Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE
PLAY-DAY BOOK:
NEW STORIES
FOR LITTLE FOLKS.

BY FANNY FERN.

ILLUSTRATED BY FRED. M. COFFIN.

NEW YORK:

PUBLISHED BY MASON BROTHERS,

108 AND 110 DUANE-STREET.

1857.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by

MASON BROTHERS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York.

STEREOTYPED BY

THOMAS B. SMITH,

82 & 84 Beekman St.

PRINTED BY

C. A. ALVORD,

15 Vandewater St.

PREFACE.

Since “Little Ferns” was published, I have had many letters, and messages, from little children all over the country, asking me “to write them soon another little book of stories.” Here is one that I have prepared for you and them: I hope you will like it; for some of you, it will be too young a book; for some of you, too old; those for whom it is too young, will perhaps read it to little brothers and sisters; those for whom it is too old now, can look at the pictures and learn to read, little by little, by spelling out the words in the stories. I call it “The Play-Day Book;” because I made it to read when you are out of school, and want to be amused. If, while you are looking only for amusement, you should happen to find instruction, so much the better.

Fanny Fern.

CONTENTS.

A RAINY DAY,
AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

“Oh, dear, I knew it would rain to-day, just because I didn’t want to have it; every thing is so dark, and cold, and gloomy; drip—drip—drip—oh, dear! had I made the world, mother, I never would have made a drop of rain.”

“What would the cattle have had to drink, then?”

“I am sure I don’t know; I don’t see why they need drink. I could drink milk, you know, mother.”

“But if it didn’t rain the grass would all dry up, and then the cows would give no milk.”

“Well, I don’t know any thing about that. I know I don’t like rain, any how; do you like a rainy day, mother?”

“Yes, very much: it gives me such a nice chance to work; I have nobody to interrupt me. I can do a great deal on a rainy day.”

“But I have no work, mother.”

“Ah, that is just the trouble: time lies heavy on idle hands; suppose you wind these skeins of silk into nice little balls for my work-basket?”

“So I will; won’t you talk to me while I am doing it? tell me something about yourself, when you was a little girl—little like me; tell me the very first thing you can ever remember when you was a tiny little girl.”

“Bless me, that was so long ago that you will have to give me time to think. Can you keep your chattering tongue still five minutes, while I do it?”

Susy nodded her head, and fixed her eye very resolutely on a nail in the wall.

A long pause.

“Hum—hum,” muttered Susy pointing to her lips, as her mamma moved in her chair.

“Yes, you can speak now.”

“Have you thought of it, mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s nice; let me get another card to wind that skein on, when I have done this; I hope it is a long story, I hope it is funny, I hope there ain’t any ‘moral’ in it. Katy Smith’s mother always puts a moral in; I don’t like morals, do you, mother?”

Susy’s mother laughed, and said that she didn’t like them when she was her age.

“There now—there—I’m ready, now begin; but don’t say ‘Once on a time,’ I hate ‘Once on a time;’ I always know it is going to be a hateful story when it begins ‘Once on a time.’”

“Any thing more, Susy?”

“Yes, mother: don’t end it, ‘They lived ever after in peace, and died happily.’ I hate that, too.”

“Well, upon my word. I did not know I had such a critic for a listener. I am afraid you will have to give me a longer time to think, so that I can fix up my story a little.”

“No, mother, that’s just what I don’t want. I like it best unfixed.”

“Well, the first thing I remember was one bitter cold Thanksgiving morning, in November. My mother had told me the night before that the next day was Thanksgiving, and that we were all invited to spend it ten miles out of town, at the house of a minister in the country.”

“Horrid!” said Susy; “I know you had an awful time. I am glad I wasn’t born, then. Well—what else?”

“We were all to get up and breakfast the next morning by candle-light, so as to take a very early start, that we might have a longer stay at Mr. Dunlap’s. My mother told me all about it the night before, as she tucked me up in my little bed, after which I saw her go to the closet and take down a pretty bright scarlet woolen frock and a snow-white apron to wear with it, with a nice little plaited ruffle round the neck; then she laid a pair of such snow-white woolen stockings side of them, and a pair of bright red morocco shoes.”

“How nice—were you pretty, mother?”

“Of course my mother thought so; I think I looked very much as you do now.”

Susy jumped up, and looked in the glass.

“Then you had light-blue eyes, a straight nose, a round face, and yellow curly hair? Did you, mother, certain, true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, mother.”

“Well, then, my mother went down stairs.”

“Didn’t she kiss you, first?”

“Oh, yes, she always did that.”

“And heard you say your prayers?”

“Yes.”

“Our Father, and, Now I lay me?”

“Yes.”

“How queer for you to say my prayers when you were a little girl. I am glad you said my prayers. Well, mother.”

“Then I lay a long while thinking about the visit.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“Any body with you?”

“No.”

“Wern’t you afraid?”

“Not a bit.”

“You funny little mother—well.”

“And by-and-by I went to sleep, and slept soundly till morning. Long before daylight my mother lifted me out of bed, washed and dressed me by a nice warm fire, and then took me down in her arms to breakfast. I had never eaten breakfast by candle-light before. I liked the bright lights, and the smell of the hot coffee and hot cakes, and my mother’s bright, cheerful face. It did not take us long to eat breakfast, but before we had done the carriage drove up to the door. Then my mother wrapped some hot bricks upon the hearth in some pieces of carpet.”

“What for?”

“To keep our feet warm in the carriage, while we were riding, and then she pulled another pair of warm stockings over my red shoes and stockings, and put on my wadded cloak, and tucking my curls behind my ears, tied a blue silk hood, trimmed with swan’s down under my chin, and putting on her own cloak and bonnet, led me to the door.

“I had never seen the stars before; they glittered up in the clear blue sky, oh, so bright, so beautiful! The keen frost-air nipped my little cheeks, but when they lifted me into the carriage, I was sorry not to see the pretty stars any longer; they wrapped up every thing but the tip end of my nose, in shawls and tippets, and though I could not see the bright stars any more, I kept thinking about them; I wondered what kept them from falling down on the ground, and where they staid in the daytime, and how long it would take me to count them all, and, if one ever did fall down on the ground, if it would be stealing for me to keep it for ‘my ownty doan-ty.’

“I was not used to getting up so early, so the motion of the carriage soon rocked me to sleep, and when I awoke it was broad daylight, and the carriage had stopped at the minister’s door. Oh, how the snow was piled up! way to the tops of the fences, and all the trees were bending under its weight; every little bush was wreathed with it; the tops of the barns, and sheds, and houses, were covered with it; and great long icicles, like big sticks of rock candy, were hanging from the eaves. I liked it most as well as the pretty stars; I was glad I had seen them and the soft white snow.

“Then the minister, and his wife and boys came out, and we went in with them to a bright fire, and the coachman put up his horses in the barn, and went into the kitchen into the big chimney-corner, to thaw his cold fingers. They gave me some warm milk, and my mother some hot coffee, and then the grown people talked and talked great big words, and I ran about the room to see what I could see.”

“What did you see?”

“First, there was a Maltese cat, with five little bits of kittens, all curled up in a bunch under their mother, eating their breakfast; by-and-by the old cat went out in the kitchen to eat hers, and then I took one of the kittys in my white apron, and played baby with it. It purred and opened its brown eyes, and its little short tail kept wagging. I could not help thinking the little country kitty was glad to see some city company. Then I got tired of the kitty, and went up to the corner of the room to look at some shells, and the minister’s boy told me to put them up to my ear, and they would make a sound like the sea, where they came from; I asked him if they were alive? and he laughed at me; and then my face grew as red as my frock, so that I had to hide it in my white apron.

“Then, after a while, the bells rang for church, for the minister was going to preach a Thanksgiving sermon; and my mother said that she was going with him and his wife to hear it; but that she would be back soon, and that I might stay, while she was gone, in the warm parlor, with the kitty and the shells; and that the minister’s boy would stay with me if I didn’t like to stay alone. Then I crept up into my mother’s lap, and whispered that I did not like the minister’s boy because he had laughed at me, and that I wanted his mother to take him away with her to church, and leave me all alone with the kittys and the shells; then the minister’s boy laughed again when they told him, and said ‘I was a queer one;’ but I didn’t care for that, when I saw him tie on his cap and pull on his mittens to go off. So they opened the door of the sitting-room into the kitchen, that Betty might see I did not catch my apron on fire, and then they went to church.”

“Didn’t they leave you any thing to eat?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot that; I had a plate of ‘Thanksgiving cookies,’ as they called them, and as soon as the door was shut, I took the plate in my lap and never stopped till I had eaten them all up.”

“Wasn’t you a little pig, mother?”

“Not so very piggish, after all, because I was so astonished with my candle-light breakfast, before starting from home, that I forgot to eat any thing. So, you see, I was very glad of the cookies.”

“I am glad the minister’s boy did not stay, mother; I dare say he would have eaten them all up. Didn’t you get tired before church was out, mother?”

“No; I looked out of the window a long while, at the pretty white snow; and by-and-by I saw a cunning little bird pecking at the window; it was all white but its head, and that was black. I wanted to open the window and let it in; I thought it must be cold, but I was afraid the minister’s wife would not like it if the snow should fly in from the window-sill on her nice carpet; just then Betty the cook came in, and she told me that it was a little snow-bird, and that she thought it had become quite chilled, for the frost lay thick on the windows; Betty said she would open the window, and in it flew on the carpet; then I tip-toed softly up and caught him; he fluttered a little, but I think he liked my warm hand. Betty told me to put him in my bosom, and so I did; and then he got warm as toast, and the first thing I knew; out he flew, and perched on top of a rose geranium in the window; then I gave him some cookie crumbs, and he ate them, and then he began pecking at the window, and Betty said she thought he wanted to get out to his little mates outside. I did not want him to go, I liked him better than the kittys or the shells, but when Betty said that perhaps the cat would catch and eat him, I said, ‘Let him go;’ so she opened the window, and away he flew.

“Then I did not know what to do; I wished the minister would not preach such a long sermon, and keep my mother away. I wondered what we were going to have for dinner, for I began to smell something very nice in the kitchen, and I wished more than ever that sermon was over. I went and peeped through the crack of the door into the kitchen, to find out what smelt so good, and I saw, oh, such a big fire-place, you might almost have played blind-man’s buff in it, only I supposed that ministers would not let their children play blind-man’s buff; and front of the fire-place was a great tin-kitchen, and in the tin-kitchen was a monstrous turkey, and front of the turkey kneeled Betty, putting something on it out of a tin box.

“I said, ‘Betty, what is that tin thing?’

“Betty said, ‘It is a dredging-box, you little chatterbox;’ and then the red-faced coachman, who was toasting his toes in the chimney-corner, laughed, and said, ‘Come here, sis!’

“I did not go. I did not like to be laughed at, and I was not his sis; but still I kept smelling things through the door-crack, because I had nothing else to do, and because I liked the good smell. I saw Betty take out three pies to warm; one, she said, was mince, and I thought when I got a piece how I would pick out all the nice raisins and eat them; the other was pumpkin, and the other was an apple pie; then there was a large chicken pie, and a cold boiled ham, and some oysters; I knew my mother brought the ham and oysters from the city, because I heard her talking about it at home; and then I wondered if folks who went to eat dinner with ministers had always to bring a part of their dinners. Then Betty came in to set the table for dinner; I was afraid she would not put on a plate for me, and that I should have to wait in the corner till the big folks had eaten up all the good things; but she did, and set up a little high chair with arms, that the minister’s boy used to sit in when he was little. I told Betty I did not like the minister’s boy’s chair, and that I wouldn’t sit in it; and then Betty said, ‘Sho, sho—little girls must be seen and not heard.’ I asked Betty what that meant, and then she and the red-faced coachman laughed again, and the coachman said, ‘Sis, it is fun talking to you.’ Then I heard a great noise in the entry, such a stamping of feet, and such a blowing of noses; sure enough meeting was done; I was so glad, for I knew the turkey was.

“Then the minister said, ‘Come to me, little one.’”

“Oh, mother! I am so sorry; I suppose he wanted you to say your catechism, when you were so hungry; did you go?”

