Illustration: MEASURING THE BABIES.measuring the babies.(Seep. 337.)
"Which of us is to try whether it is done, though?" said Margaret.
"As we are all going to make the toffee, I should say we had better all try it. We can have four cups of water and four spoons, can't we, Margaret?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Margaret. "Will you fetch them please, Mary?"
Mary went off as requested, but she was away so long that Tom and Margaret had finished stirring, and they were ready for her to take the spoon when she returned, looking hot and excited, but bearing the four cups of water and four spoons on a tray.
"Aunt Bridget wouldn't let me have four cups at first," she remarked on entering: "she said it was too many; but I got them at last."
"That's right," said Tom. "Shall we try if the toffee is nearly ready?"
"We had better not try too soon, because if four of us taste very often, we shall eat so much before it is ready that there will be very little to divide after it is ready."
"Quite true," said Tom; while Mary stirred enthusiastically until her six minutes were gone.
"Now for my turn," said Rosy.
"I think we had better try whether it is done enough yet," said Tom.
"Tom, how unkind you are!" said Rosy. "Everybody has stirred but me, and just as my turn has come you want to try it. Besides, how can I try it when I am stirring?"
"Very well, we will wait," said Tom good-naturedly. "Don't cry, Rosy;" and Rosy's face brightened, while all the children watched the spoon as it went round and round, while the toffee gradually became darker and darker in colour, and an odour more strong than agreeable filled the kitchen.
At length the hand of the clock reached the point which marked Rosy's six minutes. All four cups were brought forward, all four spoons were dipped into the foaming liquid, and then emptied into the water. The toffee fell to the bottom in a dark cake, which hardened almost instantly, and which, when broken between the teeth, snapped without sticking at all, and tasted—ugh!
At this moment Mrs. Herbert appeared.
"I am afraid you are letting the toffee burn," she said; "we can smell it all over the house."
"It is rather burnt," said Tom.
"It does not taste so badly, though," said Margaret.
"Very likely we shall not taste the burnt part so much when it is cool," said Rosy.
"I am afraid you will have to throw the toffee away, my dears. It is sadly burnt."
"Oh, no, no!" said all the children at once.
"I thought we should have done better as there were four of us," said Margaret.
"Perhaps, after all, it is not an advantage to have so many helpers," said Tom.
"At any rate," said Mrs. Herbert; "you will have proved the truth of the proverb, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth'—I mean the toffee. And after all, in cookery, as in other things, nothing teaches like failure which is made the most of."
"Never mind, Mary," whispered Margaret, as the burnt toffee was carried off to cool. "We have made a good many excellent dishes when we two were the only cooks, and mother was the teacher; we will try toffee again another day, when we are by ourselves."
On that occasion I think we may perhaps venture to predict that the toffee will be a greater success.
S
aidMistress Bear to Mistress Fox,"Your girl is very small."Quoth Mistress Fox, "It is not so;Your boy is not so tall.""My boy is tall and sturdy too,"Cried Mistress Bear with ire;"And he's a handsome little lad,The image of his sire.""His sire! Ha, ha! why, all the worldSays, 'Ugly as a bear.'"The very trees with laughter shook,As thus they wrangled there."Ho, ho! dear ladies, what's the fuss?"Two waggish bears stray'd by.The gentle mothers told their tale,A tear-drop in each eye."Call here the foxes," and they came.One was an ancient sage."Now place the young folk back to back,And simply state their age."The dames obey'd, the infants laugh'd;Spoke he, Reynard so wise,"'Tis useless; size and beauty lieIn love's fond, partial eyes."
Thesun shone brightly down upon the pretty village of Bethlehem, as, from the top of the hill on which it stood, it overlooked the smiling fields below. And how peaceful all looked, carrying one's thoughts back to the old times, when the loving and gentle Ruth, who had come with her bereaved mother-in-law, to cast in her lot with the people of God, went after the gleaners in the fields of Boaz, and humbly picked up the ears of corn, that were so considerately dropped for her! How greatly she was afterwards blessed, and what an abundant reward was hers!
