I live high up in a city house all alone. My room is a cosy little place, though there is nothing very splendid in it,—only my pictures and books, my flowers and my little friend. When I began to live there, I was very busy and therefore very happy; but by-and-by, when my hurry was over and I had more time to myself, I often felt lonely. When I ate my meals I used to wish for a pleasant companion to eat with me; and when I sat by the fire of evenings, I thought how much more social it would be if some one sat opposite. I had many friends and callers through the day, but the evenings were often rather dull; for I couldn'tread much, and didn't care to go out in the stormy weather.
I was wishing for a cheerful friend one night, when all of a sudden I found one; for, sitting on my hand, I saw a plump, jolly-looking fly. He sat quietly staring at me, with a mild little hum, as if to say,—
'How are you? You wanted a friend, and here I am. Will you have me?'
Of course I would, for I liked him directly, he was so cheery and confiding, and seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him. All his mates were dead and gone, and he was alone, like myself. So I waggled one finger, by way of welcome, fearing to shake my hand, lest he should tumble off and feel hurt at my reception. He seemed to understand me, and buzzed again, evidently saying,—
'Thank you, ma'am. I should like to stay inyour warm room, and amuse you for my board. I won't disturb you, but do my best to be a good little friend.'
So the bargain was struck, and he stopped to tea. I found that his manners had been neglected; for he was inclined to walk over the butter, drink out of the cream-pot, and put his fingers in the jelly. A few taps with my spoon taught him to behave with more propriety, and he sipped a drop of milk from the waiter with a crumb of sugar, as a well-bred fly should do.
On account of his fine voice, I named him Buzz, and we soon got on excellently together. He seemed to like his new quarters, and, after exploring every corner of the room, he chose his favourite haunts and began to enjoy himself. I always knew where he was, for he kept up aconstant song, humming and buzzing, like a little kettle getting ready to boil.
On sunny days, he amused himself by bumping his head against the window, and watching what went on outside. It would have given me a headache, but he seemed to enjoy it immensely. Up in my hanging basket of ivy he made his bower, and sat there on the moss basking in the sunshine, as luxuriously as any gentleman in his conservatory. He was interested in the plants, and examined them daily with great care, walking over the ivy leaves, grubbing under the moss, and poking his head into the unfolding hyacinth buds to see how they got on.
The pictures, also, seemed to attract his attention, for he spent much time skating over the glasses and studying the designs. Sometimes I would find him staring at my Madonna,as if he said, 'What in the world are all those topsy-turvy children about?' Then he'd sit in the middle of a brook, in a water-color sketch by Vautin, as if bathing his feet, or seem to be eating the cherry which one little duck politely offers another little duck, in Oscar Pletch's Summer Party. He frequently kissed my mother's portrait, and sat on my father's bald head, as if trying to get out some of the wisdom stored up there, like honey in an ill-thatched bee-hive. My bronze Mercury rather puzzled him, for he could not understand why the young gentleman didn't fly off when he had four wings and seemed in such a hurry.
I'm afraid he was a trifle vain, for he sat before the glass a great deal, and I often saw him cleaning his proboscis, and twiddling his feelers, and I know he was 'prinking,' as we say. The books pleased him, too, and he usedto run them over, as if trying to choose which he would read, and never seemed able to decide. He would have nothing to say to the fat French Dictionary, or my English Plays, but liked Goethe and Schiller, Emerson and Browning, as well as I did. Carlyle didn't suit him, and Richter evidently made his head ache. But Jean Ingelow's Poems delighted him, and so did her 'Stories told to a Child.' 'Fairy Bells' he often listened to, and was very fond of the pictures in a photograph book of foreign places and great people.
He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a little Swiss chalet, standing on the mantel-piece, and thought it a charming residence for a single gentleman like himself. The closet delighted him extremely, and he buzzed in the most joyful manner when he got among the provisions,—for we kept house together. Suchrevels as he had in the sugar-bowl; such feasts of gingerbread and grapes; such long sips of milk, and sly peeps into every uncovered box and dish! Once I'm afraid he took too much cider, for I found him lying on his back, kicking and humming like a crazy top, and he was very queer all the rest of that day; so I kept the bottle corked after that. But his favorite nook was among the ferns in the vase which a Parian dancing-girl carried. She stood just over the stove on one little toe, rattling some castanets, which made no sound, and never getting a step farther for all her prancing. This was a warm and pretty retreat for Buzz, and there he spent much of his time, swinging on the ferns, sleeping snugly in the vase, or warming his feet in the hot air that blew up, like a south wind, from the stove.
I don't believe there was a happier fly inBoston than my friend Buzz, and I grew fonder and fonder of him every day; for he never got into mischief, but sung his cheery song, no matter what the weather was, and made himself agreeable. Then he was so interested in all I did, it was delightful to have him round. When I wrote he came and walked about over my paper to see that it was right, peeped into my ink-stand, and ran after my pen. He never made silly or sharp criticisms on my stories, but appeared to admire them very much; so I am sure he was a good judge. When I sewed, he sat in my basket, or played hide-and-seek in the folds of my work, talking away all the while in the most sociable manner. He often flew up all of a sudden, and danced about in the air, as if he was in such a jolly mood he couldn't keep still, and wanted me to come and play with him. But, alas! I had no wings, and could only sitstupidly still, and laugh at his pranks. That was his exercise, for he never went out, and only took a sniff of air now and then when I opened the windows.
Well, little Buzz and I lived together many weeks, and never got tired of one another, which is saying a good deal. At Christmas I went home for a week and left my room to take care of itself. I put the hyacinths into the closet to be warm, and dropped the curtain, so the frost should not nip my ivy; but I forgot Buzz. I really would have taken him with me, or carried him down to a neighbour's room to be taken care of while I was away, but I never thought of him in the hurry of getting my presents and myself ready. Off I went without even saying 'good-bye,' and never thought of my little friend till Freddy, my small nephew, said to me one evening at dusk,—
'Aunt Jo, tell me a story.'
So I began to tell him about Buzz, and all of a sudden I cried out,—
'Mercy on me! I'm afraid he'll die of cold while I'm gone.'
It troubled me a good deal, and I wanted to know how the poor little fellow was so much that I would have gone to see if I had not been so far away. But it would be rather silly to hurry away twenty miles to look after one fly: so I finished my visit, and then went back to my room, hoping to find Buzz alive and well in spite of the cold.
