Chapter II (2)

Remaining on board, she had a care of me for four years. I would not be on the shore for even an hour. I cried bitterly when out of sight of my captain. Again we had a stewardess who was English, with her husband to cook. She taught me my sewing, and a prayer to say to the good God. But as I became more old in years the captain gave to me my instruction in books. He learned me of many things useful, and it is said of me that I have a marvellous power to attain in study. At my present age I am thin--_svelte_, as old M. Jacques, the former mate, says--with a complexion of brunette, and eyes and hair which are black. This it is, with the readiness which I had in learning the French language of M. Jacques, which gives me to think that my mother at least was French. The accent and words seemed to always be known to me as of a dream.

But the captain will have it to say that I am a gift of Christmas from his wife who is with the good God. Be that as it may, I am to him as his very, very own, and he to me as father and mother in one, “the child of his old age,” he insists; for though straight and erect as the mast of the “Petrel,” he is in age sixty years.

He has provided for me everything of comfort and elegance that a young girl could wish. For the “Petrel” is a small brig which goes over all the world where a keel may float, in order to trade. It may be to purchase shells in the Indian ocean, furs in St. Petersburg, fruits at Havana, spices in Ceylon, silks at Nankin, diamonds or ostrich feathers at Cape Town, knick-knacks in London, or _bijouterie_ at Havre--anywhere and everywhere that a bargain may be made, we go. And in every port the ladies of the consignee, or the American consul, will have me at their homes, and are _so_ good to me. They take me to the galleries of art and places of interest. I attend the service of the church with them, and at their homes I meet people who are delightful. Thus I have learned to love things which are beautiful, and the captain is only too willing to get for me what I desire. He has had built for me into the cabin a little cabinet organ. We took as passengers to the Sandwich Islands last year, a good missionary, and his wife, who accompanied him, taught me the music, and to sing and play, so that I am never ennuyéed at sea. I have a great abundance of books; I have my music, my studies (navigation is among them), my sewing, a canary bird, and a pot of ivy--beside my journal from which these pages are recorded--what would you more? It does not matter that we meet storms--sometimes terrible ones. I do not say it to boast, but I have not anything of fear within. I love to be on deck; I have the long oil coat which buttons close about me like that of the captain, and boots of rubber. Oftentimes the captain permits that I give the orders for taking in the light sails, or tacking the brig. And I can steer with the wheel as well as old Dan himself, or trace the vessel’s course upon the chart when I have figured the reckoning.

You of the young ladies who murmur because of the space of closets, should visit _my_ room. It has a length of ten feet, a breadth of six. My berth, with three drawers beneath it, takes much of the room. But I have a tiny wash-stand, a small chair, and a trunk also.

Pictures too. The one, “Christ Stilling the Tempest,” is a small painting in oil, which was a present to myself from a lady in Rome whose husband is a great artist.

Opposite hangs a photograph of the “Immaculate Conception,” also a present from a lady in Liverpool, Mrs. Fancher. There is fastened to the wall a swinging lamp of solid silver. A diver of the submarine brought it up from the wreck of a steam yacht which, belonging to Omar Pacha, was lost with all those on board in the Persian Gulf. The man gave it as pay for his passage to Foochow. But imagine to yourself the curtains of my berth being of silk damask worked with gold thread! They are of much value, yet when one asks of their price, the captain says, with his laugh, that he bought them for a song. It was while we were loading with a few teas at Foochow. A man habited as a sailor came on board at the evening, and offered this for fifty dollars. He had been a runaway from a ship, and seeking the country, was impressed into the army of Chinese insurgents. They had sacked the emperor’s country seat at Ningpo, and this was torn from the hangings of the couch of the princess--or he thus said. The captain told him he could not give but twenty dollars, though it was of more worth. But the man said “no,” and went out. It was then, thinking that he had gone, I began to sing and play the song of Adelaide Proctor, “The Lost Chord,” which I so love. And the strange man came back and began to cry! He said to the captain if I would sing it once more, he should have the stuff at his own price, which I did willingly, and thus it was purchased.

My book-shelves are of sandal-wood inlaid with ebony. They were given me in Madras by the merchant with whom the captain has done business these many years. The ewer and jug in my wash-stand are of bronze. They were discovered from a tomb in the Island of Cyprus.

But it is in especial of one voyage--the last--of which I have to tell, for it came near to become an adventure. We were bound to Lisbon, seeking a cargo of the light wines for the market of New York, and the captain had with him for the purchase three thousand dollars in gold. He had shipped for the voyage a different chief mate, and also two men of the crew who came on board with him. It happens to me to notice small things, and I remember that I looked with surprise at the familiarity which these common sailors had secretly with the first mate. Old Jacques would hardly have spoken to a sailor even upon the land, except in the way of duty. I had for this Mr. Atkin, as he called himself, a strong dislike. His face had a smooth badness, but he was fluent of tongue with an appearance of education, and the captain smiled at what he said was my childish prejudice. Yet the good God has given me to read the human face, and I often have chosen out those from the crew who I felt would make trouble to the officers, and was seldom with mistake.

