Beached boat
Puzzle images
Now, dear children, see if you can find out this puzzle page. One of these objects begins with a B, one with C, one with F, one with K, one with M, and one with P.
Rabbits
THE RABBITS.[play]
Cheerfully. mf.
1.Come out, little rabbits here’s something to eat:The birds are all singing their music is sweet.The morning is lovely with sunshine and shade;Come out, little rabbits, and be not afraid.
1.
Come out, little rabbits here’s something to eat:
The birds are all singing their music is sweet.
The morning is lovely with sunshine and shade;
Come out, little rabbits, and be not afraid.
2.Some nice water-cresses we have for you here,Some bran and some clover, so come, do not fear;The dog will not harm you, the cat is away,Come Bunnie, come Minnie, for food and for play.
2.
Some nice water-cresses we have for you here,
Some bran and some clover, so come, do not fear;
The dog will not harm you, the cat is away,
Come Bunnie, come Minnie, for food and for play.
W
We must suppose that an interval of a year and a half has passed since the events happened which I related in the last chapter. The family of de Roisel are staying at Paris, as usual during the winter; and this chapter opens on a certain day, soon after Christmas, when they had guests to dinner. Eusèbe, and his father and mother, were there; also Adrienne Fallachon, accompanied by her father and her English governess. Maurice had met Adrienne again in the Luxembourg gardens, and at length the two families had become acquainted.
The dinner was in the middle of the day on account of the children, and afterwards, to amuse them as they sat round the fire, a singular sort of game was introduced. All were to confess in turn such faults or follies as they were conscious of in themselves, and to relate what bad, or silly, or ridiculous actions these faults had led them into,—it being understood that the grown-up people were only to speak of the faults and follies of their childhood.
They had just settled down to the game when Mr. Duberger came in. He joined in it at once, and related, with great goodnature and perfect candour and simplicity,a multitude of absurdities and mistakes which he had committed in complete innocence, but through negligence and absence of mind. He made every one laugh heartily at his stories.
Eusèbe was the only one of the party who had nothing to relate, for he knew of no imperfection in himself. Some of those present tried to help his memory a little; but no! he could remember no fault he had ever committed. He recollected, and related, only deeds of heroism, which did not fail to cause a slight astonishment in his hearers.
Adrienne, who, under the watchful care of her governess, had much improved in character since we knew her before, spoke of her own caprice and selfishness; and said she always should consider she had caused the misfortunes which befell Cressida, through refusing to give her ten pieces of gold to the poor woman.
“And what did you do at last with those ten napoleons?” asked Mr. Duberger.
Miss Henriette, the English governess, replied for Adrienne: “To tell you that, sir,” she said, “would not be keeping to our game.”
“But I can tell you what she did with them,” said Maurice. “When she went home that day, she had such a scolding from Miss Henriette for her hardness of heart, that she was very sorry indeed, and I have heard she cried a good deal. Well, a day or two afterwards a poor workman was killed, in falling from the scaffolding of a house, that was being built close by. Adrienne heard that he had left a widow and children in the greatest distress; and what do you think she did? She asked Miss Henriette to take her to see this poor woman, and gave her the ten napoleons. I know too that she has often been kind to poor people since, and given away her pocket-money.”
“It is all quite true,” said Adrienne’s father. “I should have told you of it long ago, but Adrienne made me promise that I would not.”
The little girl blushed, and her governess, who wassitting by her, took her hand; but at this moment the general attention was drawn in another direction. A servant came into the room, and spoke in a low voice to Mrs. de Roisel, who replied aloud: “Ask them to come in here, of course.”
The next moment the servant announced Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Kirchner; and a lady and gentleman with three children entered the room.
The name of Fritz’s niece—the poor woman whom Maurice had helped—was known to every one present; it was known also that her husband, having already made a good fortune in America, was about to return to Europe with his family, but their arrival at this time was unexpected. Their dress showed that they had but just come off a journey, and it was evident that, on arriving in Paris, their first thought had been to pay a visit to Maurice.
Finding so many persons in the room, the new-comers stood for a moment confused; and Mrs. de Roisel hastened forward to welcome them.
“Oh, father,” exclaimed the little girl, “here is Maurice. I know him, though he is grown much bigger in two years.”
