Chapter III (1)

One o’clock at night, and this is Niagara. It might as well be Boston Frog Pond, for all the enthusiasm has been shook, and jolted, and stunned, and frightened out of us getting to it. And now here it is one o’clock at night. I suppose not a bit of supper is to be had for poor Nelly and me, although we have eaten nothing since we had that scrambling twelve o’clock dinner. What a big hotel! bless us—there is a supper though all ready; for they are used to little accidents, called collisions, this way, and feed the survivors with as much alacrity as they bury the dead; to be sure there is a supper—chicken—oh, Nelly! chicken and hot tea. Sorry figures we cut by the light of the bright gas chandeliers, with our jammed bonnets and torn riding-dresses, but who cares? I am sure black John don’t; he is just as civil as if we were as presentable as a Broadway belle; certainly he is used to it; he is used to seeing ladies emerge from begrimed caterpillar riding-habits into all sorts of gay butterfly paraphernalia; John is charitable; he always suspends his judgment of passengers till the next morning at breakfast; then he knows who is who. If a lady takes diamonds with her coffee, he knows she talks bad grammar, and is not what she would have people think her; he is not surprised to have her find fault with every thing from the omelette to the Indian cake. He expects to see her nose turned up at every thing, just as if she had every thing better at home.

She does not impose on John—he waits upon her with a quiet twinkle in his eye, which says as plain as a twinkle can say: I have not stood behind travelers’ chairs these two years for nothing; that game has been played out here, my lady; but when a lady comes down to breakfast in a modest-colored, quiet-looking breakfast robe, with smooth hair, neatly-slippered feet, and a very nice collar, and speaks civily and kindly to him, John knows he sees a real lady, whether she owns a diamond or not—and her pleasant “Thank you,” when he has taken some trouble to procure her what she desires, wings his feet for many a hard hour’s work that day. I wish ladies oftener thought of this. I wish they did not think it beneath them, or were not too indifferent or thoughtless to attend to it. “What is that noise, John?” “Oh, them’s the Rapids, ma’am.” “Rapids? sure enough, we almost forgot we were at Niagara; how very dismal they sound!” John laughs and says, “You are tired to-night, ma’am; when you look at them in the morning you will like ’em; most ladies does.” But poor Nelly is half asleep over her plate, so we will go to bed. What a little box of a chamber! not a pretty thing in it but Nelly; a table, a chair, a bed, a bureau, and a candle on it; the window shaking as if it had St. Vitus’s dance; the Rapids, as John calls them, roaring like mad under the window. I can’t stand the rattling of that window. I’ll stop it with the handle of a tooth-brush. I suppose I have a tooth-brush left, if the cars did run off the track; oh, yes! “Now tumble into bed, Nelly. What a dismal thing those Rapids are, to be sure. I feel as if I were out at sea in an egg-shell boat. I wonder how they will look in the morning? don’t you, Nelly?” No answer. “Nelly’s asleep; I wish I could sleep, but I’m sure those horrid Rapids will give me the night-mare.”

“Morning? you don’t mean that, Nelly! and you look as bright as if the cars had kept right end up all the way here. Does the sun shine, Nelly? Open the blinds and see. No? what a pity. ‘A great river under the window!’ why, pussy, that river is the Rapids; I don’t wonder they shake the window so; how they tumble about! Now, we will dress and breakfast, and then, no! for the Falls. You and I are not to be frightened at a few rain-drops, Nelly; we have had too many drenchings running to and fro from printing-offices for that. That’s right, Nelly, dip your face into the washbasin, it will make your eyes strong and bright; now smooth your hair, and put on the plainest dress you can find, but let it be very clean. I hope your finger-nails and teeth are quite nice, and then pull your stockings smoothly up; of all things don’t wear wrinkled stockings. Put stout boots on; don’t be afraid of a thick sole, Nelly; every thing looks well in its place; and a thin shoe on Goat Island would be quite ridiculous.

“You are glad to get out of that stifled bed-room? so am I. What a nice wide breezy hall this is! Oh, there are more travelers who have just arrived, and there are some more who are just leaving; and there comes the servant to say breakfast is ready; gongs are out of fashion, I am glad of that; I would run a mile to escape a gong; and beside, no hospitable landlord, I think, would set such a machine in motion to disturb sick and weary travelers, who prefer a longer sleep. Ah, this landlord knows what he is about, I am sure of that; you can generally judge of any house by the manners of the servants. How well trained they are here, how quiet, how prompt! Good fellows; I hope they get well paid, don’t you, Nelly? I hope they have a comfortable place to sleep, when the day is over, don’t you? All black? I am glad of that, too; I like black people; they are such a merry people, they are so easily made happy, they are so affectionate, they are so neat. Oh, what nice bread and coffee! Don’t touch those omelettes, Nelly; take a bit of beefsteak and here’s some milk—_real_ milk; it is so long since I have tasted any, that it seems like cream!