The second officer was Waters, a man very young but brave and active. He too regarded this Atkin with suspicion. “Tell your father, Miss,” he said to me in private, “to keep his weather eye open, and look out for Atkin.”

The captain did but laugh when I told him, and bade me not trouble my little head with fears. But I found him watchful in a quiet way after that, though there happened nothing for some time of suspicion.

I find as I copy from my journal that I do not sometimes frame these sentences in the exact order that I read them in books. I cannot seem to readily correct myself, so I have made a point to put down all the conversation which I remember, exactly as it was spoken by those of whom I shall write. It will be a good practice for me. I began to keep my journal three years since, with view of having a better command of language.

We finally made sight of the Teneriffe peak among the Canary Islands. It rises many thousand feet above the sea, and for miles is visible in the clear weather.

That night the winds died away, and we were becalmed, and _so_ warm as it was! I could not sleep, and in the first watch--that of the captain--I went upon deck. Old Dan is a sailor who has been at sea with us a great many years, and the only one that the captain wishes me to speak with when he is not present.

So after I had chatted with the captain a little, he went forward a moment with a command for the second mate.

“How do you head, Dan?” I asked of him idly.

“Mostly all round the compass, there being no steerage way to speak of, Miss,” he made answer.

I yawned, for I had a strong desire to sleep, yet cared not to go to the close air of below.

All at once, I thought of the life-boat which swings at the “Petrel’s” stern, covered with canvas, and how delightful to be in it were it possible. If there came a breath of wind I should feel it there; and remembering that I had seen a torn fore-royal put into the boat a few days previous, I made up my mind what to do. “Look you, Dan,” I said, “I am going to sleep in the life-boat till you shall come to the wheel again in the morning watch from twelve till four, and then you can call me.”

“Very well, Miss,” he made reply, though he regarded me with a little doubt, “only maybe Cap’n Wray wouldn’t think--”

“He need know nothing of it,” I said with impatience, for I have a will headstrong, which often causes me after-sorrow. And without other words I slipped myself within the boat, pulling the cover in place with care.

“Where is Miss Wray?” I heard the captain to ask as he came aft a moment after.

“She’s turned in, sir,” was the answer of Dan.

Then the captain began his walk of the quarter-deck with vain whistlings for the breeze.

But it was charming laying upon the old sail listening to the twitter of Mother Cary’s chickens, and the cool swash of the sea about the rudder.

It is not a wonder, then, that I fell into fast sleep, only to awaken by the bell striking “one, two, three, four,” which I knew had the meaning of two o’clock of the morning, and I had some regret at my foolish whim, for it had become quite cool and damp. Yet I knew I might not release myself until four o’clock, when old Dan again had the wheel.

I raised a corner of the cover and peeped out. Spanish Joe stood with one hand upon the wheel, looking sideways in the half darkness of the night. The light from the binnacle was upon his swarthy face with strength, and I told myself, with a little shiver, that it was the face of a brigand such as I had gazed upon in some gallery of pictures. But figure to yourself my feelings as Mr. Atkin, after listening a moment at the open window of the state-room of the captain, came directly behind the wheel, and seating himself upon the taffrail so near that I could touch him, began with an absent drumming of his fingers upon the cover of the boat itself!

“Everybody is sound asleep but you and I, Joe,” he said in half a whisper.

“_Bueno_,” was the reply of Joe; “an’ now, s’pose you say what you have think ’bout us try to get dis money you tell us of, eh?”

“Well, Joe,” he answers, and you cannot imagine to yourself how like oil was his voice, “I’ve laid the thing out about this way. To-morrow night when Dan is steering and the Swede on the lookout, we’ll give young Waters a little pleasant surprise, and when he comes to himself, he’ll find that his hands are lashed and something over his mouth to keep him from making a noise--savey, Joe?”

I trembled in every limb, and was with a cold perspiration on my face. Had I been one who swoons readily I should have fainted. But at once I recovered myself. “Be brave, Bessie,” I repeated to my heart: “it is for the dear captain’s sake.”

“Then we’ll get the captain out,” the wretch continued, as Spanish Joe made a small nod of the head, “and serve him so, and if the cook, or Dan, or the Swede make a fuss (which they won’t dare do) they’ll see that the balance of power is with us, for we’ve got pistols, and they haven’t. Eh, Joe?”

“Then w’at?” asked Joe with much of eagerness.