Alas, no! my little friend was gone. There he lay on his back on the mantel-piece, his legs meekly folded, and his wings stiff and still. He had evidently gone to the warm place, and been surprised when the heat died out and left him to freeze. My poor little Buzz had sung hislast song, danced his last dance, and gone where the good flies go. I was very sorry and buried him among the ivy roots, where the moss lay green above him, the sun shone warmly on him, and the bitter cold could never come. I miss him very much; when I sit writing, I miss his cheerful voice and busy wings; at meals there is no tiny little body to drink up spilt drops and eat the crumbs: in the evenings, when I sit alone, I want him more than ever, and every day, as I water my plants, I say, softly,—
'Grow green, ivy, lie lightly, moss, shine warmly, sun, and make his last bed pleasant to my little friend.'
'"You can't do this" and "you mustn't do that," from morning to night. Try it yourself and see how you'd like it,' muttered Harry, as he flung down his hat in sulky obedience to his father's command to give up a swim in the river and keep himself cool with a book that warm summer evening.
'Of course I should like to mind my parents. Good children always do,' began Mr. Fairbairn, entirely forgetting the pranks of his boyhood, as people are apt to.
'Glad I didn't know you then. Must have been a regular prig,' growled Harry under his breath.
'Silence, sir! go to your room, and don't let me see you till tea-time. You must be taught respect as well as obedience,' and Mr. Fairbairn gave the table a rap that caused his son to retire precipitately.
On the stairs he met his sister Kitty looking as cross as himself.
'What's the matter with you?' he asked, pausing a minute, for misery loves company.
'Mamma will make me dress up in a stiff clean frock, and have my hair curled over again just because some onemaycome. I want to play in the garden, and I can't all fussed up this way. I do hate company and clothes and manners, don't you?' answered Kitty, with a spiteful pull at her sash.
'I hate being ordered round everlastingly, and badgered from morning till night. I'd just like to be let alone,' and Harry went on hisway to captivity with a grim shake of the head and a very strong desire to run away from home altogether.
'So would I, mamma is so fussy. I never have any peace of my life,' sighed Kitty, feeling that her lot was a hard one.
The martyr in brown linen went up, and the other martyr in white cambric went down, both looking as they felt, rebellious and unhappy. Yet a stranger seeing them and their home would have thought they had everything heart could desire. All the comforts that money could buy, and all the beauty that taste could give seemed gathered round them. Papa and mamma loved the two little people dearly, and no real care or sorrow came to trouble the lives that would have been all sunshine but for one thing. With the best intentions in the world, Mr. and Mrs. Fairbairn were spoiling theirchildren by constant fault-finding, too many rules and too little sympathy with the active young souls and bodies under their care. As Harry said, they were ordered about, corrected and fussed over from morning till night, and were getting so tired of it that the most desperate ideas began to enter their heads.
Now, in the house was a quiet old maiden aunt, who saw the mischief brewing, and tried to cure it by suggesting more liberty and less 'nagging,' as the boys call it. But Mr. and Mrs. F. always silenced her by saying,—
'My dear Betsey, you never had a family, so howcanyou know anything about the proper management of children?'
They quite forgot that sister Betsey had brought up a flock of motherless brothers and sisters, and done it wisely and well, though she never got any thanks or praise for it, and neverexpected any for doing her duty faithfully. If it had not been for aunty, Harry and Kitty would have long ago carried out their favorite plan, and have run away together, like Roland and Maybird. She kept them from this foolish prank by all sorts of unsuspected means, and was their refuge in troublous times. For all her quiet ways, aunty was full of fun as well as sympathy and patience, and she smoothed the thorny road to virtue with the innocent and kindly little arts that make some people as useful and beloved as good fairy godmothers were once upon a time.
As they sat at tea that evening papa and mamma were most affable and lively; but the children's spirits were depressed by a long day of restraint, and they sat like well-bred mutes, languidly eating their supper.
'It's the warm weather. They need somethingbracing. I'll give them a dose of iron mixture to-morrow,' said mamma.
'I've taken enough now to make a cooking-stove,' groaned Kitty, who hated being dosed.
'If you'd let me go swimming every night I'd be all right,' added Harry.
'Not another word on that point. I willnotlet you do it, for you will get drowned as sure as you try,' said mamma, who was so timid she had panics the minute her boy was out of sight.
'Aunt Betsey let her boys go, and they never came to grief,' began Harry.
'Aunt Betsey's ideas and mine differ. Children are not brought up now as they were in her day,' answered mamma with a superior air.
'I just wish they were. Jolly good timesherboys had.'
'Yes, and girls too, playing anything theyliked, and not rigged up and plagued with company,' cried Kitty, with sudden interest.
'What do you mean by that?' asked papa good-naturedly; for somehow his youth returned to him for a minute, and seemed very pleasant.
The children could not explain very well, but Harry said slowly,—
'If you were to be in our places for a day you'd see what we mean.'
'Wouldn't it be worth your while to try the experiment?' said Aunt Betsey, with a smile.
Papa and mamma laughed at the idea, but looked sober when aunty added,—
'Why not put yourselves in their places for a day and see how you like it? I think you would understand the case better than any one could describe it, and perhaps do both yourselves and the children a lasting service.'
'Upon my word, that's a droll idea! Whatdo you say to it, mamma?' and papa looked much amused.
'I am willing to try it if you are, just for the fun of the thing, but I don't think it will do any good;' and mamma shook her head as if Aunt Betsey's plan was a wild one.
The children sat quiet, speechless with surprise at this singular proposal, but as its full richness dawned upon them, they skipped in their chairs and clapped their hands delightedly.
'How do you propose to carry out this new educational frolic?' asked papa, beginning to feel some curiosity as to the part he was to play.
'Merely let the children do as they like for one day and have full power over you. Let them plan your duties and pleasures, order your food, fix your hours, and punish or reward you as they think proper. You must promiseentire obedience, and keep the agreement till night.'
'Good! good! Oh, won't it be fun!' cried Harry and Kitty, applauding enthusiastically; while papa and mamma looked rather sober as the plan was developed before them.
'To-morrow is a holiday for us all, and we might celebrate it by this funny experiment. It will amuse us and do no harm, at any rate,' added aunty, quite in love with her new scheme.
'Very well, we will. Come, mamma, let us promise, and see what these rogues will do for us. Playing father and mother is no joke, mind you; but you will have an easier time of it than we do, forweshall behave ourselves,' said papa, with a virtuous expression.
Mamma agreed, and the supper ended merrily, for every one was full of curiosity as tothe success of the new play. Harry and Kitty went to bed early, that they might be ready for the exciting labors of the next day. Aunt Betsey paid each a short visit before they slept, and it is supposed that she laid out the order of performances, and told each what to do; for the little people would never have thought of so many sly things if left to themselves.
