Chapter 16

"I never borrow, so why should I lend?" asked Mrs. Crook. "Besides, I am particular about my things. My pans are kept as bright and clean as new ones, and if my servant put them on the shelves, as some people's servants replace theirs after using, she would not be here long. No, thank you. When I begin to borrow, I will begin to lend, but not until then."

Mrs. Crook's sentiments were so well known that, even in a case of sickness, when a few spoonfuls of mustard were needed for immediate use in poultices, the messenger on the way to borrow it, passed her door rather than risk a refusal, whereby more time might be lost than by going farther in the first instance.

Many were the invitations Mrs. Crook received to take part in the work of different societies. One lady asked her to join the Dorcas meeting.

"You can sew so beautifully," she said. "You would be a great acquisition to our little gathering."

The compliment touched a tender point. Mrs. Crook was proud of her needlework, but to dedicate such skill in sewing to making under-clothing for the poorest of the poor: The idea was monstrous!

Mrs. Crook answered civilly, that she could not undertake to go backwards and forwards to a room half a mile off. It would be a waste of time. Besides, though it was probably not the case in that particular meeting, she had heard that there was often a great deal of gossip going on at such places. The visitor was determined not to be offended, and she replied, gently, that there was no chance of gossip, for, after a certain time had been given to the actual business of the meeting, such as planning, cutting out, and apportioning work, one of the ladies read, whilst the rest sewed. "But," she added, "if you are willing to help us a little, and object to joining the meeting at the room, perhaps you would let me bring you something to be made at home. There is always work for every willing hand."

Then Mrs. Crook drew herself up and said she did not feel inclined to take in sewing. She had her own to do, and did it without requiring assistance, and she thought it was better to teach the lower classes to depend upon themselves than to go about pampering poor people and encouraging idleness, as many persons were so fond of doing now-a-days. No doubt they thought they were doing good, but, for her part, she believed that in many cases they did harm.

The visitor could have told tales of worn-out toilers, laboring almost night and day to win bread for their children, but unable to find either material for a garment or time to make it. She could have pleaded for the widow and the orphan, if there had seemed any feelings to touch, any heart to stir. But Mrs. Crook's hard words and looks repelled her, and she went her way, after a mere "Good-morning. I am sorry you cannot see your way to help us."

No chance of widows weeping for the loss of Mrs. Crook, or telling of her almsdeeds and good works, or showing the coats and garments made for them by her active fingers!

It was the same when some adventurous collector called upon Mrs. Crook to solicit a subscription. She had always something to say against the object for which money was asked. If it were for the sufferers by an accident in a coal mine or for the unemployed at a time of trade depression:

"Why don't they insure their lives like their betters? Why don't they save something, when they are getting good wages? I am not going to encourage the thriftless, or help those who might help themselves, if they would think beforehand."

At length every one gave up trying to enlist her services, or to obtain contributions from her, for the support of any good cause. And Mrs. Crook bestowed all her thoughts, her affections, her time and her means, on the only person she thought worthy of them all--namely Mrs. Crook herself.

AN EVENING SONG.

BY COUSIN ANNIE.

Twilight dews are gath'ring, The bright day's done; Upon thy downy couch Rest, little one.

Each tiny bird's hieing Home to its nest; Each flower-head's nodding Upon its breast.

Be still now, little heart, Until the morrow Brings again its share Of joy and sorrow.

May angels round thy couch Be ever nigh, And over thy slumbers chant Their lullaby.

"BUT THEN."

It was a queer name for a little girl, and it was not her real name--that was Lizzie--but everybody called her "But Then."

"My real name is prettier, _but then_, I like the other pretty well," she said, nodding her short, brown curls merrily. And that sentence shows just how she came by her name.

If Willie complained that it was a miserable, rainy day, and they couldn't play out of doors, Lizzie assented brightly,--

"Yes; _but then_, it is a real nice day to fix our scrapbooks."

When Kate fretted because they had so far to walk to school, her little sister reminded her,--

"_But then, it's all the way through the woods, you know_, and that's ever so much nicer than walking on pavements in a town."

When even patient Aunt Barbara pined a little because the rooms in the new house were so few and small compared with their old home, a rosy face was quietly lifted to hers with the suggestion,--

"_But then_, little rooms are the best to cuddle all up together in, don't you think, Auntie?"

"Better call her 'Little But Then,' and have done with it," declared Bob, half-vexed, half-laughing. "No matter how bad any thing is, she is always ready with her 'but then,' and some kind of consolation on the end of it."

And so, though no one really intended it, the new name began. There were a good many things that the children missed in their new home. Money could have bought them even there; but if the money had not gone first, their father would scarcely have thought it necessary to leave his old home. They had done what was best under the circumstances; still the boys felt rather inclined to grumble about it one winter morning when they were starting off to the village on an errand.

