^s
S wa
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
T. S. ARTHUR & SONS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
Westoott & Thomson, Deacon & Peterson,
Stereotypers, Printers,
PHILADELPHIA. PHILADELPHIA.
1
APA«K GOOD-NIGHT SONG 23
A PICTURE AND A STORY. By a Subscriber to the "Hour." 35
ANSWER TO BLUE VIOLET'S LETTER. By Mary Latham Clark 53
A LITTLE BOY'S PLANTING. By Mrs. M. 0. Johnson 62
A LIE STICK? 62
A BRAVE BOY 63
A PLEASANT SCENE 73
A Tlil.K STORY. By Ada M. Kennicott 74
A WINTER'S NIGHT. By Louise V. Botd 87
A REAL CHARM 119
A PORTRAIT 137
A WISE CHOICE 144
A CDNiv: THRUSH 151
ABOUT A Umi GIRL WII<» WISHED IIKRSELF A BIRD OR A BUTTERFLY. Bt Katb
Sutherland 189
IK By Mrs. M. 0. Johnson 31
1119 LITTLE BOYS 54
HI i.III - MIST\KE. By M. J 134
00»KOWME. By Mrs M. 0. Johnson 14D
. VaKinuAt iti m m roam, by ada m. kennicott io
: PI IIVMN 63
-1)
APPLUM \ l:v ]'u<i.v.r. Part 5.1
BOLLIE Bi Oabui 104
Do thy i.m i.i: K4
A Ko.i.r IM
I KIMI.NT. By Asm Moorf. 146
in
CONTENTS.
EPAGE VERY LITTLE HELPS. By the Author of "Ten Nights in a Bar-room." 21
EASTER EGGS. By Anna Wilmot 121
God IS HERE 61
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF DAVID AND GOLIATH. By Mary Latham Clark 98
GYP. By Irene L 169
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF ELISHA. By Mary Latham Clark 171
HoPE DARROW. A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY. By Virginia F. Townsend 26, 42, 81, 107, 138, 177
HUMILITY 32
HOW QUARRELS BEGIN 94
JoSIE'S BLOCKS. By M. 0. J 186
LlTTLE ROSEBUD. By Jennie Gaige 14
LITTLE BERTHA'S VISIT TO THE MOUNTAINS. By Mary Latham Clark 55
LITTLE MARY HEDGES. By Rosella 69
LOOK UPWARD 71
LONGING FOR HEAVEN. By Miss N. R. Patton 174
My PUSSY CAT. By Anna Wilmot 41
MY GARDENER. By Alice Cary 146
MILK AT SECOND-HAND 1S8
No GOOD FROM PASSION 71
UUT IN THE COLD. By Kate Sutherland 9
OUR SAMMY 187
IICTURES OF HOPE. By Louise V. Boyd 126
playing school 145
Rocked on the deep, by m. o. j 19
ROSY'S SCHOOL. By Rosella 114
Softly the echoes come and go." music 25
stretch it a little 32
stories about lions 39
"SHINE YOUR HOOTS, SIR?" By the Editor 48
SELLING FLOWERS. By Kate Sutherland , 88
SUGAR-MAKING 113
SUSIE. By M. 0. J 118
TlIE CAT AND THE BIRDS 16
TAKE CARE. By Pu<ede Cary 20
CONTENTS.
TAKE CARE Of TIIK POX 37
"THAT'S HOW."-! 55
TIIK FOOLISH BBS. Bi L a. B. C 58
THE DBAS OLD GRANDMOTHER. Br Carrie 65
TIIK PET PONT. i:v M. »>. j 72
THK I >WER Of MI8S0L0N0HL Bl MRS. M. 0. Johnson 76
THE BTORY Of LITTLE KIT. Br Loot 77
TIIK FLOWBB SPIDER. By Alice Cart 94
THK NEEDY GRASSHOPPER. Bt Annie Moore 95
TIIK [RON fOUNDRT. Bl Salomon Soberside. 101
TIIK DOG AND THE PIK MAN 103
TIIK FIRST BNOW-STORM r.r Mart Latham Clirk 105
THK BNOW-DROP. Bl L A B. C 124
TOM'S LESSON. Bt Mr.s. M. 0. Johnson 126
TIIK BHKP HERDS DOG 127
THK LISTENBB WHO HEARD NO GOOD OF HERSELF. By Alice 128
THK BUD Of PROMISE Bl Klise Osborne 129
THK TWELFTH BIRTH-DAY. FROM the German 132
THK HARD TASK. Bl Iran L 135
THK SMILING fAI K. BY Carrie
Till: - \ FLOWER Bt K. W. Keith 153
THK BIRD'S PARTY. Br Laura J. Haahb 158
THK TABLES I' KM. I' Bl U*CU Herbert 160
THK | 161
IONT AND JACOB. Dy Solomon Soberside 109
. BROTHER Bl < 168
TKUK III HIS 178
THE BUTTER LION. Br 31 M 0 Jontoa
Mil. BIRDS 187
V
W LETNO GRANDMA WITH A KISS
WINTER in mi
\WN
WATERING HIS GARDKN WITH RAIN. Bl Ibs» L M
■: OKWTLU
V
II. H-ili.- 188
PA01
1.— OUT IN THE COLD 9
2.— THE CAT AND THE BIRDS 16
3.— "SOFTLY TIIK ECHOES COME AND GO." 24
4.— WINTER IN THE COUNTRY 33
5— TAKE CARE OF THE FOX 37
6.— NERO AND THE SAILOR 40
7.-.MV PUSSY OAT 41
8.— "SHINE rOUB BOOTS, SIR?" 48
9.-THE OLD APPLE -W.iM\N 60
10.-BERTHA PACKING Ell TRA\ BUNG BASKET 56
11— TIIK OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 57
ML— GKANDMOTfURI \ BIT 64
13— THE PR FONT 72
14 —a PLIA8AN1 & INI * 73
II -i.n i i.k Kir 80
it will ora PLOwni sq
17.— Tin \hhi.Y QftAttHOPPBB
18.— DOLLY 104
19.— Tin: I ! ROHM Ml
20.-sl'<;ai: makim; 1 i:t
m
il— fanny i\ raouBU in
<3.-TIIK f.l.-IENEU WHO MAID NO GOOD OF fflffflTil 128
ILLUSTRATIONS.
24.— THE HARD TASK 135
25.— A PORTRAIT 137
26.— PLAYING SCHOOL 145
27.— THE SMILING FACE 152
28.— THE TABLES TURNED 160
29.— VIOLETS 165
30.— GYP 169
31.— THE BUTTER LION 176
32.— THE RAIN-STORM 185
33.— CATCHING FISHES 188
34.— BUTTERFLIES « 192
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
JANUARY, 1869.
=JRJ*H
OUT IN THE COLD.
itc Sutherland,
[ \< K I ROOT i- :. iharpone,
*' A in I i.
Pom 1 1 1 i t r . r 1 1 . — h:
v.— 2
A ml bitei without mercy
Vniii- cars and your DOSe.
Why, dear little maiden ! < >ut here in the cold,
The -now and the ninth wind
Thai whietlei to bold,
10
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Like a shivering pet lamb Astray from its fold :
With finger-tips aching And feet buried deep
In the snow that lies over The blossoms asleep,
Till Spring comes in sunshine Her promise to keep ?
Hurry on ! Hurry on !
Little maiden, I say, For the wind bloweth keen
On this cold winter day. And the frost has no pity
For any astray.
CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE FOREST.
By Ada M. Kennicott. (
EVENING- came to the snow-birds, and ( they hied away to the forest, where / they hopped about from tree to tree, look- } ing out the best places to sleep. Then < each little head went under a wing, and ) they settled themselves to sleep with a s trust such as we all should have, that He / who had made would also keep them.
For a time all was quiet, then the trees I began to feel themselves slightly shaken, ) and to murmur at the disturbance.
"What is the matter up there?" asked / a small beech that had just seen its first s summer, of its mother, a tall, stately } tree. )
"Oh," replied she, "that troublesome ( north wind is about again, and the pines ) are beginning to sigh and groan about it i
as usual. I am glad every trifling breeze does not annoy me so." ■
"Well, but, you know, you don't keep your leaves green all winter. They have the advantage of you there. ' '
"Small advantage that," grumbled a pine ; ' ' there' s only so much more for the wind to toss about. ' '
"But why are you always so vexed with the wind? I am sure he does no harm, only to stir you a little ; and I don't see how you could get all the snow off your branches without his help."
' ' There is something in that, ' ' answered the pine; "but then he tells such dread- ful stories of his pranks that I am always afraid every time he touches me, and it is so with all my family ; we get so trou- bled that we talk in our sleep about it, and people say the stories we tell are sometimes really dreadful. ' '
"How foolish you allow yourselves to be ! " exclaimed the beech : ' ' for my part, I like to hear him talk, and, rooted as we are to one spot, I do not see how we could ever learn anything about the rest of the world if it were not for the winds and the birds, and such-like roving creatures. But here he comes! I wonder what he has to say now. ' '
"Good evening, Mistress Beech, " said the north wind, briskly; "how are you getting on?"
"Quite well," answered the beech, "though 'tis rather cold. Where have you been since you were last here?"
"Well, I have been up to the north pole. That's my home, you know; and a magnificent place it is, too. Oh, if you
THE CHILDllES'S HOUR.
11
could but see my palace ! Its walls are so bright and clear you would never know them from crystal, and when the sunlight strikes them, they flash with all the colors «>1* the rainbow. You would think they wire painted with the clouds of sunset. But the best of all is, I enjoy it alone. Sometimes, indeed, men are foolish enough to venture up there, but then I roar at them and get the frosts to nip and bite them till they are glad enough to get away again."
Selfish thing!" said the pine. "I am sure I couldn't enjoy anything if I had it all to myself and was too mean to let any one else come near me."
• No," replied the wind, sharply giving her a good shake. "I suppose you would want somebody to complain to."
•• Bow cross you are!" cried the beech, whose branches were getting twisted in
the quarrel.
•Anil'.''" answered the wind. "Well, then, Suppose I don't tell you any more; only, if yon could see things I've seen,
wouldn't yOO like it; and I think. Ma-lain
Pine, yaw would tweak people's noses,
and pinch th<ir car.-, ami nip their t06fl
u much as I. if you had the chance
— eh, mistress?" and with a roar that
-h<»«»k all the trees of the forest, In- de- puted, and a00H they heard his gruff dying away behind the hills.
"Go, if you like," muttered the beech:
. are much too rough to sight, I
have not been able to stand still enough
righl since yon came. Bj
neighbor Pine, it is a lovely
night Ti i clears blue be'
the white clouds, and the moon and stars ride so high and shine so ! I wish I could reach so high ; maybe I would shine too."
"I think you would be only a beech if you were ever so high. I cannot see that growth has changed either of us in color or brightness. But hark! what was that?"
"It is the east wind," answered the beech. "I thought he would be here soon. He has often pleasa*nt stories to . tell, and though sometimes very cold, I do not think him ever so fierce as the north wind."
"Good-even, friends," said a Strong, good-natured voice; "have ye any new tidings?"
"Nay," replied the pine; "we were just wishing for some one to chat with, for since the north wind woke us so roughly we are not inclined to rest again."
••Well." said their visitor, "I can tell you there are great doings to-niirht. What a pity it is you cannot get away to
see them 1 The churches are all lighted
up and hung with cedar, pine and holly bough-. WOVen into festoons and wreaths, and all sort of pretty devices, and the
people are singing joyful music, worship- ing with psalms and hymns as 1 have told you they do on Sunday."
••What U that for?" asked the beech.
"Why. don't yon know?'* exclaimed
the wind : " it i- for what happened I teen hundred and fifty years ago, to
night."
•" Know, indeed !" cried the 1 eh
'• Why. my mother was col even a bud
12 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
on the twig in those days; you are quite } "I should think every one would be too ancient for me. " S studying that book all the time then,"
"Well, I will tell you about it, then," ( said the beech, replied the wind; "but first I must go ) "Yes," sighed , the pine, "I am sure through to the other end of the forest to < we should if we were men. But I am greet my friends there. " ) curious to hear the wind's story, for I
"How strange it must seem," mur- \ half believe it has something to do with mured the pine as the wind rustled away, ( this."
shaking the drowsy tree-tops as he went, ) So they beguiled the time till the wind in rude welcome, "to be able to remem- ( returned, brushing merrily through the ber what happened so many years ago. )■ tree tops. "Are you awake yet, friends?" But the other day I heard something ( asked he.
stranger still, for two children were say- > "Oh yes, and waiting for your story." ing, as they walked beneath my boughs, -•> "Well, you must know it was far that the trees lived many years, but they \ enough from here — that beautiful land should live for ever. Then I thought to $ away over the sea; — and such great trees myself, How can that be? for since I stood ^ grew there as would make you feel small here I know that many thousands stronger ) beside them ; and there were high moun- than you have perished. But I soon ( tains, among whose clefts I have played found they did not mean themselves ( so often, chasing the brooks down into alone, but all who had ever been or ever S the valleys, or twisting my fingers among should be in this world ; and they said < the long tresses of the forests, or carrying though men seem to die here, as you do ) sweet odors into ladies' chambers ; such in the autumn when your leaves fall off, ( ladies as they were too, with large bright they will go to another place and be alive ) eyes and black, shining hair; but the again, just like you in the spring-time ) places I best loved were the plains where when your leaves are all fresh and glo- ^ every night the shepherds watched their rious, and there they will stay for ever. ) flocks. All was so quiet there ; the stars One of them held a little book, and he { looked down so calmly, and I loved to said that whoever remembered the say- \ carry about the songs of the shepherds, ings of that book, to do and keep them, < so simple, so content they were, like the would live again in a most beautiful ^ rippling of sun-kissed rills, place, where they never had any winter S "On the night of which I am speaking, or any night, and where everything was ( these humble, yet happy, men were gath- most perfect and lovely; but if they de- ; ered, as usual, upon the plains near the spised its teachings, they must dwell in a ) city called Bethlehem. One of them, place drearier than this would be if it ) named Ezra, was singing words some- were always night and winter, and that '\ thing like these, while the rest joined in would be for ever too." < the chorus of his song:
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
13
k"Kind Shepherd of the fold,
His arms the lambs shall bear ; He leads them to the clearest streams, To pastures ever fair.
'"He cometh like the light, He cometh like the day ; The nations shadowed long in night Behold his rising ray.'
' ' Scarcely had the song ceased when a bright light shone all around them, and in the midst stood a form clad in white robes and fair as the stars. The men were very much afraid, and one whispered to his neighbor,
' It is an angel from the Lord !'
But the angel said to them kindly, l Fear not; for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people; for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.'
"And then the air seemed full of angels praising God and singing, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good- will toward men.'
At length they passed on and up into tin: far blue heaven, the shining growing Painter and the music softer and softer, till the Pair virion was quite gone. Then the shepherds said to one another,
■ " L't oj go up to Bethlehem and see thifl thing which has 00m« to pafifl and which the Lord hath made known to us.'
'"I followed them very softly, and truly
everything was found just ai the angel had told them. Bo they returned again
with great joy, but I stayed and played
about the couch of the fair child, keep- ing it fresh and cool, and bringing him sweet odors. ' '
"But what does it all mean," asked the trees, ' ' and why was this so great a thing to happen that it should be remem- bered so long?"
"I see you do not understand," sighe# the wind. "That little child was the great and mighty Lord who gives me my paths to walk in, who made you and this great world, with all that is in it, and the heavens with all their gleaming host."
"How then could he be a little child?" asked the beech.
"I cannot tell. Men do not under- stand it, and you know they are wiser than we; they only know it was for their sakes that he laid aside his glory and at last died a cruel death to save them from the punishment of their sins."
"Are they not all very thankful?" asked the pine. "Do they not talk of him and praise him continually?"
"I fear not," replied the wind. "It would make you sad indeed, if you could rove about the world as I do, to see how many there are who have never been told of all he has done for them ; and of those who have been, how many either will not believe it at all, or else do not care for it. It is no wonder that my voice is so often sad, when one reflects upon the wickedness and sorrow I witness — ay, and am often obliged to bear the story of
it upon my wings."
"Then it is much better for us to bo where we are," said the trees, "forvery
little OOmeS here to \e.\ us: hilt what are
14
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
these? Snow-flakes, surely. What sent them out to-night I wonder?"
"They must have come for joy," re- plied the wind: "truly, this night every living thing seems to be restless, as if it ought not to sleep, but to be telling its Maker's praise. Listen! there are the cocks crowing. People do say that on Christmas eve they crow all night long, and it seems to me the birds twitter and move about upon the boughs. What is that you are singing up there, little friends?"
The snow-flakes swung on the branches, and very small, indeed, were the voices that answered — so small that I think no child or man could understand them :
"'0 ye Ice and Snow, bless ye the Lord, Praise him, and magnify him, for ever.'
"A very good song," said the wind; "will you go ride with me, little ones? I will take you a long ways, and show you many strange things. ' ' ;
So the flakes, as many as would, lighted on his broad wings and he went merrily off, so swiftly that many of them were shaken down by the way.
Then the forest grew still, the birds settled themselves anew, and the trees, notwithstanding their wonder and curi- osity, fell asleep, at least you would have thought so from their silence.
Still the snow-flakes drifted down, swiftly, softly, till they had covered every bare, ugly thing from sight, rounding all the rugged points everywhere, making everything look soft and pure. They knew their work and were glad to do it.
< Not one of them murmured because it ) had a dark or unpleasant place to lie in. ) but each dropped quietly to its nook. ( By and by the east began to grow gray, ) then blue, then the dawn-gates flew open. I the sun came out and it was Christmas ) morning.
LITTLE ROSEBUD.
By yennte Gaige.
IT is so long since I last wrote to the children who read the "Hour" that I suppose they have almost forgotten me. Well, I am sorry if they have, for I think often of them. But I was going to tell them something about a sweet lit- tle girl I know of, whom I think they would rather remember than to remem- ber me.
I have written her name, "Little Rosebud," at the top of the page, and she is nearer like that than anything else I know of. I have called her Rosebud, and Birdie, and Daisy all her life, so that I had almost forgotten her real name; but one day I was turning over the leaves of the family Bible, and there I found it written out, "Nettie." A sweet little name it is, too, and fitting, it seemed to me, that it should find a place on the pages of that holy book. As I looked at it and closed the Bible, it seemed to nes- tle down closely within the pages, like a child in its mother's arms, and I thought how fitting it is that all things
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
15
good, and pure, and holy should cluster around the name of our darling.
Our Rosebud lias a playmate of her own aire Darned Minnie; but the two
have taken a fancy to change their names, and in their play Minnie is called Rhoda, and Rosebud is called Fanny — two pet names which they have chosen for them-
3, do "lie knows why. But I have been all this time telling you about the name of my little pet, instead of telling you. as I had intended, about what she does and s
Early in the morning she goes out into the garden and gathers a bouquet of fresh flowers for her mother, and one for her teacher, and with a sweet good-morn- ing ki-- presents them. Thus even a lit- tle child may commence the day with kind acts, and bring cheerfulness and sunshine with her into the hearts of
rs. She feeds her bird, and her
chickens, and her kittens, and they all
to see her and to love her.
When asked whyeverything loves her, sin;
answers with the words you have often
',. which are- always true, "'I think
I love them too." Then I
know that dn- has implanted in her little
beaii the great truth, which we <>f' larger
•li would do well to remember, "' If you would be beloved, yon mus( !"• lov*
And Rosi ! nd loves her God too. She
to think how he made all tie- beau- tiful ,; r :ill she ' i
- and knows all that she and even knowi all her thoughts for then lie iuu-t know how much she loves him.
She looks up into the great blue sky with eyes as deep and as blue as the overarch- ing firmament itself, and wonders if God dwells there, and if all the people she has known, who have died, are with him and happy. She thinks the stars are God's lamps, and thanks him for placing them in the sky to light us in the dark. With childish thoughts and childish won- der she looks upon all she sees, but never fails to thank her heavenly Father for it all.
She is the Rosebud sent us from heaven to teach us, in her own sweet way. to be better and purer, and more loving and gentle; and the prayer I offer at night is. "God bless our little Rosebud, and ever keep her as good and as pure as now!"
WAKING GRANDMA WITH A KISS.
THIS sweet incident is related by a writer. She says: I asked a little boy last evening —
'Nave you called your grandma to tea?"
"Yes. AVhcn F went to call her she
was asleep, and I didn't know how t<>
wake her. 1 didn't wish to hollo at
grandma, nor to .-hake lei-: bo I kissed her cheek, and that woke her very softly.
Then I ran into the hall and said |>ntt\ loud. 'Grandma, tea i- ready.' And -he never knew what woke her."
Bi w urn. lily, beautiful rose, B lutiful ever; Bower thai ui" Beautiful every tiny blade,
I: Mititnl .-ill that ( tad liit 1 1 made.
16
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE CAT AND THE BIRDS.
" TT7HY are the birds, and rabbits, and TT squirrels so afraid of us?" asked Harry, as a woodcock started from the ground near them and went whirring up and away among the trees. Uncle Ilea and his nephew were walking in the woods.
"It's no matter of wonder to me," was answered. "I'm very sure that if I were shot at, and stoned, and frightened, in one way or another, almost every time I went out, by some beings larger and stronger than myself, I would be afraid also."
"But I thought all animals were natu- rally afraid of us?" said Harry.
"All wild animals," replied Uncle Rea, "live constantly on guard, so to speak, for each has its natural enemy ; and most of them have learned to regard us as their common enemy, for almost every- where there are men who, for mere sport, kill them without mere}7-. Hark!"
The report of a gun rang suddenly through the woods, and in a few moments a bird with a broken wing came fluttering through the trees, and fell almost at their feet.
A thrill of pain and pity ran through the boy's heart as he stooped to pick up
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 17
the wounded bird, it died in his hand, mother and his little sister, were made for the shot which had broken its wing beggars, and forced, for a time, to live on went deeper, even to the fountain of charity. Hfe. But begging and its uncertain gains did
*kI don't wonder the birds are afraid," . not suit the little boy; and so he looked said Harry, with a shiver. ; about him for some way in which he could
\N<>r I," answered Uncle Rea. There ; earn money for the support of himself wu a frown on the kind old gentleman's ) and those he loved. When spring opened The sportsman did not see where J he made a large cage of laths and took it the bird fell, and so lost his game; but I I into the woods near the town where he think, if he had found his game, he would ) lived, and climbing the trees, soon got t .-"inething with it that it might ( many nests of young birds, such as chaf- not have been pleasant to receive — or ) finches, linnets, black-birds, wrens, ring- rather, hear. ( doves and pigeons, which, in company
Harry laid the dead bird tenderly away ) with his sister, he carried to the market under some fallen leaves, and then walked 'j of Lussari, and found for them a ready on with Uncle Rea, both silent for a < sale, time. > t;The gains of the little bird-merchant
* We were speaking of birds and ani- I were not, however, enough to meet all
being afraid of man.'' said Uncle > their wants, although he went often to
leaking at length the silence. "It ( the woods and returned withdiis cage full
brought to my mind a pleasant story { of young birds.
of an Italian boy, who, by kindness to ') "In this trouble Francesco thought of
animal-, caused them to love him as a I a new and original way of increasing hi-
deal friend, and to live peacefully to- ) gains; necessity is the mother of inven-
r, though some of them were, in don, and he meditated no less a project
their wild state, what are called natural ' than to train a young Angara cat to live
enemies." ) harmlessly in the midst of his favorite
"Oh, won't you tell me all about it, songsters. Such is the force of habit. ancle?" The serious look went Oltf of j such tin; power of education, that by
Harry'- face, and hi- eye- were bright \ slow degrees he taught the mortal enemy
of hi- winged pets to live, to drink, t"
"The boy'fl name Waf l'Yance-e,i Mi- eat and to sleep in the mid>t of DM little
said Dnok Rea, "and he lived jn charges, without once attempting to in land of Sardinia. When he was jare them. The oat, whom he called Bi
but ten year- old. a fire burned the hoVM RDCa, Buffered the little bird- to play all in which he lived, and hi- father, who -mi- of trick- with her; but never did
loet hii life in the she extend her talons, or offer to hurt her ruins. By thii I mpaniont,
V,i.. v.-3
18
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
' ' He went even farther ; for, not con- tent with teaching them to live in peace and happiness together, he taught the cat and the little birds to play a kind of game, in which each had to learn its own part; and after some little trouble in training, each went through the duty as- signed to it. Puss was instructed to curl herself into a circle, with her head be- tween her paws, and appear buried in sleep; the cage was then opened, and the little tricky birds rushed out upon her and endeavored to awaken her by strokes of their beaks; then dividing into two parties, they attacked her head and her whiskers, without the gentle animal once a ppearing to take the least notice of their gambols. At other times she would seat herself in the middle of the cage and be- gin to smooth her fur and purr with great gentleness and satisfaction; the birds would sometimes even settle on her back, or sit like a crown upon her head, chir- ruping and singing as if in all the security of a shady wood.
"The sight of a sleek and beautiful cat seated calmly in the midst of a cage of birds was so new and unexpected that when Francesco brought them to the fair of Lussari he was surrounded instantly by a crowd of wondering spectators. Their astonishment scarcely knew any bounds when they heard him call each feathered favorite by its name, and saw it fly toward him with delight, till all were perched on his head, his arms and his fingers.
"Delighted with his ingenuity, the spectators rewarded him liberally, and
Francesco returned in the evening with his little heart swelling with joy, and gave his mother a sum of money large enough to support her for many months.
"This ingenious boy next trained sone young partridges, one of which became strongly attached to him. This Hrd, which he called Rosoletta, once brought back to him a beautiful goldfinch that had escaped from its cage and was lost in a neighboring garden. Francesco was in despair at the loss, because it was a good performer, and he had promised him to the daughter of a lady from vhoni he had received much kindness. On the sixth morning after the goldfinch had es- caped, Rosoletta, the tame and intelligent partridge, was seen chasing the truant bird before her along the top of the lin- den trees toward home. Rosoletta led the way by little and little before him, and at length getting him home, seated him in apparent disgrace in a corner of the aviary, whilst she flew from side to side, in triumph at her success."
"Oh, isn't that all wonderful!'-' ex- claimed Harry. "I wish I could have seen that cat with all the birds sitting around her or perched on her head. But isn't there more of the story? It is so interesting."
\£A little more," answered Uncle Rea, with a slight shade in his voice. "Fran- cesco died very suddenly."
"Oh dear! How did that happen, uncle?"
' ' He was gathering a species of mush- room common in Italy, and not being careful, picked and ate some that were
THE CHILDREN'S 110 UR
19
poisonous, and died in a few days in spite of every remedy that eould be given."
"Poor Francesco!" sighed Harry. ••And what became of his birds?"
•• 1 baring the three days of his illness," said Uncle Ilea, "the birds flew con- stantly round and round his bed, some Badly upon his pillow, others flitting backward and forward above his head, a few ottering brief but plaintive cries, and all taking scarcely any food.
uHia death showed, in a wonderful manner, what love may be excited in ani- mals by gentle treatment Francesco's birds were all sensible of the loss of a benefactor, but none of his feathered fa- vorites showed such real grief as Roso- letta. When poor Francesco was placed in his coffin, she flew round and round it, and at last perched upon the lid. In vain they several times removed her; she still returned, and even persisted in going with tin- funeral procession to the place of graves. During his burial she sal upon a cypress tree to watch where they
laid the remains of her friend; and when
the crowd left, she forsook tin- bdoI do more, except to return to the cottage of hi- mother for food. While she lived she eame daily to perch and to sleep upon the
turp-t of a chapel which looked upon his
. and here Bhe lived, and here she \\ lour in-. nth- after the death of hi • master.
II a little while, and
tlen. :i- he drew i I^hl' breath of relief, for the story of poor Francesoo'i death and i hi pief of hi- birds had made him feel lad laid :
"Won't you write this story all out, Uncle Rea, and send it to 4Tiie Chil- dren's Hour?' "
"I saw it in a book," answered Uncle Ilea, "and maybe the children who read the ' I lour' have seen it."
"I don't believe one in fifty of them have ever seen it," replied Harry, in a confident tone.
"Maybe not," said Uncle Rea.
"You'll write it out then?"
"If you say so, Harry." ■
"Well. I do say so! And when you send it, Uncle Rea, just ask Mr. Ann hi: to let the man who makes pictures for him draw one of the old cat with the birds all around her. I know all the chil- dren would like it, and I'd like it my- self."
So the story was sent, and our artist ha- made the picture which stands at the head of this article for our little friends.
ROCKED ON THE DEEP.
By M. O. y-
SOME yean ago, in a sea-coast town ..f England, six tittle children were one daj playing on the shore and crept into a small boat. The eldest was but nine; tin- real leu than five year- old. An older boy, in thoughtless cruelty, un- tied the boat, aid despite their eric- and
entreaties, poshed her "IV for the fun of Brightening them. Away she drifted, far
..ill ..ii tin- ODta sea : and though, a- BOOB
;i n was known, boats were rowed in
20
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
every direction, nothing was seen or heard of them all that afternoon and night. The distress in their homes may be im- agined, not written.
Early the next morning a fisherman from a neighboring town, sailing in his sloop, saw something on the water at a distance, and by his spy-glass discovered that it was a boat. He made all the speed he could toward it, and found the little ones all cuddled down together, fast asleep. He took them on board his ves- sel, gave them food and comforted them, promising to take them home, for the eldest child could tell their story.
It was a sail of several miles; and it was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon that the people gathered on the shore discovered the sloop, evidently bound in, and with a boat astern. With their spy-glasses they ascertained that the boat was the same which had drifted away. But what had become of the chil- dren? For a little time the suspense was awful. But as soon as the sloop came within hail, the fisherman shouted, "All safe!"
"All safe!" The word passed from one to another like lightning, and strong men burst into tears. Soon the rescued little ones were in their mothers' arms. You know already that the joy and grati- tude of that hour could not but flow forth in prayer.
It was the hand of a Father, all-loving, all-wise, all-powerful, that kept the frail little bark steadily afloat, wrapped the children in a quiet slumber, suffering no great fish or bird of prey to come near;
and sent them aid. It is easy to acknow- ledge this. But, dear children, we live in the midst of dangers, some of them seen, but many unseen; and that Father's loving care is as really about us every mo- ment as about those little ones. Do we love him, trust in his mercy and serve him, as did the humble fisherman, by doing good in whatever way is in our power? If so, he will guide our life-bark safely across the changing sea of time, and anchor us at the golden shores of heaven.
TAKE CARE.
By Alice Cary.
LITTLE children, you must seek Bather to be good than wise, For the thoughts you do not speak Shine out in your cheeks and eyes.
If you think that you can be Cross or cruel, and look fair,
Let me tell you how to see You are quite mistaken there.
Go and stand before the glass, And some ugly thought contrive,
And my word will come to pass Just as sure as you're alive !
What you have, and what you lack, All the same as what you wear,
You will see reflected back ; So, my little folks, take care !
And not only in the glass
Will your secrets come to view;
All beholders, as they pass,
Will perceive And know them too.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
21
Goodness -how> in blushes bright,
Or in eyelids dropping down, Like a violet, from the light : Badness, in a sneer or frown.
Out of sight, my boys and girls, Every root of beauty starts ;
So think less about your curls,
More about your minds and hearts.
Cherish what is good, and drive Evil thoughts and feelings far;
For, as sure as you're alive,
You will show for what you are.
EVERY LITTLE HELPS.
By the Author of "Ten Nights in a Bar-
l
M for temperance," said a brown-
i little fellow; and he shut his
lip- firmly, looking the very picture of
ttioiL
•• In lead I Then it's all over with King
Aloohol," answered his older brother,
laughing.
"Oh. you may laugh ! It doesn't hurt
anything!" said John, not in the least
dashed by his brother'.- poor opinion of
hi- influence. " If I'm not as old nor
I count one on the right
v little helps, ai mother
- i I'm for temperance, and I
don't ears who Icnowi it
I » d • i indeed I S'pose all the world knew it what then?" "Why, the world would know that
when I I be One man liv-
ing who didn't spend his money nor idle his time in bar-rooms; who didn't make his wife sit up half the night for him, crying her eyes out; and who didn't neg- lect or .abuse his children. That's what the world would know, and I guess it would help the good cause a little."
"Don't talk so loud, John." His brother spoke in a low voice. "Uncle Phil might hear you. He's in the next room."
"Is he? Well, I'm not ashamed to let him know that I'm for temperance. I only wish he was. Maybe Aunt Susy wouldn't cry as much as she does; and maybe they'd have a house of their own to live in."
' l H-u-s-h, John ! He'll be angry if he hears you. ' '
"Getting angry wouldn't make it any better, Ned," firmly answered John. "I'm a temperance boy; and if Uncle Phil gets angry because I just say that I wish he was a temperance man, he'll hare to get angry; that's all. I love Aunt Susy. She's as good a> she can be: and Uncle Phil makes her cry with his drink- ing and getting tipsy. Its a great deal worse for bim to do it than lor me to say it : and he'd ■ great deal better Lret angry at himself than at mi
It was as Ned had feared. Uncle Phil,
who was in the next room, heard even- word of this conversation. Was be very angry at the little apostle of temperance? We shall sea. At the mention of oil name, be pricked up bis oars to listen. As John said, "I'm not ashamed to let him know that I'm for temperance: I
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
only wish he was," two red spots burned on his cheeks, and he looked annoyed. But when John added, "Maybe Aunt Susy wouldn't cry as much as she does; and maybe they'd have a house of their own to live in, ' ' the spots went off of his cheeks, and he grew quite pale.
What John said after this didn't bring the blood back to his face, but made it, if anything, paler. He got up in a cowed sort of way, and left the room so quietly that the two boys did not hear him go out.
Now, Uncle Phil, about whom John had spoken so plainly, deserved all that was said of him, and a great deal more. Intemperance had almost destroyed his manhood. He was the slave of strong drink. Appetite, indulged for years, had gained a fearful power over him, and to gratify his burning thirst, he spent nearly every dollar that he earned, and lived with his family meanly dependent on his brother. Once he had been in a good business; now he was a clerk, on small pay, in the store of a friend named Mr. Osborne, who kept him more out of pity than for the service he gave. Sometimes he would be absent from his post for days, and often for hours in each day. The friend, after scolding him, pleading with him, threatening him, but all to no purpose, had about made up his mind to turn him adrift.
"I can't have him here any longer," said Mr. Osborne, speaking to his head clerk. "I've tried my best to help him, but it's no use. As he drinks up every- thing he earns, it will be better for him to earn nothing."
"I've long thought that," answered the clerk. "The fact is, you've borne with him to a degree that surprises every one in the store."
"I shall do it no longer," was the reso- lute reply.
"There he comes now," said the head clerk.
Mr. Osborne turned, with a hard look in his face, intending to stop Uncle Phil before he reached his desk and tell him that his duties there were at an end. But something in Uncle Phil's manner kept him from speaking what was in his thought. The poor man came in with a quicker step, and an air of earnestness about him not seen for a long time.
"I'll not be late again, Mr. Osborne," he said, in a humble way. "It's all wrong; but it sha'n't happen again."
"I hope not," replied Mr. Osborne, in a tone that gave Uncle Phil a start.
"You've a right to be displeased," the wretched man said. "I only wonder you've borne with me so long. But have patience with me a little while longer. I've made my mind up to lead a new life, God helping me!"
Uncle Phil's voice trembled, and pity came back into Mr. Osborne's heart.
"God alone can help you," answered his kind friend. ' ' Unless you get strength from him, your case is hopeless."
"I am resolved never to drink one drop of liquor again so long as I live," said Uncle Phil, speaking solemnly.
"All good resolutions are from heaven, my friend," answered Mr. Osborne, "and from heaven conies the power to keep
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
23
them. Trust not in your own poor strength — it has failed you a thousand time — but look upward, and while you pray tor help, keep yourself out of the old ways wherein your feet have stum- bled. This is y.mr part of the work, and must not fail fa- an instant. If you go where liquor is sold, you go out of the circle of safety; if you touch or taste it. y.»u fall. God cannot help you, unless you try to help yourself; and the only way in which you can help yourself is to keep far off from danger. "While you do this no strong desire lor liquor will be felt; but if you taste it. you are lost."
Uncle 1'hil stood with bent head while Mr. ( taborne was talking.
'"I will never taste it again," he an- r, so long as I live!"
A thing happened that evening which had not happened for months. Uncle
Phil made one of the family circle at tea- time. He came in with a sober fa< •• and quiet air, giving all a pleased surprise. John, who had spoken his mind so freely in the morning, and who had been think- ing about him all day— for he WSS pretty l fncle Phil had heard his plain talk — could ii"t keep bis eyes from his face. . soon became aware that .John nng him with keen interest All at once, breaking the embarr silence of tie- tea-table, he asked, looking
at the boy.
•' What are you for, John?"
a moment John hesitated, while hi- «-i Then hi
firmly.
" I in for t. mpei
There was an uneasy stir around the table, and a surprised looking from face to face.
"So am I, John; and that makes two on the right side; and we don't care who knows it!" spoke out Uncle Phil, in a clear, ringing voice.
Oh, what a tearful, happy time came then! Aunt Susy cried for joy, and John's mother cried and hugged her lit- tle son when Uncle Phil repeated the brave, strong words he had heard him say in the morning — words that went like arrows to his heart.
Uncle Phil never drank again. Before a year had passed he and Aunt Susy were in a small house of their own, inde- pendent and happy.
So you see how much may be done by a little boy who Btands up for temper- ance, and IS not afraid to speak strong words in a irood cause.
A GOOD-NIGHT SONG.
T< ) bed, to bed, my curly head ! To bed, and sle< p bo sweetly ; Merry and bright with the morning Be up and dressed no neatly.
Thru for a \v:ilk, and a pleasant talk
About the birds and flowi And all the day, in irork and play, We'll pen the happy noun.
And then to bed, to real the bead, A nd sleep until to-morron i
Without :i -had.
24
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
"SOFTLY THE ECHOES COME AND GO.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
26
"SOFTLY THE ECHOES COME AND GO.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Andtntimo
1. S<.ft - Iv the ech - oes come and uri> Ov - er the cracklinf •J. s it - ly beat8the list'uing heart, In nil tli« music
frost and snow — The ech - <«<-) of tli» 1>.-1U whi h riiir-A wel - come t.> the
t.ik - m_; part; And through the cor - ri - <l'>r> of tli<'iij;litjinin> breez ■ y tones with
I '■'■'■*■■
zzzr-'g- —
p CT^ ^. . . . f
« m • m m m * ■ — ' * +
r King! While childi low and mild, Sing praises to the Heaven-horn Child. Parana1 near.
■M The tones m hlcfa in our youthful days Taught n> to knee] in prayer and l near,
Ui i|..ujjit^iijjj,l fl JfTfifr i
8oftlj the • ■■ I -
. I I l< I I l' -I I . II I „ 'I ■> .- _1 | | I IT .. ||. ..--» < ■ -HI •
mimIimii. high and low, Softly th shot
Sf
'.» m
"
rot. r, i
20
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
HOPE DARROW.
A LITTLE GIEL'S STORY.
By Virginia F. Totvnsend.
CHAPTER I.
SOMETIMES I think it's hardly worth the telling. It isn't a grand story, you know, such as little boys and girls might have to tell who live in fine houses and dress handsome enough every day for Sundays, and eat from china and sil- ver, and have all the love and care they know what to do with.
Mine is a very different story from that sort: a little, homely, country story of a little fatherless, motherless girl, who had nothing to boast of in parts or beauty; and yet it sometimes seems to me that, if you listen, you may hear the fresh, sweet winds from the clover meadows blowing through my story, and that some- thing of a summer's morning, with its sunshine and glitter of dews and singing of birds, shall wind themselves in and out of this little green footpath of my tale.
And though I have nothing fine or grand to say, yet I cannot tell of some things that happened to me without the big tears coming warm and fast ; and of others without the laughter rings among my thoughts, sweet and loud as the music which the Swiss players ring out of their bells. So, if by some wonderful chance, a great thing should happen and my story should ever get into a real book, it might quicken the hearts of some little boys and girls; and what if the tears should
come into their eyes too, and the smiles twinkle suddenly out into their faces?
But, as I said, " really getting into a book" with such a little story as mine seems a matter hardly to hope for. It just makes my heart jump to think of so grand a thing happening to me, Hope Darrow! — a thing to dream about and partly hope for, but that never can really come to pass.
Still, I shall tell the story just the same, because I cannot help it; and I shall fancy that the little boys and girls stand listening eager about me, and that they never grow tired when my story is dull, and never laugh and wink at each other over my mistakes.
My name is Hope Darrow, and my father died before I can remember ; and so, almost, did my mother, although I sometimes seem to see her face, like faces we remember in a dream, bending down toward me ; and by something tender and sorrowful in the eyes, and something- sweet and quivering about the lips, ] know that is the face of my mother ; and in just that way she used to look at me long, long ago, when I sat in her lap or tottled at her knee — the face of my mo- ther before the daisies grew over it.
I have a big brother too ; and two years ago, when my story first commences, he was just double my age, for he was seven- teen, and his name is just Lewis. I love him — this big brother of mine — better than anything in the world, and before I am done I mean you shall love him too.
He's as big as two of me, Lewis is; and he can swing me up in his arms and toss
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
27
me about as though I were of no more account than a pet kitten. I wish I could tell you that he was graceful and hand- some, but I don't think he is either, al- though the first time it dawned upon me that he was not both, I was cut to the heart
I had gone down that night to meet Lewis as he returned from the saw-mill. I went over the old bridge by the river and sat on a log under the trees on the bank. It was chilly there, for the Octo- ber moon had waxed and waned, and I gathered my little red plaid shawl tighter about me and wished it was bigger and wanner, although I would not have had Lewis hear me say that for all the world.
The leaves looked crisp and faded, and there were great streaks of yellow in the oaks, and here and there was a great red blush of maples, and I could see in the orchards across the creek the heaps of apples piled at the foot of the trees. It was lonely sitting there and watching the dark water of the little narrow river on it- way to the sea — the great sea where the flocks of white bird- dash and cry, and the Bl slide np and down in
the wind, like mighty -pint- walking upon the di
While I .-at there in the fading light, and the mists from the river stealing up
and nUing the air with damp and chill, tWO Of the BChool-girls came along and
ed up-.n the bridge, and itared at moment Then one of the girls oaOed out. -Why. II' D rrow, what do yun mean sitting
down there so lonesome on that old stump?"
"I'm waiting for my brother," I said. "He'll be up in a few minutes."
So they went on, and I heard one say to the other, "Doesn't she look kindei awful all alone down there?"
' ' Yes ; it scared me at first. I wouldn' t do it for my brother, I know."
"Nor I, Esther; but then, you Hope sets the world on hers, for he is all she's got. He's not much *to boast of, though. He's only a great, big, homely fellow, with a bridge of freckles across his nose, and his hair of no color at all, unless it is a bit of old, faded brown mat- ting."
"I know it; but after all, they say he's real shrewd and honest at the bot- tom."
This was the last I heard, the girls having no idea how loud they were talk- ing. As for telling you how I felt, that would be quite impossible. To have my dear, good, noble brother put down in that way !
I was hot all over with anger, and yet sometime: swelled in my throat, BO that I had to swallow and swallow to keep from
bursting right out in a great sob. In a few minutes somebody shouted to me
across the rivet in a lond, pleased voice:
" BoUol Hope there?" I sprang right
up and 90amp«red aCTOSS the bridge, and
Was at my brother's side.
u()h. Lewis, I'm so glad I How tale you've been to nignl I" "You looked like a little Red Riding
led there on that log under
28
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
the bridge, and I am the big wolf that's come along to eat you. ' '
"No, you're not a big wolf, either," I said stoutly, and then I looked him all over. He was anything but slender — there was no denying it — with those large, stout limbs ; and there were the freckles stretching from one cheek to the other, and his hair — I tried to think it was fine and golden brown, with a pretty curl in it, but when it was rough in the wind, as it was to-night, it stood up a good deal like bristles.
"Well, Hope," he said, "if I'm not a big wolf, I'll be something better. You shall be the lost princess in the forest, and I the knight that rescued her and brought her gifts of fruits and flowers. See there, now ! ' '
He opened the basket in which he usually carried his dinner, and there, sure enough, was a heap of wild grapes, the great purple clusters piled one upon an- other, and some sprays of salvia, every red leaf glittering like a spark of fire among the bunches.
"Oh, Lewis!" clapping my hands, "where did you find them?"
"Up in the woods yonder. That's what made me late to-night. I knew where the vines grew, and I thought these would be a nice little treat for you, but I never suspected you were waiting down there in the damp and cold by the river. How red your little hands are!"
"No matter: I forgot my mittens, Lewis," helping myself to the grapes. "Oh, how sweet they arc!" as the juices melted like honey in my mouth.
In a few minutes I had eaten my fill, and then we started for home. Then I remembered the talk I had heard sitting down there by the river, and which I had forgotten while I was eating the grapes.
"What's the matter with you, Hope?" asked Lewis, as he helped me over the bars, looking under my hat.
"Why, what made you ask?"
"Because I saw something was wrong. Tell me, Hope?" drawing my hand, which he had made warm in his, a little closer.
"It's a shame — a burning shame — a wicked lie ! " I burst out now.
"Is it so bad as that?" said Lewis, a good deal surprised.
"Yes, and a good deal more than that, Lewis Darrow. ' '
Of course, after that it had to come out. I hated to tell him, for fear it would hurt him, but there was no help for it ; so I just repeated the girls' talk which I had overheard, sitting under the bridge.
I was very much surprised to hear him burst out into a loud, hearty laugh, as though he really enjoyed it.
"Why, Lewis Darrow," I said, "is that all you care?"
' c Yes, every whit, ' ' he said. ' ' I think it's real fun."
"To be called big, and clumsy, and homely ! It makes me just mad to think of it, and not a word of truth in it, either!"
"It strikes me there was more fact in it all than fiction. ' '
"Why, Lewis Darrow!" I said, stand- ing still, "don't you care about being handsome, and how you look?"
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
29
"Not much : not at all as a girl would, you know. I suppose now, about the worst thing you could say about one would be that she wasn't good-looking."
"It would be a very bad thing to say. She wouldn't be likely to forget it," I answered.
"Well, boys are different, you see; and then you must admit they gave me some . for they admitted I was shrewd and honest"
•• Y- -t -: but then, of course, everybody knows that, and the other wasn't true."
"That's a matter of opinion. I'm per- fectly satisfied with my looks, freckles and ail. bo long as they stand well in one pair of shy, bright eyes that are worth more to me than all the other eyes in the world."
I knew what that meant, and I just drew a little closer to the dear fellow and 1 ap in his face, and Lewis .-miled down on me.
The homeliest lace would look hand- under that smile. It opened the ud glowed in their warm brown ft expression to the
mouth that did look just a little grim when it WSS dosed and the whole face \v;i>
thoughtful "Don't yon fret anymore about that."
-aid I.
■• No; f won't, u true as I live," I an- 1. thinking that if he wasn't band-
I gnat many thin-- that
were better; and after all, ai Lewi- -aid.
4,it didn't make go much matter with
we went ap home through the com
fields that night, the wind growled among the barren trees, and among the yellow stalks, and I couldn't help shivering a little.
I saw Lewis looking at my thin shawl with something hard and bitter in his face. I knew well enough what he was thinking, and I tried to look as though 1 did not care for the cold.
"I think it's nice to hear the wind blow, don't you?" I asked.
He understood just why I said that. Lewis was always quick to see down through wtf)rds to what lay at the bot- tom of them, as in some brooks you can see far down where the pebbles lie at the bottom and the small fish glide softly through the water.
"I shouldn't think the wind would be particularly nice to a little girl when it shivers her all up and turns her fingers red and her nose blue. It's a different thing with a big, lusty fellow like me: but little girls want warm clothe.- win n the wind Mows."
That WSS a fact I could not deny, 'flu winter was coming and I had not the warm clothe.-, nor Lewi> the money to buy them.
It took about all he could earn to pa} our board at the Ma.<re-drivcr'.- where \\<
lived. It was not a very pleasant home.
either, for the man was surly and bis wife had a temper that was always in a kind of chronic fret. She was not really 'in
kind, but she had something cross grained in her from the beginning, and bard work
and unthrifty way- had not improved the
original -tuff.
30 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Still it was the best home that heart ( less strangers until I can't earn her a bit and hands could make, and it was a great ) of a crust to eat, or a bit of roof to shel- deal that we could always be together, ( ter her. ' '
for the stage-driver and his wife were ) That was as much as two years ago, willing to give us food and shelter for £ and ever since nobody had said anything such pay as even my brother's scanty < to him about " binding his sister out. " wages afforded, though they grumbled ) I remembered that time to-night. In- and fretted over it ; but then grumbling \ deed, there was no danger of my ever for- and fretting were the habit of the house- ) getting it. hold. \ We had been walking on in silence for
Going home that night my heart was ( a long time. I looked up at Lewis with full, and it seemed as though its cold ^ the tears in my eyes, darkness was like the cold of the growl- ( "Why, Hope, what is the matter?" he ing wind, like the dark that was coming S asked, standing still, down to roll up the day. < "Oh, Lewis," I broke out, "it would
It seemed to me that I was of no sort ( be almost better if I were not here — if I of use in the world — that I lay a heavy ) lay down still and close by dear mamma ! burden on the youth of my brother. 1(1 can't do anything, only be a burden and knew it was only for my sake he stayed $ a trouble to you. Don't you wish, some- on in this quiet old hill town, dividing his \ times, you were well rid of me?" days between the saw-mill and the stage- ( ' ' No, never ! " he broke out. ' ' You driver's. If it had not been for his help- ( are the only comfort I have in the world, less, clinging little sister, he would have < Hope, and I'll stick to the old saw-mill gone out into the great world and made a ; and work my arms to the bone before I'll place there for himself. < go away from you. I'll keep my promise
Once long ago, one of the neighbors had ; to the end. ' ' said to him in a careless way, "Now, s "What promise, Lewis?" Lewis Darrow, you are making a fool of ) "My promise to mamma, Hope. You yourself to tie down to that child. It's \ don't know about that; but the last day too hard on a young fellow like you. Let ( of her life she put her long, thin fingers her shift for herself. Just have her S on your little curly head and looked up in bound out among some good folks and { my face — oh, I see that look now!" he rake her own chance in the world." How (! choked suddenly.
Lewis' eyes did blaze ! He rose right up s I drew nearer to him: "Tell me, off his seat in the kitchen. "Never," ( Lewis."
he said, "so long as I've got a right hand ) He cleared his throat: " 'The child, to work will I put that little sister of ( Lewis. What will become of her. You mine away from me. Never talk to me ) are all she's got.' about sending her off among cold, heart- ( "'And I'll never leave her. I'll take
THE CHILimES'S HOUR.
SI
care of her. You may trust me, mo- ther,' I .-aid.
"A smile came into her face. 'Ah, Lewis, my boy, you're wise and old be- yond your years. I will trust you,' she slid.
• I was a little shaver then, not quite a dozen years did. but I've kept my word -ince, and I mean to," said Lewis Harrow.
[to be continued.]
BERTIE.
F<)R TI1K VERT LITTLE ONES.
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
TIIK rammer sun shone down on a pretty picture framed in the doorway of the old farm-house, climbed over by b-brier. Little Bertie, cicely washed mid dressed, his Bhorl golden curb played with by the morning breeze, his blue eyes bright and eager. Bertie's papa had
been away in the army lor many month-.
and though mamma often talked to the little buy about his father ami -bowed
him hi- picture, he bad but a dim idea
of what papa was or bow he looked.
Beitie WSJ hardly two year- old.
Well, this morning mamma wa- very
busy, and had left her little bey alone i few minutes, ami he had trotted to the door, ami everything looked so bright pleasant be thought he would take Ic, Fir-t be turned round and crept lily backward off tin- door itep ; then rambled op on hit r« 1 1 igain, and
patter, patter they went down the walk. The grass was very green, the birdies Bang, and buttercups and daisies were plenty. To be sure, Rover, the great house-dog, came rubbing against him, and down he tumbled, but he was not hurt, and little did he care that the pretty pink and wdiite dress and ruffled apron were much the worse. He picked him- self up and went stumbling through the long grass to a place where the butter- cups were thickest and sat down a while to pick them. When he had his apron full, his dress adorned here and there with a spot of green, he trotted on again. A tiny field-mouse ran right over his foot with pussy in full chase. Bertie started to run too, for he wanted to see which way mouste went, and whether there was a nest with wee baby mousies in it: but pretty soon he tripped overs Stone, and down he went again, losing all his flower.-. Bertie cried a little then, rubbing his small brown paws into hi- eve-, and by this time face and hands, clothes and shoes, Were COl :it all in trim to suit
mamma. Bertie brightened up. though, ami found his way out to the road. Near by was :i will.-, deep, rushing brook, that the little boy greatly liked, but which was
\rry un8afe lor -mall traveler-. Beitie
thought of the flowers that grew dose beside it large y. How cowslips and of
the nice time hr had down there witli
Cousin Frank, throwing pebbles into the vrater. < >h. how they did splash ' Ber j tio thought ho would go t.. the brook, On ho trotted, thou frightened
him once or twice, but of the real dan# i
32 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
so near those tiny feet no word of warn- ) "It isn't big enough for both, sister.1' ing reached him. Ah, Bertie — poor lit- \ "Then I will try and stretch it a lit- tle Bertie ! — if only mamma knew ! ( tie ;" and they were soon as close together
Close, close to the stream's brink, and — ) and as warm as birds in the same nest. Bertie screamed with fright, for a tall, ( Now, why can't we all stretch our corn- strong man grasped him firmly and lifted > forts a little? There are many shivering him in his arms. Bertie did not know ( bodies, and sad hearts, and weeping eyes that he had ever seen him before, and / in the world, just because people do not the man, when he caught him away from ) stretch their comforts beyond themselves, that certain peril, did not at first think ( the dirty, forlorn-looking child his own. ) But he looked into the little muddy face I HUMILITY.
and saw the mother's eyes and mouth, >
and clasping his boy close to his heart ) . FARMER went with his son into a. quieting his fears with gentle tones and \ ^ wheat.field to see if ifc wag ready for caresses, carried him home m his arms. ) the West< ug^ father>„ exclaimed
Little children, we often do not fear at k the boy> «how gtraight thege gtemg ho]i> all that which would harm us most, but ) up their headg, They mugt be the begt shrink from what comes to us as our rich- < QnQ^ Those that hang their headg down est blessing. Even our Father in heaven < j am gure cannQt be gQod &r mucb „ sometimes finds us afraid at his coming! S The farmer plucked ft gtalk of eac}i But it is better to trust him and let him ( kind and said? »gee ^ my chM lead us in all things than try to go alone. J> Thig gta]k that gtood gQ gtraight ig ljght.
— ^^^-^o!^— ( beaded, and almost good for nothing.
) while this that hung its head so modestly STRETCH IT A LITTLE. ( is full of the most beautiful grains."
— •^>-~*a: >!*>?-
A LITTLE girl and her brother, says ( . _, . tir¥ . h .
., TF„ a . ,, . i An old proverb says: (iood counsel
the Well- Spring, were on their way ) , ; i ,, , • ,
,, , , , , . m, s breaks no man s head ; on which some
to the store the other morning. Ine ( , '
., , . •,, ( one remarks: But the neglect to take
the common was white with ) . , , . ■ ,
good counsel has not only broken many a man's head, but also many a man's heart. ' '
grass on
frost, and the wind was very sharp. They ) were both poorly dressed, but the little ) girl had a kind of cloak over her which ) she seemed to have outgrown. ?
As they walked briskly along, she drew ) A wise son maketh a glad lather; but the little boy closer to her, and said, I a foolish son is the heaviness of his mo- 41 Come under my coat, Johnny." ) ther.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
WINTER IN THE COUNTRY.
"rTIHIS f'tiin-yai'l scene is pleasant to
I look upon, even though ir la mid-
r, with the boow lying deep on
thing and the air frosty :m<l keen,
because the cattle are well cared for, and
the iroman who la milking and the man
uh<> ia feeding them are warmly clad."
I fncle Herbert, aa be held u winter picture in hia hand and talked to onp of children who had gathered round him. ■■ Don' I people in the country tome- red Dp in their QOtl
i ttl( \- -ily. v.— 5
j "Yes, away in the North."
J "So that they can't get out?"
•• "Not until they have dug paths-through
I the snow."
"What Bplendid run that must bel" exclaimed one of the boya
"There ia a beautiful poem by Whil tier called 'Snow-bound,'" said I Herbert, "in which he telle na how, when a boy, he waa snowed op in hia father's house, and how they all dog patha through the drift."
"( Hi read it for as I !><>. (Jnole Hei bert I" cried baif a dosen eager v oi< " It bad snowed bard for two dayi and aid I fncle Herbert " I [on il
34
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
looked on the second morning the poet tells us. ' ' And he read —
"And when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below —
A universe of sky and snow !
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvelous shapes ; strange domes and
towers Kose up where sty or corn-crib stood, Or garden wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile
showed, A fenceless drift that once was road ; The bridle-post an old man sat, With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat: The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle.
"A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted : ' Boys, a patli V Well pleased (for when did farmer-boy Count such a summons less than joy?) Our buskins on our feet we drew ; With mittened hands and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow, We cut the solid whiteness through. And where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal : we had read Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, And to our own his name we gave, With many a wish that luck was ours To test his lamp's supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din, And roused the prisoned brutes within. The old horse thrust his long head out, ) And grave with wonder gazed about ; ( The cock his lusty greeting said, ) And forth his speckled harem led ; ( The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, ) And mild reproach of hunger looked ; ( The horned patriarch of the sheep — ) Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep — s Shook his sage head with gesture mute, } And emphasized with stamp of foot."
( "So heavy was this fall of snow, ' ' said t Uncle Herbert, as he ceased reading, s "that all the roads for many miles around ) were blocked up, and no neighbor reached ) the snow-bound family for several days. c Let me read you what the poet says of > the third night and morning. ' '
'And while with care our mother laid The work aside, her steps she stayed One moment, seeking to express Her grateful sense of happiness For food and shelter, warmth and health, ( And love's contentment more than wealth, / With simple wishes (not the weak, ) Vain prayers which no fulfillment seek, ( But such as warm the generous heart S O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) ( That none might lack, that bitter night, ) For bread and clothing, warmth and Light.
) " Within our beds a while we heard
(' The wind that round the gables roared,
S With now and then a ruder shock,
( Which made our very bedstead rock.
) We heard the loosened clap-boards tost,
£ The board-nails snapping in the frost:
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
85
And on us, through the unplastered will. Felt the light sifted snow-Hakes fall.
a morn we wakened with the shout Of merry voices high and clear,
And saw the teamsters thawing near To break the drifted highways oat
Down the long hill-side treading slow We saw the half-buried oxen go, Shaking the huj\\ from heads uptost, Their .-training nostril.-, white with frost. Before our door the struggling train Drew up, an added team to gain."
• Is that all of it?" asked little Nelly, who had listened with wide-open eyes.
"No," answered Uncle Herbert.
"Won't you read more?"
"• If you would like to have me do so, 1 will read the whole poem. It won't take long, and I think you will enjoy it very much."
"Oh, please do!" they all cried.
And Uncle Herbert read for the chil- dren the whole of Whitticr's "SNOW- BOI NI>." one of the BWeetest poems ill
the tangos
It was an evening long remembered by tic- children, who entered into the spirit of the poem, and enjoyed it even more than Uncle Herbert thought they would.
The -aim- pleasure i> in store for hun- dred- of family groups this winter, (let
Snow bound." if it is not al in your library, and have it read
aloud lor young and old on some stormy night, when the mow beata against your windows. Von will find a new enjoy- ment
A PICTURE AND A STORY.
By a Subscriber to the '■'Hour.
OH, isn't it lovely? Ellsworth, as he
?" exclaimed Carrie her mother unrolled Mr. Arthur's new and beautiful picture. "The Angel of Peace," which had just come by mail. If any of you have seen it, you know that my words cannot do it justice; but to those who have not I will try to give some idea of the subject.
In the foreground an angel flies far above a vast city now wrapped in silence and night. In the west is the crescent moon; above and around her the shining stars. She holds on her bosom a half- sleeping child. The little one's eyes are just opening, as if in partial waking; her arms clasp the angel's neck, while Bhe leans trustingly on her breast. The faces are very beautiful — the child's pure, con- fiding, peaceful, while that of the angel is radiant with love and joy.
"Carrie, " said Mrs. Ellsworth, "this
picture is as perfect an illustration of Miss Proctor's beautiful poem. 'Tie Angela Story." BS if it had been designed for it. Shall I tell you about it?"
•( )h do. mother!" answered the little girl, eagerly, a pleased light breaking over her face,
"It was Christmas eve, bright with twinkling Btars and musical with chiming bell-; while ohnrohes and homes, adorned with evergreen, sent upward sweel an thems of '< Hory to God, and peace on
earth. In one of the wcalt hiest homo in the great city a little child lay on hi>
36
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
downy bed, surrounded by loving friends and every outward comfort and luxury, but moaning in pain. His mother knelt beside him, smiling even in the midst of her grief; comforting him with words of love and the promise that in a little time his suffering would be over and he should see the Lord Jesus and be happy for ever. All had been tried to save his life that could be ; the physician's utmost skill, the tenderest nursing had failed. Suddenly the child's moans ceased. Unseen by all the rest, but visible to him, a mighty angel robed in white, with snowy, out- spread wings and a radiance not of earth around his head, bent over him. His face glowed with tender love as he folded the child to his breast and floated with him upward, leaving the frail, worn form in marble stillness. As they soared on through the calm night air, the angel, with a radiant smile, placed a spray of crimson roses beside him ; and when the child looked up in wonder, he said,
" 'Listen, little one, and I will tell you the story of these flowers. Long ago, in that vast city far below us dwelt a child utterly poor and forlorn. He had no home but a wretched garret in a noisy, dirty, crowded alley, and not only was. he often cold and hungry, but he was a cripple, and his days and nights were full of pain. Worse than all this, he had no one to care for him ; no gentle hand ministered to his need, no loving heart pitied him, no ten- der tones breathed in his ears to soothe the weariness of his painful hours and wakeful nights. The months wore on and summer came — a joy and glory to happy
children ; but the air that to them is soft and sweet, to the poor orphan child in the crowded alley was only hot and close, laden with fever. At last, impelled by an impulse he could not resist, he limped away, one sunny day, and wandered in the clean, handsome streets till he came to a gateway leading into a large and lovely garden attached to a costly house. The child fairly held his breath with wonder at the beautiful scene before him, such as he had never even dreamed. Large trees threw their cool, pleasant shade over it, softening the glad sunshine ; countless flowers bloomed in varied beauty of graceful form and rich coloring, and wafted to him their delicate fragrance on the balmy air; fountains played with sweet, murmuring sound, the spray glis- tening in the light like a myriad bril- liants; and birds caroled joyously amid the golden-green foliage. You were play- ing there, even in that safe and lovely spot, attended by your nurse ; and when she, tired of seeing the pale, worn, wist- ful face pressed against the latticed gate, gave the boy a silver coin, bidding him go away, you saw the large tears drip down and your heart grew pitiful. You gathered the brightest roses, those you loved best, and passed them between the bars with words of tender kindness. That act, small as it was to you, costing you nothing, changed all things to him.
" 'He took your roses in his hand, your loving words in his heart, went back to his poor garret and it seemed no longer poor. Visions of beauty, and hope, and love floated around his pillow all that day
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
57
and night. It seemed to him, too, that no one spoke crossly to him, as they had been wont. He wondered if he were dreaming, or if those flowers had some secret power to charm away evil and soften the hearts of even the rough people around him.
" 'The next day the roses were wilted, but he thought they were BO lovely they oould not perish. "They will bloom again," he said Another morning came and the wilted flowers lay on the little bed
( beside the child's cold form, while his . spirit was far beyond all pain, and Weari- l ness, and grief, resting on the breast of ) Him who says, "Suffer little children to
> come unto me." I was that little child; I and, lest the hard, cold, selfish world 5 should blight and stain your gentle, lov- ( ing spirit, that tender Saviour has sent ; me to seek you and bear you to his arm-. I No gentle deed, no kind word he passes ) by unnoticed, but makes them to bloom ' as immortal flowers in heaven.' "
TAKE CARE OF THE FOX.
| M glad of one thing!" Sin- spoke
I >u? suddenly, a sigh of relief follow-
i nir the sentence. It was my little Helen.
-till f<>r I
while, li.-l'lin^ a picture-book in her I
"Glad of what?" I asked. "Thai I'm nut a h. n, she answered, lifting her serious eyes t<> mine.
\m! a hen I Why. darling! what do
yi.u mean?"
She brought me ber 1 k. and I m
lance what had disturbed the quiet
33
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
of her mind. The picture of a mother- hen frightened at the appearance of a fox was on the open page.
"Poor thing! How scared she is!" said the child, tenderly. "Will the fox eat her up?"
"Unless she can escape him," I an- swered.
"Oh, I'm glad that I'm not a hen to be frightened or killed by a fox ! It is so dreadful ! ' '
And I saw a little shiver run over her.
"Maybe you are in as much danger as the hen," I said.
"Me? There are no foxes about here. W^hy do you say that, mamma? And, any how, a fox wouldn't hurt a little
girl."
"I heard Mrs. Claire say something about foxes when she was here yester- day."
"What did she say, mamma?"
"She said, 'Take care of the little foxes.'"
"Oh yes. I remember now; and I couldn't help wondering what she meant. ' '
"She didn't, of course, mean live foxes that run about in the woods. ' '
"I knew she didn't mean them. Are there any other kinds of foxes?"
"Yes."
" What kind ? Where are they ?' '
"Inside of you."
"Oh, mother!" Helen exclaimed, a tremor of surprise in her voice. "Foxes inside of me?"
"Yes, my darling. And you are in as much danger from them as the bird you so pitied just now."
There was a half-scared, half- wondering expression in my little girl's face.
"Oh, I understand!" she said, a faint smile playing about her lips. "By foxe? you mean naughty feelings. ' '
"Yes. Foxes are cruel and cunning. They hurt and destroy. You know how cruel Herod was ; how he ' sent forth and slew all the children that were in Bethle- hem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under;' and how our Lord called him ' that fox. ' ' '
"Oh yes! I remember. And it was because he was cruel that he was called a fox?"
' l Yes. The evil and cruel feelings, re- presented by foxes in nature, had de- stroyed all the kind and compassionate feelings in his heart, and made him in- wardly as cunning and cruel as a fox. And this same thing is happening now, and every day. I have seen a great many people — children even — who appeared to me more like foxes than lambs; more like hawks than doves, they were so full of anger and cruelty toward each other. Oh, my child, take care of the fox! Don't let him get in among the gentle and loving things of your soul, or he will hurt, and it may be destroy them."
Wisdom. — She is more precious than rubies; and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her. Length of days is in her right hand ; and in her left hand riches and honor. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 39
STORIES ABOUT LIONS. ) Danco, needed some repairs. The car- s penter who had to make them, on seeing
TBE lion Lb strong and cruel, yet he < the lion in the same cage as that in wh id i will become attached to those who) he was to work, started back in terror. treat him kindly. A story is told of one .; "I can't go in beside that beast," he who was brought from India, and who on ) said.
grew very fond of a sailor I uBut," replied the keeper, "I will who had charge of him. His name was > take him to the lower end of the cane •• Nero." ( )n being shot up in a cage in { while you are at work." London, he grew sulky and was very > Upon this they entered the cage, and when any one came near him, so ') the carpenter fell to work. For a while that it was dangerous even for his keeper ( the keeper amused himself with Danco. to approach him. ) but growing tired, dropped into a sound
( hoe day, a few weeks after Nero had ( sleep. The carpenter worked on without
fear, trusting to the keeper for protection from the beast he so much dreaded.
shut up in his new prison, a party of Ballon visited the menagerie, and were warned by the keeper not to go too near J Having repaired the lower part of the
the lion, who every now and then turned
) cage, he turned to ask the keeper's opin-
and growled Bavagely at those who were J ion of his work. To his horror, he saw looking at him. All at once one of these ) the lion and his keeper sleeping side by Bailors ran np to the cage, and thrusting s side. The lion awoke at the sound of in his hand, cried out, ( the carpenter's voice, and glared at him
"What! old shrpmate! don't you know S fiercely; after a warning growl, which ' What el • r, old Nero, my lad?'' I Beamed to say, " Don't you come too m ar
Tie- lion instantly left off' feeding and ) my master." it placed it< paw "ii the growling, Bprang up <»" the bars of the J keeper's breast and composed itself once cage and put out his nose between them, more to slumber. To the carpenter's
Jack patted him on the head, and the great joy, SOme of the attendants came
lion rubbed hi- hand with hi- whiskers up and awoke the keeper, who did net showing evident signs of ] appear the least alarmed at his position,
but Bhaking the lion's pa#, led it off to ••Ah !" -aid .Jack, turning to the keeper another cage and left the carpenter to tin
and Spectators, Who BtOOd frightened and Lsh hi- work without further alarm.
inishment, '"Nero and I wen- once \ pretty blaek .-paniel WSJ otiee jut
shipmates, and yon see he isn't like some into the den of one of the largest ad folk.>; he don't forget an old friend." fiercest lion- in the Tower of London.
Tie- following anecdote i- told of a lion The little animal threw it-elf on its hack.
who was kept in a menagerie at Brussels, trembling and holding op its paws as if
'I he den of this lion, who wa- named lor merry. The hngS btSSt
40
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
NERO AND THE SAILOR.
turned it over with one paw, and then J with the other, and seemed to court its acquaintance. The keeper then brought a portion of the lion's dinner and placed it in the cage. The lion held back from the food, and the dog, trembling all over, ventured to eat. his fear being somewhat lessened. The lion then came up and they finished the meal together. From that day they became firm friends, and the dog would lay down to sleep under the very jaws of the lion.
Tn about a year the spaniel died. For some time the lion seemed to think that his little pet was asleep. He stirred it jpently with his nose, but when he found
his efforts vain, he shook the place of his confinement with roars of agony. Many vain attempts were made to remove the dead body of the spaniel; the keeper tried to tempt the lion with food, but he would not touch it. Sometimes, in his agony, he would seize the bars of his cage, and when quite spent, would stretch himself by the body of his little friend, gather it to him with his paws and press it to his bosom. "For five days," so ends this story, "he languished, and gra- dually grew weaker and weaker, refusing all food or comfort, till one morning he was found dead, with his head resting on all that remained of his little friend."
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
FEBRUARY, 1869
MY PUSSY CAT.
By Anna Wilmot.
I HAD a little pussy cat When I was only five ; A funny little pussy cat —
The funniest alive. Vol. v.— 6
She'd purr, and spit, and round her back,
And try to catch her tail, A dozen times an hour, or more,
Though every time she'd fail.
," The silly little pussy cat ! —
And mamma's knitting-ball
41
42
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
She'd chase about the floor, or leap At flies upon the wall.
She'd tumble on the carpet,
She'd tear about the room, She'd watch when Ellen came to sweep,
And jump upon her broom.
And if you'd draw along the ground
A handkerchief or string, She'd crouch a moment watching it,
Then give a tiger spring, As if it were a mouse she saw,
Or other living thing.
My darling little pussy !
But that was long ago, I'm five years older now than then,
And cats, like children, grow.
My pussy is a stately cat :
No more about the room She chases mamma's knitting-ball
Or jumps at Ellen's broom ; ■
But sits up, tall and dignified, And winks, and spreads her paw
Out in a serious way, as though Just laying down the law.
I laugh, when I remember
The harum-scarum thing That whirled around to catch her tail,
Or tried to seize a string.
And will the little romping girl
That laughs at pussy now, Grow up and be as dignified,
And wear a serious brow?
It may be so ; but this I'll say —
And say it once for all — I'll do much more than wink and bli
Sitting up straight and tall.
HOPE DARROW.
A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY. By Virginia F. Tovumtohd,
CHAPTER IK fc^^X
I did not^ay^iy !n(
A
LEWIS and i am not^ayrcmy more until we came all of a sudden to the fork of the road, and beyond that it was « but a few steps to the lane where the stage-driver's house stood' — that house which was all the home we had in the world. >
The lane was a pleasant place in sum- mer, opening its shady green depths out of the highway. There were clumps of lilac bushes that made a honeyed sweet- ness among the dews of the May morn- ings, and a great motherly elm which spread out its green roof for the birds to build their nests and sing away their happy lives and the long, dear summer together. I believe I came to have a real human love for that grand old elm, that was tough and sound at the core, with all the winters and the storms that had thun- dered upon its head, as well as the sun- shine that had warmed and sweetened the sap at its heart.
On the right of the lane stood the house — a long, narrow, gloomy building of rough, gray stone; the small windows, with their narrow panes, blinking out at
\
IV*-*
T T t ' S- £
/
77/A' CHILD 11 EX'S HOUR.
43
the lane. The will which ran along the front of the house had grown top-henvy and tumbled oyer, here and there leav- reat yawning gaps that would have a dreadful eyesore to anybody that loved neatness and thrift.
But the whole place had a dreadfully shiftless, broken-down air. There were a few forlorn-looking chickens always peek- in- for worms in the front yard; and the stalks of sunflowers and hollyhocks, which held up. their yellow and crimson faces bravely to the Bun last August, dropped limp and withered now. The touch of the frost had fallen on them also. Before the front gate, one of whose hinges was always certain to be out of order, bo that the thing groaned and creaked with every Mast which the year blew on it, the stage Was drawn up.
It wai a great lumbering wagon, that I
think had one*; Berved for a butcher's
cart, but a c>at of dingy red paint and
rcrtains bad somewhat im-
1 it.
lay that old wagon with its
two big, sleek-looking horses weal over
m in I f id. where the train going
b Btopped at noon, and dropped any
who wanted to make a i
cut into the lakes and hills twenty miles
nd.
of people came there every summer for the wonderful tnd the
mountain air. the nearest hotel being fifteen miles from our bouse; and ten be- yond lb*-, hotel wai the edge of thi wilderness where gentlemen came to bunt and camp oul immer, brii
with them, sometimes, delicate, gracious ladies, who passed days in little tents in the wilderness, just after the fashion of gypsies.
The passengers, however, came mostly by a more direct route than the round- about one from Salmon Head. There was a railroad on the other side of the hills, which brought one almost into tin- heart of the beautiful scenery; but in one way and another a good many pe drifted into John Brainerd's stage, and were jolted over the rough road- to the hotel on the spur of the hill ; and I can see the man now. with his heavy, ungain- iy figure, and his face to suit the figure, and his thick, grizzled beard, taking the pipe from his mouth and declaring that nobody ever took the ride from Salmon Head to Terrace Hotel without say i tier- before they got through, they were glad"" enough they tried it.
Kverybody who knew John Brainerd knew tbat speech also. I think he mU8t
have made it at least once every day of
his life. Stage-driving -reined, in fact, the man's natural element II" Was never
quite so much at home as when be was
cracking jokes mounted on the di i Beat, with his pipe in lus mouth and bis whip in his hand, and the twenty mi! sil. nt, billy road, with the great, solemn.
Bteep bill-, and tin' little water-course? among them shining like chains of twisted
silver, and tin- deep gorges where the
(Urgled and SSng, like children
at. play, or, ihomted like trumpets calling to battle tin- twenty mil'- between Sal mon Head and Ten
\
44 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
weird, solemn, wonderful picture of its i might have been made a pleasant room own kind. } with some kindly human life going on in
"Brainerd's had poor luck to-day," $ it, but Mrs. Brainerd had her own notions said Lewis, as he caught sight of the stage < and her own ways of indulging them. before the gate. "It's growing late for ) It was something to have a parlor, and it travelers this year." < was all the grander if one never used it.
My heart and thoughts had been full > Lewis and I looked at each other, of the story he had been telling me — full, s "Something's happened! What can it too, of remembering how, day by day, ) be, Lewis?" for now there was a swift hour by hour, Lewis was keeping his > flash and glitter of flame. They were word to his dead mother and mine — keep- < actually kindling a fire in the parlor ! ing it while his whole young soul panted, ) Such an event had never happened in all I knew, to be up and off, fighting its own < the time we had dwelt under that roof, stout battle with the world, instead of \ Before we could reach the door, Mrs. wearing away his dull evenings under ( Brainerd put her head outside, buttoning John Brainerd's roof, and his long days ( her sleeves at the wrist, as though she at the old saw-mill. > had dressed herself in a hurry. It was a
It was something I could not talk about, \ worn, faded face, that had once been for, with the very first words, the great ) pretty, and the wear now, perhaps, was sobs astrain in my throat would be sure ') less that of time than small fretting and to wrench themselves in thick gusts of ) worries.
tears, and I had a long, dark night com- > There was some unusual excitement ing to cry in, and a little child may some- ( just now in her face, which brought out times have feelings so deep that words ) something of its old, long-lost animation, only weaken them. \ "Oh, children, I'm glad to see you!"
" If it wasn't so late and cold we could > she said, with brisk cordiality. " You jump in and you could give me a little ) will have to go straight for the doctor, ride, couldn't you now, Lewis?' ' ' ' Yes ;' W Lewis. ' '
with a thoughtful glance at my shawl, ) "For the doctor? What's happened?" which I had spread out to look as large < we both cried out together, as possible. "If you were wrapped up ) "John's brought home a passenger' — a real warm, Hope, as you ought to be, we \ young fellow, who has hurt his ankle wouldn't mind the cold, would we?" ( awful, jumping off the cars after they
At that very moment we both gave a S started. He'll have to spend the night little start, for a sudden light glinted out < here. John's got him into the front room of the front window on the east side of ) on the lounge. He looks as white as a the house. That was Mrs. Brainerd's I sheet, and I can see he's in dreadful parlor, a room that was not occupied / pain, though he's got good pluck to keep probably half a dozen times a year. It s it under. You just jump into the stage
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
45
and ride over to the Corners and bring ) the doctor back."
It was a five-mile drive. It would be pitch dark by the time that Lewis got back. I put up a faint little "Mayn't I go too?" for a ride with Lewis, even in cold and darkne><. was something, but my was drowned in the boy's '* I'll do it," that rang back to us hearty and cheerful as he sprang into the driver's seat.
Just as lie started off, Lewis turned and saw me. "Run right in, little Hope!" he laid. He only called me that at times, and I always knew it meant a great deal with him. "It's too cold for you out there."
I went into the house. The very air seemed alive with something new and Strange, As I went past the parlor door my heart beat I could not tell why.
.Jn-t then Mr. Brainerd came out,
unu-ual twinkle of importance in
his little gray eyes, and his whole heavy
bad a kind of solemn dignity which startled me. I tiptoed up to him: "Lewis has gone
fir the doctor."
"That's lucky," robbing his big hands.
"A man can'i be in twenty places at
mt I should have started before this
■• I- he Buffering very much, do you think
• \ but he's true gril —bean it like ■ hero, [l i wonder thai jump didn't him his lif<\ instead of a broken ankle
••oi, dear! I I u that?"
"No tellin' about those things, child, until the doctor comes; but it's my pri- vate opinion that it's a bad case, a very bad case," shaking his big, grizzled heal solemnly.
"But how came he to jump off the train? Couldn't he wait for the cars to stop?"
"They had stopped and started off again. You see, the young chap found out at the last minute, from some talk he overheard among the passengers, that he could get over to Terrace Tavern on this side, and he caught up his valise and sprang off, and the cars under full head- way. But this won't do for me," bolting off without another word.
I went up stairs to my own' room and took off my shawl and bonnet, smoothing my rumpled hair before the bit of broken mirror in my chamber.
I was a little vain over that hair, be- cause Lewis praised its color sometimes, and said a good many fine ladies might have envied it.
But it was a little pinched, colorle-< sort of face that looked at me from under the thick, reddish brown hair, and the eyes had something grave and old in
them. I was a good deal exeired think- ing of the strange breese which had blown in suddenly upon the dullnei our lives. I felt sorry for the young man or boy "about Lewis's age," they said,
lying down there nil alone, in hi- pain and helplessness, in the dark, lonely little parlor. It nm-t be very hard for him.
with only strange faces and voices about him. If it was Lewis now. there would
46 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
be so many things I could do for him; } in there. Jist tell him I thought it would and I wondered if this young man < be a little more comfortable: that's all had a mother or sister, or anybody who 1 you need do."
loved and cared for him as I did for ) I should never have made my offer if I my brother, and who would feel as I \ had thought Mrs. Brainerd would take it should if Lewis were lying untended and ) up in this way, for a mile in the dark and suffering in some lonely house by the \ chill outside would have been nothing roadside. ) to going in there alone and facing the
The very thought made a pang at my J stranger. But. I could not draw back heart, and I went down stairs into the ? from my promise, so without one word I kitchen, where Mrs. Brainerd was bust- > took the pillow from Mrs. Brainerd' s ling about, airing sheets for her guest, I hands and started, and getting things in order for the doctor. 5 At the parlor door, though, I had to
"Oh dear!" she said, lifting up both $ stop, for my heart was just jumping in hands and letting them fall in a sort of .? my throat, and my fingers shook and hopeless way, as she caught sight of me, ) fumbled at the handle. "if I'd only known all this was coinin' ^ It was very absurd, I know, but then I on me this morning, I might have been > was as shy as a squirrel who had spent in some kind 0' readiness for it. To think { all his life running up and down the great of my having one o' them grand folks ^ green silences of the woods, and it seemed from the other side to pass the night ) a terrible thing to me to go in and face here! If somebody had only whispered ( this stranger whom I had never seen in it to me thismornin' ! but it's always been S my life. For a moment I had a strong my luck through life, Hope, to be took $ mind to toss away the pillow and run off, by surprise." > but then I said to myself, "Now, Hope
"Accidents always take us that way, \ Darrow, would you do such a thing as Mrs. Brainerd, or they wouldn't happen, ) that? Wouldn't you be ashamed all your you know." ) life to remember what a coward you
Mrs. Brainerd drew another long sigh, ( proved? Be a woman, now, and go in with- and took no notice of my general remark. > out stopping to think. If you do, you will
There's my week's ironin' not so much < shiver and quake worse than ever. Put as sprinkled yet," she said. ) it right straight through. Pluck is half
"If there's anything I can do, I shall } the battle, as Lewis would say." So be very glad to help you." I without stopping another moment after
She brightened up at this speech of ) that, lest the courage I had bolstered up mine. ) should break down, I opened the door
"Well, yes, you can do me a real good ) and walked in. turn, Hope, if you will step in with this ) It is strange how this very minute I big pillow and give it to that poor fellow ) can see everything in that room, as I see
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
the paper acroea which my pen is moving to-night
The green carpet with the streaks of fading daylight among the leaves, the rows of chain and the painted mantel, with the blue china vases on top. I see, the lounge in the corner and the ■ en it— a -lender, boyish figure, one hand clasped over the eyes, the fingers slender ami delicate like a girl's, the limbs drawn up as though in pain, and the lips with a grieved look under the shadow of the hands. There was a heap of bright, 1 « > 1 1 _r brown hair on the pillow. I had taken all this in. when, a low. choked sort of groan reached my ear. It went straight to my heart I forgot all my fright in my timidity, and went softly across the mom. longing to tell the young man — he d like one to me, although I really suppose that to most people he would only have been a boy — how sorry I was for him— how I longed to do something to
try and ease hi- pain.
But when I reached the boy's side, the
wordi thronged and choked in my throat,
and ti"t a - i 1 1 ir 1 1 - one would come out. I
I there -till. grasping the pillow with
both hand-, and the time Beemed very • i me.
• be young stranger drew away
• and Opened hi- eyes, and no
wonder they filled with a great lurprise
<m - • ing in-' Standing there like :i Matin*.
II bed a moment and stared a( me ;
then be rubbed hi- eyes a- though be was in be was not dreaming. "Whoai ! be asked
' i ra Brainerd sent me with the pil-
low," the words coming glibly enough. " She thought it would be more comfort- able for you."
"It was very kind," the boy answered. "But my ankle twinges as though a dozen knives were plunged into it if I move."
"If you will just raise your head a little, I think I can slip it under without disturbing your ankle."
"Thank you, I will try," and he lifted his head slowly. I slid the pillow under it.
"Oh, that is good!" as his head fell down in the soft heap, with the sweet, fresh scent of the mint clinging to the snowy linen. "I am very much obliged to you, little girl."
"Oh, that was just nothing at all. I wish there was something more I could do for you."
All this time the boy kept those dark, bright eyes staring at me. His lips wen- white, and every lew moments the pain mad-' him clench his brows.
Now. a little smile came across his lip- —
such a bright, frank, pleasant one that it made nie like him bettor than ever. "You can do Bomething more for me — you ean toll me your name."
"That's a wry little thing to do." smil- ing in my turn now. for I began to feel wonderfully :it ease with this stranger.
•• But my name i- Hope; harrow."
"Hope Harrow! Hop.- harrow!" going
over with it once or twin- to himself. "Then you are not Mrs, Brainerd'a daughter?"
■•< )h do; we are not relations ; only Lewie that'e my brother and I board here with ber."
48
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"I thought you did not look or seem alike. That is such a pretty name — Hope Darrow ! ' ' and again the handsome youth looked up in my face with that pleasant smile of his."
"I am very glad if you like it," I said, and then the wagon drove up swiftly to the gate.
"Oh that is Lewis!" I cried. "He went for the doctor. I hope he has brought him," and I rushed to the win- dow. "Yes, here he comes!" as the little, old, thick-set physician jumped, spry as a boy, out of the wagon. [to be continued.]
"SHINE YOUR BOOTS, SIR?'
By the Editor.
THE voice was childish and sweet-toned but a little unsteady. The man glanced down from under the brim of an old felt hat that had once been white, and a pair of soft, large eyes looked up into his.
"Shine your boots, sir?"
The man shook his head, as he uttered a brief " No," and passed on.
But the tender face and soft, asking
eyes haunted him. After walking on for half a block, trying to forget the face and eyes of the boy, he stopped, turned around and went back, he hardly knew why.
"Shine your boots, sir?" It was the same innocent voice, but a little firmer in tone. He looked down at the bare feet and worn old clothes, and a feeling of pity touched his heart.
"Not this morning, my lad," answered the man, "but here's the price of a shine;" and reached him ten cents.
"Haven't come to that yet." x\nd the
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 49
lad drew himself up a little proudly. ( '"Most anywhere that I can creep in," "I'm not a beggar, but a bootblack. } replied the boy, as he brushed away with Just let me shine 'em, sir. Won't keep < all his might. Then as he rose up he you a minute." \ said, with a business air —
There was no resisting this appeal. So ) "That's a good shine, sir!" the man placed his boot on the boy's foot- < "First rate," answered the man, whose rest, and in a little while its surface was } interest in the boy was increasing. "Can't like polished ebony. I be beaten. And now, what's the charge?"
"Thank you!" said the little fellow as, ) "Ten cents, sir." on finishing the second boot, he received j The ten cents were paid. "Sleep 'most his fee. < anywhere that you car creep in?" said
The man walked away, holding in his ) the man, as he stood looking at the boy's mind, very distinctly, an image of the boy ( face, so strangely unlike the faces of those that did not fade. / with whom his lot had been cast. "What
On the next morning, while on his way < do you mean by that?" to business, he was greeted by the same < " Well, sir, it's so. Sometimes I get a lad with — } bed in a cellar, and sometimes in a garret,
"Shine your boots, sir?" ) just as it happens."
And in a voice steadier than on the ) " Do you pay for it?" day before. The little bootblack was ^ " Oh yes indeed. They won't let you gaining confidence in his new calling. ) sleep for nothing."
The man stopped, placed his boot on \ "How much do you pay for a bod?'* the foot-rest, and the boy set his brushes \ "Sixpence or a shilling, 'cording to to work in the liveliest way. ) where it is."
"" Where do you live, my little man?" ( "Why don't you stay in one place?"
The boy brushed on, seeming not to { asked the man. "Why do you go from have heard. As he finished one boot, ( cellar to garret, as you say, just as it hap- and was about commencing the other, the > pens?"
man said, changing the form of his ques- S "'Cause, sir, they get drunk, and tion, ) swear, and fight so 'most everywhere 1
"Where is your home?" ) get in thai I don't care to go again; and
II.. .lit got any." As the hoy made < so I keep moving round. Shine yom
thii answer, he looked op into the man's 5 1 ts, sir?"
for an instant, and then le( bis eyes s And seeing a customer, off the hoy ran, fall upon his work. What Urge, soft, ) for he had his living to earn, and couldn't beautiful* (stop to talk when there was business to
c do.
) The man walked away mOTC than ever
u Where do you deep?" c interested in this brave little fellow fi -lu-
V.,i.. v.— 7
50
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
ing at so tender an age the battle of life — a child Bayard, in the mid^y*£-?$»enues, yet "without fear and witnout reproach."
A few hours later in the day — it was midsummer and the air hot and^sultry — as this man was passing the corner of a street where an apple-woman had her stand, he witnessed a scene that we will describe.
The apple-woman had fallen asleep. Two boys — a newsboy and the little boot- black just mentioned — were at the stand. The newsboy, who was larger and stouter than the bootblack, seeing a good change to get apples without paying for them, was just seizing two or three of the largest, when the little bootblack pushed bravely in, and the man heard him say :
' ' That' s stealing, and it can' t be done ! ' '
) The newsboy grew red with anger as / he turned fiercely upon the little fellow, p raising his fist to strike him; but his I well-aimed blow did not reach the soft ) yet bravely indignant face, for an arm ( stronger than his caught the descending ) fist and held it for an instant with a. firm ( grip. In the next moment the scared ) newsboy had broken away, and was < scampering down the street as fast as ) his legs could carry him. ; "Honest and brave! That was well ( done, my little fellow!" exclaimed the } man, turning to the young bootblack. ( "And now," he added, "you must come ) to my store. We'll find some better way \ for you. ' '
( " Where is it, sir?" asked the boy. : "Not far away. Come," said the man,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
51
as he moved on; and the boy followed him. They walked for a distance of two or thi and then entered a store,
the man moving along through bales and - until lie reached a counting-room at the rear end. Laying oft' his hat, he took a chair, turning to the lad, who now stood before him with a curious, wonder- in g face — too heavy for so small a child — bis root-rest, containing brushes and blacking, -lung across his shoulders.
"Take that thing off,' and set it out in tin,' store, or throw it into the street, I don't care which," Bald the man, pointing to the dirty box.
The lad took it off and set it outside of the office door, then came back and stood gating at the man earnestly. 11 What is your Dame?" "Jimmy Lyon, sir," answered the boy. 11 I- your father living?" ■"No. mi-."
•• Your mot her?" The man's tones
fter as he said " Mother."
3 be'a dead. I I • saw the child's
be felt the tender sorrow
into his voice.
•• I [ow long baa Bhe 1 □ dead?"
• V>t long, sir." The brave voice tip- dear eyes were wet \n'l there ii do one to take care of
■ 1 1
ir. " man thought of hie own little boy at home, jus! ten lasl June, and a Bhiver of pain crepl through bis heart • \\ you goifl he
asked, wishing to learn more of what was in the child's thoughts.
"Take care of myself, Bir. I've got to doit now." And Jimmy drew himself up and put on a brave look, which touched the man's heart as much as the weakness that showed itself in wet eyes.
"Was it in the city that your mother died?" inquired the man.
"Yes, sir."
" How long ago?"
"It's only three weeks, sir." The brave look went out of his eyes.
■Where did she die?"
"Down in Water street. "We lived in a garret. She was sick a good while, sir. and couldn't work. Father died last winter. But he didn't do anything for us." A shadow of pain was in the child's face, and the man saw him shudder.
Ah ! He understood too well the sad story that little boy could tell — the story of a drunken father, and a sink, heart- broken mother dying in want and neglect
"Your mother was good, and you loved her," said the man.
Instantly the large, soft eyes gushed
over with tears.
""What did >he tell you before Bhe died?" Baked the man. ipeakiiig in a low, tender voice.
"She .-aid." answered tic hoy, sorrow- rally, yet with something brave and manly in bis voice— U4 Never steal, never tell a lie, never .-wear, Jimmy, and <io<l will be your friend;' and I've never done any of
'.in. sir, and never will."
•• Y"iir mother taoghl you to pray, Jimmy?"
52 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Yes, sir; and I say my prayers every < spot just at the right moment. I call night. Sometimes bad boys make fun ) that God leading me. Now do you un- of me; but I don't mind it. I just think j derstand?"
it's God I'm saying 'em to, and then I < "Oh yes, sir. I see it just as clear as feel all right." ) day," answered Jimmy, a new light
The man felt a choking in his throat, < breaking over his face, he was so moved by this, and would not > "And God, who loves you and wants trust himself to speak for some moments. J you to be good and happy, knew that if I
"God is our best friend, Jimmy," he \ saw how honest and brave you were, I said after a little while, "and no one ') would be your friend." trusts him in vain. He has taken care <( "Oh, sir! Will you?" cried out little of you since your mother died, and, if you ; Jimmy, trembling all over, while his fine will be a good boy, will always take care < face lighted up suddenly with hope and of you. Do you know that it was God ( joy.
who led^ me to the apple-woman's stand < "Yes, my poor boy," answered the just in time to see your brave and honest \ man, whose heart was feeling very tender act?" > toward the child. " I will be your friend
The boy opened his large eyes, wonder- I always, if you will be honest, truthful ingly. "But you didn't see him! God ) and obedient. "
doesn't walk about the streets as we do," \ "I'll try to be as good as I can, sir," he said. } sobbed out Jimmy, losing all command
"We cannot see God, but God can see \ of his feelings, us ; and what is more, can look into our ( Then the man went with him to a store hearts, and knows all we think or feel," £ where they sold boys' clothing, and se- replied the man. ; lected everything he needed to wear. But
"Oh yes, sir. My mother told me > before he let him dress up in his new that. But I don't know how he led ) garments, he took him to a bath-house that you." ( he might wash himself clean all over,
"He leads us by ways that we know ) and comb the tangles out of his curly not, my child," said the man in a serious < hair.
voice. Then added, "I think I can make ) No one would have dreamed that the you understand. God sees and knows < handsome, well-dressed boy who, a little everything. He knew that you would ) while afterward, walked beside his new see the wicked boy try to steal apples, j> friend, holding his hand so tightly, was and that you would do all you could to { the same whose voice not an hour before stop him. Then he put it into my \ had been heard crying in the street — thought to go and see a man whose store ( " Shine your boots, sir?" It was never I could not reach unless I went by the > heard there again. God had sent the apple-stand, and this brought me to the \ brave child, who tried to be good, a
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
53
friend in need; and he is now in the house of that friend, a happy boy, loving and obeying him as though he were his father.
DAPPLEDUN.
By Phoebe Cary
A LITTLE boy who, strange to say, \V as called by the name of John, Once bought himself a little horse To ride behind, and upon.
A handsomer beast yon never saw,
He was so sleek and fat ; "He has hut ;i single fault," said John,
" And a trifling one at that."
His mane and tail grew thick and long,
He was quick to trot or run ; His coat was yellow, flecked with brown;
John called him Dappledun.
IK- never kicked and never bit;
In harness well he drew; lint this was the single foolish thing
That Dappledon would do.
i in clover up to his knees, Hi- trough Was tilled with stuff; Yet he'd jump the neighbor's fence, and act A- if he hadn't enough.
If he only could have heen content With hi- feed <>f oatS and hay,
I' • headstrong; foolish Dappledon
1 1 id been alive to-day.
lint, 0M day, \vh«ri bis rack was filled With what he OUght to cat,
He thrust his nose out of his stall, And into a bin of wheat.
And there he ate, and ate, and ate, / And when he reached the tank ', Where Johnny watered him next morn, ) He drank, and drank, and drank.
? And when that night John carried him
( The sweet hay from the rick,
} He lay and groaned, and groaned, and
groaned, For Dappledun was sick.
I And when another morning came, $ And John rose from his bed ( And went to water Dappledun, .) Poor Dappledun was dead !
ANSWER TO
BLUE VIOLET'S TER."*
LET-
By Alary Latham Clark.
DEAR BLUE VIOLET: I cannot tell you how glad I was to hear from you, and to know that no harm had befallen you.
It is so like you to feel happy in mak- ing others mi, and to be willing to breathe out your life for the good of thoM around you!
