Dog and monkey
“The owner of these animals used to take them about in a caravan from place to place, to exhibit them; but he was not kind to them, or did not treat them properly, for the camel, one monkey, and the parrot died; and when I made the acquaintance of Jacquot they had lately been replaced by a small leopard. So that the collection consisted then of a bear, a monkey, and a leopard, the latter being kept in a strong-wooden cage.
“Just as the man finished speaking, a monkey jumpeddown from a manger, and seized upon some cabbage leaves which the man, while talking to us, had given poor Jacquot. The bear, who was enjoying his little bit of greenmeat, objected to part with it; whereupon the monkey, looking like a little fiend, seized upon an old saucepan which lay near, and belaboured the poor bear cruelly upon the head and nose. Not content with this, it jumped upon the bear’s back, and bit and tore the poor creature, until the man took up a whip; at the sight of which the savage monkey quickly made off into its manger again. From that moment I hated the monkey, and loved the poor, patient, oppressed, ill-used bear.
“During the next few days I used to pay a visit to Jacquot whenever I could get my brother to take me into the stable; and on such occasions I always took him a present of fruit or cakes. More than once, also, I saw him performing in the fair, and then it always seemed to me that he looked out of the corner of his little eye as if he recognised me. There was a knowing twinkle in his eye which seemed to say,—‘We don’t appear to be friends in public, but we have our pleasant little secret interviews for all that.’ It went to my heart to see how the patient creature was knocked about and ill-treated by his cruel master, who always acted himself as showman. Poor Jacquot danced and went through his different performances hour after hour, with nothing but blows for his reward. He was the principal performer: the monkey was not very clever, and did not do much; while the only trick that the leopard had been taught was to jump through a hoop, which was thrust into his cage between the bars. When not doing this he only walked backwards and forwards in his cage, to be looked at.
“One evening I had some nice cakes, which mamma had given me from the dessert after dinner, to take to Jacquot. I looked about for my brother to go with me into the stable, but not finding him, at last, after some hesitation, I ventured to go alone. The coast was quiteclear; there seemed to be nobody about. I passed by the horses and mules, and went on to the last stall, which was Jacquot’s habitation.
Leopard
“He welcomed me with a friendly grunt, and while he was munching his cakes, for which he seemed very grateful, I happened to look through an open door which led into a room beyond the stable. This room was probably intended as a harness room, but I knew that in it the leopard was kept. There was his cage, too, standing on the ground, just in the place where I had seen it before; but I noticed, to my inexpressible astonishment, that the cage was empty. I did not observe, or do not remember, whether the cage door was open or the cage was broken; but the conviction on my mind at once was that the leopard had escaped.
“In a corner of the stable was a heap of clean straw, on which the keeper of the animals, Auguste,—the man who had told us the history of Jacquot—was accustomed to lie down; probably it served for his bed at night. While I was wondering what could have become of the leopard, and beginning to feel very frightened, I heard a rustling sound, and saw the handsome, wicked-looking head of the creature peep from beneath the straw; then slowly it crept out altogether, its eyes glaring at me, and showing its teeth the while. It was just going to spring when my friendJacquot saved my life. As I stood immovable from fear, Jacquot stepped in front of me, the length of his chain just allowing it; and there he stood up, exactly as a man might have done, to defend me. He gave a tremendous growl as the leopard sprang upon him. I saw no more, but ran off as fast as I could.
Muzzled bear
“In the courtyard I met Auguste, who had heard the bear growl, and was running to see what had happened. I afterwards learnt that he had only been able to liberate poor Jacquot and secure the leopard by striking the latter on the head with an iron bar, which he kept always handy for emergencies of the kind. The creature was stunned by the blow and restored to its cage, but both animals were very much hurt in the fight.
“Then the question arose, how was Jacquot to be rewarded for having saved my life? My father said at once that he should like to buy the bear, so as to save it from further ill-treatment by its master, the monkey, or the leopard. But when we had him what were we to do with him? He could not be taken about with us like a pet dog. Then I proposed that it should be bought from its present owner, and made a present to Auguste, who, I felt sure, would always treat it kindly. This plan was carried out; and before we left Switzerland I had the satisfaction of knowing that Jacquot was earning a good living for itself, and for a kind master, by its accomplishments.
