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Title: Choice Library for Young People. Tales for Youth.
   [Volume 3 of 5]
Author: Hofland, Barbara (1770-1844)
Author: Bird, James (1788-1839)
Author: Edgeworth, Maria (1768-1849)
Author: Harrison, William Henry (ca. 1795-1878)
Author: Mitford, Mary Russell (1787-1855)
Author: Strickland, Jane Margaret (1800-1888)
Author: Anonymous [five stories]
Date of first publication: ca. 1850-1867
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Paris: A. and W. Galignani
Date first posted: 4 January 2010
Date last updated: 4 January 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #448

This ebook was produced by:
David Edwards, woodie4
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available
by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




  [Illustration: Cover]

  LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.


  PARIS.--PRINTED BY AD. BLONDEAU, RUE RAMEAU, 7.




  CHOICE

  LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

  [Illustration: decoration]

  TALES FOR YOUTH.

  CONTENTS:

  GARRY OWEN; OR, THE SNOW-WOMAN.--THE SPANISH WIDOW AND HER CHILDREN.--THE
  FISHERMAN'S FAMILY.--THE DESERTED VILLAGE; OR, THE CONFIDING BOY.--THE
  BEAR OF ANDERNACH.--GOING TO MARKET.--THE YOUTHFUL PARTNERS.--THE
  CONTENTED FAMILY.--THE TWO MAGPIES.--PREPARATION FOR THE RACES; OR, MORE
  HASTE THAN GOOD SPEED.--LEASIDE COTTAGE.--SISTERS OF CHARITY.--ANECDOTE
  OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.


  [Illustration: decoration]

  PARIS:

  PUBLISHED BY A. AND W. GALIGNANI AND Co.

  No 18, RUE VIVIENNE.




LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

[Illustration: decoration]




GARRY OWEN; or, THE SNOW-WOMAN.

BY MISS EDGEWORTH.

[Illustration: decoration]


"A fine morning for snipe-shooting this, Master Gerald!" said Patrick
Carroll, an Irish gamekeeper, to his young companion, his master's son,
who was manfully stepping along beside him on the frozen surface of a
deep snow.

"A fine morning certainly, Carroll; but I have not seen a single snipe
yet," said Master Gerald.

"But if we have any luck, we won't be long so," replied the gamekeeper,
"barring the long snow might have starved off the birds entirely. But
if there's one left in it any way, we'll have him, dear, as sure as
life."

"There's one!" cried Gerald.

Pop--and--miss.

"Hush't now!--whist! 'Twas the talking--Not a word now--or ye give the
birds warning."

They walked on for some time without speaking. Gerald

    "Gazed idly on the silence of the snows.
    ----One idiot face of white
    Is over all."

Not another snipe was to be seen; and the gamekeeper, thinking that his
young master was fretting inwardly, began to comfort him with a little
flattery.

"Then, Master Gerald, my dear, when you come to carry the gun your own
self, it's a fine shot you'll be, I'll engage--as fine a shot as any in
the three counties, as his honour your father (blessings on him!) was
afore you. Just such another as yourself, then, I remember him, the
first season's shooting ever he got--I saw his first shot sure!"

"He was older at that time than I am now, was not he?" said Gerald.

"Not to look at; and I'm certain clear he was not over fourteen years
any way."

"I shall be fourteen next birthday; and I hope my mother will then have
no objection to my carrying the gun myself."

"Objections! Why would she?--Tut--The next bird we meet, good or bad,
you shall have a shot at him yourself, master."

A ray of joy came across Gerald's face, but it passed away. "No," said
he, "I promised mamma I would not take the gun in my own hands."

"Then it's I must lay it over your shoulder, and hold it for you while
you pop."

A bird was seen. The gamekeeper placed the gun against Gerald's
shoulder, and pointed to where he should aim. It was a great
temptation--but Gerald had given a promise. He stepped aside, drawing
his shoulder from under the gun.

"No, Carroll," repeated he firmly, and it was as much as he could say.
"I will not fire, for I yesterday promised my mother I would not."

"Then you are a noble young gentleman to be true to your mother any way;
and I'm sure, by the same token, you'll not tell on me, that was only
wanting to please you, and did not understand rightly, or I'd sooner
have cut my head off than have gone again any thing the mistress would
say--in regard to you more than all. It would be as much as my life's
worth if you were to tell on me, Master Gerald; but I know you are too
good."

"Never fear," said Gerald, "I am no tell-tale. But I'm getting terribly
hungry. Turn down to that cottage, and may be we shall find a hot
potato."

"True for you. It is time they should be boiling or boiled--and no doubt
it is here we shall find 'em ready and welcome, for it is Mistress
Crofton's place, and a very snug place it is, and right good people
they are. The mother nursed some of the big house formerly; that is
kind-hearted old Mistress Molly I mean."

Their steps being noiseless on the snow, they reached the cottage
without being heard by any one within. Peeping in at the house door,
Gerald saw that there was only kind-hearted Molly herself in the
kitchen. Her back was towards them, and she was stooping down, covering
up a dish that was on the hearth before a clear turf fire. Gerald,
putting his finger on his lips, and making a sign to the gamekeeper to
remain still at the door, went in on tiptoe softly, and snatching up
from the dresser her silk handkerchief, he went close behind her without
her perceiving him, quickly threw the handkerchief over her eyes, and,
in a feigned gruff brogue, asked her to tell who he was?

"Ah hushlamacree! you darling rogue, I know who ye are well enough--and
glad myself is you're come--long I've been looking for you."

She pulled off the bandage as she spoke.

"Oh! Master Gerald dear! and is it you?--I ask your pardon then. Sure
I'm glad to see you, Master Gerald."

It was plain, nevertheless, that he was not the person she expected to
see. "But who was your darling rogue that you were looking for, Molly?"

"Oh! not your honour dear any way--sure--I could not make so free--but
Georgy the gran' child--the unlucky boy that did not get his breakfast
yet--that's what I was covering up for him."

"And suppose I was to beg one of his hot potatoes?"

"Welcome as life, dear!" said she, uncovering them; "and shame take me
that didn't think of offering them. But my ould stupid head was just
astray. Sit ye down, Master Gerald, by the fire this raw morning, till I
fetch you the salt, and a bit o' butter, and a drop of the new
milk.--And who would that be?--Somebody at the door without?--Oh! Mr.
Carroll, the gamekeeper, it is you!--But won't you step in, and get an
air of the fire, and take something too? I should have a bottle
somewhere."

In Molly's hospitality there was a degree of hurry and confusion, and
not her usual hearty gladness to see her friends. Gerald asked what was
the matter, and why her head was astray?

"It's after the boy George my head is," she answered; "that unlucky slip
of a boy--though it's no fault of his--but of them that left the stable
door open after he had shut it last night. I don't know who it was, but,
weary on them! for this morning George missed one of them sheep of his
father's that he got in charge, and was at my bedside by peep o' day,
telling me about it afore I was right awake. In great fear he was that
this sheep, straying out in the deep snow, might be lost, and that his
father, when he'd find it out, would be mad with him. Then don't be
bothering me, child! said I, and I dreaming. Take yourself out, and look
for the sheep, can't ye?--Bad luck to myself that said that cross word
out o' my sleep, for straight the boy went out in the first grey light
o' the morning, and never has been in since, good or bad. There's the
two bowls of stirabout I made for him got as hard and colder than the
stones; I was fain to throw them out to the chickens both. And now I
have boiled these potatoes for him. But what I'm in dread of," continued
Molly, after a pause, and as if afraid to speak her whole thoughts,
"what I am most in dread of is them snow drifts there below, in case
George might have come across one of them.--You mind, Master Gerald, the
boy that once was lost entirely--and the snow so deep on the ground
now"--She sighed----

Gerald swallowed hastily the bit of hot potato he had in his mouth, and
asked which road the boy had taken?

"Across the Curragh path, she believed, and down by the _boreen_" (the
lane).

Gerald, beckoning to the gamekeeper, ran out immediately, bidding Molly
keep up her spirits, and keep the potatoes hot for her boy, whom he
hoped soon to bring back to her, with, perhaps, the lost sheep into the
bargain.

Thousands of blessings she poured upon Gerald and Mr. Carroll, and from
her door she shouted after them to beg they would "bid George never to
mind the sheep, but come home only with himself. Tell him I'll make it
up out o' my calves to the father. I'd sell the cow--I'd sell the
dresser--any thing--all, tell him, if he'll but come home to me safe
again--_acushla!_"

Gerald and the gamekeeper, no longer thinking of snipes, took the way
over the curragh as well as they could make it out, for path there was
none on that unbeaten snow. The surface was still hard enough in many
places; but, during the last hour, it had begun to thaw, and some of the
drifts were softened. They looked for the boy's footsteps, and saw
traces for some distance, but then lost sight of them when they came to
a lane leading to the village. In this lane horses, and cars, and many
footsteps had been. They stood still and listened, for the sportsman
thought he heard a shout. Gerald had the sense to think of firing off
the gun, which the gamekeeper, by his order, immediately did, to give
notice of where they were. Afterwards they heard the voice certainly,
they thought, and followed the direction of the sound. Presently they
saw a black spot on the snow at a distance; it was, as they guessed, a
boy's hat, and, making up towards it, they saw the boy running to meet
them, barefooted, barelegged, barebreasted, coat and waistcoat off, as
little as could be on, and that little as wet as possible, his face and
head as red as fire, perspiring all over. He gasped, and could not
speak; but, catching hold of Gerald's arm, and pointing in the direction
from whence he came, pulled him on.

"Your sheep, I suppose?" said Gerald.

"Ay, in the snow," said the gamekeeper, "that can't get out. Is that it,
Georgy? Speak now."

"My sheep--och!" said the boy, "an' I wish to my life it was only that
same."

"What, then, can't you speak, you born natural?" said the impatient
gamekeeper.

"Come on, come on! I can't be staying to tell you," said the boy,
trotting on before them, in one even fast trot, with which Gerald's run
and Carroll's strides could scarcely keep pace.

"Manners then, you running dripping-pan!" cried Carroll; "can't you stop
and turn, and tell Master Gerald about it--Oh! if I could reach you!"--

Gerald, without questioning more, ran on, till the boy stopped and
spoke--

"See here, master," said he, pointing to a place where he had been
digging in the snow, "below here is a cabin of some kind, and a living
cratur in it--I heard the cry. Stoop down yourselves here at the top of
the bank, and through the hole here you may catch the sound of the
moaning. I was walking on the hard snow, sir, on the top of the ditch
here, as I know by the trees on the hedge, thinking of nothing at all
but my sheep, and prodding about with my shovel, which by great luck I
had with me on account of the sheep; when I started to see smoke coming
up a yard from me, and when I went up close to the hole, that proved a
chimney, and darkening it over, I suppose, by looking down to see
whether I could see any thing that was in it, whoever was within knew by
the stopping of the light that I was there above, for there was a great
cry raised to me, 'for God's sake to help!' So I gave up all thought of
my sheep, and fell to work to get out the poor cratur, and I have been
at it ever since; but, see, the door can't be got open yet, nor won't
for a long while; see, sir, how it is."

Where the boy had been digging in the snow, part of a thatched roof was
visible. It seemed to belong to a hut or shed made in a deep ditch, or
quarry hole, by the side of a hill. Gerald called loudly, as he leaned
over the opening at top, and was answered by a feeble voice, which he
thought was that of a woman. He stood still to consider what should be
done first. The gamekeeper, unable to think, went on talking and
wondering who the woman could be. Gerald saw that, as there was but one
shovel, but one person could work at a time in clearing away the snow;
and, as the man was the strongest, he yielded the shovel to him, but
directed him not to go on where the boy had been working, because he saw
that it would take a long time to clear away the snow to the bottom, and
to open space enough in the hard snow-drift, so that the house door
could be got open, and that it would be easier and quicker to clear the
snow from part of the roof, and pull off the thatch. He bid Carroll
shovel away as fast as he could, while he considered what he should do
with the woman if he got her out. He must have some means of carrying
her out of the cold directly, to where she could have assistance and
food. The nearest house which was within reach was Mrs. Crofton's. He
bid George go home to his grandmother, and send his father, or any man
he could find about the house, with a hand-barrow, and dry straw, and a
blanket. If the hand-barrow could not be had directly, the men should
bring a door, which George knew could be readily taken off its
hinges.--The sending George home he saw too was necessary for him, for
he was almost exhausted; he could walk, but could scarcely have used his
arms any more. George was very unwilling to quit, but Gerald told him
that, by so doing, he would do the best for the poor people he had
worked so hard to save--the only chance it would give of saving them.
The boy gave up to their reason, and Gerald wrote with a pencil on the
back of a letter a few lines to his mother, to tell what had happened,
and to beg she would send directions and assistance (the good
housekeeper herself if she could) to Mrs. Crofton's cottage, to be
ready, and wait till he should come. Off went George, putting the pencil
note in the crown of his hat, the only dry spot about him.

The corner of the roof being soon cleared of snow, Gerald helped to tear
away the thatch, and soon got open a hole in the roof, through which
they could see down into the house. Gerald saw the haggard face and
skeleton figure of the woman. She was kneeling just under them, looking
up, her hands uplifted towards them--something in her arms pressed close
to her--it was her infant, but it made no cry--nor did she speak, or
utter any sound. Her other children were on the ground before her--one
stretched out face downwards, motionless--the other, with its arms
clasped round its mother as she knelt, its head leaning against her--it
never looked up. Gerald tore the hole open larger; and, bidding Carroll
tell him the moment any one from Crofton's was in sight, jumped down
into this den of misery--of famine. The woman's eyes turned to the child
on the floor--a boy--her eldest--who was dead. The girl, kneeling, never
moved till her mother lifted up her head, and Gerald saw her starved
face. Her eyes blinked and closed from the light. She showed no emotion
at sight of Gerald; but in the woman's wild stare at him there was a
sort of agony of hope. He recollected what he had till this moment
forgotten, that he had had the day before, when he went out, a biscuit
in his pocket. He felt, and found some fragments; he moistened a bit in
his mouth, and then put the least morsel possible into the mouth of the
girl, and then gave a bit to the woman, who instantly put a crumb of it
between the infant's lips, and then she looked ravenously for more.
Luckily he had very little more left. Gerald had heard that famished
persons must be allowed food only with great caution; but he did not
know how very small a quantity the stomach can bear, and how extremely
dangerous it is to yield to the cravings of the appetite. When he saw
the magical revival produced by this little, he regretted that he had
not more, especially when the mother looked upon him with ravenous
eagerness. He emptied his pockets, and she snatched the least crumb, and
crammed it into her baby's mouth. Well for her and her children it was
that he had no more. Some of the snow from the roof hung down; she
stretched out her hand for it with anxiety, and when he reached it for
her, swallowed as much as he would let her, but he was afraid, and
stopped her. She submitted without speaking.

Carroll gave the signal agreed upon, that he saw somebody coming. Gerald
had bid Carroll not call loudly to him, lest the suddenness of the
certainty of her deliverance might be too much for her all at once. When
he moved from her, though only a pace or two, to hear what was said from
the opening in the roof, she caught hold of his coat, and held it
clenched fast, as if in dread of his leaving her. He assured her that he
would not desert her; that he was only going to see how best to get her
out of this horrible place. His words seemed scarcely to reach her
understanding; but she loosened her grasp, as if resigned. He stood upon
the only piece of furniture in the house, an old stool, and could then
hear Carroll tell him, in a low voice, that two men were coming across
the field from the road, either with a hand-barrow or something of the
kind. It proved to be the very door which Gerald had desired should be
sent if nothing else was at hand. "And a good thought it was," said the
men, "for the hand-barrow had been lent to some person, and could not
have been had unless we were to have waited an hour." There was plenty
of straw, and a blanket, moreover a bed, a chaff bed; all he required
good Molly had sent, with her blessing for the sending home her boy, and
a bed should be ready and warm for the poor woman, whoever she was. She
would not let George come back with the men, which he wanted to do.

While all this was saying, Gerald had lifted the kneeling girl from the
floor. She was as helpless and cumbersome to lift as a child asleep. He
purposed to stand upon the stool, to give her out of his arms to
Carroll, who was waiting to take her, but as he sprang up on the stool,
one of the legs gave way, and down he came with the child. An
exclamation, the first she had uttered, burst from the mother, and she
sprang forward. Gerald fell back against the wall, and held the child
safe; it was a mercy that he did not fall upon it. He next took off the
silk handkerchief that was round his neck; and, having tied it to his
pocket handkerchief, he passed them under the arms of the child. Then
calling to Carroll, he bid him let down to him one end of his leathern
belt, and to hold fast the other. After fastening the end of the belt
to the handkerchiefs, he called to Carroll again to draw up gently; and,
guiding the child's body up as high as he could reach, it was thus drawn
out safely. The woman had a tattered blanket hanging over part of her,
but she could not be wrapped in it; it was all rags, and would not hold.
Gerald had the blanket old Molly had sent put down to him, and wrapping
the woman in it with Carroll's help, he having now jumped down into the
hut, fastened the belt round her, and one of the men above drew her up
with her infant in her arms. They laid her upon the bed, and found she
had fainted. She looked so ghastly that Gerald thought she was dead. He
took her infant from her powerless arm, and thought it was gone too. It
seemed to have no weight; but the fresh air made it utter a sort of cry,
and the mother opened her eyes, and came back from her fainting fit.
Gerald laid her infant in her arms again, and she felt that he placed
her girl beside her, and she gave him a look which he could never
forget. But the expression of feeling and sense was gone in a moment.
He wrapped the blanket round her and the children, and she lay
motionless in a sort of stupor, as they lifted the board from the ground
and moved on. He had little hope that she or the children could live
till they reached the cottage. He had never seen any thing like such a
sight before; but Carroll had, and he kept up his hopes with the
prophecy, often repeated as they went along, that the woman would, as
he'd see, do very well, and the childer would _come to_, all but the
poor boy, who was gone quite. It lay at her feet, wrapped in the poor
mother's rag of a blanket, so as to be concealed from sight. Gerald had
been unwilling to remove the corpse at first, thinking it might shock
the mother fatally to see it when she returned to sense. But the men
would not let him leave it, telling him that when she came to her sense,
it would be the first thing she would ask for, and that it would shock
her most that it should _not be waked_ properly.

They reached the cottage, where, to Gerald's great joy, he found that
his mother had sent the housekeeper, and all that could be wanted.
Molly, dear good Molly, had the bed ready warm to put _her_ into, and
hot flannels for the _childer_, and warm drink, but to be given only in
tea-spoonfuls. "Mind," as the housekeeper said, "mind that for your
life! And now, Master Gerald, my heart's life," continued she, "rest
yourself. Oh dear! oh dear! what a way he is in! my _own_ child--Oh
dear! oh dear! he ought to be in his own bed--and has not eat one bit
the day, barring the potatoes here."

Molly followed Gerald about, while he helped in all the arrangements
that were making in bringing in his charge, and carrying them to the
inner room; and whenever she could find an opportunity, popped a bit of
something into his mouth, which, to oblige her, he swallowed, though he
did not well know what it was. All being now done by him in which he
could be useful, he prepared to go home, the housekeeper and Molly
urging that his own family must be anxious to see him. Away he went, but
not before he had asked for George, to rejoice with him in their
success. George was in his bed fast asleep; it would be a sin, his
grandmother said, to waken him, and it would do better next morning, for
he was tired out of his sense, stupid-tired. "He is never very 'cute, my
poor Georgy, but as kind a heart as can be, asleep or awake."

It was dusk in the evening before Gerald reached home. Candles were
lighted at Castle Gerald, as he saw through the windows. As he
approached, the lights flitted from the drawing-room windows along the
corridor, as he went up the avenue, and the hall-door opened before he
reached it. Cecilia, his dear little sister, ran down the steps to meet
him, and his father and mother were in the hall. The comfortable happy
appearance of every thing at home, being in sudden contrast with all he
had just seen and felt, struck him forcibly. The common dinner seemed to
him uncommonly good; every thing a luxury. Cecilia could not help
laughing; he seemed to wonder, as if he was in a dream--and so, in
truth, he felt. They wisely let him eat and rest before they asked him
any questions. Even Cecilia refrained, though her eyes, as plainly as
they could speak, and very plainly that was, spoke her curiosity, or
rather her sympathy. His after-dinner story, however, was provokingly
short--quite an unvarnished tale, and not unfolded regularly, but opened
in the middle, and finished abruptly with "That's all." Whether it was
that he did not like to make much of what he had done himself, to make
little _i_ the hero of his tale, or whether he was, as old Molly said of
George, _stupid-tired_, he certainly was in an unusual hurry to take his
mother's advice that night, and go to bed early. After thanking God that
the woman was saved, he threw himself into his bed, thinking that he
_would_ be asleep the very instant his head should be on the pillow. But
in vain he snugged himself up; he found that the going to sleep did not
depend on his will. Whenever he closed his eyes, the images of the
starved woman and her dead and living child were before him, the whole
scene going on over and over again, but more and more confusedly, till
at last, after the hundredth turning to the other side, he lay still,
and by the time his mother came to look at him, before she went to bed,
he was sound asleep--so fast that the light of her lamp, even when she
no longer shaded it by her hand, never made eyelid shrink or eyelash
twinkle.

The next morning, he wakened as fresh and lively as ever, and jumped up
to see what sort of a day it was. Pouring rain!--all the snow gone, or
going--impossible to reach the cottage before breakfast. But the
housekeeper had brought word late last night, after he was asleep, that
the woman and her children were likely to do well. The gamekeeper (bless
his old bones for it!) was up, and at Mrs. Crofton's by the flight of
night, and his report at breakfast time said that "the woman was
wonderful--for so great a skeleton--a perfect 'atomy--a very shadow of a
creatur--such as never was seen afore alive on God's earth. The childer
too! no weight, if you'd take 'em in your arms, it would frighten you to
hold them--so unnatural-like as if they had been changed by the
fairies. Howsome-ever the housekeeper says they'll come to, and get
weighty enough in time, ma'am, and that all will live, no doubt, if they
don't get food too plenty; I mean if old Molly (Mrs. Crofton, I ax her
pardon) wouldn't be in too great a hurry to feed 'em up--and if the
mother, who is cautious enough not to infringe against the orders she
got, as far as her own fasting is concerned, would not, as I dread, be
too tender in regard to the childer--the baby, more especially."

Gerald's report in the middle of the day was good. He could not,
however, see the poor woman, she and her children being in bed. It was
settled that they should all walk to the cottage next morning; but the
next morning and the next day, rain--rain--rain. How provoking! Yet such
things will be in Ireland. Little Cecilia stood at the window, saying,
"Rain, rain, go to Spain;" yet not till the fourth day did it go, and
then the ground was so wet; even on the gravel walks before the window
there were such puddles of yellow water, that it was vain for Cecilia
to hope she could reach the cottage. But the next day was dry; a frost
came, not a bitter frost, but a fine sunshiny day; and before the ground
was softened by the sun, they accomplished their walk.

Every thing is for the best--that's certain--even the rain. These three
days' delay had given time for much to pass which it was well should be
over. The dead child was buried; the living had now some appearance of
life; the horrible ghastliness was gone; the livid purple was now only
deadly pale. Cecilia thought it very shocking still, but nothing to what
it was, Gerald said. He was quite astonished at the difference; he
should not have known the woman to be the same, except by her skeleton
hands and arms. But she was now clean, decently clothed, a great
handkerchief of Molly's pinned so as to cover her wasted form, and a
smile on those lips that he thought never could smile again--but they
smiled on him, and then she burst into tears--the first she had
shed--and a great relief they were to her, for she could not cry when
the boy was buried--not a tear. Gerald looked about for the other
child--the girl--she was behind him. Though she had been quite
insensible, as he thought, to all that had happened, she now seemed
perfectly to recognise him. When her mother drew her forward, she
remained willingly fixed close beside him, and stood staring up with
grateful loving eyes. She smelled his coat; the mother reproved her, but
Cecilia said, "Let her alone;" and the child, heeding neither of them,
proceeded to smell his hand, took it, and kissed it again and again.
Then, turning to the mother, said, "Mammy! that's the hand--the good
hand."

Then she pointed to a bit of biscuit which lay upon the table, and her
mother said, "The child recollects, sir, the bit you put into her mouth.
She could eat that biscuit all day long, I believe, if we would let
her."

"And it is hard to deny her," said Molly, putting a piece within her
reach. She devoured it eagerly, yet seemed as if she had half a mind to
take the last bit from her mouth, and put it into Gerald's.

He turned to shake hands with George, who now came in; and inquired if
he had heard any news of his lost sheep?

