Two children dancing together
DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF THE BAND.
But the little ones, like Gracie and her friends, really couldn’t stand the excitement, and rolled around in odd corners on the floor, or sought the grateful obscurity behind the sofas, to indulge in naps, long before nine o’clock. I found Gracie, in her pink silk dress and violet slippers, lying curled up under the table, with her head on the back of Bosin, the great Newfoundland dog that had stolen into the parlor against rules.
Nelson Faber was a little boy, not much older than Gracie, and they seemed to enjoy each other’s society very much. He too oftentimes succumbed to sleepiness when we wanted him to do his sailor dance; but when the morning came, they were as rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed as ever, and trotted along the pleasant walks with their hoops and pails, inseparable friends. It was fortunate for Gracie, too, that he preferred to play with her, rather than to go off with the boys, for one day after a boisterous night, the sea came up higher on the beach than we had ever before seen it; and unsuspecting Gracie was caught by a wave and thrown down, and as it retired it seemed to drag her along with it; we older ones lost our presence of mind entirely, and screamed and cried, and did nothing, but that heroic little fellow ran into the boiling surf and caught her dress, and with the dog’s assistance, dragged her to a safe place. She said he was, “Very nice and dood.”
One day, some of my girl companions proposed to visit the rocks that lay at the mouth of Green river, just where it gently met the ocean. Right there, no end of sea-weed and shells, and things thrown up by the ocean, could be found; and there were such curious rocks, with nooks and basins,where the water stayed in tiny pools, and there we went fishing, and brought lunch, setting it out on the most convenient flat rock we could find. I tell you, cold chicken, pickles, cheese, and sponge cake, with milk, tasted as they never did before or since, to our party of hungry children. We climbed and fell, and laughed, and chatted, with the salt breeze lifting our hair, and fanning our brown faces, and going out far on the point, we came upon a little shining lake, surrounded by rocks, upon which we could sit, and dabble our feet in the water. It was no place more than a foot deep, and we decided to wade round in it. It was a comical sight to see us navigating ourselves in procession through that water, but it was a very questionable joke, when Milly Sayre jumped and screamed, and ran like a frantic creature from the pool, and up the rocks.
“What’s the matter, Milly,” we cried. “Are you hurt? What did you see?” we breathlessly shouted.
“Oh! oh!” was all she could gasp, pointing to a place she had just left. We all scrambled out instantly, and peered over the rocks into the water.
Nelson and Gracie walking together
INSEPARABLE FRIENDS.
What should we see but a little creature, grotesque and hideous, that made its way round in the water, with astounding celerity, throwing out legs or claws, or whatever they were, from every point of its circumference. Its body was flat and was a green color above and pink under, and to add to its alarming appearance, it looked at us with two black eyes, in a very sinister and uncanny manner. We looked at each other with blanched faces and speechless horror, and then kept a sharp lookout, lest it might take it into its head (we couldn’t tell if it had any head, for the place where the eyes were,did not seem different from any other part of its body,) take it into its “internal consciousness,” to crawl out on to the rocks and chase us. It got through the water in a distracting manner, which was really quite amusing after a few moments, and from being horribly frightened, we became interested when we found it did not attempt the offensive. We gave it some lunch and called it “Jack Deadeye,” and for the whole afternoon he was the center of attraction.
“Let us take him back with us,” I proposed. “We can get him into a pail, and then we can have him in some pool nearer home, and see what he’ll turn into. I don’t believe but what he’ll be something else in a few days.”
My knowledge of natural history had always been lamentably meager, and more than once I had brought the laugh upon myself by my ignorance. So I forbore to predict what would be his ultimate form of beauty.
“A whale!” said Susie Champney.
“Oh, dear, no; whales don’t have legs and claws,” said Estella Bascom. “It’s a tadpole.”
“You’re mistaken there,” said Mamie Fitz Hugh; “tadpoles are just the little jokers that do have tails. I’ve seen hundreds of them, and this creature has no tail.”
We all rushed again to the edge of the rocks to look at him, with added wonder.
“Well, we’ll take that tad home on a pole, any way,” said Nannie White, who was the cutest girl to say things in the whole crowd. She immediately ran off to secure a piece of drift that was tumbling about on the wet sand. But how to get him into a pail was the next problem. A committee of the whole was called. I thought we could obstruct his path by putting the mouth of the pail in front of him, and then when he sailed into it, we could instantly pull him out. This was decided upon; but how to get it down to him without falling in? A bright idea struck me. I whipped off my flannel sash, and running it through the handle, dashed it into the water; but that proceeding only frightened him—we must move more cautiously. We worked for an hour and had him in twice, but were so excited both times that he escaped.
First time, Totty Rainsford shouted, “We’ve got him!” and immediately rolled off the rocks, head first, into the water. We were all so scared, with the water splashing, and she screaming at the top of her voice, “Save me! Save me!” that Jack got away. She scrambled out pretty lively, and when we got him in again, we were all seized with another fit of laughing at Totty, who, in her moist predicament, was jumping round to dry herself, because she didn’t want to go home, that he crawled out as leisurely as possible. But we secured him at last, safe in the pail; and to prevent his crawling out, I clapped my sailor hat over the top of it, and the elastic kept it down tight. We put the pole through the handle and Estella and myself took hold of the ends, and we came near losing him every few minutes, owing to the inequalities of the ground. The pail would slide down to either end, as the pole inclined, and Estella would drop it and scream when she saw the pail traveling noiselessly toward her, and if it hadn’t been for my happy thought of putting the hat over him, he’d have got away to his “happy hunting grounds,” or rather, waters, in short order.
We arrived at the hotel at last, with Jack all safe, and the rest of the girls went to dress for dinner, and left me to find the boys, to help me deposit him in a secure place, for we were sure we should very greatly astonish the boarders and achieve renown as having discovered a new species of marine beast.
The boys were in a perfect ecstacy of curiosity to see what the girls had caught. When I carefully took off the hat, I found the water had all leaked out, and his monstership lay kicking and crawling at the bottom.
