Chapter 15

They don't know much, these little girls, I'll tell you why 'tis so, They played away their time at school, And let their lessons go.

One took a slate to cipher, And all went very well, Until she came to four times eight, And that she could not tell.

The other would make pictures In her copy book at school, Of boys and girls and donkeys Which was against the rule.

But nothing good could come of it, And this is what befell; She tried to write to papa, And found she could not spell.

The teacher said, "Of all sad things, I would not be a dunce, But would learn to write and cipher, And begin the work at once."

HELPFUL WORDS.

A great astronomer was, once in his early days, working hard at mathematics, and the difficulties he met with, made him ready to give up the study in despair. After listlessly looking out of the window, he turned over the leaves of his book, when the lining at the back attracted his attention. Looking at it closely, he found it was part of a letter written to a young man, apparently, like himself, disheartened with his difficulties. "Go on, sir, go on," was the counsel; "the difficulties you meet will disappear as you advance."

This short sentence seemed to give the student fresh courage. Following out these simple words he applied himself with renewed energy to his studies, and ultimately became one of the most learned men of his day.

D.

FALSE SHAME.

Do not be ashamed, my lad, if you have a patch on your elbow. It is no mark of disgrace. It speaks well for your industrious mother. For our part, we would rather see a dozen patches on your clothes than to have you do a bad or mean action, or to hear a profane or vulgar word proceed from your lips. No good boy will shun you or think less of you because you do not dress as well as he does, and if any one laugh at your appearance, never mind it. Go right on doing your duty.

CLARA AND THE ANIMAL BOOK.

Clara was a little western girl. She had lived in San Francisco until she was nine years old, when her dear mamma and papa brought her east to live with Aunt Mary and Cousin Charlie, and they were growing very fond of her indeed, for she was so sweet and kind and always obedient.

One day she was sitting out under the blossoming trees on the old Worden seat, her book lying, unread, in her lap, and her eyes having a dreamy, far-away look in them, when, from the balcony overhead, sounded a piping little voice:

"Clara, Tousin Clara! has oo dot my Animal book?" and a small, rosy-cheeked boy came running to her, rubbing his sleepy, dark eyes.

"Why, Charlie, have you finished your nap so soon? yes here is your Animal book, and what shall I read about?"

"Oh, about the deers, wiz their dreat big horns, and--and--_every_ sin," and he nestled close, satisfied he would hear all he wished. So she read a short sketch of the deer, its haunts and habits, when he interrupted:

"Has oo ever _seen_ a deer--a real _live_ one?" and his black eyes opened wide.

"Oh, yes; and when we were coming east, across the plains, whenever the train drew near a wooded stream, often the screaming whistle would startle a herd of deer from their covert, and they would rush up through the trees, antlers erect, and sleek brown bodies quivering with alarm, and followed by the soft-eyed, gentle fawn. It was quite a pretty picture."

"Tell me more; what tind of a city did oo live in?"

"A very beautiful city, Charlie. You should see our noble bay, with the great ships riding at anchor; our fine parks and stately buildings. Then if you should go down in Market street, where most of the business is done, you would see some funny sights. All kinds of people are there--Ranchmen, Indians, Spaniards, English, Americans and lots of queer little Chinamen, and they have small, dark shops full of curious things, and besides spread their wares on the walk."

After telling about the orange groves and vineyards, the lovely flowers, especially the fuchsia, which winds its branches like a vine over the porches, often reaching the upper story of a house, Charlie thought it must be a wonderful country, and expressed his intention of _living_ in California when he became a man.

In a Chinese village during a time of drought a missionary saw a row of idols put in the hottest and dustiest part of the road. He inquired the reason and the natives answered: "We prayed our gods to send us rain, and they wont, so we've put them out to see how they like the heat and dryness."

THE UNSOCIABLE DUCKS.

