Chapter 2

Another day, Miss L---- brought home two large chickens; one of them with a long neck, and a beautiful black crest upon her head, and a dress of black feathers softer than velvet. Her we named Donna: sometimes we call her Bella Donna. The other was dressed in white feathers, some of them tipped with glossy black and brown, but many of them pure white. She was named Luca. They were shut together for a few days, until they began to feel at home; then they were set free to scratch in the barn-yard, and get acquainted with the neighbors' fowls, when we began to see how different they were in character as well as dress. Donna holds her head very high, and pays no attention to any other hens; runs away from us, when we invite her to dinner, no matter how nice it is; and never will get acquainted, all we can do. But Luca we love as we should a gentle, timid little girl. Sometimes, when we open the door, there she stands patiently waiting, and looks up at us with her bright eye so pleasantly, that we must stop, if ever so busy, and feed her. Occasionally we hear a gentle sound on the door-step, which we all know; then some one is sure to exclaim, "There's Luca," and run to get her something nice to eat. The little chickens, with Mater their mother, all come rushing, tapping, perching, chirping at the door, and tease and tap-tap and "yip-p yip-p" until we quite weary of them. If the door stands open, they fly up the steps, walk in, look round the room, and pick up any thing they can find, until we send them away. The moment their tin pan appears, they are all in a flying huddle, tumble over each other, fly to the pan, to our shoulders, or anywhere, to get the first mouthful. Old Mater is ravenous and impolite as the rest, except that she always waits for her children to get a few mouthfuls first; but not another hen or chicken must come near them. Luca, patient gentle Luca, often stands and waits modestly behind; and, if she gets nothing, makes a little mournful sound,--that is all.

Some _flocks_ of russet, black and brown hens, crowers, and chickens, who live close by, are a great annoyance to Mater, and to all of us. They come shooting into the yard like little steam-engines, and snatch all they can of the dinner to which they were not invited; and, if driven away a dozen times, rush back, the first chance, to get and devour all they can. Why, they have been into the house, and eaten a pie which was set to cool, pecked at the apples, Pony's oats, and any thing they could find to eat! What would you have said then? Even Mater's _children_ never did such impertinent things, hungry as they always are. One white chicken about their size, a naughty-looking little thing, with her head always down, left her own mother, and would come dashing in as if she belonged among them; but Mater and her little ones always found her out, and sent her away.

One day we thought we would name the eleven chickens, as Mater could not name them herself; and, since then, we know them each and all, and just how they behave. Annie and Mary are two sober-looking little creatures, in quakerish feathers of drab and grey. Nat is a white crower, with beautiful soft feathers, and a long graceful black tail. Louise has a shaded dress of grey and white, and is almost as modest and gentle as Luca. Hannah is a little bantam, with tufted head and large eyes, the smallest but the sprightliest of the family: she always tumbles in amongst the rest, and gets the first taste of every thing; and her mother allows her to do it. One of them, named Lise, a white one, came in the other morning, just as we had finished breakfast; and, seeing many things spread out to eat, she flew up to the back of a chair, and, perching herself there, surveyed the whole table, and was very unwilling to get down. At length, getting a little alarmed at our efforts to teach her better, she pounced directly down amidst the cups and dishes, putting her foot into a saucer of tea, and making a great commotion in her fright. Two, named George and John, are trying to learn to crow. Little Mary hears the large hens cackle, and you would laugh loud to hear her try to imitate them. They are having warm, new dresses made for them; so they let the summer ones blow about in the breeze for any little girls who want them, particularly kind and neat and useful little maidens, who love to dust their mother's books, picture frames, and flower baskets.

If I can send you another brush, my little friend, you must imagine neat little Louise, Annie and Mary, gentle Luca and handsome Donna, sending their best love and kind wishes, and inviting you to come some summer's day, to see them eat their dinner, and run about with them in the green meadows. So, my darling, good bye. Perhaps, before you come to see us, Luca may be a little mother, with a brood of pretty downy children, following all around her.

Kisses and love from your friend, F. E. H.

(From the "Child's Friend.")

