Various
Happy Days for Boys and Girls
I should be ashamed to finish the conclusion of the affair; for what do you think, children? It all actually happened, once upon a time, to myself and two of my sisters.
Fannie Benedict.
MIRTH is a medicine of life:
It cures its ills, it calms its strife;
It softly smooths the brow of care,
And writes a thousand graces there.
LAME SUSIE
CHILDREN,” said Miss Ware to her little band of scholars, “Susie Dana is coming to school next Monday. She is lame, and I want you to be kind and thoughtful toward her. She does not show her lameness until she commences to walk, and then you can see that one of the fat little legs is longer than the other, which makes her limp. So do not watch her as she walks. Be sure not to run against her in your plays, and don’t shut her out from them because she cannot run and jump as you do, but choose, some of the time, plays in which she can take part. Remember, I make this rule: When you leave the room at recess or after school, wait, every one of you, in your places till she has passed out; then she will not be jostled or hurt in any way. Her lameness is a hard trial for a little girl. She would like to run and dance as well as any of you, and I do hope you will feel for her, and at least not make her burden heavier. How many, now, will promise to try to make her happy?”
Every hand was instantly raised, and the children’s clear, honest eyes met their teacher’s with a look which was a promise.
You have read stories, no doubt, of lame, blind or deformed children, and poor ones in patched clothes, who met treatment from others harder to endure than their poverty, privation or pain. Sometimes their schoolmates have been foolish and cruel enough to shun them, cast them out from their plays and pleasures, brush roughly against them, talk about, and even ridicule, them. But I hope it is not often so. In this case it was by far the reverse.
These children remembered their pledge, and they made Susie so happy that she almost forgot her lameness. She was a cheerful, pleasant, good little girl, and her schoolmates, who had begun by pitying her and trying to help her, soon loved to be with her.
“May I sit with Susie, Miss Ware?” became a frequent request.
“Susie dear, here’s a cake I’ve brought you,” one would say at recess.
“Take half my apple, Susie.”
One day, as Susie was on her way to school she met a large drove of oxen. Poor little girl! she was very much frightened, and the big blue eyes were fast filling with tears when Harry Barton, one of the school-boys, stepped up before her and said, “Don’t cry, Susie. I will take care of you. Nothing shall hurt you while I am here.” And right bravely he stood before her until the last one had passed, and then took Susie to school, kindly helping her over the rough places.
So the seasons wore on, and Susie, who, though she ardently desired to learn, had dreaded going among other children, was always happy with them. She loved her teacher and schoolmates, and made such progress as she could not have done had these things been different.
The summer vacation was over. The glorious days of early autumn, with sunshine glinting through the crimson foliage, dropping nuts and golden harvests, passed swiftly away, and cold weather came.
The school-room was pleasant still with its cheery fire and bright faces. One day, when all were busy as usual, a cry rang out,
“Fire! Fire! The school-house is on fire!”
Books and pens dropped from trembling hands, little faces paled, and eager, appealing eyes turned instantly to the teacher.
“Run, children!” she said, hurriedly.
Only one moved – lame Susie. She limped along as fast as she could, and all the rest, frightened as they were, remained in their places till she was safe outside the walls. Then with a rush they cleared the room almost in an instant. Even in that time of peril and dread they remembered their duty and kindness toward her, and gave her the richest proof in their power of their thoughtful love. Not mere obedience to a rule could have prompted this unselfish act, and as such a proof she must have felt it.
It is a beautiful illustration, as it is a true one, of God’s love for all living and for all times.
“As ye would they should do to you, do ye to them.”
THE SECRET
PEPPER BAKER, don’t you tell!
If you ever do, I’ll – Well,
I’ll do something you’ll remember
Till the last day of December.
Pepper, look me in the eye!
You must be as shy, as shy —
Play, you don’t know where I’m going,
Don’t know anything worth knowing!
When the bell for breakfast rings,
I will bring you cakes and things;
Don’t go down till Ben calls, “Pupper,
Pupper; come and ’ave your supper!”
