Chapter VI: Part 6

By and by his friends thought it was time he went to school, he was growing so much stronger, though not well of his lameness; in fact, I believe that all his after life he walked with a stick. So to school he went, I dare say, with many misgivings; I dare say he wondered whether the boys would make fun of his lameness. I dare say he wondered what he should do with himself while they were running, and leaping, and playing all sorts of rough-and-tumble plays out of doors, and out of school hours. I dare say he dreaded, as do all children, the first day at a new school. I dare say he wondered whether the education he had picked up by bits, as his lame leg would let him, would pass muster at a big boys’ school; or whether he would be called “a dunce,” as well as “lame.” I don’t know that he thought any of these thoughts, but I shouldn’t wonder if he had. I suppose his grandpa, and his Uncle Robert, and his Aunt Janet all felt anxious, too; but, as it turned out, there was no great occasion for it, for he seemed quite well able, after he got there, to manage his own little affairs. In the first place, knowing that he couldn’t “rough it” much in the playground, and not liking, of course, to be left in a corner alone, he commenced telling such wonderful tales and stories, that the boys were glad to crowd round him and listen; and they were worth listening to; else the boys wouldn’t have staid, I can tell you. How they _would_ have stared, had they then been told that this lame fellow was destined to set the whole world by the ears by the stories he should write. Ah! you don’t know, you boys, what famous men you may be sharing your apples and cake with in the playground. You don’t know what a big man you may become _yourself_, only by being _his_ boyhood’s friend. How his future biographer will hunt you out, and catechise you about the color of his eyes, and hair, and the shape of his finger nails, and what he said, and did, and ate, and drank, and what he did like, and what he didn’t like; and it is very well you don’t know all this, because it would spoil your present fun and freedom; and it is very well “the master” don’t know “a genius” when he is boxing his ears, because they might _grow very long_ for the need of such discipline!

Well, like other boys, Master Walter was sometimes at the top, and sometimes at the bottom of his class. On one occasion he made a sudden leap to the top. The master asked the boys “Is _with_ ever a substantive?” All were silent, until the question reached Walter, nearly at the bottom of the class, who instantly replied by quoting from the book of Judges, “And Sampson said unto Delilah, ‘If they bind me with seven green _withs_ that were never dried, then shall I be weak, and as another man.’” Pretty keen! wasn’t it? The other boys twiddled their thumbs, and looked foolish, and he went to the top. I don’t believe his mother thought, when she read him the Bible, of his laying that text on the shelf of his memory, to be brought forth in that queer way. But a smart answer does not stand a boy in the place of hard study, as you may have found out if you ever tried it; so Master Walter found himself at the bottom of the class again one fine day. This didn’t suit the young man, and what suited him less was the fact that the boy who was at the head seemed to mean to stay there, too. Day after day passed, and nobody could get his place. Walter pondered deeply how he should manage. He looked sharply at him, to see if he could not accomplish by stratagem what he could not gain fairly. At length he observed that when a question was asked this—_at-the-top boy_—he always fumbled with his fingers at a particular button on the lower part of his waistcoat. _If Walter could only succeed in cutting off that button!_ He watched his chance—knife in hand. When that top boy was again questioned, he felt, as usual, for the friendly button. It was gone! He looked down for it; it was no more to be seen than to be felt. He stuttered—he stammered—he missed his lesson; and that wretched, roguish Walter took his place. But I can tell you he didn’t feel happy about it; for he says he never passed him but his heart smote him for it, though the top boy never knew who stole his _lesson button_. Scott says he often promised himself to make some amends for the boyish injury he did him; but he never did. Scott also says that when this boy grew a young man, he became a drunkard, and died early. That was a pity, though I don’t think it was on account of that button; do you? Still, Scott always wished all the more that he had not been unkind to the poor, unfortunate fellow.

You will be glad to know that Walter continued to grow stronger and stronger, so that his limb, though it disfigured, did not disable him. He had not been taunted with it in his childhood, like poor Byron, till he imagined everybody who looked at him thought of nothing else. He had been very, very kindly cared for, and tenderly nursed. Pity Byron was not, though I think he _never_ would have been half the man Scott was; but then, I’m “_only a woman_,” and you needn’t mind what _I_ say. Well, when Walter grew to be a fine young man, he was very fond of strolling off to see beautiful scenery, and when he once began these journeys, he never knew how fast time was passing, how far he had gone, and when and where to stop. Not knowing how to draw pictures of the places he visited with his pencil (he did not know then how beautifully his pen would do it some day), he resolved to cut a branch of a tree from every place which particularly pleased him, and label it with the name of the spot where it grew, and afterward have a set of chess men made out of the wood, as he was then very fond of this game, which, by the way, with a courtesy to Paul Morphy, I think a very stupid game; though perhaps this is because I never could sit still long enough to learn how to play it. This idea of Walter’s was a very pretty one, though he never carried it into execution. He never played chess after boyhood—saying that it was a sad “waste of brains;” and he might have added, a sad waste of backbone; at least for “Young America,” who has few enough outdoor sports now, to keep his breastbone and his backbone from clinging together.