“Many years afterwards I was staying at the house of some French friends of ours near Versailles, when one of the children—for there was a large family—ran into the drawing-room, looking very excited, to say that there was a wonderful performing bear, which had come into the garden, and they had now got it in the nursery, which opened on to the garden. The bear was doing the most extraordinary things, the child said, and would we come to see it? We elders of the party went off to the nursery immediately, for it sounded alarming to have a bear playing with the children. As we entered, I at once recognised in the bear’s master, who was standing in a corner of the room, and looking on with great pride at his bear’s performances, my old friend Auguste.
“I told Jacquot’s story to my friends, and you may be sure the bear and its master were both made much of.”
Unhappy children
T
The bird that will not sing,The bell that will not ring,The wheel that won’t go round about,The horse that will not spring,And the child that won’t be happyWith what each day doth bring,—Now I call every one of theseA naughty, useless thing.
The bird that will not sing,
The bell that will not ring,
The wheel that won’t go round about,
The horse that will not spring,
And the child that won’t be happy
With what each day doth bring,—
Now I call every one of these
A naughty, useless thing.
Little Tommy’s crying;—What’s it all about?He cannot tell you why himself,So greatly he’s put out.He’s all that he can wish for,And plenty more beside,—A drum and a gun,And a great plum bun,And a rocking-horse to ride.
Little Tommy’s crying;—
What’s it all about?
He cannot tell you why himself,
So greatly he’s put out.
He’s all that he can wish for,
And plenty more beside,—
A drum and a gun,
And a great plum bun,
And a rocking-horse to ride.
Young Master Tommy does not knowWhat it is he wants to-day;He can’t enjoy his dinner,And he does not want to play.Suppose we send him off to bed,And take his toys away!
Young Master Tommy does not know
What it is he wants to-day;
He can’t enjoy his dinner,
And he does not want to play.
Suppose we send him off to bed,
And take his toys away!
Flowers and scroll
Children and lessons
P
Philip and Rosa work very hard at their lessons. They are the two oldest of a family of seven: Philip goes to college in the day-time, and Rosa has a daily governess, so that in the evening they both have lessons to prepare for the next day; and they like to work quietly together in a little room they call their school-room.
One evening Philip had been having a game with one of his little brothers. Tommy—that was the little brother’s name—had had a present made to him of a bat and ball, and Philip showed him how to play. Now Master Tommy was so pleased with the game, that when evening came on, and it was time for him to go in, and when Philip, too, wanted to go to his lessons, he would not leave off. At last Philip adopted the plan, when Tommy’s back was turned for a moment, of making the bat and ball disappear. Then Tommy began to cry; and his big brother assured him that “Bogy” had taken the bat and ball; adding,—“Butif you are a good boy he’ll bring them back to-morrow.” So saying, off he went to his work in the school-room.
Just when Philip and Rosa had settled to their work, with books and slates scattered upon the table, a little figure, with knapsack on his back, and cap much too large for him covering his head, crept quietly into the room. They thought it best to take no notice of Master Tommy, as then perhaps he might go away of himself; but presently, when they were most occupied with their lessons, he suddenly slipped some of the books from the table into his knapsack, and taking others and a slate under his arm, ran out of the room. At the door he turned and cried out, “Bogy’s got ’em; if you good, perhaps he’ll bring ’em ’gain to-morrow.”
Philip and Rosa pursued, and picked up the books, which Tommy dropped as he ran downstairs. They both took the joke very good-naturedly. Philip declared it was only tit for tat; and Rosa supplied Tommy with a lot of old finery, for him to take into the nursery, that he and the other children might amuse themselves by dressing up.
After all, Tommy had capital fun that evening. The children dressed up, and fancied themselves all sorts of wonderful people: kings, and queens, and fairies; judges and generals, and I know not what.
Children dressing up
Sunset
Good-bye, pretty sun, good-bye!You are sinking behind the sea,But I know you’ll come back to-morrowTo shine again upon me.
Good-bye, pretty sun, good-bye!