I have delayed writing fcO you, for hihv I received your letter, I have had a very busy and lurioOl time.
.My youngeaJ child, Fringe-eye, ha- been
sadly drooping, and for a long time I VffJ
afraid the would die, but I rejoice to say * Bes -inly Iff will si. i
54
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
that she is better, and though she will, I fear, always be delicate, I hope to be able to keep her with me a long time yet.
I think it was on the morning after you left that I first noticed how languidly her little head drooped.
I implored the Sunbeam, that best of physicians, to stay by her all day, which he did, to my great joy and satisfaction.
Even the Zephyr, roving and careless as he generally seems, remained near, gently finning her for hours together, and bringing the rarest perfumes upon his wings to refresh the drooping one.
By night-fall she was better, and now, while I ,am writing, I can see that she looks quite bright and cheerful, seeming to enjoy the merry prattle of her sisters, as she has not done before since her ill- ness.
I suppose you would like to know all the forest news.
A pair of blue-birds have gone to housekeeping in the chestnut overhead. They are very lively and talkative, and I think we shall find them pleasant neigh- bors.
The Wood-lily is to give a great party to-night. All the flowers are invited, but I do not think I shall be able to leave my family to attend.
However, Zephyr has promised to come and tell us about it in the morning.
I expect it will be a gay aifair. The glow-worms and fireflies are trimming their lamps, for there is to be a grand illumina- tion.
The katydids and crickets have been tuning their instruments and practicing
their new music all the morning, for there is to be a dance at which they will play.
The birds are now giving a series of grand concerts. One is held every morn- ing about three o'clock; so, you see, those who can go abroad do not lack for amusements.
I must not forget to tell you what I saw a few nights ago — a sight that is rare now, although I have heard that before the footsteps of man had ever entered our forest, the flowers were continually favored with such lovely visions.
I saw the fairies at their dance upon the forest-green. It was enough to give one joy for a lifetime to watch their graceful, undulating movements, so light that sometimes as I gazed I was not quite sure whether it was really the fairies that I saw, or the uncertain shimmer of the moonlight through the quivering branches.
Here comes Hummingbird to make us a morning call, and as all my children, from Cerulea to Fringe-eye, are so very diffident and retiring, I must leave my writing and entertain my lively guest.
Perhaps he will carry my message to you. I will ask him. Adieu!
In love, your sister, Violet.
BIG BOYS AND LITTLE BOYS.
WE copy from a newspaper that lies before us some timely words to the s big boys, which we hope they will con- ( sider well: " Jemmy and Willie came in '•: crying, and with a new red sled, too. The
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
56
almost frozen into little icicles on their fat cheeks. What is the matter? >ya will not let us slide. They drive as off the hill.'
"This La not the first complaint against the 1 The big boys would not
let them work on the Bnow-fort. The >ya would not let the little boys go on the -rami Bleighride the other after- noon. I am sorry the big boys love to tyrannize bo over the little boys. Some- - they hardly allow the little boys any comfort at all. It i- bo mean and Belfish! It i- bi idly ased.
••Well. Jemmy and Willie, I cannot help you. But this I want to say to the little boys: when you grow to be big if God lets yon live, try to make the little boya feel comfortable and happy. !).» not stretch bo very far above them: do not talk big; do not scare and torment them. Always keep in mind that you once a little boy yourself, and how you felt when the 1 - i ir boya troubled you and made you c
"That m time will cure the difficulty, and make the little boya in the- future ter tine- of it."
"THAT'S HOW."
LITTLE BERTHA'S VISIT TO THE MOUNTAINS.
By Mary Latham Clark.
AI'M'.i: i great mow storm, a little fel- low began to shovel a path thro '..ink before hi- mother's door. I [e bad nothing but a small shovel to work with.
Bow do y< that di i I a m.in passu
r. I the hoy cheer-
BERTHA dear," said M.- Ainslee to her little daughter one day in September, uyour father has Bome busi- ness in New Hampshire that will oblige him to be away from home for several days, and he has decided to take you with him if you would like to go."
Bertha jumped up from her chair and clapped her hands:
" Of course I would like to go, dear mother. But are you not going too?" added -he. with a shade of regret upon her bright face.
"No, dear," answered Mrs. Ainslee ; "I cannot leave baby Willie, and the journey would be too long for him ; so papa is going to take you for company, and that he may show you some of the
wonders of the beautiful mountain scenery
of which he ha- BO "1'ten told you."
■• Ami when shall we start, mother?" asked Bertha
"To morrow morning if it i- pleasant," answered her mother, "'and I must -oat
Onoe t" pack your trunk."
"Couldn't 1 pack it, mother, and Bave yu the trouble?" asked Bertha, in a
womanly little Way that made her mother
smile.
■• \.>t tie- trunk, dear, but you may
my traveling basket ami put into if
whatever you think you will need on the
"So I will-' -aid Bertha, proceeding
50
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
at once to gather up various little effects, and to arrange them with an air of great satisfaction in the traveling-basket, which she had placed upon the table.
The next morning arose bright and clear, and Bertha was up at break of day, preparing for her journey, as happy as a little queen.
BERTHA PACKING HER TRAVELING-BASKET.
To be sure she was very sorry that her dear mother could not accompany them, but, after all, it was a new and delightful experience for her to be starting off alone with her father, taking care of her own traveling-basket and shawl, as a grown-up woman might have done.
She felt full an inch taller than ever before, and she told her mother, as she gave her the good-bye kiss, that she would not make any more trouble than she could help for the dear father who was so kind as to tak" hie Httle girl with him.
Alt! tie Bertha had no real
adventures on the way, such as almost always form the subjects of stories, yet she saw so many objects of interest, and enjoyed so much, that I should be tired of writing, and perhaps my little friends of reading, all the particulars of her journey.
I will, however, mention some of the interesting places that she visited with her father.
First, I must tell you of the lake that she crossed in a pretty little steamer.
It is called Lake Winnepisseogee, an Indian name, which has been said to
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
57
mean the "Smile of the Great Spirit," although I believe some have lately given it another interpretation.
It would not be strange, however, if the Indians had thought their "Great Spirit" was smiling upon them, when they looked upon the calm bosom of this lovely sheet of water.
The lake was still, as if asleep, when <mr travelers crossed it, undisturbed save by the ploughing of the little steamer, which left a long line of sparkling ripples in its track.
They passed many beautiful islands, the green of whose trees and shrubs had begun to change to the rich hues of autumn.
Bertha thought that she should never grow weary of gazing at the clear waters of the lake, which, like a broad mirror, reflected the lovely islands and the fleecy clouds overhead.
At a pleasant hotel, upon the shore of the lake, they stopped a day or two while Mr. Ainslee transacted his business, and then they resumed their journey among the wild and picturesque scenes which, like a constantly changing series of pic- tures, were spread before their view.
Bertha was particularly delighted with the "Old Man of the Mountain,'' and as all of my little readers may not know about him, I will endeavor to describe this great wonder.
THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.
UpOH one nde of tin- opening 1m:(w ali-.n, called Profile Moiin-
thc 1'Yati' qi Mountain! called the tain.
i. and forming ita western wall, is a Nearly at tin: summit of tin- dm
v.— 8
58 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
granite which crowns the woody height ) It happened — what indeed so seldom is the outline of an old man's face, formed s comes to those who spend but one night in the solid rock, standing clear and dis- •; upon the mountain top — that the sun tinct against the sky, with brow, nose, > arose clear and free from mists, save those lips and chin all perfect as if chiseled by ( that slept in the valleys far beneath, and the hand of an artist. > wrapped the distant hills in a delicate
Here is a little sketch which may give \ veil, which added to their beauty, while you a slight idea of it. ) it did not obscure them from sight.
At the foot of the Profile Mountain is a S How shall I describe that scene that beautiful little sheet of water which Ber- ( burst upon little Bertha's view as she tha called the lC Old Man's Mirror." ; stood that morning and saw the sublime
There is a wonderful opening amongst $ spectacle of sunrise among the moun- the rocks, not far from the "Old Man," ) tains? called the Flume. > The fleecy clouds, golden and rosy, that
Standing in this mighty chasm, with ) rested upon the sides of the mountains no noise save the leaping and murmur- ) far below her, the peaks that seemed to ing of the mountain brook that flows $ her young eyes to reach the sky, and all through it, Bertha gazed with awe upon ) bathed in the glowing morning light, the high granite walls that rose on each ( awakened feelings in her heart for which side of her, dripping with moisture and ? she had no words.
wholly without verdure, save the moss ) Altogether, it was a most delightful that clung lovingly to their rough surface. < trip for little Bertha, and one which I
But the crowning glory of little Ber- ; hope many of my little readers will some tha's journey was her ascent to the very \ time take, that they may see and admire top of Mount Washington upon horse- ) for themselves the beauties and wonders back. ) of our New Hampshire mountain scenery.
At first she was inclined to be a little ?
afraid, but her father and the guide, who >
walked beside her, assured her there was ( THE FOOLISH BEE.
no danger, and when she saw how slowly )
and carefully the horse stepped, her fear \ &y L. A. B. C.
left her, and she gave herself up to the ? ~"
full enjoyment of the novelty of her situa- \ THE beehi,ve was made, of ?traw' I,ke
) ± that you have seen in the picture over
It was nearly dark when they reached I the familiar Poem: the excellent hotel on the summit, and ^ How doth the little busy bee
after tea Bertha almost immediately re- ) Improve each shining hour,
tired, so as to be up early to see the sun > And gather honey all the day
rise among the mountains. < From every opening flower !
TIIK CHILDREN'S HOUR. 59
It stood in a garden behind a cottage { "Certainly, to build the rooms of our where a busy little girl planted seeds and } house." roots, whence Bpranga wilderness of die s "A straw house! poor, contemptible
: ami bees were ever hum- ) creature!" ming in the honeyed hearts of roses, ) "Be careful what you say, I can sting," violets, honeysuckle, sweet-peas, asters, ( said the bee, with a little show of spirit, marigolds, nasturtiums and blue bells; and ) "So can I, but I don't wish to sting they ranged over the clover fields, the -'you. I'd rather chat with you. Wouldn't sweet, snowy blossoms of the farmer's ': you like to know where I live?" buckwheat, and burrowed in the golden j The bee looked the curiosity she would bells of the ■quash and pumpkin bios- \ not condescend to express.
There never was a happier or > "You would never go back to your more contented family of bees, for they I straw house if you could see mine. Do worked diligently, enjoyed the flowers and ) you know the prince's mansion on the
sunshine, paid due homage to their C hill?" gracious queen, garnered the sweets and ) " I have gathered honey from the peach overlooked the bitterness of life, which \ trees in the garden there." tiny took great care not to bring into ) "Ah! but I live in the chamber of the their home ) princess. Such an elegant home. The
S they lived and died, all but one poor (. room is hung with rose-colored silk and foolish bee. who strayed away to the > lace curtains, and all the ornaments are WOodS'One day and fell into the company ^ of gold and silver. There is a portrait of an idle and mischievous wasp, who ) of the little prince hanging just opposite was basking upon the fragrant flowers of > the bed of the princess, and my house is an elder t < in the back of the ivory frame. The
"What a strange-looking creature you ) window is always open, and I fly in and iid the Wasp; " yOU C OUt at leisure." eannot belong to our race, I think, for ) "Ah, how beautiful!" exclaimed the your form rod vulgar; yon really \ innocent bee. "I would like to live there
have do waist ;u all. and that is the sign -J myself!"
of royal bl 1; then yon earry ■ heavy ; "Impossible I only wasps can live in
burden about with you that indicates a palaces. Bees always live hi straw bouses. .-erf". Who are If you had a slender waist like mine and
■ M. name it Boney Bee, and I lire did not carry those heavy burdens, you in a fins straw hive in the farmer's nighl grow delicate and aristocratic, p<-r
;■ n." J hap-; but with your Mont form the w
milyl the worker.-! would -tin1-' you to death. A bit eannot
] ire carrying home, | pre- |,r ;i wasp, I tnpp
Mime.' < So the wasp flew airily a* i the
60
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
'^•-V^'-^-^w'-^-S,'-^"../^.^-.
palace, while the bee clung to the elder blossoms and murmured at her lowly lot. She did not carry home much wax that day, nor the next, nor the next. The seeds of discontent had taken deep root in her heart, and one cannot work well when one does not work cheerfully.
At length the queen bee observed her slothful subject.
"Why is not your task performed as the tasks of your sisters?" asked the queen.
"I aspire to something higher than this drudgery," said the discontented bee.
' ' What would make you happier than this sweet and healthful labor that all your fellows so delight in?"
"They have never heard of the patri- cian wasps, who have slender waists and are gay and happy and live in palaces, or they, too, would be unhappy, unless their souls are too sordid to care for anything but honey and wax."
"Ah, my poor bee," said the queen, "you have held counsel with an enemy. The wasps are frivolous and gay, but they are useless. No one loves them, no sen- sible people even respect them."
"But they do not labor and they have beautiful slender waists, and live in pal- aces. Were I like them, how happy could I be!"
When the queen saw that the foolish bee had lost all good sense and reason, she left her to herself. "Go and seek happiness as you please. Be idle, be useless, and be delicate as a wasp ; I leave you to your own devices. ' '
The bee was delighted with this, for she knew she should grow delicate if she did not have to work, and she had already thought of a method to attain a slender waist.
So she left the hive and buried herself in a large squash blossom. She bound her waist tightly about with fibres of the plantain, and rejoiced to see in a dew- drop that she was already considerably smaller. To be sure she suffered untold torture, but what of that, if she only grew slender and useless like a wasp? She refrained from eating, and was thus enabled to gird herself still tighter with the fibres of the plantain. It was with much difficulty that she could fly from one squash blossom to another, as fist as one blighted and another bloomed, yet every morning she saw in a dewdrop, with increasing delight, that her waist was growing still more slender, her wings more gauzy, and her feet smaller; and what were constant pain and suffering com- pared to these attainments ?
At last, when she had become but the attenuated ghost of her former self, she flew away, as well as she could, toward the palace. She was two or three days in making the journey, though in former days, before she fell a victim to her fool- ish ambition, she had often flown to the palace gardens in as many hours, carry- ing back her burden of wax or honey. As luck would have it, as she stopped to rest upon a window-sill, she encountered her old friend the wasp, who saluted her with some politeness, but approaching nearer to the bee, said :
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
M
"Ah, I thought you were my cousin, come to make a morning call."
•"You hare forgotten me, then?" in- quired the bee.
Great indeed was the surprise of the vlien >he learned that this creature ( of the .-lender waist and attenuated form ) illy a bee. "No one would ever suspect it," said the wasp. u So I shall invite you to my boon and introduce you to my brother, who is in search of a wife."
The joy of the bee was almost insup- portable. She entered the lovely cham- ber of the princess, and spent an hour crawling over the mirror to admire her- self The young brother wasp was greatly pleaded with the bee, and immediately proposed to her, and great preparations went forward for the wedding.
k'I am very hungry," at length said
hei friend. '■ Why don't you catch some flies then? there are swarms of them flying abon'
poor bee could scarcely fly from one chair to another.
• I will catch one for you," said the
. who really enjoyed catching flies.
rOOght one to the half-fanii-hrd
who tried to eat it, but knew nothing
of thai sort of diet
■ III • you do hooey?" fceblj asked
the b
I I m v. oh. you vulvar creature! I
though! yon bad beoomc ratify refined
and waspisfa in all your tastes, but I was wi »g. Brother, I eMdeeeiVe ton
I thought this l>ee had really
become a wasp ; but it is I who am mil- taken. She is a bee still, and will eat nothing but honey."
At this the bridegroom was in a ter- rible rage, and all the wasps flew fiercely around, and no doubt would have stung the poor bee to death if she had not escaped into the drawing-room and taken refuge in the bosom of a friendly camellia, where she found honey enough to keep her from starving until she was able to reach the garden.
A few days after she reached the old straw bee-hive, where she threw herself at the feet of the queen in the most abject humility.
The queen bee forgave her, for she saw that her haughty spirit was crushed as much as her form was disfigured. And when the repenting bee had found that wasps die in the winter, her ambition was entirely cured, and she gradually regained her own form, and became a wise, prudent, industrious and contented bee again.
The princess soon after discovered the waspe' nest behind the picture of the little prince, and her maid tore down the nest and killed all the wasps with a broom.
GOD IS HERE.
IT WM a heautif'ul and tOOohlDg reply of a child whose mother found him pray- iog all alOM in the nursery, and said, 11 Ah. IYankie, nobody h<-re but you'"' Looking tip with a radiant face h<" an-
iwered: "Yea, mamma, Gk>d is here. "
62 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
A LITTLE BOY'S PLANTING. < popping, the dish piled with white ker
) nels looking almost like snow-stars, and
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson. '} the strings that garland your Christmas-
< trees.
AUNTIE had a flower-bed. There were ) Well just what corn is to our bodies pink roses and white lilies, sweet helio- \ love is to our souls — love to others, com- trope, and many other flowers, lifting their ) ing into words and acts of every-day life, pretty heads from out their mantles of ) making them true and pure and kind ; greenery in the glad summer sunshine. ( love to our heavenly Father, leading us By and by we found in their midst a tiny $ to try to do right because it pleases Him ; green blade springing up — a blade of corn. ( this is meant in the Bible when it tells It was not very hard to guess how it > us about corn or bread — love which is the came there, for a pair of small four-year- < soul's eternal life, the bread of angels, old feet were apt to follow auntie about, <■ the life which the Lord came down to and two light-brown eyes liked to watch s earth to give, and this is what we ask for her as she planted flower-seeds. Sure ( when we sincerely pray, enough, a tiny hand had put some bright > "Give us this day our daily bread." yellow kernels there, and covered them ( Let us remember, too, that our souls nicely. Well, we let it stay, and truly ') are like gardens, and whatever we plant the slender green blade, waving in the I there, we shall, sooner or later, find summer breeze, with its long silken tas- } springing up. If we plant henbane, we sels, looked about as pretty as any of its < shall get henbane; if corn or flowers, we neighbors. The gold-colored ear in the < shall get corn or flowers. So, if we plant green sheath grew large and full, and £ in the soil of our spirits evil affections, ripened just in time for a birth-day ( desires, purposes, by bringing them into , present to grandma — the day she was > act and word we shall surely have a bitter eighty years old. As for the stalks, < soul-harvest by and by. But if we plant Mooly-cow knew where they went. \ pure and kind affections and gentle
Did you ever think, children, what a ) thoughts, in word and deed, every day thing of beauty the corn is? No doubt \ we shall gather in our fruit with joy, and you have, and thought of the love, wis- ) our souls will be gardens of the Lord, dom and power of Him who made it and < immortal in bloom, all the beautiful things of earth for us to / enjoy. You know, too, that it is very s useful; we like it for dinner, and it is < A LIE STICKS.
carried to mill and ground into meal for )
bread and johnny cakes. Some little girl ( A LITTLE newsboy, to sell his paper, or boy who has pet chickens will think of ) jlx. told a lie. The matter came up in another use, and — oh, I forgot the fun of \ Sabbath-school. " Would you tell a lie
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
63
for three cents?" asked a teacher of one of her boys.
"No, ma'am," answered Dick, very decidedly.
"For ten cents?"
"No, ma'am."
"For a dollar?"
"No, ma'am."
"For a thousand dollars?"
Dick was staggered. A thousand dol- lars looked big. Oh, would it not buy lots of things? "While he was thinking, another boy cried out, " No, ma am," behind him.
"Why not?" asked the teacher.
"Because, when the thousand dollars are gone, and all the things you've got with them are gone too, the lie is there all the same," answered the boy. Ah yes! That is so. A lie sticlcs. Every- thing else may go, but that will stay, and you will have to carry it round with you, whether you will or not; a hard and heavy load.
A BRAVE BOY.
" A LADY," says the Temperance Visi- Ix. tor, "who had always thought wine
;••>' article of household use,
i a young lady who was making a call if she WOnld take a glaai of wine after her walk. The young lady con- I. and a little son of the fair ho
ooming in at the moment from school, wae told to poor out the draught He went
toward the decanter, but. stopped short,
/, 'I can't, mother, for I belong to the ('old Water Army.' The lady then
called her Irish girl, who came in, and finding what was wanted, shook her head and said, 'I can't, mum; I've taken the pledge, and here is me meddel round me neck,' pointing to. one of the pewter medals worn by the Irish who have taken the total abstinence pledge. The lady was compelled to turn out the wine her- self, but will do so no more, for both ladies have since given their names to the good cause of temperance."
CHILD'S HYMN.
A T night my mamma comes up stairs ; *£*- She comes to hear me say my prayers, And while I'm kneeling on her knee She always kisses little me.
Before she takes away the light
She tucks the blanket smooth and tight,
And all around my sleepy head
She draws the curtains of my bed.
I heard her walk across the floor,
And softly shut the nursery door;
And then I cried with all my might,
" Good-night, my dear mamma, good-night"
That dear mamma, so sweet and mild,
I heard her mj, "God Mem my child;"
And always, when she g061 away, These ire the words I hear her say.
Oh what a happy child am I, Whilst in my little bed I li*-, by a mother*! tender lore.
And by a holy God al>
64
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
GRANDMOTHER'S VISIT.
THE CIIILDRKX'S HOUR.
65
THE DEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER.
By Carrie.
HAVE you a dear old grandmother who conies three or four times a year, and stays ever so many weeks, and is so good, and tells you such sweet stories? We have, and she's so nice!
She came yesterday, and the house has been brighter ever since. Jack isn't half so noisy as he was, and May hasn't cried or pouted once, but goes about singing like a bird ; and it's all because grandma ia here. It seems as if nobody could be cross, or fretful, or bad where she is. She speaks so gently, always, and there is such a soft light in her eyes when she looks at you, and such a sweet smile on her Ipa when she talks.
Mr. Walton, our minister, was here this morning, and I heard him say some- thing to mother, after grandma had left the room, about "growing old grace- fully:" these were hie very words. I think I know what he meant. I wonder -hall ever get to 1"' a woman, and then grow old like grandma — i
and beautiful, and good! Everybody
her; and she BeemS tO love I
body.
I think I'd rather die than grow old
like Katie Long's grandmother. Nobody
likes her, and I don't much wonder; she's
ross and selfish. Katy doesn't love
her. she told I i said she WSJ
always sorry wheo she cams and glad when she went away. Now, isn't thai
dreadful!
r ol. \ . 'j
It is so sweet to be loved ; and I heard papa say once, that if we would be loved we must be lovely. Grandma is lovely, and that's why she is loved.
I'm a little girl, and don't know a great deal, but I know why everybody loves grandma. Dear grandma ! I hope I shall be as sweet and good as she is when I grow old.
WINTER SONGS.
By Ada M. Kennicott.
A SNOW-BIRD woke one winter morn- ing from his long, nice Dap on a pine twig. a
"I declare," said heSBrif it isn't morn- ing already! and it does not seem as though I have been asleep at all ! But here goes for breakfast !"
Then lie shook his wings, and away he went through the air, just as gayly as if there were no such thing as cold in the world. First he flew over the fields, and wherever a dry weed held it- brown head above the snow, he was pretty -ore it had Something good stored away for him in
its little Mcd-eup. Bo he would chirp and siiiLr merrily, as he swung on the stalk. Baying:
'•Thank yOU, friend, you are very kind.
Now. I will tell you a secret There's a
storm QOming, for 1 fed it in the air. But, don'l >ou mind; the snow will keep
your roots warm; and. besides, it will not
be winter always, for I beard the sun- beams telling th<' north wind, only J I
day, that he s bis 1 est
66
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
and, let him be as rough as he liked, he would have to pack up and be off before long, and then they could have it all their own way with the brooks and flowers. Then he blew a loud whistle and went off, tossing the snow around this way and that— just so."
Here the little fellow gave a dive, and went flying and hopping about all over the meadow, crying —
" Good-bye, good-bye, don't you wish you could fly Like me, like me ? — chick-a-dee, dee, dee."
Then he visited the rail-fences, the last places, one would think, to search for food, they look so gray and bare ; but Chickie knew that the winds had been busy all the autumn storing up tiny seeds in their cracks and corners for the use of the winter birds, so he dove into them with his slender bill, singing merrily all the while —
" Chick-a-dee, dee, dee, Don't you see, see, see, God takes care of me ?"
At last, he flew away to a little brown house by the wayside and lighted before a window. He hopped about for some time on the smooth, hard-packed snow, but no one threw him crumbs as usual.
"Oh dear me!" he cried, " what shall I do — I want a bit of bread so much? There stands Bessie by the window, but she does not notice me at all."
Then he came nearer, lighting on a rose bush that reached almost up to the sill.
" Chick-a-dee, dee — don't you see me ?"
he sang in his loudest, finest tones. But, if she saw him, she did not seem to care. Shall I tell you what was the matter?
She had let her heart follow a bad spirit away, so she could not enjoy Chickie's song.
To-morrow would be Christmas; next day afternoon, Fannie Morris was going to have her young friends up at the hall. Then there would be the same happy time that the Morris family always al- lowed their children to make for their Sunday-school mates at the joyful Christ- mas-tide.
So you would have expected Bessie to be going about as merry and busy as Chickie, with the thought of the dear Christmas-time so near, and her happy day to come after it ; but, instead of that, she stood by the window, her face red and her eyes swollen with weeping, and such a cross, discontented look on her face. It was a new thing for Bessie to do, but, of late, a weed had taken root in her heart, and had sprung up and spread very fast in spite of the winter, for heart-weeds grow in all seasons. The name of this weed was Pride. It was bearing fruit, too — envy toward all who wore finer clothes than she — even her kind friend, Fannie Morris — and ingrati- tude not only to her kind parents, but also toward God who gave her so many blessings.
She had asked her mamma for a pair of new morocco shoes to wear to the party, and when she replied that she could not buy any just then, but would
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
67
fix up the old ones nicely, Bessie was quick to believe her — as that wicked spirit, Anger, said — very unkind.
It is true, Wisdom tried hard to get the little girl to go with her. She showed her paths, bordered with flowers of all kind> and colors that blo»omed all the your, and woods filled with birds that sang day and night, and fruits that ripen- ed in all seasons. She sang, too, very bweetly —
'' My ways are ways of pleasantness; My paths are paths of peace."
But <>uld neither look nor lis-
ten, and, though Anger had nothing to show but a dark road, hedged in with thorns and thistles, and full of rough rook* and deep pit-falls, by which stood MKnvy, Hatred. Malice and Uncharitable- ready t" drag down the unwary — instead of praying as she ought, "Good
Lord, deliver us/' Bhe followed the dark spirit, without once trying to resist him. But he had given her no comfort; it is not bis nature to comfort any one; so • bad cried herself tired, and now i pretending to be looking out of
door-, but really thinking of nothing she
only nursing her bitter, unhappy feelii
This was why she bad no <ar for
Quick Wt can never really
Nature's oom-
,'h bad feelingl in our hearts,
because her many beantiei are gifts of for the nurture of good and peaceful
thoughts, and they can b:ive no fellow- ship with tin: works of darkness.
Chickie chirped and fluttered till he j was nearly wearied out, u0h dear," ) cried he, at length, "she will never listen ) to me! I'll go and get my neighbors ) that are playing yonder on the pond, and < we will qysg our prettiest song together! maybe she will come to us then;" and : away he flew.
) "See there, Bessie!" said her sister; ) "poor Chickie has got tired of waiting ( for you to feed him, and has gone ) away."
I "I don't care," answered Bessie, ) crossly ; but soon she began to feel sorry S that the poor little fellow should go Avith- ( out his breakfast, and was very ready ; when he came back with his friends to I give them all a nice feast. They flew J about so merrily that she could not help J watching them, and, though she did not ) know it, the beauty of the innocent, happy j creatures began to soften her heart, which ( Anger had made so hot and wretched, ) and Discontent, whom he had set there to keep 1*11 good thoughts out, had to let the door open just a little way. "Chick- a-dee, dee," sang the snow-bird, and "Chickadee, dee." said his fellows. Bessie remembered the song which I pre-
sume all my young readers know, begin-
ning "The ground was all covered with snow," and she laughed at the thought of the birdies dressed up, as the \< .-aid. in frocks and sh<
" 1 wi.-h I were ;i hiuw bird," mused she. "for 1 should not need new shoes,
either; but thru the song said he did not
know who to.,k care of him. 1 wonder if t a I l- l'
68
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Then it seemed as if every bird sang loudly —
" Chick-a-dee, dee — God cares for me,"
but Bessie could not understand the lan- guage.
"Any way," thought she, "God did not make me a bird ; so J would rather be Bessie. ' '
At this, the door of her heart which had been unclosing, slowly swung wide open, and Wisdom, who had been waiting pa- tiently outside, flew in with smiling face, calling her fairies Content and Good-will to clear away all traces of Anger's pre- sence.
Gayly Bessie ran to feed her doves and chickens, and when at length she entered the house, rosy with cold, she had her own sunny face again. She soon sought out her mother, who readily forgave her ; and if you had looked into her room a few minutes later, you would have seen the little girl on her knees by her low bed, asking her heavenly Father to for- give her for breaking His commandments and murmuring against His holy will. Did not angels stoop gladly for that prayer, and carry it quickly to Him who loves a lowly spirit?
Now that peace had come back to Bes- sie's heart, it was easy for her to be busy and happy.
"I declare," saicj she, as her mother handed her the olcf shoes neatly mended and polished, "how tidy they look! I don't need any new ones after all. It would be foolish to get them when we need other things so much more. ' '
) "The humble mind finds quick con- ) tent," replied her mother, with a smile. ) So, the day which, at morning, had seemed so full of trouble, passed happily away, and an evening spent in church, chanting hymns and praises to the great and mighty Lord who deigned to become a child upon this earth, that through Him even little children might be saved, sent her peacefully to her low cot, where she fell asleep with these words of a hymn she had just been learning singing them- selves over in her mind :
" 'Twas a starry night of old When rejoicing angels told The poor shepherds of Thy birth — God become a child on earth.
" Soft and quiet is the bed Where I lay my little head ; Thou had'st but a manger bare, Rugged straw for pillow fair.
" Saviour, 'twas to win me grace Thou did'st stoop to that poor place, Loving with a perfect love, Child, and man, and God above."
Some school-girls were whispering to- gether in a corner of the room, when one of their companions entered. "Oh, Jane, do come here!" they cried. "We have a secret to tell you ; but you must promise not to speak of it to anybody for the world."
"Well," said Jane, "then I cannot hear it, for I never listen to anything that I cannot tell my mother."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 69
LITTLE MAY HEDGES. < tures, and good dinners, and everything
) to make people glad and happy. The
By Rosella. ) porch opens into an orchard, and beyond
( it lie breezy woodland hills, with grape-
" fTOU are all little cousins alike, and ) vine swings anywhere.
X it will be so strange and nice to play < No wonder the child cousins hurried together in the very same old barn that / little May Hedges from the depot up to your mothers romped and played in when \ Uncle Alick's.
they were little children like you are / May was an only child and somewhat now. j spoiled. You could see that by the curl
"Why, I couldn't think of anything \ of her red lip as she looked at the plain more like a pretty story — the kind we ) white 'kerchief neatly pinned across Aunt read in books;" and good Aunt Nannie ( Nannie's bosom, and then down at her bundled up the little pinky ears under ) own dainty furs and fine clothing, hoods, and the funny little dimpled hands J But the cousins were sensible little that would double up into fists she put ( folks, and they loved May right off at in warm mittens, and the capes and shawls ) first sight.
over fat shoulders, and with a joyous ( They all ran, hop, skip and jump, down twittering like spring swallows they set > the bank, then out into the road, past the off in a group for Uncle Alick's barn. I big wTalnut tree, and were so cunning
There was Ilattie, and Lily, and Susie, ) and sprightly they looked just like little and Louise, and last, among the girl j fairies.
ns, but not least, was the little visitor ) Suddenly, May stopped and tipped her from Pittsburg, May Hedges. ) head sideways, just for all the world like
I guess there would not have been all ( a blue jay when he looks sharply up into this noise and merriment, only May was a \ the far-off sky, and said to Louise: new cousin, and they wanted to please ) "Now, see here, 'Weesie, it's too bad to her and make her Tint a happy one. Of J have that boy you call Jack going with the boy cousins, there was Harry, and as; why the patches on his old breeches
and Norma, and a little fellow who are all swinging loose like shingles in the
walked with two crutches, Jack. wind! Fori can see his red legs all bare,
Oh, but Uncle Alick's house is a sued and not halt* look; let's make him go
for young ones to visit 1 In the home!"
find old letter.-, and picti The little girls all stopped and stood
books, and funny bonnets and OOSiS, and still. May could have ruled them like a
queer things to play with; in tin- wide, queen. There were the boys just ahead
roomy cellar are cream and applet; and of them, Jack's lisping 70108 loudest Of
between the attic and cellar are cheerful all, and his round, ruddy face Bweet and and plants, and pie- bright and beaming with joy.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Oh what a noble thing it is to be brave and true, and courageous enough to stand up for the right!
"Why, May Hedges!" said 'Weesie, with a wonderful wise, long face, her blue eyes deep and tender and womanly as she came up and put her arms around May, and her lips down till they almost touched her new cousin's cheek — "why that boy we call Jack is our own cousin, and his mother is a widow who weaves and washes, and works very hard — and his poor pa is a shot man — a dead soldier ; you ought to be very sorry ; and then poor Jack is a cripple, too, and all the boy they've got!" and 'Weesie nodded her head every time she added a new item to the pitiful story.
"Oh, oh!" said May, making the roundest mouth and the roundest eyes, ' ' I am so sorry for poor Jack ! I don' t care how ragged he goes now; if that's so, I'll just be real good to him! Ho, Jacky! hold on there!" said she, and away she ran and caught up with him and linked her arm in his, saying, "We two' 11 go together! I'll show you the nicest hiding-places and won't tell on ye, and you must not tell on me!"
Jack looked down on the little sprite and smiled admiringly, as much as to say: "You're a darling, that's what you are, May Hedges!"
Lily told me afterward that it nearly made the tears come in her eyes when she saw poor Jack on his crutches, hop- ping along beside the light-footed little, queen of a cousin, her crimson merino playing in the winds with his fluttering
rags, and her bright, intelligent face close beside his.
Not many children would have stood up bravely and honestly as did the little hero, 'Weesie. That is the kind of stuff good men and women are made of.
Oh they did have the most fun in Uncle Alick's barn!
Old bats and spiders were brushed by curly heads and flying drapery from their dusky hiding-places; and the mother- birds, that had called in on their journey southward to look good-bye at their last summer's nests, sat on the rafters and drooped their wings and wondered what all this noise meant.
"Yeep! yeep!" Jack would pipe out from the bottom of a wheat bin, where no one had thought of looking; and peep ! would May Hedges chime, as fine-voiced and clear as a katydid's, from the dusty old beam overhead, on which she was lying flat on her face, her clothes all tucked closely about her.
Uncle Rube came in, and, forgetful of his ripe years, romped and played hide, and helped hide the others, and made their fun a great deal funnier because he knew so many cunning tricks and ways of hiding little folks.
He tied 'Weesie up in a sack, and stood it among a lot of sacks that were full of grain, and there she stood looking just like a sack of wheat waiting to be hauled off to the mill. She got so tickled hear- ing all the cousins wonder where she was, she could not stand it any longer, so the sack tumbled over, and rolled about, and laughed out loud, and that was 'Weesie.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
71
One of Mays legs slipped through the bottom of the hay-mow into the stable, and nearly touched the old brown horse ( 'harlie and she thought that was a very remarkable adventure.
In the evening she told all the day's visit over to her mother as she sat on her knee, and she ended by saying, "Oh, I have been so glad all day, mother! I wish I could be this happy every day of my lit:
Her mother said, "I think the secret of your happiness lies in having done ritdit this morning — in having made poor •Jack happy, instead 01 sending him off home, as your first wicked impulse was to do. Every s lfi>h child is miserable, and hardly ever knows what the reason is.
"And now, my little daughter, remem- ber and make somebody glad every day. You must try and keep your heart tender and loving and true, and don't forget now. or in the yean to come, that the way to be happy u just to be good."
LOOK UPWARD.
A5TOUNG man once picked up a gold coin that, was lying in the reed. Al- ways afterward, ashe walked along, he kept hi- eyes on the ground, hoping to find an-
\ id in the Course of a long life
hi 'ii i pick np. at different time-, a goodly Dember of coins, both gold aad silver.
lint all 1 1. thai In- VII looking
for them be saw riot that the heavens bright above him. He never let bis
from the filth and mud in
which he sought his treasure; and when lie died — a rich old man — he only knew this fair earth as a dirty road in which to pick up money.
NO GOOD FROM PASSION.
" TT7ILL putting yourself in a passion
It mend the matter?" said an old man to a boy who had picked op a stone- to throw at a dog. The dog had only barked at him in play.
"Yes, it will mend the matter," an- swered the passionate boy, and quickly threw the stone.
The dog became enraged, sprang at the boy and bit his leg, while the stone bounded against a Bhop window and broke a pane of glass.
Out ran the shopkeeper and seized the ,i ml made him pay for the broken pane.
tie had Bended the matter finely, in
deed!
Take my word for it; it never did ami never will mend :Tie -matter to get into a
passion. It' the thing be hard to beer
when you are calm, it will he harder when you are in anger.
If you have met with a I08S, you will
only increase it by losing your temper.
There is something very little-minded and silly in giving way to sodden passion. Bel yourself against it with all your
heart.
Try to he calm in your little troubles;
and when greater ones cone, you will be the better able to hear them bra
THE CHILDREN
^SO^R
THE PET PONY.
By M. O. J.
YOU have, no doubt, read many stories of dogs basing rescued children, and even grown people* trOm drowning. A pony once did the same thing,. He was owned by a gentleman in England.
A canal ran along by a portion of the grounds, and one day the gentleman's little daughter, only three years old, was playing near its banks, and fell into the water. The pony was grazing in a field close by. No one was near to help, and but for her brave, dumb friend, the child would have certainly been drowned. Pony jumped into the canal, seized her dress with his teeth, and swimming swiftly to
the shore, safely landed his precious burden.
He had been used to kind treatment — indeed, was quite a pet with the family, and their kindness had won his affection, and was thus richly rewarded.
Surely God's creatures should meet at our hands better treatment than often- times falls to their lot. And many a lesson might we learn from them of faithfulness and kindness, doing with our might what we may do to help and bless.
Kind looks, and smiles so loving, And duties promptly done,
Oh these will make our home-nest As cheerful as the sun !
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
M ARCH, 1869
A PLEASANT SCENE.
tli<- birds and rabbits coming down U
) drink at the oool Btreara are happy in
\lrll\T a pleasant picture! Peace j the life given them by their Creator. A M iteala into your mind aa you look J ohnrch in the distance makes you tliink npon it. The graceful Bquirrelaal play of the divine love and care; Howl
icheaofthe greal tree, and tif'ul. and perfect, and wonderful arc the
. . 1 u
74
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
works of God ! From the great tree, spreading wide its giant arms and lifting its head almost to the clouds, down to the little blade of grass and sweet violet; from the lion and the elephant down to the tiniest insects — all are perfect, and beauti- ful, and wonderful !
Man, with all his gifts and powers, can- not make even a worm, or a leaf, or bit of moss; and yet how thoughtlessly he tramples them under his feet !
Look again at this scene. Why is all so peaceful? Why are the squirrels so happy in their gambols? Would not all be changed if a man or boy, or even a little girl, was to appear? Would not the squirrels leap up among the higher branches, the rabbits seek a hiding-place and the birds fly away?
Ah yes, so it would be. And why? Because men and women, who are made in the image of God and should be like God in goodness and mercy — protecting and not destroying — have forgotten to be good and merciful, and animals have learned to be afraid of them.
Isn't it sad to think of this ? To think that the peace and tender beauty of the scene you now look upon would be changed and marred by the presence of a human being.
Think of this, dear children ; think of it very seriously. How pleasant it would be to have the birds, as we walked in the fields and woods, fly down at our feet or light upon our,shoulders ; and to have the squirrels play along the paths we trod and welcome us with frisky gambols. All this would be if thev had not learned to
look upon man as their enemy. Let it not be so with you, my little readers. Think about this, as I have just said, each one of you ; and resolve in your heart to be kind and merciful to all God's living creatures.
A TRUE STORY.
By Ada M. Kennicott.
HOW Beauty sang! All day long it seemed as if his tiny breast were running over with music — great, full waves of song that never quite ceased, but only dropped into little trills and ca- dences that were like ripples silver-sweet. He was always happy, but to-day he seemed wild with delight.
Anne and Robert said he must be thinking about the blue skies and per- fumed groves of his south-land home ; but then his song would have been re- gretful, and there was surely no sadness in the notes he poured forth. Perhaps he was thanking God for all His goodness, for it almost seems that the birds have times when they meet together to sing praises. Now Beauty could meet no fel- low-songsters, for his home was in the city, and he swung quite alone in his little cage, so it may be he thought he must sing the more.
Thus the day wore away — people going by in the busy streets — dust, and noise, and confusion, while in his corner Beauty sang, and grandma, listening, declared him the noisiest creature in the whole
THE CHILDRESS IK > I'll.
75
city. By and by the evening coolness dropped into the hours, but still he sang, and only ceased when he tucked his head under his wing for the night.
Soon after. Mr. Norton came in to his tea — tired, hungry and just the least bit He flung his hat upon the hook dose by Beauty's cage, jarring the little fellow from his -lumbers. Thus awakened g the lights, the merry creature ■d to have an idea that it was morn- ing and time to bestir himself. Loudly end clearly he sang as if he were saying,
"Sunrise so Boon ! and bo bright, too! I declare, 1 moat have Blept BouncHy."
"How that bird does BcreamI" ex- claimed Mr. Norton, impatiently. Beauty did riot mind the uncomplimentary re- mark, but continued hi- BOng as though it had been highly praised instead.
At last the gentleman, losing his small
remnanjt of patienee, rose and taking the
from it- hook sat it down in the hall,
See if you can -top
your D
Anne's lip- quivered, but she knew it was Dselesi to speak when papa was cross, though the was grieved at tie- thought of of her little pel oat in tin- dark hall, alone; "and jusl because be wanted to thought she.
i I her father
grew note good-natured, and when his
ted mind and body WST4
freshed, the little onei olimbed hia ki nnrepulsed, for tle-ir nana] itoriea and \ ■ Ima waa not often with them, and gave themselves up to the full en-
joyment of their visit. "Old times" were talked over by the elders, while the small people listened with wonder, and tried to realize how it must seem to know so many people and have so much to tell about them.
But what became of Beauty all this while? No one thought of him, not even when bed-time came, for they all went up the other stairway, and the poor bird was still left alone in the dark ; but when grandma came down in the morning, she remembered him and took the cage into the breakfast-room. There, on the bot- tom of it lay Beauty, quite stiff and cold. Poor fellow ! was his little heart broken by the ungrateful treatment he received, or was he so affrighted by the sudden dark- ness? No one could ever tell, but one thing was certain, he would never trouble any one again with the expression of his innocent happiness. The sun could never shine brightly enough to warm him to life, the breeze never blow so softly as to coax him into Singing.
.Mr. Norton was very sorry for the re- sult of his impatience : people are most apt to be sorry when it is too late to men 1 matters. Bat what if Beauty had not died, but only stayed alone all night in
what was to him a horrible pit of black
' Would not the planing him there have been quite as eruelf
Bo, though no serious results may fol- low "or unkind words <t deeds, let US -till remember they are none the less oruel and
wicked Y'>u. little girl or bow may be
unkind to your -i ti-r to -lay, ami -h<- may
be taken ft you to morrow. No doubt
7G
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
if this be so, you will repent sincerely of your evil-doing, yet if God's mercy spares her to you, you will forget and treat her unkindly again and again. But remem- ber that He will write down each offence, and some day you will be reminded of it to your bitter sorrow. Be careful of the little things — the hasty word and selfish act. With every one some delicate nest- ling of affection will perish in the heart of your loved one, to be revealed, perhaps when you most yearn for it a silent, un- responsive witness to your cruelty, as poor Beauty's lifeless form was to the unkind- ness of his master.
THE TOWER OF MISSOLONGHI.
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
WHAT VV Mrs.
HAT'S the matter, Charlie?" asked Greyson, as she came into the dining-room and found him sitting moodily over his book, but plainly bring- ing not much energy to his lesson.
Charlie pushed his chair part-way back from the table, and tossed his hair off his forehead, as he answered, impatiently :
"I'm tired of all this stuff, mother! What does it signify whether I know it or not? I don't see much use in my being cooped up here when it's such splendid coasting; the pond's frozen hard enough by this time, I know, and I want to build a fort and a snow-man, and — "
"My boy," said his mother, kindly, "you have plenty of time for all that, besides learning your lesson perfectly ;
and you will enjoy it the more if you have been faithful to your duty. I cannot now tell you just what use it will be for you to understand Natural Philosophy, but you may be assured that father and mother know what is best ; and I will tell you an instance in which many lives were saved by means of knowing a single philoso- phical fact — that the earth is a good con- ductor of sound. (I noticed that your lesson to-day is on a similar subject.)"
"What was it, mother?" Weariness had vanished from the boy's face.
"Years ago," said Mrs. Greyson, ' ' when Greece was at war with Turkey, many of the Greeks took refuge in the tower of Missolonghi, a Grecian city. This tower was very strong, and the Turks tried in vain to destroy it. After many efforts, they went away as if they had given up the attempt. But they began digging into the ground at some distance ; and one Greek conjectured what they were going to do. In the cellar was a large quantity of powder, and he suspected that their plan was to make a small, un- derground passage to the cellar, lay tow all along and set fire to the tow. This would burn till it reached the powder, which would of course ignite and blow up the tower. The Greek piled up stones in the centre of the powder-magazine, and placed four small ones loosely on the top. He watched till he saw them shake. He put his ear down close to the earth, lis- tened, and ascertained which way the sound came. Then he began digging, and soon came to the tow and destroyed it ; so the Turks' fire could, of course, go no
THE CHILDREHTS HOUR.
77
farther. After waiting some time for the tower to blow up, they began digging in another place. The Greek kept watch of the Btoaes. Soon he saw them shake again. He pat down his ear aa before, and when he learned the direction, began digging again, and destroyed another line of tow. The Turks tried again and again, but linally concluded that the Greeks had I their intentions, and they gave ni» trying to destroy the tower of MisBO-
f'harlie's eyes sparkled with awakened interest,
"Thank you, mother," he said; ''I'll own Philosophy u good for something. I -han't forget Missolonghi."
His mother smiled: '"I want you to
iber another thing. There is a
marked resemblance between that tower
and human character. Then- could be no
either without constant watch- B - lea the huge, open sina
which D our guard against, there
neuiies of OUT soul- peace which
work -eril thoughta and desires,
/- and habits, which we an: apt to
think small and without danger. There
oger and resentment, discontent, im-
md rretfahiess, indolence and
mdering from truth in little
things, and always selfishneSfl iii it- many
.' and really in-
jurc oharaoter, mar osefulnesa and lesson
the bappinesa of hone . A eyer on your guard ' Lei do isossi tin
tow bring Bra mto your aouTa fast*
And remember that oharaoter, to he built
and .-troii-. to endure in
time and eternity, must be built on Christ's truth, and rest on him alone aa Bource and foundation. The soul that lives in him, the life that is formed by obedienee to his word, is truly ' founded upon a rock,' and shall never fall."
THE STORY OF LITTLE KIT.
By Leroy.
LITTLE readers of "The 'Children's Hour," do you love stories beginning " Once upon a time?" I do ; for they always make me feel for a moment aa if I was a merry child again, just sitting down to listen to a delightful story, all about giants, and fairies, and beautiful princesses, and brave young princes. Now, though my story has nothing about any of these, yet, as I hope you will like it just as well, 1 shall commence it in the good old way.
< toce upon a time then; were two great
citii--; Indeed, they an; both Btanding
now. just as they were wh-ui all that 1 am going to tell you happened : and BOttM day you may see them for your.-elves. ( )ne of tie-'1 cities wa- called London ;
and as you looked down upon it from a
hill or a tall church steeple, it appeared to be a wry grand and beautiful city.
There were a great many line, large
houses and splendid churches, whose
apireswereso tall that they seemed trying
to pierce the thick clouds which huie.'. the gffSltOr part of tin- time, over the city ; and at night, when thou-ands of lamps
78 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
were lighted, and music and laughter ) and gazing upon His glorious face, and sounded from the houses, it all seemed \ singing beautiful songs of praise and love very gay and happy. } to him.
But, if you were to walk through all ) I hope, dear children, that one of these- the streets, you would soon find that ( days you will all see the beautiful, happy among those so broad and bright were ) Golden City with your own eyes, and many narrow, dark alleys, where nothing \ walk in those shining streets, and join in was heard but dreadful oaths, drunken } singing those songs of praise and love, shouts, weeping and moaning; near to the S But, I suppose j^ou think I am never fine houses you would see dirty, tumble- < coming to little Kit. Well, look into the down places, hardly fit to be the homes > darkest and dirtiest alley in London, and of beasts ; and close by the beautiful i there you see a boy not more than eight churches you would meet with buildings ) yearn old, with a thin pale face and a where they sold the gin which helped \ small, wasted form. It is Christmas-eve more than anything else to make the peo- ) night, and the pure, beautiful snow covers pie that lived in those dreadful alleys so ) all the ground ; but in this alley it is no poor and wretched and wicked. ■* longer pure and beautiful, but soiled and
The other city was very different. It ) unsightly like everything else. The little was called The Golden City, and oh ! Is boy is standing out in the cold, dark cannot find words to tell you half how > night, with no shoes on his feet, no hat happy and beautiful it was. It had a s on his head, and his clothes all ragged high wall all around it, and twelve gates ) and dirty. He is crying too ; his little, in the wall, and each gate was made of a ') thin hands are cut and bleeding, for that single pearl ; and the streets were all of \ wicked old woman who is just going into shining gold, so bright and pure that it ) one of the filthy houses has beaten him, looked like crystal. Through the midst § and driven him out into the cold, dark of the city flowed a river of the clearest } streets to beg.
water, on whose banks grew a wonderful > This boy is little Kit. Poor child ! he tree, called the tree of life. But best of <! has no other name than Kit, now, though all, neither sorrow, nor weeping, nor pain, ) once he used to be called Chrissie Lee ; nor sin could ever enter into that city ; < no father and mother, for they are both and the people were all good and happy ; ( dead, though once they loved and cared and there was never any night there, for ) for him as tenderly as your kind parents the city was so bright that darkness could { do for you; no home, except with that not enter. } dreadful old woman, though once he lived
In this city lived the great King, to < in one of those fine houses, and had every - whom both cities belonged ; and the in- } thing he could wish for to make him habitants were always surrounding the S comfortable and happy. But all that was great, white throne on which He sat, t when he was much younger ; for when
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
79
his parents (lied, and wicked people cheated little Kit out of all his money and sold him to that old woman, he was only three yean old : so for five years lie has lived with her and been starved and ill-used and beaten.
While so many children were glad and happy in their warm homes, on this Christmas eve. little Kit stole slowly out of the dark alley and entered into the broad, brightly-lighted street. He walked along, crying and shivering as he went, and sometimes stopping a moment to look at the windows of the beautiful houses. There he saw warm, glowing fires, and nice, tempting suppers, which made him feel colder and hungrier than ever. In many there were beautiful Christmas trees, sparkling and flashing with colored lights and hung thick with presents; and when he saw the bright, happy, gayly -dressed children, laughing and dancing and Bulging in their glee, wbik those who loved them so dearly
looked on and helped them to be merry,
poor little Kir's heart felt M lonely and
•■• that he could look no longer.
be tamed away and sat down on the
of one of the churches, waiting to • be people as they came out Prom when he could look into the
church, and there he saw crowds of well- ed people, Wrapped Op in warm furs,
singing and praying. The walls were decorated witb • and scarlet ber-
ries, fh'- pilar wit h beSA-
tifnl "■ md anion-/ the srergreeni
and berries which decked the chance] phone right shore tin- pulpit a single
star. It was as large as the front wheel of a carriage, and SO bright that it daz- zled Kit's eyes to look at it. In the pul- pit was a minister with white hair and a gentle, tender face, and he was telling the people of the child who was born on Christinas nearly two thousand years ago. Kit listened and heard him say that this child was their own King, and lived in the beautiful Golden City, and was watching over them still. And then lie said that this great King, who had once been a little child Himself, dearly loved all little chil- dren— the poor and wretched as well as the rich and happy ; and that if they would only love Him in return, He would some day take them to live with Him in his own Golden City; and then they would never be cold, or hungry, or mis- erable, or naughty any more, but would be good and happy for ever, and they should join in singing a beautiful song about the King which He loved to hear. .Many children were singing it now in the Golden City, and all who loved the King should some day go there and sinir it too. 11.' said it all so plainly that little Kit heard every word, and he Stopped Crying, and tin' ci. Id and hunger and misery
seemed to <:<» away from him as he lis- tened. He looked up to the shining star and wondered if the Golden City was as
beautiful B8 that j and then he sail 1 , very
low to himself,
'• I love the Kin- ! I love the Kin- ! Oh I wish He would take me to the
Golden City'" And then he listened again, and the
minister WSJ saying that the King was 80
80
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
good that He listened to all who spoke to Him, and gave those who loved Him what- ever they asked Him for, if it was good for them ; and if it was not good for them, then He gave them something better in its place. Then the minister said :
"Let us all now ask Him for what we need, for He is here among us, at this very moment, though we cannot see Him."
Then little Kit saw all the people kneel down and cover their faces with their
!!<■
■
hands, and he tried to kneel too ; but he Felt so weak and numb and powerless that he could not move ; so he only bowed his head upon his hands, and said, softly,
" I love you, great King, Oh do take me, now, to the Golden City."
Then he heard the minister's voice, and
he tried to raise his head, but he could \
not; and the voice seemed to be going farther and farther from him. All at once, soft, sweet music filled the church, and came floating out to little Kit in the cold and darkness outside ; and his heart felt wonderfully happy and peaceful, for he thought it was surely the beautiful song of which the minister had told them.
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
81
But lit- felt weaker ami weaker, and his head sank lower and lower on his hands. Far away, up in the Golden City, the King and His happy people looked down and -aw the church anl tin- minis- ter and the warmly-dressed crowd within. And they saw little Kit oof in the cold and darkness, all alone ; and they heard him whispering how he loved the King, and begging to be taken />""• to the ( lolden City. And looking on him. the great Kim: loved him, and bade his messengers go and bring him softly and tenderly up to the Golden City. And they brought little Kit and laid him in the great Kimr's arm.-, and He folded him closely and lov- ingly to Hi- bosom.
HOPE DARROW. A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY.
TowMsemd.
CHAPTER III.
I WAS going to -lip out of the room, when the boy, turning his head, called nit to mc "Where an yon going, Ho]
the doctor has oome, I was
afraid I should be in the way."
•• No yon won't, either, M very de- cidedly. " I can'l l< I you'll
pfomise to oome back as bo i off."
I >ii yea, I U k then :" and
r w.rd. the doe- tor opened the door and came in with Mr. Brainerd, who had met the old man in the hall. I. lino II- looked a
;. v. II
good deal surprised as he saw me coming
out of the parlor. "Why. Hope, how did you get in there?" he asked.
"I wont in there on an errand for Mrs. Brainerd. Oh, Lewis! I've been talking with that poor young fellow. I like him ever so much."
•'What is there to like about him?" going into the c,baek room*' as Mrs. Brainerd called it. where we all lived and had (Mil- meals. In a moment her hus- band came in and called her. saying she would be needed in the other room, so Lewis and 1 were to have our supper alone together. Sueh a piece of good luck only happened to us once in a great while, and oh dear! how we did prize it !
I would sit at the head of the table and ponr tin' tea. and Lewis would always talk of tin; happy times when we should have a little robin's nest of our own, and I should be his little housekeeper. An 1 sometimes I would seem to see myselfbust-
ling about the small, cozy nutshells of rooms, the mistrCSS of that bit of a home that would be so much better than walk- ing a crowned queen through a gorgeous
palace, and 1 would break out with. " ( )h, Lewis, I don't know but it's wicked to l much, but it really don't serin as though heaven could be any better than that ; does it really BOW?"
And Lewie would laugh an 1 say, ••Weil. Polly Prim, I think I should rather have the home first and heaven afterward."
Polly iVim was a nickname which
Lewi- gave me whenever I -aid or did anything that amused him. It wej
82 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
odd, but then I liked it, coming from I I said that, hungry as he had been, he Lewis, better than many a prettier name. ) half forget to eat his supper.
"But oh it seems too good to ever ( "After all," he said, when I was come true — the dear little home and you ( through, and a little quizzical smile came and I there, keeping house together. \ into his eyes; "all girls do think a good Oh, Lewis! Lewis! it's like some sweet, \ deal of beauty, don't they? Even my fairy-land story — it never can really and ; little Polly Prim's tongue goes wonder- truly happen." ( fully over this fellow's good looks. I'm
"Yes, it will, though," and there would ) jealous already." come a swift fire into the light blue eyes, < I sprang right up at that, and ran and the grim look about his mouth which > around the table to him and threw my I knew so well— the look that always told < arms about my brother's neck. "He me Lewis Darrow had made up his mind ( doesn't look half so nice to me as my to a thing. "It will be a long, tough > own darling brother Lewis. Nobody struggle, I foresee all that, but the home I can do that."
will be all the sweeter when we've won ( Lewis' laugh rang out at the merriest : it, won't it, little Hope?" < "You didn't really take me for such a
And when I heard Lewis talk like this ( ninny as to be in earnest, Hope! I'm not and saw the look in his face, my heart < fallen so low yet as to be jealous of any would take courage too, and I would \ fellow's good looks, or to doubt that I have really believe the time was coming, though ) in my little sister's heart what she has in it might be a long way off, when he and s mine — the first place. So go right back I would have our very little own house ( and pour me out another cup of tea." together ; and meanwhile, though it £ We had just got well through our sup- would be for both of us, as Lewis said, a < per when Mrs. Brainerd returned, and long, tough struggle, I could have pa- <> Lewis and I both shouted out at once : tience and wait. < " What does the doctor say about him ?"
But to-night, as we sat together at the > " His ankle isn't broke, but he's given table, we had something else to talk about. ) it an awful sprain. The doctor's dressed I had to tell Lewis all that had happened < it, and he feels a great deal easier now. while he was gone for the doctor, and ) It's a wonder that spring off the cars how the young stranger and I had got on (' didn't cost him his life." as nicely as old friends together. "It / I was so glad to find that it was
no
was wonderful, Lewis," I said. " I ) worse I could have cried for joy, but Mrs. didn't feel the least bashful after he spoke < Brainerd went on to say: "He's asked to me the first time, and he is just beau- ; for you again, Hope, and you'd better go tiful. I can't tell you how much I like ( in. It won't be for long you'll have to him." ) stay, for he feels sleepy, now the pain'?
Lewis listened with such interest to all ( eased, and he'll drop off in a little while. "
*
THE (UILDllES'S HOUR.
S3
So I left Lewis with his books and went back to the lonely young stranger. I en- tered the room very softly, and tiptoed 38 lfto the lounge, making a sign to Mr. Brainerd not to speak, for the man had seated himself by the fire, to be at hand in ease anything was wanted. The hoy's eyes were closed and he was breath- ing softly, and though his face was still very pale, the lines of suffering were gone now.
11 Here lam!" I whispered so softly that if he were really asleep he would not awaken.
His eyes opened at once, and he smiled Mil -eeing me. " Ah, there you are! I am very glad you are come."
"And I am very glad to find you feel- ing so much easier."
See, the doctor has bathed and swathed my ankle, and it's greatly re- li'-v
•" I was BO afraid he would pain you working over it. and then to think, after all, it isn't broken, as we all feared.
•• Did \-muv ' hii face growing startled. ■• I Defer thought of that ITes, it was i
;' mercy it. has 0600 BO WOTSe."
Mr. Brainerd bustled forward now and
said he would leers his patient a little while under my care, a- then- asemod DOthing JUS! then to do. and he inn-! put
up his horses for the night, so I was tef)
alone once more with the -i ranger.
•' I thing in the world 1 can
do for J ked, after the
driver had lumbered his great, slums?
limb- "'it of the room.
if you please rod -it
down in the arm-chair that man has left. Your face makes a home feeling through all the room, which none of the others can."
11 You've asked me to do a very little thing," I answered, but I went and sat down in the arm-chair by the fire. ''It must be very lonely for you here, sick and among strangers you never so much as heard of before."
"Well, yes, it was tough enough at first, and that agony in my ankle too. Whew!" he screwed his face.
u It was too bad. We all thought you bore it like a hero."
"Did you? It didn't make the pain any easier to think I had nobody but my- self to thank for it all."
That was true enough I knew ; but one could not blame him after the boy had paid such a heavy price for his rashness, so I said nothing.
"You think it was a terrible thing 1 did, Hope. I see it in that little, bright. solemn face of yours, though you have too much grace to say a word."
I could not help smiling at the way lie read my thoughts, hut if I said anything it must he the truth :
"I do think it was very wrong to rink your life in that way, but I'm more -lad that) 1 can tell you that you escaped with no worse harm."
"' And I suppose you would like to know what could have set me off on such a break -neck rush and jump. I see that
too n your eyes " My eyes feel] the truth this time.
then." So the hov went on to relate his
84 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
story. It appeared he was on the way to \ the jump that cost him a sprained ankle, a small country-seat which two years be- ) which would lay him up in John Brain- fore his brother-in-law had purchased ) erd's parlor, as snug as a dormouse in his about thirty miles from Salmon Head, on ' hole, for the next two or three days, the borders of one of the small lakes ) I couldn't help laughing at the funny among the hills. ( way in which he put it at the last. " 1
That was before the gentleman's mar- ) don't know how under the sun I could riage with the boy's sister, but the last < ever stand it in such a dull, dreary place summer the three had been together at ( if it wasn't for you." the little country-seat— bridegroom and { "I'll do anything I can to help you bride, young brother — and had a capital } pass the time away, but that won't be time of it too. ) much. If Lewis could only stay at home
"Dick," that was the brother-in-law's ( now, he'd be really company for you." name, had resolved to make some im- ) " Who is Lewis ?" provements in the cottage, and he had ) "Why, have you forgotten already? gone up the day before on the other side ( He's my brother, and you would like him, of the mountains to overlook the ar- ) I'm sure."
rangements, and the boy had taken a ( "But I'm not certain, you see, about fancy. .to meet his brother there, and have ) him, only about his sister." a pull or two for brook-trout before the < He had a pretty, graceful way of pay- winter set in. ) ing compliments. I supposed it was
I am a little girl, you see, and should \ merely the polite way of talking which never be able to tell this &ory at all ex- < people had in cities, and it was very cept in the boy's own words. ) pleasant, provided it was true.
He had made up his mind to steal a ( But I wanted to bring my brother and surprise on Dick, bursting in suddenly > the young boy together, so I said : "You upon him at the cottage; and his sister, ) will certainly like Lewis, and if you can't whom the husband had left in New York, \ believe me, you can see for yourself. He had entered heartily into the.joke, so the S is very smart, and can talk about things boy had started, expecting to reach his < which I don't understand at all, and — brother-in-law the next day. At Salmon <| and — he is just the best brother in the Head he had overheard some talk between \ whole world. ' '
the passengers about a stage which ran ? "I am very glad to hear such a good over to Terrace Tavern, and thus saved £ account of him, and to-morrow I shall be travelers going far to the north and skirt- ( happy, as you say, to judge for myself, ing the mountains the next day. The cars ) but I don't feel equal to making a new had already started, but the boy seized his \ acquaintance to-night, and I'm quite sat- valise, made a rush to the door, and his ) isfied with my present company."
ride to Terrace Tavern was cut short by S Another one of his pretty compliments;
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
85
I wondered if the young stranger meant all he said, and whether I ought to take any notice of it. At any rate. I could think of nothing to say.
I sat still by the cheery fire, thinking over the story he had told me, and how strangely things do happen in the world, and watching the red blaze which went capering and humming up the chimney, and gave to the whole silent, dark old room a homely kind of brightness and comfort I had never thought it could
I thought, too, the boy on the lounge was -inking into a doze, when he suddenly roused himself: " Why haven't you asked me the same question I did you. long u_
•• What WM that?"
•" What my name was. Wouldn't you like to know BOW?"
"Oh yes. very much, only L didn't feel about asking*"
■• Feu are a shy little girl. I found it
out tin- moment I looked up and saw you >tandiiiLr still at my side, with your face full of blushes and pity."
for you." No need to tell me that, with the look
ir face. Bui about my name?" < >!i yea, about that?"
I I smiled a little aj my eagera
Suppose, and thru he said :
"It's nothing remarkable ; it's simply Creighton Bell" "Creighton Bell. I- that right?"
how do you lik'- it'.' "
• I like it pretty well, only it seems rather odd. I suppose i( wouldn't after
I D 1 to it."
1 ' Well, suppose you try as fast as you can. Call me Creighton from this time."
"I don't think I could quite do that — v at least at first. We have been ac- quainted such a little while. It will be easier to say Mr. Creighton."
"Well, take your own way about it."
"I suppose now I ought to say Miss Hope, but then I commenced wrong and it won't come easy to me."
"Ah well, there's no need," I hastened to Bay. "I'm only a little girl, and no- body thinks of calling me Miss. Indeed, I should feel awkward if folks did."
"Well, then, that's all settled. Now, Hope, haven't you grown tired of sitting here, with no better company than a fel- low laid up in this way?"
"Oh no, I'm not tired. I'll stay as long as I can do you any good."
"Thank you. I shall drop asleep now in a few minutes. But I should like to have that little face in the fire-shine the last thing I looked on. I shall take that. instead of the lonely, home-sick feeling, into my dreams," his voice dropping
wearily over those last words.
In a minute more he was fast asleep.
I sal there for some time looking at tli" pale, handsome, boyish face, across which now and then the red flame flickered. At last Mrs. Braioerd came to the door. 1 held up my hand softly, hut there was no need ; the poor, young hoy was thoroughly worn out with pain and ei
eiteiipnt. and even the Ma-e driver - thump- acrOSS the floor Would not have
aroused him. Mr-. Brainerd cameup to me and whis-
86 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
pered, "I'm much obliged to ye, Hope. ) ''Oh, Lewis, what do you mean? 1 John's goin' to set up with him to-night ; \ never thought I was good-looking ;" and I'll take my turn now." > I found myself actually blushing.
I went back to Lewis, and found him ) "I know you never did, Hope, and I buried in his books. It was about the \ never told you so, because I was not sure, only time he had for study in these short ) if our mother lived, she would feel it the days, and he made the most of it. \ best kind of thought to enter a little girl's
"Well, how's your patient, Hope?" as > head. But you are too wise and sensible I came in and stood by him. S to let it turn yours, and in the long run
"He's fast asleep, and, Lewis, I've ■' it's the hearts for which we are loved, found out his name and all about him." S whether they lie under handsome faces or
My brother laid down his book to lis- I homely ones. ' ' ten, and I related all that had passed on ) " Ah, Lewis, that speech is so good and my second visit to the parlor, ending my s true it ought to go into a book." story with, "It's strange, Lewis, but for ) We had a pleasant evening together, all he's such a handsome, elegant, young S John Brainerd came in and took his usual gentleman, I don't feel any more afraid -. snooze on the lounge, and Lewis went back of him than I do of you." ) to his books, and soon it was bed-time.
"You do seem to get on wonderfully { When I got to my room that night, well together, for the short time you've ) among other things I remembered the had to know each other; but, Hope, don't s pleasant speeches which Creighton Bell go to sounding any more trumpets in my } had made to me, and I went and looked praise. I shall never be in this Creighton ) in the glass, and the face there blushed Bell's eyes, nor in those of any other l and smiled back at me. human being's, what I am in my partial > But I was ashamed the next minute. little sister's." ) " Hope Darrow," I said, "a pretty face, if
"Yes, you will, when folks really come ) you're really got that, is nothing to be to know you. Lewis." ') vain of, and you'll make a fool of yourself
"You forgot the little girls' talk which } if you ever think of it again." you overheard sitting under the bridge ]> Then I went over in my thoughts, as this afternoon," his eyes twinkling over s one ought to before going to sleep, all the the joke, as though he did not enjoy it ^ good things that God had dropped into the less because it was at his own expense. ) my life, and I remembered how carefully
"It was shameful — it was a wicked ^ he rocked the sparrows in their nests falsehood!" I broke out. > among the green leaves every summer.
"Come now, don't fire up over that ] and that Lewis and I were closer to his again. I think it was real fun. Besides, ) heart than all the birds that filled his I'm satisfied that all the good looks) summer with their singing, should go to you. ' ' <* [to be continued.]
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
ST
A WINTER NIGHT.
By Louise V. Boyd.
BACKWARD, forward, as in play, Whirled the snow-flakes all the day. Drifting on the wintry air, Here and there and everywhere.
At eve the children, happy four, • d the shatter*, locked the door,
And began, as too may guess, die her doll to dn
Little Jim, his lather'- pet,
His soldiers all in order set ;
While Bessie looked with silent frown
On Harry pacing up and down.
Away all day had Harry been ;
^ what could Besi ie's frowning mean? But half a 'on to me
Unraveled all the mystery.
IB i i 1 1 n ir with delight :
. yon" II gee this very night A rabbit to my trap will coin* —
1 he caught ; and here at home
iae I'll bring, and yoa -hall -<•.■, And won't yon then be prond of A tear I -aw in Bessie'i eye Glial made reply :
< )h, Harry, brother, kind and good I I «ee a picture in a wood !
Id, and dark, and gloomy dell, there a Little hoii-.-hold dwell.
A tiny brother, a tii.
For mother cry ; an hour they've missed her,
I and hanger, pain ; « >h, mother, come again !"
Is all I hear, and then 1 ) Another picture; painfully
I con it o'er and o'er again — That mother dies a death of pain. Wild wails the wind, fast falls the snow, The night grows colder; could I go, I'd go this very hour and try .; To give that creature liberty."
Now sobbing, Rosy murmurs out, ) " Oh go !" and Jimmy wheels about '. His soldiers from the battle-field,
And Grant-like cries, "I will not yield ( Till Harry lets the captive go ) Back where those babies love her so !" • Stout Harry, listening to all,
Standing with back against the wall, l Tried to be firm, but tried in vain, ) Then said, " I let her go again !"
While Bessie, Rose and little Jim
With kisses almost smothered him.
) I blest those darlings from my heart, } But here's my story's better part : ) The children found at morning light { That Harry's trap was empty quite, And mother Bunn, too wise to roam,
With baby Banna was safe at home.
Bxwari of evil thoughts. They have done great harm in the world. Bad thoughts come Bret, bad words follow, and bail deeds lini-h the progress. Watrh againsl them, Btrive against them, pray against them.
•' Bad Thought*! a thietTi he aCtl hi- part ;
!■- through the windows of the heart :
\ ml it' be once hi- way can win, I [e lets a buudred robbers in."
88
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
SELLING FLOWERS.
By Kate Sutherland.
"W:
HAT will become of her children?" 'The Father in heaven only knows," was answered.
"She hasn't brought them up to do much."
"No. They'll be very helpless. I don't see what is to become of the poor things."
"How old is Lucy?"
"Thirteen."
"And Maggy?"
"Not over seven."
"They'll have to be separated, of course. Lucy is old enough to go to work in some family.
Though spoken almost in whispers, every word reached the ears of Lucy, who was sitting near with Maggy's head buried in her lap. She was crying, but all at once her tears stopped. "Have to be separated!" she and Maggy! She felt stunned for a little while, as if somebody had struck her a hard blow.
Then the funeral services began, and the minister's solemn voice filled the small room where a few neighbors were gathered. Afterward, the dead mother was carried out and buried in the village graveyard.
A single neighbor returned with the children ; all the rest went back to their homes, pitying the orphans and wonder- ing what would become of them.
This neighbor was very poor — a widow with two children of her own, whom she
found it hard to feed and clothe from her scanty earnings. But she had a tender heart, and could not turn away from the sorrowing orphans like the rest. So she went home with them after the funeral; and all the way, as she walked silently with the children, she thought and thought, in a troubled state of mind over what she should say to them.
At last they were at the door of the poor little cottage, and the kind neighbor had not yet found a word that she felt in her heart she could say to these mother- less children. Their case was so hard and sad that it seemed like mockery to offer mere words of comfort.
But this silence had to be broken ; and so, as they entered the cottage, she said:
"There is a Friend who loves and cares for you. It is God. He is the Father of the fatherless. Do not be afraid, but trust in him."
A wild burst of grief for Lucy and Maggy was their only answer to these comforting words. Waiting until their sobbings and moanings were still, the neighbor, who could only stay for a little while, spoke further with them, saying:
" He will not feed and clothe you and me as he feeds and clothes the birds and animals; for he has made us for a better and a happier life than he has made them. We must feed and clothe our- selves. But we cannot do this unless he helps us; and he helps all who try to help themselves. There are many things that even little girls can do. Why" — and the poor neighbor's voice had a sudden chceriness, as a new thought came into
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
89
SELLING FLOWERS.
90 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
her mind like a gleam of light: "Why, { The little sorrowful face did not you are such a good scholar, Lucy, that ) brighten, for the little sorrowful heart of you might keep a bit of a school for the ( Maggy had not been troubled in the way little ones — just two or three hours a day, ) Lucy's had been. Nothing of care had you see, so as not to make it too hard on < come in to divide her grief. But she an- them, and a trifle easier for their mothers. \ swered, I'd like to send my Molly; and if I ) "Do— for what?" couldn't pay you in money, I could send ( "Do — to earn money as mother did. a loaf of bread and a pot of milk now and ) We must earn money, or we can't get then, and that would help." CJ things to eat and wear. Don't you know
Lucy did not make any reply to this. ( that, Maggy? But I'.m the oldest and It sounded strangely. But she laid it up \ must see about this. Now I'll tell you in her thought. When the neighbor ( what we can do. It all came to me in the went away, and she was left alone with > night as I was lying awake. Mother her sister, it seemed to her, as she said ( loved flowers, you know ; and our garden afterward, that she was not Lucy, but ) is full of pinks, and candy-tuft, and sweet somebody else. A new feeling toward ( alyssum, and roses, and phlox, and scar- Maggy came into her heart — a mother- ) let sage, and ever so many other kinds, feeling of care and love — deeper than any ) Ladies go past in carriages every day ; feeling she had ever known. ( and I'm sure if we made bouquets we
In the night as she lay awake, crying } could sell them, for 'most everybody and thinking by turns, while Maggy slept, ( loves flowers.
a way seemed to open before her. " God } "Oh, that would be good," answered helps all who try to help themselves." ) Maggy, beginning to feel a portion of her This that the kind neighbor had said was ( sister's care.
remembered and kept coming up in her ; So, without any delay, they went into thought, and repeating itself over and { the small patch of ground they called over again, almost as if some one were ) their garden, and picked their aprons full speaking it aloud in her ears. ) of flowers. These Lucy tied into neat
"I will try my best," the grieving girl ( bouquets, and placing them in a work- said, as tears rolled over her cheeks; lift- ) basket, went and sat down with her ing her heart and eyes to heaven, she ( sister in front of the cottage. It was not prayed, "0 Lord, show me what to do." ) long before a lady came riding by in her
And then a way seemed to open before \ carriage, and seeing the children and the her thought — a plain and easy way — and ) bright flowers they held out for sale, while looking at it in hope she fell asleep. ) stopped and bought two or three little
"I've thought of something we can do, ? bunches, paying even more for them than Maggy," she said to her sister on the ';• they asked, next morning. ( Lucy could not keep the tears from her
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
91
M she received from the lady's hand this first fruit of her effort to help herself. Noticing this, the lady said in a kind voice,
"Is your mother sick?"
At this Lucy sobbed out, unable to con- trol her feelings; and little Maggy, hiding her face against her sister, began crying bitterly. Then the lady got down from her carriage and went into the cottage.
'Where is your mother?" she asked.
''Dead," answered Lucy, with a fresh gush of tears.
"Dead! My poor children!" And the lady's voice grew very tender. "When did this happen?"
Lucy told her the sad story of their loss, and how they were left all alone in the world.
"Did no kind neighbor stay with you iirht '!" asked the lady.
L toy shook her head, forcing down the sob that would not let her speak.
"Poor children!"' The lady spoke as if t<» benelf, and then sat very still for a good while.
'"What made you think of selling flowers?" sh<- asked.
■'I must d<> something," replied Lucy.
Lyon thought I might keep a
school fur little children, and said if I
tried to help myself Grod would show me
what to do. I lay SWakc for SVOf BO 1 ' o i -
last night, thinking and thinking how I
could earn something; and :it last I
1 1 Lord ! show me what to do." Then it came nsto my mind that our garden was foil of flowers, and thai I could make np bouquets and sell
them ; and I felt such hope and comfort that I went to sleep."
The lady was so touched by this artless story that she could not keep the tears from her eyes.
"Who is Mrs. Lyon?" she asked, as some new thought came into her mind.
' ' She lives over there by the mill. You can see her little house by the chesnut trees ;" and Lucy pointed through the window.
"She's poor?"
"Yes, ma'am; and has to take in washing and sewing."
" It was she who told you that if you would try to help yourself, God would show you what to do."
"Yes, ma'am. And it looks as though she was right — doesn't it?" said Lucy, in an artless way, something like a ray of sunshine falling on her face.
"She was right; there is no doubt of that," answered the lady. "Is she a widow?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How many children has she?"
"Two, and they're little things,"
The lady then went away; but before going, .-he said to Lucy, a sweet, serious smile on her faC
•lie of good OOUrage, my child; you looked to your best friend when you looked to the Lord, and asked hini to show yon die best way in which to walk.
He always hears m when we pray to him
humbly and sincerely; and always an
swers our prayers in the way he knows will be besl lor as, though not always in the ray we eiped the snswertn come.
92
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
•-v_/"S_/"v_r"
He heard your prayer last night, and will send you help and friends."
The lady then went to see Mrs. Lyon, and asked her all about the two orphan children, and all about herself.
"It won't do," said the lady, as they talked, "for these children to stay all alone, day and night, in that cottage. ' '
"I've thought about that, ma'am, and it troubles me," answered Mrs. Lyon.
"It's a larger and better house than yours?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you own this one?"
"Oh no, ma'am! It's as much as I can do to get bread for the children."
"How much rent do you pay?"
" The rent's a dollar a week, ma'am." There was an undertone of trouble in the woman's slightly hesitating voice as she thus answered.
"And you don't always find it easy to save that from your earnings?"
"Not always." The poor woman tried not to betray the anxious feelings these questions awakened. But the lady saw it all.
"Are you much behind with your rent?"
" More than eight weeks, in all," Mrs. Lyon answered, the blood rising to her face. Then she added, in a troubled voice: " And I've tried so hard to make it up."
"And prayed sometimes for help?" said the lady.
" Yes, ma'am, I often do that ; and God does send me help in many ways not thought of. It's wrong to mistrust him,
as I do so often. But we're very weak, you know; and when all is dark, it doesn't seem as if it would ever be day."
"The day is nearest, often, when the night seems the darkest," said the visitor.
"Maybe it is so," Mrs. Lyon returned, in a low, patient voice.
"Is it very dark with you now?" asked the lady.
The poor woman looked up almost with a start, an eager, hopeful flush in her face.
"It is very dark," said the lady, an- swering her own question.
The face and eyes, though not the voice, of Mrs. Lyon confirmed the answer.
"If this back rent is not soon paid up, what then?"
"The landlord is a hard man, and threatens to sell my cow."
"Sell your cow!"
"Yes, ma'am; and without my cow I'd never be able to feed the children."
After almost a minute of silence, the lady said :
"The two girls who have just lost their mother are good girls. ' '
"Oh yes, ma'am. None better in the neighborhood. Their mother was very careful of them in every way, poor things ! I've had more than one cry, all to myself, because I couldn't give them a home."
" You wouldn't object to living in the same house with them?"
"Oh dear no, ma'am! Why should I ? It would be a great comfort for me to have them about."
" Why a comfort?" asked the lady.
"Oh, in many ways. Particularly,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
93
because I'm so troubled about the poor lone things now ; and that would be off my mind. And then they'd help me with my little ones." pointing to her two children, "and be such a good example to them. I'd call it a great blessing to me and mine to have them about."
"Then it shall be as you wish," spoke out the lady in a clear, kind voice. "I will pay the rent of their cottage for a year, and you shall all live together. As for this poor place, get out of it to-day if you can, and leave me to settle matters with your landlord."
Mrs. Lyon tried to speak her thanks, but her lips moved in silence. Her heart was too full for words. So she took the hand of her heaven-sent visitor, kissed it and made it wet with her tears.
"It is all coming out right, I think," ■poke the visitor in a cheery voice. "The night was dark for both you and the motherless children; but God is, I think, never to us in the darkness than in the daylight, for then we most need his loving care, lb- eannot always help us unless we read] out our hands to him ; and when ray for help in any trouble, and at the nine time do our best to help our- ire reaching out our hands."
Thai very night, Mrs. Lyon, with her own And the motherleai children around
bar, thanked God, in her new and\>leae-
ant home, for the friend he had sent
them, and for the hope and comfort this friend bad brought
The Lord bai been better to nie than
all my fear-." -h<- said, o<--ik't.e 1 I her
self when all were at roll aha sleeping.
Then she lifted her eyes heavenward and gave thanks in tearful silence.
All through the pleasant summer days that followed, Lucy and Maggy sold bou- quets from their garden, and gathered in more money than Mrs. Lyon could earn, though she worked early and late. The good lady who had been so kind a friend often came to see them, and when the summer days were over, and their garden no longer gave them flowers to sell, en- couraged Lucy to open a school for little children.
What a pleasant school it was! Not a child in it but loved the kind and patient teacher, whom God was helping because she tried to help herself. Though he had led her along the path of a great sorrow in the loss of her mother, he was com- forting her through the love of being use- ful and doing good to others, and day by day a sweeter peace than she had ever known grew stronger in her heart. So it was that the good Lord an8wered the prayer she put up to him in the darkness of her first night of grief, when, lifting her heart to him, she said, "0 Lord, show me what to do."
And the blessing that came to her fell also <m .Mis. Lyon, whose; pity for the
motherless children had moved her t«> offer them the only comfort and help she had it in her power to give.
1 1' we would he useful to all iround Qg,
nnd so serve our Father in heaven aright, we l.ni-'-. tyliq tl.« !it i' buay bees, " im- prove'eaoh shining nour."
94
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE FLOWER-SPIDER.*
By Alice Cary.
YOU'VE read of a spider, I suppose, Dear children, or been told, That has a back as red as a rose, And legs as yellow as gold.
Well, one of these fine creatures ran
In a bed of flowers, you see, Until a drop of dew in the sun
Was hardly as bright as she.
Her two plump sides, they were besprent
With speckles of all dies, And little shimmering streaks were bent
Like rainbows round her eyes.
Well, when she saw her legs ashine, And her back as red as a rose,
She thought that she herself was fine Because she had fine clothes !
Then wild she grew, like one possessed, For she thought, upon my word,
That she wasn't a spider with the rest, And set up for a bird !
Ay, for a humming-bird at that !
And the summer day all through, With her head in a tulip-bell she sat,
The same as the hum-birds do.
She had her little foolish day.
But her pride was doomed to fall, And what do you think she had to pay In the ending of it all?
Just this ; on dew she could not sup, And she could not sup on pride,
* A spider that live? arr.o.'g tlow 'jfp, and" takt3 its 5olor from them. . ' '. . ' K ' - ■ ■ •
And so, with her head in the tulip cup, She starved until she died !
For in despite of the golden legs, And the back as red as a rose,
With what is hatched from the spider's eggs The spider's nature goes !
HOW QUARRELS BEGIN.
" T WISH that pony was mine," said a
JL little boy, who stood at a window looking down the road.
"What would you do with him?" asked his brother.
"Ride him; that's what I'd do."
"All day long?"
"Yes, from morning till night."
"You'd have to let me ride him some- times," said the brother.
"Why would I? You'd have no right in him if he was mine."
"Father would make you let me have him part of the time."
"No he wouldn't!"
"My children," said the mother, who had been listening, and now saw that they were beginning to get angry with each other, and all for nothing, "let me tell you of a quarrel between two boys no bigger nor older than you are, that I read about the other day. They were going along a road, talking together in a pleas- ant way, when one of them said,
" ' I wish I had all the pasture-land in the world.'
"The other said, 'And I wish I had all the cattle in the world. '
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
95
"What would you do then?' asked his friend.
'•'Why, I would turn them into your pasture-land.'
"• ' No. you wouldn't,' was the reply. Fes, I would.'
" "But I wouldn't let you.' " ' I wouldn't ask you.'
You shouldn't do it.' • I should.'
V..u sha'n't!' " " I will ;' and with that they seized and poinded each other like two silly, wicked M they were." The children laughed ; but their mother ■rid,
" You see in what trifles quarrels often
Were you any wiser than these
in your half-angry talk about an
imaginary pony? If I had not been
who knows but you might have
(y and wicked tl the}- were?"
THE NEEDY GRASSHOPPER.
By Annie Moore.
i IOOD MORNING, sir," said an idle
" I ;md nnfortnnat€ Qraashopper to ■
Bee. ••('.-in yon ghre me ■
I way lo make
honey'.'' I raftered very mneb last winter
from hunger, and ;mi determined it shall
not be n sgain. Besides, I an fond of
beany, arid would like to lean S0 make
it. if only for the pleasure of anting it the idea in going into yon do?"
"I have no time to tell you," said the Bee, "and there are already too many in the business. And then you are not fitted for it. Your knees and elbows are too sharp ;" and he flew away.
"Very polite, to make comments upon my personal appearance ! I mean to try to make honey, at all events," said the Grasshopper, watching closely another Bee, who went buzzing into a flower. "I see how it is done, and I can buzz with my wings, if it is necessary." So he made a leap from the wall where he sat, into a little harebell that grew near by. The delicate flower was torn in pieces.
"Poor, perishable thing!" said he, as he hopped back to the wall in disgust
dust then he saw a Spider industriously spinning his web in the hedge.
"Good-morning, neighbor," said the ( Grasshopper.
"Good-morning," said the Spider, rather gruffly, for he never liked to be disturbed at his work.
"I would like to ask one or two ques- tions about making a web," said the ( Grasshopper, ''I have often watched you
at your work in my leisure moments,
but can't exactly see how you manage it. 1 am very tired of grass and things, Arc iod ?"
l- Rather l" said the Spider.
"That looks easy," said the Gtrasshop
per, '" I wonder if I could do it. "
•• Nothing like trying," said the Spider. " You go backward and forward quite steadily, I sat. I am soousteened I
OH tie- JUS!] Thai would not do II
well, perhaps,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Go straight and keep your line taut," J purpose to catch me. I must go and have said the Spider. ( a little sport with him. Did you ever try
"Thank you for the information," said ( it? Pull at one corner of his web, slyly, the Grasshopper. " I have a great mind ) and he comes running out of his den with to try. " ( his mouth open to eat you, while you
''Not on this side of the hedge," said ) soar gracefully away." the Spider ; "this belongs to me." ( "Then you are good to eat," said the
"Oh, certainly not," said the Grass- ) Grasshopper, smacking his lips, for he hopper. ) was hungry.
Then the Spider went into his den, and ; " Oh no ! Far from it," said the Fly. the Grasshopper hopped over the hedge ) " It is only his whim ;" and he flew over and began to go backward and forward, ( the hedge. ,as he had seen the Spider do. ) Then the Grasshopper jumped down in
A gay Fly came flitting bj7. "If this \ despair, and walked along the garden- web were only done, I could catch him," / path, thinking what he would do next, thought the Grasshopper ; but he said, > An Ant came to her door to see which "What do you do for a living, my ) way the wind blew. A bright thought ifuiend?" ) came into his head. "Good-morning,
"Do!" said the Fly — " nothing! I am ( madam," said he. " You take lodgers, I a gentleman. I amuse myself." /' believe. I want to find comfortable quar-
"How about the cold winter?" said < ters for the winter, and am willing to the Grasshopper. ( make myself useful. ' '
"Oh, I creep into a snug hole and ; "I thought you were a dancing-mas- sleep till the warm days come again," \ ter," said she. said the Fly. ) "I was, madam," said he, "but that
"That's a new idea," said the Grass- ) business is dull, now the times are so hopper. "Though lam afraid I could ( hard. Though perhaps you would like to not sleep so long— I am rather nervous, i learn. You have just the figure for it." Even in the short summer nights I sing ( "No, I thank you," said she, "1 don't as much as I sleep. But pray tell me if ^ approve of dancing ;" and she shut the you see anything like a web here. I have ( door in his face.
Keen going backward and forward and/ " Of course not. I might have known across, as the Spider does, for as much < it," said he; " a Grasshopper never found as ten minutes, but I fear I shall not (' a friend in an Ant since the world succeed." £ began."
"There's no sign of a web," said the c Just then he saw a notice by a door- Fly, who knew all about such matters. ; way under the rock, " Tailoress wanted. " "That reminds me; the old Spider on ( He rapped at the door and a striped the other side has been making one on t Snake put his head out.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
... -v.kte-
-
''Do you want a tailoress?" said the
-hopper. • "Yes," said the Snake, "the times I hard that I mean to have my cast- off snake-.-kins mended and wear them again. 'A stitch in time is worth two in a bush,' you know?"
Ves, I know it," said the Grasshop- per.
"Are you good at the needle?" said
take.
I am good at everything," said the
eptiog at making
honej and spinning webs. But I am not
■an that I know exactly wliat you mean
'"
" Begone then," mid the Snake, "I en impostor/'
The autiniin wind blew oold and sharp ii
boppei turned sadly away.
■ \m I th»-n an impostor? ' though! he.
father tawi/ht m<- DO trade, and left
me rio inheritance. Every one alee hai
I ';
some way of providing for himself. Even the silly Fly seems to be a favorite of for- tune. Well, then, if I can do nothing else, I can at least try to take a long nap as he does. But I will eat some poppy- seeds first. My mother used to eat them, I remember."
So he took a strong dose of poppy- seeds, and crept into a hole in the wall to shep away the long, cold winter, if he could.
Your best friends are those who tell you kindly of your faults, that yon may eorrect them. '" Faithful," says BoIomOO, l,are
the wounds of ■ friend, but the kisses of
an enemy are deceitful."
Thk path of the just i< .-is the shining
li.trht, that sliineth nmie and inure unto
tin- period day. The way of the wicked
. they know nut at what
they stumble.
98 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF DAVID I "Then I will tell you," said she: "It AND GOLIATH. S was David, once a shepherd-boy, and af-
s terward a great king. ' '
By Mary Latham Clark. \ "Oh tell us all about him, please do,"
£ said Willie.
LITTLE BLOSSOM and her cousin \ "It would take me a long time to tell Willie went one day with their dear ? you all about him," said the grand - grandmother into the meadow to see the s mother, "for a great deal is told of him lambs. They sat beside a clear brook and \ in the Bible, but I will tell you something watched the pretty creatures, and the > about him now, and more, perhaps, at children fed some of the least shy among ( another time. Do you know, little Blos- them out of their own little hands. ) som, what a shepherd is?"
At last grandma, who had been sitting ( " Yes," answered the child, "you told quite still for some time, as if she were ? me when I learned the psalm. It is thinking, spoke and the children came ) somebody who takes care of sheep. ' ' near, for they never liked to lose a word ( "That is right. David was a shepherd that she said. ) and took care of his father's sheep, and I
"This lovely green field, the clear \ have always thought that the sweet water and these pretty white lambs," ) psalm of which we were speaking must said she, "remind me of the beautiful ) have come into his mind at some time psalm that we read this morning. Do \ when he was out among the green fields, you remember it?" J> watching the sheep and lambs as we are
"I do," answered little Blossom, "for \ doing now. I suppose he was thinking I learned the whole of it over for my / that if he took such good care of the Sunday-school lesson. Shall I say it, < helpless creatures under his charge, how grandma?" / much better care the heavenly Shepherd
"You may say the first two verses, ) could take of him. God had always dear, for they are what were in my mind \ been kind to him, and his life had been just now." ) peaceful and happy; this is what he
So the little girl repeated these beauti- I meant by being made to ' lie down in ful verses : ') green pastures' and beside ' still waters. '
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not \ " He was called to pass through many want. / trials before he died, and I presume in
"He maketh me to lie down in green S after .years he often thought with long- pastures, he leadeth me beside the still (' ing of calm and peaceful days when he waters." ) watched his father's flocks, and sung
"Can you tell me," asked the grand- $ sweet psalms to the music of his harp, mother, ' ' who wrote this sweet psalm ?" ) "I might tell you much about him which
The children were silent. ' could not fail to interest you, but as our
THE CHILDRESS HOUR.
99
Willie here is so fond of listening to mar- velous things. I think I will first tell you the story of David and the giant Goliath."
At the mention of a giant, Willie's eyes sparkled with delight
•'Shall you like that as well as a lion story?" asked little Blossom, always anx- ious to have her cou.-in pleased.
"Oh yes, indeed," said Willie, eagerly. ''I like to hear ahout giants and all such things. Cncle Will tells me lots of giant -tories that he reads in his Latin books."
"But those are "made-up' stories," said grandma, "while the one I am to tell you is true."
All the better for that." said Willie; while little Blossom added, softly,
"Grandma couldn't tell anything but a real, true story if she should try."
""We will walk slowly toward home," -aid the grandmother, ""and I will tell you the story as we -
children each took hold of her hand, and U they walked through the "green pastures" and beside the "still re," their dear, ever-ready story- teller told them in her own simple way, • "David and Goliath."
"Onre. when fiaal was king of the Is- raelite.-, then earns a great number of wicked people called the Philistines, and 1 their tent- npon a hill overlooking the eonntry when- the [sraelitei lived,
"Saul thought they weir intending to make war upon hll people, N he called
ther a great many soldiers, and had them strange tin ir tents upon an oppo- site hill."
"I inp] 1 Willie, "that they
got their guns and cannons all ready, so they could shoot down the Philistines as soon as they began to show fight."
"That was long before guns and can- nons were used, or even thought of," said the grandmother. "They used sword-. spears, bows and arrows in those days, and those that went into battle wore armor, which was made of brass and iron, and covered nearly every part of their bodies, so that they should not be hurt."
"Did they have their faces covered?" asked little Blossom.
"No; they carried shields which they used to put before their faces to protect them."
"I've seen pictures of them," said Willie.
"Among the Philistines," continued the grandmother, "there was a great giant— Goliath by name. He was very large and strong, and taller than any man you ever saw. He was dressed all in brass from his head to his i'vvt, and some one went before him carrying a shield.
"Every morning and evening for forty day- he came outof the camp of the enemy, and walked hack and forth before the I-- raelites. calling out for some one to come and fight with him, saying that if they had any man in their army who was able to kill him, all the Philistines would eome and
irvants to the [sraelites, hut if he
killed tie- one who came to fight with
him. tie- [sraelites must he servants to
tii.- riiiiMin.'-." ■ I n ■ nobody dared to go and fight
such a great riant," said little BloSSOm.
"No," said the grandmother, "there
100 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
was no one in all the army of the Israel- } manner, I suppose he felt that God must ites who dared to go near him. \ have sent him ; so he said to David, 'Go,
" Now three of David's brothers were in ^ and the Lord be with thee !' Saul's army, but David not being thought ) " Then Saul put his armor upon David, old enough to go to battle, was kept at \ but it was so large and heavy that he could home to take care of his father's sheep. 5 not wear it, and he took it off again.
' ' One day, however, his father told him ( "He only took his staff and a sling in his to go to the place where his brothers ) hand, and he chose five smooth stones were, to see how they were getting along, > out of the brook, and put them into a and to carry them some food; so, early ) shepherd's bag that he carried, in the morning, David went, leaving his S "In this way he went forward to meet sheep in the care of some one else. ' ' c the giant. When he drew near, Goliath
" I guess he thought it was pretty fine ; looked down upon him with great scorn, to go and see the battle," said Willie. \ feeling, I have no doubt, able to crush
"No doubt," said grandma. "As ) the slender and rosy- faced boy with one soon as he went into the army of the Is- ) blow of his mighty spear, raelites and had spoken to his brothers, •? " Then David told the Philistine that he he saw the great giant and heard his } came to him ' in the name of the Lord of boasting words. I hosts, the God of the armies of Israel.'