"Answer, George, dear," said Molly to the boy, who was a little bashful,
or, as she expressed it, "a little daunted before the ladies. But speak
out, Georgy, love, can't ye, so as to be heard, and not with that voice
of a mouse. You can speak out well enough when you please."

The snow-woman observed that she knew better than any body how well he
could speak out. "I never in my born days heard a voice so pleasant as
his'n sounded to me the first time I heard it, when he answered to my
call for help."

George smiled through his blush; and then answering Master Gerald,
thanked him kindly, and said that he had heard of his sheep--he had got
him--and he was dead--frozen dead under the snow--standing--not half a
perch from where they had been shovelling. When the thaw came, there he
was found quite ready; so he brought him home and skinned him. There was
his skin hanging up to the fore on the stable wall. And his father was
very good too, and was not mad with him at all at all, but quite
considerate, and did not give him a stroke nor a word; and so he
(George) had promised to make up the _differ_, by not rising out of his
father's hands the price of the new _shuit_ which he was to get at
Easter for herding the other sheep and cattle through the winter.
"There's the bargain I made with him, and all's well as afore."

Cecilia, who was listening, did not at first understand this bargain;
but when the _new shuit_ was explained to mean a new suit of clothes,
and making up _the differ_, making up the difference to the father
between the value of the lost live sheep and his remaining skin, Cecilia
thought it was rather a hard bargain for George, but he was quite
satisfied.

Molly whispered, "Never heed, miss; the father will not be as hard upon
him as he thinks. But," added she aloud, "why should not he, miss, be at
the loss of his own carelessness?--Not but what, barring the giddiness,
he's as good a natured lad as ever lived--only not over-burthened with
sense.--Kind gran'mother for him!" concluded she, half laughing at
herself, half at him.

Then, drawing Gerald aside, she changed her tone, and with a serious
look, in a mysterious whisper, said, "You were right, dear, from first
to last, concerning the poor cratur's dead child; she did not want to
have it _waked_ at all, for she is not that way--not an Irishwoman at
all--an Englishwoman all over, as I knew by her speech the first word
ever I heard her speak in her own nat'ral tongue when she came to her
voice. But hush't! there she is telling her own story to the master and
mistress."

"Yes, madam, I bees an Englishwoman, though so low now and untidy
like--it's a shame to think of it--a Manchester woman, ma'am--and my
people was once in a bettermost sort of way--but sore pinched
latterly." She sighed, and paused.

"I married an Irishman, madam," continued she, and sighed again.

"I hope he gave you no reason to sigh," said Gerald's father.

"Ah! no, sir, never!" answered the Englishwoman, with a faint sweet
smile: "Brian Dermody is a good man, and was always a koind husband to
me, as far and as long as ever he could, I will say that--but my friends
misliked him--no help for it. He is a soldier, sir,--of the forty-fifth.
So I followed my husband's fortins, as nat'ral, through the world, till
he was ordered to Ireland. Then he brought the children over, and
settled us down there at Bogafin in a little shop with his mother--a
widow. She was very koind too. But no need to tire you with telling all.
She married again, ma'am, a man young enough to be her son--a nice man
he was to look at too--a gentleman's servant he had been. Then they set
up in a public-house. Then the whiskey, ma'am, that they bees all so
fond of--he took to drinking it in the morning even, ma'am--and that was
bad to my thinking."

"Ay, indeed!" said Molly, with a groan of sympathy; "Oh the whiskey! if
men could keep from it!"

"And if women could!" said Mr. Crofton in a low voice.

The Englishwoman looked up at him, and then looked down, refraining from
assent to his smile.

"My mother-in-law," continued she, "was very koind to me all along, as
far as she could. But one thing she could not do; that was, to pay me
back the money of husband's and mine that I lent her. I thought this odd
of her--and hard. But then I did not know the ways of the country in
regard to never paying debts."

"Sure it's not the ways of all Ireland, my dear," said Molly; "and it's
only them that has not that can't pay--how can they?"

"I don't know--it is not for me to say," said the Englishwoman,
reservedly; "I am a stranger. But I thought if they could not pay me,
they need not have kept a jaunting-car."

"Is it a jaunting-car?" cried Molly. She pushed from her the chair on
which she was leaning--"Jaunting-car bodies! and not to pay you!--I give
them up entirely. Ill used you were, my poor Mrs. Dermody--and a shame!
and you a stranger!--But them were Connaught people. I ask your
pardon--finish your story."

"It is finished, ma'am. They were ruined, and all sold; and I could not
stay with my children to be a burthen. I wrote to husband, and he wrote
me word to make my way to Dublin, if I could, to a cousin of his in Pill
Lane--here's the direction--and that if he can get leave from his
colonel, who is a good gentleman, he will be over to settle me
somewhere, to get my bread honest in a little shop, or some way. I am
used to work and hardship; so I don't mind. Brian was very koind in his
letter, and sent me all he had--a pound, ma'am--and I set out on my
journey on foot, with the three children. The people on the road were
very koind and hospitable indeed; I have nothing to say against the
Irish for that; they are more hospitabler a deal than in England, though
not always so honest. Stranger as I was, I got on very well till I came
to the little village here hard by, where my poor boy that is gone first
fell sick of the measles. His sickness, and the 'pot'ecary' stuff and
all, and the lodging and living, ran me very low. But I paid all, every
farthing; and let none know how poor I was, for I was ashamed, yon know,
ma'am, or I am sure they would have helped me, for they are a koind
people, I will say that for them, and ought so to do, I am sure. Well, I
pawned some of my things, my cloak even, and my silk bonnet, to pay
honest; and as I could not do no otherwise, I left them in pawn, and,
with the little money I raised, I set out forwards on my road to Dublin
again, so soon as I thought my boy was able to travel. I reckoned too
much upon his strength. We had got but a few miles from the village when
he drooped, and could not get on; and I was unwilling and ashamed to
turn back, having so little to pay for lodgings. I saw a kind of hut,
or shed, by the side of a hill. There was nobody in it. It was empty of
every thing but some straw, and a few turf, the remains of a fire. I
thought there would be no harm in taking shelter in it for my children
and myself for the night. The people never came back to whom it
belonged, and the next day my poor boy was worse; he had a fever this
time. Then the snow came on. We had some little store of provisions that
had been made up for us for the journey to Dublin, else we must have
perished when we were snowed up. I am sure the people in the village
never know'd that we were in that hut, or they would have come to help
us, for they bees very koind people. There must have been a day and a
night that passed, I think, of which I know nothing. It was all a dream.
When I got up from my illness, I found my boy dead--and the others with
famished looks. Then I had to see them faint with hunger."

The poor woman had told her story without any attempt to make it
pathetic, and thus far without apparent emotion or change of voice: but
when she came to this part, and spoke of her children, her voice changed
and failed, she could only add, looking at Gerald, "You know the rest,
master; Heaven bless you!"

All she had told was true, as was proved upon inquiry in Gerald's town
of the people at whose house she had lodged, and those to whom she had
paid bills, and with whom she had pawned her clothes. Her friends at
Manchester were written to by Gerald's father; their answer confirmed
her account of herself and of her husband.

Gerald and Cecilia rejoiced in having her exactness in truth thus
proved; not that they had ever doubted it, but the housekeeper had been
imposed upon by some travelling people lately, and they were glad that
she saw that their _Snow-woman_ was not a beggar or impostor. Impostor,
indeed, she could not be, poor creature, as to the main parts of her
story, her being buried alive in the snow, and nearly famished. Every
thing they saw of her during the time she staid at Crofton's cottage
increased the interest they felt for her--she was so grateful--so little
encroaching--so industrious; as soon as ever she was able, in fact,
before she was well able, she set about doing needlework for Mrs.
Crofton. But Molly, as she told Gerald, would not take her work from her
without payment; "I only shammed taking the work from her for nothing,
dear, not to vex her, but I counted up what she earned unknown'st to
her, and see what I did (opening a chest), I got all her little _duds_
back out of pawn--the black silk bonnet and all, which (added Molly,
laughing), to the best of my opinion, is next to her children and
husband, perhaps, what she is the fondest of in this life. Well, and
even so, so much the greater the creatur's honesty, you know, that did
not begrudge to give it off her head to pay her dues to the last
farthing. By the same token she is as welcome as light to stay here with
us till she's quite stout, and as long as she pleases, her and hers--if
it were a twelvemonth."

This permission was no trifling kindness, for the house was so small
that Mrs. Crofton, who loved to have it neat too, was much
inconvenienced by her guests; she gave up her own bed and room to them,
and slept in the kitchen. Molly was a true Irish hospitable soul, who
would never count up or tell or hear tell of what she gave or lost. She
would not accept of any payment for her lodgers from Gerald's father or
mother, or remuneration in any form. Whatever was sent from the Castle
was scrupulously set apart for the use of the _Snow-woman_ and her
children, or kept for them till it spoiled. Many times the woman, afraid
of being a burthen, said she was well enough, quite well enough, to be
stirring.

One day, after they had heard the poor woman declare that she was well
able to go, Cecilia, as she was walking home, said to her brother,
"Gerald, how very sorry that poor woman must be to get quite well; I
remember I was very sorry to get _quite_ well after my measles, because
I knew that I should not have mamma and every body waiting upon me, and
caring for me so very, very much. But then how dreadfully more your
snow-woman must feel this--when all the wonder of her being buried alive
is over, when we have no more questions to ask, and no more walking
every day to see her, and no more pitying, and no more biscuits and
broth and tea, and all manner of good things; and she must leave her
warm bed, and Molly's comfortable house, and be turned out, as Molly
says, into the cold wide world--and her children, one of them to be
carried all the way, and the other to go barefoot. Gerald, at least I
may give her a pair of my old shoes."

"But that will do little good," said Gerald, sighing, and he seldom
sighed.

"I wish I could do more," said Cecilia, "but I have nothing. Oh! how I
wish I could do something, mamma."

"You can make some warm clothes for the children, as you proposed
yesterday, and I will give you flannel and whatever you want, Cecilia."

"Thank you, mamma; and you will cut them out, and I will work all day
without stirring, mamma, or ever looking up till I have done. But even
then it will be so very little compared with all she wants."

Cecilia now sighed more deeply than Gerald had sighed before.

"Gerald," she resumed, "I wish I was a fairy, even for one day, a good
fairy, I mean."

"Good, of course; you could not be bad, Cecilia. Well, what would you do
in that one day? I am curious to know whether it is the same thing that
I am thinking of."

"No," said Cecilia, "it cannot be, because I am thinking, my dear, of so
many different things. But, in the first place, I would wave my wand and
in a minute have a nice house raised, like Molly's, for the snow-woman."

"The very thing! I knew it," cried Gerald. "Oh, Cecilia, if it could
be!"

"There are no fairies left now in the world," said Cecilia mournfully,
"that's all nonsense indeed."

"But I can tell you, Cecilia, there is still in the world what can do
almost all that the fairies could do formerly, at least as to building
houses, only not so quick quite--money."

"I guessed it before you came to the word, Cecilia; but what signifies
that; I have no money--have you?"

"Some, but very little," said Gerald, feeling in his pocket, "too
little, only pocket money. Oh, I wish, how I wish, Cecilia, I had as
much money as papa has, or mamma," added he, stopping till they, who
were walking behind them, came within hearing, and repeating his wish,
added, "then I could do so much good."

"And if you had as much money as we have," said his mother, smiling,
"you would want more to be able to do all the good you desire."

His father asked him to tell him what good in particular he thought he
could do, and as they walked on Gerald stated, that in particular he
would build, or buy a house ready built, "for the snow-woman."

"And furnished," interposed Cecilia.

"No, leave out the furniture for the present," said Gerald; "we cannot
do every thing, I know, papa, at once. But seriously, papa, you have
built houses for many of the tenants, and you have houses, cottages, one
cottage at least, even now, to give to whoever you please, or whoever
pleases you."

"Not exactly to whoever I please, or to whoever pleases me, but to those
whom I think most deserving, and to those whom justice calls upon me to
prefer. I have claims upon me from good old tenants, or their families,
for every house I have to give or to let. How then can I give to a
stranger, who has no claims upon me, merely to please myself or you."

"But she has the claim of being very wretched," said Gerald.

"And she has been buried in the snow," said Cecilia.

"And has been recovered," said her father.

"There's the worst of it," said Cecilia, "for now she is recovered she
must go. We cannot help it, if we were to talk about it ever so much.
But, mamma, though papa says people have never money enough to do all
the good they wish, I think you have, for I remember about that cottage
you built last year, you said, I recollect perfectly hearing you say the
words, 'I know the way I can manage to have money enough to do it.' What
did you mean, mamma, as you were not a fairy, how did you manage?"

Her mother smiled, but did not answer.

"I will tell you," said her father, "the way in which she managed, and
the only way in which people, let them have ever such large fortunes,
can manage to be sure of having money enough to do what they wish
most--she denied herself something that she would have liked to buy, but
that she could do without--she very much wished at the time you speak
of, Cecilia, to have bought a harp, on which she knew that I should have
liked to hear her play."

"I remember that too," cried Cecilia. "I remember the harp was brought
for her to look at, and she liked it exceedingly; and then, after all,
she sent it away and would not buy it, and I wondered."

"She could not have bought the harp and have built the cottage; so she
denied herself the harp that year, and she made her old woman, as you
call her, happy for life."

"How very good!" said Cecilia.

Gerald fell into a profound silence, which lasted all the remainder of
their walk home, till they reached the lodge at the entrance, when,
opening the gate, he let his mother and sister pass, but arrested his
father in his passage:--"Father! I have something to say to you, will
you _walk behind_?"

"Son, I am ready to listen to you, and I will do any thing in my power
to oblige you, but you must explain to me how I am to walk behind."

"Oh, papa, you know what I mean; let mamma and Cecilia walk on, so as to
be out of hearing, and we can follow behind. What I am thinking of,
papa, is Garry Owen; you were so kind as to promise to buy him for me."

"Yes, as a reward which you deserved for your perseverance last year."

"Thank you, papa; but suppose, instead of Garry Owen--in short, suppose,
papa, I were to give up Garry Owen."

"To give up Garry Owen!" exclaimed his father, starting back with
surprise.

"I am not sure, papa, that I can bring myself to do it yet, I am only
considering; therefore, pray, do not tell Cecilia or mamma. I want first
to settle my own mind. If I were to give up Garry Owen, would you allow
me to have the money which you would have paid for him, and let me do
what I please with it?"

"Undoubtedly. But since you consult me, I strongly recommend it to you
not to give up Garry Owen for any other horse or pony."

"For any other horse, certainly not, for I like him better than any
other that I ever saw or heard of--the beautiful creature!" cried Gerald
enthusiastically. "But if I could give him up, father, as mamma gave up
the harp, would the price of him build a cottage for the snow-woman?
And would you do it for me?"

His father's countenance brightened delightfully as Gerald spoke. "Would
I do it for you, my son!" said he; but checking himself, he added, in a
composed voice, "I would, Gerald. But are you sure that you would wish
this to be done, that is the first point to be settled. Remember, that
for this year to come I certainly shall not buy for you any other horse
if you give up Garry Owen for this purpose: you must understand this
clearly, and be prepared to abide by all the consequences of your own
determination."

"Oh certainly, sir, I understand all that perfectly; I know it must be
Garry Owen or the snow-woman, I never thought of any thing else; it
would be cheating you or cheating myself. But I have not come to my
determination yet; remember that, father, and do not say that I go
back--you understand."

"I understand you, Gerald, as well as you understand me; so we need say
no more about it till you have settled your mind."

Which he was called upon to do sooner than he expected. Before he had
considered all the pros and cons, before he had screwed his courage to
the sticking place, he was summoned to the fight; and well might his
father fear that he would not come off victor of himself.

"Oh, Gerald!" cried Cecilia, running back to meet him, "Garry Owen is
come! Garry Owen is come! that horse-dealer man has brought him for
you--yes, Garry Owen, I assure you I saw him in the back lawn: they are
all looking at him, mamma too! Come, come! Run, run!"

In the back lawn was a group of people, the groom, the helper, the
gossoon, the coachman, and, distinguished above the rest, the saddler,
with a new saddle on his back, and a side-saddle and bridle and bits
glittering and hanging about him in most admired disorder. The group
opened on Gerald's approach, and full in the midst, on a rising ground,
with the light of the setting sun upon him, stood Garry Owen, his
present master the horse-dealer beside him, holding his bridle as he
curved his neck proudly. Garry Owen was of a dark iron grey, with black
mane, tail, and legs.

"Such a pretty colour," said Cecilia, "and such a fine flowing tail--oh,
what a whisk he gave it!"

"A remarkably pretty head," said Gerald; "is not it, father?"

"And how gently he puts it down to let mamma stroke it," said Cecilia;
"dear nice little creature, I may pat him, may not I?"

"You may, miss; he is as gentle as the lamb, see, and as powerful as the
lion," said the horse-dealer; "but it's the spirit that's in him will
please Master Gerald above all."

"Yes, I do like a horse that has some spirit," cried Gerald, vaulting
upon his back.

"Then there it is! just suited! for it's he that has spirit enough for
you, and you that has the spirit for him, Master Gerald.--See how he
sits him!"

"Without a saddle or a ha'porth!" said the saddler.

"What need, with such a seat on a horse as Master Gerald has got, and
such command?"

"Let him go," said Gerald.

"Take care," said Cecilia.

"Never fear, miss," said the horse-dealer; and off Gerald went in a fine
canter.

"No fear of Master Gerald. See, see, see! See there now!" continued the
master of the horse triumphantly, as Gerald, who really rode extremely
well for a boy of his age, cantered, trotted, walked alternately, and
showed all Garry Owen's paces to the best advantage. Suddenly a halloo
was heard, huntsmen in red jackets appeared galloping across the
adjoining field, returning from the hunt; Garry Owen and Gerald leaped
the ditch instantly.

"Oh! oh!" cried Cecilia, "is the horse running away with him?"

"Not at all, miss--no fear--for Master Gerald has none. See there, how
he goes. Oh prince o' ponies! Oh king of glory! See, up he is now with
the red jackets--dash at all--over he goes--the finest leaper in the
three counties--clears all before him, see!--there's a leap! and now,
miss, see how he is bringing him back now to us, fair and _asy_ see!
trotting him up as if nothing at all; then I declare it's a sight to
see!"

Gerald came up and sat, as Garry Owen stood still in the midst of them,
patting the pony, delighted with him much, and with himself not more,
but certainly not a little.

"Then he's the finest rider ever I see of his years," cried the
horse-dealer in an ecstasy.

"The finest young gentleman rider that ever I see in all Ireland,
without comparison, I say," pronounced the saddler, shutting one eye and
looking up at him with the other, with an indescribably odd doubtful
smile. In this man's countenance there was a mixed or quickly varying
expression--demure, jocose, sarcastic, openly flattering, covertly
laughing at the flattery, if not at the flattered; his face was one
instant for the person he spoke to, the next for the bystanders. Aware
at this moment who were standing by, he kept it as steady as he could.
The horse-dealer, in eager earnest intent on his object, continued in
his ecstatic tone.

"By the laws, then, I'd sooner bestow Garry Owen on Master Gerald than
sell him at any price to any other."

As Master Gerald's father smiled somewhat incredulous, perhaps a little
scornfully, the horse-dealer instantly softened his assertion, by
adding:--"I should not say bestow, a poor man like me could not go to
bestow, but I'd sooner sell him any price to Master Gerald, so I at
would, and not a word of lie, than to any mortal living in the three
counties, or three kingdoms entirely--and rason, for it's Master Gerald
that would do Garry Owen most justice, and would show him off best; the
fine horse should get the fine rider, and 'tis undeniable the young
gentleman is that same any how."

"Kind father for him," said the gamekeeper; "and the very moral of the
master, Master Gerald is. The very sit of the father when first I seen
him on a horse. Then may he be like him in all."

"And 'specially in having a good horse always under him," said the
horse-dealer. "Who would have a right to the _raal_ good horse but the
raal good gentleman born?"

"Which the family is, and was from father to son time out of mind, as
all the world knows and says as well as myself," added the saddler;
"Father and son seldom comes a better."

Gerald's father, who had been for some time pacing up and down
impatiently during this flow of flattery, had been more than once
tempted to interrupt it. Disgusted and vexed as he was, and afraid that
his son would be duped and swayed from his good purpose, he could hardly
refrain from interference. But he said to himself, "My son must meet
with flatterers, he should learn early to detect and resist flattery. I
will leave him to himself."

"Father, are you gone? are you going?" cried Gerald, "I want to consult
you. Will you not help me with your judgment?"

"You know my opinion of the horse, my dear Gerald," said his father; "as
to the rest, I must leave you to yourself.--The money is ready for you."

As he spoke he took Cecilia by the hand to lead her away, but she looked
as if she had a great mind to see more of Garry Owen.

"Pray, papa, let me stay," said Cecilia, "with mamma; mamma will walk up
and down."

Her father let go her hand and walked away.

"May be Miss Cecilia could ride this pony too?" said the groom
respectfully to Gerald.

"To be sure," said the horse-dealer; "put her up, and you'll see how
considerate Garry Owen will walk with the young lady."

Cecilia, mounted on Garry Owen, was led twice round the back lawn,
Gerald delighting in her delight.

"And the young lady is a great soldier too," said the horse-dealer.

"I did not feel the least bit afraid," said she, as she jumped down, and
patting Garry Owen now with fearless loud resounding pat, she
pronounced him the gentlest of dear little creatures, and "oh how glad I
am," continued she, "that you are to belong to brother Gerald; many,
many, many a pleasant ride I shall have upon you, Garry Owen--shall not
I, Gerald?"

Gerald smiled; "I cannot resist this," thought he, "I must have Garry
Owen."

"The only thing I don't like about him is his name, Gerald; I wish, when
you have him, you would call him by some prettier name than Garry
Owen--call him Fairy, Good Fairy."

"Or talking of fairies and fairy horses, if you had a mind to an odd
Irish name, Miss Cecilia," said the gamekeeper, "you might call him
Boliaunbuie, which is the Irish name for the yellow rag weed that they
call 'the fairies' horses,' because the fairies ride on them time
immemorial."

While the gamekeeper was making out some fitness in this conceit, which
struck his own fancy, but nobody else's, perhaps, the housekeeper came
out to give to her mistress some message, in which the name of the
snow-woman (a name which had been adopted below stairs as well as
above) was often repeated.

"What! do you say that she is going to-morrow?" inquired Gerald.

"No, sir, but the day after she has fixed, and will come up here to take
leave and thank all the family to-morrow. A grateful creature, ma'am,
and not encroaching she is, as ever breathed, not expecting and
expecting, like the rest, or too many of them. I've promised to buy from
her some of the little worsted mittens and gloves she has been knitting,
to put a few pence in her poor pocket."

This speech brought back all Gerald's thoughts from Garry Owen to the
poor woman. He turned his back on the pony, took Cecilia aside, abruptly
opened the matter to her, and asked if she could be contented if he
should give up Garry Owen.

It was a sudden change. "Oh, could there be no other way?"

"None."

"Well, dear Gerald, do it then; oh never mind me! I am only sorry for
your not having the beautiful pony; but then it will be so good of
you--yes--yes--do it, Gerald, do it."

The generous eagerness with which Cecilia urged him acted directly
against her purpose, for he felt particularly sorry to give up what
would be such a pleasure to her. With uncertain steps and slow he walked
back again to those who waited his decision, and who stood wondering
what he could be deliberating about. His speech, as well as his walk,
betrayed signs of his inward agitation. It would not bear reporting; the
honourable gentleman was scarcely audible--but those round Garry Owen
gathered from what reached their ears that, "in short he did not
know--he was not quite sure--he was not determined--or he was determined
not to purchase Garry Owen, unless he should change his mind."

The auditors looked upon one another in unfeigned astonishment; and for
half a minute silence ensued. The master of the horse then said in a low
voice, in Irish, to the saddler, "What can be the cause? The father
said he had the money for him."

The saddler, in a low voice, gnawing a bit of a leather strap,
without turning head or eyes as he spoke, replied, "It's the
housekeeper--something she put into his ear was the cause of the
change."

"Just as your honour _plaases_, Master Gerald, Sir," said the
horse-dealer, stroking Garry's nose, "which ever way you think proper,
Master Gerald," said he, in a tone in which real anger struggled and
struggled in vain with habitual servility and professional art, all care
for his moneyed interest forgotten in his sense of the insult which he
conceived aimed at his horse; he continued, as he turned to depart, "I
thank my stars then Garry Owen and I can defy the world, and all the
slanderers, backbiters, and whisperers in it, whomsoever they be, man,
woman, or child."

