Part 5

“Yes, dear, it is a very good thing to be rich, if it is the right kind of riches. Go now, darling, and get the bread and milk; set the table, and then call Freddy in to supper.”

POVERTY.

IT was a lovely day in June, and the poor little girl was going out. She was so poor that she had to go in a great big carriage, with two fat, slow horses and a sleepy driver, who got very angry if you asked him to drive a little faster. She was dressed in a white frock, frilled and flounced, and she had a fashionable little hat on her head, which stuck up in front, so that the wind was always catching it and blowing it off. She had tight kid gloves on her little hands, and beautiful little bronze kid boots on her feet; so you see she was very poor indeed.

The carriage rolled slowly along through the park, and the little girl saw many other poor children, also sitting in carriages, with tight kid gloves and kid boots; she nodded to them, and they to her, but it was not very interesting. By and by they left the park, and drove out into the country, where there were green fields, with no signs to keep people off the grass. The grass was full of buttercups, and in one field were two little girls, running about, with their hands full of the lovely golden blossoms, laughing and shouting to each other. One had a pink calico dress on, and the other a brown gingham, and they were barefooted, and their sunbonnets were lying on the grass. The poor little girl looked at them with sparkling eyes.

“Oh, Mademoiselle!” she cried, “may I get out and run about a little? See what a good time those children are having! Do let me jump out, please!”

“_Fi donc_, Claire!” said the lady who sat beside her. She was a thin, dark lady, with sharp, eager black eyes, and not a pleasant face. “_Fi donc!_ What would madame, your mother, say, if she heard you desiring to run in the fields like the beggar children? Those children—dirty little wretches!—are barefooted, and it is evident that their hair has never known the brush. Do not look at them, child! Look at the prospect!”

“I don’t care about the prospect!” said the poor child. “I want some buttercups. We never have buttercups at our house, Mademoiselle. I wish I might pick just a few!”

“Assuredly not!” cried Mademoiselle, her eyes growing blacker and sharper. “Let you leave the carriage and run about in the mire, for the sake of a few common, vulgar flowers? Look at your dress, Claire! Look at your delicate shoes, and your new pearl-colored gloves! Are these the things to run in the dirt with? I will not be responsible for such conduct. Sit still, and when we reach home the gardener shall pick you some roses.”

“I don’t want roses!” said the poor little girl, sighing wearily. “I am tired of roses. I want buttercups!”

She sighed again, and leaned back on the velvet cushions; the carriage rolled on. The barefoot children gazed after it with wondering eyes.

“My!” said one, “wasn’t she dressed fine, though!”

“Yes,” said the other; “but she looked as if she was having a horrid time, poor thing.”

“Poor thing!” echoed the first child.

THE BEST OF ALL.

“I MEAN to have the best time this Fourth of July that I ever had in my life,” said the Big Boy. Then all the other big boys clustered round him to hear what the good time was to be, and the little boy sighed and wished he were big, too. The big boys did not tell him what they were going to do, but I know all about it, so I can tell. They made a camp in the Big Boy’s room, which is out in the barn. One boy brought a comforter, and another brought a pair of blankets; and there was an old spring mattress up in the loft, so that with the Big Boy’s own bed, which could hold two (if you kept very still and didn’t kick the other fellow out), they did very well indeed. The Big Boy’s mother, knowing something of boys, had set out a lunch for them, crackers and cheese, and gingerbread and milk, so there was no danger of starvation.

Of course they were busy in the early part of the evening, buying their firecrackers and torpedoes, their fish-horns and all their noisy horrors (for you must understand that this was the night before the Glorious Fourth); but by nine o’clock they were all assembled in the barn, ready to have the very best time in the world. First they ate some lunch, and that was good; then they thought they would take a nap, just for an hour or so, that they might not be sleepy when the time came. Two of them lay down on the Big Boy’s bed, and two on the old spring mattress, and two on the floor; but it did not make much difference where they began their nap, for when the boys’ mother took a peep at them about ten o’clock, she found them all lying in a heap on the floor, sound asleep, though the Thin Boy was groaning in his sleep because the Fat Boy was lying across his neck.