You are sinking behind the sea,
But I know you’ll come back to-morrow
To shine again upon me.
I know that, although you seemTo be taking a bath out there,You are only gone to shineUpon other countries fair,
I know that, although you seem
To be taking a bath out there,
You are only gone to shine
Upon other countries fair,
Where people like us live,Although they are far away:You shine upon girls and boys,And light them at their play.
Where people like us live,
Although they are far away:
You shine upon girls and boys,
And light them at their play.
And I hope that every dayThat I see the sun once more,He’ll find me a little wiserThan I was the day before.
And I hope that every day
That I see the sun once more,
He’ll find me a little wiser
Than I was the day before.
In the tomb
L
Listen to me, now, my darling children, while I relate a wonderful miracle, called “The Raising of Lazarus.” I have already told you of many instances in which our Saviour restored the sick to health, the blind or deaf to sight or hearing. I have related one case—that of the daughter of Jairus—where He restored a child to life; but I am now going to describe howour Lord brought back to life a man who had been four days dead.
In the little city of Bethany, in Judæa, lived a family which we are told that Jesus loved. This family consisted of two sisters and a brother, and their names were Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Now Lazarus fell sick, and his sisters sent to tell Jesus of this. The message they sent was simply, “Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick.” They made no request, but probably they thought that the kind and good Lord who had done so many works of mercy for others, would come and heal their brother.
When Jesus received this message, He was in the country beyond the river Jordan, about thirty miles from Bethany, which is near Jerusalem. He had retired to a distance from the latter city, because the priests and Pharisees had succeeded in stirring up a portion of the populace against Him. His reply to the messengers was as follows:—“This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby.” These seemed like words of comfort for the anxious sisters; yet they saw their brother get worse hour after hour. The Saviour came not; and at length their brother died.
And where was Jesus at the time? After receiving the message, He “abode two days still in the place where He was.” But this delay does not appear to have arisen from any hesitation to return to the neighbourhood of Jerusalem. He said to His disciples, at the end of the two days, “Lazarus is dead. And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe: nevertheless, let us go unto him.”
These words appear to signify that our Saviour was glad He had not been with Lazarus when he was ill, because then He should have cured him, and the miracle would not have been so wonderful as it would be now—not so likely to increase the faith of those who beheld it. Therefore He rejoiced that He should have to raiseLazarus from death to life instead of curing him of sickness.
The disciples attempted to dissuade Christ from returning so near to Jerusalem, but finding Him resolved, they declared their willingness to accompany Him, and they all departed together into the land of Judæa. As they approached Bethany, Martha, hearing that the Lord was coming, went out to meet Him, while Mary remained in the house. As soon as Martha met Jesus, she thought, doubtless, of all the people He had so mercifully healed by a touch of His hand or a word from His mouth, and said to Him, “Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.” Then added immediately afterwards, “But I know that even now, whatever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give it Thee.”
These words of Martha’s prove how strong her faith was. And Jesus answered her, saying, “Thy brother shall rise again.”
She does not seem to have felt sure that this promise was meant in the sense of restoring Lazarus to life; but what followed is best related in the words of St. John, who tells us:—
“Martha saith unto Him, ‘I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.’ Jesus said unto her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?’ She saith unto Him, ‘Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.’ And when she had so said, she went her way, and called Mary her sister secretly, saying, ‘The Master is come, and calleth for thee.’”
It was the custom among the Jews, when anybody died, for the friends and neighbours of the bereaved family to gather round the remaining members of it, and mourn with them, or endeavour to console them. Mary was surrounded by friends when Martha returned to her, andsaid, “The Master is come.” St. John goes on as follows:—
“As soon as she heard that, she arose quickly, and came unto Him. Now Jesus was not yet come unto the town, but was in that place where Martha met Him. The Jews then which were with her in the house, and comforted her, when they saw Mary, that she rose up hastily and went out, followed her, saying, ‘She goeth unto the grave, to weep there.’ Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, ‘Lord, if Thou hads’t been here my brother had not died.’ When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit, and was troubled; and said, ‘Where have ye laid him?’ They said unto Him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus wept.”
Christ, the Son of God, wept with the mourners. Although He knew He should raise Lazarus from the dead, He shed tears at the sight of human grief.
