Chapter 5

"Yet by land, or on the foam, I am still without a home; I hear through all the imperious call 'Wander, wander, rove and roam.'"

There he goes! His long sigh dies In the boughs as on he flies, To rove, to roam, without a home, Underneath the starry skies.

F. W. Home.

JUDGE JACKO AND THE CATS.

In the same barn dwelt two cats. One night they found the door of the neighboring pantry open and both walked in. They feasted on roast chicken and cream, but were not satisfied, and so they agreed to carry away a large piece of cheese. Their plan was executed, and they dragged the cheese to the barn. Next morning a dispute arose between them concerning the dividing of it. Each claimed it, and their voices awoke the cook, who, to her horror, found that she had been robbed during the night, and she declared that she would kill every cat in the neighborhood. Thus the innocent are often condemned because, in name or employment, they are associated with the bad. One is known by the company he keeps; hence, the society of the bad should be shunned.

The cats' quarrel in the barn was long and loud. Each one tried to argue his case in his own interest, and they thus drawled out their arguments.

"Know you the law?" said one, with a prolonged and emphatic howl at the word "law."

"I know the law!" howled the other, and then cried, "Neow, give me mine."

"'Tis mine!" howled the first.

"You lie!" drawled the other, and then asked in the same tone loud and emphatic:--

"Who made the law?" and the first replied in a prolonged undertone.

"Who broke the law?" he then asked, to which they both sharply replied, and clinched in a rough fight, screaming, "You an' I, you an' I! Spit! spit! Meow! meow!" and there was a roll and tumble, and scratch, and a howl, and the air was filled with dust and flying fur.

When their fight was over both were scratched and bruised and sore, and blood oozed from their wounded ears. Each felt ashamed of himself, and stole away and hid in the hay-mow, and spent the forenoon smoothing out his ruffled fur and dressing his aching wounds.

The next day they met again and decided to leave their case to Judge Jacko, a venerable monkey, who lived in the adjoining shed. Judge Jacko was an African by birth, but in early life he was stolen by a wicked sailor from the land of palms and cocoanuts and sold into slavery to a travelling showman, with whom he wandered over many countries and learned the manners and customs of the people. He was a careful observer of all he saw done, and hence he acquired a great amount of information. Those who would learn rapidly should be careful observers of all that goes on around them; knowledge obtained by observation is generally of more value than that obtained from books.

When Jacko had become advanced in years he was fortunate enough to have a permanent home with his master, who had also retired from the travelling show business. In his quiet home he had a chance to meditate on what he had learned, and he became so wise that everybody called him Judge Jacko.

When the cats presented their case, he put on his wig and spectacles as emblems of his judgeship, and procured the pantry scales in which to weigh the cheese. They sat quietly down before him and anxiously awaited his decision.

He broke the cheese in two parts and placed a lump in each end of the scale.

"This lump outweighs the other," said he, "justice must be done. I will bite off enough to make them equal," and so he took the lump out and nibbled at it a long time, and when he put it in the scale the opposite end was the heavier; and he took out that lump and bit off a large piece to make it equal to the other. Thus he continued to eat, first one and then the other, till the cats saw but little would be left for them, and they cried: "Hold, hold! Give us our shares and we will be satisfied."

"If you are satisfied, justice is not," replied Judge Jacko. "I must make this division equal," and he kept on nibbling at the cheese.

"Give us what is left!" cried one of the cats, jumping up quickly, and earnestly looking the judge in the face.

"What is left belongs to me," replied the judge. "I must be paid for my services in this difficult case."

He then devoured the last piece, and said:--

"Justice is satisfied, and the court is dismissed."

The hungry cats went back to the barn wiser than when they came.

They had learned that ill-gotten gains are unprofitable, and that they should never employ the dishonest to adjust their difficulties. They also learned another lesson:--

"The scales of the law are seldom poised till little or nothing remains in either."

PICTURES IN THE FIRE.

Have you noticed, little children, When the fire is burning low, As the embers flash and darken, How the pictures come and go? Strange the shapes, and strange the fancies, As beyond the bars you gaze, Bringing back some olden mem'ries, Thoughts of half-forgotten days!

There's the Church across the meadows, Shadow'd by the spreading yew; There's the quaintly-carven pulpit, And the olden oaken pew. Changed the scene, and on the ocean Sails a ship amid the spray; 'Tis the one you watch'd departing, When some lov'd-one went away!

Yes! and there are faces plenty, Faces dear, both old and young And they cause you to remember Words their lips oft said or sung. Fancy even brings the voices, Tho' they may be far away; Only pictures, only fancies, Yes! but very sweet are they!

Little Children, let me tell you Tis yourselves who shape the scene! In your minds a memory lingers, And it peeps the bars between! If you doubt me, choose a subject, Any one you may desire, And you will, by dint of looking, Find its picture in the fire!

