Chapter M: E. B

It's strange how little boys' mothers,
Can find it all out as they do,
If a fellow does anything naughty,
Or says anything that's not true!
They'll look at you just a moment,
Till your heart in your bosom swells,
And then they know all about it--
For a little bird tells!

Now, where the little bird comes from,
Or where the little bird goes,
If he's covered with beautiful plumage,
Or black as the king of the crows.
If his voice is as hoarse as a raven,
Or clear as the ringing of bells,
I know not--but this I am sure of--
A little bird tells!

The moment you think a thing wicked,
The moment you do a thing bad,
Are angry, or sullen, or hateful,
Get ugly, or stupid, or mad,
Or tease a dear brother or sister--
That instant your sentence he knells,
And the whole to mamma in a minute
That little bird tells!

You may be in the depths of a closet,
Where nobody sees but a mouse,
You may be all alone in the cellar,
You may be on the top of the house,
You may be in the dark and the silence,
Or out in the woods and the dells--
No matter! wherever it happens
The little bird tells!

And the only contrivance to stop him,
Is just to be sure what you say--
Sure of your facts and your fancies,
Sure of your work and your play;
Be honest, be brave and be kindly,
Be gentle and loving as well,
And then--you can laugh at the stories
The little bird tells!

THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN KIDS.

There was once an old goat, who had seven kids, whom she loved as dearly as any mother could. One day she wished to go into the wood, to fetch some provision; so she called them all together, and said, "My dear children, I am going into the wood; but while I am gone, pray take care of the wolf; if he comes in here he will devour you, skin and all. He often disguises himself; but you will always be able to know him by his gruff voice and black feet." The little kids replied, "Mother, dear, you may go without any fear, for we will take all possible care of ourselves." So the old goat bleated, to express her satisfaction, and went away without mistrust.

Before long, a knock was heard at the door, and a voice said, "Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something for each of you." But the little kids discovered very easily by the gruff voice who it was, and cried out, "No, no; we shall not open the door, you are not our mother; she has a gentle, loving voice, but yours is harsh; for you are the wolf."

When he heard this, he went away and got a great lump of chalk, which he swallowed to make his voice more delicate; then returning to the cottage, he knocked at the door, saying, "Open the door, dear children; your affectionate mother is here, and has brought something for each of you." But, as he spoke the wolf laid his black foot on the window-sill; so the children saw it and cried, "No, no, we shall not open the door; our mother has not black feet like you; you are the wolf!"

Then the wolf ran to the baker, and said, "I have hurt my foot, spread some dough over it." The baker did as he requested; and the wolf hastened to the miller, whom he asked to strew some of his white flour over his foot. The miller thought to himself that the wolf wished to deceive somebody, so he refused to do it. But the wolf said, fiercely, "Do it instantly, or I will eat you up." The man, therefore, being dreadfully afraid, made his paw white as he desired. The rogue now went for the third time to the cottage, knocked at the door, and cried, "Children, your affectionate mother has returned home, and brought each of you something out of the wood." The kids exclaimed, "Show us first your foot, that we may know truly if you are our dear mother." The wolf had his paw on the window; and when they saw that it was white, they believed all that he said, and opened the door. But it was their enemy, the wolf, who, to their great terror, came in. They tried in vain to hide themselves: one went under the table, another into bed, the third into the oven, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the closet, the sixth under the washing-tub, and the seventh into the clock-case. But the wolf found them all but one, and made no bones of them, for he swallowed them all except the youngest, who was hidden in the clock-case, and whom he did not find. When he had satisfied his appetite, he rolled out of the cottage, and feeling rather drowsy, laid himself down under a tree in a green meadow, and fell fast asleep.

Not long afterwards, the goat came home out of the wood. Ah! a sight met her view! The house-door stood wide open, tables, stools, and chairs were overturned, the washing-tub in pieces, counterpanes and pillows strewed about in terrible confusion. She sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found; she called them by name, but no reply came.

At length, as she was passing near the place where the youngest was concealed, she heard a weak voice say, "Dear mother, I'm in the clock-case." She instantly opened it, and there was the kid, who related the misfortune that had befallen them through the wolf, and the dreadful fate of her brothers and sisters. The anger and sorrow of the old goat can scarcely be described; but at length she became calmer, and taking her kid with her, resolved to seek her enemy. When she arrived at the meadow, she discovered him under the tree, snoring so loudly that the twigs trembled. She examined him on all sides, and saw that something was moving and jumping inside him. "Can it be possible," said she, "that my poor children whom the monster has swallowed for his supper, are still alive?" Full of hope, she sent her kid quickly home for scissors, needle and thread, and upon her return ripped the wolf up; scarcely had she commenced, than a kid's head appeared, and when she had finished, all six sprang joyfully out, without having suffered the least harm, for the wolf had swallowed them whole. The mother caressed them and jumped for joy, then said, "Now go and fetch me some large paving stones, that I may fill up the wicked creature while he is yet asleep." The kids obeyed and dragged plenty of large stones to the place, which the mother put inside the wolf; she then sewed him up, so quickly, that he neither stirred nor found out what she had done.

At length the wolf awoke, raised himself on his legs, and as the stones made him feel thirsty, he went towards the spring to quench it. But when he began to move, the stones moved likewise, and rattled loudly. Then he said, "What can it be that rattles about inside me, and feels so heavy? I thought I had eaten kids, but I feel as if they were paving-stones." He then came to the spring, and stooped down to drink, but the weight of the stones carried him in, for the bank was sloping, and he sank to the bottom and perished miserably. When the kids saw this, they danced and sprang about in great joy, crying out, "The wolf is drowned! The wolf is dead! We have nothing more to fear--the wolf is dead!"

* * * * *

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.--

BRYANT.

BIRDIE AND BABY.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother let me fly away.
Birdie rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.

THE INFLUENCE OF BOOKS.

From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were to rule in the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and the battle-axe. Books! light-houses built on the sea of time! Books! by whose sorcery the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession before our eyes. From their pages great souls look down in all their grandeur, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time.

EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

ELIZABETH AKERS.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echo-less shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,--
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,--
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,--
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap--
Rock me to sleep, mother--rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep,
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shown;
No other worship abides and endures,--
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened to your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep,--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep.

HEROISM.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low, "_Thou must_,"
The youth replies, "_I can_."

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

* * * * *

Politeness is _to do_ and say
The kindest thing in the kindest way.

MEASURING THE BABY.

EMMA ALICE BROWN.

We measured the riotous baby
Against the cottage wall--
A lily grew on the threshold,
And the boy was just as tall;
A royal tiger-lily,
With spots of purple and gold,
And a heart like a jeweled chalice,
The fragrant dew to hold.

Without, the bluebirds whistled
High up in the old roof-trees,
And to and fro at the window
The red rose rocked her bees;
And the wee pink fists of the baby
Were never a moment still,
Snatching at shine and shadow
That danced on the lattice-sill.

His eyes were wide as bluebells--
His mouth like a flower unblown--
Two little bare feet like funny white mice,
Peeped out from his snowy gown;
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture
That yet had a touch of pain,
When June rolls around with her roses,
We'll measure the boy again.

Ah me! in a darkened chamber,
With the sunshine shut away,
Through tears that fell like a bitter rain,
We measured the boy to-day;
And the little bare feet, that were dimpled
And sweet as a budding rose,
Lay side by side together,
In a hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow,
White as the risen dawn,
The fair little face lay smiling,
With the light of Heaven thereon;
And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves
Dropped from a rose, lay still,
Never to snatch at the sunshine
That crept to the shrouded sill.

We measured the sleeping baby
With ribbons white as snow,
For the shining rosewood casket
That waited him below;
And out of the darkened chamber
We went with a childless moan--
To the height of the sinless angels
Our little one had grown.

