Part 1

OLD WONDER-EYES;

AND

OTHER STORIES FOR CHILDREN.

BY

MR. AND MRS. L. K. LIPPINCOTT.

(GRACE GREENWOOD.)

With Engravings from Designs By White.

PHILADELPHIA: GAUT & VOLKMAR, H. COWPERTHWAIT & CO. 1858.

Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1857, by

L. K. LIPPINCOTT,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

STEREOTYPED BY MEARS & DUSENBERY.

To Maggie P----

WE DEDICATE THESE LITTLE STORIES,

HOPING THAT ALTHOUGH SHE MAY NOT NEED THIS PROOF TO KNOW THAT

WE LOVE HER,

IT WILL NEVERTHELESS BE AS PLEASANT TO HER TO RECEIVE

AS IT IS TO US TO GIVE.

_Christmas, 1857._ L. & G.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

OLD WONDER-EYES 7

OLD HORACE, AND MY LITTLE PIG HUMPY 14

THE ROOSTER-MOTHER 42

MY AUNT'S PRESENT 46

A CURIOUS DOG STORY 64

WILLIE WATSON 71

THE TALE OF OUR KITE 78

PHILIP ANNESLEY'S RETURN 85

SNOWDROP 93

MY FIRST DAY IN TROWSERS 101

THE STOLEN BIRDS' NEST 114

THE STORY OF GRACE DARLING 127

HYMN 142

Old Wonder-Eyes.

Once, when I was in England, I visited some friends, who lived in a pleasant part of the country. They had a fine old house, filled with all sorts of beautiful things; but nothing in-doors was so delightful as the wide, green lawn, with its smooth, soft turf, and the garden, with its laburnums, and lilies, and violets, and hosts on hosts of roses. There was a pretty silvery fountain playing among the flowers, so close to a little bower of honey-suckles that the butterflies fluttering about them had to be very careful, or the first they knew, they got their wings soaked through and through with spray.

About the house and grounds were all kinds of beautiful pets--greyhounds, and spaniels, and lap-dogs, and rare white kittens; gay parrots, and silver pheasants, and sweet-singing canaries; but here, in this pleasantest spot, right under the honeysuckle-bower, all alone by himself, in a large green cage, sat an ugly gray owl. He was the crossest, surliest old fellow I ever saw in all my life. I tried very hard to make friends with him--but it was of no use; he never treated me with decent civility; and one day, when I was offering him a bit of cake, he caught my finger and bit it till it bled; and I said to Mrs. M----,

"What _do_ you keep that cross old creature for?"

I noticed that my friend looked sad, when she answered me and said--

"We only keep him for our dear little Minnie's sake--he was her pet."

Now I had never heard of her little Minnie--so I asked about her, and was told this story:--

* * * * *

Minnie was a sweet, gentle little girl, who loved everybody, and every creature that God had made--and everybody and every creature she met loved her. Rough people were gentle to her, and cross people were kindly; she could go straight up to vicious horses, and fierce dogs, and spiteful cats, and they would become quiet and mild directly. I don't think that anything could resist her loving ways, unless it were a mad bull or a setting-hen.

One night, as Minnie lay awake in her bed, in the nursery, listening to a summer rain, she heard a strange fluttering and scratching in the chimney, and she called to her nurse, and said,

"Biddy! what is that funny noise up there?"

Biddy listened a moment, and said,

"Sure it's nothing but a stray rook. Now he's quite gone away--so go to sleep wid ye, my darling!"

Minnie tried to go to sleep, like a good girl; but after awhile she heard that sound again, and presently something came fluttering and scratching right down into the grate, and out into the room! Minnie called again to Biddy; but Biddy was tired and sleepy, and _wouldn't_ wake up. It was so dark that Minnie could see nothing, and she felt a little strange; but she was no coward, and as the bird seemed very quiet, she went to sleep again after awhile, and dreamed that great flocks of rooks were flying over her, slowly, slowly, and making the darkness with their jet black wings.

