That's the way I comforted myself, dear children, as I walked along home.
THE BOY PEDLAR.
Rain, rain, rain! How the drops come down! I wonder if anybody beside myself will get out doors to-day?
Ah, yes! There's a little boy, not much bigger than Tom Thumb. He's a little merchant, as true as the world, and has a box strapped on his back. Now he wants to sell me something.
"Corset lacings?" Never use such things, my dear.
"Paste blacking?" Wear patent leather.
"Ear-rings?" I leave those to the Indians.
"Combs? hooks and eyes? pins? needles? tape? scissors? spools?"
Oh, you little rogue—come in here; where did you come from, hey?
"I am an Englishman."
No, you are not.
"Well, my father was. I was born in Hamburgh."
That's it; now, how came you to be selling these things?
"I'm doing it to try to pay my own board. I pay ten shillings a week. My brother has gone to California. By and by, perhaps, he will come home, and send me to school. Buy anything, to-day, ma'am?"
Of course I shall. I haven't seen such an enterprising young man since I left off pinafores. I'll buy all the pins you have; for since I came here to New-York, I see so many things to make me sigh, that my hooks and eyes keep flying off like Peggotty's buttons. There—run along, now, and don't you come this way again, with that little glib tongue, and those bright eyes, or you'll empty my purse entirely!
Oh dear! oh dear, he is knocked down crossing the street; he's killed!
No he is not!—
Yes he is!—
No—he's up—safe and sound. Now he rubs the mud out of his eyes, and says, just as coolly as if he had not barely escaped with his skin.
"Where's my box?"
"Never mind the box," say the crowd, "as long asyouare not hurt."
"But Ido," said the little Dutchman, "for that's the way I get my living, selling these things. Oh dear—the box is broke, and everything is spoiled."
"Make up a purse for him," says a gentleman, passing round his hat.
Coppers, and shillings, and quarters, and half dollars flow into the hat, and finally a dollar bill.
"There," said the gentleman, smiling, "now take that home to your mother, my boy."
"My mother is dead," sobbed the child.
"Pass round the hatagain," said the gentleman—a tear in his eye.
The crowd responded with another handful of coppers and shillings and quarters.
Ah, little Hans, who is it who saith, "Leave thy fatherless children with me; I will preserve them alive?"
THE NEW COOK.
"What a funny new cook Mamma has!"
"Yes, and how she starts every time the bell rings, as if somebody were coming to catch her, and what a wild look she has in her eyes. She makes good cake, though, don't she, Louise? a great deal better than black Sally's;—and then Sally had such a temper! Do you remember how she sent the gridiron across the kitchen, after the chamber-maid, because she had mislaid the dish-cloth?—how Ididlaugh!"
"I remember it. But what do you suppose makes this new cook act so oddly when the bell rings? I heard Mamma say she was 'one of the nervous sort.' It would be good fun to play a trick on her and frighten her; wouldn't it? You know the dark entry by the parlor door, Louise?"
"Yes."
"Well, you know there are plenty of old clothes, and things, hanging up there, and she has to pass by them, when she goes up and down stairs."
"Yes."
"Well, suppose we hide behind those coats, and just as she comes along, both of us make a spring at her?—won't that be fun?"
"Capital!" said Louise, "but won't Mamma punish us?"
"Of course, if she finds us out; but we mustn'tgetfound out. What is the use of having feet, if you can't scamper with them? Betsey of course will be too frightened to see who did it, and before anybody else comes, we shall get out of the way."
The new cook, "Betsey," whom these two little sisters were talking about, was a widow. Her husband was an industrious, temperate man, a carpenter by trade. He loved Betsey very much, and they lived in a snug, comfortable little house, which they hoped to be able to buy some day, when Tom had earned money enough at his trade.
Betsey made Tom a good wife. Ifheworked hard in the shop,sheworked hard in the house. Everything was just as neat as a new pin. You might have eaten off her floors, they were scrubbed so white and clean. There were no finger marks on her doors or windows, no broken panes of glass, with paper or rags stuffed in, to keep out the air, and her closets and cupboards would bear looking at, in the brightest sunlight that ever found its way into a kitchen. Her dishes and tumblers never stuck to your fingers; her table never had on soiled table-cloths; her walls were never festooned with cobwebs; her hearth never was littered with ashes. Well might Tom work cheerfully forsucha wife; for he knew that every penny he saved, and gave her, was put to the best possible use. It didn't go for tawdry finery, I can tell you; and she knew how to turn a coat for Tom, or re-line the sleeves, or seat a pair of pants, as nicely as a tailor.
Tom was a good looking fellow. He had a fine broad chest, and a straight, well formed figure; a large, clear, black eye, and a fine Roman nose, besides a set of teeth that would have made a dentist sigh. The truth was Tom was one of Nature's gentlemen; he always did and said just the right thing, and made everybody about him feel perfectly satisfied with the world in general, and himself in particular.
Well, they lived together as contented as two oysters. Tom didn't grit his teeth when a carriage rolled by with a rich man in it, or when another man passed him in a finer suit of broadcloth than his own. Not he. He stepped off to his shop, on the strength of Betsey's nice coffee and biscuit, as grand as the President. Why not? He owed nobody a cent, and that's more than many a man can say, who would knock you down as quick as a flash, if you should intimate he wasn't agentleman.
One fine day, Tom proposed to Betsey to go a fishing, he said she needed something of that sort, by way of change, for she was quite worn out. Betsey said, "No, Tom, I am well enough; besides, the water will make me sick; but I wantyouto go; you and Phil Dolan; you need it more than I, a great deal."
Tom didn't like to go without Betsey; he didn't believe in husband's frolicking about, and leaving their poor tired wives to mend their old duds, at home. No; he knew that there is no woman, be she ever so kind and good, who does notsometimeswant to see something beside a mop, a gridiron, and a darning needle; so Tom said, "No, I'll think of some pleasure you can share with me."
But Betsey persuaded him to go without her. She fancied, (good kind soul,) that Tom was looking less well than usual, and the thought ofhisgetting sick, made her quite miserable; so Tom said he'd go. Then Betsey got Tom his fishing tackle, and put him up some biscuit, for he and Phil intended to get out on a little island to make some chowder; and then Tom——kissed her; (as true as you are alive, though she was hiswife!) and then he went for Phil, and they got into a little boat, and floated off down the river.
Betsey worked away, thinking all the time how much good the fresh air on the water was doing Tom. She got along very well through the forenoon; cleaning up the house, and putting things in place, till dinner-time; then how lonesome it was not to have Tom's handsome face opposite her! and nobody to say, "Betsey, dear, here's your favorite bit;" or, "Betsey, dear, where's your appetite to-day?" It made her so dull, that she couldn't eat her dinner.
I am sorry to say that Betsey had no darling little girl or boy, to climb up in her lap, and talk to her about papa. Betsey was sorry too, and so was Tom.
Well, the afternoon wore away. It was five o'clock;—time Betsey had begun to get tea, for Tom would soon be home. Let's see!—she would make some flap-jacks. Tom was fond of flap-jacks. She'd make him arealstrong cup of coffee: he liked that better than tea. She would cook him a bit of beef steak too, for she knew that fishing always gave people a good appetite. So she stepped around briskly, and spread her snow-white table-cloth, and put on her cups and saucers, and plates, and the castor—(yes, thecastoron theteatable! for they didn't care a pin for fashion); and when she had cooked her supper, she looked at the clock. Yes, it was quite time he was there; and then she looked out the front door, just as if she couldlookhim home.