* * * * *

Every man stamps his value on himself.
The price we challenge for ourselves is given us.
Man is made great or little _by his own will_.

SCHILLER

* * * * *

It was a noble Roman,
In Rome's imperial day,
Who heard a coward croaker,
Before the Castle say:
"They're safe in such a fortress;
There is no way to shake it!"
"On--on," exclaimed the hero,
"_I'll find a way, or make it!_"

JOHN G. SAXE.

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

No, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky, I'm feeling
A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That will ring in my head forever,
Until it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored--
Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,
Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight--
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion
Of the up grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,
So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,
The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;
But to me--ahold of the lever--
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready
My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up-train passed, oft called me,
A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle
As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow,
Struck fire through every nerve.
I sounded the brakes, and crashing
The reverse lever down in dismay,
Groaning to Heaven,--eighty paces
Ahead was a child at its play!

One instant--one awful and only,
The world flew around in my brain,
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain;
The train I thought flying forever,
With mad, irresistible roll,
While the cries of the dying, the night-wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine,
How I got there I never could tell,--
My feet planted down on the cross-bar
Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
And one held out in the night,
While my eye gauged the distance and measured,
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;
I saw the curls of her hair,
And the face that turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.
I know little more--but I heard it--
The groan of the anguished wheels,
And remember thinking--the engine
In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! to the day of my dying,
I shall think the old engine reared back,
And as it recoiled with a shudder
I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a climbing,
To nestle securely there.
We are not much given to crying--
We men that run on the road--
But that night, they said there were faces,
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning,
As I neared the cabin again,
My hand on the lever pressed downward
And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door;
And her look with a fullness of Heaven,
Blessed me evermore.

* * * * *

I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble, or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

* * * * *

Oh, many a shaft, at random sent,
Finds mark, the archer little meant!
And many a word, at random spoken,
May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken.

WALTER SCOTT.

TWO BRAVE BOYS.

FROM PRITT'S BORDER LIFE.

During the early pioneer days of Ohio, there lived on the Ohio river, not far from Cincinnati, a family named Johnson.

The two sons, John and Henry, aged respectively thirteen and eleven years, were one day seated on an old log some distance from the house. Presently they saw two men coming toward them, whom they supposed to be white men from the nearest settlement. To the great dismay of the boys, they discovered when too late for escape, that two Indians were beside them.

They were made prisoners and taken about four miles into the deep forests, when, after eating some roasted meat and parched corn, given them by their captors, they arranged for the night, by being placed between the two Indians and each encircled in the arms of the one next him.

Henry, the younger, had grieved much at the idea of being carried off by the Indians. John had in vain tried to comfort him with the hope that they should escape and return to their parents; but he refused to be comforted. The ugly red man, with his tomahawk and scalping-knife, which had often been called in to quiet his cries in infancy, was now actually before him; and every scene of torture and cruelty of which early settlers knew so much, rose up to terrify his mind.

But when the fire was kindled in the forest, that night, the supper prepared and offered to him, all idea of his future fate was forgotten, and Henry soon sank to peaceful sleep, though he was enclosed in the arms of a red savage.

It was different with John. He felt the reality of their situation; he was alive to the fears which he knew would possess his dear mother when night came and her boys did not return. His thoughts of how to restore his brother and himself to their friends drove sleep from his eyes.

Finding all others locked in deep repose, he gently slipped from the arms of his captor and walked to the fire. To test the soundness of their sleep, he rekindled the dying fire and moved freely about it. All remained sound asleep--now was the time to escape. He gently awoke Henry and told him to get up; he obeyed and both stood by the fire.

"I think," said John, "we had better go home now."

"Oh!" replied Henry, "they will follow and catch us."

"Never fear that," replied John, "we'll kill them before we go."

