Chapter 2

But the lost Evelyn was near, and coming nearer every moment. You will remember that Maggie's mother, Mrs. Brien, was to send for Maggie to come and visit her. The man whom she sent went back and told her that he could not find Maggie, and that her grandmother was afraid she had been stolen from the station. Mrs. Brien hired a horse and wagon, and drove to the station, and inquired of the station-master. A stable-boy who stood near told her he saw a little girl who looked like Maggie riding off in a buggy with a man, and that the man hired the buggy to go to Gilead.

"The wretch!" cried Mrs. Brien; "to be stealing away my child! I will keep on to Gilead. I will follow him up."

"I wish you would let this little girl ride with you to Gilead," said the station-master. "She has been waiting a long time for some one to call and take her to Mr. Stimpcett's, and Mr. Stimpcett will help you find your Maggie." He then brought out a slender, flaxen-haired little girl, and placed her in Mrs. Brien's wagon. This child was Evelyn Odell, and Mrs. Brien took her to Gilead.

It happened that they reached Mr. Stimpcett's just as Moses was driving into the yard with his father's horse and cart, and they three, Mrs. Brien, Moses, and Evelyn, went into the house together.

Scarcely had they entered before Mr. Stimpcett, and then Mr. St. Clair, arrived in haste, each with a horse and wagon. Mr. Stimpcett rushed in to get his wife, and Mr. St. Clair to get Maggie. There they found Mrs. Stimpcett with her arms around Moses, Mrs. Odell with hers around Evelyn, and Mrs. Brien with hers around Maggie; and there were huggings and kissings and laughings and cryings, and it was, "Oh, you dear!" and, "Oh, you darling!" and "Oh, my child!" and, oh other things! Grandma held the Sudden Remedy bottle, looking at Moses's legs as if not quite sure yet that they did not need some of it rubbed on, while Obadiah, and Deborah, and little Cordelia stood staring and sniffling and smiling, now and then wiping their eyes with their night-gown sleeves.

"Will nobody hug me?" cried Mr. Stimpcett. Upon this little Cordelia climbed into his arms, and they two hugged each other.

Mr. St. Clair told his part of the story, Moses his part, and Mrs. Brien her part.

"After all," said Mr. Stimpcett, "Mr. St. Clair did not bring back the meal!"

THE FAIRY PAINTERS.

The Fairy Queen had built herself a palace of gold and crystal. The rooms were hung with tapestry of rose leaves, and the floors were carpeted with moss. The great hall was the grandest part of all. The ceiling was made of mother-of-pearl, and the walls of ivory, and the lights which hung from the roof sparkled with diamonds. These ivory walls were to be covered with paintings; so the Queen called the fairy artists, and bade them all paint a picture for her by a certain day. "He whose picture is best," she said, "shall paint my hall, to his everlasting renown, and I will raise him, besides, to the highest fairy honors." The youngest of the fairy painters was Tintabel. He could draw a face so exquisite, that it was happiness only to gaze at it, or so sad that no one could see it without tears. No fairy longed as he did for the glory and renown of painting the Queen's palace.

He wandered out into the wood to dream his idea into loveliness before he wrought it with his hand. "Never shall be picture like my picture," he said aloud; "I will steal the colors of heaven, and trace spirit forms." But Orgolino, that wicked fairy, heard him. Now Orgolino painted very grandly. He could draw wild and strong and terrible beings, which thrilled the gazer with wonder and awe. Of all his rivals he feared Tintabel only. So, when he saw him alone in the wood, he rejoiced wickedly, and said, "Now I will rid myself of a foe;" and he flew down upon the poor Tintabel, and being a more powerful fairy, he caught him, and pinned his wings together with magic thorns, and fastened him down with them among the fungus and toad-stools of the damp wood. Then he flew away exulting, and painted day and night. It was a magnificent picture, with stately figures, powerful and triumphant, and Orgolino's heart swelled with pride at his work, and he said to himself, "I might have left that poor wretch alone. The weakling could do nothing like this."