“Who are those people? How do I know, little puss? I dare say they are asking the same question about us! You don’t like that lady’s face? Why not? She don’t look as if she could laugh. That’s a fact, Nelly. She is as solemn as an owl. But perhaps she is in trouble, who knows? We must not laugh about her. Come, Nelly, let us get up and go to the Falls. Tie on your bonnet; what a nice fresh air! See the shops, Nelly! shops at Niagara, who would have thought it? and curiosities of all sorts to sell! Well, never mind them now. Want a carriage? want a cab? Of course we don’t—look at our democratic thick-soled shoes! what’s the use of having feet, if we are not to be allowed to use them? No, of course we don’t want a carriage; we feel, Nelly and I, as if we were just made; don’t you see how we step off? No, keep your carriages for infirm, proud, and lazy people. Carriage—who can run in a carriage? who can skip? This way, Nelly, over the little bridge? Oh—pay toll here! Do we? Twenty-five cents. And please register our names! Oh yes, of course—Mrs. Nelly, and Miss Nelly. What are you laughing at, puss? come along; oh, see this pretty island! now you see the use of thick shoes—off into that grass, and pick me some of those wild-flowers. Oh, Nelly, there are some blue, and pink, and purple—get a handful, Nelly! Oh, how delicious it is to be alive; skip, Nelly, run, Nelly, sing Nelly.

“A real Indian? Where? Oh, that’s not a real Indian, no more than you or I. She’s a pretty little sham Indian; but what are her pin cushions and moccasins to these wild-flowers? No, no, little girl, don’t stop us with those things; we left shopping in New York. Goat Island was not made for that, I’m sure; come Nelly! A boy with crosses made of Table-rock; how they plague us—we don’t want to buy any crosses, we are cross enough ourselves, because you keep bothering us so; we came to see the Falls, not to do shopping. Come away, Nelly! Oh, Nelly—look! look!”

But why describe the Falls to you, when all your school geographies have a picture of it? when your teacher has taken all the school to see a panorama of it? when your Uncle George, and Aunt Caroline, and Cousin James have seen it? and yet no tongue, no pen ever could, ever has described its beauty, its majesty. I would that I had never heard it attempted; I would that I had never heard of Niagara; I would that I had come upon it unawares some glorious morning before Indian girls had peddled moccasins there, or boys, had profaned it by selling pictures and crosses; I would have knelt on that lovely island, and seen God’s majesty in the ceaseless, roaring torrent; God’s smile in the bright rainbow, hung upon the fleecy mist; God’s love in making earth so beautiful, for those who forget to thank Him for it. I would lead _him_ there who says there is no God, that he might hear His voice, and see His glory.

But no two persons look on Niagara with the same eyes. You can not see it through my spectacles; some it animates and makes jubilant; others it depresses and terrifies; some hear in it the thunder and lightning of Sinai; others hear in it the voice of Him who stilled the raging waves with “Peace, be still!”

Yes, I was glad to have seen Niagara, but I was not sorry to leave it. Its rushing torrent threw a shadow over my spirit. Its monster jaws seemed hungry for some victim, other than the unconscious leaves which it whirled so impatiently and disdainfully out of sight. Its never-ceasing roar seemed like the trumpet-challenge to battle, telling of mangled corpses and broken hearts. No;—dearer to me is the silvery little brook, tripping lightly through green meadows, singing low and sweet to the nodding flowers, bending to see their own sweet beauty mirrored in its clear face. I like not that all Nature’s gentle voices should be tyrannically hushed to silence, drowned by a despot’s deafening roar. Give me the low murmur of the trees; I like the hum of the bee; I like the flash of the merry little fish; I like the little bird, circling, darting, singing, skimming the blue above, dipping his blight wings in the blue below; I like the cricket which chirps the tired farmer to sleep; I like the distant bleat of the lamb, the faint lowing of the cow; I lay my head on Nature’s breast, in her gentler moods, and tell her all my hopes and fears, and am not ashamed of my tears. But she drives me from her when she roars and foams, and flashes fierce lightning from her angry eyes; I close my ears to her roaring thunder. But when, clearing the cloud from her brow, she hangs a rainbow on her breast, throws perfume to the pretty flowers, and smiles caressingly through her tears—ah, then I love her; then she is all my own again.

Here I have been running on! and all this while you have been waiting to know the rest of my story. Well, Nelly and I started to go back to New York. Nelly did not like the idea of trusting herself in the cars, nor, to tell the truth, did I; but there was no help for it: besides, it is not wise to be a slave to one’s fears. So we tried to forget all about it. A girl who lived with me once remarked, there is always something happening most days. So we soon found amusement. An old lady in the cars, when she had smelled up all her camphor and eaten all her lozenges, commenced asking me questions faster than I could answer, and looking at Nelly through her spectacles. Some of her questions were very funny, and, from any body but an old lady, would have been impertinent; but we answered them all, for it was very evident she did not ride in the cars every day, and was determined to get her money’s worth. Poor old lady! I suppose she had lived all her life in some small village where there was only a blacksmith’s shop and a meeting-house, and where every body knew what time every body got up, and what they had for breakfast. Nice old lady! I hope somebody gave her a good cup of tea, and a rocking-chair, when she got home, which, I regret to say, was the first stopping-place after we left Niagara.

From the car-windows Nelly and I saw the Catskill Mountains. O the lovely changing hues of their steep and misty sides; the billowy clouds that rolled up, and rolled over, and rolled off;—then the far-off summit, now hidden, now revealed, lying against the sky, tempting us to see from thence the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them. And so we will, some day. I will tell you what we see.

Night came, and we had not yet reached New York. Nelly was dusty, and hungry, and tired; but she was a good traveler, and made no complaint. The cars were dashing along through the darkness, close by the edge of the Hudson River, and Nelly clasped my hand more closely as she looked out of the windows upon its dark surface, and sighed as if she feared some accident might tip us all over into it. But no such accident occurred, and by-and-by the bright gas-lights of New York shone and sparkled; and the never-failing gutter odor informed us that we were back again upon its dusty streets.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

“How did Luly look?” Her eyes were brown, her hair was brown, too; she was very pale, and slender, and had a soft, sweet voice, just such a voice as you would expect from such a fragile little girl. Luly did not like to be noticed: she was fond of being by herself, and would often sit for an hour at a time, quite still, with her slender hands crossed in her lap, thinking; her cheek would flush, and her eye moisten, but no one knew what Luly was thinking about. Luly did not love to play; she did not care for dolls, or baby-houses; she never jumped rope, or drove hoop, or played hunt the slipper; this troubled her mother, who knew that all healthy young creatures love to play and frolic; and so she brought Luly all sorts of pretty toys, and Luly would say very sweetly, “Thank you, dear mamma,” and put them on the shelf, but she never played with them, and seemed quite to forget that they were there. Luly’s grandmother shook her head, and said, “Luly will die; Luly will never live to grow up.”

If Luly heard any one speak in a harsh, cross voice, she would shiver all over, as if some cold wind were blowing upon her; and if she saw two persons quarreling, she never would be satisfied till she had made peace between them. One day, before she could speak plain, her mother sent her down to the kitchen on an errand; when she got to the door, she stood still, for the cook and the chambermaid were very angry with each other; one was saying “You did,” and the other “I didn’t,” in very loud tones, and their faces were very red with passion. Luly stood in the door-way, looking, listening, and trembling, as she always did at any such sight. Tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and unable to bear it any longer, she stepped between them, and clasping her little hands, said in her broken way, with her sweet, musical voice, “Oh, don’t _condict_, please don’t _condict_.” So the girls stopped contradicting, ashamed before a little child, “for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Luly never disobeyed her mother—never—never. If her mother told her not to go out in the garden without her leave, and then went away for an hour, she was just as sure that Luly had obeyed her, as if she had been there to see; and yet, every night when this little girl went to bed, she would say, as she laid her head upon the pillow, “Mother, do you think God will forgive all my sins to-day? I hope he will, _I hope I haven’t made God sorry, mother_;” and when her mother said, “Yes, I know he will forgive you, Luly,” she would smile so peacefully, and say: “Now you can go down stairs, mother.” Luly never was afraid of God; she never thought or spoke of His “punishing” her; but she loved Him so much that it was a great grief to her to think that she might have “made Him sorry,” as she called it. One morning when she woke, one beautiful summer morning, when the scent of the roses came in at the open window, when the dew-drops were glistening, and the green trees waving, and the birds singing, she crept out of her little crib, and stood at her window looking out on the fair earth, with her little hands clasped, her eyes beaming, and her cheek glowing.

“What is it, Luly?” said her mother, as tears rolled slowly down Luly’s cheeks.

“I want to see Him,” whispered Luly.

“Who, my child?”

“God.”

Then Luly’s mother thought of what her grandmother had said: “Luly will not live; Luly will die,” and she clasped her little girl tightly to her breast, as if she feared even then she would go from her.

But no mother’s clasp could hold little Luly; no mother’s tears could bribe the Death Angel. Rose-red grew the cheek, then white as snow, the little hands grew hot, then icy cold, the soft eye bright, then dim, and she who never grieved us living, grieved us dying.

A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.

