Chapter II: Part 2

By this time, my parents and a number of the neighbours had reached the spot, and they carried Mrs. Allen and her drowned boy home together, through the twilight. Poor Cora followed close to the body of Charlie, whining piteously all the way. That night, we could not get her out of the room where it was placed, but she watched there until morning.

Ah, how sweetly little Charlie looked when he was laid out the next day! His beautiful face had lost the dark look that it wore when he was first taken from the water; his pretty brown hair lay in close ringlets all around his white forehead. One hand was stretched at his side, the other was laid across his breast, still holding the water-lilies. He was not dressed in a shroud, but in white trousers, and a pretty little spencer of pink gingham. He did not look dead, but sleeping, and he seemed to smile softly, as though he had a pleasant dream in his heart.

Widow Allen had one other child, a year younger than Charlie, whose name was Mary, but who always called herself “Little May.” O, it would have made you cry to have seen her when she was brought to look on her dead brother. She laughed at first, and put her small fingers on his shut eyes, trying to open them, and said, “Wake up Charlie! wake up, and come play out doors, with little May!” But when she found that those eyes would not unclose, and when she felt how cold that face was, she was grieved and frightened, and ran to hide her face in her mother’s lap, where she cried and trembled; for though she could not know what death was, she felt that something awful had happened in the house.

But Cora’s sorrow was also sad to see. When the body of Charlie was carried to the grave, she followed close to the coffin, and when it was let down into the grave, she leaped in and laid down upon it, and growled and struggled when the men took her out. Every day after that, she would go to that grave, never missing the spot, though there were many other little mounds in the old church-yard. She would lie beside it for hours, patiently waiting, it seemed, for her young friend to awake and come out into the sunshine, and run about and play with her as he was used to do. Sometimes she would dig a little way into the mound, and bark, or whine, and then listen for the voice of Charlie to answer. But that voice never came, though the faithful Cora listened and waited and pined for it, through many days. She ate scarcely any thing; she would not play with us now, nor could we persuade her to go into the pond. Alas! that fair, sweet child, pale and dripping from the water, was the last lily she ever brought ashore. She grew so thin, and weak, and sick, at last, that she could hardly drag herself to the grave. But still she went there every day. One evening, she did not come home, and my brother and I went down for her. When we reached the church-yard, we passed along very carefully, for fear of treading on some grave, and spoke soft and low, as children should always do in such places. Sometimes we stopped to read the long inscriptions on handsome tombstones, and to wonder why so many great and good people were taken away. Sometimes we pitied the poor dead people who had no tombstones at all, because their friends could not afford to raise them, or because they had been too wicked themselves to have their praises printed in great letters, cut in white marble, and put up in the solemn burying-ground, where nobody would ever dare to write or say any thing but the truth. When we came in sight of Charlie’s grave, we talked about him. We wondered if he thought of his mother, and cried out any when he was drowning. We thought that he must have grown very weary with struggling in the water, and we wondered if he was resting now, sleeping down there with his lilies. We said that perhaps his _soul_ was awake all the time, and that, when he was drowned, it did not fly right away to heaven, with the angels, to sing hymns, while his poor mother was weeping, but stayed about the place, and somehow comforted her, and made her think of God and heaven, even when she lay awake in the night, to mourn for her lost boy.

So talking, we came up to the grave. Cora was lying on the mound, where the grass had now grown green and long. She seemed to be asleep, and not to hear our steps or our voices. My brother spoke to her pleasantly, and patted her on the head. But she did not move. I bent down and looked into her face. She was quite dead!

JACK, THE DRAKE.

I have hesitated a great deal about writing the history of this pet, for his little life was only a chapter of accidents, and you may think it very silly. Still, I hope you may have a little interest in it after all, and that your kind hearts may feel for poor Jack, for he was good and was unfortunate.

It happened that once, during a walk in the fields, I found a duck’s egg right in my path. We had then no ducks in our farm-yard, and I thought it would be a fine idea to have one for a pet. So I wrapped the egg in wool, and put it into a basket, which I hung in a warm corner by the kitchen-fire. My brothers laughed at me, saying that the egg would never be any thing more than an egg, if left there; but I had faith to believe that I should some time see a fine duckling peeping out of the shell, very much to the astonishment of all unbelieving boys. I used to go to the basket, lift up the wool and look at that little blue-hued treasure three or four times a day, or take it out and hold it against my bosom, and breathe upon it in anxious expectation; until I began to think that a watched egg never would hatch. But my tiresome suspense finally came to a happy end. At about the time when, if he had had a mother, she would have been looking for him, Jack, the drake, presented his bill to the world that owed him a living. He came out as plump and hearty a little fowl as could reasonably have been expected. But what to do with him was the question. After a while, I concluded to take him to a hen who had just hatched a brood of chickens, thinking that, as he was a friendless orphan, she might adopt him for charity’s sake. But Biddy was already like the celebrated

