Chapter VI (1)

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill,
To listening night when mirth is o’er:
I, heedless of the warning still,
Believe, to be deceived once more!
E. F. E.

THE CHILD’S BEST FRIEND.

Nay, start not so, nor turn thy head away,
Fair infant, from thy comrade’s boisterous play;
Thy fond and faithful friend! thy guard by night.
Thy toy by day! thy playmate and delight!
Oh! may’st thou never—through the changeful years
Which pass thou must in this dark vale of tears—
Oh! may’st thou never find a friend less true,
Whose love nor time nor distance may subdue—
Nor cruelty estrange, nor falsehood shake!
Who, treat him as thou may’st, for thy dear sake
Fearless will leap where swiftest currents flow—
Fearless will strive against the fiercest foe!
Will bear all worst extremes of earthly ill,
Famine, and weariness, and wintry chill!
Who, though thine all, on this side heaven, were lost—
Thy friends proved false, thy fortunes ocean-tost—
Thy nearest kinsmen coldly turned aside—
Would love thy want, even as he loved thy pride—
Would lick thy hand, though it had nought to give,
Nor leave thy poverty with kings to live! Q.

NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

He sat with haughty men about his throne,
Himself the greatest king. The monarchy
That he held o’er the nations was his own.
It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye—
It was the monarchy of soul, that beamed
From every chiseled feature—till command,
With a strange power upon the spirit, seemed
To speak as with a voice from loftier land;
And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown,
To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!

It was a golden crown—its iron band
The brows had girdled of a race of kings;
He bore it to his own with his white hand,
As some ringed bauble of those weary things
Great hearts despise—e’en when they spell the world
With their poor lustre. As he lifted it,
His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,
And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—
“GOD _gave it me. Beware who touches_,” fell
On the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!

It had been lifted to the warrior head
Of the whole line of Lombardy; and now
It towered above the marbles of the dead
Upon the unchanging paleness of a brow
That frowned on worlds in mastery. It shone
With sapphire and with emerald without,
In bravery of its radiance alone:
Within that iron band went dark about,
Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuries
Had fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.

And how tradition gathered as you gazed!
What relic of such holiness has man
Beheld, with spirit silenced and amazed,
Since awful story of the past began!
It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nail
Of the red Cross on Calvary, for kings
Was fashioned thus! And as we read the tale
E’en now, some memory like an echo rings
Thro’ the astonished heart, until we feel
A reverence with the mystery about us steal!

Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He,
On whose aspiring brow it sat, had felt
And fought the spirits of his Destiny!
Then had a palsied world beheld him melt
In tears for mortals, where he strode in blood,
And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier path
Had been above the dashing of that flood
That broke about the highway of his wrath,
And Glory, like an angel, beckoned on
To summits nobler than the proudest that he won!

O, had he felt that that which then did bind
His beating temples with its iron band,
Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind,
That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand;
Had vision wafted him to those dim years,
When Christ was bowing to the Agony,
And pouring upon Man his farewell tears,
Ere His triumphal parting for the sky—
What then had been the story of thine eye,
Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”

Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,
In the mad morning of his opening days,
And his best music was the voice of Fame,
Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—
How changed along the ice-path of that land,
The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,
Had that stern spirit strode—the loud command
Sunk to that suasion that makes captive men,
By its great moral harmony, and pours
New light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!

Then—ere the earthquake summons of red War
Had lured him to that passion-field, where Man,
Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for,
Ended in blackness what in blood began—
Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer,
From citadel to wilderness, his way
Had lain through paths of Solitude and Care.
The forest midnight and the glare of day—
Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue,
The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!

Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust—
And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet—
Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst,
And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat!
Then had the gilded helm and warrior steed
Been banished, as the necromance of dreams—
The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed,
Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems!
Then had the world seen rest—and with its years
Virtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!

Then had that mighty creature, that no prayer
Could stay upon his mountain-march to win
All that he dreamt of—for no mercy there
Would breathe her whisper mid the tramp and din
Of shaking armies—with a reverence, then,
Had he looked up to God, and asked of Heaven
What in his broad companionship with Men,
Of loftier Duty with his Power was given—
What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies,
All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!

THE BARLOW KNIFE.

BY ROBERT JONATHAN.

