Miss Margaret reading in the library.
Many of the leaves in "Mahometanism Explained" were torn out, but enough remained to make me imagine that Ishmael was the true son of Abraham. I read here, that the true descendants of Abraham were known by a light which streamed from the middle of their foreheads, and that Ishmael's father and mother first saw this light streaming from his forehead as he was lying asleep in the cradle.
I was very sorry so many of the leaves were gone, for it was as entertaining as a fairy tale. I used to read the history of Ishmael, and then go and look at him in the tapestry, and then return to hishistory again. When I had almost learned the history of Ishmael by heart, I read the rest of the book, and then I came to the history of Mahomet, who was there said to be the last descendant of Abraham.
If Ishmael had engaged so much of my thoughts, how much more so must Mahomet! His history was full of nothing but wonders from the beginning to the end. The book said that those who believed all the wonderful stories which were related of Mahomet were called Mahometans, and True Believers; I concluded that I must be a Mahometan, for I believed every word I read.
At length I met with something which I also believed, though I trembled as I read it; this was that, after we are dead, we are to pass over a narrow bridge, which crosses a bottomless gulf. The bridge was described to be no wider than a silken thread; and all who were not Mahometans would slip on one side of this bridge, and drop into the tremendous gulf that had no bottom. I considered myself as a Mahometan, yet I was perfectly giddy whenever I thought of passing over this bridge.
One day, seeing the old lady who lived here totter across the room, a sudden terror seized me, for I thought how she would ever be able to get over the bridge. Then, too, it was that I first recollected that my mother would also be in imminent danger. I imagined she had never heard the name of Mahomet, because, as I foolishly conjectured, this book had been locked up for ages in the library, and was utterly unknown to the rest of the world.
All my desire was now to tell them the discovery I had made; for I thought, when they knew of the existence of "Mahometanism Explained," they would read it, and become Mahometans to insure themselves a safe passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted more courage than I possessed to break the matter to my intended converts. I must acknowledge that I had been reading without leave; and the habit of never speaking, or being spoken to, considerably increased the difficulty.
My anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. I was so ill that my mother thought it necessary to sleep in the same roomwith me. In the middle of the night I could not resist the strong desire I felt to tell her what preyed so much on my mind. I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged she would be so kind as to be a Mahometan. She was very much alarmed;—she thought I was delirious, and I believe I was; for I tried to explain the reason of my request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that she could not at all comprehend what I was talking about.
The next day a physician was sent for, and he discovered, by several questions that he put to me, that I had read myself into a fever. He gave me medicines, and ordered me to be kept very quiet, and said he hoped in a few days I should be very well; but as it was a new case to him, he never having attended a little Mahometan before, if any lowness continued after he had removed the fever, he would, with my mother's permission, take me home with him to study this extraordinary case at leisure. He added, that he could then hold a consultation with his wife, who was often very useful to him in prescribing remedies for the maladies of his younger patients.
In a few days he fetched me away. His wife was in the carriage with him. Having heard what he said about her prescriptions, I expected, between the doctor and his lady, to undergo a severe course of medicine, especially as I heard him very formally ask her advice as to what was good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after he had handed me into his carriage.
She studied a little while, and then she said, a ride to Harlow Fair would not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her opinion, because it suited him to go there to buy a horse.
During the ride they entered into conversation with me, and in answer to their questions, I was relating to them the solitary manner in which I had passed my time, how I found out the library, and what I had read in that fatal book which had so heated my imagination,—when we arrived at the fair; and Ishmael, Mahomet, and the narrow bridge vanished out of my head in an instant.
Before I went home the good lady explained to me very seriously the error into which I had fallen. I found that, so far from "Mahometanism Explained" being a book concealed only in this library, it was well known to every person of the least information.
The Turks, she told me, were Mahometans. And she said that, if the leaves of my favorite book had not been torn out, I should have read that the author of it did not mean to give the fabulous stories here related as true, but only wrote it as giving a history of what the Turks, who are a very ignorant people, believe concerning Mahomet.
By the good offices of the physician and his lady, I was carried home, at the end of a month, perfectly cured of the error into which I had fallen, and very much ashamed of having believed so many absurdities.
