Part 12

The watchmaker smiles as he examines it; he has seen “ladies’ watches” many a time, and oft. He understands without explanation why it don’t “keep as good time as my husband’s,” or “my brother Tom’s watch;” he keeps his gravity when he is asked if hanging it up, or wearing it, is most conducive to its health, or if it can possibly be that its galloping one time and standing still at others is owing to a defect in the machinery. He smiles blandly; advises leaving it on a short visit; has the hands pointed right, and the case polished up with chamois-skin and rouge; and restores it to its dainty owner, always with the proper charge for its board and lodging, with a suppressed grin.

Next comes the “presentation watch,” which is often seen on exhibition at the show-windows of Topaz and Brothers; a massive showy affair, bought by some public person, _to give to himself_, or herself, through this flattering medium. The uninitiated stand gaping, gazing, wondering and coveting, through the glass windows, as they read the laudatory inscription. Bless ’em, they will be wiser, if they live long enough.

Then there is Papa’s watch, which was “never known to go wrong,” no more than its owner; oh no! Other clocks, other watches may point where and as they like; _his_ is the only infallible. Biddy, the cook, may quote the kitchen clock till she is black in the face to bear her out in serving the family meals at just such a moment; her retort of, “and sure didn’t the masther set the kitchen clock his own self,” avails her nothing, while _that_ oracular watch is five minutes ahead of it.

Then there is grandpa’s lumbering, great, old-fashioned, silver watch; with a great big cornelian seal hanging to the silver chain; grandpa laughs to scorn all the flibbertigibbet inventions of modern days; he tells how _that_ watch was worn by his brave grandsire at the battle of Bunker Hill; yes, sir; and shows a place where a bullet _should_ have spoiled it, if it didn’t; so narrow was the escape. Grandpa has left that watch in his will to his favorite grandson; and never dreams, poor old man, that he will very likely use it to pay off some foolish debt, one of these degenerate days.

Lastly, there is the matron’s solid, sensible, gold watch; worn for use, not show, on a simple black cord about the neck; unless when it hangs over the toilet-table while she is changing her dress. Examine it closely, and you will see numerous little indentations in the case. Not for worlds would she have them removed, by any jeweler who ever polished a diamond. Sometimes she sits in her nursery, with that watch in her hand, passing her finger slowly over those indentations, while warm tears drop over them; for little Johnny—whose little frocks lie folded away, and may never more be worn—little Johnny made those places, with the pained teeth which caused at last the cruel death-spasms. How many times she has sat with him on her knee, holding that watch between his lips, and hearing the grit of those two little front teeth upon it. She remembers the very morning she first discovered that those little pearly treasures had found their way through the swollen flesh; and she remembers how papa was called, and the watch put between the coral lips, that he too might hear the wonderful sound; and she remembers how baby laughed; and how rosy his cheeks were, that morning; and how they both kissed him; and how——but dear, dear! the tick of that watch is the only music in the nursery now.

OLD ZACHARIAH.

Did you ever see Zachariah Tubbs? No, of course you haven’t; he was not a man you’d be likely to notice; you, who take off your hat so killingly to a dainty French bonnet; you who make way for old Lorenzo Dives, the fat, wealthy old whited sepulchre of a banker; of course you never saw Tubbs. Tubbs didn’t belong to “your set.” Tubbs was a hale old man who believed carriages were for sick folks, and legs were to walk with. Tubbs never ran away with another man’s wife, nor got drunk, nor cheated his neighbor. How should _you_ know Tubbs?

Sunday after Sunday his shiny bald head came into church, with its fringe of snow-white hair; the ruddy hue of his cheek deepening and deepening as he grew older. There he was in his place, forenoon and afternoon, singing as only those sing, who have learned to say lovingly and filially “Our Father;” he, and the children God had given him,—a good round dozen—girls and boys,—half and half—“not one too many,” as the old man said every time a new name was registered in the Family Bible; Sally’s and Mary’s and Jenny’s and Helen’s; Tommy’s, Charley’s, Billy’s, and Sammy’s; all of them free to chop up the piano for kindling wood if they chose, and that perhaps was the reason they _didn’t_ choose. I don’t think the old man ever thought of the phrase “family government;” but for all that he had a way of laying his hand on little heads, that was as soothing as the “hop” pillows, which country ladies use to hurry up their naps with. One after another the girls grew up to maidenhood and womanhood, and one after another married, and left the old homestead for houses of their own; throwing their arms round the neck of the good old man as they went, but still, with a world of love and pride in the tearful glance which rested the next minute on the husband they had chosen. Ah me—! one after another they all came back, doubled and trebled, to lay their heads again under the old roof-tree, where they could never know again the lightsome, care-free dreams of girlhood.