Three meadow birds went out in great glee, All in the sunshiny weather; Down by the pond, with the reeds waving free, Where the ducks were all standing together.

"Good day Mrs. Duck," said the three meadow birds, "From all the news we can gather, You're a very good friend, of very few words." Then one flew away with a feather.

"Quack!" said the duck, "That feather is mine, I see through your ways altogether; You want our feathers, your own nests to line, All in the bright summer weather."

"What shall we use?" said the three meadow birds, "There's no good in moss or in heather." "We don't care a straw," said the old blue drake, "If you line all your nests with sole leather."

"Quack! Quack! Quack! You must think we are slack! You talk too polite altogether; We've had quite enough of your high-flown stuff, And we know, you are birds of a feather."

PUTTING OUT THE CANDLE.

Charles Dickens, for that is the name of the gentleman you see sitting by the table, wrote many books and stories. Some of his stories are about little children for grown folks to read, and others are for the children themselves. Mr. Dickens had a pet cat, that was always in his library. Strange to say, it had no name. That was no matter, because the cat could not hear. He was deaf. But he liked very much to be petted, and plainly showed sometimes that he was not pleased to have his master do any thing else. One evening, when Mr. Dickens was sitting at the table reading, his candle suddenly went out. He did not know why it should have done so, but he got up and lighted it. In a few moments it began to get dark again, and he looked up quickly at the candle, and saw puss just raising his paw to put it out. "What did he do?" He gave the cat a loving little pat and went on with his reading. What a sly cat was that to find a way to make his master notice him.

SULKY ARCHIE.

BY C. MANNERS SMITH.

"It must be nice to be a sailor, and I wish I was one. Every thing goes wrong and mother is always scolding me, and father is never done growling; I am getting tired of it."

The speaker was a little, round-cheeked lad, of about nine years of age. He was standing, with a tall, fair-haired girl, evidently his sister, on the edge of the river Wyncombe. He was not a lively boy. He was one of those thoughtful, gloomy little boys who are always dreaming; always thinking and imagining some fancied injury from either father or mother.

Archie Phillips was the little boy's name, and he and his sister had got a holiday and were watching a party of older children from the Wynne High School, who had come down to the river to spend the afternoon. There was Algernon Wright with a large model yacht, and Willie Schofield, the Mayor's son, with a new silver-mounted fishing rod. They were all as happy and full of frolic as all boys in the spring-time of life ought to be. Little Archie was, however, of a morose temperament, and did not share in any of the amusements.

The village of Wynne is a fishing village, and is approached from the sea by a beautiful cove on the Cornish coast. The town is built on the slopes of the hills reaching down to the water's edge, and the river Wynne empties itself into the sea near by.

It is, indeed, a pleasant place. At the time of this story all the boys of Wynne, young and old, were crazy after maritime pursuits and sports. They spent the bulk of their holiday time either in sailing about the bay, or in fishing, bathing, or holding model yacht races in the cove.

"Why don't I have a yacht in the place of a silly ball? Why don't I have boys to play with instead of Lucy and Gyp? What do girls or dogs know about a top or a cat hunt? I'm disgusted! I'll go for a sailor! I'll run away; there!"

The girl took no notice of this discourse. It was no new thing for her to hear grumbling from her brother, and she was accustomed to bear it without murmur or dissent. Presently she ran away, along the river bank, with her doll, to a shady place, where she knew the sun was not strong, and where some rushes overhung the path. There she could put her doll to sleep. It was no use asking Archie to join her. He was too old and too much of a man to enter into any such stupidity.

Presently Archie sat down in the shade, on the balustrades of the churchyard and watched the glee of the High-Schoolboys with a sulky envy.

It was a glorious summer afternoon. The sky overhead was one vast, inverted field of blue, without a single speck of cloud. The hot sun was beating down almost perpendicularly, and the rays penetrated the leaves, shedding a lattice-work pattern on the ground.