Mary Lamb.
A view of the old house.
Among the Persians there is a sect called the Sooffees, and one of the most distinguished saints of this sect was Abdool Kauder.
It is related that, in early childhood, he was smitten with the desire of devoting himself to sacred things, and wished to go to Bagdad to obtain knowledge. His mother gave her consent; and taking out eighty deenars (a denomination of money used in Persia), she told him that, as he had a brother, half of that would be all his inheritance.
She made him promise, solemnly, never to tell a lie, and then bade him farewell, exclaiming, "Go, my son; I give thee to God. We shall not meet again till the day of judgment!"
He went on till he came near to Hamadan, when the company with which he was travelling was plundered by sixty horsemen. One of the robbers asked him what he had got. "Forty deenars," said Abdool Kauder, "are sewed under my garment." The fellow laughed, thinking that he was joking him. "What have you got?" said another. He gave the same answer.
When they were dividing the spoil, he was called to an eminence where their chief stood. "What property have you, my little fellow?" said he. "I have told two of your people already," replied the boy. "I have forty deenars sewed up carefully in my clothes." The chief desired them to be ripped open, and found the money.
"And how came you," said he, with surprise, "to declare so openly what has been so carefully hidden?"
"Because," Abdool Kauder replied, "I will not be false to my mother, whom I have promised that I will never conceal the truth."
"Child!" said the robber, "hast thou such a sense of duty to thy mother, at thy years, and am I insensible, at my age, of the duty I owe to my God? Give me thy hand, innocent boy," he continued, "that I may swear repentance upon it." He did so; and his followers were all alike struck with the scene.
"You have been our leader in guilt," said they to their chief, "be the same in the path of virtue!" and they instantly, at his order, made restitution of the spoil, and vowed repentance on the hand of the boy.
Juvenile Miscellany.
Encounter with the sixty horsemen.
Harry and Frank had a hearty cry when an ill-natured neighbor poisoned their dog. They dug a grave for their favorite, but were unwilling to put him in it and cover him up with earth.
Jip the dog.
"I wish there was one of the Chinese petrifying streams near our house," said Frank. "We could lay Jip down in it; and, after a while, he would become a stone image, which we would always keep for a likeness of him."
Harry, who had been reading about the ancient Egyptians, remarked that it was a great pity the art of embalming was lost.
But Frank declared that a mummy was a hideous thing, and that he would rather have the dead dog out of his sight forever, than to make a mummy of him.
"It seems very hard never to see him again," said Harry, with a deep sigh.
"But perhaps Jip has gone to some dog-heaven; and when we go to the boys' heaven, we may happen to see our old pet on the way."
"If he should get sight of us he would follow us," said Frank. "He always liked us better than dogs. O yes, he would follow us to the boys' heaven, of that you may be sure; and I don't think boys would exactly like a heaven without any dogs. Mother, what kind of a placeisa boys' heaven?"
His mother, who had just entered the room, knew nothing of what they had been talking about; and, the question being asked suddenly, she hardly knew what to answer.
She smiled, and said, "How can I tell, Frank! You know I never was there."
"That makes no difference," said he. "Folks tell about a great many things they never saw. Nobody ever goes to heaven till they die; but you often read to us about heaven and the angels. Perhaps some people, who died and went there, told others about it in their dreams."
"I cannot answer such questions, dear Harry," replied his mother. "I only know that God is very wise and good, and that he wills we should wait patiently and humbly till our souls grow old enough to understand such great mysteries. Just as it is necessary that you should wait to be much older before you can calculate when the moon will be eclipsed, or when certain stars will go away from our portion of the sky, and when they will come back again. Learned men know when the earth, in its travels through the air, will cast its long dark shadow over the brightness of the moon. They can foretell exactly the hour and the minute when a star will go down below the line which we call the horizon, where the earth and the sky seem to meet; andthey know precisely when it will come up again. But if they tried ever so hard, they could never make little boys understand about the rising and the setting of the stars. The wisest of men are very small boys, compared with the angels; therefore the angels know perfectly well many things which they cannot possibly explain to a man till his soul grows and becomes an angel."
