Chapter 3

FIRE! FIRE!! FIRE!!!

Where is it? Where is it? Why, it is in the water! Isn’t that funny? But you see it isn’t a real fire, but only a fire-fish. [*] Sweet creature, isn’t he? Suppose you were a little, innocent mermaid, swimming alone for the first time; how would you feel if you were to meet this fellow darting towards you with his great red mouth open? Why, you would scream with fright, and swim to your mother as fast as you could, and catch hold of her tail for protection. At least, that is what I should do if I were a mermaid. But Mrs. Mermaid won’t tell you that the fire-fish will not hurt you unless you hurt him first, in which case he will prick you dreadfully with his long, sharp spines.

* Project Gutenberg ed. note: The picture is of a fish also known as a scorpionfish.

I never see his picture without thinking of a red Indian in his warpaint and feathers. Perhaps--who knows?-perhaps when Indians are greedy, and eat too much fish, they may turn into fire-fish, and have to swim about forever under water, and never see a green forest again. If you are an Indian I advise you to be careful, my dear.

Nobody knows why this fish has such enormous, wing-like fins. Wise men used to think that he could raise himself out of the water with them, like the flying-fish; but it is now proved that he cannot, and there seems to be no reason why a set of plain, small fins would not serve him just as well for swimming. He prefers warm water to cold; so he lives in the tropical seas, swimming about the coasts of India, Africa, and Australia. The natives of Ceylon call him Gini-maha, and they think he is very good to eat. They take great care in catching him, for they are very much afraid of him, thinking that his sharp spines are poisoned, and can inflict a deadly wound. But in this they are too hard upon the fellow. He can prick them deeply and painfully, and he will if they meddle with him; but he is a perfectly respectable fish, and would not think of such a cowardly thing as poisoning anybody.

THE DOLLS AND THE OTHER DOLLS.

“Mamma,” little Nellie asked, “is it right to give away things that have been given to you?”

Her mamma replied that it might be quite right sometimes; and she said, “But I should feel sorry if I had made a little friend a present she did not value, and so was glad to part with it.”

“O mamma!” said Nellie, “you know how I value my dollies, every one, that my dear aunts and cousins sent me because I was sick. Now I am well again. To-morrow is New-Year’s. Some sick little girls in the hospital want dollies. Could I, if I knew which one to choose, keep only one for myself, and send the whole five of them for those poor children who haven’t any?”

Her mamma liked the plan. She gave Nellie a box, and Nellie began kissing her babies, and laying them, one after another, in the box.

There were two of nearly the same size, that were very dear to this little mother. She called them twins. They wore white frocks and blue kid boots. They had real blonde hair and their eyes would open and shut.

These lovely twins Nellie held in her arms a long time before she could decide which to part with. When she did place one in the box, to be her own no more, a tear was on the doll’s cheek. I do not think the drop came from dolly’s eye.

A few days after the dolls were given Nellie’s mamma let her invite three little girls to play with her. Each girl brought her Christmas or her New-Year’s doll; and the three dolls, with Nellie’s, looked sweetly sitting together in a row.

By and by Nellie’s mamma came to her room, which she had given to the party for its use that afternoon. She told the children she would give them a little supper of cakes and pears and grapes, and it would be ready as soon as Biddy could bring the ice-cream from down street.

The smiling child-visitors gathered around the kind lady, saying, “We thank you, and we love you ever so much.”

Nellie said softly, “Mamma dear, I wouldn’t take my dollies back if I could. I love to think they amuse the sick children. But I do wish that for just a minute we had as many at this party.”

Her mamma turned to her dressing-case. It stood low enough for the smallest child to look into the mirror at the back easily. Moving off the toilet cushions and cologne-bottles, the lady put the four dolls in front of the looking-glass. Their reflection in the glass showed four more.

“Six, seven, eight,” cried the girls, delighted. “And all are twins--four pairs of twins!”

After supper they made, the twins sit, and stand, and dance, bow and shake hands, before the looking-glass. So they played till dusk, when the other little girls’ mammas sent to take them home, after kissing Nellie good-night.

WHY DID MAMMA CHANGE HER MIND?

