Chapter VII: Part 7

But there's a choice even in those yards. Now just look at them--there is _one_, that, small as it is, has its little circular grass plat, with a hedge of china asters about it, and a little vase in the middle, from which hang tendrils of the pretty mountain myrtle; a woodbine creeps over the fence and my favorite tree (the willow) is struggling for life in yonder corner, and prettier than all, out dances a little fairy, with shining locks neatly parted, and a clean white pinafore tucked round her chubby little figure. See her tip-toe round the grass plat, with eyes as blue as the morning glories she is plucking. How glad I am she has a mother who teaches her to love the beautiful, and provides her that pretty little garden.

Now just look in the next yard--it is just the same size as the other, but poor mother earth lies buried under great flat paving stones; while strewed over them are old bits of china, and carpeting, and old keg covers, and old barrels with the hoops dropping off, and an old tail-less rocking-horse, and a child's chair, trying in vain to stand on three legs, and a Buffalo skin that is sadly in need of some of "Bogles Hyperian."

There's a little child dancing out _that_ door, too; now he stands poised on one foot, and takes a survey of the yard; _unpromising_, isn't it, dear? Nothing pretty to look at, is there? Aunt Fanny is sorry for you; if she could get you up here she'd tell you a story. I know very well what _you_ would tell _her_; that mamma lies in bed asleep--although it is ten o'clock; that papa has eaten his breakfast _alone_ and gone down to the store; and that Betty and Sally have it all their own way, not only in that slovenly looking yard, but all over the house, (so long as they don't trouble your mamma.) Poor little fellow--I hope some country cousin will have mercy on you, and introduce you to her cows and hens and chickens and hay and flowers--yes, and to her brown bread and milk, too, for you look like a little hot-house plant.

I wonder who lives over there? I'll just look at them through my quizzing glass. In the first place, that's a "single lady's" room (I am afraid she'll box my ears if I call her "an old maid," and if there is anything I am afraid of it is a mouse and a mad woman.)

Just look over there. There's a little tin, pint pail out on the window sill, and a stone pot. I'll bet you sixpence she "finds herself" (I know nobody _finds_ old maids). There now, didn't I tell you so? See,--she moves a little table up to the window and holds the table-cloth close up to her eye-lashes, to see if there's a speck of dirt on it, and then twitches, and pats, and pulls it into line and plummet order; then she places thereon a small tea tray, with only _one_ cup and saucer. I declare it makes me feel quite melancholy! Then she throws up the window, lifts the cover off the tin-pail, and turns about a thimble full of milk into a lilliputian pitcher; then she nips out a bit of butter about the size of a nutmeg, and puts it on a little cup plate; and placing a small roll and a little black teapot on the table, she sits down to her solitary meal. Now she clasps her hands and bows her head--and _now_ I am sorry for what I've said about her, because I see she is a good, religious woman, else she wouldn't ask a blessing. I hope she will get it; and I hope somebody will ask her out to tea two or three times a week, and take her now and then of a long evening to a lecture, or a concert, or a panorama, or anywhere else she fancies going. Don't you?

There's an old bachelor's room;--fussy old thing! he has been one good hour trying to tie that cravat bow to suit him; now he has twitched it off his neck in a pet, and thrown it on the floor; if his wash woman don't "catch it," for not putting more starch in it, my name isn't Fanny. Just see him trim his whiskers--(red ones, too!) I could warm my hands by them, freeze me if I couldn't! Now that breastpin has got to find its latitude; that you see will be a work of _time_. He has got it in the wrong place, to begin with; well, I suppose he will get down to his store, by the time he has lost a dozen customers, or so--he is too busy shaving himself, to go down there to _shave_ them! that's a settled point.

Look now at that window!--a young mother comes to it with a little new baby,--its little neck is as limpsy as your doll's; and its hands look just like those your cook fries when she makes fancy doughnuts. She loves it, though; just as well as if it wasn't as red as a brick, and bows up its little worked sleeves, and combs its _five_ hairs, and thinks it a "perfect beauty." She has got _her_ work cut out for the winter, hasn't she? The times that baby will have to be taken up and put down--washed--dressed and undressed--nursed, rocked and trotted--laid on its back, and laid on its stomach--and laid on its side. Just as if _I_ didn't know!--I could tell her a great many things she don't know about taking care of that baby.

