Chapter XIII: Sick-room incidents and reflections

In my last chapter I concluded the story which Raymond told me, and which I entitled the “School of Misfortune.” At the time, I supposed he only related it for my amusement, but I have since believed that he had a farther design; which was, to show me that wealth, used to puff up the heart with pride, is a source of positive evil; and that poverty, sickness, misfortune, humiliation--provided they make the heart tender toward mankind, and open new springs of sympathy in the soul--are like kind and gentle schoolmasters, teaching us the true art of happiness. I believe now, that Raymond intended to impress this great lesson on my heart, as well because it is useful to all, as because he probably foresaw approaching events, in relation to my own circumstances, which might make it specially needful to me.

There is nothing which more shows the advantages of civilization, than the care and kindness bestowed upon the sick, among Christian nations. With savages, the sick person is usually left to himself, where, like a wild beast, he must await, in solitude, the result of his disease. There is little sympathy offered to him--there is no kind hand to wipe the cold sweat from his brow; no watchful friend at his bedside to supply every want, and alleviate, as far as may be, every pain. Sickness with the savage is solitary and desolate; with Christians, though it has its pains, it has its alleviations. I suffered much during the period of my confinement, as well from my broken limb as the fever that raged in my veins. After this was past, I also suffered from excessive languor.

But still, in the midst of all this, and though my mind was pained with shame and mortification, for the folly which had brought these evils upon me, I had a sense of peace and happiness shining through it all. This was wholly derived from the kindness of my friends. When Raymond sat by my bed, his benignant eye resting upon me, I felt an indescribable degree of delightful emotion, composed, I believe, partly of gratitude, and partly of a confidence that all that could be done, would be done, in my behalf. Often, as I awoke from my sleep, and saw him patiently watching by me, the tears would gush to my eyes; but they were not tears of unhappiness. I think he perceived my emotion, and I believe he understood my feelings. One thing is certain--that sick-bed was the best schoolmaster of my life; it brought me Raymond’s wise counsel; it brought me wholesome shame for my folly; it taught me my dependence on others. It also taught me one other lesson--and that is, never to distrust the kindness and virtue of my fellow-men. It seemed to open a window into the human heart, letting light and sunshine in, where people are too apt to see nothing but selfishness and darkness.

This latter lesson was enforced by many circumstances. Not only was my bosom touched by the kindness of Raymond, but also by that of my uncle. Twice each day did he come to see me, and he always treated me with more tenderness than seemed to belong to his nature. He was a hale man himself, and it was his boast that he had never had a sick day in his life. Indeed, he had little sympathy for sickness, and usually expressed himself in terms of contempt toward everybody that chanced to be less robust than himself. When I was at the height of my fever, he insisted that all I wanted, in order to make me well again, was some roast beef and raw brandy! Still, he did not interfere with the course prescribed by the physician, and took pains to see that every thing was done for me that was deemed useful or necessary.

My companions of the village often sent to inquire after me, and Bill Keeler frequently stole in just to look at me, and say, “God bless you, Bob!” All these things went to my heart; but nothing affected me more than an event which I must notice with some detail.

The schoolmaster of the village was one of those men who seek to accomplish every object by some indirect means. He was what is called a cunning man, and was, withal, exceedingly fond of power, in the exercise of which he was capricious, tyrannical and unjust. At first he treated me with the greatest attention, and in fact picked me out as one of his favorites, upon whom he lavished his smiles and his praises. He had great faith in flattery, and believed that any person, young or old, might be caught by it; and while it seemed to be his object to propitiate me, he laid it on pretty thick. I was well enough pleased with this for a time, though I had a sort of distrust of the man who could condescend to such means, and enter into such schemes of policy; and even though I yielded to his views, in many things, I had still no respect for, or confidence in, him.

There was in the school a boy by the name of William Bury, son of a poor Irishman, that lived in the village. He was remarkably small of his age, but exceedingly active, and withal lively and intelligent. At the same time he was shrewd and witty, and, perceiving the weak points of the schoolmaster’s character, occasionally made them the target of his wit. As the master rendered each boy in the school a spy upon his fellows, he knew everything that was said and done; and poor Bill Bury was often punished for the freedom with which he indulged his tongue.

In process of time, Will and myself became the antipodes of the school: I was the favorite, and he the reprobate. Whatever he did was wrong: whatever I did was right. Under such circumstances, it was natural that we should be rivals, and it was, no doubt, a part of the plan of the politic schoolmaster, to keep us thus divided, that he might rule the more effectually.

During this state of things, several of the school boys were one day skating upon a river that ran along the western border of the town--Will and myself being of the number. It had been filled with heavy rains, and was now of considerable width and depth. In the deepest part there was a breathing-hole in the ice, which, of course, we all sought to avoid. As I was swiftly skating toward this place, with the intention of turning aside as I approached it, one of my skates struck a small stick, which brought me down, and--carried forward by the impetus of my course--I was instantly plunged into the opening of the ice. I sunk beneath the surface of the water for a moment, but then rose, and caught hold of the ice, which, however, broke in my hands as I grasped it.

It was but a few seconds before I was completely chilled; but, by this time, the boys around had raised a shout of terror, and several of them had gathered at a little distance, and were soon either silent with dismay, or raising idle screams for help. Among the number I noticed Bill Bury, and though I had been accustomed to speak lightly of him, I confess that at that fearful moment my only hope rested in him. Looking at me intently for a moment, and then casting a searching glance around, he sped away like an arrow. in the space of a minute, he returned, bringing a rail which he had plucked from a neighboring fence. Calling aloud for all around to give place, he laid the rail down upon the ice, and dexterously slid it across the opening, pushing it so close as to bring it within my reach. I was, however, so benumbed, that, in attempting to take hold of it, I lost my grasp of the ice, and sunk senseless beneath the wave.

Will hesitated not an instant, but plunged into the water, and, as I rose, he caught me in his arms. Grasping me tight by the right arm, while he held on to the rail by the left, he supported himself and me; at the same time he commanded the boys to get two more rails. These were brought and laid across the opening, and thus support was furnished for two of them to come and lift us out.

In this way my life was saved: I owed it to the courage, skill, and devotedness of Will Bury--my rival, and, as I had esteemed him, my enemy. I was not so base as to overlook his generous conduct, or to permit the relation in which we stood to abate my praises of his noble action. But the schoolmaster, being one of those people who have always a selfish object in everything they say and do, fearing that his entire system of tactics would be broken up if Will and I should become friends, took a different course. He indeed praised Will for an act that no one, it would seem, could fail to admire; but, at the same time, he sought every occasion, from that day, to ruin him in my estimation. At the same time he tried, in many cunning and sly ways, to poison Will’s mind with jealousy of me.

It was not long, therefore, before we were again in antagonist positions, and at last an open breach took place between us. In process of time, Will went to learn a trade of a carpenter, at the distance of a mile or two, and then I seldom saw him. Whenever we met we did not speak to each other. This was the state of things, when the accident happened which laid me on a bed of sickness. While I was recovering, I often thought of Will Bury, and my heart reproached me keenly for permitting my better feelings to be turned against him. In short, I yearned to see him, and it was while I was one day thinking about him, that I saw him come softly to the door and ask Raymond how I was. I instantly called him to my bedside, and I never felt a warmer emotion than when he came, and I threw my arms around his neck. He, too, was much affected, and tears--the first I ever saw the gay-hearted fellow shed--fell upon my cheek. From that day we were friends; and I thus learned to put a just value upon a generous heart--though it may belong to a poor boy.

(_To be continued._)

A Little Child’s Joy.

What joy it is, from day to day,
To skip and sing, and dance and play--
To breathe the air, to feel the sun,
And o’er the spangled meadows run.

What joy to move my limbs about,
To hoop and halloo, call and shout,
Among the woods, and feel as free
As any bird upon a tree.

What joy, when hungry, ’tis to eat,
What pleasure in our daily meat;
How sweet, when sleep the eyelids close,
To sink in calm and soft repose.

What joy, as morn begins to break,
Refreshed and vigorous to wake--
To feel, amid the dews and flowers,
New life bestowed on all my powers.

But who bestows this constant joy
On every little girl or boy?
’Tis God, our Father, bright and wise,
Whose goodness every joy supplies.

Then let me love and praise the Lord,
And strive to know his holy Word;
To do no wrong, and think no ill,
And evermore perform his will.

The Mammoth.

In several of the United States persons have frequently found the bones of a huge animal, called the Mammoth, or Mastodon. One skeleton, nearly complete, has been found, and set up in Peale’s Museum, in Philadelphia.

There is no such creature to be found now, on the earth, as a Mastodon--nor has there been, since the memory of man. It seems that it must have resembled an Elephant, but was twice as large.

In Siberia, a few years ago, a fisherman discovered the body of a Mastodon, imbedded in the ice: the skin was nearly entire, and it was covered with woolly hair. After about two years, this body thawed out, and fell to the ground from the elevated place in which it was first discovered. The flesh, as well as skin, gradually disappeared, but the bones were secured, and being taken to St. Petersburgh, in Russia, were set up in a museum, where they are still to be seen.

The remains of many other animals, now extinct, are found in different countries, as well as traces of vegetables, such as are not met with now on the face of the earth. This is a very interesting subject, and I propose hereafter to say more about it.

Geordie and the Sick Dog.

AN ENGLISH STORY.

It was Saturday afternoon, and had been longed for all the week by little Geordie, as he was called, for he was a very little fellow. Geordie had built himself a boat, and had promised to give it a fine sail in a pond, not a great way from the house in which he lived, called the fen ditch.

So away he went, before he had quite eaten his dinner, with his boat in one hand, and the remains of a slice of bread and butter in the other; for his mother was a poor woman, and Geordie did not get meat every day, and never on a Saturday.

But his cheeks were rosy, and his eye was bright, and his ringlets laughed in the wind as he ran along, looking at his boat with eyes of delight all the way, and every now and then taking a huge mouthful, and then stopping for breath, for fear the dry crumbs should be blown down his chest.

There was a beautiful breeze, as he called it,--for he called everything beautiful that pleased him. He had a beautiful piece of bread and butter; and a beautiful knife; and a beautiful pair of shoes,--only his toes peeped through them.

He had a kind, cheerful, and tender heart, and so everything appeared beautiful to him, and few things had the power to make him discontented or peevish; but, just as Geordie got over the Warren hills, which led to the place of his destination, he saw Harry Dyke, the groom at the great house of Lady Clover, coming over the swale, as it was called, with several of the boys of the village dancing about him, apparently in great delight.

When he came nearer, he found that Harry was carrying, wrapped up in a piece of an old sack, a little dog, which Geordie recognised as being one which he had before seen, with its two fore paws leaning over the ledge of the sash-pane in Lady Clover’s carriage, when she drove through the village.

One of the boys had got a couple of brick-bats, and a long piece of cord, and seemed very officious. He called out to Harry, “Harry, let me throw him in, will you?--there’s a good fellow. But wo’n’t you give him a knock on the head,--just one knock to dozzle him?”

“Why, they are going to drown that little pet-dog, that us children used to say, lived a great deal better than we did; and, when I have been very hungry, I have often wished I was Lady Clover’s lap-dog, for I heard say that she sometimes gave it rump-steak for its dinner, with oyster-sauce.” So thought little Geordie to himself; he did not, however, say anything.

“O! here is little Geordie,” said one of the boys. “Geordie, Geordie, come and have some sport!--we are going to drown a dog in the ditch.”

“What are you going to drown it for?” said Geordie.

“O! to have some fun, I suppose. No, it is not that; it is because my lady can’t bear the nasty thing--it has got the mange, or some disorder. There;--do not touch it. Don’t you smell it?”

The poor little dog looked at Geordie, and struggled to get out of the sacking, and gave a whine, as if it would be glad to get away from its enemies.

“Lay down, you beast,” said Harry, and gave it a severe blow on the head; “lay down; I’ll soon settle your business.”

By this time they had come to the fen brook, and the dog was placed on the ground, and taken from the sack-cloth in which it was wrapped. It was a deplorable looking creature, and its hair was off in several places; it yelped wofully as it looked around, while the boys began to prepare the noose and the brick-bats.

“O! do not drown him,” said Geordie; “pray, do not drown him. What are you going to drown him for?”

“Why, because he is sick, and ill, and dirty. He is no good to any one,” said Harry. “My lady used to be very fond of him; but now, he looks such an object, she says he is to be destroyed.”

“Give him to me,” said Geordie; “I’ll have him, and keep him till he gets well--he shall have half my dinner every day. Here, little dog, have this piece of bread and butter.”

“Go away, and leave the dog alone,” said the boy who had the cord; “you are not going to spoil our sport. Get out of the way with you.” And so he drew near, and fastened the cord to the dog’s neck.

“O! do give him to me! Pray don’t drown him,” said Geordie; “pray do not. O! do give him to me; I will make him well--indeed I will. Do let me have him?--there’s a good Harry Dyke,” and the tears came into Geordie’s eyes.

“Go along, Mr. Dog Doctor,” said Harry; “go along, Mr. Cry Baby.”

“Here, Harry, I’ll give you my boat for the little dog--it is a beautiful boat; here, put it into the water instead of the dog--do, do, do;” and so Geordie thrust the boat into Harry’s hand, and, without waiting to settle the bargain, laid hold of the dog.

“Leave go of him,” said the boy with the cord and the brick-bats, “leave go, I tell you; if you do not, it shall be the worse for you. Leave go, or”----

“Ay, you may rap my knuckles,” said Geordie, “I do not mind that.--Harry Dyke, Harry Dyke, am I not to have the dog, and you have the boat?” said he, struggling.

“O! I do not care about it,” said Harry; “take him, if you will have him; the boat will do for my brother Tom, and I wish you joy of the bargain.”

The other boys hearing this, were much disconcerted; and would, no doubt, have molested Geordie still further, but the little fellow no sooner heard Harry’s tacit consent, than he immediately set off at full speed, with the dog under his arm, in the direction of home.

When he reached his home he was quite out of breath, and his mother was fearful something had happened to him. “Why, Geordie, Geordie, what is the matter with you; and what have you got under your arm?”