Mamma Miller told Fay and Lonnie that they might have a party, so they tried to get ready for it. But the party was very different to what they expected. It always happens so about everything, if we pay no regard to one another’s wishes.

Mrs. Miller said they might invite ten children.

“You write to five little girls, Fay,” said she, “and Lonnie will write to the five little boys.”

So they went into the library. Lonnie sat down in papa’s big chair, while Fay climbed up on one arm, close beside him, and they tried to think whom they would like to come to their party.

“Make out your list first,” said Lonnie. Fay did, and her brother agreed to all the girls. But as soon as Lonnie commenced writing his names, Fay began to find fault.

“I don’t like boys, anyway,” said Fay, “only you, Lonnie. Let’s have all girls at our party.”

“But it won’t be my party,” said Lonnie, “if you have all girls.”

“I don’t care, all those are horrid,” pointing to his paper.

“You say that because you don’t like boys.” And then he told his sister that every little fellow whose name he had written was just as good as gold. And so they were just as good as Lonnie Miller, and he was one of the best boys that ever lived, so everybody said.

“I sha’n’t play with him if he comes,” Fay kept saying to every name Lonnie wrote.

“You can have your party,” said Lonnie, getting up out of the easy-chair and sitting down in a smaller one, “you and your girls. I’m going to learn some new pieces,” taking up his little silver blower.

“I don’t like boys,” Fay kept saying, jumping down off the arm of the chair, and aiming a blow at the spot where her brother had sat with the rustic stick their sister Lucia had brought home May Day.

Lucia was passing the door just then, so she thought she would see what all the noise was about.

“I’d better call you to lunch,” said she, and there they were just through breakfast.

Mamma herself came hurrying in at sound of the bell. When they told her about the invitations, she said, “I shall not let you have any party at all, now.”

“What makes you change your mind?” said Fay.

“Mamma will give her little girl just one week to find out why she has changed her mind,” said Mrs. Miller.

And for all Fay’s coaxing, she could not be persuaded to stay a minute longer.

CLARA’S “FUNERAL.”

Clara was the most unfortunate of dollies. She had had the mumps and whooping cough; and no sooner did she recover from the scarlet fever than she contracted pneumonia and nearly died. One morning Blanche was applying hot bandages to relieve bronchitis, and before night Clara had the small-pox.

The next day mamma stopped at the nursery door.

“Good morning, little nurse,” she said; “how is poor Clara this morning?”

“She’s DEADED,” said Blanche, with a long face.

“Dreadful! What did she die of, small-pox? It seems to me that that was what she was suffering from last evening.”

“No’m’” said Blanche, “‘twasn’t small-pox. She DID have that bad; but I think she DIED of measles. The SUNERAL (Blanche could not say ‘funeral’) is to be at twelve sharp. Will you come, mamma?”

“I’m so sorry, darling, but I must go to lunch with Mrs. Mathews at one. But Jack will go.”

The “suneral” took place at noon, and Blanche and Daisy, Jack and old Hector followed poor Clara in Benny’s wagon to the grave yard at the bottom of the orchard. It was rather a jolly “suneral,” for they had “refreshments” under the trees afterward.

In the afternoon, as mamma, came up the orchard path, she was surprised to see a doll’s foot and leg sticking straight up out of the ground.

“Why did you leave her foot out in this way?” asked mamma.

“Well,” said Blanche, “I thought perhaps she could get to Heaven easier.”

THE CHICKADEE-DEE.

Little darling of the snow, Careless how the winds may blow, Happy as a bird can be, Singing, oh, so cheerily, Chickadee-dee! Chickadee-dee!

When the skies are cold and gray, When he trills his happiest lay, Through the clouds he seems to see Hidden things to you and me. Chickadee-dee! chickadee-dee!

Very likely little birds Have their thoughts too deep for word, But we know, and all agree, That the world would dreary be Without birds, dear chickadee!

THE CHILDREN’S PARTY.

What a merry, merry rout! See the wee ones dance about! Dickie’s leading off the ball; There,--he almost had a fall.

Who’s his partner in the whirls, --Rosiest of all the girls? But a doll--a DOLL you say; Dancing in that sprightly way?