Suddenly the Big Boy awoke with a start, and looking at his watch, found that it was half past eleven. Hastily he roused the sleepers, and there was a hurrying and scurrying, a hunting for caps, a snatching up of horns and slow-match. Then softly they stole down the barn stairs, and away they went to the old church, and up they climbed into the belfry. The sexton had left the door unlocked, having been a boy himself once; so there they waited till twelve o’clock came. Ah! what a grand time they had then, “ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;” but it only lasted an hour, and then there was all the rest of the night. They went here and they went there, and when they grew hungry they went back to the barn and finished the lunch; and then they tried to go to sleep again, but they kept falling about so, it was no use, so they waited till they thought their own houses would be open, and then they went home, and the Big Boy crept into his bed and slept till noon.

But the Little Boy woke up at six o’clock, and jumped up like a lark, and got his torpedoes and firecrackers, and was very cheerful, though he did sigh just once when he thought of the big boys. He turned the gravel-sweep into a battle-field, and made forts and mines for the firecrackers, and then he cracked and snapped and fizzed and blazed—at least the firecrackers did—all the morning. He only burned his fingers twice and his trousers five times, and that was doing very well. He had a glorious day; and his mother thought—but neither the Little Boy nor the Big Boy agreed with her—that the best part of all was the good night’s sleep beforehand.

A STUDY HOUR.

OH! what a mystery The study is of history! How the kings go ravaging And savaging about! Plantagenet or Tudor, I can’t tell which was ruder; But Richard Third, Upon my word, Was worst of all the rout.

Alfred was a hero, Knew no guile nor fear, oh! Beat the Danes and checked the Thanes, And ruled the country well. Edward First, the Hammer, Was a slaughterer and slammer, And Bruce alone Saved Scotland’s throne, When ’neath his blows it fell.

Edward Third was great, too, Early fought and late, too; Drove the French From Cressy’s trench Like leaves before the blast. But Harry Fifth, the glorious, He the all-victorious, He’s the one I’d serve alone, From first unto the last.

Oh! what a mystery The study is of history! Queens and kings, And wars and things, All done in black and white. Though sometimes a trifle bloody, ’Tis my best beloved study, For only so One learns, you know, To govern and to fight!

THE YOUNG LADIES.

THE young ladies had a reception this afternoon, and a charming occasion it was. The guests were invited for four o’clock, and when I came in at five the party was in full swing.

Clare was the hostess,—lovely Clare, with her innocent blue eyes and gentle, unchanging smile. The nursery was transformed into a bower of beauty, and Clare was standing by a chair, holding out her hand with a gracious gesture of welcome. Alida received with her, and she looked charming, too, only she was so much smaller that she had to be stood up on a box to bring her to a level with Clare’s shoulder. Alida is a remarkable doll, because she can open and shut her eyes without lying down or getting up; and Betty sat on the floor behind her and pulled the strings, so that she waved her long eyelashes up and down in the most enchanting manner.

All the dolls were in their best clothes, except Jack the sailor, who cannot change his suit, because it is against his principles; and I must say they made a pretty party. The tea-things were set out on the little round table, all the best cups and saucers, and the pewter teapot that came from Holland, and the gold spoons; and there was _real cocoa_, and jam, and oyster crackers, and thin bread and butter.

Rosalie Urania presided at the tea-table, and poured the cocoa with such grace that no one would have suspected her of being helped a little by Juliet (Juliet is not a doll), who was hidden behind the table.

“Will you have a cup of cocoa?” asked Rosalie, sweetly, as Mr. Punchinello approached her with his most elegant bow.

“With pleasure, lovely maiden!” was the courtly reply. “From your hands what would not your devoted Punchinello take?”

He bowed and smiled again (indeed, he was always smiling), while Rosalie, blushing (it was a way she had), lifted the pewter teapot, and deftly filled one of the pretty cups.

“He’ll take a licking from my hands if he doesn’t look out!” growled Jack, the sailor, who is jealous of Punchinello, and loves Rosalie Urania.

