Citation
The Juvenile library

Material Information

Title:
The Juvenile library : containing a selection from her popular stories for young people
Creator:
Sherwood ( Mary Martha ), 1775-1851 ( Author, Primary )
Sibree, Mary ( Illustrator )
Swan Sonnenschein & Co ( Publisher )
H. C. A. Theime ( Printer )
Place of Publication:
London
Publisher:
Swan Sonnenschein & Co.
Manufacturer:
H. C. A. Theime
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
377, [6] p. : ill. ; 19 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1891 ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1891 ( rbgenr )
Baldwin -- 1891
Genre:
Children's stories
Publishers' catalogues ( rbgenr )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Netherlands -- Nimeguen
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Publisher's catalogue follows text.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Mrs. Sherwood ; with entirely new illustrations by Mary Sibree.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026955815 ( ALEPH )
ALH7893 ( NOTIS )
22369638 ( OCLC )

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Full Text
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di veNILE = IBRARY





The Baldwin Library
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THE JUVENILE LIBRARY.



THE JUVENILE LIBRARY

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD

CONTAINING A SELECTION FROM HER POPULAR STORIES
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

With entirely new Illustrations
BY

MARY SIBREE.



Loudon:
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & Co.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
1891.



PRINTED AT NIMEGUEN (HOLLAND)
BY H. C. A. THIEME OF NIMEGUEN (HOLLAND)
AND

Iq BILLITER SQUARE BUILDINGS, LONDON, E. Cc.



CONTENTS.

Chapter.

te

II.

Til.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

THE HERON’S PLUME .

THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.
DUTY IS SAFETY

MARTIN CROOK .

JACK, THE SAILOR BOY

THE WHITE PIGEON .

THE LOST TRUNK.

THE GOOD NURSE.

THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.
THE TRAVELLER

THE FALL OF PRIDE.
GRANDMAMMA PARKER

THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

FRANK BEAUCHAMP.

Page.

31
35

89
123

157

181
193
229
263
295
329

- 345



THE

HERONS PiEUM E

BY

SHERWOOD.

MRS.



: :
f
- i
Ce
SS Ad be! _ y







THE HERON’S PLUME.



very rich merchant of the name of Collinton. The wife
of this gentleman was a very fine lady, and one whose only
pleasure was in show and grandeur.

Mr. Collinton’s father never had more than two children tenn
self and a brother some years younger.

This brother, whose name was James, was a hot-headed, ay
boy; he had been much spoiled by his mother, and when she
died he ran away to sea. It was well known in what ship he had
sailed, and it was also known that she had gone to the bottom in
a storm near the Cape of Good Hope, and everybody supposed
that he had gone down with her.

Mr. Collinton sometimes, when talking of his younger days, used.
to say, “My poor brother James was living then,” but he never
said anything more about him, and was not sorry still to keep the
five thousand pounds which his father had Hate for this his younger
son, should he ever turn up again.

Mr. and Mrs. Collinton had only two children. To these chil-
dren their mamma gave as fine names as she could think of. The.
boy was called Adolphus and the girl Matilda, and Master -Adol-
phus and Miss Matilda were brought up at the greatest: expense,
because their parents were resolved that they should both be per-:
fect patterns of elegance and fashion.

From the time when Mr. Collinton married till Matilda was
become a tall girl everything went on to the satisfaction of-the



4 THE HERONS PLUME.

family, and more was added every year to the stock; but just
when her papa and mamma were talking of buying a house and
lands in the country, and living in style, an event took place
which put the merchant very much out of his way.

A letter came from his brother James—that very brother whom
Mr. Collinton had thought to be dead so many years. This letter.
told of escapes and troubles without number. The brother had been
captured by the enemies of his country, and shut up in prison for:
several years. He had escaped, begged his bread, and worked as.
a common sailor; had made various attempts to get back to Eng-.
land, and had always been disappointed. At length he had met.
with a very lovely young person, of English parentage, in the West
Indies. He had married her, and they had lived most happily on
her small independent fortune till within the few last months, when ~
he had been deprived of her by death. He spoke with deep regret
of his loss, but said he could only find comfort by returning to
his old profession, the sea; and he added that as soon as he could
settle his affairs where he was he should, he thought, engage as
a partner in some trading vessel, and endeavour thus to improve
his fortune.

All this was bad enough to Mr. Collihton, who felt that he
should have to refund poor James’s fortune. But what had gone
before was not the worst; the. letter went on to say that there
were two children—the father called them dear and pretty children—
a-boy of thirteen and a girl of eleven, just left motherless, and
without means of education; and these would be, he said, on their
way to England before the letter could reach their uncle. They -
would be sent under the charge of the little girl’s godmother,
Mrs. Storer, who intended to reside in town, and would, on_their
arrival, be forwarded immediately to their uncle.

This letter was put into Mr. Collinton’s hands by a friend who
had just come from the West Indies—one who had seen Mr. James
Collinton himself, and had known him asa boy; there could, there-
fore, be no mistake. :

Immediately on receiving this letter Mr. Colinton. hastened. to.
his wife to tell her the change.



THE HERONS PLUME. ees

They now consulted what was to be done. They were both very
vangry, though neither of them said to the other how vexed they
were to hear that a man was alive whom they had thought dead
many years; but Mrs. Collinton especially murmured aloud at the
children being sent to them, and indeed said so much that her
husband after a little while seemed to be hurt with her violence,
and requested that the stibject might be dropped, and so it was
between the lady and her husband, though she continued to fret
without ceasing for many days, and she was continually saying to
Miss Philimot, her daughter’s governess, that she hoped that she
would take care that there was no intimacy between Matilda and
her cousin, adding that she herself ‘should use measures to prevent
Adolphus from forming an acquaintance with the boy, such children
as those being, of course, very: unfit to associate with elegant
young people like her own. ;

Mrs. Collinton arranged that the children should be sent to school
soon after they arrived. She had hardly chosen the schools in which
she intended them to be placed, when the little people came.

They were kept only three days at that time at their uncle’s..

The names of these children were Edward and Annabella, and,
as the father had said, they were particularly handsome, although
pale from the effect of the hot climate whence they had come.
Edward was rough and spirited, and could only be led by kind-
ness. It was not so easily to be seen what Annabella was, for she
did little else than weep at the idea of being parted from her
brother, during the few days in which she’ remained at her uncle’s,
* And now we must pass over two years from the time the children
came from the West Indies. Mr. Collington had made up what
his lady accounted a loss of five thousand pounds, and interest
upon it, and had added as much again to his money, and now
he and Mrs. Collinton began to talk in earnest ofa country house.
At length they heard of one in Devonshire which they thought
would suit them well, and early in the spring of the year in which
Matilda was fourteen Mr. Collinton: came Box town to see the
place and make the purchase. ;

Heron Hall, as- it was called, was an old stone house, though



6 THE HERONS PLUME.

wanting only a little brushing up to make it the handsomest dwel-
ling in the neighbourhood. It stood in a park, very finely wooded,
and at some small distance from the house was a superb lake.
Parts of the borders of this lake were wide and open; on other
sides it was shaded by groves of trees, which came down to the
water’s edge; but that which made one of the greatest beauties of
the place was that at the end of.the lake most remote from the
house was an island. Of course the island was small, but it could
boast of many fine old trees, as well as various shrubs and ever-
greens, which had been planted there to look well in the winter
season. For-many years beyond the memory of any man then living
this island had been a place where those birds called herons had
been accustomed to come at the breeding season to make their
nests at the top of the highest trees. When Mr. Collinton bought
the place he was told the herons used formerly to meet there
every year in large numbers, but that of late fewer had come; and
the reason given was that since the Hall had not been occupied,
and there had been fewer persons on the premises, the birds had
been disturbed, either by wanton persons or by persons who wished
to snare them for their beautiful crests and plumes.

Mr. Collinton had been much pleased at the idea of having a
heronry on his estate. He thought it sounded grand, and asked
if it were only at the breeding season that the birds were seen
about the island. The old gamekeeper, who was telling the history
of the heronry to the new master, said that he had observed two
of them about, fishing in the lake during the whole of last winter,
and one he should know perfectly again anywhere, because. he
had more white about him than any one of the kind he had
ever seen.

Mr. Collinton gave strict orders to the gamekeeper to guard the
theronry, adding that it would be a great pleasure to him to see
it aS prosperous as it was in the good old times.

There was no time lost after Heron Hall was bought in putting
it into proper order. All the best furniture, the paper, and the
curtains were supplied from London, and in a few months it was
ready for the family.



THE HERONS PLUME. 7

Nothing in the meanwhile had been heard of Captain James
Collinton—for so his brother now called him—and his poor chil-
dren began almost to fear that he was dead. ,

When they were preparing to leave London, Mr. Collinton
proposed that, as Heron Hall was so large, and Matilda would be

-parted from her young friends in London, Annabella should be
taken from school and kept with her cousin, at least as long as
she could make herself agreeable to her and to Miss Philimot; and
when Adolphus heard of this he thought that he should much
like to show the grandeur of his papa’s new house to Edward.
Thus it was settled that they should all come down together to
Heron Hall. Mrs. Collinton, Miss Philimot, Matilda, and Anna-
bella travelled in: the coach, and when they came within a few
miles of the Hall they all began to look anxiously about them.

They were still about three or four miles distant when they
came to a small town, in which were several handsome houses, a
large town-hall, and several respectable shops; but what pleased
Mrs. Collinton still more was a very elegant residence, situated in
a beautiful garden near the roadside, and scarcely a mile from
the park gates. Whilst she was still eagerly looking at it, Mr.
Colinton, who was on horseback, rode up to tell her that the
place before her was the residence of a widow lady of high rank,
namely, the Lady Jane Barclay; that she was the life and soul of
the neighbourhood, and had said, as he had heard, that she should
be the first person to visit the new family.

Mrs. Collinton was very .much pleased at the thought of feeine a
visit from such a lady; but she was still better pleased when she
saw the grand house and beautiful place which she was to inhabit.

As they rode through the park to the house, Matilda tried to
hide her delight by seeming quite indifferent to everything; but
Annabella was filled with yoy at the thoughts of the liberty she
should have in running about these. wide grounds. The boys, too,
who were on horseback, and therefore could see the place better
than those in the coach, were both much pleased. Adolphus thought
most of the grandeur of the woods and of the island in the lake,
which was the resort of the herons; but Edward was most delighted



eset

8 ‘THE HERONS PLUME.

with a large’ pleasureboat. which lay upon the quiet waters, and
which had a sail which could be easily unfurled on occasion. Edward
was in his heart almost.a sailor, like his papa was.

My young reader shall:not be much troubled with many accounts
of what Mrs. Collinton thought and felt when she found herself
mistress of such a place as Heron Hall, with its noble house, its
walks, its gardens, its lake, and its heronry. It may please him
better to hear how the children got on.

When. Matilda and Annabella had followed Mr. and Mrs. Col-
linton through all the grand rooms, they asked too see the apart-
ments which were for them and Miss Philimot, and they were
shown into a suite of rooms on the first floor, which looked out
over the lake to the park, having the island and tall trees of the
heronry almost in a line with the windows. These rooms consisted,
first, of a large apartment, which might serve for a study, a work-
room, or a play-room. It was neatly furnished. Theré was a room
on each side of this, one being only a closet in which was a
little bed for Annabella; the other being very large, and furnished
with great taste. This last was for Matilda and Miss Philimot. The
governess expressed great satisfaction with everything, and Anna-

‘bella thought her little room the most delightful place in the whole

world; but Matilda affected not to care for anything, and when
she condescended to speak at all, it was always to find fault, and
tg say that she wished things had been differently managed.

~ Annabella was not only naturally gentle and quiet, but she was
more than naturally ‘goodhumoured, as will be seen by-and-by.
She had, until she was near eleven years of age, been almost
constantly with one of the best and most pious of mothers. She
knew very well, because she had been taught by God, that no
child can change the heart of another; and she also knew that
it was not her place to find fault with her elders. She therefore
left Miss Matilda to murmur and mutter as she pleased, and set her-
self to unpack and arrange her few articles in the drawers and
shelves in her delightful little closet, where a prospect of the park
from the window reminded her of some view of this kind which
she remembered in Barbadoes..



THE HERONS PLUME. AQ:

For some time Annabella heard no other sound in the outer
room than a sort of languid muttering proceeding from Matilda,
and a fawning whine which came from, Miss Philimot, who was
trying in vain to soothe her pupil into good-humour, when suddenly
there was a bang, as of a door slammed open, which made her
start, and then a loud burst of voices. She knew these voices to
be those of Adolphus and Edward. pele

“Well, Miss Matilda,” were the first words which she heard,
“what sort of a place have youegot here?”

This inquiry was made by Adolphus, and it was answered by
Edward before Matilda could so far master net affectation as to
bring out a single word.

“A very good berth, a capital berth,” said the young sailor;
“and it must be confessed that you have made a good exchange
of this fine light room for your dusky oe in ‘The ee
Miss Collinton.”

“Dusky cabin!’” repeated Matilda. “I.am sure that my
apartments in town were quite as handsome as ‘these, as lofty
and as light, and perhaps better furnished. I do not think that
papa, when he selected these rooms for me, acted with -his usual
good taste, for I should have much preferred the other side of
the nous where there is a darling suite of chambers facing nes
avenue.’

“And from which you could have seen all the fine folks steering
' up to the house, Miss Matilda,” said Edward. ‘‘What.a pity that
you should have nothing to look at but green trees arid water!”

“Really, Edward,” said Matilda, “I wish: when you left the ship
which brought you over from your own country, that you. had left
yous loud voice and some of your ae expressions behind
you.”
_“T am sorry I do not please you, cousin,” said Bdnard carelessly,
and he began to step along the room, as if measuring its’ length,
turning round at the end, and calling out, “Twenty-four by twenty.
I say, Adolphus, what did the parccues say Was: the size of the
new boat on the lake?”

“Really, Edward,” replied Adolphus, . Ean are. “fit Gale to..do



10 THE HERONS PLUME.

as your father did; and I should not wonder if that were to be
the end of you after all.”

“What do you mean?” asked Edward hotly; “what did my
father do, and what is the end which you are talking of?”

“Why,” replied Adolphus, ‘that I should not wonder if you
were to run off to sea and get drowned.”

No one can say what answer Edward might have made if
Annabella had not come out of her closet at the moment, and
_had she not run up to him with the gentleness and lightness of
a fairy, and placed her gentle hand on his lips.

“Come with me, brother,” said she—‘“come, dear Edward, I
have a thousand things for you to do;” and drawing him with
her, she led him first into her closet, and thence by another door
into the gallery, and so out into the garden.

When Adolphus, Matilda, and Miss Philimot were left, they
spent a little time in heartily abusing Edward, whom they called
a low, vulgar boy. They next spoke of Annabella. Miss Philimot
said she was a remarkably plain child, but otherwise well enough;
Matilda called her a poor, harmless thing; and Adolphus, merely
to provoke his sister and Miss Philimot, reminded them that Lady
Jane had not thought her exactly the ugly thing they said.she
was; after which this agreeable brother and sister parted.

The family had arrived at Heron Hall about three in the
aftemoon; dinner had been ordered at five; after which Mr.
Collinton and his son were rowed over the lake in a small boat —
(kept there for such purposes) to the heron’s island. They had
learned that this was about the time of the day in which there
was as good a chance as any of seeing the birds. The breeding
season was past; but, as the gamekeeper told his master, the same
two which had remained there during the last winter were still
about—one of these being remarkable for having more white
about it than is usual with birds of the kind.

The little boat hove gently into a shady corner at the back of
the island, and Mr. Collinton and his son crept softly through
the bushes and low shrubs to that point where the gamekeeper
had more than once seen the white heron standing in the water,



THE HERONS PLUME. Il

ready to pounce on any unfortunate fish which might come within
its reach.

Adolphus lost his cap in the scramble through the bushes. He,
however, succeeded in his object, for, creeping on his hands and
knees to where a peculiar sound, as of something disturbing the
water, attracted his attention, he half raised himself when near
the edge of the bank, and peeping between the holes of two trees,
he caught a very clear view of the white heron, just as she was
in the act of swallowing a fish. His father was coming up after
him, but he gave him a look to turn away and make no noise;
and thus he actually had the pleasure of looking so long at the
bird, that he could, as he thought, have distinguished it again -
from every other of its kind.

Mr. Collinton did not see the bird till it rose to fly away. He
was, however, so much pleased with its appearance then, and
altogether so anxious to protect the herons and to keep up the
ancient heronry, that he most strongly cautioned his son on no
account whatever to carry a gun in the direction of the island,
nor to shoot nor injure in any way any heron in or near his
estates, nor to permit any other person who might be in his
company to do so.

After the first day or two at Heron Hall, Annabella and Edward
found that they were left to do pretty much as they chose. Miss
Philimot had consented to permit Annabella to assist, as she
called it, whenever she gave Matilda her lessons; but as Matilda
seldom chose to take a lesson, her cousin found that if she did
not strive to improve herself there would be an end of her education.

Mr. Collinton had engaged a learned gentleman in the neigh-
bourhood to come and instruct his son for a few hours every
morning, and Edward was. for the present to take lessons with his.
‘cousin. The remainder of the day was all to himself, and he was.
by no means at a loss how to employ it. Whilst the fine weather
lasted he was always out of doors, and Annabella was with him
whenever she could be, and they must have been dull indeed if
they could not have amused themselves in such wide and delightful
grounds as those of Heron Hall.



12 | THE HERONS PLUME.

They were not required to be present at the family dinner when
there were any visitors, and as there were few days without visitors
they had the liberty of absence six days out of the seven.

When these two orphans were together it was very natural for
them to speak of things which were gone and past—of their dear
mamma and their native island, and of that indulgent father whom
they never expected to see again; and one of their schemes of
amusement was building a hut in a pine-grove in the park. into
which. few people ever came, and they called it a wigwam, and
spent much time in and about it, till the weather got too cold to
allow them any longer to fancy themselves still in dear Barbadoes.

In the meantime all the people of any consequence in the

“neighbourhood had called on Mr. and Mrs. Collinton, and they
had retumed their morning visits. and accepted invitations to
dinner, and, as autumn advanced, these neighbours were invited
again and several grand entertainments given to them. Matilda
and Miss Philimot had gone everywhere with Mrs. Collinton, and
Matilda had been thought very elegant, and Miss Philimot the
most accomplished, agreeable person in the world.

The Lady Jane Barclay, however, instead of being the first,
was the last person to call upon Mrs. Collinton. She had been at
the seaside during the latter few months, and did not return till
the beginning of October. The very day after her arrival, however,
she set out to make her visit to Heron Hall, and, as she always
chose to do things in a way quite different from other people, she
set out to walk, followed by a little footboy, who carried her cloak.
She was a tall, thin woman, with bright eyes and a very bright
colour on her cheeks, and she had:on the same gay bonnet which
she had worn at the bathing-place, all tarnished as it was, and
not improved by a few rolls upon the sands when taken from her
ladyship’s head, as it had been once or twice, by a sudden gust
of wind.

It was Lady Jane’s custom, when paying her morning visits on
foot, always. to take the shortest cut across the country, though
this’ cut should lead- her across a ploughed field or through a
fold-yard. Her shortest way from her own house to Heron Hall



THE HERON’ S PLUME. 13

was through Edward and Annabella’s fir-grove, and the two children.
were standing in the doorway of the wigwam with their heads
dressed out with. branches of pine, when the lady appeared not
five yards from them. She did not express any surprise at this.
strange sight, for she affected never to wonder at anything, but
she called to Edward and his sister to stand eee as they were
and not to move an inch.

“Tt cannot be better,” she said, as she came nearer and nearer;
“what a sweet picture it would make! And you,” she added,
looking at Edward, “are a fine, handsome, bold fellow, .but not
so much to my taste either as that innocent-looking thing there,
your sister, with her bright golden locks. Your names of course,
are Collinton, well, goodbye, my pretty dears, we shall be better
acquainted by-and-by;” and she hurried on towards the Hall,
and was admitted into an elegant drawing-room, where Mrs. Col-
linton was sitting with Miss Philimot.

Lady Jane behaved with the same ease and singularity in this
elegant room as she had done in the fir-grove, and Mrs. Collinton
thought her the most charming, delightful person that ever was.
till she had made a most terrible mistake. She had supposed that.
the boy and girl whom she had seen in the park were the son
and daughter of the lady with whom she was speaking, and having:
told where she had seen them, she expressed her admiration,
particularly of the little girl, in words which filled both the mother
apd governess of Matilda with very bad feelings. Mrs. Collinton
was obliged to explain who these children were, and Miss Philimot
was so imprudent as to tell Matilda and Adolphus all that Lady
Jane had said of their cousins. Thus from one thing to another:
envious and angry feelings grew and gained strength among the
children, the only one amongst them to whom a better spirit was
_ given being Annabella; and this young girl was enabled, by the
help of her Heavenly Father, not only to feel the ill effects of
jealous and angry passions in her own mind, but to endeavour to
counteract them in the mind of her dear brother. :

When it was become too cold for his sister to.be much out of
doors, Edward took up another amusement, and this was. shooting



14 THE HERONS PLUME.

small birds. He and Adolphus took up this taste about the same
time; and as Mr. Collinton was no sportsman, they went out with
one or other of the gamekeepers, and received instructions from
them in the management of their fowling-pieces, and in all things
belonging to this kind of craft. Here, again, was a clashing of
merits between the two cousins. Edward proved by far more skil-
ful as a sportsman than Adolphus. His eye was more correct,
and, in spite of private interest, where the gamekeeper paid
Adolphus one compliment on his improvement, he paid Edward
twenty. Nor did either of the boys behave well on these occasions ;
for if one sulked the other triumphed, and there was no little
Annabella present to place her hand on her brother’s lips, or to
whisper in his ear, “Is this according to the pe and forgiving
spirit of our blessed Redeemer ?”

Lady Jane had invited Mrs. Collinton to an elegant dinner, and
Mrs. Collinton had returned the compliment. Two nieces of Lady
Jane had come to see-their aunt, and Matilda had thought both
of them charming; and these young ladies were still at Barclay
Cottage, as their aunt’s house was called, when the following note
was put into the hand of Mrs. Collinton: —

“T owe an entertainment to many of my good neighbours; as I
know not how else to pay my debts in a summary way, I have
thought of a ball and supper on one day, and a little musical
festival on another, tor I must not bring all my visitors together at
one time. ;

“But I shall want a friend to take some of the trouble off me;
I have thought of you. You must come two days before my ball,
and you must stay with me for a week. You are to bring your
daughter and her harp, and your very agreeable Miss Philimot,
and my sweet little favourite of the fir-grove, and your gentlemen
may come and go as they please. This day fortnight is the day
which I expect you.”

Of course the invitation was accepted. Miss Philimot wrote the
answer on pink paper in her lady’s name, and then ran up to
tell the joyful tidings to Matilda, and to consult upon dresses to
be prepared. It happened that when Miss Philimot came up,



THE HERONS PLUME. ae

Annabella was writing a letter to her godmother, Mrs. Storer, and
it was a matter of course that she should tell her of the pleasure
which was before her. It was, not a week after this letter was gone
when a box came directed to her from London. It was brought
straight up to the young lady’s room; and although Annabella
read her own name at full length in large characters on -the lid,
she still could not believe that it was for her. It was at length
forced open. At the top was a letter from Mrs. Storer, in which
that lady said that “she had sent her dear little girl two dresses,
in which to appear at Lady Jane’s two evening entertainments,
and a bonnet to wear, should she find it necessary to be much
dressed any morning.”

It cannot be disputed that the articles which the box contained
were all more than necessary for the occasion of this visit to Lady
Jane; but Mrs. Storer herself loved dress and fashion, and what
she did she meant kindly.

Whilst Annabella was reading the letter, Miss Philimot had taken
everything out of the box and spread-it on the sofa. One of the
dresses was of very fine muslin, trimmed with lace and white satin;
the other was of sprigged net, made over pink satin. This was
also beautifully trimmed ; but the darling of all, as Miss Philimot
said, was the bonnet or hat, which was of a purple velvet, with
a magnificent heron’s plume fixed on one side, a little plaited cap
placed within, giving to the whole, as the same lady said, a most
feminine and elegant air. No one inquired what Annabella thought
of all this magnificence; but Miss Philimot saw in half an instant
that Matilda was inexpressibly hurt and cut up at the sight of
them. Her own dresses were ordered, and were expected ‘to be
ready in a few days; but her mamma had not thought of getting
her a new hat, and how shockingly dowdy she should look beside
Annabella in her magnificent hat!

Of course Miss Philimot made no remark about the hat before
Annabella, but, taking it up in her hand, she walked with it to
Mrs. Collinton’s dressing-room, and having explained what had
happened, she said, “Miss Matilda should have a hat as nearly
like. this as may be.” To this Mrs. Collinton agreed; and -it was



16 THE HERON’S PLUME.

then settled that the governess and her pupil should go, as soon
as the carriage could be got ready, to the small town close by;
that they should there consult the milliner, who was already busy
with Matilda’s dresses; and that, if possible, she should engage
her to make a hat equal to that which had come from town. “The
only difficulty I see,” said Mrs. Collinton, “will be in the plume;
but we must by all means have the plume.”

Miss Matilda and Miss Philimot set out as soon as the carriage
drove to the door, and took with them not only the hat, but the
dresses, for the milliner to take the latest London fashions, and
they came back in high spirits. They had chosen a very rich velvet,
and a ribbon quite superior to that on the pattern hat; and the
milliner had said that she had not the least doubt of being able
to get a heron’s plume.

At the end of four days from this time, two large baskets, some-
thing like magpies’ cages, arrived from the milliner’s, one containing
all Annabella’s things, which had gone for patterns, and the other
the new things for Matilda. Never was a better imitation than that
of the hat; but, alas! instead of the heron’s feather was a note
of apology. No such thing as a heron’s plume was to be had in
town for love or for gold. When Matilda read the note she tore
it to pieces, and pushed away the hat which Miss Philimot was
holding before her eyes. She did not, indeed, shed tears, but she
sat herself down in an arm-chair, and seemed determined not to
regard a word that her governess said to her.

Mrs. Collinton had heard that the baskets were come from the
milliner, and being scarcely less anxious than her daughter about
the plume, she entered the room just at the moment in which
Miss Philimot was laying down the hat which her ungracious pupil
hat pushed from her.

When Mrs. Collinton understood that there was no feather to
be had, she expressed herself almost as fretfully as her daughter
had done, and was inquiring whether even yet it was too late to
get one from London, when Annabella, who till that instant. had
not understood what was the cause of disturbance, came forward
and begged that Matilda would wear her feather, telling her cousin



THE HERONS PLUME. 17

what she really felt, that she did not care in the least whether
there was one in her hat or not.

There is not room to repeat all the discussions which took place
before it was settled whether Annabella’s offer should be taken or
not. Before dinner, however, Miss Philimot was seen, as she stood
at the window of the dressing-room, carefully unfastening the plume
from the bonnet which had come from London, and transferring
it to the other; and all would have passed off without bad conse-
quence, had not Edward unfortunately come into the same room
to look for his sister, at the very instant that the removal of the
feather from the London to the country bonnet was complete.
Annabella had told him the kindness of Mrs. Storer, and he had
happened to meet Miss Philimot in the gallery when she had been
carrying his sitser’s hat to his aunt’s dressing-room. He knew it
again immediately, and as quickly guessed what oe governess had _
been doing. To Miss Philimot he said:

“You have been taking the feather from Annabella’s cap to put
into one of Miss Matilda’s. .

Miss Philimot turned round to look at him, but did not speak;
and he repeated his words with no small violence. At the same
instant Adolphus came into the room, stepping softly, and listening
to what his cousin was saying. Miss Philimot explained to him
what was the cause of Edward’s anger.

Adolphus took up the matter, and asked “if he was mean enough,
after all the favours his mother and sister had shown Annabella,
to grudge so trifling a favour as that of the. loan of a feather?”

A feather, indeed, is a light thing, but it was no feather that
really caused this discord between the cousins, though it was the
occasion of the bursting out of the angry and jealous feelings
which they had long entertained towards each other, From one
angry word they went to another, and yet their quarrel did not
come to its height either that day or for three or four days after-
wards, although the .boys continued to be very sullen to each other.

Edward in the meantime went out every morning with his gun,
and thus the time went on till the day before that fixed for the
ladies to go to Lady Jane’s.

c



18 THE HERONS PLUME.

It was not long after noon on that day that Edward knocked
at the door of Matilda’s room. Being told to enter, he came for-
ward and presented his sister with a roll of coarse paper, which,
being unfolded, showed a very. fine heron’s plume.

The feathers of this plume had the appearance of not having
been long taken from the bird. If dressed at all, it had not been
done by a very skilful hand. Still they looked remarkably fine and
glossy. Having made his present, Edward did not wait to hear
what his sister would say, but looking round with a bright and
sparkling glance, he left the room with the air of a person who
had done something vastly fine. At the foot of the principal stair-
case was a room which Mr. Collinton devoted to business. As
Edward came down these stairs he saw the old gardener and the
gamekeeper go into this room and when they were in, the door was
shut after them. He did not suppose that he should have anything
to do with what they had to say.

He passed through :the hall, went out at the front door, and
it was more than an hour before he returned to the house.

As he came into the hall, a servant man met him and asked
him. to walk into the study, for this was the name given to the
room at the bottom of the stairs. When he arrived there he found
his uncle standing with his back to the fire, his aunt sitting near,
and his cousin Adolphus. looking out of the window. Though
Edward was far from being a timid boy, there was something so.
solemn in the manner of his relations, that he stood quite still at
the entrance of the room, his eye at the same time falling upon
a few white feathers which lay upon a. piece of brown paper upon
the table.

“Come forward, sir,” said Mr. Collinton, “and .answer me a few
questions.”

Edward stepped towards the table, and ee stood still again.
- “Tell me, sir,” continued .Mr. Collinton, sf where you got that
plume which the gardener saw this morning .in your hand?”

“J bought it, sir,” continued Edward.

“Of whom?” asked Mr. Collinton. .

“T am not at liberty to tell,” replied aed,



THE HERONS PLUME. 19

_ “Not. at liberty. to tell!” . exclaimed his aunt, and she shook
fher head.

“You have been shooting one of my Herons: ar Mr. Colinton:
“in order that your sister might be decked with its plume. And
det me tell you sir, that knowing as you do how anxious I am
to preserve these birds, you could Bot possibly have done enying
which could have annoyed me more.’

“Are any of the pcrons missing?” asked ‘Edward. in some
‘surprise.

“Your surprise is well affected,” innit Mrs. Colinton and
Mr. Collinton said, “Whethér the information is wholly or only
an part new to you, Edward, I now tell you that the white heron
thas not now appeared for four days, although I. knew it not till
this morning. The gamekeeper. has had his suspicions all along,
but he did not hint to me even at the loss of. the bird till this
“morning.”

“Well, .sir-——” said Edward ee 3

' “Hear me out,” replied Mr. Collinton, “and :then you shall
sspeak. On the morning after the day, as far as I can find, on
which you chose to take offence at the transfer of a plume from
your sister’s to my. daughter’s hat, you-went out with your gun.”

“T did so,” said Edward;. “I go out every morning.”

“That same morning,” continued Mr. Collinton, “the white -
theron was seen by the gamekeeper, .and also by. the gardener,
flying from the island over the lake in a westerly direction. They
‘watched the flight till the bird had disappeared, and at the same
‘moment that they could see it no longer, they heard the report
of a fowling-piece; and the heron has never since been seen.”

‘All this, sir,” said Edward, “proves nothing against me.”

“Were you not sporting in that line of country due west of the
therons’ island. that morning, and at a very early hour, Edward?”
:said Mrs. Collinton.

“But I have not told you all that is known of. the. affair,” con-
‘tinued Mr. Collinton. “This morning, not four hours:since, those
‘feathers now. lying on the table, sprinkled with blood: as. you: now
see them. were found lying on the ground in.the place where the



20 THE HERONS PLUME.

bird, if shot when and where the gamekeeper supposes it was, must
have lighted on the earth.”

“And the old man,” cried Edward fearlessly, “really charges
me with the shot? Does he not know, that there are not two
other men besides himself in the whole county who could bring
down a heron on the wing 2?”

“That which might not be done easily by the best marksman
might be accidentally performed by a very indifferent one,” said.
Mr. Collinton; “and you, Edward, are, they tell me, not an.
indifferent one.”

Instead of answering his uncle, or even trying to clear himself,
Edward turned towards Adolphus, and said bitterly, “I should
like to know who could have been mean enough to have searched
for those feathers in order to bring them as witnesses against an
innocent person ?”

At the sound of his cousin’s voice Adolphus had turned, being-
as much offended at the suspicion conveyed in Edward’s words as
Edward was at the charge brought against himself of shooting
the heron. The eyes of the two youths met, and had they been
flint and steel they would have emitted flames. The supposed
depravity and hardness of Edward really hurt his uncle so much
that he was unable to utter another word; he threw himself in a
chair, and for a moment covered his face.

Mrs. Collinton, however, who had no such tender feelings, took.
up the case, and continued to irritate him more by many additional
reproofs which she gave him, on the supposition of his having
really killed the heron, which he continued to deny; and, when
she had almost worked him up to fury, she dismissed him from
her presence.

Edward had run into the park, there to give way alone to his.
bitter feelings, and there Adolphus followed him. So violent was.
the passion of each of them that neither of them could have told.
exactly what was said or done. Edward began by charging Adol-
phus with making up the story of the heron against him with no
truth whatcver. Adolphus told him that he had not made the
story. up. Violent and offensive words, and even blows, passed



THE HERONS PLOME. 21

between the angry boys, and there was no one to soothe either
party. Adolphus at length being more than half ashamed of him-
self, returned to. the Hall to dress for dinner, whilst Edward, who
‘was already deeply sensible of his own violent conduct, walked
farther into the grove, and did not return to the Hall till it was.
-quite dark.

In the meantime Annabella knew nothing either of the charge
‘brought against her brother or of the quarrel between the boys,
and in that happy ignorance she remained till the next morning,
for it was so common a thing for Edward to retire as soon as he
-came in from his shooting excursions that she thought nothing of
his not appearing in the drawing room at tea.

In the morning, however, a note was brought to her, scrawled
very roughly by her brother, and blistered in many places by
‘tears. The letter was merely to bid her adieu—to say that he had
been violent and proud, and he had behaved very ill and ungratefully
‘to his uncle, and that if Adolphus had been unkind to him he
had paid him to the full in his own coin, but that he had not
shot or otherwise ill-used the heron.

When Annabella inquired what this note meant she heard that
her brother was missing, that he had taken only a change of linen
‘with him, and that he had not even slept that night in his room.

The disappearance of Edward threw a great depression over
‘several persons in the family. Adolphus was greatly shocked and
vexed with himself. He had not actually made up the tale against
Edward, but he had done nearly as bad—he had strengthened
‘his father’s: suspicions and worked up his mother’s anger; and he
‘could not hide it from himself that he had followed Edward to
‘the park, and that Edward had not followed him. When any one
is humbled by feeling that he has behaved ill it is a certain sign
that a Divine spirit is working in his mind, and it is very certain
that what had happened: with regatd to poor Edward continued
to press very heavily on the minds of Mr. Collinton and his son.
As to poor Annabella, she wept till she made herself quite ill;
and there were only three persons in the family who went, after
all, to Lady Jane’s entertainment.



22 THE HERONS PLUME.

Months passed away at Heron Hall without any great event:
happening. Edward was not heard of, the white heron did not
appear again, and poor Annabella lost all the bright bloom of her:
cheeks; and although grace was given to her, still to be patient.
and gentle, yet it was seldom, very seldom, that ever she smiled.

It was not till the winter and even the colder weeks of spring:
were’ over, that the whole story of the heron’s plume, the loss of
the white heron, and the real cause of Edward’s disappearance,.
which accounted for the melancholy of her favourite Annabella,.
reached the ears of Lady Jane.

The story came through the servants, and when the butler told
the story to his lady he begged her not to speak of it, which she:
promised. But she did not promise not to act upon it, for that.
very morning she set out on foot for Heron Hall, and there insisted.
upon it, in her usual singular way, that Annabella should go back.
with her to her cottage and stay with her till the roses bloomed
again in her cheeks. Poor Annabella was pleased with the change,.
and felt that she could be happier with Lady Jane than with Matilda.
and Miss Philimot.

Soon after Lady Jane had taken Annabella away, Mr. Collington
and his family removed for a few weeks from Heron Hall to-
Dover, where they took handsome lodgings, and had the opportunity
of showing much of their grandeur before some of their old city
friends.

Miss Philimot had a brother, a smart young man who was:
studying the law in London, and, as it was holiday time, he came
down to Dover, and was very much with the family whilst they
remained there.

The visit of Mr. Collinton and his family to these places:
happened to be the very year in which steamboats were first used
at sea in a regular way, and they were then so new that many
persons used to walk down to the pier at the hour at which they
might be expected.

This was a very favourite lounge of Matilda and Miss Philimot,.
but: neither Mr. Collinton nor Adolphus liked it; Miss Philimot,
therefore, often engaged her brother to go with them.



THE HERONS PLUME. 23

The expected steamer was approaching the pier, though still at
some distance, and there were several sailors, porters, lightermen,
and persons of that kind busy on the pier with bales and packages,
which seemed either to have been lately brought from aboard
some boat or ready to be stowed in some other.

The only person about the pier not employed in this way was
a young gentleman, neatly dressed something in the style of a
sailor, though not entirely so, and when first seen his back was
turned to Mr. Philimot and the ladies, and he was looking most
intently and anxiously towards the steamer.

Some little argument having arisen between Miss Philimot and
her brother respecting the name of the steamer and other matters
belonging to her, such as when she would leave Dover again,
Mr. Philimot called to this young gentleman, “Sir, I beg your pardon,
but perhaps you can tell me what I wish to know?” The youth
immediately turned and answered very civilly that he was ready
to reply to any questions in his power.

“What do you call that vessel there, sir?” said Mr. Philimot.
At the moment in which the youth raised his arm to point to the
steamer, Miss Philimot had her head turned round to look at
some object nearly behind them, and Matilda’s eyes were fixed
on the steamer; but at the voice of the youth she started; looked
at his face, and instantly knew her cousin. Edward knew her at
the same moment; a deep glow rose in his cheeks; he turned
suddenly round, sprang upon the pier, and thence to a flight of
steps which led down on the beach, and disappeared so instantly »
that it was impossible for any one to say which way he went.

Miss Philimot, who had not seen the face of the youth, endea-
voured to persuade Matilda that she was mistaken in the person;
but Matilda was certain that she had seen Edward, and his very
running away proved that it was he; for why should a stranger
have thus fled at the sight of her? Mr. Philimot thought that
Matilda was right, and undertook to try to find out whither the
boy had fled; but neither did he, nor Adolphus, nor Mr. Collinton
succeed in tracing the boy, although they made every inquiry.
Whilst they remained at Dover no Edward was to be heard of,



24 THE HERONS PLUME.

and they returned to Heron Hall as much in the dark respecting
him as ever they had been.

When the family got back into Devonshire, Lady Jane brought
Annabella home. The young girl looked much better in health.
She had been kindly treated, and Lady Jane would not have
parted with her then had she not received a sudden call to join
an old relative who was dangerously ill at a bathing-place not very
distant. ;
_ Annabella now found herself again in that little room where

once she had been very happy, and where many things reminded
her of her dear, dear brother. The year had gone nearly round
since she had first come to Heron Hall, and she could sit again
with the window open, and look upon the lawns and groves of the
park, and hear the cawing of the rooks, all which.sights and sounds
reminded her of her native island and the days of her happy
childhood.

Lady Jane had given her many delightful books and other useful
presents; but books could not make up for the loss of her brother.
She wanted a companion, and although Matilda was less unkind
to her than she once had been, yet she never talked to her, nor
answered her when she happened to make a remark. There was,
however, a great change in the manner of her uncle to her, and
a still greater change in that of Adolphus.

It had pleased God to give this boy, lately so proud and dis-
agreeable, such a strong sense of the evil he had committed, not
only in despising his orphan cousins, but in working up Edward’s
temper so as to make him mm away from home, that he became
quite a changed person.

No one, not even a child, can be made to believe that he is
wicked excepting through the power of God, the Spirit entering
his heart, and giving him a new nature; and there is no other
way of accounting for the different behaviour of Adolphus to eve-
rybody about him than by supposing that this new nature had
been given him. Some months before he had been impatient to
his father and mother, haughty to the servants, and hard-hearted
to poor people. He had never taken any notice of Annabella, and



THE HERONS PLUME. 250

had been cross to Matilda, and had always mocked and laughed
at Miss Philimot; but now he was become polite to everybody,
and tried hard to get his sister to love him. There was nothing,
however, which made him so unhappy as seeing Annabella walking
alone about the gardens. “A year ago,” he used to say to himself,
“she had a dear brother to play with;” and then he remembered
the hut which that brother had made for her in the pine-grove.
“T will put that hut in order,” he thought, “and take Annabella
to it, and ask her if she will let me be the same to her as Edward
was. We are getting too old to play like little children, but if she
will come there, and carry her work there, I will bring a book and
read to her, or I will do anything to make up the loss of Edward.”

As soon as Adolphus had thought of this plan, he took a work-
man with him to the pine-grove, and soon got the hut repaired.
He had benches made in it, and a rude table put in the midst
of it; and then he came one morning and invited Annabella to
walk with him. When he brought her near to the pine-grove the
tears came into her eyes; but when she saw the wigwam in such
fine order, she began to weep so much that Adolphus was almost
sorry he had brought her there.

The bitterness of her grief, however, “soon became less when
he told her why he had brought her there, and how much he
wished to be like a brother to her, and how he hated himself for
his unkindness to Edward. From that day Annabella became like
a very dear young sister to him, and they spent many hours toge-
ther in reading, working, or drawing in that quiet place; and in
this way July ended and August came, and at the same time came
a letter from Lady Jane, dated from a pretty little bathing-place
not thirty miles from Heron Hall.

“Here I am,” she said, in her usual odd way, “with my old
relative, who is getting better, though she is uncommonly dulland
tiresome. There are no pleasant people here, and I have nothing
whatever to amuse me but a fine, old-fashioned public garden,
where there is a short walk shaded by trees, and summer-houses,
and trellis-work, and a fountain, and an aviary for all manner of
strange and odd birds, to amuse strange and odd people, and a



26 THE HERONS PLUME.

‘square tank with gold fish in it, and all those sort of things. So
you must all come, papa and mamma, and all; I want company,
and you will do better than most people.”

“We must certainly go,” said Mrs. Collinton, as soon as she
chad read the letter, ‘Lady Jane is such a charming woman, and
there is so much ease and real friendship in her letter.”

In a few days all was ready, and the party set out for this
bathing-place,. Mrs. Collinton having sent a letter the day before,
to request Lady Jane to take a house or lodging as near as possible
to her own residence.

Lady Jane received them all, but especially Annabella, with great
‘kindness; and the young people were pleased to find that their
apartments commanded a very fine view of the sea.

They had a bright day for their journey from Heron Hall, but
as they were sitting at tea in the evening, Mr. Collinton remarked
an appearance in the sea and sky which he thought threatened a
stormy night.

“Oh, I hope not!” cried Annabella; “I should be very unhappy
indeed if there was a storm.”

“Really,” said Matilda, ‘“‘as no sea, I suppose, could ever reach
us here, I do not know anything I should enjoy more than to see
a fine storm from these windows, and all the ships tossed about.”

“You forget yourself, Matilda,” said Mr. Collinton gravely, and;
he began hastily to talk of other things.

“See, see,’ cried Adolphus a few minutes afterwards— “what
is that speck on the water, far, far away—can it be a ship?”

Mr. Collinton had brought a glass with him; he soon put it in
order, and after he had looked a moment through it, he said that
the speck was a ship, and he thought a large one.

Adolphus next looked, and kept crying out, “It gets larger
every minute, and it is coming right down upon the beach below.
I think the captain foresees a storm, and wants to get under the
shelter of the cliff. Don’t you call that piece of high land which
runs out to our left a cliff, papa?”

“T hope, oh! I do hope,” cried Annabella, “that the ship will
get in safe before the storm comes.”



THE HERONS PLUME. 27

The whole family sat watching the vessel till the sun set and
darkness was closing in fast; after a while they could not distin-
guish what progress she made; and however fast she came, the
‘threatenings of a storm kept time with her. The sun had’ set
amongst angry, dark-red clouds, and there was a low, whistling
sound in the wind which foreboded no good. :

Before the family went to their rooms, the whole face of the
sea before them was quite black, and the wind was so loud, that
had the vessel fired guns, they could not have been heard by the
anxious children. In this uncomfortable state poor Annabella retired
for the night; but it was long, long before she slept, and when she
did sleep she dreamed of all sorts of shipwrecks and sorrows.

The first sound that Annabella heard in the morning was a Tap
at her door, and the voice. of Adolphus saying—

“The storm is-over, the sun Snnie bright, and the ship safe
under the shore; so get up, cousin.’

Annabella A get up in great haste. Adolphus showed her the
ship lying quietly within the shade of the high land, and pointed
out to her that she was a large vessel, and probably had come a
long voyage; but she lay as far perhaps as two miles from the
town, near the beach. Just below was a small steam-packet, which
Adolphus said had come in the evening before,and would soon
go off again.

Lady Jane called soon after the family ee breakfasted, to take
them to see her famous garden. They were all soon ready, and
set out in three companies—that is, Lady Jane walked with
Mr. Collinton, Mrs. Collinton took Miss Philimot’s atm, and Adolphus.
went with his sister and cousin. When arrived in the garden, the
three parties separated and took different alleys. As Mrs. Collinton
went up one walk with the governess, she met a lady whom she
fancied she had seen before; but being busy in conversation, she
did not give: her a second thought. This lady was Mrs. Storer. She
had arrived the morning before in the steam-packet. She knew
Mrs. Collinton again in an instant, but she had her reasons for passing
on without seeming to notice her. She went out of the garden as
soon as she had passed.



28 THE HERONS PLUME.

There was nothing in the garden which the young people were
sO anxious to see as the aviary. Lady Jane had told them in what
direction to look for it, and they went straight towards it.

This aviary was a handsome stone building, divided into large
compartments for the different sorts of birds. As they walked towards
it, they saw a youth standing looking at the birds with his back
to them, and with this youth a man, who looked like a gardener. -
Before they could come up the youth had gone away, but the
man stood still. This person was the gardener, and it was his busi-
ness to show off the birds; and so well had some of these been
trained, that the beautiful turtle-doves in one cage did not refuse
to pick some sugarplums from Matilda’s hands.

When the young people had amused themselves awhile with
these and a parrot, which chattered, and scolded, and shrieked
in a manner most surprising, the gardener invited Adolphus to
walk round the building, telling him he had other curious birds
in the back of it, though none, perhaps, that would please the
ladies so well as the parrots. Adolphus accepted the invitation, and
saw in a yard behind the house various large birds, some in vast
cages, and others fastened by the leg in the open air; but to
mone of these could the boy pay the least attention, for he had
hardly entered into the yard before his eye was attracted by a
heron, and one, too, exactly like that which Edward had seen.

“Where did you get that bird?” cried Adolphus in his ama-
zement.

“T bought it,” replied the man shortly.

“T know it,” said Adolphus, “and the very place whence it
came; and if you would sell it, you shall have a high price.”

“Wait a bit,” returned the man; “if it is to be sold it will not
be to you; it is bid for already and the refusal promised. There
was a young gentleman here not half-an-hour since who claimed
its acquaintance also, and offered me all he had in the world if
I would sell it.”

“A young gentleman!” cried Adolphus; “where is he? where
can I find him?”-and he ran round the house to his sister and
cousin, crying, “He is found, I have found him! and now I can



THE HERON’S PLUME. 29

beg his pardon and we can make it up, and we shall be happy
again!”

“Found him! found who?” asked Matilda.

“Edward, dear Edward,” replied Adolphus’ “but I do not know
where he is.”

“Absurd!” said Matilda, pursing up her lip; “you have found
him, but you do not know where he is! How ridiculous!”

Before her brother could answer, Miss Philimot’s voice was heard.
calling, as from a little distance, “Miss Matilda, Miss Annabella,
Master Adolphus! you must run to your papa—he wants you all;
take the straight walk to the arbour.”

“They have found him, I am sure they have found him!”
cried Adolphus; and away he flew down under the trees, followed.
by Annabella, whilst Matilda took Miss Philimot’s arm, and affect-
ing to be quite hurried and nervous, she asked what all this bustle.
could mean.

“T hardly know myself,” said Miss Philimot: “but so far as I
understand, Mrs. Storer came to this place yesterday in the steam-
packet, and with her came Master Edward. How long he may
have been with her I know not, for I heard something ot his
running off to sea after he had killed the heron; however, not.
half-an-hour ago the rude boy was running, as for his life, down
the great walk, when he almost tumbled against Lady Jane and
your father; and I and your mamma saw Mr. Collinton froma
little distance take the youth in his arms and embrace him as if
he had been his own son: but this, my dear Miss Matilda, is not
the most wonderful part of the story which I have to tell you.
Who do you think was on board that vessel which we saw last.
night ?”

“Surely not my uncle?” cried Matilda. “The very same,”
replied Miss Philimot; “and at the very instant that your too-kind
papa was taking Edward to his heart in the way I have described,
Captain Collinton himself appeared in the garden and Mrs. Storer
with him. I suppose that he had come on shore to look about
him and had met with Mrs. Storer, and she had brought him to
the garden to seek his son, and then, my dear Miss Matilda,



30 THE HERONS PLUME.

there was such another unceremonious greeting as had happened
before.” “And Lady Jane present,” cried Matilda, “to see it! O
how vulgar she must think us, so used as she is to genteel life!”

“Indeed,” ‘said Miss Philimot, “I am not quite convinced that
Lady Jane is quite so high-bred and elegant as we have thought,
for not. one person present seemed more rejoiced than she was at
these meetings; and, indeed, it was Lady Jane who hurried me
to look for you.”

Not even the coldness of Mrs. Collington, the pride of Matilda,
or the affectation of Miss Philimot could destroy the happiness
of these unlooked-for reunions. Captain Collinton was returned to
go from home no more; his voyage had been fortunate, and he
had money enough to live quietly with his children,

It was necessary for him to leave the bathing-place the next
morning and go round with his ship to London, but the restored
friends had a most delightful evening together, and Lady Jane
‘was so much pleased with Mrs. Storer that she wished her to pay
a long visit at her cottage.

A month after that they all met again at Heron Hall, near to
which and close to one of the park-gates a small house had been
found, which was soon made, with a little of Lady Jane’s taste,
to suit the captain; and when they were all puzzling for a name
to the cottage, Adolphus begged it might be called The Wigwam,
and Lady Jane said nothing could be better. The white heron
had been purchased at a high price from the man who kept
the aviary, and on the day when every one met again at Heron
Hall the door of the cage in which the captive had been brought
back was opened, and as soon as the creature had stepped out
and stretched her wings she soared aloft till she looked like a
mere speck in the air, and soon began to descend, alighting right
upon the loftiest tree of her native island.

Edward never told that it was the young gamekeeper who had
given him the heron’s plume, nor was it ever known who caught
and sold the. white heron. ;



THE

HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.

A. FABLE,

oN DEBATE once arose among the animals in a farm-yard
AAI. which of them was most valued by their common master.

ee the horse, the ox, the cow, the sheep, and the dog had

stated their several pretensions, the hog took up the discourse.

“Tt is plain,” said he, “that the greatest value must be set upon
that animal which is kept most for its own sake, without expecting
from it any return or use of service. Now which of yer can boast
so much in that respect as I can?

“As for you, Horse, though you are very well fed and lodged,
and have servants to attend upon you and make you sleek and
clean, yet all this is for the sake of your labour. Do. I not:see
you taken out early every moming, put in chains, or fastened: to.
the shafts of a heavy cart, and not brought back till noon, when,
after a short respite, you are taken to work again till late-in the
evening? I may say just the same-to the Ox, except that he works
for poorer fare. ne

“For you, Mrs. Cow, who are so dainty over your ee
straw and grains, you are thought worth keeping only for your



“milk, which is drained away from you twice a day to the last drop,

while* your poor young ones are taken from you, and sent I know
not whither. 5



32 THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS,

“You, poor innocent Sheep, who are turned out to shift for
yourselves upon the bare hills, or penned up on the fallows with
now and then a withered turnip or some musty hay, you pay dearly
enough .for your keep by resigning your warm coat every year,
for want of which you are liable to be frozen to death on
some of the cold nights before the spring.

“As for the Dog, who prides himself so much on being admitted
to our master’s table, and made his companion, that he will
scarce condescend to reckon himself one of us, he is obliged to
do all the offices of a domestic servant by day, and to keep etl
by night, while we are quietly asleep.

“Tn short, you are all of you creatures maintained for use, poor
subservient things, made to be enslaved or pillaged. I, on the
contrary, have a warm sty and plenty of provisions all at free cost.
I have nothing to do but grow fat.and follow my amusement; and
my master is best pleased when he sees me lying at ease in'the
sun or eating my fill.”

Thus argued the Hog, and put the rest to silence by so much
logic and rhetoric. This was not long before the winter set in. It
proved a very scarce season for fodder of all kinds, so that the
farmer began to consider how he was to maintain all his live stock
till the spring. “It will be impossible for me,” thought he, “to
keep them all; I must therefore part with those I can best spare.
As for my horses and working oxen, I shall have business enough
to employ them; they must be kept, cost what it will. My cows
will not give me much milk in the winter, but they will calve in
the spring, and be ready for new grass. I must not lose the profit
of my dairy. The sheep, poor things, will take care of themselves
as long as there is a bite upon the hills, and if the deep snow
comes we must do with them as well as we can. by the help ofa
few turnips and some hay, for I must have their wool at shearing-
time to make out my rent with. But my hogs will eat me out of house
and home without doing me any good. They must go to market,
that’s certain, and the sooner I get rid of the fat.ones the better.”

So saying, he singled out the orator as.one of the primest among
them, and sent him to the market the very next day.



IDI TE NE USPS AIEEE NC

OR,

TROUBLESOME TOM.

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.









DUTY IS SAFETY;

OR,
TROUBLESOME TOM.





HOSE house is that, which stands upon that gentle sloping
‘ bank on the edge of the brook, just where the water runs
cee the little wooden bridge, and where many trees form a
pleasant shade ?

That is farmer Page’s house, and that person walking before
the house, leading a little girl by the hand, is Mrs. Page, and
her daughter Mary.

Mr. Page and his wife had three children besides Mary. Their
eldest child was Thomas, then came Mary, Sarah was the next in
age, and Jane was the youngest, and quite a baby, when Thomas
was ten years old.

Mr. and Mrs. Page were humble honest people, and tried to do
their best for their children; but perhaps they thought too much
of Tom, because he was the only son; and if they did not, there
was one who did, or who pretended she did—this person was



36 DUTY IS SAFETY;

Barbara James; she had been Tom’s nurse, and whenever any
thing went cross with the boy at home, he used to make off to
Barbara’s to tell his troubles, and he was sure to be soothed and
flattered by her.

Mrs. Page did not know how Barbara flattered Tom. She
thought that she was a harmless, hard-working person, because
whenever she went to her cottage she found her spinning.

Tom was sent to the free school in the church-yard, to learn to
read and write, but his father required him, when he was at home
between school hours, to help in any work which might be useful.

Mr. Page had a fine team of oxen, they had been put to feed
in a meadow, the creatures were
quiet, and when let alone they
would hurt no one, but Tom being
sent one evening with the cow-
herd, to drive :them home, he
goaded one of them behind with
a pointed stick, till the beast got
furious, and he had to run for it
to save his life.

When Tom Page got home, he
made a false story of the affair
to his mother, and she prevented
his being sent again for the beasts.

When the naughty boy had run away from the oxen, the herds-
man had some trouble to get them in order again, but after
a while they knew his voice and went quietly to their stalls.

Tom might have learned a good lesson from the example of these
oxen, for they knew and heeded the voice of their keeper; but he
paid no regard whatever to the words of his parents, and from day
to day became more and more wilful; his name too was getting up
in the parish, and the villagers began to call him, Troublesome Tom.

Soon after the business of the oxen, his father said to him one
summer’s evening, My boy, you shall take the white sow and her
pigs out upon the green, to get a little run and change of food,
but mind, don’t over-drive the young ones.





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 37

Very well, father, replied Tom, for he did not dare to show
himself as he was, to his father. ,

Well! said Tom, when he got out clear upon the green with
the sow and her young ones, well! so I am raised to the honour
of being a pig-driver !

Then he began to hiss and to hoot, which set the sow to trot, and
the little ones to run, curling their tails and shaking their ears.

Tom ran also and hissed louder; and thus they went on, till
they had quite crossed the green, and come near to a fine neat
quick-set hedge, which enclosed a pretty flower-garden.

The ladies who. owned this garden, had great delight in it, and
though it was not -
large, it was very --
beautiful, being fil-
led with fruit trees
and rare flowers..

Troublesome *
Tom had oftenseen ~
this garden from
the green before,
but he had never
been in it, for
though he had tried
the gate once or
twice, hehadalways
found it fastened.

I will try again however, thought he—and so ceasing from his
shouts and hisses, he placed his hands on the top rail and shook
it well.

So he shook and shook, with his hands first, and then with his
back, till at last, the hinges, being a little rusty, gave way, the
gate flew open, and down he fell all his length on the gravel;
and it was well for him that his nose was uppermost.

He was soon up again, for he wanted to find out if there was
any fruit he might lay his hands on.

He had just spied a cherry-tree near to a small green house;







38 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

when he was startled by a grunt close behind him, and on turning
round, he saw the old sow and all her fatrow in the very midst
of a fine flower-bed, with their noses among the roots. Some of
the fairest flowers were under their feet, and two or three flower-
pots lay smashed already, whilst others were in the greatest danger.

Tom was as angry with the pigs, as if he had not himself led
the way, which made him drive at the sow and the little pigs with
his stick so violently, that they all set to run, and all in different
ways. Tom, however, cunningly kept to the heels of the old lady,
trusting that if he could get her out of the garden, the little ones
would come at her call, that is
if he could succeed in keeping
her from running in again.

So Tom got clear of the garden
with his pigs, and thought
himself very lucky, for he did
not believe that any one had
seen him.

It was soon after the affair
of the pigs, that Mrs. Powel, a
friend of Mrs. Page, came from
the nearest town to drink tea
at the farm—and brought with
her a little girl, her only
daughter.

Little Miss, thought Tom,
looks uncommonly fine, with her curled hair, and her hat all on
one side, and her blown out sleeves, and her small basket in her
hand. But if I don’t put her out of conceit with her pretty self
before she goes, why my name is not Tom.

So when his mother and her visitor were busy talking, and Mary
and Sarah gone out to pick some currants, he went up to the little
girl and invited her to walk with him into the garden. ;

Be sure to take care of her, Tom, said his mother; little Miss
Bessy is not used to our rough country ways.

Oh! yes, mother, replied Tom, I will take care of her.





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 39

And where did this rude boy take her, but to the bee-hive. He
led her up quite close to it, and then contriving to disturb the
bees, he ran away himself, whilst two of them settled upon the
poor child and stung her, one on the neck, and the otlier on the brow.

So sorry did he pretend to beat this
accident that he escaped all punishment
again for that time, although this offence
being wilful and intended, was very far
from a light one.

Tom made so many excuses for having
taken the little Miss near the hive, that
Mrs. Powel fancied that his heart was
broken about it, and good-natured Bessy
set herself to comfort him.

It was not your fault, master Tom,
she said, you did not mean to take me into danger, did you? No, indeed, Miss, “**
replied Tom boldly.

Twenty times at least, whilst they were at table drinking their
tea, Tom inquired of Bessy how she felt herself.

I hope those stings don’t smart, Miss, he said at one time; and
at another it was, you are not in pain, Miss, I hope; and so on
it went till Mrs. Powel was quite taken with his kindness, and invited
his father to bring him the next fair-day to play with Bessy, and
eat some dinner.

I am expecting to be at the fair, replied
Mr. Page, for I have a capital young cart-
horse to sell, and I shall have great pleasure
in bringing my son.

Tom was very well pleased with this
invitation, though that very week, before
the fair day arrived, he made his father so
angry by throwing a stone at their dog
Ranger, that he had nearly lost the pleasure.

Son Tom, said Farmer Page, I am told
that you go by the name of Troublesome







40 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

Tom in the village, more’s the shame! and I have been told of
some of the pranks by. which you have deserved the name.

Now, may be you have not yet begun to suffer for your ill-
behaviour: but as sure as I stand here, you will one day or another
reap the fruits of what you have sown, and a bitter harvest, I tell
you, it will be. There is an old good saying, Duty is Safety: let a
child act dutifully, that is, in obedience to the will of his parents
and masters, and he is in the way of safety—let him go against
their will, and he makes to himself as many foes as he has
acquaintances.

Tom looked sulky, but he mumbled out some words of promise
that he would try to do better, and thus it happened that Mr.
Page took Tom with him to the fair.

Little John Powel, Bosys Brother, had a fine seule horse, it

% was too small for Tom, his legs
touched the ground when he was
upon it, but it was what he called
fun to put the little boy in the
saddle, and to rock it furiously
whilst he cried, whoop! whoop!
gallop! gallop! ge! ho!

» The little boy in vain cried,

Oh stop! Oh stop! pray stop !—
but Troublesome Tomdid not
: choose to hear him, and the
wooden horse was at length thrown forwadr with such violence,
that little John fell over its head, and Bessy who was the first to
run in, shrieked till her mamma came to pick him up.

When the little one was taken up, Tom was not to be found—
the troublesome boy had run off, and did not come in till dinner
was ready, and then he stood out, that he had left the hall just
before John had fallen, and the child could not prove that it was
not true, because he had his back to where Tom was standing.
On their way home Mr. Page said to his son, it seems very odd
to me, Tom, that so many mishaps fall out wherever you go; see
to it, boy; I promise you that you are well watched, and the very





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 4I

first time that you are caught at any mischief, I will make you
feel in such a way as you never felt before.

Barbara, said Tom, as he stopped at her door in his way from
school the next half holiday, father has been scolding me, and
threatening me with a flogging, and all because he says I am
troublesome. .

And a’ant all boys troublesome? said the nurse. What is it you
have done?

Before Tom could answer, there came a woman along the lane
with a boy; they were driving a young ass, and they stopped
before the cottage door.

Mistress, said the woman to Barbara, tell us the way to the
sign post at the cross roads—be we to turn to the right or the
left at the end of this lane?

To the left, cried Tom, from behind Barbara.

Eh! master Page, said the nurse.

Silence! whispered Tom, then adding aloud, To the left, you
must turn to the left, and then you must turn again to the right,
and then over the green, and you will not find it more than
four short miles.

- Four miles! cried the woman, I did not count it so’ far, by
the half—four miles more and me so foot sore.

Is not that fun? said Tom, when the people were gone on.
If I have sent them one mile, I have sent them three round
about.

And so saying, unrebuked by Barbara, he left her cottage.

As he was climbing up a bank through a narrow way shaded
by bushes, he saw a boy going up the path before him with a bat
for playing cricket in his hand. He called aloud to him, Eh! Rogers,
is that you? what are you doing here?

Oh! it’s you, Tom Page, answered the boy—be quiet, can’t you,
there’s farmer Tomkins, and four of our school chaps just above—
and they have seen a rabbit run into the bushes; when the farmer
has his gun ready, they will shout and drive him out.

How came you all here? asked Tom.

We have been playing at cricket, replied Roger.



42 _ DUTY IS SAFETY ;

And did not let me know, returned Tom; but I will be even
with you. And he began to shout as loud as he could, a rabbit!
a rabbit! let’s kill a rabbit!

At the noise made by Tom, the farmer turned round, and the
rabbit took the occasion to make its escape.

When the boys found their sport spoiled, they turned at once
upon Tom; but he had made off again, and had got within his
father’s fold-yard, before any of them could catch him.

When Tom got home, he found that two of the neighbouring
farmers had dropped in;
and Mr. Page had asked
them to stay and partake of
(oa . what was in the house.
ee SOE IA i RGA a As the day was very hot,

: f id f Mrs. Page had set the table

.. in the garden before the
{See , porch, and whilst the two
i a ig oe i farmers were taking a little
eC cider and some bread and

zs > Wink f ae if 4
5 CESS aw xslt cheese before dinner, the








Z daughter of one of them
and the wife of the other
dropped in.

These also had been invited to dine on such as Mrs. Page had,
for they all were old and intimate friends.

Mrs. Page went away with her visitors as soon as the cloth was
removed, and the ale-jug and long glasses were set on the board.
But Tom sat still at the table.

It would have been better for him, if he had left when his
mother did.

She was no sooner gone, than the younger of the two visitors,
began to jest and banter Tom on the name which he had earned
in the village.

Tom got very angry, and said he did not know why he was to
have a bad name more than another.

Why, you don’t deny, said the young man, that you have

#

en Se eS s



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 43

worked as hard to get the name you have, as any boy ever did
to get a better.

You know nothing about me, answered Tom sulkily.

Don’t I? said the other laughing, don’t I? Who sent the
trampers this morning three miles round, to look for the cross
tree not half a mile off? who goaded the beasts with a sharp
stick ? he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, and who drove
the pigs into the old ladies’ garden ?

What’s that? what’s that? asked Mr. Page, who had heard
more than the young man meant he should hear. Tom! Tom!
he added, looking very hard at his son. What! more of your
pranks? It’s no laughing matter, neighbour, and shall be none,
he said, striking his hand on the table till every glass jingled.
I have promised, and I will keep my promise, that I will make
every bone in your skin to ache, son Tom, for the first piece
of wilful mischief that comes fairly before me.

I won’t look to the past,—so mind you to take care of the
future, and then all will be square between us. Now walk off, and
as you hope for safety, be dutiful to your mother and me, and
all we put in authority over you.

But father, said Tom, in a whining voice, you must not believe—

Say no more, cried Mr. Page, interrupting him—go and play
with your sisters, they are the best company you can have, I only
wish you were half as good as Mary.

Tom walked away, muttering as he went, Haif as good as Mary!
so I am not half as good as Mary; and father thinks I will stay
at home and play with Mary—very likely, but what shall I do
this evening? I don’t know what to do—let me consider, father
won't get rid of his company before late. He is fast enough for
one while. Well then! suppose I go a fishing down the brook,
along towards the pools; under the old big bridge—father won't
know, he seldom comes that way.

Mr. Page had told his son never to go fishing on that side,
because the pool into which the stream flowed in its way towards
the sea was deep and dangerous, and beyond the pool the stream

a



44 DUTY IS SAFETY;

was fearfully rapid. There were a few huts among the sands, on
the borders of the sea, and the people who lived there, were
known to be smugglers.

Smugglers are persons who deal in articles brought over the sea,
for which what are called duties ought to be paid to Govern-
ment.

The first thing Tom went about after leaving the company, was
to go after his fishing tackle, and next to call Ranger, who walked
with him down to the brook and along its bank, until they came
to the old bridge.

a There Tom found a very little boy,
called short Sam, who was angling with
a hazel stick instead of a proper rod, a
piece of fine twine, and a crooked pin,
which he had plastered with a bit of dough.

What are you doing there, Sam? said
Tom.

I am going to get some fish for granny’s
supper, answered the little boy.

But, said Tom, you will never catch
any fish where you now stand, the fish
can see you just there; and they will not come near.

Short Sam had taken the very place which Tom fancied for
himself, and he was determined to get it from the little one.

Where should I be to fish? asked Sam.

Come with me, answered Tom, come upon the bridge, and
I will set you on the wall, and then you will have the chance
of seeing where the fish are, and no chance of their seeing
you.

So Tom went with him upon the bridge, and helped to set him
on the low wall which guarded the road, with hiss hort legs dangl-
ing over the water.

There you are, said Tom, mind you don’t tip forwards; but if
you do, I will pick you up. So saying he left the child, and went
himself where he had first found him.

'Tom had hardly thrown out his line, and short Sam was just





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 45

preparing to do the same, when who should come that way across
the bridge, but Sam’s father himself.

The father’s first business was, to draw Sam back from his
perch, and to set him on his short legs, in a safe place, after which
he gave him a hearty blow, bidding him to go home to his granny,
saying, Will you do that again ? will you?

It was Master Page, sobbed the child, Master Page put me
there.

Was it? cried the father, and he came forwards again towards
the wall of the bridge, and told Tom that he might have caused
the death of the poor helpless child by his tricks, and he promised
him, Mr. Page should
know the mischief he
had been at, before any
of them were an hour
older.

Tom waited not to hear
any more, for the man
had turned from the
parapet, and the boy
feared that he was coming
down to beat him.

Tom was a_ great
coward, as most mischie-
vous persons are; so he snatched up his fishing basket and away
he ran under the bridge, and down the side of the brook, his
rod in his hand, with his line flying loose from the end of it, and
Ranger ran with him. P

As soon as Tom was out of sight of the angry father, he thought
he would seat himself down, and again throw his line into the
water, but the boy was not to fish in peace that day, for fresh
trouble came on him.

Suddenly turning a comer, he perceived before him, eight or
nine of his school-fellows amusing themselves by different boyish
sports, and at one glance Tom saw that the same five boys were
amongst them who had been seeking the rabbit in the morning,





46 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

and who had been annoyed in their diversion by his shouts. Two
of them were practising leaping, the one with a pole, the other
by a standing jump. And Tom hoped they would be so much
engaged in their play that they would not see him; but he hoped
in vain, for Ranger just choosing the moment for a bark or cough,
the boys looked up and knew him and his dog.

There is Tom Page, cried one, let us catch him, and give him
- a good thrashing for spoiling our sport; come boys, after him.

Tom waited to hear no more, but sprung forwards running he
knew not where.

Seeing that he feared their approach, the boys threw down their
leaping poles, and pre-
pared to pursue him.

Fair and softly, cried
one of the bigger boys,
nine to one is no joke.
Tom has not ill-used
us all, we should not
all race after him.

So here are five of
the boys racing after
Tom, but the lad has
got the start of them so far, that he and Ranger are not to be
seen. Four of the boys are watching to see the race, that it is all
fair, as they call it; but they were soon unable to judge, as theit
companions ran after Tom down towards the bank of the pool, or
trout-stream, which fell into the sea some miles distant. Fortunately
for Tom, these five boys hindered each other, for none liked to
be last, and if they were by chance left so, and there must of
necessity be one the hindmost,—that one clung to the collar or
coat of him before, and prevented him running with ease.

On, on, ran Tom, with Ranger at his heels, till he was quite
out of breath, whilst the shouts ahd threats of his pursuers were
borne on the wings of the wind so quickly to his ears, that more
than once he fancied he could feel the hand of one or another
upon his dress. This only urged him on, and finding his breath





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 47
failing him, he looked around eagerly for some hiding place. But
nothing could he see, but the short grassy bank which bordered the
side of the pool; for though the reeds and sedges grew high, the
spots where they grew in plenty, were so marshy, that Tom could
not hope to hide himself amongst them. Close to the bank, however,
and fastened to a post by a rope, was a small boat, which belonged
to a fisherman of the neighbourhood; and as Tom’s legs ached
from running, and the boys’ threats still rang in his ears, he jumped
into the boat, and without waiting to think, he unwound the rope
which fastened it to the post.

Ranger would have got into the boat after him, but Tom remembered
at that moment, that it
was Ranger’s bark which
had roused the boys, and
becoming very angry, he
gave the faithful creature
more bad names than I
choose to write down in
this book.

Poor patient Ranger,
how quietly he stands
now; and yet you would
hardly fancy that, a mo-
ment or two ago, he had
to run away from Tom as
fast as he could, for the naughty boy threw a large wooden peg, which
he had found in the bottom ot the boat, against the gentle animal.

As the dog went off, Tom became aware that the boat was in
motion, and he was very glad to find it was moving away, for his
school-fellows were just coming in sight, and he much feared being
caught by them.

They came down to the water’s edge, and Roger mockingly
wished him a pleasant journey; adding, if the stream were to
swallow you up, cockle-shell and all, master Tom, the world would
be much the better for getting rid of so troublesome a fellow as
you are. ;





48 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

Tom knew they could not come near him to touch him, so he
began to abuse them, calling them cowards. For it is only cowards
like you, he said, who would fight five to one.

Who is so great a coward as yourself, Tom Page? cried Roger,
shouting as loud as he could; for the boat was carrying Tom away
from them. Who is so great a coward as you, Tom Page, who are
afraid of speaking your bad and insolent language, till you know
you are far enough to escape a thrashing? but mind, lad, you shall
have it when next I catch you; for this is not the first of twenty
times that you have deserved it.

Ay, cried another boy, as the lads eared up the bank; I should
say that whenever you meet Tom Page, Roger, you Eiedd give
him a cuffing, for he either has deserved it, or will deserve it in
five minutes afterwards for -his troublesome ways.

But to return to Tom, whose mocking laugh, and insulting words,
were no longer heard by his school-fellows. The boat moved along
so gently down the stream, that the foolish boy seeing there were
two oars in it, fancied that he could, whenever he wished it turn
it about and go wherever he chose. He had a great habit of talking
to himself, when he had no other person to whom he could speak ;
and as he had much to say to himself in his strange, new con-
dition, he went muttering on, all the way.

Well, he said, this is fine; I have distanced the lads nicely, but
-I should not relish going very far neither. The boat, don’t move
much, I think, but those rushes on the bank there look as if they
were swimming along at a fine rate—it is the water that makes
them look so. Eh! but it is not—surely—no, it can’t be the boat.
Well to be sure, and it is the boat; I think I must be looking
out for some nice place to land in, for it won’t do to go on at
this rate much longer.

But what must I do? he next thought, I shan’t like to go home
till bed time, for if Sam’s father has gone up with his silly story
to our house, why then I shall get a thrashing; so I must wait
till it is time to sneak off to bed.

Father goes to market to-morrow, and if he has not something
to think of besides me and short Sam the day after that, why then



SS a nee Ct re Oa ee



FE a NN ee SOR PO ES Pe OSS Ee OP eee NTE er

e
OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 49

we must have it out between us, I suppose. But I am not the
idiot, to go home now and find father piping hot about the
matter.

Poor Tom Page,: what a sad state was he in, though he was
then as indifferent to the danger that threatened his body, as he
was to that which threatened his soul.

Tom’s bad actions were now endangering his life, though, as I
said before, he did not know the risk he ran; and so he went
gently gliding down in his boat, for the current was not strong,
and for a time all was pleasant.

But the boy knew he was doing wrong, and his mind was not
at ease; though, for the present, not quite satisfied with his own
way of going on, yet he was very far from wishing to do right;

.and now his conscience not letting him rest, he began to find

excuses for his conduct.

What a little fool that short Sam is, he said aloud, why could
he not take care of himself? Or why could he not have got off
the parapet when he heard his father coming? Then too, why did
he say, I put him there? But I promise him, he shall suffer for
telling of me; the very next time I catch him I will give him a
thrashing. If it had not been for him, I should not have been
seen by Roger and the lads, and then I should not have got into
this boat,—for, to own the truth, I do not think I know how to
get it to land. Well, I shall presently meet with some fishermen,
and I am sure they cannot be so ill-natured as not to help me.
So for a while longer, Tom and his boat went on unchecked; but
soon the boy perceived the night was approaching, which made
him seriously anxious to land, and for this purpose he stooped to
take up the oars from the bottom of the boat; but oh! how alarmed
he was, and what a fearful shriek he attered| when he found the
boat swayed from side to side in a most alarming manner at his
least motion.

Oh, I wish I was back again, he cried, that I was’ at home
with mother and Mary. Oh father, help! help!

Oh father, father. Oh! oh! he cried again on venturing to look
behind him, and seeing how far he was from where he left the

E



°
50 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

shore. Oh! oh! the banks are going from me—I shall be drowned,
I shall be drowned—Oh what shall I do?

In his alarm, he dropped his rod, which he had held till that
time in his hand, into the water, but he was too much occupied by
his dangerous situation even to think of it, much less to regret
its loss.

As the stream approached nearer the sea, it increased in width,
and the low banks all round seemed very far away. The sun was
getting low, and was looking fiery, and it shed a red glow upon
the sea.

Oh! oh! cried Tom again, on first perceiving the sea; Oh! oh!
if this vile boat should go on and on till it brings me into the
sea, then indeed—indeed I
shall be drowned, and I
shall never see father and
mother and Mary again.
_. Oh! I wish I had minded

- father better; and I wish
too, that I had heeded
mother all those times, when
she talked to me and Mary
~- about God; and told us
that God loves us. I wish
I had, Oh! I wish I had.

Tom thought that his voyage had lasted a long, long time,
much longer than it really had; but now he began to think that
he flew over the waters, though the current was not really strong
near the sea. The poor boy hid his face in his hands, he believed
he must be drowned, and he did not dare look up, but he was
roused by hearing a shout, as if close to his ear.

Keep away—keep away, can’t you? Do you want to be drowned,
and to drown me too?

Tom looked up, and he found that his boat had been drawn
by the current, more towards the bank on the right side, and
within a short distance of him was a small boat, called a coracle,.
in which a man was seated engaged in fishing.





:







OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 51

As Tom first looked, he saw, as you see in the picture, the
fisherman so intent. on what he was doing that, having called to
Tom to mind his boat, he had almost forgotten that any person
was near him.

Oh! pray help me, cried poor Tom, as his boat was. still borne
on, though very slowly; pray help me, I shall be drowned. Oh! -
what shall I do?

What business have you in a boat at all, said the fisherman
angrily, if you do not know how to manage it?

Oh! have pity upon me, Sir, replied the frightened boy, or I
shall—indeed I shall be drowned.

Tom afterwards used to say to Mary, that he did not know
how the next few minutes passed, he only remembered that the
fisherman laid his rod and line in his boat, and kept on one side
of him, and telling him what he was to do, in such a clear manner,
that it was impossible to mis-understand him.

And, Mary, used Tom to add, I did exactly as he directed,
and in a few minutes‘more, I found myself on the bank.

The frightened boy fell upon his knees, and would have thanked
the fisherman for his life, but the man bade him lose no time,
but hurry home, as his parents might be alarmed at his absence.
And mind, lad, he added, before you lay your head on your bed
this night, thank your God for sparing your life, for assuredly you
would have been drowned if He had not mercifully provided for
you a friend in time of danger.

At first Tom was so happy to find himself on land again, that
he did not think of the long way he had to go before he could

reach his home. The fisherman had returned to his boat, and the
= “boy was left by himself to commence his walk.

Where am I? he thought, as he looked round him. Ah! yonder
is the wood, on the other side of which is father’s farm, but how
very far away it seems; I did not think I could have come so
far in that abominable boat. Well, I shall believe father next time,
when he says, “Duty is Safety.” But I wish I had Ranger with
me—it was a pity I sent him home—good Ranger, I wish I had
him here now.



52 DUTY IS SAFETY;

The lower rays of the sun were dipping into the waves, and
Tom, alarmed lest the night should come in quickly, set himself
to walk towards the wood.

It was not a pleasant thought for this naughty boy, to remember
that he had left home without permission, and had gone in a
direction unknown to his friends, so that even if they wished to
send and seek him, how were they likely to guess the right road,
in which they could find him ?

Tom walked rapidly on for some time, but though he did so,
the wood appeared as,far off as ever. And again he thought of
Ranger, for he felt that if he had the faithful dog with him, he
should be safe enough.

Ranger would no doubt have been a great comfort to Tom in
walking through the wood, but Ranger could not have eased his
mind, for the boy was beginning, for the first time, to regret his
bad actions, for now he really was made to feel the evil, bad
conduct brings upon those who pursue it. It was not of himself,
that such thoughts could arise; but they were put into his mind
by God, who now in mercy was chastising this boy, as a father
chastises his child, to bring him to acknowledge that the ways of
righteousness are the ways of peace. Tom would have now wil-
lingly consented, even to get a thrashing from his father, if he
could ensure by that his speedy return home, but could this his
wish have been granted to him, it is probable he would have been
as naughty as ever the next day, and as justly as before have
deserved his name of Troublesome Tom. But God was dealing
kindly by this boy, and by his present troubles and fears, bringing
to his mind a full conviction of his past stubbornness and sinful
doings.

The first'good feeling that evinced itself in him, was an acknow-
ledgment of his cruelty to Ranger. I have sent the dog from me,
by my unkindness, he said; I wish that I had made a friend of
Ranger — I will never fling anything at poor Ranger again — oh
that I had him with me now. But what must I do? The house
of short Sam’s granny is the nearest that I know, if I could only
get there—but no that will not do—I can’t go there—they won’t







:



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 53

take me in there, they will be afraid of my troublesome ways. I
wish I had not played that trick on the boy—what could I do it for?

Tom went on very well whilst the light continued, but the sun
had hardly gone quite down, before many stormy clouds began to
gather from the sea. These dark clouds, as they came rolling on,
soon shut out the light, but Tom still for a little while could see
the wood before him, and the white waters of the pool.

The boy did not love darkness, indeed it is not pleasant to any
one who is not safe in bed, and ready for a good sleep. I don’t
like this darkness, he said aloud, if I loved God, I might not mind
it as I do now. Mary says, she is not afraid in the dark, for God
can see her then, as well as when the bright sun shines. I wonder
if I was to obey father and mother as Mary does, whether I should
learn like her, not to mind night; for even at home, when I am
in bed, I do not like to lie awake in the dark, when nobody is:
stirring. Mary says, when she is frightened, she repeats some little
verse she has learnt at school, and then she asks God to take
care of her, and she is frightened no more. Oh! how I wish I
knew a verse to say like Mary, but then I never learn mine at
school, or if I do learn it, I only just get it up to say to the
master, and I am sure I could not say it again five minutes after-
wards; but then I might ask God to take care of me, for J may
use my own words for that,—but no, I can’t do that either, for
God is angry with me, and I deserve his anger. Oh how very
wicked I have always been, and now perhaps I am going to die
in this wood, and then what will become of me ?—surely—surely
I shall not go to heaven.