Maurice was immediately embraced and kissed by every member of the family in turn.
“It rests with God,” said Leopold Kirchner, with deep emotion,—“it rests with God to reward such actions as yours; but if ever it should happen that we can be of any service to you, remember that all we possess, and all we can do, is at your command. But we had another benefactor at the same time.”
“Yes, that was Mr. Duberger,” Maurice hastened to say, glad to turn attention away from himself. “Here he is!”
“Sir,” said Leopold Kirchner to him, “I am not surprised to see you here. My wife’s uncle, Fritz Keller, who wrote to us very often about Maurice de Roisel, told us how you had become his friend and that of his parents.It is natural that those who have good hearts should come together, and esteem and love each other. I find no words, sir, in which I can express my gratitude to you.”
MAURICE WAS EMBRACED BY ALL THE FAMILY.
MAURICE WAS EMBRACED BY ALL THE FAMILY.
There was an evident sincerity, and a certain dignity too, in this language that went to the hearts of all. Thenthey talked of Fritz, who had died at a great age towards the beginning of the winter; and Maurice brought in Cressida to show the horse to his new friends. He had learnt from Mr. Duberger how to value it, and no longer used it as a plaything. Mr. Duberger always declared it to be the most remarkable and ingenious automaton that had ever been made.
When Cressida was brought in Eusèbe informed his parents that he must go away. He had not amused himself at all, and the sight of Cressida always put him out of temper. He regretted so much that when the little horse belonged to him, he had not destroyed it.
Something tells me that among my little readers there may be a few—perhaps the oldest or most clever—who wish to ask me certain questions. They may say to me:—
“Now what moral lesson do you draw from your story? That boy, Eusèbe, who is about the naughtiest and most disagreeable boy that ever lived, is left just as well off, and as happy as the dear good little Maurice. An author can make shadow or sunshine fall upon his paper as he pleases: then he should punish the bad, and make the good happy.”
In reply, I say to you: My dear little gentlemen and my pretty young ladies, you must know that Providence, which watches over us from above, does not institute special rewards for virtue, as men may do; nor has any system like ours for punishing the bad. Yet Providence is always just. To those who do good no other reward is sometimes accorded than that of being good: but, in truth, that is the best reward of all. If a man bestow charity inthe hope that God will, as a reward, render him prosperous, he is not really charitable, but only a speculator who risks a little in the hope that he may gain much. Nor can we always see how Providence punishes the bad. They may be rich and prosperous, yet they may suffer from the hatred that is in their hearts, and from the envy they feel towards those who appear happy.
But to satisfy my little readers I will leap over the fifteen years which separate the present time from that at which my story began, and see what has become of the principal characters.
To begin with Eusèbe. You may meet him everywhere; at the theatres, in the park, at races, always with his glass in his eye, generally with a cigar in his mouth, and dressed in a conspicuous and ridiculous fashion. But you may ask perhaps what he does? Nothing: that is the only thing he is capable of doing. With a cold heart and an empty head he has no friendships, nor has he intellect enough even to enjoy his amusements.
That attack of the nerves which his parents always dreaded, but which never came, was an excuse for not working at college; and when his education was supposed to be finished, it was discovered one fine day that he knew nothing and was fit for nothing. But I am forgetting: he has one occupation, which is the misery of his life. His occupation is to envy. When any of his old college companions or his schoolfellows are successful in literature, science, or art, he is miserable. It is torture to him to hear them praised. He does what he can to detract from their merit and renown; and finds a certain satisfaction—perhaps a slight consolation—in laughing at them for their application and industry.
“How a fellow can be such a fool as to work hard in that way!” he will say with an air of superiority.
In short, Eusèbe would like to sweep away all genius, talent, and wit from the face of the earth, and when there remained only fools upon it, he might be king among them.And now, my little readers, what do you think of Eusèbe? Is he happy, do you suppose?
WITH HIS GLASS IN HIS EYE, AND DRESSED IN A RIDICULOUS FASHION.
WITH HIS GLASS IN HIS EYE, AND DRESSED IN A RIDICULOUS FASHION.
You ask now if Adrienne Fallachon became a duchess after all?