“Hush, you rude creature!” whispered Alida, giving Jack a little push. Clare is quite sure that Alida only meant the push as a gentle rebuke to Jack, and a warning to keep quiet, and not let his angry passions rise; but Clare always stands up for Alida. However it was, Jack tottered, staggered forward, and fell against Mr. Punchinello, knocking that smiling gentleman over on the table, and upsetting the teapot all over Rosalie Urania’s pink silk gown. Such a confusion as arose then! Rosalie fainted, of course. Jack picked himself up, and looked black as thunder. Alida shut her eyes, and kept them shut (she said it was from horror, but it may have been because Betty forgot to pull the opening string), but Clare and Mr. Punchinello did nothing but smile, which was a proof of their exquisite breeding.

THE WEATHERCOCK.

THE weathercock stands on the steeple, And there the weathercock stands; He flaps his wings and he claps his wings, Because he has no hands; He turns him round when the wind blows, He turns again and again; But Baby has hands and can clap them, Flip them and flop them and flap them, Swing them and wring them and slap them, Far better than cock or hen.

I, JOHN DORY, tell the story of the night When the Pinna gave a dinner to the Trout. It was surely (yet not purely) a delight, Though attended,— ay, and ended, with a rout.

Every fish ’un of condition sure was there, From the Cuttle down to little Tommy Spratt; From the Urchin who was perchin’ on the stair, To the Tunny in his funny beaver hat.

The Sword-fish, like the lord-fish that he is, Brought the Pilot, saying “My lot shall be yours!” The Guffer tried to huff her with a quiz, But the Gurnet looked so stern, it made him pause.

The Grayling was a-sailing through the dance, And the Oyster from her cloister had come out; And the Minnow with her fin, oh! did advance, And the Flounder capered round her with the Pout.

When the Winkle, with a twinkle in his eye, Led the Cod-fish (such an odd fish!) to the feast, Cried the Mullet, “Oh! my gullet is so dry, I could swallow half the hollow sea at least.”

The Frog-fish and the Dog-fish followed next, And the Sturgeon was emergeon from his lair; And the Herring by his bearing was perplexed, But the Tinker, as a thinker, did not care.

The Cobbler,—such a gobbler as he was! Why, the Blenny had not anything to eat! And the Trunk-fish grew a drunk fish, just because The Plaice there said the Dace there was so sweet.

The Torpedo said, “To feed, oh! is my joy; Let me wallow, let me swallow at my will!” Cried the Shark, then, “Here’s a lark, then! come, my boy, Give a rouse, now! we’ll carouse now to our fill.”

The Dolphin was engulfin’ lager beer, Though the Porgy said “How logy he will be.” And the Scallop gave a wallop as they handed him a collop And the Sculpin was a-gulpin’ of his tea,—deary me! How that Sculpin _was_ a-gulpin’ of his tea!

I, John Dory, to my glory be it said, Took no part in such cavortin’ as above. With the Sun-fish (ah! the one fish!) calm I fed, And, grown bolder, softly told her of my love.

But the Conger cried “No longer shall this be!” And the Trout now said “No doubt now it must end.” Said the Tench, then, from his bench, then, “Count on me!” And the Salmon cried “I am on hand, my friend.”

Then we cut on to each glutton as he swam, And we hit them, and we bit them in the tail, And the Lamprey struck the damp prey with a clam, And the Goby made the foe be very pale.

The Gudgeon, not begrudgeon of his force, Hit the Cunner quite a stunner on the head; And the Mussel had a tussle with the Horse, And the Whiting kept a-fighting till he bled.

The Carp, too, bold and sharp, too, joined our band, On the Weaver, gay deceiver, did he spring, And the Mack’rel laid the Pick’rel on the sand, And the Stickle-back did tickle back the Ling.

We drove them, and we clove them to the gill, We raced them and we chased them through the sea; And the Scallop gave a wallop when we took away his collop, But the Sculpin still was gulpin’ of his tea,—deary me! _How_ that Sculpin _was_ a-gulpin’ of his tea!

A HAPPY MORNING.

THIS is the receipt for a happy morning:

Two small children, boys or girls; be sure that they are good ones!

Two wooden pails.

Two shovels, of wood or metal.

One sea.

One sandy beach, with not too many pebbles.

One dozen clam-shells (more or less).

One sun.

Two sunbonnets, or broad-brimmed hats.

One mother, or nurse, within calling distance.

Starfish and sea-urchins to taste.