"I understand that," said Harry. "For I can read any book; but though Jip was a very bright dog, it was no manner of use to try to teach him the letters. He only winked and gaped when I told him that was A. You see, mother, I was the same as an angel to Jip."
His mother smiled to see how quickly he had caught her meaning.
After some more talk with them, she said, "You have both heard of Martin Luther, a great and good man who lived in Germany a long time ago. He was very loving to children; and once, when he was away from home, he wrote a letter to his little son. It was dated 1530; so you see it is more than three hundred years old. In those days they had not begun to print any books for children; therefore, I dare say, the boy was doubly delighted to have something in writing that his friends could read to him. You asked me, a few minutes ago, what sort of a place the boys' heaven is. In answer to your question, I will read what Martin Luther wrote to his son Hansigen, which in English means Little John. Any boy might be happy to receive such a letter. Listen to it now, and see if you don't think so.
"To my little son, Hansigen Luther, grace and peace in Christ."My heart-dear little Son: I hear that you learn well and pray diligently. Continue to do so, my son. When I come home I will bring you a fine present from the fair. I know of a lovely garden, full of joyful children, who wear little golden coats, and pick up beautiful apples, and pears, and cherries, and plums under the trees. They sing, and jump, and make merry. They have also beautiful little horses with golden saddles and silver bridles. I asked the man thatkept the garden who the children were. And he said to me, 'The children are those who love to learn, and to pray, and to be good.' Then said I, 'Dear sir, I have a little son, named Hansigen Luther. May he come into this garden, and have the same beautiful apples and pears to eat, and wonderful little horses to ride upon, and may he play about with these children?' Then said he, 'If he is willing to learn, and to pray, and to be good, he shall come into this garden; and Lippus and Justus too. If they all come together, they shall have pipes, and little drums, and lutes, and music of stringed instruments. And they shall dance, and shoot with little crossbows.' Then he showed me a fine meadow in the garden, all laid out for dancing. There hung golden pipes and kettle-drums and line silver crossbows; but it was too early to see the dancing, for the children had not had their dinner. I said, 'Ah, dear sir, I will instantly go and write to my little son Hansigen, so that he may study, and pray, and be good, and thus come into this garden. And he has a little cousin Lena, whom he must also bring with him.' Then he said to me, 'So shall it be. Go home, and write to him.'"Therefore, dear little son Hansigen, be diligent to learn and to pray; and tell Lippus and Justus to do so too, that you may all meet together in that beautiful garden. Give cousin Lena a kiss from me. Herewith I recommend you all to the care of Almighty God."
"To my little son, Hansigen Luther, grace and peace in Christ.
"My heart-dear little Son: I hear that you learn well and pray diligently. Continue to do so, my son. When I come home I will bring you a fine present from the fair. I know of a lovely garden, full of joyful children, who wear little golden coats, and pick up beautiful apples, and pears, and cherries, and plums under the trees. They sing, and jump, and make merry. They have also beautiful little horses with golden saddles and silver bridles. I asked the man thatkept the garden who the children were. And he said to me, 'The children are those who love to learn, and to pray, and to be good.' Then said I, 'Dear sir, I have a little son, named Hansigen Luther. May he come into this garden, and have the same beautiful apples and pears to eat, and wonderful little horses to ride upon, and may he play about with these children?' Then said he, 'If he is willing to learn, and to pray, and to be good, he shall come into this garden; and Lippus and Justus too. If they all come together, they shall have pipes, and little drums, and lutes, and music of stringed instruments. And they shall dance, and shoot with little crossbows.' Then he showed me a fine meadow in the garden, all laid out for dancing. There hung golden pipes and kettle-drums and line silver crossbows; but it was too early to see the dancing, for the children had not had their dinner. I said, 'Ah, dear sir, I will instantly go and write to my little son Hansigen, so that he may study, and pray, and be good, and thus come into this garden. And he has a little cousin Lena, whom he must also bring with him.' Then he said to me, 'So shall it be. Go home, and write to him.'
"Therefore, dear little son Hansigen, be diligent to learn and to pray; and tell Lippus and Justus to do so too, that you may all meet together in that beautiful garden. Give cousin Lena a kiss from me. Herewith I recommend you all to the care of Almighty God."