No; far from it. She grew up wiser and less ambitious than her father. She has lately married a young lawyer, a cousin of her own, whom she loved. So she has not even changed her name, which is still Fallachon.
And Maurice?
Maurice has lately left college, where he has greatly distinguished himself. As a young man, he is still as kind, gentle, and brave, as he used to be when a boy; and is as generally loved as his cousin Eusèbe is disliked. His talent and his inclination both seem to point to a literary career, as the one he will take to; nor can any be more honourable or useful when the writer teaches what is true, and good, and noble. I am sure we all wish him success and happiness.
Child playing a flute
Doll-house
A
A wonderful house is Little-doll Hall,With toys, and dollies, and sweetmeats, and all;Up in the attic, a goodly show,There are three lady-dolls all in a row.
A wonderful house is Little-doll Hall,
With toys, and dollies, and sweetmeats, and all;
Up in the attic, a goodly show,
There are three lady-dolls all in a row.
Old Mother Hubbard and Old Dame TrotAre busy a-washing the linen;And Princess Prettypet, down below,Sits in the garden spinning.
Old Mother Hubbard and Old Dame Trot
Are busy a-washing the linen;
And Princess Prettypet, down below,
Sits in the garden spinning.
Behind, the maid, a very old maid,Is carrying out the clothes:I don’t know if there’s a blackbird near,Prepared to snap off her nose.And there stands the little maid by the well,And a little doll sits on the brink:Her name is Belinda Dorothy Ann,And that’s a fine name, I think!A little bird sits on the garden pale,And his voice is clear and good,—He’s one of the robins who covered up,With leaves of the berries on which they did sup,The children in the wood.Jack Sprat lives there also, and Hop-o’-my-Thumb,And Jack the Giant-Killer;And Humpty-Dumpty, and Puss in Boots,Likewise the Jolly Miller.And the nice little man who had a small gun,Whose bullets were made of lead,Heused to live there, but is not there now,Because, poor fellow, he’s dead.
Behind, the maid, a very old maid,
Is carrying out the clothes:
I don’t know if there’s a blackbird near,
Prepared to snap off her nose.
And there stands the little maid by the well,
And a little doll sits on the brink:
Her name is Belinda Dorothy Ann,
And that’s a fine name, I think!
A little bird sits on the garden pale,
And his voice is clear and good,—
He’s one of the robins who covered up,
With leaves of the berries on which they did sup,
The children in the wood.
Jack Sprat lives there also, and Hop-o’-my-Thumb,
And Jack the Giant-Killer;
And Humpty-Dumpty, and Puss in Boots,
Likewise the Jolly Miller.
And the nice little man who had a small gun,
Whose bullets were made of lead,
Heused to live there, but is not there now,
Because, poor fellow, he’s dead.
All these might you see, as plain as could be,And many a fairy wight;But this cannot be, because—don’t you see?—They’re every one out of sight.
All these might you see, as plain as could be,
And many a fairy wight;
But this cannot be, because—don’t you see?—
They’re every one out of sight.
And all that you find there, children and mother,Have been in some fairy tale or other;And therefore the good little children allAre fond of going to Little-doll Hall;And ifyou’rea good child, I and youOn some fine day will go there too.
And all that you find there, children and mother,
Have been in some fairy tale or other;
And therefore the good little children all
Are fond of going to Little-doll Hall;
And ifyou’rea good child, I and you
On some fine day will go there too.
Goats
T
This, you see, is a picture of goats, enjoying a feast of nice fresh young leaves from that tree which hangs over the paling. How greedily the little kid there, standing on his hind legs, reaches up to eat, while the other little fellow stands with pricked-up ears and wide-open eyes, holding a sprig of some tree in his mouth. He has heard a noise, and is on the watch, fearful lest some enemy should come, and ready to spring away in a moment.
This picture just represents a family of common European goats. They are fleet, active creatures. In their wild state they delight in climbing rocks, and bounding about at the edge of precipices, as sure-footed as the chamois. Even our tame goats here at home are so fond of climbing that they always get on to some high place, even on to the tops of houses or outbuildings, when they have a chance.