At seven the next morning, as mamma was in her dressing-room, just putting on her cool, easy wrapper, in came Kitty with a solemn face, though her eyes danced with fun, as she said,—
'Careless, untidy girl! Put on a clean dress, do up your hair properly, and go and practise half an hour before breakfast.'
At first mamma looked as if inclined to refuse, but Kitty was firm; and, with a sigh, mamma rustled into a stiff, scratchy, French print, took her hair out of the comfortable net,and braided it carefully up; then, instead of reading in her arm-chair, she was led to the parlor and set to learning a hard piece of music.
'Can't I have my early cup of tea and my roll?' she asked.
'Eating between meals is a very bad habit, and I can't allow it,' said Kitty, in the tone her mother often used to her. 'I shall have a mug of new milk and a roll, because grown people need more nourishment than children;' and sitting down, she ate her early lunch with a relish, while poor mamma played away, feeling quite out of tune herself.
Harry found papa enjoying the last delightful doze that makes bed so fascinating of a morning. As if half afraid to try the experiment, the boy slowly approached and gave the sleeper a sudden, hard shake, saying briskly,—
'Come, come, come, lazy-bones! Get up, get up!'
Papa started as if an earthquake had roused him, and stared at Harry, astonished for a minute, then he remembered, and upset Harry's gravity by whining out,—
'Come, you let me alone. It isn't time yet, and I amsotired.'
Harry took the joke, and assuming the stern air of his father on such occasions, said impressively,—
'You have been called, and now if you are not down in fifteen minutes you won't have any breakfast. Not a morsel, sir, not a morsel;' and, coolly pocketing his father's watch, he retired, to giggle all the way downstairs.
When the breakfast bell rang, mamma hurried into the dining-room, longing for her tea. But Kitty sat behind the urn, and said gravely,—
'Go back, and enter the room properly. Will you never learn to behave like a lady?'
Mamma looked impatient at the delay, and having re-entered in her most elegant manner, sat down, and passed her plate for fresh trout and muffins.
'No fish or hot bread for you, my dear. Eat your good oatmeal porridge and milk; that is the proper food for children.'
'Can't I have some tea?' cried mamma, in despair, for without it she felt quite lost.
'Certainly not.Inever was allowed tea when a little girl, and couldn't think of giving it to you,' said Kitty, filling a large cup for herself, and sipping the forbidden draught with a relish.
Poor mamma quite groaned at this hard fate, but meekly obeyed, and ate the detested porridge, understanding Kitty's dislike to it at last.
Harry, sitting in his father's chair, read the paper, and ate everything he could lay his hands on, with a funny assumption of his father's morning manner. Aunt Betsey looked on much amused, and now and then nodded to the children as if she thought things were going nicely.
Breakfast was half over when papa came in, and was about to take Harry's place when his son said, trying vainly to look grave as he showed the watch,—
'What did I tell you, sir? You are late again, sir. No breakfast, sir. I'm sorry, but this habitmustbe broken up. Not a word; it's your own fault, and you must bear the penalty.'
'Come, now, that's hard on a fellow! I'm awful hungry. Can't I have just a bite of something?' asked papa, quite taken aback at this stern decree.
'I said not a morsel, and I shall keep my word. Go to your morning duties and let this be a lesson to you.'
Papa cast a look at Aunt Betsey, that was both comic and pathetic, and departed without a word; but he felt a sudden sympathy with his son, who had often been sent fasting from the table for some small offence.
Now it was that he appreciated aunty's kind heart, and felt quite fond of her, for in a few minutes she came to him, as he raked the gravel walk (Harry's duty every day), and slipping a nice, warm, well-buttered muffin into his hand, said, in her motherly way,—
'My dear, do try and please your father. He is right about late rising, but I can't bear to see you starve.'
'Betsey, you are an angel!' and turning hisback to the house, papa bolted the muffin with grateful rapidity, inquiring with a laugh, 'Do you think those rogues will keep it up in this vigorous style all day?'
'I trust so; it isn't a bit overdone. Hope you like it!' and Aunt Betsey walked away, looking as ifsheenjoyed it extremely.
'Now put on your hat and draw baby up and down the avenue for half an hour. Don't go on the grass, or you will wet your feet; and don't play with baby, I want her to go to sleep; and don't talk to papa, or he will neglect his work,' said Kitty, as they rose from table.
Now, it was a warm morning and baby was heavy and the avenue was dull, and mamma much preferred to stay in the house and sew the trimming on to a new and pretty dress.
'Must I really? Kitty you are a hard-hearted mamma to make me do it,' and Mrs. Fairbairn hoped her play-parent would relent.
But she did not, and only answered with a meaning look.
'Ihave to do it every day, andyoudon't let me off.'
Mamma said no more, but put on her hat and trundled away with fretful baby, thinking to find her fellow-sufferer and have a laugh over the joke. She was disappointed, however, for Harry called papa away to weed the lettuce-bed, and then shut him up in the study to get his lessons, while he mounted the pony and trotted away to town to buy a new fishing-rod and otherwise enjoy himself.
When mamma came in, hot and tired, she was met by Kitty with a bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other.
'Here is your iron mixture, dear. Now take it like a good girl.'
'I won't!' and mamma looked quite stubborn.
'Then aunty will hold your hands and I shall make you.'
'But I don't like it; I don't need it,' cried mamma.
'Neither do I, but you give it to me all the same. I'm sure you need strengthening more than I do, you have so many "trials,"' and Kitty looked very sly as she quoted one of the words often on her mother's lips.
'You'd better mind, Carrie; it can't hurt you, and you know you promised entire obedience. Set a good example,' said aunty.
'But I never thought these little chits would do so well. Ugh, how disagreeable it is!' And mamma took her dose with a wry face,feeling that Aunt Betsey was siding with the wrong party.
'Now sit down and hem these towels till dinner-time. I have so much to do I don't know which way to turn,' continued Kitty, much elated with her success.
Rest of any sort was welcome, so mamma sewed busily till callers came. They happened to be some little friends of Kitty's, and she went to them in the parlor, telling mamma to go up to nurse and have her hair brushed and her dress changed, and then come and see the guests. While she was away Kitty told the girls the joke they were having, and begged them to help her carry it out. They agreed, being ready for fun and not at all afraid of Mrs. Fairbairn. So when she came in they all began to kiss and cuddle and praise and pass herround as if she was a doll, to her great discomfort and the great amusement of the little girls.