Walter’s mother was very anxious he should learn music; but he declares he had neither voice nor ear for it. He says that, when the attempt was made to instruct him, and the music teacher came to give him lessons, a lady who lived in their neighborhood sent in “to beg that the children in that house might not all be flogged at the same hour, because, though, doubtless, they all deserved it, the noise they made was really dreadful!”

Walter’s mother appears to have been a very intelligent, kind-hearted, well-educated woman. Not educated according to our standard, exactly; since, at the age of eighty, when sitting down, she never touched the back of her chair any more than if the eye of the schoolmistress was then upon her, who used to force pupils “to sit upright.” She died before Walter came to be the “great unknown” whom everybody was wondering about. But, after all, what matters it, so far as she was concerned? since it is _love_, not greatness, for which a mother’s heart hungers; and Walter loved his mother.

After her death, among her papers was found a weak, boyish scrawl, with penciled marks still visible, of a translation in verse from Horace and Virgil, by “her dear boy Walter.” I said, just now, what mattered it to _her_ that he was famous? little, truly, so that he loved her; and yet, for _him_, for any one, to whom the world’s praises have come, ah, it is of the loved dead that they _then_ think?

With all his glory, with all his troop of friends, seen and unseen, I doubt if he was ever so happy as when lying at _her_ feet, wrapped in the warm sheepskin, in the little sunny parlor at Sandy Knowe. When you read his books—and it is a great thing to say that children _may_ read them—you will remember all these little stories I have been telling you about his childhood; and that, when he came to die, full of age and honors, _this_ is what he said to his son, as he stood by his bedside: “My dear, be a good man: be virtuous, be religious—be a _good_ man. _Nothing else will give you any real comfort when you come to lie here._”

AUNT MAGGIE.

Maggie More—that was her name; people who knew her well called her Aunt Maggie; this did not displease her; she was a sociable little body, quite willing to befriend anybody who felt the need of an aunt, or whom the world had used hardly. Maggie was not rich as we use the word, but she was rich in good health, in good temper, and a certain faculty of making the best of everything that happened. The little shop she kept would have made a Broadway storekeeper laugh. Well, let him laugh; he could afford to do it, if he never made a dishonest penny oftener than Aunt Maggie. _She_ never told a poor soul who had scraped a few shillings together to buy a calico dress, that “it would wash,” (meaning that it would wash _out_.) _Her_ yardstick never had a way of slipping, so that six yards and a half measured, when you got it home, but six yards. She never gave crossed sixpences and shillings to children who were sent to buy tape and needles; and so, as I told you, Aunt Maggie did not get rich as fast as they who do such things; but Maggie had read in a Book which the people I speak of seldom open, because, when they do, it is sure to prick their consciences—Aunt Maggie had read in that book, that “they who make haste to be rich shall not be innocent,” and she believed it. She had not yet outgrown the Bible; it did not lie on her little deal table merely to gather dust, or that the minister might see it when he called once a year. She did not think that, though the Bible was well enough for those who lived at the time it was written, it could teach her nothing at this day; she did not think it a proof of courage or of a superior understanding to make light of its blessed teachings. No, no, Aunt Maggie knew better; she had seen too many in her lifetime, who had talked that way when everything went well with them, sink down in despair when the waves of trouble dashed over them, and she had seen too many whom that blessed book had buoyed up through billows of trouble that rolled mountain high, not to cling to the Bible. No, no; Aunt Maggie was an old woman, but she was not yet old enough to let go her Heavenly Father’s hand, and try to walk alone. She knew how surely she should stumble and fall if she did.

Nor did Aunt Maggie’s religion consist merely in reading her Bible and going to church; when she read on its pages, “Visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction,” she did it.

“What is the matter, Aunt Maggie?” asked a bronzed sea captain, who had rolled into her little shop to buy a new watch ribbon. “This is the first time I ever saw you look as if there was a squall ahead. Got any watch ribbons, Aunt Maggie?—none of your flimsy things for an old sea-dog like me. Give us something that will stand a twitch or two—that’s it—take your pay—(throwing her his purse)—and mind you take enough—there’s nobody else wants it now”—and the old captain drew a long sigh.

“The Lord does,” answered Aunt Maggie, folding her arms on the counter, and looking earnestly in the captain’s face.

“What do you mean by that, hey? Has some Bible society run a-foul of you? Want a church built, to shut out everybody who don’t believe as you do, eh, Aunt Maggie?” and the old captain stowed away a bit of tobacco in his cheek, with a knowing look.

“It’s just here,” said Aunt Maggie—“the poor ye have always with you; that was said a great many thousand years ago, but it is just as true now.”

