Myfirstwe wish our dear ones' lives to be,And all the joys and loves that Hope discloses,And fairy-tales, and picnics by the sea,Purses, and golden curls, and times of roses,And lashes dark, to shade a beauty's glances,And rides, and sails, and pantomimes, and dances.
Mysecondis the place where thousands meet,Like ships at sea, who never meet again,—Fair maids, and soldiers brave, and children sweet,And ruddy boys, and silver-haired old men;The surging mob, the monks' procession holy,Gay bridal trains, and funerals moving slowly.
Mywhole, he was a Southern leader brave,Whose flaming sword to Richmond barred the way;'Mid smoke and shot, he saw his banners wave,He rode victorious, joying in the fray.Till fickle Fortune set the hero learning'Tis a long lane, or street, that knows no turning.
Long-street.
How odd it was! Such a funny little event! I have often told the story to my one little chick, but it has always seemed to me too absurd to put into print; yet you see I have finally made up my mind to tell you all about it.
I was seven years old that summer,—seven, "going on" eight, as we country children used to say. It was the term during which I commenced the study of geography,—dear old Peter Parley's charming little book, which first formally introduced me to the great world we live in, or rather on, and first made me realize that it was round, and all that. It was on an afternoon in the early part of July, I am not sure, though, that it was n't in the latter part of June, that it happened,—the singular event I am going to tell you about. It had been dreadfully hot all day,—so hot that the very hillsides seemed to pant, like the sides of the poor cattle, in the parched pastures. I thought it extremely lucky that my geography lesson that day was in Greenland. I don't believe I could have been equal to a lesson in Mesopotamia. I remember saying to Bob Linn, at recess, that I wished I was a seal, riding on an iceberg; and he said he wished he was a white bear, climbing the North Pole and sliding down backwards. That was so like Bob Linn. He used to climb the lightning-rod of the meeting-house, and ring the bell at very improper hours, till Deacon Jones tarred it,—the rod, not the bell. I wonder where he is now,—Bob, not the Deacon. He was the first schoolmate to whom I told what had happened that July, or June afternoon. As I think I have said, it was a very hot day; but, just before school was dismissed, there came up a refreshing thunder-shower. How we revived, in the cool, moist air, like the poor wilted field-flowers! The shrunken stream in the glen grew, and took heart, and went tumbling down the rocks, in its old, headlong spring-fashion. The cattle stopped panting and whisking off flies, and stood dripping and chewing, while a smile of brightening greenness ran over the faded face of the pasture.
I had a half-mile walk home. One of the girls who lived nearer the school-house invited me to stay all night with her; but I thought that I, who was old enough to study about oceans, avalanches, earthquakes, and volcanoes, ought not to be afraid of such rain, thunder, and lightning as we had in our free, enlightened, and Christian country. So I thanked her "no," which was very well; for, if I had stayed, that wouldn't have happened that did happen,—or, at least, I would n't have seen it. Well, I set out for home, bravely breasting the wind, and really enjoying the rain, in spite of my new sun-bonnet getting every minute more limp and flappy. I remember wondering if it was raining at that very time in China, right under my feet. If so, study on it as I would, I could n't make it seem any other way than that it rained upwards there. I was thinking of such things, and not expecting anything particular to happen, till I got in sight of home, past the old Phillips place, where it did happen. It was here I first noticed over my head the blackest of black clouds, big with barrels of rain. I started into a run, to get out of the way, when—now it is coming, what I was going to relate! No, I must first tell you that there was near me then no house, nor tree, nor even bush, that it could have dropped or jumped off from. Now it really is coming! Well, right down before my eyes, straight out of that cloud, fell—a little frog!! There, it is out! I like to take people by surprise, and not, like some story-tellers, drag my listeners all "round Robin Hood's barn" before I get at a thing.
I stood stock still for a moment, in wonder and astonishment. Then, half afraid, I picked the little creature up out of the sand. He was of a greenish-brown, brightening to gold in the sun. His limbs were extremely delicate, and his eyes were as bright as diamonds. I carried him gently home, and ran with him in the greatest excitement to my mother, exclaiming, "O mamma! do look at this lovely little frog! It is n't human! It came right down to me out of the sky. I do believe it is an angel-frog!"