She woke very early in the morning, and the first thing she saw was a great gray owl, perched on the bed-post at her feet, staring at her with his big, round eyes. He did not fly off when she started up in bed, but only ruffled up his feathers, and said--

"Who!"

Minnie had never seen an owl before; but she was not afraid, and she answered merrily,

"You'd better say 'Who!' Why who are you, yourself, you queer old Wonder-Eyes?"

Then she woke Biddy, who was dreadfully frightened, and called up the butler, who caught the owl, and put him in a cage.

This strange bird was always rather ill-natured and gruff, to everybody but Minnie--he seemed to take kindly to her, from the first. So he was called "Minnie's pet," and nobody disputed her right to him. He would take food from her little hand and never peck her; he would perch on her shoulder and let her take him on an airing round the garden; and sometimes he would sit and watch her studying her lessons, and look as wise and solemn as a learned professor, till he would fall to winking and blinking, and go off into a sound sleep.

Minnie grew really fond of this pet, grave and unsocial as he was; but she always called him by the funny name she had given him first--"_Old Wonder-Eyes!_"

In the winter time little Minnie was taken ill, and she grew worse and worse, till her friends all knew that she was going to leave them very soon. Darling little Minnie was not sorry to die. As she had loved everybody and every creature that God had made, she could not help loving God, and she was not afraid to go to Him when He called her.

The day before she died, she gave all her pets to her brothers and sisters, but she said to her mother--"_You_ take good care of poor old Wonder-Eyes--for he'll have nobody to love him when I am gone."

The owl missed Minnie very much; whenever he heard any one coming, he would cry "Who!" and when he found it wasn't his friend, he would ruffle up his feathers, and look as though he felt himself insulted. He grew crosser and crosser every day, till there would have been no bearing with him, if it had not been for the memory of Minnie.

* * * * *

The next time I saw the old owl, sitting glaring and growling on his perch, I understood why he was so unhappy and sullen. My heart ached for him--but so did the finger he had bitten; and I did not venture very near to tell him how sorry I was for him. When I think of him now, I don't blame him, but pity him for his crossness; and I always say to myself--"_Poor old Wonder-Eyes!_"

Old Horace,

AND

MY LITTLE PIG HUMPY.

A deep, broad, lazy-flowing river! It is one of the loveliest things in nature. When I was a little boy I lived near one, and among my very pleasantest memories are those of the days when I fished, and swam, and dived in its clear deeps, or sailed my tiny boats and played "dick, duck, drake" over its sleepy surface.

About half-way up the hill-slope which made the western bank of this river, stood our house. It was a large, dark old building--somewhat gloomy-looking on the outside, may-be, to a stranger; but _inside_, even in the most out-of-the-way corners of those great rooms, there was no gloom--the sunshine of peace and love made light everywhere. The dear old home!

Among my father's servants there was an old negro, who, as occasion required, was, by turns, coachman, gardener, carpenter, and house-servant. His name was Horace; he had no other name, I believe--at least, I never knew of any. Horace was one of the blackest negroes I ever saw, and as large-hearted as he was black. He was very fond of children, and very good-natured usually, though not always, as you will see, by-and-by.

Horace could make the nicest little wagons and sleds, and the clearest, sweetest-toned willow whistles in the world, I used to think. He could tell to a day, almost, and without trying them, when the May-duke cherries had reached their luscious prime; he could remember, from year to year, exactly in which row, and how far from the end, the early-ripe apple tree stood; he knew too, the very moment, I thought, when the frost had opened the chestnut burrs and ripened the persimmons, so that they would not pucker up our mouths, as they did sometimes, when we were so foolish as to think we knew better than he; he could pick out the luckiest places for our rabbit-traps, and could always find worms for bait, no matter how dry the weather, when we wanted to go a-fishing. In short, Horace knew everything, it seemed to me then.

At the time of which I write, I was eight years old, the younger of two brothers, and Horace's favorite. He used to say that my rosy, chubby face, black, saucy eyes, and laughing, rollicking, topsy-turvy ways, were "better comp'ny" for him than the more thoughtful, quiet, sober bearing of my brother Walter.