What I’ve told you no one knows,
Only you, and I, and Rose
(Maybe she has told her kitty),
No one else in Boston city.
Pepper, look at me, and say
With your eyes, – look straight this way, —
With your teeth, and mane so shaggy,
With your ears and tail so waggy, —
“I will never, never tell.
They may tie a ding-dong-bell
To my little tail so waggy,
Singe my ears and coat so shaggy.
“They may drown me in the well,
All because I will not tell.”
That will do, you grim old Quaker!
I can trust you Pepper Baker.
Mary R. Whittlesey.
SILVER AND GOLD
SILVER or golden, which is the best —
Which with God’s love is most richly blest?
Which is the fairer I cannot tell,
Grandfather dear or my baby Bel.
The soft twilight hour, when shadows fall,
To little Bel seems the best of all;
Then grandfather lays aside his book;
He cannot resist the pleading look.
There’s room for two in the great arm-chair;
His arms enfold her with loving care;
Upturned is a smiling, rosy face;
Two dimpled arms have found their place.
Sweet eyes of hazel, so clear and bright,
Look up with a happy, loving light;
The curls are golden that softly stray,
While breezes amid their sunshine play.
Little she dreams of sorrow and care;
Life is unknown, and to her seems fair.
As years roll by the face may grow old;
But the loving heart will never grow cold.
When the hand of Time on her head is laid,
The lustre of gold must surely fade;
But lovely is even a silver frost,
If truth and goodness have not been lost.
Pride and passion have left no trace
On the old man’s placid, saintly face;
The journey so long is almost done —
The strife is over, the victory won.
The voice that speaks is gentle and deep;
Surely it means God’s grace to keep.
Eyes like the heavens so darkly blue;
Surely God’s love is shining through.
Forehead so noble, calm, and fair;
Surely God’s peace is resting there.
The snowy locks are a silver crown;
Softly the blessing of God came down.
Silver or golden, which is the best —
Which with God’s love is most richly blest?
Which is the fairer I cannot tell,
Grandfather dear or my baby Bel.
Ellis Gray.
TWO MORNINGS
STEP softly; the baby sleeps;
Drop the curtains, and close the door;
Baby sleeps, while mother weeps —
Sleeps, never to waken more.
Not a breath disturbs his repose;
The blossom he wears has forgotten to blow.
Once his two cheeks were red as a rose;
Now they are lilies, you know.
Morning will come, with its sweet surprise,
Waken the flowers, and scatter the dew;
But never again shall the baby’s eyes
Watch the sunbeams break through.
Yet in heaven his morning is growing
To fairer dawning than ours has known —
A fountain of light forever flowing
Forth from the great white throne.
TIM, THE MATCH BOY
TIM had been standing for a long while gazing in at the confectioner’s window. The evening was drawing in, and ever since morning a thick, unbroken cloud had covered the narrow strips of sky lying along the line of roofs on each side of the streets, while every now and then there came down driving showers of rain, wetting him to the skin.
Not that it took much rain to wet Tim to the skin. The three pieces of clothing which formed his dress were all in tatters. His shirt, which looked as if it never could have been whole and white, had more than half the sleeves torn away, and fell open in front for want of a collar, to say nothing of a button and button-hole. The old jacket he wore over it had never had any sleeves at all, but consisted of a front of calf-skin, with all the hair worn away, and a back made with the idea that it would be hidden from sight by a coat, of coarse yellow linen, now fallen into lamentable holes. His trousers were fringed by long wear, and did not reach to his ankles, which were blue with cold, and bare, like his feet, that had been splashing along the muddy streets all day, until they were pretty nearly the same color as the pavement. His head was covered only by his thick, matted hair, which protected him, far better than his ragged clothes, from the rain and wind, and made him sometimes dimly envious of the dogs that were so far better off, in point of covering, than himself. His hands were tucked, for warmth, in the holes where his pockets should have been; but they had been worn out long ago, and now he had not even accommodation for any little bit of string, or morsel of coal, he might come across in the street.