" Immediately something, perhaps the ) "After he had said this, he took one of voice of God, put it into his heart to go \ the stones out of his bag, and, putting it himself and offer to fight Goliath. ( into the sling, he threw it with all his
"When King Saul heard that David ) might at the giant and struck him upon wished to go and fight the giant, he was =; his forehead, so that he fell down upon much astonished. He told David that ) the ground.
he was not strong enough to fight against ) " Then David ran and took the great such a mighty warrior as Goliath. ) sword of the giant and cut off his head.
"Then David told Saul that once, when ') "When the two armies saw this, the Is- he was keeping his father's sheep, there c raelites set up a great shout of joy, and came a lion and a bear and seized a lamb J* the Philistines left their tents and fled, out of the flock, and that he followed s "So the Israelites gained the victory, them, rescued the lamb and killed them ) and all because of the brave little shep- both. ) herd-boy, who was not afraid to do the
"And he added, 'The Lord that de- { Lord's will." livered me out of the paw of the lion, ) "That's the best story you have told and out of the paw of the bear, he will \ yet," said Willie.
deliver me out of the hand of this Philis- ) "They all seem best to me," said little tine.' ) Blossom.
" When Saul heard him speak in this < By this time they had reached home,
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
101
and the children, after kissing and thank- ing their dear grandmother for her story, sat down upon the doorstep to talk it over.
THE IRON FOUNDRY.
By Solomon Sobersides.
"PIGS of iron!" said Alice, "who
JL ever heard of pigs made of iron ?"
" I do not mean live pigs," said Uncle
Clem, "but great heavy pieces of iron
that are called pigs."
"' What a queer name for them !" said Alice ; ' ' where do they come from ?' '
UI will tell you," replied her uncle; "they come out of a great, hot fire."
Hut you told me iron came out of the ground," said Alice.
So it does," said Uncle Clem ; "that
ore iron is made of cornea out of
■ innd; men dig it oul with piekaxef
en they haul it in wagon*
to the furnace where the great fire is
Dg, :ui<1 empty it right down the
chimney into the fire. There it melts
and makes iron, and runs out red hoi in
am thai 1" beautiful And
the men hollow oul little placee in the
ground for the iron to run into. After
cold, they pick up those heavy
and pile them away : they are pigs
of iron."
•• I a i-li I oould Bee rome of them,"
-aid Alice.
•■ I will take yon where you ean do so, plied her ancle, "should
the day be pleasant and we, both of us, well."
The next afternoon, as soon as dinner was over, Alice put on her hat and shawl, and running to him, said, "I am ready, uncle ; it is a fine day — you remember your promise."
"Yes. I remember it," he replied; "we will go presently."
In a little while they started. Alice put her hand in Uncle Clem's, for he was very kind to her, and that is the way she loved to walk with him.
They went along a street that led out among the factories where different kind? of machinery are made. They heard steam-engines and hammers going, and saw high chimneys with flames and dark smoke coming out of them. Presently they came to a large building with a high doubled door, like a barn door, opening on the street. Here Uncle Clem stopped. In the yard beside the building were heavy pieces of iron piled up, one on top of another, higher than a man's head. "These," said Uncle Clem, "are pigs of iron."
Alice Btood gaaing at them without Baying a word, but looking as if she was very much surprised that they had no
beads or tails like live pigs,
"This large building is a foundry/1 continued Uncle Olem; " let us go in, and I will ihow you wha( they do with of* iron here."
Then they wen! inside the door. The
building was very large and dark ami <m<>ky. A great many rOUgb looking
or frames lay in rows on the floor .
102
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
the}' had no tops to them and were filled with sand. Through the sand a small hole was left open, into which you might pour anything. A number of men were working about. At one side of the build- ing, Alice saw something that looked like a large, round chimney, made of iron, going up through the roof. While she stood looking, a man went close to it, and with a sharp iron rod opened a little hole in the side of this chimney, down near to the ground. Right away a beautiful, bright-burning stream ran out into a large iron pot or ladle, which two men held beneath to catch it. As soon as they had caught enough, the man who had opened the hole, stopped it again with a piece of clay which was fastened to the end of a long stick.
"That red-hot stream which ran into the ladle is melted iron," said Uncle Clem, "and the iron chimney it came out of is called the cupola,"
"And what are those men going to do with the melted iron?" asked Alice.
"Watch them and you will see," re- plied her uncle. While he was speaking, she saw them carrying the ladle over to where the boxes filled with sand lay on the ground. Here they stopped and tilted it up, pouring the melted iron very carefully right into the hole that was left open in the sand. So they went along, emptying the melted iron in each box, until it was nearly all poured out. Then they went back to the cupola to get the ladle filled again.
"Tell me, uncle," said Alice, "why they poured the melted iron through
those little holes into the boxes filled with sand?"
"That sand is hollowed out inside," replied her uncle, "and it is hollowed out in just the shapes they want the iron to be."
After a while, a man came to those boxes into which they had poured the iron and emptied the sand out of them. What was Alice's surprise to see fall out of the sand little iron shovels and spades, such as she had often played with in the garden ! Then there were weights like those her mother used in the scales when she was making mince-meat for Christ- mas— one pound, two pound and three pound weights, and some of much larger size.
"And is this the way," asked Alice, " they make iron into shapes they want it?"
"This is the way," said Uncle Clem, ' ' that all cast-iron things are made. The iron is melted first, and then poured out as you have seen it. We can cut and carve wood into any shape we choose, but iron is too hard for that. So we melt it and while it is soft pour it into the moulds. There we leave it till it grows cold. Then we empty out the sand, and find the iron shaped just as we wanted it. In this way kettles, pots, stoves and hun- dreds of other things are made that never could be made so nicely and cheaply in any other way. ' '
Alice stood listening very much inter- ested, and looking at the men as they went back again to the cupola for more melted iron, and poured it out into the
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
103
moulds, some large and some small that lay all over the earthen floor of the fouudry.
"There ia «»ne thing more, uncle," she said, '"that I would like to know."
"What is that?" asked Uncle Clem.
11 1 would like to know," continued she,
"how they get the iron into that great
ihimney which you call the cupola,
■0 that it can he melted there and run
out when the men want it."
Just then one of the workmen passed by and heard her -peaking.
"If you will come with me," he said i i I licit- Clem, "ami bring the little girl, I will show her what ghe wants to see."
"Thank you," Baid Uncle Clem. Then Alice held tightly by his hand while the man led them around behind the cupola, and up some high Bteps that were there.
• Look, my little lady." he said. Alice looked and saw an opening into the cu- pola, like tli-' door of a great stove. Through that door and inside the cupola
■-. ;i very hot fire burning.
■ 1 1 i the man. " i- where we
put in the eotl, and alter it is lighted we throw the pig-iron in on the OOal, and the
fi:«- meltfl it. and it run- out. below as you
!l."
JTOU ap- M-ry kind." -aid Alice' ;
"what you have shown me i> very inter- esting. I do not think 1 shall BY6I forget
Yen an- quite welcome," replied the
tnd I hope your uncle will ROOD
bring you to see as at work again."
tea bell was ringing as I Fnole Clem
went into the door of their
home: while they sat at table with her lather and mother and little brother, she ) told them of all the wonderful things -lie .;' had seen.
;• uAnd I feel that I have learned a ( great deal," she said, "for now I know ) how most of the iron things I see are ( made."
THE DOG AND THE PIE-MAN.
MR. SMELLIE, in his " Natural Phil- osophy," mentions a curious instance \ of intelligence in a dog belonging to a ( grocer in Edinburgh : " A man who went ) through the streets ringing a bell and i selling pies happened one day to treat ) this dog with a pie. The next time he j heard the pieman's bell he ran toward I him, seized him by the coat, and would \ not suffer him to pass. The pieman, who ( understood what the animal wanted. ') showed him a penny and pointed to his ; master, who stood at the street door and
j saw what W8J going on. The dog went to
hi- master with many humble gestures
• and looks, and on receiving a penny car ried it in hi- mouth to the pieman and
received his pie. This traffic between the
pieman and the RTOCer's dog continued
daily for several months." — 1+ —
A \ iky little word will often do great
harm. In the hour of temptation, the
word "No. " ottered with firmness, will save ii- : w bile the word " STea, I hough -aid most reluctantly, will lead as downward.
104
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
DOLLY.
By Carrie.
DEAR little Dolly ! Sweet as a rose ! How much I love you
Nobody knows. Holiday's over,
And by the rule
Minnie must go again
Off to her school.
Don't cry for Minnie,
Dolly my sweet ! When school is over,
Fast as her feet, Running and skipping
And dancing, will bring Minnie, she'll oome to you,
Darl ingest thing !
DO THY LITTLE.
DO thy little ; God has made Million leaves for forest shade ; Smallest stars that glory bring — God employ eth every thing.
Then the little thou hast done — Little battles thou hast won, Little masteries achieved, Little wants with care relieved, Little words in love expressed, Little wrongs at once confessed, Little favors kindly done, Little toils thou did'st not shun, Little graces meekly worn, Little slights with patience borne — These shall crown thy pillowed head, Holy light upon thee shed ; These are treasures that shall rise Far beyond the smiling skies.
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
APRIL, 1869
THE FIRST SNOW-STORM.
By Afary Latham Clark.
COCK-A-DOODLE DO!" screamed old Chanticleer at tli<> top of lw> •' i up to the roof of the ihed
I»v t! window and flapped hii
I I ' \V;ik<- up. chil- II
dren, and Bee what baa been going on while ire have all been Bleeping! Fine times we of the barnyard shall have now, Beratohing for our breakfajte through all thii Bnow I Wake up, ohildren, an I what yon think of it ! Cook-a-doodle-
(Im-.i
The ohildren heard only the last word of tlii- fine speech, :tn<l oal of her trun- dle bed jumped Minnie and down from
106
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
his crib clambered Charlie, while both ran to the window to see what their pet rooster was making such a noise about.
A beautiful sight burst upon their view. In the east the clouds were of the loveliest crimson and gold, and the earth and trees, which were bare and brown when they were tucked into their little beds the evening before, were now covered with a pure, white mantle of snow. The chil- dren clapped their hands with delight as they saw this, for it was the first snow of the season.
"Now, Charlie," said Minnie, who always thought of her little brother's pleasure before her own, " I can draw you to school on my sled, and you can wear your little red mittens and make snow-balls ; and some time we will go out and make a snow image, that perhaps will turn to a little live girl and play with us, as the one did in the story that mamma read to us."
"That would be splendid," said Charlie ; " only we wouldn't let her come into the warm parlor, for fear she would melt away."
"See!" said Minnie, " the apple trees, loaded with snow, make me think of the way they looked last spring when they were covered with blossoms. How white and beautiful they were then ! Don't you remember how we picked some of the pink and white flowers from the lower limbs, and put them with our blue violets to carry to the teacher?"
"Yes, I remember," said Charlie; "but what will become of the dear little violets now, and the buttercups, and all
the flowers which you said had gone to sleep in the ground to wait till spring? This cold snow will freeze them, so that they will never wake up and grow again."
"No, indeed!" said the pleasant voice of their mother, who from the next room had heard her little chatterboxes, and had now come to dress them for break- fast.
"No, indeed! This pure white snow will not freeze the roots of the pretty flowers that are fast asleep in the brown earth beneath it. It will cover them as with a white fleecy blanket, keeping out the cold frost and winds, and they will sleep snug and warm as you do in your little beds, my darlings.
' ' How good and kind in our heavenly Father to send this beautiful white snow to cover the sleeping plants and flowers, that they may rest securely until the warm spring sun awakes them ! ' '
"But come, my little ones," continued the kind mother, "we must get ready for our breakfast, and after it is over we will go out and feed the hens, and the old rooster that has been crowing so loudly all the time we have been talking. They would have a hard time of it to scratch for their breakfast through all this snow. ' '
" Cock-a-doodle-do ! That's just what I was saying!" said Chanticleer, turning his head this way and that with a very knowing look.
Then, flapping his glossy wings again, he flew down to tell his family that, notwithstanding the snow that covered everything, they were soon to have their breakfast.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. W
HOPE DARROW. > "I'm glad too to hear you say that.
A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY. [ Is tnere anything I can do for you now?"
< "Yes, plenty of things. Take that
By Virginia F. Toivnsend. £ low chair and sit down in it, for I've made
( a bargain with Mrs. Brainerd that you
chapter iv. ^ are to be my nurse for the whole day."
THE next morning, after breakfast, I s "Oh, you have? That's what she put on my best ruffled white apron, } meant when she said she should put you and knocked at the parlor door. Mrs. s off on my hands. I'm not much of a Brainerd, who was always behindhand ( nurse, though I did learn how to take and driven to her wits' ends with house- ) care of Lewis when he had the fever, and work, had told me she should "give all C he declared nobody in the world could do folks up into my hands that day," ) things half so well as I. But then he's and I understood precisely what that ( my brother, you know." meant. I was to stay with our boy-guest, > "And I'm not; and of course one can't and do what I could to help him pass off ) find it so easy or so pleasant doing things the time pleasantly. < for new friends. Is that what you mean,
"Come in!" shouted a prompt, clear ) Hope?" voice when I knocked at the door. I ( "Oh no, nothing of that kind; I only could not help feeling that somebody in- J meant to say that because I am his sister side had been waiting for me. ( he would think better of what I did than
• Ah. little fairie, there you are, with < other folks might."
your pink cheeks fresh as a primrose," as j> I cannot remember exactly what reply
s-.on as I opened the door. "Come right ( the boy made to this, nor what followed
'here and shake hands with a fellow. V ^afterward. But lean remember sitting
i morning, Mr. Creighton," I ^ there near the lounge where he lay, the
and I found it as much as I could do \ autumn sunshine looking with a broad,
to keep from laughing outright at his J golden, beartsome life into the windows,
funny way of talking. "I hope your ( until I could hardly believe this was really
ankle i- feeling I great deal better." J tin; dark, silent, gloomy old parlor which
''Mr. Creighton 1" he repeated with Mrs. Brainerd thought was quite too good
men i comical face and tone. " I thought for every-day use.
we had gTOWD tOO old friendfl by this I don' I BUppOM anything we said would
time for any BUCD formal Stuff U that." } be worth writing in a book, yet we found
"Old friends! Why, you forget, We plenty to talk about; and every little
Derer saw each other until last night" while I found myself breaking ou( into a
•That's a fart I can't deny. Well laugh at the boy's oomical way of talking.
then, my little Beuj friend, if that suits I often did that with Lewis, but Creigh-
you better, I'm glad to * iin." . ton Bell's talk had something crisp and
108
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
sparkling about it, that was as unlike Lewis' quiet humor as possible.
One way and another he must have had a good many glimpses into our every-day life at the stage-driver's — perhaps more than I intended, but things came out as they will, you know, without one's mean- ing it, when you get to talking. I found out, too, among other matters, that this Creighton Bell had early been abroad; had climbed the Alps and sailed down the llhine, had passed weeks in London, and lived in Paris for a whole season.
I stared at him in amazement. It seemed like looking into fairy-land, like having all the wonderful and beautiful sights of a world which seemed to me as far off as the moon, brought right down into Mrs. Brainerd's little parlor.
I begged him to tell me something about all the grand places, and about what he had seen and done there.
"There's so much of that I don't know where to begin, Hope; trotting about from one place to another, and every day crowded full of sight-seeing, and fun, and excitement. We had a jolly time, sis, and I with the rest of our party."
"And of all the places, which did you like best, Mr. Creighton?"
"Well, best of all the cities I liked Paris. Ah, I tell you, Hope, that's the place for a fellow to enjoy himself, with the gardens and the palaces, and the promenades, and the people with their gay dresses, and smiling faces, and eager gestures. It seems as though there was nothing but one long holiday in Paris."
"I don't doubt it is all very gay And grand, but then I should not understand one word of all the people were saying ; and I should like London best, with its grand Hyde Park and its handsome pal- aces, and St. Paul's, and the old Tower with its suits of ancient armor, and the cell where that good old Sir Walter Ral- eigh was imprisoned so many years and wrote his history, and where Queen Eliza- beth was shut up when she was only a young girl by her hard, cruel sister, and where her poor mother was beheaded, and where she herself shut up people in her turn. I should like to see London best of all."
"How in the world have you learned so much about it?"
"In the evenings Lewis and I read to each other, and we always talk over everything afterward. He says it is the best way of stowing it down fast in the memory, and I am sure it is."
"It seems to have served well in your case, anyhow. But, Hope, you'd find London after all, a big, dark, crowded old city, drizzling with rain or choked with fog. There are fine parks with beautiful drives, and there are grand palaces, but after all, for real fun and comfort, give me Paris."
Somewhere, not long afterward, the boy got on the llhine, and it actually seemed to me I was sailing down the great river, and that along the banks I could see the clusters of grapes like a great purple fire among the thtek leaves, when suddenly he called out, "Oh, that's lucky 1 I've just thought of it, Hope."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
109
"What do you mean, Mr. Creighton?"
u In my carpet-bag there is an album filled with views of the Rhine. It's really a very tine thing. It came just the day before I started, in a box of books and knick-knacks that my Bister had ordered from abroad, and I was carrying it up to show to Dick."
uOk, I would give anything in the world to see the book, Mr. Creighton."
" You shall in two minutes. There's
my overcoat on the chair yonder, and if
yon will be so good as to look in the side
pockets you'll find the key in one — I
■ which."
After a little fumbling, I found the key and brought it to the owner. The new, shining valise stood ju>t at the head of the lounge where he lay, quite within the reach* It was opened in a hurry, and then he drew out a great, thin, beau- tiful volume in brown Turkish morocco, with some foreign name in gilt letters on irner. u There it is" putting the album in my hands. "Look as long as you like, Rope.
I" though I never could get
through. I suppose, pome to count them,
there really irere not more than twenty
- in all. although they seemed a much
r number.
If 1 oouM «»uly set them right before
now, is the pictures looked to me
then ■the shores of thai wonderful river;
/ray mountains, with the castles
and the old ruined palaces npon tie- iubbt
misi of the cliffs; the steep, overhanging
tie- weird silence and doom of one
with the thin, white clouds over-
head, and another with some beautiful city upon its banks ; the tall spire-, the wide palaces, the crowded streets, the rush of people — you could feel and see it all ; and there was one, with the solemn glory of the moonlight, and the solemn splendor of the great company of moun- tains as they stood by the river, and watched it going softly to the sea, which held me longer than any of the others. It was called "The Moonlight at Lurly- felsen."
My boy friend — I had learned to feel that he was this already — lay and watched me. I read over the names of the pic- tures as I turned to them.
"That moonlight is a wonderful pic- ture," he said. "Pauline" — I had learned by this time that was his sister's name — "liked that better than any of the others. ' '
"Oh!" drawing a long breath after 1 had gone over and over with the book. "What a thing it must be to have all those pictures for one's very own — to look at them every day. How you most feel to think they are all really your- ! "
Creighton Bell smiled a little at that: "I never thought of the album quite in that light, hut the pictures are really pretty in their way."
■• Pretty 1 They -'ire just wonderful. How I do wisa Lewis could see them!''
"Well, there's no reason why he shouldn't. You may show them to him
lit."
•• ho yon really mean that ? He will
I int. -re-ted. I don'1 know bow tO thank you, hut I am BO glad. "
110 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
" Stop, Hope ! If the book is really > and then what would Lewis say when he such a wonderful thing, you shall have \ came to see it? How amused and de- something better than showing it to your ) lighted he would be— not of course in the brother. You shall have it for your very i same way that a girl would be, but then own." ) I knew him! In a little while Mrs.
"You don't really mean that, Mr. < Brainerd called me out to consult about Creighton ?' ' ( the dinner she had been preparing for our
"Yes I do, Hope. That album is < young city guest. She had got out her yours." :J old-fashioned china and best linen, and
"This great, handsome book— all those > she said I had saved her so much care beautiful pictures?" looking at the volume S and trouble that she was determined I as it lay in my lap, with its brown and ) should have my share of the treat, and gold ; "my very own ! But it isn't to be s Creighton Bell and I were to have our thought of. I never could take it away ^ dinner together on the little round parlor- fromyou." ) table.
"Yes you can, though. Now, Hope, ] She had a chicken nicely roasted and a don't be foolish about it, for everybody > tumbler of blackberry jelly for the occa- says I'm a spoiled boy, and that I must ) sion. I could have kissed the thin, worn, have my own way, or there's trouble. So ) fretted face when she said: — you just keep the book without another ) " How you and that young chap do get word. I don't care much about it, and 5 on together, Hope ! I should think you'd if I do, I can easily get another, you see, ) known each other all your lives ! Once or when I go abroad." ( twice I've slipped round to the parlor door
After that I could say no more. I ) to see if I was wanted for anything, and tried to thank the boy for such a beauti- \ your tongues was a goin'. It's lucky ful gift, but I did not get on with it very <J enough for me." well. £ I thought Mrs. Brainerd was not the
"Don't think you haven't paid me a i only one for whom it was lucky, but I dozen times already, Hope," he broke in
upon my stammering. "What do you
just kept that to myself, and hurried back and told Creighton Bell Mrs. Brain-
suppose I shouloV4tave done here without ) erd's plan, and I actually believe he was
you?" ) as glad as I was.
"I can't see what good I've been to { I spread the table near the lounge, and
you." ) the boy managed to sit up, with his foot
" I can, though, and that is sufficient." ( propped carefully on a stool, and we had
I laid the album carefully on the chair, ( our cozy little dinner together in Mrs.
but I could not keep my eyes off it. To ) Brainerd' s parlor, and it all seemed like
think so beautiful a thing should really ; a beautiful dream, only it was too real for
belong to just little me, Hope Darrow ! 5 that.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Ill
• ( )h, how I do wish Lewis was here !" I said. "It would be just perfect." That brother of mine was always in iny thoughts and my talk.
" L don't know how much Lewis would add to the pleasure," lifting his eyes in a kind of skeptical way, "but I'm satisfied with matters as they are."
"That's because you don't know Lewis, and what a good, noble fellow he is. Oh I do want to have you know each other so much ! I'm sure you'll like him, and he will you."
"He's a fortunate fellow, any way, to have a sister who thinks so much of him."
"Oh no; it's I'm the fortunate one to have such a brother!"
11 What is he about to-day?"
"Oh — didn't you know? — he has to go every day to work at the saw-mill."
"To work at the saw-mill?" repeated Creighton Bell.
Now I knew, just as though he had spoken it, what was going on in his thoughts. " You're a fine city gentle- man.' I -aid to myself, "with plenty of money, and plenty of friends and nothing to do hut enjoy yourself; and you think a fellow who works at a saw-mill every day can't In- of much ace. unit." It just i all the- blood within me, and I without -topping a moment to think, he \v<uk> at a sawmill, and I'm prouder of him for that very thing than if he wen: a crowned kin:r. He .1
.e car.- of me, for we haven't any
Money -Lewii ind I -and he wont leave - most brother! would, go out into
tip- WOffM and try nil chance, hut he ju-t
stays here working hard, early and late, because he promised mamma never to leave his little orphan sister; and he's a hero, if he does work in a saw-mill." I should like to have said something more, but just then the words choked up in my throat.
Creighton Bell seemed to understand in a moment. His face glowed. "Your brother is a noble fellow, Hope, and I honor him for what you have told me. I'm afraid in his case I should not have so much pluck, nor so unselfish a heart, either. I'm a good-for-nothing, lazy fel- low at best."
When Creighton Bell said that I for- gave him the tone in which he had asked about the saw-mill, and which had stung me to the quick. After that, I cannot tell how, I'm sure, but whenever I really got started talking about Lewis I was always swept off on a great flood-tide of feeling and words, and then the boy seemed so interested that I forgot my- self and kept on, and told him a great deal more than I meant to — all about Lewis' plans and studies, and his love of hooks, and the little rohin's nOSl of a cot- tage we meant to have together S0m6 day.
When I was through I was fairly scared to think I had said N much, and I just broke ont, "Oh dear! what have I been
laying? I didn't mean to tell so much;
I Hi inre Lewii wouldn't like it."
"I'm Ittre Lewii wouldn't care if he knew what a noble, plucky fellow I thought him. I !<•' - got the stuff of a hero in him; I know a great many smart,
brave yOHng fellows, Hope, Whom even
112
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
body praises, and who have plenty of money and hosts of friends, but I don't know of one who'd be equal to this sort of buckling down to work, day after day, in a saw-mill, even for the sake of such a little sister as you must be. I tell you it's grand!" lifting himself up so quickly that I am certain that sprained ankle must have given him a twinge.
But such praise of Lewis brought the years into my eyes. "He never forgets that last promise he made to mamma," I said, "though really, I don't believe that makes any difference. He'd have done the same anyway, Lewis would. ' [
"That last promise to your mother?" repeated Creighton Bell.
So that came out too. It seemed right enough then, after I had told so much ; and the talk I had overheard the night before sitting under the bridge, and all we had said coming home together, until we saw the old stage-coach before the door, and the lights in the parlor window came out before I got through.
Creighton Bell seemed to enjoy that part about Lewis' homeliness quite as much as my brother. He pronounced it all a huge joke, and laughed until the merry tears came into his eyes.
But I think some other kind of tears sparkled there when I told him about all that happened that last night at mam- ma's bedside.
There was a long silence after I got through. The sun had almost swung be- hind the hills in front of the windows ; and outside, if anybody cared to notice, each pane was all ablaze with red fire.
At last Creighton Bell's voice came to me: "I had a mother too, along time ago, Hope. I hardly ever speak of her now, but I shall remember her face as long as I live — the sweet, loving face7 bent down to kiss me when I was a little chap and tottled around her chair. She went away suddenly — where your mother has gone, Hope."
We had one great loss in common then. That thought drew me closer to my new friend than all which had gone before.
There was another long silence, and I said, " But your mother left you a sister, just as mine did Lewis."
"Yes," said the boy — "yes."
But there seemed something wanting in the word, I could not tell what, only I knew he did not say that just as Lewis would.
In a little while he spoke again: "I love Pauline very dearly, and I know she is fond of me. She is very witty, and handsome, and charming, and she has been petted and admired all her life, and that always makes a fine lady, and Pau- line is one."
I fancied there was a thought behind, and, if he had been speaking of anybody but his own sister, that Creighton Bell would have said, "But you know it sometimes half spoils a heart to make a fine lady." But here the doctor's chaise drove up again, and I went to call Mrs. Brainerd, who would be wanted at the examination of the ankle, but I took care to carry my album with me, and sat at the window looking at the pictures until it was so dark the river and the hills and
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
113
the cities on the Rhine all ran into one ( good news of our patient, but just then I another. At Last, Mrs. Brainerd returned: ; saw a figure moving up the darkness in the "He's getting on Bwimmin'ly, the doctor . road. I knew who that must be, and I He'll be up by day after to-mor- ) ran out to the gate to meet my brother. row." I was glad enough to hear such C [to be continued.]
SUGAR-MAKING.
COME, inv lark, 'ii- time for ringing Time for ringing in the inn For warmth \- in the forest,
And tin- nap begini to run, And making m iple ro
I ■ t of fun ! f
16
So ire wandered oul together,
Pretty Leonore and I, T<» the dingle where the pansiet
Turned their purple to the rin - To ili" foreat, n 1 *«-»-* - the children
Had piled the faggoti high.
Soon the fire burned and orackled, Soon the np began to l»«>il,
114
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
And we filled the shining buckets
With a jubilant turmoil, Working busily, and laughing
At our self-inflicted toil.
When we grew to be a-weary, And the sap to bubble o'er,
Then I cleaned away the brushwood From the sloping forest floor,
And I sat me down to watch it By the side of Leon ore.
How we sang, and how we chatted In the flashes of the sun,
How we talked of careless wishes, Thinking only of the one,
Till the syrup grew to sugar, And the laborers were done.
ROSY'S SECRET.
By Rosella.
" f\H if 1 only had a cloak and furs like VJ Ella Gray's, I should be so glad, but I never have anything nice," said little Nettie Cameron, as she looked at the neat gray sack and crimson scarf hanging on the back of a chair, ready for her to put on when she would start to school.
Her mother heard the fretful wish, and sighed as she continued brushing Net- tie's long, bright rippling hair that hung like a golden mist clear down to her waist.
"Oh, Nettie," she said, "how rich and happy you are already, if you only felt and knew it ! You have a good home, and parents, and a dear little baby brother, and your health is so good, and you will
fret and want finer clothes and so many things that you don't need at all. You have yet to learn that contentment is more than wealth."
Nettie pouted out her mouth and looked down sullenly at the flowers in the carpet, as she said, "All I need is a cloak and furs like Ella Gray's."
The poor mother was tired and trou- bled, and her heart put up a wordless prayer to the Ear that is always open to our woes.
A little while before Nettie was ready to start to school, two little girls came in to walk down with her. One of them was Ella Gray, muffled up in her new cloak and furs, her head carried up straightly and proudly, and her mouth all twisted up to its very littlest in an at- tempt to look pretty.
The other little girl was the only daughter of a poor widow — little Rosy Blain.
When Rosy was a baby she had pulled the coffee-pot over upon herself, and the dreadful burn had left a scar on one side of her bright little face. One cheek was drawn all crooked and into seams and wrinkles. The other was just as sweet and dimpled and pinky as it could be. Why the very old cobbler who lived all alone down the alley, and didn't care a cent for children or babies, would have been glad to have kissed that one sweet little rosebud of a cheek !
I told you how Ella was dressed, but not Rosy. Well, Rosy only had on a scant flannel dress with a big patch in the front breadth, heavy, stubby old shoes, a
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 115
little bib-apron tied neatly in a bow be- ' but more admiringly at the envied cloak hind — a white woolen hood big enough ; and furs.
for her grand mother — and over her shoul- ( Mrs. Cameron didn't say one word, but ders she wore the very same plaid flannel j she glanced over so lovingly at the kind that she used to be wrapped in when a s little Rosy that when she turned her wee baby ; we call it a cradle-blan- ) eyes away they were full of tears. She ktt. 5 was wishing that her daughter was just
Sit down, girls; I'll be ready for school c like Rosy. i!i a little while,'' said Nettie. > "I've a mind to give this baby a piece
Ella hurried and got into the rocking- I of my biscuit," said Rosy, reaching her chair, but first she lifted her cloak for > hand into her basket ; "he acts as if he fear of creasing it. Not so with Rosy. '. were hungry. I won't need a whole one
Th<re lay the baby in his crib, with both < for my dinner. uOh, girls," said she, wee hands spread out and raised up to ) "I've the nicest tart, all fixed off prettily look their very biggest, his mouth wide ( with candy, here in my basket, that I am open, yelling like a young wild-cat. J going to take to poor Carty MoGreggor
Rosy saw that Mrs. Cameron could not $ at noon. Did you ever see him? He is attend to the baby just then, not till ) not like other children; can't walk, or Nettie was off to school ; so she dropped ) talk, or read— just crawls about and makes her basket and books into the nearest t wild, strange noises; but then he won't chair, and gathered the baby up warmly } hurt anybody, and he is so glad to get a to her bosom, cooing and saying to him, < nice cake, or apple, or tart, or anything "' J > i < 1 he want his neighbor Rosy to come ) that his mother hasn't got and take him up? He just cried and S "I told ma I'd rather give him the oried for his Rosy: well the darling { nice tart that Mrs. Bell gave me than to shall have her ; the little wee, 'bused baby J eat it myself, and ma said I might take it -hall be Otfed lor! bless Us loving heart! ( to him at noon. C.irls. will you go with
Oh, girls I do see him caddie down in my S me?11 and the excited little girl paused
l. me? I gnesa he doestoo!" for want of breath,
and she just rained the kisses down on ) The girls had never seen poor Oarty,
his cheeks, and nook, and forehead, and and they promised to go with Rosy.
on his Tory little white head I Klla said atMQy she was afraid her
"Oh, Rose, how can you fan over mother might he displeased at her going
babi tid Ella, picking a apeak of among strangers, for fear they were do!
lmt oh" her new muff, and still keeping has respectable; hut Mrs. Cameron told her
month all puckered up, trying to look the thought it would do them all good to
ratty. look upon the poor boy, ami to feel that
•• I don'l Ilk-- babies rery well, either," they owed it to their heavenly Pnther that
said N - L i i j lt admiringly *t Klla, they wars not like him themselves, but
116 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
born with sound minds in sound bodies. ) of the bed toward them, grinning with She told them to think of this when they ( such a frightful face that Nettie and Ella saw poor Carty. ( turned away shuddering.
When Mrs. Cameron took the baby ) "Poor Carty!" said Rosy, as she from Rosy's arms, the little fellow cried c laughed in recognition and put the tart and reached out his hands, and shook his ) in his hand. He chuckled in a satisfied, head when his mother tried to kiss him. <} glad way and shook his head and patted
Rosy called him robin, and jewel, and > his hands on the floor, and made strange golden, and darling, and kissed his fat > sounds that Rosy said meant, "I thank neck again and again, before she could < you!"
give him up. "What a blessing a baby > Both little girls were pale and fright- is!" she said, as she looked over her ( ened, but Mrs. McGreggor said he was as shoulder and just saw the back of his little ) harmless as a lamb, and wouldn't hurt white head as he bent over against his ( any one. Rosy smoothed his hair, that mother's bosom and cried for his loving ) was like the rough, coarse mane of a wild friend Rosy. ) animal, and softly touched his low fore-
"Oh, Rosy," said Mrs. Cameron, to ^ head, and in a voice low as a little tinkling herself, "you poor, ragged, scared little ) bell said, "Poor Carty! poor Carty!" creature, you are worth more with your { and he answered back, "Hee! hee! unselfish nature than all the dressed-up, } hoo!" with a mouth as round as an 0 — proud little misses in town ! The scanty \ poor fellow ! it was all the way he could rag of a cradle-blanket that covers your ) talk.
poor shoulders is more than the robes of > As soon as he finished eating his tart, royal purple that enwrap the proudest ( he drew a tangled string out of a little queens. I wish — oh how fervently! — that ) pocket in the bosom of his shirt, and Nettie were like you!" and in spite of ) making very ugly faces he laid the string herself the tears stole down her face. > in Rosy's hand, saying, "Hee, hee, hoo!"
When noon-time came, Rosy put on ) "He wants to play colty, now," said her hood and blanket eagerly, Nettie put ( Rosy : "it is all the play he knows in this on her shawl slowly, and Ella, not at all, ') whole world — poor Carty!" until reassured by Rosy that the McGreg- \ Taking the string, she tied it to the but- gors were called respectable people, though ( ton of a belt that went round his waist, very poor. ji and then picking up a shaving she fas-
When they reached the house the girls ) tened it to the other end of the string, stood back and let Rosy go in first. ) and he crawled in his aimless, sprawling
They were hardly seated until they •> way backward and forward across the were startled by a growling, unearthly ) house, looking back all the time at the sound, and poor Carty, hearing Rosy's \ shaving that followed after, and laughing voice, came creeping along from the foot ) immoderately in his noisy, pitiful way.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
117
The two girls looked on at the strange play, and kept close together in wonder and fear. Rosy laughed with him and nodded "yes," and said "good hoy" and "poor fellow" every time he called out his unearthly "Hee, hee, hoo!"
At last they had to start back to school, and Rosy shook his flabby little brown hand, and said, "By-by, Carty!" just as kindly as she would shake hands with the Prince of Wales' little son.
After they had gone through the gate, Ella said: "I never want to go back there again. I feel as if I should not sleep a wink to-night for thinking of the horri- ble face and the senseless jabber of that >1 trawling idiot as he played colty !
"Oh, Rosy, you are the queerest little
chick ! I believe the very dogs love you ! ' '
and here Ella laughed her very merriest.
laughed too, right heartily ; per-
hapa because it was contagious.
• How in this world," said Ella, "did
ver happen to make tin- aequaint-
f such an interesting family?" and
ben the proud beauty bent over and
anew. Ella's laugh was very
in 1 musical, even if it did not come
from a sweet disposition and a kind In art.
•• Why." said Rosy, her scarred little
growing rety sad. and looking old and wise and womanly all at once— just
badow had settled upon it —
" Why you tee I nsed to f i * * t a good deal, and want DtceclotheS, and better victuals, and a better home than WS have, and I
to wish we were rich, and oh so in my other foolish things ; and one time,
my nia had bten talking to me
about being contented, she sent me down to Carty's house to take 'em some milk, and ever since then I have liked to go there. Whenever I feel kind of fretted like and not satisfied with what we have. I run down there a little bit to stay a while, and somehow I always come away feeling better, and so glad that I ain't like poor Carty. He can't read, or play, or talk, or hear nice stories, or ride out in the coun- try, or go up among the hills, or visit at grandpa's, or do anything, but eat tarts and apples and play colty. Oh, girls, but it is a pity for poor Carty! Ain't you glad, Nettie, that your little baby boy Charlie, is whole, and right, and real, and a human baby with nothing the matter, only that he is too sweet?"
Nettie looked sideways at the radiant face of the little hero beside her ; she had not the courage to look fairly in her She walked a little slower than Ella and Rosy, and as she looked upon them Bhe thought she would rather he poor Rosy, in her dingy little cradle blanket and short, narrow flannel dress, than Ella in her pride and heT fur-, and 0108 new cloak, hiding BUCD a proud, scornful heart as
hers.
We don't know whether the visit to
Carty McGreggor did Nettie a- much
good as it had doQC Ro&y, hut never after that time did >he find fault ahout her
clothes not being nice and tine enough, and she grew more loving to her baby brother and kinder to her neither. One morning, when Rosy had risen
early, and was <m\\\<i out to feed the pigs and chickens, right their in the dour lay
118 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
a little bundle with her name written > SUSIE.
plainly on the paper that wrapped it: I
"Rosy Blain." ) By M.O.J.
As she opened the door the parcel came <
rolling into the house, and the little girl, > " TTTHAT'S the matter, Susie?" The with round, wide open eyes, thinking it > VV little girl sat in her rocking-chair, was a little white dog or a big white cat, { looking very sober.
threw up her hands, crying out, "Oh, ;• "I'm tired, auntie," she answered; "I mother!" \ don't know what to do. I've done every-
Mrs. Blain opened the paper, and there ) thing I could think of— played with my were the softest, freshest, sweetest little ) dolls, and tea-set, and village, and blocks ; red and white shawl, with the very first > I've read my story-books, too, but I'm folds in it yet, bran new, and calico ) tired of them all."
enough to make Rosy a new dress; red \ " Suppose you try a little work, Susie?" calico, with little dots of black acorns on ) "D0 you mean my doll's bed-quilt, it; and the prettiest pair of new shoes, < auntie? I don't feel like sewing patch- bright and shining with morocco tips and < work."
red strings, and a pair of soft white hose S "No, dear; but if you could quite rolled up inside one of the shoes. { leave off thinking about yourself and your
"Who in this world"— began Rosy, 5 own feelings, and do something really use- and then she couldn't say another word, ( M to some one else, would it not be a for the glad tears came and she cried right > good idea?" out, as she stood there hugging these > " What can I do, auntie ?" good gifts closely in her little arms. > "Are you quite willing to do something
Nobody knew who sent the parcel, and ) useful?" nobody need want to know; but we know ( "Yes, auntie."
that Nettie Cameron's mother made her \ "Well, little Katy Wood has been sick a new cloak out of her own old one ; and I for weeks. She is better now, but she that Nettie knows now, as well as Rosy, \ still has to lie in bed, though she could that which all children are slow to learn— > sit up part of the time if she had a warm "J. contented mind is a continual feast." ) wrapper to wear. She gets very tired, of — ^^**r^— ( course, staying in bed. Her mother is
( poor and cannot buy her all the things
A little girl, walking silently by her ) she needs. Now, if you will make a father's side on a starry night, was asked ( sacque for Katy, I will cut one out of of what she was thinking, and she gave ( bright scarlet flannel, and give you some this beautiful answer: "I was thinking ) pretty green braid to sew round the if the wrong side of heaven is so glorious, \ edge. It will make her very happy. ' ' what must the right side be." ' Susie thought a minute. She knew
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
119
she must not give it up if she once began it ; and she did not much like sewing. But a feeling of pity and kindness for the poor, sick child welled up in her heart, and presently she said, with a bright, ear- Rest face, " Yes, auntie, I will."
Auntie soon cut out the sacque, and Susie brought her basket and went to work with a will. Auntie told her two or three beautiful stories while she sewed, and when the tea-bell rang the little girl started up in surprise. She could hardly believe it tea-time, the afternoon had seemed so short. The next day the sacque was neatly finished, and Susie had the pleasure of going with her aunt to see Katy and giving it to her. Oh how pleased the poor child was ! And Susie was happy that she had overcome her idle, selfish feelings and done something to help and bless another.
"I'll try to shorten all the rainy days, auntie, now I know the way," she said as they walked home.
Auntie smiled. "We cannot always
do just the same thing." she replied,
"but we can, rainy days and pleasant
do some good* and help to make
othen happy."
Ti U - the WMypou do, auntie, and I mean I the little girl.
"It is tin: way Christ did — the way to follow him," .-aid auntie.
Ovi.it our heart! rod into our lives
•.sill lometimei fall ; lint the nnahine never i« whollj Ami beaten b Mhadowleni overhead,
Aii' I ' r all.
A REAL CHARM,
A YOUNG farmer found that he was getting poorer and poorer every day. He went to a friend to ask his advice. This friend, with a very grave face, said, "I know of a charm that will cure all that: take this little cup, drink from it every morning of the water you must get at the crystal spring. But remember you must draw it yourself at five o'clock, or the charm will be broken."
Next morning the farmer walked across his fields, for the spring was at the further end of the estate. Seeing a neighbor's cows which had broken through the fence and were feeding on his pasture, he turned them out and mended the fence. The laborers were not yet at hand. When they came, loitering after their proper time, they were startled at seeing master up so early.
"Oh," said he, "I see how it is; it comes of my not getting up in time."
This early rising soon became a pleas- ant habit; his walk and cup of water gave him an appetite for breakfast, and the people were, like himself, early at work. He saw that the advice bifl friend had given him was as good as it was >iin- )>le. For the eliann that saved him from ruin was early ri-iiiLr.
Smm.i, service la great service while Ll of deeds the humbled scorn not one;
The daisy by tin- shadow th.it it I
Protects the Lingering dew-drop from the
sun.
EASTER EGGS.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
121
EASTER EGGS.
By Anna Wilmot.
■ nisi
3TER GRACE!"
What do you Tvant?" Sister did not lift her eyes from the gay embroidery over which her fingers were Bwiftly moving.
tor!" -hi tell me something I don't know the reply; not unkindly
n. but without any interest in the
I. < k at me, Once, won't you ?"
I I r« : I'm la ' mi ;" and
Grace Bond dropped her hands in her lap
with a slightly anno and fixed
on fh" ehil I
i ;
11 I've heard that before. Anything else?"
"Yes, Iwan'tyoutodyemesomeeggs."
" Dye you some eggs !"
11 Yes. All the little girls are going to have them. Jennie May and Lucy "White told me about the beauties they had last year; and what lovely ones their mother WU going to dye for them to-day."
"I must beg to be excused, Fanny,"
said (I race, coldly.
The light and eagerness went out of the
child's face, and her eyes grew wet with
team
11 Don't be silly !" Gfltee spoke a little
harshly. " What does ■ big girl like yon
want with I [■?"
•• I'm no bigger than Jennie May or
Lucy White, and they're going to have,
them," replied Fanny.
122 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"I can't help it if they are." Grace ^ " even if she wouldn't dye me the Easter spoke with some petulance in her voice, s eggs. Oh. dear! — " and she drew along 11 1 haven't any time for such nonsense." I sigh — "some little girls have kind sisters
Now Fanny had set her heart on the r> that do everything for them, but Grace Easter eggs, and her disappointment was C thinks it a trouble to do even the littlest so great at her sister's refusal that she ) thing for me."
could not control her feelings, but burst J> Even as Fanny said this she remem- out crying, at which Grace, being much ) bered the beautiful party-dress that Grace annoyed, scolded her sharply. This did ) made for her only the week before, and not help the matter any. Grief gave way c how she sat up late at night so as to be to anger, and Fanny talked back to Grace \ sure to have it ready. And then she in a very unsisterly way. Both of them ( thought of a dozen kind and self-deny- were made unhappy. ) ing acts of her sister, all done for her
Thinking to find employment for > good. Fanny, and so divert her thoughts, Grace } "I'm sorry," she spoke aloud. The handed her a piece of worsted work and ) bad company in which Grace left her had said, ( gone, and in their place were repentance,
" Put this flower in for me, won't you? / kindness, love. You did the last one nicely." (, She took up the strip of worsted that
"No, I won't!" Yes, these were her ( Grace had placed in her lap, and, unroll- very words. "If you can't dye me the ) ing it, commenced working in the flower; eggs, I'll not work your flowers." ( and was soon so interested in what she
"Oh," said Grace, "if you're going to ; was doing that she scarcely noticed the keep such bad company, I can't stay;" and s passage of time.
she went from the room, leaving Fanny ) Grace did not feel very happy when alone. ) she went from the room leaving Fanny
For a good while Fanny sat crying from ) alone. She had not regarded her little anger and disappointment. Then, as she ) sister with the kindness and consideration grew calm, the thought of what her sis- ( that were her due. The Easter eggs were ter said as she went out, "If you're } a thing of no account to her, but to the going to keep such bad company," came ( child who had set her heart on them into her mind. She knew very well to ? they were a great deal, what company her sister referred. Anger, > Now it happened that next door to the ill-nature, fretfulness — these were her < pleasant home in which Grace Bond lived companions now, and they were making ) was a poor German family — a man and her wretched. ( his wife and two children. The woman
Gradually, as she sat alone thinking, ) had been sick, and Grace had gone in a change come over her feelings. "I'm ( two or three times during the week to sorry I talked so to Grace," she said, < see her. It was an hour, perhaps, after
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
123
leaving Fanny alone that the thought of
man came into her mind. "I'll go and see how she is." said ; and putting something over her I, she went to the next door and knocked.
"Come in !" cried a pleasant voice, and Grace poshed open the door.
What a surprise ! The group that met Lie was a picture in itself, and very pleasant to look upon — a picture with a lesson that went down into her heart.
Sitting on a low chair was the German mother. On the floor was a white nap- kin, over which gayly-colored Easter eggs had been spread to cool, and she was now lifting these, one by one, into a dish on her lap. In front of her were the two children, a boy and a girl, looking so pleased and happy that the very sight of their faces made the heart of Grace grow warmer.
\'. |?" she said, with a smile,
came forward into the room. • Y< s they please Ludwig and Ber- tha." irai the woman's answer. "And I make them happy when I can."
II on lovingly the children looked up
into her worn and patient face !
\ thought of* her unhappy Bister now flashed through the mind of Grace, and there came to her so image of the child
Mtting alone and in t«-ar- a painful con-
ii- before her. Self-rebuke indemnation followed quickly.
'i tl IN Ixautifnl |" she said.
to the floor and taking Op one
of ti • ■' \\"\\ ebarmingly you
painted them !"
" Won't you take some for your little Bister? Bertha and Ludwig will be glad to share them, I know." And the mother looked to her children for approval.
'She shall have two of mine," said Bertha, quickly. "And two of mine," cried Ludwig.
"Oh no; I can't rob you after that fashion," answered Grace. "But if you will let me have four of these beauties — they are beauties — I will send you in a dozen not dyed. Fanny will be so pleased to get, them."
"Take them all," said the woman. " I will dye more for the children."
But Grace said, "No; four will be enough for Fanny."
On returning home, Grace hurried to the room where, an hour before, she had left her little sister angry and in tears. Her heart had a troubled beat as she pushed open the door and went in. All was silent. By a table, with her face buried in her arms, sat Fanny fasl asleep. The strip of worsted work, with the flower completed, lay on the floor, as if it had just dropped from her hand.
" Fanny dear!" Grace spoke in a ten- der. Loving voice. The child moved but
did not answer, for sleep lay heavy 00 her
senses,
••fanny!"
"Oh yes! What is it?" answered
the child, dreamily."
11 fanny «lear !" ( Mace called again.
'■ oil I Easter eggs? No, 1 haven't any; and I wanted then so badly !"
Still dreaming; but she was wide awake a moment afterward, Bitting up looking at
124
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Grace, and then at the beautifully painted eggs that were held before wondering eyes.
" It is so good in you, sister dear!" she exclaimed. "Thank you a thousand times!" And springing up she threw her arms about Grace's neck, hugging and kissing her in a heart-gush of love.
'; I will try and be more thoughtful of my little sister hereafter, ' ' said Grace to herself; and, speaking aloud, with her arms still about the neck of her sister, Fanny said: "I wasn't naughty long, Grace ; and I've worked the flower for you, and you are a dear, dear good sister as ever was!"
THE SNOW-DROP.
By L. A. B. C.
THERE was a little rustling and mur- mur down under the snow-drift which had served as a counterpane for the flower-bed, where jonquils, roses, hya- cinths, peonies, tulips and pinks had been sleeping their long winter nap.
It was near their time of waking, and that was why they grew restless in their dark chamber.
The Snow-drop could keep still no longer, and lifting its head a little, tim- idly said :
"Is it not time to wake up, sister Tulip? I thought I heard a robin sing."
"Robins, indeed! More likely you heard the children coasting over your head, with red noses and frozen fingers."
"I'm sure it was a robin, Tulip, it was
such a mournful sweet strain. I thought it said, 'Where are all the flowers gone?' I think it must be time to rise."
' ' Nonsense ! It was a chickadee : fool- ish things! they fly about all winter in the frost and snow." So the Tulip, who was always more stately and proud than the Snow-drop, turned her back upon her sister and settled down to sleep again.
"Do keep quiet, Snow-drop, and not disturb your betters with such unseason- able clamor," crossly exclaimed the Peony, who, though very grand and showy, was neither sweet nor graceful, and tried to build herself up by putting down others.
Snow-drop lay quite still after this, feel- ing deeply grieved at the thought of causing her sisters any discomfort.
The Pink who had roused a little, no- ticed the disconsolate expression of Snow- drop, and being of a more gracious dispo- sition than the Peony and Tulip, said :
"Don't grieve, Snow-drop; you know it always makes Peony cross to disturb her slumber. You did not mean any harm ; but it is rather foolish for you to think of getting up in this cold wintry weather. Don't you know how uncom- fortable you will be in the frosty air, with your head in a snow-drift, and no one to keep your company? Who else will be foolish enough to venture out of the ground in such weather?"
"That is just why I thought I would rise early and gladden the hearts of men and children by being the first one to tell them spring is coming."
"You mean well, good little Snow- drop, I have no doubt; but I wonder
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
125
where you got such notions? What do we live for but to enjoy ourselves and to bask in the warm sun and wave in the gentle breeze. Our rammer is so very brief. I for one always wait for the warmest and brightest days, when all the flowers bloom and the birds sing gayly, and the humming-bird always comes to visit me, and life is sweet and gay. Why my dear Snow-drop, I should not see the humming-bird in this cold weather. Ugh ! it is so dismal, the very thought makes me shiver."
The Snow-drop drooped its modest head a little, for this long argument quite abashed the timid little thing ; but though very gentle, she was true and firm to her good heart, and softly responded :
"I know you are wise and beautiful,
sweet Pink, and birds and music and
n winds are pleasant, but it is not
enjoyment of bright scenes that
makes me happy. Perhaps, 1 shall make
i if I go where the
are chiil and the winds cold, and
er a promise of spring ; and. () Pink, it i- m much sweeter to comfort and gladden a sad heart than to revel in self- ish pleasures!"
•• I>.> as yon like, foolish creature ! 1 hhall wait for the bumming-bird and the
•lie Pink waited ; but the modes! i cheer a sad heart,
did not mind the Cold and tie: frost, but
pushed op it- little folded flower and i to tie- rugged March
only hopiiiL- that it- mi-em might • in vain.
A little girl in a red cloak, like little Red Riding Hood, came out to scatter crumbs for the chickadees and the early robin, and she found the pretty Snow- drop with its head in the snow on the sunny side of the drift.
"Oh, Snow-drop," she cried in ecstacy, "did you blossom for me?" Then she touched it with her soft, pink fingers, and the Snow-drop trembled with delight at the caress.
"How beautiful you are,. Snow-drop, and how sweet! How good in you to come when it is so cold, and all the rest of the flowers are hiding in their beds ! No, Snow-drop ; you did not blossom for me, but for dear Mary. She said she should never see any flowers again. She is going to heaven, Snow-drop, and I think the good Father sent you to her."
Oh how happy this made the sweet flower ! The child bore it into the room where Mary lay. The eyes of the dying girl grew glad and bright. She laid it on her pillow and gazed long and lovingly upon it, and then she thanked the little maid who brought it and smiled, Baying:
"Sister, I think the flowers in hcawn are just like this lovely Snow-drop."
Thbouob :ill the busy daylight, Through all the quiet night —
Whether tin- stars are in 1 1 1 * - iki , Or the sun is ihining bright
In tin- nursery, in 1 1 * * - parlor, In the street, <>r on the stair
Though I nay seem to !"• slone, I tad i-. always tl
126
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
PICTURES OF HOPE,
TOM'S LESSON.
By Louise V. Boyd.
By Mrs. M. O. Joknson.
" "ATOW, listen to me," said Katie : JJN " When I am a woman grown, And go from father and mother To live in a house of my own,
" I mean to have pretty pictures On the walls of every room — Pictures to be like the sunshine, And chase away all the gloom.
" I will have an artist paint me, If he can, our apple tree, All covered over with blossoms, And under it you and me.
" And I'll have the dear old willow That droops above the well, And under it, holding a pitcher, Sweet sister Annabel.
" And I'll have dear mother's picture (This one in my room I'll keep) Just as she looks bending over The baby when he's asleep.
ft And father must be painted As that moment he had come To the fire on a winter evening, As he says, ' No place like home !'
'• And Tom and Carl playing horses (By that time they'll be men) ; And Kover the dog, and my kitten (You'll all be with me then).
" And with all these pictures, Alice, I cannot feel sad and lone When, away from father and mother, I live in a house of my own."
GO and say!"
get itl Go and get it, 1
Poor little Dash crept close to his young master's feet, looking up in his face with earnest, pleading eyes, as if he would say,
"Please, please, don't! I cannot do what you want."
Tom was trying to make Dash swim after a stick, which he had just thrown into the river. Now, Dash was not a water-dog, having no more love for it than a cat, and foolish Tom was bent on making him one ! He kicked the poor little animal away and repeated his order; then, angry that it was not obeyed, seized him and threw him into the water. The dog was sorely frightened, but by hard struggling reached the bank, and crawled to his master's feet with a pitiful whine, wet, panting, trembling. The cruel boy caught him up with rough words, and was just going to throw him in again, when a pair of strong arms seized him and a man's voice said :
" Here, you young scamp ! Now we'll see how you like to swim !"
It was Tom's turn to be frightened. He turned pale, trembled and caught his breath, as the stranger lifted him in his stout arms as easily as he had poor Dash ; he began to beg.
"Oh, sir, pray, pray don't! I cannot swim, indeed I cannot! Oh don't throw me into the water! I will never, never do so again."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
127
The man paused, but did not let go his hold.
11 Neither can your dog swim," said lie ; " but you meant to malce him do it, just to amuse yourself. Why can I not make you do it to amuse me? I am as much larger and stronger than you as you are larger and stronger than that poor, panting, trembling dog."
Tom still begged and promised, and the stranger at last released him, say- in-.
•• Now, my boy, let me give you a kind irord of advice. Never treat another, whether human being or dumb animal, as you would not like to be treated yourself. r try to make anybody or anything do what God, when he created it, did not make it to do, or to be what he did not mean it to be. If you keep these rules, you will be a better, wiser, happier boy. Good-1
And Tom kn<w in his heart that the man was right, and the lesson, though it en in real kindness.
— *-> -^ ^. • - THE SHEPHERD'S DOG,
THE Bagacity and fidelity of this dog are wonderful. I [e presents an inter- of the effect of education in changing the direction of instinct He waa, no doubt, originally a destroyer of p, instead of being, as now, their guardian and preserver. A disposition to : sheep hai become hereditary, co that ■ true shepl
uralhj to his duties. For any other office he would require a course of careful train- ing. The sheep-tending talent is born in him.
Anecdotes of the shepherd's dog are almost as numerous and interesting as those of the Newfoundland. AVe can give a single one. It is related by Captain Brown in his "Anecdotes of Dogs," on the authority of Sir Patrick Walker:
"A gentleman sold a flock of sheep to a dealer, which the latter had not hand" to drive. The seller, however, told him he had a very intelligent dog, which lie would send to assist him to a place about thirty miles off, and that when he reached the end of his journey, he had only to feed the dog and desire him to go home. The dog received his orders and set off with the flock and the drover; but he was absent for so many days that his mas- ter began to have serious fears about him, when one morning, to his great surprise, he found the dog had returned with a very large flock of Bheep, including the whole that he had lately sold. The fart turned out to be that the drover Was BO
pleased with the animal that he resolved
to steal him, and locked him up until the time when he was to leave the country.
The dog grew sulky, and made various attempt^ to escape, and one evening suc- ceeded. Whether he had discovered the
drover's intention, ami supposed the Bheep were also stolen, it is difficult to
hut, by his conduct it looked 00,
for he immediately went to the field, col- lected the sl p and drove them all back
t<» hi- mast
128
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR,
THE LISTENER WHO HEARD NO GOOD OF HERSELF.
By Alice.
FIE ! fie upon you, Mabel ! It grieves me much to know So nice a little girl as you
So mean a fault could show. A listener ! Have you never heard
This saying— known to all — About himself no listener hears A good word ever fall ?
Sitting within the garden fence
Are Nettie, Sue and Jane, Their fair young fingers busy o'er
A dandelion chain. " Whose shall it be ?" asked Nettie Low
" There's Mabel," answered Sue ; But Nettie shook her curls, and said,
" No, that will never do."
This, Mabel listening by the fence,
With cheeks grown warmer, heard; Then closer bent her eager ears To catch each passing word. Her shadow through an opening fell,
And Nettie, in surprise That any one should near them be,
Turned on the spot her eyes, And saw, with sorrow and with pain, That Mabel listened there. " Not Mabel. That will never do,"
She said, with firmer air. " Not Mabel ? why ?" asked wondering Jane ;
And " Why ?" asked gentle Sue ; " Because she's done a meaner thing
Than we could ever do." "What meaner thing?" the children cried.
11 I'll tell you," Nettie said ; "She listens at the keyhole, and In corners, I'm afraid."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
129
A listener! Not a listener! Nettie, this can't be so!"
Nettie answered firmly — "I speak of what I know."
The shadow flitted from the fence,
And Mabel stole away With silent Steps, a wiser girl
For what she heard that day, Ah, Mabel! Little Mabel !
May the lesson and its pain Hold you back from ever doing
So mean a thing again.
THE BUD OF PROMISE.
By Elise Osborne.
PLEASE let me go, mamma. The girls have so much fun." lint iuu is not always good for little
5Tou said yesterday it was good — that liked us to laugh and enjoy our- selves
docs," replied Mrs. Clare, "but because it a right sometimes ' right always."
Bow are we to know when it is Minnie, pettishly; • i;. ■ great many rules he hai given tide 08, when we are old enon understand them. And until we ai he gives as parents and teachers and friends to tell as, whom we should always without murmuring. So, don't ask ■ about th<- party, bat listen to ■ I I had last night" Minnie'i irkled with
17
There was nothing she liked so much as to hear one of her mother's pretty stories or still prettier dreams. At once she for- got the party, and pulled her little chair close to her mother, who thus began :
I dreamed I was walking in the garden, just as we walked together this morning, when observing that a withered branch had fallen upon the little cluster of violets you so much admired, I stooped and re- moved it ; but hearing a sweet murmur near me, I lifted my head quickly and looked around, but seeing no one I sup- posed I had been mistaken, and again stooped to arrange the bruised leaves ; but as I did so, I once more heard the soft voice, and now discovered that it came from the bosom of the little cluster. At- tentively I listened and heard it say, 11 Bow thankful we should be for the kind hand that has rescued us from the cruel weight which threatened our destruction ! All praise to our kind protector!"
" Was it the same 1 land that placed us here?" asked one of the tiniest buds.
"Not directly," replied the Blossom, which having reached its maturity full twenty-four hours before, was now the oracle, as she was also the centre of the group, "but I have heard that all bless- ings, whatsoever they may be, and how- soever they may reach OS, come from
Him ; therefore to him onr.thanks are now
due, and you must try your Utm08l to day
to put 00 all the beauty of which you are
capable. In this way yon will honor him.
You particularly," she continued, ad- dressing the largest of the buds. " You, whom we have named our Bud of Promise,
130 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
from your superior form and size, must ;' behold them even more fresh and promis- exert all your powers. Perhaps this very \ ing than before. So she drew back her noon you may become our crowning ( head, and was glad to be again over- beauty, the pride of our family." S shadowed by the branches of the kind
"I would grow faster," said little ( old elm, which she now acknowledged to Promise, "if I had more of the sun- > have been a kind protector. But she light." < did not feel so happy nor so strong as
"We have all that is good for us, you \ before, and her head gradually drooped may be sure," replied her sister, "or \ so much that Blossom asked if she was more would be given. ' ' ( sick.
"We haven't near so much as the £ "Only thirsty," she replied, for she roses." ( was ashamed to confess her imprudence.
" Let us be thankful for what we have, ) " I wish we had some more sweet dew to and diligent in our use of it." < drink, like that we had this morning."
But while the wise Blossom thus spoke, f "We shall have no more till evening," the little Bud, which until now, had nes- > replied Blossom.
tied close to her side, stretched its tiny (' "Oh dear! I should think we might neck as far as it could, which to be sure ; have some. I am so thirsty." was not very far, yet it was just in the ( "You should not have exposed your- path of a fiery ray that had a little while ( self to the scorching heart of the sun ; before darted from the sun ; and ver3r soon ; but I see a cloud settling over us, which the rash little Bud felt very hot and < is filled with life-giving drops and will re- thirsty. But as she saw that the roses ) fresh you. Be careful, however, all of did not seem to suffer, she thought she ( you, and keep very close together. ' ' too would soon be used to it, and then ) All the smaller buds did at once as she grow so much faster, and so much larger, s bid them; but Promise impatiently asked, and so much more beautiful than her sis- ( " Why must we keep close ?" ters that the good gardener would be- ; "I do not know," replied Blossom; stow on her his brightest smiles. So she ( " but it is one of the things we are corn- continued to bear a great deal of pain ) mandedtodo."
with the most heroic fortitude, until hap- ( "We might have been given a reason," pening to see herself reflected in a little ( pouted Promise.
brooklet near by, she discovered, to her > "It is enough that we have been told dismay, that instead of expanding, she < that it is right" rejoined Blossom, sol- had been shrinking away, and instead of ) emnly.
the bright rose color she had envied, she ( But Promise did not think so, and when had become a rusty, dingy yellow ! ) her wise sister looked away, opened wide
Shocked at the sight, she turned to her ( her mouth to catch the drops which had sisters, and was still more distressed to ) now begun to fall, and finding them very
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 131
delicious, lifted herself as far as she could ) and powers ; therefore you suffer and must to get them faster, In her impatience ( die."
she even leaned over her sisters, and again ) "Die!" shrieked Promise. "Most I tried to escape the shadowing branches of j die? Die without ever having been the elm. "You are very well," she mut- j beautiful?"
tered, "when the fierce sun i- sinning, j "Or having produced any seed," said
but you are too fond of taking all the / Blossom, mournfully, "which is of far
yourself." j more importance. Beauty, though desir-
Oh how she drank them in! Those j able, lasts but for a short time. It is what
lift- giving drops! They penetrated all 5 we do that preserves our existence and
herp ftened her parched mouth, j causes us to live again. Had you reached
bo that the little petals once more opened ) your perfection, and borne the seed that
their lips and assumed a fresher hue. '•■ is hid within you, you would have lived
poor foolish Bisters-!" she said, ( anew these many springs. Alas, my
"how closely they keep their bowed ;• poor sister!" she exclaimed, as the ex-
j hausted Promise fell prostrate upon the But as she spoke the cloud burst, the j ground, rain fell in torrents, a high wind arose, j And all the little buds repeated the cry. and before she could draw in her head it ) " Alas, alas, our bright Bud of Prom- struck her so violently that she cried out j ise!"
with pain. "Oh, the cruel, cruel storm! / Minnie's eyes too were filled with t h bag broken my graceful stem !" j "How very careful," said Mrs. Chin-.
14 Alas, my | r!n cried Bios- j putting her arm around her, "should my
-.in. sadly. "Why did you not heed my } little bud be to avoid the errors of the warnin { foolish little floweret!"
•• It is all your fault." returned Prom- j "Have yon a little bud?" asked Mhv 11 You said it was the nie, wonderingry. bright -un that painted as, and it has j "Yes. A little bud of great promi scorched mel You said the cloud was "Whichiait? the tea rosebud?" filled with life-giving drops, and it has "No. It is the little hud I hold in my drenched mel Fou mid the breese arm. The budding woman, not the bud- brought balm upon its wings, .and it has ding flower. You are my little bud that I in"'" Gtod has given me to watch over and in-
I told you truly." replied Blossom struct So that while you live, you may • you would not be content with the live ai unto him, so developing and par- amount allotted you by s wi I feeting the being he has given you that
Would not submit to the conditions when you die it may !».■ to waken to a
imposed upon i i thought your- newer and more glorious existen
judge of your Little readers, then arc many bright
132 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Buds of Promise in this large garden of { in leading strings? Only come into our the Lord's! Do you not all wish to escape } gardens! There is no one there to pre- the fate of the poor little violet? If so, ( vent us." Thus spake the boys, hearken to the counsel of your parents, ) But Erich said: "Ah, no! come with obey their commands and submit cheer- { me ; my father has forbidden it." Then fully to their wise restraints, remember- \ the boys answered: "Your father does ing always that excess, even of pleasure, S not see it; how will he find it out? and leads to decay and death, both for time \ if he asks, you can say you know nothing and for eternity! ) about it."
~^^&k±~— j "Fie!" answered Erich— "then T
THE TWELFTH BIRTH-DAY. \ musfc ne> and the blush of shame upon
\ my cheeks would soon betray me."
from the German. ) Then the eldest boy said : "Erich is
) right. Listen ! I have another plan.
ERICH kept his twelfth birth-day in ) Look, Erich, we will pluck them, and the early autumn. His parents had ) then you can declare that it was not you given him many handsome presents, and > who did it." Erich and the other boys let him invite a number of his friends to \ agreed to this, and they plucked the fruit visit him. £ and ate of it.
They played together in the garden, in a < Now, when twilight came the children corner of which Erich had a little garden ) went to their homes. But Erich still re- of his own, planted with flowers and fruit s mained in the garden, for he feared to trees. A few young peach trees stood by ( look his father in the face, and when he the garden wall, bearing their first fruit. Ji heard the door of the house opened, he The peaches were just beginning to ripen, ( started and he was afraid in the gloomy and their ruddy sides shone already ) twilight, through the down which covered them. \ Then his father came, and when Erich
Erich said: "My father has forbidden > heard his step he ran quickly to the other me to touch these peaches. They are the > side, where his own garden lay. But his first fruit of the young trees; besides, I < father went and saw how the young trees have my own garden filled with all kinds ) had been stripped of their fruit ; he called of fruit. Let us go away ; the sight is too I to Erich: "Erich, my son, where art tempting." ) thou?" And when the boy heard his
The boys then said: "What is there ) name, he was affrighted still more and to hinder us from tasting them? You ( trembled.
are master of the garden to-day. Is it ) But his father came to him and said not your birth-day, and are you not
another year older? You would not always be a child, would you, and be kept
" Is this the way thou dost keep thy birth-day? is this the way to thank me? to strip my young trees of their fruit?"
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
133
Ericb answered and said: "I have not touched the trees, father! Perhaps one of the boys did it."
His father then led him into the house %nd placed Erich so that the light shone *pon his face, and said to him: "How! SVilt thou still deceive thy father?"
Then the boy grew pale and trembled, and confessed all to his father with tears and supplications.
But his father said: " Henceforth the garden shall be locked against thee."
With these words his father turned from him. But Erich could not sleep during the whole night ; he was afraid of the darkness ; he heard the beating of his heart, and when he fell into a slight slumber, he was startled out of it by dreams. It was the most unhappy night of his life.
On the next day Erich looked pale and sad. and his mother pitied the boy. There- die said to his father: "See, Erich mourns and is very sad, and the locked garden U an emblem to him of his father's heart, which is closed against him."
The father answered : " It is right that he should mourn, and it is for this reason that I have locked the garden."
"Alas!" said the mother, "why should L-iri a new year of Ms life so sadly?"
"That it may he a happy year to him," red the father.
After some days the mother spoke to the father: "Ala- ! I liar Much ■iibt. our love !"
• \'o," replied the father, "his oon- oe will teach htm otherwise. He hai
enjoyed our love always until now. Left
him now learn to value it, that he may strive to gain it anew."
"But will it not appear to him in too serious a guise?" said the mother.
"Yes, in truth," answered the father — "in the guise of justice and of wisdom. But thus, in the consciousness of his guilt, he will learn to honor and revere it. It will then, in time, appear to him in its true shape, and he will without fear call it love again ; his present grief assures me that he will do this." «
Some days had passed again, when Erich came one morning from his cham- ber with a calm and cheerful face. He had laid all the gifts which he had re- ceived from his parents together in a bas- ket, and now brought it and placed it before his father and mother.
The father said: "What wouldst thou, Erich?" And the boy said : "I am not worthy of the gifts and love of my parents ; therefore I restore the gifts which I have not deserved. But my heart tells me that I shall live a new life. Oh, forgive me then, and accept as an offering all that, I have received from your love !"
Then the father clasped the boy in his arms, and kissed him and wept over him. And his mother did so likewise.
The little glow-worm by the road,
( )r sparkling in the meadow, I ioei w li.it it I'm it to beautify
Ami cheer the evening shadow ; And -<> may I, though small like 1dm,
A nd lowly in my station, It" imt my light '><• pore end tru%
I)o good in my vocation^
134 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
BERTIE'S MISTAKE. S " What ! bread and butter at this time
( of day! Bertie, boy, couldn't you wait
By M. y. ) five minutes for your dinner?"
( "What does that mean?" thought
" 'ITAMMA is very busy, and I'm < Bertie's mamma, as she went hastily
iu. going to help her," said Bertie, ) across the room and opening the door resolutely, to himself. "Let me see — ( looked at the clock. There were the what will I do? I'll wind the clock, first ) hands pointing to ten — just as they had thing — and then — " ( been, when she looked before.
Bertie pushed a chair up to the table, ) "I am very sorry," Bertie heard her climbed into it, and from it to the table, ) say to papa; "but I have never known and succeeded in reaching the clock. He ( that clock stop in all the time we've had opened the "funny little door," and after ) it. I'll hurry dinner all I can." watching the pendulum two or three ( "Haven't you a little cold meat of minutes, took out the key. When he ) some kind," he asked, thought the clock was wound enough, he j " Yes," she replied. " I was going to tried to get down, wondering what he > mince the corned beef; but the potatoes should do next, when the chair tipped <> are not boiled enough yet. ' ' and over he went. Mamma came run- \ "Never mind," said he; "give me a hing in ; and there was a great bump for ) couple of slices of bread and butter with her to bathe — a pair of blue eyes that k cold beef between them, and a cup of looked like violets full of dew, for Bertie > tea, if you can get it quickly ; for I must was a little boy, and could not help cry- j take the early afternoon train for Milford, ing — a little heart to be comforted. ( on business. I did not know it when I Mamma did it all and went back to her J> left home this morning." work, and Bertie out-doors to play; and c Mamma boiled her kettle as soon as nobody thought any more of the clock > possible and made the tea. till she put her head in at the door an ) While waiting, papa went into the sit- hour later, glanced at it, and turned back ) ting-room to set the clock, and the clock with a little sigh of relief. " Not so late ) wouldn't go ! It was out of order; and as I thought, by at least an hour ! I'm so ^ little Bertie, sorry and ashamed, but glad! I shall get through in nice season." ') honest, told about his trying to wind it.
"Mamma," said Bertie, by and by, \ Papa at first looked rather serious, but "I'm hungry; may I have a lunch?" ) he knew his little boy's word could be Mamma put down her pie-plates, spread a ( trusted, and that he had not willfully done large slice of wheaten bread with butter ) wrong; so he only said in a gentle tone : that morning churned, and had scarcely ) "Remember this, Bertie; and when resumed her work, when she heard a I you want to help any one again, look for well-known footstep, and in a moment: ) the right way to do it. You meant it
THE CHILD HEX'S HOUR.
135
well, but you see that you have made mamma late with her dinner, and it will cost a dollar or more to repair the clock."
Bertie's lip quivered, and tears rolled down, " Please, papa," he said, " take the money in my bank to pay for the dock— there's enough, isn't there?"
" Papa doesn't want it. darling? He wouldn't take it for the world. lie only tells you about this, to have you careful in time to come."
And Bertie was careful. The next time he tried to help his mother, he asked her what he should do; and this he found much the best way. Bertie had begun to learn a truth that we are all of us, little folks and grown folks, wry apt to overlook — that in order to he '* hann- we must try to be ''pru- dent as serpent* I"
It* yon practice this while you are chil- dren, you will form the habit; BO that it will be far easier to do bo when yon are
grown up. If will keep you from doing harm, help you to do real good, and save many a hi artache.
DISCONTENT.
A I \l:l I..
lie was delighted with the gift, and promised to wish for nothing more. But it was not long before he coveted the neighboring garden, with its statues and fountains. The garden was given him. He then took a fancy to the meadow be- yond. The meadow was given him, and then he wanted the park on the farther side of it. The park was bestowed on him, and then, like Ahab, he wanted to rob a poor man of his little vineyard !
Open the door to discontent, and you don't know how many bad wishes will follow. Rather "be content with such things as ye have," and you will be happy, even if poor.
THE HARD TASK.
By Irene L-
" TT? L it,
\F \i;Li: i- told in lv- pi of n poor man who had a nice little garden of But he w.i- discontented at bav* ■ toil f.»r his daily bread. 1 1 ime t<> hii aid. tnd
him owner Of a villa with two lit on him.
and there's no use in trying."
" ' If .it first you don't succeed, Try, try again !' "
<\wvi Mrs, Elder in a pleasant voice.
"It's easy enough to say, 'Try.'
mother; but if I tried forever, I couldn't
do this sum. I don't think it was kind
in teacher to give me such a hard
For eyer is a long day, Katy. ( me might do almost anything in that bime.
And |fl for tic difficulty of (hi- miiii. your
teacher in giving it has shown, I think,
trie- kindness. The taSI is hard in order
136
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
that your mental effort may be earnest and vigorous. The body gains strength ; by active exercise, and so does the mind. You cannot go up a hill with the easy •; steps taken on level ground; but must .' brace your muscles, and climb with an ef- • fort and strain that often fatigues the i limbs and makes rest sweet and refresh- ing. And so, if you ascend the heights of knowledge, it must be with an effort 1 of the mind not easy to make. But ■ only try, and you will find it no harder •; than climbing a hill.
"And now," added Mrs. Elder, giving ' Katy a kiss of encouragement, ' 1 1 will • leave you to your task. Brace your ; thoughts for the work, as you would brace •: your limbs to climb a hill. Be in ear- ) nest — say, 'I will do it,' and you will find [ the work so easy, when your mind is once ;'
upon it, that you will wonder it ever looked hard."
For a little after Mrs. Elder left the room, Katy sat thinking over all this that her mother had said. Then she roused herself and went to work in real earnest. As her thought fixed itself closely on her :: task, what seemed dark and difficult a ( little while before grew clear and became easy.
"Why it's nothing!" she exclaimed, a ; quarter of an hour afterward, with a look : of triumph and satisfaction on her face. . "I could do a dozen such sums, if they ■ were twice as hard."
And then she sang in cheery tones — "'Tis a lesson you should heed, Try, try again ; If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again."
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
MAY, 1869.
A PORTRAIT.
II Mf \T is tbia lift!*' girl 'loin-9"
' * [roning, I should say. "Who is
nnot tell. But thi
know, the picture j trail ;
and when the portrait was taken, the
little girl was at work, just ai yon aee li«r
now.
When live? ' we hear ron
VOL V. -lb
ask ; and wc answer, away over thi in Germany. '* But how do you know she waa at
work just a< she appears in the picture '
Maybe the artist only painted her in thi> i
We know it. beoaUM the picture from
which we made this engraving is a photo graph from life. We bought it among other photographs just received from
137
138 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Germany, and have had it copied, so that J> "Oh, it's more than good ; it is just you may all have the likeness of a little $ splendid, Lewis," beginning again as soon unknown sister, far away over the sea, ) as I could get breath. "It has seemed who, if you were face to face with her, ^ as though I couldn't wait until night could not, perhaps, understand a word \ come to tell you. "
you said. And yet, in dress, counten- > "But what is it all about, Hope? Don't ance and all, she looks as if she might \ keep a fellow on the rack any longer." be one of your school-companions and ) "It's all about our sick company, friends. ') Creighton Bell."
Dear little girl! we wonder if her mam- > " I was certain of that. You like him, ma has a headache, and she is trying to > then?"
help her? or if the laundry-maid is out, \ "Like him! I should think I did. and she is ironing her own dress for a > Oh, Lewis, he's beautiful !" party? But it is no use asking such < Lewis laughed good-naturedty. "How questions. One guess is as good as an- ) girls talk when they get to going!" he other; and if we guessed ever so many ) said. "But I want to know all about times, we never would know whether our { him, Hope."
guess was right or wrong. But there's ) By this time we two were in the house, one thing we may say, if countenance { and Mrs. Brainerd was with the doctor in tells anything: "She's a dear, good little ) the parlor, so we had the room quite to girl, and the sunshine of somebody's \ ourselves again.
I
heart." c "Let's see; I want to commence at
— ar+^z*^ . ^e kegmnmg5" trying to steady my
HOPEDARROW. \ thoughts, which were all fluttering and
A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY. j buzzing in my head like a swarm of
_ \ bees. But as soon as I caught the thread By Virginia F. Tovunsend. \ c .. ,, , „ , , .-; oi my story it all unwound fast enough.
chapter v. ') I went over the whole that night, just
" ^\H, Lewis Darrow, you don't know c as I went over it a little while ago to
\J what has happened to-day : you ; you ; only I kept back the greater part can't guess what I have to show you !" \ of what I had said to Creighton Bell
At the sight of my brother all the ) about Lewis himself. Another time I choked stream of my thoughts and feel- ) would tell him, but it would be certain to ings broke up in a big torrent of words. ? make my brother shy and uncomfortablG
"It's something very good, Polly Prim ! ) just as I was about to bring the two boys I hear that ringing all through your \ together. Then I showed him my Rhine voice;" catching me up in his arms and ) album, and that, with the story I told, swinging me about until my head grew ) you may be sure, kept Lewis wide awake dizzy and I had to cry out for mercy. ) until Mrs. Brainerd returned. "I feel
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
certain that I shall like your friend, Hope," said my brother, while I held the lamp and he turned over the pictures, holding his breath with surprise and pleasure.
"That boy's taken a notion he must have you both to tea in there; so I've agreed to set the table in the parlor for three," said Mrs. Brainerd. "Dear me!
I reckon he's al'ays been used to bavin' people spring 'round for him; but then he's rich and can afford to pay for it."
I was more anxious about Lewis' ap- pearance that night than I had ever been before in my life, and I arranged his necktie and smoothed his hair, which was of that dreadfully aggravating kind that never stays in one place for more than two minutes together, and then I stood apart and looked him over carefully. All at once he burst out laughing. "Ah, poor little Polly Prim I what a grave, anxious little face it lb inspecting me! But I'm a hop : you never will be able to
make a good-looking-fellow out of me,
II e. I think after all you'll have to
iw down that dreadfully bitter pill about my homi
11 1 never will — never, aslongasllive !"
I said, something of the old anger and
pain making me wince for a moment,
hut tii' v passed off in tin: now, pleasant
en lii'- and
imc when I sat shivering under the I I 1] • i M Brainerd set the tabic with her beat china, Oreighton Bell watching as with those great brighi
of bit, ari'l a smile or a joke all
for me. The doctor had dressed the hoy's
ankle again, and pronounced it wonder- fully improved.
When the table was all ready, Mrs„ Brainerd called Lewis, and I stepped out in the hall and told her I thought she ought to introduce the two boys, as I was only a little girl, and not used to siu-h things ; but she said I could get along with it much better than she, and after all " they was only boys," and I needn't mind.
"I'm ready, Mrs. Brainerd," Lewis said, coming into the hall at that moment So I saw there was no help for it, and we went into the parlor together, and I tried to say, as naturally as though it was noth- ing at all, "This is my brother Lewis, Mr. Creighton," and the two shook hands like old friends.
Oh what a pleasant supper that was in Mrs. Brainerd's parlor! Creighton Bell limped to the table with the aid of my brother's arm, and I had to sit at the head and pour the tea and be the little hostess, and both the boys made fun of me. Creighton Bell asked Lewis if I did not look very much like a little lied Bid- ing-Hood, whom a wolf might swallow at one big mouthful, and which, of course, made me laugh. Lewis said in turn that I always reminded him of the little fairy of a woman who married a giant, and
when somebody jested him about bet
si/.e, he replied, very gravely, "Oh she's little, there's no denying it, but I
tell yen sha'i some !"
' \nd I've ("mind, tOO, she was seme.
I bton Bell, liltin
eyebrows in snob a funny way t!
140 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
came near upsetting my tea with laugh- ( Perhaps Lewis had some shy vision of ing. ) that kind too, for he added: "I've had
But as the two became better acquainted ) to make books my pictures and com- they left off jesting for the most part, and < panions and travels; and then there's a talked gravely, calling each other "Dar- > circulating library in the next town, and row" and "Bell;" and I thought how \ I have all my evenings to read." different boys were from girls about such > "No, you forget, Lewis," I broke in; things. ( "you have all my lessons to hear since I
What a long, pleasant evening that ( gave up going to school, and it takes a was, sitting by the great warm blaze that $ long while to get me on with arithmetic." chirruped in the chimney like flocks of -J The boys laughed at that, and Creigh- sparrows, and the winds fretting dismally > ton Bell said that "Arithmetic was a in the bare branches outside ! < dreadful stumbling-block to all the girls
The boys seemed to find plenty to talk <■ he knew." about, and it was enough for me to sit s I sat still after this, looking at the two still and listen. If I could remember ( boys, perceiving at once the difference and write down here what they said, it } between them. There was Creighton might seem very little to put in a book, ( Bell, the city-bred, traveled boy, with his although I drank it in as something very ) slight, graceful figure, his handsome face bright and amusing that night. s and his pleasant manners ; and there just
Creighton Bell told stories of his life } opposite him was Lewis, with his stout abroad which interested us greatly, and > frame, his large head, with its thick, light Lewis was full of questions, which I saw < hair, and his honest face. There was surprised our young stranger a good deal, > something hearty and manly about him, and once he said, with a laugh, "How ( which it seemed to me — and I tried very comes it, Darrow, that you seem to know ( hard not to be partial, and to forget that almost as much about foreign countries as ( he was my brother — anybody must feel though you had been there?" { and understand at once.
"I!" said Lewis. " I was never fifty ) If he had not the grace and elegance miles from the place where I now stand." < of Creighton Bell, nobody could find him
Creighton Bell stared at the boy in a ) clumsy or awkward ; and there was a kind kind of blank amazement, and I knew, \ of downright meaning, a straightforward- just as well as though he had told me, ) ness in all he said and did that one would that he was wondering how a boy who £ not have to be his sister to know came worked at a sawmill all day, and hired in ( right out of a warm, generous heart and such an out-of-the-way place as Salmon ) soul, scorning whatever was mean or Head, could ever have found ways and ( false ; one might read in the very tones means to know so much of the great world ) of his voice, in the very glance of his that lay so far beyond his horizon. \ eyes, when they opened full upon you,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
141
the native strength and honor of my brother, Lewis Darrow. Late in the even- ing Mr. Brainerd came in and joined in the talk, telling OeightOO Bell that the telegram which the boy had sent to his brother-in-law had probably reached the gentleman by this time.
" What a sensation it will create at the cottage I" said young Bell to himself with a laugh. ,; I shall look for Dick by day after to-morrow."
"So soon as that?" I asked, startled and Bony enough to hear it.
And Creighton Bell had some answer ready about its being surprising that I was not rejoiced at the prospect of get- ting rid of such a nuisance as he had proven himself; but he added, the next time he came to Salmon Head he did not intend to do it with a sprained ankle.
I saw then that he intended to come
i After we had said good-night to
our guest, I did not have any chance to
talk him over with Lewis, for Bin,
Brainerd was in the buck room, but he
into the hail that night to kiss
m«: before 1 went np to bed, and then L
took the ch:uic<- to ask : "Well, Lewis, now don't you think Creighton Bell is all I told yon. if I am a girl?" '• I like him fir better than I
Hope 1 1 iii„. fellow j no sham
nor nonsense about him."
I. meant what, ho said when
ho praised people; so 1 was satisfied
I continued ; "just
think what it matt be to have all the
money one irai to go without
or have to
and think how much they cost! I can't imagine how one would feel. It must be just like going around with Aladdin's lamp all the time."
uYes, Hope; a little, a very little, of that boy's money that he throws away so carelessly would make a different thing of life for you and me. wouldn't it now?'1
A little grave, smothered pain in Lewis' voice showed me in a moment how7 deep my words had gone. Was he thinking of my thin shawl or my worn shoes, or of that great world closed to him, because, like the little barefoot boy, "he had not the money to pay the toll?"
"I wish you and I could be rich like Creighton Bell," I began again; "but — "
" Sh — sh!" in a low, startled whisper. and my brother nodded toward the door, and I turned and looked, and there, sure enough, it stood ajar, and Creighton Bell inside there might have heard every word we had been speaking.
"Oh, Lewis, do you think he has?" I cried aghast, after he had moved up softly and closed the door.
'"He may have dropped asleep, you
know. There, Hope, don't bother about it;" but I saw Lewis thought this matter
very doubtful at the beat, and was a good
deal confused too, although he added, "You didn't say anything worth minding, Ho,,
After I wa< up stairs I wont over every word I had spoken down in the hall. I
wondered if Creighton Hell had over
hoard me, and what he mUSt have thought
of it all, my oheeks tingling again. Hut.
it could not h<- helped now, ami 1 was too
142 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
tired with that long, happy day to lie { ing; "I am glad to find I stand so well awake over any small trouble. } with your brother, though, for I know
The next morning, when I went in to { he's a fellow who never says more than see our invalid, I actually found him sit- \ he means."
ting up in the rocking-chair, with his ankle < We kept up the talk between us about bolstered on a cushion. ( Lewis quite long enough to make his ears
He held out both his hands to me: "Ah, £ to burn away off at the sawmill if there Little Red Riding-Hood, good-morning: { were any truth in the old tradition, and you are so small and dainty that I'm half ) some way, I cannot tell how, I must have anxious until I see you, lest the wolf has < dropped a hint of his drawings, come overnight and carried you off." > "Drawings ! What are they? Heads?
"There are no wolves in the woods < landscapes? Is he an artist?" inquired around Salmon Head," I laughed, "nor < Creighton Bell.
bears either. The last was killed twenty ) ' ' Oh no ; nothing of that kind. Lewis years ago. I talked with the old man ( doesn't think much of them, but some of who shot him." J> his pictures seem wonderful to me ; and
"You did?" S then he's always at work with his pencil
Then there followed some more merry, ^ when he's nothing else to do." foolish talk between us, and at last Creigh- \ " What does he make with it, Hope?" ton Bell said suddenly, and solemnly: ( "Oh, houses, bridges, columns, walls " Now, Hope, I know there is a question > and such things. Lewis would throw you would like to ask me, although you < them all in the fire, but I've saved a pile are quite too polite to do it." ) of them."
What did he mean? Was it about \ "Can't you let me see some of these last night and what I had said in the < things, Hope?"
hall ? my cheeks getting dreadfully hot S I went up stairs and selected a dozen again. < out of the heap of papers in my drawer.
The boy saw my confusion: "You > Perhaps these were not the best, but for would like to have me tell you just what ) some reason they had struck my fancy. I thought of your brother? Now own \ There were arches, and temples, and cot- up fair — wouldn't you, Hope?" ) tages, and castles; everything bold and
" Oh yes," greatly relieved. "I should < bare, without any background of land- very much like to know that." <• scape.
"I like him; he's a real generous, s I carried these down stairs to Creighton noble, plucky fellow !" ) Bell, and he looked each one over, curious
"Why, those are almost the very 5 and careful, words which he said about you. Isn't it <j "When did your brother do these, funny now?" > Hope?" he asked at last.
"Yes it is," said Creighton Bell, laugh- I " Oh, at odd times ; when he was talk
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
143
ing with me or waiting for somebody, or anything of that sort."
•' Well, Hope, your brother is a born architect ! Those draughts prove what is in him. Give him time and a chance, and they'll in:ike his fortune some time."
It was very delightful to hear the boy pay this, but the next thought almost swallowed the plea-ure : "Poor Lewis! the chance i- bo long in coming to you."
" Will you give me a few of these draughts. Hope? They may be the means of* doing your brother a good turn some time."
"Oh yes, as many as you like."
Creighton Bell selected half a dozen, and was carefully putting them away when a handsome carriage drawn by two ■mall black horses dai bed up to the door, and a gentleman Bprang out,
<» • - Dick as true as you live?" cried Creighton Bell, catching a glimpse
from the window of his brother-in-law.
In a moment more Mr-, lirainerd
oshered tie- gentleman into the parlor.
Oh dearl what a meeting that was be-
rol 1 can't help laughing
whenever I think of it.
I would have known the brother- in-law were immensely fond of each other. et there wa. plenty of scolding min- 'Aiih tie- sympathy \\ Inch ( Ireighton Bell received From his relation.
I ■ just like you, Creighton, jump
when tli' ot full
best, mosl
break a wonder
i ir neek on your shoulders
" Now, Dick, just stop your scolding. It's enough, I say, to have a sprained ankle without taking a lecture on top of that. I know my jump was dangerous, but it can't be helped now. I low did you get out here?"
" I came over the hills. Got your tele- graph last night, and started off thus morning by daylight. A pretty ride you've given me; but, dear boy, I won't find any more fault. It's good to see yon alive, and with nothing worse than that sprained ankle. Poor fellow ! and you off here among strangers. What would Pauline say?"
"She needn't know anything about it until I'm well. The ankle was awful at first, but I've had a better time here than I've expected."
" I'm glad to hear that. Now. Creigh- ton, you're going right off with me. I've come for you, and I shall only give yon ten minutes to start. We must be home before dark, and it's twenty-five miles of wretched up-hill road. Wo have brought pillows and cushions, and we'll make as Boft a ne8t I'"!- yOU and your sick ankle.
you dear, provoking boy, as though you
Snug in your own bed at home."
•Ten minutes— that's long enough to
cod bye, isn't it. Hope?'1 exclaimed
Creighton Boll, turning to me. where I
Stood a little behind his ehair. :md then his brother in law turned ami looked too, and Saw me, I think, for the first time.
< Jome forward and l<-t me introduce
yon, Hope?" Slid the hoy.
I came forward. I remember In* said something very nice and kind about me
144 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
to the gentleman, but I was so confused J> at Salmon Head may have been a beauti- that I could not recall a word the next ) ful dream.
moment. The stranger smiled and shook ) But I looked into my hand, and there my hand most heartily. } — would you believe it? — were two shin-
He had a pleasant smile and was a very \ ing ten-dollar gold-pieces ! fine-looking gentleman, with a dark, thick ) When at last I came really to take this beard and hair: a gentleman — you would ( in, and to feel how rich I was, I remem- have taken him for that anywhere; it) bered that twenty dollars would buy me was in his tones, his air, his looks, and S the warmest winter sacque and dress. yet, for all that, I did not like him as ^ and a new pair of boots and mittens, and well as his young brother-in-law. After- > a little brown felt hat trimmed with fresh ward everything was bustle and con- ( crimson ribbons !
fusion, getting Creighton Bell into the ; I should be dressed like a queen all carriage. ( winter, and Lewis Darrow need not screw
The black driver was summoned, and •; a single dollar out of his hard wages, nor with his master's help the boy was com- ) see me walking by his side again, blue and fortably bestowed among the cushions, \ shivering, in my thin old shawl, ready for his long drive. ) [to be concluded.]
While his brother-in-law was settling \ -*»»^jb«*»-
with the stage-driver's wife, the boy >
leaned out of the carriage and called to > A WISE CHOICE,
me. "We are friends now, Hope," he <J
said, "and one of these days you will ) K LITTLE girl having one day read to hear from me. I cannot tell when, but ( ^ her teacher the first twelve verses of you may trust me. Promise me you will > tlie fifth chapter of the Gospel by Mat- do that until I come again. Give my love I the^ he asked her to stop and tell him to Lewis, and now good-bye and shake > which of these holy tempers, said by our hands," as his brother-in-law sprang into ) Lord to be blessed, she should most like the carriage. \ to nave- She Paused a little, and then
" Good-bye, Mr. Creighton;" and I \ said with a modest smile: "I would gave him my hand, and when I took it < rather *>e Pure in heart-" Her teacher away, something bright and hard glittered < asked her wh37 she chose this above a11 the in the palm. $ rest- " Sir," she said, " if I had a pure
The gentleman bowed, too, lifted his > heart> l should have a11 the other Sraces hat and smiled; then the small, fiery > spoken of in the chapter." horses dashed off, and I stood looking at ^ — ^o***^— -
the carriage, and the tears were thick in ) " An unkind word dropped from the my eyes ; and it seemed as though all ) tongue cannot be brought back again, which had happened for the last two days ■: even by a coach and six."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
145
PLAYING SCHOOL.
WII BB E a re the little rogues?" asked Uncle Phillip, laying down his hook. '' I haven't- heard their chatter this long time. In some mischief, I'll be hour,;
And off he started, for he loved a romp with the children — Sue, Maggy, Jane and Lotty -going down stairs, and step- ping noiselessly OUt upon tin- piazza, over
which be peeped to see if he could find
bifl little favor'r
"II-ii-Ii!1 In- spoke to himself, with
his finircr on bifl lip-- IS a murmur of
11-' leaned far
the piazza, looking this way and that, hut could flee no one.
•• What hat become of the
But I'll find them out."
And hack he went, -till with no!
going down from the piazza and out
upon the lawn.
Vol. v. \'i
"Ha, ha! There you are, my pretty ones!" said Uncle Philip, all to himself, as he caught sight of his pets sitting under a corner of the piazza, each with a book open in her lap, making believe study, though not one of them could read a word.
It was such a pretty group that he took his pencil and sketched it on a piece of paper. He went silently away without disturbing the children, and up to his room, where he spent an hour in drawing a picture of what he had seen.
■ I've -.:<>t something to show you,11 said Uncle Philip, as his four little niece* Otme hounding into the parlor just before dinner.
"What is it?" they cried eagerly, pressing round and climbing upon him.
'• Oli dear! Don't smother nie ! Hand*
off! Stand clear I M laughed Uncle Philip a- he pushed them away. "Therenowl"
And he opened a Ifljgfl DOOl that lay upon
146
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
the centre-table, and took out a stiff piece of drawing-paper. "Can you tell me what this is?"
The children crowded up closely again and looked on a picture of themselves. For a moment or two they were very still. Then Maggy cried,
"Why, that's you, Lotty! and that's you, Jane ! and that's Sue !"
"And that's you!" cried Jane, look- ing at Maggy . "Why it's a picture of us all, just as we played school under the piazza? Did you make it, Uncle Phil? How did you know?"
"He's been peeping! That's what he's been doing," said Maggy. "Oh, wasn't he mean?"
And then Uncle Philip had a splendid romp with his little pets, that lasted until the dinner-bell rang.
MY GARDENER.
;. For the vine of his dressing never glows c With the purple vintage cheer, ) And the stalk of his planting hangeth not ( Its head with the harvest ear.
\ And you cannot get a grain of gold
( From his daffodil so grand,
) Nor a stain of blood from his poppy-flower,
( Though you squeeze it in your hand.
