the borrowed books. How could he read without a light? ah—that’s just the question. He collected together in a safe place a parcel of pine-knots, and when it came evening he set one of those up in the great big chimney-corner, set it on fire, and then curled himself up, like a kitten on the hearth, and read away with all his might; neighbors dropped in to talk with his father and mother, but he neither saw nor heard them, nor they him, the still, puny, busy little reader. It was like waking up a person from a sound sleep, to rouse him from his dear book. Sometimes his little schoolmates would come in to spend the evening, for they liked Horace’s mother as well as Horace, and had often listened to the pretty stories she used to tell; they did not like him to lie on the hearth and read, when they wanted to play; so they would go up and seize him by one leg, and draw him away from the pine knot and the book. Horace would quietly get on his legs and walk straight back again, without showing the least anger; then they would snatch away his book and hide it, thinking in that way to get him to play with them; then he would very quietly go and get another book and lie down again to read. What could you do with such a boy? Why, let him read, of course. The boys couldn’t quarrel with him, because he was always so good-natured; beside, his learning was a mighty good thing for them; even boys twice his age, wanted him to explain sums they could not understand, or other lessons too, which never puzzled his little flaxen head a bit. Ah, he was a great boy, that Horace, for all he was so little.

One day he went into a blacksmith’s shop, and was looking on so intently while the blacksmith shoed the horses, that the blacksmith said to him, “I think you had better come and learn my trade.”

“No,” said little Horace, with quite a determined air, “I am going to be a printer.” The blacksmith laughed, as well he might, that such a little button of a boy, should already have made up his mind so decidedly about what puzzles young men at the age of twenty; but Horace always knew his own mind and was not afraid, when it was proper for him to do so, to speak it.

And now I suppose you would like to know whether this little fellow ever did become a printer? whether all this learning ever did him or any body else any good; and what became of such a queer boy any how.

Well, his father lost what little property he had, and Horace, who was always a kind son, helped him all he could, and when he thought it would be helping his father best, to try to support himself, he started off with a clean shirt under his arm to seek his fortune, and learn to be a printer. I could not tell you all the disappointments and discouragements this bright little fellow met with, or how nobly he bore up under them all; but I will tell you how at last he came to New York, where so many rich men live, who like himself first came to the city on foot, with only a few cents in their pockets, and a change of clothes tied up in a bundle, and slung over their shoulders. It costs so much to live in New York that Horace tried at several places before he could find lodgings where he could afford to stay. He did not care for delicacies, he had been used at home to sit round a howl of porridge with his father and mother, brothers and sisters, and all eat with the same spoon out of the family bowl. After making many inquiries he found at last a cheap place, and after taking breakfast there, set out to wander through the city in search of employment.

You boys, who have always been fed, clothed, and lodged, by your kind parents, and who take it as a matter of course, can have little idea what weary discouraging, disheartening work, this search for employment is—how roughly harsh words fall upon the ear, used only to loving tones; how hard it is to smother down angry feelings when you are wrongfully suspected; how tough it must have been for Horace, who was so happy over the family bowl of porridge, because love sweetened it, when on his first application for employment, the gentleman to whom he spoke looked sharply at him, saying, “My opinion is, that you are a runaway apprentice, and you had better go home to your master,” and when Horace tried to explain that it was not so, the gentleman stopped him short with, “Be off about your business, and don’t bother me.” But this rough answer did not discourage Horace, who kept on, all that day, going up-stairs and down into different offices asking for employment and receiving the same chilling “No.” Ah, I can tell, I, who have tried it, how weary and forlorn he must have felt, that Friday night, as he went home to his cheap lodgings, and how hopeless seemed the idea of commencing again the next morning, and returning again the next night with no better success. Sunday came, and Horace, as many have done before him, went to church with his troubled spirit, and forgot the body and all its little petty needs, the earth and all its little toils and cares, and came away, as “the poor in spirit” always come from God’s temple, rich in blessing.