“Why, then,” Mr. Atkin goes on with the ease that he would remark upon the weather, “we’ll put the long boat over the side, and politely invite Captain Wray, Miss Wray, Mr. Waters and the cook or one of the men to step in. They can shape their course for the Azores, only thirty miles away, Joe, and we’ll shape ours for Europe.”

“But will you?” I thought within myself with my teeth clenched.

“I’ll take command, of course,” thus the bad man continued; “and when we are near the land we’ll rig up the life-boat here”--and he thumped it with his hand--“take some provisions, water _and_ the money--”

“One tousan’ apiece,” breaks in the sailor.

“Take the money,” Mr. Atkin went on as if Joe had not interrupted; “and when we get ashore, every man will take his share, Joe--and _scatter!_” he said with a flourish of his fingers.

“But the brig shall find harbor too--they gives alarm and sends after us,” said Joe.

“Not after I have fixed the rudder and taken away the compass, my good Joe,” said the smooth Mr. Atkin; “so now you can let Jerry know what is expected of him, and to-morrow night--”

He made no finish of his words, though, but rising, walked slow away.

Ah, how slowly passed the time! but finally, Joe, with yawns, struck the eight bells, and the wheel was relieved by old Dan.

Surely I lost no time in coming from my hiding-place, and I sought the captain, who, without removing his clothing, had reclined himself upon a lounge in the cabin. I revealed to him in whispers that which I had heard.

“My brave little girl!” he said, as I had made an end of my story; but I could not think what there was of bravery in laying _perdu_, and listening to conspirators. Had I not given him counsel, though, I think he would have been for dashing upon the three who thus conspired, and smiting them hip and thigh. But I told him to communicate in secret with Mr. Waters, and they two together might make plans of strategy which would avail without bloodshed; and he did so.

It was unfortunate that the captain was entirely without firearms of any kind. I think I myself would have dared to use one in such an emergency. But he whispered to me in the morning that he had that which should serve the same end; and with a beating heart I awaited the result.

The calm remained into the forenoon of the next day. The sea was like oily glass, without a ripple as far as one could view, and the sun made itself hardly to be endured, so fierce did it beat down upon the scorched deck, in the seams of which the pitch fairly melted. The sails hung without motion against the mast, and the wheel was idle.

With a heart fast beating I followed the captain, who had told me to be without fear, upon the deck.

“I wish we had a couple of the turtle that are laying round so plenty, asleep on the water, this morning,” said the captain, as if to myself, who, stood by him, though in a careless way.

I had no meaning of his words, but Atkin, who was near, looked at the black specks upon the water some distance away, with interest.

“Yes, sir,” he made reply, “there’s always lots of them about the Azores in calm weather--nice soup they make, too.”

“You might take the longboat, if you like, Mr. Atkin,” said the captain with a yawn, as if it had but then occurred to him, “and with your watch take two or three--it would be a change from salt beef.”

“Very well, sir,” Atkin replies; for this man was a lover of nice food--a _gourmand_. “Here, you Joe and Jerry, get the boat over the side.”

I began to guess that there was a purpose in this. I saw that the captain had, under a mask of carelessness, a face of anxiety, and that the hand that held his glasses with which he viewed the horizon, trembled never so little as he paced backward and forward while the two men were putting over the boat. When all was ready, Mr. Atkin in the stern-sheets pushed off from the vessel’s side.

“Stop a bit!” now called the captain, as I watched with strong anxiety his face. There was a stern ring in his voice which I had seldom heard. And at the same time I saw Mr. Waters, Dan and the Swede come from the cook’s galley with buckets of hot water which they brought to the rail.

“Well?” asked Atkin with inquiry. And he motioned the two men to cease from rowing.

“You see Teneriffe peak, do you?” again spoke the captain.

“Why, yes, sir,” was the answer of Atkin: “what then?”

“Just this,” said the captain; “my advice to you, you scoundrels, is that you pull your prettiest for the Azore Islands; for while my name is Wray not one of you ever shall set foot again of this brig’s deck!”

Ah, then what oaths! what cries of rage! And so desperate was this villain Atkin that he drew a pistol and commanded his men to pull back, which they did with hesitation. But they were scarce within reach when old Dan discharged the contents of his hot-water bucket full at them. I clapped my hands. I could not resist. For Atkin caught enough of it on his neck and shoulder to cause him to fall backward over the thwart with a roar, and by accident, discharge his pistol in the air.

Then it was they saw they were entrapped, and pulled hastily away to a distance, where they laid upon their oars with angry words each to the other.

And oh, how with eagerness we watched for a breeze, which came not until in the late afternoon. But when once more the ripple of the water made around the bows, and the sails swelled out with a wind from the southwest, I breathed with freeness, and we all thanked the good God as we watched the boat of the conspirators to disappear in the distance.

