Conversation between a Mother and her sick Child.CHILD.Mother, we read to-day, you know,Where holy Scriptures tellThat Jesus, when he lived below,Loved little children well.And then you told me how his word,From the bad spirit's power,Freed him, who never spoke, nor heard,Until that blessed hour.Beside the ruler's lifeless child,In pitying tone he spoke,"The maiden sleeps"—though scorners smiled,She heard his voice, and woke.And now, you say, above the skyUnchanged, he loves us still;Then why did he let baby die,And why am I so ill?—MOTHER.When Mary walk'd with mother last,She saw a little flower,Drooping its head and fading fastWithin her garden bower.To a more sunny spot removed,That flower blooms fair and bright;Our drooping baby Jesus loved,And bore from earthly blight.And though, my child, I cannot tellWhy yet he leaves you ill,As I am sure he loves you well,I doubt not that he will,At the best time, heal every pain,And make my Mary well again.
Conversation between a Mother and her sick Child.
CHILD.
Mother, we read to-day, you know,Where holy Scriptures tellThat Jesus, when he lived below,Loved little children well.
And then you told me how his word,From the bad spirit's power,Freed him, who never spoke, nor heard,Until that blessed hour.
Beside the ruler's lifeless child,In pitying tone he spoke,"The maiden sleeps"—though scorners smiled,She heard his voice, and woke.
And now, you say, above the skyUnchanged, he loves us still;Then why did he let baby die,And why am I so ill?—
MOTHER.
When Mary walk'd with mother last,She saw a little flower,Drooping its head and fading fastWithin her garden bower.
To a more sunny spot removed,That flower blooms fair and bright;Our drooping baby Jesus loved,And bore from earthly blight.
And though, my child, I cannot tellWhy yet he leaves you ill,As I am sure he loves you well,I doubt not that he will,At the best time, heal every pain,And make my Mary well again.
The letter which I had told Mrs. Scott I wished to send off that afternoon was to Harriet's grandfather, to whom I intended writing about Alice; for he was a very kind, good man, and was always glad to be told of those who wanted, when he had any thing to give. He had promised to make us a visit soon, but I did not know that it would be so soon as this week. However, about an hour after I had gone home, when I had written, and just as I was folding my letter, a carriage drove to the door, and he alighted from it. As I knew he would stay with us two or three days I was in no hurry to speak of Alice, preferring to wait till Harriet came home in the evening, and see whether she would think of interesting her grandfather in her little friend. He had been with me about two hours when I sent for her, and he told the servant who went that she need not mention his coming, for he thought it would be very pleasant to see Harriet's first joy at meeting him, when she so little expected to see him.
As Harriet came back with the servant, we could now and then catch a glimpse of her white dress through an opening of the wood, and while she was still too far off to distinguish the faces of persons sitting in the parlor, her grandfather moved away from the window, so that she might not see him till she was quite in the parlor. She came up the steps and through the porch and to the parlor door very quietly and rather slowly, as if she was almost sorry to come in; but the moment she saw her grandfather, she threw down the flowers she had been picking, and springing towards him, was in his lap before he could even rise from his chair to meet her, crying out, "Oh grandpapa! I am so glad to see you—so very, very glad—more glad than I ever was in my life before."
"Why, how is that?" said he, smiling and kissing her, "I thought my little pet was always as glad to see old grandpapa as she could possibly be."
"So I thought, too, but now I am more glad than ever, for I want some more money very, very much; and I know you will give me some."
Mr. Armand, for that was his name, looked all at once very grave, and said, "So—it is to get money you are glad—not to see me!"
I saw he was not quite well pleased, for he turned aside his face as Harriet would have kissed him, and seemed about to put her out of his lap. But Harriet was too eager to notice all this; she kept her seat, and putting her arm around his neck, spoke very fast, "Oh yes, grandpapa! you know I am always glad to see you; but now I do want some money for poor Alice."
"For poor Alice," said Mr. Armand, "that alters the case," and drawing her close to him again, and looking much better satisfied with her, he added, "And who is Alice?—and what makes herpoor?"
"Alice! Why don't you remember Alice Scott, that I talked so much about when I was at your house? Don't you remember I told you I loved to play with her better than with any of the girls, because she was so good-natured, and never was tired?"
"Ah! now I think I do remember something of her. And is it because she is so pleasant a playfellow, that you wish me to give you some money for her?"
"Oh no, grandpapa—that would be funny," said Harriet, laughing; but in a minute she was looking very serious again, and went on speaking more slowly—"Poor Alice's father is dead—he died while we were away—and her mother is very poor, and Alice has been ill, and oh, grandpapa! she's blind, quite blind, and Dr. Franks says he cannot do her any good, but that there are some doctors, eye-doctors, oculists—is it not, Aunt Kitty?—in B., who might do something for her, and poor Mrs. Scott has not any money to carry her there. Now, grandpapa, will you not give me some for her?"
"Have you given her some yourself, Harriet?"
"Yes, grandpapa, I have given her all I had, but though it was a great deal for me it is not near enough for her, you know."
Mr. Armand was silent a minute, and then said, "I am very sorry, my dear child, to disappoint you, and still more sorry not to help your little friend, in whom I feel much interest; but what can I do? I have just spent a great deal of money on a present for you, and I really have now none to give."
"Spent a great deal of money on a present for me!" repeated Harriet, with a wondering face.
"Yes, my dear. I think eighty dollars a great deal of money to spend for a little girl, and I have just given all that for a present for you. Do you remember the little pony you saw at Mr. Lewis's house, and do you remember thinking Eliza Lewis must be a very happy little girl, because she had such a large wax doll to play with in the house, and such a little pony to ride when she went out?"
"Oh, grandpapa! I know that was very foolish in me, but I remember it all—the beautiful pony and all."
"Well, my dear, that beautiful pony is now yours, and will be here this evening with a new saddle and bridle, for all of which I gave, as I have just told you, eighty dollars."
"Oh, Aunt Kitty!" cried Harriet, her eyes bright with joy, "only hear, that beautiful little pony!—and he is so gentle I may ride him all by myself—may I not, grandpapa?"
"Yes, I bought him on that account, for your aunt told me that she would like to have you ride, but feared to put you on one of her horses. This pony," he said, turning to me, "is as gentle as a lamb, and so well broken and obedient, that you scarcely need a bridle for him. I made them bring him very slowly, and rest him some hours on the road, that he might not be at all tired when he got here, for I thought Harriet would want a ride to-morrow morning."
"Yes, yes, dear grandpapa, that will be so pleasant, and I can ride him to Mrs. Scott's, and let Alice see—oh grandpapa!" suddenly stopping herself and looking very sad, "she cannot see him. I had forgotten all about it—and now you have not any money for her, what will she do? Poor Alice!"
"I am very sorry for her," said Mr. Armand, "for it must be a sad thing to be blind. Had I heard about her this morning, I do not know that you would have got your pony, for a gentleman, at whose house I stopped, wanted him so much that he offered to buy him from me at any price. However, he is now yours, and I have no right to him or to the money he would bring. I hope you will enjoy riding him very much, and think of dear grandpapa whenever you ride."
