Chapter VII: Part 7

We all know that “nobody is to blame” when a railroad accident occurs. The same is true of waking up a baby. Mothers know what delicate management is often required to lull baby to sleep. How many tunes have sometimes to be hummed, how many walkings up and down the floor, how many trottings, how many rockings, how many feedings, before this desirable event comes off. At last the little lids give promise of drooping, the little waxen paws fall helpless, the little kicking toes are quiescent, mamma draws a breath of relief, as she pushes her hair off her heated face, and baby looks as if nothing on earth could ever disturb its serenity. Won’t there? Tramp, tramp, tramp, comes the baby’s papa up stairs with a pair of creaking boots. Mamma rushes to the nursery door, with warning forefinger on her lips and an imploring “John, dear, the baby! it is the nurse’s day out—pray don’t wake her up.” “John, dear,” true to his sex, creaks on, and argues this wise, “My dear, I’ve often noticed that it isn’t _that_ kind of noise that ever wakes baby.” Of course, mamma is too much of a woman not to know that a _man is never mistaken_ even with regard to a subject he knows nothing about; but it strikes her that sometimes strategy is a good thing; so the next day she places his slippers below stairs in a very conspicuous and tempting position, trusting that his tired feet may naturally seek that relief. I say _naturally_, because she knows that he would as soon thrust his feet into two pots of boiling water as put them in those slippers, if he thought the idea came from a _female_ mind, so naturally does the male creature hedge about his godlike dignity. Well, the baby is quieted and patted down again; when in comes its aunty, and begins to brush the lint off her dress with a stiff scraping sound. To a remonstrance she replies, “Just as if _that_ noise could wake up baby;” and while she yet speaks, up go the little fat hands in the air, and the eyelids struggle to unclose, and mamma begins humming again “Yankee Doodle” or “Old Hundred,” saucy or sacerdotal, no matter which, it is all the same to Morpheus. This accomplished she creeps on tiptoe away from the bed, congratulating herself that _now_ certainly she can get a breathing spell and time to change her morning dress. Just then “dear John” appears again, and wants something; a bit of string, or a bottle, maybe, but whatever it is, he is sure it is on the top shelf in the closet of that room; and though he is not going to use it immediately, he wants it _found_ immediately because—he _wants_ it! and because, though “impatient woman can never wait an instant for anything,” man is very like her in that respect, though he don’t see it. So the search is instituted, and down tumbles one thing and then another off the shelves, rattling and rustling and bumping, and finally it is discovered that “the pesky thing” isn’t there, but is down in the kitchen cupboard; this piece of information dear John conveys to his wife in a shrill “sissing” whisper, “because a whisper,” he says, how loud soever, “never yet woke up a baby!”

Just then the large violet eyes unclose and the little mouth dimples into a pretty smile of recognition, and “dear John,” whose attention is called to it, exclaims, peeping into the crib, “Well now, who’d have thought it?” and creaks off down stairs after his bottle or ball of string as calm as a philosopher; and then asks his wife at dinner “if she has mended that lining in his coat-sleeve that he spoke about at breakfast time.”

SWEET SIXTEEN.

Poetically, it is very well. Practically, I object to it. Has it ever “a decent dress,” although the family seamstress works from morning till night of every day in the year, taking in and letting out, lengthening and shortening, narrowing here and widening there? The very first day a new dress is worn, don’t “sweet sixteen” tear it, and that in a most conspicuous place, and in the most zig-zag manner? _Could_ she “help it,” when there is always a protruding nail or splinter lying in wait purposely for her, which by no foresight of hers could be walked round, or avoided? Don’t the clouds always seem to know when she has on a new bonnet, and the mud when she wears new gaiters? And when she wants her umbrella at school, isn’t “the nasty thing” always at home, and when she needs it at home, is it not always perversely at school? Don’t “sweet sixteen,” when she takes a notion to sit down and sew, always locate herself by the side of the bed, which she sticks full of needles, and going her way straightway forgetteth, till roused by the shrieks of punctured sufferers? Don’t “sweet sixteen” always leave the street door open, and the gas in her room burning at high pressure all night? Does she ever own a boot-lacing, or a pin, or a collar, although purchases of these articles are made for her continually, if not oftener? Isn’t her elder sister always your “favorite,” and was she ever known to like her breakfast, dinner or supper, or prefer wholesome food to sweet and dyspeptic messes? Is she ever ready to go to bed of a night, or get up of a morning? Don’t she always insist on wearing high heels to her boots, which are constantly putting her feet where her head should be? Don’t she always, though consulted as to the hues and make of her garments, fret at the superior color and fit of those of Adelina Seraphina Elgitha Smith’s? And finally, although she has everything she wants, or thinks she wants, isn’t everything, and everybody, “_real mean, and so there!_”

SITTING FOR MY PORTRAIT.