My mother laughed, but, on being told the story of Froggy's descent from the clouds, said it was a great marvel and mystery where he came from, and how he got there. Glad of a chance to display my learning, I said, "Why, mamma, you know the stars are round balls, like our earth, swinging in the air; and may be he was whirled off one of them, or maybe he jumped off the horn of the moon last night, and has been travelling ever since. Poor little fellow! how tired he must be!"
When my father came in, he gave it as his opinion that the frog had been carried up by a waterspout, from a lake about twenty miles distant, kept up and borne along by currents of air. At all events, he was a hero and an adventurer, and I resolved to keep him as a curiosity. So I put him in a large rain-water trough, at the back of the house, where he lived in apparent content, the monarch of all he surveyed. During dry times, I kept him well supplied with fresh water from the well, and I frequently threw in broad dock-leaves, for him to take shelter under from the heat. He soon grew to know me, and would actually come at my call from the farthest end of the trough. He was very shy of others, and I was not sorry, for I wanted all his affection, and was proud of his discernment. This was thought so singular that I was often sent out with visitors, to show off my pet. I don't believe that the keeper of the hippopotamus can be prouder of his mud-loving monster than I was of my lively little friend.
My brother Will built for him a neat little ship, on which he sailed about, being captain, crew, cabin-boy, and all. One morning, while I was playing with him, he hopped down the hatchway. I shut him into the little cabin, and was careless enough to forget to let him out before going to school. When I came home, I found him lying on the cabin floor, still and lifeless! He had been suffocated in the close, hot air. I am not ashamed to own that I cried heartily over the poor limp little body. I wrapped it tenderly in a plantain-leaf, and laid it beside my last lost kitty.
In the evening, when I told my father of my loss, he by no means made light of it, knowing my pet was no common frog.
"Poor fellow!" he said, "it was as bad for him as the 'Black Hole of Calcutta.'" I did n't know what that meant then; I know now, but haven't time to tell you. Besides it is n't a pleasant story. Then papa added, "Perhaps, after all, it is only a case of suspended animation. Your little frog may have only been in a swoon. If you open his grave in the morning, you may find that he has come to."
That was a pleasant hope to go to bed on, and you may believe I rose bright and early in the morning, to run with my shingle-spade to the cemetery of all my dead pets. With an anxious heart, I removed the earth, and unfolded the plantain-leaf. Sure enough, there was my pet, "alive and kicking!" He hopped out on to a full-blown dandelion, and looked about him as pert and knowing as ever. I caught him up, and ran with him into the house, crying, "Froggy is resurrected!—Froggy is resurrected!"
After this, nothing especial happened to him for some months. He grew in intelligence and lively graces, but not in size, remaining precisely the same pretty, tiny creature as at the first. This fairy-like, unchangeable youthfulness, and his little, piping note, "most musical, most melancholy," made me still half believe that he was a frog of another and a higher race than ours,—star-born, or a native of cloud-land. After the frosty nights of November, I used to remove the thin ice from his tank, so that he could swim freely, and he did not seem to suffer much from the rigors of the season. But, on the first morning in December, I found to my grief that the shallow water in the trough was frozen solid, and—Froggy with it! I could see him tightly imprisoned in the clear ice, about midway from the surface. His limbs were extended, showing that he had bravely kicked against his hard fate to the last. I gave him up, then, and went into the house disconsolate. But my mother was still hopeful. Under her directions I heated the kitchen shovel, and with it thawed out a block of ice some inches square, with Froggy in the centre. This I placed on the hearth before the fire. You see I did not dare to break the ice, for fear of breaking with it the frozen limbs of my pet. I watched the melting of the block with affectionate interest. It was slow work, but it came to an end at last, and Froggy was free. Still, for a time he lay motionless, and I feared he was dead. Then, one limb twitched, then another, and then he was alive all over, and began to hop away from the fire. I rejoiced over him with great joy, put him in a tub of water, with a piece of bark to sail on, and began laying plans for keeping him in-doors all winter. But my mother said it was impossible,—that there was but one way to save the life of my pet, and that was to take him down to the millstream and fling him in. There the water was deep, and the frogs lived under the ice, cosey and comfortable all winter.
"O mamma," I said, "I can't make up my mind to do that. He would miss me so, and I don't believe that the other frogs would treat him well. He is n't of their kind, you know."
"I think it more likely," she answered, "that they will have sense enough to perceive his superiority, and will treat him accordingly,—perhaps make a Prince or President of him. He will come among them as a distinguished stranger,—a travelled adventurer."