The poor boy now began to weep most piteously ; but he still
continued his way, though his foot often stumbled against loose
stones, which his tears prevented him from seeing. All at once he
started, and stood still, for at that moment a rustling, roaring noise
came to his ears, Tom turned to where the noise came from, but
the sky was so black with clouds, he could not see what it was.

The boy was too frightened to discover that it was in reality
only the wind which came suddenly over the sea, raising the waves
and dashing them on the shore.



54 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

Oh, it is a bear, he cried, and I shall-be killed, and he set
‘himself to run, he knew not whither, as fast as his feet would
carry him. :
Whilst Tom is running, I will explain to you, why he expected
to meet a bear in England, where no bears are to be found.
The young farmer who had dined at his father’s house that day,
had read them a true story of a bear having escaped from a wild
beast show, and escaped into a blacksmith’s forge, where for some
time it remained quite quiet.
When night set in, it became more bold, and made such a noise
in the forge, that it roused the blacksmith and his wife, who came
out with pokers and sticks to
see what was the matter. Oh,
how alarmed they were when
they saw the things all tossed
about the forge, all the horse
shoes lying scattered on the
ground, whilst in a corner, they
saw the fierce eyes of the
dreadful animal, and its horrible
paws, one gripe from which
= might be death. How they got
rid of it Tom never heard, but
he had seen the picture I now
show you, and can you wonder
that, with the bad conscience
he had, when he heard the roaring of the wind, and could see
nothing from the darkness, that he should fancy it was the dreadful
bear ?

On, on he ran, he knew not where; but this I can say, it was
quite in a different direction from his home, and he might even
have run into the pool, had there not been One who guided him,
though he knew it not, and that was his God—-that good God
who made him, and whose holy book and service he had hated
even to hear about.

After a while, as he did not hear the sound again, he ceased





:
.
(



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 55

running, for he was very tired, and looking round him he perceived
a light in the distance as if coming from a house. . ;

He once more hastened on his way, but this time it was towards
the light, and soon he came to a large cottage, or small house,
from the windows and door of which, the fire-light shone brightly.

The night was warm, not a breath was stirring, those who were
wise in such matters, expected a storm in a very short time; it
was so close that it was no wonder that both the windows and
door of the cottage were wide open.

Just as Tom reached the cottage, some of the dark clouds for
a few minutes let in the light of the moon, so that there was
light, both within and without the cottage.

Peeping cautiously in at the door, Tom saw within, a good-sized
apartment, with much useful, and some pieces of even handsome
furniture scattered about. There were two cupboards, and a gridiron,
and three pounds of candles, several tubs and barrels, and a hamper,
as if the people dealt in liquor. Every thing was out of its place,
and scattered over the floor of the kitchen, and there was an
unpleasant smell of gunpowder, which did not alarm Tom a little,
for he could not imagine for what it had been used at such a
time of night. :

Suddenly there was a report as of a very small cannon, and
then he heard the voice of a child crying, Mother—mother, come
down here—mother, come; those boys are shooting at my doll.

Taking courage at hearing it was but at a doll; Tom stepped
forwards, and again looked in, but he was forced to draw back
immediately, for he discovered a new cause of alarm.

The voice of the girl had brought down her mother, and if you
will look at the first picture in this book, you will see what Tom
saw, but I do not think you can guess the reason for his fear.

There are thé three rude boys, and their sister, whose doll they
have been shooting with that toy cannon. How frightened the
children seem of their mother, and look, in her anger, she has
seized the lighted stick with which they had let off the cannon,
and see, that boy has overturned the beer jug, and you may. be
sure he will catch it severely as soon as his mother finds it out.



56 DUTY IS pee

But what was it that alarmed Tom so much? you ask; why he
knew the woman again, though she had changed her dress, for
the very same person whom he had directed to go a wrong road
that moming. Yes, he said to himself in a low voice, yes, it is
the very woman I sent three miles round this morning, and if she
should see me—if she should know me again, she might perhaps
beat me to death. I must not stay here, I had better die on the
waste. How could I have been so foolish?—here is another of my
pranks, and what have they brought on me ?—nothing but trouble.

Hearing the boys making towards the door of the house to
avoid their angry mother, who had just discovered the overturned
pitcher of beer, Tom once more hastened on his way, though he
was now so tired and hot, that he could scarcely draw one leg
after another.

He had lost his road on his alarm at what he thought was the
angry growl of a bear; and mistaking the dark clouds for the
wood, he kept blundering on along the waste, sometimes stumbling
over sand heaps, sometimes slipping into holes, and sometimes
falling his whole length along the ground, and still he was no
nearer his home.

It was about two hours before midnight, when the wind suddenly
lulled, and thunder, loud thunder, roared in de heavens, whilst
the sky ever and anon blazed with the forked lightning. Tom was
naturally afraid of lightning, it is no wonder therefore that now
alone, and unbefriended, he should be driven half wild with fear,
on finding himself exposed: to a violent storm.

Oh, I shall be killed, I shall be killed, he cried. God is very
angry with me, and J deserve to die—Oh! what will become of
me? what shall I do? Oh! if that dreadful lightning strikes me—
Oh! I deserve it all—what a wicked, wicked lad I have been.

The wearied and frightened boy could no longer support himself
against his numerous troubles, and falling upon the ground, he hid
his face with his hands, whilst his terror was such that for some
time he could not even think.

When roused to recollection, he became aware that the storm
was passing away, but the heavy rain, with which it had been



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 57

accompanied, had wet him to the skin, and even now it had not
entirely ceased. Poor Tom was cold, wet, and hungry—all around
him was full of terrors, but it was right and it was very good for
him that he had been made for so many hours to think of what
he had brought upon himself by his ill behaviour.

The words of his father, “Duty is Safety,” rang in his ears
through all those fearful hours; he thought that he heard them in
the beating of the waves, and in the roaring of the thunder.

Nothing had brought the folly of his teasing, troublesome ways
so much to his mind, as the last thing which happened to him;
for who could have thought, he said, when I played that fool’s
trick to that woman this morning, that I should, before midnight,
want a bit of bread and a night’s lodging from her hands?



Then came the wish that he was a better boy, that God would
give him a new heart, and make him his own child; and the poor
boy wept and sobbed bitterly, for he was now fully conscious of
what a bad boy he had been. It was then put into hi mind, that
if there was no human creature to help him, yet he had a Father



58 DUTY IS SAFETY,

and Saviour in heaven, and he knelt down and prayed, as may
be seen in the picture above.

Can this be the same troublesome boy who was the dread of
all his neighbours but a little while ago, who kneels there confessing
all his evil ways, and praying his God to make him his own dear
child? Yes, it is, and it is God, who has blessed all his troubles
to him, for God can give a new nature to the worst child at any
time in which it pleases him so to do. Whilst Tom was still on
his knees, a verse his mother had taught him came to his mind
and brought him comfort; it was this—“I will arise and go to
my father, and I will say, Father, I have sinned against heaven,
and before thee, and I am not worthy to be called thy son.”
That is what the pro-
digal son says, thought
he, and hewas forgiven,
then I may hope that
both my earthly and
my heavenly father
will forgive me.

As Tom rose from
his knees, the lightning
flashed once more in
the heavens, and he
saw before him a small
farm house, or cottage, within a hundred yards of where he stood.
He hastened to it, but found it was untenanted, for though he
knocked and knocked again, he heard no one stirring within.

He turned away with tears in his eyes, not knowing what to do
next, when he saw near the house, by the now friendly lightning,
a garden or tool-house, the door of which was half open. Tom
immediately went towards it, and pushing open the door, he
entered, and seeing some straw in a corner, he threw himself on
it, and in a few minutes the poor weary child was fast asleep.

' Tom’s troubles and frights had been very great, but what were they
to what all’at home had suffered. Short Sam’s granny was the first
who brought any news of the boy, for it was not an hour after





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 59

he had left the stone bridge, before she came up to the farm
to tell how he had served her grandson. Mr. Page was much vexed,
but he said he would pay Tom well when he could catch him.

Ranger came back whilst the old woman was at the farm, but
just then no one took much notice of the matter, for Mr. Page
was very angry with his son, but he was obliged to go out on
business, and he went out thinking that Tom would be sure to be
at home when he came back.

But hour passed after hour and no Tom came, so that Mrs. Page



and Mary became from minute to minute more and more frightened,
as they foresaw the storm.

He must be with his father, ma’am, said the maid, master has
found him on the way and has taken him with him.

This idea comforted Mrs. Page and her daughter for a while,
and Mary was sent to bed. But oh! how alarmed was the mother
when her husband returned about an hour before midnight with-
out his son.

The storm was now raging in its fury, but none at the farm
thought of it excepting on account of Tom, and notwithstanding



60 DUTY IS SAFETF ;

the heavy rain, the maid was sent to Barbara’s to inquire if the
boy was there.

Perhaps you will think the lightning would serve for a lantern,
but the maid has to pass by a brook, and the heavy rains cause
it to swell and to overflow its banks, and then when the lightning
is not playing, the night is so dark that it would be most probable
Betty would make a false step.

But Tom was not to be found at Barbara’s. And when Betty
returned with this sad news, what a bustle was there in the farm,
so that even the children were roused from their sleep by this
unusual commotion at such an hour.

That was a miserable night at the farm; Mr. Page and his men
were out in all the rain; Mrs. Page and her children did nothing
but cry, and Barbara too came, and she was as much troubled as
any, for she really loved Tom.

Mary had fallen into a very heavy sleep when she first lay down,
for she had cried till her head ached severely, but she was awakened
before midnight, by the noise of the storm crashing fearfully
over her head. Every minute almost there was a flash of lightning,
followed by a clap of the loudest thunder. Mary started up in bed,
she thought of her poor brother, and longed to know if he was
come home, she thought she heard voices below, and she got up
and dressed herself, dark as it was between the flashes ; aie then
crept to the stairs which went down into the kitchen, aaa sat her-
self on one of the steps; there she heard the maid talking to her
mother, and trying to comfort her. Mistress, said the maid, you
may be quite sure that they be got into some house together, and
be quite safe.

I wish I could think as you do, answered Mrs. Page, but the
fault is all mine, I have spoiled that boy, and now he will bring
destruction on himself and his father too.

It has not been so much you, mistress, as Barbara, answered
the maid, it is but nature as makes parents spoil their children,
but it is all along of serving her own ends, as makes that Barbara
sugar master Tom over as she does.

And is not that nature, too, Jane? asked Mrs. Page, self lies at



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 61

the bottom of all we do, when God is out of our thoughts, and
this is what I now feel, and what fills me with terror for my hus-
band and my son.

Well to be sure, mistress! replied Jane, but may be God will
spare you from your fears, God is good.

Aye, Jane! God is good; said Mrs. Page, but sometimes in his
very goodness he corrects us; his goodness is not blind and weak,
like mine has been towards my son; though I now see, that that
selfish fondness, which I once thought had so much love in it,
was nothing but cruelty to the child. Here the poor woman began
to cry again, and to sob bitterly.

Poor Mary, all this while, sat on the stairs listening, at one
minute to the thunder, and the next to her mother’s sobs, whilst
many thoughts passed through her mind; such thoughts as she
never had before.

I know that we are all sinners, was one of her thoughts, but
then our Lord died to save sinners, and he has promised that he
will hear us when we pray; I can do nothing for father and
brother to-night but pray—I will pray—Oh! my God, put a right
prayer in my mouth; and she got up and turned round and knelt
upon the step above her, and she prayed, that if God thought of
right, he would save her father and brother from the lightning,
and that he would give her brother a new heart, and a right
spirit, and make him a holy, happy child. She prayed till her
young mind got confused and could not go along with her words,
and then she sat down again, and then more comfortable thoughts
were put into her heart. The lightning, she thought, seems to come
by chance, and to strike down anywhere as it happens; but that
is not true, God brings it out of the clouds, and it can go no-
where without God’s leave. It cannot strike father, or Tom, if God
says it shall not; and if he says it shall, no house can save them.

Father and Tom are safe, then, in God’s care, as safe as I am
here. I wish, I wish I could trust God.

God himself had put this last pious wish into the child’s heart,
and he soon also granted her desire; for though the storm went
on raging, and she still heard her neces sobs, she became much

L



62. DUTY IS SAFETY;

more easy; and as she did not think it right to go down into the
kitchen, she crept up to her bed, and laid herself down in her
clothes, and soon fell asleep.

Mary slept till it was light, the storm was past, and the morning
calm, she could not rest, however, another minute, she sprang up
‘and put her disordered dress to rights, she took her bonnet in
-her hand and crept down stairs.

She found Jane in the kitchen, and asked if there was any
news yet of poor Tom?

None, replied Jane, we have heard nothing of him nor master.
I got mistress to lie down with the baby about an hour since;
poor soul, she was ready to drop. I hope she has fallen asleep.

Tell her then, Jane, when she wakes, said Mary, that I am
going down to the village, and may perhaps see somebody who
can tell me something about my poor brother. I hope I shall
come back with good news.

Well, don’t you be getting into danger too, and bringing more
trouble, answered Jane.

As Mary went out at the door she tied on her bonnet, and
took the shortest way to the village.

The sun had not risen long, and had not yet dried the rain,
which had fallen a short time before, from the ground, or even
from the trees and herbs. Mary hoped that she should meet many
people going to their work, whom she might ask about Tom; but
she saw no one till she came up with a man who was very old
and very deaf.

When she asked him if he had heard anything of her brother,
he answered as if she had inquired of him what he had thought
of the storm.

Aye, to be sure, he said, it was enough to frighten a body out
of his seven senses. We shall hear afore long of many as have
been killed, I has no doubt. I never saw the lightning strike down
more direct in all my time. I said to my old woman, says I—

But my brother Tom, said Mary, have you heard anything
about him? : ;

No, to be sure; he a’nt struck, is he? But that, to be sure, is



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 63

what the man at the door of the barn I come by, was talking of.
They said that somebody or something had been struck in the
night, and lay all along in the morning as black as my hat.

Where? What men? asked Mary.

Them in the barn just beyond, said the old man, and away
flew Mary towards the barn, but the doors were shut, and not a
creature there. On ran the poor child, and the next person she
met was Short Sam. She stopped him, and asked him if he had
heard of anybody being killed with lightning the last night.

Aye, to be sure, said Sam. Father was the first that found him;
he was all as black as my shoe; and burnt up, father said, like
a cinder; and there he lay under the tree, but the tree worn’t
touched, so father took him up, and carried him down home to
the master’s, and there he is lying in the fold.

Mary almost screamed, Who? What? My poor brother ?

Your brother, said Short Sam, how comes he to be your brother,
Miss? I is talking of a sheep.

A sheep! repeated Mary, but you have frightened me terribly, Sam.
Do tell me, what do you know about my brother ?

I knows no more of him, answered Sam, but that he perched
me a top of the bridge yesternight, for which father threatened to
hide him, and then he went off along the brook side. _

Mary staid no longer -to talk to Short Sam, but off she flew
again towards the church and school-house. She thought she might
hear something of her brother from the master or the boys.

She crossed the churchyard in haste; there was.not a person
moving about it, but the daws were making a noise in- the. old
tower. She went round the church, and there she heard the voices
of the boys at play.

They were to go into school at seven o’clock, and to have an
hour’s work before breakfast; but it was not yet seven, and there
were a party of them under a fine old oak tree playing at marbles,
whilst the kind schoolmaster looked on and encouraged them.

How surprised were they all at seeing Mary. She ran up to the
master, and whilst she told her story, she shed many tears. The
master and all the boys looked at her with concern; and such of



64 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

the boys as were farthest off, and did not hear what she said,
were told in whispers by the others, that Troublesome Tom, as
every body called him, had been lost all night. On hearing this,
Roger, who had just come into the playground, came forward and
said, that he had seen Tom Page the evening before, sailing down
the river by himself in an open boat.

Why did you not tell me what you had seen? asked the master.

I did not see you afterwards, Sir, answered Roger.

And he would have enough to do, uttered another boy, to tell
all Tom’s pranks.

Go back, Mary, said the master, and tell at home what Roger
says, though may be you had better not speak of it to your mother.

You boys may play on till breakfast time, whilst I go and send
people to where Tom was last seen. Do you, Roger, come with me.

Poor Mary then ran home, being now more afraid of the mischief
having come by water than by lightning; for she feared never
again to see her brother alive.

When Mary got home, she found her father just returned, but
without Tom. The poor man dearly loved his son, and he was.
very sorry that he had
driven the boy angrily
from him the day before,
instead of keeping him
with him, and reproving
him steadily. When he
:2 heard what Mary said,
he wrung his hands and
: cried, My son is drown-
ed! My son! My son!
Then suddenly recol-
lecting himself, he kissed
Mary, and bade her go
to her mother, adding
I am going to seek your poor brother, I shall not return till I find
him alive or dead, as God pleases. I have done very wrong, Mary,
and I am severely punished for it, for when Tom was a child, I





OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 65

indulged him in everything, and I should have been more gentle
to him yesterday; it is in a great degree my own fault, for his
being a naughty boy.

But the story of the travels of Tom’s father would be as long
as Tom’s own story if it were to be told, so I shall only say, that
after wandering over the downs for more than two hours, he at
length reached the cottage, in the tool-house of which Tom slept.

The Farmer’s loud calls upon his boy, woke him from his long
and refreshing sleep, and without waiting to think what he should
say, Tom ran to his father and fell down on his knees, praying him
to forgive him and saying he knew himself to be a very bad boy.

His father raised him in his arms, and told him that all he
required of him was, that henceforth he would be led by those
whom God had set over him, never doubting that all his heavenly
Father ordered for him was for his good. But now, my boy, he
said, let us hasten to your mother and sister, who are in sore
distress on your account.

Oh how did they hurry to
return to the farm, but they saw
no one till they came to the
very door of the kitchen, where
they met the maid and Barbara,
whom they stopped from crying
out at the sight of Tom, by
putting their fingers on their
lips. Mr. Page gave his hat and
stick to Betty, and telling Tom
to keep behind him; he went
quietly into the kitchen.

Mrs. Page was sitting by the fire, she had been up all night,
and from the early morning she had been running from one place
to another seeking her boy.

She had only sat down a few minutes before, and was crying
bitterly. Mr. Page kept Tom behind him, and thought that he
would open the good news by little and little to his wife; so he
pretended to be wholly. occupied in taking off his great coat, which

F





66 DUTY Is SAFETY, OR, TROUBLESOME TOM.

Tom helped to do, keeping behind as he did so. But though Mr. Page
had not spoken one word, this very action told his wife all was right,
and looking up she saw joy in her husband’s face. My boy is found,
she cried, and the next minute she had her son in her arms, weeping
as much for joy,. as a little time before she had done for sorrow.

At the sound of her voice, crying, My boy! My boy! Mary
and Sarah came running in, and the baby, who was asleep in a
cradle in the next room, awoke and set up her voice.

That was a joyful moment; and what a bustle there was to get
poor Tom a good breakfast, and to wash him and provide clean
clothes for him.

It is pleasant to be able to add, that he received all these kind-
nesses very humbly, saying that he did not deserve them, but rather
the rod, for he had been madé to know that he was a very bad boy.



The last is a very happy picture, it shows Mr. Page and his
family sitting that evening by the fire in the best kitchen.

The baby is in her father’s arms, and little Sarah on her mo-
ther’s lap, Mary sits by her brother. ;

Tom is telling all the things which had happened to him the
night before, and he is saying, Father, I now believe what you
told me that Duty zs Safety, and that when I gave up my heart
to be undutiful, I was alwys in some dreadful danger.



MARTIN CROOK.

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.








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MARTIN CROOK.

HY, fipserey CROOK lived with his mother and his aged -

grandmother in the “White Cottage;” both of them
‘were widows, and both hard-working women.

The name of the grandmother was Margaret Howard, that of
the daughter Mary Crook. Margaret had formerly supported herself
and her daughter by going out to wash and scour in the farmers’
houses; she was not able, as she grew in years, to go out as often
as she had done, still she was able to bring something to the
family stock, and Mary made a good deal by her needle. She
was the widow of a tailor; she had often helped her husband, and
‘she was accounted to be particularly skilful in mending coats and
waistcoats, and in cutting down to the best advantage the suits of
fathers and elder brothers to serve the children of the family.

Martin Crook was not two years old when his father died, and
his mother brought him back to his native home, the White Cottage
under the hill, and seven years followed in which he was as happy
a child as ever lived in a cottage or played in a green field. He
often used to say, “Other boys have a father and a mother, but
Martin has two mothers, and that will do as well, and Martin
loves his mothers;” and well he might love them, for they were
both kind and honest, though the old grandmother was far more
pious than the mother, and more gentle, and more patient, and
more forgiving when any one offended her; she had endured
more sorrows, too, for she had lost several children, and had been



70 . MARTIN CROOK.

taught that lesson which is so hard to learn, that God orders
everything for the good of the creatures He has made.

The life which Martin led in the White Cottage was, as was
before said, as happy as any little boy’s life in this world could
possibly be, till the winter came in which he was to enter his
tenth year; there was a longer frost that season than was remembered
by the oldest men then living. 3

Margaret had been ailing all the autumn, and when the frost
set in she was quite laid up with rheumatism, and was forced to
keep her bed in order to save firing. Mary let out the fire in the
kitchen, and kept one alight all day in her mother’s bedroom.
But Margaret’s sickness was only the beginning of troubles; the
last harvest had been bad, and bread so rose in price before the
winter that Mrs. Crook soon found that work was getting bad with
her; people either patched their own clothes or went in rags. Thus
was this family tried in various ways.

Till that winter Mrs. Crook and her son had never known real
hardships, and the case with them was the harder because they
were resolved to hide their troubles as much as possible from their
old mother. Rather than run into debt, Mary sold some of her
best clothes, and even put some articles in pawn at the next mar-
ket town; amongst these last was poor Martin’s Sunday suit.

Martin then had but one suit left, and no hope of another.
From day to day as the winter went on his suit became more
shabby and threadbare, although he took all the pains he could
to prevent their wear and tear, and though his mother set all her
industry to work to keep them from becoming only rags. The
parish in which the White Cottage stood was divided into almost
two equal parts by the high road to London, and all the land on
the same-side as this cottage was held by two farmers; one of
these farmers was an old gentleman of the name of Allen; he was
Margaret Howard’s landlord, and Mrs. Allen was the best friend
she had in the world out of her own family. During the whole
winter Martin went twice every week to this house for broth and
broken victuals; and many a time he brought home a few pence
from the old lady; more than that, Mr. Allen promised him that



MARTIN CROOK. 71

as soon as the frost broke up and the ewes and young lambs
could be turned out, he should be employed to keep them, for
which he was to have sixpence a week.

The other farmer on the same side of the parish was a young
man of the name of Bracebridge, one who always rode a horse
worth a hundred pounds, and made no small profit by horse-deal-
ing. Mr. Bracebridge was not altogether a bad man to the poor,
though he was subject to be very violent with any one who offended
him. ; ee

The family of the White Cottage had not, however, much to do
with him, and never went near his house nor through his grounds
excepting when they went to the village; and there was no other
footway from that side of the parish but through a very long piece
of grass land belonging to Mr. Bracebridge. The village was of a
very superior kind to many country villages, for there lived a doc-
tor who served the neighbourhood all round, and there was a
great inn where all the coaches changed horses, and a shop where
almost anything could be had which country people might want.

Having now described all the people of any consequence whom
it may be necessary for the reader to know, we may now proceed
to the most curious part in the history of Martin Crook. It was
on the 31st of March, this same year of frost and almost of star-
vation to the very poor, that little Martin was sent about ten in
the morning to take some work which his mother had done to
Mrs. Allen; for this work she expected about fourpence, and she
ordered her son, if the old lady gave him the money, to go on
to the shop and lay it out in tea. for. his grandmother.. At the very
same time that Martin set out to go to-Mrs. Allen’s, Mr. Brace-
bridge left his hunter at Mr. Smith’s gate and went into the shop
to make some purchases; he laid out to the amount of fourteen
shillings and sixpence; he laid a guinea on the counter, which
Mrs. Smith, who served him, took up, and in return gave him six
shillings in silver and a crooked sixpence, which, having been
drilled in three places, he at first refused.

“Well, sir,” said she, “if you don’t like it send it back for the next
thing you want, and I will take it again.” As Mr. Bracebridge took



72 MARTIN CROOK.

the money, he saw from the window that his horse, which he had
tied at the gate, was beginning to snort and prance, as if frightened
at some sound; he therefore hurried all his silver into his purse,
forgetting for the moment that there was only one side of the
purse which was safe, there being a small hole in the other quite
large enough for a crooked sixpence to creep through. There was
a long slip of garden before the shop, and as Mr. Bracebridge ran
down it he thrust his gloves and his purse into his coat pocket,
and was hardly in time to seize the bridle before the horse had
broken it and made his escape; he had sprung into the saddle
the next minute and gave the creature a breathing along the road,
after which he turned him into the large meadow through which
was the footpath to the village—the gate into this meadow was
directly opposite to the inn.

Mr. Bracebridge wanted to inspect some work which had been
done to the fences round this field, so he rode round it, and, as
he afterwards remembered, took out his gloves in some part of
the field and put them on without giving a thought to his purse;
nor was it till the next day that he thought of his purse and
found it was gone. He soon, however, comforted himself, for the
loss to him was trifling; “and it served him right,” he said, “for
putting money into a coat pocket;” so from that time he thought
no more of it.

But to return to Martin Crook. Mr. Bracebridge was scarcely
fairly out of sight when he came into the field in sight of Farmer
Allen’s house. Mrs. Allen had given him fourpence-halfpenny; he
had it tied up in the corner of his little pocket-handkerchief; as
he was going along. he was thinking how rauch tea it would be
for fourpence-halfpenny—he wondered whether there would be
enough to make his grandmother two breakfasts; and he was so
lost in thinking of this that he did not perceive that the mail
coach was standing at the door of the inn waiting for horses; and
although he saw a stranger in a traveller’s dress walking with his
back to him near the gate, yet he did not give him a second look.

Whilst he was walking on, full of thought, his eye fell upon
something shining in the path, and stooping to pick it up, he



MARTIN CROOK. 73

found that it was a crooked sixpence with three holes bored in it;
he was so much surprised that he could hardly feel glad; he knew
that it was not his, and that he must return it, if he could find
the owner; and then it came to his mind that the gentleman
before him might have dropped it, and he immediately ran after
him, and coming up close behind him he gently pulled his coat..'

The gentleman turned instantly, and showing a pleasant face, he
asked what he wanted.

Martin showed him the sixpence, and inquired if he had drop-
ped it.

The stranger looked with pity at the poor thin, patched figure
of the little fellow, and hastily said something which Martin sup-

_ posed meant that he was to keep the silver piece, though the
gentleman had not said so. They were putting the horses to the
coach, and the stranger thought that Martin might be able to tell
him something which he wanted much to know, and which the
people at the inn would not take the trouble to tell. What he
wanted to know was whether such a person as Margaret Howard
still lived in that neighbourhood, and this was the question he
put to Martin.

How did little Martin’s eyes sparkle when he told the gentleman
that she was still alive, and that she was his own old mother,
and that she was the best mother in the whole world! 1

“And very poor she is, I fear,” said the gentleman, as he
looked kindly on Martin; and he was going to ask more questions,
when the coachman from his box began to call to him: “Come —
sir,” he said— “come sir, if you please, sir; all ready, sir; we
shall go without you; come, sir, we can’t wait!”

The gentleman seemed quite confused.

“Well! well!” he said, “good-bye, little boy; take this and tell
your good grandmother that I shall be back again perhaps in a
month, perhaps two; so God bless you, little man!” And away
went the gentleman, in his haste throwing as many as five or six
shillings on the ground at the feet of Martin.

Had it rained gold from the sky Martin could not have been
more surprised: he stooped down immediately and gathered up five



74 MARTIN CROOK.

shillings, after which, when he had almost done searching, he found
one more, and when he had got all this immense sum of money
together, he ran.to the hollow tree, and there he took the four-
pence-halfpenny out of the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, and
hid the six shillmgs in the same corner, and then he put the
handkerchief, which he had knotted up in twenty knots, into the
pocket of his trousers and then he searched under the cuffs of his
coat where he always kept a pin or two, and he pinned the hand-
kerchief in two places to his trousers; and then he came out of
his hiding-place, with the crooked sixpence and the fourpenny-
piece in his hand. It happened that just as he stepped out of the
hollow -tree, a boy in the service of Mr. Allen, commonly called
Long Dick, came along from the village across the field; this boy
had a very cunning, curious look, and when he came near to
Martin, he said, ‘What have you been at there, in the hollow
tree? No good, I fear.”

Little Martin was much too happy in thinking of all his riches
to mind Long Dick’s jest; he only smiled as he passed him by,
and said laughingly, “I wish you may never have anything worse
to do.”

When Martin arrived at the shop, he found Mr. Smith behind
the counter instead of his wife, who had served Mr. Bracebridge,

As Martin felt how rich he was, he thought he might spend
the crooked sixpence in tea, and the fourpence-halfpenny in sugar;
the shopkeeper looked at the sixpence; he had not seen it before,
for his wife had received and given it out; he saw that it was
good silver, and he dropped it into the till without a word.

How gaily and how quickly did little Martin trudge home! How
light and joyful was his manner as he came in at the door of
the room where his grandmother was sitting up knitting in her
bed, and his mother busy with her needle! With what an air
did he place his two packets on the table, and with what delight
did he watch his mother’s eyes when she first saw the size
of them! —

“Why, child,” she said, “how much money did madam give
you?”



MARTIN CROOK. 75

“ Fourpence-halfpenny,” he answered. i

“But you don’t mean to say,” she asked, trying the weight of
the parcels in her hand, “that you got all this tea and this sugar
for fourpence-halfpenny ?”

“No,” said Martin, “I did not mean to say so, and I did not
say so. But now, mother, do you look and grandmother, do you
look also, and then I will show you such a sight as you never
saw before.”

“TIT am quite ready to see all that you have to show me, my
boy,” replied the old mother, looking kindly at her boy.

“Here, then, dear mother,” cried Martin, taking out first one
yellow pin and then another from where he had put them to secure
his treasure in his pocket, and next opening out his little knotted
pocket-handkerchief; but he found it very difficult in his hurry
and his joy to get the hard knots untied, so that his two mothers
had some time to wonder, and to exclaim—

“Why, what is the child about ? what has taken him this morning?”
And his grandmother, laughing, said, “If it was the first of April,
and not the last, of March, I should peney: nee he was trying to
make an April fool of his poor old granny.”

“You shall see,” said Martin, as he succeeded in untying the
last knot, and then began to place the shillings in a row upon
the table, crying as he did so, “One, two, three, four, five, six!”
raising his voice at the last word, clapping his hands, and perfectly
crowing with downright joy.

It would be very hard to describe what passed next in that
little room, but it was several minutes before Martin could be got
to leave off laughing and jumping, to tell his story so as it might
be understood; and when he had told it, neither of his mothers
could make anything of it, till after awhile old Margaret fancied
that she had some sort of clue to it.

Having made Martin describe the gentleman who had given him
the money, she said that she could only account for this stranger
having asked for her, and sent her the present, in one way.

“About fifty years ago,” she said, “a lady, who was travelling
through the village in her own carriage was stopped at the inn



76 ; MARTIN CROOK.

several days by the sickness of her infant son. Our doctor was
called in, and he, by the blessing of God, brought the baby through
the worst of the illness; and when the child was on the mending
hand, he advised the lady, who was a poor sickly creature, to put
him to a healthy country nurse; and he recommended me,”
continued Margaret, “and I brought the dear lamb to my house,
and had him with me four years, and nursed him through the
small-pox, he being spared when two of my own were taken.

“T was well paid, and more than well paid, by Mrs. Launder,
when she came and took the dear boy from me; but I never saw
my nursling again. I heard that, when grown, he went abroad; he
must now be more than fifty years old, if he is alive; and if it is
not he who gave you the money, I cannot guess who it is.”

“Well, mother,” said Mrs. Crook, “we shall see. He says that
he will come back again. In the meantime this is indeed a God-
send, and this very morning will I go down, and take five of these
silver pieces to pay for what is behind in our rent.”

The frost broke up that very night; the earth, and all the ani-
mals and plants thereon, seemed the next morning as if loosed
from the bands of cold death, to enter into the warmth of life.

The change of air so immediately affected Margaret Howard
that she was able to hobble downstairs and take her place in the
chimney-corner in the kitchen. Mr. Allen sent for Martin to drive
up the ewes and the lambs to the hill, where he was to watch
them; several jobs of needlework came in to Mary Crook; and
everything about the White Cottage seemed to be smiling and
happy again; and so things went on for a fortnight or more, during
which the hedgerows and bushes all about were almost ready to
burst into leaf; the primroses, crocuses, and violets were all quite
out; and Martin came running in one moming from the hill-side
to say that “he had certainly heard the cuckoo—he could not be
mistaken, it was the cuckoo.”

Poor Martin’s dress was becoming ruefully shabby; his mother
had patched his trousers in so many places that one could scarcely
see what colour the cloth had been with which they had first

been made; his poor jacket, too, was a mere rag; and his shoes



MARTIN CROOK. 77

so bad, that a day or two after he had turned shepherd, a thorn
had run through the sole of one of them into his foot, and there
inflamed, and though his mother had got it out, it had caused a
sore which ran up the ankle and made him walk lame—nor could
he get his shoe on that foot again.

But though, with his ragged clothes and bare foot, little Martin
looked very forlorn, yet the first few weeks of his being a shepherd
was a very happy time to him; his grandmother used every
morning to choose him some verses in his little Bible about shepherds
and sheep, and these he learned as he sat by the hill-side watch-
ing his flock; and it is wonderful what lovely thoughts were then
put into his young mind about Him who is our Shepherd, and of
His love for us His sheep: “For the flock of His pastures are
men.”

But whilst this happy time was going on with little Martin,
there was trouble preparing for him; perhaps he was getting too
well pleased with himself, and things were going too smoothly
with him.

Mr. Bracebridge had not happened to go to the shop himself
for as much as three weeks; for it was the third week in April
that, calling there again, he was served by Mrs. Smith, to whom
he told the ill luck he had had in losing his old purse and all
the silver she had given him when last there.

“Why, sir,” said she, “you surprise me; did I not give you, in
part of change, a curious sixpence?”

“To be sure you did,” said Mr. Bracebridge.

“And you say,” added she, “that you put it into your purse,
and that you lost purse and all immediately afterwards. Should
you know the sixpence again, sir?”

“TI could swear to it anywhere,” he answered.

“Ts this it, sir?” said she, taking it out of her pocket; and
then she told him that “her husband had taken it back that very
same morning; that it had been brought by Martin Crook; that
her husband had dropped it into the till, and that she had taken
it out and kept it ever since in her pocket with a double nut for
good luck.” ,



78 MARTIN CROOK.

“The fellow who got that sixpence had my purse, and the rest
of the silver also,” said Mr. Bracebridge, in a towering passion;
“but if I live I will bring the young vagabond to shame;” and
running down the garden he sprang upon his horse, and galloped
off to Mr. Allen’s. i

Coming into the fold-yard, he asked for Martin Crook, and
being told that he was in the hill-meadow with the sheep, and
being shown a short cut by which he might get there on foot, he
sprang from his horse, and stood looking for some one to hold it.
Long Dick instantly offered himself, the sly boy having little doubt
that there was some mischief brewing against young Crook, whom
he did not love.

Mr. Bracebridge found poor Martin, and loaded him with re-
proaches. Martin stood wondering at the hard names which the
gentleman gave him. The boy, in his first fright, had dropped
his crook, and looked perfectly wild with fear. .

“A pretty fellow you are,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “to be picking
up other people’s purses, and spending other people’s money!”

“Sir,” said Martin—“sir, I do not know what. you mean.”

“Oh! you do not!” answered the farmer; “then I must make it
my business to teach you; so come along with me, sir.”

Martin did not dare to refuse so great a man as he considered
Mr. Bracebridge, and he was forced to go, limping before his accuser,
down to his master’s.

They were met by Mary Crook, who was just coming out of the
house, where she had been receiving some needlework from
Mrs. Allen; and before she could express her wonder at seeing
Mr. Bracebridge driving her son before into the court, he bade
her stand still, and hear what he had to say.

By this time all the inmates were assembled in the yard, the
master and mistress wondering not a little at the scene.

“I see, neighbour Allen,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “that you are
surprised to see me come in here, driving that boy before me;
but dishonesty ought to be exposed, and this Martin Crook here
has been guilty of a most shocking piece of roguery—he has, I
may say, robbed me. He has found a purse, containing five shil-



MARTIN CROOK. 79

lings and sixpence, as far as I can remember, which belonged, he
knew, to some other person; and he has spent some of this money
himself, and either kept the rest or given it to his mother.”

“When did you lose the purse, sir?” asked Mary Crook, turning
very pale.

“On the last day of March,” replied Mr. Bracebridge.

“The day you paid your rent,’ whispered Mr. Allen to
Mary. :

» It was, ma’am,” said Mrs. Crook, answering in a whisper; and
then raising her voice, “Mr. Bracebridge,” she said, “if my boy
has been guilty of dishonesty, I will be the last person in the
world to screen him; nay,” she added, turning sharply, almost
fiercely, at her son, “if he has been a thief, he has no mercy to
expect from me. It is true that he brought me six shillings on the
last day of March, but he explained how it had come into his
possession, and as I live and breathe, I declare that till this mo-
ment I never suspected that he was deceiving me.”

“Neither did I, mother,” said Martin.

“ Hold your tongue,” said the angry mother; “if you have done
a dishonest thing, I shall be ready to turn you off.”

“Let the boy have a fair trial,” said Mr. Allen. “Let us first
hear what neighbour Bracebridge says, and then let us hear Mar-
tin’s story.”

“And I, too,” said Long Dick, stepping forward—‘I have
something to say.”

Martin was weeping very bitterly, but when Mr. Bracebridge
began to tell his story the poor boy ceased to cry and was very
attentive. Mr. Bracebridge had little to say but what the reader
has heard before; only this he insisted upon, “that if the sixpence
was in the purse when the purse was lost, Martin could not have
got the sixpence without having found the purse.”

“That is not so certain,” said Mr. Allen, “because some one
else might have found the purse and dropped the sixpence.”

“That would do,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “if it was not for the
six shillings which the boy brought the same day to his mother.”

When Mr. Bracebridge had said all he had to say, Long Dick

?



80 MARTIN CROOK.

came forward, and told how he had seen Martin come skulking
out of the hollow tree.

“Tt is altogether an awkward story,” said Mr. Allen. ‘ What
have you to say for yourself, Martin Crook ? how do you tell the
story 2”

“Just as I told mother at the time,” raid the poor boy; “TI

- thought the sixpence I picked up belonged to the same gentleman
who gave me the shillings. Oh, if he would come back again all
would be right; but please, please not let poor old grandmother
be vexed about it.”,

“Tf you would but own the truth,” said Mr. Allen, “I dare say
that Mr. Bracebidge would forgive you.”

“Tf you mean by owning the truth, telling what is not true,
master, I cannot do it,” said Martin; but he added, as he turned
away, weeping, “I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!”

Mr. Bracebridge’s passion was over by this time, and although
he really believed Martin ‘to be the thief, he consented that nothing
more should be said about the matter; he could put the lost crown
on the price of his horse when he sold it, he said, and he hoped
the boy would be the better for his fright. There was not one of
all the other people present who did not think Martin guilty, except
Mrs. Allen; she persisted in her persuasion of his innocence all
along; she did what she could to soothe his mother, and she
begged that the grandmother might know nothing about the business,
at least for the present.

Martin was then sent back to his sheep, and Mary Crook went
sorrowing home. And now came many days in which the little
shepherd boy did -not know what to make of himself; for although
there was no other creature in the wide world to smile upon him
but his aged mother, he often felt himself more happy than ever
he was in his life, whilst sitting on the hill-side, learning his
verses and watching his lambs.

The remainder of April and the whole of May passed without
bringing any change to Martin. On the last day of May, Martin
began to look for the return of the gentleman; but most of June
was over and he did not come. That very hard winter had been



MARTIN CROOK. 81

followed by an early summer. Mr. Allen began to cut his hay
about the 15th of that month, and then all hands were required
to help—men, and women, and children from every cottage on
the farm were out all. day in the hayfield. Old Margaret even was
required to hobble backwards and forwards from the fields to the
kitchen to fetch and carry food and drink. Mr. Bracebridge did
not begin to cut his grass for two or three days after his neighbour.

Poor Martin, much as in former years he had always loved
haymaking time, now thought that it could not be over too soon,
so much did he suffer from the gibes and sneers of his fellow-workers,
especially the boys. Long Dick was always the chief on these
occasions; he never saw Martin Crook but he had something to
say against hypocrites and people who pretended to be more
pious than their neighbours; and his gibes were almost always
taken up by the other boys, and even sometimes by the women
and girls, so that poor Martin had no peace.

Mr. Allen’ got in his hay without one drop of rain; and just
as the last loaded waggon drove out of the last field, Mr. Bracebridge
came riding up, and having complimented his neighbour on his
good luck, he lamented that he was so far behind him.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Allen, “I will tell you what I will do;
I will lend you my team and all my people for a couple or three
days, if you approve it, and we wiM see what can be done before
Sunday comes, with a change of moon, and perhaps of weather.”

“Be it so,” said Mr. Bracebridge; “I take your offer, neighbour,
and thank you too; and I promise your men a jolly supper on
the day the last load is brought home.”-

By five o’clock all Mr. Allen’s people who could be spared,
men, women, boys, and girls, were working in Mr. Bracebridge’s
fields. The grass was already cut in all of them but one, and that,
indeed, was partially done. This field was the very one in which
Martin had found the sixpence and seen the stranger.

Long Dick’s father was accounted one of the best mowers in
all that country, and Long Dick himself could use a scythe more
skilfully than many a one of his age. Mr. Bracebridge therefore
directed this father and son to go on with the mowing in that

G



82 MARTIN CROOK.

piece; and he told Old Dick, as he was called, to keep Martin
Crook to turn up the grass after him.

Mr. Bracebridge left these three, whilst Old Dick had mowed a
few yards, and young Dick. was whetting his scythe, and Martin
was using all his strength to turn the grass with a fork, the other
haymakers being very busy at the other end of the field. Young Dick
was still going on with some jest about Martin hiding himself so cleverly
in the hollow tree, when suddenly the poor child screamed out—

“There! er I do declare! Oh, I am very glad! Now they
will believe me.’

And when Dick and his father turned to look, there was Martin
holding up something which looked like a green ribbon in his hand,
and jumping and capering for joy.

“What is it?” said Long Dick. “Let me see.”

“No, no, cried Martin; and away he ran to the other side of
the field, shouting so loud that all the people stood staring and
wondering at him. Young. Dick was after him, but he did not dare
to touch him, because there were so many eyes upon them, and
amongst these the master, too, for Mr. Bracebridge was still in the
field, and saw all that took place.

As the little boy continued to run towards his mother, who was
with many other women and men also at the end of the field—as
he continued to cry out, “Come and see, now you will know that
I am not a thief,” they all left their work; Mr. Bracebridge him-
self walked forward, and within two or three minutes after Martin
had found what Long Dick supposed to be only a bit of old green
ribbon, Martin was standing in the midst of perhaps twenty persons,
holding up Mr. Bracebridge’s purse in his hand, one end being
heavy with silver pieces, and the other quite empty. “Here, here!”
cried the happy boy—‘“here it is, and I found it—my fork stuck
into it—and when the grass which I lifted up fell from the prong,
then the purse hung to the point, and I knew what it was in a
moment—and there are the shillings at one end—and I am nota
thief, and I have told the truth—and everybody now knows that
I am an honest boy, though the good gentleman has not come
back to say so.”



MARTIN CROOK. 83

Martin then stepped forward to Mr. Bracebridge, who had brought
up the horse on which he had been riding round his field to a
stand, and reaching the purse up to him, “There, sir,” he said,
“it is just as I found it!” and turning hastily round, he pushed
through the crowd about him, and walked away. Martin was not
missed for a few minutes, because every. one was pushing forward
ito see Mr. Bracebridge open the purse.

It was of netted green silk, and it was knotted in the middle.
In many places it had lost its colour from lying so long on the
‘damp ground, and the money which it contained was quite tar-
nished.

Mr. Bracebridge took out the shillings very carefully, dropping
them one by one from one hand to the other, to let the people
see that there were six. After which, fixing his eyes on Martin’s
smother, he said, “Mary Crook, I have been very unjust; I have
used your boy very ill. I own my fault, and am willing to make
the boy every reparation which may be required.”

“Sir,” replied Mrs. Crook, bursting into tears, “you have done
‘my poor child justice as far as lies in your power, by confessing

efore all these people that you judged him wrongfully. Appearances
‘were against him, and I can blame no one for thinking him guilty
excepting myself, his own mother; I ought to have remembered the
gleesome manner with which he came home that day when the
purse was lost, and brought the six shillings which the gentleman
had given him. Alas, my poor boy! what a cruel mother have I
‘been to him from that day to this!”

“Nay,” said one of the women, “you surely have not kept up —
‘your anger all this time!”

“T have, though,” replied Mary Crook; “and supposing the boy
‘had committed the sin, and still refused to confess, it was no more
than he deserved; but my poor child,” she added, as she turned
‘round to weep—“‘my poor child, how much have I made him
‘suffer !”

Every one was now looking for Martin, and amongst the fore-
‘most Mr. Bracebridge, with the six tarnished shillings and as many
bright ones ready to put into the little boy’s hand; they found,



84 MARTIN CROOK.

however, that he was not near them, and looking round the field,
they saw him walking. along the path to the village, and as he
went they saw him take out his little pocket-handkerchief to wipe
his face. His young heart, which had been frozen up with unkind-.
ness, was now melted by this new instance of God’s goodness in
bringing such full and public proof of his innocence; and although.
so happy he could not~stop the tears which ran like rain from.
his eyes. He was quite at the end of the field, near the gate,
when the haymakers turned about to look after him; and Mr.
Bracebridge had just given orders to one of the boys to run after
him and bring him back, when they saw a gentleman enter the
field from the high road; and they next saw Martin run up to:
this gentleman, and they saw the stranger hold out his hand to.
the poor boy, and they could perceive that Martin was looking
up and talking to him. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind
that this was the very person who had given the boy the six
shillings, and this was thought most wonderful that he should have
come at that very time.

Martin had turned with this gentleman, and they were both
walking towards the haymakers; Mr. Bracebridge did not wait
however, till they came up, but rode forward to meet them, and
making his bow to the stranger, he welcomed him to those parts,.
not knowing what else to say. The gentleman thanked him with
a very gracious smile, adding, “This little fellow, Mr. Bracebridge,
has been just telling me of the trouble in which he has been for
some weeks past, and how it has pleased God this very hour to
deliver him from this trouble; and he tells me also how kind you
were, when you believed him a thief, in sparing him from the:
punishment which you thought he deserved.”

“Poor boy,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “he has not much to thank
me for; nevertheless, I am obliged to him for this good word,”
he added, nodding to the boy, and resolving in his mind not to.
give him the money he intended before the stranger, lest it should
prevent his receiving a present from the other quarter; he failed
not, however, to fulfil his intentions within that week.

Having made an acquaintance so far with the stranger, he



MARTIN CROOK. 85

proceeded to ask him if he had any business in that country in”
which he could assist him, and invited him to take refreshment at
his house. The gentleman, in answer, told Mr. Bracebridge his
nmame—the very same mentioned by Mary Howard—said that,
shaving found occasion to take a very long journey, which led him
through ,that part of the country both in going and coming, he
thad resolved to find the family of his old nurse, Mary Howard,
hhaving no hope of finding her still living. He was trying, he added,
to get a peep at the White Cottage and the little hill, still faintly
remembered by him, when he so strangely met with Martin in that
very field; “but now,” he added, “I am come back with the
intention of staying here till Monday. I have apartments at the inn,
and if you will permit me, I will join your party in the hayfield,
and try to fancy myself such as I was when I played in scenes
dike this with my nurse’s children.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “you are most welcome. I shall
order my own dinner into the field; Martin-shall fetch his aged
grandmother; and we shall be most proud of the company of such
a gentleman.”

Mr. Launder was an old bachelor, and had more than money
enough for himself. He was a pious, simple, and humble man.
He had seen many grand sights in the world, but there was none
so pleasant to him as those which are found in the country.

Mr. Bracebridge led him to where he could rest himself on the
thay whilst Martin ran to the White Cottage. The first words which
the said when he saw old Margaret were—

“Tt is found, and I am not a thief; and the gentleman is come,
and he is in the hayfield, and he wants you, and you are his
nurse and his name is Launder, and you are to make haste.”

“Bless the child,” said Margaret, “what is come to you? The
“purse is found, and you are not a thief! What do you mean?”

Martin had forgotten that his grandmother knew nothing about
‘the purse; he thought, however, he might tell her now, as they
‘walked along. Yet he could hardly have patience to wait till she
thad put on her best gown and cap.

What a meeting was that between the nurse ae the child she



86 MARTIN. CROOK.

had nursed and parted from some fifty years before! He had left
her a dimpled, blooming boy, between four and five years of age;
she saw him again a white-headed elderly man.

But if all the happiness of those days which Mr. Launder spent
in that place was to be fully described, our story would be twice:
as long as it now is. The first three days were spent in the hay--
field, on the fourth day Mr. Launder went with Margaret Howard
to church, and on the Monday he gave a supper to the haymakers.
on the hill by the White Cottage, and there was also a generak
invitation to any of the neighbours who chose to come.

Mrs. Crook had contrived to get her own and Martin’s things.
out of pawn on the Saturday night, so that they were able to-
appear decent as on former days.

The parting between Mr. Launder and Mrs. Howard would have:
been very mournful, had they not had the assurance of meeting,
through their Redeemer, never again to be separated in another
life. But before Mr. Launder went, he settled many things for the-
comfort of his nurse’s family. He caused new clothes to be made-
for them; he supplied his nurse with warm blankets and a new
bed; he undertook to pay for Martin being put to a good day
school in the village; and he settled with Mr. Allen to pay the
rent of the White Cottage so long as he lived; and saying that
he would be answerable for any little assistance which Mrs. Ho-.
ward might think necessary in case of hard times or illness, he
took his leave.

Martin followed him to the coach door, and stood looking after
the coach till it was no longer to be seen.



UNG HE SAILOR BOY.

~BY

SHERWO OD.

Mrs.









JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

Look at the frontispiece, and there you will see some mischie-
vous boys stealing hot chestnuts from poor Betty Lane. Betty Lane
was a cross bad woman, who drank gin, and then she went into
such terrible passions it was quite fearful to see her. Betty had got
a plate with something good in it on her lap, with which she was
regaling herself; and the boys seeing her occupied, the bigger of
the two seized a chestnut, and was just giving it to his brother
who stood behind him, when a jagged bit of his sleeve caught a
nail in the board, and in pulling his arm away he knocked the
fire-pan over, making the table to totter and shake like a ship in
a storm.

Betty started, and in so doing overturned her plate, and knocked,
down her tripe, which made her only the more angry when she
saw the young thieves at her chestnuts.

With her hand spread in a threatening attitude she poured forth
a torrent of abuse against the naughty boys, who thought it safest
to make off as fast as their feet could carry them; but she was
up and after them in a very short time. The pore of the two.
got clear off, but she caught the little one, and was beating him
most unmercifully, when Jack came up. ;

Jack was the son of a sailor, who had been away from Bagh
many years, and the parish allowed Betty Lane something weekly
for feeding and clothing him; but this bad woman generally spent
the greater part of the money in buying gin, and thus poor Jack
was often obliged to go without a good meal; whilst his clothes
were so ragged he could scarcely keep them on. Hearing the little



go JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

boy’s screams, Jack ran to help him. What are you doing? he said
as he pushed himself in between the woman and the child: you
will kill him—you will kill him.

Betty left off beating the boy to set upon Jack; and if some
of the neighbours had not run in, she would have made her
threatenings good,—for she threatened that she would not leave a
whole bone in his skin. ‘

Very sorely, however, she did beat him, for she had taken more
gin than usual that morning, and scarcely knew what she did.

The neighbours, however, drove her back to her stall, and when
Jack had thanked them for saving him, he walked away, intending
never to go back again to live with her. He kept his resolution ;
he never returned.

Betty was vexed when she found he did not come back, because the
people about said that he had gone away because he was ill-used.

So she went the next week to other lodgings, where no one
knew anything about Jack.

It was only a few weeks after she had changed her lodgings
before she met a sailor in the street, who stopped and asked her
if she was not the woman to whom the parish officers had given.
the charge of little Jack.

She said she was.

Well said, said he, you can tell me, perhaps, what is come of
the boy.

Come of him, answered she, why he is dead, and has been so
these two years; he died of the small pox, and I laid him out.

Poor lad, replied the man, his troubles are over then, and my
cares about him are over too. My name is William Ball,—I was
his father’s chum, and voyaged over many a league of sea with
him. I thought to have looked up the boy, and been a father to
him whilst he is away; but that a’nt to be—so good bye.

Why did. Betty say that the boy was dead? Because she had
used him ill, and did not want to be brought to account by any
of his friends.

It was wrong, however, in Jack to run away, and you will see
he had some troubles in the end for doing so.



JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. on

And now I am going to say no more about Betty Lane, for the
rest of my story is all about Jack. Look at the picture, and you
will see a man who spends all his time in begging about the
streets, and being a kind-hearted person, he has more than once
given Jack crusts of bread, or bones of meat, that had been given
to him in charity. On running away from Betty Lane, Jack sought
this man to ask him what he should do to gain a livelihood.

The best way is begging, Jack, replied the man, for it is an
easy life.

But I do not think : ?

I should like it, said ee
the boy. Father was
a sailor, and I want to
be like father.

You a sailor, cried.
the beggar, why, lad, °
you are so small, they
will make you a swab-
ber, and nothing bet-
ter.

What is a swabber?
asked Jack.

A swab is a kind
of mop used for clean-
ing the decks of ships, said the man; and a swabber 1s one that -
uses a swab.

Jack did not like the idea of being only a swabber, so for some
days he followed the advice of the beggar, and went. wandering
about the streets asking for money.

The poor boy was now in a way for being ruined for ever; but
his heavenly Father had not forgot him, and in mercy to Jack he
made the life of begeary hateful, and even unprospebus to him; and.
he opened the eyes of the boy to see thatno person could honestly.
continue a beggar by trade.

Jack had been blessed in infancy with a pious and tender father,
and the lessons of that father had by the grace of God taken too





* 92 JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

powerful a hold in his heart to allow his conscience to sleep
altogether. ee

His father had not been heard of for years, and it was only his
son, of all his friends, who believed that he was still alive; but
the boy clung eagerly to the hope, and it was his most earnest
wish to be a sailor, that he might search the world over for his
dearly loved father.

On the sixth night after Jack had left old Betty’s, he laid him-
self on a step under the porch of a fine house, but after sleeping
for an hour or two, he awoke, and could not sleep again.

What is the use, he said to himself, for me to be idling about
in this way. I will go straight to the river, and get into some ser-
vice aboard some sort of craft, if I live till to-morrow. Suppose
they do set me to swab at first, why should I care? I shall be put
forward after awhile, and I shall have bread to eat, and tight
clothes to wear, and shall be getting to know more, and in the
way, may be, to find father, poor father: the time when I lived
with father, is all come as fresh to me as yesterday.

If father could speak now to me, I know he would say, Jack, I
would rather you should be a swabber than a beggar about the
streets, I know he would; so I will be striving by daylight, and
see what I can do.

Almost before it was light, Jack got up from his hard bed, and
took the nearest way by the streets to the river’s side, somewhere
- below London Bridge; but there were so many vessels of all sorts
“and sizes, and such a noise and such a clamour, that for some

time he could get no one seriously to heed. him.

One said, Who would take you into the ship, all rags and mire
as you are? and another said, What service could such a hop o’
my thumb do at sea? and a third bid him go off, and not trouble
him. Poor Jack was quite out of heart, and could scarcely keep
himself from ctying with grief. At last, however, a person dressed
in a very decent sailor's dress seemed to take pity on him, and
was going to throw him a penny piece—

It is not money I so much want, Sir, said poor Jack, but a

service on board some ship.



JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. 93

What, said the man, you are for being a sailor, my lad. What
can you do?

Nothing, Sir, answered Jack.

Then you don’t expect big wages, asked the sailor; but get into
the boat, and I will give you a cast down to our ship, and ifour
captain will take you in tow, your fortune is made.

Jack was full of glee, as he joyfully climbed into the boat.

And pray where are your parents, asked the man, that they allow
you to go about in this way, my lad?

Mother died before I can remember, Sir, replied Jack, and they
tell me father was pressed for a sailor. I love father dearly, Sir,
and I want to go all over the world till I find him.

Then yours was a good.
father, I suppose, my boy,
said the stranger.

The best that lives, Sir,
answered Jack. He taught me
to read, Sir, before he left
me, though I was then but
seven years old; and I am
afraid he must be dead, for’
I cannot think anything else
would keep him so long away
from me. Jack then told the
sailor that his father gained his livelihood by fishing and boating,
and helping to lade and unlade vessels which. went up and down
the river; but, tired as he might be, Sir, he added, with the tears
in his eye, how happily did we spend.our evenings together; for
he would take me on his knee and tell me stories, many of which I
think I shall ever remember. Ah, Sir! if I turn out a bad boy, I must
first forget all father used to say tome when I was a very little child.

When Jack reached the ship, the Captain, whose name was
Cook, made no objection to taking him on board.

There never was a kinder captain nor. a better seaman than
Captain Cook. He was a religious man, and not only never suffered
a bad word in his ship, but took good care that the boys and

f





Full Text
os

, a 44
di veNILE = IBRARY


The Baldwin Library
University




Ts
ore: eadlacty

24 GE
THE JUVENILE LIBRARY.
THE JUVENILE LIBRARY

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD

CONTAINING A SELECTION FROM HER POPULAR STORIES
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

With entirely new Illustrations
BY

MARY SIBREE.



Loudon:
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & Co.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
1891.
PRINTED AT NIMEGUEN (HOLLAND)
BY H. C. A. THIEME OF NIMEGUEN (HOLLAND)
AND

Iq BILLITER SQUARE BUILDINGS, LONDON, E. Cc.
CONTENTS.

Chapter.

te

II.

Til.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

THE HERON’S PLUME .

THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.
DUTY IS SAFETY

MARTIN CROOK .

JACK, THE SAILOR BOY

THE WHITE PIGEON .

THE LOST TRUNK.

THE GOOD NURSE.

THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.
THE TRAVELLER

THE FALL OF PRIDE.
GRANDMAMMA PARKER

THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

FRANK BEAUCHAMP.

Page.

31
35

89
123

157

181
193
229
263
295
329

- 345
THE

HERONS PiEUM E

BY

SHERWOOD.

MRS.



: :
f
- i
Ce
SS Ad be! _ y

THE HERON’S PLUME.



very rich merchant of the name of Collinton. The wife
of this gentleman was a very fine lady, and one whose only
pleasure was in show and grandeur.

Mr. Collinton’s father never had more than two children tenn
self and a brother some years younger.

This brother, whose name was James, was a hot-headed, ay
boy; he had been much spoiled by his mother, and when she
died he ran away to sea. It was well known in what ship he had
sailed, and it was also known that she had gone to the bottom in
a storm near the Cape of Good Hope, and everybody supposed
that he had gone down with her.

Mr. Collinton sometimes, when talking of his younger days, used.
to say, “My poor brother James was living then,” but he never
said anything more about him, and was not sorry still to keep the
five thousand pounds which his father had Hate for this his younger
son, should he ever turn up again.

Mr. and Mrs. Collinton had only two children. To these chil-
dren their mamma gave as fine names as she could think of. The.
boy was called Adolphus and the girl Matilda, and Master -Adol-
phus and Miss Matilda were brought up at the greatest: expense,
because their parents were resolved that they should both be per-:
fect patterns of elegance and fashion.

From the time when Mr. Collinton married till Matilda was
become a tall girl everything went on to the satisfaction of-the
4 THE HERONS PLUME.

family, and more was added every year to the stock; but just
when her papa and mamma were talking of buying a house and
lands in the country, and living in style, an event took place
which put the merchant very much out of his way.

A letter came from his brother James—that very brother whom
Mr. Collinton had thought to be dead so many years. This letter.
told of escapes and troubles without number. The brother had been
captured by the enemies of his country, and shut up in prison for:
several years. He had escaped, begged his bread, and worked as.
a common sailor; had made various attempts to get back to Eng-.
land, and had always been disappointed. At length he had met.
with a very lovely young person, of English parentage, in the West
Indies. He had married her, and they had lived most happily on
her small independent fortune till within the few last months, when ~
he had been deprived of her by death. He spoke with deep regret
of his loss, but said he could only find comfort by returning to
his old profession, the sea; and he added that as soon as he could
settle his affairs where he was he should, he thought, engage as
a partner in some trading vessel, and endeavour thus to improve
his fortune.

All this was bad enough to Mr. Collihton, who felt that he
should have to refund poor James’s fortune. But what had gone
before was not the worst; the. letter went on to say that there
were two children—the father called them dear and pretty children—
a-boy of thirteen and a girl of eleven, just left motherless, and
without means of education; and these would be, he said, on their
way to England before the letter could reach their uncle. They -
would be sent under the charge of the little girl’s godmother,
Mrs. Storer, who intended to reside in town, and would, on_their
arrival, be forwarded immediately to their uncle.

This letter was put into Mr. Collinton’s hands by a friend who
had just come from the West Indies—one who had seen Mr. James
Collinton himself, and had known him asa boy; there could, there-
fore, be no mistake. :

Immediately on receiving this letter Mr. Colinton. hastened. to.
his wife to tell her the change.
THE HERONS PLUME. ees

They now consulted what was to be done. They were both very
vangry, though neither of them said to the other how vexed they
were to hear that a man was alive whom they had thought dead
many years; but Mrs. Collinton especially murmured aloud at the
children being sent to them, and indeed said so much that her
husband after a little while seemed to be hurt with her violence,
and requested that the stibject might be dropped, and so it was
between the lady and her husband, though she continued to fret
without ceasing for many days, and she was continually saying to
Miss Philimot, her daughter’s governess, that she hoped that she
would take care that there was no intimacy between Matilda and
her cousin, adding that she herself ‘should use measures to prevent
Adolphus from forming an acquaintance with the boy, such children
as those being, of course, very: unfit to associate with elegant
young people like her own. ;

Mrs. Collinton arranged that the children should be sent to school
soon after they arrived. She had hardly chosen the schools in which
she intended them to be placed, when the little people came.

They were kept only three days at that time at their uncle’s..

The names of these children were Edward and Annabella, and,
as the father had said, they were particularly handsome, although
pale from the effect of the hot climate whence they had come.
Edward was rough and spirited, and could only be led by kind-
ness. It was not so easily to be seen what Annabella was, for she
did little else than weep at the idea of being parted from her
brother, during the few days in which she’ remained at her uncle’s,
* And now we must pass over two years from the time the children
came from the West Indies. Mr. Collington had made up what
his lady accounted a loss of five thousand pounds, and interest
upon it, and had added as much again to his money, and now
he and Mrs. Collinton began to talk in earnest ofa country house.
At length they heard of one in Devonshire which they thought
would suit them well, and early in the spring of the year in which
Matilda was fourteen Mr. Collinton: came Box town to see the
place and make the purchase. ;

Heron Hall, as- it was called, was an old stone house, though
6 THE HERONS PLUME.

wanting only a little brushing up to make it the handsomest dwel-
ling in the neighbourhood. It stood in a park, very finely wooded,
and at some small distance from the house was a superb lake.
Parts of the borders of this lake were wide and open; on other
sides it was shaded by groves of trees, which came down to the
water’s edge; but that which made one of the greatest beauties of
the place was that at the end of.the lake most remote from the
house was an island. Of course the island was small, but it could
boast of many fine old trees, as well as various shrubs and ever-
greens, which had been planted there to look well in the winter
season. For-many years beyond the memory of any man then living
this island had been a place where those birds called herons had
been accustomed to come at the breeding season to make their
nests at the top of the highest trees. When Mr. Collinton bought
the place he was told the herons used formerly to meet there
every year in large numbers, but that of late fewer had come; and
the reason given was that since the Hall had not been occupied,
and there had been fewer persons on the premises, the birds had
been disturbed, either by wanton persons or by persons who wished
to snare them for their beautiful crests and plumes.

Mr. Collinton had been much pleased at the idea of having a
heronry on his estate. He thought it sounded grand, and asked
if it were only at the breeding season that the birds were seen
about the island. The old gamekeeper, who was telling the history
of the heronry to the new master, said that he had observed two
of them about, fishing in the lake during the whole of last winter,
and one he should know perfectly again anywhere, because. he
had more white about him than any one of the kind he had
ever seen.

Mr. Collinton gave strict orders to the gamekeeper to guard the
theronry, adding that it would be a great pleasure to him to see
it aS prosperous as it was in the good old times.

There was no time lost after Heron Hall was bought in putting
it into proper order. All the best furniture, the paper, and the
curtains were supplied from London, and in a few months it was
ready for the family.
THE HERONS PLUME. 7

Nothing in the meanwhile had been heard of Captain James
Collinton—for so his brother now called him—and his poor chil-
dren began almost to fear that he was dead. ,

When they were preparing to leave London, Mr. Collinton
proposed that, as Heron Hall was so large, and Matilda would be

-parted from her young friends in London, Annabella should be
taken from school and kept with her cousin, at least as long as
she could make herself agreeable to her and to Miss Philimot; and
when Adolphus heard of this he thought that he should much
like to show the grandeur of his papa’s new house to Edward.
Thus it was settled that they should all come down together to
Heron Hall. Mrs. Collinton, Miss Philimot, Matilda, and Anna-
bella travelled in: the coach, and when they came within a few
miles of the Hall they all began to look anxiously about them.

They were still about three or four miles distant when they
came to a small town, in which were several handsome houses, a
large town-hall, and several respectable shops; but what pleased
Mrs. Collinton still more was a very elegant residence, situated in
a beautiful garden near the roadside, and scarcely a mile from
the park gates. Whilst she was still eagerly looking at it, Mr.
Colinton, who was on horseback, rode up to tell her that the
place before her was the residence of a widow lady of high rank,
namely, the Lady Jane Barclay; that she was the life and soul of
the neighbourhood, and had said, as he had heard, that she should
be the first person to visit the new family.

Mrs. Collinton was very .much pleased at the thought of feeine a
visit from such a lady; but she was still better pleased when she
saw the grand house and beautiful place which she was to inhabit.

As they rode through the park to the house, Matilda tried to
hide her delight by seeming quite indifferent to everything; but
Annabella was filled with yoy at the thoughts of the liberty she
should have in running about these. wide grounds. The boys, too,
who were on horseback, and therefore could see the place better
than those in the coach, were both much pleased. Adolphus thought
most of the grandeur of the woods and of the island in the lake,
which was the resort of the herons; but Edward was most delighted
eset

8 ‘THE HERONS PLUME.

with a large’ pleasureboat. which lay upon the quiet waters, and
which had a sail which could be easily unfurled on occasion. Edward
was in his heart almost.a sailor, like his papa was.

My young reader shall:not be much troubled with many accounts
of what Mrs. Collinton thought and felt when she found herself
mistress of such a place as Heron Hall, with its noble house, its
walks, its gardens, its lake, and its heronry. It may please him
better to hear how the children got on.

When. Matilda and Annabella had followed Mr. and Mrs. Col-
linton through all the grand rooms, they asked too see the apart-
ments which were for them and Miss Philimot, and they were
shown into a suite of rooms on the first floor, which looked out
over the lake to the park, having the island and tall trees of the
heronry almost in a line with the windows. These rooms consisted,
first, of a large apartment, which might serve for a study, a work-
room, or a play-room. It was neatly furnished. Theré was a room
on each side of this, one being only a closet in which was a
little bed for Annabella; the other being very large, and furnished
with great taste. This last was for Matilda and Miss Philimot. The
governess expressed great satisfaction with everything, and Anna-

‘bella thought her little room the most delightful place in the whole

world; but Matilda affected not to care for anything, and when
she condescended to speak at all, it was always to find fault, and
tg say that she wished things had been differently managed.

~ Annabella was not only naturally gentle and quiet, but she was
more than naturally ‘goodhumoured, as will be seen by-and-by.
She had, until she was near eleven years of age, been almost
constantly with one of the best and most pious of mothers. She
knew very well, because she had been taught by God, that no
child can change the heart of another; and she also knew that
it was not her place to find fault with her elders. She therefore
left Miss Matilda to murmur and mutter as she pleased, and set her-
self to unpack and arrange her few articles in the drawers and
shelves in her delightful little closet, where a prospect of the park
from the window reminded her of some view of this kind which
she remembered in Barbadoes..
THE HERONS PLUME. AQ:

For some time Annabella heard no other sound in the outer
room than a sort of languid muttering proceeding from Matilda,
and a fawning whine which came from, Miss Philimot, who was
trying in vain to soothe her pupil into good-humour, when suddenly
there was a bang, as of a door slammed open, which made her
start, and then a loud burst of voices. She knew these voices to
be those of Adolphus and Edward. pele

“Well, Miss Matilda,” were the first words which she heard,
“what sort of a place have youegot here?”

This inquiry was made by Adolphus, and it was answered by
Edward before Matilda could so far master net affectation as to
bring out a single word.

“A very good berth, a capital berth,” said the young sailor;
“and it must be confessed that you have made a good exchange
of this fine light room for your dusky oe in ‘The ee
Miss Collinton.”

“Dusky cabin!’” repeated Matilda. “I.am sure that my
apartments in town were quite as handsome as ‘these, as lofty
and as light, and perhaps better furnished. I do not think that
papa, when he selected these rooms for me, acted with -his usual
good taste, for I should have much preferred the other side of
the nous where there is a darling suite of chambers facing nes
avenue.’

“And from which you could have seen all the fine folks steering
' up to the house, Miss Matilda,” said Edward. ‘‘What.a pity that
you should have nothing to look at but green trees arid water!”

“Really, Edward,” said Matilda, “I wish: when you left the ship
which brought you over from your own country, that you. had left
yous loud voice and some of your ae expressions behind
you.”
_“T am sorry I do not please you, cousin,” said Bdnard carelessly,
and he began to step along the room, as if measuring its’ length,
turning round at the end, and calling out, “Twenty-four by twenty.
I say, Adolphus, what did the parccues say Was: the size of the
new boat on the lake?”

“Really, Edward,” replied Adolphus, . Ean are. “fit Gale to..do
10 THE HERONS PLUME.

as your father did; and I should not wonder if that were to be
the end of you after all.”

“What do you mean?” asked Edward hotly; “what did my
father do, and what is the end which you are talking of?”

“Why,” replied Adolphus, ‘that I should not wonder if you
were to run off to sea and get drowned.”

No one can say what answer Edward might have made if
Annabella had not come out of her closet at the moment, and
_had she not run up to him with the gentleness and lightness of
a fairy, and placed her gentle hand on his lips.

“Come with me, brother,” said she—‘“come, dear Edward, I
have a thousand things for you to do;” and drawing him with
her, she led him first into her closet, and thence by another door
into the gallery, and so out into the garden.

When Adolphus, Matilda, and Miss Philimot were left, they
spent a little time in heartily abusing Edward, whom they called
a low, vulgar boy. They next spoke of Annabella. Miss Philimot
said she was a remarkably plain child, but otherwise well enough;
Matilda called her a poor, harmless thing; and Adolphus, merely
to provoke his sister and Miss Philimot, reminded them that Lady
Jane had not thought her exactly the ugly thing they said.she
was; after which this agreeable brother and sister parted.

The family had arrived at Heron Hall about three in the
aftemoon; dinner had been ordered at five; after which Mr.
Collinton and his son were rowed over the lake in a small boat —
(kept there for such purposes) to the heron’s island. They had
learned that this was about the time of the day in which there
was as good a chance as any of seeing the birds. The breeding
season was past; but, as the gamekeeper told his master, the same
two which had remained there during the last winter were still
about—one of these being remarkable for having more white
about it than is usual with birds of the kind.

The little boat hove gently into a shady corner at the back of
the island, and Mr. Collinton and his son crept softly through
the bushes and low shrubs to that point where the gamekeeper
had more than once seen the white heron standing in the water,
THE HERONS PLUME. Il

ready to pounce on any unfortunate fish which might come within
its reach.

Adolphus lost his cap in the scramble through the bushes. He,
however, succeeded in his object, for, creeping on his hands and
knees to where a peculiar sound, as of something disturbing the
water, attracted his attention, he half raised himself when near
the edge of the bank, and peeping between the holes of two trees,
he caught a very clear view of the white heron, just as she was
in the act of swallowing a fish. His father was coming up after
him, but he gave him a look to turn away and make no noise;
and thus he actually had the pleasure of looking so long at the
bird, that he could, as he thought, have distinguished it again -
from every other of its kind.

Mr. Collinton did not see the bird till it rose to fly away. He
was, however, so much pleased with its appearance then, and
altogether so anxious to protect the herons and to keep up the
ancient heronry, that he most strongly cautioned his son on no
account whatever to carry a gun in the direction of the island,
nor to shoot nor injure in any way any heron in or near his
estates, nor to permit any other person who might be in his
company to do so.

After the first day or two at Heron Hall, Annabella and Edward
found that they were left to do pretty much as they chose. Miss
Philimot had consented to permit Annabella to assist, as she
called it, whenever she gave Matilda her lessons; but as Matilda
seldom chose to take a lesson, her cousin found that if she did
not strive to improve herself there would be an end of her education.

Mr. Collinton had engaged a learned gentleman in the neigh-
bourhood to come and instruct his son for a few hours every
morning, and Edward was. for the present to take lessons with his.
‘cousin. The remainder of the day was all to himself, and he was.
by no means at a loss how to employ it. Whilst the fine weather
lasted he was always out of doors, and Annabella was with him
whenever she could be, and they must have been dull indeed if
they could not have amused themselves in such wide and delightful
grounds as those of Heron Hall.
12 | THE HERONS PLUME.

They were not required to be present at the family dinner when
there were any visitors, and as there were few days without visitors
they had the liberty of absence six days out of the seven.

When these two orphans were together it was very natural for
them to speak of things which were gone and past—of their dear
mamma and their native island, and of that indulgent father whom
they never expected to see again; and one of their schemes of
amusement was building a hut in a pine-grove in the park. into
which. few people ever came, and they called it a wigwam, and
spent much time in and about it, till the weather got too cold to
allow them any longer to fancy themselves still in dear Barbadoes.

In the meantime all the people of any consequence in the

“neighbourhood had called on Mr. and Mrs. Collinton, and they
had retumed their morning visits. and accepted invitations to
dinner, and, as autumn advanced, these neighbours were invited
again and several grand entertainments given to them. Matilda
and Miss Philimot had gone everywhere with Mrs. Collinton, and
Matilda had been thought very elegant, and Miss Philimot the
most accomplished, agreeable person in the world.

The Lady Jane Barclay, however, instead of being the first,
was the last person to call upon Mrs. Collinton. She had been at
the seaside during the latter few months, and did not return till
the beginning of October. The very day after her arrival, however,
she set out to make her visit to Heron Hall, and, as she always
chose to do things in a way quite different from other people, she
set out to walk, followed by a little footboy, who carried her cloak.
She was a tall, thin woman, with bright eyes and a very bright
colour on her cheeks, and she had:on the same gay bonnet which
she had worn at the bathing-place, all tarnished as it was, and
not improved by a few rolls upon the sands when taken from her
ladyship’s head, as it had been once or twice, by a sudden gust
of wind.

It was Lady Jane’s custom, when paying her morning visits on
foot, always. to take the shortest cut across the country, though
this’ cut should lead- her across a ploughed field or through a
fold-yard. Her shortest way from her own house to Heron Hall
THE HERON’ S PLUME. 13

was through Edward and Annabella’s fir-grove, and the two children.
were standing in the doorway of the wigwam with their heads
dressed out with. branches of pine, when the lady appeared not
five yards from them. She did not express any surprise at this.
strange sight, for she affected never to wonder at anything, but
she called to Edward and his sister to stand eee as they were
and not to move an inch.

“Tt cannot be better,” she said, as she came nearer and nearer;
“what a sweet picture it would make! And you,” she added,
looking at Edward, “are a fine, handsome, bold fellow, .but not
so much to my taste either as that innocent-looking thing there,
your sister, with her bright golden locks. Your names of course,
are Collinton, well, goodbye, my pretty dears, we shall be better
acquainted by-and-by;” and she hurried on towards the Hall,
and was admitted into an elegant drawing-room, where Mrs. Col-
linton was sitting with Miss Philimot.

Lady Jane behaved with the same ease and singularity in this
elegant room as she had done in the fir-grove, and Mrs. Collinton
thought her the most charming, delightful person that ever was.
till she had made a most terrible mistake. She had supposed that.
the boy and girl whom she had seen in the park were the son
and daughter of the lady with whom she was speaking, and having:
told where she had seen them, she expressed her admiration,
particularly of the little girl, in words which filled both the mother
apd governess of Matilda with very bad feelings. Mrs. Collinton
was obliged to explain who these children were, and Miss Philimot
was so imprudent as to tell Matilda and Adolphus all that Lady
Jane had said of their cousins. Thus from one thing to another:
envious and angry feelings grew and gained strength among the
children, the only one amongst them to whom a better spirit was
_ given being Annabella; and this young girl was enabled, by the
help of her Heavenly Father, not only to feel the ill effects of
jealous and angry passions in her own mind, but to endeavour to
counteract them in the mind of her dear brother. :

When it was become too cold for his sister to.be much out of
doors, Edward took up another amusement, and this was. shooting
14 THE HERONS PLUME.

small birds. He and Adolphus took up this taste about the same
time; and as Mr. Collinton was no sportsman, they went out with
one or other of the gamekeepers, and received instructions from
them in the management of their fowling-pieces, and in all things
belonging to this kind of craft. Here, again, was a clashing of
merits between the two cousins. Edward proved by far more skil-
ful as a sportsman than Adolphus. His eye was more correct,
and, in spite of private interest, where the gamekeeper paid
Adolphus one compliment on his improvement, he paid Edward
twenty. Nor did either of the boys behave well on these occasions ;
for if one sulked the other triumphed, and there was no little
Annabella present to place her hand on her brother’s lips, or to
whisper in his ear, “Is this according to the pe and forgiving
spirit of our blessed Redeemer ?”

Lady Jane had invited Mrs. Collinton to an elegant dinner, and
Mrs. Collinton had returned the compliment. Two nieces of Lady
Jane had come to see-their aunt, and Matilda had thought both
of them charming; and these young ladies were still at Barclay
Cottage, as their aunt’s house was called, when the following note
was put into the hand of Mrs. Collinton: —

“T owe an entertainment to many of my good neighbours; as I
know not how else to pay my debts in a summary way, I have
thought of a ball and supper on one day, and a little musical
festival on another, tor I must not bring all my visitors together at
one time. ;

“But I shall want a friend to take some of the trouble off me;
I have thought of you. You must come two days before my ball,
and you must stay with me for a week. You are to bring your
daughter and her harp, and your very agreeable Miss Philimot,
and my sweet little favourite of the fir-grove, and your gentlemen
may come and go as they please. This day fortnight is the day
which I expect you.”

Of course the invitation was accepted. Miss Philimot wrote the
answer on pink paper in her lady’s name, and then ran up to
tell the joyful tidings to Matilda, and to consult upon dresses to
be prepared. It happened that when Miss Philimot came up,
THE HERONS PLUME. ae

Annabella was writing a letter to her godmother, Mrs. Storer, and
it was a matter of course that she should tell her of the pleasure
which was before her. It was, not a week after this letter was gone
when a box came directed to her from London. It was brought
straight up to the young lady’s room; and although Annabella
read her own name at full length in large characters on -the lid,
she still could not believe that it was for her. It was at length
forced open. At the top was a letter from Mrs. Storer, in which
that lady said that “she had sent her dear little girl two dresses,
in which to appear at Lady Jane’s two evening entertainments,
and a bonnet to wear, should she find it necessary to be much
dressed any morning.”

It cannot be disputed that the articles which the box contained
were all more than necessary for the occasion of this visit to Lady
Jane; but Mrs. Storer herself loved dress and fashion, and what
she did she meant kindly.

Whilst Annabella was reading the letter, Miss Philimot had taken
everything out of the box and spread-it on the sofa. One of the
dresses was of very fine muslin, trimmed with lace and white satin;
the other was of sprigged net, made over pink satin. This was
also beautifully trimmed ; but the darling of all, as Miss Philimot
said, was the bonnet or hat, which was of a purple velvet, with
a magnificent heron’s plume fixed on one side, a little plaited cap
placed within, giving to the whole, as the same lady said, a most
feminine and elegant air. No one inquired what Annabella thought
of all this magnificence; but Miss Philimot saw in half an instant
that Matilda was inexpressibly hurt and cut up at the sight of
them. Her own dresses were ordered, and were expected ‘to be
ready in a few days; but her mamma had not thought of getting
her a new hat, and how shockingly dowdy she should look beside
Annabella in her magnificent hat!

