Part 6

"What can George be about?" said the mother, looking out of the window, and straining her anxious eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of him as he came across the common; "he never was so long on an errand before. He surely might have managed to come back himself before this time, whether the doctor could come with him or not."

"Keep yourself easy, mother," said Sally, gently, who was the only one that was not impatient, "I am sure he will come back as soon as he possibly can."

"Peggy, run along as far as the stable yonder, and try if you can see any thing of him," added her mother, "and come back directly and tell me if you do."

Away went Peggy, followed by the little Kitty, and having caught a sight of her elder brother, was about to do as she had been ordered, and hasten to the house to announce the intelligence, when her curiosity was excited, and her steps arrested, by the sight of another object, for whose presence she was unable to account. "Why, who can that be that is coming along the road with Tom? I declare it is Ben, the butcher's boy. What can he want here, I wonder?" At that moment Tom was heard calling Croppy! Croppy! and in an instant Croppy came bounding across the common to meet him. George, too, had arrived at the same time from an opposite direction, and eagerly inquired what he wanted with Croppy; but the next moment, like a stroke of lightning, the truth flashed across his mind, and, throwing himself down by the side of the lamb, he clasped his arms around its neck. "I know what is the matter--I know it all," he exclaimed. "Sally is going to sell Croppy, for the sake of paying for my schooling; but its innocent life shall not be taken away for any such thing. I can read and teach myself, and Croppy shall not be killed."

"Hush, George, give over making that noise, man. Don't you hear mother calling you? Get up, I tell you, and don't make such a rout about a lamb; it's not the first lamb that has been killed, I am sure."

Peggy now caught the alarm, and bursting into tears, she ran to the butcher's boy. "You must not take Croppy away. Oh! you shall not kill our dear little Croppy," she exclaimed, pushing the boy back with her little hands as she spoke, while Kitty, scarcely able to understand the meaning of what was going forward, and anxious only to show kindness to their little favourite, had got some water from a bucket that stood near her, and was trying to coax the little creature to drink. But Croppy, as if conscious of the fate that awaited him, was insensible to all her solicitations. At this moment, the sound of horses' feet was heard, and the next, the doctor rode up to them, and struck with the expression of grief on George's countenance, and with Peggy's distress, inquired what was the matter. The story was soon told. "Oh, cheer up, my good boy," said he, addressing himself to George, whose sensibility and anxiety for improvement struck him with equal admiration, "keep yourself easy, for the lamb shall live, and you shall go to school into the bargain." So saying, he gave the butcher's boy a piece of money to reconcile him to going back without the lamb; then turning to George, he assured him that he would take the expense of his schooling upon himself, and that instead of a month, he should stay a year, or more, if he found that he continued to set as high a value as he at present did upon being furnished with the means of improvement. "And now," added he, "I must go and see after this kind sister of yours, whose health I shall be doubly anxious to restore after this proof of her amiable and affectionate disposition." But though he was on horseback, George was at the house before him, and was making his way immediately to Sally's room, when he was stopped by his mother, who met him, and, in an agony of tears, told him that Sally was too ill to be spoken to. Disappointed at not being able either to express his gratitude for the proof of affection which she had given, or to make her a sharer of his own happiness, he sunk down on a seat, and waited the return of the doctor, whom his mother now conducted to the sick chamber. After waiting a long time, he at length heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, and his voice, as he spoke in a soft tone to his mother. George fixed his eyes on the face of the physician as he entered the room where he was, and endeavoured to read in it what he thought of his patient, but felt afraid to inquire.

"May I go up now?" asked he, in a timid voice.

"Yes. Go up, she is anxious to have you with her, and I am sure I need not tell you to pay her all the attention in your power."

George did not wait to make any reply, but was, in an instant, by Sally's bed-side. But how great, how alarming, was the change that he saw in her from the time that he had last left her!

"Sally! dear Sally, I am come to thank you," said he. Sally raised her eyes and smiled on him affectionately. "How kind it was to give up your little pet to pay for my schooling. But, though I am going to school, you will still have Croppy to be kind to."

"Croppy will not be taken from me, but I shall soon be taken away from him. George, I am going to leave you all very soon."

"Oh! Sally, don't talk that way," said George, in a tone of extreme agitation. "What has the doctor been doing to frighten you so?"

"The doctor has not frightened me. He told me that he hoped he should make me well again, but I know better; I know that I am dying; but I am not frightened, for I know that I am going to a kind father. I am sorry to part with you all, especially you, George, but it must be, and we shall meet again soon."

"Oh, don't talk about dying, Sally," cried the afflicted boy, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he spoke, "don't talk about leaving us. I cannot bear to think of parting with you."

"George," said Sally, and an almost heavenly expression brightened her countenance as she spoke, "you have read a great deal, but your reading will be of little use if you have not learnt to know that it is our duty to submit with patience to the will of our Heavenly Father. I like to be with you, and am sorry to think of leaving you, but I know we shall meet again, and then there will be no more parting. But we will talk no more about it now. Mother is coming, and I don't want to distress her."

George looked at Sally, and tried to persuade himself that she was mistaken in imagining herself so ill. But the more he examined her countenance on which the indelible stamp of death was already impressed, the more he was convinced that she was right. From that moment, he scarcely quitted her bed-side, but watched over her, read portions of the scriptures to her whenever she was able to listen, and even prayed with her. Her composure and benignity were gradually communicated to his mind, so that though the one of all the family who was the most fondly attached to her, he was the only one who could view her approaching death with sufficient calmness to be able to listen to her when she talked about it. Short was the time, however, that he was called upon to exercise this self-command, for the vital torch was nearly extinguished, and her short, but innocent life, was nearly drawn to a close. George, whose affectionate offices seemed to become more and more grateful to her as the time approached nearer when she must resign them altogether, had sat up with her all night; and her mother, toward morning, was prevailed upon to go and take a little rest, under the assurance from Sally, that she did not need any thing that her brother could not do for her. Just as her mother left the room, the first beam of the morning sun glanced through the window. "Put out the lamp, George," said she, "and draw back the window curtain, that I may see the sun rise. It is the last time that I shall ever see it rise, and oh! it is a glorious sight. I should have been glad, if I had been permitted to live longer, for this world is beautiful, and I wanted to see you a wise and good man, but that I hope you will be, though I am not here to see it; and always remember me, George, and think how dearly I loved you. Raise me up a little, and put the pillows under my shoulders--there, that will do. Oh! George, I can't see! Take hold of my hand." George took her hand, she pressed his gently; and he watched, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest it should prevent him from hearing her words when she should next speak. But gradually he felt her hand relax from the pressure of his; he looked at her lips, but they were still; he put his face to her mouth, but no breath escaped from it; all was motionless. He was conscious that she was dead, but so sweet, so placid was the repose into which she was sunk, that he was unwilling to stir, lest he should destroy the heavenly feeling. How long he thus hung over her, he was himself unconscious; but when, at length, he was interrupted by the entrance of some of the family, he left the room, and hastened into the open air, as if unwilling to mingle the hallowed feelings which pervaded his mind with the more boisterous grief of the other members of the family.

Violent grief, for such a death, George felt to be impossible; and though he never ceased to think of her loss but with the most affectionate regret, his sorrow was so blended with the conviction that the change was a happy one for her, that it soon softened down to a holy and tender remembrance, which served only to stimulate his mind to virtue and piety; and the sweet proof that she had given so short a time before her death of her affection for him, made him cherish with grateful pleasure the recollection of the Pet Lamb.

THE CLEAN FACE;

or,

THE BOY WASHED BY HIS ELDER SISTER.

Oh! why must my face be wash'd so clean, And scrubb'd and drench'd for Sunday, When you know very well (as you've always seen) 'Twill be dirty again on Monday?

My hair is stiff with the lathery soap That behind my ears is dripping; And my smarting eyes I'm afraid to ope; And my lip the suds is sipping.

They're down my throat, and up my nose-- And to choke me you seem to be trying. That I'll shut my mouth you needn't suppose, For how can I keep from crying?

And you rub as hard as ever you can-- And your hands are hard--to my sorrow; No woman shall wash me when I'm a man-- And I wish I was one to-morrow.

E. LESLIE.

LE LOUP ET L'AGNEAU.

BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHTS OF EDUCATION.

Soon after the dreadful massacre of the white inhabitants of St. Domingo many years ago, a French family came to settle in Baltimore. With a small sum of money, saved from the wreck of a large fortune, they purchased an acre of ground, about a mile from town, with a stone house built on it; over which they contrived to spread a foreign appearance, by thatching the slanting roof of the porch in front--latticing the small windows--and hanging out a nightingale in a wicker cage. The family consisted of a gentleman and lady, a nephew, and an infant daughter, with the domestics, the faithful adherents of their master's adverse fortune. After some time, Mr. Leroy obtained a small salary in the French consul's office; Madame Leroy worked stays; the servant woman (Pauline) made cakes, and sold them at market, or in the park on _field-days_, to the followers of the military assembled there. The man (Antoine) cultivated West India vegetables; but when Pauline was away, he added all the work of the house to his own occupation; and could cook, wash, and iron, better than herself, though he never scolded half so loud. Little Susette was a sweet creature; with bright laughing black eyes, and of a lively, courageous temper. Her cousin was not so; whether the horrid scenes he indistinctly remembered in his own country, or the little sympathy he found in another, tended the most to depression and fear, I know not; but Louis was pensive even to sadness, and timid almost to feminine weakness. These qualities, so injurious to his future prospects, might have been overcome, since they did not appear in the feelings of his early childhood, had he been left either with his family, in the peaceful enjoyment of his own little pleasures, or found associates, who would have enlivened and encouraged by kindness and protection. But the only boy who sought his society, was the least likely to benefit him in this respect. He was the son of a wealthy brewer, whose residence was near Mr. Leroy's, and his name was Michael Redman; commonly called Mike, and sometimes Red Mike. This boy was the usual companion of Louis, from beyond the Falls to school, and back again. Strange, that nothing should grow out of such constant intercourse, in a free country, but wanton oppression and slavish fear; because the ready invention and quick perception of the little Frenchman excited the envy of his unintellectual companion, though he affected to despise all the delicate endowments of that mind, which he kept in bondage by the exercise of his savage strength alone; but this reduced Louis to the most degraded state of slavery, till at length he became subservient to his tyrant's purposes on every occasion; would I could say of good _or_ evil, where all was evil. On Michael's youthful countenance already were impressed the marks of fatal passions; and every day the traces deepened, the shadows darkened. This was more perceptible, whenever his forbidding face appeared in opposition to the lovely, innocent countenance of Louis Leroy; and then so remarkable was the contrast exhibited, that any one would have been struck with the truth of the application, when an old French gentleman, who usually came on an evening to share Mr. Leroy's frugal supper, of bread and salad, exclaimed on seeing the two boys together--"Voila, le loup et l'agneau." (Behold, the wolf and the lamb.) Well might he say so, and the transactions of two days will prove it sufficiently to the reader. Little Susette had been ill, and was ordered regular exposure in the open air. This was not so easy, considering the constant occupation of the family; but Louis carried her in his arms all about the place, whenever he was at home, till she recovered, and then she soon grew too stout for his nursing; so one day, when Pauline was gone to attend a parade in the park, Antoine was spreading out beans and okras at the back of the house to dry, and Madame Leroy was finishing a pair of stays, Louis took the baby in his arms, and carried her under a shady tree; when sitting down beside her, he began to contrive in his thoughts a proper coach for her.

As soon as he had drawn out the plan in his head, he set about the execution of it with his hands; and by the labour of a few Saturdays, and the sacrifice of a little money that his teacher had given him for some service in the school, he made her an elegant carriage, which he painted with yellow ochre, and emblazoned with his uncle's coat of arms, as he thought he remembered it on the old family coach, belonging to three generations of noblesse in St. Domingo. He had put the infant in her fairy vehicle, and was drawing her toward the house, to show it to his aunt, when Mike Redman appeared. "Hurra, Louy, what have you got there? It looks like a frog in a pumpkin shell." The comparison was not unapt, when he only saw a small head, and two little fat hands, peeping out of a yellow box. "Come, tumble it out here, I want you to go a-fishing, and this wagon will do to carry them home in." "Oh, no, Michael, that is little Susette's." "Oh, never mind, she's able to trot about well enough on her own stumpy legs; but the fish have no feet to walk." "I will bring Antoine's basket." "No, you needn't, this thing here is a great deal better; and we'll keep it for that always. So hurra, Miss Susan, clear out, and run as fast as you can." Saying this, he took the baby from the carriage, and stood her on the ground; upon which she did not cry, but remained looking in his face, with a mixed expression of surprise and dislike, and never offered to stir; Louis, who at the moment was more afraid for Susette than himself, agreed to go with Mike, if he would wait till he carried the child in. Satisfied with his conquest so far, Redman remained; and when Louis returned, they set off,--but this poor boy could not recover the mortification of sacrificing the toy he had made, with such ingenuity, for the use of his little cousin, and with which he thought he should delight her parents, for the portage of Mike Redman's fish: yet, even this was not so painful a sensation, as he felt, when forced by his companion to catch worms, and bait the hooks with them. At the commencement, indeed, he was so much overcome, that he sickened to faintishness, upon which Michael showed so much feeling, as to throw a hat-full of water in his face; from which it descended in streams to his breast, and making his clothes thoroughly wet, promised to add ill-health to the other evils of his constitution. When the boys were returning home, Mike said, "This is a prime thing, Louy--this here wagon, I'm going to keep it, to carry things always; you can easily get another for yourself, if you want." "No, Michael, I cannot, I have not more money." "Oh! well then, you can do without--as you did before you made it." "But, little Susette, she cannot do without it, because she is sick." "Sick--not she, I tell you--she's as stout as any little pig, so you must make her walk." "Oh, no, Michael, she is too little, she cannot walk such a great deal." "To be sure she can--it is the very thing for her; why, she'll grow as round as one of them tubs yonder in our yard, if you let her ride; so, I'll keep the carriage for that; and, look here, Louy, since you're so clever at these sort o' notions, I want you to make me some arrows. You must get me a dozen done by Saturday--that's the last of our holidays, you know--and then, if I shoot any birds a _Sunday_, I'll give you one or two for your supper." "I do not want them, Michael, I would prefer you let them sing on Sunday."--"Well, I don't want to give you any birds, if you prefer _go without_--but you must make me the arrows at any rate, and if you don't have them ready, when I call for them, you'll be sorry." What Mike Redman wanted with a dozen arrows and a baby's carriage, I leave to the consideration of those young people, who have witnessed in their companions a premature acuteness in ways of traffic; which discovers itself in the sale, or barter, of all the small wares they can beg or borrow: I omit the other word, so commonly united with these two, because, I trust, that at this period, when education has extended moral influence so far, there is not one, in the whole circle of boyish transgressions, to whom the application of such a word would not be a false and shocking libel. The characters of children then, perhaps, were less attended to; and certainly Mike Redman's parents, though they fed him plentifully, and clothed him fashionably, could never have instructed him in the slightest principle; since he did not give without reluctance, to the poor boy who assisted him materially, a few little fishes to help out his miserable dinner, or scruple to take from him a toy that had cost him three days' labour, and the money that otherwise should have purchased him a new jacket, (which he sadly wanted,) to procure pleasure for his infant relative.