There in that very neighbourhood her great-grandson David quietly tended his sheep, and, in sweetest strains, lifted up his voice, in love and gratitude, to the Great Shepherd in the heavens. What a peaceful life he led amongst his beloved flock! And how his careful tending of his sheep prepared him for that higher care which he was to take of God's chosen people! And how, ages afterwards, when some other peaceful shepherds were watching over their flocks by night, a wondrous light shone round about them, and a bright angel told them the good tidings of great joy which should be to all people! How to their astonished gaze, there suddenly appeared a whole host of beauteous beings, praising God for His love and mercy to mankind, and filling the whole expanse of heaven with melody sweeter than the sweetest ever before heard upon earth!
How, too, only one mile from where the shepherds lay, a happy mother gazed long and tenderly on the face of her newly-born child, who was to be called "The Son of the Highest," who was to take away the sins of the world, and have given to Him the throne of His father David! And those Wise Men, too, that had come from the far East—how they rejoiced when they saw the bright star that had guided them to the land of the Jews re-appear and twinkle over the lowly place where the heavenly Babe lay! What praise and thanksgiving went up from their grateful hearts, as they looked upon the child-face that they had travelled day and night to see!
Truly, it seemed as if, since the days of the fair and virtuous Ruth, the blessing of God had rested upon that peaceful village, that had come to be called "the city of David," and as if no sorrow was ever to visit its soft green fields.
But, as if to draw our thoughts upwards, there is no spot on earth to which, at some time or other, sorrow does not come; and the hitherto peaceful Bethlehem was to have its full share.
A wicked king sat on the throne of Judæa, whom nobody loved and many abhorred. He was an old man, and terribly afflicted; and his temper, which was always ferocious, had become more dreadful than that of the wildest lion that had ever rushed up from the swelling of the Jordan.
His father, Antipater, was an Idumæan, and a servitor in the temple of Apollo at Ascalon, whilst his mother, Cypros, was an Arabian. He, therefore, belonged to the despised Ishmaelites and the hated Edomites; and the Jews were by no means inclined to look favourably upon him. To please them he professed to follow their religion, but he was not a Jew at heart. He trampled upon their feelings and prejudices, and leaned to the side of the Romans; and they, therefore, mistrusted him, and longed for the time when they should be freed from his misrule.
He had rebuilt their temple, and made it the most noble and magnificent building on the face of the earth; and they gloried in seeing its white marble pinnacles and golden roof glittering in the sunshine. For nine years he had constantly employed 18,000 men in its re-erection, and for upwards of thirty years more he had kept adding to its embellishments, till for grandeur and costliness it stood unrivalled. But when it was completed he set up over its chief gate the golden eagle of the Romans, and at the sight of that abhorred ensign all their gratitude fled, giving place to bitter resentment.
He married Jewish women, which was a compliment to their race; but his unjust and cruel treatment of them roused up all their worst feelings, and made them regard him for ever as an enemy.
The beautiful and virtuous Mariamne, who belonged to the Maccabees, the noblest of their families, he, in a cruel fit of jealousy, ordered to be put to death. Her brother, the youthful Aristobulus, who was High-priest, he caused to be drowned before his eyes in pretended sport. Her grandfather, the aged Hyrcanus, who had oncesaved the life of Herod, when threatened by the Sanhedrin, he sent tottering to his death. Her mother, Alexandra, fell a victim to his frenzy, and her two sons,—Alexander and Aristobulus, when they were grown up, and had wives and children dependent upon them, he ordered to be strangled in prison, the chief crime of all these being, that they were justly esteemed and beloved by the Jews.
No wonder that his subjects liked him not, and that he sat uneasily upon his throne! No wonder that when the Wise Men came from the east to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?" he trembled, for he knew well that should another aspirant to the crown appear, the Jews would only be too ready to take his part.
Insecure as he felt himself to be, he determined on finding out who this new king was, and taking immediate steps for ridding himself of him. So under pretence of desiring to do honour to the young child, he directed the Wise Men to make diligent search for the infant king, and then tell him where He was; that he also might go and worship Him. But in his heart he was anxious to know where the Baby-king was only that he might send some secret assassin to take His life. He had done darker and more difficult deeds than that, and had put safely out of his path far more formidable enemies than a helpless babe. The Wise Men would soon come back, as they had promised, and then in less than a day the dreaded Child would have ceased to live, he would be able to breathe freely again, and unpopular as he was, he would still retain his crown.
But the Magi did not return. Overwhelmed with joy at having at last found the wondrous Babe, to which the strange star had guided them, they lay down to rest, intending, in the early morning, to set out again for Jerusalem. But the great Father above, who knew all the dark secrets of Herod's heart, warned them in a dream not to go back to him; and they returned to their own country by another way.