Of course Miss Philimot made no remark about the hat before
Annabella, but, taking it up in her hand, she walked with it to
Mrs. Collinton’s dressing-room, and having explained what had
happened, she said, “Miss Matilda should have a hat as nearly
like. this as may be.” To this Mrs. Collinton agreed; and -it was
16 THE HERON’S PLUME.

then settled that the governess and her pupil should go, as soon
as the carriage could be got ready, to the small town close by;
that they should there consult the milliner, who was already busy
with Matilda’s dresses; and that, if possible, she should engage
her to make a hat equal to that which had come from town. “The
only difficulty I see,” said Mrs. Collinton, “will be in the plume;
but we must by all means have the plume.”

Miss Matilda and Miss Philimot set out as soon as the carriage
drove to the door, and took with them not only the hat, but the
dresses, for the milliner to take the latest London fashions, and
they came back in high spirits. They had chosen a very rich velvet,
and a ribbon quite superior to that on the pattern hat; and the
milliner had said that she had not the least doubt of being able
to get a heron’s plume.

At the end of four days from this time, two large baskets, some-
thing like magpies’ cages, arrived from the milliner’s, one containing
all Annabella’s things, which had gone for patterns, and the other
the new things for Matilda. Never was a better imitation than that
of the hat; but, alas! instead of the heron’s feather was a note
of apology. No such thing as a heron’s plume was to be had in
town for love or for gold. When Matilda read the note she tore
it to pieces, and pushed away the hat which Miss Philimot was
holding before her eyes. She did not, indeed, shed tears, but she
sat herself down in an arm-chair, and seemed determined not to
regard a word that her governess said to her.

Mrs. Collinton had heard that the baskets were come from the
milliner, and being scarcely less anxious than her daughter about
the plume, she entered the room just at the moment in which
Miss Philimot was laying down the hat which her ungracious pupil
hat pushed from her.

When Mrs. Collinton understood that there was no feather to
be had, she expressed herself almost as fretfully as her daughter
had done, and was inquiring whether even yet it was too late to
get one from London, when Annabella, who till that instant. had
not understood what was the cause of disturbance, came forward
and begged that Matilda would wear her feather, telling her cousin
THE HERONS PLUME. 17

what she really felt, that she did not care in the least whether
there was one in her hat or not.

There is not room to repeat all the discussions which took place
before it was settled whether Annabella’s offer should be taken or
not. Before dinner, however, Miss Philimot was seen, as she stood
at the window of the dressing-room, carefully unfastening the plume
from the bonnet which had come from London, and transferring
it to the other; and all would have passed off without bad conse-
quence, had not Edward unfortunately come into the same room
to look for his sister, at the very instant that the removal of the
feather from the London to the country bonnet was complete.
Annabella had told him the kindness of Mrs. Storer, and he had
happened to meet Miss Philimot in the gallery when she had been
carrying his sitser’s hat to his aunt’s dressing-room. He knew it
again immediately, and as quickly guessed what oe governess had _
been doing. To Miss Philimot he said:

“You have been taking the feather from Annabella’s cap to put
into one of Miss Matilda’s. .

Miss Philimot turned round to look at him, but did not speak;
and he repeated his words with no small violence. At the same
instant Adolphus came into the room, stepping softly, and listening
to what his cousin was saying. Miss Philimot explained to him
what was the cause of Edward’s anger.

Adolphus took up the matter, and asked “if he was mean enough,
after all the favours his mother and sister had shown Annabella,
to grudge so trifling a favour as that of the. loan of a feather?”

A feather, indeed, is a light thing, but it was no feather that
really caused this discord between the cousins, though it was the
occasion of the bursting out of the angry and jealous feelings
which they had long entertained towards each other, From one
angry word they went to another, and yet their quarrel did not
come to its height either that day or for three or four days after-
wards, although the .boys continued to be very sullen to each other.

Edward in the meantime went out every morning with his gun,
and thus the time went on till the day before that fixed for the
ladies to go to Lady Jane’s.

c
18 THE HERONS PLUME.

It was not long after noon on that day that Edward knocked
at the door of Matilda’s room. Being told to enter, he came for-
ward and presented his sister with a roll of coarse paper, which,
being unfolded, showed a very. fine heron’s plume.

The feathers of this plume had the appearance of not having
been long taken from the bird. If dressed at all, it had not been
done by a very skilful hand. Still they looked remarkably fine and
glossy. Having made his present, Edward did not wait to hear
what his sister would say, but looking round with a bright and
sparkling glance, he left the room with the air of a person who
had done something vastly fine. At the foot of the principal stair-
case was a room which Mr. Collinton devoted to business. As
Edward came down these stairs he saw the old gardener and the
gamekeeper go into this room and when they were in, the door was
shut after them. He did not suppose that he should have anything
to do with what they had to say.

He passed through :the hall, went out at the front door, and
it was more than an hour before he returned to the house.

As he came into the hall, a servant man met him and asked
him. to walk into the study, for this was the name given to the
room at the bottom of the stairs. When he arrived there he found
his uncle standing with his back to the fire, his aunt sitting near,
and his cousin Adolphus. looking out of the window. Though
Edward was far from being a timid boy, there was something so.
solemn in the manner of his relations, that he stood quite still at
the entrance of the room, his eye at the same time falling upon
a few white feathers which lay upon a. piece of brown paper upon
the table.

“Come forward, sir,” said Mr. Collinton, “and .answer me a few
questions.”

Edward stepped towards the table, and ee stood still again.
- “Tell me, sir,” continued .Mr. Collinton, sf where you got that
plume which the gardener saw this morning .in your hand?”

“J bought it, sir,” continued Edward.

“Of whom?” asked Mr. Collinton. .

“T am not at liberty to tell,” replied aed,
THE HERONS PLUME. 19

_ “Not. at liberty. to tell!” . exclaimed his aunt, and she shook
fher head.

“You have been shooting one of my Herons: ar Mr. Colinton:
“in order that your sister might be decked with its plume. And
det me tell you sir, that knowing as you do how anxious I am
to preserve these birds, you could Bot possibly have done enying
which could have annoyed me more.’

“Are any of the pcrons missing?” asked ‘Edward. in some
‘surprise.

“Your surprise is well affected,” innit Mrs. Colinton and
Mr. Collinton said, “Whethér the information is wholly or only
an part new to you, Edward, I now tell you that the white heron
thas not now appeared for four days, although I. knew it not till
this morning. The gamekeeper. has had his suspicions all along,
but he did not hint to me even at the loss of. the bird till this
“morning.”

“Well, .sir-——” said Edward ee 3

' “Hear me out,” replied Mr. Collinton, “and :then you shall
sspeak. On the morning after the day, as far as I can find, on
which you chose to take offence at the transfer of a plume from
your sister’s to my. daughter’s hat, you-went out with your gun.”

“T did so,” said Edward;. “I go out every morning.”

“That same morning,” continued Mr. Collinton, “the white -
theron was seen by the gamekeeper, .and also by. the gardener,
flying from the island over the lake in a westerly direction. They
‘watched the flight till the bird had disappeared, and at the same
‘moment that they could see it no longer, they heard the report
of a fowling-piece; and the heron has never since been seen.”

‘All this, sir,” said Edward, “proves nothing against me.”

“Were you not sporting in that line of country due west of the
therons’ island. that morning, and at a very early hour, Edward?”
:said Mrs. Collinton.

“But I have not told you all that is known of. the. affair,” con-
‘tinued Mr. Collinton. “This morning, not four hours:since, those
‘feathers now. lying on the table, sprinkled with blood: as. you: now
see them. were found lying on the ground in.the place where the
20 THE HERONS PLUME.

bird, if shot when and where the gamekeeper supposes it was, must
have lighted on the earth.”

“And the old man,” cried Edward fearlessly, “really charges
me with the shot? Does he not know, that there are not two
other men besides himself in the whole county who could bring
down a heron on the wing 2?”

“That which might not be done easily by the best marksman
might be accidentally performed by a very indifferent one,” said.
Mr. Collinton; “and you, Edward, are, they tell me, not an.
indifferent one.”

Instead of answering his uncle, or even trying to clear himself,
Edward turned towards Adolphus, and said bitterly, “I should
like to know who could have been mean enough to have searched
for those feathers in order to bring them as witnesses against an
innocent person ?”

At the sound of his cousin’s voice Adolphus had turned, being-
as much offended at the suspicion conveyed in Edward’s words as
Edward was at the charge brought against himself of shooting
the heron. The eyes of the two youths met, and had they been
flint and steel they would have emitted flames. The supposed
depravity and hardness of Edward really hurt his uncle so much
that he was unable to utter another word; he threw himself in a
chair, and for a moment covered his face.

Mrs. Collinton, however, who had no such tender feelings, took.
up the case, and continued to irritate him more by many additional
reproofs which she gave him, on the supposition of his having
really killed the heron, which he continued to deny; and, when
she had almost worked him up to fury, she dismissed him from
her presence.

Edward had run into the park, there to give way alone to his.
bitter feelings, and there Adolphus followed him. So violent was.
the passion of each of them that neither of them could have told.
exactly what was said or done. Edward began by charging Adol-
phus with making up the story of the heron against him with no
truth whatcver. Adolphus told him that he had not made the
story. up. Violent and offensive words, and even blows, passed
THE HERONS PLOME. 21

between the angry boys, and there was no one to soothe either
party. Adolphus at length being more than half ashamed of him-
self, returned to. the Hall to dress for dinner, whilst Edward, who
‘was already deeply sensible of his own violent conduct, walked
farther into the grove, and did not return to the Hall till it was.
-quite dark.

In the meantime Annabella knew nothing either of the charge
‘brought against her brother or of the quarrel between the boys,
and in that happy ignorance she remained till the next morning,
for it was so common a thing for Edward to retire as soon as he
-came in from his shooting excursions that she thought nothing of
his not appearing in the drawing room at tea.

In the morning, however, a note was brought to her, scrawled
very roughly by her brother, and blistered in many places by
‘tears. The letter was merely to bid her adieu—to say that he had
been violent and proud, and he had behaved very ill and ungratefully
‘to his uncle, and that if Adolphus had been unkind to him he
had paid him to the full in his own coin, but that he had not
shot or otherwise ill-used the heron.

When Annabella inquired what this note meant she heard that
her brother was missing, that he had taken only a change of linen
‘with him, and that he had not even slept that night in his room.

The disappearance of Edward threw a great depression over
‘several persons in the family. Adolphus was greatly shocked and
vexed with himself. He had not actually made up the tale against
Edward, but he had done nearly as bad—he had strengthened
‘his father’s: suspicions and worked up his mother’s anger; and he
‘could not hide it from himself that he had followed Edward to
‘the park, and that Edward had not followed him. When any one
is humbled by feeling that he has behaved ill it is a certain sign
that a Divine spirit is working in his mind, and it is very certain
that what had happened: with regatd to poor Edward continued
to press very heavily on the minds of Mr. Collinton and his son.
As to poor Annabella, she wept till she made herself quite ill;
and there were only three persons in the family who went, after
all, to Lady Jane’s entertainment.
22 THE HERONS PLUME.

Months passed away at Heron Hall without any great event:
happening. Edward was not heard of, the white heron did not
appear again, and poor Annabella lost all the bright bloom of her:
cheeks; and although grace was given to her, still to be patient.
and gentle, yet it was seldom, very seldom, that ever she smiled.

It was not till the winter and even the colder weeks of spring:
were’ over, that the whole story of the heron’s plume, the loss of
the white heron, and the real cause of Edward’s disappearance,.
which accounted for the melancholy of her favourite Annabella,.
reached the ears of Lady Jane.

The story came through the servants, and when the butler told
the story to his lady he begged her not to speak of it, which she:
promised. But she did not promise not to act upon it, for that.
very morning she set out on foot for Heron Hall, and there insisted.
upon it, in her usual singular way, that Annabella should go back.
with her to her cottage and stay with her till the roses bloomed
again in her cheeks. Poor Annabella was pleased with the change,.
and felt that she could be happier with Lady Jane than with Matilda.
and Miss Philimot.

Soon after Lady Jane had taken Annabella away, Mr. Collington
and his family removed for a few weeks from Heron Hall to-
Dover, where they took handsome lodgings, and had the opportunity
of showing much of their grandeur before some of their old city
friends.

Miss Philimot had a brother, a smart young man who was:
studying the law in London, and, as it was holiday time, he came
down to Dover, and was very much with the family whilst they
remained there.

The visit of Mr. Collinton and his family to these places:
happened to be the very year in which steamboats were first used
at sea in a regular way, and they were then so new that many
persons used to walk down to the pier at the hour at which they
might be expected.

This was a very favourite lounge of Matilda and Miss Philimot,.
but: neither Mr. Collinton nor Adolphus liked it; Miss Philimot,
therefore, often engaged her brother to go with them.
THE HERONS PLUME. 23

The expected steamer was approaching the pier, though still at
some distance, and there were several sailors, porters, lightermen,
and persons of that kind busy on the pier with bales and packages,
which seemed either to have been lately brought from aboard
some boat or ready to be stowed in some other.

The only person about the pier not employed in this way was
a young gentleman, neatly dressed something in the style of a
sailor, though not entirely so, and when first seen his back was
turned to Mr. Philimot and the ladies, and he was looking most
intently and anxiously towards the steamer.

Some little argument having arisen between Miss Philimot and
her brother respecting the name of the steamer and other matters
belonging to her, such as when she would leave Dover again,
Mr. Philimot called to this young gentleman, “Sir, I beg your pardon,
but perhaps you can tell me what I wish to know?” The youth
immediately turned and answered very civilly that he was ready
to reply to any questions in his power.

“What do you call that vessel there, sir?” said Mr. Philimot.
At the moment in which the youth raised his arm to point to the
steamer, Miss Philimot had her head turned round to look at
some object nearly behind them, and Matilda’s eyes were fixed
on the steamer; but at the voice of the youth she started; looked
at his face, and instantly knew her cousin. Edward knew her at
the same moment; a deep glow rose in his cheeks; he turned
suddenly round, sprang upon the pier, and thence to a flight of
steps which led down on the beach, and disappeared so instantly »
that it was impossible for any one to say which way he went.

Miss Philimot, who had not seen the face of the youth, endea-
voured to persuade Matilda that she was mistaken in the person;
but Matilda was certain that she had seen Edward, and his very
running away proved that it was he; for why should a stranger
have thus fled at the sight of her? Mr. Philimot thought that
Matilda was right, and undertook to try to find out whither the
boy had fled; but neither did he, nor Adolphus, nor Mr. Collinton
succeed in tracing the boy, although they made every inquiry.
Whilst they remained at Dover no Edward was to be heard of,
24 THE HERONS PLUME.

and they returned to Heron Hall as much in the dark respecting
him as ever they had been.

When the family got back into Devonshire, Lady Jane brought
Annabella home. The young girl looked much better in health.
She had been kindly treated, and Lady Jane would not have
parted with her then had she not received a sudden call to join
an old relative who was dangerously ill at a bathing-place not very
distant. ;
_ Annabella now found herself again in that little room where

once she had been very happy, and where many things reminded
her of her dear, dear brother. The year had gone nearly round
since she had first come to Heron Hall, and she could sit again
with the window open, and look upon the lawns and groves of the
park, and hear the cawing of the rooks, all which.sights and sounds
reminded her of her native island and the days of her happy
childhood.

Lady Jane had given her many delightful books and other useful
presents; but books could not make up for the loss of her brother.
She wanted a companion, and although Matilda was less unkind
to her than she once had been, yet she never talked to her, nor
answered her when she happened to make a remark. There was,
however, a great change in the manner of her uncle to her, and
a still greater change in that of Adolphus.

It had pleased God to give this boy, lately so proud and dis-
agreeable, such a strong sense of the evil he had committed, not
only in despising his orphan cousins, but in working up Edward’s
temper so as to make him mm away from home, that he became
quite a changed person.

No one, not even a child, can be made to believe that he is
wicked excepting through the power of God, the Spirit entering
his heart, and giving him a new nature; and there is no other
way of accounting for the different behaviour of Adolphus to eve-
rybody about him than by supposing that this new nature had
been given him. Some months before he had been impatient to
his father and mother, haughty to the servants, and hard-hearted
to poor people. He had never taken any notice of Annabella, and
THE HERONS PLUME. 250

had been cross to Matilda, and had always mocked and laughed
at Miss Philimot; but now he was become polite to everybody,
and tried hard to get his sister to love him. There was nothing,
however, which made him so unhappy as seeing Annabella walking
alone about the gardens. “A year ago,” he used to say to himself,
“she had a dear brother to play with;” and then he remembered
the hut which that brother had made for her in the pine-grove.
“T will put that hut in order,” he thought, “and take Annabella
to it, and ask her if she will let me be the same to her as Edward
was. We are getting too old to play like little children, but if she
will come there, and carry her work there, I will bring a book and
read to her, or I will do anything to make up the loss of Edward.”

As soon as Adolphus had thought of this plan, he took a work-
man with him to the pine-grove, and soon got the hut repaired.
He had benches made in it, and a rude table put in the midst
of it; and then he came one morning and invited Annabella to
walk with him. When he brought her near to the pine-grove the
tears came into her eyes; but when she saw the wigwam in such
fine order, she began to weep so much that Adolphus was almost
sorry he had brought her there.

The bitterness of her grief, however, “soon became less when
he told her why he had brought her there, and how much he
wished to be like a brother to her, and how he hated himself for
his unkindness to Edward. From that day Annabella became like
a very dear young sister to him, and they spent many hours toge-
ther in reading, working, or drawing in that quiet place; and in
this way July ended and August came, and at the same time came
a letter from Lady Jane, dated from a pretty little bathing-place
not thirty miles from Heron Hall.

“Here I am,” she said, in her usual odd way, “with my old
relative, who is getting better, though she is uncommonly dulland
tiresome. There are no pleasant people here, and I have nothing
whatever to amuse me but a fine, old-fashioned public garden,
where there is a short walk shaded by trees, and summer-houses,
and trellis-work, and a fountain, and an aviary for all manner of
strange and odd birds, to amuse strange and odd people, and a
26 THE HERONS PLUME.

‘square tank with gold fish in it, and all those sort of things. So
you must all come, papa and mamma, and all; I want company,
and you will do better than most people.”

“We must certainly go,” said Mrs. Collinton, as soon as she
chad read the letter, ‘Lady Jane is such a charming woman, and
there is so much ease and real friendship in her letter.”

In a few days all was ready, and the party set out for this
bathing-place,. Mrs. Collinton having sent a letter the day before,
to request Lady Jane to take a house or lodging as near as possible
to her own residence.

Lady Jane received them all, but especially Annabella, with great
‘kindness; and the young people were pleased to find that their
apartments commanded a very fine view of the sea.

They had a bright day for their journey from Heron Hall, but
as they were sitting at tea in the evening, Mr. Collinton remarked
an appearance in the sea and sky which he thought threatened a
stormy night.

“Oh, I hope not!” cried Annabella; “I should be very unhappy
indeed if there was a storm.”

“Really,” said Matilda, ‘“‘as no sea, I suppose, could ever reach
us here, I do not know anything I should enjoy more than to see
a fine storm from these windows, and all the ships tossed about.”

“You forget yourself, Matilda,” said Mr. Collinton gravely, and;
he began hastily to talk of other things.

“See, see,’ cried Adolphus a few minutes afterwards— “what
is that speck on the water, far, far away—can it be a ship?”

Mr. Collinton had brought a glass with him; he soon put it in
order, and after he had looked a moment through it, he said that
the speck was a ship, and he thought a large one.

Adolphus next looked, and kept crying out, “It gets larger
every minute, and it is coming right down upon the beach below.
I think the captain foresees a storm, and wants to get under the
shelter of the cliff. Don’t you call that piece of high land which
runs out to our left a cliff, papa?”

“T hope, oh! I do hope,” cried Annabella, “that the ship will
get in safe before the storm comes.”
THE HERONS PLUME. 27

The whole family sat watching the vessel till the sun set and
darkness was closing in fast; after a while they could not distin-
guish what progress she made; and however fast she came, the
‘threatenings of a storm kept time with her. The sun had’ set
amongst angry, dark-red clouds, and there was a low, whistling
sound in the wind which foreboded no good. :

Before the family went to their rooms, the whole face of the
sea before them was quite black, and the wind was so loud, that
had the vessel fired guns, they could not have been heard by the
anxious children. In this uncomfortable state poor Annabella retired
for the night; but it was long, long before she slept, and when she
did sleep she dreamed of all sorts of shipwrecks and sorrows.

The first sound that Annabella heard in the morning was a Tap
at her door, and the voice. of Adolphus saying—

“The storm is-over, the sun Snnie bright, and the ship safe
under the shore; so get up, cousin.’

Annabella A get up in great haste. Adolphus showed her the
ship lying quietly within the shade of the high land, and pointed
out to her that she was a large vessel, and probably had come a
long voyage; but she lay as far perhaps as two miles from the
town, near the beach. Just below was a small steam-packet, which
Adolphus said had come in the evening before,and would soon
go off again.

Lady Jane called soon after the family ee breakfasted, to take
them to see her famous garden. They were all soon ready, and
set out in three companies—that is, Lady Jane walked with
Mr. Collinton, Mrs. Collinton took Miss Philimot’s atm, and Adolphus.
went with his sister and cousin. When arrived in the garden, the
three parties separated and took different alleys. As Mrs. Collinton
went up one walk with the governess, she met a lady whom she
fancied she had seen before; but being busy in conversation, she
did not give: her a second thought. This lady was Mrs. Storer. She
had arrived the morning before in the steam-packet. She knew
Mrs. Collinton again in an instant, but she had her reasons for passing
on without seeming to notice her. She went out of the garden as
soon as she had passed.
28 THE HERONS PLUME.

There was nothing in the garden which the young people were
sO anxious to see as the aviary. Lady Jane had told them in what
direction to look for it, and they went straight towards it.

This aviary was a handsome stone building, divided into large
compartments for the different sorts of birds. As they walked towards
it, they saw a youth standing looking at the birds with his back
to them, and with this youth a man, who looked like a gardener. -
Before they could come up the youth had gone away, but the
man stood still. This person was the gardener, and it was his busi-
ness to show off the birds; and so well had some of these been
trained, that the beautiful turtle-doves in one cage did not refuse
to pick some sugarplums from Matilda’s hands.

When the young people had amused themselves awhile with
these and a parrot, which chattered, and scolded, and shrieked
in a manner most surprising, the gardener invited Adolphus to
walk round the building, telling him he had other curious birds
in the back of it, though none, perhaps, that would please the
ladies so well as the parrots. Adolphus accepted the invitation, and
saw in a yard behind the house various large birds, some in vast
cages, and others fastened by the leg in the open air; but to
mone of these could the boy pay the least attention, for he had
hardly entered into the yard before his eye was attracted by a
heron, and one, too, exactly like that which Edward had seen.

“Where did you get that bird?” cried Adolphus in his ama-
zement.

“T bought it,” replied the man shortly.

“T know it,” said Adolphus, “and the very place whence it
came; and if you would sell it, you shall have a high price.”

“Wait a bit,” returned the man; “if it is to be sold it will not
be to you; it is bid for already and the refusal promised. There
was a young gentleman here not half-an-hour since who claimed
its acquaintance also, and offered me all he had in the world if
I would sell it.”

“A young gentleman!” cried Adolphus; “where is he? where
can I find him?”-and he ran round the house to his sister and
cousin, crying, “He is found, I have found him! and now I can
THE HERON’S PLUME. 29

beg his pardon and we can make it up, and we shall be happy
again!”

“Found him! found who?” asked Matilda.

“Edward, dear Edward,” replied Adolphus’ “but I do not know
where he is.”

“Absurd!” said Matilda, pursing up her lip; “you have found
him, but you do not know where he is! How ridiculous!”

Before her brother could answer, Miss Philimot’s voice was heard.
calling, as from a little distance, “Miss Matilda, Miss Annabella,
Master Adolphus! you must run to your papa—he wants you all;
take the straight walk to the arbour.”

“They have found him, I am sure they have found him!”
cried Adolphus; and away he flew down under the trees, followed.
by Annabella, whilst Matilda took Miss Philimot’s arm, and affect-
ing to be quite hurried and nervous, she asked what all this bustle.
could mean.

“T hardly know myself,” said Miss Philimot: “but so far as I
understand, Mrs. Storer came to this place yesterday in the steam-
packet, and with her came Master Edward. How long he may
have been with her I know not, for I heard something ot his
running off to sea after he had killed the heron; however, not.
half-an-hour ago the rude boy was running, as for his life, down
the great walk, when he almost tumbled against Lady Jane and
your father; and I and your mamma saw Mr. Collinton froma
little distance take the youth in his arms and embrace him as if
he had been his own son: but this, my dear Miss Matilda, is not
the most wonderful part of the story which I have to tell you.
Who do you think was on board that vessel which we saw last.
night ?”

“Surely not my uncle?” cried Matilda. “The very same,”
replied Miss Philimot; “and at the very instant that your too-kind
papa was taking Edward to his heart in the way I have described,
Captain Collinton himself appeared in the garden and Mrs. Storer
with him. I suppose that he had come on shore to look about
him and had met with Mrs. Storer, and she had brought him to
the garden to seek his son, and then, my dear Miss Matilda,
30 THE HERONS PLUME.

there was such another unceremonious greeting as had happened
before.” “And Lady Jane present,” cried Matilda, “to see it! O
how vulgar she must think us, so used as she is to genteel life!”

“Indeed,” ‘said Miss Philimot, “I am not quite convinced that
Lady Jane is quite so high-bred and elegant as we have thought,
for not. one person present seemed more rejoiced than she was at
these meetings; and, indeed, it was Lady Jane who hurried me
to look for you.”

Not even the coldness of Mrs. Collington, the pride of Matilda,
or the affectation of Miss Philimot could destroy the happiness
of these unlooked-for reunions. Captain Collinton was returned to
go from home no more; his voyage had been fortunate, and he
had money enough to live quietly with his children,

It was necessary for him to leave the bathing-place the next
morning and go round with his ship to London, but the restored
friends had a most delightful evening together, and Lady Jane
‘was so much pleased with Mrs. Storer that she wished her to pay
a long visit at her cottage.

A month after that they all met again at Heron Hall, near to
which and close to one of the park-gates a small house had been
found, which was soon made, with a little of Lady Jane’s taste,
to suit the captain; and when they were all puzzling for a name
to the cottage, Adolphus begged it might be called The Wigwam,
and Lady Jane said nothing could be better. The white heron
had been purchased at a high price from the man who kept
the aviary, and on the day when every one met again at Heron
Hall the door of the cage in which the captive had been brought
back was opened, and as soon as the creature had stepped out
and stretched her wings she soared aloft till she looked like a
mere speck in the air, and soon began to descend, alighting right
upon the loftiest tree of her native island.

Edward never told that it was the young gamekeeper who had
given him the heron’s plume, nor was it ever known who caught
and sold the. white heron. ;
THE

HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.

A. FABLE,

oN DEBATE once arose among the animals in a farm-yard
AAI. which of them was most valued by their common master.

ee the horse, the ox, the cow, the sheep, and the dog had

stated their several pretensions, the hog took up the discourse.

“Tt is plain,” said he, “that the greatest value must be set upon
that animal which is kept most for its own sake, without expecting
from it any return or use of service. Now which of yer can boast
so much in that respect as I can?

“As for you, Horse, though you are very well fed and lodged,
and have servants to attend upon you and make you sleek and
clean, yet all this is for the sake of your labour. Do. I not:see
you taken out early every moming, put in chains, or fastened: to.
the shafts of a heavy cart, and not brought back till noon, when,
after a short respite, you are taken to work again till late-in the
evening? I may say just the same-to the Ox, except that he works
for poorer fare. ne

“For you, Mrs. Cow, who are so dainty over your ee
straw and grains, you are thought worth keeping only for your



“milk, which is drained away from you twice a day to the last drop,

while* your poor young ones are taken from you, and sent I know
not whither. 5
32 THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS,

“You, poor innocent Sheep, who are turned out to shift for
yourselves upon the bare hills, or penned up on the fallows with
now and then a withered turnip or some musty hay, you pay dearly
enough .for your keep by resigning your warm coat every year,
for want of which you are liable to be frozen to death on
some of the cold nights before the spring.

“As for the Dog, who prides himself so much on being admitted
to our master’s table, and made his companion, that he will
scarce condescend to reckon himself one of us, he is obliged to
do all the offices of a domestic servant by day, and to keep etl
by night, while we are quietly asleep.

“Tn short, you are all of you creatures maintained for use, poor
subservient things, made to be enslaved or pillaged. I, on the
contrary, have a warm sty and plenty of provisions all at free cost.
I have nothing to do but grow fat.and follow my amusement; and
my master is best pleased when he sees me lying at ease in'the
sun or eating my fill.”

Thus argued the Hog, and put the rest to silence by so much
logic and rhetoric. This was not long before the winter set in. It
proved a very scarce season for fodder of all kinds, so that the
farmer began to consider how he was to maintain all his live stock
till the spring. “It will be impossible for me,” thought he, “to
keep them all; I must therefore part with those I can best spare.
As for my horses and working oxen, I shall have business enough
to employ them; they must be kept, cost what it will. My cows
will not give me much milk in the winter, but they will calve in
the spring, and be ready for new grass. I must not lose the profit
of my dairy. The sheep, poor things, will take care of themselves
as long as there is a bite upon the hills, and if the deep snow
comes we must do with them as well as we can. by the help ofa
few turnips and some hay, for I must have their wool at shearing-
time to make out my rent with. But my hogs will eat me out of house
and home without doing me any good. They must go to market,
that’s certain, and the sooner I get rid of the fat.ones the better.”

So saying, he singled out the orator as.one of the primest among
them, and sent him to the market the very next day.
IDI TE NE USPS AIEEE NC

OR,

TROUBLESOME TOM.

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.



DUTY IS SAFETY;

OR,
TROUBLESOME TOM.





HOSE house is that, which stands upon that gentle sloping
‘ bank on the edge of the brook, just where the water runs
cee the little wooden bridge, and where many trees form a
pleasant shade ?

That is farmer Page’s house, and that person walking before
the house, leading a little girl by the hand, is Mrs. Page, and
her daughter Mary.

Mr. Page and his wife had three children besides Mary. Their
eldest child was Thomas, then came Mary, Sarah was the next in
age, and Jane was the youngest, and quite a baby, when Thomas
was ten years old.

Mr. and Mrs. Page were humble honest people, and tried to do
their best for their children; but perhaps they thought too much
of Tom, because he was the only son; and if they did not, there
was one who did, or who pretended she did—this person was
36 DUTY IS SAFETY;

Barbara James; she had been Tom’s nurse, and whenever any
thing went cross with the boy at home, he used to make off to
Barbara’s to tell his troubles, and he was sure to be soothed and
flattered by her.

Mrs. Page did not know how Barbara flattered Tom. She
thought that she was a harmless, hard-working person, because
whenever she went to her cottage she found her spinning.

Tom was sent to the free school in the church-yard, to learn to
read and write, but his father required him, when he was at home
between school hours, to help in any work which might be useful.

Mr. Page had a fine team of oxen, they had been put to feed
in a meadow, the creatures were
quiet, and when let alone they
would hurt no one, but Tom being
sent one evening with the cow-
herd, to drive :them home, he
goaded one of them behind with
a pointed stick, till the beast got
furious, and he had to run for it
to save his life.

When Tom Page got home, he
made a false story of the affair
to his mother, and she prevented
his being sent again for the beasts.

When the naughty boy had run away from the oxen, the herds-
man had some trouble to get them in order again, but after
a while they knew his voice and went quietly to their stalls.

Tom might have learned a good lesson from the example of these
oxen, for they knew and heeded the voice of their keeper; but he
paid no regard whatever to the words of his parents, and from day
to day became more and more wilful; his name too was getting up
in the parish, and the villagers began to call him, Troublesome Tom.

Soon after the business of the oxen, his father said to him one
summer’s evening, My boy, you shall take the white sow and her
pigs out upon the green, to get a little run and change of food,
but mind, don’t over-drive the young ones.


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 37

Very well, father, replied Tom, for he did not dare to show
himself as he was, to his father. ,

Well! said Tom, when he got out clear upon the green with
the sow and her young ones, well! so I am raised to the honour
of being a pig-driver !

Then he began to hiss and to hoot, which set the sow to trot, and
the little ones to run, curling their tails and shaking their ears.

Tom ran also and hissed louder; and thus they went on, till
they had quite crossed the green, and come near to a fine neat
quick-set hedge, which enclosed a pretty flower-garden.

The ladies who. owned this garden, had great delight in it, and
though it was not -
large, it was very --
beautiful, being fil-
led with fruit trees
and rare flowers..

Troublesome *
Tom had oftenseen ~
this garden from
the green before,
but he had never
been in it, for
though he had tried
the gate once or
twice, hehadalways
found it fastened.

I will try again however, thought he—and so ceasing from his
shouts and hisses, he placed his hands on the top rail and shook
it well.

So he shook and shook, with his hands first, and then with his
back, till at last, the hinges, being a little rusty, gave way, the
gate flew open, and down he fell all his length on the gravel;
and it was well for him that his nose was uppermost.

He was soon up again, for he wanted to find out if there was
any fruit he might lay his hands on.

He had just spied a cherry-tree near to a small green house;




38 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

when he was startled by a grunt close behind him, and on turning
round, he saw the old sow and all her fatrow in the very midst
of a fine flower-bed, with their noses among the roots. Some of
the fairest flowers were under their feet, and two or three flower-
pots lay smashed already, whilst others were in the greatest danger.

Tom was as angry with the pigs, as if he had not himself led
the way, which made him drive at the sow and the little pigs with
his stick so violently, that they all set to run, and all in different
ways. Tom, however, cunningly kept to the heels of the old lady,
trusting that if he could get her out of the garden, the little ones
would come at her call, that is
if he could succeed in keeping
her from running in again.

So Tom got clear of the garden
with his pigs, and thought
himself very lucky, for he did
not believe that any one had
seen him.

It was soon after the affair
of the pigs, that Mrs. Powel, a
friend of Mrs. Page, came from
the nearest town to drink tea
at the farm—and brought with
her a little girl, her only
daughter.

Little Miss, thought Tom,
looks uncommonly fine, with her curled hair, and her hat all on
one side, and her blown out sleeves, and her small basket in her
hand. But if I don’t put her out of conceit with her pretty self
before she goes, why my name is not Tom.

So when his mother and her visitor were busy talking, and Mary
and Sarah gone out to pick some currants, he went up to the little
girl and invited her to walk with him into the garden. ;

Be sure to take care of her, Tom, said his mother; little Miss
Bessy is not used to our rough country ways.

Oh! yes, mother, replied Tom, I will take care of her.


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 39

And where did this rude boy take her, but to the bee-hive. He
led her up quite close to it, and then contriving to disturb the
bees, he ran away himself, whilst two of them settled upon the
poor child and stung her, one on the neck, and the otlier on the brow.

So sorry did he pretend to beat this
accident that he escaped all punishment
again for that time, although this offence
being wilful and intended, was very far
from a light one.

Tom made so many excuses for having
taken the little Miss near the hive, that
Mrs. Powel fancied that his heart was
broken about it, and good-natured Bessy
set herself to comfort him.

It was not your fault, master Tom,
she said, you did not mean to take me into danger, did you? No, indeed, Miss, “**
replied Tom boldly.

Twenty times at least, whilst they were at table drinking their
tea, Tom inquired of Bessy how she felt herself.

I hope those stings don’t smart, Miss, he said at one time; and
at another it was, you are not in pain, Miss, I hope; and so on
it went till Mrs. Powel was quite taken with his kindness, and invited
his father to bring him the next fair-day to play with Bessy, and
eat some dinner.

I am expecting to be at the fair, replied
Mr. Page, for I have a capital young cart-
horse to sell, and I shall have great pleasure
in bringing my son.

Tom was very well pleased with this
invitation, though that very week, before
the fair day arrived, he made his father so
angry by throwing a stone at their dog
Ranger, that he had nearly lost the pleasure.

Son Tom, said Farmer Page, I am told
that you go by the name of Troublesome




40 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

Tom in the village, more’s the shame! and I have been told of
some of the pranks by. which you have deserved the name.

Now, may be you have not yet begun to suffer for your ill-
behaviour: but as sure as I stand here, you will one day or another
reap the fruits of what you have sown, and a bitter harvest, I tell
you, it will be. There is an old good saying, Duty is Safety: let a
child act dutifully, that is, in obedience to the will of his parents
and masters, and he is in the way of safety—let him go against
their will, and he makes to himself as many foes as he has
acquaintances.

Tom looked sulky, but he mumbled out some words of promise
that he would try to do better, and thus it happened that Mr.
Page took Tom with him to the fair.

Little John Powel, Bosys Brother, had a fine seule horse, it

% was too small for Tom, his legs
touched the ground when he was
upon it, but it was what he called
fun to put the little boy in the
saddle, and to rock it furiously
whilst he cried, whoop! whoop!
gallop! gallop! ge! ho!

» The little boy in vain cried,

Oh stop! Oh stop! pray stop !—
but Troublesome Tomdid not
: choose to hear him, and the
wooden horse was at length thrown forwadr with such violence,
that little John fell over its head, and Bessy who was the first to
run in, shrieked till her mamma came to pick him up.

When the little one was taken up, Tom was not to be found—
the troublesome boy had run off, and did not come in till dinner
was ready, and then he stood out, that he had left the hall just
before John had fallen, and the child could not prove that it was
not true, because he had his back to where Tom was standing.
On their way home Mr. Page said to his son, it seems very odd
to me, Tom, that so many mishaps fall out wherever you go; see
to it, boy; I promise you that you are well watched, and the very


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 4I

first time that you are caught at any mischief, I will make you
feel in such a way as you never felt before.

Barbara, said Tom, as he stopped at her door in his way from
school the next half holiday, father has been scolding me, and
threatening me with a flogging, and all because he says I am
troublesome. .

And a’ant all boys troublesome? said the nurse. What is it you
have done?

Before Tom could answer, there came a woman along the lane
with a boy; they were driving a young ass, and they stopped
before the cottage door.

Mistress, said the woman to Barbara, tell us the way to the
sign post at the cross roads—be we to turn to the right or the
left at the end of this lane?

To the left, cried Tom, from behind Barbara.

Eh! master Page, said the nurse.

Silence! whispered Tom, then adding aloud, To the left, you
must turn to the left, and then you must turn again to the right,
and then over the green, and you will not find it more than
four short miles.

- Four miles! cried the woman, I did not count it so’ far, by
the half—four miles more and me so foot sore.

Is not that fun? said Tom, when the people were gone on.
If I have sent them one mile, I have sent them three round
about.

And so saying, unrebuked by Barbara, he left her cottage.

As he was climbing up a bank through a narrow way shaded
by bushes, he saw a boy going up the path before him with a bat
for playing cricket in his hand. He called aloud to him, Eh! Rogers,
is that you? what are you doing here?

Oh! it’s you, Tom Page, answered the boy—be quiet, can’t you,
there’s farmer Tomkins, and four of our school chaps just above—
and they have seen a rabbit run into the bushes; when the farmer
has his gun ready, they will shout and drive him out.

How came you all here? asked Tom.

We have been playing at cricket, replied Roger.
42 _ DUTY IS SAFETY ;

And did not let me know, returned Tom; but I will be even
with you. And he began to shout as loud as he could, a rabbit!
a rabbit! let’s kill a rabbit!

At the noise made by Tom, the farmer turned round, and the
rabbit took the occasion to make its escape.

When the boys found their sport spoiled, they turned at once
upon Tom; but he had made off again, and had got within his
father’s fold-yard, before any of them could catch him.

When Tom got home, he found that two of the neighbouring
farmers had dropped in;
and Mr. Page had asked
them to stay and partake of
(oa . what was in the house.
ee SOE IA i RGA a As the day was very hot,

: f id f Mrs. Page had set the table

.. in the garden before the
{See , porch, and whilst the two
i a ig oe i farmers were taking a little
eC cider and some bread and

zs > Wink f ae if 4
5 CESS aw xslt cheese before dinner, the








Z daughter of one of them
and the wife of the other
dropped in.

These also had been invited to dine on such as Mrs. Page had,
for they all were old and intimate friends.

Mrs. Page went away with her visitors as soon as the cloth was
removed, and the ale-jug and long glasses were set on the board.
But Tom sat still at the table.

It would have been better for him, if he had left when his
mother did.

She was no sooner gone, than the younger of the two visitors,
began to jest and banter Tom on the name which he had earned
in the village.

Tom got very angry, and said he did not know why he was to
have a bad name more than another.

Why, you don’t deny, said the young man, that you have

#

en Se eS s
OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 43

worked as hard to get the name you have, as any boy ever did
to get a better.

You know nothing about me, answered Tom sulkily.

Don’t I? said the other laughing, don’t I? Who sent the
trampers this morning three miles round, to look for the cross
tree not half a mile off? who goaded the beasts with a sharp
stick ? he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, and who drove
the pigs into the old ladies’ garden ?

What’s that? what’s that? asked Mr. Page, who had heard
more than the young man meant he should hear. Tom! Tom!
he added, looking very hard at his son. What! more of your
pranks? It’s no laughing matter, neighbour, and shall be none,
he said, striking his hand on the table till every glass jingled.
I have promised, and I will keep my promise, that I will make
every bone in your skin to ache, son Tom, for the first piece
of wilful mischief that comes fairly before me.

I won’t look to the past,—so mind you to take care of the
future, and then all will be square between us. Now walk off, and
as you hope for safety, be dutiful to your mother and me, and
all we put in authority over you.

But father, said Tom, in a whining voice, you must not believe—

Say no more, cried Mr. Page, interrupting him—go and play
with your sisters, they are the best company you can have, I only
wish you were half as good as Mary.

Tom walked away, muttering as he went, Haif as good as Mary!
so I am not half as good as Mary; and father thinks I will stay
at home and play with Mary—very likely, but what shall I do
this evening? I don’t know what to do—let me consider, father
won't get rid of his company before late. He is fast enough for
one while. Well then! suppose I go a fishing down the brook,
along towards the pools; under the old big bridge—father won't
know, he seldom comes that way.

Mr. Page had told his son never to go fishing on that side,
because the pool into which the stream flowed in its way towards
the sea was deep and dangerous, and beyond the pool the stream

a
44 DUTY IS SAFETY;

was fearfully rapid. There were a few huts among the sands, on
the borders of the sea, and the people who lived there, were
known to be smugglers.

Smugglers are persons who deal in articles brought over the sea,
for which what are called duties ought to be paid to Govern-
ment.

The first thing Tom went about after leaving the company, was
to go after his fishing tackle, and next to call Ranger, who walked
with him down to the brook and along its bank, until they came
to the old bridge.

a There Tom found a very little boy,
called short Sam, who was angling with
a hazel stick instead of a proper rod, a
piece of fine twine, and a crooked pin,
which he had plastered with a bit of dough.

What are you doing there, Sam? said
Tom.

I am going to get some fish for granny’s
supper, answered the little boy.

But, said Tom, you will never catch
any fish where you now stand, the fish
can see you just there; and they will not come near.

Short Sam had taken the very place which Tom fancied for
himself, and he was determined to get it from the little one.

Where should I be to fish? asked Sam.

Come with me, answered Tom, come upon the bridge, and
I will set you on the wall, and then you will have the chance
of seeing where the fish are, and no chance of their seeing
you.

So Tom went with him upon the bridge, and helped to set him
on the low wall which guarded the road, with hiss hort legs dangl-
ing over the water.

There you are, said Tom, mind you don’t tip forwards; but if
you do, I will pick you up. So saying he left the child, and went
himself where he had first found him.

'Tom had hardly thrown out his line, and short Sam was just


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 45

preparing to do the same, when who should come that way across
the bridge, but Sam’s father himself.

The father’s first business was, to draw Sam back from his
perch, and to set him on his short legs, in a safe place, after which
he gave him a hearty blow, bidding him to go home to his granny,
saying, Will you do that again ? will you?

It was Master Page, sobbed the child, Master Page put me
there.

Was it? cried the father, and he came forwards again towards
the wall of the bridge, and told Tom that he might have caused
the death of the poor helpless child by his tricks, and he promised
him, Mr. Page should
know the mischief he
had been at, before any
of them were an hour
older.

Tom waited not to hear
any more, for the man
had turned from the
parapet, and the boy
feared that he was coming
down to beat him.

Tom was a_ great
coward, as most mischie-
vous persons are; so he snatched up his fishing basket and away
he ran under the bridge, and down the side of the brook, his
rod in his hand, with his line flying loose from the end of it, and
Ranger ran with him. P

As soon as Tom was out of sight of the angry father, he thought
he would seat himself down, and again throw his line into the
water, but the boy was not to fish in peace that day, for fresh
trouble came on him.

Suddenly turning a comer, he perceived before him, eight or
nine of his school-fellows amusing themselves by different boyish
sports, and at one glance Tom saw that the same five boys were
amongst them who had been seeking the rabbit in the morning,


46 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

and who had been annoyed in their diversion by his shouts. Two
of them were practising leaping, the one with a pole, the other
by a standing jump. And Tom hoped they would be so much
engaged in their play that they would not see him; but he hoped
in vain, for Ranger just choosing the moment for a bark or cough,
the boys looked up and knew him and his dog.

There is Tom Page, cried one, let us catch him, and give him
- a good thrashing for spoiling our sport; come boys, after him.

Tom waited to hear no more, but sprung forwards running he
knew not where.

Seeing that he feared their approach, the boys threw down their
leaping poles, and pre-
pared to pursue him.

Fair and softly, cried
one of the bigger boys,
nine to one is no joke.
Tom has not ill-used
us all, we should not
all race after him.

So here are five of
the boys racing after
Tom, but the lad has
got the start of them so far, that he and Ranger are not to be
seen. Four of the boys are watching to see the race, that it is all
fair, as they call it; but they were soon unable to judge, as theit
companions ran after Tom down towards the bank of the pool, or
trout-stream, which fell into the sea some miles distant. Fortunately
for Tom, these five boys hindered each other, for none liked to
be last, and if they were by chance left so, and there must of
necessity be one the hindmost,—that one clung to the collar or
coat of him before, and prevented him running with ease.

On, on, ran Tom, with Ranger at his heels, till he was quite
out of breath, whilst the shouts ahd threats of his pursuers were
borne on the wings of the wind so quickly to his ears, that more
than once he fancied he could feel the hand of one or another
upon his dress. This only urged him on, and finding his breath


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 47
failing him, he looked around eagerly for some hiding place. But
nothing could he see, but the short grassy bank which bordered the
side of the pool; for though the reeds and sedges grew high, the
spots where they grew in plenty, were so marshy, that Tom could
not hope to hide himself amongst them. Close to the bank, however,
and fastened to a post by a rope, was a small boat, which belonged
to a fisherman of the neighbourhood; and as Tom’s legs ached
from running, and the boys’ threats still rang in his ears, he jumped
into the boat, and without waiting to think, he unwound the rope
which fastened it to the post.

Ranger would have got into the boat after him, but Tom remembered
at that moment, that it
was Ranger’s bark which
had roused the boys, and
becoming very angry, he
gave the faithful creature
more bad names than I
choose to write down in
this book.

Poor patient Ranger,
how quietly he stands
now; and yet you would
hardly fancy that, a mo-
ment or two ago, he had
to run away from Tom as
fast as he could, for the naughty boy threw a large wooden peg, which
he had found in the bottom ot the boat, against the gentle animal.

As the dog went off, Tom became aware that the boat was in
motion, and he was very glad to find it was moving away, for his
school-fellows were just coming in sight, and he much feared being
caught by them.

They came down to the water’s edge, and Roger mockingly
wished him a pleasant journey; adding, if the stream were to
swallow you up, cockle-shell and all, master Tom, the world would
be much the better for getting rid of so troublesome a fellow as
you are. ;


48 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

Tom knew they could not come near him to touch him, so he
began to abuse them, calling them cowards. For it is only cowards
like you, he said, who would fight five to one.

Who is so great a coward as yourself, Tom Page? cried Roger,
shouting as loud as he could; for the boat was carrying Tom away
from them. Who is so great a coward as you, Tom Page, who are
afraid of speaking your bad and insolent language, till you know
you are far enough to escape a thrashing? but mind, lad, you shall
have it when next I catch you; for this is not the first of twenty
times that you have deserved it.

Ay, cried another boy, as the lads eared up the bank; I should
say that whenever you meet Tom Page, Roger, you Eiedd give
him a cuffing, for he either has deserved it, or will deserve it in
five minutes afterwards for -his troublesome ways.

But to return to Tom, whose mocking laugh, and insulting words,
were no longer heard by his school-fellows. The boat moved along
so gently down the stream, that the foolish boy seeing there were
two oars in it, fancied that he could, whenever he wished it turn
it about and go wherever he chose. He had a great habit of talking
to himself, when he had no other person to whom he could speak ;
and as he had much to say to himself in his strange, new con-
dition, he went muttering on, all the way.

Well, he said, this is fine; I have distanced the lads nicely, but
-I should not relish going very far neither. The boat, don’t move
much, I think, but those rushes on the bank there look as if they
were swimming along at a fine rate—it is the water that makes
them look so. Eh! but it is not—surely—no, it can’t be the boat.
Well to be sure, and it is the boat; I think I must be looking
out for some nice place to land in, for it won’t do to go on at
this rate much longer.

But what must I do? he next thought, I shan’t like to go home
till bed time, for if Sam’s father has gone up with his silly story
to our house, why then I shall get a thrashing; so I must wait
till it is time to sneak off to bed.

Father goes to market to-morrow, and if he has not something
to think of besides me and short Sam the day after that, why then
SS a nee Ct re Oa ee



FE a NN ee SOR PO ES Pe OSS Ee OP eee NTE er

e
OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 49

we must have it out between us, I suppose. But I am not the
idiot, to go home now and find father piping hot about the
matter.

Poor Tom Page,: what a sad state was he in, though he was
then as indifferent to the danger that threatened his body, as he
was to that which threatened his soul.

Tom’s bad actions were now endangering his life, though, as I
said before, he did not know the risk he ran; and so he went
gently gliding down in his boat, for the current was not strong,
and for a time all was pleasant.

But the boy knew he was doing wrong, and his mind was not
at ease; though, for the present, not quite satisfied with his own
way of going on, yet he was very far from wishing to do right;

.and now his conscience not letting him rest, he began to find

excuses for his conduct.

What a little fool that short Sam is, he said aloud, why could
he not take care of himself? Or why could he not have got off
the parapet when he heard his father coming? Then too, why did
he say, I put him there? But I promise him, he shall suffer for
telling of me; the very next time I catch him I will give him a
thrashing. If it had not been for him, I should not have been
seen by Roger and the lads, and then I should not have got into
this boat,—for, to own the truth, I do not think I know how to
get it to land. Well, I shall presently meet with some fishermen,
and I am sure they cannot be so ill-natured as not to help me.
So for a while longer, Tom and his boat went on unchecked; but
soon the boy perceived the night was approaching, which made
him seriously anxious to land, and for this purpose he stooped to
take up the oars from the bottom of the boat; but oh! how alarmed
he was, and what a fearful shriek he attered| when he found the
boat swayed from side to side in a most alarming manner at his
least motion.

Oh, I wish I was back again, he cried, that I was’ at home
with mother and Mary. Oh father, help! help!

Oh father, father. Oh! oh! he cried again on venturing to look
behind him, and seeing how far he was from where he left the

E
°
50 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

shore. Oh! oh! the banks are going from me—I shall be drowned,
I shall be drowned—Oh what shall I do?

In his alarm, he dropped his rod, which he had held till that
time in his hand, into the water, but he was too much occupied by
his dangerous situation even to think of it, much less to regret
its loss.

As the stream approached nearer the sea, it increased in width,
and the low banks all round seemed very far away. The sun was
getting low, and was looking fiery, and it shed a red glow upon
the sea.

Oh! oh! cried Tom again, on first perceiving the sea; Oh! oh!
if this vile boat should go on and on till it brings me into the
sea, then indeed—indeed I
shall be drowned, and I
shall never see father and
mother and Mary again.
_. Oh! I wish I had minded

- father better; and I wish
too, that I had heeded
mother all those times, when
she talked to me and Mary
~- about God; and told us
that God loves us. I wish
I had, Oh! I wish I had.

Tom thought that his voyage had lasted a long, long time,
much longer than it really had; but now he began to think that
he flew over the waters, though the current was not really strong
near the sea. The poor boy hid his face in his hands, he believed
he must be drowned, and he did not dare look up, but he was
roused by hearing a shout, as if close to his ear.

Keep away—keep away, can’t you? Do you want to be drowned,
and to drown me too?

Tom looked up, and he found that his boat had been drawn
by the current, more towards the bank on the right side, and
within a short distance of him was a small boat, called a coracle,.
in which a man was seated engaged in fishing.


:







OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 51

As Tom first looked, he saw, as you see in the picture, the
fisherman so intent. on what he was doing that, having called to
Tom to mind his boat, he had almost forgotten that any person
was near him.

Oh! pray help me, cried poor Tom, as his boat was. still borne
on, though very slowly; pray help me, I shall be drowned. Oh! -
what shall I do?

What business have you in a boat at all, said the fisherman
angrily, if you do not know how to manage it?

Oh! have pity upon me, Sir, replied the frightened boy, or I
shall—indeed I shall be drowned.

Tom afterwards used to say to Mary, that he did not know
how the next few minutes passed, he only remembered that the
fisherman laid his rod and line in his boat, and kept on one side
of him, and telling him what he was to do, in such a clear manner,
that it was impossible to mis-understand him.

And, Mary, used Tom to add, I did exactly as he directed,
and in a few minutes‘more, I found myself on the bank.

The frightened boy fell upon his knees, and would have thanked
the fisherman for his life, but the man bade him lose no time,
but hurry home, as his parents might be alarmed at his absence.
And mind, lad, he added, before you lay your head on your bed
this night, thank your God for sparing your life, for assuredly you
would have been drowned if He had not mercifully provided for
you a friend in time of danger.

At first Tom was so happy to find himself on land again, that
he did not think of the long way he had to go before he could

reach his home. The fisherman had returned to his boat, and the
= “boy was left by himself to commence his walk.

Where am I? he thought, as he looked round him. Ah! yonder
is the wood, on the other side of which is father’s farm, but how
very far away it seems; I did not think I could have come so
far in that abominable boat. Well, I shall believe father next time,
when he says, “Duty is Safety.” But I wish I had Ranger with
me—it was a pity I sent him home—good Ranger, I wish I had
him here now.
52 DUTY IS SAFETY;

The lower rays of the sun were dipping into the waves, and
Tom, alarmed lest the night should come in quickly, set himself
to walk towards the wood.

It was not a pleasant thought for this naughty boy, to remember
that he had left home without permission, and had gone in a
direction unknown to his friends, so that even if they wished to
send and seek him, how were they likely to guess the right road,
in which they could find him ?

Tom walked rapidly on for some time, but though he did so,
the wood appeared as,far off as ever. And again he thought of
Ranger, for he felt that if he had the faithful dog with him, he
should be safe enough.

Ranger would no doubt have been a great comfort to Tom in
walking through the wood, but Ranger could not have eased his
mind, for the boy was beginning, for the first time, to regret his
bad actions, for now he really was made to feel the evil, bad
conduct brings upon those who pursue it. It was not of himself,
that such thoughts could arise; but they were put into his mind
by God, who now in mercy was chastising this boy, as a father
chastises his child, to bring him to acknowledge that the ways of
righteousness are the ways of peace. Tom would have now wil-
lingly consented, even to get a thrashing from his father, if he
could ensure by that his speedy return home, but could this his
wish have been granted to him, it is probable he would have been
as naughty as ever the next day, and as justly as before have
deserved his name of Troublesome Tom. But God was dealing
kindly by this boy, and by his present troubles and fears, bringing
to his mind a full conviction of his past stubbornness and sinful
doings.

The first'good feeling that evinced itself in him, was an acknow-
ledgment of his cruelty to Ranger. I have sent the dog from me,
by my unkindness, he said; I wish that I had made a friend of
Ranger — I will never fling anything at poor Ranger again — oh
that I had him with me now. But what must I do? The house
of short Sam’s granny is the nearest that I know, if I could only
get there—but no that will not do—I can’t go there—they won’t




:



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 53

take me in there, they will be afraid of my troublesome ways. I
wish I had not played that trick on the boy—what could I do it for?

Tom went on very well whilst the light continued, but the sun
had hardly gone quite down, before many stormy clouds began to
gather from the sea. These dark clouds, as they came rolling on,
soon shut out the light, but Tom still for a little while could see
the wood before him, and the white waters of the pool.

The boy did not love darkness, indeed it is not pleasant to any
one who is not safe in bed, and ready for a good sleep. I don’t
like this darkness, he said aloud, if I loved God, I might not mind
it as I do now. Mary says, she is not afraid in the dark, for God
can see her then, as well as when the bright sun shines. I wonder
if I was to obey father and mother as Mary does, whether I should
learn like her, not to mind night; for even at home, when I am
in bed, I do not like to lie awake in the dark, when nobody is:
stirring. Mary says, when she is frightened, she repeats some little
verse she has learnt at school, and then she asks God to take
care of her, and she is frightened no more. Oh! how I wish I
knew a verse to say like Mary, but then I never learn mine at
school, or if I do learn it, I only just get it up to say to the
master, and I am sure I could not say it again five minutes after-
wards; but then I might ask God to take care of me, for J may
use my own words for that,—but no, I can’t do that either, for
God is angry with me, and I deserve his anger. Oh how very
wicked I have always been, and now perhaps I am going to die
in this wood, and then what will become of me ?—surely—surely
I shall not go to heaven.

The poor boy now began to weep most piteously ; but he still
continued his way, though his foot often stumbled against loose
stones, which his tears prevented him from seeing. All at once he
started, and stood still, for at that moment a rustling, roaring noise
came to his ears, Tom turned to where the noise came from, but
the sky was so black with clouds, he could not see what it was.

The boy was too frightened to discover that it was in reality
only the wind which came suddenly over the sea, raising the waves
and dashing them on the shore.
54 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

Oh, it is a bear, he cried, and I shall-be killed, and he set
‘himself to run, he knew not whither, as fast as his feet would
carry him. :
Whilst Tom is running, I will explain to you, why he expected
to meet a bear in England, where no bears are to be found.
The young farmer who had dined at his father’s house that day,
had read them a true story of a bear having escaped from a wild
beast show, and escaped into a blacksmith’s forge, where for some
time it remained quite quiet.
When night set in, it became more bold, and made such a noise
in the forge, that it roused the blacksmith and his wife, who came
out with pokers and sticks to
see what was the matter. Oh,
how alarmed they were when
they saw the things all tossed
about the forge, all the horse
shoes lying scattered on the
ground, whilst in a corner, they
saw the fierce eyes of the
dreadful animal, and its horrible
paws, one gripe from which
= might be death. How they got
rid of it Tom never heard, but
he had seen the picture I now
show you, and can you wonder
that, with the bad conscience
he had, when he heard the roaring of the wind, and could see
nothing from the darkness, that he should fancy it was the dreadful
bear ?

On, on he ran, he knew not where; but this I can say, it was
quite in a different direction from his home, and he might even
have run into the pool, had there not been One who guided him,
though he knew it not, and that was his God—-that good God
who made him, and whose holy book and service he had hated
even to hear about.

After a while, as he did not hear the sound again, he ceased


:
.
(



OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 55

running, for he was very tired, and looking round him he perceived
a light in the distance as if coming from a house. . ;

He once more hastened on his way, but this time it was towards
the light, and soon he came to a large cottage, or small house,
from the windows and door of which, the fire-light shone brightly.

The night was warm, not a breath was stirring, those who were
wise in such matters, expected a storm in a very short time; it
was so close that it was no wonder that both the windows and
door of the cottage were wide open.

Just as Tom reached the cottage, some of the dark clouds for
a few minutes let in the light of the moon, so that there was
light, both within and without the cottage.

Peeping cautiously in at the door, Tom saw within, a good-sized
apartment, with much useful, and some pieces of even handsome
furniture scattered about. There were two cupboards, and a gridiron,
and three pounds of candles, several tubs and barrels, and a hamper,
as if the people dealt in liquor. Every thing was out of its place,
and scattered over the floor of the kitchen, and there was an
unpleasant smell of gunpowder, which did not alarm Tom a little,
for he could not imagine for what it had been used at such a
time of night. :

Suddenly there was a report as of a very small cannon, and
then he heard the voice of a child crying, Mother—mother, come
down here—mother, come; those boys are shooting at my doll.

Taking courage at hearing it was but at a doll; Tom stepped
forwards, and again looked in, but he was forced to draw back
immediately, for he discovered a new cause of alarm.

The voice of the girl had brought down her mother, and if you
will look at the first picture in this book, you will see what Tom
saw, but I do not think you can guess the reason for his fear.

There are thé three rude boys, and their sister, whose doll they
have been shooting with that toy cannon. How frightened the
children seem of their mother, and look, in her anger, she has
seized the lighted stick with which they had let off the cannon,
and see, that boy has overturned the beer jug, and you may. be
sure he will catch it severely as soon as his mother finds it out.
56 DUTY IS pee

But what was it that alarmed Tom so much? you ask; why he
knew the woman again, though she had changed her dress, for
the very same person whom he had directed to go a wrong road
that moming. Yes, he said to himself in a low voice, yes, it is
the very woman I sent three miles round this morning, and if she
should see me—if she should know me again, she might perhaps
beat me to death. I must not stay here, I had better die on the
waste. How could I have been so foolish?—here is another of my
pranks, and what have they brought on me ?—nothing but trouble.

Hearing the boys making towards the door of the house to
avoid their angry mother, who had just discovered the overturned
pitcher of beer, Tom once more hastened on his way, though he
was now so tired and hot, that he could scarcely draw one leg
after another.

He had lost his road on his alarm at what he thought was the
angry growl of a bear; and mistaking the dark clouds for the
wood, he kept blundering on along the waste, sometimes stumbling
over sand heaps, sometimes slipping into holes, and sometimes
falling his whole length along the ground, and still he was no
nearer his home.

It was about two hours before midnight, when the wind suddenly
lulled, and thunder, loud thunder, roared in de heavens, whilst
the sky ever and anon blazed with the forked lightning. Tom was
naturally afraid of lightning, it is no wonder therefore that now
alone, and unbefriended, he should be driven half wild with fear,
on finding himself exposed: to a violent storm.

Oh, I shall be killed, I shall be killed, he cried. God is very
angry with me, and J deserve to die—Oh! what will become of
me? what shall I do? Oh! if that dreadful lightning strikes me—
Oh! I deserve it all—what a wicked, wicked lad I have been.

The wearied and frightened boy could no longer support himself
against his numerous troubles, and falling upon the ground, he hid
his face with his hands, whilst his terror was such that for some
time he could not even think.

When roused to recollection, he became aware that the storm
was passing away, but the heavy rain, with which it had been
OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 57

accompanied, had wet him to the skin, and even now it had not
entirely ceased. Poor Tom was cold, wet, and hungry—all around
him was full of terrors, but it was right and it was very good for
him that he had been made for so many hours to think of what
he had brought upon himself by his ill behaviour.

The words of his father, “Duty is Safety,” rang in his ears
through all those fearful hours; he thought that he heard them in
the beating of the waves, and in the roaring of the thunder.

Nothing had brought the folly of his teasing, troublesome ways
so much to his mind, as the last thing which happened to him;
for who could have thought, he said, when I played that fool’s
trick to that woman this morning, that I should, before midnight,
want a bit of bread and a night’s lodging from her hands?



Then came the wish that he was a better boy, that God would
give him a new heart, and make him his own child; and the poor
boy wept and sobbed bitterly, for he was now fully conscious of
what a bad boy he had been. It was then put into hi mind, that
if there was no human creature to help him, yet he had a Father
58 DUTY IS SAFETY,

and Saviour in heaven, and he knelt down and prayed, as may
be seen in the picture above.

Can this be the same troublesome boy who was the dread of
all his neighbours but a little while ago, who kneels there confessing
all his evil ways, and praying his God to make him his own dear
child? Yes, it is, and it is God, who has blessed all his troubles
to him, for God can give a new nature to the worst child at any
time in which it pleases him so to do. Whilst Tom was still on
his knees, a verse his mother had taught him came to his mind
and brought him comfort; it was this—“I will arise and go to
my father, and I will say, Father, I have sinned against heaven,
and before thee, and I am not worthy to be called thy son.”
That is what the pro-
digal son says, thought
he, and hewas forgiven,
then I may hope that
both my earthly and
my heavenly father
will forgive me.

As Tom rose from
his knees, the lightning
flashed once more in
the heavens, and he
saw before him a small
farm house, or cottage, within a hundred yards of where he stood.
He hastened to it, but found it was untenanted, for though he
knocked and knocked again, he heard no one stirring within.

He turned away with tears in his eyes, not knowing what to do
next, when he saw near the house, by the now friendly lightning,
a garden or tool-house, the door of which was half open. Tom
immediately went towards it, and pushing open the door, he
entered, and seeing some straw in a corner, he threw himself on
it, and in a few minutes the poor weary child was fast asleep.

' Tom’s troubles and frights had been very great, but what were they
to what all’at home had suffered. Short Sam’s granny was the first
who brought any news of the boy, for it was not an hour after


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 59

he had left the stone bridge, before she came up to the farm
to tell how he had served her grandson. Mr. Page was much vexed,
but he said he would pay Tom well when he could catch him.

Ranger came back whilst the old woman was at the farm, but
just then no one took much notice of the matter, for Mr. Page
was very angry with his son, but he was obliged to go out on
business, and he went out thinking that Tom would be sure to be
at home when he came back.

But hour passed after hour and no Tom came, so that Mrs. Page



and Mary became from minute to minute more and more frightened,
as they foresaw the storm.

He must be with his father, ma’am, said the maid, master has
found him on the way and has taken him with him.

This idea comforted Mrs. Page and her daughter for a while,
and Mary was sent to bed. But oh! how alarmed was the mother
when her husband returned about an hour before midnight with-
out his son.

The storm was now raging in its fury, but none at the farm
thought of it excepting on account of Tom, and notwithstanding
60 DUTY IS SAFETF ;

the heavy rain, the maid was sent to Barbara’s to inquire if the
boy was there.

Perhaps you will think the lightning would serve for a lantern,
but the maid has to pass by a brook, and the heavy rains cause
it to swell and to overflow its banks, and then when the lightning
is not playing, the night is so dark that it would be most probable
Betty would make a false step.

But Tom was not to be found at Barbara’s. And when Betty
returned with this sad news, what a bustle was there in the farm,
so that even the children were roused from their sleep by this
unusual commotion at such an hour.

That was a miserable night at the farm; Mr. Page and his men
were out in all the rain; Mrs. Page and her children did nothing
but cry, and Barbara too came, and she was as much troubled as
any, for she really loved Tom.

Mary had fallen into a very heavy sleep when she first lay down,
for she had cried till her head ached severely, but she was awakened
before midnight, by the noise of the storm crashing fearfully
over her head. Every minute almost there was a flash of lightning,
followed by a clap of the loudest thunder. Mary started up in bed,
she thought of her poor brother, and longed to know if he was
come home, she thought she heard voices below, and she got up
and dressed herself, dark as it was between the flashes ; aie then
crept to the stairs which went down into the kitchen, aaa sat her-
self on one of the steps; there she heard the maid talking to her
mother, and trying to comfort her. Mistress, said the maid, you
may be quite sure that they be got into some house together, and
be quite safe.

I wish I could think as you do, answered Mrs. Page, but the
fault is all mine, I have spoiled that boy, and now he will bring
destruction on himself and his father too.

It has not been so much you, mistress, as Barbara, answered
the maid, it is but nature as makes parents spoil their children,
but it is all along of serving her own ends, as makes that Barbara
sugar master Tom over as she does.

And is not that nature, too, Jane? asked Mrs. Page, self lies at
OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 61

the bottom of all we do, when God is out of our thoughts, and
this is what I now feel, and what fills me with terror for my hus-
band and my son.

Well to be sure, mistress! replied Jane, but may be God will
spare you from your fears, God is good.

Aye, Jane! God is good; said Mrs. Page, but sometimes in his
very goodness he corrects us; his goodness is not blind and weak,
like mine has been towards my son; though I now see, that that
selfish fondness, which I once thought had so much love in it,
was nothing but cruelty to the child. Here the poor woman began
to cry again, and to sob bitterly.

Poor Mary, all this while, sat on the stairs listening, at one
minute to the thunder, and the next to her mother’s sobs, whilst
many thoughts passed through her mind; such thoughts as she
never had before.

I know that we are all sinners, was one of her thoughts, but
then our Lord died to save sinners, and he has promised that he
will hear us when we pray; I can do nothing for father and
brother to-night but pray—I will pray—Oh! my God, put a right
prayer in my mouth; and she got up and turned round and knelt
upon the step above her, and she prayed, that if God thought of
right, he would save her father and brother from the lightning,
and that he would give her brother a new heart, and a right
spirit, and make him a holy, happy child. She prayed till her
young mind got confused and could not go along with her words,
and then she sat down again, and then more comfortable thoughts
were put into her heart. The lightning, she thought, seems to come
by chance, and to strike down anywhere as it happens; but that
is not true, God brings it out of the clouds, and it can go no-
where without God’s leave. It cannot strike father, or Tom, if God
says it shall not; and if he says it shall, no house can save them.

Father and Tom are safe, then, in God’s care, as safe as I am
here. I wish, I wish I could trust God.

God himself had put this last pious wish into the child’s heart,
and he soon also granted her desire; for though the storm went
on raging, and she still heard her neces sobs, she became much

L
62. DUTY IS SAFETY;

more easy; and as she did not think it right to go down into the
kitchen, she crept up to her bed, and laid herself down in her
clothes, and soon fell asleep.

Mary slept till it was light, the storm was past, and the morning
calm, she could not rest, however, another minute, she sprang up
‘and put her disordered dress to rights, she took her bonnet in
-her hand and crept down stairs.

She found Jane in the kitchen, and asked if there was any
news yet of poor Tom?

None, replied Jane, we have heard nothing of him nor master.
I got mistress to lie down with the baby about an hour since;
poor soul, she was ready to drop. I hope she has fallen asleep.

Tell her then, Jane, when she wakes, said Mary, that I am
going down to the village, and may perhaps see somebody who
can tell me something about my poor brother. I hope I shall
come back with good news.

Well, don’t you be getting into danger too, and bringing more
trouble, answered Jane.

As Mary went out at the door she tied on her bonnet, and
took the shortest way to the village.

The sun had not risen long, and had not yet dried the rain,
which had fallen a short time before, from the ground, or even
from the trees and herbs. Mary hoped that she should meet many
people going to their work, whom she might ask about Tom; but
she saw no one till she came up with a man who was very old
and very deaf.

When she asked him if he had heard anything of her brother,
he answered as if she had inquired of him what he had thought
of the storm.

Aye, to be sure, he said, it was enough to frighten a body out
of his seven senses. We shall hear afore long of many as have
been killed, I has no doubt. I never saw the lightning strike down
more direct in all my time. I said to my old woman, says I—

But my brother Tom, said Mary, have you heard anything
about him? : ;

No, to be sure; he a’nt struck, is he? But that, to be sure, is
OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 63

what the man at the door of the barn I come by, was talking of.
They said that somebody or something had been struck in the
night, and lay all along in the morning as black as my hat.

Where? What men? asked Mary.

Them in the barn just beyond, said the old man, and away
flew Mary towards the barn, but the doors were shut, and not a
creature there. On ran the poor child, and the next person she
met was Short Sam. She stopped him, and asked him if he had
heard of anybody being killed with lightning the last night.

Aye, to be sure, said Sam. Father was the first that found him;
he was all as black as my shoe; and burnt up, father said, like
a cinder; and there he lay under the tree, but the tree worn’t
touched, so father took him up, and carried him down home to
the master’s, and there he is lying in the fold.

Mary almost screamed, Who? What? My poor brother ?

Your brother, said Short Sam, how comes he to be your brother,
Miss? I is talking of a sheep.

A sheep! repeated Mary, but you have frightened me terribly, Sam.
Do tell me, what do you know about my brother ?

I knows no more of him, answered Sam, but that he perched
me a top of the bridge yesternight, for which father threatened to
hide him, and then he went off along the brook side. _

Mary staid no longer -to talk to Short Sam, but off she flew
again towards the church and school-house. She thought she might
hear something of her brother from the master or the boys.

She crossed the churchyard in haste; there was.not a person
moving about it, but the daws were making a noise in- the. old
tower. She went round the church, and there she heard the voices
of the boys at play.

They were to go into school at seven o’clock, and to have an
hour’s work before breakfast; but it was not yet seven, and there
were a party of them under a fine old oak tree playing at marbles,
whilst the kind schoolmaster looked on and encouraged them.

How surprised were they all at seeing Mary. She ran up to the
master, and whilst she told her story, she shed many tears. The
master and all the boys looked at her with concern; and such of
64 DUTY IS SAFETY ;

the boys as were farthest off, and did not hear what she said,
were told in whispers by the others, that Troublesome Tom, as
every body called him, had been lost all night. On hearing this,
Roger, who had just come into the playground, came forward and
said, that he had seen Tom Page the evening before, sailing down
the river by himself in an open boat.

Why did you not tell me what you had seen? asked the master.

I did not see you afterwards, Sir, answered Roger.

And he would have enough to do, uttered another boy, to tell
all Tom’s pranks.

Go back, Mary, said the master, and tell at home what Roger
says, though may be you had better not speak of it to your mother.

You boys may play on till breakfast time, whilst I go and send
people to where Tom was last seen. Do you, Roger, come with me.

Poor Mary then ran home, being now more afraid of the mischief
having come by water than by lightning; for she feared never
again to see her brother alive.

When Mary got home, she found her father just returned, but
without Tom. The poor man dearly loved his son, and he was.
very sorry that he had
driven the boy angrily
from him the day before,
instead of keeping him
with him, and reproving
him steadily. When he
:2 heard what Mary said,
he wrung his hands and
: cried, My son is drown-
ed! My son! My son!
Then suddenly recol-
lecting himself, he kissed
Mary, and bade her go
to her mother, adding
I am going to seek your poor brother, I shall not return till I find
him alive or dead, as God pleases. I have done very wrong, Mary,
and I am severely punished for it, for when Tom was a child, I


OR, TROUBLESOME TOM. 65

indulged him in everything, and I should have been more gentle
to him yesterday; it is in a great degree my own fault, for his
being a naughty boy.

But the story of the travels of Tom’s father would be as long
as Tom’s own story if it were to be told, so I shall only say, that
after wandering over the downs for more than two hours, he at
length reached the cottage, in the tool-house of which Tom slept.

The Farmer’s loud calls upon his boy, woke him from his long
and refreshing sleep, and without waiting to think what he should
say, Tom ran to his father and fell down on his knees, praying him
to forgive him and saying he knew himself to be a very bad boy.

His father raised him in his arms, and told him that all he
required of him was, that henceforth he would be led by those
whom God had set over him, never doubting that all his heavenly
Father ordered for him was for his good. But now, my boy, he
said, let us hasten to your mother and sister, who are in sore
distress on your account.

Oh how did they hurry to
return to the farm, but they saw
no one till they came to the
very door of the kitchen, where
they met the maid and Barbara,
whom they stopped from crying
out at the sight of Tom, by
putting their fingers on their
lips. Mr. Page gave his hat and
stick to Betty, and telling Tom
to keep behind him; he went
quietly into the kitchen.

Mrs. Page was sitting by the fire, she had been up all night,
and from the early morning she had been running from one place
to another seeking her boy.

She had only sat down a few minutes before, and was crying
bitterly. Mr. Page kept Tom behind him, and thought that he
would open the good news by little and little to his wife; so he
pretended to be wholly. occupied in taking off his great coat, which

F


66 DUTY Is SAFETY, OR, TROUBLESOME TOM.

Tom helped to do, keeping behind as he did so. But though Mr. Page
had not spoken one word, this very action told his wife all was right,
and looking up she saw joy in her husband’s face. My boy is found,
she cried, and the next minute she had her son in her arms, weeping
as much for joy,. as a little time before she had done for sorrow.

At the sound of her voice, crying, My boy! My boy! Mary
and Sarah came running in, and the baby, who was asleep in a
cradle in the next room, awoke and set up her voice.

That was a joyful moment; and what a bustle there was to get
poor Tom a good breakfast, and to wash him and provide clean
clothes for him.

It is pleasant to be able to add, that he received all these kind-
nesses very humbly, saying that he did not deserve them, but rather
the rod, for he had been madé to know that he was a very bad boy.



The last is a very happy picture, it shows Mr. Page and his
family sitting that evening by the fire in the best kitchen.

The baby is in her father’s arms, and little Sarah on her mo-
ther’s lap, Mary sits by her brother. ;

Tom is telling all the things which had happened to him the
night before, and he is saying, Father, I now believe what you
told me that Duty zs Safety, and that when I gave up my heart
to be undutiful, I was alwys in some dreadful danger.
MARTIN CROOK.

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.








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MARTIN CROOK.

HY, fipserey CROOK lived with his mother and his aged -

grandmother in the “White Cottage;” both of them
‘were widows, and both hard-working women.

The name of the grandmother was Margaret Howard, that of
the daughter Mary Crook. Margaret had formerly supported herself
and her daughter by going out to wash and scour in the farmers’
houses; she was not able, as she grew in years, to go out as often
as she had done, still she was able to bring something to the
family stock, and Mary made a good deal by her needle. She
was the widow of a tailor; she had often helped her husband, and
‘she was accounted to be particularly skilful in mending coats and
waistcoats, and in cutting down to the best advantage the suits of
fathers and elder brothers to serve the children of the family.

Martin Crook was not two years old when his father died, and
his mother brought him back to his native home, the White Cottage
under the hill, and seven years followed in which he was as happy
a child as ever lived in a cottage or played in a green field. He
often used to say, “Other boys have a father and a mother, but
Martin has two mothers, and that will do as well, and Martin
loves his mothers;” and well he might love them, for they were
both kind and honest, though the old grandmother was far more
pious than the mother, and more gentle, and more patient, and
more forgiving when any one offended her; she had endured
more sorrows, too, for she had lost several children, and had been
70 . MARTIN CROOK.

taught that lesson which is so hard to learn, that God orders
everything for the good of the creatures He has made.

The life which Martin led in the White Cottage was, as was
before said, as happy as any little boy’s life in this world could
possibly be, till the winter came in which he was to enter his
tenth year; there was a longer frost that season than was remembered
by the oldest men then living. 3

Margaret had been ailing all the autumn, and when the frost
set in she was quite laid up with rheumatism, and was forced to
keep her bed in order to save firing. Mary let out the fire in the
kitchen, and kept one alight all day in her mother’s bedroom.
But Margaret’s sickness was only the beginning of troubles; the
last harvest had been bad, and bread so rose in price before the
winter that Mrs. Crook soon found that work was getting bad with
her; people either patched their own clothes or went in rags. Thus
was this family tried in various ways.

Till that winter Mrs. Crook and her son had never known real
hardships, and the case with them was the harder because they
were resolved to hide their troubles as much as possible from their
old mother. Rather than run into debt, Mary sold some of her
best clothes, and even put some articles in pawn at the next mar-
ket town; amongst these last was poor Martin’s Sunday suit.

Martin then had but one suit left, and no hope of another.
From day to day as the winter went on his suit became more
shabby and threadbare, although he took all the pains he could
to prevent their wear and tear, and though his mother set all her
industry to work to keep them from becoming only rags. The
parish in which the White Cottage stood was divided into almost
two equal parts by the high road to London, and all the land on
the same-side as this cottage was held by two farmers; one of
these farmers was an old gentleman of the name of Allen; he was
Margaret Howard’s landlord, and Mrs. Allen was the best friend
she had in the world out of her own family. During the whole
winter Martin went twice every week to this house for broth and
broken victuals; and many a time he brought home a few pence
from the old lady; more than that, Mr. Allen promised him that
MARTIN CROOK. 71

as soon as the frost broke up and the ewes and young lambs
could be turned out, he should be employed to keep them, for
which he was to have sixpence a week.

The other farmer on the same side of the parish was a young
man of the name of Bracebridge, one who always rode a horse
worth a hundred pounds, and made no small profit by horse-deal-
ing. Mr. Bracebridge was not altogether a bad man to the poor,
though he was subject to be very violent with any one who offended
him. ; ee

The family of the White Cottage had not, however, much to do
with him, and never went near his house nor through his grounds
excepting when they went to the village; and there was no other
footway from that side of the parish but through a very long piece
of grass land belonging to Mr. Bracebridge. The village was of a
very superior kind to many country villages, for there lived a doc-
tor who served the neighbourhood all round, and there was a
great inn where all the coaches changed horses, and a shop where
almost anything could be had which country people might want.

Having now described all the people of any consequence whom
it may be necessary for the reader to know, we may now proceed
to the most curious part in the history of Martin Crook. It was
on the 31st of March, this same year of frost and almost of star-
vation to the very poor, that little Martin was sent about ten in
the morning to take some work which his mother had done to
Mrs. Allen; for this work she expected about fourpence, and she
ordered her son, if the old lady gave him the money, to go on
to the shop and lay it out in tea. for. his grandmother.. At the very
same time that Martin set out to go to-Mrs. Allen’s, Mr. Brace-
bridge left his hunter at Mr. Smith’s gate and went into the shop
to make some purchases; he laid out to the amount of fourteen
shillings and sixpence; he laid a guinea on the counter, which
Mrs. Smith, who served him, took up, and in return gave him six
shillings in silver and a crooked sixpence, which, having been
drilled in three places, he at first refused.

