Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag

 Louisa M. Alcott

 AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 

 PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. , NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON

 AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG

 BY

 LOUISA M. ALCOTT, AUTHOR OF

 'LITTLE WOMEN, ' 'AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL, ' 'LITTLE MEN, ' 'HOSPITAL SKETCHES. '

 _NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION_

 LONDON SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY (_LIMITED_) St. Dunstan's House FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E. C. 1892

 _All rights reserved_

PREFACE. 

As grandmothers rummage their piece-bags and bundles in search of gayodds and ends to make gifts with which to fill the little stockings thathang all in a row on Christmas Eve, so I have gathered together somestories, old and new, to amuse the large family that has so rapidly andbeautifully grown up about me. 

I hope that when they promenade in night-caps and gowns to rifle theplump stockings, the little 'dears' will utter an 'Oh!' of pleasure, andgive a prance of satisfaction, as they pull out this small gift fromAunt Jo's Scrap-Bag. 

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS, 1871-72. 

CONTENTS. 

 PAGE

 MY BOYS. 1

 TESSA'S SURPRISES. 45

 BUZZ. 75

 THE CHILDREN'S JOKE. 85

 DANDELION. 116

 MADAM CLUCK AND HER FAMILY. 127

 A CURIOUS CALL. 141

 TILLY'S CHRISTMAS. 156

 MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 170

 BACK WINDOWS. 188

 LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 200

 MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS. 222

 OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. 235

 PATTY'S PATCHWORK. 244

_MY BOYS. _

Feeling that I have been unusually fortunate in my knowledge of a choiceand pleasing variety of this least appreciated portion of the humanrace, I have a fancy to record some of my experiences, hoping that itmay awaken an interest in other minds, and cause other people tocultivate the delightful, but too often neglected boys, who now run towaste, so to speak. 

I have often wondered what they thought of the peculiar treatment theyreceive, even at the hands of their nearest friends. While they arerosy, roly-poly little fellows they are petted and praised, adorned andadored, till it is a miracle that they are not utterly ruined. But themoment they outgrow their babyhood their trials begin, and they areregarded as nuisances till they are twenty-one, when they are againreceived into favor. 

Yet that very time of neglect is the period when they most need allmanner of helps, and ought to have them. I like boys and oysters raw;so, though good manners are always pleasing, I don't mind the roughoutside burr which repels most people, and perhaps that is the reasonwhy the burrs open and let me see the soft lining and taste the sweetnut hidden inside. 

My first well-beloved boy was a certain Frank, to whom I clung at theage of seven with a devotion which I fear he did not appreciate. Therewere six girls in the house, but I would have nothing to say to them, preferring to tag after Frank, and perfectly happy when he allowed me toplay with him. I regret to say that the small youth was something of atyrant, and one of his favorite amusements was trying to make me cry byslapping my hands with books, hoop-sticks, shoes, anything that camealong capable of giving a good stinging blow. I believe I endured thesemarks of friendship with the fortitude of a young Indian, and felt fullyrepaid for a blistered palm by hearing Frank tell the other boys, 'She'sa brave little thing, and you can't make her cry. '

My chief joy was in romping with him in the long galleries of a pianomanufactory behind our house. What bliss it was to mount one of the carson which the workmen rolled heavy loads from room to room, and to gothundering down the inclined plains, regardless of the crash thatusually awaited us at the bottom! If I could have played foot-ball onthe Common with my Frank and Billy Babcock, life could have offered meno greater joy at that period. As the prejudices of society forbid thissport, I revenged myself by driving hoop all around the mall withoutstopping, which the boys could _not_ do. 

I can remember certain happy evenings, when we snuggled in sofa cornersand planned tricks and ate stolen goodies, and sometimes Frank would puthis curly head in my lap and let me stroke it when he was tired. Whatthe girls did I don't recollect; their domestic plays were not to mytaste, and the only figure that stands out from the dimness of the pastis that jolly boy with a twinkling eye. This memory would be quiteradiant but for one sad thing--a deed that cut me to the soul then, andwhich I have never quite forgiven in all these years. 

On one occasion I did something very naughty, and when called up forjudgment fled to the dining-room, locked the door, and from mystronghold defied the whole world. I could have made my own terms, forit was near dinner time and the family must eat; but, alas for thetreachery of the human heart! Frank betrayed me. He climbed in at thewindow, unlocked the door, and delivered me up to the foe. Nay, he evendefended the base act, and helped bear the struggling culprit toimprisonment. That nearly broke my heart, for I believed _he_ wouldstand by me as staunchly as I always stood by him. It was a sad blow, and I couldn't love or trust him any more. Peanuts and candy, ginger-snaps and car-rides were unavailing; even foot-ball could notreunite the broken friendship, and to this day I recollect the pangthat entered my little heart when I lost my faith in the loyalty of myfirst boy. 

The second attachment was of quite a different sort, and had a happierending. At the mature age of ten, I left home for my first visit to afamily of gay and kindly people in--well why not say rightout?--Providence. There were no children, and at first I did not mindthis, as every one petted me, especially one of the young men namedChristopher. So kind and patient, yet so merry was this good Christythat I took him for my private and particular boy, and loved him dearly;for he got me out of innumerable scrapes, and never was tired of amusingthe restless little girl who kept the family in a fever of anxiety byher pranks. _He_ never laughed at her mishaps and mistakes, never playedtricks upon her like a certain William, who composed the most tryingnicknames, and wickedly goaded the wild visitor into all manner ofnaughtiness. Christy stood up for her through everything; let her ridethe cows, feed the pigs, bang on the piano, and race all over the spicemill, feasting on cinnamon and cloves; brought her down from housetopsand fished her out of brooks; never scolded, and never seemed tired ofthe troublesome friendship of little Torment. 

In a week I had exhausted every amusement and was desperately homesick. It has always been my opinion that I should have been speedily restoredto the bosom of my family but for Christy, and but for him I shouldassuredly have run away before the second week was out. He kept me, andin the hour of my disgrace stood by me like a man and a brother. 

One afternoon, inspired by a spirit of benevolence, enthusiastic butshort-sighted, I collected several poor children in the barn, andregaled them on cake and figs, helping myself freely to the treasures ofthe pantry without asking leave, meaning to explain afterward. Beingdiscovered before the supplies were entirely exhausted, the patience ofthe long-suffering matron gave out, and I was ordered up to the garretto reflect upon my sins, and the pleasing prospect of being sent homewith the character of the worst child ever known. 

My sufferings were deep as I sat upon a fuzzy little trunk all alone inthe dull garret, thinking how hard it was to do right, and wondering whyI was scolded for feeding the poor when we were expressly bidden to doso. I felt myself an outcast, and bewailed the disgrace I had broughtupon my family. Nobody could possibly love such a bad child; and if themice were to come and eat me then and there--à la Bishop Hatto--itwould only be a relief to my friends. At this dark moment I heardChristy say below, 'She meant it kindly, so I wouldn't mind, Fanny;' andthen up came my boy full of sympathy and comfort. Seeing the tragicexpression of my face, he said not a word, but, sitting down in an oldchair, took me on his knee and held me close and quietly, letting theaction speak for itself. It did most eloquently; for the kind arm seemedto take me back from that dreadful exile, and the friendly face toassure me without words that I had not sinned beyond forgiveness. 

I had not shed a tear before, but now I cried tempestuously, and clungto him like a shipwrecked little mariner in a storm. Neither spoke, buthe held me fast and let me cry myself to sleep; for, when the shower wasover, a pensive peace fell upon me, and the dim old garret seemed not aprison, but a haven of refuge, since my boy came to share it with me. How long I slept I don't know, but it must have been an hour, at least;yet my good Christy never stirred, only waited patiently till I woke upin the twilight, and was not afraid because he was there. He took medown as meek as a mouse, and kept me by him all that trying evening, screening me from jokes, rebukes, and sober looks; and when I went tobed he came up to kiss me, and to assure me that this awful circumstanceshould not be reported at home. This took a load off my heart, and Iremember fervently thanking him, and telling him I never would forgetit. 

I never have, though he died long ago, and others have probablyforgotten all about the naughty prank. I often longed to ask him how heknew the surest way to win a child's heart by the patience, sympathy, and tender little acts that have kept his memory green for nearly thirtyyears. 

Cy was a comrade after my own heart, and for a summer or two we kept theneighbourhood in a ferment by our adventures and hair-breadth escapes. Ithink I never knew a boy so full of mischief, and my opportunities ofjudging have been manifold. He did not get into scrapes himself, butpossessed a splendid talent for deluding others into them, and thenmorally remarking, 'There, I told you so!' His way of saying 'Youdars'nt do this or that' was like fire to powder; and why I still livein the possession of all my limbs and senses is a miracle to those whoknow my youthful friendship with Cy. It was he who incited me to jumpoff of the highest beam in the barn, to be borne home on a board with apair of sprained ankles. It was he who dared me to rub my eyes with redpeppers, and then sympathisingly led me home blind and roaring withpain. It was he who solemnly assured me that all the little pigs woulddie in agony if their tails were not cut off, and won me to holdthirteen little squealers while the operation was performed. Thosethirteen innocent pink tails haunt me yet, and the memory of that deedhas given me a truly Jewish aversion to pork. 

I did not know him long, but he was a kindred soul, and must have aplace in my list of boys. He is a big, brown man now, and, having donehis part in the war, is at work on his farm. We meet sometimes, andthough we try to be dignified and proper, it is quite impossible; thereis a sly twinkle in Cy's eye that upsets my gravity, and we always burstout laughing at the memory of our early frolics. 

My Augustus! oh, my Augustus! my first little lover, and the mostromantic of my boys. At fifteen I met this charming youth, and thought Ihad found my fate. It was at a spelling school in a little country townwhere I, as a stranger and visitor from the city, was an object ofinterest. Painfully conscious of this fact, I sat in a corner trying tolook easy and elegant, with a large red bow under my chin, and acarnelian ring in full view. Among the boys and girls who frolickedabout me, I saw one lad of seventeen with 'large blue eyes, a noblebrow, and a beautiful straight nose, ' as I described him in a letter tomy sister. This attractive youth had a certain air of refinement andease of manner that the others lacked; and when I found he was theminister's son, I felt that I might admire him without loss of dignity. 'Imagine my sensations, ' as Miss Burney's Evelina says, when this boycame and talked to me, a little bashfully at first, but soon quitefreely, and invited me to a huckleberry party next day. I had observedthat he was one of the best spellers. I also observed that his languagewas quite elegant; he even quoted Byron, and rolled his eyes in a mostengaging manner, not to mention that he asked who gave me my ring, andsaid he depended on escorting me to the berry pasture. 

'Dear me, how interesting it was! and when I found myself, next day, sitting under a tree in the sunny field (full of boys and girls, allmore or less lovering), with the amiable Augustus at my feet, gallantlysupplying me with bushes to strip while we talked about books andpoetry, I really felt as if I had got into a novel, and enjoyed itimmensely. I believe a dim idea that Gus was sentimental hovered in mymind, but I would not encourage it, though I laughed in my sleeve whenhe was spouting Latin for my benefit, and was uncertain whether to boxhis ears or simper later in the day, when he languished over the gate, and said he thought chestnut hair the loveliest in the world. 

Poor, dear boy! how innocent and soft-hearted and full of splendiddreams he was, and what deliciously romantic times we had floating onthe pond, while the frogs sung to his accordion, as he tried to sayunutterable things with his honest blue eyes. It makes me shiver now tothink of the mosquitoes and the damp; but it was Pauline and ClaudeMelnotte then, and when I went home we promised to be true to oneanother, and write every week during the year he was away at school. 

We parted--not in tears by any means; that sort of nonsense comeslater, when the romance is less childish--but quite jolly andcomfortable, and I hastened to pour forth the thrilling tale to myfaithful sister, who approved of the match, being a perfect 'mush ofsentiment' herself. 

I fear it was not a very ardent flame, however, for Gus did not writeevery week, and I did not care a bit; nevertheless, I kept his pictureand gave it a sentimental sigh when I happened to think of it, while hesent messages now and then, and devoted himself to his studies like anambitious boy as he was. I hardly expected to see him again, but soonafter the year was out, to my great surprise, he called. I was sofluttered by the appearance of his card that I rather lost my head, anddid such a silly thing that it makes me laugh even now. He likedchestnut hair, and, pulling out my combs, I rushed down, theatricallydishevelled, hoping to impress my lover with my ardour and my charms. 

I expected to find little Gus; but, to my great confusion, a tall beingwith a beaver in his hand rose to meet me, looking so big and handsomeand generally imposing that I could not recover myself for severalminutes, and mentally wailed for my combs, feeling like an untidysimpleton. 

I don't know whether he thought me a little cracked or not, but he wasvery friendly and pleasant, and told me his plans, and hoped I wouldmake another visit, and smoothed his beaver, and let me see histail-coat, and behaved himself like a dear, conceited, clever boy. Hedid not allude to our love-passages, being shy, and I blessed him forit; for really, I don't know what rash thing I might have done underthe exciting circumstances. Just as he was going, however, he forgothis cherished hat for a minute, put out both hands, and said heartily, with his old boyish laugh, --

'Now you will come, and we'll go boating and berrying, and all the restof it again, won't we?'

The blue eyes were full of fun and feeling, too, I fancied, as Iblushingly retired behind my locks and gave the promise. But I neverwent, and never saw my little lover any more, for in a few weeks he wasdead of a fever, brought on by too much study, --and so ended the sadhistory of my fourth boy. 

After this, for many years, I was a boyless being; but was so busy I didnot feel my destitute condition till I went to the hospital during thewar, and found my little sergeant. His story has been told elsewhere, but the sequel to it is a pleasant one, for Baby B. Still writes to menow and then, asks advice about his future, and gladdens me with goodnews of his success as a business man in Kansas. 

As if to atone for the former dearth, a sudden shower of most superiorboys fell upon me, after I recovered from my campaign. Some of the verybest sort it was my fortune to know and like--real gentlemen, yet boysstill--and jolly times they had, stirring up the quiet old town withtheir energetic society. 

There was W. , a stout, amiable youth, who would stand in the middle of astrawberry patch with his hands in his pockets and let us feed himluxuriously. B. , a delightful scapegrace, who came once a week toconfess his sins, beat his breast in despair, vow awful vows ofrepentance, and then cheerfully depart to break every one of them in thenext twenty-four hours. S. , the gentle-hearted giant; J. , the dandy;sober, sensible B. ; and E. , the young knight without reproach or fear. 

But my especial boy of the batch was A. --proud and cold and shy to otherpeople, sad and serious sometimes when his good heart and tenderconscience showed him his short-comings, but so grateful for sympathyand a kind word. 

I could not get at him as easily as I could the other lads, but, thanksto Dickens, I found him out at last. 

We played Dolphus and Sophy Tetterby in the 'Haunted Man, ' at one of theschool festivals; and during the rehearsals I discovered that my Dolphuswas--permit the expression, oh, well-bred readers!--a trump. What fun wehad to be sure, acting the droll and pathetic scenes together, with aswarm of little Tetterbys skirmishing about us! From that time he hasbeen my Dolphus and I his Sophy, and my yellow-haired laddie don'tforget me, though he has a younger Sophy now, and some small Tetterbysof his own. He writes just the same affectionate letters as he used todo, though I, less faithful, am too busy to answer them. 

But the best and dearest of all my flock was my Polish boy, LadislasWisniewski--two hiccoughs and a sneeze will give you the name perfectly. Six years ago, as I went down to my early breakfast at our Pension inVevey, I saw that a stranger had arrived. He was a tall youth, ofeighteen or twenty, with a thin, intelligent face, and the charminglypolite manners of a foreigner. As the other boarders came in, one byone, they left the door open, and a draught of cold autumn air blew infrom the stone corridor, making the new-comer cough, shiver, and castwistful glances towards the warm corner by the stove. My place wasthere, and the heat often oppressed me, so I was glad of an opportunityto move. 

A word to Madame Vodoz effected the change; and at dinner I was rewardedby a grateful smile from the poor fellow, as he nestled into his warmseat, after a pause of surprise and a flush of pleasure at the smallkindness from a stranger. We were too far apart to talk much, but, as hefilled his glass, the Pole bowed to me, and said low in French--

'I drink the good health to Mademoiselle. '

I returned the wish, but he shook his head with a sudden shadow on hisface, as if the words meant more than mere compliment to him. 

'That boy is sick and needs care. I must see to him, ' said I to myself, as I met him in the afternoon, and observed the military look of hisblue and white suit, as he touched his cap and smiled pleasantly. I havea weakness for brave boys in blue, and having discovered that he hadbeen in the late Polish Revolution, my heart warmed to him at once. 

That evening he came to me in the salon, and expressed his thanks in theprettiest broken English I ever heard. So simple, frank, and gratefulwas he that a few words of interest won his little story from him, andin half an hour we were friends. With his fellow-students he had foughtthrough the last outbreak, and suffered imprisonment and hardship ratherthan submit, had lost many friends, his fortune and his health, and attwenty, lonely, poor, and ill, was trying bravely to cure the maladywhich seemed fatal. 

'If I recover myself of this affair in the chest, I teach the music toacquire my bread in this so hospitable country. At Paris, my friends, all two, find a refuge, and I go to them in spring if I die not here. Yes, it is solitary, and my memories are not gay, but I have my work, and the good God remains always to me, so I content myself with muchhope, and I wait. '

Such genuine piety and courage increased my respect and regardimmensely, and a few minutes later he added to both by one of the littleacts that show character better than words. 

He told me about the massacre, when five hundred Poles were shot down byCossacks in the market-place, merely because they sung their nationalhymn. 

'Play me that forbidden air, ' I said, wishing to judge of his skill, forI had heard him practising softly in the afternoon. 

He rose willingly, then glanced about the room and gave a little shrugwhich made me ask what he wanted. 

'I look to see if the Baron is here. He is Russian, and to him mynational air will not be pleasing. '

'Then play it. He dare not forbid it here, and I should rather enjoythat little insult to your bitter enemy, ' said I, feeling very indignantwith everything Russian just then. 

'Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, but we are alsogentlemen, ' returned the boy, proving that _he_ at least was one. 

I thanked him for his lesson in politeness, and as the Baron was notthere he played the beautiful hymn, singing it enthusiastically in spiteof the danger to his weak lungs. A true musician evidently, for, as hesung his pale face glowed, his eyes shone, and his lost vigor seemedrestored to him. 

From that evening we were fast friends; for the memory of certain dearlads at home made my heart open to this lonely boy, who gave me inreturn the most grateful affection and service. He begged me to call him'Varjo, ' as his mother did. He constituted himself my escort, errand-boy, French teacher, and private musician, making those weeksindefinitely pleasant by his winning ways, his charming littleconfidences, and faithful friendship. 

We had much fun over our lessons, for I helped him about his English. With a great interest in free America, and an intense longing to hearabout our war, the barrier of an unknown tongue did not long standbetween us. 

Beginning with my bad French and his broken English, we got oncapitally; but he outdid me entirely, making astonishing progress, though he often slapped his forehead with the despairing exclamation, --

'I am imbecile! I never can will shall to have learn this beast ofEnglish!'

But he did, and in a month had added a new language to the five healready possessed. 

His music was the delight of the house; and he often gave us littleconcerts with the help of Madame Teiblin, a German St. Cecilia, with acropped head and a gentlemanly sack, cravat, and collar. Both wereenthusiasts, and the longer they played the more inspired they got. Thepiano vibrated, the stools creaked, the candles danced in their sockets, and every one sat mute while the four white hands chased one another upand down the keys, and the two fine faces beamed with such ecstasy thatwe almost expected to see instrument and performers disappear in amusical whirlwind. 

Lake Leman will never seem so lovely again as when Laddie and I roamedabout its shores, floated on its bosom, or laid splendid plans for thefuture in the sunny garden of the old chateau. I tried it again lastyear, but the charm was gone, for I missed my boy with his fun, hismusic, and the frank, fresh affection he gave his 'little mamma, ' as heinsisted on calling the lofty spinster who loved him like half-a-dozengrandmothers rolled into one. 

December roses blossomed in the gardens then, and Laddie never failed tohave a posy ready for me at dinner. Few evenings passed without'confidences' in my corner of the salon, and I still have a pile ofmerry little notes which I used to find tucked under my door. He calledthem chapters of a great history we were to write together, and being a'_polisson_' he illustrated it with droll pictures, and a funny mixtureof French and English romance. 

It was very pleasant, but like all pleasant things in this world ofchange it soon came to an end. When I left for Italy we jokingly agreedto meet in Paris the next May, but neither really felt that we shouldever meet again, for Laddie hardly expected to outlive the winter, and Ifelt sure I should soon be forgotten. As he kissed my hand there weretears in my boy's eyes, and a choke in the voice that tried to saycheerfully--

'_Bon voyage_, dear and good little mamma. I do not say adieu, but _aurevoir_. '

Then the carriage rolled away, the wistful face vanished, and nothingremained to me but the memory of Laddie, and a little stain on my glovewhere a drop had fallen. 

As I drew near Paris six months later, and found myself wishing that Imight meet Varjo in the great, gay city, and wondering if there was anychance of my doing it, I never dreamed of seeing him so soon; but, as Imade my way among the crowd of passengers that poured through thestation, feeling tired, bewildered, and homesick, I suddenly saw a blueand white cap wave wildly in the air, then Laddie's beaming faceappeared, and Laddie's eager hands grasped mine so cordially that Ibegan to laugh at once, and felt that Paris was almost as good as home. 

'Ah, ha! behold the little mamma, who did not think to see again her badson! Yes, I am greatly glad that I make the fine surprise for you as youcome all weary to this place of noise. Give to me the billets, for I amstill mademoiselle's servant and go to find the coffers. '

He got my trunks, put me into a carriage, and as we rolled merrily awayI asked how he chanced to meet me so unexpectedly. Knowing where Iintended to stay, he had called occasionally till I notified Madame D. Of the day and hour of my arrival, and then he had come to 'make thefine surprise. ' He enjoyed the joke like a true boy, and I was glad tosee how well he looked, and how gay he seemed. 

'You are better?' I said. 

'I truly hope so. The winter was good to me and I cough less. It is asmall hope, but I do not enlarge my fear by a sad face. I yet work andsave a little purse, so that I may not be a heaviness to those who havethe charity to finish me if I fall back and yet die. '

I would not hear of that, and told him he looked as well and happy as ifhe had found a fortune. 

He laughed, and answered with his fine bow, 'I have. Behold, you cometo make the fête for me. I find also here my friends Joseph andNapoleon. Poor as mouses of the church, as you say, but brave boys, andwe work together with much gaiety. '

When I asked if he had leisure to be my guide about Paris, for my timewas short and I wanted to see _everything_; he pranced, and told me hehad promised himself a holiday, and had planned many excursions the mostwonderful, charming, and gay. Then, having settled me at Madame's, hewent blithely away to what I afterwards discovered were very poorlodgings, across the river. 