There were left on board the captain, second mate, two men, the cook and stewardess. And Captain Wray said I should be his second mate, Mr. Waters acting as chief officer.

Many times I stood at the wheel for three and four hours before we reached Lisbon. But the “Petrel,” which has but a tonnage of one hundred and sixty, was easily handled, and the good God gave us favoring winds, as also fair weather; so with much fatigue, but otherwise well, we finally reached our port in safety.

The captain sometimes speaks as one who is getting too old for the life of the ocean--in particular of late does he say this. And he has made hints at a home upon the land, with a house which shall look far out over the sea, and be ever within the sound of its voice. It may be that after a time, and with him, I should be content thus to live. But as now, I regard it with dread. I had somehow dreamed of a continuation of this life which so delights me, and some day to be buried under the blue waves. But we shall see.

The foregoing story is entirely true in all its essential features. I was somewhat acquainted with Miss Wray, and it was with sorrow that in the list of disasters two winters ago, I read that the brig “Petrel” was lost in the English Channel, with all on board, in a December gale.

F. H. C.

A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION

BY THE EDITOR.

WINTER TO SUMMER.

“_I_ would not be so friendly with the sun;--
Hot-headed fellow, prying everywhere!
_My_ flowers brightly bloom when he is gone,
And sparkle in the clear and frosty air.”

SUMMER TO WINTER.

“Winter, I own your icy blossoms fair,
But cold and white, unlike the rainbow hues
That paint _my_ flowers--and who would ever care
For flowers less lasting than my morning dews?”

THE GRASS, THE BROOK, AND THE DANDELIONS.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

The sparkling, babbling, baby-brook that ran gayly through the meadow whispered to the sleeping grass, one lovely spring morning, just as dawn was breaking, “Wake up, wake up, and see what May has scattered over you.” And the grass, awaking from a pleasant dream of summer, beheld a number of bright, yellow, star-shaped dandelions, smiling in the early sunshine.

“Welcome a thousand times,” said its many blades in a chorus of delight. “How sweet and fresh you look, with the dew-drops clinging to your dainty petals of shining gold. But you may well look bright and happy,” they continued in less cheerful tones, “for you are flowers, and flowers so beloved by the sun that he paints you his own beautiful color.”

“And are _you_ not happy, too?” asked the dandelions, in innocent surprise.

“Yes, we are happy,” answered the grass, with a little sigh; “but we would be _so_ much happier if we were flowers!”

“_We_ are nothing, you know, but common grass, with no hope of being anything better.”

“No change for us. No budding and turning into sweet, blue, white, pink, or golden blossoms.”

“Grass we are, and grass we must remain until the end of our days.”

“For shame!” cried the dandelions, their honest faces all aglow. “‘Common grass,’ indeed! Dear May told us all about you, and the blissful mission that is yours, only yours, before she dropped us here.”

“_You_ have been chosen to clothe the whole earth, while the flowers you envy are only the ornaments that cling to the lovely robes you weave.”

“Surely you would not have been so chosen if you were not beautiful, and _most_ beautiful.”

“Why are we never called so, then?” asked the grass. “Even the children never notice us; but mark our words, the moment they see _you_, they’ll shout, ‘O, the pretty, pretty dandelions!’”

“They don’t call us ‘pretty’--O, no, indeed!”

“Nothing is ever said about _us_.”

“We’re _grass_, that’s all. No one ever gathers us.”

“We are never made into posies or worn in waving ringlets.”

“Nobody admires us and nobody praises us.”

“Not so, not so,” murmured the brooklet, soft and low, and its words all flowed in tune and rhyme. “_I’ve_ sung your praises many a time. And bird and bee oft tell to me, as through the meadow and field I pass, how much they love the beautiful grass. So don’t get blue, whatever you do, for green’s the color, dear grass, for you. And, believe me, everywhere you grow, a joy you bring, I _know_ ’tis so. And now, I pray, bend over this way, and take the kiss I have for you.”

The grass bent gracefully toward the brook, and took not one, but three kisses, and then the chattering little thing went dancing on its way.

Early that evening, as the setting sun was sinking slowly in the west, a strong, sunburnt young fellow, with a merry twinkle in his bright brown eyes, came into the meadow, and began cutting some sods,--whistling as he worked,--and packing them away in a wheelbarrow he had brought with him.

The grass that had talked with the dandelions, and been kissed by the brook in the morning, was the last to be cut, and so was placed upon the top of the load.

“O, what can this mean?” asked its many tiny blades, _this_ time in a chorus of sorrow. “Why are we taken from our home? Alas! we never knew how much we loved our beautiful meadow until now, when we are leaving it forever. Where can we be going?”

But just then the man took up the handles of the wheelbarrow, and the grass only had time to wave a last farewell as he trundled it away.

“Farewell,” called the dandelions; “farewell,” murmured the brook; and “farewell,” sighed the grass that was left behind.