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If any child wishes to know how to be neat and orderly, here, to teach them, is the example of

LITTLE PINK.

On a swinging little shelf Were some pretty little books; And I reckoned from their looks, That the darling little elf, Whose they were, Was the careful, tidy girl, With her auburn hair a-curl.

In a little chest of drawers, Every thing was nice and prim, And was always kept so trim, That her childish little stores, Books or toys, In good order could be found,-- Never careless thrown around.

And she laid her bonnet by, When she hastened home from school; For it was her constant rule,-- And she was resolved to try, School or home, How to prove the saying true,-- "Order in all things you do."

When she put away her shawl, Nicely laying by her book, She had only once to look _In its place_ to find her doll Snugly there: She could shut her smiling eyes, Sure to find her pretty prize.

See her books,--how clean they are! Corners not turned down, I know! There's a marker, made to show In her lessons just how far. Dog-eared books Are a certain sign to me That the girl must careless be.

She's as tidy as a pink! Clean and neat, and gentle too! If you take her actions through, Just the same, I know, you'll think. School or home, Tasks or play, Books or toys, Every way, Order keeps this loving girl, With her auburn hair a-curl.

Friend of Youth.

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What boy or girl in the Sunday School has not heard of Grace Darling? Are not these two women, whose noble deeds are told below, worthy to be called her sister-spirits?

THE HEROINE OF PILLAU.

A most interesting story is told, in a late German paper, of a remarkable woman in Pillau, Prussia, whose heroism of character certainly rises into the gigantic, or whose intrepidity, to say the least, appears to be unprecedented. This woman, by a truly generous daring, is the widow of a seaman, with whom, for upwards of twenty years, she made long voyages; and, since his death, she has devoted her life, for his memory's sake, to the noble and perilous task of carrying aid to the drowning. Her name is Katherine Klenfoldt. Whenever a storm arises, whether by day or night, she embarks in her boat, and quits the harbor in search of ship-wrecks. At the age of forty-seven, she has already rescued upwards of three hundred individuals from certain death. The population of Pillau venerate her as something holy, and the seamen look upon her as their guardian-angel. All heads are uncovered as she passes along the street. The Prussian and several other governments have sent her their medals of civil merit: the municipality of Pillau has conferred on her the freedom of her town. She possesses an athletic figure and great strength, seeming to be furnished by nature in view of a capacity to go through wild scenes and high deeds. Her physiognomy is somewhat masculine, with the expression softened by a look of gentleness and goodness.

A GENUINE PHILANTHROPIST.

The island of Rona is a small and very rocky spot of land, lying between the isle of Skye and the main land of Applecross, and is well known to mariners for the rugged and dangerous nature of the coast. There is a famous place of refuge at the north-western extremity, called the "Muckle Harbor," of very difficult access, however; which, strange to say, is easier to be entered at night than during the day. At the extremity of this hyperborean solitude is the residence of a poor widow, whose lonely cottage is called the "light-house," from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night. By keeping this light, and the entrance to the harbor open, a small vessel may enter with the greatest safety. During the silent watches of the night, the widow may be seen, like "Norma of the Fitful Head," trimming her little lamp with oil, being fearful that some misguided and frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this she receives no manner of remuneration--it is pure, unmingled philanthropy. The poor woman's kindness does not rest even there; for she is unhappy till the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ashore to share her little board, and recruit himself at her cheerful and glowing fire, and she can seldom be prevailed upon to take any reward. She has saved more lives than Davy's belt, and thousands of pounds to the under-writers. This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the remorseless billow, "in sight of home and friends who thronged to save." This circumstance seems to have prompted her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is in doing good.

* * * * *

Here is a pretty piece. It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a class-mate and friend; but it sounds "as good as new." If he should happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.

THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.

Come, tell me, little noisy friend, That knockest at my pane, Whence is thy being? Where dost end, Thou little drop of rain?

I come from the deep, Where the dark waves sleep, And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep; I go to the brow Of the mountain-snow, And trickle again to the depths below.