You know, children, how tame and gentle these creatures can be made, for I am sure there is scarcely one of the readers of “Wide-Awake” but has ridden in a goat-chaise at some time of his or her life; yes, and has sat up in state, and held the reins, and driven the poor little willing goat too. But I trust that the little hands have been merciful the while, and that the poor goat’s mouth has not been jerked and dragged till every tooth in its head ached. And how about the whips? Goats’ skins are not very sensitive perhaps, but I am terribly afraid that some little children whip their goats till they must smart again. Now if your consciences accuse you—and I address myself to any of my little readers—make up your minds never to becruel to goats, or any other living creature, again. Few things are more horrid to me than a cruel child.
When I was in India I had a number of goats: they were kept to give milk. I grew quite fond of them, and they knew me so well that they would come trotting after me, baaing at me for bread or sugar, whenever I walked out in the compound. There was only one disagreeable quality about my goats: they were not sweet-smelling, and on that account were not very pleasant pets.
I have been told that at the Cape of Good Hope large flocks of these animals are kept, and they are very sagacious, requiring no goat-herd to look after them. In this respect they are very different from sheep: they start off in an orderly flock of their own accord to find their food in the morning, and they return in the same orderly fashion in the evening.
Goats are almost the only animals that will face fire. On some occasions when stables have caught fire, they have been known to save the lives of horses by setting them a good example, and boldly leading the way through smoke and flame out of the burning stables.
Goat
Dog
T
The next of her pets that Aunt Totty told us about was a dog called “Tiger.” This was what she told us.
“Tiger,” said Aunt Totty, “flourished aboutthe same time as Moko, the monkey I described to you the other day. He was a very big dog, something between a Newfoundland and a Mount St. Bernard. He belonged to my old nurse and foster-mother, who lived on a little farm not very far from Marseilles. Her husband, who was now a farmer, had once been a soldier, and was a brave and worthy man.
“Once, after I had had the measles, I was sent for change of air to stay a week or two with my old nurse. The chateau, where we then lived, was not many leagues away; still for some reason the change of air was considered necessary for my complete cure. How I enjoyed the visit I can scarcely tell you. I had everything entirely my own way, and of course had a holiday from all lessons. From the moment I entered the house, Tiger adopted me as his playfellow and friend. I loved him dearly, and had a great respect for him at the same time, for never was dog at once so gentle and so terrible. He would jump upon me to caress me, and knock me down flat under the weight of his great paws, while I in turn used to sit upon his back, roll on the top of him when he was resting, and unmercifully pull his ears and his tail.
“He was mine to do as I liked with, for my nurse would deny me nothing, and I chose to adopt Tiger for my own. Everyone loved the brave big dog who knew him: but now I must come to the point of my story.
“One evening, at twilight, I was out playing with my little foster-brother a short distance from the cottage, on the outskirts of a large wood. We were sitting on a bank talking, and he was telling me of a ghost which, he said, had been frightening everybody in the neighbourhood of late.
“‘Ah,’ cried little Pierrette, shuddering, ‘this frightful ghost makes the grown-up people run away: what should we do if we saw it now?’
“‘Nonsense,’ I answered, ‘a boy ought never to be frightened——.’ I got so far when, to my horror, I saw,coming out of the dark wood, a tall white figure, which came walking slowly towards us. As it approached slowly, slowly, a cold shiver ran down my back, my eyes seemed starting from my head, and shrieking out, ‘The ghost, the ghost!’ I ran back towards the cottage. Pierrette—in consequence perhaps of what I had just said—stood his ground boldly; at least for the moment.
“For my part I thought of nothing but myself, and rushed screaming into the house. Pierrette’s father, Pierre, ran to the door, hearing my cries, and could himself see the terrible ghost at a distance. He at once took down an old gun from above the chimney-piece—one which, I believe, had figured in Napoleon’s campaigns—and hastily loading it with deer-shot, marched out in the direction of the phantom. Walking a few steps, he called out in a voice which he strove in vain to make firm,—
“‘Who goes there?’
“The ghost made no answer, but waved his arms about in the air.
“‘Who goes there?’ again cried Pierre. ‘If you do not answer, I shall fire.’
“Again the ghost only waved his long arms—arms which appeared to me to reach the sky. Pierre put the gun to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger, but it did not go off; it was old and out of order. Then a shout of diabolical laughter broke the quiet night, echoing all around. And I regret to say my nurse’s husband fled—positively fled; caught his foot against a stone, tumbled on his nose, picked himself up again, and ran into the cottage—though I must do him the justice to say that he caught me by the hand, and dragged me in along with him.