He kissed her again and put her down from his lap. Harriet stood beside him, and smiled a little at first, but not so joyfully as she had done when she first heard of pony. After a while her countenance grew more and more serious. Several minutes had passed, and her grandfather and I were talking of something else, when Harriet said to him, "Grandpapa, would that gentleman who wanted pony, give you the whole eighty dollars back again?"
"Yes, my love."
"And would you give it all to Alice, grandpapa?"
"I should have no right to give any of it, Harriet. The pony is now yours, and should you choose me to sell him, the money would be yours, and I should honestly pay every cent of it to you, and you could give it to Alice if you liked."
Harriet was again silent for a minute or two, and seemed very thoughtful; then, raising her head and putting her hand into her grandfather's, she said, "Grandpapa, please take pony back and send me the money."
Her grandfather laid his hand affectionately on her head, and said, "Certainly, my child, if you wish it, when I am going,—that will give you two nights and a day to think of it. You have not seen pony's new saddle and bridle yet, and you may change your mind."
"Oh, no, grandpapa, I shall not change my mind, for I am sure it is right to do without pony myself, and let Alice have the money."
She looked at me as she said this, and I replied, "I am pleased that you have not forgotten what we talked of this morning."
Pony came, and beautiful he was, and very pretty was the new saddle and bridle; and Harriet rode him to Mrs. Scott's, in the morning, and home again, and very much did she enjoy her ride; yet she did not change her mind, for when her grandfather asked, on the morning he left us, "Well, Harriet, does pony go with me, or stay with you?" she answered directly, "Go with you, grandpapa." And when he was brought to the door, all saddled and bridled for his journey, she went up to him, and stroking his sleek sides, said, smilingly, "Good-by, my pretty pony—good-by; I could love you very much, but not so much as I love Alice."
So pony went on Saturday morning; and on Saturday evening (for the gentleman who bought him only lived about ten miles from us) came the eighty dollars, enclosed in a very affectionate note to Harriet, from her grandfather. She seemed never tired of reading the note, or of admiring the pretty new bills that were in it. When she gave me these bills for Mrs. Scott, she begged me not to say any thing about her in giving them. As I always liked to know my little girl's reasons for what she did, I asked, "And why, my dear?"
She looked confused, hesitated a good deal, and said, "Aunt Kitty, do you remember when that little baby's mother died last summer, and I begged you to let me make its clothes, and—and—oh, you remember, Aunt Kitty."
"Yes, Harriet, I remember that you sewed very industriously at first, and afterwards, getting tired of your work, the poor little baby wanted clothes sadly."
"But, Aunt Kitty, that is not all. Do you not remember what you told me was the reason I felt tired so soon?"
"I think I do; was it not that you had done it from a desire for praise, and that as soon as people were tired of praising you, you were tired of working? But I do not see why you speak of that now; when you have given the money to Alice, you cannot take it back, so you need not be afraid of changing."
"No, Aunt Kitty, not of changing—at least I could not take it back—but—but you know—" she stopped, and hung her head.
"If you did it for praise, you think you might get sorry for having done it, and wish you could take it back, when people were done praising you."
"Yes, Aunt Kitty, that is it—and if people knew it, I could not be quite sure that I was not doing it to be praised, you know. I am very happy, now that dear Alice will have it, and I do not think I can ever want to take it back, or ever be sorry for giving it to her; but you told me the other day, that doing right was the only thing I could becertainof always being glad of; so I would rather, if you please, you would not say any thing about me, and then I shall know that I have done it only because it is right, and that it will always make me just as happy as I am now."
I was too much pleased with Harriet's reasons, to refuse her request; so no one but her grandfather, her grandmother, and myself, ever knew what she had done for Alice, till now that I have told it to you, which I would not have done, did I not feel sure that after what I have said of her wishes, you would not, if you should ever meet her, speak to her on the subject.
I was able to add twenty dollars to Harriet's gift, and so there were one hundred dollars for Mrs. Scott to begin her journey with. It would cost her but little to go to B., and this would enable her to stay there quite long enough to learn what could be done for Alice. Harriet thought she would rather give her gold piece to her friend herself, to spend as she liked.
On Sunday afternoon the doctor and I met, as we had agreed to do, at Mrs. Scott's. We saw her first in the parlor. I gave her the money, and the doctor had his letters ready for her, and explained very carefully to her what he wished her to do. He had already sent by the mail a letter to his sister, who lived in B., telling her of Mrs. Scott's coming, and requesting her to look out for some quiet place, where she might be cheaply boarded, as near as possible to the Institution for the Blind, for there he thought Alice would have to go. He now gave Mrs. Scott, on a card, his sister's name, and the name of the place where she lived, telling her to go there when she arrived in B., and if his sister had not found a place for her, he was sure she would keep her at her own house till she did. Having arranged all these things with Mrs. Scott, we went into Alice's room.
Alice was sitting up, and was so anxious for our coming, and so happy at the thought of seeing once more, that she had quite a rosy color in her cheeks. The doctor looked at her very sadly, and said "How d'ye do" to her, with a very soft and kind voice. She seemed hardly to hear him—but said very quickly, with a pleasant smile, "Now, doctor, must I take off the handkerchief?" and raised her hand to take out the pin which fastened it.
"Not yet, my dear," said the doctor, taking hold of her hand, "I wish to say something to you first. I fear, Alice, that you are going to be very much disappointed. You have no idea how very bad your eyes are. They give you no pain, and therefore you think there cannot be much the matter with them; but, my dear child, those are not the worst diseases of the eye which give the most pain. You think that only this handkerchief keeps you from seeing, but I am afraid that when I take it off you will still see very dimly—very dimly indeed—nay, Alice, I may as well tell you all,—I fear, that at present, at least, and perhaps for many days to come, you will not see at all."
As Dr. Franks spoke, the smile had gone from Alice's lip, and the color from her cheek, so that when he was done, instead of the bright, happy face she had when we came in, she was looking very pale and very sad. She seemed to have forgotten the handkerchief, her hands hung down in her lap, and she did not speak a word. Both the doctor and I were much grieved for her, and Mrs. Scott's tears fell upon her head as she stood leaning over the back of her chair. Alice did not weep—indeed, she seemed quite stunned.
After a while, the doctor said, "Alice, this handkerchief is of no use to you, and it must be very warm and unpleasant—shall I take it off?"
Her lips moved, and she tried to say, "Yes, sir," but we could scarcely hear her.
It was taken off. Alice kept her eyes shut for a little time, and then opened them suddenly, and turning them first towards the window, looked slowly around the room, then shut them again, without saying a word. She soon opened them, and looking towards the doctor, said, in a low, faltering voice, "Doctor, is it night?"
"No, my child, it is not more than four o'clock in the afternoon."
She was silent a minute, then said, "Is it cloudy?"
"No, Alice, the sun is shining brightly."
She was again still for a little while—the tears began to come into her eyes, and her lip quivered very much, as speaking again, she said, "Are the windows shut?"
The doctor again answered her, "No, they are open, and the sashes raised."
Poor Alice covered her eyes with her hands for a second, then stretching out her arms, and turning her head around as if looking for some one, she cried mournfully, "Mother, mother, where are you?"
"Here, my own precious child," said Mrs. Scott, as coming round to the side of the chair, she put her arms around her, and drew her head down upon her bosom. Alice did not cry aloud, but her tears came fast, and her sobs were so deep, that it seemed as though her heart would break with this great sorrow. The doctor said, softly, to Mrs. Scott, "Persuade her to go to bed, as soon as you can," and then both he and I went out, for we knew her mother would be her best comforter.
Mrs. Scott was to leave her home at ten o'clock the next morning, and at nine Harriet went over to say some parting words to Alice, and I to receive some last directions from Mrs. Scott about taking care of the house and furniture for her. I could see that Harriet was almost afraid to meet Alice, thinking she must be very miserable now that her blindness was known to her. But though she looked sadly, and turned away with tears in her eyes when we first spoke to her, she soon began to talk with Harriet about her journey. She seemed to hope to receive great good from the physicians in B., and I was glad to find that her mother had not tried to discourage this hope; for, I said to myself, if nothing can be done for her, she will find it out soon enough, and every day that passes will help to prepare her better for it. She seemed much gratified by Harriet's present of the gold piece, and when she bade me good-by, said, "I thank you, ma'am, very much, for all your goodness to me."
Mrs. Scott, too, begged me to tell the friends who had helped her how very grateful she was to them, and how earnestly she would pray to God to reward them for all their goodness to her and her fatherless girl. I knew by the color that came into Harriet's face, and the tears that sprang into her eyes, as the good woman spoke, that she had heard her; and I was glad of it, for I thought that she deserved to be made as happy as I felt certain such thankfulness would make her, for her desire to do right, and her readiness to give up her own pleasures for her friend's good.
After our friends were gone, I spent some time in giving directions to Betty about the cleaning and putting away things, so that she might leave the house in order; and Harriet kept herself from being very sad by working in Alice's garden, weeding the beds and tying up the flowers, which, as I said before, had been left during her illness to trail upon the ground.
Mrs. Scott had promised to write to me as soon as the physicians had decided whether they could or could not be of any service to Alice; and you may be sure we looked very anxiously for her letter. It came about two weeks after she had left us, and I will copy it for you here, as I am sure you will like to see it.
B——, July 2, 18—.My Dear Madam,—You were so kind as to ask me to let you know what the doctors here might think of my little girl's case, and I have only been waiting for them to make up their minds about it, before I wrote to you. Yesterday they told me, what I felt long ago, that they could not help her. This is a great trial, ma'am, but, blessed be God, with great trials He sends great mercies. I don't know, ma'am, how to tell you the thankfulness that is in my heart, first to Him, and then to you and Dr. Franks, and all the other kind friends that have helped me through this affliction. It is a comfort to me to feel that every thing has been done for my poor child that could be done; indeed, I fear it would have broken my heart to think that something might be done to make her see again, and to feel that I could never get money enough to pay for that something, if I worked till I was dead. Oh! I thank God that I have not got that to bear.But I am forgetting all this time to tell you how kind everybody here has been to me. Miss Franks is the doctor's own sister, I am sure, for she is just such another kind and generous person. The steamboat did not get here till it began to grow quite dark, and I was very much troubled, thinking how I should find my way up through the crowd, and fearing lest my little trunk should get lost, which had all our clothes in it, or that if I went to see about that, Alice would get hurt, when a man came on board and asked for me. He said Miss Franks had sent him with a carriage to bring us to her house. It was a hired carriage, as I found afterwards, for I thought at first it was her own; but she would not let me pay any thing for it. Was not this kind? She had us to stay at her house the first night, and the next morning took us again in a carriage to the place where she had got board for us. This was in a very neat house, and with a clever, good woman. She is an elderly, single woman, who seems to be pious, and is very kind to us. Miss Franks sent round her brother's letters, after she had written on them the name of the street and number of the house we were staying at, that the doctors might know where to find Alice.The next day three doctors came and brought with them a Dr. W——, who, they said, knew more about the eyes than any of them. At first my little girl seemed shy of having so many strangers see her; but they were so kind to her, that she does not feel at all afraid now. Indeed, ma'am, everybody is kind to her, and they speak so softly and pitifully to her, that it often makes the tears come into my eyes, and my heart feel so full, that I have to go away to my room and thank God for all His goodness and theirs to her; for you know, ma'am, goodness to her child, and that a poor blind child too, is more to a mother than any thing people could do for her.Two or three days ago, Dr. H., who they say is at the head of that Institution for the blind you talked to me about, came to see us, and he talked so gentle and pleasant like, that Alice loved him right away. He had some talk with the doctors when they came, and then he asked Alice if she would not like to know how blind children, who never had seen at all, read and wrote and sewed, and told her, if she would come to his house, he would teach her as they were taught, and that she would find many of them learning there. Alice seemed very glad to hear that she might learn to do these things now, and need not wait doing nothing till her eyes got well, for you know, ma'am, she was always an industrious child, and it grieves her sadly to sit all day idle. She asked though if I could come with her, and the kind gentleman said I could come with her in the morning, and bring her away in the afternoon. This made my heart jump for joy, for I was afraid he was going to say she must stay there all the time. She will begin to go next Monday.And now, ma'am, I must tell you some more of Miss Franks' goodness. She has got me some plain sewing, and so many of her friends promise to employ me in that way, that I hope I shall be able to live by my needle; and then, ma'am, I think, maybe I ought to send back what money I have left, to them that were so good as to give it to me. Will you please, ma'am, to tell me if this would be right? Alice begs me to send her love to her dear friend, Miss Harriet, and her dutiful respects to you. She bid me tell Miss Harriet that she has not spent her gold piece yet. Please, ma'am, to tell the doctor how kind his sister has been to us, and thank him for all he has done for us. I am afraid, ma'am, I have tired you with this long letter; but indeed when I began to write, I could not help telling you of all the goodness which has been showed to me. God bless you, ma'am, praysYours, very thankfully,Martha Scott."
B——, July 2, 18—.
My Dear Madam,—
You were so kind as to ask me to let you know what the doctors here might think of my little girl's case, and I have only been waiting for them to make up their minds about it, before I wrote to you. Yesterday they told me, what I felt long ago, that they could not help her. This is a great trial, ma'am, but, blessed be God, with great trials He sends great mercies. I don't know, ma'am, how to tell you the thankfulness that is in my heart, first to Him, and then to you and Dr. Franks, and all the other kind friends that have helped me through this affliction. It is a comfort to me to feel that every thing has been done for my poor child that could be done; indeed, I fear it would have broken my heart to think that something might be done to make her see again, and to feel that I could never get money enough to pay for that something, if I worked till I was dead. Oh! I thank God that I have not got that to bear.
But I am forgetting all this time to tell you how kind everybody here has been to me. Miss Franks is the doctor's own sister, I am sure, for she is just such another kind and generous person. The steamboat did not get here till it began to grow quite dark, and I was very much troubled, thinking how I should find my way up through the crowd, and fearing lest my little trunk should get lost, which had all our clothes in it, or that if I went to see about that, Alice would get hurt, when a man came on board and asked for me. He said Miss Franks had sent him with a carriage to bring us to her house. It was a hired carriage, as I found afterwards, for I thought at first it was her own; but she would not let me pay any thing for it. Was not this kind? She had us to stay at her house the first night, and the next morning took us again in a carriage to the place where she had got board for us. This was in a very neat house, and with a clever, good woman. She is an elderly, single woman, who seems to be pious, and is very kind to us. Miss Franks sent round her brother's letters, after she had written on them the name of the street and number of the house we were staying at, that the doctors might know where to find Alice.
The next day three doctors came and brought with them a Dr. W——, who, they said, knew more about the eyes than any of them. At first my little girl seemed shy of having so many strangers see her; but they were so kind to her, that she does not feel at all afraid now. Indeed, ma'am, everybody is kind to her, and they speak so softly and pitifully to her, that it often makes the tears come into my eyes, and my heart feel so full, that I have to go away to my room and thank God for all His goodness and theirs to her; for you know, ma'am, goodness to her child, and that a poor blind child too, is more to a mother than any thing people could do for her.
Two or three days ago, Dr. H., who they say is at the head of that Institution for the blind you talked to me about, came to see us, and he talked so gentle and pleasant like, that Alice loved him right away. He had some talk with the doctors when they came, and then he asked Alice if she would not like to know how blind children, who never had seen at all, read and wrote and sewed, and told her, if she would come to his house, he would teach her as they were taught, and that she would find many of them learning there. Alice seemed very glad to hear that she might learn to do these things now, and need not wait doing nothing till her eyes got well, for you know, ma'am, she was always an industrious child, and it grieves her sadly to sit all day idle. She asked though if I could come with her, and the kind gentleman said I could come with her in the morning, and bring her away in the afternoon. This made my heart jump for joy, for I was afraid he was going to say she must stay there all the time. She will begin to go next Monday.
And now, ma'am, I must tell you some more of Miss Franks' goodness. She has got me some plain sewing, and so many of her friends promise to employ me in that way, that I hope I shall be able to live by my needle; and then, ma'am, I think, maybe I ought to send back what money I have left, to them that were so good as to give it to me. Will you please, ma'am, to tell me if this would be right? Alice begs me to send her love to her dear friend, Miss Harriet, and her dutiful respects to you. She bid me tell Miss Harriet that she has not spent her gold piece yet. Please, ma'am, to tell the doctor how kind his sister has been to us, and thank him for all he has done for us. I am afraid, ma'am, I have tired you with this long letter; but indeed when I began to write, I could not help telling you of all the goodness which has been showed to me. God bless you, ma'am, prays
Yours, very thankfully,
Martha Scott."
Mrs. Scott was told that those who had given her the money would not have any of it returned, and she then, I afterwards found, paid every one in our village to whom she owed any thing, saying, that though they had told her to make herself easy, she could not be easy while she was in debt to those who, she knew, needed the money.
In a few months after she went to the Institution for the Blind, Alice wrote a letter to Harriet, and from that time they wrote to each other as often at least as once in a month. It has been now about three months since Dr. Franks, who had been making a visit in B——, brought Harriet a letter from Alice, which gave her great delight. You shall read it for yourself, and see how much reason she had to be pleased with it.
B——, April 14, 18—.Dear Harriet,—I am so happy that I can hardly write, or do any thing but tell everybody near me how happy I am; or when there is nobody near me, sit down and think of you and your good aunt, and Dr. Franks, and Susan and Lucy, and everybody that lives at home. Oh, Harriet, we are coming there—coming home next week—dear home. It is the middle of April now, and so many flowers will be opening, and the peach-trees and the apple-trees will be in bloom soon, and they will look so beautiful. I cannot see them, but I can smell them, and feel them, and think how they look. Oh, Harriet, how much better off I am than the poor children who never did see, and who cannot remember how such things looked! But I cannot write any more now, except good-by, from your affectionateAlice.P. S.—I have spent the gold piece; I will show you how, when I come.
B——, April 14, 18—.
Dear Harriet,—
I am so happy that I can hardly write, or do any thing but tell everybody near me how happy I am; or when there is nobody near me, sit down and think of you and your good aunt, and Dr. Franks, and Susan and Lucy, and everybody that lives at home. Oh, Harriet, we are coming there—coming home next week—dear home. It is the middle of April now, and so many flowers will be opening, and the peach-trees and the apple-trees will be in bloom soon, and they will look so beautiful. I cannot see them, but I can smell them, and feel them, and think how they look. Oh, Harriet, how much better off I am than the poor children who never did see, and who cannot remember how such things looked! But I cannot write any more now, except good-by, from your affectionate
Alice.
P. S.—I have spent the gold piece; I will show you how, when I come.
Mrs. Scott sent a message to me by the doctor, to ask, with many apologies for troubling me, that I would get Betty Maclaurin to go to her house early in the next week, and put every thing in order for her by Wednesday evening, as she hoped to be at home some time in that night. Betty liked Mrs. Scott and Alice, and was quite ready to do them a kindness; so, early on Monday morning, she was at work, and she worked so industriously in the house, and Harriet so industriously in Alice's garden, that, before Wednesday evening, both house and garden were in perfect order.
Harriet's grandfather had taken so much interest in Alice, that he had said, when she came home he intended to come to see her; so Harriet found time, in the midst of all her preparations for her friend's arrival, to write him what day she was expected; and on Wednesday, not only he, but her grandmother also, who seldom left home, came to spend a week with us. I was not in the house when they arrived, and when I came in, Harriet met me at the door before I had seen them, and cried out, "Oh, Aunt Kitty! grandpapa's come, and grandmamma too; and only think what they have brought me—dear, pretty pony—as pretty as ever, with another beautiful new saddle and bridle. Is it not good in them, and am I not a happy girl?"
Now my little readers must not suppose that Mr. Armand had only made Harriet believe that pony was sold, while he really kept him for her. Oh no! Mr. Armand always told just the truth, and pony was sold—really and truly sold—to the gentleman he had spoken of, who had bought him for his son. This boy was gone to a school at a distance from his home, and besides, he was now so good a rider that his father thought he might have a larger horse when he came back, so he was not unwilling to let Mr. Armand have pony again, when he expressed a wish for him.
Harriet was indeed a happy girl this Wednesday evening, and still more happy was she when she set out, after an early breakfast the next morning, to ride on pony to Mrs. Scott's. As I started at the same time to walk there, and she would not leave me, she rode very slowly. If any of you can remember some morning in Spring, when the air, though cool, had not the least frosty feeling in it, when the grass was fresh and green, when the trees had put out their first tender leaves, and the peach and the pear and the apple blossoms looked as if just ready to open, to have risen early and walked or ridden out, while the leaves and the blossoms were still glittering with the night-dew, you will know how delightful Harriet and I found it. We went on, at a brisk pace for me, and a slow one for pony, till we were in sight of Mrs. Scott's house, when Harriet looked so eager, that I bade her hasten on. As I spoke, I cheruped to pony, and he went off in a smart trot, which soon brought Harriet to the gate. I had then just entered the clear space before the house, and could see and hear all that passed. Alice was standing at the open window, looking healthy and happy. As pony stopped, she called out to her mother, who seemed to be in some other room, for she spoke loudly, "Mother, mother, here is somebody on horseback—it must be the doctor."
"No, Alice, it is Harriet," cried my little niece, as she sprang from her pony, without much of the caution which she had promised her grandfather always to use in getting down.
"Oh! it is Harriet," exclaimed Alice, clapping her hands joyfully together, and then putting them out to feel her way to the door. Mrs. Scott came from the next room, and taking her hand, led her to meet us. The little girls were in each other's arms in a moment, and any one who had looked at Alice's happy face, and her eyes bright with tender and glad feelings, would never have believed they saw a blind girl. Harriet told of the beautiful pony her grandpapa had brought her the evening before, and Alice passed her hands over him to feel how small he was and how sleek and glossy his sides were, and promised that she would sometimes mount him and walk him over to my house with Harriet at her side. Then they went into the flower-garden, and Alice exclaimed, "Oh, Harriet! how nicely you have weeded my beds and trimmed my flowers."
"Betty told you that," said Harriet.
"Betty told me who did it, but I knew it was done without her telling me, for I felt them. I did not have to feel my hyacinths and jonquils to know they were in bloom, for I smelt them, and I know exactly how they look. My rose-bushes too," said she, putting her hand on one, "are in bud; they will soon be beautiful. You see, Harriet, I love my garden, and can take pleasure in it, if I am blind;—but come into the house, and let me show you the books they have taken pains to make for poor blind people, and the different kinds of work I have learned to do."
Alice took Harriet's hand, and walked with a quick and lively step into the house. When they had entered the door, she left Harriet, and putting her hands out to feel that there was nothing in her way, passed into the next room, and soon came out again with her arms full. There were only a few books—I was sorry to see so few—but they were so large that she could not well have carried any more. Having laid them on the table, she opened one, and we saw that the letters were large, and so raised from the paper that the blind could feel their form, and thus distinguish them as readily as we can distinguish the letters in ordinary printing by seeing them. Alice soon showed us how this was done, for passing her finger over the lines of a sentence on the page to which she had opened, she read it as correctly as anybody could have done. Then turning with quickness to a box which stood near, she said, "Now see my work."—There were baskets she had woven, purses and bags she had knitted, pincushions and needle-books she had sewed as neatly as possible. Full of animation and happy as Alice seemed in showing these things, I am certain she was not half so happy in showing, as Harriet was in seeing them. Having looked at them myself, I went into the garden to show Mrs. Scott where some seeds were planted. From the garden I could still hear and see through an open window what was passing in the parlor, and I was too much interested in the feelings of these little girls not to attend to them. I soon saw, however, that they did not think themselves observed; for Harriet—who had hitherto spoken little, expressing her pleasure in looks more than in words—as soon as they were left alone, took Alice's hand, and said, "How glad I am you can do so much!"
"I knew you would be glad, and that made me show you; and I wish I could show them to all the kind people who gave mother money to take me to B., for, you know, if it was not for that, I could not have learned to do these things,—and you don't know, Harriet, how hard those first dark weeks were to bear, and how often, when I thought it would be always so, I wished I was in the grave-yard with my little brother and sisters;—that was wicked, I know, Harriet, but I could not help it then."
Harriet stood with her face turned from me, yet I could see by her movements that she was weeping.
Alice put her arm around her, saying, "Don't cry, I am very happy now."
"And so am I," said Harriet, sobbing, "and I believe that's what makes me cry."
"That's funny too," said Alice laughing, and Harriet laughed with her, though the tears were still on her cheeks. Then Alice told that there was a kind shopkeeper in B., who had promised to buy all she made, and that her mother said, she got so much money from him, that she could afford to keep a woman—Alice hoped it would be Betty—to do the hard work, and as she would only take in a little plain sewing, she would then be able to sit with Alice, and could sometimes spare time to read to her. "And Harriet," she added, "I promised to show you what I had bought with the gold piece you gave me. I bought the straw for my first baskets, and the braids and ribands for my first purses and bags, and the pieces of silk and velvet for my first pincushions and needle-books; so you see how much it helped me," and she kissed Harriet, little knowing how much more she owed to her.
And now, if any of my little readers have thought that Harriet made a foolish choice, when she gave up her pony to help her friend, they will, I am sure, change their minds when they remember what a sad house this was at the time that Alice first became blind, and think that now, as Harriet looked at Mrs. Scott's contented and Alice's cheerful face, and saw how much her friend could do and could enjoy, and heard that by her pleasant employments she could not only support herself comfortably, but help her mother too, she could say to herself—"This is my work—it is I who have made them so happy." Who would not have given pony for such a feeling, even though they had never got him back again?
When we were going away, Alice very modestly gave me a beautiful work-basket, a very neat needle-book, and pincushion, all of her own make. For Harriet she had made a very pretty bag, and hearing that Mr. and Mrs. Armand were with us, she selected a very handsome purse and needle-book, and requested Harriet to present them to her grandfather and grandmother, as the offerings of a blind girl.
And now, my young friends, I have little more to tell you of Alice. If you could visit her, you would find her sometimes employed in making those tasteful and pretty things, by the sale of which she aids in supporting her mother and herself—sometimes in her garden, feeling for the weeds and pulling them away from her plants, or tying up her vines, or cutting flowers to dress their pleasant little parlor—sometimes walking, leaning on her mother's arm, or on that of some young companion,—and though you may see her look a little sad when her friends speak of a beautiful flower, or admire a fine sunset, you will oftener hear her sweet voice in cheerful talk, or merry laugh, or singing some pleasant hymn, expressive of her gratitude to God for His goodness to her. And when you see and hear all this, you will, I hope, not envy Harriet, for that would be a wrong feeling, but watch every opportunity of going and doing like her.
As this has been a very long story, and I do not wish to tire you, I will now bid you good-by, hoping you will soon wish to hear from me again. Whenever you do, I shall know it, and shall be quite ready to have another talk with you.
Spring is here. The sun is shining brightly, and the air is warm, and the breeze is scented with the blossoms of the apple and the pear. The trees whose branches have been bare all winter, except when the snow wrapped them in a white mantle, have now put on a dress of the lightest and liveliest green. The gardens, too, are beginning to look gayly. There is in my garden one bed which is especially bright. This is Harriet's. Here she digs and plants and manages all in her own way, and here, at this season, she and her little friends may be often seen with heads bent down to the ground, searching for the first appearance of a crocus or a hyacinth. If one is seen, a joyful clapping of hands and a general call for Aunt Kitty announces the discovery.
Doubtless all my little readers have noticed the changes which this season brings. How pleasant is the first walk which you can take without cloaks or shawls! And the first violet or buttercup which is found,—we never think any other half so pretty. And the brooks which have been frozen up all winter, now prattle away over the stones, as noisily as little girls who have just got out from a schoolroom where they have been obliged to be very still for two or three hours. And the little birds which have spent their winter in a southern climate, sing as merrily as if they were glad to get back again to their old homes, or as if, as Jessie Graham says her grandmother told her, they were thanking God for giving them such pleasant weather. I wish all little girls would remember this, and imitate the birds,—thanking their Heavenly Father for his goodness to them, not only in words when they kneel down to say their prayers, but in bright looks and cheerful tones through the whole day.