The young man wheeled the barrow into the front yard of a newly-built little cottage on the other side of the road.

There was here no sign of anything green, but the brown earth had been dug and nicely raked, and the grass heard it saying softly to itself in joyful tones, “O, now I shall be dressed at last--here comes the beautiful, friendly grass to cover me.”

Then the grass thought of what the dandelions had said.

Down went the sods on the ground, and away went the barrow for some more; and again and again it went, until at least a dozen loads had been brought; and then, taking off his coat, the very brown young man, whistling merrily all the time, began to make a grass plot.

Soon all the sods were put down; and the tiny garden commenced already to look bright and cheerful.

“Jenny!” called the brown-faced, brown-eyed, brown-haired (_wasn’t_ he brown?) gardener, as he took off his hat to wipe his brow.

A rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed young woman came to the cottage door in answer to his call, with a rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed baby girl in her arms. “O, the beautiful grass!” cried she, when she saw what had been done; and, “Pretty, pretty!” said the baby girl, clapping her fat, dimpled hands.

Then the grass thought of what the brook had sung.

“It makes the place look pleasant at once,” said the man, leaning on his spade and looking smilingly at his work. “But just wait till we have a good shower, and then it will be as green as--as--green as--well, as green as grass, for I don’t know anything greener,” he added, laughing. “And I say, Jenny, what a splendid place it’ll be for baby to tumble about on! You can latch the gate, and then she can roll about here as much as she pleases--bless her little heart!”

“Bess ’er ittie heart!” echoed baby, with funny gravity.

“Yes, indeed,” answered the happy mother, kissing the soft, sweet red mouth of her darling. “She’ll have many a merry hour here, with the daisies and dandelions. How thankful we ought to be,” she went on a moment after, her face growing serious with a feeling of gratitude, “to Our Father in Heaven for covering the earth with such a lovely garment--so soft for the weary feet, so refreshing to the tired eyes! And do you know, Ralph, I never feel so sorry for the poor in great cities as I do in summer, when I think of them shut in tall, dreary brick houses, from the windows of which they can see nothing but paving-stones, no beautiful grass, or else such little struggling patches that the sight makes them sadder than ever.”

“There, what did we tell you?” asked a voice so tiny that only the grass heard--and lo! a dandelion that had clung to its friends, and so been carried along to share their new abode.

“Yes--yes, you were right,” answered the grass. “We see how blessed we are, and _now_ we wouldn’t change places with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed.”

THE BIRDS’ HARVEST.

BY MRS. J. D. CHAPLIN.

If “Restwood,” the little country-house to which we fly from the heat, and dust, and toil of the great city, were only large enough, we would invite all the young “Wide Awakes” to gather there. We would show them such scenery; we would wander with them through the deep pine-forest, whose whisperings are mingled with the wild roar of the dashing sea, and take them to sail in our fairy-like boat, over a bay that cannot be outshone by even the lovely Italian waters.

Near us are rich country squires, in great, square, white houses, where their fathers lived and died; farmers, who fight manfully against what inlanders call sterility, making fruitful the very sands by their energy; and a few retired city gentlemen, who fish, and sail, and hunt, and read, and ride, and eat, and sleep.

But the greatest among all these, a few years ago,--he may prove in the coming day one of the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,--was a tall, frail young man, whom his neighbors regarded as deficient in intellect. Everybody is weak in some direction. A wise man has remarked, that no one since the fall, when all humanity lost its balance, has been perfectly sane. It is sometimes very hard to tell who, taking all things into account, are the “weaker;” but there is little doubt that a jury of wise men would have counted our friend Jotham Belden among them.

What little balance-wheel was missing in that mind, He who made it only knows; but we rejoice that, while He withheld some powers common to most men, He also bestowed on him what He withholds from many--a powerful memory, and a delicately refined taste, and a strong sense of right.

Jotham was no pauper weakling. He was the cherished son of an honorable widow, who had ample means to gratify all his innocent desires; who speaks of him now with a sigh as well as a smile, and tells how he was the fairest and brightest of her fold, till the blight fell on him, and he rose from his sick bed shattered in body, and with a cloud over his mind. “He was never again the same Joe, whose bright speeches and merry pranks had been the pride of the farm-house, and the amusement of the village,” she tells you.

The Scotch have this beautiful saying: “The feckless (witless) are God’s peculiar care.” And it seemed as if this blighted one, Joe Belden, were, indeed, His peculiar favorite; as if, in the furnace of pain, with his worldly wisdom had also been consumed all of meanness, and selfishness, and hardness.