“Once safe inside, we both thought of Pierrette,—where was he? And I told how he had stood still when I ran away. Then a happy thought occurred to me: I called Tiger from his kennel; and as, on looking out, we could no longer see the ghost, we all—father, mother, I, and Tiger—went out to look about for the boy.
Dog and child asleep
“After searching a little while in vain, we returned to the cottage, where, at the door, we found Tiger and Pierrette lying down together waiting for our return—the little boy having fallen asleep with his head comfortably resting on the dog’s body, just as you see them in the picture.
“The next evening, as soon as it began to grow dark, we watched for the ghost, and saw it appear again almost at the same hour in the same place. But this time the brave Tiger was let loose upon him at once.
“The phantom had only advanced a little way from the wood, and was beginning to wave his long arms, when Tiger, without the least hesitation, sprang upon him, howling with rage. The ghost showed no fight at all, but at once turned and fled. In running, he got his feet entangled in the sheets which he was wrapped up in, andfell to the ground. Tiger was upon him in an instant, and the ghost cried for mercy.
“Pierre and some other peasants came to the rescue, when they found that they had been so frightened only by one of themselves—a drunken, idle fellow, who, rather than work, played this trick. And why? Well, partly for fun, no doubt, but also in order to steal his neighbours’ fowls and vegetables; for he thought that no one would venture to come out at night to interfere with the ghost.
“The fame of Tiger’s exploit was so great, that he was soon afterwards purchased at a high price by the owner of some flocks of sheep, which pastured in the mountains; and who said very reasonably:—‘The dog who dare attack a ghost will never be afraid of wolves.’”
When I go walking along, long, long,I always keep singing a song, song, song.It shortens the way,By night or by day,If you keep singing a song, song, song.
When I go walking along, long, long,
I always keep singing a song, song, song.
It shortens the way,
By night or by day,
If you keep singing a song, song, song.
Tramp
Cooking dinner
L
Little Peter Pryor must needs pry into everything. Here you see him in the kitchen, taking a look into the saucepan to see what there is for dinner. Cookey looks very kind, and not at all angry. But Peter’s mamma just comes in and says: “Now, Peter, I will not have youprying; you have no business here; go out of the kitchen directly.”
Peter drops the lid of the saucepan, scalds his fingers, slips from the stool, and scrapes his chin. I am afraid nothing will cure Peter of prying, except some really bad hurt.
One day this silly little boy got into the fireplace, (luckily there was no fire,) and began climbing up the chimney to see where the soot came from. A quantity fell on him, and he soon came back—not a bit frightened, only laughing,—and said to his Nurse,—
“Look’ee, Nana, Peter hab turned into back boy!”
He thought it great fun, but Nurse did not.
Flowers
Flowers
H
How stilly, yet how sweetly,The little while they bloom,They teach us quiet trustfulness,Allure our hearts from selfishness,And smile away our gloom:So do they prove that heavenly loveDoth every path illume.
How stilly, yet how sweetly,
The little while they bloom,
They teach us quiet trustfulness,
Allure our hearts from selfishness,
And smile away our gloom:
So do they prove that heavenly love
Doth every path illume.
How stilly, yet how sadly,When summer fleeteth by,And their sweet work of life is done,They fall and wither, one by one,And undistinguished lie:So warning all that pride must fall,And fairest forms must die.
How stilly, yet how sadly,
When summer fleeteth by,
And their sweet work of life is done,
They fall and wither, one by one,
And undistinguished lie:
So warning all that pride must fall,
And fairest forms must die.
How stilly, yet how surely,They all will come againIn life and glory multiplied,To bless the ground wherein they died,And long have darkly lain:So we may know, e’en here below,Death has no lasting reign.
How stilly, yet how surely,
They all will come again
In life and glory multiplied,
To bless the ground wherein they died,
And long have darkly lain:
So we may know, e’en here below,
Death has no lasting reign.