) Nor will there run a drop of dew, ( Though you turn it upside down, ) From his painted cup ; nor can you find ( A strawberry-leaf red-brown.
) For though he tricks his blossoms out v. To make so fine a show, ) From roof to stem, and leaf to bud, ( They are all as white as snow.
) And, like the snow, they melt away
•: In the sunshine, and are lost ;
) For the garden-beds are my window-panes,
■f And the gardener's name is Frost.
DANDY'S EXPERIMENT.
By Alice Cary.
I HAVE a winter gardener, And he doeth his work so still That I never hear the stroke of his spade, Let me listen as I will.
He cometh after the sun is down, And before the dawn he goes,
And he never maketh a charge to me For all the seed he sows.
He setteth not, like the husbandman, His plough in the furrow deep,
And he waiteth not for the summer-time Of the field he hath sown to reap.
By Annie Moore.
DANDY was a dainty bird, and he had everything that heart could wish — kind friends, for example; a cage with modern improvements; plenty of food, etc. He himself admitted that he was very well content. There was only one thing more that he wanted, and that was to be free in the woods.
His cage was hung ©ut of the window in the sunny weather, and the wild birds came to see him and told him how pleas- ant it was to be free. " Come to the
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
147
woods," said they; " that is life. There is the beautiful lake and the fresh air, and there are the flowers. Come with us to the woods?"
As he was born in a cage and had never seen the woods, he was anxious to go, of oonrse.
"They let me fly about in the room," thought he ; " why can't they let me fly out of dooi
One day Pussy came softly into the room to look at him, as she did whenever she found the door open. There was no one there but Dandy. Pussy searched carefully behind the sofa and under the table. Not a soul.
" Now I'll have him," said she. So she jumped up on the window-seat and pulled the wires apart a little with her strong paw, and was just going to catch lii in when a noise in the entry disturbed her and Bhe jumped down to listen.
\Vhil«- Bhe was irone Dandy hopped out at the opening Bhe had made and flew into the nearest tree.
• Well, well, well !" said the Parrot at the D6Xl door.
I am. to be SOre," >aid Dandy.
to say, ' Thank you, nsa'am,1 to that thief of a cat, but she [ped mo thii tin The wild birds bo m found him and
him a warm Weleome, lb' told
them tli< story of his escape. "When I saw her paw," said he, "I lit. I should have fallen from my
my liit her was killed by a cat —
but I braced myself and fixed my i ■ i before m
[He had heard his mistress read poetry.]
"Come to the woods," said the wild birds ; " come to the woods. "
"Are there cats in the woods?" said Dandy.
"Not a cat!" said the wild birds, "excepting the hares, and you don't mind them, of course."
"I can't tell until I see them," said Dandy.
Then they all flew away together. It was very pleasant in the woods, as the birds had said.
There was plenty of room to fly about The air was soft and sweet, the grass was full of flowers, and there were good things to eat all around.
Then it was charming to stand on a lit- tle twig and swing in the wind. That was something Dandy had never tried before, and he enjoyed it after being ac- customed to a hard, stiff perch.
The wild birds treated him with great attention because he was a stranger from town. They showed him the lake and the place where the kingfisher lived, and everything that was interesting.
"You see you have nothing to fear from the ban-," said they.
"I am not so sure," said Dandy. "Those tall ears seem rather fierce, and
there is a wild look in their eyes that
makes my very pin feathers stand on end.
vrr, I can keep out of their way, I
suppo
u We will sin- to you if you like," said the wild birds, " though 00.6 of OUT best
Mm a grand chorus.
148
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Very good, very good," said Dandy.
He had never seen or heard so many birds together before.
Then he sang to them, and they listened attentively, for he was a fine singer.
"Please sing that piece once more," said the mocking-bird. "I should like very much to learn it. Is it something of your own composition?"
"My father taught it to me," said Dandy, and he sang it again.
The day passed pleasantly enough, but when night came Dandy began to feel homesick. It was rather cold.
"Isn't there something you can shut up at night to make it a little warmer?" said he.
" Not that we know of," said the wild birds ; " but we will sit close around you and keep off the wind."
They felt obliged to do the best they could for him, as they had urged him to come.
" You may take my nest if you'll keep the eggs warm," said a mother-bird.
"I'll try it," said Dandy. So he sat all night in a warm, cozy little nest, on four speckled eggs. "New business for me," thought he.
The next morning they were all up by sunrise. There was plenty to eat.
"About what time do they bring the fresh water for you to bathe?" inquired Dandy.
"We always bathe in the edge of the lake," said the birds.
"Ah!" said Dandy, "indeed! Rather inconvenient, I should suppose. ' '
"We are so used to it that we like
it," said they, "and then it is always ready. ' '
"That is something, to be sure," said Dandy. " My mistress sometimes forgot my bath, and then I was miserable for the whole day. I'll try your lake when you are ready."
Then they all went down to bathe. The wild birds skimmed along over the top of the water, and dipped into it every now and then, or ran down on the white sand and let the little waves come over them ; but Dandy stood on a small stone and dipped his bill and then one wing and then the other, and by and by he put one foot in and made a great splashing, and then flew up into a tree. It made the Loon laugh to see him.
To tell the truth, the lake was so much bigger than his bath-tub at home that he was afraid to venture into it.
That day passed.
Many new kinds of food were set before him, but he missed his canary-seed. At night he slept in the same warm little nest with the speckled eggs. But a hor- rible thought struck him as he stepped into it.
" What if they should hatch in the night! I shouldn't know what in the world to do."
"Don't be afraid," said the mother- bird. "They won't be out for a week or more. ' '
The next morning it rained.
"I must say this is dreadful," said Dand}7. "I never was out in the rain before. We shall all be drowned."
"Oh no," said the birds. "Come
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
149
under these big leaves. It will soon be over. ' '
And they were right. It was only a summer shower, and the sun came out and dried all the leaves and the grass. But Dandy was dissatisfied.
It was pleasant to have companions, but then the inconvenience of bathing in the lake. It was good to have plenty of room to fly about, but there was the un- certainty of the weather.
While he was wavering betwoen home and the woods, he was startled by the cry of a cat-bird. That decided him.
"My friends," said he, "I thank you for all your kindness. This life is good for those who are used to it, but I feel that at my age it is too great a change. I miss my comforts. If you will show me the way, I will go back to my old home again."
The wild birds were sorry, but they felt that he was right, so they escorted him home in a body and bade him good- bye.
I od-bye to you," said Dandy. me some pleasant day." W'.ll. well, well!" said the Parrot at
the DftXl door.
Then Dandy flew against the window and his mistress saw him, and earns and
rook him in and kissed him, and put him back in hi md the next morning
when he vroke be said to himself,
Hi'! from this
cage, or is it. only a dream ! I wish some
irould tell me. When I see the wild
birds again I shall know. They can
tell."
BROWNIE.
FOR THE VERY LITTLE ONES.
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
" I TTHAT is Brownie going to do, I H wonder?" thought mamma, as the little girl crept softly as a mouse out of her pretty bed and trotted over to the chair that held her clothes. Mousie did not know that mamma was awake, so she very carefully pulled out her two tiny white stockings and sat down on the car- pet. Her real name was Marion, but her father called her all manner of pet names, and oftenest Brownie or Mousie. Brownie, because her hair was brown, her eyes were brown, and she ran and played so much out-doors in the sunshine, so often for- getting her hat or taking it off to fill it with wild flowers, that her face and hands were brown too. Not quite as brown as the chestnuts she liked so much. Brownie couldn't tell whether she cared most for gathering the chestnuts or sitting before the kitchen fire watching for them to boil, while old Katy, the colored cook (she was browner than chestnuts), told her stories of the days when she was a little girl — Or eating them in papa's lap, when he had pared them oioely around the rim, as she said.
Mousie he called her. because, though
she OOTlld run fast and play hard, though she talked and laughed and sang, Bhe had a way sometimes always when any ODS iu the hoUM was >'n-k of gliding ahout so quietly that nobody knew she VTSS
coming. If papa earns home tired and
150
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
had a headache, the first thing he knew the little brown hand was nestling among his dark locks and trying to rub away the pain, or holding the camphor-bottle, or putting a pillow under his head.
Brownie was a little mouse only three years old ; but she had a large thought that morning. She knew baby kept mamma awake nights, and that she did not feel very well. Papa, too, was away from home, and Brownie resolved to help mamma. It was to be a surprise, too. Oh, how pleased mamma would be when she found her little girl could put on her stockings all by herself!
It was a pretty room where Brownie slept. There was a soft carpet, with wreaths of roses on a brown ground. There were roses on the wall, too, with their bright green leaves and tiny buds, but the rest of the paper was white. There were white muslin curtains, drawn back with pink ribbon, to let in the glad morning sunshine, and the breath of the sweet-brier that climbed up around the south window and peeped in now and then as it rode the breeze for a rocking- horse, to say good-morning to Brownie. The furniture was cream-colored, with sprays of rose-buds; and mamma's cover- let was white marseilles, but Brownie's own little bed had a pink-and-white one, which she called "purfly booful."
But what is Brownie doing? There she sits, in a rose-wreath, her tiny pink toes peeping out, and tries the stocking one way and another.
"Oh, dear me! what's the matter? I know it's inside out;" and, with a great
pull, off came the stocking, and Brownie almost tumbled over. She managed to turn it and tried again. This time it was upside-down, but Brownie didn't know it till, after a great deal of tugging, it was on indeed ; but oh dear! that didn't look right — the heel of the stocking lay across Brownie's instep. Off it came again, and she looked it all over, and held it square in front of the pink, waiting toes. She made up her mind it was right this time, and she put in her foot a little way. Another look, another pull, and Brownie sprang up in triumph, and almost clapped her hands ; but just in time, she remem- bered that she wasn't going to wake mamma.
Then she thought of the other stock- ing— but where was it? Brownie was quite sure that she drew it out with its mate from the pile of clothes in papa's arm-chair, but she couldn't see it. Yes — there it was, on the floor, half-way. Brownie seized the runaway and sat down again. She held it this way and that till she was pretty sure about it, and with two or three tugs, on it went ; and Brownie caught a wee laugh from mam- ma. She scampered across the floor fast as her feet could carry her, and climbed up on the bed ; and — well, I wouldn't have cared to count the kisses she received.
Little children, Brownie had helped mamma more than she knew. True, mamma wouldn't have been a minute putting on the little stockings, while it took Brownie full five. But if some one had come in and done all her sewing, it •; would not have been worth so much.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 151
Do you know why? That would have } naturally wished to view this curious act ; helped her hands, but Brownie's love (. but. as the rock could not always be helped her heart. It went down deep ) blasted when visitors came, the bell was and drew out two or three little thorns it > rung instead, and for a few times answered found there, and dropped like oil ona{ very well. The thrush flew down close sore spot that was aching, though Brownie ) to where they stood, but she soon per- didn't know it ; and mamma felt stronger ( ceived that she was trifled with; and and happier and more hopeful all day. ) afterward, when the bell was rung, she Remember, little ones, when mother is > would peep over the ledge to see if the sick or troubled, that— next to father — > workmen ran away, and if they did not, your love can help her more than any- ) she would remain where she was, but thing else. •; when they ran she was very sure to go
-~**»~- > too. C.
THE CUNNING THRUSH, S
single snow-flake is but a very small
I A si
in > thins ;
THERE is much more intelligence in S tlllns ; so one little sm indulged may ap-
birds than people suppose. An in- > Pear bufc of llttl° consequence; but a
stance occurred the other day at a slate I number of snow-flakes falling all day long,
quarry belonging to a friend, from whom > hldin- thc kndmaifa, drifting over the
we have the story. A thrush had built > doors' gathering upon the mountains to
her Dea« on thc ridge of a quarry, in the \ como down m avaknche8> and t0 cover
verv centre of which they were constantly \ trees' houseS' aml eveD whole *®***-
biaatbg the rock. At first Bhe appeared ] cach one alon(- ,n:,-v ,M- sn,alK lmt together
to be much troubled by the fragments fly- ) tll0>' arc Powerful, and all but Irresistible,
ing in all directions, but did not go far S So sin indulged grows and increases until
from her i soon observed that a \ [t becomes a mighty power, that, but for
bell was run- when a blast was about to ) God's helP' wlU destr°y our souU
be fired, and that, at tie; notice, the work- )
men r< t ; In a few >
when -he heard the hell, Bhe quitted > "Well, my boy, so you are going to
her nest and flew down to where the ' try your fortune in the city," said a man
kmen sheltered them I i a neighbor'i son. " I tell yon, 'tis a
She would remain there dangerous ocean to launch your bark
until : I • tken place, and upon.11
then return to her nest The workmen "Yes, sir," answered the lad, taking a
notioed this and informed their empl Bible from his pocket; "but you see
of it, and it was told to visitors who I've got here a Sift OOmpaSl to steer came to view the q I he visitors ' by."
152
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE SMILING FACE
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
153
THE SMILING FACE.
By Carrie.
FULL of smiles — so happy, radiant ! Who's the owner of it, say ? I will answer, I will tell you — It belongR to Helen Grey.
Face po radiant, glad and joyful,
It 1m [elen < rrey.
Why so smiling? Why so radiant?
Tell to me the reason, pray.
Tell the reason? Plain the reason : she has learned her lesson well ;
Hani she studied — long she studied — Plainly I the reason tell.
Hard she studied — long she studied —
Hut the ta^k is over now: This the answer, this the reason
Why she has a smiling hrow.
THE STORY OF A FLOWER.
By E. IV. Keith.
CiL< M8E b ride a brooh thai flowed I through a green meadow grew a tiny pened her eyes in the midst of a Bofl cashion of* green moss, nestled dose under a large stone; and wi small wa- she that she could see nothing hut the delicate stems of the moss, which ■ \ to her like a Pored of young I
and tin- dark irray stone above Of
this wa- to her eyes a mountain of unlimited height : and many a time when it rained, and the large drops ran
down its furrowed sides, the poor little flower would shrink down beneath its leaves and tremble with fear lest the great mass should topple over and crush her.
But she soon outgrew these childish fancies and shot up quite above the moss, even where it grew tallest, and before long could peep quite round the corner of the rock, where the broad meadow stretched away, with its thousands of delieate grass- blades waving in the wind. Each day she learned something new about her home and her neighbors. She and the little mosses at her side soon became ex- cellent friends, and she had a speaking acquaintance with many of the insects who came to visit them; for the mosses were quite belles in the neighborhood, and saw the very best society, I assure you. FTer especial favorite was a beautiful little golden beetle, with wings so highly burn- ished that they almost dazzled her, who Used to come and bask in the sunshine be- side her for hours together. Then there was lovely sted-hlue dragon-flies, always
darting hither and thither; but beautiful as they were, she thought them flighty, fickle things, noi much to be depended
on.
Close beside her. in a little dark eraek in tin- rock, lived a small black spider,
who always took the greatest pains to 1*'
polite to her, though Bh6 was half afraid of his nimble, stealthy ways and hi- oun- ling bright eyes. Bui when one day
she discovered how be jot hit li\inLr. her
indignation and horror knew no bounds. All hi- advances were in vain after that,
154 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
and many a time, by a bend of her head ') the rock, and every year it grows taller or a dextrous twist of a leaf, she snapped I and spreads its arms more broadly. And his silken web and set free some unlucky } you have never seen it? Try to look up; fly or moth which had become entangled < perhaps you can get a glimpse above the in its threads. > rock."
And as the stem grew upward, the lit- > So the Flower tried ; and by dint of tie rootlets beneath were not backward in < stretching her head and twisting her stem, growing too ; spreading and thrusting ) she at last managed to look up through a themselves into the ground, and drinking < rift in the rock. Sure enough, far above in nourishment wherever they could find > her head towered the majestic tree — the it. One day, while our Flower was thus ) massive trunk with its deeply-furrowed employed, she was surprised to find in ( bark, the sturdy branches spreading far her way another rootlet, but so much } abroad, with their dense crown of green thicker and larger than her own that she < leaves. The little Flower had never seen did not at first know what it was. But ') anything so grand.
as all rootlets, you know, have mouths, it ( " But of what use," asked she of the is not very wonderful that these two soon ) Rootlet, "can such a tiny thing as you be became acquainted in their underground ) to this gigantic tree? Surely its roots hiding-place, and told each other all their \ should be large in proportion to its size." views and aims. ; The little Root swelled with indignation.
"1," said the stranger, "belong to the \ "A tiny thing, indeed!" he replied. "Am great oak that towers so high above your ) I not growing larger every year? and head, and that is the reason that I am so J were not even the great roots, that never careful to thrust myself among the stones \ quiver in the fiercest storm, once as small and seize them so tightly, that I may be ) as I ? An oak-tree is a different affair able to hold the trunk firmly when the < from a little thing like you, whom a few winter comes and fierce winds blow." £ fibres can easily hold in the earth. There
"Winds!" repeated the Flower; "what i are thousands of us, each with its own are they ? and what do you mean by an ) work to do in nourishing the tree. And oak? I can see nothing above me but a \ I don't know what the large ones would great gray rock, and that I know has no ) do without us, I am sure. When a dry roots, for the golden beetle told me so, ') time comes, the tree would die for want and he lived all winter in the ground be- ( of water, long before one of them could neath it. " ) make its way to the brook and drink in
The Oak-root laughed outright. "You ( the moisture." little innocent!" said he, scornfully. "Of \ The Flower secretly thought that she course, a rock has no roots ; but let me ; was glad she had not so many roots to tell you, an oak-tree is quite a different : keep in order, but her new acquaintance thing. It is a hundred times higher than ) seemed so touchy that she said nothing,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
155
and contented herself with meekly asking him where the brook might be of which he -]>«>ke.
This seemed to amuse him still more. 14 Whatl don't you know that, either?" he exclaimed. "Well, it's plain you have not lived long in these parts. Why, it flow- just beside you — you could see if yon were taller — and that is why the M mes are so green on that side. Greedy tinners ! they would like to take all the moisture if they could, instead of leaving it for me. who am of so much more im- portance. But I'll be even with them as it I trrow a little longer. I know a i creep quite down beneath them, and reach a deep little pool which is never dry."
The little Flower rustled her leaves with indignation to hear her friends spoken of ID this way ; but before she could speak, the Root went on :
least you have heard the Brook, if yon ha\. M him. Such a con-
tinual noise as hi keepi up I it really is a serions objection to this neighborhood.
I dare say he i> \< -ry Useful j but why
people can't <lo anything without making such a commotion about it. ii more thai
I can -••' . I am sure no one ever hears
///< make a DOIM I It if quite a relief in
the winter when he ii ftosen np for ■ while; but no sooner does the ice melts
little than the tumult i- WCTS6 thin eVST,
bo w< tin much. Listen what i
I rippling there ifl now '"
1 1 | the noise you oomplain
retorned the Rower, not muea
pleased with hi lined acquaint-
ance. " Why, I have heard that all my life ! I would not live without it for any- thing."
"Every one to his liking," returned the Root, contemptuously. "You would better go and talk to him if you admire him so much. He is a great traveler and can tell wonderful stories, if one could only believe them !"
By this time the Flower was heartily tired of the Root's fault-finding, so she turned away, and began to wonder how long it would be before she would be tall enough to lean over and catch sight of the Brook. Never had its murmuring seemed so delicious to her. Her friends, the Mosses, told her that their cousins, who lived close by the edge, saw him constantly, and felt quite well acquainted with him ; but he was always very busy, they said, and could not stop long to talk. A tall Bramble that grew by the side of the rock had stretched her long arms across, until they reached quite down to the water; but she was so disagreeable, and so given to making sharp speeches,
that the Flower was afraid to ask her any- thing about the Brook. So she kept her Curiosity to herself, and passed day after
day listening to the ripples, and wondering
what they would say to her if she w< re near enough to hear them.
At last her Wishei were granted in rathe]- an unexpected way. She awoke
one bright morning to find that the gentle
breeze, which had Visited her every day
of her life, bad suddenly ohanged into a fierce sale, thai made her tremble in every fibre, and threatened to strip all the [<
156
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
from her stem. In vain she folded her leaves about her and strove to stand erect; the wind grew every instant more violent, till at last the stem was bent down quite level with the ground. Now she thought her time had surely come ; but after lying so for a few moments, and finding that she was not harmed, she ventured to open her eyes and look about her.
To her great joy, she found herself lying on the margin of the Brook, her head bent down so that she could almost touch the bright waters. Now she was happy ! To be sure, she could not raise herself up, but she cared nothing for that so long as the Brook smiled lovingly at her, and murmured words of welcome in her ear. She felt shy and strange at first; but the Brook was so bright and happy that it was quite impossible not to feel at home with him ; and he was so pleased with the blue-eyed stranger that he sought to entertain her with many wonderful stories of the countries through which he had passed, and told her secrets that you and I will never know, which the mountain-sprites and the ice-fairies had whispered to him in the deep glacier- cave which had been his cradle. His waters were yet cool from their frosty breath, though it was many days since he had seen them last. She reminded him, he said, of the Alpine Gentians, the first flowers he had ever seen, which open their heaven-blue eyes on the very edge of the eternal ice-fields.
The Flower listened eagerly to his sweet Words, and told him in return the simple story of her own life, and even confided
to him the unkind way in which the Oak- root had spoken of him. At this the Brook only laughed.
" Have we not each his work to do in the world?" said he. "Why, then, should we stop to make ourselves miser- able about what those say of us whose souls are too small to comprehend any- thing but themselves?"
" That is what I have often wanted to ask you," said the Flower. "What is this work about which you always seem so busy? I cannot see anything to be done."
"I serve the children of men," said the Brook, ' ' for whose pleasure and use all things that we see were made. I am going now to turn the wheels of the old mill down in the hollow, that the miller may have bread for his sunny-haired chil- dren. Then I have the fields to water as I go, and many other mills to turn, and at last I shall help to make the mighty river, which is a blessing to all the coun- try. And it is not I alone who work ; the Breeze who visits us a moment on his way, is hastening on to carry sweet odors and refreshing coolness to mortals, and to waft on the ships that sail on the great river. The Oak above us will one day be cut down for the service of men, as many of his brethren on the mountain have already been. It will cost him his life, but what of that? It is better to die useful than to live useless."
The Flower listened eagerly, though she understood little of all this. ' ' Tell me more," she said, "of the children of men. I too would fain serve them. ' '
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Wi
So the Brook told her all that he had seen and heard in flowing past the mill ; of the hale old miller, who sat at the door in the twilight silence with his faithful wife by his side, and of the words of love and confidence that passed between them ; of the toddling girl and the blue- eyed boy who loved to play by the Brook, to lay garlands of flowers on his bosom and join in his low song. And the Flower laid all these stories up in her heart, and thought often upon them, and the long- rrew ever stronger within her that she, too, might do something for the chil- dren of men. But that, she thought, could never be, little and useless as she and for the first time she shed bitter - over her prostrate condition. As she was thinking of this one day, suddenly saw, stooping over the Brook, the most beautiful creature her rested upon. It was a lovely with blue eyes and golden curls hanging on his shoulders. "It is the miHer'l son," whispered the Brook to her, "the boy of whom I (old you;" and he I 1 to welcome the child, who
Hang himself down en the hank, dip- noi ri pi»l«-. and
'le- Bttk fishes, who swam fear- up to him. Then he spied the little r sod -pi' the Brook with
of delight Such a lovely Blower, I." thought, he hsd i a ; hut his
■ was touched with pit | hex
li«- prostrate, imsbk to rsiss her head.
if up," said be j u I will
up the earth erownd it- roots, and vl hy, when it bai frown iti
and tall again, I will come and transplant it into my own little garden, where I can see it every day."
The Flower trembled with delight at this. Was she indeed to see something of these wonderful creatures, these men, of whom she had dreamed so long ? She did not shrink or struggle when the child lifted her up with his gentle fingers, though it was a painful effort, and at first she felt almost dizzy at being so high in the air. He covered the bent roots with earth and moss, and fastened the slender stem to a straight stick, that such an ac- cident might not happen to it again. Then he dipped water from the Brook and poured it around the roots, and kiss- ing again and again the soft leaves, bade her grow strong and beautiful against the time when he should come to claim her. The Flower heard Ids gay song in the dis- tance as he followed the Brook down through the meadow, and tears, half of joy and half of sorrow, filled her eyes. But the child's last words still ram: in her ears, and wasting no time in vain regrets, she set herself instantly to work to drink
in all the nourishment she could from the earth, all the color ami brightness from the sunbeams, all the fragrance from the breese. Days and weeks passed by, and she grew every day more beantifvl, hut tin- ohild <-ani<' not again. She longed for him sadly : tin- autumn was drawing nigh ;
her life, she knew, must he a short our. Should she not hr able to do something
before sin- died to prove her gratitude for his kindness? Bometimes the thought
would OOme into her mind that \w had
158
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
forgotten her and would never come again; but she would not yield to it. He had promised to come, and that was enough for her; and day after day she gazed down the path by which he had gone away, expecting to see him again.
One day, when she had strained her eyes till she was weary, and was half dozing in the afternoon sunshine, she was startled by children's voices near. Her heart beat high with hope, but she soon saw that it was not he, but two little girls who were looking earnestly across the Brook. "See there! that must surely be it," cried the younger, whose eyes were like the boy's, though her hair was dark and her cheeks rosy ; " there is the rock, and the oak-tree, and — yes — there is the darling little Flower ! " In an in- stant they were kneeling at her side. The Flower understood in a moment that they had come for her; he could not come, and had sent them to bring her to him. Her heart sank for a moment at the thought of leaving her sweet home and going among strangers, perhaps to die there. Then the Brook's words came into her mind: "Better die useful than live useless." "Anything — anywhere!" she thought, "so that I may be with him and give him pleasure. ' ' The little girls took it up tenderly, and wrapped soft, cool moss round the stems to keep them fresh. As they started the Flower waved her head as a farewell to the Brook and the Mosses and the gray old rock, thinking sadly that she should never see them again. The way was long and weary, and her leaves were drooping and languid when they
heard the mill-wheel plashing in the Brook, and entered the miller's cottage, where clusters of ripe grapes hung over the low door. "We have brought the sweet Flower, mother!" cried the little girls, running in. "That is well," an- swered the mother; "thy brother hath wearied sadly for it." The child lay upon a couch, his cheeks pale, his eyes brighter than ever. He stretched out his hands for the Flower with a delighted smile, and kissed it tenderly. "The little Flower is drooping," he said. "Will it die before I do, mother?" " Nay, never talk of dying," said the mother, fondly. " Thou wilt live for many a long year yet, please God, and thou shalt have many flowers more beautiful than that. ' ' The child shook his head with a sad smile, and closed his eyes wearily, still clasping the Flower tightly in his hand.
The sun sank behind the hill ; the mill- wheel plashed in the Brook; the light autumn breeze sighed softly in the vine- leaves; but the child woke not again. He was dead, and the faded Flower lay upon his breast !
THE BIRD'S PARTY.
By Laura J. Hagner
THE birds gave a party one bright sum- mer day ; 'Twas held in a meadow of newly-mown
hay, Close by an old orchard where apples of
June Kept the throats of the vocalists sweetly in tune.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
159
A hedge of wild roses this meadow con- cealed
From the farmers at work in a neighbor- ing field,
While the hum of the bees and the mur- muring brook
Made a paradise quite of this dear little nook.
The sweet Meadow-lark was the hostess
that day, Of manners so gentle and temper so
gay ;
Tho' 'tis whispered discreetly, half earnest,
half fun, That her graces were learned at the Court
of the Sun.
The first to arrive was the Carrier Dove ; He brought the regrets of his friends at
the CJrove, The Pouters and Nuns, who had serious IflOO give for thus slighting the Ball of the KML
Then came the Cock Robin with -
Jenny Wren, The Black-birds, a family party of ten,
The Thrushes in brown and the Jay-bird
ill blllr,
With who Bob-o»linkum who makes rock •do.
The King-bird and suite next Arrived, I
am (old,
With the Oriole, dressed all in silver and
gold, While the Cardinal thought it no shame
to be
In bumble attendance upon the
qui
In strutted the Peacock, a vain, silly bird, Who rendered himself by his airs quite
absurd ; But the Daws in a corner just whispered
together, And soon the poor creature had scarcely a
feather.
On a high mossy rock which overshadowed
the gate The baldheaded Eagle was Rested in state, And bore a broad ribbon on which was
descried, "E pluribus unum ;" America's pride.
In a bower by ivy screened off from the day
The Owl and the Bat dozed the morning away,
And the Woodpecker's tap nor the Cat- bird's wild scream
Could arouse the dull souls from their in- dolent dream.
They danced and they flirted, coquetted and Bang,
Till the neighboring woods with the mer- riment rang ;
And then upon conches by Nature designed
< )n the sweetest of berries ihey merrily
dined. The tables were cleared, and in bumpers
Of dew
Many healths had been given, when over
them ilew A pert little Sparrow whom nobody knew.
mer SeedweU !" he cried. " Ladies I fly f.ir your Ih Then inn. a neighboring thlckel he dives. The birds gave a luttar, and ofTthey all flew Without even bidding the hostess adieu !
('»()
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE TABLES TURNED.
By Uncle Herbert.
JOHNNY BLAIR thought it fine sport, 0 but not so the chickens, when his cornstalk came thrashing about their sides and over their heads. He didn't feel the hurt. It was all the same to him whether the cornstalk hit the rooster or the tub.
Off flew the scared chickens at Johnny's attack, and then he hid himself behind the fence and waited until hunger drew them back. But only a few grains did he let
them eat before he was down on them, striking right and left with his cornstalk, and hurting and frightening them again.
How he laughed to see them scamper away ! Oh, it was fine fun for the cruel boy. But just as he had enticed them back for the third time and was raising his stick, the tables were turned, and in- stead of the hens getting hurt and fright- ened, Johnny's shoulders felt the sudden smart of a birch rod vigorously laid on.
"How do you like that, sir?" asked a rough voice, as Johnny jumped about and writhed with pain. "Chickens have feelings as well as boys," said the farmer,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
161
who, hearing the cries of his fowls, had come round to see what troubled them. 11 I hope you will remember that."
Johnny slunk away, feeling rather badly
in mind as well as body. He knew that
it was wrong to hurt dumb creatures, but,
like too many little boys, he was hard and
cruel toward the weak and helpless. To
be caught in his evil sport and get his
well striped was anything but
pleasant; and he went off toward his
home, which was near that of the farm-
~ tying to himself as he went along —
•• He'd do right to strike me. I'm not
hit boy : and I'll tell father, so I will."
Just then he saw his father at work in
a field, and clambering over the fence he
ran toward him ; but stopped after going
a few paces. There were two sides to the
-Tory he was going to tell him, and after
looking at both ndea for a little while, he
thought it best to keep it all to himself
lown on tli saying in his
heart, " I'll spite him for it," meaning
inner, tie didn't sit there long, for
his angry feelings made him restless, but
ip and went out of the field into the
road. Then he saw i dog belonging to
the farmer, thai ran np t<> him, wagging
hi- tail. What did Johnny do? Pat the
n the head and say, kindly, "Poor
he was in an ill-humor,
him a kick, at which the dog ■ptaag Upon him and bit his hand until
the blood same. \\<- wai almost a- much frightened at the fierce growli and bite "1"
- th«- chicken, were when he
'hem with hii eornstalk, P60T Johnny I Things were g
Vol.. v. Ul
wrong with him. Many and many a time had he kicked the dog, and frightened the chickens, and worried the dumb things that came in his way — for he was, I am sorry to tell jtou, rather a cruel boy — without suffering any ill consequences. But now had come a change by no means pleasant. And he had not seen the end of it.
After he got over the pain and fright, Johnny walked soberly homeward. On the way he passed a small pond in which a mother goose was swimming with her yellow goslings. An old white gander stood on the edge of the pond. Johnny's love of tormenting animals came back again, and rolling up his trowsers he waded in and caught up one of the gos- lings. But just as he reached the shore the old white gander made a dash at him, and catching him by the ear, gave him such a bite and jerk at the same time that he fell in the mud and water, wetting and soiling his clothes all over.
He was, if anything, worse scared at this unexpected attack from a gander than at the growls and bite of the dog. After scrambling up and wiping off some of the mud. be ran home ; and — I don't know whether I am pleased or sorry to say it got a sound whipping from bis mother for being so wet and dirty.
THE STARS.
Wl CannO< COOnl the <tars on high, We only We them shine ;
We only know the gracious hand
That made them ii divine.
162 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
TONY AND JACOB. < these were kept for sale. As soon as Mr.
) Adams drew in at the gate, the nursery-
By Solomon Soberside. { man came forward to wait on him. "Have
< you any white pines?" said Mr. Adams.
TONY and Jacob were brothers. They ( "I have, sir," replied the nurseryman, lived in the country where their ■* at the same time leading them to another father had gone, because he hoped the > part of the field, where they came to a pure country air would make him stronger < row of these pretty evergreens grown up and healthier than he had been in the ) as high as the boys' heads. "These are city. The house he had moved to was \ they," he said, "they have good branches built of stone and stood upon a hill. A ) and good roots, and 1 think will please good many trees were growing around it, > you."
which made it shady and pleasant in I " Now, boys, " said Mr. Adams, " each summer, but when the cold November b one of you pick out one, for I mean to winds came, those trees lost all their ( give each of you one of them to take leaves and the place looked bare and } care of."
dreary. There were two vacant spots on \ The boys were pleased at this, and soon the grass near to the house, where room ( chose two very pretty trees, which their was still left to plant two trees. "On ) father told the nurseryman he might dig those spots I will plant white pines," said ( up. "And try to give us as good roots Mr. Adams, "so that I shall have some ) as possible," he said, green to look at all winter. " \ At this the man took his grubbing-hoe
The next morning he called the boys > and spade and soon brought one of the and told them they must dig the holes for < trees out of the ground. He had gotten the trees. They went willingly to work, ( not only a large part of the roots with it, but it took them a good while to do it, > but also much of the earth in which they for their father marked out large round < grew, so that Mr. Adams said he was spaces, and after they were dug he asked ) sure that tree ought to grow. It was the them to bring some rich earth from the ) one Tony had chosen, garden to be thrown in when the trees } Next he began to dig around Jacob's were planted. "It will make them grow ) tree. This stood so near the others in faster," he said, "than the poor soil you < the row that he had to dig close to its have found here. And now," he con- / stalk, and when at last he pulled it out tinued, "since the holes are dug, we will < of the ground no earth clung to it, and go to the nursery for the trees." ( the roots looked poor and thin. Jacob
It was a good long drive to the nursery. ) was disappointed, but the man said it was When they reached there the boys saw ^ the best he could do. So Mr. Adams rows of trees of many different kinds grow- ) paid him for both trees, and they were ing close together ; their father told them { put into the wagon.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
163
As soon as they reached home the boys carried the trees to the holes they had dug for them. First they put in a little of the rich earth they had brought from the garden, because the holes were too deep. Then one of them held the tree up while the other covered the roots care- fully. After these were well covered, they tramped the earth down all round the tree, then they put in the rest of the earth, and so their trees were both planted.
The next morning after breakfast Mr. Adams said, "Your work has just begun, boys; the trees will need care to make them grow, every day they should have water. ' '
"We will attend to that," replied they, and both started to give them a bucket- ful.
Now pumping water and carrying it on warm spring mornings is an amusement boys are very apt to grow tired of. Tony and Jacob kept it up for a week, but after that, Tony would sometimes miss a morn- ing. "The roots on my tree are so good," he said, "they will not need water every day. Don't you remember, Jake, what splendid ones they were?" Jacob said he did, but advised Tony to keep on watering. "Then," said he, "you may feel sure it will grow. But I cannot feel sure that mine will grow whatever I do, for my roots were so poor. ' '
And Tony did keep on a few days longer, till the pump got a little out of order; it wanted mending, but the man could not come at once to do it. This made it hard work to pump even one bucketful ; then Tony gave up entirely,
"My tree is safe already," he said, "it would have died before this if it was going to die."
But Jacob persevered ; no matter how warm it was or how hard the pump worked, every morning he brought his bucketful and emptied it round his tree. He did more than this, for when the sun grew hot, he gathered up some old dead leaves and straw and spread them on the ground above the roots. This kept them damp and cool, because the sun could not reach the ground to dry up the water he had poured there. " What a foolish, fellow you were," cried Tony,' "to let the man put you off with such a mean tree !. Just look at mine, taken root already and out of all danger, while I have nothing to do but to stand and see it grow. But you have to work, work, work, and I expect your tree will die after all your trouble."
" While there's life there's hope," said Jacob. "I'll keep on till it does die."
About three weeks after this, one very hot day in August Tony went out to har- ness the horse for his father. As he drove in from the barn, he happened to cast his eyes toward the trees. They stood quite near each other, so he could easily see any difference between them. And now as he looked he was surprised to see that there was a difference, such as he had never noticed before. He fastened the horse and went to examine them. "There's something the matter," he said; "my tree has changed its color; how faded it looks! and the bark is shriveled too. Dear me! I do believe
164
THE CHILDRES'S HOUR.
there is a worm at the root/' He ran for his spade to dig and find it. While he was digging very hard, his father walked out from the house and stood be- side him. "' My tree does not look well." he said ; "I think there is a worm at the root, and I am digging to find it."
' " You need not take the trouble, Tony. ' ' said his father ; ' ' your tree is dying. For some days I have known it ; you cannot save it now. ' '
''Don't you think a worm has done it?" asked Tony, looking up anxiously in his father's face.
'" Not the one you are digging after," replied his father.
"What worm then, father? — do tell me," cried Tony.
"Ah my boy," said Mr. Adams, "if you had worked as your brother has done, your tree to-day would have been as green as his. It is dying because it was not attended to. I am afraid, Tony, I must call the worm that has killed it the worm of laziness.
Tony let his spade fall, and a few tears dropped from his eyes as he walked sadly toward the house. After this his tree withered more and more every day. Soon its dead leaves began to turn a reddish- brown color, till at last, to get rid of the unpleasant sight, he cut it down and threw it on the wood-pile.
But Jacob's tree had taken root and was growing finely. When November came and the other trees were dropping their leaves, it kept as green as ever. All through the winter it shone beautiful above the snow. Often Mr. Adams
would look at it from the library window? and sometimes he would say. "See the reward of industry." At Christmas it could spare two or three boughs to hang above the mantel-piece. When spring came it shot out new branches at the eod of the old ones. They were of a lighter green, but looked fresh and healthy. Then a bluebird came and built her nest in its thickest part.
But now I must tell you that Tony re- pented of his fault, and before April was past his father gave him another tree. This he planted and watered industriously. It grew, and in a few years caught up to Jacob's. But he had far the most work before he was done, for he had to work two summers, besides bearing the shame of having failed in the first. To do our whole duty at the right time is the short- est and surest way of gaining our end.
i In a school, "Ale and Beer Measure"' ( was given out as one of the lessons for the £ next day. Next morning the first boy was : called upon, but said, "I don't know ; it." "How's that?" asked the teacher. j "Please, sir," he replied, " neither father - nor I think it's any use, for we neither ( mean to buy, sell or drink the stuff. ' '
( Tommy's mamma had given him a £ beautiful watch. "What time is it?" > asked the proud young mother. "Quar- ; ter past six." "You are mistaken ; it is ; half-past six." "How glad I am!" said | the boy. "Why so?" "I have loved you a quarter of an hour longer."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
165
VIOLETS.
By M. E. Rockwell.
M/\H, mother, mother, I'm so disap-
' f point
And Gertie Reynolds1 voice had raeh i
pitiful quaver in it that yon felt thankful
the bad ;i q mpathising mother to
go to in her trouble, whatever it might be,
■■ What ii it, my darling?" ind, way, half the pain had gone out of the
child's heart Jnat with the tenderness of those few words.
"Why, mother, here it is Wednesday afternoon, you know. And don't you remember I was going to Silver Crock to-day after bine violets, if Cousin Ghraoa would go with me ?"
v. i I ' toe said she oonld go. Well?'1
■■ I Jut ( hraoe oan't ^r<>. because her lather is going to take her to Newark to gel her photograph taken. And I did
not know it till jn-t now, when Bohool
166
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
was out. And there is nobody else near enough — nobody you will let me go there with. And it is such a nice day — oh, the loveliest day ! — and I know that by this time the violets are so large and so thick in the meadow by Silver Creek ! ' '
Out of breath with the recital, the little ten-year-old girl at last paused, making a strong effort to keep back the tears from her eyes.
Mrs. Reynolds did not laugh at her earnestness, as some people would have done. Neither did she tell her how wicked it was to feel disappointed over such a trifle when she would have so much more terrible trials if she lived to grow up, as I have heard some other people do. She knew that children's troubles are great enough for children's strength, and that the knowledge of greater ones will come soon enough, with- out putting the little hearts into dread and mystery about them beforehand. She stooped and kissed her little daugh- ter's flushed face.
"Mother feels disappointed, too," she said. "I had quite set my heart on hav- ing some violets for the vases in Aunt Ellen's room before she came. Go and take off your hat and bathe your face and hands, and I will see if anything can be done."
Gertie ran up stairs, put away her books and made her toilet, and came down to dinner looking quite bright and hopeful.
"Perhaps mother will go with me her- self," she thought, "and that would be ever so much nicer than going with Grace."
As soon as they went into the sitting- room after dinner, she asked her mother if she had thought of anybody to go with her to Silver Creek.
"Yes, I think so," Mrs. Reynolds re- plied. " I would go if I did not expect Aunt Ellen to-night, and had not some preparations to attend to. But you know Nettie Ryan, the washerwoman's little girl, don't you, Gertie?"
"I have seen her once, mother, when she brought an excuse for her mother not coining one Tuesday morning."
" Well, she is a very good child, I be- lieve, and careful and trusty. Her mother leaves' the younger children with her when she goes out to work. She is two years older than you are, and I think I shall feel quite safe to let you go to Silver Creek with her. As her mother is at home to-day, she will probably be very glad to let her go."
Gertie was not quite pleased with this proposal. She looked down and tapped the floor with the toe of her shoe for some time without saying a word.
' ' I suppose Nettie Ryan is good enough, mother," she said at last, "but she is Irish, and her mother is our washer- woman, and I shouldn't think you would want me to associate with her."
" She is a modest, faithful little girl," repeated Mrs. Reynolds, "and has been very carefully taught by a Christian mother. I do not think she will be likely to do you any harm. She is kept at home so closely that it will, no doubt, be a great pleasure to her to go with you. I consider her a perfectly safe associate for
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
167
you. But you can do as you choose about \ inviting her."
Gertie's face was very thoughtful for as much as five minutes. She \v;is naturally a proud little girl, and had heard many foolish things said by the girls at school. She was sure they would toss their heads and laugh with contempt if they knew she went out to walk with an Irish wash- erwoman's daughter. But Gertie had been taught by her judicious mother that such things were very silly and wicked, and after a little her good sense conquered in the battle with her pride.
"I'll go right away and ask her to go," she said ; "it's all nonsense to be afraid of the girls."
Her mother smiled, and Gertie was on her way to Mrs. Ryan's little brown house, with her doll on one arm and her basket on the other.
Mrs. Ryan was pleased and grateful for Mr-. Reynolds1 confidence in her little daughter, and gave consent very gladly.
"■ It's little the dear child ever gets of
•iir and the >un>hine." she said ; •;oid is lor pickinir flowers it will be a has not had since her father died."
An I n the little girifl were on
their way across the pastures toward where the violets grew Silver
( Ireek, nearly a mile away.
mi afraid it was almott entirely a m1- DSh feeling that made (Ii-rtie deride to
Nettie to accompany her. Bui it was not lout' before she enjoyed the beautiful M ' la} afternoon quite a- much for nke as for her own.
The little Irish girl was innocent and pretty, and oh so fond of flowers! It seemed as if she could not express her delight when they came in sight of the patches of sweet-breathed violets on the banks of the creek. And soon it came out that Nettie knew how to make wreaths of them — and making wreaths of wild flowers is a coveted and mysterious gift among little flower-gatherers — strong, full wreaths, smooth on the inside, and with the lovely blue and white blossoms turned out from the head in such charming clus- ters! And sitting there close together beside the clear waters of Silver Creek, where they could see their happy faces reflected as if they were before a mirror, Nettie told the little girl strange and beau- tiful stories about her native country, Ireland, and about sailing for days and days across the great blue waters of the ocean, with nothing in sight but a few birds as far as they could see. Then she told her how Btrange and sad the great
city of New York had seemed when they landed, and how glad they had been when they came to this pleasant country village, where her father could get plenty of work, and they lived so nicely in the little brown cottage.
Her voice grew sad and the team were in her eye- a- she told about the dark
days that came afterward, when her father
Was taken with a dreadful fever, and died after a few days of sickness, not knowing bis wife and children as they stood around. After that her mother had to find work to support bertelf and the three little kind heart was full of
168
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
interest and sympathy as her little com- \ panion told her how hard it had been to ) get food and clothes and firewood during the long, cold winter, and how glad they had been to see the first soft, sunny spring days.
And Gertie was so interested that Nettie went on to tell her all about the ' baby, Teddy, and dear, mischievous little Johnny, and how she managed to keep them good and quiet during the long days when her mother was away. And then a little secret of her own slipped out — how she hoped during the summer to pick berries and do errands whenever she could be spared, and earn money enough to \ buy hats and shoes for herself and Johnny ) before another winter, so that they would not have to stop going to Sunday-school when the snow came.
And Gertie thought of a little purse of her own at home, with almost two dollars in it, and resolved to give half to Nettie if her mother was willing, to help with the hats, and wondered if that nice pair of stout shoes she had outgrown would not fit little Johnny.
Oh, it was a charming afternoon to the two little girls sitting beside Silver Creek. Nettie's pale cheeks were rosier and her blue eyes brighter for weeks afterward whenever she thought of it.
As for Gertie, when she reached home just at sunset, with her basket full of great blue and white violets, and two of the sweetest wreaths to be kept fresh in water over night for Grace and herself to wear next day, she told her mother that Nettie Ryan was one of the nicest girls
she ever saw, and she had never spent a happier afternoon in her life. Her mother said : ' ' Then the violets from Silver Creek are not the only ones my little girl has enjoyed to-day. I hope she has been planting some in her heart."
"Violets in my heart, dear mother?" ' ' Yes, darling ; these flowers you love so well are the emblems of the graces of modesty, gentleness and love in your heart. And every kind and sympathiz- ing act or word plants a root from which will spring sweet blossoms in every season of your life. ' '
TO MY BROTHER.
By Charles Sprague.
WE are but two — the others sleep Through death's untroubled night: We are but two — oh let us keep The links that bind us bright.
Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood
That warms us is the same ; The good old man — his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.
We in one mother's arms were locked —
Long be her love repaid ; In the same cradle we were rocked —
Round the same hearth we played.
Our boyish sports werfe all the same,
Each little joy and woe ; Let manhood keep alive the flame
Lit up so long ago. We are but two — be that the bond
To hold us 'till we die; Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,
'Till side by side we lie.
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
JUNE, 1869
GYP. $ "Gyp! Here! here! here!" There
) was another lifting ef tin* sleek head, en-
Irene L . other low, suppressed whine, and then
the animal was still again, lying does tn
riYPl Gyp! Where it that dog? the floor, with shut eye*, aa if sleeping
1 x' For sereral ninnies Ilany kepi on call-
;.. whe wai lying on the floor, raised ing, but Gyp ga?e no sign that he heard
nil bead and gave a low, longing sort of ' hu voice.
whine, ai if he desired above all thin "Why, Gypl" exclaimed Lucy Owen,
ited '••ill of his . I ! r I coming into the
Owen, but bad no poa 10m where the dog lay about ten minutei
iftcrward. The doom were all open, and
169
Vol. v.— 22
170 • THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Gyp could have gone out when Harry ( black, lustrous ejres on the face of Lucy's called if he had cared to do so. "Your S mother, and then sprang away to the master has been looking for you every- ( door, where he stood looking back and where. Why didn't you go when you / whining piteously. were called for?" \ Mrs. Owen knew that something was
Gyp sprung up, danced about the floor ( wrong, and starting up, went to the door, and showed many signs of pleasure. ) As she did so, Gyp bounded away, look- Lucy had her bonnet on and a small ( ing back as he ran. A sudden fear fell package in her hand. Gyp knew that ; like a deep shadow on her heart as she she was going over to the village, and fol- \ thought of Lucy, lowed her as she left the house. < "Oh, my child!" she exclaimed, and
"You Gyp!" called Harry from across £ ran forward after the dog. Gyp, seeing a field. He had his gun over his shoul- ( this, started down the road leading to the der, and was going into the woods to \ village, and Mrs. Owen ran, half-fran tic- shoot squirrels. { ally, after him. Between her house and
But the dog did not seem to hear him ; ( the village was a deep ravine, through though, if you had seen the peculiar way S which ran a swift stream of water. Over in which he dropped his head and kept < this stream was an old wooden bridge, his eyes on the ground, you would have ) narrow and without a hand-railing. It known that he was simply pretending not < stood at least twenty feet above the water to hear. It was a curious freak, this, of / that whirled and seethed among jagged the dog. He and Harry were almost in- ( rocks. Toward this ravine the dog ran, separable; and whenever his young mas- ( keeping far ahead of Mrs. Owen, but ter brought out his gun, the animal would ) stopping now and then to bark at her in grow half frantic with delight. But now < an impatient way, as if trying to urge her Harry whistled and called in vain. The ) to greater speed, dog did not give the slightest heed. { As soon as he reached the edge of the
" Come along then!" said Lucy, speak- ) ravine, from which the narrow road, or ing to Gyp. "Let you and I have a ) path, went steeply down, he looked back run." And away they started, fleet as ( for a moment and then sprung forward, the wind. 5 barking in a new and more excited way.
Mrs. Owen, Lucy's mother, was sitting ( Mrs. Owen quickened her steps, but the at her work nearly an hour afterward, / dog was soon far ahead of her, still bark- when Gyp came bounding into the room. ( ing wildly and eagerly. She heard him, He jumped upon her, stood with his fore- ) in a few moments, at the bottom of the feet in her lap, and looked into her face ) ravine, and then suddenly his barking with a strange, beseeching, human look, ( eeased. But in a few moments it broke showing, at the same time, great anxiety. ^ out passionately again, and with some- For a moment he stood thus, with his ( thing new in its sound, and she was aware
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
171
that the dog was returning. He was soon in right, and the moment he saw Mrs. I hven he stopped and gave a series of yelping cries that had in them a human sound of entreaty, then whirled about and <li -appeared down the steep path, bark- in l' all the way, but with a new and more exhilarating cry.
At the bottom of the ravine, beneath the bridge, Mrs. Owen found her child clinging to the branch of a tree, her body in the rushing stream. Gyp stood on a rack just above her, barking and leaping about, and in his dog language telling her as best he could that help was near.
Mrs. Owen ran down the bank and reached Lucy just as her strength was ex- hausted, and bore her, fainting, to a place of safety. In ten minutes it would have been too late.
"How did Gyp know, mamma dear?" saked Lucy, looking with serious eyes into her mother's race, as they talked sfterward of tin- dog's strange conduct in
reftuillg to go with Harry.. "How did he know that I would fall over the bridg
" He didn't know." replied Mrs. Owen. 'Helmut have known something. I
understand; but it'* wonderful, and
I keep thinking about it all the time."
Our Father in heaven isYerynearni,
Nothing pei oming
■ ithont his knowledge. He knew
that you would fall over the bridge, and 1m- drOWDed Unless some one eaiiM- !■■
He km s the! no one would
iridge in time; and so, in ■ n
do not understand, 1m- mad.' <;> p d<
it were, to Harry's calls, and pleased to go with you."
"It was so good in him," murmured Lucy, with shut eyes and tears creeping through the fringe of lashes. "And so wonderful!" she added, after a little si- lence. "I never felt before that God was so very near — seeing us, caring for us, and saving us when in danger."
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF ELISHA.
By Mary Latham Clark.
OUR sweet "Little Blossom," whose real name was May, was sitting one bright morning in autumn upon the broad stone step, with a very sad face, and tears were in her blue eyes.
Up and down the graveled path that led to the front gate her cousin Willie was walking, stopping occasionally to look down the street, as if expecting some- thing. So, indeed, he was, for he was going home that morning; and although it wanted full half an hour to the time when the coach would come, he was ready to go, with his carpet-bag packed and locked.
Not that he was tired of his visit with his dear little cousin ; oh no! but he had hern away from his home and his school through the whole of the rammer vaca- tion, and the thought of going baok to them seemed pleasant to him. Besides,
he Was going to rid.' in a OOaeh and in the oars, with n<> OM in particular to take Onre Of hini. and this fact made him fed
172 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
very smart and manly. So, although he ( The dear old lady took her into her lap was at heart very sorry to leave his little ) and rocked her slowly to and fro, until playmate, he did not feel quite as sad as < her tears had dried away, she did. .) At length she said in her kind, cheery
"I did not know until you came," said > voice, "Shall I tell my Little Blossom a she, at length, "how nice it was to have < story to keep her from grieving too much some one to play with. I used to think } at the loss of her dear little cousin?" my dolls and books were company enough, jj " Oh, if you only will !" exclaimed the but now how shall I play store up in the ) little girl. " I should like it better than barn-chamber, or what fun will there be { anything else now; one of your sweet in fishing all alone, or who will swing me ( Bible stories, you know." in our new swing? } "Well, then," said the good grand-
"Why, it seems to me," added she, I mother, "I will tell you a story which I with the tears starting from her eyes, ) read this morning. I thought of you "that there won't be anybody left after ( then, it is so simple and sweet." you are gone!" ) "Oh, do tell it to me, grandma!" said
Willie couldn't bear to see his little ) Little Blossom, with animation, cousin cry, so he came and sat beside her } So grandma began her story thus: and put his arm around her neck. ) "There was once a good man named
"Don't cry, May," said he; "I almost ( Elisha. He used to go through the coun- know your mother will let you come to ) try teaching the people about God, and see me this winter, and we will have ) how to please him.
splendid times together. I shall not for- ) "No doubt he was often tired and hun- get you. When I get home I will send ) gry, but he was always happy, for God you some of my story-books, and I will ( loved him.
print you a real letter, so plain that per- ) "There were a rich man and his wife haps you can read it yourself." $ in a place called Shunem, through which
Little Blossom wiped her eyes and ) Elisha often passed, who were very kind brightened up a little at this, and just '} to this good old man; and they had a lit- then the coach, with its span of white ( tie room built for him in their house, horses, rattled up the street, and all the ) with a bed and a table, and all things family came to the door to bid Willie ( comfortable and convenient in it, so that good-bye. ) he could go into it whenever he came
May stood at the gate and watched the ) there, and feel as though he had a little coach until it disappeared, and then she ^ home of his own.
went where it was her custom to go when ) "Elisha was very much pleased with she wanted consolation — to her dear C this little room, and he took a great deal grandmother, who was never too busy to ) of comfort in it. He felt very thankful pet and comfort her darling. < to these good people for their kindness,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
178
and he tried to think what he could do to make them happy and to show his gratitude to them.
"So one day he asked this good woman what he should do for her, but she did not seem to think of anything she wanted.
"At last Elisha' 8 servant told him that she had no child, and that perhaps a lit- ii or daughter would please her the most of an\-t hinir.
"Elisha thought so too, for people in days felt that it was a great misfor- tune not to have any children ; so he prayed to God that she might have a child; and his prayer was answered, for the next year she really had a baby boy of her own.
" You can think how much they loved this dear little boo, alter having lived so many years without any little child to love.
"( Mm- day, when he was old enough to run ftbont, he went out into tin: field with
his father to see the men reap corn, when
It a dreadful pain in his
bead. Be rick indeed. They
1 him to his mother, and Bh(
him in hi intil noon, when he
■ < Mi. wasn't that i pity !" said Little
•in. " What uid that poor mother
ihall hear what the did," said Imother.
any one what had happened, ihe went np to Eliaha'i rotm
lid her lit' v upon In
and thru the made baste and rods t<> tin;
place where she knew she should find Elisha.
" When he saw her coming, he told his servant to go and meet her, and to say, 'Is it well with thee? Is it well with thy husband? Is it well with the child?' And she answered, 'It is well.' "
"How could she say it was well,' asked Little Blossom, ''when her dear little boy was dead?"
"Ah, my little girl," said the grand- mother, ''she loved God, and she knew that the spirit of her darling boy had gone to him. so that it was well with the child, although her own heart was so sad at losing him."
"What did she want of Elisha?" asked Little Blossom. "He couldn't make her child alive again, could he?"
" No, he could not alone, but she knew that Goo1, through him. had done many wonderful things, and she felt that noth- ing was too hard for the Lord to do.
" So she asked Elisha to go back to her house with her; and when lie had done so he went up to his own little room and saw the dear child lying cold and dead upon his bed.
•• Then he shut the door and prayed to Qod to make the child alive again."
"And did ha?" asked Little Blossom, eagerly, her sweet face all aglow with in- terest
11 Yes," said the grandmother; "Go I heard his prayer, the spirit of the little child came hack; and when Elisha called the mother she took him np, warm and alive again, in her lowing arms."
" ( )h, how happy sin- BMSSt have been ["
174
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
said Little Blossom; "how very, very happy! And how they all must have loved that good man afterward !"
"And how they must have loved the good God," added the grandmother, "who had thus given them back their sweet darling again to be the light and joy of their household !"
LONGING FOR HEAVEN.
A MEMORY OF JUNE.
By Miss N. R. Patton.
THE scent of the early roses Came through the open door, And the jessamine boughs at the window Threw shadows on the floor.
Our little one sat on the carpet, And hummed a childish tune,
Lost in the dreamy stillness Of an afternoon in June.
She sat within the doorway
And lifted her fine blue eyes To the distant, hazy mountains,
And the brilliant summer skies.
And she watched the white clouds floating Like the wings of angel-kind,
Across the wide vault's azure, And sighed to be left behind.
She watched them fleeing onward, She knew not where or whence,
And her little heart's wild longing Grew childishly intense.
And she wished for their forms so airy, That she might not longer wait,
\ But upward fly, and onward
? Till she reached the golden gate ;
/
> For she thought that beyond the mountain,
( Where the white clouds seemed to melt,
) Was the beautiful gate of the city
'y Where the good Our Father dwelt.
\
) And she watched till the baby-wishes
(. Made the pretty blue eyes weep —
< Till, with golden head on the door-sill,
\ The little one fell asleep.
( The shadows grew long and longer
; As the sun sank toward the west,
\ And still she lay in the doorway
) In calm and quiet rest.
) Then we lifted the darling gently,
I That her sleep we might not break,
; But we wept when we saw, as we raised her,
(' That she never more would wake.
I
) The earthly, passionate longing
\ Was still in the bright blue eyes,
/ But the childish, wishful spirit
\ Had sought its native skies.
( The light of the sinking sunbeams
;. Fell warm on her golden hair,
I But the light of a Sun eternal Made her spirit white and fair.
') And ever, as daylight waneth
(' Toward the late of the afternoon,
£ The form that lay in the doorway
( That sunny day in June,
( Seems still to sleep on the carpet,
\ The sun on the golden hair,
( And the childish wish for heaven *-, In the blue eyes bright and fair.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
178
TRUE RICHES.
u T DON'T anderetand this, paps," said
1 Barry Ray, looking up from the page he was reading.
"What ia it?" asked Mr. Kay.
Harry read: "You must put your hand into a person's heart to find out how much he is worth, not into his pocket."
"Oli, that is what we call a figure of speech," said Mr. Kay, smiling, "and it means that if we wish to know a man's true worth, we must find out how good Ik* is. Yesterday I heard a man say of young Mr. Wharton, whose father died last winter and left him very rich, that he was a poor, miserable fellow, meaning that he had neither a wise head nor a good heart. There are two kinds of riches, you know— one made up of gold and silver, and houses and lauds."
•• What it the- other made up of?" 1 1 1 any.
"'There ar<- riches of the mind and
heart," answered Mi-. Ray. 'Don't you remember this verse of a beautiful hymn:
he* divine : who tell- the priee < H Wisdom'i costly merchandi Wisdom to illver we prefer, And gold ii drooi compared to her.'"
''Oh ye-.'' laid Harry, his eyes and
brightening with interest ; "and I
wonder, now, thai I never thought what
it meant "
"The irise and good man," replied the
" lie uho has th<- oostly meroban-
loni iii big heart, ii the truly
rich man, for he has the heavenly treas- ure that neither moth nor rust can cor- rupt. You must look into his heart, not into his pocket, to know how much he is
worth."
THE BUTTER LION.
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
IN the beautiful land of Italy lived a boy whose name was Antonio Canova. His home was with his grandfather, who was a stone-cutter. They were poor, but not in actual want.
The old man was fond of Antonio, and treated him very kindly. His hopes cen- tred in this boy, and he meant to do all that lay in his power to provide for his future. He planned to have him a mas- ter stone-cutter, and with this in view had him taught drawing.
This pleased Antonio, and he soon showed a decided taste and ability. He began modeling birds and flowers in clay, and succeeded so well as to delight his old grandfather. Ah ! in his future lay something beyond a stone-cutter's calling.
One day a nobleman, who was about to give a dinner-party, sent an order for
some table ornament Be did no! specify what it should be, but wanted something new. There was bat little lime, and the
old man tried in vain to think of any- thing. Antonio saw that he looked an\ ioUl and troubled, and said to him,
11 I think I can please him. Let me have lOttM g 1 hard butter, and I will
make a lion."
176
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE BUTTER LION.
"That is a good idea," said grandpa, cheerfully; and he sent at once for the butter.
Antonio went to work with a will. Soon a lion's head looks out from the gold- colored mass, then the mane ripples over the shoulder, the body and limbs are care- fully rounded, and the old man looks on with delight.
When sent to the nobleman's table, the lion attracted a good deal of attention, and the guests, on being told that it was the work of a boy, desired to see him. Antonio was sent for, and they were as much pleased with him as his work. His manners were courteous and pleasant, and though pleased with their praise, he was modest and retiring.
The nobleman, whose name was Fa-
liero, finding he had genuine talent, pro- vided instruction for him, and proved a kind friend.
With this aid, and an earnest, patient, faithful striving to do his best, he became a world-renowned sculptor. Is it not likely that many a time, when working long and patiently, chisel in hand and marble before him, his thoughts went back to the little image in butter that de- lighted his old grandfather, and that, well and faithfully wrought, was his stepping- stone to all his after success ?
Angry words are lightly spoken, Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred ;
Brightest links of life are broken By a single angry word.
THE CHILDllEX'S HOUR.
177
HOPE DARROW.
A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY.
By Virginia F. Tozi?isc?id.
[concluded.]
chapter vi.
rPHK days came and went at Salmon
L Head, after Creighton Bell's visit,
just as they had always come and gone
before, growing colder, and shorter, and
drearier as they leaned down into the
early winter; and through the buzzing of
the winds the snows Came at last, and
danced like swarms of white butterflies
down the air: and the old elm in the
lane shivered under its white crown, with
no pleasant rustle of green leaves, nor
birds' nests, nor Bweet chirrup of robins
among the branches.
All these days, though, I was busy as
ire making honey out of the clover
and daisies of June, and my heart wae u
bobolink's when it poors the
(Treat gladness of its first spring BOf)g out
in*- blossoming tree and all the air
et with the dew and fragrance of
May.
All this time I was wide awake over ft
I had in store for Lewi- ;
but this required so much paint and thought that I never could have carried
the matter out if Mrs, Brainerd had not
put her heart and wit> in it |00.
I had nlatcd to my brother, more than
all that had happened during the
< a Bell wmt
bul there was one thing I
k'-jit back, and that. PfftS th(
had found in my palm when the carriage had rolled out of sight.
Lewis never had a suspicion of this; and although sometimes, when I went down to meet my brother by the bridge, and he would glance at my old thin shawl, and the trouble would come into his eyes, it would seem as though 1 must burst right out with, "Oh, Lewis Darrow. if you only knew something I could tell you, you wouldn't look like that ! "
But I would think to myself, "Now. Hope, you know it isn't time yet. Don't you let it out;" and I shut my lips closely for fear the secret should jump out of them in spite of me.
Of course Mrs. Brainerd had to know all about it; and I want to say right here. that though she was a good deal like a rainy day most of the time — sour, and sharp, and fretted, and made me feel un- happy a great many times, with her erbsa Ways and speeches, as one can, you know, with whom you are living all the time yet I shall never forget how she entered with her whole heart into my plans at. this time, and took every pains to hoi p
them forward.
"The gentleman had done the hand- some thing by her." Mrs. Brainerd al ways declared when she spoke <>f Creigh- Bon Bell's brother-in-law; and I think she felt Bhe owed something to me for the
(air I had taken of the >iek boy, and
that it was owing to this lie had so pleas
ant a Btory t<> tell of his BOjOUm under
John Brainerd's roof
I J.' t'h.it a- it may. 006 morning Mr-
Brainerd, with her husband, started, in
178 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
high spirits, from Salmon Head to the -j because they'd been made to order and next town, in order to buy her the new J. worn twice, though nobody would ever black silk dress on which she had long \ think it. It takes me, Hope!" drawing set her heart, and the boy's sprained an- ) a long breath and fanning herself with kle had brought a windfall to her as well ( her handkerchief, as to myself. ) When it appeared that, notwithstand-
Mrs. Brainerd carried, also, snugly ( ing all these bargains, Mrs. Brainerd had stowed away in one corner of her bag, ( actually saved enough out of the twenty the two gold pieces which the boy had ) dollars to get a dressmaker, with "city left in my hand. The stage-driver's wife ( patterns," for a whole day, I thought she was in her element when she was before ) had fairly outshone herself. "It'swon- a counter, driving a shrewd bargain with s derful how far twenty dollars will go," I some storekeeper. I have often heard > said at last, looking at my pile of new the woman affirm that ''only give her a $ goods.
little money, and nobody could beat her } "Only in the right sort of hands, shopping;" and I really think she only > child — remember that," put in Mrs. did herself justice. ( Brainerd. But I wonder if there was a
When Mrs. Brainerd returned late that ( richer or a happier little girl in all the day — and it seemed about the longest of '{ country than I was that night, when I my life — she took me into her bed-room (' carried my arm full of packages up stairs, and displayed her parcels, her worn face S and thought of Lewis, and wished Creigh- actually glowing with pleasure. ( ton Bell could know.
"I've made that twenty dollars hold > After that happy days followed. The out well, Hope; see here!" and my eyes ( dressmaker came and fitted, and basted, did see, until they were fairly dazzled with ( and trimmed, until what remained to be wonder and delight. $ done, with a little advice once in a while
First, there was a merino, of a bright ( from Mrs. Brainerd, was all "plain sail- crimson shade, for a sacque and dress, S ing" for me, and I think I set every and some black velvet ribbon for trim- ( stitch in that crimson merino sacque and ming, and a brown plush hat with a bit ( dress with some pleasant thought of the of green pheasant's wing for a plume, < friend who had given, or the brother for and a pair of handsome balmoral boots, < whom, more than for myself, I was mak- and lined kid gloves, soft and warm as ) ing them.
down ; and gloves and shoes fitted, to ( At last, the day before Christmas, the quote Mrs. Brainerd, as though they had / things were all done, and I dressed my- grown there. ( self for Lewis' benefit, knowing that he
" I never could have got that merino ( would be home early from the saw-mill at that price if it hadn't been a remnant, £ that night, and I made him come down on the boots, ' It is very strange, but as true as I am
THE CHILDREN'S HQUB.
179
alive this moment, I can see the little girl just us I saw her then, in the old glass with the faded gilt frame, which always hung above the table in the little back rodm at the stage-driver's.
Mrs. Brainerd had buttoned the sacque and smoothed the folds, and tied the little brown hat with her OWB hands. "You wouldn't know yourself, child. I declare, Hope, I wouldn't have believed it! Look there. John! ' turning me round and round, her face full of pleased wonder.
"Yes; I see," pulling himself up in his chair and squinting at me, first with one eye and then with the other.
I went to the glass and looked in, as I told you. "Was that actually Hope Durov?" I asked myself, gazing at the figure in the bright, warm colors, with the dainty little hat a-top of her head — all so new and fresh and handsome, and everything, from the bit of shining pheas- ant's wing to tin; toes of my new boots, good enough for a queen.
To think what that twenty dollars had done I and to think, too, what Lewis
WOtll'i
I w<nt to the window and linked out,
It was beginning to grow dark already, and th<- sky overhead was dismal, and the wind growled low around the bouse, and
little while a elllvtcr of fine BOOW- lakes, like :m army <>f white ants would
•pinning through the air. Sud- denly I felt a heavy hand with a not)
touch on my dr< --. 1 -tarted and looked around.
r mind, child.'' mid Johfl IJrain-
aeu feeling al work in his
lug. stolid face; "only as you stood there you brought back the sight of my little girl; she used to wear a bright red frock too, and stand at the window looking for me," his voice choking and the big hands fumbling at my dress. "But it came to a white shroud at last, and my little girl will never stand by the window in her red frock and the smile in her eyes, looking for me again."
Mrs. Brainerd had gone out a moment before. If she had been standing by, the stage-driver could never have got those words out, I am sure ; but they seemed to go right down into my heart, and I just put up my lips and kissed the man's cheek, and never minded the red, ooarse beard; and I think it seemed to him, for the moment, like a kiss from the lips of his own dead little girl. He did not say a word, but turned and went out of the room, stumbling a little worse than ever.
In a few moments I heard the click of the gate-latch, and my heart was in my mouth ifl I -aw Lewis emne Qp the walk, but I kept my place by the window, where it was light.
The door Opened and shut. Then Lewis caught right of me. "Who in that'/" he asked, standing still and star- ing as though I were a little red fairy
dropped right out <>f the clouds.
11 It's your own rister, Hope Harrow, sir. and nobody else," trying to apeak M
pretty as 1 SOUkL " Don't you know
"What ondef the sun does it all mean?" still staring at me in a dazed
way,
180
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Then I came forward and danced and curtsied before him. "It means, Lewis Darrow, that this crimson merino dress, and the sacque to match, and the brown hat, and the green pheasant's wing, and the new balmoral boots, are all mine; and what's more, they're paid for with my own money. What do you think of that now?"
"Knock me down with a feather!"
It was real fun to watch his face, and so I kept him in a kind of blank stare and amazement for a minute or two longer, and then, in a few broken sentences, I told him the whole story — how I came by the money, and what a time I had had since Creighton Bell went away, keeping my secret and making my plans to break on him all at once with this surprise, some night.
"And just think, Lewis, this sacque is all lined and padded, and these boots are so thick the snow can never strike through them ! I can go down to the bridge, now, to meet you every night, with something better than my old shawl to keep out the cold."
Lewis did not say very much, but he turned me round and round, and looked me all over, and declared he should never have known me, I had grown such a fine lady; and then, all of a sudden, he pushed me away from him, dropped down in a chair — I could hardly believe the sight of my eyes, he was always so brave and strong, but Lewis Darrow ac- tually burst out a-crying.
"What does it mean? What is the matter?-' I cried, just aghast that all my
pretty plans had turned out like this, after all. Lewis was too proud to let a girl, though she was his sister, see him cry long. He actually shook all over with the effort to control himself.
"Dont mind me, Hope; I couldn't help making a fool of myself at first. That thin shawl and those old shoes have cut me to the heart so many times when I've seen you trotting to meet me, with your little blue, pinched face; and to- night, coming home, I was thinking about all this, and — well, it was hard on a fel- low, Hope, when his heart and his hands are willing to work, and yet, for all that, he must see his little sister go cold."
I broke right in here: "But I'm not going cold, Lewis. I shall be as warm as a kitten by the fire in my new sacque and dress. Just feel and see how thick and soft they are! Now, wasn't Creighton Bell kind?"
"Kind! I'll bless that boy to the last breath of my life ! " It was a pity Creigh- ton Bell couldn't hear the fervor with which this was said.
"I know he thought the money would go to buy a wax doll, or a pretty tea-set, or some other fine toys. He'd no idea what his present would do for me," I said.
"It's a pity he can't see how handsome it's made you look," replied Lewis. "I didn't suppose fine clothes could do so much for you. Hope."
Just then Mrs. Brainerd came in, eager to hear how Lewis had taken the surprise ; and then she had a long story to tell about the way she had managed to get each
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
181
article under price ; and Lewis listened and looked looks that were finer praise than ;my words.
After that, whenever the snows had not blocked up the roads, I went down at night to meet my brother in my warm dress and brown hat; and he used to tell me I looked to him, when he first caught right of me in the distance, standing against the cold white and gray of the landaeape, like a red bird, or a great crimson blossom, or anything else that was bright, and warm, and pretty; but that was only the talk of Lewis, you know.
We had other talk about Creighton Bell during those long winter evenings, when the storms shouted around the gray atone house of the stage-driver. 1 think Lewis most have learned, like a lesson, all the talk which had passed between the aid me during those days when 1 bton Hell was laid up with his
sprained ankle in Mrs. Brainerd's parlor; but L I'd tired of listening,
and I ofteneat concluded with, "I know 1 rhton Bell will keep his promise. ( foe of tl. we .-hall see him here
41 But it may be .a long time first It ■-? to make up your mind to that,
Hope," Lewii added once.
long? I ''i you mean months
and months, Lewis?"
"I was thinking of years wlnii I
spoke
■ V' an ' ' : I. •■■ tbej re dreadfully
Ion- thingBl Why, it u many
of them to make men of yon and Oreigh-
ton Bell, and a woman of in-.
"Years won't seem as long to you when you are as old as I am, Hope," said Lewis, whose life had already shed oft' seventeen of these dreadfully long years.
The winter went by, and again there was singing of birds and budding of trees around the old stone house of the stage- driver; and during all this time there had come no sign from Creighton Bell, and all our lives went on just as they had gone before the boy had brought that fresh breeze from the great outside world into our home ; and looking back on it all. I used to fancy the memory of the boy's stay amongst us was like a little picture of color, and warmth, and light, shining out brighter for the gray and gloom about it. But there came a change at last. One afternoon, when the old elm was all astir with young leaves, and there was a twittering of robins in every branch, 1 went down to meet Lewis, hiding myself behind the great gnarled trunk.
How happy my heart was as I waited there! It seemed as though the sap of the spring, the joy of the thrushes, had entered into me also, and when at last Lewis came along, I sprang out with a shout and caught his hand.
Bul as soon as I glanced up into his fact; I cried out, "Oh, what is the mat
fcer?n
''Will you DO a brave little girl DOW, Hope? If you should break down I OOUld
not bear it."
I olung to him : u Whatever it is T will
b<- brave: I will help YOU bear if, LeWlS." In a few WOrdS tin- win.],' rani,- out The Owner of tie- MM mill had had an
182 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
offer for his land, and had closed up the ( dews and sunshine without a single bargain that afternoon, and was going out ; thought, for God took care of them, and West at once with his family. The old I yet that he could forget all about us — building would be torn down by the new ( Lewis and me.
owners, and so Lewis had lost his place, £ I was frightened at the dreadful and that meant the loss of bread to eat ( thoughts which came to me sometimes, and of a roof to shelter us. > as though they buzzed in the very air ;
I took it all in with a few gasping ( and oh, dear me ! I don't like to remem- breaths, each one of which it seemed ) ber the nights when I couldn't sleep for would make an old woman of me; but for s the trouble, and lay wide awake and cried all that, I remembered my promise to ( all alone in the darkness and stillness. Lewis and kept faith with it. £ But, for all that, I always met Lewis
"What are you going to do, Lewis?" < with a brave face and a bright smile when as soon as I could speak. / he came home at night, although I al-
"God above only knows, Hope, what < ways read the story in his face before I is to become of us." His face worked. ? spoke one word — the dreadful story that In my whole life I had never seen him so > he had found no work, thoroughly broken down. c At last the worst came. I had fore-
"He will take care of us, Lewis. Oh, ) seen it all along; but that did not make I feel sure that He will find some way out (
of the trouble."
I really think I was braver at this time
it any easier at the last. Lewis must go away from Salmon Head, and find work in some larger place.
than my brother, and that it was my <; I could bear anything but that, I courage that kept heart and hope in him. £ thought — to be separated from my bro-
The blow was the heaviest he had ever < ther ; and when he first spoke of it, look- staggered under, and for a while it seemed / ing in my face all the time to see how I almost to crush heart and hope out of S would take it, I just wrung my hands in him. ( a swift spasm of pain, and shrieked out,
Whenever I dared, too, to look the £ "Oh, Lewis, let us starve first ! " matter fairly in the face, it seemed as bad <J He looked at me with some dreadful as bad could be. > anguish in his eyes. "I'd rather doit
We were actually, Lewis and I, home- s for myself than leave you, Hope, only less and friendless in the great world ! <j dependence is worse than death."
Those were dreary, dreary days that \ When he said that I tried to get up followed. It makes my heart sink with ( some heart again, and I told my brother the old ache now, to remember them. £ at last, if he did not go so very far away,
I used to wonder, sometimes, that the ( and I could be certain of seeing him once birds could sing so gayly among the green • in a while, I would take courage and try leaves, and the blossoms laugh in the ( to bear it, and perhaps after a while he
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 183
would find something that I could do, so \ hand he reached out to help us in our ut-
1 could come and live near him once \ most need.
j
more. ) Mrs. Brainerd, too, never alluded to
So it was settled at last that Lewis ( the matter, but her husband must have ►hould go off to the city in search of em- } talked it all over with her beforehand; pioyment — the great, distant city that, S and it seemed to me that her voice and whenever I thought of it, seemed to me ) manner had both grown softer since the like some vast, noisy, greedy monster, J- trouble came upon us. ready to open its jaws and crunch every- \ Of course there was no time to be lost, body who entered into them. } now that Lewis had once made up his
''I've a strong heart and two hands ( mind to go. One or two of the neigh- ready to put into anything which offers," ) bors gave him letters to friends of theirs -aid Lewis; ubut there's no use staying \ in the city, and I mended his stockings around Salmon Head. I might turn in ( and got things in readiness for him to among the farm-hands, though I'm not ') start, although it seemed as though my used to that sort of work, and get enough I heart would break, thinking of the long, to barely carry me through the summer; ( lonely times that were to come, but then there's the winter, and there's J It was the day before Lewis was to you, Hope." ( leave, and he and I took our last walk to-
One of the darkest days John Brainerd J gether down to the old bridge, where I Mumbled in upon our talk, his great pipe ( had gone all winter to meet him in my rf coar.-e tobacco in his mouth, the fumes ) warm crimson dress.
of which always turned me sick when- I It was a beautiful afternoon now, just
ever they came in my way. The man j on the edge of June, and it seemed to
took two or three extra whiffs now before j me the world never looked so beautiful,
ike : ami yet never seemed so sad as it did on
re in a tight place just now, £ that la-t walk of ours. We did not say
is, and we won't say anything about ( much to each other, and like a mournful
the girl's board till you're out on't. She tune, the words kept ringing and ringing
■ an stay ju-f the same and never mind, j throu-h my head: "There will be no
It'll seem, anyhow, p ptty much like doin' Lewis to walk with you to-morrow
it for a little gal o' mine I had 0D66, and night!"
that I shouldn't liked to a 16611 tuned We came up the him' at last, ami tire
out into the world." \ Itage ito d before the gate, jn>t if it had
Then the man bolted right off. It was stood that dr. ary autumn niidit when W6 his fashion, yon know. Lewi- and 1 did had seen the red fire lkdit shine out of not, speak a word for a long time after- the front windows in Mr-. Hrainerd's par
i. but we shall nerer forget thai lor. A> we drew near the house, the
Speech of the old Stage-driver's, nor the woman came suddenly out of the .side-
184
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
door and ran down to meet us. She had on her black silk dress and seemed in a flurry of excitement.
''They've come, and they've been wait- ing all this time for you!" she broke out.
"Who has come?" we both asked.
"Why Creighton Bell and his sister, and her husband; and we haven't done anything but talk about you; and I couldn't leave until you got back, and not the first step made toward supper for all them fine folks."
1 ' Creighton Bell ! Oh, I said he would come — I said he would come, you know, Lewis!" I shouted, and it seemed as though in a moment a great, stifling ache and darkness rolled straight off from my heart.
WATERING HIS GARDEN WITH RAIN.
By Irene L-
IT was a great disappointment to Edgar. He was all dressed and ready for a walk with his mother in the fields and woods, when it suddenly grew dark and large rain-drops came pattering against the window.
^Oh dear!" he cried, as he looked up at the cloudsi — "Oh dear! it's always the way when I'm going out. I wish it would never raim"
"What did my little boy say?" asked Edgar's mother, who heard these fretful sentences. ' ' Never rain ?' '
"There's no good in it," Edgar re- plied, his face as gloomy as the sky. "No good at all, but to wet the ground and
make it so muddy a little boy can't go out,"
"Do you know what makes the grass grow?"
Edgar did not answer.
t:It is the rain," said his mother. "If it were never to rain any more, the grass, and flowers, and trees would all die. We should have no grain or fruit for food. The earth would become a barren waste, and birds, and beasts, and men would all perish."
Edgar got down from the chair and came to where his mother was sitting.
"Does the rain make things grow, mamma?'' he asked, the look of fretful- ness going out of his face; and his mother answered :
"The rain and the sunshine together."
"Oh! I didn't know that," said Ed- gar.
"You've seen me water the flowers. They were dry, just as little boys get dry, and I gave them water to drink. If I had not done so, they would have with- ered and died. Now, the earth is a great fruit and flower garden, given to us by the Lord ; and he waters it with rain. ]f he were not to do so, every green thing would perish, and we would have neither food to eat nor water to drink. Isn't ho good?"
Edgar had climbed to his mother's lap, and was looking earnestly into her face.
"And is he watering his garden now, mamma?" he asked.
"Yes, darling."
Edgar was silent for some moments.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
185
»i.. v.— 24
186 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
In the pause the patter of large drops ( JOSIE'S BLOCKS.
could be heard on the window panes. A )
gentle, serious, but sweet expression was s By M. O. J.
resting on his countenance. (
"I hope he's not angry with me," } TOSIE'S father had come home from said the child, a little tremor in his ( 0 New York, and brought him a box voice. > of blocks. They were very handsome,
"No, darling; God is never angry < with pictures of animals on one side, with us, but only sorry when we do ) The little boy was highly pleased, as he wrong." ) said he could build and "play menagerie"
"It was wrong for me to wish it would ( too. For a long time they were his fa- neverrain." > vorite playthings; but he shared his
"You didn't mean to do wrong." ( pleasure with his sister and playmates,
"No, ma'am. I only felt so bad; and ) and even lent his blocks for a whole week I didn't know that it was the good Lord ( to a little friend who was sick, watering his garden with rain." < But one day he was selfish with them,
"And here comes his sunshine after > and disobedient too. He was playing up the rain!" exclaimed Edgar's mother, as ( stairs when he heard his mother calling beams of light came bursting into the ) him. He was just in the midst of build- room. "He has watered the earth as a f^ ing a very grand castle, and though he garden, and now sends upon it his twin ) knew he ought to reply at once, waited to blessing of sunshine. Come to the win- ) put on a few more blocks. She called dow and let us see how beautiful it is ) again and again, but he did not answer, making everything." ) though he kept saying to himself, to quiet
The clouds had broken and were pass- { his conscience, "I will in a minute." ing away. The rain had ceased as sud- ) But when the minute and another min- denly as it began. On every leaf and $ ute had passed, he did not hear the call, flower and blade of grass hung crystal ) He played on, but his blocks seemed to drops, brighter in the sunbeams than dia- ) have lost their interest. His houses monds; and far away in the heavens a ? "didn't look pretty," his bridges beautiful jainbow had thrown its arch of ) "wouldn't stand." Pretty soon he gave colors on the clouds. ( up and tried other toys, but his pleasure
"God knows best, my darling, when to ) for that day was lost, and at tea-time he send the rain and when the sunshine," { went down feeling ashamed to meet his said the mother. ^ father and mother.
Peace had come into the child's heart, ) "Where have you been, Josie?" his and he only answered : (mother asked. "I called you several
"I am glad now that the good Lord ) times, but you were not in doors. " has sent the rain. " < Josie was tempted, but he would not
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
187
tell a falsehood. He owned his fault at
"Oh, Josie!" she said, in a sad, sur- prised tone. "I did not think that of you. Uncle James was here with Lily and Ar- thur, and wanted you to go to Cochituate with them."
I' >r Jo>ie! this was about as much as uld bear. He had not seen his cousins for several weeks, and a ride to Cochituate was a rare pleasure. It was such a pleasant road, and the blue lake itself was very beautiful, gleaming in spring sunshine, with its surroundings of hill- and woods, and its little gate-house in one corner. Josie liked to go into the gate-house and look at the great wheel; he liked to go down to the water's edge and watch the fishes gliding about in its rloar depths. The road crossed the mid- ' the lake like' a band of ribbon, and Standing on the bridge, it would be hard
. which side gave tin- prettier view.
Josie had lost it all wholly through his
own fault, a- he well knew, and lie was afterward more obedient — more careful not only to do right things, but to do
them in the- right time.
THE BIRDS.
OUR SAMMY.
By Benin h.
Tin birds came t<> my window AimI perched upon my nil,
And oh, thry looked 10 hungry ! —
'iv chill ! I Lifted up the window, And gai '• tli. in out -'-in'- crumbs : i ill thank me with their musk "ii si summer c
EYES a nut-brown hue, How we all love you, Little Sammy ! Ah ! that childish face, By its own sweet grace, Winneth it a place Time cannot efface
In the hearts of many.
" Would you have me stay With you all the day,
Until after dinner?" Glad, she answered, " Yes," With a mute caress; For his loveliness,
Surely it could win her.
With a happy smile, Stayed lie yet a while —
With no fears — • Full of winsome ways, Even in his plays
WlSS bejond his year-.
Quick his heart doth heat Time to dancing feet : < lentle Shepherd, lead, In each hour of need, Through a flowery mead, ( )ur iweel lamb, we plead I Darling Sammy !
— -^^v *•«'-—
Tin: fair. -t been that WSJ know
\ re nut the brows of beauty.
Ami tin- bleSSeds I way- in which \vr go
A iv the homely paths of duly.
188
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
YOU CAN'T CATCH THE FISHES.
TAKE care, little girl! You can't catch the dear, tiny fishes; they won't let you; and if you should bend over a little too far, you will fall into the water, and then who would get you out? Oh dear! you would be drowned, I'm afraid, for I don't see your mamma or anybody else.
I know the fishes are beautiful, with their shining sides turned to the sun, and looking like silver and gold; but they won't let you catch them, little one. The moment your hand touches the water down they will go, and you, reaching too far, may tumble in ; so, come away from the water. Hark! Isn't your mamma calling? Yes, I'm sure she is; and I hope she is near, and will come right away ere you fall in, for then you might be drowned before she could get you out.
MILK AT SECOND-HAND.
WE find this amusing anecdote in a recent number of Hours at Home:
Willy and Freddy both were very fond of milk, and a mug of it always com- pleted their supper. But while in the country last summer it so happened that they one day saw the girl milking.
"There, Willy," said Freddy, "you see that, do you? I don't want any more milk after the cow's had it;" and he withdrew, very much disgusted,
That evening, when their mugs of milk were placed on the table, both stood un- touched. A reason of this being asked, Freddy simply declared that he didn't want any milk after the cow had had it, but further refused to explain. Willy, however, told of the discovery of the morning.
Their mother then explained to them that the milk did not come to them second-
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
189
hand; that the cow ate grass, which was changed into milk by a wonderful chemi- cal process, akin to that which produced thing in nature. In the light of this explanation Willy was satisfied, but Freddy still turned np his nose at milk.
After supper, Willy, who, on these im- portant occasions, always acted as ex- pounder, took his brother aside into a corner.
''It's all right, Freddy," he said, "and you can just go on drinking your milk again. The cow eats grass, and that's what makes it. Now. if the cow didn't eat the grass, you'd have to, you see. That's what the cow's fur."
Freddy resumed his evening draughts. To his mind the only alternative was eat- ing grass, and from that he shrank.
TWO FACES,
\ so sweet as when alone with mamma. ' Which little girl do you like best — the ; one with two faces, or the other who has < but one? And which will you be like?"
fjfc«>t«~--
ABOUT A LITTLE GIRL WHO WISHED HERSELF A BIRD OR A BUTTERFLY.
By Kate Sutherland.
AWRFFEB in The Nubsery tells its little readers of a girl who has two
one of them iweet and smiling
when risitors call, and the other sour and discontented when alone with her mother. No one would think her to be the same little girl who behaved bo prettily in com- pany.
you tee, this little girl has two
One she uses in company, and
m with her l«--t dresi : the other
she wears when .-he i- alone with bet
mocni
• I know another little giri," layi this writer, uwho has only one face, and thai is alw.i ,i peach, and never
"TF I were a bird or a butterfly !" said
JL Nellie Gray, as she turned over the pages of a picture-book.
'"What then?" asked a voice near her.
"Oh! It's you, aunty!" Nelly started with a look of surprise, as she spoke. "I didn't know you were in the room."
"I only came in this moment But what about the bird and butterfly, dear? I should think, from your tone of voice, that you envied them."
"So I do sometimes — they are so free and happy. It's all holiday with them; no hard tasks nor tiresome work."
-Why. Nelly dear!"
"Well, aunty, I've thought it many
and many a time, and now I've said it. I B'pOSe it's Wicked, hut 1 can't help it if it is."
"No, not wicked, hat foolish," said Aunt ( larrie.
"Whal ii wicked, aunty? I'd just like to know."
•• It i- wicked t<> break Gtod'i com- mandments to blaspheme, t<> steal, to kill. t-> bear false witness, to covet, or do any e\ ii thing to your neighbor."
190
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Oh! Then it isn't wicked to wish myself a bird or a butterfly. ' '
"Only foolish, not wicked."
"I'm glad it isn't wicked, aunty," said Nelly, drawing a long breath of relief, "for I want to be a good little girl ; but Becky Jones is always saying to me, 'Oh, don't do this! it's wicked,' and, 'Oh, don't say that! it's wicked,' until I'm so worried and kind of tangled up that I don't sometimes care what I do or say. 'If that's wicked,' I said to her yester- day, as we came home from Sunday- school, 'then I'm wicked, and I don't care if I am.' "
"What was it that she called wicked?" asked Aunt Carrie.
"I pulled off my shoes and stockings, and sat down and put my feet in the beautiful water. Oh, it was so cool and clear! And then she cried out, ' Oh, you naughty girl ! that's wicked ! ' And when I climbed over the fence to chase a but- terfly and get some laurel blossoms, she said, 'You wicked little thing!' but she took a bunch of the flowers when I gave them to her; and I couldn't help think- ing that if it was wicked in me to pull them, it must be wicked in her to take them. How is that, aunty?"
"Well, I should say," replied Aunt Carrie, "that if there was anything wicked about your getting the flowers, Becky shared your wickedness in taking them."
"Just my own thought. But what about it, aunty? Is it wicked to put your feet in the water or to pull a flower on Sunday?"
"It is wicked to think evil or to do evil," said Aunt Carrie.
"Oh yes, I know that. I mustn't steal, or kill, or bear false witness; and it's just as bad to do any of these things on week- days as on Sundays. But there's a com- mandment about Sunday, you know, aunty. We must remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy. And it's just here that I'm puzzled."
"What is the puzzle?"
"I don't know what keeping it holy means. Is it holy to look solemn and scold little children if they happen to laugh, or look at a picture-book, or jump and run about?"
"Who does that, Carrie?"
"Becky Jones' mother. Oh dear! I. wouldn't live in her house for all the gold in the world. Is that the way to keep the Sabbath holy?"
"It isn't my way," said Aunt Carrie, smiling.
"No indeed," answered the little girl, " I guess it isn't your way ! And you're as good as Mrs. Jones, and a great deal better. But, aunty dear, what does it mean? How are we to keep the Sabbath holy?"
"We keep it holy when we put away evil thoughts and selfish feelings, and do good to others as we have opportunity."
"But shouldn't we do that every day, aunty?"
" Yes, dear; but on Sunday we are free from the cares and duties of worldly life, and have time to give our thoughts more directly to higher and purer things. On that day we pause in the work, the care,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 191
the hurry and bustle of life, and have ) on sad faces and make Sunday, or any rest for both mind and body. We make \ other day, glooinjr. Sunday is one of his the day Bacn d to other things than toil ( good gifts to men, and he wishes us to and study, buying and selling and getting > use it in all ways, innocently, that will gain. We have time to care for our souls < lead us to forget the world and its com- that are to live forever; and we make the ) mon cares, and make us think of him as day holy when we think about God and s our loving Father and Friend." his divine teachings, and sincerely desire ) "And there isn't anything wicked in to do his will. In doing good to our > wishing myself a bird or a butterfly." i:bors on that day we keep it holy; I said Nelly, "for that isn't breaking a and we keep it holy when we put away ) commandment or doing harm to any one; mere worldly cares and anxieties, trusting C It is only foolish, you said." in G"d that he will make all things work } "I said it was foolish," replied Aunt her for our good, if we keep his S Carrie, "but I'll use another word — law. ^thoughtless. We say a good many thin gs,
'We need not be solemn, nor wear for- ) without thinking, that we do not really bidding faces," continued Aunt Carrie, I mean. And yet these foolish or thought- "in order to keep the Sabbath day holy. ) less things, as we call them, are not al- Wc may gather tin- flowers, whose beauty j ways men- idle words." and perfume tell as of Him who made ) " Were mine idle words, aunty?" asked them, if we will; and put our white feet \ Nelly, in the crystal water, pure and refreshing c "Why did you say them?" a- truth. We may walk abroad and see > "Oh, because I was so tired with my In hi- beautiful works; we maybe J hard lessons; and when I looked at this
rfbl, and laugh if we are glad at j little picture and thought of the fields
Hut we may DOl -in." ] and flowers, and bright water, I wished
"Oh, I'm glad it isn't wicked to pull ! myself a bird or a butterfly, that I might
rs and chase butterflies on Sunday !" , be among them.'1
V lly, taking a deep breath, like one j "That is, yon were longing for rest and
who weight Buddenly re- ohange. The task was so hard that you
moved. "If Sunday is tie- Lord'- day, bad grown weary. No, 1 will not call
•o me it ought to be the happi* them idle words, my dear; but only your
lay of all the week; but bin sure if way of saying what we all sometimes say
I liv<d with Mrs. Jones, Id be wrry when overburdened with work or care,
when it came, and glad when it was \\v want rest and ohange, and often long
over." for it as muoh as yon longed jus! now for
i l. : answered Aunt the garden and fields.1' 1 • 1 with ai fur ■ and it Isn't wicked to have mob feel-
: ippy. lb doesn't want Bfl to put fags, aunty?''
192
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"No, dear. He who made us knew that we would have them."
"Did he?"
"Oh yes; and in his love for us, he set apart one day in every seven, in which we could have rest for the body and re- freshment for the mind. He gave to men the blessed Sabbath, that it might be the sweetest, happiest and best day in all the week. Your wish to be a bird or a butterfly came of your longing for change and rest, for that higher and purer life of which the Sabbath is not only a symbol, but the means whereby it is gained."
"Thank you, aunty dear," said Nelly. "I feel so much better now. I don't un- derstand it all, but maybe I will when I'm older; but I'm glad it is not wicked to wish myself a bird sometimes, when I'm tired of sitting in my room studying
hard lessons; or wicked to pull flowers and run about in the fields and garden on Sunday, if I feel like it. Oh, I shall en- joy the Sundays so much more now, and thank God for them!"
A little boy, seeing a man sauntering about a public-house door, counting some money held in his hand, and evidently about to go into the public-house, stepped up to him and said, "Don't go in there." The man put his hand, with the money, in his pocket, thanked the little boy for his advice and did not go in.
