Part 5

Shortly after this visit, it happened that one day while little Leon was alone in the woods, searching for berries, he discovered a nest of young robins, built in a snug, shady place, against a large branch of an old oak tree. Leon stood for a long time silently watching the little, downy, chirping things, and the happy parent-birds, who were bringing them food, and dropping it into their wide gaping bills. They patiently flew back and forth, and brought worms, flies, and berries, till the greedy little bills gaped and chirped no more--then the good father-bird perched on a limb above the nest, began singing a sweet, tender song, while the kind mother-bird brooded over her darlings, as the dewy twilight was coming on.

Leon was so delighted with his new-found treasure, that the next morning he brought his cousin to the spot. When Auguste saw the nest, his eye flashed with eager joy.

"Ah," he exclaimed, "how lucky we are to find a nest of young robins for the dear Countess! Let us take them to her, and she will give us more money than we have ever seen in the world;" and Auguste began immediately to climb the old oak tree.

"Oh don't, don't, cousin Auguste!" cried Leon, clinging about him. "It would be a cruel, wicked thing to steal away those poor little birds--don't you see how dearly the old birds love them?"

Auguste thrust him back, exclaiming angrily--"Didn't the Countess say she wanted some young robins for her aviary?--then how dare you say it would be wicked to get them for her!" But Leon answered sturdily--

"The good _curé_ says God takes care of the birds--He gave the little robins to the old ones, just as He gave us to our fathers and mothers; so it _must_ be wicked to steal them away. And now, cousin dear, do come down and let them be."

But Auguste had already grasped the nest. He tore it away from its place, and slid with it down the tree. The old birds flew about him in the utmost distress, uttering wild, piercing cries of fear and sorrow. Leon's tender heart was touched by their grief--he expostulated and pleaded with his cousin, and then, seeing that entreaties were in vain, grew very angry--he even doubled up his little fists, and was about to fight for the liberation of the tiny captives. But he remembered in time the pious teachings of his mother and the good _curé_, and returned home, with a swelling heart and tearful eyes, while his cousin hurried off to the chateau, with the robins.

When Leon told his mother the story of the birds, she was very indignant, and started to seek Auguste's father, and ask him to send after the cruel boy, and compel him to restore the young robins to the old ones, for her kind mother-heart felt for them very much. But when Leon told her that they were taken for the Countess, she sat down to her work again, and said it was all well, for she had a great awe of the great lady.

Leon hoped in his heart that the good Countess would refuse the birds, and send Auguste back with the nest; so he waited as patiently as he could for his cousin's return. He came back, however, without the nest, triumphantly jingling a handful of silver coin.

"See," he cried, "what the Countess gave me for the robins! Here, Leon, is your share."

Leon took the money, but only to fling it all indignantly at his cousin's feet, bursting into tears as he did so. Some may think I ought to be sorry to tell of this fit of passion in my noble little hero, but I am not. While the angry tears were yet flowing, he rushed out of his father's cottage, and ran towards the chateau. He did not stop to rest, or slacken his pace till he reached the great hall door. Then he paused, and the thought of the dusky arches of the old hall, hung with faded banners, and the grim statues in armor standing along its walls, and that stern, black-bearded Count, whom he might meet, almost took away his courage. He stood poised on the tips of his toes, with his hand on the great knocker, hesitating and fearing, when, all at once, he seemed to hear again the wild, mournful cry of the poor mother-robin!--then his heart grew brave, and he boldly sounded the knocker.

When a servant went to the Countess and told her that another little peasant boy wanted to see her, she happened to be in the nursery, paying a visit to her baby-son, the heir to the title and estates of the Count de Vallence. She was sitting by his side, fondly watching him, as he lay asleep in a beautiful little cradle, all satin and down, and fine linen and rich lace. The lady looked surprised when she saw Leon's flushed and tearful face.

"Why, my child," she said kindly, "what do you want of me?"

"I want those little birds," he replied rather bluntly.

"Those birds!" she answered, "why, did not Auguste give you part of the money? I told him to."

"I don't want any money," said Leon, "I want the birds back again. It wasn't good of you to buy them--their father and mother are grieving for them. It was a wicked thing to steal away their little ones, and the nice nest they had worked so hard to make. Aint you afraid that they will fly up to God and tell him all about it? And how would you feel to have some great giant's boy come and steal _your_ little one, and carry it away in that pretty nest, there?"