The next day, Horace heard of a place where he might probably find employment. Did he say, “It is no use, I have spent two whole days now, wandering up and down the city, in and out of offices, for nothing?” No, he did not say this; he was on the steps of the printing-office at half past five in the morning. Not a soul was there but himself, and Horace sat down upon the steps to wait till it was open, poor fellow, with his bundle on his knees, pale and anxious, and there waited and waited a long, long while before any one came. By-and-by, one of the journymen who worked in the office, came, and sat down on the steps too, and began talking with Horace. That man had a heart, and he pitied Horace, whom he believed to be a good, honest fellow, and whom he resolved to befriend. When the office was opened he took him into it. Every body who came in laughed at Horace, because he was dressed in such a shabby way. Did he mind that? Of course he did not, no more than you would mind the barking of your dog, Tray. The foreman in the office looked at him, the apprentices looked at him, they all looked at him, and thought that such a countrified-looking fellow must, of course, be a fool, and it was all nonsense to try him; however, to oblige the kind journeyman who brought him in, they consented to give him a piece of work to do, the only work they had, and a very difficult job, so much so that several in the office had tried and given it up in despair. Well, Horace, nothing discouraged, went right at it with a will. By-and-by the master of the office came in, and glancing at Horace, asked the foreman, contemptuously, what he had hired that fool for?

“He is the best we could get, and we must have somebody,” was the answer.

“Well,” said the vexed man, “pay him off to-night and send him about his business.”

Did they send him off? Not they; not by six dollars, which they were glad to pay him every week, for the sake of keeping such a good workman in their office. The men and boys in the office, nick-named him “the Ghost,” on account of his pale complexion. I could not tell you all their tormenting tricks, which never kept Horace from working steadily on; or how they got the black, inky, printer’s balls, and rubbed them all over his yellow hair, and played other roguish tricks to torment him; and how he kept steadily on with his work, never getting angry, never noticing their nonsense, till they were forced to let him alone, for it is no fun to keep on trying to plague any body who don’t mind it a bit. I couldn’t tell you all his adventures, but I will tell you that when he earned money he always sent nearly the whole of it to his father and mother, never buying what young lads like best to spend money for, in the way of eatables and new clothes. I will tell you that he did become a printer, and astonished every body by his learning and intelligence; that he not only became a printer but an editor, and a member of Congress, and what is better, always in his paper takes the part of the working-people and farmers, among whom he was brought up, instead of turning his back upon them and getting proud because he grew rich; and famous—he tells them all about new plows, and new breeds of cattle, and how to manage their farms to the best advantage, and always has a kind, encouraging word for those who, like himself, are struggling to get on in the world without friends or fortune; and that is the best part of the whole. And now, when the carrier drops his paper at your father’s door, I want you to read the articles Horace Greeley writes for it, and feel proud, if he does not, of him and of the New York Tribune.

A WALK I TOOK.

Did you ever see the New York Battery? Of course you have, if you are a New Yorker. You have stood a thousand times looking toward Staten Island, over the blue water, and seen the gallant ships, and the little pleasure-boats, and the mammoth steamers, and listened to the far-off “yeave-ho,” of the good honest sailors, and felt the fresh sea-breeze fan your heated cheek; sat down under the shady trees, and watched the children roll upon the grass, and heard their merry shouts. Not the children of the rich—no; luckily for poor children, the Battery, one of the most beautiful spots in New York, was long ago voted “unfashionable;” after that, of course, it would never do for any body who wished to be thought any body, to walk there, and to admire this beautiful view or enjoy the cool shade of the lovely trees—no, indeed. So these fashionables left the beautiful Battery to the poor people, and I thanked God for it, as I sat there under the trees, one hot summer afternoon, and saw them come streaming in through the gates, from the filthy alleys, and by-streets, with their little barefooted children, and their care-worn anxious-looking wives. They had it all to themselves now, no fear of intruding, for, as I told you, nobody who cared to be thought fashionable would ever dare to venture there, much less sit down beside them on the benches. But I was not fashionable, so I sat there and watched the face of the tired, worn-out mother, and saw her faded eye brighten, as it rested on the blue water and the beautiful sunset clouds, enjoying the cool wind as it lifted the tangled curls from her sick baby’s face. Her poor little baby! who had been shut up in a dark underground room all day, while his mother stood scrubbing out clothes at the wash-tub—ah! it was quite another thing for them this fresh sea-breeze, this pretty grassy velvet carpet, dotted with butter-cups and dandelion blossoms. The little baby hardly knew its own mother’s face, it looked so pleasant and fresh and happy; hardly knew her voice, which grew softer and sweeter, though she did not know it, as she felt that God had made some things for the poor as well as the rich; and as I sat beside them, and watched the little pale baby tumble round on the soft grass, picking butter-cups, I thanked God, as I told you before, that the Battery had become “unfashionable,” so that these poor creatures and I, could go there and enjoy all this beauty without having it spoiled by their foolish presence. Just as I was going away from the Battery, thinking of these things, I saw a group of emigrants before me, who had just landed from some ship. How oddly they were dressed! Most of them were young, hale, and strong; and glad to leap from the rocking vessel to the shore, which they had been told was the “poor man’s paradise.” On they went, gazing bewilderingly about, jostled hither and thither as they passed through the streets. Strange sights, strange sounds, strange faces all. There was nothing there to remind them of the old “fatherland.” How odd the vehicles, how curious the houses, how new the dresses; how little all the busy people about them seemed to care what became of the poor emigrants in a strange land.