Well I never! Oh, see there, See--just see those horses tear! Meg and Madge will sure be thrown. What a vicious looking roan!

Not a real live horse you say, Prancing in that frightful way? Well, I never! Toys to-day Surely seem more “real” than “play.”

BRAVE TOMASSO.

There were once two very beautiful cats named Tomasso and Lilia. It would be very hard indeed to say which was more beautiful than the other, Tomasso the husband, or Lilia his wife.

They were about the same size, although, perhaps, Tomasso was a little the stouter of the two. There could be no question that at times the expression of his face was decidedly more fierce than that of his gentle wife.

The fur of each of them was as white as the driven snow, and as soft, and fine, and glossy as the most perfect silk gloss.

Add to these natural charms the fact that they always kept themselves beautifully clean, and always wore round their necks cravats made of the richest satin ribbon, and I am sure you will agree with me in thinking that they were cats of very high degree.

Their neighbors considered them extremely proud and haughty. They never were known to play with any of the cats in their street. To be with each other was all they asked. Sometimes these neighbors took a great deal of pains to get a glimpse of Tomasso and Lilia as, paw in paw, they danced a minuet together.

Even the most grumpy grimalkin declared it was a beautiful sight. There was no doubt the young couple was very graceful and their manners were perfect. Then he said that cats brought up as Tomasso and his wife had always lived, OUGHT to be amiable and beautiful. He understood that a jar of Orange County cream was ordered for them every day. Then he muttered something which sounded very much as if he thought Tomasso would be not over courageous in a moment of danger. “Alone, white tail is all very fine,” said he, “but mark my word, at a sudden fright it would turn into a white feather. I should pity his wife if she had no one but him to protect her.”

Now it happened that that very afternoon Tomasso’s courage was put to the test. As he and Lilia were taking a quiet walk, suddenly a huge dog rushed out at them. In an instant Tomasso placed himself across Lilia’s trembling body. She had fallen to the ground in terror. The great dog made a jump at Tomasso, but was met with such a snarl, and then such a blow from a set of sharp claws that he ran away howling.

That night the news of Tomasso’s bravery spread through the whole neighborhood. But he was very quiet and modest. His proud wife was much disturbed at a bad scratch Tomasso had received in the struggle. They both examined it carefully with the aid of a hand-glass.

“I hope it will not leave a scar,” said Lilia, “but if it does it will only be a proof of the noble courage of my brave Tomasso.”

TOMMY FROST SEES A BEAR.

Tommy Frost was making his first visit in the country. He was enjoying it very much. He liked to ramble about in the woods close by the house of his aunt, Mrs. Drew. Tommy had never even seen any birds before this, but pigeons and sparrows. That is, any birds out of cages. He had lived all his short life in the centre of a great city. He wanted very much to see a wild animal. He had heard Mr. Drew and some of his friends talking about “bear tracks” in the woods. Mr. Drew said they must go off some day and hunt for that bear.

Now Tommy had no idea what a bear was like. He wished very much that he might see one. Every day he said to himself, “If I could only find the one the big men were talking about I’d feel proud.” One day as he was strolling about, he suddenly saw something moving in one of the trees. He stopped, and looked up excitedly, then he rushed for the house screaming at the top of his voice, “Aunt Maria! Aunt Maria! come quick, I’ve seen it, it’s in the woods.”

“What is in the woods?” asked Mrs. Drew.

“The bear!” cried Tommy.

“The bear?” repeated Mrs. Drew, hardly understanding.

Then she drew a long breath and turned very white as she stood a moment shielding her eyes from the sun, looking in the direction in which Tommy pointed. Then she ran back into the house, and came out in a moment, bringing with her a huge horn. It was a megaphone. She was trembling so she could scarcely lift it, but she managed to raise it to her mouth and call through it. “John! Murray! come! come this instant! The bear is in the woods back of the house.”

In a few moments her husband and brother came running from the field where they were at work.

They stopped for no questions, but rushed into the house for their guns. But as they came out Mr. Drew asked, “Who saw it? When, where?”

“I did,” said Tommy, not a bit frightened, but feeling very excited and proud. “I did, back there in a tree.”