“I don’t know who should know, Aunt, better than you,” said the captain; “you who are always helping them. Go on.”

“Well, there’s a poor young creature who lies dead a stone’s throw from here, an English girl, whose husband brought her to this country, and then left her to take care of herself. I was with her all last night, and this morning she laid her little babe in my arms, and I promised to care for it when she was gone. Poor thing! she had her senses but a few minutes to tell me anything. Her parents, it seems, disinherited her for marrying her husband. She would not tell their name. She had pawned, one by one, every article in her possession, for money; and now, there’s the babe. God helping me, she shall be taken care of as I promised, but you know it’s little I have—and the mother must have decent burial.”

“English—did you say she was?” asked the captain.

“Aye—English,” said Aunt Maggie—“fair-haired and blue-eyed—the pride of some home. Oh! how little they, who must have loved her once, think how cold and desolate she lies now. It is well,” said Aunt Maggie, “that _God_ can forgive—when earthly parents turn away.”

“You don’t know what it is, Aunt Maggie,” said the captain, striding across the floor, “to have the child you loved better than your heart’s blood, leave your arms for a stranger’s, whom she has known mayhap but a day.”

“It must be bitter,” said Aunt Maggie, “and yet, year after year, we turn our backs upon Him who has done more for us than any earthly parent can. If He still feeds us, cares for us, forgives us, what are _we_ to——”

“True—true!” said the old captain, dashing his hand across his eyes; “this girl is English, you say?”

“Yes; and as you are English too, I thought mayhap you’d like to help a countrywoman; I am going to see to the babe now,” said Aunt Maggie; “mayhap you’d like to see it too?”

“Aye—aye,” replied the captain.

On they went, to the end of the long street—past grog shops, and pawn shops, and mock-auction shops, and second-hand furniture shops, and rickety old tenement houses, where ragged clothes flapped, and broken windows were stuffed with paper; where dogs barked and parrots screamed—for many of these poor people, who can scarcely keep themselves, keep these pets,—past young girls, homeless and shameless, alas!—past young men, old, not in years, but in sin—past little children, who only knew God’s blessed name to blaspheme it. At last Aunt Maggie turned down an alley, dark, narrow, and dingy, and entering one of the low doors, began to ascend the creaky stairs, that seemed swarming with children, of all sorts and sizes, dwarfed in the cradle by disease and neglect. When Aunt Maggie reached the top flight, she stopped before a door, through which came the faint wailing of a little babe, and the low lullaby of a woman’s voice. Upon the bed, opposite the door, lay the dead woman, with a sheet thrown over her face.

“Would you like to see her?” asked Aunt Maggie, turning to the captain. “’Tis a sweet face.”

“Yes—no,” answered the captain, turning away, and then advancing again toward the bed.

“Mary! Mary!” he cried, as the pale upturned face lay uncovered before him: “_my_ Mary _here_!” and he threw his arms around the neck of the dead girl, and trembled like the strong tree before the tempest blast.

“_His_ Mary!” murmured Aunt Maggie, taking the motherless babe from the old woman’s arms; “_his_ Mary—then this is his grandchild. Didn’t I say that the Lord would provide for the helpless?”

Yes, “_his_ Mary!” Death hides all faults. We only remember the goodness of those upon whose marble faces our tears fall fast; and so the old captain took his little grandchild to his heart, and Aunt Maggie left her little shop and became its nurse. And not till many years after, when the little babe had grown to be a tall girl, did Aunt Maggie tell her the story that I have been telling you.

A FUNERAL I SAW.

I have been to a funeral to-day. It was in a church;—I had to pass through a garden to reach it;—the warm rain was dropping gently on the shrubs and early flowers, and inside warm tears were falling; for before the chancel lay a coffin, and in it was a fair young wife and mother, pale and sweet as the white flowers that lay upon the coffin-lid. Near it was her husband, and beside him were her aged parents, bowed down with grief that she who they thought would close their fading eyes, should fade first. In a house opposite the church, were the dead mother’s babe, only a few days old, and two other little ones, just old enough to prattle unconsciously as they went from room to room, “Mamma has gone away.” I knew, though they did not, how day after day would pass, and these little girls, who had always seen mamma _come back again_, after she had “gone away,” would stand at the window, looking this way and that, with their little bright faces, and listening for her light footstep; and my heart ached and my eyes filled as I thought how every day, as they grew older, they would need her care and feel her loss the more; for it is only in part that a father, even the kindest, can fill a watchful mother’s place;—he, whose business must be out of doors and away; how can he know how weary the little feet get wandering up and down, with no mamma’s lap to climb upon; how weary the little hands,—putting down one thing, and taking up another, with no mamma to nod smilingly and say, “I see”—or “it is very pretty, dear;” how homesick the little rifled heart feels, though it scarce knows why; how tasteless the pretty cup of milk mamma used to hold to the rosy lips; how empty parlor and nursery, chamber and hall? How much less gentle is nurse’s touch than hers; how much sooner she wearies of answering little curious questions, and getting bits of string and toys for restless fingers to play with; how much longer seems the time now, before papa comes home to dinner and tea,—poor papa—who, with an iron hand, crushes down his own great sorrow and tries and fails to speak to them in _her_ soft, sweet, winning way; and tries and fails to soothe their little insect griefs, though he would die to save them a heart-pang.