“Ho! ho! ho!” shouted Willie, “is that what-cher call a curiosity?”
“Oh, Flossie! you have been dreadfully taken in,” said Regy.
“Oh, no,” I said, “it’s this wonderful animal that’s been ‘taken in,’ and he’s going to be kept in, too.”
I began to feel, though, that there was a great laugh somewhere in the future, and that it was coming at our expense.
“Why, Flossie! it’s nothing but a baby crab,” said Regy. “I can get a peck of them in an hour, over in the river.”
I felt greatly chagrined, and blushed with mortification. The boys kept bursting out laughing every few minutes, asking such questions as:
The children look at the crab
HOW MANY GIRLS DID IT TAKE TO LAND HIM?
“How many girls did it take to land him?” “Was he gamey, Flossie?” “Did ye bait him with a clam-shell, or an old boot? they’ll snap at any thing.”
“Oh! I’d given away my dinner to have been there!” and then Regy would stir him up with a stick, and turn him on his back, all of which caused me to scream every time, and sent tremors all over me.
“What-cher goin’ to do with him?” inquired Willie.
“I shall study his habitudes, and improve my knowledge of the crustacea,” said I, giving him a sentence directly out of my text-book. “I shall look at him every day.”
“Yes, and he’ll look at you every night. I have read a book that told about a traveler that offended a crab once, and he informed the other crabs, and they all made for him at night, and twenty thousand of them came thatnight and crept under his tent, and sat there and looked at him. And there he was in the middle of them, and you know their eyes are fastened in their heads by a string, and they can throw them out of their heads and draw them back again; and, at a signal, they all threw their eyes at him. He was so horrified that night, that he got insane and had to be sent to a lunatic asylum.”
“I’ve heard your stories before, Regy, and I simply don’t credit them. We girls are going to hunt up a pond to put him in, where we can pet him, and educate him.”
“You’d best hunt up a frying pan to put him in; he’s capital eating for breakfast, well browned, with hard-boiled eggs and parsley round him,” said Reginald.
I told him if he couldn’t do any better than to lie there and make an exhibition of his bad taste and ignorance, he’d better get up and work off the fit. I insisted upon his helping me to fill the pail with salt water, and hang him upon the rocks until we could make a future, permanent disposal of him.
A little boy with the crab, and sailing boats
“WHERE WE CAN PET AND EDUCATE HIM.”
That evening our parlor manners were somewhatless decorous and elegant, owing to the fact that Reginald and Willie had been industriously circulating the episode of the morning, with such additions as they thought would add point and piquancy, among the rest of the boys, and there was no end of innuendo and witticism indulged in, that caused the young gentlemen to retire in groups and laugh; and we could hear such remarks as, “Dick, there was a whale hooked on this coast this afternoon, did you know it?” Or, “I think Jack Deadeye is the most comical character in Pinafore, he’s so crabbed.”
The girls of our party stood it as they best could; and in the morning we stole out to look at our prize, after the boys had gone off, but the tide had swept Jack and the pail out to sea.
It was a long time before we heard the last of it, however.
A small sailing boat
Down by the lake they trotted,All the summer day;Max and Beppo never plottedYet, to run away.Two little donkey pets, Oh, I loved them so!When I was in Switzerland, just a year ago.How they liked bananas!And our apples sweet;They had lovely manners,Every thing they’d eat.Then, I’d rub their furry ears, and they’d shake their bells,While old driver Raspar, funny stories tells.Max turns round and winks so pretty,Little, sharp round eyes;Beppo sings a jolly ditty,Quite to our surprise.Then we mount, and off we go, up and down the mall,Never do they careless trip, never make a fall.Once, a princess royalWanted little Max;How to part those friends so loyal,Her little brain she racks.She would give her gold and silver, in a little purse,Then throw in for measure good, her scolding English nurse!Then she cried, and chatteredAll her pretty French,And her little feet she pattered,On the rustic bench.“My papa is king,” she said, “and I’d have you know,I shall have the donkey, and to prison shall you go.”How their tiny feet would scamper,Up the valley blue,Carrying each his generous hamper,And his rider, too.Sure of foot, they’d clamber round the mountain spurWhere the foot-sore tourist scarcely dared to stir.In this bright, sunshiny weather,I remember with a sigh,We no more can play together,Beppo, Max and I.Never dearer friends exist, in this world below,Than I made in Switzerland, just a year ago.
Down by the lake they trotted,All the summer day;Max and Beppo never plottedYet, to run away.Two little donkey pets, Oh, I loved them so!When I was in Switzerland, just a year ago.
How they liked bananas!And our apples sweet;They had lovely manners,Every thing they’d eat.Then, I’d rub their furry ears, and they’d shake their bells,While old driver Raspar, funny stories tells.
Max turns round and winks so pretty,Little, sharp round eyes;Beppo sings a jolly ditty,Quite to our surprise.Then we mount, and off we go, up and down the mall,Never do they careless trip, never make a fall.
Once, a princess royalWanted little Max;How to part those friends so loyal,Her little brain she racks.She would give her gold and silver, in a little purse,Then throw in for measure good, her scolding English nurse!
Then she cried, and chatteredAll her pretty French,And her little feet she pattered,On the rustic bench.“My papa is king,” she said, “and I’d have you know,I shall have the donkey, and to prison shall you go.”
How their tiny feet would scamper,Up the valley blue,Carrying each his generous hamper,And his rider, too.Sure of foot, they’d clamber round the mountain spurWhere the foot-sore tourist scarcely dared to stir.
In this bright, sunshiny weather,I remember with a sigh,We no more can play together,Beppo, Max and I.Never dearer friends exist, in this world below,Than I made in Switzerland, just a year ago.