Next day began the pleasantest fortnight in all my year of travel. Laddie appeared early, elegant to behold, in a new hat and buff gloves, and was immensely amused because the servant informed me that my big sonhad arrived. 

I believe the first thing a woman does in Paris is to buy a new bonnet. I did, or rather stood by and let 'my son' do it in the best of French, only whispering when he proposed gorgeous _chapeaus_ full of flowers andfeathers, that I could not afford it. 

'Ah! we must make our economies, must we? See, then, this modest, pearl-colored one, with the crape rose. Yes, we will have that, and bemost elegant for the Sunday promenade. '

I fear I should have bought a pea-green hat with a yellow plume if hehad urged it, so wheedlesome and droll were his ways and words. His goodtaste saved me, however, and the modest one was sent home for themorrow, when we were to meet Joseph and Napoleon and go to the concertin the Tuileries garden. 

Then we set off on our day of sight-seeing, and Laddie proved himselfan excellent guide. We had a charming trip about the enchanted city, agay lunch at a café, and a first brief glimpse of the Louvre. Atdinner-time I found a posy at my place; and afterward Laddie came andspent the evening in my little salon, playing to me, and having what hecalled 'babblings and pleasantries. ' I found that he was translating'Vanity Fair' into Polish, and intended to sell it at home. He convulsedme with his struggles to put cockney English and slang into good Polish, for he had saved up a list of words for me to explain to him. Hay-stackand bean-pot were among them, I remember; and when he had mastered themeanings he fell upon the sofa exhausted. 

Other days like this followed, and we led a happy life together: for mytwelve years' seniority made our adventures quite proper, and Ifearlessly went anywhere on the arm of my big son. Not to theatres orballs, however, for heated rooms were bad for Laddie, but pleasant tripsout of the city in the bright spring weather, quiet strolls in thegardens, moonlight concerts in the Champs Elysées; or, best of all, longtalks with music in the little red salon, with the gas turned low, andthe ever-changing scenes of the Rue de Rivoli under the balcony. 

Never were pleasures more cheaply purchased or more thoroughly enjoyed, for our hearts were as light as our purses, and our 'little economies'gave zest to our amusements. 

Joseph and Napoleon sometimes joined us, and I felt in my element withthe three invalid soldier boys, for Napoleon still limped with a woundreceived in the war, Joseph had never recovered from his two years'imprisonment in an Austrian dungeon, and Laddie's loyalty might yetcost him his life. 

Thanks to them, I discovered a joke played upon me by my '_polisson_'. He told me to call him 'ma drogha, ' saying it meant 'my friend, ' inPolish. I innocently did so, and he seemed to find great pleasure in it, for his eyes always laughed when I said it. Using it one day before theother lads, I saw a queer twinkle in their eyes, and suspectingmischief, demanded the real meaning of the words. Laddie tried tosilence them, but the joke was too good to keep, and I found to mydismay that I had been calling him 'my darling' in the tenderest manner. 

How the three rascals shouted, and what a vain struggle it was to tryand preserve my dignity when Laddie clasped his hands and begged pardon, explaining that jokes were necessary to his health, and he never meantme to know the full baseness of this 'pleasantrie!' I revenged myself bygiving him some bad English for his translation, and telling him of itjust as I left Paris. 

It was not all fun with my boy, however; he had his troubles, and inspite of his cheerfulness he knew what heartache was. Walking in thequaint garden of the Luxembourg one day, he confided to me the littleromance of his life. A very touching little romance as he told it, witheloquent eyes and voice and frequent pauses for breath. I cannot givehis words, but the simple facts were these:--

He had grown up with a pretty cousin, and at eighteen was desperately inlove with her. She returned his affection, but they could not be happy, for her father wished her to marry a richer man. In Poland, to marrywithout the consent of parents is to incur lasting disgrace; so Leonoreobeyed, and the young pair parted. This had been a heavy sorrow toLaddie, and he rushed into the war, hoping to end his trouble. 

'Do you ever hear from your cousin?' I asked, as he walked beside me, looking sadly down the green aisles where kings and queens had loved andparted years ago. 

'I only know that she suffers still, for she remembers. Her husbandsubmits to the Russians, and I despise him as I have no English totell;' and he clenched his hands with the flash of the eye and suddenkindling of the whole face that made him handsome. 

He showed me a faded little picture, and when I tried to comfort him, helaid his head down on the pedestal of one of the marble queens whoguard the walk, as if he never cared to lift it up again. 

But he was all right in a minute, and bravely put away his sorrow withthe little picture. He never spoke of it again, and I saw no moreshadows on his face till we came to say good-bye. 

'You have been so kind to me, I wish I had something beautiful to giveyou, Laddie, ' I said, feeling that it would be hard to get on without myboy. 

'This time it is for always; so, as a parting souvenir, give to me thesweet English good-bye. '

As he said this, with a despairing sort of look, as if he could notspare even so humble a friend as myself, my heart was quite rent withinme, and, regardless of several prim English ladies, I drew down his tallhead and kissed him tenderly, feeling that in this world there were nomore meetings for us. Then I ran away and buried myself in an emptyrailway carriage, hugging the little cologne bottle he had given me. 

He promised to write, and for five years he has kept his word, sendingme from Paris and Poland cheery, bright letters in English, at mydesire, so that he might not forget. Here is one as a specimen. 

 'MY DEAR AND GOOD FRIEND, --What do you think of me that I do not write so long time? Excuse me, my good mamma, for I was so busy in these days I could not do this pleasant thing. I write English without the fear that you laugh at it, because I know it is more agreeable to read the own language, and I think you are not excepted of this rule. It is good of me, for the expressions of love and regard, made with faults, take the funny appearance; they are _ridicule_, and instead to go to the heart, they make the laugh. Never mind, I do it. 

 'You cannot imagine yourself how _stupide_ is Paris when you are gone. I fly to my work, and make no more fêtes, --it is too sad alone. I tie myself to my table and my Vanity (not of mine, for I am not vain, am I?). I wish some chapters to finish themselfs _vite_, that I send them to Pologne and know the end. I have a little question to ask you (of Vanity as always). I cannot translate this, no one of _dictionnaires_ makes me the words, and I think it is _jargon de prison_, this little period. Behold:--

 Mopy, is that your snum? Nubble your dad and gully the dog, &c. 

 'So funny things I cannot explain myself, so I send to you, and you reply sooner than without it, for you have so kind interest in my work you do not stay to wait. So this is a little hook for you to make you write some words to your son who likes it so much and is fond of you. 

 'My doctor tells me my lungs are soon to be re-established; so you may imagine yourself how glad I am, and of more courage in my future. You may one day see your Varjo in Amerique, if I study commerce as I wish. So then the last time of seeing ourselves is _not_ the last. Is that to please you? I suppose the grand _histoire_ is finished, _n'est ce pas_? You will then send it to me care of M. Gryhomski Austriche, and he will give to me in clandestine way at Varsovie, otherwise it will be confiscated at the frontier by the stupide Russians. 

 'Now we are dispersed in two sides of world far apart, for soon I go home to Pologne and am no more "_juif errant_. " It is now time I work at my life in some useful way, and I do it. 

 'As I am your _grand fils_, it is proper that I make you my compliment of happy Christmas and New Year, is it not? I wish for you so many as they may fulfil long human life. May this year bring you more and more good hearts to love you (the only real happiness in the hard life), and may I be as now, yours for always, 'VARJO. '

A year ago he sent me his photograph and a few lines. I acknowledged thereceipt of it, but since then not a word has come, and I begin to fearthat my boy is dead. Others have appeared to take his place, but theydon't suit, and I keep his corner always ready for him if he lives. Ifhe is dead, I am glad to have known so sweet and brave a character, forit does one good to see even as short-lived and obscure a hero as myPolish boy, whose dead December rose embalms for me the memory of Varjo, the last and dearest of my boys. 

It is hardly necessary to add, for the satisfaction of inquisitivelittle women, that Laddie was the original of Laurie, as far as a palepen-and-ink sketch could embody a living, loving boy. 

_TESSA'S SURPRISES. _

I. 

Little Tessa sat alone by the fire, waiting for her father to come homefrom work. The children were fast asleep, all four in the big bed behindthe curtain; the wind blew hard outside, and the snow beat on thewindow-panes; the room was large, and the fire so small and feeble thatit didn't half warm the little bare toes peeping out of the old shoes onthe hearth. 

Tessa's father was an Italian plaster-worker, very poor, but kind andhonest. The mother had died not long ago, and left twelve-year oldTessa to take care of the little children. She tried to be very wise andmotherly, and worked for them like any little woman; but it was so hardto keep the small bodies warm and fed, and the small souls good andhappy, that poor Tessa was often at her wits' end. She always waited forher father, no matter how tired she was, so that he might find hissupper warm, a bit of fire, and a loving little face to welcome him. Tessa thought over her troubles at these quiet times, and made herplans; for her father left things to her a good deal, and she had nofriends but Tommo, the harp-boy upstairs, and the lively cricket wholived in the chimney. To-night her face was very sober, and her prettybrown eyes very thoughtful as she stared at the fire and knit her brows, as if perplexed. She was not thinking of her old shoes, nor the emptycloset, nor the boys' ragged clothes just then. No; she had a fine planin her good little head, and was trying to discover how she could carryit out. 

You see, Christmas was coming in a week; and she had set her heart onputting something in the children's stockings, as the mother used to do, for while she lived things were comfortable. Now Tessa had not a pennyin the world, and didn't know how to get one, for all the father'searnings had to go for food, fire, and rent. 

'If there were only fairies, ah! how heavenly that would be; for then Ishould tell them all I wish, and, pop! behold the fine things in mylap!' said Tessa to herself. 'I must earn the money; there is no one togive it to me, and I cannot beg. But what can I do, so small and stupidand shy as I am? I _must_ find some way to give the little ones a niceChristmas. I _must_! I _must_!' and Tessa pulled her long hair, as ifthat would help her think. 

But it didn't, and her heart got heavier and heavier; for it did seemhard that in a great city full of fine things, there should be none forpoor Nono, Sep, and little Speranza. Just as Tessa's tears began totumble off her eyelashes on to her brown cheeks, the cricket began tochirp. Of course, he didn't say a word; but it really did seem as if hehad answered her question almost as well as a fairy; for, before he hadpiped a dozen shrill notes, an idea popped into Tessa's head--such atruly splendid idea that she clapped her hands and burst out laughing. 'I'll do it! I'll do it! if father will let me, ' she said to herself, smiling and nodding at the fire. 'Tommo will like to have me go with himand sing, while he plays his harp in the streets. I know many songs, andmay get money if I am not frightened; for people throw pennies to otherlittle girls who only play the tambourine. Yes, I will try; and then, ifI do well, the little ones shall have a Merry Christmas. '

So full of her plan was Tessa that she ran upstairs at once, and askedTommo if he would take her with him on the morrow. Her friend wasdelighted, for he thought Tessa's songs very sweet, and was sure shewould get money if she tried. 

'But see, then, it is cold in the streets; the wind bites, and the snowfreezes one's fingers. The day is very long, people are cross, and atnight one is ready to die with weariness. Thou art so small, Tessa, I amafraid it will go badly with thee, ' said Tommo, who was a merry, black-eyed boy of fourteen, with the kindest heart in the world underhis old jacket. 

'I do not mind cold and wet, and cross people, if I can get thepennies, ' answered Tessa, feeling very brave with such a friend to helpher. She thanked Tommo, and ran away to get ready, for she felt sure herfather would not refuse her anything. She sewed up the holes in hershoes as well as she could, for she had much of that sort of cobbling todo; she mended her only gown, and laid ready the old hood and shawlwhich had been her mother's. Then she washed out little Ranza's frockand put it to dry, because she would not be able to do it the next day. She set the table and got things ready for breakfast, for Tommo went outearly, and must not be kept waiting for her. She longed to make the bedsand dress the children over night, she was in such a hurry to have allin order; but, as that could not be, she sat down again, and tried overall the songs she knew. Six pretty ones were chosen; and she sang awaywith all her heart in a fresh little voice so sweetly that the childrensmiled in their sleep, and her father's tired face brightened as heentered, for Tessa was his cheery cricket on the hearth. When she hadtold her plan, Peter Benari shook his head, and thought it would neverdo; but Tessa begged so hard, he consented at last that she should tryit for one week, and sent her to bed the happiest little girl in NewYork. 

Next morning the sun shone, but the cold wind blew, and the snow laythick in the streets. As soon as her father was gone, Tessa flew aboutand put everything in nice order, telling the children she was going outfor the day, and they were to mind Tommo's mother, who would see aboutthe fire and the dinner; for the good woman loved Tessa, and enteredinto her little plans with all her heart. Nono and Giuseppe, or Sep, asthey called him, wondered what she was going away for, and little Ranzacried at being left; but Tessa told them they would know all about it ina week, and have a fine time if they were good; so they kissed her allround and let her go. 

Poor Tessa's heart beat fast as she trudged away with Tommo, who slunghis harp over his shoulder, and gave her his hand. It was rather a dirtyhand, but so kind that Tessa clung to it, and kept looking up at thefriendly brown face for encouragement. 

'We go first to the _café_, where many French and Italians eat thebreakfast. They like my music, and often give me sips of hot coffee, which I like much. You too shall have the sips, and perhaps the pennies, for these people are greatly kind, ' said Tommo, leading her into a largesmoky place where many people sat at little tables, eating and drinking. 'See, now, have no fear; give them "Bella Monica;" that is merry andwill make the laugh, ' whispered Tommo, tuning his harp. 

For a moment Tessa felt so frightened that she wanted to run away; butshe remembered the empty stockings at home, and the fine plan, and sheresolved _not_ to give it up. One fat old Frenchman nodded to her, andit seemed to help her very much; for she began to sing before shethought, and that was the hardest part of it. Her voice trembled, andher cheeks grew redder and redder as she went on; but she kept her eyesfixed on her old shoes, and so got through without breaking down, whichwas very nice. The people laughed, for the song _was_ merry; and the fatman smiled and nodded again. This gave her courage to try another, andshe sung better and better each time; for Tommo played his best, andkept whispering to her, 'Yes; we go well; this is fine. They will givethe money and the blessed coffee. '

So they did; for, when the little concert was over, several men putpennies in the cap Tessa offered, and the fat man took her on his knee, and ordered a mug of coffee, and some bread and butter for them both. This quite won her heart; and when they left the _café_, she kissed herhand to the old Frenchman, and said to her friend, 'How kind they are! Ilike this very much; and now it is not hard. '

But Tommo shook his curly head, and answered, soberly, 'Yes, I took youthere first, for they love music, and are of our country; but up amongthe great houses we shall not always do well. The people there are busyor hard or idle, and care nothing for harps and songs. Do not skip andlaugh too soon; for the day is long, and we have but twelve penniesyet. '

Tessa walked more quietly, and rubbed her cold hands, feeling that theworld was a very big place, and wondering how the children got on athome without the little mother. Till noon they did not earn much, forevery one seemed in a hurry, and the noise of many sleigh-bells drownedthe music. Slowly they made their way up to the great squares where thebig houses were, with fine ladies and pretty children at the windows. Here Tessa sung all her best songs, and Tommo played as fast as hisfingers could fly; but it was too cold to have the windows open, so thepretty children could not listen long, and the ladies tossed out alittle money, and soon went back to their own affairs. 

All the afternoon the two friends wandered about, singing and playing, and gathering up their small harvest. At dusk they went home, Tessa sohoarse she could hardly speak, and so tired she fell asleep over hersupper. But she had made half a dollar, for Tommo divided the moneyfairly, and she felt rich with her share. The other days were very muchlike this; sometimes they made more, sometimes less, but Tommo always'went halves;' and Tessa kept on, in spite of cold and weariness, forher plans grew as her earnings increased, and now she hoped to getuseful things, instead of candy and toys alone. 

On the day before Christmas she made herself as tidy as she could, forshe hoped to earn a good deal. She tied a bright scarlet handkerchiefover the old hood, and the brilliant color set off her brown cheeks andbright eyes, as well as the pretty black braids of her hair. Tommo'smother lent her a pair of boots so big that they turned up at the toes, but there were no holes in them, and Tessa felt quite elegant in wholeboots. Her hands were covered with chilblains, for she had no mittens;but she put them under her shawl, and scuffled merrily away in her bigboots, feeling so glad that the week was over, and nearly three dollarssafe in her pocket. How gay the streets were that day! how brisk everyone was, and how bright the faces looked, as people trotted about withbig baskets, holly-wreaths, and young evergreens going to blossom intosplendid Christmas trees!

'If I could have a tree for the children, I'd never want anything again. But I can't; so I'll fill the socks all full, and be happy, ' said Tessa, as she looked wistfully into the gay stores, and saw the heavy basketsgo by. 

'Who knows what may happen if we do well?' returned Tommo, noddingwisely, for he had a plan as well as Tessa, and kept chuckling over itas he trudged through the mud. They did _not_ do well somehow, for everyone seemed so full of their own affairs they could not stop to listen, even to 'Bella Monica, ' but bustled away to spend their money inturkeys, toys, and trees. In the afternoon it began to rain, and poorTessa's heart to fail her; for the big boots tired her feet, the coldwind made her hands ache, and the rain spoilt the fine red handkerchief. Even Tommo looked sober, and didn't whistle as he walked, for he alsowas disappointed, and his plan looked rather doubtful, the pennies camein so slowly. 

'We'll try one more street, and then go home, thou art so tired, littleone. Come; let me wipe thy face, and give me thy hand here in my jacketpocket; there it will be as warm as any kitten;' and kind Tommo brushedaway the drops which were not _all_ rain from Tessa's cheeks, tuckedthe poor hand into his ragged pocket, and led her carefully along theslippery streets, for the boots nearly tripped her up. 

II. 

At the first house, a cross old gentleman flapped his newspaper at them;at the second, a young gentleman and lady were so busy talking that theynever turned their heads, and at the third, a servant came out and toldthem to go away, because some one was sick. At the fourth, some peoplelet them sing all their songs and gave nothing. The next three houseswere empty; and the last of all showed not a single face as they lookedup anxiously. It was so cold, so dark and discouraging, that Tessacouldn't help one sob; and, as he glanced down at the little red noseand wet figure beside him, Tommo gave his harp an angry thump, and saidsomething very fierce in Italian. They were just going to turn away; butthey didn't, for that angry thump happened to be the best thing theycould have done. All of a sudden a little head appeared at the window, as if the sound had brought it; then another and another, till therewere five, of all heights and colors, and five eager faces peeped out, smiling and nodding to the two below. 

'Sing, Tessa; sing! Quick! quick!' cried Tommo, twanging away with allhis might, and showing his white teeth, as he smiled back at the littlegentle-folk. 

Bless us! How Tessa did tune up at that! She chirped away like a realbird, forgetting all about the tears on her cheeks, the ache in herhands, and the heaviness at her heart. The children laughed, and clappedtheir hands, and cried 'More! more! Sing another, little girl! Pleasedo!' And away they went again, piping and playing, till Tessa's breathwas gone, and Tommo's stout fingers tingled well. 

'Mamma says, come to the door; it's too muddy to throw the money intothe street!' cried out a kindly child's voice as Tessa held up the oldcap, with beseeching eyes. 

Up the wide stone steps went the street musicians, and the whole flockcame running down to give a handful of silver, and ask all sorts ofquestions. Tessa felt so grateful that, without waiting for Tommo, shesang her sweetest little song all alone. It was about a lost lamb, andher heart was in the song; therefore she sang it well, so well that apretty young lady came down to listen, and stood watching thebright-eyed girl, who looked about her as she sang, evidently enjoyingthe light and warmth of the fine hall, and the sight of the lovelychildren with their gay dresses, shining hair, and dainty little shoes. 

'You have a charming voice, child. Who taught you to sing?' asked theyoung lady kindly. 

'My mother. She is dead now; but I do not forget, ' answered Tessa, inher pretty broken English. 

'I wish she could sing at our tree, since Bella is ill, ' cried one ofthe children peeping through the banisters. 

'She is not fair enough for the angel, and too large to go up in thetree. But she sings sweetly, and looks as if she would like to see atree, ' said the young lady. 

'Oh, so much!' exclaimed Tessa; adding eagerly, 'my sister Ranza issmall and pretty as a baby-angel. She could sit up in the fine tree, andI could sing for her from under the table. '

'Sit down and warm yourself, and tell me about Ranza, ' said the kindelder sister, who liked the confiding little girl, in spite of hershabby clothes. 

So Tessa sat down and dried the big boots over the furnace, and told herstory, while Tommo stood modestly in the background, and the childrenlistened with faces full of interest. 

'O Rose! let us see the little girl; and if she will do, let us haveher, and Tessa can learn our song, and it will be splendid!' cried thebiggest boy, who sat astride of a chair, and stared at the harp withround eyes. 

'I'll ask mamma, ' said Rose; and away she went into the dining-roomclose by. As the door opened, Tessa saw what looked to her like a fairyfeast, --all silver mugs and flowery plates and oranges and nuts and rosywine in tall glass pitchers, and smoking dishes that smelt sodeliciously she could not restrain a little sniff of satisfaction. 

'Are you hungry?' asked the boy, in a grand tone. 

'Yes, sir, ' meekly answered Tessa. 

'I say, mamma; she wants something to eat. Can I give her an orange?'called the boy, prancing away into the splendid room, quite like a fairyprince, Tessa thought. 

A plump motherly lady came out and looked at Tessa, asked a fewquestions, and then told her to come to-morrow with Ranza, and theywould see what could be done. Tessa clapped her hands for joy, --shedidn't mind the chilblains now, --and Tommo played a lively march, hewas so pleased. 

'Will you come, too, and bring your harp? You shall be paid, and shallhave something from the tree, likewise, ' said the motherly lady, wholiked what Tessa gratefully told about his kindness to her. 

'Ah, yes; I shall come with much gladness, and play as never in my lifebefore, ' cried Tommo, with a flourish of the old cap that made thechildren laugh. 

'Give these to your brothers, ' said the fairy prince, stuffing nuts andoranges into Tessa's hands. 

'And these to the little girl, ' added one of the young princesses, flying out of the dining-room with cakes and rosy apples for Ranza. 

Tessa didn't know what to say; but her eyes were full, and she just tookthe mother's white hand in both her little grimy ones, and kissed itmany times in her pretty Italian fashion. The lady understood her, andstroked her cheek softly, saying to her elder daughter, 'We must takecare of this good little creature. Freddy, bring me your mittens; thesepoor hands must be covered. Alice, get your play-hood; this handkerchiefis all wet; and, Maud, bring the old chinchilla tippet. '

The children ran, and in a minute there were lovely blue mittens on thered hands, a warm hood over the black braids, and a soft 'pussy' roundthe sore throat. 

'Ah! so kind, so very kind! I have no way to say "thank you;" but Ranzashall be for you a heavenly angel, and I will sing my heart out for yourtree!' cried Tessa, folding the mittens as if she would say a prayer ofthankfulness if she knew how. 