Not a complaint, not a reproach for their misfortunes (for such things _have_ been) from the silver-haired old patriarch. He, smiling, blessed them all the same, rising up and sitting down, going out and coming in—they and theirs; that they were poor and desolate built up no separating wall between him and them. A few more chairs at the hearth—a few more loaves on the table—that was all. There was enough and to spare in that father’s house, for their tastes were simple, and the morning and evening prayer went up on as strong wings of faith as if no cloud had settled on the fair, matronly faces about him.

The boys? oh, yes, the boys; well, they outgrew jackets, and went into longtailed coats and “stores.” Business fought shy of them. I suppose, because they were too honest to cheat; but the old man said, “Never mind; try again, boys; there’s always a place for you here, when things go awry.” And things did go awry; and one after another the boys came home too, till they could “turn round again.” Never a wrinkle more on the smooth white forehead of Zachariah—never a smile less on his placid face; no frownings and fidgetings and pshawings when little feet pattered loudly in parlor and hall; some on his shoulders, some on his knees, some at his feet; _still_, “not one too many,” and each, as he said, worth a thousand dollars apiece; and Heaven knows they cost him that, first and last; but he was not a man to remember it, as he sat in their midst, with his spectacles on his nose and his Bible on his knee, reading all the precious promises garnered there, for just such as he. “It is all right,” he said at the altar; “It is all right,” he said over the coffin; “It is all right,” he said, when he folded his worse than widowed daughters to his warm, fatherly heart.

Ah! laugh at this good old man’s Bible if you like; I know it is the fashion; it is considered smart and knowing, and all that, to put out the sun, and try to grope through the world by one’s own little glimmering taper. Wait a bit—till your feet stumble on the dark mountains; till the great cry of your agony goes up to that God, whom, loading you with blessings, you yet reject and disown; like the willful son, who, in the lordly pride of new-fledged manhood, turns contemptuously from the mother who will never cease to love him; and yet—and yet—_his first great sorrow finds him with his head on her breast_.

LITTLE GERTRUDE.

And so you are “sorry it is Sunday.” That is a pity. I would like to make Sunday the pleasantest day of the whole week to you. I should not require you to sit still with your hands folded. I could not do that myself, so I am sure I should not expect it of a restless little child. I should not make you read all day, because I should know you would get too weary to understand what you were reading; I should be almost sure, when my eye was off you, or my back turned, that you would pull a string out of your pocket to play with, or tie your handkerchief up in knots, or fall asleep. I should expect if I did so that you would say, “I am sorry Sunday has come.” I know that a great many very good people think very differently from me about these things; but I can’t help thinking, when I hear their children say, “I am sorry Sunday has come,” that _I_ am more right than _they_. Let me tell you a story:

Gertrude’s father was dead. He loved Gertrude better than anything in the world except Gertrude’s mother. He was never weary of her—never too tired with business to kiss her when he came home. On Sunday he took her on his knee, and told her how cunning little Moses looked in his little cradle in the bulrushes, where his mother had placed him, hoping that the king’s daughter would take him for her own baby, and so keep him from being killed like the other little Hebrew babies; and then Gertrude would ask him all sorts of questions about it, and clap her little hands when the king’s daughter did take him and chose his own dear mother (though she did not know her to be his mother) to be his nurse. And then Gertrude would wonder how this nurse could possibly keep from telling little Moses, when he got big enough to understand her, that she _was_ his own mother; and then she would say, “Oh, papa, I know they _did_ have nice times when nobody was by to see the poor Hebrew mother kiss her own baby.”

Well—when they had done talking about that, Gertrude’s father would tell her of the Syrian maid who cured the sick prophet; and the story of Daniel, and the story of the ravens who fed Elijah; and then by and by the bells would ring for church, and Gertrude would take hold of her father’s hand and walk along with him past the beautiful fields, where the tall grass waved, and the little ground-bird built her nest, and down the winding grassy road, under the shady oaks, and elms, and maples, round whose trunks the sweet brier and wild grape climbed, and then Gertrude would stop to pick the wild roses; and her Papa did not tell her it was “wicked” or wrong to gather flowers on Sunday, but he would tell her to bring him a clover blossom, or a daisy, or a rose, and show her how different they were one from the other in shape, color and perfume, and yet how beautiful was each; and then he would show her the dew-drops strung upon the blades of grass glistening in the sunlight; and the contented cattle, their tired necks relieved from the heavy yoke, lying in the shade, thanking God for Sunday _by enjoying it_, teaching us a dumb lesson, which we should do well to learn, always keeping in mind that we have souls, while they have not. Well—then Gertrude and her Papa went into church. Gertrude liked the singing very much; her Papa sung beside her, and sometimes after looking cautiously round, for she was a timid little thing, she would sing softly too, her little finger moving along the line of the hymn they were singing. Gertrude did not understand all the sermon, her Papa did not expect that she would, but he always took her to church half a day, because the minister never forgot that little children had souls, and always had something to say to them in every sermon. After church, when Gertrude skipped along home like a little kid, by his side, her father did not think it a sin, or say “sh—sh”—when she gave a merry little laugh because God had made the world so fair and given her so much love and happiness that she could not possibly keep it all pent up in her little heart; not he—he patted her pure uplifted forehead, and the world seemed very fair to him too, and Sunday very blessed.

Gertrude’s father has blessed Sabbaths still—but not on earth; and little Gertrude, with her warm trusting heart, has passed from his pleasant smile, and sheltering arms, over the threshold of a strange, cold home. Sunday comes and goes to little Gertrude, but oh how wearily! They who have the care of her think that God is pleased with long faces, and so Gertrude is placed in a chair after breakfast Sunday morning, and forbidden to stir till the bell rings for church; she may not step out on the piazza to see God smile on the green earth; she may not enjoy the blue sky, or bright flowers, which he has spread out to make the Sabbath “a delight;” she must fix her eyes on a book, and read—read—read—till her brain reels, and then she goes to church morning—afternoon—evening—till at last _she_ too has learned to say, “I am so sorry ’tis Sunday.”

THE FAITHFUL DOG.

We all know that animals have no souls, and yet it is sometimes hard to believe it, when they give, as they often do, such proofs of intelligence. I am very sure that I have been as much attached to a dog or a horse, which has been my constant companion, as I have to human beings. And, after all, who more human than they? what beautiful examples they have set us of constancy, of patience, and of kindness to those who have injured them.

Listen, while I tell you a story of a dog belonging to an English nobleman. The farmers in the neighborhood of this gentleman complained to him that the dog frightened their flocks; and one of them finding a dead lamb, one day, brought it in his arms to the nobleman, accusing the dog of the murder. The nobleman had no proof that his dog killed the lamb; but, as he was just about starting upon a long journey, and not wishing either to take the dog with him, or leave him behind to the angry farmers, he said to his servant, pointing to the dog, who lay upon the carpet, “Take that dog, after I have gone, and give him away to somebody at a distance, that these farmers may not be finding fault with him, and troubling me when I come back.” He then left the room. The dog, who understood, at least, the tones of his master’s voice, and the glance of his eye, if nothing else, waited till he heard his footsteps die away, and then immediately took leave of the house, and all it contained, and started off by himself. In the evening, the nobleman, not seeing the dog about as usual, asked his servant if he had disposed of him. The servant said he had not, and spent an hour to no purpose, in searching for him. All the servants were questioned, but none knew anything of the dog; and they, together with the nobleman, came to the conclusion, that the angry farmer who had imagined that he had killed his lamb, had killed him out of revenge.

About a year after this, the nobleman, who was journeying with his servant in Scotland, being overtaken by a storm, took shelter in a very poor inn, quite away from the main road. As the storm kept increasing, he concluded to stay all night. The landlord and his wife looked strangely at each other, when he told them this, and the maid servant who spread the cloth for his supper seemed quite disconcerted. “She is evidently not accustomed to wait upon lords,” said the nobleman to his servant, “and is awkward and embarrassed, you see, in consequence.”

He ate with a good appetite the plain fare that she set before him, and was still seated at the table, when the door was pushed open and in came—a dog—_his_ dog,—the very dog he thought had been killed by the farmer. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed to his servant, “my dear old dog;” and he stretched out his hand to pat him. But the dog, after looking long and earnestly at his master, shrank away from him, and took the first opportunity to go out of the room; but still took his station on the outside, as if watching for something. Of the dog’s history, the nobleman learned from the hostler, that he had followed some travelers there, and being very foot-sore and weary, remained there when they went away, and had been there ever since; “and,” added the hostler, “he is as harmless a dog as ever lived.” By and by the nobleman went up to his chamber; when he got to the top of the stairs, the dog sprang before him, with a fierce growl, and planted himself between his old master and the door, as if to prevent his entrance. The nobleman patted him, calling him by the kind old names he used to like, and the dog licked his hand, as if to say, “oh yes, I remember them all;” but still he stood before the door to prevent his master from going inside.