At first, the Countess smiled at this earnest little speech--then the tears rushed to her eyes; she bent down and kissed her sleeping babe, then, turning to Leon, she laid her hand caressingly on his head, saying, "I thank you, my dear child, for the lesson you have taught me. Surely you shall have the little robins back again. I have done wrong to buy them. I ask pardon of you, and of God."

"And of the birds," added Leon.

"And of the birds," repeated the Countess, smiling a little at the child's simplicity.

So Leon received the nest of little young robins, and took it safely back to the old oak tree in the forest. He stopped on the way to dig some worms, with which he fed his little feathered friends, who were getting quite clamorous with hunger. When he had fixed the nest securely in its old place, he hid himself in a clump of bushes near by, to watch for the coming of the old birds. All the afternoon he watched and waited, and still they did not come.

At last, when it was almost twilight--the time for flowers and little birds to go to sleep, he saw the two robins--he was sure they were the same birds--come slowly winging their way towards the oak. It seemed they could not sleep away from their home, although it had been made so desolate. The male bird flew in among the upper branches, and perched on one of them; but the female bird stopped in a tree near by. It appeared that she was hardly equal to the sight of the dear old place.

Soon Leon saw the male bird flutter on his perch, and turn his head quickly this way and that. He had heard those little complaining voices chirping below him!--then he darted downward and hovered over the nest a moment, to be sure they were all there, then flew to his mate, to tell her the glad news. In another moment, they were both back by the nest, hopping and hovering about it--chirping joyfully and lovingly in answer to the eager little chirps of their young ones. Late as it was, they flew about, and got up a nice little supper of worms for their darlings. After that, while the mother-bird spread over them her soft warm wings, and hushed them to sleep with the happy beating of her heart, the father bird flew up to a branch above them, and burst into a glad, delicious song.

"He is thanking God," said Leon softly to himself, reverently taking off his little cap, and making the sign of the cross--"he is thanking God."

The Story of Grace Darling.

On the lonely little island of Brownsman, one of the Farne group, on the coast of Northumberland, England, lived William Darling, lighthouse keeper, a brave, honest, intelligent man. Grace, his daughter, the youngest of seven children, was courageous like her father, good and gentle like her mother. She was a quiet, modest girl, with a slender form, a beautiful face, and the sweetest smile in the world.

The Farne Islands are very wild and desolate, being little better than piles of black rocks towering above the dismal, roaring seas of that stormy and perilous coast. In calm weather they are surrounded by a fringe of white surf, and in times of storm they are almost overwhelmed by the great, raging surges. Through the channels between these islands the sea rushes like swollen torrents; and here, before beacons were built upon the rocks, occurred many shipwrecks. Even now they are very dangerous spots, for in spite of those friendly lights glimmering through the blackness of the tempest and the night, the force of the gale will sometimes drive vessels headlong upon the rocks, dash them to pieces, and scatter them over the boiling deep.

The Brownsman was the outermost of the Farne Islands--the last rocky foothold of human life; and beyond it was a vast expanse and an awful depth of sea. It had scarcely any vegetation, but stood out from the water, bare and black and bleak. The jagged cliffs, and dim, sounding caves, were alive with seabirds--almost the only living creatures to be seen on the island, out of the family at the lighthouse.

In this strange, lonely place, Grace Darling passed her earliest years. She was a shy and thoughtful child, and learned to take pleasure in the wild and dreary scenery around her. Shut out from the world, as she and her dear ones were, it seemed to her they were all the nearer heaven;--denied social pleasures and consolations even while living, toiling, watching for their fellow beings, she felt that God would remember them and protect them. To her the black stone hills of those desolate islands, standing bare-headed under the gray sky, were grander than towers or cathedrals could be; and the stars and the moon shone as tenderly above the wild, rough perch on the lighthouse rock, as on palaces and sweet Italian gardens.

She loved the lighthouse, the guide and saviour of tempest-tossed mariners. She loved the labors of her brave father, and the sports of her hardy brothers; she loved the shy sea-birds--some of these she tamed, by gentle advances and companionship, till they would stoop their swift wild wings to her hand. She loved the sea when it was calm--when the bright waves came running up the sandy beach, and seemed to prostrate themselves before her, caressing her small white feet with soft, cool kisses; and in storm she did not fear it. When it would break on the rocks with a hoarse, threatening sound, and dash over her a shower of angry spray, she would laugh and say, "Roar away, old sea! I am sure you wouldn't be in such a rage if the winds hadn't provoked you. By and by you will get good, and feel sorry, and creep up the sands all calm and smiling, to make friends with me again;--and I'll forgive you, you dear old sea, if you won't do any mischief now, and will leave me all the pretty shells and mosses you are tossing up on the shore."

