Harry Peters had to cross the common one evening in the dark, and, though his father had sent him to post a letter, he could not get on, for he saw a ghost, as he fancied, in the garden near the lane, and his hair stood almost on end. There it was, rising white and spectral before him with outstretched, slowly moving arms. Harry uttered a piercing shriek, for the boys at school had told him some dreadful ghost stories, and he quite expected to be carried off by those ghostly beckoning arms. His father was very vexed that he had lost the post, and would not believe he had seen a ghost.
"There are no such things," he said; "light the lantern and we'll drive your ghost away. Some silly boy has been frightening you."
Harry's big brother declared he would pay the boy out for shamming ghosthood, and so the three went together, followed by the dog, barking loudly.
And what do you think Harry's ghost turned out to be? The white shirt belonging to the cobbler, which his wife had hung up to dry in their back garden.
Harry has left off believing in ghosts now; and if ever he sees one again, he intends to go right up to it, and find out all about it, instead of running away.
Artless Anglers
I.
Three little trots made up their mindsThat they would fishing go,For there were fish within the brook,Their brothers told them so.Some pins and thread and withes they took,Likewise a lump of dough.
II.
The eldest of these little trotsWas seven if a day,And deem'd herself a trusty guideBecause she knew the wayThat led down to the waterside,Where fish for catching lay!
III.
Each quickly into proper shapeBent up the fatal pin,And tied it carefully with threadUpon a withy thin.Then little Bell the eldest said:"We're ready to begin!"
IV.
They cast their lines into the brook,And watch'd with careful eyesIn case some finny feeder mightBe taken by surprise,And tempted be to have a bite,Not being overwise!
V.
For hours they sat, but sport had none,Yet ceas'd not watch to keep;Then little Bell remark'd I thinkThey must be all asleep!Their hopes at last began to sink,The eldest wish'd to weep!
VI.
Still on they sat most patiently,Scarce murm'ring at their fate,When all at once cried little Bell,"Stupidity I hate!I see the reason very well,We quite forgot the bait!"
VII.
Too true! the dough lay there untouch'dAmong the grass and mould;And now 'twas time they home should go,As chimes distinctly told;Moreover rain came on, and soThey only caught a cold!
E. Oxenford.
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Colombo, as most of my readers will remember, is in Ceylon, that beautiful island lying to the south of India.
You would think the people very funny, seeing them for the first time. The man in the picture, who is walking with the little English girl, is a Hindu, and probably you have often seen pictures like him. Nearly all the servants and laborers in Colombo are Hindus from Madras, but the natives of the island are called Cingalese, and are very different in every way.
The men wear their hair in a big knob at the back like a woman, and on the top of that is fastened a comb, shaped like a half-circle, with the ends pointed to the face. The whole costume is a mixture of native and English fashions. The usual hat is a little round felt one, such as you may see any day on boys at home, and which you have perhaps yourself. The next garment is also what you might expect to see on a man; that is, a cloth coat, or rather shooting-jacket; but after that comes a long flowing skirt, which you certainly would not see on any man or boy at home. The Cingalese men bestow a good deal of attention on this skirt. Poorer people have it made in white or blue calico, but others use very handsome India stuffs, which must have cost a lot of money.
The heat in Colombo is very great, and the roads are very dusty. No wonder the people often feel hot and tired, and are very glad to lie down and take a little sleep when they can. They also cool themselves by standing in some pools near the town. The cattle do the same, and you can just see the heads of the buffaloes and of the men above the level of the water. They stand that way for an hour or two, perfectly still; but the little children who go in keep jumping about and splashing each other.
You may see in this picture the fruit shops in the native quarter of the town, and bunches of bananas or plantains hanging up. Other shops sell grain, which the people chiefly live upon. It is nothing unusual to see the grain merchant lying fast asleep on the top of his store of rice or other grain. Outside many houses stands a wooden bedstead, and the old people lie there asleep a great part of the day. The Cingalese are said to be very kind to old people, which is a very good trait in their character. I wish they were a little kinder to their animals, but they never seem to think that poor bullocks have any feeling at all. The carts in Colombo are drawn by bullocks, and they have a very hard time of it. The rope used as reins is passed through a hole bored through their nostrils, and a heavy beam of wood rests on their backs. Worse still, they are branded all over, not only with the owner's initials, but with all sorts of fanciful ornamental figures; the cruel people who do this never caring what the unfortunate animals suffer while it is being done. The houses are often painted outside with animals and birds in the brightest colors; and some of these wall pictures are so absurd that strangers always stop to look and laugh at them.