While this was going on in the drawing-room, Harry was tutoring his father in the study, and putting that poor gentleman through a course of questions that nearly drove him distracted; for Harry got out the hardest books he could find, and selected the most puzzling subjects. A dusty old history was rummaged out also, and classical researches followed, in which papa's memory played him false more than once, calling forth rebukes from his severe young tutor. But he came to open disgrace over his mathematics, for he had no head for figures, and, not being a business man, had not troubled himself about the matter; so Harry, who was in fine practice, utterly routed him in mental arithmetic by giving him regular puzzlers, and whenhe got stuck offered no help, but shook his head and called him a stupid fellow.
The dinner-bell released the exhausted student, and he gladly took his son's place, looking as if he had been hard at work. He was faint with hunger, but was helped last, being 'only a boy,' and then checked every five minutes for eating too fast. Mamma was very meek, and only looked wistfully at the pie when told in her own words that pastry was bad for children.
Any attempts at conversation were promptly quenched by the worn-out old saying, 'Children should be seen, not heard,' while Harry and Kitty chattered all dinner-time, and enjoyed it to their hearts' content, especially the frequent pecks at their great children, who, to be even with them, imitated all their tricks as well as they could.
'Don't whistle at table, papa;' 'keep yourhands still mamma;' 'wait till you are helped, sir;' 'tuck your napkin well in, and don't spill your soup, Caroline.'
Aunt Betsey laughed till her eyes were full, and they had a jolly time, though the little people had the best of it, for the others obeyed them in spite of their dislike to the new rules.
'Now you may play for two hours,' was the gracious order issued as they rose from table.
Mamma fell upon a sofa exhausted, and papa hurried to read his paper in the shady garden.
Usually these hours of apparent freedom were spoilt by constant calls,—not to run, not to play this or that, or frequent calls to do errands. The children had mercy, however, and left them in peace; which was a wise move on the whole, for the poor souls found rest so agreeable they privately resolved to let the children alone in their play-hours.
'Can I go over and see Mr. Hammond?' asked papa, wishing to use up the last half-hour of his time by a neighbourly call.
'No; I don't like Tommy Hammond, so I don't wish you to play with his father,' said Harry, with a sly twinkle of the eye, as he turned the tables on his papa.
Mr. Fairbairn gave a low whistle and retired to the barn, where Harry followed him, and ordered the man to harness up old Bill.
'Going to drive, sir?' asked papa, respectfully.
'Don't ask questions,' was all the answer he got.
Old Bill was put into the best buggy and driven to the hall door. Papa followed, and mamma sprang up from her nap, ready for her afternoon drive.
'Can't I go?' she asked, as Kitty came down in her new hat and gloves.
'No; there isn't room.'
'Why not have the carryall, and let us go, too, we like it so much,' said papa, in the pleading tone Harry often used.
Kitty was about to consent, for she loved mamma, and found it hard to cross her so. But Harry was made of sterner stuff; his wrongs still burned within him, and he said impatiently—
'We can't be troubled with you. The buggy is nicest and lightest, and we want to talk over our affairs. You, my son, can help John turn the hay on the lawn, and Caroline can amuse baby, or help Jane with the preserves. Little girls should be domestic.'
'Oh, thunder!' growled papa.
'Aunt Betsey taught you that speech, you saucy boy,' cried mamma, as the children droveoff in high glee, leaving their parents to the distasteful tasks set them.
Mrs. Fairbairn wanted to read, but baby was fretful, and there was no Kitty to turn him over to, so she spent her afternoon amusing the small tyrant, while papa made hay in the sun and didn't like it.
Just at tea-time the children came home, full of the charms of their drive, but did not take the trouble to tell much about it to the stay-at-home people. Bread and milk was all they allowed their victims, while they revelled in marmalade and cake, fruit and tea.
'I expect company this evening, but I don't wish you to sit up, Caroline; you are too young, and late hours are bad for your eyes. Go to bed, and don't forget to brush your hair and teeth well, five minutes for each; cold cream your hands, fold your ribbons, hang up yourclothes, put out your boots to be cleaned, and put in the mosquito bars; I will come and take away the light when I am dressed.'
Kitty delivered this dread command with effect, for she had heard and cried over it too often not to have it quite by heart.
'But I can't go to bed at half-past seven o'clock of a summer night! I'm not sleepy, and this is just the pleasantest time of the whole day,' said mamma, thinking her bargain a hard one.
'Go up directly, my daughter, and don't discuss the matter; I know what is best for you,' and Kitty sent social, wide-awake mamma to bed, there to lie thinking soberly till Mrs. Kit came for the lamp.
'Have you had a happy day, love?' she asked, bending over the pillow, as her mother used to do.
'No, ma'am.'
'Then it was your own fault, my child. Obey your parents in all things, and you will be both good and happy.'
'That depends'—began mamma, but stopped short, remembering that to-morrow she would be on the other side, and anything she might say now would be quoted against her.
But Kitty understood, and her heart melted as she hugged her mother and said in her own caressing way—
'Poor little mamma! did she have a hard time? and didn't she like being a good girl and minding her parents?'
Mamma laughed also, and held Kitty close, but all she said was—
'Good-night, dear; don't be troubled: it will be all right to-morrow.'
'I hope so,' and with a hearty kiss, Kittywent thoughtfully downstairs to meet several little friends whom she had asked to spend the evening with her.
As the ladies left the room, papa leaned back and prepared to smoke a cigar, feeling that he needed the comfort of it after this trying day. But Harry was down upon him at once.
'A very bad habit—can't allow it. Throw that dirty thing away, and go and get your Latin lesson for to-morrow. The study is quiet, and we want this room.'
'But I am tired. I can't study at night. Let me off till to-morrow, please, sir!' begged papa, who had not looked at Latin since he left school.
'Not a word, sir! I shall listen to no excuses, and shallnotlet you neglect your education on any account,' and Harry slapped the tableà lapapa in the most impressive manner.
Mr. Fairbairn went away into the dull study and made believe do his lesson, but he really smoked and meditated.
The young folks had a grand revel, and kept it up till ten o'clock, while mamma lay awake, longing to go down and see what they were about, and papa shortly fell asleep, quite exhausted by the society of a Latin Grammar.
'Idle boy, is this the way you study?' said Harry, audaciously tweaking him by the ear.
'No, it's the way you do;' and feeling that his day of bondage was over, papa cast off his allegiance, tucked a child under each arm, and marched upstairs with them, kicking and screaming. Setting them down at the nursery door, he said, shaking his finger at them in an awful manner,—
'Wait a bit, you rascals, and see what you will get to-morrow.'
With this dark threat he vanished into his own room, and a minute after a great burst of laughter set their fears at rest.
'It was a fair bargain, so I'm not afraid,' said Harry stoutly.
'He kissed us good-night though he did glower at us, so I guess it was only fun,' added Kitty.
'Hasn't it been a funny day?' asked Harry.