Walter went to school in the village, which was about a mile from our house, over the hill; but I said my little lessons to my mother, at home, an hour every morning and afternoon.

When it was not lesson-time, Horace and I were nearly always together; no matter what he might be at work on, he could usually contrive to find something to please me and keep me near him.

One morning, while I was saying my lesson, my father had given Horace a severe scolding for his forgetfulness, which was the only fault he had, I believe, but it was a most grievous one, and often led to serious trouble. After I had finished my lesson, without knowing anything about the scolding he had had, I went out into the garden, where Horace was working, and asked him to fasten a wheel on my little wagon, and help me to gear up my dog, Branch, to it.

"No! go 'long--I'se busy!" said he, without looking at me, and puffing out his great lips. Then he added, in a muttering way, to himself, "Nebber did see sich a bother as dese yer boys is!"

I was rather a passionate boy, and this roused me at once. I said something saucy back to him; then he said something else; then I said something in return, ending by calling him "an old nigger," and went back to the house.

Nothing could have offended Horace more than that "old nigger," which had slipped off my tongue in the heat of my passion, and for which I was heartily sorry a moment after--for, like a great many other negroes I have known, although he frequently called himself so, he would suffer no one else to.

All day long he did not speak to me, nor look at me, though I made a pretence of having several errands to the garden and went right by him--and at night I went to bed quite unhappy about it.

The next morning, I moped about the house, and tried to amuse myself with my humming-top, but it would not spin to suit me, and I threw it aside pettishly and went down to the kitchen, to ask old Wangie, the cook, to tell me a story, while she washed the breakfast things.

I found Wangie and Horace, with the other servants, still at their breakfast; so, without saying anything, I went up to the window and began to blow my breath against the glass, and make figures on it with my fingers. Once I turned my head, and found Horace looking at me with an earnest, wistful look that seemed to say, "I am ready to make up;" but I was proud, and could not bring myself to say anything--though a little soundless voice down in my heart kept urging me to, and though I knew I had been most in fault--until just as Horace was getting up from the table, when the little voice overcame my pride, and, tilting one of the loose flag-stones of the floor up and down with my foot, I said, without looking at him,

"Horace, I ain't mad at you, if you ain't mad at me." When I had got thus far I felt so much better that I looked up frankly into his face, and added, "And I am sorry I called you what I did."

"Lor' bress de chile!" said he; "Ise sorry too. I know'd de boy couldn't stay mad at ole Horace long, and ole Horace couldn't at him, sartin. But ye see, Mass' L----, when you com'd to me I was busy; and den Mass' B---- had jis been talking sharp to de ole nigger, 'cause he forgit to take de gray pony to be shod. I tells ye what, Mass' L----, it make ole Horace feel 'siderably bunkshus[A] for a leetle bit; but Missus says we must forgib and forgit. De Lor' knows I kin do de _forgittin_' part so well, 'tain't no use to say nothin' 'bout t'other. De ole nigger all right now, though, and he got de purtiest sight to show de boy he ebber see in all he born days."

[Footnote A: This is one of Horace's own words, and I never heard any translation of it.]

With that he picked up his hat, took me by the hand, and off we started, the best of friends again.

How well I remember that day! It was in the middle of May, and the sunshine was so warm and bright, the sky so clear and blue, and the grass, as we passed through the orchard, looked so beautiful, with here and there a snowy drift of apple-blossoms, into whose honeyed hearts the little pilfering bees were diving--and the birds sang so joyously, and such fragrant prophecies of the golden summer-time came floating to us upon every breath of the wind, that I said to Horace, I thought it must be a Sunday that had slipped out of Heaven, by mistake.

"Dun'no, Mass' L----," said he; "but I 'spec dey don't make no mistakes up dar."

During this we were crossing the orchard toward a little closely-fenced lot, about an eighth of a mile from the house, in which were the sheep and pig-pens.

I was not yet perfectly well assured of Horace's good humor, and so, although I was terribly curious to know, I had not dared to ask him where we were going, or what we were going to see.