Cecilia looked half frightened, Gerald wholly bewildered.

"I don't understand you," said he.

"Why, then, master, I ax your pardon. But I think it is asy
understanding _me_. Its plain some person or persons have whispered
through another, perhaps"--glancing towards the spot where Gerald's
mother was sitting drawing the group--"something, myself can't guess
what, against me or Garry Owen--a sounder horse never stepped nor
breathed, I could take my affidavit, but I will not demean myself, I
should not be suspected, I don't deserve it from your honour; so I only
wish, Master Gerald, you may find a better horse for yourself, if you
can get one in all Ireland, let alone England."

He turned Garry Owen to lead him down the hill as he spoke. Gerald,
feeling for the man, and pleased with his feeling for the reputation of
his horse and for his own suspected honour, now stood in his way to stop
him, and assured him that nothing had been said to him by any human
being to the disadvantage of Garry Owen or of himself.

But prepossessed with the belief, as is but too common in Ireland, and
often too just, that some one had been belying him, the indignant
horse-dealer went on in the same tone, but, seeming afraid of failing in
respect to young master, he addressed his appeal to the groom.

"Just-put-the-case-the-case-was-your-own!" Nine words which he uttered
with such volubility that they sounded like one, and that one some
magical adjuration. "Just-put-the-case-the-case-was-your-own, would not
ye have some feeling? Then, if by the blessing of luck I had been born a
gentleman, and a great young gentleman, like Master Gerald, why, in his
place, I'd give up an informer as soon and sooner than look at him,
who-some-dever he was, or who-some-dever she was, for it was a she I'm
confident, from a hint I got from a frind."

"Tut, tut, man!" interposed the saddler, "Now, Dan Conolly, you're out
o'rason entirely, and you are not listening to Master Gerald."

"Then I am listening to his honour--only I know it is only to screen the
housekeeper, who is a favourite, and was never my frind, the young
gentleman spakes--and I'm jealous of that."

This was more incomprehensible than all the rest to Cecilia and Gerald.
While they looked at each other in amazement, a few words were whispered
in Irish by the cunning saddler to the enraged horse-dealer, which
brought him to reason, or to whatever portion of reason he ever had.

The words were--"I must have mistaken, may be he'll come round again,
and be for the horse."

"Why then, Master Gerald, sir, I crave your pardon," said the
horse-dealer in a penitent tone, "if I forgot myself and was too free,
then I was too hot and out of rason; I'm sensible I'm subject to it.
When a gentleman, especially one of this family that I've such a respect
for, and then above all, when your honour, Master Gerald, would turn to
suspect me--as I suspected you was suspecting me of going to tell you a
lie, or misleading of you any way, about a horse of all things. But I
mistook your honour--I crave your honour's pardon, Master Gerald."

Gerald willingly granted his pardon, and liked him better for his
warmth.

"About Garry Owen, above all, I had no occasion to be puffing him off,"
continued the master of the horse, turning to him proudly. "Then the
truth is, it was only to oblige you, Master Gerald, and his honour your
father, who was always my frind, as I ought to remember and do--it was
only on that account, and my promise, that I brought Garry here _the_
day, to make you the first offer at the price I first said; I won't be
talking ungenteel, it does not become me; but I'd only wish your honour
to know, without my mentioning it, that I could get more from many
another."

"I am glad to hear that," said Gerald; "that relieves me from one
difficulty--about you, Conolly."

"Oh, make no difficulty in life, my dear young gentleman, on account of
me. If you have made up your mind to be off, and to give up Garry Owen,
dear sir, it's done and done," said the knowing and polite
horse-dealer; "and 'tis I in this case will be obligated to you, for I
have two honourable chaps in my eye this minute, both eager as ever you
see to snap him up before I'd get home, or well out o' the great gate
below; and to whichsomdever of the two I'd give the preference, he would
come down on the spot with whatsomdever I'd name, ready money, and five
guineas luck-penny to boot."

"Very well, then," said Gerald, "you had better ----." But the words
stuck in his throat.

"Is it Jonah Crommie, the rich grazier's son, that's one of your chaps,
Dan Conolly?" asked the saddler.

The horse-dealer nodded.

"Murder, man!" cried the saddler, "would you let him have Garry Owen?
The likes of him--the squireen! the spalpeen! the mushroom! That puts me
in mind of the miller, his father, riding formerly betwix' two big sacks
to the market, himself the biggest sack--Faugh! his son to be master of
Garry Owen!"

"They ought not to look so high, them graziers and middlemen, I admit,"
said the horse-dealer; "the half gentleman might be content to be half
mounted--but when there's the money."

"Best not for him to be laying it out on Garry Owen," said the saddler,
"for even suppose Garry would not throw him and break his neck at the
first going off, I'll tell you what would happen, Jonah Crommie would
ruin Garry Owen's mouth for him in a week, and make him no better than a
garron. Did any body ever see Jonah Crommie riding a horse? It's this
way he does it," lugging at the bridle with the hand, and the two legs
out. "It is with three stirrups he rides."

All joined in the laugh, groom, coachman, helper, gossoon, and all.
Garry Owen's master then protested Jonah Crommie should never ride him.
But the other offer for Garry was "unexceptionable--undeniable."

"It is from Sir Essex Bligh, the member. Sir Essex wants an
extraordinary fine pony for his eldest son and heir, young Sir Harry
that will be; and he rides like an angel too! and what's more, like a
gentleman as he is too. Accordingly, Monday morning, next hunt day, the
young baronet that will be is to be introduced to the hunt, and could
not be better than on Garry Owen here."

The whole hunt, in full spirit, was before Gerald's eyes, and young Sir
Harry on "Garry Owen in glory." But Gerald's was not a mean mind, to be
governed by the base motives of jealousy and envy. Those who tried these
incentives did not know him. He now decidedly stepped forward, and,
patting the horse, said, "Good bye, Garry Owen, since I cannot have you,
I am glad you will have a gentleman for your master, who will use you
well and do you justice. Farewell for ever, Garry Owen." He put
something satisfactory into the horse-dealer's hand, adding, "I am sorry
I have given you so much trouble. I don't want the saddle."

Then, turning suddenly away, Garry Owen was led off; and Gerald and
Cecilia hastened to their mother, who, in much surprise, inquired what
had happened.

"You will be better pleased, mamma, than if Gerald had a hundred Garry
Owens," cried Cecilia.

At that moment their father threw open his study window and looked out,
well pleased indeed, as he saw how the affair had ended. He came out and
shook Gerald by the hand with affectionate pleasure and paternal
pride.--"Safe out of the hands of your flatterers, my boy, welcome to
your friends! I am glad, my dear son, to see that you have self-command
sufficient to adhere to a generous intention, and to do the good which
you purpose."

Gerald's father put a purse containing the promised price of Garry Owen
into his hand, and offered to assist him in any way he might desire in
executing his plan for the snow-woman. After some happy consultations it
was settled, that it would be best, instead of building a new house for
her, which could not be immediately ready, to rent one that was already
finished, dry, and furnished, and in which they could set her up in a
little shop in the village. Whatever was wanting to carry this plan
into execution, Gerald's father and mother supplied. They advised that
Gerald should _give_ only a part of the sum he had intended, and _lend_
the other part to the poor woman, to be returned by small payments at
fixed periods, so that it would make a fund that might be again lent and
repaid, "and thus be continually useful to her, or to some one else in
distress."

"Gerald," said his father, "you may hereafter have the disposal of a
considerable property, therefore I am glad, even in these your boyish
days, to have any opportunity of turning your mind to consider how you
can be most useful to your tenantry. I doubt not, from your generous
disposition, that you will be kind to them; but I feel particular
satisfaction in seeing that you early begin to practise that self-denial
which is in all situations essential to real generosity."

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THE SPANISH WIDOW AND HER CHILDREN.

[Illustration: decoration]


_"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy."_

Antonia and Juan were the children of a poor Spanish widow named Paula
Sevilla, who lived in a small cabin in one of those secluded valleys
which are to be found in the mountainous districts of Spain.

The produce of the chestnut trees that shaded their lonely dwelling, the
vegetables and esculent roots that were cultivated in their small plot
of garden ground, with the milk of two or three goats, formed the whole
subsistence of Paula and her fatherless children: but contentment, which
softens the hardest lot, shed its blessings over their cottage, and the
widow and her children never broke bread without having first lifted up
their hands, in silent gratitude, to Him whose bounty provideth food for
his creatures, from the children of men, down to the humblest insect
that crawleth in the dust.

Pedro Sevilla, the husband of Paula, had followed the humble and
peaceable life of a shepherd and herdsman, till that disastrous period
when the lawless ambition of Napoleon Bonaparte caused Spain to become
the seat of warfare,--making many a happy home desolate, many a wife a
widow, and many a mother childless.

While feeding his flocks on a distant part of the mountain, Pedro was
summoned to join the troop which had been raised in the defence of his
country; nor was he allowed the melancholy satisfaction of bidding
farewell to his wife and children, but was instantly marched away to the
distant camp.

The flock returned bleating to the fold that night without their
shepherd, and Paula beheld her husband no more;--he fell, defending one
of the secret passes of his native mountains, overpowered by numbers.

Antonia and Juan wept with their mother, or strove to comfort her with
hopes that it might yet be possible that their father would return; but
Paula had seen and talked with those who had looked on the dead face of
her husband, and she felt that she was indeed a widow, and her children
fatherless. But hers was a common case; every hamlet contained widows
that mourned for the beloved partners who had fallen in the war, and
Paula submitted herself humbly to the chastening hand of affliction, and
said, "it is the will of the Lord."

Antonia and Juan were kind and dutiful children to their mother, and
were so fondly attached to each other, that their chief happiness
appeared to consist in being near one another, to render acts of
kindness, by which they might give proofs of their mutual affection.

Together they tended the little flock; all that the rapacity of the
enemy had left them. There was no crag so steep but Juan would climb it,
if Antonia but cast a wistful look at the mountain flowers that hung
upon its brow. The clustering hazel-nuts or mountain berries he sought
for to fill her little rush basket. If the goats strayed, it was Juan
who hastened to recall them, while Antonia rested on the grass, or
seated on some mossy stone beside the little rill that flowed rippling
over its rocky bed, dancing and sparkling in the sun-beams, pursued her
knitting or plied her needle with industrious zeal.

As these children resembled each other in features, so they appeared to
be alike in mind; they loved the same pursuits, the same flowers, the
same walks--to sing the same songs, and to listen to the same tales; and
the countenance of Paula would brighten into smiles of maternal
affection, as her ear caught the sound of their sweet joyous voices in
the valley, chanting snatches of the old Moorish ballads which she had
been accustomed to sing to them in happier days. Sometimes she turned
her wheel at the cottage door, as they stood before her, their little
hands fondly linked together, listening with alternate tears and smiles
to her songs or tales of other times.

About this time the inhabitants of the neighbouring hamlets were greatly
distressed by the frequent incursions of the French, who were stationed
among the passes of the adjacent mountains, from whose heights they made
frequent descents to plunder the cottages of the peasantry, seizing the
corn and food which had been preserved from their previous depredations;
nor were there wanting instances of those who cruelly put to the sword,
or levelled the dwellings of such of the starving peasantry as
endeavoured to protect their little substance from their lawless and
rapacious oppressors.

These acts of cruelty rendered the very name of a Frenchman hateful to
the ears of a Spaniard; and those who would have shown mercy to the
merciless invaders of their country would have been regarded by their
indignant brethren as traitors and enemies to Spain.

There is no hatred so terrible as national hatred, which is regardless
of the universal love and forbearance that Christian should exercise
towards Christian: it makes men forget, that in the midst of judgment it
is good to remember mercy.

One evening, the widow's children were sharing with their mother the
scanty supper of chestnut bread and goats' milk, when the ruddy gleam of
light which the setting sun cast through the open lattice was suddenly
intercepted by a dark shadow, and on looking up to ascertain the cause,
they beheld a stranger, of pale and ghastly countenance, wrapped in a
soiled and blood-stained soldier's cloak. His eyes were sunken, his
cheek hollow, and his whole appearance bespoke the extremes of misery
and famine. In broken Spanish, he requested a morsel of bread and a cup
of water; but it was with the look of one who did not expect to receive
what he asked for.

Paula drew back with a feeling almost of dread as the French accent fell
upon her ear; the remembrance of her suffering country, of her dead
husband, and all the woes she had lately witnessed, rushed upon her
mind. "How can the destroyer of our corn-fields, of our vineyards, and
our flocks, ask food at our hands? the murderers of our husbands and
children seek our protection? the ruthless levellers of our hamlets look
for shelter beneath our roof?"--thus was she about to exclaim; but,
touched by the expression of hopeless wretchedness in the unfortunate
soldier, she checked the unkind words.

At this moment the young Antonia, who had been regarding the poor
stranger with tearful eyes, approached him, and placing in his hands her
yet untasted supper, said, "take this; it is all the French have left
us."

"God reward you, my child," murmured the soldier; and sinking upon a
vacant bench by the cottage-door, and covering his face with his hands,
he burst into tears.

A really benevolent heart cannot look on distress unmoved; and Paula,
now forgetting the national hatred which existed among her people,
remembered only the words of Him, who has commanded us to love our
enemies, and to do good to those who hate and despitefully use us; who
has said, "if thy enemy hunger, give him bread; if he thirst, give him
drink." "And shall I refuse the cup of cold water which he has asked,
and which my Redeemer has commanded me to bestow on all such as ask in
his name?" she said, mentally, as she approached her unfortunate guest,
and offered him shelter, rest, and such scanty food as the plunder of
the enemy had left it in her power to bestow.

Paula was aware, that in affording an asylum to a French soldier, even
for a few hours, she was exposing herself and her children to danger
from the indignation of her countrymen; but she feared God rather than
man: and said in her heart, "surely at my hands will God require the
life of this stranger, if I refuse to give him food and shelter in his
dire necessity."

The broken and hardly intelligible thanks and blessings of the war-worn
soldier sent a glow of joy to the hearts of the generous widow and her
children, who seemed to vie with each other in showing kindness to their
sick and sorrowful guest. He was one of the fugitives, as he informed
them, from a late conflict in which his regiment had been nearly cut to
pieces; and had passed many days among the secret recesses of the
neighbouring mountains, till, driven to desperation by hunger and
thirst, he had ventured to ask for food at the door of an enemy's cabin.

For many days the poor foreigner remained extremely ill and weak, owing
to the hardships he had endured, as well as from the breaking out of a
wound which was not quite healed. Paula's knowledge of the medicinal
properties of some of the mountain herbs enabled her to administer to
the sufferings of her guest, who at length began to appear more
cheerful.

He often spoke of a wife and children in his native country, on whose
names he seemed to dwell with tender affection.

"If I return to my country," he would say, "my little ones shall learn
to bless the names of Paula Sevilla and her children, as the preservers
of their father's life. And should I ever have it in my power to
befriend you, Paula," he added, with impressive earnestness, "you shall
not find Philippe Marcet unmindful of the time when he was sick and
wounded and you gave him shelter; hungry, and you fed him; thirsty, and
you gave him drink; an enemy, and you befriended him."

A report had by some means reached the inhabitants of the hamlet, that a
French refugee had been seen in the neighbourhood of the widow's cabin;
and Marcet, alarmed for the safety of his generous hostess and her
family, now resolved to leave them, his health being much restored.

Antonia and Juan, who had contracted a great friendship for their sick
guest, now hung weeping on either side of him, lamenting that the time
of his departure was so near; while Paula, anxious for the further
preservation of the life she had saved, prevailed on him to exchange his
uniform for the simple habit of an Andalusian shepherd.

But when she saw him arrayed in the very dress that had been worn by
that beloved husband whose blood had been shed by Marcet's countrymen,
her heart yielded to the bitterness of her grief, and she burst into
tears. "Go," she said, at length, turning weeping away, as Marcet
expressed his inarticulate thanks for her kindness; "go, and should the
chance of war ever place the widow and orphans of a Spaniard at your
mercy, remember Paula and her children."

The soldier's heart was full; he wrung the hand of the widow in silence;
and tenderly embracing her little ones, hastily left the cottage, and
bending his steps towards a distant path that led through the mountains,
speedily disappeared. Scarcely had his retreating shadow been lost among
the rocks, before the cabin of Paula was surrounded by persons
clamorously requiring her to give up the unhappy refugee. The widow and
her trembling children were led out while every part of the cabin was
searched. But there was a feeling of conscious virtue in the mind of
Paula, which supported her courage, as with firm voice she replied to
the charge of having concealed an enemy in her house; "that she had
indeed afforded succour, and a temporary shelter to an unfortunate
stranger, who was on the point of perishing from want and sickness.
Soldiers and Spaniards!" she continued, addressing herself to them, with
intrepid look, "should you not have blushed for your countrywoman, could
she have been base enough to have betrayed to his enemies a dying
fugitive, who threw himself on her protection? I know ye would, or ye
are not Spaniards; nor the followers of that Redeemer, who has expressly
charged us to forgive our enemies."

A murmur of applause was heard from among the crowd; and without
offering any further molestation to the family, they slowly dispersed
towards their several homes.

The long lonely winter passed heavily away, and the returning spring
found Spain still the seat of warfare, and suffering from the miseries
of want and rapine. The troops of the enemy had again made good their
station in the neighbouring plains, and frequent skirmishes took place
between the two hostile forces.

"Mother, when will this frightful war be at an end?" asked the weeping
Antonia, clinging to her mother's arm, as the distant report of a cannon
shook their lowly cabin. "The end of all things is in the hand of the
Lord, my child;" replied her mother, folding her hands meekly on her
breast.

"Hark, mother! there is a sound of battle on the heights above,"
exclaimed Juan, who had been listening with intense eagerness to the
distant tumult.

The roar of the musketry now became fearfully audible, and the dun
wreaths of sulphurous smoke might plainly be discerned from the cottage
door.

The widowed mother clasped her terrified children to her breast, while
she raised her thoughts in silent supplication to the Lord: for she well
knew "that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong;
but that it is God that giveth the victory."

The event of the battle remained for a long time doubtful; at length a
reinforcement of French troops decided the victory in their favour. The
Guerillas were obliged to retreat to their secret holds in the
mountains; and the enemy, elated by their success, proceeded to plunder
and lay waste the adjacent villages, destroying with fire and sword the
habitations of the unfortunate peasants. Nor did the humble dwelling of
the Spanish widow escape their notice; a band of the ruthless soldiery
had surrounded it, and were already on the point of levelling it to the
ground, when a stern voice commanded them to desist, and a French
officer hastily approached the spot where stood the widow, with her
children clinging in terror to her knees.

A cry of joy burst from the lips of Antonia and Juan, as the sounds of
that well-remembered voice reached their ears; and springing towards
Philippe Marcet--for it was indeed the French fugitive, whom they had
sheltered and befriended--they implored him to save them from these
cruel men.

"Soldiers!" he said, "touch not, I command, any thing belonging to this
widow and her children. She saved the life of your captain, when he must
have perished but for her generous aid. Take not a morsel of bread from
her, not let one single stone be removed from her hearth, as you would
answer for it with your lives. Paula Sevilla," he added, turning towards
her, "happy am I, that the life you once preserved has proved the means
of protecting you and your children from the lawless violence of these
men; nor need you fear, for the name of Philippe Marcet will be
sufficient to protect you from any further molestation." While he yet
spoke, the cries of distress from the neighbouring hamlet smote on the
ears of Paula, and blanched the cheeks of her children.

"You have saved the lives of your friends, generous Signor," said the
widow; "add yet further to your goodness, by shielding from the
vengeance of the soldiers the inhabitants of yon village."

The French officer heard no more, but hastened to use his influence to
save the hamlet from destruction,--nor was his voice heard in vain; and
the grateful peasants now acknowledged they had reason to bless the hour
when Paula and her children gave shelter and succour to a distressed
enemy!

[Illustration: decoration]




THE FISHERMAN'S FAMILY.

BY THE OLD SAILOR.

[Illustration: decoration]


                                    "As he spoke,
    A sea burst o'er them, and their cables broke!
    Then, like a lion bounding from the toil,
    The ship shot through the billow's black recoil;
    Urged by the howling blast--all guidance gone--
    They shuddering felt her reeling, rushing on--
    Nor dared to question where; nor dared to cast
    One asking look--for that might be their last."


"Come aft here, my lads, and haul down another reef in the mainsail!"
exclaimed a hoary veteran, who stood at the helm of a fishing-smack,
which was buffeting the waves at the entrance to the British Channel,
one October evening, when the lowering of the clouds and the freshening
of the breeze gave strong indications of a south-westerly gale. The
order was promptly obeyed; and the snug little craft again breasted the
lofty surge, like a bird upon the wing, skimming the foaming tops of the
billows.

"We shall have a rough night, father," said a middle-aged man, whose
hardy countenance had borne the washing of many a salt-sea spray; "the
sun is setting on yon bank, and tinges the ocean with his reddening hue.
The summits of the Scilly Isles appear like dying watch-fires through
the sullen haze; and these, you know, are sure prognostics of a rising
gale."

"Then let it come," replied the veteran. "He whom the winds and the seas
obey can, when it pleaseth him, allay their fury and command them,
'Peace, be still!' But go, Richard, have the trysail ready, and get the
storm-jib up; for, by the long swell from the westward, I am of opinion
there has been bad weather to windward, which will be down upon us
before long: so let us have all low and snug before dark, my lad! And
James," continued he, to a noble-looking fair-haired lad, "James, set
St. Agnes' light-house by the compass, for the fog will thicken
presently; and yon Seven Stones[1]--worse than the plagues of Egypt to
a sailor--look far from tempting, crested as they are with feathery
foam."

"I hope mother won't be uneasy about us," rejoined the youth, as he laid
the edge of his hand upon the compass, directing it towards the
light-house: "we have been a fortnight at sea, grandfather, and the
tempests must have howled round the cottage fearfully o'nights. It has
blown hard ever since we came out, and not a fish caught; besides losing
part of our nets!"

"What, still uttering complaints?" exclaimed the veteran. "Look at your
brother yonder, on the windlass-end; how fearlessly he sits and watches
the ill-omened bird,[2] which triumphs in a storm."

"He does not think of home," replied the youth. "But what would become
of mother, and Jane, and the little ones, should the Fisherman's Family
go to wreck?"

"The Fisherman's Family go to wreck!" reiterated the old man, stamping
his foot upon the deck; "she'll weather many a gale yet, my boy! Look at
this white head!"--and, as he uncovered his hoary locks, that wildly
wantoned in the breeze, he presented a fine picture of Time steering
inexperienced youth through the dangerous channels which beset human
life. "Look at this white head!" he exclaimed; "the snows and storms of
sixty-seven winters have passed over it, yet was I never deserted in
peril by HIM in whom I have placed my trust. Your mother knows what a
fisherman's life is. Ay, boy, it was my pride to fortify her mind
against adversity. But go, James, and help your father to reef the
bowsprit; for we shall have the gale here presently."

And a gale indeed they had; for scarcely was the glory of the day
departed, when the wind, like a destroying angel, came sweeping over
the surface of the deep, and dashing the billows up to heaven with
fury. Night shed its blackness on the scene, whilst the dense fog
rendered it more drear and horrible. Poor James thought of his mother
and his happy home; whilst his brother Ned, though two years his junior,
seemed like a child of the tempest exulting in its lavish wildness.

The Fisherman's Family (for such was the name of the smack) rode buoyant
on the waves; she rose and fell with the heave and set of the sea, like
the swift-winged swallow when it stems the tempest; and the small bark
scarcely felt the roughness of the billows, where larger vessels would
have laboured fearfully with their heavy burdens.

It was about ten o'clock, when the crew of the smack thought that,
amidst the roaring of the storm, they could distinguish the reports of
signal-guns at a distance; and every ear was anxiously inclined to
discover the quarter whence the sounds proceeded. At length they became
more distinct, and it was soon ascertained that the vessel must be
nearing them. The fog was still thick and gloomy, yet occasionally there
were intervals of partial clearness; and it was during one of these
breaks that a ship was descried drifting at the mercy of the wind and
waves; for it was evident, from the wild course she was pursuing, that
all management was lost. Her foremast, bowsprit, and maintop-mast, were
gone; and, having nothing left aloft to steady her, the billows beat
against her sides and dashed raging over her. The smack showed a light,
which was immediately answered, and two guns fired to acknowledge the
near approach of succour.

"That ship has lost her rudder as well as her masts," exclaimed the old
man; "she has struck somewhere: and now, my lads, to render them
assistance!"

"Oh, if we should get her safe into Mount's Bay, grandfather," said
James, "and a good salvage[3] awarded, what would mother say to us
then? I should not mind the loss of the nets."