Then they went away, and the pretty children called after them, 'Comeagain, Tessa! come again, Tommo!' Now the rain didn't seem dismal, thewind cold, nor the way long, as they bought their gifts and hurriedhome, for kind words and the sweet magic of charity had changed all theworld to them. 

I think the good spirits who fly about on Christmas Eve, to help theloving fillers of little stockings, smiled very kindly on Tessa as shebrooded joyfully over the small store of presents that seemed somagnificent to her. All the goodies were divided evenly into three partsand stowed away in father's three big socks, which hung against thecurtain. With her three dollars, she had got a pair of shoes for Nono, aknit cap for Sep, and a pair of white stockings for Ranza; to her shealso gave the new hood; to Nono the mittens; and to Sep the tippet. 

'Now the dear boys can go out, and my Ranza will be ready for the ladyto see, in her nice new things, ' said Tessa, quite sighing with pleasureto see how well the gifts looked pinned up beside the bulging socks, which wouldn't hold them all. The little mother kept nothing for herselfbut the pleasure of giving everything away; yet, I think, she was bothricher and happier than if she had kept them all. Her father laughed ashe had not done since the mother died, when he saw how comically the oldcurtain had broken out into boots and hoods, stockings and tippets. 

'I wish I had a gold gown and a silver hat for thee, my Tessa, thou artso good. May the saints bless and keep thee always!' said Peter Benaritenderly, as he held his little daughter close, and gave her thegood-night kiss. 

Tessa felt very rich as she crept under the faded counterpane, feelingas if she had received a lovely gift, and fell happily asleep withchubby Ranza in her arms, and the two rough black heads peeping out atthe foot of the bed. She dreamed wonderful dreams that night, and wokein the morning to find real wonders before her eyes. She got up early, to see if the socks were all right, and there she found the mostastonishing sight. Four socks, instead of three; and by the fourth, pinned out quite elegantly was a little dress, evidently meant forher--a warm, woollen dress, all made, and actually with bright buttonson it. It nearly took her breath away; so did the new boots on thefloor, and the funny long stocking like a grey sausage, with a woodendoll staring out at the top, as if she said, politely, 'A MerryChristmas, ma'am!' Tessa screamed and danced in her delight, and uptumbled all the children to scream and dance with her, making a regularcarnival on a small scale. Everybody hugged and kissed everybody else, offered sucks of orange, bites of cake, and exchanges of candy; everyone tried on the new things, and pranced about in them like a flock ofpeacocks. Ranza skipped to and fro airily, dressed in her white socksand the red hood; the boys promenaded in their little shirts, one withhis creaking new shoes and mittens, the other in his gay cap and finetippet; and Tessa put her dress straight on, feeling that her father's'gold gown' was not all a joke. In her long stocking she found all sortsof treasures; for Tommo had stuffed it full of queer things, and hismother had made gingerbread into every imaginable shape, from fat pigsto full omnibuses. 

Dear me! What happy little souls they were that morning; and when theywere quiet again, how like a fairy tale did Tessa's story sound to them. Ranza was quite ready to be an angel; and the boys promised to bemarvellously good, if they were only allowed to see the tree at the'palace, ' as they called the great house. 

Little Ranza was accepted with delight by the kind lady and herchildren, and Tessa learned the song quite easily. The boys _were_asked; and, after a happy day, the young Italians all returned, to playtheir parts at the fine Christmas party. Mamma and Miss Rose drilledthem all; and when the folding-doors flew open, one rapturous 'Oh!'arose from the crowd of children gathered to the festival. I assureyou, it was splendid; the great tree glittering with lights and gifts;and, on her invisible perch, up among the green boughs, sat the littlegolden-haired angel, all in white, with downy wings, a shining crown onher head, and the most serene satisfaction in her blue eyes, as shestretched her chubby arms to those below, and smiled her baby smile atthem. Before any one could speak, a voice, as fresh and sweet as alark's, sang the Christmas Carol so blithely that every one stood stillto hear, and then clapped till the little angel shook on her perch, andcried out, 'Be 'till, or me'll fall!' How they laughed at that; and whatfun they had talking to Ranza, while Miss Rose stripped the tree, forthe angel could not resist temptation, and amused herself by eating allthe bonbons she could reach, till she was taken down, to dance aboutlike a fairy in a white frock and red shoes. Tessa and her friends hadmany presents; the boys were perfect lambs, Tommo played for the littlefolks to dance, and every one said something friendly to the strangers, so that they did not feel shy, in spite of shabby clothes. It was ahappy night: and all their lives they remembered it as something toobeautiful and bright to be quite true. Before they went home, the kindmamma told Tessa she should be her friend, and gave her a motherly kiss, which warmed the child's heart and seemed to set a seal upon thatpromise. It was faithfully kept, for the rich lady had been touched byTessa's patient struggles and sacrifices; and for many years, thanks toher benevolence, there was no end to Tessa's Surprises. 

_BUZZ. _

I live high up in a city house all alone. My room is a cosy littleplace, though there is nothing very splendid in it, --only my picturesand books, my flowers and my little friend. When I began to live there, I was very busy and therefore very happy; but by-and-by, when my hurrywas over and I had more time to myself, I often felt lonely. When I atemy meals I used to wish for a pleasant companion to eat with me; andwhen I sat by the fire of evenings, I thought how much more social itwould be if some one sat opposite. I had many friends and callersthrough the day, but the evenings were often rather dull; for Icouldn't read much, and didn't care to go out in the stormy weather. 

I was wishing for a cheerful friend one night, when all of a sudden Ifound one; for, sitting on my hand, I saw a plump, jolly-looking fly. Hesat quietly staring at me, with a mild little hum, as if to say, --

'How are you? You wanted a friend, and here I am. Will you have me?'

Of course I would, for I liked him directly, he was so cheery andconfiding, and seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him. All hismates were dead and gone, and he was alone, like myself. So I waggledone finger, by way of welcome, fearing to shake my hand, lest he shouldtumble off and feel hurt at my reception. He seemed to understand me, and buzzed again, evidently saying, --

'Thank you, ma'am. I should like to stay in your warm room, and amuseyou for my board. I won't disturb you, but do my best to be a goodlittle friend. '

So the bargain was struck, and he stopped to tea. I found that hismanners had been neglected; for he was inclined to walk over the butter, drink out of the cream-pot, and put his fingers in the jelly. A few tapswith my spoon taught him to behave with more propriety, and he sipped adrop of milk from the waiter with a crumb of sugar, as a well-bred flyshould do. 

On account of his fine voice, I named him Buzz, and we soon got onexcellently together. He seemed to like his new quarters, and, afterexploring every corner of the room, he chose his favourite haunts andbegan to enjoy himself. I always knew where he was, for he kept up aconstant song, humming and buzzing, like a little kettle getting readyto boil. 

On sunny days, he amused himself by bumping his head against the window, and watching what went on outside. It would have given me a headache, but he seemed to enjoy it immensely. Up in my hanging basket of ivy hemade his bower, and sat there on the moss basking in the sunshine, asluxuriously as any gentleman in his conservatory. He was interested inthe plants, and examined them daily with great care, walking over theivy leaves, grubbing under the moss, and poking his head into theunfolding hyacinth buds to see how they got on. 

The pictures, also, seemed to attract his attention, for he spent muchtime skating over the glasses and studying the designs. Sometimes Iwould find him staring at my Madonna, as if he said, 'What in the worldare all those topsy-turvy children about?' Then he'd sit in the middleof a brook, in a water-color sketch by Vautin, as if bathing his feet, or seem to be eating the cherry which one little duck politely offersanother little duck, in Oscar Pletch's Summer Party. He frequentlykissed my mother's portrait, and sat on my father's bald head, as iftrying to get out some of the wisdom stored up there, like honey in anill-thatched bee-hive. My bronze Mercury rather puzzled him, for hecould not understand why the young gentleman didn't fly off when he hadfour wings and seemed in such a hurry. 

I'm afraid he was a trifle vain, for he sat before the glass a greatdeal, and I often saw him cleaning his proboscis, and twiddling hisfeelers, and I know he was 'prinking, ' as we say. The books pleased him, too, and he used to run them over, as if trying to choose which hewould read, and never seemed able to decide. He would have nothing tosay to the fat French Dictionary, or my English Plays, but liked Goetheand Schiller, Emerson and Browning, as well as I did. Carlyle didn'tsuit him, and Richter evidently made his head ache. But Jean Ingelow'sPoems delighted him, and so did her 'Stories told to a Child. ' 'FairyBells' he often listened to, and was very fond of the pictures in aphotograph book of foreign places and great people. 

He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a little Swiss chalet, standing on the mantel-piece, and thought it a charming residence for asingle gentleman like himself. The closet delighted him extremely, andhe buzzed in the most joyful manner when he got among theprovisions, --for we kept house together. Such revels as he had in thesugar-bowl; such feasts of gingerbread and grapes; such long sips ofmilk, and sly peeps into every uncovered box and dish! Once I'm afraidhe took too much cider, for I found him lying on his back, kicking andhumming like a crazy top, and he was very queer all the rest of thatday; so I kept the bottle corked after that. But his favorite nook wasamong the ferns in the vase which a Parian dancing-girl carried. Shestood just over the stove on one little toe, rattling some castanets, which made no sound, and never getting a step farther for all herprancing. This was a warm and pretty retreat for Buzz, and there hespent much of his time, swinging on the ferns, sleeping snugly in thevase, or warming his feet in the hot air that blew up, like a southwind, from the stove. 

I don't believe there was a happier fly in Boston than my friend Buzz, and I grew fonder and fonder of him every day; for he never got intomischief, but sung his cheery song, no matter what the weather was, andmade himself agreeable. Then he was so interested in all I did, it wasdelightful to have him round. When I wrote he came and walked about overmy paper to see that it was right, peeped into my ink-stand, and ranafter my pen. He never made silly or sharp criticisms on my stories, butappeared to admire them very much; so I am sure he was a good judge. When I sewed, he sat in my basket, or played hide-and-seek in the foldsof my work, talking away all the while in the most sociable manner. Heoften flew up all of a sudden, and danced about in the air, as if he wasin such a jolly mood he couldn't keep still, and wanted me to come andplay with him. But, alas! I had no wings, and could only sit stupidlystill, and laugh at his pranks. That was his exercise, for he never wentout, and only took a sniff of air now and then when I opened thewindows. 

Well, little Buzz and I lived together many weeks, and never got tiredof one another, which is saying a good deal. At Christmas I went homefor a week and left my room to take care of itself. I put the hyacinthsinto the closet to be warm, and dropped the curtain, so the frost shouldnot nip my ivy; but I forgot Buzz. I really would have taken him withme, or carried him down to a neighbour's room to be taken care of whileI was away, but I never thought of him in the hurry of getting mypresents and myself ready. Off I went without even saying 'good-bye, 'and never thought of my little friend till Freddy, my small nephew, saidto me one evening at dusk, --

'Aunt Jo, tell me a story. '

So I began to tell him about Buzz, and all of a sudden I cried out, --

'Mercy on me! I'm afraid he'll die of cold while I'm gone. '

It troubled me a good deal, and I wanted to know how the poor littlefellow was so much that I would have gone to see if I had not been sofar away. But it would be rather silly to hurry away twenty miles tolook after one fly: so I finished my visit, and then went back to myroom, hoping to find Buzz alive and well in spite of the cold. 

Alas, no! my little friend was gone. There he lay on his back on themantel-piece, his legs meekly folded, and his wings stiff and still. Hehad evidently gone to the warm place, and been surprised when the heatdied out and left him to freeze. My poor little Buzz had sung his lastsong, danced his last dance, and gone where the good flies go. I wasvery sorry and buried him among the ivy roots, where the moss lay greenabove him, the sun shone warmly on him, and the bitter cold could nevercome. I miss him very much; when I sit writing, I miss his cheerfulvoice and busy wings; at meals there is no tiny little body to drink upspilt drops and eat the crumbs: in the evenings, when I sit alone, Iwant him more than ever, and every day, as I water my plants, I say, softly, --

'Grow green, ivy, lie lightly, moss, shine warmly, sun, and make hislast bed pleasant to my little friend. '

_THE CHILDREN'S JOKE. _

'"You can't do this" and "you mustn't do that, " from morning to night. Try it yourself and see how you'd like it, ' muttered Harry, as he flungdown his hat in sulky obedience to his father's command to give up aswim in the river and keep himself cool with a book that warm summerevening. 

'Of course I should like to mind my parents. Good children always do, 'began Mr. Fairbairn, entirely forgetting the pranks of his boyhood, aspeople are apt to. 

'Glad I didn't know you then. Must have been a regular prig, ' growledHarry under his breath. 

'Silence, sir! go to your room, and don't let me see you till tea-time. You must be taught respect as well as obedience, ' and Mr. Fairbairn gavethe table a rap that caused his son to retire precipitately. 

On the stairs he met his sister Kitty looking as cross as himself. 

'What's the matter with you?' he asked, pausing a minute, for miseryloves company. 

'Mamma will make me dress up in a stiff clean frock, and have my haircurled over again just because some one _may_ come. I want to play inthe garden, and I can't all fussed up this way. I do hate company andclothes and manners, don't you?' answered Kitty, with a spiteful pull ather sash. 

'I hate being ordered round everlastingly, and badgered from morningtill night. I'd just like to be let alone, ' and Harry went on his wayto captivity with a grim shake of the head and a very strong desire torun away from home altogether. 

'So would I, mamma is so fussy. I never have any peace of my life, 'sighed Kitty, feeling that her lot was a hard one. 

The martyr in brown linen went up, and the other martyr in white cambricwent down, both looking as they felt, rebellious and unhappy. Yet astranger seeing them and their home would have thought they hadeverything heart could desire. All the comforts that money could buy, and all the beauty that taste could give seemed gathered round them. Papa and mamma loved the two little people dearly, and no real care orsorrow came to trouble the lives that would have been all sunshine butfor one thing. With the best intentions in the world, Mr. And Mrs. Fairbairn were spoiling their children by constant fault-finding, toomany rules and too little sympathy with the active young souls andbodies under their care. As Harry said, they were ordered about, corrected and fussed over from morning till night, and were getting sotired of it that the most desperate ideas began to enter their heads. 

Now, in the house was a quiet old maiden aunt, who saw the mischiefbrewing, and tried to cure it by suggesting more liberty and less'nagging, ' as the boys call it. But Mr. And Mrs. F. Always silenced herby saying, --

'My dear Betsey, you never had a family, so how _can_ you know anythingabout the proper management of children?'

They quite forgot that sister Betsey had brought up a flock ofmotherless brothers and sisters, and done it wisely and well, though shenever got any thanks or praise for it, and never expected any for doingher duty faithfully. If it had not been for aunty, Harry and Kitty wouldhave long ago carried out their favorite plan, and have run awaytogether, like Roland and Maybird. She kept them from this foolish prankby all sorts of unsuspected means, and was their refuge in troubloustimes. For all her quiet ways, aunty was full of fun as well as sympathyand patience, and she smoothed the thorny road to virtue with theinnocent and kindly little arts that make some people as useful andbeloved as good fairy godmothers were once upon a time. 

As they sat at tea that evening papa and mamma were most affable andlively; but the children's spirits were depressed by a long day ofrestraint, and they sat like well-bred mutes, languidly eating theirsupper. 

'It's the warm weather. They need something bracing. I'll give them adose of iron mixture to-morrow, ' said mamma. 

'I've taken enough now to make a cooking-stove, ' groaned Kitty, whohated being dosed. 

'If you'd let me go swimming every night I'd be all right, ' added Harry. 

'Not another word on that point. I will _not_ let you do it, for youwill get drowned as sure as you try, ' said mamma, who was so timid shehad panics the minute her boy was out of sight. 

'Aunt Betsey let her boys go, and they never came to grief, ' beganHarry. 

'Aunt Betsey's ideas and mine differ. Children are not brought up now asthey were in her day, ' answered mamma with a superior air. 

'I just wish they were. Jolly good times _her_ boys had. '

'Yes, and girls too, playing anything they liked, and not rigged up andplagued with company, ' cried Kitty, with sudden interest. 

'What do you mean by that?' asked papa good-naturedly; for somehow hisyouth returned to him for a minute, and seemed very pleasant. 

The children could not explain very well, but Harry said slowly, --

'If you were to be in our places for a day you'd see what we mean. '

'Wouldn't it be worth your while to try the experiment?' said AuntBetsey, with a smile. 

Papa and mamma laughed at the idea, but looked sober when aunty added, --

'Why not put yourselves in their places for a day and see how you likeit? I think you would understand the case better than any one coulddescribe it, and perhaps do both yourselves and the children a lastingservice. '

'Upon my word, that's a droll idea! What do you say to it, mamma?' andpapa looked much amused. 

'I am willing to try it if you are, just for the fun of the thing, but Idon't think it will do any good;' and mamma shook her head as if AuntBetsey's plan was a wild one. 

The children sat quiet, speechless with surprise at this singularproposal, but as its full richness dawned upon them, they skipped intheir chairs and clapped their hands delightedly. 

'How do you propose to carry out this new educational frolic?' askedpapa, beginning to feel some curiosity as to the part he was to play. 

'Merely let the children do as they like for one day and have full powerover you. Let them plan your duties and pleasures, order your food, fixyour hours, and punish or reward you as they think proper. You mustpromise entire obedience, and keep the agreement till night. '

'Good! good! Oh, won't it be fun!' cried Harry and Kitty, applaudingenthusiastically; while papa and mamma looked rather sober as the planwas developed before them. 

'To-morrow is a holiday for us all, and we might celebrate it by thisfunny experiment. It will amuse us and do no harm, at any rate, ' addedaunty, quite in love with her new scheme. 

'Very well, we will. Come, mamma, let us promise, and see what theserogues will do for us. Playing father and mother is no joke, mind you;but you will have an easier time of it than we do, for _we_ shall behaveourselves, ' said papa, with a virtuous expression. 

Mamma agreed, and the supper ended merrily, for every one was full ofcuriosity as to the success of the new play. Harry and Kitty went tobed early, that they might be ready for the exciting labors of the nextday. Aunt Betsey paid each a short visit before they slept, and it issupposed that she laid out the order of performances, and told each whatto do; for the little people would never have thought of so many slythings if left to themselves. 

At seven the next morning, as mamma was in her dressing-room, justputting on her cool, easy wrapper, in came Kitty with a solemn face, though her eyes danced with fun, as she said, --

'Careless, untidy girl! Put on a clean dress, do up your hair properly, and go and practise half an hour before breakfast. '

At first mamma looked as if inclined to refuse, but Kitty was firm; and, with a sigh, mamma rustled into a stiff, scratchy, French print, tookher hair out of the comfortable net, and braided it carefully up; then, instead of reading in her arm-chair, she was led to the parlor and setto learning a hard piece of music. 

'Can't I have my early cup of tea and my roll?' she asked. 

'Eating between meals is a very bad habit, and I can't allow it, ' saidKitty, in the tone her mother often used to her. 'I shall have a mug ofnew milk and a roll, because grown people need more nourishment thanchildren;' and sitting down, she ate her early lunch with a relish, while poor mamma played away, feeling quite out of tune herself. 

Harry found papa enjoying the last delightful doze that makes bed sofascinating of a morning. As if half afraid to try the experiment, theboy slowly approached and gave the sleeper a sudden, hard shake, sayingbriskly, --

'Come, come, come, lazy-bones! Get up, get up!'

Papa started as if an earthquake had roused him, and stared at Harry, astonished for a minute, then he remembered, and upset Harry's gravityby whining out, --

'Come, you let me alone. It isn't time yet, and I am _so_ tired. '

Harry took the joke, and assuming the stern air of his father on suchoccasions, said impressively, --

'You have been called, and now if you are not down in fifteen minutesyou won't have any breakfast. Not a morsel, sir, not a morsel;' and, coolly pocketing his father's watch, he retired, to giggle all the waydownstairs. 

When the breakfast bell rang, mamma hurried into the dining-room, longing for her tea. But Kitty sat behind the urn, and said gravely, --

'Go back, and enter the room properly. Will you never learn to behavelike a lady?'

Mamma looked impatient at the delay, and having re-entered in her mostelegant manner, sat down, and passed her plate for fresh trout andmuffins. 

'No fish or hot bread for you, my dear. Eat your good oatmeal porridgeand milk; that is the proper food for children. '

'Can't I have some tea?' cried mamma, in despair, for without it shefelt quite lost. 

'Certainly not. _I_ never was allowed tea when a little girl, andcouldn't think of giving it to you, ' said Kitty, filling a large cup forherself, and sipping the forbidden draught with a relish. 

Poor mamma quite groaned at this hard fate, but meekly obeyed, and atethe detested porridge, understanding Kitty's dislike to it at last. 

Harry, sitting in his father's chair, read the paper, and ate everythinghe could lay his hands on, with a funny assumption of his father'smorning manner. Aunt Betsey looked on much amused, and now and thennodded to the children as if she thought things were going nicely. 

Breakfast was half over when papa came in, and was about to take Harry'splace when his son said, trying vainly to look grave as he showed thewatch, --

'What did I tell you, sir? You are late again, sir. No breakfast, sir. I'm sorry, but this habit _must_ be broken up. Not a word; it's your ownfault, and you must bear the penalty. '

'Come, now, that's hard on a fellow! I'm awful hungry. Can't I have justa bite of something?' asked papa, quite taken aback at this sterndecree. 

'I said not a morsel, and I shall keep my word. Go to your morningduties and let this be a lesson to you. '

Papa cast a look at Aunt Betsey, that was both comic and pathetic, anddeparted without a word; but he felt a sudden sympathy with his son, whohad often been sent fasting from the table for some small offence. 

Now it was that he appreciated aunty's kind heart, and felt quite fondof her, for in a few minutes she came to him, as he raked the gravelwalk (Harry's duty every day), and slipping a nice, warm, well-butteredmuffin into his hand, said, in her motherly way, --

'My dear, do try and please your father. He is right about late rising, but I can't bear to see you starve. '

'Betsey, you are an angel!' and turning his back to the house, papabolted the muffin with grateful rapidity, inquiring with a laugh, 'Doyou think those rogues will keep it up in this vigorous style all day?'

'I trust so; it isn't a bit overdone. Hope you like it!' and Aunt Betseywalked away, looking as if _she_ enjoyed it extremely. 

'Now put on your hat and draw baby up and down the avenue for half anhour. Don't go on the grass, or you will wet your feet; and don't playwith baby, I want her to go to sleep; and don't talk to papa, or he willneglect his work, ' said Kitty, as they rose from table. 

Now, it was a warm morning and baby was heavy and the avenue was dull, and mamma much preferred to stay in the house and sew the trimming on toa new and pretty dress. 

'Must I really? Kitty you are a hard-hearted mamma to make me do it, 'and Mrs. Fairbairn hoped her play-parent would relent. 

But she did not, and only answered with a meaning look. 