" How do you keep out of quarrels?" asked one friend of another. "Oh, easily enough," was replied. " If a man gets angry with me, I let him have all the quarrel to himself. ' '
-
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
T. S. ARTHUR & SONS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
Westcott& Thomson, Deacon & Peterson
Stereotypers, Printers,
PHILADELPHIA. PHILADELPHIA.
imittt1$+
i PAfJE
Another portrait 40
dote of a king to
A TRAP FOR A HUMMING-BIRD IK,
01 MERCY. By Alice Cart 131
DOTES OF ANIMALS. Br E.B.I) 141
A LETTSB TO THE READERS OF THE < II I I.DUEVS HOUR LM
DOTE OF A DOG 156
A GOOD RULE 189
l)AUi:AUA DUE. Bt Alice Cart
i:V AND BY 103
I ' 89
■ d iidd ooi sat 71
< DAMN'- A ID TTERELY 101
I- - f UDY BTOBY. Dv M.n. ,1 lsj
I LKI and BAB umosr Bouunu 88
FATHER'S BOOn 160
I i; ani. rOBGET 184
(> ■ -.dm-itiiu: - STORY 01 DANIEL IN THE LION .3 DEN. Br MAfti Uxmam Ousi N
M > GIT GOOD FEELINGS Bi I 88
l\ I CABLEATJ1 Bi Mm, UtiamOuu n
I-
IBJ>. Br El '».i
in THE HIGHLANDS Bi M n:
i- 1 ii i-i I i Hi OB I nn.D :i.n - i m .. .i
L iti.i: ii | ii m
111
iv CONTENTS.
MPAGE ORE ABOUT "EASTER EGGS." By Mart Latham Clark 25
MABEL'S STORY. By May Leonard 52
MY SISTER 57
MARY JANE JONES. By Rosella Rice 57
MY DOLLIES. By Katy 72
MAKE YOUR OWN SUNSHINE 100
MOUSIE AND HER BABIES. By Rosella Rice 105
MAGGIE LEE. By Mrs. Mary E. McKinne 133
MARIA AND HER COUSIN. By Aunt Lizzie 169
" MAYN'T I BEA BOY?" 189
NeTTIE'S PEARLS. By Minnie Moss 183
UUR TEMPLE. By C. L , 98
OUR "BABY GREY." By G. H. M 115
OUR PET BEAR. By Hallie C 187
SWALLOWING FIFTEEN COWS. By Uncle Herbert 62
SOMETHING ABOUT EYES. By Pearl Peveril , 68
SOWING LITTLE SEEDS 71
SIX LITTLE PINS. By Louise V. Boyd 93
SAINT BARBARA 125
SNAKE-CHARMERS 135
SILVERFOOT. By Ada M. Kennicott 161
"SHALL I EAT IT ALL MYSELF?", 184
TeRRACE RIDGE. A SEQUEL TO " HOPE DARROW." By Virginia F. Townsend 11, 42, 81, 106, 145 172
THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS 16
THE TWO FACES 23
THE SUNNY SIDE 23
THE NEW SCHOLAR 25
THE SLEEP OF DEATH. By Irene L 32
THE BUTTERFLY 33
THE PET MOUSE. By Annie Moore 37
THE WILL FOR THE DEED. By M. 0. J 41
THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WANTED TO BE A HEROINE. By 49
THE KING'S MISTAKE. By Mrs. M. 0. Johnson 55
TOM-TIT. By L. J. Hagner 55
THE CHILDREN'S COLT. By Rosella Rice 73
THE SONG OF THE BEE 79
THE QUICK TEMPER. By Uncle Herbert 80
THE LITTLE ITALIAN BOY 88
THE GREEN HERON. By Mrs. E. B. Duffey 96
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE CHANGED SPRING. By Mrs. M. 0. Jonxsox lol
THE VOICE FROM THE WATER. By Ray Ridgway 113
THE LITTLE SEEDS 115
THE FRIGATE-BIRD. By Mrs. E. B. Duffey 120
THE WIND AND THE FROST. By Anme Moore 130
THE ROSE AND THE EARWIG 132
TOO HOT 137
THE LITTLE WAITING-MAID. Dy Mrs. M. 0. Johnson 13S
THE CUCKOO. By Annie Moori: 141
THE USEFUL BISTERS. By C. R. W 142
THE RACCOON 152
THE LITTLE DROP THAT FELL FROM THE BLACK CLOUD 157
THE KINO-FISHERS. Bt Mrs. E. B. Duffey .' 158
THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW 179
THE SNOW-STORM 180
THE PIG AND THE HEN. By Alice Cary 186
THE TRUE SECRET 187
THE WALKING LEAF 188
THE GOOD SHEPHERD 191
TIN: OSTRICH. By Mrs. E. B. Duffey 191
Vi ILLIE AND THE APPLE 134
WILLIS'S HAPPY DAY. By Mrs. M. 0. Johnson.. 190
3K*
PAQE
*— BARBARA BLUE 9
2.— THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS 16
3.— THE NEW SCHOLAR 2-1
4.— THE BUTTERFLY 33
'-.—A PORTRAIT 40
.;.-THE WILL FOR THE DEED 41
7.— THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WANTED TO BE A HEROINE 49
v-THE SISTERS 56
III 1 LI MISSIONARIES 64
IV DOLLIES 72
11.— THE (IIII.DKKNS COLT 73
1-'.— TIIK QUICK TXMPEB BO
13.— Tin: i-m i.i: Italian hoy
H.-Tiii: QSm iii:k<)N
II AMVi A HI TTKILII.V ]ni
KOI BH am. mi: i:\i;ii> Li i
\ THAI' FOR A III MMIVi IlIKI) 11,;
' i i: BIRD i _i
19.-SAIM i;aki:\k\
' II \KMI.K
^l-'l
22. — 0 A I J [ I . I : I N ' . lu
viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
23.— CHASING A BUTTERFLY 144
24.— A LOST CHILD 145
25.— FOUND AT LAST 145
26.— THE RACCOON 153
27.— THE JACAMAR 100
28.— FATHER'S BOOTS 165
29.— MARIA AND HER COUSIN 169
30.— THE SNOW-STORM 180
31.— "SHALL I EAT IT ALL MYSELF?" 185
32.— THE WALKING-LEAF 188
33.— THE OSTRICH 192
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
JULY, 1869.
BARBARA BLUE,
'
r I M [ I Al 1 ! w.i- .- 1 1 1 <>M woman 1 N'iiu. .1 l; irbara Blue, Bill not the old woman
Who lived In i ihoe, And didn't know whal
Willi her children to 'I" .'
.1.-2
For -lir that I tell yon <>f
Lived all alone, A miserly creature
, er was known, And had never a chick
Nor a child <>i her ow n.
She kept very still, and
■ I -In' was meek
10
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Others said she was only
Too stingy to speak — That her little dog fed
On one bone for a week !
She made apple-pies,
And she made them so tart
That the mouths of the children Who ate them would smart ;
And these she went peddling About in a cart.
One day, on her travels, She happened to meet
A farmer, who said
He had apples so sweet
That all the town's-people Would have them to eat.
"And how do you sell them?"
Says Barbara Blue. "Why, if you want only
A bushel or two," Says the farmer, " I don't mind
To give them to you."
" What ! give me a bushel ?"
Cries Barbara Blue — "A bushel of apples,
And sweet apples too !" " Be sure," says the farmer — , " Be sure, ma'am, 1 do."
And then he said if she Would give him a tart
(She had a great basket full There in her cart),
He would show her the orchard, And then they would part.
So she picked out a little one, Burnt at the top,
And held it a moment
And then let it drop, And then said she hadn't
A moment to stop, And drove her old horse
Away, hippity hop !
One night when the air was All blind with the snow,
Dame Barbara, driving So soft and so slow
That the farmer her whereabouts Never would know,
Went after the apples;
And avarice grew When she saw their red coats,
Till, before she was through, She took twenty bushels,
Instead of the two !
She filled the cart full, And she heaped it a-top,
And if just an apple Fell off, she would stop,
And then drive ahead again, Hippity hop !
Her horse now would stumble, And now he would fall,
And where the high river-bank Sloped like a wall,
Sheer down, they went over it, Apples and all !
It is easier to blame others than to do better ourselves.
Never trouble another for what you can do yourself.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
11
TERRACE RIDGE.
A SEQUEL TO " HOVE DARROW.
By Virginia F. Towmsend.
M
CHAPTER I.
RS. BRAINERDS tongue kept at JU work like the buzzing of a swarm of until it Btopped at last at her parlor door, where she left Lewis and me.
I took them all in at a glance — Creigh- ton Bell with his restless head bobbing in and out of the window, and his brother- in-law sitting opposite with a pile of traveling shawl- and valises about him, and the elegant lady leaning back in the arm-chair and seeming to fill the whole room with a presence of grace and beauty that made me almost afraid to
where it was. Then Creighton Bell's voice rang out like a lute's: ■There they are at last! JTOU been hiding on purpose all this time?'' and he was at my side actually kissing and shaking hands all in a mo- nn-nr.
Oh, Mr. Creighton, I'm <dad to see >nee morel We should not have you waiting a moment if we had known, you may be certain. n
Then, while Lewis and Creighton were shaking hand-, the gentleman came for- ward and said, with hi- most pleasant
smile. •] can't allow that young jarkan- Miy liberties that I don't claim my- self. Ymu haven't forgotten me. my little
•Oh no. i; ' v on arc Mr. Fairfax I
am very glad you are come too;" and then he did just what Creighton had done a moment before.
Afterward, he took me up to the beau- tiful lady, who sat with her curious, amused smile watching all that was going on. ''Pauline," he said, "this is the little girl, Hope Darrow, of whom you and I have heard so muoh."
The lady leaned forward with her won- derful, proud, beautiful face that seemed too dainty and fine for any real, every-day life. She took my fingers in her soft, white hands sparkling with rings, and she touched my forehead with her lips. ' ' Yes, Hope," she said, and her voice was pleas- ant, like one which would slip smoothly and brightly along a tune — "Yes, we have all heard a great deal about you, Hope."
It was said very kindly and graciously, but I understood from that moment why Creighton Bell had said, when I spoke of his sister, "Yes, I have Pauline — yes." The boy brought up Lewis now, and introduced him to his relatives, and after that Creighton Bell had the talk. most of the time, to himself.
It appeared that the party were on their
way to their count ry-srat a little earlier
than nsual this season, as Mrs. Fairfax
Wat quite worn out with city gayctie< and
excitements.
The young brother had prevailed on bis relatives to take the Salmon-Head route <mi purpose to stop at John Brain- crd's and find out what had become of hi- friends, who, to use his own way of
talking, had not written him a word, but
12
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
kept as still as squirrels in their holes all winter.
"But we couldn't write without know- ing where to address you." said Lewis.
"If you had taken the pains to read my letters, you wouldn't have been at any loss." answered Creighton, with plenty of spirit.
"Your letters! What letters'?" said Lewis and I together.
Then it all came out that the boy had written us twice, and both letters had failed to reach us.
Creighton Bell struck his hands to- gether. '"I knew there must be some good reason for it." he said. "Tr wasn't like you to turn the cold shoulder to a fellow like that; but what an ungrateful monster you must have thought me. to neglect you in that fashion, after all your care and kindn-
•"You would never say that again, if you had once heard Hope's earnest, 'Oh, I know he will come back some day. Lewis ! He said he would, and I am sure he will keep his word.' " laughed my brother.
■"How many times did she say that?" asked Mr. Fairfax, turning his pleasant -mile on me.
"If I should make a rough estimate. I should say at least once a day."
"What! so often as that? Bravo. f I pe ! " and the boy came over and shook hands with me. " I wish everybody had a- much faith in what I say." with a comic glance in the direction of Pauline.
She answered it. I soon found they were rallying each other a good deal, half
in play, half in earnest. " If Hope knew you as well as I do, Creighton, she would place less faith in your promises."
I could not tell whether the lady really meant what she said, but in a few min- utes Mrs. Brainerd called me out into the hall.
"You don't mind if I told them, Hope?" she said.
"Told them about what. Mrs. Brain- erd?" I asked.
"Oh. about your affairs. I see well enough that was what they was after, and so it all came out about the saw-mill, and Lewis starting off to-morrow for the city and leaving you all alone, and a good many other things."
"Other things! What else was there to tell?"
"Well, about the bargains we made with Creighton Bell's money, and what a nice, warm suit it kept you in all winter."
"Oh. Mrs. Brainerd. how could you !" feelincr the blood hot in my face.
" Nonsense, child ! Don't go to blush- ing over it. There's no harm done to anybody, and I knew what I was about."
Of course there was no help for the matter now. and Mrs. Brainerd had proved herself a kind friend during our troubles. If she had only shown a little more delicacy about our affairs, but I re- membered a sentence that I had written in my copy-book, because it struck me at the time : "One must take people as they are in this world, and not as one might like to have them."
So once again I helped Mrs. Brainerd get out her best china; and the broiling
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
13
chickens and the browning biscuit were tilling the room with savory odors when I returned to the parlor.
J found the party there deep in discuss- ing their arrangements for the night Creighton Bell had a fancy to remain at the Btage-driver's until the following day, but his mster insisted they must be at the Ridge that night
"Oh, Pauline, you are so fussy 1" Bald Creighton Bell to his Bister, speaking in anything hut a kind and amiable tone of
Voice.
'■ Sou are the most unreasonable boy that I ever met, Creighton. Here I've come all this distance out of my way just to please you and Dick, and now you cone up with another of your absurd plan-: but I -hall go over to-night with Mr. Brainerd, if I leave the rest of you a fretful, wearied look around tin; beautiful mouth, and the voice full of rapid impatience.
"Come, children, don't go to haying a
squabble now. You shall have your way
about getting home to-night, Pauline,"
i tin- lady's husband, in \>-vy much
the tone one Would have QSed to ;i spoiled
child. One could see the man was very fond of hi- beautiful wife, and that he
WU disposed to humor all her whim-, and
that it was just a- her brother had -aid Pauline was used to being petted and flat-
•
The lady leaned hack in her chair, now. with a tired, fretted look, which I began to think would grow into her face :i- it> youth and hloom vanished, and I won-
, whether, after all, it would not grow
to be one of the unhappy, dissatisfied old
lac- I had -een sometimes.
But that seemed wrong to think of Creighton Hell's sister, and when, at some jest of her husband, the Bmile bright- ened suddenly where the frown had dark- ened a moment before, one half forgot the shadow that had been for the bright- ness that was.
"Come, we have no time to lose," said Mr. Fairfax. "Suppose we leave Pau- line and Hope to amuse each other, while we three go out and have a talk to- gether."
"Yes; that will put Creighton in a better temper," replied the lady, pleas- antly.
The three went out together, but the boy turned hack and said to me. '"We won't he --one a great while. Hope, ami I think when we return you will hear some- thin- very pleasant."
So Creighton Bell's sister and T were left alone together, and when 1 looked at
her. sitting therein her heauty and grace,
I ,-miied a little to myself at the thought of just me — Hope Harrow — "amusing" such a line lady.
Mr-. Fairfax caught the smile. "What
is it plea-e- you, Hope?" she a-ked. very graciously.
"Oh, it was nothing, ma'am, worth
telling/1 I answered, a good deal con- fused.
•• lint I should like to know. Rope," and now the -mile came with all its p,-r-
roasive sweetness into her face, and I
knew then, whatever her pride and her temper might he it w.i- no wonder that
14
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
men and women praised and admired the sister of Creighton Bell.
So I stammered out my thought in some broken way, dreadfully ashamed both at it and myself.
The lady's smile came sweeter and brighter than ever. "That is a very pretty, delicate compliment," she said, "and I know it came right out of an hon- est little heart, which is more than one is certain of when one is praised and flat- tered among crowds of what you would call, I suppose, grand men and women.
"And now, Hope, if I should tell you all the nice things I have heard of you, I suspect you would blush a little deeper than you do now; but I am glad to have a chance to thank you for all your kindly care of my brother when he was laid up here last fall. It was his own fault, but that did not make the pain any easier, and Creighton is a dear, noble fellow, al- though he is such a dreadful tease and bother."
"I'm sure, ma'am, there isn't anything to thank me for. It was very little that I could do."
I could not talk with the elegant lady as I could with her frank, generous brother, who, no doubt, had plenty of faults on his part. I looked at her sit- ting there in her pride, and grace, and beauty, and felt how impossible it would be to tell her of my dead mother, or of what Lewis was to me ; but for all that, she was kind and gracious, and when the weary look came into her face and she leaned her head back among the cushions, saying that the long day's travel had
quite worn her out, I brought a pillow for her head and a cushion for her feet, and left her to fall asleep until the others re- turned.
It seemed to me they were gone a very long time, although it must have been less than an hour, but I was in a flutter of excitement all the while, wondering what they were talking about so long, and thinking of Creighton Bell's look and smile when he said, "You will hear some- thing very pleasant, Hope. ' '
At last the three returned. I saw, as soon as I glanced into Lewis' face, that something had happened which had moved him to the depths. "It's all set- tled, Hope," shouted Creighton Bell, catching sight of me in the door.
"And, Lewis, it's good, is it?"
"Come into the parlor and you shall see for yourself," said my brother; and if I had been stark blind and heard his voice, there would have been no need to ask him the question I had. So we all went into the parlor and roused Mrs. Fairfax from her slumber, and I stood in their midst, and Creighton Bell clapped his hands together and turned to his sis- ter and said, "You haven't told a sin- gle word, Pauline? You know you prom- ised."
"Not a lisp, Creighton," rubbing the sleep out of her great, dusky eyes, while my heart throbbed and it seemed as though we were all actors in a play.
"Now commence, Lewis," cried Creigh- ton Bell.
I think Lewis tried to speak, but some- thing choked in his throat, and he turned
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
15
off suddenly with a little gesture. " You .•; do it for me," he said to the boy. ;.
There is no use of my telling you in ■: Oreighton Bell's words, for at the time I '• only took in their meaning, and that I :; shall remember as long as I live. It ■; amounted to this: he had carried off the ;. drawings of my brother and Bhowed . them to more than one famous architect. ': Bach had given his opinion that the draw- :. -bowed a latent power which ought :"; to he developed, and now Mr. Fairfax had ; my brother a fine chance ■: among the acres around the country home j which he had purchased.
The gentleman was about laying out the groundl under a celebrated landscape gardener, and there would be rustic ar- bors and bridges, and Bummer-houses to ) be made; and though the whole would be under the general management of an artist, still the latter would like a pupil «rh086 heart and soul Were in tin; work, and who could manage the detail- during
his abet I. wii vu precisely tie' Bort of pupil
that wa- needed lor tie- work, and an-
other such chance mighl hardly offer in a lifetime; bo be was to come to the Elidge the very next week, on a salary which at least trebled that he bad received at the -aw mill; and whenever there was room at the little " Pigeon's Nest," for it bad
ms of overflowing with city | duriiiL' the summer, I was t<> ridi and mak< i i-n a- I iik«d. cer-
tain that there would be some people glad me.
ing to end I took in tie;
meaning of all this; but after all, I was only a little girl, and the strain on my heart and nerves had been terrible through these last days, and the joy came too sud- denly.
I tried to speak, but my breath gasped and gasped and my lips fumbled at the words, and a sharp, awful pain clutched at my heart and throat, and I turned to Lewis and stretched out my arms, and T cried out, "Oh, Lewis, the joy will kill
• me!" and I should have fallen the next moment if somebody had not caught me.
; "Poor little girl!" I heard somebody's ; voice say, as though I was in a dream, } and then they laid me on the lounge, and ) in a moment a great sob wrenched itself : out of my heart, and then another and j another. I couldn't help it, although I
• thought T must die now for very shame ■; before all these Btrange people, but the
>.ili- would come and shiver over me, and ; I could only cry between, "Oh, Lewi-. '•• you and I will not have to go apart now!" :; How kind they all were to me I 1 can { not think now without crying again. ';■ Lewis sat by me and chafed my hands, ■;. and they brought me cordials, and they said all kinds of plea-ant. cheerful, sooth- ing things to me. very much as they would
to a little, frightened baby; and rare
enough, I was DO better than one for ;i
Lr<H,d while. But at last I grew calm again, and then, when Bupper wa- ready and. indeed, it had waited along time— Mr.
Fairfax took me out in his armi and -et
me down carefully between my brother
'. ami Oreighton; and ob. BUoh a -upper IS
thai wa- ' I wa- tOO tired to -ay mucb,
16
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
but it was enough to sit still there and look at all the kindly faces which smiled upon me, and think how happy I was, and how good God had been to Lewis and me.
I overheard the boy say to his brother- in-law, "Did you ever have anything touch .you to the quick like that, Dick?"
"Never," answered the gentleman; and then I said to myself, "Oh, Hope Darrow, how could you do such a thing?" but all the time, away down in my heart, I knew that I could not have helped my- self, and that if kings and queens and all the world had been there, I should have acted just the same.
After supper was over there was a great bustle of departure, for a long ride was before the travelers. Creighton Bell busied himself about getting his bundles and packages into the stage, and hurried back to me every few minutes to talk over the happy times we three would have this summer at the Ridge.
When his sister came to kiss me at parting, too, there was something in her manner which I had missed before.
' ' Good-bye, my child, ' ' she said. ' ' We shall all be glad to have you come to us."
At last they were all stowed inside John Brainerd's lumbering wagon, and the hearty good-byes were said as we stood in the doorway — Lewis and I — and watched them roll away, and over the hill the young moon hung like a great yellow, half-blossomed buttercup.
I looked up in my brother's face. "Oh, Lewis," 1 said, "is it the same world it was this afternoon?"
His mouth quivered. "Not to you and me, Hope," he answered.
He had been quiet for the last hour, but I had felt that a great tumult was going on within him. He drew me into the house now, and sitting down he bursr suddenly into tears, and holding me fast and turning my face away from him. Lewis Darrow cried as I had never known the brave, strong heart cry in all its life before; and I knew what weights of bit- terness and pain slipped with those tears from my brother's soul.
[to be continued.]
THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS.
IN a book called "The Irvington Sto- ries" written by Mrs. M. E. Dodge. ( is a beautiful and touching Christmas ) story, which no doubt some of you have < read, called "The Hermit of the Hills." } A poor, miserable, lonely, ill-natured old \ man lived in a hovel on the side of a hill: I and he was so cross to the village chil- ) dren that they were afraid of him, for ( when any of them came near his hut, he ) would run after them with a big stick in { his hand and threaten to break their ) bones.
> Well, once on a time, just before Christ- l mas, some of the boys and girls of the ) village ventured out to the hovel of "Old (' Pop," as he was called, and asked him to ) let them cut down a young hemlock that C stood near, that they might have it for a ) Christmas tree. This made him very an- - gry, and brandishing his big stick, he ran
THE CHILDREN'S Horn.
furiously toward them. All scampered off in fear, but on looking back tiny saw thai Ik- bad fallen and could oof riee.
On.- tender-hearted little girl, named I ! Brown, turned back to help the <>1<1 man. All the rest scampered away.
Without ;i thought of danger, the sweet
little Samaritan hurried back to the spot
Where < >l«l Pop wai I tick in his
listless hand now. Vol. vi.— 3
"Are yon hnrt?n whispered Elsie, bending over bim, but starting back with ■ shudder as she Baw lii-^ white lips and the blood trickling down over lii- furrowed oheek and long gray beard.
There was no answer.
Recovering li« r self possession in an in- stant, tli«' noble-hearted child ruBhed into the Inn for water. Finding none, she seised an old earthen pitoher, lacking
18
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
both handle and spout, and ran to the ) stream near by. Around it ice lay in the hollows, holding with a firm clutch the yellow leaves that had fallen there in the soft Indian-summer days. Elsie sprang over them, never pausing, as at any other time she would have done, to indulge in those blessed little slides so dear to school- girls. In a moment she was hastening back, with her pitcher full, toward the injured man.
His senses had returned, and he was trying to rise as Elsie approached.
uAh, you little ragamuffin," he growled, looking drearily at her, "wait until I get at j'ou! — you shall feel my big stick!"
"I am sorry, sir," said Elsie, never pausing, but hurrying toward him and even laying her hand upon his shoulder, "lam very sorry you fell ; indeed I am. See, here is water; let me bathe your head — you have cut it badly."
" Here ! none of your tricks !" with a savage scowl. "Be off with you, or I'll pitch you down the hill !"
Elsie answered, resolutely,
" No ; you will not hurt a little girl like me, I am sure. Come into the hut, and when I have bathed your wound and bound up your head, then I'll go. It is cold out here, even in the sunshine."
He looked at her fixedly for a moment, and muttered, "It is cold in there too. (to back — go to your home and let the old man die."
"But you are not going to die," laughed Elsie, shaking her head at him, though she trembled all over at his strange manner. "You have only a cut
upon your temple, and you couldn't die of that, even if you wanted to;" and she began busily to gather the pieces of broken branches that lay scattered on the side of the hill.
"Here! let that wood alone!" cried the old man, now fairly upon his feet, yet looking at her like one in a dream.
"Yes, in a moment," was Elsie's good- natured reply, as she bustled into the hut with her apron full. Old Pop lost not an instant in stumbling in after her.
Ah, little Elsie— kind little Elsie!— you have dared too far! No; he does not harm her. He crouches upon a rough bench near the hearthstone and watches her movements in silence.
There were a few smouldering embers left. Elsie scraped them together with a stick, heaped first a few dried leaves, then the twigs upon them, and kneeling lower, blew with all her little might into their midst, shutting her eyes very tightly, for the ashes were flying into her face.
Snap! crack! the wood was in a blaze ! Placing two or three larger sticks upon the top, Elsie rose with a solemn, busi- ness-like air:
"Ah, you are very pale and faint yet; you must wear my cloak until the room is warm, if it ever can get warm with all these cracks in the roof;" and she wrapped a coarse but bright garment about his shoulders.
He pushed it uneasily away : no anger in his manner now; no kindness either. "I am not cold; go home."
"Very soon I will," said the child, cheerily, running out for the pitcher of
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
19
water and breaking its thin film of ice as ■ho, came in again, the ruddy gleam of the fire playing upon her face.
"Oh. you haven't any rag here, have you? Wei), my apron will do;" and she dipped a corner into the water. "Now yon ;nust let me wash away that ugly blood."
Either the wound was smarting sorely or Old 1'np was stupefied by his fall, for he made no resistance. Softly and ten- derly as snow-flakes fell the touches of - hands upon that bowed head. ''It is not much," she said] when at last the blood was all carefully washed away. "Yon should hold cold "water to the bump; that's what mother always does for me. And now, if I only had a cob- web!"
This humble wish was easily met in the
y hut. almost by the reaching of
her hand, fur BpiderS had WOVen there
unmolested for many a day. The blood
stanched to Elsie's full content
said tip' chill, quietly,
as with nimble hands >he placed iiv-h
- upon the lire. •• I),, you feel any better, sii
■• Be] ? rery gruffly.
" Y tter, I hope. Does yom
head lout you now. Bir?"
" N • i . jo ho u
I . toward the door, and
then— child thai she was a sudden im-
o back to him.
I ' i whispered,
heart has been broken."
Hi- btened her. She believed
mid strike her "n the spot, but he
only lifted his head and looked wearily iifto her face.
•Why, child?"
"Because — because you are so very cross; and you cannot be cheered even in these merry Christmas times. Why, it comes day after to-morrow ! You surely will not be the only person in the whole world who does not keep Christinas?" and Elsie stared at him in innocent dis- may.
11 Christmas!" echoed Old, Pop, gloom- ily; "I have 'most forgotten what that is."
''Forgotten Christmas! Why, I think if I were to grow twice as old as you are, I could never forget that! It's the dear Christ's birth-day, you know; and every one, even the most miserable, cannot help being happy on that day."
"Happy?" whispered Old Pop under his breath, and looking absently at Elsie as she seated herself at his feet — MHappy?"
"Yes. happy." repeated Elsie, gently.
"Shall I tell you all about it?"
The old man nodded, never taking his eyes from hers.
"Why, it is Christ's birth-day; and was he nol a good*— a holy child?"
He did not reply; but a gleam, like something from the past, Bhot across his farrowed face, and Elsie read her answeT
" Oh, he was so pun — so noble ! Never did he hold one harsh or wicked thought ; mother has told me this often. He could not, you know : never had the slightest quarrel; never did anything the least bit wrong, and was always making everybody
20
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
about him happy — just completely good ( and wise. Oh, he was a blessed, blessed ) child, I am sure, and his days must have ( been like sunshine, with none of the ) dreadful trials that came to him after- \ ward. You've heard all about it, haven't ) you? how they persecuted and tortured ) him, and all for no harm he had done ( whatever?" )
The old man nodded as, with troubled ( eyes, he gazed into that tearful, upturned > face. <
"But it is all over now," resumed ( Elsie, brightening. "The saints in ) heaven are never sad, and surely he is ( gladdest of all ; and whenever his birth- ) day comes, oh ! I am certain all his child- ( ish thoughts must come back to him. ) Then he visits-earth as the Christ-child — ) comes to see all of us little children. We ( cannot see him, but I know he comes and } he blesses us and makes us, oh, so happy ! i Mother says he enters everybody's heart <: and whispers, 'Love the children for my sake,' and he makes them feel just like giving all the boys and girls a holiday, and having lovely green Christmas-trees for them, hung with toys and all kinds of beautiful things; and the rich give to one another and to the poor, and the poor are loving and gentle to each other, for he > tells them how he loves them and every- body."
"Everybody, child?"
" Yes, I am sure he does," cried Elsie, clasping her hands.
" No, he does not — not always," sighed the old man. " He has not crept into my heart, little girl; I am lonely, lonely."
"Ah, but he will, though!" insisted Elsie, looking brightly into his eyes and shaking her sunny curls against his breast. "He will ; it is not too late yet."
^he old man shook his head, gazing wistfully into her glowing face.
"Yes, he will ; I am sure of it. Why, the wood has nearly burned away ! Poor old man ! how many, many cold days you must sit here shivering, while we are warm and comfortable down in the vil- lage. Why don't you come and live there, and get nice clothes and — "
The hermit glared at her so wildly that, in very fear, Elsie moved toward the door. Standing outside, she looked in to say,
"Good-bye! Be sure to keep that bump wet. May some of us children come soon and gather wood for you?"
" No, no, little girl. Here, wait a mo- ment." And with a half-troubled, half- pleased expression on his worn face, Old Pop picked a large dry maple-leaf from the floor and proceeded to take something from a rough box in the corner of his cabin.
Elsie was only a child, and a girl-child too; who can blame her that she raised on tip-toe with curiosity?
"Here, child, take this."
It was a leaf full of coarse maple-sugar. Elsie felt disappointed, scarce knowing why; but no duchess could have received it with truer politeness than she.
"Thank you, sir."
The mute figure, as it stood watching Elsie tripping back over the hills, was different in its aspect from that which two
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
21
- before had forbidden her approach. The same form and face, but with no anger in it- gesture, no fierceness in its l<>"k.
Shall we tell you of all that happened after this? The old man's heart was softened toward children, lie was not so jM.nr as he seemed. Next day he went to the rillage and bought toys, and books, and sweetmeats, and on Christmas invited all the children far and near, and gave presents and a feast. 1 te seemed like a new man. All his hardness, and anger, and misery had vanished. Elsie was there of course, and one of the hap- piest of Old Pop's little friends. And what do you think happened next? Well, tin- Btory goes on:
Old Pop's name fairly rang in the vil-
■ II that ( Shristmas day : ami nearly
time it was Bpoken an unuttered
;it with it. Mi nitiiiie. the changed old man tinned
from hi- Ion-/, wistful /a/.-- a- tie- [asl
loiterer disappeared. Elsie and the school- • r were -fill beside him. •• \\'.- must •_"• now. my friend," -aid the i , tiding his hand. ■■ I prom-
little girl's mother that I would tak<- lei- back before sundown." I . to Old Pop's cloak.
( ' >me with as, she urged ; "do come ; we cannot go and leave you here alone on these cold hill-."
Bui I am nol alone any more, my child," .-aid tie- old man, gently stroking
Is a- he -\
<>li. I am so glad! I shall love the de it Christ-child m vet now!"
cried Elsie. " I knew he would come to you on Christina- eve. But you surely won't stay here all by yourself, now that every one Will love you?"
•• Every one. child?"
"Yes. every one; why not? But what makes you always call me 'child?' My name is Klsie. "
The hermit gave a sharp cry. and would have fallen had not the schoolmaster held him with a strong arm.
"Elsie!" he repeated, in. a whining voice, as they led him into the warm hut. "I had a little girl called Elsie once; where is she? Oh. she is gone, gone!"
Raising his eye-, he looked yearningly into the child's lace. lie shook his head.
•"No. no, not like my Elsie; .-he was taller, her eyes were darker — black hair; She wa- all I had. but -he left me. She did come baek once, but 1 drove her away; and then, then," he continued, raising lii- voice almost to a scream, ".-he died : died alone and uncared Tor ; no friend, nol one to — "
!!-• stopped short, glaring wildly upon them.
"Oh," cried Kl-ie. shuddering, "do not li.uk bo ! Speak to me ! for the dear Christ child's sake, do no< look so I"
The schoolmaster benl over him sooth- ingly.
'■ My friend, God is good : there is some balm for tlii- trouble, if yon will wail his tin,.'.
The old man bowed hi- head upon Kl- houlder, sobbing like a little child
■■ Poor < )M Pop !" -he murmured, pal - his aim softly. "There now, yon
22 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
will come ; 1 know you will. Mother will J "Father I"
be so good, so kind to you — she is to j Locked in each other's arms, laughing everybody — though she has never seen ( and crying by turns, they could not see you. Say you'll come : it's too lonely for ') the look of wonderment in the child's you here." ( eyes, or even hear the schoolmaster, who,
"Elsie," exclaimed the schoolmaster, > with lifted head, exclaimed fervently, who had walked to the door for an in- \ "God is good!"
stant, "here is your mother coming up > That night father, daughter and grand- the hill !" S child sat together by a cheerful hearth in
Elsie gave a joyous cry. "Oh, I am < the village — Elsie's home, where for the so glad ! Now you will see mother," she > past four months she had lived alone with whispered to the old man, in a tone that ( her mother.
implied that " seeing mother" was a balm ) And so father and daughter, who had for every earthly ill. ( been separated for years, because the
"Your long absence has alarmed her," ) daughter had married against her father's said the schoolmaster. "Come in," he ) will, were restored to each other through added, holding wide the door. "Elsie is I the loving kindness of little Elsie. Neither here, safe with her friends ; forgive me ) of them knew, until that meeting on the for not taking her to you long ago. But I hill, that the other was alive, how did you find us?" )
"The village boys showed me the ) \way," panted the mother as, flushed with } HOW TO GET GOOD FEELINGS.
her rapid walk over the hills, she walked >
up to Elsie, throwing ,a quick look of cu- l By Aunt Carrie. riosity upon the old man as she spoke. >
He raised his head suddenly at the > "T CAN'T be good," said a little girl, voice. > 1 " It isn't in me."
"Elsie," screamed the mother, "who ') "I think you are right," answered her is this?" ( mother. "It isn't in you, for none of
"Who, mother? Why Old Pop that \ us are born good." used to chase us children, you know; \ "Then what's the use of trying to be but he's real good now. I love him ever ( good?" said the child, so m — " > "There is more use in trying not to be
Even while she was speaking, the her- { bad," the mother replied. "We can't mit, after staring fixedly at the comely ) become good of ourselves, no matter how woman, like one in a puzzled dream, s hard we try; but we can keep from doing staggered toward her with outstretched ) wrong if we will, for God has made us ■hands. ) free to do good or evil just as we choose.
" Elsie !" ' Now, if we keep our tongues from saying
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
evil things and our hands from doing evil ^ pleasant. It is this love of doing good things, God will so change us that after a ( that makes the happiness of angels, and while we will love to do good rather than ( we may have such love and joy in our evil."' $ hearts, even while on earth, if we will."
'"And is that the way to become good?" (
11 1 know of no other way," replied the / mother. " We must cease to do evil be- ( 7HE yu/o FACES.
fore we can learn to do well."
''Then if I try not to be bad, God will s make me good''''' ( /"i^E was °ld and wrinkled, the other
•' Yes dear." ) ^ young and smooth, and soft as a rose
" How easy that seems 1" said the child, ( leaf5 and y^ IookinS at the tw0 ****,
a soft light coming into her eyes; "so ) y°u would ca]1 the old one the most beau*
much easier than trying to be good when < lifi,L Wh?? A beautiful soul gave
rou feel naughty and can't make the ? sweetness *<> *■■* ***. whUe a mean and
naughty feeling go away. ' ' < selfish soul shadowed the other. Discon-
7 God can take our naughtv feel- > tent' env>r' anSer' Peevishness, love of
ings away : but he cannot take them away < self' wlU> lf suffered to rule in the heart> , we neip lliln n / gradually change the most lovely face un-
Bowcan we help him?" asked the \ tU ifc becomes repulsive; while content- ehild I ment, and that love of others which seeks
•I have just told you," said her \ to do them £ood' will> in dme' «ive to mother. "We must refuse to act badly, . I)lain and ™k™b Matures a touch of no matter how wicked our feelings may < *"**- Ifc 1S no bght saying, that uthe be, and then God can take away the ^ood are beautiful." They have beauti- wieked feelings and give us good ones in ful souU' and' sooner or later> the soul th<-ir stead " ) stamPs *ts bnagc on the face.
*'Oii ms so much easier now, ) ,IJtfJ(i,tt
mamma dear I I'm glad you told me. (
I'll not trouble myself about being | I, THE SUNNY SIDE.
but do all I can to keep from being bad, j
,""! rnHEmnny aide, the sunny side,
I he will make it all come right 1 Lrt's alwayi look upon it;
red the mother, tenderly kissing her >Tis better far to banish care
child. "After ■ while, instead of the Than sadly to muse on it
Dgl that now so trouble you and Do DO t hi down with folded hands
>i in dan you And always be repining,
will have good and kind feelinga, and But when beneath the darkest cloud,
then will make doing good easy and • Think of its silver lining,
iL'SffiBACH
HE NEW SCHOLAF
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
25
THE NEW SCHOLAR.
THIS is b boy's school," said the kind old teacher, as he put the rod he held in his hand behind him. "We don't take dogs."
There wis a smile in his pleasant eyes.
"Ponto would come along, you see; ad of Josie."
"'Yes. ma am. I've no doubt of it; and the lambs and the kittens too. But we "lily take boys."
Joflie bad seen the rod which the teacher was trying to keep out of view, and it frightened him. So he drew back and caught hold of his mother's dress, while PootO, a little scared like his mas- ter, but on the alert, smelled suspiciously at the teacher's trow -
" He's a e I boy." said Josie's mo- ther, lifting the cap from his pure white brow, "and won't. I am sure. give you any troubli
But the rod was too mueb for Josie. He kept his eyes upon the arm that held
it. and bent round to get Bight of the
terrible instrument
• [( isn't for good little boys like you" —
r smiled and looked kindly at
the lad - "but for bad boys and doge
1 be looked at Ponto, lifting bis hand and making believe he was going to strike. The dog itarted back in alarm,
and ran out. of dooi -1 following]
and in the next instant both were
n the road and on their
borne. It was all in vain that Ji
mother ealled him; he neither stopped
nor turned, but kept on I 1 1. t
would carry him. and didn't stop until he and Ponto were safe at home.
"So much," said the teacher, a little severely, to Josie's mother, "for letting him bring his dog along. You ought to have known better."
"And so much," answered Josie's mother, a flash of anger in her eyes, "for keeping an instrument of torture in your hand to frighten little children. You ought to know better."
The mother and teacher stood looking at each other with severe faces for some moments. Then a change came over that of the kind old man. It grew mild and gentle.
"You are right," he said, with a ten- der regret in his tones. "I ought to have known better, and I thank you for telling me the truth. Bring your little boy to-morrow, and I promise you there will be no rod visible to frighten him. But be sure," he added, a smile lighting up bis face, "to leave Ponto at borne. '"
MORE ABOUT "EASTER EGGS."
By Mary Latham Clark.
CARRIE bad been sitting for some time upon her red-tasseled "divan," turning the dainty leaves (.(' her "Chil- dren's Hour" with an air of great satis faction. At length -lie said, " Mother, here is a picture that I <lo not under- stand. It is called ' East 1 1
"Perhaps the story will explain it," said her mother.
26
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"I have read it," said Carrie, "and it is a very pretty story. The woman who looks so smiling and pleasant in the pic- ture is German. She has been coloring some eggs for her children, and they seem very happy over their treasures. But I do not understand why they are called ' Easter eggs. ' ' '
"I will tell you, my dear," said the mother.
"You know that Easter is the day upon which the resurrection of our Lord has, from the earliest times, been cele- brated. I have told you this before, but I do not think that the day is observed with us as much as it is in the old coun- tries. In some parts of Ireland the peo- ple think that the sun dances in the sky on Easter Sunday morning. It was the custom among the early Christians, when they first met upon the morning of Eas- ter, to say to each other with very joyful voices, 'Christ is risen!' to which the answer would be made, 'Christ is risen indeed!'
' 'A long time ago the year began in the spring, about Easter-time, and people were in the habit of making each other New- Year's presents of eggs, often gayly colored and variously ornamented.
' ' It was a pleasant way of reminding one another that, as the egg would some time open and a living thing would come from it, so from the earth, so hard and -cold through the winter, would, in due time, burst forth the living plants and flowers, 'good for food and pleasant to tthe eyes.'
"Although the year was afterward
reckoned from the first of January, the custom of giving presents of eggs at Easter was still kept up."
"I understand it now," said Carrie, "and I thank you very much for the ex- planation. I shall enjoy this beautiful picture all the better for it. ' '
"This talk concerning Easter eggs," said her mother, "reminds me of a story — a true one — which I read when a mere child, and which made a great impression upon me."
"Oh, do tell it!" exclaimed Carrie, her eyes brightening, as they always did, at the prospect of a story.
"It was of a little girl," resumed the mother, "whose name was Jane. She was an orphan, and she lived with her guardian, of whom she stood in great fear.
"One day, on her way to school she saw in a confectioner's window a great, display of Easter eggs, of every brilliant color. She lingered long to admire their beauty, and tears filled her eyes as she thought of the happy days, now for ever gone, when in her old home her dear mother, ever ready to indulge her in every innocent wish, used to color Easter eggs so beautifully for her every year.
" ' How delightful it would be, and how like old times,' thought she, 'to hold one of those beautiful eggs in my hand and have it for my own!'
"For several days she thought of nothing but the brightly-colored eggs, and every time she passed them the de- sire grew stronger to have one of them.
"She did not for one moment dream
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
27
of asking her guardian for a penny with which to buy one ; she had not courage enough for that, for she was naturally a very timid child.
" One day, however, after lingering longer than usual before the tempting window, she felt that she must have one <>f the beautiful eggs, and yielding to a sudden impulse, she wTent into the store and Baked the woman who stood behind the counter to let her have one, and she would bring her the penny the next day.
"Seeing how nicely dressed the child
the woman thought she might safely
trust her, so she said she might have the
egg if she would bring her the penny the
next time she came to school.
"Little Jane promised, and selecting a beautiful purple one, she left the store. For ■ few momenta she thought herself •tly happy. Thru ahe began to won- der what ahe ahonld do with her treasure, lor ahfl could not think of any place at home in which to hide it that would be free from the housekeeper's eyes.
Phe longer ahe thought of it, the greater wai her perplexity, and finally, in a fir of desperation, she broke the purple shell into many little bit! and strewed them along the street, while she hastily eat the bard-boiled e
began, in good earneat, tie- poor child' i trouble. The egg was gone, but
the burden of the d«).t ],iy |Of« upon her
She trembled when ahe | nfeotioner'fl leal tin- woman ahonld
:■• t and demand the penny. At
I she grew hatleai and inattentive,
i!d not put her mind upon her
lessons. When at home a sudden knock at the door made her tremble and turn pale, lest it should be an officer sent in search of her.
"Her appetite failed; she could not sleep, and at last she grew really ill and ^ the doctor was sent for. He came, j looked at her tongue, felt her pulse, and ( said, with a grave shake of the head, £ that she seemed to be going into a de- ( cline, and he was afraid that medicine <j could not help her.
) "One day, after he had said this, her < guardian, who really loved the child, al- ) though he had always seemed so cold and ( stern, was sitting by her little bed, hold- } ing one of her thin hands in his. 'Poor s little Jane,' said he, tenderly, 'cannot I (■ do something for you?' \ "By a sudden movement the child } threw her wasted arms around her guar- ) dian's neck, and bursting into tears, she ( cried, 'Give me a penny I a penny to pay ) for the Easter egg ! '
\ "An explanation followed, the woman ( was sent for and the debt was paid. The - soon bloomed again upon little ( Jane's white cheeks, and her eyes shone ) with new happiness.
"In after years, when she grew to be a j woman, she used to tell the story, and to S add that she suffered so much from her fn>t debt that she never could he induced, ; under any circumstances, to incur an- j other."
'■■. l>o but the half of what you can, and you will be surprised at the result of your
1 own diligence.
28 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
FRANK AND SAIDEE. ) "I will be quiet," said Saidee, adding ) in a low voice, "but he did take my
By Solomon Soberside. ) ■*:'
) Her aunt took no notice of this, but
{ walked on till they came to the top of the
" riOME take a walk with us," said > hill. There stood an old cottage that was VJ Frank, in a coaxing voice, to his ^ almost tumbling down. No one had lived aunt Hetty, as they sat together on the > in it for many years. As they passed the porch one summer afternoon. > door, a rabbit ran over the grass; they
"Yes, do, aunt!" cried Saidee, run- ? could see its white tail at every bound till ning in from the grass-plat, where she ') it hid in the bushes, had been playing with Rover, the New- \ "Oh, how I would love to have it for foundland dog. Then both children be- ) my pet ! ' • exclaimed Saidee. gan to beg so earnestly and tug so hard at ) "But I'd pity the rabbit," said Frank, her hands that their aunt rose to go with ? "Any how, I'd be kinder than you
them. This was the fourth day of her visit to their father's pleasant country home, and the greater part of each after- noon she had spent with the children.
were," cried Saidee, "when you cut off the cat's claws and whiskers."
"How sad it is," said Aunt Hetty, "to hear a brother and sister quarrel ! I
As they now walked toward the gate, } feel like turning round and going home Frank ran ahead a little way, but Saidee > again."
kept at her aunt's side. "I wish I had .; "Oh, don't go home!" cried both chil- my whip with a long lash," she said; ') dren. "We will promise not to quarrel then raising her voice, she cried, I any more."
"Frank, where is my whip? you had > "I am sorry to see," replied their aunt, it last." ') "that you have fallen into the habit of
"I hadn't any such thing," replied the ) quarreling, and a very little thing will, I boy, in no very pleasant voice. ') fear, make you forget your promise."
"Oh, what a story!" cried Saidee. \ "Well," said Saidee, in a penitent "You took it to go after the cows with ) voice, "I do try not to quarrel. Almost Joe yesterday morning." \ every morning I think that I will not,
"It wasn't your whip at all," said / but it seems as if I couldn't help it." Frank. "I have one of my own, that I ) "And I often think I won't either," made myself. I don't want your old <j said Frank, "but somehow I do. I wish whip. Mine is far better and cracks twice ) I didn't." as loud. " I " My dear children, ' ' replied their aunt,
"Children," said their aunt, soberly, ) "you will never be truly kind and gentle "I would rather not go with you unless ) to each other until you get something in we can have peace and kind words. ' ' ' your hearts which is not there now, or if
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
it is, only a little is there, and not nearly so much as ought to be."
"Do tell me what it is," said Saidee.
"My brother Howard," replied Aunt Hetty, without seeming to notice her question, ''when he was a boy, had a little axe given to him. He was greatly de- lighted with his present, and at once fell to chopping whatever came in his way. There were some old white-pine boards thrown on the wood-pile, for we lived in the country. White pine, you know, is very soft and easily split. These boards were partly decayed, too, so that he had little trouble in cutting them into kindling wood. But when he had done with the boards, he next tried an oak log. This was a very different thing from the soft pine. After working a good while with- out getting nearly through it, he looked at his axe and was surprised to see its quite Manted ; it would not cut at all. In his trouble he carried it to the hired man. Robert
We'll soon fix that,' said Robert. 'Bun ind get a tin cup lull of water, and brim: it out to me at the grind-tone.'
'• Howard gladly ran for the water, and
in a few minutes was turning the grind-
with all his might, while Robert
held down the
I I sharp :i- ever in a few
minute,,' said Robert, turning it up and feeling the edge with his thumb; 'work away, my lad.1
'And Howard did work until h<- WIS
■hnoflt out of bn ith
I , I Robert. " It
good a- new now. You may chop any-
j thing you like with it, except your own
( toes.'
) '''I'll see what Mr. Log will say by
(' this time,' cried Howard, confidently.
) 'Thank you, Robert, for taking so much
I trouble.'
) " 'You're very welcome,' replied Rob-
) ert; 'but before you go, just stop and tell me how much a cord you're going to ask for chopping hickory.'
"Howard did not wait to answer Rob- ert's question, but ran to the wood-pile, where he began with all his strength cut- ting at the oak log again. One or two pretty good-sized chips flew off at the first few blows he gave; after that he thumped and pounded away till he was tired, but all he could do was to make some fresh dents in the wood, not another chip would come. He turned up the axe to look at its edge once more, and found it was duller than before Robert sharpened it. This time he carried it into the house to his father. His voice choked and trem- bled a little as he said,
" 'Just look at my new axe.' "His father took it to the window, where he would have more light to exam- ine it. 'My dear boy,' he said, 'this axe will never cut in the world. It is made of DOthing hut iron.'
"'Robert ground it for me,' said How- ard, 'and got a nice edge on it, and 1
thought it would cut.' " 'He might grind it every hour in the
day.' replied his father, 'and the first time you struck it against a piece of oak or hickory, it would he dull again. Don't you Bee how the edge Ul turned up ami
30
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
bent round, almost like a bit of lead? The man who made that axe did it to de- ceive. But,' he continued, seeing that Howard could hardly keep down the tears, ' do you take it to the blacksmith and say I want him to put a new edge on it. Ask him to do it this afternoon, if possible, and when it is done bring it to me.'
uOff ran Howard, as full of hope now as he was of disappointment before. The blacksmith lived only a little way down the road. Howard was soon at his shop ; he gave his father's message and handed over the axe. The man smiled as he took it.
" 'A pretty axe is that,' he said. Then he punched the handle out of it and laid it among the coals on the hearth. After blowing the bellows a while, he took it up with his long pincers and put it on the anvil. Here, with a hammer and chisel, he cut the dull edge entirely off. After that he laid it in the fire again. When it grew so hot as to be almost white, he took it out once more, and standing it on the anvil, split up the iron a little way, all along the side where the edge had been cut off. Into the cleft or opening thus made he put a thin piece of metal, which he said was steel.
"With his heavy hammer he pounded them till they were well joined or welded together. After this he heated the new steel edge till it was red hot (as red as a cherry), and plunged it into cold water to harden it. And once again he heated it, but not so hot this time, and dipped it in water to temper it, as he said, and made
it tough, so that it would not be brittle and break when he struck a hard blow with it. Last of all, he took it to the grind-stone and ground a keen edge on the steel.
' ' ' Now, ' said he, as he handed it back to Howard, 'you have a good little axe.'
"'I thank you very much,' replied Howard, "for doing it so quickly and so nicely for me. '
"Away to his father Howard ran, car- rying the axe upon his shoulder.
" 'Here it is,' he said, 'mended and all right.'
" 'Ah, this is quite a different thing,' replied his father, looking at it; 'the blacksmith has made a good job of it. You need not be afraid to chop oak or hickory now, because you have a good steel edge to do it with. '
' ' 'And what is the reason that steel is so much better than iron?' asked Howard. 'Why would not the iron edge do?'
" 'Because the steel is so much tougher and harder," replied his father. 'You see how hard wood dulls and bends over the edge that is made of iron ; but this steel edge will go right through that wood and not be much duller for doing it. '
" 'And have all the good axes steel in them?' asked Howard.
"'Yes,' replied his father; 'and all the knives, and scythes, and mowing ma- chines, and whatever is made to cut with. And not only these, but other things, which used to be always made of iron, are now being made of steel. Those long and heavy bars, or rails, with which rail- roads are laid, are now made of steel, be-
THE CHILDREN S HOUR. 31
cause they wear so much longer, yes, ( walk and you promised not to quarrel any twenty times longer, than iron rails. But > more, I said that you could not keep your be off, my boy. and try your axe, for I < promise unless you had something in your you are thinking more of that than ) hearts which was not there yet, or if any of my lecture on steel.1 > of it was, not near enough was there.
''It did not take Howard long to reach < Now the thing I meant was love. I am the wood-pile this time, and then he ; afraid you do not love each other as you found all that his father had said was I should."
true. He swung his little axe over his ) At this both the children were silent, head and brought it down with quick S while a guilty look came on their faces, blows to the right and left, and the chips ( for they felt that what their aunt said flew at almost every stroke. Soon the > was true.
ends of the log fell apart; he had chopped I "You have heard," she continued, it in two. ) "that although Howard's axe was sharp-
" After that he might often be seen ( ened, it did no good till the steel was in working at the wood-pile or roaming > it, for it was the steel that made it go through the woods with his axe. He J through the hard wood. And so, al- never found a log too hard for it ; some- < though you promise not to quarrel any times it would need grinding, but when ) more, it will do no good till you love each ground would keep its edge for a long ( other, for it is love which helps us to bear time and do its work well, if he was only ) the vexing things which try our patience careful not to ,>trike it against the stones } every day. And besides this, it takes or old nails. ( more to make us angry with those we
"And now, children," said Aunt Hetty, > love; we are not so easily provoked at. as they turned around to go home, "what c them."
i think of my Btory?" J "And how can we get this love?" asked
It is very interesting," replied Saidee, ) Saidee, in a gentle voice. •and I have learned a great deal from " Ask God to send it into your hearts," it." replied her aunt, ,( and while you ask for
•'And n hare 1 ." said Prank; "and I it, do only such things as will help to when I go to buy an axe, I mean to look bring it there." well and see that it has a steel edge." It was almost dark when they reached
"It is an important thing," replied home. While they sat on the porch for th<-ir aunt, "that you should know the an hour later, talking together and watch- difference between iron and steel. And ing the fireflies down in the meadow, bot well, Prank, that you should !»<• an unkind word was spoken. And fort
but this is not all whole week after that, during which Aunt
lated you to learn from my story. > Hetty's wisnt lasted, she could see every
VoU remember when we started on our day that the children were trying to follow
32
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
her good advice, and, she hoped, were learning truly to love each other.
THE SLEEP OF DEATH.
By Irene L-
" T)OOK Sarah Lee is dead," said a
J- child, coming in from school. There
was a shade of sadness on her young face.
"Oh no! Sarah Lee isn't dead," an- swered the child's mother, "but alive and happy."
"Why, mother! You haven't heard. Teacher told us about it. She died last night ; and we were all so sorry ! ' '
"What we call death," said the mo- ther, "is only rising into a new and higher life. The soul cannot die. It lives in this world for a little while in a body of flesh, such as you and I have. Then it puts off its poor body, as Sarah has done, and goes to live in a new and more beau- tiful world than this."
"Has Sarah gone to that world, mo- ther?"
"Yes, dear."
"But isn't it dreadful to die? Teacher said something about death being awful."
"There is nothing very awful in going to sleep, is there?"
"No. It's nice to go to sleep when you are tired."
"Death is only a sleep, from which we awake in another world. We sink away peacefully, everything fading from sight and thought, and so pass into the sleep of death. The terrors of which so many
speak are all imaginary. They have no existence. The sleep of death is calm, and sweet, and tranquil. Nature's tired child only lies down to rest for the last time; and then, after a quiet slumber, awakens to a new and happier life."
"And is that all?" said the child, won- deringly.
"That is all," the mother answered.
"And is there no dreadful darkness and awful pain?"
"No, dear. Only a sweet sleep and a peaceful awaking in the morning of our eternal life. It is not death of which we should be afraid, but sin that will make life, in the world to which we go by death, happy or miserable. Of that we should be much afraid. ' '
COUNTING BABY'S TOES.
DEAE little bare feet, Dimpled and white, In your long night-gown Wrapped for the night, Come, let me count all
Your queer little toes, Pink as the heart Of a shell or a rose.
One is a lady
That sits in the sun ; Two is a baby,
And three is a nun ; Four is a lily
With innocent breast, And five is a birdie
Asleep on her nest.
Mother at Home.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
oZ
THE BUTTERFLY.
THE butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can ping, An <1o the bee and bird ; Nor doe- it. like the prudent ant, Lay ap the grainfl for time of want — A wise and cautious hoard.
My youth is but a -uiiiiihi'- day ; Then, like tin- bee and ant, I'll lay A -;.>r<- of learning by;
And though from flower to flower I rove,
My -took of wisdom I'll improve, N<»r be a butterfly,
i tried and have not won,
N- 1 1 i op f(,r crying ;
All that's great and good i- done
.lu-t by patient trj ii If by easy work you beat,
Who tin- more will pilM yotl F Gaining victory from .!■
That'', the test that triei yon :
Vol. VI .,
LITTLE MISSIONARIES.
By Clio Stanley.
IN THBEE PARTS. PART FIRST.
SUSIE ELLIS had been at play all the morning, out in the sweet June sun- shine that shone so cheerily in the mea- dow. At length she was tired of play, as we all of US are at some time in our lives, and taking little May by the hand, sat down under the shade of the old willow tree that stood on the bank of the brook. It was a bright, happy little brook that went Binging on its way that summer morning, and a bright little face that W8* mirrored in its clear waves. The old tree.
too. was just in its perfection of -recti
and drooped its long branehrs down
to the mOSS underneath, until the little
trirls thought they bad found the nicest
place iii the world in which to ■
"Susie," -aid May, laying her head
down Softly in her B1SU r's lap. "do you
34 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
see those tiny, beautiful birds up there in ) there. The bees gather it all and put it the branches?" \ in their houses, and then we get it."
"Oh, those are not birds," said Susie, ) "Who makes the houses for the bees?" laughing; " those are bees. " > "Why, they build their own cells. I
"They've got wings though," said ( think that is the most wonderful part of May ; ' ' and they sing, too ; so I should ) it all ; but then God teaches them how to think they must be baby birdies. " (do it, May, and that is the reason it is so
"No," said Susie, shaking her head ? beautiful when it is done. " until all the little golden curls were in a > "Did I ever see them, Susie?" nutter of motion in the soft west wind. <; "Yes. Don't you remember the honey "No; papa said they were bees, and he j> on the table last night, and the white told me all about them. " \ comb that held it? That was part of
" Was it a story?" ) their house."
May was not four years old yet, and to \ "I think it must be nice to live in such
)
her mind a story was the best possible \ a house all full of honey," said May, amusement. > earnestly. "But what is that, Susie?"
"No; but it was better than a story, c she exclaimed in delight, pointing to a for it was all true. " ) huge, grayish bail in the grass at their
"Tell me, Susie." ] feet.
So Susie patted the round, rosy cheeks ) "That is a wasp's nest, but all the and put on a very wise air as she began : s wasps have gone away and we can look
"You see, May, the little bees fly about ( at it." among the flowers all day, just as we do; > So they sat down in the grass again,
and their wings do not get tired at all, as our feet do, because they don't do it for
and took the queer-looking nest in their laps, turning it over and over with curious
play, but are all the time at work." \ eyes and busy fingers.
"How do they work?" asked May, in- ) The birds sung sweet snatches of song credulously. ) over them in the tree, and the bees and
"Why, they gather honey from the ( the flies buzzed merrily about them, but flowers." ) for the, time all their thoughts were con-
"Can honey grow in flowers, Susie? I I centrated on the new discovery they had thought it was made in those pretty little ) made, white cups in the closet. " I "Oh, May," said Susie, suddenly,
"Oh, May, how funny! Honey couldn't ? "this is what mamma told us about the grow in cups. It takes all out-doors to ) other day, when she was talking to us make it; the cool wind has to blow in the ^ about the flies, and it is made of the little little blossoms, and the warm sun to shine ) flies wings. Just think of that, May ! in; the rain has to fall, too, when they I Some of those little flies that used to get thirsty, and by and by the honey is ? dance all last summer in the sun, and sit
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
85
on the lily-stems and nod to us, died, and their bits of wings are fastened together
'"I didn't hear mamma tell about that."
"You are so little you don't remem- ber; and I guess you and pussy were ■sleep that day; but I am six years old, and I don't forget what I hear."
'"What sticks the wings together, Su-
"I guess it must be something I don't know about. But just think how long they must have worked before they had a house to live in! You see they are as busy as the bees."
''Only I don't love them as well, be- cause they don't make anything for us. Do they?" she added, doubtfully.
"No, I guess not," said Susie, laugh- ing: " and they sting sometimes. I don't think I like them much either.''
Two or three years after that, Susie found out. in a book that told about a • many carious things, the real way in which wasps build their nests. How they pull off bits of old fences and ghreds from decaying logs, and working them all
ovi-r until they are soft ami moi8t, make
the paper-like substance of which their
ire made.
-J 1 1 ~ t then they heard the distant tinkle
of ;i bell, and Susie started to her feet,
and taking May by the hand, went out
from the shadow of the great tree, down
through the si to the pleasant
white bouse just in tight, with it- wide
porch and the cool, fresh-looking fines
if. for that was their la-
ther's house, and the bell they had heard was to summon them to dinner.
Some one stood waiting for them just outside the door, and the little girls both ran forward to greet dear mother with a kiss; but though Susie was the oldest and could run much the fastest, she did not let go of her little sister's hand, but guided her steps carefully until they reached the low steps, and then, with a shy smile at mamma, stood aside and let May get the first kiss. Mamma under- stood it all, though, and I think she gave Susie two kisses when her turn came.
Then they went in the house, sat down to the table with papa and mamma and had a nice dinner. A great bowl of milk with sweet bread and a baked apple, and afterward some of the nice rice-pudding mamma had made, quite satisfied the lit- tle girls, even after their long ramble; and when that was finished, May sat on her father's knee, looking at pictures, while Susie helped to clear off the table, for she was taught thus early to make herself useful, and not to let a day pass without doing some work.
The afternoon passed very quickly and happily away, for it was a holiday with Mr. Ellis, and the days when he could be at home with them were always welcome both to the little girls and to their
mother.
When the shadows began to creep over the porch, Mrs. Ellis told the children
tiny might eonie out on the lawn with
them, Mini perhaps they would be able to
find BOme new thing to talk about next day.
86
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"We can't find anything unless we go out the gate," said May, earnestly.
44 We shall see," said her father, and Mr. Ellis suddenly stopped under one of the apple-trees and holding May up, bade her pick two or three leaves.
She did as her father told her, but said, with a quaint little sigh of disappoint- ment, ''Leaves are not good to talk about, are they, papa?"
"Let us sit down on the seat here and see if we cannot discover something about leaves that you do not know. What grows first, Susie, the leaf or the tree?"
"The tree, of course, papa."
44 No, my daughter, you are mistaken. If you take the seed of any plant, or tree, and examine it closely with the aid of a glass, you would find it made up of a leaf, so folded and compressed as to baffle the careless eye. Even stems are but leaves tightly rolled, as you may see in any bulbous plant. Do you remember the great cactus mamma kept in the par- lor window last winter?"
4 'The one that has those great scarlet flowers that May loves so dearly?"
"Yes. Well, that whole plant is made of jointed leaves; and in a more common plant, which I think you have never seen, called butcher's broom, the stem itself changes into a leaf."
"Oh, papa, how curious! But does this tall tree start from a leaf?' '
Then as her father did not reply, she remembered and said, "Oh yes, you told us a seed was only a leaf. ' '
"That is right, Susie," said her mo-
ther, encouragingly; "always try to think for yourself."
"And now, Susie," he continued, "do you know how a gooseberry or a currant looks?"
"Yes, indeed; I can see them both when I shut my eyes."
"Well," said her father, smiling a little at Susie's pleasant conceit of recalling anything better with her eyes shut, "the skin of those fruits is a leaf grown to- gether to hold the pulp."
"That is new to me," said Mrs. Ellis.
"Oh, mamma," said May, opening her rosy lips at last, "I thought you knew everything!"
Susie laughed and papa leaned down and kissed the soft red cheek, saying, "We only live to learn, my pet, and none of us know everything."
Then he stripped away the green cover- ing from the veins of the leaves he held in his hand, and showed Susie how the leaf is only a picture of the larger tree ; how the branches of the tree follow the outline given by the veins in the leaves.
"Is it so in other trees, too, papa?''
"Yes, and each tree has a different leaf. There is a wonderful variety in them, just as much as there is in the flowers in your little garden."
"When you are a little older, Susie," said mamma, with a very loving glance at her little girl, "you shall help me make a bouquet of skeleton leaves, like the one we saw at Aunt Bertha's the other day."
"That will be very nice," said papa,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
37
"because then you can see illustrated what I have just said to you."
Little May's eyes were closing, like blue violets that shut at nightfall, and mamma said they must go in and finish their talk on some other holiday; and though Susie was wide awake, and her mind was reluctant to leave the int topic her father had started, she did not say a word, but went quietly in, and after kiting papa good-night, went up >tairs to her own little bed, for Susie had long ago learned the beautiful lesson of cheerful obedience. As Mrs. Ellis bent over May for a last look and kiss, she heard Susie add a few words, softly, to her usual evening prayer: ''Thank you, our good Father in heaven, for send- ing us so many little missionaries: the bees and the wasps, the squirrels and the green leaves too." So Susie's prayer gave me a name for this simple story.
THE PET MOUSE.
By Annie Moore.
ONCE there was a pussy-cat, and she liked mice very much. She liked thf-rii for breakfast, and for dinner, and
3he would rather ha mouse, any time, than ■ Dies eai
: big lump of lugar. But she bated teh them ; it was ao tiresome to nl still :it i mouse-hole, waiting for a little moil thought it
would bo very nice to bare a mouse-trap, end then the could go to ^1«< • j ► if she
wanted to, and while she was asleep the trap would catch them for her.
So she hunted about till she found a trap up in the attic, and she put it right before a mouse-hole, and then laid down and went to sleep, for she was very tired hunting for that trap.
In the morning the first thing she did, before she had even washed her face, was to look in the trap, and there she spied a nice, fat little mouse. His eyes were as bright and as black as they could be, and his fur was soft and shining, and his long tail came out between the wires. He was curled up in one corner of the trap, for he was frightened, and he had not eaten any of the bread pussy put in the trap. She was glad when she saw him, for she was very hungry, so she said,
"Come out as quick as you can, little mouse, for I am almost starved, and I want you for my breakfast I know you'll taste as sweet as a nut, if not sweeter;" and she smacked her lips.
He didn't say a word. He had been trying very hard to got out for an hour or two, because he wanted to go home. He only stepped in a moment to nibble a bit of bread, but when ho found he couldn't
get out, it took away his appetite, and not
a morsel could lie eat. But when pussy ■aid Bhe wanted t<> eat him for breakfast) he was glad he couldn't get out just at tli.it moment, and he truly hoped she couldn't get in. Bhe tried her best, thou li. snd rolled the trap about, first
with one paw and tlieo with the other, till
the little mouse was quite giddy. At last, when she found she could not get him,
38 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
scratched his nose quite badly. It was
very strange! While he was thinking
about it, pussy came back in good spirits.
"Well, my little dear," said she, "you
she spoke again, this time in a loud, sharp voice, and said,
"Come out, sir, this moment. Don't let me have to speak to you again. I dis- like to wait for my breakfast." ( told me you would like to go home."
Then the little mouse said, "If you ) "Yes, madam," said the mouse, please, madam, I'd rather not come out. ( "Very well," said pussy. "Never you I don't think I should like to be eaten for > mind about getting out. Just eat your breakfast, and your teeth are terribly \ breakfast while I wash my face, and then white and sharp, seems to me." ( I'll help you get out, if you'll promise to
"Certainly they are," said she. "IS play with me a little while before you go sharpened them to chew your bones." • ( home."
This made the little mouse tremble, he ; The mouse said he would play with her was so frightened. ( if she would promise not to eat him, and
"Will you come out or not? Yes or > he would try to eat his breakfast, though No," said pussy. ) he had no appetite. Pussy didn't prom-
"To tell the truth," said the mouse, < ise not to eat him, but while he sat down "I can't come out. I only came in for a ) to a piece of bread and butter, she washed moment, and I have been trying ever ( her face very carefully, and both of her since to get out, and I can't do it. They'll ) ears, and both of her paws. Then she expect me home, and be worried about ( asked him if he had finished his breakfast me." ( and he said he had; so she sat a moment
"Indeed!" said pussy; "we'll see ) with her head on her paw to consider the about that by and by. I must have my < best way of getting the trap open. In a breakfast, and I'll go and see what I can ) few minutes she said, "A hair-pin!" So do with Bridget." s she ran down to her mistress' room, and
So she went to the kitchen and mewed \ soon came back with a long, sharp hair- around until she made Bridget almost \ pin.
crazy ; so she left her work and gave her a ( "I feel sure, ' ' said she, ' ' that something saucer of milk and ever so much cold > can be done with this, if we can only think mutton, and she had a glorious breakfast. ( what, for my mistress does almost any- When she came back to the little mouse \ thing with a hair-pin. She can bore holes she was in the best possible humor. While ( with it, and button her boots with it, and she was gone he had been all over the trap ? snuff a candle with it, and I don't know as much as twenty times. He certainly > what she can't do with it." came in through a nice, convenient little ( So she took the hair-pin in her teeth door, but where was that door now ? ) and picked at the wires with it in different Nothing but wires on every side, and in ( places, but it didn't seem to do any good; some places sharp wires, like pins, that > and then she handed it to the little mouse,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
and he tried and he couldn't seem to do anything. So by and by they gave it up, and she Bat down again with her head on her paw to consider.
uOh, I know!" said she. "Strange I didn't think of it before. The cork-screw, of course. ' ' So she went down again, and itlv cam.' back with the cork-screw. The little mouse was frightened when he saw that, for he was afraid she was going to draw him out of the trap with it, but she only worked at the wires without success. They tried many experiments, and at last pussy was so tired that she was obliged to stretch herself out in the sun and take a nap, and the little mouse took a nap at the same time. When pussy woke up she was very hungry, so Bhe began to think of eating the little mouse again. But he said to her, " I'm not a- fat as you think, madam. Et'i only thai my fur ia bo thick. 'i keep me for a pet."
%,I don1! know about that," said pussy.
II iwever, I'll think of it." Bo Bhe went down to the dining-room, and luckily they irere just finishing dinner, and her mistn her plenty to eat While
■he was eating le-r dinner. Bhe made np
her mind that she would keep the mouse
for a pet < )th»T people bad pets, and
why shouldn't she? There be was all
to her hand paw, I mean. In that
• bing was to feed him, of eour-. •: bo Bhe carried him ■ pieee of
rod Borne bread. He was
triad to have hi- dinner, and particularly
glad that ihe was willing to keep him, for be thought if he had i little more time, he might get away perhaps. She was
very kind to him. now she had made up her mind to it.
"My little pet," said she, "did you en- joy your dinner? Are you fond of sweet potato? Is there anything else you would like?" And she praised his looks. "What an eye you have!" said she; "as bright as a star. How beautifully your whiskers grow! How gracefully you wave your tail!"
This would have turned the little mouse's head but for one thing, and that was that every time pussy was hungry she talked about eating him again. That kept him from being too much elated by her praise. But she was very kind to him.
"Poor little creature!" said she, "you can't sleep on that hard floor;" and she rushed down to the nursery and came back in less than two minutes with one of little Joe's mittens. "There, take that," said .-he.
So the little mouse took it. It was soft and woolly, and he scratched it up a little and made himself a very nice bed in one comer of the trap. Indeed, it was a much nicer bed than the one lit' had at home, only "there's no place like home." of course.
Matters went OH in this way for two or three days. Pussy loved her little pet dearly when she was not hungry, and when Bhe wa- hungry she loved him still, hut -he wanted to eat him. Sometimes -he rolled the trap over and over to try to gel him out, and sometimes she brought
him nice dinner-, of bread and ehee-e. and
once even a pieee of cake. Sometimes the little mouse was contented, and tome-
40
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
times he was terribly homesick, and tried to get away. But at last, one day after dinner, pussy was sitting by the trap and Bridget came to the attic for something.
"Blissid Saint Pathrick," said she, "there's a mouse!" and she ran away.
But then she saw pussy by his side, and she came back.
"Poor pussy," said she, "do you want to ate him?"
So she carefully opened the trap and let
him out on the floor for pussy to catch ; but he ran right straight into his hole, without turning to the left or to the right, and pussy didn't even try to catch him.
Then the little mouse looked out of his hole and said, "Good-bye, Madam Pussy. Thank you for your kindness to me, but I am glad you were not hungry when I came out, or you would have eaten me, I am afraid, after all." "Like enough," said Pussy. ' ' Good-bye. ' '
ANOTHER PORTRAIT.
IN the May number of The Children's Hour we gave you the portrait of a little girl who lives away over the sea. We told you that we knew it to be a por- trait, because it was engraved from a photograph taken from life, which we
had bought among other photographs just received from Germany.
Well, here is the portrait of another little German girl. Just as you see her in the picture did she stand while the photo- grapher set his instrument and took her likeness. Wouldn't she be surprised if this number of the Children's Hour should find its way over the sea and into her home !
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
AUGUST, 1869
THE WILL FOR THE DEED.
By M. O. J.
IbfUST ' ' 1 kings;
there*! a basket fall thia week." mother raid thia in :i wearied way. Th« Kttle A'irl iraa playing in her room, and began to think about helping
| VI— *
"Where are they?" she asked.
'" In the Bitting-rOOm," the mother ;m
awered, and thought no more about it.
An hour later Bhe went down ataira.
There rat Jenny in the large arm-chair by the open window, the basket on the table before her, and ber little Angara very buay.
".Mother.'' she -.iid, looking up with
a bright .smile, "yon had twelve pailD
11
42
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
of stockings and I've done six of them."
Jenny had given up a whole hour's play to help and relieve her mother; but she was a very little girl, and she had made a mistake. She sewed the holes over and over. And as she meant to do her best, the stitches were close and tight. Her mother knew it would be at least half an hour's work to rip them out, but she would not disappoint the loving heart by letting her know she had not fully succeeded. She said only, "Well, you're a dear, good little girl, and now you may run out and play."
Away went Jenny, very happy in the thought that she had helped and pleased her mother. And she had ; for the kind- ness and love she had shown were more precious to that mother's heart than gold, and lightened her care. Pleasant thoughts kept her company and made her needle move faster.
All of us, little folks and grown folks, are liable to make mistakes, even when we really try to do right. But the love of Christ is only shadowed forth faintly by that mother's love. He, too, takes the will for the deed ; counts whatever is done out of love as done to him, and sees that no true effort is lost, but makes it to do good some time, some way, whether we see it or not.
A child, in reply to the question, "Where is your home?" replied, look- ing at her mother, "My home is where mother is."
TERRACE RIDGE.
A SEQUEL TO "HOPE DARROW.'
By Virginia F. Tovjnsend.
CHAPTER II.
IF I could only tell you all that hap- pened jn the weeks which followed that afternoon at the stage-driver's ! But as people who walk through a picture gallery have to pass by a great many beautiful paintings and only stop to gaze here and there, so I must pass by a great many scenes where I cannot pause even to take breath. There was the morning, for instance, when Lewis went away. Oh, such a different one from the going away into the wide, strange, lonely world, which it would have been if Oreighton Bell had never jumped off the cars at Salmon Head!
I walked up the lane and past the bridge where I had sat so long ago wait- ing for him in the low October sunset. A little way beyond the road forked, and on the right was the turnpike where the stage was to pass; and we had come out to meet it, because I wanted to be with Lewis as long as I could. Oh, what a morning that was! The June blossoms filling the air with their wonderful sweet- ness, the grasses and their dews, the sing- ing of the birds among the leaves, and all the fresh brightness, and coolness, and beauty coming out of the night, were like the light and joy in my heart, which had come so lately out of a great dark.
"Oh, Lewis, here the time has really
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
43
come that I've dreaded so long, and you are going away from me and I cannot feel badly, although I suppose I ought
"No, you ought not, either." He looked at me a moment "Ah, Polly Prim, this isn't the sort of face I remem- ber last week — the face that it seemed would break my la-art to go away and leave it," taking my chin in the hollow of his hand.
''Those were dreadfully dark times, Lewis," clinging to him with a sudden memory of all the old misery.
"You kept my heart up, Hope, when it would have broken down utterly. You were just like a dear little brown thrush singing through the darkness and the snow."
"Oh, that's a new name. Lewis! Brown thrush. But did I really do so much as that for you?"
It so much. Hope."
We caught the rumble of distant wheels at that moment I knew them. "There, - coming!" and the great, flap- ping leather curtains and the bright red vehicle came in sight
"Oh, how much \ «>u" II ha
i ti, and to tell me, Lewis ! How I shall want to hear I"
.1 write yon • long letter; and
ister," for John
Brail • - bad tamed into the
turnpike, and bis gruff, good oatured
Halloa, folks, there 1" broke in amongst the singing of th<- birds
i darling Lewis I I bnrt ■ littl it, but the pain
was not deep. "I feel sure God will take care of you."
He sprang into the stage, the driver cracked some old joke and his whip to- gether for a good-bye, my brother waved his hat as he rolled off through the morn- ing air sweet with the breath of briar- rose and meadow-clover, and Lewis had at last gone out into the great world.
I went up home through the lane alone, skipping and dancing, and wishing I could fly away and do nothing but sing off in the wide blue sky and the tops of the tall trees, just as the birds did, I was so restless, and excited, and happy. All of a sudden I stopped still and said to myself: "Now, see here, Hope Darrow, this will never do. You've got some sense left, and you know you're not a bird, and it's no use wishing you could live like one. You've got something else to do in the world, and it's a shame to go idling and dreaming about, and wondering what is happening to Lewis, and thinking about the letter that's to come. You must set right about your studies every day. as though nothing had happened, for you know about the 'little busy bee," and all that, and that youth is the time, and that ( Some now."
Mrs. Brainerd met meat the door with some curiosity in leu- face. IJ.ith Bhe and her husband had Bhown a wonderful in- teresl in our good fortunes.
"Well, Hope, yon take your brother's
off pretty coo] after all, don't you?"
"Oh ye-. Mrs. Brainerd; I'm going bo
buckle ri-'ht down to my DOOks, a- though
Lewis would hear my lessons erery eight
44 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
I promised him that before he went \ the face of my little sister as I saw it that away." \ last morning, smiling up at me on the
"Well, you're true grit, child. I \ turnpike." reckon it's in the Darrow blood." S Right here, I remember, the lines all
It was a couple of weeks before the ^ ran together, and I had to stop and wipe long-promised letter came. I had scraps ) my eyes before I could see clearly to go of notes and messages from Lewis when ( on.
the stage went from Salmon Head to ) "I have had a good time here, Hope: Terrace Tavern, and I knew matters were ) take it all in all, the best time I ever had going on smoothly with my brother, and ( in my life, although at first I felt shy and I tried not to be impatient, and I kept at / awkward among all the strange, grand my studies harder than ever, and at last, \ city people ; but that feeling has worn off one morning, John Brainerd put the let- ) now, at least a good deal, ter in my hands with a chuckle of satis- > "I've got to work, and I tell you it's faction. ( better than the old saw-mill. I think
"I've had it over night," he said, "but ) I've found my place, Hope, and that I you was a-bed when I got home, and I ( was cut out for an architect. Oh, the concluded it wasn't the sort of stuff that ) bridges, and the arches, and the arbors, would spile afore morning." ( and the porches, and the columns in
Oh, that letter! I went off with it by ( which my soul takes chiefest delight! myself, and — would you believe I was such ) But I should grow hot to the tips of my a goose — my fingers shook so it was just < ears, if I were to tell you half the fine as much as they could do to open it. S things the gentleman who is planning
"My dear little Brown Thrush: If { Mr. Fairfax's grounds said about me the my long letter has been late in coming, < other day:
it is not because I have not been writing ( " 'Young Darrow catches my ideas in you one every day in my thoughts. It ( an instant. Give him the men, and a seems as though it was years ago since I ) few outlines, and he will carry out my saw you standing in the road that sum- < plans. That boy's got the stuff in him. ' mer morning with your hat in your hand ) "I overheard all this, and I might a and the smile in your eyes. \ good deal more, only a fellow couldn't
"Ah, Polly Prim, I brought that pic- <- listen, you know. hire all the way from Salmon Head, and S "And now, Hope Darrow, open your I have it still, and I think I shall carry it ( blue eyes as wide as possible, for next with me as long as I live, even if I should ) week you are coming out here to see for be an old, old man and carry a staff, and \ yourself what I cannot tell you. Creigh- the little, round, sweet face should be all > ton Bell has settled the whole matter, puckered up with wrinkles, and the shin- > and when he sets about a thing he gen* ing hair should all be white like frosts, < erally puts it through.
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
45
"It will all seem like a new world to you, with the flocks of city folks and the gayety and excitement of* one sort and an- other.
"But you will get used to city folks and city ways in a little while, and Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax will let you do just as you like; and there are two people that will do something more than that, and one is your brother, and I need not name the other.
"We have jolly times— Creighton Bell and I. We go off riding, boating, fish- ing; and he is a trump! He has nothing to do but enjoy himself, and it's 'Lewis, we'll be off here,' and 'Darrow, I've got a plan for to-morrow;' and I'm in for them all, only some folks' bread and but- ter won't come without earning it, but that makes it all the sweeter in the end.
"Mr. Fairfax paid me a quarter's salary in advance this morning. It was 90 thoughtful ami kind that I actually made ilar bungle at thanking him. I like him and hit wife, who 18 a very fine lady; Mid after all. I don't just want my little Hope to be that.
hart of the money for you, Polly Prim. You'll be wanting some new - for your visit
"Mr. Brainerd will bring you over in the Btage. I (rill be on hand to meet yon.
"Ah. little sister, I want. • q
leaning out. between the old ii
Di with just the wistful, eager look
when I was coming home
(rem the saw-mill. Ah. you don't know
how often JOS hav<- put. In ait and hope
into me in those days; and oh, Hope, though they seemed so tough, and long, and dark, yet I begin to think they've made some sound timber out of what might otherwise have proved pretty scrubby stuff when you came to try it, as everything has to be tried in this world; and that the old saw-mill wasn't so bad a school, after all.
"And now, my little singing-bird, not of sunny days and sweet spring blossoms, but of storms and snows, come to
"Your brother,
"Lewis."
I don't know, I am sure, how this let- ter would read to a stranger, but it seemed to me that in all the world no lit- tle girl had ever such a letter before, so wise, so tender, so beautiful. I read it over until at last I could have said every word without so much as looking once on the page.
Then, too, this wonderful letter held something besides all its brave, loving words, and that proved to be three hank notes — two tens and a five: all that to he spent on "fine feathers" when I should go to Terrace Ridge]
"Hope Darrow, you'll be dressed like a queen," I said, going down at last, with the money in my hand, to consult Mrs. Brainerd, who Would be in her element. now there was some more money to he
spent
Bil weeks had passed, and the sum- mer and the autumn were about to meet and ki-s each other with their own full, still, golden ki-s of peace. Sueh a
46 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
thought came across me one morning ) grand talk of that sort, while I had noth- when I stood on the verandah of the cot- ( ing to remember but just Salmon Head, tage-villa at Terrace Ridge, and I just > thirty miles away.
said to myself, "Hope Darrow, are you ) All this time Lewis was as busy as he the same little girl that used to go shiver- \ used to be at the old saw-mill. That boy ing down the road to the saw-mill every ) put his soul into whatever he did, and afternoon, in your plaid shawl, to meet ;; there were half a dozen workmen to carry your brother?" ) out his sketches and designs of one sort
Those six weeks had gone swiftly and > and another, smoothly, as days go in beautiful dreams. ? All these were Greek to me, of course, I had been for five of them at Terrace > but Mr. Fairfax was full of the improve- Ridge. Oh, such happy, funny, wonder- ( ments also, and the two passed hours to- ful times! I cannot begin to tell you. ) gether every day, talking over their Such happy, crowded, bustling days! ) bridges and roads, and ponds and arbors; Something going on all the while, and ) so I was left a good deal to myself, or to life one long, bright, merry holiday! ) Creighton Bell, or Mrs. Fairfax, who
There were constant inroads of com- ? used to declare, with a little frown, at pany, for it was now the height of the ) least two-thirds in earnest, that Dick had season, and Terrace Tavern was fairly \ been good for nothing as a husband since choked with company, and so were all the > he'd got that crotchet of improving the little cottages which the city people had s grounds in his head. For her part, she built on the banks of the lakes and up > wished he would leave the land just the among the hills. S wilderness that he found it.
It used to seem to me that the garden ^ But I had learned already that Mrs. of Eden, when Adam and Eve walked ) Pauline Fairfax said a great many things through its fresh beauty, could not have $ at one time which she did not mean at been fairer than this country about Ter- } another.
race Ridge. The mountains in the dis- ') The lady's voice came out to me now, tance, like vast green tents pitched by \ through the long open window, as I stood unseen hosts, the lakes like laughing dim- ) on the verandah.
pies at the foot of the hills, the mists that r> "Oh, Creighton," as her brother en- shone every morning across the valleys / tered the room, "you are just the indi- like Jason's golden fleece, about which ) vidual I've been in search of. I have Lewis read me when I was sick, made one ) engaged to lunch at the Pines, and I great enchanted picture of that whole ) want you should row me over this morn- country-side. Everybody went into rhap- •> ing."
sodies over the scenery, and compared it ) "Where's Dick, Pauline?" with Switzerland and Wales, and little J, "Dick! As though there could be but nooks of Alpine scenery; and I drank in ) one answer. He is riding that new hobby
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
■17
of building a winding staircase down the rocks to the glen, and he's oft' with young Darrow to inspect the land, and I'm just left to shift for myself. You must carry me over, Creighton."
""You must wait an hour or two first,
Pauline; there's a darling! I'm going to
Hope Darrow a ride on horseback."
"• I know what your horses are, Creigh- ton, and I can't wait for them. We are to have a pie-nio under the trees, and I most start within half an hour."
"I say you're too bad, Pauline. Let somebody else row you over."
"There's nobody to do it. John is too stupid to handle an oar. You will have to go, Creighton."
"• You talk as though I were a two-year old at your knee, Pauline. I tell you there will be lots of time after I've taken • ut." And I tell you there won't, and I think yon are most disobliging to your sister, Creighton Hell, to suggest such a thin.
\nd I think you are most unreason- to expect that everybody
wiil sacrifice their plans and comforts to your wanf< and whim-."
I >wn raised and angry
•-()li dearl" I thought to myself, ling on tin- verandah, '"how I do
Wish be would take hei in the boat with- out another word! Lewii and I Direr
talk to etcfa Other in that way;" and I
forgot I was listening, but I remem- : ir afterward, wondering how I could
ittetl to walk Straight away, for
listening to other people's talk seems to me very much like stealing one's purse. In either case, you take what does not- honestly belong to you; but it is solemnly true, I never thought what I was doiiiLr, for if it had flashed across me, I do not believe the round world held gold enough to keep me on the verandah that morn- ing.
"Creighton, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk to me in that style," said Mrs. Fairfax, her quick, temper — I think it was in the Bell blood — now thor- oughly aroused. '"That Darrow boy and girl seem to have driven everybody else out of your head since they came here. Of course you will do as you like, as you always have done ; but, naturally, your taste a little surprises me."
The tones were soft and steady now. but there was a sharper sting in them for that very thing. To think anybody so sweet and lovable could be so hard and hitter!
"You- needn't sneer about them. I'll match Lewii Darrow against a legion of your fine city chaps with their airs and
affectations. 1 fe's one of Nature's noble- men to the oore; and as for that little Hope, if Nature didn't make a lady of
her from the beginning, I don't know the
stulV When I see it."
"It may he so. I don't dispute' it.
Creighton." Could such a sneer lurk in such silvery tones? "Only one is not apt
to find BUCh choice qualities among >aw
mills and stage-drn i
■• Pauline \'» il Fairfax ! T would not
have believed you could doccnd to any
48
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
thing so contemptible!" There was a noise at the window, and the next mo- ment Creighton burst right out of the room and confronted me on the verandah. The angry flush in his cheeks went down in a look of dismay: "Oh, Hope!"
I made a swift sign to him not to be- tray my presence to Mrs. Fairfax, and darted off the piazza and down the walk with only one thought, and that was to get somewhere all alone.
Creighton Bell hurried after and over- took me. His hand caught my flying steps and held me fast. "Hope," his face full of grave anxiety, "did you hear what — what we said just now in the par- lor?"
"Yes, Creighton. I did not mean to listen. I forgot everything. I don't know how I came to stand still there."
"It was outrageous ! It was a burning shame of Pauline!" he cried, more an- grily even than he had spoken in the house.
"Oh, don't say that; don't, Creighton. Do go right back and row her over to the Pines."
"Catch me doing that, Hope! You and I will go off on our ride and have a jolly time, and forget all about this mis- erable affair. Come."
"Oh, Creighton, thank you, but I cannot go: I should be unhappy all the time. If you will go back to your sister and carry her over to the Pines. Please now."
"She doesn't deserve it, Hope; and how can you, of all others, ask me, re- membering what she said?"
I had to gulp down something in my throat before I answered: "But she is your only sister, Creighton, and it seems so dreadful. Lewis and I have our little quarrels sometimes, but not like that."
A change came across Creighton Bell's face: "Pauline and I are not like Lewis and you, Hope; and then she was so ag- gravating."
"Yes, I think she was; but she had set her heart on going, you know, and it was very provoking to have me stand in the way. We will have our ride this afternoon ; but do go now and make up."
"It's a hard lump to swallow, but if you can stand what she said, I can."
"People say a good deal more than they mean when they are angry, you know."
"So they do: that's sensible. Pauline and I are of that sort. I'll go back. Hope."
He shook hands, and I went off to the little rustic arbor choked up among the vines. I tried to put all which I had heard out of my thoughts, and resolved never to tell Lewis; but, for all that, those words of Mrs. Fairfax hurt me; yes, they really hurt me a great deal. [to be continued.]
Be careful to injure no one's feelings by unkind remarks. Never tell tales, make faces, call names, ridicule the lame, mimic the unfortunate, nor be cruel to in- sects, birds or animals.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR,
THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WANTED TO BE A HEROINE.
By
LITTLE K:ity was in a brown study. stood leaning over the table, her : in her hand an<l tier elbow on the doted book ihe bad jnat been reading.
Katy \va- quite B littlfl student, though only I in old, and had read all
about, a gratl many women who had done wonderful things and were called hero- And she WBI thiokiog that she
would hk' i heroine too. She
thought bow aiee it would be to be a general and have all theaoldien following and obeying ber, while ahe led then right
on to victory, like. Joan of Arc; and li.avtr
all the people laying there was never ■nnfa a wonderful woman before. Or, if
Vui.. V[. 7
there would only be a very wicked king, who made slaves of all the people, what a grand thing it would be to kill him and set the country free. But suppose she should be arrested and condemned to death. On the whole, she rather liked the idea, it would make her heroism so much the greater. She would ascend the scaffold with such dignity, dreeeed all in
white, and her hair in long, flowing curls, and make such an affecting address to the people, that her death would he the crown- ing act of heroism, and they would have her photograph for sale in all tin' store windows; and there would he an ''extra." telling how '-the executioner with the fatal axe" — but stop! they don't cut off heads in this country ; they hang people
instead; and, conic to think of it, she
didn't think she would like to he hung.
Besides, there were iii) kingi here.
50 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Why could she not live on the sea-shore > ran away at the top of her speed, calling and, like Grace Darling, save some one's ^ for help. Luckily the water was not life in a terrible storm? or rush into a ) deep; a man chanced to be near at hand burning dwelling and rescue some one I and Mary was soon rescued from her un- from the flames? Oh, if she only had > pleasant situation. The fright and the some chance of doing some wonderful' ) chill, however, were almost too much for thing, she was sure she would be so bold, < the little one, who was a delicate child, and brave, and strong, and everybody £■ and she was carried shivering home, ac- would hear of her and praise her! ( companied by her scarcely less agitated
I do not know how long she might } sister, have thought the matter over, if her little ) When Katy had time for thought, she sister Mary had not called her to go out ( was seized with dismay, when she re- and play with her. Katy was only a lit- ) membered that the longed-for opportu- ne girl, after all, and, in spite of her se- ( nity for the display of heroism had come cret ambitions, was always quite ready to > and she had let it pass. That night, after play. ( Katy had gone to bed, her mother found
It was a beautiful day in May. The < written in the little journal which she air was soft and mild; the grass was ; kept, though she was only eleven years sprinkled with dandelions; buttercups ( old, the following:
looked saucily up into your face on every ) "Oh dear I shall never be a Heroine hand, while in every sheltered nook vio- > after all and I wanted to be one so bad lets opened their blue eyes. With the > and was wishing I had a Chance, but love which little children always have for $ when I had a Chance I Forgot and I am flowers, they wandered on, gathering the ( afrade I allways shal. I guess the Best brightest and fairest they met, until their ) thing I can do is to try and be a Good lit- hands were full. They came to the brook, < tie girl and may be that will do just as and standing on the bridge, they leaned } well even if people doant talk about me." over the railing and watched the shoals ( Now the spelling of this was not just of fishes flashing hither and thither in ) as it should be, as you see; and the capi- the water beneath, and followed with ) tals were some of them in wrong places, their eyes the water-spiders darting back ( and she sometimes forgot to punctuate; and forth on the surface of the stream. ) for, though Katy was quite a little scholar,
But the bridge was old and the railing ( she did not know everything yet. rotten, and the end against which Mary > However, mother was very well pleased was leaning gave way, and she fell, with a > with what she read, startled scream, into the water below. < Mary had a fever all night, and the When Katy saw her sister in the stream ) next, day, although better, she was cross she was beside herself with terror. She < and fretful, and required constant atten- cried and wrung her hands, and finally < tion. But Katy was very patient, and
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 51
did everything she could think of to ) took up the book she had been reading please and amuse her sister. She read ( the day before and went out of the room, her long stories until she was tired of lis- ) determined to put the thought of the tening. and then brought her flowers. ) new magazine entirely out of her mind. She even loaned her her beautiful wax ; She soon became interested in a story of doll, with real hair, and eyes that would ) womanly heroism, and when it was fin- open and shut — Katy's greatest treasure, I ished she unconsciously fell into nearly that Mary was scarcely allowed to touch ) the same attitude of the day before, her on other day.-. J elbow resting on the table and her chin in
Papa came home to dinner, and brought ( her open palm. But her thoughts wen- — what? If you had heard the cry of ) different from yesterday's. There wnv delight, and seen the caper of joy, you c no plans now for doing wonderful things, would have known it was something Katy ) only a humble consciousness of how ut- prized very much; and she was only a ( terly she had failed.
little girl after all, and when anything ? She was startled by a hand being placed pleased her she was very apt to show it. ) on her head, and the voice of her mother The treasure which papa brought was a ( saying: number of The Children's Hour, which > "My little heroine, Mary is asleep and
rly looked for and warmly wel- ( you can have your new book now." coined each month. Katy gladly seized ( Katy looked up questioning]?, half be- lt and sat herself down and began cutting \ lieving her mother was making fun of the leaves, intending to have a quiet, ( her. Her mother saw the look and un- happy hour reading the stories and look- ^ derstood it.
ing at the pictures. Bat Mary, with out- ( "Yes, my child," she added, "you stretched hands, cried for the book. A ) have shown yourself quite a little hero- - word roes to Katy's lips and, we ) ine this afternoon. If you had jumped are.- aped them; hut then > into the water yesterday to try t<> help
she remembered that her little sister was ) your sister, it would have been very Fool
ill, and, with a lingering look, sin.' gave j ish, for then there would have been tWO
the- magasine to Mary, who, with the. to pick out and dry, and may bje to nurse,
iokness, would not let her But in denying yourself to gratify your
rlook at the book with her. A tear sick Bister yon bays shown yourself truly
-hone in !. a and her lip quivered, heroic."
lor -he did BO Ion- to BOS ami read. But ) —*-, ^ -- •-
1 back both tie- tear
and th<- -oh. and tat down patiently to j • l/>nii." -aid a little visitor, "what
ihould be done. But she makes your kitty so cross?"
ia long time, and her sister made '■. uOh, 'cause sin- is cutting teeth, 1
no offer of lmvmil' it up. \ i."
52 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
MABEL'S STORY. ) or stranger." An' of course grumpa
( knows best.