'Don't think I quite like it, everything is so turned round,' said Kitty.
'Guesstheydidn't like it very well. Hear 'em talking in there;' and Harry held up his finger, for a steady murmur of conversation had followed the laughter in papa and mamma's room.
'I wonder if our joke will do any good?' said Kitty thoughtfully.
'Wait and see,' answered Aunt Betsey, popping her night-capped head out of her room with a nod and a smile that sent them to bed full of hope for the future.
Down by the sea lived Ben the fisherman, with his wife, and little son, who was called Dandelion, because he wore yellow pinafores, and had curly, yellow hair, that covered his head with a golden fuzz. A very happy family, for Ben was kind and industrious, Hetty, his wife, a cheerful, busy creature, and Dandelion the jolliest three-year-old baby who ever made sand-pies and paddled on the beach.
But one day a great trouble came to them. Ben and his fellow-fishermen sailed blithely away as usual, and Hetty watched the fleet of white-winged boats out of the bay, thinkinghow pretty they looked with the sunshine on them; while Dandelion stood clapping his chubby hands, and saying, as he always did, 'Daddy tummin' soon.' But Daddy did not come soon that time; for a great storm arose, and when some of the boats came scudding home at nightfall, Ben's was not among them. All night the gale raged, and in the morning, Ben's boat lay empty and broken on the shore. His mates shook their heads when they saw the wreck, and drew their rough hands over their eyes; for Ben was a good seaman, and they knew he never would desert his boat alive. They looked for him far and wide, but could hear nothing of him, and felt sure that he had perished in the storm. They tried to comfort poor Hetty, but she would not be comforted. Her heart seemed broken; and if it had not been for her baby, her neighbours feared thatshe would have gone to join Ben in his grave under the sea. Dandelion didn't understand why every one was so sad, and why his father stayed away so long; but he never lost his cheerfulness, never gave up hoping, or stopped saying, with a contented smile, 'Daddy tummin' soon.' The sunshiny little face was Hetty's only comfort. The sight of the fuzzy yellow head, bobbing round the house, alone made it endurable; and the touch of the loving baby hands kept her from the despair which made her long to end her sorrow in the sea.
People don't believe in fairies now-a-days; nevertheless, good spirits still exist, and help us in our times of trouble, better even than the little people we used to read about. One of these household spirits is called Love, and it took the shape of Dandelion to comfort poor Hetty. Another is called Labor: a beautiful,happy spirit this is, and it did its part so well that there was little time for bitter thoughts or vain regrets; for Hetty's spinning-wheel must go, in order to earn bread for Dandelion, whose mouth was always ready for food, like a hungry bird's. Busily hummed the wheel: and, as it flew, it seemed to catch an echo of the baby's cheerful song, saying, over and over, 'Daddy tummin' soon,' till Hetty stopped crying as she worked, and listened to the cheerful whirr. 'Yes, I shall see my good Ben again, if I wait patiently. Baby takes comfort in saying that, and I will, too; though the poor dear will get tired of it soon,' she said.
But Dandelion didn't get tired. He firmly believed what he said, and nothing could change his mind. He had been much troubled at seeing the boat laid up on the beach all broken and dismantled, but his little mindcouldn't take in the idea of shipwreck and death; so, after thinking it over, he decided that Daddy was waiting somewhere for a new boat to be sent to bring him home. This idea was so strong that the child gathered together his store of toy-boats,—for he had many, as they were his favourite plaything,—and launched them, one after another, telling them to find his father, and bring him home.
As Dandelion was not allowed to play on the beach, except at low tide, the little boats sailed safely away on the receding waves, and the child was sure that some of them would get safely into the distant port where Daddy was waiting. All the boats were launched at last, all sailed bravely away; but none came back, and little Dandy was much disappointed. He babbled about it to himself; told the peeps and the horse-shoes, the snails and the lobsters, ofhis trouble; begged the gulls to fly away and find Daddy; and every windy night when the sea dashed on the shore and the shutters rattled, he would want the lamp put in the window, as it used to be when they expected Ben, and tried to make home look cheerful, even before he got there.
Hetty used to humour the child, though it made her heart ache to know that the light shone in vain. At such times Dandy would prance about the room in his little shirt, and talk about Daddy as happily as if long months had not passed without bringing him back. When fairly in his big, old-fashioned cradle, the boy would lie, looking more like a dandelion than ever, in his yellow flannel night-gown, playing with his toes, or rocking himself to and fro, calling the cradle his boat, and blithely telling his mother that he was sailing 'far wayto find Daddy.' When tired of play, he lay still and asked her to sing to him. She had no heart for the gay old sea-songs she used to sing for lullabies; so she sung hymns in her soft, motherly voice, till the blue eyes closed and the golden head lay still, looking so pretty, with the circle of bright hair above the rosy face. 'My little saint,' Hetty called him; and though she often wept sadly as she watched him, the bitterness of her grief passed away, and a patient hope came to her; for the child's firm faith impressed her deeply, the pious music of the sweet old hymns comforted her sore heart, and daily labor kept her cheerful in spite of herself. The neighbours wondered at the change that came over her, but she could not explain it; and no one knew that the three good spirits called Love, Labor, and Hope, were working their pleasant miracles.
Six long months went by, and no one ever thought of seeing Ben again,—no one but his little son, who still watched for him here, and his wife, who waited to meet him hereafter.
One bright spring day something happened. The house was as tidy as ever; the wheel hummed briskly as Hetty sung softly to herself with a cheerful face, though there were white hairs among the brown, and her eyes had a thoughtful, absent look at times. Dandelion, more chubby and cheery than ever, sat at her feet, with the sunshine making a golden glory of his yellow hair, as he tried his new boat in the tub of water his mother kept for her little sailor, or tugged away with his fat fingers at a big needle which he was trying to pull through a bit of cloth intended for a sail. The faithful little soul had not forgotten his father, but had come to the conclusion that the reason hisboats never prospered was because they hadn't large enough sails; so he was intent on rigging a new boat lately given him, with a sail that could not fail to waft Ben safely home. With his mouth puckered up, his downy eyebrows knit, and both hands pulling at the big needle, he was so wrapped in his work that he did not mind the stopping of the wheel when Hetty fell into a reverie, thinking of the happy time when she and Ben should meet again. Sitting so, neither heard a step come softly over the sand; neither saw an eager, brown face peer in at the door; and neither knew for a minute, that Ben was watching them, with a love and longing in his heart that made him tremble like a woman.
