Chapter IX: Mr. Tompkins’s Small Story (3)

“None of these people have anything to give me for a blanket,” thought little Nora.

She ventured to beg at a few houses: but the servants shut the doors in her face; and she could hear them answer to the people above stairs, “Only a beggar-girl.”

For all it was so cold, Nora could not pass the window of the back-piazza without looking in for a moment. The curtain was partly drawn aside. No one was in the room; but through the door she could see another larger room, brilliantly lighted. There were wax candles burning, and a bright fire was blazing in the fireplace. There were vases of flowers upon the table, and the walls were hung-with large pictures in shining gilt frames. Around the fire many people were seated, and the little girl was there kissing them all good-night. Nora could see them catch her up in their arms. One gave her a ride on his foot, another gave her a toss in the air, and one made believe put her in his pocket; and to every one the little girl gave a kiss on both cheeks.

Then her mother led her into the room where Nora had so many times watched the going to bed; and Nora saw, as she had often seen before, the white shoulders catch kisses when the dress slipped off, then the bright face peep through the night-gown and catch a kiss, and the little rosy feet put up to have their toes counted. Then there were huggings, and showers of kisses; and the little girl was laid in her crib, and blankets tucked close about her.

Next came the evening hymn, which the mother sang, sitting by the crib. Poor little Nora was almost benumbed with cold; but this singing was so sweet, she must stop just a few moments longer. Wrapping her thin shawl tightly about her, she stood bending over, her ear close to the window, that not a note might be lost.

And soon, almost without knowing it, she, too, was singing. But, as Nora had never learned any hymns, she could only sing what was in her mind: “Nora is cold; Nora has no blanket; Nora cannot kiss any mother.”

She sang very softly at first; but her voice would come out. It grew louder every moment; and this so delighted her, that she forgot where she was, forgot the cold, forgot every thing except the joy of the music. And, when the tune ran high, her voice rang out so loud and clear, that a policeman came toward the gate; and then Nora was frightened, and ran away. She ran back to the place where Paul was lying. He was asleep now. She crept in among the straw, and sat there shivering, looking up at the stars. She looked up at the stars: but she was thinking of the good-night kisses in the lighted room around the fireside, and of the little girl lying asleep in her crib, with the loving mother watching near; and the more these pleasant thoughts passed through her mind, the more lonely and sorrowful she felt.

“O Paul!” she whispered, “if I didn’t have you, I shouldn’t have anybody in the world. Good-night, Paul.” She put her arms softly around him, stroked his hair, and then tucked her thin shawl closely about him, just as the lady had tucked the blankets about her little girl, and kissed him. “Good-night, Paul,” she whispered again.

Then she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and began to sing, but very softly, lest some one should hear. She sang of the blazing fire, of the candles burning, of the flowers, of the pictures, of the undressing, of the kisses, of the sleeping child, and then of other little children walking in the streets, led by beautiful ladies.

Then it seemed as if she herself were one of these little girls. In her dream, she, too, was dressed in gay clothes, warmed herself by glowing fires, or was led along sunny streets by a gentle lady: and all the while she seemed to keep on singing; and everybody—the loving mothers and the pretty children—sang with her, until the whole air was filled with music. Her little bird, too, seemed to be there, and was singing with the rest: he came and nestled in her bosom.

Then in this beautiful dream she found herself sitting alone, clothed in white garments, in the midst of a soft, silvery light. A river rolled at her feet, beyond which hung, like a veil, a thin, shining mist. It was from behind this mist that the light was shed about her. Still the music kept on, but far more loud and sweet. It came from beyond the river; and she heard a voice in the air, saying, “Come and sing with the angel-children.”

Then she arose, and stood gazing like a lost child, not knowing how to cross the stream. But instantly a smile spread over her face; for she saw standing near, upon a bridge of flowers, a lady, in whose face were exceeding beauty and sweetness. She stretched forth to Nora her hands, saying in gentlest tones, “Come this way, my darling.” And Nora trembled with joy, and smiled still more brightly; for the countenance of the lady was beaming with love, and the darling was in her eyes as she clasped to her bosom her own dear little child.

* * * * *

At early dawn a policeman found Paul lying in the straw asleep; and leaning upon his shoulder was the face of his little sister, stiff and cold in death. But the smile of joy was still there, and was witnessed by hundreds that day; for a great many people came to see the little frozen beggar-girl who had passed from her life of sorrow with so sweet a smile.

One of these persons, after hearing the policemen, beggar-woman, and others tell what they knew of Nora’s life, took one long look at her face as she lay there like a child smiling in its sleep; then went home and wrote the above story of the Little Beggar-Girl.

WIDE-AWAKE.

Da, da, da! Don’t sing “By-lo” anymore, nor rock harder, nor tuck in the blankets, nor cover my eyes up, nor pat, nor sh— me: it really makes me laugh; for I’m awake,—wide-awake! Shut up peepers? put my little heddy down?—not a bit. Go to s’eepy?—no, I’m going to waky: I am awaky; I see you; I see red curtains, see pictures, see great doggy.

Haven’t had my nap out? When would it be out? I should like to know that; yes, I should like to know when a baby’s nap would be out. Haven’t you swept, and watered your plants, and made the bed, and seen to dinner, and taken out your crimps, and more? Pudding?—yes, now you want to make the pudding, and then the salad, and then the Washington pie, and then run out a minute. I know: don’t tell me. A baby’s nap is never out, never, never, so long as any thing is to be done.

But I am awake, and I’m coming out of this right off. Drink not ready?—why not? I ask why not, when you knew ’twould be called for? But no: that must be left. And when you see my eyes wide open, and me pulling myself up with my two hands,—you not offering to help,—then you call out, “Get baby’s drink ready!” Who knows but the fire is out, or the bottle-stopper lost!