They came to the grave. It was a sepulchre hewn out of the rock, and a large stone had been rolled against the entrance. Jesus desired that this stone should be rolled away. Then Martha reminded Him that Lazarus had been dead four days. She said this because in hot countries like Judæa bodies decompose rapidly after death. But Christ replied,—“Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?”
The stone was removed. Jesus first lifted up His eyes, and prayed, then He cried in a loud voice,—“Lazarus, come forth!”
And the man who had been dead four days came forth, all wrapped in his grave-clothes, and his face bound about with a napkin. Those who stood round and beheld this miracle, were too astounded to approach Lazarus, until Christ said,—“Loose him, and let him go.” St. John adds:—“Many of the Jews which came with Mary, and had seen the things which Jesus did, believed on Him.”
Child in toy shop
T
The name of my little friend, whose picture you see on the last page, is Janey; and I will tell you how I became acquainted with her.
One very cold day in December last year, just before Christmas time, I was walking rather briskly in a London street near my own house, with a certain pair of little pattering feet trotting along beside me, and a certain pair of bright blue eyes looking alternately up to my face and at the brilliantly decorated shops. Now and then we stopped to look in at the windows of the toy-shops, and see the beautiful toys, and other pretty things displayed there. And now and then we did still better, for we went in at the glass doors, and mingling with a host of other merry Christmas folk, bought some of the pretty things we had been looking at from the outside. Both Lily and I would come out of the shops laden with such a number of parcels—such a load of dolls and horses, balls and musical instruments, that it was a wonder and a puzzle to ourselves how we contrived to carry them all. I think my little Lily’s slender arms grew stronger and longer for the occasion. Once, too, we went into a pastrycook’s, and came out with still an additional parcel or two: these were intended for the little ones at home.
My Lily and I had lately made several expeditions of this kind in the service of a certain giant tree at home. For a long time this tree seemed insatiable: the greedybranches never had enough, though every day new ornaments, or toys, or trinkets of some sort were hung upon them. But to-day’s was to be our last expedition; we needed only a few toys to fill up some gaps near the foot of our great Christmas tree.
We had just made up our minds to go into no more shops, but hurry home with the purchases we had made, when, in turning a corner, Lily ran up against a poor little girl scarcely bigger than herself, though probably about eight years old. The little girl had on a dress with short sleeves, although it was so cold; she had a little three-cornered grey woollen shawl upon her shoulders, and a torn straw hat upon her head. This little girl was Janey; and my Lily, who was walking very fast, had almost knocked her over.
As the two children recovered from the shock, I saw Janey turn her pretty brown eyes wistfully towards the parcels of toys and sugar-plums we were carrying; when Lily, touched at the sight of the forlorn little girl, suddenly held out half-a-crown, which had been clutched in her hand ever since we had been out. This half-crown had been given to her that morning by her god-father, and she had brought it out to spend it, but had not done so. I thought it rather much to give to a strange child; but I said nothing, as the girl had already got the money safe in her poor little cold red hand.
“It was my own, you know, mamma dear,” pleaded my Lily, perhaps reading my thoughts.
“Yes, dear,” I replied, as I watched the expression of delight in both the children’s faces: one delighted at receiving, the other at giving the present.
The strange child murmured some words of thanks, and we continued on our way. We had not gone far, however, when I discovered that I had lost my purse, and feeling sure that I had left it on the counter in the last shop we had been to, I and Lily began to retrace our steps as quickly as we could. We had not gone far when we camein sight of the little girl again. She was standing in front of a toy shop, as you see her in the picture; she held the half-crown in her hand, and was glancing, sometimes at the shop window, sometimes at some oranges on a fruit stall in the street, seeming undecided what to buy. Just before we reached her, however, she appeared to have made up her mind, and without entering the shop, she trotted briskly on in front of us.
Presently we saw her walk into a baker’s shop; we passed it, but had not gone far beyond, before she overtook us, walking very fast, and carrying two large loaves under her shawl. Then I stopped her, and asked where she was going.
“Home, ma’am,” she said; “I am taking mother this bread for our little ones: they are so hungry!”