The idea was for some time opposed by Henry, but when he beheld the savages so soundly asleep, and listened to his brother's plan of executing his wish, he finally consented to act the part prescribed him.

The only gun which the Indians had was resting against a tree, at the foot of which lay their tomahawks. John placed it on a log, with the muzzle near to the head of one of the savages, and, leaving Henry with his finger on the trigger, ready to pull on the signal being given, he repaired to his own station. Holding in his hand one of their tomahawks, he stood astride of the other Indian, and, as he raised his arm to deal death to the sleeping savage, Henry fired, and, shooting off the lower part of the Indian's jaw, called to his brother, "_Lay on; for I've done for this one_," seized up the gun and ran off. The first blow of the tomahawk took effect on the back of the neck and was not fatal. The Indian attempted to spring up, but John repeated his strokes with such force and so quickly that he soon brought him again to the ground, and leaving him dead proceeded on after his brother.

They presently came to a path which they recollected to have traveled the preceding evening, and, keeping along it, arrived at the station awhile before day. The inhabitants were, however, all up, and in much uneasiness for the fate of the boys; and when they came near, and heard a well-known voice exclaim, in accents of deep distress, "_Poor little fellows! they are either killed or taken prisoners_," John called aloud, "No, mother, we are here again."

When the tale of their captivity and the means by which they escaped, were told, they did not receive full belief, upon which John said, "You had better go and see." "But can you again find the spot?" said one; "Yes," he said, "I hung my cap up at the place where we turned into the path." So, with a number of men, John led the way, and when they came to the fire they found the Indian who had been tomahawked, dead, while they tracked the one who had been shot, by his blood, until they found him, not quite dead yet, but so weak that he would die, so they left him.

* * * * *

I am positive I have a Soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.

STERNE.

THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

Gone! gone for ever!--like a rushing wave
Another year has burst upon the shore
Of earthly being--and its last low tones,
Wandering in broken accents on the air,
Are dying to an echo.

The gay Spring
With its young charms, has gone--gone with its leaves--
Its atmosphere of roses, its white clouds
Slumbering like seraphs in the air--its birds
Telling their loves in music--and its streams
Leaping and shouting from the up-piled rocks
To make earth echo with the joy of waves.
And Summer, with its dews and showers, has gone--
Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud

Like Spirits of the Storm--its peaceful lakes
Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams
Were of the opening flowers and budding trees
And overhanging sky--and its bright mists
Resting upon the mountain tops, as crowns
Upon the heads of giants.

Autumn too
Has gone, with all its deeper glories--gone
With its green hills like altars of the world
Lifting their rich fruit-offerings to their God--
Its cool winds straying 'mid the forest aisles
To wake their thousand wind-harps--its serene
And holy sunsets hanging o'er the West
Like banners from the battlements of Heaven--
And its still evenings, when the moonlit sea
Was ever throbbing, like the living heart
Of the great Universe--Aye--these are now
But sounds and visions of the past--their deep,
Wild beauty has departed from the Earth,
And they are gathered to the embrace of Death,
Their solemn herald to Eternity.

Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts
Of Passion have gone with them. The fresh dust
Is chill on many a breast, that burned erstwhile
With fires that seemed immortal.

Joys, that leaped
Like angels from the heart, and wandered free
In life's young morn to look upon the flowers,
The poetry of nature, and to list
The woven sounds of breeze, and bird, and stream,
Upon the night-air, have been stricken down
In silence to the dust.

Yet, why muse
Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year
Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide
Of old Eternity, and borne along
Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks
Of glory and of beauty--yet, why mourn
That such is destiny? Another year
Succeedeth to the past--in their bright round
The seasons come and go--the same blue arch,
That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet--
The same pure stars that we have loved to watch,
Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour
Like lilies on the tomb of Day--and still
Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed,
And mark the earth with passion.

Weep not, that Time
Is passing on--it will ere long reveal
A brighter era to the nations.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air--into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep.

SHAKESPEARE.]