Jessie Graham is a very clever little girl, and very like a bird herself as she goes singing and jumping about when she is out of doors, though at home she is the most quiet, orderly, housewifely little thing you can imagine. Her grandmother, of whom I have just spoken, is a Scotchwoman. She is a widow, her husband having died soon after they came to this country, and when her only child, Jessie's father, was still a little boy. Mrs. Graham seemed to have nothing to live on but what she could make by her own spinning and knitting, her gardening and poultry yard. Yet she never asked alms, or even received them when offered, saying to those who would have given them, "I am thankful to God for showing me that when the time of need comes I shall have such kind friends, but still more thankful to Him that it has not come yet." Her garden was small, but in it were often the earliest and best vegetables that were to be seen for miles around. Some of these she would send by little Donald to the market of a neighboring town. Donald too had his bed of flowers, from which he was sometimes able to sell slips of roses or a few choice bulbous roots. Seeds and slips and roots to plant were given him by my brother's gardener, who had employed the lad, and had, as he said, "taken a liking" to him, because he had found him honest, industrious, and intelligent. With his instructions, Donald became a capital gardener, and when he afterwards removed to the city, was employed by my brother in his place. With the wages which he thus received, Donald was able to add to his garden, till with some work from himself and constant watchfulness from his mother, it became quite profitable. He enlarged their cottage, too, so that when he brought home a wife there was room enough for her without taking any thing from his mother's comfort. His wife was a good-tempered and kind-hearted young woman whom he had known from a boy. They have six children, of whom Jessie is the eldest. She is named after her grandmother; and as she is almost always at her side, has learned many useful things from her besides imitating the birds in keeping a thankful and a cheerful heart. She is constantly busy,—sometimes helping her grandmother in her housekeeping, or counting her eggs, or feeding her chickens for her,—sometimes sewing beside her mother, or taking care of her young brothers and sisters,—sometimes—and I think this is what Jessie likes best—running after her father, and by his direction weeding a bed or tying up a branch, picking the strawberries or making up into bouquets the flowers which he is to take to market. She has the family taste for gardening, and has already learned from her father a great deal more about plants than their names. Harriet goes to her always for instruction about the management of her flowers, and if a friend sends me a rare plant, is never quite satisfied till Jessie has approved the soil in which it is placed. It is from Jessie that I learn, in the spring, where the most beautiful wild-flowers are to be found.
A stroll in the woods after these wild-flowers is one of the greatest treats I can offer to my young favorites; and when, about a year ago, I sent to several of them to come to my house on a fine, bright morning, prepared for one of these rambles, with thick shoes which would keep their feet dry if we went into low or damp places, and little baskets in which to put their flowers, I was very sure there was not one who would disappoint me. They all came, and Jessie the earliest and the gayest among them. She had brought her father's trowel to take up the roots, and away we all went,—the little ones talking as fast and laughing as loud as they could, and Aunt Kitty listening, as much pleased as any of them. Away we went,—not by the road, but through the woods,—now moving swiftly and pleasantly along under the high trees, with the sunlight falling only here and there in patches on our path,—then suddenly hedged up by the tangled brushwood, and obliged to climb or jump over, or to creep through, as some of the smallest of the party managed to do,—the children now filling their baskets with buttercups, then throwing them all away because they had found a piece of ground covered with violets. At last, when the baskets were filled with the roots of violets and wood-geraniums, and each one had gathered branches of the wild-rose and clusters of the rich and graceful columbine, Aunt Kitty remembering that they had yet to walk home, gave the signal to return, and half unwillingly it was obeyed. After leaving the wood, we followed a road which enabled me to leave my young companions at their different homes before I went on to mine. Mr. Graham's was the last house on our way, and there Harriet and Mary Mackay and I stopped with Jessie, as I saw her father was at home and wanted to speak to him about some seeds. Old Mrs. Graham was seated in the low, shaded porch, knitting, and there I left the children showing her their treasures, while I stepped into the garden where Mr. Graham was at work. Having finished my talk with him I went into the house again. The children were still in the porch; and as I entered the parlor that opened on it, I heard Mary Mackay's earnest tone wishing that she could walk in the woods and pick flowers every day.
"Why, Mary!" said Harriet, "what then would become of your books and Miss Bennett?"—this was the name of Mary's governess.
"I would not care what became of them," said Mary, hastily, then added: "Oh yes, I would care what became of Miss Bennett,—but as for the books—"
"Send them to me, Mary," said Jessie, "send them to me, if you are tired of them, and send Miss Bennett with them."
"Why, Jessie, do you want to study lessons?"
"I don't know about the studying, Mary, how I should like that,—but I would be willing to try, rather than be a poor ignorant girl without any schooling, as Nancy Orme called me the other day."
I saw old Mrs. Graham turn quickly round at this, and heard her ask Jessie, "And what did you say to Nancy Orme?"
"Nothing, grandmother,—what could I say to her? It is the truth, you know."
"It is not the truth," said Mrs. Graham, "and you are a silly child to say so."
"Why, grandmother, what schooling have I ever had? You have taught me to read, and father has begun to teach me to write, and that is all I know or am like to know."
"You are a silly child, Jessie, as I said before. You have had the schooling which is better for little Jessie Graham, the gardener's daughter, than any that Miss Bennett and her books could give."
Mary, who really loved Miss Bennett, colored up, and Mrs. Graham said to her, "Do not be vexed, my little lady, for I mean no offence. Miss Mary Mackay, who is to be a younglady, and must talk to ladies and gentlemen, cannot do without books and Miss Bennett to explain them. And I do not mean to say that book-learning hurts anybody, but only that Jessie, and poor little folks like Jessie, can do without it, and yet that they must not call themselves without schooling; for what schooling they really want, God takes care that they may have."
The girls looked puzzled, and as I had become quite interested in what the old woman was saying, I was not sorry when my inquisitive little niece, Mary, exclaimed, "Pray, Mrs. Graham, tell me what you mean, for I cannot see what schooling little girls have who do not learn out of books."
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Graham, putting down her knitting, taking off her spectacles, and looking very thoughtful, "I do not know whether I can tell you just what I mean, so that you can understand me, but I will try. I think God means that every father and mother shall be teachers to their own children, or if the father and mother are dead, there is almost always some friend who is bound to take their place, and then he spreads out books on every side of them, so that they are almost obliged to read, unless they wilfully shut their eyes;—for if they look up, there is the sun in the day and the moon and stars at night, and though they cannot tell, as I am told some great scholars can do, how far off they are, and what the stars are named, they can see how much good they do to us, lighting and warming us, and dividing the year into seasons, which, everybody who knows any thing of gardening knows, is a great good, and making day and night. They can learn out of this book, too, a great deal of God's power and glory, for he must keep all these in their places, and make them all come back to us day after day, and night after night, and year after year, without ever failing once. Then, when they look down on the ground, there is another beautiful book. They may not be able to call every thing there by its right name, but they may learn what is good to eat, and what for medicine, and what is only pretty to the eye,—what soil each plant loves, and how God has provided for each just what is best for it. And so, if they look at the birds, or the poultry, or the different animals, they will find each kind has its own ways, and from each one they may learn as many useful things as from any book that was ever made. Now, my dear young ladies, this is the schooling which God provides for us all, and though, as I said before, learning from books is very good, yet those who cannot get it need not be altogether ignorant, and of the two, maybe God's schooling is best for poor people."
Though I was very much pleased with what Mrs. Graham said, I was afraid my little girls would begin to think very slightingly of books, so I stepped out, and telling them that it was time to go home, they gathered up their flowers, and bidding Mrs. Graham and Jessie good-morning, we set out. I waited a while, hoping that, as they did not know I had overheard Mrs. Graham, they would speak to me of what she had said. And so they did; for I had not waited long, when Mary said, "Aunt Kitty, do you not think Mrs. Graham is a very sensible woman?"