I wish I knew what that cow is thinking about; how lazily she stands there, switching her sides with her tail, and looking up and down the meadow. I am no judge of cows, but I think that is a pretty cow. Any lady might be proud of her great, soft brown eyes. I am glad she does not know that one of these days, the butcher will thump her on the head and sell her for beef; I am glad she does not know that the pretty little calf, which frolics by her side, will be eaten for veal, next week. Munch away, old cow, and enjoy the fresh clover while you can; I don’t believe you have any idea what a pretty picture you and your baby calf make, as you stand with your hoofs in that brook and bend your heads to drink. I like to think, though I know it is not so (because you have no soul, old cow), that when you raise your head from the brook and lift it toward the sky, you are thinking of Him who made the pretty clover grow and the sparkling brook to flow. And now the little calf is nursing. Pull away, little rogue? if _you_ have not a better right to your mother’s milk than Sally, the dairy-maid, I will agree to go without butter; pull away, it does me good to see you; now kick up your heels and run like mischief over the meadow; see the old cow blink and wink, as she looks after her, as if to say, Well, well, I was young myself, once; calves will be calves, spite of cows. And there is a hen and her cunning little chickens; I should like to catch that tiny white one, which blows over the meadow like a piece of cotton wool, and cuddle her right up in my neck; I am sure the old hen would not object if she knew how I liked chickens; but she don’t, and she would probably take me for a highwaywoman, and I can’t have my character called in question that way, even by a hen; beside her beak is sharp, and so are her claws: I think I had better admire her little soft white baby at a distance. Nice little thing, how glad I am it does not have to be fixed up in lace and embroidery, every morning, and have a nurse rubbing its nose enough to rub it off, every time a stray breeze makes it sneeze; how glad I am the little thing can roll and tumble in the grass, instead of being stewed up in a hot nursery and sweltered under a load of crib-blankets, till all its strength oozes out in perspiration; dear little chick, I hope you will find plenty of little worms to eat, and I hope no old rooster will cuff your ears for doing it; I hope you will have the downiest side of your mother’s wing to sleep under, and plenty of meal and water when worms are scarce. But, see! there’s a shower coming up; you had better scamper under the shed; don’t you hear the thunder, little chick? don’t you see that beautiful zig-zag lightning darting out of that dark cloud? and don’t you see that lovely blue sky over yonder, peaceful as the good man’s soul, when the cloud of trouble threatens him? No, little chick, you don’t notice it a bit; you are only chasing after your mother, and trying to dodge the rain-drops; well, pretty as you are, I had rather be born with a soul; I am glad my soul will live millions of years after you are dead; I want to know so much that puzzles me here on earth, but which I am willing to believe is all right, until God Himself explains it all to me. I am glad I am not a little chick without a soul, because I want to learn about these things in heaven.

THE CIRCUS.

What a mob of boys! There’s Bill Saunders, and Ned Hoyt, and Tom Fagin, and Lewis Coates, and John Harris; and, sure as the world, there’s that little tomtit, Harry Horn, without a sign of a cap on, jumping up and down as if there were pins in his trowsers. What _can_ be the matter, I wonder? Now they shout, “Hurra—hurra!”—but then boys are always screaming hurra. I have done breaking my neck leaning out of the window to see what is the matter. I won’t look at the little monkeys. There it goes again—“Hurra! hurra!” One would think General Washington, Lafayette, or some other great person, was coming down street. Now they move one side—ah, now I see what all the fuss is about! A great flaming red and yellow handbill is posted on the fence; and on it is written, “Pat Smith’s Circus! next Wednesday afternoon and evening.” Circus! no wonder little Harry Horn forgot to put his hat on, and jumped up and down as if he were trying to jump out of his trousers. If there is any thing that drives boys crazy, it is a circus. I should like to know why; I have a great mind to go to Pat Smith’s Circus myself, just to find out; for I never was in a circus in my life. Yes, I will go, and I will take Nelly; she never was in a circus either. No, I won’t; I will leave her at home with black Nanny. No, I wont; I will take black Nanny too; but then I am not sure Pat Smith allows colored people in his circus. “Well, if he is such a senseless Pat as that, he may go without three twenty-five cent pieces, that’s all, for Nanny likes a little fun as well as if her skin were whiter; and if Nanny can’t come in, Nelly and I won’t. But Nanny can; Pat is not such a fool. So, come along, Nanny; come along, Nelly; it don’t matter what you wear. Walk a little faster, both of you; we must get a good seat, or we shall lose half the fun. Short people are apt to fare badly in a crowd. Here we are! This a circus! this round tent? How funny! Music inside; that’s nice; I like music; so do Nelly and Nanny. Here’s your money, Mr. Pat Smith. Goodness! you don’t mean that we have got to clamber up in those high, ricketty-looking seats, without any backs? Suppose we should fall through on the ground below? Suppose the seats should crack, and let all these people down? I think we’ll climb up to the highest seat, for in case they do break, I had rather be on the top of the pile than underneath it. That’s it; here’s a place for you, Nanny. Bless me, what a “many people,” as little Harry Horn says. Little babies, too, as I live;—well, I suppose their poor tired mothers wanted a little fun too; but the babies are better off than we, because they can have a drink of milk whenever they are thirsty. Ah, I was a little too fast there, for Pat Smith has provided lemonade, and here comes a man with a pailful. Circus lemonade!—no, I thank you; it may be very good, but I prefer taking your word for it. How the people flock in! What’s that coming in at yonder door? Nanny! Nelly!—look! Is it a small house painted slate-color? No—it is an elephant—a live elephant. What a monster! what great flapping ears! what huge paws! and what a rat-ty looking tail! I don’t like his tail; but his trunk is superb. I am afraid he has had a deal of whipping to make him behave so well. How he could make us all fly, if he chose; what mince-meat he could make of those little fat babies yonder. I am glad he don’t want to; they are too pretty to eat. What are they going to do with him, I wonder? It can’t be that they mean to make him walk up that steep pair of stairs. Yes—see him! Would you believe such a great monster could do it so gracefully? He lifts his paws as gently as a kitten. Now that’s worth seeing; but how in the world are they going to get him down, now that he has reached the top? See—he is going to back down; not one false step does he make; now he has reached the bottom. Clever old monster! It seems a shame to make such a great, grand-looking, kingly creature, perform such dancing-master tricks. Now his master lies flat on his back on the ground, and the old elephant is going to walk over him. Suppose he should set that great paw of his on his master’s stomach, and crush him as flat as a pancake? No; see how carefully he steps over him with those big legs; never so much as touching his gay scarlet-and-white tunic. Splendid old fellow, to have so much strength, and yet never use it to the harm of those who torment him with all this nonsense. How I should like to see you in your native jungles, old elephant, with all your baby elephants; your little big babies, old fellow. There he goes. I am glad they have done with him. It makes me sad to see him. Good-by, old Samson.”