“In a tree?” cried Mrs. Drew’s brother, stopping in his quick run for the woods.

“Yes,” said Tommy, “it was a bear, but it looked,--it LOOKED just like my picture of a wiggle-tail.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Drew, as she sank on the door-step, “the child has seen a gray squirrel!”

MYSELF.

One little head so smooth and round, With soft hair covered, golden or brown, One little forehead smooth and white, Two little eye-brows dark or light. Two little eyes that we see through. See us looking, now, at you? Two little cheeks so plump and round, Where the red rose of health is found. Two little ears where sound comes in; One little nose and mouth and chin. Rows of little teeth all in white; Ready for use when lunch is in sight. One little tongue kind words to say-- Bright little smiles which round them play. One little head where all are seen. One little neck which stands between Head and shoulders to hold them fast. Now are we ready to find, at last, One little body with arms and hands Two legs and two feet on which it stands.

TWO STRANGE SIGHTS.

“Oh come into the dining-room!” Cries Fred, “come, grandma, dear. For something very strange indeed Is going on in here!” And sure enough, when grandma comes, Perhaps at first with fright, She stands quite still, astonished at An unexpected sight.

For there upon the woollen rug, A jug between her feet, Sits Freddy’s little sister Bess Absorbed in pleasures sweet. Her finger in the syrup now Behold she slyly dips, And carries it with great delight To her own rosy lips.

“You little witch!” cries grandmama, “You’re like the naughty rat I found within the cellar once, Who on a barrel sat, Filled with molasses, which he reached By dipping in the hole His great long tail from which he licked The sweets he thus had stole.

“The rat was shot, but grandma’s babe, Well, till she’s learned to know Such tricks are wrong, why we of course Must naught but patience show.” Then grandma took her little pet, And washed her sticky face, Then put that tempting syrup-jug Up in a safer place.

A CAT’S INSTINCTS.

“Take that! and that! and that!” These words came from an angry little girl. She was leaning over a big gray puss which she was holding down with one hand, while with the other she struck him a sharp blow every time she said “THAT.”

It is a wonder puss did not bite her, for he was so strong he could have done so. He was a very gentle cat. “Gentle?” I hear some one ask. Then why did he deserve such a whipping as the little girl was giving him?

That is a question we must try to have answered. For my part I do not believe he deserved it at all. Let us see what happened next. Just as the little girl struck the last blow her Aunt Margaret came into the room. Aunt Margaret stopped in the doorway, astonished.

“Why Flora,” she said, as puss darted out of the room, “what are you beating Griffin for?”

“What do you think he was doing?” cried Flora, her cheeks still flushed with anger. “He was on the table just ready to spring at this beautiful bird in my new hat. If I had not come he would have torn it to pieces.”

“But he knew no better,” said Aunt Margaret, “it is perfectly natural for a cat to spring at a bird. Yes, and for him to kill it too, if he has not been trained to do otherwise.”

“But it would have made me feel dreadfully to have this beautiful bird torn to bits. I really love it. Besides, it was killed long ago.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Margaret, “killed that you might wear it on a hat.”

There was something in Aunt Margaret’s voice which made Flora and the little girls who were visiting her stand very still and look up.

“You say,” continued Aunt Margaret very gently, “you say you love your beautiful bird. That you would feel dreadfully if it were torn to bits. How do you think its bird-mother felt when it was torn from her nest, and she never saw it again?”

“Oh,” said Flora, “I never thought of that before. I’m afraid,--I’m afraid I’m more to blame than the cat.”

DINAH’S NEW YEAR’S PRESENT.

Dinah Morris is a colored girl. She lives in the South. By South we mean in the southern part of the United States.

Dinah is one of the most good-natured children that ever lived, but she is very, very lazy. There is nothing she likes, or used to like, so much as to curl up in some warm corner in the sun and do nothing.

Dinah’s mother wished very much that her child should learn to read, but the lady who tried to teach her soon gave it up. “It is no use,” she said, “Dinah will not learn. She is not a stupid child, but she is too lazy for anything.”

It happened, soon after this, that a young man from Massachusetts came to the house where Dinah lived. He brought with him something no one else in the neighborhood had ever seen before--a pair of roller-skates.

When Dinah saw the young man going rapidly up and down the piazza on his skates she was so astonished she hardly knew what to think. She ran after him like a cat, her black eyes shining as they had never shone before.

One day the young man allowed her to try on the skates. The child was too happy for words. Of course she fell down, and sprawled about the floor, but did not mind at all.

“Look here, Dinah,” said the young man, “I understand that my aunt has been trying to teach you to read.”

Dinah answered that she certainly had.

“Why didn’t you learn?” asked the young man. “You need not trouble to answer,” said he, “it was just because you are too lazy. Now, if, on the first of January, you can read, I tell you what I will do. I will send you as good a pair of roller-skates as I can buy in Boston.”

How Dinah’s eyes snapped. For a moment she said nothing, then exclaimed decidedly, “I’ll have those skates, sure.”

And she did. When she bent her mind on her work she could always do it well, no matter what it was.

The lady who had before this found her such a difficult child to teach, now had no trouble. If Dinah showed the least sign of her former laziness the word SKATES! was enough to make her bend her mind on her lesson instantly.

On New Year’s morning she received a box marked in large printed letters:

MISS DINAH MORRIS, Care of Mrs. Lawrence Delaney, NEW ORLEANS, LA.

If she can read what is on the outside of this box she can have what is inside.

And as Dinah read every word plainly and quickly, of course she had for her very own the fine roller-skates the box held. And now sitting curled up in the sun, doing nothing, is not the thing she likes to do best.

NIGHT FLOWERS.

There are some flowers that never see the sun. One of the most curious is the “evening primrose.” About six o’clock it suddenly bursts open, with a popping sound, and at six next morning closes.

If you watch that pretty flower, and listen, you can hear this strange performance.

This is why it does so. The little calyx holds the petals in such a way that the moment it turns back they are let loose. At once it bursts out into full flower, with this funny noise, like a pop-gun.

So the “night-blooming cereus” blossom in the night, only for an hour, giving out its sweet fragrance, and then dies. Just think of never seeing the sun at all!

In a far Eastern country there is a kind of jasmine called the “sorrowful tree.” It droops as if sick in the daytime, and at night grows fresh and bright. It opens its lovely flowers with a very pleasant odor till morning, and then wilts and looks wretched again.

THE FIRST SNOW-STORM.

Away off on a warm sunny island, little Harry Hall was born. Flowers bloomed all the year round. The sun shone most of the time, although now and then there were thunder-showers.

Many wonderful plants grew wild, while on the shore shells and seaweed and queer little fishes were often to be found.

When Harry was six years old his parents took a journey to New York.

It seemed very odd to the little boy to live in a place where there were so many people, and such great houses. After a while the weather grew cold, and he had to wear thick woollen clothing. The house in which they lived was heated by a furnace; but one day they had a fire of logs on the hearth. Harry enjoyed it very much, and thought the bright blaze so pretty.

The sky was gray and cloudy one afternoon, and Harry had been standing by the window watching the street cars. Suddenly the air grew thick, and he could scarcely see the houses opposite. Something white and feathery fell slowly down and rested on the window ledge. Then it disappeared. But more and more of the little flakes came, until there was quite a ridge outside of the window.

Harry opened the sash gently, fearing it might fly away. He was surprised when he touched it to find it so cold. He took some up in his hand, but in a moment it was only a drop of water.

By that time the street and the men’s hats and coats were quite white. Harry was puzzled to find a name for the beautiful white substance, so he ran to his mamma and asked her about it.

She told him it was snow, and because the air was so warm on the beautiful island where he was born they never had any.

The next morning he saw the little children of the neighborhood playing in it; but before noon the sun was so bright and warm the snow had all melted away.

When the second snow-storm came Harry’s papa brought home a beautiful sleigh, and gave his little boy great pleasure by drawing him up and down the street.

Harry soon learned to go out by himself, and made many friends; especially of the little girls, as he was very generous with his sleigh.

But he has never forgotten his surprise when he saw the first snow-storm.

FRED’S STOLEN RIDE.