PANSIES.As I walked in my garden to-day,I saw a family sweet.Many wee faces looked up,From their cool and shady retreat.Some had blue eyes and golden curls,Some dark eyes and raven locks,Some were dressed in velvets so rare,And some wore quaint, gay frocks.I asked these babies so dear,To come and live ever with me!Then laughing so gaily they said;“We arePansies, don’t you see?”MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER.
As I walked in my garden to-day,I saw a family sweet.Many wee faces looked up,From their cool and shady retreat.Some had blue eyes and golden curls,Some dark eyes and raven locks,Some were dressed in velvets so rare,And some wore quaint, gay frocks.I asked these babies so dear,To come and live ever with me!Then laughing so gaily they said;“We arePansies, don’t you see?”MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER.
As I walked in my garden to-day,I saw a family sweet.Many wee faces looked up,From their cool and shady retreat.Some had blue eyes and golden curls,Some dark eyes and raven locks,Some were dressed in velvets so rare,And some wore quaint, gay frocks.I asked these babies so dear,To come and live ever with me!Then laughing so gaily they said;“We arePansies, don’t you see?”
MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER.
“Come, little bird, I have waited some time,Light on my hand, and I’ll give you a dime.I have a cage that will keep you warm,Free from danger, and safe from storm.”“No, little lady, we cannot do that,Not for a dime, nor a brand new hat.We are so happy, and wild, and free,Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!”“Fly, pretty bird, fly down, and takeJust a crumb of my Christmas cake;Santa Claus brought it to me, you know,Over the snow. Over the snow.”“Yes, we know of your home, so rare,And stockings hung in the fire-light there;We peeped through the window-blinds to see.Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!“We were on the button-ball tree,Closer than we were thought to be;Soon you may have us in to tea,Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!”
“Come, little bird, I have waited some time,Light on my hand, and I’ll give you a dime.I have a cage that will keep you warm,Free from danger, and safe from storm.”
“No, little lady, we cannot do that,Not for a dime, nor a brand new hat.We are so happy, and wild, and free,Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!”
“Fly, pretty bird, fly down, and takeJust a crumb of my Christmas cake;Santa Claus brought it to me, you know,Over the snow. Over the snow.”
“Yes, we know of your home, so rare,And stockings hung in the fire-light there;We peeped through the window-blinds to see.Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!
“We were on the button-ball tree,Closer than we were thought to be;Soon you may have us in to tea,Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!”
Adalina Patti was a doll of most trying disposition. You wouldn’t tell, when she woke up, what distracting thing she’d do first. I’ve known her, when seated at the breakfast table, in her high chair, next to Sirena, her little mamma, I have known her to jerk suddenly forward, and plunge her face right into a plate of buttered cakes and syrup.
This necessitated the removing of her from the table and a good deal of cleansing and re-dressing on the part of Bidelia, the hired girl.
She had movable eyes; they were very lovely, but, if you’ll believe it, she’d screw them round, just to be contrary, so that she’d look cross-eyed for hours together. No sweet persuasion or threat of punishment could induce her to look like a doll in her right mind.
This was not quite so bad though, as the outlandish noises she made when she didn’t want to say “mamma,” which she could do very distinctly when she first arrived, at Christmas.
But a crisis in her petulant obstinacy came, when she wouldn’t sit still to have her hair combed, and it looked like a “hurrah’s nest,” her brother Bob said. All her naughtiness came right out then. She rolled one eye entirely up in her head, and left it there, and stared so wild with the other, that Sirena gave her a pretty lively shake, but she only dropped that eye and rolled up the other.
This made her little mamma pause and meditate. She got provoked as she looked at her, and then she gave her a double shake; then that bad doll rolled up both her eyes, and nothing could induce her to get them down again.
Oh, dear! How many dreadful things she looked like. There was a vicious parrot in the park that made its eyes look just like Adalina’s did, just before it stuck its head through the bars of its cage to bite people. And there was a stone lady, that was named “Ceres,” on one of the paths in the same park, and she kept her eyes rolled up all the time, greatly to the terror of Sirena and Bidelia, who had to pass her in coming home in the twilight. And down street there was a tobacconist’s sign that represented a fairy queen, with butterfly wings, taking a pinch of snuff, and the weather had taken all the paint off her eyes and she looked simply hideous; and Sirena grasped Bidelia very tight, till they got round the corner. Now here was her lovely French doll looking like them and cutting up worse. She’d go to mammawith this trouble as she did with all others.
She put her doll down with her face against the carpet, and taking hold of her pink kid arm, dragged her, not very gently, over the carpet to her mother.
At that moment in bounced Rob, who, immediately taking in the situation of affairs, exclaimed,—“Oh, don’t be so cruel to Adalina! Is she just horrid? You know, Rena, that’s what you are, sometimes, yourself. What’s the matter any way? What makes you look so glum?”
“This doll is acting dreadful; just look at her eyes!” said Sirena.
“You can’t tell any thing by any one’s eyes, yours look like the 4th of July, now, and you’re a delightful little girl, everybody says; you don’t whack things round, and scream, when the flowers bloom in the spring.”
He was to be repressed immediately. Sirena looked at her mother.
“He wants to be funny, Sirena,” said her mother, soothingly.
“Then he isn’t funny; he’s never funny,” said Sirena, drawing herself up with dignity.
“Totty Belmont says you’re the teasenest, hatefulest boy she knows! So there,” remarked Sirena.
“Oh, ho! I don’t wonder the doll is scared. Why don’t you treat that pretty creature with some consideration? Dragging her over the carpet, and spoiling her pretty dress! Now you’ll see, just as soon as she comes to me, because I’m good-looking and nice, she’ll put her eyes down and smile at me as lovely as ever.”
He took the doll and jumped it up and down in the air, dancing about and singing, “Tra-la.”
As sure as the world! Down came the eyes, and Adalina was her charming self again.
“Now you see,” said Rob, “if you want people to be good to you and love you, you must not be rude and ill-natured yourself. This doll is French, and particular, and she just won’t look at cross little girls; so there!”
