Part 4

“But, my dear, didn’t you set the example by giving the first blow? Poor Kitty isn’t a Christian, you know.”

“Am I a Christian, grandmamma?”

“I hope so, little one. Have you forgotten the verse you said at prayers this morning, about forgiving your enemies, and those that ‘despitefully use you’?”

Bessie sat very still for five minutes.

“Grandmamma,” said she, “I think I’ll make up with Kitty.”

Half an hour after, grandmamma smiled as she saw through the open window a perfect picture of a happy family. Bessie, Amanda Malvina, and Kitty, swinging in the hammock together. War was ended. Peace declared.

STOP THIEF.

I must tell you about my cat Posy, and the sound drubbing she got the other day. Miss Posy had eaten a hearty breakfast, but, like a little glutton, wanted more. What should she do, but go into the garden and seat herself near a peach tree, in which there was a marten-box. The birds were busy feeding their little ones, and as long as they were about, Posy hid under a rose-bush, but soon the old birds flew away, and then was her chance. Looking around to see if anybody was on the watch, she crept up the tree.

Jumping on the top of the box, she put her paw into the hole to feel for a young bird. Suddenly there was the greatest chatter I ever heard—the old birds had come back and caught the thief. But they could not make pussy stir. Then the father bird flew to a big marten-box on the top of the stable, and in a few moments came back with all the other martens. They pounced upon Posy, and pecked her until she was glad to run down the tree and hide under my skirt.

I don’t think she will want a bird lunch again very soon. If she does, I think she will go without it rather than venture again to the martens’ home. But kitty only did what bad boys often do, who know the difference between right and wrong.

VISIT TO DAME TRUMAN.

“Ted,” said Katie, from her little bed in the dimly lighted nursery, “this time to-morrow night, we’ll be at Poplar Grove.”

Ted and Katie did not reach their papa’s plantation until very late the following day, and were so tired from their journey that they went straight to bed. The next morning, they crept down stairs to see if their pony had grown any, and if Dash, the big Newfoundland, would know them.

After breakfast, Mrs. Barton let Ted and Katie go to see Dame Truman, a nice old woman who had taken care of Mrs. Barton when she was a baby. When they got to the cottage, they softly pushed open the door, and peeped in.

“Law, if it ain’t my blessed chicks, come to see their old Granny,” cried Dame Truman, hugging and kissing them.

“Now, my little dears,” said she, “I’ve got something pretty to show you.”

Taking up a pan of dough, she went to the door, and scattered some of it on the ground.

“Quack, quack, quack,” was heard, and up waddled an old duck with four young ones.

They looked just like balls of yellow worsted, and Katie wanted to take up one of the soft little things, only she felt afraid of the old mother. They were overjoyed when Dame Truman said that the little ducks were for them.

“I shall call mine Cowslip and Buttercup,” said Katie, “they are so yellow.”

“I’ll name mine Napoleon and Wellington,” answered Ted, “and I know they’ll be good fighters.”

JENNY,

MY LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL.

Granny lives across the moor; Granny’s old and granny’s poor, Scarce can cross her cottage door, But she has sweet Jenny.

Little maid with tender eyes, Softly blue as summer skies, Golden locks a queen might prize Crown her, fairest Jenny.

When the birds at early dawn Chirp a welcome to the morn, Glad the darksome night has gone, Swift uprises Jenny.

With a kiss and fond caress, Helps the poor old dame to dress, Gently smoothing each white tress— Blessings on sweet Jenny,

As she passes with her flowers, Gathered fresh from woodland bowers, Dewy bright with summer showers, Fresh and pure as Jenny.

For granny’s sake she gayly hies, And to the market bears her prize, Where, “Please to buy my flowers,” she cries, “Oh, please to buy of Jenny.”

TO A BIRD.

The little bird upon the tree Has nothing now to say to me; He does not meet me with a song, But, silent as I pass along, He turns his head, as he would say, “It is too cold to sing to-day.”

And I would say, but have no words To talk with little bits of birds— “If you’ll come round to-morrow morn, When I give my young chicks their corn, I’ll put some seeds and crumbs of bread For you upon the chickens’ shed.

“And perhaps you will. I’ll look to see If you are sitting in the tree; And if you are, I will not stay, But leave the crumbs and go away; You’d think, if I stayed by the rail, I’d salt to put upon your tail.

“And if you saw the cage I’ve made, I think you would not be afraid; But I’ve a bigger bird, you see, That whistles tunes all day for me. So if you think you’d like the bread, I’ll leave it for you on the shed.”

THE LITTLE HIGHLANDER’S BIRTHDAY.

When Henry’s birthday came, he put a garland of red roses around Malcom’s neck. Malcom was a handsome brown fawn, with a white breast. He did not stay with the other deer in the park, but had a place fenced off for his own playground. Henry brought him sugar and sweet cakes, and he fed from his hand, and followed his little master around like a pet dog.

Henry lived in Scotland, and his father was the chief of the MacDonald clan. Upon his birthday, all the tenants, with their wives and children, came to the castle to dinner. Tables were spread in the great hall, loaded with good things. Henry, dressed in his Highland dress, stood by his father’s side, and listened to the speeches made in his honor. Afterward, there were games played in the park, cricket, wrestling matches, and shooting with the bow and arrow. Prizes were given to the boys who showed the most skill.

While Henry was watching the games, Malcom came and rubbed his nose against him, as if to say, “Don’t forget me.” But when the bagpipes began to play, he was frightened, and bounded off amongst the trees.

As soon as Malcom’s horns grow, he will be turned out with the herd of deer, but Henry will get the keeper to put a mark upon his pet, so that he may always know him.

BABYLAND.

Somewhere out by Dreamland, In the world of sleep, Lies the land of Infants Veiled in mystery deep.

None but babes and angels Live in that bright place, Brightened with the sunshine Of the Father’s face.

That is why we sometimes Wail, though not in pain; Longing for the realms of Babyland again.

That is why you see us Gazing into space, Catching far-off glimpses Of our native place.

Suns are always shining, Skies are always blue, And our foster-angels Send us thence to you.

But when by our coffins Tearfully you stand, Know that we are angels Back in Babyland;

Far removed from sorrow, Sin, and shame, and vice, In the land of Infants, Earth-named Paradise.

KEPT IN.

Peter would never take the trouble to learn the Multiplication Table. He always looked at the printed card when he did his sums, until his teacher caught him at it, and took the card away. Then he fell to making marks on his slate, and counting on his fingers, but it did no good. Poor Peter was kept in every day.

Look at him nearly tearing his hair out over five times seven. If he finds that hard, what will he do with eight times eight, which you know is a stumbling-block to all little folks?

It is recess, and he sits alone in the school-room. He hears through the open window the merry shouts of the boys. They are playing base ball, and he knows his side will be beaten without his help—for I am sorry to say, Peter plays games better than he does sums.

The tears roll down his cheeks, and he mutters, “I wish arithmetic had never been heard of.”

Take heart, Peter, and try again. Such great men as Macaulay and Sir Walter Scott did not like figures when they were little boys—yet see what perseverance did for them.

ONE DAY OUT:

A PLEA FOR THE POOR TOWN CHILDREN.

“Little town children, say where are you going? The rain hurries down, and a cold wind is blowing.” “To school we are trotting, through lane and through street, Though the rain patters fast, soaking dresses and feet.”

“Little town children, your faces are thin; Your footsteps are heavy, your blue eyes are dim.” “Our small homes are crowded, our parents oft sad; There is nothing to make us poor young ones feel glad.”

“Little town children, say what are your pleasures? Tell what do you do in your holiday leisures?” “We watch at the window, or play on the stair; The back-yard is wanted, we cannot go there.”

“Little town children, and have you not heard In this bright summer weather the song of a bird?” “Oh yes, sir; the linnet that frets in its cage, Or the brown little sparrow, so dingy and sage.”

“Little town children, have soft April showers Not nursed for your playthings the sweet summer flowers?” “Oh yes, sir; for sometimes we linger to greet The boy who sells wall-flowers out in the street.”

“Little town children, are God’s skies so blue, His works and his wonders, all hidden from you?” “Oh no, sir; for once in the year a whole day We school-children spend in the country at play.

“Sad little town children no longer we seem As we frolic about in the meadows so green, And gather pink daisies or buttercups sweet, Then with loud heartfelt hymns close the joys of ‘our treat.’

“Glad little town children, our voices we raise; For this one day of pleasure our Father we praise; The lark springs to heaven, its song like a prayer, We hope he is taking our thanks with him there!”

A TINY PET FROM FAR AWAY.

This funny little fluffy snowball comes from far-away Mexico, where, once upon a time, they used to eat dogs, nicely baked. They were considered “a dainty dish to set before a king;” but they were big, savage, voiceless brutes, not at all like the pretty mite I have drawn for you. He can make noise enough, and, if he were alive, would fly at you, and fancy that you were very frightened. I wonder why it is only small dogs that are noisy. Your big black fellow, with a head like a bear, gives a solemn deep-toned growl, but a mite that would go in your pocket can be heard all over the house. Well, after all, they are only like children, and like to make a disturbance, I suppose.

PUSSY’S LECTURE.

Oh, Pussy, will you tell me why At all the pretty birds you fly? The little birds that sing so sweet, You surely would not catch and eat?

For you are ever kindly fed Each day with nicest milk and bread, And always at my dinner, too, I save a lovely bit for you.

At night you sleep so warm and snug Before the fire upon the rug, While little birds (as I’ve been told) Are often perished with the cold.

All in the bitter frost and snow They fly so cheerless to and fro. And scarcely even dare to come And see if we can spare a crumb.

Now, Pussy dear, attend to me, And never, _never_ cruel be; Oh, do not harm the weak and small, For that’s not being good at all.

My dear mamma, so kind and true, Has often said that we should do To others as we wish that _they_ Would do to us from day to day.

LITTLE ANGELICA.

Over a hundred years ago, there lived a little girl, named Angelica Kauffman. She was very fond of drawing, and made pictures of everything she saw. Her father and mother were poor, but they were so anxious for her to become a great painter that they moved to Italy to live. Before she was grown, her mother died, and then she had to take care of her old father.

One day, when she was in Venice, a rich English lady gave her an order to paint a picture of her little girl. This made Angelica’s fortune, for the lady was so pleased with the young artist that she took her to London. Everybody there was very kind to her, and she became a famous painter. One of her best friends was Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great English artist.

She was so sweet and pretty that people called her “Miss Angel” instead of Angelica. When you are older you must read her life, for it makes a beautiful story.

MISS GREYTOES AND MR. BEETLE.

One morning Miss Kitty Greytoes took a walk in the garden. The sun was shining, the apple and cherry trees were in bloom, and the air was filled with the scent of pinks and lilacs. But Miss Greytoes did not notice these beautiful things. As she tripped along, she said to herself, “I wonder if that cat-bird has built his nest in the same place this spring. I dreamed about him last night, so I’ll go and see.”

Sure enough, when she came to the tree, there was the cat-bird sitting on a bent limb. Miss Kitty smacked her lips, and was just about to spring at him, when Whirr! whirr! sung a big beetle, and the cat-bird flew away.

“Good morning, Miss Greytoes,” said the beetle, bowing politely.

“None the better for seeing you, Mr. Beetle,” she replied; “some folks are forever in the way.”

“Heigho! Miss Kitty, you’re cross this morning. Didn’t your supper agree with you? I saw you through the pantry window, last night, stealing cream. It will do you good to fast to-day. Good-bye.” And away he flew to tell his friend, the cat-bird, the joke.

“Meddlesome old thing!” snapped Miss Greytoes, as she trotted off with her tail in the air.

THE COMING OF THE SNOW.

Down, out of Cloudland, comes the snow, Like feathers idly floating. Come, in good earnest, snow, and give Old earth its winter coating. Thicker and faster fall the flakes; The trees and fields are whitening; And at the nurs’ry window here The children’s eyes are bright’ning.

Says Frank—“The witches in the north Their feather beds are shaking.” Says Dick—“They must be plucking geese. This pother to be making. If only all this snow will lie Till after school this morning, I’ll snowball ev’ry one of you; So now I give fair warning.

“As Cousin May is fond of balls, _She_ shall have half a dozen.” Then loudly laughs the saucy boy, And merrily his cousin; The sun, too, smiles from out a cloud, On Dick in fancy pelting. What will he do at twelve o’clock? For see—the snow is melting!

GUIDO RENI.

In Bologna, an Italian city, there lived an old musician who had a beautiful little boy. He taught him to sing, and play on the harp, but Guido loved drawing better than music, and instead of practicing, made pictures and little figures in clay.

His father thought this a waste of time, and gave him many whippings, but nothing could prevent the little fellow from drawing. When his paper was taken away, he marked on the walls, and after he had filled them, he drew pictures in the dust.

But Guido’s good luck came at last. His father gave a concert at the palace of a great lord, and Guido went with him. He met there a famous painter, who was so pleased when he saw the boy’s pictures, that he advised his father to let him be an artist.

To his great joy Guido was put in a studio, and studied so well, that when he was thirteen, his master made him teach the other scholars. As the years went by, he became a wonderful painter, and even kings paid the highest prices for his pictures.

The crowning glory of his whole life was his famous painting of Aurora, on the ceiling of a summer-house of a palace in Rome.

LAZY MAGGIE.

Maggie is carrying her father’s breakfast to him. She was in the middle of a pleasant dream this morning when her mother came to her little cot, and said, “Wake up, Maggie, it is almost five o’clock.”

“Dear me,” yawned Maggie, “what a bother!” And I fear she did not have a very cheerful face, as she trudged to the wheat field.

The air was sweet with the smell of clover, the dew-drops sparkled in the sunshine, and the birds were singing gayly.

“What is the matter?” said a dew-drop on a white rosebud?

“I’m so sleepy,” answered Maggie, “and it’s a hard case to have to get up at five o’clock in the morning.”

“For shame,” said the dew-drop, “I’ve been at work all night watering this flower, and presently, the sun will dry me up. If you had come half an hour later, we shouldn’t have met.”

“Lazy little girl,” cried a skylark, “I have been flying a mile high already, and had a nice air bath. Now, I’m going to hunt for my breakfast.” And away he flew, joyously warbling,

“The birds are singing in every bush, At five o’clock in the morning.”

Maggie heeded the lesson of God’s little teachers, and met her father with a happy smile.

JANET’S CHARGE.

“Janet,” said Mrs. Bruce, “somebody is in the children’s cot at last.”

“I’m so glad, mamma. Who is it? A boy or girl?”

“A boy, and one whom you know—Frank Fenton. Yesterday his pony threw him, and broke his arm. I believe his leg was hurt also. It happened near the ‘Retreat,’ and he was carried there. When his father arrived, and found him so comfortable, he let him remain.”

“What good news! Think, mamma, of Frank Fenton lying in the bed that we little girls paid for. I wonder if he will like our picture screen.”

The “Retreat” was a private hospital, and Mrs. Bruce was one of the managers. Janet and her little friends had fitted up a cot in the children’s ward, from the proceeds of a fair, which they had held. Imagine their pleasure, when the first patient proved to be one of their companions.

As soon as Frank was better, Janet went to see him every day. She made an excellent little nurse, and the two had great fun over the screen, inventing stories to suit the pictures.

Janet now felt the sweet satisfaction of doing good. “Mamma,” said she, “when I hear the hymn, ‘A charge to keep I have,’ it reminds me of Frank. He’s my charge.”

GOING TO MEET PAPA.

Nurse was sick, so mamma had to take care of Baby Belle. They walked down the shady lane to meet papa, and Nipo, Baby Belle’s little dog, given her by her papa on her first birthday, trotted on behind. Baby had on the lace cap that Aunt Fanny had sent her all the way from New York, and looked sweet enough to eat.

“Putty fowers,” said she, spying the daisies and butter-cups.

“Does Baby want some for papa?” asked mamma.

“Ess, and butty-tups too.”

“Doggie, does oo love butter?” and Baby Belle put her fat hand, full of butter-cups, under Nipo’s nose. Nipo was a good-natured little dog and loved Baby, so he wagged his tail to say, “Yes.” Then he gave a joyful bark, and ran off.

“Papa is coming,” said mamma; “now for a ride,” and she and Baby followed Nipo.

At the stile Baby Belle got a dozen kisses from papa, who was on the lookout for his little daughter, and rode home on papa’s shoulder as proud as a queen.

THE DOLLS’ LUNCH.

Annie had been to lunch with her little friend, Katie Heath. All the dolls were invited, and a merry time they had. It being summer, the table was spread in the arbor. Katie’s uncle brought her last Christmas from Japan a beautiful set of dolls’ china. This was arranged on a white cloth, and the tea tasted very good out of the pretty little tea-pot. There was also a sponge cake, which Katie had made with her own hands, for her mamma wished her to be a good housekeeper. After tea and sandwiches, they had strawberries and cream, to eat with the cake. The dolls sat at the table, and enjoyed themselves very much—only Mr. Punchinello, who is such a tease, would make fun of dear little Polly Primrose’s old-fashioned bonnet. She was used to his nonsense, and would not have cared, except that Marie de Montfort, Katie’s new doll, had on her Paris finery.

Polly looks very sad on her way home, but I think it is because Mr. Eugene Montmorenci is going to marry Mademoiselle Marie. It was all arranged after lunch, and the wedding is to be next Tuesday, Annie’s birthday.

Cheer up, dear Polly, something very nice is in store for you too.

VAIN MINETTE.

I am glad my mistress is out, that I may have the mirror all to myself.

Well, I am a beauty! though that spiteful cat next door says my face is streaked. She calls me “Miss Vanity,” but my good looks got me this nice home, with plenty to eat, and nothing to do.

This is the way it came about. My mother belonged to a little French boy named Henri, and being a French cat, she was very clever. One day when I was a tiny baby, a lady from New York came to stay at the house. My mother lay on the rug listening to the conversation, but pretending to be asleep. Henri said to the lady, “My cat has kittens, and one of them is beautiful.”

“Ah,” said she, “I wish I could see it.”

Upon hearing this, my mother trotted down stairs, and brought me up in her mouth. My, what a shout there was when we appeared! The lady said she must have the kitten of so wise a cat, and that I was perfectly lovely.

She promised Henri to be very good to me, so I was put in a basket, and brought to New York, where I am much admired, and happy as the day is long.

The last thing my mother said to me was, “Beauty is as beauty does.” I wonder what she meant?

MARIE’S FIRST SLIDE.

Marie was a little Southern girl, and had never seen a snow-storm. When she was ten years old, she spent a winter at the North with her cousins.

One morning she awoke, and looking out of the window, saw something soft and white falling.

“Cousin Caroline, run here,” she said; “they must be picking cotton up in heaven.”

Her cousin told her that it was snow, and in the afternoon she should go sleighing. I am sure that Marie will never forget her first sleigh ride.