Young mothers are very _experiment-y_. Do you know what _that_ means? Well, they worry a baby out of a year's growth, for fear it _will_ worry; _your_ mother knows all about it--ask her if she didn't do just that way with you till Grandma and Aunt Charity taught her better? First babies are poor little victims. I can remember how _I_ used to be plagued! Stifled alive for "fear I should get cold;" trotted up and down when there was a great pin sticking into my shoulder--and held so close to the candle to be looked at, that I came near being blind as a mole. It's a wonder to me that I am here now, writing this juvenile book; if I hadn't been a baby of spirit, I should have keeled over, and died of sheer torment long before I got into short clothes.

Well, there's another window. An old lady sits at it; not so _very_ old, either, for she's as brisk as a musquito. Her head flies round if any one opens the door, as if it were strung on wires. I don't believe she has any fire in her room, for she keeps hitching round after the sun all day--and when he bids her good afternoon, she comforts her shoulders with a blanket shawl; then, her lamp is always out long before I go to bed, and nobody who has a good fire, ever wants to go to bed and leave it; they'll find a thousand things to do--a letter to write, or a book to read, or some chestnuts to eat; or, if they haven't anything else to do, they will sit and look at the fire. I am sure I've been forced to look at more disagreeable objects than that, for many an hour.

There's a woman at another window, writing, or rather she has got her table before her, and her inkstand, and the pen between her fingers; all that she wants is a few ideas; see, she rolls up her eyes like a pussy in a fit, and looks _up_, and looks _down_, and makes a love knot on the paper with her pen, and coaxes her temples with her fingers; but it's no use, there's nothing _there_! So she may as well get off her stilts and darn her stockings.

There are two little girls at another window playing with their dollies. Now I like that--it's a good thing--it teaches them how to sew, and to cut out little garments, and to contrive and fix up things, so that when they have _live_ dollies it will come handy to cut out _their_ frocks. I always like to see little girls play with dollies, and big girls, too, if they want to; it is better than a novel; better than a thousand other things that girls do now-a-days, who fancy themselves ladies as soon as they twist up their ringlets with a comb. Heigh-ho, it makes me sigh to think there are so few _children_ in 1853.

Over there at another window in the same block, is a very sad sight. A drunken husband! See how patiently his poor wife is trying to coax him not to go out. She is fearful he may fall in the street, and get hurt, and then she feels ashamed to have him seen in such a plight; now she gently removes his hat--then he puts it on again; now her arm is about his neck--but only to have it rudely pushed aside, poor woman. I hope she believes in God, and knows how to _lean_ upon Him.

Now her husband has gone, and she sits down and covers her face with her hands, and weeps. They are bitter tears--she thinks of the time he took her proudly away from a happy home, and promised she should be dear to him as his own life blood. Perhaps she cannot go to that home _now_--perhaps her father and mother (happily for them) have not lived to see her joy so soon turned to sorrow; or, if she could go there, she loves her husband still too much to leave him. She hopes each morning that he will come home and love her at night--and she tidies up the hearth, and makes the fire bright, and keeps his supper warm, and wipes away her tears, and braids her hair in shining plaits as he once loved to see it, and looks often at the little mantel clock, and then out the window. By and by she hears his step; oh, it is the same old story--he reels, cursing, into her presence--perhaps aims at her a blow.

Her little child lies there sleeping. She is glad he is not old enough to know his father's shame. Sometimes she even prays the babe may die. She knows, were she taken away, how much it must suffer. Then, she remembers the time when its father was steady and kind and industrious, and she thinks of those who roll about in carriages, on the money taken from _her_ husband's pocket, and that of other poor victims like him. And then the angry flush mounts to her temples, and she says, "Is there _no law_ to punish these wicked rumsellers?" Poor thing! that wailing cry has gone up from Maine to Georgia--from many a houseless wife and shivering child!

God hears it! I had rather be in _their_ place than the rumseller's.

Well, now it is quite dark, and I must light my lamp and shut my shutters, or some of those folks may be peeping in and taking notes of _me_!--who knows? Wouldn't that be a joke?

THE ENGLISH EMIGRANTS.

It was very weary on ship board. Julien and Victor had spied out all there was to be seen the first week they set sail, and the sailors had told them all the stories they could possibly think of. Mrs. Adrian (their mother) was too sick to leave the cabin, and the little boys were getting very impatient to reach shore.

How would America look? What sort of houses did they have there? What sort of children? Would they be good play-fellows? These were the things little Julien and Victor were thinking about.

Their father was thinking of the price of provisions, and about house rent, and the probabilities of his finding customers for his tailoring work; and whether they should all have to live in the shop, and whether his sickly wife would thrive under the changeable climate, and whether they should make a _home_, or always be like "strangers in a strange land."

And their mother; she was thinking of the gray-haired old father who had blessed her for the last time, and of the sunny homes of England, with their wealth of shrub and tree and blossom, and of a dear little girl whom she left sleeping in a quiet church-yard, between whom and herself the swift blue waves were building up a wall of separation.

Land ho! shouted the old tars.

Land ho! echoed the merry little boys.

And this was America! this New-York! How very odd and strange everything was! How anxious the people all looked! How slender!--how pale!--and what a hurry they all seemed to be in! How they jostled about, as if they were afraid they shouldn't get their share of terra-firma! How the cab-men and porters and hack-drivers were just as independent as the gentlemen and ladies they worked for! and how showily and gaily the ladies dressed, just to take a promenade.

It was all very funny.

The children and their mother looked with all their eyes; they could not make up their minds whether they should like it or not; but that was not the first thing to be considered; they must first decide where to live.

Mr. Adrian concluded to go to B----, about two days' journey by the railroad. So their trunks were taken from the ship and carried to the baggage cars. Little Julien and Victor had nice seats by the window, and it was very delightful to see the green fields after having seen nothing but the dashing billows for so many weeks. They felt as glad as Noah's dove did, when she spread her wings from the door of the ark, after "the waters were abated." They threw their limbs about, whenever the cars stopped for the great "iron horse" to lay in some wood for his supper, as if they were determined to make up for the time they had been cramped on ship-board.

"Things are not so very cheap after all, over here in America," said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh, as he took possession of the room that was to serve them for shop, parlor, kitchen and bed-room. "Well, we must be patient and industrious; I will put up my sign to-day, and if you and the children (turning to his wife) are only in good health, I shall have courage to work."

So the sign was put up: "John Adrian, tailor, from England--all orders promptly and neatly executed." Then John took out his shears and "goose," crossed his legs and seated himself with a jacket to make, in front of the window, where pedestrians could see that he was at his post, ready for orders.

Julien and Victor, the rosy little Englishmen, didn't fancy much the small room they lived in. It was almost as much of a prison to them as the vessel; they liked better to play in the streets. Their mother looked out the window at them, with a sigh, for her children had been carefully brought up, and she shuddered at the bad words they were hearing, and the groups of idle, noisy, vicious children, swarming about the neighborhood. Oh, how should she keep her little boys pure and unspotted?

Three weeks had passed by. Little Julien came in, one day, from his play, when his mother met him at the door, saying, "Run, Julien, quick--quick--for the doctor."

"Where, mother--where shall I find him?"

"Oh! I don't know," said the distracted woman, chafing her husband's temples; "ask somebody--quick, dear Julien, for the love of God!--the death dew is on your father's forehead."

"Cholera," said the doctor. "I can do nothing for him, my poor woman; the disease is raging fearfully here; he cannot live an hour."

"_Nothing_ to be done?" said the poor wife, fixing her eyes on her dying husband, and watching his spasms; "_nothing_ to be done? Oh, sir, don't tell me _that_."

But even while she spoke the dark shadow fell. The loving eyes grew glassy; the hand she held relaxed its hold, and that "change," so subtle, so fearful, (that all have _seen_ yet none may _tell_,) flitted over his face.

Death came for more than _one_ victim, to that doomed house. First one little head drooped, then another, then the soft eyes closed, and the little lip said, quiveringly, "It is all dark; kiss us, dear mother;" and Mrs. Adrian was a childless widow.

Dear children, God be praised that the world is not all a desert--that there are hearts that feel, eyes that weep, and hands that minister to the sorrow-stricken. Mammon has left some hearts that he has not shrivelled, some eyes that he has not blinded, some hands that he has not fettered.

Poor Mrs. Adrian! She knew that there were strangers about her, and that their voices were kind, and their hands busy straightening the dear limbs, and smoothing the cherished locks, and placing them reverently in "the narrow house;" she knew that the hearse came at their bidding, and bore her dead away; she knew that they led her back to that forsaken room, and held the tempting morsel to her grieved lip, and she felt their warm tears drop upon her cheek, and their kind hands upon her throbbing forehead; but it was all like a dream to her.

Oh, my dear children, where could she have turned in that dark hour if not to _Heaven_? What if she had said, with the unbeliever, "There is no God?" How could she try to lean on reeds that bent and broke beneath her? Oh, no, no! when sickness and trouble come, our hearts _must have a God_. Heaven _only_ can bring healing to a heart so stunned with pain; and there the poor English woman sought it.

Did God ever forsake those who threw themselves on _His_ great loving heart for comfort?

Never!

If Mrs. Adrian could not smile, she did not weep. True, she looked for rosy little faces she never more might see; listened for tripping little feet she never more might hear; but, dear children, peace came gently down upon her heart, like dew upon the closed flowers, and she said, with bowed head, "'Tis well."

NEW-YORK SUNDAY.

Dear children: There is the bell for church; but Sunday is not _Sunday_, here in New-York. I wish I were going to church in the country with you, where everything is quiet, and sweet, and holy,--where people go to church to worship God, and not to see and to show the fashions. No, it is not Sunday here, if the bells _do_ say so.

Why? Because there's a woman, at the corner of that street, spreading out on her stall, apples and candy, and bananas, and oranges, and cookies, and sugar-toys, and melons, and cocoa-nuts, and ginger beer; because there's a cigar shop--(the shutters, closed to be sure,) but with the door wide open, and the owner already beginning to trade with customers; because, there's a man selling bouquets, and a confectioner's saloon open, and people eating ice-creams in it; and little ragged news boys, who have been screeching ever since day-light, "New York Herald--Times--Sunday Despatch--dreadful collision and _lass o' life_--Times, Despatch, and Herald"--and drunken men whom you meet at every few blocks, and people going everywhere but into the church doors.

Well, you go into a city church,--it is not like _yours_ in the country, where the blessed sunlight shines cheerfully in, and the sweet breeze wafts through the open windows the breath of clover blossoms and new mown hay; where the minister preaches to poor people, who are not forced to carry a _dictionary_ to church; where people don't frown and hastily button the pew door when a stranger comes in; where neighbors smile kindly on each other, and never gather up the folds of their dress lest it should sweep against a shilling de-laine; where good "Old Hundred" and "St. Martins" are sung, instead of twistified, finical, modern tunes, that old-fashioned folks can't follow; where the minister is not too stately to pat the little children on the head coming out the porch, or to give them a pleasant smile to make them feel that they are part of his parish; where they all walk home, not over crowded, dusty pavements, but under the leafy trees, with hearts filled with a quiet joy, seeing "the cattle on a thousand hills," the springs which run among the hills, "and the birds which build their houses in the branches;" where the golden sun goes down, not on the bloated drunkard and noisy Sabbath breaker, but on the hale old man "of silver hairs," teaching the cherub on his knee to lisp the evening hymn--upon kneeling groups under cottage roofs, where envy and hatred and ill-will find no resting place for their swift and evil feet. That is what Aunt Fanny calls _Sunday_.

Children, there is one thing I like in New-York: almost all the churches have "the ivy green" clambering over the windows and turrets, and pretty willow trees drooping their graceful branches about the doorways. I love to see it, because I love the beautiful, and because it is pleasant to get even a glimpse of nature in the artificial city. But I _don't_ like the stained glass windows. I don't like to see the congregation with green eyes and pink noses and blue cheeks and yellow lips. It excites my troublesome bump of mirthfulness, (and that's wrong, you know, in church;) beside, I catch myself examining the windows, to see if there are any two of them alike, and counting the red and pink and blue diamonds, and squares, and wondering whether, were they transposed this way and that way, the effect would not be better. And then I know that most of those windows are so arranged that they can't be opened, to let in the fresh air, and that gives me a stifled feeling, and I involuntarily untie my bonnet strings, and draw a long breath, to see if my breathing apparatus is all right!

No, I don't like these modern _improvements_ (?) in churches: in fact, to tell you the truth, I had rather worship, like the old Covenanters, among the green hills--the blue sky for a roof, the gnarled old tree trunks for pillars, the branches for galleries, and the birds for an orchestra; and unless the minister preached because his heart was _so full of love to God that he couldn't help_ preaching, I should rather hear my _Maker_ preach to me, in the soft whisper of the leaves, the happy hum of the tiny insect, and the low, soft murmur of the stream.