What now? a lady on horseback, Mr. Pat Smith’s wife; she sits her horse very well, but that’s nothing remarkable; I can sit a horse as well as that myself; but I couldn’t make a leap on his back over that five-barred gate—mercy, no—he will break her neck, I know he will; I am afraid Mr. Pat Smith wants a second wife. Oh, see, the horse has come down safe with her on the other side of the gate; now she is going to try it again; what a woman that is! I hope Mr. Pat Smith gives her half the money that he takes this hot night, for I am sure she has earned it; but wives don’t always get what they earn, and I dare say Mrs. Pat Smith don’t.

Now here come a parcel of fellows in white tights, tight as their skin, tumbling head over heels, up side down, standing on each others’ heads, and cutting up untold and untellable capers. I must say their strong limbs are quite beautiful, just as God intended limbs should grow, just as I hope yours will grow, one of these days, though I think it may be done without your being a circus tumbler. See how nimble they are, and how like eels they twist and squirm about, leaping on each others’ shoulders like squirrels, leaping down again, running up tall poles and sitting on the top and playing there with half a dozen balls at once, which are tossed up at them from below. It is really quite wonderful, and yet I can’t help thinking had they taken as much pains to learn something really useful, as they have to learn to be funny, how much good they might do; for, after all, a monkey, or a squirrel, or an ourang-outang could do all that quite as well as a man, who is so much superior to them, quite as gracefully, and without any teaching, too; but, bless me, a circus is no place to think, and yet I wish those men’s heads were as well trained as their heels; if you listen you will find out they are not; just hear those stupid jokes they are making, how badly they pronounce, how ungrammatically they express themselves, and hear—oh, no—_don’t_ hear that! what a pity they should say any thing _indelicate_ before ladies and pure little children. _Now_ I know why fathers and mothers do not like their little boys and girls to go to the circus. Mr. Pat Smith, Mr. Pat Smith, you must leave off those stupid bad jokes, if you want to draw ladies and little children.

I wish somebody would get up a _good_ circus without these faults. I can not think so badly of the people as to believe that they would like it less if it were purified. I think it might be made a very pleasant and harmless amusement for little children, who seem to want to go so much, and who have often felt so badly because their parents were not willing. Perhaps there _are_ such good circuses, that I may not have heard of. I like good schools, I like study, but I should like to write over every school-room door:

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

WHAT EVERY LITTLE CHILD MAY SEE.

I hope you love to look at the bright sunsets; oh the joy they are to me! Yesterday it had been raining all day; dark, gloomy clouds hovered overhead; the birds and the children were nested out of sight; the hens crept up under the shed corners, and the old cows stood patiently waiting under the trees for the sun to shine out. It shone at last, and oh, with what a glory; I wished I had a hundred eyes to gaze, for every moment the lovely hues changed to hues more beautiful—sapphire, topaz, emerald, ruby, opal, amethyst, diamonds. Overhead, the mottled gold and purple; in the west, a field of blue, clear and pure as a baby’s eyes, with fringes of brown, like its sweet-drooping lashes; farther still, floated golden clouds, bright enough to bear the baby’s spirit to heaven; while in the east, the dark heavy, rain-clouds, were rolled up and piled away; back of the snow-white cottages, back of the tall church-spire, which pointing upward seemed to say, Praise him who made us all. Who could help it? Oh, if earth is so lovely, what must heaven be? if God’s foot prints are so beautiful, what must be His throne?