Jotham grew up very watchful of the interests of all about him. No fellow-being was too low or too sinful to claim his pity; no creature of God too mean to share his love and protection. Being weak in body, he had never toiled for his bread. When in the house, he read, in stammering accents, to his mother, held the yarn while she wound it, and performed any little task she required. This all done, he would stroll out, as he said, to see that all was right in town. He would go to a house where there was sickness, look anxiously up at the windows, and hang patiently round the gate till spoken to. Then he would ask, “Want anybody to go for the doctor? Want any jelly? Want burdocks, or horseradish, or anything?”

If sent for the doctor, or allowed to dig herbs for the sufferer, he was the happiest man in town; if nothing was wanted there, he would wander off to the lonely poor-house--a long, red building, in a barren waste, looking as if erected to teach men and women that they had no business to be old and poor, and that they must be punished for it. Here his were like angels’ visits in the joy they brought. His pockets were an unfathomable depth; heavy with jack-knives, gimlets, screws, nails, buttons, keys, chalk, cinnamon, cloves, and lozenges, and the thousand innumerable trifles which become treasures in such a blank as this poor-house was.

Jotham’s coming made more commotion than a peddler’s; for although he brought far less stores, either in quantity or quality, they could get his as they could not the other’s, for want of money. Newspapers, tracts, and, occasionally, a book, were among his gifts; and perhaps He who seeth not as man seeth, regarded and blessed these weak efforts as He does not always the gold and the silver which rich men cast into the treasury.

One spring day, after an unusually severe winter, Jotham presented himself before his mother in a blue farm-frock, with his pants tucked into a pair of two capacious cowhide boots.

“Why, my son, are you going to work?” the old lady asked, in surprise.

“Yes, Hans has plowed the three-cornered field for me, and I’m going to sow grain myself,” he cried, triumphantly.

“But that’s poor soil, dear boy, and it’s far from the house. There are stones there, and you cannot gather your crop if any grows,” said his mother.

“They’ll gather the crops themselves, mother; they don’t need any sickle, nor any one to teach them. God teaches them how to get in their harvest,” was Jotham’s reply.

“Whom are you talking about, Jotham,” asked his mother, in surprise.

“Of God’s birds, mother. The men said at the store last night, that lots of birds died round there in the fall and spring--starved to death, and all the grain is God’s. I’m going to sow a field on purpose for them, and nobody shall reap it but them. I love them because God loves them. I’ll feed them as he feeds me.”

Tears filled her eyes as she laid her hand tenderly on the brown head of her smitten son. Was she not happier than many a mother whose bright boy has wandered far from innocence and truthfulness?

One day, not long after this, Jotham’s minister saw him walking over the fields in a strange, circuitous manner, describing curves and angles like a drunken man. Waiting till he came up to the road, the gentleman asked, “What makes you walk in that way, Jotham?”

“For fear I’ll step on the ant-hills, sir. There never were so many ants before, sir; the fields and the roads are full of their little houses. They built them grain by grain; and what would God think of me if I trod on them just for carelessness,--as if a giant should tear our house down to amuse himself, or because he didn’t care! You know, sir,” he added, in a whisper, looking reverently up to the skies, “He hadn’t any home down here, though the foxes and the birds had; and He’s very careful of all homes now,--homes are such beautiful things, sir.”

“God bless you, dear boy,” said the minister. “It was for Christ’s sake you cast seed broadcast over that rocky field, for His sake that you turned your foot away from the home of the poor ant; and for this love He will never leave you hungry or homeless.”

“Thank you, sir,” was the innocent reply of poor Jotham.

“God’s birds” gathered one harvest under the eye of their grateful patron, and then he was called away from his simple work.

His step had long been growing weaker, and the hectic burning more brightly in his cheek, when, one evening, as he lay on the lounge beside his mother, in light slumber, he called her, and said, “Did you hear that, mother?”

“No, Jotham. What do you hear?”

“The fluttering of a great many wings--birds of every color; and all the other creatures I have loved, are enjoying themselves in the sunshine. The black ants have all turned to gold, and all the other creatures that men hate. I hear a voice, mother--hark! ‘Ye are of more value than many sparrows. Go to the ant; consider her ways.’ I never hurt anything God made--did I, mother?”

“No, my child.”

“Well, I told Him so, and He smiled on me.”

“You’ve been dreaming, Jotham,” said his mother, tenderly.

“Have I?” he asked; and it is no matter whether his vision was what we call “dreaming,” or not; he had dealt lovingly with the weak things of God, and was now receiving His approval, as “faithful over a few things.”

Before day dawned Jotham’s weak powers were expanding in the warmth of God’s love, and he is now, for aught we know, one of the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

Many summers have brought birds and flowers since then; but if you should pass Willow Brook Farm to-day, you would see a wild-looking crop of grain growing rank and free in a three-cornered field, off to the east of the house. Perhaps you would also see an aged woman standing in the door-way, shading her eyes with her hand, as she looks off on this little memorial crop which she has caused to be planted every year, for the sake of him who planted it once “for Christ’s sake.”