Horace carried a pail of milk, which he had picked up as we passed the milk-house, in one hand, while I had hold of the other with both of mine, and was jumping and swinging along, when, just after we had entered the enclosure and were passing one of the large pig-pens, he set down the pail, and taking me at one of my jumps, with a slight lift of his brawny arm, set me up on the edge of the pen, exclaiming--

"Look dar now, boy! Wasn't ole Horace right--aint dey de purtiest little tings y'ebber did see?"

Right down under me lay the old sow, and rollicking and rooting, and butting and squealing around her were eight of the prettiest, darlingest, cutest little pigs that ever saw the sunshine.

One little fellow, black all over, was lying by himself, with his head lifted up a little, so that he could see me. This one did not seem so glad and spry, and fat and saucy as the others, and there was something in his look that brought a warm feeling to my heart, and made me pity him.

"Well, Mass' L----, which one's ye gwine for to choose for your'n?" said Horace, after I had sat there some minutes.

I looked at them all, except the little black one, again, and finally decided upon a pert, head-over-heels sort of a fellow, that was racing up and down the pen as furiously as though he had had a coal of fire fast to his tail, and was trying to run away from it. Every once in a while he would stop short, as if he had forgotten something, and suddenly remembered it--then he would look up at me in the most quizzical way imaginable, with his little impudent eyes, give a snort, a quick jerk of the head, and away again. He was as white as snow all over, except his tail and one ear, which were black. He seemed to understand that I was going to make a choice, and to be determined that I should choose him; and this frolicking and frisking were his ways of "showing his paces," I suppose; or else his funny little black tail was twisted up so tightly that he couldn't keep still.

Just as I was turning around to say to Horace that I chose that one, something, I did not know what, made me look down at the little black ugly one again. He was still looking up at me, with a sick, sad, hopeless, yet patient look, and at once it seemed to me that I heard that little voice again--heard it with the ears of my heart, as it were--"Choose him!"

I turned around to Horace, who seemed to be getting impatient at my taking so long to choose, and said very quietly, and somewhat sadly, perhaps, for I remember that my voice and the way I spoke seemed to astonish him as much as my choice--"I'd like to have that one for mine, Horace."

"What! Mass' L----! y'ain't gwine for to take dat ar little pigininny! Why he ain't o' no 'count, no how!--an' he look sick too--mebby he die. Let ole Horry choose for ye. I'd take de little feller wid de black tail and ear,"--pointing to the one I had fixed upon at first--"he's as peert as a jack-knife; and den, white's a mighty sight purtier color dan black--dat is, for _pigs_," added he, catching himself, for one of Horace's hobbies was the notion that black was "de best color in de world for folks."

But all Horace said about the little pig looking sick, and that "mebby he die," only made the little voice beg the more earnestly--"Take him! take him!" and I said to it, softly--"I will," and to Horace, aloud--

"Please let me take the little black one, Horace. I want to nurse him and make him well, like the others."

Horace looked a little displeased at what he thought was wilfulness in me, but said nothing more. He then took up the pail and poured the milk into the trough--my father being of the opinion that it was never too early to begin to feed pigs. At once the little fellows--all save mine, who lay still and alone, only turning his strangely sad eyes from me to the trough--made a furious rush towards it, crowding, squealing, and pushing like--so many little pigs as they were, and like nothing else in the world. Some plunged their heads into the milk, clear up to their eyes, which fairly twinkled and snapped with roguery, and one--the one with the black tail and ear, scrambled into the trough bodily, just as though he wanted to get more than the others, and thought he could absorb it with his legs and body, as well as take it in at his mouth; then, not satisfied with this, he went marching up and down the trough, treading on the snouts of his fellows, until they got angry, and rooted him out entirely.

I wanted to take mine up to the house and give him some warm milk and nurse him, but I saw that Horace was not much pleased with him, and I was afraid of renewing our quarrel by proposing it then.