Now, as the emigrants pass along, still gazing, still wondering, they see a church. They understand that! Ah! the great loving heart of God beats for his children in all lands, beneath all skies! And so the poor emigrants stopped, and the old man reverently uncovered his silver head; the child hushed its gleeful prattle; the rosy maiden checked her merry laugh, and with one accord they all knelt upon the pavement, to render thanks to Him who held the winds and waves in the hollow of His hand, and who had brought them safely to this foreign land.

It was a holy and beautiful sight! The man of business stared at that kneeling group as he rushed by, and for the first time for many, many a day, he thought of the long-forgotten prayer at his dead mother’s knee; and the half-way Christian crimsoned with shame, as he looked at these poor emigrants, and remembered how the noisy voices of the world had drowned for him the still, small whisper of God’s Spirit.

Ah! my dear little children, believe me, there are many good sermons which are never preached in churches.

SUSY FOSTER.

Don’t know Susy Foster? bless me! I thought every body knew Susy. Did you never meet her trudging to school, with her satchel and her luncheon? did you never look at her and wonder how people could ever call Susy Foster “homely?” Did you never notice how many different shades of color her eyes would take while you were talking to her? and how the blood would come and go on her pale cheek? Did you never notice her stoop to pick up a cane for some old man, whose limbs were so stiff, that it was difficult to do it for himself? Did you never see her help some younger child safely across the muddy, crowded street? Did you never see her give away her scanty luncheon to some little girl who had eaten no breakfast? Did you never see her walk round an ant hill on the sidewalk, instead of walking over it? Did you never see her in school recess, helping some child, whose wits were not as quick as her own, to do a puzzling sum in arithmetic, or teach her some long word in geography? Did you never see her thoughtfully tie up a little schoolmate’s shoe, for fear the loose string would trip her on the sidewalk? or untie a knot in her bonnet-strings, or pin her cloak together for her when the button came off? Did you never see her put her arm round a little child, who was crying because her school-fellows had made fun of a big patch on her gown? Did you never hear her sing when school was over, “I want to be an angel?” and did tears never dim your eyes, that a little thing like her, who was only a poor little errand-girl, apprenticed to Miss Snip, the milliner, and who never knew what it was to be loved by father, or mother, brother or sister, should be so much kinder to every body, and so much better than yourself, who had all these and many more blessings? Susy Foster homely? I never saw her little brown head, but there seemed to me to be a halo round it, such as one sees on pictures of the infant Jesus. Susy Foster homely? She is not homely, now. The bright sun, as it slants across the village green, goes down upon the little childish group who come tripping out of the old school-house, but Susy is not among them, her seat in school is vacant, her satchel lies idly on the shelf. Miss Snip still scolds and frets, but Susy does not hear her; the spider weaves his busy web upon the wall in Susy’s garret, but there are no little curious lonely eyes to watch him. The old blind man at the street corner, stands leaning on his staff, listening till he is weary, for Susy’s pleasant voice. He did not see the poor’s hearse, as it rumbled past him with little Susy in it; but some day the film will fall from his sightless eyes—not here—and he will see Susy, and many like her, of whom the earth was not worthy.

“FEED MY LAMBS.”

What can that gentleman be doing with all those children? there is one whole car quite filled with them. He is not their father, that is very certain, though he is as kind to them as if he were. No, he can not be their father. Some of those little faces are I Irish, some Scotch, some French. They all look happy, and yet they are leaving father and mother, brothers and sisters, never more perhaps to meet them again in this world.