The brothers both listened very attentively while that old letter was read; and when their mother had finished it, Frank exclaimed, "That must be a very beautiful place!"
Harry looked thoughtfully in the fire, and at last said, "I wonder who told all that to Martin Luther! Do you suppose an angel showed him that garden, when he was asleep?"
"I don't know," replied Frank. "But if there were small horses there with golden saddles for the boys, why shouldn't Jip be there, too, with a golden collar and bells?"
"Now, wouldn't that be grand!" exclaimed Harry. And away they both ran to plant flowers on Jip's grave.
L. Maria Child.
Bessie in her garden.
Above all things, Bessie loved flowers, but wild flowers most. It seemed so wonderful to her that these frail things could find their way up out of the dark ground, and unfold their lovely blossoms, and all their little pointed leaves, without any one to teach or help them.
Who watched over the dear little wild flowers, all alone in thefield, and on the hillside, and down by the brook? Ah, Bessie knew that her Heavenly Father watched over them; and she loved to think he was smiling down upon her at the same time that his strong, gentle hand took care of the flowers and of her at once. And she was not wrong, for Bessie was a kind of flower, you know.
One day the little girl thought how nice it would be to have awildgarden; to plant ever so many flowering things in one place, and let them run together in their pretty way, until the bright-eyed blossoms should gaze out from the whole tangled mass of beautiful green leaves.
So into the house she ran to find Aunt Annie, and ask her leave to wander over on a shady hillside where wild flowers grew thickest.
Yes, indeed, she might go, Aunt Annie said; but what had she to carry her roots and earth in while making the garden?
O, Bessie said, she could take a shingle, or her apron.
Aunt Annie laughed, and thought a basket would do better; they must find one. So they looked in the closets and attics, everywhere; but some of the baskets were full, and some were broken, and some had been gnawed by mice; not one could they find that was fit for Bessie's purpose.
Then dear Aunt Annie poured out the spools and bags from a nice large work-basket, and told Bessie she might have that for her own, to fill with earth or flowers, or anything she chose.
Pleased enough with her present, our young gardener went dancing along through the garden,—Aunt Annie watched her from the balcony,—dancing along,—and crept through a gap in the hedge, and out into the field, that was starred all over with dandelions, and down the hollow by the brook, and up on the hillside, out of sight among the shady trees.
And how she worked that afternoon,—singing all the while to herself as she worked! How she heaped together the rich, dark mould, and evened it over with her little hands! How she dug up roots of violets, and grass, and spring-beauty, and Dutchmen'sbreeches, travelling back and forth, back and forth, never tired, never ceasing her song.
The squirrels ran up out of their holes to look at Bessie; the birds alighted over her head and sang.
While Bessie was bending over her garden so earnestly, thump! came something all at once, something so cold and heavy! How quickly she jumped upon her feet, upsetting her basket, and making it roll down the hill, violet-roots and all!
And then how she laughed when she saw a big brown toad that had planted himself in the very centre of her garden, and stood there winking his silly eyes, and saying, "No offence, I hope!"
The squirrel chattered as if he were laughing too; the bird sang, "Never mind, Bessie, never mind; pick up your violets, and don't hurt the poor old toad!"
"O no; it's God's toad; I shouldn't dare to hurt him," said Bessie.
Just at that moment she heard a bell ringing loudly from her father's house. She knew it was calling her home; but how could she leave her basket! She must look for that first; the hillside was steep and tangled with bushes, yet she must make her way down and search for the lost treasure.
Hillside tangled with bushes.Hillside tangled with bushes.Hillside tangled with bushes.
"Waiting, waiting, waiting!" suddenly sang the bird, from out of sight among the boughs; "waiting, Bessie," sang the bird.
"True enough," said Bessie; "perhaps I'm making my mother or dear Aunt Annie wait,—and they are so good! I'd better let the basket wait; take care of it, birdie!—and none of your trampling down my flowers, Mr. Toad!" And she climbed back again from bush to bush, and skipped along among the trunks of the great tall trees, and out by the brook through the meadow, hedge, garden,—up the steps, calling, "Mother, mother! Aunt Annie! who wants me?"
