LITTLE WIDE-AWAKE
A Story Book for Little Children
BY
MRS. SALE BARKER
WITH FOUR HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON AND NEW YORK
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
1877
SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:
ROSIE.
Rosie is the name of the little girl whose picture you see on the first page, with a snowball in her hands. Of course her name is Rosa really, but somehow we always call her Rosie. Has she not a bright, pretty, laughing little face, with her blue eyes, and fair hair? She is a fine strong little maiden into the bargain; a trifle wilful, perhaps, and a good deal of a romp.
Last Christmas I was staying at Cranley Grange—Rosie’s home in the country,—when one morning at breakfast her mamma said to me—“Charlie is coming home to-day; I can’t go to meet him, my cough is so bad. I wonder if you would mind driving down to the station, and taking Rosie and Frank?”
Charlie, who was the eldest son, and a great favourite of mine, was coming home for his Christmas holidays. He was about fourteen years old, while Rosie was only ten, and Frank two years younger.
I said I should be delighted to go, thinking what a pleasant drive it would be with those merry laughing children. Little did I anticipate the trial to my nerves, and the succession of frights, that were in store for me.
We were soon seated in the open wagonette, and off we started. Though I should not say seated, for the children scarcely sat down at all: they kept jumping up, changing places, pushing each other, and playing all sorts of pranks. I was in an agony of fear lest they should tumble out; and during the whole drive, I sat with my arms extended, clutching hold, sometimes of one, sometimes of the other, to save them. This was fright number one.
At last we arrived at the station;—the children still in uproarious spirits, though with cherry noses, as well as rosy cheeks, from the cold. I must tell you that there was snow upon the ground; and as, unluckily, we had ten minutes to wait for the train, they began to amuse themselves by snowballing each other. Frank set the example, and they found it such fun that I scolded, and begged them to be quiet, in vain. At last I observed Rosie standing quite at the end of the platform, where the snow was thicker, and she had collected a large snowball, which she held up in her hands. As I looked at her, and thought what a pretty picture she made, I noticed, in the landscape behind her, a little puff of white smoke. It was the approaching train, at a distance of not more than half a mile. I thought her position, at the extremity of the platform, and just at the edge too, terribly dangerous. And this may be called—fright number two.
I had just opened my lips to call out to her that the train was coming, when a whole handful of snow came dab into my face, filling my mouth and eyes. It was that little rogue Frank, who had crept close up to me, and playfully bestowed upon my face the snow he had been collecting. Recovering from the shock, I looked out again for Rosie. She was no longer in the same place; but, quite beyond the platform, and close upon the rails, I saw her kneeling down in the snow. I screamed with all my might, and a railway porter ran to her, whisked her up in his arms, and brought her safely on to the platform again. This was fright number three; and never, I think, before or since, have I been so much frightened as I was for the moment.
Directly afterwards the train stopped, and Charlie jumped out. When he heard of Rosie’s danger, he scolded her as if he had been a little grandfather, and his words seemed to have much more weight than mine. I now observed that Rosie had a tiny white rabbit in her arms, and she told us that this was what she was picking up out of the snow upon the rails. She thought it was quite excuse enough for herself when she said:—“Only think, Charlie dear, haven’t I saved the life of this pretty little rabbit?”
On the way home, Charlie sat in front and drove, with the coachman beside him; but he contrived now and then to turn his head a little, and keep up his lecture to his brother and sister about their riotous behaviour all the way. Meanwhile I sat quiet, rather humbled at observing how much more respect they showed for the scolding they got from their big brother than for mine. But of one thing I am certain: nothing would ever induce me to take charge of those two lively young people on an expedition of the kind again.
THE ROBIN’S SONG.
The snow’s on the ground,
And the cold’s in the air;
There is nothing to eat,
And the branches are bare:
Tweet, tweet, tweet!
Open the window,
Kind lady, we pray;
Bestow a few crumbs
Upon us to-day:
Tweet, tweet, tweet!
You’ve flannel and furs
To keep yourself warm;
You are not obliged
To be out in the storm:
Tweet, tweet, tweet!
We’ve only our feathers
For bonnet and dress;
We’re cold and we’re hungry,
We freely confess:
Tweet, tweet, tweet!
Then feed us while winter
Spreads snow o’er the plain,
And we’ll sing you our songs
When it’s summer again:
Tweet, tweet, tweet!
PUZZLE-PAGE.
Now here is a puzzle page for you to find out. One object begins with A, one with B, one with C, one with G, one with O, and one with P.
A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH WE MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A NICE LITTLE BOY, AND A PRETTY WOODEN HORSE.
There stood once, in the good old time—that is to say some fifteen years ago, which we may call ages for you, my little readers, who have not yet lost your pretty first teeth;—there stood, then, once, in a delightful valley, between Long-Pont and Savigny, in France, a charming country house, surrounded by a wood, which spread along the bank of a little winding river.
The house of which I speak was called a chateau—that is, a castle—by the peasants of the neighbourhood. To tell the truth, however, it was only a moderate-sized house; but it was kept in excellent order, although a very old building. In spite of its age, therefore, it wore a smiling aspect, like the faces of those amiable and good grandmammas, who smile at your pretty ways, my children.
Let us go in: I wish to make you acquainted with a little companion, whom I hope you will love very much. There he is with his mamma in the drawing-room, where the window, opening to the ground, shows us a garden beyond. At this moment he is repeating a fable to his mother. It is one which teaches that pride is a great fault; that we ought not to assume airs of superiority towards the unhappy and humble, nor endeavour to excite envy in their hearts; and that Providence, moreover, takes upon itself sometimes to punish those who do so. This fable, as you have already guessed perhaps, is called—“The Oak and the Reed.”
THOSE OF MY READERS WHO ARE ACCUSTOMED TO BE DRESSED UP AS SOLDIERS—TURCOS OR ZOUAVES.
My little friend’s attention from the first has been about equally divided between the fable he is repeating and a beautiful wooden horse, which stands fastened by the bridle to a tree in the garden: but before the fable is finished, it is evident that his thoughts are altogether taken up by the horse. It is a pity; because, not attending to the punishment of the oak, he will lose the moral of the fable. But let us not be more severe on him than his mamma, who does not seem much distressed about the matter. Besides, who can keep the thoughts from wandering sometimes, particularly during study?
This little boy’s name is Maurice; a nice soft-sounding name, I think; and he is five and a half years old. I am not going to say, like some mammas I know,—“This is the most beautiful child in the world, and has fair curly hair, great blue eyes, and little rosy lips.” No! In our hearts we—that is, his relations and friends—all considered little Maurice to be Nature’s masterpiece, but I won’t describe his beauty in detail; and only say that he had chestnut hair and an intelligent face.
Those of my young readers who are accustomed to be dressed up as soldiers—Turcos or Zouaves; or, if they are girls, to be clothed in silk and velvet, would no doubt like to know how my little friend was dressed. Well then, his mamma did not let him wear such fine clothes as would interfere with his exercise or his games. Perhaps some of my elegantly dressed little readers would not care to play with him when they hear that he wore neither velvet nor fur, nor even a feather in his cap; but had simply a jacket and trowsers, made of linen in summer, and of warm cloth in winter. For all that, however, he was a good little boy, and well brought up.
Directly he had repeated the last verse of the fable—which he did without thinking at all of its meaning—Maurice bounded off from the drawing-room into the garden. In a moment he had unfastened the horse, and placing his foot in the stirrup, had sprung on its back. Then he called out: “Gee-up, Cressida! gee-up, my friend!”
Cressida, after shaking its head and flowing mane, started off at a gallop, putting out its legs in the most graceful way imaginable. Because I have said that Cressida was a wooden horse, you picture it to yourselves perhaps as resembling other wooden horses that you have seen,—pretty toy horses, no doubt: but either they have been only rocking-horses, or they have just moved a little means of some mechanism which does not produce the real action of a horse. Cressida was like none of these; but lifted up its legs one after the other with the grace and elegance of a thoroughbred English horse.
Yes, certainly, for a horse made of wood, it was very wonderful. It had a curving neck, a long black tail. The muscles were marked, as you see in well-bred horses; the chest was powerful, the head small, the ears delicate, the eyes full of fire, and the skin was soft and glossy. Add to all this that every time you stroked Cressida on the neck it neighed joyously, and it obeyed the bridle like the most docile Arab horse.
It had many other precious qualities; but were I to tell you all, this book would not contain the description: I should be obliged to make a second volume. I will only add, therefore, that this wonderful horse could remain without food or drink for any length of time that circumstances might render convenient.
Unfortunately I can give no precise details concerning the birth, education, or infantine peculiarities of Cressida. It would even be impossible to learn them now; for the only person who knew anything about them—the old man who gave the horse to my little friend—is no longer alive. We know very little even of this old man himself. He was a native of Nuremberg, an ancient city of Germany, where it is supposed that clocks were first invented. It seems that in his own country, Fritz—for that was the only name we knew him by—had been considered an extraordinary mechanician; and he was driven away from Nuremberg through the jealousy and enmity of a rich and powerful Burgomaster of the city, who had a turn for mechanical inventions himself.
The invention upon which this Burgomaster most prided himself, was an automaton, or wooden figure, of a woman, which walked, and smirked, and smiled, like a real lady; but he could not make her speak. Fritz, who was then young, devoted himself to a similar work; and made a figure representing a young peasant-girl, who could say, “Good morning,” and inquire after your health; and, if you took her by the hand, would look down with admirable modesty and grace. The success of Fritz gave great offence to the Burgomaster; and there grew up between the two, first a rivalry, then an enmity, which at last caused Fritz to leave the city.
When little Maurice first knew him, Fritz could hardly have been less than seventy-five years old: he was so old that his hair was quite white, his head shook a little, and he only walked by the help of a stick. He lived as if he was very poor, in a small cottage near the house of Maurice’s parents. Whenever Maurice saw him, the little boy always wished him good morning, and stopped to talk to him. Fritz was very much pleased with these attentions, and began to feel a strong affection for the child; who was not slow to return it.
The child’s instinct told him that Fritz was good and unfortunate, deserving to be loved and pitied. And indeed he did deserve pity. In the decline of his life, not only did he live in poverty, but the peasants of the village he had chosen for his retreat, hurt perhaps by the coldness and reserve of his manners, used to laugh at him, and sometimes insult him. The boys of the place, generally mischievous and badly brought up, would run after him, and mimicking his German accent, inquire whether he had a cold in his head that he was obliged to speak through his nose.
HE SHOWED MAURICE HOW TO SIT THE HORSE FIRMLY AND GRACEFULLY.
One summer evening, when Maurice and his parents were in the garden, enjoying the freshness of the air and the perfume of the flowers, they heard the bell ring at the gate, and presently Fritz came up to them, leading by the bridle a pretty little black horse. In few words the old man explained the motive of his visit. He wished, before leaving the world, to make Maurice a present of the wooden horse which he had brought with him.
“A wooden horse!” they all exclaimed, for they had mistaken Cressida for a real live pony.
“It is not a being created by God,” said Fritz, “but only a thing made of wood. By some mechanism, which I will not explain to you, it is endowed with the action and movements of a real horse. Cressida is what I possess most precious in the world, and I have made up my mind to part with it only because I love your little son, and know he deserves to possess an object which I care more for than I do for the few days of life that remain to me.”
Then he explained to Maurice how to manage the horse; how to make it move, and to guide it. He took the little hand of the child and placed it softly on the pony’s neck, which immediately neighed as if with pleasure. He showed Maurice how to sit the horse firmly and gracefully; and when the little boy, who was very intelligent, understood all this, Fritz told him he might start off. The child had only to press his knees hard against the sides of Cressida, and off it went at a gallop. The rider’s heart beat quickly, but he kept his seat, and guiding the pony back again, pulled up at the spot he had started from.
Maurice’s father and mother were lost in amazement; they did not know how to show their gratitude, for Fritz was not a man to offer money to. They begged him to leave his cottage and come and live with them. Fritz thanked them, but said that he intended in a few days to leave the village to go to Nuremberg, and that at his age he could hardly calculate upon returning. He was going to see for the last time his niece and her three little children, who were the only relations that remained to him. This niece’s husband had gone to America a year ago, to settle there: he had been successful, and the wife and children would follow him soon. Fritz said that before he died he was going to see them once again.
On taking leave, Fritz asked Maurice to give him a promise that he would never sell, or part with, Cressida. “Unless, indeed,” he added, “it should be for the sake of helping somebody in great distress.”
Maurice had a stable arranged for Cressida in the house, and acted as groom himself. He rose every morning at six o’clock, and went to clean and rub down his little horse, which always stood quiet the time.
And now it occurs to me, my little readers, that you would probably like to know the name of Maurice’s father and mother, which I have not yet told you. The father’s name was Felix de Roisel, and the mother was called Julie. She was very pretty and very gentle: as gentle and pretty a mamma as you have ever seen. Still she could be severe if it was really necessary: but this was not often with so good a child as my little friend.
(To be continued.)
WHAT NEWS?
“What’s the news of the day,
Good neighbour, I pray?”
“They say the balloon
Has gone up to the moon.”
“O-oh!”
WINTER.
Outside, the meadows are covered with snow;
Fluffity, fluffity, fluff.
All round the cottage the winds roughly blow;
Puffity, puffity, puff
Inside, the cottagers pleasantly talk:
Chatterty, chatterty, chat.
They talk of the time when baby will walk;
Patterty, patterty, pat.
CATS.
Well, my little friends, I think I need hardly describe this animal to you; for there is scarcely a home in England, rich or poor, which is without a pussy.
How the children all love the little kitten, the nursery pet, with its pretty playful ways and graceful movements! But kitty grows up too soon into the sedate old mother-cat, like the one we see in the picture holding the poor little mouse in her mouth. Ah! that to me is a terrible drawback to Pussy,—that love of killing.
I am so fond of cats that this year I went to the Crystal Palace Cat Show, where I saw some beauties: among others a tortoiseshell Tom, which is said to be a great rarity. Hundreds of cats, large and small, long-haired and short-haired, long-tailed and tailless, cats of every colour known to catdom, filled the cages, which were arranged in long rows. And I must say they bore their imprisonment with wonderful patience. For three days they had been shut up in those wire houses, like birds: and some of the cages housed a whole family. One, I remember, contained a mamma and her six children; the latter small, but very rampageous. I pitied this poor mother with all my heart: how her patience must have been tried during those three dreadful days!
Though we may not like to see cats kill small animals, Puss is often valued in proportion as she can rid the house of rats and mice. So it is, I suspect, with the cat in the picture. She is evidently owned by a carpenter, who perhaps found his workshop infested by rats and mice till he possessed this handsome tabby. She will soon rid him of them, I think: and see how she is teaching her kittens to follow her example!