"Let us save their lives," said Ned, "at all events; and if we can save
the ship too, so much the better."

In the course of another hour, the smack was hailing the ship, and found
that her rudder had been knocked away upon the rocks, at the same time
that the masts and bowsprit had fallen with the shock. She had also
sprung a leak under the bows, and the pumps could barely keep her free.
As, however, no immediate danger was apprehended, the smack kept near
the shattered vessel until daylight, when the father of the youths
contrived to get on board, by running close alongside and catching a
rope with a noose at the end, which he passed securely round his body,
and was hauled through the water by the ship's crew. The smack then
dropped astern with a stout rope, and, by her judicious movements, acted
as a rudder to the large vessel, which was got before the wind for the
Bristol Channel; but the tow-rope parted soon afterwards, and the gale
increased to a downright hurricane.

Upon an eminence on the coast, between Penzance and the Land's End, stood
a substantial dwelling, which, though designated a cottage, presented
every token of homely comfort. A quantity of fishing-materials, hung out
to dry, showed it to be tenanted by those hardy sons of the ocean who
brave the greatest dangers to procure fish for the markets; whilst the air
of neatness and enjoyment also proved it to belong to one of that class of
men who risk their existence to save the lives and property of others--the
undaunted pilot. A winding and declivous path led to the shelving rocks
below, which formed a small inlet or bay for vessels of a light draught,
that had received the name of the Smugglers' Gap, from its having been
frequently used by those daring outlaws in their illegal trade.

On the same evening that has been already mentioned, an anxious mother
quitted the cradle in the cottage to look out towards the sea for those
whom next to heaven she loved best. Her foreboding eye had witnessed the
same prognostics of the gale, and, with a heavy heart, she resumed the
mother's watch over her sleeping infant. A fair and beautiful female,
about fifteen years of age, was attending to the duties of the house; a
boy of ten years sat by his mother's side, gazing on her care-marked
countenance; whilst a girl of three years was sharing her supper with a
rough but favourite dog, on the hearth before the fire.

"I must feed poor Dorey, mother," said the little one; "for James told
me to be kind to him. Poor Dorey!" continued she, patting his head, "I
wish James was here."

"You should remember, Mary," replied the mother, "there are also your
father and your grandfather."

"And Edward," added the boy; "I miss him very much; for he used to help
me up the rocks; and I am afraid to scramble along alone."

"All are equally dear to us, William," rejoined the mother; "and all are
equally under the care of Providence. Yes; I trust the Fisherman's
Family is safe."

"Who gave her that name, mother?" inquired William; "you promised to
tell me."

"I did, my child; and, as my heart is heavy, I will now relate to you
how it happened. Your grandfather, in his younger life, was brought up
to expect a genteel competency; for his father was a wealthy ship-owner
at Liverpool. He was sent to sea early, whilst his brother remained at
home to manage the business. But that brother was cruel and treacherous;
he weaned his father's affections from the poor sailor, and got a will
made entirely in his own favour. Your grandfather, not suspecting the
wickedness of his brother, was frequently absent on long voyages; and,
when only in his twentieth year, he married a poor girl, who had no
other recommendation than her beauty of person and integrity of heart.
He married, too, without the sanction of his father, who from that hour
forbad him his presence, and never saw him more--for the angry parent
died a few months afterwards. On arranging his father's affairs, your
grandfather found himself disinherited; and his brother, who had
dissipated a great portion of the property previous to the old man's
dissolution, gathered the residue together and embarked for the East
Indies. But your grandfather was not wholly destitute; he had saved
something handsome to begin life with, and purchased a share of a ship,
of which he obtained the command. Still adversity pressed upon him: his
ship was captured by the enemy, and he returned (for they did not detain
the prisoners then) to England almost penniless. My mother had relations
at St. Ives, and thither the poor sailor and his wife repaired. They
were received with welcome; and he, unwilling to leave my dear mother
for any length of time, commenced his career as a fisherman and a pilot.
Success crowned his labours; and he not only obtained a handsome
maintenance, but was enabled to purchase a vessel of his own. In this
house I was born, and, when I grew up, was married to your father, and
had a family. The old vessel was broken up, and a new one built, which
was called by the name it now bears. Oh, how many anxious hours does
your father pass for the fisherman's family ashore, and how many days of
earnest solicitude do I endure for the Fisherman's Family at sea! But
go, my children, the storm is coming--go to your beds; but first kneel
to the Creator, and humbly implore his guardian care for the poor
mariners."

Heavily passed the night with the apprehensive mother: often did she
approach the dizzy edge of the steep cliff; but no other sounds were
heard besides the continued howling of the tempest and the roaring of
the breakers. Fervently were her petitions offered up before the throne
of Omnipotence; and amidst the appalling demonstrations of Almighty
power, did the creature of his will plead with her Creator. His voice
was heard upon the storm, proclaiming dominion and majesty; but hers
mingled with it, as, in prostration of heart, she earnestly supplicated
mercy.

Morning appeared, but the desired vessel could not be distinguished.
The sea presented one wide sheet of foam, with here and there a dark
object driven like the ocean-weed upon the waters. At the close of the
day, a dismasted ship, with a smack in company, was seen through the dim
haze drifting towards the shore. They were yet several miles distant;
but hope for the ship there was none, unless the gale abated. The
intuitive eye of the mother readily recognized the little bark, that
held, as she supposed, her father, her husband, and her two sons; and
all the several relative bonds were linked more closely round her heart.
Their occupation was manifest--they were waiting to assist fellow
creatures in distress; and the abundant prayer for the safety of all
spontaneously ascended from her lips.

Night veiled them from observation; but the bold seamen of the
neighbourhood, headed by the reverend pastor of the village, as a
magistrate, remained in readiness to act as circumstances should
require. Apprehension sat on many a furrowed countenance, and dark
anticipations filled many a feeling breast. But language would fail to
describe the agony which suspense and fearful agitation wrought in the
mother's heart.

At length, about midnight, the report of a heavy gun echoed among the
rocks, and told that the devoted ship was near at hand: the flash had
pointed out her position, but nothing could yet be seen. The pastor,
with his resolute band of determined boatmen, hastened to the shore:
report followed report; fires were lighted on the rocks, to show that
land was near; but still no object could be discerned.

The storm came more heavily, and vivid lightnings rent the frowning
clouds; then, when the glaring flash threw its stream of awful splendour
on the feathery foam, that fated ship was seen struggling with the
waves. As a last resource she had let go her anchors; and there she lay,
like the soul of the mighty wrestling with despair. Another gun--and yet
another--but help was hopeless. From the shore no assistance could be
given; every attempt to get through the raging surf was useless; and
the brave boatmen were compelled--an unusual circumstance--to be sad
spectators of the scene.

The ship rode heavily, as the long rolling waves came foaming in.
Suddenly a shriek was heard upon the shore--a wild cry: the vessel had
parted her cables, and the streaming lightning showed her careering
towards the rocks with resistless force. Onward she came (as was now
plainly visible) through the hissing foam. Still onward, onward, she
urged her desperate course, till a tremendous crash--a loud
yell--proclaimed that her stout timbers were shattered, and many a
stouter heart was buried in the waves.

The ship had struck on that part of the shore where the rocks were
steepest; and the wreck remained wedged in firmly between two craggy
knolls, not more than one hundred fathoms from perfect safety. But even
that was a fearful space; for the heavy breakers rolled over the sunken
rocks, and dashed with wild fury. Body after body came on the surge, and
were thrown upon the land; but life had fled, and no effort could
restore animation to the mangled and disfigured corpses.

The inhabitants of the adjacent village, young and old, were crowded on
the strand; and amidst the group was the venerable rector. Often, when
the vivid flash illumined the foaming billows, and showed the deck of
the rending vessel, he rushed with his horse towards the spot; but the
barrier was impassable, and the bitter shriek rang upon his tortured
ear. "Oh, that I could die for them!" he exclaimed. "Father of mercies,
stretch forth thine hand and save!" Willingly would he have given his
life for theirs; for he was prepared to meet his God, whilst they would
be hurried into the presence of their Maker without a moment for
repentance.

Morning began to dawn, and dawned in horror; but with its earliest beam
the smack was seen about a mile from the shore, under snug sail, and
apparently in safety. The anxious mother was with the villagers, but
the children remained at the house upon the cliff. Sleepless had been
their night; and at the break of day, the terrified Jane, with William
and the little Mary, stood upon the shelving rock, above the yawning
gulph which had already entombed many of their fellow creatures. They
could see the Fisherman's Family, as the light became more clear; and it
was evidently the intention of those on board to run for the Smugglers'
Gap--a small red flag having been hoisted at the mast-head, to require
the boatmen on shore to hold themselves in readiness to give assistance.

At this moment, whilst the children were standing gazing at the vessel,
the heavens seemed to be rent asunder, and the red blaze of the forked
lightning darted forth: it struck the smack, and masts and sails came
tumbling down in one general wreck. "My father! my father!" shrieked the
horror-stricken Jane, recoiling backward, and grasping her brother round
the neck, as if she feared that he too would be torn away. The little
Mary clung on the other side, and even the poor dog looked with
instinctive dread towards the ocean.

But, though the smack was dismasted, her hull still continued to float;
and every wave drove her nearer to the shore. Oh, what an agonizing
sight was that to the fond mother and her children! The former ran
hurriedly about amongst the boatmen, exhorting and imploring them to use
their best exertions to snatch her relatives from death. Her spirit
seemed to rise in proportion as their peril increased; and she laboured
to forward the preparations which were making as a last effort to rescue
the little crew.

The ship still continued grinding between the rocks, and victim after
victim was hurried into eternity. From portions of the wreck which had
drifted on shore, it was conjectured that she was a free trader from
Calcutta; and the number of hands and passengers were calculated at
seventy. The boatmen had made repeated attempts to get a rope from her,
but all their efforts had failed. At length, part of a mast, with five
individuals clinging to it, was seen to be rent away from the body of
the wreck, and lifted by a mountain surge clear over the craggy rocks.
Another wave came rolling in, but, just before it reached them, it
raised its awful crest, and, with a tremendous roar, like the famished
panther when seizing its prey, dashed furiously upon their heads. They
were seen for a few moments, hurled confusedly amidst the bubbling
eddies, and then disappeared. Once more the shattered mast floated, but
there were now only three, who clung to it with desperate energy as they
neared the shore, and hope of life revived. The next wave was still more
raging than the last, but its fury was spent before it reached the
swimmers; and "They are safe! they are safe!" was shouted from the
shore. The boatmen plied their oars with redoubled strength, and in a
few minutes the three men were hauled into the boat, which immediately
stood for the safest landing-place.

The villagers hurried to the spot, and the anxious mother, hoping to
hear tidings of her family, stood foremost among them, as the boat ran
upon the strand. But who can paint her joy and her terror, her delight
and her agony, when she saw that one of the individuals saved was her
husband! They were soon clasped in each other's arms; but the bitter
recollection that lives infinitely precious to them were still in
jeopardy, with scarcely a hope of rescue, roused them to exertion.
Richard turned to the boat, and assisted an elderly man to land. The
moment the latter touched the ground, he fell upon his knees, and
offered up a thanksgiving to the Creator: he then clung round the neck
of Richard, and blessed him as the instrument of his preservation. "I
should have sunk," said he, "but you supported me: you snatched me from
death, and----but I have power to show my gratitude."

The other man saved was a seaman, who reported the ship to be the
"Isabella," from the East Indies. How many had perished he could not
tell; but there were yet more than half of the crew and nearly the whole
of the passengers on board. By the aid of their glasses, the boatmen
could discern the hapless creatures, as they watched the success of
those who had been saved; and several launched themselves upon the
fickle element, lashed to broken pieces of the wreck. The boats were
again on the alert, and the boatmen had the satisfaction of picking up
all that the billows allowed to come within their reach.

But now the principal attention was devoted to the smack, as she neared
the craggy barriers to security. The old man, with his two grandsons,
and two men, who formed the crew, had been actively engaged in getting
up a boat's mast, on which they hoisted a small sail, so as to give the
vessel steerage-way: and it seemed to answer the required purpose; for
the little bark, with impetuous haste, rushed onward to the Smugglers'
Gap, as if bidding defiance to suspense.

Pale anxiety sat on every countenance. "Is there any hope?" inquired the
rector, addressing a grey-headed veteran, who from infancy had been
inured to the tempest, and had the character of a bold intrepid sailor.
Report made him the associate of a gang of smugglers; but, humane as he
was brave, many a shipwrecked mariner was indebted to Donald Ferguson
for his life. "Is there no hope?" inquired the rector. A look of
melancholy anxiety was the only answer. The rector repeated his
question.

"Sailors never despair, sir," replied Donald; "and if they once get well
in the----but stop; I have no right to disclose to any one, much more to
you."

"Yet," rejoined the rector, "when yon gallant ship has been lost, can so
small a vessel be saved?"

"Have hopes, sir," replied Donald; and then turning away--"Ned!" he
exclaimed to a rough hardy-looking fellow, well drenched with the surf,
who immediately approached him. They whispered together for a few
minutes, and then Ned ran from place to place, selecting the strongest
and most daring of the boatmen for some particular purpose.

"Ned," exclaimed Donald again, "overhaul the hawser down, ship the
capstan-bars, and be all ready. Remember, it is life or death, my
hearty! I myself will hook her on."

"No, no," said Richard, "that shall be my doing; you are old, Donald."

"But not feeble," replied the veteran. "Your anxiety would betray you;
besides, you have a wife and other children, but, if old Donald goes,
nobody will miss him. Do as you are bid, my boy; and now for the marks!"
He waved his hat, and two conspicuous objects were instantly raised at
different distances on the rocks, to act as a guide to those in the
smack where to make their passage.

Who can describe the feelings of the spectators as they looked on with
doubtful apprehension and silent astonishment? The smack was now so
close to the shore, that every one was visible. No bustle or confusion
prevailed: all seemed ready with cool intrepidity to attend to their
several duties. The old man stood stationed at the helm, and, with
steady gaze, kept his eyes fixed on the beacons. Now was she lifted up
to heaven, and borne with amazing rapidity through the outer breakers;
again she sunk, and disappeared between the hollow seas.

"She's gone! she's gone!" exclaimed the rector; but, in an instant, the
vessel again mounted on the topmost wave, and rushed with surprising
swiftness through the foaming surge. At this moment a dreadful broken
sea came raging with all its fury: it burst upon the deck, and seemed to
bury the little craft in the dark abyss. Breathless agonizing fear
filled every heart, and groans and shrieks mingled with the gale. But
again the smack rose, though the helm was now deserted, and the vessel
seemed abandoned to her fate. Once more, however, was hope revived; for
young Edward, with cool determination, ran to the tiller, and directed
her headlong course.

The vessel had reached the secret channel, known only to the illicit
trader: she neared the beach; the sea again struck her, and she was
carried by its force through the inner breakers. A wild shout of joy
arose from the shore, as the smack gained the smooth water, agitated
only by the receding swell; but, at this instant, she struck the ground
and rent in twain, the retiring surge carrying back the shattered
remnants towards the rocks. And now the hardy race of brave boatmen,
reckless of danger, plunged headlong in the waves. Old Donald took the
lead: he grasped the arm of the lad James, and turned towards the shore;
the surf threw them up with violence, and would again have returned them
to the sea, but Donald seized the rope which had been overhauled down,
and kept his firm grasp: in a few seconds more, they were safe on land.
Richard succeeded in saving his father-in-law, aided by the boy Ned, who
swam like a fish, and seemed to triumph in the element. Not a soul was
lost of that little crew; and relatives and friends flocked round,
rejoicing in their deliverance.

The grandfather, with Richard, his wife, and the whole of the
fisherman's family, accompanied by the stranger who had been saved from
the ship, hastened to the cottage on the cliff. They entered the abode
amidst kind congratulations, and the stranger was ushered into the best
apartment. He sat down, blessing his deliverer, and forming schemes, in
his own mind, to testify his gratitude. Suddenly his eyes were rivetted
on a picture that hung suspended over the mantel-piece: it was a
portrait of the unkind father who had disinherited his son, through the
false representations of a still more cruel brother; but it had been
preserved by the old man as the last relic of his family. The stranger
gazed upon it with earnestness, and he then eagerly turned to the aged
fisherman. Their eyes met, and again both looked at the picture. The
stranger covered his face with his hands, and groaned bitterly.

"I do not value the loss of the vessel," said Richard, "so that we all
have met together again. But come, father," he continued, "let us kneel
and offer up our praises to the throne of grace."

"Stop, stop!" cried the stranger convulsively, "my presence would be a
clog upon your prayers. I, too, had a father: that picture was his.
Years have not effaced the remembrance from my mind. And you _must_ be,"
he continued, falling on his knees before the venerable old man, "you
are, my noble-minded, my much-injured brother."

Oh, what a meeting was this! Animosity had long since subsided; and the
word "brother" revived all the attachments of their boyish days.

What need of saying more? they knelt together; and whilst without the
storm raged--within the cottage,

    "The peace of God, beyond expression sweet,
    Fill'd every being humbled at his feet."

They rose, and the stranger--stranger now no longer--was received into
the circle with delight. A man entered the room, announcing that several
of the seamen, who had been saved from the wreck, were waiting outside
the house, to know if they might take shelter in some out-buildings. The
kind-hearted mother would not permit this, but succoured them under the
same roof with her children, and gave them plentiful refreshment. The
stranger went amongst them, and they instantly rose from their repast
with the utmost respect. From them he learned that the whole of the
remaining portion of the crew and passengers had quitted the ship. About
thirty had perished, but the rest, nearly forty in number, were safe on
land. Another man now entered, and addressed the stranger as "Sir
William Russell." Yes! he was great--he was wealthy; and, from that
hour, his influence and his wealth were devoted to the promotion of the
happiness and welfare of the "FISHERMAN'S FAMILY."

[Illustration: decoration]




THE DESERTED VILLAGE;

OR, THE CONFIDING BOY.

BY MRS. HOFLAND.

[Illustration: decoration]


"What will become of me? the sun is going down, the children are weary
and hungry, and I have neither food nor shelter for them; would I had
remained in my own country, and perished among my own kindred."

Such was the exclamation of Janet Ferguson, as she clasped the babes in
her arms closer to her breast, and pressed with deep emotion the hand of
her little Sandy, whose strength was failing, though his spirits were
unsubdued. Like many others, she had been driven from the Highlands of
Scotland, to seek a far distant home in Canada, and until within a few
hours had never repented the step adopted by her excellent husband; but
sudden misfortune had befallen her.

Their dwelling in the New World was chosen in a spot of such singular
beauty, as to compensate for that magnificent scenery remembered so
fondly by all those who are born in the "land of the mountain and the
flood." It was situated within a short distance of the river St.
Lawrence, at that part where it enriches the Richelieu Islands, where
the general temperature is mild, the soil productive, and the advantages
offered by the country concentrated. So profitable had it proved to the
industrious farmer, that he was now gone (with several of his
neighbours), to the great fair at Montreal, for the purpose of selling
grains and furs, which had been partly purchased from the native
Indians.

The inhabitants of this new settlement called their village Benoni,
(child of sorrow,) yet until this day it had little merited the name,
but the arrival of an old man journeying much farther, who had learnt by
chance that a tribe of Indians was on the way to attack them during the
absence of their men, placed all who remained in a state of the utmost
terror. They were out of the line of the roads, had no connection with
the river, at a distance from all neighbours, and ignorant of the way by
which their foe was advancing; but of that foe every one entertained the
most lively terror. A few only of the red men (such they call
themselves) had found their way to Benoni for the purposes of trade, and
from them the women and children held aloof, for they had heard such
terrifying details of the ferocity of this people, their treachery,
cruelty, and even cannibalism, that the bare idea of falling into their
hands was insupportable to them all.

The sad news ran like wildfire from house to house, and the inhabitants
of each ran out, and, impelled by the same fears, soon met in the open
ground, and began to consult on the possibility of saving themselves and
their little ones, for more they could not hope to effect. All their
cattle, furniture, and humble wealth, must be instantly abandoned, and
it was further deemed advisable, that they should separate into small
parties, and hide themselves in the trees and among the rocks, in order
to escape from those merciless savages to whom their homes were
abandoned, and who, in thus dividing them, half accomplished the ruin
they meditated.

Thus situated, Janet wandered forth with her two children, suffering
under such anguish of mind as few even of the unhappy can conceive, for
not only was she bereft in a moment of all the comforts of life, but she
was parted from that beloved husband, whose presence would have consoled
her, and she did not know whether she was not going every moment still
farther from him. In the horror and confusion of the hour, she had
omitted to enquire the route to any settlement, or learn if any of her
neighbours could rejoin each other at a particular spot--in their terror
they had been scattered like a flock of sheep, but they were not blest
with the power of instinct to unite again.

Janet had dragged her weary limbs forward in the darkening twilight,
sometimes looking from side to side in hope of discovering a distant
dwelling, or a safe resting-place, when all at once, upon turning a
projecting knoll, she was startled by the light of a bright fire, around
which were seated a number of Indians, with their squaws (or wives), and
little ones. The sight was in itself so surprising and curious, that
although poor Janet was sensible these were the enemies she dreaded, and
those who were perhaps on the road to destroy her forsaken home, and her
beloved neighbours, she stood for a moment to gaze upon them.

The men were nearly naked, and painted in such a grotesque manner as to
render them objects of horror; for being prepared for an expedition,
their heads were almost covered with vermilion, and their ribs marked
out by broad black stripes, whilst their hair was bristled up in the
midst of the head, so as to increase the look of fierceness natural to
their stern and sedate countenances. The appearance of the women was
much more prepossessing, as they were generally arrayed in cloaks and
trowsers, of blue cloth, which had been purchased at Montreal, and as
they sate behind their husbands, and appeared to wait upon them as
servants, it struck Janet that they were civilized and gentle, but under
severe subjection to the terrible-looking savages before her. Just as
she was turning round, to retrace her steps in silence, her little girl,
who had been slumbering, awoke, and terrified by the blazing light and
the strange objects, uttered a loud shriek, which instantly drew the
attention of the Indians to the alarmed and fugitive mother.

In a few moments Janet and her children were surrounded by the Indians,
and led towards their fire, and since all resistence to their will was
evidently useless, the poor woman very wisely appeared willing to
accompany them, and to throw herself upon their mercy in such a manner,
that if they had indeed any traces of humanity in their dispositions, it
might be called forth in her behalf. For this purpose, she sought
eagerly to still the cries of her affrighted child, by turning its eyes
away from the objects of dread, whilst she whispered to her little boy,
in a voice of cheerfulness, "Sandy, my man, dinna be feared o' the guid
folk around ye; be good-humoured an' civil, and doubt not their
kindness: it is fra them your dear father gets the fine furs an' the
sweet honey, my child."

This little boy was naturally courageous, and habitually obedient; his
father had very wisely taught him to exert his mind (young as he was) by
sustaining certain hardships, and practising certain privations, which
rendered him manly, enterprising, and enduring. Poor Sandy had been
hungry for the last two hours, but he knew his mother could give him no
food, therefore he did not wound her by complaints which were useless.
His feet were sore, but since be could not be carried by her, he would
not grieve her by describing his sufferings; and since he knew she
always told him the truth, and knew what was the best to be done, he
determined to conquer his own fear of the Indians, and rouse himself,
notwithstanding his weakness, to fulfil the wishes she had expressed.

In consequence of this resolution, when they had arrived at the circle
of Indians, he directly went up to the Chief, who was an old man,
seated on a mat, and, after asking his name, he sate down beside him,
and, with an air of confidence, showed him his swollen feet, and
informed him that he was hungry.

The chief, in a few words, but to Sandy's joy they were uttered in
English, informed him that his name was Apaeth-Yaali, or the stranger's
friend, and as such he gave instant orders to his squaw to feed the
mother and her young.

Long stripes of the dried flesh of the reindeer, and the Indian maize,
compounded into delicate cakes, were immediately placed in the hands of
Janet and her famishing babes; and so glad were they to receive
sustenance at a time when nature craved it so importunately, that they
fancied they had never tasted food so sweet, nor met with friends so
kind. The extraordinary gravity of the Indians made Janet afraid of
speaking, least she should offend those whom she desired to propitiate;
but her little boy, refreshed and gladdened, crept closely to the old
warrior, and, with all the endearing confidence of childhood, thus
addressed him, despite of the tremendous appearance he had assumed.

"My good master, Apaeth-Yaali, I am very much obliged to you for my good
supper and the kindness you have shown to my dear mother and little
Janet. I shall always consider you as my friend, and I wish you would
tell me the names of the rest of these warriors."