Now, my dear children, don't mistake me. It is our duty to go to church; and it is wrong to think of anything else in church but worshipping God; but there's so much display, and show, and fashion now-a-days, in the churches--so much to distract the thoughts--so much hollow pretension to piety, that I sometimes feel, as I told you, that I would rather worship amid the green hills, like the old persecuted Covenanters. Oh! there was _heart_ in their worship! they sang every hymn as if they might sing the next one in Heaven.

_So ought we!_ Are you tired of my sermon?

Well, what do you think I saw here in New-York to-day? A boy of _eight_ years old walking in the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets, _smoking a cigar_! I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry at the little monkey. Finally, I laid my hand on his shoulder and said,

"You don't _like_ that nasty cigar, I hope, my dear child." He blushed, and taking it out of his mouth, said,

"Yes, I do, but I'll throw it away if you want me to."

"Thank you," said I, "for your politeness, but it is not of myself I was thinking. I can easily get out of the way of it, you know, but it is such a shocking bad habit to get into; so young as you are, too. Oh, you have no idea how much it costs to smoke. You must always offer a friend one, else he will call you 'a stingy fellow.' Why, my dear boy, only think, it will take all your pocket money to buy _cigars_. You forget that by and by, you will want a store in Broadway, full of goods, and clerks to sell them, and a house to live in, and may be a wife, too; ah, you needn't laugh, for I don't believe you'll be able to get a wife if you keep on smoking till you get old enough to be engaged. By that time you'll be so stupefied, that nobody will have you!

"Yes, and many a time when you want a pair of new boots, you'll have to do without them because you can't _possibly_ go without your cigar, and you haven't money enough for both. Now, I'd just like to know if a smart little fellow like you is going to be made such a slave of, by a miserable little dirty roll of tobacco?"

Well, he said he would not smoke any more, but I've been afraid ever since to turn a corner, for fear I shall see the precocious young man walking behind a cigar.

Oh, the country is the place for boys,--on a nice farm, where there is ploughing, and hoeing, and digging, and sowing, and reaping going on; where they can jump upon a horse, without any saddle, and ride him to water, with his mane for a bridle; where they can help build fences, and help make hay, and help milk cows, and drive them to pasture; where they can go blackberrying, and strawberrying, and chestnuting, and everything but bird-nesting. I wouldn't like to leave my purse in the way of a boy who went bird-nesting. I should know he had a bad heart.

Yes, the country is the place for boys. There are no oyster saloons there; no cigar shops for them to loitre round; no gangs of bad, idle boys to teach them all sorts of mischief;--plenty going on in the country to amuse them innocently--terrible rattlesnakes to be slaughtered; woodchucks to be hunted; hawks to be shot (who make mince-meat of the poor little chickens); maple sugar and cider to make; husking frolics to go to. Just as if I didn't know what was best for boys, if I _am a woman_. I tell you, some of the greatest heroes in the world have had _women for mothers_.

THE BOY WHO LIKED NATURAL HISTORY.

Hal Hunt lived at the "Seven Corners;" he was just six years old last Fourth of July; and as "independent" as you might suppose, with _such_ a birth-day to boast of.

He was on the gun-powder order, I can tell you; bound to make a _fizz_ wherever he went, always popping up in odd places, and frightening nervous old ladies, and little two-year-olders, who had ventured away from their mothers' apron strings. Every cat and dog, for ten miles round, made for the nearest port when Hal and his torn straw hat loomed up in the distance.

Hal never was in a school room in his life; but it didn't follow that he did no studying for all that. On the contrary, he sat there, on the steps of his father's grocery store, with his chin between his little brown palms, doing up more thinking than the schoolma'am would have allowed, except in recess.

Hal was very fond of Natural History;--in fact, he had about made up his mind, that as soon as he owned a long-tailed coat, he would own a menagerie. Pigs, geese, hens, ducks, cows, oxen, nothing came amiss to him that went into Noah's ark. He expected to have a grand time when he got that menagerie--setting them all the cars, and hearing them growl behind their bars.

One day he sat on the door-step running it over in his mind, when the old rooster, followed by his hens, marched in a procession past the door.

There was the speckled hen, _black and white_, (with red eyes) looking like a widow in half mourning; there was the white one that _would_ have been pretty, hadn't she such a turn for fighting that her feathers were as scarce as brains in a dandy's head; there was the _black_ one, that contested her claims with the white hen, to a kernel of corn, and a place in the procession next the rooster, in a manner that would have delighted the abolitionists.

Hal watched them all, and then it struck him, all of a sudden, that he had never seen a _hen swim_. He had seen ducks do it, and swans, and geese, but he never remembered to have seen a HEN swim.

What was the reason? Didn't they know how? or _wouldn't_ they do it?

Hal was resolved to get at the bottom of that problem without delay; so he jumped up and chased one round till he fell down and tore his jacket, and the hen flew up in a tree.

Then he tried for the speckled widow; _she_ of course was too sharp for him.

At last he secured the brown one, and hiding her under his jacket started for the "creek," about a quarter of a mile off. He told the hen, going along, that if she didn't know how to swim, it was high time she did, and that he was going to try her any how; the hen cocked up her eye but said nothing, though she had her thoughts.

The fact was she never had been in the habit of going out of the barn-yard, without asking leave of the rooster, who was a regular old "Blue Beard;" and she knew very well that he wouldn't scratch her up another worm, for a good twelve-month, for being absent without leave. So she dug her claws into Hal's side, every now and then, and tried to peck him with her bill, but Hal told her it was no use, for go into that creek she _should_.

Well, he got to the creek at last, and stood triumphantly on a little bank just over it. He took a good grip of his hen, and then lifted up his arm to give her a nice toss into the water.

He told her that now she was to consider herself a _duck_, instead of a _hen_, (what a _goose_!) then over he went _splash_ into the water _himself_. The question was not _now_ whether the _hen_ could swim, but whether _he_ could; he floundered round and round, and screeched like a little bedlamite, and was just thinking of the last fib he told, when his brother Zedekiah came along and fished him out.

Hal prefers now to try his experiments on his father's door-step; as to the hen, poor chicken-hearted thing! she didn't dare to show her wet feathers to her lordly old rooster; so she smuggled herself into neighbor Jones' barn-yard and laid her eggs wherever it suited the old farmer, for the sake of her board.

KNUD IVERSON.

I suppose that every boy and girl who reads my "Little Ferns," has heard or read of martyrs. You have all owned a primer with the picture of "John Rogers," who was burned alive for being a good man; then, you remember "Stephen," of Bible memory, who was stoned to death, for the same reason.

In 1853, when Religion walks in satin slippers, perhaps you think that no martyrs can be found. Dear children, Aunt Fanny sees them every day; bearing tortures worse than the fire, or the rack, and opening their burdened hearts to God alone.

But it is not of these that I would speak _now_. I am going to tell you of a _little boy martyr_.

"Knud Iverson" was a little Norwegian, a countryman of the famous "Ole Bull," the great violinist.

Knud's parents had come over from Norway to this country, and settled in Chicago. (You will find that place if you look in your Atlas, and I should like to have you find it, because I want you to remember all about this dear little boy.)

Knud had been early taught how to be a good boy. His parents' words did not pass into his ears to be forgotten. Knud remembered _everything_ they said; and, what was better, he _practiced_ it. They were quite sure that when Knud was out of their sight, he behaved just as well as if their eyes were on him. Can _your_ father and mother be as sure of YOU?

Knud loved to go to Sabbath school; he never was absent from his class once. He was not frightened away by a drop of rain, or a warm sun; he _loved_ to go. His mother did not have to say to him, "Come, come, Knud! don't you know it is time you were preparing to go to school?" or, "Come, come, Knud! it is time you were looking over your Sunday school lesson." No; he was always ready; his lesson in his _head_, and love for God in his _heart_; and away he trudged, cheerful and happy, to gladden the eyes of his kind teacher by being promptly in his place.

Perhaps you think because Knud loved to _pray_ that he didn't love to _play_. Not at all. You didn't know that good boys enjoy play much better than _bad_ ones, did you? Well, they _do_; because their consciences are not troubling them all the while, as those of bad boys are.

Yes, Knud loved to play; but he could never play with _bad_ boys, or help them to do wrong. And he wasn't a coward, either, as you will see. He spoke right up, and told them kindly what he thought, and begged _them_ not to do evil, either.

One day he was walking peaceably along, thinking happy thoughts, when a party of bad boys came up to him, saying: "Knud, we know where there is some splendid fruit, and we want some, and what is more, we are determined to have some; and we want you to go with us and help us to get it."