Evening came, and all this glory faded out only to be replaced by another; countless stars, sparkled and glittered over head; then came the moon, slowly; veiling itself bride-like in fleecy clouds, as if not to dazzle us with her beauty. On came the still midnight; when sleep fell like flower-dew on weary lids; when the whispering leaves told each other all their little secrets, and the queen moon glided about, silvering the poor man’s roof while he slept, as if it had been a palace. Morning came, and the jealous sun shot forth at her a golden arrow, to tell her that her reign was past. She grew pale, and moved slowly on, one little star keeping her kindly company. Up flashed the sun, brighter for his eclipse. The flowers and the children opened wide their dewy eyes; the dew-drops danced, the little birds shook their bright wings, tuned their throats, and trilled out a song, oh, so bright, so joyous. God listened for man, but he was dumb.

A STORY FOR BOYS.

Now, boys, I am going to write a story for you. I don’t know why I have written more stories for girls than for boys, unless it is because all the boys I ever had have been girls. Sometimes I have been sorry this was so, because I think boys can rough it through the world so much better than girls, especially should the latter have the misfortune to lose their father when they are young. I hope this is not the case with you; it is very sad for young eyes to be watching the way he used to come, and see only other happy gleeful children with their living, breathing, loving, fathers.

But I will not talk about this now. I want to tell you that I do love boys, though I am very much afraid of them.

Afraid?

Yes; now you need not look so innocent, just as if you never, when a lady had picked her way carefully through the sloppy streets, jumped into a big puddle near her, and sent the dirty water all over her nice white stockings, and pretty gaiter boots—ah—you see I know you; just as if you hadn’t come rushing round a corner when you were playing tag, and knocked the breath out of a woman before she could say “Don’t;” just as if you didn’t eat peanuts in an omnibus and let the wind blow the shells into her lap; just as if you didn’t put your muddy shoes up on the omnibus seat, and soil the cushions, and spoil ladies’ dresses; just as if you did not—you rogues—say saucy things to bashful little girls, at which your schoolmates Tom Tules and Sam Hall would burst into a loud laugh and the poor little girl would have to go a long way round to school the next morning merely to get rid of you. I should be sorry to believe that you know how much pain you sometimes give a little girl in this way: perhaps her mother is a widow and has to earn her own living, and can not spare time every morning to go with her daughter to school, or to call for her when school is done; and it pains her very much to have to send the weeping child who is so afraid of you, out alone; and she sighs when she thinks of the time when that child’s father was alive, and they had plenty of money to hire a nurse-maid to see that she did not get run over or troubled on her way.

I don’t believe you think of this, when you slyly pull their curls as you go by, or make believe snatch their satchels, or elbow them off the sidewalk, to please that naughty Frank Hale, who says, “’Tis fun.” I am sure you never thought seriously of all I have just told you, or you would not do it.

A stupid boy who never wants “fun” will never be good for any thing. But it is not “fun” to give pain to the weak, timid, and helpless; it is not fun to play the tyrant. Oh, no, no. It is fun to play ball, and hop-scotch; and it is fun to skate, and slide, and “coast,” as the Boston boys call it (_i.e._, go down a steep, icy hill on a sled); but this steep, icy hill should not be in the street, where horses and carriages are, crossed by other streets, through which people are passing. A little boy was once coasting very fast down such a hill as this, and when a very prim maiden lady was picking her way across it. On came the boy, like lightning, tripped up her heels, and carried her down on his sled, on top of him, to the bottom of the hill. She was, fortunately, not hurt. She got slowly up, smoothed out her rumpled dress, bent her bonnet straight, put her spectacles on the end of her nose, and looking at the little boy (who stood there quite as much astonished as she at what he had done), she remarked, “Young man, it was not my intention to have come this way!” He got off easily, didn’t he? But had he broken any of her bones, a policeman would perhaps have rung at his father’s door some time that day, and his father would have been obliged to pay a fine, because his boy broke the law by “coasting” in the streets—(that’s Boston law). And beside that, had the lady been poor, his father would have had to pay a doctor for mending her bones. Don’t think I do not approve of coasting in safe places. It is what boys call “prime.” I like to coast as well as you do; and when you get a nice sled, with good “runners,” I should like to try it. If it goes like chain-lightning, you may name it Fanny Fern; but if it twists round at every little thing in the path, and don’t go straight ahead, you may call it—what you like; but don’t you dare to name it after me.

KATY’S FIRST GRIEF.

Little Katy, so they told me, was an only child. I don’t know how that could be, when she had two little sisters in heaven. But Katy had never seen them; they turned their cheeks wearily to the pillow and died years before she was born. Katy had heard her mamma speak of them, and she had seen their little frocks and shoes, and a little blue silk hood, trimmed round the face with a soft white fur, soft as the baby’s velvet skin; and she had seen a dry crust of bread, with the marks of tiny teeth in it, carefully put away in the drawer; and a small string of coral beads, red as the baby’s lip; and she had seen her mother put her fingers through the sleeve of a little fine cambric shirt, and look at it till tears blinded her eyes. Katy was not strong herself; her mother was very much afraid that she would die too; she was very careful always to tie her tippet closely about her throat, when she went out, and to see that her feet were warm, and her little arms covered. There were very few days in which Katy felt quite well, and I don’t suppose she could help crying and fretting a great deal; she wanted to be in her mother’s lap all the while, and did not like to have strangers come in and talk to her mother. That could not be helped you know, and then Katy would cry very loud, and nothing seemed to pacify her.