An hour went by—an hour after the time he said he'd come; and Tom always punctual to the minute, too. Betsey grew nervous. Somebody rang the bell. She flew to the door. (Tom never rang the bell.) It was only a boy inquiring for the next neighbor. Betsey pulled a little wrinkle out of the table-cloth, set Tom's chair up to the table, and peeped into the coffee-pot. It was all right. He would soon be there. But somehow she couldn't keep still a minute. She had a great mind (if she were not afraid of being laughed at) to run down to Phil Dolan's brother's, to see if Phil had got back.
There's the bell again! Betsey trembled so she could hardly get to the door, though she couldn't tell why.
It is Phil's brother.
Why don't Betsey speak to him? Why don'thespeak to Betsey? Why are his lips so ashen white?
Poor Betsey! she knew it all; though he has not spoken a word.
Tom is drowned.
Phil lifts Betsey from the floor, chafes her hands, and speaks to her pitifully. Betsey does not answer: she does not even hear him.
By and by she comes to herself and opens her eyes. She sees the little supper table. She looks at Phil, and then she puts her hand over his mouth, and says, "Not yet, not yet."
Phil's kind heart is wrung with pity. He knows they will soon bring in Tom's dead body. He loved Tom. Everybody loved him. It was only that very morning that he left home so bright, so full of life. Poor Tom!
Dear children, you can imagine how poor Betsey hung, weeping, over her husband's dead body; how dreadful it was to see the earth close over it, and to leave her dear little happy home, and go out among strangers, with such a sorrowful heart, to earn her bread.
She heard that Minnie's mother wanted a cook; she called and Minnie's mother engaged her; and now, perhaps, you'd like to hear the end of the trick the two little girls were planning to play on poor, heart-broken Betsey. You know nowwhyshe started whenever a bell rang, andwhyher nerves were in such a state.
"Now is the time," said Minnie; "Betsey has just gone in after the tea-waiter. Quick! get behind the coat, Louise."
Betsey soon came out with the tea-tray of dishes, and Minnie and Louise jumped at her, from behind the coats, seizing rudely hold of her arm.
Betsey uttered a loud scream, and fell to the bottom of the stairs, with the tray of dishes; while Minnie and Louise, terrified at the broken dishes, ran off up chamber, to hide under the bed.
Minnie's mother had not gone out, as she supposed, and was the first to find Betsey, whose face was badly cut with the broken dishes, and who was taken up quite senseless.
The doctor came and bandaged Betsey's head, and said she might die. Their mother nursed her through a brain fever, and in her delirium, Betsey raved about her husband, and told, in fragments, all that her poor heart had suffered.
Minnie's mother, without saying a word to her little girls about their naughtiness, led them into the room and let them hear poor Betsey call for "Tom—dear Tom," to come and "pity and love her, and take the dull, weary pain out of her heart." And then they wept, and wanted to do something for Betsey, if it were only to bring her a glass of water to moisten her lips. After a long time, when their kind mother got nearly worn out with watching and nursing, Betsey got better. When she had quite recovered, their mother took her for a sempstress, and gave her a nice little comfortable room up stairs, with a fire in it, all to herself; and Minnie and Louise used to sit and read to her, and tell her over and over again, with their arms around her neck, how sorry they were they had been so wicked, and gave her nice books to read evenings, and tried to make poor Betsey's lonely life as happy as ever they could.
LETTY.
Did you ever hear of an Intelligence Office? Well, it's a place where servant girls go, to hear of families who wish to hire help. They pay the man who keeps the office something, and then he finds a place where they can work and earn money.
In one of these offices, one pleasant summer morning, twenty or more servant girls were seated,—some of them modest looking and tidily dressed, others bold and slatternly.
Wedged among them, in a dark corner, was a little girl about thirteen years old. Her face was pale, and her features, which were small and delicate, were half hidden by her thick, black hair. Her little hands were small and white, and from under her dress (which had evidently been made for some one else, as it was much too long and too wide for her) peeped as cunning a little pair of feet as you ever saw.
Little Letty—for that was her name—looked frightened and distressed. She had never been in such a place before, and it made her cheeks very hot to have those rude girls stare at her so. Then, the air of the room was very close, and that made her head ache badly; and she felt afraid that nobody would hire her, because she was so little. Her mother had died only a week before, and Letty had a drunken father,—so, you see, that, young as she was, she had to earn her own bread and butter.
LETTY.
LETTY.
By and by, a woman came in. Some people, I suppose, would have called her a lady, as she had on a silk dress, and a great many shiny chains and pins. Letty's mother was a lady, although she was poor. She had sweet, gentle manners, and a soft, low voice. Letty did not like Mrs. Finley's looks; she wore too many bows and flounces; and then her voice was loud and harsh, and her forehead had an ugly frown on it, that didn't go away even when she smiled and tried to look gracious. No, Letty didn't like her, and she almost hoped she wouldn't take a fancy to her, much as she needed a place to live in.
But Mrs. Finley liked Letty's looks; so she sailed across the room, with her six flounces, and asked her so many questions, in such a loud voice, that Letty was quite bewildered; then she heard her say to Mr. Silas Skinflint, who kept the office, that she would take her, and that it was a very nice thing that her mother was dead, for mothers were always bothering.
"Very nice that her mother was dead!"
Poor, little, desolate Letty couldn't bearthat. She hid her little face in her hands, and began to sob pitifully; but Mr. Skinflint tapped her on the shoulder with his cane, and told her that nobody would hire a cry-baby; so Letty sat up straight, and choked her tears down, and at a signal from Mr. Skinflint took up her little bundle and followed Mrs. Finley.
On she went, past a great many fine shops and fine houses, Letty keeping close behind her. Letty's head felt quite giddy, and she was very faint, for her naughty father had gone off, and poor Letty had had no breakfast that morning.
After turning a great many squares, Mrs. Finley went down a very narrow street, where a great many noisy, dirty children were playing on the sidewalks,—where a great many women were leaning (on their red elbows) out of the windows, and a great many coarse, rough men were sitting on the steps, smoking pipes, in their shirt sleeves.
At one of these houses Mrs. Finley stopped, and Letty followed her up the steps, through the entry, and into the parlor. A table stood in the middle of the floor, covered with dirty breakfast dishes, where myriads of flies were making a meal. A little baby with a pink nose and bald head, was playing on the floor with a head-brush and a skillet; while a boy, about Letty's age, was mopping out a sugar bowl with his fingers, and two little girls, in yellow pantalettes and pink dresses, were trying to hide away a dress cap of their mother's, which they had been cutting up for their dollies. On a side table were Mr. Finley's "shaving things," a dirty dickey, and sundry little bits of paper with floating islands of soap-suds, left there by his razor.
"Well—here we are at last," said Mrs. Finley, fanning herself with a great newspaper. "You see, Letty, there's plenty to do here. Now I'm going up stairs, to put on a calico long-short, and take a nap; and you are to wash these dishes, and put them in the closet; clear away the table; sweep the room and dust it; wash these children's faces, and keep them quiet; put some water in the tea-kettle and set it boiling; tend the door, and keep a look out for the milk-man.
"Ma'am?" said Letty, looking bewildered.
"M-a-'a-m"—mocked Mrs. Finley, "where's your ears, child? let's see if I can find 'em," and she gave Letty's little ear a smart pull.
"Please, ma'am, it is all so new to me," said Letty, trying to keep from crying; "will you please tell me where to find the broom to sweep with, or the water to wash the dishes, and which closet I am to put them in, and where's the towel to wipe the children's faces?"
"Oh—my—senses!" said Mrs. Finley, "what a little fool;—use your eyes a little more and your tongue less, and you'll find things, I guess; and now let me see every thing right end up when I come down stairs.Do you hear?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Letty, drawing a long sigh as Mrs. Finley closed the door.
"Came from the poor-house, didn't you?" said Master John Finley, cracking a whip over Letty's head. "Well, I'm glad you've come here at any rate; I haven't known what to do with myself all vacation. It will be prime fun, I'm thinking, to tease you, you little scared rabbit; and I'll tell you, to begin with, that my name is Mr. John Finley, and that I'm my mother's pet, and that whateverIsay is pretty likely to be done in this house;—so you'd better be careful and keep on the right side of me," said the wicked boy, as he gave her arm a knock, and sent the waiter of dishes out of her hand upon the floor.
"Oh! Master John," said Letty; "see what you have done—oh!"—and Letty wrung her little white hands.
"See whatI'vedone?" said John. "I like that, Miss Letty, or Hetty, or whatever you call yourself; but what's that string round your neck for?—what's on the end of it, hey?"—and he gave it a rude twitch, snapped it in two, and picked up a little locket that Letty wore in her bosom.
"Oh, Master John," said Letty, "give it back, do,—it's all I have to make me happy now,—my mamma gave it me when she died. She used to wear it once when she was rich. Oh, Master John, don't, please, take it away from me."
"Look here! cry-baby," said John, putting the locket in his jacket pocket, "you never'll see that locket again. I shall say, too, thatyoubroke all those dishes, and if you contradict it, I'll take that locket to a police-man, and tell him you stole it. Won't you look pretty going to jail with your long black curls? Answer methat, Miss Hetty Letty?"
Letty only answered by her sobs.
"What's all this?" said Mrs. Finley, opening the door; "one might as well try to sleep in Bedlam. Merciful man! who broke all those dishes? John Madison Harrison Polk! who broke all those dishes, I say?"
"I told her she'd catch it, mother, when you came down," said John; "see if she dare deny it?"
"Letty," said Mrs. Finley, seizing her by the shoulders and giving her a shake, "did you break that breakfast set?"
Letty thought of John, and the police-man, and the jail, and was silent.
"John," said Mrs. Finley, "go bring me your father's horse-whip from behind the kitchen door."
"Oh, Mrs. Finley," said Letty, growing very white about the mouth, and trembling violently all over; "don't whip me; my mamma never whipped me. Oh, mamma—mamma!"
Down came the heavy whip on Letty's fair head and shoulders;—"There—take that, and that, and that!" said Mrs. Finley, "and remember that I didn't take you into my house to quarrel with my children, and break up dishes; and now take yourself up into the dark garret, and get into bed, and don't you get up till Mr. Finley comes home to dinner, and let's see if he can manage you."
Letty pushed her hair from before her eyes, and staggered to the door; then, up the stairs where they told her, into the garret; then, she groped her way to bed; then, she laid her head on the pillow; but she didn't cry—no—not even when she thought of her mamma,—the tears wouldn't come; but her head was very hot, and her hands burning. There she lay, hour after hour, talking to herself about a great many things; and had it been light enough you would have seen how flushed her cheeks were, and how very strangely her eyes looked.
"The child has a brain fever," said the Doctor to Mrs. Finley.
"No wonder," said the wicked woman, "she had such a dreadful fall down the cellar stairs. You see how she bruised her face and neck."
The Doctor looked very sharp at Mrs. Finley—so sharp that she stooped down, pretending to pick something from the floor, that he needn't see her blush.
"I don't know how I am to nurse a sick child," grumbled Mrs. Finley; "there's John Madison Harrison Polk, and Sarah Jenny Lind, and Malvina Cecelia Victoria, and Napoleon Bonaparte, four children of my own to look after. It's a hard case, Doctor."
"Not so hard a case as little Letty's," said the kind Doctor. "Those bruises never came from falling down stairs, Mrs. Finley; that child has been cruelly abused. Imaytell of it, and I maynot,—that depends upon whether she lives or dies; but I am going to take her home to my own house, and see what good doctoring can do for her. She looks like my little dead Mary, and for her sake I'll be a father to her."
So Letty was carried on a litter to Doctor Harris' house; and there, for a great many weeks, she lay in her little bed, quite crazy—her beautiful hair shaved off, and her little head blistered to make her well. The Doctor's wife was a sweet, kind lady;—shethought, too, that "Letty looked like her little dead Mary," and often, when she held her little burning hand, the tears would come to her eyes, and she would pray God to let her live, for she had no child to love now, and she wanted Letty for her own little girl.
Well, after a long, long while, Letty's senses came slowly back. She put her little hand to her forehead and tried to remember what had happened;—she didn't know what to make of the nice, pretty room, and soft bed with its silken curtains;—she thought she was dreaming, and rubbed her eyes and looked again, and then hid her face in the sheet for fear she should see Mrs. Finley, or John, or the police-man;—and then Mrs. Harris put her finger on Letty's lip and told her not to talk now, because she was sick and weak, but that she was always going to live with her, and be, not her servant, but her own dear little girl; and then Letty kissed Mrs. Harris' hand, and shut her eyes, and went to sleep as quietly as if she were on her mother's bosom.
By and by, little by little, she got strong and well again; her checks grew plump and rosy; her hair came out in little black, curls all over her head, and she was just the happiest little girl—as happy as you are when you climb on your mother's lap and kiss her, as if you never wanted to stop.
She had a little room of her own, close by her new mother's, with a cunning little bed, and wash-stand, and bureau, and rocking chair. She had plenty of playthings, too,—(not little Mary's, for mothers can't give away their little children's playthings when they are dead.) Letty had playthings of her own;—but sometimes, Mrs. Harris would unlock a little trunk, and show her a little cake, all dried up,with the marks of tiny little teeth in it; and a slate on which was a word left unfinished by little Mary; and a little chest of doll's clothes, with such nice little womanly stitches in them; and a little fairy thimble; and then the tears would fall into the trunk as she locked it up again, and then Letty would throw her arms about her neck and say, "Don't cry—Letty loves you."
And now, my little darling readers, there is one verse in the Bible which Aunt Fanny wants you to remember; it is this:
"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up."
FRONTIER STORIES.
"Joseph," said his mother, "I want you to run over to Aunt Elsie's and borrow a pair of flat-irons; she said she would lend them to me, till I could get some from the settlement."
"Yes, mother," said little Joe; "and I can whittle my stick going along. I'm afraid Bill Sykes will gethisarrows made first; and if I ain't but eight years old, he shan't beat me at anything."