“You didn’t buy yourself a toy, nor even an orange then?” I said. “But you have still money enough to do so.”
“Oh, I have lots left out of what the little lady gave me, but I would rather, please, take it all home to mother. She would give us toys if she could, but it is hard for her to give us bread, and I know she will spend the money better than I can. I did stop at the toy shop window, ma’am, but I am very glad I didn’t buy anything.”
And this was Christmas time!—the time, above all others in the year, when we should help each other, in remembrance of Him who came to us one Christmas night, and living on the earth among the poor, taught us by His precept and example to love and succour all our poorer brethren.
We walked with little Janey to see her mother, and her home, which was very near; and I think the readers of “Wide-awake” will be glad to hear that Janey, her mother, and the little ones have not suffered from want of bread since that day. Besides, on Christmas day itself they had a real Christmas dinner, with roast beef and plum-pudding, and oranges; and good little Janey had some toys given to her into the bargain.
Puzzle images
Now, little people, see if you can guess this puzzle-page. One of these objects begins with L, one with N, one with R, two with T, and one with W.
Birds on nest
THE DOLLS’ TEA-PARTY.[play]
Lively. mf.
1.The dolls had a tea party: wasn’t it fun!In ribbons and laces they came one by one;We girls set the table, and poured out the tea;And each of us held up a doll on our knee.
1.
The dolls had a tea party: wasn’t it fun!
In ribbons and laces they came one by one;
We girls set the table, and poured out the tea;
And each of us held up a doll on our knee.
2.You never saw children behave half so well;Why nobody had any gossip to tell!And—can you believe it? for badness that day,No dolly was sent from the table away.
2.
You never saw children behave half so well;
Why nobody had any gossip to tell!
And—can you believe it? for badness that day,
No dolly was sent from the table away.
3.The cups and the saucers they shone lily white:We helped all the dollies; they looked so polite;We had cake and jam from our own pantry shelves;Of course we did most of the eating ourselves.
3.
The cups and the saucers they shone lily white:
We helped all the dollies; they looked so polite;
We had cake and jam from our own pantry shelves;
Of course we did most of the eating ourselves.
4.But housewives don’t know when their cares may begin—The door it stood open, and pussy popped in;He jumped on the table,—and what do you think?—Down fell all the crockery there in a wink.
4.
But housewives don’t know when their cares may begin—
The door it stood open, and pussy popped in;
He jumped on the table,—and what do you think?—
Down fell all the crockery there in a wink.
5.We picked up the pieces with many a sigh;Our party broke up, and we all said good-bye.Do come to our next one:—but then we’ll inviteThat very rude pussy to keep out of sight.
5.
We picked up the pieces with many a sigh;
Our party broke up, and we all said good-bye.
Do come to our next one:—but then we’ll invite
That very rude pussy to keep out of sight.
Bird building a nest
C
Cissy and Lily are feeding a little tame sparrow. The poor bird had fallen out of its nest, and the gardener picked it up, and gave it to the children. The little creature sits on Cissy’s finger, while Lily feeds it with bread and milk. It is getting quite tame, puts its little head on one side, and looks at Lily out of its pretty bright eye. The childrenhave had it some days: it can fly a little now, but shows no wish at present to fly away.
“I’m the mother of it,” says Lily, “tos I feed it.” Then she adds, after considering a moment: “Cissy can be father if she likes.”
Cissy, aged nine years, smiles at this remark, and says,—“You don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear child; I can be aunt or grandmamma: Johnny can be father, if he likes.”
Johnny is marching up and down the room with a gun over his shoulder. He is two years old, and likes to be one thing at a time, so he answers in a gruff voice,—“No, me tan’t: Donny soldar; tan’t be father now;” and he continues his march.
“I shall call it Tommy,” says Lily.
“Teddy’s a prettier name,” suggests Cissy.
“Shan’t call it Teddy,” rejoins Lily; “peoples ’ill think he’s a donkey.” Lily once knew a donkey who had that name.