By May Leonard. £ I'm good too. I say my prayers every
C night, an' I think what the words mean,
I'M a big girl, not five years old, an' > an' I only open my eyes once till I get I'm goin' to tell my own story. Aunty ) through 'em clear to amen. I just open writes it down an' I tells it. < my eyes once to see if aunty's are open,
To go way back to the beginning. Six ) for she puts me to bed an' tells me to years ago Mabel — that's me — was a baby, i shut my eyes an' think what I'm sayin', I don't exactly merember how she looked ) an' I do.
or what she was mostly thinking of, ;. I sit still in meetin' always, unless I though I've heard a great deal 'bout that .; want a drink, or to reach a fan, or Bible, time, for I was so little then, you see, an' > or hymn-book, or my boots hurt, or I babies are so ignorant. '( want to see something better than I can
First I'll tell you my name — Mabel / in my own seat in the pew. I don't Weston, though grumpacalls me "Dolly," \ never kick my heels 'gainst the pew nor an' Uncle Will calls me "Blossom," an' \ swing the door now-a-days. sometimes I'm "Queeny," "Mother ) I love my darling uncle Will, an' he Budget," "Birdie," an' lots of other ('most always has some candy for me when names. Once they called me "Babel," ) becomes home from town. I like to go 'cause I called myself so when I couldn't ( an' meet him.
say "Baby Bell;" and they all thought ? I love aunty too, an' her an' me have my name was a good one. ) the grandest times together in the pantry
I've lived a good while, an' done a < when she skims the milk, good deal, an' seen a great many things. ) I've got a dear little calf with a white I know ever so much too. I've heard N nose as cold as can be, an' a blue ribbon 'em say so when they thought I was play- ) round its neck, ing with my dollies. \ We have eighteen chickens. I know
"It's really s'prisin'," says grumpa, / it's eighteen, 'cause three times nine an' "how much Mabel knows, sayin' oif her ; twice six are both eighteen; or is it twice little verses so pretty, an' readin' like a — < nine and three times six? I've learned it like a magpie." ) once, any way, an' I merember that it
"She's an uncommon child," says < was when aunty was eighteen she first grumma. £ took care of buying her own clothes.
"No," says aunty; "onlyagrunchild." ) Grumpa owns lots an' lots of land —
"'Tisn't that," says grumpa, real ( corn-fields, meadow-pastures an' great quick. "Mabel can jump rope, read, ) fields of waving grass, higher than I am. recite, knit, sew or run better than any ( Rover an' I go out an' play hide-an- li t tie girl ever I knew, child, grunchild > seek in the coin, an' get beautiful green
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
53
silk. Rover is grumpa's dog, an' he an' me play together often. He never ate me up in his life, though he barks at beggars an' growls over a bone.
Gruinpa has clucks an' geese too, but I don't like 'em. They hiss at me just as if they were making fun of me, an' when I sit on the door-step to eat a cake, they gobble it right out of my hands before I can stop 'em.
I can say "Hug me closer, closer mother," "Twinkle, twinkle," "Hush, my dear," an' ever so many more pieces.
I've made two bags an' seven squares of patchwork, an' — don't tell, it's a se- cret; only aunty knows — I am making a mat for mammal It's blue, an' green, an' red, an' yellow, an' every other color; an' it's real pretty, only the ends of the wonted will stick out an' show, so that both sides look like the wrong side.
Once in a while I get so tired of being good that I am naughty, but I'm 'most always sorry an' never do so again. One dap Bridget left a pail of water on the window-sill in mamma's room. I peeped out of the window just as aunty peeped !' the oim: below, an' I thought how funny 'twould be to let the water pour down on to her head, an' how nice an'
'twould feel, an' how b' prised she'd
1 could only just tip the pail an' down down it went, an', oh dear I it didn't seem funny one bit. I couldn't see the water fall, an' aunty got cold an' I a whippin', an' that was tin- end.
been hav- ing a nice time, thai Fve been drefful
naughty, when I didn't know it
Once I met a girl an' she asked me to go to her house to play. I never saw her before, but she was bigger than me, so 1 went.
Her house wasn't a nice house; her mother didn't look pretty nor very clean, but I had a good time. We took off our stockings and gaiters — or I did; Bhe hadn't any on her feet — an' waded in the pond. I caught some nice little polly- wogs an' tied 'em up in a handkerchief of mamma's, an' a mud-turtle that I put to bed in my hat. Then she helped me into a tree an' I tore my gown. I was sorry, 'cause it happened to be my best ; but we had a grand time eating peaches. They were green an' didn't taste a bit good, but we liked 'em 'cause they were peaches. Aunty had lent me her pretty gray veil an' we took it for a net to fish with. We caught ever so many frogs: it was such fun to see 'em jump! but at last, when I was laughing the most. one jumped right into my mouth, an' 1 didn't laugh any more.
When 1 was tired of playing I started to go home, but my clothes were all wet an' muddy, mystookings an' gaiters were drefful soiled, an' I couldn't find my polly wogs, handkerchief or aunty's veil, an' I
felt so I cried,
The girl's mother told me not to en
an' gave me a orange, an' I thought I'd give it to mamma an' tell her I didn't mean to spoil my things or lose 'em. Be lore I got home I was so thirsty an1 the orange looked se niee I thought I'd tak<-
a little of the juice, an' then 'twould be
just a- big to give mamma. I s'p<
54 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
orange was 'bout as good without the ( speak to me. I couldn't never tell 'em juice; but I'm afraid I took all there was, ( apart.
for mamma threw it away. An' oh, how ( Once I went out on the ocean in a ship she talked to me ! ^ an' sailed all day an' night. I liked sail-
I'd only thought of having fun; but, ( ing, an' I should have had a nice time if dear me! mamma told me of so many > I hadn't been sick. I'm 'most always naughty things I'd done I was afraid I (, well, an' I wish I hadn't happened to be should ne.ver be forgiven; but I was. I ) sick just then; but 'twas just the way was so sorry, an' haven't never done so £ with everybody there. Aunty says 'twas again, 'specially not having seen that girl ( sailing made us sick, but I'm 'most sure since. >' she's mistaken.
Aunty thinks it's 'most too bad to tell ( Nothing else great ever happened to 'bout my being naughty my own self, > me, 'cept my little sister's dying. She but I tell you I'm 'most always real $ went to heaven. Mamma says she's a good. } little angel an' always will be. Won't it
Grumpa says I'm worth my weight in ) seem funny if I live to be an old lady be- gold, an' more too. Grumma says I'm ( fore I go to heaven, an' my sister's a little her little comfort, an' find her speckle- j> girl angel, an' I — I s' pose there aren't any ticks quicker'n anybody else. ( old angels, but I should be a grown-up
Aunty says I'd better tell you the great ( angel. I think she would seem like my things that have happened to me. Well, ( little girl, but she won't be; she'll always once I went to Boston. I went every- ( be my angel-sister.
where; saw the dew on the Common, the > I cried when she died, an' often I want public gardens, the museum an' ever, an' ( to see her, but mamma says she is hap- ever so many things ; but I was little, an' ; pier an' better off than I. all I can merember now is 'bout being in ( I haven't told you half I could, but a store. There was a clerk made big eyes ( aunty thinks I've said enough. I haven't at me an' frightened me so I ran to ) told you how pretty mamma is, how good mamma an' clung to her skirts; but in- ( grumpa an' papa are, an' all the rest of stead of taking my hand an' speaking, J> 'em. 'Bout what a pretty chamber I mamma only whirled an' whirled round ( have for my own, an' my playthings an' till I was dizzy an' fell an' struck an iron ( story-books, an' what nice times Susy- rod. I looked up an' mamma had no > Walker an' me have 'most every day; but head, only some shoulders; an' it wasn't ( if aunty thinks best, I'll say good-bye. mamma at all, but a block of wood dressed ) Don't forget Mabel, like a lady. How I cried till mamma ^ — »^^^^^—
comforted me ! After that I used to > Never overlook any one when reading touch ladies in stores to make 'em whirl, ( or writing, nor talk or read aloud while an' feel shy of the blocks for fear they'd < others are reading.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
55
THE KING'S MISTAKE.
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
MANY of y«.u know that the eagle is the largest and strongest of birds, having its nest on high rocks and coming down to tin* valleys in search of prey. He has a special liking for lambs, kids and fresh fish, and has even carried off children. His eyesight, too, is so strong that it is said lie can gaze at the sun. Von know he is often called the '"king of birds," as the lion is called the "king
Well, one day this monarch of the air went hunting, and pouncing on what lie probably took for a line. large hare, car- ried it in triumph to his nest. "Here, my children/' said he, in bird- it, "i- a rich dinner for you. I have highly successful to-day. Come, it, an i I will Boon be home again;"
and away he flew to get something for
himself.
Ah ! the kin-.' had made a mistake and brought np a nice, 1
. in cat-lan- guage; "your majesty has provided me with a good dinner."
leisurely ate up the young eaglets,
when she bad finished tin- last one
an 1 washed her face she cautiously picked
hi r way. by her -harp claws, down the
ley-home. What his n. i when 1
tune • r been written; but the
h it a meaning riot hard
In some time and way, sooner or later, injury done reacts on him who does it. Those who seek to enrich themselves at the expense of others, or deprive them of their rights and happiness, will surely find, whatever may be their worldly es- tate, that they have taken into their souls' dwelling-places enemies who will rob them of their richest treasures.
By L. I. llagner.
LITTLE Tom-tit Had a very naughty fit; He whisked Ids little tail about And cried, "Tu whit! tu whit
His pretty little mother Upon her nest did sit:
She said, ''Oh lie, my Tommy 1 Tu whit ! tu whit! tu whit!"
" I don'l want worm for dinner," Said naughty little Tit \
''It* 1 can't have a cherry, I will not eat a hit."
Then npake his angry mother,
• frou'll eat what I see (it; Bui -r,- where cornea your father
Tu whit ! tu whit ! tu whit !"
"oh. pray don't tell my father!
My fault I will admit ; I'll rat a worm with pleasure — 'I'u whit ! tu whit ! tu whit !"
5G
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
HE SISTERS.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
57
MY SISTER.
>Y
IK) at mv side was ever near?
Who was my playmate many a year? Who loved me with a love sincere?
My sister.
Who took me gently by the hand And led me through the Bummer land, By forest, field and Bea-shore sand?
My sister.
Who taught me how to name each flower That grows in lane and garden bower, Telling of God'i almighty power?
My sister.
Who showed me Robin with the vest Of crimson feathers on his breast, Thy blackbird in bis dark coat drest?
My si>ter.
Wiio pointed out the lark on high — A little speck DntO the eye — Filling with melody the ^-ky ?
My lister.
Who led me by the bright, clear Mream,
And in the sunshine's golden beam Showed me tie- fishes dart and gleam 7 My sifter.
Who, as we wandered by tie
And heard the wild Waves in their
Gathered such pretty things for me?
ister.
Who bold the -lell unto my »ar,
Until, in fmry, I could beat
i r P rter.
Vot.. vi.— 8
\ Who, when the wind of winter blew,
.•; And round the fire our seats we drew,
;.■ Read to me stories good and true? ( My sister.
) Who joined with me each day in prayer,
I To thank God for his loving care ; } "Who in my hymns of praise would share?
My sister.
) Who, when the sound of Sabbath-bell ') Upon the ear so sweetly fell, / Walked with me churchward down the dell ?
My sister.
/
l When sometimes sick I lay in bed, / Who laid her head against my head, ( And of mv loving Saviour read ? ) My sister.
';. And while in sickness thus I lay, : Who helped to nurse me day by day. } And at my bedside oft would pray? 1 My sister.
MARY JANE JONES.
By Rosetta Rice,
IT was the first day of school in the new school house at Maple Grove. All the children had gathered there dressed op clean and nice. Kitty, Farmer Norton's daughter, who lived near by, was to be the teacher.
The children knew and loved Kitty, and they were glad that school was to be- gin that first Monday in May.
Just after they bad taken their and the buz/, was growing quiet, two little
58
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
girls came in softly — strangers, who were new scholars.
One of them the daughter of the rich new-comer, Mr. Stanbury, who had bought the large farm owned by the heirs of the late Colonel Waldron; the other little "girl was the daughter of Mr. Stan- bury' s tenant, Mr. Jones.
I am sorry to say it — sorry that there are such naughty children in the world — but as soon as the little girls sat down, the scholars began staring at them and making comments.
One of them was pretty; her eyes were bright and black, and her hair curled all about her forehead, and ears, and neck in cunning little rings; and when she laughed, the sweetest dimples dotted all about her mouth and in her cheeks. When the teacher asked her name, she spoke out in a clear, pert way, uEffie May Stanbury."
"Oh, that sounds just like a name from a novel!" said Nelly Wood to one of the girls.
"Oh, what a sweet, summer-time name she's got!" said another girl, in a low whisper. ' ' I know we' 11 love her dearly. ' '
"If I don't name my new doll Effie May Stanbury!" said Ruth Carter to her- self, as she leaned over and looked at the new scholar admiringly.
"What is your name, sis?" said Kitty to the other child, who sat demurely, with her little, freckled hands folded on her Second Reader. Poor child ! at first view hers was a very homely face. Her hair was red and cut short, and stuck out stiffly; her eyes were very large, and
round, and dull; oh, they looked as though they were going to roll clear out of their places! her nose turned up at the end like a sled-runner; her mouth was all the pretty feature she had, but her face was so freckled and speckled that you hardly saw her pretty mouth at all. Her dress was clean, and she appeared very nice and genteel as she answered, ' ' Mary Jane Jones. ' '
Her voice was as sweet and clear as a bell, and the room was so quiet that every scholar heard distinctly.
Two or three of the ill-bred larger girls broke out into ill-natured sly laugh- ter, as they pressed their open books closely to their faces. Some of the boys bowed their heads down on their desks, but one could see their shoulders shaking.
"I'll call my old used-up doll Mary Jane Jones," thought little Ruth, as she held her book up to her face just so her pug nose and blue eyes peeped over, as she leaned forward and took a look at the other new girl.
"Mary Jane Jones! Oh dear, what a name!" whispered one girl to another, as they turned their faces sideways on the desk and shook with suppressed laughter.
"She'll be the butt for the whole school, I'll bet," said one rude boy to an- other. "We'll have lots of fun now."
"Ask your ma, when you go home to- night, if we may call you Jenny instead of Mary Jane," said the teacher, kindly; "it's such a handy little name, and so short and sweet;" and she put her hand on the child's forehead and tried, in a loving caress, to smooth back the stubby
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
59
hair, but it was cut so short that it > You little toady, let it go; don't stand wouldn't be smoothed. S there fixing it so long; come right off with
Kitty saw at a glance that there was ( me. Oh, we'll have rare fun! the air I of her standing beside the little > out in yon old woods is so good and pure stranger in a very kind, patronizing way. •; up on the slope. You'll enjoy it im- That day at noon the girls all went up ) mensely, I know;" and instead of put- on the hill above the school-house to ( ting her arm in Mary Jane's, she sfipped Bwing among the grapevines. When ) it round her waist, and the two tripped they Btarted they walked in couples and ) off, chatting away like old friends, groups, with their arms linked together. ( It don't take very long to find where lies Three or four met in collision trying to 5 the gold; it cannot remain hidden.
The boys had made a large, strong swing out of grapevines, and the girls gathered round it in great glee.
-.•<> who would get the arm of the pretty \ Effie May Stanbury. They couldn't all > walk with her, and those who were not S
the favored ones were a little angry, and ^ ''I'll have the first swing," said Effie,
walked sullenly, and did not feel very bappy; still they were not downright an-
dropping her hat and getting into the un- wieldy swing, tired and panting, hardly
if they had been, they would not ) waiting to fix her clothes down neatly.
gone at all.
( The girl- were delighted to show honor
1 am sorry to tell it. hut no one took ( to the handsome little stranger, and two the arm of Mary Jane Jones; and there ) of them volunteered to push the vine
embarrassed, tying and nntying her sun-bonnet, the truth forcing itself
into her mind that no one wanted to walk with her.
T t'l too bad," said one of the larger girls, softly: "some of you little .ilk with her." ■■ I > ' ^ your* I another. "I
OU making fun of her. and I'm not p.iriLr to walk with h<
I: ith, little woman, looked hack,
stopped and said, *I must take along an
<-:ik'\ may be lil meet with a pOOT
emigrant, or a Mind fiddler, or an old
tramp, who will be hungry," and b1
bark to the school-house, matched cipher
dinm out. -aid.
1 our ti«- in a hard knot?
backward and forward.
It was rather hard work, but tiny could easily do it to please her and to find favor in her si-ht. They pushed the swing a
long time. Effie was delighted, but kept callinLr out. •■ Faster, faster! make d further. Oh, I'd push you farther than
that!"
At last one of the girls said, "There,
won't that do for this time?"
"Oh no! T .am not a bit tired yet. Make it Bail away up high, so that, my
fret will touch the top of that little dog-
wood 'i
Th<- girls pushed higher and hard. r.
Their faces were ai red as scarlet, and
their hands almost blistered from hand*
ling the knotty vine, but still the little
60
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
beauty cried out, "Oh, can't you make me go any higher?"
"May be some of the other girls would like to swing, Effie," said Mary Jane.
"Well, they must wait till I get done then. Hip, hip, hurrah! girls, my feet almost touched the clouds then ! This is royal sport. I sail like a lark ; oh — oh ! like an eagle," said Effie, in a transport of joy.
"Don't you want to stop and rest now, Effie?" said one of the girls, almost gasp- ing for breath.
"Rest? No; this is better than rest- ing in a nice feather bed;" and her eyes sparkled with excitement, and her loos- ened hair floated beautifully in the wind.
"Pretty as a picture," said Nell Wood ; "but did you ever see such selfishness?"
"Fair without, but foul within," said the other girl, as she leaned her cheek angrily against the rough bark of the old oak, where they stood apart from the others.
"Come, Effie, the girls are tired, and you treat them unkindly," said Mary Jane.
"Well, girls, just give me fifty good swings and I'll get out, and not till then."
The girls began counting, one, two, three.
"Hold on there! I didn't mean your kind of a fifty," called out Effie. "You don't count fairly: you cheat! You call forward one and backward two; that's not fair. Once forward and once back- ward make one; that was the kind I meant."
"Well, we make no such one-sided
bargains as that, do we Kate? let's quit," and both overheated, tired, vexed girls dropped down full length on the ground, sweating and panting with weariness.
"Oh. you are both tired," said Mary Jane; "don't lie on the damp ground and take cold. You, Katy, get in and let Ruth and I swing you till you are rested."
Kate looked up into Mary Jane's face as though she felt real admiration for her, and thanking her, got into the swing, while the girls swayed her gently, in long, breezy sweeps, to and fro.
"If it hadn't been for you, little red- headed woodpecker, I'd got to swing longer," said Effie, pouting out her mouth and looking very ugly. "You little, hate- ful porcupine! I don't like you one bit."
Mary Jane pressed her lips together and turned her head sideways, as though she was making an effort to swallow some- thing ; then brightening up bravely, she said, as she smoothed one hand quickly over her hair, "My hair won't always stick out like a porcupine's quills; it had to be cut off very short when I had the brain fever. Oh, girls, but I did suffer pain in my poor head and eyes ! Mother says my eyes will never look like they used to again; but then that's a little thing to fret about. I just know I shall love to come to this new school. The teacher is so kind, and I love all of you girls, and this woods will be so nice to play in. I hope we shall have good times together. I know mother will be pleased to have me called Jenny. I'll ask her
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
01
this very evening. She calls nie Pee-wee at home.'1
When Kate got out of the swing an- other girl got in and Bwung, but the)7 ! careful not to Btay in long at a cause that was selfish to take all the pleasure to one's self while the others hail to wait, and some of them to work. When it was time to return to the bouse, not one girl put her arm in Effie 's, or sought to walk with her, though, for fear of making her unhappy, Ruth walked beside her and told her all about their red calf with white feet, and about her two purple, or tea-green, kit- Lily and Pearl, that slept in a nail- keg in the smoke-house. She showed her, too, how funny the kitties did laugh when they were little wee things, more halls of fur than kitten-. Effie laughed till the woods rang, when Ruth i her. Tin' next day at school little, homely, Mary Jane Jones Was called .Jenny, i. and Unselfish, and kind that ir was not long until the whole school, rude boys and all. called her by the lit ime her mother gave her
in tie- end i [ '
loved wherever -he went; every heart was open to her, everybody liked her. though at tii-i Bight her little • iid -«'ni very homely ; but after a while her hair grew out wavy and bright, and didn't look very red after all. Chil- dren said it wae • golden brown, and that
freckled I I and turn-
up noaei handsomer than Roman 01
But I found out the secret of it all. Jenny Jones was good, and loving, and tender-hearted, and kind. That is what makes pretty children, alter all. To-day every boy and girl in Maple Grove school will tell you that "Pee-wee Jones" is far handsomer than Effie Stanbury.
One morning, as .Jenny was going to school, she saw two df the scholars light- ing. Jenny was near them before they saw her. She put her basket and books right down and walked in among them with all the dignity of a noble, courageous woman, saying, "Oh, boys, how disgrace- ful 1 What would your poor mothers say if they knew this? Shame on you to fight and strike each other! it is low and unmanly, and just like ruffians. Don't ever do the like again; you will feel so 'shamed and sorry for all this when you come to be men."
"He begun it," said one hoy.
"I ain't to blame," said the other.
"You are every one to blame," said she, looking round upon them; "every one cowards, if you fight or allow others to fight where >oii are. Now come, be
like men J don't one of you ever strike another; try how good you can he. and
how kind to each other, and I'll never tell the teacher or anj body one word of this."
The boys all sneaked oil". son\ and ashamed.
One time one of the wont hoy- iti
school 'jot hit on the forehead, acci- dentally, while they were playing hall. It wai a had cut and hied freely, and
the children all stood back, Beared and
not know Ins what to do.
62
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Little Pee-wee Jones was as brave as she was kind, and she flew round and washed off the blood, and closed and tied up the cut with her handkerchief.
The boy was so stunned that he didn't know who did this for him, until a few days after, when his mother was ironing, she came across the handkerchief and said, "Who tied up your head at school, Johnny? Here is the handkerchief that was over it;" and there in the corner was the pet name of "Pee-wee."
"I just know now, mother, whose little hands touched me so tenderly that day, just like you'd done it yourself," said Johnny; "they were Jenny Jones' blessed little hands. "Why, that girl can do any- thing; she'd make a good preacher, or a good doctor, or a good teacher; she's just a little, sweet, freckled angel, doing every- body good. The first day she came to school she looked so homely, and wild, and speckled, and bristling that we all wanted to laugh out loud, just for very fun; and I am ashamed to say it, but I did lean down on the desk and whisper to Ned Freeman that she'd be the butt for the whole school, and that we'd have lots of fun now.
"And after all, that girl has saved me many a thrashing, and helped me in my long division, and whispered to me how to spell the hard words, and made the boys let Brave alone that day he followed me to school, and gave me a big piece of her good, clean mince-pie, full of fat plump raisins, the day that Crouse's colt ate my dinner; and then, at last, tied up my old gourd of a head with her hand-
kerchief. I just wish all girls were like Mary Jane Jones, so I do!" and Johnny stood up just as excited, his eyes and his chest sticking out, and his brown fists clenched together as though, if Jenny Jones needed a champion now, she could have one.
And so it is with all good children; people will love them, and they can do good deeds every day, even if they be lowly and humble, for there is good to be done at all times and under all circum- stances.
Ruth didn't name her new prize doll Effie May Stanbury at all; that was what she called the old one-eyed one, with the broken neck and lost leg, when she laid it away in a cigar box in the dark closet; but to the new one, that she tucks in its crib every night, in a long, white, ruffled gown, and kisses in a hungry, motherly way, she sweetly says, "Good-night, Mary Jane Jones; good-night."
SWALLOWING FIFTEEN COWS.
By Uncle Herbert.
i-s
WALLOWED fifteen cows!" said Bertie, in astonishment, looking up ) from her play. Her ears had caught the ( words in a conversation that was going on ( in the room.
> "Yes," answered her brother George. ( "He drank them all up." ) "Drank fifteen cows! I don't believe i it!" answered the little maiden, firmly. ) "He sold them and bought whisky
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
63
and beer with the money," explained her aunt Katy.
"Oh, oh! that was it, I see now. Well, it is funny."
"No, not funny, dear, but sad," said Aunt Katy. "The man had a wife and two little children, and he sold the milk from the fifteen cows and bought them food and clothing. But now, having swallowed the cows, as we were saying, his wife and children go hungry and cold, and he, a poor, miserable drunkard, is in the almshouse. Isn't it dreadful to think of?"
The children looked very sober.
"You'll never catch me drinking up fifteen cows, nor one either," spoke out George, very positively.
" I don't know as to that," said Aunt Kate. "The man we were talking about was once a boy like you, with a healthy taste for food and clear cold water. As to ever swallowing a cow, much more fifteen cows, such a thing never entered his head. But you see what he came to at last. How was it? He began by tak- ing a glass of ale or beer, or a little wine at parties, now and then. This corrupted his pure taste, and gave him an unnatural thirst, which only strong drink would satisfy. From ale and beer he went to whisky, rum and brandy; and the more and oftener he drank, the more his thirst increased, until he became a poor, miser- able drunkard. So you see, George, that no boy can tell what he may come to. Maybe, instead of swallowing fifteen cows, you will get down, one of these days, after you become a man, forty or
fifty, and a house and lot into the bar- gain."
"Now, aunty, that is too bad!" ex- claimed George. " You know I won't."
"So hundreds and thousands of little boys might once have said, who, now that they have grown to be men, are drunkards. There is only one way of safety."
"What is that, aunty?" asked the boy, looking up with serious eyes.
"It is the way of total abstinence, as we call it — the only way of safety for either boys or men. If you never drink a drop of intoxicating liquor, you will never be a drunkard. If you depart from this rule, no man can say to how low a depth of wretchedness and degra- dation you may fall. The worst drunkard in the land was once a pure and innocent boy."
"I'll never swallow even a calf!" ex- claimed George, starting up and speaking with great earnestness.
"Touch not, taste not, handle not the unclean thing," said Aunt Kate, "and all will be well with you. But indulge ever so little in drinking as you grow to manhood, and none can tell into what a great deep of hopeless ruin you may fall."
Cold water, we hail thee ; thou gift free as air;
No beverage of mortals can with thee com- pare :
Who drinks of thee only will find with de- light
Fresli vigor by day and contentment at night.
64
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
--»-»—.."«..->.."•
LITTLE MISSIONARIES.
By Clio Stanley.
IN THREE PARTS. PART SECOND.
SUSIE awoke, one morning, hearing a robin's song so tender and sweet that her little heart beat fast with a thrill of delight.
The window was open, for it was warm, summer weather, and the dainty curtains were looped back with fresh blue ribbons, which Susie had chosen herself, because, she said, they were the color of the sky; though her papa had told her. when she said it, that it only takes light in different
quantities — some subtle gases that flow through all nature and our own eyes — to make all the beautiful colors we call by different names ; that we look up through so many, many waves of light that the region beyond the clouds looks blue to us.
Susie remembers what her father said every time she looks at her ribbons, and I do not believe she will ever forget all the lessons her father and mother make plain to her in such simple but compre- hensive language.
She thought, when she first awoke, that the robin must be right on the win- dow-ledge, but as she looked again, she
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
85
. ered him out on one of the branches of the maple tree, hia wings fluttering above the bright red breast like tiny ban- Bud the green leaves blowing back and forth over his head, making little currents of cool air that seemed, no doubt, very refreshing.
"May. wake up and hear the robin
sing," said Susie, in a joyous voice; and
May was up in a minute, the soft brown
hair rippling about her face in tiny waves.
•• [sn't it sweet, Susie?"
Baid Susie, almost holding her breath. "I wish mamma was here."
She is lu-re." said May. merrily. 'Oh. Susie, >he has been standing right by the bed all this time and you didn't know it !"
Susie looked up, while a quick flush of
pleasure and content rose to her fair face.
" [sn't it a beautiful morning, mamma?
hear the birds and see the leaves
dance in the sun, just as if they w<
happy as we an
ything looks glad and bright when ire have happy hearts ourselves," ■aid mamma, kissing each lifted face; '"hut it is time to dress now. and after breakfast you can go down to the garden with me for berries, and then yon will ausio, for the grape arbor is full of
bird-."
Susie got np quickly, bathed her race and hands in the bowl of clear, cool water mamma bad poured out, brushed her hair back ready for mamma to roll over h«-r finger, for the golden hair would curl and could noi ai range it herself; then -},,• dressed herself neatly, and takin
white spread and snowy sheets from the little bed, put them carefully over the chair, and then ran down to meet her father, who was out on the stone walk in front of the house.
"Good-morning, dear papa;" and she put up her lips for the kiss she never failed to receive night or morning.
"Good-morning, Susie;" and the little hand slid softly into his as he continued his walk.
As they came to the corner of the house, Mr. Ellis stopped before a bush full of great clusters of roses, and said,
" What do you see there, Susie?"
"Roses, papa, and green leaves, and," looking carefully, "some black ants on that brown stem."
"Look a little lower now."
"Oh, now I see! It is a spider's web. and all full of drops that look like the diamonds in mamma's ring!"
"Those are dew-drops, darling; but they are scarcely more beautiful in my eyes than the web itself."
Susie began to examine it more closely.
"See how perfectly it is woven; not one thread out of place. It is much finer than the most delicate lace, and woven,
too. without a loom."
■And there is the old spider in the middle of the web."
"Ye-; her work is done now, and she i- waiting for some p<><>r fly on which to
make her morning meal."
•' I know verse* about (hat," said Su Be, " I'Ut mamma -aid it was only a fable Of th'- iin — "
'• [magination, Susie?"
66 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Yes, that is it; because, you know, ( purpose, but everything failed ; finally he we can't understand spider- talk and fly- } tried a single human hair, as fine as could talk." ( be obtained, but even this was too coarse
"That is very true." ; and not elastic enough."
"I wish I could sometimes," said Su- \ "Oh, papa, what could be finer than sie, thoughtfully, "for I am sure the ) that?"
birds, and the bees, and the squirrels, and ) "I will tell you. Some one furnished even the bits of flies, could tell us so many ( him with a spider's web, and out of that things we don't know." > he made a thread by which he hung the
"No doubt they could teach us some- { little wire cross to the pendulum, and it thing, pet, but we can learn a great deal > held it securely, allowing it to fall into a by careful observation." s drop of mercury and then drawing it up
"I suppose I ought to thank God for ( again once every second for three years, my eyes, and my hands and feet then, in- ) What do you think of that, Susie?" stead of wishing for something else, ( "It's wonderful," she returned, with a papa?" ) long breath. "I never even thought
"We ought, certainly, to be very grate- ( spiders were useful before; and, papa, I ful for the senses which he has given us, > don't know but J shall have to put this and if we make good use of every oppor- ) queer old brown spider among my little tunity, our minds cannot fail to grow rich .; missionaries." by and by. " } " Your little missionaries ! ' '
"Mamma says sunlight is the gold to ( "Yes. You know mamma told us last make little children rich." ( winter about the missionaries, and she
Papa smiled as he said, "I cannot tell ) said we could be missionaries if we only you anything better than that." ( tried every day to do good to others. I
" But you can tell me something about b thought last summer the bees and the the spider, papa." < birds taught me so many good lessons
"It is almost breakfast-time, but I will j that I would just call them my little mis- tell you one curious thing about one of { sionaries."
the uses a spider's web has been put to. < "What did they teach you, Susie?" Mr. Mitchell, the great and good astrono- ) "To be industrious, and careful, and mer, some years since invented a little c neat," she said, pausing between each wire instrument to use in his observa- ; word; "and the birds taught us to be
cheerful about our work, even if it is hard to do, because God made us to work, and never loves us so well when we are
"Yes, papa." ? idle."
"Well, he tried everything he could ) "I think mamma must have inter- find that he thought would answer his C preted the song of the birds?"
tions, which he wanted to connect, by some means, with the pendulum of the clock. Do you understand?"
THE LHILDIIKX S HOUR.
07
"You mean because she is always so busy and bo cheerful ?"
•• Xes, my dear child; if you only grow up to be as useful and aa happy as your mother has always been in our home, you can help to make it the most beautiful place in the wide world."
papa; come, Susie," called May. in her pleasant little voice, and they tied into the house, where .Airs. Ellis had a bountiful breakfast prepared for thiin. fm- which they offered thanks and thru ate with the best of appetites.
When the dishes were washed and wiped, mamma allowing Susie to take a clean napkin and wipe all the forks and spoons, and put them away in the box of silver in the closet, and the room swept and put in order, mamma gave Susie her garden-hat and May her gingham sun- bonnet, and taking a tin pail in her hand, they went down into the garden, while Mr. Ellis went to the village to work in hi- office until dinner-time.
"Mamma," May began, "you have
1 1 al live- roses on your cheeks this
morning; have I got any on mine?" and
she put her hand np to her lace, pushing
back tie- curls.
• I; an not alive Mv. . " -aid Susie, gently.
•• Well, they look afire on the bush, and nn mamma's cheeks ton."
! ni-«' papa kissed her on
both cheeks before In- went away."
lid the pretty red come off from hi- lii
; mamma, laughing a little, whil( happy fight shone in her
eye- ; "I think my cheeks grew red while I baked those nice cakes you ate at break- fast; but here are the berries."
There they hung, the great bunches of ripe blackberries, so ripe that they fell off into the pail as soon as they touched them. The pail was soon full, and they went back to the house through the arbor, where the birds made good mamma's promise of music. They twittered, and chirped, and caroled until little May fairly danced in delight.
Ah, it was a happy morning for Susie and May, and the afternoon, when it came, only brought more happy hours, and bed-time came almost too soon.
There was some variation each day of the year; sometimes a long walk with papa and mamma through the pleasant fields, sometimes a long play-day at home, and sometimes a visit to their aunt Ber- tha, who lived only a little way from their house on the next street, ami where they loved dearly to go. She told them so many pleasant stories of the days when .-he and their mother were little girls, playing just as they did, that May told her father, one day, that Aunt Bertha
was better than a real story-book.
Then there was I fnole Fred, who some- times came from the city to \i-it them.
and who made BO much Inn for them while he -tayed that they thought nobody
el-e bad inch a splendid uncle.
Sometimes be brought a pretty toy for May. or :i new book lor Susie, who had
already quite :i nice library, which she had
oommenced with three volumes of Mr.
Arthur's beautiful little magazine for
68
THE CHILL REX'S HOVE.
children, bound in green and gold. Though Susie had ten other books, the liked none so well as these; even the cover, she said, was so beautiful, like the green meadow sprinkled over with the golden buttercups.
But the year was gliding quickly away, and at length, one night when they went to bed, mamma told them when they opened their eyes in the morning it would be Christmas.
SOMETHING ABOUT EYES.
By Pearl Peveril.
MY little friend, did you ever think that you every day carry about with you something more precious than the costliest jewel or the most perfect gem?
It is scarely bigger than the end of your thumb, and yet you would not part with it for all the gold in the world. Indeed, the world would be nothing to you with- out its n. Without it you could not see the glad morning with its rosy light. nor the bright dewdrops glittering like myriad diamonds on bush, and blade, and flower; nor the silvery brooklets rip- pling their way through dale and meadow. You could not see the grand and noble mountains stretching far and wide, nor the beautiful scenery of sky, with its va- rying ^olid-pictures by day and its twink- ling worlds at night; neither could you delight in the various colors and forms of flowers and plants, and birds and in- sects that you now look upon with so
much pleasure: neither could you behold the faces of your dear friends, whose sweet smile so often brings joy to your heart. What is this curious thing that opens such a world of delight to you. and reveals to you the beauty of the earth and sky? ■"Ah." you say. "I know: it is the eye!*' Yes. that is it. And is not this precious gift worthy of a little careful ex- amination? Just think of it a moment, and see how curiously this tiny ball is made that is a source of so much joy to you.
Notice, in the first place, what care God has taken to have this beautiful gift well protected. In human beings he has placed the eye just beneath the forehead. It has a strong, bony shield above, and below is the hard bone of the cheek. Then the nose comes in as a defence on one side. Now, if you feel with your fingers all about the eye, you will find it is defended on all sides by a wall of solid bone that is not easily broken or injured. Just think, if the eye had been set in the middle of the forehead, how much ex- posed it would have been to every mis- hap. A ball, or a pebble-stone, might dash the eye to atoms, and it might get injured in many ways. But. you see, knew just the best place to put the eye. and did not have to experiment upon a generation of people in order to get it in the right place. Notice how firmly the eye is set in its socket — that snu? little nest where it can't tumble out — and see, too, what a nice roof it has above, thatched with hair, that we call the eye- brow.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 69
Did you ever think of the use of the eyebrow? You may Bay, "To took pretty." Well, that is part, but not all. The eyebrow forma what may be called the eaves of the human habitation. Often, and particularly in summer-time, we get something like rain on our foreheads,
lar object, these muscles instantly obey our wish and turn the eye whichever way we desire. It sometimes happens that one of these muscles is too short; then is produced what is called a "cross eye." There are other servants beside the mus- cles that help take care of the eye, and
which we call perspiration: it comes > that defend it from harm. There is the through the pores of the skin and has in ( lid or curtain of the eye that stands as it something like salt. Now. you know t guard and sentinel while we Sleep. When it isn't pleasant to get brine into one's ;• sleep comes creeping on to rest our weary and if you examine the hair of the •:' bodies, and our senses are wrapped in eyebrow, you will find it does not grow slumber, we are no longer aware of the ap- stnight down toward the eyelid, but < proach of danger, and could not shield slanting toward the corner of the eye. ( our eyes from harm — from insects that This arrangement takes the perspiration j might injure or disturb, or from motes off. and keep- it from doing any injury to and particles of dust that float about in the sensitive eye. Am] now a word ah<.ut the air. that might cause us great annoy- that little not called the socket. When ance. Let us look a moment at this pro- bird- make nests they give them a soft J tecting curtain that shields us from so lining of feathers, or something else that ; much harm. Sec that delicate line of will form a -oft bed for their young. < silken fringe that borders the edge ; notice Now the eye i- more tender and delicate S when the eye is closed, how it laps into
than a little young bird, and God has ' another little line of fringe that lies be-
protected it carefully in many ways, bo 5 neath. Here is another set of eaves, or
that it may be a BOUTCe of plea.-ure and J an arrangement t" cany oil' the moisture
enjoyment to as, rather than of pain, j from the eyelid, and also to protect the
If WC Could l<"'k behind the eye ball, we eye from any little particles of dust that
should see a nice. voft. fatty cu-hion that I might intrude if the eye were not clo.-ed
the eye can turn upon without causing; perfectly tight in sleep. If we come to pain: besides, this fatty substance fur- • examine the structure of the eye itself, nishes a kind of oil that keeps the surface we will find it composed of different lay- of the eye moist, and prevents it getting J era arranged like those of an onion; parched ami dried up. ( and these layers, or coats, arc called by
- made to move about by j different names, which I will not now meant of muscles fastened to the bask stop to explain. There i> s very curious and vdes of the eye. These muscles are contrivance in that part called the hi-, the servants of the brain; and if we want which regulates the quantity of light ad- to look in one direction, or at any partial mined to the eye. [| i> composed of
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
minute muscles, which contract and ex- pand as we need more light or less; and it surrounds that round opening in the centre of the eye that is called the pupil. The pupil always looks black, because the retina behind it, which absorbs the rays of light, is black. If you take your little friend into a dark corner, or into a closet where there is only a little light, you will see how big 'the pupil of the eye grows, while the iris becomes smaller. Then if you come into a strong light again, you will observe how small the pupil becomes, while the iris grows larger. If you take a cat and try the same experiment, you will notice that the pupil in the eye of the cat is not round, as it is in the human eye, but like an almond in shape; and if you bring the cat to a very strong light, the iris will become larger until it nearly covers the pupil ; but in the cellar, and in dark places where cats catch mice, the pupil grows larger to take in more light. There are many other curious things about eyes that I would like to mention, but I shall be content if I can induce my little friends to use the beautiful gift God has given them in the admiration and in- vestigation of his works.
Little Sunshine.— Who is Little Sun- shine? The child who does not pout, or frown, or say cross words, but who goes about the house laughing, smiling, sing- ing, saying kind words and doing kind deeds — that child is Little Sunshine. Does anybody know Little Sunshine? Where does Little Sunshine live?
ANECDOTE OF A KING.
KING FREDERICK of Prussia was once traveling in his dominions, and passed through a pretty village, where he was to remain an hour or two.
The villagers were delighted to see their king, and had done their utmost in pre- paring to receive him. The school-chil- dren strewed flowers before him, and one little girl had a pretty verse of "wel- come" to say to him. He listened most kindly, and told her she had performed her task well, which pleased her very much. He then turned to the school- master and said he would like to ask the classes a few questions, and examine them in what they knew. Now, there hap- pened to be a large dish of oranges on the table close by. The king took up one of these, saying, "To what kingdom does this belong, children?"
"To the vegetable kingdom," replied one of the little girls.
"And to what kingdom this?" con- tinued he, as he took from his pocket a gold coin.
"To the mineral kingdom," she an- swered.
"And to what kingdom do I belong, then, my child?" inquired he, expecting, of course, that she would answer in right order, "To the animal kingdom." But she paused and colored very deeply, not knowing what to say. She feared that it would not sound respectful to answer to a king that he belonged to the animal king- dom, and she puzzled her little brain for a reply.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
71
Remembering the words in Genesis,
where it says that God "created man in
his own image, in the image of God cre- ated he him," Bhe quickly looked up and said. "To God's kingdom, sir."
The king stooped down and placed his hand upon her head. A tear stood in II.' was moved by her simple word-. Solemnly and devoutly did he answer, ;,God grant that I may be counted worthy of that kingdom!"
SOWING LITTLE SEEDS.
LITTLE Bessie had got a present of a new book, and Bhe eagerly opened it t«» look at the first picture. It was the picture of a boy - i 1 1 i n lt by the side of a mi and throwing seeds into the water. •• I wonder what this picture is about." -aid Bhe: "why does the boy throw the - into tie- water?"
"Oh. I know." -aid her brother Ed- ward, who had been looking at tie- book; "he i- sowing the seeds of water-lili< •• Bui bow small the seeds look !" said ■ It Beems strange that such plants should grow out >,{' such little things
■ You are towing such tiny seed i day. Bessie, and they will come up large, after .-i while," said her rather.
( >h no, father, I bare no! i lanted any
ii my daughter bow ■ num- ber Of SSedl tO day. "
B ne looked pussled, and her father
smiled and said, "Yes, I have watched you planting flowers, seeds and weed- to- day."
"Now, papa, you are joking, for I would not plant weeds."
"I will tell you what I mean. When you laid aside that interesting book and attended to what your mother wished done, you were sowing seeds of kindness and love. When you broke the dish that you knew your mother valued, and came instantly and told her, you were sowing seeds of truth; and when you took the cup of cold water to the poor woman at the gate, you were sowing the seeds of mercy. ' '
CARRIE AND HER COUSINS.
HARRY went out in the meadows, One beautiful summer day. With Carrie, his cousin, and sisters,
And baby, to romp and play. And oh, but he was so happy !
Be shouted, and laughed, and sang,
Till the fields, and lanes, and meadows
Around with his music rang,
And hie sisters were just as merry,
A ml baby began to crow, And t" leap when she saw them twisting
The beautiful cow-lip
Oh ! long Will they all reiminher
Thai day and the cowslip-chain,
I ofl will they wish for < 'ai i ir To take them from ton n again.
Yui will find it | good rule to keep B-
lence while angry, for words spoken in anger are sure to bring regret
72
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
MY DOLLIES.
By Katy.
I)
EAR little Dolly ! Sweet little Polly! Blue eyes and brown eyes, now for a ride ! On this white pillow, Soft as a billow, I will lay both of you down side by side.
Now, Dolly Dimple !
Now, Polly Simple ! Out on the lawn for an airing we go.
You shall have posies
Of pinks and of roses, And sprigs of sweet jessamine, white as the snow.
Into your true eyes,
Dear little blue eyes, ^ X<»w I am gazing, now kissing your cheek. (
Brown eyes, I love you ! £
Can I not move you, C
Blue eyes and brown eyes, just one word to )
speak. (
Dumb is my Dolly, ;
Silent my Polly ; <
Lips always smiling, but never a sound.
Could you but talk to me,
Or take a walk with me, I'd be the happiest girl to be found.
If a live baby
Should come to us, maybe Dolly and Polly forgotten would be.
Soft, little, pinky feet,
Dear hands — two rose leaves sweet — Lips cooing softest of love-tones to me.
No ; I won't think of it,
Talk of it, hint of it: Dollies ! Dear jdollies, my love is for you.
Sweetest of sweet things !
Neatest of neat things ! Eyes brown as chestnuts, and eyes of true blue.
What does the sparrow chirp,
Gathering food, All the day over,
To feed its young brood ? — "Dear little children,
Waste not the day ; Always remember
That work sweetens play."
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
SEPTEMBER, 1869.
THE CHILDREN'S COLT.
OH T did hear one "f the beat colt- - tip- oiIht day, and it pleased i much ?: I right away, I
• II .-ill my little boys and girls of hildren'i Hour that one story I It
is nol one of the made-up sort ; it is true, and yon can learn from it whal b thing it is to be kind, and tender, and taring.
Jus! in right of the window where I am sitting is the home of the littl<
dote to the foaming, splashing mill- dam a pretty home with ■ background of fine old woodland extending up tli<-
74
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
hill-sides. There are four little children in that home — Anson, Lu, Delle and Cora. Two years ago their father gave them a colt for their own. Oh, they felt very glad, and studied over all the good names for horses, and at last decided to call him Selim. If you little boys have read biography, you will know who the brave man was whose horse was named Selim.
The children soon learned to love the colt almost the same as if he was a boy. They would feel of him, and smooth him, and put their arms around his neck, and put their faces up against his, pre- tending to kiss him. Sometimes they would bend his ears inside out in such a funny way, and loop up his tail like a waterfall, and lift his feet and place them awkwardly, and put the baby on his back and coax him to walk round and round the house. At last he liked them so well that he would follow them like a pet lamb, and they would give him a bite of cake, or let him taste their bread and jam, or eat apples with them. He grew to be so loving that he would lay his head on their shoulders so that his mouth would touch the little girls' bare necks.
Cora used to say that Selim laughed, but I don't know whether horses do laugh or not.
Sometimes Anson would get on his back and sit well forward, so as to make room for Lu, and Delle, and Cora, and then they would, all four of them, ride the colt up the creek above the dam, and then turn and away they would go down
the creek toward the mill, as far as where the bridge crosses the mill-race.
They looked pretty, the four little, fair- haired, brown-eyed ones all on Selim's willing back, as jolly as four little fiddlers.
Selim soon grew big enough, so that Anson could ride him to the store and post-office, and wherever he had to go on errands. The colt liked the fun as well as the boy did.
One day last winter Mr. Caster was sick, and he told Anson to ride to the village and tell the doctor to send him some quinine — that he was afraid he was going to have the ague again.
Anson washed his face and combed his hair, and called Selim to come to him. The colt came and the boy stepped on a chair and got on his back, and started off on a trot, telling Delle to look at the clock and see how many minutes it would take him to go.
It was not three minutes until they heard a clatter of little hoofs, and there stood Selim at the back porch, shaking his head in a naughty, contradictory way, just as though he was saying, "I don't feel like trotting off to town this evening, and I'll show you that I'm not going to doit." He shook his head just like a sullen boy.
Anson said he couldn't get him to go a step farther than the bridge across the race. The children patted him, and smoothed him, and called him their good boy, and their little man, and said, "Poor pa is sick, and Selim must go and get him some medicine to make him well." He seemed to understand every word, for his
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
75
eyes would open wider, and he would bend his head as if listening, and he would wink slowly, as though debating with himself whether he had better go or not.
Mrs. Caster gave him a piece of an apple nicely pared, and said, "He is a good coltie! he'll go now," and Anson turned his head toward the road and away he trotted. But the cunning fellow took another notion when he reached the bridge, and shaking his head he whirled on his pinky little hoofs, and the first thing the children saw was Selim's soft brown face thrust in at an open window. He lolled out his tongue and tried to be funny and get them to laughing, but they were angry with him.
Anson Mud, " -Mother, bring me one of pa's spars, and strap it on, and I'll show this little good-for-nothing if he is going to rule all the family. He is just 1 i k « • ■ great old tyrant, living on the fat of the land — good corn, and oats, and candy, and cake, with plenty of sweet apples thrown in — and now won't go to the d >or pa's medicine."
Mrs. Caster fastened the spur on the
boot, and patted the cult, and with
the bead be started and
w.tit w< 11 snongfa until he came to the
bridge. When be stopped the boy
ht-d him with the spur.
The eolt itood -till, but looked around
.i- much a* to lay, '"I thought I felt something bite n
II ! to go on, but kept his
head tamed, looking to see if that ugly ild bite him again.
Anson drew on the reins and urged him, but it did no good, so he touched him again with the spur.
Then Selim found out where the bite came from, and he twisted his head around and took one side of the boot-leg in his teeth, and lifted it clear away from his side and stood there. He held the foot away until he thought the boy would not hurt him again, then he let it go.
Anson felt so sorry for the poor little pet that seemed to have the wisdom of a man, and he turned about and rode home.
He told his father how Selim had acted, and he believed he would rather walk to the doctor's than ride.
Mr. Caster said, ''Seeing is believing," and he would like to see the colt perform that trick himself.
So Anson jumped on his back and touched him lightly with the spur, and Selim turned his head and took the toe of the boot in his mouth and held it away from his side.
He took just a little nip of the boot in his teeth for fear of hurting the child's toe.
There seemed to be the spirit of the golden rule in the act of that poor dumb brute. You all know what the golden rule is: every child should know it, and should practice it every day. If you do not know what it is, have your mother teach it to \ou before you stop tO night, and then think of it every day, and live it too. It b a good safe guide tor men and women, as well as little chiMren.
JJut don't you like my story about
76
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Selim Caster? Why I just rubbed my hands, and sparkled my eyes like a little girl, and said, "Oh, ohl" when Mr. Cas- ter told us about him.
I love to hear such stories.
This story made me really happy, be- cause it teaches such a good lesson, and it is, that love makes or begets love — that if we love any person or any brute, they will love us in return ; and if we are kind, they will be kind, unless it is some hard- hearted, unprincipled man or woman, and then if we love them and seek to do them good, we are the gainers.
If they don't want our kindness, it comes back to us, more and sweeter and better.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN.
By Mary Latham Clark,
ONCE, Little Blossom's cousin Willie, a year or two older than she was, came to make her a visit.
He was a very bright, active little fel- low, accustomed to playing out of doors and making a great deal of noise, and at first Little Blossom was quite shy of him, hardly knowing what to make of his boisterous ways. But when she found what a dear, affectionate little boy he was, she learned to love him dearly, and they were very happy together.
True, he wanted to play "circus" with her dolls, and "caravans" with her Noah's ark animals, while he dressed up
her pet kitten for a monkey, and did all sorts of things that a little, quiet girl would never think of, but she soon learned to enjoy the fun almost as well as he did.
Sunday was a very happy day for our Little Blossom. She went to church and to Sabbath-school, and when she was at home she had a plenty of books with pictures in them ■ that she called her "Sunday books," with which she busied herself for hours together.
Often, too, her dear grandmother would tell her some sweet Bible story in her sim- ple and delightful manner.
Little Willie, however, found the Sab- bath rather a hard day. It was a task for him to sit still in his Sunday clothes, and he had no great taste for books; but with his little cousin to explain the pictures, he managed to get along pretty well through the first Sunday of his visit.
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Little Blossom, as the two children sat, at sun- set, on the broad step of the "end door," with a pile of picture-books, through which they had looked, on the little cricket near them : "We'll put the books away, and go and ask dear grandma to tell us a story. Oh, such sweet, sweet stories as she tells about the dearest little Bible boys and girls ! Perhaps she will tell us one now."
" I don't know as I should like to hear about them," said Willie, with a doubtful shake of his curly head ; "but if she'd just tell us a story of a bear, or a lion, or a rousing great elephant, that would be fine!"
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
77
"Well," said Little Blossom, some- what shocked at her cousin's taste, "we Ban iflk her, but I don't believe she knows any such stories, or that she would tell them it "she did; it's Sunday, you know."
- the children went to their grand- mother and asked her to tell them a story.
"Willie wants to hear about a lion or a bear," said Little Blossom, "but I don't s'pose you would tell us anything but a Bible story on Sunday."
udma smiled in her pleasant way.
"But," said she, "what if I should tell you a Bible story about animals — some Boos, for instance?"
" <'ould you?" asked Little Blossom, looking up with her blue eyes full of wonder and delight. "That would be lid!"
Willie nodded his head approvingly. "1 s," -aid he, "that would suit me ' y."
children clambered up upon the
broad, comfortable lounge, and sit. with
tli- far arm! around each other, while- their
Imother told them the story of
DARHL IN THK LION'a DEN. In | far-away country there once
lived a king named Dariue,
I1-- mu ■ heathen; that is, he did not worship the true God, but be 1 down to idols instead.
He had placed a goad man, named
D ruler orer a large part of bis
lorn, and this made Mine of the
They did not want
i think .so much more of Daniel
than he did of them, so they watched him very closely, to see if they could find him doing anything wrong, so that they might go and tell the king about it.
But Daniel was very faithful in all his business, and these wicked men could not find any fault in him.
At last they planned a way by which they thought they could make Daniel dis- obey the king.
They knew that he was in the habit of praying to God three times a day before the open window of his room, which looked toward the city of Jerusalem.
Daniel was a Jew, and all the Jews loved Jerusalem, because the temple was there, where they used to go once a year to offer up sacrifice and to pray to God.
"I know about the temple," inter- rupted Little Blossom, eagerly. "It is where the good Hannah carried her little boy Samuel, to be brought up by the priests. He wore a little linen coat, and the Lord Bpoke to him in the night."
"I am glad you remember about him," said the grandmother.
11 But when are we coming to the lions?" asked Willie, a little impatient at the in- terruption.
"Very soon," said grandma, and Bft£ went on with her story :
These wicked men went to the king and asked him to make a law that for thirty days people should net pray to any one hut him. or, if they did, that tiny should he cast into a den o|' \\,<\)<.
Now tail was i rery fooriah law to
make, hnt I BttppOM King DariUfl wanted
t.» please the men who asked him. aerer
78 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
for a moment thinking that any harm J "They were just as pleased as they could come from it. \ could be about it, too, I suppose," said
"Didn't he know," asked Willie, "that ( Little Blossom. Daniel prayed every day to the true God ?" \ "Of course they were, ' ' said grandma,
"I presume not," said grandma: "if ( " for now they could complain of Daniel, he had known it, he would not have made $ and get him punished." such a law, because he loved Daniel very ( "Why didn't the king take back what much. > he had said, and let Daniel go?" asked
"Now when Daniel heard of this new \ Willie, law that the king had made, what do you ( "Because in that country the king suppose he did?" > could not change a law after he had made
"I guess he stopped his praying pretty < it ; and although Darius felt very bad, and quick," said Willie, very decidedly. ) tried all day long to think of some way to
"Or perhaps," said Little Blossom, < save Daniel, he was obliged when night hesitatingly, "he shut the blinds up, or ) came to order the good man to be thrown went into the closet when he said his \ to the hungry lions. " prayers." ( Little Blossom shuddered, and drew
"It is true," said grandma, "that God £ more closely to her cousin's side, could have heard him just as well if he (' "However," continued the grand- had whispered his prayers in the darkest / mother," before the stone was brought and the most secret place, but he did not ( and laid upon the mouth of the den, the want all these wicked men to think that ( king told Daniel that he felt sure that his he was afraid to be seen doing right; so S God would save him from the lions; so it he knelt down by his window three times < seems that Darius believed in the true a day, with his face turned toward the £ God, although he did not worship him yet. holy city of Jerusalem, and said his < " The king went back to his palace, and prayers just the same as ever." / he felt so bad that he could not eat, nor
"But wasn't he afraid the king would > hear any music, and he could not sleep at know of it, and throw him to the lions?" ? all that night, asked Willie. ; " Very early in the morning he went to
"He knew," said grandma, "that the ( the mouth of the lion's den, and called in heavenly King whom he worshiped was \ a very sad voice to Daniel, having, I dare stronger than Darius, and that he could, ( say, but little hope of receiving any if he wished, deliver him from the power ( answer.
of the lions, even if he was cast into their £ " What was his joy then when he heard den. < Daniel's voice in reply, telling him that
"As soon as these wicked men heard ) God had sent an angel in the night to Daniel praying, they went and told the < shut the mouths of the hungry lions, so king of it." > that they could not hurt him !"
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
79
"Good!" shouted Willie, and the two children hugged each other for joy.
"When Daniel was taken up out of the lion's den, it was found that he was not hurt at all, and every one knew then, that the God whom he worshiped, and who had saved him, was the true God.
"What do you think ought to have been done with the wicked men who had treated good Daniel so cruelly?"
"I'll tell you what I think," answered Willie : "it would have served them just right, if they had been thrown right in among the lions themselves."
"And I guess," added Little Blossom, "that if they had been, God wouldn't have sent his angel down to shut the mouth of the lions."
"Well," said the grandmother, "that is just what was done with the wicked men. The king now saw through their cruel plans, and so he gave them the same punishment that they had wished Daniel to have. They were thrown to the lions, and the hungry animals broke all their ire they had reached the bot- tom of the den.
' No one, after that, dared to find fault with Daniel, ami what was better than all, King Darini made a law thai every one throughout bis kingdom should obey the true Gtod, who had done BO many wonder- ful things, and who had been able to save Daniel from the power of the fierce and
eruel lit
A diab little girl on being told that the fruit and the flowers grow,
< and sent all the good things she enjoyed, ( said, in her gratitude, "Then I'll send a ) kiss to God."
THE SONG OF THE BEE.
BUZZ z-z-z-z-z, buzz ! This is the song of the bee. His legs are of yellow ; A jolly good fellow,
And yet a great worker is he.
In days that are sunny, He's getting his honey ; In days that are cloudy,
He's making his wax ; On pinks and on lilies, And gay daffodillies, And columbine blossoms,
He levies a tax !
Buzz z-z-z-z-z, buzz ! The sweet-smelling clover, He, humming, hangs over; The scent of the roses Makes fragrant his wings: He never gets lazy — From thistle and daily, And weeds of the meadow, Some treasure he brings.
BOSI 7.-7.-7.-7.-7., hu7.7.!
From mornins/fi fust gray light
Till fading of daylight, If - tinging and toiling
The rammer day through.
Oh ! we may get wearv. And think work is dreary ;
'Til harder by far
To have nothing to do !
/ , ih>- Xurscry.
80
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE QUICK TEMPER.
By Uncle Herbert.
grow up and be like Aunt Jane for the world. She's always fir- ing up, as Harry says, and keep- ing herself and everybody else in hot water most of the time. And he said this morning that if I didn't take care I'd be just as bad as Aunt Jane. .Oh, mamma! I do wish I knew how to keep cool, as Harry calls it. ' '
And dear little, generous, kind-hearted, but quick-tem- pered Clara looked really sorrow- ful as she crowded into the great easy-chair beside her mother and leaned against her.
" Harry says I'm fire and tow," added the child. "And he calls words matches, and says he can touch me off into a blaze at any time. And so he can. Oh, mamma! isn't it dreadful! And I'm so sorry and ashamed afterward. What can I do to help it, mamma?"
"And you really want to over- come this hasty temper?" said Clara's mother.
"Oh, yes, mamma! I'd give the world if I could do it."
"Self-control cannot be bought with a thousand worlds." "Oh, mamma!1
And Clara's face had
/^LARA LOEING came into the library I a sorrowful look.
\J where her mother was reading, and ) said, with quivering lips: )
"And jret even a child may gain it." "How, mamma?" "I get angry so quickly, mamma, and ) "God has given to every one of us the
when I'm angry I always say something \ power of self-control, if we will use it.
I'm sorry for. Oh dear! I wouldn't < It is because people will not use this
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
SI
power, that they are hasty and passionate. It Lb harder for some to use it than it is for others, because they have quicker temper, like you and me, and Aunt Jane. But then they must try the harder; that is all— and to get power over a hasty teni- worth a great deal of trying. ' ' "Like you. mamma!" exclaimed Clara, in astonishment "Why, you haven't a hot temper! You are not fire and tow like me and Aunt Jane."
"I don't let it rule me quite so much
•u do; but my feelings are quick and
Strong; and when I was your age they
i blazed out suddenly. I've been
called tire and tow many a time."
"Why, mamma! it can't be!" said Clara.
"It is all so, darling. But I was able indue this hot temper, and keep it under control ; and so may you if you will."
"Tell me how, mamma. Oh do, If* I could be just like you, I'd the day is long." "Everything depends on beginning
right," Btid Clara'.- mother.
"Hon shall I begin right, mamma?" ■ Keaterday I beard yon say, in excuse
for ha-ry word- that OUght not to have Bpoken, and for Baying which you
ashamed, 'Ohl I didn't think.' here liei the trouble. In the
old laying, Think twice before you -peak
will he found the cure for a ho( tem-
r donate people are too apl to
'. without thinking. If they would
only stop to think before speaking, they
would, in most oases, keep silence or
\'»L. VI. — 11
choose their words more carefully. In another old saying, Habit is second na- ture, we are taught one of the most im- portant of lessons. If one has a hasty temper, the habit of thinking before speaking — of resolutely keeping silence when passion prompts to angry words — will gradually grow stronger and stronger, until the old fiery temper will give place to habitual self-control."
"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Clara, almost catching her breath with eager- ness, "I see it just as plain as day; and it is so easy. ' '
"Not so easy as it may at first seem, my dear. And yet not so very hard. Make the beginning; and do not be dis- couraged if the hot word sometimes leaps by the opposing thought. Try always. when you are angry, to think before you speak, and to keep silence until your feelings grow calmer; and it will not be long before my Clara's hasty temper will be a thing of the past."
TERRACE RIDGE.
A SEQUEL TO " HOPE DARROW."
By Virginia JF. Tozvnsctul.
CHAPTER III.
IT was evident enough that Lewis had found his plaee at last, and wi>e peo- ple say that Lfl the first and br-t thing to do in the world ; hut hil plaeo was n.-t mine, m.h see, and that k< j.t u> wide apart mo>t of the time.
There vera the evening! of seautae, but
82
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
then something was always going on, and Mr. Fairfax and his young brother-in-law usually insisted that we should be in the company or frolic, or whatever it might be. I did not learn much out of books this summer, but I learned a great deal of human life, and how fashionable peo- ple lived, and felt, and acted, until I came quite to smile at my own notions, and at the small, unfledged girl who, a little while ago, was looking off wistfully to the great, strange world at the old stage- driver's.
Sometimes, when Lewis' plans did not take him too far from home, I used to ac- company him, and it filled me with won- der and pride to see how he went heart and soul into his work, and gave his orders to the men, and how they always deferred to his judgment, and how his word settled every matter, whether it was a bridge across a brook, or the roof of a grape-arbor, or the arch of a gate.
Sometimes Creighton Bell went with me, and we three had many a ride and sail and ramble together off among the woods and hills, or out on the little silver thread of a lake ; for the boy would just go in search of Lewis, and say in his bright, positive way: "Come now, Dar- row, I'm going to lay violent hands on you. Let this stuff go to the dogs. I just want you for a tramp or a sail, or whatever it might be, and as for a ' No,' you can't put me off with it, sir, any more than you .can a fellow when he's deter- mined to have a woman."
And Lewis would laugh and say, ) "Well, then, I suppose, Bell, there's '\
nothing left for me to do but what the woman would under such circumstances, submit gracefully;" and off we would go together, among green silences of hills and woods, and oh, such careless, merry happy times as we would have all by our- selves— a great deal happier than amid the gay, elegantly-dressed people, who made a perpetual bustle and holiday at Terrace Ridge.
One morning — how well I remember it ! — I was coming up to the house after a long ramble all by myself over the grounds. I stood still a moment and looked at the little brown Gothic cottage villa, with its balconies and verandahs, and it seemed to me just like a toy castle, with its soft wood brown, and the slope of green park in front, and the thick clump of shrub- bery, among which ran the hard gravel walks.
As I stood still there, gazing at the pleasant view which always seemed fresh to me, a boy came up the walk — I can see him this moment as plainly as I saw him that summer morning, although I know he is leagues and leagues away, on the wide blue ocean, with no pleasant green, distant coasts to gladden his eyes, or his heart tried with the old perpetual roar and rush of the sea — a small, barefoot, un- kempt-looking boy, with a bit of old cap and a ragged coat — a soiled, forlorn-look- ing little object as ever you saw.
The boy had a rake in his hand, and as he passed he looked up full in my face. His was tanned and homely and dirty, with a heap of loose, tangled, dull, red- dish hair about him ; but there was some-
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
83
thing worse than that. That boy's face was not a good face. There was some- thing sullen and hopeless about it. You felt at once that the boy had had a hard time in life, and that, young as he was, he was coarse and hardened too; and the mouth looked as though fierce and wicked words might roll out of it, and the dull, dark eyes as though they could kindle any moment with heats of passion.
All this I thought over, looking at the is he trudged by me, and I thought, too, what a hard, lonely, miserable time he must have had in the world — no love, no home, no care, knocked about by heartless, cruel people, just as T might have been without Lewis. My heart warmed toward the lonely, outcast boy, as it never would if he had been one of the handsome city lads, sporting around Terrace Ridge, with their whips and dogs and ponies. The boy stopped at last at the end of the walk, and began to rake out the stones on one side.
Thea on the spur of the moment I
made up my mind to no straight up and
to him. jnst because I felt so sorry
for him, and longed to do him some good.
"What arc you doing here, little boy?"
I asked, si pleasantly a^ I could.
11- looked up, and a little surprise came into the sullenness of his I
" I'm rakin' out the path," he said.
"The bos1 it."
I concluded that meant Mr. Fairfax.
It- easy, pleasant work," I said ; "some-
I I broom and sweep off the
- round the walk, just for fun, you
know."
He stared at me again curiously, as he would at some strange animal who came up and brisked socially about him. The mouth dropped apart. Then he set to work again without saying a word, and it seemed to me that I had not made a very good beginning.
I tried again: "Do you live about here?"
"No."
"'Cause I thought I'd never seen you. Did you come alone?"
"I came with Hatchel. He's cartin' the stones up to build the well round the back side of the garden."
"I don't think I've seen him yet. Is he any relation of yours."
"No. I ain't got no relations. But I've lived with Hatchel since he came from sea, and do jobs for him. Some cronies of his'n live about here, and so he took a notion to come up this summer and see if a job turned up."
"If you'd just as lief tell me, I should like to ask your name, little boy?"
"Criss Dorrence."
" Criss Dorrence 1 Why, what a funny name diss is! I never heard it before in all my life."
"The other name is Christopher, but they call me Criss for short."
The thin, wiry hands, with their big, dirty knuckles, still kept, at work raking the stones and dried leaves from the sides
of the walk, hut every little while the boy
would stop a moment, and look at m<\ with a great wonder struggling in his dark oid it seemed to me his face did not look quite so hard and sullen as at bat
84 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Well, Criss, what has become of all > said. "When the nights ain't cold it's your relations?" i jist as good as a corner in a garret or a
"They died afore I knew anything ) cellar." about 'em." > I could have cried right then, I felt so
"Oh dear, that was dreadful! Who } sorry and shocked, but it seemed too has taken care of you all this time?" > dreadful to talk about ; and so he kept on
"I've took care of myself, a heap o' the ( at his raking, only once in a while stopping time," with a little chuckle which was ) to look at me with those sly, curious eyes not just pleasant to hear. < of his ; and at last, because there seemed
But a few more questions drew out of ) nothing to get hold of to talk about, I the boy the story of his life. It was like ) turned to go away.
looking straight down into dreadful gulfs ) The boy's voice came after me a little of poverty and misery, such as I had never ) doubtfully: "There's one thing I want thought could be in the world. ( to ask you, little girl?"
Such an awful time as Criss had had, ) "Well, Criss, what is it?" though he hardly seemed to realize it ! No \ "What's made you ask me all them home, no friends, no care, he had just < questions about what I'd been doin' and been knocked around from one place to ) where I'd been livin'?" another. He had been on several voyages ( "Because, Criss, I felt sorry for you as as cabin-boy, and in a whaler, and it was in > soon as I saw you. You looked as though the last he met Hatchel, who was third ( you'd had a hard time, and there was no- mate. Criss had grown tired of the land, } body to care for you, and though I'm and meant to go to sea again as soon as he ) only a little girl I've had troubles, and got a chance. ( they've made me feel sorry for others."
Hatchel let him alone when the man \ Criss had been working eagerly at the was sober, but he was drunk and brutal a < weeds and stones while I said this, but it good deal of the time, however. Criss / seemed to me some softer feeling came knew well enough when he was dangerous -5 into the sullen, old-young face, and kept out of his way; there was al'ays ) "Nobody never did so much as that for a shed to slink under stormy nights, and ) me before," he said. doorsteps did as well as anything else on ^ Just then, Mrs. Fairfax's voice called to pleasant ones. ) me from the window. She was going out
When the boy said that, it just cut me < to try the grand new swing they had just to the quick. "Oh, Criss," I cried out, ) put up among the oaks, and Creighton "you don't mean it ever came to that — \ had promised to meet her there, and per- sheds and doorsteps for a bed?" < haps I would like to go too.
He stopped raking, and laughed his $ Despite her little flurries and tempers, low, hoarse, chuckling laugh again. < Mrs. Fairfax very often showed me kind "Why, that's how I growed up," he ) attentions of this sort.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
B5
wv
But through all the romping and gay- ety of the morning— for company came up from the Tavern, and we had a merry time of it — I could not get the dark, wiry figure of the boy who was raking the walks out of my head or heart. His miserable childhood, his hard, lonely, wretched life clung to me, and filled me with a great pity; and when the boys and girls in their gay dresses danced and frol- icked about me, I felt half angry with tin in. as though they had no right to be so happy and have such good times when there was so much misery in the world.
I wanted to do something for Criss Dorrence, and so that day at lunch I saved my slice of frosted cake, and heaped the plate with a bunch of grapes and two large ripe pears, and started off for the who was raking the borders. I found him after a little search :
"Oh, here you are, Criss: I've just Bayed these for you. They're nice ;" and I held out the plate.
The boys eyea actually brightened and glowed out of their sullen hopelessness with sstouishment and greedini
■ Fou don'l mean them's all for me?"
■ \ ■ - every bit Yon just leave your work and go and sit down under the tree, and take your time eating them I'll back for the plate after awhile;" ind I l'l't him and sauntered among the groundi for s while.
I went back at last The plate was Well, Chriss, did tiny taste
good?''
smile coming oui on the dark wiry face which mad.- another
thing of it. "I never eat anything like 'em."
"It wasn't much, Criss, still I was glad for you, because I'd been thinkin' about you, and — and, I wanted to be your friend."
"That's somethin' I never had in my life ;" sticking the small dirty toes in the warm sand.
I looked at him and I forgot that the boy was dirty and coarse and ragged : I only remembered that he was poor and lonely and friendless in the world ; and I just put my hand on his arm and said to him out of my heart, and because I couldn't help it,
"Never mind, Criss; it's been real tough, I know, but that wasn't your fault, and I think there's somethin' in you, and that you can make a good, brave, honest man. Lewis — that's my brother — says with a little common sense and a little pluck one can do almost anything in the world; and I want you to take heart and to feel that you can turn out somebody .yet, if you have been poor and forsaken and kicked about all your life."
The boy looked at me; something worked in the soiled face, in the dull, sullen eyes : "If I'd only had a chancel"
sticking his toes deeper into the sand,
"No matter— it isn't too late. Y.>u s» only a little hoy yet, and you've got all your life and all the world before VOU, and
if you will only try, you'll come out all
right ; I feel sun you will."
mi the buy looked at me. It seamed to me that th<- soul, cowed and miserable behind the pinched, old-hoy face, took
86 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
courage for the first time — began to lift it- £ head that she would have tableaux in the self up with a half doubt and a half hope ( parlor at night, and a busy, merry time of that there was some good and happiness in ) it everybody had, getting ready for the store for him also. \ evening.
I said a good deal more to Criss Dor- \ When it came, the parlor was crowded ; renceof the same sort; so much that when } even the servants wedged in to get a we shook hands at last, he putting his ^ glimpse of the pictures, and they were little brown, hard paw in mine, in a shy, ) beautiful. They had scenes from Shakes- clumsy way that would have amused me S peare and Sir Walter Scott, and some of
if I had not been in such dead earnest, ( the characters I knew and some I did not.
(
and I came to think it all over, I won- S Mrs. Fairfax was Queen Elizabeth, and dered at myself where the words came to c oh! how grand and beautiful she was, me, and how I ever had courage to say > with the crown on her head and the scep- them. ( tre in her hand ! and her husband made a
I meant to tell Lewis all about this talk, ( splendid Earl of Essex. but we had, as I said, so little time to $ Creighton was Sir Philip Sydney, the ourselves, and there never seemed a good I noblest knight and gentleman of all En- chance to commence. £ gland ; and Lewis and I had our parts,
So I put the matter off, but I saw Criss ( and what do you think they were? I was for several mornings cleaning the walks, ( Pocahontas, and he was Captain John and I always managed to stop and have a { Smith. I said I never could go through little chat with him; and his face would ) before all those people, never ; but Mrs. always brighten out of its dullness and ) Fairfax had a wonderful way, halfcoax- sullenness when I came along; and he ( ing, half despotic, of making one do just would laugh in a pleased way when I said, ) what she wanted, and she said, playfully, "Well, Mr. Criss, how is the I "Now, you little chicken, don't you work getting on this morning?" ^ flutter your scared wings. You can do it
Indeed, we grew very well acquainted, S to perfection, and you must," and there and I was certain that Criss Dorrence felt ( was no help for it.
that he had one friend in the world, and ;• I should like to tell you about those that was a great deal better than having < tableaux, but something dreadful hap- none at all, even though she was only one > pened that evening, which drove them little girl, no older than, and almost as ( for a while quite out of my head, poor as, himself, and with so few friends > It was before my part came on, and I that she could count them all upon the £ had run into the breakfast-room, where fingers of one hand, and put in among < supper had been spread to conclude the them, too, as he deserved, the old stage- / grand entertainment, driver at Salmon Head. < Everybody had crowded into the front
One day Mrs. Fairfax took it into her - rooms, so there was not a soul in that
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
S7
part of the house, and I hunted about for whatever I had come in search of— I think it was some branches of green fern, for they were decorating my Indian robe, when a little noise just as I was leaving the room made me turn hastily.
The lights were burning dimly, and the noise seemed to come from one of the windows at the end of the room. There was, at that moment, a breathless silence in the front rooms, or I should not have heard the sound, which was more like a sudden, half-smothered cough than any- thing else.
11 Who is there?" I cried out, quickly, as I turned around.
There was no answer, no sound. The heavy drapery hung still before the win- dows. I felt a good deal frightened, but I would not give up the matter in that so, though I found, of a sudden, my heart was going very fast, T just walked back to the place whence the noise seemed to some, sod drew aside the curtains.
There be Stood, the small, wiry frame, inched, dogged face — there he stood, I ! I
One hand held a huge slice of fruit
the otln-r was thrnsl behind him. 1 knew in a moment he was there for pd purpose. u( Mi, Cries, what are ron doing here?" I cried.
II" looked up nnder his eyelids ■ shamed, guilty, sullen look. H«' muttered some- thing about " not doin' much any way."
"Step, Cries, don't tell a lie. [ know
whar if i- \.,u came beTC 00 >/"//.'"
The boy dropped bis bead ; he looked
at the <-ake in bll hand, I think that
word coming from me hurt something in his soul, as it would not if any other hu- man being had spoken it.
"That cake isn't all. You've got some- thing in your other hand. Let me see."
He kept it behind him still. I was a little girl, smaller and weaker than he. He could easily have pushed me aside and run away.
Perhaps he thought of it once, for he looked up in my face with a sudden, hard defiance, but when he met my eyes, the shame came up into his again, and he stood still.
"Let me see it, Criss. It's all you can do now."
He brought out his hand at last, slowly enough, as though it hurt him to do it, and in his fingers was a little silver drink- ing cup of Creighton Bell's — a birth-day present from his sister.
I was so shocked when I saw that, that I burst out crying. Then I heard the cup fall to the floor.
"Oh, Criss," I said, "to think you would do that! To think, after all, you are a thief!"
He spoke then, and there was really some trouble alive in his voice: "I Wouldn't "a done it if I'd thought you'd known it."
"Oh, Criss, M though God didn't know it ! and tO think bow I'd been ymir friend, and was BO sorry fur nop, and
thought you would grow up to he m
bonest, Doble man; and that I .should
sol lay hear bow the little boy who
cleaned the walks at Terrace Ridge had
turned out ] and DOW to find, after all,
83
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
you'd come here to steal; and you're a bad, wicked boy, and I can't do you any good ! ' ' and I sobbed harder than ever.
The sobs found their way, when no words could have done, to the one tender place in the boy's heart or conscience.
"I knew you was my friend, little girl," he said, " I didn't care for the rest, but I wouldn't 'a teched anything that was yourn for all the world. ' '
He meant what he said ; even then, with his crime before my eyes, I did not doubt that.
"But it's just as bad: it's stealing, all the same ; and it breaks my heart to think you're only a thief, Criss, and after all, I can't do you any good;" and again I cried, and I heard the bursts of laughter, and the loud voices, and the clapping of hands in the parlor. It was time for me to be gone. Criss twisted his fingers in and out, then he looked up, with a sudden eagerness in his face and voice. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm real sorry 'cause it's troubled you, and I knew you was the only friend I'd got;" his mouth twisted there, and the sudden tears came into his eyes.
"Oh, Criss, I was your friend truly, and now I'm cut to the heart. I don't know what to do. I ought to go straight and tell the folks, but I can't bear to."
The boy made no promises, and not an attempt to run away, but standing still there he looked sorrowful enough — not for what he had done, but because I had found him out.
' ' Didn' t you once think God saw you?' ' with a great gulp of sobs and tears.
"I don't think he cares what I do : no- body ever did but you."
"Yes he does, too. He's a great deal sorrier than I am, because he's a great deal more your Friend ; but he can't save you, nor I can't, nor anybody else, if you won't help yourself."
"If I could really know for certain that he cared." He said the words slowly, some doubt coming up and working in his face.
Then I heard them calling for me. What could I do? Go before all those people, and denounce that boy for a thief? They would have no pity for him, and I was his only friend!
I broke out: "I can't tell them, Criss, I can't. Maybe I'm in the wrong, but I'll give you another chance, and I'll pray God, every morning and every night, to forgive you and put it in your heart to be an honest boy."
I saw him drag his ragged coat-sleeve across his eyes ; then there was a louder } shout of my name, and I turned and ( rushed back to the parlor, and Criss Dor- ) rence rushed out of the house. \ [to be continued.]
THE LITTLE ITALIAN BOY.
UGH ! " And Uncle George suddenly put his hands to his ears, while ) a look of disgust came into his face. I "Jane," he called to the servant, "drive } that little wretch away from the door!" (} What was the matter? Oh, nothing i very serious. Uncle George had sensitive
THE CHILDREN'S HOVE.
n
I i— 12
- IT TLE ITALIA.',
90
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
ears and an impatient spirit. He was easily put out. Little things annoyed him. It was only an Italian boy with his hurdygurdy.
"No, no, no!" cried little Lu, jumping down from her chair at the table. " Don ' t drive him away, poor fellow! 'Taint nice in you to say so, Uncle George!" And she knit her brows, and looked all the re- proof she could get into her sweet face. "Guess if you had to go round with a hurdygurdy, you wouldn't like people to drive you off. ' '
"Maybe not," answered Uncle George, in a milder voice. For he felt little Lu's rebuke, and was already taking a penny from his pocket for her to give the boy.
Lu flashed off to the door, and throwing it open, thrust the penny she had taken from Uncle George into the hand of a bright-eyed Italian boy, who with his hurdygurdy, box of white mice, and dog in soldier clothes, was trying in a strange land to earn his daily bread. She stood for a little while, pleased with the music and laughing at the dog, which stood on his hind legs and marched about like a soldier. Then her tender heart began to feel a deeper pity for the barefoot boy.
' ' I wonder if he's had any dinner ?' ' she said to herself. To think with Lu was to act "Are you hungry?" she asked, as the boy stopped playing. He said yes.
Before Uncle George, who had been lis- tening to his little pet, could interfere, Lu 'had ushered boy and dog into the house, and was leading them through the hall to -the back yard.
"There, now!" she cried, all flushed and eager. " Sit down just here, and you shall have just as much dinner as you can eat."
Boy and dog sat down together more like equals and friends than master and servant, and when Lu brought a plate of food, the boy shared his dinner with the dog, feeding him first, and afterward sat- isfying his own hunger.
Uncle George looked on quite softened at the sight; and when, after the meal was over, the boy, at his request, played on his poor instrument of music for Lu, and the dog in his red soldier cap and gay jacket marched soberly about, his ears were not hurt by the sounds, which a little while before almost "set his teeth on edge," as he was pleased to say.
LITTLE MISSIONARIES.
By Clio Stanley.
IN THREE PARTS. PART THREE.
VERY brightly the sun shone on the twenty-fifth of December, and very bright and eager and happy were the two dear little faces which looked at each other from opposite beds, when they awoke.
"I don't believe I'm quite awake yet," said May, with smiles dimpling her rosy cheeks, "but I guess I know what day it is!"
"Christmas day!" exclaimed Susie, clapping her hands; "oh, May, I wish you Merry Christmas!"
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 91
'And I wish everybody one," said ) would open her mouth and show you a May, earnestly. j tiny mouse, and when you turned her
It was not very long until they were ) right side up again would close her mouth dressed and ready to go down stairs, ) with a sudden motion and gulp poor where papa and mamma greeted them c mousie down. May did not know which with more than the usual number of ) of all she liked the best, and they were Liases, and mamma said something, as ( all made of India rubber, so that it would she bent d«>wn to caress each restless ) be impossible to break them, little head that, May told Susie privately. S When May was busy with the toy-. Bounded jost like a "pray." ? Fred drew Susie close to his side and put
Susie made no reply, hut looked thought- ) a new book, full of pictures, into one hand, fuL and resolved in her heart to give her ( and a box of exquisite little jack-straws mother no occasion for sorrow in the com- ) in the other. ing months. \ "Oh, Uncle Fred, that was just what I
.Jim a- they left the breakfast-table, ) wanted, because now I can play with Uncle Fred came in, and was greeted with j papa. You know grown-up folks play a shout of delight from little May. who ( with jack-straws." saw in his arrival a gnat addition to the ) "No, 1 didn't know that!" day's merriment and consequent en- ; 'Well they do, and so I had rather joyment. } have this than anything else."
Prod mad'- himself thoroughly at home, \ "You haven't looked at your book yet, a- was his fashion, and throwing himself Susie,'1 said mamma, coming over and sit- down on the wide lounge under the win- ';. ting down by them.
dow. he managed to let one thing after < Susie laid her box down carefully on the
another slip from his deep pockets and ; tabic and began to turn over the 1.
roll upon the floor, while May hastily her eye- growing brighter and brighter
scrambled after them, laughing with do- ( every moment
light as she discovered first a good-na- > "Here's my Bpider-missionary, Uncle
tared, fat little dully, which Pred de- Prod," exclaimed Susie, holding her book
dared looked just like May: but Susie toward him.
said softly that he didn't have to %q\ ■ \ Bpider-missionary !"
Ms 'o make her laugh I Then there Uncle Prod laughed as he said it.
were two little dancing men, with their . " Why, Susie, do aiisaionaries feed on
jacket- painted red, blue and yellow, and Hi-
who could take ;t good many steps very Susie looked at him reproachingly. an<l
nicely when set up on the piano; a great Mrs. Ellis explained the matter to Prod,
round hall DK 10 that he tOO begin to look giave. and
Hon; and finally a gray pussg eat, who wondered in hi- bean if Susie was not a
a hi r ha«l good deal wiser than he.
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
"That is a water-spider," he began > power of restoring themselves and grow- when Mrs. Ellis went away, "and it is a \ ing in the night, wonderful little creature." .> "So you see, May, sleep is a great
"What is that ball there in the ) thing, and if you want to grow fast you water?" ( must sleep a great deal."
"That is the spider's house. It is open ) May nodded her head and ran away, at the bottom and filled with air, and she < letting Uncle Fred's wonderful statement sits inside and watches for her prey. In > slip out of her thoughts as she went, the winter she closes it all up, and so has > but Susie treasured up the idea, so that, a warm, secure home." ( she might ask her father about it; for she
"Oh, how much I thank you, dear S couldn't help distrusting Uncle Fred a uncle ! I can learn ever so many things ( little. I don't know from this book." ) The morning was gone before they
" I thank you, too," said May, leaving ( knew it, and the afternoon followed hap- her toys and coming over to kiss Fred; <; pily ; and when night came they thought "I love you with my whole heart!" S no other day had ever passed so quickly
' ' Then you love me as much as mamma, c away, do jrou, May?" ) Evening brought her treasures, though,
May looked a little bewildered, but ( and Susie and May were allowed to sit up finally her face brightened with a wonder- ) long beyond their usual bed-time, because fill smile, as she said, "I love my papa ( it was Christmas, and Christmas only and mamma as much as if I had two ( came once a year, hearts in my body!" ;• Aunt Bertha came with her husband,
Fred laughed heartily at May's solution ( and then Susie thought their little circle of the difficulty, but May did not laugh at ) was complete, for she loved auntie dearly. all. ( Aunt Bertha had once had a dear little
" I wish I was big," said May, after a ) Susie of her own, with blue eyes and minute; "when will I be as long as you \ golden curls, and she had been very are, Uncle Fred?" ( lonely when the angels took her to sing
"Not while you get up so early in the ) her Christmas hymn in heaven; but morning." (' Susie Ellis partly filled her place, and
Susie looked her astonishment. ) Aunt Bertha returned Susie's affection
Fred could scarcely control his mirth at $ tenfold, sight of her face, but he managed to tell ( It was a very loving household, and May that some great man had discovered') Uncle Fred thought how delightful it that there is a power in the sun's rays ( would be if he could always be in such a which acts destructively upon granite, ) warm, cheery atmosphere, away from the
stones and metal, and that they would some time perish, only that they had the
temptations that thronged his path daily in the bustling city.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
93
•w.v_^--_.-V^--
He aid as much to Bone's mother as lie went away that night, and Susie, who heard it. stood on tip-toe and put her anus around his neck lis she whispered, '•111 pray God to make the big city warm and pleasant for y<-u. Uncle Fred, and you most pray. too. because it always gets warm when God is in your heart'1
•• Dear little Susie !" said Fred, with a "she LS a veritable mis- sionary herself, only she don't know it!"
I have only told you a little about Susie out I am sure if you all fill your days with such kind thoughts and unself- ish deeds as filled Susie'8 days while she was only a little child, this great world will grow very bright for you too; heaven will seem nearer and dearer to you. and duty will soon come to be synon- ymous with pleasure. And that, you know, will be the be.>t of all!
SIX LITTLE PINS.
By Louise V. Boyd.
AUNT ROSA'S work-basket, which was always in the besl order, had in one
corner of it ■ little pocket, and the pocket
-nut with a cunning little f ribhori. Now, though Annie had
tried on Rosa's thimble, which waaseareely
r her, and snipped with
the bright little scissors and handled
■1 in the basket, she was still
itisfied without untying the pretty
ribbon and exploring the nlken pocket
found in it BOl | > i I k s
wound upon cards, some papers of needles, and in a pale green paper a row of the sweetest little pins. "Oh, Aunt Rosa," she said, "these pins are rolled so that their heads are all in a little ring together, I wish they were mine ; I would keep them ever so long, just to look at."
Aunt Rosa smiled, and taking the scis- sors she separated six of the pins from their companions. "We will try these," she said, "and to-morrow morning come again to my room, and I will, tell you a little story;" then Rosa began to arrange her basket again, and Annie, alter rolling the scrap of green paper through and through her little warm hands till it was completely rumpled, stuffed it into her apron pocket and ran away.
Careless as Annie was, she never forgot any appointment with Aunt Rosa when she was to hear a story ; so the next morning found heron a stool at Rosa's feet, with her dimpled hands folded and her bright eyes fixed upon the good aunt's gentle face.
Aunt Rosa began: "I have often won- dered to myself what became of the pins
but last night I found out what became
of sonic of them." Here Annie blushed
and Cast down her ryes. "I had a dream. "'
"I think your dreams are JUSI IS good
lies that are not dreams, for don't.
you dream with your eye- open?" N i matter." -aid Rosa. "I dream; and last night I dreamed of being, oh, in such a
very queer place, away down in the heart Of the earth perhaps, and there .1
Pin it seemed like the grandmother of
all the reel railed upon some little ones
94 THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
to come and give an account of them- > too bad, and our family have always set selves. \ their heads against it, and that pointedly.
"At the call a little scratching sound was ( Now, Number Two.' heard, and then I saw right before me six ;. '"If you please,' began Number Two, little pins, but ah ! how different in ap- c 'I think I've had as much trouble as any- pearance from the six bright, sharp, ) body. The little girl took me too, when I straight little fellows my Annie carried ( was lying low and saying nothing in the from this room yesterday morning ! ) bottom of her pocket — took me, I say, and
"'Give an account of yourself,' the \ bent me up in this horrid manner, and great Pin began, and Number One an- ( tied me to the end of a boy's fishing-line ; swered ; fear made the voice tremulous, and ; and the boy, I think, was a very cruel, bad this is what the little thing said : 'Indeed \ boy, for, dreadful to tell, he put me right I couldn't help it — I didn't want to do it; > through a worm that had never done him I can't think how it came about. We S any harm, and threw us together into the were all fond of each other, and never < water. As I floated down to the root of laid our heads together to plot any sort ) a tree, I caught by it to try and save my- of mischief at all, but all at once the rib- I self; he gave the line a jerk, and down I bon of the little pocket was untied, we ) went, and up it went, the little dead were taken out, and the light dazzled us, \ worm slipped away from me and here I and six of us were severed from the rest, ( am.' 'We excuse you,' said the great and after being rolled about we were put '5 Pin ; 'one cannot expect anything better into another little pocket ; and then the ( of boys ; we were not invented for boys' next thing I knew a little girl on her way ') use, and we always suffer at their hands, to school stopped and took me out, and < Now, Number Three.' saying she had forgotten her garter, she ) "Number Three, a sharp, straight, bright made a great fold in her stocking and ) little thing, began : 'The little girl took me stuck me there. I tried to serve her the ( to pin her hat-string on with ; it was very best I could, but I was screwed, and ) trying to me, because there was a needle twisted, and wriggled till I didn't know i and thread right before her as she did it. what to do with myself, and I fell down ) I shook my head to try and dissuade her, and was trodden into the dust, and couldn't ( and the needle's eye flashed to try and be found again till I came here. Just ( tempt her, but it was no use ; however, I once I peeped back through the dust > paid her back. I waited till she had climbed after I had fallen ; the little girl was look- ( up the stairs into the high church spire, ing like a fright with her stocking rolled ) among some of the neat and trim little down nearly to her shoe, but she found an ( girls of the village; then I took a great old string and tied it up a sort of a way.' ) leap downward, and here I am, safe and 'Pretty company to be in!' said the') sound. The hat-string sailed off in the great Pin ; ' untidiness in a little girl is <- wind, and the little girl laid all the blame
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
95
on me.' Great Pin patted this one on the head and primly smiled.
"•Number Four dow began : ' The little girl took me — and don't you see how mis- erably bent I am? — took me and pinned up her petticoat in a great ugly wad behind, to imitate what she called a Grecian Bend; and because I was too weak in my spine to War the weight of it all, she jerked me. and when I scratched her in self-de- fence, she cried and threw me away with such violence that I came here.1
•Oh, that little girl!' ciied the great Pin, in a wiry voice; 'it was not enough that hhe should disfigure herself, but truly she has given you an outrageous bend, Grecian or not. We are always sac- rificed when fashions become extremely foolish.1
' Number Five, whimpering sadly, said: "I' ye been lost ami picked up, and lost
aL'uin. and trodden on, bent, bruised and
battered, all because of that careless little girl; and at last she stuck me into the baby's pillow in-trad of a cushion, and the nurse found me there and scolded me
.fully. I didn't want to hurt the
and I didn't do it. but she threw
me away angrily; and oh my head aches,
and I'd have l"-t it if it wasn't fastened
to my shoulders : ami everything i- out of
i.d I don't know how I got here : oh,
oh. oh"
Don't fret,' -iid the great Pin; 'snob a good for nothing girl i- nut worth
ni'l -hf i- m:ikim.r mop-
trouble for herself than any one else. It
it will be nsclesa for any number of our family to try and hide her di
will expose herself anyhow, and bring re- proach upon us at last. Oh, it sickens me! Go on, Number Six.'
"'I am ashamed,' said Number Six, 'to complain of anybody; and I rather pity the little girl that you all report against, for she seems to have more trouble than all of us put together, for her strings and buttons are always off, everything she wears is in a little while torn and soiled and frayed, and she does more pinning up and pinning down than any one else. I don't think she meant me any particular harm when she took me from where I was quietly serving her in the neck of her dress, and pinned the tail to Johnny's kite with me. Johnny told her I was too little, and asked her if she couldn't sew me ; but no, I was a dear little thing, she said, and would do first-rate. I did the very best I could, and went up bravely for a while, and Johnny cheered, but all at once I grew dizzy (such a weak little head I must have!), and instead of sailing, sailing away toward the him- sky, 1 found
myself falling, falling, falling. It was hor- rible; and here I am. just the poor little
ghost of a pin, and oh bo dull.' "'Well, well." said great Fin. ' I wish I
could get at that little girl anyhow; she should have one piece of my mind. What
pretty trim, bright little things you were when you went into her service, ami to
OOme out of it like this ! I think if she
could hear you all tell your experience, ami could see you now, she would surely
try to do better; but I don't know. My
I r little pini my poor, rusted, bruised,
bent, broken R2 little pin* !'
96
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"So I wakened, but I thought I would \ think you need never tell me such another tell you my dream," said Rosa. C story." Rosa only kissed Annie for
"Aunt Rosa," said Annie, with tears ) answer, in her eyes, "do trust me once more; I C
THE GREEN HERON.
By Mrs. E. B. Duffey.
UNCLE JOHN is coming! Uncle John is coming!" cried Georgy Edwards, as he chanced to glance up from the book he was reading.
Mary darted to the window to look out, forgetful for a moment that she had left the door of her canary's cage open and that puss was in the room. But Bob was neglected only for a moment, and as he did not happen to fly down from his perch, there was no harm done.
Little Lucy was sitting quietly in a corner, undressing Miss Annie. Can any of my readers explain why little girls
always like so much better to undress their dolls than to dress them? But Miss Annie was suddenly dropped face down on the floor, with one shoe and stocking off and her dress all unfastened, and there I am afraid she had to remain some time before her little mother gave her any further attention.
"Uncle John" received a hearty wel- come from the children. He was a won- derful uncle, I can assure you, for he had traveled half over the world ; and he was always ready with a story for his little nephew and nieces about the strange things he had seen. He had been to Cal- ifornia, and South America, and Aus- tralia, and India; and I am not sure but he had been to China too. And I think
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
97
he must have visited Africa as well, for lie could tell such interesting stories about elephants, and gorillas, and lions, and os- triches, and all sorts of animals and hirds.
Now these little children liked nothing so well as to hear the stories of their Uncle John; and, of course, there was nobody whom it gave them half so much pleasure to see.
"I am glad to see you take such good care of your bird. Mary," said he, to his elder niece; ''it seems cruel to shut the poor thing up in a cage; but if it must be deprived of its liberty, it should be made jusl as happy as possible."
"l>id you ever see any canaries living wild in their own country ?"
"No, I don't know that 1 ever did ; but I have seen birds of all kind-, of the brightest colors and very sweet dingers. I have told yon about the parrot I — red,
blue, green and yellow — that are SO plenty
in South America; but 1 could never iie-
■ to you one-half the varieties 1 have
. in different count! ies." "Are then* any wonderful birds in North America, uncle?'' asked George, who found his book not half ho entertain- iug a- I fade John's conver at ion.