Herod waited and watched in his palace for the return of the Magi; and his secret executioner was at hand, ready to set out for Bethlehem at any moment. And when he found that they had discovered his hypocrisy and wicked intentions, and that his infamous design was thwarted, his rage knew no bounds; and he vowed to himself that the Child-King should not escape him, and that he would be fully avenged.
From the information received from the Wise Men, he concluded that it was within two years that the mysterious guiding star had first appeared. And a dark and terrible thought came into his wicked heart. If he could not tell which of the many babes in Bethlehem was the long-expected Messiah of the Jews, the great King, whose advent had been revealed in the far east by a bright orb of heaven, then he would kill all the little ones that were two years old and under; and the One that he feared would be sure to be slain amongst them.
To do the dark deed he hastily despatched some of his soldiers; and soon the peaceful pasture lands of Bethlehem, which had so lately resounded with the glad songs of angels with shining wings, rang with shrieks of frantic mothers. For the soldiers of the cruel king entered house after house, and snatching the innocent babes from their mothers' arms, ran them through with their glittering swords; and the bodies of the pretty little things that, but a few moments ago, were looking up with happy smiles into the loving faces that bent tenderly over them, were cruelly thrown on the ground, their red blood streaming along the floors.
Out of house after house the bereaved mothers, wild with grief, rushed into the streets, uttering piercing cries, smiting their breasts, throwing up their arms towards heaven, and calling down upon the committer of the atrocious crime the just vengeance of Him who hears the oppressed.
Never before had the quiet village sent up such cries of despair, or witnessed so cruel a scene! Who could look unmoved upon the poor mothers running frantically about the narrow streets, with wild tearless eyes, dishevelled hair, and, on their blanched faces, looks of terror, that told of the terrible blow that had been struck at their hearts' inmost core? Oh, it was terrible! Yet the ruthless king cared not. His hands were so deeply imbued with the noblest blood of Jerusalem, that the lives of a few tiny babes were nothing in his sight. While the broken-hearted mothers were wildly shrieking, he was rejoicing; assured that the one Child, whose life might perhaps have been something to him, was quieted for ever.
But his wicked design was nevertheless baffled. The great God above, who had foreseen all, had watched over His own Son, and the Holy Child was being borne safely along towards Egypt—that land where so many of his countrymen had found refuge in times of persecution, distress, or famine.
Probably the night before the massacre, whilst Joseph, the husband of Mary, was sleeping peacefully on his bed, a beautiful bright angel appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of the danger to which he was exposed at the hands of the troubled king.
"Arise, and take the young child and His mother," the heavenly visitant said to him, "and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring theeword; for Herod will seek the young child to destroy Him."
The face of the angel was beaming with love, and he had been sent on an errand of mercy. But how his words thrilled through the just and tenderhearted Joseph! Destroy his darling babe, that holy child whom God had given to his good wife to nurse and bring up for Him! Kill the little One about whom such great things had been said; at whose birth a whole sky full of angels had sung for joy; and before whom the Wise Men, who had been guided from the distant east by God Himself, had bowed in humble adoration. Never. "Man proposes; but God disposes." Man may try to hinder the great, purpose of God, by attempting to take the life of the one whom He would raise up to accomplish it. But God can never be baffled. And not all the plans that a thousand Herods, wicked as the one that sat on the throne, could form, could bring His word to nought.
Suddenly, Joseph awoke; and starting to his feet, thought over the dream. That it was sent from heaven he felt sure; and he must immediately obey it.
He must rouse the mother; and under cover of the darkness, they must set out at once. By the time that the bright sun lighted up the horizon it might be too late; for, even then, the dread messengers of the cruel king might be on their way.
Hastily he awoke Mary, telling her of the dream; and soon the God-fearing man was on the road to Egypt, with the loving mother and her precious child safe by his side.
The dark curtain of night had not yet been lifted from the earth; but they went fearlessly along, trusting to the guidance of Him who had bidden them set out. And when the agonising shrieks of the mothers of Bethlehem rent the air and were re-echoed by the astonished hills, Joseph, with his precious charge, was far away. So, though the swords of Herod did a terrible work, they did not take that one life, to destroy which he had commanded the massacre.