"Just look at all the snow going to waste, without our having a chance to enjoy it," said Will; "and the ice too--all because we couldn't bring our sleds with us when we moved."

"_But then_, you might make one yourself, you know. It wouldn't be quite so pretty, but it would be just as good," suggested Little But Then.

"Exactly what I mean to do as soon as I get money enough to buy two or three boards; but I haven't even that yet, and the winter is nearly half gone."

"If we only had a sled to-day, Sis could ride, and we could go on the river," said Bob. "It's just as near that way, and we could go faster."

"It is a pity," admitted the little girl. "_But then_, I've thought of something--that old chair in the shed! If we turned it down, its back would be almost like runners, and so--"

"Hurrah! that's the very thing!" interrupted the boys; and the old chair was dragged out in a twinkling, and carried down to the river. Then away went the merry party, laughing and shouting, on the smooth road between the snowy hills, while Gyp followed, frisking and barking, and seeming to enjoy the fun as much as any of them.

"Now we'll draw our sled up here, close under the bank, where nobody will see it, and leave it while we go up to the store," said Bob, when they had reached the village.

Their errand was soon done, and the children ready to return; but as they set forth Will pointed to a dark spot a little way out on the ice.

"What is that? It looks like a great bundle of clothes."

It was a bundle that moved and moaned as they drew near, and proved to be a girl, a little bigger than Lizzie. She looked up when they questioned her, though her face was pale with pain.

"I slipped and fell on the ice," she explained, "and I'm afraid I've broken my leg, for it is all twisted under me, and I can't move it or get up. I live in the village. That's my father's carpenter shop where you see the sign. I could see it all the time, and yet I was afraid I'd freeze here before any one saw me. Oh dear! it doesn't seem as if I could lie here while you go for my father."

"Why, you needn't," began Bob; but the girl shook her head.

"I can't walk a step, and you two are not strong enough to carry me all the way. You'd let me fall, or you'd have to keep stopping to rest; and putting me down and taking me up again would almost kill me."

"Oh, but we'll only lift you into the chair, just as carefully as we can, then we can carry you easy enough," said Will.

And in that way the poor girl was borne safely home; and the children lingered long enough to bring the surgeon and hear his verdict that "Young bones don't mind much being broken, and she will soon be about again, as well as ever."

"But I don't see how you happened to have a chair so handy," said her father to the boys. And when they explained that they were using it for a sled, he said, with a significant nod of his head,--"Your sled, was it? Well, I shall be surprised if my shop does not turn you out a better sled than that, just by way of thanks for your kindness."

"_But then_, wasn't it good that it was only the old chair that we had to-day?" asked Little But Then, as she told the story to Aunt Barbara at home. "Oh Auntie, I had the nicest kind of a time!"

"I believe you had," answered Aunt Barbara, smiling; "for a brave, sunny spirit, that never frets over what it has not, but always makes the best of what it has where it is, is sure to have a good time. It does not need to wait for it to come--it has a factory for making it."

--The following is an Arabic proverb taken from the mouth of an Oriental: "Men are four. 1. He who knows not, and knows not he knows not. He is a fool; shun him. 2. He who knows not, and knows he knows not. He is simple; teach him. 3. He who knows, and knows not he knows. He is asleep; wake him. 4. He who knows, and knows he knows. He is wise; follow him."

WHAT THE SNAIL SAID.

"You little chicks, tho' you peck at my dress, I will not get angry at that; I know you would gobble me up if you could, As quick as a worm or a gnat."

"Say, little snail, you had better go on, They may try the same trick upon you." "No, no," said the snail, with his hard coat of mail, "I don't care a rush if they do.

"Little girl, there's no harm to cause me alarm, I'll sit here and watch them a spell, But as soon as they pounce, I'll cheat them at once, By getting right into my shell."

"But listen, wise snail, the old hen in the coop Has her eye very closely on you; And if she gets out, it may put you about, Now mind, what I tell you is true."

"But dear little girl, she is fast in her house; No, no, she can't touch me, no, no. But if that respectable fowl should get out, Oho!" said the snail. "Oho!"

ONLY NOW AND THEN.

Think it no excuse, boys, Merging into men, That you do a wrong act "Only now and then." Better to be careful As you go along, If you would be manly, Capable and strong.

Many a wretched sot, boys, That one daily meets Drinking from the beer-kegs, Living in the streets, Or at best, in quarters Worse than any pen, Once was dressed in broadcloth Drinking now and then.

When you have a habit That is wrong, you know, Knock it off at once, lads, With a sudden blow. Think it no excuse, boys, Merging into men, That you do a wrong act "Only now and then."

A SERPENT AMONG THE BOOKS.