Geordie laid down the dog, and the sight of the poor creature, whose looks told the state of disease in which it was, made the good woman quite afraid to have it in the house; and, without hearing anything of the circumstances connected with the poor animal, or giving Geordie time to explain, she declared it should not set foot in the house, and drove Geordie and his purchase out of it together; telling the latter to take it from whence it came, and that the house was not to be converted into a hospital for sick dogs.

Geordie was more disconsolate than ever; he went into the fields, with the dog under his arm: now be laid it down, and patted it; then he talked to it, and, in his childish manner, tried to comfort it. The poor creature looked up to Geordie, and wagged its tail, and seemed quite glad to find somebody could feel for it.

“Ay, that is the way of these ladyfolks,” thought Geordie to himself; “they like their pets, and fondle them enough while they look pretty and frisk about, and play about; but, when they get sick, and ill, or old, then they hang and drown them. I wonder what makes them do it.”

What to do with the dog Geordie knew not. At last, however, he bethought himself that he would take him up into a little loft, over a small stable which his father had, and there make him a bed with some nice hay, and try and make him better.

So he mounted the ladder, and got into the loft. He soon made the poor thing a bed, and then he thought he would get him something to eat; but Geordie had no money. He had, however, a good many marbles, for Geordie was a capital hand at ring-taw; and so he took his marble-bag, and went into the green, where several boys were playing, and very soon sold his marbles. They produced four-pence, for there were more than fifty, at sixteen a penny.

He then bought some dog’s-meat at the butcher’s, and a halfpenny worth of milk, and a halfpenny worth of sulphur, to mix with the milk; for somebody once said, in his hearing, that sulphur and milk were good physic for dogs.

He then washed the animal, and fed him; and what with washing, and physicing, and comforting, in a few days the poor dog regained his strength; in a few days more he regained his coat; and it was not many days more before he was as well as ever.

Geordie then ventured to bring him in to his father and mother; who, seeing the animal quite changed in appearance, and a lively, handsome, little dog, and not very old, were quite pleased with him; and no less pleased with their son’s conduct, when it was all explained to them.

Some weeks after this, Lady Clover came through the village, in her carriage, as usual, and was astonished to behold her little dog sitting, with his fore paws out of Geordie’s mother’s parlor window, just as he used to sit out in her ladyship’s carriage.

Lady Clover alighted, and went towards the house. The dog immediately began to bark, nor would the soft tones of the lady’s voice by any means pacify him. In a few minutes she learned the whole of her former pet’s history, and wished to have him again. “She would give Geordie a crown for him,” she said; but Geordie would not sell his dog.

“No, I thank you, my lady.” “Bow-wow, wow,” said the little dog. “He might be sick again, my lady, and then he would be drowned, my lady.” “Bow-wow, wow--bow-wow, wow.”

“Keep the plaguesome creature quiet,” said her ladyship, “and hear me.”--“Bow-wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow,” said the little dog.

Her ladyship could not obtain a hearing, and left the cottage in high displeasure. “I would not sell him for his weight in gold,” said Geordie,--“not to Lady Clover.”

It was some years after this that Geordie grew almost a man, and Chloe, for that was the dog’s name, grew old; Geordie’s father had prospered in life; and, from being a poor cottager, had become a respectable farmer.

One night he returned from market with a considerable sum of money, arising from the sale of his crops, the principal part of which he had to pay away to his landlord in a few days.

Some evil-disposed fellows had obtained a knowledge of this money being in the house, and determined to break into and rob it--perhaps also to murder those who might oppose them.

It was a very dark night, and all were sound asleep, when Black Bill, and two companions, approached on tip-toe, to make an entrance in the back premises.

By means of a centre-bit they had soon cut a panel out of the wash-house door; they then entered the kitchen without making the least noise. Black Bill had a large carving-knife in one hand, and a dark lantern in the other, and, supposing the money to be in the bed-room, was mounting the stairs, to take it at any hazard.

The stairs creaked with the weight of the robber, and in a moment Chloe aroused the whole house with her barking--her shrill voice was heard in every room. In a moment Geordie was up, and his father’s blunderbuss at his shoulder.

“Speak, or I will fire!” said he. No answer,--but a scampering through the passage. Geordie followed--he heard the robbers making their escape; he fired--the robber fell.

Lights were procured. It was found that the fellow was only slightly wounded in the leg, which prevented his running away. In the morning it was discovered who the robber was--it was the very boy, now grown a man, who _had the cord and the brick-bats_!

Chloe did not live long after this, but died of sheer old age; not, however, you see, till she had amply repaid the kindness which had been bestowed upon her by Geordie.--Learn from this, my little readers, a lesson of _humanity_!

The Sable-Hunter.