"I, dear," said her mother's voice; "I am going away for a long visit, and if you had not come at once, I couldn't have bidden my little girl good by." So Bessie's mother kissed her, and told her to obey her kind aunt, and then asked what she would like brought home for a present.
"O, bring yourself, dear mother; come home all well and bright," said Bessie, "and I won't ask any more." For Bessie's mother had long been sick, and was going now for her health.
Her mother smiled and kissed her. "Yes, I will bring that if I can, but there must be something else; how would you like a set of tools for this famous garden?"
Bessie's eyes shone with joy. "What! a whole set,—rake, and hoe, and trowel, such as the gardener uses?"
"Exactly, only they'll be small enough for your little hands; and there'll be a shovel besides, and a wheelbarrow, and a water-pot."
So Bessie did not cry when her mother went away, though she loved her as well as any one possibly could. She thought of all the bright things, of the pleasant journey and the better health; and then,—then of her pretty set of tools, and the handsome garden they would make!
It was too late to go back to the hill that evening; and on the morrow Bessie awoke to find it raining fast. She went into her Aunt Annie's room with such a mournful face. "O aunty, this old rain!"
"This new, fresh, beautiful rain, Bessie; what are you thinking about? How it will make our flowers grow! and what a good time we can have together in the house!"
"I know it, Aunt Annie, but you'll think me so careless!"
"To let it rain!"
"No,—don't laugh, aunty,—to leave your nice basket out-of-doors all night, and now to be soaked and spoiled in this—this—beautiful rain." Bessie's countenance did not look as though the beautiful rain made her very happy.
And good Aunt Annie, seeing how much she was troubled, only said, "You must be more careful, dear, another time; come and tell me all about it. Perhaps my Bessie has some good excuse; I can see it now in her eyes."
"Yes, indeed, I have," said Bessie, wiping away her tears. And the little girl crept close to her aunty's side, and told her of her beautiful time the day before, and of the bird, and squirrel, and toad; and how the basket rolled away down hill in the steepest place, and then how the bell rang, and she couldn't wait to find it.
"And you did exactly right, dear," said Aunt Annie. "If you had lingered, your mother would have had to wait a whole day, or else go without seeing you. When I write, I shall tell her how obedient you were, and I know it will please her more than anything else I shall have to say."
Dear Aunt Annie, she had always a word of excuse and of comfort for every one! Bessie was too small to think much about it then. She only pressed her little cheek lovingly against her aunty's hand, and resolved that, when she grew up to a young lady, she would be just as kind and ready to forget herself as Aunt Annie was.
Ah, it was not Bessie's lot to grow up to a woman in this world! Before the ground was dry enough for her to venture out in search of her basket, she was seized with a fever, and in a few days shut up her sweet eyes, as the flowers shut their leaves together, and never opened them again.
Then the summer passed, and the grass grew green and faded, and snow-flakes began to fall on a little grave; and Aunt Annie quietly laid aside the set of garden tools that had come too latefor Bessie's use, and only made her mother feel sad and lonely when she looked upon them now. And all this time, what had become of the basket?
As it fell from Bessie's hands that bright spring afternoon, it had lodged in a grassy hollow, that was all wound about, like a nest, with roots of the tall birch and maple trees; close among the roots grew patches of the lovely scented May-flower; and all the rest was long fine grass, with a tiny leaf or a violet growing here and there.
The roots in the basket dried away, and died for want of water; but the earth that Bessie had dug with them was full of little seeds, which had been hiding in the dark for years, awaiting their chance to grow.
Broader and darker grew the leaves on the shady boughs above, higher and higher grew the grass, and all but hid Bessie's basket. "Coming, coming, coming!" the bird sang in the boughs; but Bessie never came.
So the summer passed; and when autumn shook the broad leaves from the trees, and some went whirling down the hill, and some sailed away in the brook, some lodged in Bessie's basket; a few to-day, and a few the next day, till the snow came, and it was almost full to the brim.
Sometimes there would come a hoar-frost, and then it was full of sparkling flowers so airy that the first sunbeam melted them, but none the less lovely for that; and they melted, and went down among the leaves, and seed, and sand, and violet-roots.