••There are many beautiful bud- here,
and -nil'- of them, though to be found in all part.- of the country, live bo retired in swamps and uninhabited forests a- to be •i. I came across many interest- ing species when I was traveling in Florida
•• !>-. t.-j| n- about them !" chimed three
• Not all of them to-day. but I will tell Vol. \i. 13
you about one, that comes to mind just now. I had gone tip the St. John River, and had struck oft" into the country, with only my negro guide and my dog. We used to fi.-h and hunt in the day, and at night pitch our tent wherever we were, build a fire and camp out."
u0h how nice ! When I am a man. I am going to do the same thing!'' inter- rupted George.
Mary and Lucy looked much interested, but said nothing.
"Well, one morning I awoke early, and came to the door of my tent. It was very early, for though it was daylight the sun wa> not up. Not far oh1*, resting on a stone, was one of the prettiest birds I ever saw. It was a little heron about the gi«e of blackbird. It is sometimes called a crab-eater, though I do not know whether it really eats crabs. He had a tuft of glossy preen feathers on his head, and his back ami wings were also a bril- liant green. His neck and throat were deep red and the under part of his body was cream color. Best 1 there appar- ently watching for frogs and lizards.
Presently he began to move cautiously
and noiselessly, advancing one lung bent leg carefully after the other, until he Stood on the bank of the stream, and within
reach of his intended breakfast. Then he remained motionless, with hi- head
and Deck bent backward, and with t'yes fixed upon a it < -i_r. whOM no-e u.i- v. ry
temptingly showing above the water. The frog, in ignorance of it- danger, swam
r the bird, and in an in-tant the Deck unbent likfl a Spring, and the poor
98
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
thing was gobbled up and swallowed whole in less time than it takes me to tell it. The frog seemed a pretty big mouth- ful for the bird, though, for he had to wriggle to get it down."
" Didn't the heron see you?"
"Not at first; but when he did, he wasn't the least bit afraid. He only hopped off a few feet, and flew up on a dead limb, where he sat and eyed me with his yellow eyes in a very curious man- ner, as if he wanted to ask me what bus- iness I had there on his premises. He turned his head, and twisted his body most funnily, but seemed to find the mat- ter beyond his power to understand, though he was a wise-looking bird."
"You didn't shoot him, did you?" asked George, in a tone of concern.
"Oh no; I couldn't make up my mind to do that when he had so much con- fidence in me. He watched us get our breakfast ready, when, his curiosity being satisfied, or finding the subject altogether too much for him, he quietly sailed away. My negro was very glad to see him go, for he had kept one eye on him all the time in evident alarm, and told me that he was a witch. I laughed, of course ; but it only made the poor fellow the more serious, and he assured me that nobody doubted it in that region. I do not much wonder at his reputation, for he was cer- tainly an oddly-acting bird."
"Oh!" exclaimed Lucy, "how I should like to see him. Won't you tell us about another bird now?"
" Not this morning. Some other time 1 will."
) And if my little readers care to hear C any more of Uncle John's stories, perhaps > "some other time" I will write them S out.
OUR TEMPLE.
By C. L-
OUR Temple is not made of " gold and precious stones," but of precious "little ones" ranging from six years of age upward to ten, twelve, and even four- teen years.
We are a Cold Water Temple, and have two hundred members, and we ex- pect two hundred more very soon. We meet every Saturday afternoon in a very large hall — one that would hold about one thousand such as me. It is very nicely carpeted and furnished, and as pleasant as any parlor.
On the walls of our hall are many, many pictures; some are oil-paintings, some engravings, some chromos — perhaps one hundred in all.
Then there are brackets on the walls also, and on these are vases of flowers or trailing vines, making it a beautiful place in which to meet.
We have singing, and it is so sweet. We have declamations, and they are so good. Last Saturday a little colored girl spoke a piece, and she was applauded by all. Several little girls and boys spoke pieces.
We take a little pledge not to drink al- cohol, whether in wine, beer, cider, rum
THE CIIILDRES'S HOUR.
90
or anything else that will intoxicate; and gome of our Sunday-school teachers and other.- come in to help us. and we fee) very nappy when we go home from our meet:
The village we live in is a very wicked place, because there are BO many who Bell and drink intoxicating liquors; and there l- many a child here whose "lather is a drunkard, and whose mother is dead.'"
\t Saturday we expect sixty new members; we all pay ten cents apiece once in three months. We are to have a pub- ting soon.
We -• t a nice little Temperance tract of four pages to take home to our parents: on one page is a nice picture — the other three pages are full of reading for little folks.
We hope to have some "Temperance 8 tones,'' such as have been published in the ( 'bildren - Hour," in t week or two ; bo that every member of the Temple can have one of each kind to keep for them- - ud t<» do good with at home.
Oar members have each ■ nice little
. and we begin to be proud that we
belong to the ('..Id Water Army. We fourteen officers, and some of the
ministers of the church-- com,- aiul talk
to I1-.
We i cpeci to become a real live mis- -ionary society in this village, and by end
Boeiety also. There are i many Barents win. want their children to
OOfDC and learn to -in:;, and bring home
stories for them to read. N \t Tharsd i m we m<
..- odes, and the choristers an 1
others have promised to come and help us. We meet at four o'clock and sing for an hour. One of our odes commences. " The Templars are gathering from near and from far;" Others, •"Marching on," "Dare to do right.'" "I'm trying to climb the Temperance Hill," "We are coming. bles>ed Saviour," "Sparkhngand bright," and other pieces equally good. I wish I could tell my readers of our beautiful pictures on the wall. "Rock of Ages," and others; but not this time. Our object is to cultivate a purer taste for all that is good; to make others happy; to become educated in wisdom's ways, and thus avoid the paths of temptation when we become men and women. What do you think of Oi'it Temple?
LEOPARD.
By M. O. J.
• IT7ELL, Leopard, what now?"
H Leopard is our little kitten, so called from her singular col.tr. which is a mixed black and yellow, resembling the
spot- of a leopard. Her Q080 IS -prinkled with tiny black dots M it" a pepper-box
had been shaken over it. She had sprung
upon the window -ill, and >at watching .Joanna while >he wa>hed breakf'a-t-di-he-. The washwoman was mmitu:, and a tub. ready tilled with clear cold water for rinsing, Stood JUSJ under the window. The SOU shone on the water, and the t'o-
Iki.v "!' a largt tare* oJoee to tin* boose
reflected in the tub, to Leopard's
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THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
great pleasure. She watched the moving shadows, and every few moments she would put her paw down slyly to catch the seeming leaf, and just touch the water. Then she would draw back her paw, shak- ing from it a tiny shower. But by and by kitty leaned a little too far, and there was a splash and a mew and a scramble. She did not quite have a plunge-bath, however; but she went in enough to get one side of her fur coat and one sleeve pretty well wet. Poor little Leopard ! She looked rather forlorn in her drabbled raiment. But what did she do? She did not go around the house mewing; she did not rub against us to ask for pity. No, not she ! But she went to the kit- chen door, where the July sun shone in, and lay down in its warmth and bright- ness ; and very soon her fur was as good as new. It would be well for us all, when our plans or purposes or hopes get "a dash of cold water," as we say, if we would adopt little kit's philosophy, and remember that there is somewhere sunshine enough to dry it off, and get into the sun- shine as soon as possible.
MAKE YOUR OWN SUNSHINE.
SOME one in The Little Folks tells the following pleasant story : "Oh dear ! it always does rain when I want to go anywhere!" cried little Jennie Moore. "It's too bad; now I've got to stay in-doors all day, and I know I shall have a wretched day."
1 ' Perhaps so, ' ' said Uncle Jack ; ' ' but
• you need not have a bad day unless you choose. ' '
"How can I help it? I wanted to go to the Park and hear the band, and take Fido and play on the grass, and have a good time, and pull wild flowers, and eat sandwiches under the trees; and now there ain't goin' to be any sunshine at all; and I'll just have to stand here and see it rain, and see the water run off the ducks' backs all day."
"Well, let's make a little sunshine," said Uncle Jack.
"Make sunshine!" said Jennie; "why, how you do talk !" and she smiled through her tears. "You haven't got a sunshine- factory, have you?"
"Well, I am going to start one right off, if you'll be my partner," replied Uncle Jack. "Now, let me give you these rules for making sunshine : First, Don't think of what might have been if the day had been better. Second, See how many pleasant things there are left to enjoy ; and, lastly, Do all you can to make other people happy."
"Well, I'll try the last thing first ; " and she went to work to amuse her little brother Willie, who was crying. By the time she had him riding a chair and laughing, she was laughing too.
"Well," said Uncle Jack, "I see you are a good sunshine-maker, for you've got about all you or Willie can hold just now. But let's try what we can do with the second rule."
"But I haven't anything to enjoy, 'cause all my dolls are old, and my pic- ture-books all torn, and — "
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
101
■" Hold ! " Baid Uncle .lack; "here's an (•Id newspaper. Now, let's get some ran out of it."
"Fan out of a newspaper! why, how you talk '."
But Uncle Jack showed her how to make a mask by catting holes in the paper, and how to cut a whole family of paper dolls, and how to make pretty things for Willie out of the paper. Then he got out the tea-tray, and showed her how to roll a marble round it.
And so she found many a pleasant amusement, and when bed-time came she kissed Uncle Jack and said,
"Good-night, dear Uncle Jack."
"Good-night, little sunshine-maker," -aid Qnc e .Jack.
And she dreamed that night that Uncle Jack had built a great house, and put a sign oyer the door which read— sunshine oey.
made Uncle Jack laugh when she told him her dream: hut -lie never forgol what yon must remember— A cheebfi i.
HKAKT MAKES m OWH -i \hii\i;.
THE CHANGED SPRING.
By Mrs M o. Jtknson.
ALONG, long time ago, in m country ■ Prom ours, ■ company of rere passing through i desert Prom the expression on many faces of gratitude and relief, one would infer that had just passed safely through some There irere old white-
haired men, leaning on their staves and cheerfully keeping up the wearisome
march. There were family groups — a lather carrying a child of two or three years, a mother with her babe on her bosom, and older children following; there Were young men and maidens, with up- lifted brows and linn, elastic step. Their leader was a man in the prime of life, of resolute bearing, eyes wherein shone the bght of a great hope, and brow and mouth betokening courage and endurance.
There was a great hope set hefore this people. They had just escaped from hit- ter enemies, who had long held them in bondage and fear: and they were journey- ing toward a new land that should he to them a home — a home of freedom and peace.
For a while the glorious thought made them forgetful of the wearisome way;
hut as the day advanced, the burning rays of the sun coming down on their un- sheltered heads, the scorching sand be- neath their feet became almost intolerable. Tired, hungry, thirsty, they still pressed
on. mothers SOOthing their little ones as
best they could; ail looking eagerly for some spring where they might drink.
The Mm went down, and no water had
been found. All <•!-«• could he better home than this terrible thirst Wearily
they pitched their tents and lay down, liM|,iiiLr that the morrOW would bring re- lief But when the toilsome march had I.e. n resumed at break of day, and many a mile of the not desert traversed, still no spring was in right, and night sgain drew
Iht curtain around them. Another and
102 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
harder day, and they were nearly faint- ? of our cruel masters! I would rather, a ing, when, as evening drew nigh, they ) thousand-fold, risk life in attempting to saw in the distance what they hoped < gain freedom than remain in bondage!" (oh how intensely !) might be a stream. ) "But how can we go on? And what Forgetting their aching limbs, they < do we know of any such country? /wish pressed on with new courage and reached ) we had never listened to his deceitful it. Oh joy beyond expression! — it was ) promises."
indeed a spring ! Eagerly the half-faint- ( "Hold! He is not a deceiver. He
really believes in a Land of Promise, somewhere in the direction we are going,
ing pilgrims pressed around to drink — but what! The waters were bitter, in- tensely bitter, for it was a salt or mineral spring. Many threw themselves on the
and that God has called him to lead this people."
sand in utter despair. Old men sat si- < "Well, perhaps he does; but we might
lently down, faint and exhausted. And ) have known better than to give heed to
mothers' tears fell like rain over their I his vagaries."
pleading little ones, while they tried) "Ah! there he is."
vainly to hush them to sleep. k u Coming so soon? What is that in his
Where, meantime, was the leader? ) hand?" Withdrawn a little from the rest, calm > Calmly, quietly, the man approached and undismayed, he lifted up his heart in < the little spring and threw into it a piece earnest prayer. Then, with confidence S of wood. The young bark showed that that it would be answered, with brow and < it was just cut from a tree. A tree of eyes hope-lighted still, he compelled his > peculiar properties it was, for it proved a tired feet to farther effort. \ perfect antidote to the bitterness of the
"Where is he going?" asked one and ) waters: they were no longer bitter, but another. ) clear, sweet and refreshing !
"There's no knowing — he is such a { What an eager band pressed around, strange man." ) drinking till their thirst was quenched,
"Perhaps he thinks to find water — s and they felt new life in every limb and here, in this desolation!" J; nerve! Mothers, their worn faces drip-
" Only think of his bringing us all to S ping with glad, grateful tears, held their such a pass! I do not believe we shall ? children to the stream's brink. And after ever see the country he tells about, and ) a night's refreshing sleep, with renewed we cannot go back." ( hope and courage the travelers went on
"I wish we were back again," chimes ) their way. Ere long they reached an in another. ) oasis, where they found twelve gushing
"You do? I do not, I am sure. Forced ( springs, and a multitude of palm trees to labor beyond our strength, hardly fed > threw their cool shadows on the soft or clothed, and subject always to the will r grass. There they encamped, beside the
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
103
waters, enjoying the rest and refreshing tenfold, for the wearying journey thither.
The name of this place was Elim ; and the Promised Land proved not a dream, but a rich, blessed certainty, answering fully to the faith of him who led the peo- ple. You know this was Moses, and the people were the Israelites.
"Then this story is true ?" you ask.
Yes, dear children; there are many stories in the Bible as wonderful, and more beautiful, than the fairy-tales you love so well. They are mostly written very briefly, and the more you think about them, the more you find out their beauty.
Let me say, our duties, and the exper- iences of life are sometimes like the waters of Marah (which means bitter), and we think we cannot accept them cheerfully. But let love come into them, a real desire to be good and do good, and they gradually become changed to us, till we can own them fraught with truest bleating.
BY-AND-BY.
Boi OMoif'a Warning to i eh Slug- oars Go to the ant, thou sluggard; eon- rider her irays and be wise; which having no guide, overseer or ruler, provideth her meal in the summer, and gathereth her food ifi the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, <) sluggard? when will thou arise out of thy deep? JTei a little sleep, i little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleej
shall tliy DOVeri 006 thai havrl-
eth, and thy want a- an armed man,
There's a little mischief-making
Elfin, who is ever nigh, Thwarting every undertaking,
And his name is By-and-by. What we ought to do this minute
" Will be better done," he'll cry, 'If to-morrow we begin it:
Put it off)" says By-and-hy.
Those who heed his treacherous wooing
Will his faithless guidance rue; What we always put off doing
Clearly, we shall never do; We shall reach what we endeavor
If on Nov) we more rely ; But unto the realms of Never
Leads the pilot By-and-by.
"Mother," said a little girl, "I gave a beggar-child a drink of water, and she said 'Thank you!' so beautifully that it made me glad. T shall never forget it."
Now if any one feels fretful, or discon- tented, or unhappy in any way, here ifi the medicine. Let him do a " thank
you'-" worth of kindness every hour, and
lie will be cured.
CHASING A BUTTERFLY.
ii
I'AIIY |m Bui my voice reached
his ears too late. He had -truck tic beautiful insed frith his bat. ami was
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THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
trying to disengage from its silken lining •; the yellow and purple wings of a living ;.• pansy. His fingers moved too eagerly, ( and crushed and soiled the gauzy wings ' and tender body. A shadow of disap- : pointment was on his face as he held up the now lifeless insect.
' ' I am so sorry you killed the beautiful thing." I said.
'"But I didn't mean to hurt the butter- : fly, mother," answered my boy, almost crying over the wreck of life and beauty in his hand. "I only tried to catch . it." {
"I know it dear. But these lovely ;.• creatures are too frail to bear the touch \ of our rough fingers. See ! Here comes • another, with large ruby and golden •. wings. Don't run after it. Don't try to . catch it. Keep very still, and maybe it .• will light on this rose bush. There ! it is ,' settling down on that large flower. Isn't it :• lovely ! How gracefully it moves its wings ;•'. like two painted fans. )
Henry almost held his breath as he < leaned forward to watch the beautiful in- }
sect. Then, as it rose up and flew slowly away, he said :
"They are only to look at, mother — not to hold in our hands."
"Yes, dear," I answered; "and I hope yon will always remember it, and never again try to catch a butterfly."
Dear boy ! He was too young then for the life-lesson I would have taught him from this incident. But it was laid away in his memo^, and in after years I turned the leaf on which it was recorded, and showed him how mere worldly honors and fashion and fame were but as painted butterflies, that would give no substance from which happiness would flow.
" If you chase them," I said, "they will die or grow unbeautiful the moment they are grasped. But if you fix your eyes on things virtuous, noble and useful, and pursue them with an unselfish ardor, your life will be crowned with blessings. Every achievement will give you, instead of a painted butterfly, soiled or dead in your hand, an abiding substance."
The Children's Hour
A Magazine for the Little (Km
OCTOBER, 1869
~V;
By Roulia Rice.
E AND H BABIES. ^ nothing In the way of the plough, and in
turning over i bit of ■ dry stamp that lay on the surface of the ground, he unco? ered the warm, dry nesl of an <>M mother
ONE 'lay hut summer my father was mouse, working out in the fields, moving ! She bad si* pinky baby mioo, nettling
stumps and stones, so there would hu around her soft furry body, and justtak'
Vol.. vi.— 1 1 105
106
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
ing their little wee dinner of warm milk. } What were they to do? The whole roof was torn off their house when the stump was lifted and turned over, and there they were, with the summer sun beaming right down upon them. Their little bodies were exposed to all kinds of weather, and they were so helpless and young that not one of them knew how to walk two steps without rolling right over upon his back, with his four dainty little tooties up in the air.
My father said he stepped forward to put the stump back again, and to leave them as cozy and as happy as he had ( found them. But the mother mouse, not ) knowing whether he was a friend or a foe, ( said in a little, fine, squeaking voice, that ,) could hardly be heard by gross big ears, \ "Oh, my beautiful little darlings! I will } never leave you nor forsake you : take hold > of .your mother and she will save }'ou." <
Then the six little baby mice understood ) every word she spoke, and they knew ( what she meant, and they opened their > mouths and took hold just as if they were ) going to suck, and then the wise little < mother started off running in the direc- ) tionof a pile of rails that lay near the fence. <
Papa stood and watched her, and he > said it touched his heart in the tenderest < place to see in the lowest of God's crea- ) tion the devotion and the strength of a ) mother's love. <
While she was running as. fast as she ; could with her beloved burden dangling ( about her feet and legs, and hindering her ) speed, one of the little ones loosened its > hold and fell off. >
For an instant the mother paused and looked at it, just as though she was say- ing, "Why how unfortunate! I dont see how one poor mother can manage so many dear little pink babies; but you, poor Plushy, must not be left behind! you are the weakest and dearest and sweetest baby of all ;" and saying this she took it up carefully in her mouth, and with her head up a good deal higher, she trotted on her way and safely reached the pile of rails. We do hope the brave little mother found a good home and a sure re- treat, because she deserved it.
Well, mice are troublesome things, but it would be a very hard-hearted man or boy who could kill one under such cir- cumstances as these were.
In connection with such stories those fine old lines from the "Ancient Mar- iner" come sweeping up tome with such force and tenderness that I look through a mist of tears upon the page before me:
" He prayeth best who loveth best
All tilings, both great and small, For the dear God who loveth lis,
He made and loveth all."
TERRACE RIDGE.
A SEQUEL TO "HOPE DARROW.'
By Virginia F. ToivnsencL
CHAPTER IV.
I WENT through with my part in the tableaux that night, as though I were in a dream ; I remember the eager faces, the shouting and the clapping of hands
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
107
when it was all through, but the poor, miserable, wicked little boy I had left lay too heavy on my heart lor me to feel much interest in the gayety of the others.
When we went out to supper, Creigh- ton Bell came over to me: "You did splendidly, Hope," his face sparkling all over. "You looked like a born Indian princess. You ought to be proud of her, Darrow," as Lewis came up.
"I always was, Bell. But, Hope, what is the matter with you to-night?"
"Why, Lewis?"
"You looked tired or troubled. Has anything gone wrong?"
"I do feel tired, Lewis, but nothing has gone wrong with me — at least, in the way you mean."
CreiL'hron Bell came up with some ices.
"Which shall it be — lemon, or straw- berry, or chocolate, or all three?" holding the waiter toward me.
"I know," said Lewis; "it will be strawberry, and after that it must be bed- tine-. Hope. She isn't used to these late
hours. Bell, and she's nothing but a child, and imt a Strong one at that. You DHOSt
budge off to bed, Pu 1 was very glad to slip away while they ill intent on their rapper. I won- dered whether I had done right about I Dorrence; I was oot certain, but knew I bad tried. The next day I did oot see ( Was I><>r- I mtinag* d to learn that he was off with Hatchel and some of the men, helping them carl ^t<>n<\ I fell m hinking what Lewis would say about my conduct the oight before, that
several times I half made up my mind to go and tell him just what had happened; but Lewis would be dreadfully severe on a thief, and have no faith in any possible good out of Criss Dorrence; he would only shake his head and say, kC You have a soft little heart, Hope, but you don't know anything about the world."
Maybe Lewis was right, but I could not bear to give up that boy, after all.
In a day or two Criss was at his work on the walks again. I went out to him, slipping a great, red apple in my pocket, as though nothing had happened.
I 'Good-morning, Criss;" and I reached out my hand kindly as ever, perhaps a little more so, but seriously ; I could not have used any of the old jests this time.
He gave me his hand very gravely too, and looked at me curiously, a little color coming into his face.
II I haven't told, you see, Criss."
u No, I wasn't afraid of it," his toes working BS usual in the sand.
"But you can't think how troubled and unhappy ['ye been about you. Have
you thought about it have you made up
your mind to try and be an honest boy?"
u I've thought about it." fingering his
rake in an ahsent way. and it struck DOS
that there might be more hope in raoh an answer than there would be in a great many loud, fair promises,
,4And. ( Iriss, I've tried t<> do my part, as T said. I'vr raked I hid night snd morning t<> forgive you and help yon."
lb' faced me thm w itli a ludden glance
out of the sullen eyes that I shall never nothing touched, awed, grate-
108
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
f'ul. "If I could believe He really cared, it would seem worth tryin'," he said. ' " But when I get back with Hatchel and that set, I don't care."
"Are they so bad, Criss?"
" Oh yes ; worse than you've any idea, little girl. Hatchel drinks and swears and fights, and as for stealin', he says a man's a fool not to do it on the sly, when he can get a chance."
"Oh, how awful! You ought not to stay with such wretches, Criss. ' '
"I've been thinkin' I shall go to sea ag'in. There's a better chance for me there." I knew he meant a chance for the "trying," about which he was doubt- ful.
Just then somebody called me. At the best I could only have little snatches of talk with Criss Dorrence.
"Oh stop! here's a big apple," tum- bling it out of my pocket. He looked pleased enough at the sight. "And now I want you to keep up hope. That's my name, you see?"
" Is it? It jest suits you," a bright look in his eyes as I left him.
For a week after that I saw little of Criss Dorrence; some of the days were rainy and I could not go out, and others he was off at work with the men.
But that boy was always in my thoughts, and I felt that he had spoken the truth, and that he would never have a chance, as he said, " with Hatchel and that bad set."
I was not certain either that the going to sea would be a change for the better ; but how was I, a solitary, ignorant little girl, to help him? Then I thought about
Creighton Bell, and wondered and won- dered. What that boy set about he could bring to pass; but if I said anything, must I not tell what happened one night in the breakfast-room, and would not that spoil the case for Criss Dorrence ?
I cannot tell how I should have settled it at last. Something happened again. Late that afternoon I began to feel lonely for the first time since I came to Terrace Ridge, and I went out-doors just for a little run among the grounds before night. It was almost that now, for the days had begun to grow short in the first half of September.
We had now what everybody called "delicious weather" — such ripe, still, golden days, it seemed to me they came and went with something of the very shining and joy of heaven upon their faces. Everybody was off now on sails and rides and pic-nic dinners and excur- sions ; and through the mid-days, Terrace Ridge, with its summer villas nestled in sunny nooks or perched upon breezy banks and hillsides, was as quiet as though it had fallen into a dream. That day our house had been quite empty, for everybody was away. Mrs. Fairfax was planning a pic-nic for the morrow at the Pines, and she and her brother had rowed out in the early afternoon, inviting me also, but I concluded to wait and go over with Lewis after tea.
Mr. Fairfax had gone to town, and would not return until late that evening, and my brother was off in the woods, planning some new avenues which they had been talking about for the last week ;
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
109
so I was left mistress of the house at Ter- race Ridge for the rest of the da)'.
I sauntered around the grounds until I came to the stone wall which they were building on one side. The sun had slipped behind the mountains, but there were heaps of low red lights in the west ; and I was thinking what a pleasant day they would have for the pic-nic to-morrow, and choosing my way carefully through the trampled grass and broken stones, when I heard voices behind the wall, which, just in front of me, had been
CUlli J -I'
"Yon say the boat's fa.>t there in the cove?"
"I've fixed it as you said, Hatchet'1 All right, diss. If we get a big loaf this time, you shall have a fat slice of it. We've set the trap well."
In a moment the speakers came around the wall, and both stared on seeing me. They were diss Dorreuce and the man Hatehel. This last was a heavy, squat figure, with a big face and amass of red bristling beard, but his eyes were the VOffft thing in the dark, hard face. They iking eyes, that dropped guiltily away from you, BUch as I fancied
all villians1 most be, but had, bold, fierce that looked you straight in the face
and made you shudder \ at least, they did
me when they mel and held mine in that half-surprised, half-angry scowl, u though I had rio right to be there and hear what ing.
But the man panted OH Without a word,
and so did I bii ride, only giving
QOd to the hoy.
Going to the house, I thought over those words of Hatchel's. What could they mean? There is some mystery or wrong behind them. "He is a bad, bad man," I kept saying to myself. Just a> I reached the gate, I heard footsteps be- hind me, and turning — of all things! there stood Criss, breathless with run- ning, some trouble and eagerness in his face.
He stopped short, drew his breath hard, and hitched his trousers uneasily.
"Well, Criss, were you after me?"
"Yes, I was."
"You've got something to say to me?"
He seemed troubled, doubtful, half* scared. There was some struggle going on within him.
"Taint much."
"But what is it? You needn't be afraid to ask me," drawing close to him. " Is it anything I can do for you, Criss ''.' '
"No, 'faint that," quickly.
"Well, what is it, Criss? Come now, out with it."
It seemed hard to come yet. The boy's lips worked. He glanced wildly around all as though he feared somebody might be listening, and then he drew close up to me, and said in a low, swift voice, " It - for you."
"For mc, Criss! What do you mean'/ bifl manner startling me inoiv than his words.
"It's true, though," standing still and d now, like one who had made a
effort, and was half minded to stop there, [f there was anything mors to
learn, I must drag it out of the hoy.
110 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Criss," niy hand on the ragged coat- ^ "I told you that afore," the dogged sleeve, "you've got something behind y look on his face.
that to tell me, I see it. If it's anything / "But does he want to do me any I ought to know, don't hold it back. £ harm?" a strange sickness going all over You must believe I am your friend, Criss, ( me as I remembered the bold, wicked and that I've proved it." S eyes.
He looked me straight in the face now, \ "Don't you be scared. You'll be all his eyes bright and touched. "Yes, I < safe enough if you mind what I say, and believe you're that," he said, earnestly. \ keep away from the Pines to-night ; that's
"And I really believe you're my friend ( all."
too, Criss. If I was in any trouble, I ) "But what does Hatchel want to do? think you'd try to help me. Now, ( If I stay away, there are the others — Mrs. wouldn't you, Criss?" ) Fairfax and Creighton Bell, and the ser-
The naked toes and heels worked > vant-girl ; and Lewis is going over too." swiftly in the sand, but the boy's face ) "You can find some way to keep him worked, too. He looked up suddenly: S at home without tellin' on me. You'll "That's why I came here, little girl, 'cos <> never do that, little girl?" I was your friend." I had touched the ) "I don't know, Criss, what I ought to right chord. ( promise. Is there any harm going to
"Well, then, Criss, prove it as I did \ be done to anybody? What did Hatchel the other night. Don't stop to think, but S mean about that boat at the cove? I come right out with it." < overheard him by the stone wall."
Again that bright, swift glance going $ A startled look shot out of the boy's all around, as though in search of some- < eyes. "You did?" he said, and then he thing or somebody that he feared. Then / snapped his jaws closely together, .as he came closer, and whispered in my ear, S though he feared to let another word out.
"Don't you go near the Pines to-night. ) I saw now that there was some dread- Did you hear, little girl?" ) ful wrong brooding, and that Hatchel was
"Yes, I did, but what do you mean — ( at the bottom of it, and had taken Criss why can't I go, Criss, when Lewis comes ) into his confidence, home to take me?" ( I was terribly shocked and scared, and
"Don't you go, though," his voice low, ( yet my thoughts seemed wonderfully swift and shaking. "I can't tell 37ou > clear and to the point. I've wondered at another word. 'Twould be as much as my ) it since, but sometimes a great crisis life was worth, if he knew I said this."" ) makes a man for the time out of a boy, a
"Hatchel ! Has he anything to do with ( woman out of a little girl, it?" my thoughts going back to the strange ) I saw my only chance for the truth lay words I had overheard behind the stone ( in this one poor, hardened, outcast boy — wall. "He is a dreadful bad man, Criss." <* this boy who was both liar and thief, and
THE CHILDliES'S HOUR.
Ill
that my only hold on him was the care and pity I had shown him, and which at great risks to himself had brought him back to-night to save me from some mys- terious evil.
But my heart sank when I looked at the boy's dogged, sullen face. There seemed no hope of moving it. But I would try :
"What is to happen to the people over there at the Pines ? They are my friends, and if any harm came to them it would kill me."
'•Yiiii can keep your brother away ; you it care about the rest of 'em."
"Oh, don't say that, Criss. They are my best friends. You don't know how kind they've been nor what they've done for me. You'd never have known me yourself if it hadn't been for them."
The boy looked a little surprised at that, but his face did not move out of its hardness. " 'Taint no use," he said ; •" P?i done all I can ;" and he turned to
But I caught him and held him:
"Criss, just t. -11 me this one thing: Ts it
hel? And does he know they are
down there alone ai the Pines?"
"Well, what if he does? That's nothin'
i. Ir wouldn't be healthy for me to
en round here talkln1 with you,"
thing himself away, and again that
ilthy elance about him, muoh
frighten* d wild animal's.
:- Wait a minute just One, OriflL
■ \ thing to night, ■
generous one. You're proved you
If -my friend."
The words touched and pleased him, I saw. "I tried to be, 'cos you was mine first, little girl ;" the fingers working to- gether in their clumsy, restless fashion.
"And what's more, you've done some- thing to please God. I think he put it into your heart to come and tell me this to-night."
"Do you think that?" some doubt and awe in his face.
"I do, as true as I stand here, Criss Dorrenee. But God has something more for you to do now."
"You mean to tell you. No, I can't do that. It's none o' my business," his face darkening and hardening again.
" Yes, it is your business, Criss. What did Ifatchel mean by that fat slice you were to have out of the loaf?"
It was growing dark now, and the round, large moon was coming over the mountain like a great, slowly-blossoming lower; I could see the boy's face grow white and feel him wince suddenly.
"Did you hear all that?" he whis- pered.
"Yes, I did. Oh, Criss, would you
help that Hatrhel to do anything dread- ful?"
"T don't do it on my own hook," a
good deal excited. " [t'l his business,
and I'm jest a dog, and have t>> earn' and
fetch as he orders me." "No. you an* not :i dog, Criss Dorreuoe
Y are -i boy with i heart and ■ son].
and you know what's WTOUg and what'- ri'.dit. and you'd better die this minute than help that wicke 1 wretch to do any
harm."
112 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Criss mumbled something down in his } within him, and that boy would come out throat about " not really helping Hat- < of it a great deal better or a great deal chel." ( worse for his whole future.
"Yes, you have too. You've left a ) He muttered to himself in broken
boat down to the cove, and you know just / phrases, "If I thought it was as you say, what's to be done ; and now if anything ) but I don't know. If I could steer clear
happens, or if any harm is done to any- J of Hatchel. He's so keen he'd screw it body, God will certainly lay the blame on / out of me. I'd never see him again — I'd you, for you could have prevented it." ) run away from him this night, and go off
"I can't do it." Criss cried out, ( to sea." sharply now, more as though he was } "You better do that, Criss," seizing talking to something in his own soul than ( hold of this new idea — "you'd better go to me. "I say I can't do it; Hatchel } to the ends of the earth, than stay in the will find it out, and he'd just as lief kill •• power of that bad man. Oh, don't me as not." '( stop to think — you know it's right ; tell
"Criss," holding his arm, for I saw the ! me." boy was ready any moment to dart away / What more I said I cannot remember, from me, "I'm your friend — the only } but I think I talked along while beyond one you have in the world — you believe ( all I have written, for I know in my eag- that?" ) erness I got both hands hold of Criss, and
The boy nodded. ( at last, out there in the moonlight under
"Well, then, God is your Friend, too, ) the stars, and with both of us trembling and he is greater and stronger than a ; so we could hardly stand, the whole came thousand Hatchels. He can save you ( out in breathless whispers and broken from all that man's power and wicked- ) words ; and it is so dreadful I shall try to ness, and you are to trust him now. He ( write it as quickly as I can. calls to you through me, a poor, little, } It appeared that during the day, while weak, helpless girl, and it is just the same < he was at work on the stone wall, Hatchel as though he was saying to you, 'Be ( had learned that Mrs. Fairfax and her brave, be a man, Criss. Speak out and } brother and servant were going over to do what is right, and never fear a bad I the Pines, and that they would probably man ; I can take care of that.' " } remain until early evening, for the sake of
I could see the boy's face was moved ( the pleasant moonlight sail back to Ter- now — the dogged sullenness was gone. ) race Ridge.
It struck me then, even through all my > Hatchel had an old crony up from the dread and terror, that the boy's conscience { city who was "out of a job," and who was awake for the first time. His lips ) had been in State's prison more than and his red fingers and his bare toes ( once. This man, always watching his worked. A great struggle was going on •• chance, managed to learn that young Bell
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
113
usually carried more or less money about him; and both he and his sister wore val- uable watches ; but that was not all : Mrs. Fairfax had taken a notion to carry over to the Pines what few pieces of plate she had brought to the country, in order to show the servant how to arrange the table for the pic-nic after some pattern of her own.
When Mrs. Fairfax had given her or- ders that morning, her husband had said, half in jest, half in earnest, "I should hardly regard it safe to carry much silver about in that loose fashion, Pauline. What a bait it would be if any burglars happened to be loafing around here just at this time !"
';Oh, nonsense, Dick!" laughed the
lady; uyou are always croaking. Iiur-
ibout here? What an absurd idea!"
She little supposed there was one at the pump outside at that moment, and that the wind carried the talk from the veran- dah where she stood to his ear. The man was Ehtchel'fl crony.
•he two villains had laid their plans,
and they had taken Criss into them, be-
they needed hi- services in getting
ready a Small rOW-boat which the hoy had
left among the bushes in a little bend of the lake. That was all. Criss left the
r me to fill up.
lid it, only too ucll. '"Oh. Criss," ■hireling with fear, "what will thoSC
Ufa] nun do? Do they mean to kill anybo
They won't harm nobody if they can help it. I heard 'cm say that But they're desperate, and th< >n the
. \ i. 15
plunder; and if fight's showed, it'll likely go hard."
"Oh, Criss," wringing my hands, "Lewis is gone, and I'm here all alone. What can one little girl do? Can't you help me? Oh do, do, Criss !"
"I can't do nothin', little girl. The boat's there, and the men will set off in about half an hour."
"If I could get there first, I'd go all alone. I'd do anything, Criss. If you could only hide that boat."
He shook his head : " It' s too late now. ' ' But suddenly a new idea caught up the boy's whole face. He drew near to me, his eyes bright and wide. "I'll tell you — I might hide them oars," whispered Criss Dorrence.
[to be continued.]
THE VOICE FROM THE WATER.
By Bay Ridgway.
LITTLE Fred was the son of a strict temperance man, and often heard his
lather Bpeak of the evils of tasting strong drinks of any kind. II<' had, as might be expected, a great abhorrence of drunk- ards and of everything that COuld make them.
One day hi- good mamma dressed him up very nicely, and permitted him to visi(
two other little boys, whose parents lived jtisi in the edge of the town. Aft. i Ing hi- sonny onrls a farewell brush, she
led him down the walk to the gate, telling him to he a " nice little 1»"\\ and to he
114 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
careful and not get hurt;" and then she J> ever meet his dear papa and mamma, and kissed him, children, just as your own \ what they would say to him. mamma does you when you go out to \ At first he thought he would never tell play. ) them of it, but this resolution did not
Fred walked off very proudly, admiring ( give him courage to go home; so, to his pretty clothes trimmed with such > amuse himself, he commenced picking up shining buttons, and his shoes so nice and \ little stones and putting them in his new, and all the time thinking what fun ) pockets, till his pockets threatened to he would have with Johnnie and Willie. S break beneath such a weight. He then Visions of running, swinging, jumping, ? walked slowly toward the bridge just ahead gathering apples, chasing turkeys, mak- ) of him, and began to drop the stones ing water-wheels, and riding old Betty i he had gathered down through a hole (the children's favorite) floated through ) in it to the water. No sooner had the his mind, and before he knew it he found ) first stone touched the water, when with himself at the pleasant shady cottage of ; a splash, the words "You're drunk" came his young friends. ) to his ear. He jumped up and looked all
The little boys were glad to see Fred, I around to see who was telling him he was and invited him to go down cellar, where ) drunk;* but, upon seeing no one, he they had been sucking cider through a ) dropped another stone and heard the straw from the great iron-hooped barrel. ) same words. He was getting frightened; Of course, Fred must have some too. At ) and wishing to know what made the water first he refused, telling them that his <j talk, he selected a smooth, round stone, parents would not wish him to drink any, ') and let it fall carefully from his hand, and would be displeased if he did ; but, \ watching it all the time ; but clearer and after being coaxed a while, he gave up to ( louder still, came the dreadful "You're them. Another nice long straw was found, ) drunk," making him throw all of his and soon three pairs of rosy lips were ( stones down upon the bridge, and run sipping the sweet cider from the old ) toward home as fast as his feet could carry barrel. < him.
They drank as much as they liked, and ) His mother, seeing him running in such then ran off to the barn to see the chick- \ haste, was alarmed and ran to the gate to ens and turkeys, and to jump from the ■' meet him and to learn what was the hay-mow. > matter. Between his sobs, he managed
Fred played for some time, but when- ( to say, "I thucked thum thider from a ever he thought how naughty he had ) straw, and the water thays I'm drunk;"
been to drink the cider, he could not half s and here the little fellow broke down en- enjoy his sport, and one time, when his ) tirely, and threw himself into his mother's playmates were out of sight, he ran off ) arms. She tried to soothe him, but all in toward home, wondering how he could ' vain. The "water would tell somebody
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
115
else that he was drunk, and everybody would shun him, and he would be dirty and ragged like old Rhodes, and have to sleep in the barn."
His mamma said it was very naughty in him to drink the cider, but that she Bed the water would never tell of it, if he did not drink any again.
Now, my little readers what made Fred think that the voice he heard came from the water? Can you not tell ? Have you never disobeyed your dear papa or mam- ma, or done something that was naughty, and afterward imagined that everything was telling you about it ? How badly you felt! — nothing looked pretty, and oh how you wished you had been good !
If you always want to be happy, and live beautiful lives, and hear sweet and pleasant voices from everything that our loving Father ha- made, be good. Never when you are away do anything that you know will sadden the hearts of the kind parent! at home.
OUR "BABY GREY.
By G. If. M.
/ VUB ironderful child,
- i brown and fat, m irlse and wild.
Oh how -hall 1 tell yon hill' tii.it he is —
of the beauty and grace of hii dear little phis?
jndge and :i naughty -prile,
i doubtful biasing, hut one outright.
I I' ill with a hx.k i,\ hi- ,
< .in make hi do everything but ligh,
Propound a query, which to know Straight to the angels one must go. Ah, Baby Grey ! in the future years — In times of calm or times of tears — Keep pure thy heart's unstained snow, Hold fast thy childhood's trust, and know That talents two, or five, or ten Must soon be rendered up again Into the Lord's deep treasury, Receiving his own with usury.
THE LITTLE SEEDS.
ONE fine spring day, when the sun was low, A man, with a rake and a spade,
Went out, some nice little seeds to sow- In the holes which for them he made.
But the poor little seeds didn't like to fall And lie in the dismal ground ;
For the light never peeped in there at all, And shut out was the softest sound.
"Oh, what shall we do?" was the mournful cry, We never can live down there ;
We .-hall die, We shall die, We are sure to die, For there i- not a breath of air!" IJiit the kind old gardener soothed their dread, And their murmuring tones he hushed;
"It i- all for your gOOd," he tenderly -aid. don't be afraid, and trust."
- -« -. *~— THE proud and the in-olent are neither
Christians nor Kcholara Both religion and learning disclaim them, u being i
16 tO both.
116
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
A TRAP FOR A HUMMING-BIRD.
YOU have heard of rat-traps and mouse-traps, but did you ever hear of a humming-bird-trap? Perhaps you will think it cruel to try to catch such pretty little things, but wait till I tell you how we do it. There is a hanging-basket in our window, and in that we put trum- pet-creeper flowers, and Chinese lark- spurs, and tiger-lilies every morning. Then we sit down quietly with our sewing or reading near the window, and it is not
long before a loud humming attracts our attention. There, our first humming-bird has come. Round he flies to one flower and then another, with his white-edged tail outspread, and his long bill finding its way even into the deep trumpet-flowers. When his little eyes catch sight of us, off he darts, but sometimes he comes back to try one flower more.
This is the pleasantest way to catch birds. We have all the pleasure of watch- ing their pretty ways, and it does not hurt them. N
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
117
Little children! there are generally two ways to do anything — one a pleasant and kindly way, the other a cross and cruel way. When you wish your little brother or sister to do anything, try with the flowers of kind words and smiles, not with the steel-traps of scolding and strik- ing.
I will tell you a true story about a girl who knew how to make flower-traps for her little brother. She was only, six years old, and her brother was three. One day he was a little sick, and his mother wanted him to put on a shawl before he went out of the nursery. This he did not like to do, and he would have cried and given his mother trouble, if Carrie had not thought of a little plan.
"Charlie," said she, "don't you want to play school?"
"Yes," he answered, gladly, for he liked that very much.
• Well," said Carrie, "let me put on your shawl, and we will go to school to- gether in the other room."
So she pinned it warmly round his neck, and led him off as happy as :i little boy could
Which of you will try to help your mothers as little Carrie* did. and so make flower-traps to catch tmilei and thanks
from her, as we catch humming-birds?
LOST IN THE HIGHLANDS,
By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
"0
'Tis but little I can do;
i • • tbii I-- my effort -till, ] to be Had end true, • watchful igeinet ill —
g Lofd, thy holy will.
H how beautiful they are!" said Grace Dana, as she turned the leaves of her birth day present — an album of Scottish views. "See, mother, those mountains in sunset light, and that lovely lake ! Won't you tell me a story of Scot- land, please?"
" Let me think," replied Mrs. Dana, as she continued her sewing. Presently, she added, ' ' I remember one of a young girl's- being lost on a mountain and staying out all night. Will that suit you ?' '
"Oh yes, mother, just the thing!" said Grace; and Mrs. Dana began her story.
Alice Raymond, a girl of fourteen, was traveling with her father and mother among the Scottish Highlands. They took board for a few weeks near Ben Lo- mond, ami one pleasant afternoon as- cended the mountain. The sky was clear, the air pure and bracing, the glad sun- shine lay on all around ; and though the ascent was wearisome, they enjoyed it, and still more the glorious view from the summit — green valleys dotted with the
cottages of Scottish peasantry, the <
dwelling! of the wealthy, here and there the remains of POB9C old Castle, WOOdfl ami mist-Wrapped hills, and blue hikes
shimmering in the sunshine.
They stayed a long time enjoying the beautiful prospect, till their guide advised ihrin to return, at it wai Dear Buaset, and the mountain mist would soon obscure
118 TEE CHILDREN S HOVR.
the difficult path. When part way down, ) help them to trust me with thee! Lead Alice exclaimed, ( me home to them in thine own way and
"See, mother, there is the wild cistus } time." And confidence in Almighty love growing! I must get some roots." < and care filled her heart with a greit
"But will there be time, dear?" ^ peace.
"Oh yes! it is but little way from the > She could not tell how long she sat path ; I can run fast and will soon over- < there, but after a while she heard the take you; don't wait for me," and she ) tread of animals coming toward her. She bounded away. She went farther than \ was startled at first, but the musical tinkle she intended, for new beauties kept ) of sheep-bells told her there was no reason springing up before her, and she would ) for alarm. The flock passed so near as say, "I must have that." She was not ( sometimes to brush her dress. She arose very long filling her basket, but as she } and wearily followed them, for she said to turned to retrace her steps she missed ( herself there must be room to walk safely her way. She soon noticed that the path > where they went, and they might lead was not the same by which she had come; \ her in sight of some shepherd's dwelling, she tried another and another, but without < It seemed to her a long way, but after success, and every attempt seemed to 5 a while they stopped on a sort of grassy draw her farther from the right course. I plain. The moon rose, and by its light She called as loud as she could to her ) Alice saw that she had escaped imminent father, but could hear no reply. The I peril. The path by which she came lay thought that she was lost — lost in these ) along the edge of a precipice; one careless mountain solitudes — came over her with a ( or ill-judged step would have been de- keen pain ; but she quickly roused herself, ( struction ! Her heart thrilled with grat- with native courage and energy, to think S itude.
what she had best do. Night was fast ( She saw before her a path leading in a coming on, and it grew cold; she knew £ downward direction, and followed it that walking in any direction after dark ( through a green valley till a bright light, might expose her to greater danger. She ) still at some distance, met her eyes, began to feel drowsy after a while, and ) With a hopeful heart she pressed on, would gladly have lain down on the grass \ sometimes losing sight of it in the wind- to sleep, but she had read of travelers > ings of the path, but soon seeing it again, who, having done this, never awoke. She { But instead of the home-light shining wrapped her shawl closely about her, and ) from the windows, as she had supposed, tried to keep awake and wait patiently \ she found it was a cottage on fire ! Tired till morning. ( as she was, she ran till she reached it; she
"Protect me, 0 Father!" she said, < knocked and shouted with all her strength, fervently, "let no evil thing come near. \ and succeeded in rousing its inmates. A Send comforting thoughts to those I love; ) woman rushed out holding a baby in her
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
119
arms, and followed by two children grasp- ing her clothes and crying with terror. Sue looked Anxiously around, put down Iter baby and tried to go into the cottage, but the flames forced her back. She ran around the corner, seized a stone and dashed in a window, calling "Robert! Donald!"
Alice understood instantly that there
two children yet in the burn inn
house. The mother tried to force herself
through the opening, but it was too small.
threw off her shawl, and, little and
- succeeded in entering
nun. where Bne found two boys fast
asleep. It was impossible to rouse them, for they Were nearly suffocated: and the young girl drew by main strength one and then the other to the window, and their mother pulled them out. In the fresh air they speedily recovered from the ef- ike. Alice -•mild not un- tnd ih" woman's Highland dialect, but her manner and her tears told her gratitude.
A blanket had been secured, and the
burning cottage threw out an intense heat, irly exhausted ami feeling safe nod comparatively comfortable, wai
A ■: - quick hark awakened her. and she found that the Bhepherd bad returned.
The story of the night was soon told, and he came toward her, thanking her in nearly her own language. Be took out a
oaten cake, which he le-r. She w:i~ faint from hunger, but she I have taken only a part of it.
d, heartily ; " I hae
mair, and the bairns had a good supper afore they went to sleep. Ye need it a1 ;" and he brought her water from a neigh- boring spring. Simple as was her meal, it greatly refreshed the wearied girl.
The Scotchman told his dog to lie down beside the family, and said to Alice that he would go with her atid show her the way home. Much as she needed this aid, she felt troubled at his leaving them, but he said cheerily,
"And d'ye think I wadna'gang a thou- sand miles for ye, my leddy? And this is but twa. I wad hae been a lone man, without wife or bairns, but for ye. Don- ald '11 see ye safe in your mither's arms afore the sun rises, so please Him that sent ye to save tin; bairns this night."
Carefully, tenderly, as if she had been a little child, did he guide her and lift her over Tough or slippery places, till he begged her to let him carry her. saying he should scarcely led her weight lb' kept his Word; at sunrise Alice W8S in her mother's anus, and Bne did not forget in the joy of meeting to tell the story of
Donald's misfortune. While warm beds and breakfasts were preparing at the boarding house, he was Benl with a couple of ptoul Highland ponies, well supplied with Bhawls, t<» bring his family. They weic comfortably clothed by the people in the neighborhood; and Mr. Raymond and other boarders contributed a bum sufficient to build ami furnish another col
When Alice spoke to her mother sadly of the anxiety she and hor father must have endured that night, Mr-. Raymond answered!
120 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"Do not regret that, daughter, since J in the greatest hurry to have poor Will you were thus able to rescue the poor > punished immediately; while his corn- family from their awful peril. God's > panion in the next field was equally im- hand was in it all." ( patient, answering cry for cry, each going
— r,^??*?^*- - ) faster and faster until they were quite out
? of breath. THE FRIGATE-BIRD. > Uncle John had a quiet talk with Mary
\ and George about these birds, while little
By Mrs. E. B. Duffey. ) Lucy sat still and listened.
') "I must tell you about the strange
IT was a pleasant evening in June when ') birds one sees on the ocean," said Uncle Uncle John came next to see his little > John, nephew and nieces. He found them all < "On the ocean, Uncle John? How out on the front porch enjoying the fresh ) can there be birds there where there are air. George brought his uncle a great I no places for them to build their nests?" arm-chair, and he sat down in it, and ) asked Mary.
drew little Lucy upon his knee and > "Why, don't you know?" replied stroked back her soft brown locks. It is ^ George, somewhat importantly, because strange — isn'tit? — how these great, rough- ) of his superior knowledge. "Haven't bearded men sometimes like such little I you seen gulls? I'm sure they are ocean soft, tender bits of girls, and how gentle ) birds, but they build their nests on the and loving they can be! Lucy gave ^ land. Then we've read about stormy Uncle John's whiskers a little pull now > petrels — how sometimes they fly so far out and then, but he didn't seem to mind it S at sea that they are glad to light on a ship in the least. \ to rest."
There was a belated or over-industrious ) "You do not find either gulls or stormy bee humming around the honeysuckles. ^ petrels very far from the land — from an is- A little mite of a bird, that certainly had ) land at least," Uncle John remarked, his nest somewhere in the same honey- ) "But I can tell you about a bird that flies suckles, and who ought to have been in ? hundreds of miles over the ocean, and bed half an hour at least, hopped out on ') seems never to need rest. Indeed, some a twig with a twitter, and a bob of his < people say that it sleeps upon the wing, head and a flirt of his tail, as much as to ; "This is the frigate-pelican or man-of- say, "Who's to send me to bed if I'm ( war bird. It is a native of the Tropics, not ready to go?" and sung a few lively / black in color, and is quite large, measur- notes, and then, with a chirp or two, > ing about three feet from head to tail, hopped out of sight again. A whip-poor- ( Its tail is long and forked, and it has will fluttered clumsily down a few yards ) long, narrow wings, which when spread off, and set up his nightly cry, seemingly •; out measure ten or twelve feet from tip to
THE CHILDREN'S 110 r II.
121
THE FRiGATE-BIRD.
i. I''-
122 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
tip. With these wings it can fly very fast ) without lifting him up in the least, and and very far. It will sometimes rise far \ his feet didn't seem to be of any use in above the clouds, or, if there are no clouds, ) walking. I easily knocked him over with so high that, large as it is, it can scarcely > a stick and caught him. ' ' be seen. \ " What did you do with him?" said
"It lives on fish, and will dart down ) George and Mary in chorus, and seize them from the surface of the ^ "Little children shouldn't ask ques- water, or will pursue clouds of flying fish ; ) tions. But if I must tell the truth, I but it can neither dive nor swim. It is a > made him subserve the interests of great robber, and does not in the least > science."
mind attacking a gull or a pelican to make S The two children looked blankly at one it drop its prey, which it will seize before \ another on hearing these long words, it reaches the water." !> " ' Subserve the interests of science !' "
"But, uncle, what do these birds do <> repeated Mary to herself. "I wonder when they get far out to sea and a storm > what that means? I'll ask mother to- comes up?" asked Mary. S night."
"Oh, they do not mind storms in the ? It did not occur to George to "ask least. There is no frightening them with ) mother^" so he took the shorter and big waves and strong winds. If the wind \> blunter way of finding out : is in their favor, it only helps them to fly > " Now you are poking fun at us, uncle, the faster; and in the worst of weather ) and that ain't fair. Why can't you tell a they sail as coolly as possible down in the ) fellow what you did with him, without hollows of the sea and up over the crests S any long words?"
of the waves, on an eager lookout for the ( "Well, I killed and stuffed him, and frightened fish, which seem then to be ) sent him to a friend of mine to put in his more easily caught." ( museum. Halloo, Lucy, what's the mat-
"Do they never land?" <j ter? You've got very heavy."
"Oh yes, they find some barren coast S Lucy had been apparently listening at- or uninhabited island, where they make } tentively to all that had been said. But their nests, either on trees or high rocks, > as her uncle looked down at her, he found but never lay more than one or two I her head was lying against his breast and eggs. ? her eyes were shut. Lucy was fast asleep,
"If they alight on the ground, it is very s and didn't wake when her uncle spoke to difficult for them to rise, for their legs are ? her. Mary came to him to take her, but short and clumsy, and their wings are so ) Uncle John pushed her gently away with long that they are in the way. Once, on I a "nevermind," and, gathering the little the coast of Florida, I found one standing ) bundle tenderly up in his arms, carried on the beach. He tried hard to fly away, ) her softly and gently into the house and
but his wings only brushed the ground < handed her over to mamma s care
THE CIIILDRES'S HOUR.
123
"Come, children," called mamma's voice from within; *'it is bed-time."
"<i l-night, uncle."
"Good-night. Come and see us again soon, won't you?"
"Oh yes, if" you promise to be good children," called back Uncle John, as he Bwung the garden gate; and a moment af- terward they heard him going down the road with his quick, firm step, whistling softly to himself.
LITTLE VIALS; OR, CHILDREN'S PRAYERS.
By M. O. J.
DID you ever think, children, of the beautiful image in Revelation, i«-n vials full of odors, which are the prayere of saints"? It shows us that the Lord truly welcomes, accepts, values n-al prayer — that which is sincere, earnest and trustful
"Does this verse mean children's pray : little girl may a-k. Why
DOt? What are saints but those who
the Lord with all their heart* their neighbor as themselves? And can- not children do this? Y<>u know, in this world, the tiniest vial often oontaini the tliesl perfume, And you may be assured thai our Father in h< counts the prayen of nil little ones among the snd moat precious of-
; to him. Not more to bit bear! of
ii the long of ingeli than the ho- sanna of the children*
Maurice was a little boy three years old, and he had a baby sister that he loved very dearly. One night, when his mother was putting him to bed, he saw that she seemed very sad and her eyes often filled with tears. The baby, he knew was sick, and he asked if that was what troubled her so much.
"Yes," she replied ; "we are afraid she is not going to stay with us."
Maurice felt very badly on hearing this, but brightened up in a moment, as a thought came into his mind :
" I'll ask our Father to make her bet- ter— may I, mamma?"
His mother told him he might. He had said his evening prayer as usual and lain down in his crib, but he knelt again and said, "Please, our Father, make baby better and don't take her away.''
" There, mamma," he said, as he lay down, " I'm sure he will," and kissed her good-night. In the morning his first question was about the baby, and his mother, glad and grateful, told him she was very much better.
"I himc God would hear me," he said, in a satisfied tone.
Lei He- tell you of two little girla who thought God did not hear them.
In the Sunday-school where Annie went it was a custom to give every little
girl who was attentive and diligent a blttC ticket ; when she had four of thi
i link one : snd \\ hen (out pink ones were owned, i 1 k with stories and pic- tin'1- to keep. One Sunday the words,
11 Ask and ye shall receive. " w. -re in the i and the teacher talked with the
124
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
children about it. She told them it would do no good to ask for anything in words, if they did not in their hearts desire it, and trust their Father's love and willingness to bless them. When school was closed, after saying the Lord's Prayer together as usual, Annie pressed to her teacher's side and asked earnestly,
"Miss A., will God really give me what I ask for?"
" Yes, dear," was the reply.
The next Sunday Annie came, but not with her usual cheerful face. The teacher saw that something was wrong, and she detained her a moment after the others left, and putting her arm around her, said,
"Now, darling, tell me all about it."
Tears filled the little girl's eyes and her lip quivered as she answered,
"Oh, Miss A., you did not tell me right last Sunday. You know next Sun- day the books are to be given, and I want one — oh so much ! But I have been sick and had to be absent, and I have only three pink tickets and three blue ones. I hurried home last Sunday and went up stairs and laid all my tickets in a chair, with the white sides up. Then I prayed that the Lord would make one of the blue ones pink. But when I looked at them, they were just the same. I turned them down and prayed again ; but it did no good : see, there they are, three pink and three blue ones, and I cannot get a book."
The teacher quietly took one of the blue tickets, and put in its place a pink one, on which were these words —
"I write unto you, little children, be- cause your sins are forgiven you for His name's sake."
"Annie," she said, "this ticket is yours. Has not God answered your prayer, dear, though not in the way you expected?"
The sunshine came quickly back to the little girl's face as she thanked her kind friend; and the next Sunday she received the much-desired book. The Lord did not turn the blue ticket pink, but he put it into Annie's thoughts to tell her teacher her trouble, and moved Miss A's heart to do this kindness ; so the little girl's de- sire was granted in a better way than her own.
Another little girl, named Kitty, made a similar mistake. She was promised she should go out with her mother if she would get ready in season. In her hurry she knotted her boot-lacing. She tried to get out the knot, but only drew it tighter.
She remembered what her mother had told her of the Lord's answering prayer, and she asked him to help her and tried again. But she could do nothing with the knot, and after several efforts she gave it up and began to cry. Just then her mother came up stairs.
"What is the matter, Kitty?" she asked.
"Oh dear! this ugly knot," said Kitty ; "I've tried and tried, and it won't come out; and I asked God to help me, and he wouldn't."
Her mother made no reply at first, but carefully picked out the lacings ; and then asked the little girl if there was any one
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
125
she would rather have had sent to hdp h r than her own mother.
Rest assured, dear children, a sincere and earnest prayer is never lost. The an- swer may be delayed for some wise rea- son; but wait patiently and hopefully — it Ii rare to come in good time. You may ask for something which would do you harm; as a litttle child might ask for a shining pen-knife, which would quickly cost him tears if his father were not too wise and kind to give it to him. If you do, the thing you seek will not come, but something better in its place. And very often, as with Annie and Kitty, the an- swer may be so different from what you expect that unless you watch for it you will not know it when it is given. But God's promise never fails: "Ask and
VK."
SAINT BARBARA.
BARBARA bad never known what it is to have a pleasant home and a kind, loving mother. She bad lived about, in one place and another, faring do better than children usually do who are left homeless and friendless. Nor was this hex only misfortune. Poor Barbara was very odd-looking. She was quite short, her head was so large ai to l"<>k out of all proportion. Not i feature of her
■ d jUSt a> it OUgbt to be. ( )n«'
wer than the other; her mouth and her i ind turned
op most decidedly.
'•• odd looking i
ture, and very few people liked to have such a singular person about them. Those who did consent to keep her took great credit for doing so, and seemed to think it was only right that she slrould do all kinds of drudgery in return for the scant fare, poorer clothes and worse treatment she received.
And this was her life until she was twelve years old. Then a kind lady, Mrs. Grayson byname, saw her. and by acci- dent became interested in her. Her ap- pearance was certainly repulsive, but the poor child was sick and Buffering, and these facts appealed to the lady's heart. It was in the middle of winter, and Barby's miserable garments were far from sufficient to protect her from the cold. Then she bore marks of ill-treatment.
Mrs. Grayson took her in and cared for her. And by careful observation she found that this poor, ragged, deformed, suffering girl, Burrounded from her ear- nest childhood by sin and evils of every sort, had kept herself innocent, and that her heart was as pure and unselfish, and her intellect as bright, bs those of many
who had known only the most watchful
care.
So the good woman gave her a place in her own household to take care of her children. Barby dearly loved children,
and the li'tle one- soon e.-nne to look upon
their young nui end mother, bo
surely does love beget love.
Kind treatment, pleasant words ami th<- comforts of a home were brought in such strong contrast to the miseri* her past life that Barby' a gratitude
126
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
seemed to know no limits, and was con- stantly trying to show itself.
Mrs. Grayson watched her carefully, and found she could place perfect trust in her. The Bible was her constant study, and was made the rule of her life. She was strictly conscientious, and was ready to bear any reproof rather than either tell or act a lie.
Four years went by, and Barby had be- come as one of the household, fully relied upon by her mistress and dearly loved by the children.
Then followed a time of trial. Sickness came, and one after another the little ones were stricken down; and for weeks the anxious mother watched beside their beds, feeling the anguish which only a mother can know, lest one or all might be snatched from her. Barby was her constant and never- wearying assistant. The poor girl was quiet and made no show of grief, but went about her duties pale as death, seem- ing never to feel the need of sleep and utterly refusing to leave her charges. When Mrs. Grayson, worn out, would be compelled to seek a few hours' rest, it was Barby who took her place and performed double duty ; and in the general anxiety no one remembered to have that consid- eration for her which she refused to have for herself.
At last the day came when Mrs. Gray- son's fervent " Thank God!" proclaimed her children out of danger. And then she felt she could relax her anxious watch- fulness, and take some of the rest she so much needed. But the sick ones still re- quired care and attention, and these, in
their mother's absence, they would receive from no one but Barby. So the tax upon her strength seemed as hard as ever.
Still she bore up wonderfully, and it was not until the last little sufferer no longer needed her care that she became sensible of her own weakness. When no more was required of her, she gave way utterly, and sank down on the bed of sickness from which her own loving care had done so much to rescue her darlings. There was no mistaking the fact. Barby was seriously ill. When the doctor saw the sick girl his looks betrayed concern.
"Then she is in danger?" said Mrs Grayson, a pallor overspreading her face.
"In great danger, madam," was the emphatic reply.
"Don't neglect her, doctor;" Mrs. Grayson's voice choked. " Oh, if we lose Barby, what will we do?"
True, true, kind-hearted but not always considerate lady. What will you do with- out this humble, unattractive, unobtrusive little body, whose face, figure and move- ments excited mirthfulness in strangers? You became selfish in your own great trouble and anxiety, and forgot that your young assistant was frailer, less capable of endurance than you. You allowed her to overtax herself without a word on your part — without even a thought — and accepted a respite for your own exhausted strength at the expense of hers. And now she is about to become a martyr to her deep, ever-present sense of gratitude to you and to her strong affection for your children.
Day after day the fatal disease pro-
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
127
J with a steadiness and rapidity that set medical skill at defiance; and when at last it became apparent to all that the time of Barby's departure was at hand, a shadow of deep sorrow fell upon the household of Mrs. Grayson.
What would they all do without Barby? She had grown into the whole economy of things, was a pillar in the goodly framework of that domestic temple; and how was she to be taken away without a : strength and symmetry?
But death waits not on human affairs. The feet of Barby were already bared for descent into the river whose opposite shore touches the land of immortal beauty; and in spite of skill, care, regret and sorrow, the hour of her departure drew near until it was at hand.
True to the last, Barby' a thoughts dwelt always on the children, and she felt
Usabilities of riokness as an evil only in the degree that it robbed them of the
-lie fell t<» ho bo needful to their rum- fort and happiness, [f she heard Willy ory or Georgy complain, she grew restless or troubled. Ev< ry day she had them
Jit to her bedside, that she might look at them, and utter, were it ei
feebly, a word of love.
D . dearl Won't I !"• well soon, doctor? What will the children 'I..'/"
I [ow many times was tin- -aid even
after bope had railed in the physician's
\' last the time came w hen con*
lent from Barbara of her real state
ii I tin- duty of
communication devolved upon !
BOD.
" Barby!" she said, as she sat alone by her bedside, forcing herself to speak be- cause she dared not any longer keep si- lence— "Barby!" She repeated the name with so much feeling that the sick girl lifted her dull eyes feebly to her face and looked at her earnestly — "Barby, the doctor thinks you very ill."
"Does he?" The tones were un- troubled.
"Yes; and we all think you ill, Barby." "I know I'm very weak and sick, ma'am." She sighed faintly.
"If you should never get well, Barby?" "That is, if I should die." There was no tremor in her feeble voice.
"Yes, Barby. Are you willing to go?" "If God pleases." She said this rev- erently, as her eyelids closed.
"And you are not afraid to die?" The eyes of Barby opened quickly. "No, ma'am," she answered, with the simplicity of a child.
"You have a hope of heaven, Barby?" Bfra Grayson tried to speak calmly, hut
her voice did not wholly conceal the flut- ter in her heart.
" Children go t.> heaven?"
"Yes."
- I love children."
She said no more. That was her an
swer. Altera pause Mrs, Grayson said:
"The doctor thinks you will not get
well."
uAs God wiUi it," was her calm re- sponse. ■■ You have done your duty, Barby." •■ I have trie. I to, ma'am, and prayed God to for i\'' me when 1 failed."
128 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
" You have read your Bible often?" ) when it is read as though he was near by
" Every day." A light gleamed over > and speaking to me." her countenance. ) She closed her eyes again, and for a
"You loved to read that good book?" S little while lay very still. Then her lips said Mrs. Grayson. \ moved, and Mrs. Grayson bent low to
"Oh yes. I always felt as if God's 5 catch the murmur of sound that floated angels were near me when I read the $ out upon the air :
Bible. Won't you read me a chapter) " Though I walk through the valley of now? I haven't heard even a verse since > the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, I was sick." ) for thou art with me."
Mrs. Grayson took from a table Barby's \ All was still again. Mrs. Grayson felt well-worn Bible, and read, with as firm a ^ as she had never felt before. It seemed voice as she could command, one of the ) to her as if she were not alone with Barby, Psalms of David. She did not attempt ( and she turned, under the strong im pres- to make a selection, but opened the book ) sion, to see who had entered the room, and read the first chapter on which her ) But not to mortal eyes were any forms eyes rested. It was the twenty-third : £ visible. And yet the impression not only
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not ) remained, but grew stronger, and with it want. He maketh me to lie down in v, came a sense of deep peace that lay upon green pastures ; he leadeth me beside the ) her soul like a benediction from heaven, still waters. He restoreth my soul ; he S All things of natural life receded from leadeth me in the paths of righteousness ? her thought, taking with them their bur- for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk ') den of care, anxiety and grief, through the valley of the shadow of 5 In this state of mind she sat for many death, I will fear no evil, for thou art > minutes like one entranced, looking at with me ; thy rod and thy staff they com- \ the face of Barby, which actually seemed fort me. Thou preparest a table before ? to grow beautiful. Then there came a me in the presence of mine enemies; thou > gradual awakening. The consciousness anointest my head with oil; my cup run- ^ of other presences grew feebler and fee- neth over. Surely goodness and mercy ; bier, until Mrs. Grayson felt that she was shall follow me all the days of my life ; \ alone with Barby. No ! Barby had gone and I will dwell in the house of the Lord \ with the angels who came to bear her up- for ever." $ ward. Only the wasted and useless body
Mrs. Grayson shut the book and looked ( was left behind, never more to enshrine at Barby. There was light all over her > in its rough casket that spirit of celestial wasted countenance, and her dull eyes had s beauty, found a new lustre. ) "Is it over?" said the doctor, who
"It is God's word," said the sick girl, > called on the next day to see his pa- smiling as she spoke; "and I always feel < tient.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
129
"Yes, it i< over," replied Mrs. Gray-
of true Borrow filling her i ■■ II<.w and when did she die?" Mrs, Grayson told the simple but mov-
rv of Barbj 'a departure. "And went right up to heav< a I " >;ii<l 1 1 1 « - doctor, turning hU face partly away to lii<lc tli*- signs of feeling. Then he added: ■• I rnnal take a last look .-it Barby."
And they in< <\ <•< i to the r a where her
for burial, wai laid I ta the wall of this room bung ;i liken tin- iiur»<-. surrounded by the children to
whom her life had been devoted with such
Vol. vi. -17
loving care. Tt was a most faithful like- ness, giving all her living expression, for the ran had done the work of portraiture. After looking ;it the soulless fane of the departed one for ■ few moments, the doc- tor turned to the almost Bpeaking portrail and gazed al it for some tunc Then tak- ing a pencil iron i his pocket, he wrote these two words in i bold band on the white margin below the picture —
•• g \i\ I B \i:r.\i: \."
And turning away left the apartment
without :i WOrd.
In Mrs. Grayson's Dursery, richly
130
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
framed, hangs this picture of "Saint Barbara ; ' ' and the children stand and look at it every day, and talk of her in hushed tones, almost reverently. Of her it may with truth be written, "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. Yea, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them." Though absent in body, she is yet present in spirit by thought and love with the children she so tenderly cared for while in the flesh, and her influence is ever leading to good states and prompting to right actions.
--»'>-^<fP5«^<-«
THE WIND AND THE FROST.
By Annie Moore,
IT was a beautiful Indian summer day. The air was soft and balmy. The trees were in their brightest colors, and over all hung a purple haze.
" Come, come," said the Autumn Wind to himself. "What am I thinking of, to be idling away my time when I have so much to do. I must bestir myself. All these trees to be swept clean, and the leaves disposed of — ' '
"Oh don't!" interrupted a yellow Maple Leaf. "Please let us stay a little longer, now that we have our new suits."
"This is the last day, then," replied the Wind.
The next morning he came early.
' ' Come down, ' ' said he ; " I am in haste and must make up for lost time."
"We are not ready," said the Maple Leaf. " Don't shake us so rudely."
"Come down then," said the Wind. " Jack Frost is going to have a grand dis- play here this winter, and he wants the trees prepared in good time."
" Why can't we wait and see the grand display?" said the Leaf.
"No indeed," said the Wind; "you have had your day ;" and with one more shake he brought down the reluctant Leaf and her companions.
Then he came to the oak tree.
"Be careful of my acorns," said the Oak. "Last year you mixed them up so that no one of them could find his own cup. If you give them time, they will come down of themselves."
' ' I would rather make sure of it my- self," said the Wind.
"/am ready," said a crimson Leaf, "I have lived my life. I have danced and sung in the breeze. I have had my share of the sunshine and of the soft rain, and now I am willing to fall. Best is good ;" so she let go her hold and floated gently down.
In due time the Autumn Wind had completely stripped the trees, and had stowed the leaves neatly away in all the little hollows and around the roots of the trees.
Then came Jack Frost to see if all was ready.
"Well done!" said lie, "and quickly done, too."
" You wanted the Pine Needles left on, I believe," said the Autumn Wind.
"Yes, leave the Pine Needles, by all means," said Jack Frost. "I will hang them with icicles. They add to the effect.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
131
These Oaks and Maples will look finely. First, a coating of Boft snow, then a little rain, then Dipping cold, and lastly a judicious amount of sunshine to give the
rainbow tints. That will be a gorgeous
display. I hope the children will come
out and see it. I have two or three new
-. and mean to make it finer than
"Good-bye to you," said the Autumn Wind ; '"my work is done;" and he hur- ried away.
"And my work is not begun," said Jack Frost, as he too hurried away to make his icicles.
A LESSON OF MERCY.
By Alice Cary.
A BOY named Peter Found once iii the road
All harmleci and help A poor little toad ;
And ran to hii playmate,
And all out of breath ( ri. d, "'John, eome and help,
Ami we'll BtOne liim to death !
And picking up -• The two went on the run,
ig, one to the other, •• < )h iron't we |, .
Thai primed and all ready, u |y back
W I I • • I !
Now the cart was as much As the donkey could draw,
And he came with his head Hanging down ; so he saw,
All harmless and helpless.
The poor little toad, A-taking his morning nap
Right in the road.
He shivered at first.
Then fie drew back his leg, And set up his ears,
Never moving a peg.
Then he gave the poor toad, With his warm nose, a dump,
And he woke and got off With a hop and a jump.
And then with an eye
Turned on Peter and John.
And hanging his homely head Down, he went on.
" We can't kill him now, John,"
Says Peter, <; that's flat, In the fece of an eve and
An action like that!"
" For my part, I haven't
The heart to," says John ;
" Hilt the load i- too I u . i \ y Thai donkey has on :
'• Let'i help him ;" M both lads Set off with a will Ami came up with the cart
At the POOl •'!' the hill.
And when e.ieh a -hoiild.r
I Ud put to the wheel.
They helped the | r doi I
A wonderful deal.
132
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
The summit once gained, Back they went on the run,
Agreeing they never Had had finer fun.
THE ROSE AND THE EARWIG.
MRS. EARWIG-, seeing that her young family were quite strong enough to take care of themselves, thought she might safely leave them for a while, for the air smelt so sweetly of roses it gave her quite a longing to taste them.
"My dears," said she, "you will be quite safe if you run up into that empty poppy-head, while I go out to an evening party in the centre of yonder rose." •
"Mother," said a Rose, next morning, "I can't think what is the matter — I feel so poorly; such a pain, just as if some- thing were gnawing away at my vitals. See, my petals are getting quite limp and loose. Ah! what can be the cause?"
"Old age, of course," replied a pert young Bud; "you have been looking quite faded this some time ; I only won- der you have held out so long."
"My dear," said the parent Stem, "you should not speak so — you hurt your sister's feelings."
" But it is the truth," said the Bud, as she gayly expanded her own beautiful leaves.
"So it may be," added the parent; "but such truths need not be so harshly expressed; you might, at least, have spoken them softly."
"Mother," said the fading Rose,
"when I die, what will become of me?"
' 'Ah ! ' ' sighed the parent Tree, ' ' like all your fair sisters that have gone before, you will fall to the ground and turn to dust."
"What! and will all my beauty and sweetness be forgotten ?' '
"Your beauty will certainly fade and perish, but if your sweetness attracts our noble owner's attention, he may choose you for his own."
"And if he does, what then?"
"Then, my fair daughter, he will send some one to gather you, and take you to his mansion, where in another form you will retain your sweetness for ever."
"Oh then I wish he would send," sighed the Rose; "but here I see a friend coming to comfort me ; I knew my sweet Vanessa would be true to the last. ' '
Yes, it was Vanessa, on bright wing, drawing near and coming to the Rose tree. She hovered for a moment over the dying Rose, and rested upon her crumpled leaves. Alas! no nectar was there for her enjoyment, and the poor faded flower sighed as she saw her gay friend the Butterfly turn hastily away, and light with rapturous admiration upon her younger and fairer sister.
"Ah me!" said she, "mother was right after all ; but though my beauty and freshness are gone, I may still please our master, for he cares more for sweetness than for beauty."
So the Rose, though withered and sad, banished all rebellious, bitter feelings, and filled the air round her with a fra-
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
133
grance so delicious that ere she could fall to the ground she was caUght up by a friendly hand, and a gentle voice mur- mured, "Oh, how sweet!" as she was placed with other roses in a basket. Just then the Earwig appeared.
"Oh!'' said the lady, "it is you that have caused my roses to fade so soon."
"What is it?"*asked a small voice by her side.
An earwig, Willie; see, it has fallen Us the ground."
"Nasty thing!" said Willie, and he -tamped on poor Mrs. Wigl "I hate earwigs! Don't you. mamma?"
"Indeed, Willie, I cannot say that I regard them with much favor, for they all my favorite flow< re."
"They are ugly things, too," said Wil- mi Dime says they like to get into
"Thai is only a vulgar notion, dear;
bat as. earwigs hate the light, and like to
in it into any hole they can find,
I dan: say if your ear happened to be in
their way, they might chance to run into
Bui with all our prejudices, we must
allow that an earwig is a curious little
ore : the female -it- on her eggs like
■ ben, and al't<r the young ones are
hatched they follow their mother, who
t care of them until they
Id i Dough t" take care of them-
-•Ives."
■ Which a lot of them are doing just mamma. See, I do believe th< at their dead relativi indeed, ■ mot The young I tind of seclusion, had wandered
down from the poppy-head, or perhaps Willie knocking against it had shaken them all out ; and there they were sur- rounding their dead parent, with very ev- ident intentions of holding a banquet upon her remains.
MAGGIE LEE.
By Mrs. Mary E. McKinne.
T KNOW a little Daisy,
J- With eyes of sunny blue —
Eyes that are bright with merry light — ■
And hair of golden line. Ah ! she's a dainty little thing,
As sweet as she can be, With pretty wiles and dimpling smiles ;
Her name is Maggie Lee.
Her brow is white as any snow,
Her cheek of softest red, With just the glint of the peach's tint,
Before its down is shed. Her mouth is like a wee rose-bod
Unfolding on the tin Oh a ran', rare pearl is my baby-girl,
My little Maggie Lee.
She has Buch pretty, winsome ways,
And Buch a joj ous laugh, 1 idsome trill of the sparkling rill
I- less musical by half And when she claps her chubby hand-,
In merriment and glee, Full well I ween that ne'er was Been ' ; I ■
( )h may my darlii
I:, always pun- ai noi ;
rl of Truth, all through hex youth Shine "ti lier sunny brow ;
WILLIE AND THE APPLE.
134 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
And like the poet's little flower,* \ He stretched forth his hand, but a low,
Be innocent and free, I mourning strain
All through her life, from storm and strife : ) Came wandering dreamily over his brain ; God bless my Maggie Lee ! < In his bosom a beautiful harp had long
BurKs Weekly. ) laid,
That the angel of conscience quite fre- quently played ;
< (, And he sang, "Little Willie, beware, oh
WE don't know in what paper or mag- \ beware !
azine this story of "Willie and the ) Your father is gone, but your Maker is Apple" was first published, and so we ( there;
cannot give the right credit. Get it by ) How sad y°n would feel if you heard the
heart, little readers. ] , Lord sa^
) ' This dear little boy stole an apple to- Little Willie stood under an apple tree old — > ^ay !' " The fruit was all shining with crimson and (
gold, ) Then Willie turned round, and as still as a
Hanging temptingly low : how he longed s mouse
for a bite, ) Crept slowly and carefully into the house ;
Though he knew if he took one it wouldn't $ In his own little chamber he knelt down
be right. ( to pray
'} That the Lord would forgive him, and Said he : " I don't see why my father should ( ,
.' please not to say,
^' \ " Little Willie almost stole an apple to-
' Don't touch the old apple tree, Willie, to- \ , „
day.' ^
I shouldn't have thought, now they're hang- { —~^*s££*?<^~-
ing so low, (
When I asked for just one he would an- ) " Papa, I think you told a fib in the
swer me 'No.' ( pulpit to-day," said a little son of a cler-
" He would never find out if I took but just ( ti-xrr'i t. j. i on
J ( Why, my son; what do you mean :
. , x. ' , . . , . . . . . > asked the father.
And they do look so good, shining out in \ Ll ,T . . ,, . , . . ...
J 8 ' < "You said," continued the child,
m, ,' j j ji.jj j i. '■' "'One word more and I am done.'
There are hundreds and hundreds, and he s .
, , ,. . s Then you went on and said a great many
wouldn't miss (
So paltry a little red apple as this." < words' The PeoPle expected you'd leave
) off, 'cause you promised them ; but you
* The daisy or " day's-eye™ so called by the poet \ ,, , , , . . . ,
Chaucer, from the habit of folding its petals at the ) dldn *» and keP4 0n Poaching a long setting and expanding them at the rising of the sun. ) while after the time Was up.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
135
SNAKE-CHARMERS.
MANY of our young readers have no doubt heard of the snake-charmers of India. Scarcely a traveler in that coun- try who has not met with them, and told
Miething about them. They seem to form a class of people by themselves, and to have made the charming of snakes a profession or trade. They are often hired by the people of India to rid their houses
ikes. This they do by playing on a kind of pipe or flageolet, the music of which charms the reptiles from their holes, when they are at once killed.
The snakes most commonly used by these "jugglers" are called hooded tnakes, a kind of viper met with in East-
pantries. In these snakes the skin about the neck is loose, and can be raised at will by the serpent into something re- sembling a hood. There are seven] va- makes. That most common is the Cobra di Capello; that is, Adder of th<: Hood, a name *_'iv<'n to it by the Por- Tlie French fall it Serpent <) fu- neffet, or S snake, from ir- being
marked on the hack of the neek with a
■gore resembling a pair of spectacles. It \i' snake, and it- bite is rery poisonous, The Hindoos bare many inperstitions notions about tin- serpent, ometimes takes on iti form. In some of the temples they worship it. and the priests feed it
fully with milk and ra
•ii'-nt ofonr young friends
w.- will f<-ll them in hi- own word- what a
who drew the piota
give in the " Hour," says about the "ser- pent-charmers:"
"Madras is famous throughout all Indja for its jugglers and serpent-charm- ers. I had been there but a few hours when several troops came to me to show off their skill. Those who did nothing but feats of strength I took no interest in. The sleight-of-hand performers were a little more attractive. These men, almost naked, with a plain strip of linen cloth about their bodies, were really very adroit. Some of their tricks were wonderful. In one of the most curious they took the seed of a plant and put it in a little pot of earth, right in plain view of the spec- tators. After a few moments the seed seemed to take life, shooting up stalks and putting on leaves in proper order. A few minutes later we had under our a perfect plant more than a foot high.
"These people always have with them a few cobras, with which they amuse the curious. The bite of these serpents is i'atal in nearly every instance. It has been said that the jugglers take out their poison fangs, hut this i- not so. When well fed
these reptiles are timid and Bluggish, and rarely make use of their murderous weapons. The boldness with which the jugglers handle them I tliink to ).«■ based upon a knowledge of tin- fmot Any one who ha- handled bring serpents Knows that light passes made along the body easily subdue them. They seem a- if magnet- bed, and no longer try to bite ox I
The fir.-t pa— e- only are dangerous.
•• I have frequently played with cobras,
and no accident ha> ever happened I
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"There are some Hindoos who amuse themselves by domesticating these ser- pents, suffering them to range at will in their gardens, where they serve as scare- crows in keeping away the birds. I have never heard of their doing any harm to their owners.
"The serpent-charmers, to render them- selves proof against the fangs of the co- bras, make use of the roots of a species
of plant, the common birthwort, with which they describe circles around the head of the reptile, in the belief that they thus take away from it the power of hurt- ing. Of course this is a mere supersti- tious notion. There are some who, to cure the bite itself, use a blackish stone of a very porous texture, which, on being laid upon the wound, adheres there strongly and absorbs the poisonous fluid."
The Children's Hour.
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
NOVEMBER, 1869
TOO HOT!
By Aunt Lizzie.
DID you ever know of any little chil- dren too impatient to eat their break- fasts properly? I can bring several to Vol. vi.— 18
) mind ; and here we have a picture of one
( who cannot wait for her tea to cool. She
} cannot be hungry, for if she was she
\ would eat her warm crisp roll first, instead
) of leaving it lying on her plate. She is
) round and rosy, and her hair is brushed
( and tied nicely back from her forehead ;
137
138 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
and if she were to sit up properly in her ) THE LITTLE WAITING-MAID.
chair, and take her elbows off the table, (
she would really look like a little lady. S By Mrs. M. O. Johnson.
But she finds her tea too hot ; and in- <
stead of waiting patiently, she pours it < ^PHIS is a true story of a long-ago time out in the saucer, and raising it up with > -*- and a far-off country. A little girl both hands, she draws her mouth up into \ had been captured by soldiers and carried the funniest shape, while she blows the > away from her own country and friends, tea to cool it. (' The captain of the host — or, as we should
I am sure somebody must be laughing > say> general — took her home to his wife at her. I am, for one, and you are for ) to serve as waiting-maid. Sometimes another, and you, and you. \ thoughts of her native land and dear
But think a minute. Do you never do ) friends there would cause her many tears, the same thing, or something quite as < but she tried to look on the bright side of bad, yourselves? I know one little girl — > things and be faithful and contented. a very nice little girl she is, too, in a great ( Her work was light, her mistress kind, many ways — who sometimes uses her fin- \ and she gradually became quite cheerful, gers instead of her fork ; and another who ') An affection for those she lived with occasionally forgets to say, "Please," when ( sprang up in her heart and made her lot she wants anything at table. And I ) easier.
once saw a little boy who gobbled his vie- ( What special thing did she do? Just tuals down — gobbled is the only word I ) this — she spoke a word in season that can think of that describes his way of ) was worth more to her employers than the eating, because it means taking great < most costly present even the king might mouthfuls and swallowing them whole — ) have sent them. For the officer, rich and just as though he was afraid he wouldn't \ honored as he was, though he had a beau- get enough, unless he ate faster than other ) tiful home, furnished in Eastern splendor people did. I have known little children ( and luxury, plenty of servants and a wife to have to be sent away from breakfast, ) who dearly loved him, yet had one sore because they came to their places with '\ trial. This was a terrible disease, which dirty faces and uncombed hair. \ baffled the skill of the best physicians.
These are all really dreadful habits — ) And the little waiting-maid told her mis- dreadful because they disgust everybody < tress of a good man who lived in her na- who sees them, and because no lady or ) tive land, and said she wished with all her gentleman ever has such habits. And if ( heart that he would see him, she was so children do not learn to be mannerly and ) sure he might be healed. When the of- polite at table while they are young, they \ ficer heard this, he was eager to go, and will find the lesson much harder when ( at once informed the king, who held him they get older. ) in high favor. This king wrote to the
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
139
king of the other country, saying he sent this man to be healed. That king, sup- posing a cure to be impossible, thought this was only an attempt to get up a quar- rel and an excuse to make war against him. He was greatly troubled till the prophet, for such she was of whom the waiting-girl spoke, sent him word to let the man come to him. The officer trav- eled in what we should call great style. He rode in a costly chariot, drawn by swift, handsome horses ; a number of his servants attended him ; and mules, which are much used in Eastern countries for carrying burdens, were laden not only with provision for the journey, but gold, silver and rich apparel, which he intended as a present or recompense. Away he rode to the prophet's house, and sent word by a servant that he had come. The prophet returned him a message, that he must go to the river Jordan and bathe seven times. ami he should be well. Now, the Jordan i- l small, narrow, sluggish Btream, and tie- man thought it very Btrange that he should have been required to take this long journey only to bathe in its waters, when be might so easily have Bought the tiful, Bmooth-flowing, broad rivers Of bis own country, Abana and Pharparl T he did not at all like, nor did it soil him that the prophet should merely send him a message : he had expected him to stand beside the ohariot, and r him a-k the Lord il him. So the rich man was greatly offended, and started in hoi h torn home Bui hi aid to him
that If be had been adt ised to do some
difficult or costly thing he would surely have done it, sftixious as he was to be cured ; and it would not be wise, after having taken so long a journey, to return without trying this simple experiment, which could do no harm. As his temper cooled, this appeared to him good reason- ing, and accordingly he went to the river and dipped himself seven times. When he came out every trace of disease had disappeared, and he felt new vigor in every limb, a delicious sense of health and rest. Then, ashamed of his pride and anger, he returned to the good old man, and with all his attendants stood before him, acknowledging that the Lord had healed him. He offered the prophet a magnificent present, but the old man re- fused to receive anything, and kindly bade him farewell.
What a joyful day it must have been to his affectionate wife when he returned home well and strong! And how happy the little waiting-maid must have been,
that she had done BO nmeh good! No
doubt he would desire to reward her for the service bo kindly rendered. Perhaps he asked her to choose what she should
like best of all in his powertO DCStOW. If BO, v. hat would BD6 Sty? What would you choose, little uirls, if you wt -re for away from father, mother and counti\ '!
Would yon a-k for rich clothes, rare jewels,
OOStly to\ |? No, none of tin
Would you not say Instantly, " Lei me
g0 home?"
we will hope that, whatever else may ii or withheld, the little waiting girl was allowed to go home*
140
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Whether the waters of Jordan pos- sessed in themselves any peculiar healing properties or not, it was the Lord's will, for some wise reason, that the man should be healed, if healed at all, by washing just seven times in that very stream. On his obedience to the Lord's command alone depended the blessing.
It seems to me that this story holds for us all a threefold lesson. Besides teach- ing us that it is always best to obey the Lord's words with an unquestioning faith, and warning us of the sins of pride and anger, which so surely as we indulge them shut out from our souls the cleansing, healing influences of God's truth, it en- courages us, even though we are young or poor, or weak, to try to do good, to bless and help those around us; and we may be assured that no sincere, earnest effort will be lost, for the least things oftentimes lead to the greatest results.
THE CUCKOO.
By Annie Moore.
ONCE upon a time there sat a Cuckoo nearly hidden by the leaves of a tree, anxiously watching a Sparrow on her nest.
"There she goes," said she, at last, as the Sparrow flew away.
Then she went and looked into the nest.
"It is a poor little place," said she, " and three eggs in it already. I would like to throw them out, but that wouldn't do, of course. I must make the best of it."
So she laid an egg by the side of the others, and was just hurrying away when the Sparrow came back.
"Oh, I've laid an egg in your nest, cousin," said the Cuckoo. "You know I never have any luck in raising any little ones."
The Sparrow said nothing, for she hardly knew what to say.
"Now you have a nice home and a good steady mate to help you," said the Cuckoo.
"That is true," replied the Sparrow, with a grateful chirp.
"I have no home," continued the Cuckoo, " and my mate is a wild, lazy fel- low. If I should try to build a nest he wouldn't bring me so much as one straw, and he is always in mischief. I must go and look after him now. While you are about it I wonder you don't build your nest a little larger. It is so crowded and close. Good-bye ;" and she flew away.
By and by Mr. Sparrow came home.
"Anything new, my dear?" said he.
" Cousin Cuckoo has been here and left an egg for us to take care of," said Mrs. Sparrow.
"Oh dear ! that is too bad," said Mr. Sparrow. "I thought we should have our nest to ourselves this time."
"So did I," said Mrs. Sparrow. "I went away just for one moment to get a drop of water, and when I came back the mischief was done. I couldn't throw the egg out, of course. ' '
" Of course not," said Mr. Sparrow. ( "We must make the best of it, but I wish
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
141
they would settle down somewhere like the rest of as '
When the little birds were hatched they were astonishingly hungry, and the old birds had plenty to do to feed them, f he young Cuckoo had the biggest mouth, so he took the biggest piece of everything.
As they all grew larger, the nest seemed to grow smaller and smaller.
11 1 must have this nest to myself," said the young Cuckoo ; ' ' it is none too large. ' '
So while the old birds were away he managed to push out all the little Spar- one by one, and they fell on the ground and that was the last of them, of course. After that the Cuckoo had more spiders and worms than he could eat, and he grew strong and stout, and learned to fly a little. One day, as he was sitting half asleep in the nest, a saucy-looking bird, with his head on one side, alighted on a bough near by.
" How are you?" said he; "you don't know me. I am your father. Do tie- old Spam on well ?"
UI don't know,'' -aid the young
Onekoo; " ir ia stupid enough here.'1
I 'in you fly?" asked his father. "Well enough," said the young one, "if there were anything worth flying
I .ue- with ui«- then/1 -'ii<l lii- father ; 11 I'll show you something worth flying •nr mother ja waiting for you in tie- met low."
>nu'j Cuckoo popped out on the
:i. and away they flew together; and
when the Sparrows came back they found
the lit.'!'- i 1 and empty.
ANECDOTES OF ANIMALS.
By E. B. D.
WE have just read an interesting story in a newspaper about an old black cat which we think will please our young readers to hear. A hen left her brood of young chickens to take care of them- selves, and this cat, thinking they were too little to be motherless, at once took pity on them and adopted them In the day- time she never allows them to go out of her sight, and at night she will not enter the house until all her chickens are in, when she will curl herself up into a circle, and spread out her paws and cover them as well as she can, and lie with them con- tentedly until morning. If she happens to be a short distance from them and hears one chirp, she will run as fast as BBC can to see what the trouble is. Isn't that a wonderful cat for you ?
And now let lie- tell you about my eat. She is a beautiful white cat, with gray spots on her head and back, and a gray tail, and her name is li Spot." Ami -In* ha- Lrnt a- pretty a kitten Bfl ever you >aw. It ia a little plump white kitten, with
gray Bpota on its bead and back, and a
gray tail with a white tip to it. and its name is "Tip." Kverybody who them .'-ays how inueh the kitten is like its
mother. And that is the fhn of it Spot
i-n't Tip'< mother at all -only her step- mother. Spot had three little blaek and
white babies, but they died a- soon n
they were born ; ami she felt very badly
about it and kept telling OS her trouble,
142
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
and asking us if we couldn't get her another baby.
So, as kittens are always plenty, we found her a nice little black-and-white one, just big enough to run about and play. Spot adopted it at once and be- came one of the best of step-mothers.
Then came down from the city a poor, little, forlorn white kitten, that had been taken away from some bad boys who had half killed it, and Spot immediately adopted that too.
Then a little stray gray-and- white Kitty found its way into our house, and Spot was delighted to find her family increasing so fast, and did her best to take care of them all.
But little Black-and-white got killed, Stray strayed away again, and Tip is the only one that remains — a perfect image of her step-mother; and I really wish some little reader of the " Hour" wanted a pretty, plump white kitten, and would come and get it, for we don't know what to do with it.
We once had a rooster that was a great favorite with us. He was very odd-look- ing. His comb was forked and stuck out on each side like a pair of horns.
There was a hen who had nine black chickens, all with top-knots on their heads, and one of them had the prettiest big white waterfall you ever saw. Now this old hen, like the one we first told about, left her chickens to take care of them- selves ; and Billy, the rooster, like the old black cat, thought they were too young to be left unprotected. So at night he would call them up on the porch beside him,
four on one side, and five on the other, and then he would spread out his wings over them as far as he could, and cover them as their mother should have done.
Poor old Billy! The cares of a nu- merous family became at last too much for him ; and when his sons grew up rude, unruly and quarrelsome, in despair he lay down and died !
THE USEFUL SISTERS.
By C. R. W.
COULD the dear little children, Who sometimes complain, When the day is unpleasant, Of wind, snow or rain,
Only guess what a blessing
Our Father intends, They no longer would murmur
At storms that he sends.
There's a lesson, my darlings, I would teach you to-day —
Even days, months and seasons Our Father obey.
Do you know the three sisters, March, April and May ?
They are all very useful, But each in her way.
Though March blows and blusters, And her voice is so gruff,
'Tis the work she is doing That makes her so rough.
She is keeping the earth warm 'Neath soft quilts of snow,
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
143
Lot. perchance, in the summer The flowers ahould not grow.
She is always as busy- As busy can be ;
It would make your head dizzy, Her work could you see.
She remembers that April
\< not very strong, So she blusters, and hurries
The spring work along.
Little April is fretful ;
She laughs and she cries ; But she paints the bright rainbow
To gladden your a\c<.
While she loosens the streamlets And calls back the birds,
Little flowers Btruggle upward To catch her sweet word-.
When her work ifl all finished, Sh<- dances away
T<> awake her Bwee4 sister, gentle young B£aj.
In a twinkling one's read/, And glides 'mong tip
■ ion their bright curtains, tinea the bi i
The green carpel the iprini
All over with gold ;
If her robe sweeps the border, What beaotiee anibld !
While you're gazing with wonder, i eel tune, . . in the azure, And leares you with June.
KITTIE'S TABLEAUX.
By Mary Latham Clark.
MOTHER, day, "
OTHER," said Kittie Clover one may I have some tab- leaux?"
"Perhaps," answered Mrs. Clover, without looking up from her sewing, " when I can attend to it."