"Ho! 'Hamed!dear'Hamed, youwilllet me ride Prince Albert Victor, won't you?"
The speaker was a little, brown, black-eyed boy, with dark tangled locks under his old red fez, and clad in a dirty white cotton garment, who was coaxing a tall Egyptian lad in a very irresistible way. Children coax much the same all the world over, to get their way, be they white or black or brown. In this case little Hassan got his. And what was it he wanted?
'Hamed, an Egyptian donkey-boy, was leaving home early in the morning as usual, leaving his dim, dirty quarters in the native part of Cairo for the European part of the city. And with him, as usual, was going Prince Albert Victor.
Prince Albert Victor was only a donkey, a very nice, strong, well-fed Egyptian donkey, but nothing more, in spite of his grand name. But all the Cairo donkeys which stand about the streets for hire have very grand names given to them by their owners to attract the European tourists. For instance, some boy will call his donkey by an American name—such as Washington, or Yankee-doodle—that the American travellers may fancy him. Another, with a view to a Frenchman or an Englishman, will christen his animal President Carnot or Lord Salisbury. 'Hamed had called his Prince Albert Victor; for he found a royal name very popular, not only with English travellers, but with the red-coated British soldiers who pervade the streets of Cairo.
Now, little Hassan wanted, as usual, to ride Albert Victor down from his home to his habitual waiting-place in front of one of the big hotels. It was such a delight to him to thrust his bare brown feet into the stirrup-leathers (his legs were too short to reach the stirrups), and, clutching Albert Victor's bridle, and sitting very erect, to fancy himself very grand indeed as they slowly passed down the dim alleys of their native town.
It was a glorious day, such a blue sky, such a bright sun, so different from winter in our dull, foggy England, that little Elfreda felt very happy as she looked out of the hotel window on such new and strange sights.
"It seems like stories out of the Bible, mother," she cried, gazing at the Eastern dresses, the queer-looking figures, the donkeys, and the camels. For Elfreda and her mother had only lately come to Cairo for the winter, for the mother's health, and everything was still wonderful to her.
"Where shall we go to-day?" she added. "To the mosques, or through the bazaars, or out a long way into the country by the river? Quick, mother; let me call some donkey-boys, and let's be off."
"There's that little tiny boy just ridden up, he who comes every morning with the big one! Imusthave his donkey again!"
And Elfreda clapped her hands, and cried, "'Hamed!"
There were fifty 'Hameds, donkey-boys (it is a very common name). But though several came up, they all knew that it was our friend who was called.
"See," said little Hassan (he had jumped off Albert Victor and stood behind him), "there is the same 'zit'" (English lady) "clapping again, she who hired you yesterday and the day before; and with her the little 'zit' with the long hair. Hurry, 'Hamed! I'm sure she means you!"
Hassan was right. In a few minutes Elfreda was mounted on Albert Victor, and was patting his gray neck and long ears.
"He'ssucha nice donkey, mother; heaps nicer than the dull, tired donkeys I ride when we go to the seaside! He's got some go about him! Why, he can canter almost as nicely as my pony at home, and 'Hamed has to run to keep up with him! I should just like to take him back to England for a pet!"
"I wonder what little Hassan would say," remarked her mother. "He would miss his daily ride on Albert Victor, and I don't think he would be very happy in England in that costume. The village boys would jeer at him!"
"Well, perhaps the ponyisthe best to ride at home, and Albert Victor here," considered Elfreda; "for certainly itisvery crowded and noisy for any one not used to it," she added.
For they were now in the native town, on their way to the shops, there to bargain for Oriental curiosities. It was a ceaseless delight to Elfreda. She bought slippers for her uncle, a fan for her little sister at home, and queer pots to decorate the schoolroom. Elfreda would have lingered longer, but it was now time to return to lunch at the hotel.
A little girl once went home to her mother and said, "Mother, while sister and I were out in the garden, there was some boy mocking us. I was calling out 'Ho!' and the boy said, 'Ho!' So I said to him, 'Who are you?' and he answered, 'Who are you?' I said, 'Why don't you show yourself?' He said, 'Show yourself!' And I ran into the woods, but I could not find him; and I came back and said, 'If you don't come out I will throw a stone at you!' And he said, 'I will throw a stone at you!'"