“Pretty Teddy! Teddy! Teddy!” cries Cissy in a teazing way. Whereupon Lily, who, I am sorry to say, is very short-tempered, raises her little hand, and brings it down smartly on Cissy’s face. A skirmish takes place: the sparrow flies off to a distant part of the room; and mamma, coming in at the moment, finds voices raised, tears flowing, and red and angry faces.
After hearing what each has to say, mamma thinks that both children have been very naughty, and she tells them to make it up. Neither will say that she is sorry. Then mamma looks very grave, and tells the children how we ought always to ask pardon when we have done wrong.
At last peace is restored: the little girls kiss each other and are quite happy again. Then Cissy says:—“Sometimes people had better not ask pardon, mamma dear. Don’t you remember Hans Christian Andersen’s story in ‘What the Moon saw?’”
“I doubt very much, dear, if there is any story of HansChristian Andersen’s which teaches us we ought not to ask pardon, when we have done wrong: I don’t know which you can be thinking of. ‘What the Moon saw’ is a collection of little stories, one of which is supposed to be related every evening by the moon to a poor artist, who was fond of looking at her from his window. The moon relates to him something she has seen on the world every evening. But, Cissy dear, get the book, and read us the story you are thinking of; it is sure to be amusing.”
Man opening door, and child
The book is on the table, for Cissy has been reading it to-day. She takes it up, and begins at once to read:—
WHAT THE MOON SAW.SECOND EVENING.“Yesterday,” said the moon to me, “I looked down upon a small court-yard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the court-yard sat a clucking hen with eleven chickens;and a pretty little girl was running and jumping round them. The hen was frightened, and screamed, and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl’s father came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the matter.“But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into the same court-yard. Everything was quite quiet. But presently the little girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the bolts, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was angry with the wilful child, and felt glad when her father came out and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly by the arm. She held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears. ‘What are you about here?’ he asked. She wept, and said, ‘I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.’“And the father kissed the innocent child’s forehead, and I kissed her on the mouth and eyes.”
WHAT THE MOON SAW.SECOND EVENING.
“Yesterday,” said the moon to me, “I looked down upon a small court-yard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the court-yard sat a clucking hen with eleven chickens;and a pretty little girl was running and jumping round them. The hen was frightened, and screamed, and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl’s father came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the matter.
“But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into the same court-yard. Everything was quite quiet. But presently the little girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the bolts, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was angry with the wilful child, and felt glad when her father came out and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly by the arm. She held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears. ‘What are you about here?’ he asked. She wept, and said, ‘I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.’
“And the father kissed the innocent child’s forehead, and I kissed her on the mouth and eyes.”
Here ended the story of “What the Moon saw,” and as Cissy leaves off reading, mamma says:—
“Why, my darling Cissy, this story does not teach that it is ever better not to ask forgiveness. The little girl was only silly for thinking that the hen could understand her, and so it happened that she only frightened the poor creature instead of doing any good. If the hen could have understood her, as little girls understand each other, it would have been very glad, I daresay, to let her kiss it. Besides, you see in the story, that directly the father knew his little girl had meant to ask pardon of the hen, he kissed her on the forehead, for he saw how good she really was.”
Reading outside
I
In the quiet summer evening,The children gather round,While granny reads aloud to themWith voice of pleasant sound.
In the quiet summer evening,
The children gather round,
While granny reads aloud to them
With voice of pleasant sound.
A happy cheerful party,Indeed we all must say;—Both granny and the childrenEnjoy the close of day.
A happy cheerful party,
Indeed we all must say;—
Both granny and the children
Enjoy the close of day.
Katrina stands beside her;Lina’s knitting at her feet;Karl feeds himself, and Faust the dog,With bread and jam—a treat!
Katrina stands beside her;
Lina’s knitting at her feet;
Karl feeds himself, and Faust the dog,
With bread and jam—a treat!
Even pussy and the dicky-birdsSeem pleased and quiet too:I think, my little children,Indeed, and so would you.
Even pussy and the dicky-birds
Seem pleased and quiet too:
I think, my little children,
Indeed, and so would you.