One day, a gentleman in India went into his library and took down a book from the shelves. As he did so, he felt a slight pain in his finger, like the prick of a pin. He thought that a pin had been stuck, by some careless person, in the cover of the book. But soon his finger began to swell, then his arm, and then his whole body, and in a few days he died. It was not a pin among the books, but a small and deadly serpent.

There are many serpents among the books now-a-days; they nestle in the foliage of some of our most fascinating literature; they coil around the flowers whose perfume intoxicates the senses. People read and are charmed by the plot of the story, and the skill with which the characters are sculptured or grouped, by the gorgeousness of the wood-painting, and hardly feel the pin-prick of the evil that is insinuated. But it stings and poisons.

Let us watch against the serpents and read only that which is healthy, instructive and profitable.

"LITTLE MOTHER."

BY JULIA HUNT MOREHOUSE.

It was Judge Bellow's big, fine house, that stood on the corner by the park. Every body knew that, but every body did _not_ know that the one little girl who lived in that house was restless and unhappy and often cross.

"Why do you roam about so, Nell? Why don't you settle down to something?" her mother asked, one bright, spring day.

"Oh, I am sick of everything. I have read all my books, and I hate my piano. The croquet isn't up, and there is nobody to play with me, if it was."

"Why don't you find some kind of work to do?"

"That is just the trouble. There's nothing that needs to be done; servants for every thing; and what does crocheting amount to, and plastering some little daubs of paint on some plush! Why, I believe that little Dutch girl that sells things out of her big basket, on our corner, every morning, is a good deal happier than I am. I mean to ask her sometime what makes her so."

* * * * *

A few weeks more and the hot summer came on, and Nell missed the little Dutch girl on the corner. It really worried her that the bright, womanly face did not come any more, but she supposed she had moved to a better stand or perhaps left the city.

One morning Nell took a walk with her teacher; a long walk, for they found themselves outside the city, where there were open holds and every house had green grass and trees close around it.

"What a little, _little_ house! That one with the woodbine all over it--and I do believe--yes, it really _is_ my little Dutch girl scrubbing the steps," and away she bounded and was soon beside the little worker.

"Oh! I'm so glad to find you again! Why don't you come to our corner any more?"

"Baby's been sick a long, good time," explained Lena, wiping her hands on her apron. "Won't you ladies please to walk in, if you please, ma'am?"

It was a queer little figure that showed them into the cool, clean room; short and broad and dumpy. Her shoes were coarse, her dress of faded black, with a white kerchief at the neck, so like an old woman. Her face too, was short and broad; her nose was _very_ short and her eyes very narrow. So you see she was not pretty, but her face was all love and sunshine. She sat down on a low stool and took up the baby in such a dear, motherly way, smoothing its hair and dress and kissing it softly.

"You don't mean that you live here all alone?" asked Nell.

"Oh, no; there is Hans and baby and me, and there is old Mrs. Price in the other part."

"But your father and mother?"

"Mother died a year ago. Oh, she was one such good mother, but baby came in her place. Baby looks like mother, and now I have to be her little mother, you see," and she set the little dumpling out upon her knee, with such pride and tenderness.

"And your father?"

The little Dutch girl dropped her head and answered very low, "Father has been gone a long time. They say he is shut up somewhere. He don't come home any more."

"Oh, how very dreadful! I don't see where you get money to buy things with."

"Hans is fifteen and works in a shop. He gets some money, and he will get a good deal, by-and-by. The rest _I_ get from the flowers. You see I raise them myself, mostly."

"But do you get enough for clothes and playthings, and do you always have enough to eat?" persisted Nell.

"_I_ don't have any clothes, I make over mother's. We have Kitty for playthings. Enough to eat? _Baby_ always has enough, don't she, lovie?" cuddling her up close.

A new world was opening up to Nell.

"Excuse me, but don't you have any pleasure trips, or birthday parties, or Christmas?"

"No; I don't just know what those things are, but we have nice beef and apples for dinner on Christmas."

"And are you always happy as you seem--really happy?"

The "little mother" opened her eyes wide in wonder. "Why, _of course_. What else should we be? Mother always told us it was wicked to be cross, and that we must not fret much, even over her going away to heaven."

Nell did some hard thinking on her way home, and being a sensible little girl, she made up her mind that one way to be happy is to be _busy_, and not only busy, but useful, and she set about the new way in earnest.

She learned that it is possible to be unselfish and happy _any where_; she in her wealthy home, and the "little mother" in her one room, with her baby and her flowers.

LITTLE SCATTER.

MRS. JEANE A. WARD.

She was her mother's darling, and a very good little girl in most things. With her yellow hair, big blue eyes and rosy cheeks; in the pretty blue dress and red sash; nice little slippers on her plump feet, she made the whole house lively and bright, and sometimes she made plenty of work for every one in it, too, for she was a terrible Nelly to scatter playthings. The dolly would be on the chair, her torn picture-books over the floor, her ball kicking about everywhere, and her blocks any where.