“Happy?” you exclaim; “happy” to go away thus from home and friends? Suppose that home were at the “Five Points?” suppose their fathers and mothers drank, and stole, and quarreled, and taught those children to do the same, till their very souls sickened at the name of home? till even the grave, dark and gloomy as it appears to fresh young life, would seem a safer, better, happier place? What then? Then suppose a good man, with his heart full of compassion for those little suffering, tempted, and, as yet, innocent children, should lay his hand of blessing on their heads, as Jesus did, and say, “Come unto me.” Suppose he should tell them that if they would leave these wretched homes he would take them thousands of miles away from the great swarming city, into the country, where the air is pure and fresh as the hearts of the people, among whom he would find them happy homes; where they would be taught to read and write, and never be beaten because they were unwilling to steal or lie. Suppose I should tell you that this gentleman, Mr. Van Meter, has taken many, many cars full of such children, to the far West, and that many of them have been adopted as own children into families who love all that is good, and to whom God has given means to provide for all their wants. Oh, what a change from the dirty, dark, noisome dens of the Five Points; no wonder the little children feel happy; no wonder they look up in Mr. Van Meter’s cheerful face, with eyes brim-full of trust and tenderness; no wonder they put their little hands in his and say, “Take us, we will go wherever you tell us;” and no wonder that his heart swells when, months after he leaves them in their new homes, he receives their letters, thanking him for bringing them there, and telling him how much they have learned, and how kind are their new friends, and how one of them is to be a farmer, and one a doctor, and one a minister; and then they beg him to bring away more children from those dreadful places, to the good and beautiful homes of the West. And well they may beg for their old playmates, the poor children who are left behind; oh, you can have no idea how wretched, how dreadful, are the lives they lead. Not long since, two young girls, five and nine years old, were living alone in a miserable room, with no fire, no food, and scarcely any clothing; but they were thankful even for a shelter at night, and in the day, they begged from door to door, for a mouthful of food; it was pitiful how hungry they were; it was pitiful their pinched, care-worn, old little faces. One day when they came home from begging, they found their landlord in the old dirty desolate room they called their home. He had come for the money they were to pay him for the use of it.

“Money?”

The poor little frightened girls looked up in his face.

“Money?”

They had none to give—not a cent; and so they were turned into the street.

Taking hold of each other’s hands, and wiping, with their ragged aprons, the fast falling tears, on they went, those little sisters, past happy homes, where rosy, well-fed children peeped at them from out richly curtained windows; past many a little happy face, upon the sidewalk, never stained with such bitter, desolate tears; past the good, past the bad, past the indifferent, up to the gate of a large stone building, where they stopped, knocking with their little half-frozen fingers. Why should the little sisters knock there? That is a prison; they have committed no crime—why should the little sisters knock there?

Because their father and mother are there—because they have no home on the wide earth if that wretched prison can not be their home. Do you wonder now, that Mr. Van Meter begs people to give him money, that he may take such children away from sin and suffering, to the pure homes of the beautiful West? I know your heart says with mine, God speed!

TWO LIVE PICTURES.

I wish I were an artist. I would paint two pictures that I saw to-day.

This was the first.

At the basement window of a house I passed, sat a mother and her little sick girl. On the window was a tumbler containing some physic, into which the mother had just dipped a spoon, which she was holding to the sick child’s mouth. You should have seen that little girl’s disgusted, shuddering face, as she turned it away from the spoon, over her right shoulder. I doubt if the physic itself was “worse to take!”

This was the second picture.

A little girl, about five years old, had been sent, by her mother, to the butcher’s, for a beefsteak, with an open basket. She had done her errand, and was tripping home with the meat, singing as she went, when a great bouncing Newfoundland dog came toward her, and with a bound, placed his two fore-paws on her shoulder, while the poor child reached her little arms as high as they would go, above her curly head, to save the precious beefsteak. There, now, there are two subjects, for any of you who can draw. I only wish I could, and I would have had them in this very book.

A RIDDLE;
OR, MAMMA’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

“Hurrah for Christmas! How it snows! how it blows! who cares? who’s got a Christmas present?”

“Mother! well, what has mother got in her stocking? Nothing?—that’s too bad.”

“Aye; but I did not say she had nothing; I said she had nothing in her stocking.”

“Did not Santa Claus bring her any thing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why not put it in her stocking, then?”

“It was too big.”

“What can it be? Tell us; a work-table?”

“No.”

“A rocking-chair?”

“No.”

“A new silk dress?”

“No.”

“A muff?”

“No.”

“A writing-desk?”

“No.”

“A picture? an ottoman? a statue? a new bonnet?”

“No—no—no—no!”

“Pshaw, it was nothing.”