There was one event of my boyish days which is the cause of such amusing reminiscence in my later years, that I cannot refrain, dear reader, from making you acquainted with it. It happened upon a time, after I had worn out my first frock coat, and got tired of trundling hoops and wagons, and drawing sleds, that I felt, as many boys do, an inordinate desire to experience the comforts of _whittling_; but I had no knife—always excepting an old _case-knife_ which mother used to lend me. But then, this was not _the thing_; for, besides being inconvenient, I could not _shut it up_, and put it in my pocket, and walk about with the proud consciousness that it was _my own_—not _borrowed_ from any one, but MINE—sacred to _my_ individual use and behoof. However, believing that my youthful happiness depended upon the gratification of this desire, I treated with mother to negotiate with father upon the subject of procuring me a knife. This was on a Saturday afternoon in the month of July. Mother told me that, if I would be a good boy, and _keep_ that night and the next day (Sunday) as I ought, and go to school every day, and study hard, and mind the schoolmistress, and divers other conditions—to all of which I eagerly consented without considering the possibility of fulfilling them—on these conditions, I say, she, on her part, promised to ask father to give me a _knife_. Accordingly, in pursuance of our stipulations, I kept Saturday night very well—went to bed early—went to sleep, and straightway to dreaming of the glorious fruition of all my hopes. I dreamed that I had a new knife—that I “_sharpened it up_” until it would _cut a hair_—that I had a soft piece of seasoned white pine—that, in fact, I was _whittling_! And how inexpressible was the delight which I experienced! Surely moral philosophers should give mankind—at least the _boy_ part of it—credit for a new and additional sense, which they should term _Whittleation_, and upon which they should base a new science and denominate it _Whittleology_. For what natural sensation is there which can be compared with that which is experienced while drawing the keen-edged blade through the delicate fibres of some soft, well-seasoned wood? So far as my boyish experience extends, there is no enjoyment so deep, so soothing, and so satisfactory as that derived from _whittling_; whether it be upon a shingle or a school-bench—upon the squire’s picket-fence or the village sign-post. But to my dream. All things went on charmingly until an unfortunate turn of my shingle brought my knife-blade in contact with one of my fingers, and the pain of the wound thus inflicted, dispelled the delightful vision which had enthralled me. And so impatient was I to have Monday morning come round, that I could sleep no more that night, and, although it was but an hour before daybreak, still it appeared to me that weeks were crowded into that short period, while I was waiting and watching for the blessed dawn of the Sabbath. Finally, daylight appeared; and with its earliest dawn I arose and began to whistle “Heigh Betty Martin,” in great glee; but on recollection of my treaty with mother, I ceased whistling and walked down into the sitting-room with all the assumed gravity of a Friar Tuck, and with a face long as a grape-vine, and sombre as a dying cypress. I attended church all day, and did not take my eyes off the minister, except during prayers; but sat up in the pew straight as a new pin, the big drops, (not _tear_ drops, however,) following each other down my cheeks and neck at stated intervals, much as though a frozen squash was _thawing_ on my head. After returning from church I took up my catechism, and when I thought mother’s eyes were on me, my own were on the book; but when she was out of the room I amused my little brother Dick, by telling him in a whisper sufficiently loud to be heard over all the room, that

“In Adam’s fall
We made stone-wall,
But ever _sense_
We’ve made brush-fence.”

And

“By Washing_ton_
Great deeds were done
When he did run
With his big gun
’Gainst the Hes_shun_,” etc. etc.

But as mother did not hear me, my youthful conscience was perfectly at ease—considering, of course, that there was no wrong done when there was no knowledge, on her part, of any transgression.

At length, after many weary hours, _sun-down_ was proclaimed through the house by my little sister Mary, who had been watching its approach, for an hour or more, from one of the garret windows. I then made noise enough to remunerate me for keeping half a score of Sabbaths. I mounted my Eclipse broomstick with a determination to run him on the course for the last time, previous to giving up the pleasures of the chase for the quiet comforts of _whittling_. And, indeed, it _was_ the last time; for, in the last quarter of the third heat, in the exuberance of my spirits I reared up, and, my foot slipping, I came with such force on to my wayworn charger that I broke him down, and into two pieces besides; and, in addition, I got a severe thump on my cranium, which sent me weeping to bed, where I slept quietly until Monday morning. On that morning I was, of course, in very good spirits, and did not fail to give mother a gentle hint touching her part of the contract, by taking _particular pains_ to have her _accidentally_ discover that the handle to the clothes-pounder had come out, and by _carelessly_ observing, in a very _emphatic_ manner, that _if_ I had a penknife, I would make a wedge and fasten in the pounder handle, etc. However, that day and the following night were doomed to be hours of anxious suspense to me—hope and fear holding alternate sway in my excited breast. But words have not power to express the fulness of my joy when, after breakfast on Tuesday morning, father called me to him, and, taking a new knife from his pocket, placed me on his knee, after which he gave me several sections of good advice and kind admonitions, to which I listened with all the attention bestowed by a barn upon a whirlwind, so deeply was I engaged in scrutinizing the new object of my desire.