'_I_ have to do it every day, and _you_ don't let me off. '

Mamma said no more, but put on her hat and trundled away with fretfulbaby, thinking to find her fellow-sufferer and have a laugh over thejoke. She was disappointed, however, for Harry called papa away to weedthe lettuce-bed, and then shut him up in the study to get his lessons, while he mounted the pony and trotted away to town to buy a newfishing-rod and otherwise enjoy himself. 

When mamma came in, hot and tired, she was met by Kitty with a bottle inone hand and a spoon in the other. 

'Here is your iron mixture, dear. Now take it like a good girl. '

'I won't!' and mamma looked quite stubborn. 

'Then aunty will hold your hands and I shall make you. '

'But I don't like it; I don't need it, ' cried mamma. 

'Neither do I, but you give it to me all the same. I'm sure you needstrengthening more than I do, you have so many "trials, "' and Kittylooked very sly as she quoted one of the words often on her mother'slips. 

'You'd better mind, Carrie; it can't hurt you, and you know you promisedentire obedience. Set a good example, ' said aunty. 

'But I never thought these little chits would do so well. Ugh, howdisagreeable it is!' And mamma took her dose with a wry face, feelingthat Aunt Betsey was siding with the wrong party. 

'Now sit down and hem these towels till dinner-time. I have so much todo I don't know which way to turn, ' continued Kitty, much elated withher success. 

Rest of any sort was welcome, so mamma sewed busily till callers came. They happened to be some little friends of Kitty's, and she went to themin the parlor, telling mamma to go up to nurse and have her hair brushedand her dress changed, and then come and see the guests. While she wasaway Kitty told the girls the joke they were having, and begged them tohelp her carry it out. They agreed, being ready for fun and not at allafraid of Mrs. Fairbairn. So when she came in they all began to kiss andcuddle and praise and pass her round as if she was a doll, to her greatdiscomfort and the great amusement of the little girls. 

While this was going on in the drawing-room, Harry was tutoring hisfather in the study, and putting that poor gentleman through a course ofquestions that nearly drove him distracted; for Harry got out thehardest books he could find, and selected the most puzzling subjects. Adusty old history was rummaged out also, and classical researchesfollowed, in which papa's memory played him false more than once, calling forth rebukes from his severe young tutor. But he came to opendisgrace over his mathematics, for he had no head for figures, and, notbeing a business man, had not troubled himself about the matter; soHarry, who was in fine practice, utterly routed him in mental arithmeticby giving him regular puzzlers, and when he got stuck offered no help, but shook his head and called him a stupid fellow. 

The dinner-bell released the exhausted student, and he gladly took hisson's place, looking as if he had been hard at work. He was faint withhunger, but was helped last, being 'only a boy, ' and then checked everyfive minutes for eating too fast. Mamma was very meek, and only lookedwistfully at the pie when told in her own words that pastry was bad forchildren. 

Any attempts at conversation were promptly quenched by the worn-out oldsaying, 'Children should be seen, not heard, ' while Harry and Kittychattered all dinner-time, and enjoyed it to their hearts' content, especially the frequent pecks at their great children, who, to be evenwith them, imitated all their tricks as well as they could. 

'Don't whistle at table, papa;' 'keep your hands still mamma;' 'waittill you are helped, sir;' 'tuck your napkin well in, and don't spillyour soup, Caroline. '

Aunt Betsey laughed till her eyes were full, and they had a jolly time, though the little people had the best of it, for the others obeyed themin spite of their dislike to the new rules. 

'Now you may play for two hours, ' was the gracious order issued as theyrose from table. 

Mamma fell upon a sofa exhausted, and papa hurried to read his paper inthe shady garden. 

Usually these hours of apparent freedom were spoilt by constantcalls, --not to run, not to play this or that, or frequent calls to doerrands. The children had mercy, however, and left them in peace; whichwas a wise move on the whole, for the poor souls found rest so agreeablethey privately resolved to let the children alone in their play-hours. 

'Can I go over and see Mr. Hammond?' asked papa, wishing to use up thelast half-hour of his time by a neighbourly call. 

'No; I don't like Tommy Hammond, so I don't wish you to play with hisfather, ' said Harry, with a sly twinkle of the eye, as he turned thetables on his papa. 

Mr. Fairbairn gave a low whistle and retired to the barn, where Harryfollowed him, and ordered the man to harness up old Bill. 

'Going to drive, sir?' asked papa, respectfully. 

'Don't ask questions, ' was all the answer he got. 

Old Bill was put into the best buggy and driven to the hall door. Papafollowed, and mamma sprang up from her nap, ready for her afternoondrive. 

'Can't I go?' she asked, as Kitty came down in her new hat and gloves. 

'No; there isn't room. '

'Why not have the carryall, and let us go, too, we like it so much, 'said papa, in the pleading tone Harry often used. 

Kitty was about to consent, for she loved mamma, and found it hard tocross her so. But Harry was made of sterner stuff; his wrongs stillburned within him, and he said impatiently--

'We can't be troubled with you. The buggy is nicest and lightest, and wewant to talk over our affairs. You, my son, can help John turn the hayon the lawn, and Caroline can amuse baby, or help Jane with thepreserves. Little girls should be domestic. '

'Oh, thunder!' growled papa. 

'Aunt Betsey taught you that speech, you saucy boy, ' cried mamma, as thechildren drove off in high glee, leaving their parents to thedistasteful tasks set them. 

Mrs. Fairbairn wanted to read, but baby was fretful, and there was noKitty to turn him over to, so she spent her afternoon amusing the smalltyrant, while papa made hay in the sun and didn't like it. 

Just at tea-time the children came home, full of the charms of theirdrive, but did not take the trouble to tell much about it to thestay-at-home people. Bread and milk was all they allowed their victims, while they revelled in marmalade and cake, fruit and tea. 

'I expect company this evening, but I don't wish you to sit up, Caroline; you are too young, and late hours are bad for your eyes. Go tobed, and don't forget to brush your hair and teeth well, five minutesfor each; cold cream your hands, fold your ribbons, hang up yourclothes, put out your boots to be cleaned, and put in the mosquito bars;I will come and take away the light when I am dressed. '

Kitty delivered this dread command with effect, for she had heard andcried over it too often not to have it quite by heart. 

'But I can't go to bed at half-past seven o'clock of a summer night! I'mnot sleepy, and this is just the pleasantest time of the whole day, 'said mamma, thinking her bargain a hard one. 

'Go up directly, my daughter, and don't discuss the matter; I know whatis best for you, ' and Kitty sent social, wide-awake mamma to bed, thereto lie thinking soberly till Mrs. Kit came for the lamp. 

'Have you had a happy day, love?' she asked, bending over the pillow, asher mother used to do. 

'No, ma'am. '

'Then it was your own fault, my child. Obey your parents in all things, and you will be both good and happy. '

'That depends'--began mamma, but stopped short, remembering thatto-morrow she would be on the other side, and anything she might say nowwould be quoted against her. 

But Kitty understood, and her heart melted as she hugged her mother andsaid in her own caressing way--

'Poor little mamma! did she have a hard time? and didn't she like beinga good girl and minding her parents?'

Mamma laughed also, and held Kitty close, but all she said was--

'Good-night, dear; don't be troubled: it will be all right to-morrow. '

'I hope so, ' and with a hearty kiss, Kitty went thoughtfully downstairsto meet several little friends whom she had asked to spend the eveningwith her. 

As the ladies left the room, papa leaned back and prepared to smoke acigar, feeling that he needed the comfort of it after this trying day. But Harry was down upon him at once. 

'A very bad habit--can't allow it. Throw that dirty thing away, and goand get your Latin lesson for to-morrow. The study is quiet, and we wantthis room. '

'But I am tired. I can't study at night. Let me off till to-morrow, please, sir!' begged papa, who had not looked at Latin since he leftschool. 

'Not a word, sir! I shall listen to no excuses, and shall _not_ let youneglect your education on any account, ' and Harry slapped the table _àla_ papa in the most impressive manner. 

Mr. Fairbairn went away into the dull study and made believe do hislesson, but he really smoked and meditated. 

The young folks had a grand revel, and kept it up till ten o'clock, while mamma lay awake, longing to go down and see what they were about, and papa shortly fell asleep, quite exhausted by the society of a LatinGrammar. 

'Idle boy, is this the way you study?' said Harry, audaciously tweakinghim by the ear. 

'No, it's the way you do;' and feeling that his day of bondage was over, papa cast off his allegiance, tucked a child under each arm, and marchedupstairs with them, kicking and screaming. Setting them down at thenursery door, he said, shaking his finger at them in an awful manner, --

'Wait a bit, you rascals, and see what you will get to-morrow. '

With this dark threat he vanished into his own room, and a minute aftera great burst of laughter set their fears at rest. 

'It was a fair bargain, so I'm not afraid, ' said Harry stoutly. 

'He kissed us good-night though he did glower at us, so I guess it wasonly fun, ' added Kitty. 

'Hasn't it been a funny day?' asked Harry. 

'Don't think I quite like it, everything is so turned round, ' saidKitty. 

'Guess _they_ didn't like it very well. Hear 'em talking in there;' andHarry held up his finger, for a steady murmur of conversation hadfollowed the laughter in papa and mamma's room. 

'I wonder if our joke will do any good?' said Kitty thoughtfully. 

'Wait and see, ' answered Aunt Betsey, popping her night-capped head outof her room with a nod and a smile that sent them to bed full of hopefor the future. 

_DANDELION. _

Down by the sea lived Ben the fisherman, with his wife, and little son, who was called Dandelion, because he wore yellow pinafores, and hadcurly, yellow hair, that covered his head with a golden fuzz. A veryhappy family, for Ben was kind and industrious, Hetty, his wife, acheerful, busy creature, and Dandelion the jolliest three-year-old babywho ever made sand-pies and paddled on the beach. 

But one day a great trouble came to them. Ben and his fellow-fishermensailed blithely away as usual, and Hetty watched the fleet ofwhite-winged boats out of the bay, thinking how pretty they looked withthe sunshine on them; while Dandelion stood clapping his chubby hands, and saying, as he always did, 'Daddy tummin' soon. ' But Daddy did notcome soon that time; for a great storm arose, and when some of the boatscame scudding home at nightfall, Ben's was not among them. All night thegale raged, and in the morning, Ben's boat lay empty and broken on theshore. His mates shook their heads when they saw the wreck, and drewtheir rough hands over their eyes; for Ben was a good seaman, and theyknew he never would desert his boat alive. They looked for him far andwide, but could hear nothing of him, and felt sure that he had perishedin the storm. They tried to comfort poor Hetty, but she would not becomforted. Her heart seemed broken; and if it had not been for her baby, her neighbours feared that she would have gone to join Ben in his graveunder the sea. Dandelion didn't understand why every one was so sad, andwhy his father stayed away so long; but he never lost his cheerfulness, never gave up hoping, or stopped saying, with a contented smile, 'Daddytummin' soon. ' The sunshiny little face was Hetty's only comfort. Thesight of the fuzzy yellow head, bobbing round the house, alone made itendurable; and the touch of the loving baby hands kept her from thedespair which made her long to end her sorrow in the sea. 

People don't believe in fairies now-a-days; nevertheless, good spiritsstill exist, and help us in our times of trouble, better even than thelittle people we used to read about. One of these household spirits iscalled Love, and it took the shape of Dandelion to comfort poor Hetty. Another is called Labor: a beautiful, happy spirit this is, and it didits part so well that there was little time for bitter thoughts or vainregrets; for Hetty's spinning-wheel must go, in order to earn bread forDandelion, whose mouth was always ready for food, like a hungry bird's. Busily hummed the wheel: and, as it flew, it seemed to catch an echo ofthe baby's cheerful song, saying, over and over, 'Daddy tummin' soon, 'till Hetty stopped crying as she worked, and listened to the cheerfulwhirr. 'Yes, I shall see my good Ben again, if I wait patiently. Babytakes comfort in saying that, and I will, too; though the poor dear willget tired of it soon, ' she said. 

But Dandelion didn't get tired. He firmly believed what he said, andnothing could change his mind. He had been much troubled at seeing theboat laid up on the beach all broken and dismantled, but his littlemind couldn't take in the idea of shipwreck and death; so, afterthinking it over, he decided that Daddy was waiting somewhere for a newboat to be sent to bring him home. This idea was so strong that thechild gathered together his store of toy-boats, --for he had many, asthey were his favourite plaything, --and launched them, one afteranother, telling them to find his father, and bring him home. 

As Dandelion was not allowed to play on the beach, except at low tide, the little boats sailed safely away on the receding waves, and the childwas sure that some of them would get safely into the distant port whereDaddy was waiting. All the boats were launched at last, all sailedbravely away; but none came back, and little Dandy was muchdisappointed. He babbled about it to himself; told the peeps and thehorse-shoes, the snails and the lobsters, of his trouble; begged thegulls to fly away and find Daddy; and every windy night when the seadashed on the shore and the shutters rattled, he would want the lamp putin the window, as it used to be when they expected Ben, and tried tomake home look cheerful, even before he got there. 

Hetty used to humour the child, though it made her heart ache to knowthat the light shone in vain. At such times Dandy would prance about theroom in his little shirt, and talk about Daddy as happily as if longmonths had not passed without bringing him back. When fairly in his big, old-fashioned cradle, the boy would lie, looking more like a dandelionthan ever, in his yellow flannel night-gown, playing with his toes, orrocking himself to and fro, calling the cradle his boat, and blithelytelling his mother that he was sailing 'far way to find Daddy. ' Whentired of play, he lay still and asked her to sing to him. She had noheart for the gay old sea-songs she used to sing for lullabies; so shesung hymns in her soft, motherly voice, till the blue eyes closed andthe golden head lay still, looking so pretty, with the circle of brighthair above the rosy face. 'My little saint, ' Hetty called him; andthough she often wept sadly as she watched him, the bitterness of hergrief passed away, and a patient hope came to her; for the child's firmfaith impressed her deeply, the pious music of the sweet old hymnscomforted her sore heart, and daily labor kept her cheerful in spite ofherself. The neighbours wondered at the change that came over her, butshe could not explain it; and no one knew that the three good spiritscalled Love, Labor, and Hope, were working their pleasant miracles. 

Six long months went by, and no one ever thought of seeing Benagain, --no one but his little son, who still watched for him here, andhis wife, who waited to meet him hereafter. 

One bright spring day something happened. The house was as tidy as ever;the wheel hummed briskly as Hetty sung softly to herself with a cheerfulface, though there were white hairs among the brown, and her eyes had athoughtful, absent look at times. Dandelion, more chubby and cheery thanever, sat at her feet, with the sunshine making a golden glory of hisyellow hair, as he tried his new boat in the tub of water his motherkept for her little sailor, or tugged away with his fat fingers at a bigneedle which he was trying to pull through a bit of cloth intended for asail. The faithful little soul had not forgotten his father, but hadcome to the conclusion that the reason his boats never prospered wasbecause they hadn't large enough sails; so he was intent on rigging anew boat lately given him, with a sail that could not fail to waft Bensafely home. With his mouth puckered up, his downy eyebrows knit, andboth hands pulling at the big needle, he was so wrapped in his work thathe did not mind the stopping of the wheel when Hetty fell into areverie, thinking of the happy time when she and Ben should meet again. Sitting so, neither heard a step come softly over the sand; neither sawan eager, brown face peer in at the door; and neither knew for a minute, that Ben was watching them, with a love and longing in his heart thatmade him tremble like a woman. 

Dandelion saw him first; for, as he pulled the thread through with atriumphant jerk, the small sailmaker lost his balance, tumbled over, and lay staring up at the tall man with his blue eyes so wide open, theylooked as if they would never shut again. All of a sudden, he shouted, with a joyful shout, 'Daddy's tummin'!' and the next instant, vanished, ship and all, in the arms of the man who wore the rough jacket. Overwent the spinning-wheel, as Hetty vanished likewise; and for a timethere was nothing but sobbing and kissing, clinging, and thanking Heavenfor its kindness to them. When they grew quieter, and Ben got into hisold chair, with his wife on one knee and his boy on the other, he toldthem how he was wrecked in the gale, picked up by an outward-bound ship, and only able to get back after months of sickness and delay. 

'My boaty fetched him, ' said Dandelion, feeling that every thing hadturned out just as he expected. 

'So it did, my precious; leastways, your faith helped, I haven't adoubt, ' cried Hetty, hugging the curly headed prophet close, as she toldBen all that had happened. 

Ben didn't say much, but a few great tears rolled down the rough bluejacket, as he looked from the queer sail with its two big stitches tothe little son, whose love, he firmly believed, had kept him safethrough many dangers and brought him home at last. 

When the fine new boat was built, no one thought it strange that Bennamed it 'Dandelion;' no one laughed at the little sail which alwayshung over the fire-place in the small house: and long years after, whenBen was an old man, and sat by the door with his grand-children on hisknee, the story which always pleased them best was that which ended withthe funny words, 'Daddy tummin' soon. '

_MADAM CLUCK AND HER FAMILY. _

There never was a prouder mamma than Madam Cluck when she led forth herfamily of eight downy little chicks. Chanticleer, Strut, Snowball, Speckle, Peep, Peck, Downy, and Blot were their names; and no soonerwere they out of the shell than they began to chirp and scratch as gailyas if the big world in which they suddenly found themselves was made fortheir especial benefit. It was a fine brood; but poor Madam Cluck hadbad luck with her chicks, for they were her first, and she didn't knowhow to manage them. Old Aunt Cockletop told her that she didn't, andpredicted that 'those poor dears would come to bad ends. '

Aunt Cockletop was right, as you will see, when I have told the sadhistory of this unfortunate family. The tragedy began with Chanty, whowas the boldest little cockadoodle who ever tried to crow. Before he hada feather to his bit of a tail, Chanty began to fight, and soon wasknown as the most quarrelsome chick in the farm-yard. Having pecked hisbrothers and sisters, he tried to do the same to his playmates, theducklings, goslings, and young turkeys, and was so disagreeable that allthe fowls hated him. One day, a pair of bantams arrived, --pretty littlewhite birds, with red crests and nice yellow feet. Chanty thought hecould beat Mr. Bantam easily, he was so small, and invited him to fight. Mr. B. Declined. Then Chanty called him a coward, and gave Mrs. B. Apeck, which so enraged her spouse that he flew at Chanty like agamecock, and a dreadful fight followed, which ended in Chanty's utterdefeat, for he died from his wounds. 

Downy and Snowball soon followed; for the two sweet little things wouldswing on the burdock-leaves that grew over the brook. Sitting side byside, the plump sisters were placidly swaying up and down over the clearbrown water rippling below, when--ah! sad to relate--the stem broke, anddown went leaf, chickens and all, to a watery death. 

'I'm the most unlucky hen ever hatched!' groaned poor Madam Cluck; andit did seem so, for the very next week, Speckle, the best and prettiestof the brood, went to walk with Aunt Cockletop, 'grasshoppering' theycalled it, in the great field across the road. What a nice time Speckledid have, to be sure; for the grasshoppers were lively and fat, and auntwas in an unusually amiable mood. 

'Never run away from anything, but face danger and conquer it, like abrave chick, ' said the old biddy, as she went clucking through thegrass, with her gray turban wagging in the wind. Speckle had hopped awayfrom a toad with a startled chirp, which caused aunt to utter thatremark. The words had hardly left her beak, when a shadow above made herlook up, give one loud croak of alarm, and then scuttle away, as fast aslegs and wings could carry her. 

Little Speckle, remembering the advice, and unconscious of the danger, stood her ground as a great hawk came circling nearer and nearer, till, with a sudden dart he pounced on the poor chicken, and bore it awaychirping dismally, 'Aunty told me not to run. Oh, dear! oh, dear! What shall I do?'

It was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Cluck; and Aunt Cockletop didn't showherself for a whole day after that story was known, for every fowl inthe yard twitted her with the difference between her preaching and herpractice. 

Strut, the other son, was the vainest chick ever seen; and the great aimof his life was to crow louder than any other cock in the neighbourhood. He was at it from morning till night, and everyone was tired to death ofhearing his shrill, small voice making funny attempts to produce hoarselittle crows, as he sat on the wall and stretched his yellow neck, tillhis throat quite ached with the effort. 

'Ah! if I could only fly to the highest beam in the barn, and give asplendid crow that everyone could hear, I should be perfectly happy, 'said this silly little fowl, as he stared up at the loft where the oldcock often sat. 

So he tried every day to fly and crow, and at last managed to get up;then how he did strut and rustle his feathers, while his playmates satbelow and watched him. 

'You'll fall and get hurt, ' said his sister Blot. 

'Hold your tongue, you ugly little thing, and don't talk to me. I'mgoing to crow, and can't be interrupted by any silly bit of a hen. Bequiet, down there, and hear if I can't do it as well as daddy. '

The chicks stopped scratching and peeping, and sat in a row to hearStrut crow. Perching himself on the beam, he tried his best, but only adroll 'cock-a-doodle-doo' came of it, and all the chicks laughed. Thatmade Strut mad, and he resolved to crow, even if he killed himself doingit. He gave an angry cluck, flapped his wings, and tried again. Alas, alas, for poor Strut! he leaned so far forward in his frantic effort toget a big crow out, that he toppled over and fell bump on the hardbarn-floor, killing himself instantly. 

For some time after this, Mrs. Cluck kept her three remaining littleones close to her side, watching over them with maternal care, till theywere heartily tired of her anxious cluckings. Peep and Peck were alwaystogether, being very fond of one another. Peep was a most inquisitivechicken, poking her head into every nook and corner, and never satisfiedtill she had seen all there was to see. Peck was a glutton, eatingeverything she could find, and often making herself ill by gobbling toofast, and forgetting to eat a little gravel to help digest her food. 

'Don't go out of the barn, children. I'm going to lay an egg, and can'tlook after you just now, ' said their mother one day. 

'Yes, ma'am, ' chirped the chickens; and then as she went rustling intothe hay-mow, they began to run about and enjoy themselves with all theirmight. Peep found a little hole into the meal-room, and slipped in, fullof joy at the sight of the bags, boxes, and bins. 'I'll eat all I want, and then I'll call Peck, ' she said; and having taken a taste of everything, she was about to leave, when she heard the stableman coming, andin her fright couldn't find the hole, so flew into the meal-bin and hidherself. Sam never saw her, but shut down the cover of the bin as hepassed, and left poor Peep to die. No one knew what had become of hertill some days later, when she was found dead in the meal, with her poorlittle claws sticking straight up as if imploring help. Peck meanwhilegot into mischief also; for, in her hunt for something good to eat, shestrayed into the sheep-shed, and finding some salt, ate as much as sheliked, not knowing that salt is bad for hens. Having taken all shewanted, she ran back to the barn, and was innocently catching gnats whenher mamma came out of the hay-mow with a loud. 'Cut-cut-cut-ca-dar-cut!'

'Where is Peep?' asked Mrs. Cluck. 