“Old woman that lived in a shoe,
Who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

With thirteen little ones of her own, and living in a small and rather an inconvenient coop, it was no wonder that she felt unwilling to have any addition to her family. But she might have declined civilly. I am afraid she was a sad vixen, for no sooner did she see the poor duckling among her chickens, than she strode up to him, and with one peck tore the skin from his head,--scalped him,--the old savage! I rescued Jack from her as soon as possible, and dressed his wound with lint as well as I could, for I felt something like a parent to the fowl myself. He recovered after a while, but, unfortunately, no feathers grew again on his head,--he was always quite bald,--which gave him an appearance of great age. I once tried to remedy this evil by sticking some feathers on to his head with tar; but, like all other wigs, it deceived no one, only making him look older and queerer than ever. What made the matter worse was, that I had selected some long and very bright feathers, which stood up so bold on his head that the other fowls resented it, and pecked at the poor wig till they pecked it all off.

While Jack was yet young, he one day fell into the cistern, which had been left open. Of course he could not get out, and he soon tired of swimming, I suppose, and sunk. At least, when he was drawn up, he looked as though he had been in the water a long time, and seemed quite dead. Yet, hoping to revive him, I placed him in his old basket of wool, which I set down on the hearth. He did indeed come to life, but the first thing the silly creature did on leaving his nest was to run into the midst of the fire, and before I could get him out, he was very badly burned. He recovered from this also, but with bare spots all over his body. In his tail there never afterwards grew more than three short feathers. But his trials were not over yet. After he was full-grown, he was once found fast by one leg in a great iron rat-trap. When he was released, his leg was found to be broken. But my brother William, who was then inclined to be a doctor, which he has since become, and who had watched my father during surgical operations, splintered and bound up the broken limb, and kept the patient under a barrel for a week, so that he should not attempt to use it. At the end of that time, Jack could get about a little, but with a very bad limp, which he never got over. But as the duck family never had the name of walking very handsomely, that was no great matter.

After all these accidents and mishaps, I hardly need tell you that Jack had little beauty to boast of, or plume himself upon. He was in truth sadly disfigured,--about the ugliest fowl possible to meet in a long day’s journey. Indeed, he used to be shown up to people as a curiosity on account of his ugliness.

I remember a little city girl coming to see me that summer. She talked a great deal about her fine wax-dolls with rolling eyes and jointed legs, her white, curly French lap-dog, and, best and prettiest of every thing, her beautiful yellow canary-bird, which sung and sung all the day long. I grew almost dizzy with hearing of such grand and wonderful things, and sat with my mouth wide open to swallow her great stories. At last, she turned to me and asked, with a curl of her pretty red lips, “Have you no pet-birds, little girl?” Now, she always called me “little girl,” though I was a year older and a head taller than she. I replied, “Yes, I have one,” and led the way to the back-yard, where I introduced her to Jack. I thought I should have died of laughter when she came to see him. Such faces as she made up!

I am sorry to say, that the other fowls in the yard, from the oldest hen down to the rooster without spurs, and even to the green goslings, seemed to see and feel Jack’s want of personal pretensions and attractions, and always treated him with marked contempt, not to say cruelty. The little chickens followed him about, peeping and cackling with derision, very much as the naughty children of the old Bible times mocked at the good, bald-headed prophet. But poor Jack didn’t have it in his power to punish the ill-mannered creatures as Elisha did those saucy children, when he called the hungry she-bears to put a stop to their wicked fun. In fact, I don’t think he would have done so if he could, for all this hard treatment never made him angry or disobliging. He had an excellent temper, and was always meek and quiet, though there was a melancholy hang to his bald head, and his three lonesome tail-feathers drooped sadly toward the ground. When he was ever so lean and hungry, he would gallantly give up his dinner to the plump, glossy-breasted pullets, though they would put on lofty airs, step lightly, eye him scornfully, and seem to be making fun of his queer looks all the time. He took every thing so kindly! He was like a few, a very few people we meet, who, the uglier they grow, the more goodness they have at heart, and the worse the world treats them, the better they are to it.

But Jack had one true friend. I liked him, and more than once defended him from cross old hens, and tyrannical cocks. But perhaps my love was too much mixed up with pity for him to have felt highly complimented by it. Yet he seemed to cherish a great affection for me, and to look up to me as his guardian and protector.

As you have seen, Jack was always getting into scrapes, and at last he got into one which even I could not get him out of. He one day rashly swam out into the mill-pond, which was then very high, from a freshet, and which carried him over the dam, where, as he was a very delicate fowl, he was drowned, or his neck was broken, by the great rush and tumble of the water. I have sometimes thought that it might be that he was tired of life, and grieved by the way the world had used him, and so put an end to himself. But I hope it was not so; for, with all his oddities and misfortunes, Jack seemed too sensible for that.

ELEGY.

Alas, poor lame, bald-headed Jack!
None mourned when he was dead,
And for the sake of her drowned drake
No young duck hung her head!

The old cocks said they saw him go,
Yet did not call him back,
For a death from hydropathy
Was a fit death for a _quack_.

The cockerels said, “Well, that poor fowl
Is gone,--who cares a penny?”
And guessed he found that last deep dive
Was one _duck-in_ too many.

The heartless pullets saw him,
Yet raised no warning cries,
As he swam o’er the dam,
And was drowned before their eyes!

HECTOR, THE GREYHOUND.

Hector was the favorite hound of my brother Rufus, who was extremely fond of him, for he was one of the most beautiful creatures ever seen, had an amiable disposition, and was very intelligent. You would scarcely believe me, should I tell you all his accomplishments and cunning tricks. If one gave him a piece of money, he would take it in his mouth and run at once to the baker, or butcher, for his dinner. He was evidently fond of music, and even seemed to have an ear for it, and he would dance away merrily whenever he saw dancing. He was large and strong, and in the winter, I remember, we used to harness him to a little sleigh, on which he drew my youngest brother to school. As Hector was as fleet as the wind, this sort of riding was rare sport. At night we had but to start him off, and he would go directly to the school-house for his little master. Ah, Hector was a wonderful dog!

A few miles from our house, there was a pond, or small lake, very deep and dark, and surrounded by a swampy wood. Here my brothers used to go duck-shooting, though it was rather dangerous sport, as most of the shore of the pond was a soft bog, but thinly grown over with grass and weeds. It was said that cattle had been known to sink in it, and disappear in a short time.

One night during the hunting season, one of my elder brothers brought a friend home with him, a fine, handsome young fellow, named Charles Ashley. It was arranged that they should shoot ducks about the pond the next day. So in the morning they all set out in high spirits. In the forenoon they had not much luck, as they kept too much together; but in the afternoon they separated, my brothers giving their friend warning to beware of getting into the bogs. But Ashley was a wild, imprudent young man, and once, having shot a fine large duck, which fell into the pond near the shore, and Hector, who was with him, refusing to go into the water for it, he ran down himself. Before he reached the edge of the water, he was over his ankles in mire; then, turning to go back, he sunk to his knees, and in another moment he was waist-high in the bog, and quite unable to help himself. He laid his gun down, and, fortunately, could rest one end of it on a little knoll of firmer earth; but he still sunk slowly, till he was in up to his arm-pits. Of course, he called and shouted for help as loud as possible, but my brothers were at such a distance that they did not hear him so as to know his voice. But Hector, after looking at him in his sad fix a moment, started off on a swift run, which soon brought him to his master. My brother said that the dog then began to whine, and run back and forth in a most extraordinary manner, until he set out to follow him to the scene of the accident. Hector dashed on through the thick bushes, as though he were half distracted, every few moments turning back with wild cries to hurry on his master. When my brother came up to where his friend was fixed in the mire, he could see nothing of him at first. Then he heard a faint voice calling him, and, looking down near the water, he saw a pale face looking up at him from the midst of the black bog. He has often said that it was the strangest sight that he ever saw. Poor Ashley’s arms, and the fowling-piece he held, were now beginning to disappear, and in a very short time he would have sunk out of sight for ever! Only to think of such an awful death! My brother, who had always great presence of mind, lost no time in bending down a young tree from the bank where he stood, so that Ashley could grasp it, and in that way be drawn up, for, as you see, it would not have been safe for him to go down to where his friend sunk. When Ashley had taken a firm hold of the sapling, my brother let go of it, and it sprung back, pulling up the young man without much exertion on his part. Ashley was, however, greatly exhausted with fright and struggling, and lay for some moments on the bank, feeling quite unable to walk. As soon as he was strong enough, he set out for home with my brother, stopping very often to rest and shake off the thick mud, which actually weighed heavily upon him. I never shall forget how he looked when he came into the yard about sunset. O, what a rueful and ridiculous figure he cut! We could none of us keep from laughing, though we were frightened at first, and sorry for our guest’s misfortune. But after he was dressed in a dry suit of my brother’s, he looked funnier than ever, for he was a tall, rather large person, and the dress was too small for him every way. Yet he laughed as heartily as any of us, for he was very good-natured and merry. It seems to me I can see him now, as he walked about with pantaloons half way up to his knees, coat-sleeves coming a little below the elbows, and vest that wouldn’t meet at all, and told us queer Yankee stories, and sung songs, and jested and laughed all the evening. But once, I remember, I saw him go out on to the door-step, where Hector was lying, kneel down beside the faithful dog, and actually hug him to his breast.