“I stood with my finger in my mouth, looking him in the face, and thinking about it. I liked his face; it was not cross, and there was a pleasant smile about his mouth, and a soft sweet look in his eyes; so I went slowly up to him. I was glad he did not call me ‘sis,’ like the coachman; I did not like to be called sis; I wanted people to be polite to me, just as they were to my mother.”

“What did he say to you, mother? Did he make you say the catechism?”

“No; he pushed my curls back off my face, and kissed my forehead; then he asked me if I liked to hear little stories?”

“Did he? Why, what a nice minister!”

“I said, ‘Yes; do you know any? I know some.’

“Then the minister asked me what I knew.

“Then I said,

“‘Two wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl; if the bowl had been stronger, my tale would have been longer.’ Then the minister laughed and asked me if I believed that; then I said ‘Yes, it is printed in a real book, in my Mother Goose, at home;’ and then the minister told me to ‘say some more Mother Goose,’ and then I told him all about ‘Old Mother Hubbard, who went to the cupboard,’ and ‘Jack and Gill,’ and ‘Four-and-twenty black-birds,’ and ‘Little Bo-peep;’ and then the minister laughed and said, ‘Mother Goose forever!’ I did not know what that meant, and I did not dare to ask, because the ministers boy came into the room just then, and said, ‘What a nice baby you have got on your knee, father;’ and that made my face very red; and I asked the minister to let me get down, and then the minister’s boy came up to me and said, ‘Sis!’ and I said, pouting, ‘I ain’t sis, I am Susy;’ and then he laughed, and said again, ‘What a queer one!’ and began pulling the cat’s tail.”

“How ugly—I wish I’d been alive then, I would have pulled his hair for teasing my mother so. What happened next, mother?”

“Then Betty brought in the roast turkey, and the hot potatoes, and the oysters, and things; and then the minister himself lifted me up in my high chair, between him and my mother, and then he folded his hands and said a blessing.”

“Was it very long, mother?”

“No, only a few words, and then he carved the turkey, and gave me the wish-bone.”

“Why, mother, he was not a bit like a minister; was he? Well?”

“Then I ate, and ate, and ate; and the minister gave me all the plums out of his pie, because he said that he could not find four-and-twenty black-birds to put in it; and after dinner he picked out my nuts for me; and when his boy called me ‘Sis,’ he said, ‘John, behave!’ After dinner, I asked the minister if he knew how to play cat’s-cradle; he said he used to know once; then he said to his wile, ‘Mother, can’t you give us a string, this little one and I are going to play cat’s-cradle.’ He was such a while learning that I told him I did not think ministers could play cat’s-cradle; but his wife said he was stupid on purpose, to see what I would do; he got the string into a thousand knots, and I got out of patience, and then I wouldn’t teach him any more; then he told me to see if I could spell cro-non-ho-ton-thol-o-gus, without getting my tongue in a kink. Then the minister’s boy said, ‘Try her on Po-po-cat-a-pet-el, father.’ Then the minister and I played ‘Hunt the Slipper,’ and ‘Puss in the Corner,’ and ‘Grand Mufti,’ and I was so sorry when a man drove up to the door, in a sleigh, and carried the minister off to see a poor sick woman.”

“Why, mother, I never heard of such a kind of a minister as he was. I thought ministers never laughed, and that they thought it was wicked to play; and that’s why I don’t like them, and am afraid of them. I wish our minister, Mr. Stokes, was like that minister you have been telling about; then I wouldn’t cross over the street when I see him coming. Do you think Mr. Stokes likes little children, mother? When he sees me he says, ‘How is your mother, Susy?’ but he never looks at me when he says it, and goes away after it as fast as ever he can; but what else happened at your minister’s, mother?”

“Well, by that time, the sun began to go down, and the frost began to thicken on the windows; and though the large wood fire blazed cheerfully in the chimney, my mother said we had such a long, cold ride before us, that it was time we were starting. So I went out in the kitchen to tell the red-faced coachman to tackle up his horses, and there he lay asleep on the wooden settle.”

“What is a settle?”

“A rough kitchen-sofa, made of boards, with a very high back. I touched his arm, and he only said, as he turned over, ‘Whoa, there—whoa!’ ‘John,’ said I, ‘we want you to tackle up the horses; my mother wants to go home, John.’

“‘Get up, Dobbin, get up, Jack,’ said John, without opening his eyes.

“‘John,’ said I, right in his ear, for I was getting tired.

“‘Oh, that’s you sis, is it?’ said John, springing up, and knocking over the old settle with a tremendous noise. ‘Bless my soul, that’s you;’ and then he burst into a loud laugh, and I found out that he had not been asleep a bit, and only did so to plague me.

“Well, we warmed the bricks again; and wrapped them up with the old pieces of carpet, to put under our feet, and I drank some warm milk, and the minister’s wife put some cookies in my bag, and tied my soft blue silk hood round my face, and as she did it, she sighed such a long sigh, that I said,

“‘Does it tire you to tie my hood?’

“‘No—no—no—no’—and then a great big tear came rolling down her cheek, and then she said, ‘There is a little silken hood like yours in the drawer up-stairs, but I have no little rosy face to tie it round now;’ and I stopped and thought a minute, for at first I did not understand; and then I said softly,

“‘I’m sorry.’

“And then she wiped away her tears, and said, ‘Don’t cry dear; you looked like her, in that little hood; but God knows better than we do—I shall see her again some day.’

“Then she kissed me, and put me into the carriage, and John cracked his whip, and we were just starting, when the minister’s boy came running out with my little bag, and said,

“‘Here’s your bag, sis; kiss me and you shall have it.’

“‘I wouldn’t kiss you, no—not for twenty bags,’ said I; ‘I love your mother, and I love your father; but I ain’t “sis” and I don’t love you, and I won’t kiss you.’

“‘Queer one—queer one,’ said he, tossing my silk bag into the carriage, and making a great snow-ball with his hands to throw at John.”

“Hateful thing.”

“You must not say that, Susy.”

“Why not?”

“Because that minister’s boy is your father.”

“Oh—oh—oh,” screamed Susy, hopping up and down, “did I ever—did I ever—who would have thought it, that such a hatef—I mean that such a—boy should make such a dear papa, oh, mother; oh, I am so happy, it is so funny.”

“Happy on a rainy day, Susy. I thought an hour ago that you were the most miserable little girl in the world, because you could not make the sun shine.”

“You are my sunshine, mother.”

“And papa, that hatef—”

“Now don’t, mother. I would never have said, so—never, if I had known—but how could I tell he was going to turn out my papa? any more than you could—when he used to call you sis.”

“Sure enough, Susy.”

THE
BOY WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD.

“Nothing but school, school—I am tired of it; I am tired of living at home; I am tired of every thing. My father is kind enough, so is my mother; but I want to be a man for myself. I am a very tall boy of my age; I am sure it is time I had off my round jacket. I want to see the world; I don’t believe it is necessary for a fellow to swallow so many Greek and Latin dictionaries before he can do it. I have a great mind to ‘clear out;’ there is a quarter of a dollar up in my box, and I am a ‘prime’ walker; pooh—who cares? They should not tie a fellow up so, if they don’t want him to run off. I can’t stand it; I will go this very day; of course I sha’n’t want any clothes but those I have on my back; they ought to last me a year; they are right out of the tailor’s shop. He didn’t know, when he made them, what a long journey they were going; who knows but one of these days, this very suit of clothes may be shown in a glass case, to crowds of people, as the very suit that the famous traveler, John Sims, wore when he was a boy. I like that! I never could see the use of keeping boys cooped up at home. Who wants to be a walking dictionary? I don’t. I feel as if I could go round the world and back again in twenty minutes; no—not back; you don’t catch me back in a hurry! I should like to see myself come sneaking home, after Bill Jones, and Sam Jackson, and Will Johnson, and all the fellows in the street, had heard I had run off. Of course they’ll miss me awfully; I am ‘prime’ at ‘hop-scotch,’ and ‘bat-and-ball,’ and ‘hockey.’ I can stand on my head longer than any fellow among them; and when it comes to leaping over a post—ah, just ask my mother how many pairs of trousers I have stripped out doing it. I guess Jack Adams will miss me in the geography class; he always expects me to tell him his lesson; stupid dunce! I guess the school-master will miss me, too, for I was always the show-off-fellow, when company came into school; they can’t say I didn’t study my lessons well; but I am sick of it, crammed to death, and now I’m off. I wonder if I shall ever be sick when I am on my travels; that would be rather bad; mother is so kind when a fellow is sick: pshaw—I won’t be sick—who’s afraid? who’s a cry-baby? not I; I am John Sims, the great traveler that is to be—hurrah! I wonder who will have my old sled ‘Winded Arrow?’ I dare say sis will be going down hill on it; what a plague sisters are. Dora always has the biggest piece of pie; not that I care about it—I am too much of a man; but it is confoundedly provoking; if you try to have a little fun with girls; they holler out, ‘Oh, don’t, you hurt!’ and they bawl for just nothing at all, except to get their brothers a boxed ear. I can’t bear girls; I never could see any use in them. Now, if Dora had been a boy—ah, that would have been fun; he could have gone off with me on my travels; well—never mind about that, it is time I was going, if I mean to go to-day; father will be home to dinner soon, and then my plan will be all knocked in the head; I shall be sent out of an errand, or some such thing. I guess I will go out at the back door; it is ridiculous, but somehow or other I feel just as if every body knew what I was going to do; but once round the corner—down —— street—and off on the railroad track, and they may all whistle for Johnny Sims, the famous traveler.”

“Thump—thump—thump! I wonder who that is, knocking at my front door,” said Betty Smith; “I hope it is not the minister! I can’t leave these preserves for any body! thump—thump! What a hurry some folks are in, that they can’t give a body a chance to wipe their sticky fingers on a roller; nobody comes here but the peddler and the tinman, unless it is the minister; who can it be?” and Betty opened the door, and hurled from between her teeth, her usual blunt, “What do you want?”

“A piece of bread, if you please; I’ve taken such a long walk, and I am very hungry.”

“Where did you come from?” asked Betty, “and where are you going? and why didn’t you put a piece of bread or something in your pocket before you started, hey?”

“I did not think I should be so hungry,” said the boy.

“Well—where are you going now, any how?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? that’s a pretty story! how did you come by those good clothes? I’ll bet a sixpence you stole ’em; they are genuine broadcloth—fine as our minister wears—and you begging for a piece of bread! I can’t put that and that together. You don’t get any bread from me, till you open your mouth a little wider, my young mister, and tell me what you are up to. I shouldn’t wonder if you were sent here by some bad people, or something, to see if my man was to home; I can tell you now that he ain’t, but there’s a gun behind that kitchen door that’s better than forty of him, and I know how to handle it, too. Do you hear that, now? I’ll have you taken to—taken to—I’ll have something done to you—see if I don’t; if you don’t tell me in two minutes who sent you to my house!” said the curious Betty. “I don’t believe you are hungry—it is all a sham!”

“I am, really,” said the boy. “Nobody sent me here; I never did any thing bad. Won’t you give me a piece of bread, and tell me what road this is?”

“He’s crazy!” said Betty, looking close into the boy’s eyes.

“No, I am not crazy. I—I—I don’t know the way home.”

“Where is your home?”

The boy hesitated, and hung his head.

“Tut, now, if you want your bread,” said Betty, growing more and more curious, snatching a fragment of a loaf, and holding it up before him—“if you want this now, tell me where you live?”

“In the city,” said the boy.

“Ten miles off! Did you walk all that?”

The boy nodded.

“Did your pa and ma know it?”

“No.”

“Come now, here’s another slice,” said Betty, “and I’ll put some butter on it, if you’ll tell me what you did it for?”

“I wanted to run away.”

“Goodness! What for? Did your folks treat you bad?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I wanted to travel.”

“Ha—ha—ha—ha!” said Betty, holding on to her sides. “That’s too good—too good—and got tired a’ready—ha! ha!—and want to find the way home! Smart traveler you are! How do you expect to get back to-night? It is most sundown now.”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, sadly.

“Nor I,” said Betty. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll give you a supper and a bed to-night; and my man is going in to market at four o’clock to-morrow morning, with some vegetables; and he will give you a lift, if I ask him. How’ll that do?”

“Thank you,” said the boy; “but—”

“But?” said Betty. “Oh yes, you are thinking of what a pucker your pa and ma will be in about you, all night. Well, you should have thought of that afore you started. It can’t be helped now. I know my man won’t budge an inch before four o’clock in the morning; he’s just as sot as the everlasting hills. There he comes now. I guess he’ll wonder where I picked up you.”

“Halloo! Betty,” said Richard, rattling up to the door with his team. “What boy is that?”

“Why, Richard!”

“Why, Johnny!”

“What does all that mean?” said the astonished Betty, as the little boy flew into her husband’s arms. “What on earth does that mean? Did you ever see him before?”

“Well, I should think I had,” said Richard, “seeing that I have found his pa in vegetables all summer; and this boy, every blessed morning, has jumped on to my team for me to give him a lift on his way to school. Should r-a-t-h-e-r think I had seen him before, Betty; but how he came out here, that’s what I want to know—didn’t know as ever I told him where I lived.”

“You never did,” said Johnny. “I have been a bad boy, Richard—I ran away from home. I read books about boys that went off to see the world, and I thought it would be fun.”

“Well!” said Richard, laughing; “you are not the first fellow who has found out that bread and butter and money don’t grow on the bushes. Now I suppose you are quite ready for me to carry you back?”

“Yes,” said Johnny.

“Well, eat your supper, and then be off to bed, for I shall start before the hens are awake; and mind you tell your folks that I had no hand in your going off. It looks rather suspicious, you see—coming straight out to my house. Lucky you did not fall into worse hands; and, Betty, you might as well brush up his dirty shoes and take a little dust off his jacket and cap. I can always tell a boy that hasn’t seen his mother for four-and-twenty hours. Ah, Johnny, nothing like a mother. Don’t you be too proud, now, to ask her pardon for running off; you young scapegrace.”

“No I ain’t,” said Johnny.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Richard.

“I was thinking,” said Johnny, as he watched Betty dusting his jacket, “what a silly boy I was, and how I thought that one of these days every body would want to see the jacket and trowsers that the great traveler John Sims had on, when he first started on foot to go round the world.”

“Never mind that,” said Richard, laughing; “it will be a cheap suit of clothes for you, if it only teaches you that a good home is the best place for boys, and a good father and mother the very best of friends.”

“Wake up, wake up,” shouted Richard, shaking John by the shoulder the next morning, “my team is all harnessed, and at the door; and Betty has some smoking-hot coffee down stairs; wake up, Johnny, and we’ll get into town time enough to eat breakfast with your mother.”

Johnny jumped out of bed, and in his hurry, put his legs into the sleeves of his jacket: he was not used to dressing in the dark; the hot coffee was soon swallowed, and jumping into the market cart beside John, they rattled off by starlight down the road. Richard did not talk much, he was thinking how much money his turnips, and carrots, and beets, and parsnips, would bring him, so that Johnny had plenty of time to think. Every mile that brought them nearer to the city made him feel more and more what a naughty boy he had been, to distress such a good father and mother; so that he was quite ready when the market cart rattled over the paved streets of the city, and up to his father’s door, to say all that such a foolish boy should say, when his parents came out to meet him; nor did he get angry when “the fellows” joked him about his “long journey round the world.” And when they found he could laugh at his own folly, as well as they, they soon stopped teasing him. Johnny has some little boys of his own now, and when they begin to talk big, he always tells them the story of “John Sims, the famous traveler.”

THE JOURNEY.

CHAPTER I.

Did you ever go a journey with your mother? No? Little Nelly did; it was great fun for her to see her mother pack the trunk. She had no idea before how much may be got into a trunk by squeezing. She thought it full half a dozen times, and laughed merrily when her mother pressed down the things with her hands, and piled as many more on top of them. Nelly and her mother were going to Niagara; that is a long way from New York. They went to bed very early the night before, for they knew that they must be up and off by daylight, breakfast, or no breakfast; for the cars do not wait for hungry people, as you may have found out. Long before daylight Nelly put her hand on her mother’s face, and said, It is time to get up, mother, and sure enough it was; so they both sprang out of bed, washed their eyes open, hurried on their clothes, and, I wish I could say, eat their breakfast, but unfortunately Nelly and her mother were boarding at a hotel. Now, perhaps you do not know that the servants in the New York hotels set up nearly all night, to wait upon people who stay out late at theaters, and like a nice dainty supper when they get home; and to take care of strangers, too, who arrive late at night; so you can imagine how tired they are, and how soundly they sleep, poor fellows, in the morning. Many of them are most excellent people, who bear without complaint all the hard words they get from those, whose chairs they stand behind, and who consider themselves privileged for that reason to insult and abuse them. No matter how weary they are, they must dart like a flash of lightning wherever they are sent, and get sworn at and abused even then for not going quicker. I remember well a middle-aged man who was waiter in a hotel where I once lived. He was as truly a gentleman as your own father. I could not bear that he should answer the bell when I rang it; it seemed to me that I should rather wait upon him. I could not bear that he should bow his head so deferentially every time he spoke to me, or be so troubled if my tea or coffee was not just as I was accustomed to have it. I could not bear that he should beg my pardon for every little omission or accident, so seldom occurring, too. I almost wished he would say something impudent or saucy; it made me so uncomfortable to see such a fine, dignified, gentlemanly man waiting upon my table, waiting upon people in the house, too, who were not fit to wipe his shoes; running hither and thither at the call of capricious, ill-bred children, whose wealthy parents had never taught them that servants have hearts to feel, and that they should be humanely treated. Ah, you should have seen our John; his manners would not have disgraced the White House. In fact I should not be surprised any day to hear that he was its master; for he who fills an inferior position faithfully and well, is he who oftenest rises to the highest. Remember that!

Well, as I was telling you, before I began about John, when Nelly and her mother got up, the poor, sleepy servants, who had not been in bed more than an hour or so, were not up, so Nelly nibbled a cracker and drank a glass of water, and she and her mother jumped into the carriage and were driven to the dépôt. How odd Broadway looked by early daylight! No gayly dressed ladies swept the pavements with their silken robes; no dandies thumped it with their high-heeled boots and dapper canes; no little girls, dressed as old as their mammas, glided languidly up and down, with their hands folded over their belts and an embroidered handkerchief between their kidded fingers. No—none but the useful class of the community were stirring: market-men, from the country, with their carts laden with lettuce, parsnips, cabbages, radishes, and strawberries, covered over with a layer of fresh, green grass, the very sight and odor of which made one long to be where it grew. Then there were milkmen, driving enough to tear up the pavement; then there were rag-pickers, gray with dirt, raking the gutters; then there were shop-boys and office-boys by the score, who had crossed the ferries to their work, for board in New York is expensive business; then there were tailoresses and sempstresses, more than I could count, with their shawls drawn round their thin shoulders, and their faces shrouded in their barege vails; then there were poor, tired news-boys asleep in entries and on steps, while others of their number rushed past with their bundles of damp papers. Little Nelly saw it all, for her eyes were sharp and bright; and now she is at the dépôt. All is hurry, skurry; carriages, cab-men, passengers, and baggage. Nelly’s eyes look wonderingly about her, and she keeps close to her mother, for the loud shouts of the men frighten her; now she is safe in the cars—how pale, sleepy, and cross every body looks! They hang up their traveling-bags on pegs over their heads, they fold up their shawls for cushions, they examine their pockets to see if their purses and checks are all right, they shrug their shoulders and pull down the windows to keep out the steam from the car boiler, for we are not yet out of the dépôt, they put their feet upon the seat, coil themselves up into a ball, and wonder why the cars don’t start. Siz—z—z, off we go—good-by New York, with your dust, and din, and racket—good-by to your sleepy belles, who are dreaming of last night’s ball, and getting strength to go to another; good-by to the gray old men who toil so hard to find them in dresses and jewels; good-by to their thoughtless sons, who spend so freely what they never earn; good-by to the squalid poor of whom they never think, though they may some day keep them wretched company; good-by to the poor old omnibus horses, who trot and stumble, stumble and trot, till one’s bones ache to look at them; good-by to the merry, sun-burned drivers, who so courteously rein up their horses, when ladies want to trip across the slippery streets; good-by to the little flower-girls, who manufacture those tempting little baskets of pinks, geraniums, and roses; good-by to the pretty parks, with their fountains and trees, nurses and children; good-by to the prisons, which often shut up better people than many whom the judges suffer to go unpunished at large; good-by to the hospitals with their groaning patients, watchful nurses, and skillful doctors. Good-by, we shall not be missed, no more than the pebble which some idle school-boy tosses into the pond, and which disappears and is thought of no more. Good-by, busy, dirty, noisy, crowded, yet delightful New York, for we are off to Niagara.

CHAPTER II.

How hot it is, how dusty—how hungry we all are. I hope we shall soon stop to dinner, for our stock of crackers and patience is exhausted, and nothing is left of the oranges but the peel. Ah, here we are! Only ten minutes to eat; what can the conductor be thinking about; does he take us for boa-constrictors? or does he think that, like the cows, we can store in our food and chew it whenever we get a chance? The fact is, he does not think any thing about it; all he cares for is to pack us all in the cars again and start at the last of the ten minutes. So I suppose we must elbow our way into the dining-room with the rest and scramble for a seat! “Beef, pork, mutton, veal, chicken, what’ll you have, ma’am?” “What’ll I have? oh, any thing, something, only be quick about it, please, for this little girl looks paler than I like to see her. Lamb and green peas, that will do; but, oh, dear, where’s our knife and fork? Turn round, Nelly, take that spoon and begin on the peas, we can’t stop for trifles. There’s that horrid fizzing of the car boiler, which warns us that we must swallow something or go hungry till bedtime. And here’s a custard, but no spoon; next time I travel I will carry a knife, fork, and spoon in my pocket. I wonder if the people who keep this eating-place forget these things on purpose, so that we need not eat our ten minutes’ worth of food? and we so hungry, too.” “Have an orange, ma’am?” “Of course I will: I have not had any thing else.” “Passengers ready—passengers please settle.” Poor Nelly swallows the last bit of custard and looks wistfully at those we leave behind, and we pay for our comfortless dinner, and scramble back into the cars. “All aboard.” Off we go again. The fat old lady in front of us goes to sleep; the gentlemen get out their newspapers. I wonder do they know how many people have ruined their eyesight trying to read in the cars? It is a losing way of gaining time, Mr. Editor; take my advice and put your papers in your pockets to read when you get to the next stopping-place. There is a woman taking out a needle and thread to sew—that is worse yet—but every body imagines they know best about such things, so I’ll not interfere. Here comes a boy into the cars with some books to sell. Little Nelly pinches my arm slily and looks very wise; she has spelt out, with her bright eyes, among the other books. “Fern Leaves.” Nelly is a bit of a rogue, so she says to the boy, “Have you Fern Leaves?” “Yes, miss, and Second Series and Little Ferns, too.” And he hands them to me. Nelly touches my foot under the seat, and looks as grave as a judge, while I turn over the pages, and when I ask the little boy who wrote Fern Leaves, she does not laugh, but looks straight out of the window at a cow munching grass by the road side, as if it were a matter of no concern at all to her. The little bookseller repeats my question after me, “Who wrote Fern Leaves?” and looks bewildered, then, after scratching his head, he answers, with the air of one who has hit it, “Fanny’s Portfolio, ma’am.” We did not buy the books, we had seen them before. But not till the last rag of the little bookseller’s torn jacket had fluttered through the door, did Nelly’s gravity relax: you should have seen, then, the comical look she gave me behind her pocket handkerchief, and heard her ringing laugh, well worth writing a book for, and which nobody understood but we two, and that was the best part of the joke.

By-and-by there was a quarrel in the cars about seats, for selfish people travel as well as the good-natured. A cross-looking man, with a wife to match, had monopolized two entire seats, in one of which they sat, and on the other placed their feet and their carpet-bags. It was not long before a large, well-dressed gentleman, with his wife, requested leave to sit on the seat occupied by the cross gentleman’s carpet-bags; to which the cross man replied, with a growl, and without taking down his feet, that that seat was engaged to some persons who had just stepped out. This was a fib; but the gentleman supposing it to be true, led the lady back to the sunny seat which she had just left, and which had given her a bad headache. An hour after, the big gentleman stepped up to the cross man and says, “Your friends are a long time coming, sir.” You should have seen the cross man then; how he sprang to his feet like a little bristly terrier dog, which he strikingly resembled; how he tauntingly asked the big, well-dressed man, how it happened that such an aristocrat as he did not hire an entire car for his lordship and her ladyship (meaning his wife). “I should have done so,” replied the gentleman, in a very low tone, as he turned on his heel, “had I known that pigs were allowed to travel in this car.” The laugh and the whisper, “Good enough for him!” which followed, might have abashed any body but our terrier, who stepped up to the principal laugher, who sat next me, and putting his face close to his, hissed between his shut teeth, “Shut up!” Nelly did not know what “shut up” meant, but she knew the meaning of the doubled-up fist which the terrier thrust into our neighbor’s face, and looked up at me to see whether there was any danger of our being thumped or not. Seeing only a smothered smile on my face, and the conductor approaching to set matters to rights, she soon became quiet.

On we flew, past houses, fences, trees, cows, sheep, and horses, some of whom pricked up their ears for a minute, then went lazily on munching grass, as much as to say, “That’s an old story;” others, finding an excuse in it for a frolic, raced over the meadows, and kicked up their heels, as if to say, “Just as if nobody could run but you!”

Hark! what’s that? Nobody answers; but the cars tip half-way over, we are all thrown in a heap on the floor, the window-glass comes smashing in, and the hot steam rushes in. A great fat man doubles me up over a seat, trying, like a great coward as he is, to climb over me to get out the window. We don’t know yet what has happened; but, “Get out of the cars!” says the conductor, “quick!” The window is too small to let out the fat man, so he kindly allows me the use of my ribs again, which must have been made of good material, or they would have been broken as he bent me over that seat. I snatch Nelly, poor pale Nelly! who never screams or speaks, for she is a real little Spartan—and we all clamber out into the tall, wet meadow-grass. Then, the danger over, great big tears roll out of Nelly’s eyes, and with an hysterical laugh, as she looks at the broken cars, she sobs out, in a half sorrowful, half droll way, this nursery snatch—“All of a sudden, the old thing bursted!”

“Any body hurt?” ask the pale, anxious passengers, as they creep out one by one. “No—nobody’s hurt.” “Ah yes—ah yes—the poor brakeman is badly scalded—poor fellow.” Now the country people come flocking out of the farm houses—good, honest, kind souls—and they make a litter, and they put the wounded man upon it, and bear him slowly away over the green fields, under the drooping trees, carefully, carefully, heeding his groans, into the nearest farm-house; then the doctor’s chaise drives hurriedly up, and after a time, word is brought us that he will not die. Little Nelly cries and laughs again, for she is very nervous from the fright. And the conductor says, “Have patience, ladies; we will soon get another car;” and some go into barns, and some go into houses, for the rain is falling; and the poor watchmaker, whose trunk was broken to pieces, stands looking at the fragments of broken watches, and saying big words about damages and the railroad company. But every body else is so glad to be alive, and to be in possession of sound limbs, that they do not think of their baggage. And after a while the new car comes, for every body helps us, and we all climb up into it, and the color comes back to the lips of the ladies; and the great fat coward, who bent me double over the seat, takes precious good care to sit near the door, ready for a jump if any thing else turns up, or turns over.

CHAPTER III.

One o’clock at night, and this is Niagara. It might as well be Boston Frog Pond, for all the enthusiasm has been shook, and jolted, and stunned, and frightened out of us getting to it. And now here it is one o’clock at night. I suppose not a bit of supper is to be had for poor Nelly and me, although we have eaten nothing since we had that scrambling twelve o’clock dinner. What a big hotel! bless us—there is a supper though all ready; for they are used to little accidents, called collisions, this way, and feed the survivors with as much alacrity as they bury the dead; to be sure there is a supper—chicken—oh, Nelly! chicken and hot tea. Sorry figures we cut by the light of the bright gas chandeliers, with our jammed bonnets and torn riding-dresses, but who cares? I am sure black John don’t; he is just as civil as if we were as presentable as a Broadway belle; certainly he is used to it; he is used to seeing ladies emerge from begrimed caterpillar riding-habits into all sorts of gay butterfly paraphernalia; John is charitable; he always suspends his judgment of passengers till the next morning at breakfast; then he knows who is who. If a lady takes diamonds with her coffee, he knows she talks bad grammar, and is not what she would have people think her; he is not surprised to have her find fault with every thing from the omelette to the Indian cake. He expects to see her nose turned up at every thing, just as if she had every thing better at home.

She does not impose on John—he waits upon her with a quiet twinkle in his eye, which says as plain as a twinkle can say: I have not stood behind travelers’ chairs these two years for nothing; that game has been played out here, my lady; but when a lady comes down to breakfast in a modest-colored, quiet-looking breakfast robe, with smooth hair, neatly-slippered feet, and a very nice collar, and speaks civily and kindly to him, John knows he sees a real lady, whether she owns a diamond or not—and her pleasant “Thank you,” when he has taken some trouble to procure her what she desires, wings his feet for many a hard hour’s work that day. I wish ladies oftener thought of this. I wish they did not think it beneath them, or were not too indifferent or thoughtless to attend to it. “What is that noise, John?” “Oh, them’s the Rapids, ma’am.” “Rapids? sure enough, we almost forgot we were at Niagara; how very dismal they sound!” John laughs and says, “You are tired to-night, ma’am; when you look at them in the morning you will like ’em; most ladies does.” But poor Nelly is half asleep over her plate, so we will go to bed. What a little box of a chamber! not a pretty thing in it but Nelly; a table, a chair, a bed, a bureau, and a candle on it; the window shaking as if it had St. Vitus’s dance; the Rapids, as John calls them, roaring like mad under the window. I can’t stand the rattling of that window. I’ll stop it with the handle of a tooth-brush. I suppose I have a tooth-brush left, if the cars did run off the track; oh, yes! “Now tumble into bed, Nelly. What a dismal thing those Rapids are, to be sure. I feel as if I were out at sea in an egg-shell boat. I wonder how they will look in the morning? don’t you, Nelly?” No answer. “Nelly’s asleep; I wish I could sleep, but I’m sure those horrid Rapids will give me the night-mare.”

“Morning? you don’t mean that, Nelly! and you look as bright as if the cars had kept right end up all the way here. Does the sun shine, Nelly? Open the blinds and see. No? what a pity. ‘A great river under the window!’ why, pussy, that river is the Rapids; I don’t wonder they shake the window so; how they tumble about! Now, we will dress and breakfast, and then, no! for the Falls. You and I are not to be frightened at a few rain-drops, Nelly; we have had too many drenchings running to and fro from printing-offices for that. That’s right, Nelly, dip your face into the washbasin, it will make your eyes strong and bright; now smooth your hair, and put on the plainest dress you can find, but let it be very clean. I hope your finger-nails and teeth are quite nice, and then pull your stockings smoothly up; of all things don’t wear wrinkled stockings. Put stout boots on; don’t be afraid of a thick sole, Nelly; every thing looks well in its place; and a thin shoe on Goat Island would be quite ridiculous.

“You are glad to get out of that stifled bed-room? so am I. What a nice wide breezy hall this is! Oh, there are more travelers who have just arrived, and there are some more who are just leaving; and there comes the servant to say breakfast is ready; gongs are out of fashion, I am glad of that; I would run a mile to escape a gong; and beside, no hospitable landlord, I think, would set such a machine in motion to disturb sick and weary travelers, who prefer a longer sleep. Ah, this landlord knows what he is about, I am sure of that; you can generally judge of any house by the manners of the servants. How well trained they are here, how quiet, how prompt! Good fellows; I hope they get well paid, don’t you, Nelly? I hope they have a comfortable place to sleep, when the day is over, don’t you? All black? I am glad of that, too; I like black people; they are such a merry people, they are so easily made happy, they are so affectionate, they are so neat. Oh, what nice bread and coffee! Don’t touch those omelettes, Nelly; take a bit of beefsteak and here’s some milk—real milk; it is so long since I have tasted any, that it seems like cream!

“Who are those people? How do I know, little puss? I dare say they are asking the same question about us! You don’t like that lady’s face? Why not? She don’t look as if she could laugh. That’s a fact, Nelly. She is as solemn as an owl. But perhaps she is in trouble, who knows? We must not laugh about her. Come, Nelly, let us get up and go to the Falls. Tie on your bonnet; what a nice fresh air! See the shops, Nelly! shops at Niagara, who would have thought it? and curiosities of all sorts to sell! Well, never mind them now. Want a carriage? want a cab? Of course we don’t—look at our democratic thick-soled shoes! what’s the use of having feet, if we are not to be allowed to use them? No, of course we don’t want a carriage; we feel, Nelly and I, as if we were just made; don’t you see how we step off? No, keep your carriages for infirm, proud, and lazy people. Carriage—who can run in a carriage? who can skip? This way, Nelly, over the little bridge? Oh—pay toll here! Do we? Twenty-five cents. And please register our names! Oh yes, of course—Mrs. Nelly, and Miss Nelly. What are you laughing at, puss? come along; oh, see this pretty island! now you see the use of thick shoes—off into that grass, and pick me some of those wild-flowers. Oh, Nelly, there are some blue, and pink, and purple—get a handful, Nelly! Oh, how delicious it is to be alive; skip, Nelly, run, Nelly, sing Nelly.

“A real Indian? Where? Oh, that’s not a real Indian, no more than you or I. She’s a pretty little sham Indian; but what are her pin cushions and moccasins to these wild-flowers? No, no, little girl, don’t stop us with those things; we left shopping in New York. Goat Island was not made for that, I’m sure; come Nelly! A boy with crosses made of Table-rock; how they plague us—we don’t want to buy any crosses, we are cross enough ourselves, because you keep bothering us so; we came to see the Falls, not to do shopping. Come away, Nelly! Oh, Nelly—look! look!”

But why describe the Falls to you, when all your school geographies have a picture of it? when your teacher has taken all the school to see a panorama of it? when your Uncle George, and Aunt Caroline, and Cousin James have seen it? and yet no tongue, no pen ever could, ever has described its beauty, its majesty. I would that I had never heard it attempted; I would that I had never heard of Niagara; I would that I had come upon it unawares some glorious morning before Indian girls had peddled moccasins there, or boys, had profaned it by selling pictures and crosses; I would have knelt on that lovely island, and seen God’s majesty in the ceaseless, roaring torrent; God’s smile in the bright rainbow, hung upon the fleecy mist; God’s love in making earth so beautiful, for those who forget to thank Him for it. I would lead him there who says there is no God, that he might hear His voice, and see His glory.

But no two persons look on Niagara with the same eyes. You can not see it through my spectacles; some it animates and makes jubilant; others it depresses and terrifies; some hear in it the thunder and lightning of Sinai; others hear in it the voice of Him who stilled the raging waves with “Peace, be still!”

Yes, I was glad to have seen Niagara, but I was not sorry to leave it. Its rushing torrent threw a shadow over my spirit. Its monster jaws seemed hungry for some victim, other than the unconscious leaves which it whirled so impatiently and disdainfully out of sight. Its never-ceasing roar seemed like the trumpet-challenge to battle, telling of mangled corpses and broken hearts. No;—dearer to me is the silvery little brook, tripping lightly through green meadows, singing low and sweet to the nodding flowers, bending to see their own sweet beauty mirrored in its clear face. I like not that all Nature’s gentle voices should be tyrannically hushed to silence, drowned by a despot’s deafening roar. Give me the low murmur of the trees; I like the hum of the bee; I like the flash of the merry little fish; I like the little bird, circling, darting, singing, skimming the blue above, dipping his blight wings in the blue below; I like the cricket which chirps the tired farmer to sleep; I like the distant bleat of the lamb, the faint lowing of the cow; I lay my head on Nature’s breast, in her gentler moods, and tell her all my hopes and fears, and am not ashamed of my tears. But she drives me from her when she roars and foams, and flashes fierce lightning from her angry eyes; I close my ears to her roaring thunder. But when, clearing the cloud from her brow, she hangs a rainbow on her breast, throws perfume to the pretty flowers, and smiles caressingly through her tears—ah, then I love her; then she is all my own again.