Flowers
Swans
M
My little readers all know very well what a swan is like. Which of you has not seen the beautiful large bird sailing proudly on the water; either on some river or lake, or perhaps on the Serpentine, or round a pond, in Kensington Gardens? How graceful the Swan is, with its long arched neck and pure white plumage! How grand it looks, turning slowly from side to side, followed perhaps by one or two cygnets! The mother swan casts sharp glances round her to see that no one is daring to interfere with her children. Then, too, how curiously she thrusts her long neck and head under the water, seeking for river weeds or some water insect.
In the picture there we see two swans and two growing-up cygnets. The papa and mamma swans, and one of the cygnets, are all engaged in obtaining food with their heads under water. Swans live upon water plants, frogs, and insects; and some swans get a great deal of bread besides. Certain little friends of mine, and indeed almost all little children living at the west end of London, take delight in carrying out pieces of bread for the swans in Kensington Gardens. These swans are nearly always gentle to children, and will come waddling out of the water, and eat from the children’s hands. I must say, however, if swans could know how awkward they look when waddling about on dry land, they would never—at least if they care for admiration—show themselves out of their proper element. They are as awkward and ungainly in all their movements when on land, as they are graceful in the water. I know few prettier sights than that of a swan moving lazily along in summer on some calm lake or river; his reflection just broken now and then by the tiny wavelets that he makes in swimming.
Swans build their nests on the bank of some river or piece of water, or still more frequently on some small island. In the nest the mother swan lays six or seven greenish-white eggs, on which she sits patiently for two months before the young cygnets appear. She nurses them with the most tender care, teaching them to swim, and sometimes carrying them on her back when the water is rough, or the current strong.
I told you just now how gentle tame swans generally are, but I must add that they are not always so. They are anything but gentle if you go near their nests, or their young ones. When I was a little girl, and was staying at a country house, where there was a large lake, I had a very disagreeable adventure with a swan.
I had been feeding some swans in the morning with bread which I had brought from breakfast. My governess had taken me down to the lake, and we had found the beautiful creatures perfectly tame. In the afternoon, after my early dinner, I took some bread from the table, thinking I would run down and feed them again. I ran off alone, for they had been so gentle in the morning it did not occur to me that there was any danger. Reaching the edge of the water, I found that my friends whom I had fed before had gone off to another part of the lake, but there was a solitary one not far away, sitting among some reeds upon the bank.
I approached it, and tried to make it come to me by calling, and by holding out the bread in my hand; but it took not the slightest notice. Then I threw some bread to it, when I saw its feathers rising as if it was growing angry. But I wanted to make it, either come to me, or go into the water, that I might see it swim; so at last I threw a piece of hard crust at it, calling out at the same time,—“You stupid thing, get up.” It did get up, and more quickly than I expected, for it ran at me as fast as it could waddle, hissing angrily, flapping its wings, and with all its feathers raised up. I was a tall child of eight years old,and could easily have escaped by running, but unluckily I stumbled and fell just as I turned to run away. The swan instantly seized my dress in his bill, while he beat me cruelly with his wings. My screams soon brought a gardener to the spot, who drove the swan away, but I was already dreadfully bruised. Then the gardener warned me solemnly never to go near a sitting swan again: I had disturbed the poor swan while she was sitting on her eggs.
Black swan
At the top of this page we have a picture of a black swan. I daresay you have seen them, for they are common in England now. They were found in Australia, and are handsome birds with scarlet bills, but their long necks have not the graceful curve seen in the white swans.
Moonlit village
C
Christmas Eve! the bells are ringing,—Ringing through the frosty air,Happiness to each one bringing,And release from toil and care.
Christmas Eve! the bells are ringing,—
Ringing through the frosty air,
Happiness to each one bringing,
And release from toil and care.
How the merry peal is swellingFrom the grey old crumbling tower!To the simplest creature tellingOf Almighty love and power.
How the merry peal is swelling
From the grey old crumbling tower!
To the simplest creature telling
Of Almighty love and power.
Ankle deep the snow is lying,Every spray is clothed in white;Yet abroad the folk are hieing,Brisk and busy, gay and light.
Ankle deep the snow is lying,
Every spray is clothed in white;
Yet abroad the folk are hieing,
Brisk and busy, gay and light.
Now fresh helps and aids are offeredTo the agèd and the poor,And rare love-exchanges profferedAt the lowliest cottage door.