But, wanderer, how didst win thy way From caverns of the sea? Did not thy sisters say thee nay, Sweet harbinger of glee?

With his far-darting flame, The Day-king came, And bore me away in a cloudy frame; And I sailed in the air, Till the zephyrs bare Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.

And why dost change that tiny form, Thou sweetest ocean-child? Why art the snow in winter-storm, The rain in summer mild?

The breath from above Of Him who is Love, In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove, Lest the young-budding earth Be destroyed in the birth, And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.

And wilt thou, little one, bestow The minstrel's small request? Wilt come when cares of earth below Press on his aching breast?

'Tis the minstrel's own To kneel at the throne Of Him who reigns in the heavens alone;-- The grief of the soul 'Tis His to control, Who bids in the azure the planets roll.

His couch when balmy slumber flies, In watches of the night, Wilt, soother, come, and close his eyes, And make his sorrows light?

I cannot come From my sea-deep home, Whene'er I list on the earth to roam: Who rules in the form Of the ocean-storm His will must the rain-drop, too, perform.

Thy gentle prattle at the pane Makes timorous Fancy smile: Then let me hear that tender strain; Blithe charmer, stay a while.

No: I cannot delay, But must quickly away Where the rills in the valley my coming stay; I haste to the dell Where the wild-flowers dwell, Then "Peace to thee, minstrel," is the rain-drop's farewell.

* * * * *

The poetry and prose you have been reading, children, thus far was most of it selected, when I was invited to a beautiful celebration, with some account of which you will be glad, I am sure, to have me close my collection. It was on

CHRISTMAS EVENING AT THE PITTS-STREET CHAPEL,

A very neat chapel, where Rev. Mr. Winkley, one of the Ministers at Large, preaches. On this occasion a platform was built up in front of the pulpit: most of the centre pews were filled with happy-looking boys and girls, and the rest of the room, even to the aisles, quite crowded with grown-up men and women. After the singing of two hymns by the children, and a prayer, a gentleman made a short address, telling how much better was the religion of the Jews than the religion of the Heathen. Then was spoken in a very pleasant way the following

DIALOGUE--PART I.

RACHEL, _a Jewess._--REBECCA, _Sister of Rachel._--EUDORA, _a Heathen._--JEZEBEL, _a Messenger._--RUTH, _friend of Rachel and Rebecca._

_Eudora._ Rachel!

_Rachel._ Eudora! welcome, thrice welcome, to Jerusalem.

_Eudora._ Right glad am I, Rachel, to be once more by your side. The sun has not shone so brightly, nor the birds sung so sweetly, since you bade me farewell at my father's; and every moment has increased my desire to be with you again.

_Rachel._ You have well done that you have come to me. And though I was not conscious of robbing your lovely home of its brightness, yet sure I am the remembrance of your true kindness and tender friendship has been to me ever since an increase of sunshine and song; and, now that you have come to me, the very temple itself shall look more beautiful, and the songs of David catch a new inspiration.

_Eudora._ Still faithful, I see, to your temple and Jehovah; and so may it ever be! But I trust you have more respect for the gods I worship, and will not, as of yore, pronounce them false.

_Rachel._ Sorry should I be to pain a true heart, and, most of all, that of my much-loved guest; but, still I _must_ say, the gods that you worship are no gods. There is but one God, and that is Jehovah.

_Eudora._ As I came near Jerusalem, I remembered your earnest words on that subject,--as what that you ever uttered have I forgotten? I remembered, too, how nearly out of patience I often felt with you for claiming your god to be the only God; and, so as I drew near, I felt a desire to know him better. It being a time of worship in the temple, I went with a Jewish friend of mine up the hill, and entered the outer court, called, I believe, the Court of the Gentiles. And, verily, I saw _no_ god there. Perchance he was in the temple itself.

_Rachel._ Yes, in the holy of holies: in the farther apartment of that building which you saw rising amid all the courts, he dwells.