Here I have been running on! and all this while you have been waiting to know the rest of my story. Well, Nelly and I started to go back to New York. Nelly did not like the idea of trusting herself in the cars, nor, to tell the truth, did I; but there was no help for it: besides, it is not wise to be a slave to one’s fears. So we tried to forget all about it. A girl who lived with me once remarked, there is always something happening most days. So we soon found amusement. An old lady in the cars, when she had smelled up all her camphor and eaten all her lozenges, commenced asking me questions faster than I could answer, and looking at Nelly through her spectacles. Some of her questions were very funny, and, from any body but an old lady, would have been impertinent; but we answered them all, for it was very evident she did not ride in the cars every day, and was determined to get her money’s worth. Poor old lady! I suppose she had lived all her life in some small village where there was only a blacksmith’s shop and a meeting-house, and where every body knew what time every body got up, and what they had for breakfast. Nice old lady! I hope somebody gave her a good cup of tea, and a rocking-chair, when she got home, which, I regret to say, was the first stopping-place after we left Niagara.

From the car-windows Nelly and I saw the Catskill Mountains. O the lovely changing hues of their steep and misty sides; the billowy clouds that rolled up, and rolled over, and rolled off;—then the far-off summit, now hidden, now revealed, lying against the sky, tempting us to see from thence the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them. And so we will, some day. I will tell you what we see.

Night came, and we had not yet reached New York. Nelly was dusty, and hungry, and tired; but she was a good traveler, and made no complaint. The cars were dashing along through the darkness, close by the edge of the Hudson River, and Nelly clasped my hand more closely as she looked out of the windows upon its dark surface, and sighed as if she feared some accident might tip us all over into it. But no such accident occurred, and by-and-by the bright gas-lights of New York shone and sparkled; and the never-failing gutter odor informed us that we were back again upon its dusty streets.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

“How did Luly look?” Her eyes were brown, her hair was brown, too; she was very pale, and slender, and had a soft, sweet voice, just such a voice as you would expect from such a fragile little girl. Luly did not like to be noticed: she was fond of being by herself, and would often sit for an hour at a time, quite still, with her slender hands crossed in her lap, thinking; her cheek would flush, and her eye moisten, but no one knew what Luly was thinking about. Luly did not love to play; she did not care for dolls, or baby-houses; she never jumped rope, or drove hoop, or played hunt the slipper; this troubled her mother, who knew that all healthy young creatures love to play and frolic; and so she brought Luly all sorts of pretty toys, and Luly would say very sweetly, “Thank you, dear mamma,” and put them on the shelf, but she never played with them, and seemed quite to forget that they were there. Luly’s grandmother shook her head, and said, “Luly will die; Luly will never live to grow up.”

If Luly heard any one speak in a harsh, cross voice, she would shiver all over, as if some cold wind were blowing upon her; and if she saw two persons quarreling, she never would be satisfied till she had made peace between them. One day, before she could speak plain, her mother sent her down to the kitchen on an errand; when she got to the door, she stood still, for the cook and the chambermaid were very angry with each other; one was saying “You did,” and the other “I didn’t,” in very loud tones, and their faces were very red with passion. Luly stood in the door-way, looking, listening, and trembling, as she always did at any such sight. Tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and unable to bear it any longer, she stepped between them, and clasping her little hands, said in her broken way, with her sweet, musical voice, “Oh, don’t condict, please don’t condict.” So the girls stopped contradicting, ashamed before a little child, “for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Luly never disobeyed her mother—never—never. If her mother told her not to go out in the garden without her leave, and then went away for an hour, she was just as sure that Luly had obeyed her, as if she had been there to see; and yet, every night when this little girl went to bed, she would say, as she laid her head upon the pillow, “Mother, do you think God will forgive all my sins to-day? I hope he will, I hope I haven’t made God sorry, mother;” and when her mother said, “Yes, I know he will forgive you, Luly,” she would smile so peacefully, and say: “Now you can go down stairs, mother.” Luly never was afraid of God; she never thought or spoke of His “punishing” her; but she loved Him so much that it was a great grief to her to think that she might have “made Him sorry,” as she called it. One morning when she woke, one beautiful summer morning, when the scent of the roses came in at the open window, when the dew-drops were glistening, and the green trees waving, and the birds singing, she crept out of her little crib, and stood at her window looking out on the fair earth, with her little hands clasped, her eyes beaming, and her cheek glowing.

“What is it, Luly?” said her mother, as tears rolled slowly down Luly’s cheeks.

“I want to see Him,” whispered Luly.

“Who, my child?”

“God.”

Then Luly’s mother thought of what her grandmother had said: “Luly will not live; Luly will die,” and she clasped her little girl tightly to her breast, as if she feared even then she would go from her.

But no mother’s clasp could hold little Luly; no mother’s tears could bribe the Death Angel. Rose-red grew the cheek, then white as snow, the little hands grew hot, then icy cold, the soft eye bright, then dim, and she who never grieved us living, grieved us dying.

A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.

I wish I knew what that cow is thinking about; how lazily she stands there, switching her sides with her tail, and looking up and down the meadow. I am no judge of cows, but I think that is a pretty cow. Any lady might be proud of her great, soft brown eyes. I am glad she does not know that one of these days, the butcher will thump her on the head and sell her for beef; I am glad she does not know that the pretty little calf, which frolics by her side, will be eaten for veal, next week. Munch away, old cow, and enjoy the fresh clover while you can; I don’t believe you have any idea what a pretty picture you and your baby calf make, as you stand with your hoofs in that brook and bend your heads to drink. I like to think, though I know it is not so (because you have no soul, old cow), that when you raise your head from the brook and lift it toward the sky, you are thinking of Him who made the pretty clover grow and the sparkling brook to flow. And now the little calf is nursing. Pull away, little rogue? if you have not a better right to your mother’s milk than Sally, the dairy-maid, I will agree to go without butter; pull away, it does me good to see you; now kick up your heels and run like mischief over the meadow; see the old cow blink and wink, as she looks after her, as if to say, Well, well, I was young myself, once; calves will be calves, spite of cows. And there is a hen and her cunning little chickens; I should like to catch that tiny white one, which blows over the meadow like a piece of cotton wool, and cuddle her right up in my neck; I am sure the old hen would not object if she knew how I liked chickens; but she don’t, and she would probably take me for a highwaywoman, and I can’t have my character called in question that way, even by a hen; beside her beak is sharp, and so are her claws: I think I had better admire her little soft white baby at a distance. Nice little thing, how glad I am it does not have to be fixed up in lace and embroidery, every morning, and have a nurse rubbing its nose enough to rub it off, every time a stray breeze makes it sneeze; how glad I am the little thing can roll and tumble in the grass, instead of being stewed up in a hot nursery and sweltered under a load of crib-blankets, till all its strength oozes out in perspiration; dear little chick, I hope you will find plenty of little worms to eat, and I hope no old rooster will cuff your ears for doing it; I hope you will have the downiest side of your mother’s wing to sleep under, and plenty of meal and water when worms are scarce. But, see! there’s a shower coming up; you had better scamper under the shed; don’t you hear the thunder, little chick? don’t you see that beautiful zig-zag lightning darting out of that dark cloud? and don’t you see that lovely blue sky over yonder, peaceful as the good man’s soul, when the cloud of trouble threatens him? No, little chick, you don’t notice it a bit; you are only chasing after your mother, and trying to dodge the rain-drops; well, pretty as you are, I had rather be born with a soul; I am glad my soul will live millions of years after you are dead; I want to know so much that puzzles me here on earth, but which I am willing to believe is all right, until God Himself explains it all to me. I am glad I am not a little chick without a soul, because I want to learn about these things in heaven.

THE CIRCUS.

What a mob of boys! There’s Bill Saunders, and Ned Hoyt, and Tom Fagin, and Lewis Coates, and John Harris; and, sure as the world, there’s that little tomtit, Harry Horn, without a sign of a cap on, jumping up and down as if there were pins in his trowsers. What can be the matter, I wonder? Now they shout, “Hurra—hurra!”—but then boys are always screaming hurra. I have done breaking my neck leaning out of the window to see what is the matter. I won’t look at the little monkeys. There it goes again—“Hurra! hurra!” One would think General Washington, Lafayette, or some other great person, was coming down street. Now they move one side—ah, now I see what all the fuss is about! A great flaming red and yellow handbill is posted on the fence; and on it is written, “Pat Smith’s Circus! next Wednesday afternoon and evening.” Circus! no wonder little Harry Horn forgot to put his hat on, and jumped up and down as if he were trying to jump out of his trousers. If there is any thing that drives boys crazy, it is a circus. I should like to know why; I have a great mind to go to Pat Smith’s Circus myself, just to find out; for I never was in a circus in my life. Yes, I will go, and I will take Nelly; she never was in a circus either. No, I won’t; I will leave her at home with black Nanny. No, I wont; I will take black Nanny too; but then I am not sure Pat Smith allows colored people in his circus. “Well, if he is such a senseless Pat as that, he may go without three twenty-five cent pieces, that’s all, for Nanny likes a little fun as well as if her skin were whiter; and if Nanny can’t come in, Nelly and I won’t. But Nanny can; Pat is not such a fool. So, come along, Nanny; come along, Nelly; it don’t matter what you wear. Walk a little faster, both of you; we must get a good seat, or we shall lose half the fun. Short people are apt to fare badly in a crowd. Here we are! This a circus! this round tent? How funny! Music inside; that’s nice; I like music; so do Nelly and Nanny. Here’s your money, Mr. Pat Smith. Goodness! you don’t mean that we have got to clamber up in those high, ricketty-looking seats, without any backs? Suppose we should fall through on the ground below? Suppose the seats should crack, and let all these people down? I think we’ll climb up to the highest seat, for in case they do break, I had rather be on the top of the pile than underneath it. That’s it; here’s a place for you, Nanny. Bless me, what a “many people,” as little Harry Horn says. Little babies, too, as I live;—well, I suppose their poor tired mothers wanted a little fun too; but the babies are better off than we, because they can have a drink of milk whenever they are thirsty. Ah, I was a little too fast there, for Pat Smith has provided lemonade, and here comes a man with a pailful. Circus lemonade!—no, I thank you; it may be very good, but I prefer taking your word for it. How the people flock in! What’s that coming in at yonder door? Nanny! Nelly!—look! Is it a small house painted slate-color? No—it is an elephant—a live elephant. What a monster! what great flapping ears! what huge paws! and what a rat-ty looking tail! I don’t like his tail; but his trunk is superb. I am afraid he has had a deal of whipping to make him behave so well. How he could make us all fly, if he chose; what mince-meat he could make of those little fat babies yonder. I am glad he don’t want to; they are too pretty to eat. What are they going to do with him, I wonder? It can’t be that they mean to make him walk up that steep pair of stairs. Yes—see him! Would you believe such a great monster could do it so gracefully? He lifts his paws as gently as a kitten. Now that’s worth seeing; but how in the world are they going to get him down, now that he has reached the top? See—he is going to back down; not one false step does he make; now he has reached the bottom. Clever old monster! It seems a shame to make such a great, grand-looking, kingly creature, perform such dancing-master tricks. Now his master lies flat on his back on the ground, and the old elephant is going to walk over him. Suppose he should set that great paw of his on his master’s stomach, and crush him as flat as a pancake? No; see how carefully he steps over him with those big legs; never so much as touching his gay scarlet-and-white tunic. Splendid old fellow, to have so much strength, and yet never use it to the harm of those who torment him with all this nonsense. How I should like to see you in your native jungles, old elephant, with all your baby elephants; your little big babies, old fellow. There he goes. I am glad they have done with him. It makes me sad to see him. Good-by, old Samson.”

What now? a lady on horseback, Mr. Pat Smith’s wife; she sits her horse very well, but that’s nothing remarkable; I can sit a horse as well as that myself; but I couldn’t make a leap on his back over that five-barred gate—mercy, no—he will break her neck, I know he will; I am afraid Mr. Pat Smith wants a second wife. Oh, see, the horse has come down safe with her on the other side of the gate; now she is going to try it again; what a woman that is! I hope Mr. Pat Smith gives her half the money that he takes this hot night, for I am sure she has earned it; but wives don’t always get what they earn, and I dare say Mrs. Pat Smith don’t.

Now here come a parcel of fellows in white tights, tight as their skin, tumbling head over heels, up side down, standing on each others’ heads, and cutting up untold and untellable capers. I must say their strong limbs are quite beautiful, just as God intended limbs should grow, just as I hope yours will grow, one of these days, though I think it may be done without your being a circus tumbler. See how nimble they are, and how like eels they twist and squirm about, leaping on each others’ shoulders like squirrels, leaping down again, running up tall poles and sitting on the top and playing there with half a dozen balls at once, which are tossed up at them from below. It is really quite wonderful, and yet I can’t help thinking had they taken as much pains to learn something really useful, as they have to learn to be funny, how much good they might do; for, after all, a monkey, or a squirrel, or an ourang-outang could do all that quite as well as a man, who is so much superior to them, quite as gracefully, and without any teaching, too; but, bless me, a circus is no place to think, and yet I wish those men’s heads were as well trained as their heels; if you listen you will find out they are not; just hear those stupid jokes they are making, how badly they pronounce, how ungrammatically they express themselves, and hear—oh, no—don’t hear that! what a pity they should say any thing indelicate before ladies and pure little children. Now I know why fathers and mothers do not like their little boys and girls to go to the circus. Mr. Pat Smith, Mr. Pat Smith, you must leave off those stupid bad jokes, if you want to draw ladies and little children.

I wish somebody would get up a good circus without these faults. I can not think so badly of the people as to believe that they would like it less if it were purified. I think it might be made a very pleasant and harmless amusement for little children, who seem to want to go so much, and who have often felt so badly because their parents were not willing. Perhaps there are such good circuses, that I may not have heard of. I like good schools, I like study, but I should like to write over every school-room door:

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

WHAT EVERY LITTLE CHILD MAY SEE.

I hope you love to look at the bright sunsets; oh the joy they are to me! Yesterday it had been raining all day; dark, gloomy clouds hovered overhead; the birds and the children were nested out of sight; the hens crept up under the shed corners, and the old cows stood patiently waiting under the trees for the sun to shine out. It shone at last, and oh, with what a glory; I wished I had a hundred eyes to gaze, for every moment the lovely hues changed to hues more beautiful—sapphire, topaz, emerald, ruby, opal, amethyst, diamonds. Overhead, the mottled gold and purple; in the west, a field of blue, clear and pure as a baby’s eyes, with fringes of brown, like its sweet-drooping lashes; farther still, floated golden clouds, bright enough to bear the baby’s spirit to heaven; while in the east, the dark heavy, rain-clouds, were rolled up and piled away; back of the snow-white cottages, back of the tall church-spire, which pointing upward seemed to say, Praise him who made us all. Who could help it? Oh, if earth is so lovely, what must heaven be? if God’s foot prints are so beautiful, what must be His throne?

Evening came, and all this glory faded out only to be replaced by another; countless stars, sparkled and glittered over head; then came the moon, slowly; veiling itself bride-like in fleecy clouds, as if not to dazzle us with her beauty. On came the still midnight; when sleep fell like flower-dew on weary lids; when the whispering leaves told each other all their little secrets, and the queen moon glided about, silvering the poor man’s roof while he slept, as if it had been a palace. Morning came, and the jealous sun shot forth at her a golden arrow, to tell her that her reign was past. She grew pale, and moved slowly on, one little star keeping her kindly company. Up flashed the sun, brighter for his eclipse. The flowers and the children opened wide their dewy eyes; the dew-drops danced, the little birds shook their bright wings, tuned their throats, and trilled out a song, oh, so bright, so joyous. God listened for man, but he was dumb.

A STORY FOR BOYS.

Now, boys, I am going to write a story for you. I don’t know why I have written more stories for girls than for boys, unless it is because all the boys I ever had have been girls. Sometimes I have been sorry this was so, because I think boys can rough it through the world so much better than girls, especially should the latter have the misfortune to lose their father when they are young. I hope this is not the case with you; it is very sad for young eyes to be watching the way he used to come, and see only other happy gleeful children with their living, breathing, loving, fathers.

But I will not talk about this now. I want to tell you that I do love boys, though I am very much afraid of them.

Afraid?

Yes; now you need not look so innocent, just as if you never, when a lady had picked her way carefully through the sloppy streets, jumped into a big puddle near her, and sent the dirty water all over her nice white stockings, and pretty gaiter boots—ah—you see I know you; just as if you hadn’t come rushing round a corner when you were playing tag, and knocked the breath out of a woman before she could say “Don’t;” just as if you didn’t eat peanuts in an omnibus and let the wind blow the shells into her lap; just as if you didn’t put your muddy shoes up on the omnibus seat, and soil the cushions, and spoil ladies’ dresses; just as if you did not—you rogues—say saucy things to bashful little girls, at which your schoolmates Tom Tules and Sam Hall would burst into a loud laugh and the poor little girl would have to go a long way round to school the next morning merely to get rid of you. I should be sorry to believe that you know how much pain you sometimes give a little girl in this way: perhaps her mother is a widow and has to earn her own living, and can not spare time every morning to go with her daughter to school, or to call for her when school is done; and it pains her very much to have to send the weeping child who is so afraid of you, out alone; and she sighs when she thinks of the time when that child’s father was alive, and they had plenty of money to hire a nurse-maid to see that she did not get run over or troubled on her way.

I don’t believe you think of this, when you slyly pull their curls as you go by, or make believe snatch their satchels, or elbow them off the sidewalk, to please that naughty Frank Hale, who says, “’Tis fun.” I am sure you never thought seriously of all I have just told you, or you would not do it.

A stupid boy who never wants “fun” will never be good for any thing. But it is not “fun” to give pain to the weak, timid, and helpless; it is not fun to play the tyrant. Oh, no, no. It is fun to play ball, and hop-scotch; and it is fun to skate, and slide, and “coast,” as the Boston boys call it (i.e., go down a steep, icy hill on a sled); but this steep, icy hill should not be in the street, where horses and carriages are, crossed by other streets, through which people are passing. A little boy was once coasting very fast down such a hill as this, and when a very prim maiden lady was picking her way across it. On came the boy, like lightning, tripped up her heels, and carried her down on his sled, on top of him, to the bottom of the hill. She was, fortunately, not hurt. She got slowly up, smoothed out her rumpled dress, bent her bonnet straight, put her spectacles on the end of her nose, and looking at the little boy (who stood there quite as much astonished as she at what he had done), she remarked, “Young man, it was not my intention to have come this way!” He got off easily, didn’t he? But had he broken any of her bones, a policeman would perhaps have rung at his father’s door some time that day, and his father would have been obliged to pay a fine, because his boy broke the law by “coasting” in the streets—(that’s Boston law). And beside that, had the lady been poor, his father would have had to pay a doctor for mending her bones. Don’t think I do not approve of coasting in safe places. It is what boys call “prime.” I like to coast as well as you do; and when you get a nice sled, with good “runners,” I should like to try it. If it goes like chain-lightning, you may name it Fanny Fern; but if it twists round at every little thing in the path, and don’t go straight ahead, you may call it—what you like; but don’t you dare to name it after me.

KATY’S FIRST GRIEF.

Little Katy, so they told me, was an only child. I don’t know how that could be, when she had two little sisters in heaven. But Katy had never seen them; they turned their cheeks wearily to the pillow and died years before she was born. Katy had heard her mamma speak of them, and she had seen their little frocks and shoes, and a little blue silk hood, trimmed round the face with a soft white fur, soft as the baby’s velvet skin; and she had seen a dry crust of bread, with the marks of tiny teeth in it, carefully put away in the drawer; and a small string of coral beads, red as the baby’s lip; and she had seen her mother put her fingers through the sleeve of a little fine cambric shirt, and look at it till tears blinded her eyes. Katy was not strong herself; her mother was very much afraid that she would die too; she was very careful always to tie her tippet closely about her throat, when she went out, and to see that her feet were warm, and her little arms covered. There were very few days in which Katy felt quite well, and I don’t suppose she could help crying and fretting a great deal; she wanted to be in her mother’s lap all the while, and did not like to have strangers come in and talk to her mother. That could not be helped you know, and then Katy would cry very loud, and nothing seemed to pacify her.

As she grew older, her mother took such good care of her, that her health began to improve, and she grew stronger; but she had been petted, and had her own way so much (because they disliked to trouble her when she was sick) that she had become very selfish; she liked nobody to touch her toys, or even look at them. This was a pity. One morning Katy woke, climbed up in her crib, and called out “Mamma!” but there was no mamma there. “Papa!” there was no papa either. This was something very uncommon; for they were always there when she woke in the morning. Then Katy set up a great cry, louder than you would ever believe such a little bit of a thing could cry, and then a strange woman came in, and said, “Hush!” and then Katy screamed louder than ever, and grew very red in the face, and said, “I won’t hush, I want my mamma—I will have my mamma!” and then Katy’s papa came up and whispered to the strange woman, and then the strange woman nodded her head and went out of the room; and then Katy’s papa told Katy that her mamma was in the other room, and that, if she would be a good girl, and stop crying, and let him dress her, she should go and see her. Katy had a great mind not to stop, but she wanted so much to see her mamma that she made up her mind she would; so her papa put on her little petticoats, and as he never had dressed his little girl, he buttoned them before, instead of behind; and then Katy had a cry about that, and then her papa was a great while finding out how her frock fastened; he saw some “hooks” on it, but he could not find any “eyes” to hook them into, and so he told Katy, who kept wriggling round on his lap like a little eel, slipping off his knee, and slipping back, and fretting like a little tempest to see “mamma;” then papa’s forehead began to have great drops of perspiration on it, as he fumbled away at the little frock with his big fingers, and by-and-by he found out that there were things called “loops,” so small he could hardly see them, to hold the hooks, instead of eyes, and then he said, drawing a long breath, “Now, little Katy, I’ll have you dressed in a twinkling!” so he fastened it, and then put on her stockings, and one shoe; but when he looked for the other, it was nowhere to be found; it was not in the crib, nor under it, in the closet, or in the bureau drawers; it was not anywhere, that he could see. Katy wanted to go without it, but her papa said, no, she would get cold: and then Katy set up another of her great cries, and just as two big tears, big enough to wet the whole front of her frock, came rolling down, her papa found the little red shoe under the wash-stand. Then he put it on, and saying, “Now, Katy,” he took her in his arms, and carried her through the entry, into the “best chamber;” it was so dark, with all the blinds shut and the curtains drawn, that Katy at first could not see who or what was in it. In a minute or two her eyes got used to the dim light, and then she saw her mamma on the bed, and a little white bundle of something lying on her arm. Katy’s papa moved a little nearer, and whispered to Katy, “See, mamma has a cunning little brother for you to play with.” Katy looked at him a minute, and then her face puckered up all over, and she burst out into such a cry, you never heard the like; “I don’t want him—I don’t want him, I want to lay on mamma’s arm, I don’t want any little brother!” Then the strange woman motioned to Katy’s papa to take her out of the room, and then Katy clung to the bed-post, and cried louder than ever, “No, no—take him away, take him away—I don’t want that little brother!”