Still, Joseph and Mary journeyed along and along, till, at last, the great Pyramids came in view, and they reached the farthest bank of the river of Egypt, and were safe.
There, it is said, they remained two years, living at Mataréëh, to the north-east of Cairo, till the angel of the Lord came again to Joseph, in a dream, to tell him of Herod's death, and bid him return to his own land.
Then away they went, back again to the Holy Land, which was to be the scene of Jesus' ministry, thinking as they went, how "The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord," and rejoicing that no plan formed against His people shall prosper.
For even in their sleep He can warn them, by a dream, of the most secret machinations of their enemies.
H. D.
61. Which of the Psalms gives us a short history of Joseph?
62. Where does St. Paul enumerate the several appearances of Christ after His resurrection?
62. What restriction did Moses lay upon the Israelites with regard to their election of a king, on their settling in the land of Canaan?
64. Where are we assured that the Almighty is not ashamed to be called the God of those who have had faith in Him?
65. What women does St. Paul mention by name in his enumeration of people remarkable for faith?
66. Where is it said that drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags?
67. Where are we told that those who go into great passions shall suffer punishment?
68. Which of the Apostles speak of Jesus as the Shepherd of His people?
69. Which of the three Apostles who witnessed the Transfiguration afterwards refers to it in his writings?
70. Where do we find it said that every word of God is pure?
71. "Then shall come to pass that saying that is written, 'Death is swallowed up in victory.'" (1 Cor. xv. 54.) From which of the prophets does St. Paul quote these words?
72. What king of a heathen nation did God call His shepherd?
49. The Wise Men (St. Matt. ii. 1, 2).
50. In Eccles. vii. 19, ix. 13-18; Prov. xxi. 22.
51. Only St. Luke (St. Luke xxiii. 7).
52. Solomon (Prov. xviii. 21).
53. St. James (James iii. 2, 5).
54. The Epistle of St. James iv. 4.
55. In Rev. v. 9, 10.
56. In Prov. xxi. 23, xiii. 3.
57. On his rebuking Elymas the Sorcerer at Paphos (Acts xiii. 8-11).
58. At Gibeon (2 Chron. i. 3-6).
59. Of blue (Exod. xxviii. 36, 37).
60. It is shown in the words, "It is finished" (St. John xix. 30).
Whois this little girl, I wonder, comfortably seated, and with a great book before her, on which she looks with delight? Her hair is tidily brushed, and her nice white collar hangs over the edge of her dress. She is a sweet, pretty little girl, I think, and yet if I tell you the story of her day, and what had happened before she got that book, you will see that she is not so happy after all. Just hear what she was doing two or three hours before.
She stood at the window with a little white nose flattened against the glass, and two big sorrowful, indignant eyes staring out at them, as the merry party left the house. There was Uncle Jem, whom shedidlove, and whom she felt might have said a kind word for her; and Aunt Anastasia, who was that sort of a person that no one since she was born had ever thought of diminishing the five syllables by the use of any shorter name given in playfulness or love. No one, till that moment at least, had ever thought of calling her anything but Anastasia; but at that moment naughty Bab, with her little flattened nose and big mournful eyes, broke the spell by calling out, "Anasta-sia, indeed! Aunt Nasty, I think!"
Then there was her Cousin Robert, whom poor Bab honestly believed to be a much naughtier boy than she was a girl, and yet who generally managed to keep out of scrapes; and Selina, demure and well-mannered, but whom Bab's unruly, affectionate little heart had never been able to love; she was followed by Miss Strictham, the governess. And then there was Mr. Beresford, the kind, good-natured friend who was staying in the house; and Bab, just for a minute, felt that she would rather have died than that he should know she was in disgrace.
Illustration: HOLDING HER DRESS UP"holding her dress up"(p. 344).
She watched them all go off under the bright blue sky, and then she turned round, and with her back to the window, faced the rather dingy, dull-looking schoolroom, and burst into a loud roar.
For Bab was only seven years old, and had not yet lost the first intensity of crying with which power every baby is born. She roared for two or three minutes, plenty of tears coming with the roar, after which she felt a good deal better.
"I'm such a little thing to be punished," she said to herself. "I don't think they ought to punish such a little thing as I am. Imustbe young when people live to be as old as grandpapa, with wrinkles over every scrap of his face, till it looks just like no face at all, only wrinkles."
Then Bab examined her little round, rosy, pleasant face in a mirror over the fireplace.