BIRDS’-NEST SOUP.

BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.

Every one thinks of China when birds’-nest soup is mentioned--it seems so naturally to belong with stewed snails, fricasseed rats, and other delicacies of that sort; and the Chinese are very large consumers of this strange dish, but they are not the only ones.

The nests from which the soup is made are found in Borneo, Java, and other warm regions, and are the dwelling-houses of the edible or esculent swallow. They are not made, like other nests, of moss, leaves, and twigs, as not much soup could be extracted from such things, but the substance is like gelatine, and is thought to proceed from the body of the bird--just as the web does from that of the spider, or the cocoon from the silk-worm.

When the swallows’ houses are new and fresh they are snowy white, and so delicate and pretty, that they look quite good enough to eat. This is the kind that the Chinese are extravagantly fond of, and they pay enormous prices for them. But the sun and wind soon darken them, and a family of swallows at housekeeping do not keep them in very nice order; so that, before they are fit for soup, they have to be cleaned and bleached.

The airy swallows, who do not think anything of precipices, and never trouble their heads about the soup business, build their nests in such dangerous caves, often hanging directly over the sea, that the people who gather them do it at the risk of their lives; and this makes birds’-nest soup a very expensive dish. The nests are very clear and beautiful, and so transparent that, when held to the light, pictures placed on the other side can be seen through them. Some of them are shaped like clam and oyster shells, and much thicker at the end that is fastened to the rock.

The outside is in layers; but the inside shows the glutinous threads of which they are made, and which exposure to the air has made as hard as isinglass. These nests are so shallow, that they do not seem capable of holding either birds or eggs, one of them measuring only two inches in length, one and three quarters in breadth, and half an inch in depth. It is said, however, that the building of one nest will keep a pair of swallows hard at work for two months; it is well, therefore, that the little laborers do not know that they are not building houses but soup.

There are four different kinds of swallows that make these gelatinous nests; and the opening to the cave where they are built is always taken possession of by a swallow that mixes moss with the gelatine, and tries to drive the soup swallow away. But they fight sturdily for their beloved caves, and even attempt to knock down the mixed nests with stones.

The people of Borneo, where these nests are found in the greatest quantities, have many singular stories about their origin; and perhaps the most interesting of these is the account of the hungry little boy to whom no one would give anything to eat.

This little boy was taken by his father from one Dyak village to another, called Si-Lébor; and as the journey was long, they arrived tired and hungry. It was a large village, with plenty of Dyaks in it; and the chief of the tribe brought refreshments for the father, but gave the poor child nothing. The dishes must have been served in hotel fashion, just enough for one; for it did not take the poor little traveler long to see that he was to go hungry. The narrative says that “he felt much hurt;” which he undoubtedly did, and began to cry.

Instead, however, of appealing to his selfish father for a share of the viands, he made quite a little speech to the chief and his followers:--

“To my father,” said he, “you have given food, the _prīok_ of rice is before him, the fatted pig has been killed--everything you have given him. Why do you give me nothing?”

But people who keep their enemies’ heads in their houses, in ornamental rows, as these Dyaks did, cannot be very tender-hearted; and the moanings of a hungry little boy were nothing more to _them_ than the buzzing of a fly. The child cried and cried; but his father placidly pursued his way through the rice and the pig; while the others probably continued their conversation, or stared stolidly at nothing in particular.

After a while the poor little neglected boy became quiet, and seemed to have forgotten about being hungry. He even amused himself with a dog and a cat, which he placed together on a mat round which all the people were seated in Dyak fashion. The cat and the dog, guided by the boy, cut up such queer antics, that every one burst out laughing.

But a spell was working against them for their cruelty. The boy was protected by the evil spirits; and soon the sky grew black, and fearful gusts of wind rushed over the place. Then came such awful peals of thunder and lurid flashes of lightning, while the ground beneath them shook and rumbled, that the whole universe seemed breaking up.

The darkness was frightful; and the dazzling flashes of lightning only showed the fearful changes that were taking place. The village, with its houses, melted away; and, with the inhabitants, were changed into masses of stone. Not one was left alive, except the boy; and it must have been a long time before he got anything to eat.

He went back to his native village, and lived to be respected as the chief of his tribe; it is not probable that any one ever neglected him again in the matter of rice and fatted pigs. Indeed, one would suppose, after that lesson, a constant guard of watchers would be kept on a sharp lookout for hungry little boys.

But to come to the birds’ nests. Many years after this particular little boy had died an old and honored chief, a young chief, who was his lineal descendant, had a remarkable dream. In this dream, he was told that he and his tribe would find great riches if they went to Si-Lébor, the petrified village. They started the next day; and, searching carefully about among the rocks, they came to an extensive cave. They entered it with lighted torches, and found it full of the famous edible birds’ nests.