So her mother said, "Ah! Nellie, if you had said, 'I love you,' he would have said, 'I love you.' If you had said, 'Your voice is sweet,' he would have said, 'Your voice is sweet.' Whatever you said to him, he would have said back to you. When you grow and get to be a woman, whatever you say to others, they will, by and by, say back to you." And her mother took her to that old text in the Scripture, "With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again."
"Come, Kathie! It is time to go home!"
It was Mother who called: she had been sitting for the last hour under the shade of the old pier, whilst little Kathie ran hither and thither on the beach, sometimes paddling a little, sometimes building sand castles.
"Come, Kathie!" Mother called again; "it is late; come here and I will put on your shoes and socks."
Still Kathie did not move, but sat staring at the sea, but with a look in her eyes which told plainly enough that her thoughts were far away. She was as a rule a good, obedient child, but to-day she seemed almost as if she was afraid to come. Mother got up from her seat, and went towards the little one.
"Did you not hear me, Kathie?" she began; then in an altered voice, "But, my child, where is your hat? Put it on at once, the sun is so hot."
Kathie hung her head, then the tears gathered in her eyes, and at last rolled quickly down her cheeks. "I haven't got a hat," she sobbed. "I gave it away. Are you vexed, Mother?"
Mother was puzzled. She sat down by Kathie and took her on her lap. "Don't cry," she said gently, "but tell me to whom you gave it."
"It was to a poor woman," said Kathie; "she asked me for it for her little girl, and so I took it off and gave it to her, but afterwards—"
"Afterwards you remembered that you should have asked Mother first," said Mother gravely.
"Yes," said Kathie. "But, Mother, the woman was poor; we ought to give to the poor, ought we not?"
"Yes, Kathie, but we must only give that which is our very own. Now, the hat was not yours to give away; I bought it for you, to shade you from the hot sun."
"Oh, Mother!" interrupted Kathie, "then I cannevergive to the poor, for little children have nothing of their own." Kathie's lip trembled, and she was very near crying at this thought.
"I will tell you what is your own to give," said Mother consolingly, "that is your time. All children have a great deal of time to do as they like in, and I can show you how you can use that time for the poor."
"Oh, mother! how? I can't sew nearly well enough to make anything for them."
"No, I don't mean sewing. I will give you an old pillow-case, and you must fill it with very little bits of torn, not cut, paper, and when it is full I will cover it for you with a case of pretty print, and then it will make a soft pillow for old Mrs. Timms, or any one else you like to give it to. It will take both time and patience to tear the paper; and when it is finished it will be your own work, and you may give it away."
"Yes, I see," said Kathie. "That will be my own work. I shall like that."
"As you grow older you will have money and other things which you can give away, but even then you will find that your best gifts will be those you have spent time and love over; those two things are the possession of the poorest of us, and yet they are worth more than gold and silver. Now, Kathie, we must go and buy you a new hat, for you cannot walk home in this heat without one; and another time when you give away anything you must remember to be just before you are generous."
Kathie thought Mother very kind not to be vexed about the hat; but Mother remembered what a little girl Kathie was, and she hardly expected her to be able to refuse, when a bold, sturdy woman asked for the hat off her head.
TRAVELLERS' TALES
They say there is a country where the snow never falls,And sliding is a game they never knew:They never saw a lakePaved with ice that wouldn't break.I would rather stay in England,wouldn't you?They say there is a country where the sun never sets.But goes on shining all night through.And you needn't go to bed,For there's always light oerhead.That's a country I should like,wouldn't you?They say there is a country where they all talk French.I can't imagine what they ever do!For who for all their chatter,Can understand such patter?I should answer "speak in English"wouldn't you?They say there is a country where the clergymen are blackAnd the language sounds like "choke-a-cockatoo."And the niggers sit in rowsWith hardly any clothesI should like to go and look,wouldn't you?They say there is a country where the women cannot walk,And everything is made of bam-booAnd the people's eyes are wee,They live on rice and tea.I should like to go and see them,wouldn't you?They say there is a country where the elephants are wild,And never even heard of our Zoo.And through the woods they roamLike gentlemen at home.I should like to go and peep,wouldn't you?