Dandelion saw him first; for, as he pulled the thread through with a triumphant jerk, the small sailmaker lost his balance, tumbled over,and lay staring up at the tall man with his blue eyes so wide open, they looked as if they would never shut again. All of a sudden, he shouted, with a joyful shout, 'Daddy's tummin'!' and the next instant, vanished, ship and all, in the arms of the man who wore the rough jacket. Over went the spinning-wheel, as Hetty vanished likewise; and for a time there was nothing but sobbing and kissing, clinging, and thanking Heaven for its kindness to them. When they grew quieter, and Ben got into his old chair, with his wife on one knee and his boy on the other, he told them how he was wrecked in the gale, picked up by an outward-bound ship, and only able to get back after months of sickness and delay.
'My boaty fetched him,' said Dandelion, feeling that every thing had turned out just as he expected.
'So it did, my precious; leastways, your faith helped, I haven't a doubt,' cried Hetty, hugging the curly headed prophet close, as she told Ben all that had happened.
Ben didn't say much, but a few great tears rolled down the rough blue jacket, as he looked from the queer sail with its two big stitches to the little son, whose love, he firmly believed, had kept him safe through many dangers and brought him home at last.
When the fine new boat was built, no one thought it strange that Ben named it 'Dandelion;' no one laughed at the little sail which always hung over the fire-place in the small house: and long years after, when Ben was an old man, and sat by the door with his grand-children on his knee, the story which always pleased them best was that which ended with the funny words, 'Daddy tummin' soon.'
There never was a prouder mamma than Madam Cluck when she led forth her family of eight downy little chicks. Chanticleer, Strut, Snowball, Speckle, Peep, Peck, Downy, and Blot were their names; and no sooner were they out of the shell than they began to chirp and scratch as gaily as if the big world in which they suddenly found themselves was made for their especial benefit. It was a fine brood; but poor Madam Cluck had bad luck with her chicks, for they were her first, and she didn't know how to manage them. Old Aunt Cockletop told her that she didn't, and predictedthat 'those poor dears would come to bad ends.'
Aunt Cockletop was right, as you will see, when I have told the sad history of this unfortunate family. The tragedy began with Chanty, who was the boldest little cockadoodle who ever tried to crow. Before he had a feather to his bit of a tail, Chanty began to fight, and soon was known as the most quarrelsome chick in the farm-yard. Having pecked his brothers and sisters, he tried to do the same to his playmates, the ducklings, goslings, and young turkeys, and was so disagreeable that all the fowls hated him. One day, a pair of bantams arrived,—pretty little white birds, with red crests and nice yellow feet. Chanty thought he could beat Mr. Bantam easily, he was so small, and invited him to fight. Mr. B. declined. Then Chanty called him a coward, andgave Mrs. B. a peck, which so enraged her spouse that he flew at Chanty like a gamecock, and a dreadful fight followed, which ended in Chanty's utter defeat, for he died from his wounds.
Downy and Snowball soon followed; for the two sweet little things would swing on the burdock-leaves that grew over the brook. Sitting side by side, the plump sisters were placidly swaying up and down over the clear brown water rippling below, when—ah! sad to relate—the stem broke, and down went leaf, chickens and all, to a watery death.
'I'm the most unlucky hen ever hatched!' groaned poor Madam Cluck; and it did seem so, for the very next week, Speckle, the best and prettiest of the brood, went to walk with Aunt Cockletop, 'grasshoppering' they called it, in the great field across the road. What anice time Speckle did have, to be sure; for the grasshoppers were lively and fat, and aunt was in an unusually amiable mood.
'Never run away from anything, but face danger and conquer it, like a brave chick,' said the old biddy, as she went clucking through the grass, with her gray turban wagging in the wind. Speckle had hopped away from a toad with a startled chirp, which caused aunt to utter that remark. The words had hardly left her beak, when a shadow above made her look up, give one loud croak of alarm, and then scuttle away, as fast as legs and wings could carry her.
Little Speckle, remembering the advice, and unconscious of the danger, stood her ground as a great hawk came circling nearer and nearer, till, with a sudden dart he pounced on the poor chicken, and bore it away chirping dismally,
'Aunty told me not to run. Oh, dear! oh, dear! What shall I do?'
It was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Cluck; and Aunt Cockletop didn't show herself for a whole day after that story was known, for every fowl in the yard twitted her with the difference between her preaching and her practice.
Strut, the other son, was the vainest chick ever seen; and the great aim of his life was to crow louder than any other cock in the neighbourhood. He was at it from morning till night, and everyone was tired to death of hearing his shrill, small voice making funny attempts to produce hoarse little crows, as he sat on the wall and stretched his yellow neck, till his throat quite ached with the effort.
'Ah! if I could only fly to the highest beam in the barn, and give a splendid crow that everyone could hear, I should be perfectlyhappy,' said this silly little fowl, as he stared up at the loft where the old cock often sat.
So he tried every day to fly and crow, and at last managed to get up; then how he did strut and rustle his feathers, while his playmates sat below and watched him.
'You'll fall and get hurt,' said his sister Blot.
'Hold your tongue, you ugly little thing, and don't talk to me. I'm going to crow, and can't be interrupted by any silly bit of a hen. Be quiet, down there, and hear if I can't do it as well as daddy.'
The chicks stopped scratching and peeping, and sat in a row to hear Strut crow. Perching himself on the beam, he tried his best, but only a droll 'cock-a-doodle-doo' came of it, and all the chicks laughed. That made Strut mad, and he resolved to crow, even if he killed himself doing it. He gave an angry cluck, flappedhis wings, and tried again. Alas, alas, for poor Strut! he leaned so far forward in his frantic effort to get a big crow out, that he toppled over and fell bump on the hard barn-floor, killing himself instantly.
For some time after this, Mrs. Cluck kept her three remaining little ones close to her side, watching over them with maternal care, till they were heartily tired of her anxious cluckings. Peep and Peck were always together, being very fond of one another. Peep was a most inquisitive chicken, poking her head into every nook and corner, and never satisfied till she had seen all there was to see. Peck was a glutton, eating everything she could find, and often making herself ill by gobbling too fast, and forgetting to eat a little gravel to help digest her food.
'Don't go out of the barn, children. I'mgoing to lay an egg, and can't look after you just now,' said their mother one day.