"Not a single wrinkle," said she. "I must beveryyoung; but if they punish me this way, I shallgetwrinkles. I'm sure I shall, because I'm somiserable!"
I am afraid poor Bab often deserved to be punished. She was idle at her lessons and extremely saucy, and she was a quaint little thing, so that sometimes she seemed to be impertinent when she really did not intend it, though I must own that at other times shedidintend it as much as any other young lady seven years old possibly could. On the present occasion, when her governess scolded her for her idleness, she said she had not been idle, but had been making a charade; and then she began dancing about the schoolroom, and jumping on tables and chairs, and all the time shouting loudly, "Selina, guess—this is the charade—guess, Selina, guess! My first is what nobody should be, my second is what everybody should eat, and my whole is—oh,—Strict-ham, Strict-ham. Why don't you guess, Selina? Oh, why don't you?"
Miss Strictham marched her off in dire disgrace. The picnickers would be absent four hours, and during that time Bab was not to quit the schoolroom. Maria, the housemaid, would bring her dinner, and nurse would look in on her now and then, but she was not to have the younger children with her. She was to be a solitary prisoner in solitary confinement, and she was on her parole. Her aunt made her promise not to leave the room, and having done so, was content, for, as she said to Uncle Jem in rather a complaining way, "It is a very odd thing that Bab never tells a falsehood or breaks her promise. Robert and Selina both do sometimes, and yet they are so much better children. Isn't it odd?"
Having enjoyed a good roar, and feeling wonderfully refreshed thereby—for Bab was too proud to have shed a tear in Aunt Anastasia's and Miss Strictham's presence—the poor little thing got hold of her lesson-books and prepared to learn a French verb, some questions and answers in English history, and to do a sum in compound addition, and write a copy.
"As if it mattered to such a little thing as I am whether King John was a good man or a bad one, or what sort of a thing Magna Charta was!" said she, reproachfully, to her book; "as if it mattered toanybody, indeed, when it was such an extremely long time ago! Eleven hundred and ninety-nine he came to the throne; and who'd care if he had never been born or never come to the throne? Andwe'renot barons, andwe'venot got Magna Charta; and it's all nothing at all, but a great pity it ever happened, for if it hadn't happened, poor little children living hundreds and hundreds of years afterwards would not be troubled about it. I call it rubbish!" and with the word rubbish she tossed the little book up, and down it came with a broken back.
Bab picked it up and held it with one corner. When she saw the melancholy scrambling way in which the cover and the pages hung, she went off into irresistible shouts of laughter—for Bab's laugh was as loud and as hearty as her cry. Then she did her sums and wrote her copy, and after that Maria brought in her dinner.
Bab clapped her hands for joy when she saw what the tray contained, and then she began her dinner.
But now the lessons were over, the dinner was finished, and what was poor little Bab to do for the rest of the time?
She went round the room, casting out first her right hand and then her left, touching thus in turn everything in the apartment, but there was nothing more interesting than a pen-wiper, a schoolroom inkstand, or a grammar, so she called out "No, no, no" to everything, and then all of a sudden down came her hand on a big book with scarlet and white binding, and she gave a loud scream, a pirouet, and then said "Yes!"
Yes; I should think so. Why, it was Mr. Beresford's fairy book—the beautiful book he was showing them last night.
Then she seized on the precious book, brought it over with quite a struggle to the school desk, opened it there, and with elbows on table and cheeks on hands, gave herself over to perfect enjoyment. And so it was that we saw Miss Bab when our story began, sitting before the great book enjoying herself.
Such beautiful, lovely pictures went round every page, with a little verse set down right in the middle of the pictures. Fairies gorgeously coloured, all twining together or mixing themselves up with butterflies till you scarcely knew which was which, and not one bit of white paper to be seen through or mid the brilliant creatures—actually a wide border of fairies and butterflies, and nothing else, and the verse in the middle was also in illuminated letters.
In her eagerness, hanging over the book to read it, Bab happened to lean on the end of a pen standing up in art inkstand. She was too much interested to know what it was, but it came spluttering out, and a little speck of ink splashed on the white paper beyond the border.
"Oh, oh!" cried excited Bab; "is it not like some little bad fairy running along to hurtthem?"
It was very hot, and Bab's eyes shut after shehad said that, and when she opened them again she forgot the bad fairy, she was so shocked to see thesplashof ink on the paper. And then she felt the sun warmer and warmer, and she shut her eyes once more.
"Look again," said a very little voice, but very sweet, oh, so sweet!
So she did look again. She saw all the beautiful painted fairies and butterflies had risen up alive from the page, and were dancing and gliding round and round it, never passing off the border to the outside or the inside. It was a lovely sight to see, and little Bab laughed and clapped her hands. Then a very grand and proud-looking fairy slipped out of the dance, and stationed herself in front, where she could take a good look at Bab.
"Little girl, why did you do that?" said the fairy, severely.
"Oh, what, please?" Bab was a brave child, but she did feel a little shaky and nohow just then.
"Brought the bad fairy Blackamè to creep in among us and eat up our butterflies."
And had Bab really the power to bring a fairy Blackamè over there when she thought it was only a splash of ink? And she looked with a sort of terror on the bad fairy Blackamè when she thought she had brought her, and could not send her away.
"Oh, fairy, fairy!" she cried, "do forgive me. But can that wretched little black splashy thing—for you reallycan'tcall it a splash—eat your butterflies when there are so many of you to fight for them, and they've got heaps and heaps of wings to fly away with?"
"But how can we manage that?" replied the fairy, sharply, "when we are too timid to fight and the butterflies are too brave to fly away."
"Well, thatisinconvenient," sighed Bab; "but don't you think, since the butterflies are so brave—how I do like them for being so brave!—don't you think they might fight a little?"
"Butterflies fight!" screamed the fairy. "Were butterflies ever seen to fight since the first butterfly? What will you say next? I think you are a very disagreeable little girl. First you bring down Blackamè, and then you want to set all our dear pretty butterflies fighting."
"It was you who said they were so brave," murmured Bab, half penitent and half injured.
"And pray, is there any reason why I should not be permitted to say that butterflies are brave?" asked the fairy, with a sort of deadly politeness.
"And so much as I used to long to see a fairy!" sighed Bab to herself; "and now I really wish she would go away.
"What are you prepared to do about Blackamè?—tell me," demanded the fairy, suddenly.
She made Bab jump, but Bab did not mind that; she was a straightforward child, and liked to go direct at a thing. She reflected, and then she faced the difficulty she had got into bravely, and replied in a grave, resolute way, "Anything you wish."
The fairy looked at her. "Why couldn't you say so before?" she said, very sharply. "It would have saved all this trouble."
Again Bab felt that it was not fair—she thought the fairy was unfairer even than Selina;butshe was a fairy, and besides that, Babhadbrought Blackamè down upon them; so she said instantly, not meekly and humbly; for that was not her way—but in a resolute, hearty manner, that gave one confidence to see—"Just tell me, and I'll do it."
"I'lltell you," said the fairy quite good-naturedly, "andyou'lldo it. That's quite fair. Well now, the thing to do is this: go out in the evening with a long pole, and knock up high into the branches of the trees, and glance up and down, holding your dress out, and singing:—
'I'm the girl that brought him in,Blackamè! What a rout!Little birds that cannot sin.Drive the wretched fellow out,Blackamè;'
'I'm the girl that brought him in,Blackamè! What a rout!Little birds that cannot sin.Drive the wretched fellow out,Blackamè;'
And then you'll see——" but what she was to see Bab never knew; something touched her, and then rushed with headlong sound through the window. The fairy was gone, and, stranger still, the bright beautiful book, with its butterflies and fairies, was gone too.
She looked lazily round her, and, to her surprise, saw Selina standing at the other end of the table.
"Why are you home so early?"
"Home so early! It's half-past five, if you please. Why, you lazy little thing, you've been asleep all the time!"
Bab looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and saw it was a quarter to six.Howquickly the time passes when you are with fairies! She knew she had not been asleep, because she knew she had had the visit from the fairy, and she was so anxious to know what would happen next. About seven o'clock she thought she might go out with a long pole to the tree; and she supposed the fairies had put the book somewhere, till the birds should come and drive Blackamè out of it, and she hoped very much Mr. Beresford would not miss his beautiful book till then, when it would be clear from the black splotch which she now knew was not Blackamè.
"Where is Robert?" asked Miss Selina. "He dashed out of the carriage and through here, and he must have gone out by the window.And youmusthave been asleep, or you would have heard him."