As she grew older, her mother took such good care of her, that her health began to improve, and she grew stronger; but she had been petted, and had her own way so much (because they disliked to trouble her when she was sick) that she had become very selfish; she liked nobody to touch her toys, or even look at them. This was a pity. One morning Katy woke, climbed up in her crib, and called out “Mamma!” but there was no mamma there. “Papa!” there was no papa either. This was something very uncommon; for they were always there when she woke in the morning. Then Katy set up a great cry, louder than you would ever believe such a little bit of a thing could cry, and then a strange woman came in, and said, “Hush!” and then Katy screamed louder than ever, and grew very red in the face, and said, “I won’t hush, I want my mamma—I will have my mamma!” and then Katy’s papa came up and whispered to the strange woman, and then the strange woman nodded her head and went out of the room; and then Katy’s papa told Katy that her mamma was in the other room, and that, if she would be a good girl, and stop crying, and let him dress her, she should go and see her. Katy had a great mind not to stop, but she wanted so much to see her mamma that she made up her mind she would; so her papa put on her little petticoats, and as he never had dressed his little girl, he buttoned them before, instead of behind; and then Katy had a cry about that, and then her papa was a great while finding out how her frock fastened; he saw some “hooks” on it, but he could not find any “eyes” to hook them into, and so he told Katy, who kept wriggling round on his lap like a little eel, slipping off his knee, and slipping back, and fretting like a little tempest to see “mamma;” then papa’s forehead began to have great drops of perspiration on it, as he fumbled away at the little frock with his big fingers, and by-and-by he found out that there were things called “loops,” so small he could hardly see them, to hold the hooks, instead of eyes, and then he said, drawing a long breath, “Now, little Katy, I’ll have you dressed in a twinkling!” so he fastened it, and then put on her stockings, and one shoe; but when he looked for the other, it was nowhere to be found; it was not in the crib, nor under it, in the closet, or in the bureau drawers; it was not anywhere, that he could see. Katy wanted to go without it, but her papa said, no, she would get cold: and then Katy set up another of her great cries, and just as two big tears, big enough to wet the whole front of her frock, came rolling down, her papa found the little red shoe under the wash-stand. Then he put it on, and saying, “Now, Katy,” he took her in his arms, and carried her through the entry, into the “best chamber;” it was so dark, with all the blinds shut and the curtains drawn, that Katy at first could not see who or what was in it. In a minute or two her eyes got used to the dim light, and then she saw her mamma on the bed, and a little white bundle of something lying on her arm. Katy’s papa moved a little nearer, and whispered to Katy, “See, mamma has a cunning little brother for you to play with.” Katy looked at him a minute, and then her face puckered up all over, and she burst out into _such_ a cry, you never heard the like; “I don’t want him—I don’t want him, _I_ want to lay on mamma’s arm, I don’t want any little brother!” Then the strange woman motioned to Katy’s papa to take her out of the room, and then Katy clung to the bed-post, and cried louder than ever, “No, no—take him away, take him away—I don’t want that little brother!”

Poor little Katy—you should have heard her sob, going down stairs; all that papa could say did not comfort her. He took her on his lap to the breakfast table, gave her some _real tea_ out of his saucer, and let her eat with mamma’s nice silver fork; it did no good, not more than a minute at a time; she could not forget that “little brother,” who was cuddled up so comfortably in her place on mamma’s arm. And now even papa could not stay any longer with Katy, for it was already past nine o’clock, and he must go down town to attend to his business; so he called Bridget, and told her to keep Katy in the parlor with her playthings, till her mamma sent for her; and kissing his little sobbing girl, he went away. Papa and mamma both gone! what _should_ Katy do? Bridget tried to comfort her, and sang her a song, called “Green grow the rushes, O,” but it was of no use. Then the strange woman came down to eat her breakfast. Katy wiped the tears out of her eyes, and looked at her from under the corner of her apron. The strange woman sat down to her breakfast, and ate away; how she _did_ eat! one egg—two eggs—three eggs—two cups of coffee, and several slices of bread and butter; then she said to Bridget, “Where’s that crying child? Mrs. Smith wants to have her brought up-stairs; I never heard of such a thing since I went out nursing, as having such a troublesome little thing in a sick chamber. She will make her mother sick with her fussing, and so I told her; but she told me to bring her up when I had done my breakfast, and to I suppose I must; where is she?”

“There,” said Bridget, pointing to Katy, cuddled up in the corner, so afraid of the strange woman, that she had forgotten to cry.