'Don't know, ma. She'--there Peck stopped suddenly, rolled up her eyes, and began to stagger about as if she was tipsy. 

'Mercy on us! What's the matter with the chick?' cried Mrs. Cluck, ingreat alarm. 

'Fits, ma'am, ' answered Doctor Drake, who just then waddled by. 

'Oh! what can I do?' screamed the distracted hen. 

'Nothing, ma'am; it's fatal. ' And the doctor waddled on to visit DamePartlet's son, who was ill of the pip. 

'My child, my child! don't flap and stagger so! Let me hold you! Tastethis mint-leaf! Have a drop of water! What shall I do?'

As poor Mrs. Cluck sighed and sobbed, her unhappy child went scufflingabout on her back, gasping and rolling up her eyes in great anguish, forshe had eaten too much of the fatal salt, and there was no help for her. When all was over they buried the dead chicken under a currant bush, covered the little grave with chickweed, and the bereaved parent wore ablack string round her leg for a month. 

Blot, 'the last of that bright band, ' needed no mourning for she was asblack as a crow. This was the reason why her mother never had loved heras much as she did the others, who were all white, gray, or yellow. Poor little Blot had been much neglected by every one; but now herlonely mamma discovered how good and affectionate a chicken she was, forBlot was a great comfort to her, never running away or disobeying in anyway, but always close to her side, ready to creep under her wing, orbring her a plump bug when the poor biddy's appetite failed her. Theywere very happy together till Thanksgiving drew near, when a dreadfulpestilence seemed to sweep through the farm-yard; for turkeys, hens, ducks, and geese fell a prey to it, and were seen by their survivingrelatives featherless, pale, and stiff, borne away to some unknown placewhence no fowl returned. Blot was waked one night by a great cacklingand fluttering in the hen-house, and peeping down from her perch saw agreat hand glide along the roost, clutch her beloved mother by the leg, and pull her off, screaming dolefully, 'Good-by, good-by, my darlingchild!'

Aunt Cockletop pecked and croaked fiercely; but, tough as she was, theold biddy did not escape, and many another amiable hen and gallantcockadoodle fell a victim to that mysterious hand. In the morning fewremained, and Blot felt that she was a forlorn orphan, a thought whichcaused her to sit with her head under her wing for several hours, brooding over her sad lot, and longing to join her family in some safeand happy land, where fowls live in peace. She had her wish very soon, for one day, when the first snowflakes began to flutter out of the coldgray sky, Blot saw a little kitten mewing pitifully as it sat under thefence. 

'What is the matter, dear?' asked kind Blot. 

'I'm lost, and I can't find my way home, ' answered the kitten, shiveringwith cold. 'I live at the red farm-house over the hill, only I don'tknow which road to take. '

'I'll show you. Come at once, for night is coming on, and the snow willsoon be too deep for us, ' said Blot. 

So away they went, as fast as their small legs could carry them; but itwas a long way, and dusk came on before the red farm-house appeared. 

'Now I'm safe; thank you very much. Won't you come in, and stay allnight? My mother will be glad to see you, ' said the kit rubbing her softwhite face against Blot's little black breast. 

'It's against the rule to stay out all night, and I promised to be inearly; so, good-by, dear. ' And off trotted Blot along the snowy road, hoping to get home before the hen-house door was shut. Faster and fasterfell the snow darker and darker grew the night, and colder and colderbecame poor Blot's little feet as she waded through the drifts. Thefirelight was shining out into the gloom, as the half-frozen chickencame into the yard, to find all doors shut, and no shelter left for herbut the bough of a leafless tree. Too stiff and weak to fly up, shecrept as close as possible to the bright glow which shone across thedoor-step, and with a shiver put her little head under her wing, tryingto forget hunger, weariness, and the bitter cold, and wait patiently formorning. But when morning came, little Blot lay frozen stiff under acoverlet of snow: and the tender-hearted children sighed as they dug agrave for the last of the unfortunate family of the Clucks. 

_A CURIOUS CALL. _

I have often wondered what the various statues standing about the citythink of all day, and what criticisms they would make upon us and ourdoings, if they could speak. I frequently stop and stare at them, wondering if they don't feel lonely; if they wouldn't be glad of a nodas we go by; and I always long to offer my umbrella to shield theiruncovered heads on a rainy day, especially to good Ben Franklin, whenthe snow lies white on his benevolent forehead. I was always fond ofthis old gentleman; and one of my favourite stories when a little girl, was that of his early life, and the time when he was so poor he walkedabout Philadelphia with a roll of bread under each arm, eating a thirdas he went. I never pass without giving him a respectful look, andwishing he could know how grateful I am for all he had done in theprinting line; for, without types and presses, where would the books be?

Well, I never imagined that he understood why the tall woman in the bigbonnet stared at him; but he did, and he liked it, and managed to let meknow it in a very curious manner, as you shall hear. 

As I look out, the first thing I see is the great gilt eagle on theCity-Hall dome. There he sits, with open wings, all day long, lookingdown on the people, who must appear like ants scampering busily to andfro about an ant-hill. The sun shines on him splendidly in the morning;the gay flag waves and rustles in the wind above him sometimes; and themoonlight turns him to silver when she comes glittering up the sky. When it rains he never shakes his feathers; snow beats on him withoutdisturbing his stately repose; and he never puts his head under his wingat night, but keeps guard in darkness as in day, like a faithfulsentinel. I like the big, lonely bird, call him my particular fowl, andoften wish he'd turn his head and speak to me. One night he did actuallydo it, or seemed to; for I've never been able to decide whether Idreamed what I'm going to tell you, or whether it really happened. 

It was a stormy night! and, as I drew down my curtain, I said to myself, after peering through the driving snow to catch a glimpse of myneighbour, 'Poor Goldy! he'll have a rough time of it. I hope thisnortheaster won't blow him off his perch. ' Then I sat down by my fire, took my knitting, and began to meditate. I'm sure I didn't fall asleep;but I can't prove it, so we'll say no more about it. All at once therecame a tap at my door, as I thought; and I said 'Come in, ' just as Mr. Poe did when that unpleasant raven paid him a call. No one came, so Iwent to see who it was. Not a sign of a human soul in the long hall, only little Jessie, the poodle, asleep on her mat. Down I sat; but in aminute the tap came again; this time so loud that I knew it was at thewindow, and went to open it, thinking that one of my doves wanted tocome in perhaps. Up went the sash, and in bounced something so big andso bright that it dazzled and scared me. 

'Don't be frightened, ma'am; it's only me, ' said a hoarse voice. So Icollected my wits, rubbed my eyes, and looked at my visitor. It was thegold eagle off the City Hall! I don't expect to be believed; but I wishyou'd been here to see, for I give you my word, it was a sight tobehold. How he ever got in at such a small window I can't tell; butthere he was, strutting majestically up and down the room, his goldenplumage rustling, and his keen eyes flashing as he walked. I reallydidn't know what to do. I couldn't imagine what he came for; I had mydoubts about the propriety of offering him a chair; and he was so muchbigger than I expected that I was afraid he might fly away with me, asthe roc did with Sindbad: so I did nothing but sidle to the door, readyto whisk out, if my strange guest appeared to be peckishly inclined. Myrespectful silence seemed to suit him; for, after a turn or two, hepaused, nodded gravely, and said affably, 'Good-evening, ma'am. Istepped over to bring you old Ben's respects, and to see how you weregetting on. '

'I'm very much obliged, sir. May I inquire who Mr. Old-Ben is? I'mafraid I haven't the honour of his acquaintance. '

'Yes, you have; it's Ben Franklin, of City-Hall yard. You know him; andhe wished me to thank you for your interest in him. '

'Dear me! how very odd! Will you sit down, sir?'

'Never sit! I'll perch here;' and the great fowl took his accustomedattitude just in front of the fire, looking so very splendid that Icouldn't keep my eyes off of him. 

'Ah! you often do that. Never mind; I rather like it, ' said the eagle, graciously, as he turned his brilliant eye upon me. I was ratherabashed; but being very curious, I ventured to ask a few questions, ashe seemed in a friendly mood. 

'Being a woman, sir, I'm naturally of an inquiring turn; and I mustconfess that I have a strong desire to know how it happens that youtake your walks abroad, when you are supposed to be permanently engagedat home?'

He shrugged his shoulders, and actually winked at me, as he replied, 'That's all people know of what goes on under, or rather over, theirnoses. Bless you, ma'am! I leave my roost every night, and enjoy myselfin all sorts of larks. Excuse the expression; but, being ornithological, it is more proper for me than for some people who use it. '

'What a gay old bird!' thought I, feeling quite at home after that. 'Please tell me what you do, when the shades of evening prevail, and yougo out for a frolic?'

'I am a gentleman; therefore I behave myself, ' returned the eagle; witha stately air. 'I must confess, I smoke a great deal: but that's not myfault, it's the fault of the chimneys. They keep it up all day, and Ihave to take it; just as you poor ladies have to take cigar smoke, whether you like it or not. My amusements are of a wholesome kind. Iusually begin by taking a long flight down the harbour, for a look atthe lighthouses, the islands, the shipping, and the sea. My friends, thegulls, bring their reports to me; for they are the harbour-police, and Itake notes of their doings. The school-ship is an object of interest tome, and I often perch on the mast-head, to see how the lads are gettingon. Then I take a turn over the city, gossip with the weathercocks, paymy compliments to the bells, inspect the fire-alarm, and pick upinformation by listening at the telegraph wires. People often talk about"a little bird" who spreads news; but they don't know how that figure ofspeech originated. It is the sparrows sitting on the wires, who receivethe electric shock, and, being hollow-boned, the news go straight totheir heads; they then fly about, chirping it on the housetops, and theair carries it everywhere. That's the way rumours rise and news spread. '

'If you'll allow, I'll make a note of that interesting fact, ' said I, wondering if I might believe him. He appeared to fall into a reveriewhile I jotted down the sparrow story, and it occurred to me thatperhaps I ought to offer my distinguished guest some refreshment; but, when I modestly alluded to it, he said, with an aldermanic air, 'No, thank you; I've just dined at the Parker House. '

Now, I really could _not_ swallow that; and so plainly betrayed myincredulity, that the eagle explained. 'The savoury smells which rise tomy nostrils from that excellent hotel, with an occasional sniff from theTremont, are quite sufficient to satisfy my appetite; for, having nostomach, I don't need much food, and I drink nothing but water. '

'I wish others would follow your example in that latter habit, ' said I, respectfully, for I was beginning to see that there was something in mybird, though he _was_ hollow. 'Will you allow me to ask if the otherstatues in the city fly by night?'

'They promenade in the parks; and occasionally have social gatherings, when they discuss politics, education, medicine, or any of the subjectsin which they are interested. Ah! we have grand times when you are allasleep. It quite repays me for being obliged to make an owl of myself. '

'Do the statues come from the shops to these parties?' I asked, resolving to take a late walk the next moonlight night. 

'Sometimes; but they get lazy and delicate, living in close, warmplaces. We laugh at cold and bad weather, and are so strong and heartythat I shouldn't be surprised if I saw Webster and Everett flying roundthe Common on the new-fashioned velocipedes, for they believed inexercise. Goethe and Schiller often step over from De Vries's window, toflirt with the goddesses, who come down from their niches onHorticultural Hall. Nice, robust young women are Pomona and Flora. Ifyour niminy-piminy girls could see them run, they would stop tiltingthrough the streets, and learn that the true Grecian Bend is the line ofbeauty always found in straight shoulders, well-opened chest, and anupright figure, firmly planted on active feet. '

'In your rambles don't you find a great deal of misery?' said I, tochange the subject, for he was evidently old-fashioned in his notions. 

'Many sad sights!' And he shook his head with a sigh; then added, briskly, 'But there is a deal of charity in our city, and it does itswork beautifully. By the by, I heard of a very sweet charity the otherday, --a church whose Sunday school is open to all the poor children whowill come; and there, in pleasant rooms, with books, pictures, kindlyteachers, and a fatherly minister to welcome them, the poor littlecreatures find refreshment for their hungry souls. I like that; it's alovely illustration of the text, "Suffer little children to come untome;" and _I_ call it practical Christianity. '

He did like it, my benevolent old bird; for he rustled his great wings, as if he wanted to clap them, if there had only been room; and everyfeather shone as if a clearer light than that of my little fire hadfallen on it as he spoke. 

'You are a literary woman, hey?' he said suddenly, as if he'd got a newidea, and was going to pounce upon me with it. 

'Ahem! I do a little in that line, ' I answered, with a modest cough. 

'Then tell people about that place; write some stories for the children;go and help teach them; do something, and make others do what they canto increase the sabbath sunshine that brightens one day in the week forthe poor babies who live in shady places. '

'I should be glad to do my best; and, if I'd known before'--I began. 

'You might have known, if you'd looked about you. People are so wrapt upin their own affairs they don't do half they might. Now, then, hand me abit of paper, and I'll give you the address, so you won't have anyexcuse for forgetting what I tell you. '

'Mercy on us; what will he do next?' thought I, as he tweaked a featherout of his breast, gave the nib a peck, and then coolly wrote thesewords on the card I handed him: '_Church of the Disciples. Knock and itshall be opened!_' There it was, in letters of gold; and, while I lookedat it, feeling reproached that I hadn't known it sooner, my friend, --hedidn't seem a stranger any more, --said in a business-like tone, as heput back his pen, 'Now I must be off. Old Ben reads an article on the"Abuses of the Press at the present day, " and I must be there toreport. '

'It must be very interesting. I suppose you don't allow mortals at yourmeetings?' said I, burning to go, in spite of the storm. 

'No, ma'am. We meet on the Common; and, in the present state of theweather, I don't think flesh and blood would stand it. Bronze, marble, and wood are sterner stuff, and can defy the elements. '

'Good evening; pray, call again, ' I said, hospitably. 

'I will; your eyrie suits me: but don't expect me to call in thedaytime. I'm on duty then, and can't take my eye off my charge. The cityneeds a deal of watching, my dear. Bless me! it's striking eight. Yourwatch is seven minutes slow by the Old South. Good-night, good-night!'

And as I opened the window, the great bird soared away like a flash oflight through the storm, leaving me so astonished at the wholeperformance that I haven't got over it yet. 

_TILLY'S CHRISTMAS. _

'I'm so glad to-morrow is Christmas, because I'm going to have lots ofpresents. '

'So am I glad, though I don't expect any presents but a pair ofmittens. '

'And so am I; but I shan't have any presents at all. '

As the three little girls trudged home from school they said thesethings, and as Tilly spoke, both the others looked at her with pity andsome surprise, for she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how she couldbe happy when she was so poor she could have no presents on Christmas. 

'Don't you wish you could find a purse full of money right here in thepath?' said Kate, the child who was going to have 'lots of presents. '

'Oh, don't I, if I could keep it honestly!' and Tilly's eyes shone atthe very thought. 

'What would you buy?' asked Bessy, rubbing her cold hands, and longingfor her mittens. 

'I'd buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load of wood, a shawl formother, and a pair of shoes for me; and if there was enough left, I'dgive Bessy a new hat, and then she needn't wear Ben's old felt one, 'answered Tilly. 

The girls laughed at that; but Bessy pulled the funny hat over her ears, and said she was much obliged but she'd rather have candy. 

'Let's look, and maybe we _can_ find a purse. People are always goingabout with money at Christmas time, and some one may lose it here, ' saidKate. 

So, as they went along the snowy road, they looked about them, half inearnest, half in fun. Suddenly Tilly sprang forward, exclaiming, --

'I see it! I've found it!'

The others followed, but all stopped disappointed; for it wasn't apurse, it was only a little bird. It lay upon the snow with its wingsspread and feebly fluttering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feetwere benumbed with cold; its once bright eyes were dull with pain, andinstead of a blithe song, it could only utter a faint chirp, now andthen, as if crying for help. 

'Nothing but a stupid old robin; how provoking!' cried Kate, sittingdown to rest. 

'I shan't touch it. I found one once, and took care of it, and theungrateful thing flew away the minute it was well, ' said Bessy, creepingunder Kate's shawl, and putting her hands under her chin to warm them. 

'Poor little birdie! How pitiful he looks, and how glad he must be tosee some one coming to help him! I'll take him up gently, and carry himhome to mother. Don't be frightened, dear, I'm your friend;' and Tillyknelt down in the snow, stretching her hand to the bird, with thetenderest pity in her face. 

Kate and Bessy laughed. 

'Don't stop for that thing; it's getting late and cold: let's go on andlook for the purse, ' they said moving away. 

'You wouldn't leave it to die!' cried Tilly. 'I'd rather have the birdthan the money, so I shan't look any more. The purse wouldn't be mine, and I should only be tempted to keep it; but this poor thing will thankand love me, and I'm _so_ glad I came in time. '

Gently lifting the bird, Tilly felt its tiny cold claws cling to herhand, and saw its dim eyes brighten as it nestled down with a gratefulchirp. 

'Now I've got a Christmas present after all, ' she said, smiling, as theywalked on. 'I always wanted a bird, and this one will be such a prettypet for me. '

'He'll fly away the first chance he gets, and die anyhow; so you'dbetter not waste your time over him, ' said Bessy. 

'He can't pay you for taking care of him, and my mother says it isn'tworth while to help folks that can't help us, ' added Kate. 

'My mother says, "Do as you'd be done by;" and I'm sure I'd like any oneto help me if I was dying of cold and hunger. "Love your neighbour asyourself, " is another of her sayings. This bird is my little neighbour, and I'll love him and care for him, as I often wish our rich neighbourwould love and care for us, ' answered Tilly, breathing her warm breathover the benumbed bird, who looked up at her with confiding eyes, quickto feel and know a friend. 

'What a funny girl you are, ' said Kate; 'caring for that silly bird, andtalking about loving your neighbour in that sober way. Mr. King don'tcare a bit for you, and never will, though he knows how poor you are; soI don't think your plan amounts to much. '

'I believe it, though; and shall do my part, any way. Good-night. I hopeyou'll have a merry Christmas, and lots of pretty things, ' answeredTilly, as they parted. 

Her eyes were full, and she felt so poor as she went on alone toward thelittle old house where she lived. It would have been so pleasant to knowthat she was going to have some of the pretty things all children loveto find in their full stockings on Christmas morning. And pleasanterstill to have been able to give her mother something nice. So manycomforts were needed, and there was no hope of getting them; for theycould barely get food and fire. 

'Never mind, birdie, we'll make the best of what we have, and be merryin spite of every thing. _You_ shall have a happy Christmas, any way;and I know God won't forget us if every one else does. '

She stopped a minute to wipe her eyes, and lean her cheek against thebird's soft breast, finding great comfort in the little creature, thoughit could only love her, nothing more. 

'See, mother, what a nice present I've found, ' she cried, going in witha cheery face that was like sunshine in the dark room. 

'I'm glad of that, dearie; for I haven't been able to get my little girlanything but a rosy apple. Poor bird! Give it some of your warm breadand milk. '

'Why, mother, what a big bowlful! I'm afraid you gave me all the milk, 'said Tilly, smiling over the nice, steaming supper that stood ready forher. 

'I've had plenty, dear. Sit down and dry your wet feet, and put the birdin my basket on this warm flannel. '

Tilly peeped into the closet and saw nothing there but dry bread. 

'Mother's given me all the milk, and is going without her tea, 'causeshe knows I'm hungry. Now I'll surprise her, and she shall have a goodsupper too. She is going to split wood, and I'll fix it while she'sgone. '

So Tilly put down the old tea-pot, carefully poured out a part of themilk, and from her pocket produced a great, plummy bun, that one of theschool-children had given her, and she had saved for her mother. A sliceof the dry bread was nicely toasted, and the bit of butter set by forher put on it. When her mother came in there was the table drawn up in awarm place, a hot cup of tea ready, and Tilly and birdie waiting forher. 

Such a poor little supper, and yet such a happy one; for love, charity, and contentment were guests there, and that Christmas eve was a blitherone than that up at the great house, where lights shone, fires blazed, agreat tree glittered, and music sounded, as the children danced andplayed. 

'We must go to bed early, for we've only wood enough to last overto-morrow. I shall be paid for my work the day after, and then we canget some, ' said Tilly's mother, as they sat by the fire. 

'If my bird was only a fairy bird, and would give us three wishes, hownice it would be! Poor dear, he can't give me any thing; but it's nomatter, ' answered Tilly, looking at the robin, who lay in the basketwith his head under his wing, a mere little feathery bunch. 

'He can give you one thing, Tilly, --the pleasure of doing good. That isone of the sweetest things in life; and the poor can enjoy it as well asthe rich. '

As her mother spoke, with her tired hand softly stroking her littledaughter's hair, Tilly suddenly started and pointed to the window, saying, in a frightened whisper, --

'I saw a face, --a man's face, looking in! It's gone now; but I truly sawit. '

'Some traveller attracted by the light perhaps. I'll go and see. ' AndTilly's mother went to the door. 

No one was there. The wind blew cold, the stars shone, the snow laywhite on field and wood, and the Christmas moon was glittering in thesky. 

'What sort of a face was it?' asked Tilly's mother, coming back. 

'A pleasant sort of face, I think; but I was so startled I don't quiteknow what it was like. I wish we had a curtain there, ' said Tilly. 

'I like to have our light shine out in the evening, for the road is darkand lonely just here, and the twinkle of our lamp is pleasant topeople's eyes as they go by. We can do so little for our neighbours, Iam glad to cheer the way for them. Now put these poor old shoes to dry, and go to bed, dearie; I'll come soon. '

Tilly went, taking her bird with her to sleep in his basket near by, lest he should be lonely in the night. 

Soon the little house was dark and still, and no one saw the Christmasspirits at their work that night. 

When Tilly opened the door next morning, she gave a loud cry, clappedher hands, and then stood still; quite speechless with wonder anddelight. There, before the door, lay a great pile of wood, all ready toburn, a big bundle and a basket, with a lovely nosegay of winter roses, holly, and evergreen tied to the handle. 

'Oh, mother! did the fairies do it?' cried Tilly, pale with herhappiness, as she seized the basket, while her mother took in thebundle. 

'Yes, dear, the best and dearest fairy in the world, called "Charity. "She walks abroad at Christmas time, does beautiful deeds like this, anddoes not stay to be thanked, ' answered her mother with full eyes, as sheundid the parcel. 

There they were, --the warm, thick blankets, the comfortable shawls, thenew shoes, and, best of all, a pretty winter hat for Bessy. The basketwas full of good things to eat, and on the flowers lay a paper, saying, --

'For the little girl who loves her neighbour as herself. '

'Mother, I really think my bird is a fairy bird, and all these splendidthings come from him, ' said Tilly, laughing and crying with joy. 

It really did seem so, for as she spoke, the robin flew to the table, hopped to the nosegay, and perching among the roses, began to chirp withall his little might. The sun streamed in on flowers, bird, and happychild, and no one saw a shadow glide away from the window; no one everknew that Mr. King had seen and heard the little girls the night before, or dreamed that the rich neighbour had learned a lesson from the poorneighbour. 

And Tilly's bird _was_ a fairy bird; for by her love and tenderness tothe helpless thing, she brought good gifts to herself, happiness to theunknown giver of them, and a faithful little friend who did not flyaway, but stayed with her till the snow was gone, making summer for herin the winter-time. 

_MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. _

No one would have thought of calling him so, this ragged, barefooted, freckle-faced Jack, who spent his days carrying market-baskets for thebutcher, or clean clothes for Mrs. Quinn, selling chips, or grubbing inthe ash-heaps for cinders. But he was honestly earning his living, doinghis duty as well as he knew how, and serving those poorer and morehelpless than himself, and that is being a gentleman in the best senseof that fine old word. He had no home but Mrs. Quinn's garret; and forthis he paid by carrying the bundles and getting the cinders for herfire. Food and clothes he picked up as he could; and his only friend waslittle Nanny. Her mother had been kind to him when the death of hisfather left him all alone in the world; and when she, too, passed away, the boy tried to show his gratitude by comforting the little girl, whothought there was no one in the world like her Jack. 

Old Mrs. Quinn took care of her, waiting till she was strong enough towork for herself; but Nanny had been sick, and still sat about, a pale, little shadow of her former self, with a white film slowly coming overher pretty blue eyes. This was Jack's great trouble, and he couldn'twhistle it away as he did his own worries; for he was a cheery lad, andwhen the baskets were heavy, the way long, the weather bitter cold, hispoor clothes in rags, or his stomach empty, he just whistled, andsomehow things seemed to get right. But the day he carried Nanny thefirst dandelions, and she felt of them, instead of looking at them, asshe said, with such pathetic patience in her little face, 'I don't see'em; but I know they're pretty, and I like 'em lots, ' Jack felt as ifthe blithe spring sunshine was all spoiled; and when he tried to cheerhimself up with a good whistle, his lips trembled so they wouldn'tpucker. 

'The poor dear's eyes could be cured, I ain't a doubt; but it would takea sight of money, and who's agoing to pay it?' said Mrs. Quinn, scrubbing away at her tub. 

'How much money?' asked Jack. 

'A hundred dollars, I dare say. Dr. Wilkinson's cook told me once thathe done something to a lady's eyes, and asked a thousand dollars forit. '

Jack sighed a long, hopeless sigh, and went away to fill thewater-pails; but he remembered the doctor's name, and began to wonderhow many years it would take to earn a hundred dollars. 

Nanny was very patient; but, by and by, Mrs. Quinn began to talk aboutsending her to some almshouse, for she was too poor to be burdened witha helpless child. The fear of this nearly broke Jack's heart; and hewent about with such an anxious face that it was a mercy Nanny did notsee it. Jack was only twelve, but he had a hard load to carry just then;for the thought of his little friend, doomed to lifelong darkness forwant of a little money, tempted him to steal more than once, and gavehim the first fierce, bitter feeling against those better off than he. When he carried nice dinners to the great houses and saw the plenty thatprevailed there, he couldn't help feeling that it wasn't fair for someto have so much, and others so little. When he saw pretty childrenplaying in the park, or driving with their mothers, so gay, so wellcared for, so tenderly loved, the poor boy's eyes would fill to think ofpoor little Nanny, with no friend in the world but himself, and he sopowerless to help her. 

When he one day mustered courage to ring at the great doctor's bell, begging to see him a minute, and the servant answered, gruffly, as heshut the door, 'Go along! he can't be bothered with the like of you!'Jack clenched his hands hard as he went down the steps, and said tohimself, with a most unboyish tone, 'I'll get the money somehow, and_make_ him let me in!'

He did get it, and in a most unexpected way; but he never forgot thedesperate feeling that came to him that day, and all his life long hewas very tender to people who were tempted in their times of trouble, and yielded, as he was saved from doing, by what seemed an accident. 

Some days after his attempt at the doctor's, as he was grubbing in anewly-deposited ash-heap, with the bitter feeling very bad, and thetrouble very heavy, he found a dirty old pocket-book, and put it in hisbosom without stopping to examine it; for many boys and girls werescratching, like a brood of chickens, all round him, and the pickingswere unusually good, so no time must be lost. 'Findings is havings' wasone of the laws of the ash-heap haunters; and no one thought ofdisputing another's right to the spoons and knives that occasionallyfound their way into the ash-barrels; while bottles, old shoes, rags, and paper, were regular articles of traffic among them. Jack got a goodbasketful that day; and when the hurry was over sat down to rest andclear the dirt off his face with an old silk duster which he had pickedout of the rubbish, thinking Mrs. Quinn might wash it up for ahandkerchief. But he didn't wipe his dirty face that day; for, with therag, out tumbled a pocket-book; and on opening it he saw--money. Yes; aroll of bills with two figures on all of them, --three tens and onetwenty. It took his breath away for a minute; then he hugged the oldbook tight in both his grimy hands, and rocked to and fro all in a heapamong the oyster-shells and rusty tin kettles, saying to himself, withtears running down his cheeks, 'O Nanny! O Nanny! now I can do it!'

I don't think a basket of cinders ever travelled at such a rate beforeas Mrs. Quinn's did that day; for Jack tore home at a great pace, andburst into the room, waving the old duster, and shouting, 'Hooray! I'vegot it! I've got it!'

It is no wonder Mrs. Quinn thought he had lost his wits; for he lookedlike a wild boy, with his face all streaked with tears and red ashes, as he danced a double-shuffle till he was breathless, then showered themoney into Nanny's lap, and hugged her with another 'Hooray!' whichended in a choke. When they got him quiet and heard the story, Mrs. Quinn rather damped his joy, by telling him the money wasn't his, and heought to advertise it. 

'But I want it for Nanny!' cried Jack; 'and how can I ever find who ownsit, when there was ever so many barrels emptied in that heap, and no oneknows where they came from?'

'It's very like you won't find the owner, and you can do as you please;but it's honest to try, I'm thinking, for some poor girl may have losther earnin's this way, and we wouldn't like that ourselves, ' said Mrs. Quinn, turning over the shabby pocket-book, and carefully searching forsome clue to its owner. 

Nanny looked very sober, and Jack grabbed up the money as if it were tooprecious to lose. But he wasn't comfortable about it; and after a hardfight with himself he consented to let Mrs. Quinn ask their policemanwhat they should do. He was a kindly man; and when he heard the story, said he'd do what was right, and if he couldn't find an owner, Jackshould have the fifty dollars back. 

How hard it was to wait! how Jack thought and dreamed of his money, dayand night! How Nanny ran to the door to listen when a heavy step came upthe stairs! and how wistfully the poor darkened eyes turned to the lightwhich they longed to see again. 

Honest John Floyd did his duty, but he didn't find the owner; so the oldpurse came back at last, and now Jack could keep it with a clearconscience. Nanny was asleep when it happened; and as they sat countingthe dingy bills, Mrs. Quinn said to the boy, 'Jack, you'd better keepthis for yourself. I doubt if it's enough to do the child any good; andyou need clothes and shoes, and a heap of things, let alone the booksyou hanker after so much. It ain't likely you'll ever find anotherwallet. It's all luck about Nanny's eyes; and maybe you are onlythrowing away a chance you'll never have again. '

Jack leaned his head on his arms and stared at the money, all spread outthere, and looking so magnificent to him that it seemed as if it couldbuy half the world. He did need clothes; his hearty boy's appetite didlong for better food; and, oh! how splendid it would be to go and buythe books he had wanted so long, --the books that would give him a tasteof the knowledge which was more enticing to his wide-awake young mindthan clothes and food to his poor little body. It wasn't an easy thingto do; but he was so used to making small sacrifices that the great onewas less hard; and when he had brooded over the money a few minutes inthoughtful silence, his eye went from the precious bits of paper to thedear little face in the trundle-bed, and he said, with a decided nod, 'I'll give Nanny the chance, and work for my things, or go without 'em. '

Mrs. Quinn was a matter-of-fact body; but her hard old face softenedwhen he said that, and she kissed him good-night almost as gently as ifshe'd been his mother. 

Next day, Jack presented himself at Dr. Wilkinson's door, with the moneyin one hand and Nanny in the other, saying boldly to the gruff servant, 'I want to see the doctor. I can pay; so you'd better let me in. '

I'm afraid cross Thomas would have shut the door in the boy's faceagain, if it had not been for the little blind girl, who looked up athim so imploringly that he couldn't resist the mute appeal. 

'The doctor's going out; but maybe he'll see you a minute;' and withthat he led them into a room where stood a tall man putting on hisgloves. 

Jack was a modest boy; but he was so afraid that Nanny would lose herchance, that he forgot himself, and told the little story as fast as hecould--told it well, too, I fancy; for the doctor listened attentively, his eye going from the boy's eager, flushed face, to the pale patientone beside him, as if the two little figures, shabby though they were, illustrated the story better than the finest artist could have done. When Jack ended, the doctor sat Nanny on his knee, gently lifted up thehalf-shut eyelids, and after examining the film a minute, stroked herpretty hair, and said so kindly that she nestled her little handconfidingly into his, 'I think I can help you, my dear. Tell me whereyou live, and I'll attend to it at once, for it's high time somethingwas done. '

Jack told him, adding, with a manly air, as he showed the money, 'I canpay you, sir, if fifty dollars is enough. '

'Quite enough, ' said the doctor, with a droll smile. 

'If it isn't, I'll work for the rest, if you'll trust me. Please saveNanny's eyes, and I'll do any thing to pay you!' cried Jack, getting redand choky in his earnestness. 

The doctor stopped smiling, and held out his hand in a grave, respectful way, as he said, 'I'll trust you, my boy. We'll cure Nannyfirst; and you and I will settle the bill afterward. '

Jack liked that; it was a gentlemanly way of doing things, and he showedhis satisfaction by smiling all over his face, and giving the big, whitehand a hearty shake with both his rough ones. 

The doctor was a busy man; but he kept them some time, for there were nochildren in the fine house, and it seemed pleasant to have a little girlsit on his knee and a bright boy stand beside his chair; and when, atlast, they went away, they looked as if he had given them some magicmedicine, which made them forget every trouble they had ever known. 

Next day the kind man came to give Nanny her chance. She had no doubt, and very little fear, but looked up at him so confidingly when all wasready, that he stooped down and kissed her softly before he touched hereyes. 

'Let Jack hold my hands; then I'll be still, and not mind if it hurtsme, ' she said. So Jack, pale with anxiety, knelt down before her, andkept the little hands steadily in his all through the minutes thatseemed so long to him. 

'What do you see, my child?' asked the doctor, when he had donesomething to both eyes with a quick, skilful hand. 

Nanny leaned forward, with the film all gone, and answered, with alittle cry of joy, that went to the hearts of those who heard it, 'Jack's face! I see it! oh, I see it!'

Only a freckled, round face, with wet eyes and tightly-set lips; but toNanny it was as beautiful as the face of an angel; and when she was laidaway with bandaged eyes to rest, it haunted all her dreams, for it wasthe face of the little friend who loved her best. 

Nanny's chance was _not_ a failure; and when she saw the next dandelionshe brought her, all the sunshine came back into the world brighter thanever for Jack. Well might it seem so; for his fifty dollars bought himmany things that money seldom buys. The doctor wouldn't take it atfirst; but when Jack said, in the manful tone the doctor liked althoughit made him smile, 'It was a bargain, sir. I wish to pay my debts; and Ishan't feel happy if Nanny don't have it _all_ for her eyes. Please do!I'd rather, '--then he took it; and Nanny did have it, not only for hereyes, but in clothes and food and care, many times over; for it wasinvested in a bank that pays good interest on every mite so given. 

Jack discovered that fifty dollars was far less than most people wouldhave had to pay, and begged earnestly to be allowed to work for therest. The doctor agreed to this, and Jack became his errand-boy, servingwith a willingness that made a pleasure of duty; soon finding that manycomforts quietly got into his life; that much help was given withoutwords; and that the days of hunger and rags, heavy burdens and dustyash-heaps, were gone by for ever. 

The happiest hours of Jack's day were spent in the doctor's chaise, whenhe made his round of visits; for while he waited, the boy studied orread, and while they drove hither and thither, the doctor talked withhim, finding an eager mind as well as a tender heart and a brave spiritunder the rough jacket of his little serving-man. But he never calledhim that; for remembering the cheerfulness, self-denial, honesty, andloyalty to those he loved, shown by the boy, the good doctor proved hisrespect for the virtues all men should covet, wherever they are found, and always spoke of Jack with a smile, as 'My Little Gentleman. '

_BACK WINDOWS. _

As I sit working at my back window, I look out on a long row of otherpeople's back windows; and it is quite impossible for me to help seeingand being interested in my neighbours. There are a good many children inthose houses; and though I don't know one of their names, I know them agreat deal better than they think I do. I never spoke a word to any ofthem, and never expect to do so; yet I have my likes and dislikes amongthem, and could tell them things that they have said and done, whichwould astonish them very much, I assure you. 

First, the babies, --for there are three: the aristocratic baby, thehappy-go-lucky baby, and the forlorn baby. The aristocratic baby livesin a fine, well-furnished room, has a pretty little mamma, who wearswhite gowns, and pink ribbons in her cap; likewise, a fond young papa, who evidently thinks _this_ the most wonderful baby in Boston. There isa stout, motherly lady, who is the grandma, I fancy, for she is alwayshovering about 'the dear' with cups, blankets, or a gorgeous red worstedbird to amuse it. Baby is a plump, rosy, sweet-faced little creature, always smiling and kissing its hand to the world in general. In itspretty white frocks, with its own little pink or blue ribbons, and itsyoung mamma proudly holding it up to see and be seen, my aristocraticneighbour has an easy life of it, and is evidently one of the littlelilies who do nothing but blossom in the sunshine. 

The happy-go-lucky baby is just able to toddle; and I seldom pull up mycurtain in the morning without seeing him at his window in his yellowflannel night-gown, taking a look at the weather. No matter whether itrains or shines, there he is, smiling and nodding, and looking so merry, that it is evident he has plenty of sunshine bottled up in his ownlittle heart for private use. I depend on seeing him, and feel as if theworld was not right until this golden little sun rises to shine upon me. He don't seem to have any one to take care of him, but trots about allday, and takes care of himself. Sometimes he is up in the chambers withthe girl, while she makes beds, and he helps; then he takes a strollinto the parlour, and spins the gay curtain-tassels to his heart'scontent; next, he dives into the kitchen (I hope he does not tumbledownstairs, but I dare say he wouldn't mind if he did), and he getspushed about by all the busy women, as they 'fly round. ' I rather thinkit gets too hot for him there about dinner-time; for he often comes outinto the yard for a walk at noon, and seems to find endless wonders anddelights in the ash barrel, the water-but, two old flower-pots, and alittle grass plat, in which he plants a choice variety of articles, inthe firm faith they will come up in full bloom. I hope the big spoon andhis own red shoe _will_ sprout and appear before any trouble is madeabout their mysterious disappearance. At night I see a little shadowbobbing about on the curtain, and watch it, till with a parting glimpseat a sleepy face at the window, my small sun sets, and I leave him tohis dreams. 

The forlorn baby roars all day, and I don't blame him; for he istrotted, shaken, spanked, and scolded by a very cross nurse, who treatshim like a meal bag. I pity that little neighbour, and don't believe hewill stand it long; for I see him double up his tiny fists, and sparaway at nothing, as if getting ready for a good tussle with the world byand by, if he lives to try it. 

Then the boys, --bless their buttons!--how amusing they are. One youngman, aged about ten, keeps hens; and the trials of that boy are reallypathetic. The biddies get out every day or two, and fly away all overthe neighbourhood, like feathers when you shake a pillow. They cackleand crow, and get up on sheds and fences, and trot down the streets, allat once, and that poor fellow spins round after them like a distractedtop. One by one he gets them and comes lugging them back, upside down, in the most undignified attitude, and shuts them up, and hammers away, and thinks they are all safe, and sits down to rest, when a triumphantcrow from some neighbouring shed tells him that that rascally blackrooster is out again for another promenade. I'm not blood-thirsty; but Ireally do long for Thanksgiving that my neighbour Henry may find restfor the sole of his foot; for, not till his poultry are safely eatenwill he ever know where they are. 

Another boy has a circus about once a week, and tries to break his neckjumping through hoops, hanging to a rope by his heels, turningsomersaults in the air, and frightening his mother out of her wits byhis pranks. I suspect that he has been to see Leotard, and I admire hisenergy, for he is never discouraged; and, after tumbling flat, half-a-dozen times, he merely rubs his elbows and knees, and then up andtakes another. 

There is a good, domestic boy, who brushes and curls his three littlesisters' hair every morning, and must do it very gently, for they seemto like it; and I often see them watch at the back gate for him, andclap their hands, and run to meet him, sure of being welcomed as littlesisters like to be met by the big brothers whom they love. I respectthat virtuous boy. 

The naughty boy is very funny; and the running fight he keeps up withthe cross cook is as good as a farce. He _is_ a torment, but I think shecould tame him, if she took the right way. The other day she wouldn'tlet him in because she had washed up her kitchen and his boots weremuddy. He wiped them on the grass, but that wouldn't do; and, aftergoing at her with his head down, like a battering ram, he gave it up, orseemed to; for, the minute she locked the door behind her and came outto take in her clothes, that sly dog whipped up one of the low windows, scrambled in, and danced a hornpipe all over the kitchen, while the fatcook scolded and fumbled for her key, for _she_ couldn't follow throughthe window. Of course he was off upstairs by the time she got in; butI'm afraid he had a shaking, for I saw him glowering fiercely as he cameout later with a basket, going some 'confounded errand. ' Occasionallyhis father brings him out and whips him for some extra bad offence, during which performance he howls dismally; but when he is left sittingdespondently and miraculously on an old chair without any seat, he sooncheers up, boos at a strange cat, whistles to his dog, --who is just likehim, --or falls back on that standing cure for all the ills that boys areheir to, and whittles vigorously. I know I ought to frown upon thisreprehensible young person, and morally close my eyes to his pranks;but I really can't do it, and am afraid I find this little black sheepthe most interesting of the flock. 

The girls have tea-parties, make calls, and play mother, of course; andthe sisters of the good boy have capital times up in a big nursery, withsuch large dollies that I can hardly tell which are the babies and whichthe mammas. One little girl plays about at home with a dirty face, tumbled hair, and an old pinafore on. She won't be made tidy, and I seeher kick and cry when they try to make her neat. Now and then there is agreat dressing and curling; and then I see her prancing away in herlight boots, smart hat, and pretty dress, looking as fresh as a daisy. But I don't admire her; for I've been behind the scenes, you see, and Iknow that she likes to be fine rather than neat. 

So is the girl who torments her kitty, slaps her sister, and runs awaywhen her mother tells her not to go out of the yard. But thehouse-wifely little girl who tends the baby, washes the cups, and goesto school early with a sunshiny face and kiss all round, _she_, now, isa neighbour worth having, and I'd put a good mark against her name if Iknew it. 

I don't know as it would be proper for me to mention the grown-up peopleover the way. They go on very much as the children do; for there is thelazy, dandified man, who gets up late, and drinks; the cross man, whoswears at the shed-door when it won't shut; the fatherly man, who sitsamong his children every evening, and the cheery old man up in theattic, who has a flower in his window, and looks out at the world withvery much the same serene smile as my orange-coloured baby. 

The women, too, keep house, make calls, and play mother; and some don'tdo it well either. The forlorn baby's mamma never seems to cuddle andcomfort him; and some day, when the little fist lies cold and quiet, I'mafraid she'll wish she had. Then the naughty boy's mother. I'm verysure, if she put her arms round him sometimes, and smoothed that roughhead of his, and spoke to him as only mothers can speak, that it wouldtame him far better than the scoldings and thrashings: for I know thereis a true boy's heart, warm and tender, somewhere under the jacket thatgets dusted so often. As for the fine lady who lets her children do asthey can, while she trims her bonnet, or makes panniers, I wouldn't beintroduced to her on any account. But as some might think it wasunjustifiable curiosity on my part to see these things, and anactionable offence to speak of them, I won't mention them. 

I sometimes wonder if the kind spirits who feel an interest in mortalsever take a look at us on the shady side which we don't show the world, seeing the trouble, vanities, and sins which we think no one knows. Ifthey love, pity, or condemn us? What records they keep, and what rewardsthey prepare for those who are so busy with their work and play thatthey forget who may be watching their back windows with clearer eyes andtruer charity than any inquisitive old lady with a pen in her hand?

_LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. _

'Here comes our pretty little girl, ' I said to Kate, as we sat restingon the seat beside the footpath that leads from Dinan on the hill toLehon in the valley. 

Yes, there she was, trotting toward us in her round cap, blue woollengown, white apron, and wooden shoes. On her head was a loaf of buckwheatbread as big as a small wheel, in one hand a basket full of green stuff, while the other led an old goat, who seemed in no hurry to get home. Wehad often seen this rosy, bright-eyed child, had nodded to her, butnever spoken, for she looked rather shy, and always seemed in haste. Nowthe sight of the goat reminded us of an excuse for addressing her, andas she was about to pass with the respectful little curtsey of thecountry, my friend said in French:--

'Stay please. I want to speak to you. ' She stopped at once and stoodlooking at us under her long eyelashes in a timid yet confiding way, very pretty to see. 

'We want to drink goat's milk every morning: can you let us have it, little one?'

'Oh, yes, mademoiselle! Nannette gives fine milk, and no one has yetengaged her, ' answered the child, her whole face brightening at theprospect. 

'What name have you?'

'Marie Rosier, mademoiselle. '

'And you live at Lehon?'

'Yes, mademoiselle. '

'Have you parents?'

'Truly, yes, of the best. My father has a loom, my mother works in thefield and mill with brother Yvon, and I go to school and care forNannette and nurse little Bebe. '

'What school?'

'At the convent, mademoiselle. The good sisters teach us the catechism, also to write and read and sew. I like it much, ' and Marie glanced atthe little prayer in her apron pocket, as if proud to show she couldread it. 

'What age have you?'

'Ten years, mademoiselle. '

'You are young to do so much, for we often see you in the market buyingand selling, and sometimes digging in your garden there below, andbringing water from the river. Do you love work as well as school?'

'Ah, no; but mademoiselle knows it is necessary to work: every one does, and I'm glad to do my part. Yvon works much harder than I, and thefather sits all day at his loom, yet he is sick and suffers much. Yes, Iam truly glad to help, ' and little Marie settled the big loaf as ifquite ready to bear her share of the burdens. 

'Shall we go and see your father about the goat? and if he agrees willyou bring the milk fresh and warm every morning?' I asked, thinking thata sight of that blooming face would brighten our days for us. 

'Oh, yes! I always do it for the ladies, and you will find the milkquite fresh and warm, hey, Nannette?' and Marie laughed as she pulledthe goat from the hedge where she was nibbling the young leaves. 

We followed the child as she went clattering down the stony path, andsoon came into the narrow street bounded on one side by the row of low, stone houses, and on the other by the green wet meadow full of willows, and the rapid mill-stream. All along this side of the road sat women andchildren, stripping the bark from willow twigs to be used inbasket-making. A busy sight and a cheerful one; for the women gossipedin their high, clear voices, the children sang and laughed, and thebabies crept about as freely as young lambs. 

We found Marie's home a very poor one. Only two rooms in the little hut, the lower one with its earthen floor, beds in the wall, smoky fire, andsingle window where the loom stood. At it sat a pale, dark man whostopped work as we entered, and seemed glad to rest while we talked tohim, or rather while Kate did, for I could not understand his oddFrench, and preferred to watch Marie during the making of the bargain. 

Yvon, a stout lad of twelve, was cutting up brush with an old sickle, and little Bebe, looking like a Dutch doll in her tiny round cap, tightblue gown, and bits of sabots, clung to Marie as she got the supper. 

I wondered what the children at home would have said to such a supper. Afew cabbage leaves made the soup, and this, with the dry black bread anda sip of sour wine, was all they had. There were no plates or bowls, butlittle hollow places in the heavy wooden table near the edge, and intothese fixed cups Marie ladled the soup, giving each a wooden spoon froma queer rack in the middle; the kettle stood at one end, the big loaflay at the other, and all stood round eating out of their littletroughs, with Nannette and a rough dog close by to receive any cruststhat might be left. 

Presently the mother came in, a true Breton woman; rosy and robust, neat and cheery, though her poor clothes were patched all over, herhands more rough and worn with hard work than any I ever saw, and thefine hair under her picturesque cap gray at thirty with much care. 

I saw then where Marie got the brightness that seemed to shine in everyfeature of her little face, for the mother's coming was like a ray ofsunshine in that dark place, and she had a friendly word and look forevery one. 

Our little arrangement was soon made, and we left them all smiling andnodding as if the few francs we were to pay would be a fortune to them. 

Early next morning we were wakened by Françoise, the maid, who came upto announce that the goat's milk had arrived. Then we heard a queer, quick, tapping sound on the stairs, and to our great amusement, Nannette walked into the room, straight up to my bedside, and stoodthere looking at me with her mild yellow eyes as if she was quite usedto seeing night-caps. Marie followed with a pretty little bowl in herhand, and said, laughing at our surprise, 'See, dear mademoiselle; inthis way I make sure that the milk is quite fresh and warm;' andkneeling down, she milked the bowl full in a twinkling, while Nannettequietly chewed her cud and sniffed at a plate of rolls on the table. 

The warm draught was delicious, and we drank each our portion with muchmerriment. 

'It is our custom, ' said Françoise; who stood by with her arms folded, and looked on in a lofty manner. 

'What had you for your own breakfast?' I asked, as I caught Marie's eyehungrily fixed on the rolls and some tempting little cakes of chocolateleft from our lunch the day before. 

'My good bread, as usual, mademoiselle, also sorrel salad and--andwater, ' answered Marie, as if trying to make the most of her scantymeal. 

'Will you eat the rolls and put the chocolate in your pocket to nibbleat school? You must be tired with this long walk so early. '

She hesitated, but could not resist; and said in a low tone, as she heldthe bread in her hand without eating it, --

'Would mademoiselle be angry if I took it to Bebe? She has never tastedthe beautiful white bread, and it would please her much. '

I emptied the plate into her basket, tucked in the chocolate, and addeda gay picture for baby, which unexpected treasures caused Marie to claspher hands and turn quite red with delight. 

After that she came daily, and we had merry times with old Nannette andher little mistress, whom we soon learned to love, so busy, blithe, andgrateful was she. 

We soon found a new way to employ her, for the boy who drove our donkeydid not suit us, and we got the donkey-woman to let us have Marie in theafternoon when her lessons were done. She liked that, and so did we; forshe seemed to understand the nature of donkeys, and could manage themwithout so much beating and shouting as the boy thought necessary. Suchpleasant drives as we had, we two big women in the droll wagon, drawn bythe little gray donkey that looked as if made of an old trunk, so rustyand rough was he as he went trotting along, his long ears wagging, andhis small hoofs clattering over the fine hard road, while Marie sat onthe shaft with a long whip, talking and laughing, and giving Andrè apoke now and then, crying 'E! E! houp la!' to make him go. 

We found her a capital little guide and story-teller, for hergrandmother had told her all the tales and legends of the neighbourhood, and it was very pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasantFrench, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate sketched, I took notes, and Marie held the big parasol over us. 

Some of these stones were charming; at least as _she_ told them, withher little face changing from gay to sad as she gesticulated mostdramatically. 

The romance of 'Gilles de Bretagne' was one of her favourites. How hecarried off his child-wife when she was only twelve, how he wasimprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, andwould stand at his window crying, 'Bread, bread; for the love of God!'yet no one dared to give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in thenight and gave him half her black loaf. Not once, but every night forsix months, though she robbed her children to do it. And when he wasdying, it was she who took a priest to him, that he might confessthrough the bars of his cell. 

'So good, ah, so good, this poor woman! It is beautiful to hear of that, mademoiselle!' little Marie would say, with her black eyes full and herlips trembling. 

But the story she liked best of all was about the peasant girl and hergrandmother. 

'See then, dear ladies, it was in this way. In the time of the great warmany poor people were shot because it was feared they would burn thechateaus. In one of these so sad parties being driven to St. Malo to beshot, was this young girl. Only fifteen, dear ladies, behold how youngis this! and see the brave thing she did! With her went the oldgrandmother whom she loved next the good God. They went slowly, she wasso old, and one of the officers who guarded them had pity on the prettygirl, and said to her as they were a little apart from the rest, "Come, you are young, and can run. I will save you; it is a pity so fine alittle girl should be shot. "

'Then she was glad and thanked him much, saying, "And the grandmotheralso? You will save her with me?" "It is impossible, " says the officer. "She is too old to run. I can save but one, and her life is nearly over;let her go, and do you fly into the next wood. I will not betray you, and when we come up with the gang it will be too late to find you. "

'Then the great temptation of Satan came to this girl. She had no wishto suffer, but she could not leave the good old grandmere to die alone. She wept, she prayed, and the saints gave her courage. 

'"No, I will not go, " she said; and in the morning at St. Malo she wasshot with the old mother in her arms. '

'Could you do that for your grandmere?' I once asked, as she stopped forbreath, because this tale always excited her. She crossed herselfdevoutly, and answered with fire in her eyes, and a resolute gesture ofher little brown hands, --

'I should try, mademoiselle. '

I think she would, and succeed, too, for she was a brave andtender-hearted child, as she soon after proved. 

A long drought parched the whole country that summer, and the gardenssuffered much, especially the little plats in Lehon, for most of themwere on the steep hillside behind the huts; and unless it rained, waterhad to be carried up from the stream below. The cabbages and onions onwhich these poor people depend, when fresh salads are gone, were dyingin the baked earth, and a hard winter was before them if this littlestore failed. 

The priests prayed for rain in the churches, and long processionsstreamed out of the gates to visit the old stone cross called the 'Croixde Saint Esprit, ' and, kneeling there in crowds, the people implored theblessing of rain to save their harvest. We felt great pity for them, butliked little Marie's way of praying best. 

She did not come one morning, but sent her brother, who only laughed, and said Marie had hurt her foot, when we inquired for her. Anxious toknow if she was really ill, we went to see her in the afternoon, andheard a pretty little story of practical Christianity. 

Marie lay asleep on her mother's bed in the wall, and her father, sitting by her, told the tale in a low voice, pausing now and then tolook at her, as if his little daughter had done something to be proudof. 

It seems that in the village there was an old woman frightfullydisfigured by fire, and not quite sane as the people thought. She washarmless, but never showed herself by day, and only came out at night towork in her garden or take the air. Many of the ignorant peasants fearedher, however; for the country abounds in fairy legends, and strangetales of ghosts and goblins. But the more charitable left bread at herdoor, and took in return the hose she knit or the thread she spun. 

During the drought it was observed that _her_ garden, though thesteepest and stoniest, was never dry; _her_ cabbages flourished when herneighbours' withered, and _her_ onions stood up green and tall as ifsome special rain-spirit watched over them. People wondered and shooktheir heads, but could not explain it, for Mother Lobineau was tooinfirm to carry much water up the steep path, and who would help herunless some of her own goblin friends did it?

This idea was suggested by the story of a peasant returning late atnight, who had seen something white flitting to and fro in thegarden-patch, and when he called to it saw it vanish most mysteriously. This made quite a stir in the town; others watched also, saw the whitephantom in the starlight, and could not tell where it went when itvanished behind the chestnut trees on the hill, till one man, braverthan the rest, hid himself behind these trees and discovered themystery. The sprite was Marie, in her little shift, who stepped out ofthe window of the loft where she slept on to a bough of the tree, andthence to the hill, for the house was built so close against the bankthat it was 'but a step from garret to garden, ' as they say in Morlaix. 

In trying to escape from this inquisitive neighbour, Marie hurt herfoot, but was caught, and confessed that it was she who went at night towater poor Mother Lobineau's cabbages; because if they failed the oldwoman might starve, and no one else remembered her destitute andhelpless state. 

The good-hearted people were much touched by this silent sermon onloving one's neighbour as one's self, and Marie was called the 'littlesaint, ' and tended carefully by all the good women. Just as the storyended, she woke up, and at first seemed inclined to hide under thebedclothes. But we had her out in a minute, and presently she waslaughing over her good deed, with a true child's enjoyment of a bit ofroguery, saying in her simple way, --

'Yes; it was so droll to go running about _en chemise_, like the girl inthe tale of the 'Midsummer Eve, ' where she pulls the Saint Johns-wortflower, and has her wish to hear all the creatures talk. I liked itmuch, and Yvon slept so like the dormouse that he never heard me creepin and out. It was hard to bring much water, but the poor cabbages were_so_ glad, and Mother Lobineau felt that all had not forgotten her. 

We took care that little Saint Marie was not forgotten, but quite well, and all ready for her confirmation when the day came. This is a prettysight, and for her sake we went to the old church of St. Sauveur to seeit. It was a bright spring day, and the gardens were full of earlyflowers, the quaint streets gay with proud fathers and mothers inholiday dress, and flocks of strangers pausing to see the longprocession of little girls with white caps and veils, gloves and gowns, prayer-books and rosaries, winding through the sunny square into theshadowy church with chanting and candles, garlands and crosses. 

The old priest was too ill to perform the service, but the young one whotook his place announced, after it was over, that if they would pass thehouse the good old man would bless them from his balcony. That was thebest of all, and a sweet sight, as the feeble fatherly old priest leanedfrom his easy-chair to stretch his trembling hands over the little flockso like a bed of snowdrops, while the bright eyes and rosy faces lookedreverently up at him, and the fresh voices chanted the responses as thecurly heads under the long veils bowed and passed by. 

We learned afterwards that our Marie had been called in and praised forher secret charity--a great honour, because the good priest was muchbeloved by all his flock, and took a most paternal interest in thelittle ones. 

That was almost the last we saw of our little friend, for we left Dinansoon after, bidding the Lehon family good-bye, and leaving certain warmsouvenirs for winter-time. Marie cried and clung to us at parting, thensmiled like an April day, and waved her hand as we went away, neverexpecting to see her any more. 

But the next morning, just as we were stepping on board the steamer togo down the Rance to St. Malo, we saw a little white cap come bobbingthrough the market-place, down the steep street, and presently Marieappeared with two great bunches of pale yellow primroses and wild bluehyacinths in one hand, while the other held her sabots, that she mightrun the faster. Rosy and smiling and breathless with haste she cameracing up to us, crying, --

'Behold my souvenir for the dear ladies. I do not cry now. No; I am gladthe day is so fine. _Bon voyage! bon voyage!_'

We thanked and kissed and left her on the shore, bravely trying not tocry, as she waved her wooden shoes and kissed her hand till we were outof sight, and had nothing but the soft colours and sweet breath of ournosegays to remind us of Little Marie of Lehon. 

_MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS. _

Being alone in London, yet wishing to celebrate the day, I decided topay my respects to the lions at the Zoological Gardens. A lovely placeit was, and I enjoyed myself immensely; for May-day in England is justwhat it should be, mild, sunny, flowery, and spring-like. As I walkedalong the well-kept paths, between white and rosy hawthorn hedges, Ikept coming upon new and curious sights; for the birds and beasts are soskilfully arranged that it is more like travelling through a strange andpleasant country than visiting a menagerie. 

The first thing I saw was a great American bison; and I was so glad tomeet with any one from home, that I'd have patted him with pleasure ifhe had shown any cordiality toward me. He didn't, however, but staredsavagely with his fiery eyes, and put down his immense head with asullen snort, as if he'd have tossed me with great satisfaction. I didnot blame him, for the poor fellow was homesick, doubtless, for his ownwide prairies and the free life he had lost. So I threw him some freshclover, and went on to the pelicans. 

I never knew before what handsome birds they were; not graceful, butwith such snowy plumage, tinged with pale pink and faint yellow. Theyhad just had their bath, and stood arranging their feathers with theirgreat bills, uttering a queer cry now and then, and nodding to oneanother sociably. When fed, they gobbled up the fish, never stopping toswallow it till the pouches under their bills were full; then theyleisurely emptied them, and seemed to enjoy their lunch with the gravedeliberation of regular Englishmen. 

Being in a hurry to see the lions, I went on to the long row of cages, and there found a splendid sight. Six lions and lionesses, in three orfour different cages, sitting or standing in dignified attitudes, andeyeing the spectators with a mild expression in their fine eyes. Onelioness was ill, and lay on her bed, looking very pensive, while hermate moved restlessly about her, evidently anxious to do something forher, and much afflicted by her suffering. I liked this lion very much, for, though the biggest, he was very gentle, and had a noble face. 

The tigers were rushing about, as tigers usually are; some creepingnoiselessly to and fro, some leaping up and down, and some washingtheir faces with their velvet paws. All looked and acted so like catsthat I wasn't at all surprised to hear one of them purr when the keeperscratched her head. It was a very loud and large purr, but no firesidepussy could have done it better, and every one laughed at the sound. 

There were pretty spotted leopards, panthers, and smaller varieties ofthe same species. I sat watching them a long time, longing to let someof the wild things out for a good run, they seemed so unhappy barred inthose small dens. 

Suddenly the lions began to roar, the tigers to snarl, and all to getvery much excited about something, sniffing at the openings, thrustingtheir paws through the bars, and lashing their tails impatiently. Icouldn't imagine what the trouble was, till, far down the line, I saw aman with a barrowful of lumps of raw meat. This was their dinner, andas they were fed but once a day they were ravenous. Such roars and howlsand cries as arose while the man went slowly down the line, gave one agood idea of the sounds to be heard in Indian forests and jungles. Thelions behaved best, for they only paced up and down, with an occasionalcry; but the tigers were quite frantic; for they tumbled one over theother, shook the cages, and tried to reach the bystanders, just out ofreach behind the bar that kept us at a safe distance. One lady had afright, for the wind blew the end of her shawl within reach of a tiger'sgreat claw, and he clutched it, trying to drag her nearer. The shawlcame off, and the poor lady ran away screaming, as if a whole family ofwild beasts were after her. 

When the lumps of meat were thrown in, it was curious to see howdifferently the animals behaved. The tigers snarled and fought and toreand got so savage I was very grateful that they were safely shut up. Ina few minutes, nothing but white bones remained, and then they howledfor more. One little leopard was better bred than the others, for hewent up on a shelf in the cage, and ate his dinner in a quiet, propermanner, which was an example to the rest. The lions ate in dignifiedsilence, all but my favourite, who carried his share to his sick mate, and by every gentle means in his power tried to make her eat. She wastoo ill, however, and turned away with a plaintive moan which seemed togrieve him sadly. He wouldn't touch his dinner, but lay down near her, with the lump between his paws, as if guarding it for her; and there Ileft him patiently waiting, in spite of his hunger, till his mate couldshare it with him. As I took a last look at his fine old face, I namedhim Douglas, and walked away, humming to myself the lines of theballad, --

 Douglas, Douglas, Tender and true. 

As a contrast to the wild beasts, I went to see the monkeys, who livedin a fine large house all to themselves. Here was every variety, fromthe great ugly chimpanzee to the funny little fellows who played likeboys, and cut up all sorts of capers. A mamma sat tending her baby, andlooking so like a little old woman that I laughed till the gray monkeywith the blue nose scolded at me. He was a cross old party, and sathuddled up in the straw, scowling at every one, like an ill-tempered oldbachelor. Half-a-dozen little ones teased him capitally by dropping bitsof bread, nut-shells, and straws down on him from above, as they climbedabout the perches, or swung by their tails. One poor little chap hadlost the curly end of his tail, --I'm afraid the gray one bit itoff, --and kept trying to swing like the others, forgetting that thestrong, curly end was what he held on with. He would run up the bareboughs, and give a jump, expecting to catch and swing, but the lame tailwouldn't hold him, and down he'd go, bounce on to the straw. At firsthe'd sit and stare about him, as if much amazed to find himself there;then he'd scratch his little round head and begin to scold violently, which seemed to delight the other monkeys; and, finally, he'd examinehis poor little tail, and appear to understand the misfortune which hadbefallen him. The funny expression of his face was irresistible, and Ienjoyed seeing him very much, and gave him a bun to comfort him when Iwent away. 

The snake-house came next, and I went in, on my way to visit therhinoceros family. I rather like snakes, since I had a tame green one, who lived under the door-step, and would come out and play with me onsunny days. These snakes I found very interesting, only they got undertheir blankets and wouldn't come out, and I wasn't allowed to poke them;so I missed seeing several of the most curious. An ugly cobra laid andblinked at me through the glass, looking quite as dangerous as he was. There were big and little snakes, --black, brown, and speckled, livelyand lazy, pretty and plain ones, --but I liked the great boa best. 

When I came to his cage, I didn't see anything but the branch of a tree, such as I had seen in other cages, for the snakes to wind up and down. 'Where is he, I wonder? I hope he hasn't got out, ' I said to myself, thinking of a story I read once of a person in a menagerie, who turnedsuddenly and saw a great boa gliding towards him. As I stood wonderingif the big worm could be under the little flat blanket before me, thebranch began to move all at once, and with a start, I saw a limb swingdown to stare at me with the boa's glittering eyes. He was so exactlythe colour of the bare bough, and lay so still, I had not seen him tillhe came to take a look at me. A very villainous-looking reptile he was, and I felt grateful that I didn't live in a country where suchunpleasant neighbours might pop in upon you unexpectedly. He was kindenough to take a promenade and show me his size, which seemed immense, as he stretched himself, and then knotted his rough grayish body into agreat loop, with the fiery-eyed head in the middle. He was not one ofthe largest kind, but I was quite satisfied, and left him to his dinnerof rabbits, which I hadn't the heart to stay and see him devour alive. 

I was walking toward the camel's pagoda, when, all of a sudden, a long, dark, curling thing came over my shoulder, and I felt warm breath in myface. 'It's the boa;' I thought, and gave a skip which carried me intothe hedge, where I stuck, much to the amusement of some children ridingon the elephant whose trunk had frightened me. He had politely tried totell me to clear the way, which I certainly had done with all speed. Picking myself out of the hedge I walked beside him, examining hisclumsy feet and peering up at his small, intelligent eye. I'm very surehe winked at me, as if enjoying the joke, and kept poking his trunk intomy pocket, hoping to find something eatable. 

I felt as if I had got into a foreign country as I looked about me andsaw elephants and camels walking among the trees; flocks of snow-whitecranes stalking over the grass, on their long scarlet legs; stripedZebras racing in their paddock; queer kangaroos hopping about, withlittle ones in their pouches; pretty antelopes chasing one another; and, in an immense wire-covered aviary, all sorts of brilliant birds wereflying about as gaily as if at home. 

One of the curiosities was a sea-cow, who lived in a tank of salt water, and came at the keeper's call to kiss him, and flounder on its flippersalong the margin of the tank after a fish. It was very like a seal, onlymuch larger, and had four fins instead of two. Its eyes were lovely, sodark and soft and liquid; but its mouth was not pretty, and I declinedone of the damp kisses which it was ready to dispense at word ofcommand. 

The great polar bear lived next door, and spent his time splashing inand out of a pool of water, or sitting on a block of ice, panting, as ifthe mild spring day was blazing midsummer. He looked very unhappy, and Ithought it a pity that they didn't invent a big refrigerator for him. 

These are not half of the wonderful creatures I saw, but I have not roomto tell more; only I advise all who can to pay a visit to the ZoologicalGardens when they go to London, for it is one of the most interestingsights in that fine old city. 

_OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. _

Hurrying to catch a certain car at a certain corner late one stormynight, I was suddenly arrested by the sight of a queer-looking bundlelying in a door-way. 

'Bless my heart, it's a child! O John! I'm afraid he's frozen!' Iexclaimed to my brother, as we both bent over the bundle. 

Such a little fellow as he was, in the big, ragged coat; such a tired, baby face, under the fuzzy cap; such a purple, little hand, stillholding fast a few papers; such a pathetic sight altogether was the boy, lying on the stone step, with the snow drifting over him, that it wasimpossible to go by. 

'He is asleep; but he'll freeze, if left so long. Here! wake up, my boy, and go home, as fast as you can, ' cried John, with a gentle shake, and avery gentle voice; for the memory of a dear little lad, safely tucked upat home, made him fatherly kind to the small vagabond. 

The moment he was touched, the boy tumbled up, and, before he was halfawake, began his usual cry, with an eye to business. 

'Paper, sir? "Herald!" "Transkip!" Last'--a great gape swallowed up the'last edition, ' and he stood blinking at us like a very chilly youngowl. 

'I'll buy 'em all if you'll go home, my little chap; it's high time youwere abed, ' said John, whisking the damp papers into one pocket, and hispurse out of another, as he spoke. 

'All of 'em?--why there's six!' croaked the boy, for he was as hoarse asa raven. 

'Never mind, I can kindle the fire with 'em. Put that in your pocket;and trot home, my man, as fast as possible. '

'Where do you live?' I asked, picking up the fifty cents that fell fromthe little fingers, too benumbed to hold it. 

'Mills Court, out of Hanover. Cold, ain't it?' said the boy, blowing onhis purple hands, and hopping feebly from one leg to the other, to takethe stiffness out. 

'He can't go all that way in this storm--such a mite, and so used upwith cold and sleep, John. '

'Of course he can't; we'll put him in a car, ' began John; when the boywheezed out, --

'No; I've got ter wait for Sam. He'll be along as soon's the theatre'sdone. He said he would; and so I'm waitin'. '

'Who is Sam?' I asked. 

'He's the feller I lives with. I ain't got any folks, and he takes careo' me. '

'Nice care, indeed; leaving a baby like you to wait for him here such anight as this, ' I said crossly. 

'Oh, he's good to me Sam is, though he does knock me round sometimes, when I ain't spry. The big feller shoves me back, you see; and I getscold, and can't sing out loud; so I don't sell my papers, and has towork 'em off late. '

'Hear the child talk! One would think he was sixteen, instead of six, ' Isaid, half laughing. 

'I'm most ten. Hi! ain't that a oner?' cried the boy, as a gust of sleetslapped him in the face, when he peeped to see if Sam was coming. 'Hullo! the lights is out! Why, the play's done, and the folks gone, andSam's forgot me. '

It was very evident that Sam _had_ forgotten his little _protégé_; anda strong desire to shake Sam possessed me. 

'No use waitin' any longer; and now my papers is sold, I ain't afraid togo home, ' said the boy, stepping down like a little old man with therheumatism, and preparing to trudge away through the storm. 

'Stop a bit, my little Casabianca; a car will be along in fifteenminutes; and while waiting you can warm yourself over there, ' said John, with the purple hand in his. 

'My name's Jack Hill, not Cassy Banks, please, sir, ' said the littleparty, with dignity. 

'Have you had your supper, Mr. Hill?' asked John, laughing. 

'I had some peanuts, and two sucks of Joe's orange; but it warn't veryfillin', ' he said, gravely. 

'I should think not. Here! one stew; and be quick, please, ' cried John, as we sat down in a warm corner of the confectioner's opposite. 

While little Jack shovelled in the hot oysters, with his eyes shuttingup now and then in spite of himself, we looked at him and thought againof little Rosy-face at home safe in his warm nest, with mother-lovewatching over him. Nodding towards the ragged, grimy, forlorn, littlecreature, dropping asleep over his supper like a tired baby, I said, --

'Can you imagine our Freddy out alone at this hour, trying to 'work off'his papers, because afraid to go home till he has?'

'I'd rather not try, ' answered brother John, winking hard, as he strokedthe little head beside him, which, by the bye, looked very like aragged, yellow door-mat. I _think_ brother John winked hard, but I can'tbe sure, for I know I did; and for a minute there seemed to be a dozenlittle newsboys dancing before my eyes. 

'There goes our car; and it's the last, ' said John, looking at me. 

'Let it go, but don't leave the boy;' and I frowned at John for hintingat such a thing. 

'Here is his car. Now, my lad, bolt your last oyster, and come on. '

'Good-night, ma'am! thankee, sir!' croaked the grateful little voice, asthe child was caught up in John's strong hands and set down on thecar-step. 

With a word to the conductor, and a small business transaction, we leftJack coiled up in a corner to finish his nap as tranquilly as if itwasn't midnight, and a 'knocking-round' might not await him at hisjourney's end. 

We didn't mind the storm much as we plodded home; and when I told thestory to Rosy-face, next day, his interest quite reconciled me to thesniffs and sneezes of a bad cold. 

'If I saw that poor little boy, Aunt Jo, I'd love him lots!' saidFreddy, with a world of pity in his beautiful child's eyes. 

And, believing that others also would be kind to little Jack, and suchas he, I tell the story. 

When busy fathers hurry home at night, I hope they'll buy their papersof the small boys, who get 'shoved back;' the feeble ones, who growhoarse, and can't 'sing out;' the shabby ones, who evidently have onlyforgetful Sams to care for them; and the hungry-looking ones, who don'tget what is 'fillin'. ' For love of the little sons and daughters safe athome, say a kind word, buy a paper, even if you don't want it; and neverpass by, leaving them to sleep forgotten in the streets at midnight, with no pillow but a stone, no coverlet but the pitiless snow, and noteven a tender-hearted robin to drop leaves over them. 

_PATTY'S PATCHWORK. _

'I perfectly hate it! and something dreadful ought to be done to thewoman who invented it, ' said Patty, in a pet, sending a shower of gaypieces flying over the carpet as if a small whirlwind and a rainbow hadgot into a quarrel. 

Puss did not agree with Patty, for, after a surprised hop when theflurry came, she calmly laid herself down on a red square, purringcomfortably and winking her yellow eyes, as if she thanked the littlegirl for the bright bed that set off her white fur so prettily. Thiscool performance made Patty laugh, and say more pleasantly--

'Well, it _is_ tiresome, isn't it, Aunt Pen?'

'Sometimes; but we all have to make patchwork, my dear, and do the bestwe can with the pieces given us. '

'Do we?' and Patty opened her eyes in great astonishment at this newidea. 

'Our lives are patchwork, and it depends on us a good deal how thebright and dark bits get put together so that the whole is neat, pretty, and useful when it is done, ' said Aunt Pen soberly. 

'Deary me, now she is going to preach, ' thought Patty; but she ratherliked Aunt Pen's preachments, for a good deal of fun got mixed up withthe moralising; and she was so good herself that children could neversay in their naughty little minds, 'You are just as bad as we, so youneedn't talk to us, ma'am. '

'I gave you that patchwork to see what you would make of it, and it isas good as a diary to me, for I can tell by the different squares howyou felt when you made them, ' continued Aunt Pen, with a twinkle in hereye as she glanced at the many-coloured bits on the carpet. 

'Can you truly? just try and see, ' and Patty looked interested at once. 

Pointing with the yard-measure, Aunt Pen said, tapping a certain dingy, puckered, brown and purple square--

'That is a bad day; don't it look so?'

'Well, it was, I do declare! for that was the Monday piece, wheneverything went wrong and I didn't care how my work looked, ' criedPatty, surprised at Aunt Pen's skill in reading the calico diary. 

'This pretty pink and white one so neatly sewed is a good day; thisfunny mixture of red, blue, and yellow with the big stitches is a merryday; that one with spots on it is one that got cried over; this with thegay flowers is a day full of good little plans and resolutions; and thatone made of dainty bits, all stars and dots and tiny leaves, is the oneyou made when you were thinking about the dear new baby there at home. '

'Why, Aunt Pen, you are a fairy! How _did_ you know? they truly are justas you say, as near as I can remember. I rather like that sort ofpatchwork, ' and Patty sat down upon the floor to collect, examine, andarrange her discarded work with a new interest in it. 

'I see what is going on, and I have queer plays in my mind just as youlittle folks do. Suppose you make this a moral bed-quilt, as some peoplemake album quilts. See how much patience, perseverance, good nature, andindustry you can put into it. Every bit will have a lesson or a story, and when you lie under it you will find it a real comforter, ' said AuntPen, who wanted to amuse the child and teach her something better eventhan the good old-fashioned accomplishment of needlework. 

'I don't see how I can put that sort of thing into it, ' answered Patty, as she gently lifted puss into her lap, instead of twitching the red bitroughly from under her. 

'There goes a nice little piece of kindness this very minute, ' laughedAunt Pen, pointing to the cat and the red square. 

Patty laughed also, and looked pleased as she stroked Mother Bunch, while she said thoughtfully--

'I see what you mean now. I am making two kinds of patchwork at the sametime; and this that I see is to remind me of the other kind that I don'tsee. '

'Every task, no matter how small or homely, that gets well andcheerfully done, is a fine thing; and the sooner we learn to use up thedark and bright bits (the pleasures and pains, the cares and duties)into a cheerful, useful life, the sooner we become real comforters, andevery one likes to cuddle about us. Don't you see, deary?'

'That's what you are, Aunt Pen;' and Patty put up her hand to hold fastby that other strong, kind, helpful hand that did so much, yet never wastired, cold, or empty. 

Aunt Pen took the chubby little one in both her own, and said, smiling, yet with meaning in her eyes, as she tapped the small fore-finger, roughwith impatient and unskilful sewing--

'Shall we try and see what a nice little comforter we can make thismonth, while you wait to be called home to see mamma and the dear newbaby?'

'Yes, I'd like to try;' and Patty gave Aunt Pen's hand a hearty shake, for she wanted to be good, and rather thought the new fancy would lend acharm to the task which we all find rather tiresome and hard. 

So the bargain was made, and the patch Patty sewed that day wasbeautiful to behold; for she was in a delightfully moral state of mind, and felt quite sure that she was going to become a model for allchildren to follow, if they could. The next day her ardour had cooled alittle, and being in a hurry to go out to play, she slighted her work, thinking no one would know. But the third day she got so angry with herpatch that she tore it in two, and declared it was all nonsense to fussabout being good and thorough and all the rest of it. 

Aunt Pen did not say much, but made her mend and finish her patch andadd it to the pile. After she went to bed that night Patty thought ofit, and wished she could do it over, it looked so badly. But as it couldnot be, she had a penitent fit, and resolved to keep her temper whileshe sewed, at any rate, for mamma was to see the little quilt when itwas done, and would want to know all about it. 

Of course she did not devote herself to being good _all_ the time, butspent her days in lessons, play, mischief, and fun, like any otherlively, ten-year-older. But somehow, whenever the sewing-hour came, sheremembered that talk; and as she worked she fell into the way ofwondering whether Aunt Pen could guess from the patches what sort ofdays she had passed. She wanted to try and see, but Aunt Pen refused toread any more calico till the quilt was done: then, she said in aqueer, solemn way, she should make the good and bad days appear in aremarkable manner. 

This puzzled Patty very much, and she quite ached to know what the jokewould be; meantime the pile grew steadily, and every day, good or bad, added to that other work called Patty's life. She did not think muchabout that part of it, but unconsciously the quiet sewing-time had itsinfluence on her, and that little 'conscience hour, ' as she sometimescalled it, helped her very much. 

One day she said to herself as she took up her work, 'Now I'll puzzleAunt Pen. She thinks my naughty tricks get into the patches; but I'llmake this very nicely and have it gay, and then I don't see how she willever guess what I did this morning. '

Now you must know that Tweedle-dee, the canary, was let out every dayto fly about the room and enjoy himself. Mother Bunch never tried tocatch him, though he often hopped temptingly near her. He was a drolllittle bird, and Patty liked to watch his promenades, for he did funnythings. That day he made her laugh by trying to fly away with a shawl, picking up the fringe with which to line the nest he was always tryingto build. It was so heavy he tumbled on his back and lay kicking andpulling, but had to give it up and content himself with a bit of thread. 

Patty was forbidden to chase or touch him at these times, but alwaysfelt a strong desire to have just one grab at him and see how he felt. That day, being alone in the dining-room, she found it impossible toresist; and when Tweedle-dee came tripping pertly over the table-cloth, cocking his head on one side with shrill chirps and little prancings, she caught him, and for a minute held him fast in spite of his wrathfulpecking. 

She put her thimble on his head, laughing to see how funny he looked, and just then he slipped out of her hand. She clutched at him, missedhim, but alas, alas! he left his little tail behind him. Every featherin his blessed little tail, I do assure you; and there sat Patty withthe yellow plumes in her hand and dismay in her face. Poor Tweedle-deeretired to his cage much afflicted, and sung no more that day, but Pattyhid the lost tail and never said a word about it. 

'Aunt Pen is so near-sighted she won't mind, and maybe he will haveanother tail pretty soon, or she will think he is moulting. If she asksof course I shall tell her. '

Patty settled it in that way, forgetting that the slide was open andAunt Pen in the kitchen. So she made a neat blue and buff patch, and putit away, meaning to puzzle aunty when the reading-time came. But Pattygot the worst of it, as you will see by-and-bye. 

Another day she strolled into the store-room and saw a large tray offresh buns standing there. Now, it was against the rule to eat betweenmeals, and new hot bread or cake was especially forbidden. Pattyremembered both these things, but could not resist temptation. Oneplump, brown bun, with a lovely plum right in the middle, was sofascinating it was impossible to let it alone; so Patty whipped it intoher pocket, ran to the garden, and hiding behind the big lilac-bush, ateit in a great hurry. It was just out of the oven, and so hot it burnedher throat, and lay like a live coal in her little stomach after it wasdown, making her very uncomfortable for several hours. 

'Why do you keep sighing?' asked Aunt Pen, as Patty sat down to herwork. 

'I don't feel very well. '

'You have eaten something that disagrees with you. Did you eat hotbiscuits for breakfast?'

'No, ma'am, I never do, ' and Patty gave another little gasp, for the bunlay very heavily on both stomach and conscience just then. 

'A drop or two of ammonia will set you right, ' and Aunt Pen gave hersome. It did set the stomach right, but the conscience still worriedher, for she could not make up her mind to 'fess' the sly, greedy thingshe had done. 

'Put a white patch in the middle of those green ones, ' said Aunt Pen, asPatty sat soberly sewing her daily square. 

'Why?' asked the little girl, for aunty seldom interfered in herarrangement of the quilt. 

'It will look pretty, and match the other three squares that are goingat the corners of that middle piece. '

'Well, I will, ' and Patty sewed away, wondering at this sudden interestin her work, and why Aunt Pen laughed to herself as she put away theammonia bottle. 

These are two of the naughty little things that got worked into thequilt; but there were good ones also, and Aunt Pen's sharp eyes saw themall. 

At the window of a house opposite, Patty often saw a little girl who satthere playing with an old doll or a torn book. She never seemed to runabout or go out, and Patty often wondered if she was sick, she looked sothin and sober, and was so quiet. Patty began by making faces at herfor fun, but the little girl only smiled back, and nodded sogood-naturedly that Patty was ashamed of herself. 

'Is that girl over there poor?' she asked suddenly as she watched herone day. 

'Very poor: her mother takes in sewing, and the child is lame, ' answeredAunt Pen, without looking up from the letter she was writing. 

'Her doll is nothing but an old shawl tied round with a string, and shedon't seem to have but one book. Wonder if she'd like to have me comeand play with her, ' said Patty to herself, as she stood her own big dollin the window, and nodded back at the girl, who bobbed up and down inher chair with delight at this agreeable prospect. 

'You can go and see her some day if you like, ' said Aunt Pen, scribblingaway. 

Patty said no more then, but later in the afternoon she remembered thispermission, and resolved to try if aunty would find out her good doingsas well as her bad ones. So, tucking Blanch Augusta Arabella Maud underone arm, her best picture-book under the other, and gathering a littlenosegay of her own flowers, she slipped across the road, knocked, andmarched boldly upstairs. 

Mrs. Brown, the sewing-woman, was out, and no one there but Lizzie inher chair at the window, looking lonely and forlorn. 

'How do you do? My name is Patty, and I live over there, and I've cometo play with you, ' said one child in a friendly tone. 

'How do you do? My name is Lizzie, and I'm very glad to see you. What alovely doll!' returned the other child gratefully; and then the ceremonyof introduction was over, and they began to play as if they had knowneach other for ever so long. 

To poor Lizzie it seemed as if a little fairy had suddenly appeared tobrighten the dismal room with flowers and smiles and pretty things;while Patty felt her pity and good-will increase as she saw Lizzie'scrippled feet, and watched her thin face brighten and glow with interestand delight over book and doll and posy. 'It felt good, ' as Patty saidafterwards; 'sort of warm and comfortable in my heart, and I liked itever so much. ' She stayed an hour, making sunshine in a shady place, andthen ran home, wondering if Aunt Pen would find that out. 

She found her sitting with her hands before her, and such a sad look inher face that Patty ran to her, saying anxiously--

'What's the matter, aunty? Are you sick?'

'No dear; but I have sorrowful news for you. Come, sit in my lap andlet me tell you as gently as I can. '

'Mamma is dead!' Cried Patty with a look of terror in her rosy face. 

'No, thank God! but the dear, new baby only stayed a week, and we shallnever see her in this world. '

With a cry of sorrow Patty threw herself into the arms outstretched toher, and on Aunt Pen's loving bosom sobbed away the first bitterness ofher grief and disappointment. 

'Oh, I wanted a little sister so much, and I was going to be so fond ofher, and was so glad she came, and now I can't see or have her even fora day! I'm _so_ disappointed I don't think I _can_ bear it, ' sobbedPatty. 

'Think of poor mamma, and bear it bravely for her sake, ' whispered AuntPen, wiping away her own and Patty's tears. 

'Oh, dear me! there's the pretty quilt I was going to make for baby, andnow it isn't any use, and I can't bear to finish it;' and Patty brokeout afresh at the thought of so much love's labour lost. 

'Mamma will love to see it, so I wouldn't give it up. Work is the bestcure for sorrow; and I think you never will be sorry you tried it. Letus put a bright bit of submission with this dark trouble, and work bothinto your little life as patiently as we can, deary. '

Patty put up her trembling lips, and kissed Aunt Pen, grateful for thetender sympathy and the helpful words. 'I'll try, ' was all she said; andthen they sat talking quietly together about the dear, dead baby, whoonly stayed long enough to make a place in every one's heart, and leavethem aching when she went. 

Patty did try to bear her first trouble bravely, and got on very wellafter the first day or two, except when the sewing-hour came. Then thesight of the pretty patchwork recalled the memory of the cradle it wasmeant to cover, and reminded her that it was empty now. Many quiet tearsdropped on Patty's work; and sometimes she had to put it down and sob, for she had longed so for a little sister, it was very hard to give herup, and put away all the loving plans she had made for the happy timewhen baby came. A great many tender little thoughts and feelings gotsewed into the gay squares; and if a small stain showed here and there, I think they only added to its beauty in the eyes of those who knew whatmade them. Aunt Pen never suggested picking out certain puckered bitsand grimy stitches, for she knew that just there the little fingerstrembled, and the blue eyes got dim as they touched and saw thedelicate, flowery bits left from baby's gowns. 

Lizzie was full of sympathy, and came hopping over on her crutches withher only treasure, a black rabbit, to console her friend. But of all thecomfort given, Mother Bunch's share was the greatest and best; for thatvery first sad day, as Patty wandered about the house disconsolately, puss came hurrying to meet her, and in her dumb way begged her mistressto follow and see the fine surprise prepared for her--four plump kits aswhite as snow, with four gray tails all wagging in a row, as they laidon their proud mamma's downy breast, while she purred over them, withher yellow eyes full of supreme content. 

It was in the barn, and Patty lay for an hour with her head close toMother Bunch, and her hands softly touching the charming littleBunches, who squeaked and tumbled and sprawled about with their dim eyesblinking, their tiny pink paws fumbling, and their dear gray tailswaggling in the sweetest way. Such a comfort as they were to Patty nowords could tell, and nothing will ever convince me that Mrs. Bunch didnot know all about baby, and so lay herself out to cheer up her littlemistress like a motherly loving old puss, as she was. 

As Patty lay on the rug that evening while Aunt Pen sung softly in thetwilight, a small, white figure came pattering over the straw carpet, and dropped a soft, warm ball down by Patty's cheek, saying, as plainlyas a loud, confiding purr could say it--

'There, my dear, this is a lonely time for you, I know, so I've broughtmy best and prettiest darling to comfort you;' and with that MotherBunch sat down and washed her face, while Patty cuddled littleSnowdrop, and forgot to cry about baby. 

Soon after this came a great happiness to Patty in the shape of a letterfrom mamma, saying she must have her little girl back a week earlierthan they had planned. 

'I'm sorry to leave you, aunty, but it is _so_ nice to be wanted, andI'm all mamma has now, you know, so I must hurry and finish my work tosurprise her with. How shall we finish it off? There ought to besomething regularly splendid to go all round, ' said Patty, in a greatbustle, as she laid out her pieces, and found that only a few more wereneeded to complete the 'moral bed-quilt. '

'I must try and find something. We will put this white star, with theblue round it, in the middle, for it is the neatest and prettiest piece, in spite of the stains. I will sew in this part, and you may finishputting the long strips together, ' said Aunt Pen, rummaging her bags andbundles for something fine to end off with. 

'I know! I've got something!' and away hurried Lizzie, who was there, and much interested in the work. 

She came hopping back again, presently, with a roll in her hand, whichshe proudly spread out, saying--

'There! mother gave me that ever so long ago, but I never had any quiltto use it for, and now it's just what you want. You can't buy suchchintz now-a-days, and I'm _so_ glad I had it for you. '

'It's regularly splendid!' cried Patty, in a rapture; and so it was, forthe pink and white was all covered with animals, and the blue was fullof birds and butterflies and bees flying about as naturally as possible. Really lovely were the little figures and the clear, soft colours, andAunt Pen clapped her hands, while Patty hugged her friend, and declaredthat the quilt was perfect now. 

Mrs. Brown begged to be allowed to quilt it when the patches were allnicely put together, and Patty was glad to have her, for that part ofthe work was beyond her skill. It did not come home till the morningPatty left, and Aunt Pen packed it up without ever unrolling it. 

'We will look at it together when we show it to mamma, ' she said: andPatty was in such a hurry to be off that she made no objection. 

A pleasant journey, a great deal of hugging and kissing, some tears andtender laments for baby, and then it was time to show the quilt, whichmamma said was just what she wanted to throw over her feet as she lay onthe sofa. 

If there _were_ any fairies, Patty would have been sure they had donesomething to her bed-cover, for when she proudly unrolled it, what doyou think she saw?

Right in the middle of the white star, which was the centre-piece, delicately drawn with indelible ink, was a smiling little cherub, allhead and wings, and under it these lines--

 'While sister dear lies asleep, Baby careful watch will keep. '

Then in each of the four gay squares that were at the corners of thestrip that framed the star, was a white bit bearing other pictures andcouplets that both pleased and abashed Patty as she saw and read them. 

In one was seen a remarkably fine bun, with the lines--

 'Who stole the hot bun And got burnt well? Go ask the lilac bush, Guess it can tell. '

In the next was a plump, tailless bird, who seemed to be sayingmournfully--

 'My little tail, my little tail! This bitter loss I still bewail; But rather ne'er have tail again Than Patty should deceive Aunt Pen. '

The third was less embarrassing, for it was a pretty bunch of flowers sodaintily drawn one could almost think they smelt them, and these lineswere underneath--

 'Every flower to others given, Blossoms fair and sweet in heaven. '

The fourth was a picture of a curly-haired child sewing, with some verylarge tears rolling down her cheeks and tumbling off her lap likemarbles, while some tiny sprites were catching and flying away with themas if they were very precious--

 'Every tender drop that fell, Loving spirits caught and kept; And Patty's sorrows lighter grew, For the gentle tears she wept. '

'Oh, aunty! what does it all mean?' cried Patty, who had looked bothpleased and ashamed as she glanced from one picture to the other. 

'It means, dear, that the goods and bads got into the bed-quilt in spiteof you, and there they are to tell their own story. The bun and the losttail, the posy you took to poor Lizzie, and the trouble you bore sosweetly. It is just so with our lives, though we don't see it quite asclearly as this. Invisible hands paint our faults and virtues, andby-and-bye we have to see them, so we must be careful that they are goodand lovely, and we are not ashamed to let the eyes that love us bestread there the history of our lives. '

As Aunt Pen spoke, and Patty listened with a thoughtful face, mammasoftly drew the pictured coverlet over her, and whispered, as she heldher little daughter close--

'My Patty will remember this; and if all her years tell as good a storyas this month, I shall not fear to read the record, and she will be intruth my little comforter. '

(FOR SECOND SERIES, SEE 'SHAWL-STRAPS. ')

 PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. , NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON