Various
Happy Days for Boys and Girls
The water spread itself thinly at first over the bottom of the pond. Slowly it rose; the little hollows were filled up, the slight elevations hidden from sight. Gradually it closed round the tiny green island which stood out above its surface like an emerald set in shining silver. By night the pond was full. The water began running over the top of the gate, making the prettiest little waterfall, and over it a light spray rose softly towards the evening sky.
Bright and early the next morning there was commotion at the Davys’. The boys were going to Maxwell’s Creek, ten miles away, fishing. Mrs. Davy was stirring round, preparing their lunch. George and Percy hurried to the stable.
“Come, Brown Billy,” said Percy to the favorite pony; “time to get up and have your breakfast. We are all going fishing to-day;” and he laid his hand smartly upon the pony’s back.
Brown Billy raised his head, opened his eyes in astonishment to see the boys so early in his stall; but hearing their merry voices, he seemed to understand the situation at once, and to be in full sympathy with them. An extra allowance of oats was put in the manger, and while the boys were eating their breakfast in the house, Brown Billy leisurely munched his in the stable. Then, after a draught from the pump, he was put into the traces. Two casks and a large basket were lifted in, the luncheon deposited, and soon they were on their way. The sun was just peeping above the horizon, spreading a crimson glory over every hill, and tree, and shrub; but this was so familiar a sight to the Davy boys, that it caused no remark, though they were not insensible to its beauty.
The scene of their day’s sport was a beautiful glen among the hills, through which the stream, a genuine, untaught child of the woods, jumped and tumbled at its own wild will, now leaping from precipices in the loveliest cataracts, then fretting noisily over its stony bed, and, a little farther on, flowing as smoothly as if it never thought of foaming or fretting in all its course.
Tommy tied Brown Billy to a tree, giving him a long tether, that he might pick at the fresh grass.
Trout are the most delicate of fishes, and require careful treatment. Indeed, they are quite the aristocracy of the finny tribe. Mr. Davy had given Patrick directions not to allow them to be caught with a hook, as it could not be taken from their mouths without causing much pain, and perhaps death.
Patrick chose a place in the stream where the channel was narrow, but deep, and waded in.
“Now, boys,” said he, “yes all go above a little way, wade out into the sthrame, and bate the wather with yer fish-poles. This will drive thim down, and I’ll see what I can do wid the basket.”
The boys pulled off shoes and stockings, and rolled their trousers above the knees. Clarence sat on the bank, paddling with his bare feet in the stream. Stepping out into the creek, they hopped from one mossy stone to another, the water pleasantly laving their feet. Standing in a row across the stream, they began beating rather gently, at the same time walking slowly forward, hoping to drive the fish before them. Presently Patrick brought up the basket, the water streaming from it as it did from Simple Simon’s sieve, and in the bottom, wriggling and squirming, lay four fine trout. Tommy seized the basket, and in an instant the fish were within the cask, in their native element again, though in rather close quarters. The boys hung over the barrel, gazing at the pretty creatures with intense delight. The sun shone down into the water, making the bright spots on their sides look like gold.
“Never mind, little trout,” said Franky; “you are not going to be hurt – only moved to our fish-pond.”
Do you not think they enjoyed that day far more because there was no cruelty in their sport?
Their amusement was varied by a delicious lunch, and an occasional ramble through the woods. Towards evening they drove home, elated with their success. The cask contained nearly as many fish as could swim. The second cask was filled with fresh water, to replace that in the first when it should no longer be fit for the use of the fish. These delicate little trout are so sensitive to any impurity, that they could not have remained in the same water during the drive home without suffering. Indeed, they might have died before reaching the pond.
My young readers may not know that fish breathe an element of the water which is a part of air also. In fact, the same element which sustains us sustains them also, viz., oxygen. Only one ninth part of water, however, is oxygen, while of air it is one fifth. I dare say you have all seen goldfishes, shut up in crystal prisons, swimming their endless round in a quart or two of water. Perhaps you have observed them lifting their heads above the surface, mouths wide open, gasping for breath. The oxygen is exhausted from the water, and unless it be speedily changed their mistress will lose her beautiful pets.
The trout were put into the pond – a small beginning, to be sure; but it was a beginning. How lonely they must have been at first! What a boundless ocean it must have seemed to them!
We will hope they found some cosy harbor in the grassy-lined sides of the island, where they could meet together and talk over their strange experience of moving. Plenty of company came soon, however; for all the boys in the neighborhood were interested in stocking the pond.
