Part 4

"And he shall have it!" cried Sir Hugh, "for I too often erred through over-indulgence, and sometimes through over-severity. I will go to him at once. Get me my cloak, my hat!"

"You will not need them," said the Doctor, smiling; "Philip is in his old room."

When the father and brother reached the bedside of the young sailor, they found that he had fallen asleep. He looked very ill; his sun-burnt face had grown almost fair in his long sickness--his sunken cheeks were slightly flushed with fever, and his long hair was scattered in disorder over the pillow.

As Sir Hugh gazed upon the sad face before him, he seemed to see in it the face of his dear dead wife, and what was more strange, that of his first-born son who died in early childhood.

When at length the young man opened his eyes, and saw his father bending over him, he seemed frightened and turned away his face. But the old man clasped him tenderly in his arms, as though he had been a child, and murmured with tears, "Philip, my son, my darling boy! I thank God, who has given you back to me!"

"Oh, father! do you indeed forgive me for all, _all_?" cried poor Philip, winding his thin arms about his old father's neck.

"As I hope to be forgiven," said Sir Hugh, solemnly.

* * * * *

They kept not exactly a "merry," but a very happy Christmas that season at Annesley House. There were no invited guests present, but Uncle Philip, now convalescent, left his chamber for the first time that evening, and was wheeled in his easy chair into the noble old dining-hall, to the boundless delight of the children.

"Mamma," said Herbert softly, "how young and handsome Grandpapa looks to-night!"

"I know why," said little Harry, with a very wise look, "it's all for Uncle Philip; 'cause he's getting well, and 'cause he wasn't drowned in the great deep sea!"

When Dr. Annesley came to read a portion of Scripture for the evening service, Philip, who sat close beside his aged father, said, shading his face with his hand, "Brother, will you please to read the parable of the Prodigal Son."

When the Doctor ceased reading, he saw that Philip had dropped his face on his father's shoulder, and that the old man had laid his hand on his son's head, and was looking upward for God's blessing on the repentant prodigal. And God did bless him, and made him ever after a faithful son and a good man. And God blessed all that household, for they loved him and one another, and strove to do good to all the world.

Snowdrop.

Little Nannie Tompkins was the daughter of a poor laborer, who lived in a humble cottage, by the roadside, near a small market-town, in the north of England. Nannie had two brothers older than herself, away at service, and a sister about two years younger, a gentle, pretty child, whose name was Olive--but she was always called Ollie.

The Tompkinses were the tenants of Farmer Grey, a good, amiable man, kind to the poor, and very tender to little children, birds, and animals--to everything that needed help and protection.

One chilly day, in the early spring, as Nannie was out in the fields, searching along the brooks for cresses, and under the hedges for the first violets, she met Farmer Grey, carrying a little lamb in his arms. He said he had found it in the field, curled down against its dead mother, and perishing with hunger and cold.

Seeing Nannie looking wistfully at the lamb, he said--

"If I will give you this poor little creature, will you feed it, and keep it warm, and try to raise it?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I will--thank you kindly, sir," she joyfully replied; and he put the lamb in her arms, and she wrapt it carefully in her cloak, and ran home with it.

Nannie's mother warmed some milk for the new pet, and fed him. Then she made him a nice soft bed near the fire, and before night he stopped shivering, and grew so strong that he was able to stand on his slender little legs, though rather unsteadily at first; and, the next day, he was running and playing about the house.

The children called this lamb, _Snowdrop_, both because he was so snowy white and delicate, and because he had been found in the early spring.

Well, Snowdrop grew and flourished, and proved himself to be a remarkably clever and lovable pet. He was very fond of the children, especially of Nannie, who was more tender and motherly toward him than her thoughtless little sister. And, next to her parents, and brothers, and Ollie, Nannie certainly loved her lamb. She fed him, washed him, played with him, and took him with her wherever she went. At night, he slept on his little bed of straw and old clothes in her chamber; and, in the morning, when he awoke, he would go tap-tapping over the floor to her bedside, put up his nose against her cheek, and cry, "Ma!" Nannie always wakened at this, and, after embracing her pet, got up and dressed directly.

One sunny May morning, as Nannie and Ollie sat before the cottage door, with their playmate, a neighbor's daughters--pretty Susan Smith and her little sister Mollie, came up, and stopped for a moment to speak to the children.

These girls were going to market; Susan, with a cage full of young pigeons on her head, and Mollie carrying a basket of fresh eggs.

Susan was a merry, teasing girl, and she began to advise Nannie to take the lamb to market, and sell him.

"Seeing that he is so fat and clean, he will be sure to fetch a good price," she said.

Nannie was shocked at this, and throwing her arms about her pet, she cried--

"I wouldn't sell my darling Snowdrop to a naughty, cruel butcher, for all the world! I'll never, _never_ let him be killed!"

While the girls were talking, young Robert Grey, the farmer's son, rode up on his pretty black horse, and stopped too; it may be because of Susan Smith--for the two were famous friends. He heard Nannie's reply about the lamb, and looking down kindly upon her, said--

"If you are ever obliged to part with your pretty pet, my little girl, you need not sell him to the butcher, but bring him up to the farm-house, and I will buy him, and he shall not be killed."

Nannie thanked him very prettily, and he rode away with the merry market girls.

A few days after this, little Ollie was taken down with a fever, and was very ill for several weeks. At last, she began to get well very slowly; and then came the hardest time for her mother and sister--for she was fretful, dainty, and babyish, and cried a great deal for luxuries which her poor parents were not able to purchase for her. One afternoon, she cried incessantly for some strawberries, for she had heard they were in market. Strawberries are very dear in England, and Mrs. Tompkins could not buy them, for she had spent all her little stock of money for medicines; and now she felt so sad for the child that she could not help crying herself. When Nannie saw this, she put on her bonnet, and, calling Snowdrop, slipped away over the fields to the farm-house. When she came back, she was alone, but she put several bright shillings into her mother's hand, and choking down her sobs, said--

"There, mamma, I've done it! I've gone and sold Snowdrop--now take the money and buy Ollie the strawberries and other things."

Mrs. Tompkins kissed and blessed her "good little daughter," and went away and bought the fruit; and Ollie ate it eagerly and went to sleep very happy.

You may be very sure that Nannie did not eat any of the berries. She felt as though the smallest one among them would choke her. She did not utter a word of complaint, however, and kept back her tears till she went up to bed, alone. Then she could scarcely say her prayers for weeping, and when she came to repeat her sweet little evening hymn, she said the first lines in this way--

/* "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless _my_ little lamb to-night!" */

Here she quite broke down, and was only able to sob out--

"Oh, yes, dear Jesus, do bless poor Snowdrop, for he's away off among strangers! Please to make people good to him--for you used to love little lambs and children too."

Just at this moment, Nannie heard a plaintive familiar cry--"Ma! Ma!" She sprang up from her knees, and ran to the window--and there, right down before her, in the moonlight, stood Snowdrop! In a minute, she had him in her arms, and was hugging him to her heart!

On the lamb's neck hung a little letter, saying that he was sent back as a present to Nannie, from Robert Grey.

I need hardly tell you that Snowdrop was never sold again. He lived with Nannie till she was a woman, and he a very venerable sheep; and then he died a peaceful death, and was buried in the garden, and real snowdrops grew over his grave.

My First day in Trowsers.

"Love was once a little boy," the old song says, and so was I; though I cannot flatter myself that beyond this there is any point of resemblance between Love and me,--stay, there is one strong one--I was extravagantly fond of shooting with a bow and arrow, and we all know that Love does nothing else but travel about shooting his little arrows into folks' hearts. _I_ never shot anything but bull-frogs.

But I haven't got to my "trowsers" yet, have I? I don't see what made me think about Love here, for if poets and painters tell the truth, _he_ never knew anything about trowsers--at least, he never _had_ any.

I had toddled patiently through nearly four years of that period in the life of boys when there is little in their dress to distinguish them from girls, and which period is therefore a most aggravating memory to boys in general, when my mother astounded and delighted me one morning by the announcement that I was to have a pair of trowsers--that they were even then almost finished. What a whirl my little head was in all that day, to be sure! How my incipient manhood swelled and swaggered, impatient of the trammels of frocks and pantalettes! What dreams I had that night!

The next morning the trowsers came home, and had they been the jewelled robes in which I was to be proclaimed emperor of half the world, I could scarcely have looked upon them with more pleasure and pride-- simple little India-nankeen trowsers, as they were, with buttons of pearl, and white embroidery of linen braid.

It was a bright morning in early June, and my mother decided that I might have them on at once. Oh, the pride of that day! What a space of time seemed to stretch between it and the yesterday! From what an airy height of scorn did I look down upon the whole race of frocks--even that one of crimson and black which only twenty-four short hours before, it had been the topmost delight of my little heart to be allowed to wear!

I was passed from hand to hand throughout the household--receiving admiring criticisms, and growing prouder and prouder; particularly when old Wangie, the cook, who was chief among my friends, exclaimed--"Bress de chile, he look grand as a king!"

I then begged my mother to let me sit out on the front step, "to see the wagons and folks go by," I said; but in reality, I am afraid, I only wanted to show my new trowsers. She said I might, and tied my hat on for me. I had not been there many minutes, before along came half a dozen of the youngest of the village boys, among them my cousin Philip, two years older than I. So long as I was in frocks, they had only condescended to greet me now and then in passing, with a--"Well, little 'un!"