"I know Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, will tell me how to go to sea. He has been a sailor himself, and I know he will tell me all about it. Nobody cares; well, mother might, perhaps, a bit, but then, I don't know."

Then he paused in his musings and thought of all the injustice done to him by his mother. He thought, like all gloomy, wretched little boys, of all that was ill. He didn't for one moment remember, how, that very morning, the self-same, unjust mother, after packing up his little lunch-basket, had put her arms round his neck, and a little red-cheeked apple in his pocket, and told him to keep away from the river. Oh, no, he seemed to have quite forgotten all that.

Then the sun went behind a cloud and Archie felt the cool wind, which blew from the cove, on his cheek, so he jumped down from his musing place and sped away as fast as his legs would carry him toward the house of the boat-builder. He ran across the green, down the grassy slopes and across a stretch of shingly beach, to the cottage of his friend.

Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, was a good-hearted fellow, and was extremely fond of all the children of the village. He had that method possessed by few people of searching into the heart of a child and arguing with him in a manner suitable for a child's understanding.

Archie had often sought Ben's counsel when things seemed to go wrong, and it was seldom that the boat-builder had failed to convince the boy, even to his satisfaction, that he was wrong.

It was an off day for the boat-builder. He was sitting, smoking his pipe, in the cottage porch, and reading a well-thumbed copy of "Gray's Master Mariner." He welcomed Archie with a secret delight, for he knew, by his little friend's face, that he was brooding over some fancied injury, and it gave the boat-builder pleasure to talk his little friend out of his troubles.

"Well, Archie, what's new in the wind," said Ben, as he greeted the boy with a grasp of the hand. "It seems almost an age since I saw you, my boy."

Little Archie sat down on a large stone bench in the porch, and told Ben his story. His mother had been vexed with him that morning. She had asked him to call at the rectory with a message for Doctor Hart, and he wanted to cut grass at the time, and objected. His mother did not scold him, oh, no, Ben, she sent Carrie, who willingly took the message, and his father had called him a name. Then, again, he had no toys like other boys. Some had a pony; he couldn't have one. His father always answered his request for a pony with the reply that he couldn't afford one just then and he would see about it some day. If Ben would only tell him how to go to sea he would certainly run away the next day.

Now, Ben knew the character of little Archie better, perhaps, than his own mother did; so, when he had given the little boy a draught of cool milk from the cottage kitchen, Ben lit his pipe afresh, and took down an old telescope, a relic of his sea-faring days, from the wall. The young man and the boy then strolled across a low, level tract of sand, to a grassy hillock, formed by the current of the Wyncombe. Here they sat down in the fast waning twilight, and discussed little Archie's purposed flight.

"Yes, Archie," said Ben, "a sailor's life is well enough, if you don't mind hard beds and harder words. If you can eat salty meat and mouldy bread it's a fine life, Archie. There is no life I'd like better if they'd give you fresher water and not quite so many cruel blows. But, if you've made up your mind, Archie, and think you can go to bed nights in a rolling, tossing sea, with the wind howling and the rain pouring, and your mother thousands of miles away, looking at your little empty bed, I should think very seriously about it." Archie looked thoughtful, as the gloom deepened on his face, and silence fell on the pair for a time.

Suddenly Ben spied a French frigate looming against the darkening sky and showed it to Archie through the telescope. He explained all the parts of the ship and dwelt long in his answers to the lad's questions. He told little Archie how, early one stormy morning, he had been awakened from his bed in the cottage by the sound of guns away at sea, how he had descended to the beach with a lot of the villagers, to find the waves beating mercilessly over a great broken ship. He told how they had all stood, in the leaden morning, stricken with dread at the sight of the disaster they were all powerless to prevent; leaning hard against the wind, their breath and vision often failing as the sleet and spray rushed at them from the great mountain of foaming sea which kept breaking on the rocks in the cove. He told farther, how, before all their eyes, the vessel had given one great heave backwards and sank beneath the waves forever; how they could faintly hear the heart-rending screams of women and children above the storm as the great waste of waters covered the struggling vessel. He told Archie that, on the following evening, while he was mending a boat down the bay, he came across something lying amongst a mass of sea-weed, and on turning it over had found it to be the dead body of a sailor--a fair, curly-headed youth.