Healing
A
Among the miracles which our Lord next performed was that of giving speech and hearing to a deaf and dumb man. This man was brought by his friends, who placed him before the Saviour, with the earnest request that He would put His hand on him. St. Mark thus describes the miracle:—
“And they brought unto Him one that was deaf, and had an impediment in his speech; and they besought Him to put His hand upon him. And He took him aside from the multitude, and put His fingers into his ears, and He spat, and touched his tongue. And looking up to heaven, He sighed, and saith unto him, ‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened.’ And straightway his ears were opened, and the string of his tongue was loosed, and he spake plain.”
We cannot always determine the reasons that influenced the actions of our Lord; nor indeed is it necessary we should. We cannot doubt, judging by other miracles, but He could have cured the man by a word, or the mere exercise of His will; yet on this occasion He chose to touch the man’s eyes and his tongue, and to sigh a mental prayer to His Father.
His reasons for taking the man aside from the multitude we can more easily surmise. It may have been as a lesson to His disciples, to teach them that they should not make a vain display of their works of mercy; or it may have been that, not wishing to excite still further at the moment the enmity of the Pharisees, He desired that the fame of His miracles should not be further spread. But whatever our Saviour’s motive in taking the man aside, it is evident that the multitude crowded about Him, and beheld the miracle; for St. Mark goes on to say:—
“And He charged them that they should tell no man; but the more He charged them, so much the more a great deal they published it; and were beyond measure astonished, saying, ‘He hath done all things well: He maketh the deaf to hear, and the dumb to speak.’”
The Scripture tells us that, after Jesus had performed this miracle, great multitudes came unto Him, bringing with them those that were lame, blind, dumb, or maimed. These poor suffering creatures were cast down at Jesus’ feet, and He healed them. “And the people wondered when they saw the dumb to speak, the maimed to bewhole, the lame to walk, and the blind to see; and they glorified the God of Israel.”
Christ performed a great many more miracles, my children, than I shall be able to tell you about, and you must read of them for yourselves in the Bible when you grow a little older. Most of our Saviour’s miracles were, as I have before told you, miracles of healing, and works of mercy; but, on one occasion about this time, He performed a miracle to pay what was called the tribute money.
This tribute was a tax levied for the support of the temple at Jerusalem. It consisted in the annual payment of a coin called a dedrachma—two drachmas—by every person over twenty years of age. It was devoted chiefly to the purchase of such things as were used for the sacrifices in the Jewish sanctuary. This tax was sometimes called “The ransom money, or atonement for the soul,” and was paid equally by rich and poor, to show that the souls of all were considered to be equal in the sight of God. It was an acknowledgment that all were sinners, and all alike needed to be ransomed.
We are told by St. Matthew that when Jesus and His disciples came to Capernaum, “They that received tribute money, came to Peter, and said, Doth not your master pay tribute?”
Peter, who had heard our Lord teach His followers to give to all their dues, answered promptly to the inquiry, “Yes,” and then went into the house where Jesus was. Our Saviour, although not present at the conversation with the collector of tribute, knew perfectly well what had taken place, and He anticipated what Peter was about to tell Him by saying,—
“What thinkest thou, Simon? of whom do the kings of the earth take custom or tribute? of their own children or of strangers?”
Peter, you must know, was sometimes addressed by his first name of Simon. Now Christ, in putting this question to him, meant to ask whether He, as the Son of God, towhom the temple was dedicated, ought to pay tribute for its support, as kings do not tax their children. Nevertheless, He added words signifying that lest the Pharisees should charge Him with despising the temple and its services, the tribute should be paid. And He went on: “Go thou to the sea, and cast an hook, and take up the fish that first cometh up; and when thou hast opened his mouth, thou shalt find a piece of money: that take, and give unto them for me and thee.”
Peter obeyed. He went and caught the fish, found in its mouth a shekel—equal to four drachmas—and with it paid the tribute.
Seated by a cliff
Child at bedside
T
The little friend that you see in the picture is a little girl that I knew long ago. As you can judge from the picture, her father and mother were not what we call gentlefolk. But simple country people as Margaret’s parents were, they had as warm hearts—yes, and as good manners too—as you would meet with anywhere.
Margaret’s father was just an honest English farmer, and her mother a worthy active farmer’s wife, while little Margaretherself was the perfection of a merry country girl. She was up early to help her mother in the morning. She would rise at cock-crow, wash and dress herself, make her own bed, and then kneel down, as we see her in the picture, and say her prayers. And if it was summer, the sun, in rising would cast his slanting rays in at the window, and gild her pretty head the while with his soft light.
I had been very ill, and went down to stay at the farm to get strong and well again. In fact I took a lodging there for a short time. But I already knew the people, for I had once lived in the neighbourhood. It was the month of October when I went down, after having been long confined to my sick room in London; and I can remember now how beautiful the woods looked, as I drove from the station up the hill to the farm-house. The leaves of the oak were already mellowing into bronze; the beeches were changing to a deep orange; and here and there the pale yellow of the chestnut showed in relief against the dark green of the unchanging fir. The whole landscape glowed in the warm lights and shadows of autumn colouring.
The old farm-house was perfect in point of cleanliness and comfort. I soon regained my health and strength, and was beginning to think of returning home again, when the sad event happened which I am going to tell you of.
Little Margaret used to wander in and out, and round about, near her father’s farm, just as she pleased. She was known and loved by everyone, great and small; by the young children particularly, who would run out of their cottages as she passed to see and speak to her. One evening she was returning home across a plot of open ground near the farm, when she saw, drawn up out of the road, one of those houses on wheels which gipsies travel about in. A woman stood outside with a little brown baby in her arms; and Margaret could not pass without saying a word to the baby.
“But it doesn’t look well,” said Margaret to the mother.
“No, missie, nor ’tain’t well neither,” replied the woman; “and I have one inside a deal worser. I don’t know what ails ’em. Would yer like to step inside and see the child?”
Margaret ran up the steps without a moment’s hesitation, and found a poor sick boy about seven years old stretched upon a hard mattress, tossing from side to side in what was evidently a bad fever. The good-hearted child said to the woman,—“I am sure your little boy is very ill; I will run home and ask mother what you had better do for him.”
She hurried home full of the subject, and I was sitting in the garden when she came running in. I asked the reason of her haste, when she told me of the sick children. From her description, the idea at once occurred to me that they were sick with scarlet fever; and the parish doctor, whom we asked to go to see them, afterwards confirmed my opinion.
Those children, however, struggled through the terrible illness; but, alas! our little Margaret—I sayourbecause a strong love had grown up in my heart for the good and pretty child—sickened with the fever, which she had caught during those few minutes spent in the fever-stricken cart. Days of wearing anxiety and nights of watching followed. It was heart-breaking to see the little head rolling from side to side upon the pillow, while the pretty eyes looked with unmeaning gaze upon us all: the voice too, that we had so loved to hear, sounded strange as it talked in the wild delirium of fever.
After a time the fever abated, and the child became more tranquil, though weaker. One day some sad words fell from the little parched lips: “Mother dear,” she said, “set me up a little; I want to see out of the window, and say good-bye to everything.”
The poor mother raised her up, and Margaret could see the soft evening sky, and the outside world just melting into twilight under the warm smile of the setting sun.
“Is it, as they say, mother, more beautiful there?” she whispered, pointing to the sky.
“Where, darling?” asked her mother.
“In heaven,” said the child, “which I shall see so soon.”
“Not soon! Oh, my darling, not soon! don’t say it!” cried the poor farmer’s wife.
“Yes, very soon. Don’t cry, mother dear.”
And Margaret was right. Only a few days more, and the setting sun shed its warm light upon her grave.
This is a very, very sad story; and perhaps has brought tears into the eyes of some of my dear little readers. I hardly know why I have told it, except that my stories would not be like reality, if they were always happy. The world has shadows as well as sunshine.
Child in bed
Puzzle images
Now here are six objects for you to find out. One begins with B, one with C, one with D, one with F, one with G, and one with J. My little boy found them all out in less than five minutes.
Wooded lane
SONG OF THE SQUIRREL.[play]
1.Overhead on the boughs you may see me,I’m off in a flash if you tease;And I swing on the green twig above you,As it gracefully bends to the breeze.All the sweet summer time I am playing,And cutting up capers so queer;’Tis the happiest season for squirrels,The holiday time of the year.
1.
Overhead on the boughs you may see me,
I’m off in a flash if you tease;
And I swing on the green twig above you,
As it gracefully bends to the breeze.