The other day I was riding in an omnibus, when it got too full by one little girl, whom I offered to take on my lap, as the mother had her arms full of parcels. She sat for a moment on my knee with her finger in her mouth, and head turned shyly away. Then she made up her little mind to look round in my face, and see whether or no she would continue to stay with me. I declare that I awaited that scrutiny as bashfully as ever a timid lover did his maiden’s answer. I actually felt the blood rushing up to my cheek, as the clear blue eyes looked searchingly into mine, as if God himself were asking, “Lovest thou me?”

Then the little thing turned her head away again, but not till she had given me a warm, bright smile, by which I knew that her heart knew no fear of me. I did not speak, because we understood each other; I waited as one waits near a bush upon which a little humming bird has alighted—fearful lest a breath should disturb it. By and by she gave a careless glance out the omnibus window, and says—by way of encouraging me—“There’s horses out there.”

“Yes,” said I.

She waited a few minutes longer—then finding me still apparently bashful—she says—

“There’s shops out there.”

“Yes,” said I again.

Then she waited another while—and then turning her cunning little face full upon me as if determined to _make_ me speak, she says—

“_Ain’t_ there many _peoples_ out there?”

Now you may laugh—but that child’s favorable verdict, after looking at me so intently, gave me more pleasure than I know how to tell you; had she jumped down off my lap—I shouldn’t have dared to face my looking-glass that day, lest some hateful passion, born of the world’s strife, had written its satanic “Get thee behind me,” on my face.

ABOUT A JOURNEY I TOOK.

When I was a little girl, I disliked traveling, above all things; the very idea of going away from the chimney-corner, gave me a homesick feeling at once. I would rather have stayed all alone in the house, than ridden off with the merriest party that ever wore traveling dresses. I had a kind of cat-liking for my corner, and as I always had plenty to think about, I was never troubled at being left alone. Now, that I have girls of my own, I like “my corner” better than ever, but I have changed about traveling, which I like very much in pleasant company. By “traveling” I don’t mean going round the country with heaps of dresses in big trunks, and parading up and down on the piazza of a hotel, to show them off. Not at all. I mean that I like to take as few changes of garments as I can possibly get along with, and putting on some very plain dress, which it will not fret me to have trod on, and rained on, and powdered with dust, with a nice book or two in my trunk, in case of a rainy day, start off to see what beautiful things nature has hidden away for those of her children who love to search them out. In this way, I started last summer to make the trip of the Northern lakes. That was something new for me. I had seen Niagara, and the Catskills, and been to Saratoga, Lake George, and all the places where people usually go in the summer months; now I wanted something entirely different. I found it in Toronto; and the difference, I am sorry to say, did not please me. The city wore to me a very dilapidated and tumble-down air; the houses, with scarcely an exception, looked streaked and shabby; pigs ran loose about the streets, and over the plank sidewalks. Now and then I saw a handsome private carriage, or a large hotel-looking house; but the high walls about the grounds looked forbidding, gloomy and unsocial; not a peep was to be had of the pretty flowers behind, if indeed there were any. In that it seemed to me a very desolate kind of place; and the mammoth hotel where we stayed, with its immensely high, wide halls, echoing back the footsteps of the few travelers who walked through them, to their large, dreary, immense rooms, seemed to make me still gloomier. For all that, the people whom I met in the street had fine broad chests, and a healthy color in their faces, and looked out of their clear bright eyes as if life were a pleasant thing to them; as I doubt not it is. Still, I would rather not live in Toronto; and after spending two days in it, I was very willing to get into the cars, and rush through the backwoods country, on my way to Detroit. Such splendid trees as I saw in those backwoods! I could only think of the “cedars of Lebanon,” tall, straight, green columns of foliage, that looked as if they had grown, and would continue to grow hundreds of years. Nestled under them, were now and then rude log huts. In the doorway stood the stately mother with her bronzed face, and clinging to her skirts, rosy little barefooted children, rugged as the wild vine that twisted its arms round the huge trees before their door.

Near by, stood their father, the woodman, resting on his ax, to look at the cars, as the shrieking whistle sent the cattle bounding through the clearing, and the train disappeared, leaving only a wreath of smoke behind. And so on, for miles and miles through that bright day, we never wearied of gazing till the sun went down. Once I caught a glimpse of a tiny log hut, the low roof festooned with morning glories—pink, blue, and white. I cannot tell you what a look of refinement it gave the little place, or how pretty a little, curly, golden-haired girl, in a red frock, and milk-white feet, looked, standing in the doorway. Some gentle heart beat there, in the lone wilderness, I knew by those morning glories. The pretty picture has often come up before me; and I have wished I were an artist, that I might show you the lovely lights and shadows of that leafy backwoods home. When we reached the pretty city of Detroit, it was so dark we could only dimly see it. We were very tired, too, having ridden in the cars from early morning till nearly nine in the evening. So we gazed sleepily out the carriage windows, as we were being rattled through the streets to the hotel, now and then seeing a church-spire, now a garden, now a brilliantly lighted row of stores, now a large square, and passing groups of men, women, and children, of whom we knew no more than of the man in the moon, and who had eaten their breakfasts, dinners and suppers, and had been born, vaccinated, baptized, and married, all the same as if they did not know we were in existence. It is a strange feeling, this coming into a strange place, and at night, and wondering what daylight will have to show to us the next morning, as we sleepily close the bedroom shutters, and lie down in that strange bed.