"But I don't want you* to 'attend to it' at all," said Kittie; "I want to 'at- tend to it' myself, every bit of it, and I want to have the tableaux now, this very minute, and in this very room, if you will please to let me."
"But you have no performers," said her mother, "and no spectators either."
" Oh yes, mother!" exclaimed Kittie, eagerly ; " I can have Bertie for performer and you for spectator, and I will be the one to raise the curtain and tell what the pictures are."
"The manager?" suggested Mrs. Clover.
"Yes, the manager," said Kittie.
"Very well/' said her mother, "you can have a> many tableaux as you please."
•' But, mother," continued Kittie, " I shall want a good many thing — -bawl-, and flowers, and I don'l know what all."
■ Whatever you please," said Mr-. Clover, ltif you will agree to carry them
all away win n ymi have dun.- with them." >- I will, l Certain, true, black and
blur.' " laughed Kittie, as away Bhe went with ••• hop, skip and jump to Sod box little t\\'> yea? old brother, and to prepare
him for the exhibition.
144
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
The little cunning rogue was in the kit- chen drawing his little cart about, and now and then "dumping" his load of clothes-pins with a racket delightful to his baby ears.
' ' Come, Bertie, ' ' said his sister, ' ' we will have some tableaux, and I will dress you up ever so pretty ! ' '
Bertie was always ready to go anywhere or to do anything with Kittie, so he dropped his little cart and ran off in high glee. He kept very still while Kittie dressed him, and told him just what to do and how to do it. And when she drew aside the curtain which was made of a shawl hung upon two chairs placed a little way apart, he made a very pretty picture indeed. It was called
GATHERING FLOWERS.
Kittie explained the pictures as they do at panoramas ; and while she was talking, Bertie sat as still as a mouse, with a basket of flowers in his lap and a handful in his little fat hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Kittie, 11 you see here the picture of a little boy who loved his mamma so much that he thought he would go and pick her some
( flowers. So he went off into a field all by ) himself, where roses and lilies and all 5 sorts of beautiful flowers grew, and gath- l ered a basketful."
) Here the little manager dropped the < curtain and prepared Bertie for the second ) tableau, which was
CHASING A BUTTERFLY.
After raising the curtain and telling the name of the picture, Kittie went on with her story:
"When this little boy had filled his basket, a beautiful butterfly, all purple and gold, came along, so he dropped his flowers and tried to catch it for his dear mamma. He ran a long, long way, but the butterfly went so much faster than he could that he soon lost sight of it."
Just here the curtain dropped, but in a few moments it was raised again, and Kittie continued :
"When this little boy found that he could not catch the butterfly he looked around for his basket of flowers, but he could not find it. Worse than all that, he had strayed so far that he did not know the way back; so he sat down,
-^
146 THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
The boy came close to me, and put up ( When that sick cold passed off and I his peaked, anxious face to mine. " You } could see again, the boy had hold of me ain't sick, be you ?" he said. ( with both hands. " I thought you was a-
I think the sight of that boy's face put £ goin' to fall," he said, new strength into me ; I had to gasp two ( "No, Criss;" and a new courage came or three times for breath, though, before I > into my heart and something that was like could answer him: "There! it's gone S fire into my veins. " I'm going to be a now, Criss. What was it you said about ( woman now ; I'm going to do something hiding the oars?" S right off; I see it all depends on me now."
A keen twinkle came into his eyes. { " But what can you do ?" staring at me His bad life had taught the boy the low / doubtfully. " You can't get to the Pines shrewdness of liar and thief: "I can < all alone."
hide them oars under the bank in the < I saw in a moment that was the one grass where they'll be at least ten min- ) thing to be done. If I could reach the utes huntin' 'em up, and they'll just think (' Pines before those bad men, I could save somebody's passed and played 'em a dodge > the people there. Now my thoughts for fun ; jolly folks is al'ays up to that. ) seemed to wake up suddenly out of their They wouldn't think o' layin' it to me." ) stunned horror into bright, clear flashes.
" Yes, that will be a good thing to save ) I saw there was no time to be lost. I time — oh dear, if Lewis was only here \ remembered a small old rowboat that now, but he may not be for a couple of } Greighton had nicknamed "Cockleshell," hours, and it will be too late then !" (in which he and my brother went out
" Yes, it'll all be done afore that. They ) sometimes on the lake, won't kill anybody, though, unless there \ I had taken a number of lessons in row- should be a struggle ; I heard the other ( ing from Lewis, and although I had never man tell Hatchel that, when he said it was £ been out on the water alone, still, I was best to be prepared. They talked it all < certain that I could take charge of the over under the back shed at our house to- ) Cockleshell, which was always moored day." <\ under the willow.
" ' Best to be prepared,' " I repeated, ( It was all I could do now. There was " what did he mean by that, Criss?" > no time to hunt up anybody and tell the
" Oh, that they should go armed in < story, which Hatchel would be sure to case of need." S deny, and which would bring down the
I grasped hold of the railing in the \ bad man's dreadful revenge on Criss cold shudder and sickness that went over ) Dorrence.
me. For a moment, the sky overhead, $ "Criss," I broke out as rapidly as I and the great solemn moon, and the ? could, "I'm going straight down to the pleasant earth, and even Criss' brown face, ) Pines. There's a little boat under the all grew dark to me. •; willow, and I can row over if you will
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 147
unfasten it for me. Then you must go off ') "Oh, Criss, come with me; don't be
and hide the oars as far as you can." t afraid of Hatchel. The folks will take
" You can't row down there all alone, ';. care of you and not let him hurt you."
little girl?" he said, in a very positive ( Criss shook his head. UT' wouldn't be
way. j safe," he said; "he'd sneak round and
" Yes I can, Criss Dorrence. Do you \ find his chance, and then he'd swear there
think I shall stay here still and leave my ) wasn't a word o' truth in all I said ; and
friends to be robbed or murdered? No j who is to prS)ve it?"
indeed ! I am only one little girl, I know, ( I could not deny this ; Hatchel seemed
against those strong, desperate, wicked ;• to loom up an awful, malignant power at
men, but I mean to do what I can." J that moment, and it seemed best the boy
"Sh — sh ! somebody might be listenin'. 5 should get out of his way.
There's no knowin' ;" staring about him j "But, Criss, won't I see you any more?"
in a frightened way. He shook his head : "I mean to foot
"Come, Criss, make haste," pulling ; it over the hills to the cars to-night, and
him off in spite of himself. ( they al'ays give a fellow a lift on the train
We found the little Cockleshell of a boat } when he hasn't money to pay his fare ; bo
tied securely to a post under the willows, J I shall get to the city, and ship from
and in a few moments we got her afloat; j there."
I •prang in and Beized the oars. " Now, j " Oh, Criss, I hate to have you go like
' I whimpered, "you won't wait a j this. You've done me a great good to- minute; you'll go right off and do what ; night; I shall never forget it." you Mid you would?" stopping, pausing J His toes as usual at work in the wet a moment before I pushed off. } sand, but some softness in his face which I'll give 'em a good ten minutes J I had never seen before : k* T shouldn't, to hunt Dp them oars, but if they was j though, if you hadn't ha' done me good
gone pas! findin', Satchel's sharp, and before."
tome cursin' and tearin1 to find me, "WeD, Criss, good-bye; I hope God
and I'd have to lie it out. and maybe I ) will take ears of you ; and oh do try now
iu't. Good-bye,, tittle girl ;" and he and be a good boy, and never* tell a story or
illy put out hi- hand of hi- own ;i<-- steal a thing again. Won't yon promise
It vras tin- first time he had done m<
thil rince I had known him. " I promise I'll try," his voice wry
ething in bis manner struck me: serious.
II Wnal are yon going to do, ( " And. ( Was, yon know how to write to "I'm in. [knew when me. You muat send me a line directed to
I • ild yon I must cut clear <>' Batobel, Terrace Ridge before you go to sea, and
and I never mean be shall set eyes on me oh, stop s minute. Hare you got any
monej
148 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"I've got some pennies and half a > not stop to rest them. I cannot tell how dollar." < strange and lonely I felt with that solemn
I took out my purse. I had been carry- < stillness of the sky and the waters and ing it about with me for several days, be- £ the earth around me. Everything seemed cause there were eight dollars in it, ( to rush back on me, too. I thought of although half of this belonged to Lewis ; / Lewis, and what he would say if he knew but I told him it made me feel rich and £ what his little sister was doing to-night ; grand to know that I had so^nuch money ) I thought of our life at the stage-driver's, about me, so he laughed and said I was a \ and of the autumn night when Creighton little goose, but for all that, he let me ( Bell was brought in there with his poor keep all his spare change. S sprained ankle, and what had come of it
I put the money right into Criss' hand : < all ; and I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Fair- " It's all I've got in the world, and a part ) fax, and of poor Criss making his solitary is my brother's, but you shall have it, ( journey over the hills to-night; and I Criss; and don't forget, wherever you go, > thought of the two bold, bad men, who •that as long as I live you have one friend. ' M by this time must be down on the shore
"No danger," he said; and his eyes ( searching for the oars and cursing the shone with a wonderful brightness upon £ delay ; and then I remembered that only me. ( one little helpless girl stood between them
So we gave each other our hands again ; and the dreadful evil it was in their hearts and said good-bye ; and he stood still a ( to do.
moment watching me sweep the boat out <J And then I thought of God, and I into the water, and then he darted up the ; prayed him not to forget me and those I bank and was gone. < was coming to help ; and in the silvery
I shall never forget my sail down to the <> silence and among the shadows the boat Pines that night. My heart did not for ) glided swiftly over the still water, and all once lose courage, although I held my } the time my heart was beating, and my breath all the way, and kept among the > ears were strained to catch the dip of oars shadows where the great branches over- ( behind me, but I never heard that ; and hung the water close to the shore. / at last, after I had turned around the gray
What a beautiful night it was, soft and ( steep bluff, where the water was so deep I still, with that great round moon, like a ( held my breath as my Cockleshell swept heap of Mrs. Fairfax's golden chrysanthe- 'j along, the dark-green line of the Pines mums, in the sky, and the stars like the ( came in sight.
twinkle of buttercups in the meadow- } I was there in a few minutes, and a grass at Salmon Head ! I shout brought them down in the moon-
It was hard work rowing that boat for ) light to the shore, laughing and eager ; two long miles down to the Pines, but ( only three of them — Mrs. Fairfax and her though my arms ached dreadfully, I would / brother, and Barbara the serving-maid.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
149
They expected to find Mr. Fairfax and Lewis, and anybody else who happened to be in the mood for a sail; and their amazement was great when they beheld me in that little Cockleshell of a boat.
" You don't mean to say, Hope Darrow, yi hi' ve come over here from Terrace Ridge all alone, in that little cradle of a boat?" cried Mrs. Fairfax.
"Yes, ma'am."
" Is the child gone mad?" cried Creigh-
Bell, more excited than I had ever
seen him. "What would her brother
Why it's a miracle Bhe didn't up-
md isn't at the bottom of the stream
by this time."
Then I burst out: "There isn't one minute to spare. You'll all be robbed or murdered if you don't hurry right off. The men must have Btarted by this time. I found it out, and so I hurried oil' all to tell you. Oh don't stand still nil-- minute or it will be too late !"
They looked at each other in mute dis- may.
Hi- Bhe gone crasy?" I heard more than one 70108 whisper.
Than I clasped my hand- together and
pleaded with them : " I am not Oral I
I unjust little Elope Darrow, a- I always
but I know your live- are in danger, and I want ,11. [f you will only
• bis plac<- before it i- too lat My words began to tak<- effect at last I )li. Creighton, what if there i- truth in what -1. I irisfa ire were away
M l mi few with more ■lit in ber words, and Barbara t<» look scared.
"Pshaw! I don't believe there's any danger; still, if you say so, we'll get the boat out at once," said Creighton Bell.
"It's that wicked Hatchel, and that old crony of his who has been in State's prison. They know you are down here all alone. They must have started by this time," I went on, in swift, broken sentences.
" Creighton, do get us away. The child seems to know," exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, now thoroughly alarmed.
The rowboat which had brought the party over was moored near at hand, and though he has since told me he thought some foolish, frightful story had taken full possession of my wits, Creighton Bell was still sufficiently impressed to get his boat ready on the instant.
Mrs. Fairfax and Barbara ran for shawls and hats; the latter at the last moment turning back to seize the basket in which they had placed the dishes and silver.
Creighton brought his boat alongside of mine, and I sprang in, and then Mrs, Fairfax and the servant having returned by this time we did not lose a moment in pushing off.
"What does it all mean? Win. is Hat- ch el?" cried Mrs. Fairfax, and I could see that Bhe trembled.
" He'a "it'' of the workmen ; I know
him," said Creighton Bell.
•• So do [, ma'am/1 added Barbara, "He has a face had enough to he up to any wickedn<
■ \mw, I [ope, do tell as how you
hold of all this horrible mv-t-iy." said
I iiton Bell, lightly ; but he sen! the
150
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
boat with broad, hasty strokes right out into the water.
I seized his arm : "Ah, Creighton, keep near the shore in. the shadows. If they should see us ; there are two of them — strong, desperate men, ready for any^ crime ; and they must have started before this time."
Creighton Bell muttered, "Humbug!" again, but his sister cried out sharply : "Perhaps she's right, Creighton;" and the boy turned his boat near the shore, and we swept along under the shadows just as I had come to the Pines.
1 told my story as well as I could, but it must have been in a bungling way, for one moment my teeth chattered, and the next I was hot all over with fear and excitement. They interrupted me, too, with breathless questions, and I could see that Mrs. Fairfax and Barbara became more excited as I proceeded.
" Oh, Creighton, do pray make haste; I wish we were at home. ' '
"Don't turn coward, Pauline. If there really was any danger, we've got ahead of the villains now. We're half-way home," pulling vigorously at the oars.
But at that moment we all caught the sound of other oars far up the lake, and I know every heart jumped as the sound drew nearer ; and we stopped and looked in each other's faces, among the black shadows and the cold, bright drifts of moonlight. Creighton Bell drew in close to the shore under a mass of oaks which grew down to the water, and hung over it a great black belt of shadows, and here he waited, and we heard the boat coming
up the lake, the splash of the oars sound- ing swift and loud through the stillness.
"Oh, Creighton, I am all of a trem- ble," whispered Mrs. Fairfax, griping her brother's arm.
" Nonsense, Pauline. It will turn out some of our folks ; Dick and Lewis, prob- ably, in search of us."
But although he put on so bold a front, I noticed that Creighton Bell spoke in a whisper, and signed to us to be quite still. There was no need of that.
Then the boat came in sight. She passed us in the moonlight, not far from that black gulf of shadows in which we lay rocking so stilly.
There were only two men in the boat, pulling with all their might at the oars ; and the moonlight fell on Hatchel's big, heavy figure, and the short, squat one of his companion. We saw the hard, sullen faces as we sat still grasping each other's hands, while we caught scraps of conver- sation, for the men were talking in an un- dertone. There were oaths and something about "putting the job through in a hurry — no time to be lost now," and then a curse on "whoever had played that trick with the oars. ' '
We held our breaths and grasped each other's hands as the boat swept by with those men on their dreadful errand of rob- bery or death.
As soon as they were out of sight, Creighton Bell started once more. I be- lieve I was the calmest of the four at last, for I felt now that the worst danger was over. The men could not return from the Pines before we should reach Terrace
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
151
and then my nerves had had such an awful fear and strain during the last two hours that this reaction made me calm. But Mrs. Fairfax seemed more dead than alive, and Barbara had the hysterics. Aa for Creighton Bell, he had DO care for anything but to get us home iftly as possible, and he bent all his energies to that work ; and oh what a happy moment that was when we caught Bight of the little rustic bower up to which the stone steps led from the water, where we always landed when we came from the Pines to Terrace Ridge !
It was a couple of hours later before Mr. Fairfax returned, and Lewis followed him almost immediately. All this time we had remained in the cottage with win- dow- and doors barred.
The nearest house was more than a quarter of a mile away, and Mrs. Fair- fax was in dread lest the villains, disap- pointed of their plunder, should return in ;i of it ; and would not let her brother of help, doi allow us, as • hton proposed, to leave the house her.
i- there were only four of us, the
ner and the two servants being ab-
i time, Sirs, Fairfax could
n-'t }><• prevailed on to cross the threshold,
after all, the baffled villians should
iwling among tin- grounds waiting a
fresh chance.
\VI ie that was when at last
Mr Fairfax and my brother returned 1 It
makei me laugh and cry to think of it
I
Mrs. Fair! clung to her husband, and
Barbara went off into hysterics again, and I just sobbed on Lewis' shoulder.
'Why, Darrow, what's the matter with these women? There, Pauline dear, do try and be quiet. Creighton, here, if your wits are left, tell us what all this means?" cried Mr. Fairfax, turning from one to the other.
11 It just means, Dick, that you may thank Hope Darrow there that you've come home to-night and not found your wife and your brother lying stark dead over at the Pines."
I do not remember what reply Mr. Fairfax made. I only heard the voice of Lewis crying out, "Has any harm been near my little Hope?" and he came up and put both his arms around me.
There was a Babel of tongues after that, for everybody talked and asked questions together, but at last they all turned to me, and so I had to go over the whole story of all that had passed between
me and Criss Dorrence that night; and
they would not let me stop there. ;md 1 hail to tell how I first eanie upon the boy
sweeping the walks one morning, and how we grew -lowly acquainted; and all the real had to come out. although I wanted
to In. M it back, about the night of the
tableaux, and how 1 found the boy behind
tin- window, and all that happened there.
Everybody listened silently, as people rmon, while I t<»M my story.
It was long after midnight before I through, and then I believe I broke down at once, for I burst right out en milt all «.r a nidden : "< Hi, Lewis, I can't tell any
152 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
more, I'm so tired; I don't know what ails I "She's a tired little Pocahontas to- me." < night," said Mr. Fairfax. "Ah, my I remembered that it was Mr. Fairfax ( child, what a debt we all owe you !" and
instead of Lewis who took me first in his ) he actually took me out of Lewis' arms
arms and kissed me. "Poor little thing I'M and carried me up stairs in his own.
he said, " she's gone through with enough '( rT0 BE concluded.]
to-night to tire her. " Then he gave me to )
Lewis with something about my being "a { -»^??*-^-
little heroine;" and Lewis— but there is > THE RACCOON.
no use attempting to write what he said <
to me that night. He knows, and so \ " TT^H AT a queer-looking rat !"
do I. J TT No, my little friend, it is not a
I heard them all talking after that, but ( rat. Take a closer look. Rats have it was like one listening in a dream. In- ; smooth tails, while the animal sitting up deed I began to wonder whether I should (' there so cunning, like, just as if he ex- not find Hatchel and his crony, and Criss \ pected to have his picture taken, has, you Dorrence and the sail over to the Pines, > will see, a bushy tail, and all the rest, a dreadful nightmare ■{ "Maybe 'tis a squirrel, then," says when I woke up in the morning ! > Lizzie Hopkins, who, being but five years
It was almost that now, although I did < old, is rather doubtful as to the extent of not know it. The last thing I remember ) her knowledge.
was hearing Mr. Fairfax talk about having j> "Oh no!" cries her brother, who is the villains arrested the next day ; Criss (j two years older and has seen more of the Dorrence must be searched out at once, ; world. " Anybody ought to know better for his evidence would go far to prove the < than that. Did you ever see a squirrel intended crime of the men ; and at last ) eating that hadn't his tail curled up over they all came and kissed me good-night ( his back. It isn't a squirrel, I'm sure." with some thoughtful tenderness in their ) And in fact it is neither a rat nor a faces and manner which I had never felt ') squirrel, but what, only a few years ago, before ; and Oeighton Bell whispered to ( learned men used to call by a Latin name, me, "Ah, little Hope, you've done a S the English of which is "the washing grand deed to-night. It was like some of ( bear." For, really, the little animal sit- the stories we read in the old ballads about ; ting there is a kind of bear, though you beautiful, courageous ladies or good j would not think so, perhaps, even if he fairies. I say, Darrow, suppose we call ) were alive before you. Some of our young her Pocahontas in future?" S friends, whose homes are in the country,
I tried to make a jest : "I've so many ( can, we have no doubt, already tell us names now, I don't think I can carry any ) what it is, just from seeing the picture, new ones." ( " Yes," cries little Freddy Gray, whose
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
153
vi 20
IE RACCOON
154 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
father is a farmer, and lives near a wild J them almost as good as beavers' skins. piece of woods — "yes, I can tell you what \, An old black man who lives down by the it is. It's a 'coon, just as sure as can be. < swamp catches 'coons to eat. He says Brother Jim caught one not long ago out ) they are first-rate eating, but I can't say in the ' swamp woods.' And he's made ( how that is, for I never tried it." a pet of him, and keeps him tied up by a ') "But what is the raccoon in the picture chain, and he sleeps in a box; and a funny £ doing?" our young friends may ask. fellow he is, too ; only he tries to bite us > This question the gentleman who drew when we tease him. Yes, and he did \ the picture must answer. As he was a bite Ellis Treadway right through the \ Frenchman, we will put his reply in En- hand when Ellis was pulling his tail to ) glish. He had gone in a canoe along make him snarl. Brother Jim caught ( with a guide and a negro boy to spend a him one night long after I was in bed. ) week in a Florida swamp. One day, He and George Gruff, and Ellis Tread- ( while taking a nap, he was awakened by way, and Charlie Richmond went out in > the buzzing and the sharp stings of "some the swamp with Mr. Gruff' s big dog, old > great gnats with black wings, with which Tip. Tip soon scared up a 'coon — that's ( the place was swarming. I raised my what we call it here, though Eddie Jones, > ej^es," he goes on to say, "and looked who lives in town, and reads no end of ( over the edge of the canoe. The tide was books, says we ought to say raccoon. The ( low, and the canoe almost on dry ground, old fellow ran about the woods a long ( Right in front of me, on the other side of while, and they thought they wouldn't be 1 the creek, I saw an animal of a grayish able to catch him. But Tip kept close to ) color spotted with black. Its tail was him. And at last he got so scared and ( bushy, with rings of black and gray. It tired that he run up a tree, and then the ) was about the size of a fox, and its head boys knew he was ' a gone 'coon ;' for ( was like a fox's, only the ears were short, they went to work and chopped down the { as if they had been trimmed off. From tree, and when it fell old Tip, he jumped ) its hair I would have thought it a hyena, into the top and caught the 'coon ; and a ( while in its shape it looked like a small tough fight they had of it for a while, until £ bear. Not having seen us, it was busying the boys jumped in too, and somehow (' itself catching shrimps in the little ponds managed to get the old fellow alive, though ) of water left by the tide. Sitting upright the dog had hurt him so much that 'twas ( like a monkey, the animal would stir the a week before he got lively again. ( water with one of its paws, causing the
"Ellis Treadway says he has caught > shrimps to jump up in the air, when it 'coons in box-traps with a figure-four trig- ( would catch them, pull off their heads ger, baited with an ear of corn or a fish. ) and lay them in a heap by its side. Hav- He catches them for their skins. The < ing thus caught as many as it wanted, it hatters buy them, he says, and think ? washed them carefully, kneaded them
THE CHILDRESS HOUR.
155
with its paws into little balls, dipped them
in the water and then ate them up. This was what Cuvier has named in Latin the 'washing hear.' from the strange habit
it has of wetting all its food before eat- ing it. The negroes, who give it the name of raccoon, are very fond of its aesh."
When full grown and well fed the rac- coon is quite a handsome fellow, full of amusing tricks, and dy and cunning as a for. If kindly treated, he soon becomes (juite tame when in captivity. In its wild . the raccoon usually feeds in the night-time, keeping by day in its nest or lair, which is generally made in the hollow of some broken branch of a tree. It rolls itself up with its head between its hind and Bleeps away the time until it is dark, when it goes forth in search of food As we have seen, however, it sometimes ut in the day-time ; and when in captivity, its habits in this way are en- tirely changed, and it. learns to be active
during the day and quiet at night When tamed, it is a meddlesome, prying crea- aticking its nose into every hole and r. It is very fond of sweet things of all kinds. It is also a great lover of shining things. Mr. Wood, in bis Nat- ural History, tells n< of one that did its ■i ring off his finger by hitch- ing one of its crooked claws into the ring, and pulling with all its strength. Another man tells of one which he caught young and completely tamed, but which ii a thief, Btealing all the diver spoons ii could lay ii a, that be
i it away into the wo
A LETTER TO THE READERS OF THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS : I am writing this letter without knowing whether Mr. Arthur will have room to put it in the little magazine or not, but I want so much to tell you about a dear friend of mine that I could not help writing it.
I wonder if any of the little ones re- member ' ' Ira Hervey ?' ' Perhaps not, for little folks, I know, do not always look to see who writes the stories they read.
Ira Hervey was a lady that used to sometimes write little stories for the "Children's Hour." She has not writ- ten a great many, but I think the children have all been pleased with those .-he did. She loved little children very much, and was always trying to do nice little things to please them and do them good, and it was a great pleasure for her to write little
Stories; and if (bid had spared her life, 1 expect you would have had many more to read. But our heavenly Father thought best to take her from US to heaven, and there she 'lmpcs to meet many of you.
little readers. She was nek a long, long time — almost
i. She knew, too, she could not be
well again, but she was not afraid to die. And often she bad to Buffer a great di al
of pain, but .-he Was al\vay> cheerful and happy.
And what do you think made hi
I will tell you. It was because she had for her, /"/•/'< //J. She loved the dear
Saviour when she was well, and he helped her to bear all her pain in her sickl
156
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
And she was not afraid to die, because the dear Saviour was with her.
And now shall I tell you what she wanted some one to say to her little infant class after she was gone ?
She said: "Tell the dear children I do not want them to think of me as dead, but only gone to heaven a little while be- fore ; and I want them all to love the dear Saviour, and then they will meet me in heaven;" and that is what she would say to each of you little ones, and that is the reason I have written this letter. And now, perhaps, you will think I have said about enough, for I know you do not like long letters, but I want to tell you some- thing so sweet about the little infant class. They all loved their teacher very dearly, and of course wanted to see her again ; so they were allowed to come and look upon her face once more. She looked very sweet, all dressed in white and so many beautiful flowers around her. It seemed just as if she might have been tired pick- ing them, and had laid down and fallen asleep.
The little ones who read this will most of them remember just how she looked, I know.
After they looked at her they olid not go right away, but stood around and sung that sweet little Sabbath-school hymn (which many of you sing, I dare say), '"Shall we gather at the river?" How very sweet it was ! I shall never hear it again without thinking of that time ; and now I am going to stop by saying only that I hope that not only the dear little children composing the infant class, but
( every one of us, may "gather at the I river,"
} " Where we will walk and worship ever, ) All the happy, golden day."
LILLIE.
•v>j^*«^s
ANECDOTE OF A DOG.
AN English lady tells this story of a dog's intelligence : I had expressed my wish for a real collie dog in the hear- ing of an honest cottar belonging to our parish ; and one morning, being out in the garden, I saw a stout lassie coming up to the house with a large basket on her arm. On entering the kitchen, I was greeted with "Here, mistress, my faither sent 3re a ' fulpie' (little whelp) a' the road fra' Strathdon." While delivering her mes- sage she untied the cover of her basket, and out rolled a black-and-tan puppy, as ( broad as he was long. > He was christened " Collie," and soon i grew both in size and in favor with all ) in the house, especially with myself and ) ' ' old Joseph' ' the minister' s man, who di- ) vided his affections pretty fairly between ) Collie and one of my little girls. One < morning, when Joseph was at his break - ) fast and Collie and little Nellie were both s standing beside him, I came in to give } him a message, when Nellie began her old ) trick of pulling the poor dog's tail. ( Growl after growl of warning produced ) no effect, for the offender was very young ; ( when, in an instant, after a harder pluck ) than usual, the dog turned, and before \ any one could interfere, he had seized the
THE CIIILDRES'S HOUR. 157
whole of her arm in his mouth. My first ; felt that it could die in peace, for it was feeling was to pull open the dog' 8 mouth, c no longer alone ; so it closed its soft, sweet but old Joseph cried out, " Na, na, mis- ; eye and went to sleep.
I hit him be, hit him be!" < Now, dose beside the spot where the
It was a trying moment. The child's / flower had died, amongst the high green
!iis made mc very nervous, and there ) grass, a lark had built her nest, and just
I the dog with his large jaws holding •; as she stretched her wing to meet the the little fat arm as in a vice, and the ; morn the tear fell thereon from the bosom
iiite glistening teeth showing on j of the flower. each side. "Dinna move, mistress," said j And so the lark mounted up into the air the old man again; "Collie kens what s and began singing to a little 'sunbeam, ami
loin' : hell no' hurt her." And old \ she told it the story of the tear and ••! right; Collie held fast the little ) the broken flower. And when the sun- arm that had been his tormentor, but ( beam heard it, he loved the sweet tear so when Nellie, finding that she was not / much that he kissed it off from the wing hurt, became quieter. Collie gave her one ) of the sweet warbler and took it up to the very expressive look from his large brown ( golden sun ; and the sun made it one of
Jowly opened his jaws and released j his beams, and told it that because it had tie- arm, without one scratch on it, He given comfort to that lonely flower in its had given her a lesson, which she never . lust moments, he would make it his chosen forgot, to respect his feelings with regard j herald, the first to awake the flowers at
to bit tail. I morn and the last to light the bee to her
ceil at even. And so the tear grew bright and more bright, until it became a little
stream of liquid gold, and every flower Of the earth looked up and loved it. and
; all the minstrel-birds sang when theybe-
ONE summer day a dark cloud was sail- held it. and the streamlets, and the fbun- ing along through the air, and because tan-, and the brooks laughed a joyous
it was alone it felt very gl uy; so it burst laugh when it came down upon their
into tears and wept itself away. And bosoms, and all the earth grew bright with
irs fell into the Sea, and One pure -mile.
mne upon the rocks ; but one little drop <> lovely, blessed tear) because thou
went down into a deep valley and rested didst comfort the dying flower, thou art
upon a broken flower the last and fairest become the brightest and the purest
of it- race. It was a lovely blossom, lefi in the crown of the golden sun! alone to «li<- in tie- deep quiet of that My little children, be ye mindful to com*
vale. A.nd when the tear fell upon fort the lonely, the sick and the .1
the :' mi led a happy smile, and and ye shall not lose your reward. Do not
THE LITTLE DROP THAT FELL FROM THE BLACK CLOUD.
158
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
forget that we are not placed here to do our own work, but the work of Him that sent us ; we are not to prepare for this life, but the life which is to come. Oh, then, "let us not be weary in well-doing, for in due time we shall reap if we faint not. ' ' This little life will soon be past, but there is a country which shall abide for ever ; a kingdom which knoweth no end ; whereto, if we have been faithful, we shall one day be taken — where we shall shine brighter than the sunbeam or the morn- ing-star.
And there we shall hunger no more, neither shall we thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on us, nor any heat ; for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed us, and shall lead us unto fountains of living waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from our eyes.
THE KING-FISHERS.
By Mrs. E. B. Duffey.
UNCLE JOHN had long promised his little nephew and nieces to take them a real country ramble — not a quiet walk through the streets of the village, or along the roadside for a half a mile or so, but a ramble across fields and through woods, and to all sorts of wild and romantic places.
Having once made the promise, he was not allowed to forget it, and at last the day was set for its fulfillment. Three pair of eyes anxiously watched the clouds on the preceding evening, and George was
continually running out into the back yard to take a look at the weather-vane, which indicated east in a shifting, unsettled kind of way.
"It will be too bad if it rains to-mor- row!" exclaimed Mary.
" I know it will ! It always does when we want to go anywhere !" was George's reply.
Little Lucy said nothing, but looked as though the tears were not very far off.
Three pair of eyes found it very dif- ficult to go to sleep that night ; and when they did at last close, it was only to let their owners dream a queer jumble of ad- ventures, in which rain and sunshine, birds, flowers and luncheon, were all oddly mixed up.
George was the first to awaken in the morning. He had just been dreaming that he heard the rain patter against the window-panes, and he opened his eyes with a start, to find the sun shining brightly into his room.
Half dressing himself, he sprang into the hall and set up such a jubilant shout before the door of his sisters' room that every one in the house was awakened from slumber.
" Hurrah ! the sun is shining ! Mary ! Lucy ! it's time to get up!"
Then the little girls began to scramble, and in their hurry were twice as long dressing themselves as they need to have been. The strings would not tie, and the buttons would put themselves in the wrong button-holes !
Now there was no need of all this haste, for Uncle John was a very deliberate sort
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
159
of person, and was not at all likely to set out without his breakfast, which would not be ready for an hour at least. But it LB B way little children have, you know, and I suppose it is of no use trying to teach them any better.
There was the lunch-basket to pack,
which took up some little time, and was a
matter of serious thought for them all, for
something would be forgotten. After
that was done, it seemed such along time
breakfast was ready, and when it
ready, not one of them wanted to eat
a mouthful, only mamma insisted that
they most
Alter breakfast, George mounted the
id the lookout for his uncle, and
every few minutes passed signals to his
rs on the porch. At last a triumphant
!!• - c Miiing!" caused a general rush
into the house and a putting on of hats.
And by the time Uncle John had reached
jate, all were there to meet him.
for their walk.
Uncle .John was the best company in
the world for such a ramble. I !«■ knew the
name of every flower and tree, and could
tell them the most wonderful things about
and pebbles ; and there was nol a
bird that hedidnot know all about — what
it was called, where it lived winter and
Summer, and how it built it- ii
,r down a lane, through th< of a meadow, then through a pasture in which there was a deep rai in<- roll of
rocks, th< hung by beeches
They climbed down the
ine, :>ii<l drank from an
• .nil thai flowed out from under
a rock at the bottom; and Uncle John told them how this same little stream had gradually worn away the rock and caused it to break in great pieces. It must have been a long time ago that this had hap- pened, for on the top of one of the rock-. growing out of the thin layer of moss-cov- ered dirt, was quite a large tree.
Then they went through a bit of woods, and came out on the other side in sight of quite a large sheet of water. ' It was only a mill-pond, but it was as pretty as any natural pond you could find anywhere. A bank bordered the farther side, and all around trees drooped over to the water's edge. At the upper end was a thicket of willows, their bright soft green forming a pleasing contrast to the darker tint- of the other trees. Reeds and water-docks grew along the nun-gin of the pond, and farther out water-lilies spread their cool green leaves and their white blossoms. At the lower end was an old mill, halt* fallen to piece- and overgrown with no--, creepers and rank bushes, but looking verv pretty in the bright summer sun-
light
The children, having eaten very little
breakfast, were hungry by this time, and were glad to sit down in tin- Bhadeof a
tree and rest and open the lunch ha-ket.
While they .-at here, a large, odd-look- in^ bird skimmed across the surfai e of the pond, sometimes seeming to remain mo tionless for a moment upon the wing, and finally settled himself on an overhai limb and looked sharply about him. lie was Dearly a fool long; hi- back and win were of an ashy blue color, hi- throat and
160
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE JACAMAR.
breast white, but with a belt around the neck of the same color as his back, and his head was crested. Presently the bird darted down with a sudden circular plunge and seized a fish, which his quick eye had seen in the water below. Swallowing it instantly, he took his course down the stream, hovering for a moment over the mill-dam, flying now fast, now slow, some- times seeming almost to skim the water, and then resting for a few moments upon some tree or stump ; then on again until he was lost to sight. As he flew, he oc- casionally uttered a loud, harsh, rattling cry.
The children watched his motions with interest, and were eager in their ques- tioning.
" It is a belted king-fisher," said their uncle. " There are many kinds of king- fishers, but this is the only one which is
to be found here. Some species live in Europe ; others in Mexico and South America ; while one of very large size is found in South Africa. Some of these birds are of most brilliant plumage. They make their nests in holes along the banks of rivers and lakes, and most of them feed on fish, which they catch, as you just saw, by darting suddenly down from some perch overhanging the water. Some few species, including one that lives in France, feed on earth-worms, larvae and insects, instead of fish. ' '
" I do not think the king-fisher we just saw is very pretty, ' ' Mary remarked.
"It was a clumsy-looking bird, to be sure," her uncle replied; "but I have seen some very handsome and graceful ones in different parts of the world. In Europe there is found one much smaller than this — only about seven inches long.'
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 161
The upper part of the head, the win£s, S SILVERFOOT.
and a stripe on each side of the neck, are (
green, covered with light blue spots ; the ) By Ada M. Kennicott.
upper part of the back is dark. green, the i
lower part a bright blue. The throat and ;• OHE was a wee rivulet, born far up the ;i -trine on each side of the neck are yel- ( ^ mountain, where a clear spring came lowish-white, and the lower parts pale \ out of its rough, brown sides; and had chestnut These colors are all very bril- ;• such a soft, pretty way of pattering about liant. This bird is found throughout mid- ( on the sand that the bushes and trees die Europe, and sometimes in England." ;■ that grew above and liked to wateh her
•• [| must be very handsome ; but did ( called her Silverfoot. She was very happy, you ever see one handsomer?" i till one day a bird that had fluttered down
kt Let me see : I remember when I was I to drink at the spring, said to her, in his in the West Indies I saw a bird — not ex- :} brisk way:
actly a king-fisher, but belonging to the < "What makes you stay here, Silverfoot, same family— that was much finer-looking ) where you'll never be any larger or than this. It is called a jaeamar. and is } brighter than you are now?" not found in this region, though I have I "Am I not large and bright enough, the Bamebird in Florida. It is green i already?" asked the rill, with an angry above, varying with gold; the throat ) quiver, for the first time in her life, run- white, the breast red. and the tail black, S ning through her voice.
d with red. Its feel are supplied J To this the bird made no answer, save with four claws, and it brushes the surface J to trill out a catch of song and flash away of the water as it flics in pursuit of fish > down the mountain side. Henceforth and water insects. It- bill is long and j there was no more peace for the tiny
stream.
"Did you ever gee a rivulet larger or brighter than I?" whispered she to the
blue-eyed grass that leaned close above
good idea of its appearand her.
That evening, Uncle John brought over "No, indeed, dear Silverfoot," was the
a carefully-drawn picture of the jaeamar, answer. "What a frightful thing that
which Me G and Lucy examined would be] We think you very large in-
with a great deal of interest, and which deed. Why 1 eannot we see ourselves from
them so much pleasure that we put blossom to runt in your waters?"
a copy of it in the " Children's Hour," "Butjpti arc rery little," sighed the
thai other little children may see what a rivulet; and besides you have never been
dmut is like, though they will have to away. How stupid I was t«» think yon
imagine the col< uld help me !"
Vol. vi. -21
similar to that of a woodpecker.
"When we go home, I will .-lmw you a sketch of this bird, which I painted in
water color-, and which will give you a
162 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Then she watched for some of the i ' The sweetest rose of to-day winged creatures, but none came near J> "Will give place to a sweeter to-morrow.' " enough for her to whisper to them, and ?
she did not like her neighbors to hear ) "Yes, I understand, but being so great her question. One day, a great purple ( a traveler, perhaps you can answer me butterfly settled down on the largest pebble ; one question."
in her way. It was so large that Silver- ( "With pleasure, if you will make it a foot could not climb over it, and she had \ short one, for I have stayed about as long often said she wished the ugly thing would > in one place as I find agreeable." get carried off. She was always pushing I "It will not take you long," sighed the and murmuring at it, but the stone did ) rill. " I only want to know whether you not seem to mind her spitefulness in the (' find any of my family who are larger or least. Now she was glad it had stayed. < brighter than I ?"
The butterfly sat fanning himself with his > "Ah ha !" laughed the butterfly; "so broad wings, more to show their rich colors ( that is it! I did not think you so vain, than because he was warm or tired. Sil- ) Truly, my pretty one, you are quite large verfoot approached, quite timidly for her. $ enough to show the whole of my wings,
"You must be very weary," said she; > and as to brilliancy, you suit me per- "I suppose you have traveled a long s fectly;" and away he soared leaving the way." ) rivulet in a tumult of vexation.
"Well, as to that lean hardly tell," > "Vain thing!" muttered she; "if he answered he, lazily ; "we fellows that ( had not been thinking of himself all the travel for pleasure don't make much ac- J time, he might have helped me." count of distances. There's your friend, ] "And who were you thinking about?" the ant, now, could probably tell you just > piped a tiny voice under her feet. how many steps she has taken since S "Not you, surely," replied she, in a morning." < pet, giving the saucy pebble such a push
"Proud creature!" thought the rill; ) that it quite buried itself in the sand to but she only said: "I did not mean that ( get out of her way. Then she was sorry, exactly, only that I suppose your home ) for she had often loved to play with the was very far away. ' ' < fair, bright little thing.
" My charming friend," said the but- ) " Oh dear !" she sighed ; "I wish I were terfly, with a tip of his left wing, "I as- ) not so cross, but I do want to find out, sure you I couldn't possibly think of such a < and no one is ever willing to help me. I thing as settling down to a home. It may > see how it is; I'll do well enough for grass do well enough for those miserly fellows, $ and butterflies, but nothing better will the bees, to have a place where they may ) ever care for me."
stow away their hoards, but I'm always ) Poor Silverfoot ! her days of careless sure ( contentment were over. Once, when she
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
163
izing, as she often did now, up into tlie sky, as it' hoping for some help there- from, she beheld a leaf bending from the topmost bough of the oak and looking ..ft' toward the valley. ''Dear leaf, come down to me," she cried ; and with that Bet all her ripples to singing and sparkling so temptingly that the leaf, who was grow- ing impatient of the heat, took pas on the next zephyr and came down for a bath, never reflecting that she could not go hack again, until it was too late.
""What did you see when you looked off through the valley?" asked Silverfoot, as she caught the leaf eagerly to her bosom.
uOh, many, many things," was the answer — "fields and wood-: houses, churches and people — so many of each." " But did you see none of my family?" i the rill, with fear of a fresh disap- pointment
"No," said the leaf: "but stay — there • the foot of the mountain, but she must have been yean older than you.''
I [ere was the answer al last, and Silver- foot lay very silent and thoughtful all that A' night, when all was still and the same out, looking bo high and strong thai the right gave ber courage, her resol- ution was taken. She gently woke the leaf that lay sleeping against the large pebble. ■• I don t think," said she, "it was all be-
the stream you saw in the valli older than I that she was so much la A bird once asked me why 1 stayed here, where I could never grow. Who knows
hilt if I could get to the h>ot of the
mountain, i" should be large and bright, too?"
"I do not see why you should wake me up in the middle of the night to say that," replied the leaf, drowsily; "couldn't it wait till morning?"
"No," answered Silverfoot, "for I have made up my mind to start 11010. Will you go with me?"
"Well, I declare!" exclaimed the leaf— and it was broad awake now — ''who would have thought this of you, who have stayed in this spot ever since you were born? Thank you ; I don't care if I do go along, seeing I've been such a dunce as to come down here. It will be a change, any way."
So, together they set out under the stars that smiled softly on them — away from beneath the trees that they knew and loved— past the grasses and blossoms that just stirred in their sleep to their good-bye ki»e> — the rivulet longing to grow stronger and more beautiful, and the
leal* that could never grow any more, hut must he drifted about at the will of wind
and Btream. So they went on through
the diver nightfl and golden days, often
weary, sometimes discouraged, but always forward. Once they were stopped by a great pile of stioks and rubbish lying right across the path. "It is of no use," com- plained the leaf, " to try to -jet farther.
It- too thick to i/o through and to,, far
around} besides, I am growing! rid and
weak for more journeying. Here's a -oft b,d by this mossy tree trunk, where I
shall he content to -t.iy alway-."'
■• A- yon please," replied Silverfoot,
'■ but / must go on."
164
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
"Good-bye to you, then," sighed the leaf. So the rivulet went on alone. As she left the forest shade and the summer heats increased, she could but see that, so far from realizing her cherished hope, she really grew smaller and weaker. One twilight, as she lay pondering this and filled with mournful thoughts, she was alarmed to perceive the air suddenly grow- ing dark and full of winds that rushed furiously in different directions as if un- certain where they ought to go. Soon she heard a noise as of many wings and the patter of countless feet : then a host of small voices whispered : ' ' May we stay with you, little rill ? The winds toss us about so, we are afraid to go farther. ' '
"I do not think there is room for so many in my narrow channel," answered Silverfoot, doubtfully, "but I suppose you can try it. ' '
"Oh, we will help you," laughed the rain-drops, for such they were ; and truly enough, when the sunrise scattered the clouds, she found her new friends had lifted her easily over places she had feared she could never cross.
"May I go with you?" sighed a wee voice, and the rill beheld one much less than herself creeping out from the bushes.
"If you will not crowd me too much," was the ungracious reply; but she soon found that so far from being crowded, the channel was really roomier than before, for with the help of the new-comer she was able to push away many obstructions which she could not have moved alone. Then she began to understand that lesson which so many are slow to learn — that by
helping and comforting others we are ourselves strengthened and blessed. This the brook, for such she soon became, did not forget. She never refused aid to any — even going out of her way to take in strag- glers that were lost among brambles and thickets. So she sped on, giving drink to the wayfarer, moisture and coolness to all the thirsty plants and tree-roots in her way, and aid to the lesser streams, while, instead of wearying her, she found her labors making her stronger and swifter every day, till by the time she reached the mountain-foot she was a sparkling, rapid stream, quite equal to the one the leaf had told her of in former times. It so chanced that here she met that very brook.
"Whither are you going?" asked Sil- verfoot, in wonder, seeing that the stran- ger appeared in quite as much haste as she herself had previously been. "Is not this the end?"
"No, indeed! only the beginning. Why, don't you know that farther on they are waiting for us to help turn the mills?"
"Ah, that will be fine sport!" cried they both in a breath ; and hastened to set the great wheels going, and laughed to hear the buzz of the machinery.
Soon another stream rushed down be- side them, crying as it passed,
"What are you stopping here for? Let the smaller folks do that : if we do not hurry, there will be no one to help carry the ships to the sea."
Then they ran after and overtook the stranger, and the three agreed so well that
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
165
those who saw them thought them one Btream which they called a river.
A grand river it was— tossing lightly the huge ships it delighted to bear, for in the new. busy life all vanity was forgotten and replaced by an earnest wish to be use- ful : bo it did not mind that the great keels furrowed it, or that unsightly rocks sought to hide tlnir ugliness in its friendly waters.
At last there came one of those still • lay- when sounds float far and swiftly — a joyful day that brought to it the voice of the sea — the strong, brave sea, that gathers all the lesser waters to itself as a
mother gathers her children to her cher- ishing arms. It is said when once the streams have heard that call they never rest until they have found whence it comes.
So onward swept the river till it stood face to face with that ocean the pulses of whose mighty heart had thrilled it far inland.
One moment of solemn doubt, of awe- swept joy, while the waves beckoned with white fingers, every one shouting, " Come out to us:" then it threw itself into their arms, and a new voice joined the choir of the hymn ful sea.
FATHER'S BOOTS.
■ ni
► j boots.
nnmiii.'i
I
can wear papa i
And little Prank Herbert i before bis mother looking pi
and proud.
"Yes, I see, Bat, ain't too thej
for you ?"
■ N-it much. Now, Bee how I can ran!" and off Pranky started through the long parlor. Bui in ■ moment or two the oramsy boots nipped him, and down he went, striking hi> tender little, nose on the
166 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
floor. His mother was quickly by his side, ) is in the law of the Lord ; and in his law and lifting him said, tenderly, ^ doth he meditate day and night. And he
"Are you hurt, darling?" ) shall be like a tree planted by the rivers
The warm blood that fell on Mrs. Her- I of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in bert's hand answered her question, even ) his season; his leaf also shall not wither; before Franky's cry of pain was in her \ and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper, ears. < The ungodly are not so ; but are like the
"Poor little nose!" she said, as she hur- S chaff which the windeth driveth away.' " ried him to the bath-room, where with ( Then Mrs. Herbert shut the Book and cold water the flow of flood was soon ) said: stopped. ) "Franky dear, I wonder if you know
"Not big enough yet for papa's boots!" ) what this means?" and Mrs. Herbert looked smilingly into ) Franky looked up earnestly at his Franky's sober face as she led him back < mother with a puzzled expression on his to the parlor. ) face.
"I'll be big enough after a while, { "You remember," continued Mrs. though, won't I?" ( Herbert, "hearing the people in church
"Yes, darling, if our Father in heaven ) chant the words, ' Thou wilt show me the lets you stay with us. ' ' \ path of life ?' And we are told often in
"I reckon he will," answered Franky, ) the Bible to walk in the ways of the Lord, "for he's good." { So, there are other paths than the ones
"Yes, he's a good and loving Father; ) our natural feet tread, and we walk in and if he sees it best for you to live here ( these paths when we do right. ' ' and grow up to be a man, he will not take ) " Oh," said Franky, after sitting with you from us. After a while, when your \ sober looks for a little while, "I under- feet get larger and stronger, I hope to see < stand now. Father does right : he's a you wearing your father's boots and walk- £ good man ;" and light broke all over the ing in your father's ways." ( child's face.
"The boots I had on just now, mam- ) "Yes, darling. Your father treads in ma?" ( a just way. He does not walk in the
counsel of the ungodly, nor stand in the way of sinners; and when I said that I
"No."
"What kind of boots?" Let me read you something in the
hoped to see you wearing your father's
good Book." And Mrs. Herbert, opening ) boots and walking in his waj^s, I meant the Bible, read : ( that I hoped to see you grow up and walk
" ' Blessed is the man that walketh not > like him in paths of righteousness." in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stand- $ —^^p*^^-
eth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in < It takes a gentle boy to make a gentle- the seat of the scornful. But his delight ') man.
THE GREAT $2 LADY'S HOME AND FASHION MAGAZINE OF AMERICA!
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With each successive year the li HoKI Magazine"
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FOB THE VI .11! 1S70 [AOASHl
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EW AMEBIC AN SOCIETY NO]
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ism THE CHHJRErS HOUR, ykh vil&viil
A MONTHLY ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE
FOB THE LITTLE OZETES.
EDITED I3Y
TnE Children's Hour for 1870 will be more inter- esting, attractive and beautiful than it lias ever been.
In the January number will be published four orig- inal illustrations, by Bensell, of Longfkllow's exquisite poem," Thk Children's Hour." These will be engraved by Lauderbach in his fine artistic style, and be printed with the poem on four extra pages of tinted paper, and form a most charming series of illustrations.
Miss Virginia F. Townsend will give another of her deeply-interesting stories, which are read with such absorbing interest by young and old.
Alice Gary, Virginia F. Townsend, Phoebe Cary, Mrs. M. 0. Johnson, T. S. Arthur, Mrs. L. A. B. Curtis, Ada M.
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The Children's Hour
A Magazine for the Little Ones.
DECEMBER, 1869.
■
0
MARIA AND HER COUSIN. i. said Mrs. Merriam, one morning
to her daughter.
By Aunt Li " I .mi ro( I yOUftg l:nly." WMt Maria' 8
petulant reply.
i i. irbai :'nl r k m " N ■ l you are Dot, nor are you
for a young lady I I am aeham likely t<> \»\ bo long a- jrou leave
n ' i59
ywnrMwi in snda disorder and »<o vow- everything looked? The bed was unmade. self xenidihr dressed and with hair mm- } and the dean white counterpane all in a
•• - ■• -■'- ^ -I:'.-. .::;:::-:-• ;.r_; ;:::.rd : Hr: ::.■':.:-::-: ^v - - " r -*- - - -'>--: i: i:> --: -i.rf ?i: ;.; ;:l::-: _: : [;
- . ■- - -
and lien Maria west on renting a stony tbe day before remained jnst where she she was ray naneh interested in. and in had let it fiH when she vent to bed. -•" '--- '- —.--•-. i: , : :_ ::t7. _,._:•: _: M ,. I . '. - -_f "i_.: ;:^ri -_- l - r: r:. --- "—-"---: r • ___: i. nil:: v-irir: :-f n i :ir : _:: i:f ;: : . :
Miii* vas a way good Ettle girl in l honse were strewn around. Ihe hooks
net ax al orderly hi her habits: and then iQaees— some tumbled on the fioor. with n Minim " wltncret she was told to do a ; a box of
i :"- iir:
- :-::: z ^: :_-/j :li: •"::
i. ii;:li_::ir:_ii: :_::_. ::--::■
-
, iiiJi-: :-_■; -...-" z-'l, .L.;:.-ri l: ;•-:::- : ir: r:-:~ -i: :i>_ki:_z 1 ':::: :t:tt: it was, after aU, to hare things kept in had ' their nlmTj when the door was opened
11: 1 ..".-. '-Zjj :.tL. :•-:-- :r.
Oi 7-iir ::-- Mir-: I -'.>- '
Didn't you? l'\e jnst com-
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
171
and Willie, and we're going to stay all day.*1
Fanny was Alalia's cousin, and they didn't see each other very often.
•(Hi, I'm so glad!"
••What a pretty room!''
M iria was glad she had got it in order.
"Everything is so nice ! I try to keep my room nice, but Willie is such a little that he puts everything out of place a- fast as I can put it in. Last week he broke my big doll. I was so sorry I cried, but I didn't scold him any, for he didn't know any better."
.Jn-t then Maria happened to catch right of herself in the looking-glass. What an object she was ! She was ready to go and hide. Her hair hung in a tan- ■ her shoulders, her face was n-'t u- cl<-an as it might have been, and her di idly dirty. Flow she
wished Bhe had obeyed the first time her mother .-jink'- to her ! Fanny was dressed nicely in a pink frock with a broad ribbon and with lace around her neck, and her hair nicely curled and fastened back
with a comb.
" I have got to comb my hair and
m ready to play.'" .-aid Maria.
"Why, what have yon been doing all this morning? I all 1 the
first thing; [don't like to go dirty. Come,
sit down and let comb your hair."
ny con, be. 1 the >..f't brown hair, o tangled it took a long then wound it around her fin- Mid let it fill in beautiful long ring- Wh< ii ii wai all combed and curled
>aek with a bine ribbon. Then
Maria put on a blue frock and a clean white apron. And I am sure if you had seen the little girl who sat looking so un- tidy reading her book two hours before, and the little girl now all combed, washed and dressed, you would hardly believe they were the same.
They went down stairs and had a good play with Willie and the baby. And then Maria showed Fanny her flowers, and took her round to the back yard to see the chickens— little soft, downy things just out of the shell. Their mother was wry jealous and fierce, and didn't allow her babies to be touched. But in the barn were three of the most cunning little kittens you ever saw, just ready for a frolic.
After dinner, Maria went with her cousin back to her room, and they looked at the pictures in the story-books, and then dressed up Miss Dolly in her When they were tired of that, they began to look around for something else to do.
11 Here is a nice string ; let's play cat's- cradle," said Fanny.
'" What is that?" asked her cousin.
" Didn't you ever hear of oat's-cradle? Well, let me show you."
So Fanny showed Maria how to put the
String twice around her bund-, and then with the middle finger of each ban 1 take up the String from the other.
•• No, not so ; there ! that's the wi
V last Maria goi it right, and then
Fanny, with thumbs and fingers daintily extended. to..k the string from her cousin
and showed her another form of the
cradle. Then there was more Bhoi
172
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
and more getting it wrong and being set right again. At last Maria had learned to play cat's-cradle as well as Fanny her- self.
" Cat's-cradle ! What a funny name ! I think it ought to be kitten' s-cradle, for it's not big enough nor strong enough to hold a cat, and I'm not sure but the kit- tens would crawl through."
" Let's go and try ;" and away both the little girls scampered to the barn to put the kittens in the cat's-cradle. Kitties were quite ready for any kind of sport; and though they did not exactly understand lying quiet in a cradle, they seemed to think a great deal of fun could be got out of a string, especially when there were two little girls to help them play.
Tea-time came all too soon, and then Fanny had to go home.
I am happy to say that for several days afterward Maria did not have to be told — not more than once, at least — to put her room and herself in order.
TERRACE RIDGE.
A SEQUEL TO "HOPE DAKKOW.'
By Virginia F. Toivnsetid.
CHAPTER VI.
I DID not awake the next morning to find all that had passed was a dream or a nightmare. The whole thing stood sharp and clear before me ; and, what was worse, I could not shake off the dread and terror of the memory for that day nor for a good many which followed.
I was not sick precisely, but yet I was not what I had been before that dreadful night ; and I used to overhear them talk- ing about me with grave faces, and saying my nerves had had a terrible strain ; and I knew something had happened, because I was so restless and could not eat or sleep, and I started at every little noise like a scared baby. But oh how kind everybody was to me all these days ! I was so petted by the whole household that I would sometimes say to myself, "Are you just little Hope Darrow who used to live at the stage-driver's, and have nobody in the world to care for you ex- cept Lewis ? Now just see of how much consequence you are : you can have every- thing you want, and do just as you are a mind to ; and your case, Hope Darrow, is very much like some of the stories you've read in those old times, when some little girl who had been stolen out of a cradle and carried to some peasant's hut, and brought up with the rest of the children on goat's milk and coarse bread, was found out some day and proved to be a princess in disguise."
Mr. Fairfax or Creighton Bell took me to ride every day, and Mrs. Fairfax was as thoughtful and kind as possible ; and as for Lewis, he was just what he had always been — my dear and noble brother, snatch- ing every moment that he could from his work to be with me.
The doctor came. I was astonished when I found they really thought I was sick enough to have one ; and he said nothing was the matter, only I must be kept quiet and out doors all I could, until
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
173
the whole thing had worn out of my memory.
All this time every effort was being made to find Criss Dorrence. Mr. Fair- fax took a journey to the city for that es- pecial purpose, and, to use his own words, "set the policemen on the scent" for the boy, but they did not find him ; and his testimony was the thing which was needed to prove that Hatchel and his companion had intended to rob us at the Pines.
So the bad men were not arrested, and in a day or two we learned they had left Terrace Ridge. I breathed freer when I found they were really gone ; although I feared they might suspect Criss when they learned he had stolen away that night, and that they would search him out and wreak some dreadful vengeance
00 him for betraying their crime. When
1 told Lewis that, he said: "Don't you
borrowing any trouble, Polly Prim.
I think, is -hrewd enough to keep
out of the villains' way;" and I had to
stent with that
After Hatchel was gone, the whole Btory
of thai aight leaked oul a! Terrace B
ly knew li«)W. for Mr. Fairfax had
given strict orders thai the whole should
be kepi ■ profound secret, as he hoped
still to tin«l some means of proving the
intended crime and bringing the men to
Justus
But like wildfire thi pread
Everj body came to
and to have the whole thing
d It really seemed t<» me as h nobody talked of anything although they tried to be careful I
me, because of the doctor's orders; but what they did not say I used to think sometimes they took out in staring. Would you believe it of such grand peo- ple? but they really did, and I thought the staring was worse than the talking. Then what seemed worse than all the rest, were the perpetual nudgings and whis- perings, as though I couldn' t hear and see : "That is she." "Such a child too!" "One would never credit it to see her."
I used to want to run off every time a carriage drove up, and I did very often, too.
One day, I was out in the grounds with Creighton Bell, trying the new swing which they had put up the day before, and a merry time we were having «>t' it. as he sent me higher and higher until, my dress touched the oak branches, and 1 screamed half with terror, half with delight.
Just at that time a party came up, friends of the Fairfax's from the city. Creighton knew them all. and they -tupped a few moments to talk to him and to Btare me over. I heard them going on t<> the old tune: "It doesn't seem possible." "What pluck and judgment for so young a child 1" and a great deal more of that sort
When they were gone, Creighton Hell came and stood by me with a laugh in his S i must have overheard a LT"<>d deal of what they said, Hope?"
•• ( Mi yei quite as much as I wanted to of that Bort "I" stuff?"
'• ( Mi. yon don't relish being made a linn
r,f. thr,,/"
• What do yon mean l>y that. Creigh- ton?"
174 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
"I mean something very famous and ? less pluck than you, Hope; but then conspicuous — something to be stared at and S there's some difference between a little, in everybody's mouth, just as you were ( shrinking, sweet-pea blossom of a girl like now. That is what we call being made a ) you, and a big, strapping fellow like me; lion of." £ don't you see that?"
4 "Oh yes, I understand now, but I don't < "Well, ye— es, though I never once fancy it at all; besides, I haven't done any- ) thought I was doing anything wonderful thing to deserve it." \ that night; I only thought of getting to the
" You haven't! though!" whistling in a ') Pines before it was too late; and I'm sure way that said a great many things. ( anybody, little or big, in my case would
" I can't see that it was anything so ( have tried to do as much." very remarkable — truly not worth making £ "Well, I will not try to change your such a time about." ( opinion then," said Creighton Bell, in a
"But don't you see, Hope, honestly, \ way that showed very plainly mine wasn't that it was a wonderfully heroic thing for i his.
a little girl like you to do ; rowing down { But to this day I have not been able there, all alone to the Pines, in that old, ') to see anything so very remarkable in rickety chopping-tray of a boat, spoiling ( what I did. Can you, now? all the niqe plans of those wretches? Why, ) Not many days afterward, sitting out on I tell you there isn't another little girl in ( the veranda, I overheard Mrs. Fairfax in- the world who would have had the nerve ( side say to her brother, " Creighton, when and the judgment to carry that thing S I think where I might be if it had not through as you did." ( been for poor little Hope Darrow's heart
"Oh yes there are plenty of 'em, if S and courage one night, I can never forgive it only came in their way." (myself for my hasty, unkind speeches
"I never saw one; and then, Hope, ; about her and her brother. Of course, that isn't all — likely as not you saved ) they were nothing but a momentary ill- some of our lives. They were desperate ( nature on my part; still, as I said, when villains who were on our track that S I think of all I owe the child, I can't nigh t. " ( forgive myself. ' '
>l I knew it, Creighton ; I saw that in <■ "Dear old Pauline !" — that was one of Hatchel's eyes before Criss had said one < his ways of calling her — "I always know word ; and it was the thought of saving ) you don't mean half you say when you you all from those dreadful men that put { are in a huff, any more than I do." the courage into me and kept me up all } "That's true enough. The Bell blood the way. I'm sure you would have done ) is quite too easily fired. But, Creighton, the same for me if I had been in your ( I can't think of the peril we were in that case." ) hour without growing cold from head to
"I hope that I shouldn't have shown ( foot."
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
175
••It's enough to make one fidgety. That little Hope Darrow— "
Here it flashed across me that this talk not intended for me, and I went to
the other side of the veranda.
In a little while I saw Lewis coming up the walk. He shouted as he caught sight of me, and waved some small white thing over his head.
'It's for you, Hope Darrow," he cried.
« >h, Lewi-, what in the world is it?" drew nearer.
"It'sa letter" — coming up the steps; "I just took it out of the office on my way home. Who in the world could have written to you, Hope?"
11 I'm sure I don't know. Why, Lewis, how funny!" as I took the letter from his hands and bent over the address. It was printed in great, scrawling capitals by -cine hand not much used to a pen; but lor all that, there was my Dame ami "Ter- plain enough for anybody to read it.
•• I never supposed my little sister would have a correspondent and I left in the
dark." -aid Lewis, trying to look very "■ Vou arc not more in tin- dark than 1
am. Lewis, 1 ut we will read it together, anyhow so ] carefully tore open one
Side of the envelope.
letter lie. before me now, and I will copy it for you. It was full of blots, mid some of the letters were printed, hut this i- it. word for word :
"• I' in in New York all Safe, ha\
on a Whaling Ship for two V
Sale to morow. i Shan't forgit What you said, i mean to try, little Girl ; and when i come Back i shal find you out, sure; i felt You'd want to know i was .-ale, so i Wrote this. Excuse Mistakes. " Your Friend,
u Criss Dorrence."
Lewis and I looked at each other.
" Well done !" he said. "I tell you, I've hopes of that boy."
"So have I, Lewis; and to think of his going off on that vessel for such a long, long time ! If we could only have found him in time!"
"Yes, but it's too late now. The vessel must have sailed yesterday, and the boy's far out at sea by this time."
" Poor little Criss ! I am the only one in the world to whom he could write that word, 'Your friend;' " and the tears came thick into my eyes as I looked on the paper with its scrawling hand and its thick blots.
"No, Criss haa some other friends now — Mr. and .Mrs. Fairfax, and Creighton and myself Weall feel that we owe thai boy
no -mall debt, for if lie had not told you
the foul plan on foot, yon would ne\ er have had that Bail to the Pines, and I
Bhould never have had a chance of seeing
my little Bister Bpoiled by being made a heroine of."
■ ( )li. Lewis," turning my head quickly. "you don't really mean whal you Bay, that there's danger of my head being turned by any such nonsei
• No I don't, lntle Polly Prim. It i- a head thai has too sound -toil' inside to be spoiled by the talk of people.*'
176 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
Just then Creighton Bell came out ; I -> Who would have thought so much could held up the letter to him. "There's some- \ ever come from just a sprained ankle got thing here that will astonish you," I said. ( from jumping off the cars?"
"Well, I want something to astonish £ "It was a lucky sprain for me, any- me just now. The world seems such a ( how." wretched old humbug in general; so, \ " I think the luck was on Hope's side
Hope, don't keep a fellow in suspense." ( and mine, Creighton," added Lewis.
"The world a wretched old humbug \ " Do you think so?" said Creighton, in place to you, Creighton Bell, with its best S his most thoughtful, most earnest way. face always toward you, with everything f " If I have done you or Hope any good, to make you happy ! Why, Lewis, the > you had both paid me long before what world does not seem that to you and me, ( happened the other night." does it now?" ) This brought me back again to Criss
"No, Polly Prim. It seems a wonder- ( Dorrence's letter, and I put it in Creigh- fully nice, cheerful place to me now- a- ) ton's hand without another word, days ; and even in the old saw-mill I don't ) "What in the world have we here ?" think it ever was quite so bad as Creigh- < he said, catching sight of the spelling and ton puts it." ) the blots.
We laughed at that. " But you were \ It did not take the boy long to find out, doing a brave, hearty, honest work over ) and he had only picked his way along the there, Darrow, for yourself and somebody ) stumbling lines to the name at the end you loved. No wonder the world seemed ( when Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax came in. something better to you than it does to a £ "Dick — Pauline, I say," holding out lazy vagabond like me." { the letter, "here's something will make
tlOh stop, Creighton Bell, calling your- ( you stare." self such names," I put in here. £ His sister fancied her brother was up to
"It's true now, Hope. What good ( some of his jests; but the next moment have I ever done in the world, that it ) he made both the lady and her husband should ever wear a pleasant face to me? ( eager enough by shouting out, "It's from Don't we generally get in the long run ) Criss Dorrence !" what we give." j "Has that boy turned up?" cried Mr.
"Well, then, Bell, you will have a big ( Fairfax. slice," answered Lewis, half playfully, ) His brother-in-law answered by placing half seriously. "Hope and I will never < Criss' letter in the gentleman's hand, be able to tell you all you have given us ) and his wife leaned eagerly over his shoul- since you came first to Salmon Head." ) der while he read.
11 Oh yes, Creighton, I shall never for- •• "Poor boy! It's too bad!" shaking get that night when I saw the lights shin- ) his head, " 1 meant to have given him a ing in Mrs. Brainerd's parlor windows, i chance; but, instead, he has given me the
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
177
slip, and now Ilatchel and the other vil- lain will go scot free, for the evidence wouldn't convict them.
'■ lie thought the going to sea was his only chance," I said. "Poor Crissl How I wish he had stayed here, and I would have given hi in a writing lesson every day, and taught him to spell and make big Fa and little W's!"
Everybody laughed at that, although I don't see for what, and I am sure I meant said.
I remembered, too, that Cri-s had told me "int of the sailors, to whom he used to carry his meals when the man lay sick in his hammock had taught him how to write a little, and he had picked up the reading here and there, he could not just remember how.
But there was nothing to be done now; ilked him over for a long time, and I thought of the brown, peeked face, and the fingers and the toe« always at work, away out on the blue, tossing ocean, and my heart ached for the lonely little boy; and then I remembered thai the great ocean was not bo wide or so deep as the loving heart of Crisa1 Father and mine : and I 1-t't him there, as all our lives we have to leave those whom we love
and pity.
II ippy days followed; I gn w well and stron- with every one, and the beautiful summer slipped farther and farther down into the -till golden ripeness of autumn ; and I pasaed moat of the time out doors amon- the hillf and the shining a
u that hung like silver: floeoci on the
n the banks of Voi
the lake and among the old country roads, and it seemed to me that Terrace Ridge must be a great deal like the Garden of Eden before Adam and Eve picked the the apple, you know.
At last, the people began to talk of going home, and one after another the pleasant little cottages were closed for the year, and I began to wonder what was to become of Lewis and me.
At last, too, the Fairfaxes began to talk of leaving, and I made up my mind that Lewis and I would be left there alone to- gether at Terrace Ridge. How strange and lonely it would seem, when all the houses were closed and the people were gone! but we could read and study to- gether, and how much better that would be than the old saw-mill and the stage- driver's !
One day I said something quite as a matter of course to Creighton Hell about our remaining here, and he broke out with. *' You don't mean you expect to he
left here snowed op all winter, with the
hills and the trees and only a lucky hear
or two for neighbors. "
'• Bears I Creighton Bell, I'm too big to red by any such humbugs."
"Well, when we go* you've got to — that's settled ;" and something ended our
talk at that moment.
Very soon they began in real earnest
: about leaving, peeking boxes and
trunks; and one day after breakfast, Mr.
Pairfai said to my brother, " Lewis, 1
want tO have a private talk with \<»n.
.lump into the buggy and we'll b
•I
178 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
They were gone for an hour, I should < but I think of that morning and the walk think. When Lewis returned, he set out } we had there.
in search of me at once. I happened to s When I went home, Mrs. Fairfax met be down in the garden, but his shout \ me in the hall : "Well, Hope," stopping found me, his voice ringing with excite- ) and smiling, "I see by your face that you ment : "Polly Prim, I say, where are ( know." you?" ) " Yes, I know. Oh, Mrs. Fairfax, how
"Here I am," coming up just in time < good you are to us!" to prevent his scaling the stone wall in ) "Ah, Hope, how good you were to us search of me. > once ! I never shall forget that ;" and she
He caught me up in his arms and I drew me to her and kissed me. swung me about: "Ah, Lewis, I know ) If the lady still had her moods and her you have some good news for me now." ( pets, she never showed them to me now-a-
" Capital news, Polly Prim! Good as > days, a fairy story." )
"Oh don't keep me waiting," I cried; > There is but little more to tell. Mr. and then we went down the road together, ) and Mrs. Fairfax went away a month ago, and Lewis told me. ? and left their brother and Lewis and one
It appeared that the plan had all been ) of the girls behind, arranged betwixt the Fairfaxes and Creigh- { Oh such happy times as we had here ton Bell some time before. Lewis and I ) all alone; and the birds have almost ceased were to pass the winter in New York. My ) to sing, and the frosts have come stilly in brother was to enter some school of de- ( the nights, and outside the trees are one sign, and he and Creigh ton Bell were to ) great gold-and-crimson blaze, study more or less together. We were all ( Oh, we have had the merriest, funniest, to live with the Fairfaxes in their great > happiest days all to ourselves, but they house just in the suburbs of the city ; jj are almost over now, for next week we go and when the spring opened, Mr. Fairfax ) to the city ; and I shall see the piles of would start Lewis off once more to Ter- > houses, and the long streets, and the race Ridge to superintend the improve- \ crowds of people, and all the strange, ments of the place; "and there will be ) wonderful things, which will be like enter- no debt about it, Darrow," he said, taking < ing into a new world for me. care that Lewis should have no feeling of ) We have had the stage-driver and his that sort. "It's a fair bargain ; your ser- ( wife for two or three days to visit us. It vices will be worth all I shall do for you or { made us all happy to see how they enjoyed Hope." ) it; and then Lewis and I will never forget
Such a happy walk as that was! I ( how good they were to us in our utmost never remember that old road running ) need, down past the stone wall to the meadows \ It surprises me every day to see how much
THE CiriLDllEX'S HOUR.
179
my brother and Creighton Bell, think of each other. It seems as though they could hardly be separated.
They are so unlike, and yet I never look at them without a feeling that each is just suited to be the friend of the other.
Well, I have reached the end of my story. It is only a little girl's, you know, written out of my heart, in these dear. last days at Terrace Ridge, when the boys have been off on their endless excursions all over the country-side.
I think very often of Crist Dorrence, and L always say to myself what I said once, you remember, of Creighton Bell: •"If he lives he will conn; again—] am sure In.- will." Hope Darrow.
LITTLE HARRY.
THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.
By G. H. M.
TTEBY fond of pod
* Strewing nil tin- house "With tin- garden rosea — Merry little moose !
ng up his brown hat
With the sweetest sprays ; ! i on the door-mat In the summer i
Smiling at the Ganci i Running through hi- brain,
I
Of th.- elfish tiaiiT.'
Or thi treaming
From tip ur,
be lien there, dreaming,
Looking in the air '.'
/ \II the snow, the beautiful snow, ^S Filling the sky and the earth below ; Over the housetops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet ; Dancing, Flirting,
Skimming along. Beautiful snow ! It does no wrong, Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek:, Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak. Beautiful snow from heaven above, Pure as an angel, gentle as love !
Oh the snow, the beautiful snow, How the flakes gather, and laugh as they go Whirling about in the maddening fun. It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing,
Laughing,
Hurrying by ; It lights on the face, and it Bparkles the eye, And the dogs, with a hark and a hound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around; — The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.
WHENEVXB y..ii know a thing is right, Go and do it with main and might,
KTor ht on*' murmur fall, For duly makes as stern a claim
If an angel Called your name, And all nun heard the call.
Keep all the day, and every d - Within tin' Straight and narrow way, And all your lite, in line,
1 1 temperate in jrour m Is and meat-.
And in your BOOH and in your s\\ And, lastlj, don't drink wine !
180
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE SNOW-STORM,
" fX& dear! I'm so disappointed!"
\J Harvey sat by the window, look- ing out dreamily at the fast-falling snow.
Now, a boy ten years old is not often put out of humor by a snow-storm, for the snow brings frolic and fun. But it happened that this one came just in the wrong time — at least so Harvey thought, for it kept him from making a promised visit to his cousins, who lived a mile or two away. The snow was already deep and still falling, and his mother would not hear to his going off alone.
" My dear boy," she said, "you might get lost in the snow and be frozen to death."
But Harvey wasn't afraid, and would have taken all the risks if his mother had
said the word. This she could not do ; and so the boy had to stay at home, much against his will.
Instead of putting on his great coat and warm mittens, as most little boys would have done, and having a good time out of doors, where the beautiful snow was drifting about in feathery flakes and cov- ering the earth with a carpet of the purest white, he sat moping at a window, say- ing every now and then to himself, in a miserable voice :
" Oh dear! I'm so disappointed !"
About midday the snow ceased filling and the sun came out bright and strong. What a lustre and sparkle was on every- thing ! How strange and wonderful in its new robe of dazzling whiteness was every object on which the vision rested !
As Harvey looked from the window, he felt the charm of a scene so lovely. The
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
181
shadows of disappointment passed away and his cheerfulness returned.
"It is so beautiful!" he said, looking up into his mother's face.
"It is good as well as beautiful," an- swered his mother.
"What is the snow good for?" asked Han
" It is good for the broad fields in which the fanner sows his grain. This snow- storm, which made you angry because it came in the way of a little pleasure, has lie grain-fields as with a soft blanket, protecting the seed sown there, and making sure the summer harvests."
l'0h, I didn't know of that !" answered Harvey. " But I was so disappointed I"
"And, like a great many older people," said his mother, "refused the pleasure that was at your door, and sat down gloomily to sigh for something afar off. But the storm is over now, and I think if you are dressed up warmly you might go over to your cousin's. The snow is not very deep."
Harvey clapped his hands in high glee, and danced about the room for joy.
In a few minutes he had on his warm overcoat, his cap and his mittens, and with a light basket in his hand started off.
aid bii mother, ai have wasted i whole morning and been ■he kissed bun at the door, "thai yon unhappy for nothing. Because God was
182 THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
spreading this covering of snow over the \ but it won't last. Storms will come by
fields, that he might give bread to the ; and by, and where shall Hook for shelter?
hungry, you complained and were miser- s I've ever so many friends among the
able, instead of being thankful for his ( flowers, that have often begged me to stay
goodness, and waiting for the pleasure you } and live with them, instead of flitting in
had looked for until the storm was over. ( and out as I do. I'll go and see some of
You have the pleasure now, and it is your ) them.'
own fault that it comes after pain." I "The rose was near, and seemed very
( glad to see the fairy, and when told her
S errand she blushed a deeper red and an-
EVA'S FAIRY STORY. < swered,
) " 'You might have known my friendship
By M. O. J. I to be sincere. Yes, indeed ; I'll love and
> shelter you in any trial that may come.'
"A STORY, please, sister Grace," said ) "'Oh thanks, sweet rose,' said the
A. Eva, as she climbed into her sister's { delighted fairy, and she flew to a snow- lap and clasped her plump arms around ) white lily.
her neck. It was the pleasant twilight ( " 'Lily,' she asked, ' is your friendship hour, when books and work were laid } true? May I come to you for rest and aside and father would soon be home to \ shelter when storms sweep across the tea. ( skies that are now so blue and clear?'
" What sort of a story, dear?" Grace ) " ' Come in sunshine or come in storm,' asked, caressing the little one. (replied the lily, 'you are always wel-
" Oh, a fairy story — something about ) come.' the fairies living among the flowers, you ( " ' What kind friends I have !' thought know." ( the fairy ; and thanking the lily, she took
Grace thought a moment: ) her way to the tulip. This flower prom-
" I will tell you one mother used to tell ( ised as readily and strongly as the others; me when I was a little girl, not older than S and the grateful fairy thought she would you are now. It is called ' The Fairy and < try one more, the blue violet. She found the Flowers. ' Will that do ?" ) her nursing her young blossoms on a couch
" Oh yes ! that's just what I want. " > of moss. The violet greeted her cordially,
"Well — it was a bright, beautiful sum- ( but to the fairy's request she only said,
mer morning, and a little fairy was flitting ) ' Come and try.'
about a lovely garden enjoying the golden ( "This did not quite please the little fay.
sunshine and fresh air, the fragrant flowers ) " ' You do not promise,' she said. The
and singing birds. After a while she said \ violet smiled, but did not reply ; and the
to herself: ( fairy roved about the garden, very happy
" 'This is all pleasant and beautiful now, S now that she was free from care.
THE CIIILDRES'S HOUR.
183
•" For a long time the sun shone; but after a while a heavy thunder-shower came up. The fairy saw the fast-gather- ing clouds, the lightning beginning to flash through them, she heard the low peal of distant thunder, but she was not frightened, for the rose was near.
3he hastened to the beautiful flower and claimed the fulfillment of her promise. But to her surprise and grief the rose re- plied, coldly :
'"I have scarcely room to keep my own buds. Go to the lily : she has a deeper cup than mine.'
She had no time to spare, for the rain was already beginning to fall, and she flew to the lily. Ah ! the lily had closed her white petals, and when the poor little fairy reminded her of her promise, she only looked up sleepily and said ,
I > don't disturb me — I am resting
The tulip's petals are best; do
ber.'
"The fairy flew away; but the tulip,
rudely refused ber shelter. By this
ber pretty robe of green and gold
wet, and her wings wei
. ghe could scarcely By. ' What shall
I do?' she said. 'They all pretended to
. friends, and not one of them is
true to ber word or true to me. What
thaU I do?'
She thought of the violet, but she bad
• ii repulsed she had little hope
of welcome anywhere. ' The riolet did
ihe said to herself.
• what else to do, and she
14 ' Shelter me, violet, or I shall die,'
she entreated. She had no need to plead more. The lowly flower sprang to meet her, and said, lovingly and earnestly :
"'Come to my breast, dear fairy! Whenever you are sad or weary, in any need, look for comfort here. Grieve no more; I am true to thee. Rest with me, sweet darling !'"
NETTIE'S PEARLS.
By Minnie Moss.
" /~\II, auntie, here are more pearls!11 \J said my little niece one morning, as she came into the room where 1 was read- ing. Her eyes were Sparkling, her cheeks were rosy with pleasure, and Bhe looked very pn-tty as she held aloft a new num- ber of the "Children's Hour."
'' What new pearls has Mr. Arthur given you now, Brighteyes?" I asked.
" Oh, ever so many, and they are real beauties, too."
But by this time some of my little , readers are saying, " What does she mean by pearls .'"
Well, 1 will tell you. On Nettie's tenth
birth day she received a number of pres- ents, bul the one that pleased her the most was a subscription for the " Chil dren's Hot n." She liked best those
beautiful little pieces of pO< try which
always appear in the magazine without names, and I admired them as much as she did ; so one day I called her in my room and showing her ■ long silk cord, upon which wei ome beautiful beads
184 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
made to imitate pearls, I promised her > a string of pearls, as my little niece has
that for every one of those pretty little < done.
poems that she learned, I would give her ^ ~-*r™*s§&*r<^~-
a pearl. • < FORGIVE AND FORGET.
" But, auntie, I don't want to be bribed \
to learn," said Nettie, looking longingly \ y HEARD two little girls talking under at the beads. ( J[ my window. One of them said, in a
"Oh, it wouldn't be bribing you, ^ v0|ce fun 0f indignation : dear," I answered, smiling in spite of my- S "If I were in your place I'd never speak self. " I knew that it would be a pleasure > t0 her agairj> rd be angry with her as for you to learn them, and that you liked ) ]ong as j lived."
pearls ; so I thought it would be nice to \ j listened, feeling anxious about the mark the number of poems by pearls, and ) rep]y> My heart beat more lightly when give them to you." < it came#
"So it would," said Nettie, who now > « No? LoUj>> answered the other, in a thought quite differently of my plan. ) sweet and gentle voice5 «j wouidn't be "And, dear auntie, I thank you very { so for all the wor]d< I'm going to forgive much for thinking of this. I will go right ) and forget just as soon as I can. " off and learn that little poem about kind { hearts." And she did. In a little while )
she returned with the beautiful lines stored > A Christian bargain or sale is one in away in her mind, and after reciting them ( which there is neither cheating for profit to me, she said : $ nor tying for £ain-
"Oh, auntie, I have thought of a name <
-t^sggc^t^:—
for those little poems: let's call them < SHALL I EAT IT ALL MYSELF?
' Pearls. ' " < " .
" Yes, that is a good name for them," ( 1SJOW, shall I eat it all myself?
I replied. ' ' They are so pure and beau- J> 1M ,Tig mine . of courge T ffiay
fc"u*- ) Yes, I may eat it all myself,
Nettie learned so many "Pearls" that ) Qr g^ve jt al] awav
in a short time she had all of the smooth (
white beads in a beautiful necklace. ) Now> pha11 1 eat {t a11 myself?
And now, after seeing all the pleasure 'Tis not t0° much for one 5
which Nettie takes from her "Pearls," \ And if l §ive ifc aI1 awa^
and how proud and happy she looks when J> Wh*v> then I sha11 have none-
she shows her necklace and tells how she (' I will not eat it all myself,
got it, I have written this for the little > Nor give it all away;
readers of the " Hour;" and I think it \ But every one shall have a share
would be very nice if they could all make ( Who comes with me to play.
ULDEEIPS HOUR.
185
"f F if ' |
. ;.— 21 "SHALL I EAT IT ALL MYSELF'"
186
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
THE PIG AND THE HEN.
By Alice Cary.
nPHE pig and the hen, -■- They both got in one pen, And the hen said she wouldn't go out : " Mistress hen," says the pig, " Don't you be quite so big I" And he gave her a push with his snout.
" You are rough, and you're fat, But who cares for all that ; I will stay if I choose," says the hen. " No, mistress, no longer !" Says pig : "I'm the stronger, And mean to be boss of my pen !"
Then the hen cackled out
Just as close to his snout As she dare : " You're an ill-natured brute ;
And if I had the corn,
Just as sure as I'm born, I would send you to starve or to root !"
" But you don't own the cribs ;
So I think that my ribs Will be never the leaner for you :
This trough is my trough,
And the sooner you're off," Says the pig, " why the better you'll do !"
" You're not a bit fair,
And you're cross as a bear: What harm do I do in your pen ?
But a pig is a pig,
And I don't care a fig For the worst you can say," says the hen.
Says the pig, " You will care If I act like a bear And tear your two wings from your neck."
" What a nice little pen You have got !"' says the hen, Beginning to scratch and to peck.
Now the pig stood amazed, And the bristles, upraised A moment past, fell down so sleek. " Neighbor Biddy," says he, " If you'll just allow me, I will show you a nice place to pick !"
So she followed him off, And they ate from one trough — They had quarreled for nothing, they saw ; And when they had fed, " Neighbour hen," the pig said, " Won't you stay here and roost in my straw ?"
" No, I thank you ; you see That I sleep in a tree," Says the hen ; " but I must go away; So a grateful good-bye" — " Make your home in my sty," Says the pig, " and come in every day."
Now my child will not miss
The true moral of this Little story of anger and strife ;
For a word spoken soft
Will turn enemies oft Into friends that will stay friends for life.
If we are cheerful and contented, all nature smiles with ua ; the air seems more balmy, the sky clearer, the ground has a brighter green, the trees have a richer foliage, the flowers a more fra- grant smell, the birds sing more sweetly, and the sun, moon and stars all appear more beautiful.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
187
OUR PET BEAR.
By Hallic C.
OUR pet bear is a wonderful fellow. Papa got him down in Alabama when he waa do larger than a half-grown cat Once we got him a bottle of honey and him a taste of it, and then put the cork in the bottle and gave it to him. He turned the bottle ap and down, and every way. crying all the time because he could •r the honey. Then we put some on the cork, and in trying to get it off he pulled out the cork. Always after that, when he got a bottle, he would pull the eork out.
He once found some hot lies containing
ithic medicine. He pulled
the corks out and ate the pellets. They
did not seem to affect him; perhaps he
had do faith in them.
II • would put his Dose into everything
mid, and if yon tried to keep him
from it. he would redouble his efforts to
• it Be once tried to gel his nose
into some ley, and when we tried to pre-
him, he though! it must be something
nice and was more determined than ever
;,- it. At lasl he succeeded in ting a mouthful, which made his month
When returning from Alabama brought him on board the steamor. iy much afraid of him. < me ootrived to pul
him in a bed that had do( been madi then -'in one of the boj - to make it. it tempted to take off tin-
clothes, the .bear, who did not care to be disturbed, tried to bite him. The boy was so frightened that he tumbled down two nights of .-tairs. and said he would not go up there again, as there was "a bear as big as an ox up there."
THE TRUE SECRET.
AT the house where I was staying, there were two little sisters whom nobody could see without loving, for they were always so happy together. They had tin- same books and the same playthings, but never a quarrel sprang ap between them — no cross words, no pouts, no daps, no running away in a pet. On the green before the door, trundling hoop, playing with Rover the dog or helping mother,
tiny were always the same BWeet-tem-
pered little girls.
"You never seem to quarrel," I .-aid to them one day : "how is it you are always so happy together?"
They looked op, and the eldest an- swered, "" I B'pose 'tis 'cause Addie left me and / let Addie."
Promfti d bi Lot i ( hie morning found little Dora busy a* tin- ironing-table, smoothing tin- towels and stookii
•• [sn't that bard work for the little arms?" I asked.
A look lik'- sunshine came into her face a- she glanced toward her mother, who was rocking the baby.
■• h isn't hard w "ik when 1 do it foi inainn, iid. softly.
188
THE CHILDREN S HOUR.
_ ->^^--
THE WALKING LEAF.
WHAT'S that?" asked Katy, look- ing up from the doll-baby she was dressing. ' 'A walking leaf, did you say?' '
"Yes, I said a walking leaf," replied Uncle Herbert, speaking like one who meant what he said.
"I've seen a leaf fly," laughed Katy, "but I don't believe any body ever saw a leaf walk."
" Here it is — you can see for yourself," answered Uncle Herbert, holding out the book he was reading.
"Oh, that's nothing but a great bug or beetle!" exclaimed Katy.
"It's the ' Walking Leaf for all that, little puss ! Don't you see the name under it?"
' ' Does it make a bug a leaf to call it so, uncle?"
"Maybe not."
" Of course it doesn't, Uncle Herbert ; and I'd like to know what the man who made this book meant by it?"
"Oh, that is easily enough explained. The animal so nearly resembles a leaf that it is often mistaken for one, and natural- ists— that is, those who are curious about the various objects in nature, examine them closely and write about them — have given it the name you find in the book."
"Well, I don't see that it looks like a leaf," said Katy.
"You would think differently if you saw one of these insects with its wings closed over its body and the animal at rest on the ground. Then you would be almost sure that it was a leaf."
"Anyhow, I don't see any use in making a big bug or fly look like a leaf, ' ' said Katy.
"Don't you, indeed? Well, I guess there is a good reason for it. Would you like to know?"
THE CHILDRESS HOUR.
189
Oh yes."
" Well, every animal lias its enemy that
- to destroy it. Or, in other words,
every animal that lives is the natural food
me other animal. Now, to each is
given a weapon of defence, or some means
of disguise or protection, in order that the
weaker one.- may not he utterly destroyed
by th r. The bee Btings, while
the hare trusts to its swift feet for safety.
animals feign death to mislead their
enemies, while others throw out a strong
to drive them away in di There i- a butterfly which on alighting bo nearly resembles a leaf that the birds pass it by, without dreaming of the dainty monel they have missed."
I th, hut that is oicel" cried Katy. dapping her bands.
"And it is the same with this ' walk- ■£•" , that is nice, too !" added Katy.
"Oli. now 1 Bee! Now I understand.
it wonderful?" "The world isfull of wonders," replied I 'II- rbert " We have only to open find them all around na."
< thought of an unfinished task before my J mind. I early formed the habit of doing > everything in time, and it soon became :: easy for me to do so. It is to this I owe ) my prosperity."
"MAYN'T I BE A BOY?"
\\r.
A GOOD RULE. ber taught me,n said a man
10 had 1 d'nl in life,
•i.l my work was finished,
and never to spend my money until I had
I it. If I bad hut an hour's work
I must do that the first thin-.
and in an hour And after thii I was al-
ind then I could play with
much in"! than if I had the
" lVfAYN T 1 1,e a ho-v? ' s:ii<1 our Mar*v'
±1A. ^jie u.ars -ln jier great eyes of blue : "I'm only a wee little lassie — t
There's nothing a woman can do.
" 'Tis so; I heard Cousin John say so — He's home from a great college, too — He said so just now in the parlor:
'There's nothing a woman can do.' * * * •* * *
" My wee little lassie, my darling,"
Said I, putting hack her soft hair, " I want you, my dear little maiden, To smooth away all mother's care.
" "Who is it, when pa conns home weary.
That run- for his slippers and gown?
"What eye- docs he watch tor at morning,
Looking out from their lashes of brown v " Is their nothing yon can do, my darling?
What was it that pa .-aid la-t night?
' My own little sunbeam i- corning, I know, for the room is so bright.1
" And there is a secret, mj M iry — Perhaps yoo will ham i; some dai
' The band that i- willing ami \o\ Will do th<- moat work on the «
" And the work that i
The WOrk that SO many m '.t • I < >
The great work of making folks haj
< an Im- dour by a lassie !il^'
/ I tjationalwt.
190
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
WILLIE'S HAPPY DAY.
By Mrs. M. O. JoJuison.
H
AVE you had a happy day, Wil- lie?" asked Mrs. Caswell of her little boy, as she sat down by the open window one pleasant summer evening and took him in her lap. They lived about twenty miles from Boston, and she had been in the city all day, shopping.
"Yes, mamma, only I missed you. But you know you said the day would go fast if I kept busy, and I did. First, there was our nice ride home from the station. Then Minnie and I went down the lane and into the meadow to get wild flowers. We picked ever so many, and watched the fishes in the brook, and sailed shingle boats ; and oh, mother, >ee that blue iris in the vase ! — we brought that home for you."
"Thank you, dear, it is very pretty. But I hope, Willie, you did not wet your feet."
"No, mamma, we thought of that, and were careful. Then we went to see Johnny Sheldon — you know he has been sick and is not well enough yet to go out — and we carried him some flowers and the peaches papa gave us this morning. You would have liked to see him, mamma, he was so pleased. When we came home it was almost din- ner-time, and after we had ours I fed puss and Hover and the doves and chickens. Minnie hemmed the new sails for my ship, and I mended her doll's table — one leaf was off. Then we played
out-doors till it was time to go for you, and we had another nice ride."
"It has been a well-spent day, Willie dear; that is the reason it has been a happy one. Was there any hard place in it — any time, I mean, when you found it hard to do right?"
Willie thought a moment :
"Yes, mamma; when Minnie asked me to put on her table-leaf, I wanted to play menagerie — I didn't know she was going to hem my sails — but I thought I ought to please her, and I am glad I did."
"And I am glad, too, my bo}7."
" There was one other time, mamma — when I felt very angry because I couldn't find my top, and I thought Sarah had swept it out. But I didn't say a word, only to whisper, Help me ! and the bad feelings went away, and after a while I found my top just where I had left it my- self, in your room."
Willie's mother kissed him tenderly as she said:
' ' My dear boy, you have won two vic- tories to-day — one over selfishness and one over anger. No wonder it has been a happy day. But you must be watchful, Willie, or to-morrow may be very unlike it. And remember, that the will and power to do right are from the Lord alone, and in every temptation look to him for strength. He will never fail
you." __^^_
The flower of youth never appears more beautiful than when it bends toward the Sun of Righteousness.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
101
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
T E8U8 a iys that we must love him — Helpless as the lambs are we;
But he very kindly tells us
That our Shepherd lie will be.
Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us, Guard us both by night and day;
Pity show to little children,
Who like Iambs too often stray.
We are always prone to wander — Please to keep us from each snare ;
Teach our infant hearts to praise thee For thv kindness and thy care.
WHERE no wood is, there the fire goeth out ; so where there is no tale-bearer, the strife oeaseth.
THE OSTRICH.
rrs. E. B. Duffey.
F\\\ away in Africa, where there burning sun overhead and little more than sand under foot — in waste and desert
- where few animal- try to li\
found a strange, large bird, n eight feel in height, which look- bo much like a came] that it is sometimes called the ael-bird." Th large bird
M in ostrich.
It I narrow neck almo-t
of feath ■ 1 1 •.'. ingi are small, sod
cann to fly with, but-help it U)
run. [( are l< Dg and \.
and |(
thing like a camel's, and can bear
great fatigue. Its color is a rusty ; with white wings and tail-feat h
The feathers of the ostrich are very beautiful, and are preserved carefully by the hunters and sent to Europe and to America, where they are dyed and used to trim bonnets and hats. All our little readers have seen ostrich feathers, but do any of them ever stop to think when they see one of these feathers how it was growing far away in the greatest desert in the world, on a real live bird taller than a man?
The ostrich feeds on the tops of Buch plants as grow in the desert, and it c a long time without water. Its cry sounds at a distance so much like that of the lion that it is often mistaken for it.
Ostriches go in small flocks of one male with from two to six females. The Fe- males lay their eggs all in one DCSt, each
laying ten or twelve, and then take turns
during the day setting upon them to hatch
them, while the male Bets upon the nest at night This he continues to do after the yOUUg birds are handled, to protect
them from jackals, tiger-cats and other enemies. These animals are sometimes
found lying dead near the not. bavin- been killed by one stroke of the foot of
this powerful bird.
Osl are very g 1 t«» eat. and
one of them is equal to twenty-four hens'
They are about sii inches in length, twelve in circumference, and weigh about three pound-. These birds can run faster than the fast
BSt horse : Still, the Arab- hunt then
manage to catch them. When the hunter
192
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
has started the bird, he puts his horse upon a gentle gallop, so as to keep the ostrich in sight without coming near enough to fright- en it and set it run- ning at full speed. Finding itself pur- sued, it begins to run at first slowly. It does not run in a J straight line, but in a §j circle, while the hunt- jj ers, crossing the circle 1 or runningin a smaller circle, keep near the bird and do not tire iheir horses. This chase is often kept up for a day or two, hunt- ers taking turns to rest their horses. The ostrich at last becomes tired out and half starved, and finding it impossible to escape, it tries to hide itself in some thicket or buries its head in the sand, foolishly believ- ing, because it cannot see, that it cannot be seen. The hunters then rush at full speed and easily kill the bird, taking care that no blood is allowed to get on the feathers.
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