When father had finished his lecture, it was _school-time_; so, after _greasing_ the spring of my new knife, grasping it firmly in my right hand, and thrusting said hand into my pantaloons pocket, I started for school, anticipating a “glorious triumph” in exhibiting my newly-acquired property to my less fortunate playmates. But, just as I stepped on to the school-house green, the schoolmistress _rattled the window_ and called the children in; and thus my thrilling hopes were prematurely blighted. Still firmly holding my knife in my pocket as I entered the school-house, I took my seat on the “_big bench_” where I usually sat, and after the school operations had fairly commenced, I turned round to the desk with my back to the mistress and my book before me. I then took out my new knife for the purpose of examining it more particularly than I had hitherto done. It was of that kind commonly called _Barlow_ knives, one half of the handle being of polished iron and the other half of bone; the blade about four inches long, half an inch wide near the handle, and tapering to a point. Bill Williams, who sat next to me, soon got a glimpse at it, and we soon got _whispering_ about it; and the consequence was, we both got shut up in the _dungeon_, and were kept there until noon. Great was my joy during the _noon-spell_ in exhibiting my new treasure; and many were the congratulations which I received upon the pleasure of possessing it. In the afternoon, not profiting at all by my morning’s experience, I took it out in school-time and tried its shaving powers by cutting the bench; which the schoolmistress happening to discover, she took it away from me, gave me a feruling, kept me half an hour after school was out; then, after giving me a long lecture, and at the end of it my knife, she sent me home. There I had a fine opportunity to indulge my whittling propensities during the whole evening; but finding my knife rather dull, I stole into the dining-room and stole out of a drawer in the sideboard my father’s razor-hone, which I took out under the wood-house and there gave my knife a grand rubbing. Unfortunately for me, however, the more I sharpened it the duller it grew, and the more it spoiled my father’s hone; for, on bringing this latter to the light, I found it was a good deal worn and very much scratched. Here was a new difficulty; a good scolding, and perhaps a “_dressing_,” for spoiling a nice razor-hone. However, I put it slyly back into the drawer and determined to say nothing about it, knowing that father would discover it the next time he shaved himself; at which time I should endeavor—accidentally, of course—to be _absent_.

I next tried to sharpen my knife upon a scythe-stone; but, as Dan O’Rourke would say, “the more I tried to give it an edge, the more it would ‘not take one,’” until, finally, from desperate necessity, I came to the grievous conclusion that my knife was good for nothing. Consequent upon this conclusion, was a determination to get rid of it as soon as possible. But, alas! here was only the beginning of my sorrows, as the sequel will show.

My first attempt was to _swop_ it away; but as none of the boys had such a knife as I wanted, this could not be done. I next called my younger brother Dick to me, and asked him if he did not want a _present_? He, of course, answered in the affirmative. Thereupon, after showing him my knife, how well it was _sharpened up_, etc., and making him promise to carry my books to and from the school-house during the remainder of the summer, I made him a _present_ of the knife. He was exceedingly delighted with this acquisition to his personal property, and immediately ran into the yard to find something to whittle. I looked through the window to watch his success. He first picked up a decayed mullen stalk, and attempted to cut off the end; but, instead of _cutting_ it off, the pressure of his knife _broke_ it off close by his hand. He next picked up the end of an ox-goad, and tugged away at it, turning his head sidewise, and twisting his tongue and mouth into all manner of shapes, but _not a shaving could he raise_! He then found a piece of pine shingle, which he succeeded in splitting lengthwise, but could neither _sharpen_ nor _round_ it. Just then, two of his playmates coming along with a ball, Dick put his knife into his pocket, and went to join them in a game of “_one-old-cat_.” I thought to myself, as I was almost bursting with laughter, “I was _very_ fortunate in getting rid of _that_ knife at any rate.” On the following morning, father went to get his shaving apparatus, and, of course, discovered his ruined hone. However, as soon as I saw him start for the sideboard drawer, I started for the wood-house chamber, where I lay concealed until school-time. I went to school with the determination not to go home at noon, and supposed that by night the hone business would all be got along with. But my hopes were again doomed to disappointment; for when father came home in the evening, he asked me if I had “been using his hone?” Now, as I had been taught that, let consequences be what they might, I must never tell a _lie_; true to _such_ instructions, I promptly answered—“Yes, sir.” “For what purpose?” he inquired. “To sharpen my knife,” I answered. “Well,” said he, “as you are so fond of sharpening knives, go get the case-knife your mother lends you, and sharpen that.” Accordingly, I got the case-knife, and he got the hone, and I went to _honing_, and he went to reading the newspapers. Now, the case-knife was a good deal like my Barlow knife; the more you _sharpened_ it, the _duller_ it grew. After rubbing it about half an hour, being somewhat tired, I took it to father, and told him “it would not come sharp.” “Oh, well,” said he, “you have not honed it long enough; it is a knife, and, of course, can be sharpened. Try it again.” So at it I went once more; and, after rubbing it until my mouth was dry as a cotton-bag, and my arm almost exhausted, I took it again to father, and, with tears in my eyes, told him “it would _not be sharpened_.” “Well, my son,” said he, “when I questioned you about the hone, you promptly told me the truth; for this I commend you, and I have made you hone the case-knife as a punishment for spoiling my hone. Now the next time you want a razor-hone to sharpen a Barlow knife upon, you must ask for it.” I made divers promises on the subject, and fully resolved, in my own mind, that I never would use his hone again without permission.

On the following Sunday morning I put on my best suit to attend church; and, after I had got down into the parlor, I unconsciously thrust my hand into my coat pocket, and great was my surprise when I drew from it my _Barlow knife_. “Dick,” said I, “did you put _your_ knife into my pocket?” “That’s not _my_ knife,” said Dick. “Don’t you want it?” I asked. “No!” he answered. “Why not?” I inquired. “Because it will not _cut any_,” rejoined Dick; “and I shall not carry your books this summer for _such_ a knife as that,” and thereupon he hopped out of the room. The next day, while up in the orchard, back of the school-house, I contrived to have it slip out of my pocket, and satisfied my conscience by telling myself that I had lost it. More than a week had I passed in the enjoyment of this quiet, pleasing consciousness of having lost my knife, when, one morning as I was going to school, Bill Williams ran up to me, saying, “Bob, here’s your knife: I found it under the big sweet apple-tree.” “Botheration take the knife,” I thought, as I put it into my pocket. After school was out at night, I went up the road some distance from the school-house, to a _sand-pit_, from which the neighbors occasionally got a load of _scrubbing-sand_. Here I dug a hole as deep as I could, threw in my knife, buried it up, and went away, rejoicing in the belief that I should never see it again.