The familiar picture, your eyes have opened upon so many mornings, does not hang on _that_ wall; it is hundreds of miles away. Joseph and his brethren, or Henry Clay, or the Madonna, or the Benicia Boy, may be there; but you don’t feel acquainted with them, and feel a strange delicacy about washing, and combing your hair, in their company. Breakfast, however, above all things! especially when you have not dared to eat heartily the night before. So we got ready, and, having satisfied ourselves, took a carriage to see Detroit. I liked it very much; the people were wide awake, and not content with tumble-down old institutions. New handsome buildings were being put up, besides many that were already finished. The streets were clean, and prettily set off by little garden-patches, with flowers, trees and vines about the houses. There was selling and buying too, and a thorough go-ahead air, in the place, as if this world was not yet finished by any manner of means, as they seemed to think in Toronto. Our coachman was very intelligent and civil, so I catechized him to my heart’s content as to who lived here, and who lived there, and what this church steeple believed, and who worshiped in the other; or why General Cass, being such a big man, didn’t live in a bigger house, and where all the nice peaches came from, about the streets, and where I could find some nice crackers to nibble, when I went off in the steamboat that afternoon, and where were the bookstores, and how much we were to pay for asking so many questions!

Exchanging our carriage for a steamboat, or “propeller” as they called it, we bade good by to Detroit, and glided away up to Lake St. Clair; to the head of Lake Superior. Eleven days we were on the water, more than long enough to cross the ocean to Old England. I was very fearful I should not prove a good sailor, particularly as I was told, before starting, that the lakes sometimes had a touch of old Ocean’s roughness. My fear was lost in delight as our boat plowed its way along so gently, day after day, and I sat on deck, the fresh wind blowing over my face, looking down upon the bright foam-track of the vessel, or upon the pretty sea-gulls which with untiring wing followed us hundreds of miles, now and then dipping their snowy breasts in the blue waves, or riding securely on their foaming tops. Sometimes little tiny brown birds flew upon the deck of the vessel, as if glad to see human faces, in their trackless homes. Winter begins very early up on these lakes; so while it was still sweltering weather in New York, we were not surprised to see the gay autumn leaves hung out, like signal flags, here and there on the shore, warning us not to stay too long, where the cold winds lashed the waves so furiously, or without a word of warning locked them up in icy fetters without asking leave of any steamboat. It was hard to believe it, even in sight of the pretty autumn leaves, so soft was the wind, so blue was the sea and sky, so gently were we rocked and cradled. Now and then an Indian, a _real live Indian_, in a real Indian canoe, would pass us with a blanket for a sail, shouting us a rough welcome in his own way, as he passed. Now and then a little speck, just on the edge of the water where it seemed to meet the sky, would gradually grow larger and larger till it turned out to be another boat, and with a burst of music, from the band on board, they too would pass away, and leave us silent as before. Now, where the lake grew narrow, we saw little huts, dotted in and out along the line of shore. There life and death with its solemn mysteries went on, just as it does in your home or mine. Now and then we stopped at what the captain called “a landing,” for wood or coal or freight for the boat. Then the people who lived there flocked down to see us, and to buy melons of us, which were a great treat, where nothing but pines and potatoes would grow. Then we would leap over the gangway to the wharf, and scamper up into the town, to take the exercise we needed after being lazy so long, and then “all hands on board!” and away we glided again; the strange friendly faces on the pier smiling as we passed away.

Oh, it was lovely! I never wanted to leave the boat; I wanted you, and every body else, who enjoy such things, to come there and float on those blue waters, with me forever.

Oh, had you only been there beside me on one of many heavenly evenings, you would never, never have forgotten it! The red sun sank slowly into the blue waves, on one side of us, while the moon rose majestically out of the water, on the other; and before us the beautiful island of “The Great Spirit” was set like an emerald in the sapphire sea. Then, when all this glory passed away into the darkness, and I sat marveling if Heaven with “its golden streets and gates of pearl,” _could_ be fairer, up flashed “the Aurora” in long quivering lines of light, rose-color and silver, till earth and sea and sky were all ablaze with glory!

My heart beat quick, I held my breath, as though some great being were sweeping past, whose glorious silken robe I would, but dare not, bow my lips to press.