When not hunting with his master Hector went with Albert and me in all our rambles, berrying and nutting. We could hardly be seen without him, and we loved him almost as we loved one another.

One afternoon in early spring, we had been into the woods for wild-flowers. I remember that I had my apron filled with the sweet claytonias, and the gay trilliums, and the pretty white flowers of the sanguinaria, or “blood-root,” and hosts and handfuls of the wild violets, yellow and blue. My brother had taken off his cap and filled it with beautiful green mosses, all lit up with the bright red squaw-berry. We had just entered the long, shady lane which ran down to the house, and were talking and laughing very merrily, when we saw a crowd of men and boys running toward us and shouting as they ran. Before them was a large, brown bull-dog, that, as he came near, we saw was foaming at the mouth. Then we heard what the men were crying. It was, “_Mad dog!_”

My brother and I stopped and clung to each other in great trouble. Hector stood before us and growled. The dog was already so near that we saw we could not escape; he came right at us, with his dreadful frothy mouth wide open. He was just upon us, when Hector caught him by the throat, and the two rolled on the ground, biting and struggling. But presently one of the men came up and struck the mad dog on the head with a large club,--so stunned him and finally killed him. But Hector, poor Hector, was badly bitten in the neck and breast, and all the men said that he must die too, or he would go mad. One of the neighbours went home with us, and told my father and elder brothers all about it. They were greatly troubled, but promised that, for the safety of the neighbourhood, Hector should be shot in the morning. I remember how, while they were talking, Hector lay on the door-step licking his wounds, every now and then looking round, as if he thought that there was some trouble which he ought to understand.

I shall never, never forget how I grieved that night! I heard the clock strike ten, eleven, and twelve, as I lay awake weeping for my dear playfellow and noble preserver, who was to die in the morning. Hector was sleeping in the next room, and once I got up and stole out to see him as he lay on the hearth-rug in the clear moonlight, resting unquietly, for his wounds pained him. I went and stood so near that my tears fell on his beautiful head; but I was careful not to wake him, for I somehow felt guilty toward him.

That night the weather changed, and the next morning came up chilly and windy, with no sunshine at all,--as though it would not have been a gloomy day enough, any how. After breakfast--ah! I remember well how little breakfast was eaten by any of us that morning--Hector was led out into the yard, and fastened to a stake. He had never before in all his life been tied, and he now looked troubled and ashamed. But my mother spoke pleasantly to him and patted him, and he held up his head and looked proud again. My mother was greatly grieved that the poor fellow should have to die for defending her children, and when she turned from him and went into the house, I saw she was in tears; so I cried louder than ever. One after another, we all went up and took leave of our dear and faithful friend. My youngest brother clung about him longest, crying and sobbing as though his heart would break. It seemed that we should never get the child away. My brother Rufus said that no one should shoot his dog but himself, and while we children were bidding farewell, he stood at a little distance loading his rifle. But finally he also came up to take leave. He laid his hand tenderly on Hector’s head, but did not speak to him or look into his eyes,--those sad eyes, which seemed to be asking what all this crying meant. He then stepped quickly back to his place, and raised the rifle to his shoulder. Then poor Hector appeared to understand it all, and to know that he must die, for he gave a loud, mournful cry, trembled all over, and crouched toward the ground. My brother dropped the gun, and leaned upon it, pale and distressed. Then came the strangest thing of all. Hector seemed to have strength given him to submit to his hard fate; he stood up bravely again, but turned away his head and closed his eyes. My brother raised the rifle. I covered my face with my hands. Then came a loud, sharp report. I looked round and saw Hector stretched at full length, with a great stream of blood spouting from his white breast, and reddening all the grass about him. He was not quite dead, and as we gathered around him, he looked up into our faces and moaned. The ball which pierced him had cut the cord in two that bound him to the stake, and he was free at the last. My brother, who had thrown down his rifle, drew near also, but dared not come close, because, he said, he feared the poor dog would look reproachfully at him. But Hector caught sight of his beloved master, and, rousing all his strength, dragged himself to his feet. Rufus bent over him and called him by name. Hector looked up lovingly and forgivingly into his face, licked his hand, and died. Then my brother, who had kept a firm, manly face all the while, burst into tears.

My brother William, who was always master of ceremonies on such occasions, made a neat coffin for Hector, and laid him in it, very gently and solemnly. I flung in all the wild-flowers which Albert and I had gathered on the afternoon of our last walk with our noble friend, and so we buried him. His grave was very near the spot where he had so bravely defended us from the mad dog, by the side of the way, in the long, pleasant lane where the elm-trees grew.