More than a week passed, with my going down twice every day with Horace, to feed the funny, noisy little rascals, and staying there more than an hour sometimes, to watch them eat, and frolic about the pen. After the first day, I made so bold as to ask Horace to let me take some warm milk in a little old pan, for mine. He consented, and would even get over into the pen and hand him out to me, while I put him down on the ground, in the sunshine, and scratched his back and head while he ate, until he grew to know me, and Horace grew to like him and to be as anxious about him and as tender toward him as I was.

As I said, more than a week passed in this way, when, one morning, Horace said he should let them take a little run outside. So he propped up the sliding door with a stick, and drove the old sow out, while the little pigs came tumbling after. I stayed a long time, watching them root and frisk about--mine always lagging behind the others and never playing any--till it came dinner-time, and I went up to the house. After dinner I went with Tom (one of our hired hands), over to the mill, and did not get back till tea time. Just as I was getting into my place at table, I heard a squeal from the kitchen, and with the thought of my pig in my mind, rushed down to see what was the matter.

Horace had just come in and was standing by the fire, with Wangie and Tom, looking at my poor little pig, who lay on an old bag in his arms, dead--as I thought, till Horace, in laying him down on a chair, jarred him a little, and made him squeal again.

He had fallen down into an old dry cistern there was in the sheep-yard, and broken "he right _hand_ foreleg," as Horace said.

"Betta kill um," said Tom--"he not werry fat, but'll do to roast for de kitchen."--Tom and I had never been very good friends, and you may be sure that this speech did not help to make us so.

"Go 'way, boy!" said Horace, whose heart was always as gentle as a girl's; "he Mass' L----'s pig, and he gwine for to be doctored."

Horace's idea struck me, and without thinking, without my hat--the tears streaming down my face, and nearly dark as it was, I took piggy in my arms and started off toward the village, to find my uncle, who was a physician.

Just as I got to the gate at the end of the lane, I met him riding over to take tea with us.

"What's the matter--what have you got there, and where are you going at this time of the day?" asked he, somewhat startled by my singular appearance.

"Oh, uncle!" said I, "I'm _so_ glad you've come.--Why it's my little pig, and he fell down the cistern and broke his leg, and I was just coming for you to mend it."

"You had better let me open his carotid," said he.

"Will that make him well?" asked I.

"Yes," said he, "it'll take all his pain away, and he won't know his leg's broken two minutes after I do it."

"Oh, I'm so glad you can do that!" said I.

At this, my uncle laughed heartily, for he had been making fun of me all the time--the carotid being one of the most important arteries of the body. It supplies the brain with blood, and if he had opened it, poor piggy would have bled to death in a minute; that's what my uncle meant by saying it would take away all his pain.

In spite of his joking, my uncle was a very kind-hearted man, and after he had finished laughing at my simplicity and ignorance, he got off his horse and put the bridle over his arm, saying--"Your pig's too heavy for you; besides, you should carry him with his legs up,--it will lessen the flow of blood to the wounded one, and so save him a good deal of pain,--let me take him."

He seized hold of the little fellow, who had lain perfectly quiet since I had taken him, except now and then a low, piteous moaning, which always started my tears afresh; but the instant my uncle touched him, he began to squeal terribly, and struggle, till uncle said that if I could carry him, may be I had better, for the struggling would irritate the broken leg. So he let go of him, and he was quiet again in a moment, except that plaintive moaning which seemed almost like human sobbing.

About half-way up the lane, we met Horace, whom my mother had sent out to see what had become of me. My uncle told him to get some little thin pieces of hickory, and showed him how to make some splints. He then told him to take little piggy, thinking I would not be strong enough to prevent his struggling; but he squealed and took on so in Horace's hands that I insisted on holding him, and to the surprise of all, he only squealed once during the whole operation. There seemed to be a magnetism in my affection which soothed and lessened his suffering; just as you may remember when you were sick, if your dear mother or aunt laid her hand on your forehead, or stroked your hair back, or smoothed your pillow, it seemed to quiet your pain, and drive it away almost entirely for the time. I think little pigs can feel this as well as little folks, and my little pet understood that I loved and would let no harm or hurt come to him that I could prevent; and that is why he did not squeal when I held him.