“I think,” said her mamma, “that Sirena will not get so angry with her doll again. She looks as if she were ashamed of it now. However disagreeable we may think people are, it’s best to watch ourselves, lest in finding fault with them, we fall into the same errors.”
Sirena slouched in an armchair with her doll
SIRENA.
My little love, with soft, brown eyes,Looks shyly back at me,Beneath the drooping apple bough,She thinks I do not see.I cannot choose, I laugh with her,I catch her merry glee;Or stay you near, or go you far,Oh, little love, how sweet you are!A hue, like light within a rose,Is dimpling on her cheek,It wins a grace, it deepens nowWith every airy freak;A love-light in the rose like this,Ah, you may vainly seek;It shines for me, no shadows mar,Oh, little love, how fair you are!My heart clings to her pretty words,They will not be forgot;My happy brain will not discern,If they be wise or not.To ever be so charmed, so blessed,Ah, this were happy lot.My own, shine ever like a starUpon my life, so true you are.
My little love, with soft, brown eyes,Looks shyly back at me,Beneath the drooping apple bough,She thinks I do not see.I cannot choose, I laugh with her,I catch her merry glee;Or stay you near, or go you far,Oh, little love, how sweet you are!
A hue, like light within a rose,Is dimpling on her cheek,It wins a grace, it deepens nowWith every airy freak;A love-light in the rose like this,Ah, you may vainly seek;It shines for me, no shadows mar,Oh, little love, how fair you are!
My heart clings to her pretty words,They will not be forgot;My happy brain will not discern,If they be wise or not.To ever be so charmed, so blessed,Ah, this were happy lot.My own, shine ever like a starUpon my life, so true you are.
Papa and his two daughters
PAPA’S PETS.
Little Hal Keys was pretty sure to throw a stone at every pussy cat he saw, and so all the cats around used to have a great deal to say about him as they sat together on the back fences, or when they had a party in the big barn. At last the cats determined to do something about it, and so they said: “We will have him up for trial before Judge Thomas White.” He was the wisest and oldest of all the cats in town, and wore spectacles that made him look even wiser than he was. Eleven of the most learned cats said they would be lawyers, and get other cats to be witnesses, to tell what Hal had done, and try to get him punished. One of the eleven said: “For the sake of Hal’s mother, who has always been kind to me from the time I was a little kitten, I will be his lawyer, and try to get his punishment made as light as I can.”
The courtroom
DOLLY VARDEN ACCUSING JACK WITH CRUELTY.
Twelve cats had to be found who could say that they were not quite sure that Hal was such a bad boy as he seemed to be. They were stay-at-home cats, who did not know what was going on outside of the comfortable houses where they lived. These twelve cats were to be the jury, and it was their duty to hear all that the lawyers and the witnesses had to say about Hal’s doings, and then to tell whether or not they thought he ought to be punished.
At last the day of the trial came; Judge Thomas White sat down in his big chair and took his pen; the lawyers took their places; the twelve jury cats were brought in, and put in a highbox, so they could not jump out and run away. Hal was brought in and put in the prisoner’s box, as they call it; and Christopher Gray, his mother’s old cat, took his place beside Hal. Three cats, called “reporters,” came in with pockets full of paper and pencils, to write down all that is said; to print in the newspapers, for all cats in the world to read.
The first witness to tell all the bad she knew about Hal was his sister Alice’s little Dolly Varden. How saucy she looked, with the blue ribbon tied around her neck, as she sat on the witness stand telling how Hal chased her from cellar to garret; and stepped on her tail; and gave her saucer of milk to the dog Jack whenever he got a chance. “Cruel, cruel boy,” said Dolly Varden, “he teases his sister almost as much as he teases me.”
Hal trembled from head to foot when he heard what Dolly Varden said, for he knew it all was true, and he was much afraid that a very hard punishment would be given to him. Then the old black cat, on whom Hal had thrown a dipper of hot water, was called to the witness stand. Poor old thing! the hot water had taken the fur off his back. Then came another cat, limping up to the witness stand, whose leg had been broken by a stone which Hal had thrown. There were so many witnesses that it would make my story too long to tell about them all. All that Christopher Gray could say in Hal’s favor was: “He has a good mother.”
“The more shame for him,” said one of the lawyers.
When the jury had heard all that was to be said, they went out of the room together; in five minutes they came back; all agreed that Hal should be punished. Then Judge Thomas White, in his most solemn tone, said: “Albert Keys, you are found guilty of great cruelty to good cats everywhere. I must, therefore, pronounce sentence upon you. You must go with us to Cat town for two days and one night.”
There were tears in Hal’s eyes, but the Judge had no pity on him, and he called in some of the strongest cats to take him. Oh! what a long, hard way it was; over fences, under houses, and through the barns. It was hard work for Hal to keep up with them, but they made him. What a time he had after he got to Cat town. All of the cats gathered around him, and howled at him, and scratched his face and hands, and made him wish he was any place but there. At last when he was set free, he never could have found his way home, if pretty little Dolly Varden had not forgiven him, and shown him the way back.
Hal was never known after that to throw a stone at a cat, or to treat one badly in any way.
They don’t know much, these little girls,I’ll tell you why ’tis so,They played away their time at school,And let their lessons go.One took a slate to cipher,And all went very well,Until she came to four times eight,And that she could not tell.The other would make picturesIn her copy book at school,Of boys and girls and donkeysWhich was against the rule.But nothing good could come of it,And this is what befell;She tried to write to papa,And found she could not spell.The teacher said, “Of all sad things,I would not be a dunce,But would learn to write and cipher,And begin the work at once.”
They don’t know much, these little girls,I’ll tell you why ’tis so,They played away their time at school,And let their lessons go.
One took a slate to cipher,And all went very well,Until she came to four times eight,And that she could not tell.
The other would make picturesIn her copy book at school,Of boys and girls and donkeysWhich was against the rule.
But nothing good could come of it,And this is what befell;She tried to write to papa,And found she could not spell.