Bab remembered the sound of the rush through the window, and she saw now a spill of ink just by the place where the book had been. But Robert could not have been there, because she was talking to the fairy at the very time, and she must have noticed him, and felt him greatly in the way.
When it was past seven o'clock, Bab slipped away, and took Mr. Beresford's alpenstock out of the stand in the hall, and beat about the branches of the elms and horse-chestnuts, and danced and sang, holding her dress up, and did everything exactly as the fairy had told her to do, and as you will see her doing in the picture.
"SHE STOOD BY HIM."But she had not been dancing and singing (Bab often recalled the scene, when she was older, with pleasure) more than about twenty minutes before Aunt Anastasia put her head out of the window, and told her to come in.It wasmuchpleasanter to be dancing for the fairies up and down, with outstretched frock, than to go into the house and find Blackamè still on the page, and have to confess she brought him there, and be in disgrace for it.Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and drew her to his side.The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his hands, naturally opened at the page where it had been lying open that morning so long, and there were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and beautiful, and the verses in the middle of the page. But there, instead of Blackamè, were five or six Blackamès perhaps, intertwining together like the fairies and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal eyes nothing but the appearance of a thick smudge of ink."Oh, I didn't do that!" cried poor little Bab, and burst into tears."Who did, then?" inquired Mr. Beresford, quickly."Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall soon after we came home," cried Selina, on impulse."Did you do it, Robert?" asked Mr. Beresford."Why does she say she didn't do it, and begin to blubber?" cried Robert, politely designating Bab over his shoulder. "Wasn't she left at home? Who could do it but she?""Because Isawyou do it," replied Mr. Beresford, and Robert's white face became scarlet—the mean little fellow as he stood there before them, who had committed a fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a girl. "Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep, and with bright smiles on her face, that showed that she was having happy dreams, when in you ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a little of the ink across the page by a kick with your foot, then looking with dismay at your work, tucked the book under your arm, and jumped through the window with it."
But she had not been dancing and singing (Bab often recalled the scene, when she was older, with pleasure) more than about twenty minutes before Aunt Anastasia put her head out of the window, and told her to come in.
It wasmuchpleasanter to be dancing for the fairies up and down, with outstretched frock, than to go into the house and find Blackamè still on the page, and have to confess she brought him there, and be in disgrace for it.
Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and drew her to his side.
The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his hands, naturally opened at the page where it had been lying open that morning so long, and there were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and beautiful, and the verses in the middle of the page. But there, instead of Blackamè, were five or six Blackamès perhaps, intertwining together like the fairies and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal eyes nothing but the appearance of a thick smudge of ink.
"Oh, I didn't do that!" cried poor little Bab, and burst into tears.
"Who did, then?" inquired Mr. Beresford, quickly.
"Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall soon after we came home," cried Selina, on impulse.
"Did you do it, Robert?" asked Mr. Beresford.
"Why does she say she didn't do it, and begin to blubber?" cried Robert, politely designating Bab over his shoulder. "Wasn't she left at home? Who could do it but she?"
"Because Isawyou do it," replied Mr. Beresford, and Robert's white face became scarlet—the mean little fellow as he stood there before them, who had committed a fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a girl. "Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep, and with bright smiles on her face, that showed that she was having happy dreams, when in you ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a little of the ink across the page by a kick with your foot, then looking with dismay at your work, tucked the book under your arm, and jumped through the window with it."
Robert blubbered at this. "I wanted to take the ink out."
"You have been a very bad boy," said his father. "You deserve a flogging, and shall have it. I am very much grieved about your book, Beresford."
Robert almost screamed.
"I think more of his laying the fault on this little girl," replied Mr. Beresford, hishandamong Bab's curls, "than of the book."
Bab sidled up to him. He sat at the table looking so kindly at her, and she stood by him, her elbow on it, and with her pretty modest eyes fixed on him. "But it doesn't seem quite as if he did that, does it?" she asked; "he took the book away to make it well. If he had left it with me,everybodywould have believed I did it, and he knew that quite well."
Illustration: A HELPING HAND.a helping hand.(p. 345).
"No, he had not laid a plot, but at the moment he put the blame on you."
"That was because he is such a coward. Pray, he couldn't help it; he was too frightened. You were too frightened, weren't you, Robert? Youaresuch a coward!" Bab said plainly.
Robert, still crying, she made his excuses.