All the sweet summer time I am playing,
And cutting up capers so queer;
’Tis the happiest season for squirrels,
The holiday time of the year.
2.And when Autumn is dressing the wild woodIn raiment of scarlet and brown;When Jack Frost comes to shake all the treetops,Till the nuts and the acorns come down;Then the squirrel’s rich harvest is welcome:I gather a plentiful store.You may know where my snug little house is,By nuts that you see at my door.
2.
And when Autumn is dressing the wild wood
In raiment of scarlet and brown;
When Jack Frost comes to shake all the treetops,
Till the nuts and the acorns come down;
Then the squirrel’s rich harvest is welcome:
I gather a plentiful store.
You may know where my snug little house is,
By nuts that you see at my door.
3.All the winter, secure from the weather,I live in my streets underground,So concealed you can’t see my snug dwelling,Where I sleep from the cold safe and sound.Don’t you think I am clever and skilful,And all my contrivances good;Don’t you think that we gay little squirrelsAre the happiest folk of the wood?
3.
All the winter, secure from the weather,
I live in my streets underground,
So concealed you can’t see my snug dwelling,
Where I sleep from the cold safe and sound.
Don’t you think I am clever and skilful,
And all my contrivances good;
Don’t you think that we gay little squirrels
Are the happiest folk of the wood?
Squirrel
Bird feeding nestlings
M
My little readers have, none of them perhaps, ever seen this bird: it is not very common in England, though found in most parts of the globe. This one we see in the picture is feeding its young with an insect, or beetle; but the Shrike is a very voracious and cruel bird. It not only eats insects, reptiles, little mice and such things, but attacks the young unfledged nestlings of smaller birds than itself, and devours them. This is why it is called by the ugly name of Butcher Bird. Fancy the horrid thing devouring the tender, weak, and helpless young of its own species! Poor little baby-birds settled comfortably in their nests, waiting for the return of papa or mamma with food, are pounced upon by these cruel creatures, carried off, torn limb from limb, and used to feed a nestful of little butcher birds!
I never saw a Shrike but once, and that was many years ago. I was driving with a relation of mine, the wife of a country clergyman, to visit a sick child, the daughter of one of the parishioners. As we drove up to the farmhouse, we met the child’s father, who was a small farmer, coming out at the door with a gun in his hand. After inquiring about the child, we naturally asked what he was going to shoot, for it was not the shooting season. He told us in reply that he had just seen a grey shrike up in an apple tree in the orchard, and he was going to have a shot at it.
“For it be a rare bird, that it be,” added he; “this be the furst as I’ve seen since I wor a boy, and loikeenough I mayn’t never see another, so I be a’going to shoot un.”
Although the bird is so cruel itself, I did not feel inclined to see it killed, so I wished the farmer good morning. But he did “shoot un,” I afterwards learnt; in fact, he butchered the butcher bird, and had it stuffed too, and put into a glass case. In this condition I saw it. It was a handsome bird; the general colour of it was grey, but it had a white breast, and some strong black marks upon the head, wings, and tail. Its size was about that of a pigeon.
There is another kind of Shrike, which is found in South America, and is called the Bush Shrike. This bird is rather larger, and more powerful than the European Shrike, and has a handsome tuft of feathers on its head. It is found in forests and thick brushwood, where it passes its time in a constant search for insects, reptiles, and the young of other birds, which it devours like the European Shrike. It possesses a strong and rather hooked beak, and is a formidable enemy to any creature it may attack.
But the country in which the Shrike lives on the best terms with man is New South Wales. There it is very common, and in appearance resembles the Shrike of Europe. It is called by the colonists the Piping Crow, on account of the rich and varied strain of song it pours forth in early morning and towards evening. In this gift of song it seems to differ from the European bird, or at least, if the latter possesses such a merit, it has not been observed. In New South Wales the Shrike prefers the open localities to the wooded districts, and in particular shows a preference for those parts which have been cleared by the settlers. In fact, in that country, the Piping Crow is looked upon as being a particularly trustful bird,—trustful, I mean, of man. It will build its nest in the plantations or gardens of the colonists, who, particularly in the back settlements, do all they can to encourage it for the sake of its pleasant morning and evening song.