And Grace dearly loved mosses and shells. She knew all the little caves and coves and sandy nooks where they were to be found, and the best time to look for them, and used to come home from her solitary rambles with her little apron full of treasures, dearer to her simple heart than rare exotics, or costly gems. She said the bright-colored mosses were sea-flowers, torn by the thieving waves out of the mermaids' gardens--and that the shells were the houses or pleasure-boats of the little sea-fairies.

So it was that Grace Darling was not discontented with her lot, nor with her lonely home, where love and God dwelt--did not fear tempest, nor night, nor raging seas, nor the world; but grew up courageous, trustful, unselfish, and "pure in heart."

When Grace was about eleven years old, her father removed from the lighthouse of the Brownsman to that of the Longstone, a neighboring island. And here it was, that on the 7th of September, 1838, when she was about twenty-two, she performed the heroic act which made her sweet name a blessed "household word" the world over.

The steamer _Forfarshire_, on her voyage from Hull to Dundee, in a terrible gale, struck on a rock amidst the Farne Islands. Immediately a portion of the crew, cowardly and selfish men, lowered the long-boat, leapt into it, and left the captain, his wife, their comrades, and all the passengers, to their fate! In a short time, a huge wave lifted up the entire vessel, then, letting it fall violently, broke it in two parts upon the sharp rock. The after part, on which were the captain, his wife, and many passengers, was carried off and soon dashed to pieces--the fore part, on which were five of the crew and four passengers, remained on the rock. In the little fore cabin, into which every now and then washed the waves, was a woman by the name of Sarah Dawson, with two young children--and piteously, hour after hour, came up to those on deck, the frightened cries of the poor creatures down there in the dark and cold alone. But by and by those cries died away and were still.

The sufferers remained on the wreck, exposed to the fury of the tempest, and expecting every minute to be washed away, all that long, long night. In the morning they were seen from the Longstone lighthouse, about a mile distant. Only Mr. Darling, his wife, and daughter Grace were at home. The storm had somewhat abated, yet the sea ran high, and the surf around the islands and hidden rocks seemed dashing up into the very clouds. It was dark and misty, and the sufferers on the wreck could be but dimly seen through the distance and the storm. Yet Grace saw them clear enough with her tender, sympathizing _heart_--saw all their peril, their fear, their agony, and, looking into her father's face, she said firmly--

"Papa, those poor people _must_ be saved!"

Mr. Darling shook his head sadly, and then she added,

"You and I must do it. We will go to them in our boat--we can perhaps bring them all away in that."

"Impossible, my child--no boat could live in such a sea. We must leave them in God's hands!"

"No, papa, God has given them into ours; and He will protect us in seeking to rescue them--we can but try."

So Grace won over her father to her noble undertaking, and they two launched the boat, and rowed off bravely toward the wreck. Mrs. Darling not only did not object to their going, though she knew all the dreadful peril of their enterprise, but helped to launch the boat. I think she was not less heroic than either her husband or her daughter.

It was ebb tide, or the boat could not have passed between the islands--but it would be flowing before they could hope to return, which would render it impossible for them to row up to their island alone--so unless they could reach the wreck, and get rowers from there, they would be obliged to stay outside till the next ebb tide, exposed to the greatest peril. All this they knew.

The most serious danger they incurred was that of their boat being dashed by the furious waves so violently against the rock on which the ship had struck, as to break it to pieces instantly. As they drew near, Grace's firm lips moved in prayer, and her father's weather-browned face grew pale. But the same good God who had guided them through the wild white surf, and over the treacherous hidden reefs, sent a smooth strong wave, that gently lifted the prow of their boat on to the rock.

They reached the wreck in safety, to the unspeakable joy and amazement of the poor people there. In the cabin they found Mrs. Dawson, nearly dead, with her arms clasped about her two children, both quite dead. All were lowered into the boat, and safely rowed to the Longstone, where Mrs. Darling received them warmly, and cared for them with motherly tenderness.

Grace, when she reached the lighthouse, was much exhausted with rowing, and almost fell into her mother's arms as she stepped ashore. But she roused her energies, and nerved her noble heart anew, for the sake of the poor sufferers. Without waiting to remove her own wet clothes, or even to wring the sea-water from her long dark hair, she devoted herself to their relief and comfort. She gathered them around the fire--she gave them food, warm drink and dry clothing. Very tenderly she consoled those who had lost property and friends by the wreck. She took the hands of old seamen who had grown as weak as women through suffering, and told them of One who pitied them, "even as a father pitieth his children." She took the childless Mrs. Dawson in her arms, laid her poor distracted head on her breast, and wept with her.