About two weeks after this, Peleg Bunce, my father’s hired man, was sent, by mother, to get a load of scrubbing-sand; and when I came home from school Peleg said to me, “Robert, here’s your knife,” at the same time reaching it to me. “My knife!” I exclaimed, in a manner and with feelings compounded of sanity and insanity. “_Divil_ burn the knife,” I whispered to myself, not wishing to speak a bad word distinctly. Peleg found it in the sand-pit; and he knew it was mine, for he once borrowed it of me to make a _bow-pin_ for old _Brin_—but returned it, of course, without accomplishing his object. Once more I put it in my pocket, and began to reflect how I should ever get entirely rid of it. At last, a plan occurred to me, which I conceived to be faultless. There was a _pond_ near my father’s house, at the outlet of which stood a large blast furnace. I determined to _drown_ my knife. Accordingly, lest its own weight should not be sufficient to keep it at the bottom, and to make “assurance doubly sure,” I got from the barn a piece of halter with which I tied a pretty good sized stone to my knife, and threw it into the furnace-pond. And great was my joy to see it turn and turn around until it sank out of my sight. Soon as it had fairly disappeared, I fetched a heavy sigh of mingled joy and suspense—then turned home with a light and happy heart. Sweet was my rest that night, and pleasant were my dreams. Week after week passed away, and my old knife likewise passed into oblivion.

One bright and beautiful morning in October, old Russell Case and his two sons came down from the mountain on which they lived, to fish in the pond; and as they were notorious fishermen, they generally had quite a company of boys to watch their operations. As it was not yet school-time, Bill Williams and myself went to see them draw their seine. They took a good sweep into the pond with their boat, then came on shore and commenced hauling in. We were all anxiously watching for the fish, and nearly the whole of them had been emptied on the beach, when Bill Williams exclaimed, “Why, Bob, _there’s your knife_!” And sure enough, on hauling in the last joint of the seine, what should be hanging to it but my knife with the string and stone attached to it! Perfectly astounded at this discovery, I could almost have prayed that the waters might rise and overwhelm seine, fishermen and all! However, the thing was easily explained; for the piece of halter which I used happened to have been made of _hemp_, and the _knife_ not being as heavy as the string, while the stone lay on the bottom, _that_ was elevated some inches from it, and so the fishermen caught it.

Once more, with a heavy heart, I put that old knife in my pocket. A deep feeling of disappointment and melancholy took possession of my mind, and long and seriously did I ponder upon the best means of ridding myself of this tantalizing treasure. In vain had I endeavored to _give it away_—in vain, to lose it—in vain, to drown it. Light, at last, seemed to dawn through the gloom that had gathered upon me, and my resolution was soon taken. I repaired one evening to the furnace—went into the top-house, and there waited until they began to put in their hourly supply of coal and ore. I then thrust my knife into the box of ore which I thought the _filler_ would put in first. I did not wish to throw it directly into the top myself, for this would seem like doing an evil deed, and such a one I did not wish to do. Strongly and quickly did my heart beat as I watched the baskets of coal disappear; and, finally, my whole frame shook with agitation when I saw the filler take the box of ore which contained my knife, and toss its contents into the furnace! A long-drawn sigh gave vent to the conflicting emotions which had agitated my mind, and I turned homeward with a feeling of deep, almost overwhelming satisfaction and delight, that my eyes had certainly beheld, for the last time, my old BARLOW KNIFE!

GERTRUDE.

BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,

STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.

List to the passers by!
They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,
To scenes of pleasure. To the thronged _soirée_,
The brilliant party, or the festive dance,
The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet.
In each will wand’ring glances oft be turned
In search of her, the gifted, lovely, young,
And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night.
Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7]
On which her brow reposes? Th’ other rests
Upon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheet
Was filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves;
For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now!
Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not like
A being of the earth. We almost feel
’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that face
Where thought, emotion, beauty, love, all strive
For the expression.
Hark! she touches now
The strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice,
Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—

“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!
Yet I know he is constant and true,
Still my path is illumed by love’s ray,
Which though absent, brings him to my view.
Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beam
Which his presence flings over me still;
When with Ernest, why should I not deem
That the world contains nothing of ill?

“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!
Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear.
Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay,
And e’en happiness linger to hear.
When with Ernest, why should I not lose
All thoughts of the world and its hum?
And his smile above fame ever choose?
He will come! he will come! he will come!”

Her song is done!
Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped.
It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.

SODUS BAY.