Now I must tell you, that I went into an Indian wigwam, where the door was a blanket; where the bedstead was made of twigs and branches; where a big brown woman was stirring something, witch-fashion, in a boiling pot over the fire; where copper-colored children, with diamond eyes, and long, black, snaky locks, were squatted in the sun, outside the wigwam, while the square-cheeked men caught fish in the little canoes, from the sparkling “rapids,” that seemed just going to wash away their bird’s-nest looking huts. As to the “romantic Indian maid” we read about, I am sorry to tell you that she wears a hoop! for I saw it with my own eyes. However, she seemed so proud and well pleased with her first attempts at the genteel, that I wouldn’t smile, as I felt like doing.

I didn’t ask her how she managed to get in and out of their little egg-shell boats with that hoop, or through the small aperture that served for a door to the wigwam. Perhaps she dropped it off on the outside when she wanted to go into her queer house—who knows? I might say I should have liked her better without it, on that bright morning, as she stood there by the blue Sault River, with her glossy black hair blowing about her bright eyes. Eleven days in all we were on these beautiful lakes; more than long enough to go to Europe, which I hope some day to see. _One night too long_ we were on the water before we reached Chicago. And what a night that was, of fog and rain and thunder and lightning. So vivid was the lightning that no one would have been surprised at any moment had it struck the vessel. Every peal of thunder seemed as if it thumped us directly on the head. The steamer tipped and rolled, and the rain beat into the cabin windows and dripped on the bed, and deluged the floor. The military company whom we took on board a few hours before, hushed their songs and jests, and watched with us for the daylight that was to ensure the safety of all on board. It came at last; and we breathed freely as we stepped safely on shore. How little we thought, as we shook hands with the merry captain, and I promised “to take another trip on his nice boat next summer,” that the very next night he would be shipwrecked on those waters!

Ah! the poor captain! My eyes fill, my heart aches, as if I had known him years, instead of those few bright fairy days. Poor Captain Jack Wilson, with his handsome, sunshiny face, cheery voice, and manly ways! How little I thought there would be no “next summer” for him, when he so kindly helped me up on the “hurricane deck,” and into the cosy little “pilothouse” to look about; who was always sending me word to come “forward” or “aft,” because he knew I so much enjoyed seeing all beautiful things; who was all goodness, all kindness, and yet, after we left him that morning, found a grave in that cruel surf!

The afternoon of the day we said our last good by to him on the Chicago pier, we had taken a carriage to drive round the city, and reined up at the draw, for a boat to pass through. It was the “Lady Elgin” going forth to meet her doom! We kissed our hands gaily to her, in the bright sunshine, and that night as we slept safely in our beds at the hotel, that brave heart, with a little wailing babe pressed to it, had only a treacherous raft between him and eternity. The poor, poor captain! It was _so_ hard to give him up! As his strong arm sustained the helpless in that fearful night, may God support his own gentle ones in this their direst need.

This was indeed a gloomy ending to our lovely lake trip. We saw many things to interest us on our return to New York through Cleveland and Pittsburgh, but, as you may suppose, we were not very gay; every now and then, when we saw anything beautiful, we would say to each other, “The _poor_ captain!” You know there are some people whom it is so hard to “make dead;” and he was one of these. So strong, so sunshiny, so full of life! How blessed to know all this bright intelligence cannot be extinguished like a taper; else, how sad, my dear children, would life be to us.

WHEN I WAS YOUNG.

Not one girl in ten, now-a-days, knows how to sew. “’Twas not so in my time,” as the old ladies say, with an ominous shake of the head. No; in my school-days proper attention was given to rivers, bays, capes, islands, and cities in the forenoon—interspersed with, “I love, thou lovest, he, she, or it loves;” then, at the child’s hungry hour—(twelve)—we were dismissed to roast beef and apple dumplings. At three we marched back with a comfortable dinner under our aprons—with cool heads, rosy cheeks, and a thimble in our pockets; and never a book did we see all the blessed afternoon. I see her—the schoolma’am (angels see her now), with her benevolent face, and ample bosom—your flat-chested woman never should keep school, she has no room for the milk of human kindness; I see her sitting on that old cane-bottomed chair, going through the useless ceremony of counting noses, to see if there were any truants; and of course there never were from choice, for our teacher never forgot that she was once a child herself. I see her calling one after another to take from her hand a collar, or wristbands, or shirt-bosom to stitch, or some button-holes to make;—good old soul! and then, when we were all seated, she drew from her pocket some interesting book and read it aloud to us—not disdaining to laugh at the funny places, and allowing us to do the same—hearing, well pleased, all our childish remarks, and answering patiently all our questions concerning the story, or travels, or poetry she was reading, while our willing fingers grew still more nimble; and every child uttered an involuntary “Oh!” when the sun slanted into the west window, telling us that afternoon school was over.

Ah, those were the days!

I bless that schoolmistress every time I darn a stocking or make or mend a garment; and I am glad for her own sake that she is not alive now, to see the ologies and isms that are thumped into children’s heads, to the exclusion of things better suited to their age, and which all the French and Italian that ever was mispronounced by fashion, can never take the place of in practical life. Yes—girls _then_ knew how to sew. Where will you find a schoolgirl who does it neatly, now? who does not hate a needle, and most clumsily wields it when compelled to? and not by her own fault, poor thing! though her future husband may not be as ready as I to shield her with this excuse. Modern mothers never seem to think of this. Male teachers, with buttonless shirts on their own backs, seem to ignore it. No place for the needle _in_ school, and no time, on account of long lessons, out. Where is a modern girl to learn this all-important branch of education, I want to know? A fig for your worsted work, your distorted cats, and rabbits, and cows! Give me the girl who can put a shirt together, or the feminine of a shirt either—which, by the way, I could never see the impropriety of mentioning, any more than its male, though I am not going to make any old maid scream by saying “chemise”—of course not!

I am concerned for the rising generation; spinally in the first place, stitch-ically in the second. All the stitches they know of now are in their sides, poor things! I should like every schoolhouse to have a playground, where the pupils could stay when they were not in school—which should be almost never, until ventilation, recesses, and school hours are better regulated—in fact, till the whole system is tipped over, and buried fathoms under ground, and only spoken of as the tortures of the Inquisition are spoken of—with shuddering horror—as remnants of darkness and barbarism. I don’t want children to be burned up, but I don’t care how many badly conducted schoolhouses burn down. I consider every instance a special interposition of Providence; and even if some of the children _are_ burned—horrible as that is—is it not a quicker mode of death than that they are daily put through, poor, tortured things?

A NURSERY THOUGHT.

Do you ever think how much work a little child does in a day? How from sunrise to sunset, the little feet patter round—to us—so aimlessly. Climbing up here, kneeling down there, running to another place, but never _still_. Twisting and turning, and rolling and reaching, and doubling, as if testing every bone and muscle for their future uses. It is very curious to watch it. One who does so may well understand the deep breathing of the rosy little sleeper, as with one arm tossed over its curly head, it prepares for the next day’s gymnastics. Tireless through the day, till that time comes, as the maternal love which so patiently accommodates itself hour after hour to its thousand wants and caprices, real or fancied.

A busy creature is a little child. To be looked upon with awe as well as delight, as its clear eye looks trustingly into faces that to God and man have essayed to wear a mask. As it sits down in its little chair to ponder precociously over the white lie you thought it “funny” to tell it. As, rising and leaning on your knee, it says, thoughtfully, in a tone which should provoke a tear, not a smile—“I don’t believe it.” A lovely and yet a fearful thing is that little child.

THE USE OF GRANDMOTHERS.

A little boy, who had spilled a pitcher of milk, stood crying, in view of a whipping, over the wreck. A little playmate stepped up to him and said, condolingly:—Why, Bobby, haven’t you got a _grandmother_?

Who of us cannot remember this family mediator, always ready with an excuse for broken china, or torn clothes, or tardy lessons, or little white fibs? Who was it had always on hand the convenient stomach-ache, or headache, or toothache, to work on parental tenderness? Whose consoling stick of candy, or paper of sugar plums, or seed-cake, never gave out; and who always kept strings to play horse with, and could improvise riding whips and tiny kites, and dress rag-babies, and tell stories between daylight and dark to an indefinable amount to ward off the dreaded go-to-bed hour?

Who staid at home, none so happy, with the children while papa and mamma “went pleasuring?” Who straightened out the little waxen limbs for the coffin when papa and mamma were blind with tears? Who gathered up the little useless robes and shoes and toys, and hid them away from torturing sight till heaven’s own balm was poured into those aching hearts? “Haven’t you got a grandmother?” Alas! if only our grown up follies and faults might always find as merciful judgment, how many whom harshness and severity have driven to despair and crime, were now to be found useful and happy members of society!

THE INVENTOR OF THE LOCOMOTIVE.

Did you ever ride in an old-fashioned stage coach? cramped in your back, cramped in your legs, with a “crick” in your neck, while you were packed in, and strapped in so closely that it was next to impossible to move a toe or a finger? Was the day hot and dusty, and had the tired horses hill after hill to crawl and climb up? Was some fellow-passenger’s knee boring a hole in your back, and did you bump, and thump, and bob about, hour after hour, unable to sleep, and too weary almost to live, till, when you drew up at last to some little country tavern, before which Lafayette or Washington hung creaking on a sign, with John Smith’s Hotel underneath, you didn’t care whether you ever got out or not; whether you ever ate, or drank, or laughed again; whether your trunk was safe, or lost on the road, miles back? Well, if you have not experienced all this, perhaps your father or mother, or uncle, or aunt have; and they will tell you that is one of the slow methods in which people used to travel before railroads and cars were invented. Ah, but, you say, stages were safer than railroad cars! Were they? They never tipped over, I suppose, or rolled over a precipice of a dark night, or had defective wheels, or drunken drivers, or balky horses, or any thing of that sort. And if anybody was very sick, or dying, at a distance, they might not have been buried weeks, I suppose, before one could reach them.