“But I tell you it was something!”

“Something? then, a table-bell?”

“No; it is not a bell now, but it may be.”

“Not a bell now, but may be! Oh, pshaw, we give it up; tell us, what is it?”

“Well then—a live baby!”

THANKSGIVING.

To-morrow is Thanksgiving.

No joyful clapping of hands when this was said, and the newspaper laid down in which the Thanksgiving proclamation had just been read. No little eyes brightened, or rosy lips said, “How nice—how glad I am!” and yet the little group, gathered there around the warm fire, were well fed and well clothed; there would be the usual turkey, and mince-pie, and plum-pudding at the Thanksgiving dinner; but grandpapa would not be there. Grandpapa was “gone!” What was Thanksgiving, without grandpapa’s silver head at the table? Little curly heads would miss the trembling hands of blessing; little ears would listen vainly for the faltering kindly voice; little eyes would watch when the hall door opened, but hear no tottering footstep; there would be no loving strife now, who should put away his “staff.” Grandpapa has a surer Staff now.

Dear old grandpa! who ever heard him speak a fretful, unkind word? No need to say Hush, children, grandpa is coming—no need to put away the humming-top, marbles, or ball; no need to draw down the merry little faces; no need for little chests to heave the half-stifled, disappointed sigh; no, indeed; grandpa’s hands trembled, grandpa’s feet tottered, grandpa’s forehead was seamed with wrinkles, and his hair was snow-white; but grandpa’s heart was fresh and green, and the sparkle in his eye was as merry as when he was a little boy himself.

Oh, what will Thanksgiving be without grandpa? Did grandpa ever think his children were not his children, because they were grown up, and had married, and left their old home? Did grandpa ever scowl at them when trouble and poverty came, as if it were a crime to be sick or poor? Was grandpa only glad to see them when they were rich and prosperous, and did he love them only when the world noticed them? No—no—else they would not all say to-day,

“Oh, what will Thanksgiving be without grandpa?” Dear old grandpa—there will be no sorrow mixed with his Thanksgiving to-morrow. You will all, I am sure, give thanks for that; his eyes are no longer dim, but the glorious things he sees, neither you or I may know, till our earthly Thanksgivings are over. No pillow to place for the feeble head, there is no sickness there; no cooling draught for the parched lips, for there is no more thirst; neither does he hunger any more; no need to trim the watcher’s midnight lamp, there is no night there. Oh, happy, blessed, sainted grandpapa. Surely the memory of Thanksgiving we will keep, and it shall not be without thee!

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

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Table of Contents

- THE PLAY-DAY BOOK: NEW STORIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS.

- PREFACE.

- CONTENTS.

- A RAINY DAY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

- THE BOY WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD.

- THE JOURNEY.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- THE MORNING-GLORY.

- A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.

- THE CIRCUS.

- WHAT EVERY LITTLE CHILD MAY SEE.

- A STORY FOR BOYS.

- KATY’S FIRST GRIEF.

- OUR NEW DOG DASH.

- FUN AND FOLLY; A STORY FOR THOUGHTLESS BOYS.

- HISTORY OF A FAMILY OF CATS.

- THE POOR-RICH CHILD.

- THE HOD-CARRIER.

- THE TOM-BOY.

- THE LITTLE MUSICIAN.

- LIONS.

- THE CRIPPLE.

- THE TRUANT.

- BESSIE AND HER MOTHER.

- RED-HEADED ANDY.

- LITTLE NAPKIN.

- THE SPOILED BOY.

- PUSS AND I.

- LUCY’S FAULT.

- UNTIDY MARY.

- A LUCKY IRISH BOY.

- THE CHILD PRINCE AND THE CHILD PEASANT.

- THE WILD ROSE.

- JENNY AND THE BUTCHER.

- THE TWO BABES.

- THE LITTLE SISTERS.

- OURS; OR, A LOOK BACKWARD.

- CHILDREN’S TROUBLES.

- THE VACANT LOT.

- “FOOLISH NED.”

- GREENWOOD.

- BED-TIME.

- SOLILOQUY OF OVERGROWN FIFTEEN.

- A TEMPERANCE STORY.

- ALL ABOUT HORACE.

- A WALK I TOOK.

- SUSY FOSTER.

- “FEED MY LAMBS.”

- TWO LIVE PICTURES.

- A RIDDLE; OR, MAMMA’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

- THANKSGIVING.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE