Chapter 6

It was not long before she was roused by the sound of footsteps; she raised her head, and saw an old woman coming down the road with a large basket on her arm. She looked tired and weary, as well she might be, for she had travelled a long distance; it was a hot, sultry afternoon, and every footstep stirred a cloud of dust. She came towards the spring; but before she reached it, she struck her foot against a stone and fell.

"Have you hurt you?" exclaimed Annie, as she sprung to her side.

"Not a bit, not a bit," she replied, as she shook the dust from her apron, and replaced the things that had fallen from her basket.

"Oh, yes, you have!" said Annie; "see, the blood is streaming down your arm!"

"Oh that's nothing; only a scratch. Blessings on the good Father that watches over me! I might have broken my arm, and that would have been a deal worse! How fortunate I happened to fall just by the spring here! I've been longing for a drink of cold water, and I sha'n't need it any the less for getting such a mouthful of this hot dust."

"Heart's dearest!" she exclaimed, as she put down the iron dipper that always hung by the spring, after having satisfied her thirst, "what is it troubles you? Such sorrowful eyes and a tearful face belong only to older heads and more sinful hearts; and God forbid it even to them, unless it is wrung out of the agony of their very souls; for though his providences are just and wise, yet nature must have its way sometimes."

"Oh," she replied, as the tears filled her eyes again, "I have been crying to think how wicked I am."

"Well-a-day!" said the old woman, looking rather droll; "it's very strange such a young creature as you should come down here to weep on account of great wickedness. You don't look much like a Salem witch, or a runaway from the house of correction."

Annie could not help laughing at such an idea; but as the smile passed away, the troubled waters of her heart seemed to burst forth in a flood, and she wept violently.

"Ah," said the old woman, shaking her head sorrowfully: "I ought not to have spoken thus; I see how it is. Poor lamb! she hears the voice of the Shepherd calling her, but she is bewildered and knows not the way to the fold; and may the Lord Jesus look upon me, as he did upon his sinful servant Peter when he denied him, if I fail to point out to this dear child the path wherein he himself has taught me to tread."

She sat down beside Annie and laid her arm gently around her. "There's a dear girl," said she, raising her head, and putting back the locks of moist hair; "listen to me a little while, and I will tell you what will make you happier." She took the cool waters of the spring, and bathed her burning forehead, and washed away all traces of dust and tears. The water had a cooling and soothing effect upon Annie's troubled brain.

"There now," said the good dame; "don't you feel better?"

"Yes," said Annie, almost cheerfully.

"Well," she continued, "God's love is just like this spring; it is full and free to all. Now don't you suppose, if you could cleanse and purify your heart from all traces of sin and sorrow in its blessed waters, just as you bathe your face in this spring, that you would feel happier and better."

"Yes," said Annie, slowly and thoughtfully, as if a new idea was passing through her mind.

"Well then, I will tell you how. I have felt just as you do now. When I was a girl I was a restless, idle creature; useless to others, and a burden to myself. Of course I was unhappy, miserable. It was in vain that I went to school with such a discontented mind. I had a harder lesson to learn than any that my teacher could learn me. God grant you may not have to learn it in the same way that I did! I learned it by experience; a sorrowful way that is to learn anything, although it is slow and sure; you may be pretty certain that you never will forget it. I have found out, by experience, that the only way that we can live and be happy, is by loving and serving others, just as the blessed Jesus did; and if you will try it you will find it so."

"Oh," said Annie, "I am a little girl. What good can I do? If I was the Lord Jesus, I would go about doing good; then I would cast out devils, and heal the sick, and raise the dead."

"Yes, yes; I know you are yet but a 'wee thing,' and have much to learn; but 'the race is not always to the swift and the battle to the strong;' it isn't the tallest men and the oldest heads that do the most good in the world. But I'll tell you what _you can_ do, if you can't work miracles; though there's many a devil cast out in these days of sin and sorrow, that men know not of; those who struggle and strive with the Evil One, and thrust him out of the doors of their heart, do not sound a trumpet before them in the streets, for they are true followers of the dear Lamb of God. That same old spirit of selfishness that tempted Eve in the garden of Eden has gone through the world like a creeping, wily serpent ever since. It has wound itself round and round our hearts, coil upon coil, until we scarce seem to have any heart at all. It is this that troubles you, and you must cast it out; you must forget your own interest, and learn everybody to love you; then you can't help loving everybody, and you will be happy. Oh, it will be hard, very hard, to do this; you will stop, and perhaps turn back; but when it is the darkest you must take the gentle hand that our dear brother, the Lord Jesus, stretches out to you, and he will lead you safely to the very bosom of the Father.

"But look up, dear one, the sun has gone down behind the hill, and you must hasten homeward. The mother bird must needs feel anxious when her nestlings are away. But don't forget what I have told you."

"No," said Annie, raising her head, for she had been thinking earnestly; every word that her kind friend had spoken went with a powerful influence to her heart; "I will _try_ and _do what I can,"_ said she.

"Ay," said the old woman, "that's right! not even an angel can do more. But stop," she added; "do you remember what day it is?"

"Yes," said Annie.

"Well then, just a year from this time, if the Lord permits, we will meet again by this spring. Now good night, and may the blessing of the Great Father go with you."

"Good night," said Annie, and with a cheerful heart and light footstep, she hastened homeward.

No sooner did she come in sight of her home, than she perceived a horse and carriage standing by the gate. She recognized it in a moment; it was the doctor's. A cold shudder passed over her, and an indefinable fear entered her mind. She hastened onward and entered the house.

Upon the bed lay little Katie; her eyes fixed upon the wall, seemingly unconscious of all that passed around her, sending forth low moans, as if in great pain. Beside her sat the doctor, counting the beatings of her pulse, and closely observing the alterations of her countenance.

"I cannot give you much encouragement," said he. "It is a disease of the brain. All shall be done for her that is possible, but I fear there is not much hope."

Alas! it was even so; all was done in vain. She laid day after day, a helpless sufferer. It was long before the vital energy was spent; but through all this weary time, there was one constant watcher by her bed-side.

Annie, with the impression of a deep truth upon her soul, felt that _now_ was the time to act, and most faithfully did she perform her duty. And when, at last, sweet Katie died, with a warm gush of tears she laid one of the flowers that she had gathered from the hill-side upon her bosom, and clasping her arms around her mother's neck, she said: "Mother, dear sister is gone, and now I must be both Annie and Katie to you; and if God will help me, I shall be more of a blessing to you than I ever yet have been."

Oh, it was like a ray of sunshine to that weeping mother's heart, to hear her once wayward child speak thus! and though it was like taking away the life-drops from her heart to give up her cherished little one, yet she felt there was still a great blessing remaining for her.

Time passed on. Autumn came with its ripened fruits and golden foliage; winter laid his glittering mantle upon the streams and hill-tops, and spring brought blossoms for little Katie's grave.

Annie, the gentle Annie, where was she?

Firm to her purpose, she had gone onward. At times the struggle was hard indeed. Then she would go to the spring, and kneel down, and talk with her Good Father, until the evil feelings had left her heart, and the cheerful smile came again to her countenance.

At length summer, bright, beautiful summer, beamed over the land once more, and as it drew to a close it brought the day on which Annie was to meet her friend at the spring.

It was the close of the Sabbath, and the last rays of the setting sun streamed through the branches of the trees that surrounded the spring, and tinged its waters with a rosy light. There sat the old lady, looking anxiously up the road.

"I wonder why she don't come," said she. "Perhaps the young thing has forgotten me. Sure 'twould be a sorrow to me if I thought she had."

"No indeed," said a pleasant voice. A light form sprang from a clump of bushes close by, and she felt a warm kiss upon her cheek. "No, I have not forgotten you, but I have come to tell you how happy I am. Oh, I have seen trouble and sorrow _enough_, since I saw you; but for all that, I am much happier than I was then. You told me that I must learn to love everybody, and so I did; and now it seems as if everybody and everything loved me, even our old cat and dog. Strange, isn't it?"

"Heart's dearest!" said the old woman, as soon as she could speak, wiping away the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron; "there's a philosophy in all things, even in baking bread and washing dishes; but the true philosophy of life consists in loving and doing; and, blessed be God! that is so plain, that the least of his children can understand it."

THE STARVING POOR OF IRELAND.

BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.

A wail comes o'er the ocean, Though faint, yet deep with woe! A nation's poor are falling Before the direst foe! Grim Famine there hath seized them, And over Erin's land The multitudes are perishing Beneath his blasting hand!

The father gives his morsel To his imploring child, Himself imploring mercy, too, With voice and visage wild. The ever-faithful mother Her portion, too, will share With those who lean upon her, And plead her dying care.

Then father, mother, children, Must listen, one and all, To Famine's surer, sterner voice-- To Death's relentless call. For means are all exhausted; Bread! bread! There is no more! And in that once glad cabin The conflict now is o'er.

Fond, faithful hearts there perished; Affections deep and true As other homes and loved ones Now know, or ever knew. And why this visitation So sweeping and so sore? Why? why? Repeat the question The wide world o'er and o'er!

In that same land is plenty, Profusion, wealth, and power, Enough to stay the famine-plague This very day and hour. Yes, while the poor are starving By scores and hundreds even, Riches and luxury send up Their impious laugh to heaven!

Wrong! wrong! this destitution, While there are means to save A nation of strong-hearted men From famine and the grave. Thanks, thanks for riches! but a woe To this our earth they bring, So long as they shall fail to save God's poor from suffering!

THE SABBATH SCHOOL FESTIVAL.

BY REV. HENRY BACON.

In these days of "exhibitions" and "excursions" which give such rich pleasure to our Sabbath school children, it may be well to turn back something over twenty years, and see what used to be "great things" to the pupils of the Sunday schools. The only festival I ever knew while in a Sabbath school, in my youth, was at Dr. Baldwin's church, Boston. As I was cradled in a different faith, I ought to tell how I came to be a scholar in a Baptist school; and I will do so, as it may give a good hint to some teachers to be impartial.

At the school I attended a decision was made to give a silver medal to the best scholar. A good many of us worked hard for it, especially the boys in the round pews near the pulpit, who had reason to think that the prize would fall to one of their number. A right good feeling prevailed amongst them; all were willing to acquiesce in whatever should be the decision of the superintendent or committee. When the time for decision came, a lad, the son of a deacon, and who had left school and had not been at school for six months, was sent for, and _to him_ the silver medal was given! We all felt outraged, but did not dare to say much. I begged my parents, with good reasoning, to let me go to another school, where I had many friends; and I went to Dr. Winchell's, in Salem street, where Mr. John Gear was superintendent.

What lessons I did get! Whole chapters were recited from the New Testament, because so many verses brought me a reward, so many rewards a mark, and so many marks _a book_! We had no libraries then. Well, the annual meeting came round, and one evening the school met and marched down to Dr. Baldwin's church. I remember the children did the singing, and while they were singing, of course, I sung; and I have not forgotten how crest-fallen I felt when Mr. Gear came along, and whispered to me, "Don't sing _so loud_;" but he might just as well have said, "Don't sing," because I knew he did not want me to sing, for I could not keep time. But it was festival-night, and he was extremely good-natured, and did not wish to cut short the privileges of any. A prayer was offered, and then we sung again. A big man, in a large black silk gown, got up, and delivered a sermon; but we did not heed it as we ought to have done, because some _tea-chests_ were ranged along at the base of the pulpit. It was not the _tea-chests_ that attracted our attention, but the sweets that we knew were _in_ them.

After the sermon was over, and the scholars were ranged in order, in single file, they marched up to the table near the chests, and each one received _a quarter of a sheet of gingerbread!_ How rich we were! How sweet the cake tasted! We were in perfect ecstasies at the "great piece" given to each of us! Such rows of happy children are seldom seen, and all because two cents worth of gingerbread was given to them all alike! We had thought of it for weeks, and it was delightful to anticipate the occasion. We felt paid for all the trouble we had met in learning lessons, in getting to school on rainy days, and keeping still and orderly when we got there. And why all this happiness from so slight a cause? Because we all felt loving and happy; we loved our teachers and our school; and it seemed _so odd_ to get gingerbread in the church and from the Sabbath school superintendent.

But how is it now? A long ride or sail; swings, music, cakes, pies, fruit, lemonade, and a vast variety of "good things," must be had, or else the Sabbath school children do not have "a good time!" After all this is had and enjoyed, I do not believe it is any better than our simple quarter of a sheet of gingerbread, unless the scholars love each other more, and their schools better, than we did. Do _you_, reader?

NELLY GREY.

"Nelly! Nelly! Where can the child be? Nelly! Nelly!" But Nelly Grey was away off in dreamland, and the cheerful tones of her mother's voice fell all unheeded upon her ear, as did the impatient touch of her little dog Frisk's cold nose upon her hand. She was sitting on the last step of the vine-covered portico in front of the cottage,--the warm June sun smiling down lovingly upon her, and the soft wind kissing the little rings of chestnut-colored hair that clustered about her temples.

What could make the child so quiet? It must be some weighty matter that would still _her_ joyous laugh. Why, she was the merriest little body that ever hunted for violets. There was a laugh lodged in every dimple of her sunny face, and her busy little tongue was all the day long carolling some happy ditty.

"Nelly, what are you dreaming about? I've been calling you this long time, and here you are in this warm sun, almost asleep."

"No, no! mother dear, I've only been thinking, and haven't heard you call once. Only to think that you couldn't find me mother! how funny!"

"And what has my little girl been thinking of?" said Mrs. Grey, as she lifted Nelly into her lap, and smoothed hack the silky curls from her brow. Nelly laid her rosy cheek close to her mother's, and wound her small arms about her neck, and told her simple thoughts in a low, sweet voice.

"You know it's strawberry time, mother, don't you?"

"Yes, darling."

"Well, I was thinking, if you would let me, I could pick a big basket full, they are so thick over in our meadow; and maybe Mrs. Preston would buy them of me, for she gives Mr. Jones a heap of money every year for them."

"And what does Nelly want of a heap of money?"

"Why, mother, little Frisk wants a brass collar,--don't you, Frisk?" Frisk barked and played all sorts of antics to show his young mistress he was very much in need of one. "Think how pretty it would be, mother, round Frisk's glossy neck. Oh, say that I may--do, do, mother!"

Nelly's pleading proved irresistible, and her mother tied her little sunbonnet under her chin, gave the "big basket" into her hands, and the little girl trudged merrily off, with Frisk jumping and barking by her side to see his young mistress so happy.

Shall I tell how the long summer afternoon wore away, dear little reader, and how the big basket was filled to the tip-top and covered with wild flowers and oak leaves? Shall I tell, or shall I leave you to guess, my little bright eyes? You say, yes? Well, I will tell you about her walk to Mrs. Preston's after the sun had gone down and the azure blue sky had become changed to a soft, golden hue.

It was a pleasant walk under the drooping trees, and Nelly Grey, swinging her basket carefully on her arm, tripped lightly on her way. Oh, how her blue eyes danced with joy as she looked down upon the little merry Frisk trotting by her side; her bright lips parted as she murmured, "Yes, yes, Frisk shall have a nice new collar, with 'Nelly Grey's dog, Frisk,' written upon it;" then Frisk played all sorts of funny antics again, probably by way of thanks.

Ah! but what calls that sudden blush and smile to Nelly's face?--and she had well nigh stumbled, too, and spilt all her strawberries. No wonder she started, for, emerging from under the shadow of the trees, was a handsome lad some half a head taller than Nelly. He was gazing, too, with a witching smile into her face, waiting till it should be the little maiden's pleasure to notice him. She nodded her pretty little head as demurely as a city belle, laid her small hand lovingly upon Frisk's curly coat, and walked with a slower and less bounding step than before. But Phil Morton was not to be abashed at this; so he stepped lightly up to Nelly, saying,

"Let me carry your basket; it is too heavy for you."

The little girl, with many injunctions to be careful and not tip it over, delivered the basket to him; she then told him her project of buying Frisk a collar with the money got by the selling of the strawberries, which young Phil approved of very much, and offered to go with her to buy it, for he knew somebody, he said, that kept them for sale. Nelly joyfully assented to his offer, and thanked him heartily, too, for his kindness.

"There, Phil, we are almost there. I can see the long study window; we have only to pass the widow Mason's cottage, up the green lane, and we shall be there."

On they walked, laughing merrily for very lightness of heart, till they were close beside the poor widow's low cottage window. Suddenly Nelly stopped, and the laugh was hushed upon her bright lips. "Did you hear it, Phil?" she said softly. "Hear what, Nell?" and Phil turned his black eyes slowly round, as if he expected to see some fairy issue from the grove of trees near by. "Why, Lucy Mason's cough. Mother says she will not live to see the little snow-birds come again. Poor, dear Lucy!" The great tear-drops rolled fast over Nelly's red cheeks, and fell like rain upon her little hand. "Oh, Phil, I'll tell you what;--I'll give these strawberries to Lucy. She used to love them dearly."

"Poh! poh! Nelly; what a silly girl! to give them away when Mrs. Preston will give you such a deal of money for them!"

"But, Phil, Lucy's mother is poor; she can't buy them for her, and you can't think how well Lucy loves them."

"Well, what if she does, and what if she is poor? can't her mother pick them over in the fields, if she wants them so bad? I wouldn't give them away."

"For shame, Phil Morton! To think of poor old Mrs. Mason's going over in the fields to pick strawberries, leaving Lucy all alone, and so sick! I shouldn't have thought it of you, Phil. No, indeed I shouldn't. Give me the basket," said Nelly sorrowfully; "I shall give them to Lucy." Phil silently handed the basket to her, and, without speaking, he followed Nelly as she went round to the cottage door.

The tears ran silently down the poor widow's cheek as she led the children to her sick child's room, for it touched her heart to see young and thoughtless children so attentive to her poor Lucy. "And did you come all this way, you and Phil, Nelly, to bring me these nice strawberries?" without waiting for her to reply, she turned to a little choice tea-rose that stood beside her, and, breaking off two half-blown buds, she gave them to Phil and Nelly, saying as she did so, "It's all I have to give you, darlings, for your kindness to me, but I know that you will like them as coming from your sick friend."

The bright blood flashed over Phil's dark brow and crimsoned even his ears. Poor Phil! The shame and remorse of those few minutes washed away his unthinking sin, and Nelly forgave him, and tried with all her power to make him forget it. But the kind though thoughtless boy was not satisfied until he had sent Lucy a pretty little basket filled with rare and beautiful flowers, gathered from his father's large garden. Then, and not till then, did he look with pleasure upon the rose Lucy had given him.

Some time after the above occurrence, perhaps a week, Nelly was sitting in her low rocking-chair, under the shadow of the portico, sewing as busily as her nimble little fingers would let her, when a shadow darkened the sunlit walk leading to the house. Nelly saw it, and knew well enough who it was; but there she sat, her pretty little mouth pursed up, and her merry blue eyes almost closed, working faster than ever.

"Oh! is it you, Phil?" she exclaimed, as Phil Morton bounded lightly over the railing beside her, (for he disdained the sober process of walking up the steps;) "how you frightened me!" _He_ frighten _her!_ Though he was naughty sometimes, and scared the little birds, he would not think of frightening Nelly Grey. No, not he.

"Oh! Phil, I have something to show you," said the little girl, after a while, and then she raised her voice and called, "Frisk! Frisk!" Frisk was not far away from Nelly, and presently he came lazily along, shaking his silky coat as if he did not quite relish being waked from his nap so abruptly.

"But what is that shining so brightly around his neck--can it be a collar? Well, it is, sure enough. But where _did_ you get it, Nell?" said Phil, turning to her in amazement.

"Mrs. Preston, the minister's wife, gave it to me; how she came to know I wanted it, I can't think."

"But I can, Nell. She heard us when we were talking, I'll bet; for you know she came in just after we did, and she gave it to you for being so good."