It was by no means Tim’s habit to stand and stare in at the windows of cake shops. Now and then he glanced at them, and thought how very rich and happy those people must be who lived upon such dainty food. But he was, generally, too busy in earning his own food – by selling matches – to leave him much time for lingering about such tempting places. As for buying his dinner, when he had one, he looked out for the dried-fish stalls, where he could get a slice of brown fish ready cooked, and carry it off to some doorstep, where he could dine upon it heartily and contentedly, provided no policeman interfered with his enjoyment.
But to-day the weather had been altogether too bad for any person to come out of doors, except those who were bent on business; and they hurried along the muddy streets, too anxious to get on quickly to pay any heed to Tim, trotting alongside of them with some damp boxes of matches to sell. The rainy day was hard upon him. His last meal had been his supper the night before – a crust his father had given him, about half as big as it should have been to satisfy him. When he awoke in the morning, he had already a good appetite, and ever since, all the long day through, from hour to hour, his hunger had been growing keener, until now it made him almost sick and faint to stand and stare at the good things displayed in such abundance inside the shop window.
Tim had no idea of going in to beg. It was far too grand a place for that; and the customers going in and out were mostly smart young maid-servants, who were far too fine for him to speak to.
There were bread shops nearer home, where he might have gone, being himself an occasional customer, and asked if they could not find such a thing as an old crust to give him; but this shop was a very different place from those. There was scarcely a thing he knew the name of. At the back of the shop there were some loaves; but even those looked different from what he, and folks like him, bought. His hungry, eager eyes gazed at them, and his teeth and mouth moved now and then, unknown to himself, as if he was eating something ravenously; but he did not venture to go in.
At last Tim gave a great start. A customer, whom he knew very well, was standing at the counter, eating one of the dainty bunns. It could be no one else but his own teacher, who taught him and seven and eight other ragged lads like himself, in a night school not far from his home. His hunger had made him forgetful of it; but this was one of the evenings when the school was open, and he had promised faithfully to be there to-night. At any rate, it would be a shelter from the rain, which was beginning to fall steadily and heavily, now the sun was set; and it was of no use thinking of going home, where he and his father had only a corner of a room, and were not welcome to that if they turned in too soon of an evening. His teacher had finished the bunn, and was having another wrapped up in a neat paper bag, which he put carefully into his pocket, and then stepped out into the street, and walked along under the shelter of a good umbrella, quite unaware that one of his scholars was pattering along noiselessly behind him with bare feet.
All Tim’s thoughts were fixed upon the bunn in his teacher’s pocket. He wondered what it would taste like, and whether it would be as delicious as that one he had once eaten, when all the ragged school had a treat in Epping Grove – going down in vans, and having real country milk, and slices of cake to eat, finishing up with a bunn, which seemed to him as if it must be like the manna he had heard of at school, that used to come down from heaven every morning before the sun was up. He had never forgotten that lesson; and scarcely a morning came that he did not wish he had lived in those times.
The teacher turned down a dark, narrow street, where the rain had gathered in little pools on the worn pavement, through which Tim splashed carelessly. They soon reached the school door; and Tim watched him take off his great-coat, and hang it up on the nails set apart for the teachers’ coats.
Their desk was at a little distance; and he took his place at it among the other boys, but his head ached, and his eyes felt dim, and there was a hungry gnawing within him, which made it impossible to give his mind to learning his lessons, as he usually did. He felt so stupefied, that the easiest words – words he knew as well as he knew the way to the Mansion House, where he sold his matches – swam before his eyes, and he called them all wrongly. The other lads laughed and jeered at him, and his teacher was displeased; but Tim could do no better. He could think of nothing but the dainty bunn in the teacher’s pocket.