But in spite of their natural instinct to destroy mice and birds, cats may be easily taught to live in friendship with these very creatures; and I will tell you a story of a pet cat which, I think, will amuse you better than hearing about the poor little mice being killed.
A lady that I know had a fine tabby cat, and also a very beautiful canary. The cat’s name was Bijou; the canary’s—Cherry. Now Bijou had been brought up from kittenhood with Cherry: that is, he had been accustomed to sit on the rug beside the fire, while Cherry sang in his cage on the table, or hanging at the window. Bijou always behaved perfectly well, and never attempted to molest Cherry.
The mistress of these two pets used to let the canary fly about sometimes in her bedroom, but she never had quite confidence enough in Bijou to do this while he was there. One day in summer the window of the bedroom happened to be open at the top without her noticing it, and the canary, after flying about the room a little while, passed out of the window. It flew round and about, from tree to tree, seeming to enjoy its liberty very much.
The lady feared she had lost it for ever, but she brought out the cage and placed it upon the lawn, thinking there was just a chance that the canary might come back to its old home of its own accord. As she stood at the window watching, she presently saw the bird alight on the lawn. A moment afterwards she saw Bijou, who had been crouching in a bed of flowers, spring out, pounce upon the little creature, and seize it in his mouth.
Then, to the lady’s astonishment, who expected to see the bird devoured, Bijou trotted with it up to the cage, and deposited the truant safely inside again. Cherry was dreadfully frightened, but not at all hurt, and after shaking its rumpled feathers into their places, sat on its perch as happy as ever.
PETER’S RAVEN.
Peter was a little boy who was very fond of birds and animals. He had a raven which he taught to do all manner of tricks. Trusty Tim—that was the raven’s name—would fetch and carry like a dog, and would call upstairs to his master when anyone came to the cottage door, like a housedog barking. He would also help his master to pull off his boots, by taking the toe in his beak and giving it a tug.
Like other clever people, however, Trusty Tim sometimes made a mistake. One day Peter’s little brother, Johnny, put out his foot to see if the raven would do the same for him. Unluckily there was a tiny hole at the toe of the boot, and Trusty Tim could not resist the temptation of pecking at the hole, and taking a little bit of Johnny’s toe. And didn’t Johnny scream!
NURSERY RHYME.
There was a monkey climbed up a tree;
When he fell down, then down fell he.
There was a crow sat on a stone;
When he was gone, then there was none.
There was an old wife did eat an apple;
When she ate two, she had ate a couple.
There was a horse going to the mill;
When he went on, he didn’t stand still.
There was a butcher cut his thumb;
When it did bleed, then blood it did run.
There was a jockey ran a race;
When he ran fast, he ran apace.
There was a cobbler clouting shoon;
When they were mended, then they were done.
There was a navy went into Spain;
When it returned it came back again.
OTTO IN THE WATER-BOTTLE.
A FAIRY STORY.
It had been such a day! The flakes of snow had been falling, falling like feathers on the pavement all day long. It was now dark, and little Otto stood at the dining-room window, watching them still falling in the light of the lamps outside. Otto is a handsome boy of about seven years old. It is New Year’s Eve; and he is going to a party this evening. Bertha, his sister, is being dressed for it at the present time, but he had been so noisy and troublesome, up in the nursery, while the ceremony of her dressing was going on, that he was sent downstairs to wait till his turn came.
Otto had been to a good many parties, and to two pantomimes this winter; still he was not at all tired of either parties or pantomimes; on the contrary, the more he went to the more he seemed to like them. But it was only at Christmas Otto was so gay; for did he not do lessons all the rest of the year with his sister’s governess? Miss Wigly was very strict, and thought children were much better without many holidays;—“particularly little boys,” she said. But perhaps that was because she was so anxious to get Otto well forward before he went to school.
For the last ten minutes he had been staring at the snow outside the dining-room windows, then he turned round and looked at the things in the room. A bright fire blazed on the hearth, the cloth was already laid for the dinner of the older members of the family, and by the side of the fire stood a comfortable easy chair, which papa generally sat in as soon as he had done his dinner.
Otto seated himself in this chair, and began to look at a bottle of water, which stood at the corner of the table nearest to him. His attention was attracted by the odd way in which things were reflected in the water. How minute the reflections were, and how they all curved, so as to make the room look round, as if seen in a mirror! He observed, too, his own little face, sometimes lengthened, sometimes widened, according to the part of the bottle he saw it in. These observations did not prevent him from thinking at the same time what a comfortable easy chair he was sitting in, and what a nice warm fire it was.
How long he had been reflecting upon all these things he never knew, when he observed, to his surprise, that the bottle was growing bigger; and, in another moment, instead of looking at it from the outside, he found himself inside it, looking at the objects beyond. And these were all changed. There was no water in the bottle now, but the water was outside, and the bottle itself was floating upon a river. The river seemed to wind along between mountains, and had beautiful buildings and trees upon its banks. A boat, rowed by two queer little men, was fastened by a chain to the bottle; and, as they rowed, the bottle was towed along. Gold and silver fish were playing about in the water; tiny children with wings were sporting in the air. The bottle inside was fitted up like an elegant drawing-room; and—most wonderful of all!—a beautiful fairy reclined on a sofa in the midst of it.
Otto knew she was a fairy, because she was just like those he had seen at the play, dressed all in gold and silver tissue, and sparkling with jewels. Besides, although she looked grown-up, she was not bigger than Otto himself. She spoke to him also in the beautiful language used in plays:—
“Mortal child,” she said, “thou lovest well to join in the festivities of other mortals,—what sayest thou now to making one in a fairy revel?”
“A fairy party, do you mean, ma’am?” asked Otto. “It would be awfully jolly, I should think.”
“Come, then, with me,” said the fairy, rising from her sofa.
As she did so, it occurred to Otto that they would wonder what had become of him at home. He hesitated, and said,—
“Could I go back home for a minute first, if you please, ma’am, to let them know where I am? And I think my sister, Bertha, would like very much to come too, if she might.”
“Mortal boy, dost fear to trust thyself with us?” exclaimed the fairy, indignantly.
Otto felt he had offended her, but before he could reply, she had disappeared. For a moment everything seemed confused: “Just like a change of scene in a pantomime,” thought Otto to himself. Afterwards, instead of floating along upon the river, he found himself sitting upon its bank, while a very large moon rose over the water. Bertha was sitting by his side, and two lovely fairies stood by them, but not the same fairy as before. In front of him, standing up in the water, was a very shabby, damp-looking, white-bearded old man. Otto was puzzled to account for him at first, then he recollected to have seen a picture somewhere of old Father Thames, and he assumed that this old man must be the river-god. There were also some little naked fairies hovering about him, “And those,” thought Otto, “must be little streams that run into the river.” Besides all these, there was a large tortoise or turtle close to Otto, which crept up, and stared him in the face.
The old man, addressing Bertha and Otto, said,—“Tell me, children, what is your wish?”
Before Otto could put in a word, Bertha exclaimed,—“I want to go to the fairy revel.”
“Why, she seems to know all about it!” thought Otto, very much surprised. The words—fairy revel—uttered by Bertha, were repeated by voices in the air, on the earth, among the reeds, in the water, everywhere. Gradually the sounds died away in the distance, and as they did so, Otto discovered that he was alone.
“Why, they have all gone off to the fairy ball, and left me behind,” said Otto, aloud to himself. “How shall I ever get there now?”
“Jump on my back,” cried a voice from the grass. It was the tortoise: and Otto observed that it had a kind of side-saddle on its back, and a bridle in its mouth.
“Can you go fast?” said Otto, doubtingly.
“Try me!” briefly replied Mr. Tortoise.
Otto did so, seating himself as he thought a lady-fairy might do. Rather to his own surprise, he felt no alarm when the creature rose up from the earth, and bore him rushing through the air. He seemed to be rapidly approaching the moon, when suddenly a harsh voice sounded in his ears:—“Why, you’re not dressed.” He looked at himself, and perceived, to his dismay, that he had on his nightgown. “How stupid of me,” thought he; “why, I must have jumped out of bed, and come off, without dressing. What shall I do at the fairy ball?”
Again the same great voice cried,—“You’re not dressed,” and the words were followed by a merry peal of laughter. Otto looked at himself again, and now all was changed: he had on his usual little jacket, his nickerbockers, warm stockings, and shoes. He was in his father’s easy chair, and the water-bottle was on the table before him. Bertha stood there, dressed for her party, laughing with all her might; while Mrs. Crump the nurse looked very cross.
“Oh, nurse, why did you wake me? I was on my way to the fairies’ ball.”
“Fairies’ fiddlestick!” rejoined Mrs. Crump. “Come and get dressed directly.”
“Oh, Bertha, Bertha, I have had such a wonderful dream; just like being at the play. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Well, never mind now,” replied Bertha, snubbing him with all the importance of a sister three or four years his senior. “Make haste and dress, or we shan’t go to Aunt Julia’s ball, which I care more about.”
CHRISTMAS-TIME.
Tis Christmas time!—the joyous time,
When, loud from belfry towers, the chime
Of merry bells, so glad and gay,
Proclaim the holy Christmas-day.
The church is decked with holly bright,
Each face is beaming with delight,
And mourners put their grief away
Upon the joyful Christmas-day.
’Tis Christmas-day, that brings to each
Something to learn, something to teach;
Something to do, if understood:
All have their mission here for good.
Good will to man and peace on earth:
Rejoice with pure and guileless mirth,
And highest praises to Him pay,
Through whom we have our Christmas-day.
Give with free hand, our choicest store
To all who need, to old and poor;
With friends rejoice, with children play,
Make happy all our Christmas-day.
Nor let the common thought appear,
That Christmas comes but once a year;
And till next year has passed away,
Let it be ever Christmas-day.
MAMMA’S SUNDAY TALK.
MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR.
WATER TURNED INTO WINE.
Now, darling children, come round me while we have a little talk fit for Sundays. You remember that during the past year I gave you some account of our Saviour’s teaching, and of the principal events of His life. Now I shall tell you about some of the miracles He performed.
The word “Miracle” signifies simply—wonder: but there may, of course, be many wonderful events which are not miracles. As the word is used, a miracle means strictly an act by which the laws of nature are set aside: and though the wisest of us do not understand all nature’s laws, we should be able, I think, generally to distinguish what was really a miracle from what was merely wonderful. For instance, if a doctor were to cure a blind man by anointing his eyes, we might think it wonderful, but should conclude that he had discovered a cure for that kind of blindness. If the physician, however, were to give sight to the blind man by merely commanding him to see, we might then pronounce the cure a miracle.
The Jews expected that all who claimed to be prophets should perform some miracle to prove that they were divinely inspired; as did Moses, Elijah, Elisha, and several of the prophets. When the divine promise was given to Moses and others, that a great prophet should be raised up for the people of Israel, it was foretold that this prophet should be known by the greatness and variety of the miracles which he performed.
By such signs he was to be distinguished from all pretenders, and Isaiah says:—“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened; and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing.”
Our Saviour may be said generally to have had two objects in performing miracles. In most instances, one object was the immediate relief of suffering. But He always had the greater object by His miracles of proving that He was the Christ, whose coming had been foretold to the Jews so long before. The miracles were the signs that He was the Messiah.
The first miracle performed by our Saviour was that of turning water into wine.
We are told by St. John that there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee, and at the feast our Saviour and His mother were present. After a time the servants found that the supply of wine for the guests was running short. One of them told this to the mother of Jesus, and she, going to Him, said:—“They have no wine.”
The miracle which followed is thus related in the words of Scripture:—
“Jesus saith unto them: Fill the water-pots with water. And they filled them to the brim. And He saith unto them: Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it. When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the governor of the feast called the bridegroom, and saith unto him: Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now.”
This was the first miracle that Jesus did: in our next Sunday-talk, my children, I will tell you more of them.
ST. VALENTINE’S DAY
It was the thirteenth of February; to-morrow would be St. Valentine’s day; and the children were as busy as bees preparing valentines. They were as merry, too, as they were busy; all except Annie—little Annie, the delicate one, the pet of the family. While the others were skipping and jumping about as they did up their valentines, and eager and noisy, as it is the nature of children to be, Annie sat on the hearthrug, with her hands clasped round her little knees, staring into the red fire; and her pale face looked quite old and wan from trouble.
I was very hard at work directing the envelopes for the children, while they clamoured and clustered round me; but looking at our dear little girl’s wistful face, I took advantage of a moment’s respite from my work to go and ask her what it was that seemed to trouble her so much.
“Oh, auntie,” she said, as she began to cry, “it is because Jack has taken my darling Tip away from me.”
Tip was a nice little Scotch terrier that belonged to Annie’s cousin, Jack, who had been staying for two or three weeks at Annie’s home during his holidays. Tip had come on the visit with his master, and had gone away with him only that morning. But during those two or three weeks Tip and Annie had become dear friends and play-fellows.
“I had taught him so many pretty tricks,” continued Annie, “and he loved me so: I am sure, auntie dear, he loved me better than Jack.”
“But, darling,” I said, “after all Tip is Jack’s own doggie, and he is very fond of the little creature, you know, so of course he took him away with him. Now, dear, don’t fret any more, but try and be cheerful.”
Annie is a good little girl, and did try her best to be cheerful, I could see. She came to the table, and looked over the valentines with the others; but she had not forgotten her sorrows.
Presently, her little brother Tommy said to her,—“Annie, don’t you hope you’ll get a jolly lot of valentines to-morrow?”
“I don’t care,” sighed Annie, “unless Tip could send me one.”
“What stuff!” remarked Tommy: “Tip can’t send you a valentine, you know.”
“Well, he might bring me one, at any rate,” said Annie, “for I taught him to carry letters.”
Annie’s remark gave me an idea, and I formed a little plan, of which you shall hear the result.
The next morning—St. Valentine’s morning—as the children were at breakfast in the nursery, a scratching was heard at the door; and when it was opened, there appeared in the doorway—what do you suppose now? There was a little doggie, the very likeness of Tip, standing on his hind legs, with a valentine in his mouth. The valentine was addressed to Annie: and when I followed the little terrier into the room, and told her that not only the valentine, but the doggie too was for her—that I gave it to her to be her very own, she was more delighted than I can describe to you.
When I formed this little plan the day before, I had just remembered where a doggie, very like Tip, was for sale. I had bought him that very afternoon, and managed the surprise as you see. Annie very soon grew as fond of Charlie—that was the name of the little dog—as she had ever been of Tip.