"The one nearest to thee," replied the warrior, "is called
Split-log--the one now standing near thy mother is Red-jacket. These are
named by thy own people. He who is now advancing to us, is Nico-Mingo."

"And a very good-looking fellow he is," said Sandy, "and though he has
not a British name, I like him as well as any body here."

So saying, little Sandy by a strong effort arose, and ran to the Indian,
who having heard his words, received him kindly, led him to his hut or
wigwam, and gave him the place of repose so necessary for him. The wants
of his mother and her child were also supplied, and, after a night of
profound repose, the worn-out family awoke to find themselves in the
midst of the enemies they had dreaded, and be sensible not only that
they were uninjured, but most hospitably entertained.

Hour after hour, and day after day, passed on for the following week,
and Janet continued as if spell-bound with the Indians, who laid no
injunctions on her will, but continued to supply herself and children
with food, and to receive her attention to their own babes, and
especially her kindness to their sick, with much gratitude, though few
words passed on either side. Janet still in great awe, and considering
herself a prisoner, dared not rouse their anger by attempting to escape,
which was not likely to succeed, and even if it should, "might she not
meet with some other tribe who were less kind and civilized than these?"

In the mean time Sandy made himself perfectly at home amongst them--he
joined the women in weaving mats, the men in fishing, listened with
profound attention when any of the orators made a speech, though he
could not understand more than half of it, and when he was permitted,
sung them the songs of his country, and taught their children the
national dance. His good humour, frankness, and courage, so won the
heart of Nico-Mingo, that he offered to adopt him as his own son, to
clothe him in the finest skins, tattoo his whole body with stars and
flowers, feed him with the best venison and the purest maize, and
finally to instruct him how to scalp his enemies, and endure their
utmost torture, like the "son of the brave."

To this generous offer, the boy replied as far as he was able, in the
language adopted by the people amongst whom he was placed.

"Warrior, you have given me food when I was famishing, and rest when I
was weary. I love you, and I desire to handle the tomahawk like an
Indian, and to brave danger as the son of a Chief; but, like you, I love
truth also, and it compels me to say that I desire to see my dear
father, and to live in my own home above all other enjoyments."

"Thou hast well spoken," said the old chief Apaeth-Yaali.

Nico-Mingo and the rest were silent, but there were no symptoms of anger
in their manners, and when Janet retired for the night as usual, she did
so under the belief that they had forgiven the honest assertion of her
little Sandy, though they might not grant the request which was couched
in it, of restoring him to his father.

Soon after the sun arose, Janet and her children were awakened by the
voice of Nico-Mingo, who thus addressed his sleepy little companion:--

"Son of my love, arise, behold a journey is before thee."

They all instantly arose, and followed their conductor, who proceeded
with the customary silence of this extraordinary people, until Sandy
gave token of weariness, by taking hold of the hand of his guide, and
casting a look of enquiry towards the wallet girded round his waist. The
Chief comprehended his wants, and sitting down on the first green sward
near them, he presented each of the party with sufficient food for
breakfast--the remainder he packed up with care, for the Indians are
always frugal, (having great difficulty in supplying their wants,) and
this he placed on the arm of Sandy, after which they recommenced their
journey.

Janet had for some time conceived that the kind-hearted savage was
leading them towards Montreal, but as that was a distance of at least
sixty miles, she could not suppose one apparently so considerate would
expect that she could walk all the way, or that he would dismiss them in
a district where there were apparently neither roads nor dwellings, with
only such provision as so little a boy could carry. Still she dreaded
making enquiries and giving offence, and was endeavouring to render
Sandy the medium of learning their guide's intentions, when he suddenly
stopped, and, after drawing the boy closely towards his bosom, thus
spoke:

"To the left of that little mountain, you will find the blue stream
which waters your own dear village of Benoni. Return to it, and remain
in peace, for thy father even now is on his way thither in alarm and
sorrow. Sandy, take thou the last embrace of him whom thou hast loved
and trusted, and who for thy sake promises safety to thy people."

"Do not go--do not leave us," cried the boy, "come to our cottage and
eat bread, dear Nico-Mingo; my father will give you ale and beef, my
mother will knit gloves and stockings for you, and I--Ah! I will love
you and sing to you, and call you my Indian daddy."

At this moment, Janet, thankful for all she had been delivered from, not
less than all she had received, warmly seconded her son, and with tears
protested that neither he nor his tribe should ever visit Benoni without
receiving a Christian welcome.

Nico-Mingo answered, "I believe thee, because thy child did not mistrust
us; therefore, when the leafs falls, and the cold winds blow, I will
visit the door of thy husband's wigwam."

The Indian departed, and the steps of the exiles were quickened, until
they reached the clear stream, on the banks of which they joyfully
pursued their way, and by the hour of noon were thankfully sheltered in
Benoni, which but for Sandy's courage and obedience, would now have been
a heap of ashes. They found several fugitives returned, who were ready
to expire with terror at the sound of a human voice, but had yet been
driven by want to re-enter their dwellings. Others had pursued the path
to Montreal, and were bringing thence succour which was no longer
wanted. With the earliest of these Sandy Ferguson appeared, and with a
joy the wretched can alone appreciate, found unharmed, and happy, the
beloved wife and children whom he believed to have perished.

When peace and plenty were restored, when the harvest had been gathered,
the fuel stacked, and the leaves were falling, Sandy said, "My new daddy
will come soon," and his prophecy was fulfilled, for as Ferguson was
returning late one night from his labour, he found a red man seated on
the outside of his cottage door.

"What do you want, friend?" said Sandy, thinking him one of the traders
in skins whom he had formerly dealt with.

"I come to smoke the calamut of peace with the pale man who is father to
little Sandy."

"Then welcome, thrice welcome, brave Nico-Mingo," said the farmer, as he
led him into his house, where he was welcomed with ardour by little
Sandy and his mother, the former exclaiming, "I knew he would come--you
know I told you he would come--the red men always speak truth, and
Nico-Mingo is the best of them all."

"Son," said the Chief, "I come to thee, and to thy people, whom thou
savedst by thy confidence once, and mayest again save, if they will,
like thee and thy house, be simple and sincere."

"I will answer for all Benoni," said Sandy.

"And I will confirm his words," said the father.

The Indian ate his supper, smoked his reed, and lay down on the mat
provided for him, in token of reliance on this promise, and the next
morning opened a treaty of commerce which eventually benefited alike the
settlement and the tribe, and which, at the instance of this powerful
chieftain, was named, "The Treaty of the Confiding Boy."

[Illustration: decoration]




THE BEAR OF ANDERNACH.

BY W. H. HARRISON.

[Illustration: decoration]


On the banks of the majestic Rhine, between Bonn and Coblentz, stands
the ancient town of Andernach, a place of some note in the times of the
Romans, and celebrated, in modern days, for the grandeur and picturesque
beauty of the surrounding scenery.

At the period to which this narrative refers, the laws by which society
professed to be governed were loosely framed and badly administered; and
unless a man, who required justice of his neighbour, could demand it
with some score or two of armed attendants at his back, his chances of
obtaining it were but slender. Among other evils resulting from such a
state of things, the aggressions of might against right were formidably
frequent; and numerous bands of robbers were accustomed to establish
themselves in the ruined castles on the heights, from which it was
difficult to dislodge them, and whence they made descents upon the
surrounding country, spreading dismay and desolation wherever they went.

The most dreaded of these hordes was a band commanded by a man whose
brutal manners and ferocious disposition had procured for him the
_sobriquet_ of "The Bear of Andernach;" a name which struck such terror
into the inhabitants of the district, that it became a by-word with
which silly nurses were wont to frighten refractory children into
obedience. Indeed, the incursions of these banditti were so daring and
desperate, that none but those powerful nobles who could shut themselves
up in their strongly-fortified castles were secure from attack. The
strong-hold of this renowned but lawless chieftain was on the top of a
high mountain, which, being very precipitous on one side, and artfully
fortified on the other, was inaccessible, except by one path. This
avenue, or pass, was never without a sentinel, who, from his commanding
situation, was enabled to descry the approach of strangers at a great
distance, and, consequently, to summon his comrades to the defence of
their fortress before the arrival of an enemy.

About a mile from the town of Andernach, and on a slight eminence
commanding a view of the Rhine, stood the castle of Baron Stormenbach, a
nobleman of considerable wealth, who had retired from a short but active
and honourable career of military duty, to enjoy himself in the bosom of
his family, which consisted of his accomplished and amiable wife, and
the survivor of their three daughters. Agnes Stormenbach was, at that
period, in her eighth year,--a pretty little fair-haired blue-eyed girl,
as merry as a grasshopper, who returned the doting fondness of her
parents with all the ardour of an affectionate and tender heart. She was
clever, generous, and good-tempered, and kind and obliging to every one
about her, down to the humblest domestic of the household; but, among
her many virtues, she had one fault, and that was a grievous one. It
arose out of the volatility of her character, and consisted in
this;--that, although she listened to the injunctions of her parents
with the sincerest intention of obeying them, her resolutions frequently
yielded to the first temptation that crossed her path.

The grounds within the walls of the baron's castle were very spacious,
and, among them, was a grass-plot or lawn, richly bordered by flowers
and shrubs, in which Agnes was wont to play for hours together by
herself, and which communicated with the high road by a sort of
wicket-gate, or postern. Now, this gate, although it might be opened by
a child from within, was perfectly secure from intruders without. Agnes
had been repeatedly and earnestly cautioned by the baron and his lady
from venturing beyond this barrier; and, never having been particularly
tempted to transgress the injunction, she continued to observe it for
some time. One fine summer morning, however, Agnes was amusing herself,
as usual, in her favourite play-ground, when, chancing to look through
the wicket, she perceived some children of the village gathering wild
flowers on a bank on the opposite side of the road, which wound under
the castle wall; and, although the flowers in her own garden were
infinitely finer, and in much greater profusion and variety than those
which the rustic girls were culling, she felt an irresistible desire to
join their party.

Like many other thoughtless little girls, whom it is so difficult to
persuade that those who have lived much longer in the world must know
better than themselves, Agnes reasoned upon the commands of her parents
instead of obeying them. "Those little children," said she to herself,
"are not doing any harm, and, if they were in any danger, it is not
likely that their parents would allow them to play there; therefore, if
it is safe for them, it must surely be safe for me; and perhaps, after
all, mamma was only afraid I should spoil my frock, which, as the day is
so fine and dry, I shall certainly not do." Accordingly, although not
without some smitings of conscience, she drew the bolt of the wicket,
and joined the little villagers, who joyfully received this accession to
their playmates, presenting her with the choicest of their flowers, and
vying with each other in doing homage to the daughter of so great a man
as the baron.

The vanity of Agnes was gratified by these marks of deference, and she
was in high good-humour with herself and everyone around her. It is but
fair, however, to mention that her manners were always kind and
conciliating towards her inferiors, she having, in this respect,
profited by the example of her amiable parents. On a sudden, however,
there was heard a trampling of horses, and, the next instant, there was
a scream from the villagers, who, with one voice, cried, "The Bear of
Andernach! The Bear of Andernach!" and fled in every direction, while
poor Agnes, who was almost paralysed by fear at the mention of the
dreaded name, was seized by one of the party, who placed her before him
on his saddle, and gallopped away with her to the mountains, before the
inmates of the castle could be summoned to attempt her rescue.

The baron and baroness were, of course, overwhelmed by consternation and
sorrow when the melancholy tidings were brought to them, particularly as
they well knew that, without the combination of such a force as the
contrariety of interests among the neighbouring feudal barons rendered
it difficult, if not impossible, to assemble, any attempt to recover
their lost darling by dint of arms would be worse than useless. Nor was
their affliction alleviated when, on the following morning, they found a
billet, which, enveloping a stone, had been thrown through an open
casement of the castle, purporting that, unless a ransom, to an amount
infinitely above what the baron could raise, were paid within three
days, the head of his daughter should be sent to him as a memento of the
robbers' revenge for some act of summary justice which he had done upon
a member of their community.

In the mean time, Agnes was hurried away by the robbers, who halted not
until they had reached their strong-hold at the top of the mountain,
where, after having been nearly shaken to pieces, she was taken from the
horse by a most ferocious-looking man, with huge black whiskers, and a
hideous scar upon his forehead--the Bear of Andernach himself--and
conveyed to a dark subterranean cell or dungeon, the only access to
which was by a rope ladder from a small aperture at the top, which
appeared to have been made through the grass-grown courtyard of the
ruin. The robber gave no reply to her earnest entreaties to be restored
to her parents, but shook her roughly off, and departed, taking care to
draw up the ladder after him.

Poor Agnes, on finding herself alone in this horrid chamber, burst into
a fit of uncontrollable grief; but, if she wept bitterly at the
consequences of her disobedience, it is but justice to say that she wept
also from the sense of it, as well as for the anguish which she well
knew it must have occasioned to her affectionate and doting parents.
Repentance, although it cannot atone for our errors, is one of the
means which have been mercifully pointed out to us of obtaining
forgiveness, and Agnes' next impulse was to fling herself upon her
knees, and implore the assistance of that Power, to whom her parents'
pious instructions had taught her to commend herself, as to "a very
present help in time of trouble."

The night came, however, but brought no deliverance; the morning dawned,
and she was still a prisoner; she, who had been accustomed to repose
upon a bed of down, to be fed on the choicest viands, and to be waited
upon with the most assiduous attention, found herself alone upon the
cold damp floor of a miserable dungeon, with a loaf of coarse bread and
a pitcher of water by her side.

The birds were singing merrily on the trees that grew over her
prison-house, and, as she contrasted their liberty with her own loss of
it, her grief was augmented, and she gave vent to her feelings in
another flood of tears. On a sudden, she perceived the dungeon grow
considerably darker, and, although fearing to encounter the forbidding
visage of the Bear of Andernach, or one of his ferocious followers, she
ventured to lift her eyes towards the aperture, and, to her surprise,
beheld the features of a beautiful boy, about her own age, who called
out to her,--"Little girl, little girl, why do you cry so?"

"Because," was the reply, "they have shut me up in this dark cellar, and
I can't get out."

"Then it was very wicked of them to do so," rejoined the little
stranger; "for I am sure you look like a good little girl, and my poor
mamma used to say that nasty dark hole was only made to put naughty
children into."

"O yes, I have been a very naughty girl indeed," said Agnes; "for I did
not mind what my papa and mamma told me, but went out of the wicket gate
of the castle this morning to play with some of the children of the
village on the flower bank, when those frightful-looking men came and
carried me away, and shut me up as you see. But, indeed, indeed, little
boy, if you will ask your mamma to come and let me out, I will never
disobey my parents again--indeed I will not."

"Ah!" replied the little fellow, sorrowfully, "my poor mamma died a
great many weeks ago, and they have buried her down by the chapel there,
in the valley. I did cry so when she could not speak to me any more, and
call me her dear Arthur; but the priest says she is happy now, and I am
sure she was not happy then; for she would weep so, and wished so much
to get away from this nasty old castle, but that naughty ugly Wolfgang
would not let her. He wants me to call him papa, but I won't though; for
my mamma said he is not, and I won't have him for a papa."

Agnes, continuing to look up towards the mouth of the dungeon, espied a
portion of the ladder by which her captor had descended with her, when
she cried out to her little visiter--"O! do pray let that ladder down
again, I could get out then; I know I could!"

"Ay," was his reply; "but you don't know that there is that wicked Otto
guarding the pass down there, and he would soon carry you back again,
and perhaps beat you, as he has done me many a time. Ah! there he is,"
continued Arthur, peeping over the ruined wall; "how cross he looks! I
wish he'd go away, or fall sleep; I'd soon show you the road down the
mountain. And there's his leather bottle too: I've heard them say he'd
go any where after his bottle--let's try."

So saying, the little fellow, snatching up a hazel rod with which he had
been playing, crept softly along the ruins, until he got within a few
feet of the robber, and, concealing himself behind a projecting rock,
stretched forth his stick, and unperceived, set the bottle rolling into
a hollow, which the owner could reach only by making a _dtour_ of
several hundred yards, by a difficult and somewhat dangerous path.

The sentinel, grumbling at the circumstance, without detecting the
cause, cast a sharp look down the pass, to satisfy himself that no one
could reach his post from below before his return, and set off in quest
of his bottle.

Arthur, full of exultation at the success of his experiment, hastened
back to the prisoner, lowered the rope ladder, with the use of which he
was familiar, and assisted Agnes in ascending it. No sooner was she set
at liberty than, hand in hand, they ran off as fast as their little legs
could carry them, and succeeded in passing the post of the sentinel some
time before he could regain it; and it was not until they had arrived
almost at the foot of the mountain that he discovered their flight.
Firing his carbine, less, perhaps, with a view of injuring them, than of
alarming a party of his comrades who were carousing in a remote part of
the ruins, he hurried back for his horse, and a detachment was,
consequently, soon in pursuit of the fugitives.

The latter, however, having once gained the valley, were enabled to
proceed in a much straighter line than their pursuers, who, being
mounted, were impeded by banks and fences, which the children could
scramble over. They had already arrived within sight of the castle of
Agnes' parents, and she was exulting in the prospect, when a sudden
turn in their path brought them to the brink of a rivulet, which was too
deep for them to ford. They simultaneously uttered a cry of terror and
disappointment, and, casting a fearful glance behind them, perceived
their pursuers, four in number, within a hundred yards of them.

At that instant a party of horsemen gallopped up to the opposite bank of
the rivulet, and Agnes, immediately recognising the baron as their
leader, cried out, in an agony of terror, "O papa! papa! save me! save
me!" The troop, who were superior in force to the banditti, dashed their
horses into the stream, and, gaining the other bank, soon placed
themselves between the fugitives and their pursuers, who, disappointed
of their prey, scampered back to their strong-hold, to endure, as they
best could, the reproaches of their commander for their want of
vigilance.

My young readers will more easily imagine than I can describe to them
the joy of the baron and his lady at the recovery of their daughter;
and it is scarcely necessary for me to add, that they not only received
little Arthur under their immediate protection, but took care of his
future fortunes, justly considering themselves indebted to him for the
restoration of their lost treasure.

Nor was the lesson lost upon Agnes, who, from that hour, added to her
virtues that of implicit obedience, not only to the commands, but to the
slightest wish of her affectionate parents.

My dear young friends! for whose instruction, and not amusement only,
this story has been written, let not the moral it is intended to convey
be addressed to you in vain; but learn from it the sinfulness of filial
disobedience--a crime which, as far as my observation has gone, is more
frequently punished in this life than any other offence not cognizable
by the laws of man. Learn also, that the ears of our heavenly Father are
ever open to the prayers of those who call upon him "in spirit and in
truth;" and that he is able to work out our deliverance in
circumstances apparently the most desperate, and oftentimes by means, to
our fallible judgments, most inadequate to the end.

[Illustration: decoration]




GOING TO MARKET.

BY JAMES BIRD.

[Illustration: decoration]


Every one who had seen, admired the beautiful cottage of Dame Ashford.
It was the abode of cheerful piety, and the home of content and
happiness.

The dame was sitting in her ancient chair, and beside her stood her
daughter, whose husband was pursuing his daily employment in the fields,
while little Amy, with a basket upon her arm, her head decorated with
her "Sunday bonnet," and her shoulders arrayed in the very _beau idal_
of dotted tippets, was listening to the manifold injunctions which her
grandmother was giving her respecting sundry commissions with which Amy
was intrusted, for the exemplification of her talents during this, her
first essay at "Going to Market."

As her mother was to accompany her, Amy was confident of success, and
this was observable in the placid smile that played around her lips, as
she listened to the praises, the cautions, and the oft-repeated
"Recollect, Amy!" of her kind-hearted grandmother. Her little brother
Tom was busily employed in tying a cord around the neck of his favourite
Shock, who, with great complacency, and with much serious canine
submission in his countenance, awaited the commands of his juvenile
master, without even once deigning to turn his eye upon his agile
playmate, and sometimes teazing companion, _Mynheer Grimalkin_, who sat
curled up in a half-dreaming insensibility, at the foot of the dame's
chair, with all the gravity of a bearded Mussulman.

Dame Ashford doated upon her grandchildren, and prided herself upon
being Amy's instructress: she was, moreover, not a little vain of her
"acquirements;" for she could, as she had often affirmed, read "The
Pilgrim's Progress" without spelling the words, and knew the first six
pages of "Fenning's Universal Spelling-book" by rote. Besides, she had
worked a sampler when at school, and had stitched "Good King Charles's
Rules" upon the superficies of a chintz bed-curtain.

"Recollect, Amy," she said to her granddaughter; "recollect _all_ the
little things I have told you--when in the town keep close by the side
of your mother, and"--here the old lady assumed an air of proud secrecy,
and, bending to the ear of the little girl, whispered softly,
"and--don't forget the two ounces of _best_ Scotch snuff! You can buy
it, Amy, of Pinch, at the corner of Market-street." To this important
commission Amy promised to pay proper attention, and, with her mother,
was soon on the road towards the county town, with a heart light and
happy, the certain result of an amiable disposition, and of a constant
willingness to obey her parents, and "all that were put in authority
over her."

Little Amy and her mother had arranged their various purchases, and
accomplished the principal object of their "Going to Market," and the
former had seen all the most attractive objects which a market-town
presents for the juvenile eye to wonder at, when Amy's mother proposed
that they should immediately pursue their way homewards. "I have not
bought Tom any thing yet," said Amy; "I love Tom, and _must_ buy him
something." Her mother, having commended the pleasing proof which Amy
had given of her affection for her brother, suggested that she should
purchase Tom something which might prove useful to him. _"Useful!"_
rejoined Amy; "I will buy him a _pretty_ thing." "My dear, that which is
pretty is not always useful," replied her mother, accompanying this
remark with a little proper advice upon the necessity of observing this
distinction; but Amy either did not, or was unwilling to, comprehend the
difference. "Why, mother, what a pretty doll I have--what a pretty whip
Tom has--and what a pretty snuff-box my grandmother has!" "And in what
consists the usefulness of these things, Amy? You nurse your doll--Tom
whips the cats--and your grandmother takes snuff!" At this forcible,
though somewhat homely, illustration, Amy turned her blue eyes timidly
upon the ground, and, although she was unable exactly to understand the
distinction between the _pretty_ and the _useful_, or to comprehend why
the object which possessed one of these qualities should not necessarily
possess the other, she was still determined that the present which she
intended for Tom should partake largely of the former attractive
property.

As the child was about requesting permission to step into a neat-looking
shop, situated near the spot where her mother and she were standing,
their landlord and neighbour, Launcelot Lovechild, Esq., patted Amy
gently upon the shoulder, took her hand, and led her silently into the
shop. Her mother, after giving her child an injunction to wait a few
minutes for her there, retired to arrange certain necessary
preliminaries for her departure homeward.

A short time only elapsed before Amy beheld her mother returning. The
little girl was already on the steps of the shop door, with a small
packet in her hand, which she displayed with evident triumph. "A present
for Tom!--a present for Tom!" "And what have you purchased, Amy?"
inquired her mother. "I do not know--the gentleman gave it to _me_--but
I shall give it to Tom--I love Tom!" The heart of the affectionate
mother glowed with emotion when she heard her child's artless expression
of her sisterly affection; while she imagined, from the size of the
carefully packed parcel, that it was composed of a "_Humphy[4] and
Mendoza_," as the country-people used to call the thick, and--to speak
like a _bibliopole_--24mo gingerbread cakes, which were formerly
impressed with the two figures of the above celebrated pugilists; and
which were often so temptingly exhibited to our juvenile eyes, and so
lovingly pressed to our lips--alas! how many summers ago!

"I dare say, Amy, you have something there which is neither pretty nor
useful," said her mother. Poor Amy scarcely replied; for the joy which
she anticipated of adding to her brother's happiness was so great, that
she repeatedly urged her mother to stimulate the short ambling of her
pony to a respectable trot, that they might the sooner arrive at their
cottage.

They soon beheld their humble but happy dwelling, glittering through the
foliage of the trees, that gleamed in the reflection of a setting sun,
whose day's pilgrimage had been one of unclouded brightness. They found
Tom at the door, holding Shock by the cord which he had affixed to the
dog's collar; and Amy, having first kissed her grandmother and given the
dame an account of her market speculations, proposed an immediate
inspection of her packet, which was examined with all due formality,
and, to their surprise, it exhibited a small but elegant volume. "This
is pretty, however, if it be not useful!" exclaimed Amy's mother. When
Dame Ashford beheld the book, she felt that a subject presented itself
which would afford her an opportunity of displaying the depth of her
erudition, and the extent of her important reading, which had not been
confined, she asserted, to the "History of the Wars," nor to "The Seven
Champions of Chistendom," every word of which she believed to be
literally true.