"Yes, my dear," I replied, "I do think she is averysensible woman."
"I wish you could have heard her, Aunt Kitty, talking about Jessie's schooling—I liked what she said so much."
"And what did she say, Mary?"
"Oh, Aunt Kitty, I cannot remember half—but she said little girls need not study books."
"Not all little girls, Mary," said Harriet, interrupting her.
"Well, Harriet, not all little girls,—but she said that little girls who could not study books, might still have schooling,—for God gave them teachers, and then they might look at the stars, and the flowers, and the birds, and all the animals, and learn, Aunt Kitty, just as well as we do out of books, and I am sure it must be a much pleasanter way of learning."
"But how many little girls are there, Mary, do you think, who, if they had never studied books or been directed by such sensible teachers as Mrs. Graham herself, would look at the stars, and the flowers, and the birds, and learn from them all which they can teach? Unless we see something more in these than their bright light, their pretty colors, or their gay plumage, they will teach us little, and it is generally from books or from some person who has had what Mrs. Graham calls book-learning, that we learn to look deeper."
"How did Mrs. Graham come to know so much about them then, Aunt Kitty, for I do not think she reads many books?"
"Mrs. Graham, my dear Mary, has been accustomed to associate with people much better educated than herself, and as she is a very observing and thoughtful person, she has lost no opportunity of learning. And now, Mary, you see that book-learning is of more use than you ever before thought it, for the person who has it, may help to open the eyes of many who have it not, to read what God has written for us all in the heavens and the earth."
The next morning before Harriet and I had breakfasted, Mary came running in, her cheeks glowing and eyes sparkling with pleasure, crying out even before she had said good-morning, "Aunt Kitty, Jessie is to go to school with me and study lessons,—she is to begin to-day, and I am going to tell her to get ready at once, so I have not a minute to stay."
"Stop, stop, my dear," said I, seizing her hand as she was passing me, "just catch your breath and then tell us how all this was arranged."
"Oh, I told Miss Bennett how much Jessie wanted to go to school, and she said she might come if my father had not any objection, and I asked my father, and he said he had not any,—but I must go, Aunt Kitty, indeed I must," and breaking away from me, she bounded off.
She soon came back bringing the smiling Jessie with her, and from that day Jessie might be seen every morning about nine o'clock going to her school. She spent only two hours there each day, but as she really wished to learn, she improved very much, and Miss Bennett said, she repaid her for all trouble in teaching her, by her good example to our good-humored but wild little Mary. Jessie seemed to think she could never say or do enough to thank Mary for inducing Miss Bennett to give her lessons, and though Mary loved Jessie, and would never let any one find the least fault with her without a warm defence, I sometimes feared that Jessie's perfect submission to her will in all things would do her harm—that she would become quite a little despot. But a circumstance which happened in their school a short time after Jessie's lessons with Miss Bennett began, taught us that there was one thing Jessie loved better even than she loved Mary. I will relate the circumstance, and you will find out what that one thing was.
Mary's father had a fine flock of sheep, and one morning as Mary stood by him while he counted them, watching the lambs frisking from side to side, Jessie came from the house to tell her that Miss Bennett had been waiting some time for her.
"Stay just one minute, Jessie, and then I will go back with you," said the little idler; "I want papa to be done counting, that I may beg him for a little lamb—I want a pet lamb. See there, Jessie—that one that is running along so fast, and then stops to wait for the others, is not it a beauty? Oh! do, papa, give it to me," said she, as her father counted the thirtieth sheep, for she knew that this was the full number.
"Give you what, my child?" asked her father, who had not been paying any attention to her.
"That pretty lamb, papa—make haste to say yes, for there is Miss Bennett's bell ringing for the third time. Stop, Jessie," said the little despot, catching hold of her as she would have run in, "you shall not go till I am ready."
"I am sorry my daughter should let any thing keep her from her lessons. Besides, you are treating Miss Bennett with great disrespect, and here she comes herself to see what has become of her truants."
As Mr. Mackay spoke, he took Mary's hand and walked with the children towards the piazza where Miss Bennett stood. He is a very good-natured man, and makes such a pet of his little daughter, that he was quite ready to excuse her; so, as Miss Bennett was about to speak to Mary, he said, "I believe, Miss Bennett, I must ask you to excuse her want of punctuality to-day, for the fault was partly mine. If I had not been as much engaged in counting my sheep as she was in watching the lambs at play, I should have heard your bell and sent her to you."
"I do not wish to punish the fault of to-day," said Miss Bennett, with a smile, "but to reform a habit persisted in for many days. Can you not aid me, sir, in devising some mode by which Mary may be reminded that her studies are of more importance than her play?"
"Yes, she has just been presenting a petition which I will not grant till she can bring me proof that she has been punctual and attentive to her studies for two months."
"Two whole months, papa?" said Mary, looking quite frightened at the length of time.
"Yes, my daughter, two whole months, and—stay, where is Jessie?" looking around for her.
"Stolen away, I suppose," said Miss Bennett, "for fear of hearing Mary scolded. We shall probably find her in the schoolroom."
"Well, I will go there with you," said Mr. Mackay, entering the house with the wondering Mary. On they went, Miss Bennett leading the way to the schoolroom, where, as she had conjectured, they found Jessie, looking very gravely.
"Do not be afraid, Jessie," said Mary, laughing, as she entered, "Miss Bennett has not beaten me. Papa is going to do something to us both, I think, but I do not know what."
"You shall soon hear," said Mr. Mackay. "If Miss Bennett will be so kind as to give to the one who recites the best lesson a card marked merit; and to the one who is not in her place by the time the bell has ceased ringing, a blank card, for two months to come, we will then count both kinds of tickets: for every blank card we will take away one from the others, and to the little girl who has most merit cards left, I will give—listen, Mary—the prettiest lamb in my flock."
"I will gladly agree to perform my part in the arrangement," said Miss Bennett, "but will add another stipulation. As I would have my little pupils careful, as well as studious and attentive, I will make no note of the tickets given for merit, and the girl who loses her tickets will therefore suffer the consequences."
"Do you understand?" said Mr. Mackay.
"Oh yes," said Mary, eagerly clapping her hands, "and I mean to have the lamb."
"Yes, sir," said the smiling Jessie—pleased to see her friend so happy.
"Well," said Mr. Mackay, as he left the schoolroom, "you will begin to-morrow."
For some time Miss Bennett had no blanks to give and few merit cards, for the girls were always in their places at the proper time, and both knew their lessons so perfectly that it could not with truth be said either wasbest. After some weeks, however, things fell into their old course. Mary got most blanks, and most merit cards too, for though Jessie was both quick and studious, she had less time for study; and what is of more consequence, she had no one at home to help her out of difficulties by explaining what she did not understand. Besides, as Mary had been much longer at school than her friend, the lessons which she was going over for the second, or perhaps third time, were quite new to Jessie, who felt her friend's advantages on this account to be so great that she never dreamed there was any probability of receiving the prize herself.
Harriet and I, walking over one pleasant afternoon to my brother's, met Jessie sauntering slowly home, and Mary with her. We stopped to chat a while with them, and then Mary, bidding Jessie good-by, turned back with us. While I walked steadily on, she and Harriet were sometimes by my side, sometimes running before me, and sometimes lingering far behind. As we approached the house, we saw the sheep driven to their pen for the night. The children were before me, but near enough for me to hear Mary exclaim, "Harriet, there is my lamb—that is the one I mean to choose—if it does not grow too large before the time."
"Maybe you will not have to choose at all," said Harriet, "for Jessie may get it."
"Indeed she will not," said Mary.
"How do you know that?" asked Harriet, "only one month is gone. I wish she may get it."
"I do not think that is very kind of you," said Mary, "to wish that Jessie should get it instead of me, when you know I want the lamb so much."
"Why, Mary," said Harriet, "though you may not get it just at this particular time, you know your father would give you one afterwards if you asked for it, and poor Jessie may never have another chance to get one. Besides, I think it will do her a great deal more good than you."
"I do not see how," said Mary, still in a dissatisfied tone.
"Why," said Harriet, "you know she knits her own stockings, and her father has to buy wool—now, she could have the wool from her own lamb without paying any thing for it."
"I never thought of that," said Mary, earnestly, while I could not but smile at Harriet's forethought. "But, Harriet, I should like to get the lamb," said Mary, after thinking a while, "and then I could give it to Jessie, you know."
"But are you sure Jessie would take it from you?"
"Oh yes! I could make her take it," said Mary, confidently.
"I do not know that," said Harriet, "if her grandmother told her not; and you know Aunt Kitty told us Mrs. Graham never would take any thing for herself when she was very poor."
"Well," said Mary, in a perplexed tone, "what shall I do?—for I want her to have it now as much as you do, since you put me in mind how much good it will do her. Oh! I will tell you, Harriet, what I will do; I will not study at all, and so I cannot get any merit cards, and I will stay out late, and get all the blanks."
As I did not quite approve of Mary's very ingenious plan for obliging Jessie, I stepped up and said, "Do you think that would be quite right to your papa and Miss Bennett, who are trying by the offer of this reward to make you more studious and punctual?"
"Well, what shall I do, Aunt Kitty?"
"Do your best, my dear, to win the reward, and let Jessie do the same. The habits you are thus forming will be of far more consequence to you than the lamb to Jessie."
"But I want Jessie to have it," said Mary, whose generous feelings had now been excited; "besides, I do not think it is a fair trial, for Jessie has so little time to study."
"Then, Mary, suppose you and Harriet go every day and help her in her work at home, so that she may have more time for study."
"So we will," said Mary, with great animation, "that is a real good plan; and I will tell you what, Aunt Kitty, I will study and get the tickets, since you say I ought, but before Miss Bennett counts them, I will make Jessie take some of my merit cards, and I will take some of her blanks, so as to be sure that she will have the most; so, you see, I will have the good habits, and she will have the lamb too. Will not that be clever?"
"Very clever on your part, Mary, but I hope you will not find it easy to make Jessie do a thing which in her would be very wrong. Better lose the lamb than be dishonest."
"Dishonest, Aunt Kitty!"
"Yes, Mary, would it not be dishonest in Jessie to get the lamb by making your father and Miss Bennett believe that tickets which are in reality yours, have been won by her."
Mary looked quite grave for a minute, then brightening up, said, "Well, Harriet, at any rate it is not wrong to help Jessie, so I will come for you to-morrow morning."
"Very well," said Harriet, "I will go with you, and when we have done all the work, I will help Jessie get her lessons; so, maybe, she may have the most tickets without taking yours."
Mary colored, and though she said nothing, I could not help thinking that she would rather Jessie should get the lamb by any other means than by having the most tickets.
The next morning Mary came over quite early for Harriet, and they ran to Mr. Graham's full of glee; but they had been gone a very little while, when they came back looking quite vexed. On my asking what was the matter, Mary answered, "That cross Mr. Graham would not let us do any thing."
"Why, Mary, I never heard Mr. Graham called cross before."
"Well, Aunt Kitty, he was cross, for Jessie was very glad to see us, and wanted us to help her pick strawberries, and he would not let us do it, but said we would tread on the vines,-as if we never picked strawberries before."
"Perhaps, Mary, you never did pick them where it was so important to be careful of the vines. You know Mr. Graham's garden is his only means of support. But had Jessie nothing else to do which you could have done for her?"
"I do not know," said Mary, "we were so vexed that we would not ask to do any thing else."
"Do not saywe, Mary," said Harriet, "for I would have asked old Mrs. Graham to let me count the eggs and feed the chickens, which Jessie said was all she had to do besides picking the strawberries, before school, but you were so angry and talked so loud, that I thought it was better to come away."
Mary looked very much ashamed, and hung her head, as she said, "Well, Aunt Kitty, it is very hard when we mean to do good to be scolded for it."
"And did Mr. Graham scold you, Mary?"
"He looked cross at us, Aunt Kitty, if he did not scold."
"Mr. Graham might have looked not very well pleased, at the thought of having his fine strawberry-plants trampled, and still have felt obliged by your kind feelings to Jessie. But I fear that my little niece must have been thinking more of herself than of Jessie, more of the credit which Mary Mackay deserved, than of the assistance she was going to give, or she would not, because she found one service declined, have been unwilling to offer to help her friend in some other way."—As I spoke I put my arm around Mary and drew her to me.—"Was it not so, Mary?"—she hid her face on my shoulder and was silent,—"Think of it, Mary, and tell me if I am right."
In about a minute Mary raised her head, and said very frankly, "Yes, Aunt Kitty, I believe you are right; and now, if Harriet will go with me, I will go back and see if we can do any thing else for Jessie."
But Harriet exclaimed, "We need not go, Mary, for here is Jessie herself; and now we will tell her what we meant to do, and if she would like it, we will go to-morrow."
Jessie was much pleased with the kind intentions of her young friends, and assured them that they could help her very much, for they could count the eggs, feed the chickens, and put the kitchen pantry in order, all which she generally did before coming to school. From this time Jessie was able to study more, and with Harriet's aid, her lessons were well learned. Still she gained few merit cards, for Mary studied too, and was very punctual, seeming quite in earnest about the prize, which she nevertheless declared, steadily and positively, would be Jessie's. At this declaration Jessie only laughed, but Harriet seemed quite puzzled, saying that she knew by Mary's looks she had some plan in her head. And so it proved she had. The two months which had seemed to Mary, when her father first named them, so long, were ended at last. Two days before the tickets were to be counted by Miss Bennett, Mary begged Jessie to bring hers with her to school, that she might see how many they would each have before they were given in.
"It is of no use, Mary," said Jessie, "for I know exactly how many I have, and I know you have more than twice as many merit cards."
"I know I have more than twice as many blanks," said Mary, "but that is nothing, Jessie. I want to see your cards, and I think you might bring them when I ask you."
"And so I will bring them, Mary," said Jessie; and when she came the next morning she brought a neat little box, which she held up to Mary as soon as she came in sight, calling out, "Here are my cards."
"That is right, Jessie," said Mary; "now you must leave them with me, and to-morrow morning they will be here ready for you."
"Well, Mary," said Jessie, as somewhat reluctantly she gave them up, "take care of them, because though I cannot get the lamb I would like Miss Bennett to see that I have been careful of my cards as she wished us to be."
Mary promised, and put the box very carefully into a basket where her own cards were kept.