BOB, THE COSSET.

One cold night in March, my father came in from the barn-yard, bringing a little lamb, which lay stiff and still in his arms, and appeared to be quite dead. But my mother, who was good and kind to all creatures, wrapped it in flannel, and, forcing open its teeth, poured some warm milk down its throat. Still it did not open its eyes or move, and when we went to bed it was yet lying motionless before the fire. It happened that my mother slept in a room opening out of the sitting-room, and in the middle of the night she heard a little complaining voice, saying, “Ma!” She thought it must be some one of us, and so answered, “What, my child?” Again it came, “Ma!” and, turning round, she saw by the light of the moon the little lamb she had left for dead standing by her bedside. In the morning it was found that the own mother of “Bob,” (for we gave him that name,) had died of cold in the night; so we adopted the poor orphan into our family. We children took care of him, and though it was a great trouble to bring him up by hand, we soon became attached to our charge, and grew very proud of his handsome growth and thriving condition. He was, in truth, a most amusing pet, he had such free manners with every body and was so entirely at home everywhere. He would go into every room in the house,--even mount the stairs and appear in our chambers in the morning, sometimes before we were up, to shame us with his early rising. But the place which of all others he decidedly preferred was the pantry. Here he was, I am sorry to say, once or twice guilty of breaking the commandment against stealing, by helping himself to fruit and to slices of bread which did not rightfully belong to him. He was tolerably amiable, though I think that lambs generally have a greater name for sweetness of temper than they deserve. But Bob, though playful and somewhat mischievous, had never any serious disagreement with the dogs, cats, pigs, and poultry on the premises. My sister and I used to make wreaths for his neck, which he wore with such an evident attempt at display, that I sometimes feared he was more vain and proud than it was right for such an innocent and poetical animal to be.

But our trials did not really commence until Bob’s horns began to sprout. It seemed that he had no sooner perceived those little protuberances in his looking glass, the drinking-trough, than he took to butting, like any common pasture-reared sheep, who had been wholly without the advantages of education and good society. It was in vain that we tried to impress upon him that such was not correct conduct in a cosset of his breeding; he would still persevere in his little interesting trick of butting all such visitors as did not happen to strike his fancy. But he never treated us to his horns in that way, and so we let him go, like any other spoiled child, without punishing him severely, and rather laughed at his sauciness.

But one day our minister, a stout, elderly gentleman, solemn-faced and formal, had been making us a parochial visit, and as he was going away, we all went out into the yard to see him ride off, on his old sorrel pacer. It seems he had no riding-whip; so he reached up to break off a twig from an elm-tree which hung over the gate. This was very high, and he was obliged to stand on tiptoe. Just then, before he had grasped the twig he wanted, Bob started out from under a large rose-bush near by, and run against the reverend gentleman, butting him so violently as to take him quite off his feet. My father helped the good man up, and made a great many apologies for the impiety of our pet, while we children did our best to keep our faces straight. After our venerable visitor was gone, my father sternly declared that he would not bear with Bob any longer, but that he should be turned into the pasture with the other sheep, for he would not have him about, insulting respectable people and butting ministers of the Gospel at that rate.

So the next morning Bob was banished in disgrace from the house and yard, and obliged to mingle with the vulgar herd of his kind. With them I regret to say that he soon earned the name of being very bold and quarrelsome. As his horns grew and lengthened, he grew more and more proud of the consequence they gave him, and went forth butting and to butt. O, he was a terrible fellow!

One summer day, my brother Charles and a young man who lived with us were in the mill-pond, washing the sheep which were soon to be sheared. I was standing on the bank, watching the work, when one of our neighbours, a hard, coarse man, came up, and calling to my brother, in a loud voice, asked if he had been hunting a raccoon the night before. “Yes, Sir, and I killed him too,” answered my brother. “Well, young man,” said the farmer, “did you pass through my field, and trample down the grain?” “I crossed the field, Sir, but I hope I did no great damage,” replied Charles, in a pleasant way. “Yes, you _did_!” shouted the man, “and now, you young rascal, if I ever catch you on my land again, day or night, I’ll thrash you!--_I’ll_ teach you something, if your father won’t!” As he said this, stretching his great fist out threateningly toward my brother, he stood on the very edge of the steep bank. Just behind him were the sheep, headed by the redoubtable Bob, who suddenly darted forward, and, before the farmer could suspect what was coming, butted him head over heels into the pond! My brother went at once to the assistance of his enemy, who scrambled on to the shore, sputtering and dripping, but a good deal cooled in his rage. I suppose I was very wicked, but I _did_ enjoy that!