So Joe perched his cap on the top of his head, and started off through the woods, with his jack-knife for company.
"Aunt Elsie" was a widow, who lived just half a mile from Joe's mother's. Everybody loved her, she was so motherly, and so ready to do a kindness; every man, woman and child in the neighborhood, would have run their feet off for her, if it would have done her any good.
Yes, Aunt Elsie was a regular sunbeam; and yet she had known sorrow and trouble enough, for, as I told you, she was a widow; but she looked forward to a better home than anythisworld can furnish, and so she bore her trials just as one would the little wearinesses and discomforts of a journey, when every hour is bringing him nearer and nearer to his own dear fireside, with its loving hearts.
Well, little Joe went whistling and whittling along, thinking of Bill Sykes and his arrows. Half a mile was no great distance to go; he might finish one arrow going along; that is, if his jack-knife didn't break, or if he didn't whittle off one of his fingers by mistake. He wished the wood wasn't quite so hard: he wondered whether Bill Sykes would makehisarrows of hickory: he wondered whether Bill's brother Tom, wouldn't make them for him—just as like as not, now, he would, and then Bill would besureto have the best ones: too bad! Joe wishedhehad a brother, too; he wished——ph-e-w! What's that?
Abear! as sure as you are alive! (and maynotbe long.) What's to be done now? Joe was a nice fat little boy, and the bear might be hungry. He wasn't afraid: pooh!—no. A little backwoods boy afraid? They are made of different stuff than the little ruffled-collar boys that tag about with the nursery maid at their heels, in Broadway.
Joe examined his jack-knife, and took another look at the bear, as he lay behind the bushes. Old Bruin was fast asleep.
All right;—Joe's mother wouldn't have to wait for her flat-irons; so he stepped carefully along (not to disturb Bruin's nap) and reached Aunt Elsie's, with a whole skin.
Aunt Elsie was very glad to see Joe, for she loved children, and always ran to the cupboard to get them a piece of wholesome frontier pie, or gingerbread, or bit of hoe-cake; but Joe said he couldn't stop; because his mother had her clothes already sprinkled and folded ready for the irons, and had told him to hurry back as fast as ever he could.
Did he tell Aunt Elsie about the bear? Do you suppose a frontier boy would take refuge under a woman's apron?
No, sir!
If you should mention such a thing to him, he would tuck up his pinafore, roll up his jacket sleeves, and show you his little brown fists, in a trice!
No, sir; he neveralludedto the bear, but taking a flat-iron in each hand, went whistling along as if no such animal had ever walked out of Noah's ark into the back woods.
Well, he had got through "Hail Columbia," and "Auld Lang Syne," when he spied Bruin again; and this time he was wide awake, too.
He began whistling Yankee Doodle; first, to show his independence, and secondly, because he knew if anything would take the nonsense out of the letterB, it was Yankee Doodle!
"I'll iron him with these flat-irons, anyhow," said Joe to himself, "if he comes here to eatme." But whether the bear wasn't hungry, or whether he didn't like the looks of the flat-irons, or whether Joe's house was a little too near, or whether it was all three, I can't say; all I know is that he never touched a paw to him, and Joe and his flat-irons arrived home in perfect safety.
"I'msoglad you are come, Joe," said his mother, taking the irons and putting them over the fire to heat. "I've a heap of work to do, and besides I felt uneasy like, after you went off alone through the woods, for fear you mightpossiblymeet a bear."
"I did," said Joe, quietly whittling away at his arrow.
"Did?Sakes alive! Where? how? when? Did he bite you?" and she caught him up by the waistband and held him up to the light, and turned him round to see where he was damaged.
Joe told her all about it, and she flew and bolted all the doors, and every now and then she'd set down her flat-iron, and putting her arms a-kimbo, say, "Sakes alive! 'spose that bear had ate him up?" That night she insisted on his eating awholepie for supper, gave him two lumps of white sugar, and put an extra blanket on his bed, and all night long she was traveling back and forth in her night cap, from her bed to his, to feel if Joe was safe between the sheets.
Now, while Joe's asleep, if you like that story, I will tell you another about Aunt Elsie.
One day she went to her door and blew her horn, as if all creation was let loose; (you know I told you that when frontier folks want to call the neighbors together that's the way they manage.)
Well, there was a general stampede to see what was to pay with Aunt Elsie. Some said the bears must have run off with her little girl;—some said an Indian might have strayed into her log hut, and frightened her;—some said the house might be on fire, and they all said they'd stand by Aunt Elsie as long as there was a timber left of them,whateverwas to pay. Zeke Smith said, (Zeke was an old bachelor,) that "he'd thought for a great while, that it wasn't safe for Elsie to live there alone without somemanto protect her;" and Jim Brown who was a widower, said "itwasa lonesome piece of business and no mistake;" and they all rushed through the woods to see which should pitch into the house first and help her the fastest.
Well—what do you thinkwasto pay when they got there?
Her old cow was choking with a turnip!
Now I'm going to tell you one more backwoods story while I'm about it.
A great roaring fire was burning in Zeke Smith's log house; and all the Tims, and Joes, and Bills, and Jacks, and Sams had come in to see him. They peeled chestnuts and threw the shells into the fire, and the shells cracked and snapped, and the blaze lit up all their weather-beaten, bronzed faces, and they drank cider out of a great mug, and talked about one thing and another that you and I don't care about; and then Zeke Smith said he lost a sheep last night.
"So did I," said Pete Parker.
"I lost two hens," said Joachim Jones.
"I lost aram," said Bill Bond.
"Don'tsayso!" said Zeke. "Well, thatisa loss. There's a bear about,—that's certain; and it's just as certain that we are the boys to kill him. I should like to see a bear get out of the way ofmyrifle!"
"Or mine"—
"Or mine," said they all.
Well, they agreed to start the next morning, by daylight, to hunt up the bear. They fixed their rifles the night before, and in the morning got up bright and early, and got into their great boots, and buttoned up their coats and strided off, with provisions in their pouches, for they were determined not to come back without him.
On they tramped, over bush and bog and briar; the dogs running before and scenting round among the bushes. All day, no luck. Night came on, and still no luck; so they "camped out," and started fresh again the next morning.
About dark the dogs scented the bear, sure enough,—and what a monstrous fellow he was—black as Topsy, too! Never mind, his time had comenow. He ran up an old stub, and sat perched on the top. They pointed their rifles—took aim—not a rifle went off! and Bruin sat grinning at them.
Wern't they furious? I wouldn't undertake to repeat what they said, 'cause it wouldn't answer. The bear came down from the stub, and ran off into a swamp; so they had the hunt all over again. They primed their guns anew and picked the flints (for percussion locks had not then been invented,) so that their rifles would be sure to go off; for you may be certain that they wouldn't have that story told in "the settlement," for a barrel of their best cider. So taking their newly-primed rifles, off they started again, with their teeth set together, looking as fierce as so many Hospidars. If Bruin had understood what stuffa disappointed backwoodsmanis made of, he would have kept out of their way—but he didn't; and as their rifles this time had the genuine "stand and deliver" in 'em, there was nothing left for him to do, but to cross his paws and surrender.
Didn't they drink cider and crack nuts over the old fellow's remains? Certainly; they never would have showedtheirheads at "a raising" again, I can tell you, hadn't they captured him.
A PEEP THROUGH MY QUIZZING GLASS.
Well, I don't know as there is any use in my sitting here at the window any longer. Bricks and mortar, mortar and bricks! and little strips of yards not big enough to swing a cat round in. You may, perhaps you will, ask with the Frenchman, "Vat for youwantto swing a cat round?"
But there's a choice even in those yards. Now just look at them—there isone, that, small as it is, has its little circular grass plat, with a hedge of china asters about it, and a little vase in the middle, from which hang tendrils of the pretty mountain myrtle; a woodbine creeps over the fence and my favorite tree (the willow) is struggling for life in yonder corner, and prettier than all, out dances a little fairy, with shining locks neatly parted, and a clean white pinafore tucked round her chubby little figure. See her tip-toe round the grass plat, with eyes as blue as the morning glories she is plucking. How glad I am she has a mother who teaches her to love the beautiful, and provides her that pretty little garden.
Now just look in the next yard—it is just the same size as the other, but poor mother earth lies buried under great flat paving stones; while strewed over them are old bits of china, and carpeting, and old keg covers, and old barrels with the hoops dropping off, and an old tail-less rocking-horse, and a child's chair, trying in vain to stand on three legs, and a Buffalo skin that is sadly in need of some of "Bogles Hyperian."
There's a little child dancing outthatdoor, too; now he stands poised on one foot, and takes a survey of the yard;unpromising, isn't it, dear? Nothing pretty to look at, is there? Aunt Fanny is sorry for you; if she could get you up here she'd tell you a story. I know very well whatyouwould tellher; that mamma lies in bed asleep—although it is ten o'clock; that papa has eaten his breakfastaloneand gone down to the store; and that Betty and Sally have it all their own way, not only in that slovenly looking yard, but all over the house, (so long as they don't trouble your mamma.) Poor little fellow—I hope some country cousin will have mercy on you, and introduce you to her cows and hens and chickens and hay and flowers—yes, and to her brown bread and milk, too, for you look like a little hot-house plant.
I wonder who lives over there? I'll just look at them through my quizzing glass. In the first place, that's a "single lady's" room (I am afraid she'll box my ears if I call her "an old maid," and if there is anything I am afraid of it is a mouse and a mad woman.)
Just look over there. There's a little tin, pint pail out on the window sill, and a stone pot. I'll bet you sixpence she "finds herself" (I know nobodyfindsold maids). There now, didn't I tell you so? See,—she moves a little table up to the window and holds the table-cloth close up to her eye-lashes, to see if there's a speck of dirt on it, and then twitches, and pats, and pulls it into line and plummet order; then she places thereon a small tea tray, with onlyonecup and saucer. I declare it makes me feel quite melancholy! Then she throws up the window, lifts the cover off the tin-pail, and turns about a thimble full of milk into a lilliputian pitcher; then she nips out a bit of butter about the size of a nutmeg, and puts it on a little cup plate; and placing a small roll and a little black teapot on the table, she sits down to her solitary meal. Now she clasps her hands and bows her head—andnowI am sorry for what I've said about her, because I see she is a good, religious woman, else she wouldn't ask a blessing. I hope she will get it; and I hope somebody will ask her out to tea two or three times a week, and take her now and then of a long evening to a lecture, or a concert, or a panorama, or anywhere else she fancies going. Don't you?
There's an old bachelor's room;—fussy old thing! he has been one good hour trying to tie that cravat bow to suit him; now he has twitched it off his neck in a pet, and thrown it on the floor; if his wash woman don't "catch it," for not putting more starch in it, my name isn't Fanny. Just see him trim his whiskers—(red ones, too!) I could warm my hands by them, freeze me if I couldn't! Now that breastpin has got to find its latitude; that you see will be a work oftime. He has got it in the wrong place, to begin with; well, I suppose he will get down to his store, by the time he has lost a dozen customers, or so—he is too busy shaving himself, to go down there toshavethem! that's a settled point.
Look now at that window!—a young mother comes to it with a little new baby,—its little neck is as limpsy as your doll's; and its hands look just like those your cook fries when she makes fancy doughnuts. She loves it, though; just as well as if it wasn't as red as a brick, and bows up its little worked sleeves, and combs itsfivehairs, and thinks it a "perfect beauty." She has gotherwork cut out for the winter, hasn't she? The times that baby will have to be taken up and put down—washed—dressed and undressed—nursed, rocked and trotted—laid on its back, and laid on its stomach—and laid on its side. Just as ifIdidn't know!—I could tell her a great many things she don't know about taking care of that baby.
Young mothers are veryexperiment-y. Do you know whatthatmeans? Well, they worry a baby out of a year's growth, for fear itwillworry;yourmother knows all about it—ask her if she didn't do just that way with you till Grandma and Aunt Charity taught her better? First babies are poor little victims. I can remember howIused to be plagued! Stifled alive for "fear I should get cold;" trotted up and down when there was a great pin sticking into my shoulder—and held so close to the candle to be looked at, that I came near being blind as a mole. It's a wonder to me that I am here now, writing this juvenile book; if I hadn't been a baby of spirit, I should have keeled over, and died of sheer torment long before I got into short clothes.
Well, there's another window. An old lady sits at it; not soveryold, either, for she's as brisk as a musquito. Her head flies round if any one opens the door, as if it were strung on wires. I don't believe she has any fire in her room, for she keeps hitching round after the sun all day—and when he bids her good afternoon, she comforts her shoulders with a blanket shawl; then, her lamp is always out long before I go to bed, and nobody who has a good fire, ever wants to go to bed and leave it; they'll find a thousand things to do—a letter to write, or a book to read, or some chestnuts to eat; or, if they haven't anything else to do, they will sit and look at the fire. I am sure I've been forced to look at more disagreeable objects than that, for many an hour.
There's a woman at another window, writing, or rather she has got her table before her, and her inkstand, and the pen between her fingers; all that she wants is a few ideas; see, she rolls up her eyes like a pussy in a fit, and looksup, and looksdown, and makes a love knot on the paper with her pen, and coaxes her temples with her fingers; but it's no use, there's nothingthere! So she may as well get off her stilts and darn her stockings.
There are two little girls at another window playing with their dollies. Now I like that—it's a good thing—it teaches them how to sew, and to cut out little garments, and to contrive and fix up things, so that when they havelivedollies it will come handy to cut outtheirfrocks. I always like to see little girls play with dollies, and big girls, too, if they want to; it is better than a novel; better than a thousand other things that girls do now-a-days, who fancy themselves ladies as soon as they twist up their ringlets with a comb. Heigh-ho, it makes me sigh to think there are so fewchildrenin 1853.
Over there at another window in the same block, is a very sad sight. A drunken husband! See how patiently his poor wife is trying to coax him not to go out. She is fearful he may fall in the street, and get hurt, and then she feels ashamed to have him seen in such a plight; now she gently removes his hat—then he puts it on again; now her arm is about his neck—but only to have it rudely pushed aside, poor woman. I hope she believes in God, and knows how toleanupon Him.
Now her husband has gone, and she sits down and covers her face with her hands, and weeps. They are bitter tears—she thinks of the time he took her proudly away from a happy home, and promised she should be dear to him as his own life blood. Perhaps she cannot go to that homenow—perhaps her father and mother (happily for them) have not lived to see her joy so soon turned to sorrow; or, if she could go there, she loves her husband still too much to leave him. She hopes each morning that he will come home and love her at night—and she tidies up the hearth, and makes the fire bright, and keeps his supper warm, and wipes away her tears, and braids her hair in shining plaits as he once loved to see it, and looks often at the little mantel clock, and then out the window. By and by she hears his step; oh, it is the same old story—he reels, cursing, into her presence—perhaps aims at her a blow.
Her little child lies there sleeping. She is glad he is not old enough to know his father's shame. Sometimes she even prays the babe may die. She knows, were she taken away, how much it must suffer. Then, she remembers the time when its father was steady and kind and industrious, and she thinks of those who roll about in carriages, on the money taken fromherhusband's pocket, and that of other poor victims like him. And then the angry flush mounts to her temples, and she says, "Is thereno lawto punish these wicked rumsellers?" Poor thing! that wailing cry has gone up from Maine to Georgia—from many a houseless wife and shivering child!
God hears it! I had rather be intheirplace than the rumseller's.
Well, now it is quite dark, and I must light my lamp and shut my shutters, or some of those folks may be peeping in and taking notes ofme!—who knows? Wouldn't that be a joke?
THE ENGLISH EMIGRANTS.
It was very weary on ship board. Julien and Victor had spied out all there was to be seen the first week they set sail, and the sailors had told them all the stories they could possibly think of. Mrs. Adrian (their mother) was too sick to leave the cabin, and the little boys were getting very impatient to reach shore.
How would America look? What sort of houses did they have there? What sort of children? Would they be good play-fellows? These were the things little Julien and Victor were thinking about.
Their father was thinking of the price of provisions, and about house rent, and the probabilities of his finding customers for his tailoring work; and whether they should all have to live in the shop, and whether his sickly wife would thrive under the changeable climate, and whether they should make ahome, or always be like "strangers in a strange land."
And their mother; she was thinking of the gray-haired old father who had blessed her for the last time, and of the sunny homes of England, with their wealth of shrub and tree and blossom, and of a dear little girl whom she left sleeping in a quiet church-yard, between whom and herself the swift blue waves were building up a wall of separation.
Land ho! shouted the old tars.
Land ho! echoed the merry little boys.
And this was America! this New-York! How very odd and strange everything was! How anxious the people all looked! How slender!—how pale!—and what a hurry they all seemed to be in! How they jostled about, as if they were afraid they shouldn't get their share of terra-firma! How the cab-men and porters and hack-drivers were just as independent as the gentlemen and ladies they worked for! and how showily and gaily the ladies dressed, just to take a promenade.
It was all very funny.
The children and their mother looked with all their eyes; they could not make up their minds whether they should like it or not; but that was not the first thing to be considered; they must first decide where to live.
Mr. Adrian concluded to go to B——, about two days' journey by the railroad. So their trunks were taken from the ship and carried to the baggage cars. Little Julien and Victor had nice seats by the window, and it was very delightful to see the green fields after having seen nothing but the dashing billows for so many weeks. They felt as glad as Noah's dove did, when she spread her wings from the door of the ark, after "the waters were abated." They threw their limbs about, whenever the cars stopped for the great "iron horse" to lay in some wood for his supper, as if they were determined to make up for the time they had been cramped on ship-board.
"Things are not so very cheap after all, over here in America," said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh, as he took possession of the room that was to serve them for shop, parlor, kitchen and bed-room. "Well, we must be patient and industrious; I will put up my sign to-day, and if you and the children (turning to his wife) are only in good health, I shall have courage to work."
So the sign was put up: "John Adrian, tailor, from England—all orders promptly and neatly executed." Then John took out his shears and "goose," crossed his legs and seated himself with a jacket to make, in front of the window, where pedestrians could see that he was at his post, ready for orders.
Julien and Victor, the rosy little Englishmen, didn't fancy much the small room they lived in. It was almost as much of a prison to them as the vessel; they liked better to play in the streets. Their mother looked out the window at them, with a sigh, for her children had been carefully brought up, and she shuddered at the bad words they were hearing, and the groups of idle, noisy, vicious children, swarming about the neighborhood. Oh, how should she keep her little boys pure and unspotted?
Three weeks had passed by. Little Julien came in, one day, from his play, when his mother met him at the door, saying, "Run, Julien, quick—quick—for the doctor."
"Where, mother—where shall I find him?"
"Oh! I don't know," said the distracted woman, chafing her husband's temples; "ask somebody—quick, dear Julien, for the love of God!—the death dew is on your father's forehead."
"Cholera," said the doctor. "I can do nothing for him, my poor woman; the disease is raging fearfully here; he cannot live an hour."
"Nothingto be done?" said the poor wife, fixing her eyes on her dying husband, and watching his spasms; "nothingto be done? Oh, sir, don't tell methat."
But even while she spoke the dark shadow fell. The loving eyes grew glassy; the hand she held relaxed its hold, and that "change," so subtle, so fearful, (that all haveseenyet none maytell,) flitted over his face.
Death came for more thanonevictim, to that doomed house. First one little head drooped, then another, then the soft eyes closed, and the little lip said, quiveringly, "It is all dark; kiss us, dear mother;" and Mrs. Adrian was a childless widow.
Dear children, God be praised that the world is not all a desert—that there are hearts that feel, eyes that weep, and hands that minister to the sorrow-stricken. Mammon has left some hearts that he has not shrivelled, some eyes that he has not blinded, some hands that he has not fettered.
Poor Mrs. Adrian! She knew that there were strangers about her, and that their voices were kind, and their hands busy straightening the dear limbs, and smoothing the cherished locks, and placing them reverently in "the narrow house;" she knew that the hearse came at their bidding, and bore her dead away; she knew that they led her back to that forsaken room, and held the tempting morsel to her grieved lip, and she felt their warm tears drop upon her cheek, and their kind hands upon her throbbing forehead; but it was all like a dream to her.
Oh, my dear children, where could she have turned in that dark hour if not toHeaven? What if she had said, with the unbeliever, "There is no God?" How could she try to lean on reeds that bent and broke beneath her? Oh, no, no! when sickness and trouble come, our heartsmust have a God. Heavenonlycan bring healing to a heart so stunned with pain; and there the poor English woman sought it.
Did God ever forsake those who threw themselves onHisgreat loving heart for comfort?
Never!
If Mrs. Adrian could not smile, she did not weep. True, she looked for rosy little faces she never more might see; listened for tripping little feet she never more might hear; but, dear children, peace came gently down upon her heart, like dew upon the closed flowers, and she said, with bowed head, "'Tis well."
NEW-YORK SUNDAY.
Dear children: There is the bell for church; but Sunday is notSunday, here in New-York. I wish I were going to church in the country with you, where everything is quiet, and sweet, and holy,—where people go to church to worship God, and not to see and to show the fashions. No, it is not Sunday here, if the bellsdosay so.
Why? Because there's a woman, at the corner of that street, spreading out on her stall, apples and candy, and bananas, and oranges, and cookies, and sugar-toys, and melons, and cocoa-nuts, and ginger beer; because there's a cigar shop—(the shutters, closed to be sure,) but with the door wide open, and the owner already beginning to trade with customers; because, there's a man selling bouquets, and a confectioner's saloon open, and people eating ice-creams in it; and little ragged news boys, who have been screeching ever since day-light, "New York Herald—Times—Sunday Despatch—dreadful collision andlass o' life—Times, Despatch, and Herald"—and drunken men whom you meet at every few blocks, and people going everywhere but into the church doors.
Well, you go into a city church,—it is not likeyoursin the country, where the blessed sunlight shines cheerfully in, and the sweet breeze wafts through the open windows the breath of clover blossoms and new mown hay; where the minister preaches to poor people, who are not forced to carry adictionaryto church; where people don't frown and hastily button the pew door when a stranger comes in; where neighbors smile kindly on each other, and never gather up the folds of their dress lest it should sweep against a shilling de-laine; where good "Old Hundred" and "St. Martins" are sung, instead of twistified, finical, modern tunes, that old-fashioned folks can't follow; where the minister is not too stately to pat the little children on the head coming out the porch, or to give them a pleasant smile to make them feel that they are part of his parish; where they all walk home, not over crowded, dusty pavements, but under the leafy trees, with hearts filled with a quiet joy, seeing "the cattle on a thousand hills," the springs which run among the hills, "and the birds which build their houses in the branches;" where the golden sun goes down, not on the bloated drunkard and noisy Sabbath breaker, but on the hale old man "of silver hairs," teaching the cherub on his knee to lisp the evening hymn—upon kneeling groups under cottage roofs, where envy and hatred and ill-will find no resting place for their swift and evil feet. That is what Aunt Fanny callsSunday.
Children, there is one thing I like in New-York: almost all the churches have "the ivy green" clambering over the windows and turrets, and pretty willow trees drooping their graceful branches about the doorways. I love to see it, because I love the beautiful, and because it is pleasant to get even a glimpse of nature in the artificial city. But Idon'tlike the stained glass windows. I don't like to see the congregation with green eyes and pink noses and blue cheeks and yellow lips. It excites my troublesome bump of mirthfulness, (and that's wrong, you know, in church;) beside, I catch myself examining the windows, to see if there are any two of them alike, and counting the red and pink and blue diamonds, and squares, and wondering whether, were they transposed this way and that way, the effect would not be better. And then I know that most of those windows are so arranged that they can't be opened, to let in the fresh air, and that gives me a stifled feeling, and I involuntarily untie my bonnet strings, and draw a long breath, to see if my breathing apparatus is all right!
No, I don't like these modernimprovements(?) in churches: in fact, to tell you the truth, I had rather worship, like the old Covenanters, among the green hills—the blue sky for a roof, the gnarled old tree trunks for pillars, the branches for galleries, and the birds for an orchestra; and unless the minister preached because his heart wasso full of love to God that he couldn't helppreaching, I should rather hear myMakerpreach to me, in the soft whisper of the leaves, the happy hum of the tiny insect, and the low, soft murmur of the stream.
Now, my dear children, don't mistake me. It is our duty to go to church; and it is wrong to think of anything else in church but worshipping God; but there's so much display, and show, and fashion now-a-days, in the churches—so much to distract the thoughts—so much hollow pretension to piety, that I sometimes feel, as I told you, that I would rather worship amid the green hills, like the old persecuted Covenanters. Oh! there washeartin their worship! they sang every hymn as if they might sing the next one in Heaven.
So ought we!Are you tired of my sermon?
Well, what do you think I saw here in New-York to-day? A boy ofeightyears old walking in the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets,smoking a cigar! I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry at the little monkey. Finally, I laid my hand on his shoulder and said,
"You don'tlikethat nasty cigar, I hope, my dear child." He blushed, and taking it out of his mouth, said,
"Yes, I do, but I'll throw it away if you want me to."
"Thank you," said I, "for your politeness, but it is not of myself I was thinking. I can easily get out of the way of it, you know, but it is such a shocking bad habit to get into; so young as you are, too. Oh, you have no idea how much it costs to smoke. You must always offer a friend one, else he will call you 'a stingy fellow.' Why, my dear boy, only think, it will take all your pocket money to buycigars. You forget that by and by, you will want a store in Broadway, full of goods, and clerks to sell them, and a house to live in, and may be a wife, too; ah, you needn't laugh, for I don't believe you'll be able to get a wife if you keep on smoking till you get old enough to be engaged. By that time you'll be so stupefied, that nobody will have you!
"Yes, and many a time when you want a pair of new boots, you'll have to do without them because you can'tpossiblygo without your cigar, and you haven't money enough for both. Now, I'd just like to know if a smart little fellow like you is going to be made such a slave of, by a miserable little dirty roll of tobacco?"
Well, he said he would not smoke any more, but I've been afraid ever since to turn a corner, for fear I shall see the precocious young man walking behind a cigar.
Oh, the country is the place for boys,—on a nice farm, where there is ploughing, and hoeing, and digging, and sowing, and reaping going on; where they can jump upon a horse, without any saddle, and ride him to water, with his mane for a bridle; where they can help build fences, and help make hay, and help milk cows, and drive them to pasture; where they can go blackberrying, and strawberrying, and chestnuting, and everything but bird-nesting. I wouldn't like to leave my purse in the way of a boy who went bird-nesting. I should know he had a bad heart.
Yes, the country is the place for boys. There are no oyster saloons there; no cigar shops for them to loitre round; no gangs of bad, idle boys to teach them all sorts of mischief;—plenty going on in the country to amuse them innocently—terrible rattlesnakes to be slaughtered; woodchucks to be hunted; hawks to be shot (who make mince-meat of the poor little chickens); maple sugar and cider to make; husking frolics to go to. Just as if I didn't know what was best for boys, if Iam a woman. I tell you, some of the greatest heroes in the world have hadwomen for mothers.
THE BOY WHO LIKED NATURAL HISTORY.
Hal Hunt lived at the "Seven Corners;" he was just six years old last Fourth of July; and as "independent" as you might suppose, withsucha birth-day to boast of.
He was on the gun-powder order, I can tell you; bound to make afizzwherever he went, always popping up in odd places, and frightening nervous old ladies, and little two-year-olders, who had ventured away from their mothers' apron strings. Every cat and dog, for ten miles round, made for the nearest port when Hal and his torn straw hat loomed up in the distance.
Hal never was in a school room in his life; but it didn't follow that he did no studying for all that. On the contrary, he sat there, on the steps of his father's grocery store, with his chin between his little brown palms, doing up more thinking than the schoolma'am would have allowed, except in recess.
Hal was very fond of Natural History;—in fact, he had about made up his mind, that as soon as he owned a long-tailed coat, he would own a menagerie. Pigs, geese, hens, ducks, cows, oxen, nothing came amiss to him that went into Noah's ark. He expected to have a grand time when he got that menagerie—setting them all the cars, and hearing them growl behind their bars.
One day he sat on the door-step running it over in his mind, when the old rooster, followed by his hens, marched in a procession past the door.
There was the speckled hen,black and white, (with red eyes) looking like a widow in half mourning; there was the white one thatwouldhave been pretty, hadn't she such a turn for fighting that her feathers were as scarce as brains in a dandy's head; there was theblackone, that contested her claims with the white hen, to a kernel of corn, and a place in the procession next the rooster, in a manner that would have delighted the abolitionists.
Hal watched them all, and then it struck him, all of a sudden, that he had never seen ahen swim. He had seen ducks do it, and swans, and geese, but he never remembered to have seen ahenswim.
What was the reason? Didn't they know how? orwouldn'tthey do it?
Hal was resolved to get at the bottom of that problem without delay; so he jumped up and chased one round till he fell down and tore his jacket, and the hen flew up in a tree.
Then he tried for the speckled widow;sheof course was too sharp for him.
At last he secured the brown one, and hiding her under his jacket started for the "creek," about a quarter of a mile off. He told the hen, going along, that if she didn't know how to swim, it was high time she did, and that he was going to try her any how; the hen cocked up her eye but said nothing, though she had her thoughts.
The fact was she never had been in the habit of going out of the barn-yard, without asking leave of the rooster, who was a regular old "Blue Beard;" and she knew very well that he wouldn't scratch her up another worm, for a good twelve-month, for being absent without leave. So she dug her claws into Hal's side, every now and then, and tried to peck him with her bill, but Hal told her it was no use, for go into that creek sheshould.
Well, he got to the creek at last, and stood triumphantly on a little bank just over it. He took a good grip of his hen, and then lifted up his arm to give her a nice toss into the water.
He told her that now she was to consider herself aduck, instead of ahen, (what agoose!) then over he wentsplashinto the waterhimself. The question was notnowwhether thehencould swim, but whetherhecould; he floundered round and round, and screeched like a little bedlamite, and was just thinking of the last fib he told, when his brother Zedekiah came along and fished him out.
Hal prefers now to try his experiments on his father's door-step; as to the hen, poor chicken-hearted thing! she didn't dare to show her wet feathers to her lordly old rooster; so she smuggled herself into neighbor Jones' barn-yard and laid her eggs wherever it suited the old farmer, for the sake of her board.
KNUD IVERSON.
I suppose that every boy and girl who reads my "Little Ferns," has heard or read of martyrs. You have all owned a primer with the picture of "John Rogers," who was burned alive for being a good man; then, you remember "Stephen," of Bible memory, who was stoned to death, for the same reason.
In 1853, when Religion walks in satin slippers, perhaps you think that no martyrs can be found. Dear children, Aunt Fanny sees them every day; bearing tortures worse than the fire, or the rack, and opening their burdened hearts to God alone.
But it is not of these that I would speaknow. I am going to tell you of alittle boy martyr.
"Knud Iverson" was a little Norwegian, a countryman of the famous "Ole Bull," the great violinist.
Knud's parents had come over from Norway to this country, and settled in Chicago. (You will find that place if you look in your Atlas, and I should like to have you find it, because I want you to remember all about this dear little boy.)
Knud had been early taught how to be a good boy. His parents' words did not pass into his ears to be forgotten. Knud rememberedeverythingthey said; and, what was better, hepracticedit. They were quite sure that when Knud was out of their sight, he behaved just as well as if their eyes were on him. Canyourfather and mother be as sure ofyou?
Knud loved to go to Sabbath school; he never was absent from his class once. He was not frightened away by a drop of rain, or a warm sun; helovedto go. His mother did not have to say to him, "Come, come, Knud! don't you know it is time you were preparing to go to school?" or, "Come, come, Knud! it is time you were looking over your Sunday school lesson." No; he was always ready; his lesson in hishead, and love for God in hisheart; and away he trudged, cheerful and happy, to gladden the eyes of his kind teacher by being promptly in his place.
Perhaps you think because Knud loved topraythat he didn't love toplay. Not at all. You didn't know that good boys enjoy play much better thanbadones, did you? Well, theydo; because their consciences are not troubling them all the while, as those of bad boys are.
Yes, Knud loved to play; but he could never play withbadboys, or help them to do wrong. And he wasn't a coward, either, as you will see. He spoke right up, and told them kindly what he thought, and beggedthemnot to do evil, either.
One day he was walking peaceably along, thinking happy thoughts, when a party of bad boys came up to him, saying: "Knud, we know where there is some splendid fruit, and we want some, and what is more, we are determined to have some; and we want you to go with us and help us to get it."
"What,steal?" said Knud; fixing his clear, pure eyes on the naughty boys. "Steal! I would not do it for all the world."
"But youshall," said a great, strong boy, bigger than Knud.
"You shall?" echoed all the other boys, "or, we will drown you, Knud; yes, drown you in the river, just as sure as you stand there."
Knud looked at them. He saw that they were in earnest. They were stronger than he, and Knud knew that theycouldkill him, for there was nobody near to help him. His father and mother were not within call. Knud loved his father and mother; he thought this world a very fair and pleasant one, with its birds, its sunshine and its flowers; but, did he tremble and drop on his knees before those wicked boys and say, "Don'tkill me—don't—I will doanythingif you won't kill me!"
No, no; dear, noble, courageous little fellow! He stood up and faced them all, and said, "I cannot steal; no—not even if you kill me!"
You would have thought that they would have put their arms about his neck and begged his forgiveness, but they were little monsters. I cannot bear to think there arechildrenwith such bad hearts, because we look to seetheminnocent, and good, and pure. But you will weep when I tell you that they seized Knud and dragged him down to the river and plunged him in, and that the waters closed over the sunny little head, that is now wearing a martyr's crown.
You pity Knud?Ipity his murderers.
Do you think that they can sleep peaceably at night? No; in their dreams they hear the plashing waves, and see a pallid, upturned face, with pure and pleading eyes, from whichthey turned away!
Ever at their side, at golden morn, and busy noon, and dewy eve, a little form, unseen by other eyes, shall follow—follow—follow. Ever in their startled ears, a little childish voice, that no noise may drown, no earthly power may hush, shall ring, "Oh, Icannotsteal, not even if youkillme! Icannotsteal!"
CHILDREN IN 1853.
I went with a friend, the other day, to look at some "rooms to let." She liked the rooms, and the man who owned them liked she should have them; but when she mentioned she had children—he stepped six paces off—set his teeth together—pulled his waist-coat down with a jerk, and said—"Never—take—children,—ma'am!"
Now, I'd like to know if that man wasborngrown up?
I'd like to know if children are to have their necks wrung like so many chickens, if they happen to "peep?"
I'd like to know if they haven't just as much right in the world as grown folks?
I begin to feel catamount-y about it!
I'd like to know if boarding-house keepers, (after children have been in a close school-room for five or six hours, feeding on verbs and pronouns,) are to put them off with a "second table," leaving them to stand round in the entries on one leg, smelling the dinner, while grown people (who have lunched at oyster shops and confectioner's saloons) sit two or three hours longer than is necessary at dessert, cracking their nuts and their jokes?
I'd like to know if, when they have a quarter given them to spend, they mustalwaysreceive a bad shilling out of it at the stores, in "change"?
I'd like to know if people in omnibuses are at liberty to take them by the coat collar, lift them out of a nice seat, take it themselves, and then perch them on their sharp knee-bones, to jolt over the pavements?