Calm in thy pure and summer beauty yet,
As when of old my childhood’s glances met
This bright expanse, fair bay! I see thee still—
The laughing ripple’s curl, the wood-crowned hill,
The deep green shore rising in graceful sweep,
The wide smooth waters in their sun-bright sleep,
Scorning the change wrought by each passing year,
In loveliness unfading, still are here.
Lovely thou art, sweet bay!—when first the beam
Of morning glances on the silvery stream
Which seeks thy bosom—when the south winds break
Thy water’s glassy slumber, and awake
A thousand sparkling eddies—when the sky
At noon gleams blue and distant from on high—
When winds are hushed in peace, the flagging sail
Wooing in vain from Heaven the wished-for gale—
Or at bright eve, when the rich sunset’s pride
Has gemmed with shining gold their glancing tide—
No fairer spot, I ween, the radiant sun
In his broad path of light has looked upon;
And the pale moon in all her midnight round
No place of holier loveliness has found.
Nature is here in wildness. Yonder isles,
Upon whose wooded verge the sunlight smiles
To meet the glittering wave, know scarce a tread,
Save of the lonely huntsman. Yet ’tis said,
One hero on their shore has found a grave.
He died in fight the death that fits the brave,
And sleeps unheeded there:—the mound which swells
So greenly near, his place of burial tells.
Peaceful thou art—the tempests wild that sweep
The lake, are powerless to disturb thy sleep.
Thou hear’st the voices of thy parent main,
Speaking in thunders;—but their warning strain
Wakes no stern echo here—in safety still
The fisherman may guide his bark at will,
And smile to hear the billows’ angry roar,
Chafing in rage upon the neighboring shore.
Farewell! I found, and leave thee, calm and bright,
And changeless still!—and thus, when starless night
Has closed on eyes which loved to look on thee,
Wilt thou smile on—then, too, as quietly
Yon towering banks will look into thy face
On their unbroken shade. Thou in the embrace
Of this wide shore as sweetly shalt repose—
As brightly gleam at evening’s fervid close.
Thou hast no part in fleeting years that tell
Of human ills! My native shore—farewell!
E. F. E.

MARY WALLACE.

A JUVENILE STORY.

“Now for a story!” said Henry Jackson, as he put the last piece to a dissected map, which lay on the table before him; “Grandmother, do you remember you promised to give us one of your best to-night, if I could put this new map together; and see, here it is, every bit in its place—all right!”

“Not quite so fast,” said George Gray, an intelligent youth of fourteen, who, with his sister Ann, was spending Christmas-week with his cousins in town; “not quite so fast, Henry; see, here is a part of the Hudson spliced on to the Connecticut; and New York and New Haven have fairly changed places!”

“What of that!” returned Henry, biting his lips with vexation, as he saw his mistake; “I don’t care for that!”

_Engraved by Cha^s. Phillips, New York, after a Picture by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, P.R.A._

_Simplicity._
]

“Never say you _don’t care_,” said the grandmother, laying her book and spectacles, at once, aside, “never allow yourself to say, I don’t care; for, besides being generally a falsehood, it always shows a bad disposition; and no good ever came of it.”

“But George needn’t feel so smart because he’s a little quicker and more forward than I am,” replied the boy. “I guess, if I lived out of town, I could learn to put dissected maps together, too; why he’s nothing to do, from morning till night, but to study out puzzles!”

“I think,” said Ann, with true womanly spirit taking the aggrieved side, “I think our George _ought_ to know something about it, for he was a whole evening, only last week, putting together the dissected picture uncle William gave me; and I am sure it plagued him just twice as much as this map has you, cousin Henry; but I do not think he meant to be unkind to you, either; and I don’t know why he should, you are always so kind to us: and I’m sure you’re full as forward, and quick to learn any thing as he is; and you know you are about my age, almost two years younger than George.”

“You are a good girl, cousin Ann—and I love you,” said Henry, wiping the tears from his brightening eyes; “you always have such a way to put one in good humor, and reconcile every thing. Now, George, give me your hand; I will acknowledge I was wrong in getting vexed with you, and speaking as I did, especially now you are visiting me; and I ought to do every thing to make your time pass pleasantly. I was wrong, too, in saying I did not care; for I _did_ care. Grandmother, I hope _you_ will forgive me?”

“With all my heart, my child,” said the good woman, folding her arms round the affectionate boy; “God grant you may always be as ready to acknowledge your faults!”

“And now brother is sorry for doing wrong, and has made it all up with cousin George, you _will_ tell us a story, won’t you, dear grandmother?” said Helen, a child of seven years, who was leaning over the arm of Mrs. Gray’s chair.

“And do tell one pitty long,” said little Mary, a lisping infant of three years, laying her curly head in her grandmother’s lap.

“Now that peace is restored, my children,” said Mrs. Gray, looking fondly upon each one of the little flock that gathered round her, “I will tell you a story of one from whom we are all descended.”

“Was her name Gray?” asked Ann, eagerly.

“Not at the period to which our story refers; though afterwards it became so.”

“We are in haste for you to begin,” said Henry, hurrying books, maps, and pictures, without any order, into a table drawer.

“Don’t be impatient, child—old folks never like to be hurried,” said Mrs. Gray; “and I’ve a good will not to tell you any story at all, just for huddling up your things in such a slovenly manner.”