“Well, sir,” said she, “if you don’t like it send it back for the next
thing you want, and I will take it again.” As Mr. Bracebridge took
72 MARTIN CROOK.

the money, he saw from the window that his horse, which he had
tied at the gate, was beginning to snort and prance, as if frightened
at some sound; he therefore hurried all his silver into his purse,
forgetting for the moment that there was only one side of the
purse which was safe, there being a small hole in the other quite
large enough for a crooked sixpence to creep through. There was
a long slip of garden before the shop, and as Mr. Bracebridge ran
down it he thrust his gloves and his purse into his coat pocket,
and was hardly in time to seize the bridle before the horse had
broken it and made his escape; he had sprung into the saddle
the next minute and gave the creature a breathing along the road,
after which he turned him into the large meadow through which
was the footpath to the village—the gate into this meadow was
directly opposite to the inn.

Mr. Bracebridge wanted to inspect some work which had been
done to the fences round this field, so he rode round it, and, as
he afterwards remembered, took out his gloves in some part of
the field and put them on without giving a thought to his purse;
nor was it till the next day that he thought of his purse and
found it was gone. He soon, however, comforted himself, for the
loss to him was trifling; “and it served him right,” he said, “for
putting money into a coat pocket;” so from that time he thought
no more of it.

But to return to Martin Crook. Mr. Bracebridge was scarcely
fairly out of sight when he came into the field in sight of Farmer
Allen’s house. Mrs. Allen had given him fourpence-halfpenny; he
had it tied up in the corner of his little pocket-handkerchief; as
he was going along. he was thinking how rauch tea it would be
for fourpence-halfpenny—he wondered whether there would be
enough to make his grandmother two breakfasts; and he was so
lost in thinking of this that he did not perceive that the mail
coach was standing at the door of the inn waiting for horses; and
although he saw a stranger in a traveller’s dress walking with his
back to him near the gate, yet he did not give him a second look.

Whilst he was walking on, full of thought, his eye fell upon
something shining in the path, and stooping to pick it up, he
MARTIN CROOK. 73

found that it was a crooked sixpence with three holes bored in it;
he was so much surprised that he could hardly feel glad; he knew
that it was not his, and that he must return it, if he could find
the owner; and then it came to his mind that the gentleman
before him might have dropped it, and he immediately ran after
him, and coming up close behind him he gently pulled his coat..'

The gentleman turned instantly, and showing a pleasant face, he
asked what he wanted.

Martin showed him the sixpence, and inquired if he had drop-
ped it.

The stranger looked with pity at the poor thin, patched figure
of the little fellow, and hastily said something which Martin sup-

_ posed meant that he was to keep the silver piece, though the
gentleman had not said so. They were putting the horses to the
coach, and the stranger thought that Martin might be able to tell
him something which he wanted much to know, and which the
people at the inn would not take the trouble to tell. What he
wanted to know was whether such a person as Margaret Howard
still lived in that neighbourhood, and this was the question he
put to Martin.

How did little Martin’s eyes sparkle when he told the gentleman
that she was still alive, and that she was his own old mother,
and that she was the best mother in the whole world! 1

“And very poor she is, I fear,” said the gentleman, as he
looked kindly on Martin; and he was going to ask more questions,
when the coachman from his box began to call to him: “Come —
sir,” he said— “come sir, if you please, sir; all ready, sir; we
shall go without you; come, sir, we can’t wait!”

The gentleman seemed quite confused.

“Well! well!” he said, “good-bye, little boy; take this and tell
your good grandmother that I shall be back again perhaps in a
month, perhaps two; so God bless you, little man!” And away
went the gentleman, in his haste throwing as many as five or six
shillings on the ground at the feet of Martin.

Had it rained gold from the sky Martin could not have been
more surprised: he stooped down immediately and gathered up five
74 MARTIN CROOK.

shillings, after which, when he had almost done searching, he found
one more, and when he had got all this immense sum of money
together, he ran.to the hollow tree, and there he took the four-
pence-halfpenny out of the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, and
hid the six shillmgs in the same corner, and then he put the
handkerchief, which he had knotted up in twenty knots, into the
pocket of his trousers and then he searched under the cuffs of his
coat where he always kept a pin or two, and he pinned the hand-
kerchief in two places to his trousers; and then he came out of
his hiding-place, with the crooked sixpence and the fourpenny-
piece in his hand. It happened that just as he stepped out of the
hollow -tree, a boy in the service of Mr. Allen, commonly called
Long Dick, came along from the village across the field; this boy
had a very cunning, curious look, and when he came near to
Martin, he said, ‘What have you been at there, in the hollow
tree? No good, I fear.”

Little Martin was much too happy in thinking of all his riches
to mind Long Dick’s jest; he only smiled as he passed him by,
and said laughingly, “I wish you may never have anything worse
to do.”

When Martin arrived at the shop, he found Mr. Smith behind
the counter instead of his wife, who had served Mr. Bracebridge,

As Martin felt how rich he was, he thought he might spend
the crooked sixpence in tea, and the fourpence-halfpenny in sugar;
the shopkeeper looked at the sixpence; he had not seen it before,
for his wife had received and given it out; he saw that it was
good silver, and he dropped it into the till without a word.

How gaily and how quickly did little Martin trudge home! How
light and joyful was his manner as he came in at the door of
the room where his grandmother was sitting up knitting in her
bed, and his mother busy with her needle! With what an air
did he place his two packets on the table, and with what delight
did he watch his mother’s eyes when she first saw the size
of them! —

“Why, child,” she said, “how much money did madam give
you?”
MARTIN CROOK. 75

“ Fourpence-halfpenny,” he answered. i

“But you don’t mean to say,” she asked, trying the weight of
the parcels in her hand, “that you got all this tea and this sugar
for fourpence-halfpenny ?”

“No,” said Martin, “I did not mean to say so, and I did not
say so. But now, mother, do you look and grandmother, do you
look also, and then I will show you such a sight as you never
saw before.”

“TIT am quite ready to see all that you have to show me, my
boy,” replied the old mother, looking kindly at her boy.

“Here, then, dear mother,” cried Martin, taking out first one
yellow pin and then another from where he had put them to secure
his treasure in his pocket, and next opening out his little knotted
pocket-handkerchief; but he found it very difficult in his hurry
and his joy to get the hard knots untied, so that his two mothers
had some time to wonder, and to exclaim—

“Why, what is the child about ? what has taken him this morning?”
And his grandmother, laughing, said, “If it was the first of April,
and not the last, of March, I should peney: nee he was trying to
make an April fool of his poor old granny.”

“You shall see,” said Martin, as he succeeded in untying the
last knot, and then began to place the shillings in a row upon
the table, crying as he did so, “One, two, three, four, five, six!”
raising his voice at the last word, clapping his hands, and perfectly
crowing with downright joy.

It would be very hard to describe what passed next in that
little room, but it was several minutes before Martin could be got
to leave off laughing and jumping, to tell his story so as it might
be understood; and when he had told it, neither of his mothers
could make anything of it, till after awhile old Margaret fancied
that she had some sort of clue to it.

Having made Martin describe the gentleman who had given him
the money, she said that she could only account for this stranger
having asked for her, and sent her the present, in one way.

“About fifty years ago,” she said, “a lady, who was travelling
through the village in her own carriage was stopped at the inn
76 ; MARTIN CROOK.

several days by the sickness of her infant son. Our doctor was
called in, and he, by the blessing of God, brought the baby through
the worst of the illness; and when the child was on the mending
hand, he advised the lady, who was a poor sickly creature, to put
him to a healthy country nurse; and he recommended me,”
continued Margaret, “and I brought the dear lamb to my house,
and had him with me four years, and nursed him through the
small-pox, he being spared when two of my own were taken.

“T was well paid, and more than well paid, by Mrs. Launder,
when she came and took the dear boy from me; but I never saw
my nursling again. I heard that, when grown, he went abroad; he
must now be more than fifty years old, if he is alive; and if it is
not he who gave you the money, I cannot guess who it is.”

“Well, mother,” said Mrs. Crook, “we shall see. He says that
he will come back again. In the meantime this is indeed a God-
send, and this very morning will I go down, and take five of these
silver pieces to pay for what is behind in our rent.”

The frost broke up that very night; the earth, and all the ani-
mals and plants thereon, seemed the next morning as if loosed
from the bands of cold death, to enter into the warmth of life.

The change of air so immediately affected Margaret Howard
that she was able to hobble downstairs and take her place in the
chimney-corner in the kitchen. Mr. Allen sent for Martin to drive
up the ewes and the lambs to the hill, where he was to watch
them; several jobs of needlework came in to Mary Crook; and
everything about the White Cottage seemed to be smiling and
happy again; and so things went on for a fortnight or more, during
which the hedgerows and bushes all about were almost ready to
burst into leaf; the primroses, crocuses, and violets were all quite
out; and Martin came running in one moming from the hill-side
to say that “he had certainly heard the cuckoo—he could not be
mistaken, it was the cuckoo.”

Poor Martin’s dress was becoming ruefully shabby; his mother
had patched his trousers in so many places that one could scarcely
see what colour the cloth had been with which they had first

been made; his poor jacket, too, was a mere rag; and his shoes
MARTIN CROOK. 77

so bad, that a day or two after he had turned shepherd, a thorn
had run through the sole of one of them into his foot, and there
inflamed, and though his mother had got it out, it had caused a
sore which ran up the ankle and made him walk lame—nor could
he get his shoe on that foot again.

But though, with his ragged clothes and bare foot, little Martin
looked very forlorn, yet the first few weeks of his being a shepherd
was a very happy time to him; his grandmother used every
morning to choose him some verses in his little Bible about shepherds
and sheep, and these he learned as he sat by the hill-side watch-
ing his flock; and it is wonderful what lovely thoughts were then
put into his young mind about Him who is our Shepherd, and of
His love for us His sheep: “For the flock of His pastures are
men.”

But whilst this happy time was going on with little Martin,
there was trouble preparing for him; perhaps he was getting too
well pleased with himself, and things were going too smoothly
with him.

Mr. Bracebridge had not happened to go to the shop himself
for as much as three weeks; for it was the third week in April
that, calling there again, he was served by Mrs. Smith, to whom
he told the ill luck he had had in losing his old purse and all
the silver she had given him when last there.

“Why, sir,” said she, “you surprise me; did I not give you, in
part of change, a curious sixpence?”

“To be sure you did,” said Mr. Bracebridge.

“And you say,” added she, “that you put it into your purse,
and that you lost purse and all immediately afterwards. Should
you know the sixpence again, sir?”

“TI could swear to it anywhere,” he answered.

“Ts this it, sir?” said she, taking it out of her pocket; and
then she told him that “her husband had taken it back that very
same morning; that it had been brought by Martin Crook; that
her husband had dropped it into the till, and that she had taken
it out and kept it ever since in her pocket with a double nut for
good luck.” ,
78 MARTIN CROOK.

“The fellow who got that sixpence had my purse, and the rest
of the silver also,” said Mr. Bracebridge, in a towering passion;
“but if I live I will bring the young vagabond to shame;” and
running down the garden he sprang upon his horse, and galloped
off to Mr. Allen’s. i

Coming into the fold-yard, he asked for Martin Crook, and
being told that he was in the hill-meadow with the sheep, and
being shown a short cut by which he might get there on foot, he
sprang from his horse, and stood looking for some one to hold it.
Long Dick instantly offered himself, the sly boy having little doubt
that there was some mischief brewing against young Crook, whom
he did not love.

Mr. Bracebridge found poor Martin, and loaded him with re-
proaches. Martin stood wondering at the hard names which the
gentleman gave him. The boy, in his first fright, had dropped
his crook, and looked perfectly wild with fear. .

“A pretty fellow you are,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “to be picking
up other people’s purses, and spending other people’s money!”

“Sir,” said Martin—“sir, I do not know what. you mean.”

“Oh! you do not!” answered the farmer; “then I must make it
my business to teach you; so come along with me, sir.”

Martin did not dare to refuse so great a man as he considered
Mr. Bracebridge, and he was forced to go, limping before his accuser,
down to his master’s.

They were met by Mary Crook, who was just coming out of the
house, where she had been receiving some needlework from
Mrs. Allen; and before she could express her wonder at seeing
Mr. Bracebridge driving her son before into the court, he bade
her stand still, and hear what he had to say.

By this time all the inmates were assembled in the yard, the
master and mistress wondering not a little at the scene.

“I see, neighbour Allen,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “that you are
surprised to see me come in here, driving that boy before me;
but dishonesty ought to be exposed, and this Martin Crook here
has been guilty of a most shocking piece of roguery—he has, I
may say, robbed me. He has found a purse, containing five shil-
MARTIN CROOK. 79

lings and sixpence, as far as I can remember, which belonged, he
knew, to some other person; and he has spent some of this money
himself, and either kept the rest or given it to his mother.”

“When did you lose the purse, sir?” asked Mary Crook, turning
very pale.

“On the last day of March,” replied Mr. Bracebridge.

“The day you paid your rent,’ whispered Mr. Allen to
Mary. :

» It was, ma’am,” said Mrs. Crook, answering in a whisper; and
then raising her voice, “Mr. Bracebridge,” she said, “if my boy
has been guilty of dishonesty, I will be the last person in the
world to screen him; nay,” she added, turning sharply, almost
fiercely, at her son, “if he has been a thief, he has no mercy to
expect from me. It is true that he brought me six shillings on the
last day of March, but he explained how it had come into his
possession, and as I live and breathe, I declare that till this mo-
ment I never suspected that he was deceiving me.”

“Neither did I, mother,” said Martin.

“ Hold your tongue,” said the angry mother; “if you have done
a dishonest thing, I shall be ready to turn you off.”

“Let the boy have a fair trial,” said Mr. Allen. “Let us first
hear what neighbour Bracebridge says, and then let us hear Mar-
tin’s story.”

“And I, too,” said Long Dick, stepping forward—‘I have
something to say.”

Martin was weeping very bitterly, but when Mr. Bracebridge
began to tell his story the poor boy ceased to cry and was very
attentive. Mr. Bracebridge had little to say but what the reader
has heard before; only this he insisted upon, “that if the sixpence
was in the purse when the purse was lost, Martin could not have
got the sixpence without having found the purse.”

“That is not so certain,” said Mr. Allen, “because some one
else might have found the purse and dropped the sixpence.”

“That would do,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “if it was not for the
six shillings which the boy brought the same day to his mother.”

When Mr. Bracebridge had said all he had to say, Long Dick

?
80 MARTIN CROOK.

came forward, and told how he had seen Martin come skulking
out of the hollow tree.

“Tt is altogether an awkward story,” said Mr. Allen. ‘ What
have you to say for yourself, Martin Crook ? how do you tell the
story 2”

“Just as I told mother at the time,” raid the poor boy; “TI

- thought the sixpence I picked up belonged to the same gentleman
who gave me the shillings. Oh, if he would come back again all
would be right; but please, please not let poor old grandmother
be vexed about it.”,

“Tf you would but own the truth,” said Mr. Allen, “I dare say
that Mr. Bracebidge would forgive you.”

“Tf you mean by owning the truth, telling what is not true,
master, I cannot do it,” said Martin; but he added, as he turned
away, weeping, “I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!”

Mr. Bracebridge’s passion was over by this time, and although
he really believed Martin ‘to be the thief, he consented that nothing
more should be said about the matter; he could put the lost crown
on the price of his horse when he sold it, he said, and he hoped
the boy would be the better for his fright. There was not one of
all the other people present who did not think Martin guilty, except
Mrs. Allen; she persisted in her persuasion of his innocence all
along; she did what she could to soothe his mother, and she
begged that the grandmother might know nothing about the business,
at least for the present.

Martin was then sent back to his sheep, and Mary Crook went
sorrowing home. And now came many days in which the little
shepherd boy did -not know what to make of himself; for although
there was no other creature in the wide world to smile upon him
but his aged mother, he often felt himself more happy than ever
he was in his life, whilst sitting on the hill-side, learning his
verses and watching his lambs.

The remainder of April and the whole of May passed without
bringing any change to Martin. On the last day of May, Martin
began to look for the return of the gentleman; but most of June
was over and he did not come. That very hard winter had been
MARTIN CROOK. 81

followed by an early summer. Mr. Allen began to cut his hay
about the 15th of that month, and then all hands were required
to help—men, and women, and children from every cottage on
the farm were out all. day in the hayfield. Old Margaret even was
required to hobble backwards and forwards from the fields to the
kitchen to fetch and carry food and drink. Mr. Bracebridge did
not begin to cut his grass for two or three days after his neighbour.

Poor Martin, much as in former years he had always loved
haymaking time, now thought that it could not be over too soon,
so much did he suffer from the gibes and sneers of his fellow-workers,
especially the boys. Long Dick was always the chief on these
occasions; he never saw Martin Crook but he had something to
say against hypocrites and people who pretended to be more
pious than their neighbours; and his gibes were almost always
taken up by the other boys, and even sometimes by the women
and girls, so that poor Martin had no peace.

Mr. Allen’ got in his hay without one drop of rain; and just
as the last loaded waggon drove out of the last field, Mr. Bracebridge
came riding up, and having complimented his neighbour on his
good luck, he lamented that he was so far behind him.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Allen, “I will tell you what I will do;
I will lend you my team and all my people for a couple or three
days, if you approve it, and we wiM see what can be done before
Sunday comes, with a change of moon, and perhaps of weather.”

“Be it so,” said Mr. Bracebridge; “I take your offer, neighbour,
and thank you too; and I promise your men a jolly supper on
the day the last load is brought home.”-

By five o’clock all Mr. Allen’s people who could be spared,
men, women, boys, and girls, were working in Mr. Bracebridge’s
fields. The grass was already cut in all of them but one, and that,
indeed, was partially done. This field was the very one in which
Martin had found the sixpence and seen the stranger.

Long Dick’s father was accounted one of the best mowers in
all that country, and Long Dick himself could use a scythe more
skilfully than many a one of his age. Mr. Bracebridge therefore
directed this father and son to go on with the mowing in that

G
82 MARTIN CROOK.

piece; and he told Old Dick, as he was called, to keep Martin
Crook to turn up the grass after him.

Mr. Bracebridge left these three, whilst Old Dick had mowed a
few yards, and young Dick. was whetting his scythe, and Martin
was using all his strength to turn the grass with a fork, the other
haymakers being very busy at the other end of the field. Young Dick
was still going on with some jest about Martin hiding himself so cleverly
in the hollow tree, when suddenly the poor child screamed out—

“There! er I do declare! Oh, I am very glad! Now they
will believe me.’

And when Dick and his father turned to look, there was Martin
holding up something which looked like a green ribbon in his hand,
and jumping and capering for joy.

“What is it?” said Long Dick. “Let me see.”

“No, no, cried Martin; and away he ran to the other side of
the field, shouting so loud that all the people stood staring and
wondering at him. Young. Dick was after him, but he did not dare
to touch him, because there were so many eyes upon them, and
amongst these the master, too, for Mr. Bracebridge was still in the
field, and saw all that took place.

As the little boy continued to run towards his mother, who was
with many other women and men also at the end of the field—as
he continued to cry out, “Come and see, now you will know that
I am not a thief,” they all left their work; Mr. Bracebridge him-
self walked forward, and within two or three minutes after Martin
had found what Long Dick supposed to be only a bit of old green
ribbon, Martin was standing in the midst of perhaps twenty persons,
holding up Mr. Bracebridge’s purse in his hand, one end being
heavy with silver pieces, and the other quite empty. “Here, here!”
cried the happy boy—‘“here it is, and I found it—my fork stuck
into it—and when the grass which I lifted up fell from the prong,
then the purse hung to the point, and I knew what it was in a
moment—and there are the shillings at one end—and I am nota
thief, and I have told the truth—and everybody now knows that
I am an honest boy, though the good gentleman has not come
back to say so.”
MARTIN CROOK. 83

Martin then stepped forward to Mr. Bracebridge, who had brought
up the horse on which he had been riding round his field to a
stand, and reaching the purse up to him, “There, sir,” he said,
“it is just as I found it!” and turning hastily round, he pushed
through the crowd about him, and walked away. Martin was not
missed for a few minutes, because every. one was pushing forward
ito see Mr. Bracebridge open the purse.

It was of netted green silk, and it was knotted in the middle.
In many places it had lost its colour from lying so long on the
‘damp ground, and the money which it contained was quite tar-
nished.

Mr. Bracebridge took out the shillings very carefully, dropping
them one by one from one hand to the other, to let the people
see that there were six. After which, fixing his eyes on Martin’s
smother, he said, “Mary Crook, I have been very unjust; I have
used your boy very ill. I own my fault, and am willing to make
the boy every reparation which may be required.”

“Sir,” replied Mrs. Crook, bursting into tears, “you have done
‘my poor child justice as far as lies in your power, by confessing

efore all these people that you judged him wrongfully. Appearances
‘were against him, and I can blame no one for thinking him guilty
excepting myself, his own mother; I ought to have remembered the
gleesome manner with which he came home that day when the
purse was lost, and brought the six shillings which the gentleman
had given him. Alas, my poor boy! what a cruel mother have I
‘been to him from that day to this!”

“Nay,” said one of the women, “you surely have not kept up —
‘your anger all this time!”

“T have, though,” replied Mary Crook; “and supposing the boy
‘had committed the sin, and still refused to confess, it was no more
than he deserved; but my poor child,” she added, as she turned
‘round to weep—“‘my poor child, how much have I made him
‘suffer !”

Every one was now looking for Martin, and amongst the fore-
‘most Mr. Bracebridge, with the six tarnished shillings and as many
bright ones ready to put into the little boy’s hand; they found,
84 MARTIN CROOK.

however, that he was not near them, and looking round the field,
they saw him walking. along the path to the village, and as he
went they saw him take out his little pocket-handkerchief to wipe
his face. His young heart, which had been frozen up with unkind-.
ness, was now melted by this new instance of God’s goodness in
bringing such full and public proof of his innocence; and although.
so happy he could not~stop the tears which ran like rain from.
his eyes. He was quite at the end of the field, near the gate,
when the haymakers turned about to look after him; and Mr.
Bracebridge had just given orders to one of the boys to run after
him and bring him back, when they saw a gentleman enter the
field from the high road; and they next saw Martin run up to:
this gentleman, and they saw the stranger hold out his hand to.
the poor boy, and they could perceive that Martin was looking
up and talking to him. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind
that this was the very person who had given the boy the six
shillings, and this was thought most wonderful that he should have
come at that very time.

Martin had turned with this gentleman, and they were both
walking towards the haymakers; Mr. Bracebridge did not wait
however, till they came up, but rode forward to meet them, and
making his bow to the stranger, he welcomed him to those parts,.
not knowing what else to say. The gentleman thanked him with
a very gracious smile, adding, “This little fellow, Mr. Bracebridge,
has been just telling me of the trouble in which he has been for
some weeks past, and how it has pleased God this very hour to
deliver him from this trouble; and he tells me also how kind you
were, when you believed him a thief, in sparing him from the:
punishment which you thought he deserved.”

“Poor boy,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “he has not much to thank
me for; nevertheless, I am obliged to him for this good word,”
he added, nodding to the boy, and resolving in his mind not to.
give him the money he intended before the stranger, lest it should
prevent his receiving a present from the other quarter; he failed
not, however, to fulfil his intentions within that week.

Having made an acquaintance so far with the stranger, he
MARTIN CROOK. 85

proceeded to ask him if he had any business in that country in”
which he could assist him, and invited him to take refreshment at
his house. The gentleman, in answer, told Mr. Bracebridge his
nmame—the very same mentioned by Mary Howard—said that,
shaving found occasion to take a very long journey, which led him
through ,that part of the country both in going and coming, he
thad resolved to find the family of his old nurse, Mary Howard,
hhaving no hope of finding her still living. He was trying, he added,
to get a peep at the White Cottage and the little hill, still faintly
remembered by him, when he so strangely met with Martin in that
very field; “but now,” he added, “I am come back with the
intention of staying here till Monday. I have apartments at the inn,
and if you will permit me, I will join your party in the hayfield,
and try to fancy myself such as I was when I played in scenes
dike this with my nurse’s children.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “you are most welcome. I shall
order my own dinner into the field; Martin-shall fetch his aged
grandmother; and we shall be most proud of the company of such
a gentleman.”

Mr. Launder was an old bachelor, and had more than money
enough for himself. He was a pious, simple, and humble man.
He had seen many grand sights in the world, but there was none
so pleasant to him as those which are found in the country.

Mr. Bracebridge led him to where he could rest himself on the
thay whilst Martin ran to the White Cottage. The first words which
the said when he saw old Margaret were—

“Tt is found, and I am not a thief; and the gentleman is come,
and he is in the hayfield, and he wants you, and you are his
nurse and his name is Launder, and you are to make haste.”

“Bless the child,” said Margaret, “what is come to you? The
“purse is found, and you are not a thief! What do you mean?”

Martin had forgotten that his grandmother knew nothing about
‘the purse; he thought, however, he might tell her now, as they
‘walked along. Yet he could hardly have patience to wait till she
thad put on her best gown and cap.

What a meeting was that between the nurse ae the child she
86 MARTIN. CROOK.

had nursed and parted from some fifty years before! He had left
her a dimpled, blooming boy, between four and five years of age;
she saw him again a white-headed elderly man.

But if all the happiness of those days which Mr. Launder spent
in that place was to be fully described, our story would be twice:
as long as it now is. The first three days were spent in the hay--
field, on the fourth day Mr. Launder went with Margaret Howard
to church, and on the Monday he gave a supper to the haymakers.
on the hill by the White Cottage, and there was also a generak
invitation to any of the neighbours who chose to come.

Mrs. Crook had contrived to get her own and Martin’s things.
out of pawn on the Saturday night, so that they were able to-
appear decent as on former days.

The parting between Mr. Launder and Mrs. Howard would have:
been very mournful, had they not had the assurance of meeting,
through their Redeemer, never again to be separated in another
life. But before Mr. Launder went, he settled many things for the-
comfort of his nurse’s family. He caused new clothes to be made-
for them; he supplied his nurse with warm blankets and a new
bed; he undertook to pay for Martin being put to a good day
school in the village; and he settled with Mr. Allen to pay the
rent of the White Cottage so long as he lived; and saying that
he would be answerable for any little assistance which Mrs. Ho-.
ward might think necessary in case of hard times or illness, he
took his leave.

Martin followed him to the coach door, and stood looking after
the coach till it was no longer to be seen.
UNG HE SAILOR BOY.

~BY

SHERWO OD.

Mrs.



JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

Look at the frontispiece, and there you will see some mischie-
vous boys stealing hot chestnuts from poor Betty Lane. Betty Lane
was a cross bad woman, who drank gin, and then she went into
such terrible passions it was quite fearful to see her. Betty had got
a plate with something good in it on her lap, with which she was
regaling herself; and the boys seeing her occupied, the bigger of
the two seized a chestnut, and was just giving it to his brother
who stood behind him, when a jagged bit of his sleeve caught a
nail in the board, and in pulling his arm away he knocked the
fire-pan over, making the table to totter and shake like a ship in
a storm.

Betty started, and in so doing overturned her plate, and knocked,
down her tripe, which made her only the more angry when she
saw the young thieves at her chestnuts.

With her hand spread in a threatening attitude she poured forth
a torrent of abuse against the naughty boys, who thought it safest
to make off as fast as their feet could carry them; but she was
up and after them in a very short time. The pore of the two.
got clear off, but she caught the little one, and was beating him
most unmercifully, when Jack came up. ;

Jack was the son of a sailor, who had been away from Bagh
many years, and the parish allowed Betty Lane something weekly
for feeding and clothing him; but this bad woman generally spent
the greater part of the money in buying gin, and thus poor Jack
was often obliged to go without a good meal; whilst his clothes
were so ragged he could scarcely keep them on. Hearing the little
go JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

boy’s screams, Jack ran to help him. What are you doing? he said
as he pushed himself in between the woman and the child: you
will kill him—you will kill him.

Betty left off beating the boy to set upon Jack; and if some
of the neighbours had not run in, she would have made her
threatenings good,—for she threatened that she would not leave a
whole bone in his skin. ‘

Very sorely, however, she did beat him, for she had taken more
gin than usual that morning, and scarcely knew what she did.

The neighbours, however, drove her back to her stall, and when
Jack had thanked them for saving him, he walked away, intending
never to go back again to live with her. He kept his resolution ;
he never returned.

Betty was vexed when she found he did not come back, because the
people about said that he had gone away because he was ill-used.

So she went the next week to other lodgings, where no one
knew anything about Jack.

It was only a few weeks after she had changed her lodgings
before she met a sailor in the street, who stopped and asked her
if she was not the woman to whom the parish officers had given.
the charge of little Jack.

She said she was.

Well said, said he, you can tell me, perhaps, what is come of
the boy.

Come of him, answered she, why he is dead, and has been so
these two years; he died of the small pox, and I laid him out.

Poor lad, replied the man, his troubles are over then, and my
cares about him are over too. My name is William Ball,—I was
his father’s chum, and voyaged over many a league of sea with
him. I thought to have looked up the boy, and been a father to
him whilst he is away; but that a’nt to be—so good bye.

Why did. Betty say that the boy was dead? Because she had
used him ill, and did not want to be brought to account by any
of his friends.

It was wrong, however, in Jack to run away, and you will see
he had some troubles in the end for doing so.
JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. on

And now I am going to say no more about Betty Lane, for the
rest of my story is all about Jack. Look at the picture, and you
will see a man who spends all his time in begging about the
streets, and being a kind-hearted person, he has more than once
given Jack crusts of bread, or bones of meat, that had been given
to him in charity. On running away from Betty Lane, Jack sought
this man to ask him what he should do to gain a livelihood.

The best way is begging, Jack, replied the man, for it is an
easy life.

But I do not think : ?

I should like it, said ee
the boy. Father was
a sailor, and I want to
be like father.

You a sailor, cried.
the beggar, why, lad, °
you are so small, they
will make you a swab-
ber, and nothing bet-
ter.

What is a swabber?
asked Jack.

A swab is a kind
of mop used for clean-
ing the decks of ships, said the man; and a swabber 1s one that -
uses a swab.

Jack did not like the idea of being only a swabber, so for some
days he followed the advice of the beggar, and went. wandering
about the streets asking for money.

The poor boy was now in a way for being ruined for ever; but
his heavenly Father had not forgot him, and in mercy to Jack he
made the life of begeary hateful, and even unprospebus to him; and.
he opened the eyes of the boy to see thatno person could honestly.
continue a beggar by trade.

Jack had been blessed in infancy with a pious and tender father,
and the lessons of that father had by the grace of God taken too


* 92 JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

powerful a hold in his heart to allow his conscience to sleep
altogether. ee

His father had not been heard of for years, and it was only his
son, of all his friends, who believed that he was still alive; but
the boy clung eagerly to the hope, and it was his most earnest
wish to be a sailor, that he might search the world over for his
dearly loved father.

On the sixth night after Jack had left old Betty’s, he laid him-
self on a step under the porch of a fine house, but after sleeping
for an hour or two, he awoke, and could not sleep again.

What is the use, he said to himself, for me to be idling about
in this way. I will go straight to the river, and get into some ser-
vice aboard some sort of craft, if I live till to-morrow. Suppose
they do set me to swab at first, why should I care? I shall be put
forward after awhile, and I shall have bread to eat, and tight
clothes to wear, and shall be getting to know more, and in the
way, may be, to find father, poor father: the time when I lived
with father, is all come as fresh to me as yesterday.

If father could speak now to me, I know he would say, Jack, I
would rather you should be a swabber than a beggar about the
streets, I know he would; so I will be striving by daylight, and
see what I can do.

Almost before it was light, Jack got up from his hard bed, and
took the nearest way by the streets to the river’s side, somewhere
- below London Bridge; but there were so many vessels of all sorts
“and sizes, and such a noise and such a clamour, that for some

time he could get no one seriously to heed. him.

One said, Who would take you into the ship, all rags and mire
as you are? and another said, What service could such a hop o’
my thumb do at sea? and a third bid him go off, and not trouble
him. Poor Jack was quite out of heart, and could scarcely keep
himself from ctying with grief. At last, however, a person dressed
in a very decent sailor's dress seemed to take pity on him, and
was going to throw him a penny piece—

It is not money I so much want, Sir, said poor Jack, but a

service on board some ship.
JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. 93

What, said the man, you are for being a sailor, my lad. What
can you do?

Nothing, Sir, answered Jack.

Then you don’t expect big wages, asked the sailor; but get into
the boat, and I will give you a cast down to our ship, and ifour
captain will take you in tow, your fortune is made.

Jack was full of glee, as he joyfully climbed into the boat.

And pray where are your parents, asked the man, that they allow
you to go about in this way, my lad?

Mother died before I can remember, Sir, replied Jack, and they
tell me father was pressed for a sailor. I love father dearly, Sir,
and I want to go all over the world till I find him.

Then yours was a good.
father, I suppose, my boy,
said the stranger.

The best that lives, Sir,
answered Jack. He taught me
to read, Sir, before he left
me, though I was then but
seven years old; and I am
afraid he must be dead, for’
I cannot think anything else
would keep him so long away
from me. Jack then told the
sailor that his father gained his livelihood by fishing and boating,
and helping to lade and unlade vessels which. went up and down
the river; but, tired as he might be, Sir, he added, with the tears
in his eye, how happily did we spend.our evenings together; for
he would take me on his knee and tell me stories, many of which I
think I shall ever remember. Ah, Sir! if I turn out a bad boy, I must
first forget all father used to say tome when I was a very little child.

When Jack reached the ship, the Captain, whose name was
Cook, made no objection to taking him on board.

There never was a kinder captain nor. a better seaman than
Captain Cook. He was a religious man, and not only never suffered
a bad word in his ship, but took good care that the boys and

f


94 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

young men on board should be well taught in reading and writing,
as well as in all business belonging to the sea.

Jack was out many months in his first voyage, and was quite a
tall stripling when he came back.

His next voyage was under a friend of his old captain. With
him he went to the Levant, and as far as the famous city of
Constantinople.

Constantinople was in past years called Byzantium, one of the
largest and most famous cities in Europe. The sea of Marmora
washes its walls on the south, and the Channel of Constantinople
on the north. The people are half Turks, a good many of the rest
Christians, and a few Jews. They sell slaves in the market-place,
and the Jews generally sell them to the
Turks; for the Christians do not encourage
slavery. They say that there are at least
3770 streets or lanes in Constantinople,
some of which are very handsome, but
the greater number are mean and dirty.

When Jack returned from his second
voyage, he was a fine tall youth, and was
up to anything about a ship. He had never
taken to drink nor to use tobacco, and
was particularly smart and neat about his dress. -

His father, by his early teaching, had given the boy what may
be called a good start in life; but it is not every one who is made
to profit as Jack did by the teaching of a pious parent in his very
early childhood.

When our sailor boy was on his return from his second voyage,
his ship passed by the dangerous Eddystone rocks, which are
about twelve miles and a half from the middle of Plymouth Sound.
The many fatal accidents which these rocks caused, was stopped
for awhile through the ingenuity of a Mr. Winstanley of Littlebury,
_ in Essex, who engaged to erect a lighthouse on these rocks. This
he succeeded in doing, but a most fearful storm soon afterwards
dashed the lighthouse to pieces, and Mr. Winstanley, who was
unfortunately within it, perished.


JACK, THE SAILOR BOY. 95

Some years afterwards, this present one you see in the picture,
was erected on an improved plan, which has stood now for a
century, baffling the winds and waves.

Soon after they passed the Eddystone rocks, a small boat with
letters came alongside the ship, and an old sailor stepped from it
on board, who went with them into Plymouth. After some discourse,
Jack found that this man was on board the Star when his father
and William Ball were pressed: and from him he learned that
the ship had been bound for New York; but this man had left
the Star in America,
and could say no more
of Ben, Jack’s father,
than that he had heard
of him accidentally, and
that he was on his road
to Canada with a friend,
who intended to make
a home for himself in
the Canadian forests.

Jack knew that Ameri-
ca is called the New
World, because it was
found out after the other
three quarters were
known; and he had in his possession a tattered old book, given
him by a messmate, in which was a story about some people in
America. The story was about a white boy being taken by the
red men or the savage inhabitants of America, and by them
dressed after their own fashion, and made to live with them as
one of them, and Jack had a picture in his book of the white
-boy and a red man, and this is it.

In this book was one other picture of the red men, and there
you might see the boy’s father and his friends coming to claim
him from the savages, and Jack was always very glad when he
read that the boy was given up to his father.

Our sailor boy knew that America was nearly as big..as two of




96 JACK, THE SAILR BOF.

the quarters of the Old World put together; and it seemed almost
as easy to him to look for one particular fish in the wide seas,
as to look for one particular man in the wide New World.

But I will go to Canada any how, he said; that must be my
first place, and when I am got there, I must try to find out my
father’s friend. ©

It was whilst Jack was looking out
for a ship going to America, that he
overheard a conversation amongst some
shrimp fishers, which I shall repeat
to you.

Shrimps are very small fishy insects
of the lobster kind; they have long
slender feelers, and between them two
projecting laminz or scales.

Their claws have a single hooked,
moveable fang; they have three pair
of legs, and seven joints in the tail.
They are found along the shores ot
Great Britain, and are collected in
thousands with a net.

I have described a shrimp to you,
and now I will tell you what the shrimp
fishers were saying.

Is the Mermaid off the coast yet? asked the woman of her
companion; what a time she has been lingering here.

She is to be off, wind and tide permitting, to-morrow, replied
the sailor; and she will, I think, have a fine voyage to Canada.

So she goes there as usual, said the woman; and what is her
cargo.

People don’t quite agree about it, answered the man, laughing;
I dare say it is something profitable, any how.

A ship going to Canada, thought Jack, I will inquire which she
is, and get a berth if possible in her; Oh, I remember he called
her the Mermaid, and she sails to-morrow; well, an hour will be
enough for me. ;


JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. 97

So, without stopping to consult any of his acquaintances or
friends, Jack found out his way to the Mermaid; and, as he thought,
was fortunate enough to learn, that the captain was only waiting
to increase the number of his sailors. So he hurried on board, and
that very evening she got under weigh for America.

Jack was hardly out on the open sea on board the Mermaid,
before he began to fear that he was got into very bad company ;
for there was nothing going forward in fine weather on board, but
drinking, smoking, and swearing.

The captain of the Mermaid and his people did not like Jack
for being so quiet as he tried to be; and they did all they could
to make him drink, that
they might find out Sf =
what was in him, as they =
said; but his heavenly
Father kept him from
drinking, and so he got
clear of that snare.

The Mermaid made &
a pretty good voyage
till she came into the —=
Gulf of St. Lawrence ;
but then a storm, with ~ =~
a strong wind came
on, and lasted several days, driving the ship to the north coast,
and making such work with her masts and rigging, that the captain
was glad to take shelter in the mouth of a small river which ran
into the sea. On the bank was a castle or fort, of huge heavy
stone. It had evidently not been built many years, though now
left to a decay which was likely to be rapid in that cold country.

All about and around the mined fort, excepting at the side of
the river, were wild, thick, dark woods, and there was nota house
of a white man for many miles round. The Mermaid lay several
days under the fort, whilst the people of the ship were very busy
in putting those things to right which the storm had damaged.

When they had been there a week, the captain sent about half

H






98 JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

a -dozen men on shore with their fowling pieces, to shoot such birds
or beasts as they could find. Let us have some fresh meat for one
day at least, my lads, he‘said; but mind you must all return by
sun-set, for I am sure the wind is about to change favourably for
us, and we must take her in the mood.

Jack was one amongst those sent on shore, and now for the
first time he seriously felt the inconvenience of not being liked by
his comrades for they all refused to go with him or to let him
join their party in the woods.

Jack used to say afterwards, he thought the affair must have
been arranged before they left the ship, or else it could scarcely
have happened as it did; for when, after a successful day’s sport,
he returned to the fort, all that he could see of the Mermaid was
her top-sails glistened in the red rays of the evening sun, on the
very line in which the sky seemed to meet the water.

Jack was not behind time;
he therefore clearly saw that
the captain and the ship’s
crew had taken this plan of
getting rid of him, lest he
should tell tales of them;
for during the voyage he
had discovered that the cap-
tain was a thief and a smug-
gler, and all the men under
him were thieves and smug-
glers too.

Jack was for some minutes so shocked and so cast down, when
first he found how he had been served, that he could not rally,
but stood on the shingles by the river, wringing his hands and
crying, How did I deserve this from them? What ill did I do
them? Then was it brought to his mind,—But is it not God’s will
that I should be left in this place? Will he now forsake me? No,
whether I live to get out of this trouble, or whether I die in these
woods, I know that he will not forget me; so my God being with
me, I will not fear.


JACK, THE SAILOR BOY. 99

The sun went down as Jack stood on the river’s side, and as
its golden rays fell upon the fort, Jack suddenly thought it would
prove a comfortable and safe lodging for him; and so he took up
his bag of the birds he had shot, and having filled a gourd with

_ water, he went up to the fort. It was a wild ruinous place, and if
it ever had doors, they were gone or fallen to decay. ©

He went first into a great hall, and then up a winding stair,
broken in. some places, to another stone room above. He had
gathered a few sticks and dried leaves as he came up the bank,
and with the flint of his gun he contrived to light a fire with his
dried leaves and sticks. Having plucked and drawn his birds with
the clasped knife he always carried in his pocket, he set them to
bake or scorch:in the ashes, which caused certain owls, the only
dwellers in the ruined fort, to hoot and to call to one another,
as if telling the strange news.

Jack had taken with him on
his shooting excursion some sea
biscuits and-a gourd to hold
water, also his compass to guide
him; so you see he was not
quite so badly off as he might
have been.

Jack was very tired with his
day’s work, so, notwithstanding
the hooting of the owls, he had gescie laid down by .his fire,
before he was fast asleep, and it was bright day-light before he
awoke again... |

I am happy to say he first thanked God for keeping him in
safety through the past night, and then going up to the highest
part of the fort, he looked out upon the country around. There
was no sail to be seen on the wide waters of the Atlantic, and
on all other sides Jack could see but one vast dark forest, such
as no one who has not been out of England could ever see or
scarcely fancy.

Well, said Jack, this is no very pleasant sight for a lone youth
like me. Who can say what dangers lie under those shades, what


100 “JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

wild beasts may be there? I have heard of wolves and panthers
in these American forests, of bears and wild buffaloes; but these
I would rather meet than the terrible red men.

That is the question, are there any red men in those woods?
God, however, is my friend. Oh,. that I could but trust more
steadily in my God. But now for my dangerous journey, said Jack,
as he turned his back on the fort, and plunged into the gloomy
forest. I want to go to Canada, which is to the Rou anes and
my compass must be my guide.

No one can tell how many ages have passed since these woods
have grown in this place. The immense trees, whose branches met
over head, quite shut out, excepting in a very few places, all view
of the blue sky, and even so much of the light of the sun, as to
make it often hard to discern from what quarter the rays came down
on the woods. There was not a beaten path through all these
solitudes, excepting such as might have been made by beasts,
and in some places it was only by main strength that Jack could
make his way through the brush-wood, and the long bristling
reeds which sprang up in boggy places. The air was close and
damp under the cover of these forests, and numbers of winged
insects buzzed about and settled on Jack’s face and hands, pricking
him with their tiny stings.

There was no sound in those vast woods which came to the
ears of Jack during all the first day of his walk, but those made
by birds of various kinds, birds which made strange sounds, and
some quite new to his ears. Some uttered doleful hootings, and
others chattered like jays or parrots, others of the dove kind
moaned in soft notes, and others uttered strange harsh sounds in
their throats, like the corncrake in the woods in England.

Once poor Jack thought he heard a low dismal howl, like that
of some wild beast, on which he looked at his fowling-piece, to
make sure that it was ready to let off, and placed his knife so
that he might have hold of it in a moment; so he went on and
on, being guided by his compass, which was then a real treasure
to him.

He stopped at noon by the side. of a little brook, which came
JACK, THE SAILOR ‘BOF. IOI

flowing gently along a pebbled bed. He there slaked his thirst
and filled his gourd, and ate one of his birds and a few crumbs
of biscuit, and when he had thanked God for thus providing for
him in the wilderness, he walked on.

He knew that he was going as he meant
to go, straight to the south-west; but though
he had walked miles since the morning, all
around looked the same as when he first
got into the woods. Trees were around him,
and beyond were trees, and briars. and
brambles, reeds and creepers, and prickly
aloes ever meeting his steps, and ever to be
pushed through. His clothes were torn, his
face and hands scratched, and his feet
blistered; but he saw no end of his labours
for hours yet to come; but Jack was not
out of heart; he een in God, and he felt quite sure that God
was Caring fon him.

As the sun was going down, Jack foes to think how he could
manage for the night. He thought of the comfortable room and
good fire in the fort the night before, and wished for such another
bed-chamber that night; but where was he to find such? I must
be content with a bird’s lodging for once in a way, he said, and
look me out a safe perch upon some good tree, and this must be
done before the sun leaves me. So Jack looked well about him,
and having espied a great tree, which looked like a cedar, and
where he might sit at ease, where four vast branches sprang from
the trunk at many feet from the ground, he climbed into it, and
there settled himself in such a way that he could not fall, even
if he fell asleep. Any how, he said, this is a better berth than a
topmast in a squall; I shall do here very well.

Jack was hardly settled in his green bed-chamber, when the sun
dipped beneath the horizon, and darkness came on almost imme-
diately.

Jack did not care; he ate a little of what he had, and drank
some water, sucking it out of his gourd. He was seated on one


102 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

vast bough, as a man sits on a horse, and was leaning back
against another, and being very tired, he soon fell asleep; and
had the woods been quiet, he would no doubt have made one
long nap of it till morning. a

The holy Bible, when speaking of the happiness of the latter
days, when our blessed Saviour shall rule over the whole earth,
says of the people, they shall dwell quietly in the wilderness, and
sleep in the woods. But those times are not yet come; there is no
safety now in the wilderness, and no quiet sleep in wild forests.

When the sun had gone down, all the wild creatures in the
woods began to rouse themselves. They came forth from their dens
to seek their prey. Poor Jack had quite forgotten himself. He was
dreaming that he was on board ship, and was swinging on the
top-mast. His dream changed, and he thought a storm had arisen,
and the wind was howling terribly. He opened his eyes, and just
recollected himself in time not to jump out of the tree; for he
could not get his leg over the branch before he was awake.

It was. not the wind that howled, but it was the beasts of the
forest. He first distinguished the harsh baying of the wolf, and
then the melancholy cry of the panther. He could even hear the
rustling of the brushwood, as the creatures forced their way through
it. At length he was aware of some beast right under his tree;
he could hear the rise and fall of its deep breath.

Poor Jack! it was a dreadful moment for him; his heart arose
im prayer to God, and at the.same moment he placed his hand
upon his fowling-piece, and felt if his knife was ready.

The beast had surely scented him in the tree; he believed that
it was walking round and round the great trunk. That was a
terrible ten minutes, or may be more, whilst Jack remained in that
state of fear.

A horrid yell next burst from one side. Some other creature,
he thought, sprang from the brushwood near. It attacked the first
beast under the tree. One of these, by the deep gruntings, was,
he was sure, a wild boar, what the other was he could not
make out.

Between these savages there ensued a dreadful battle. The woods
JACK, THE SAILOR BOY. 103

rang with howlings and hideous cries. The battle lasted Jack knew
not how many minutes. It finished by a yell of pain or anger.
Jack heard the sound of flight, then a groan, and all was still
about the tree, though the howlings of wild creatures were heard
in the distance during all that miserable night.

There was no more sleep for poor Jack. He kept his painful
and fearful watch all night, often and often lifting his heart in
prayer and thanks to God; for He had saved him by causing the
two beasts to contend with each other under the tree. He resolved
not to leave the tree till it was full day-light; and then, as he
looked about him from his green chamber, he saw that the bushes
under the tree were trodden down and dyed with blood.

Jack did not begin this day’s journey with such strength and
freshness as he had set out the day before. He had not gone very
far when he came to a more open place in the wood, and saw
other signs besides those he had seen near the tree, in which he
had spent the night, of the work of bloodshed. He saw a young
cow, or buffalo, lying dead on the ground; some beast had killed
it during the night, and had been driven from it before it could
devour or tear it to pieces. Some bird which lives on carrion had
already settled on it.

Ah! said poor Jack, I am indeed in a savage world: but God
rules all things, why should I fear?

As he walked on he ate his last biscuit, and picked the bones
of his last bird, till the sun was quite up, and the bright rays
here and there pierced through the tree. Then he consulted his
compass, and found that he was going in the right way. But he
began to consider that he must now be looking -out for some bird
to shoot, though how he was to cook it he hardly knew. In the
night he should be in danger—whilst seated on the ground for the
purpose of cooking—of being himself made a supper of by wild
beasts, and he did not like to spare the time from the bright day.

Whilst thinking of these things, he thought he heard the rushing
of water as falling from a rock, and he had hardly turned a cor-
ner of a very thick bush, before he saw a clear cascade, leaping,
as one might say, down a steep rock, may be of a hundred feet
104 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

high. He hastened to the water, and having drank eagerly, he was

about to fill his gourd, and had just turned round to get it out of

his bag, when he saw three men standing in a row, not six yards _
from him. They were red men. Jack had never before seen a red

man, though he had read and heard much about them.

These men were of a red copper-colour, nearly naked, though
curiously painted in strange stripes and figures of all colours, which
made them look more fierce and strange than they would other-
wise have. done. Two of them had their hair cut very close, and
their heads ornamented with feathers. They had each a large and
crooked knife in their girdles, and they carried a tomahawk—a
frightful instrument of death, like a spear with a beaked head, in
their hands. Their features were strong and marked, expressive of
cunning and resolution, and their dark eyes were like fiery stars;
but they moved not from where they stood, whilst poor Jack, being
filled with horror dropped his gourd, and stood as still as they did.

Some minutes passed before
either the red men or the white
youth moved; at length the
Savages advanced, and Jack,
though hardly thinking what he
was doing, put his hand upon
his knife. At this sight the sava-
ges set up a yell, such as might
have come out of the mouth of
a hyena roaring over his prey;
and not an instant afterwards,
where poor Jack had seen only
three savages, he saw twenty or
more, all armed with knives, and
running to the well known war-
cry.

If Jack thought that one against three was no fail odds, what
could he do against so many. When the last-come savages saw
the white youth, they raised another yell, which made the woods
ring more terribly than they had done in the night, and then


JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. 105

coming forward, they all began to talk together but sa did not
understand one word which they said.

If I show fight, thought Jack, I shall be cut to pieces where I
am; if J submit, I may have a chance for my life, though a poor
one, I fear.

Whilst this thought passed through his mind, he was surrounded
by the men who had first seen him: they laid their hands upon
him, though there was no attempt to hurt him. The chief of these,
taking hold of his arm, made signs to him to go with him. What
they said he could not understand, but they took no notice when
he implored them to let him go.

The savages had not led Jack one hundred paces, before they
came to a tum in the wood, which having taken, he saw before
him a collection of it might be fifty huts, not arranged in streets,
but just set here and there amongst such bushes as had been left
to grow, according to the whim of the builders. The huts were
made of logs, plastered with clay in a very rude manner ; but there
was one in the midst of the village which stood up higher, and
seemed rather better than the rest. All the roofs of these huts were
rounded, and looked at a distance not unlike hives of bees.

As soon as the savages had brought Jack to the entrance of the
village, they set up another yell, which brought all the women and
children from the huts.

The wildest and fiercest gipsies and fishwives ever seen in Europe
are nothing to the half-naked women of an Indian village; and
it was well for Jack that he did not understand what they said of
him, as they pointed their fingers to him, and called him a pale-
face, come to spy them out, that he might bring his people to
destroy them. Pale-face is the name given by the red men to the
white people. The little naked children ran by their mothers, as
Jack was led along, tossing their arms, and showing that they only
wanted time to make them such as their parents.

The men who led Jack, paid no heed either to the women or
the children, but brought their prisoner straight to the best house
in the village, into the presence of their chief man. A curtain of
matting hung before the door, and as it was raised up without
106 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

much ceremony, Jack saw that which is drawn in the picture.

As they entered, they met a man carrying out some mattings,
which were the usual ornaments of the huts.

The chief himself has his back towards us; that female is his
favourite wife, and that is his eldest son, who is standing behind
the person with the strange thing on his knee, which Jack could
find no name for, though it was evidently a musical instrument.
This man was singing, and seemed not to have been disturbed
by the noises without. Perhaps such yellings were no uncommon
thirigs, or perhaps they understood, from the sound of them, whether
they were of any consequence or. not.



The chief looked very like the man Jack had first met, and his
wife or squaw, as they call them, like some of the women in the
street; but the man who was singing was very different from the
savages. He wore more clothes, had less of the red copper-colour, and
had a cap on his head ; he seemed to take no notice whatever of Jack.

There was a long and loud consultation among the savages, of
which Jack did not understand one word. At the end of this long
JACK, THE SAILOR BOY. 107

talk, Jack was led out again to the edge of the wood, and ‘then
the red men took every thing he had from him, his bag, his knife,
his powder-horn, his cap, and his clothes, which they made him
change for a European shooting dress, the owner of which they
had probably murdered. They next bound him with his back to
a tree, whilst they examined everything which had been in the
bag. What they took the compass for, he could not tell, but per-
haps for some magical instrament; for these people believe in
magic, and one of them, in great fury, raised it in his hand, and
dashed it to the ground.

The wild men having bound
poor Jack, went back to their
village, leaving him to think
of what he was next to suffer
from them. He could look for
nothing but a cruel death;
but God left him not without
the assurance, that whatever
was to happen to him all
would end in his everlasting
happiness.

The shadows of night were
coming on, and Jack was only
kept up by the bonds which
held him to the tree, from -
sinking in weakness to the
ground, when suddenly he heard a creeping step behind him, and
then a voice in broken English, saying, Don’t fear, Bale: -face ; don’t
start or utter a cry; it is a friend.

Oh! what did the fainting youth feel when he heard those words.
The next moment he felt that the thong which bound one hand
was loosed, and then the other, and next that which bound
his body, and at the very same instant that he was quite free.
He felt his hand seized by this unknown friend, and found
himself gently drawn away into the bushes. He was about to
speak, when the person laid his’ hand on his mouth, and saying


108 JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

softly, Do as I do: he fell on all fours, and Jack did the same.

Stealthily then, and silently, like a fox getting near a hen-roost,
the two crept along under the bushes, till they came to a hut
which stood much apart from the others, at the edge of the village,
and which, as Jack afterwards saw, had been built by some one
who understood much more of the ways of white people than those
with whom he lived.

This hut stood within a little paling; it had two rooms; in the.
outer stood a rough table, and a bench with a coarse desk upon
it. In the inner room were several pieces of furniture, which had
certainly been made and used by civilized people.

Having reached this hut, Jack’s
friend pulled him in and barred
the door,

Not a word, pale-face! he said;
i you are not safe yet; even here
you may be sought, but I am
prepared. And half smiling as he
/ did so, he pushed Jack into the
_ inner-room, and causing him to
'~ strip himself, he smeared him over
with a certain black ointment or
paint, which changed him into a
perfect negro.

Jack’s hair was naturally dark
and crisp, but ,his new friend did
not even spare his hair; and
when this was done, even to his very feet, he caused him to put
on a coarse dress, usually worn by negro slaves in America. Now,
said he, in his broken English, if your enemies come here to look
for the pale-face, remember that you are Quashi, and that you
came this evening from the pale-face settlement, from my old master,
to bring me these books; and he laid his hand on certain books
which lay upon the table; but mind you, pale-face, he said, that
you do not speak; leave me to do that for you.

If Jack was not suffered to open his mouth, there was not a



JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. 109

look or an action which he spared to express his thankfulness. °

The old man did not forget that Jack must be both hungry
and faint; he set before him some mess in a large earthen dish,
with a pot of clear water.

Jack had hardly finished his meal before there was a buzz as
of many voices in the village, and then a yell and a howl which
made Jack tremble from head to foot.

The old man hastened to put all things ready for a rush of the
red men into his house; for he was aware that they had missed
their captive, with whom they had meant to have had barbarous
sport that night.

He had burned the clothes which Jack had wom, and then
eausing Jack to sit down on the ground, he placed himself at his
table, turning over his books, as if they were indeed all newly
come to him. a

In this way they both sat a long time, whilst the yells and
cries of the savages were sometimes nearer and sometimes farther off.

At length a burst of loud voices at the door, told Jack that the
savages were near; and the next minute several dark painted faces
and terrible flashing eyes, glared in upon the old man and his
pretended slave. The old man did not move trom his place, and
seemed to hear what was said to him as if it had not concerned
him at all. In all that was said, Jack only made out the name of
Quashi, which when pronounced, all the terrible eyes glared upon him.

In a little while, which seemed very long to Jack, the red men
made off again; and the old man motioned to him to lay himself
down and sleep on the floor of the mner-room.

Jack went to the place shown to him, and, strange as it may
be thought, soon fell into a deep sleep from very weariness.

It was at the very darkest hour of that dark night, when the
old man putting his mouth to the ear of Jack, said,—Up, speak
not a word, but follow me. Jack was up in a moment; he almost
felt that his enemies were upon him, and that his last moment
was near; and the old man led him out of the hut, and plunging
strait into the brushwood, he went before him till they both came
down to.the shore of a river, on the bank. of which they found
r10 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

a canoe slung like a cot, between two high trees. The old man
cut down the canoe, and with Jack’s help, got it into the stream.
They both then got into it, and though it was still nearly dark,
the old man knew very well how the little boat was to be directed.

Scarce a word was spoken all this time, though each minute
the stream was carrying them further from the wigwam. At length,
when the morning had fully appeared, and the stream had become
much broader than it had been at first, the old man spoke.

So far well, Quashi, said the
old man; we are through the
worst. Ifshall not leave you till
I see you safe with the pale
faces at Hopetown, which is the
nearest settlement. We must
sleep this night in our canoe,
slinging it to a tree; it will not
be the first time that I have
done so, and by to-morrow’s
sunset we shall be at their
settlement.

And I shall owe my life to you,
with God’s blessing, said Jack.

Not to me altogether, said
the old man, but to him that
was my master, to whose house

: I shall take you.
The old man then told his history to Jack, as they gently
glided down the stream. He made a very long story, but we
shall make it a’ very short one. He accounted for his being
whiter than the men of the wigwam, by saying that he believed
his father was a white man; but his mother was Indian, and
he had been reared in the wigwam they had left that night.

When he was no longer a young man, himself and others of
his people, and certain run-away negroes, had been in a business
in which they had tried to surprise and murder a small party of
emigrants, who were on an advanced post on the edge ofa wood,


JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. IIt

and there, he said, several of them had been killed, some had
run away, and he had himself been: left for dead on the earth.
Then and there it was, he added, that his master had found him,
and caused him to be brought into his house, and had himself
dressed his wounds, and nursed him till he was quite recovered.

The old man, for he appeared perhaps to Jack to be older than
he was, said, that -he had: lived ten years with his master, and
learned many precious things from him, amongst other things,
to read. ; Z

Why, then, asked Jack, did you leave this master to return to
the red men?

A smile came over the face of the old man, and he answered,
Suppose I love my mother’s people, and suppose I wish to do them
good, and teach them, if God pleases, what my master taught me;
but when you see my master, he will tell you more. Call me Sam;
for so I was called when I was baptized.

You are a Christian, then; said Jack, in great joy.

Else I should not have saved the pale-face, he answered; else
T should not have known that God has made all men of one blood.

What would the red men have done with me? asked Jack.

They would have wrought their savage will upon you; answered
old Sam. How can I know what that might have been.

It was towards the evening of the second day after leaving the
wigwam, when, as the little canoe tured round a shadowy corner
of the stream, they suddenly came in sight of a number of white
boys bathing. They all knew old Sam, and hailed him as an old friend.
. Sam answered them cheerfully, and when he asked if his master
was well, they gave him good news of his health. The old man
brought his canoe to the shore, and getting out, walked on into a
place which looked like a beautiful English village.

Sam next pointed out his master’s cottage, standing in a garden
enclosed with a paling: in a pretty porch adorned with honey-
- suckle, sat a little white girl reading.

That little one, said Sam, is an orphan girl, the child of a lost
friend, whom my master has taken for his own. And calling to the
child, he said, Little Miss Jane, where is the master?
112 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

Is it you, Sam?
said the child, smil-
ing; the master is
yonder, under the
cedar trees; it is
a holiday, and he
has got the children
there. to read to
them and give them
cakes, and I am
keeping house.

Sam turned from
the little girl, and
walked in the way
she pointed. As
they came near the
: cedar trees, they
saw an elderly man leaning on a stick, amongst a number of
children seated on the ground, whom he was regaling with cakes
and fruit.

There is my master, said Sam; stand and look at him before
we show ourselves.

At the first look, Jack thought he had seen that face before—it
was as if he had seen it in a dream. The master, as old Sam
called him. spoke to the children, and Jack thought he knew the
voice.

There is my master, said Sam, bless him; for he has not his
fellow in this country. Look at the little ones all about him: is he
not like a shepherd watching and feeding his lambs? But hark
you, he is telling them some story; how still the children are;
step on softly, and let us sit down and listen too. If he sees us,
which he will be sure to do, he will only give me a nod or a
kind look, as much as to say you are welcome; and as to you, -
he will think that you are some poor wild boy picked up by me,
and may be wanting white man’s good services—so step quietly.

Old Sam then led ‘the way, and Jack followed. When they came


JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. 113,

near to the circle of little

children, the master saw

them, but without stopping

in his story ; he only nodded

and smiled, as Sam had

foretold he would do, and

then the two travellers sat |
down on a bank, and were

at rest to hear what the

white man was saying. The

master is telling some parts

of his own history, whispered

old Sam to young Jack; I

have heard the story often:

he is just about where he

came to this country, only

a private sailor, on board one of King George’s ships. I have
heard the first part of his story many times, and can tell it to
you, some time, as well as he can himself; but it has not much
to do with what he is now saying—so listen, and you will learn
what sort of a man he is, by his own words.

-Jack listened, and these were the words which he heard.

Our vessel, said the old sailor, was in so bad a plight from the
storms we met with in the passage, when she got into the port of
Boston, that there was no chance of her being ready to sail back
again for many weeks; so we sailors had nothing to do but to
idle about, or stand and look at each other; and as we were
being kept at great expense, and no profit, the captain made no
objection to give a few of us our discharge, and to pay us up,.
and let us go about our business. I and my friend Will, did not
part then, nor till some time afterwards, for we got service in a
vessel going up to Canada; and when we got there we left the:
ship, and began to consider whether we could not make a better
living by taking a bit of land up here, or somewhere among the
woods and wild country; for we had been told of very comfort-
able living being made in this sort of way, and our heads were

I


114 JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

quite full of the scheme. Our plan was, to take all we had on
our backs and in our pockets, with a gun over our shoulders, and
a knife in our girdles, and go up towards the woods, to engage
ourselves as servants in the first white settlement we came to,
where land might be had cheap. It was a wild, ill-advised business
—but we had taken counsel from persons who were as fresh to
the country as we were ourselves, and we were so hot on our
scheme, that we did not wait for better advice. So we hired a
boy, one of the lads of the red men, who bore a good character
at the port, and with him for a guide we set out to walk to a
new settlement, where, as we were told, the people would be glad
enough to hire us as servants, for a year or so; after which, we
thought of building ourselves a log hut, and clearing a bit of ground,
and so on. So off we set, with the youth for our guide. The lad’s
name was Kookoo; but he could speak a sort of English, and we
thought him the most innocent creature that ever breathed. We
took our notion of him from Robinson Crusoe’s man Friday; for
that was a book we were both of us—that is I and Will—most
uncommonly taken with. So we travelled some days through the
cleared countries, and among the English and Scotch settlers, and
met with every kindness; and several there were who would gladly
have hired us, but there-abouts was no land to be had—it was
all occupied. So like fools as we were, we would take no counsel,
but must needs go further inland, where land could then have
been had for very little.

I cannot justly remember how many days had passed since we
had left the seaport, when we came to the edge of a forest, a
place, perhaps, which had never been cleared since the trees had
sprung up there, after the waters of Noah’s flood had drained off
the face of the earth; and Kookoo told us our way lay right
through the wood, in the direction which the sun goes down—
that is, due west.

Neither I nor Bill liked the look of the place, but we were
headstrong, and foolishly daring.. So we went on, and travelled a
whole day right forward through the woods; Kookoo leading us
to believe that we should easily clear them by noon the next day.
JACK THE SAILOR BOY. 115

There is no safety in those wild woods in the night, but in
getting up into a tree. Before it began to be dark, we therefore
chose one which might, as poor Will said, serve our turn for the
night, as well as many a berth we had on board ship. Sailor lads
are not particularly nice about their accommodations; so having
eaten what provisions we had brought with us, and slaked our
thirst at a convenient watercourse, not far off the tree where we
meant to sleep, we all three climbed up to our bed-chamber, and
settled ourselves, as we hoped, for the night; but had it not been
for the tender care of Providence it would have been a long night
for me. Before we slept, Will and I had a long talk. It was the
darkness, aye, and the silence too, which made us fall on the
deep subjects which we then did. There is no silence like that of
a deep forest, in the dead hour of night; though, to be sure, it
is sometimes broken by the wailing of some wild creature, or the
groaning and creaking which always sounds among old trees upon
any change from heat or cold. Will and I then spoke of the
changes and chances of this life, and talked of those we had left
in the little island at home, and agreed, as it were, if any chance
should happen to one of us, that the other, if it should ever be
in his power, should assist such helpless ones as might be left to
the other—and then we fell on religious subjects. And so we went
on from one thing to another, till we got drowsy, and forgot
ourselves. I can’t say how long I slept, but when I awoke, there
was a glimmer of light from the full moon, which was high up
in the heavens. I first looked to see if Will was there, and there
he was. I then looked at the boy, but to my great wonder I
could see him nowhere. That is strange, thought I, and I gave
Will a shake.

What is it? he asked; half waking and half sleeping.

Kookoo is gone! I said, and at that he roused, and was alarmed ;
but we had no great time to speak our thoughts, whatever they
were; for suddenly there burst upon us, and from all round us, the
most terrible yell I had then ever heard—though since that time I
have heard many a war-cry of the red men, when their savage
nature is all alive and thirsting for blood. Not that they are naturally
116 JACK, THE SAILOR BOF.

worse than the white men, but worse they surely are by education
and custom,- and total ignorance of the God of the Christians.

Then Kookoo had betrayed you? said one of the children.

And served us right, replied the old man, for our folly, in
imputing innocence to one who knew not even the name of the
Redeemer. But we had a lesson then, never to be forgotten. Will
and I were ready in a minute with our firelocks, but we had
better have let them alone. We each discharged a piece, thinking
that the sound would have driven the savages off, as Robinson
Crusoe describes them to have fled at the report of his gun, with
the smoke and flash. But fire arms were no new thing to our
savages. The instant we had discharged our guns, they came on,
and dreadful was the scuffle that followed, though I know little
of the particulars. I received a blow on the head, and fell like
one dead, at the foot of the tree, and there I was left, after the
savages had taken everything of the smallest value from me,
excepting only a check shirt and my check trousers; why they
did not take these I never knew, unless they were disturbed by
the sound. of persons coming that way; for, as you all know, these
children of the wilderness can hear and read the lowest sounds,
at a distance to us not to be believed.

Well, I lay at the foot of that tree like one dead, and as I
afterwards learned, being thought to be dead, not only by the.
savages, but by poor William, whom they had taken away with
all his wits about’ him. There I lay till the very persons came up
whom they had heard at a distance. These persons were white
men, hunters and dealers in furs and skins. They came, led on
by a kind Providence; they found me—believed that the life was
still in me, and took such means with me’that they brought me
to myself, and set me on my feet, though I could not walk. They
carried me to the nearest settlement of white men, and there I
was housed and nursed by those good people, whose little girl,
now an. orphan, lives with me, and is a daughter to me. These
friends set me a going, and under God I owe to them all I now
have in this world; and this day every year, being the anniversary.
of my great deliverance, we, as you know, meet.under these trees


JACK, THE SAILOR BOY. 117

to speak of the goodness of God in having thus delivered me,
and his marvellous mercy in taking one and another of the-children
of men to make them his own, even in this present life; and in
providing for them those means of instruction in his holy word,
which alone can make us differ, as. it eds our hearts and
affections, from the fiercest savage of the forest. :

But what became of poor Will? asked one of: the little nee

Will thought me to be dead, answered the old man, but I was
not so sure of his being dead. My friends, the hunters, did’ all
they could to find him out, and good hunters they were; and so
surely did they scent out the red men who had taken him prisoner,
that they at last made out that he had got away off to the sea,
and on boad some vessel; ahd all this was true,—for some few
years afterwards he came back again to this country, having -been
in England. How amazed we were to meet. I was just on the
start too, to look after the poor little boy I had left at home,
meaning to bring him back to this country; but William brought
me word-of my boy’s death, and then I made up my mind to
stay in Canada, and go back to my place—for I had no longer
any call to England; and I would have had William come here
with me, but he had got married, and had a child at home.

What was the name of your little boy? asked one of the children;
and had he his mother living ? “4

These were the very questions which Jack was es to ore
How attentive he was to the answers.

My poor wife died, answered the old: sailor, when my boy was
very small; that was a great grief to me, but hardly so bad a one
as being pressed and taken on board a King’s ship, far away from
the poor infant, who, no doubt, perished from unkindness. But
that is past and gone; poor Jack is happy—he is in: peace: with
his Redeemer. The old man’s voice changed. as he spoke these
last words, and at the very same moment Jack jumped upon his feet,

T am sure now, he said, it is so! and he was running towards
the old man, whom he then knew to be the father he was-séeking,
when Sam caught him by the arm, saying, what now, white boy—
what are you at?
118 JACK, THE SAILOR BOY.

He is my father! my own father! cried Jack, shaking him off,
and running through the circle of children, he rushed towards his
father, and fell down on his knees before him, putting his arms
round his legs.

The children, though they were used to see dark people, were
startled at the manner of Jack. They all got up, and gathered
together in groups, like frightened sheep. They screamed, too, so
loudly, that the old sailor could not hear what Jack said; and he
too was not a little surprised to see a black, or rather a red boy,
kneeling to him and crying, Father! Father !

What is it you want, poor boy? he said; and he tried to get
from him, but Jack held him closer.

Old Sam was come up by this time. He had contrived to quiet
the children, by telling them that they had nothing to fear; but
it was a minute or more before he could get his master to listen
to him, or even to the youth at his feet.

Master, said he, listen, listen to me; he says you are his father,
and that he is your son!

My son! replied old Jack; those are words—he is no son of
mine.

Yes, yes! indeed, indeed I am, cried Jack; your own, your
very son.

With that black skin, poor boy said the old sailor; nay, that
will not pass; but if you want a friend—

He is no more dark, nor half so dark as I am, said old Sam;
there is no stain there but what water will take away—is there
my lad?

A few quiet words soon explained how the case stood, and the
old sailor took in the truth, as it were, all at once; and the next
minute he fell forward on the breast of his son, and was like one
fainting from the greatness of his joy.

My father! my father! were the only words which Jack could
say, and the father could not speak a word: when a little recovered
he wept as sorely as if he had lost instead of found his boy. |

Delighted as poor Jack was in finding his long-lost father, yet
he could not help looking somewhat eagerly on the white loaves
JACK, THE SAILOR BOF. . 119

and bowls of milk. It was long since he had had a good meal,
and people must eat, they cannot live on joy only.

So, my boy, said the old sailor, as he looked on his son, who
was eating a white cake like one who had been half famished, and
so you can eat your bread without sauce—you cannot wait to have
it buttered; but when am I to see you? What are you like, my
boy? tall and straight I see; but what like is your face? I hope
you are not altered, and that I shall still see in you the features
I loved when you was a little one; but here comes little: Jane.
Jack you must be a brother to Jane; she has been my comfort
for several years past. Jane was come from the house with an old
servant, bringing a basket with more food, and what a history
there was to tell her, and how delighted she was; for she had
often heard her father, as she called the old sailor, talk of little
Jack, and tell how he taught him his letters when he came home
at night, and on Sundays, by writing them on the sand. How happy
were the two hours which followed. When Jack had taken as much
as he could eat, the story of his coming there was to be told over
again. Jack first told his part, and then Sam took it up; and very
proud was old Sam of what he had done—proud, I say, but that
is not the word; he was pleased and grateful to God.

The sun was setting, and it was growing dark under the cedar
trees, when the party broke up to go to their homes.

What a Sweet cottage—what a lovely home had God provided
for poor Jack; and yet he had brought him to that home through
a dark and dangerous way.

Jack was put to sleep in a neat little room; his father called it
a cabin: it had a window peeping out from the roof, which was
covered with shingles, or wooden tiles; and in the morning Jack
saw below it a beautiful garden, and beyond it many fair fields,
either waving with golden corn, or covered with flocks; these were
his father’s lands. At day-break Jack went down to the brook to
bathe, and came out with a whiter face, though he could not at
once get rid of all the stains.

His father had seen that clean linen and a decent jacket and
trousers should be provided in his room. These he took to the


120 JACK, THE SAILOR. BOY.

water’s side, to dress himself there. When he came back he:found
the family in the porch, waiting breakfast for him.

There he is, cried old Sam, as Jack came in at the gate.

And there he is, my boy! my son! cried the old sailor; and:a
‘fine fellow he is, and so like what he was: And he ran forward
to meet him.

The meeting was such an one as might have been with old
Jacob and his beloved Joseph.

Jack never left his father from that time, but became his right
hand man in his farm, and his support when he could labour no
longer.
(THe WHITE PIGEON

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.


ra

hye


THE WHITE PIGEON.



i AM going to tell you a story about a pigeon, a pretty
@ white pigeon, that first came out of its egg in the dovecote
over the porch door of my uncle John’s house.

Uncle John lived in the country, and kept a farm, and he lived
in a large straggling house, having many roofs, for it had not all
been built at the same time. It was what people call a regular old
farm-house. It had once been probably of greater consequence;
but as new and more convenient houses were built for rich gentle-
folk, this house became a farm-house, because it was standing
by itself, and there were many meadows for cattle and corn-fields
about it.

Every summer my sister Nancy and myself used to go during
the holiday time to visit uncle John, to help to make hay in those
pretty meadows, and to gather wild flowers in the fields and lanes
near the farm; to see the milkmaids milking the cows, and, in
short, to enjoy ourselves in many little innocent and happy ways
that children in the country only can understand.

In all our pleasures uncle John was the merriest and the hap-
piest, so that we loved him very much, and always liked his com-
pany whenever he was at leisure. We loved our aunt, too, very
much, but not so well as our uncle; for she was‘much graver than
he, and she could not play with us in the meadows as he did.

I was about ten years old when the circumstance happened
which I am about to relate. It was the summer time when a letter
came from uncle John, to beg our parents to allow Nancy and myselfto
124 THE WHITE PIGEON.

visit him, rather earlier in the year than was our custom.

The letter was sealed with black, and it told us of the death
of our aunt Jane, the sister of our own mother and our uncle. This
aunt was a widow lady, having two children, the elder, a boy,
being at least two years younger than myself, and his little sister
Bessy full four.

“As we have no children of our own,” were the words in uncle
John’s letter, “my wife and I intend, with God’s blessing, to fulfil
the part of parents to these little orphans; but as they are at
present strangers to us, we thought that Nancy and Kate, being
more of their own age, would be better able to comfort them than
we. If you can.allow my nieces to come to us before the usual
time, we shall be very glad of their company early the next week.” |

“Oh, mamma,” said my sister Nancy, the tears coming into her
eyes, “pray let us go and comfort little Bessy and her brother.
Poor little Bessy, I remember her when she was a pretty baby
and could scarcely walk alone, when our aunt brought her to
visit us.”

Whilst my sister spoke, many wicked feelings were rising in my
breast. Uncle John had always been in. the habit, when he gave
way to my wishes, of saying, “Kate is the youngest, and so she
shall choose, or because she is the youngest it must be given to
her;” and my sister Nancy was so kind and good-natured, she
was always glad to see one happy. But now, I thought, Bessy will
be the youngest; she is but little more than half my age; and if
uncle John indulged me because I was one year younger than
Nancy, how much more will he indulge Bessy, who is so very
young! Thus I made up my mind at once to dislike the little girl,
though at the same time I felt very anxious to go to uncle John’s
house to see my cousin, and to know whether my fears would be
justified.

I did not speak, however, and my mother, remarking my silence,
asked me if I did not wish to go and see my uncle.

“OQ yes, mamma,” I said; “yes, I do wish to go very much.
Will you not let us go, mamma?” eee a:

“You must both promise me, then, to be very kind to little
THE WHITE PIGEON. 125

Bessy,” she said; ‘for it would vex me very much to hear you
had been unkind to the little one who has no mother now to take.
care of her.” !

So mamma is going to spoil Bessy, too, I thought. How tiresome!
how sorry I am uncle John is going to take her to live with him
in that pretty farm; and how happy she will be, and no one will
ever speak a cross word to her for uncle John will be sure to take’
part, as he das done mine often before. Our other cousin, Bessy’s
brother, was seldom mentioned, and so it happened that I felt not that
jealousy of Edward which J did for his little sister. It might be, too,
that it is-a very rare occurrence for a boy to be jealous ofa girl,or:
a girl of a boy, their wishes and their habits being so different.

As soon as our black dresses were made our father took my
sister and me into the country to my uncle’s, and there left us,
being obliged to return home as soon as possible. Uncle John was
gone for the orphans; for their mother had lived in a distant part
of England, and it would take him more than three days at least,
from the time he started from the farm, before he could return
again.

I had never been very fond of my aunt’s company, and what
made me more dissatisfied with it now; than I was before was
this—she really was very sorry for the death of her sister-in-law,
and very anxious to make the orphans comfortable in their new
home; and as I was already jealous of my little cousin, it is not
to be supposed that I liked to hear my aunt’s constant fears that
she could not- make the little ones happy. In the evening they
were expected to arrive, she called Nancy to her, and asked if
there was anything wanted in: the rooms prepared for them that.
children. might desire. My good-natured sister then accompanied ~
our aunt to the sleeping apartments, telling me to join them as
being younger than herself, and thus better able to understand the
feelings : and wishes of little Bessy. I found that by the desire of
uncle John cousin was already provided with a. wooden baby and.
such few toys as would attract a. child of her tender years.. There
was a. cradle also of wicker-work for the doll, and a small trunk
containing its clothes; and as Bessy was known to be clever at:
126 THE WHITE PIGEON.

reading, there were about half-a-dozen small volumes arranged on
a shelf within her reach.

“Ah, how I wish I was Bessy,” I thought, “and all these pretty
things for me! What a happy little girl Bessy must be, uncle John
is so very kind!”

When my aunt and Nancy had settled everything to their tastes,
we went down into the small parlour adjoining the kitchen, and
there we found the tea laid out, with some cold meat, ready for
the travellers.

The kettle was singing in the kitchen, and there was a small
saucepan of boiling water beside it, ready for the fresh eggs which
lay upon the table. There was plenty of good rich cream from
the dairy, and sweet yellow butter with brown bread; and every-
thing was so clean and tempting that my aunt and sister quite
longed for the travellers to come and enjoy themselves, and I, too,
wished them to come, for I longed to see uncle John, and I longed
to know what kind of a child Bessy was. :

We had scarcely expressed our wish for their arrival before a
waggonette was driven up to the porch door, out of which stepped
uncle John; and before he spoke to any of us he lifted out the
little strangers.

I hardly looked at Edward, so anxious was I to see cousin
Bessy, who appeared very much frightened at seeing so many new
faces around her, and creeping close to our uncle, she held his
hand in hers, as if afraid he would go away from her.

Bessy was a pretty, plump little girl, having rosy cheeks and a
pouting lip, but she looked very gentle and timid; and because
she was not dressed nicely I was naughty enough to laugh, when
I kissed her, at the uncommon headdress which she wore. It
certainly was not a bonnet, but looked more like one of her
brother Edward’s hats, but still her little face peeped out prettily
from under it, and being of black beaver, it suited at present the
dark colour of her spencer, though she still wore a white frock,
no mourning being yet prepared for her.

Perhaps our aunt, as women often are, was particularly pained
to see the forlorn appearance of the orphan, for she took her in
THE WHITE PIGEON. 127

her arms, and as she kissed her I saw that a tear fell upon Bessy’s
dress. Edward was not so timid as Bessy, and having learned
during the journey who Nancy and myself were, he came forward,
encouraging his young sister, and telling us, in excuse for her
shyness, that she loved her mamma very much indeed, and was
still unhappy because she could not at once forget her home.

“But come, my little ones,” said uncle John, “I, for one, am
very hungry, so let us go into the house and have something |
to eat.”

When we had finished tea, uncle John took Bessy on his knee,
and he asked her if she thought she could like her new home.
The little girl smiled, and whispered “Yes;” but Edward spoke
out aloud and said he knew he should like it very much, and he
was sure Bessy would, too, very much, when she had been with
us a few days.

“You cannot tell even yet what a pleasant place this is, Edward,”
replied my sister Nancy, “for there are all sorts of pretty things
in a farm—cows and sheep, ducks and fowls, and pigeons, and
green fields and sweet flowers. There are so many pleasant things
that I wonder at anybody liking to live in a town.”

Bessy had been listening attentively while Nancy spoke, and she
ventured to ask my sister if there was a pigeon-cote at the farm.

“There was a pigeon-cote in the next house to mamma’s,” she
said, “and some pretty dove-coloured pigeons, and they made
such a sweet noise that mamma loved to lie awake and listen to
them.” ,

“There: are two pigeon-cotes in this house,” replied Nancy ;
“there is one over the porch, above the door by which you came
in, and there is another at the side of the house, close to the
window of the little room which is to be yours.”

“Oh, how glad I am!” exclaimed Bessy, clapping her hands;
“and whenever I hear the pretty blue pigeons I shall think of
mamma.”

Since Bessy had finished her tea her eyes had begun to look
very sleepy, but whilst talking of the pigeons they. had opened
again; but my aunt, perceiving the child was fatigued, proposed
128 THE WHITE PIGEON.

to take her to’ her bedroom, and I saw with displeasure that Nancy
held: out her hand to Bessy to show her the way up-stairs.

“T will put little Bessy to bed, aunt,” said Nancy, “for Edward
seems very tired, and you will Be ieus like to go with him and
see him comfortable.”

When uncle John was left alone with me he did not take any
more trouble to laugh and talk, but leaning his head on his hand,
he looked very grave and sorrowful. I watched him for some time
without speaking, but at length, rising, I put my arms around his
neck and asked him what made him unhappy.

“If Nancy were to die, Kate,” he inquired, “would you not be
unhappy ?”

“QO. -yes,” I answered; “but then you know, uncle,” I added
carelessly, “that my aunt Jane is happy; she is gone to heaven,
and we ought not to cry for her.”

I said this not because I considered what I was uttering, but
because I felt I ought to say something, and had heard my mamma
often make use of the same expression on the like occasions.
--“T am not unhappy about losing my sister, Kate,” he replied,
“because, as you say, I know she is happy; but then little Bessy
is so like her mother that I fancy she is my sister again. She is
a sweet child,” he added, “but so timid, so fearful of giving offence,
that I am afraid many things here may make her uncomfortable.”

“Oh, uncle John,” I said, “if Bessy be uncomfortable here it
will be her own fault. 1 am sure that she will have everything to
make her happy.”

“I hope so—I hope so,” he replied, rubbing his. hands, his
countenance brightening up as he spoke; “I hope so indeed. As
to Edward, he is a boy, and can take care of himself; but it must
be our endeavour to take care of pretty little Bessy.”

When Nancy and myself were going to- bed, my sister began to
tell me of all the little girl had said to her before she went to
sleep. “Oh, how I wish she were going home with nee she said;
“to live with us, Kate, and be our sister!” ;

“Indeed I am very glad she is not,” I replied eae “TI do
not like: her, and I am sick of hearing everybody praising her.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 129

, Uncle John, too,” I added, shedding tears in my passion, “is so
fond of her, that he has taken no notice either of you or me to-
night, Nancy, though we have not seen him since last summer.”

When we had done our breakfast the next morning, uncle John
took Edward and Bessy by the hand, and led them out to show
them the cows, and the ducks, and the fowls, and all the creatures
of a farm-yard. :

Whilst uncle John was standing with us in that part of the farm-
yard which could be seen from Bessy’s bedroom window, we were
all very much amused by watching a large fat duck which had
something very nice to eat in the duck-pond. Whilst it was eating
it was very quiet, for fear the other ducks should join in it; but
as soon as it had gobbled up enough it began to make a most
terrible squeaking, as if it would say, if it could have spoken,
“Come here, little ducks, and have a nice breakfast like I have;
for here is some food that you will find very good.”

_ In a few minutes a number of ducks waddled down to the

pond, whilst a number of pigeons from the pigeon-house above
the window began to fly backwards and forwards, then settling on
the ground, looking for a tempting mouthful, whilst, of five cows
near us, one rose and tumed to see what the bustle was about.
A pert little hen came very close to Edward’s feet, and bent over
into the water to see if it could not come in for a share of the
breakfast, and all were so busy and so hungry that they did not
mind our standing near them.

“The fowls have not been fed this morning, have they, Kate?”
said my uncle, tuming towards me. “Run in, my good girl, and
bring us some grain for them.”

My uncle John smiled at me. I ran off as desired, and soon
returned with some grain. When we returned into the house, my
jealousy of Bessy was roused by hearing uncle John tell our aunt
that she was to take charge of the pigeons in both the pigeons’
houses, and she was to feed them regularly every day, and see
that they had plenty of salt, for pigeons are very fond of salt in
great quantities.

All that evening, too, uncle John called Bessy his “Queen of

, fee
130 THE WHITE PIGEON.

the Pigeons,” and he promised that if the birds thrived under her
care, he would give her more employment at a future time. In
the meanwhile my aunt was very busy in providing mourning for
Bessy, and we had a dressmaker in the house, and many new
things were bought for her use; and there was scarcely a minute
in the day but somebody or another was calling for Bessy, either
to measure her for a new frock, or a new slip or mantle, or to
see how it looked upon the little girl when finished.

Poor Bessy, indeed, looked very sad when they tried on her
black clothes, for she loved her mamma very much, and she
could not help thinking of her very often; and one morning in
particular, when they had been telling her she must be very care-
ful and not soil her new dresses, she said to me—

“Cousin Kate, do you remember telling me that white birds
were prettier than blue ones? I did not think so then, but I do
now; for there are so many black things about that I am quite
glad to see my own pigeons, because they are so white and clean.”

“ But I thought, Bessy,” I replied, “ you loved pigeons because your
mamma loved them. Do they not, then, remind you of yourmamma? ”

She looked up timidly in my face as she answered, for my
naughty jealousy had made me always unkind to her, and she
seemed to hesitate, as if she could not find words to express
what she would say.

Bessy was very young, but she was a thoughtful child, and her
thoughts were very often good thoughts. “Cousin Kate ”—these
were the very words she used— “when I look on my black frocks,
I could cry, because they seem to say to me, ‘Bessy, you have
these because you have lost your mamma;’ but when I hear my
pretty pigeons cooing, and look on their nice white feathers, I do
not fancy I have lost my mamma, but I remember her as she used
to be before she was ill and died, and before Edward and myself
had been told that God was going to take her up to the blue sky,
to live with Him. And when my pigeons fly up so high, I wish
I could go with them, up, up, high, nearer to mamma; but then
I should not come down again, except now and then to see uncle,
aunt, and Nancy, and Edward, and you.”
THE WHITE PIGEON. - 131

The ducks and the fowls fattened and increased wonderfully
under the care of Edward; not a day passed but that they were
well fed, and uncle John was pleased to see them, and praised
the little boy for his attention.

Bessy he always called his “Queen of the White Pigeons ;” and
never did I hear him do so without feeling angry and irritated
against the little girl; and because I was afraid of showing it
before my uncle and aunt, I was cross and impertinent to her
when out of their sight.

Nancy once blamed me for speaking so sharply to Bessy; but
I answered her rudely, desiring her to leave me alone; and I said
that Bessy was such a favourite of uncle John’s, that he would take
her part against us all.

Whilst I was speaking, Bessy came to seek my sister, and she
told her with delight, her little eyes sparkling with joy, “Uncle
John has seen two small eggs in the pigeon-cote over my own
window, -and he says I shall soon have two young pigeons, and I
am to do what I like with them, for they will come out of the
egg in less than twenty days.”

“Tt is a long time to wait,” added Bessy, “but uncle John says
it will be over sooner than I fancy.”

The two white eggs seen by uncle John were much nearer to
the door of the pigeon-house than the birds were usually in the
habit of sitting, so that, by standing in the farm-yard, a little to
the right, you could see the white head of the pigeon whilst
sitting.

Bessy loved to stand there and watch her birds and she loved
the place for more than one reason. It was there she stood when
uncle John first told her that she should take charge of the birds,
and from it she could see the casement window of her own
bed-chamber, and as it was the only look-out on that side of the
house, uncle John in sport called it “The court of the White
Pigeons and their Queen.” The good little girl was there the first thing
every morning, and the last at night, and her soft, and gentle voice,
and manner often won the birds to fly close round her feet or almost
on her shoulder, and none was so tame as the pigeon which had
132 THE WHITE PIGEON.

laid the white eggs in the nest. Bessy placed the grain just within
her own bed-chamber window, making a train of it, from the window
to the centre of the room, and thus she encouraged the bird to
come in farther and farther, and to hop abont without fear in her
little chamber, even close by its happy mistress.

As soon as Bessy had fed her favourite, it would fly to the
window and there dress its plumage, sending many a white feather
into the room, with which the little girl ornamented her wooden
baby’s hats and caps; and then having cooed its thanks, it would
opon its wings, flutter them a minute or two in the fresh air, and
then fly away and enjoy itself till the time came for returning to.
its eggs.

O how fond was Bessy of this pretty, gentle pigeon, and she
was ever telling uncle John what a good mother it was, and how
it always came back, even before its time, to sit on the eggs, and
how, notwithstanding that, its lazy mate was always obliged to
be driven to nest.

Uncle John used to laugh when Bessy talked of her bird. “I
dare say it is a very good mother,” he used to say; “for I think
that you feed it so much, Bessy, it is quite glad to keep quit for
many hours in a day. It is too plump to fly far at a time, and
then when it is tired it likes to come home and rest in its own
soft nest.”

Bessy would put her finger on uncle John’s mouth whenever he
laughed at her bird, and she would beg him not to say anything
against her pretty white pigeon, and then uncle John would laugh
at her again; but he always finished by saying he liked to see
her kind to dumb animals, for they could not take care of them-
selves, and it was very cruel to hurt them for mere sport; and
when he praised Bessy she would smile and jump on uncle John’s
knee, and tell him all she could about her favourite.

Pigeons generally sit upon their eggs about eighteen or twenty
days before they are hatched. In summer time they are generally
a day or two less, on account of the warmth of the weather, which
helps to hatch the eggs. Bessy’s pigeons had been sitting about
two weeks when one day at our dinner hour the little girl came
THE WHITE PIGEON. 133

into the parlour with the tears in her eye, her lip trembling, as if
she was about to cry. “Well, Bessy,” said uncle John, drawing
her towards him, “what is the matter, my little girl? Come and
tell me what has vexed you.”

On her uncle speaking so kindly to her she burst into tears,
but in a few minutes recovering herself, she sobbed out that her
favourite pigeon was gone.

“Gone!” repeated uncle John—‘“gone! But never mind, Bessy,
she will be sure to come back when she wants her dinner.”

“Oh, no,” replied the child, again bursting into tears; “oh, no,
she is gone away, and she will be killed, and I shall never see
her more.”

Uncle John in vain tried to soothe the little girl; she could not
cease crying for some minutes, and Edward at that moment entered
the room, his usually smiling face being also clouded with sorrow.

“Do you know anything of Bessy’s favourite, my little fellow?”
inquired our uncle. “Has any harm happened to any of her
pigeons?”

Edward strove hard to keep his tears from falling, for he felt it
was not manly to cry, and after hesitating a moment to master his
feelings, he said that Bessy’s favourite bird had left her nest as
usual that morning, and had gone to seek her mate; but it was
supposed by Thomas, one of the farm-servants, that she could not
find the wanderer, and, still on the search for him, she had not
returned even to eat her breakfast.

“But Bessy spoke of one having been killed,” said uncle John.
“Has John learned anything about the stray birds?”

“He said,” replied Edward, “that pigeons are fond of their
homes, that they always can find their way to them, and that they
fly so fast that some of them can go forty miles an hour; and he
says he thinks Bessy’s pigeon would have been back by this time
if it had not been killed or caught in some trap. He was just tel-
ling us so when the great bell rang for dinner, and I only waited
to ask him if he knew anything more about her birds.”

“And does he?” inquired uncle John; “or is this all he has
to say? for if so, my dear Bessy may wipe away her tears. The
134 THE WHITE PIGEON.

stray birds, I have no doubt, will return again to-night.” It was
all—and uncle John was so kind and cheerful, and laughed so.
gently at Bessy’s fears, that even the little girl herself smiled, aud
hoped to see her favourite again next morning.

The next morning, Bessy, having hastily thrown on some of her
clothes, came running to us in great glee, crying out that her
favourite was retumed to her. “She is come back—she is come
back!” she exclaimed, almost out of breath with delight—* my
white pigeon has come back, and has been at my window to see
me this morning.”

When we returned with Bessy to her room, then indeed we saw
the pretty white pigeon waiting for the window to be opened for
its breakfast. Nancy opened it as softly as possible; but the timid
little bird being frightened, it flew away a minute or two, then
came back again, and hovering on its wing over the grain laid for
it by Bessy, it seemed to hesitate, and then boldly flew into the
chamber. ‘

“Welcome, my pretty bird,” said Bessy—“welcome, welcome! ”
and whilst the pigeon greedily filled its crop, it allowed its young
mistress to approach so close to it that she could stroke its white
soft feathers with her hand. When the pigeon had satisfied its
appetite, it took some grain in its beak, and flew away with it
through the window, not staying to coo its thanks, as it was in
the habit of doing.

“Let us see what this pigeon is about, Bessy,” said Nancy.
“Let us keep quite close to this end of the room out of its way,
and let us see what it will do.” We did as desired, and the next
minute the white pigeon was again in the chamber, and quickly
plucked up some grain from the floor; it flew away, looking very
much like a person conscious that he is taking what does not belong
to him.

Thrice more did the bird pay us a visit, taking grain away in its
bill; and it is very probable it might have come again, but we
were so anxious to see whither it carried it that we finished our
dressing as fast as possible, and ran into the garden to see if we
could find any trace of where it went with the grain.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 135

The pigeon, however, perhaps frightened by the noise we made
in dressing, had flown away, and on going to look at the pigeon-
house over her bedroom window, Bessy found a number of ducks
quarrelling greedily over the addled and spoilt eggs laid by her
favourite; but having got cold during her long absence, and the
birds inside being thus destroyed, the natural instinct of the pigeon
had taught it to throw them from the nest.

You may be sure uncle John was very glad to hear of the
return of the white pigeon, and he patted Bessy on the head as
he said, “ Now, my little girl, this will teach you not to give way
too soon to sorrow. Had you cried all yesterday evening, you would
only have made yourself and your friends about you uncomforta-
ble, and you would not have done any good to your bird; but
you were a good little girl,” he added, “and to-day you are rewar-
ded for it by having your pigeon again. And now, Bessy,” he
added, “if you will take as much care of these pigeons as you
have done for a few months longer, you may ask any favour of
me that I can perform, and I will grant it you; for I like kind-
ness to animals, and I always encourage it among my workmen,
and why should I not do so with my nieces also?”

“But {where is its mate, Bessy?” inquired uncle John. “Is it
come back to the pigeon-house ?” .

Bessy candidly owned that in her joy at recovering her favou-
rite she had not thought of the other bird that had caused her
trouble, and that she even now did not care if it stayed away.

“T do not wish it hurt,” she said, “but I do not wish it to
come here and tempt my owz pigeon.”

“Ah, Bessy,” said uncle John, and he spoke rather gravely,
“you love one of your pigeons more than another, and you feed
it and encourage it to come near you, and then you love it the
more because you see it oftenest; and now you love it so well,
you have forgotten another for its sake. What would you say, my
little girl, if your aunt was to do so by her nieces, and perhaps
forget one of you altogether whilst thinking of the other?”

Bessy made no reply; for she could not deny that she loved
her white pigeon better than all the rest, and. Uncle John said no
136 THE WHITE PIGEON.

more about it; but he told her that he thought it very likely
that the male pigeon might have met with some accident, and
that its mate took its food from the chamber where it got its own
breakfast, and that if it were watched and followed, we might find
the now absent pigeon.

Bessy seemed much pleased to think that her little favourite
could be so attentive and kind; and it was soon agreed between
Nancy, Edward, and herself that and on the following morning
they would all be up much earlier than usual, to keep watch on
the white pigeon, and find out where she would go.

Bessy was to remain in her own room, and when the pigeon
came in, to tell Nancy, who was to stand outside the door,
upon the stairs, to run to Edward to take his post beneath the
window, while Nancy herself was to run round to the opposite side
of the duck-pond, so that if the pigeon flew across the water, she
would be ready to follow it.

Aware that if I had been asked to assist following the pigeon,
I should have probably made some unkind and rude answer,
Bessy did not even tell me of her plan for the morrow; but Nancy,
not feeling the same delicacy as the little girl, inquired, as they
were going to bed, if I would join them in their search after the
pigeon. -

“Bessy has not asked me,” I answered sullenly, ‘“and as she
has not asked, she cannot want my assistance.”

“You know, Kate,” replied my sister, “you never speak a kind
word to cousin Bessy, and how, then, could she ask a favour of
you? I wish, dear Kate,” she added, ‘that you loved our little
cousin better. She has neither father nor mother, as we have, to
love and take care of her, and she is very kind and good-natured,
and would soon love you very much, if you would let her.”

In the morning all the three were at their post betimes, and, as
uncle John expected, the pretty lady bird, after having eaten a
good breakfast, flew away with some grain in its mouth for its
wounded mate, which Nancy found hurt in the wing by a shot,
and hid amidst the underwood of a part of the garden close to
the shrubbery which was very seldom touched by the gardener’s spade.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 137

We guessed that the male bird, being of a roving disposition,
had gone from its home and out of our uncle’s grounds, and some
person with a gun had shot at it as it was returning home. For-
tunately for the wounded pigeon, it was near the farm, so that it
dragged itself to the elm-tree near the house, and there hiding itself
beneath the underwood, it came out in answer to the call of its
mate, who comprehended its wants, and after. enjoying a good
breakfast itself, took some grain in its mouth to its poor wounded
companion. The poor bird’s wing was very much hurt indeed, but
when uncle John saw it he said it would soon get well, with care
and good living; and he told Bessy what to do for it, and that
she would find a large cage, once used by a magpie, in a lumber-
room at the top of the house.

“You must have the cage cleansed and well aired,” he said,
“and then you may put the wounded bird in it, and you may
feed it every day; and if you hang the cage on a high tree its
attentive mate will be able to visit it and coo to it if it pleases;
but remember to keep the cage-door well closed,” he said, “lest
any accident should befall the bird.”

Bessy soon found the magpie’s cage, and when put in order the
wounded bird was put gently in by uncle John himself, and plenty
of food and water was given to it. The door was carefully closed,
and one of the men-servants climbed up into the great elm-tree
undemeath which it was found, and fastened the cage strongly to
one of the boughs of the tree.

It would be impossible to describe the manner of the female
pigeon on seeing her mate so comfortably settled; she flew about
from bough to bough of the elm-tree; she cooed; she fluttered her
wings; she laid her pretty white head first on one side and then
on the other, her dove-like eyes humid with softness and gratitude.
And if the white pigeon was happy, Bessy was wild with delight;
and as she told uncle John afterwards, she could not help loving
her favourite best, because she could understand her better than
all the rest, for she had a pretty way about her, that she could
tell what she meant without speaking.

Uncle John only laughed at Bessy’s joy, but my aunt said,
138 THE WHITE PIGEON.

“Whenever I see a little bird so sensible and so eager to show
it is pleased, and so grateful for what is done for its good, I more
_ than ever put my trust in God, who alone bestows such wonderful
instinct upon His dumb creatures.”

For some days all went on well with the pigeons, Bessy’s favou-
rite having taken up its abode completely in the elm-tree, or only
going to the pigeon-house when the night had set in and it was
too dark to see its mate. It would sit the greater part of the day
on a branch of the elm-tree, cooing and dressing its white plumage,
sometimes taking a short flight, soaring up to a dazzling height
in the bright sky, and then coming down again exactly on the spot
whence it had started. It was a beautiful open space where that
elm-tree stood, though there was a shrubbery at one side of it,
and on the right were many flowers, which either had escaped
from the garden or had been dropped there in the seed by the
birds flying over the spot, and these had grown up in a half-wild
‘state, mingling with the grass round the trunk of the large elm-
tree. A low hedge separated the tree from the shrubbery itself,
and only two young fir trees rose up against the sky to obstruct
the clear view all around.

One morning, after the wounded pigeon had been shut up in
its cage about a week, uncle John called Bessy to him, and said—

“ My little girl, I spoke to you seriously the other day, perhaps
too seriously, on your loving one pigeon more than another, and
I am pleased to see you listened to what I said without being
cross; and, what is more, you have remembered what I said to
you, and you have been very attentive to the wounded pigeon you
did not love. Now, Bessy, I promised you that if you were kind
to these birds for one month more I would give you anything
you liked to ask of me and that I could spare. Now, as I am
pleased with your conduct, we will not wait for the month to be over;
ask me now for whatever you would like, and I will give it you.”

Bessy’s eyes sparkled, and the colour mounted ‘to her very eye-
brows as she declared, child-like, that she was so happy she did
not want anything; but she kissed uncle John as she spoke, and
thanked him very warmly for his kindness.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 139

“You little silly girl,” exclaimed uncle John, gently pushing her
from him, “if you do not know what you want, go-and ask Kate
or Nancy, and I dare say they can tell you, and then come to
me.” And so saying, uncle John left the room.

Bessy was coming up to me, as her uncle desired, her smiling
countenance glowing with delight; but, angry and displeased at
what our uncle had just said to her, I took up the cat, that hap-
pened to be sitting before the kitchen fire, and stroking it and
coaxing it to be quiet, I walked out into the garden, rudely pushing
by my gentle cousin, without making any apology for doing so.

“Poor pussy,” I said, “pretty pussy—pretty, pretty puss—stay
with me; do, that is a darling cat;’ and I tried to imitate Bessy’s.
voice and manner as she spoke to her pigeon. If you will stay
with me, dear pussy,” I added, looking angrily at the little girl,
“T will feed you and give you good dinners, and then uncle John
will praise me, and he will perhaps promise me anything I like if
I am kind to dumb animals. But I do not know, either,” I added,
speaking my thoughts aloud: ,, Uncle John spoils Bessy, and he
might not think it necessary to be kind to me, as I am neither
an orphan nor his favourite.”

Bessy burst into tears as I thus reminded her of her orphan
state, for it is very easy to make a person cry after violent laughter
or great excitement. She would, however, have spoken to me, too,
to try and soothe me; for she put her hand on my arm, but I
roughly pushed it off, and stroking and patting the cat, I walked
out of the house by the kitchen door.

In my jealous mood I did not care which way I went, my whole
thoughts being full of Bessy, and wondering what she would ask
of uncle John. I hate cousin Bessy, I thought; I hate and detest
her, and I wish some‘ one would come and take her away from
here. I was angry, too, with uncle John for loving her, and I
thought in my own mind I would be sulky and sullen for the rest.
of my stay at the farm, and that would make them all uncom-
fortable, for they would fancy I was ill, and be uneasy about me.

I won’t eat, I thought, and that will make uncle John miserable,
and perhaps he will then be kinder to me; and I will be so grave
140 THE WHITE PIGEON.

and serious, that perhaps he will try to amuse me as he does
Bessy, whenever any one talks to her of her mamma. But then
’ the wicked thought came into my mind that uncle John was so
fond of my cousin, and so much occupied about her, that he would
not ,very likely find out that anything was the matter with me, and
I should thus be only punishing myself for my sulkiness.

What could I, then, do to vex Bessy, and by vexing her, vex
uncle John also? And whilst thinking of this, all on a sudden the
cat, which had nestled itself in my arms, sprang out of them upon
the ground, giving me a slight scratch on my hand in its eagerness
to be free.

We then stood—pussy and I—before the elm-tree, for it was
there that unconsciously I had gone, with the pigeon’s deadliest foe
in my arms. Pussy had instantly spied the bird in the cage. and
though she would not have dared to touch the pigeon had it been
in its accustomed place near the house, yet now in a cage, and in
a strange place, I saw at once that she had marked it for her prey.

Not that she attempted to touch it—no, such are not the ways
of pussy cats; but she sat herself down opposite the cage, her
eyes glaring, her whiskers erect, and her beautiful spotted tail
gently wagging backwards and forwards, whilst the terrified pigeon
in the cage hopped on its perch, and looked down fearful on its enemy.

I am sorry to say that I was in such a wicked frame of mind,
that I never stopped to pity the poor bird, though I was wicked
enough to laugh at the eager look of the cat as she watched her
prey. “Ah, Miss Pussy,” I said, “how easily you could revenge
me on my cousin Bessy!” and I was thoughtless and cruel enough
to stand between the cage and the cat, and point with one hand
to the bird and with the other to the greedy animal, whilst, turning
my face towards the cat, my eyes no doubt expressing the bad
feelings of my heart, I continued thus:—“ Pretty pussy, uncle John
loves Bessy better than me; and Nancy, too, loves her very much
indeed; but, pussy, I don’t love Bessy, and I cannot bear to hear
her praised, because she is fond of these odious birds. O pretty
pussy, then, be like to some kind fairy, and take my part, and eat
up these hateful birds.”
THE WHITE PIGEON. I4t

At that moment I was half alarmed by my own words, for the
wicked feelings I had in my heart made me far from being so
happy as I used to be, and I probably should, from feeling
ashamed and angry with myself, have been brought to see the sin
of my conduct, had I not been aroused by the sound of voices
in the garden repeating my name. Fearful lest some one should
find me before the elm-tree with the cat at my feet, and thus my
real feelings be discovered, I did not hesitate an instant, but,
climbing through a ‘thin part of the hedge near the tree, I ran
round, stooping under the rails, and entering the house by the
porched door, a different way from which I had left it, never
considering that I had left the cat to do what mischief it liked and
was able to manage. I had not time for thought to recover myself,
for my aunt was in the kitchen when I entered it, and asked me
if I had seen Nancy or Bessy in the garden.

“No,” I replied, afraid of my conduct being discovered—“ no,
I have not been in the garden, I have been in the field;” and
thus I added a lie to my other faults, for I was afraid that if pussy
was found near the elm-tree, Bessy might accuse me of having
taken her there.

“Then go and put on your bonnet quickly,” said my aunt,
thinking the colour in my cheek was the effect of the fresh air.
“Your. uncle John promised Bessy just now to grant her the first.
favour she desired of him, and as he is going out this evening
some miles on business of no particular consequence, she has.
asked him to take you all in the waggonette with him. Your sister
and cousins will soon be dressed; they have been looking for you
to join them.” é

As our aunt spoke they came in from the garden, and I saw at
once they had not been near the elm-tree. But I had no leisure
given me for thought; the vehicle would be at the door in a
minute, and I had scarcely time to put my bonnet:on before we
had to set out, and thus I put it out of my own power, unless I
confessed all to my aunt, to drive the cat away from under the
elm-tree.

On our jumping into the waggonette, Bessy suddenly remem-
142 | THE WHITE PIGEON.

bered the pigeons, and putting out her head, she said loud enough
for all to hear—

“Dear aunt, will you have the kindness to feed my birds if it
is dark before we come home, for it is my pretty pigeons that
have been the cause of our ride, and it would be a very great
pity if they had to go to bed without their supper because we are
so happy.”

“Very well, Bessy,” said my aunt, and the next minute we
were off, the horse walking at first slowly, and then, when touched
by uncle John’s whip, it trotted more lively and gaily, and we all
liked it to go-fast, for then we were riding much more than when
going slowly.

But what Bessy had said about the pigeons had reminded me
of what I had done, and how I had left the cat under the elm-
tree; and then I remembered that it was through her kindness 1
was now enjoying a pleasant ride, and I felt that had I been in
Bessy’s place I would have asked uncle John for something for
myself, and not for a pleasure for us all. How much better my
cousin is than J am! I thought; I wish I were as good, and then
everybody would love me. But then, again, my wicked jealousy
‘came into my head, and I thought that Bessy was good because
everybody indulged her, and I said to myself that I should be
good too if everybody spoiled me.

“What is the matter, Kate?” said uncle John, who had remar-
ked my silence. ‘What is the matter, my saucy niece?” forso he
often called me. “Come, let us hear your voice, or I shall fancy
you do not enjoy your ride this fine evening.”

I immediately began to talk as much nonsense as I could when
uncle John thus spoke to me, for I was afraid if I looked grave
that they might remember it afterwards if any accident happened
to the pigeon during our absence from home. Now my reader will
see by this what it is to have a bad conscience, and I had a bad
‘conscience then; I had been doing wrong, and I was afraid of
being found out, and I was afraid every time Bessy opened her
mouth she would ask me what I had done with the cat, and where
I had taken it when I left the kitchen.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 143

Every one enjoyed the ride very much except myself, and I
was so uneasy, and had so many misgivings, that though I laughed
and talked, and was to all appearance the most noisy and merry
of the whole party, yet I was in reality very glad when we came
home, that I might cease my forced gaiety. Bessy’s first question
was concerning her pigeons, and this time she asked most par-
ticularly after the wounded bird. Our aunt said she had put some
food for it in the cage, and had spread some grain on the ground
before the two pigeon-houses.

“But my own favourite, aunt,” said Bessy inquiringly: “have
you not fed my favourite?”

“JT have not seen your favourite,” she replied; “but I believe
she was with the rest of the pigeons when they were all fed
together. But you know Bessy,” she added, “that though the bird
isso tame with you, it is because it knows you and your ways; it
would not come to me as it does to you.”

Bessy seemed satisfied, only adding that she would have a
double quantity of breakfast ready for her darling in the morning,
that it might have enough to eat if it had missed its supper.

Though Bessy seemed easy about her bird, yet my heart misgave
me; I remembered what I had done, and I would have given
anything in the world that I possessed to have seen the bird safe
and well; but yet I was afraid to tell my aunt; and vexed and
displeased with myself, and dreading lest my unkind trick should
be discovered, I went to bed, though, as may be supposed, I
could not sleep comfortably.

I slept rather later the next morning than was my habit, on

“account of the little rest I had had in the night; but when I came
down I soon saw by the swollen eyes of Bessy that my fears were
but too well justified. The little girl had risen betimes to see her
pigeons, for she had been inthe habit of feeding the pair beneath
the elm-tree together. What, then, was her sorrow to perceive that
part of the grain left for her favourite still remained untouched,
and beside them were two or three feathers which she knew to
belong to her white pigeon! The cage, indeed, was safe and its
little tenant within, but it drooped its head and looked very sick, -
144 THE WHITE PIGEON.

and refused the food offered it by the little girl; but with the
exception of the few white feathers and the untasted grain, no
trace was left of the favourite pigeon. Whilst Bessy stood lost in
wonder, and doubting the evidence of her own eyes, the cat walked
with noiseless steps from amidst the underwood, and going straight
to the child, it rubbed itself against her foot, purring and attracting
her attention by signs of fondness which this cunning animal often
uses when afraid of being detected in a fault. In a minute the sad
thought flashed on poor Bessy’s mind that the cat had eaten her
favourite, and bursting into tears, the child drove the now frightened
animal from before the elm-tree, running to seek uncle John to
tell him her distress, and to ask his advice and assistance. Uncle
John did not wait to comfort his niece, but he went with her at
once to the elm-tree, and then sending for the same man who
had hung the cage on the tree, he had it taken down, and
recommended Bessy to remove the bird to an empty apartment
at the top of the house.

“You can lock up the room, my little girl,” he said, “and then
the cat cannot do any more harm; but any way she must be well
punished, for if she has begun to eat the pigeons, we shall lose
them all one after another.”

Poor Bessy cried a good deal for her favourite, but somehow
she did not vex as much as I was afraid she would, but she took
more to the wounded pigeon that was left her, and by trying to
tame and comfort it she seemed to forget its mate.

“My little bird,” she would say, “I must try and make you
happy, for you have lost your pretty mate who was so kind to
you. I cannot coo to you as she did, but I will talk to you, and
feed you, and pity you as often as I can.”

But the poor bird pined for its mate, it drooped its head and
refused its food; and though its soft eyes sometimes twinkled
brightly for a moment whilst Bessy spoke to it, yet it was evident
to all that it scarcely ate enough to support its life, and that from
pining it grew thinner and thinner, and more languid than ever,
till even uncle John declared it was a perfect cruelty to keep it
alive to suffer so much misery.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 145

On the third moming after the separation of the pigeons the
wounded bird was found by Bessy lying on its side in the cage,
the wing that was hurt beneath it and again injured by the fall.
“Oh, my pretty bird,” said the child, “and will you, too, die?”
and raising it softly, she carried it as tenderly as possible to
uncle John to know what she should do to ease it. Bessy did not
cry, but the tears stood in her eyes, and her lip trembled very much,
so that she could scarcely speak; and when uncle John looked at
the poor bird, whose eyes were closed, and who lay quite motionless
in Bessy’s arms, he thought at first it was quite dead, but he soon
perceived that it was reviving a little and that it was languid and faint
for want of food, and he directed Bessy what to offer it that would
tempt it to eat. My aunt too, looked at it and moistened its
beak with some home-made wine, dipping some biscuit in the wine;
the bird ate a little and revived, but so slowly that uncle John
looked very grave and sorrowful as he directed Bessy to take the
wounded pigeon to its cage and then come back and speak to him.

“Oh, uncle John,” I said with a burst of agony on seeing his,
sad countenance—“oh, uncle John, please to save the pigeon;
oh, pray don’t kill it, dear uncle John, do not have it killed!”
and I hung upon him and cried as if my heart would break.

Bessy had heard what I said, and turning hastily she stood by
my side and looked imploringly in our uncle’s face, her own little
countenance being very pale, whilst her eyes glistened with the
still unshed tears. She could not speak, indeed, but her imploring
look was well understood by uncle John, who seemed much more.
sad than one would have expected him to be by his merry joking
face. He put his arms round both of us as we stood before him,
drawing us to him; for a moment he could not speak. At length
he said—

“My little ones, I am glad to see you so kind, so compassion-
ate; but it is cruelty to the bird to keep it suffering in its present
state. It is pining for its mate; it will die slowly but certainly;
there is no means to save it. And would it not be kinder if we
were to put it out of its pain than let it linger from day to day
in the end only to die, suffering great agony >”

L
146 THE WHITE PIGEON.

Bessy had ever been accustomed to think her elders could
judge what was right better than herself; she looked paler, indeed,
than before, and as she stooped to press her lips against the poor
wounded bird that lay motionless in her hands, I saw a tear fall
upon its white feather.

“Oh, Bessy, Bessy!” I exclaimed, falling upon my knees inan
agony of sorrow—”oh, Bessy, dear Bessy, do not hate me; but it
was all my fault, all my fault, all my own wicked jealousy of you
that has made you so miserable.” And then without hesitation I
at once confessed all my bad conduct, how I had taken the cat
to the elm-tree and had pointed to the cage, and how, hearing
voices in the garden, 1 had run round to the house, adding a lie
to my other faults to deceive my aunt. “O what a naughty, wicked
girl I am,-and how I hate myself!” I exclaimed. “Oh, Bessy,
forgive me if you can, and do not hate me too.”

The little girl never raised her eyes from the wounded bird as
I spoke, but I saw that her tears fell fast one after another, as
she thought of the cruel death of her favourite; but when I ceased
speaking, she looked up imploringly in the face of our uncle as
if to read in his countenance what she ought to do.

I saw that Bessy, the ever-gentle Bessy, only wanted a word
from uncle John at once to put her arms around me, and in one
kiss to forget all that had passed, at least all that was connected
with unkind feelings towards myself. Neither was that one word
wanted from uncle John, who, seeing that I was sincerely sorry
for my wicked jealousy, did not think it necessary to punish me
any more; but he spoke seriously to me, though he did so kindly
and gently.

“Kate,” he said, “I hope that the lesson you have had may
be of use to you all your life. You have by your own sinful tem-
per been the cause of the death of two innocent creatures, and
though they have not injured you, you see that they have suffered
from your guilt. These jealous feelings, Kate, are often allowed
to pass in children; but when those children are grown-up people,
these wicked feelings. often grow up with them, increasing as they
increase, till, instead of causing the death of birds only, it ends
THE WHITE PIGEON. 147

in one person aiming at the life of another. A little while ago
you perhaps would have said that nothing could persuade you to
kill anything, and yet it is you who have caused the death of not
one only, but of two birds, in consequence of your wicked jealousy
of their owner. I do not wish you to forget this lesson,” he added;
“indeed, I hope it may be a blessing to you, through the good-
ness of God, for the rest of your life; and may you, when shedding
tears for causing so much suffering to that innocent inoffensive bird,
thank your Heavenly Father that in his mercy He has betimes
opened your eyes to the sin which so long has had power over
your heart, and on your knees thank Him that it is not the life
of a fellow-creature you have thus destroyed?”

I cried much, though gently, for I was truly penitent, whilst
uncle John spoke to me; and when he ceased. he: SO me affec-
tionately, adding—

“JT love you very much, my dear niece, and it is on account
of this that I cannot bear to see anything wrong in your conduct
without pointing it out to you. Now go up-to your own room,
dear Kate,” he continued, “and think over what I have said to
you attentively. Then, when you have done so, join us again, and
I promise you I for one shall try to forget all that has passed,
and I think I may promise the same for my little Bessy also.”

In obedience to my uncle’s desire I hastened to my own room,
and there falling on my knees I prayed to God to bless me and
send His Holy Spirit to chase away the wicked. scune: of my
heart.

Being assured of my uncle’s forgiveness and of Bessy’s kindness,
I went. down-stairs, with a grave countenance indeed, but with a
lighter heart, and though I longed most earnestly to know what
had been settled concerning the wounded pigeon, I souls not
bring myself to ask the question.

Uncle John, however, thought it right that I should’ know and
feel the full consequence of my. carelessness and jealousy, and he
it was who told me what had been settled respecting: the bird.
“Jt.is cruel, Kate, to let it linger,” he said,“and Béssy thinks’ so
too,- but as I have some little’ business to settle at a neighbour’s
148 THE WHITE PIGEON.

about two miles from hence, I intend to drive over, and I will
take Bessy with me, diverting her the best way I can on the
road. She knows the reason why I take her with me, and though
her little countenance is sad, yet she is aware that we do what
we considér best on the subject. I shall give orders for the poor
bird to be put out of its misery while we are out, and Nancy has
promised me that the cage and everything belonging to it shall be
put out of the way before we return.”

The moment that Bessy took leave of her white pigeon was
one of the most miserable of, my life. I could not shed a single
tear; I felt that I hated myself, and that I was a wicked child
without any good in me, and that by my sinful temper I had
caused my gentle cousin, who still suffered from the recent death
of a beloved mother, much unnecessary trouble. I only waited to
hear the tread of the horse’s hoofs getting less and less distinct
in the distance, and then, carefully avoiding my sister or Edward,
I ran into the garden and hastened towards the elm-tree, there to
remain, I hoped, till the poor bird had been put out of its misery.
“T cannot see it die,” I said; “I cannot be present when they
remove it from the cage. Oh, Bessy, Bessy, how shall I ever make
up to you the loss of your birds? Oh, what shall I do? how
unhappy I am, and all from this hateful jealousy! O that I could
save the pigeon, that gentle pigeon! I wish they would not kill it;
perhaps it would get well if they would let it. Oh, why did I not
ask uncle John to spare it a few days, a very few days? but now
it will be dead before he comes back, and I do not think I shall
ever be happy again if the poor bird is killed.” In an agony of
mind I walked up and down before the elm-tree, wringing my
hands and crying as if my heart would break, till, as if I had no
more tears to shed, I sat down beneath the tree, and resting my
head on my hand, I thought over all that had passed concerning
Bessy, even before I came to the farm.

Whilst thus quiet, I heard, as if close to my ear, the gentle cooing ofa
dove, and the painful thought came to my mind that it was, perhaps,
the dying note of Bessy’s pigeon. Unable to remain where I was, I
rose hastily, and falling on my knees, I prayed loudly and earnestly.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 149

I raised my voice, fearful of hearing the dying notes of the
pigeon, but it would not do; again the sound reached me, and it
seemed more plaintive than before. Starting from my knees, I
turned hastily but fearfully in the direction whence the sound
proceeded. I know not what I expected to see, but imagine what
sudden hope rose to my heart on seeing a white pigeon on the
very bough of the elm-tree where once the cage had been fastened,
its soft eyes turned towards me with a look that I had never seen
in any bird’s eye before but the tame favourite of my cousin Bessy.
I looked fixedly at it—I strained my eyes—I rubbed them to see
whether I was awake—I thought somehow it must be a dream—It
was too pleasant to be true—and clapping my hands in my delight
I so frightened the bird that it fled away, and on tuming again
to the bough of the elm-tree, it was gone. J could not stay
a minute to consider; I hastened into the house by the back-door,
and not finding my sister, I ran through the house into the porch, —
where I found Nancy and Edward still talking to each other, for
they both wished to put off as long as possible the painful task

; they had to perform. ‘“Come—come,” I said, half wild with exci-
tement, ‘“‘come—come—come to the elm-tree; the pigeon the
pigeon—Bessy’s pigeon!” and taking an arm of each, I dragged
them after me to the front of the house from beneath the porch.

“What is the matter, Kate?” said Nancy, alarmed at ay) manner.
“What has happened?”
At that moment I heard the fluttering of wings overhead, and
turning in the direction whence the sound came, I saw a bird fly
round the house, and suddenly alight on the pigeon-cote over
the porch.
I looked at it eagerly—it was the same—it was Bessy’s pigeon;
and bursting into tears, I rested my head on my sister’s shoulder,
unable to speak, though I held out my hand in the direction of
‘the pigeon-house. Both Nancy and Edward turned to where I
pointed, and in an instant they both recognized Bessy’s favourite.

“She is come back! she is come back!” cried Edward, holding
out his hands to the pigeon, inviting it to come to him. And as
we stood in the front of that old house, there’ was the bird sitting
150 THE WHITE PIGEON.

at the door of the pigeon-cote, looking down upon us most
anxiously, yet evidently fearful of alighting. It did not see its little
mistress, and as it was not so familiar with any of us as it was
with her, it looked anxiously from one to another, as if it would
have asked for Bessy. Edward stood below, calling to it in the
softest tone of voice he could. “Come back, poor bird,” he said,
“and take care of your poor sick mate: come back, come back.
We will give you everything you like if you will but stay with us.
Bessy has shed many tears for you, sweet bird; come, then, and
stay with her and make her happy.”

But Still the pigeon remained on its perch, cooing, indeed, and
moving its head first on one side and then on the other, its little
eyes sparkling, and its white feathers fluttering in the breeze.

“Tt will not come down to you, Edward,” said Nancy, “whilst
we are standing near;” and still having her arm round me, she
gently drew me behind the stem of a large tree which grew in
front of the house.

“Dear Kate,” she said, “make yourself easy: uncle John will
now spare the wounded pigeon; it was pining for its mate, and now
Bessy’s favourite is come home, it will soon get well.”

“But it may fly away, it may fly away, even now,” I said,
“before Edward can catch it, and then it must die;” and I wept
so bitterly that Nancy thought it best, after-kissing me kindly, to
say she would leave me and go and assist Edward in entrapping
the pigeon.

“Stay here, sister,” she said, “behind this tree, then you can
see all that passes without the bird seeing you. And do not be
unhappy, for I think I know a way of catching it.”

Nancy then went into the house, speaking from within the porch
to Edward. “Go on talking to the pigeon, Edward,” she said,
“till I come down again. The bird likes to hear you talk to it,
and if it flies away, be sure to follow it up quickly for Bessy’s sake. ”

What’a time it seemed whilst Nancy was gone, but in reality it
was only a minute or two; and how glad both Edward and myself
were when she again appeared in the porch with the magpie’s cage
in her hand, and the poor sick bird lying in it!
THE WHITE PIGEON. 151

We instantly guessed what she was going to do. She placed the
cage softly upon the grass in front of the house, putting inside of
it plenty of grain and other food. She then opened the door wide,
the wounded bird being too languid to think of coming out; and
having done this, she withdrew with Edward into the porch, where
she could see what was passing without being seen, whilst I remained
behind the tree. ;

What a moment of suspense followed! The pigeon sat still, having
watched all Nancy’s movements without attempting to fly down. I
could see it from behind the tree where I stood; it was gazing
fixedly on the cage, which it seemed to recognize; but the poor
pigeon had evidently been dreadfully frightened, probably by the
cat, and was half afraid of treachery. Its love for its mate, however,
prevailed; it flew suddenly from the perch to the ground, cautiously
and slowly advancing nearer and nearer, till, with the sweetest coo
I ever heard, it sprang into the cage beside its wounded companion,
The languid pigeon at once recognized its mate; it opened its eyes,
but it was too weak to make any sound; and whilst the two birds
looked at each other, Nancy stepped forward and carefully closed
the door of the cage. She then came to me as IJ stood still behind
the tree, and putting her arms round me, we wept together for
very joy.

“They are now happy, Kate,” she said, “and we may be happy
too.”

I could not speak, I could only kiss my sister again and again;
for I thought that were I separated from this dear sister, I should
have felt as the wounded pigeon, and pined for her return.

By the advice of our aunt, the cage with the bird was at once
removed to Bessy’s room, for now no one thought it necessary to
fulfil the commands of uncle John. They were also left to them-
selves, that the female pigeon might not be diverted from attending
to her mate; and as the wounded bird suffered more from pining
than from any disease, it is astonishing how one good meal in the
presence of its beloved companion restored it to health.

And now we were all impatient for the return of Bessy and
uncle John, and when we heard the first sound of the horse’s
152 THE WHITE PIGEON.

hoofs in the distance, we could scarcely contain ourselves for very
joy.

It was still light when they came home, and Bessy looked very,
very sad when uncle John lifted her from the vehicle. A stable-
boy took away the horse, whilst I—for Nancy and Edward had
kindly agreed that I should tell the story—having taken uncle John
by the one hand, and Bessy by the other, asked them to walk
with me up-stairs.

“What now, Kate?” said uncle John, astonished and even dis-
pleased at the smile on my countenance; “what now, Kate? We
have had a long ride, and want tea.” ;

Bessy, too, drew back, as if thinking it unkind of me thus to
press her towards the spot where she believed her now dead
pigeon was. :

“Qh it must be now—now, uncle John,” I replied; “1 cannot
wait here any longer. I want you, too, to be happy as I am.”

Uncle John resisted no longer; and whilst Nancy went forward
to unlock the door, we followed. But as I have already made my
story so long, I will not enter into the joy of Bessy at the reco-
very of her bird, and how she kissed us all one after another, not
forgetting me for finding it; and the grateful, happy little child
seemed at once to forget that I caused its loss, remembering only
that I was the means of its return. I shall only add that, during
our evening’s meal, uncle John, in answer to our inquiries of what
the bird had done since we had lost sight of it, thus explained
its conduct :—

“J. think it most probable,” he said, “ that the pigeon, being
accustomed. to feed whilst Bessy was in the farm-yard, began,.as
usual, to pick up its food without fear of the cat, and that whilst
doing so the cat most likely attempted to kill it, which we may
guess from the white feathers we found scattered on the grass.
The bird, it is evident, escaped in its fright, probably flying into
the shrubbery. The next morming we moved the cage, and it is
very likely the faithful bird still hovered round the spot, coming
only when dark to the pigeon-house, expecting to see its wounded
companion again. When Kate went to the elm-tree, the bird, accus-


THE WHITE PIGEON. 153

tomed to consider us as friends, flew out to receive her, and then,
alarmed by her clapping her hands, or accustomed to see Bessy
deo so very often after feeding them, flew away, and, happily for
us all, alighted over the porch.”

“And now, my dear Kate,” he added, “thay you never forget
the history of THE WuitE Picron, and may it be a lesson to you
for life! It shows that, if the evil of jealousy does not always lead
to bloodshed, it is only because it pleases our Heavenly Father,
in His mercy and love, to order it otherwise.”



MAE LOst TRUNK

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.







THE LOST TRUNK.

A Gc BULT AN nduRichardeBesumont were orphans, they had

“& lost both their parents whilst very young, and now they
lived with their aunt, a Miss Catherine Lushington, a younger
sister of their mother.

Miss Lushington had a large house and many servants, her god-
mother, Mrs. Grey, who resided with her, being very rich, and
having no one else to whom to give her large fortune but to her
god-daughter. Mrs. Grey was become very infirm, and never left
her chamber, Miss Lushington being the ao person who was.
permitted to see her.

As their aunt did not choose to have a governess for Isabella,
or a tutor for Richard, these poor children were at times very
much neglected; and as they were kept very strict, and were never
allowed to speak in the presence of Miss Lushington or before
Mrs. Temple, her confidential attendant, it is no wonder if they ~
were very ignorant of what is right, and if they did things which
children more carefully brought up would not have done.

Every day passed with them as the one before. On a morning
they paid their respects to their aunt Catherine, and whilst she
breakfasted they learnt their tasks at a side-table. Then they took
that meal themselves in Mrs. Temple’s apartment, and till one:
o’clock remained in that room with the masters who attended them
from the neighbouring town. Then followed an early dinner, after
which they were allowed to play till it was time to go in to dessert,
for Miss Lushington dined at a late hour; and the evening was


158 THE LOST TRUNK.

finished in learning their tasks for their masters, sitting silent in
the drawing-room, with their hands before them. After Isabella had
done the needlework appointed her by Mrs. Temple, she was occa-
sionally permitted to have a run in the garden if the weather was
particularly fine.

Before their aunt they were never allowed to speak, save in
answer to her questions, and it was one of Miss Lushington’s
favourite maxims, and. one which she often repeated to Mrs. Grey,
that she made a point of never praising anything the children did,
for she thought that praise made children pert and proud, and
consequently punishment must follow it.

' Miss Lushington never praised the little ones under her care;
from morning till night it was one constant reprimand or advice.

As the children grew older the aunt increased in strictness,
whilst at the same time no kind word ever fell from her lips. It
was no wonder if they did not love her, and obeyed her only
from fear of punishment. In presence of Miss Lushington there
was scarcely a fault to be found, even by herself, in the brother
and sister’s conduct; but when she was absent they made up for
the restraint imposed on them, fearing nobody but Mrs. Temple,

“as the rest of the servants exceedingly pitied the poor orphans,
and could not bear to get them into disgrace with their aunt.

There was an old blind woman, however, who had been the
nurse of their mother; her name was Betty Hackett, and she lived
in a cottage by the tumpike road, not far from the lodge at the
end of Miss Lushington’s grounds, who dearly loved those neglected
children, and did all she could to correct their faults.’

She lived in a’ nice little cottage with her son and his wife,
and she was allowed so much a week by Miss Lushington, for she
had been nursemaid to her as well as to her sister and brother.

It was a pretty cottage in the summer time, having many roses
and creeping plants growing over the porch, and the ground was
beautifully broken round it, and divided by many a flowery hedge
into green meadows or yellow cornfields; and then one might see
in the distance the tower and spire of the church belonging to the
neighbouring town rising up above every building round it.
THE LOST TRUNK. 159

Betty Hackett was always glad to receive the brother and sister
at her cottage, and scarcely a day passed but she was able to give:
them some little maternal advice or instruction, being sincerely
grieved to see how very likely they were to be brought up in
habits of deception and hypocrisy. She was also a kind companion
to the little ones, being very lively and cheerful; and many a tale
could she tell them of their mother when she was as young as
themselves and she had the charge of her.

Betty Hackett had a young dog called Basto, and surely never
dog was so happy as Basto when running and springing to welcome
the children to the cottage.

One morning when the family were at breakfast together, a ea
stranger being present, a letter was brought to Miss Lushington,
which she opened, saying, “Why, it is from my brother! Surely
he is not in England!”

When Miss Lushington had read her letter through she seemed
much agitated, much more so than the children had ever seen her
before; and turing to the lady who was with her, she ye
it rent to explain what had caused this agitation.

“You know, my dear friend,” she said, “that I had only one
brother and one sister, and that we lost our parents whilst very
young. My brother, Mr. Lushington, got an appointment in India,
and as I always lived with my dear Mrs. Grey, and as my sister
had no home, he sent for her to join him. There she married
Mr. Beaumont, and there Isabella and Richard were born, and there
my sister and her husband died. My brother, too, has been married
many years, and though he has had many children, he has lost
them all, and it was in the faint hope of saving their youngest
girl, a sweet babe of two years old, that they came to England.
But it was too late; the child died at sea, and her discensolate
parents, having settled all thei affairs in India, ead settling in’
England for the rest of their lives.

“YT have never seen my sister-in-law,” added Miss Lushington,
“and my brother, too, is almost a stranger to. me, -for I -was
scarcely nine years old when he left England, though my sister did
not follow him for a year or so, till she had left school. Mr. and
160 THE LOST TRUNK.

Mrs. Lushington have, however, volunteered to pay me a visit after
Christmas if I can receive them; but they do not wish to come to
me at present, till they have a little recovered their sad bereavement.”

Qne morning soon after Christmas, Isabella overheard her aunt
tell Mrs. Temple that she expected her brother and sister to arrive
that very day.

Isabella heard no more, neither had she time or opportunity to
tell Richard what she had heard till they were sent out as usual
to play in the garden after their early dinner.

For some time they amused themselves by throwing up the snow
above their own height, and forming it into different shapes, till,
quite wearied, they agreed to go and see Betty Hackett, and to
sit with that good woman for some time.

Just as they reached the large gates of the lodge they heard the
sound of horses’ feet and the rumbling of a coach along the turnpike
road, and by the time they had reached the gate they saw the
stage-coach, that usually passed at that hour, suddenly stop before
the lodge, whilst the guard, bending over the side, held out a letter
which he had just taken from his coat-pocket.

“My little fellow,” he said, addressing Richard, “have the
kindness to deliver this letter to the woman at the lodge. It is to
be left here, and I am really so stiff with the cold that I cannot
get up and down comfortably.”

Richard had opened the gate by this time, and in another
minute he had taken the letter, whilst Isabella called to the woman
at the lodge to come out to receive it. The coachman scarcely
waited to see Richard place it in her hand before he touched up
his horses, and again the heavy coach went rattling off, leaving its
traces upon the snow-covered ground.

“Let us run after the coach as fast as we can, Isabella,” said
her brother; “of all things in the world I like running after a
coach or by the side of it; one seems to get on so fast.”

So off they set; but whilst opening the gate, the coach, having
to go down a hill, had rattled on before them, and it was turning
round the corner, and must have been getting within sight of Betty
Hackett’s cottage, just as they began their race.
THE LOST TRUNK. 161

They were soon down the hill, and still within sight of the
coach, which had actually reached the elm-tree in front of the
cottage, when suddenly Basto, having cleared the stile, was springing
to meet them, when something attracted his attention which looked
quite black against the white snow.

Basto smelt it again and again. He raised one part and tried to
stir it; but before he had succeeded, the children were by his side,
and at once saw it was a small trunk that had most probably fal-
len off the coach after rattling down the hill.

“Stop! stop!” shouted Richard and Isabella as loud as they
could. “Stop! stop!”

But still the coach rattled on—it was opposite the cottage—now
it passed it—then came a turning in the road, and it was lost to
sight.

The children now examined the package. It was as pretty a
trunk as ever you would wish to see; very small indeed, with no
direction upon it, and merely tied up with a piece of cord, which
at once attracted the attention of Richard.

“I wish I had this piece of cord,” said the boy; “it is just the
very thing I wanted the other day, Isabella, and could not get.
Suppose I was to tie this package up tightly with a piece of com-
mon string, I might then take the cord for what I want.”

“But what shall we do with the box?” inquired Isabella. “Where
had we better take it, Richard? Aunt Catherine will be so angry
if she sees us carrying it; and she will wonder at our finding it,
and perhaps she will not believe what we say about it.”

“We will take it to Betty Hackett,” replied her brother, “Betty
is so good-natured; and then I can change the cord.”

“Very well,” said Isabella; “that is the best thing we can do;
and so help me, Richard, to carry it.”

Just at this moment a lady and a girl much older than Isabella
had clambered over the stile, which was placed at one end of a
large meadow at the back and side of Mrs. Hackett’s cottage. The
path by which they had come led from the town in the distance,
nothing of it being visible but the snow-covered spire.

The strangers had followed the children so closely that they

M
162 THE LOST TRUNK.

heard Richard say, as he pointed along the road, “ What a stupid
thing it was for the coachman not to turnd roun when we shouted
after him so loudly!”

“But you forget,” replied Isabella, “that he had a large hand-
kerchief round his neck and over his ears, and probably it pre-
vented his hearing us at the distance we were.” :

The younger of the two strangers then drew her companion back
so as not to pass the children. Whilst pointing to the package, she
anxiously looked at the lad’s face, as much as to say, “Where
did they find this trunk? I am afraid they have stolen it.”

And to be sure it did seem an odd thing to see these two chil-
dren, well dressed, and the boy, particularly, having the air of a
gentleman’s son, carrying a box between them, and unattended by
any one.

But they had reached the cottage, and whilst Richard got over
the stile, Isabella held the trunk till he was ready to take it.

On entering the cottage they found no one in the kitchen, but
they heard Berty Hackett above-stairs, as if putting the rooms, for
there were two, in order. Leaving their trunk in the kitchen, they
ran up-stairs to speak to her, and to ask her to give them a piece
of string.

“My little dears,” said the blind woman, “my daughter-in-law
went out in a hurry this morning, and J have promised her to put
things as neat as I can, to spare her the trouble when she comes
home; but it is hard work for a poor helpless creature as I am,
who cannot see one thing from another.”

“Shall we help you, Betty?” inquired both children eagerly.
“Tell us what we can do for you.”

“If you will stay below,” she answered, ‘“‘and see that no one
comes in whilst I am up-stairs, I shall be much obliged to you;
or if you wish to go, be sure to leave Basto in the kitchen, for it
is Basto’s duty to take care of his old blind mistress.”

Mrs. Hackett then told Richard where he might find a piece of
string; and the children, in obedience to the good woman’s wishes,
went to keep watch in the kitchen.

Perhaps some of my little readers will wonder how Betty Hackett,
THE LOST TRUNK. 163

a poor blind woman, could be left to take care of a’cottage by
herself. But Betty had a kind neighbour, who made a point of
‘coming in now and then to see all was right; and the cottage in
which this woman lived was so near, that what passed in one
house might be heard easily in the other.

Richard having found the string, seated himself on a low stool
near the fire, placing the trunk between himself and Isabella. The
poor boy had been so sadly neglected, that he was scarcely con-
scious that. he was doing wrong in taking the cord for his own
use; neither did Isabella think about it; her brother wanted the
cord, and why, then, she would have said, might he not take it,
if he put another piece of string in its stead? But though they did
not consider at the time that they were behaving very ill, yet they
knew that what they were doing must be kept a secret from their
aunt; neither had they mentioned it to Mrs. Hackett, which was
‘of itself sufficient to show them that they were doing wrong, and
were allowing themselves to be tempted to do worse and worse.

Betty’s. voice was heard singing above-stairs as she cautiously
moved about doing her work, very slowly, on account of blindness,
whilst the two children, with the trunk between them, were turning
it over and over again to seek for the proper end for untying it,
Richard being very anxious it should not get hurt in the unfastening.
After awhile it was found, and cautiously and carefully the boy
began the job of untwisting it from the box, turning it upside down,
then on one side and then on the other, caring for nothing that
‘was inside so that the beautiful piece of cord remained uninjured.

The box was still on one side as the last knot was undone, and
as Richard drew it off, it will cause no wonder to any of my readers
to hear that, as there was no lock, the lid gave way, and half the
things from within fell upon the floor.

As Richard, wholly intent upon his prize, was winding it carefully
round his fingers, Isabella turned the box the right way, and began
to take up the fallen things, to restore them to their right place.
‘This she did slowly, examining the parcels rather closely, and
feeling them as she restored them to the box. There were. not many
things in it, for it was very small; but all that was there was
1604 THE LOST TRUNK.

wrapped up with great care, and one parcel in particular was so
covered with silver paper, and had so odd a shape, that Isabella
passed her hands over it many times, unable to imagine what it
could be.

The more she felt the greater was her perplexity of mind, until
at length, on gently moving aside a corner of the paper, the bright
blue eyes and flaxen ringlets of a wax doll were fully visible.
Uttering a joyful exclamation, she showed the pretty treasure to
her brother, and now no more thought was given by either to
restoring the things into the box, but Richard, taking up the
packages, looked and felt eagerly amongst them for something more
suited to his taste than a waxen baby.

The cord was in his pocket, and one package after another was
peeped into, one proving a box- of doll’s clothes, and another a
box of small bricks, and another some soldiers on horseback, to
be placed upon a stand that moved backwards and forwards in a
very funny way that much pleased Richard.

And now, I am sorry to say, the tying up of the trunk was
altogether forgotten. Isabella having taken the waxen baby and its
clothes, set herself to dress it in a costume more suited to her
taste, for the orphan girl had never before possessed a doll, though
she had often longed for one, Richard took the soldiers and amused
himself with them, having hastily put all the other things into the
box, ready to fasten up in a moment if any one should suddenly
come in to disturb them.

Presently the step of Mrs. Hackett was heard descending the
stairs, and though no word was spoken between the brother and
sister, yet a glance was sufficient between them, which said as
plainly as ever look said, that their long habits of deception were
not now to be forgotten. They had found a prize, no one had seen
them find it, and it was their determination that no one should
take it from them. ¢
_ So when Mrs. Hackett came into the kitchen and seated herself
at her spinning-wheel, Isabella went on dressing her doll, and
Richard played with his soldiers, the blind old woman being no
restraint upon them; and as she continued her spinning, they went


THE LOST TRUNK. 165

on with their amusements, little being said by any of them.

At length the cuckoo clock struck four, and the children knew
they must go; they looked at the trunk, at their playthings, and
at the old woman, and at each other, for what was to be done.
Isabella wrapped up the doll in the silver paper; she put the rest
of the clothes into the little trunk, and placing these in the port-
manteau, she motioned for Richard to do the same with his soldiers.
They then tied up the trunk with the piece of string; but still
the most difficult part was left undone. What was 5 to be done with
the trunk during their absence?

“We are coming back in a minute, Mrs. eee ” said Isabella,
calling her brother to the porch; “I only want to show Richard
how very high the snow is at the back of the cottage.”

The good old blind woman was unsuspicious of evil; and the
little ones, standing sufficiently far off from the door, consulted
together what they should do to keep the trunk to themselves.

I am again sorry to be obliged to declare that nothing like
shame was expressed by the brother or sister, as they stood toge-
ther in that cold wintry day, forgetful of the snow—forgetful of
everything but the toys which they desired to keep for their own
pleasure.

They had only one minute for thinking, for Betty would wonder
if they were long absent, or perhaps she might leave her spinning
and tumble over the trunk; but notwithstanding this, in that one .
minute they had settled what to do.

There was a small shed adjoining the cottage, in which was
kept the wood and the coal for the use of the family, and there
was a door to it, fastened only by a latch in the daytime, but at
night it was generally locked up with a padlock by Betty Hackett’s
son. Underneath the sticks the children intended to place the
trunk, telling Mrs. Hackett that they had put some of their play-
things there: in a small box, and begging that they might be left
untouched.

The old woman promised to comply with their request, and the
children having wished her a good evening, placed their treasure
under the wood, and then shutting Basto within the cottage, they
166 THE LOST TRUNK.

hurried to their house as fast as they could. They found
Mrs. Temple in no little bustle and self-consequence; for her lady
had told her that the note that had been given to the woman at
the lodge was to say that Mr. and Mrs. Lushington would follow
it about the same hour the next ‘day.

“Then Uncle and Aunt Lushington will be here to-morrow, Mrs.
Temple?” inquired Isabella.

“You are to call Mrs. Lushington your aunt Julia, Miss,” she
replied, “and our lady, Aunt Catherine.”

The next day, as soon as the children were permitted, they
hastened to Betty Hackett’s, and as the old woman turned her
spinning-wheel, and seemed wholly occupied with it, they brought.
out the portmanteau from beneath the wood, and amused them-
selves as on the day before.

They were still enjoying themselves in this way, when suddenly
the cottage door was opened and Betty Hackett’s daughter-in-law
entered. She had evidently intended to say something to her visi-
tors, but struck by the’ beauty of the doll in Isabella’s arms, she
exclaimed, “La! Miss Beaumont, what a sweet pretty creature!
Do allow me, Miss, to look at it.”

Isabella could not refuse, though she coloured as highly as if
it had been her aunt who had spoken to her.

The cottager made some comments on the nice clothes of the
waxen baby, and upon the soldiers which Richard was playing
with, and then said —

“Dear me, I have quite forgot myself, but James from the Halk
has been looking for you all over the grounds, and he just stepped
in at the lodge, where I have been sitting some time, to inquire
if we had seen you, as Mr. and Mrs. Lushington are come, and
they have sent for you.”

Fearful lest the footman should seek them at the cottage, the
children hastily put up their playthings in the trunk, and tying it
round, they ran off as fast as possible, scarcely waiting to say
good-bye to Mrs. Hackett.

They had no sooner left the house when Betty, who had heard
what had passed, questioned her daughter-in-law about the toys,
THE LOST TRUNK. 167

and from her she learned that the children had not only playthings
in their hands, but that there was a trunk and many a package
covered with paper on the ground between them. What Betty
thought on this subject, putting it together with the silence of her
young friends respecting the toys, shall be mentioned in another
part of this story.

Mr. and Mrs. Lushington received the orphans most tenderly,
the lady shedding tears, for she thought of her own dear babes
whom she had lost in India. She spoke, too, of the captain and
Mrs. Beaumont, whom she had loved and respected much. She
still wore deep mourning for her last departed daughter, and though
she looked sad, yet her manner was so gentle and so like a mother’s
that both Richard and Isabella liked her at once.

They had not, however, seen their aunt or uncle a second time
when they were sent out to play at their usual hour the next mor-
ning, according to custom.

When Betty heard her little visitors enter she at once thought it
right to ask them what kind friend it was who had given them
such pretty toys.

Astonished by the abruptness of the question, they made no
answer, and the good woman, assured that something was wrong,
called them to her side and gently entreated them to tell her all.

“I am your friend, my little dears,” she said, “and I am afraid
you have done something you do not wish your aunt to know.
Let me know what this is, and I will do my best to teach you
what is right.”

Betty Hackett had ever been so kind to these poor neglected
orphans that they loved her dearly, and as she held out a withered
hand to each, and they saw the tears fall from her sightless eyes,
they drew closer to her, and, encouraged by the affectionate tone
in which she addressed them, Isabella and Richard at once confided
the whole story of the trunk to her.

“And now, my little dears,” said old Betty, “are you so igno-
rant that you do not know that, these things not being yours, you
are as bad as any thief to keep them for yourselves? It must be
so, therefore, no longer,” she added; “they must be returned to
168 THE LOST TRUNK.

he right owner immediately, for they are not yours, and you must
not do this great wickedness and sin against God.”

Mrs. Hackett said a great deal more to the children which I
have not room to put down in this place. She urged them to tell
the whole story to Miss Lushington that very evening, and, aware
how Richard and Isabella feared their aunt, she pressed this more
eagerly, as she knew it was the only right step to be taken.

Softened by her tears and entreaties, the children promised to
do as she desired, though Isabella said she was afraid she should
never have courage to tell her aunt Catherine, who was so very
severe that they never knew how to please her, and now that
they knew they had done wrong she could not say how angry her
aunt might be with them, and what punishment she might give
them.

Betty, however, dismissed them in the hope that they would
follow her advice, and the good old woman earnestly prayed that

«these poor little orphans might be taught from above to love their
God and Saviour, who- cannot bear His children to live conten-
tedly in sin.

In obedience to Betty’s advice, they arranged everything as neatly
as they could in the trunk, Isabella undressing the doll and putting
up its clothes as she had found them at first, whilst the cord was
taken out of Richard’s pocket and carefully twisted round the trunk.

The children had promised to tell their aunt Catherine of their
conduct as soon as she permitted them to come into her presence,
and you may be sure their little hearts beat violently when she
sent for them to sit with her in the drawing-room, at the desire
of their aunt Julia, for an hour or so before dinner was served.

Isabella was ordered to take her usual stool on one side the
fireplace, and Mrs. Temple having already given her her needle-
work, Miss Lushington desired her to bring it and do her task.

Richard was opposite his sister near the window, and between
him and his aunt Catherine was a round table covered with a
handsome cloth. Miss Lushington had a basket full of balls of
worsted and some canvas-work by her chair, but at present she
seemed disinclined for employment, though she held in her hand
THE LOST TRUNK. 169

a cambric pocket-handkerchief that her niece had been hemming,
and, to judge by the aunt’s face, it was not neat enough to please her.

“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Lushington, addressing Richard, “can-
not you find something to do? You surely must be weary of sitting
so long idle. I have some skeins of cotton that I should be much
obliged to you if you would wind for me, and if Isabella will
come with me to my room I will give them to her to bring to
you.”

Isabella presently returned with the cotton; but Mrs. Lushington
did not come back with her, and now was the favourable moment
for the children to speak to their aunt, and Isabella looked at
Richard and Richard at Isabella, uncertain who was to begin, but
Miss Lushington told her niece to place a chair for her brother
on which to put the skein, and to find him the proper end for
beginning to wind it. “And take care what you are doing, Richard,
for it is for your. aunt Julia, and she will not thank you if you
spoil her cotton.”

This little check seemed to throw the children again back on
themselves; they wanted encouragement to confess what they had
done, and they fancied the moment unfavourable. “Aunt Catlie-
rine does not seem in a good humour,” thonght Isabella; “we
had better not tell her now.” Had Aunt Catherine been in what
Isabella called a good humour, she would have thought it a sad
pity to alter it by telling her what would be sure to make her
angry.

Both children, however, were silent, though you might have seen
that they were both very much agitated, as they stood side by
side trying to arrange the skein on the back of the chair; but Miss
Lushington, taking their trembling for awkwardness, bade Isabella
return to her work, and leave her brother to manage it for himself.
“You are, child,” she said, “but putting your hands in his way.
Your want of gracefulness is most deplorable.”

Isabella returned to her seat, her head bent over her work;
whilst Richard, seeing his aunt turned towards her, probably to
reprove her for stooping over her employment, ventured to say
that he wanted something to wind the cotton upon.
170 THE LOST TRUNK.

Glad of any excuse for turning away from her aunt’s piercing
look, Isabella put her hand into her pocket to seek for a piece of
paper for her brother; but she found no paper there, only a card,
that, without thinking what she was doing, she offered to Richard.

“Where did you find that card, Isabella?” inquired Miss Lus-
hington. “I hope you have not taken it from the card-rack without
permission.”

“No, ma’am,” replied Isabella quickly, the colour mounting to
the very roots of her hair, for she remembered that it had fallen
from amongst the things in the box, and in their hurry to fasten
up the trunk before the footman came to seek them at the cottage,
this had been forgotten, and Isabella, to avoid its being lost, put it into
her pocket, where she had not thought of it till the present moment.

Her colouring was not unnoticed by her aunt. “Surely you are
not deceiving me, Isabella?” she said. “I trust that my niece
would not tell me a falsehood. Did Temple, then, give it you from
the card-rack, child?”

“No, aunt,” replied Isabella in a lower tone than before, whilst
Richard, having guessed whence it came, was in hopes his sister
would speak out; but, alas! poor Isabella too much feared Miss
Lushington to do so.

“Give me the card,” said that lady, her face expressing the
anger that she felt. “Give me the card, Isabella, and then I shall
know whether I am to believe your word or not.”

The young lady slowly walked towards her aunt, her reluctant
air exciting the suspicions of Miss Lushington.

It was a common visiting card, with the name of Mrs. Talbot
printed in Roman letters. Miss Lushington read the name aloud
once and again, then, holding it out to her niece, she said, “And
pray, Isabella, who is this Mrs. Talbot?”

“TI cannot tell, ma’am,” she answered.

“Cannot tell!” exclaimed Miss Lushington. “Then where in the
world did you find this card, child?”

The young lady held down her head, but made no reply.

“Richard,” demanded his aunt angrily, “where did your sister
find this card?”
THE LOST TRUNE. 171

Richard was so intent on looking at Isabella, whom he was
sincerely sorry for, that he started from his seat when Miss
Lushington spoke to him, and stammering s®me words wholly
unintelligible to any of them, he begged his aunt not to be angry
with his ‘sister.

“Then I suppose I am not to have an answer from either of
you?” said Miss Lushington, much displeased. “Sit down there,
sir, and wind the cotton. Mrs. Temple must see into this affair.”

The children, in obedience, sat down, the one to her work, and
the other to winding the cotton upon the card, whilst Miss Lushington,
taking up the handkerchief Isabella had been hemming, examined
it from one corner to the other very attentively, as if thinking what
next to say.

The tears, from agitation, had so filled Isabella’s eyes, that as
she bent over her work they ran down her cheeks to the work she
was doing, whilst Richard, having just begun to wind the cotton,
stopped in his employment to look at her, longing to put his arms
round her neck and comfort her.

“T will tell Aunt Catherine all about it myself,” he thought,
“and I will beg her to punish me, and not poor Isabella.”

Suddenly looking up, Miss Lushington perceived Richard atten-
tively observing his sister, and on turning to Isabella she saw she
was weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for, child?” she inquired.

Isabella looked up from her work, and was about to tell the
whole truth, when Richard, perceiving her intention, and anxious
to save his sister from chastisement for a fault which he had been
the first to commit, suddenly attracted Miss Lushington’s attention
by saying—

“Oh, Aunt Catherine, indeed, indeed I am more to blame than
Isabella; indeed it was I who took the cord, or else we should
never have done it. Pray do not be angry with Isabella.”

“Richard,” said Miss Lushington, “what do you mean about
the cord? I have often before told you, sir, I do not like boys’
talk to be introduced in the drawing-room. Leave me to speak to
your sister, and go on with your employment.” -
172 THE LOST TRUNK.
“But, ma’am——” said Richard eagerly.

“Silence, sir!” exclaimed Miss Lushington authoritatively. “I
am speaking to Is@bella; I desire you will be so kind as to keep
what you were going to say to yourself.”

Richard turned to Isabella, making a sign for her to tell all.
His action was noticed by his aunt, who reproved him for it
severely, desiring Isabella to move her stool so as to be in a line
with her brother, that they could not see each other’s face. Isabella
obeyed in silence, carrying her stool to the window, and placing
it there between her aunt and brother, as near to the latter as
she dared. !

“ And now, Isabella,” said Miss Lushington, “dry up your tears
and do your task of needlework. I would not have your aunt Julia
see you such a naughty girl on any account whatever.”

Fearful of losing the opportunity, and Richard being forbidden
to speak, Isabella ventured to ask leave to tell her aunt about
the cord.

It was an unfortunate word; the child used it because her brother
had done so before her, and she could not think of another to
suit her purpose at the moment. She spoke in a low voice, and
her manner was agitated, but Miss Lushington at once silenced her.

“You have played so much with a boy, Isabella,” she said,
“that you have got as fond of whips, and sticks, and humming-tops
as if you were a boy yourself. If you do not wish to be separated
from Richard, be more of a young lady, and let your manners and
conversation be more suitable to young ladies than to young
gentlemen. ”

Richard sighed deeply, aud Isabella’s tears again flowed at this
threat of her aunt to separate her from her brother, the only
person, unless it might be Betty Hackett, that she loved; but Mrs.
Lushington at that moment coming into the room, the children,
to their joy, saw that the opportunity was past for confessing all to
their aunt Catherine.

Mrs. Lushington for some time sat talking to her sister-in-law,
but what she said neither Richard nor Isabella heard, for’ they
were thinking what they should say to Betty Hackett the next day
THE LOST TRUNK. 173

for not telling all to their aunt, when suddenly Miss Lushington
said in a louder voice than she had before been speaking in,
“Isabella, what are you thinking about? Your aunt Julia has spoken
to you twice, and you have paid no attention.”

Mrs. Lushington was grieved to see, when her niece did lift up
her head, that her eyes were red with crying,.and that the tears
were still on her cheek.

“My dear Isabella,” she said, “your kind uncle bought some
pretty toys for you and Richard before we left London, but by
some mistake the trunk in which they were packed has been left
in London at the coach-office; however, Mr. Lushington sent for
it yesterday by the same coach that brought us here, and he is

*now gone himself to the town to see after it and to send itup by
a porter.” =

_. Then turning to Miss Lushington, the lady went on to say that
they had originally intended to have left town the day before that

on which they really did, but they had been detained by business,

and that so unexpectedly that they had not time to send for their

luggage, which had gone before to the coach-office. —

Miss Lushington had to tell the children to thank their aunt
Julia for her kindness, for their hearts were sad, for they felt they
had done wrong, and they had not courage to confess the truth
and receive with submission the punishment their aunt Catherine
might inflict on them.

It was getting near the dinner-hour, and the sun was beginning
to get very low in the horizon; Mrs. Lushington and her sister
were in the act of rising to dress for dinner, when a loud ringing
at the door brought them back to their seats, and the next minute
two ladies were ushered by the powdered footman into the drawing-
room.

The ladies seemed to know Miss Lushington as the mistress of
the house, though it was evident she did not know them, and as
soon as they were seated, the elder of the strangers, having thrown
open her shawl as if to give her full freedom for speaking, first
’ apologized for her presence, then added she was happy to say she
was the bearer of good news.
174 THE LOST TRUNK.

“Mrs. Lushington, I think,” she said, turning to that lady, “and
it is to her I must address myself. Madam,” she added, “my
father keeps the linendraper’s shop next door to the White Lion.
The landlord of the White Lion is a good friend to my father,”
she added, “and we very often step in to have a chat in each
other’s houses. Mr. Smith has a coach which runs from the White
Lion to London—the very same man that brought your trunks
from London.”

The lady then went on to say that three days ago, whilst taking
her usual walk with her younger sister, they had come very near
to the lodge at the end of Miss Lushington’s grounds, and from
the height of the grounds in the meadows they saw the London
coach from the White Lion pass along the turnpike-road on its
way to the town. By the time, however, that they had reached the
road it was far out of sight, but they saw two children with a
small trunk between them, which they seemed to have picked up
somewhere, and, followed by a dog, hasten to a cottage by the
roadside. She then went on to say that a box answering to this
description had been lost by Mr. Lushington, and the landlord
from the White Lion heard from London that morning it was not
to be found there, so that they thought they could not do better
for their friend or for Mrs. Lushington than to walk straight up to
the Hall and tell what they had seen.

Mrs. Lushington was much obliged to them for the trouble they
had taken, whilst Miss Lushington begged them to describe the
children and the cottage to her, that her servants might go and
make inquiries at once for the trunk.

The cottage was soon recognized by her to belong either to
Betty Hackett or her next-door neighbour, but the children and
the dog were not for an instant suspected by her, for she never
imagined that her nephew and niece left the grounds, much less
that they were in the habit of visiting the old woman every day,
or that the dog played by their side as if their own. The visitors,
too, aided to keep up the deception; for, on describing the chil-
dren, they said the boy was well enough, but that the girl, they
were sure, was not a gentleman’s child; she was far unlike what
THE LOST TRUNK. 175

a gentleman’s child would be; and really they carried the trunk
between them as if they had been accustomed to carry parcels
all their lives; and then the thing was done so openly, that the
little creatures must have been used to such bad doings, or they
would not have been so bold.

Having said all that was necessary, the visitors arose to go, Mrs.
Lushington thanking them for their kindness, but begging that her
sister would take no step till Mr. Lushington returned, and they
found that the box was really lost.

Whilst all this was passing, the. poor frightened children were
trembling from head to foot, changing from red to pale and from
pale to red every instant. Had their aunt Catherine chanced to
look at them, she could not possibly have failed to suspect some-
thing like the truth, Mrs. Lushington, however, did observe them,
and seeing their extreme terror, and remembering their orphan
state, she resolved not to leave the room, but to stay and watch
what might be the end of this; and should she be left alone with
them, she determined to encourage the poor little creatures to open
their minds to her, for she felt that they stood in need of a
mother’s tenderness.

Miss Lushington had walked to the window to watch the progress
of their late visitors over the snow, and still she did not observe
the state of the poor children, though Mrs. Lushington, still watching
their movements, saw them, as Richard first took Isabella’s hand
to draw her from where they were, and Isabella next took Richard’s,
each in their turn pulling forwards or holding back. “What are
they about?” thought their kind aunt Julia; “surely something
lies heavy on their minds. ‘Can they possibly have anything to do
with the lost trunk?”

At last, after various pullings forward and shrinking back, they
were on their feet, and were creeping forward to the window where
their aunt Catherine stood, and had already reached to within a
yard of her, when she turned quickly round and saw them; but
before she could speak they were both on their knees, and both
begging and praying to be forgiven.

“Forgiven!” repeated Miss Lushington, “for what?”
176 THE LOST TRUNK.

They both spoke at once in answer.

“Tt was my fault,” said Richard; “I wanted the cord, and so
I untied it and the things fell out.”

“No, it was not his fault,” cried Isabella; “it was mine. The
doll was so beautiful; and we would have told you all.”

“And we wanted to tell you,” exclaimed the boy.

“And we said we would tell you,” added his sister.

“And we meant to tell you,” continued Richard.

“What is all this?” said Miss Lushington. “Surely it cannot be
possible that a young gentleman and a young lady, my nephew and
my niece, should have stolen a trunk, and carried it to a cottage,
making themselves the talk of such people as were here just now.
If such has really been the case, though you have stolen what
would have been your own had you possessed but common honesty,
this house shall be no more a home for you: To school you shall
both go, and separated you shall be, never more to meet until you
have learned to behave in a manner more suited to your positions
in society.”

“Oh, Aunt Catherine, Aunt Catherine!” said Richard, the sobs
of Isabella preventing her reply, “we are very, very sorry; and
Betty Hackett told us to tell you, and we meant to tell you, and
we were going to tell you when you found that card.”

“And why did you not tell me?” asked Miss Lushington; “what
was to hinder you? But how can you convince me that you had
any such intentions? No, I should never have heard the truth from
your mouths, had you not found that it could not be longer hidden.
Shame, shame upon you!” she added. “Depend upon it that
before a few days have passed you shall be parted, not to meet
again till you know better how to conduct yourselves.” As she
spoke she returned to her seat near the table, leaving the children
kneeling on the floor with their arms round each other, weeping
and sobbing on each other’s necks.