But ’tis plain enough you thought I’d sleep all day. Yes, you’d like that. You wouldn’t? Oh, I know; I know! Don’t you always say, “Too bad baby’s waked up”? Why don’t you get some other kind?—get a rag baby, or gutta-percha, or a wooden one, with its eyes screwed down, or that doesn’t have any! Swap me off; I’m willing; I’d rather than to be in the way: or else I’ll lay my little heddy down and go to s’eepy, and never, never, open eyes again. You’d be sorry?—then why don’t you take me?

There, that’s it,—da, da, da! “Now laugh, look glad!” I like that. Kiss me; hug hard; call me “lovey-dovey;” call me “precious;” call me “honey sweet;” trot me; cuddle me; tell “Little Boy Blue;” sing a pretty song.

Will I walk a little? Oh, yes! and glad to. I’ve crept long enough. Stand me up against the wall: now smooth down the carpet; now take things out of the way; now hold up something pretty, and I’ll walk to it. Your thimble?—no, you’ll cheat: you won’t let me have it. Not the rattle: I’m too big for that, I hope! String of spools?—no, I’ve done with spools. Fruit-knife?—well, yes, I’ll come for the fruit-knife. Now, one, two, three, four steps up to mother. Da, da! kiss, kiss, kiss! sweet as sugary candy!

Now will I sit on the floor and have the pretty things?—Yes: but bring them all,—blocks, soldiers, ninepins, Noah’s ark, Dinah, and Jumping-Jack, and hammer and clothes-brush and pans and porringers,—every thing; I want every thing.

Oh, I’m left alone! Why didn’t she shake a day-day, so I could cry? I don’t want these anymore: I’d rather get up: I’ll creep to something, and get up,—creep, creep, creep. I’ll get up by this. What is this funny thing, so soft and so warm? Now I’ll pull up; now I’m almost up. Oh! it moves; it growls; ’tis slipping out; ’tis going off! down I come again! Oh! wo, wo, wa, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody hear me cry?

Away I go—creep, creep, creep—to the rocking-chair. Now pull up by this,—up, up, up; most up; way up,—da, da, da! But it shakes!—oh, oh! down I come again!—oh, wo, wa, wo, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody come?

Creep, creep, creep. What is this so tall, and so black, and so shining? Oh! this will do: let me catch hold. Now pull: but it bends; it won’t hold up. Oh! ’tis nothing but a rubber-boot. Away I roll over! Oh! wa, wa, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody come? Oh! where have I rolled? where is this? how dark it is! I’ve rolled under the table. Let me get out,—creep, creep, creep. Ha! there’s something!—the table-cloth: I’ll pull up by this.

But I don’t go up. It’s coming down. Oh, my head! What’s dropping down?—-work-basket, dominos, glass tumbler, scissors, pin-cushion, knitting-work, hooks and eyes, buttons. Oh, here’s the fun! Now I’ll get pins; now I’ll pull the needles out; now I’ll put things in my mouth!—da, da, da!

REASONS WHY THE COW TURNED HER HEAD AWAY.

REPORTED BY A BARN-SWALLOW.

“Moolly cow, your barn is warm: the wintry winds cannot reach you, nor frost nor snow. Why are your eyes so sad? Take this wisp of hay. See, I am holding it up! It is very good. Now you turn your head away. Why do you look so sorrowful, Moolly Cow, and turn your head away?”

“Little girl, it makes me sad to think of the time when that dry wisp of hay was living grass; when those brown, withered flowers were blooming clover-tops, buttercups, and daisies, and the bees and butterflies came about them. The air was warm then, and gentle winds blew. Every morning I went forth to spend the day in sunny pastures. I am thinking now of those early summer-mornings,—how the birds sang, and the sun shone, and the grass glittered with dew; and the boy that opened the gates,—how merrily he whistled! I stepped quickly along, sniffing the fresh morning-air, snatching at times a hasty mouthful by the way: it was really very pleasant. And, when the bars fell, how joyfully I leaped over! I knew where the grass grew green and tender, and hastened to eat it while the dew was on.

“As the sun rose higher, I sought the shade; and at noonday I lay under the trees, chewing, chewing, chewing, with half-shut eyes, and the drowsy insects humming around me; or perhaps I would stand motionless upon the river’s bank, where one might catch a breath of air, or wade deep in to cool myself in the stream. And when noontime was passed, and the heat grew less, I went back to the grass and flowers.

“And thus the long summer-day sped on,—sped pleasantly on; for I was never lonely. No lack of company in those sunny pasture-lands! The grasshoppers and crickets made a great stir, bees buzzed, butterflies were coming and going, and birds singing always. I knew where the ground-sparrows built, and all about the little field-mice. They were very friendly to me; for often, while nibbling the grass, I would whisper, ‘Keep dark, little mice! don’t fly, sparrows! boys are coming!’

“No lack of company; oh, no! When that withered hay was living grass, yellow with buttercups, white with daisies, pink with clover, it was the home of myriads of little insects,—very, very little insects. Oh! but they made things lively, crawling, hopping, skipping among the roots, and up and down the stalks, happy, full of life, never still; and now not one left alive. They are gone!—that pleasant summer-time is gone! Oh these long, dismal winter-nights! All day I stand in my lonely stall, listening, not to the song of birds, or hum of bees, or chirp of grasshoppers, or the pleasant rustling of leaves, but often to the noise of howling winds, hail, sleet, and driving snow.