“Forgive poor Henry once again,” said the good-natured Ann, “and I will put them all nice;” and she took the things all out of the drawer, and placed the books neatly in the book-case, and laid the maps and pictures into a portfolio; and when she had done she said, “Now, grandmother, are you not ready?”

“Not quite yet,” said Mrs. Gray, with an affectionate smile; “you, my dear Ann, are such a neat little girl, I’m sure you will be willing to wait till Sally has swept the hearth and replenished the fire.”

“Replenished is among my definitions,” said little Helen; “but I didn’t know that it had any thing to do with making a fire.”

“Making a fire!” repeated George; “didn’t I tell you only yesterday, that we cannot _make_ fire, but only kindle it?”

“Yes, you did tell me so, to be sure; but I didn’t believe you. I guess if you had been here the other night when the Universalist Chapel was burnt, you would think somebody could make a fire—and a pretty large one, too.”

“Can you tell me the meaning of the word replenish?” asked Mrs. Gray.

“Why, replenish means—it means—to fill up, I believe; but I don’t see as that has anything to do with fire, after all.”

“Why if we add wood to the fire, and so fill up, or nearly fill up, the fireplace, may it not be called replenishing? You commence the critic early, child,” said the grandmother; but she was far from being angry with little Helen for her remarks; “for it is right and proper for children to inquire, and understand, and learn all they can.”

“But, grandmother,” said George, “I have placed your chair in the warmest corner—the fire _is_ replenished, if Miss Helen will allow me to say so—the hearth is swept—Sally has got her knitting, and is going to sit down with us—and we are all ready, and impatient to hear you.”

“I wish father and mother would be out at a party every night,” said little Helen, as the circle of happy and inquisitive children took their respective seats, and drew around Mrs. Gray; “for you, dear grandmother, always sit with us when they are out; and so do brother, and cousin Ann, and George—and we have such happy times!”

The good lady drew the youngest child to her arms; and, taking the hand of Helen, who had drawn her little chair very close to her grandmother, thus began:

“It was a cold night in December, 1664. The winter wind was howling among the bare forest-trees, and whistling through the heavy and open casements of a few small houses, which stood in the midst of the wilderness, upon a spot then mostly known as the Plantations. It was Sabbath evening. The family belonging to one of the most comfortable looking houses rose up slowly from their usual evening devotions, and drew round a large and blazing fire. The snow and hail beat furiously against the one window of the room, and for some minutes no one spoke: and then they heard a low groan as of one in the agonies of death; and this was followed by a faint screech and a moan of distress.

“‘The Indians! the Indians!’ cried a boy about six years old, and he hid his little head in his mother’s lap.

“‘Nobody shall hurt my boy!’ said the father, patting his head, ‘nobody shall harm thee, child;’ and he rose up, and putting on a broad-brimmed hat turned up at the sides, and taking an iron-headed cane, he began to unfasten the door.

“‘Thou wilt not, Simon Gray,’ said the wife, laying a hand on his arm, ‘thou wilt not open our dwelling to the enemy?’

“‘Thy fears are natural, Rebecca,’ said the husband, turning with momentary hesitation, ‘for verily, hath the cunning enemy been as a snake in the grass to the Lord’s people.’

“‘Look forth from the window, first, then,’ said the wife; ‘hast thou lived so long in the wilderness and not learned that the wicked one is full of snares?’ But a succession of low groans, apparently near the house, overcame his fears; and hastily unfastening and throwing open the narrow door, he said, ‘Farewell, Rebecca—the arm of the Lord is forever with his children!’

“‘Forsake me not, Simon,’ said Mrs. Gray, lifting the little boy to her arms, ‘I will go with thee;’ but he had already passed the threshold and thrown open the gate that led from the little enclosure around their dwelling. He paused; listened again; and passed into the street. The cries were repeated, but not so loud or so frequently as they had been. He paused again and looked around, but still saw nothing but the thick falling snow, which beat so heavily as to obscure almost everything; besides, it was very dark.

“Who was it, grandmother?” whispered Helen, “who was it?”

“Hush, sister!” said Henry, “she was just going to tell.”

“Again,” resumed Mrs. Gray, “again he heard the same low cry; and just as his wife came up, he stumbled upon a human figure crouched at the foot of a very large snow-bank. It proved to be an Indian woman, almost perished with cold and hunger.

“‘The Lord be praised! and bless thee, Simon Gray!’ said Rebecca, as she assisted her husband to lift the poor creature from the earth; ‘the Lord be magnified!’

“‘Leave Namoina, take de baby!’ said the poor creature in broken English, and she pointed to a dark heap at a little distance; but at the instant William had reached the spot, and, as his mother came up, he uncovered the face of a sleeping infant. The little creature was wrapped in a thick covering of blankets, and was sleeping as peacefully amid the snow as if it was lying in its own mother’s bosom.

“Rebecca knelt beside the little one, and blessed God that she had been the instrument of saving its life. The falling snow, and the cold wind blowing upon the child’s face, awoke it; and as it opened its eyes it looked up in the face of Rebecca, who was kneeling beside it with a lantern in her hand, and smiled, and lifted up its little arms.