A boat was in progress in Mr. Davy’s tool-house. The boys watched every inch of its growth, from the shaping of the skeleton frame to the last dash of the paint-brush. When it was done, the seats put across from side to side, the coatings of white paint laid on, and elevated upon four stakes to dry its glistening sides, the boys thought nothing was ever half so beautiful; but when they saw it upon the pond, gently rocking from side to side, the oars hanging in the locks, and lazily swaying to the motion of the water, it seemed to them more beautiful still.
This is not all a fancy sketch, dear boys and girls. Perhaps some of the farmer children who read it may persuade their papas to make a fishing-pond of some unsightly “hollow in the pasture” upon their own farms.
L. M. D.
STORIES ABOUT DOGS
A NEWFOUNDLAND dog belonging to a gentleman in Edinburgh was in the habit of receiving a penny each day from his master, which he always took to a baker’s shop and bought a loaf of bread for himself. One day a bad penny was given him by a gentleman by way of frolic. Dandie ran off with it to the baker’s, as usual, but was refused a loaf. The poor dog waited a moment, as if considering what to do; he then returned to the house of the gentleman who had given him the bad coin; and when the servant opened the door, he laid it at her feet and walked away with an air of contempt.
Some dogs are fond of music, while others seem not to be affected by it in the slightest degree. These two anecdotes are related by the author of a recent volume. He is speaking of a friend: “As soon as the lamp is lighted and placed on the sitting-room table, a large dog of the water-spaniel breed usually jumps up and curls himself around the lamp. He never upsets it, but remains perfectly still. Now, my friend is very musical, but during the time the piano is being played the dog remains perfectly unmoved, until a particular piece is played. He will not take the slightest notice of loud or soft pieces, neither sentimental nor comic, but instantly the old tune entitled ‘Drops of Brandy’ is played, he invariably raises his head and begins to howl most piteously, relapsing into his usual state of lethargy as soon as this tune is stopped. My friend cannot account for this action of the dog in any way, nor can we learn from any source the reason of its dislike.
“Again, the wife of a hotel-keeper, lately deceased, possessed a pet lap-dog which delighted in listening to its mistress playing on the piano; if the usual hour for her daily practice passed by, the dog would grow impatient, snap and bark, and be perfectly uneasy until the lady consented to gratify its wishes by sitting down to the instrument and playing a few tunes. During this operation the dog would sit motionless on a chair by her side; and when the music was ended, he would jump down, quite satisfied for that day.”
A CHILD’S PRAYER
JESUS, tender Shepherd, hear me;
Bless thy little lamb to-night;
Through the darkness be thou near me,
Keep me safe till morning light.
Through the day thy hand hath led me,
And I thank thee for thy care;
Thou hast warmed and fed and clothed me,
Listen to my evening prayer.
JOHN STOCKS AND “THE BISON.”
ONE winter afternoon, as Archy Douglas sat studying his lessons, Mrs. Falkoner, the housekeeper, came to invite him to have tea in her room. While they were at the table, they heard the kitchen bell ring, at which Mrs. Falkoner seemed surprised, for she said the weather would incline few people to leave their own firesides.
It turned out, however, to be a visitor for Mrs. Falkoner herself, for in a few minutes one of the servants came to say a person who called himself John Stocks wanted to see her, and John presented himself in the doorway without further delay.
An active man, with the look, at first sight, of the mate of a ship, he stood gently stamping the snow off his boots on the door mat, laughing in a low tone, as if he was very much pleased to see the worthy Mrs. Falkoner, and was enjoying her stare of astonishment to the full.
“Dear bless me, John, is it really you?” said Mrs. Falkoner, almost running to meet him. “Whatever wind has blown you here?”
“No wind at all, Mary; nought but the snow,” he said, laughing: but correcting himself, he added, “Ah, well, there was a wind, after all, for we’re fairly drifted up a few miles t’other side of the Junction; and so I got leave to run over and see you: not often I get the chance – is it, now?”
All this time he had been taking off his outer coat; and when he was fairly in the room, Archy found he was a young man, certainly not more than thirty. He had crisp black hair, a bold, manly face, very red with exposure to the weather, and at the same time expressive of great determination of character. But one peculiarity about his face was, that though so young, his forehead was not only scarred and lined, but round his eyes and about his mouth it was puckered and wrinkled to a most extraordinary degree. Archy felt a great curiosity about him, but was not long left in doubt, for Mrs. Falkoner took care to make her visitor known to the young gentleman as her youngest half brother and an engine-driver on the main line.
A remarkably quiet man did John Stocks seem in regard to general conversation; he said very little about the weather, and less about things going on in the great world, and anything he did say on these topics had almost to be coaxed out of him. However, he evidently took great delight in giving all the family news, even to the most minute particular.
“Of course you’ve heard,” he said, warming one hand at the fire, “that Bob’s come home from America. Then that old Thompson has given up the shop.”
“Yes; so I heard,” said Mrs. Falkoner, pouring out another cup of tea, not appearing to take very great interest in them. “No accidents on your line lately, I hope.”
“Not much,” was the answer, and he again went back to the family news. “Jenny’s got a baby,” he said, suddenly, with great glee, as if this piece of news was far before any other.
This intelligence at least was news to Mrs. Falkoner, and she listened to all he had to say about it with great interest.
But when Mrs. Falkoner was called away for a few minutes, it became necessary for Archy to entertain the visitor till her return.
Of course Archy had many questions to put about the railway and the engines, and dangers and catastrophes. John was excessively civil, and on this subject was full of intelligence; but when he was asked if his own engine had broken down in the snow, he became quite horrified, if not indignant.
“What, master, broke down?” he said. “Not a bit o’t. I’d back the old Bison against a drift twice as heavy. But, d’ye see, when you comes and finds an engine and seven wagons o’ minerals, and another engine, and wagons besides that all ahead o’ ye, and stuck fast, why, I says, ye must give in. There ain’t no use expecting yer engine to drive through ’em, so must lie by till all’s cleared, which won’t be for five hours at least.”
“How is it that the line’s blocked up now?” asked Archy. “There has been no more snow all day.”
“Ay, that’s true, master,” said the engine-driver. “But d’ye see, a mile from the Junction there’s a bit of heavy cutting, with a steep sloping bank on either side. Now, this afternoon there was a slip; most all the snow drifted there, and part of the bank itself fell in, and so there is a block-up. As I said afore, the mineral train, she comes up first, and she sticks fast, and then we has to follow, as a matter in course. But had my old Bison been afront, he’d have done differently, I make no doubt.”
“Is your engine a much stronger one?” said Archy, greatly amused to hear how funny it was to call a train she, while he called the engine he, and by an animal’s name, too.
“It’s not that he’s stronger, sir, but he’s got more go in him, has the Bison. He’s an extraordinary plucky engine. I’ve seen him do wonderful things when Mat Whitelaw was driver, and me stoker to ’em. I’ll just tell you one on ’em, and then ye can judge what sort o’ stuff the Bison’s made o’. It was one day in summer, some two years ago; we had just taken in water at the junction, and were about to run back to couple on the coaches, when an engine passed us tearing along at a tremendous speed on the other line o’ rail, but, mark me, without a driver or stoker, or aught else on it. I thought my mate was mad, when he got up steam, and off in the same direction; but in a moment I saw what he was up to. The Bison was going in the chase. ‘See to the brake, John,’ was all Mat said, when off we were after the runaway at full speed. It seemed to me nought but a wild-goose chase; for, d’ye see, master, we were on another line o’ rails altogether. But Mat knew what he was about, and it was my place to do his bidding. I was always proud o’ the old Bison before that morning, but I never knew till then what a good engine was, and what was depending on it.
“You would have thought he fairly snorted to his work, going at the rate o’ forty miles an hour we were, and at last we got abreast o’ the runaway engine, and could have passed him, but that would have been useless. There wasn’t another driver on the whole line would have thought of the thing so quickly as Mat did, nor could have regulated the speed so nicely to a moment. The two different engines were running just opposite each other on the two different lines, the runaway being a good deal worn out now, and going much slower than at first, when Mat he says to me, hoarsely, ‘Jump across. It’ll be safer if I stick here to hold the regulator; but I’ll go, if you’d rather stay.’ I had such confidence in Mat Whitelaw, that I could trust my life with him before any mortal man; and the instant he gave the word, I jumped, and did it safe. We each put on our brakes, and took breath, and desperately hot we both were, I can assure you.”
“Were you not terribly afraid?” said Archy, who had been almost breathless during the recital.