The storm continued so violent that the sufferers were obliged to remain at the lighthouse for several days, as were also a boat's crew who came to their rescue from North Sunderland, too late, and could not return. Yet all were treated most hospitably and kindly--Grace gave up her bed to poor Mrs. Dawson, and slept on a table.

At last the storm passed over, and was succeeded by calm and sunshine--the ship-wrecked guests went to their homes, some rejoicing and some sorrowing, but all bearing hearts warm with gratitude toward their deliverers. Doubtless some of those rescued men and women are yet living, and perhaps on stormy nights, when the winds roar and the sea thunders against the rocky shore, they gather their children or grandchildren about them and tell the story of the wreck of the _Forfarshire_, of their awful peril and wonderful deliverance.

Grace Darling and her father would soon have forgotten their heroic act had they been left to do so. But the people they had saved, in their gratitude and wonder, told the story wherever they went. Accounts of it appeared in all the papers, and flew over the world. The bleak island and lonely lighthouse were visited by thousands, eager to get a sight of the noble heroine and her brave old father. Costly presents and tributes of admiration poured in upon them from all quarters. The Duke and Duchess of Northumberland invited them over to Alnwick Castle, and presented Grace with a gold watch;--the Humane Society passed a vote of thanks for her heroism, and sent her a handsome piece of plate. A public subscription was raised for her benefit, and amounted to about seven hundred pounds--some three thousand five hundred dollars.

All this fame and applause for what seemed to her a simple act of humanity, surprised and almost overwhelmed the modest girl. She shrank from the curious looks of strangers who thronged to see her, and became more shy and reserved than ever--she refused all invitations to go out into the world--but dividing many of her gifts between her brothers and sisters, she remained with her father and mother at the lighthouse, cheerfully fulfilling her humble domestic duties. God had made her very noble, and the whole world could not spoil her.

But not long was her beautiful, heroic life to brighten that lone and desolate spot. In the fall of 1841 she fell into delicate health, and symptoms of consumption soon manifested themselves. She was removed to the house of her sister at Bamborough, on the coast. It was thought she would get better when the Spring came--but it was not so. She still continued to fail--to fade and fade away. She was taken to Alnwick, from which she was to proceed to Newcastle for medical advice. While at Alnwick, the Duchess of Northumberland treated her with all a sister's kindness--sent her own physician to her--supplied her with every luxury, and better than all, went often to see her, very plainly dressed, and without a single attendant. She had the good sense to lay aside as it were, her coronet--forget her title before the better nobility of that dying girl--and so proved herself something far greater than a Duchess--a true and loving woman.

Grace was soon taken back to Bamborough, that she might meet death with all her loved ones around her. And there, in the place where she was born, she died, on the 20th of October, 1842. She took leave of all her friends calmly, and very tenderly--giving to each one something to keep in remembrance of her--then meekly folded her hands on her breast, and slept in God's peace. She was buried within sound of the sea--within sight perhaps of the lighthouse, and the rock of the wreck--and the sea seems to mourn for her now, and the lighthouse and the rock are her monuments.

Yet, though Grace Darling should be forgotten on earth, though the lighthouse should fall--the rock crumble away--the sea cease to murmur of her--her name shall not perish, for it is written in the Lord's "Book of Life," and she dwells now where storms and death cannot come, and where "there is no more sea."

Hymn,

WRITTEN FOR A SABBATH SCHOOL PIC-NIC.

Our dear Lord Jesus, thou didst call Young children once to thee-- Didst hold them in thy loving arms, And bless them tenderly;-- Now, like those children, let us come And gather round thy knee.

Oh teach us that God dwelleth here-- These woods his leafy shrines-- That incense rises from the flowers, And fragrant swinging vines, And wordless psalms swell up from out The solemn sounding pines.

Oh teach us to behold where'er Our joyous footsteps rove, The emblems of a Father's care And tokens of his love-- In sunshine smiling on the sward, In clouds that brood above.

His glory in the golden morn, His peace in noon's repose, His goodness in the twilight shades That softly round us close-- "The beauty of his holiness" In every wilding rose.

Oh hear our hymn and bless our feast, And smile upon our play-- Oh fill our hearts with thy dear love, And keep us glad and gay, And sinless as the little birds, Throughout this summer day.

* * * * *

THE END.