“‘The Lord has sent thee to me,’ said Mrs. Gray, while her heart was filled with tenderness. ‘The Lord has sent thee to me, to lie in my bosom and be unto me instead of my own little buried Rebecca!’

“The good man and his wife were not long in removing the poor Indian woman and the child to the house, and, for some time, the poor creature did not appear to know what was passing around her; but after having taken some hot drink she seemed to revive, and cried out, ‘Me baby! me flower!’ and she looked wildly round for the child. Mrs. Gray laid it on the mat beside her, and the little one sat up and twisted its little fingers in her wet black hair, and then nestled close to the Indian woman’s bosom till she slept. Mrs. Gray then carefully removed the child, and fed it with some warm milk. The poor little thing, as if conscious of her kindness, looked up in her face and softly repeated, ‘Mamma—mamma.’ The imperfect words went to the heart of Rebecca; and she again resolved that, as the Lord had cast the little stranger upon her protection, she would be unto it a mother.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gray hoped to learn something of the child when the Indian woman should be restored, but they were disappointed; for she arose at the dawn of day, and stealing softly to the bedside of Mrs. Gray, and taking the child from beside its new mother, she appeared about to carry it away; but Mrs. Gray, as she awoke, observing her, cried out, ‘Give me back the babe! give her to me!’

“The Indian woman fixed her piercing black eyes upon the face of Rebecca for several minutes, then closing them, she appeared to be reasoning with herself; for, upon lifting them again, she said, solemnly, ‘The God of the white man calleth for his child. The rose cannot bloom in the desert. The lily springeth not in the wilderness.’

“Thus saying, she chanted a kind of prayer in the Indian tongue, and folding the babe an instant to her bosom, she replaced it beside Mrs. Gray; and before any one could speak or prevent her, she had thrown open the door and passed swiftly from the cottage.

“‘Rise, Simon Gray!’ said the kind-hearted Rebecca, ‘rise and follow the poor creature, and persuade her to stay till the storm is past, and offer her food.’ But though the good man made all possible haste in dressing, the woman had reached the summit of a high hill which lay toward the Bay colony ere he got into the street; and soon she was lost in the distance and the thick falling snow, which was still beating down with great violence.”

“Did she freeze to death, grandmother?” asked Helen.

“Did she never return?” inquired Henry.

“You’ll both get answered when grandmother has finished her story,” said George Gray, with a shrewd look to his cousins.

“Yes, all in good time, children,” said Mrs. Gray, as she resumed. “They could not possibly find out how the Indian woman came by the child, or, for certainty, who she was; yet by her calling herself Namoina, they supposed she must be a woman who was called by her tribe cunning, and revered as a prophetess, though the white people knew that the poor creature was at times crazy; for she had seen her husband and child bleed, both in one day; the first fell and died while defending his home; the other was inhumanly murdered by wretches who deserved not the name of men! And so poor Namoina, or, as the white people called her, Rachel, went crazy.

“Mrs. Gray found, by a medal that hung round the infant’s neck, that her name was Mary Wallace; and Mary Wallace she was called. She appeared to be about a year old. She was a fine, healthy child, and soon grew nicely, and Mr. and Mrs. Gray were very fond of her; and William called her his little sister, and taught her to walk, and gave her more than half of all the nice things he had—(they did not have sugarplums and candy then, but children were better off without them, and a great deal more healthy)—and he would tell her pretty stories, and drag her in his little wagon; and he loved her dearly. She was a sweet-tempered and lovely child, and very seldom did any thing to displease her parents; and when she did she would grieve very much, and she never could be happy till she was forgiven. When she was twelve years old, there was not a fairer or lovelier child in the whole Providence Plantations, than Mary Wallace. Her eyes were bright and blue; her long, light brown hair fell in beautiful curls upon her shoulders, and her voice had such a sweet and happy tone, and her countenance such an amiable expression, that the young loved her without envy, and the old never passed her without a blessing. The lark did not rise earlier than Mary Wallace. The first thing in the morning she would be seen with a basket on her arm, tripping lightly over the grass, with her little white feet scattering the dew, and singing sweetly and merrily as the birds themselves. No one in the Plantations had not felt her kindness; she always had an arm for the aged—some little delicacy for the sick—tears for the suffering—songs and smiles for the happy—and bread, and beer, and pity, even for the poor Indian. In short, the good people of the Plantations believed, that, by a special mercy of Divine Providence, she had been sent among them. She was of great assistance to her parents. They believed that they could not do without her. In the spring she helped plant the corn and beans—weeded the vegetable beds in the garden—and, through all the warm season, she drove home the cows at night—fed the sheep and pigs—and took care of the hens, ducks, geese, and their little ones. In the summer she gathered berries and laid in herbs for winter. In autumn she helped harvest the corn—gathered the dry beans and peas, and did a great many other useful things; and in the winter she sat, for the most part, by the fireside, knitting stockings for the family, and mending her own and William’s clothes—or she read the Bible, of a long Sabbath evening, to her father and mother: she was never idle.