"He was clad," said Ben, "in a pair of linen trowsers and a sea shirt, and the weeds and sand were all tangled in his hair. I raised him up from the beach and a small bundle fell out of his bosom. I laid him in my boat and went for Doctor Hart. It was the talk of the village for days. Dr. Hart found the bundle to contain a packet of letters written in a feeble hand and signed by the dead sailor's mother. They were loving letters of expected joy at her boy's return."

Ben would have gone on with the story, but he was attracted by the appearance of Archie. The little lad was sitting, with his pale face turned up to Ben, and with two great tears, as large as horse beans, in the corners of his eyes. On meeting Ben's gaze he broke down thoroughly and burst into a flood of tears, throwing his arms round the honest boat-builder's neck, sobbing on his breast.

"Oh, Ben, I don't want to leave mother; I am a wicked boy. If she were to die, Ben, what should I do? Do you think she is alive now, Ben? I don't want to go away, Ben."

The boat-builder soothed the little lad and smiled at the success of his purpose to divert the boy's mind.

It was now nearly night, and time for Archie to go home, so Ben took him on his shoulders and carried him to Mr. Archer's house, where the family were all waiting supper for the little boy.

Archie ran to his mother as soon as he got in and kissed her over and over again. He told her his little story, making the good woman's heart overflow with love for her little son.

Ben stayed to supper with the family that night, and all was bright and happy as the merry party sat round the board laughing and joking to their heart's content.

* * * * *

Archie is a young man now, and has outgrown his gloomy, brooding disposition. He is a clerk in the office of a rich corn merchant in Oxbridge, the nearest market to Wynne, and shows every tendency to become a successful and respected business man.

Occasionally, when things do not happen to his satisfaction, and he feels the old spirit of discontent rising, he checks it by reflecting on his early unhappiness. If his mother or father are harsh or angry with him, or if Mr. Gayton, his employer, speaks quickly or loudly to him, he stifles any tendency to sulk and become angry by thinking of Ben Huntly and the story of the wreck.

A WISH FOR WINGS.

O dear little birdie, how nice it must be To be able to fly Far away to the sky, Or to sit on the toss-away top of a tree.

I wish you would lend me your wings for a day. I have two little feet That can run on the street, One step at a time, but I can't fly away.

I would fly to the woods if I only had wings; Over house-top and tree, Like a bird or a bee, And sit by the side of the thrush while she sings.

I would count the blue eggs in her snug little nest; I would stay all day long, To hear her sweet song, And bring home a feather of gold from her breast.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

CONSEQUENCES: A PARABLE.

The baby held it in his hand, An acorn green and small, He toyed with it, he tossed it high, And then he let it fall!

He sought for it, and sorely wept, Or did his mother know (Though sweet she kissed and clasped her boy) What loss had grieved him so.

Then he was borne to other lands, And there he grew to man, And wrought his best, and did his most, And lived as heroes can.

But in old age it came to pass He trod his native shore, Yet did not know the pleasant fields Where he had played before.

Beneath a spreading oak he sat, A wearied man and old, And said,--"I feel a strange content My inmost heart enfold.

"As if some sweet old secret wish Was secretly fulfilled, As if I traced the plan of life Which God Himself has willed!

"Oh, bonnie tree which shelters me, Where summer sunbeams glow, I've surely seen thee in my dreams!-- Why do I love thee so?"

ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.

COMFORTABLE MRS. CROOK.

BY RUTH LAMB.

If Mrs. Jemima Crook happened to be in a very good temper, when taking a cup of tea with some old acquaintance, she would sometimes allude to her private affairs in these words: "I don't deny it; Crook has left me comfortable." This was not much to tell, for Mrs. Crook was not given to confidences, and a frequent remark of hers was: "I know my own business, and that is enough for me. I don't see that I have any call to fill other people's minds and mouths with what does not concern them."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Crook's own mind and heart were entirely filled by Mrs. Crook herself, it was, perhaps, as well that she should not occupy too much of the attention and affection of her neighbors.

It is a poor, narrow heart, and a small mind, that find self enough to fill them; but these sorts are not unknown, and Mrs. Crook was a sample of such.

When she spoke of having been left "comfortable" by her deceased partner, there was a look of triumph and satisfaction on her face, and a "No-thanks-to-any-of-you" kind of tone in her voice, that must have jarred on the ear of a listener.

No one ever saw a tear in Mrs. Crook's eye, or heard an expression of regret for the loss of "Crook" himself. He had been dead and out of sight and mind almost these ten years past. He was merely remembered as having done his duty in leaving his widow "comfortable." People were left to speculate as they chose about the amount represented by the expression. It would not have been good for the man or woman who had ventured to ask a direct question on the subject, but everybody agreed that Mrs. Crook must have something handsome. Surely "comfortable" means free from care, both as regards to-day and to-morrow: not only enough, but a little more, or else anxiety might step in and spoil comfort. If Mrs. Crook had more than enough, she took care not to give of her abundance. Neither man, woman nor child was ever the better for the surplus, if such there were. One of her favorite expressions was, "I don't care for much neighboring; I prefer keeping myself to myself."

"And you keep every thing else to yourself," muttered one who had vainly tried to enlist her sympathy for another who was in sickness and trouble.

Mrs. Crook had a pretty garden, well-stocked with flowers, according to the season. She was fond of working in it, and might be seen there daily, with her sun-bonnet on, snipping, tying and tending her plants.

Children do so love flowers, and, thank God, those who live in country places have grand gardens to roam in, free to all, and planted by His own loving hand. But in town it is different, and Mrs. Crook lived just outside one; far enough away from its smoke to allow of successful gardening, not too far to prevent little feet from wandering thither from narrow courts and alleys, to breathe a purer air, and gaze, with longing eyes, at the fair blossoms. It always irritated Mrs. Crook to see these dirty, unkempt little creatures clustering around her gate, or peeping through her hedge.

"What do you want here?" she would ask, sharply. "Get away with you, or I will send for a policeman. You are peeping about to see if you can pick up something; I know you are. Be off, without any more telling!"

The light of pleasure called into the young eyes by the sight of the flowers would fade away, and the hopeful look leave the dirty faces, as Mrs. Crook's harsh words fell on the children's ears. But as they turned away with unwilling, lingering steps, heads would be stretched, and a wistful, longing gaze cast upon the coveted flowers, until they were quite lost to sight.

There was a tradition amongst the youngsters that a very small child had once called, through the bars of the gate: "P'ease, Missis, do give me a f'ower." Also that something in the baby voice had so far moved Mrs. Jemima Crook, that she had stooped to select one or two of the least faded roses among all those just snipped from the bushes, and given them to the daring little blue eyes outside, with this injunction, however:

"Mind you never come here asking for flowers any more."

This report was long current among the inhabitants of a city court, but it needs confirmation.

Mrs. Crook objected to borrowers also, and perhaps she was not so much to be blamed for that. Most of us who possess bookshelves, and once delighted in seeing them well filled, look sorrowfully at gaps made by borrowers who have failed to return our treasures. But domestic emergencies occur even in the best regulated families, and neighborly help may be imperatively required. It may be a matter of Christian duty and privilege too, to lend both our goods and our personal aid. Mrs. Crook did not think so. Lending formed no part of her creed. If other people believed in it, and liked their household goods to travel up and down the neighborhood, that was their look-out, not hers.