For this one good turn, Bob was always quite a favorite, with all his faults, and year after year was spared, when worthier sheep were made mutton of. He was finally sold, with the rest of the flock, when we left the farm, and though he lived to a good old age, the wool of his last fleece must long since have been knit into socks and comforters, or woven into cloth,--must have grown threadbare, and gone to dress scarecrows, or stop cellar-windows; or been all trodden out in rag-carpets.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

I must now, dear children, pass over a few years of my life, in which I had no pets in whose history you would be likely to be interested.

At the time of my possessing my wonderful Robin, we had left our country home, my brothers were most of them abroad in the world, and I was living with my parents in the pleasant city of R----. I was a school-girl, between fifteen and sixteen years of age. That spring, I commenced the study of French, and, as I was never a remarkably bright scholar, I was obliged to apply myself with great diligence to my books. I used to take my grammar and phrase-book to my chamber, at night, and study as long as I could possibly keep my eyes open. In consequence of this, as you may suppose, I was very sleepy in the morning, and it usually took a prodigious noise and something of a shaking to waken me. But one summer morning I was roused early, not by the breakfast-bell, nor by calling, or shaking, but by a glad gush of sweetest singing. I opened my eyes, and right on the foot-board of my bed was perched a pretty red-breasted robin, pouring out all his little soul in a merry morning song. I stole out of bed softly, and shut down the window through which he had come; then, as soon as I was dressed, caught him, carried him down stairs, and put him into a cage which had hung empty ever since the cat made way with my last Canary.

I soon found that I had a rare treasure in my Robin, who was very tame, and had evidently been carefully trained, for before the afternoon was over he surprised and delighted us all by singing the air of “Buy a Broom” quite through, touching on every note with wonderful precision. We saw that it was a valuable bird, who had probably escaped, and for some days we made inquiries for its owner, but without success.

At night I always took Robin’s cage into my chamber, and he was sure to waken me early with his loud, but delicious, singing. So passed on a month, in which I had great happiness in my interesting pet. But one Saturday forenoon I let him out, that I might clean his cage. I had not observed that there was a window open, but the bird soon made himself acquainted with the fact, and, with a glad, exulting trill, he darted out into the sunshine. Hastily catching my bonnet, I ran after him. At first, he stayed about the trees in front of the house, provokingly hopping from branch to branch out of my reach, holding his head on one side, and eyeing me with sly, mischievous glances. At last he spread his wings and flew down the street. I followed as fast as I could, keeping my eye upon him all the time. It was curious that he did not fly across squares, or over the houses, but kept along above the streets, slowly, and with a backward glance once in a while. At length, he turned down a narrow court, and flew into the open window of a small frame-house. Here I followed him, knocking timidly at the door, which was opened at once by a boy about nine years old. I found myself in a small parlour, very plainly, but neatly furnished. In an arm-chair by the window sat a middle-aged woman, who I saw at once was blind. A tall, dark-eyed, rather handsome girl was sitting near her, sewing. But I did not look at either of these more than a moment, for on the other side of the room was an object to charm, and yet sadden, my eyes. This was a slight girl, about my own age, reclining on a couch, looking very ill and pale, but with a small, red spot on each cheek, which told me that she was almost gone with consumption. She was very beautiful, though so thin and weary looking. She had large, dark, tender eyes, and her lips were still as sweet as rose-buds. I think I never saw such magnificent hair as hers; it flowed all over her pillow, and hung down nearly to the floor, in bright, glossy ringlets.

At that moment she was holding the truant Robin in her white, slender hands, crying and laughing over him, calling him her “dear lost pet,” her “naughty runaway,” and a hundred other loving and scolding names. I, of course, felt rather awkward, but I explained matters to Robin’s fair mistress as well as I could. She looked pleased, and thanked me warmly for the good care I had taken of the bird. Then she made me sit down by her side, and asked my name, and told me hers, which was Ellen Harper, and introduced me to her mother, sister, and brother, all in the sweetest manner possible. We got quite well acquainted, and talked like old friends, till Ellen’s cough interrupted her. Then, as I rose to go, she made me promise to come again very soon, and raised herself as though she would kiss me before I went. Just as I bent down to press my lips to hers, Robin, who, of his own accord, had taken possession of his old cage, which had been left open for him, burst out into a sweet, merry warble, full of the most astonishing trills and shakes. Then I felt that it was well that we two should love one another.

After that, I went almost daily to see Ellen Harper. I carried her books, I read to her, talked to her, and listened to her low gentle voice, and looked down deep into her clear hazel eyes, till I grew to love the sweet, patient girl more than I can tell. I think that she was a most remarkable person. Her parents were quite poor, and she had enjoyed few advantages; but she was far beyond me in scholarship and reading. And then she was a true Christian, with a calm hope, and a cheerful resignation; she seemed indeed to have given her heart to God.

Ellen knew that she was dying; she knew that, young and fair and beloved as she was, she had not long to stay in this bright, beautiful world. But she did not fear, or complain, for she knew also that a kind Father called her away, to a world far brighter and many times more beautiful than ours. It was touching to see her trying to comfort her sister Lucy, whose strength would sometimes give way as she saw that slight form growing weaker every day; or her young brother Willie, when he would leave his book, or his play, and come and lay his face against her bosom and cry; or her father, when he would come home from his work at night, and sit down beside his darling child, and hold her thin, fair fingers in his great, brown hand, and say no word, only sigh as though his poor heart was breaking; or her mother, who was blind, and could not see the change in her “own little Nellie,” as she called her, and so had to be told again and again that she was failing fast. For all these dear ones, Ellen had words of consolation, and they always felt stronger after she had talked with them.

On some of those mornings when I went over to dress her beautiful hair, which I dearly loved to do, she talked to me as an angel might talk, I thought, and told me many sweet and holy things, which I shall remember all the days of my life.

As long as she stayed with us, Ellen had great pleasure in her pet Robin. She said that to her ear he always seemed to be singing hymns, which was a great joy to her after she became too weak to sing them herself.

Dear Ellen died at night. She had been very restless in the evening, and at last said that, if she could lie in her mother’s arms, as she used to lie when she was a little child, she thought that she could sleep. So Mrs. Harper laid down beside her daughter, who nestled against her bosom and slept. Ellen’s happy spirit passed away in that sleep. But her mother was blind, and could not see when her child was dead; and when her husband, fearing what had happened, came near, she raised her finger and said, “Hush, don’t wake Nellie!”

The next morning, Lucy sent over for me to come and dress Ellen’s hair for the last time. I found my friend looking very much as I had always seen her, only with a sweeter smile, if possible, hovering about her lips. She was lying on her couch, dressed in white muslin, and with many flowers scattered around her. A vase of roses stood on a stand at her feet, and over it hung the pretty cage of Robin, and Robin himself was singing very sweetly, but in lower tones than usual, as if he thought his young mistress was sleeping, and feared to waken her.

They had cut away some of the hair from the back of Ellen’s head, but around the forehead the familiar ringlets were all left. These I dressed very carefully, though my tears fell so fast, I could scarcely see what I was doing. I shall never forget the scene when the family came into the parlour to look upon Ellen, after she had been laid out, that morning. Lucy, sobbing and trembling, led her mother to the couch. The poor woman felt in the air above the dead face a moment, and said, “How I miss her sweet breath round me!” Then she knelt down, and, with her arms flung over the body, swayed back and forth, and seemed to pray silently. The father took those shining curls in his hands, and smoothed them tenderly and kissed them many times, while his great hot tears fell fast on the head of his child, and on the rose-buds which lay upon her pillow, and seemed to give a flush to her white, cold cheek.

I noticed that little Willie was the calmest of them all. He seemed to have taken to heart the words of his sister, when she told him that she was going into a better and happier life, where she would continue to love him, and whither he would come, if he was good and true in this life. So he did not grieve for her, as most children grieve, but was quiet and submissive.

Ellen was buried in a beautiful cemetery a mile or two from the noise and dust of the city. The morning after she had been laid there, I went to plant a little rose-tree over her grave. I was somewhat surprised to find Willie there, and with him Robin Redbreast, in his pretty cage.

“Why have you brought the bird here, Willie?” I asked.

“Because,” said he, in a low, trembling voice, “I thought that, now sister’s spirit was free, I ought not to keep her bird a prisoner any longer.”

“That is right,” I said, for I thought that this was a beautiful idea of the child’s.

So Willie opened the door of the cage, and out flew the Robin. This time he did not alight on the trees, but mounted right up toward heaven. There was a light cloud floating over us, and, as we stood looking up after the bird, Willie seemed troubled to see that it passed into this, and so was lost to our sight. “Ah,” he said, “I hoped he would follow Nellie! but he has gone into the cloud, and sister’s soul, I am very sure, passed away into the sunshine.”

TOM.

I now come to the very prince of pets, the one of all I ever had the most noble and most dear,--Tom, a Newfoundland setter, the favorite dog of my brother Albert. He has been a member of our family for five or six years past. We brought him from the city to our pleasant village home in Pennsylvania, where we now live.