Mix the shovels with the sandy beach, and season well with starfish. Add the sunbonnets to the children, and, when thoroughly united, add the wooden pails. Spread the sun and the sea on the beach, and sprinkle thoroughly with sea-urchins and clam-shells. Add the children, mix thoroughly, and bake as long as advisable.

N. B. Do not add the mother at all, except in case of necessity.

LILIES AND CAT-TAILS.

“MOTHER,” said Roger, swinging in at the door and catching up the baby for a toss, “I am going to begin Physical Geography! And teacher says I must have a book, please, as soon as I can get it. It costs two dollars, and it’s just _full_ of pictures, oh, _so_ interesting! And may I get it to-day, please, mother?”

“Mother” looked up with a sad little loving smile. “Dear heart,” she said, “I have not two dollars in the world just now, unless I take them from the money I am saving for your new suit, and I hardly ought to do that, my poor Roger!”

Roger looked down with a rueful whistle at his clothes, which, though clean, were patched and darned to the utmost limit.

“I’m afraid the Patent Mosaic Suit _is_ rather past the bloom of youth,” he said, cheerily. “Never mind, mammy! Perhaps Will Almy will lend me his book, sometimes, or I can study in recess out of Miss Black’s. Don’t worry, anyhow, but catch Miss Dumpling here, while I go and bring in some water.”

Mrs. Rayne sighed deeply, as Roger set the baby on her lap and darted out of the house. She knew it was to hide his face of disappointment that the boy had gone off so hurriedly.

Poor Roger! so bright, so eager to learn, he ought to have a first-rate education! But how could she, a widow with four children on a tiny farm, give it to him? Bread and butter and decent clothing must come first, and these were hard enough to win, even though she worked all day and half the night for them. Education must be picked up as it could.

The little woman shook her head and sighed again, as she put Miss Dumpling on the floor with a button-string to play with, and took up the pile of mending.

But Roger, though he was disappointed, had no idea of giving up the Physical Geography. Not a bit of it!

“Mother cannot get it for me,” he said, as he turned away at the windlass of the old well. “Very well, then, I must get it myself. The only question is, how?”

Up came the brimming bucket, and, as he stooped to lift it, he saw in the clear water the reflection of a bright, anxious face, with inquiring eyes and a resolute mouth. “Don’t be afraid, old fellow!” he said, with a reassuring nod. “‘How?’ is a short question, and I am sure to find the answer before the day is out,” and, whistling merrily, he went off to water the garden.

That evening, just as the sun was sinking, all golden and glorious beneath the horizon, a boat pushed out from among the reeds that fringed Pleasant Pond. It was a rough little dory of no particular model, painted a dingy green, but its crew was apparently well satisfied with it. One boy sat in the stern and paddled sturdily: another crouched in the bow, scanning the reeds with a critical air, while between them sat a little fair-haired maiden, leaning over the side and singing, as she dipped her hands in the clear, dark water.

“Here’s a fine bunch of cat-tails!” cried Roger. “Shove her in here, Joe!”

Joe obeyed, and Roger’s knife was soon at work cutting the stately reeds, with their sceptre-tips of firm, brown velvet.

“Oh, and here are the lilies!” cried little Annet. “See, Roger! see! all white and gold, the lovely things! Oh, let me pull them!”

In another moment, the boat seemed to be resting on a living carpet of snow and gold. The lilies grew so thick that one could hardly see the water between them. Roger and Annet drew them in by handfuls, laying them in glistening piles in the bottom of the boat, and soon Joe laid down his paddle, and joined in the picking.

“Some pooty, be n’t they?” he said. “What d’ye cal’late ter sell ’em for, Roger?”

“For whatever I can get,” replied Roger, cheerfully. “I’ve never tried it before, but I know that plenty of boys do take them to the city from other ponds and streams. We are a little farther off, but I never saw any lilies so large as ours.”

“Nor so sweet!” cried Annet, burying her rosy face in the golden heart of a snowy cup. “Oh, how I love them!”

How the lilies must have wondered at the adventures that befell them after this! All night they lay in a great tub of water, which was well enough, though there was no mud in it. Then, at daybreak next morning they were taken out and laid on a bed of wet moss and covered with wet burdock leaves. Then came a long period of jolting, when the world went bumping up and down with a noise of creaking and rumbling, broken by the sound of human voices.