All this while Mrs. Lushington did not speak, but her eyes were
filled with tears, and her heart was full of kindness for the unhappy
children. She could not, however, venture to say what was in her heart
till she had consulted her husband, and therefore she remained silent.
THE LOST TRUNK. 177

Miss Lushington had sat down; she took up her work, did one
stitch, and then laid it on the table, saying—

“To think that these children should act so very badly, after all
the pains I have taken with them—after all the lessons I have given
them. As my dear friend Mrs. Grey has often told me, I shall
never do anything with them whilst they are together. I am resolved
they shall be parted this very week.”

On hearing this threat again, the children hugged each other
more closely, and there was a louder burst of sobs than ever. At
the same moment in walked Mr. Lushington. He had met the
two ladies at the park gates. They knew him by sight; they stopped
and told him what they knew about the trunk, pointing out the
cottage into which the children had carried it. He had called at
the cottage, and had recognized Betty Hackett as his old nurse.

The old woman had told him the truth, but she had told’ it
kindly, and had also hinted to him that she thought the young
lady, his sister, drove the little ones to cunning and falsehoods
by want of tenderness. His answer to the good old nurse was that
if the lady made no objection he would himself take the poor
children and be to them as a father.

“God bless you, sir!” said the blind old woman; “God bless
you, dear sir!”

From what Mr. Lushington had heard ‘from the ladies and from
Betty Hackett, he was not surprised at what he saw and heard
when he opened the door of the drawing-room. He looked first
at the sobbing children—the little ones were no longer kneeling,
but standing side by side, their hands locked in each other, their
poor faces all streaked with tears—from them he looked to his
gentle wife, and saw that she was weeping also.

There will be no objection from Mrs. Lushington, he felt, against
my taking these poor orphans; all that I have to do is to manage
with my sister.

He was walking up to the table, when she arose, and, pointing
‘to the children—

“You wonder, perhaps, brother,” she said, “to see you. nephew
and niece in such a situation. They are under my most severe

N
178 THE LOST TRUNK.

displeasure. I must explain to you what they have done, and certain
I am that you will agree with me in deciding that they must be
parted immediately.” ; :

“T have heard the whole story,” replied Mr. Lushington, “from
the ladies who were here just now and from Betty Hackett. I
probably know more of it than you do, Catherine. Richard and
Isabella have done very wrong; their faults must be fully stated
to them, and they must be made to understand how a very heavy
sin grows from a very slight offence. They must be taught that
months of honourable behaviour must pass before we can possibly
trust them again, for the fault they have committed is nothing less
than stealing.”

The children sobbed still louder whilst their uncle was speaking.
He looked for an instant kindly upon them, then going up to them
ana taking each by the hand, he led them from the room.

When alone he spoke to them of their depraved nature; he
showed them how the natural desires of the children. of Adam
continually lead them to evil, and then he spoke of that dear
Saviour who had shed His blood on the Cross for such offenders
as they were. He then kissed both their wet faces, and asked if
they could love him and their aunt Lushington if he could get
leave to take them home with himself.

“Both of us!” cried Richard: “yes, yes!” and he hugged his
uncle for very joy.

“JT will go to your aunt Catherine and obtain her leave this
very moment,” said the kind uncle; and he had hardly been out
of the room five minutes when he came back, and said, “It is all
settled—you are both to be my children; but henceforward be it
remembered by you, you are to make me and your aunt Julia
your first friends, and that when you have done wrong we are to
be the first persons who are to be informed, and that nothing will
ever induce us to part you but finding that you again hold together
.to hide what is wrong.”
THE GOOD NURSE.

THE GOOD NURSE.



ERE children naughty when you were young?” said little
S364 Anne one day to her kind aunt, Miss Lemira Beaufoy.
“Human beings,” answered the young lady, “have: always
been the same, from the time of the fall of our first father, Adam,
to the present day;.and there is not one of us who, if we followed
what our hearts told us to do, would not commit great faults
every day.”

“T know that,” replied Anne; “it is written in the Bible that
the heart of man is desperately wicked, and that every imagination
ot the thoughts of his heart is only evil continually ; and yet when
I look at you and see you smile, and feel how kind you are, Aunt
Lemira, I cannot somehow. fancy that you are like other people.”

“You know that you are now talking a little bit of nonsense,
my niece,” said Miss Beaufoy; “however, in order to satisfy you
that I am by nature much the same as all others of Adam’s chil-
dren, if you will take your hemming and sit at my feet, I will tell
you a story of myself which perhaps may surprise you.”

Little Anne got her sewing and placed herself on a footstool at
her dear aunt’s feet.

“You know,” said Miss Beaufoy, “that your grandpapa is rather
a rich man, and lives in a handsome house in a park, and has
always kept a carriage, and that he and your grandmamma never
had more’ than three children—one boy and two girls; one of
these girls is your own dear mamma, Anne, and I am the other.

“My brother and my sister, Arthur and Sophia, were so many


182 THE GOOD NURSE.

years older than I was, that their education was almost finished
when mine had to be begun. Our mother always had very bad
health, and lived, much shut up in her own room; and she indulged
me because I was a little one, so that I was in danger of being.
utterly ruined.

“There was only one person in the house whom I feared in
the smallest degree—this person was my nurse. I never, indeed,
dared to take the same liberty with my father as I did with my
mother, but I saw so little of him that he had very little to do
in managing me.

“My nurse had the care of us all in infancy, and she was a pious
and very sensible woman, and kind also, though sometimes, when
I displeased her, she would make me very much afraid. When I
was nearly eight years old, she married a man of the name of
Copeland, a skilful gardener and nurseryman, who resided at a
sweet village called Caversham, in Berkshire. When my nurse left
me, I enjoyed for a little while the delight of doing everything I
liked, though I very soon became tired of the labour of trying to
please myself. When I was eight years old, Sophia left school, and
came home, to be the companion and delight of her parents. It
might have been very good for me had I been sent to the same
school in which Sophia had been educated; but, I know not why,
I was sent to another place, or rather taken, by my too-indulgent
mother, who hinted, before she left me, that I had not been used
to much control, and that I should take it hardly if there was any
great strictness used with me.”

“Tf you were spoiled, Aunt Lemira, then,” said Anne, “it was
not your fault, but your mamma’s?”

“Tt was the fault, Anne,” replied Miss Beaufoy, “of my nature—
of the nature received from my first parents; a nature so formed
for evil that it requires only to be left to itself to go wrong; and
though it is the truth that too much liberty often very much hurts
a child, yet every one who owns that it has hurt him to have his
own way too much, owns at the same time that his own way was
naturally a bad one. Do you understand me, Anne?”

“Yes, aunt,” replied the little girl; “you mean this—that it can

4
THE GOOD NURSE. 183

only hurt a child who has an evil nature to be indulged and to
have its own way in everything, and that the same treatment would
not hurt a child who has a holy nature.”

“Then,” said Miss Beaufoy, “as all children are by nature evil,
it must be good for every child. to be under some command. But
now I will go on with my story. I was quite as much indulged at
school as at home, and was more flattered. I was rather quick in
learning, and my parents were thought preat people in the country,
and I was always brought forward when strangers came) to show
my needlework and music.

“JT was not quite fifteen when I left school just before Christ-
mas, and such a spoiled, conceited, affected girl you, perhaps,
have never seen.

“T had my own way at school as ach as could be given me
in common prudence, and when I could: not have it I iad been
accustomed to be very impertinent; and now you shall hear how
I behaved when I got home.

“T was received in the kindest way by all my relations; my
mother even wept over me; my dear sister, who was grown to be
a most lovely young lady, smiled sweetly every time she looked
at me, and her smiles seemed to say, ‘We will be friends, very
dear friends.’ Everything went off very well the first evening, and
if my parents thought that I chattered too fast, they set it down
to my great joy at being at home again.

“The very next day, however, they began to understand me
better. I first showed myself by arguing with every one. Whatever
any of my relations said, I always expressed a different opinion,
and held to my own opinion many times, even when my father
had said, ‘I wish, Lemira, you would not be so self-sufficient; I
wish you would allow other people to-have an opinion as well as
yourself.” But my obstinacy and self-conceit did not show them-
selves only in words. I was very jealous of my sister; I resolved
not to be ruled by her, and I therefore went contrary to her in
everything in which we were both concerned. If we were to walk
together, I never would go the way she wished; if we were to
play together on the pianoforte, I always chose the pieces; our,
184 THE GOOD NURSE.

parents wished us to dress alike, and I always managed things so
that my sister’s and even my mother’s taste in the choice of rib-
bons or silks was obliged to be given up to mine. I had not when
I left school intended to have gone so far as I did; I was not
then aware that I was of a nature which, if given way to, would
lead me into every kind of evil behaviour. But I will not say a
great deal on this part of my story; it will be quite enough to
tell you, Anne, that, going on from bad to worse, I made myself
so very disagreeable at home that it became quite necessary for
something very decided to be done with me, and my father had
made up his mind what that should be, although he was so kind
as to give me one more trial before he put his plan into execution.

“JT had been at home about six months, when he called me
into his library and made me stand before him, whilst he pointed
out all my behaviour, especially to my indulgent mother and sister,
and then he added that he had made up his mind to send me
from home if I did not, during the next fortnight, wholly and
entirely change my behaviour.”

“But was not that hard, Aunt Lemira?” said Anne. “Can a
person change his heart?”

“No, my dear child,” replied Miss Beaufoy; “the creating of a
clean heart and the inspiring of a right nature into sinful human
beings is the work of God, and of God only, but either a person
has power to behave with outward decency or he has not; if he
has not, he must be content to have some sort of force or com-
pulsion used with him; and this was what my father said to me
when I sulkily told him I could not do better.

“When the fortnight was past, and no change for the better had
taken place, I was somewhat surprised to find the maid who waited
upon me and my sister, packing up some of my clothes in a trunk.
I asked by whose order she was so doing. She replied, by her
master’s; and then, though I said nothing, I began to be really
frightened; but what was this to the feelings which I had when
the next morning the carriage drove to the door, and I saw that
my trunk was already corded behind? My father then coldly bade
me kiss my mother, brother, and sister, and he himself led me to
THE GOOD NURSE. 185

the carriage, and shut the door upon me. The next minute we
were off, nor had I the least knowledge where I was going. There
was one circumstance only which made me suspect. I had heard
that my nurse, Mrs. Copeland, who now and then wrote a letter
to inquire after the family, was anxious to get a kitten of the
particular breed which had been in our family ever since I was
a child. What her fancy for this was I do not pretend to say; but
when I saw a basket containing a good-sized tabby-kitten handed
to the coachman, I could no longer doubt that they were sending
- me to Caversham, and this idea made me more angry than before;
for though I loved my nurse, I pretty well knew that she was not
a person to be trifled with.

“The servants and the carriage were to go only half-way. The
journey was of two stages, and at the end of the first stage we
stopped at a large inn-in a little town, and there I was led to a
parlour, where the only person J saw was Mrs. Copeland.

“She did not come forward to meet me as I could have fancied
she would, but stood still, leaving it to me to come first and to
pay my first respects, as due from a child to a parental friend, or
sort of mother. As my pride, however, was not going to bend to
her ideas of propriety, I just said, ‘How do you do? I suppose
you are come here to meet me, and take me home with you?’

“Yes, Miss Lemira,’ she replied; ‘and happy as it would make
me to have you under my roof on any other occasion, I honestly
confess that it is with very great pain that I now see you.’

«*What have they told you about me?’ asked I.

“*Nothing which you do not know already, Miss Lemira, but
that you are to remain with me a year, at all events, and much
longer if during that year you are not brought to a sense of your
improper behaviour.’

“¢T will not stay with you! I will not stay with you!’ I cried,
and I began to sob with violence, throwing myself on a chair, and
in my passion stamping my feet on the floor.

“My nurse took no manner of notice of all these airs, but busied
herself in giving directions for the removal of the luggage from the
coach to a post-chaise which she had ordered; and in a very little
186 THE GOOD NURSE.

time she and I were on our way to Caversham. We were more
than two hours on our journey, and I did not recover my temper
during the whole time.

“When arrived at the village, my nurse herself served tea, and
probably would have taken it with me had I dropped the slightest
hint that her company would be agreeable. I was, however,
profoundly sulky, and the only living thing I thought it worth while
to be civil to was the kitten we had bronght with us; 1 took her
out of the basket, gave her all the cream out of the cream-pot,
and kissed and cried over her; nor would I part with her when
shown up to my bedroom.

“J was just as sullen when I got up as when I went to bed.
No one came to call me, to help to dress me, or to unpack for
me, so down I came with my frock half-tied, and my hair all
disordered. I found my breakfast all ready on the little round table,
the door being open into the garden. I stood looking out at the
door, till my nurse came in and wished me a good morning.

“Instead of returning the civility, I asked her to send some one
to fasten my dress and do my hair.

“*You cannot reach to fasten your dress, I see, Miss Lemira,’
she answered ; ‘I will do it for you; but you can reach your hair,
and must therefore do it yourself.’

“
*«What! you forgot to bring them, did you?’ she replied; ‘that
is unfortunate.’

“‘Perhaps they may be in my trunk,’ I answered.

“Very likely,’ she replied; ‘you must look for them.’

“<*T cannot uncord the box,’ I said.

“ my dear Miss Lemira,’ she added, ‘I may as well tell you now
as at another time, that you have been sent here that, with the
Divine blessing, you may learn to think justly of yourself; that
you may learn that you are naturally no better than others; that
all you have, and all you receive of worldly advantages, is from
your parents, these being the channels through which they come
from God to you; that you are only what God’s bounty makes
THE GOOD NURSE. 187

you; and that you may learn to respect that good father and good
mother who are to you the first of God’s earthly gifts. You would
have been sent,’ she added, ‘to learn these lessons among strangers
had I not consented to take you.’

“And I presume,’ I replied, ‘that you are to be well paid for
your trouble.’

“*No,’ she answered, whilst a tear started in her eye—‘no,
Miss Lemira; I thank God that I am not so poor as to require
payment for anything that I can do for the child I have reared.
The only way you can pay me is by showing in your conduct a
willingness to submit to your father’s pleasure; and one of his
commands is that you should wait on yourself.

“*T can’t, I won’t!’ I cried, throwing myself on a chair—‘I
won’t, I won’t!’ But whilst I thus shrieked out my determination
of continuing in disobedience, my nurse was gone, and I was alone
with my poor pussy, whom I chose to think my only friend.

“‘My cruel nurse shall see,’ I thought, ‘that I will not eat.’
Again I gave the kitten all the cream, and sat down again by the
door. The servant went several times through the room to go
up-stairs, but she took no notice of me; my nurse also walked in
and out, and I was in hopes that she would see that I had eaten
no breakfast. About one o’clock the china was taken away, and a .
small boiled chicken served up most neatly by the maid. I was
very hungry, and, sulky as I still was, I could not resist the
temptation to eat. Pussy and I almost finished the chicken. After
dinner I lounged about the gardens, and sat crying in an arbour,
and pulled some flowers to pieces, and watched the men at work,
and came in for my tea, and then went out again; and so I wore
out that day.

“My wish was to tire out my friends by my obstinacy; I had
soon tired out myself by refusing my food. I did not like that plan
at all. I thought I would see whether I could not force my nurse
to wait upon me. I was resolved not to offer to unpack my trunk;
there it stood uncorded, with the key in the lock, and four empty
drawers stood half-open, as if ready to receive its contents, for
three days; there it was unopened, not ‘even a comb or brush
188 THE GOOD NURSE.

taken out, not even an article of clean linen put on. How I managed
to wear through those days in total idleness I cannot tell, but they
were most weary days.

“When I heard the bells ringing on the Sunday morning I
felt myself half tempted to dress myself neatly and comb
up my hair; but I thought that if I did so I should lose all
my foregone pains, and down I came, the same untidy figure
I had been the three days before. No notice, however, was
taken. My nurse and the maid went to morning service.
Mr. Copeland was left to keep house, and probably to watch me.
Soon after his wife had gone out he came into my sitting-room,
wishing me good morning, and going to a cupboard, took out a
Bible, and asked me if I would like one too. Without waiting for
an answer, he laid one down on the round table, and then looking
at me with a sort of smile, which he tried to overcome, ‘My dear
Miss,’ he said, ‘if you could but see yourself as you sit there in
a glass, surely your pride, if it was nothing else, would lead you
to a different sort of behaviour. I do not ask you wherefore your
parents sent you here; I can see by the tempers you have shown
in this house. that you were not banished without cause; but what
I ask you, Miss, can you purpose by thus standing out against all
your friends? They that sow thorns in their own grounds must not
expect to gather roses, and they that go contrary to their duty to
their friends on earth must not expect to keep the love of those
-friends; but, dear Miss,’ added the worthy man, ‘I well know that
I cannot change your heart nor open your blind eyes, but if you
will only do one thing to please me I should feel that there is a
hope of a speedy and most happy change. Will you read this
book?’ he said, and he opened the Bible which he had laid upon
the table ; ‘ Will you read it? Will you study this holy work, ifit
is at first only to fill up your time? And may the Almighty shed
such light upon the sacred page as may convince you not only of
His exceeding love, but of the exceeding unworthiness of Te
of me, and of all the children of Adam.’

“TI could not deny the request of that kind old man; I took
the Bible from his hand and read some portions of it, even before
THE GOOD NURSE. 189

my pride was so far humbled as to permit me to comb my hair-
From day to day the holy words were rendered more and more
interesting to me, and although when, through the Divine Spirit,
it was made quite clear to me that God the Father had sent His
Son to die for me, and when I was made to feel that all my sins
were forgiven, I was made immediately sensible that I had the
utmost need to ask the forgiveness of every person I had ever had
anything to do with, and when my mind was at peace I began
to have delight in all my little duties; my hair was always nicely
braided, my clothes neatly arranged in my drawers, and I set.
earnestly to work to acquire skill in the plainest needlework.

“ Before the clusters of grapes which hung over the door had
become of their deepest purple I might often be seen sitting at my”
round table, with a large basket on the floor beside me and my
favourite cat before me, busied in making a set of shirts.as a
present to my nurse’s kind old husband.”







TEEN BEPORE VOU AGE

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.

THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

Dear grandfather, said George Montague, what shall we do all
this long evening now mother
is gone out?

What shall we do, George!
replied his elder brother Robert,

I should think we might find
many things to do, for after all,
mother and father will only be ~
absent six hours.

Six hours is a very long time,
cried Clara.

Yet they are soon past, said
Maria, her eldest sister, very
soon past.

In pleasant company, you
mean, added Clara.

But not at lesson time, eh!
Clara, inquired Robert, laughing.

Clara laughed too, then putting her arm round her grandfather’s
neck, she whispered, Dear grandfather, have you not got a story
to tell us—a useful and pretty story; for though I like to learn,
I like to be amused better.

That’s right, Clara, cried Robert, I like to hear persons honest
enough to say the truth when they speak—let them be silent, if
they cannot say’ what they think.



Qo
194 THINK BEFORE FOU ACT.

I like to speak truth, said little George, gravely; and so, dear
grandfather, will you tell us a story that is true, quite true.

My dear George, replied grandfather, do not suppose that I am
clever enough to tell you a story that is quite true, I mean every
word of it, but I know some stories in which all the things did
happen, and happened one after another; such a one I could tell
you, and yet many parts must be fancied not quite true.

I do not understand you, grandfather, said George.

Then I must explain myself more clearly I suppose, my little man,
replied grandfather. Now look here at this book I have brought
for you, it is full of pictures, and all these pictures that I holdin
my hand, are about a fact that happened in the years 1212 and
1215. If you like I will tell you a story about them.

Oh do, cried the children all together, dear grandfather, pray do.



Many years ago, before any of you were born, continued
Mr. Montague, a gentleman wrote a long poem on the fact I am
going to tell you by these pictures. Now you see both our stories are
the same, both are true, and yet that gentleman gave a different
account of the particulars of the story to what I am going to give;
and as it happened six hundred years ago, who shall say which is
right ? But this I wish you to learn, that when you take up a book
which says in the first page “a true story,” you must understand
that the circumstances are correct, but that I may tell them one
way, and you may tell them another. This is not only in books,
THINK BEFORE VOU ACT. | 195

but in real life also, and I have seen many rude children contradict
‘each other, because they do not agree in particulars; just for
instance, if I held an egg in my hand between Clara and George,
and asked what shape it was at the ends, Clara would say, round,
and George, almost pointed; both would be right at their own
ends, but not so if speaking of the others; and therefore if you
hear persons describing anything that passed when you were present,
and you don’t quite agree with what they say, remember that it
may have appeared differently to them or that they had the round’
part of the egg towards them, and you the pointed. But now
attend to these pictures, and I will show you each as we come to
it in my story.

Once upon a time, said grandfather, there was a great prince in
Wales, who for his valour and bravery, was called Llewelyn the
Great. He lived in a fine old castle in the vale. of Llanberis, amidst
the mountains of Snowdon; built of stone and slate, from the
neighbouring slate quarries, and surrounded by a ditch or fosse.

The castle in which Llewelyn lived, is now fallen to ruins, and
there only remains of it a round tower on an eminence, which
was the strongest part.in the building, and kept for the household
to retire to in case of attack.

O, grandfather, said George, do tell us something abou aden
before: you go on with Llewelyn. I have read about Snowdon in
the history of Merlin. Did not Merlin live on Snowdon?

But the history of Merlin cannot be true, said Robert. Was there
ever such a person?

Merlin, answered grandfather, really lived..He was a learned,
clever man, and was the bard and the friend of Vortigern, and
his successor Ambrosius, two ancient kings of Britain. Learned
persons in those dark ages were often thought to be magicians, and
‘very strange stories were set down to them, as if they had dealings
with evil spirits, and were helped by them.

I understand that, said Robert, for when very ignorant people
see anything they do not understand, they always set it down ‘to
something miraculous.

It was only a very few years ago, added grandfather, that the
196 THINK BEFORE FOU ACT.

first steam-boat went up the Ganges, and at the sight of it, all the
poor villagers cried out, The boat of Satan! The boat of Satan!

But Merlin, grandfather, said George; you forget Merlin.

And you, George, replied grandfather, forget the story of Llewelyn,
which I was going to tell you, and have run off after Merlin. But
“I will tell you a little more about your favourite before I return
to my own story. About a mile up the valley of Nant Gwynant,
said to be the most beautiful in Snowdon, there is a lofty rock,
where Vortigem is said to have resided awhile, and which he is
also said to have given to Merlin. There are the remains of a
castle at the top of this rock, and stories have gone abroad ot
wonderful things seen there. Merlin is said to have foretold many
coming events from the top of this rock.

Is Snowdon a single mountain, or has it many heads, grandfather ?
asked Maria.

Where I saw it in the direction I went up it, answered grand-
father, it seemed to have four principal heads, separated by
_ tremendous rocky chasms. These summits are so often surrounded
by clouds, that when a person has laboured up to any one of them,
he can see nothing but the mist about him.

But then, said George, he can have the pleasure of thinking
that he is in the clouds. :

And the delight also of feeling very wet, and very cold, after
having heated himself by climbing four or more miles, answered
grandfather.

What can be seen from Snowdon, grandfather, when it is quite
clear? asked Robert. ae

There may be seen with a glass, answered grandfather, the high
hills of Yorkshire, part of Scotland and Ireland, and the Isle of
Man, very clearly.

I should like, said George, to go to Snowdon, and ramble all over it.

And perhaps you might happen to break your neck, my child,
answered grandfather, over its steep precipices. I think you are
safer at home, at present: but before we go back to Llewelyn, I
must tell you that the Welsh, in former days, almost worshipped
Snowdon; they accounted it to be quite sacred. We find from the
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 197

Bible, how apt ignorant people have always been to pay supersti-
tious honours to mountains.

I suppose, remarked George, it is because they are so grand,
and because it is so hard to get to the top of them.

Now, George, said Clara, will you let us go back to grand-
father’s story?

I will, answered George, but I want to hear more about Merlin.

Another time, replied grandfather; you must learn, my little boy,
to give up your own whims to your elders; or if the company be
more in number, though younger than yourself, you must give way
too in all innocent things. So now for Llewelyn again.

Dolbadarn castle stands on a piece of high land, and separates
the two lakes of Llanberis, which are here joined by a stream.
Dolbadarn tower, which now alone remains of this once strong
castle, is built partly of slate; its walls are immensely thick, and
it has four stories. Mountains surround it on all sides—the valley not
being very wide, and much of it seems too marshy for cultivation.

Now, that I have described to you the castle of the Prince
Llewelyn, continued grandfather, I must try to give yousome idea -
of the great man himself.



No SE = a

W>thy sf = = 4 We,

A TES Be EFL oer ah as
<2 eS

Llewelyn did not spend. all his time in his strong castle of
Dolbadarn, for he loved to mount his noble horse, and with his
attendants hunt the wolf or wild stag, in his royal forest of Snow-
donia; sleeping on the mountains under rude sheds, or sometimes
having no roof over his head. At other times he lived in tents upon
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

the plain, and then his dress was of stout armour, and his heart
was full of care, for he had to defend his faithful subjects against
their neighbours the Normans, who dwelt in England.



If Llewelyn had been content only to defend his Welsh fol-
lowers. against the Normans, all would have been well, but on one
occasion, when John King of England, was in Ireland, Llewelyn
passed. over the Welsh border, and made an attack upon some of
the towns and villages of England, killing and plundering all that
fell in his way.

When king John returned
from Ireland, you may suppose,
continued grandfather, he was
very angry with Llewelyn and
the Welsh; so he assembled a
large army, and went to Wales.
to be revenged on the Prince
and his subjects.

Here you may see a picture
of King John and his Normans.

: attacking the city of Conway ;
and from this you may judge what a fierce thing war is, when two.
brave nations are fighting against each other.

King John suffered so much from this. attack, that he was obliged




THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. £99

to retumn to England for a few months, but then he came back
again with a more powerful army. This time too, he went into
Caernarvonshire, and reached it before Llewelyn had time to assem-
ble his troops.

And from Conway, John sent a part of his army to burn the
town of Bangor, and to take prisoner the bishop of that city.

Here is a view
of the burning town;
the bishop has es-
caped to the cathe-
dral. For people in
those days were
allowed to go to the
altars in churches
for places of refuge,
and even a thief,
or murderer was
permitted to remain
untouched, if he
stood by an altar.

King John however, paid no heed to this custom, but made his
soldiers take the bishop prisoner, though standing by the high altar.

Llewelyn was obliged to fly with his wife and children to Dol-
badarn castle, as the only place of safety, but even here sad news
reached him daily, of how King John was destroying the towns
of Wales, killing the people, and plundering their houses.

What is to become of us? said the Princess of Wales to her
husband. King John will soon be here, and then you, my husband,
will be taken prisoner, perhaps our children also.

The lady wept bitterly at the thought; and her-husband knew
not what to say to comfort her. At last he asked, Are you not
a daughter of this great king, Joan? then what have you to fear
from him ? he will spare you, and the children, because they are
yours.

I do not fear for myself, Llewelyn, she answered; King John
has always been a kind father to me, nor for my children do I


200 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

fear, nor perhaps even for you, but I grieve when I think of your
subjects, Llewelyn, and the misery my royal parent is inflicting upon
them. All ‘along the western coast, I hear the Welsh are in trouble;
parents mourning the loss of their grown-up sons—infants dying
for want of a mother’s care, and many a widow lamenting the
cruel and untimely fate of her husband.

Alas! cried Llewelyn, what can we do, Joan? Who can stop
your royal father in his bloody march? It is too late for hope. I
could do nothing for them at Conway, at Bangor, or at Diganwy.
I should have died with my people, Joan; I ought not to have
left them, but in death; I will go now and die for them if I cannot
save them.

No, Llewelyn, replied the Princess Joan, that must not be, your
life is too valuable to your subjects; our son Edwal is but a boy,
too young to govern this nation. You shall then remain at Dolba-
darn, and I will go to my royal father with my child; and he
shall plead for Wales—unhappy Wales.

At first, Llewelyn opposed his wife’s plan; but a messenger arri-
ving with fresh news of a most sad description to Dolbadarn castle,
the Prince of Wales was now as anxious for the Princess’s depart-
ure, as she was herself. a

So the Princess and her son left the castle, and with a very
small train of attendants, they travelled rapidly towards that part
of Wales where the English king had stationed himself with his
troops.

The lady Joan, was not a daughter of either of the Queens
Isabel, the two wives of King John; and not being a child of
either, she could never succeed to the English throne, but she
was the daughter of King John, by lady Agatha, daughter of Robert,
Earl of Ferrers.

The English King had seized upon one of the Welsh palaces,
and had guarded it with his own soldiers; and there was he,
resting from the fatigues of war, when the lady Joan and her son
stopped before the gates, and asked permission for an interview
with him.

The guards knew the Princess, and they knew too, that the
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 201

King was very angry with her husband, and probably with her
also, so they knew not what to do; but seeing that the party were
very tired, and aware that the King loved his daughter very much,
and might afterwards be very angry at any rudeness shown to
her—they permitted her to enter over the drawbridge.

The King has retired to his chamber, they said, and must not
be disturbed; if then you will promise not to intrude into his
presence, we will venture to allow you and your son to enter the
castle, but the Welsh attendants must wait without.

The lady Joan hesitated a moment, for she remembered that
King John had some years before sent for some of the sons of the
Welsh nobles to England, and had kept them there to make their
parents unwilling to oppose his wishes: for, how dared they to
do anything to displease the English King? knowing if they did,
he would cut off the heads of their sons, or put them into prison.

And should he take my little Edwal from me, thought the lady
Joan, how could I bear to part from him, perhaps for ever? But
then, how many mothers may be made childless, if I do not ear-
nestly implore King John to have pity upon us? and if he chooses
to take my boy to England, why even from the fortress of Dolbadarn,
may my child be Sent to him: I will not keep my Edwal with
me, at the expense of human blood.

So the lady Joan took her son from the stout Welshman who
bore him in his arms, and slightly touching. her palfrey, she rode
over the high drawbridge, waving her hand to her faithful followers,
and bidding them be of good cheer, for she was sure she should
have a gracious answer from her royal parent.

On entering the Welsh palace, the Princess Joan, its rightful
owner, humbly entreated to be allowed to retire to a private
chamber with her son, and there to be left with him, till she was
summoned to an interview with the English King.

On hearing the massive gates closed behind her, the Princess
began to be half alarmed at what she had done. Should he keep
me as well as the child from Llewelyn, she thought, should he
take us in his train to England, I alone am to blame for what
may follow, for I proposed this journey. My husband ‘will never
202 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

submit to a separation, and another and a more bloody war will
be the consequence of my rash undertaking.

In great distress of mind, the lady seated herself in the deep

recess of a window which looked out into the court-yard, and there
gave full vent to her sad thoughts by many tears.
: She had not perceived whither
they had led her. She had not
ore remarked that the room was for
those times handsomely furnished,
‘ that the walls were covered with
rich tapestry, and that the seats
were of crimson satin upon gilded
legs. She was of a kingly race, and
accustomed to richly furnished
apartments, and though she would
have noticed, had it been other-
wise, she had no comfort in seeing
the good things round her.

The Princess soon dried hertears,
for she was too deeply grieved
to weep, and began to consider
what she must say to King John,
and how she should move him to pity her subjects. She had loosed
the hand of her son Edwal on entering the chamber, and now she
had ‘almost forgotten his presence there. She was roused from her
reverie, ,however, by the child’s soft voice, and looking up, she
perceived a huge dog, of the wolf kind, standing near the boy,
who seated on his stool, had to look up to the half tamed, yet
noble animal. The door through which it entered was open, but
the lady, from where she sat, could see no one without. Edwal
did not appear at all afraid of the wolf-hound, but held out his
little arms towards him, as if he would have embraced him.

Come to me, great dog, said the boy, do come to me, my mother
has forgotten me, come then and play with me, great dog.

The lady Joan was at first quite alarmed at the huge size and
shaggy head of the wild-looking animal, but it stood so gently by





SPars
e



eb
ISI



THINK BEFORE YOU CAT. 203

the side of her child, that she was soon quite at ease, and felt
unwilling to disturb the lovely group formed by the noble animal
and her fearless and handsome boy.

Here is a missal,') said Edwal, that I found on this seat. It is
just like the missal from which my lady mother says so many
words, when she is on her knees. Pretty great dog, come, read to
me out of this missal-



The child held the missal in one hand, whilst with the other
he stroked the animal’s face so near to its wolf-like mouth,, that
the lady Joan could no longer restrain her fears, and springing
forwards, she would have taken her son from the fierce-looking
creature, when she was suddenly stopped by the appearance of ~
King John himself in the chamber.

It is a noble boy, Joan, he said; a noble boy, and a lovely one
too. In faith, for beauty he ero have been a girl, with those
dimples, that curling hair, and that plump rosy cheek. Your only
one, too, Joan, and methinks I am glad that the urchin has Norman
blood .as well as ancient British in his veins. What say you, Joan,

}) Missal a book of Prayers used in the Romish Church.
Se

204 . THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

will you give him to me to take to London? Shall he be brought
up in our court amongst our nobles, with his cousin the young
Lord Ferrers ?

Oh, ask me not to part with him, cried the Princess, clasping
him in her arms; I cannot part with him; he is my only one.

Silly girl, replied the King, I do not wish to take him from you.
But what brings you hither, Joan? Where is Llewelyn, Prince of
Wales? dares he not meet me?

Oh, pardon my husband, she exclaimed, falling upon her knees;
pardon my husband, most gracious Liege, and for our sakes, for
the sake of yon boy, whom they would die to serve, spare our
unhappy subjects.

King John for some time refused to stop the war against his
son-in-law: but being earnestly pressed by his daughter, whom he
dearly loved, he at last consented to return in peace to England
with his troops. But, Joan, he said, Llewelyn must give me something
for the pillaging of my towns and villages on the Welsh border.
If, then, your husband will send me 20,000 head of cattle, 4o
horses, some hostages for his future good conduct, and, last of all,
do homage to me himself, I will return to England, and no more
destroy his country.

Now, as my story, said grandfather, is not about the war, I
shall only say, that after awhile Llewelyn consented to these hard
terms, and the King of England in triumph prepared to depart to
his home. The Princess Joan, too, caused her attendants to be in
readiness for her journey to Dolbadarn; but before all was
arranged, she was summoned into the presence of the King of
England.

Joan, said the Monarch, I have desired your presence to tell
you that I am now so well pleased with the terms of agreement
between myself and my son-in-law, that I have determined to send
him a present in token of my friendship. When they told me you
were come hither to seek me, Joan, I felt desirous to see you and
your son Edwal, without being seen myself. It was I who caused
your door to be softly opened; for I wished to hear what was
passing within, that I might learn in what frame of mind you had
THINK BEFORE VOU ACT. 205.

come to visit me. On the door being opened, my wolf-hound
Gelert, which always goes with me as a protector wherever I go,
sprung into your chamber; and so accustomed am I to the shaggy
creature, that at first I did not think how he might alarm you.
But when I heard your boy talk to him without fear, when the
brave child spoke to him, inviting him, to approach, he reminded
me of my infant days, and I could have fancied that I saw once
again before me my brother Richard of the Lion Heart. Edwal
has now learned to love Gelert; but I cannot part with the beast,
even to your boy, so I have chosen a hound more suited to his
delicate beauty, and this you shall take to Llewelyn as a present
from his father-in-law King John; and thus I hope to gratify
Llewelyn and please the child.

The English King then presented to his daughter a young and
slender greyhound, begging her to call it Gelert, after his own
favourite wolf-hound.

And now, what rejoicings might be heard
all over North Wales, for John soon crossed
the country to his own kingdom; and
the lady Joan, as she travelled to Dolba-
darn, was received with acclamations of
gratitude through each town and village
that she passed on her way to Snowdon,
where her husband still remained. Peace
being now concluded, the poor Cambrians,
for so the Welsh are sometimes called, had
time given them to repair their ruinedt
towns, and once again the country was a rest: the peasant forsook
the camp and returned to the field, glad to exchange the clamour
and horror of war for his peaceful home.

Five full years passed on, and the brave boy Edwal grew in
beauty, and now he had a little brother to share with him their
parents’ love. Gelert, too, had grown to full size, a rare and noble
creature, fitting to be the constant companion of Edwal and his
infant brother Davyd.

It was the hunting season, when the Prince Llewelyn proposed.


. 206 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT,

to take the lady Joan and their boys to a small palace or hunting
seat he possessed in the vale of Colwyn. I want to hunt some
days in our royal forest of Snowdonia, he said; and whilst I am
upon the mountains, you will find safety with the good brethren
of St. Augustine, who dwell in the valley. I will only take five
or six of my chosen hunters with me, and you must take as few
of your maids as you can; for it would not be right to trouble
the poor Sisters of the Convent by filling their peaceful asylum
with a large train of attendants.

The lady Joan loved to spend a few days of true quietness in
the fertile vale of Colwyn, with no other friends but the simple
Sisters of the Convent; so she joyfully gave orders for her journey,

What is a convent, grandfather? asked George.

Do you not know, my dear boy, replied his grandfather, that
there are many persons even now in England, calling themselves
Roman Catholics, who think that if they. are to go to heaven when
they die, they must do something very good themselves to get
there? Now we know from the Bible, that salvation is not of
ourselves, but a free gift from God, and that the very best action
we wish to do, is so mixed up with worldly feelings, that, as
St. Paul himself says, the good that we would we do not, the evil
which we would not, that we do. But these poor people still go
on trying to do something for themselves, and as they say they
cannot do these good works when they are in the world, they retire
in bodies to large buildings, in which they shut themselves up, and
give their whole time to services which they think are pleasing
to God.

Do they never go out again, grandfather? asked George.

The men go about in the neighbourhood of their houses,
answered grandfather; but the women in general never quit the walls
of their convents, living always in the same place, and spending
every .day in religious services.

Are they good people? asked George.

Many, and many of them mean well, no doubt, answered grand-

father; but, as we have no command in the Bible to leave our
‘families and shut ourselves up, when we do it we are following
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 207

our own fancies, and not the Word of God, and this is always
wrong. And yet in those times of darkness, cruelty, ignorance, and
war, there was a temptation which does not exist now for people
to run into convents, and shut themselves up; and many persons,
especially ladies, were often glad to be received within their walls,
to remain there a short time. Many of these old religious houses
were built in the most retired and lovely places which could be
found. In the vale of the river Colwyn, and near to where it joins
with the Glaslyn, there was at that time a monastery for monks,
and near to it, separated only by the chapel, a nunnery for nuns
or sisters. Within sight of this house was a hunting seat of Prince
Llewelyn, and thither, by his advice, went the lady John with her
two sons, Edwal and Davyd, being glad to avail herself ot the
protection of the holy house during the absence of her lord.

The sisters of the convent were proud to receive their Queen in
their quiet valley, for the Princess ‘of Wales was Queen over that
country, and they did: all in their power to make her visit to their
neighbourhood agreeable and pleasant. .

On the second evening after her arrival, the Princess, being
charmed with the beauty of the day, proposed to her attendants to
have a seat placed for her on the bank, near the soft murmuring
stream of Colwyn.

I will go thither with my boys, she said, and seat myself under
the shade of some wide spreading trees. I fear no danger in this
valley, and the solitude will be delightful as well as useful. It is not
often that I can get such fitting time and place for thought of the
world to come.

Her attendants ventured to propose that she should at least have
one man to keep guard over her and the children; but she smiled
at their fears, saying, she would keep within sight of the building,
and Gelert should be her protector. The cradle with the sleeping
babe was then carried within sight of the Chapel of the Convent,
and placed under the shade of some wide spreading trees; and
here, my children, added grandfather, you may see thé lady Joan
seated on her chair, which is placed against a part of a building
belonging to the hunting seat. Edwal, now a ereat boy, is at her
208 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

knee, and near to him is Gelert, the trusty Gelert, the ever-con-
stant follower of the boy. The Lady Joan is speaking to her son,
and instructing him in things that would make him, if God blessed
such instructions, a worthy and good Christian; and the boy is
listening with an earnest and pleased countenance.

But hark! it is the horn of
Llewelyn on the distant hills,
and the mother stops her in-
structions for the boy Edwal
is thinking of his father, and
the greyhound pricks his ears,
for both long to be themselves
engaged in the chase.

Mother, said the child, I am
sure my father might be seen
on the heights of Moel Hebog
(the hawk’s hill); let us then go
farther into the valley to get
a sight of him.

But how can I leave your
brother, Edwal? see he sleeps,
she answered; I have laid him
in his cradle, and I should



arouse him if I lifted him from it.

But, mother, said Edwal, how it would please father if we went
out to welcome him home. The sun is setting behind the moun-
tains, and the breeze from the Colwyn is cooler, now that the
sun’s rays no longer warm it. Mother, Davyd sleeps sweetly in his
cradle, what can harm him here?

Nay, my son, replied the lady, he will be safer within the
walls; give me your aid. And the royal mother, with her son’s help,
lifted the small cradle, and placed it within a chamber often
used by the children, within the court.

There sleep, my babe, said the Princess; we shall not go farther
than where we might hear your cry.

Gelert said Edwal, addressing the greyhound, good Gelert, come
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. "209

watch beside my brother’s cradle, and see that no harm comes to him.

The intelligent animal seemed as if he understood the wishes
of his young lord; for without another bidding, he placed himself
as a sentinel to guard the sleeping child.

Once more the horn of: Llewelyn sounded from Moel Hebog,
and the boy exclaimed, Once they sound the horn for the chase
being over, once for those at home to prepare for the return of
the hunters, and the third time to proclaim that they are nigh to
us, even in our sight.

Mother, dear mother, linger no more; Gelert will guard Davyd;
let us go on the way to Moel Hebog.

The lady Joan gave her hand to her son gaily, as she replied,
Gelert is to be trusted, Edwal; I will go forth with you to meet
Llewelyn. So drawing her hood and mantle round her, they went
towards the hill Hebog. They had but crossed what is now a fair
and fertile meadow, and were still within sight of the Hunting
Seat, when they perceived Llewelyn approaching. He had given to
his attendants all the weapons of the chase, save a hunting sword
which he still carried by his side, and bidding them hasten and
prepare his supper, he quickly walked forwards to meet his wife
and child, who waited for him in the valley.

Well, father, cried the boy, have you killed any noble stag in
the forest this day, or have you been chasing more glorious game?

Llewelyn smiled proudly on the boy, for he himself had taught
the child to speak in the manner he did; and he replied to him
as to one acquainted with the mysteries of the chase.

This morning, Edwal, we roused a wolf from his lair, and a
fearful beast he was; but how we managed it I cannot say, the
hounds lost their scent and he escaped us. We should have had
Gelert with us, boy. Gelert never was turned aside from the right.
Gelert is worth untold gold; no hound so sure as he. But to-morrow
“he goes with us to the chase.

And take me, too, father, said Edwal; I love the chase as much
as Gelert does. Take me, too, father.

Again Llewelyn smiled, as he replied: When the hair covers
that smooth cheek, Edwal, then shall you go with us to the chase,

P
210 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

that your brow may become darkened in the sun, and that you
may lose that womanly beauty your mother now cherishes so
carefully. But what is this? Here is Gelert coming to meet us, his
mouth and limbs besmeared and dripping with blood.

As Llewelyn spoke, the dog sprang-upon him, fawningly wagging
his tail, and showing, by dumb signs, his welcome to his master.

What's the matter with the brute? inquired Llewelyn; he seems
as if he would tell us strange news, if he could speak. But look,
the blood is not his own; it has come off on my hand, showing
there is no wound beneath.

Our child! our child! exclaimed the lady Joan, what can have
befallen our child? Gelert was with him. Alas! Alas! what evil
can have happened to him?

The father stayed but to ask where the infant had been laid,
and whilst the lady Joan was stayed by her fear of leaving Edwal
when some secret danger lurked, she knew not what; Llewelyn,
calling Gelert after him,.sprang forwards, determined to know the
worst. The faithful animal seemed to be at once aware of what
the afflicted father sought, for he led way to the apartment where
he had been left with the child.

But what a sight met the parent’s eyes. The cradle overturned,
and the babe nowhere visible; but there were stains of purple gore
on the satin quilt, and clots of blood on the stone pavement.
Llewelyn stood aghast; a cold and dreadful shuddering stole over
his limbs. His eye was fixed on Gelert, whose mouth and nostrils
were still stained with blood; and now for the first time he perceived
that his delicate coat was disordered, and his sides were heaving
like one just come out from some dreadful contest. Yet his eye
was meek and tender, as it ever was, when looking up to his lord;
and by his manner it might have been thought, that he felt he
had merited his caresses.

But the heart of Llewelyn was with his child; in his haste he
believed that Gelert had destroyed him, and that it was the blood
of his own babe which stained the fangs of the hound. In his
rage and his madness he pointed his hunting sword at the breast
of the greyhound, and pierced him to the heart.
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 211

The dying animal raised his soft eyes, in which the tears seemed
to stand, in kind rebuke, then drawing his body with pain towards
his cruel master, he licked his foot in token of forgiveness, and
with one gentle moan expired.

Still Llewelyn stood over the greyhound, unable to move, and
undecided what next to do, for his heart smote him; but the next
moment the lady Joan and Edwal were by his side, and the pain-
ful scene but too plainly told them that something was dreadfully
-amiss.

There lay the lifeless greyhound; and there the cradle: the first
‘impulse of the mother was to find, what she expected to be, the
‘mangled remains of her child; so, passing her husband, she drew
aside the clothes which had covered him, and there she found her
‘boy alive, indeed, but hurt by the paw of a large wolf, killed by
the faithful Gelert on its attacking the babe. i



The lady Joan screamed fearfully on beholding the senseless
form of her child, and the horrid. monster which lay beside him;
but she recovered herself immediately, for the babe wanted atten-
tion, and where is the mother who does not forget herself for her
sucking child?

Hastening, then, into the palace, proper remedies were applied,
22 ae THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

and the infant was so soon himself again, that even the lady Joam
had leisure to think of how the affair had happened.

Gelert, the faithful Gelert, had saved the babe from the fierce
wolf, the very same which Llewelyn had roused that morning in
the chase. The enraged creature had taken to the valley, and, raven-
ous for food, it had entered the palace, and would have destroyed
the child, if Gelert had not risked his own life in its defence. And
how was the faithful hound rewarded by the impetuous father?
He was slain within sight of the very spot where he had saved his.
master’s child; and who shall say what were the feelings of Lle-
welyn, as he looked upon the dead body of the greyhound, his.
head laid upon the lap of Edwal, who weepingly fondled his loved
companion, now for. the first time insensible to his caresses ?

Llewelyn was so much shocked at his own hasty conduct, that
he caused the faithful creature to be buried within sight of his
hunting seat; and to this day is the place known as the grave or
bed of Gelert, or Bedd Gelert; a spot in which the eye-bright
loves to grow, within sight of the murmuring Colwyn.

And now, said grandfather, I have told you a story, which I
hope will amuse and instruct you.

The lesson to be learned from it, is this:—Be not too hasty in
acting; for by this over-haste Llewelyn lost much to his father-in-
law King John; and by it, too, he lost the only present ever sent
to him by that King.

He lost that faithful and attached friend, poor Gelert, only a few
moments after he had endangered his own life for the infant com-
mitted to his care, and he lost him through—but it is time for tea,
said grandfather, and you see I have put down my hat and stick,
and Fido has made himself very comfortable, so you must give us
some tea, and after tea we will talk about some of the other pic-
tures in my book.
CHAPTER IL.

ke HE little party made haste with their tea, for they longed to

¥ hear another story from the pictures in grandfather’s book.
Ohi that is just what I wanted, cried Robert, on opening the
volume at the following picture. I have a hundred questions at least,
grandfather, to ask you about it.

That is a picture of Robinson Crusoe, exclaimed George; I have
read that book through very often; I have got it on my own book-
‘shelf. What can you want to mor about it, Robert?

I want to ask grandfather, said Robert, who could have invented
‘such a story? I own that it is very amusing, George, and I have
read it over and over again; but yet I should like to know if there
is any truth in it,—can you tell us the true story, grandfather, if
there is one?

It is not altogether a fanciful story, replied Mr. Monueac: and

indeed in some respects Robinson Crusoe was better off than the
person on whose adventures the story is built,—in other things he
was not so well provided for.
_ Oh! grandfather, cried Clara, if I had thought Robinson Crusoe
thad been a real man, I think I must have cried over his troubles.
I am so very sorry for him, to have been shut up all round by
water, so that he could not get away, and not a person to speak
to when he was ill or unhappy.

But, should you not like to hear the true story, interrupted
Robert, as you see that grandfather knows it? Let us then sit
round him, as we did before tea, if grandfather will be so good
as to tell it to us.


214° THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

Here are the pictures of Robinson Crusoe, as well as of the
true story, my children, said Mr. Montague, so now let us begin
with the first. ,

You all know that Robinson Crusoe was said to have been.
shipwrecked on an uninhabited island, and here he is on his raft,
going backwards and forwards to the ship for what he can get.
In this Robinson Crusoe was more fortunate than the man in the
true story, as you shall hear. So we will pass over that picture, and
I will show you the true hero as a boy, with his father and mother,
in their comfortable home.

\ Alexander Selkirk,

for so he was called,

was born at Largo,
in the county of Fife,
which I hope you
know, my children,
added grandfather, to
be one of the eastern
counties of Scotland.

From his earliest
childhood he took to
the sea, and a very
good sailor he was,
which proved very
fortunate for him, as
you will hear.

Hewasabouttwenty-
seven years old when he left England, as sailing-master of a vessel,
called the Cinque Ports galley, and at that time a person of the
name of Charles Pickering was captain.

This vessel had sixty-three men on board, and sixteen guns; and
when she sailed out of Cork, another vessel went with her, called
the St. George, commanded by a very famous navigator, named
William Dampier.

These two ships went to the South Seas in company, intending
to cruise about or attack the Spaniards in those seas. On their


THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 215

way out Captain Pickering died, and the next in command was
made Captain.

. This person, whose name was Thomas Stradling, did not agree
so well with Dampier as Pickering had done, and at last the quarrel
between them arose so high, that on arriving at Juan Fernandez,
they determined to separate.

This happened in the month of May, and in the September
following, Stradling came again to the Island of Juan Fernandez.
His ship wanted repair, and he hoped they should be able to do
something in that Island towards making it fit for the long voyage
home. It was whilst staying on shore that this quarrelsome Captain
and Selkirk fell out, and that so seriously, that they could not
make up the affair.

The ship is a bad one, said Selkirk, and our Captain so
disagreeable, that there is no submitting to him, so I shall stay
upon the Island.

Stay upon the Island by yourself? cried his companions, py
you would never do it.

Never do it! replied Selkirk, but you shall see that I will, for I
cannot put up with the Captain’s ways, so I am off to fetch my
things from the ship. Alexander’s companions at first thought that
he was jesting, and next that he was mad, and they did all in
their power to persuade him to return home with them; but Selkirk
laughed at their arguments, and brought his things on shore.

These things consisted of his clothes and bedding, some sail-cloth,
a gun, some powder and balls, a hatchet, a knife, a ce books,
and his mathematical and nautical instruments.

Captain Stradling was very glad to think that he should so
easily get rid of. Selkirk, and therefore took no measures to turn
him from his purpose. But the ship being mended or patched up
for the voyage, the Captain gave his sailing orders.

It was then that Selkirk began to repent of his hasty determination,
and would gladly then have carried his goods on board again.

The captain, however, refused to take either himself or his goods,
saying, that he was only too happy to get rid of him.

Selkirk now begged in vain not to be left in that dreadful solitude
216 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

The revengeful Captain would not listen to his entreaties, and the
ship set sail from the Island.

Selkirk bore up pretty well till he saw the vessel set sail, and
then, as he said afterwards, he could not restrain his feelings any
longer; but he threw himself on the earth, and gave full vent to
his misery.

He was alone, alone in the world, with only one living creature
with him, which knew him, or on which he could look as a
friend—this was his dog. Neither could he expect ever to see any
other men besides enemies in the Island. No nation but Spaniards
frequented it, and they were great enemies at that time to the English.

ee: Though monarch of all he

i ee saw around him, poor Selkirk

“ i g es , was thoroughly wretched, and
9)

though he had more than





ee hi: (y enough of the necessaries of

oe i /BF . life, he would gladly havegiven
ere gladly haveg

a } afi ) “ some of these up, to have a

? friend to whomhe could speak.
Selkirk had plenty of fish
for food, also goat’s flesh in
abundance, with turnips and
1 other vegetables; but what
j NY, were these to a man so unhap-
. V, pily situated as he was? At
Yi < last he became so dejected,
Yes-- that he would have gladly died.
But now, said grandfather,
z I am coming to a pleasant
Za part of my story. One day.
Selkirk, after bewailing his miserable condition, seized hold of his
hatchet, and began to strike the rocks which formed the side of
his cave or sleeping apartment. I am weary of never-ending silence,
he Said, let me at least arouse the echo!
With his blows he so shook the rocks, that the loose stones
came thundering down upon him, and so great was his danger,
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 217

that he was forced to throw himself on the earth with his face down-
wards. How sinful I am, he cried, thus to peril my life. Can I find
no other pastime? Wherefore do I yield to despair.

Look at poor Selkirk, and tell me, said grandfather, can we .do
otherwise than pity him, though he has brought on his own diffi-
culties. See the ladder by which he climbs in and out of the place
he has chosen for his refuge, should the Spaniards land on the
Island. There are afew stones still falling from the rocks, but he has
thrown his hatchet from him, for a thought has struck ‘+him—he is
thinking of the books which he brought on shore in the small cask,
which you see near the tent. He had never yet turned to these
books for amusement. He thought that he would then have recourse
to them, and when he had recovered from his shock, he put his
hand into the cask and brought out the volume that was uppermost.

God was good to
this poor solitary, for
that book proved
to be the Bible, which
he had but too long
neglected.

Selkirk was now
no longer unhappy,
and yet eighteen
months had passed
since he had seen
the face of a fellow-
creature; but with
the Bible for his chief
support, he looked J
forward to a joyful
meeting with those
he loved in another
world, and he set
himself to make
his present situation
more agreeable.


218 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

At the second summer came on, he made himself such a tent
as Robinson Crusoe describes.

Amongst his own goods he possessed some sail-cloth, having been
the sailing-master on board ship, and though such things were
provided by the Captain, yet Selkirk always liked to have a stock
in case of necessity, and now how useful he found it.

And now no longer moody and melancholy, he had formed
acquaintance with the living creatures which inhabited the Island,
and here in his summer tent, he is talking to one of his favourites,
a bird of the parrot kind, which he has taught to speak.

Poor Selkirk was obliged to let his hair grow about his face,
for he had no razors; and his single knife was so precious
an article, that he never used it but on the most important
occasions.

When his clothes began to wear out, he found it necessary to
get others, and this he did by killing a goat, of which there were
plenty in the Island, and sewing up for himself a rude coat, cap,
and trousers for the skin.

He possessed also some linen, which he made into shirts; and
if you would like, Miss Clara, added grandfather, to know how
he put them together, I can tell you. He used a nail to make the
holes instead of a needle, and his thread was the grey worsted of
his stockings, which he carefully unravelled.

Oh, grandfather! cried Clara, how very long it must have taken
him to make a shirt with such needles and thread. .

All the better, replied grandfather, for when he was thus
employed, he had less time to ponder on his troubles; for if you
have ever seen a man at work even with a good needle and thread,
Clara, you will say that poor Selkirk had a hard task of it with
his nail and worsted.

Indeed I should think so, said Clara, laughing; but, grandfather,
you have not told us what were Selkirk’s pet animals.

Why, first and foremost was his dog, which he had brought
from England, continued Mr. Montague, then came his goats, and
then his birds of the parrot kind, and lastly a little regiment of
tame cats.
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 219

Cats! cried George; did you say cats, grandfather ?

Yes, cats, my boy, answered the old gentleman; for there were
so many cats in his cave or sleeping apartment, that, being tame,
they formed quite a little regiment of guards to defend him from
the rats.

But how did he catch the goats? asked Robert. These animals,
when wild, are so swift of foot, and generally frequent such high
and dangerous places.

Robert, replied Mr. Mon-
tague, Selkirk reckoned that
he caught, during his stay
on the island, no less than
one thousand goats, which
is about two a week; so
you may guess he was a
very quick runner, and clever
in the pursuit. Five hundred
of these he let loose, marking
them by a slit in the ear,
that he might know them
again. But to prove that
the chase was not always
safe, I must tell you of the
worst accident which befel
Selkirk whilst on the Island.

One morning he set out, with his gun on his shoulder, and his
faithful dog by his side, in pursuit of some birds as a change of
food.

He -had scarcely left the sea side to ascend a little hill in the
heart of the Island, where he knew he should find some game,
when a peculiarly large goat, with branching horns, peeped forth
from amidst the bushes above his head, keenly regarding: him.

The day was cold for the time of the year, and the extraordinary
"size of the goat tempted Selkirk to lay down his gun, and with
his small pistol in his hand, he ascended the steep in chase of
the fine creature.


220 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

The goat, perceiving his intention, at once started forwards, and
most eagerly did Selkirk pursue him. On, on they went, the agile
creature springing from rock to rock, followed by Selkirk, as daring
and as swift as himself, whilst the faithful dog kept pace with his
master.

: They had reached the
summit of the mountain,
there Selkirk, putting
forth his hand, firmly
grasped one horn of the
animal, for he would
not for its struggles
loose his hold.

For a moment the
strife lasted; the next,
_ Selkirk was aware that
--- . he was falling down a
precipice, the height of
which he knew not.
When he came to him-
self, for he was stunned
by the fall, he found himself lying upon the goat, which circumstance
had most probably saved his life, and his faithful dog was watching
by his side. Selkirk reckoned, by his observation on the moon,
that he had Jain in that senseless state full twenty-four hours; and
now he was so bruised and hurt by the fall, that it was with dif-
ficulty he contrived to crawl to his home, which he did not leave
again for ten days.

Selkirk afterwards found out, on examining the place from whence
he had fallen, that the goat had climbed to the edge of the precipice,
which was so covered with bushes, that he had not perceived the
danger of the place on which he was struggling with the animal.

To have seen Selkirk amongst his goats and cats, must have
been a very curious sight, for he would dance and sing
amongst them for amusement; and the tame creatures were so
accustomed to his ways, that they would sit or lie round him in


THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 221

a circle, whilst he capered and shouted out his songs for his own |
diversion.

One morning, whilst seated by the sea shore, with his goats
and kids at his feet, he perceived in the far distance a ship with
her sails spread, making towards the Island. —

O, how joyfully did his heart beat as the vessel approached,
and with what haste did he drive home his goats, that he might
go to that part of the shore, now called the Bay of Cumberland,
which is the safest part in the Island for landing upon, and for
which point he saw the vessel making.

They are French, he thought, but what of that? They are near
neighbours of England, and they will be my friends, though enemies
to the English nation. Selkirk was quite determined to give
himself up to them, even at the chance of being taken as a pri-
soner to France; for he most ardently longed once again to hear
the human voice.

He was doomed to be disappointed this time;.and happy was
it for him that he suddenly considered, that it would be wiser for
him to find out what these visitors were, before showing himself.
He therefore concealed
himself behind a rock,
and saw the ship’s crew
land; but they were too
far off for him to dis--
tinguish what country
people they were.

He followed them
cautiously as they moved
inland. They went on in
a body for a while; but
some of the party began
at’ length to lag behind,
and the foremost had cated themselves to rest on a grassy spot,
before he came near enough to see them through the tall trees
which shaded the place.

One glance then convinced him that these persons were Spaniards,


222 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

and he soon discovered also, by their manners and conversation,
that they were Buccaneers or pirates, that is sea robbers.

When Selkirk made this discovery, how glad he was that he
had not shown himself to them; for they were his country’s bitterest
enemies, and persons with whom no man’s life is safe.

Selkirk thought that the man who is seen standing up in the
picture was the Captain, added grandfather; and that one who
shows only his back, he supposed to be a Jesuit Priest; and he
judged rightly. This Roman Catholic Priest was on his way to the
Spanish colonies of South America, when he had fallen into the
hands of the Buccaneers; but they had used him well, and even
handsomely, being themselves Roman Catholics.

A rustling which Selkirk made among the bushes caused the
pirates to turn in that direction; and some of them, not knowing
what might have caused the sound, seized their firelocks, and ran
towards that part of the wood from whence the alarm had-come.

It was no easy matter to escape these men; but Selkirk had
learned to run like a goat, and like that animal also to climb the
steepest crags. He knew every corner of the Island well, and
contrived to keep beyond the sight of his pursuers.

He was, however, so hard pressed at last, that he was obliged
to climb into a tree for safety, and there to remain a long time
without moving. Many were the random shots sent by the Buccaneers
into the bushes; but Providence guarded the poor solitary. Yet
his fears were not over when he was in the tree, for the Spaniards
passed and repassed beneath it, and killed some goats within sight
of his hiding-place.

How delighted was Selkirk when he found himself once again
sole tenant of the Island; and how gaily did he dance and sing
among his goats and cats the evening after he had watched the
Spanish ship sailing away in the far distance.

He was aroused from his sleep that night, however, by a noise
outside his cave, and rising from his couch, he soon discovered
that it was one of his goats which he then remembered he had
not seen since the morning before.

The animal seemed to be in pain, and Selkirk. hastened to
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 223

strike a light, for he had made himself some torches of pine-tree
wood; but before he could succeed, the goat had ceased to utter
any sound.

Selkirk hastened to seek the poor
creature to see if he could do it any
good; and with his loaded pistol in
one hand and his pine torch in the
other, he came out from his cave.

He found to his sorrow, that the
goat was already dead, having been
wounded by the Buccaneers. The
poor creature, it seemed, had just
had strength enough left to crawl to
the spot where Selkirk had been in
the habit of feeding it when in health.

This was the only real mischief
done to Selkirk by the Buccaneers;
but by it he was made to feel, that
his situation might have been far
worse than it was, and thus he
became more happy and contented
after this visit.

It was on the morning of the second of February 1709, that
Selkirk, who had climbed to ac onsiderable height which overlooked
the sea, saw two ships.

Calling his dog to him, Selkirk hastily collected as much wood
as he could, to make a large fire, by which to attract the attention
of the mariners.

The signal was understood, and the vessels at once. entered
the bay.

On welcoming his countrymen to his Island, Selkirk thought.he
spoke quite distinctly; but the Englishmen looked at him with
astonishment; for though he spoke English, it was scarcely intel-
ligible. The sailors crowded round him, wondering to find a human
being in such a solitary abode; whilst they could not enough-admire
hhis goat-skin dress, so rudely made and -yetso:conifertahic.


224 THINK BEFORE YOU ACT.

Selkirk told his story, but, as I have said before, his words were
not. clearly chosen; for though he had said his prayers and read his
Bible aloud, and sung his songs too, yet for want of some friend
with whom to converse, he had lost many words, and used others
in the wrong places.

Selkirk found that the
two ships were called the
Duke and the Duchess,
and that they were priva-
teers from Bristol, and he
discovered also an ac~
quaintance on board the
Duke; this was Dampier,
in whose company he had
left England.

Dampier gave Selkirk
such a good name as a

sailor that the Captain
of the Duke offered him the place of master’s mate to his vessel;
and you may be sure, that Selkirk joyfully accepted the appointment.

But I am hurrying over this part of my story, said grandfather,
and have forgotten to tell you how Selkirk welcomed the two ships’
companies to his Island.

They had been out at sea sometime, and they entreated to stay
for a fortnight at Juan Fernandez.

After the sea-fare, who shall say how highly they relished the
goats’ flesh and vegetables which Selkirk provided for them.

He took them to see his two habitations, but the cave which
he called his sleeping abode was so difficult of access, that only
one of the ships’ officers would go with him along the ladder to
see it.

The Duke and the Duchess privateers, being supplied with fresh
water, their Captains thought it time to leave Juan Fernandez, and
to-proceed on their cruise against the Spaniards. Selkirk was much
pained in parting with his favourites; but yet not even for their
sakes could. he endure the thought of being again left in solitude.


THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. 225

So, taking with him all such things as he could, he went on board
Captain Roger’s ship, to take his part in fighting against the Spanish
pirates who, infested those seas. :
For eighteen months the Duke and the Duchess were sailing
from one port to another, but on the first of October 1711, Selkirk
once more stood upon English ground.
Here he found many people so interested in his adventures,-
that they begged him to write them down, that they might be
printed for the amusement of all those who wished to read them;
and it is said, that from these very papers,
written by Selkirk, Defoe wrote his inte-
resting story of Robinson Crusoe.
Alexander Selkirk was buried at Largo,
and his nephew, Mr. John Selkirk, loved
to show his grave to strangers, and the L
very chest and musket used by Alexan- +**
der in the Island of Juan Fernandez.





SEletie, 1 AW BIL IE BR

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.





THE TRAVELLER.



R. GREVILLE lived in a pleasant country house and gave
R 2 up much of his time to the education of two sons and a
ee he had been an officer, and had gone into far distant
lands.

There was an old een who used to come and see him,
perhaps once or twice a year—what his real name was I never
heard, for he was always called “the Traveller;”—he always came
‘on foot, with his staff in his hand, and he stayed a night or two
and then took his leave.

In the frontispiece you may see Mr. Greville standing by a tree,
he has his elder son, Frank, by the hand; his nephew, Edmund,
and his younger son, Thomas, are a little beyond: they have just
seen the Traveller coming up the bank. The Traveller is leaning
on a stout man, a neighbour of Mr. Greville’s, whom he met
by the way and fell into discourse with.

The boys are very glad to see the Traveller,—Edmund has
snatched Thomas’s cap from his head, and is going to wave it;
might it not have been more polite, if he had taken off his own
cap for the purpose ? .

We shall hear some pleasant stories to-night, said the boys, as
they followed their papa and the Traveller to the house. But it
was not till after tea, when they were all seated round a bright
fire, that Frank, who was to speak for the rest, ventured to say,
We hope Sir, that you have brought your sketch book with you,
and that you are not too tired this evening to explain some of the
230 THE TRAVELLER.
pictures to us, in the same pleasant way you did when you were
here last. ;

The Traveller loved to be asked to talk of what he had seen
—he always carried one or another of his sketch books about him,.
and he was quite ready to do what was wished. He took his book
from his pocket and laid it on the table, and when the candles
were snuffed, the boys seated, and the book opened at the first
picture, the old gentleman began to talk, and speaking to little
Thomas, he said, now young gentleman tell me what you see in
the drawing before you.

I see, answered the child, a wild country without hedges, and
it is a hot country, a great way off.

How do you know that it is hot? asked the Traveller.

Because, replied Thomas, there are cocoa-nut trees growing on
the side of the hill; I can see their large leaves like feathers, I
know that there are no such trees in cold places.

Very well, my little man, said the Traveller; you have been
taught, I see, to put two and two together; you would not expect
to find pine-apples under the snow in Iceland, would you? I shall
have pleasure in explaining my pictures to you, because I think
that you will understand me. :

I have been a traveller both by sea
and land, ever since I was a boy, scarce
bigger than yourself. My father’s business
all lay on the great waters; my mother
I don’t remember, and I had no near
relative but one sister, who was taken
by her grandmother; so the only home
Ui I knew was the ship of which my father
was the captain. Whilst he was spared
to me, my travels were mostly made by
sea, since I have lost him, I have made
‘ many excursions by land. I was quite
a boy when the things happened represented in that last picture.
We had been to China, of which country only one remembrance
is left to me, but that was so vivid a one, that in after years I

eich


THE TRAVELLER. 231

was enabled to trace it on paper, and here you may see it is the
representation of a Mandarin of some note, seated amidst his cus-
hions smoking his hookah, whilst his attendant is employed in
fanning him, and driving the insects away from around him.

Did you see the Mandarin yourself, Sir? asked Thomas, all
astonishment.

Yes, with these very eyes, which were ities as good and lively
as your own, my little friend, replied the Traveller. My father had
some business with the great man, and he took me with him to
his palace. I have a clear recollection of his figure, and of those
of his attendants, but I cannot recall any more of the interview.
But we are forgetting that this is not the picture I began upon,
so no more questions, little man, upon the great Mandarin, but to
our voyage, after leaving China.

On our way home we
were driven by a long
course of contrary winds,
quite out of our pro-
posed direction. We
were in the Great Pacific
Ocean, and not many
degrees to the South of
the line, when being -
much in want of wood
and water, we ran into
a little cove of an island
which we supposed - to
be uninhabited. It was
a pleasant place with
much wood, many fruits, and plenty of fresh water. We had got
to the leeward side of the island, and we found the place uncom-
monly pleasant after having been tossed so long at sea.

Whilst all the hands of the crew and inferior officers were busy
in putting things in order, my father and a gentleman, who had
taken a passage to Europe, took their fowling pieces and set out
to explore the island, thinking to bring home some game. I was


232 THE TRAVELLER.

left with the ship, not being strong enoygh for such an under-
taking—and they walked a long way and saw no signs of inhabitants.
At length being arrived at the foot of a high ridge of land, partially
covered by bushes, they were startled by the sound of fearful yells
and shouts, arising from the other side of the ridge. My father
knew the cries to be those of savages; but neither he nor his friend
was easily to be frightened; yet, as my father used to say, they
should not have thought of going on, had they not heard bitter
cries 'of distress and pain, mingled with the yells.

These savages, said my father to his companion, are at some
of their horrid works; may be they have got some captives in war,
and are come, as is often their way, from some other island not
far off, to have a grand feast in this place. No doubt their canoes
are lying under the shore at this moment, but we must, if possible
disturb their mirth. My father and his companion then falling on
their knees, climbed up the bank hidden by the bushes, and being
come to the crown of the eminence, they saw much the same
view as the picture represents; in the farther part of the picture
you may see a small circular cove on the right, and the rising
ground with the cocoa-nut trees to the left.

Between these more distant objects and the foot of the bank
on which they knelt, were a countless multitude of naked savages,
and they, it seems, were rejoicing over several poor wretched
creatures, who lay bound and almost without clothes upon the
earth;—one more glance served to convince my father and his
friend that these captives were not black.

My father and his friend did not stay to calculate the odds of
numbers, continued the Traveller, but up they sprang on their
feet, having seen that their fire-locks were charged,—and down the
slope they ran raising their voices to their highest pitch. My father
used often to laugh and say, that he could give no more account
of the next twenty minutes than the man in the moon. It was
like a dream, in which he and his friend, the first two who had
assailed the savages were multiplied into six, all shouting and
laying about them, and throwing stones after the savages, who
were flying to their canoes and making off as they could, carrying
THE TRAVELLER. 233

away one poor fellow whom my father had wounded with small
shot, intending only to frighten.

When the savages were clear off, my father and his friend had
time to look at their new allies, and to admire one of them above
all—though where he had come from thay could not imagine.

There he stands with his conical cap, his strange dress, and his
bottle in his hand, which he is tendering to one of the poor
captives who lies almost exhausted on the earth. He has a rifle
in one hand, and a sword by his side, and he must have been
very near when my father ran down the bank, for he was ready
to cut the bands of the captives in a moment, and so to enable
them to add what little. strength they had left to my father’s
small band.

There was no time then, however, for explanation; the savages,
it was feared, after their first panic might return and overpower
the white men when they saw how few they were; so it was
agreed that they should repair to where the ship lay, as fast as
possible, and the white man with the hairy cap shewed them a
shorter way. ;

When they were all safe on board they had time to tell their
histories and how they came there, and it was found that they
had all been shipwrecked. The one with the conical cap had been
there some months living like Robinson Crusoe concealed in a
cave, subsisting by his own ingenuity, and with the help of his
fowling piece and some ammunition he had saved from the wreck.
The others had fallen among the savages during the late stress of
weather. is

Would the savages have eaten their prisoners, had they not
beén disturbed? asked Edward.

Probably they might, replied the Traveller; but I cannot say
from my own knowledge, whether there are or are not Cannibals
in the World. What is this next picture, Sir? asked Edward.

It represents an old man and a young woman; replied the
Traveller; they are Hindoos,—they are not so black as negroes,
and have long hair; many of them have fine features.

The building -behind them is what they call a Mutt, or idol
234 THE TRAVELLER.

temple; the old man is the priest of the idol. Such persons are
called Brahmins; his daughter is kneeling down with her hand on
a cage, and she is looking up to a bird in the tree.

Does she want to
entice the bird to come
into the cage? asked
Thomas. :

That I cannot say,
answered the Travel-
ler, but I can tell you
what she is about with
the bird—she is asking
it questions about
something she wants
to know.

What questions, Sir?
asked Thomas.

I cannot tell you
what that particular
girl said to that parti-
cular bird, but I can
tell you what I myself
once heard. I was
walking in a wood
with my gun and one
servant, one evening in the cool weather, in India, when suddenly
I saw before me, an old woman speaking to a crow, which sat
perched on a branch above her head.

I stood still and listened!

Tell me good crow, she said, is my son safe at his journey’s end ?

Caw! caw! said the bird, I know not how many times.

Very good, answered the old woman—and she cracked her
knuckles against the sides of her cheeks, and seemed vastly pleased.

And is he well, pretty bird? she said.

The next caw was either too long or too short—it was not good,
and the old woman cried, ah wah wah wahwilah !


THE TRAVELLER. ~ 235

What did she say next? cried Thomas laughing.

Vile bird, she said, you tell lies, there is no truth in you—
begone I say; and she took up a sod to throw up at it.

The creature flapped its wings, gave a frightful harsh cry and
flew away. Whilst I said to my servant, what is this? does that
old woman suppose that a crow can tell her anything of her son.

Why not, Master? answered the man, why should he not?

How very strange, said the boys together. What makes these
people so stupid ?

Their religion, my dear young people, replied the Traveller.
They are used from babies to worship stocks and stones, to believe
in witchcraft and omens, and to depend upon the cries of birds
and beasts, as signs of things future, and hidden. You can never
know the blessing of being born and bred in a Christian country.

Did you see that old Brahmin in the picture, Sir? asked Thomas.

I did, replied the Traveller, and I have been more than once
in the idol temple, in the back ground of the picture.

The Traveller then told Thomas to turn to the next picture.
But before he began to explain it, he asked the boys if they had
ever seen an elephant, they all had, and then he told them one
or two very curious things about these animals. He told them that.
they seemed to have more sense than any other animal known,
and when broken in, are very docile, and very obedient to the
man who takes care of them, and rides on their neck. But, added
the Traveller, some of them are subject to violent fits of fury,
and then woe be to any one who comes in their way.

The highest hills in the whole world are the Himmalaya in the
North of India. I was once going up a pass of these hills, with
a very large company, chiefly military. It was in the lower parts
of these, far far beneath the snowy peaks, and lofty table lands,
we had elephants with us, and bullocks, and horses, and as is the
case when troops march in India, we were followed by multitudes
of all sorts of people, men, women, and children—in carriages, on
horses, or bullocks, and on foot.

Amongst the elephants, was one of uncommon size ona strength,
and beauty, he was one however, which was subject to sudden
236 THE TRAVELLER.

fits of fury, though his keeper could generally manage him.

This day as we were going up the pass, along a narrow road
with a steep rock rising like a wall on one side, and a dreadful
precipice on the other; some thing offended the monstrous animal,
and his keeper for a moment lost all control. There was no
means of getting ont of his beat which ever way he turned, and
the whole line of march within hearing of his bellowings was filled
with terror; away scudded all the poor creatures in the rear of
him—tattoos, (that is, small horses,) carts, bullocks, and foot pas-
sengers, for in his rage he had turned to run back down the pass.
The last of those who fled before him, happened to be a little
old woman riding on a very small horse, and having a parrot tied
to a perch, and hanging to her saddle. What call she had to be
there, who shall say; but there she was, trotting down the pass
as fast as the pony could run, and without the smallest chance of
escaping the elephant. The monster was up with her before the
tattoo, or pony, had made twenty yards, and putting his trunk
under the stomach of the horse, he raised up the tattoo, old
woman, parrot, and all, and fairly threw them over the precipice.

Oh! exclaimed Thomas, poor old woman, was she killed at
once, Sir?

Neither at once nor at all, answered the Traveller, she and her
horse, and parrot, rolled over and over from bush to bush, till they
reached the bottom; and the very next day I saw the old woman
trotting in the rear of the party, with her parrot at her saddle, and
looking as if nothing particular had happened.

But the most amusing circumstance was, that when the elephant
had done this bit of mischief, he seemed to be perfectly satisfied.
He turned about, and became perfectly submissive to the commands
of his keeper.

I do love to hear about elephants, said Thomas. But what are
they doing here, Sir, in the next picture?

Those persons are going out to hunt tigers in the jungle, that
is in the woods and uncultivated places. I was of the party which
it represents there—you shall have the account of that hunt.

We went out blacks and whites, to the number of some hun-
THE TRAVELLER. 237

dreds. Some on horses, and some on elephants, all being well armed,
and we went straight to the woods.

We passed, I remember well, under the arches of the banyan
or Indian fig-tree; this strange tree forms a forest of itself. And
affords a refuge for an infinite number of living creatures, especially
monkeys and lizzards.

It is very remarkable
in its growth, the first
stem rises up singly, and
throws out branches like
other trees, but it has
the peculiarity, that from
each branch it throws out
another, which drops in
time to the ground, and
there takesroot, and forms
another tree, and in its
tum throws out more
branches, till in the course
of years this one tree
covers acres of ground
forming dark and beautiful arches. The hunters in this picture,
Master Frank, are passing under the shade of one of these banyan-trees..

When I was of the hunting ely
party I speak of, continued |. aN
the Traveller, we did not’
rouse a tiger till we were
clear of the wood, and were
got into the open jungle
beyond, and there we started
a fearful beast. ;

He was as large as a good
sized calf, and hefirstappear-
ed among the high dry jungle
grass. Lookatyourpictureand
observe what I shall tell you.




238 THE TRAVELLER.

He did not appear to like our company much more than some
of the animals which carried us liked him, and he first prepared
himself to make off, but finding himself in a sort surrounded by
us, he prepared to spring, and as it happened, on the very elephant
next to that on which I rode. Had he succeeded in his spring, he
would assuredly have killed the men on the elephant, if not the
animal itself.

But the creature tossed his monstrous trunk, and rushing forward
with fearful bellowings, left the space open for the elephant which
followed the one whereon I rode.

We were ready for the contest—we discharged our pieces, our
balls met the tiger in his spring, he fell back wounded; and being
disabled he was soon finished, and his beautiful skin being stripped
off, was brought back as a trophy.

And you saw all that! said Edmund. How I should like to have
been there.

But, asked Frank, how large is a tiger?

The royal tiger, which is the largest species, replied the Traveller,
is sometimes said to be as large as a small horse; its form resembles
the cat.

Its native country is chiefly India, but it abounds most in the
countries beyond the Ganges; its strength is immense, and its
cruelty equal to its strength. It is a blessing to mankind that there
are only a few climates in the world in which it is found.

Oh! here is the picture of a camel
in your book, cried Thomas, who had
ventured to turn over a leaf of it, as
it lay open on the table; please, Sir,
tell us something about camels.

The Traveller smiled, he loved to
tell his adventures to children, and he
answered, That camel is one which
carried me many, many leagues over the
sandy Deserts of Arabia, and brought
me at last to the famous City of Mecca.
Are there not two sorts of camels, Sir? asked Edmund.


THE TRAVELLER. 239

There are two different breeds of this animal, answered the
Traveller, but not two species.

What does that mean, Sir? asked Frank.

A white man and a negro, replied the Traveller, are of different
breeds, that is, they are of two distinct families, but they are both
human creatures, therefore they are the same species. There are
two breeds of the camel kind, and they are known by the humps
on their backs. The breed called particularly the camel has two
hunches on his back; and that called the dromedary only one.

Then that was a dromedary which carried you over the desert,.
Sir; said Thomas.

It was, he replied.

How large is Arabia? asked Frank.

Its greatest length is 1430 miles; and its breadth, 1200.

The greatest part of it is a desert covered with sands and flints,
with now and then a rock standing up from the level surface;
above the head is a cloudless sky, and the winds which blow
over these deserts are dry and parched.

Are there no green places in all that country? asked Thomas,

Wherever water is found, replied the Traveller, there are green
and delightful spots, where palmtrees grow in groups; and towards
the south there are some provinces so fine and fertile, that they
have given them the name of The Happy.

That-is Felix, said Edmund;
I have heard of Arabia Felix.

But did you go over all
those wide deserts quite alone,
Sir? asked Thomas.

No; replied the Traveller; I
went with a caravan, that is,
with a company of many people
travelling also with camels, and
carrying arms, for fear of the -
wild Arabs. On this leaf of
my book you will see a drawing
which I made one evening


240 THE TRAVELLER.

when we had arrived at a place where we intended to spend
the night.

We have found it, cried the boys.

It was a place, said the Traveller, where was a wall of rock
rising straight from the sand and running a long way; on this
wall were some curious figures cut, probably ages before, with
characters so old that no man now could make any thing of them.
Some of the company are already come up and have alighted,
and are seated on the ground.

There is one of them, said Thomas, a man with a beard, who
seems to be very busy talking; I wish we could put our ears down
to his-‘mouth and hear what he says.

Perhaps I could tell you, answered the Traveller; for whilst I
was drawing his picture, I heard the story he was telling to that
old man in white, who sits by him.

He was telling the history of his having seen a mirage when
passing over the desert on a former occasion.

A mirage, cried all the boys at once, what is a mirage, Sir ?

I cannot explain to you, my young people, answered the Tra-
veller, the natural causes of those appearances which we call
mirages, after the French. When you are older you will like to
look into this, and many other curious natural things; but you
will perhaps understand me when I tell you that a mirage is what
is called an optical deception, and causes people to fancy they
see things which are not there.