Meanwhile Tintabel cried bitterly, because his hope was lost, his praise would never be heard among the fairies, and the beauty he had hoped to create he should never see. The elf that lived in the toad-stool looked up as the tears fell upon him, and gathered them up from his fungous coat, where they sparkled like dew.

"What sweet water!" he said.

"Alas!" sighed Tintabel--"alas for my vanished hopes! Oh! how lovely should my picture have been, and now I am bound down here to uselessness;" and he could not feel the pain of his bruised and bound wings because of the pain at his heart. The elf in the toad-stool looked up and said,

"Fairy, paint me a picture, here on the smooth surface of the toad-stool, for I have never seen one."

Tintabel stopped his wailing to think how wretched was the elf who had never seen a picture.

"Ah! elf," he said, "I have neither pencil nor colors. How can I paint?"

But the elf pointed to one of the thorns which fastened Tintabel's wings. The end was long, so that the fairy could reach it.

"There is a pencil," said the elf; and the artist's longing came upon the fairy, and he seized the thorn. Poor hurt wings! how they quivered and pained as the point of their fastenings pressed hither and thither over the surface of the toad-stool, and crushed and dragged and rent them in its course! But the thorn had a magic in it, and Tintabel found it possessed more than fairy power. The sharper his pain, the more perfect the stroke he could make. As the delicate film of the wing was torn, the rainbow tints dropped off, and gave him lovelier colors than the hues of heaven; and the elf held up his tears as water for the painting. He painted his remembrance of fairy-land and his weariness of earth.

When the appointed day came, the Fairy Queen called her painters together. The great hall was filled with them, but of all the pictures none was so great as Orgolino's. He had painted "The Triumph of Strength." Then said the Queen, "Where is Tintabel?" and no one knew.

"He has not cared to obey your Majesty's command," said Orgolino.

But the Queen looked at him steadily, and said, "Tintabel must be found."

Then all the fairies went in search of him. Soon one returned and said, "Tintabel is bound in the wood among the fungus and toad-stools, and before him is a picture more beautiful than any fairy ever saw."

"Come," said the Queen; and her subjects followed her to the wood.

There, on the white toad-stool's top, was a tiny picture, lovelier and grander at once than any fancy could dream, and it showed "The Triumph of Pain."

Then Orgolino was turned out into the wood among the cold and creeping things, and Tintabel was taken to great honor.

A WIDE-AWAKE RUSSIAN SENTRY.

BY DAVID KER.

Eighty or ninety years ago, when the Russians had a good many wars upon their hands, their best general was Marshal Alexander Suvoroff, whose name is still famous in Russia. Any old soldier you meet there will tell you plenty of stories about him, and strange enough stories too, for he was a very curious kind of man. In the coldest weather, when even the hardiest soldiers were wrapping themselves up, he would go about in his shirt sleeves just as if it were summer; and very often he would be up before any one else in the camp was astir, and startle the first officer whom he saw coming out of his tent by crowing like a rooster as loud as he could, just as if to say, "You ought to have been out before." Then, too, Count and General though he was, dining with the Empress herself almost every week, and going about the palace as he pleased, he dressed as plainly as any peasant, and slept on straw like a common soldier. Once or twice the palace servants, seeing this untidy little fellow coming up to the grand entrance, took him for a tramp, and wanted to drive him away; but they soon found out that _that_ would not do.

Another of his queer ways was to try and puzzle any one he met by asking him all sorts of strange questions, such as how many stars there were in the sky, how many drops of water in the sea, and so forth. He _did_ puzzle a good many people in this way, but once or twice he got an answer quite as smart as his questions, and that was just what he liked.

One day a soldier came to him with a dispatch, and Suvoroff, seeing that he was quite a young, simple-looking fellow, thought it would be good fun to try his hand upon _him_.

"How many fish are there in the sea?" he asked.

"Just exactly as many as haven't been caught yet," answered the lad at once.

The General was rather taken aback, but he went on, nevertheless:

"If you were in a besieged town, without food, how would you supply yourself?"

"From the enemy."

"How far is it from here to the moon?"

"Two of your Excellency's forced marches."

Suvoroff smiled and looked pleased, for he was very proud of being able to move his men so quickly, and had won many a victory by it.

"Which of your officers do you like best?" was the next question.

"Captain Masloff."

Now this Captain Masloff happened to be a very handsome young fellow, while Suvoroff himself was frightfully ugly, so he thought he would catch the soldier in a trap by asking him, "What's the difference between your captain and myself?"

"Why," said the soldier, looking slyly at him, "my captain can't make me a corporal, but your Excellency has only to say the word."

The General burst into a loud laugh, and clapping him on the shoulder, said, "Well, then, I _do_ say the word: you're a corporal from this day forth, and a right good one you'll make. If I can find another man as smart as you, I'll make him a sergeant."

Two or three months after this adventure, Suvoroff and his army were down on the Lower Danube, keeping watch over the Turks, in the middle of the hardest winter that had been known in that country for many a year. But of course, being Russians, they didn't mind _that_ much, and Suvoroff went about in the snow and the frost as if he didn't know what cold was.

Well, one bitter night in the beginning of January, the old General was making the round of the camp, as usual, to see that his sentinels were all keeping good watch at the outposts, when suddenly he came upon a sentry who seemed to have got the coldest place of all, for he was right down upon the bank of the river, with the cold wind blowing through him as if it would cut him in two.

"Good-evening, brother," said the General, speaking as if _he_ were only a common soldier too.

"Good-evening," answered the sentinel, pretending not to know him, although he had recognized the General's voice in a moment.

"Plenty of stars out to-night," went on Suvoroff, looking up at the frosty sky. "Can you tell me how many of them there are altogether?"

"Just wait a bit, and I'll count," said the soldier, quite coolly. And forthwith he began: "One, two, three, four, five, six," and so on, as if he were never going to leave off.

At first Suvoroff was rather amused at his smartness; but he soon found the game getting much too cold to be pleasant, for he was in his usual light dress, while the sentry at least had on a good thick frieze coat. Keener and keener blew the bitter night wind, till the poor old General felt as if he should never be warm again. For a while he bore up manfully, hoping the soldier would get tired and leave off; but when the man got up to a thousand, and was still counting away as if he meant to keep it up all night, Suvoroff could stand it no longer.

"What's your name, my fine fellow?" asked he, as well as his chattering teeth would let him.

"Vasili [Basil] Pushkin,"[1] answered the soldier, "private in the Seventh Foot."

"Very good," said the Marshal; "I won't forget you. Good-night."

The next morning Pushkin was sent for to the General's quarters; and Suvoroff, turning to his staff officers, said:

"Gentlemen, here's a man whom I tried to fool last night, but I met my match, and something more. I said I'd make any man a sergeant who was smart enough for that, and I must keep my word."

And he did so that very day.

FOOTNOTES:

1 All purely Russian names end either in "off" or "in," the "ski's" being all Polish, and the "ko's" all Cossack.

THE SONG OF THE WREN.

BY MRS. MARGARET EYTINGE.

In a certain wild but beautiful country place, far from this great city, stood a little white cottage all by itself, there being no other house for ten or twelve miles, over which, in summer-time, the wild rose vines clambered until they reached the very chimney, where, clinging to the red bricks, they flung out in merry triumph slender flower-laden branches like pennons on the breeze. Under the cottage eaves some swallows built their nests every spring, and to the garden came, as soon as the yellow and white honeysuckles and blue larkspurs and many-colored four-o'clocks bloomed, myriads of humming-birds, looking like rubies, and diamonds, and opals, and emeralds, and topazes, and sapphires, that had taken to themselves wings, and flown from all parts of the world to visit the living gems in this lovely spot. In the autumn, when the leaves, dressed in their gayest dress, were bidding farewell to the sunshine and the wind and each other, hundreds of robin-redbreasts--"God's birds"--hopped like little flames about the ground, and in a hollow tree near the cottage door a pretty red-brown wren and his mate had found shelter for a long time, and reared several broods. As for the saucy, chattering, busy, fearless sparrows, they had feather-lined nests wherever a sparrow's nest could be placed, and that is almost everywhere--on the pump, behind the wood-pile, in the barn, among the trees--and these nests they never forsook all the year round. What wonder that the cottage was called Bird House, and the dear wee girl whose home it was answered to the name of Birdie? No brothers or sisters had the innocent, blue-eyed child, and, save the birds, no little friends. But they loved her dearly, and were always near her; so she never grew lonely, but was happy and contented from morning until night. At early dawn, when a soft light in the eastern sky told that the sun was coming, they tapped on her window-panes to waken her; and when she appeared at the cottage door, they flew to meet her, lighting on her fair head, her shoulders, her outstretched hands, with loud, sweet, twittering welcomes. Even strange birds just passing that way would join the merry throng, and joyfully and gratefully partake of the crumbs the dear one scattered for her friends. And often at night, when Birdie awoke from a pleasant dream, and found her room filled with the silver of the moon, she would hear the sparrows and swallows say--still dreaming they--"Birdie, sweet Birdie!"

She had learned their language when she was but a babe, and knew when they were glad or sad; when they praised or scolded; when they gave warning that the spirits of the storm were abroad; when they said to their young, "Courage, little ones; it is time to try your wings"; when they softly chirped, "To sleep, to sleep"; and when they sang songs of love or farewell.

And so it happened that she understood every word of the song that the wren sang to her that winter afternoon. The snow had been falling, and the sunshine was just coming back, when she went out in the garden, in her Little Red Riding-hood cloak, to share her bread with the sparrows and snow-birds. Around her they flew, uttering cries of joy, when suddenly the wren, forgetting his shyness, appeared among them; and this is the song he sang:

"In the time of violets, When the Spring came dancing O'er the meadow, through the wood, Sunbeams round her glancing-- 'Birdie's sweet, sweet, sweet, Sweet,' sang the swallow, 'And where'er her footsteps roam, I will follow, follow.'

"When the roses bloomed and blushed, And the fragrant Summer Kisses warm and sparkling smiles Gave to each new-comer-- 'Birdie's sweet, sweet, sweet,' Sang the blackbird clearly; 'Sweet as daisy-buds, and I Love her dearly, dearly.'

"When the autumn leaves began Gold and crimson turning, Robin-Redbreast sang--his breast Bright as sunset burning-- 'Birdie's sweet, sweet, sweet, Sweet as dewy clover, And her praises shall be sung All the wide world over.'

"Wrens and sparrows--all the birds, Dear, that fly above thee, For thy gentle words and ways, For thy beauty, love thee. Birdie sweet, sweet, sweet-- Happy be forever! While the birds can guard thee, sweet, Harm shall reach thee never."

"Thank you, dear wren--thank you, dear birds," said Birdie, with tears in her beautiful blue eyes, when the song was ended; and she went away to her own little room and said a prayer of thankfulness.

And from that time the child's heart was lighter than ever, and she sang all day long like a tuneful mocking-bird, blending all the sweet strains of her friends in one delightful song, until winter passed away, and the snow melted, and the snow-drop peeped out of the ground, and said, timidly, "I am here: spare me, O Wind!" and while the spring covered the earth with daisies and dandelions and May buds and brave honest grass, and flung delicate blossoms all over the orchards. Then came the summer once more, and started millions of lovely "green things a-growing," and filled the trees with thousands of joyous young birds.

And one glowing July day, early in the morning, Birdie wandered off to the woods, as she had often done before, to look for wild flowers, and gather some green food for her feathered pets. "I'll be back again in a little while, mamma," she said, as she left the cottage. But the hours went by, and noon came, and she had not returned.

"Where is my little maid?" called her father, cheerily, as he came in to dinner from the field where he had been working; but no little maid replied.

"She has gone for bird weeds and flowers," said her mother. "She will be here in a few moments."

But the dinner was eaten, and the father went back to his work, and still no Birdie came.

The clock struck one--struck two--struck three, and then, her heart growing heavier and heavier at every step, the frightened mother started out to look for her darling. North, south, east, west, half a mile each way from the cottage, she ran, stopping every few minutes to call, "Birdie! Birdie!" but only the echoes answered her call. At last to the field where her husband was working she flew. "Leave the plough," she cried, wringing her hands, "and look for the child."