The teacher said, “Of all sad things,I would not be a dunce,But would learn to write and cipher,And begin the work at once.”
A great astronomer was, once in his early days, working hard at mathematics, and the difficulties he met with, made him ready to give up the study in despair. After listlessly looking out of the window, he turned over the leaves of his book, when the lining at the back attracted his attention. Looking at it closely, he found it was part of a letter written to a young man, apparently, like himself, disheartened with his difficulties. “Go on, sir, go on,” was the counsel; “the difficulties you meet will disappear as you advance.”This short sentence seemed to give the student fresh courage. Following out these simple words he applied himself with renewed energy to his studies, and ultimately became one of the most learned men of his day.D.
A great astronomer was, once in his early days, working hard at mathematics, and the difficulties he met with, made him ready to give up the study in despair. After listlessly looking out of the window, he turned over the leaves of his book, when the lining at the back attracted his attention. Looking at it closely, he found it was part of a letter written to a young man, apparently, like himself, disheartened with his difficulties. “Go on, sir, go on,” was the counsel; “the difficulties you meet will disappear as you advance.”
This short sentence seemed to give the student fresh courage. Following out these simple words he applied himself with renewed energy to his studies, and ultimately became one of the most learned men of his day.
D.
Do not be ashamed, my lad, if you have a patch on your elbow. It is no mark of disgrace. It speaks well for your industrious mother. For our part, we would rather see a dozen patches on your clothes than to have you do a bad or mean action, or to hear a profane or vulgar word proceed from your lips. No good boy will shun you or think less of you because you do not dress as well as he does, and if any one laugh at your appearance, never mind it. Go right on doing your duty.
Five deer
Clara was a little western girl. She had lived in San Francisco until she was nine years old, when her dear mamma and papa brought her east to live with Aunt Mary and Cousin Charlie, and they were growing very fond of her indeed, for she was so sweet and kind and always obedient.
One day she was sitting out under the blossoming trees on the old Worden seat, her book lying, unread, in her lap, and her eyes having a dreamy, far-away look in them, when, from the balcony overhead, sounded a piping little voice:
“Clara, Tousin Clara! has oo dot my Animal book?” and a small, rosy-cheeked boy came running to her, rubbing his sleepy, dark eyes.
“Why, Charlie, have you finished your nap so soon? yes here is your Animal book, and what shall I read about?”
“Oh, about the deers, wiz their dreat big horns, and—and—everysin,” and he nestled close, satisfied he would hear all he wished. So she read a short sketch of the deer, its haunts and habits, when he interrupted:
“Has oo everseena deer—a realliveone?” and his black eyes opened wide.
“Oh, yes; and when we were coming east, across the plains, whenever the train drew near a wooded stream, often the screaming whistle would startle a herd of deer from their covert, and they would rush up through the trees, antlers erect, and sleek brown bodies quivering with alarm, and followed by the soft-eyed, gentle fawn. It was quite a pretty picture.”
“Tell me more; what tind of a city did oo live in?”
CLARA AND THE ANIMAL BOOK.
“A very beautiful city, Charlie. You should see our noble bay, with the great ships riding at anchor; our fine parks and stately buildings. Then if you should go down in Market street, where most of the business is done, you would see some funny sights. All kinds of people are there—Ranchmen, Indians, Spaniards, English, Americans and lots of queer little Chinamen, and they have small, dark shops full of curious things, and besides spread their wares on the walk.”
After telling about the orange groves and vineyards, the lovely flowers, especially the fuchsia, which winds its branches like a vine over the porches, often reaching the upper story of a house, Charlie thought it must be a wonderful country, and expressed his intention oflivingin California when he became a man.
In a Chinese village during a time of drought a missionary saw a row of idols put in the hottest and dustiest part of the road. He inquired the reason and the natives answered: “We prayed our gods to send us rain, and they wont, so we’ve put them out to see how they like the heat and dryness.”
Three meadow birds went out in great glee,All in the sunshiny weather;Down by the pond, with the reeds waving free,Where the ducks were all standing together.“Good day Mrs. Duck,” said the three meadow birds,“From all the news we can gather,You’re a very good friend, of very few words.”Then one flew away with a feather.“Quack!” said the duck, “That feather is mine,I see through your ways altogether;You want our feathers, your own nests to line,All in the bright summer weather.”“What shall we use?” said the three meadow birds,“There’s no good in moss or in heather.”“We don’t care a straw,” said the old blue drake,“If you line all your nests with sole leather.”“Quack! Quack! Quack! You must think we are slack!You talk too polite altogether;We’ve had quite enough of your high-flown stuff,And we know, you are birds of a feather.”
Three meadow birds went out in great glee,All in the sunshiny weather;Down by the pond, with the reeds waving free,Where the ducks were all standing together.
“Good day Mrs. Duck,” said the three meadow birds,“From all the news we can gather,You’re a very good friend, of very few words.”Then one flew away with a feather.
“Quack!” said the duck, “That feather is mine,I see through your ways altogether;You want our feathers, your own nests to line,All in the bright summer weather.”
“What shall we use?” said the three meadow birds,“There’s no good in moss or in heather.”“We don’t care a straw,” said the old blue drake,“If you line all your nests with sole leather.”
“Quack! Quack! Quack! You must think we are slack!You talk too polite altogether;We’ve had quite enough of your high-flown stuff,And we know, you are birds of a feather.”
Dickens and his cat
Charles Dickens, for that is the name of the gentleman you see sitting by the table, wrote many books and stories. Some of his stories are about little children for grown folks to read, and others are for the children themselves. Mr. Dickens had a pet cat, that was always in his library. Strange to say, it had no name. That was no matter, because the cat could not hear. He was deaf. But he liked very much to be petted, and plainly showed sometimes that he was not pleased to have his master do any thing else. One evening, when Mr. Dickens was sitting at the table reading, his candle suddenly went out. He did not know why it should have done so, but he got up and lighted it. In a few moments it began to get dark again, and he looked up quickly at the candle, and saw puss just raising his paw to put it out. “What did he do?” He gave the cat a loving little pat and went on with his reading. What a sly cat was that to find a way to make his master notice him.
SULKY ARCHIE.BY C. MANNERS SMITH.“It must be nice to be a sailor, and I wish I was one. Every thing goes wrong and mother is always scolding me, and father is never done growling; I am getting tired of it.”The speaker was a little, round-cheeked lad, of about nine years of age. He was standing, with a tall, fair-haired girl, evidently his sister, on the edge of the river Wyncombe. He was not a lively boy. He was one of those thoughtful, gloomy little boys who are always dreaming; always thinking and imagining some fancied injury from either father or mother.Archie sitting on a wall“NOBODY CARES.”Archie Phillips was the little boy’s name, and he and his sister had got a holiday and were watching a party of older children from the Wynne High School, who had come down to the river to spend the afternoon. There was Algernon Wright with a large model yacht, and Willie Schofield, the Mayor’s son, with a new silver-mounted fishing rod. They were all as happy and full of frolic as all boys in the spring-time of life ought to be. Little Archie was, however, of a morose temperament, and did not share in any of the amusements.The village of Wynne is a fishing village, and is approached from the sea by a beautiful cove on the Cornish coast. The town is built on the slopes of the hills reaching down to the water’s edge, and the river Wynne empties itself into the sea near by.It is, indeed, a pleasant place. At the time of this story all the boys of Wynne, young and old, were crazy after maritime pursuits and sports. They spent the bulk of their holiday time either in sailing about the bay, or in fishing, bathing, or holding model yacht races in the cove.“Why don’t I have a yacht in the place of a silly ball? Why don’t I haveboys to play with instead of Lucy and Gyp? What do girls or dogs know about a top or a cat hunt? I’m disgusted! I’ll go for a sailor! I’ll run away; there!”The girl took no notice of this discourse. It was no new thing for her to hear grumbling from her brother, and she was accustomed to bear it without murmur or dissent. Presently she ran away, along the river bank, with her doll, to a shady place, where she knew the sun was not strong, and where some rushes overhung the path. There she could put her doll to sleep. It was no use asking Archie to join her. He was too old and too much of a man to enter into any such stupidity.Presently Archie sat down in the shade, on the balustrades of the churchyard and watched the glee of the High-Schoolboys with a sulky envy.It was a glorious summer afternoon. The sky overhead was one vast, inverted field of blue, without a single speck of cloud. The hot sun was beating down almost perpendicularly, and the rays penetrated the leaves, shedding a lattice-work pattern on the ground.“I know Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, will tell me how to go to sea. He has been a sailor himself, and I know he will tell me all about it. Nobody cares; well, mother might, perhaps, a bit, but then, I don’t know.”Then he paused in his musings and thought of all the injustice done to him by his mother. He thought, like all gloomy, wretched little boys, of all that was ill. He didn’t for one moment remember, how, that very morning, the self-same, unjust mother, after packing up his little lunch-basket, had put her arms round his neck, and a little red-cheeked apple in his pocket, and told him to keep away from the river. Oh, no, he seemed to have quite forgotten all that.Then the sun went behind a cloud and Archie felt the cool wind, which blew from the cove, on his cheek, so he jumped down from his musing place and sped away as fast as his legs would carry him toward the house of the boat-builder. He ran across the green, down the grassy slopes and across a stretch of shingly beach, to the cottage of his friend.Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, was a good-hearted fellow, and was extremely fond of all the children of the village. He had that method possessed by few people of searching into the heart of a child and arguing with him in a manner suitable for a child’s understanding.Archie had often sought Ben’s counsel when things seemed to go wrong, and it was seldom that the boat-builder had failed to convince the boy, even to his satisfaction, that he was wrong.It was an off day for the boat-builder. He was sitting, smoking his pipe, in the cottage porch, and reading a well-thumbed copy of “Gray’s Master Mariner.” He welcomed Archie with a secret delight, for he knew, by his little friend’s face, that he was brooding over some fancied injury, and it gave the boat-builder pleasure to talk his little friend out of his troubles.“Well, Archie, what’s new in the wind,” said Ben, as he greeted the boy with a grasp of the hand. “It seems almost an age since I saw you, my boy.”Little Archie sat down on a large stone bench in the porch, and told Ben his story. His mother had been vexed with him that morning. She had asked him to call at the rectory with a message for Doctor Hart, and he wanted to cut grass at the time, and objected. His mother did not scold him, oh, no, Ben, she sent Carrie, who willingly took the message, and his father had called him a name. Then, again, he had no toys like other boys. Some had a pony; he couldn’t have one. His father always answered his request for a pony with the reply that he couldn’t afford one just then and he would see about it some day. If Ben would onlytell him how to go to sea he would certainly run away the next day.Ben and Archie“AND DISCUSSED LITTLE ARCHIE’S PURPOSED FLIGHT.”Now, Ben knew the character of little Archie better, perhaps, than his own mother did; so, when he had given the little boy a draught of cool milk from the cottage kitchen, Ben lit his pipe afresh, and took down an old telescope, a relic of his sea-faring days, from the wall. The young man and the boy then strolled across a low, level tract of sand, to a grassy hillock, formed by the current of the Wyncombe. Here they sat down in the fast waning twilight, and discussed little Archie’s purposed flight.