But now I had emerged from the chrysalis of frocks--I was a boy--one of themselves, and entitled to consideration. So they stopped to talk with me, and look at my trowsers. They quite took down my pride by saying, in a patronizing tone--"They'll _do_ for the first ones." But I remembered what Wangie had said, and managed to still keep up my grand feeling.

Presently they said they were going over into the meadow, to gather violets and buttercups, and asked me to go with them.

I said, quickly--"I'll go ask"--I was going to say "I'll go ask mother," but, just then, came the proud remembrance of my trowsers, and I thought to myself--"I am too big and too old to be asking mother every time I want to do anything; I'll go _without_ asking." So I took Philip's hand, and off we started.

We went up a little hill and clambered through a fence, and there lay the meadow before us--oh, so lovely!--its rich robe of green grass pinned with buttercups--buttercups that seemed to have made captive the sunbeams that brought them life, so golden-bright and beautiful they were; and violets, upon which in tribute to their modesty, the sky had bestowed its color with its dew. Everything was in the first glad impulse of a new life.

The hill ran around two sides of this meadow, and right at the junction of the two sides, about half way down the slope, there was a little spring of clearest, coolest water. The half of a small barrel, with the head knocked out, had been sunk down about the fountain, and the space around it filled in tightly with gravel. By this means the little spring was forced to fill up the barrel, into which the people dipped their pitchers and buckets, before it got a chance to go idling, and singing, and splashing, as it did afterwards, away through the green grass, over the white pebbles, to the great dark woods beyond the meadow.

The owner of this spring, to protect it from the sun in hot weather, and to keep the cows away from it, when they were pasturing in the meadow, had built a little stone wall and arch around and partly over the barrel. The front part of this wall slanted backward (like the top of a gig or chaise when it is pushed half way back), so that the top of the archway, which was nicely sodded and seemed like a part of the hill, came directly over the barrel; to this front wall an old outside cellar-door had been hung; but rust and much use had broken its hinges, and, at the time I write of, it had to be lifted off and on. That morning, for some reason, they had not put it on, after getting water, but had left it up on the archway, with about one-third of it reaching over the edge.

After we had tired of gathering flowers, we all went up to this spring to drink, and see an old bull-frog that had lived there all alone for years. He used to sit up in a dark corner, on a large stone, all the summer through. He had never, in the memory of the oldest of us, been seen anywhere but upon that one stone, and he sat so still that he seemed more like a statue of a frog, than a real, live one. After sunset, above all the other "voices of the night," you could hear his deep bass through half the length of the village. We used to call him the village "Watchman," because his croaking sounded so exactly like the cry of watchmen--"All's well!" "All's well!"

I had heard Philip describe the "Watchman's" great eyes that never winked, and his ghostly stillness; I had heard his cry too, and it was with not a little awe--I am not sure there was not some _fear_ mixed with the awe--that I approached the domicil of this village-wonder--this patron-saint of the spring. Philip pointed up into the dark corner, and at first I could only see two great solemn eyes; but presently I could make out the white throat, webbed feet, and dingy green back of the famous animal.

I was rather disappointed that he was not bigger and fiercer looking, for I had fancied that he must be something like the great dragon with which St. George had such a terrible time, only more tame, and not _quite_ so big. But there was something in his quiet, steady look that I could not get my eyes away from; so I looked at him and he looked at me, till Philip took me by the hand, saying--"Come; we're going to sit up on the old door there, in the sun, and try who likes butter."

We all got seated on the door, and they proceeded to test each other's love for butter, by holding a buttercup under their chins. If it made a golden reflection upon their throats, it was a sure sign they _did_ like butter; if it made no reflection, then they did _not_ like it.

After it was decided that I had a strong regard for butter, my thoughts returned to the old bull-frog, and I crawled along to that corner of the door which overhung the spring, and lay down flat on my stomach, to get a good view of him. I had not lain there long before the boys got through with their buttercup experiment, and proposed to go home, as it was nearly dinner-time, they thought. With one accord they jumped off the door, and, quick as a flash, it tilted up, and headforemost I went, for all the world just like a bull-frog, plump into the spring!

The barrel was not wide enough for me to turn around in, even if I had thought of it. But I only thought, for an instant, how bright and pretty the sandy bottom was, through which the up-springing water came bubbling softly against my lips and cheek--then my head seemed to become very full--I felt as though I were choking, and there was a sound in my ears like that of a wind in the woods; then everything grew dark and seemed to stop. The boys were so frightened they could do nothing, and there I stuck. There I might have stuck till my little legs had grown so stiff, and still, and cold, that it had been beyond the power of even India-nankeen trowsers to wake them into life, and warmth, and vanity again.