“Little girl, I pray you don’t hold up to me that wisp of hay. In just that same way they held before my eyes one pleasant morning a bunch of sweet-clover, to entice me from my pretty calf.

“Poor thing! She was the only one I had; so gay and sprightly, so playful, so frisky, so happy! It was a joy to see her caper, and toss her heels about, without a thought of care or sorrow: it was good to feel her nestling close at my side; to look into her bright, innocent eyes; to rest my head lovingly upon her neck.

“And already I was looking forward to the time when she would become steady and thoughtful like myself; was counting greatly upon her company of nights in the dark barn, or in roaming the fields through the long summer-days: for the butterflies and bees, and all the bits of insects, though well enough in their way, and most excellent company, were, after all, not akin to me; and there is nothing like living with one’s own blood relations.

“But I lost my pretty little one. That bunch of sweet-clover enticed me away. When I came back, she was gone. I saw through the bars the rope wound about her; I saw the cart; I saw the cruel men lift her in. She made a mournful noise: I cried out, and thrust my head over the rail, calling in language she well understood, ‘Come back!—oh, come back!’

“She looked up with her round, sorrowful eyes, and wished to come; but the rope held her fast. The man cracked his whip; the cart rolled away: I never saw her more.

“No, little girl, I cannot take your wisp of hay: it reminds me of the silliest hour of my life,—of a day when I surely made myself a fool. And on that day, too, I was offered by a little girl a bunch of grass and flowers.

“It was a still summer’s noon. Not a breath of air was stirring. I had waded deep into the stream, which was then calm and smooth. Looking down, I saw my own image in the water; and I perceived that my neck was thick and clumsy; that my hair was brick-color, and my head of an ugly shape, with two horns sticking out much like the prongs of a pitchfork. ‘Truly, Mrs. Cow,’ I said, ‘you are by no means handsome.’

“Just then a horse went trotting along the bank. His hair was glossy black. He had a flowing mane, and a tail which grew thick and long. His proud neck was arched, his head lifted high. He trotted lightly over the ground, bending in his hoofs daintily at every footfall. Said I to myself, ‘Although not well-looking, it is quite possible that I can step beautifully, like the horse: who knows?’ And I resolved to plod on no longer in sober cow-fashion, but to trot off nimbly and briskly and lightly.

“I waded ashore, climbed the bank, held my head high, stretched out my neck, and did my best to trot like the horse, bending in my hoofs as well as was possible at every step, hoping that all would admire me.

“Some children gathering flowers near by burst into shouts of laughter, crying out, ‘Look, look, Mary, Tom! What ails the cow? She acts like a horse. She is putting on airs. Clumsy thing! her tail is like a pump-handle. Oh! I guess she’s a mad cow.’ Then they ran, and I sank down under a tree with tears in my eyes.

“But one little girl staid behind the rest; and, seeing that I was quiet, she came softly up, step by step, holding out a bunch of grass and clover. I kept still as a mouse. She stroked me with her soft hand, and said,—

“‘O good Moolly Cow! I love you dearly; for my mother has told me very nice things about you. You are good-natured, and we all love you. Every day you give us sweet milk, and never keep any for yourself. The boys strike you sometimes, and throw stones, and set the dogs on you; but you give them your milk just the same. And you are never contrary, like the horse; stopping when you ought to go, and going when you ought to stop. Nobody has to whisper in your ears to make you gentle, as they do to horses: you are gentle of your own accord, dear Moolly Cow. If you do walk up to children sometimes, you won’t hook; it’s only playing: and I will stroke you, and love you dearly.’

“Her words gave me great comfort; and may she never lack for milk to crumb her bread in! But, oh! take away your wisp of hay, little girl; for you bring to mind the summer-days which are gone, and my pretty bossy that was stolen away, and also—my own folly.”

TWO LITTLE ROGUES.

Says Sammy to Dick,
“Come, hurry; come, quick!
And we’ll _do_, and we’ll _do_, and we’ll _do_!
Our mammy’s away;
She’s gone for to stay:
And we’ll make a great hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
We’ll make a great hullabaloo!”

Says Dicky to Sam,
“All weddy I am
To do, and to do, and to do.
But how doeth it go?
I so ittle to know:
Thay, what be a hullabawoo?
Ri too, ri loo, woo, woo, woo!
Thay, what be a hullabawoo?”

“Oh! slammings and bangings,
And whingings and whangings,
And very bad mischief we’ll do:
We’ll clatter and shout,
And pull things about;
And that’s what’s a hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
And that’s what’s a hullabaloo!

“Slide down the front-stairs,
Tip over the chairs,
Now into the pantry break through;
We’ll take down some tinware,
And other things in there:
_All aboard_ for a hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
_All aboard_ for a hullabaloo!

“Now roll up the table
Far up as you’re able,
Chairs, sofa, big easy-chair too;
Put the poker and vases
In funny old places:
How’s this for a hullabaloo?
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
How’s this for a hullabaloo?

“Let the dishes and pans
Be the womans and mans:
_Everybody keep still in their pew!_
Mammy’s gown I’ll get next,
And preach you a text.
Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!”

As the preacher in gown
Climbed up, and looked down
His queer congregation to view,
Said Dicky to Sammy,
“Oh, _dere_ comes our mammy!
Se’ll _thcold_ for dis hullabawoo.
Ri too, ri loo, woo, woo, woo!
Se’ll _thcold_ for dis hullabawoo!”

“O mammy! O mammy!”
Cried Dicky and Sammy,
“We’ll never again, certain true.”
But with firm step she trod,
And looked hard at the rod:
Oh, then came a hullabaloo!
“Boohoo, boohoo, woo, woo, woo!”
Oh, then came a hullabaloo!

THE BELATED BUTTERFLY.

[MORNING.]

Am I awake? am I alive? Then it was true, after all. Aunt Caterpillar told me, that if I would cover myself over, and lie stock-still, and go to sleep, I should wake up a beauty. She said I should no longer creep, but should fly like the birds; and I do. She said I would never need to chew leaves any more, but might feed upon sugar of roses, and sip honey from the flowers. She said I should have beautiful wings of purple and gold. And it is every word true.

Now I’m flying. Oh, glorious! This floating in the air—oh, what a joy it is! Good-by, you little worms! Here I go up, up, up,—a trifle dizzy, that is to be expected at first,—higher, higher. Good-morning, Mr. Bluebird! We have wings, haven’t we? Down,—no, I will not touch the earth: I will rock in this lily, brush the dew from the mignonette, breathe the perfume of the heliotrope, and rest in the heart of this damask-rose.

What sweet rest! How soft these rose-leaves are! Let me nestle close,—close. But I grow faint with the perfume, and must be off,—off to the hills, where sweetbrier and wild roses grow. Cousin Moth says she goes there every day. Oh the joy of flying! Up, down; up, down; up, down; now rest, now float, now sip, now rock, now away, away!

Here are the tall blue meadow-flowers. I’ll stay a while with them. How long it used to take me, with my eighteen legs, to creep thus far! Whom have we here? What mean, dull fly is this? and why should he have wings? What!—keep company with me? You? Impossible! Have you noticed who I am, pray? or are you asleep? Look at _my_ brilliant wings! I am a Butterfly, born in the purple. Of some use?—dear me! of what use could such as you be to such as I? Upon my word, I pity you; but all can’t be Butterflies, or go in company with Butterflies. Please don’t follow, I should feel so mortified! Good-by! Now for a long, long flight over the meadows!

The hills, at last,—the breezy hills! Ah! good bees, have you come too? and you poor little wee grasshoppers! Dear humming-bird, isn’t it jolly? Why don’t you sing? You don’t know how?—what a pity! But you can hum. Oh this charming sweetbrier! and here are wild-roses: now we’ll have a merry time among the wild-roses, and play in the fragrant sweet-fern.

[EVENING.]

Lost, lost, lost! I wandered too far among the hills. Who will show me the way home? My home is in the flower-garden: will no one show me the way? Oh this frightful darkness! Where is the beautiful daylight gone? The evening dews are cold and damp. My wings droop from weariness. The night-winds chill me through. Ugly creatures are abroad, and strange sounds fill the air. I see no flowers; hear no singing of birds, no chirping of insects, no humming of bees. Where are you, little bees?

Oh, this dreary, dreary night! Shivering with cold, I fly hither and thither, but never find my home. I am a poor lost Butterfly. Who will pity a poor lost Butterfly?

What dreadful sounds!—“Juggulp, juggulp, juggulp!” Away, quick! “Juggulp, juggulp.” Oh, dear! oh, dear! Now something just hit me! Again! Some horrid monster!—a bat, perhaps. Cousin Moth said, “Beware of bats; for they will eat you up.” I shall die with fright. I know, I know, I shall die with fright. My wings can scarcely move,—my fine purple wings! Will the dear warm sun never shine again? Cousin Moth told me of so many dangers, and never even mentioned getting lost. Alas! must I die here all alone, breathe my last breath in this terrible place? Better that some boy had caught me in his hat; that I had been choked with a match, stuck on a pin, or put under a glass, than to drop down here in the cold, gasping, quivering, and die all alone.

Who comes? Can I believe my own eyes? Is that a light? Ho! a fly with a lantern! How quick he darts! Stop there, you with a lantern!

It is the very same mean fly I met this morning. Good fly, best creature, charming insect! I pray you light me home. Do you know where the flower-garden is? You do? that is my home. My lodgings are among the damask-rose-leaves. I am a poor belated Butterfly. I lost my way; staid very long with the sweetbrier, and never thought the daylight would go.

You will light me home? That’s a dear fly! Your name is Firefly? What a sweet name! But how fast you go! Please don’t dart so quick, because I cannot follow; for my wings are very, oh! very tired. Slower, slower, that’s a kind firefly! Now we go nicely on.

What will you take for your lamp? Won’t sell? But you will forget, I hope, our morning conversation. Perhaps, though, so little a fly can’t remember so long. You can remember? Then what a kind, forgiving creature you are! I shall certainly speak well of you to my friends. Call on me almost any time,—that is, almost any evening,—and we’ll go out together. We have come a very long way, and should now be near home. Yes, the air is so fragrant here, that I am sure we have nearly reached the flower-garden. I smell the perfume quite plainly. We are passing over mignonette; that is the breath of sweet-pea; now the bed of pinks is beneath us; here must be the honeysuckle-bower; here is balm; here is lavender; and here’s the smell of the damask-rose.

Now thanks and good-by, my friend. I shall need you no longer: the fragrance will guide me to bed. Good-night, little fly!

I do think it is very strange, and say so, now he is out of hearing, that such mean-looking little flies should have lamps to carry, while we Butterflies, who would light up so beautifully, and are so much superior to them, should be obliged to do without.

THE MAPLE-TREE’S CHILDREN.

A maple-tree awoke at spring-time, shivering in the east winds. “O mother Nature!” she said, “I tremble with cold. Behold my limbs ugly and bare! The birds are all coming back from the south, and I would look my best. They will soon be building their nests. Oh, a bird’s nest does make a tree so pleasant! But, alas! they will not come to me, because I have no leaves to hide them.”

And kind mother Nature smiled, and presented her daughter Maple with such multitudes of leaves!—more than you could count. These gave beauty to the tree, besides keeping the rain out of the birds’ nests; for birds had quickly come to build there, and there was reason to expect a lively summer. A right happy Maple-Tree now was she, and well pleased with her pretty green leaves. They were beautiful in the sunlight; and the winds whispered to them things so sweet as to make them dance for joy. A pair of golden-robins had a home there, and thrushes came often. Sunshine and song all day long! Or, if the little leaves became hot and thirsty in the summer’s heat, good mother Nature gave them cooling rain-drops to drink. A happier Maple-Tree could nowhere be found.

“Thanks, thanks, mother Nature,” she said, “for all your care and your loving-kindness to me.”

But, when autumn came with its gloomy skies and its chilling winds, the Maple-Tree grew sad: for she heard her little leaves saying to each other, “We are going to die; we are going to die!”

People living near said, “Hark! Do you hear the wind? It sounds like fall.” Nobody told them it was the leaves all over the forest, moaning to each other, “We are going to die; we are going to die!”

“My dear little leaves!” sighed the Maple-Tree. “Poor things, they must go! Ah, how sad to see them droop and fade away!”

“I will make their death beautiful,” said kind mother Nature; and she changed their color to a scarlet, which glowed in the sunlight like fire.

And everyone said, “How beautiful!” But the poor Maple-Tree sighed, knowing it was the beauty of death.

And one cold October morning she stood with her limbs all bare, looking desolate. The bright leaves lay heaped about her.

“Dear, pretty things,” she said, “how I shall miss them! they were such a comfort! And, how ugly I am! Nobody will enjoy looking at the Maple-Tree now.”

But presently a flock of school-girls came along, chatting away, all so cheerily, of ferns, red berries, and autumn-leaves.

“And I think,” said one, “that there’s a great deal of beauty in a tree without any leaves at all.”

“So do I,” said another. “Just look up through yonder elm! Its branches and boughs and twigs make a lovely picture against the sky.”

“When my uncle came home,” said a third, “he told us that some of the people in the torrid zone perfectly longed to see a forest without leaves.”

And, thus chattering, the lively school-girls passed on.

“Ah!” sighed the Maple-Tree, “this will at least be pleasant to dream about.”

For she already felt her winter’s nap coming on. If she could but have staid awake, and heard what her little leaves said to each other afterwards down there on the ground!

“Dear old tree! She has taken care of us all our lives, and fed us, and held us up to the sun, and been to us a kind mother; and now we will do something for her. We will get under ground, and turn ourselves into food to feed her with; for she’ll be sure to wake up hungry after her long nap.”

Good little things! The rains helped them, and the winds,—in this way: The rains beat them into the ground, and the winds blew sand over them; and there they turned themselves into something very nice for the old Maple-Tree,—something good to take.

THE WHISPERER.

Uncle Joe, being “stumped” by the children to tell a story about a birch-tree, began as follows:—

“There was once a lovely princess who had a fairy for a godmother. This young princess was slender, graceful, and very fair to behold. She usually dressed in green, green being her favorite color.

“This pretty creature would have been a great favorite but for her troublesome habit of whispering. She had always some wonderful news, or seemed to have, which everybody must hear privately: so no wonder that she came to be known, at last, by the name of ‘The Whisperer.’

“Now, this conduct was very displeasing to the old fairy, who, being of a hasty temper, would often become angry, and scold and threaten her; though, when good-natured, she would smile most pleasantly upon her, and drop gold in her path.

“The princess, as may be imagined, liked to see herself well dressed; and every year she saved up the gold which her godmother had dropped, and spun and wove herself a fine golden mantle. The fairy was quite willing to find her in gold to spin; and all would have gone well, only for the habit above mentioned; which habit, I will say in passing, was very strong upon her in breezy weather.

“But one day the old lady, who, as has been remarked, was of rather a hasty turn, became so provoked, that she lost all patience with the whisperer, and, touching her with her wand, changed her, quick as thought, to a slender green tree.

“‘Now stand there and whisper to the winds!’ cried the angry fairy.

“And sure enough she did. The pretty, graceful tree did stand and whisper to the winds ever after, but always saved up sunshine enough through the long summer-days to weave for itself a golden mantle, and, when decked in that, was as pleased as a tree could be to see itself so fine.

“And that’s the way, so I’ve been told,” said uncle Joe, laughing, “that birch-trees began. Go into the woods any time when there’s a light breeze stirring, and you may hear them whispering, whispering, whispering. They never fail, however, to save up sunshine enough through the long summer-days to weave for themselves fine golden mantles. But these fine golden mantles are sure to be spoiled by a rough old king who comes this way every year, storming and raging, and making a great bluster. He gives them white ones instead; but they are not as pretty.

“Say, my little children, do you know who this old king is?”

A STRANGER IN PILGRIM-LAND, AND WHAT HE SAW.

The town of the Pilgrims—how often, in my far-off Western home, have I read its story, and the story of the stout-hearted who sailed across the sea to this very spot, then a wilderness, two hundred and fifty years ago!

And I have come at last to visit the town of my dreams; have actually set my foot upon its “holy ground.” This hill, planted thick with graves, is the ancient “Burial Hill.” Sitting among its mossy headstones, I look far across the bay to the cliffs of Cape Cod, where, before landing here, some of “The Mayflower’s” crew went ashore to get firewood. Just below me lies the town, sloping to the sea. Vessels sail in and out, and little boats skim over the water like white-winged birds. How can they skim so lightly over the hallowed waters of Plymouth Bay! Far less swiftly sped that “first boat,” laden with passengers from “The Mayflower.”

Two hundred and fifty years ago!—let me use for a while, not my real eyes, but my _other pair_, the eyes of my mind, my “dream eyes,” and see, or make believe that I see, this place just as it looked then.

And now I will suppose the town has vanished. No streets, no houses, no sail upon the sea. Stillness reigns over the land and over the dark waters of the bay.

A ship enters the harbor. Why should a ship come sailing to these desolate shores? A hundred and one passengers are on board. They have come three thousand miles, have been tossed upon the ocean one hundred days and nights; and now they find no friends to welcome them. Not a house, nor a single white person, in all this vast wilderness. What will they do—these men, women, and children—in so dreary a place? Can they keep from freezing in this bitter cold?

A boat puts off from the ship. Row, row, row. Nearer and nearer it comes. But how will they land? Will the sailors jump out, and pull her up high and dry? Ah! to be sure, there is a _Rock_, and the only one to be seen along the shore. They steer for that. And now I see Elder Brewster, their first minister, and Gov. Carver, their first governor, and Capt. Miles Standish, their first soldier, and Mary Chilton, the first woman who stepped upon the Rock. Now the boat goes back,—back for another load.

Where can all these people live? Out of doors this wintry weather? Let me see what they will do.

They cut down trees to build houses. First a “common house” is built; then the one hundred and one people are divided into nineteen families, and begin to construct nineteen log-huts, each family working upon its own. These are set in two rows, and are placed near together, on account of the Indians. The two rows form a street, which runs from a cliff by the water’s edge part way up this hill.

Now the goods are being brought ashore,—bales, boxes, farming-tools. And there is a cradle. They will need that to rock little Peregrine White in. A baby has been born on the passage, whom they named “Peregrine,” because he was born during their _peregrinations_, or travels.

More goods are landed, such as beds, bedding, dinner-pots, dishes, pewter platters, spinning-wheels; and the nineteen families go to house-keeping, and _begin New England_.

What will they eat, I wonder. Why, some catch fish; some dig clams; others hunt. There comes a hunting-party, which brings, among other game, an eagle. Will they really eat it?—eat the “American eagle”! Yes, they do, and declare that it tastes “very much like a sheep.” But it was not the “American eagle” then.

Soon to these nineteen families come sickness and death. In December, six people die; in January, eight; in February, seventeen; in March, thirteen. Scarcely half remain. They bury their dead with bitter tears, but raise no stones above them. A crop of corn is sown over the graves, that the Indians may not know how few are left alive.

And, now that spring has come, “The Mayflower” must go back to England. Will none return by this only chance? Is there not even one feeble woman who would rather go home and live an easy life? No. For freedom’s sake they came, and for freedom’s sake they will remain. Not one goes back in “The Mayflower.”

They climb the hill, this very hill, and watch her as she sails away,—this very hill! I see them standing around me; see their pale faces; see eyes, dim with tears, following each turn of the ship. Now she is but a speck: now she is gone, and they are left alone. Behind them stretches the wilderness, away, and away, and away, across the continent; before them, three thousand miles of ocean. Slowly and sadly they descend the hill to that cluster of huts, and the life of toil goes on.

And now I will use my real eyes, and go down to view the town,—a quaint old town, with narrow, crooked streets, yet quite a populous old town, numbering its seven or eight thousand. The Indians used to hold their feasts upon that hill at the right; and clam-shells are still to be found buried in the soil upon its western side. At the foot of this hill runs Town Brook, where Gov. Carver made a treaty with the Indian chief Massasoit. Massasoit came down the hill with a train of sixty Indians, but crossed the brook with only twenty. They were nearly naked, painted, oiled, and adorned with beads, feathers, and fox-tails. Capt. Miles Standish with a few of his men marched them into a hut, where were placed “a green rug, and some cushions which served as thrones.” The governor then marched in to the music of drums and trumpets. He kissed Massasoit, and Massasoit kissed him. The Indians “marvelled much at the trumpet.”

Now I walk down into that street which was first laid out, and divided into lots for the nineteen families. It is a short street, leading to the sea; and on the right, at the lower end, may be seen the site of the first house. On the left is the hill upon which the Pilgrims made that early graveyard, planting it over with corn. It was then a cliff overhanging the sea: now a street runs along at its foot, on the outer side of which are wharves and storehouses. I am glad that these last are by no means in good repair; glad that, standing near the Rock, they have the grace to look old and gray and weather-beaten.

Farther and farther on I go. Soon shall my longing eyes behold that sacred Rock “where first they trod.” Ah, how many times have I fancied myself sitting upon its top, gazing off with my other pair—my dream eyes—at “The Mayflower,” watching the coming of the crowded boat, almost reaching out my hand to the fair Mary Chilton!

But where is it? I must be near the spot; but where is the _Rock_? Here comes a boy. “My young friend, can you show me the way to the Rock?” Boy points to a lofty stone canopy. “Is it possible?” I exclaim: “all that hewn out of Forefathers’ Rock?” Boy smiles, takes me under the canopy, and points to a square hole cut in the platform. “There ’tis: Forefathers’ Rock’s ’most all underground.” I look down at the enclosed rocky surface, less than two feet square; then with a sigh stagger against the nearest granite column. “Sick?” boy asks. “Oh, no! only a fall—down from a _rock_. The one in my mind was so high!”—“’Nother piece of it out at Pilgrim Hall,” boy remarks.

I inquire my way to that Pilgrim Hall. Here it is; and here, right in front, lies the precious fragment, surrounded by an iron fence, and marked in great black letters “1620.”

Now I am going into the hall to see the Pilgrim relics, some of which were brought over in “The Mayflower.”