“Sure enough—well—I am glad to see you are in a better temper, Miss Katy; your mother wants you to go up-stairs, but I can tell you that you won’t stay there long, unless you are as hush as a mouse; for I have come here to take care of her, did you know that? and I never allow naughty children to stay with their sick mothers. Now, if you will promise to be good, I will take you up-stairs; will you promise?”

Katy’s under lip quivered a little, but not a word came out of it.

“Say, will you be good?”

No answer.

“Well, then, you can stay down stairs, that’s all, I sha’n’t take you up-stairs.” Then the strange woman took a cup and saucer in her hand and went up into the sick room.

Then Katy cried so hard and so loud.

Katy’s sick mother turned her head on the pillow and sighed. “Is that Katy, crying, Mrs. Smith?” she asked of the strange woman, who just then came in to the door.

“Oh, don’t you be bothering your head now about your family,” said Mrs. Smith, pouring a little gruel into the cup.

“It is very well to say that,” said Katy’s mamma; “Katy has been a sickly child always, and I can’t help feeling anxious about her. We have been obliged to fondle her more on that account; I am sure she will outgrow her pettishness, as she gets her health, and it is very hard to turn her off so all at once; it is hard for grown people to bear it, when another person steps in and takes their place with a friend whom they love, and how can you expect a little sick child to feel willing and happy about it all at once?”

“Well, I told her she could come up, if she would promise to be good, but she wouldn’t, and so I left her down there; I can’t have her here fretting you.”

Katy’s mamma laid her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed again; then she said, “It frets me much more to hear her cry down stairs; I think I can make it all right to her about the baby if she comes up here.”

“Just as you please, of course,” said Mrs. Smith, giving her gingham apron a twitch; “just as you please; but you must recollect, if the child frets you into a fever, the blame will be laid at my door. Oh, just as you please, of course, you are mistress of the house; but I always likes to see ladies a little reasonable;” and Mrs. Smith went into the entry and told Bridget to bring up Katy to see her mamma.

Now Katy was, on the whole, a good little girl, as good as she could be, with all the pains and aches and ails she had; she was very affectionate too, and loved her papa and mamma very very dearly, and believed every thing they told her, and they had patience with her faults, believing that when her health was better she would be less fretful. That was why her mamma was troubled at what the nurse had said to her little grieved sorrowful daughter; and that was why, though she felt very sick, she sent for her to try and make her feel happy. Oh, you never will know, any of you, until you have little children of your own, how strong a _mother’s_ love is.

Well, little Katy crept into her mother’s room, and sidled up to the bed, with an eye on the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, as if she feared every moment that she would snatch her up, before she could get to her mother’s bedside.

Katy’s mother put out her pale hand and took hold of her little daughter’s trembling fingers. Katy was trying to choke down the tears, but one of them fell upon her mother’s hand. Then Katy’s mother told her to climb upon a chair and get carefully on the bed.

Katy did not look at Mrs. Smith, though she heard her mutter something, but scrambled upon the bed as her mother told her.

“Katy, look here,” and her mamma unrolled the soft folds of a little fleecy blanket, and there lay a little baby, so little, so cunning, with such a funny little fuzz all over its head, and such little pink bits of fingers.

“Katy, I want you to help me take care of this little brother; I am sick, and can not wait upon him, and I want you to hand me his little blankets, and frocks, and shoes, and caps; and I want you to pat him with your little soft hand when he cries. See, he is no bigger than your big doll; and by-and-by, when he is a little older, you shall sit in your little rocking-chair, and rock him and get him to sleep for me; and when he gets fast asleep, you and I will put him in the cradle, and tuck him all up nice and warm, and you shall sit by him and sing him the little song papa taught you. He is your little live doll, and can open and shut his eyes—see there!”

“Yes, I see,” said Katy, in a soft whisper, and the ugly frown all went away from her pretty white forehead. “I see. Has he got any toes?”

Then Katy’s mother showed Katy the little bits of pink toes all curled up in a heap on his funny little foot. And then Katy’s mother said, that her head ached so badly, she must try to sleep, but that she wanted Katy to sit in the chair beside the bed, very still, and take care of the little baby, while she slept; and Katy looked quite pleased, and said she would. So every time the little baby breathed hard, Katy would pat the quilt with her forefinger, but she never spoke a word any more than a little mouse. And all that day she staid in her mamma’s room and did exactly as she told her; and when her papa came home, she went down stairs with him, and drank some “real tea” out of his saucer, and put a piece of butter on his plate, because she said she promised to help mamma while she was sick; and then her papa undressed her and put her to sleep in his bed; but after she had said, “Now I lay me” and “Our Father,” her little lip quivered, and looking up in her papa’s face, she said, “Are you sure my mamma can love little brother and me too?” and when her papa said, “Yes, I am sure,” she believed him, because she knew he never told her wrong, and then she laid her head quietly down to sleep.