Well, people after a while thought they might travel faster than this, and quite as safely, too.

George Stephenson, the great Railway Engineer, was one of the first who thought this, and worked hard, and long, to make it possible. I want to tell you about him, because it seems to me quite beautiful that a poor, uneducated boy, as he was, should have brought so great a thing to pass. I rejoice in it, because I love to think that in our country our most useful and best men have, many of them, been very poor and humble when young; and because I want every boy who reads this to feel encouraged to try what _he_ too can do, instead of folding his hands and saying, “oh, what’s the use? I was born poor, and I shall die poor; I’m ignorant, and I shall die ignorant. Who cares what becomes of _me_?” I tell you _I_ care for one, and if nobody cared, you ought to care _yourself_. It is very certain, if you _don’t_ care yourself, that nobody can do much for you. Well, George Stephenson was the son of a poor collier, in England. He was the second of six children, for whom their father and mother worked hard to find bread and butter. Little George lived like other working people’s children: played about the doors, went bird’s nesting now and then, or of errands to the village; and as he grew bigger, carried his father’s dinner to him when at work; or helped nurse his brothers and sisters at home; for in a poor man’s house, you know, every little hand and foot must do something in the way of helping. As to school, none of them thought of such a thing; it was as much as they could do to keep a roof over their heads, and something to eat and drink. Dewley Burn was the name of the place where the one-roomed cottage stood, in which George was born; and near which his father was employed, to tend the engine-fire near the coalpit. Robert Stephenson, George’s father, was a kind-hearted, pleasant man. You may know that, because all the young people of an evening used to go and sit round his engine-fire while he told stories to them; sometimes about Sinbad the Sailor; sometimes about Robinson Crusoe, and often something which he himself “made up” to please them. Of course “Bob’s engine-fire” was a great place. No stoop of a village tavern on “muster day” was ever more glorious to happy urchins. You can almost see the picture; the bright fire blazing, and rows of bright eyes glistening in its light, some black, some blue, some gray; curly locks and straight locks, slender lads, and fat lads; some with chins on their palms, and elbows on their knees, some flat on their backs or sides, on the ground; and all believing every word of Bob’s, as you now do storybooks, which they would have given their ears to get hold of, though I have my doubts, if they are better, after all, than were “Bob’s stories.” Now you are not to think because George’s father worked as a collier, that he had no love for beautiful things. On the contrary, he used to take nice long, breezy summer walks, whenever he got a chance, with his little son. And when George had grown up to be a man, and long after his good father’s white head was under the sod, George used to speak often of his lifting him up to look into a black-bird’s nest, and of the delight and wonder with which he gazed at the little peeping creatures for the first time. I dare say your father and mother can tell you some such little thing which _they_ remember about their childhood’s home, which stands out in their memory now, from the mist of years, like a lovely picture, sunny and glowing and untouched by time.

These are blessed memories to keep the heart green. They are like the little swaying wild flower that the dusty traveler sometimes finds in a rock crevice, breathing out its sweetness all the same as if it were not hemmed in by flinty walls and bars; more beautiful than the most gorgeous garden flowers, which every passer by has gazed at, and handled, because to God and ourselves it is sacred. These childish memories! they are the first round of the ladder by which our world-weary feet shall climb to heaven, after those who have rocked our cradles.

Near Dewley Burn lived a widow, named Grace Ainslie, who kept a number of cows that used to nibble the grass along the woods. A boy was needed to watch them, and keep them from being run over by the coal wagons, or straying into the neighboring fields. To this boy’s duty was added that of barring the gates at night, after the coal wagons had passed through. George applied for this place, and to his great joy he got it, at two pence a day. It was easy work to loll about on the fresh green grass, and watch the lazy cows as they nibbled, or stretched themselves under the trees, chewing and winking, hour after hour. George had plenty of time to look for birds’ nests and make whistles out of sticks and straws, and build little mills in the water streams. But if you watched the boy, you would see that, best of all, when he and his friend Tom got together, he liked to build clay engines. The clay they found in the bogs, and of the hemlock which grew about, they made their steam pipes. I dare say some solemn wise head might have passed that way, and sighed that these boys were “wasting their time” playing in the mud; not remembering that children in their “foolish play,” by their little failures and successes in experimenting, sometimes educate themselves better than any book-read man in the land could do it; at least, at _that_ age. Then it was a blessed thing that the child’s work lay _out of doors_, and not in a stifling close factory, or shop. That his limbs got strong and his cheek brown and sunburnt, and his eye bright as a young eagle’s. Every day now added to his growth, and of course to his employment; though scarcely big enough to stride, he led the horses when plowing, and when he was able to hoe turnips and do such farm work, he was very much delighted at his increased wages of fourpence a day. When he was thirteen, he made a sun-dial for his father’s cottage. You may be sure his father was very proud of that. His little head had been busy, you see, when he lay on the grass watching the cows. By and by George got eighteen pence a day, and at last the wish of his heart, in being taken as an assistant to his father in feeding the engine fire. George was very much afraid, he was such a little fellow, that he should be thought too young for the work, and when the overseer of the colliery went the rounds, to see if everything was done right, George used to hide himself, for fear he would think him too small a boy to earn his wages. Some lads as fond as he was of bird’s-nesting, and such amusements, would not have been in such a hurry to make themselves useful; but George’s parents worked hard, and he loved them; he knew that white hairs were creeping among those brown locks of his mother’s, and that his good, merry father would not always be able to tend the engine fire; and so though his tame black-bird, who made the cottage her home in winter, flying in and out, and roosting on the head of his bed, and disappearing in the spring and summer, in the woods, to pair and to rear its young, and then coming back again in winter to live with George; although his bird was a very pretty pet, and his tame rabbits were a great pleasure, too, yet little as he was, he was anxious to shoulder his share of the burden that was pressing so heavily on his parents. Ever since, too, that he had modeled that little clay engine in the bog, he had determined to be an engineer, and the first step to this was to be an assistant fireman. Imagine, then, his delight when, at fourteen years, he got the post at the wages of a shilling a day.