I understand, said Frank, but please to go on, Sir.

Well! added the Traveller, one man was telling the other how
he had seen a mirage, and what cruel disappointment it was to
him and his company, when all they thought they had seen, had
faded away and left nothing in its place but dry sand below and
a burning sky above.

We were crossing this desert, he said, it was not far from, this
place, and though we had rested at noon, and the evening was
near; we were scorched with heat and thirst, and we were reckoning
that we had yet many a weary step to take before we could reach
a spot where there were a few palm trees, a well of cold clear
IHE TRAVELLER. 241

water, and a little turf spread beneath the shade of a high stone
or rock. Suddenly, however, on looking before us, having just
reached the top of a bank of sand, we saw at no great distance,
what we took to be a sheet of water, which seemed to spread
itself along the horizon to the right and left as far as our eyes
could reach; and in the midst of this water, as in an island, we
saw a rock high and jagged, and near to it appeared many palm
trees, and such a low building as often covers a well in these
deserts. And all clear and distinct as solid reality, nay so much
so, that these shadows had their shadows, and were again repre-
sented in inverted order, in what seemed the water.

What does inverted order mean? asked Thomas.

Turned upside down, said Edmund; don’t you know that the
shadows in water seem to stand on their heads? But please to go
on, Sir.

We were many of us filled with delight at this unexpected sight,
said the old man to his companion, continued the Traveller, and
some of us were already pushing our horses forward with renewed
strength, when we were checked by the governor of the caravan,
and admonished that all these fair and desirable objects would
speedily vanish away, and leave nothing behind them but parched
sand; repeating to us at the same time one of the old sayings of
the learned of his country—The hopes of youth fade like the
pictures of the desert.

What he said was true, though some of us would not believe
that we could be thus deceived, till every fair form had vanished
from our sight.

How very, very provoking, said Thomas; I should have been
so angry.

And much good would that have done, replied the Traveller,
only made you hotter than you were before—you would never do
for a traveller if you could not take things as they come.

But why, asked Thomas, have some of these people got great
cloths, about their heads, and wide coats, and others are almost
without clothes?

Those who are well dressed, replied the Traveller, are the masters,

R
242 THE TRAVELLER.

and those who have few clothes, are the slaves and servants.

There was no water in that place but what we brought in skins
on the backs of the camels, all around us was one vast grey
desert, without any green thing or living thing, but a few small
lizards.

Here is a zebra in the next leaf, said Thomas. Are there zebras
in the deserts of Arabia ?

No, replied the Traveller, if you mean to ask whether they are
natives of this country,—but there happened to be an African in
the caravan, who was taking a zebra to some great man near
Mecca as a present, and I, therefore, took occasion to draw the
creature.

The zebra is a native of the Southem
parts of Africa, and a most beautiful crea-
ture he is, being striped with black and
=, white, as regularly as if painted with a

4 pencil; but he is a most vicious animal,

sand though his keeper pretended that he
was quite its master, yet even he was obliged
to keep at heels’ length of him, and be very
+“. careful how he touched his ears, which are



particularly sensitive.

Edmund and Frank wanted to hear a great deal more of the
deserts of Arabia, but Thomas was so anxious to get on to another
picture which he had found, that they were obliged to give way,
though they had a thousand questions to ask.

Kr SS What is this? what is this? said the
little boy. What a curious picture; here
are two high mountains, and there is
such a quantity of smoke coming out
of one of them. There is a town built
at the foot of the smoking mountain,
and there is a bay of the sea; it is
quite round at one end. Whata curious
place! Have you been there, Sir? he
asked of the Traveller.


THE TRAVELLER. 243

I certainly have; replied the Traveller.—After I had been in
Egypt, and when my dear father had been dead some time, I came
to England, and thought I would remain quietly, as I had enough
to live upon; so I took a house, and furnished it, and got my
sister to keep it for me. We lived. together seven years, and I tried
to be quiet and contended ;—at last, however, my sister was mar-
ried, and I gave up my house to her, only keeping two rooms
which I have now, and was most glad to be at liberty again.

The first use I made of that liberty, was to go as far as Naples,
where I saw what is represented in that picture.

The town which you see is called Naples; it lies to the south
of Italy, and there is only a narrow strait between it and the
Island of Ischia—that smoking mountain is called Vesuvius—it is
what they call a volcano.

The country about Naples is most wonderful—the earth is only
a thin crust over internal fires—the fire under the earth often breaks
out in terrible earthquakes, and pours forth stones and flames, and.
streams of burning lava, from the great smoking mountain, and
occasionally in such quantities as to bury large cities beneath them.
The kingdom of Naples is the largest state in Italy, and for the
greater part is bounded by the Mediterranean and Adriatic seas.
The air is hot, and the soil fertile, but the number of insects and
reptiles which infest these parts makes it very far from agreeable
as a place of residence, particularly when one considers the nume-
rous earthquakes to which they are subjected. There are, however,
many noblemen in the kingdom of Naples, though they are chiefly
very poor, for, unlike England, all the sons of an Italian nobleman
are called noble, and retain a title, even if there are twenty of
them, and their sons, too, claim the privileges of being descendants
of nobility. Naples is the neatest and one of the largest towns in
Italy, and has an excellent harbour. The houses are of stone, and
generally have flat roofs; for the inhabitants to walk on in the:
evenings to breathe the sweet cool air of asummen’s night. Oh those
splendid Italian nights! those who have not enjoyed them, cannot
understand half their delights. Fancy yourselves, my boys, looking
from a high situation down on that noble bay, watching the ves-
244 THE TRAVELLER.

sels in the clear starlight. Turn then to the other side, and you
may see Vesuvius in all its glory; for night is the time to behold
this fearful mountain. It is situated five miles from Naples, and
its south and west sides, as well as its summits, are covered with
black cinders and ashes, though the vine grows luxuriantly on many
of its declivities. Not a tree or shrub is to be seen on the top of
the mountain, but in their stead are glowing ashes, and a bright
settled flame, making the sky above and around to glow with its.
intensity. In the silence of these evenings too, may be heard the
low grumbling sound of the burming mountain, which rises even
above the songs sung by the boatmen and sailors in the bay below.

The balconies of the houses are filled with fair ladies and their
families ; the graceful veil and the distance softening the harshness.
of the figures, and rendering it such a scene as one might fancy
in a fairy tale.

It. was once after viewing Naples, in such calm repose as I have
attempted to describe, that I witnessed an outbreak from the
mountain. Streams of lava came issuing from Vesuvius, consisting
of melted metal, sulphur, and ashes, whilst, ever and anon, a hor-
rid noise was heard, like the explosion of a whole battery of can-
nons, and a rumbling was under the feet like the continual boiling
of a huge cauldron. On poured the stream like to a river, bearing
all before it, and doing incredible mischief wherever it appeared.
The vineyards were destroyed and cottages were laid low, whilst
the poor inhabitants sought the shrines and altars of their saints,
to implore their protection from the raging mountain. The explosion
I beheld was however of so trifling a kind, that it is not recorded
in history, and yet such was its fearful impression on my mind,
that even now I shudder to think of it.

I wonder, said Frank, that people should think of building towns
in places of so much danger.

If you were to see the country, which is rich and beautiful
beyond all imagination, you would not wonder so much, replied
the Traveller. And then there is another thing which you should
recollect, and this is, that people who are brought up, and always.
live in the sight of any danger, think less of it than those who.
THE TRAVELLER. 245

see it only at times. The Neapolitans dance and sing as gaily on
the sides of their burning mountain, as you would do in a green
meadow in May.

But they are also very superstitious, and believe that Vesuvius
is the mouth of hell, and that evil spirits have often been seen
going in and out of the crater, or chimney, from which the smoke
‘comes out at the top.

The hollow from which the eruption issues is very large, and
goes shelving down on all sides. It is almost always filled with
smoke, which prevents any one seeing what is going on below.
During the eruptions, it is filled with glowing and melted matter,
which, as it boils over in any part, comes pouring down as I have
told you before, bringing with it ashes, cinders, and huge stones;
and the nearer you are to the mountain, the hotter you will
naturally find this torrent to be.

I did not return home after being in Italy, for many years, but
travelled hundreds and hundreds of miles, and should not, I believe,
have returned when I did, if my sister had not been so very anxious
that I.should return, that her letters gave me no rest.

During my absence, she had had a boy and two girls, and the
eldest she said was as tall as herself. She and her husband had also
adopted two nephews of his, and they all wanted to see me,
-and hear about my travels.

My sister’s residence was in Wiltshire. I did not inform her
-before-hand that I was coming, but being landed in the south-west
-of England, I sent my baggage by a carrier, and walked over the
‘country myself, it being a very fine time of the year: it was during
this walk, that I came to the spot which is here sketched.

This place is Stonehenge, and it has long been a dispute amongst
the learned, for what purpose these enormous stones were assembled
and arranged. One writer says they were erected by the last British
king Aurelius Ambrosius, by the advice of the Sage Merlin, in
memory of four hundred and sixty Britons murdered by Hengist
the Saxon.

Was not Merlin a magician, Sir? asked Thomas, a very wise magician.

He was sazd to be one, replied the Traveller; but in my opinion,
246 THE TRAVELLER.

a magician was a person more advanced in knowledge than his
companions, one who could read-and write, and loved to study,



and hence the vulgar, ignorant of the pleasures he enjoyed in
solitude with only a manuscript, for in Merlin’s time there were
no printed books to serve as a companion, they at once fancied
he must have intercourse with spirits of the air, sea, and sky,
with whom he could converse. Such was the wise Merlin, by whose
direction, some believe Stonehenge was erected.

What does the word Stonehenge mean, Sir? asked Edmund. It
seems to me to be almost English, but 1 suppose the name is not
‘an old name.

It is a Saxon word, my boy, said the Traveller, and hence its
resemblance to our language, for we have many a Saxon word in
our vocabulary. Stone you may understand easily, but henge in
the Saxon, is our word for gallows or stone gallows, for these
blocks resemble gallows in many parts. The Welch, however, give
.a pleasanter name to Stonehenge; they call it Choir Gour, or the
Giants’ Dance.

What could make the ancient Britons put so many huge stones.
together for? exclaimed Thomas.

It is believed, replied the Traveller, that this place was an ancient
British temple, in which the priests or druids officiated.
THE TRAVELLER. 247

‘It stands upon Salisbury plain, near the summit of a hill, and
enclosed by a ditch, over which there have been three entrances.
The temple was composed of one hundred and forty stones of
different sizes, forming two circles and two ovals: all of these,
but one supposed to be the altar, are of the same kind. They say
that the druids’ temples were never built of stone from quarries,
for some superstitious reason now unknown. The largest stone at
Stonehenge would require one hundred and forty oxen to move
in. It is remarked that the inside of these stones are all smoother
than the outside, for the best side was placed towards the holiest
part of the temple.

Did you count these stones yourself, Sir? asked Frank.

Yes I did, he answered, but I was so tired with a long walk,
I only counted them once over, I did not attempt it a second time.

But was not once enough, Sir? inquired little Thomas.

The Traveller langhed as he answered. It is a belief, my little
man, amongst the peasantry of Wiltshire, that no person can
count these stones twice over alike: and to prove it, they tell a
tale of a baker going there one morning with a cart-load of loaves,
and laying a loaf on a stone as he counted it. But it was of no
use, he lost his time and his patience, for he sometimes found on
going round, two loaves upon one stone, and when this was
remedied, on going round again he found certain stones without
a loaf; and so he returned to his home, his bread spoiled by the
sun, and his temper so irritated, that his wife would not allow
him to make the attempt again.

But to leave Stonehenge and return to what I was saying of my
sister and her family. I did not get to her home till the day after
I had seen Stonehenge, for I lost some time in going round by
Windsor.

Windsor! my good Sir, said Mr. Greville, that was by no means
. your straight road to where your sister lived at Ipswich.

Short distances were then nothing to me, replied the Traveller.
I had never been at Windsor, and I was resolved to go there.

What is Windsor? asked Thomas. And is this the picture of it,
this great house with so many towers? ..
248 THE TRAVELLER.

Thomas had never been known to be tired of asking questions
when he had leave given him to do so—and the Traveller never
refused ,him that leave.

Windsor, he said, in answer to Thomas’s last question, is cele-
brated for its castle, which is built on the summit of a lofty hill,
looking down upon Thames and its beautiful meadows. It was built
by William the Conqueror, who also planned the park, and laid
down the boundaries of the forest, and from that time all the
Sovereigns of England, have spent portions of their time at Windsor—
most of these adding something to its enlargement or beauty.
Queen Elizabeth raised the noble terrace on the North of it, from
which a view is commanded over all the surrounding country.

There is not a palace in the world, unless it may be that of the
pope at Rome, where there are more things worthy of admiration

“than there are at Windsor.

It was a fine day when I was there, and the royal family was
at the castle, and the band was playing on the terrace when I
went upon it, and yet I could not help feeling sad, in thinking of
the many generations of royal persons, who had for a little while
tasted of the grandeurs of the place, and then departed to be no
more seen on earth. I cannot say wherefore I thought more of
these things at Windsor, than I have done in other palaces, which
I have visited, as old as this; but those who travel and have no
, particular home, are often led to reflect
on the many changes which are always
going on in this world; and if these
reflections are blessed to them, they
are thus taught to look forward to that
happy state, where there is no decay
and no death.

I went from Windsor in the cool
of the evening, walking with my staff »
in my hand through the forest, and
-there I stopped ata cottage, from the
front of which I could still see the
castle, its towers rising above the trees.


THE TRAVELLER. 249

There was an old man in the cottage, who lived there with a
wife as old as himself, and from his own account had lived there
from a boy. He invited me to sit in his porch, and we had much
discourse.

One of us had never stayed at home, and the other had never
gone abroad. Windsor castle to him was all the world—and he
had an old history of it, which told him the stories of what had
happened there in former times, though it left him quite in darkness
of what was going on there in the present day.

He could tell me what kings and queens had-been born, and
died there, and who were buried there, in the royal vault: and
he quite believed all the stories about Herne’s Oak; he remembered
the tree, and had sat in the hollow of it many a time when
a boy.

Heme’s Oak, said Thomas, what is it, Sir?

Herne, replied the Traveller, was the keeper of the forest in the
time of Queen Elizabeth, and having done something for which
he expected to lose his place, he hung himself on an oak in the
park. From that time the ignorant people believed that his spirit
haunted the place, and frightened everybody who came near it at
night, or in the dusk. My old man believed this, and told me,
that he knew a woman who had seen a man whose father’s aunt's
husband’s brother had seen the old ranger himself near the tree
one very dark night.

How could he see him in the dark? said Thomas.

I did not ask my old man, answered the Traveller.

It cannot be true, said Thomas.

It is true that I heard the story, replied the. Traveller, I don’t
say any more.

But how did the man know that the person they saw was Herne?
asked Thomas. :

Because they said that he had horns, and sauce a chain.

But is this true? asked Thomas again.

It is-no more true than the story I told you of the belief of
the Neapolitans about mount Vesuvius, answered the Traveller.
When I tell you what I have myself seen, I should think that you
250 THE TRAVELLER.

must have a bad opinion of me, if you did not believe me; but
when I repeat a story which I have heard, I do not require you
to believe it.

I understand, answered Thomas. But where did you get your
supper, and where did you sleep that night, Sir?

I supped with the old man and his wife that evening, said the
Traveller, and I slept in a chair by the fire all night, and I
breakfasted with the old people the next morning, and then I went
on towards Ipswich.

‘As I came near the house about noon—taking a private road
which led me by a brook-side, I found two young gentlemen
fishing; one was sitting on the parapet, and the other standing by
one of the piers.

I looked hard at them, thinking that they might be my nephews,
but I did not fancy they were, and so walked on.

I dare say they
were their two cousins,
remarked Thomas.

Neither more nor
less, replied the Tra-
_, veller—why my little
.4 man, if you make
such shrewd guesses
as this before you
have lappets to your
coat, what will you
do afterwards? But
look at the next pic-
“qj ture—I took great
; pains to draw it well;
itrepresents my sister’s

: three children just as
I first saw them; they were sailing a little boat in a pool of
water, and one said, I fear that uncle will not come soon—not
at least till the wind changes, because the boat turns her head
from the house.


THE TRAVELLER. 251

I had seen nothing in all my travels that pleased me so much
as my sister’s children, and she and her husband were so glad to



see me, and we were all so merry, and so happy; and they were
so anxious that I should stay and live with them, that I found it
difficult to get away for some weeks. But after a while, I found
that I was doing ‘no good where I was; I was always being put
up to ask for holidays, and when the holidays were given, the


252 THE TRAVELLER,

young rogues could not even enjoy a game at blind-man’s-buff,
with their young acquaintances, unless I was ‘present.

So having heard
of a vessel going
northwards, I took
myself off, with as
little leave-taking as
possible. It was my
intention to go ina
whaler to Green-
land, which country
I much longed to
see, as being wholly
unlike all I had
‘ever seen before. We stopped at Iceland to put our vessel in
repair, for we had encountered some bad weather in the Atlantic;
and there we were detained by the rather unexpected arrival of a
large mass of floating ice from Greenland.

But such occurrences are common, are they not, Sir? said Edmund.

They are, replied the Traveller; but not at the late season in
which we visited Iceland.

Did you see it come in, Sir? asked Frank.

I did, my boy, was the answer; when I reached the shore, I
first saw a mass of ice at some distance off, slowly approaching
towards us like some huge vessel. As it came nearer, I could have
fancied it was an Island, and that I could have traced houses
and castles upon the mountain heights.

These bodies of ice, or icebergs, sometimes move but slowly,
but when favoured by wind, and current, are as rapid as a boat
of six oars. The one represented in this picture, had not the
wind in its favour, and protected by the shelter of some rocks,
you may see that there is a boat on the ocean fearless of its
approach, though I candidly own I should not like to have been
one in it. At the season when the icebergs are in numbers they
choke up the ways, and may be seen for miles and miles, filling
up the vast ocean. I have heard of a pilot once mistaking an


THE TRAVELLER, 253.

iceberg for a ship in sail, and he went out in his boat to guide
it into port. And one I saw was so like a town, that the Dutch
in the neighbourhood called it Amsterdam. But have you not.
heard of Captain Parry’s famous voyages to these icy lands? asked
the Traveller, of Edmund.

Yes I have, Sir, he replied, and perhaps next winter my father
will read an account of them aloud to us,

To be sure, said the Traveller, you are still very young, but I
think every boy should read Parry’s travels as soon as he has.
finished Robinson Crusoe; and I am sure if he likes the one he
will like the other. But about these icebergs. Parry mentions in
his travels, that they |counted fifty-four in sight at one time, and
you may easily perceive, that even in a well, and strongly built.
ship, it could not be very pleasant to encounter so many: though
the icebergs, which drive about, are less dangerous to approach
than \those aground, against which, a ship is liable to be carried
with the whole force of the tide.

Oh sir! said little Thomas, as he turned over another leaf of
the sketch book, What is this and where did you see it?

That, replied the Traveller, looking at what the child pointed
out, Ay, I see, but it is a poor representation of the real things.
During that same voyage, in which we visited Iceland, and
Greenland, we went on to Hudson’s Straits, and wandered in
Hudson’s Bay.

And did you see any Esquimaux, Sir? asked Frank.

Many and many a one, my boy, he answered.

And could you understand them, Sir? inquired Thomas.

They soon taught us some of their words, the Traveller replied;
for instance they would come to our ship with numberless little
things in their hands, walking on the ice to .get to us, and
shouting out “pilletay,” g’ve me, so loud and so quickly, that. we
could scarce hear ourselves speak. They sometimes brought with
them in exchange for our goods, little toys of their own making,
such as canoes and paddles, sledges, and figures of men and
women, drest as they dress themselves. In return, we sold them
large nails, iron hoops, and knives; but if they saw more than
254 THE TRAVELLER. |

one of these at a time, they would try hard to get the whole for
what they were selling, but we would not let them have them,
and then after awhile they not only accepted our terms, but they
would jump with joy for having obtained it. They always licked
all over the articles given or sold to them.

But what did you live in, that winter, Sir? asked Thomas; you
could not find a house and a parlour there, could you, Sir?

We. lived in our ship generally, little one, replied the Traveller;
and she was blocked up all round with ice fast as a rock, and all
about us for miles and miles, was either frozen water, or land
covered with snow.

Our ship was one fitted up for the occasion, for once or twice
before, it had been blocked up in these seas, and the shutters to
our windows were made to fit close to keep out the air, just as
Captain Parry’s vessel was done.

And, by the by, amongst the Esquimaux women who came to
our ship, was one who had a medallion of sheet copper fastened
by a piece of white line round her neck, on which were punched
the words “Fury and Hecla, 1822.”

How did she get that, Sir? asked Thomas.

If you had read Captain Parry’s voyages, said the Traveller,
you would have known that he had given many of these medallions
to the Esquimaux, and told them to show them to the Kabloona,
or English people, who visited their cold countries.

This poor woman who called herself Iliglink, was very proud
of her medallion, and she liked to show it, and to talk to us of
the Kabloona people; but we could not. understand half she said.

But I have forgotten that this picture is still unexplained; the
one that J mentioned as being so difficult to express with a pencil,
and so now I will try if by words I can explain it better.

It was one evening in the month of December, a season in
which there is scarcely any daylight in those high Northern regions,
when we first observed.the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights,
as it is called, in great power and brilliancy.

Aurora Borealis! exclaimed the two young boys.

The Aurora Borealis, replied the Traveller, is a light which
THE TRAVELLER. 255

shews itself at times in the Northern heavens, and for which no
one can exactly account. Sometimes it looks like small clouds of
light, and sometimes it shoots, and flashes across the heavens, like
lightning; but its colour is paler, and more diffused than lightning.
On the night to which my sketch refers, it appeared like one vast
brilliant arch, extending from the South.to the North East. We
all went out from the ship upon the ice, to have a better view
of it—and never did I behold a finer sight, it was so bright as
to illuminate the peaks of that long extent of distant snowy moun-
tains, of which in my poor sketch it seems to form a sort of a
frame above as of a picture. I never expect again to see a sight

so glorious.

And did not you \x ee iy
see some odd people Ws fh ine Ly, My Wy Melly
on the shore that night, AS \\ \\ 7 i. Ws



Sir? asked Thomas;
in the picture I see
two grown up people,
and a dog, and alittle J
child,andbehindthem 2&5.
there is something very
odd—dogsrunning fast
and pulling a carriage
in which men are
riding. Do tell us about that, Sir.

Why Thomas, said Frank, have you forgotten what Papa told
us one day, of the people in Lapland riding over the snow in
sledges, drawn by reindeer, and that these deer were called rein-
deer because they were. guided by a rein?

But these in the picture are not deer, said Thomas, they are dogs.

Have the Esquimaux any reindeer in their country, Sir? asked
Edmund.

They have many, replied the Traveller, and kill them for their
subsistence, but they prefer dogs to draw their sledges. It is during
their short summer that they kill these animals, and they have a
very curious way of doing it.
256 THE TRAVELLER.

The deer always move about in herds, and two men generally
go out together, and having found the animal they wish to kill,
they walk directly from him in his sight, and the creature, from
some strange instinct which we cannot understand, is sure to follow
them. When they come to a large stone, one of the hunters gets
behind it with his bow and arrows, and the other walking on, is
followed by the silly deer, till the poor animal is within the reach
of the arrow.

All the boys at
once cried out,
How very odd.

But Mr. Greville
smiling said, Odd
it may be, but not
so uncommon, for
as I have often said
of you Edmund
and Thomas, if
there is any danger
to be you are quite sure to put yourselves in the way of it.

The old Traveller laughed quietly, and when he had shewn a
sketch of the reindeer and its master, he went on to another part
of his subject.

Whilst, said he, we lay in our winter quarters, not water but
‘ice logged, I and two or three more went some leagues inland to
look about us, and before we returned to the vessel, we got a
drive in one of the dog sledges.

Did you really, Sir? said Thomas.

And although he had always thought the Traveller the greatest
man in the world, it was quite certain that he then thought him
greater than the aoe Please Sir, he said, please to tell us
about it.

The sledges, said the Traveller, as you may see if you will tum
the next leaf of the sketch book, are somewhat in the shape ofa
boat, and are made of many pieces of wood or bone, lashed.together,
and varnished as we may say by water, which being thrown over


THE TRAVELLER. 257

them, freezes upon their outsides, without fear of melting. Six dogs
were attached to the sledge, in which I and my companions had
the honour of riding. And the dogs were strongly harnessed by
leathern thongs to the sledge. They ran with us about eight miles
in the hour, but the driver had enough to do to keep them in their
places, we were tumbled over twice, and twice had to stop for the
driver to set the long traces right, which the dogs had perplexed,
by their turnings and windings.



We made our journey in the sledge in order to visit an Esqui-
maux village, which we wanted to see. We had made an acquaint-
ance with the principal man of the place, an old Esquimaux with
a name as long as the tail of a lizard. And I should have been
truly sorry had I missed the sight of that strange village:

There was nothing to be seen all around, but one vast and gloomy
extent of snow, entirely level, excepting in one direction where
hills, which were covered with eternal frost, raised their snowy
peaks against the star-lit sky, the whole scene presenting the idea
of vast and hopeless solitude. We were quite close upon it before
I was aware of the village being so near. I could find no words
to describe the huts which would answer the purpose of a view
of one of them.

They are much you see in the shape of a large oven—and you
may calculate their size, when I tell you that a grown person
must go on all fours to get in at the door-way.
258 THE TRAVELLER.

There is nothing, whatever, used in forming these houses but
snow and ice. There are two archways, and a double passage to get
into the middle room, the roof of which within agrees with the
shape without; and instead of a glazed window, light was
admitted by a round piece or plate of ice fitted into a hole on
the roof. The snow which had fallen since these houses had been
made, rendered it impossible to discern them at any distance, and
one might almost have walked over them without guessing what
was below.

I cyept into one of the
snow huts, but finding it
full of women, children, and
dogs, I was glad to get out
of it again as soon as I could.

These people, said Mr.
Greville, are, I have heard,
particularly dirty.

All the lower orders of
people are disposed to be
dirty in cold cltmates; replied
the Traveller,—But these
Esquimaux surpass all others,
whom JI have ever known, in the foulness of their habits.

To prove this, I will give you an account of a night spent in

their huts. My friend, the woman Iliglink, one day told us that
almost all the men were going out to seek for walruses and seals,
as they had no food, nor oil for their lamps left.
. On hearing this, we thought we would go up to the snow huts
to’ be present when the men returned. The wretched appearance
of the huts, now that the winter was far advanced, would be almost
impossible to describe. The snow of which they were formed was
begrimed with lamp-black, blood, which I will explain hereafter,
and other filth. The men were gone out on the floating masses of
ice after the food; and the women, the children, the dogs, and
the infirm, or the sick, alone remained behind.

Whilst waiting for the men to bring home their suppers, the


THE TRAVELLER. 250

women amused themselves by dancing and singing long, and, what
I should call, very tedious songs; when suddenly they were inter-
rupted by a child running in to say the men were returning, and
that they had been successful in the day’s sport. Then what a
bustle followed, the sledges were drawn out, the dogs coupled to
them, and those men who were left, put on their outer jackets,
and set off to assist in bringing home the game.

After awhile one man returned, and told us that two walruses
and a seal had been taken. The women welcomed this messenger
with a shout of joy, and they ran from one snow hut to the other
to tell the news, hugging and kissing each other, they were so
pleased.

In a little while a part of one of the walruses was dragged into ~
the hut of the man who had killed it, and all that could, went in
after it, and soon obtained blubber enough to set all their lamps
alight, besides a few scraps of meat for themselves and the children.
For the two following hours the men were returning to their huts,
each with his share of walrus flesh carried by the dogs. The lamps
now blazed brightly, for they had plenty of oil to trim them with,
besides what they sucked from the skins’ they had just emptied,
but it would be impossible to describe the horribly disgusting
manner in which they eat their raw blubber, dripping with oil
and filth.

Soon we learnt that the seal had been brought into an adjoining
hut; and going in we found two elderly women. standing over it,
armed . with. large knives already bloody, their faces and hands
being also besmeared with blood. These women divided the ani-
mal into two parts, and the intestines and blood were then care-
fully put into the cooking pot, except such bits as they gave to
their friends or favourites, or crammed into their own mouths raw
as it was. Captain Parry says, that he saw the children open their
mouths for lumps of raw flesh, just as they would for sugar-candy ~
in England, which seems very disgusting to us. You may easily
imagine what a filthy state the two huts were in after this scene,
for no attempt was made to clear away, and what remained of
the flesh was put by in its raw and bloody state.
260 THE TRAVELLER.

How very strange, cried little Thomas, for a child to eat blubber,
and suck oil; how very nasty even to think of it.

And yet my boy, said the Traveller, we are all so decidedly
children of habit, that had we been born amongst the Esquimaux,.
we should have learnt to like what they like. I have often been
amused at hearing them speak of themselves; they call themselves.
by way of distinction, Innuee, or mankind, and they mutter in a
contemptuous way the word “Kabloona,” if they fancy anything
of ours inferior to their own.

Are they very fine tall men, Sir? asked Frank; that they calk
themselves “mankind” as superior to all other nations.

Oh no, replied the Traveller, on the contrary, they are low in
stature, and their skin is brown when it can be seen clear from
the oil and dirt with which it is always smeared. Their hair is.
black and straight, and they wear it long and loose. The women
sometimes bind their heads with leathern thongs, or plait their
hair on either side. The dresses both of male and female are
made ot deer-skin, and the form of their dresses may be seen in
the sketch. In the coldest season they wear more than one suit.
of these hairy dresses.
They are fond, as alt
savages are, of adorning
themselves with beads,
and teeth, and other
- trinkets; for the love
’ of ‘finery is natural to-
all men, whilst the love:
of cleanliness must be
taught.

Thomas was turing
to another picture, when
Mr. Greville, seeing that the Traveller looked tired, called for supper..

The last words which Thomas said that night, were, When
Frank grows up he is to be a Clergyman, he says; and when
Edmund is a man, he is to be an Officer;—but when I am a.
man, I shall be a TRAVELLER—that is to be my business.


hath Ext OF RRIDE

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.



THE FALL OF PRIDE.



DAS fine house, and was always well ee, and had a silver
ath with a chain and seals, and a little pony when he chose to
ride, and a very great man he thought himself—very much better
than all the other boys in the parish.

Alfred’s mamma was dead, but his papa was so fond of him that
he let him have his way in almost everything. He had one little
sister called Laura, and she was very, pretty and very gentle: he
would have used her very unkindly if she had not a tender aunt
to take care of her. This aunt was a young lady, and she had come
to live with Alfred’s papa very soon after his mamma had died.
Little Laura loved her aunt very much, and they were most happy
together, especially when Alfred did not come into their rooms to
tease his sister, or to break her playthings. :

The place in which Alfred lived is such as most readers have
often seen. First there was a great house standing in a park, amongst
very fine trees; and then just outside the park was a village, which
contained about ten or twelve houses; one of these houses was a
mill, and the other a shop; the mill-wheel was turned by a little
rapid stream, which came towards it through the park; this same
stream having passed through the mill, ran winding about, as much
perhaps as a mile, and then fell into a river of considerable size.

The shop was called ‘she shop throughout the country for five
miles round, because there was no other like it within that space;
264 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

and it was said of it that there was scarcely anything which country
people might want which could not be had there, not to speak of
some certain things which even Master Alfred liked very well when
he could get them.

Amongst these, the articles which he most coveted were barley-
sugar, sugar-candy, elecampane, and peppermint cakes. He was
generally supplied with money, and seldom a week passed but he
went to the shop to provide himself with a quantity of these things,
and when he had got them he was never at rest till he had made
an end of them, and carefully sucked from his fingers all that
remained of their sweet flavour.

The person who kept the shop when Alfred was a boy was a
Mr. Perks, a brisk young man, who might be seen every morning
at sunrise behind his counter, and so well dressed, that he had
no other signs about him of being a seller of all sorts of rough
and ordinary wares but the apron which was often tied before
him, and the white half-sleeves which covered his coat from above
the elbows to the wrists. Mr. Perks had in his shop an assistant
of the name of Dickson, who had first been only an errand-boy;
he had lately been promoted to be shopman; but this was a person
quite beneath the notice of Master Seymour.

In such a place as this shop, which was half supported from
the great house, it might be expected that Alfred would be treated
with much respect; but the young gentleman was not contented with
mere respect from Mr. Perks; he had let the cunning shopkeeper
know that he must have flattery also; and as fine words cost no
money, Mr. Perks took care that whenever the young gentleman came
with halfpence for sweetmeats to please his palate, his ears at the
same time should be tickled with the sound of his own praises in
which last he delighted almost as much as in sugarplums.

Alfred’s birthday was in the beginning of June—that sweet time
of the year in which birds sing most cheerily; and although the
summer fruits are coming on the blossoms, the fair flowers of
spring are not yet quite gone, and the cuckoo still lingers in the
woods. Miss Seymour and her little Laura delighted to walk abroad
at these seasons; and many were the lessons which the little girl
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 265

learned from her dear aunt, whilst sitting under the shade of the
trees, and breathing the fresh air which blew over the fragrant
lawns of the park; but poor Alfred had been so indulged by his
papa after his mamma’s death,that he could not enjoy anything
that did not feed his pride or fill his mouth with some agreeable
trash. When the birthday came on which he would be ten years
old, his papa happened to be gone to London, and could not
return in time to be with him. Mr. Seymour had, however, sent
word in a letter, that although his boy’s birthday could not be
kept as usual with a large party of young friends invited to play
with him, yet he was to have a holiday, his writing master was not
to come, and he was to have a guinea given him the night before,
which he was to spend in any way he liked. Laura would have
persuaded him to pass the day with her and their aunt, and Miss
Seymour proposed that they should dine under the trees, and
afterwards take some pleasant walk; but this plan did not suit
Alfred, and he told his sister that he knew how to amuse himself
better than she could teach him.

The sun had already risen, and was shining in at Alfred’s
window, when he awoke on the morning of his birthday, and as
soon as he opened his eyes he thought of his guinea, and how
he should spend it. The first thing he determined to do was to go
to the shop, and he began to be impatient because the servant
did not come to dress him the moment he rang his bell. As soon
as he was dressed he walked out and took the shortest way, along
a shady row of trees in his father’s grounds, towards the village;
but he had not gone this way very far, when he saw before him
a large strange dog, and though the dog was quiet enough,
and he would, had he waited a moment, have seen that it
belonged to the butcher who served the house, yet he was so
frightened that he ran off another way, and got out of the park
by a lane behind the mill, which took him as much as a mile
out of the direct path; it was a long time since he had been in
that lane, and the objects which he saw there reminded him of
things which had happened four or five years before, and brought
his own mother fresh to his mind.
266 THE FALL OF PRIDE.
4A

There was a cottage on the side of the lane, standing in a garden;
the cottage and the garden, too, seemed as if they had been left
for years, and that nobody had been in them for a long time,
even to open a window or pull up a weed. The sight of this place
came like a dream to his mind, and he stood and looked at it
till he perfectly remembered having gone there several times with
his mamma, and having seen her take great notice of a little boy
ealled Harry, who might have been a year older than himself.
He next recollected the name of the family, which was Marson;
and then he remembered that he had heard of the death first of
the man and then of the woman; and had even seen the funerals
of both as they crossed the park to the church, which was in the park.

But what, thought Alfred, as he turned away from looking at
the house to go on to the village—what has become of the boy ?
Perhaps he is dead too; perhaps nobody took care of him when
his father and mother were taken away, and so fe died; and without
troubling himself any more about this matter, he hurried on, saying
to himself, “If I go on so slowly, I shall be too late at home for
my breakfast; and I am to have hot cakes, because it is my birth-
day.” So, feeling that his guinea was safe in his pocket, he walked on.

Having gone an unusual way to the village, he arrived at Mr.
Perks’s at the back of the house, but he knew his way very well;
he entered it by a backyard, and through the kitchen, where he
saw no one, and was just entering the shop by the inner door,
instead of that from the village street, when it struck him he should
like first to hear what was going on.

The persons whom Alfred saw were—first, Mr. Perks, who stood
with his back towards him, in the middle of the shop; behind the
counter, on the left hand, was Dickson, weighing pennyworths of
common articles for ready sale. Before Mr. Perks stood a young
man with his eyes and mouth open; by his side was a stout old
woman, with a basket on her arm, and her hand stretched out to
point to a boy who was standing in the middle. This boy was
one of the three strangers who chiefly drew the attention of Alfred,
because he thought him very near his own age.

The boy had that particular look which children have, who,
THE FALL OF PRIDE, 267 |

being every day uncombed, unwashed, and suffered to go in rags,
and almost without shoes, are suddenly caught, and for some
special purpose made to look as decent in a rough way as can
be done in a short time; it was clear enough the boy’s face had
lately been washed, and his rough hair not only combed, but
plastered down with some sort of pomade; his trousers and coat
had been lately patched; he had a cap in one hand, and a pair
of shoes on his feet of a size so much beyond him that they
seemed evidently to have been borrowed from some bigger boy.
The child did not look as if he had ever actually wanted food,
but rather as if the food he had taken had been of a kind which had
filled without nourishing or strengthening him; and when Alfred
first saw him he was looking from one person to another of those
about him, as if half afraid and half in hope that something might
be settled for his good.

When Alfred had looked again at the man and the woman, he
knew that one was the mother and the other the son, and that
they were the keepers of a small poor-house built on the common
at the edge of the park, to which all the orphan children of the
poor were sent, and they were kept till they were old enough to
be sent out; and he supposed that Mr. Perks was going to take
this boy as an apprentice.

The custom of that parish, then, was that all persons who were
able were liable, each in his turn, either to be forced to take a
pauper child or to pay five pounds for his béing put out elsewhere.
Mr. Perks had been warned some days before that his turn was.
come to take a boy or to pay the five pounds, therefore he was
not surprised when the boy was brought to him; and, as it hap-
pened, he really wanted a boy, yet still he felt displeased and
out of humour in having one thus forced upon him.

Alfred had not heard what had been said when he first came
in, but he heard the old lady’s answer to the shopkeeper, which
was very loud and very impertinent. “Well, sir,” said she, “do
as you please—keep the boy, or let it alone; but we have direc-
tions from the officers, sir, if you don’t please to keep him, you
are to pay us five pounds down.” -
268 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

Mr. Perks replied that he certainly should not think of paying
five pounds without a written order from the parish officers; and
though he professed himself not to be pleased with the appearance
of the boy, who appeared to be unfit for anything he had for
him to do, yet, he said, he supposed he must take him and make
the best of him; and thus the matter was decided, to the joy of
the poor child, to whom any change brought hope; and the man
and woman took their leave, the woman as she stepped out into
the street calling the boy by his name, “Harry Marson,” and
bidding him behave himself, and his fortune was made.

That is the boy, thought Alfred, as he came forward, whose
father and mother lived in that old house in the lane; it is very
odd that I should be thinking of him this very morning.

Master Seymour had hardly made one step forward from the
doorway in which he had been standing, when Mr. Perks and his
shopman saw him. It was not usual for the young gentleman to
visit them at that early hour, nor to come in at the inner door;
but Mr. Perks’s civilest bow was ready, as he cried out, “ Why,
Master Seymour, who would have thought it? at this time of the
day, too! What can I do for you, sir? how shall I serve you?
what are your commands?”

Alfred made no reply to these offers of service, but said, “So
you have got a boy to help you, and that boy is Harry Marson;
it is very odd that I was thinking of him this very morning. ”

“Were you, sir?” replied Mr. Perks. “You did him honour to
remember him; the boy comes of a decent family, and I hope
that he will do well; but he was represented to me as a well-grown,
brisk boy, and I do not as yet see many signs of either: he is not
so tall as you, Master Alfred, and yet I am mistaken if he is not
older. You are not ten yet, sir, are you?”

“ Ten!” repeated Alfred; “yes, Mr. Perks, I am ¢en—/en this
very day; this is my birthday; but we are not-to have our usual
party to dine with me, because my papa is from home, and he
always chooses to be with’ me to help me-to entertain my friends;
but I am to have a whole holiday; I have the liberty of ordering
my own dinner; I am to amuse myself as I like; and I have this
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 269

guinea to spend;” and the threw the gold on the counter with
an air which said 1 am a man of money.

Mr. Perks stepped behind the counter as soon as he saw the
gold, bidding Dickson give way, and telling Harry to go to the
other end of the shop till he could attend to him, his mind at
the same time turning over everything which he had in his shop
that he could show the young gentleman to tempt him to part
with his money; and so well did he manage, that Alfred, instead
of spending about five shillings, as he had intended that morning,
did not leave the shop till he had run three or four shillings in
debt above the guinea.

The first half-crown went entirely for sweet things, which Dickson
made into small packets, and which the young gentleman con-
trived to stow about his own person, in the two pockets of his
jacket and those of his trousers. Two more shillings went in balls
of string and a clasp knife, and some other small articles; and
the boy was then preparing to leave the shop, when Mr. Perks,
asking him if he wanted anything in the angling way, produced
a handsome fishing-rod, quite new and very cheap.

Mr. Perks did not know that almost the only sport denied to
Alfred by his papa was fishing, unless he himself was with the
boy, and unless he himself chose the spot whereon to stand.
Mr. Seymour was so particular in this matter that he never went
out without locking up all his fishing tackle; and he had given
orders to his servants never to accompany Alfred to fish, either in
the ponds or rivers, or to conceal it from him if they found that
he attempted to go alone.

Mr. Perks knew nothing of this great dread which Mr. Seymour
had of the water for his son; but he might have known that angl-
ing was not a safe amusement for a child of ten years old; and
he ought not to have tempted him, as he did, first to buy the
fishing-rod, and then lines, and hooks, and a basket, and all things
necessary to set up a fisherman.

When these purchases were complete, Alfred gave his directions
about them in. a way which showed that he knew he was doing
wrong. He ordered that the string, the knife, and the other things
270 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

which he bought after the sweetmeats, and before the fishing tackle,
should be put into a parcel by themselves, and these, he said,
were to be sent up to the Hall; but the fishing-rod, the basket,
the hooks, floats, weights, and lines, were to remain at the shop
till sent for. i

Mr. Perks might have guessed, when these orders were given,
that things were not all quite right; but if he had such a guess,
he did not follow it up.

Master Seymour was preparing to leave the shop, and Dickson
was just handing him the second parcel over the counter, forgetting
the order which he had given, that the packet was to be sent by
another hand; and probably the shopman would not have made
this mistake had he not remembered that Master Alfred had
always before this insisted on carrying his own parcels. This was
the first which did not contain good things to eat. He had always
thought them safer with himself than with other people; but when
this packet of string and other uneatable matters was presented
by Dickson to the young gentleman, he drew back proudly. “ No,”
he said, “you have got a boy now—let him bring it. Now, I say,
that I am ten years old, I must not be seen carrying parcels, or
doing anything of that kind.”

“Certainly not, certainly not, Master Seymour,” said Mr. Perks.
“Dickson, I wonder at you; how could you think of handing
over the parcel to the young gentleman for him to fatigue him-
self to save others, whose business it should be to wait upon
him?”

“Fatigue himself, indeed!” said Alfred, taking up the parcel
from the counter, tossing it in the air and catching it again likea
ball, to prove how light he found it—“do not suppose that I
should be tired by carrying a thing like that half-a-mile; I am
certain I could carry twenty times the weight, and scarcely know .
that I was carrying anything.”

“TI dare say you could, I dare say you could, sir,” cried
Mr. Perks; “such a fine-grown young gentleman as youare. I dare
say you could lift twice the weight Harry Marson there could. Do
not you think so, Dickson?”
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 271

“No,” replied the shopman—“no, I cannot say I do. Master
Seymour is so slight, and he has sprung up so tall.”

“For all that,” said Alfred, “I am very strong. Papa says that
gentlemen in general are stronger than lower people. But let us
have a trial. Let us see which of us can lift the heaviest weight.”

»lt shall be so,” replied Mr. Perks. “Here, Dickson,” he added,
“hand me a sack, and I will put weights into it, and then Master
Alfred shall try it, and after him Harry Marson shall try; and I
only wish that I had a gold piece depending on Master Seymour
_ being the stronger.”

The bag was handed to Mr. Perks, who put one weight after
another into it, giving it each time to Alfred to lift, and both he
and Dickson were surprised to find that young Seymour was a
stronger boy than his slight gentleman-like shape had led them to
suppose. Mr. Perks, however, was afraid to let him exert himself
too far, lest he should hurt himself, and those who were standing
by should be blamed; and he entreated him to lay down the bag,
and let Harry take his turn.

As Mr. Perks had encouraged Alfred, Dickson now set himself,
though in a more underhand way, to encourage Harry. “Do your
best,” he whispered to him as he came forward to lift the bag,
“and I will give you a penny if you succeed.” Harry Marson
turned red and then pale as he took up the ends of the bag in
his hands. He looked at his master and at Alfred, and he was
not certain whether he should gain or lose favour if he could
prove himself to be stronger than the young gentleman. Dickson’s
whisper had, however, given him courage, and he was resolved to
do his best. He first endeavoured to secure a strong hold of the
bag, which being done, he made several violent efforts to lift it,
but could not succeed either the first, second, or third time, his
master standing by all the while with a sort of smile on his lips,
which seemed to say, “I knew how it would be.” Alfred, too,
looked on with contempt, and Dickson was the only person who
spoke. “Try again,” he said, “once again, my boy. Wait an instant;
recover your breath, and then put out your strength.”

Harry did as the shopman directed; he stood a moment to
292 | THE FALL OF PRIDE.

recover himself, and then, using all his strength, he had just suc-
ceeded in raising the bag from the floor, when his foot slipped,
owing, perhaps, to the size and weight of his shoes, and he fell
backwards his whole length, striking his head against the corner
of a chest used for keeping some sort of meal.

Every one in the shop was frightened; even Alfred looked on
with concern, for the blood was pouring from the back of the
boy’s head. He was, however, soon raised. Dickson carried him
into the kitchen, and Mr. Perks followed, whilst Master Alfred
contented himself with looking after him; he did not, however,
leave the shop till Mr. Perks came to tell him that there was no.
harm done but what a plaster of brown paper would set right.

Alfred had lingered longer at the shop than he had intended ©
to do, and he now had another affair to settle before he went
home. There was a youth called William, of about fifteen or sixteen
years of age, who served in the mill, and was a nephew of the
miller, and Alfred. wanted to see him, and to consult with him
respecting the piece of disobedience on which he had resolved. -

It is of no great consequence to our story to know how Master
Seymour had made an intimacy with this youth; it is enough for
us to know that he had done so, and that he then thought of
him as the only person who would help him in his fishing scheme.

Alfred did not walk home the straight way;on this account, but
went a little way round by the-mill, and he had just come within
the yard before the mill-house when he met William driving an
old horse laden with bags of flour towards the turnpike road.

“Stop, William,” said Alfred, “I have something to say to you;
or perhaps it would be better for me to walk with you a little
way, and then I can tell you what I want to do this evening and
how you can help me.”

There was a long talk between the young gentleman and the
young miller, as they walked together along the road, driving old
Ball before them, the way which the miller had to go being
at first the same as that which led to the Hall; and as they
went slowly along, they settled everything just as they wished it
to be. About a mile or somewhat less below the mill; the stream
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 273

which crossed the park and turned the mill-wheel fell into a river,
which was so large as to be navigated by boats or barges of
considerable size. _

William proposed that Alfred should fish on a part of the bank
between the Hall and the junction of the two streams, “because
there,” he said, “it was not likely that any. one would see him
who would tell it at the Hall;” and it was further settled that
William should fetch the rod, and the basket, and the tackle from
the shop, and take them, with bait and all else which might be
wanted, to the place fixed upon, and be there to receive the young
gentleman between four and five in the afternoon.

Alfred and William parted as soon as everything was settled,
the miller going along the road with the horse, and Alfred returning
up to his own home by one of the park gates. It was now nine
o’clock and very hot, and as Alfred walked slowly up the gentle
ascent which led from the gate to the house, his mind was at first
full of the pleasure which he promised himself in his favourite
employment of angling, for this spoiled boy loved angling all the
better because it was forbidden to him. Next he thought of poor
Harry Marson, and fell into a comparison between himself and the
poor parish boy, priding himself not a little on his superior strength ;

-and from Harry Marson, he thought of the sweet things he had
in his pockets, and he doubted for a little while whether he should
take out one of the packets in order that he might taste some of
those sweets, or whether he should wait till some time after break-
fast, for he had been out longer than he had intended; the rolls
would be quite ready, and he hoped that the housekeeper would
have kept them quite hot; and as he could not enjoy the rolls
and butter and the sweetmeats at the same time, he thought it
best to put off that pleasure which would not be the worse for
keeping: “the barley-sugar and sugar-candy, and all the other
sweet things,” thought he, “will be quite as good two hours hence
as they are at the present time.” Having, therefore, made up his
mind, he hastened on, and entered the hall-as the footman crossed
it to carry the hot rolls into the breakfast-room.

His aunt and Laura were there, and Laura ran up to him to

iv
274 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

present him with a nosegay of very sweet flowers from her own
garden, wishing him many happy returns of the day.

The scent, however, of Laura’s roses, pinks, and carnations was
not half so agreeable to her brother as that of smoking rolls. He
therefore threw down the flowers as soon as he had received them,
and set himself to the important work of buttering his hot
bread.

As soon as the selfish boy had eaten as much as he could, he
pushed his plate from before him, and rose from his chair, and
began to yawn and stretch out his arms, as if quite tired of himself
and everybody about him. At length he lounged out of the room,
taking no notice of Laura, who was inquiring whether she might
not follow him, and help to amuse him. “Let him alone for the
present, my dear,” said Miss Seymour; “when he wants your
company he will come back.”

“T hope that he will come soon,” said the little girl; “I will
not go up to my own room to play there, lest he should seek me
here and not find me.”

There was in the breakfast-room a small bow in which there
were three windows, and all these windows opened down to the
floor; before them was a grass plot, over which many beautiful
shrubs were planted, and on the right hand were many tall and
thick trees, which concealed the way up to the back of the house,
where were the kitchen, the stables, and the poultry-yard.

This bow was covered with the same bright carpet as was spread
over the rest of the room, and Laura had always been so fond of
it that she called it her parlour.

“You may play in your parlour, Laura,” said Miss Seymour,
“till I have settled some business which I have to do in another
room, and you may bring down any of your playthings which you
may want; and,” added this kind aunt, “when I go into the
housekeeper’s room to order dinner, I will send you a few straw-
berries and some flowers, if I find that the gardener has brought
any in.” “And I will make a feast, thought little Laura, “in my
doll’s new plates;” and up-stairs she ran to her play-room, and
came down laden with her large wax doll, the parlourmaid following
THE FALL OF+PRIDE. 275

with a doll’s chair and table, and a box containing the new little
-china dinner service. When she returned to the parlour, Laura found
that her aunt had sent her a small basket of strawberries and a
large nosegay of flowers.

Being left alone, she sat down on her stool, with all her things
about her, in a state of the greatest delight, though she had no
companion but a bee, which came and went in and out of the
window humming and buzzing most pleasantly.

Laura had dressed her wax doll in its very best the evening
before, in order that it might be ready for Alfred’s birthday; and
most richly indeed was Miss attired in pink and silver, with a
turkey’s feather in her cap. Laura placed her doll in the chair
sshe had brought down, and. before her she set her table; she
had brought out of her drawer a clean cambric pocket-handker-
-chief, which she spread for a table-cloth, and then she began to
arrange her plates and dishes; she had nothing of which to make
her feast but strawberries and two or three biscuits, but she made
every dish look unlike the others by using different flowers to
garnish it, and she was a long time before she could settle it all
to her liking. When this was done, she collected the rest of the
flowers, and made them up into a crown which she prepared to
place on her own head amongst her bright brown hair. All this
while the little girl was very happy, and the time went on most
sweetly and quietly, for even the bee had flown away, and for a
while there was no sound whatever but that of a distant cuckoo,
the note of which was heard from time to time from the top of
-a tall tree on the highest point of the park.

Laura had just finished her garland and put it on her head,
when suddenly she heard Ranger, the great yard dog, begin’ to
yelp and then to growl angrily. Ranger was a Newfoundland dog
of very great size, but still so young that his teeth were hardly
grown and his hair was still soft and woolly; he was a great and
terrible fellow to look at, and often very rough in his ways even
to those he loved best, and more than once he had been known
fairly to overturn little Laura when only intending to show his
-affection for her; but now he was growling angrily, and his voice
270 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

was heard nearer and more near every moment. Laura started to
her feet and ran to one of the windows, soon after which she saw
a move amongst the shrubs which hid the road up to the kitchen,
and the next moment a shabby-looking boy burst out from amongst
the briars followed closely by Ranger, and before the poor boy
could get near to the window, Ranger had jumped upon him and
rolled him over and over on the soft grass. Laura knew Ranger’s
ways, and was not so much frightened as she would have been had
she been ignorant of them; but she called him with all her powers.
of voice to let the boy alone, and when the dog heard her he looked
up as innocently as if he had not been conscious of having deserved
a good beating, and jumping in at the window he laid himself down
by his little lady. Laura then called to the poor boy. “Get up,
little boy,” she said; “do not be frightened; Ranger is very rude,
but he never hurts anybody; I am very sorry that you have been
so frightened.”

The boy was Harry Marson, and he had been sent to the Hall
with Master Alfred’s parcel, and he had been told where to find
the back door, and had got in as far as the court of the kitchen
when Ranger had driven him back; he had run through the shrubs.
to get away. On finding that the dog had left him, and hearing
the sweet and gentle voice of the young lady, Harry soon got over
his fright, and getting up on his legs he came near to the window,
holding up his parcel to Laura, and saying he had been ordered
to bring it from Mr. Perks for the young gentleman. “For my
brother,” replied Laura; “I will see that he has it quite safe.”
When Harry Marson had delivered his parcel, he had nothing
more to keep him at the great house, and Laura supposed that
he would have gone immediately; but if his life had depended on
it he could not have stirred just then, for as he stood with his.
face just above the window-sill, his eyes had settled themselves.
on the waxen lady in her pink and silver, seated in her chair,
which was of ivory and ebony, with her table before her and all
her fine set-out of china dishes, and fruit and flowers; he had
never in his life seen anything so grand, and almost for one mi-
nute he seemed hardly to be quite sure whether the pretty wax
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 3 277,

figure was not alive. Laura was not so dull as not to see and be
pleased with the wonder of the poor boy, and perhaps she was a
little proud of her baby being so much admired; but she was very
modest and very delicate, and she thought that she must not take
notice of the poor boy’s surprise; she therefore did not speak,
but stood looking down with a very soft but gentle smile. “Be
them things real?” said Harry at length; “be they real, Miss,
or is that a wooden baby, and them things in the dishes only cut
and painted?” :

“Those are real strawberries in the dishes,” replied Laura, “and
those are real flowers, but the rest are playthings ;” and immediately,
with great kindness, she took op the largest dish of strawberries
and poured what it contained into the boy’s hands.

Harry looked up to the fair little girl with such gratitude that
she could not help taking up another little dish to empty into.
his hands.

He drew back. “No, Miss,” he said, “I will have no more;
these be quite enough, and the very smell of them reminds me of
mother and our garden when she and father were alive, and of
the sweet flowers which grew up on each side of the walk from
the gate to the house; but mother is dead and father too, and
both be’ buried in the churchyard. I was standing by when they
put them in the grave; it was before they took me to the poor-
house, and there they be now.”

“My own mamma,” said Laura gravely, “is dead, but she is
not in the grave; her body indeed is there, but her soul is in
heaven, and I shall see her again, because my Saviour died also
for me.”

Harry Marson looked up earnestly at the young lady while she
spoke, and he said, “ Before mother died she was used to tell me
about a Saviour, and about some happy country. which is very far
off, but after she died I never heard no more about it.”

“Oh, then,” said little Laura, “you must be very unhappy when
you think of your own dear father and mother, and do not know
that you will see them again and never more be parted from them;
but do you never read your Bible, little boy?”
278 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

“TI have no Bible, and I can’t read,” replied Harry; “and it’s:
only the few words which I remember of what my father and
mother said to me as ever gave me a single thought about him
who made the world.”

Laura was going to answer, when she heard a step behind her,.
and turning, she saw her brother marching up the room. “ What
have you got there, Laura?” he said: “who brought that parcel?
Oh! I see,” he added, as his eye fell on the face of Harry Marson,
the only part of the boy seen above the window-sill. “What
brings you here, sir, to the front of the house? could not you
find the back way? and what were you saying to him, Laura,
when I came in? Mr. Perks must be spoken to, to tell his boys.
that they are not to bring their parcels to drawing-room windows.”
“Oh, sir, please sir,” said Harry, “Miss will tell you how it
happened; please not to speak to master.” “No, brother, you must
not,” said Laura earnestly; ,,for I can tell you exactly how it
was—it was Ranger’s fault.”

“Well! well!” replied Master Alfred, “I shall probably not see
Perks again for a few days, and I shall say nothing of this affair
to him, if I do not see anything of the kind again before that
time. Do you go back to your master, Marson; and do you, Laura,
get yourself ready to walk with my aunt and me; for my aunt
would not let me alone till I had agreed to walk with her, though
I told her that I had other plans for my birthday.”

Laura instantly ran up to get her hat and tippet; and while she
was absent Alfred knelt on the carpet, and picked out every
strawberry from the flowers and bits of biscuit in the doll’s.
dishes.

When Laura returned to the parlour with her aunt, they were
both prepared for their walk. There was at the edge of the park the
cottage of a poor woman who was sick; and Miss Seymour’s plan
was to visit this person and take her some medicine, to which she
had added some comforts fitted for her situation. They took a direct
way through a grove of oak trees to the border of the little river
which has been spoken of before; this river had so wide a bed
in the park that it was very shallow, and so quiet that it could
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 279

hardly be supposed to have power to tum a mill-wheel about
half-a-mile below. There was a fresh and cool breeze near this
running water, which was very delightful to the party as they went
on. Miss Seymour did not say much, but she was listening to what
the children were talking of to each other. Alfred began by asking
Laura how she could think of standing talking through the window
to the errand-boy, whom he called a dirty little fellow; in answer
to which Laura told the story of Ranger’s attack upon the boy,
and as she was a merry child she laughed over and over again
as she described the manner in which Ranger rolled over the boy.
“But I was frightened,” she added, “just at first.”

“Tt was very proper of you to call Ranger away,” replied Master
Alfred; “but I hope, Miss Laura, I shall never see you again
talking with a little dirty :parish apprentice.”

While walking along, they saw a young man in a smock frock
all white with meal, and a hat equally white, coming up towards
them, but on the other side of the stream. Alfred instantly knew
the millers boy, but he had several reasons for not seeming to
know him in the company in which he then was. But William, who
loved mischief at heart, and guessed pretty well what was passing
in the young gentleman’s mind, was resolved that he should notice
him; and running forwards, though still on the other side of the
bank, he began to call, “ Master Seymour, I say, Master Seymour.”

Alfred, though very angry, thought it best to run forward so as
to get in a line with him, before the ladies came up; and calling
to the youth, he said, “What do you want of me?” “ What hour
is it to be?” said the miller; “what hour? I have forgotten.”
Alfred bent forward, and putting his hands on each side of his
mouth, the better to carry his voice across the water, he said,
“Five o’clock—do you know now?” “All right!” cried the young
miller, though he had heard the words as plainly as if they had
been shouted close to his ear; by which Alfred was so much
provoked that he bent his head over the stream and cried again,
“Five o’clock—do you hear now?” at the same moment the breeze
coming down, the wind took his hat, and away it pitched into the
water, floating down the stream like a small boat.
280 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

By this time Alfred’s sister and aunt were come up, and had
placed themselves one on each side of him, while the little girl
Stretched out her arms as if to catch the hat, which was already
some yards down the stream.

Alfred looked up in a sort of triumph at his aunt, for he cared
very little for his hat, whether it was recovered or not, but he
was exceedingly glad of an excuse to run home for another hat,
and thus to get rid of his aunt’s company. Miss Seymour reproved
him for his carelessness, but this he did not mind. “T can’t help it,”
he answered sullenly, “if my hat is lost. However, that will not
be, for Bill will fish it out of the water: home, however, I must
go, for I cannot go on without a hat.”

“YT thought,” said Miss Seymour, “that you were finding fault
with your sister just now, Alfred, for being too civil to the little
errand-boy. Are you not conscious that you have more reason to
find fault with yourself than with her for not keeping your proper
place in society ?, You seem to be quite intimate with this Bill, as
you call him.”

It was always Alfred’s custom, when his elders said anything to
him which did not please him, to pretend to have his thoughts
engaged with something else.

Instead of answering his aunt he called on Laura to look at
the boy from the mill, who had run down the side of the stream
after the hat. “There, Laura,” he exclaimed, “he is fishing for it
with that long stick; he will have it—there it comes; he has got
it; it looks like Ranger when he comes out of the duck-pond and
shakes his shaggy sides;” and he forced himself to laugh very
heartily, although he did not feel at all merry, for he was in fear
lest the young miller, who was again coming up to them on the
opposite side of the bank, should say a word which might lead
his aunt to suspect anything of the fishing scheme; but if Alfred
did not laugh from his heart Laura did, for she was much amused
at her brother’s comparison between Ranger and the dripping hat.
The party, however, very soon separated after the hat was recovered.
Miss Seymour and Laura went on to the cottage, the miller’s boy
went on his way on the other side of the water, and Alfred ran home.
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 281

He was hot and tired when he got back; but, tired as”he was,
he had a very heavy burthen to bear; he had three hours before -
him, that is, from twelve o’clock, which it was then, till three
o'clock, when the dinner was to be ready, three long hours in
which he had nothing in the world to do but to please himself.
This was the manner in which he tried to perform his very hard
task: for the first half-hour he munched sugar-candy; he began
the second by exchanging it for barley-sugar; the two sweet tastes
did not agree, and together they began to make him a little
queerish. He then lay down on the sofa, and shut his eyes and
endeavoured to sleep; but there were many flies buzzing about,
and some lighting on his face and tickling him; he tried to cuff
and beat them away, but after a while he was so provoked by
them that he jumped up from the couch and went down into the
stable-yard, and there he amused himself for half-an-hour by
throwing sticks into the duck-pond, and sending Ranger to bring
them out. Ranger liked this amusement, but at last the great big
puppy got into such high spirits, and became so familiar, that one
time, whilst he was all wet with slimy green puddle, he jumped
upon his young master and made him almost as dirty as himself.
Master Alfred was excessively angry; he called aloud for the ser-
vants, ordered that Ranger should be chained up, and went up
to his own room, where the servants soon came and provided him
with cléan clothes. By this time it was two o’clock, and Alfred
had only one more hour to bear his burthen before dinner; but
what could he do with that hour? He hated reading, he was sick
of sugar-candy, he was tired of running about, the flies teased
him when he wished to sleep, he had had enough of Ranger's
company, he could not get his sister’s without his aunt’s, and he
had not a plaything but which was so much out of order that it
could not be used; he hated cutting paper, he could not draw—
what could he do? He could do nothing, and he laid himself on the
floor in Laura’s parlour, with a cushion under his head, and counted
the flies on the ceiling until the joyful sound of plates and dishes
in the dining-room gave him notice that the dinner would very soon
be upon the table and the dinner too, which he had himself ordered.
282 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

It could not be expected that after so much sugar-candy Alfred’s
dinner should taste very well; he, however, contrived to eat a little
of each favourite dish. The cloth was hardly taken from the table
when one of the footmen gave notice that a carriage and four had
that moment entered the park by the lodge.

“What visitors can these be at this hour?” said Miss Seymour,
rising from table and leaving the dining-room, followed by Laura.
“That,” said Alfred, as he looked after his aunt and sister, “is
what I shall not stay to inquire;” and running into the hall, he
caught up his best hat, which he had worn before dinner when
he went out to amuse himself with Ranger, and having given one
peep through the front door at the carriage, which was drawing
fast up to the house, he darted through that door of the hall
which led to the servants’ rooms, crossed the courts and stable-
yards, and was the next moment quite clear of the house amongst
wood-stacks, and duck-ponds, and great heaps of manure and ashes.

There he stood. for a moment to take his breath and look at
his watch. “Twenty minutes past four,” he said; “I shall not be
much too soon, but there is no need of great hurry.” Whilst he
was thus standing, he could ‘distinctly hear the sound of the
carriage as it approached thé house; he heard the rumbling of the
wheels, he was aware also of the sudden stopping of those sounds;
and then recollecting that if the visitors should want to see him
his aunt would certainly be soon sending somebody to look for
him, he took another run which brought him to the outside of
the wall of the kitchen garden, where there were a number of
hotbeds and glass frames, and there he found the old gardener
looking about and giving his orders to his men.

“Why, Master Alfred,” said the old man, “how uncommonly
hot you look! What brings you running at the rate you come up,
at this time of the day? Where can you possibly be going at
this hour?”

Alfred’s uneasy conscience made him think that the gardener
had some reason for asking this question, and perhaps that he
suspected what he was about; and he felt very angry with him,
and answered proudly, “Do you, Smith, mind your own affairs,
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 283.

and leave me to mind mine. I do not understand,” he muttered.
as he walked on, “that IJ am obliged to give an account to you
of the manner in which I am to spend my birthday.” “As sure
as you be there, master,” said one of the workmen after Alfred
had walked quite out of hearing—‘“as sure as you be there, the
young sprig is about no good.” “I fear as much,” replied the
gardener, “but he is a thorough bad craft, and it is not for us
to mind him; he is no more to be compared to that sweet blossom.
Miss Laura than a thistle to a lily of the valley.”

It was not quite five o’clock by Alfred’s watch when he arrived
at the place where he was to meet William; he was vexed not to
find him there, and he was also very much out of humour at
having been seen by the workpeople on his way to the fishing-pond.
He sat down, or rather stretched himself, on the bank near the
water whilst making these reflections, and as much as five minutes.
passed by his watch before anything disturbed him; these five
minutes were hardly out when the youth from the mill came up
to the place of meeting; he had been there ten or twenty minutes.
before, and had brought the fishing-rod, the bait, the fishing-basket,.
and all the things which were wanted, and not finding Alfred
there he had hidden them in a fissure or cleft in the bank just
by; and now he was coming again, and seeing the young gentleman
lying down with his back towards him, he thought he would have
what he called some fun with him; so he came up, treading softly,
and stooping down he whispered in his ear, “So here I be, master.”

There are few things more startling than to hear a voice. close
when one fancies oneself quite alone; and when people’s consciences
are not quite at rest, they are much more easily frightened than at
other times. So Alfred jumped up, and when he saw whom he had
got with him, he asked William with no small pride how he could
dare to take such a liberty with him, a gentleman’s son, and one
who was ten years old that very day. In answer to this the young
miller only smiled, and without thinking it worth his while to make:
an excuse, he went to the place where he had hidden the fishing-tackle,.
and the basket, and the hat which. he had picked out of the water,
in the morning. The beaver was as hard and as stiff as if it had been
284 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

made of leather, and it had entirely lost its shape. Alfred was
again offended by a sort of smile which he observed on the lip
of the young man when he held out his hat to him; and instead
of thanking him for the trouble he had had with it, he told him
that he might, if he pleased, throw it into the water again, and
see how it would sail down the stream. The young miller took no
notice of this order, but tuming the hat upside down, he made
the crown a deposit for the worms and moss which he had brought
to the fishing place in a blue pocked-handkerchief. The young man
seemed as if he had resolved to be just as cool and easy as the
young master was stiff and high.

It was in these tempers that the two companions set themselves
to their fishing. It was William’s business to place everything in
order, and to fix the best place where to stand; not that he cared
whether his proud companion caught any fish or not, nor did he
give himself more trouble than was quite necessary to put him in
the way to catch any at all.

The place in which Alfred and the miller had met was about
half-way between the mill and the point where this lesser stream fell
into a larger one, just where the little stream was the narrowest, the
banks on both sides being rocky, and that on the opposite side being
quite precipitous, that is, straight from the level of the water to the top.

Over the little tongue of land which the miller had chosen for
Alfred to stand on, there was also another high bank. Out of the
clefts and cracks in the stone or rock which formed this bank
grew several trees, some branches of which hung right over the
water. On this side of the stream there -was also room for a narrow
path which led from the mill down to where the two rivers met;
there was often much traffic of foot-passengers along this little
‘path, from the village down to where the barges and other vessels
often stopped to take in and discharge their ladings.

Whilst William was still busy in putting all things in order for
the young master, having made up his mind to leave him as soon
as he had done so, there appeared at a little distance the short
figure of a boy trudging that way, coming from the mill and going
down towards the wharf or place where the boats lay.
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 285

This person was Harry Marson; he was carrying a small parcel
to the barge which was just going off, and he was instantly known
by Alfred and the miller. “There,” cried William—‘there is that
soft fellow that they turned out of the poor-house this morning.
I knew him of old; he is the very fellow to make sport of, for
he believes every word one can say to him. Shall I have some
fun with him now?”

“Do as you please,” said Alfred; “I cannot think of making
free with a low boy like that, or with any other boy in his condition.
I am ten years old now, and a gentleman must be careful what
he does.”

“Stick to that, master,” replied William; “but as I am no
gentleman, what you say cannot touch me; so if you won’t say a
word, I’ll have some sport with him.” At the same instant he placed
his hands on each side of his mouth, and shouted, “Harry Mar-
son! Harry Marson! make haste, make haste, boy!”

Now the miller’s boy knew very well that just near to where
they stood there was so good an echo formed by the winding
rocks, that any two or three words spoken very loudly would be
returned two or three times, each time being fainter and seeming
to be more distant.

Alfred did not know of this echo, nor did he, with all his
pretended cleverness, know anything of the nature of an echo;
therefore when he heard the words, “Harry Marson, make haste!”
repeated, as he thought, from over the hills, he quite started ;
and as to Harry, he came running on, crying, “Who calls—who
calls so loud?”

“Who calls?” said-the miller; “why, did you hear any one
call?”

“Sure I did,” replied Harry, “and the voice came down over
the bank; did you not hear it?”

“J heard nothing but my own voice,” replied the miller; “but
where are you trudging with that parcel?”

Harry told him, “To the wharf.”

“Make haste, then,” replied William; “is not that what the
voice said?”
286 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

» You are at your ‘old tricks, making game of me,” remarked
Harry. The child passed by, and was soon out of sight.

The day was by no means good for fishing, and the place
chosen by William was equally unfit; but what did he care? The
young squire, as he often called Alfred, had been very high and
rude to him, and he was thinking how he could get away, for he
was quite tired of hearing him cry out every moment, “ Look,
William, SoS is that not a nibble? there’s a bite; no, it is nothing.
Look again.”

As no better excuse came into the young miller’s mind, when he
saw by the place of the sun in the heavens that it was past six
o’clock, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and pretended
that he must be back at the mill in no time, lest his master should
miss him.

Alfred was not pleased when William told him that he must
leave him, nor did he fail to make him promise that he would
soon retnrn. ;

When William was so far gone that his step was no longer
heard, Alfred was somewhat startled by a gruff voice, which became
louder and louder every moment, as the person speaking came
nearer. There was a sort of clattering hollow sound, which seemed
to keep time with this voice, or rather with the steps of the person
to whom this voice belonged. These sounds were coming down the
stream, and Alfred had not looked long in that direction when
a travelling tinker appeared in sight, with a huge bag on his back,
as black as soot, and seemingly very full.

Behind him walked a very dirty woman, with dark eyes and
sharp features. She wore a shabby black felt hat and an old grey
cloak; she had a short pipe in her mouth, and she came puffing
pene not even paying Alfred the compliment to cease when she
saw him.

The man seemed to be fuck engaged with something he was
telling the woman, but Alfred could not understand what he said,
for he was a gipsy, and he was using his own language.

When the tinker came within a few yards of the young master,
he, however, suddenly changed his language, and speaking in plain
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 287

English, “You there,” he said, “you young spark, stand off there!
If that bank there should give way but ever so little, you would
have a chance of swimming farther than you might quite relish.”

In this speech of the tinker’s there was not a word which Alfred
thought worth his attention but “young spark.” He had never
before been called a spark, and now to hear himself thus addressed
by such a man was more than his pride could bear. He did not,
however, give a single word in answer, but he drew up his lip,
and looked with as much scorn as he could throw into his face.
This was seen both by the tinker and his wife, and the man,
as he trudged onwards,: only laughed, saying, “Well, my clever
chap, if you will not be advised, it is your own look-out, not mine.”
But the woman had no mind to let the proud boy pass so easily;
she drew her short pipe from her mouth, and opened out upon

him in such abuse, in downright plain English, as made the proud
blood of the young gentleman mount up to his very brow. The
woman, however, did not speak again to him, but went jogging
‘on after her husband, and her voice was still heard, mixed up
with the clatter of the hardware in her husband’s bag, when
another sound reached the ears of Alfred. This was a voice which
came over the bank, uttering these words: “ Master Seymour, your
papa is come.” This call was immediately taken up by the echo,
and again and again were the words repeated, “ Your papa zs come,
zs come, 18 come.” ;

Alfred now indeed did start; he turned, he shook the frail bank
on which he stood; the ground gave way, and he fell backwards
into the water, whilst a quantity of earth, roots, and stones fell
after him.

The stream in that place was deep and the current strong.
Alfred could not swim, and never did boy utter a more wild and
fearful cry than that which came from him in his terror, giving, in
truth, such a voice to the echo as it had not often before repeated.

There was at that moment at the distance of two or three
hundred yards the same young man who had been with the gar-
dener when Alfred had passed by. The youth had heard that
Mr. Seymour had come unexpectedly in the coach of a friend,
288 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

and that he had called fo his son, and that no one could tell
where he was.

The young man thought that he could find him. He ran in the
direction in which he had seen him go, and had been farther
‘helped’on by two old sweepers in the fir-grove. This young man
heard the wild shriek of his young master at the instant he fell
into the water, and though he bounded over everything in the
way towards the place whence the shriek came, yet several minutes
must have passed before he could have given any help, and in
those few minutes where might Alfred have been? Probably beyond
all human help.

But a nearer friend had been prepared by a kind Providence,
and who was this but Harry Marson returning from the wharf?

He and the tinker and his wife had not passed each other a
minute before, but that minute had brought the boy so near to
Alfred when he fell that Harry thought that by one spring he
might have caught him and saved his fall. Harry made this spring,
and with such violence that he himself plunged into the water,
his cap flying from his head and falling behind him.

Though of strength much less than that of the young gentleman,
the parish boy had been more accustomed to shift for himself,
nor was he so soon alarmed by the idea of danger. He had now,
indeed, undertaken what was beyond his strength, on account of
the force of the current; but he had the presence of mind, whilst
he seized the wrist of the drowning boy with one hand, to grasp
the root of a tree just laid bare by the falling earth firmly in the
other hand.

Alfred had gloried in the morning because he had proved him-
self to be stronger than this poor boy. Little did he think that
before sunset he should, under Providence, owe his life to the
small strength and great courage of that same despised orphan.

But though Harry still firmly held by the root of the tree and
the wrist of Alfred, yet he had not the power to keep either his
own or his companion’s head above water; and a moment or two
more must have fixed the fate of both the boys, had not help
arrived from various quarters.
THE FALL OF PRIDE, 289

The first who came up was the young gardener, and the second,
and not the least important, was Ranger, that had been providen-
tially let out of the stable when the coach-horse had been put in.

The third was the tinker and his wife, the fourth the miller’s
boy, and still after these came persons from the Hall.

As none of the people there present could afterwards give much
account as-to how the two boys were got out of the water, it would
be no easy matter for the writer of this story to tell it; some said
that it was Ranger that drew Alfred so near-the bank as to give
the: people an easy hold of him, and others say that Harry Mar-
son owed his safety to the boldness of the tinker; but at all events
they were soon brought up and stretched on the sunny bank,
though neither of them at first gave the smallest signs of life.

The servants of the Hall, several of whom were now come up,
proposed carrying them to the mill, which was the nearest house;
but the tinker’s wife, who had been looking on’ with much good-
will to the boys, though she had kept her short pipe in her mouth
most of the time, now suddenly took it out, and poking it into
some corer about her dress, where she always kept it when not
in use, she began to give her opinion, opening out by telling all
the fine servants that they were no better than a parcel of fools.

“Tf there is the least life now in either of them,” she said, “it
will be quite out before they could get there; be quick with you,
and strip the wet clothes from both of them;” and bidding her
husband be busy with Harry Marson, she herself set to work to
assist in undressing Master Alfred, wrapping the still cold body in
her own cloak, which she took off for the purpose, one of the
servants at the same time wrapping Harry in his own livery coat.

The goodwife next caused her husband to bring out from his
bag a black canister, which contained gin or some other strong
spirit, and having taken, or directed to be taken, the means gene-
tally used in these cases to help the bodies to disgorge the water
which had been swallowed, she directed that their limbs and breasts
should be well rubbed with the gin.

Harry Marson was the first who gave any sign of life; this he
did by first a very faint sigh, and then a stronger one; and then

U
290 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

by degrees he recovered the power of breathing and the natural
warmth of his limbs; but every one feared that Alfred, who had
been longer under the water, would never breathe again; even the
tinker himself looked upon him without hope, and said he feared
it was all over with him; but his wife bade him hold his tongue,
and bidding the other persons to keep off and let her alone, down
she fell on her knees by the still body of the poor boy, and having
forced open his mouth with her skinny fingers, she placed hers on
his, and for a time, which appeared very long to those standing
by, she endeavoured with her own breath to fill his lungs and-set
them in motion in the natural way. It was just at the time in
which every one in that place was anxiously waiting the success
of what the woman was doing, whilst his son lay like a corpse,
shrouded in the old cloak, and the poor ragged gipsy woman was
bending over the body, trying her best to restore the child’s life,
that Mr. Seymour came up.

One of the servants had run back towards the Hall to fetch
some brandy or other strong spirit, not knowing that the tinker
- could provide it nearer at hand; and he had met Mr. Seymour,
and told him terrible news. What a sight was that he saw! too
well he understood what the woman was about, but he could not
utter a word; he stood like one fixed, and without the power to
stir; but, oh, who can describe the thoughts which had then passed
through his mind! -

He had till that moment been a very proud man, and it was
from this pride that he had so grievously indulged his son, and set
him up so greatly in his own opinion; and now, now what was
the poor boy’s condition? Perhaps his child was already a corpse;
but if it were God’s pleasure that he should breathe again, by
whose help was he‘to receive his breath again ?—from a poor wretch
whom he would not have touched an hour ago with the tip of
his finger. ;

O pride! pride! thought Mr. Seymour, in his agony, what have
such poor sinful dying wretches as we to do with pride? and the
groans of the poor gentleman drew the eyes of many towards him,
though every one turned again when the tinker’s wife raised her
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 291

cthead; and though she did not move from her knees, kept her eyes
earnestly fixed on the face of the boy.

No one knew whether this change of her posture was for good
or for bad but her husband, who whispered, “ Let her alone—she
thas hopes: she is. wonderful clever.”

She was busy about the boy a few minutes ienges rubbing his
‘chest, and gently. varying his position; at length, rising up, she
‘said, “He will do now; take him home; put him and the other
poor lad in a warm bed; and you, master,” she added, lookirg
at Mr. Seymour, “if you love your boy, mind that you owe his
life to that fatherless and motherless one that lies by him.” But
we must pass over what Mr. Seymour said to the tinker’s wife,
and many other things that were. said and done before they all
left the place which had nearly been so fatal to Alfred Seymour
and Harry Marson.

When it was thought quite safe, the two boys were raised in
the arms of the servants and carried to the Hall, whilst all the
rest of the people followed excepting the young miller, who, when
they were gone, gathered up the fishing-tackle and sneaked. away,
hoping that it might never be known how much he had to do in.
that day’s work.

Alfred and Harry soon found themselves quite recovered in the
‘warm beds in which they were laid, and poor Harry thought him-
self as happy as a king, surrounded as he was with such comforts
as he had never known; but when Alfred came early the next
morning to thank him for his kindness in saving his life, and to
beg his pardon for all his ill-behaviour to him, he seemed to
wonder more and more at the strange things which had happened
to him; for the poor child had not yet learned to know that every
mercy and every blessing comes from God.

Harry Marson never went back to the shop, but was brought
up at Mr. Seymour’s house.

Had not God used the fright, and the shame, and the disgrace
of that affair which happened on Alfred’s birthday to bring him
to a knowledge of the truth, to make him humble, and to lead
him to see that his aunt was right when she tried to show him
2092 THE FALL OF PRIDE.

that there is no real happiness in anything but in being beloved
by our blessed Redeemer, hg would very soon have forgotten alk
he had suffered on that birthday, and soon have become as high
as ever; but God did use all those sufferings for his good, and.
from that day he was even more loved by the people about him.
than he had been hated before it.

He is now an old gentleman, and he is waited upon by a.
white-headed butler, who has lived with him ever since he was.
ten years old, and is more like a brother than a servant. This.
old man is called Mr. Marson, and, as he often says, it was a
most blessed day for him when his poor master fell into the
water.

Alfred’s papa felt himself so much obliged to the tinker and his:
wife that he offered them a little cottage and garden, rent free,.
on his estate; but they thanked him, and only asked as a.
favour that he would give them a night’s lodging and a supper:
whenever they came that way, and this was of course granted ;.
and to this he added a few guineas, which the woman covered’
with cloth, to use by way of buttons on an old coat of her hus—
band’s which served her as a gown.