THE FAIRY QUEEN.
See what a pretty Fairy Queen!
Such a one is seldom seen:
A little crown of golden hair,
And little robes so clean and fair.
All behind her trumpets blowing;
All before her banners flowing;
A valiant guard upon her right,
With a sword so keen and bright;
And on her left a dame discreet
To answer her with converse sweet;
And a prancing steed before
Her triumphal car to draw.
Surely such a Fairy Queen
Has been very seldom seen:
For guards and dames and steeds appear
Her brothers and her sisters dear.
And there the kind old nurse the while
Looks on with merry jest and smile.
THE SPARROW-HAWK.
This is a picture of a bird called the Sparrow-hawk. It is rather a small kind of hawk, and contents itself with swooping down upon poor little unoffending sparrows, and such small game. Like other birds of prey, it is becoming more scarce every year in England, and being a very wild shy bird, it does not come near people or houses if it can help it. Still, when it is very hungry, or has little hungry bird-children at home in its nest, it becomes very brave and fierce, as you will see by the story I am going to tell you of what happened to me when I was a little girl.
It was, I remember, a very cold morning, and the trees were standing bleak and bare against the sky; the world looked dreary enough, and there were heavy clouds hanging over all. I had come out into the garden to bowl my hoop, when old Tidyman, the gardener, who was sweeping the snow from the paths, and who dearly loved a little chat, said to me,—
“We’ll be having a fine fall, missie, presently: it’s rare and cold surely. The birds is a’most starving: there be a sparrer-hawk a’hoverin over here as seems precious hungry. It have a nesty, I know, in that there holler tree in the park, and as soon as ever them pore little birds you see there trying to peck a bit, comes together, that there sparrer-hawk he comes after them. Looky there!” exclaimed the old man, pointing to a hawk high in the air above our heads, “if he ain’t a’hoverin over us now!”
The poor little dickies, who were pecking away at a few crumbs, which had been thrown out to them in the garden by some kind-hearted maid belonging to the house, seemed suddenly to become conscious of their danger, and flew off with a frightened twittering cry. One only—a very young and very foolhardy little sparrow—remained to take a last peck. The hawk singled out this poor birdie for his prey, and allowing the others to fly away in peace, suddenly swooped down upon the little laggard, fastening his cruel beak in its poor quivering body.
This took place within half-a-dozen yards of the spot where old Tidyman and I stood talking. I was but a child of seven years old, but I hated cruelty, and always longed to help the weak against the strong; so I rushed at the hawk, hoopstick in hand. The little sparrow was already dead; but what do you think the savage hawk did? It turned upon me, and flew at my face. I put my hand up just in time, and had a piece pecked out of one of my fingers instead.
When Tidyman came up, the horrid bird flew off, not forgetting, though, to pick up and carry off the little dead sparrow in triumph. I have no doubt the baby-hawks, in their nest in the hollow tree, greeted him with open mouths, as you see them in the picture, and they were fed not only with the little dead sparrow, but also with a nice piece out of my poor little finger.
A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER II.
A SPOILT CHILD.—JEANNE.—MAURICE MAKES COMPARISONS.
A Sister of Mr. de Roisel was married to a gentleman named Hector de Malassise, and they had an only child, a son, of about the same age as Maurice. They lived in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau, where Mr. de Malassise had an estate. The two families, living so far apart, were accustomed to pay long visits, which generally lasted some weeks, at each others’ houses.
Soon after Fritz had made a present of the wooden horse to Maurice, it was arranged that the family of de Roisel should pay a visit to their relations at Malassise. Now Maurice, to tell the truth, did not look forward with pleasure to this visit; for Eusèbe—that was the name of his cousin—had a very bad temper, and my little friend found it very difficult to get on with him. This boy was thoroughly spoiled, and made everyone about him miserable by his caprices and his tyranny. His papa and mamma did not dare to punish, or even to scold him, for they had got an idea into their heads that, if he was thwarted or contradicted, it might bring on a nervous illness.
A country doctor being one day at the house of Mr. de Malassise, when Eusèbe was teasing his father to give him something he ought not to have, had carelessly said,—“Oh, pray let him have it, or he’ll worry himself into a nervous fever.” The doctor afterwards in vain assured the parents that he had not made the remark at all seriously; he could not remove the impression his words had produced. The parental hearts had taken alarm, and from that day the father and mother were always in fear lest their dear boy should be put out, or anything should make him angry. His wishes became laws for the whole household: at his slightest frown every one about him trembled, as it is said the gods on Mount Olympus trembled at the frown of Jupiter;—and he was a pagan deity who, I assure you, was not wanting in caprices.
A GOAT-CHAISE IN THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES.
While his papa and mamma were waiting in trembling anxiety for this attack of nerves, which never came, Eusèbe, in spite of his bad temper, enjoyed excellent health; and ate, drank, and slept, as well as possible. They were in fact the only things he did do well.
Eusèbe always had beautiful toys, and he delighted in showing them to Maurice with an air of superiority that was humiliating to his little cousin, whose toys were common and cheap. It was only natural that the latter should have some wish to retaliate, and hearing that they were going to Malassise, he thought what a pleasure it would be to take Cressida with him. Eusèbe could not have a toy-horse like that. Mr. de Roisel, however, put a stop to this project; because, as he said, if Eusèbe should take a fancy to the horse, Maurice would be expected to give it up to him; and that would not do at all. Maurice saw that his papa was right.
I need hardly say that Eusèbe always got tired of his toys very soon, and every time Maurice went to stay with him there was a new collection to be seen. On the occasion of this visit, Maurice found that Eusèbe’s favourite plaything for the moment was a goat. Not a goat of wood or pasteboard, such as you children have all possessed perhaps, but a real live one; as much alive as those you may see any day harnessed in goat-chaises in the Champs-Elysées at Paris; only she was prettier than any I have seen there.
The goat was called Jeanne, as I daresay some of my little readers are called, but they need not be ashamed of their namesake. She was a well-behaved, graceful creature, and her long silky coat, which was perfectly white, shone in the sunshine like silver. She had no horns, it is true, but this was scarcely to be regretted, for the most gentle animals are apt sometimes to use their horns against their friends. So Eusèbe had nothing to fear on this account. She wore round her neck a red collar, on which her name was embroidered in letters of gold. Eusèbe would tie a string through this collar, and lead her three or four times a day into a meadow near the house, where she nibbled the grass and flowers.
I cannot describe to you the delight with which Maurice watched Jeanne jumping about, or playing with her two little kids; and all with an ease such as nature alone can give. He could not help making a comparison between her and Cressida. Then he looked into her soft dark eyes, which appeared to express thoughts: Cressida had fine dark eyes too, but somehow they were not the same thing. Jeanne liked to climb on to high banks, and would stand sometimes on the edge of a precipice, stretching out her neck to eat the leaves of some tree: Cressida was strong upon the legs too, and its knees had never been marked by a fall; still it could not have done so much. Out in the fields Jeanne seemed to listen to distant noises, which you scarcely heard; her little ears kept moving about in all directions as if to let no sound escape her: Cressida had also pretty little ears, but somehow the wooden horse never seemed to listen as Jeanne did.
SOON SHE BECAME FAMILIAR WITH MAURICE, AND LET HIM CARESS HER.
Very soon Jeanne became familiar with Maurice, and let him caress her; while, by way of thanking him, she would lick his hands: Cressida had never made such advances as this to its young master. Yet another advantage had Jeanne over the horse: when she had been running, her sides moved up and down; you could see that a heart was beating in her breast: but Cressida’s sides, beautiful and glossy as they were, never heaved after a gallop. Maurice was making these comparisons during a whole day, and in the evening was so occupied with his reflections, that instead of playing at dominoes with Eusèbe, he sat silent by the side of his mamma.
The next morning he talked a great deal in praise of Cressida, but did not cease to caress and play with Jeanne. While he was stroking her, Eusèbe suddenly said to him:—“I am beginning to get tired of Jeanne; if you like, we’ll make an exchange.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maurice.
“You shall give me Cressida; I should like to make his acquaintance very much; and then in exchange I’ll give you this goat, that you think so pretty.”
“No, I cannot give you Cressida.”
“Can’t give me Cressida! why not?”
“I can never part with Cressida.”
“You mean,” rejoined Eusèbe, “that you don’t think Jeanne is worth so much as the horse. Then the fact is that you don’t think her so pretty after all; and you’ve been telling lies in calling her pretty all this time.”
“Telling lies?”
“Yes, you have. She’s ugly in reality; she is; I think she’s frightful now. Oh, you ugly beast, I’ll kill you! There, there, there’s something for you to punish you for being so ugly.”
And he gave the poor goat several cuts on the head with a whip.
“Eusèbe,” cried my little friend, “how can you be so cruel?”
Maurice saw the tears trickling from the eyes of Jeanne, and pointed them out to Eusèbe, who only shrugged his shoulders. He was not in the least ashamed of himself, and added,—
“If you don’t like me to hit her, give me your famous horse in exchange; that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“I cannot, because I’ve promised not to part with it.”
“Oh, you’ve made a promise, have you? What does that matter? Why, I make promises every evening, and break them every morning.”
“What do you say?” exclaimed Maurice.
“Why, of course, every evening mamma says to me, ‘My pretty Eusèbe, my little treasure, promise me now that you won’t put yourself into passions, nor disobey me any more; promise me that, dear, and here are some bonbons for you, and some chocolate à la crème.’ I promise of course, naturally. Afterwards, in the morning, when I want some more, she refuses, because, she says, I ought not to eat them before breakfast; but I put myself into such a terrible passion that she gives me them directly. That’s how it is, you see.”
“You are very wrong to behave in that way,” said Maurice: “but after all, your promises are not made quite seriously.”
“And what are yours, pray?”
“Mine are serious promises, and I keep them.”
“Now, that’s just because you’ve heard that men keep their promises,” replied Eusèbe, “and you want to be like a man. But the truth is, men are like me, I can tell you: they make promises to get what they want, and then they break them again to get what they want. It’s all very fine for them to say to us children—‘Don’t tell lies, be always just, keep your promises!’ Oh, I’m not to be taken in; I know all about it.”
Now, my little readers, I do not say to you that the world is peopled with only honest men: that would be deceiving you. But be assured that those who tell falsehoods are everywhere despised; and when anyone speaks of them, or writes about them, it is in order to show how much they ought to be hated.
“Yes,” added Eusèbe, “you make a fine mistake when you think you are obliged to keep the horse because you made a promise.”
“That’s your opinion, but I know the contrary,” said Maurice. “Don’t let us talk any more about it.”
“Well, you won’t have Jeanne, you know.”
The next day the vintage began in the vineyards of Mr. de Malassise. Eusèbe was so much amused with all the bustle, and the coming and going of so many grape-pickers, that he had no time to think of Jeanne. This lasted three or four days, and the poor beast began to think she was free from her tormentor altogether: but no such luck for her! After that time, Eusèbe, already tired of the vintage, and particularly of the grape-pickers, who would not let him beat them, came back to make a victim of her. Maurice reasoned with him, and tried in vain to soften him.
“Very well then,“ said Eusèbe, “if you pity her so much, take her and give me your horse. Unless you do, she belongs to me, and I can do what I like with her—sell her, beat her, or kill her.”
“But your papa wouldn’t let you.”
“Oh, wouldn’t he indeed! He’d be nicely punished if he interfered.”
“I should like to know how?”
“Why, I’d have a nervous attack directly.”
Maurice was very unhappy. Do what he would to persuade himself to the contrary, he recognised the superiority of Jeanne over Cressida. He would willingly have made the exchange, but that he remembered the solemn way in which Fritz asked him to promise that he would never part with the little horse; and child though he was, he knew he was bound to keep his promise. Still, a struggle was going on in his own mind. He felt drawn towards Jeanne, as it is said little birds are sometimes fascinated and attracted by the gaze of certain snakes. At last he adopted a bold resolution: he went to his father, and said:
“My dear papa, I want to go away from here.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” said his father. “What has happened? Have you quarrelled with Eusèbe?”
“Not exactly,” rejoined Maurice, “I generally give way to him; but now he wants me to give him Cressida in exchange for Jeanne.”
“Who is Jeanne?”
“It is a beautiful white goat, who has two pretty little kids; and Eusèbe beats her because he wants me to take her and give him Cressida; but Fritz told me never to part with the wooden horse. You see, papa, Jeanne is not made of wood; she lives and feels like me, and it’s terrible to see lately how he beats her. You can’t imagine how nice she is; and so grateful to any one who is kind to her. Then to see how she loves her little children!”
“Well, well, if that’s the case we must not leave her with Eusèbe any longer. Tell him I’ll make him—a present of something much more valuable in exchange for her.”
“Oh, but I know he won’t give her for anything but Cressida.”
“Why, he must be a little monster. Don’t be unhappy, my child: tomorrow morning we will leave Malassise, so you shall see no more of his cruelty, at all events.”
Once more at home, Maurice did not long remain unhappy about Jeanne. Do not accuse him of caprice, my little readers; but think how quickly your own impressions pass away or change. It is natural to childhood that it should be so.
(To be continued.)
PUZZLE-PAGE.
Here are six objects in this puzzle for you to find out. One object begins with A, one with B, one with C, one with D, one with F, and one with P.
CHIPPEREE, CHIP.
Allegretto. mf.
1.
I once knew a couple that lived in a wood,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
The summer it came and summer it went,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
And there they lived though they never paid rent,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip.
2.
Their parlour was lined with the softest of wool,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
Their kitchen was warm and their pantry was full,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
And four little babies peeped out at the sky,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
You never saw darlings so pretty and shy,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
3.
When winter came on with its frost and its snow,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
For wrapped in their furs they all lay down to sleep,
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
But oh! in the spring how their bright eyes will peep!
Chipperee, chip, chip, chip!
SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:
STEPHEN.
I was staying down in Kent with some friends of mine, when I made the acquaintance of the little boy whom you see lying on the ground in the picture.
One early spring morning, towards the end of February, I went out for a constitutional—that is, as I daresay you know, a walk for the sake of one’s health. I wandered off down the park into a little wood, or shrubbery, which had a green path winding through it, with arbours or summer-houses placed here and there under the overhanging trees. The wind was very keen, and patches of snow were still upon the ground, though the days were beginning to lengthen, and there were many signs of warmer weather at hand. As I walked along, I noticed now and then a young leaf showing itself above the ground, which told me of the coming primroses; and I could see green shoots, from which bluebells would soon be springing to nod their graceful heads to the passers by.
Walking along briskly, I had nearly reached one of the little arbours, when I observed several children standing in front of it. I knew them well by sight and name: they were the children of the lodge-keeper of the park, and lived close by. There were four of them, and they were all standing staring away, as hard as their eight young eyes could stare, at something inside the arbour. Reaching the spot, I discovered that the object of their curiosity was a poor little lad of about ten years of age, who was lying on the ground with his eyes closed, and his head resting against the seat. He was a fair, curly-headed, pretty boy, but his clothes were very poor and ragged, and his little face was pinched and wan. I soon discovered that he was not asleep, but either benumbed by the cold, or insensible from exhaustion.
A little black and tan terrier, of no great value or beauty, was sitting by his side, seeming to watch him with great anxiety; and I was surprised to see also some toys lying on the ground, but these I found belonged to the lodge-keeper’s children, who had left them in the arbour the day before, and had in fact come that morning to fetch them.
I sent off one of the children to their father to come and carry the boy to the house. The family were just collecting at the breakfast table when I returned from my early walk, bringing this poor little waif in with me. My friends took an interest in him at once, and after he had been well warmed and fed, he recovered sufficiently to tell us his story.
He was a London boy, and had lived there with his mother, who earned a scanty subsistence for them both by needlework. At her death, two or three weeks before, he was left alone in the world. Then he heard the neighbours talk of the workhouse; and having a vague dread of being sent there, he had resolved to go right away into the country. His only companion was this little terrier, which had attached itself to him in the odd way in which stray dogs will sometimes adopt a master. Begging now and then for food at farmhouses and cottage doors, and sleeping at night in sheds or outhouses, he had managed in three days to come about thirty miles from London; but he would have died from exhaustion or cold if I had not found him that morning.
This happened about two years ago, and I call him one of “my little friends,” because I still take the greatest interest in him. The family with whom I was then staying have looked after him ever since. He was sent to lodge at the cottage of a labourer, and goes to the village school, where he is such a good boy and so quick at his lessons, that I have no doubt he will get on well in the world.
THE CRYING BOY.
This was a disagreeable boy,
Who always fell a-crying;
No one could ever please the child,
And so ’twas no use trying.
His great mouth opened very wide,
The tears were ever flowing;
At last he cried himself away,—
And this is well worth knowing.
In case you ever feel inclined
To cry like him, my dears,
Think on this naughty foolish boy
Who melted into tears.
AUNT TOTTY’S PETS:
MOKO.
Aunt Totty is an old maid—I need not say how old,—and very fond of birds and animals, which she professes to think are sometimes very superior to men. At her own home, which is at Paris, she has quite a collection of pets. She often comes to England, however, to visit her relations, and then her little nephews and nieces—for she likes children too—always get round her, and make her tell them stories about her animals or birds. One evening, when the children were gathered round her, she began in this way:—
“You want to hear about my pets, my dears? Very well: I shall have pleasure in telling you all about them; for although I have had some bites and scratches and pecks from them now and then, on the whole they are very estimable. In fact, they possess some qualities which I should be very glad to see oftener than I do in men and women: yes, and in little children too.
“The first pet animal I can remember was a monkey. I was then quite little, not more than five or six years old; and Moko—that was the monkey’s name—was almost as big as I was. I really think he considered that he and I were of the same species: at all events he used to treat me as a companion and an equal. But before Moko joined our family circle, we were very near having another monkey, who was not so amiable; and I think I will begin by telling you about him.
“In those days—that is, when your mamma and I and your two uncles were all children—you know that we used generally to live in France, and one summer your grandpapa took a country house a few miles out of Paris. Well, on a beautiful warm morning, when we children were all playing in the large garden, we heard the sound of an organ; and soon we saw, coming through the white gates and playing as he came, an organ-man, with a monkey sitting on the organ. A shout of delight resounded through the garden. When the new-comers approached we were even more delighted, for the monkey was dressed up in the funniest way possible. He looked like a tiny old man, with a cocked hat, long red coat, blue breeches, and a little pair of boots upon his feet, laced up with red laces.
“The monkey performed all manner of tricks: he danced, he fired off a little musket, went through the sword exercise, put on spectacles and pretended to read the newspaper, and did a great deal more besides. After witnessing these wonderful performances, we conducted both monkey and man into the drawing-room, where our mamma was sitting at the open window, and we all began in chorus:—‘Oh, mamma dear, pray, pray buy this monkey for us; he is such a darling!’
“Now, we were all, as children, very fond of animals,—though I am the only one, I think, who has the same liking still—and our mamma used rather to encourage us in it. In fact, we had almost a menagerie already, and this was not the first time we had teazed mamma to let us have a monkey. She seemed inclined to give way, and asked the organ-man if he would sell it. He hesitated: apparently a little struggle was going on in his own conscience, but his honesty prevailed, and he confessed that, except in his presence, and under his control, the monkey was both mischievous and savage.
“All this time the creature stood in front of a large looking-glass, bowing and scraping to his own reflection; and mamma appearing to doubt this bad character of the seemingly amiable monkey, the man at last said:—‘Let me leave him, madam, for a moment, and you shall judge.’
“The man immediately hid himself behind a sofa. When the monkey looked round, and no longer saw his master, the very expression of his withered, wrinkled little face began to change,—from an expression of good-temper it changed to one of fury. He at once jumped upon the mantelpiece, and before anyone had time to prevent it, he dashed the clock against the looking-glass, smashing both. My mother seizing him to prevent more mischief, he scratched and bit her cruelly, till he heard his master’s voice, and saw his stern face and uplifted arm. Then in a second he became the amiable tractable creature he had been before; but you may be sure we were glad to get rid of the horrid little animal.
“However, we still wanted a monkey; and great was our joy when papa brought us Moko. He bought him of a sailor, who declared he was as gentle and obedient as any dog, and had been the pet of the whole crew of the ship he had come over in. And I must say Moko was as nearly perfect as anyone I know, for he had but one fault: he was very greedy. I remember one day a box full of fine pears had been left in the hall near the foot of the staircase, and we found Moko hanging by his tail to the balusters, and helping himself to the pears. He was eating them in that uncomfortable position: his cheek stuck out from the quantity he had stuffed into his mouth; and we found afterwards that he had besides stowed away a good many under the staircase as a future provision.
“I have a painful recollection of Moko stealing bread and jam away from me. He used to come behind me quite quietly when I was sitting at the table at breakfast or tea, and climbing on to the back of my little chair, he would stretch his long hairy arm over my shoulder, and snatch the bread and jam away before I knew he was there. He always selected me to attack, I suppose because I was the smallest.
“In spite of this fault, we all loved Moko very much. He was petted by the whole household. He used to join us children in our games, and always appeared to take pains not to hurt us. He was allowed to play about the garden just as he pleased, for he would always come back when he was called; and it was pretty to see him climbing from tree to tree, or hanging on to a branch by his tail, and swinging backwards and forwards.”
TO THE LADY-BIRD.
Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home—
The field-mouse is gone to her nest;
The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes,
And the bees and the birds are at rest.
Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home—
The glow-worm is lighting her lamp;
The dew’s falling fast, and your fine speckled wings
Will flag with the close-clinging damp.
Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home,
The fairy-bells tinkle afar;
Make haste, or they’ll catch you, and harness you fast,
With a cobweb, to Oberon’s car.
MAMMA’S SUNDAY TALK.
MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR:
THE NOBLEMAN’S SON HEALED.
I have already told you, my little ones, how our Lord Jesus Christ turned the water into wine at the marriage feast. That was His first miracle, and one of the few He performed which were not works of healing; for He went about curing the sick, and in some instances restoring to life those who were already dead.
We are told in the Bible that after this first miracle, our Saviour left Cana and went to Jerusalem to keep the Passover, and it is stated that while there He performed several miracles in the way of healing, which were so wonderful that His fame spread throughout the land. After the Passover, Christ left Jerusalem, and turned His steps towards Galilee.
Now in a city of Galilee, called Capernaum, there lived a nobleman, who had an only child, a son, that he loved with his whole heart. The child was very ill—so ill that there was no hope of recovery. The little face that the poor father loved so much grew pale and wan, and the pretty bright eyes lost their brightness. Everything that human skill could do had been tried in vain; but the father had heard of the miracles done by Jesus in Jerusalem, and knowing that He was then passing through that part of the country, he left the bedside of his dying child, and came himself to Christ.
St. John tells us—“He besought Christ that He would come down and heal his son; for he was at the point of death. Then said Jesus unto him, Except ye see signs and wonders ye will not believe. The nobleman saith unto Him, Sir, come down ere my child die. Jesus saith unto him, Go thy way: thy son liveth. And the man believed the word that Jesus had spoken unto him, and he went his way.”
From this account it appears as if the nobleman went to our Saviour only as a last resource, and scarcely believing in His power. This was why Christ said as a sort of reproof, “Except ye see signs and wonders ye will not believe.” Then the poor father prayed again to Him to come to his son, thinking that to save the boy our Saviour must see and touch him. But Christ showed him that He could heal the boy as well at a distance as near, and said, “Go thy way: thy son liveth.”
This man’s faith, you see, had grown suddenly, and became perfect; for he believed without hesitation our Saviour’s word, and returned home at once. He did not stay to question, but he went home, taking it for granted that he would find the miracle performed, and that his son was living as Jesus had declared, although this was the first instance in which Christ had healed at a distance.
He believed so firmly that all would be well when he got home, that he does not appear even to have hurried on his journey; and he met some of his servants the next day before he reached his house. The servants had come out to meet him, and they were the bearers of the happy tidings of his son’s recovery. Then he anxiously inquired when the child began to get better, and they told him: “Yesterday at the seventh hour the fever left him.” And the father knew it was at that hour Christ had said to him, “Thy son liveth.” From that time, St. John tells us the nobleman and all his household were believers.
We learn, my dear children, from this miracle that sorrow and trouble often lead to good. They brought the anxious and sorrowing father to Christ, and caused not only the father but all the household to become believers. Let us trust and pray that through such suffering and such trials as may be in store for us we too may be brought nearer to God.
SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:
JACK AND JERRY.
From the heading of this page you would scarcely know which I call my little friend—Jack the boy, or Jerry the donkey. Friends of mine indeed they both are; but I think I am fond of Jerry chiefly on account of the love he bears his little master.
Jack is the oldest of a large family of boys and girls; he is only ten years of age, but there are six other children, all younger than he is. On his fifth birthday he had a rocking-horse given him: it came down from London, for Jack’s home is far away in the country. How delighted the little boy was when the horse stood in the hall, covered up with thick brown paper! He knew it was addressed to him, for he could already read writing when it was large. Then, as the brown paper was taken off, what a jumping and shouting there was: for the other little ones had come down from the nursery to see the gee-gee.
You all know what a large handsome rocking-horse is like, so I need not describe it; and you can imagine what a deal of amusement and pleasure it afforded Jack for a while. However, as time went on, fresh little brothers and sisters arrived quickly; and each in turn, as he or she grew old enough, began to take delight in the gee-gee; until at last my friend Jack scarcely ever had the chance of a ride. And I must say the poor horse looked old and battered, and very different from what it had looked when only used by my little friend.
One day he said to me sadly:—“You see I am getting big for it now, and there are so many of the little ones to ride, so I give it up: the poor gee-gee is worked hard enough as it is.”
Jack was always willing to let the children ride his horse, but, worn and damaged though it was, he could not bear to see them ill-use it. I have noticed the child wince as if with pain, when his sturdy brother Maurice made a great piece of paint drop off with a heavy crack from his whip. “If the boy is so sensitive about a rocking-horse,” thought I, “how careful and kind he would be, if he had a real pony or donkey.”
When I proposed to give Jack a pony, his mamma said she thought he was not old enough to ride one yet, and seemed nervous about it, so I made up my mind that a donkey it should be. I made inquiries, and soon found a dear little creature, which I thought so pretty that I bought it at once. It was very young, and had never before left its mother. Jack named it Jerry: he took such care of it, and made such a pet of the little animal, that it would come at his call, and follow him about, and obey him, just like a large dog.
I remember one day, when we were all sitting at lunch, we heard, patter, patter, patter on the floorcloth of the hall. Presently the door, which was not closed, opened a little way. A soft mouse-coloured nose presented itself, followed by a rough hairy face, with a pair of soft full bright eyes, and after these came two long ears; then the whole of Master Jerry’s head looked round the corner at us. We all burst out laughing, as you may easily suppose; when the donkey, thinking to join in the merriment, put up his head, and raised such a “Heehaw! heehaw!” that we were obliged to clap our hands over our ears, and the whole house, I may almost say the neighbourhood, rang with the sound.
As soon as Jerry was big and strong enough to be ridden, I made Jack a present of a bridle and saddle. He used to ride about in the park and lanes; but when they came home, Jack never forgot to give Jerry a few fresh carrots, or something nice, as you see him doing in the picture.
COME, ROSY, MY POSY.
Allegretto. mf.
1.
Come, Rosy, my posy,
You’re weary, you’re dozy,
Sit upon grandmother’s knee;
Songs I will sing,
Sweet sleep to bring,
So nestle up cosy with me,
So nestle up cosy with me.
2.
And I will sing ditties
Of birds and of kitties,
That of the Well to begin:
How Johnny Stout
Pulled the cat out,
While Johnny Green let her fall in,
While Johnny Green let her fall in.
3.
Of little Miss Muffit,
Who fled from a tuffit:
Bobby that sailed on the sea;
Jack and his Jill;
Mouse at the mill;
And Baby that rocked on the tree,
And Baby that rocked on the tree.
SQUIRRELS.
How pretty little squirrels look perched in the branches of a tree! I like to watch them as they nimbly run up the trunk, or spring from bough to bough. One or two are generally to be seen in a clump of great old beeches near a house in the country, where I usually spend some happy weeks in summer; and I will tell you a story of a little squirrel whose acquaintance I made there last summer.
I happened to be up very early one morning, long before breakfast was ready, or any of the family were down, and I went out into the garden to enjoy the fresh sweet smell of the early day. The cows were grazing in the field beyond, and now and then lowing a friendly “good-morning” to each other. Some ducks were waddling in procession down to the pond, quacking out their wise remarks as they went. The little birds were singing lustily their welcome to the new-born day. Even the old watch-dog came yawning, stretching, blinking, and wagging his tail in kindly dog-fashion, to bid me “good-day” in the summer sunshine.
As I stood under the great beech trees, taking in with greedy eye and ear the sights and sounds of country life so refreshing to a Londoner, I heard something fall from one of the trees, then a scuffle, and immediately afterwards a white Persian cat, belonging to the house, bounded towards me in hot pursuit of a dear little squirrel. I was just in time to save the poor little animal by stepping between it and the cat. The squirrel passed under the edge of my dress, and made off again up another tree; so pussy lost her prey.