This consoled and determined me. I put on my cloak and hood, and set out at once, for fear I should lose courage. I ran all the way, talking to my funny little pet, and saying, I doubt not, many silly things, but which, I am sure, went no further.
When I came to the bank of the stream, I thought perhaps he would hop in of his own accord. I bade him farewell, and held him out over the water. But I suppose it looked big and dreary to him, for he did not stir. I even fancied that he looked at me reproachfully for thinking that he would be so willing to leave me. I was obliged to give him a toss, and the next instant he disappeared forever under the dark, wintry waters, among the reeds and rushes.
So now you know all I know about My Pet from the Clouds.
So Will, my lad, you beg that I'llConcoct you a charade;Well, dear, here goes: Myfirstis firstYour favorite little maid;The hearts of roses too are it,And vine-blooms under which I sit;
And childhood's dreams, and sinless thoughts,And tones attuned to love,"The uses of adversity,"The cooings of the dove,And Lilly's eyes, and Kitty's lips,And Tommy's 'lassed finger-tips.
Mysecondwas the royal nameOf England's conquering foe.Who set his foot on Saxon necksEight hundred years ago;The name too of a poet-king,Who still rules many a land;No soldier he, but a knightlier soulDid ne'er shake spear or brand.
Mywholeis no exotic rare,A common flower found everywhere;In form 't is somewhat like the pink,But its scent is finer, I declare,Than musk, or your patchouli.You 've guessed it now, I really think,So I'll refrain from wasting ink.Sweet Will, I amYours truly,GRACE GREENWOOD.
The summer that I was eight years old I went to school, at our little brown country schoolhouse, alone; my elder sister going to a select school in the village, where she actually studied grammar and wrote compositions! Our school-mistress was Miss Grey, quite a pretty young lady, but folks said not a good teacher. They said she had "no government," and certainly we had a very easy time of it. She was what is called "absent-minded," and often forgot to hear some of our lessons, and we thought it would n't be polite to remind her of them. She had a soft and mournful voice, and a droopy sort of a look, especially about her hair. She dressed a little queer sometimes, and played on the accordion, so it was whispered about that she wrote poetry. I know she read it a good deal, and novels too. She had in her desk a very long romance, called "The Children of the Abbey," which she used to read at noontime and recess. She read it through, and then she appeared to read it backward, for it lasted nearly all summer. It seemed to me that the story went on and on, till it came to the last page of the book, then turned round and went the other way.
I said I went to school alone; yet after a while I had company, which no one else would have thought of much account, but which was quite a comfort to me. One day I made a purchase with my own money. It was only a little pocket-handkerchief, but such a handkerchief! On it was printed, in bright blue, a picture of General George Washington, in full regimentals, with his sword in his hand, flanked by the Ten Commandments, and with a scroll labelled "Constitution" for his base.
At first I looked upon that stern face, with its strong, tight mouth, like a steel-trap just sprung, with a good deal of reverence; but as I grew familiar with him I became fond of him, and part of the time treated him as a doll; indeed, he seemed to me more real than any doll I ever had, and far dearer. I folded him carefully every morning and laid him in my dinner-basket, over my rations, grieving that I was obliged from limited space to fold under his legs, giving them an amputated look. But I laid him out at full length in my desk, and often lifted the cover to take an admiring look at him, during the day. At night, I laid him in one of my dolls' beds, and actually "tucked in" the "Father of his Country," calling him "George, my boy," and telling him to be good, and not to get up in the morning and go to hacking away at cherry-trees, with that sword of his.
He was two in one,—George I. and II. He was little George, or the great General, just as the occasion demanded. On the Fourth of July, I remember, he appeared in all his glory to deliver an oration to "a large and appreciative audience" of dolls and kittens. He spoke in this wise: "Fellow-Citizens, and your wives and daughters, I 'm a warrior, not an orator. I only want to say—to say—to tell you that if it had n't been for me you would n't have had any Fourth of July the year round, nor any parades, nor rockets, nor squibs, nor star-spangled banners, nor pumpkin-pies, nor ginger-pop. We should all have been British, or Irish, and worn red coats, and ate blood-puddings, and drank ale, and hurrahed for King George forevermore. This is the truth, fellow-citizens, for I cannot tell a lie,—you know I cannot tell a lie. But I don't want to brag over you, and if you will still be good Yankee Christians, brave and industrious, I will still be the father of your country, world without end, Amen! Band, please strike up 'Hail Columbia!'"
By the middle of the summer the poor General's face became as badly soiled as ever it was after a long march, over dusty summer roads. Yet I declined to have him washed, fearing that, after all, his colors might not be "true blue."
One Monday morning my mother sent by me a note to Miss Grey, inviting her to accompany me home that day, and spend a week with us. With my head full of thoughts of this invitation, I hurried away to school earlier than usual, and for the first time left General George behind me, lying on his bed in my chamber. I missed him sadly during the day, but came home in triumph at night, bringing Miss Grey with me. I took her at once about the premises, to show her my pets. I exhibited with much pride my tame hawk Toby, but she was afraid of him; though I assured her that he was a hawk of most exemplary character, and civilized to such a degree that he respected the rights of all the mother-hens and ducks, and never asked for spring-chickens, but contented himself with frogs, like a Frenchman. Then I took her to the woodshed, to see my cat, with almost a barrelful of young kittens. What a lovely sight it was! Then I led her to where my speckled hen kept house in a coop, with half a dozen cunning little chicks. The hen-mother was frightened as we came near, and called to her little ones to come in out of danger; but they would n't mind, and she was very angry, and ruffled up her feathers, and scolded furiously at their disobedience. "I think biddies are very unamiable creatures," said Miss Grey. I said nothing, but I thought to myself, "Ah, Miss Grey, if you were a mother, with ever so many children, playing around the door so peacefully, and you shut up in jail, for no crime but scratching up food in gardens for them, and you should love themdreadfully, and should see two giantesses, a big giantess and a middling-sized giantess, come tramping right in among them, and you not able to help them only by ruffling up your feathers and scolding, you 'd be a little unamiable too, perhaps, for I've heard my mother say that hen nature was a good deal like human nature." Then I showed her our gray goose's nest, with an egg in it. But when I expected her to be astonished, she only said, "Why, I thought the egg of the fowl that saved Rome was much larger than this." Now this goose laid the largest eggs of any goose in the neighborhood. "Did you expect it to be as big as theroc'segg in 'Sinbad the Sailor'?" I asked.
As we were passing through the yard, going to the stable, to see my brother's little colt, we encountered the week's washing, hanging on the line, and right before my eyes swung my handkerchief, with the beloved portrait almost washed out! Indeed, scarce a ghost of the great and worthy George remained. I caught it off and burst into tears, crying, "O, it's all faded out,—it's all faded out!"
"Why, you silly child," said Miss Grey, "don't cry so for a little scrap of a handkerchief like that."
"It ain't only a handkerchief," I sobbed, "it's General Washington and my boy George both together. I 've seen you cry, Miss Grey, over the 'Children of the Abbey,' and mother says they never lived; but General Washington did live, and was the Father of his Country; and then there were all the Ten Commandments, too. I declare Nancy is as bad as Moses was, when he smashed the tables of stone."
But Miss Grey only laughed at my sorrow, and went into the house. When I followed her, I whispered to mother, "Have we got the 'Children of the Abbey'? If we have, please give it to Miss Grey to amuse herself with."
Then I went up stairs and laid out my dead George, and had my foolish little cry out. After all, my great General had faded and wilted away into an unsightly little rag of a handkerchief. What a fall was there! We have seen some very like it in these days.
I had no heart to keep him by me any longer, so I gave him to my little brother, who put him to every possible use except that of a handkerchief. That was a hard campaign for the feeble old General. Sometimes he did service as the sail for a boat; sometimes green apples, or rabbit feed, or worms for bait were tied up in him. His feet, with what was left of the Constitution, were torn off and rammed into a small cannon's mouth for wadding; and, finally, he went up on the tail of a kite. In mid-air he became detached, and dropped into a tall thorn-tree. Here he got stuck fast, and so remained till he fluttered himself to pieces bit by bit.
Myfirstthe poet Cowper loved,A creature soft and fleet;To vote my _second_ to valiant puss,The long-tailed sages meet.
It calls to prayer; at dead of nightRouses the city street;And to the bridal train sends outA greeting wild and sweet.
Mywholewould shine all dewy brightIn your golden hair, Bell, to-night.
Hare-bell.
On a nice little farm, on the shore of one of our beautiful Western lakes, lives a noble young German girl named Bertha Johansen, but oftener called "little woman," for her womanly qualities, and her staid, quaint ways; and for a while, among her family-friends, still oftener called "little widow," for a reason I will give by and by. Early in the war against the Rebellion, Bertha's father and three brothers enlisted in one regiment, and were very soon marched away to the front, taking with them the tender, tearful blessings of the lonely little household left behind. The good wife and mother, Ernestine Johansen, took upon her brave heart and strong hands the entire business of the little farm, having for a while only the assistance of a young adopted son, an orphan nephew, who had lived with the Johansens from his infancy. But after having seen his uncle and cousins go forth so bravely to their grand though dreadful duty, the lad Heinrich grew discontented and unhappy. He had a man's heart in his boyish breast,—a heart full of patriotic ardor and devotion; and at last his good aunt consented that he too should go to the war, in the only capacity in which he could be accepted, as a drummer boy, in a regiment just ready to march to the front.
Bertha had grieved deeply, though quietly, in the brave, uncomplaining, submissive spirit peculiar to her, at bidding adieu to her dear father,—to Gustave, and Fritz, and Carl, her brothers,—but she grieved no less at parting with Heinrich Holberg. The two children had always been to each other the best and dearest of friends. Almost from her babyhood, Heinrich had called Bertha his "little wife," and she had early learned to play the character, in the most demure and charming manner. She had for him a tender and clinging affection; she believed in him with all her heart, and he was not altogether unworthy of such love and confidence,—he was a very good boy, as boys go.
Well, Heinrich marched away with the rest of the admirable German band, proudly and gayly they said,—the pluckiest of drummer-boys. But he had seemed neither proud nor gay, a few hours before, when he had run down to the little lakeside farm, to take leave of his aunt and cousin. He had looked pale and very sad. He had said farewell in a voice choked with sobs, and when he ran down the little garden walk to the road, great tears were dropping fast on the bright buttons of his new uniform. His "little wife" went to her little chamber, knelt down beside her little bed, and said a little prayer for him,—then dashed the bitter dew from her sweet violet eyes, and went about her household duties, like the dear little woman that she was.
Alas, it was the same old sad story! The father was killed at Pittsburg Landing, and the oldest brother wounded and taken captive: he afterwards died in Libby Prison. The second brother returned home, after a year's hard marching and fighting, a pale, wan invalid, with one sleeve of his worn blue coat hanging empty. The third brother is now an officer in the triumphant Union army, and let us thank God for him, for his work is nearly done.
The sorrow of the little German household did not end with the death of the beloved father, and of brave Gustave, and the loss of the good right arm of poor Fritz. Heinrich was also taken prisoner, in a sudden night attack on his regiment in Tennessee, and carried off by one of the robber bands of the barbarous Forrest. His tender age, and gentle, prepossessing ways, won him no pity. He was shut up, with thousands of others, in one of those horrible slaughter-pens of the South, called a "stockade," where he languished for many months, bearing all his hardships with the utmost sweetness and patience, feeling that his suffering was but a drop to the great ocean of human agony and despair around him.
Heinrich had been religiously brought up, and while many brave men about him lost all faith and hope, and believed themselves forgotten by the God who made them, he believed that over their loathsome prison-yard hovered hosts of pitying angels, and that above and around the vast field of fraternal strife brooded an infinite fatherly love, and "the peace of God that passeth all understanding." He had never a doubt but that Heaven was very near to their prison-pen,—that the "many mansions" of the Father would be all open to those martyrs of freedom,—that there rest and sweet refreshment awaited them,—that there pitiless hate and cruel wounds, hunger and fierce heat and bitter cold, would torture them no more forever.
From the time of his capture, nothing more was heard of poor Heinrich in his sad home on the Lake shore, and he was at last given up as dead by all his friends, except little Bertha. She had a "feeling," she said, that he was living still, and would come back one day, if only she could keep up heart for him. He might be so weak and ill, she thought, that he would die if she once should give him up,—but not till then. O little woman, great was thy faith! Bertha knew not that she was already called by neighbors and friends "the little widow." She would have passionately rejected the title. She "could not make him dead."
She had little time for fretting about her absent friend. Her mother's brave spirit had bent under the successive burdens of sorrow, and her bodily strength for a while gave way. Carl, the invalid soldier, had much difficulty in managing the affairs of the farm, and nearly all the cares of the household came upon Bertha. O, nobly she bore herself under them. She so completely took the place of her sick mother, that all went well in that humble and peaceful home, till the bitterest trouble was past, and the good mother rallied and was able to take part of the burden of labor and care, which, however cheerfully borne, was quite too heavy for such young shoulders.
Bertha's wise little head was perplexed. There was to be a great Sanitary fair in the city near by, and she felt a passionate desire to contribute something towards the great and good work. What could she do? She was not rich enough to give money; she could not paint nor embroider; she had not the skill to manufacture elegant trifles; she was not old or pretty or fashionable enough to stand behind one of the tables. What could she do?
At last it occurred to her that she could contribute to the refreshment department a roll of butter of her own churning, from the milk of her own little snow-white cow. So, with her good mother's consent, she saved all the cream off the rich milk of her pet for a week, and dedicated the golden product to the soldiers. She had two churnings, and the result was five pounds of delicious butter. Her pleasant work was done in the open air, before the side-door of the cottage, in sight of the beautiful lake. On the day of her second churning, her thoughts were peculiarly sweet and cheerful. She sung as gayly as the robin, nestling in the vine-leaves over the cottage window. Her soul was as serene as the sky, her heart as tranquil as the lake, sleeping in the still sunshine.
As Bertha worked with all the strength of her vigorous little arms, and with a gay good-will, little jets of cream now and then spirted up around the dasher, sometimes sprinkling her round, rosy face, and once or twice reaching her smiling lips to dissolve in sweetness there; and she said to herself, "How many sweet and beautiful things have gone to make up this golden cream!—the tender bloom of the early summer clover and daisies, and dew and sunshine, and by and by, when it hardens into more golden butter, and goes to the 'Sanitary,' won't more beautiful things still be added to it?—pity, and love, and patriotism, and the blessing of God?" Then her thoughts wandered, and her face clouded, and she murmured, "O our poor sick and wounded soldiers! O the poor prisoners! O my poor, dear Heinrich!"
Just then she heard her mother call her in an eager, trembling voice. She ran into the cottage to see, seated in the neat kitchen, a young soldier, in a faded and tattered uniform,—a pale, emaciated figure, childlike in weakness, but old in suffering.
Bertha knew him rather by heart than by sight, and, falling on his neck, cried, "Dear, dear Heinrich! I have always said the Lord would bring you back, and He has, has n't he?"
"Yes, little wife, all that the Rebels have left of me."
The drummer-boy's story was sad and strange but such stories are painfully common now-a-days. He had escaped from the stockade with a party of friends; they had been chased by bloodhounds and all retaken. Heinrich escaped again, alone; he was befriended, fed, guided by loyal negroes; he made his way, on foot, through the mountains of Tennessee, and, after countless hardships and adventures, reached the glorious Northwest, and his home. He was ill with a disease brought on by starvation and exposure, and though he had no battle-wounds to show, there were, on his neck and arms, the terrible marks of the bloodhound's teeth,—surely honorable scars. On the whole, Bertha Johansen thought her cousin Heinrich a hero, and I think she was right.
But to return to the Sanitary butter,—"the little widow's mite." Bertha made it up into beautiful rolls, which she printed with a stamp representing buttercups and clover-flowers, and it looked deliciously tempting. "There is only five pounds," she said, as she walked towards the Fair Grounds, bearing her offering in a neat basket, covered with a snowy napkin. "Only five pounds; how I wish there were fifty. If our dear Lord were only here on earth, He could easily make them fifty. If He could multiply loaves of bread, I suppose He could rolls of butter. But, O dear, Heis n'there!"
Dear Bertha, our Lord is always on earth, in the hearts of good men and women,—is always ready to work through them His miracles of love and mercy.
Bertha presented her humble gift most modestly to one of the lady managers, who received it very graciously. This lady was one of Bertha's neighbors, and knew of her beautiful life of duty, obedience, and cheerful self-sacrifices.
She told the simple story of the child to some friends about her, and showed the five rolls of golden butter. A group of gentlemen soon gathered near. "I will give a dollar a pound for that butter," said one. "I will give two," called out another. Then there was a laugh. Then other bids were made,—three, four, five dollars. It was getting to be a nice little frolic, and those grave business men entered into it like boys. Higher and higher they went, till at last Bertha's butter was knocked down at fifty dollars,—ten dollars a pound.
As the purchaser laid down a roll of "greenbacks" for the golden rolls of butter, a gust of wind caught the bills and blew them over the counter, where the lady secured them. "So riches fly away in your Sanitary Fairs," said the gentleman, smiling. "Yes," replied the lady, "but withhealingon their wings."
Myfirstis the sweet diminutiveOf a name we love to hear;The name of one—while here we liveWe find not earth or Heaven can giveA friend more true and dear.
Mysecondshould bring pride and joyTo parent-hearts, alway,—Should bear the fresh soul of the boyInto the earnest man's employ,And ne'er from honor stray.
Mywholehas ever stood for oneWho rears, with toil and care,Block after block, stone after stone,On city street, or prairie lone,A building plain, or fair.
But now the name once honest, standsFor one who has not fearedTo seek to level with the sandsThe glorious structure, by the handsOf Washington upreared.
The stealthy fox, the prowling rat,The serpent, Heaven-accursed,The cruel tiger, and the cat,The weasel, and the vampyre bat,Have all been called myfirst.
Mysecondis a shadowed placeOf forest bloom and song,Where mosses creep o'er the rock's stern face,Vines climb and swing in wildest grace,And a streamlet laughs along.
Mywholeupbore the traitor's crest,And gloried in his crime;Yet England took him to her breast,Which once received a like brave guest,—Our Arnold, of old time.
Bessie Raeburn was a very nice little girl indeed, truthful, trustful, generous, and affectionate. But she was by no means without some spicy little faults of her own. She was impulsive to rashness, and decidedly self-willed. She was given to odd little romantic fancies and secret schemes, which sometimes got her into trouble, when she attempted to carry them out. She was an only child, and much petted and indulged in a happy and luxurious home, having everything which a reasonable little lady in short frocks and long curls could ask for. Yet she was not contented; having a foolish ambition to distinguish herself by doing something quite out of the ordinary line of little girls,—something that would make people stare, and say "wonderful!" "surprising!" "a most extraordinary child!" She liked to say "I dare!" and "I 'm not afraid!" "I don'tfearanything there is," she would say, "not even lions, or spiders, or bears, or bumblebees,—but I don't like them near me; they are disagreeable."
She learned to read when very young, and took most eagerly to books of travel and adventure. She passionately longed for adventures of her own, and often planned out exploits of a most perilous and surprising character.
One Christmas-eve, when Bessie was between seven and eight years of age, a wild little scheme came into her head, as she sat curled up on a sofa in the library, listening to her father, while he read to her sweet young mother a very sad account of the poor of New York, especially of the poor children, and of the noble efforts that were being made by a few good men and women to alleviate their wretched condition, to clothe them, teach them, and lift them into a better life.
"Ah, Charles," said Mrs. Raeburn, "what a sad, comfortless Christmas many of those poor little creatures will have,—children as dear to their parents as our little girl is to us. Only to think of it! cold, hungry, ignorant, helpless, and hopeless. It is dreadful."
"Why, mamma," exclaimed Bessie, "won't they have any Christmas gifts?"
"No, darling; I fear many must be without all the good and pleasant things by which we remind one another that our dear Lord's birthday has come round again."
"What, mamma! No toys, no nuts, no candies?"
"None, my child."
"Why, then, how can they wish one another amerryChristmas? I should think they would all have acryingChristmas together. I should think they would feel as thoughtheyhad no Lord Jesus; as though he only belonged to the rich people. And yet, mamma, he was dreadful poor, and spent the first day of his life in a manger, with cows and things; though, to be sure, he had beautiful presents, those the wise old gentlemen that came from down East brought him, you know."
"Yes, dear, he was very poor, and in remembering him we should not forget the poor around us, and should always be ready to assist, as far as we can, the worthy and honest unfortunates who need our help. But it is your bedtime. You will wish to be up bright and early to-morrow."
Bessie sprang up promptly, and kissed her father good night. At the foot of the stairs she paused, and called him in her pretty imperious way, and he came to her, like the good, obedient papa that he was. Bessie kissed him again, and called him "a dear, handsome old darling," and then, with another last coquettish kiss through the balusters, she bounded laughingly past her mamma, up the stairs, into her little room and behind the door, from which point of vantage she emerged with a terrific "boo!" intended to startle her mamma out of her senses,—but I don't think it did.
Mrs. Raeburn, having heard her daughter repeat her simple prayer, kissed her and returned to the library; and soon after the maid, having seen her nicely in bed, and put everything in order for the morning, left her quite alone. And then the wonderful scheme that had flashed into her brain down stairs was thought over and resolutely arranged, and a famous little plot of mischievous benevolence it was, as you shall see.
Amid all the joyful excitement and merry confusion of Christmas morning, Bessie found time to think over her plan; and she would set her red lips very firmly whenever she felt her courage giving way the least in the world. Shewouldbe a heroine for once,—would have a real adventure of her own to relate to a wondering and admiring circle, that very Christmas night.
While mamma and servants were occupied in preparations for a large dinner-party, Bessie found opportunities for packing a little basket with tiny tarts, apples, nuts, and candies; then she put on her pretty winter coat, trimmed with fur, and her new velvet hat, with a long scarlet plume, the pride of her heart, and her warm tippet and soft gloves and high Balmoral boots. Then she took from her drawer a daintyporte-monnaie, well filled with bright new pennies and small silver coin, and containing a little compartment lined with crimson satin, wherein two gold dollars dwelt together in state, like a Mongolian king and queen. Then taking her basket on her arm, and thrusting her hands into her little muff, she stole down stairs on tiptoe, and made her escape from the house, unperceived by any one.
Mr. Raeburn lived in the aristocratic part of the city of New York; and Bessie, thinking that she could not there carry out her plan in a perfectly satisfactory manner, hailed a down-town stage. Driver and passengers looked surprised to see a child taking a trip all alone; but Bessie had such an old, authoritative manner, that they supposed that all was right. After a long, long ride, she alighted somewhere in the neighborhood of the poorest and least respectable part of the city. I may as well tell you now, if you have n't guessed it, Bessie was bound on a mission, a charitable visit to the poor,—the miserably poor, of whom she had heard her father read. She anxiously looked around her for a beggar-child, who should act as her guide to some home of unmerited misfortune, where virtuous poverty pined, and wept, and waited. Alas! there were plenty of sad little mendicants on the streets that day, but Bessie was not easily satisfied. "It must be a little girl," she said to herself, "very, very poor,—pale, and thin, and ragged, and sorrowful, but still pretty, and mild-looking. And she must have a pretty name too, like the little girls that beg in magazine stories, or sell matches, and are stolen by gypsies, and sing ballads for dreadful organ-grinders, and all that." It was a long time before she found one at all to her mind, but finally she was accosted by a little girl, who looked wretched enough, to be sure,—tattered, and sickly, and starved. She was not quite up to the mark as to prettiness, though she had soft, sorrowful eyes and a delicate mouth. Hunger, cold, and ill-treatment are not very favorable to beauty. Then the name she gave was decidedly unromantic,—Molly Magee. But the poor child told a piteous story, which soon brought tears to Bessie's gentle eyes,—how her father was dead of fever, and her mother a suffering invalid; how she was obliged to beg in the streets, from morning till night, to obtain food for that poor dear mother, three darling little brothers, and two sisters, twins andblind! It was a hard case, surely, and Bessie offered at once to go home with her petitioner, to see what she could do towards alleviating the family distress. The little mendicant hesitated at first, and attempted to dissuade her, but at last, as Bessie obstinately insisted on her own plan of benevolence, she yielded, and rather sullenly led the way homeward. Ah, what a way it was! down one dirty street and up another,—through vile courts and alleys reeking with filth, swarming with idle, loud-voiced men, wretched-looking women, slatternly girls, and forlorn children. Bessie's heart grew sick and her courage failed her. If she had known the way back, she would gladly have made an inglorious retreat!
The guide at last conducted her down a flight of slippery steps, leading to the basement of a squalid old tenement-house, in the five stories of which more than as many families were packed, layer on layer, and Bessie found herself in the very bosom of the distressed family of her humble little friend. This home of virtuous poverty was not exactly what she looked for. It was darker, dirtier, more confused and noisy; it smelt worse. There were the "three darling little brothers," to be sure, and they were quite satisfactorily ragged. But Bessie looked in vain for the twin-sisters, whose blindness had so engaged her sympathies. But she said to herself, "Perhaps they, too, have gone out begging, with a pair of twin dogs to lead them." The invalid mother was surely on the mend, for she looked quite stout, and her face was flushed, though that might be from fever. She sat by an old stove, smoking a short black pipe.