On the wall of the ante-room hangs Lora Standish’s sampler, wrought in silks of divers colors, bright enough two hundred and fifty years ago, no doubt, though, alas! all faded now. Using again my _dream eyes_, I behold the fair young girl, intent on learning “marking-stitch,” bending over the canvas, counting the threads, winding bright silks; her cheeks as bright as they. Little thinks she how many shall come centuries after to view her work. Underneath the alphabet are stitched these lines, which with my real eyes I read:—

“Lora Standish is my name.
Lord, guide my hart, that I may doe thy will;
Also fill my hands with such convenient skill
As may conduce to virtue void of shame;
And I will give the glory to thy name.”

In this same ante-room I find the two famous old arm-chairs that came over in “The Mayflower,” one of which belonged to Elder Brewster, and the other to Gov. Carver.

This ante-room on the right contains an ancient spinning-wheel, also some bones and a kettle dug from an Indian grave. The kettle was found placed over the Indian’s head. Here, too, are many very old books.

Now I enter the large hall, sit for half an hour before an immense painting,—of the Landing,—and am shown two large cases with glass doors. In one of these is a great round-bottomed iron dinner-pot, once belonging to Miles Standish. The handle, which has a hinge in its centre, lies inside. Using my other pair, my dream eyes, I see this big pot hanging over a big blazing fire, pretty Lora tending it; while the gallant captain stands near, polishing his sword. To guess what is cooking in the pot I get this hint from an old ballad of those times:—

“For pottage and puddings and custards and pies
Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies.
We have pumpkin at morning, and pumpkin at noon:
If it was not for pumpkin, we should be undoon.”

And as for what they drank with their dinner,—

“If barley be wanting to make into malt,
We must be contented, and think it no fault;
For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips
Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips.”

The captain was polishing his sword, I said; and here it lies inside. Need enough it has of polish now! And here is one of his great pewter plates. Poor Lora Standish, with a pile of those to wash and to wipe and to scour!

Whose spoon? “Elder Brewster’s,” the label says,—a dark iron spoon with a rounded bowl (a bit nipped off the edge) and a short handle. A spoon suggests “chowder;” and no doubt this one often carried that delicious food to the lips of the elder: for what says the ballad?—

“If we’ve a mind for a delicate dish,
We go to the clam-bank, and there we catch fish.”

And, speaking of spoons, they used stout forks in those days. Here is one a foot long, with a short handle, and two prongs very wide apart,—certainly not made to eat peas with!

That inlaid cabinet on the upper shelf must have been a pretty thing in its day. It belonged to Peregrine White, and came to him, so the label says, from his mother,—just as likely as not a present to her from Mr. White in their courting-days, and used to keep his love-letters in: who knows? With my _other pair_ I can see the rosy English girl sitting alone by her cabinet. Its little drawers of letters are open, and with a smile and a blush she reads over the old ones while awaiting the new. I wonder if any fortune-teller ever told her that she would sail over the seas to dwell in a wilderness, and that she would be the first New-England mother,—the first bride too; for, after Mr. White’s death, she married Mr. Edward Winslow, the third governor; and their wedding was the first one in the colony. Yonder, among other portraits, hangs that of Mr. Winslow. On the top of this relic-case is a flaxen wig worn by one of the Winslow family, and underneath it is Mr. White’s ivory-headed cane.

What is this sealed up in a bottle? _Apple-preserve_, made from the apples of a tree which Peregrine White planted. Think of _apple-preserve_ keeping so long!

On one of these shelves inside I see dingy old Bibles; also the spectacles with which they were read, looking as if they could almost see without any eyes behind them. There is an ancient Dutch Bible, with brass studs and clasps, and an English one, open at the titlepage, “_Imprinted at London by Robert Barker, printer to the King’s most excellent Majestie._”

And—is it possible? can this really be? yes, there it is in black and white—_John Alden’s Bible_! O John! you young rogue, I’ve read in a poem what _you_ did!—made love to Priscilla Mullins, when Capt. Miles Standish was going to ask her to be his second wife, and sent you to do the errand for him. Naughty, naughty youth! But Priscilla knew pretty well the feelings of your heart, John, and knew very well the feelings of her own, or she would never have dared to ask that question, so famous in story, “_Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?_” Mr. Longfellow has told us all about your wedding; and how, when taking home the bride,

“Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,
Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of his master,
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in his nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and the heat of
the noonday.”

Little Mehitable Winslow’s shoes may also be seen here,—stiff, clumsy, black, cunning, peaked things they are, with their turned-up toes; likewise old pocket-books, dishes, a spur, a gourd-shell, a lock taken from the house of Miles Standish, and various articles besides.

Cross over now to the other case. What little ship is that on top? Ah! a model of “The Mayflower.” I am glad to see a model of “The Mayflower.” By no means a clipper ship was she.

This case contains mostly Indian relics, such as tomahawks, kettles, mortars, pestles, axes, all made of stone; also a string of “wampum,” or Indian money, which is simply shells, polished and rounded. And here, of all things in the world! is an Indian doll, made of—I don’t know what; perhaps hardened clay. It is a clumsy-looking thing for a toy. I see plenty of Indian arrows, and up there on the highest shelf a sort of helmet labelled _King Philip’s cap_. The genuineness of this relic is doubted. King Philip was a famous Indian warrior, who gave the whites a deal of trouble, until at last Col. Church caught him in a swamp. Col. Church was a mighty man to catch Indians. He used to complain, though, that they sometimes slipped out of his hands, because, on account of their going nearly naked, “_there was nothing to hold on by but their hair_.” King Philip was caught at last, though, by this valiant Col. Church; and, if anybody doesn’t believe it, why here is his own pocket-book, marked “_Col. Benjamin Church_;” and here is the very gun-barrel of his gun.