George’s home was one small room, crowded with three low-posted beds, in which father and mother, four sons, and two daughters slept. This one room was, of course, parlor, kitchen and sleeping-room, all in one. This cottage was furnished by the Duke who employed these people; he being also their landlord. Now I would be willing if I ever made bets, to bet you something handsome, that this Duke had a liveried servant behind his chair at home, and a table loaded with dainties, and silver and cut glass, and more wines in his castle than he knew how to use; and horses and hounds, and carriages and pictures, and statues, and conservatories and hot houses, and all that; and yet, that he was not one half as happy as the Stephensons in that little cottage with one room. Aching heads are apt to go with dainty food, and weak limbs with soft beds. When a poor man has a friend, he generally knows that he is loved for _himself_; when a rich man has one, he is never sure how much his riches have to do with his friendship. Many a rich man has sighed for the days when he used to run barefoot; and many a jeweled lady for the day when the little brook was her looking-glass. Things are more equal in this life, after all, than grumblers are apt to imagine. Well, to go back to George, all the time he was feeding that fire, he had his eyes open, watching everything about the engine; nothing escaped his notice; I have no doubt his father watched him, with an honest pride shining out of his eyes. It must have been very pleasant for the two to work together, and help each other; for George was growing strong and big, and used to try to make himself stronger by lifting heavy weights. When he was seventeen, he was made a “flagman.” That was a station as watchman above his father, as the flagman holds a higher rank than the fireman, and receives higher wages. No doubt good old Robert was as delighted as George could be at this promotion. We can imagine, too, how his mother and sisters, as they worked industriously to keep the little one room cottage tidy and comfortable, sang cheerfully as they worked, when they thought of their good strong brother. It is a flagman’s duty, when the engine is out of order, to call on the chief engineer to set it right. George had rarely need to do this. The engine was a perfect pet with him. He understood every part of it; he took it to pieces and cleaned it himself, and learned so well how it worked, and what it needed, that nobody could instruct him anything about it. It is said that all the important improvements of steam-engines have been made, not by learned literary men, but by plain laborers.

Everything that George undertook, howsoever small the matter might be, he determined to understand perfectly, and to do well and thoroughly. When George _said_ that he knew he could do a thing, all his friends knew it was no idle boast. So you will not be astonished when I tell you that he went on studying and improving till he became a famous man; so famous that he received calls from abroad, asking his advice as “a constructing engineer” about building bridges and railways, and all such things. I guess he never thought of _that_, when he was building bridges of mud with his play-fellows. Little children, you see, are not _always_ “wasting their time” when they are playing quietly by themselves. No, indeed. I guess he didn’t think then that he should build a two-mile bridge across the St. Lawrence in connection with the Grand Trunk Canadian Railway, which should be so much admired and praised for its _taste_ as well as skill; or, when he slept in the little cottage with only one room in it, that he should one day become “a Member of Parliament;” or that when he died, he should be buried in state at Westminster Abbey, where all the famous, great men were buried, and that immense crowds of people should go to his funeral, and be so sorry that a man who was so useful to his country should die, when he was only fifty-six years old. But so it was. I think George made good use of those fifty-six years; don’t you?

TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS.

I want to say a few words to the _little children_ who write me such nice letters.