At last the Scripture lesson came; and it was one that came home to Tim’s state. The teacher read aloud first, before hearing them read the lesson, these verses: “And Jesus, when he came out, saw much people, and was moved with compassion toward them, because they were as sheep not having a shepherd: and he began to teach them many things. And when the day was now far spent, his disciples came unto him,” etc. Read Mark vi. 34-44.
Tim listened with a swelling heart, and with a feeling of choking in his throat. He could see it all plainly in his mind. It was like their treat in Epping Grove, where the classes had sat down in ranks upon the green grass; and O, how green and soft the grass was! and the teachers had come round, like the disciples, giving to each one of them a can of milk and great pieces of cake; and they had sung a hymn all together before they began to eat and drink. Tim fancied he could see our Saviour as once he had seen him in a beautiful picture, with his hands outstretched, as if ready to give the children surrounding him anything they wanted, or to fold them every one in his loving arms. He thought he saw Jesus, with his loving, gentle face, standing in the midst of the great crowd of people, and asking the disciples if they were sure they had all had enough. Then they would sing, thought Tim, and go home as happy as he had been after that treat in Epping Grove. All at once his hunger became more than he could bear.
“O, I wish He was here!” he cried, bursting into tears, and laying his rough head on the desk before him. “I only wish He was here.”
The other lads looked astonished; for Tim was not given to crying; and the teacher stopped in his reading, and touched him to call his attention.
“Who do you wish was here, Tim?” he asked.
“Him,” sobbed the hungry boy; “the Lord Jesus. He’d know how bad I feel. I’d look him in the face, and say, ‘Master, what are I to do? I can’t learn nothink when I’ve got nothink but a griping inside of me.’ And he’d think how hungry I was, having nothink to eat all day. He’d be very sorry – he would, I know.”
Tim did not lift up his head; for his tears and sobs were coming too fast, and he was afraid the other lads would laugh at him. But they looked serious enough as the meaning of his words broke upon them. They were sure he was not cheating them. If Tim said he had had nothing to eat all day, it must be true; for he never grumbled, and he always spoke the truth. One boy drew a carrot out of his pocket, and another pulled out a good piece of bread, wrapped in a bit of newspaper, while a third ran off to fetch a cup of water, having nothing else he could give to Tim. The teacher walked away to where his coat was hanging, and came back with the bunn which he had bought in the shop.
“Tim,” he said, laying his hand kindly on the lad’s bowed-down head, “I am very sorry for you; but none of us knew you were starving, my boy, or I should not have scolded you, and the lads would not have laughed at you. Look up, and see what a supper we have found for you.”
It looked like a feast to Tim. One of the boys lent him a pocket knife to cut the bread and carrot into slices, with which he took off the keen edge of his hunger; and then he ate the dainty bunn, which seemed to him more delicious than anything he had ever tasted before. The rest of the class looked on with delight at his evident enjoyment, until the last crumb had disappeared.
“I could learn anything now,” said Tim, with a bright face; “but I couldn’t understand nothink before. Then you began telling about the poor folks being famished with hunger, and how Jesus gave them bread and fishes, just as if he’d been hungry himself some time, and knew all about it. It is bad, it is. And it seemed such a pity he weren’t here in the city, and I couldn’t go to him. But, I dessay, he knows how you’ve all treated me, and I thank you all kindly; and I’ll do the same by you some day, when you’ve had the same bad luck as me.”
“Yes,” said the teacher, “Jesus knew how hungry you were; and he knew how to send you the food you wanted. Tim, and you other lads, I want you to learn this verse, and think of it often when you are grown-up men: ‘Whosoever shall give to one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, He shall in no wise lose his reward.’”
ENVY PUNISHED
A BURMESE potter, it is said, became envious of the prosperity of a washerman, and to ruin him, induced the king to order him to wash one of his black elephants white, that he might be “lord of the white elephant,” which in the East is a great distinction.
The washerman replied that, by the rules of his art, he must have a vessel large enough to wash him in.
The king ordered the potter to make him such a vessel. When made, it was crushed by the first step of the elephant in it. Many times was this repeated; and the potter was ruined by the very scheme he had intended should crush his enemy.
WINGS
IF I only had wings like you!” said Addie Lewis, speaking to her pet bird as she opened the cage door.
“Chirp, chirp!” answered the bird, flying out and resting on Addie’s finger.
“Ah, birdie, if I only had your wings!”
“Wings!” spoke out Addie’s mother. “You have wings,” she said, in a quiet way.
Addie looked at her shoulders, and then at her mother’s. “I don’t see them,” she said, with a little amused laugh.
“We are using them all the while,” said Mrs. Lewis. “Did you never hear of the wings of thought?”
“Oh! That’s what you mean? Our thoughts are our wings?”
“Yes; and our minds can fly with these wings higher and farther than any bird can go. If I read to you about a volcano in Italy, off you go on the wings of thought and look down into the fiery crater. If I tell you of the frozen North, you are there in an instant, gazing upon icy seas and the wonders of a desolate region. The wings of an eagle are not half so swift and strong as the wings of your thought. The very king of birds would perish in regions where they can take you in safety.”
SQUANKO
WHAT a name for a dog, auntie!”
“Name! Why, Frank, when you hear the whole, like the Queen of Sheba, you’ll say the half has not been told you.”
“Why, didn’t you find Squanko quite enough for one dog?”
“His full name,” said my aunt, loftily, “is Squanko Guy Edgerly Patterson.”
She rolled out these resonant titles with due gravity, and Squanko, turning his bright eyes from one to the other, solemnly wagged his tail, as if to signify approval.
I was a New Hampshire boy, and this was my first visit to the city. My experience with dogs previously had been that of a country boy bred up among sportsmen. I had known several highly-trained hounds, and famous bird dogs, though my ideal of canine perfection was that marvel of sagacity, the shepherd dog. Still, my first love among dogs had been a noble old hound, who, though sightless from age, would follow a rabbit better than any young dog was capable of doing. The scent of powder brought back his lost youth. Let him hear the loading of a gun, – or the mere rattle of a shot-pouch was enough, – he would break out into the wildest gambols, dashing hither and yon, in an ecstasy of delight.
Running headlong against rock or tree, as he was liable to do, only tempered his zeal for a moment; the next, he was tearing along more madly than ever. Dear old Trim! I had shed a boy’s hot tears over his grave on the hill-side, and I was not ashamed of it either.
I felt a tenderness for Squanko. The yellow spots which marked his white fur reminded me of Trim’s. Remembering the accomplishments of my lost favorite, I ventured another question.
“What is he good for, aunt Patterson? Can he hunt?”
“Good for!” ejaculated my aunt – “good for! I couldn’t keep house without him.” A certain fine disdain curled her lip; she had utterly ignored my second question. Completely quenched, I was fain to accept Squanko at once, hunter or no hunter.
And we were, on the whole, pretty good friends, in spite of the battles we fought, nearly every evening, for the possession of the lounge. It made small difference to Squanko if I was beforehand with him. Though quite a large dog, he would creep up behind me, slowly insinuating himself between me and the back of the lounge. Then, watching his opportunity, he would brace his feet suddenly, and more than once the execution of this manœuvre sent me rolling, ignominiously, upon the floor.
The intruder ousted, his majesty would settle himself for a nap, not heeding in the least the shouts of laughter which his triumph never failed to evoke.
On all occasions (excepting only nights, when he slept tranquilly on a rug in my aunt’s room) he felt it his duty to keep watch and ward over the premises. His favorite perch, in sunny mornings, was in the window of my aunt’s chamber. If by any chance the white curtain had not been looped up, as usual, leaving the window sill exposed, Squanko went down for help, and by whining, pulling his mistress’s dress and similar arts, persuaded her to go up and remove the obnoxious curtain. Carefully seating himself upon the sill, which was all too narrow for his portly figure, he would fall to work, by barking furiously at every person – man, woman, or child – who presumed to pass up or down the street. Most fortunately for him, the window he occupied overlooked the lawn at the side of the house, instead of the pavement in front; for on several occasions his fury became so ungovernable, that he barked himself sheer off his foundation.