Now one last look, and then for a walk to find those “sweet springs of water” and “little running brooks” on account of which the Pilgrims settled in this spot. Good-by, precious relics! and good-by, you old arm-chairs wherein sat those men of blessed memory!

“Their greeting very soft,
Good-morrow very kind:
How sweet it sounded oft,
Before we were refined!
Humility their care,
Their failings very few.
My heart, how kind their manners were
When this old chair was new!”

DRAMAS AND DIALOGUES.

THE GYPSIES.-A MAY-DAY DRAMA.

CHARACTERS.

LADY CAROLINE. FLORA, _little daughter of_ LADY CAROLINE. MARGERY, _her maid, an elderly person_. ELSIE, _a young girl in attendance upon_ FLORA. TRAMP, _dressed as an old gypsy-man_. TRAMP’S WIFE, _dressed as an old gypsy-woman_. TRAMP’S DAUGHTER PEG, _dressed as a gypsy-girl_. TOMKINS, _a showman_. A BLIND FIDDLER, _old and gray_. GIRLS _and_ BOYS, _who dance the May-dance, and sing May-songs_.

SCENE I.—LADY C. _reclining in arm-chair. Enter_ MARGERY _with vase of flowers_.

LADY C. How beautiful, Margery! Did little Flora help you gather them?

MARGERY. Yes, my lady. Miss Flora—why, Miss Flora, she do frisk about so, pulls Elsie here, and then there,—“Now this flower, Elsie!” and “Now this nice one, Elsie!” That be a most wonderful child, my lady: she be playful like a kitten, and gentle, too, like a pet lamb.

LADY C. (_anxiously_). Ah! already I regret having given her permission to go with Elsie to the green. But she longed so to see the May-dances!

MARGERY. Oh, never fear, my lady! There isn’t anywhere a faithfuller little maid than Elsie: she will not let Miss Flora out of her sight. But nobody could wish Miss Flora out of sight, she is such a little angel. Indeed and in truth, my lady, in all the world can’t be found a child sweet-tempered like her.

LADY C. Oh, do not call her an angel, good Margery! call her a lamb or a kitten, if you will, or even a squirrel, but never an angel.

(_Children’s voices outside. Enter_ FLORA, _singing and skipping_. ELSIE _follows quietly_.)

FLORA. O mamma! see her wreaths and garlands, and the white dress she has on for the May-day dances! Doesn’t she look lovely, mamma?—oh, just as lovely as—oh, I don’t know!

LADY C. (_smiling_). Indeed she does, my dear. Elsie, do all the lassies wear white?

ELSIE. Yes, my lady, white, with right gay garlands.

FLORA. Good-by, mamma: it is time to go now. (_Goes to her mother._)

LADY C. O Elsie! will you take good care? She never went far from me before. I shall be very anxious!

ELSIE. Yes, indeed, my lady, I will take great care.

FLORA. And I will stay with Elsie, and be so good!—oh, just as good as—oh, you can’t think!

(_A company of singers heard outside, as if passing at a distance._)

FLORA (_skipping, and clapping hands_). Oh, hark, mamma! do hark to the May-songs! Come, Elsie, quick! Good-by, mamma!

LADY C. (_embracing her_). Good-by, darling! good-by!

[_Exit_ F. _and_ E.

MARGERY. I must see to their lunch-baskets.

[_Exit_ MARGERY. _Curtain falls._

SCENE II.—_Pretended gypsies seated in a tent, or on the
ground._ OLD WOMAN _counting over silver_, OLD MAN _looking on.
He is dressed in old, ill-fitting clothes._ WOMAN _has a black
handkerchief wound about her head, shabby dress, blue stockings,
and something bright around her neck_.

MAN. Wal, old Beauty Spot, how many d’ye count?

WOMAN. Eight spoons, six forks, five thimbles, one cup.

MAN. Is that all we’ve took on this beat?

WOMAN. Not by somethin’! Look ye here, dad! (_Holds up a ladle._)

MAN (_delighted_). Now you be the beater! (_Rubs his hands._) Let’s take a look. (_Examines it._) Real, is’t? But where’s Peg?

WOMAN. Off on her tramps about the grand house yonder. Owner’s away: nobody left but my lady and servants. Never a better time, daddy.

MAN. Nor a better day. Tompkins will set up his show tent. Everybody stirring. Pockets to pick, fortunes to tell!

WOMAN (_rubbing her hands_). Lads and lassies dancing on the green, old uns looking on, nobody taking care of the spoons’n the house.

MAN (_slapping her on the shoulder_). We’re in luck, old woman,—in luck! (_Enter_ PEG, _dressed in red bodice, black skirt, red stockings, light blue handkerchief on her head, pinned under her chin._) Here comes Peg, now. Wal, my Nimble Fingers, any game to-day?

PEG (_takes a few articles from her pocket_). Not much now, dad, but some a-coming, if you an’ her (_points to_ WOMAN) be up to it.

MAN (_earnestly_). What’s that?

PEG. Oh! a nice little job.

MAN _and_ WOMAN (_earnestly_). Speak out, gal.

PEG. Wal, you see I walked in through the park, and along by the hedge-row, and into the kitchen-garden, thinkin’ to go boldly in at the back-door, as you told me, to ask for cold bits.

BOTH (_bending eagerly forward_). Yes.

PEG. But jest when I got my mouth open to say, “Charity for my poor sick mother”—

BOTH. Wal?

PEG. Why, a servant ordered me off.

MAN. An’ what then?