All this I thought of as I looked at these two little curly-headed girls and their baby sister; and I said to myself, I do not know why God took away their young mother, whose work just seemed begun, and left the aged grand parents who were waiting to go. Why he made that house desolate and silent, once so musical. Why he turned those tender lambs out from that soft, warm fold. With all my thinking I could not find that out; but I am just as sure, as if I could, that He did it in love, not in anger; I am just as sure as if I were in Heaven this minute, that it was best and right; though they, and you, and I, must wait till we get there to know the how and why.

WATCHES.

Every urchin has had the little gilt toy-watch that is always at half-past seven o’clock. Who should attempt to convince its happy possessor that it did not keep good time, or it was not the exact counterpart “of father’s,” would be trespassing upon the good old proverb, that where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise. Next to this comes the silver watch, which “goes;” _really_ goes; and which is susceptible of being wound up by its short-jacketed owner, on his way to school, to drive some non-watch-possessing boy to the verge of distraction. The manner in which this watch is alternately set forward and allowed to run down at the caprice of its owner, is known only to anxious parents, whose entreaties in favor of a more systematic mode of treatment, and whose threats of taking it away, go into one ear only to go out at the other. Then there is the Ladies’ Lilliputian watch; the dear little mite, perhaps set around with diamonds. This dear little mite, so pretty to look at, with its curious chatelaine of little trinkets, dangling at the belt. Time would fail to tell how often it is unnecessarily inspected in omnibuses, cars, and ferry-boats; in shops, and places of amusement, and on the public promenade; and how dainty looks the jeweled forefinger of the owner, as the obedient lid obeys the touch on the spring. All this is interesting till it gets to be an old story; till all its owner’s lady-friends have commented approbatively or despairingly upon it as the case may be. Then, it is occasionally left on the sofa, or piano, or mantel, over night, instead of nestling in its soft-cushioned box in the drawer, as at first; or it is dropped on the hearth, or it is left hanging for days in the watch-pocket of some one of the many dresses in the closet, until a speedy visit to the watchmaker’s seems essential to its restoration to activity.

The watchmaker smiles as he examines it; he has seen “ladies’ watches” many a time, and oft. He understands without explanation why it don’t “keep as good time as my husband’s,” or “my brother Tom’s watch;” he keeps his gravity when he is asked if hanging it up, or wearing it, is most conducive to its health, or if it can possibly be that its galloping one time and standing still at others is owing to a defect in the machinery. He smiles blandly; advises leaving it on a short visit; has the hands pointed right, and the case polished up with chamois-skin and rouge; and restores it to its dainty owner, always with the proper charge for its board and lodging, with a suppressed grin.

Next comes the “presentation watch,” which is often seen on exhibition at the show-windows of Topaz and Brothers; a massive showy affair, bought by some public person, _to give to himself_, or herself, through this flattering medium. The uninitiated stand gaping, gazing, wondering and coveting, through the glass windows, as they read the laudatory inscription. Bless ’em, they will be wiser, if they live long enough.

Then there is Papa’s watch, which was “never known to go wrong,” no more than its owner; oh no! Other clocks, other watches may point where and as they like; _his_ is the only infallible. Biddy, the cook, may quote the kitchen clock till she is black in the face to bear her out in serving the family meals at just such a moment; her retort of, “and sure didn’t the masther set the kitchen clock his own self,” avails her nothing, while _that_ oracular watch is five minutes ahead of it.

Then there is grandpa’s lumbering, great, old-fashioned, silver watch; with a great big cornelian seal hanging to the silver chain; grandpa laughs to scorn all the flibbertigibbet inventions of modern days; he tells how _that_ watch was worn by his brave grandsire at the battle of Bunker Hill; yes, sir; and shows a place where a bullet _should_ have spoiled it, if it didn’t; so narrow was the escape. Grandpa has left that watch in his will to his favorite grandson; and never dreams, poor old man, that he will very likely use it to pay off some foolish debt, one of these degenerate days.