“Mary never knew, till she was ten years old, but that she was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gray. At this time her mother thought best to inform her how she had been brought to them. She was grieved, at first, and cried very hard; but she could not comprehend how it was possible that they who had watched her—nursed her—loved and supported her from earliest infancy, should not be her own father, and mother, and brother; and, instead of indulging childish curiosity respecting her real parents, she treated the whole as an unpleasant story, and strove to forget it; and, with her sweet, happy disposition, she was not long in doing this; and very soon she smiled as sweetly—and sang as merrily—and danced as gaily over the meadows, as she had done before. About this time a distressing war broke out, called ‘King Philip’s War;’ and the times were more distressing than you, my dear children, can well imagine. There is no correct history of those times; but the most considerable account you will find in Captain ‘Church’s History of Philip’s War.’ The Indians, when they took any of the white people prisoners, treated them very cruelly; and, sometimes, put them to death with great torture.”

“I’ve read all about that, and I don’t blame the Indians at all!” said George Gray, starting to his feet with much earnestness, while his eyes almost flashed fire; “what right had the white people to come here and cheat them—and rob them of their lands—and drive them from their houses? Philip was a noble fellow! If I had lived then I would have been on his side—at any rate—_I would_!!”

“And, brother,” said Ann, catching some of his warmth, “don’t you remember what our last fourth of July orator said of Philip?”

“Yes,” returned George, quickly, “these were his very words: ‘Philip, the hero of Mount Hope, though a savage, was a man—and a _noble man_—and had he lived in other times and other circumstances, he might have been a Cæsar—an Alexander—a Napoleon:—and what is saying more, and the most that can be said of any man—a Washington!’” and the boy walked the room quickly, while his burning cheek and flashing eye told that his spirit was getting too strong for his young bosom.

“We will not dispute now whether the English or the Indians were right or wrong,” said the prudent grandmother. “Doubtless they were both to blame. Well, when Mary Wallace was about ten years old, and her brother fifteen, Mr. Gray and William went to join the forces of Captain Church. Mary it was who buckled on their knapsacks and pinned their collars on the morning of their first departure. She would not have cried a single tear if she could have avoided it, because her mother was so much distressed; but it was such a dreadful thing to see them going away, and to think they might never return, that poor Mary sobbed and wept as if her heart was breaking; and when they said ‘farewell, Mary!’ her heart was so full she could not speak; and when they stepped from the threshold, poor Mary hid her face in her mother’s lap, because she could not bear to see them go. But after she had wept a while, Mrs. Gray wiped away her tears and got the Bible and bade her read; and they were comforted.

“Every morning and evening Mary Wallace knelt by her little bedside and prayed to God for the safe return of her father and brother. They came home occasionally, but for the space of two years they were gone most of the time. They met, however, with no serious accident; and Mary and her mother had much reason to be thankful.

“One pleasant day during the second summer of the war, Mary had taken her little basket, and calling Hunter, a large dog, she went to gather berries; but, not finding the fruit plenty, she wandered farther into the woods than she should have done at that dangerous time. She was very busy picking some nice large berries, which she had found in great abundance, when, presently, she thought she heard a groan; and, without waiting to think there might be danger, she swung her basket on her arm and skipped through the bushes, followed by Hunter. Very soon she saw a large Indian seated upon a flat rock and leaning against a tree behind him, with a tomahawk and a bundle of arrows laid at his side. Almost any little girl would have been frightened, and have run away crying; and, indeed, Mary Wallace herself felt that it might be wrong to approach him when she thought of her poor, lone mother; and she was just going to turn back and run home with all her might, when she saw that the poor man was pale and faint, and could not sit upright but for the tree against which he leaned. But what, in reality, could Mary have to fear? She was known to most of the tribes around, very few of whom had not, at some time or other, felt her kindness. Her little room was decorated with numerous tokens of Indian gratitude, in the shape of wampum belts and baskets, curious shells and stones, and many other things; and the Indians called her ‘the child of Sunshine’—‘the Flower’—‘the Lily,’ and many other endearing names; but mostly, ‘the Bird of Peace.’ Instead of running away, as she had at first thought to do, Mary drew near the Indian and saw that he was asleep, or had fainted from loss of blood, which was flowing fast from a large wound in his leg. The sight of blood naturally made Mary feel sick and dizzy; but, without hesitation, she took a little shawl from her neck and bound it round the limb. The dog, as soon as he smelt the blood, began to bark furiously; and this, together with the pain caused by binding the wound, aroused the Indian, who, thinking, probably, that the enemy had fallen upon him, clenched his tomahawk and uttered a fearful cry. Mary trembled an instant, as if she already felt the blow; but she saw that he was still very faint; and, taking courage, she caught his arm and said, in the Indian tongue, ‘Fear not, father, it is Mary!’ and as he looked upon her, she pointed to the limb which she had nearly bandaged. He appeared very grateful when he saw what she had done, but he was too weak and faint to say much; and he only whispered, as he placed his hand on the child’s head, ‘Welcome, daughter of Heaven!’

“Little Mary then ran home as fast as she could, and told her mother about the poor wounded man, and asked her for some food; and her mother gave her some new milk, and some beer, and bread. Mrs. Gray went out with her and carried a blanket to cover him; and she bound up the wound better than Mary could, putting on some healing balsam. They persuaded him to partake of the food; and, afterward, assisted him to a shelter under a rock, where they left him quite comfortable.