“I can’t say that we were,” said John, coolly; “but I’ll tell you I was frightened enough the next moment, when Mat looked at his watch, and sees that the down express was due in a few minutes on his line. I believe that Mat thought more o’ the passengers that might be smashed, and the risk for the Bison, than o’ his own safety. He said it would never do to reverse the engines now; but if we kept on, he thought there might yet be time to run into the siding at the nearest station. So on we went once more at increased speed, straight on ahead, though it was like running into the very face of the danger. The telegraph had been hard at work, and the station people had been laying their heads together, and they were at the points. So, when they heard the whistle, and saw Mat putting on the brake, they at once opened the points, – not a moment too soon, I can tell you, – and in he ran into the siding. Now, what Mat did, sir, was what I call about equal to most generals in war, and as great a benefit to society.”
“He must be a brave fellow,” said Archy; “and I hope you were both rewarded for it.”
“The company behaved very handsome,” was the answer. “Mat got on to the Great Western line at once; but the worst of it is, he and I are parted, and the old Bison; he felt his loss as much, if not more than me.”
Mrs. Falkoner, who had come in during the latter part of the story, now said, —
“But tell the young gentleman what you did your own self, and what the company thought of your conduct.”
“Tuts, Mary,” he answered; “I did nought extraordinary; there ain’t a man in the service but could have done the same, had they known old Bison as well as I did.”
“I should like to hear it, John,” said Archy, who was standing ready to leave the brother and sister alone.
“Well, ’cept it be to tell you how I got to be driver of the Bison myself, it’s not worth the listening to. When Mat left, Bill Jones got to be my mate – the worst driver on the line; at least he couldn’t manage the Bison. He did not understand that engine one bit, and was constantly getting into trouble, till I was driven almost wild. Bill would say, ‘Bison, indeed! he ought to be called Donkey; it would suit his kicking ways better.’ It was quite true he kicked, but he never did it with Mat on him, and went along the rails as smooth as oil. Well, at one part o’ the line, there is a gradual long incline, and one day we were just putting on more steam to run up, when we sees at the top two or three coaches coming tearing down straight upon us. We knew there was a heavy excursion train on ahead, and we had been going rather slow on that account, and this was some of the coaches that had got uncoupled from the rest. Well, Bill, my mate, no sooner saw it coming, than says he, ‘Jump for your life!’ and out he went. But I knew what a quick engine the Bison was, and, moreover, I saw our guard had noticed the danger, too, and would work with me; so I reversed the engine, and ran back, until the coaches came up to us, but did no further damage save giving us a bit of a shake as they struck on the old Bison; and so we drove them afore us right up to the station. Bill was killed, as might have been expected, for he had no faith in the Bison whatever; and so the company, they came to see I understood that engine, and they made me driver o’ him from that time.”
Archy now bade the worthy engine-driver good night, saying that he should always take a greater interest in engines than ever before, and that he should have liked very much to have seen such a famous one as the Bison.
John Stocks evidently took this speech as a personal compliment, and, in consequence, bade Archy a friendly good by, saying, as he did so, “that people nowadays talked of nothing but ships and extraordinary guns, and what not, but to his mind a good engine was before them all.”
Mrs. George Cupples.
THE CHILDREN’S SONG
MERRILY sang the children, as their mother softly played;
With eager, outstretched faces a pretty group they made;
Their clear and bird-like voices ran loudly through the air,
Till “Baby” heard the music, and crept from stair to stair,
That she might join the singers, and in their gladness share.
Dear, merry little warblers! I love to hear you, too;
Your fresh, unworldly feelings, your hearts so fond and true,
Give to your songs a sweetness that no other strains possess;
They soothe the harassed spirit when troubles thickly press,
And evoke the warm petition, “O God, our children bless!”
PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS
HOW earnest Kate and Constance and Brother Willy look,
Counting up varied treasures, ship, bat and doll and book!
The three are very busy, and very happy too,
Trying to mend up old things to look almost like new.
The book was rather shabby, but Kate with paste and thread
Has made it firm and tidy, and rubbed it clean with bread.
And now, ere she resigns it, she lingers, glancing o’er
The pretty picture pages and well-known lines once more.
Constance has dressed the dolly – you see how nice it looks —
And all its things are fastened with little strings or hooks.
The ship with clean new rigging – Will’s work – they eye with pride,
And they have quite a drawerful of other things beside —
Boxes of beads and sweeties, and many a top and ball,
Saved for the coming Christmas; and who’s to have them all?
Not their own merry playmates, bright girl and happy lad,
Who’ll meet for winter pastime like them well fed and clad.
No; children in close alleys, or the large workhouse near,
Our little friends – obeying Christ’s words – will please and cheer.
And their own Christmas pleasures will seem more glad and sweet
For knowing such poor neighbors enjoy for once a treat.