Catching a glimpse of his whirling figure, my aunt rushed out, armed with a bottle of liniment; and while she bathed his imperilled legs, she strove also to soothe his outraged feelings. For the time all vanity seemed to have been dashed out of him; but comforted by sympathy and caresses, he again mounted his perch, and barked with undiminished ardor.
At table, my aunt always occupied what is termed an office chair. Being quite small in person, a portion of the great leather cushion, at the back, was left vacant. Squanko rarely failed to possess himself of this vantage-ground, and squatting thereon, peered wisely over his mistress’s shoulder, as if studying the problem of what portion of the goodly meal before him might safely be counted on as a remainder.
Yet Squanko had his grievances. One was, not being allowed the freedom of the garden. If he went out, my aunt’s careful hand hastened to link the long chain, attached to his house, to his collar. She had a chronic fear of his running away.
Squanko utterly disdained to occupy the bed of straw which graced his dwelling, but climbing to a board which surmounted the ridge of the roof, would lie upon that narrow ledge, ready to pounce upon any one who ventured near.
Missing him one morning, both here and on the window-sill, one of the wee Johnnys of the neighborhood, who stood in wholesome awe of Squanko, put his curly head in at the doorway.
“Where’s Squanko, Mrs. Patterson?”
“Gone to walk.”
“Gone to walk,” chuckled Johnny, bursting with merriment. “That’s funny —a dog gone to walk!”
Squanko’s walk was rarely omitted; generally it was performed under my aunt’s tutelage, when she went a little way with her husband, whose business took him to the city every morning. If, for any reason, Mrs. Patterson let her husband go to the cars alone, she sent Squanko off by himself, with strict orders to return speedily, which direction he had never failed to obey.
Besides his chain, Squanko had one other trial to endure – a thorough ablution once a week. Bathing was his aversion; still, he had been obliged to submit to it from his puppyhood, and Mrs. Patterson was inexorable. A dog who was not faultlessly clean could have no place in the arrangements of her household. In and about her dwelling all was spotlessly neat. Everything susceptible of polish shone, from the window-panes, and the great cooking-stove, to Squanko’s white coat. In vain were his protests, his indignant snorts and sneezes, his incipient growls; into the tub of warm water he had to go, while the scrubbing-brush performed its office upon his fat sides. Having been duly washed and wiped, he always indulged in a vicious shake or two, producing a sort of mist in his immediate vicinity. After being wrapped in his own blanket shawl, he was placed on the lounge, to repose while drying. His luxurious nap completed, he would emerge from his retirement, his short white hair shining like satin, – as clean a playfellow as one might desire. His temper, – not usually of the best, – after one of these baths, would remain sunny for hours.
But Squanko – like many another spoiled darling, – was not content with the home where he was so petted and indulged.
As his master opened the door to go into the garden, one evening, Squanko rushed past him, and made for the street. In vain our hurried search, up and down, in the dark spring night. In vain his mistress’s frantic calls. If Squanko was hidden in some nook hard by, and heard her entreaties, his heart must have been harder than a stone. That hasty exit was the last we ever saw of him. Night after night my uncle, coming home from the city, inquired for Squanko, only to receive the sad reply, —
“No, Roy! We never – never shall see Squanko again.”
Soon a fat, brindled puppy was installed in the vacant place. Day by day he grew, both in bulk and in the affections of the family. My aunt named him “Trouble.” All the devotion which had been Squanko’s was straightway lavished on him.
When, in process of time, the tidings were borne to my aunt’s ears, that Squanko, forgetful of former friends, was leading a jolly existence in a neighboring town, she only replied, with a toss of her head, “Let the ungrateful imp stay there. Trouble is worth a dozen of him!”
F. Cheseboro.