Soon afterwards, when we were at breakfast, the butler told us that one of the little boys of the village, who had lost a pet squirrel, had asked if he might look for it in the garden of the house. It had first escaped into some trees in the park, and he had traced it from them into the garden. It at once occurred to me that this must be the little creature I had saved from the cat. I remembered how it made straight towards me, as if asking me for protection from its enemy, which only a tame squirrel would do; and I proposed, when breakfast was over, that we should go out and help in the search.
Little Jack Tompkins stood under the beech trees, looking with tear-stained face up into the branches. Suddenly I saw his face brighten, and he called out: “I see un, ma’am; I see un! If so be no one warn’t by, I be sure he’d come to I.”
I need not say we retreated to a distance; then Jack called up the tree in a loud whisper: “Billee, Billee!” and in a minute down came the little creature on to his shoulder. I can tell you Jack was a happier child than he had been when he came into the garden. And when I told him what a narrow escape “Billee” had had from the cat, he said: “It would be hard if a cat eat he, for our old puss brought he up with her own kits.” Then he told us how the squirrel, when a tiny thing, had dropped out of its nest, and been found by him lying almost dead at the foot of a tree, and how he had carried it home, and tried whether pussy would adopt it as one of her own kittens. The cat was kind; the squirrel throve under her motherly care, and became Jack’s pet and companion.
Now, children, in this instance it was all very well to keep a tame squirrel. “Billee” seemed happy, leading the life he was accustomed to: he had been fed and cared for by human beings from his infancy, and might be as incapable of finding food, and managing for himself, in a wild state, as a poor canary would be if let loose from its cage. But generally it is cruel to imprison little wild birds and animals who have known the enjoyment of liberty.
Squirrels are interesting little creatures. Besides being so pretty, bright-eyed, and active, they are remarkably intelligent. They make their nests in trees as birds do, but with even more ingenuity than most birds. The materials of the nest are moss, leaves, grass, and fibres of the bark of trees, all neatly woven together. The nest is waterproof, and secure from the roughest gale of wind; it is, besides, carefully hidden from the view of any passer-by beneath. The food of squirrels consists of vegetables, nuts, acorns, and other fruits and seeds. These little animals have the forethought to lay up provisions for the winter; and not only do they keep a little store in their nests, but in any hole they may chance to find in the surrounding trees. Sometimes they have a dozen secret storehouses within a few leaps of their nest.
PUMPKIN-HEAD.
Of all the things to make you stare,—
A Pumpkin-Head, I do declare!
That such a thing could come about
One almost feels inclined to doubt.
The story’s sad, if true it be:
I’ll tell it as ’twas told to me.
A man once lived whose name was Nocket,
Who dearly loved to fill his pocket,
And for the poor he had small pity.
By trade a hatter in the city,
He from his shop went up and down
To his cottage out of town;
And in his garden took delight,
And worked in it with all his might.
A treatise he had written too
On kitchen-gardening. So you
May well suppose he heard with glee
A garden-show there was to be;
And that a prize among the rest
Would be awarded for the best
And largest pumpkin at the show.
“Ha! ha!” thought Nocket, “now I’ll grow
A pumpkin shall be such a size
It will be sure to gain the prize.”
In hothouse, where the heat was greater
Almost than in Mount Etna’s crater,
The pumpkin grew, and grew so fine
That Nocket asked his friends to dine.
And showed it to them all with pride.
“Magnificent!” the friends replied;
Excepting one, who looked quite sly,
And said, “You’ll see mine, by-and-by.”
’Twas Nocket’s next door neighbour, Wright,
Who spoke those words: and all that night
Nocket slept not; spiteful and sad,
At length he formed a purpose bad:
At early dawn, without a fall
He clambered o’er the garden wall,
And of Wright’s greenhouse ope’d the door,
Laid his own pumpkin on the floor;
There found the biggest ever seen,
Compared to which his own look’d mean.
Upon his head with might and main
He hoisted, it; and once again
He climbed the wall. Then found—worse luck!—
The pumpkin on his shoulders stuck.
In vain he wriggled, struggled, fought,
His head was in the pumpkin caught;
And from that day the thing stuck fast
On Nocket’s neck. ’Tis sometime past;
Still, if the story be but true,
We yet may see it—I or you.
A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER III.
JOURNEY TO PARIS.—CRESSIDA IN THE GARDEN OF THE LUXEMBOURG.—MAURICE’S UNCLE.—A GREAT TEMPTATION.—MAURICE KEEPS HIS WORD.
Mr. and Mrs. de Roisel were accustomed to spend the winter in Paris; and when November came on, and the time for their departure arrived, it was not without anxiety that Maurice thought of taking Cressida to live on the first floor of a Paris house. The rooms were large and handsome, it is true, but not suitable for a horse: it was necessary, however, to make the best of circumstances.
They drove to the railway station at Savigny, where Mr. de Roisel arranged for them to have a carriage to themselves, and Cressida was lifted into it, for Maurice wanted to make the journey to Paris mounted, on the back of his horse. Off they started: my little friend, firmly seated on his saddle, went along at the rate of forty miles an hour. In less than an hour, however, they reached Paris, and then Maurice confessed that he felt tired: it was the first time he had made so long a journey on horseback.
Arrived at their own house, Maurice at once set about making the pony as comfortable as he could. The first night Cressida had to rough it a little; but in the course of two or three days Maurice had fitted up in his own bedroom a stable, which corresponded with the general comfort and elegance of the rooms occupied by the family.
THE WORKMAN, AFTER HIS DAY’S TOIL IS OVER, WALKS THERE WITH HIS CHILDREN.
Picture to yourselves a white tent embroidered in blue, supported against the wall of the room. The entrance to it is shut up by curtains; but when open, these curtains are held back on each side by broad blue ribbons. Inside the tent, at the end against the wall of the room, are a rack and a manger of ebony. At one side stands a large chest, also of ebony: it is divided into two compartments—one for corn, the other containing everything required for grooming a horse. Also at the end of the tent, hanging against the wall, are a saddle and bridle of Russia leather, and two or three whips. I must add that a beautiful sheepskin rug, white and soft as the down of a swan, takes the place of the straw put down for litter in a common stable. Such was the new abode of the pretty pony.
When it became known that Maurice possessed a wonderful horse, which, though made of wood, could gallop, and neigh, and shake his head like a real horse, he received numerous visits; and his little friends envied him his happiness. Several of them proposed to him that he should give them Cressida in exchange for some of their own beautiful toys; such as, for instance, a mule with bells, like the mules in Spain; a pretty sailing boat, intended to sail on the basin in the Tuileries; a box containing everything required for performing the astonishing tricks of the famous conjuror Robert Houdin; a whole flock of sheep with their shepherd; and one little girl offered him her most beautiful doll—a doll that had the air of a queen, and whose clothes were made of fine cambric and lace.
But what were the most beautiful toys in the world compared to Cressida? Maurice, who had so bravely resisted the temptation of giving his horse in exchange for Jeanne, found no difficulty in refusing these offers.
For some days after Maurice arrived in Paris, the weather continued mild and fine, although it was so late in the autumn; and he was able to go out several times with Cressida into the gardens of the Luxembourg. These gardens may not be particularly fashionable, but they are very beautiful all the same. You may see there elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, and children with clean and tidy nurses; but you also see there, in the evening, the workman, after his day’s toil is over, walking with his children; perhaps carrying one in his arms: and though he may carry it awkwardly, it is still touching to see what care he takes of it.
ONE OF THE KEEPERS OF THE GARDENS MAKES A MISTAKE.
My little friend, whose parents had no prejudice against the gardens for reasons of this kind, went there often, and delighted in riding up and down the great avenue upon Cressida. They made a sensation together, I assure you. Not only the children, but the mammas and even the gentlemen expressed their surprise and admiration. Many people thought at first that Cressida was a real pony. I have been told, though I do not vouch for the fact, that one of the keepers of the gardens, going up to Maurice, summoned him to leave, because it was not permitted to ride there on horseback. This caused great amusement, as you may suppose, among the lookers-on. It has been said also that this mistake of the keeper was reported in the Journal des Enfants—(The Child’s Journal)—a day or two after it occurred, but I cannot say I recollect reading it. Maurice used to take his horse into the Luxembourg gardens every day that it was fine, and enjoyed his rides very much.
Maurice had an uncle—his mother’s brother—a lieutenant in the navy, who returned about this time from a distant expedition. He came to rest from his fatigues at Paris, and took up his abode with his sister, of whom he was very fond. He was a young man of about twenty-eight or thirty years of age, intelligent, and of very agreeable manners. But beneath this amiable and gentle surface, he possessed a strong will, and a resolute devotion to whatever he might consider to be a duty.
The uncle and nephew soon became great friends, and were almost inseparable. They used to go out walking together, and sometimes the uncle would teach Maurice his lessons. In the evening they often went together to the circus or to an exhibition of some sort. But when they passed the evening at home, Maurice was almost more amused; for he never tired of looking over books of sketches, which his uncle had made during his voyages.
There were sketches representing the Red Indians of America; the natives of Australia; the inhabitants of the islands in the Southern Pacific, and of the coasts of Africa. Maurice was astonished to see faces painted in all the colours of the rainbow; and he wondered at the singular ideas savages have of making themselves look more beautiful. He saw some with pieces of wood fixed into their under lips, to make them hang down; some with their teeth blackened; others with their eyelids painted red. There were also sketches of Laplanders, who were certainly not handsome,—not figures that a sculptor would choose for models. Maurice’s uncle gave him an account also of the manners and customs of all these people, and my little friend learnt with horror that among savages, there are those who roast and devour their fellow-creatures with the same relish with which we eat good roast beef and mutton.
Then his uncle showed him landscapes of strange countries, all drawn by himself, and sketches of the principal cities he had visited; afterwards, drawings of foreign birds and flowers, such as are not to be found in Europe. All this interested Maurice, and while it amused him, gave him lessons in natural history and geography. You will easily understand how fond he was likely to become of such a kind companion and teacher.
The uncle always showed a great interest in Cressida, admired its mechanism, and was fond of watching the little horse and its rider as they went along together. One day, when he had been looking at them for some time with a very thoughtful air, he said suddenly:—
“I wish I had a horse like Cressida.”
“Why not buy one then?” replied Maurice.
“Ah, you know very well that is impossible. There is no such horse to be had anywhere.”
“That’s true,” rejoined Maurice; “but why do you want a wooden horse—you who are so big, and can ride a real horse, if you wish?”
“No real horse—not the most beautiful in the world—could be the same to me as Cressida,” rejoined the uncle. “It may seem like a caprice, but it is not. I am going to sea again very soon, and I confess I should like to take Cressida with me. I could amuse myself with him on board ship. He would be a great resource during the long tedious hours when there is nothing to do. Besides, if I had the horse I should feel myself less separated from you all; and it would remind me of you particularly, Maurice, whom I shall be so sorry to leave.”
“Ah, my dear uncle, what you desire is impossible. I cannot give you Cressida.”
“I don’t expect you to give it me for nothing, of course.”
“Indeed I wish I could give it you for nothing.”
“Listen, now, to what I intend to do: I will leave you in exchange all my books of sketches.”
“Oh, pray stop, uncle,” cried Maurice, feeling more and more unhappy; “what you are saying makes me so miserable. You know I promised Fritz never to part with Cressida.”
“But every day people make promises which they do not keep: besides, Fritz did not know that I should ever wish to have the horse, when he asked you to make that promise.”
“Still, I gave my word.”
“Yes, the word of a child: what does that signify?”
“Does age make a difference? Are not children expected to keep their promises?”
“Oh, I don’t mean to say exactly that,” replied the uncle. “Your own conscience must teach you how that ought to be. But I think it strange that you should prefer that old Fritz to me.”
Now you must not suppose, my little readers, that Maurice resisted his uncle’s persuasion with the calm steadfastness of a grown-up man, whose mind is quite clear as to his duty, and who is quite decided to keep to it. No: poor little Maurice found his heart drawing him one way and his conscience another. At last he wisely determined that he would take an opportunity, when alone with his father, to ask his advice: but the young lieutenant did not give him a chance of doing this, for he began again upon the subject the same evening.
“I have been reflecting,” he said to Maurice, “and I think my books of sketches are not sufficient to give you for your horse. Listen now: besides the books, I will give you a real pony. Perhaps he will be rather bigger than Cressida; but I will buy one as much like Cressida as possible.”
“YOUR SON IS A HERO!”
“Well, but,” said Maurice, “why not keep the live one for yourself? You can even call it Cressida if you like.”
The young officer was a little put out by this suggestion, but after a minute he replied:—“I could not take a real horse with me on board ship; but a wooden horse is different. Now look here: not only will I give you the pony, but you shall have a groom expressly to take care of it; and both groom and pony shall be kept at my expense while I am away. I will pay, besides, for you to have some lessons in riding, so that when your papa goes out on horseback to the Bois de Boulogne you will be able to ride by his side.”
“You will do all that?”
“Yes, really, I will do all that.”
“Ah, no, no! I cannot give you Cressida. If that poor Fritz should ever come back, I will tell him all; and perhaps he will let me give you the horse.”
“You behave to me like a selfish and ungrateful child.”
“Oh, uncle, uncle,” exclaimed poor little Maurice, and he began to weep bitterly, “is it possible that you say this to me seriously? Ah, well! then you shall have——” He was going to say,—“you shall have Cressida;” but as he spoke his mother entered the room. Her presence seemed to remind him that he was going to break his promise after all; and he went on:—“You may think what you please, uncle, but I will not give you Cressida.”
“Really!” exclaimed the young man with an appearance of delight which astonished Maurice.
“And now go away from me, pray,” said Maurice, still crying bitterly. “I am ill; I think I am going to faint:” and he ran into the arms of his mother.
“Your son is a hero!” cried the young officer, joyfully, addressing his sister. “He is a hero, I say.”
“And you—you are cruel,” replied the mother, caressing her son, who was sobbing convulsively.
“But did you not hear,” said the young man, “how he kept to his word,—how he refused to give me Cressida?”
“It is not right,” said the mother, “to torture a child by such a trial. Suppose out of love for you he had given way; you would have reproached him for listening to the dictates of his heart rather than obeying his sense of duty. Let me tell you that what is a virtue in grown-up people, is not always so in a child. It is through their affections that we govern children, and you would teach him to combat his tenderest feelings. Besides, you set a bad example: you were practising a deception in pretending that you wanted the horse.”
“What! uncle,” cried my little friend, who began to recover, “was it only make-believe when you asked me for Cressida? You only wanted to see if I should keep my promise? You would not have loved me any longer, perhaps, if I had given it to you; and yet I should have given it because I love you.”
“You hear that,” said Mrs. de Roisel.
“What a great man this little fellow will make some day!” exclaimed the uncle.
I daresay my little readers can see, though the uncle did not, how near Maurice was to yielding and giving up Cressida at last. We will allow the young officer to remain in ignorance upon this point, but let us tell him that it is always better to prevent faults than to provoke them.
(To be continued.)
PUZZLE-PAGE.
Now, children, try to find out this puzzle page. The names of two of these objects begin with C, one with E, one with G, one with I, and one with M.
THE SEASONS.
Birds are in the woodland, buds are on the tree,
Merry spring is coming, ope the pane and see.
Then come sportive breezes, fields with flowers are gay,
In the woods we’re singing through the summer day.
Fruits are ripe in autumn, leaves are sear and red,
Then we glean the cornfield, thanking God for bread.
Then at last comes winter, fields are cold and lorn,
But there’s happy Christmas, when our Lord was born.
Thus as years roll onward, merrily we sing,
Thankful for the blessings all the seasons bring.
MY LILY.
Darling little Lily! This is just how I found her one day after somebody had given her a picture book of Cinderella.
“What is my little woman thinking about that she looks so sad and solemn?” asked I.
“I so sorry for Umbrella,” answered Lily, quite sharp and pat, thinking she had hit upon the name finely; “but I not be sorry any more, for my mamma come, and mamma love me.”
I finished the story to her, when her pity changed into joy at “Umbrella’s” happy marriage with the young prince.
THE MOTHER CHAMOIS AND HER LITTLE ONES.
A hunter in the Tyrol, while engaged in his dangerous employment, spied a chamois with two little ones on the top of a rock. The little chamois were leaping and sporting by the side of their mother, and she, while watching their gambols, was on the alert to see that no enemy came near to hurt them. The hunter peeped over a rock at the happy family, and determined, if possible, to take one of the young ones alive. When the old chamois caught sight of him, she was in a sad state of alarm: she ran up to her little ones, and tried to lead them on to leap from one rock to another; but they were too young to leap far. In the meantime the hunter was clambering nearer and nearer, and would soon reach them.
Presently they came to a chasm, not very wide across, but of immense depth. One of the little chamois was big and strong enough to leap across it, the other was not. At last the mother hit upon a plan: she made her body into a bridge across the chasm, placing her forefeet upon the further rock. The young chamois, understanding her intention, sprang upon her as lightly as a kitten, and reached the other side; when they all scampered off. The hunter did not dare to follow them over this dreadful chasm, and they were soon safe beyond the range of his gun.
CHILDREN.
What could we without them,
Those flowers of life?
How bear all the sorrows
With which it is rife?
As long as they blossom,
Whilst brightly they bloom,
Our own griefs are nothing,
Forgotten our gloom.
We joy in the sunshine,—
It sheds on them light;
We welcome the shower,—
It makes them more bright;
On our pathway of thorns
They are thrown from above,
And they twine round about us,
And bless us with love.
Bright, beautiful flowers,
So fresh and so pure!
How could we, without them,
Life’s troubles endure?
So guileless and holy,
Such soothers of strife;
What could we without them,
Sweet flowers of life?
MAMMA’S SUNDAY TALK.
MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR:
THE MIRACULOUS DRAUGHT OF FISHES.
I must tell you to-day, my dear children, about one of the miracles of our Saviour of which I daresay you have already heard. Perhaps, too, you have seen engravings of the picture from which the woodcut above is taken. It is a large painting by Raphael, a great Italian artist of former days, whom you will know more about when you are older.
After our Saviour had healed the nobleman’s son—the miracle I described to you in our last Sunday-talk—we are told in the Bible that He left Cana and went to Capernaum, a town on the shore of the lake, or sea, of Galilee. The country surrounding this beautiful lake is now desolate and barren; but at the time when our Saviour lived upon earth, it was fertile and thickly populated. On the banks of the lake were towns and villages; on its waters boats plied, engaged in pleasure or trade; and many fishermen carried on their calling.
One evening our Lord walked on the shore of the lake, teaching His disciples, when He found Himself surrounded by a multitude of people. They pressed about Him, eager to hear Him preach; and in order to let them hear and see Him better, He entered into one of the fishing-boats which belonged to Simon Peter. And Christ prayed Simon Peter to thrust out the boat a little from the land: then He sat down, and taught the people from the boat.
We are not told what was the particular purport of His teaching on this occasion, but when He had done, He resolved to render what He had said more impressive by performing a miracle before the eyes of all the people. He turned to Simon, and told him to cast forth his nets to catch fish; upon which, St. Luke tells us, Simon answered: “Master, we have toiled all the night and have taken nothing; nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net.”
This is the language of obedience and faith. The net was at once cast into the sea, and it enclosed such a quantity of fish that it began to break. In the boat with Christ, besides Simon Peter, was another fisherman, named Andrew; and they beckoned to their partners, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, who were in another boat, to come to their assistance. Both boats were filled so full of fish that they were almost sinking.
Scripture does not give us any account of the impression this miraculous draught of fishes made upon the multitude that were looking on from the shore; but the first thought of Simon Peter seems to have been a sense of his own unworthiness. Falling down at our Saviour’s feet, he cried: “Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.”
With mingled feelings of humility, gratitude, and awe, he entreated Jesus to depart from one who was so guilty and undeserving. But he did not know the love of Christ towards him, or the gracious design of this miracle. His fears were soon calmed. “Fear not,” said Jesus to His trembling disciple: “from henceforth thou shalt catch men.” From that time Simon Peter, and his companions, Andrew, James, and John, were to be employed in preaching the gospel. These poor, ignorant fishermen became endowed with wisdom and eloquence; and in the wonderful draught of fishes they might foresee their future success. They were to be “fishers of men”; the world the sea in which they were to labour.
St. Luke says of them: “When they had brought their ships to land, they forsook all and followed Him.”
SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:
RUBY.
The little girl you see in the picture is one of the very nicest of my little friends. She looked just as you see her there on the day of her party, which was given in honour of her fourth birthday. I remember going into the nursery while she was being dressed. Nurse was just arranging her sash, while she stood on a chair in front of the looking-glass, admiring her little self generally; but most admiring her pretty blue shoes, which just matched her sash.
When she saw me at the door, she cried out: “I ready now; wait for me.” And jumping off the chair and seizing my hand, she tripped away downstairs, chattering merrily as she went. The time of the year was the end of April, and Ruby’s home being in the country, and the weather very fine and warm, some of the festivities took place out of doors in the garden. There were dances, and all sorts of games, on the dry sunny lawn, a soft westerly wind blowing on the happy children the while, bringing health and enjoyment with its sweet balmy breath.
While their fun was at its height, a curious figure appeared upon the lawn. It was a queer-looking old woman with a nutcracker face, carrying a large basket under her arm. She went hobbling along here and there, in and out, among the children. From the basket came balls, tops, dolls, and all sorts of toys, for the younger ones; useful presents for the bigger children. Was there ever such a curious old woman, or ever a basket that held so much? How they all laughed when presently she threw off her mask, bonnet, and cloak; and behold! Ruby’s papa stood before them.
Now it was tea-time, and the little people trooped into the house. After tea they were requested to walk into the drawing-room to be introduced to Count Shuffalongofriski, the Polish dwarf, and his friend Captain Sovveritall, the wonderful giant. Going into the room, they beheld a little man standing on a table placed in the recess of a large window, the curtain being partly drawn round the table. The dwarf wore a turban and large beard: he had a long pipe in his mouth, and was dressed up in shawls. He seemed very affable and pleasant, jabbering away continually in some unknown language, while now and then he threw a handful of crackers among the children to be scrambled for.
Presently an enormous figure appeared stooping to come through the door of the room. He was covered up with a long cloak, and was an oddly made giant too, for his shoulders seemed to stick out little more than half-way up him, and he had a tiny little face, with a voice much weaker than the dwarf’s. He stalked up to the dwarf’s table and stood beside him. At last a little boy of the party, being very curious, lifted up the giant’s cloak to peep beneath, but happening to pull it at the same time, down it fell, and there stood Ruby’s papa again, with her little brother Johnnie on his shoulders.
And now the boys were becoming uproarious, and tried to peep behind the curtain to find out how the dwarf was made, when their attention was attracted by the sound of a fiddle playing outside. They saw, in the fading light of evening, a poor blind man being led up the carriage drive by a barefooted little girl about the size of Ruby. As the blind fiddler and his little girl turned the corner of the drive towards the hall-door, they passed out of sight from the drawing-room windows, and I observed that Ruby and three or four other children ran into the hall to meet them. The boys, however, turned once more to pursue their investigations concerning the dwarf, and were becoming quite riotous, when I thought I might as well see what was going on in the hall, for I heard the fiddler playing lustily.
Entering the hall, what do you suppose I saw? I saw Ruby and four or five other little girls, including the fiddler’s child among them, dancing away with all their might to the inspiriting music of the fiddle, fiddler and children seeming as happy as possible together. But the strangest sight of all was to see Ruby’s pretty blue shoes upon the dirty stockingless feet of the fiddler’s child, while Ruby herself had only her white silk socks to dance in.
Dear little Ruby! hers was the true spirit of charity, though certainly not well directed.
SPRING-VOICES.
Allegretto.
1.
“Caw! caw!” says the crow,
“Spring has come again, I know:
For, as sure as I am born,
There’s a farmer planting corn;
I shall breakfast there I trow,
Long before his corn can grow.”
2.
“Quack, quack!” says the duck,
“Was there ever such good luck!
Spring has cleared the pond of ice,
And the day is warm and nice,
Just as I and Goodman Drake
Thought we’d like a swim to take.”
3.
“Croak, croak!” says the frog,
As he leaps out from the bog;
“Spring is near, I do declare,
For the earth is warm and fair;
Croak! croak! croak! I love the spring,
When the little birdies sing.”
A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER IV.
MAURICE’S FATHER IS ILL.—A RICH LITTLE GIRL.—A FAMILY IN DISTRESS.—WHAT OUGHT MAURICE TO DO?
Some months later, when the Spring had come on, and the sun was beginning to give warmth, while the air was already perfumed with violets, Maurice was walking, one beautiful morning, in the Luxembourg gardens. He had Cressida with him, whom he sometimes rode and sometimes led, and Jacques the old servant was also there. A number of children were in the gardens, playing at different games, and enjoying themselves in the bright sunshine. They were chattering away too as gaily as the little wild birds overhead were singing in the soft air.
Maurice alone was not amusing himself, and old Jacques the servant walked after him in silence, looking as sad as his young master. Alas! my kind-hearted little readers, you will be grieved, I know, when you hear the cause of my little friend’s sadness: Maurice’s father was seriously ill.
That very morning Maurice had been present, without any one knowing it, at a consultation between two famous doctors, who were attending his father. He happened to be in the drawing-room, standing at a window and half hidden behind the curtain, when they came in, and they had not observed him. Although he did not understand all they said, he heard enough to cause him great unhappiness and alarm. He had now come into the Luxembourg gardens—not because he thought of amusing or enjoying himself, but because his mamma had wished him to go out.
MAURICE WAS PRESENT AT A CONSULTATION.
While he was sitting on Cressida’s back, with the reins thrown carelessly on its neck, and moving at a slow walk to suit his thoughtful and sad mood, he noticed that a little girl, rather older than himself, was coming towards him as if she wished to say something. She was accompanied by a lady, too young to be her mother, of a graceful figure though simply dressed. The little girl, whose face expressed a bold and decided character, called out to Maurice,—
“Young gentleman, sell me your horse.”
“Sell Cressida!” cried Maurice, with astonishment. “Oh, no, certainly not.”
“I will pay you with ten pieces of gold money that I have here in my purse.”
“What! you’ve got ten pieces of gold money of your own?”
“My very own.”
“Do just let me look at them,” begged Maurice.
“Look!” said she, opening a pretty little purse with an air of triumph.
“What a lot of gold!” exclaimed my little friend, and he put out his hand to touch it. Then drawing his hand quickly back, he added: “No, no, I cannot sell Cressida. But tell me, who has given you all this gold?”
“It was my papa. Yesterday was his birthday, and I repeated to him a bit of poetry—such pretty poetry!—wishing him many happy returns of the day. Miss Henriette—she’s my English governess, the young lady you see there—she had written it out for me. When I repeated the lines to papa, he gave me these ten napoleons, and he told me to buy something handsome with them for myself,—anything I liked.”
“But I have no idea of selling Cressida,” repeated Maurice.
“You’ve not had him long then, I suppose—not got tired of him yet?”
“I don’t remember exactly how long; eight or nine months perhaps.”
“Nine months! It’s an age; I never kept a plaything for nine months.”
“What do you do then?”
“NO, NO, I CANNOT SELL YOU CRESSIDA.”
“I give them away or I break them. Don’t you get tired of having the same toys always?”
“Cressida is not a common toy to me.”
“Oh, he’s very handsome, no doubt; I thought at first he was a real pony. But with ten napoleons you can buy another,—you can buy a white one, and that would be a change, you know. Come, you’ll alter your mind, won’t you?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Indeed, I’m sure I shall not.”
“You are not like me then,” replied the little girl, “I am always changing my mind. Yesterday, what I wished for most in the world was a set of cups and saucers of Sèvres china for my doll; this morning I wanted most a coral necklace for myself; then I wanted an ermine muff; and now I want to buy your horse. Don’t I change my mind often? But your horse I really wish for very much: the fact is I never saw one like it at any toy-shop.”
“I should think not,” said Maurice.
“But I shall only care for it, you know, till I have a real pony. My papa has promised to buy me a real pony in a year.”
“Your papa is rich then?”
“Is my papa rich! I should think so indeed. My papa is a wine-merchant, and he has made thousands upon thousands and millions upon millions in his business: he’s going to make a great deal more yet too, I can tell you.”
This heaping up of millions upon millions caused Maurice to open his eyes very wide.
“What is your name?” he asked of the young girl.
“I am called Adrienne,” she replied.
“Adrienne what?”
“Adrienne Fallachon, since you wish to know. But that will not be my name always, for my papa intends me to marry a duke or a prince when I am old enough. Some little girls I know turn up their noses at me because my papa is a wine-merchant, and I told him of it one day. Oh, he was in such a passion! What names he did call them! He took me up on his knee, and said he loved me doubly since my mamma died; and he declared he would make such a deal of money to give me when I marry that I should be a princess, or a duchess at the least. That’s what he said: isn’t he a good papa?”
“Oh, yes, indeed he is. But those little girls were very ill-natured, I think.”
“Yes, were they not? Suppose now we become great friends. I shall be here every day, and sometimes we’ll play together: do you agree?”
Maurice said he should be very glad.
“But I’ve told you my name,” went on Adrienne; “tell me now in return, what’s your name?”
“Maurice de Roisel.”
“Maurice de Roisel! that’s a pretty name. Have you a title? If you have, I’ll marry you when you’re grown up.”
“Oh, as for a title, I really don’t know, but I’ll ask mamma if I have one.”
“Do; you need only be a duke, you understand.”
Saying this she went off to play with her hoop, and Maurice continued his ride, with Jacques walking by his side.
As Maurice approached the gate of the garden, he beheld a sight which filled his kind young heart with pity. Seated on the pavement outside the garden, and leaning against the iron railing, was a young woman with three pretty children. They appeared to be in the deepest despair, but there was a certain dignity in their grief; they wept silently, and seemed anxious to avoid the notice of the passers-by. As he watched them, he thought to himself—his mind dwelling upon his own anxiety—“I wonder if their father’s dead that they cry so bitterly?” He did not like to speak to them, however, but only looked at them from a little distance through the railings. Presently one of the children—a charming little girl—looked up at Maurice, and then he ventured to approach and ask her what made them so miserable.
THEY APPEARED TO BE IN THE DEEPEST DESPAIR.
“Alas!” she replied, speaking bad French with a German accent, “it is the greatest misfortune that could befall us: we are separated for ever from our father. Our poor dear papa is expecting us at New York, where he has some land, and where we could be rich and happy; and now it is impossible for us to go to him. Alas! there is nothing for us but to die.”
“To die! Oh, don’t say that—it’s dreadful,” rejoined Maurice.
“Yes, it is dreadful,” continued the girl. “And my poor father—Ah, what grief for him too!”
“But how does it happen that you cannot go out to join him?”
“We have not the means; we are without money.”
“Money? I’ve got some money.” And Maurice hastened to offer the contents of his little purse—about five or six francs.
The little girl did not take them, but turned to her mother, who was pressing to her heart her other two children, handsome boys of three and four years old. The mother and her daughter spoke together for a minute in German.
“Why do you not take what I offer?” said Maurice.
“Because,” replied the girl,—for her mother could not speak French,—“because, though it is a good deal for you to give, it would be of no use to us. To save us we want two hundred francs—that is, ten gold napoleons. Who would give them to us?”
“Ten pieces of gold money,” cried my little friend. “Wait a minute; I know somebody who has them.”
He gave Cressida into the care of Jacques, and running after Adrienne, took her by the hand, and led her up to this poor family.
“Give your money to these good people,” said he.
“No, indeed!” replied Adrienne, astonished; “my papa told me to buy something with the money for myself, and I’m not going to give it to beggars.”
“But just consider, Adrienne,” said her English governess, who had followed her, “whether you would not do well to give some help to this unhappy woman and her little children: such a kind action would be all the kinder if you do it by the sacrifice of something you intended to buy for yourself.”
“But my papa does not wish me to make sacrifices,” said Adrienne. And nothing that her governess or Maurice could say would induce her to part with her money.
Maurice thought for a moment of going home to his mother to ask her for the two hundred francs; but remembering that she would certainly be in his father’s sick-room nursing him, he felt that it would not do to disturb or trouble her now. Then he turned to Jacques.
“Can you lend me two hundred francs, Jacques?”
“Two hundred francs!” cried Jacques; “why you would not surely give so much to people you know nothing about. But at all events I don’t possess two hundred francs.”
“Is it so large a sum then?” inquired Maurice.
“It is more than my wages for half a year come to.”
“My dear young gentleman,” said the governess, addressing Maurice, “I see you have a good heart, but perhaps it would be wise, before you think any more about helping this poor woman, to inquire what has happened to throw them suddenly into such a state of destitution. You see they are quite nicely dressed, and do not look at all as if they were accustomed to ask for charity.”
In answer to the questions of the governess and Maurice, the little girl, who was the only one that could speak French, explained that they were Germans from Nuremburg: that they had arrived only that morning in Paris by railway from that city, intending to go on from Paris to Nantes, where they were to embark for New York. Their father had gone out to New York about two years before to settle there: he had been prosperous, and they were going to join him. Their baggage had been already seat on from Nuremburg to Nantes, and put on board the vessel in which their passage had been engaged and paid for by their father at New York, the captain being a friend of his.
She said that when they got out of the train at Paris that morning, they missed a little portmanteau, the only luggage they carried with them, which contained, besides some change of linen, all the money they had. It had either been stolen or lost in the confusion of getting out of the train. So they found themselves now in this great city without friends and without money, and—worst of all—the vessel would sail to-morrow evening, and unless they could go on at once their passage would be lost.
She told her story with such earnestness and simplicity that no one could doubt its truth; and the governess made one more effort to excite the compassion of her pupil. But Adrienne was quite insensible to the suffering of others, and ran off, bowling her hoop.
“Still,” said Maurice, looking after her, “I know one way of finding the money, if I could but make up my mind to do it: I could sell my horse to Adrienne.”
“What do you say, Master Maurice?” exclaimed Jacques. “It is impossible. Sell Cressida, that you refused so bravely to part with to your uncle! Think of your promise to Fritz.”
“When I made that promise, Fritz told me expressly that I might sell it only in order to help any one who was in great distress. Would not he have wished to help this poor woman and these children? That I am sure he would. Still it breaks my heart to part with Cressida: I can hardly bear to think about it: but I will do it.”
Adrienne ran up with her hoop at this moment, and her joy was unbounded when she heard that Maurice consented at last to sell Cressida to her for the ten pieces of gold. She kissed Maurice and she kissed the little horse. She clapped her hands and danced about with delight.
As soon as her expressions of joy had begun to subside Maurice said to her very seriously:—“I have one favour to ask of you.”
“What is it?”
“That when you get tired of Cressida you will not throw it aside, or give it to the first person who comes in the way, without knowing whether it is taken care of or not. The favour I ask is that you will just think of it, and care for it a little sometimes, even after it no longer amuses you.”
“Oh, yes, that I certainly will,” said Adrienne. “I’ll keep it myself as long as it’s in good condition; that is, till I break it, I mean; and when I have quite done with it, I won’t be so cruel as to throw it away, or give it to the first who asks me. No, you may be quite easy about that: I’ll tell you what I’ll do. When it’s broken, I’ll make it a present to the children of my nurse. They are great fat country children, with cheeks like rosy apples; but oh, so stupid! and not difficult to please, I assure you. If Cressida has lost two or three of its legs they will admire it all the same, and it will amuse them immensely.”
This picture of the probable future in store for the little horse was not calculated to comfort Maurice, whatever it was meant to do. Indeed he felt very much inclined to be off the bargain, and tears began to trickle down his cheeks.
If the actors in this scene had not been so engrossed with the matter they were discussing, they would certainly have noticed a rather old gentleman, who was walking up and down, with his hands behind him, at a few paces from where they stood, and who was evidently listening to all they said. At this moment, when Maurice was looking very unhappy—for his delight at helping this poor family did not prevent his feeling a sort of horror to think that Fritz’s wonderful mechanical work should pass into such bad hands,—just at this moment, the old gentleman came straight up to them, and spoke to Maurice.
What he said to Maurice, and what he did, are too important to the course of this story to come in at the end of a chapter; and I will reserve them for the beginning of the next. But I do not mind letting my little readers know at once that Adrienne did not have the horse after all.
PUZZLE-PAGE.
Here are six objects for you to find out, children; one begins with D, one with G, one with L, one with N, one with P, and one with Y.
THE SUMMER SHOWER.
It’s raining, it’s raining, so heavily, heavily,
The only dry place is just under the tree;
There let us scamper, so merrily, merrily,
Keeping together as close as can be.
Look at the rainbow, so glorious and wonderful,
Stretching its great arch far up in the sky,
While all around the clouds heavy and thunder-full,
Tinge fields and trees with their stormy red dye.
Look, how the hills are all purple behind us;
See, how the sky is all gloomy and black,
Francis and Willy, indeed you must mind us,
Rain is still falling—this moment come back.
Yes, on that side the bright sun is now shining,
Tinting the tops of the trees with its glow:
Raindrops and sunbeams, their splendours combining,
Colour the beautiful rainbow, you know.
Do you not hear how the heavy drops clatter
On the broad branches that cover us now?
We are not shorn, like the sheep, so no matter;—
See, how they shelter themselves near the cow.
Old Nurse, perhaps, is afraid of the thunder,
Guessing in vain where her children can be;
After such torrents of rain, she will wonder
To find us all dry ’neath the broad chestnut-tree.
TEASING TOM.
A little boy called Tom was very fond of teasing. He used to call—“Bo!” in the baby’s ear, and startle the poor little thing. One Sunday he pinned a pocket-handkerchief on to nurse’s back as she was going to church, and she thought people were admiring her when they looked back. Another day he put some bran into her teapot, and nurse wondered why her tea was not so good as usual. Then he got a frightful mask, and jumping out of a dark corner, with a howl, nearly frightened the nursery-maid into a fit.
One day there was a child’s party. It was sister Mary’s birthday. When the children were taking their seats at supper, naughty Tom went behind Mary just as she was sitting down, and pulled her chair away. Mary fell, and hit her head against the fender.
Poor Mary was seriously hurt, and for a minute or two she lay insensible. Then Tom was really sorry, and repented what he had done. For all that, though, he was well whipped, and sent off to school next day. I daresay you will agree with me that he deserved his punishment.
HERONS.
To-day our natural history picture shows three very funny long-legged birds; they look at first sight very like storks, but these birds are herons.
The heron, though much less common than in former days, still holds its place among familiar British birds, being occasionally seen on the banks of almost every river or lake. This bird is about three feet in length, the bill being longer than the head, and the wings when spread measure five feet across; with these large strong wings it can fly to a great height. The heron lives on fish, which it swallows whole, and in great numbers; it can neither swim nor dive, but it wades into the water as far as its long legs will carry it with safety, and stands there as still as if carved out of wood, with its long neck drawn in, and its head resting between the shoulders. It will watch with patience for hours till a fish or a frog comes within its reach, when it stretches out its long neck suddenly, and snatches up its prey with its sharp bill. It mostly prefers to stand under the shadow of a tree, bush, or bank; and from its perfect stillness, and the sober colour of its plumage, it seems often to escape the observation even of the fish themselves.
In old times in England, the sport called hawking, which consisted in the chase of herons by hawks or falcons trained for the purpose, was a very favourite one among both gentlemen and ladies. Young hawks procured from their nests in Iceland or Norway, and carefully trained, were of great value. The sport was generally enjoyed on horseback, and both ladies and gentlemen usually carried the hawks perched upon their wrists, the birds’ heads being covered with a hood till the moment came for letting them fly.
When the heron was discovered, he would soon become aware of the approach of the hawking party; and spreading his broad wings, and stretching out his long neck in front, and his long legs behind, would rise majestically in the air. Then the hawk’s hood was removed, and as soon as he caught sight of the heron, he was let fly in pursuit.
Now a hawk cannot strike unless it is above its prey, and the heron seems instinctively to be aware of this. It used to be thought a fine sight to see these two birds striving to rise each above the other. Round and round they went, wheeling in a succession of circles, always higher and higher. At length the hawk rose high enough to shoot down upon the heron. Sometimes he was received upon the long sharp bill of the latter, and simply spitted himself; but generally he would break the wing of the heron, or clutch him with beak and claws, when the two came fluttering down together.
This sport has now fallen into disuse, and English herons lead a peaceful life enough. There are some at the Zoological gardens, and I think you will laugh to see them standing there at the edge of their pond, with heads sunk between their shoulders, looking like long-nosed old gentlemen in pointed tail-coats.
AUNT TOTTY’S PETS:
COCO AND MARQUIS.
The next of her pets that Aunt Totty told us about were a mule and a dog.
“Yes, my dears,” said Aunt Totty, “Marquis was certainly a splendid animal; as large as a fine horse, as strong as a bull, and wonderfully fleet. We used to drive him about in a light two-wheeled carriage, a kind of cabriolet, which was the carriage most used in that part of France in those days. I must tell you that what I am going to relate happened when I was quite a little child, which of course is a long time ago, and we were living at the time in a chateau, or large country-house, in the south of France. There were large forests in that part of the country, and the house was a long way off from any town.
“Now, handsome and strong Marquis certainly was, but that was about all you could say in his favour, for he had a detestable temper. I hardly know why I call Marquis one of my pets, for we children were never allowed to drive him, hardly even to stroke him, lest he should kick or bite; and he was addicted to both these bad habits. Whenever he thought he had hurt anyone, or done mischief of any kind, you might see him shake all over, as if he was having a good quiet laugh all to himself. Once he succeeded in breaking the traces and getting free from the carriage: then he indulged in something more than a quiet chuckle, and fell to neighing or braying—for I hardly know which to call it—with all his might, till we were nearly deafened by the horrid noise. I remember another occasion, when he succeeded in upsetting the little carriage and breaking the shafts. My mother and I and the coachman were all thrown out. Luckily we were not much hurt; and while we were picking ourselves up, Marquis stood looking at us with an air of triumph, and amused himself by kicking up the dust with his hoofs till we were almost smothered.
“Marquis had, however, one tender place in his heart, and that was occupied by our dog Coco. Coco was a spaniel; no great beauty perhaps; but he was as good and amiable as Marquis was the reverse. How two creatures so unlike in disposition—one so good-hearted, the other so vicious—could have struck up such a friendship, I never could make out. If Coco went into the field where Marquis was grazing, the mule would run up to him directly, and I have even seen the two rub their noses together as if they were kissing. Coco had a comfortable bed in the kitchen, but he preferred at night going to sleep upon the straw in the little out-house which served as a stable for Marquis.
“The winter we were at the chateau happened to be unusually severe, and snow was on the ground for many days. It was always known that there were wolves in the forest, though they were rarely seen; but during the cold weather it was said that one or two had approached the village. One evening we were all sitting round the fire, Coco being in the midst of us, when he suddenly pricked up his ears, as if he heard a sound outside, and immediately rushed out of the room. Directly afterwards we heard a dreadful howling, and papa and the boys ran out to see what it was. They found Coco and a wolf waging a dreadful combat just outside the door of the shed where Marquis was kept. This was not the regular stable for the horses, and was rather separated from the other buildings of the chateau. On the approach of human beings the wolf ran off, but he had inflicted a mortal wound upon poor Coco, who was just expiring when his rescuers arrived. He died to defend his friend Marquis.”
COWSLIP GATHERING.
Merry time, when cowslips bloom;
Merry time, when thrushes sing;
Merry time, when wild rose sprays
Far abroad their branches fling.
Merry time for girls and boys,
When the cowslips first appear,
Gilding meadows with their cups,—
Happiest time of all the year!
When the bees, with busy hum,
Play amongst their golden bells,
And the butterflies are come—
All of joy and pleasure tells.
Happy children! roaming far,
Gather cowslips at your will;
Fill your baskets—fill them full—
Thousands will be left there still.
Oh! the joyous time of youth,
Like the spring-tide of the year;
Could it but, like cowslip-bells,
Come again each coming year!
MAMMA’S SUNDAY TALK.
MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR:
THE MAN WITH THE WITHERED HAND HEALED.
Our Saviour’s next miracle, after the miraculous draught of fishes which I described in our last Sunday talk, took place also at Capernaum, and consisted in healing the mother of the wife of Simon Peter the fisherman. Peter had become a disciple of Jesus, and indeed was soon afterwards created one of the twelve apostles. The Master often visited the house of His disciple; and one day on entering it, He was told that Peter’s wife’s mother lay seriously ill. Christ immediately went into the room of the sick woman; stood over her, and holding her hand, bade the fever leave her. She arose at once from her bed, perfectly well; not merely better; not weak, as people usually are on first recovering from a fever, but quite well. St. Matthew says of her:—“And she arose and ministered to them:” meaning that she was able to get up and attend to her household duties as usual.
Our Saviour now went down to Nazareth, where, as you know, my dear children, He was brought up, and where He had lived for many years unknown and in poverty. He there performed many wonderful miracles, healing the sick, and doing good to the poor or afflicted who came to Him. But you must not expect me to describe to you all His wonderful works of this kind; I shall tell you only of the most important, that you may learn the loving kindness and mercy of Him who “bore our sins and carried our sorrows.”
It often happened on the Sabbath, in the cool of the evening, that the sick were brought out on their beds or couches to Jesus to be healed. They were not brought till the sun was setting, for fear of breaking the commandment which forbids all manner of work on the Sabbath: but the Jewish Sabbath ending at the setting of the sun, people did not scruple to bring their sick to be healed by Jesus after that hour. And He healed all that were brought to Him.
But once on a Sabbath day, before the hour of sunset, a man came to Him for help. The hand of this man was withered and helpless, and he came to Christ hoping that He would heal it. We are told in the Bible that the Scribes and Pharisees watched Jesus to see whether He would heal on the Sabbath day, that they might find an accusation against Him for breaking the commandment. But Jesus knew their thoughts, and said to the man which had the withered hand: “Rise up and stand forth in the midst.” And he arose and stood forth. Then said Jesus unto them: “I will ask you one thing: Is it lawful on the Sabbath day to do good or to do evil; to save life or to destroy it?” And looking round upon them all, He said unto the man: “Stretch forth thy hand!” And he did so, and his hand was restored whole as the other.
Now our Saviour did not mean by performing this miracle to teach that the observance of the Sabbath should be lightly thought of. The teaching of our Lord and His example do not tend to lessen our reverence for this holy-day. But what He intended to show was that works of mercy are quite consistent with the holiness of the Sabbath, and that the Sabbath was intended for the advantage and happiness of mankind.
You would think that the gentle reproof of our Lord would have made these Scribes and Pharisees repent: but it was not so. They felt that they were put to shame before the people, and their rage and hatred against our Saviour increased. They felt that they could not stand before His teaching, even had this teaching not been sustained as it was by such signs and wonders. They were losing influence, and if Christ was allowed to go on, their own power would be gone.
Then the Pharisees and Scribes went and held council together against Jesus, consulting how they should destroy Him.
SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:
FRANK.
I think you would like to hear about a little friend of mine called Frank. That is, he was a little friend of mine, for he is grown into a man now; and though a friend still, he is by no means little, being above six feet high. However, what I am going to tell you of him occurred years ago.
Frank’s father died when he was quite young, and his mother, marrying again, went out to India; so it happened that he lived in London with his grandfather and grandmother. They, of course, were quite old people, and he was always very glad to spend a part of his holidays with some cousins at their house in the country, which was very near to where I lived. I was not quite grown up at that time, but I was so much older than Frank that he looked upon me as a very wise person, and one quite fitted to give him advice.
Now Frank had a great talent for drawing, and I think that was what drew us together, for I had a turn that way also. He used to sketch the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood; and, although he only sketched in pencil, he obtained good effects of distance, gave correctly the foliage of the different trees, and, above all, he seemed by natural genius always to choose just the subjects which formed a nice composition as a picture.
He was at this time about twelve or thirteen years of age, and whenever he talked to me about his own future, which he very often did, I could not help encouraging him to become an artist. His grandfather, I knew, had other views, and intended him to be a merchant, there being some advantageous opening for him in that way. Still I advised Frank at least to let his grandfather know how much he wished to be an artist, and to show him some of his sketches; “because,” as I said, “if he consents, it is time you should be put in the way of studying art properly.”
Well, Frank followed my advice. After spending his holidays in the country, he went to pass one day in town at his grandfather’s before going to school. In the evening after dinner, when he was sitting with his grandfather and grandmother, he suddenly broke out with:—
“Grandpapa dear, I want to be an artist.”
“An artist!” said grandpapa; “why, what fancy is this? I didn’t know you had a taste that way. Here, let me see if you can draw this.”
He placed before his grandson a small ancient vase, which he took from a glass case; for Frank’s grandfather, I must tell you, was a great collector of ancient things—relics, and curiosities.
Frank took his place at the opposite side of the table, and set to work. At last he brought the paper round to grandpapa. There was the vase, very fairly and correctly copied:—But I think I had better give you an account of what happened in grandpapa’s own words, as he told it all to me some time afterwards.
“The vase was well drawn, no doubt,” said grandpapa, “but after all it was nothing extraordinary; and I was giving the paper back to Frank, when I noticed that there was some drawing on the other side. Looking at it again, I saw two heads—mere sketches, but better likenesses I never saw. One was his grandmamma; there she was to the very life. The other—well, the other was a caricature, rather than a portrait, of me. I was made to appear ugly and ridiculous, instead of the good-looking old gentleman I am;” (He said this laughing) “still, it was a likeness, I confess. I tried to be angry, but laughed instead, and exclaimed: ‘Ah, Frank, Frank! you shall be an artist if you like; you certainly have talent, but you must turn it to better account than by making caricatures of your old grandfather.’”
Frank is now grown up, and has already obtained some fame as an artist. I saw two pictures of his at the Royal Academy exhibition the other day, which were admired and praised by everybody.
SPRING SHOWERS.
Moderato legato.
1.
While it patters, while it pours,
Little folks are kept indoors:
Little birds sing through the rain,
“Dreaming flowers, awake again!
From the damp mould lift your bloom;
Scent the earth with rich perfume.”
2.
See the flow’rets, one and all,
Answer to the cheery call;
Crocuses begin to thrill,
Violets thicken on the hill,
And the fields look sparkling bright,
With the clover, red and white.
3.
When it patters, when it pours,
Little folks are kept in-doors,
Looking through the window pane,
Covered o’er by drops of rain;
While its tinkling sound repeats,
“Blossoms crown the earth with sweets.”
DEER.
Look at that fine stag in the picture, keeping guard while the does and fawns are feeding! How watchful he looks, with his head erect; and how grandly his antlers spread out, as we see them against the soft twilight sky! Deer in their wild state are timid creatures; at least, they are very much afraid of human beings; and it is difficult to approach them. Shooting the wild deer in the Highlands of Scotland is considered excellent sport: it is called Deer-stalking. Large herds are to be found there among the mountains, but the greatest caution and skill are needed to get near enough to have a shot at them without being observed. Of course the deer we see in parks are comparatively tame: they are generally fallow deer; while those of the Highlands are a larger and stronger species, called red deer.
I daresay many of you little people who read this have been to Richmond park, and seen the herds of graceful fallow deer there. If you go up very gently to them perhaps they will come and eat bread out of your hand. At least I remember when I was a little girl, and passed a summer at Richmond, I succeeded once in making two young fawns come and share my biscuit with me. Shall I tell you how it happened?
One morning I had not learnt my lessons as well as usual; perhaps I had been watching the butterflies from the window flitting about in the sunshine instead of looking at my book; at any rate Miss Dobson, my governess, thought it necessary to punish me. Now I was too big to be put into the corner, being nine years old; and the mode of punishment she always adopted was to avoid speaking to me for an hour or so, and at the same time to put on an expression of face at once severe and sorrowful.
After school hours we went out for our walk in the park as usual, and, as I was an affectionate and very talkative child, you may suppose that Miss Dobson’s gloomy face and freezing silence made me very miserable. If I ventured upon a remark the answer never extended beyond “yes” or “no”; sometimes not even that. We had two great dogs, which generally went out with us on our walk; but when I was under punishment, even their companionship was not allowed.
At last Miss Dobson seated herself under a great oak, and began to read a book she had brought out with her. Then I wandered a little way off, picking the pretty wild flowers that grew amongst the fern. The birds were singing in the sunshine, the bees were humming, everything with life seemed to enjoy that life but me. Some deer were lying under the shadow of the trees not far away, and I observed that two pretty little fawns, standing nearer to me than the rest, were watching me. I had some biscuit in my pocket, intended for the dogs; and taking a piece in my hand, I walked up very softly to the little creatures. They looked at me, as I approached, with a frightened glance from their great dark eyes; but I fancy there must have been a sad and subdued expression in my childish face which took away from my appearance what might have terrified them, and on consideration they decided to remain.
Holding out the biscuit, I dropped it near them; then up jumped Mrs. Doe, and came forward to see what it was I offered to her children. I threw her a piece also, which she took and munched gladly, and the little ones followed her example. I cannot describe to you what a comfort it was to me in my trouble to find that these pretty creatures were not afraid of me, and did not shun me. I no longer felt solitary; no longer without friends or companions. Presently they took the biscuit from my fingers, and when I had no more to give them, they still thrust their soft noses into my little hand, and let me stroke them.
But my pleasure did not last long. A fine stag, the leader of the herd, who was lying in the midst of them, and who, I suppose, had been half asleep, seemed suddenly to become conscious of my presence, and took alarm. Jumping up, he bounded away, followed by the rest of the herd, and my two little friends went after the others.
Looking at them as they fled away from me, I felt more forlorn and solitary than ever, and tears came into my eyes. Presently Miss Dobson came up to me; she had been watching me from a distance, and now finding that I was crying, her manner changed, and she was very kind. In fact, my punishment was over for the time, and I think she began to find that it was a kind of punishment which I felt more than she intended.
Two legs sat upon three legs,
With one leg in his lap;
In comes four legs,
And runs away with one leg;
Up jumps two legs,
Catches up three legs,
Throws it after four legs,
And makes him bring one leg back.
DAME DUCK’S LECTURE.
Old Mother Duck has hatched a brood
Of ducklings small and callow;
Their little wings are short, their down
Is mottled grey and yellow.
One peeped out from beneath her wing,
One scrambled on her back:
“That’s very rude,” said old Dame Duck;
“Get off! quack, quack, quack, quack!”
“’Tis close,” said Dame Duck, shoving out
The egg-shells with her bill;
“Besides, it never suits young ducks
To keep them sitting still.”
So rising from her nest, she said,
“Now, children, look at me:
A well-bred duck should waddle so,
From side to side—d’ye see?”
“Yes,” said the little ones; and then
She went on to explain:
“A well-bred duck turns in its toes
As I do—try again.”
“Yes,” said the ducklings, waddling on:
“That’s better,” said their mother;
“But well-bred ducks walk in a row,
Straight—one behind another.”
“Yes,” said the little ducks again,
All waddling in a row:
“Now to the pond,” said old Dame Duck—
Splash, splash, and in they go.
“Let me swim first,” said old Dame Duck,
“To this side, now to that;
There, snap at those great brown-winged flies,
They make young ducklings fat.
“Now when you reach the poultry-yard,
The hen-wife, Molly Head,
Will feed you with the other fowls,
On bran and mashed-up bread;
“The hens will peck and fight, but mind,
I hope that all of you
Will gobble up the food as fast
As well-bred ducks should do.
“You’d better get into the dish,
Unless it is too small;
In that case I should use my foot,
And overturn it all.”
The ducklings did as they were bid,
And found the plan so good,
That, from that day, the other fowls
Got hardly any food.
PUZZLE-PAGE.
Here is a puzzle page for you. The names of two of these objects begin with C, one with L, one with P, one with R, and one with S. Now try if you can find them out.
A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.
CHAPTER V.
A MAN OF SCIENCE.—MAURICE PARTS WITH THE HORSE.—JOURNEY TO NICE.—RETURN HOME.—AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.
At the close of the last chapter I told you that an old gentleman had been looking on from a little distance, while Maurice and Adrienne were discussing the sale of the horse. At last the old gentleman came up to Maurice, and said,—
“Are you going to sell that little wooden horse, whose mechanism is so ingenious?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Maurice, crying while he spoke.
“You seem very sorry to part with it. Tell me exactly why you sell it.”
Maurice pointed to the poor family, sitting there against the railing of the garden; and related all that had passed.
“You are a good boy,” said the gentleman; “listen now: I also wish to help this poor woman. Will you let me join you in the good work? That will not make your merit the less.”
“Oh, I don’t think about my own merit,” said Maurice.
“You are right,” replied the gentleman; “charity does not think of self. I mean to say, if you would practise charity in a true and holy spirit, you must forget yourself completely. You are too young, perhaps, to understand all that; but if you remember my words, they will grow up in your mind as a young tree grows in a good soil. Now, as to helping this poor woman and her children: she wants two hundred francs, you say. I will give her half that sum from myself; and I will lend you another hundred francs, that you may give them to her on your own part. Then instead of selling your clever little horse to this young lady, you shall leave it with me for a time as security for the repayment of the hundred francs. Your mamma gives you money sometimes, I daresay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well; put aside all the money she gives you till you have got together a hundred francs. It won’t take you long. You must do without sugar-plums, and cakes, and many a toy that you would otherwise buy. In less than six months I have no doubt you will have the money. Let me see; this is the twelfth of February: we will fix the twelfth of August as the day when you will bring me the hundred francs and take back your horse.”
“But suppose I have not the money by that time?” urged Maurice.