F. W. HOME
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"I wonder if I could trust you children to go out alone this morning," said Mrs. Ferrars. "I don't want to deprive nurse of her holiday, and I must see Cousin Lily: she is not so well to-day."
"Oh! yes, mother," cried Dolly and Ralph together. "May we go on the ice?"
"Well, it is just because I said you might, that I feel a little anxious," said Mrs. Ferrars, stroking Dolly's fair hair. "My Dolly sometimes forgets mother's wishes for her own; still, as it is the last day at home, I feel inclined to trust you."
"Of course, mother," said Ralph confidently, "I'll take care of Dolly; all the boys will be there, and heaps of people we know."
"You won't skate beyond the point?" said mother; "never mind if the others do or not; remember you are both on your honor."
Full of delight, the children bounded off, skates in hand, and soon arrived at the gay scene by the frozen lake. The ice was already crowded with skaters, big and little, and Ralph and Dolly espied two or three of their friends as busy as themselves fastening on skates.
The band played, the sun shone, and merry voices and laughter echoed through the frosty air.
"Let's have races!" cried Frank, one of Ralph's schoolfellows. "You take your sister, I'll take mine."
They all four flew across the ice, backwards and forwards again and again, Frank and his sister winning at every turn.
"Now change partners," said Frank, pairing off with Dolly, "perhaps that will be fairer."
"I'm rather tired of going over the same road," said Dolly presently, as she and Frank stood resting, while the other two ran a short race by themselves. "It looks so lovely out there. A broad sheet of ice without any one on it, and all the trees at the foot of the terrace bending over the lake. See, Frank, icicles are hanging from every twig; wouldn't you like to go close to them?"
Ring Happy Bells Across the SnowRing Happy Bells Across the Snow
Ring Happy Bells Across the Snow
"Perhaps it isn't safe," replied Frank. "No one seems to venture so far; I shouldn't wonder if the ice were thin."
"But our weight would be nothing on such a great space," urged Dolly. "I don't mean far off, only just beyond the point."
Mother's words came back to her, but mother did not know. She was not there to see how beautiful it all was, and of course Dolly did not mean to run into danger.
They began skating near the point. Again Dolly turned towards the terrace.
"Oh, Frank! I must," she said. "I see a long icicle like a sword with a hilt; it's on a low branch—you can reach it for me." She sped away, and Frank followed. In a moment they were side by side, and close to the coveted icicle. As Frank raised himself to grasp it, he saw a thin stream of water welling up from beneath the ice on to the bank. He seized Dolly's hand. "Back, back!" he cried wildly. "The ice is giving, we shall go in." Away they fled. The ice creaked, but their weight was light, and once more the point was gained in safety.
"Dolly," said Ralph, hurrying up to his sister, "have you forgotten what mother said?"
"No," replied Dolly, trying to laugh, though really ready to cry after the fright she had undergone; "but mother isn't here to see the icicles. I wanted one for her, and—"
"We are on our honor," said Ralph, "and I trusted you too, when you went off with Frank."
Dolly's tears began to fall. "I won't tell tales of you," said Ralph. "Perhaps I am partly to blame, I ought not to have left you. Come and skate with me, now."
"I don't want to. I'll go home," said Dolly.
Mother did not come back to lunch. She sent round a note to say she was staying with Lily; and by and by when she returned, her heart was so full of sorrow for the suffering child that she forgot to ask about the morning's pleasure. If Dolly was silent, mother thought it was from sympathy with herself.
The next day school began. All thoughts of skating were banished; there was a prize to be fought for, and Dolly had set her heart on winning it.
Somehow the spirit that had hitherto animated her now failed. The world seemed all out of tune. Again and again she was on the point of confessing her wrong-doing, as mother bent above her for a good-night kiss. But weeks passed, and still the words remained unspoken. Ralph never mentioned the ice; yet Dolly fancied he had loved her less since that morning.
"You musn't be too anxious about the prize, Dolly, darling," said her mother, noticing the tired face, "or I am afraid you will fall ill from worry. I am quite glad to think the breaking-up party is to-morrow. Mind, dear, I shall not be disappointed if you fail. I can trust my child, and I know she has done her best."
Dolly flushed crimson. Her mother trusted her, and imagined she knew every thought of her childish heart. How little mother knew the misery Dolly was enduring!