“Ah!” said they, delighted, “this is our portion, instead of that which was denied to our ancestor; his due was refused then, it has now been given to us his descendants; this is our ‘_balas_’ (revenge).”

The birds’ nests were brought out of the cave by thousands; and thus they found their treasure. These Si-Lébor caves are still considered the richest; and the tribes who own them, the descendants of the hungry little boy, are the most prosperous and respected in all the region round.

THE STORY OF TWO FORGOTTEN KISSES.

BY KITTY CLOVER.

When little Dimple Dumpling, one chill fall evening,
Was tucked up, all in white, within his downy bed,
His mamma quite forgot to come and kiss him,
And in the morning, too, forgot to come, ’tis said:--
Of course ’tis strange that two forgotten kisses
Should make such mischief in the house in just one night;
But when Boy Dumpling woke up in the morning,
His lips, they say, had lost their sweet, his eyes their bright,
And he, who’d always been a darling,
He fell at once with nurse to quarreling.

He would not wear his scarlet frock,
Although the morn was chill and frosty;
And off he kicked his sky-blue sock,
Till nurse called him “Mister Crosstie,”
And, all at once, giving a dreadful groan,
She left cross Dimple Dumpling all alone.

But when the sounds of silver spoons and bowls
Came up and jingled round in Dimple’s chamber,
And in stole savory sniffs of steaks and rolls,
Quick from his chair did Dimple clamber;
And as he knew that little leggies bare
Were not received at mamma’s breakfast table,
He thought he’d better oil and ’fume his hair
And button on his frock himself if able,--
The scarlet frock,--
The sky-blue sock,--
He was in it
In a minute!

But down stairs Dimple hourly grew more cross,
And o’er the house with awful noise went rushing,
Till all his folks stood up, quite at a loss
To hit upon some brand-new means of hushing.
But on his friends the ogre frowned,
And in the desks and drawers went prowling,
Until a fierce jack-knife was found
That just exactly matched his scowling.--
Then Dimple opened every blade,
And went right at his dearest treasures,
And hacked, till every toy was made
The victim of his savage measures.

Next Dimple growled aloud he’d “keep a school;”
So up hopped Minnie, merry as a linnet,
And offered picture-book and painted rule--
But “no,” he shrieked, “he wouldn’t have her in it!”
He seized her wooden dolls that couldn’t smile.--for O,
O, _how_ he hated smiles, grim Dimple Dumpling!
And all the time they sat there in that wooden row
His yellow head against the wall was crumpling,--
It must have been so sore,--but there he sat, like stone,
And kicked the floor till mamma cried, “O, this is
_Very_ bad!”--but, ah, if mamma’d only known
Her little boy was bad for lack of kisses!

Well, all at once, the silver sun shone out,
And Minnie played she’d never heard those speeches,
But led cross Dimple out, with skip and shout,
Down where the wind had blown the rareripe peaches.
Just one single Red-Cheek lay on the grass,
And O, how Dimple pushed and rushed to get it,
Though Minnie stepped aside to let him pass;
And, then, away he ran to stand and eat it.--
O, Dimple Dumpling! O, such a bad little man,
All for two kisses! I wonder if this can
The reason be that so many a little brother
Goes wrong his life long,--for lack of kisses and mother!

How do I know but a terrible hunger
Gnaws at the hearts of motherless boys?
How do I know but ’tis that that destroys
All that is good, until boys that are younger
Than you, Boy Dumpling, make the streets sorrowful places,
And the angels weep at the look on the wee, wee faces?

But off ran selfish Dimple through the pink peach trees,--
“I’s goin’ by myse’f into the meadow,”
He screamed,--instead, he fell upon his chubby knees
And tumbled over in the brambly shadow.
Then loud did Dimple shriek, “Minnie! hornets and bees!”
He rolled, he struck before, and struck behind him,
While little Minnie flew along the pink peach trees,--
“O, dear Dimple! Dimple darling!”--to find him.

Ah, well, perhaps the hornets like a naughty fellow!
For there they rested on his round and rosy cheeks,
And there they clung upon his hair so soft and yellow,--
No wonder that the tender little sister shrieks!
And when they heard her not a hornet missed her;
They stung her blind just ’cause she was his sister!--
Poor little sister, poor little brother,
One ran one way, and one the other!

All day long was dear little Dimple lost,
And all the house was out and calling, “Dimple! Dimple!”
Till just at dark a dingle dim was crossed,
And there, asleep, down in the grass, all sweet and simple,
And like a lily, Dimple was; and mamma, in her joy,
Kissed and kissed him, and he woke up Her Own Good Boy.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.

Small capitals have been capitalised.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.