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diff --git a/old/67570-0.txt b/old/67570-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6f6c282..0000000 --- a/old/67570-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6172 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Play-day Book, by Fanny Fern - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Play-day Book - New Stories for Little Folks - -Author: Fanny Fern - -Illustrator: Fred M. Coffin - -Release Date: March 5, 2022 [eBook #67570] - -Language: English - -Produced by: 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 *** - - -[Illustration] - - - - - 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!” - -[Illustration] - -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. - -[Illustration] - - - - - 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. - -[Illustration] - - - - - 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. - -[Illustration] - -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. - -[Illustration] - -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.” - -[Illustration] - -“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. - -[Illustration] - - - - - 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. - -[Illustration] - - - - - 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. - -[Illustration] - -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. 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