All was excitement at the school. The prize-giving only took place once a year, and many and great were the hopes and fears on that eventful day. Some girls were of opinion that Dolly would carry off the coveted prize, others that she had lost ground of late, and failed utterly. Dolly, quite aware of her shortcomings, was yet vaguely longing for success. Her rival in the class was older and cleverer than herself, but without the perseverance that characterized Dolly, therefore Dolly hoped on until the prize-giving began.
Everything passed as in a dream, until Dolly's class was mentioned, when Miss Danvers, the head mistress, in a short speech declared that the prize had been won, after a severe struggle, by Lucy Trevor. At the same time she was giving a special prize, because of the good conduct and perfect uprightness and truth of the unsuccessful competitor. This prize she awarded to Dolly Ferrars. She held up a beautiful Bible, bound in white vellum.
"This is the prize of honor," she said.
Dolly's heart stood still. She had forgotten her disappointment about the class prize in an overwhelming sense of shame.
"Go up, Dolly," said mother proudly.
"I can't," said Dolly. "I—I—"
"Go on, darling," said mother, gently pushing her. And Dolly went.
In silence she accepted the Bible, and laid it on her mother's knee.
"I am so tired," she said.
"We will go now," whispered mother. "The excitement has been too much for you."
They slipped quietly away and returned home.
"Mother!" cried Dolly, as they were alone. "Oh, mother dear, I can't take that prize, I don't deserve it. I have failed in truth and honor. I am so miserable!"
Mrs. Ferrars, bewildered at Dolly's words, soothed her while she poured out the story of her conduct on the ice.
"And I have no right to the prize," she said. "What shall I do?"
"We will return it to Miss Danvers," said mother, gently; "at least for a time." She looked very pale and sad. "But, darling," she added, as she folded Dolly in her arms, "if you are really sorry and have through repentance learned to conquer in the fight between right and wrong, you are still a winner of the true prize of honor!"
The WAVES.
A pert little wave by the sea-shore one day,Came dashing along in its impudent way;A wee little maiden was straying too near.Said the wavelet—I'll catch you my child, never fear,"I will carry you home to a bed in the sea,"I will rock you as snug as on Mother's own knee."But the child answered merrily, Mother is near,"So dash away, splash away, I do not fear"Dash away, splash away, back to the sea,"Mother is keeping her watch over me."A cruel wave rolled o'er the night clouded sea,And the sailors were fearful as e're they could be,The vessel lay tossing, the north wind blew drear,Said the wave, "I will rock you to sleep, never fear,"But a brave tar looked up, with a light in his eye,And a swift prayer was sent thro the threatening skyTo his heart came the answer, in voice, sweet and clear,"Ye shall weather the tempest true heart, never fear."Splash away, dash away, danger is past,The vessel is anchored, in harbour at last.
M. I. H.
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"Oh, Claude, do look at that poor woman! Doesn't she look ill! I don't believe she can drag that great pail of salt water up the beach. There, she's let it drop! all the water is spilt, and she is leaning against the boat. I must go and see if I can help her."
So spoke kind-hearted little Elsie, but Claude pulled her back.
"Don't, Elsie! The woman will be all right directly, and we don't know anything about her."
"But she's in trouble," urged Elsie. "See how she trembles, and you know, Claude, what we heard on Sunday at the catechising."
Claude could not but remember, for it was only yesterday that the clergyman had told his little hearers to try and sympathize with any one in trouble. "Let them realize by your sympathy that you remember that we are all one great family—all one in Christ."
So he let go of Elsie's hand, and she went up to the half-fainting woman and asked her if she wanted anything.
"No, thank you," said the woman, looking gratefully at her little bare-legged questioner (Elsie was in her shore dress—or rather undress—and with tucked-up petticoats and huge sun-bonnet was supposed to be secure from any evil effects of either water or sun). "I shall be better presently," she continued; "it's only my side; it hurts me so when I fetch the salt water. It's for the little invalid boy at the Red House there. I'm his nurse, and the doctor has ordered a salt-water bath for him every day, and it hurts me to drag the water up this steep beach; only I don't want any one there to know it, as they might send me away as not strong enough, and I must earn money, for I've a sick mother at home."
"Oh, I know we can help you in that," cried Elsie. "You sit still, and let me carry your empty pail to the top of the beach; it's only a step from there to the Red House, and then we'll bring our little pails full of water and soon fill yours."
The nurse would have remonstrated, but Elsie had run off with the pail, and she really felt too ill to follow her.