E. Oxenford.

HASTY CHARLIE.

Charlie never could wait. It was no use telling him "more haste less speed," "slow and sure," or anything of that kind. You might as well talk to the winds. He scrambled up in the morning, scurried over the parts of his toilet that he was trusted to do for himself, hurried over his breakfast, rushed through his lessons, with many mistakes of course, and by his hasty, impatient behavior worried his quiet, gentle little sister Ethel nearly out of her wits, and almost drove patient Miss Smith, the governess, to despair. He burnt his mouth with hot food, because he couldn't wait for it to cool; fell down-stairs, racing down, times out of number; his toys were always getting broken because he couldn't stop to put them away; his canary flew away because he, fuming with impatience about something, neglected to fasten the cage door one day; and indeed space would fail to tell of all the troubles he brought upon himself by his perpetual, heedless haste.

There were some exceptions to this general state of things. He didn't hurry to begin his lessons,--nor to go to bed. Here he would wait as long as you liked to let him. One thing he was obliged to wait for, sorely against his will, and that was to grow up. It did take such a long time, and oh, the things he meant to do when once he was a man! Father hoped he would alter a great deal before that time came, for, as he told him, a hasty, impatient man makes other people unhappy and cannot be happy himself.

Charlie meant to have a balloon when he grew up, and a sweet-stuff shop, an elephant, a garden full of apples and plums, a tall black horse, and a donkey.

"You needn't wait so long for the donkey," Father said one day. "I have seen a boy with two nice donkeys in Pine-tree Walk; when you and Ethel have been good children at your lessons, Miss Smith shall let you ride them, and when you can ride nicely I will buy you each a donkey of your own."

Lessons certainly went better after this, and the rides were much enjoyed on every fine day, though timid little Ethel was always just a wee bit afraid at first starting. Miss Smith always safely mounted Ethel first.

"Wait a minute, Charlie!" she said one day, when he was pulling and tugging impatiently at Neddie's bridle, "we'll have you up directly."

But Charlie couldn't wait: he dragged the donkey into the road and scrambled upon its back.

"Charlie! Charlie! you mustn't start without us. Wait a minute!"

"I can ride by my own self now," he said; and jerking the bridle, off he went clattering down the road, the donkey-boy after him.

To mount a donkey is one thing, to manage him another, especially if you don't know how. On galloped Neddie, and after having knocked down a little girl and upset a barrow of fruit, he pitched Charlie over his head, and having thus got rid of his rider began to enjoy himself on the grass. Poor Charlie! He had such a bruised face that he was obliged to stay at home for days.

Miss Smith couldn't take him out like that. It hurt him very much, but it hurt him more when Father said that such a silly, impatient boy was not fit to be trusted to ride, and that he must wait a whole year before he could be allowed to mount a donkey again. "For your own sake, Charlie, and for other people's."

The little girl he had knocked down was more frightened than hurt; but Charlie was very sorry, for he was not at all an ill-natured boy; and when he was at home by himself, while Ethel went for her donkey-rides, he had plenty of time to think things over, and made a good use of it. At first he found it very hard to be patient, but after a little while he found it becoming much easier to wait, and every time he tried it became easier still.

Next summer, when Father gave him and Ethel the promised donkeys, he said, "I am proud to trust you now, Charlie, and hope that you will have some happy times with your Neddie."

And very happy times they had.

JOHNNIE'S DICTATION.

"There now, dear, run away, and make haste, or you'll be late to school, and that will never do."

Little Johnnie Strong obediently gathered his books together, and with an effort to keep back the tears that were filling his eyes, held up his face for a last kiss.

"Good-by, then, mother dear, and I'll try to be brave and remember what you've been saying. I'll just do the very best I can, and perhaps I shall be able to manage it after all."

"That's my brave little man, now; good-by, dearie." And Johnnie was gone.

Very often Mrs. Strong and Johnnie had little talks at breakfast-time about his troubles, and he used to say it helped him through the day to remember his mother's loving words. The conversation with which this story began was the end of one of these talks. It was getting near examination time, and Johnnie had been trying very hard to catch up with the other boys in his spelling and writing. Sums he could manage now pretty well, and he read very fairly; but it seemed to him he should _never_ be able to spell properly. "Thousands of words," he would say, despairingly, "and no two spelt alike." However, he went off to school very bravely, and his determination to do the best he could was a wonderful help.

He got on very well that morning until the time came for "dictation," and then poor Johnnie's troubles began. He knew there were boys in his class very little better at spelling than he, who copied from their neighbors whenever a word was given out that they could not spell; but Johnnie was above doing that. It was cheating and deceiving, and he would rather every word of his exercise were wrong than be a cheat. But that morning he was sorely tempted. He thought there had never been such a hard piece of dictation; and when Jimmy Lane, who sat next to him, tried to help him by whispering the letters of one very hard word, it required some courage to ask him to stop.

At the end of the lesson the boys had to pass their books up to the teacher for inspection, and Johnnie's worst fears were realized when his book came back with ever so many words marked in blue pencil.

While the teacher was finishing marking the exercises, the master's bell sounded, and the boys were dismissed for a few minutes' run in the playground; but Johnnie was obliged to stay behind to learn to spell correctly the words he had blundered over. Poor Johnnie! It was very hard for him to have to stay there, trying to fix in his mind the fact that "Receive" is spelt with the E before the I, and "Believe" with the I before the E, while every other boy of the school was outside, enjoying the games in which he delighted as much as any of them.

Not quite every other boy though. There was one other prisoner besides himself--Will Maynard, and he had to stay behind because he couldn't always remember to _pay back_ when he _borrowed_! Not that he was by any means dishonest--it was only when he had a subtraction sum to do that he got into this difficulty!

Johnnie and he were not chums, but, somehow, when they had the whole school to themselves they couldn't sit on forms ten yards apart--it seemed so very unsociable and unfriendly. So Will brought his slate over to Johnnie, and they were soon busily discussing the difficulties of sums and spelling.

Although Will was a good deal the older, he was not nearly so clever at sums as Johnnie, and, moreover, he was not too proud to accept the help that Johnnie rather timidly offered. They soon settled the difference between the various rows of obstinate figures, and Will laid down his slate with a sigh of relief and a grateful "Thank you, Johnnie. Now," he continued, "let's have a go at your spelling."

By this time they began to feel quite warm friends--for it is wonderful how quickly a little mutual help creates feelings of friendship. Together they went over the mis-spelt words, and, with Will to help and encourage, Johnnie soon felt quite sure that the spelling of the particular words of that morning's exercise would never trouble him again.

They had scarcely finished their work when the big school-bell sounded, and the boys all came trooping in. Will had to go back to his place, but he left a very light-hearted little boy behind him, for Johnnie and he had vowed life-long friendship, and sums and spelling seemed to have lost all their terrors for both of them.

When Johnnie arrived home from school he could talk of nothing but Will Maynard, and Will, for his part, voted Johnnie "a jolly little chap." Many a time after that day did they help each other, and when it was reported after the examination that they had both passed, each declared he must have failed without the other's help.

They are firm friends still, and are likely to remain so; and whenever a difficulty occurs, in school or out, they always tackle it together; for, as Johnnie says, "A difficulty shared is only half a difficulty."

T'IS NOT FINE FEATHERS THAT MAKE FINE BIRDS.

She was a lady with pins in her hair On a funny old Japanese fan. He was a proud bit of Chinese ware In the shape of a Mandarin man.

She sighed, when she saw him appear on the shelf, For she thought of her shabby old frock. She said "Oh! I know he will scorn an old fan, As he comes of a very proud stock."

The Mandarin sneered as he took a front place, But his pride had a fall when he found, That the fan was dispatched to a very grand show, For her beauty and age were renowned!

So we'll leave him alone on his shelf while he thinks, With a large diminution of pride, "It is not the feathers that make the fine bird, But the worth of the bird that's inside!"

Horatia Browne.

ELSIE'S FAULT.

Elsie Hayden would have been a charming little maiden but for her besetting fault--talebearing. She was always running in to tell her mother or governess the faults of the others. All day long it was, "Mamma, Rex took some currants," "Mamma, Minnie blotted her copy this morning," "Mamma, the boys have been quarrelling," or some other complaint concerning her companions. Before long Elsie was to go to school, and her mother knew what troubles lay before her if she persisted in looking out for motes in the eyes of others, and forgetting all about the beams in her own. She got Elsie to work a text in silks, "Speak not evil one of _another_," and she told the child that if we feel it is our duty to complain of somebody else, we should be very careful to speak only the _truth_, and in _love_.

One day Elsie came to her mother in great distress.

"Mamma," she sobbed, "they won't play with me; the others have all sent me to Coventry. They whisper 'tell-tale-tit' when I go near them; please make them play with me, mamma. It is so horrid to be left all alone."

"But Elsie," said Mrs. Hayden, "you have brought this trouble on yourself. When you play with the others you seem always on the lookout to find fault with them; how can you suppose they will enjoy a game with a little tale-bearer? Miss Clifford and nurse and I have kept an account of the tales you have carried to us, complaining of the others, and our lists added together make 352 complaints in one week!"

"Oh, mamma--I _haven't_ been a tale-bearer 352 times in a week!"

"It is so indeed, my poor little Elsie. I am sadly afraid you will grow up a scandal-monger, one of those people who go from house to house spreading tales and making mischief. You must try hard, my darling, to cure this fault; remember your _own_ failings, and let the faults of your playmates alone. Poor little Minnie came crying this morning to confess to me she had called you by an unkind name which I had forbidden; but she found you already complaining about her, and trying to get her punished. It was not kind or sisterly, Elsie! Let _love_ rule that little tongue, and be silent when those impatient complaints come into your mind."

"I will try, mamma--I will indeed. Will you keep another list for _next_ week, and see if I am any better?"

Mrs. Hayden promised to do so, and the result showed that Elsie had been a tale-bearer ten times only during the week. The child tried very hard to cure herself of fault-finding, and she was soon "out of Coventry," and as time went on nobody on seeing her sang the rhyme about "tell-tale-tit."

WINTER.

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl To-who; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

"Shakespeare"

THE STOLEN CHERRIES.

Long ago I read a story of some boys who stole some cherries, and, try what they might, the cherry stones were always turning up and reminding them of their wickedness. It was a good thing for their consciences that they could not forget what they had done; it is a dreadful thing to do evil and then care nothing about it.

Do you know what is the best thing that can happen to you if you do wrong? To get found out. To conceal a sin is worse than you may suppose; confess to God and man, and pray for forgiveness. We get vexed with the little birds sometimes when they spoil our fruit; what do you think of Dick Raynor and Willie Abbot who robbed a poor widow's orchard, and took away the cherries that she would have sold to pay her rent? Day by day the little thieves had a feast in that orchard, and nobody guessed who stole the cherries; but there was One Who saw and knew all about the matter. The rent was not paid, and the widow was turned out of her cottage; Dick and Willie grew to be rich men by and by, and they could have paid her rent over and over again, but it was too late then--the aged woman had passed away.

MY SWEETHEART'S ILL TO-DAY.

My sweetheart's ill to-day, Her mates around her linger; She cannot go and play, A pin has pricked her finger!

A little ache, my dear, But not a scrap of sorrow; At worst, perhaps, a tear, And all forgot to-morrow.

MAUD'S NEW SKIPPING-ROPE.

"Books, books, books! I think you will turn into a book yourself some day, Phil."

"Wait till I have finished this chapter, Maud, and then I will go out with you."

"That is always what you say," said Maud: "just a chapter, just a page, and the time goes."

Philip turned over another page.

"Only two more, Maud. Do go. I shall read faster if you do not talk to me. And then I will come,

And you shall see with your eyes of blue What a nice surprise I have got for you."

Maud went away slowly, and when she had reached the door she turned to say,--

"Be quick, Philip."

And then she went and put on her garden hat and went into the garden, down the walk between the currant bushes to a piece of waste ground grown over with short grass, that she called her playground, for here she could run about, and jump, and skip, and hop, and try to walk upon stilts, and do all sorts of things; and the gardener did not find fault, as he did if she skipped in the garden walks, and knocked off a flower here and there.

"I wonder what the surprise is," said Maud, as she sat down on a bench to wait for Philip.

Before long she saw him coming along, holding his arms behind him. It was plain he had got something he did not want her to see.

As he came nearer to her, he called out--

"Three guesses, Maud. What have I got in my hand?"

"Oh, I don't know. Is it a parcel?"

"Yes, it is a brown paper parcel; but what is in it? That is one guess. Now guess again."

"Is it a wax doll with curly hair?"

"No, not quite so large as that."

"Not so large? then is it a small thing? I have lost my thimble, and I've broken my china cup, so perhaps you have brought me one. Stop, stop; I have not had my third guess yet. Let me see: I gave my skipping-rope to Sally Brown. Oh, Phil, is it a skipping-rope?"

Philip laughed.

"Yes," said he, "it is a skipping-rope with fine painted handles. It is the prettiest I could find in the shop."

And Philip opened the parcel.

"Oh, what a beauty!" said Maud; "it is far prettier than mine was. And what nice rope! Oh, Phil, how good of you!"

"Well, now let me see if you can skip with it," said Philip, giving it into her hands.

And Maud began to skip.

"It is splendid," said she; "it almost skips of itself. I never skipped with such a skipping-rope before. It is the thing I wanted most, Philip. How came you to think of it?"

"Why," said Philip, "that was not very hard. You gave your rope to little Sally because she was a poor little girl, and her mother could not buy one for her. So I thought it was the best present I could give you, and the best surprise, and I took a walk into Linton to the toy-shop there, and though I saw all sorts of toys, I only asked for skipping-ropes, and I bought the prettiest that the shop-keeper had to sell. I am glad you like it."

"Yes, I like it very much. I could skip all day with it."

"Well, don't do that, for I want to have a hopping-race with you, and then we will try the new jump. Where is it?"

"It is just at the end of the playground, over hurdles. They are not very high, and I think I can jump over them. I know you can, and now that you are here I will try."

And Maud put her skipping-rope into the brown paper, and laid it on the bench.

"We will hop down to the hurdles, and then we will have a grand jumping-match," said Philip.

AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.