But, happily for me, there was a woman spinning just outside the door of the little house on the hill, who, with the instinctive watchfulness which mothers have for all children, had kept her eye upon us all the time, and when I was tilted into the spring, she ran quickly down, seized me by the heels, drew me out, and carried me, all white and cold as death, to my mother. By the time she reached our house, there was a little fluttering of the heart, which, after they had rubbed me awhile with flannels dipped in hot rum, gradually increased to the usual regular beat; soon the lips grew red again, and directly the eyes opened. They were a little vacant and glassy at first, and I felt bewildered, but it was not long before I remembered all about the whole affair.

The first words I spoke were to ask about my trowsers. They brought them in to me, all wet and soiled, where they had rubbed against the green sedges about the spring. The sight of them in this condition distressed me so much that old Wangie, who had been running about wringing her hands and crying--"Oh, little massa am dead, sartin!"-- but who was now overjoyed to find that I was not, declared they should be washed and ironed that very day. She started off with them in such a hurry that she trod on the tail of her favorite cat, Jim, who was washing his face with his paw by the door. Wangie (bless her old black face!--she's dead now;) would have stopped and petted the poor cat, usually, but this time to the great astonishment of all, for she had the kindest heart in the world, she gave him a prodigious kick, which sent him full two yards down the hall.

My mother had learned all about the accident from the boys and the woman who saved me, and when, after a few hours, I was able to get up, she took me quietly into her room and explained to me how wrong it was to go over to the meadow without asking her permission, and told me that, although I had been pretty severely punished already, yet, in order to make me remember never to do so again, she should put my trowsers away in the drawer for two weeks, during which I was to wear frocks again.

What a blow was this to me! How all my pride and glory of the morning were humbled to the earth! All the little world of hopes and vanities which my foolish heart had wrought, was scattered to chaos again! I bore up under it pretty well the rest of the day, ate my supper in silence, and went quietly to bed; but after mother had gone down, and I was left alone, I could stand it no longer. I lay there in the dark sobbing and sobbing, till I sobbed myself to sleep.

So ended _my first day in trowsers_!

The Stolen Birds' Nest.

"In these summer bushes Listen to the thrushes-- Hear the robin and the wren call from tree to tree: Hear how all day long The woods o'erflow with song, And how every leafy branch blooms with melody! Do you not feel sorry, Seeing me in sadness, When the other little birds are so full of gladness?"

Clarence Cook.

In one of the sunniest and sweetest countries in the world, the south of France, lived my heroes, two little peasant boys, named Auguste and Leon Duval. Their fathers were brothers, and vine growers on the estate of the Count de Vallence. The little cousins were excellent friends, and almost always seen together, following their fathers through the beautiful vineyards, gathering up the branches which they had pruned away, or helping to pick grapes at vintage-time, or straying through the grand old woods of the chateau, searching after nuts and wild berries. They usually agreed very well, both in work and play, but they sometimes had their little quarrels like too many other children. Auguste was full two months the elder, and he was apt to presume upon that, and be proud and overbearing towards Leon. He was shrewd and somewhat selfish, and frequently took advantage of his cousin, who was almost too confiding and generous. They were beautiful boys; perhaps Auguste was the most admired of the two, for he had a rich brown complexion, with glowing cheeks and lips, glossy raven curls, and bold, black, handsome eyes. Leon was the fairer; he had brown hair, and deep, soft, brown eyes, which however, could flash in anger; lips like wild rose leaves, fresh and sweet, but which could curl in scorn at cruelty and meanness. Usually his face wore a very mild and amiable expression, and if Auguste was the most admired, Leon was the most loved.

In the woods of the chateau the cousins sometimes met the Countess Marie, the pretty young wife of the Count de Vallence, who loved to walk in the cool, green forest paths. She was attracted by the beauty, simplicity, and arch playful ways of the merry boys, and often whiled away an hour in talking with them and watching them in their sports. Once she took them with her to the chateau, and showed them the lofty rooms, the pictures, statues, fountains, and conservatories, enjoying much their wonder and pleasure. That which gave them most delight was the aviary, where there was a fine collection of talking and singing birds--magpies, parrots, macaws, canaries, goldfinches, English black-birds, and many other kinds. As they were looking at these, the countess said to the old servant who had charge of them,--"Pierre, why have we no robins?"

"I did not know that my lady would care for such common birds," answered the old man.

"Care for them! I think they are the sweetest songsters in the world. I once saw one at Paris that could sing several opera airs. Could you teach them to sing so, Pierre?"

"Yes, my lady, if I had them young," he replied.

"Well, then, we must have some," said the lady, decisively; "my bird-choir is not complete without them; so remember, Pierre!"

Just as the Countess was dismissing her little friends at the hall door, the Count de Vallence entered. He was a stern, haughty man, and now seemed astonished and shocked at seeing his countess making so much of a couple of peasant boys. He drew down his black eyebrows, and looked so grim, that they were glad to escape, and the good Countess never took them there again.