The tide was low that morning, and the salt water lay beyond a good stretch of sand, so that Elsie had no light work before her; and after the sands, there was the steep beach to climb, and somehow when she was at the top her bucket seemed to have but little water in it. However, she toiled bravely to and fro, and Claude, who would not help at first, was touched by her industry. Of course, he would not own to such feelings, and indeed was too proud, saying to Elsie that she was spilling half her water! "Here,I'llshow you how to carry a bucket!" And after that he worked with her, and with Claude's big bucket the pail was soon filled. By this time the nurse was better, and able to carry the pail across the road into the Red House.
"I'll never forget your kindness as long as I live," she gratefully declared. "I might have been your own sister by the way you've behaved to me."
"How funny of her to say that," whispered Elsie to her brother; "it seems as though she must have been at the catechising too. Perhaps she knows we ought to try to be all one in Christ."
And Claude, boy-like, only nodded his assent.
Ben was visiting his cousin Hugh in the country, and they had been having a glorious time getting chestnuts. They started early in the morning, taking their dinners with them that they might have all day in the woods. There had been a sharp frost the night before, and the boys had a merry time as the wind rattled the brown chestnuts down on their heads. Bags and pockets were soon full to overflowing, and after eating their lunch by the brook they started for home.
"Now for a feast of roast chestnuts," said Ben, as they sat down by the fireplace, after the good warm supper which Hugh's mother had ready for them. "I will roast them and you can pull off the shells when they are done."
What fun it was to see the nuts jump around in the shovel Ben was using for a roaster, till their brown shells burst open with the heat!
"We will roast a whole bagful," said Hugh, "then there will be some for sister Lucy."
To be sure, Hugh burnt his fingers, and Ben dropped some chestnuts into the fire, but they only laughed the merrier. Lucy joined them after she had finished helping her mother with the work, and together they ate the chestnuts and played games till bedtime came, when they all agreed it had been one of the happiest days of their lives.
I and my little sisters are very fond of the sparrows who come to our garden to eat the crumbs that we throw out for them. We find our cat also likes them, but in a different way. We have been able to rescue several little ones from it, but have never been able to rear them, as they have generally died two or three days after. However, a little while ago we saved one poor little bird from pussy, and placed it in a cage and fed it, as it was too young to look after itself. The cage was placed in my bedroom, with the window open, and we suppose the chirrup of the little prisoner was heard by its parents, and we were pleased to see one of them fly into the room and carry it food. As they seemed so anxious, and we thought they knew better than we how to feed it, we placed the little thing on the window sill, watching near it to prevent it meeting with any accident, as it was too young to fly more than a few yards by itself. It had scarcely been there a few seconds before its mother flew down to it and chattered, as we thought scolding it, but we suppose she was only giving it directions, for the young one laid hold of the mother's tail with its little beak, and, with that assistance, was able to fly away.
We watched until it was out of sight, and were very glad to think that the parents had recovered their little one, about which they had shown such anxiety.
The Showman's Dog.
"Poor little chap!" the showman said,"Your day at last is done,No more you'll fly at Punch's head,Or cause the Clown to run,Poor little chap! you're weak, too weakTo join the Peepshow fun!""Out of the road I picked you up,'Tis years and years ago,Your leg was badly injured, pup,Run over as you know.I bound the limb, and took you home,And soon you join'd the Show.""Many a mile we've tramped, old dog,And many a place we've seen,And you where'er our feet might jog,Have faithful ever been.And rarely a rough or angry wordHas come our lives between.""Toby I wish that you could speak,One word in answer say,No! e'en to bark you are too weak,Or you would still obey.I know not what the show will doWhen you have passed away!"Lovingly then poor Toby creptTowards his master's sideAnd licked his hand—the Showman wept!For less things men have cried!And there full grateful to the lastHis old companion died.
E. Oxenford.
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The children had played all through the long afternoon, and the room was turned topsy-turvy.
Toys were strewn all over the floor; furniture was pulled out of place; and the legs of the chairs were entangled with a long kite-tail that they had begun to make.
Presently Raymond said with a start, "Didn't you hear mother say, 'Put the room tidy'?"
"No," answered Ralph; "nobody spoke; it was only because you saw what a state the room was in that you thought you heard her; and itisvery untidy; we had better put it straight."
"Yes, let us put it straight," said Raymond, "for I know I did hear mother tell us to."