Some of you live in and about New York, some at a great distance from it. I should be very glad, had I time, to write each of you a long letter—indeed, many long letters; but how is this possible, if I “make some more books for you,” as you all request me to do? One cannot write a book as fast as one can read it through; perhaps you do not think of that. Besides, I write every week for the New York _Ledger_. Then I have a great many other calls upon my time, of which you know nothing. Like your own mamma, I have children. They sometimes say, “Oh, do throw away that tiresome pen, and talk to us.” And then I say, “Yes, presently.” But still I have to keep on writing. Then, you know, if I only used my head, and never my feet, my head would not last long. I must exercise a great deal every day, else I should fly up the chimney, or through the roof, like a witch. But for all that I don’t forget one little girl or boy who ever wrote to me; and although I cannot answer, it always pleases me to hear from you. I want you all to believe this, and write me whenever you feel like it.

BABY EFFIE.

Do you see this little baby? Her name is Effie, and her young mother is dead. Well, partly on that account, and partly because she is just the loveliest, and brightest, and sweetest baby that ever was born, she rules every one in the house. How? why, by one smile or cunning little trick, she can make them all go and come, fetch and carry, rise and sit down, all the same as if they had no will but hers. For instance, you may say, now at such a time I will go to such a place; but if that baby catches sight of you going out, and makes up a little grieved mouth because you are going, unless you could coax her to forget it, with a piece of the moon, or some such wonderful thing, you would very likely stay at home with her. If you say your side aches, and really, Effie grows so fat on her good sweet milk, that you must let nurse carry her more, even if she _does_ whimper a little; and you may really _mean_ to do it; but oh, why has she such a dear little red mouth, and such a distracting way of fixing her lips, and such a pleading look in her soft eyes, and such a musical little coax to make believe talk, unless it be that her dimpled feet shall always be on your obedient neck? You can’t look at her as if she were only a rag baby. And very likely you’d get thinking, too, that nobody could tie her bonnet, or cloak, save yourself, or button her little red boots right; so that no fold of her mite of a stocking should double under her ridiculous little toes.

Perhaps you think it is a very simple thing to wash and dress little Effie. That shows how little you know. Now listen. That baby has four distinct little chins that you must watch your chance to wash between her frantic little crying-spells; then she has as many little rolls of fat on the back of the neck, that have to be searched out, and bathed; and all the time you are doing this you have to be talking little baby talk to her, to make her believe you are only playing, instead of washing her. Then baby won’t have her ears or nose meddled with; and if you interfere with her toes, she won’t put up with it a minute; and it takes two people to open her chubby little fists when it is time to wash them. Then you haven’t the least idea of the job it is to get one of her stiff little vexed arms out of her cambric sleeve; or how many times she kicks while you are tying on her tiny red shoe. Then she is just as mad as can be when you lay her over on her stomach to tie the strings of her frock; and she is still more mad if you lay her on her back. And besides, she can stiffen herself out, when she likes, so that “all the king’s men” couldn’t make her sit down, and at another time she will curl herself up in a circle, so that neither they nor anybody else could straighten her out; then you had better just count the garments that have to be got off and on before this washing and dressing business is done; and then every now and then you have to stop to see that she is not choking or strangling; or that you have not put any of her funny little legs or arms out of joint, or hurt her bobbing little head. Now, I hope you understand what a delicate job it is. But when the last string is tied, and little Effie comes out of this daily misery into scarlet-lipped, diamond-eyed peace, looking fresh and sweet as a rosebud, and dropping off to sleep in your arms, with quivering white eyelids and pretty murmurings of the little half-smiling lips, while the perfect little fat waxen hands lie idly by her side, ah—then you should see her!

You would understand then, how hard it is to keep from spoiling her; not by loving her too much; _that_ never hurt anybody; but by giving her everything she wants, whether it is best for her or not, just because it is so heart-breaking to see the tears on her cheeks. _That_ would never do, you know, not even for little motherless Effie; for how is she ever to become good, if she can get everything she wants by crying for it? She can’t understand that now, but by and by she will; and then those who have care of her _must_ learn to say _no_, no matter how pretty and coaxing she is, if she should want a hammer and a watch to play with; yes, even though she should cry about it.

Nobody can tell whether Effie is loveliest sleeping or waking. Poor little dear; when she is asleep she often makes the motion of nursing with her lips, just as if her mother were living, instead of dead, and she were lying on her warm breast. And then, too, she often smiles till little dimples come in her cheeks, and her lips part, and show her four little white teeth, which have troubled her so much in coming, and which look so like little pearls. And sometimes in her sleep she kicks her little fat leg, with its pretty white foot, and pink toes, out on the coverlet, just as if she were fixing herself for a pretty picture that some artist might paint her. And when she wakes, she puts her little cheek up against yours to be loved and kissed, and—but dear me, you will think I am quite a fool, if I go on this way; and I shouldn’t wonder; for it really _is_ true that I am never tired of telling dear little Effie’s perfections all the same as if she were the only lovely baby that was ever born; although every house holds half a dozen, more or less; still perhaps you might as well not say to _me_ that any of them can begin to compare with little Effie.