"What, _steal_?" said Knud; fixing his clear, pure eyes on the naughty boys. "Steal! I would not do it for all the world."

"But you _shall_," said a great, strong boy, bigger than Knud.

"You shall?" echoed all the other boys, "or, we will drown you, Knud; yes, drown you in the river, just as sure as you stand there."

Knud looked at them. He saw that they were in earnest. They were stronger than he, and Knud knew that they _could_ kill him, for there was nobody near to help him. His father and mother were not within call. Knud loved his father and mother; he thought this world a very fair and pleasant one, with its birds, its sunshine and its flowers; but, did he tremble and drop on his knees before those wicked boys and say, "_Don't_ kill me--_don't_--I will do _anything_ if you won't kill me!"

No, no; dear, noble, courageous little fellow! He stood up and faced them all, and said, "I cannot steal; no--not even if you kill me!"

You would have thought that they would have put their arms about his neck and begged his forgiveness, but they were little monsters. I cannot bear to think there are _children_ with such bad hearts, because we look to see _them_ innocent, and good, and pure. But you will weep when I tell you that they seized Knud and dragged him down to the river and plunged him in, and that the waters closed over the sunny little head, that is now wearing a martyr's crown.

You pity Knud? _I_ pity his murderers.

Do you think that they can sleep peaceably at night? No; in their dreams they hear the plashing waves, and see a pallid, upturned face, with pure and pleading eyes, from which _they turned away_!

Ever at their side, at golden morn, and busy noon, and dewy eve, a little form, unseen by other eyes, shall follow--follow--follow. Ever in their startled ears, a little childish voice, that no noise may drown, no earthly power may hush, shall ring, "Oh, I _cannot_ steal, not even if you _kill_ me! I _cannot_ steal!"

CHILDREN IN 1853.

I went with a friend, the other day, to look at some "rooms to let." She liked the rooms, and the man who owned them liked she should have them; but when she mentioned she had children--he stepped six paces off--set his teeth together--pulled his waist-coat down with a jerk, and said--"_Never--take--children,--ma'am!_"

Now, I'd like to know if that man was _born_ grown up?

I'd like to know if children are to have their necks wrung like so many chickens, if they happen to "_peep_?"

I'd like to know if they haven't just as much right in the world as grown folks?

I begin to feel catamount-y about it!

I'd like to know if boarding-house keepers, (after children have been in a close school-room for five or six hours, feeding on verbs and pronouns,) are to put them off with a "second table," leaving them to stand round in the entries on one leg, smelling the dinner, while grown people (who have lunched at oyster shops and confectioner's saloons) sit two or three hours longer than is necessary at dessert, cracking their nuts and their jokes?

I'd like to know if, when they have a quarter given them to spend, they must _always_ receive a bad shilling out of it at the stores, in "change"?

I'd like to know if people in omnibuses are at liberty to take them by the coat collar, lift them out of a nice seat, take it themselves, and then perch them on their sharp knee-bones, to jolt over the pavements?

I have a great mind to pick up all the children, and form a colony on some bright island, where these people, who were made up in a hurry, without hearts, couldn't find us; or if they did, we'd just say to them when they tried to come ashore--_Never take grown-up folks here, sir!_ or, we'd treat them to a "second dinner,"--bill of fare, cold potatoes, bad cooking butter, bread full of saleratus, bones without any meat on them, watery soups, and curdled milk--(that is to say, after we had picked our nuts long enough to suit us at dessert!) How do you suppose they'd like to change places with "children" that way?

Now here's Aunt Fanny's creed, and you may read it to your mother if you like.

I believe in great round apples and _big_ slices of good plain gingerbread for children.

I believe in making their clothes loose enough to enable them to eat it all, and jump round in when they get through.

I believe in not giving away their little property, such as dolls, kites, balls, hoops, and the like, without their leave.

I believe in not promising them a ride, and then forgetting all about it.

I believe in not teasing them for amusement, and then punishing them for being "troublesome."

I believe in not allowing Bridget and Betty to box their ears because the pot boils over, or because their beaux didn't come the evening before.

I believe in sending them to school where there are backs to the benches, and where the schoolma'am has had at least "_one_ offer."

I believe no house can be properly furnished with out at least a _dozen_ children in it.

I believe little children to be all that is left us of Paradise; and that any housekeeper harboring a person who "don't like them," had better _count up her silver, without loss of time_!

THE END

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