What could mother do with such a girl? When she would talk to her, Nelly would promise not to do so any more, and would pick up the dolly and the pictures, and the ball and the blocks, and her other toys, and take them to her own corner play-house and fix them all in order, and be real good for a little while.

But the 'real good' would last only a little while and then out all would come again, and Little Scatter would have them around just as before.

That is the way she came to be given that name, and she was old enough to know she well deserved it, and to be ashamed of it; yet she could not break off the bad habit.

She had a kind, good mother, who saw that she would have to, in some way, cure her little daughter of such slovenly habits or else she would grow up to be a very careless, untidy woman, and the mother was wise enough to know that it is more easy to correct such matters when children are young than when they grow older.

She did not want to punish Nelly severely, and so, whenever Little Scatter had gotten all her toys over the floor, tables, sofa and chairs, mamma would call her and say:

"Now, Nelly, every thing you have is lying about, it is time for my Little Scatter to get gathered in close;" and then Miss Nelly would have to go close to the wall and be shut in by a chair and stand there until mamma's watch said half an hour had passed. This was very hard on a little girl that loved to run around so much as Nelly did, and though she knew she deserved all the punishment, yet she used to beg very hard and promise, but she always had to stay the full time; then she would come out, get her mamma's kiss and forgiveness, pick up her toys and be happy.

It did not take many such punishments before Nelly began to think before she acted so carelessly, and in a short time she was almost as neat about such matters as she was sweet and good in every thing else. If ever there were a few of her things lying about, mamma had only to call her 'Little Scatter,' to make her remember, and so hard did she try to correct herself of this bad habit that in a few months she and those about her almost forgot that she had ever been known by such an untidy name.

WHAT CHICKY THINKS.

Seems to me I must be growing big very fast. I don't believe I could get back into that little house if I should try. I don't want to go back, either. I had to work too hard to get out the first time. There was no door, so I had to break the house all in pieces with my little beak. I couldn't stand up, you know, when I was inside. I got very tired sitting on my little legs. I wonder how I knew enough to break open my little house? Nobody ever told me that it was prettier in the garden than in my house. 'Tis rather cold out here. I never was cold before; seems to me some little chick has carried off a part of my house. If I see him, with it, I'll tell him he's a thief. Oh, dear, dear! something is scratching my back. May be it's the little thief! I wish I could look and see who it is.

STOP-A-WHILE.

There is growing in Africa a thorn called "Stop-a-while." If a person once gets caught in it, it is with difficulty he escapes with his clothes on his back, and without being greatly torn, for every attempt to loosen one part of his dress only hooks more firmly another part. The man who gets caught by this thorn is in a pitiable plight ere he gets loose. You would not like--would you, boys? to be caught in this thorn. And yet many, I fear, are being caught in a worse thorn than "Stop-a-while." Where do you spend your evenings? At home, I do hope, studying your lessons, and attending to mother's words; for if you have formed a habit of spending them on the streets with bad boys, you are caught in a thorn far worse.

THE BIRDS' CONCERT.

MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER.

There's going to be a concert Out in the apple trees; When the air is warm and balmy, And the floating summer breeze Waft down the pale pink blossoms Upon the soft green grass:-- A lovely place to sit and dream, For each little lad and lass!

The concert will open early When the sun lights up the skies:-- You'll miss the opening anthem If you let those sleepy eyes Stay closed, and do not hasten Out 'neath the orchard trees, Where the pink and snowy shower Is caught in the morning breeze.

The robins will swing in the branches, And carol, and whistle and sing. The thrush, who is coming to-morrow, Will a charming solo bring. The wrens will warble in chorus, Rare music, so touching and sweet; The orioles sent for their tickets, And will surely give us a treat.

The concert will open at sun-rise, All the June-time sweet and fair; There'll be a grand full chorus, For _all_ the birds will be there. The concert is free to the children, And is held in the apple trees, And the birds will sing in a chorus, "O come to our concert--please!"

ONLY A BOY.

Only a boy with his noise and fun, The veriest mystery under the sun; As brimful of mischief and wit and glee, As ever a human frame can be, And as hard to manage as--what! ah me! 'Tis hard to tell, Yet we love him well.

Only a boy with his fearful tread, Who cannot be driven, must be led! Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, And tears more clothes and spoils more hats, Loses more kites and tops and bats Than would stock a store For a week or more.

Only a boy with his wild, strange ways, With his idle hours or his busy days, With his queer remarks and his odd replies, Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, Often brilliant for one of his size, As a meteor hurled From the planet world.

Only a boy, who may be a man If nature goes on with her first great plan-- If intemperance or some fatal snare, Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, Our torment, our joy! "Only a boy!"

BIRD NEEDLEWORK.

MAY R. BALDWIN.