In spring the May-flowers perfumed the hollow with their sweet, fresh breath; but no one gathered them. The leaves and the grass nestled close to Bessie's basket, as if they remembered her; and drops of rain dripped into it from the budding boughs, and sparkled as they dropped, though they were full of tiny grains of dust and seed; and thus another summer passed, and no one knew what had become of Bessie's basket.
The bird sang, "Coming, coming!" but she never came.
So the third spring came round; and Aunt Annie was puttingher closet in order one day, rolling up pieces, and clearing boxes, and smoothing drawers, when she came upon a little bundle. It was the bags, and work, and spools of thread—all old and yellow now—which she had poured out that morning in spring, in order to give the basket to her little niece.
"Dear child!" said Aunt Annie, "why have I never looked for the lost basket? The poor little garden must be swept away, but it would be pleasant to go where her sweet footsteps trod on that happy afternoon."
So she went, all by herself, in the same direction which she had watched Bessie take; and it seemed as if the little one were skipping before her through the garden, the gate,—the gap in the hedge was not large enough for Aunt Annie,—across the meadow that shone again with starry dandelions, along by the brook, and up the hill, till she was lost from sight among the trees.
How sweet and fresh it was in the lonely wood, with the birds, and the young leaves, and starry wild flowers, and patches of pretty moss! Did Bessie wait here and rest? Did she climb this rock for columbines? Did she creep to the edge of this bank, and look over?
So Aunt Annie seated herself to rest among the moss and roots and leaves; she picked columbines, climbing by help of the slender birch-trees; she went to the edge of the bank, and looked down past all the trees, and stones, and flowers, to the little brook below. And what do you think she saw?
What do you think made the tears come in Aunt Annie's eyes so quickly, though she seemed so glad they must have been tears of joy?
After a while Aunt Annie turned to go home. Why did she put the boughs aside so gently, and step so carefully over the soft moss, as if she feared making any sound. Can you think?
She found Bessie's mother seated at work with a sad face, and her back turned towards the window.
"O," said Aunt Annie, "how dark the room is, with all these heavy curtains! and how still and lonesome it seems here! Youmust come this moment and take a walk with me out in the sunshine; it will do you good."
Bessie's mother shook her head. "I don't care for sunshine to-day; I would rather be lonely."
Then Aunt Annie knelt by her sister, and looked up with those sweet eyes none could ever refuse. "Not care for sun, because our dear little Bessie has gone to be an angel! O, you must see the field all over buttercups and dandelions, like a sky turned upside down,—it would have pleased her so! and you must see the brook and woods; and then I have such a surprise for you, you'll never be sorry for laying aside your work."
"Is it anything about Bessie?" the mother asked, as they went down the steps, out into the bright, beautiful sunshine.
"Yes, yes! Everything makes you think of her to-day; I can almost see her little footsteps in the grass. A bird somewhere in the wood sung her very name,—and so sweetly, as if he loved her,—'Bessie, Bessie, Bessie,' as if he were thinking of her all the while!"
They reached the wood soon, for Aunt Annie seemed in haste, and hurried Bessie's mother on; though she had grown so happy all at once, that she wanted to wait and look at everything,—the little leaves in the ground, and the grass-blades, and clover, and bees even, seemed to please her.
When you find people sad, there is nothing in all the world so good as to take them out in the sun of a summer day. You must remember this; it is better than most of the Latin prescriptions doctors write.
When they were fairly within the wood, at the brow of the steep bank, Aunt Annie parted the branches with both her hands, and said, "You must follow me down a little way; come."
O, as Aunt Annie looked back, it seemed as if she had brought all the sunshine in her dear face! "Don't think of being afraid," she said; "why, Bessie came down here once! I have found her basket, I've found her beautiful garden!"
Yes, that was the secret! You remember the spot into whichBessie's basket fell; all intertwined like a bird's-nest with roots of the great tall trees; all green and soft with the fine grass that grows in the woods. Here it had lain ever since. Here it was.—
But you cannot think how changed! The violet-roots, the leaves, dust, rain, frost, seed,—you remember how they filled it, and withered to leave room for more, day by day, week by week.
Now these had mingled together, and made rich earth; and the seeds had grown, the tiny seeds, and were dear little plants and flowers, that hung about the edge, and crept through the open-work sides, with their delicate green leaves, and tendrils, and starry blossoms!
Violet, chickweed, anemone, spring-beauty, and dicentra, that children call "Dutchman's breeches," with its pearly, drooping flowers,—these had tangled into one lovely mass of leaves and blossoms, just such as would have made our Bessie sing for joy.
Yet you have not heard the best; Aunt Annie's footsteps on the moss would not have disturbed these. Right in the midst of the flowers in Bessie's basket a little gray ground-sparrow had built her nest of hair and moss, and there she was hatching her eggs! As they drew nearer, the little bird looked up at the ladies with his bright brown eye, and seemed to say, "Don't hurt me; don't, for Bessie's sake!"
No, they would not hurt Bessie's bird for the whole wide world. They went quietly home, and left him there watching for his mate, who had flown up towards the sky to stretch her wings a little.
Slowly, hand in hand, the sisters passed once more through the wood. They could not bear to leave so sweet a place. And all the while Bessie's bird sang to them his strange song, "Coming, coming, coming!" They heard it till the wood was out of sight.
"Yes, there are always good things coming as well as going," Aunt Annie said, softly, "if we are patient and wait. The dear child's basket has grown more useful and lovely because she lost it that bright day."
"And our lost darling?" Bessie's mother began to ask, and looked in Aunt Annie's eyes.
"Our Bessie's flowers do not fade now; there is no cold winter in heaven; she cannot lose her treasures there. And hasn't she grown more useful and lovely, living among the angels all this while?"
Then, from afar in the woods, they heard the low, sweet voice, that thrilled forth, "Coming, coming!" and Bessie's mother smiled, and said, "She cannot come to us, but we soon shall go to her; and O, our darling's hand in ours, how gladly shall we walk in the Eternal Garden!"
Caroline S. Whitmarsh.
Bessie's mother at peaceful rest.
My friend Jacques went into a baker's shop one day to buy a little cake which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him. He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he waited for his change, a little boy six or eight years old, in poor, but perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker's shop. "Ma'am," said he to the baker's wife, "mother sent me for a loaf of bread." The woman climbed upon the counter (this happened in a country town), took from the shelf of four-pound loaves the best one she could find, and put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jacques then first observed the thin and thoughtful face of the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the round, open countenance of the great loaf, of which he was taking the greatest care.
"Have you any money?" said the baker's wife.
The little boy's eyes grew sad.
"No, ma'am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it to-morrow."
"Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jacques came forward for his money. He had put his purchase into his pocket, and was about to go, when he found the child with the big loaf, whom he had supposed to be half-way home, standing stock-still behind him.
"What are you doing there?" said the baker's wife to the child, whom she also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"
"O yes, ma'am!" said the child.
"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a scolding."
The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.
The baker's wife went up to him, and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. "Whatareyou thinking about?" said she.
"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is it that sings?"
"There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"
My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing, unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers' houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the bread sings when it bakes, as apples do."
"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets. They sing in the bakehouse because we are lighting the oven, and they like to see the fire."
"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"
"Yes, to be sure," said she, good-humoredly. The child's face lighted up.
"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would like it very much if you would give me a cricket."
"A cricket!" said the baker's wife, smiling; "what in the world would you do with a cricket, my little friend? I would gladly give you all there are in the house, to get rid of them, they run about so."
"O ma'am, give me one, only one, if you please!" said the child, clasping his little thin hands under the big loaf. "They say that crickets bring good luck into houses; and perhaps if we had one at home, mother, who has so much trouble, wouldn't cry any more."
"Why does your poor mamma cry?" said my friend, who could no longer help joining in the conversation.
"On account of her bills, sir," said the little fellow. "Father is dead, and mother works very hard, but she cannot pay them all."
Child with the box of crickets and the great loaf.
My friend took the child, and with him the great loaf, into his arms, and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile the baker's wife, who did not dare to touch a cricket herself, had gone into the bakehouse. She made her husband catch four, and put them into a box with holes in the cover, so that they might breathe. She gave the box to the child, who went away perfectly happy.