Finally, and suddenly, they emerged into the full glare of the sun, and found themselves in a new world altogether,—a street corner in a great city; tall buildings, glittering windows, crowds of men and women hurrying to and fro like ants about an ant-hill. Only the cool, wet moss beneath them, and the sight of their old friends, the cat-tails, standing like sentinels beside them, kept the lilies from fainting away altogether.

Roger looked eagerly about him, scanning the faces of the passers-by. Would this one buy? or that one? that pretty lady, who looked like a lily herself? He held out a bunch timidly, and the lady smiled and stopped.

“How lovely and fresh! Thank you!” and the first piece of silver dropped into Roger’s pocket, and chinked merrily against his jackknife. Then another young lady carried off a huge bunch of cat-tails, and a second piece of silver jingled against the first.

Soon another followed it, and another, and another, and Roger’s eyes danced, and his hopes rose higher and higher.

At this rate, the Physical Geography would be his, beyond a doubt. He saw it already,—the smooth green covers, the delightful maps within, the pictures of tropical countries, of monkeys and cocoanuts, elephants and—THUMP! His dream was rudely broken in upon by a gentleman running against him and nearly knocking him over,—an old gentleman, with fierce, twinkling eyes and a bushy gray beard.

“What! what!” sputtered the old gentleman, pettishly. “Get out of my way, boy! My fault! beg your pardon!” Roger moved aside, bewildered by the sudden shock.

“Will you buy some Physical Geographies, sir?” he asked. “See how fresh they are? They are the loveliest—”

“This boy is a lunatic!” said the old gentleman, fiercely, “and ought to be shut up. How dare you talk to me about Physical Geography, sir?”

Roger stared at him blankly, and then grew crimson with shame and confusion. “I—I beg your pardon, sir!” he faltered, “I _meant_ to say ‘lilies.’ I was thinking so hard about the geography that it slipped out without my knowing it. I suppose. I—”

“What! what!” cried the old gentleman, catching him by his arm. “Thinking about Physical Geography, hey? What d’ye mean? This is a remarkable boy. Come here, sir! come here!”

He dragged Roger to one side, and made him sit down beside him on a convenient doorstep. “What d’ye mean?” he repeated, fixing his piercing gray eyes upon the boy in a manner which made him feel very uncomfortable. “What do you know about Physical Geography?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” replied Roger, modestly. “But I am very anxious to study it, and I am selling these lilies and cat-tails to try and get money enough to buy the book.”

“This is a _most_ remarkable boy!” cried the old gentleman. “What geography is it you want, hey? Merton’s, I’ll warrant. Trash, sir! unspeakable trash!”

“No, sir; Willison’s,” replied the boy, thinking that the old gentleman was certainly crazy.

But on hearing this, his strange companion seized him by the hand, and shook it warmly. “I am Willison!” he exclaimed. “It is my Geography! You are a singularly intelligent boy. I am glad to meet you.”

Roger stared in blank wonderment. “Did—did you write the Physical Geography, sir?” he stammered, finally.

“To be sure I did!” said the old gentleman, “and a good job it was! While that ass Merton,—here! here!” he cried, fumbling in his pockets, “give me the lilies, and take that!” and he thrust a shining silver dollar into Roger’s hand. “And here!” he scribbled something on a card, “take that, and go to Cooper, the publisher, and see what he says to you. You are an astonishing boy! Good-by! God bless you! You have done me good. I was suffering from dyspepsia when I met you,—atrocious tortures! All gone now! Bless you!”

He was gone, and Roger Rayne was sitting alone on the steps, with the dollar in one hand, and the card in the other, as bewildered a boy as any in Boston town.

When he recovered his senses a little, he looked at the card and read, in breezy, straggling letters, “Give to the astonishing boy who brings this, a copy of my Physical Geography. Best binding. William Willison.”

THE METALS.

IN the earth’s dark bosom Long I slumbered deep, Till the hardy miners Woke me from my sleep. Now I flash and glitter, Now I’m bought and sold, Everyone for me doth run, For my name is Gold.

In jewels and money I shine, I shine. The great world of riches Is mine, is mine. Yet he who would live For my sake alone, Is poorer, more wretched Than he who has none.