Tom is a dog of extraordinary beauty, sagacity, and good feeling. He is very large, and, with the exception of his feet and breast, jet black, with a thick coat of fine hair, which lies in short curls, glossy and silken. He has a well-formed head, and a handsome, dark eye, full of kindness and intelligence. His limbs are small, and his feet particularly delicate. He is, I am sorry to say, rather indolent in his habits, always prefers to take a carriage to the hunting-ground, when he goes sporting with his master, and he sleeps rather too soundly at night to be a good watch-dog. We make him useful in various ways, however, such as carrying baskets and bundles, and sometimes we send him to the post-office with and for letters and papers. These he always takes the most faithful care of, never allowing any one to look at them on the way. He is a remarkably gentlemanly dog in his manner, never making free with people, or seeming too fond at first sight; but if you speak to him pleasantly, he will offer you a friendly paw in a quiet way, and seem happy to make your acquaintance. He never fawns, nor whines, nor skulks about, but is dignified, easy, and perfectly at home in polite society. He is a sad aristocrat, treats all well-dressed comers most courteously, but with shabby people he will have nothing to do. Tom knows how to take and carry on a joke. I recollect one evening, when we had visitors, and he was in the parlour, I put on him a gay-colored sack of my own, and a large gypsy hat, which I tied under his throat. Instead of looking ashamed and trying to get these off, as most dogs would have done, he crossed the room and sprang on to the sofa, where he sat upright, looking very wise and grave, like some old colored woman at church. The illustrious General Tom Thumb once travelled with my brother and this dog, and, falling very much in love with his namesake, offered any price for him. Of course, my brother would not think for a moment of selling his faithful friend, and even had he felt differently, I doubt very much whether Tom, who had been used to looking up to full-grown men, would have shown much obedience or respect, for such a funny little fellow as the General. It was amusing to observe the dog’s manner toward his small, new acquaintance. He was kind and condescending, though he sometimes seemed to think that the General was a little too much inclined to take liberties with his superiors in age and size,--rather more forward and familiar than was quite becoming in a child.

Two or three years ago, Tom was the beloved playfellow of my brother Frederic’s youngest daughter,--our little Jane. She always seemed to me like a fairy-child, she was so small and delicate, with such bright golden curls falling about her face,--the sweetest face in the world. It was beautiful to see her at play with that great, black dog, who was very tender with her, for he seemed to know that she was not strong. One evening she left her play earlier than usual, and went and laid her head in her mother’s lap, and said, “Little Jane is tired.” That night she sickened, and in a few, a very few days she died. When she was hid away in the grave, we grieved deeply that we should see her face no more, but we had joy to know that it would never be pale with sickness in that heavenly home to which she had gone; and though we miss her still, we have great happiness in the thought that she will never be “tired” any more, for we believe her to be resting on the bosom of the Lord Jesus.

One day last spring, I remember, her mother gave me a bunch of violets, saying, “They are from the grave of little Jane.” I suppose they were like all other blue violets, but I thought then I had never seen any so beautiful. It seemed to me that the sweet looks of the child were blooming out of the flowers which had sprung up over the place where we had laid her.

Tom seems much attached to all our family, but most devotedly so to my brother Albert. They two have hunted very much together, and seem equally fond of the sport. If Tom sees his master with his hunting-dress on, and his fowling-piece in hand, he is half beside himself with joy. But when he returns from the hunt, spent and weary, he always comes to me to be fed and petted.

You will remember that years have passed by since this brother and I were schoolmates and playmates together. He is now a fine young man, while I am a full-grown woman, who have seen the world I used to think so grand and glorious, and found it--no better than it should be. But of my brother. He is our youngest, you know, and so has never outgrown that peculiar fondness, that dear love, we always give to “the baby.” While I have been writing these histories, and recalling in almost every scene the playmate of my childhood, I can only see him as a boy,--a little black-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy; it is very difficult to think of him as a _man_, making his own way bravely in the world. Last spring we observed that dear Albert’s bright face had become very thoughtful and serious; we knew that something was weighing on his mind, and finally it came out. He was about to leave us all for a long time, it might be for ever; _he was going to California_! We were very unhappy to hear this, but, as it was on some accounts the best thing that my brother could do, we finally consented, and all went to work as cheerfully as we could to help him off.

It was a bright May morning when he left, but it seemed to us that there never was a darker or sadder day. The dear fellow kept up good courage till it came to the parting; then his heart seemed to melt and flow out in his tears, fast dropping on the brows and necks of his mother and sisters, as he held them for the last time to his heaving breast. But I will not dwell on this parting, for my own eyes grow so dim I cannot well see to write.

I remember that poor Tom seemed greatly troubled that morning; he knew that something sad was happening, and looked anxiously in our faces, as though he would ask what it was; and when my brother patted him on the head, bade him good by, and passed out of the gate, forbidding him to follow, the faithful creature whined sadly, and looked after him wistfully, till he was out of sight.