“Yes, Archie,” said Ben, “a sailor’s life is well enough, if you don’t mind hard beds and harder words. If you can eat salty meat and mouldy bread it’s a fine life, Archie. There is no life I’d like better if they’d give you fresher water and not quite so many cruel blows. But, if you’ve made up your mind, Archie, and think you can go to bed nights in a rolling, tossing sea, with the wind howling and the rain pouring, and your mother thousands of miles away, looking at your little empty bed, I should think very seriously about it.” Archie looked thoughtful, as the gloom deepened on his face, and silence fell on the pair for a time.Archie as an adultARCHIE THINKING OF BEN’S STORY.Suddenly Ben spied a French frigate looming against the darkening sky and showed it to Archie through the telescope. He explained all the parts of the ship and dwelt long in his answers to the lad’s questions. He told little Archie how, early one stormy morning, he had been awakened from his bed in the cottage by the sound of guns away at sea, how he had descended to the beach with a lot of the villagers, to find the waves beating mercilessly over a great broken ship. He told how they had all stood, in the leaden morning, stricken with dread at the sight of the disaster they were all powerless to prevent; leaning hard against the wind, their breath and vision often failing as the sleet and spray rushed at them from the great mountain of foaming sea which kept breaking on the rocks in the cove. He told farther, how, before all their eyes, the vessel had given one great heave backwards and sank beneath the waves forever; how they could faintly hear the heart-rending screams of women and children above the storm as the great waste of waters covered the struggling vessel. He told Archie that, on the following evening, while he was mending a boat down the bay, he came across something lying amongst a mass of sea-weed, and on turning it over had found it to be the dead body of a sailor—a fair, curly-headed youth.“He was clad,” said Ben, “in a pair of linen trowsers and a sea shirt, and the weeds and sand were all tangled in his hair. I raised him up from the beach and a small bundle fell out of his bosom. I laid him in my boat and went for Doctor Hart. It was the talkof the village for days. Dr. Hart found the bundle to contain a packet of letters written in a feeble hand and signed by the dead sailor’s mother. They were loving letters of expected joy at her boy’s return.”Ben would have gone on with the story, but he was attracted by the appearance of Archie. The little lad was sitting, with his pale face turned up to Ben, and with two great tears, as large as horse beans, in the corners of his eyes. On meeting Ben’s gaze he broke down thoroughly and burst into a flood of tears, throwing his arms round the honest boat-builder’s neck, sobbing on his breast.“Oh, Ben, I don’t want to leave mother; I am a wicked boy. If she were to die, Ben, what should I do? Do you think she is alive now, Ben? I don’t want to go away, Ben.”The boat-builder soothed the little lad and smiled at the success of his purpose to divert the boy’s mind.It was now nearly night, and time for Archie to go home, so Ben took him on his shoulders and carried him to Mr. Archer’s house, where the family were all waiting supper for the little boy.Archie ran to his mother as soon as he got in and kissed her over and over again. He told her his little story, making the good woman’s heart overflow with love for her little son.Ben stayed to supper with the family that night, and all was bright and happy as the merry party sat round the board laughing and joking to their heart’s content.Archie is a young man now, and has outgrown his gloomy, brooding disposition. He is a clerk in the office of a rich corn merchant in Oxbridge, the nearest market to Wynne, and shows every tendency to become a successful and respected business man.Occasionally, when things do not happen to his satisfaction, and he feels the old spirit of discontent rising, he checks it by reflecting on his early unhappiness. If his mother or father are harsh or angry with him, or if Mr. Gayton, his employer, speaks quickly or loudly to him, he stifles any tendency to sulk and become angry by thinking of Ben Huntly and the story of the wreck.
BY C. MANNERS SMITH.
“It must be nice to be a sailor, and I wish I was one. Every thing goes wrong and mother is always scolding me, and father is never done growling; I am getting tired of it.”
The speaker was a little, round-cheeked lad, of about nine years of age. He was standing, with a tall, fair-haired girl, evidently his sister, on the edge of the river Wyncombe. He was not a lively boy. He was one of those thoughtful, gloomy little boys who are always dreaming; always thinking and imagining some fancied injury from either father or mother.
Archie sitting on a wall
“NOBODY CARES.”
Archie Phillips was the little boy’s name, and he and his sister had got a holiday and were watching a party of older children from the Wynne High School, who had come down to the river to spend the afternoon. There was Algernon Wright with a large model yacht, and Willie Schofield, the Mayor’s son, with a new silver-mounted fishing rod. They were all as happy and full of frolic as all boys in the spring-time of life ought to be. Little Archie was, however, of a morose temperament, and did not share in any of the amusements.
The village of Wynne is a fishing village, and is approached from the sea by a beautiful cove on the Cornish coast. The town is built on the slopes of the hills reaching down to the water’s edge, and the river Wynne empties itself into the sea near by.
It is, indeed, a pleasant place. At the time of this story all the boys of Wynne, young and old, were crazy after maritime pursuits and sports. They spent the bulk of their holiday time either in sailing about the bay, or in fishing, bathing, or holding model yacht races in the cove.
“Why don’t I have a yacht in the place of a silly ball? Why don’t I haveboys to play with instead of Lucy and Gyp? What do girls or dogs know about a top or a cat hunt? I’m disgusted! I’ll go for a sailor! I’ll run away; there!”
The girl took no notice of this discourse. It was no new thing for her to hear grumbling from her brother, and she was accustomed to bear it without murmur or dissent. Presently she ran away, along the river bank, with her doll, to a shady place, where she knew the sun was not strong, and where some rushes overhung the path. There she could put her doll to sleep. It was no use asking Archie to join her. He was too old and too much of a man to enter into any such stupidity.
Presently Archie sat down in the shade, on the balustrades of the churchyard and watched the glee of the High-Schoolboys with a sulky envy.
It was a glorious summer afternoon. The sky overhead was one vast, inverted field of blue, without a single speck of cloud. The hot sun was beating down almost perpendicularly, and the rays penetrated the leaves, shedding a lattice-work pattern on the ground.
“I know Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, will tell me how to go to sea. He has been a sailor himself, and I know he will tell me all about it. Nobody cares; well, mother might, perhaps, a bit, but then, I don’t know.”
Then he paused in his musings and thought of all the injustice done to him by his mother. He thought, like all gloomy, wretched little boys, of all that was ill. He didn’t for one moment remember, how, that very morning, the self-same, unjust mother, after packing up his little lunch-basket, had put her arms round his neck, and a little red-cheeked apple in his pocket, and told him to keep away from the river. Oh, no, he seemed to have quite forgotten all that.
Then the sun went behind a cloud and Archie felt the cool wind, which blew from the cove, on his cheek, so he jumped down from his musing place and sped away as fast as his legs would carry him toward the house of the boat-builder. He ran across the green, down the grassy slopes and across a stretch of shingly beach, to the cottage of his friend.
Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, was a good-hearted fellow, and was extremely fond of all the children of the village. He had that method possessed by few people of searching into the heart of a child and arguing with him in a manner suitable for a child’s understanding.
Archie had often sought Ben’s counsel when things seemed to go wrong, and it was seldom that the boat-builder had failed to convince the boy, even to his satisfaction, that he was wrong.
It was an off day for the boat-builder. He was sitting, smoking his pipe, in the cottage porch, and reading a well-thumbed copy of “Gray’s Master Mariner.” He welcomed Archie with a secret delight, for he knew, by his little friend’s face, that he was brooding over some fancied injury, and it gave the boat-builder pleasure to talk his little friend out of his troubles.
“Well, Archie, what’s new in the wind,” said Ben, as he greeted the boy with a grasp of the hand. “It seems almost an age since I saw you, my boy.”
Little Archie sat down on a large stone bench in the porch, and told Ben his story. His mother had been vexed with him that morning. She had asked him to call at the rectory with a message for Doctor Hart, and he wanted to cut grass at the time, and objected. His mother did not scold him, oh, no, Ben, she sent Carrie, who willingly took the message, and his father had called him a name. Then, again, he had no toys like other boys. Some had a pony; he couldn’t have one. His father always answered his request for a pony with the reply that he couldn’t afford one just then and he would see about it some day. If Ben would onlytell him how to go to sea he would certainly run away the next day.
Ben and Archie
“AND DISCUSSED LITTLE ARCHIE’S PURPOSED FLIGHT.”
Now, Ben knew the character of little Archie better, perhaps, than his own mother did; so, when he had given the little boy a draught of cool milk from the cottage kitchen, Ben lit his pipe afresh, and took down an old telescope, a relic of his sea-faring days, from the wall. The young man and the boy then strolled across a low, level tract of sand, to a grassy hillock, formed by the current of the Wyncombe. Here they sat down in the fast waning twilight, and discussed little Archie’s purposed flight.
“Yes, Archie,” said Ben, “a sailor’s life is well enough, if you don’t mind hard beds and harder words. If you can eat salty meat and mouldy bread it’s a fine life, Archie. There is no life I’d like better if they’d give you fresher water and not quite so many cruel blows. But, if you’ve made up your mind, Archie, and think you can go to bed nights in a rolling, tossing sea, with the wind howling and the rain pouring, and your mother thousands of miles away, looking at your little empty bed, I should think very seriously about it.” Archie looked thoughtful, as the gloom deepened on his face, and silence fell on the pair for a time.
Archie as an adult
ARCHIE THINKING OF BEN’S STORY.
Suddenly Ben spied a French frigate looming against the darkening sky and showed it to Archie through the telescope. He explained all the parts of the ship and dwelt long in his answers to the lad’s questions. He told little Archie how, early one stormy morning, he had been awakened from his bed in the cottage by the sound of guns away at sea, how he had descended to the beach with a lot of the villagers, to find the waves beating mercilessly over a great broken ship. He told how they had all stood, in the leaden morning, stricken with dread at the sight of the disaster they were all powerless to prevent; leaning hard against the wind, their breath and vision often failing as the sleet and spray rushed at them from the great mountain of foaming sea which kept breaking on the rocks in the cove. He told farther, how, before all their eyes, the vessel had given one great heave backwards and sank beneath the waves forever; how they could faintly hear the heart-rending screams of women and children above the storm as the great waste of waters covered the struggling vessel. He told Archie that, on the following evening, while he was mending a boat down the bay, he came across something lying amongst a mass of sea-weed, and on turning it over had found it to be the dead body of a sailor—a fair, curly-headed youth.
“He was clad,” said Ben, “in a pair of linen trowsers and a sea shirt, and the weeds and sand were all tangled in his hair. I raised him up from the beach and a small bundle fell out of his bosom. I laid him in my boat and went for Doctor Hart. It was the talkof the village for days. Dr. Hart found the bundle to contain a packet of letters written in a feeble hand and signed by the dead sailor’s mother. They were loving letters of expected joy at her boy’s return.”
Ben would have gone on with the story, but he was attracted by the appearance of Archie. The little lad was sitting, with his pale face turned up to Ben, and with two great tears, as large as horse beans, in the corners of his eyes. On meeting Ben’s gaze he broke down thoroughly and burst into a flood of tears, throwing his arms round the honest boat-builder’s neck, sobbing on his breast.
“Oh, Ben, I don’t want to leave mother; I am a wicked boy. If she were to die, Ben, what should I do? Do you think she is alive now, Ben? I don’t want to go away, Ben.”
The boat-builder soothed the little lad and smiled at the success of his purpose to divert the boy’s mind.
It was now nearly night, and time for Archie to go home, so Ben took him on his shoulders and carried him to Mr. Archer’s house, where the family were all waiting supper for the little boy.
Archie ran to his mother as soon as he got in and kissed her over and over again. He told her his little story, making the good woman’s heart overflow with love for her little son.
Ben stayed to supper with the family that night, and all was bright and happy as the merry party sat round the board laughing and joking to their heart’s content.
Archie is a young man now, and has outgrown his gloomy, brooding disposition. He is a clerk in the office of a rich corn merchant in Oxbridge, the nearest market to Wynne, and shows every tendency to become a successful and respected business man.
Occasionally, when things do not happen to his satisfaction, and he feels the old spirit of discontent rising, he checks it by reflecting on his early unhappiness. If his mother or father are harsh or angry with him, or if Mr. Gayton, his employer, speaks quickly or loudly to him, he stifles any tendency to sulk and become angry by thinking of Ben Huntly and the story of the wreck.