Now fresh helps and aids are offered
To the agèd and the poor,
And rare love-exchanges proffered
At the lowliest cottage door.
Then while Christmas bells are ringing,Rich and poor your voices raise,And, your simple carol singing,Waft to heaven your grateful praise.
Then while Christmas bells are ringing,
Rich and poor your voices raise,
And, your simple carol singing,
Waft to heaven your grateful praise.
Falling snow
Healing
W
We come now to the last miracle that Jesus did before His crucifixion, and with that I shall finish my description of them. But you must not suppose, my dear children, that I have told you all, or nearly all, the miracles He performed.
The crucifixion itself was marked by miracles: darkness overspread the land; the veil, or curtain, which hung before the sanctuary in the temple, was rent in two; an earthquake tore asunder rocks and opened graves; but all these were signs and wonderssent by God: they hardly can be classed among the miracles performed by Christ Himself.
Our Saviour’s last miracle, then, which I am going to tell you of to-day, took place at the time of His seizure by the soldiers and people the night before the crucifixion. I have already told you, my children, the sad story of our Saviour’s trial and crucifixion: I have told you how He was arrested during the night in the place called the garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of Mount Olivet, just outside Jerusalem. He was there with several of His disciples, and was praying—perhaps for those who He knew were about to inflict upon Him the suffering of a cruel death—when some soldiers and a crowd of people, led by the traitor Judas, approached. What followed is thus described by St. John:—
“Jesus, therefore, knowing all things that should come upon Him, went forth, and said unto them, ‘Whom seek ye?’ They answered Him, ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ Jesus saith unto them, ‘I am he.’ And Judas also, which betrayed Him, stood with them. As soon, then, as He had said unto them, ‘I am he,’ they went backward, and fell to the ground. Then asked He them again, ‘Whom seek ye?’ And they said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ Jesus answered, ‘I have told you that I am he: if therefore ye seek me, let these go their way.’”
You see even at that moment Christ thought of the safety of His disciples, and in saying, “let these go their way,” He was requesting that they might not be arrested with Him. When He advanced towards the soldiers and people saying, “I am he,” they were at first so impressed with the composure and majesty of His Divine presence, that they started back, and fell prostrate; or, as St. John says, “fell to the ground.” This impression, however, passed quickly away; and, urged on, we may suppose, by the priests and Pharisees who were with them, they kept to their purpose of arresting Christ. The miracle which Jesus then did is thus related by St. Luke:—
“When they which were about Him saw what would follow, they said unto Him, ‘Lord, shall we smite with the sword?’ And one of them smote the servant of the High Priest, and cut off his right ear. And Jesus answered and said, ‘Suffer ye thus far.’ And He touched his ear, and healed him.”
Peter was the disciple, as we learn from the other evangelists, who cut off this man’s ear, and the man’s name was Malchus. He was probably one of the most forward in rudely seizing Jesus: but when he was wounded, the compassion of the Saviour appeared. “Suffer ye thus far,” He cried amidst the strife. They were probably binding Him with cords, and He asked for a moment’s liberty, that He might touch and heal the wounded man.
A word of reproof was addressed at the same time to the rash disciple. Our Saviour reminded Peter how easily He could obtain the protection of legions of angels, if He wished for any protection or defence at all. “But how then,” said He, “shall the scriptures be fulfilled?” And He added:—“The cup which my Father hath given me to drink, shall I not drink it?” He would exert no power to help Himself, but He performed a miracle—His last miracle—to do good to an enemy. After this the disciples fled, and Jesus was conducted bound into Jerusalem.
We are surprised to find that this miracle did not produce any conviction of the Divine mission of our Saviour upon the minds of the priests, Pharisees, and others who witnessed it: We can only suppose that they had become familiar with miracles, and that those men whose interest or pride led them to oppose the teaching of Jesus, tried to persuade themselves that these miracles were not done through a power derived from God. Yet the character of the miracles ought to have removed the possibility of doubt. Christ exercised His power to do good to the suffering and afflicted: the sick were healed; the blind and deaf restored to sight and hearing; the dead brought back to life.