'Yes, ma'am,' chirped the chickens; and then as she went rustling into the hay-mow, they began to run about and enjoy themselves with all their might. Peep found a little hole into the meal-room, and slipped in, full of joy at the sight of the bags, boxes, and bins. 'I'll eat all I want, and then I'll call Peck,' she said; and having taken a taste of every thing, she was about to leave, when she heard the stableman coming, and in her fright couldn't find the hole, so flew into the meal-bin and hid herself. Sam never saw her, but shut down the cover of the bin as he passed, and left poor Peep to die. No one knew what had become of her till some days later, when she was found dead in the meal, with her poor little claws sticking straight up as if imploring help. Peck meanwhile got intomischief also; for, in her hunt for something good to eat, she strayed into the sheep-shed, and finding some salt, ate as much as she liked, not knowing that salt is bad for hens. Having taken all she wanted, she ran back to the barn, and was innocently catching gnats when her mamma came out of the hay-mow with a loud. 'Cut-cut-cut-ca-dar-cut!'
'Where is Peep?' asked Mrs. Cluck.
'Don't know, ma. She'—there Peck stopped suddenly, rolled up her eyes, and began to stagger about as if she was tipsy.
'Mercy on us! What's the matter with the chick?' cried Mrs. Cluck, in great alarm.
'Fits, ma'am,' answered Doctor Drake, who just then waddled by.
'Oh! what can I do?' screamed the distracted hen.
'Nothing, ma'am; it's fatal.' And the doctorwaddled on to visit Dame Partlet's son, who was ill of the pip.
'My child, my child! don't flap and stagger so! Let me hold you! Taste this mint-leaf! Have a drop of water! What shall I do?'
As poor Mrs. Cluck sighed and sobbed, her unhappy child went scuffling about on her back, gasping and rolling up her eyes in great anguish, for she had eaten too much of the fatal salt, and there was no help for her. When all was over they buried the dead chicken under a currant bush, covered the little grave with chickweed, and the bereaved parent wore a black string round her leg for a month.
Blot, 'the last of that bright band,' needed no mourning for she was as black as a crow. This was the reason why her mother never had loved her as much as she did the others, who were allwhite, gray, or yellow. Poor little Blot had been much neglected by every one; but now her lonely mamma discovered how good and affectionate a chicken she was, for Blot was a great comfort to her, never running away or disobeying in any way, but always close to her side, ready to creep under her wing, or bring her a plump bug when the poor biddy's appetite failed her. They were very happy together till Thanksgiving drew near, when a dreadful pestilence seemed to sweep through the farm-yard; for turkeys, hens, ducks, and geese fell a prey to it, and were seen by their surviving relatives featherless, pale, and stiff, borne away to some unknown place whence no fowl returned. Blot was waked one night by a great cackling and fluttering in the hen-house, and peeping down from her perch saw a great hand glide along the roost, clutch her beloved mother by the leg, and pull her off,screaming dolefully, 'Good-by, good-by, my darling child!'
Aunt Cockletop pecked and croaked fiercely; but, tough as she was, the old biddy did not escape, and many another amiable hen and gallant cockadoodle fell a victim to that mysterious hand. In the morning few remained, and Blot felt that she was a forlorn orphan, a thought which caused her to sit with her head under her wing for several hours, brooding over her sad lot, and longing to join her family in some safe and happy land, where fowls live in peace. She had her wish very soon, for one day, when the first snowflakes began to flutter out of the cold gray sky, Blot saw a little kitten mewing pitifully as it sat under the fence.
'What is the matter, dear?' asked kind Blot.
'I'm lost, and I can't find my way home,' answered the kitten, shivering with cold. 'Ilive at the red farm-house over the hill, only I don't know which road to take.'
'I'll show you. Come at once, for night is coming on, and the snow will soon be too deep for us,' said Blot.
So away they went, as fast as their small legs could carry them; but it was a long way, and dusk came on before the red farm-house appeared.
'Now I'm safe; thank you very much. Won't you come in, and stay all night? My mother will be glad to see you,' said the kit rubbing her soft white face against Blot's little black breast.
'It's against the rule to stay out all night, and I promised to be in early; so, good-by, dear.' And off trotted Blot along the snowy road, hoping to get home before the hen-house door was shut. Faster and faster fell the snowdarker and darker grew the night, and colder and colder became poor Blot's little feet as she waded through the drifts. The firelight was shining out into the gloom, as the half-frozen chicken came into the yard, to find all doors shut, and no shelter left for her but the bough of a leafless tree. Too stiff and weak to fly up, she crept as close as possible to the bright glow which shone across the door-step, and with a shiver put her little head under her wing, trying to forget hunger, weariness, and the bitter cold, and wait patiently for morning. But when morning came, little Blot lay frozen stiff under a coverlet of snow: and the tender-hearted children sighed as they dug a grave for the last of the unfortunate family of the Clucks.
I have often wondered what the various statues standing about the city think of all day, and what criticisms they would make upon us and our doings, if they could speak. I frequently stop and stare at them, wondering if they don't feel lonely; if they wouldn't be glad of a nod as we go by; and I always long to offer my umbrella to shield their uncovered heads on a rainy day, especially to good Ben Franklin, when the snow lies white on his benevolent forehead. I was always fond of this old gentleman; and one of my favourite stories when a little girl, was that of his early life, and the time when he was so poor he walked aboutPhiladelphia with a roll of bread under each arm, eating a third as he went. I never pass without giving him a respectful look, and wishing he could know how grateful I am for all he had done in the printing line; for, without types and presses, where would the books be?
Well, I never imagined that he understood why the tall woman in the big bonnet stared at him; but he did, and he liked it, and managed to let me know it in a very curious manner, as you shall hear.
As I look out, the first thing I see is the great gilt eagle on the City-Hall dome. There he sits, with open wings, all day long, looking down on the people, who must appear like ants scampering busily to and fro about an ant-hill. The sun shines on him splendidly in the morning; the gay flag waves and rustles in the wind above him sometimes; and the moonlight turnshim to silver when she comes glittering up the sky. When it rains he never shakes his feathers; snow beats on him without disturbing his stately repose; and he never puts his head under his wing at night, but keeps guard in darkness as in day, like a faithful sentinel. I like the big, lonely bird, call him my particular fowl, and often wish he'd turn his head and speak to me. One night he did actually do it, or seemed to; for I've never been able to decide whether I dreamed what I'm going to tell you, or whether it really happened.
It was a stormy night! and, as I drew down my curtain, I said to myself, after peering through the driving snow to catch a glimpse of my neighbour, 'Poor Goldy! he'll have a rough time of it. I hope this northeaster won't blow him off his perch.' Then I sat down by my fire, took my knitting, and began to meditate. I'msure I didn't fall asleep; but I can't prove it, so we'll say no more about it. All at once there came a tap at my door, as I thought; and I said 'Come in,' just as Mr. Poe did when that unpleasant raven paid him a call. No one came, so I went to see who it was. Not a sign of a human soul in the long hall, only little Jessie, the poodle, asleep on her mat. Down I sat; but in a minute the tap came again; this time so loud that I knew it was at the window, and went to open it, thinking that one of my doves wanted to come in perhaps. Up went the sash, and in bounced something so big and so bright that it dazzled and scared me.