"What book have you there, my dear?" asked the old lady. Amy, though not
a proficient in reading, was desirous of embracing every opportunity to
learn; and feeling proud of exhibiting her power over the twenty-six
giants of the alphabet, she gazed delighted upon the beautiful cover of
the volume, and began to spell the title, while her grandmother listened
with the profound look of a philosopher.

Amy commenced--"J, U, _Ju_." "O!" exclaimed Dame Ashford, "something
about the _Jews_; truly, they have long been a despised and persecuted
race--go on, Amy." "V, E, _ve_, N, I, L, E, _nile_." "Ay, ay," said her
grandmother interrupting her; "I well remember the battle of the
_Nile_--poor Nelson!--he made the French dance to a new tune there! go
on, Amy, dear." "F, O, R, G, E, T, _Forget_." "No, no!" said the old
lady quickly, "I don't forget it--that battle was fought on the first
day of August, 1798--Nelson took nine ships from our enemy and burnt
two--poor fellow! go on, Amy, I love to hear of those beautiful
sea-fights!" Amy obeyed--"M, E, N, O, T." "_Menot!_" exclaimed her
mother, "let _me_ look at the book, Amy. Yes! I see now! JUVENILE FORGET
ME NOT. What a beautiful present Mr. Lovechild has given you! Indeed,
Amy," she continued, glancing her eye over the contents of the volume,
"this appears both _pretty_ and _useful_. I will read you all the nice
stories in it, which I hope you will soon be able to do yourself; and
remember, my dear, that whenever we see the _beautiful_ and the _useful_
united, they will always add both to our delight and our improvement."

[Illustration: decoration]




THE YOUTHFUL PARTNERS.

BY MISS JANE STRICKLAND.

[Illustration: decoration]


    Let us all have one purse.--Proverbs i. 14.


"Sister Ellen, we have just received our allowance," said George
Hamilton: "suppose we put our money together, and have only one purse
between us."

"So we will," replied Ellen, "and resolve, in future, to make useful
purchases, such as books, and work-boxes, and cottons, and tapes."

"And portraits of celebrated characters," returned George; "and if
_they_ are too expensive for our _pocket_, their images shall adorn our
playroom mantel-piece."

"You are quite determined, I see, brother, by your saying our pocket,
instead of our pockets," said Ellen, laughing. "Well, so am I. Pray how
much have we got between us? We have just received a quarter's
allowance from papa, who generously advanced it from twenty shillings
a-year to twenty-four shillings. Well, six and six make twelve."

"Grand-papa gave us a crown a-piece at Christmas, and Aunt Catherine did
the same, of which we have only spent a shilling each. Come, we will
reckon. Oh, thirty shillings! If we had not laid out those two shillings
in sweetmeats, we should have mustered one pound twelve between us,"
replied George. "Why, Ellen, we never were so rich in all our lives."

"But who is to keep the purse?" asked Ellen, thoughtfully.

"Why, it shall change owners every week; and, as I am the elder, I will
be banker till Monday next."

"So it will be the firm of George and Ellen. How droll _Ellen and Co._
will look, when we enter our expenses in a memorandum book. Papa,"
continued the young lady, "George and I are going to have but one purse
between us in future."

"My dear children, you had better remain as you were; for, as your
tastes are very different, I fear you will not unite your interests with
your money, and will, consequently, fall out."

"But we never quarrel, papa; we love each other too well for that,"
replied the brother and sister, looking tenderly at each other.

Papa felt doubtful, it was evident, whether their friendship would stand
the test; but, as he never interfered in the management or expenditure
of their pocket-money, the juvenile partners put their joint stock into
one purse, of which George, for the present, was to be the keeper.

That very day an image-man came to the door, and George and Ellen
expended three shillings of their money in the purchase of busts of the
Duke of Wellington and the Princess Charlotte, which they placed upon
the mantel-piece with mutual satisfaction.

"Papa, you were mistaken in thinking we should fall out," cried the
partners: "we are still as loving as doves."

"I hope this harmony will continue, my dears," replied Mr. Hamilton;
"but, remember, your partnership is scarcely of a day's standing: I
shall be a better judge by the end of the week."

The following Saturday was a day of trial to the juvenile firm. Mr.
Hamilton had occasion to attend an auction in the neighbourhood, and, at
George's earnest entreaties, agreed to make him his companion. Things
were going "dirt cheap," to use the phrase of the auctioneer; but it was
a furniture auction, and chairs and tables were not in the compass of
the united purse. Regard for Ellen's interests only prevented George
from bidding for a set of fire-irons, that even papa said were worth
double the money given for them. The next lot consisted of a pair of
bellows, an iron tea-kettle, and three spoons of the same useful metal,
all absolutely going for three shillings. Struck with the singular
cheapness of these articles, George pulled his father by the sleeve;
but Mr. Hamilton was engaged in conversation with a friend, and did not
attend to the hint. George nodded to the auctioneer, and the lot was
knocked down to him. The sound of his son's name recalled Mr. Hamilton's
attention to what was going on.

"So you have made a purchase, I find, George," said he, surveying the
lot with a look of surprise.

"Yes, papa; all these useful articles for three shillings and
threepence," replied George, unconsciously adopting the pompous manner
of the auctioneer.

"I hope you will find them so, George; but what use you can have for
bellows, and kettles, and spoons, I cannot even guess."

"But they are so cheap: mamma gave three shillings for a pair of bellows
only the other day, papa."

"Then she has no occasion for these, George," replied his father: "I
find nothing comes cheap unless its services are required."

George thought his mamma would gladly take the lot at a trifling
advance; for, even if the bellows were not wanting, the iron tea-kettle
and spoons would find in her a purchaser. But Ellen would naturally
think he ought to lay out something on her account: however, for some
time nothing was put up that appeared likely to suit her. At length, at
the close of the sale, the following miscellaneous articles were
submitted to the hammer:--a baby-house, a bundle of old almanacks, a
"Ready Reckoner," a pair of soiled card-cases, a bag of shot, three
gun-flints, a small watering-pot, several netting-needles and
knitting-pins. A general laugh followed the auctioneer's enumeration of
this his last lot.

"Some of these things will be of no use to Ellen; but then, the
baby-house will suit her doll, and the knitting-pins and netting-needles
are all in a girl's way, and I know she wants the small red watering-pot
for her garden: so I think I shall bid." And George did bid: a slight
competition followed; for some person run him, out of mischief, and
finally left George the master of the whole lot at five shillings and
ninepence. Ellen's partner certainly felt some misgiving as he paid down
the amount of his purchases, and half repented of having expended nine
shillings in things which they could have done very well without. "But
Ellen must set the baby-house against the first lot," thought he, as he
delivered his goods to the footman to be carried home.

When Mr. Hamilton and his son entered the sitting-room, they found Mrs.
Hamilton examining the articles, as John held them in his hand.

"My dear love," said the lady, addressing her husband, "what did you
give for these things?"

"You must ask George," replied he, laughing; "they are his purchases,
not mine: they belong to him."

"To George!" repeated Ellen, in a state of alarm: "have you been laying
out our money in an old leaky tea-kettle, a pair of bellows with a hole
through the leathers, and three odious iron spoons?"

George looked disconcerted.--"I did not know the articles were damaged,"
answered he: "the auctioneer said they were as good as new, and as cheap
as dirt: however, they only cost three shillings and threepence."

"Oh, extravagance!" sighed Ellen: "besides, if they had been good ones,
of what use would they have been to us?"

"Well, but the sundries are all in your way; and if I bought the first
lot to please myself, dear Ellen, the last I purchased entirely on your
account."

"A bag of shot, three gun-flints, a bundle of old almanacks, and a pair
of soiled card-cases, are likely to prove very useful to me!" remarked
Ellen, pouting.

"Dear Ellen, I was obliged to buy these things, because your baby-house,
and netting-needles, and knitting-pins, were in the same lot."

"My baby-house, sir, and netting-needles, and knitting-pins!" retorted
Ellen, angrily: "I have not played with a doll these three years, and
your fine needles and pins are as thick as skewers, and covered with
rust,--in short, good for nothing."

"Well, Ellen, I was mistaken about the doll, and you know boys are no
judges of pins and needles; but you really wanted the watering-pot."

"But this has no rose: O George! George!" The pathetic tone in which
Ellen uttered her brother's name overcame the gravity of both her
parents. "How much of our money have you spent to-day?" continued she,
after a pause.

"Nine shillings in all," was his answer.

"Nine shillings! in an old leaky tea-kettle, a pair of bellows that will
not blow the fire, three hateful iron spoons, a worthless baby-house, a
bundle of old almanacks, a pair of soiled card-cases, a roseless
watering-pot, a set of rusty netting-needles and bent knitting-pins, a
'Ready Reckoner,' a----"

"I am sure the last article was quite superfluous," remarked Mr.
Hamilton, laughing:--"Ellen, you have enumerated all these bargains, I
think."

"Fortunately for me, George's week expires to-morrow," said Ellen: "I am
sure I shall not spend the money so foolishly."

Ellen's parents were not quite so certain on this head as she appeared
to be. However, the following Monday she was put in possession of the
purse, according to the original agreement. A few days afterwards a
Persian cat was offered for sale; and Ellen, who was fond of pets, gave
half-a-sovereign for this elegant animal. Now, this was a large sum to
expend at once, and her mamma told her so; but Ellen was so taken with
her new favourite, that she hardly considered her dear. When George came
in from his ride, the young lady displayed her pet with looks that
demanded his admiration. To her great mortification, he turned away his
head with an air of aversion, and retreated to the other end of the
room.

"Now, dear George, do come and pat my pretty puss: one would think you
were afraid of her claws," said Ellen.

"Why do you ask me, Ellen, when you know how I dislike cats, and that
mamma never keeps one on my account?"

"Oh yes! and the pretty wax fruit my aunt Catherine gave me was devoured
by mice, in consequence of your groundless dislike to those useful
creatures, cats," rejoined Ellen. "Indeed I forgot your antipathy, or,
perhaps, I should not have bought Selima. Still, dear George, the poor
pusses you hate are not at all like this fair-skinned blue-eyed puss,
whose coat looks as if it were made of floss-silk."

"I hate all the feline species," replied he, "whether green-eyed or
blue-eyed, tortoise-shell, cypress-grey, sandy, or black; though, I
confess, my hatred to white grimalkins is greater than to all the rest.
Pray send her out of the room: I know you have only borrowed her to
teaze me."

"Borrowed her, George!" repeated Ellen: "I gave half-a-sovereign for
her not two hours since."

"Half-a-sovereign, Ellen! What right had you to spend my money in buying
such a worthless beast?"

"Pray don't call my pretty Selima such a rude name: an animal, or a
quadruped, would sound much better in your lips, I am sure. However Mr.
George, you need not reproach me with laying out your money to
disadvantage: remember the auction, and the bargains you bought there,"
added Ellen, pouting.

George was silenced; and Ellen remained in quiet possession of the purse
till the end of the week. The following Tuesday, George brought home
from a neighbouring town two plaster casts, which he showed Ellen with
some pride.

"I don't like them at all, George," said she. "Pray who are they, and
what did they cost?"

"Only half-a-crown," replied he; "but, Ellen, you look at them as if you
did not know them. They are Pitt and Fox. I have ordered several other
distinguished characters, who are not yet unpacked."

"We have images enow," returned Ellen; "and I cannot stand your
extravagance any longer, Mr. George."

"Extravagance, Miss Ellen! remember the Persian cat, as you choose to
call your white grimalkin."

"You forget the auction, Mr. George," retorted Ellen, angrily.

High words would probably have followed this sharp rejoinder, if their
parents had not interposed to prevent a quarrel between the juvenile
partners. "My dear children," said Mr. Hamilton, "this scheme has ended,
as I thought it would, in mutual discontent. I think you had better
dissolve partnership."

George and Ellen eagerly assented to this proposition; and Mrs. Hamilton
agreed to divide the contents of the purse between them.

"You have expended, my dears, in the course of a fortnight," remarked
Mr. Hamilton, "twenty-four shillings and sixpence, in useless trifles,
to your mutual dissatisfaction; but of how much good this money might
have been productive, if expended properly! A small part of it would
have paid for the yearly schooling of a little boy and girl, or fed two
poor families, during this hard weather, for a week."

"O mamma, if we had thought of putting children to school, we should not
have wasted our money so foolishly," replied both the children.

"It is not too late to do that yet," said Mrs. Hamilton; "for you can
each choose a scholar, and pay for their schooling at the end of the
quarter, when you will receive your allowance; and the money you have
left from this will just buy the books they will want."

"I will take the gardener's boy Tom under my patronage," cried George.

"And I will have Phoebe Bloom," rejoined Ellen; and these poor children
were sent to school accordingly.

George and Ellen never had one purse from the day they dissolved
partnership, it is true; but they mutually agreed in devoting more than
half the contents of their privy purse to the instruction and clothing
of their _protgs_. They were so fortunate as to dispose of some of
their useless purchases to unhoped advantage; and though the Persian cat
still remains in Ellen's possession, George has conquered his antipathy
to her company, through love to his dear sister, her mistress.

From the foregoing history, we may infer that it is sometimes easier to
have _one heart_ between two children, than _one purse_.

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THE CONTENTED FAMILY.

BY MRS. HOFLAND.

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"What a happy little girl Jane is, now you have praised her! She is as
proud of saying a good lesson, though she can only spell d-o-g dog,
c-a-t cat, as I should be if I had done a long sum in the Rule of
Three," said Harry Gibson.

"Surely she has as much right to be proud and pleased too," replied his
mother; "for she has gone through as much labour and conquered as much
difficulty."

"She is a little merry good-tempered thing, at all times," continued
Harry; "indeed, I think we are altogether quite as happy as any of our
neighbours, whether rich or poor; every body says we are a contented
family, and so we are;--don't you think so, mother?"

"I can only answer for myself, Harry, though I believe your father's
feelings a good deal resemble mine; therefore the same answer may do for
both: we are by no means contented."

All the time Harry had been speaking, he was laid down at full length on
the floor, rolling from side to side, and looking sometimes upon his
father, who, overpowered by fatigue, was half asleep in his chair, and
sometimes at his mother, who was sewing as fast as she could, whilst his
little sister stood beside her repeating her lesson. He now started on
his feet, and, with a look of considerable alarm, affectionately
approached his mother, saying earnestly, "Dear mother, do you really
mean that you are not contented?"

"I do mean so, indeed, Harry."

"Has something bad happened to father? does he fear that the crops will
fail? are any of the sheep lost? is the brown cow ill again? or has
somebody stolen the pig?"

"The poor creature was safe ten minutes since, notwithstanding the state
of the sty, which is sadly broken down, as you know: all our stock of
that kind is well and thriving."

"Then, dear, _dear_ mother, why are you not contented?"

"I will tell you, Harry; it is because we have an idle son, which is
always considered a great misfortune, especially to industrious people,
who do their best to get forward in the world and to improve the
situation of their children."

Harry's face was instantly covered with blushes, and he began hastily to
shake off the dust and straw that stuck to his clothes: he cast his eyes
anxiously towards his father, as if in the hope that he would find an
excuse, knowing him to be a most indulgent parent; but, on this
occasion, he only shook his head, as much as to say, "It is too true."

The tears sprang to the boy's eyes; for he was aware that his father was
tired with labour, and saw that his mother was intent on finishing a
shirt which she was making for hire, so that she could not allow herself
time to set the house to rights in the manner she was accustomed to do.
Harry loved his parents very dearly; he was good-humoured and obedient;
but he was careless and thoughtless in the greatest degree; and though
very lively when at play, he was indolent at home, and averse to the
exertion called for in every situation of life, but especially from the
poor.

"I don't see what I can do," said he to himself, "that can at all
signify, after I come from school. To be sure, the garden wants weeding,
and the pig-sty wants building up, and a new door making, and I see the
jackdaw's cage is tumbling down for the want of a few willow twigs. I
did say I would see after these things, sure enough; but somehow the
days come and go before I can begin to do any thing. Sometimes I am
tired with playing, sometimes I forget them, and----"

Harry's soliloquy was cut short by a call to supper, which passed in
silence and sadness; and when he went to bed he found it impossible to
fall asleep, for the many thoughts which came into his head respecting
his parents and himself. He recollected the unceasing industry and
constant care of his father, the activity and ability of his mother, and
began to see that he had by no means deserved the goodness with which
they had treated him, or profited by the example which they had set him.
The new clothes they had lately bought for him, the fairings they had
given him, the kindness shown to him by sending him to school instead of
compelling him to labour at home, affected him deeply; and he cried
bitterly from shame and sorrow.

In consequence of the first bad night he had ever known, Harry did not
awake till a much later hour than usual; and, on descending the narrow
stairs of his father's cottage, he found two of his schoolfellows
waiting for him. After observing that he was an idle fellow, they told
him there was holiday at school, and they were come to ask him to take a
ramble with them.

Before answering them, Harry, turning to a good old woman, who lived
with them both as friend and servant, said, "Pray, Alice, where is my
mother?"

"Poor soul! she be gone all the way to the market-town with the shirts
she have made, and she have taken the yarn, too, as I spun, to the
weaver. A heavy load she carries, I promise ye."

"My father is out in the fields?"

"He's been digging a ditch to drain the buttercup meadow these four
hours. Little Jane be gone to take him bread and cheese."

"I thank you for calling," said Harry to the boys, "but I cannot go with
you."

"We will wait whilst you eat your breakfast," answered they.

"That will be a long time; for though it stands there, I will not touch
it till I have weeded that carrot-bed quite clean."

With an air of resolution, Harry walked out of the cottage, and began to
weed at a great rate, and with the look of one who knew that his
employment was useful. In a little time, each of the boys, finding
looking on to be a very dull pastime, began to weed two flower-beds
that ran in parallel lines; and by the time that Harry was ready to eat
his breakfast, they were each boasting what a great heap of weeds they
had collected.

"I am much obliged to you," said he; "I will now carry the weeds away,
and sweep the walks clean, and water the flowers, and----"

"Oh! but that will never do; we wanted you to enjoy the holiday."

"Why, so I do. I enjoy getting all this work done exceedingly well: I
don't think I ever had such a good holiday before."

The boys thought Harry's head was turned; they said that "he was never
so comical before," and left him by no means in good humour; but Harry
forgot all their remarks in his pleasure at what was done, when his
father came home, and was so gratified with the appearance of his little
garden, that he could scarcely eat his dinner for looking at it through
the window. At length he said, "I did intend mending the pig-sty this
afternoon, for it has long wanted it; but I think I will give myself a
bit of a holiday, and go and meet my wife, that I may tell her what a
nice place Harry has made of the garden."

"And I hopes, Maister Gibson, that you'll go by all manner o' means; and
when ye've met her, take her for a long rest an' a hearty welcome to
Farmer Todd's," said old Alice.

Harry was glad when his father set out, as he was determined now to fall
to work to repair the pig-sty; and as little Jane was delighted to help
him, and old Alice to instruct him, this work also went merrily on,
though it was much more laborious than weeding, and much more
disagreeable, for obvious reasons.

Whilst he was thus employed, the two schoolfellows again came to Harry,
saying, "Well, are you now ready to go to play?"

"Play! no, good truth, I cannot play if I would, I am so tired."

"You cannot be more tired than I am," said one.

"Nor so much as I," said the other.

"You have had a great deal of pleasure, then, I suppose?"

"I don't think," answered the elder, "that we have had any at all since
we were weeding with you and expecting you to go with us, for then the
time passed quickly. I should not much mind helping you now, for a bit
of a change."

"No, no," said Harry; "such work as this won't do for good clothes like
yours; besides, I have a fancy to finish it myself. Next week I'll join
you at cricket sometimes; but I am determined not to give all my time to
play, as I used to do, seeing I am beginning to be good for something,
and ought to help my father and mother."

The boys bade him good-bye, and moved off as if exceedingly fatigued,
and in a short time he was obliged to desist, from extreme weariness,
which affected him so much, that, notwithstanding old Alice's admiration
of his handywork, and her assurance that "the pig would sleep as nicely
as a king in a castle," he fell fast asleep the moment after he had sat
down in his father's arm-chair.

Harry was awakened by the warm kiss of his mother and the proud
congratulations of his father; but the former could not forbear
expressing her fears that he had overdone himself, saying, "You should
have taken labour more easy to begin with, because you were totally
unused to it."

"More's the pity, and more's the shame, mother: but I hope you will
never have to say that again; for I am so happy now, that I think I
shall go on to earn more happiness, if I get nothing else by it; and as
to my being tired, don't think of that, for I have been as bad many a
time with doing nothing. If to-morrow had not been Sunday, I would have
mended the jackdaw's cage before breakfast."

"I can now believe that assurance, Harry; for I see you are sensible of
the value of your exertions, and in proving by deeds that you love your
parents. Come and take your supper with us, my dear: we are, like
yourself, weary and hungry; but sincerely can we thank God for the
comforts which our toil has procured, and for the change in our son,
which, if he persevere in his present sentiments, must make us indeed a
CONTENTED FAMILY."

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THE TWO MAGPIES.

A TRUE STORY.

BY MISS MITFORD.

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"Come along, girls! Helen! Caroline! I say, don't stand jabbering there
upon the stairs, but come down this instant, or Dash and I will be off
without you."

This elegant speech was shouted from the bottom of the great staircase
at Dinely-Hall, by young George Dinely, an Etonian of eleven years old,
just come home for the holidays, to his two younger sisters, who stood
disputing very ardently in French at the top. The cause of contention
was, to say the truth, no greater an object than the colour of a
work-bag, which they were about to make for their mamma: slate lined
with pink, being the choice of Miss Caroline, whilst Miss Helen
preferred drab with a blue lining.

"Don't stand quarrelling there about the colour of your trumpery," added
George, "but come along!"

Now George would have scorned to know a syllable of any language except
Latin and Greek, but neither of the young ladies being Frenchwomen
enough to construe the appellation of the leading article, the words
"drab" and "slate," which came forth in native English pretty
frequently, as well as the silk dangling in their hands, had enlightened
him as to the matter in dispute.

George was a true schoolboy, rough and kind; affecting perhaps more
roughness than naturally belonged to him, from a mistaken notion that it
made him look bold, and English, and manly. There cannot be a greater
mistake, since the bolder men are the gentler. For the rest, he loved
his sisters, which was very right; and loved to teaze them, which was
very wrong; and now he and his dog Dash, both wild with spirits and with
happiness, were waiting most impatiently to go down to the village on a
visit to old Nurse Simmons, and her magpie.

Nurse Simmons was a very good and very cross old woman, who after ruling
in the nursery of Dinely-Hall for two generations, scolding and spoiling
Sir Edward and his brothers, and performing thirty years afterwards the
same good office for master George and his sisters, had lately abdicated
her throne on the arrival of a French governess, and was soon
comfortably settled at a cottage of her own, in the village street.

George Dinely and Dash had already that morning visited George's own
pony, and his father's brood mares, the garden, the pheasantry, the
greenhouses, and the farmyard; had seen a brood of curious bantams, two
litters of pigs, and a family of greyhound puppies, and had now few
friends, old or new, to visit, except Nurse Simmons, her cottage, and
her magpie; a bird of such accomplishments that his sisters had even
made it the subject of a letter to Eton. The magpie might perhaps claim
an equal share with his mistress in George's impatience, and Dash,
always eager to get out of doors, seemed nearly as fidgetty as his young
master.

Dash was as beautiful a dog as eyes could be set on; one of the large
old English Spaniels which are now so rare, with a superb head, like
those which you see in Spanish pictures, and such ears! they more than
met over his pretty spotted nose; and when he lapped his milk, dipped
into the pan at last two inches. His hair was long and shiny and wavy,
not curly, partly of a rich dark liver colour, partly of a silvery
white, and beautifully feathered about the thighs and legs. He was
extremely lively and intelligent, and had a sort of circular motion, a
way of flinging himself quite round on his hind feet, something after
the fashion in which the French dancers twist themselves round on one
leg, which not only showed unusual agility in a dog of his size, but
gave token of the same spirit and animation which sparkled in his bright
hazel eye. Anything of eagerness or impatience was sure to excite this
motion, and George Dinely gravely assured his sisters, when they at
length joined him in the hall, that Dash had flung himself round six and
twenty times whilst waiting the conclusion of their quarrel.