So the two set to work and sorted the toys, and put them away in the cupboard; then they began to try to disentangle the twine of the kite-tail that was twisted round the chairs.
"Oh, dear! this is tiresome!" cried Raymond, as he bent his sunny head over the task.
"It does hurt my fingers!" said Ralph, knitting his dark brows.
Presently Raymond looked up with a beaming face.
"I know mother is looking at us all the time," he said; "I can feel she is smiling!"
Ralph looked round the room. "She is not here," he answered, "it is only the sunlight through the window."
"I know I can't see her," said Raymond again, "but I can feel she is smiling."
Then they were silent, and went on with their work.
"It is bedtime, little boys," said mother, coming in.
"But we have not finished," they cried together.
"Mother and nurse will do the rest," said mother. "You've both done very well."
"Mother, weren't you watching us all the time?" asked Raymond eagerly.
"Yes," she answered, smiling; "I was in the garden, and could see through the window my two little sons; Raymond was quick to obey when he heard my voice, and Ralph did what he knew I should wish, though he did not know I was able to see him."
And Mother put her arms round the children, and the sunny head and the dark head nestled softly on her bosom, and the eyelids drooped, for the day had been long and the sun had gone down.
"But I wish I had known you were there," murmured Ralph.
"NURSERY TENNIS.""NURSERY TENNIS."
"NURSERY TENNIS."
"Do be quiet, Charlie!" "Leave off talking!" "Silence, sir!" These words were addressed to Charlie in vain, whether at home or school. He talked at meals, at class, in church; his little tongue was always at work, and yet it never seemed weary. Even if his mother had a headache, Charlie rattled on; if his father wanted to read or write quietly he had to go apart from Charlie, for there was no peace in the presence of the chatterbox. Of course he was a dunce, for how could he chatter and learn as well? And you may be sure he made plenty of mischief, for tongues that are always on the move do not keep to the exact truth sometimes when repeating what the ears have heard.
One day Grandfather said, "I really must teach that little tongue a lesson. If you can be silent for half an hour, Charlie, I will give you half-a-dollar." "Half-a-dollar! I'll earn it, grandfather." Charlie watched the clock and thought of tops and balls and kites and sweets and apples, and all the wonderful things half-a-dollar would buy; he had to keep silence till the clock had struck twelve, and just as the hand approached the hour he grew so excited with his success that he cried out, "There, I've done it! Please give me the money, grandfather." But Charlie never got that half-dollar, and I do not think such a chatterboxdeservedit. You have two ears and one tongue, children; listen quietly, pay attention, but do not always make your voice to be heard, else other people maygrow just a little tired of the sound.
On the side of one of the vine-clad hills of Italy dwelt a poor man with a large family. Though he was a hard-working man, he could only earn enough to poorly support his children, and to give them an education was beyond his power. He was an intelligent man, and though he had grown up without even learning to read, he wanted his children to have the advantages of schools and books, and he decided to seek for them a home in America. He saved all the money he could from his meagre earnings to pay the expense of the voyage. It was a hard struggle, and there were many days of stern self-denial and stringent economy ere the required amount could be obtained. When one has an earnest purpose, and bends his energies to accomplish it, he is quite sure of success. It was thus with this Italian family. Both father and mother were united in carrying out one fixed purpose,—to give their four children the advantages of a land of free schools,—and though their struggles were hard, yet they were working for their loved ones, and love lightens heavy burdens. There always comes pleasure from what is done for the benefit of others.
When all was ready they embarked from Genoa one evening, as the sunset sent a radiant glow over mountain and valley.
Silvio and Francesco were the youngest of the four children. The two eldest boys, like their parents, were sad at leaving their youthful companions, and sat in the stern of the ship and watched the receding hills till the rosy light faded, and darkness shut out from view their native land forever.
Silvio was nine years old, and Francesco two years younger. They did not realize the journey which was before them, nor did they regret at leaving. They were charmed with the novelty of the scenes around them. They watched the sailors in their duties about the ship, and listened to the captain's stern orders. The harbor was gay with the lights of the many crafts, large and small, which were gliding about over the placid surface of the gulf. So quiet were the waters that one would never dream that they could ever be ruffled, or cause the voyager discomfort. As their ship glided out of the placid Gulf of Genoa into the Mediterranean Sea all on board were anticipating a quick and prosperous voyage, and a safe landing on the bright shores of America.