'Don't be frightened, ma'am; it's only me,' said a hoarse voice. So I collected my wits, rubbed my eyes, and looked at my visitor. It was the gold eagle off the City Hall! I don't expect to be believed; but I wish you'd been here tosee, for I give you my word, it was a sight to behold. How he ever got in at such a small window I can't tell; but there he was, strutting majestically up and down the room, his golden plumage rustling, and his keen eyes flashing as he walked. I really didn't know what to do. I couldn't imagine what he came for; I had my doubts about the propriety of offering him a chair; and he was so much bigger than I expected that I was afraid he might fly away with me, as the roc did with Sindbad: so I did nothing but sidle to the door, ready to whisk out, if my strange guest appeared to be peckishly inclined. My respectful silence seemed to suit him; for, after a turn or two, he paused, nodded gravely, and said affably, 'Good-evening, ma'am. I stepped over to bring you old Ben's respects, and to see how you were getting on.'
'I'm very much obliged, sir. May I inquirewho Mr. Old-Ben is? I'm afraid I haven't the honour of his acquaintance.'
'Yes, you have; it's Ben Franklin, of City-Hall yard. You know him; and he wished me to thank you for your interest in him.'
'Dear me! how very odd! Will you sit down, sir?'
'Never sit! I'll perch here;' and the great fowl took his accustomed attitude just in front of the fire, looking so very splendid that I couldn't keep my eyes off of him.
'Ah! you often do that. Never mind; I rather like it,' said the eagle, graciously, as he turned his brilliant eye upon me. I was rather abashed; but being very curious, I ventured to ask a few questions, as he seemed in a friendly mood.
'Being a woman, sir, I'm naturally of an inquiring turn; and I must confess that I havea strong desire to know how it happens that you take your walks abroad, when you are supposed to be permanently engaged at home?'
He shrugged his shoulders, and actually winked at me, as he replied, 'That's all people know of what goes on under, or rather over, their noses. Bless you, ma'am! I leave my roost every night, and enjoy myself in all sorts of larks. Excuse the expression; but, being ornithological, it is more proper for me than for some people who use it.'
'What a gay old bird!' thought I, feeling quite at home after that. 'Please tell me what you do, when the shades of evening prevail, and you go out for a frolic?'
'I am a gentleman; therefore I behave myself,' returned the eagle; with a stately air. 'I must confess, I smoke a great deal: but that's not my fault, it's the fault of the chimneys.They keep it up all day, and I have to take it; just as you poor ladies have to take cigar smoke, whether you like it or not. My amusements are of a wholesome kind. I usually begin by taking a long flight down the harbour, for a look at the lighthouses, the islands, the shipping, and the sea. My friends, the gulls, bring their reports to me; for they are the harbour-police, and I take notes of their doings. The school-ship is an object of interest to me, and I often perch on the mast-head, to see how the lads are getting on. Then I take a turn over the city, gossip with the weathercocks, pay my compliments to the bells, inspect the fire-alarm, and pick up information by listening at the telegraph wires. People often talk about "a little bird" who spreads news; but they don't know how that figure of speech originated. It is the sparrows sitting on the wires, who receive theelectric shock, and, being hollow-boned, the news go straight to their heads; they then fly about, chirping it on the housetops, and the air carries it everywhere. That's the way rumours rise and news spread.'
'If you'll allow, I'll make a note of that interesting fact,' said I, wondering if I might believe him. He appeared to fall into a reverie while I jotted down the sparrow story, and it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to offer my distinguished guest some refreshment; but, when I modestly alluded to it, he said, with an aldermanic air, 'No, thank you; I've just dined at the Parker House.'
Now, I really couldnotswallow that; and so plainly betrayed my incredulity, that the eagle explained. 'The savoury smells which rise to my nostrils from that excellent hotel, with an occasional sniff from the Tremont, are quitesufficient to satisfy my appetite; for, having no stomach, I don't need much food, and I drink nothing but water.'
'I wish others would follow your example in that latter habit,' said I, respectfully, for I was beginning to see that there was something in my bird, though hewashollow. 'Will you allow me to ask if the other statues in the city fly by night?'
'They promenade in the parks; and occasionally have social gatherings, when they discuss politics, education, medicine, or any of the subjects in which they are interested. Ah! we have grand times when you are all asleep. It quite repays me for being obliged to make an owl of myself.'
'Do the statues come from the shops to these parties?' I asked, resolving to take a late walk the next moonlight night.
'Sometimes; but they get lazy and delicate, living in close, warm places. We laugh at cold and bad weather, and are so strong and hearty that I shouldn't be surprised if I saw Webster and Everett flying round the Common on the new-fashioned velocipedes, for they believed in exercise. Goethe and Schiller often step over from De Vries's window, to flirt with the goddesses, who come down from their niches on Horticultural Hall. Nice, robust young women are Pomona and Flora. If your niminy-piminy girls could see them run, they would stop tilting through the streets, and learn that the true Grecian Bend is the line of beauty always found in straight shoulders, well-opened chest, and an upright figure, firmly planted on active feet.'
'In your rambles don't you find a great deal of misery?' said I, to change the subject, for he was evidently old-fashioned in his notions.
'Many sad sights!' And he shook his head with a sigh; then added, briskly, 'But there is a deal of charity in our city, and it does its work beautifully. By the by, I heard of a very sweet charity the other day,—a church whose Sunday school is open to all the poor children who will come; and there, in pleasant rooms, with books, pictures, kindly teachers, and a fatherly minister to welcome them, the poor little creatures find refreshment for their hungry souls. I like that; it's a lovely illustration of the text, "Suffer little children to come unto me;" andIcall it practical Christianity.'
He did like it, my benevolent old bird; for he rustled his great wings, as if he wanted to clap them, if there had only been room; and every feather shone as if a clearer light than that of my little fire had fallen on it as he spoke.
'You are a literary woman, hey?' he said suddenly, as if he'd got a new idea, and was going to pounce upon me with it.
'Ahem! I do a little in that line,' I answered, with a modest cough.
'Then tell people about that place; write some stories for the children; go and help teach them; do something, and make others do what they can to increase the sabbath sunshine that brightens one day in the week for the poor babies who live in shady places.'
'I should be glad to do my best; and, if I'd known before'—I began.
'You might have known, if you'd looked about you. People are so wrapt up in their own affairs they don't do half they might. Now, then, hand me a bit of paper, and I'll give you the address, so you won't have any excuse for forgetting what I tell you.'