Getting into the lawn and the open air did not tend to diminish Dash's
glee or his capers, and the young party walked merrily on; George
telling of school pranks and school misfortunes--the having lost or
spoilt four hats since Easter, seemed rather to belong to the first
class of adventures than the second,--his sisters listening dutifully
and wonderingly; and Dash, following his own devices, now turning up a
mouse's nest from a water furrow in the park--now springing a covey of
young partridges in a corn field--now plunging his whole hairy person in
the brook; and now splashing Miss Helen from head to foot, by
ungallantly jumping over her whilst crossing a stile, being thereunto
prompted by a whistle from his young master, who had, with equal want of
gallantry, leapt the stile first himself, and left his sisters to get
over as they could; until at last the whole party, having passed the
stile, and crossed the bridge, and turned the church-yard corner, found
themselves in the shady recesses of the vicarage-lane, and in full view
of the vine-covered cottage of Nurse Simmons.

As they advanced they heard a prodigious chattering and jabbering, and
soon got near enough to ascertain that the sound proceeded mainly from
one of the parties they were come to visit--Nurse Simmons's magpie. He
was perched in the middle of the road, defending a long dirty bare bone
of mutton, doubtless his property, on one end of which he stood, whilst
the other extremity was occupied by a wild bird of the same species,
who, between pecking at the bone and fighting and scolding, found full
employment. The wild magpie was a beautiful creature, as wild magpies
are, of a snowy white and a fine blue black, perfect in shape and
plumage, and so superior in appearance to the tame bird, ragged,
draggled, and dirty, that they hardly seemed of the same kind. Both were
chattering away most furiously; the one in his natural and
unintelligible gibberish, the other partly in his native tongue, and
partly in that for his skill in which he was so eminent,--thus turning
his accomplishments to an unexpected account, and larding his own lean
speech with divers foreign garnishes, such as "What's o'clock?" and "How
d'ye do?" and, "Very well I thank you," and "Poor pretty Mag!" and
"Mag's a good bird," all delivered in the most vehement accent, and all
doubtless understood by the unlearned adversary as terms of reproach.

"What can those two magpies be quarrelling about?" said Caroline, as
soon as she could speak for laughing, for, on the children's approach
the birds had abandoned the mutton bone, which had been quietly borne
away by Dash, who was lying in great state on a mossy bank, discussing
and enjoying the stolen morsel.

"I wish I knew what they were saying," pursued Caroline, as the squabble
grew every moment more angry and less intelligible.

"Doubtless they are disputing about colours," quoth George.

"What an odd noise it is!" continued Caroline; "I never heard any thing
like it;" avoiding her brother's compliment.

"I have;" said George drily.

"I wonder whether they understand each other?" ejaculated Miss Helen,
following her sister's example, and taking no notice of the provoking
George; "they really do seem to comprehend."

"As well as other magpies," observed the young gentleman. "Why should
they not?"

"But what strange gibberish!" added poor Helen.

"Gibberish, Miss Helen! Don't you hear that the magpies are spattering
magpie French, sprinkled with a little magpie English? I was just going
to ask you to explain it to me," replied the unmerciful George. "It is
quite a parody upon your work-bag squabble," pursued their tormentor;
"only that the birds are the wiser, for I see they are parting--the wild
one flying away, the tame gentleman hopping towards us. Quite the scene
of the work-bag over again," continued George, "only with less noise
and much shortened--a modern abridgment! Really, young ladies, the
magpies have the best of it," said the Etonian, and off he stalked into
Nurse Simmons's cottage.

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PREPARATION FOR THE RACES;

OR, MORE HASTE THAN GOOD SPEED.

BY MRS. HOFLAND.

[Illustration: decoration]


Every boy in the country knows that Doncaster races are the gayest scene
imaginable--that the number of horses entered to run, the jockeys in
satin jackets who ride them, the fine ladies on the grand stand, the
splendid carriages of the nobility, and the immense crowd of spectators,
offer altogether a scene of the utmost hilarity, which must be enjoyed,
more or less, by all who witness it.

No wonder, therefore, that, when Mr. Morrison (a gentleman farmer near
Bawtry) said to his wife, one morning in the race-week, "My dear, you
shall go to Doncaster, and take the children to-day;" three little boys
became all extremely eager to hear the answer of mamma, and to assure
her, that though their father would not be present, they would all
conduct themselves most satisfactorily.

Every mother is expert in reading the wishes of her children, and Mrs.
Morrison was alike a tender and intelligent mother, yet she did not
reply immediately; her husband, therefore, continued speaking. "The two
little boys may ride Dapple alternately, with a place in the gig. George
may ride old Gray, which will carry him pleasantly if not pressed too
much. You are so good a driver, and Captain knows his business so well,
that I shall have no uneasiness about you. I regret that I cannot go
with you, but George must be my representative, and attend you." "I
should like to give the children a treat," said Mrs. Morrison,
"therefore I will go, though I have no taste for races myself. I know
that William and Richard will do as I bid them, and keep close to me;
but my hesitation in complying with your proposal arose from thinking of
George. He is always in such a hurry on every occasion, that I have
many fears about _him_, I confess."

"Fears for _me_! dear mother; how can you fear for me? I can ride as
well as father! I can do----" "George," said Mr. Morrison gravely, "a
boy brought up as you have been, hardily, and suitably for your
condition in life, can certainly do what is necessary on this
occasion--you can assist your mother to find a station on the course,
and guard your brothers, as they ride, from those surprises and dangers
almost inseparable from a scene of so much tumult as you must encounter.
Now, the question is not, _Can_ you, but _will_ you, do these things?"

"To be sure I will, dear father; I will do every thing my mother can
possibly desire."

"We will try you on the strength of this assurance."

Away bounded all the boys towards the stable, where the younger flew to
the donkey; whilst George, perceiving Giles, the farmer boy, mounted on
old Gray, eagerly seized him, and desired him to dismount that moment
and saddle the horse for his use.

"But I be taking him to the pond, Maister Georgy."

"But I tell you I am going to Doncaster races, and will have him this
moment--there will be Lord Fitzwilliam in three carriages, and the Duke
of Devonshire in ever so many, and----"

"More pity for they to be cut in pieces a that how," said Giles, drily.

"Don't talk nonsense, but saddle old Gray directly; for there will be
seventeen horses to-day running for the gold cup, and the jockeys will
be all in different colours, and there will be music, and shows, and
every thing else, I tell you." "Well, Maister Georgy, but all the grand
sights in the world won't make old Gray over and above agreeable if he
ben't to have his water, and his corn, quite reg'lar. I guess he won't
look as you'd like 'un to look, nor carry you as you'd choose to be
carried. So let alone pullin' at his head, an' trust me for getting him
into proper order for his journey."

As Giles was a lad of good disposition and knew his duty, George for the
present returned to the house, where it was necessary he also should
make preparations for the races. He was, however, a very short time in
dressing, and before old Gray had half eaten his corn, or Giles half
groomed him, the impatient boy hurried him out, mounted, and, riding to
the door, began hallooing that he was quite tired of waiting.

"But the gig is not ready, nor the donkey saddled, nor mamma dressed,"
said William.

George fidgetted about three times as long as would have fed his horse,
before Mrs. Morrison was ready, although she was by no means long, and
knew perfectly well the time it would take to accomplish her journey and
secure its object. The moment she entered the gig, George considered
himself at liberty, and, instead of riding beside the vehicle, and
seeing how little Richard managed his donkey, which was accustomed to
trot beside his friend the old grey horse, away went the eldest hope of
the family as fast as his old servant could carry him.

For the first mile or two, being early, they had the road a good deal to
themselves; but as they drew near to the race-course, it became crowded
by numbers of persons who came in from by-paths, and they were overtaken
by carriages of every kind, so that Mrs. Morrison soon lost sight of
George entirely, and became very uneasy lest Richard should receive some
rude push, or be driven from her side by intervening travellers. This,
however, did not occur, for the little fellow managed his donkey so
exactly by her directions, that the bustle, though continually
increasing, never put him out of the way, and they reached the course in
perfect safety.

When Mrs. Morrison had arrived at the place where she purposed stopping,
she looked round in vain for her eldest son, whom she now really wanted;
but as she could not see him, Richard went to seek the servant, to whom
a holiday had been granted, and was not long before he found him, as the
man was on the look-out for them. The cattle were given to his charge,
and he was also told to look round for George, and direct him to the
place where they were.

"Why ye'll be quite 'sheamed on him, ma'am, I 'shure ye, for I had a
gliff of him a bit since, an he was covered wi' dust; besides, he had a
new green jacket on, and old brown trousers--he won't look fit to be
seen beside you and his brothers."

"Foolish boy! this comes of his being in such haste; but you _must_ send
him, James, for he will be very hungry."

Mrs. Morrison now produced from her basket cold tongue and ham,
gooseberry tarts, and cowslip wine, and the little boys were heartily
regaled; but the anxious mother was too much occupied with gazing round
for George to secure her own comfort. Before she had the satisfaction of
descrying him, the press of company increased, the race had begun, and
her more immediate object was placing the children in a position to see
what was going forward.

They were pretty children, and very neatly dressed, and, even in their
extreme eagerness to gaze at the race, showed a great fear of
intercepting the view of their dear mamma. This circumstance drew the
attention of a lady of high rank, whose carriage was in the same line
with them, and she directed her servant to place them, with their
mother's leave, on her coachbox, by which means they were greatly
elevated, and saw both the race and the whole course in perfection.

Whilst in this situation, George and his brothers recognised each other,
but they had no chance of approaching, or even speaking to one another.
George was still on horseback, closely jammed in with a body of other
persons, also mounted, and it was in vain he raised himself in the
stirrups, or put his head forward, for not one foot of the course could
he see; and so far were the mob around him from pitying his condition or
aiding his efforts, that every time he pushed forward, either himself or
poor old Gray got a cut from some of their whips. A melancholy shake of
the head was the only signal he could make to the children, whose
situation he naturally envied.

When the race was over, the children were returned, with commendation
of their persons and behaviour, to their mother, to whom they offered
the cakes and fruit given them by the grand lady, whose little son,
called Lord Frederick, had sat with them, and told them a great deal
about the horses and the company. Their innocent delight gladdened the
heart of their mother, which was also relieved by their information of
her eldest son's safety, for which she had been several hours
experiencing the most distressing solicitude.

The man now brought Captain and Dapple, which were well fed and rested,
and they all set off home in high spirits, trying, but in vain, to
discover, in the moving mass around them, poor George.

This they were the less likely to do, because Mrs. Morrison judged it
prudent to keep quiet in her humble vehicle, until the coaches and six,
with their outriders, and the cavalcade of proudly-mounted gentlemen,
had galloped off. She then proceeded leisurely for about a mile, when
she could safely quicken her pace, and proceed by a pleasant twilight
towards her own happy home, fondly hoping that George had used as much
expedition to reach as he had done to leave it.

When Mr. Morrison learnt from Giles that the race people were returning,
he walked out towards the road to welcome his beloved wife and family,
being all day subject to certain misgivings as to George's conduct. He
had only gone a little way when he perceived him coming at a tolerably
smart trot, but without a hat, and his clothes so soiled, that he had
been evidently rolled in the dust. Mr. Morrison, in great alarm, rushed
forward, and, seizing the bridle, cried: "What has happened? where are
your mother and the boys?"

"They are coming, I dare say, within a little distance, father. Nothing
has happened to _them_; the boys, I'm certain, have had a fine time of
it."

"Then what has happened to you, that you come back in such a trim? and
the poor old horse, too, is sadly distressed--tell me the truth."

"Why father," said George, bursting into tears, "I have had all kinds of
misfortunes."

"Well, never mind, don't cry; you set out with a resolution to act like
a man, and take care both of yourself and the family--let me hear what
has befallen you?"

"You see, in the first place, I pushed on a little, and there came in
such crowds of people, that I was separated from my mother, and the
horse grew vicious and starty, so that I had great difficulty with him,
which some bad people increased by putting an umbrella before his eyes;
in short, he fairly flung me, but I must say he stood stock still
afterwards."

"Humph! that was for taking him from his corn. Well! what came next?"

"Oh! papa, my trousers were torn and my leg cut, and when I put my hand
in my pocket to get my handkerchief to tie round it, both that and my
purse were gone--yes! all my money that I have been saving so long."

"I expected as much--go on."

"Well, then I wanted my mother exceedingly, but I got into such a crowd
that it was impossible for me, hurt as I was and the horse unwilling to
go, to get out of it, and the race came on, and the pressure increased,
and I saw nothing, only that little Will and Dick were mounted on the
top of a fine coach, where two footmen took care of them and another
boy, and they were eating grapes whilst I was dying for hunger and
thirst."

"And did you see none of our friends and neighbours to whom you could
mention your situation?"

"I saw Farmer Browne, and Mr. Simpson, and John Davy; but they all
seemed to think I had played truant, and come unknown to you,
because--because, it seems, I forgot in my hurry to put on my new
trousers and my Wellingtons."

"I cannot blame them; you had every appearance of being such, as it was
not likely a boy at your age should have been sent to a race-course
alone, or seen by such a mother as yours half-dressed, or mounted by me
on a horse so ill-appointed as old Gray must appear. I pity the old
creature much more than you, who, in forsaking your mother and
forfeiting your promise, have seriously offended me."

George wept again as he dismounted and gave the horse to Giles, and Mr.
Morrison saw with sincere pity that he walked with pain; but he took no
farther notice of _him_, whilst he ordered a good mash to be made for
old Gray, saying, "The poor beast has not had a morsel of food the whole
day, it appears."

"Yes, father, he has had a trifle, for though I lost all my silver, I
had two-pence in my jacket pocket, so I bought him an oat-cake at Sally
Lamb's, and she gave the poor thing some water; so then he came home
freely as you saw."

Mr. Morrison was touched to the heart with this proof of good feeling in
a boy, who, it was his consolation to know, possessed many excellent
qualities, though they were all obscured too frequently by that bustling
volatility and desire of independence which had turned a day of pleasure
into one of pain. Just then his wife and the children came up to the
door, both the travellers and their cattle perfectly well, and the boys
eager to relate their adventures to their affectionate father. As it was
nearly dark, Mrs. Morrison did not see her son's condition, and she
could not forbear exclaiming: "George! George! what a day of anxiety
have you given me!"

"And that anxiety must be succeeded, my dear, by some trouble, for
George requires your skill for a wounded leg; and as he has had no food
since breakfast, nor any amusement to divert him from the sense of his
sufferings, we must, for the present, forget his faults. I am the more
ready to do this, because he has tried to make some reparation to my old
horse; so I hope in time he may do it to his own mother."

In the next moment poor George was sobbing in his mother's arms, and
folded to her bosom.

"Come, come, my dear, let us go in and get our invalid to bed. I trust
he will rise all the wiser for his late troubles, and be persuaded
henceforward not to make 'more haste than good speed.'"

[Illustration: decoration]




LEASIDE COTTAGE.

[Illustration: decoration]


My dear little Fanny, I promised to tell you the story of the two
children we saw yesterday evening near that pretty neat cottage, whose
low walls of rough grey stone, slated roof, and old round chimney, are
so covered with a tissue of ivy, rose, and jessamine, that the little
dwelling looks more like a silvan bower than a structure built up of
common masonry.

Come a little farther on, and the cottage will be visible close to us
(while we remain unseen, and, if we speak low, unheard) from that next
opening in the green lane. Yes, there it is; and at the door, just
within that honeysuckle porch, sits a lady employed in needlework, and
at her feet two children, a boy and girl (the same we saw yesterday),
reading together in the open Bible, which they hold between them. The
boy is reading aloud--hark!--about the infant Samuel; and he holds his
little sister's hand in his, sometimes guiding her small forefinger as
he reads along the line of Holy Writ, and then her eyes (before fixed on
his face) look downward for a while, as if following the passive index.
That lady, who ever and anon looks off her work, to gaze so fondly on
the two children, is very plainly dressed, you see, in the simplest and
homeliest garb; and yet you cannot doubt for a moment that she _is_ a
lady, and has seen better days, and has been very fair in her youth.
Even now she is hardly past the prime of life, though the soft brown
hair, smoothly and evenly parted aside under her thick muslin cap, is
already streaked with grey, and there are more lines and hollows in that
mild pale face than the hand of Time has imprinted there. My dear child,
if you live to be a woman, you will perhaps learn from experience that
the hand of Sorrow marks deeper than that of Time, great workman as he
is, and often forestalls his leisurely operation. _Too often_, I had
nearly said; but that would be a senseless and misapplied expression,
since the work of Time and Sorrow are equally subordinate to the
Almighty will, which ordereth all things--all circumstances of good and
evil, exactly at such times, in such proportions, as often or as seldom
as He knows to be most expedient for us. But for that poor lady's entire
trust in His wisdom and goodness, she would be an object of painful
compassion, my dear Fanny; for her life has been one of sadly
diversified affliction. She wears mourning, you see, and all her
remaining days she will continue to wear those sad sable weeds, put on
many years ago for a beloved husband, who was taken from her by violent
death in the third year of their union, under circumstances which left
her the destitute mother of one helpless infant, and soon to become the
parent of a second, who came untimely into the world, a weak and sickly
babe, some few weeks after her father had been committed to the
grave.--But come away, my Fanny, a little farther back into the green
lane, where we shall not only find a convenient seat on those
timber-logs, but I shall be able to go on with my little story without
any danger of attracting observation from the cottage.

Little Harry Morton is just ten years old, as fine and promising a boy,
you saw, as either of your own dear brothers; but he does not look so
happy as they do, poor fellow! and that sweet little girl, who was
sitting beside him, is only one year younger than himself, though such a
small, delicate, fairy creature. She is not so blooming as you are, my
little Fanny; and her large blue eyes do not sparkle so merrily as
yours; yet did you not think they were beautiful in spite of a slight
dimness, a mistiness, over them, when they were fixed just now upon her
brother's face?--Alas, my dear child! those poor eyes but seemed to look
on what they never must behold. Little Emily Morton will never see her
brother's face again, till they meet hereafter angels in heaven; she is
blind, stone blind; and that brother whom she loves so dearly, who loves
her better than his own life--that gentle tender-hearted boy, who would
not hurt a fly, nor willingly tread upon a worm--he was the unhappy
cause of his sister's calamity.

Now you do not wonder that Harry Morton looks more serious and
thoughtful than is natural at his years, than your own happy brothers,
whose childhood has never known the hardships and premature cares which,
from his earliest recollection, have been the lot of that poor boy, and
still less any such dreadful affliction as that which has fallen like a
mildew on the tender blossoms of his young life.

Never did brother and sister love more tenderly than those two
fatherless children love one another. Nursed in the lap of adversity, in
the shadow, as it were, of their mother's sorrow, and helpless sharers
in her bitter cup, they clung more fondly to her and to each other, as
you may have seen two young lambs, frightened by a thunder-storm, close
cowering together into the fleeces of the mother ewe. There were many
points of dissimilarity between the children, both in person and
character; Harry being, as you observed, a fine robust boy, with eyes
black as night, and curls of the same raven hue clustering thick over
his high white forehead; and his little sister, a delicate fair
creature, small of her age, and constitutionally nervous and fearful,
while her brother's nature was as fearless as gentle.

These dissimilarities, physical and moral, seemed but to draw closer
together the hearts of those young creatures, and to impress a more
tender character to their mutual affection. It was Harry's pride and joy
to be the protector and teacher as well as the playmate of his sister,
and the delicate and timid little girl was never _quite_ happy or at
ease except she could press her soft cheek close to Harry's shoulder, or
slip her small hand in his, or at least keep near him, or in sight of
him, or within hearing of his voice. And if this tender and touching
union was blissful to the two innocent children, how soothing and
consolatory was it to their widowed mother, whose impaired constitution
made it but too probable that her fatherless little ones might at no
long distant period be left to struggle through the world orphans
indeed. Sometimes the fond parent would speak to her darlings, young as
they were, of the time when they might be left alone together;--"and
then," she would say, "you, my Harry, must be the father as well as
brother of your little sister; and then your Father which is in heaven,
who feeds the young ravens, and clothes the lilies of the field, will
never forsake you, my children, while you love Him and keep His
commandments." At such times the little Emily would hide her face in her
mother's bosom in all the tearful agony of infant grief, while Harry,
struggling manfully to suppress his sobs and keep in the swelling tears,
would clasp his arms round the necks of his mother and sister, and press
on the fair head of the latter as it lay in Mrs. Morton's bosom a kiss
that was at once the pledge and seal of an accepted trust--a promise
that needed not the interpretation of speech to be perfectly
intelligible.

Mrs. Morton's precarious life was spared from year to year, and the
industry of her own hands, eking out a small pension (that of an
officer's widow) maintained the little family of love above actual
want, and there was content and peace at Leaside cottage.

Such was the state of things under its humble roof till about twelve
months ago, when Harry had attained his ninth and Emily her eighth year.
I have told you that, from the unfortunate circumstances of her birth,
the little girl was constitutionally tender and nervous to a degree that
it was sometimes painful to witness. Mrs. Morton sedulously strove, by
cautiously-exerted influence, gentle remonstrance, and tender
encouragement, to counteract this morbid tendency in the mind of her
dear little girl, and to impart a more healthful tone to its fine
organization; and she was more than seconded in this endeavour by the
young Harry, who, with a thoughtfulness beyond his years, and a
tenderness finely tempering his spirited impetuous nature, would reason
with his little sister with unwearied patience on the unreasonableness
of her terrors, soothing her with affectionate gentleness when they were
too powerful for control, or, by dint of coaxing and perseverance,
sometimes prevailing on her to face the bugbear, conjured up by her
nervous fancy, to encounter for a moment the terrors of darkness, or to
search out the unknown cause of some mysterious sound, appalling to her
young imagination because unaccounted for.

What would not Emily do and suffer for the love of Harry? And how
strikingly is it exemplified in the most timid natures, those of loving
childhood and devoted woman, that "perfect love casteth out fear." Oh!
were we, indeed, devoted with such perfect love to Him who is the Father
and Brother of us all; yea, "the friend that sticketh closer than a
brother;" how cheerfully for His sake should we undergo all trials; how
dearly for his sake should we love our fellow creatures; how should we
"think of Him by day and meditate by night;" and how should we "cast out
all fear" (having our hope in Christ) of that awful, but (to the humble
believer) not tremendous hour, when He shall call us hence to be with
Him for ever and ever. "Little children! love one another"--was the
commandment of Jesus to His disciples. Are not all Christians His
disciples? Should we not all love one another? And if we did so, and
acted up to the spirit of that merciful commandment, how should we
mutually lighten our several burthens, while travelling towards our
Father's house!

I have told you, my Fanny, with what more than brotherly love Harry
Morton watched over his timid little sister, striving with unwearied
patience to instil into her a portion of his own healthful firmness; and
he was not unsuccessful on the whole.

By the time Emily had nearly attained her eighth year, Harry began to
pride himself on the effects of his gentle discipline, and to call her,
half jesting, half seriously, his "brave little sister." And Emily's
coward heart began to disguise its latent infirmity, and, in part at
least, by degrees to surmount it. She no longer trembled and turned pale
at some mysterious cracking of the old boards in the stillness of a
winter's evening; and when she was laid at night on the side of the
bed, to which Mrs. Morton's occupations prevented her retiring for many
after hours, the little girl no longer shrank under the counterpane in
an agony of terror at she knew not what, nor peeped out from time to
time at the fantastic shadows in the moonlight, nor (overpowered with
fear) called aloud to Harry in the adjoining chamber to come and protect
her from what she would perhaps have called, had she known how to
express her sensations, the powers of darkness. Now, provided the door
were open, or even the least bit ajar between her and her brother, Emily
could shut her eyes in peace whether in moonshine or in darkness (to
keep them open was still too magnanimous an effort for her doubtful
courage) and drop asleep in the middle of the little hymn she was
murmuring to herself on the pillow. But one cause of dread still
operated in unmitigated force on Harry's little pupil. He had striven in
vain, by reasoning and tenderness, to soothe her during the terrors of a
thunder-storm; and even the sensible considerate Harry did not reflect
that the electric state of the atmosphere might physically affect his
little sister's nervous temperament, and that in fact he might expose
her to real danger by inducing her to front the awful beauty of the
storm.

You remember, my Fanny, the thunder-storm which did so much mischief in
many parts of the country about this time twelvemonth; the same that
struck the great cedar in your father's park. That awful visitation was
sent to us also, and I shall never forget the sublime beauty of its
gradual approach.