North, east, south, west, a mile each way from his home, went the father, shouting, "Birdie! Birdie, little maid!" and the echoes repeated, "Birdie! Birdie, little maid!" but no other sound he heard except the rustling of the leaves and the whir of insect wings. The sun was beginning to sink in the west when, tired and heart-sick, he came back again. "Perhaps she is there now," he thought, a ray of hope lighting up his face as he neared the garden gate; but a glance at his wife's tearful eyes as she came to meet him told him he had hoped in vain. "I'll saddle the horse and ride to the village," he said, "and every father there will join me in the search for my child. And we'll find her, never fear."

"God grant that you may--and alive!" sobbed the poor mother. "My darling! oh, my darling!"

At that moment a flock of birds came in sight--so large a flock that, wheeling around the head of the sorrowing mother, it almost shut out from her the light of day.

Round and round her the birds circled, uttering strange, eager sounds; then flew away a short distance, to return with louder calls than ever.

"They miss her," said the father, who was just about to mount his horse. "They have come to be fed."

"They have come to lead us to her," cried his wife, her whole face growing glad and bright. "Look at them! They are asking us to follow."

And the birds turned as she made a few steps forward, and flew slowly before her. To a narrow path up the nearest hill they led--so narrow that the horse had to be left behind, and the father, who in his impatience had ridden on in front, was obliged to dismount and follow on foot. Over the hill and across a bridge that spanned a wide stream they went, then up some steep rocks, and down, down into a tiny green valley, from which another flock of birds arose with welcoming cries; and there, in a little cave, imprisoned by a huge stone that had fallen from the rock above across its mouth, the trees and shrubs around her black with watching birds, sat Birdie, her little hands patiently folded in her lap, a smile on her pale lips, and faith shining from her heaven-blue eyes. And for once--her heart being full to overflowing with love for her wee daughter, and gratitude to the good God and them--the mother too understood the language of the birds as they sang,

"Birdie, sweet, sweet, sweet, Happy be forever! While the birds can guard thee, sweet, Harm shall reach thee never."

WILD BOARS.

The wild boar is one of the most dangerous of beasts. Although it belongs to the same great family as the lazy, good-natured pig that lies in utter contentment in the farmer's pen, it is an altogether different creature, and few animals are so difficult to hunt.

In appearance it has the same general characteristics as domestic swine, with the difference that it is larger, covered with coarser bristles, has fiery, glowing eyes, and is armed with two terrible tusks, sometimes ten inches long, with which it can inflict dangerous wounds.

Formerly wild boars roamed in great numbers through the forests of Great Britain, but for many years they have been extinct in that country. They are still found in some parts of France and Spain, and are very numerous in Germany and the wild jungles of India. They are also found in Poland, Southern Russia, and Africa. Du Chaillu, the African traveller, mentions encountering a hideous red-haired wild hog in the wondrous equatorial forests of the "dark continent." Notwithstanding its size it was tremendously savage, and very agile, jumping and running like a cat.

Wild hogs are gregarious, and are found in herds. They are fond of living near water, in which they like to roll and wallow; indeed, a bath appears almost indispensable to them, as they will sometimes travel miles to obtain it. Their food consists of roots, nuts, and all kinds of fruits and grains. In Egypt and India they do much injury to the vast tracts of sugar-cane, the thick growth affording them excellent hiding-places and shelter against attack.

It is said that wild hogs will not attack a man unless hunted or enraged; but as they are not only daring, but also very cautious and watchful, they suspect the least approach to be offensive, and proceed to defend themselves.

The sow guards her little ones with great care, and becomes wild with fury if they are touched. She will run with great speed if she hears them call, and few hunters have succeeded in capturing young specimens without first killing the parent. A man once riding through a forest in Germany came upon two little wild pigs which had strayed into the pathway. Delighted with his prize, he rolled the piggies in his horse-blanket, sprang to his saddle, and hastened on his road. But the smothered squealing of her babies reached the ears of the mother, and the man soon heard a loud grunting. On turning round he saw a furious sow, with gleaming eyes, coming after him at full speed. Being unarmed, he was compelled to fling the little pigs on the ground, and ride for his life.