Poor little Katy—you should have heard her sob, going down stairs; all that papa could say did not comfort her. He took her on his lap to the breakfast table, gave her some real tea out of his saucer, and let her eat with mamma’s nice silver fork; it did no good, not more than a minute at a time; she could not forget that “little brother,” who was cuddled up so comfortably in her place on mamma’s arm. And now even papa could not stay any longer with Katy, for it was already past nine o’clock, and he must go down town to attend to his business; so he called Bridget, and told her to keep Katy in the parlor with her playthings, till her mamma sent for her; and kissing his little sobbing girl, he went away. Papa and mamma both gone! what should Katy do? Bridget tried to comfort her, and sang her a song, called “Green grow the rushes, O,” but it was of no use. Then the strange woman came down to eat her breakfast. Katy wiped the tears out of her eyes, and looked at her from under the corner of her apron. The strange woman sat down to her breakfast, and ate away; how she did eat! one egg—two eggs—three eggs—two cups of coffee, and several slices of bread and butter; then she said to Bridget, “Where’s that crying child? Mrs. Smith wants to have her brought up-stairs; I never heard of such a thing since I went out nursing, as having such a troublesome little thing in a sick chamber. She will make her mother sick with her fussing, and so I told her; but she told me to bring her up when I had done my breakfast, and to I suppose I must; where is she?”

“There,” said Bridget, pointing to Katy, cuddled up in the corner, so afraid of the strange woman, that she had forgotten to cry.

“Sure enough—well—I am glad to see you are in a better temper, Miss Katy; your mother wants you to go up-stairs, but I can tell you that you won’t stay there long, unless you are as hush as a mouse; for I have come here to take care of her, did you know that? and I never allow naughty children to stay with their sick mothers. Now, if you will promise to be good, I will take you up-stairs; will you promise?”

Katy’s under lip quivered a little, but not a word came out of it.

“Say, will you be good?”

No answer.

“Well, then, you can stay down stairs, that’s all, I sha’n’t take you up-stairs.” Then the strange woman took a cup and saucer in her hand and went up into the sick room.

Then Katy cried so hard and so loud.

Katy’s sick mother turned her head on the pillow and sighed. “Is that Katy, crying, Mrs. Smith?” she asked of the strange woman, who just then came in to the door.

“Oh, don’t you be bothering your head now about your family,” said Mrs. Smith, pouring a little gruel into the cup.

“It is very well to say that,” said Katy’s mamma; “Katy has been a sickly child always, and I can’t help feeling anxious about her. We have been obliged to fondle her more on that account; I am sure she will outgrow her pettishness, as she gets her health, and it is very hard to turn her off so all at once; it is hard for grown people to bear it, when another person steps in and takes their place with a friend whom they love, and how can you expect a little sick child to feel willing and happy about it all at once?”

“Well, I told her she could come up, if she would promise to be good, but she wouldn’t, and so I left her down there; I can’t have her here fretting you.”

Katy’s mamma laid her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed again; then she said, “It frets me much more to hear her cry down stairs; I think I can make it all right to her about the baby if she comes up here.”

“Just as you please, of course,” said Mrs. Smith, giving her gingham apron a twitch; “just as you please; but you must recollect, if the child frets you into a fever, the blame will be laid at my door. Oh, just as you please, of course, you are mistress of the house; but I always likes to see ladies a little reasonable;” and Mrs. Smith went into the entry and told Bridget to bring up Katy to see her mamma.

Now Katy was, on the whole, a good little girl, as good as she could be, with all the pains and aches and ails she had; she was very affectionate too, and loved her papa and mamma very very dearly, and believed every thing they told her, and they had patience with her faults, believing that when her health was better she would be less fretful. That was why her mamma was troubled at what the nurse had said to her little grieved sorrowful daughter; and that was why, though she felt very sick, she sent for her to try and make her feel happy. Oh, you never will know, any of you, until you have little children of your own, how strong a mother’s love is.

Well, little Katy crept into her mother’s room, and sidled up to the bed, with an eye on the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, as if she feared every moment that she would snatch her up, before she could get to her mother’s bedside.

Katy’s mother put out her pale hand and took hold of her little daughter’s trembling fingers. Katy was trying to choke down the tears, but one of them fell upon her mother’s hand. Then Katy’s mother told her to climb upon a chair and get carefully on the bed.

Katy did not look at Mrs. Smith, though she heard her mutter something, but scrambled upon the bed as her mother told her.

“Katy, look here,” and her mamma unrolled the soft folds of a little fleecy blanket, and there lay a little baby, so little, so cunning, with such a funny little fuzz all over its head, and such little pink bits of fingers.

“Katy, I want you to help me take care of this little brother; I am sick, and can not wait upon him, and I want you to hand me his little blankets, and frocks, and shoes, and caps; and I want you to pat him with your little soft hand when he cries. See, he is no bigger than your big doll; and by-and-by, when he is a little older, you shall sit in your little rocking-chair, and rock him and get him to sleep for me; and when he gets fast asleep, you and I will put him in the cradle, and tuck him all up nice and warm, and you shall sit by him and sing him the little song papa taught you. He is your little live doll, and can open and shut his eyes—see there!”

“Yes, I see,” said Katy, in a soft whisper, and the ugly frown all went away from her pretty white forehead. “I see. Has he got any toes?”

Then Katy’s mother showed Katy the little bits of pink toes all curled up in a heap on his funny little foot. And then Katy’s mother said, that her head ached so badly, she must try to sleep, but that she wanted Katy to sit in the chair beside the bed, very still, and take care of the little baby, while she slept; and Katy looked quite pleased, and said she would. So every time the little baby breathed hard, Katy would pat the quilt with her forefinger, but she never spoke a word any more than a little mouse. And all that day she staid in her mamma’s room and did exactly as she told her; and when her papa came home, she went down stairs with him, and drank some “real tea” out of his saucer, and put a piece of butter on his plate, because she said she promised to help mamma while she was sick; and then her papa undressed her and put her to sleep in his bed; but after she had said, “Now I lay me” and “Our Father,” her little lip quivered, and looking up in her papa’s face, she said, “Are you sure my mamma can love little brother and me too?” and when her papa said, “Yes, I am sure,” she believed him, because she knew he never told her wrong, and then she laid her head quietly down to sleep.

I could not tell, when a great many weeks had gone by, how she learned to love her little brother, how dearly she loved to help wash him and dress him, and smooth his soft silky hair; how patiently she picked up his playthings when he grew bigger, and gave him all her own too; and how pretty she looked as she sat in her little chair, holding him and peeping into his bright blue eyes. Oh Katy’s mamma knew better about her own little girl than the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, did. She knew how badly a little child’s heart may sometimes ache, and how a few kind words, said at the right time, may cure it and make it happy.

Love your mother, little ones.

OUR NEW DOG DASH.

Dash! go away! how do you suppose I can write when you are jumping at my elbow, playing with my robe-tassels, and cutting up such antics, as you have been this last half hour? I know it is a pleasant morning, as well as you do; I should like a ramble as well as you would; but business is business, Dash, and neither you nor those great fleecy-white clouds, sailing so lazily over the blue sky; neither the twitting birds, nor the sweet soft air, every breath of which makes my blood leap; neither the fresh green grass, nor the pretty morning-glories which have opened their blue eyes under my window, can get me out of this chair till my work is done. So, go away, Dash; you need not sniff, and bark, and jump up on the window-sill that way; you don’t know me, or you would know that, in my dictionary, won’t means won’t. Beside, what is to hinder you from going out by yourself, I’d like to know? Dog-days are over, no policeman or covetous boy, in want of half a dollar, will knock you on the head. Why not go out by yourself till I get ready to come, if you are in such a mortal hurry? What are you afraid of? That solemn flock of geese? those hens and roosters? or that great Newfoundland dog, who looks big enough to swallow you at a mouthful? or that steady old brown cow? A pretty fellow you are to be afraid! you who fell upon poor puss, shook her, and chased her up-stairs and down, and in my lady’s chamber, till her back had a hump as big as any camel’s, and her eyes looked like two great emeralds; oh, you blustering little coward! Suppose that great Newfoundland dog should serve you in that fashion! That’s why you are afraid to go out of doors without me, sir, is it? Ah ha!—none of us so big but we can find our match, let me tell you. Remember that, next time you shake a poor harmless pussy, because you were jealous of a saucer of milk I gave her. Let me tell you, sir, ladies first, after that the gentlemen. Where were you brought up, I would like to know, that you have not learned that? Let me see you ruffle one hair of my little Maltese pussy, sir, and I will—no I won’t, for here comes my husband, your master. I like to have forgotten what I told you just now, that none of us are so big but we can find our match. Never fear, Dash, I won’t touch you; for I’ve found mine.

FUN AND FOLLY;
A STORY FOR THOUGHTLESS BOYS.

Halloo! there’s old John coming down the street, top of a load of straw, in that crazy old cart, with that old skeleton of a horse. Gemini! what a turn out, isn’t it Bob? what fun it would be to step up behind the cart, and set that straw on fire with a match; I say, Bob, wouldn’t the old fellow jump down quicker? Let’s do it.

Bob, always ready for “fun,” took a match, and applying it to the dry straw, in an instant set it all of a blaze; then they both ran off, and hid behind a wall to see what would come of it.

Down scrambled old John, head first, and rolled off into the road; the horse feeling the heat, started, and the wheel of the cart passing over old John’s head, left him bleeding and almost lifeless, on the ground.

“Think he’s dead?” whispered Bob with white lips. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, I only wanted a little fun Sam.”

“They’ll put us in jail if they find us,” said Sam, “oh what shall we do; old John will die, he don’t move a bit;” and the naughty boys crept still more closely together behind the wall.

Old John was not dead; only stunned and bleeding; a farmer who came by, seeing him, took him up in his cart, and carried him to the almshouse: and there we will leave him groaning on his small bed, while I tell you his story.

John was once Teller in a bank. Do you know what a teller does? He counts over all the money that is brought into the bank, and gives an account of it to the president of the bank, and the directors. Of course he has to be very careful never to make a mistake in counting; or to mislay even a sixpence; lest the president and the directors of the bank might think he had stolen it. John was very careful and very honest; and all the people who had dealings with him, liked him very much; thousands and thousands of dollars passed through his fingers every day, but he never had a wish to steal a cent; although there were a great many things he could think of, which he wished to buy. At last John got married. His wife was a young girl, named Ellen Norris; she had bright black eyes, rosy lips and two very pretty dimples in her cheeks; John thought he had never seen any thing half so bewitching as those dancing dimples: he was half crazy, when Ellen said yes, to his question, “Will you marry me;” he thought Ellen loved him as well as he loved her, and that they could be as happy together as two robins in one nest. But I am sorry to say, that Ellen did not really love John; she was as poor as she was pretty, and had married him because she supposed he would buy her beautiful dresses, ribbons, and things, to set off her beauty; so after they were married, she kept coaxing for this thing, and coaxing for that, and coaxing for the other; and how could poor John bear to say no, to those two pretty dimples? So he bought one piece of furniture after another, that he knew he could not afford to buy; and silks and satins for Ellen, and hired carriages for her to ride in; and bought every thing which she took it into her foolish head, and selfish heart, to fancy. By-and-by, he found that he had used up all the money which belonged to him; but still Ellen kept coaxing and teazing; and one day when John, for the first time, ventured to say he could not buy something she wanted, Ellen burst into tears, and told John that he did not love her. John could not bear that; so he kissed her, and told her she should have it; but as he went down to the bank, his lips were very white, and there was a strange troubled look in his face, which was never seen there before. That night he put a roll of bills in Ellen’s hand, but long after she was sleeping, dreaming I suppose, of all the fine things money would buy, John might be seen pacing up and down the floor, and now and then striking his forehead with his clenched fist.

Many times after this, Ellen had rolls of bills, and many nights John walked the floor, in the way I have told you.

At last there came a day when Ellen waited for John to come home to dinner—waited—waited—waited—but he did not come. Instead, there came the messenger of the bank, and told her that John was put in jail to be tried for taking money from the bank that was not his. The messenger pitied Ellen, because she was so young, and because he believed her to be a good and loving wife; and he would have rather given a great deal of money, than to have told her such bad news, if he had had it to give. Every body was so astonished when they heard about John; every body had thought him “such a good fellow;” nobody knew how that foolish, selfish woman, had led him on to steal with her dimples and her tears. No—for John never told of it; not even to excuse himself; not even when his heartless wife refused to go and see him in jail; and when she packed up the silks, and ribbons, which had sent John to State Prison, and went off without saying good-by, after she found that he could not buy her any more. Not a word did poor John say against his wife; not a word would he hear any body else say, because she had deserted him in his trouble.