Then the dog, still looking at his master, moved in advance a few paces, would go down one stair, then run back, and tug at his master’s clothes with the greatest violence; then rub his face fondly against his master’s side, and whine and coax, trembling all the while with agitation and excitement.

“One would suppose, by the behavior of my dog, that there was something wrong about this house,” said the nobleman to his servant.

The servant looked anxious, but only said, “I wish we had not come here, your honor.”

“There is no help for it now,” said his master; “the storm is perfectly furious, so I’ll make the best of it and go to bed. We have pistols, if there’s mischief brewing; you sleep, I suppose, in the little room near mine.”

During this conversation, the dog seemed very uneasy, and when the servant left the room he ran to the door, looking back, as if hoping his master would go too; and when he advanced a few steps, he jumped up and down as if beside himself with joy; but, upon finding that he only did it to close the chamber door, he hung his head, and looked as disconsolate as he had just before looked delighted.

His master could not help observing all this, but he felt determined not to give way to his fears. The dog chose a particular part of the room to lie down in, and no entreaties could get him away from that spot. So the nobleman got into bed, and after listening awhile, and hearing nothing but the storm, and being wearied with his journey, fell asleep.

He did not sleep long, for the dog kept pacing about the chamber, sometimes coming close to the bed-curtains, and sometimes whining piteously, and seeming not at all comforted even when his master’s hand patted him so kindly. Again his master fell asleep; but he was soon roused by his faithful four-footed watchman, whom he heard scratching violently at the closet-door, and gnashing his teeth, and growling furiously. His master jumped out of bed and listened; the storm had ceased, so that he heard distinctly every noise. The dog was still trying to force a passage into the closet with his paws, and not being able to do so, attempted with his strong teeth to gnaw at it mouse-fashion.

There is no doubt the mischief, whatever it may be, is in that closet, thought the nobleman; yet it was impossible to open it, because, after forcing the lock, it was found secured on the inside.

A slight rapping was now heard at the chamber door, and the servant whispered through the key-hole—“For mercy’s sake, my lord, let me in.” The nobleman, taking his pistols in his hand, went to the door and opened it.

“I have never closed my eyes,” said the servant; “all seems quiet up stairs and down, but why does that dog keep up such a furious barking?”

“That’s just what I mean to know,” replied his master, bursting in the closet door. The moment the dog saw that, in he rushed with his master and the servant; but unfortunately, just then the candle went out, so that they could see nothing, though they heard a rustling noise at the farther end of the closet, and the nobleman thought best to fire off one of his pistols, by way of alarm; as he did so, the dog uttered a piercing cry, and then a low groan.

“It is not possible I have killed my brave dog my noble defender!” said the nobleman mournfully. He started for a light, and met the landlord coming with one in his hand, which he snatched from him without answering any of his questions; the landlord followed; and giving one glance at the closet, exclaimed to his attendants, who were behind him, “It is all over.”

Well, without horrifying you with particulars, the amount of the matter was, that a door led from that closet out into the stable yard; that through that door, up into the closet, and then into the chamber, the bad landlord had entered, and killed a traveler for his money, just before the nobleman arrived. He had then hurriedly thrust the bloody body into a sack and thrown it into that closet, intending when the nobleman went to sleep to take it away, and then murder him also. But the dog was too keen for him. It made no difference to the dog, that the master, whose life he wished to save, had once turned him, a petted favorite, out of doors. The dog remembered not that he had injured him, but that he was still his master, and was once kind to him, and by every sign, _except_ speech, had he entreated him not to sleep in that room.

The wounded dog, after the discovery, licked his master’s hand, as if to say, “I have saved your life, now I am willing to die.”

You can imagine the feelings of his master as he afterward bound up his wounds, and when the innkeeper and his accomplices were handed over to justice, how tenderly he carried the dog in his arms till he reached his home; how the nobleman’s wife and children hugged and petted him, and made a soft bed for his wounded limb; and how the tears came into their eyes, whenever they thought how generously he had taken his revenge for being turned out of doors. Ah, it will not do for us to call those “_brutes_” whose daily lives put ours to shame!

One thing more, how surely the Eye that never sleeps, brings hidden wickedness to justice! and what humble agents, as in this case, are sometimes employed to do it, and how often those wretches who plan a murder or robbery with such wonderful skill, yet after all, overlook some little thread which they have left behind, which the law seizes hold of, and winds round their throats. Ah! it is only _in seeming_ that sin prospers.

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

TO THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WRITES FOR MY INTERCESSION IN HER FAVOR, “BECAUSE HER MOTHER DOES EVERYTHING AS I SAY.”