Lastly, there is the matron’s solid, sensible, gold watch; worn for use, not show, on a simple black cord about the neck; unless when it hangs over the toilet-table while she is changing her dress. Examine it closely, and you will see numerous little indentations in the case. Not for worlds would she have them removed, by any jeweler who ever polished a diamond. Sometimes she sits in her nursery, with that watch in her hand, passing her finger slowly over those indentations, while warm tears drop over them; for little Johnny—whose little frocks lie folded away, and may never more be worn—little Johnny made those places, with the pained teeth which caused at last the cruel death-spasms. How many times she has sat with him on her knee, holding that watch between his lips, and hearing the grit of those two little front teeth upon it. She remembers the very morning she first discovered that those little pearly treasures had found their way through the swollen flesh; and she remembers how papa was called, and the watch put between the coral lips, that he too might hear the wonderful sound; and she remembers how baby laughed; and how rosy his cheeks were, that morning; and how they both kissed him; and how——but dear, dear! the tick of that watch is the only music in the nursery now.

OLD ZACHARIAH.

Did you ever see Zachariah Tubbs? No, of course you haven’t; he was not a man you’d be likely to notice; you, who take off your hat so killingly to a dainty French bonnet; you who make way for old Lorenzo Dives, the fat, wealthy old whited sepulchre of a banker; of course you never saw Tubbs. Tubbs didn’t belong to “your set.” Tubbs was a hale old man who believed carriages were for sick folks, and legs were to walk with. Tubbs never ran away with another man’s wife, nor got drunk, nor cheated his neighbor. How should _you_ know Tubbs?

Sunday after Sunday his shiny bald head came into church, with its fringe of snow-white hair; the ruddy hue of his cheek deepening and deepening as he grew older. There he was in his place, forenoon and afternoon, singing as only those sing, who have learned to say lovingly and filially “Our Father;” he, and the children God had given him,—a good round dozen—girls and boys,—half and half—“not one too many,” as the old man said every time a new name was registered in the Family Bible; Sally’s and Mary’s and Jenny’s and Helen’s; Tommy’s, Charley’s, Billy’s, and Sammy’s; all of them free to chop up the piano for kindling wood if they chose, and that perhaps was the reason they _didn’t_ choose. I don’t think the old man ever thought of the phrase “family government;” but for all that he had a way of laying his hand on little heads, that was as soothing as the “hop” pillows, which country ladies use to hurry up their naps with. One after another the girls grew up to maidenhood and womanhood, and one after another married, and left the old homestead for houses of their own; throwing their arms round the neck of the good old man as they went, but still, with a world of love and pride in the tearful glance which rested the next minute on the husband they had chosen. Ah me—! one after another they all came back, doubled and trebled, to lay their heads again under the old roof-tree, where they could never know again the lightsome, care-free dreams of girlhood.

Not a complaint, not a reproach for their misfortunes (for such things _have_ been) from the silver-haired old patriarch. He, smiling, blessed them all the same, rising up and sitting down, going out and coming in—they and theirs; that they were poor and desolate built up no separating wall between him and them. A few more chairs at the hearth—a few more loaves on the table—that was all. There was enough and to spare in that father’s house, for their tastes were simple, and the morning and evening prayer went up on as strong wings of faith as if no cloud had settled on the fair, matronly faces about him.

The boys? oh, yes, the boys; well, they outgrew jackets, and went into longtailed coats and “stores.” Business fought shy of them. I suppose, because they were too honest to cheat; but the old man said, “Never mind; try again, boys; there’s always a place for you here, when things go awry.” And things did go awry; and one after another the boys came home too, till they could “turn round again.” Never a wrinkle more on the smooth white forehead of Zachariah—never a smile less on his placid face; no frownings and fidgetings and pshawings when little feet pattered loudly in parlor and hall; some on his shoulders, some on his knees, some at his feet; _still_, “not one too many,” and each, as he said, worth a thousand dollars apiece; and Heaven knows they cost him that, first and last; but he was not a man to remember it, as he sat in their midst, with his spectacles on his nose and his Bible on his knee, reading all the precious promises garnered there, for just such as he. “It is all right,” he said at the altar; “It is all right,” he said over the coffin; “It is all right,” he said, when he folded his worse than widowed daughters to his warm, fatherly heart.

Ah! laugh at this good old man’s Bible if you like; I know it is the fashion; it is considered smart and knowing, and all that, to put out the sun, and try to grope through the world by one’s own little glimmering taper. Wait a bit—till your feet stumble on the dark mountains; till the great cry of your agony goes up to that God, whom, loading you with blessings, you yet reject and disown; like the willful son, who, in the lordly pride of new-fledged manhood, turns contemptuously from the mother who will never cease to love him; and yet—and yet—_his first great sorrow finds him with his head on her breast_.

LITTLE GERTRUDE.

And so you are “sorry it is Sunday.” That is a pity. I would like to make Sunday the pleasantest day of the whole week to you. I should not require you to sit still with your hands folded. I could not do that myself, so I am sure I should not expect it of a restless little child. I should not make you read all day, because I should know you would get too weary to understand what you were reading; I should be almost sure, when my eye was off you, or my back turned, that you would pull a string out of your pocket to play with, or tie your handkerchief up in knots, or fall asleep. I should expect if I did so that you would say, “I am sorry Sunday has come.” I know that a great many very good people think very differently from me about these things; but I can’t help thinking, when I hear their children say, “I am sorry Sunday has come,” that _I_ am more right than _they_. Let me tell you a story:

Gertrude’s father was dead. He loved Gertrude better than anything in the world except Gertrude’s mother. He was never weary of her—never too tired with business to kiss her when he came home. On Sunday he took her on his knee, and told her how cunning little Moses looked in his little cradle in the bulrushes, where his mother had placed him, hoping that the king’s daughter would take him for her own baby, and so keep him from being killed like the other little Hebrew babies; and then Gertrude would ask him all sorts of questions about it, and clap her little hands when the king’s daughter did take him and chose his own dear mother (though she did not know her to be his mother) to be his nurse. And then Gertrude would wonder how this nurse could possibly keep from telling little Moses, when he got big enough to understand her, that she _was_ his own mother; and then she would say, “Oh, papa, I know they _did_ have nice times when nobody was by to see the poor Hebrew mother kiss her own baby.”

Well—when they had done talking about that, Gertrude’s father would tell her of the Syrian maid who cured the sick prophet; and the story of Daniel, and the story of the ravens who fed Elijah; and then by and by the bells would ring for church, and Gertrude would take hold of her father’s hand and walk along with him past the beautiful fields, where the tall grass waved, and the little ground-bird built her nest, and down the winding grassy road, under the shady oaks, and elms, and maples, round whose trunks the sweet brier and wild grape climbed, and then Gertrude would stop to pick the wild roses; and her Papa did not tell her it was “wicked” or wrong to gather flowers on Sunday, but he would tell her to bring him a clover blossom, or a daisy, or a rose, and show her how different they were one from the other in shape, color and perfume, and yet how beautiful was each; and then he would show her the dew-drops strung upon the blades of grass glistening in the sunlight; and the contented cattle, their tired necks relieved from the heavy yoke, lying in the shade, thanking God for Sunday _by enjoying it_, teaching us a dumb lesson, which we should do well to learn, always keeping in mind that we have souls, while they have not. Well—then Gertrude and her Papa went into church. Gertrude liked the singing very much; her Papa sung beside her, and sometimes after looking cautiously round, for she was a timid little thing, she would sing softly too, her little finger moving along the line of the hymn they were singing. Gertrude did not understand all the sermon, her Papa did not expect that she would, but he always took her to church half a day, because the minister never forgot that little children had souls, and always had something to say to them in every sermon. After church, when Gertrude skipped along home like a little kid, by his side, her father did not think it a sin, or say “sh—sh”—when she gave a merry little laugh because God had made the world so fair and given her so much love and happiness that she could not possibly keep it all pent up in her little heart; not he—he patted her pure uplifted forehead, and the world seemed very fair to him too, and Sunday very blessed.

Gertrude’s father has blessed Sabbaths still—but not on earth; and little Gertrude, with her warm trusting heart, has passed from his pleasant smile, and sheltering arms, over the threshold of a strange, cold home. Sunday comes and goes to little Gertrude, but oh how wearily! They who have the care of her think that God is pleased with long faces, and so Gertrude is placed in a chair after breakfast Sunday morning, and forbidden to stir till the bell rings for church; she may not step out on the piazza to see God smile on the green earth; she may not enjoy the blue sky, or bright flowers, which he has spread out to make the Sabbath “a delight;” she must fix her eyes on a book, and read—read—read—till her brain reels, and then she goes to church morning—afternoon—evening—till at last _she_ too has learned to say, “I am so sorry ’tis Sunday.”

THE FAITHFUL DOG.

We all know that animals have no souls, and yet it is sometimes hard to believe it, when they give, as they often do, such proofs of intelligence. I am very sure that I have been as much attached to a dog or a horse, which has been my constant companion, as I have to human beings. And, after all, who more human than they? what beautiful examples they have set us of constancy, of patience, and of kindness to those who have injured them.

Listen, while I tell you a story of a dog belonging to an English nobleman. The farmers in the neighborhood of this gentleman complained to him that the dog frightened their flocks; and one of them finding a dead lamb, one day, brought it in his arms to the nobleman, accusing the dog of the murder. The nobleman had no proof that his dog killed the lamb; but, as he was just about starting upon a long journey, and not wishing either to take the dog with him, or leave him behind to the angry farmers, he said to his servant, pointing to the dog, who lay upon the carpet, “Take that dog, after I have gone, and give him away to somebody at a distance, that these farmers may not be finding fault with him, and troubling me when I come back.” He then left the room. The dog, who understood, at least, the tones of his master’s voice, and the glance of his eye, if nothing else, waited till he heard his footsteps die away, and then immediately took leave of the house, and all it contained, and started off by himself. In the evening, the nobleman, not seeing the dog about as usual, asked his servant if he had disposed of him. The servant said he had not, and spent an hour to no purpose, in searching for him. All the servants were questioned, but none knew anything of the dog; and they, together with the nobleman, came to the conclusion, that the angry farmer who had imagined that he had killed his lamb, had killed him out of revenge.

About a year after this, the nobleman, who was journeying with his servant in Scotland, being overtaken by a storm, took shelter in a very poor inn, quite away from the main road. As the storm kept increasing, he concluded to stay all night. The landlord and his wife looked strangely at each other, when he told them this, and the maid servant who spread the cloth for his supper seemed quite disconcerted. “She is evidently not accustomed to wait upon lords,” said the nobleman to his servant, “and is awkward and embarrassed, you see, in consequence.”

He ate with a good appetite the plain fare that she set before him, and was still seated at the table, when the door was pushed open and in came—a dog—_his_ dog,—the very dog he thought had been killed by the farmer. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed to his servant, “my dear old dog;” and he stretched out his hand to pat him. But the dog, after looking long and earnestly at his master, shrank away from him, and took the first opportunity to go out of the room; but still took his station on the outside, as if watching for something. Of the dog’s history, the nobleman learned from the hostler, that he had followed some travelers there, and being very foot-sore and weary, remained there when they went away, and had been there ever since; “and,” added the hostler, “he is as harmless a dog as ever lived.” By and by the nobleman went up to his chamber; when he got to the top of the stairs, the dog sprang before him, with a fierce growl, and planted himself between his old master and the door, as if to prevent his entrance. The nobleman patted him, calling him by the kind old names he used to like, and the dog licked his hand, as if to say, “oh yes, I remember them all;” but still he stood before the door to prevent his master from going inside.

Then the dog, still looking at his master, moved in advance a few paces, would go down one stair, then run back, and tug at his master’s clothes with the greatest violence; then rub his face fondly against his master’s side, and whine and coax, trembling all the while with agitation and excitement.

“One would suppose, by the behavior of my dog, that there was something wrong about this house,” said the nobleman to his servant.

The servant looked anxious, but only said, “I wish we had not come here, your honor.”

“There is no help for it now,” said his master; “the storm is perfectly furious, so I’ll make the best of it and go to bed. We have pistols, if there’s mischief brewing; you sleep, I suppose, in the little room near mine.”

During this conversation, the dog seemed very uneasy, and when the servant left the room he ran to the door, looking back, as if hoping his master would go too; and when he advanced a few steps, he jumped up and down as if beside himself with joy; but, upon finding that he only did it to close the chamber door, he hung his head, and looked as disconsolate as he had just before looked delighted.

His master could not help observing all this, but he felt determined not to give way to his fears. The dog chose a particular part of the room to lie down in, and no entreaties could get him away from that spot. So the nobleman got into bed, and after listening awhile, and hearing nothing but the storm, and being wearied with his journey, fell asleep.

He did not sleep long, for the dog kept pacing about the chamber, sometimes coming close to the bed-curtains, and sometimes whining piteously, and seeming not at all comforted even when his master’s hand patted him so kindly. Again his master fell asleep; but he was soon roused by his faithful four-footed watchman, whom he heard scratching violently at the closet-door, and gnashing his teeth, and growling furiously. His master jumped out of bed and listened; the storm had ceased, so that he heard distinctly every noise. The dog was still trying to force a passage into the closet with his paws, and not being able to do so, attempted with his strong teeth to gnaw at it mouse-fashion.

There is no doubt the mischief, whatever it may be, is in that closet, thought the nobleman; yet it was impossible to open it, because, after forcing the lock, it was found secured on the inside.

A slight rapping was now heard at the chamber door, and the servant whispered through the key-hole—“For mercy’s sake, my lord, let me in.” The nobleman, taking his pistols in his hand, went to the door and opened it.

“I have never closed my eyes,” said the servant; “all seems quiet up stairs and down, but why does that dog keep up such a furious barking?”

“That’s just what I mean to know,” replied his master, bursting in the closet door. The moment the dog saw that, in he rushed with his master and the servant; but unfortunately, just then the candle went out, so that they could see nothing, though they heard a rustling noise at the farther end of the closet, and the nobleman thought best to fire off one of his pistols, by way of alarm; as he did so, the dog uttered a piercing cry, and then a low groan.

“It is not possible I have killed my brave dog my noble defender!” said the nobleman mournfully. He started for a light, and met the landlord coming with one in his hand, which he snatched from him without answering any of his questions; the landlord followed; and giving one glance at the closet, exclaimed to his attendants, who were behind him, “It is all over.”

Well, without horrifying you with particulars, the amount of the matter was, that a door led from that closet out into the stable yard; that through that door, up into the closet, and then into the chamber, the bad landlord had entered, and killed a traveler for his money, just before the nobleman arrived. He had then hurriedly thrust the bloody body into a sack and thrown it into that closet, intending when the nobleman went to sleep to take it away, and then murder him also. But the dog was too keen for him. It made no difference to the dog, that the master, whose life he wished to save, had once turned him, a petted favorite, out of doors. The dog remembered not that he had injured him, but that he was still his master, and was once kind to him, and by every sign, _except_ speech, had he entreated him not to sleep in that room.

The wounded dog, after the discovery, licked his master’s hand, as if to say, “I have saved your life, now I am willing to die.”

You can imagine the feelings of his master as he afterward bound up his wounds, and when the innkeeper and his accomplices were handed over to justice, how tenderly he carried the dog in his arms till he reached his home; how the nobleman’s wife and children hugged and petted him, and made a soft bed for his wounded limb; and how the tears came into their eyes, whenever they thought how generously he had taken his revenge for being turned out of doors. Ah, it will not do for us to call those “_brutes_” whose daily lives put ours to shame!

One thing more, how surely the Eye that never sleeps, brings hidden wickedness to justice! and what humble agents, as in this case, are sometimes employed to do it, and how often those wretches who plan a murder or robbery with such wonderful skill, yet after all, overlook some little thread which they have left behind, which the law seizes hold of, and winds round their throats. Ah! it is only _in seeming_ that sin prospers.

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

TO THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WRITES FOR MY INTERCESSION IN HER FAVOR,
“BECAUSE HER MOTHER DOES EVERYTHING AS I SAY.”

Does she? Then I must be very careful what I say. I have had many letters from little girls, whose bright eyes I never shall see, begging me to say this, that, or the other thing, in print, that their mammas may see it, and so grant them the favors they desire. Now I don’t like to come between a mother and her own little girl. I should not allow any one to do that to me. I think I know more about my little girl than any one else can possibly know. I watch her closely, I know all her faults and all her good points, and I think I understand how to deal justly with both, though I may be mistaken. I have never “forbidden her to read tales or stories,” as you say your mother has you, because I think children should be allowed to read them at proper times, when they are good and innocent, no matter how “startling” and “wonderful” they may be. Studying is dry work, though necessary, and most schools, as now conducted, inexpressibly tedious to a restless, active child; and after school hours are over, and a good dinner has been eaten, and a brisk run has been taken out of doors for exercise, I think it does a child good to read a nice, bright story. I often bring storybooks to my little girl, and when I find any interesting anecdote in a big book I am reading, I turn down the leaf, that she may read it too, and we often talk it over, and sometimes she thinks very differently from me about it, and then I like to get at her reasons for doing so; and often she will use a big word to express herself that I doubt she knows the meaning of, although she has used it quite correctly, and when I say, “Now, what does that big word mean?” she says, “Oh, I can’t tell you, _but I know it fits in there_;” and so it does. Now I think this makes home pleasant for her, and I always fancy she is more willing to go back to her books and her lessons after it.

Now perhaps it is _your_ fault that your mother has denied you “tales and stories.” It may be that you not only neglect your lessons altogether for them, but your home duties also—for even little girls can and ought to help their mothers at home in a thousand ways. Suppose you try getting your lessons, and doing whatever she wishes at home and at school, and then see if she is not willing you should read good, innocent stories. I think she would be, for every mother knows that _her_ household duties go on much more smoothly and pleasantly if she occasionally takes a walk, or visits a friend, or reads a pleasant book, and surely this must be true of a little girl, after sitting many hours in a schoolroom, repeating words which often convey no ideas to her mind, sometimes because the teacher only makes it more misty when he tries to explain it; mamma, perhaps, thinking it is the teacher’s business, and the teacher thinking it is mamma’s fault, when the child complains to either; sometimes because the little brain is so overtasked, that its owner settles down into listless discouragement; sometimes because the air of the schoolroom is so bad as to stupefy both teacher and scholar. I often wish that when teachers see their pupils’ cheeks flush, and their heads droop, they would stop study, and read some interesting book aloud for half an hour. I am very sure that their scholars would study all the better after it. I don’t think a good story at proper times hurts any girl or boy. Childhood craves it, and, _I_ think, should have it, and I hope many good men and women will continue to keep up the supply for them, and I hope that no little child, because I say this, will be so foolish as to think that eating cake _all_ the time is better than to live on bread, and eat cake _occasionally_, for it is labor, after all, that sweetens amusement, when we feel and know that we have earned it. You know you can’t play all your life. You can’t read storybooks always. One of these days you must be an earnest woman, take care of your own house, tend your own little baby, who will look straight into your eyes and believe everything _you_ tell it, right or wrong, as if God himself were speaking. This is very sweet, but it is very solemn too; you must prepare for this, and one way is _never to neglect duty for pleasure_. Labor first—amusement afterward.

THE NURSE’S DAY OUT.