Poor John! he was sentenced to State Prison for several years; the best years of his life; when he was young, strong, and hearty; they shaved off his brown hair, put on the prison dress, and set him to work cutting stone. John made no complaint, he said it was just, that he had deserved his punishment: he did just as he was bid, but the light died out from his fine bright eye, his head drooped upon his breast, and when the day’s toil was over and the officer had locked him up for the long lonely night, into his narrow dark cell, could you have passed in, you would have seen him tossing on his straw bed, and now and then you might have heard him groan, “Oh, Ellen! Ellen!”

When he had staid his time out in prison, the officers took off his prison clothes, and gave him a new suit to go away with. John stood looking at them; the light fell from the window upon the face of the same man, who stood in that spot five years before, to have that prison uniform put on. Oh, how changed. Now his brown hair, was snow-white with sorrow; his eye dim, and his frame bent like an old man of fourscore. John looked at the new clothes they brought him; why should he put them on? where should he go? who on the wide earth would befriend the poor convict?

So poor John went staggering out through the heavy gate, as the warden unlocked it with his huge key, and slouched his hat over his eyes, as if he could not bear that even the sun should see his face, and wandered forth—he knew not whither. At last he came to a little village, and there in the woods, away from the curious gaze, away from the scornful finger, he built him a little cabin of boughs and logs; and now and then he wandered down to the village, and the farmers would give him a basket of potatoes, or a little meat, or corn.

This was the old man whom Bob thought it would be fun to tease; whose straw he set on fire, and who lay mangled and bleeding by the way-side, with none to care for him.

It is a pleasant afternoon, the warm sun shines on the sweet flowers, and the birds sing on, as if grief, and care, and sorrow had never entered this bright and beautiful world of ours. A hearse winds slowly down beneath the waving trees; no carriages follow it, and there are no mourners on foot; only the sexton stands at the grave, waiting to lay old John’s head on its last peaceful pillow. Poor John—death has knocked off his last fetter. He who forgave the thief on the cross, will surely show him mercy.

HISTORY OF A FAMILY OF CATS.

Mrs. Tabby Grimalkin, a highly respectable gray cat, had lived for several years with a maiden lady by the name of Stevens, in whose house she had lately reared five interesting young Grimalkins, of various sorts and sizes.

She was a most watchful and affectionate mother, and had endeavored, to the best of her ability, to bring up her kittens in the manner best approved by all sensible and well-bred cats.

They were allowed to remain with their mother, until the critical period of weaning was past, when Miss Stevens declared one day, in Mrs. Grimalkin’s hearing, that such a scampering round her kitchen was not to be endured, and that she intended the next day to distribute them round the neighborhood among her friends.

This was sad news for their mother, as you may suppose; but after turning it over in her mind several times, she concluded it was better than having them strangled or drowned, and forthwith began to give them advice as to their conduct when away from her.

They all set up a piteous mewing at their hard fate, but with one shake of her paw she shut up their mouths and went on with her speech. She especially forbade their associating promiscuously with all the cats in the neighborhood, or attending any moonlight concerts without her leave. She told them any time when they needed exercise, they could call for each other, and come down to the maternal wood-shed, when she would be most happy to see them; and she would occasionally, when mousing was scarce, and there was nothing going on, return their call.

So Muff, and Jet, and Brindle, and Tabby, and Spot lay down by their mother’s side for the last time, and purred themselves to sleep; as for their mother, she wandered up and down the yard half the night, in a very unquiet frame of mind, occasionally returning, to look at her kittens, who lay cuddled up in a bunch in blissful unconsciousness.

About a month after this, I was one day passing through the yard, and who should I spy but Mrs. Grimalkin, surrounded by her family, the happiest cat in all Pussdom. I stepped softly behind the door, determined for once to play eaves-dropper, and hear what was going on.

Muff “had the floor,” and was giving her mother an account of the treatment she met in the family she lived with. She said there were four ungovernable children, who amused themselves when out of school in trying to see whether her tail and ears were really fastened on tight or not. Then they had stroked her back the wrong way, till every hair stood up, as if it was frightened; had shut her up in a shower-bath, and turned water on her till she had fits, and never found her comfortably snoozing in a warm corner, that they did not rouse her up to make her run round after a ball, till she was as crazy as a fly in a drum. In short, mother, said she, I’ve heard people say such a one “leads a dog’s life of it.” I say, let them try a cat’s life once.

As soon as she had finished, up jumped her brother Jet. He was as black as a little negro, with the exception of four little milk-white paws; he had little shining black eyes, and whiskers as trim as any modern dandy’s. He had no such misfortune to relate, not he. He slept on a rug, in the corner of his mistress’s parlor, and had a nice chicken-bone to pick, and a saucer of milk to drink, when he wanted it. His mistress was an old lady, and she had such nice little parties to tea, and they all made a pet of him, and it was so amusing to lie curled up on the rug, and hear them talk over all the gossip of the village. So, with a very complacent look, as if he had quite fulfilled his destiny, he trimmed his whiskers, and sat down on his hind paws, to hear what his sister Brindle had to say.

Poor Brindle was very bashful, and it was a long time before she could speak at all. She looked thin and bony, as if the world in general, and her mistress in particular, had snubbed her; indeed she acknowledged that she was half starved, and beaten every day beside, for stealing food enough to keep her bones together. Here she was seized with a horrid fit of coughing, which so distressed her mother, that she forbade her talking any more, and told her to stay and spend the night with her, and she would give her some supper, and some catnip, to cure her cough.

It was now Spot’s turn. She said she had her story all “cut and dried,” but really she had been so shocked at the idea that Brindle had been stealing, that she thought it was a chance if she could recollect any of it. She said, for her part, she should be ashamed to have any cat in the neighborhood know that she was related to her. Here her mother sprang at her and gave her a box on the ear; and told her, that her grandmother, Mrs. Mouser, who was as correct a cat as ever mewed, brought her (Mrs. Grimalkin) up, to find her living when and where she could, and that every cat that had been born since Adam’s cat (if he had any), had done the same, and she never could find out that they were expected to do any differently. Spot looked a little ashamed, for in fact she had taken many a sly nibble herself, and her mother knew it.

Just then she seemed to be looking at the opposite corner of the wood-shed; her mother’s eyes following the direction of hers, espied a strange cat looking very intently at Spot. Mrs. Grimalkin walked up to him, and with a scratch gave him to understand that his room was better than his company; and though he protested he had only come in a quiet way, to wait upon Miss Spot home, another scratch from her mother settled the matter without any useless words.

As soon as quiet was restored, little Tabby jumped up, in a state of great excitement, and said, she had that day caught her first mouse, which she brought forward and laid as a trophy at her mother’s feet. Tabby evidently had not recovered from the excitement of the capture, for her little eyes snapped, like two fire coals, and she kept moving her tongue about her mouth, as if she just longed to eat him up herself. She told her mother, it made her feel bad when he first began to squeal, and she was so little, she thought it rather doubtful, at first, whether the mouse would eat her, or she should eat the mouse; and as for squealing, she concluded, there must be a first time for every thing, and she had got to get used to that.

It was getting late, and Mrs. Grimalkin rose, and put it to vote, who should have the mouse for supper, and without a dissenting voice, even from Spot, it was unanimously awarded to poor starved Brindle. So bidding her and their mother good-night, the rest walked home by the light of the moon, Spot occasionally looking round, to see if she could see any thing of her discarded lover.

For my own part, I came out of my hiding-place deeply interested in the welfare of Mrs. Grimalkin’s family, and fully determined that I would treat my kitty kindly, and feed her so well that she should never complain.

THE POOR-RICH CHILD.

“I never saw such a little torment as that child, never; he’s just the mischievousest little monkey that ever was made; nothing in the house will stand before him. I wish his mother would take a little care of him, and make him behave. I should like to whip him an hour without stopping. I do believe he is the worst boy who ever lived.”

No—Eddy was not the worst boy who ever lived; I am sure he does not look like it. He hears what Betty says, about wanting “to whip him an hour without stopping:” but he does not pout, or kick out his foot, or throw his ball after her; he picks up a bit of string, and begins to play horse with a chair, as good-humoredly as if Betty had said he was the best boy in the world. No—Eddy was not a bad boy; but, like a great many other children who did not deserve it, he got that name. I will tell you about it. Eddy’s mother did not like the care of children; she liked to go shopping, and buy handsome dresses, and spend a great deal of time in talking with dressmakers about trimming them; and after she got them finished, she liked to sit down in her handsome parlors, and fold her white hands, and admire herself, till somebody or other called to admire her; or else she liked to walk out in the street, and hear people say—“Splendid! beautiful! what taste Mrs. Van Wyck always shows in her dress!” Then she was happy! that repaid her for all the pains she had taken to make a doll of herself; but when she came home, and her little boy, whom perhaps she had not seen before that day, ran into the hall and said, “Mamma!” Mrs. Van Wyck caught her beautiful dress quickly up in her hand, and said, “Martha! do take that child away; I am sure he will ruin my dress.” Then Martha would take Eddy up into the nursery, and shut the door, and call him a little plague; and Eddy would stand at the nursery window, and look out into the neighbors’ yards; and see, for the hundredth time, a long row of wooden sheds, with clothes dangling on the lines, and a long row of tall brick houses and tall brick chimneys; and then he would turn away and take up his top, and then his cart, and then his marbles; and then he would look at Betty, who had thrown herself down on the bed to read a novel; and then Eddy would say, timidly, “Betty?” and Betty would answer, “Be quiet, can’t you?” and then Eddy would wander round the small, hot nursery again; and then he would say, “Betty, won’t you please take me out to walk? I am so tired and hot, Betty;” and Betty would say, “No, there’s no need of your walking; go draw your cart, and let me alone; what a plague you are!” and then Eddy would pick up a pair of scissors on the floor, and seeing a piece of white cloth lying on the table, he would begin to cut it—because the poor tired child didn’t know what else to do; and by-and-by Betty would get through with her novel, and the first thing Eddy knew she would shake him half out of his jacket, and scream out, “You little torment! you have cut my night-cap into inch pieces;” and when Eddy said, “I did not know that piece of cloth was a night-cap, Betty,” she would say, “Don’t you tell me that, you little fibber; you did it on purpose, I know you did.”

After a while Eddy’s father would come home, and Eddy would run out in the hall, and say, “Papa, here’s Eddy;” and his father would say, “So I see, and I suppose you want a top or a ball, don’t you?” and Eddy would say, “No, I want you, papa;” and then his father would say, “Not now, Eddy, by-and-by.” But “by-and-by” never came to poor Eddy, for his father was a very long time eating dinner, and then came wine, and then came cigars, and then came company; and Eddy was hurried off to bed, only to begin another day just like it, on the morrow. You see how it was; he was an active little fellow; he could not keep still; nobody talked to him, they gave him nothing to do; and when he got into what they called “mischief,” then they said he was a bad boy. Oh how many such little suffering, rich people’s children I have seen; a thousand times more to be pitied than the children of poor parents.

One night Eddy awoke and said, “Betty!” Betty wanted to sleep, so she pretended she did not hear him; Eddy tossed about his little bed, a while longer; and then his throat felt so bad he said again, “Betty!” but Betty never spoke, and it was all dark; so little patient Eddy lay back again on his pillow—lay there all night without any one to take care of him. In the morning, Betty roused up and said, “Get up, Eddy;” but Eddy did not move; then Betty went to his little bed, and shook his arm; then she peeped into his face; she had never seen Eddy look that way before. Every body in the house now came to look at Eddy; then the doctor came and looked at him; but death had stepped in before him; that poor little throat was filling, filling; the doctor could do nothing. He said Eddy died of croup. You and I know he was murdered. Died as hundreds of children die every year, of wicked neglect. Oh, there is room for children in Heaven; they are never “in the way” there—that’s one comfort.

THE HOD-CARRIER.