When he had gone, the baker's wife and my friend gave each other a good squeeze of the hand. "Poor little fellow!" said they both together. Then she took down her account-book, and, finding the page where the mother's charges were written, made a great dash all down the page, and then wrote at the bottom, "Paid."
Meanwhile my friend, to lose no time, had put up in paper all the money in his pockets, where fortunately he had quite a sum that day, and had begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the little cricket-boy, with her bill receipted, and a note, in which he told her she had a son who would one day be her joy and pride.
They gave it to a baker's boy with long legs, and told him to make haste. The child, with his big loaf, his four crickets, and his little short legs, could not run very fast, so that, when he reached home, he found his mother, for the first time in manyweeks with her eyes raised from her work, and a smile of peace and happiness upon her lips.
The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black things which had worked this miracle, and I do not think he was mistaken. Without the crickets, and his good little heart, would this happy change have taken place in his mother's fortunes?
From the French of P. J. Stahl.
Branches with leaves
Portrait of Bernardin de Saint Pierre.
On the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above Port Louis in the Mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former cultivation, are seen the ruins of two small cottages. Those ruins are situated near the centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only toward the north. On the left rises the mountain, called the Height of Discovery, whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches the verge of the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel approaches the island. At the foot of this mountain stands the town of Port Louis. On the right is formed the road, which stretches from Port Louis to the Shaddock Grove, where the church bearing that name lifts its head, surrounded by its avenues of bamboo, in the midst of a spacious plain; and the prospect terminates in a forest extending to the farthest bounds of the island. The front view presents the bay, denominated the Bay of the Tomb; a little on the right is seen the Cape of Misfortune;and beyond rolls the expanded ocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited islands, and, among others, the Point of Endeavor, which resembles a bastion built upon the flood.
At the entrance of the valley which presents those various objects, the echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the winds that shake the neighboring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of the waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs; but near the ruined cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet the eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. Large clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even on their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. The showers, which their bold points attract, often paint the vivid colors of the rainbow on their green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the little river which flows at their feet, called the river of Fan-Palms.
Within this enclosure reigns the most profound silence. The waters, the air, all the elements, are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat the whispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points of which are gently agitated by the winds. A soft light illumines the bottom of this deep valley, on which the sun shines only at noon. But even at break of day the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and their sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints of gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky.
Here two mothers, widowed by death and desertion, nursed their children, with the sight of whom the mutual affection of the parents acquired new strength.
Madame de la Tour's child was named Virginia; her friend Margaret's, Paul. They loved to put their infants into the same bath, and lay them in the same cradle; and sometimes each nursed at her bosom the other's babe.
"My friend," said Madame de la Tour, "we shall each of us have two children, and each of our children will have two mothers."
Nothing could exceed the attachment which these infants earlydisplayed for each other. If Paul complained, his mother pointed to Virginia, and at that sight he smiled and was appeased. If any accident befell Virginia, the cries of Paul gave notice of the disaster, and then the dear child would suppress her complaints when she found that Paul was unhappy. When I came hither, I used to see them tottering along, holding each other by the hands and under the arms, as we represent the constellation of the Twins. At night these infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the same cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms, pressed close together, their hands thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping locked in one another's arms.
When they began to speak, the first names they learned to give each other were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer appellation. Their education served to increase their early friendship, by directing it to the supply of each other's wants. In a short time, all that regarded the household economy, the care of preparing the rural repasts, became the task of Virginia, whose labors were always crowned with the praises and kisses of her brother. As for Paul, always in motion, he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed him with a little hatchet into the woods; and if in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, fine fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of a tree, he would climb up, and bring it home to his sister.
When you met one of these children, you might be sure the other was not far off. One day, as I was coming down the mountain, I saw Virginia at the end of the garden, running toward the house, with her petticoat thrown over her head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. At a distance, I thought she was alone; but as I hastened toward her, in order to help her on, I perceived that she held Paul by the arm, almost entirely enveloped in the same canopy, and both were laughing heartily at being sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. Those two charming faces placed within the swelling petticoat recalled to my mind the children of Leda enclosed within the same shell.