"And I am very sorry. I'd quite forgotten; but I did it too."
Mr. Beresford smiled.
"Did what, little Bab?"
"Ah, perhaps you'll be angry, and I shall be soverysorry; but I must tell. I did it too."
She sidled up a little nearer, and looked gently at him.
"Did what too?"
"I spurted a little—leetle ink by a spluttering pen, and it was a bad fairy called Blackamè; and another fairy was just telling me how to set it right, when Robert must have rushed in and did it all; but if I hadn't put the bookonthe desknearthe ink, nothing would have happened, and Robert would be happy. Oh, please, Uncle Jem, don't flog Robert."
"Very well; you are a good little thing, Bab. Go to bed this moment, sir; perhaps I may let you off, as your cousin is so kind."
Robert left the room, and his father followed to at least give him a good scolding. Bab was left alone with Mr. Beresford. She stood near him, with a wistful expression about both her face and her figure.
"Will it spoil the book? And it has all happened because I was naughty and couldn't be taken. I think they had better take me next time, Mr. Beresford, whatever I've done;" and a humorous look sparkled into Bab's eyes.
"And the fairies came and talked to you? But do you know it was not really a fairy, Bab? You were fast asleep, for I saw you myself; you must have been dreaming."
"Oh dear! And was not it a fairy? then it was just a common dance I had under the tree. But do you know I'm not quite sorry, for she was not half as nice as fairies are; and that was not really a Blackamè, was it? Well, I'm sorry I could call up a bad fairy, only I do wish I had really been dancing for birds."
"I wish you were not so often in disgrace, little Bab."
"So do I; but I don'tthinkI shall be next year. Father and mother are coming home then from the Mauritius, and I shall be an own little girl again."
Mr. Beresford kissed Bab affectionately when she said that, but Bab did not know why he kissed her.
Frank'sroad to school leads over waysWhere yet no trains approach,And past the Yellow Dragon Inn,Where stops the Dirleton coach:Here the old horses, Duke and Ned,Are daily watered, changed, and fed.Frank knows them well, and one hot day,As whistling home he sped,He saw the patched old feeding-bagThat hung at Neddy's headFell too far down—Ned vainly triedTo reach the yellow corn inside.No one was near—Ned tossed his head,And strove, but still in vain,Hungry as any horse might be,To seize the tempting grain;Frank checked his headlong homeward course,And then approached the wearied horse.With quick light hands he raised the bag,And made the strappings tight;Ned hid his nose among the corn,And softly neighed delight.For Frank it was sufficient prizeTo read his thanks in Ned's bright eyes.
Robert Richardson.
Wehave to travel in two important trains now, and within twenty-four hours will make two trips, the one by night, the other by day. Hitherto, we have been standing with our drivers in full daylight, looking at the pleasant country, and thinking of many historical events as we pass. Now we have to mount our engine at night, and go all the way to Dover without stopping.
We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning, but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.
What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with the West-end passengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages. Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train! How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as the train flies past the various stations.
But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a platform just outside are numerous arms and signals—one arm is lowered; then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is thirteen minutes past eight p.m.—no doubt the "official" time for starting—and with a shriek we pass from the brilliant station to the darkness of the river.
The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the piers of the railway, and shimmering under the lights of London Bridge as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the glasses in the weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger at our passing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front—we are nearly in darkness now—and we look about us.
We feel warm about the feet and knees—the wind whistles around our waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a hand-lamp, which shines on a water-gauge glass to tell the driver when the boiler needs replenishing. We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up, and we see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford way, and red lights on the Brighton Railway rushing at us in the air, and white and green lights of engines rushing at us on the rails. We overtake and pass a train whose passengers look nice and warm, and one little boy is flattening his nose against the window, to see us pass, and no doubt thinkshistrain a very slow one, andhisengine-driver a "muff," for being beaten in the "race."
So we leave the ancient "Beormund's Eye" where many hundred years ago was an abbey, and where now are tanneries and many trades with accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go in a direct line over the Surrey Canal—the river and the ships we cannot see. We get a glimpse of the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst, where the late Emperor of the French and his son lie buried.
Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "dickery-dickery-dock" tune which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line! Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like a halo.
From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam, but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think wemustgo over it. Rush,roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump, whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms, crash, bang! Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level ground, in a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe again now. Itdidseem rather alarming just then.
So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the tunnel through the