_Eudora._ I imagined that was his abode. But wherein differs your worship from ours? You have a temple; so have we. You have priests clothed in sacred robes; so have we. You have altars and sacrifices; so have we. You have an oracle and prophets; so have we. You go up to the dwelling-place of your God to worship and offer sacrifices; so do we. Wherein, then, do we differ?

_Rachel._ If in nothing else, Eudora, yet in this: we have but _one_ temple and one God for our nation; you have many. And again, you worship the work of men's hands,--images of wood and stone, that can neither see nor feel.

_Rebecca (coming forward--Jezebel approaches)._ My heart is moved within me; and though my sister, in her joy of seeing her friend, has left me standing apart, yet your voice has drawn me to you.

_Eudora._ Surely the sister of my friend shall be my sister: would that I could say her God shall be my God!

_Rebecca._ Even so may it be!

_Eudora._ And my gods hers!

_Rebecca._ But that is impossible.

_Eudora._ Why? Because, as she says, we have images for gods! But this is not so. Is Jupiter the thunderer confined to an image? or is Juno or any other deity? Have we not many images of all the gods in many places, and are they not in them all? Do not our armies go forth to war, and is not Jupiter with them and Mars also? These images are but _reminders_ of the gods, as my father's statue is of him.

_Rebecca._ 'Tis true these many images and temples may not hold your gods more than our synagogues hold Jehovah; but as great an error is yours. You worship what has no existence; your gods are creatures of fancy. Your gods, too, are of various character, and not always agreed. This goodly world is not the patch-work of many and different gods, but of one designing mind,--one executing power; and that one, Jehovah.

_Eudora._ Your sister, in many hours of precious intercourse, has almost persuaded me to believe in but one God; but why, if there be but one, may not that one be our Jupiter, known as the father of gods and men, as well as your Jehovah?

_Jezebel_ (To Eudora). _Because he is not._ (To Rachel and Rebecca). Why do you talk with that stupid Heathen? You might as well convince a Samaritan dog. I have waited here with a message from David since the fifth hour, and all to be contaminated with idolatrous breath.

_Rachel._ Why, Jezebel, do you not remember what the wise Solomon has said: "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city;" or Moses' commands concerning the stranger and hospitality?

_Jezebel._ Well, prate not to me, daughter of Eliab; for I need it not. Tell me if you have fulfilled the mission given you this day, and what answer I shall make.

_Rachel._ I have. Ye only need say, "It is well." _[Jezebel departs impatiently.]_ (_To Eudora._) Be not moved by our neighbor's unkind manners. Did she love Jehovah, she would not thus do.

_Eudora._ And is Jehovah careful about _these_ things?

_Rachel._ Yes: every act is noticed by him; every heart is his desire; and herein he differs from all imaginary gods. Jupiter sits apart, and simply _rules_ the nations. Jehovah loves the children he has created, and is careful about their least concerns. He desires their love in return. Your gods demand conduct and sacrifices injurious and degrading. Jehovah's every word is for his people's prosperity.

_Eudora._ And you are like your god. Your patient doing of right in the past comes to me; and this, with your kindness to the unfeeling and abusive Jezebel, has convinced me more, if possible, than your arguments. Surely I see that it was such a god that I desired to worship in Jupiter. If this be found alone in your god, then does my heart move me to say, Jehovah, He is God, and there is none else. Oh! may I not be mistaken!

_Rachel._ Trust in Jehovah, and thou shalt not err.

_Rebecca._ Rejoice in Jehovah, and thou shalt be glad for ever.

_Ruth (calling)._ Rachel!

_Rachel._ I come. (_To Eudora._) Let us hasten; for we have long tarried, and many wait to welcome you. _(Singing heard._) Hark! they are singing one of the songs of David: let us go join them.

At the close of the dialogue, the cxxxvi. Psalm was chanted; and then another gentleman described the erroneous notions which the Jews had of the expected Messiah. His remarks were succeeded by

DIALOGUE.--PART II.

ANNA, MARTHA, SALOME, MARY, _of Jerusalem._ MIRIAM, LEAH, _of Bethlehem._

_Mary (coming with Salome to Martha)._ Martha, I have been seeking, and am glad that I have found you; but why do you weep?

_Martha._ We may do nothing else now, and the meeting with others seems to be the signal for fresh floods of tears.

_Salome._ I may not ask the cause of your grief; for my own soul replies it is the common grief,--our nation's bondage.

_Martha._ Yes, we are slaves; that only thought haunts me; the chosen people of Jehovah in subjection to the idolatrous Roman.

_Salome._ Where now is the might of David? where the glory of Solomon? Surely Miriam's song may be turned upon ourselves; for the enemy "hath triumphed gloriously," and we are laid in the dust.

_Mary._ Let us not, however, despond too much. Jehovah will not always chide. The Roman sway shall have an end.

_Martha._ I know that Messiah cometh, and he will restore all things; but when?

_Salome._ Yes, _when_? Long have we waited, and bitter has been our bondage; and even our own Herod has been more cruel than our foes.

_Mary._ Nevertheless, let us hope. In the fulness of time the promised one will come. (_Miriam and Leah approach._) But, see! two more friends join us.

_Martha._ Rather say, two more slaves.

_Salome._ Yes; two more to weep with us.

_Miriam._ Not so, not so, unless we weep for joy. The cloud that has so long hung over us in blackness is beginning to break. We have experienced more of gladness this day than has been ours since the last report that the Messiah had come was proved false.

_Leah._ Yes, we have heard strange things since the morning service; joyful news have we for you.

_Martha._ Another false prophet, no doubt, claiming to be Israel's deliverer, and proving a thousand times her foe.

_Salome._ Let us not cheat ourselves with any more fanatical dreams.

_Miriam._ No dream this; no fanatic's voice; no prophet's word, but a message direct from Heaven.

_Martha._ A message from Heaven!

_Leah._ 'Tis even so. Listen while I tell you. At Bethlehem, last night, the shepherds were watching their flocks as usual; at midnight they were startled by the sudden appearance of an angel of the Lord, and the shining round about them of an exceeding bright light; and the angel spoke to them. "Fear not," said he, "for, behold! I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all the people; for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a _Saviour_, even the Messiah."

_Martha._ Can this be true?

_Salome._ But how shall he be known?

_Anna._ In Bethlehem, did you say? But there is no palace in Bethlehem, where a prince should be born.

_Leah._ Wait a little: I have not told you all. "This," said the angel to the shepherds, "shall be a sign to you. Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger." And, when he had thus said, there suddenly joined him a multitude of the heavenly host; and presently they burst forth into this song,--"Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace and good will towards men!" And with this song they departed.

_Anna._ This is indeed wonderful!

_Salome._ But have the shepherds seen the babe?

_Martha._ Oh! tell us that. Have they seen the babe? and are all things as they have declared?

_Miriam._ Yes. We met them on their return. They were, with full hearts, praising God for the new hope of a glorious deliverance given to the nation.

_Leah._ All hearts warmed as they spoke; and, catching their gladness, we come to you.

_Mary._ Then shall we indeed hope! O my people! my people Israel! shall we see you again in your former glory?

_Martha._ Surely, this news inspires my own soul. Once more shall the Roman be driven forth by the Lord of hosts; once more "shall Jehovah triumph, and his people be free."

_Salome._ Yes; and Messiah shall bring all nations into subjection to _us_, as we are now to the Romans.

_Anna._ Well may we wait a little longer, and bear the yoke with patience.

_Mary._ I knew the Lord would not always chide, nor keep his anger for ever. Now may we rejoice and glory in the God of our salvation.

_Martha._ Once more shall the name of _a Jew_ be somewhat more than a byword. When our King shall ride forth in his majesty, conquering and to conquer, then shall the Jews be terrible to their enemies, honored by their friends, and known everywhere as the people of the whole earth whom the Lord delighteth to honor.

_Leah._ Let us tarry no longer here, feasting on these good things alone; but away; and, in every closet and from every house-top, let us spread the good news.

_Mary._ Let us first, however, sing to Jehovah a song of triumph, and then to our work.

_Miriam._ Even so let it be.

Then arose, beautifully sung, this