Harry Morton had been watching it for more than an hour from the garden
wicket of Leaside Cottage, not many paces, as you may remember, from the
house porch; within which stood the little Emily pale with terror, and
shrinking behind the leafy screen every time the deep sullen sound of
the yet distant thunder rolled round the dark horizon. But the fearful,
trembling, little creature retreated no farther into the house, though
her heart seemed dying within her; for there she at least could remain
in sight of Harry and within hearing of his cheerful encouraging voice.
Mrs. Morton, who had been all day oppressed with headache, had lain down
in her bedchamber at the back of the cottage, and the little servant
girl was absent on an errand to the village; so the two children were
alone together gazing (with what different sensations!) on the coming of
that memorable storm. A profound stillness was all about them--a deep
and breathless hush; not a leaf stirred--not a wing of bird or insect
was in motion--not a rain-drop yet descended--and though the blackness
of darkness had now gathered overhead, not a flash yet darted from the
electric cloud, and the muttering thunder had ceased for some moments.

"Come in! come in, brother!" implored the poor little girl; "let us go
to mamma. Dear Harry! indeed, indeed, I would not mind a little
thunder-storm; but that terrible black cloud will break just over us.
How like night it is! I can hardly see you under the shadow of our great
elm. Come in! come in, dear brother!"--"Little coward! little coward!"
retorted the sportive boy, holding up his finger with reproachful
archness; "who was it told me yesterday they would _never never_ give
way again to silly fears?"--"But this is _such_ a storm, brother! and
you know the lightning kills people sometimes."--"But it does not
lighten, little coward. Come, take heart, Emmy, and run across to me. I
shall call you little coward again if you wont come."--"Oh! no, no,
Harry! indeed, indeed I can't come to you there;--and see what great
drops are beginning to fall!"--"Not one can reach me under our great
tree. Well, well, if you won't come for shame, come for love of me,
Emmy."--In a moment the poor little girl had darted from her shelter and
stood beside her brother, panting and shuddering convulsively, as the
boy, half frightened at the excess of her agitation, wrapped his arms
round her, and tried to sooth her into composure. Another moment, and
both children were lying apparently lifeless under the great elm, which
was scorched and shivered from its top downwards. And there they were
almost immediately found by their distracted mother, whose first thought
had been for her darlings, when the tremendous report of the shock which
had felled them to the earth startled her from her imperfect slumbers. I
will not dwell longer on that first agonizing scene, my Fanny, than to
tell you that, assistance being providentially at hand, the children
were carried into the house and laid side by side on the same bed, where
after awhile both began to show signs of returning animation, and
neither, on examination, appeared to have received any external injury.
The first that awoke to life was little Harry, and his immediate almost
unconscious impulse was to look round for his sister. She lay beside him
as if in a sweet slumber; and for a moment Harry gazed upon her with a
bewildered consciousness, that something terrible had befallen her, of
which himself was the cause. Then suddenly the whole truth flashed upon
him, and the unhappy boy sprung up from the bed in a paroxysm of
tearless agony, exclaiming, "I have killed her! I have killed her!--Oh,
Emmy! Emmy!--I have killed my sister!"

Difficult it was to pacify the distracted child, and to convince him
that his little sister was not only living, but fast recovering, as
himself had recovered, from that temporary stupor. In a few moments not
only her breathing became strong and regular, but a faint carnation tint
again spread itself over her soft cheek, and a streak of blue was
visible through the long fringes of her fair eyelids. Then, then, at
last, Harry who had been kneeling over her, in pale breathless suspense,
half blinded with the intensity of his gaze on her inanimate features,
drew a deep gasping breath as he sunk on his sister's pillow with a
sudden feebleness like that of infancy, and, pressing his cheek close to
hers, recalled her to life and consciousness with a passion of sobs and
tears and kisses, and broken murmurs of unutterable love.

Tears were in the eyes of all (not in the mother's only) who looked on
that affecting sight; and the only placid countenance was that of the
little Emily, who awoke as if from some happy dream, with an angel
smile upon her sweet lips, as she turned them instinctively to Harry's,
and clasped her little arms about his neck. In another minute her voice
was heard, low and tremulous at first; and the words she uttered were
confused and disjointed, for the child was yet as if half in slumber,
and quite unconscious of the past. At length, "Is it night?" she said,
lifting up her face from Harry's, and drawing back her head to look
about her, as she half raised herself from the pillow, resting on her
elbow--"Is it night, Harry? where are you? why does not mamma come to
bed? but I am not afraid now."--"My child! my child!" faltered Mrs.
Morton, as, throwing herself on the bed, she clasped the smiling Emily,
and looked into her eyes with a sudden agony of apprehension--"I am
here, my Emmy! Look up, my precious child! It is not night! Look up at
me, my Emmy."

Emily's large blue eyes obeyed that tender invocation, but they wandered
over her mother's features with a strange vacancy of expression, and
the child's face became troubled as she stretched out both her little
hands to feel for Harry, still close beside her, and then said
distressfully, "What makes it so dark, mamma? I cannot see any thing."

The sweet eyes of Emily Morton were darkened for ever in this world.
That electric stroke had instantaneously and irrevocably destroyed the
optic nerves of both; and Harry, unhappy boy! had lured her, by an
irresistible appeal to her love for him, to the spot where that fatal
bolt descended.

What were the mother's feelings on ascertaining her child's misfortune,
I will not attempt to describe, my Fanny; still less those that very
soon consigned poor Harry to the temporary oblivion of a brain fever,
which brought him to the brink of the grave, and from which his recovery
was long doubtful. When consciousness returned, not only did he see his
fond mother watching by his bedside, but a little angel face was bending
over him with looks that at once dropped balm and bitterness into his
very heart; so loving, so sweet, so pitiful was their scarcely changed
expression. And when the dear child became sensible that Harry's reason
was restored to him, and that he knew his mother and herself, a light of
more than human intelligence beamed in her sightless eyes, and, smiling
like the seraph Hope, she stooped down to kiss her brother's forehead
and whisper, laying her soft cheek to his, "Dear, dear Harry! we will be
happier than ever; I do not want to see."

Twelve months, as I told you, have past away since that calamitous
season; during which interval, God (who has more ways of helping us than
we could point out to him) has been very gracious to the family at
Leaside. The bequest of a distant relation has assured an humble
competence to Mrs. Morton and her children; and our worthy curate, who
needed no call to the house of mourning, but the knowledge that the hand
of God had stricken its inmates, became so interested for the little
family, especially for the poor boy who had been so fatally instrumental
in causing the calamity of his sweet sister, that he has ever since
taken Harry under his daily tuition; and Mrs. Morton now entertains a
hope that, with his valuable assistance, and such farther aids as
Providence and her own exertions may provide, her darling boy may be
enabled to enter one of the Universities, and in due time take upon
himself the holy ministry. Such is the highest aim of Harry Morton's own
wishes; and that, next to the service of God, he may devote his whole
life to that sweet helpless creature whose claims on his tenderness are
so sacred and so affecting.

Harry Morton is but ten years old; but his mind has made greater
progress during the last twelve months than, under other circumstances,
it might possibly have attained in half as many years.

That heavy affliction and its results have perhaps subdued for ever his
naturally high animal spirits, and he will probably grow up a serious
and thoughtful man. But though he will never forgive himself for that
momentary error, the memento of which is perpetually before him, the
bitterness of his remorse is assuaged by time and the consolatory
experience, that divine mercy has so mitigated the calamity of the blind
Emily, so "tempered the wind to the shorn lamb," that she is already
half forgetful of the blessing she has lost, and so wonderfully gifted
with that peculiar tact and increased acuteness of the other senses,
often vouchsafed under the deprivation of sight, as to be indeed
perfectly happy in her present condition, the very spirit of innocent
cheerfulness, the blithest bird that wakes the echoes of bowery Leaside.

It is a remarkable fact that the little girl's delicate frame and
naturally feeble constitution have been gaining strength and stamina
seemingly from that very day when blindness fell upon her. From that
memorable epoch she ceased to be the victim of those nervous terrors
which, though partly subdued, still haunted her enough to mar half the
joys of her young life. "The night and the day," "darkness and light,"
are now indeed both alike to the sightless Emily: but then it may be
said, with equal truth, that "darkness is no darkness" with her. The
light of Heaven's own peace is in her soul, and through the medium of
that internal day the blessed child beholds in imagination all objects
of the external world. And, then, Harry's love is even about her "like a
cloak," and his incessant care and watchfulness ministering, like those
of a guardian spirit, to her happiness and safety; and Harry's invention
and ingenuity are ever at work to devise occupations and amusements in
which she may actively participate. Already little Emily is skilful in
many small handicrafts, useful and ornamental; and some of the work of
her fairy fingers might shame the more imperfect productions of many who
possess the advantage of eyesight. That pretty little basket which
stands on my work-table--you were admiring it yesterday,--that is
Emily's handy work: and, besides her skill in such "small wares," she
can knit her own and Harry's stockings; and her work will bear
comparison with that of the best knitters in our village school. Emily
knows all the wild flowers, can distinguish each by touch and smell,
and every bird by its song, as well as when she delighted to watch their
unfolding buds and beautiful plumage. The day is never long enough for
Emily's quiet industry and active cheerfulness; yet never were slumbers
so sweet and peaceful as those that fall upon her pillow almost as soon
as Harry's last "good night" has been breathed over her, and his lips
have pressed their accustomed farewell on each of her closed eyelids.
Not unfrequently a tear will mingle with that fond kiss, the seal of
memory, and then only (if she feels the tender moisture) there is
trouble in Emily's sweet face and distress in her tremulous voice, as
clasping Harry's neck she whispers in his ear her loving passionate
assurance, that she is happier, _much_ happier than ever.

And now I will wind up my long story, which has made you look very sad,
my little Fanny, with a few verses, which you must get by heart some
day; and I am sure they will recur to you in after life as beautifully
applicable to all our trials. They were composed by a blind lady,
Marianne Erskine, and the sentiments they express are such as compel one
to envy rather than compassionate the person who made "such sweet uses
of adversity."

    Let not vain man of partial fate complain:
      If few know happiness without alloy,
      'Tis that most men their happiness destroy,
    Treating possession with a proud disdain;
    Of miseries and ills a countless train
      Their ever restless rankling thoughts employ;
      The present hour they never will enjoy;
    The past, the future, rack their souls in vain.
    Not that to us whatever is, is right;
      But compensations may be found if sought:
    Though I am born without the sense of sight,
      What circumscribes to me the range of thought?
    Thus study, friendship, intellectual light,
      May yet be mine; and life is still with blessings fraught.

[Illustration: decoration]




SISTERS OF CHARITY.

[Illustration: decoration]


"Oh! what a singular dress that young lady has on, and how thoughtful
she looks," was the observation of Blanche Wilson, a lively girl of ten
years old, as she drew from a portfolio the engraving which represented
one of the Sisters of Charity.

"That lady, my dear," replied her mother, "belongs to a community whose
lives are passed amidst scenes of suffering and distress. It would not
therefore be very surprising if sympathy with the afflicted should have
given a sedate expression to features lovely as those before you."

"Oh! do tell me her history," exclaimed the little girl eagerly,--"where
you first saw her, and why she wears that singular costume? I long to
know all about her."

"I will answer your last query first," replied her mother: "She wears
that dress simply because it is the habit of the Charitable Order of
which she is a member--an institution peculiar to the Roman Catholic
Church, at once its highest boast and its brightest ornament."

"But what are the particular duties of these Charitable Sisters?"
inquired the little girl.

"Those of the Samaritan of old, my dear--to visit the sick poor, both at
their own houses and at the public hospitals. To nurse and administer
medicines, and to afford them the consolations of religion. These are
the occupations of a Sister of Charity: duties, simple in their
enumeration, difficult in their fulfilment, but boundless in their
importance and extent."

"But, Mamma, if their object is so praiseworthy, why have not _we_
Sisters of Charity, as well as the Roman Catholics?" inquired the little
girl.

"That is a question, Blanche," replied Mrs. Wilson, "that I have often
put both to myself and others; but to which I have never received any
satisfactory reply. I cannot believe that we have less benevolence
among us than our Gallic neighbours. I am, therefore, bound to suppose,
either that the idea has never occurred to the influential or humane, or
that hitherto no ladies have been found of sufficient nerve to brave the
misrepresentation and ridicule which would, in the first instance,
attach to the establishment of a Protestant Sisterhood."

"But, Mamma," interrupted Blanche, "how often have I heard you yourself
say that,

    Evil and good report, if undeserved,
    Is soon lived down.

Think how different would be the lot of hundreds of unhappy convicts if
Mrs. Fry had been deterred from attempting to better their condition
from the mere dread of ridicule and misrepresentation."

"That is most true, my dear; nor do I yet despair of seeing among us, at
some future day, an establishment very similar to the one founded by
Vincent St. Paul two hundred years ago. Meantime, I am happy to inform
you, that at this very period a house is erecting between St. Leonard's
and Hastings for a community of these Charitable Sisters; who, in
addition to the duties before enumerated, propose taking upon themselves
the further responsibility of educating and fitting for domestic
servants as many of the destitute poor as the funds of the institution
will permit. In this labour of love, to use their own words, they
'neither make distinction of sect or creed,' nor accept or expect any
remuneration whatever."

"Oh! how very kind," interrupted Blanche; "but have they always been
equally liberal in the distribution of their charity!"

"Always, from its first foundation. The benevolence of its projector was
of too diffusive a character to limit his wish of relieving distress to
the members of his own church; and this truly Christian spirit is a
distinguishing feature of the society to the present day. To the
unwearied care of the Sisters are many hundreds of English wives and
mothers indebted for the very existence of those they most love.
Thousands of British subjects, whilst languishing as prisoners in the
hospitals of France, have borne witness how literally these Daughters of
Pity fulfil the injunction of their Divine Master--'If thine enemy
hunger, give him bread; if he thirst, give him drink.' Many of our
fellow-countrymen are there at this moment who can adopt the words of
Scripture and say, 'I was hungry, and ye gave me bread; I was thirsty,
and ye gave me drink; I was sick and in prison, and ye visited me; I was
a stranger, and ye took me in!'"

Tears filled the eyes of the child as she continued her mother's
quotation, and repeated the reply of our Lord to the query of his
disciples of "when they had ministered unto him," "Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto the least of my people, ye have done it unto Me."

Both parent and child were silent for a few minutes; after which the
former of them continued the conversation.

"The Order of the Sisters of Charity was established by Vincent St.
Paul, in the year 1629, assisted by the counsel and co-operation of a
lady of rank named Le Gras. This benevolent individual not only bestowed
her whole fortune for the establishment of the institution, but took
upon herself an active part in its management and labours. Thus, whilst
the worthy Pastor was travelling from town to town, and village to
village, preaching in aid of the funds of the society, she remained at
Paris, inciting the charitable of her own sex to become the dispensers
of the bounty thus collected.

"On its first commencement, when hospitals were unhappily more scarce
than they have since become, the afflicted poor were received into the
houses of this community; but, alas! it was soon evident, that, however
ample the funds of the society might be, they were inadequate for even a
temporary maintenance of half the unhappy claimants that presented
themselves: the Sisters were therefore under the necessity of attending
the least destitute poor at their own houses; and this excellent method
of ascertaining the wants of the afflicted, as well as the best means
of alleviating them, is pursued to the present day."

"But, Mamma," inquired Blanche, "are not the Sisters of Charity obliged
to take upon themselves some vows which are thought objectionable by
Protestants?"

"The vows of the Sisters of Charity are simply these--'Poverty,
obedience, and service to the poor.' These vows are limited to one year,
although many continue their voluntary labours for a long life. During
this period, their vow of 'Poverty' prevents their enjoying property
individually; neither can they marry: their 'Obedience' consists in an
adherence to the regulations of the society; and their "Service to the
Poor" in relieving the distressed without distinction of creed or
country."

"But, Mamma," interrupted Blanche, "I do not see what could be objected
to in any thing you have named--the vows are so simple, and for so short
a period."

"It would detain us too long to enter minutely into that question,"
replied her mother; "but there can be no doubt that the arrangements
might be so modified as to meet the scruples of the most timid; and it
would be well for us all to bear in mind that, even in its existing
form, it is an institution of pure humanity. It does not immure its
members within stone walls--it sends them forth into the world in all
the beautiful energy of benevolence; and when the calls on their labour
of love have ceased, it returns them, not cramped by indolence or soured
by austerity, but glowing with the wholesome fatigue of good work--to
enjoy peaceful repose, until the dawn of another day calls them to
minister to the affliction it brings with it."

"But the dress, Mamma--the dress--how came they to choose so strange a
costume?--it is so very unbecoming."

"I fancy, my dear, that persons who voluntarily take upon themselves the
duties I have enumerated would not be very solicitous on that head. The
dress, with the exception of the cap, is exactly similar to the one
which the first Sister, Madame Le Gras, is represented to have worn. It
consists of a black stuff petticoat, with the body made jacket-wise; a
blue apron, with stockings of the same colour; a white collar and cap,
the latter modelled from the form which a handkerchief, took for a
moment, as it fell from the hand of Louis XIV. on the head of one of the
Sisters."

"How strange! But did the King accidentally drop his handkerchief?"
inquired Blanche.

"No;" replied her mother, "the Sister whom the King chanced to encounter
happened to be very lovely, and his Majesty remarked that 'she needed a
veil to conceal her loveliness from vulgar eyes;' and, suiting the
action to the word, invested her with the embroidered handkerchief he
held in his hand: this is the origin of the only very singular part of
their costume; but we will resume their history on some future occasion,
when I trust to be able to narrate to you a series of anecdotes
illustrative of the activity of their benevolence, which will greatly
enhance the interest of the sketch on which our present conversation has
originated."

[Illustration: decoration]




ANECDOTE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.

[Illustration: decoration]


During the great American War an English officer, in command of a
foraging party, was together with his soldiers surprised by a large
ambush of Indians, who poured in a destructive fire upon them, by which
many of the English were killed. The survivors had hardly time to look
from whence the attack proceeded, when the Indians sprung forward from
their lurking place with yells more savage than the howls of the wild
beasts of the forest. The few English who were not killed or disabled
took to flight, it being impossible to withstand the superior numbers of
the enemy, and among the fugitives was the officer, who had received a
wound in his left arm.

For a short time he did not consider himself pursued, but after forcing
his way with difficulty through the wildest and gloomiest thickets for
about half an hour, he was alarmed to hear the well-known whoop of the
Indians not far from him. He gave himself up for lost, for what chance
had he of escape in those thick woods, every pass of which was probably
as familiar to his enemies as unknown to himself? He sought the deepest
recesses, but the Indians still kept near him, and an accident only
prevented his being almost immediately discovered by them. There was a
hollow place, almost like a well, in his path, the mouth of which was so
overgrown with wild shrubs as not to be perceptible, except on a minute
search. Into this he fell, and though he was bruised by his fall he was
here effectually concealed from the Indians. More than once he heard
their footsteps as they passed by his place of concealment.

When several hours had elapsed and all seemed still, the officer
ventured to stir from his hiding-place. His wound was painful; his limbs
were stiff; and it was with great difficulty that he could get out of
the pit into which he had fallen. At last he effected his deliverance,
and faint and wounded as he was, and though the night was dark and
dismal, he set forth in hopes of rejoining the English army.

He had not proceeded far when a light, glimmering through the trees,
attracted his attention: he approached it with great caution, and,
sheltering himself from observation, regarded with much anxiety a party
of Indians who were assembled round a great fire roasting the flesh of a
deer. Their wild and savage looks, as they sat on the ground in the red
light of the fire, were truly alarming; and the officer, afraid of being
seen, changed his position in the hope of concealing himself more
effectually. In doing so he struck his wounded arm against a branch,
which caused him such violent pain that he was unable at the moment to
prevent a cry of agony bursting from him. In a moment the Indians were
on their feet, and in another they had dragged him forth.

Wounded as he was, and though his enemies were too numerous to leave any
chance of successful resistance, the officer drew his sword and
endeavoured to defend himself, for he dreaded the torture which he knew
the Indians would inflict on him if he became their captive. So unequal
a strife would speedily have terminated in the death of the officer, but
that an old Indian, who had hitherto stood aloof, sprung forward, and
waving his tomahawk over the Englishman forbad any one to harm him.

It was fortunate that this old Indian was the chief of his tribe, and
was highly reverenced by his people for his great strength and skill in
war and in hunting,--they sullenly obeyed him. He addressed the officer
in broken French; of which language many of the Indians who were in
league with the French had a slight knowledge. He promised him
protection, and gave him food. Perceiving that their captive was
wounded, he gathered the leaves of some healing plant, and after
steeping them in water bound them on the wound, with the greatest
solicitude for the officer's recovery, and by words of comfort tried to
alleviate his sufferings.

After some time the Indians stretched themselves on the ground to
sleep, all but one or two who remained to watch, and the chief, who
carried on a short conversation with the officer.

"You cannot," said he, "go away yet, my son, for you could not find the
paths through the woods, and if you could you would probably meet with
enemies. I cannot now conduct you, for we go in the morning towards the
north. You must therefore accompany us, but as soon as possible you
shall be restored to your own people. Now go and sleep, for you are
wounded and weary, and must have rest."

The Englishman, it may be imagined, did not much relish the idea of
being kept among the Indians; it was however much better than being
tortured or killed by them, and he returned many thanks to the chief.

Early in the morning he was aroused by the troop preparing for
departure. They travelled with the most singular caution, and wound
their way through the most obscure parts of the woods, and guided
themselves by tracks quite undistinguishable, except by the experienced
eye of an Indian. They preserved a profound silence, and showed great
ingenuity in the means they adopted to prevent their course being known.

During the middle of the day they rested, and again at night. In the
depth of the night the officer was aroused by some one shaking him, and
looking up he saw his friend the old Indian, who, cautioning him to be
silent, bade him to follow his steps. He did so, and they proceeded
carefully among the woods. It was not until daybreak that the silence
was broken by the Englishman asking his conductor whither they were
going.

"One of our people," replied the Indian, "was wounded severely by you
when you were first surprised by them. In consequence of this his
brother has sworn revenge against you, and it would have been unsafe for
you to remain with us. I will guide you to safety, and then return."

The Englishman made grateful acknowledgments for the Indian's kindness.
"I am thinking," he then added, "why you should show me this goodness,
for I was a stranger and am an enemy."

"Does a white man never do good to a stranger or an enemy?" asked the
Indian. The Englishman blushed, and was silent.

"But I am only paying a debt," said the Indian: "nine months ago I was
wounded, and weary, and dying of thirst; you saw me and gave me drink,
which saved my life. I prayed to the Great Spirit that I might repay the
benefit: behold he has heard me."

The officer was struck with the noble sentiments of the savage, and
sighed to think how often his countrymen might take lessons from the
Indian.

As the evening drew nigh they came to a tract of country where the woods
were thinner,--presently they perceived marks of cultivation: at least
the eye was struck by a village not very distant.

"That is an English station," said the Indian; "there you will find
white men and friends. But, my son, when thou art with them do not
forget the Indian, nor think ill of his people. Farewell, my son! May
the Great Spirit protect thee, and give thee strength among thy people."

The Englishman pressed the hand of the old man, spoke a parting word,
for he was too much affected to say more. The next moment the Indian was
amid the woods, and the officer on his way to join his regiment.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Seven Stones are dangerous rocks, lying between the Scilly Isles
and the Land's End.

[2] A small bird like a swallow, that is scarcely ever seen except
previously to or during a gale of wind. It is viewed with a superstitious
feeling by seamen, who call it "Mother Carey's chicken."

[3] Salvage is a sum of money allowed to individuals who are instrumental
in saving a ship from being wrecked.

[4] Query--_Humphreys_?


THE END.



  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
  | Transcriber's Note:-                                         |
  |                                                              |
  | The following printers spelling errors have been corrected:-  |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 13                                                      |
  | 'nearst' to 'nearest'                                        |
  | 'The nearest house which'                                    |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 34                                                      |
  | 'be' to 'he'                                                 |
  | 'when he drooped'                                            |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 100                                                     |
  | 'fo' to 'of'                                                 |
  | 'part of a mast'                                             |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 123                                                     |
  | 'besom' to 'bosom'                                           |
  | 'closely towards his bosom'                                  |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 148                                                     |
  | 'slop' to 'shop'                                             |
  | 'silently into the shop.'                                    |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 155                                                     |
  | 'every' to 'very'                                            |
  | 'tastes are very different'                                  |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 213                                                     |
  | 'skreen' to 'screen'                                         |
  | 'behind the leafy screen'                                    |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 217                                                     |
  | 'though' to 'through'                                        |
  | 'visible through the long fringes'                           |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 237                                                     |
  | 'concealmant' to 'concealment'                               |
  | 'by his place of concealment'                                |
  +--------------------------------------------------------------+




[End of _Choice Library for Young People_ by Mrs. Hofland and others]