When Alfred was grown up he used often to smile at the dread-
ful fall which his pride had had on that his memorable birthday,
of which we have been telling the history, and at the strange-
figure he must have made when lying on the bank in the gipsy’s
cloak, with the old woman kneeling by his side, and forcing his.
mouth open with her bony fingers; and he used often to add,
“It is quite out of the question for human creatures, who are-
liable to all sorts of accidents, to be thinking highly of themselves.
and giving themselves airs as if they were better than all else of
their own kind.”
ant

.
3

GRANDMAMMA PARKER

OR,

THE FATHER’S RETURN,

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.



GRANDMAMMA PARKER;

OR,

THE FATHER’S RETURN.

m ITTLE Susette was at a very good and a very happy

ert school in the town of Reading in Berkshire; but she
eh it hard that her grandmamma did not send for her to come
home oftener than she did.

Susette had lost both her father and her mother, and she had
no parent but her grandmamma. How odd it was that grandmamma
should not have her at home three or four times every year; and
she had not been at home for nearly two years, because her grand-
mamma had been very ill during the last midsummer.

Mrs. Parker, Susette’s grandmamma, had a farm in Hampshire,
in a very pretty part, where there were low hills and sweet little
valleys, and many trees and many brooks. Susette longed and longed
to go home and play in those pleasant places again.

Why did not Mrs. Parker have Susette home oftener? She did
not scruple to tell the reason herself. I never, she used to say, had
but one child; and when I was left a widow, I indulged him to
the last degree of foolish fondness, and much have I and my child
also suffered for this sin; and now I have only Susette left to me,
I will not have her home often, lest I should spoil her too. No, I
will keep her at school, and quietly to her work and her book
whilst she is little, and with God’s plese: I. shall see her BS
up all that I can wish.


296 GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

Susette did not hear whether she. was to go home till nearly all
the other scholars were gone. On the day after the breaking up
for the midsummer holidays, how pleased and surprised she was,
when her grandmamma’s head'‘man, old Ralph Boss, appeared at the
gate of the school. He drove his mistress’s taxcart, in which there
was a most pleasant, convenient seat for Susette to ride with him
back to grandmamma. Ralph Boss had been a soldier, and had
known Susette’s father; and as he and Susette drove along from
Reading into Hampshire, he told her many stories about wars and
battles, which she did not much care to hear about.

Ralpho, or Ralph,
as hismistresscalled
him, wasa German,
and had been in
the wars in Italy
in the time of
Buonaparte, and
could tell of the
dreadful battle at
Arcola, and how
Buonaparte was
himself thrown off
the bridge into the



marsh below.

But what did Susette care for battles, and bridges and Buona-
parte, and swamps? Besides, Ralph talked such strange English:
she did not, however, care what he said, for she was so very, very
happy and there was so much to admire, so many trees and flo-
wers, and lambs, in the narrow lane into which they turned when
they were only a few miles from Reading.

How glad was grandmamma to see Susette, and how delighted
was the child with everything about the place, especially with
grandmamma’s magpie.

There is no place more pleasant to a child than a farm-house
in the middle of summer, when the garden is filled with fruit, and
the hay-making is going forwards. No lessons were required of
OR, THE FATHERS RETURN. 297

Susette, and she was running about all day. She soon got accustomed
to old Ralph, and could understand him as well as if he spoke
the best English that ever was heard. He loved the child very
much, because he had loved her father, and been with him in many
scenes of terrible danger. He did his part, therefore, in spoiling her,
and she became in a short time as wild as an unbroken colt. Her
grandmamma was sorry to see that her dear child had so little
command of herself. She remembered how wild and boisterous the
child’s father had been at the same age; and when she thought
how she had, by her weakness, encouraged this folly, she felt how
wrong her conduct had been, and she resolved to talk very seriously
to the little girl.

I have always told you, my child, said Mrs. Parker, that I was
a sadly weak and indulgent mother. Your poor father never could
be brought, by me at least, to attend to any thing but amusing
himself. I sent him to the school in the village, indeed, as soon
as most children are sent; but I had the grief to find that he made
no progress whatever; and I at last got so vexed. about it, that I
sent to the old schoolmaster asking to see him.

I well remember the morning when he came. I was sitting at work
in the kitchen, and my poor Edward, as usual, was out in the yard
among the men, when he came running in, crying, Mother! Mother!
there is old Rogers coming across the field. The very term of old
Rogers for his master, should have been reproved; but it was not
then my way to check the child when I could help it. Another
minute and Mr. Rogers came in and stood before me. What is it
madam? he said.

The boy had got behind my chair dodging, as he thought, out
of sight. Without asking Mr. Rogers to be seated, as I well remem-
ber, I made my complaints; and told him that I was not pleased
at the progress my son had made in his learning. The old man ©
had got a glimpse of the child’s figure behind my chair, and instead
of answering me, he said, Come out, Master Edward, ‘and let me
and your mother hear a specimen of your qualifications in the
reading line; and if she is not satisfied, perhaps you can explain
the reason why you have not got on better.
298 GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

The child came out when desired, and took a seat at my knee, I
having handed a Bible to him out of the cupboard. ;

Tur to any chapter you like, said Mr. Rogers, and my poor boy
having twisted the leaves backwards and forwards several times,
miscalled a word or two, and then came to a dead stand, whilst
I patted his head to encourage him to get on.

But had he wished it, he could not; and his master called on
him honestly and uprightly to give the reason for his ignorance.

It was not to be expected that a spoiled child should do this,
and take the blame on himself; and when Mr. Rogers saw that
‘he would not speak, but was beginning to cry, he begged me to
send him out of the room, whilst he talked to me. I did so, and
_then the old man said much to me which I can never forget, though
I did not act upon it at the time. He stated to me the real nature
of every child of Adam, as being utterly corrupt, and the duty
which belongs to all parents to check the breakings out of evil
passions in their children; and he further added, that no school-
master could do anything with a wayward child unless the parent
went hand in hand with him, and supported his authority at home.

I could not deny what he said, but I felt myself hurt, -and
would not give him authority to correct my poor fatherless boy,
as I called him; and thus I parted with Mr. Rogers, though not
till he had told me that he must beg to decline having any more
to do with the boy.

I was offended, and tried another school two miles off: and for
some time my poor boy used to go backwards and forwards to
this school. But the master, -who.was an old. man, was not the
honest upright person Mr. Rogers was; so that he got his pay-
ment, he cared not whether the child attended regularly o not;
but time, precious time, was running on with no improvement.

I cannot say how long it was after this, but it was harvest time,
poor Edward went off to school one morning as usual, but seeing
some very bright flowers in the corner of a corn-field which had
begun to be reaped, he turned out of the way to get some of
them, and whilst he was stooping to pluck them, a person called
to him to ask him the shortest way to a place called Branley.
OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 299

This was the very village to which Edward was going, and he
offered to guide the person there, over the fields. He was not a
labouring man, but a gentléman, who spoke to Edward. He was
an officer in the army, though I néver could learn what he was
doing in this county, and his errand to Branley was none of the
best; for some people had: gone there to box, and he was going
to see them.

Mrs. Parker generally sat
in her best kitchen; but she
had a neat, nice parlour,
the door of which was kept
locked. One day, when »&
Susette had been in her - .

' wildest spirits, she took her
into this parlour, and told
her to look at a picture
painted in bright oil colours
which hung over the chim-
ney-piece.

It represented a very little boy in a frock, sitting on the floor,
with his arms lifted up, as if to somebody he saw. Under his right
arm appeared the-head of a kitten, and at his feet a ball.

Susette, said grandmamma, that baby there is your poor papa.
The picture was taken by a friend, who came from London to
see me. My boy was a sweet and affectionate child, and I could
have done.anything with him,then. I.don’t. say that I could have
given him a new nature, for God only can create a clean heart
within us; but I might have made him obedient to myself, and
checked those wild spirits which in the end deprived me of my
child. I was much to be blamed; but I trust that I am pardoned
for my blessed Saviour’s sake. I am, I know, too soft with children,
it is a great and heavy offence in me; and when you break out
in the. same wild spirits which your father had when he was a
‘little child, I feel, that if I cannot restrain you, I ought not to
keep you here, but send you back at once to school, and not |
wait till the holidays are over.


300 _ GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

Susette’s eyes had been raised to the picture, and fixed upon it,
from the moment she ‘came into the parlour; but when: she heard
the last words of her grandmamma, she turned to her, threw her
arms around her neck, and burst into tears.

Oh, grandmama, ‘she said, I wish I could be good; but I know
I cannot unless God makes me so. They tell me at school to
pray to Him to make me good, and I have never done that
since I came here. I will pray, grandmamma, and will you pray
for me.

- Grandmamma held the little girl in her arms and wept with her,
and I have no doubt but that she prayed continually for her.

During the remainder of the holidays Susette was much quieter,
and when the hay was got in, Mrs. Parker invited a number of
little girls who lived near, to spend a whole day with Susette.
There was ong little boy, too, who came with his sisters. What a
happy day was this.

Soon after this happy ,
day, Susette returned to
school, and did not go
home again till the next
midsummer, when ‘her
grandmother found her
much improved. Mrs.
Parker kept Susette at
this good school in Read-
ing, till she was grown a
fine tall girl; and she
would hardly have taken
her home so soon as she did, had not her old governess died,
and the school been broken up.

Susette had been brought up at Reading in a simple, useful
way. She had been well instructed in the Bible, and in reading,
writing, and every kind of needlework; and very great pains had
been taken to teach her those simple, polite manners, which are
beautiful everywhere, because they are built upon the principle of
doing to others as one would wish to be done by. God had blessed


OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 303

Susette in every way, and when she came to live with her grand-
mama, she was the delight of the old lady’s heart. ,

Mrs. Parker was, however, very old-fashioned in her ways.
Though Susette was to have all she left when she died, yet she
thought it right for the young girl to put her hand to anything
that might be required. She taught her to make the butter and
the pastry, and to assist her in pickling and preserving. Susette
had a large coloured apron, which she put on over her white frock,
and then she was ready for any of her duties. When she was a
little child, her hair had been light; but it was of that kind which
grew dark as years passed on.

Susette came to live with her grandmamma altogether in the summer
season; and it was during the long nights of the next winter, that
the old lady first began to tell Susette stories about her father.
Indeed, till then she knew very little of her parent’s history.

What do you mean by boxing, grandmamma? asked Susette.

Fighting with the fists, my dear, replied the old lady. There are
people who make it their profession to go about boxing and bruising
each other for prizes; and there is always a great concourse of
low, bad people, where these fights are held. My boy had no
business in such company; but when I gave up my authority over
nim, how was I to tell where he might choose to go?

The field where the boxers were to meet was down a lane, and
quite out of the way; but when the officer saw a barrel of beer
set on a tram under a shed, with a fat man standing by it, and
a woman seated by it selling milk or whey, he guessed that the
play-ground was not far off.

Play-ground? asked Susette.

Yes, my dear, replied the grandmother, they call these fone
matches plays and. games, though they are such as often cause
death to those who enter into them. The woman who sold the
milk had already found a customer, and the fat man no doubt
expected many.

The officer and Edward went through the gate, and found
themselves in the field where the ground was marked for the boxers.
There were several of my son’s schoolfellows already in the field;
302 - GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

and one little fair boy called Charles, as my dear son told me, .
who knew. something of the officer, ran up to him as if glad to
see him, whilst Edward ran forward, and got by his own account
into a dispute with his master, who was just come to the ground
leaning on the arm of a butcher in the village.

The master asked
him how he came
to miss school that.
morning, and called
him a truant; and as
he said himself, for
1 had the story from
him, he snatched a
cap from the head
of one of his school-
fellows, and would
have thrown it in his

>- master’s face, if he
Ta had not thought better
of it.

I was so weak that I did not punish him for this boast of
what he had a mind to do, but after that day he went no more
to the school, but lounged away a great deal of his time, and often
went to call on the strange gentleman, who lodged in a farm house.
not very far off, and got talking with him about wars and fighting,
guns, drums, and swords, until nothing would serve him but he
must be a soldier, I tried to interest him in my business, but nothing
would do; he had been used to his own way, and he would have
it. He was not sixteen years old when he ran away, and got enlisted
as a private soldier. I bought him off, and he ran away again;
and then, with the advice of all my friends, I bought him a
cometcy -in a dragoon regiment, and he became what is called
a commissioned officer, that is, a gentleman, and not a private
soldier.

_Oh! how did my heart ache, Susette, when he came in his
scarlet coat, with his sword and sash, to wish me a long, long


OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 303

good bye. He was in high spirits. He was going with his.regiment
to embark for Spain; for it was a time of hot and terrible war
with the French.

Oh, how did 1 then blame myself for my wicked weakness.
My son was lost to me, and that through my own fault; had I
but controlled him in childhood, I might have had him with me
for my friend, supporter, and assistant.

He was away several years, and when he came back again I
saw with gratitude to God, that he was quite another person; he
had risen to the rank of a captain. He had the manners of a first-rate
gentleman, and what was better than all, God. had opened his
eyes, and given him a new heart; and the first proof he gave of
his repentance was to beg my pardon for all his past misconduct.
He brought Ralph Boss with
him as a servant, and from
Ralph I heard many things
of him which he would
never have told himself.

He had been in Spain
most of the time of his
absence, and in some most
terrible battles with the
French. Ralph had left the
Austrian service, and come
over to the English, and
was a private soldier in the
same regiment as your dear:
father, Susette. A

There was a bloody battle near a town in Spain and, as Ralph
says, a French dragoon had wounded him, and was going to ride
over him with others, when your father’somehow or another turned
the dragoon aside, and saved his life.

Another time, he said, the French had got into a town, and
were committing horrid disorders with the poor inhabitants, when
the English came in on the other side, and the very streets ran
down with blood.


304 GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

The carnage was terrible, and though the English finally conquered,
yet many innocent lives were
sacrificed, and others put into the
greatest peril. His master, he told
me, for he always called my poor
son, his master, -saved one
precious life that day, and through
that means his own was probably
preserved.

As we entered the town, said
Ralph, and got scattered in the
confusion, we saw some French
villain pursuing a young lady down
a bye street. The poor girl ran
very quickly, rushed into a church, and ran to an image of the
Virgin, thinking poor soul,
no doubt, that the image
would save her; but the
cruel wretch dragged her
from the image, and down
she fell fainting on the
pavement. There was another
Frenchman followed him ~
into the church, and between.
them they would probably
have murdered the poor
girl for a few gold rings
and beads she had about
her, had not my master
come in after her, and
\ driven the wretches away,
\ at the peril of his life.
~~ i i Ralph Bos, it seems, had
oe z oy ee followed his captain into the

Pees See ee NS church, and helped to drive
off others of the enemy by closing the doors.




OR, THE FATHERS RETURN. 305

The young girl, whose name they told me was Elvira, was the
daughter of some old don, that is what the Spaniards call their
squires, living not far off the unfortunate town; and the young lady
was in the town at a convent, for such education as may be had
in those places. , : ;

Now the difficulty seemed to be how to get Elvira out of the
church. It happened, however, that they found a door and a long
passage, which brought them to the brink of the river which watered
the town, and the lady said she had only to follow a path by the
river side, it might be two miles, and she should get to her home.
It was all solitary on the brink of the river, though the shrieks of
the poor inhabitants, and the fell threatenings of the fierce soldiers
in the streets above, distinctly reached the place. My dear son, as
Ralph said, would not hear of the young girl running home alone;
and because his duty called him elsewhere with his troop, he-sent
Ralph to protect her.





AEG. sides
= cmpfee st ee 1

<— =S





oo ee

It was a narrow, but exceedingly fair valley, as Ralph says, con-
tinued Mrs. Parker, into which he entered with the young lady.
When they had got nearly out of hearing of the cries in the town,

v
306 GRANDMAMMA PARKER;

they came to woods of evergreen, oak, and cork trees, on each side
of a pure, bright stream, running through the bottom of the dell,
all which he saw by the light ofa moon which was almost at the full.

The poor young lady trembled so, that Ralph could hardly sup-
port her; yet she begged him to leave her, and to go back and
help the poor creatures in the town, and be at hand to serve the
officer who had saved her. She told him, that if the rumour of the
taking of the town should reach her father, he would be sure to
send out his people towards the town, to see if any thing could
be done for her. He was too infirm, she added, to move himself;
and she had hardly said this, when they saw two men coming down
the valley to meet them. Elvira knew them immediately. The fore-
most was her brother, the other was a young Moor who had been
brought up in the family, and great was their joy when they recog-
nized the young lady. Ralph delivered her to their care, and as he
left them, he heard them pray to the Holy Being, that every blessing
might attend him and his officer. He looked back at them as he
was about to make a turn in the valley, which would have hidden
them from his sight, and found that Elvira had sat down by her
brother to recover herself a little before she went on, and that the
Moor had left them to tell the joyful news that their young lady
had escaped.

Ralph did not see the meeting of the father and daughter; but
before they arrived, the old man was in such a state, that his youn-
ger son, a youth of fifteen, whom he would not trust out of his
sight to go and look after his sister, was obliged to hold him in
his arms, whilst the Moor related the joyful tidings to him.

This is a pretty story, said Susette; but how did Ralph know
the way in which the good news was told to the old gentleman?

The story is not finished, Susette, replied Mrs. Parker; you shall
hear the rest of it.

The French were that night driven out of the town, and some
of our troops remained there for a few days, or may be weeks.
Such were the orders; Ralph could not tell why. As they lay there
with little to do, they went in small parties scouring the country,
and dislodging the enemy wherever they might find them, having
OR, THE FATHER'S RETURN. 307

every reason to think that the neighbourhood was pretty clear of
them. But in this they were mistaken, as my dear son, who was
soon made a lieutenant, found to his cost.







a.



=
<
S

SS

|

(He é (/ ( 4 f
vey Hi, ec i
- c age 2 ’

There came a report.that a village, about three miles from the
town, had been sacked and fired, and that there was a party of
armed thieves from the hills, or a party of French, somewhere
beyond the village, and my son was sent with a strong party to
reconnoitre. The way lay in the direction towards the head of the
river, and the road was open, that no hidden danger was to be
‘suspected, till the party came near to an ancient abbey, almost in
ruins, which stood near the way-side. All about this place was so
still, that the Captain who commanded the party laughed at one
of the officers, who said he did not like the look of a figure wrap-
ped in a monk’s cloak and hood, that was pacing quietly before

- the old gateway.
308 GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

The Captain’s laugh was soon, however, changed. A strong party
of the enemy, who had lain in ambush among the old stones,
rushed out upon them almost before they had got in full face of
the ruin; and a dreadful skirmish ensued, in which the English,
after a severe contest with double their number, were driven back
to the town. They left one of their men dead, and your poor father
wounded eee apparently dying on the side of the road.

Oh, grandmamma, said Susette, how
horrid it was! -

It is dreadful indeed, when we only know
the particulars, how much more to witness
it and its fearful consequences with our own
eyes, said Mrs. Parker; but hear, my child,
what mercies were provided for your father.
This contest had happened not very far
from the house of Elvira’s father; and the

’ Moorish youth happening to pass by when
all was quiet, saw my son, and knew by his
dress that he was an Englishman, and of the

same party who had saved his young lady; he took pity on him,
procured assistance, and brought him to his master’s house, a sort.
of castle protected by

a ditch and draw-

bridge. When my poor
boy recovered his con-
sciousness, his wounds.
having been dressed
by an old Moorish
woman, he found him-
self ina pleasant cham-
ber, surrounded by the
family, whilst Elvira,
who knew him again,
was weeping over him.

He was nursed in

this family with the




OR, THE FATHER'S RETURN. 309

most tender care, and Ralph was permitted to attend him till his
wounds were cured. 4

The war with Spain was over before he was able to return to
his duty, and he returned to England with his regiment, and then
it was he came to see his mother.

He afterwards went with his regiment to Ireland, where he mar-
ried your mother, my dear Susette. By all accounts she was a lovely,
gentle, pious young lady, above my rank, but not above that to
which my son had risen. She died, however, in the second year
of her marriage, leaving you, my child.

Soon after this misfortune your father brought you to me, and
fearing my own weakness, I placed you where you were in your
fourth year, with your worthy governess.

But now comes the greatest of all calamities. I have now to tell
you of the heaviest blow I ever experienced. Your dear father’s
regiment was ordered to the Continent. He remained with me as
long as possible before joining it; but the time to separate at last
arriving, my son urged every consolation to moderate my bitter
regret. We parted, and he joined his regiment at the sea-port from
which. the troops were to sail. They were sent on board ships in
small companies. My beloved son sent me the name of the trans-
port which was to take him, in the last letter he wrote me. The
next news I heard was, that this
transport had been parted by a
‘storm from its company, had been
captured after a fierce encounter,
and when disabled from the loss
of its masts, by a French line-
of-battle ship. It had been taken
into a French harbour, and by
some accident blown up, every
soal on board being supposed to
have perished. Z es

Oh, grandmamma! cried Susette, -7 S\x =
throwing herself into Mrs. Par- --“~»
ker’s arms, and bursting into tears.












310 GRANDMAMMA PARKER;

It was long before the old lady could go on with her story.

It was some months after I had heard of this terrible accident,
when one day I was astonished at the appearance of Ralph Boss,
who had, I supposed, perished with his master. Ralph was much
a altered from the fright-
ful scenes he had gone-
through, and from ex-
treme grief at the fear-
ful death it was belie--
ved his master had met:










ANS

. HEX . . i
tee we

«






wonderful manner he:
had been saved when
the vessel blew up-
He was sitting on
a hen-coop, and was.
thrown outinto thesea,
clear of the ship, on this same coop. He was soon afterwards taken.
up by an English fisherman’s boat; and as he could speak good
English, and wore regimental clothing, being an officer’s servant,
he was brought to England.

He stayed with the fisherman’s family a day or two; but he
found the wife to be so violent and eager for gain, that he took
himself off, and for a time earned his subsistence as a wild-duck.
catcher.

He remained not very far from the coast, till he had saved a.
few silver pieces, and at length he came to me in a miserable
condition; but his deep and lasting attachment to my poor son,
endeared him to the family. He would never leave me so long as.
I would keep him; and he now makes himself so useful, and has.
my interest so at heart, that I could not spare him, even if I loved.
him less for his poor master’s sake.

Susette heard more of her father’s history now than she had
ever done before; and she now fully understood wherefore her
OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 311

grandmamma kept her so strictly at school; and God put it into
her heart to pray continually that she might be a comfort to her
only parent, as long as she lived, and she often thanked God that
he had made the blessed Saviour known to her father and mother
before they died.

When these thoughts were put in the mind of Susette, and when
they continued to grow and strengthen, she became every day
more happy and more pleasant to every one. There was no one,
excepting her grandmamma, who loved her so much as old Ralph.
She was, he said, the very picture of the Captain, and that
was saying more for her, he said, than he could say for any one else.

It was Ralph who made her that bench in a favourite place at
the end of the barn, near the house, where she could sit, and
look one way toward the garden, and the. other way to that sweet
glen, shaded with thick groves, at the bottom of which runs that
clear and sparkling stream.

There, too, amongst
those woods peeps out
the tower of the church,
and sheep are often seen
feeding on the green bank
of the rivulet. Sometimes
Susette came to read,
and sometimes she came
to sew in this favourite
place; and sometimes,
but that was not often,
she came only for the
pleasure of looking about
her, and talking to the old magpie, whose cage was hung up near
at hand.

Grandmamma Parker had a white Persian cat, with one
blue and one green eye, which was brought to her when it
was a very little kitten; and while grandmamma sat working
or reading, puss would play around her, or repose herself coiled
up at the old lady’s feet. Puss was very fond of Susette, and


312 ‘GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

followed her about the house, and sometimes even into the garden.

One day old Ralph
was working in the garden,
very near Susette’s seat,
and he called to her and
said. There will be a job
for you soon, Miss; the
peas are filling fast, and
you will have to gather
and shell them.

I don’t know, replied
Susette, laughing; I think
I must leave that work
sjfor you, Ralph.

We shall see, replied
the old man; and thus

= . they talked to each other;
but I doubt whether what nen eid is worth repeating.

But what was going on at that very time two or three fields off
‘from where Susette and Ralph were talking?



A poor boy had got
astride a stile between
two fields, and was
driving away the crows
from the cornfields
with a huge stone in
each hand, when he
was startled by the
barking of a dog, and
the next minute two
strangers came up to
ae: oe ; aim.

Me 3 sas Stas: Soe These strangers were

: dressed so shabbily,

that the rude boy did not think it needful to answer properly the
questions one of them put to him.


Ok, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 313

Does Mrs. Parker live in the house before us? was the question.
To which the boy answered, If she ba’ant dead since the morning,
she do; but what do you want of her?

The strangers passed hastily on, and the dog ran before.

Who were these strangers? Have you not guessed who one is
at least? The first of them was no other than the long-lost son
of grandmamma, and the father of Susette. When the ship had been
blown up, he had been thrown on shore, and taken up for dead.
When he recovered, he was put into a prison, and kept there for
all the years that we have missed him, without the chance of
sending a letter home. In that prison he had no comfort but of a
heavenly nature, the thoughts of his God and Saviour, which made
him contented and happy during-his imprisonment; and none of
this earth but the company of another English prisoner, a lad, the
son of that very Charles whom he had met in the field of the
boxing-match. This youth had been at a school abroad, and had
fallen into the hands of the enemy.

The two friends were both set free, by being exchanged for
Frenchmen who were prisoners in England; and they had scarcely
been set on the English shore, when they made their way on foot
into Hampshire.

But, oh! what a meeting was that between the mother and the
son, the father and the daughter, and the Captain and his faithful
man. What weeping and laughing; what thanksgivings to God;
what rejoicings and acknowledgments of unworthiness to receive
such. benefits!

I wish that I had room to describe all these things, and to tell
of the boy’s return to his home; but, after all, there are no words
which we can use, which can express such feelings as those happy
people then experienced.

But no human joy is without alloy. After the first few days of
Captain Parker’s arrival, the features of Susette painfully brought
to his mind the image of his long-lost wife; and several times he
took the dear child into the garden, to enjoy her society amidst
these melancholy yet sweet recollections. -

On these occasions Susette would do all that a young daughter
314 GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

could do to comfort a parent, and showed the most affectionate
sympathy with his feelings. This in time calmed the mind of
Captain Parker, and led him
to thank God, that though he
had lost his beloved wife, he
had yet a rich store of blessings
in the love of his daughter
4 and surviving parent.
= 7,--. But there was a pleasure in
ala “3. store for Susette which she
aN on A * had not expected when she














2 with her father. She had no
:idea of the many delightful
stories which he could tell of

child, and whilst he was a
prisoner on parole in France
with Captain Parker.

A prisoner on parole is one
who gives his honour that he
will not rien to escape, if ee is given to walk about.

Charles was an orphan, and had no near relations living, and
he had been so long with Captain Parker, that it would have broken
his heart to have been taken from him. He called him father, to which
he soon learned to add Sister Susette and Grandmamma Parker.

He could tell very little of his father and mother; they had both
died whilst he was very young, and he was taken by a gentleman,
a distant relation, to live for a few years, at a fine house which
stood in a park, where there were many deer.

He was not ill-used in that house by the lady, though she took
very little notice of him. He was dressed finely, and had a kind
servant. The lady had two sons, bigger than himself; he did not
remember much about them, excepting that they were called John
and Tom, and that they were always teasing him.
OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 315

He remembered one day in particular, it was a holiday and
very fine. The two great boys went out to play in the park, and
he at the same time was taken to walk by the servant who had
the care of him.

When I got into the park, he said, I was very glad and pleased,
for I loved to be out of doors; and the maid said I skipped about
her like one of the fawns. I stopped skipping to talk of the fawns.
They are the most beautiful young creatures of all animals, and I
had always longed to have one in my arms. I asked the maid to
catch one for me, that I might stroke it. She told me that if we
could catch one, the hind, its mother, would come and push at
me, and perhaps knock me down, and perhaps the great stag
would come with his branching horns to take part with the hind,
and perhaps he might kill me.

I asked her if the hinds were very fond of the fawns; and she
said something about all creatures loving their own little ones,
which reminded me of my own mother, whom I only just remem-
bered, and I began to cry, and to say, Oh, I wish that I was one
of these fawns, and had a mother of my own. We were going up
a little rising ground, where was a very large tree, when I said
the last words about my mother. I did not know that Tom and
John were sitting on the grass on the other side of the tree; but
there they were, and were listening to what we said.

The maid stopped, and sat down on the bank also, and I con-
tinued to talk to her as I had been doing before, about liking to
be a fawn.

Whilst we were there, the deer, who could see both our parties,
came forward from a grove opposite to us, to look what we were.
The tall stags, with their branching horns, came first, and behind
them the hinds, with the pretty fawns running by their sides; and
as they stood with their fine heads up, I began to be rather afraid,
not knowing that the smallest startling sound would have made
them all turn. about and scamper away as swift as the wind.

Whilst looking at them, I first heard the voices of the boys,
and they were talking for me to hear, though seeming to address
the stags. They were calling them to come forward and punish a
316 GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

little boy who wanted to steal one of their fawns. The stags, as I
thought, made one or two steps forward, when these words were
spoken, and up I jumped, and came running behind the two boys,
shrieking so loudly, that I made the groves ring aga. Away
scampered the deer, whilst I ran back and threw myself into the
arms of my nurse, and it was as much as she could do to keep
the great boys from seizing me.

I stayed in that house till I left off my frocks, and could take
some care of myself. The same nurse was with me all the time,
and she was the best person I had with me, excepting your father,
Susette.

She taught me to read, and she
made me very happy. We were
always out of doors when the weather
would let us; and.she took pains to
teach me the names and natures of
the things we saw abroad. She talked
of trees, and flowers, and birds in
summer, and in winter she pointed
out the beauties of the snow and the
icicles, and showed me where the
creatures who were so gay in summer
found warm refuges in the winter. She taught me who made these
things, and spoke to me of heaven and the only way to it, which
is, you know, Susette, by Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour.

I have often thought how good God was in providing first such
a nurse for the poor little orphan, and afterwards such a friend
as your dear father.

Were you not very sorry to part from that kind woman, Charles ?
asked Susette. 1 was, indeed, replied Charles; and I will try to
find her now, if she is alive, and I can do anything for her. I
was more than six years old when I was sent away from that
house to go to school in a place called Boulogne in France.

Why did they send you there? asked Susette.

I cannot tell, answered Charles; I never knew. I know only
that I cried very, very much when I took leave of my poor nurse,


OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 317.

and she cried too. I was thought ungrateful because I did not
cry for anybody else. I was taken to some town on the coast, and.
put on board a ship, under the care of some man with a very red
face, whom they called Captain.

I did not care whether I was to live in England or France, but.
I did not like the thought of having the great sea between me
and my nurse.

When the ship first got under weigh she was within a bar, where
the water was quite smooth, and I remember that I stood at the
gangway looking back on the English shore, and very, very sad I was.

Why do you cry, little
‘boy? said a gentleman
to me.

I answered, because
England is going, going. :
I can hardly now see _
the sand-heaps on the
shore.

What will you say if
I bring it back again for
a little while, my boy?
he asked; and he put
a long glass to my eye,
and held it there, adding,
where is England now?

Oh, Sir, I cried, it is come again, quite near; there are three enlaren
on the sands, a tall girl, and a little girl ana a boy. Oh, I wish
that I was with them.

We crossed the bar just after this, and got out of the smooth
water. The ship began to roll, and I got very sick. The gentleman
took me up, and carried me into a cabin, and put me into a berth
or bed against the wall. This kind gentleman attended me the
whole time we were on board, for I was very sick; and as he
lived in Boulogne with his family, and was known to the Captain,
he got leave to take me with him to his house when we landed,
instead of being sent at once to the school.


318 GRANDMAMMA PARKER;

He was an Englishman of the name of Russell, and had married
a French woman, a widow, who was much older than himself, and
had two children by her first husband, Tentine, and Eline de Latre.
Madame de Latre had some money, and Mr. Russell, 1 suppose,
had none, and this might account for his marrying this old
person.

I was asleep in my cot when we arrived at Boulogne. Good-natured
Mr. Russell ran down into the cabin, and took me up and carried
me on deck, and on shore too; and then, when we were on dry
land, he set me down, and led me by the hand to his own
house.

It was about four in the afternoon, and I had been asleep for
the last two hours. I felt myself in a dream even whilst I was
walking; for everything in France is so very different to England.
We went through several streets, where I saw numbers of women
walking without bonnets, talking very loudly in a language, of which
I did not then know a word; and at last we stopped before a
large house, standing in the street, with a vast number of windows
in the front.

Mr. Russell went in without knocking. We stepped out of the
street at once into such a strange room, I had never seen such a
room. I did not know whether it was a kitchen or a parlour. There
was a great wide chimneypiece, and the floor was tiled like a
kitchen; but there were some fine bits of furniture stuck about, a
very grand time-piece, and some marble tables.

There was no one in the room; but on Mr. Russell calling out
some words in French, the whole family came running in. There
was madam herself, and her son Tentine de Latre, and her daugh-
ter Elise, the maid Didon, and the man Geoffroi, and a large dog
and its puppy.

They all seemed very glad to see Mr. Russell, and they all
hugged and kissed him, even the great boy Tentine; and when Mr.
Russell told him where he had picked me up, then they hugged
me, and called me pauvre petit, and I thought I never had seen
such good-natured people in all my life.

I was very hungry, and I was glad to see Geoffroi come inand
OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 319

lay a cloth on the table, with spoons and forks, but no knives;
and I was still more glad when I found that I was to have a bit
of everything which Didon brought in from the kitchen. Oh, how
I did wish that I might stay at Mr. Russell’s instead of going to
school, and I said so whilst we were at supper. I was praised and
hugged for it; madam promised me, however, that I should stay
with them the next day, and come very often to see them; and
when I heard this, I let Didon put me to bed, for after I had
taken my supper, and drank something hot and sweet out of a wine
glass, I could keep my head up no longer.

And did you stay at that house the whole of the next day,
Charles? asked Susette?

I did, he answered; through the management of my new friends,

and through some things which they said not quite true, I fear;
but at time I did not understand one half of what madam and
her children spoke, even when they tried to speak English. I went
to play, after I breakfasted the next morning, in the odd room I
had first seen, and my companion was the puppy I mentioned.
He was a rough, shapeless, rolling thing, and I had taken a great
fancy to him, and he to me. We were tumbling over each other
on the floor, when Tentine came running in from the street. The
Master Monsieur Schmid is coming to fetch you away, he said;
hide, hide, he added; and he ran to open the door which led to
the kitchen. ninceny it was fastened on the other side; but he
was not ata loss; he opened ,
a cupboard in the wall, and
thrust me in it, leaving the
door a little open; then
taking the puppy in his arms,
he walked into the street,
meeting Monsieur Schmid
at the door, who was coming
in to meet some friends at
dinner.

I never knew wherefore
my friends chose this school


320 GRANDMAMMA PARKER,

for me, unlcs because it might have been cheaper than an English
school; but I never liked the master from the first moment I saw
him through a crack in the closet door, till I took myself from
under his care.

He was a great long-legged long-armed man, half French and
half German, but excessively well-pleased with himself. He came
into the room and sat down by the fire-place, and having nothing
to do, looked here and there and every where about him, and I
fancied that he would spy me every moment through the crack in
the door.

It seemed a long time before anybody came to him, but at last
I saw him jump up and step forward, taking hold of the chair one
hand, and stretching out the other to two ladies who were coming
in. One was Madame Russell; she had been at mass with a friend,
and Tentine had gone after her, and begged her to make haste
and come home to send the master away.

I could not understand what they said, because they spoke
French ; but I very soon had the pleasure of seeing him walk away,
and being again at liberty.

How soon did you go to school? asked Susette.

I went next day. The school was in what they call the High
Town of Boulogne. There was no relation to look after me; so
whether it was right for me or not, Monsieur Schmld never took
the trouble of hindering my being with Tentine out of school hours, or
my going to Mr. Russell’s house whenever there was a holiday. I have
many happy recollections of the days I used to spend in that family.

Mr. Russell had a small house, they called it a campagne, in
the forest of Cressy, which is not far from Boulogne, and the whole
family used to go there in the summer. I spent several happy
holidays there. Madame Russell was the most indulgent person in
the world, and Mr. Russell the most idle. I then thought Tentine
the very cleverest person in the world. He was several years older
than myself, and he could do a little of many things I could
never do. He had always a very grave look, but he was ever the
same kind person to me. Poor Tentine, it would grieve me to think
I should never see him again.
OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 321

Elise was my favourite: companion. She was older than I. She,
and I, and the dog
were always together
when we were in the
country. It was much
grown when we first
went to spend the
holidays in the forest,
and Tentine then’ #
taught him to hunt
and kill the rats. Elise
and 1 used to watch
the dog’s tricks from \ ¥ PK ,
the window where she jes er a
sat at work. When he had killed a rat, he came and laid it on
the ground outside the door, waiting till Tentine opened the
door and gave him his reward, which was generally a scrap
from the kitchen. We gave the dog the name of Loup, which
means Wolf.

Elise did not quite relish this
rat hunting; she used to tell
Tentine that it was cruel, though
she and I had a sport equally
cruel. We called it butterfly hunt-
ing; and, as madam used to say,
this sport was much more mis-
chievous, for when we were after
our butterflies, we went over
madam’s flower beds, trampling
down every thing in our way.

Once we lost Loup for part of
two days and a whole night.
1 will tell you how it was. Tentine
made me a cart. I thought that I
would harness Loup, and teach him to draw this cart.

I had some trouble to. make the dog submit to be put into its

Ww




322 -GRANDMAMMA PARKER ;

harness. I filled the cart with stones, and I fastened Loup to it.
I set out, choosing a road in the forest near the house. For some
time we went on very well, when suddenly a rat popped his head
out of a ditch by the way side, and nibbled at something near
at hand, seemingly not aware that an enemy was near.

At the sight of his old game, all Loup’s discretion abandoned
him. He attempted to dart at the rat, but was clogged by the
weight to which he was fastened. He got frightened and: ran off,
dashing on with reckless speed, until at length he plunged into
the thickest part of the under-wood, leaving the cart behind: him;
and, as I before said, we saw him no more till the next day.

I ran with all my might into the house, and told, as fast as I
was able, what had happened. Elise was very sorry and much
surprised to hear of this strange freak of Loup, who had all along
been so docile and obedient; but she and I resolved to set out
in search of him, which we did all the rest of that day. In the
morning Tentine went out to fly his kite, and to amuse himself
chasing the butterflies; and just when Elise and I had given him
up, standing under a tree, and saying, Poor Loup, we shall never
see him more, he came up capering and springing on his hind
legs, just as if nothing had been the matter. He was very glad to
see us again, but not more so than we were to sce him.


OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. | 323

Soon after I returned to school, heavy troubles came upon me.
First Mr. Russell died rather suddenly, and madam moved from
Boulogne. No money came from England to pay for my schooling,
I was ill-used by my master and ran away. At last I arrived ata
small sea-port, and got into a fisherman’s boat, where I was to
‘work for my food. This boat was soon afterwards captured by an
English ship.

The Captain, finding I was a gentleman’s son, and taking a
fancy to mé, had me dressed like a midshipman; but I had
hardly got over my sea-sickness, when we were met by several large
vessels of the enemy. We had a fight and were taken, and’ we
‘were all carried as prisoners into France, and were sent up into
the country to a place called Verdun. where were numbers of
other English prisoners.

We, who had been
taken in the same ship,
‘were parted from each
other as soon as we
reached Verdun. I was
put, with some other
persons, strangers, into
a large building, which
thad been a gentleman’s
house, enclosed with high
walls. We had our liberty
within these walls, but
‘were carefully watched:
‘Those who had:no money
had but poor living and
very hard beds: I did
nothing but cry for the :
first two days, atid’ as all in’ thé house had been only freshly
made prisoners, and did not’ know’ each other, and were full,
no doubt, of their own troubles) very little’ notice was taken of
the poor boy. r a

There had once’ been a fine garden within the walls, and there


” 324 «= GRANDMAMMA PARKAR ;

were still many trees; and I took it into my head, that if I could
climb into one of those trees, I might get from it on the wall, and:
so escape. Well, I made the trial the third morning of my imprisonment..
I .climbed a tree, as I thought unseen, but found that it was too
far distant from the wall for me to reach.

Whilst I was in the tree, our Governor came up underneath it,.
and asked me what I did there? bidding me come down. As I
did not obey at the first word, he threw up a cricket bat which
he had in his hand. I thought it time then to come down. He
took up the bat when I was on the ground, and drove me before:
him, to the -house. . ; 5

. We entered a small hall, where, hanging on the wall was a.
picture of the Virgin. Mary, and there he said, You will stay here
till I call you, young Sir; and if you want something to do, you
may say your prayers, which will be more profitable than climbing
trees.

I muttered to myself—not to that picture. He heard me, however,.
though I had spoken very low, and being provoked, he threw the
bat at me, and gave me a violent blow on the shins. I cried out.
with the pain, and had some difficulty to reach a chair, on which.
I leaned, whilst I put my hand on my bruised leg.

I was still leaning on the chair, and crying with all my might,
when a dog came in by the door out of which the Governor
had gone.

A dog! said Susette. Oh! go on.

The dog looked hard at me, and I looked hard at him, continued’
Charles, smiling. Could it be Loup, poor Loup? I asked myself;
but before I could answer, he sprang towards me showing every
sign of joy.

I forgot all my pain in my great delight, and so loudly and
gladly did I repeat the name of Loup, that my voice was heard
in the next room, and in a moment afterwards Tentine de Latre
appeared. He had come on business to the prison. Waiting only
till he was quite sure of his boy, then catching me in his arms,
and squeezing me to his heart, Eh, Monsieur Piccard, he.said,.
Why do you shut up this harmless child within these four walls >
OR, THE FATHER’S RETURN. 325

Because, replied the Governor, he was found fighting under the
colours of the enemy. Ste

Poor child, said Tentine, we must make him give his parole,
and I will answer that he will keep it. You know me, and I know
chim, and we must make his durance as comfortable as it can be.

I do not know exactly how Tentine managed it; but the authorities
‘were persuaded to take his security and my promise, that I should
not attempt to escape, and then I was permitted to go out with
‘Tentine whenever he came for me.

Oh, what kindness did I then receive from madam and Elise,
whom I loved like a sister. I found them living at Verdun as.
they had lived at Boulogne; and I trust they were paid ten thousand-
fold for all this kindness to the poor orphan.

How could they be paid? asked Susette.

I will tell you, answered Charles. When I had been some weeks
in the prison, your dear father was sent there. He soon found out
who I was, and soon won my heart by his kindness. He and I
were permitted to occupy a small closet to ourselves for our sleeping
oom, and very soon I made him known to my friends. He was
put on his parole, and then we had the liberty of going out when
-we-pleased between certain hours.

Your father went often with me to Madame Russell’s; and his
conversation became so pleasant to Tentine and Elise, that they
who had no religion before, got Bibles, and read them with great
attention, and showed that they did so by their behaviour.

Why did you not write home, if you had so much liberty?
asked Susette.

We did, answered Charles, we wrote often; but we had reason
to think that most of the prisoners’ letters were stopped, for we
never got any answers. And now, he added, I have no more at
‘present to tell you, Susette, about your father, and about madam,
and Tentine, and Elise, and poor Loup.

I shall always love that family. I parted from them with sorrow;
and when the war is over, I will go and find them out again. I
do not think I quite got over the sorrow of that parting, until a
boy who had been working in a cornfield showed me your grand-
326 GRANDMAMMA PARKER; ETC.

mother’s house at a distance; it was on our last day’s journey.
Your father first thought he saw it, but was not quite sure; so he
sent me a little qut of the way to ask a boy who had been working
in a cornfield. The boy told me it was the house we saw among
the woods; but he could not tell if Mrs. Parker still lived there..

Why did this make you glad? asked Susette, in a kindly tone..

Because, answered Charles, I had long been without a home,.
and I longed to have one. It is only those who have no home:
of their own, who can enjoy the blessings of one when once it is.
in their possession..

And you have found one here, my poor child, said Grandmamma.
Parker, stepping up at the moment. I have heard all that you
have been telling Susette, though you did not know that I was.
near; and if I had not believed it before, I believe it now, but.
God is able to bring good from what we poor blind creatures.
often esteem the greatest evils which can happen to us in thislife-
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

THE

ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

> WO young girls, whose names were Mary and Agnes, were
once passing through a churchyard on their way to a plea-
sant coppice where grew many wild flowers. :

It was very hot, for the sun was high in the heavens, and not
one cloud could be seen floating in the deep blue sky.

“Oh, Agnes,” said Mary, “it is so hot I cannot go any farther;
I must sit down in the shade and rest myself.”

“You will fancy yourself in India, Mary,” replied her friend— “in
your own India which you loved so much, and were so sorry to leave.”

“No, Agnes,” she answered, “this is not like India; for though
it-is very hot in India, much hotter than any person living always
in England can imagine, yet there is one very great difference in
England and India which would always keep me in mind that I
have left my own dear birthplace.”

“And what is that difference?” inquired Agnes, laughing good-
humouredly at the very serious countenance of ne young companion,

“Come and sit down in the shade with me,” said Mary, “and
then I will tell you. In India we never go out of doors when ne
sun is much above the horizon; and at the hottest part of the day
we generally lie down on sofas, and go to sleep. If we were to
play in the gardens in India as we do in England, we should not
only have a sunstroke, but we should also be attacked by serpents,
and perhaps bitten to death.”


330 THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

“Well, I cannot imagine how you can love India, then,” replied
Agnes. “I am sure I should not like a place where you cannot
run and jump about to amuse yourself, and where you must stay
in the house always—always.”

“We do not stay in the house always,” said her companion
eagerly. “No, Agnes; we go out before sunrise and after sunset;
and even the children of a family of any consequence have their
own little carriage; and then one is too languid to wish to run
and skip about in India as we do here.”

“And you like that hot place!” exclaimed Agnes rather con-
temptuously. “What odd tastes people have!”

“TI was born there, you know,” replied Mary. “I have never
had another home for at least many years of my life.s Papa, too,
is there, and mamma; and my sister will never, never leave dear
India again.”

As Mary spoke, the tears rose to her eye, and she turned away
as if unwilling to show Agnes how she was hurt by her contemp-
tuous manner. Agnes was vexed with herself for her momentary
unkindness, for she had no thought of what she was saying, and
taking Mary’s hand, which hung listlessly by her side, she said—

“Dear Mary, it was very thoughtless and cruel of me to speak
to you as I did. I do not wonder that you love India; I have
no doubt that your birthplace must be as dear to you as England
is to me. But come, let us sit down under that large old yew-tree,
and see how comfortably we shall be screened from the sun.”

“No, no, not there,” she answered with a slight shudder—* not
under that yew-tree, Agnes; I could not bear to sit there.”

“But there is a wooden bench put.under that yew-tree on
purpose for people to sit on, Mary,” said her companion; “and
the great boughs of the tree would keep us quite shaded from the
sun, and yet we might feel any breath of air that stirs.”

“No, not there, not there,” repeated Mary, gradually drawing
off from the large old tree—“not there, Agnes. I wonder what
can persuade people to plant trees in churchyards.”

Agnes looked her astonishment; but as Mary had only been in
England four or five weeks, most of which time had been spent
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE. 338

in London, she thought that it was some idea connected with
India that made her dislike to see trees planted over the graves.
of departed friends.

“Then where shall we sit down?” she said; “which place would
you prefer, Mary?”

“Let us go to that side where the church can shade us from
the sun,” replied the young girl; “let the church shade us, Agnes,
and not that gloomy yew-tree. And look,” she said thoughtfully,
“there is a grave; it is only a mound of earth, indeed, but I
think it seems about our length. Let us sit down there till we are
cool.”

As Agnes was sorry for having spoken unkindly to her compa-
nion a few minutes before, she determined to be as good-natured
as she could for the rest of the day; and with this amiable wish
she followed Mary to the green mound that she had mentioned
as being about their own length.

They sat down upou it, and as Agnes was more accustomed to
the English climate than her young friend, she did not take off
her bonnet or her kid gloves, but she looked round on the diffe-
rent tombstones to read such of the epitaphs as she could see
from her present situation.

Mary, on the contrary, being very warm, first disengaged her
hands from her gloves, throwing them down between herself and
Agnes on the grass, and then untying the strings of her hat, she
laid it down carefully on the grassy hillock behind her, and then
turned round to examine the church and the different monuments
about them.

“And this is an English churchyard!” she exclaimed; “and oh,
how unlike the burial-places in India! When I die I should like
to lie in a country churchyard here, or all by myself in some
fragrant garden of the East.”

And surely the place where the two girls sat was one of the
sweetest, most retired spots in our fair island. The village church,
with its mistic tower, the deeply mournful yew, and the grassy
mounds sprinkled with daisies; whilst here and there were tufts of
garden flowers, left to flourish awhile and then decay-—fit emblems
332 THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

of the beings who had planted them, and who, too, had returned
to the earth whence they had sprung.

Mary gazed first at the small building, as if to look through, if
possible, the casement windows and see within; and then, as she
slowly turned from it, her eye fell upon a marble slab at the head
of a grave almost in a line with that on which they sat. The
bright tear-drop rose to her eye, but it did not fall, as resting her
arm on her knee she bent forward to read the name recorded
thereon. With a slight motion of her eyelid she dispersed the tear
that trembled there as she said, “Yes, I was right; Agnes, can
you read that name? See you what is written on that marble
slab?”

Agnes turned her head hastily, and without thinking what she
said, she read the word aloud—for only one word was written
there, and that was the simple name of “Emma.”

As she pronounced it aloud, unconscious of the effect she was
producing, she was much hurt by seeing the burst of sorrow that
name caused to her companion.

“Oh, my Emma! oh, my sister!” she exclaimed; “my sweet,
sweet sister, my beloved companion! and are you gone? are you
lost to me? And where shall I ever make up your loss? how shall
I live without you?”

Agnes was much affected by her tears; she threw her arms round
her friend, and whilst weeping herself, offered to be as a sister to
her, a dear sister, and that she would do her utmost to fill the
place in her heart that had been left void by the death of her
beloved Emma. “Speak to me of your sister,” she said; “tell me
all that you can about her; tell me of her ways, her manners, and
I will try to resemble her—I will try to be to you all that this
sweet sister was.”

It was evident, even to the thoughtless, because happy Agnes,
that Mary longed to talk of her departed sister; and sincerely sorry
for her, she urged her gently, yet earnestly, to speak to her of
Emma, and of the time when they were parted for ever in this world.

“I will,” replied Mary, still weeping; “yes, I will tell you ail,
Agnes, about my beloved: Emma. I love to talk of her,” she added,
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE. 333

“and since I have left India T have never found anybody who.
would listen to. me, or who seemed to care whether I ever had a
sister or not.

“You know, dear Agnes, that I was born in India, but I dare
say even you cannot imagine a place where the greater number
of the people are black, and where few Englishmen are to.be seen
but in red coats, and scarcely an Englishwoman at all unless it
may be the wife of an officer or soldier belonging to the. oes
quartered there.

“JT was born in a place called Meerut, a sitation stuated between.
the two great cities of Delhi and Agra, and my mamma died very
soon. after my birth, leaving me with only one sister who was some
years older than myself. My poor papa was so unhappy when our
mamma died that he could not make up his mind to part with
my sister Emma, who was his only comforter; and as I always
reminded him of mamma he would seldom send for me to sit with
him, because my presence made him think of mamma, and made
him very sad.

“Papa could not send me to England without sending my sister
also; and as he could not make up his: mind to part: with her, I
was allowed to remain in India. And oh, how I love India, dear,
dear India; and you could not believe me if I told you Agnes, how
I detested the sight of nothing but white faces when I first came
to England.

“Tt seemed to. say I was in.a strange land amongst strangers,
and I longed for the black faces I had been accustomed. to love
from a baby.

“My own nurse was born in Cashmere, a country not far from
Delhi, and when.I was quite a little baby she would sing me to
sleep with those sweet airs which make the Cashmerian singing
girls so. famous. She. had been originally intended to have earned
her maintenance by singing and dancing, but this mode of. life
she had been obliged to relinquish, nor can I tell the misfortune
which threw her into what she considered a much humbler state
of living. Piarree, then, had come from one of the loveliest valleys
in the world, from a valley of roses, for Cashmere has been so
334 THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE,

long famous for the brilliancy and sweetness of its roses, that it
has become a saying in the East, when describing anything very
beautiful, to call it ‘like a rose of Cashmere.’ Whilst my papa
amused himself with my sister's company, my nurse would talk to
me of her native valley, and again and again would she eagerly
describe to me ‘the grand feast of roses’ which is held there the
whole time those: delicate flowers remain in bloom. ‘Tents were
pitched in the valley,’ she said, ‘whilst men and women danced
and sang round them at the evening hour, and beautifully-dressed
children flung handfuls of roses amidst the crowd.

“cAt the feast were sweetmeats in crystal cups, consisting of
rose-leaves with lemon, in conserves of a particular kind of cherry,
mixed with fragrant flowers.’

“In Syria alone, or, as my nurse called it, Suristan, or the land
of roses, can these lovely flowers be found in equal luxuriance as
in her own valley of Cashmere.

“TI could have listened to my’ nurse for hours whilst she repeated
her songs and the tales of her birthplace; but yet I loved the
comipany of my sister even more, and at any time I would leave
my nurse to go to my sister. Oh, Agnes, I cannot tell you how
much I loved her. It would be impossible for any person to know
unless situated as I was. Unnoticed by my papa, who had totally
forgotten that I was no longer a baby, left to the indiscreet kindness
of a Mahomedan, a woman who, to the hour I left her, had no
idea of showing her affection in any other way than by every indul-
gence in her power, I should have been’ wholly neglected had it
not been that my sister, though little better instructed than myself,
was my friend, and gained for me from our parent such of the
few advantages as she was permitted herself. Thus all my hopes
of happiness in infancy and’ childhood depended upon Emma, and
never did she fail me, Agnes—never had: I twice to ask my sister
to go between myself and our papa.

“My beloved Emma, have I indeed lost’ you, and, like the
nightingale of the East, what care I for every flower ifmy darling
rose be not in the garden? But, Agnes, my papa had to go to
Calcutta on business, and he took my sister with him, intending
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE. 335

to bring her back immediately, but he was there persuaded to put her
to school, which was a'source of great-sorrow to me when I learned it.

“When papa returned to Meerut he did not. take more notice
of me than before; he went out more than ever with the other
officers of, the regiment, for the presence of my sister was the only
thing that had kept him at home.

“But oh! how miserable, how unhappy was I, deprived of my
sweet companion! and though my poor nurse tried in every way
to comfort me, yet J mourned for Emma, and no-one else could
make up to me for her loss.

“At last there came a messenger to us with the sad news that
our loved one was ill, and pined, too, tor her home; dnd when I
heard it from one of the attendants—for papa told me not of the
letter—I at once forgot all my fears of him and the little notice
he had taken of me, and hastening to his room with tears; I im-
plored him to let my sister return to us.

“«Why, Mary,’ he said, ‘do you, then, love your sister so very
much? My poor child, I thought that your nurse Piarree and your
other attendants were much dearer to you than your sister.’ He
spoke more kindly to me than I had ever heard him do before,
and, accustomed to hear kind words from my nurse, I replied to
him, as I should have done to her, even in the very words ofan
Eastern poet—‘ You may place, papa,’ I replied; ‘a hundred hand-
fuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he
wishes not, in his constant heart, for more: than: the sweet’ breath
of his beloved rose.’

“My papa looked very much astounded at what I said, but some
gentleman coming in at the moment, he only promised me hastily
to-send for my sister, and then dismissed me from the’ room.

“But, alas! my sweet Emma returned but to die near those who
loved her. She came back. to'us so delicate, so fallen away, so
like’ my favourite flower, a drooping’ rosebud, oppréssed’ with the
sun, that from the first glance I had’ of her, young as I was,
was aware all hope was:gone. Before the rainy seasori was past
my beloved sister was laid in our garden underneath the shade of
a large tamarind-tree.
336 THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

“QO how bitterly have I ever since mourned her loss! and how,
day after day, have I wept beside the marble monument that covers
her remains! We had then no: burial-ground at Meerut, but. our
garden. was as beautiful as the delicious. gardens of Shedad, King
of Irim; and there. was. my: sweet sister laid; and when the burning
sun would permit my leaving the house, I would seek that beloved
spot and give full vent to the bitter feelings of loneliness that I felt.

“Tn remembrance of what I had said to my father concerning
the supposed affection of the nightingale for the rose-tree, I caused
my attendants—for I had many devoted to my own use—to plant
my sister’s grave with the sweet roses of Cashmere; and I had
soon the: pleasure of hearing many a warbling bird amid the trees
around.

“For. the nightingale sings from. the pomegranate-trees in the
day, and to its own beloved rose when the sun is set.

“*T am as the rose,’ I, said to my nurse, ‘and’ my sister is as
the nightingale; and her soul having entered into the form of that
sweet bird, will converse with mine as the nightingale does to the
loved, trees to which he sings. I am, indeed, like the rose,’ I added,
rooted as, it were to one spot, whilst Emma, as the winged bird,
can fly from one fair land to another. Had I the power I would
join her ih. her flight.’

“Alas! my little lady,’ replied my nurse, ‘you know not es
you: wish when you desire to be with your sister even now. Mark
you, not, my child, the bending of the tamarind-tree over her
grave ? Cannot you see what mournful tales it tells >”

“«No, Piarree,’ I replied; ‘what is it you mean? Are you not
aware that I loved Emma better than anything in this world ?
and so well, that I am sure I could be happy anywhere if I might
but be allowed: to be always with. her.’

“fAy,’ she answered; ‘but do you not know, my child, that
your sister was not a true believer in our: holy Prophet Mahomet?
and the bending boughs of the tamarind-tree over her remains are
a sure sign that her. spirit has not been permitted to- enter within
the gates of Paradise.’

“Piarree then explained to me her ists that when a tree planted
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE. 337°

over a grave raises its head erect to the sky, it points to where the
soul of the true believer is flown; when bending downwards, it
marks its doom also.

“‘Oh, Piarree,’ I said, bursting into tears, ‘I cannot, I will not,
believe that my sweet Emma is unhappy.’

“My nurse, however, did not attempt to stop my grief, but she
looked grave; and though she promised me she would not again
refer to the present state of my departed sister, yet she owned
she could not but read the bending boughs of the tamarind-tree
as an emblem of her eternal sufferings.

“O how I have wept and prayed beside that tree! Yes, Agnes,
I prayed; but I knew not the God to whom I addressed myself.
No one had taught me anything of a future world, save what had
dropped occasionally from my nurse’s lips; and the God she
worshipped was one from whom no mercy could be expected.
Piarree recommended that I should have the tamarind rooted from
the spot, but I could not do so. It would not spare my sister, and
I still hoped that my bitter tears and entreaties would prove of
some avail for her soul. Alas! the tamarind still bent its graceful
boughs towards the earth, and I saw with an aching heart that as
time passed on, it did so more and more.

“Though the nightingale from the pomegranate-groves warbled © ;
most sweetly, yet was my heart so ill at rest for my sister that I
could scarcely listen to its song, though I had an inward pleasure
in hearing it; for my nurse from infancy had taught me that the
spirits of the dead visit this world in the form of birds, so that I
could not divest myself of the idea that the nightingale was in_
reality the soul of my departed Emma.

“One evening, when the sun was set, I hastened to the grave
of my sister; and conceive my agony on seeing that the tamarind-
tree was bowed. down even to touch the marble monument of her
I loved. I-was half wild with fear and sorrow for my sister, and
bursting into an agony of tears, I know not what I said, but I am
afraid. that I blamed severely the Creator of the world, who I then
imagined was a hard and cruel tyrant, and who gloried in the
sufferings of the creatures He had made.

x
338 THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

“Whilst thus giving way to my tears and passionate grief, Piarree
stood at some distance, without attempting to soothe me; perhaps
in her love for me, her nurseling, she encouraged my fears, in hopes
I should turn to her faith for happiness after death. I have no
proof of this, however, though the thought was often in my mind;
but so dearly did I love Emma, that I could not bear to believe
in a truth that condemned her.

“Piarree did not speak to me, and not being restrained by her
presence, I wrung my hands, and bitterly expressed my fears for
_ my Emma. Whilst doing so, I was suddenly roused by hearing a
strange voice by my side, and instantly ceasing my sobs, I tumed
to see who had thus intruded upon us. It was an elderly English
gentleman, the first I had ever seen who did not wear a soldier's
uniform, for his coat was of black silk. His hair was white with
years, and there was a softened expression in his eye that at once
made me love him. He came forward, and gently putting his hand
on my head, he said, ‘God bless you, my child! God bless
you!’

“ He could say no more, for the big tears rolled down his aged
cheek. :

“*Do you weep for my sister, sir?’ I asked. ‘Did you know
Emma ?’

“ well whilst staying at Calcutta; and when I looked on that fair
young face, I expected that, old as I am, I should have to weep
for her early death.’

“ «Weep sir,’ I repeated; ‘yes, we must weep for her when we
think of what she suffers now.’

“*Emma suffering now? Your sister suffering? No, my dear
child. Who has taught you so cruelly? who can have made you
so wretched as to hint at such a fearful idea?’

“J pointed to the bending boughs of the tamarind-tree as I
answered, ‘See you not that, sir—see you not that? Does it not
tell my dearest Emma’s doom ?”

“The stranger smiled mournfully as he said, ‘Poor neglected
child, unhappy motherless one! Are you, then, left to read your
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE. 339

sister’s fate in stocks and stones, in trees of the forest, or in
things as fleeting and as transitory as the light vapours of the
sky? Know you not of the Redeemer, the Mediator, the Saviour
of mankind—the tree of life in the midst of the garden, upon
whose fruitful branches the Spirit of the Lord shall rest—under
whose shadow one may sit with peaceful and Bely delight, and
whose fruit is sweet to the taste?’ :

“Alas! so much had I been left to myself, or rather to the
guidance of my Mahomedan nurse, that’ I was ignorant almost
asa native of Cashmere upon these subjects.

“But my papa soon joined us, and then I heard that this stranger,
Mr. Mordant, was a clergyman who left England and came to
India in the bright hope of publishing the ‘good news’ to the
poor heathen, and surely never did he find one more ignorant
than myself, though born of Christian parents.

He had been much pleased with my sister when they met
in Calcutta, and he had presented her with a Bible, which I
now possess, and which, I have since learned, was highly prized
by my sister. In it I found my own name written, and it was her
intention, most probably, to have given it to me, and to have
spoken to me on the subject, had not her illness carried her off
so’ suddenly.

“Dear Mr. Mordant stayed with us some weeks, and during
that time he persuaded my father to arrange for my coming
to England, where at least in a church I might hear the
name of our Saviour, for at Meerut we had then no place of
worship.

“Papa consented to my leaving him. I had never been much
of a companion to him, and Mr. Mordant, on the evening before
he left us, taking my hand, led me into the garden beside my
sister’s grave, and informed me of my papa’s intention to send me
to England.

“In that happy land, dear Mary,’ he said, ‘you will hear much
of the blessed state enjoyed by our beloved Emma; for the soul
of our departed one has escaped, as a bird out of the snare of.
the fowlers. The snare is broken, and she has escaped; for her
340 THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE.

help was in the name of the Lord, who hath made heaven and
earth.’ —Ps. cxxiv. 7, 8.

“‘Ah, sir,” I replied, ‘you speak of my beloved sister, too, as
Piarree does; you, too, would describe her as the nightingale.
Will she not, then, love the earth? will she not cling to the
rose, and moum.to part. with it?’

“My dear child,’ said Mr. Mordant, ‘the language of types
and emblems is most beautiful in poetry, and for that reason most.
Eastern poets are famed as superior to those of our country; but.
the question in point is this:—What is the rose, my child to whom
your nightingale would fly? I know what you would say; but in
the Holy Book which I just now quoted, we there shall find that
this same Redeemer, this Holy One of Israel, declares Himself to
be the flower you say your nightingale loves so dearly. Take,
then, the type, my Mary, the type now so sadly perverted by the
heathens, who, having wholly lost sight of the Saviour, have given
to earthly love alone what may as well, nay, better, be attributed
to. heavenly, and in the Scripture read these words:—“I” (the
Redeemer) “am the Rose of Sharon;” and what is added in
another passage of this Holy Book but these lines, addressed to
the Rose of Sharon by one of His chosen ones, even by one such
as our departed Emma:—‘“ My beloved spoke, and said unto me:
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter
is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth;
the time of the singing of birds is come: arise, my love, my fair
one, and come away.”

“And oh, dear Mary, be assured that your beloved sister, the
redeemed of the Lord, shall return with singing unto the heavenly
Zion, and everlasting joy is upon her head, for she has obtained
gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourning have fled away from
her, for God, even God, is He who comforteth her; for with ever-
lasting kindness will I have mercy upon my chosen, saith the Lord
the Redeemer.’

“And now, Agnes,” said Mary, “I have little more to say but
that papa has sent me to England, and though I am perfectly
convinced of my beloved Emma’s happiness, yet I cannot over-

s
THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE. 341

‘come at present my childish fears of trees in churchyards. But
come,” she added, rising, “I am afraid I have tired you with my
long story, so come with me, and let me deck the grave of my
second Emma with roses as beautiful and not less fragrant than
those of Cashmere.”

PRANK BEN OC eA IMUes

OR,
THE SAILOR’S FAMILY.

BY

Mrs. SHERWOOD.









FRANK BEAUCHAMP:

OR,

THE SAILOR’S FAMILY.

»ID you ever shoot at a mark with a bow and arrow; for
2 if you have, I think you will agree with my two little
Henge Frank and Leonard Beauchamp, that it is delightful sport.
They first aimed at a target, but they soon got tired of that,
and they liked better to point at a tree or a post, or at anything
they fancied, where they were sure of doing no mischief.

Mr. Beauchamp himself was a good archer, though his eye was
was not so sure as
it had been in his
younger days.

Mrs. Beauchamp
and her little girl
had often great plea-
sure in looking on
this sport,.and Kate
used to shriek with
joy when any per- ee
son’s arrow hit the 2%
object.

How sweet and
pleasant it is when




-346 FRANK BEAUCHAMP;

God so rules the hearts of children of one family, that what gives
pleasure to one, is sure to give joy to all the rest.

As you have seen Frank and Leonard at their favourite sport,
I will now show them to you in a wood near their father’s house,
into which they had leave to go in fine weather, taking advantage
of the cool, quiet solitude to get their lessons ready for the tutor.

a a Frank has got his book
Les = oytacy; in his hand, and he is
Z i learning his task with
/ great care; but Leonard
has laid down his book,
/. and the slate on which
i #2 his sum is written, and
he is about to gather a
white flower from the
bank, a pretty white star-
“NON, like flower, the name of
Le 2? Sd A which ‘he does not know.
: See The tutor of these boys
was ie clergyman of the parish. They had been with him in the
morning, and had nothing to do for the rest of the day, but to
learn a portion of the Latin grammar by heart, and to cast up a
sum; both of which tasks were to be prepared for the next
morning.

What a lovely path is that which leads through the wood! The
trees spread their branches so far over, that when the wind blows
strong, they sometimes strike each other. This path is very shady
in hot weather, and much sheltered when it is cold.

Frank had not brought his slate out with him, on account of
the danger of rubbing out the figures, but had done his sum at
home: and just as Leonard plucked the star-like flower, he put
his grammar into his pocket, and giving a jump, said, There, I
have done for to-day, so good bye, Leonard, I will run. home
and ask father to go with me, that I may get a bathe in the sea.

-And why may not I go? asked Leonard. Because, replied Frank,
you have not done your tasks, and you know you will be in a




OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. "347

scrape to-morrow. Leonard did not speak, but he gave a look
which seemed to say, who cares? and picking up his book and
slate, he ran with his brother to the house. The boys soon found
their father; but though he could not go with them to bathe, he
gave them leave to go to the cottage of an old sailor called Nor-
ton, and engage him to go with them, as he had done many
times before. If Norton could not attend them, they were not to
go down to the sea.

The boys were not long in running to Norton’s cottage, which
lay between their father’s house and the sea; but they might have
spared their haste, for when they got there, they were obliged to
wait an hour, whilst the old man finished a job which could not
be put off.

How very long and tedious did that hour appear to the boys,
and how many times did Leonard say to Norton, Well! are not
you ready yet? And he became more and more impatient, when
he perceived that a great change was coming over the face of
the sky.

A bank of dark clouds had arisen in the west, and hidden the
face of the sun, which was going down. The sea, which was very
near Norton’s cottage, had taken a leaden colour, and began to
show long lines of angry-looking waves. There was a kind of low
moaning of the wind, which threatened a stormy night.

When Norton had finished his job, which was mending a sail
for some fishing boat, and had put up his working tackle, and had
given one look out of doors. You may as well go home, young
Masters, he said; it won’t do on no account to be going bathing
now, in the teeth of what is coming.

Do you think there will be a storm? asked Leonard. But let
us at least go to the beach;. we shall have time to go to the beach,
even if we find we cannot bathe. We shall be quite as near home
at the beach as we are here; ten minutes’ fast running will bring
us all back.

And in these ten minutes we may all be wet to the skin, replied
the old man, good humouredly; but never mind, it won’t be the
first time any how with me. So to please you we will be off; only
348 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

mind, I will have no bathing this evening, I promise you. I can’t
say but I love to watch the movements of the waters, when they —
are bursting and chafing themselves up for a storm.

Twenty minutes brought Norton and the two boys to the beach;
and it was worth the chance of a wetting, to see the angry clouds,
which hung low in the heavens, and the large waves, which dashed ,
‘with increasing fury against the rocks.

Well! said Norton, I think that we have seen enough for one
while; so come home, young gentlemen. And by way of making
a shorter cut, they left the open beach, and climbed a path on
one side of a little creek, into which the sea was at that time
rushing with great violence, dashing its waves with fury high against
the rocks on both sides.

They had gone but

a very little way in this

direction, when they

saw a poor forlorn and

ragged woman, with two
aera little children, seated
= <== on a huge stone.

At first they could
te ie hardly believe their
e = eyes, and stood quite
s,—,» Still, that they might
. make themselves sure
* that they had not decei-

ved themselves; but
they had made no mistake. There sate the desolate mother with
her two children; one an infant in arms; the other, a sweet little
girl, leaned against her mother, and seemed as if her eyes were
fixed upon some far distant object.

The heart of Frank was very much touched when he beheld
these poor wanderers. Let me go first, he said, and hear what they
say; and he came near, without either being seen or heard by
them; for they were talking to each other, and their attention
seemed to be drawn to some object on the sea or in the sky.








OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 349

The little girl was speaking when Frank came near. Mother! dear
mother! she said, look at those dark clouds. They are beginning
to shed large drops. All things look sad now. Everything weeps.
Oh, Mother! why do you stay here?

The mother pointed to that part of the sea where the last faint
beams of the sun lingered, and there Frank saw the object she was
looking at. A ship far off, labouring amid the heavy sea.

I see it, mother, said the little girl; is father in it?

I could almost hope not, answered the woman; for it will be a
fearful night, and will make many a widow. At the sound of the
mother’s voice the baby, who lay languidly in her arms, aroused
himself and uttered a plaintive cry, .

The mother drew her cloak more closely round him; and the
little girl turning to look at him, showed a face so lovely, so meek
and gentle, and yet so sad, that no one could have looked upon
it without compassion. The dress, too, of the mother denoted the
deepest distress—her feet were bare, and her cloak was thin and
much worn.

Leonard and Norton were now by the side of Frank; and Nor-
ton, with the rough good nature of a sailor, asked the woman how
she could think of remaining where she was with those two help-
less infants.

She started at hearing a voice so near her; but replied at once,
I am houseless and friendless. Would that the sea would swallow
us up as it has swallowed the father of these poor children.

The infant in her arms was roused again by the sound of his
mother’s voice, and again began to moan. The little girl drew her-
self from the partial covering of the cloak, and set herself to soothe
the child: pale and languid as he was, he smiled when spoken to
by his sister. But though you have no house, said Norton, again
addressing the woman, there are lodgings in the village near by.

I have no money, she answered, sadly. I have no choice but to
abide under the open heavens, and may be to perish with my children.

As she spoke, a large and heavy drop of rain fel upon the
uncovered shoulder of the little girl, She shuddered as it fell, and
drew closer to her mother.
350 . FRANK BEAUCHAMP ,;

‘I cannot screen you, Annie, said the mother—the rain will soon
drench my scanty cloak; I have no other covering for you, and
here we must die, unless God sends help.

Frank had slipped a shilling into Norton’s hand whilst the
woman was speaking. He had whispered to the old sailor, that he
had half-a-crown at home, which he should have if he would find
these poor people a lodging; and very much fearing lest he should
burst into tears and cry like a girl if he stayed another moment,
he ran off towards home, being quite sure he had left the poor
woman and her children in very good hands. Frank knew Norton
so well, that he was certain he would never suffer a sailor’s wife,
or may be widow, to spend a night on a stormy beach, whilst he
had a shelter to offer her, even if no money had been promised.

How glad was Frank that he had prepared his lessons the
evening before, because he had leisure in the morning to seek out
Norton, and inquire where he had lodged the woman. From
Norton he heard the poor creature’s history. She was the wife or
widow of a sailor, a worthy upright man, but the vessel in which
he had sailed many months ago, had perished on the coast of
Norway. The poor woman had been struggling on with poverty
during his absence, and when she was told that he had perished
with the rest of the crew, she had left her former home, intending
to go to her father, who resided near York, though with faint
hope that he would be able to help her much, as he was already
burthened with her eldest boy, and two orphan children of her sister’s.
She had been detained on the road by sickness, and was thus
reduced to the miserable state in which she had been found.

This story was sad indeed, and Frank having heard it, hastened,
with his half-crown in his hand, to the cottage of Jane Smith,
where Norton had provided a lodging for the poor wanderers.

There he found the poor woman. Having been very weary, she
had but just come out of her room. She had her baby in her
arms; she looked pale and languid. Jane Smith was kindly preparing
some tea for them.

The woman knew Frank again in an instant, and thanked him
for the relief she owed to him, without which her children must
OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 351

have spent the night unsheltered from the storm. But alas! dear
Master, she added, as she wiped away her tears, I am now as
much distressed as ever what next to do. A new grief is come
upon me, and bends me down to the earth. Had it pleased God
to spare me my children, I could, I think, have borne all other
trials; but my little Annie is very ill. She has burned with fever
all the night, as this good woman knows. God forbid that I should
be called upun to part with that sweet child; yet my loss would
surely be her gain.

The poor mother could add no more. But Jane Smith confirmed
all she said, dnd calling Frank aside, she said, Master Beauchamp,
I am much mistaken if that little girl ever gets over it, and a
sweeter spoken or more thankful child I never saw, in any rank
of life: she cannot be removed,—what is to be done?

Frank instantly put his half-crown into Jane Smith’s hand. This,
he said, will do for the present; then adding: Poor little Annie, I
hope she will not die, he promised the cottager that she should ~
soon hear what was to be done, and walked quickly away to his
tutor’s house, which.
was much nearer than
his father’s. He ran
without ceremony into
the parlour.

Mrs. Russell, the
good clergyman’s wife,
was seated there busy
with her needle, whilst
she listened to her
eldest girl, who was
teaching the younger
to say a pretty verse
about a flower which she held in her hand. It is this—

“Sister, take this pretty flower, ;
And tell me where it grows;

Who made yon pretty jessamine,
And this sweet budding rose?”


352 FRANK BEAUCHAMP;

The answer to which is:—

“Tis God, my love, ’tis he who makes
All pretty flowers to grow.”

But the sudden entrance of Frank put a stop to this little
lesson.

Frank could not have told the story of the sailor’s unhappy
widow to a kinder person than Mrs. Russell.

It is school-time now, Master Beauchamp, she said; wait in the
school or play-room after you have done your lessons, and I will
send when I am ready, and we will go together to Jane Smith’s,
and see what can be done; in the meantime I will engage our
good doctor to look in at the little girl. Frank went from the
parlour into the school-room, and he was happy on two accounts,
—first, that he had got his tasks so completely that he had no
fear of being turned back; and secondly, because the doctor was
to go to little Annie. —

Mr. Russell had eight young gentlemen under his care; six of
them boarded in his house. Frank and Leonard were accustomed
to be at the school from nine till five, and dined there, excepting
on half holidays. Frank, though he had learned his lessons so
perfectly, found it difficult to keep his attention fixed on his work,
for. his thoughts would run from time to time to the cottage of
Jane Smith, and its interesting inmates. Long before five o’clock
arrived, he grew very impatient, and if Mr. Russell had not known
what he had told Mrs. Russell, and had not guessed the direction
that his mind was taking, he would have wondered what could
have made him so different from the careful attentive boy that he
usually was.

In the interval which was allowed the boys for play, after dinner,
Frank, instead of joining in the sports of his schoolfellows, told
each of them as he could get an opportunity, of the case of the |
poor woman with her helpless children, and appealed to their
kind feelings to do what they could to help her. Several of them
were not backward in giving what they could spare; two gave a
shilling, and three of them gave sixpence each, so that in all they
OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 353

contributed three and sixpence, which Frank determined to give
to Mrs. Russell, that she might lay it out in food or clothing or
in any other way that she might think of most service to the
sufferers. :

While Frank was thus employed, Leonard was engaged with
several of his school-fellows in building some rabbit hutches. There
was no harm in doing this; on the contrary, it would have been
a very proper employment on another day. But as he had seen
the state of the woman and the children, and knew all that Frank
did respecting them, and might have done as much to relieve
them, it was very unfeeling and thoughtless of him not to unite in
his brother’s efforts.

It is very wrong not to do good when one may see that it is
to be done. But it is very much worse when one has a living
example before one’s eyes which one has only to follow.

However Leonard did not think so, and was the gayest amongst -
his school-fellows. Just at five o’clock Mrs. Russell sent for Frank.

The doctor had told Jane Smith that Anriie was very dangerously
ill; and Mrs. Russell, when she saw her, was of the same opinion.
She was worn out with hardships, and a severe cold caught the
evening before had hastened her end. =

On perceiving that Mrs. Russell looked upon her with much pity:
Kind lady, she said, do not be sorry for me, but please to be
sorry for my mother -and little Willy; if it was not for them I
should be glad to go away, and fly like the birds high into the
bright sky, where I should see that glorious Saviour, father used
to teach me to love.

Your father then, my little girl, said Mrs. Russell, was a pious
man.

God made him good, lady, replied the child; and God has made
me to love himself, and to wish to go to him; only I am sorry
for my mother and my little brother.

Some one said that Anne had not tasted a bit since she had
come there, and that perhaps if she had anything nice, she might
be tempted to eat it.

Away flew Frank to his mother, to engage her to make some-

Y
354 FRANK BEAUCHAMP;

thing nice for the little girl; nor did he find his mother less ready
to help the poor people than he had found Mrs. Russell. She
immediately set her cook to work to make something which might
be harmless, and yet agreeable to a sick person; and it being a half
holiday Frank waited till it was ready, that he might carry it himself.

Nor was Kate slow in trying to help; she was allowed by her
mother to make up a bundle of old fine linen for the little girl:
and thus did God put it into the hearts of these worthy people
to do all they could for the dying child.

When the things were ready, Frank would carry them himself;
and his father was so good as to go with him.

Mr. Beauchamp wished to form some plan for the poor woman’s
remaining in Jane Smith’s house, until the illness of Annie ended
one way or another.

There had been a shower just before Frank set out with his
father: but you may see by the rainbow that they did not delay
long after the shower had ceased.

Annie, too, saw that rainbow. She was raised up in her bed to
look at it.

Mrs. Russell had just come in, and Annie had already learned
to love Mrs. Russell.

Lady, she said to
Mrs. Russell, look
there, see that beauti-
ful thing is set in the
clouds to remind us
that God loves us; see,
see, how bright it is!
and yet I can look
upon it. Is not God
good, ma’m, to send
it now, to make me
glad? But it is going,
—it fades away; per-
haps I shall not see it again in this world, but I shall see it where
I.am going; and there it will never fade.


OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. - 355.

Who taught you these things, my child? asked Mrs. Russell.

When my father was with me, answered the child, he told me
the meaning of the rainbow. He taught me many things which
make me very happy now; and since he has been gone, God, I
think, has taught me many more.

When Frank came in and brought what had been prepared for
Annie, she smiled. She knew him again, and remembered that he
had been the first to bring her mother any comfort. She could
take little of what was brought her, but was anxious that the baby
should have all the nice things which were provided.

Little Annie lingered for more than a fortnight, and in that time
Frank and Kate visited her every day, and always brought some
things with them, which they hoped might do her good. But before
three weeks had passed away, the mortal remains of the gentle
Annie had found a resting-place in the grassy churchyard of the
village. ,

It is a bitter trial for a parent to lose such a child as Annie,
for she had been the delight and comfort of her mother from the
time when she was a little baby. We read in the Bible of the
heart of man being desperately wicked; we read it, and we learn
it by rote, but we do not understand it, until God teaches us the
meaning of it. We do not believe that the words belong to. our-
selves as much as they do to other people; and we do not under-
stand that the wickedness of little children’s hearts, shows itself
before they can speak in their greediness and selfishness, and in
their being ready to scratch and fight for anything they wish for,
often striking their nurses with their little hands, when they cannot
get what they want. We by nature love ourselves above all things;
and as we get older, the love of ourselves remains even after we
have been taught to try to hide it. There is no cure for this fault
of our nature; it is bad, and it remains bad as long as it exists.
God knows how bad it is, and therefore, in his great mercy, he
gives to many in this present life a -new and holy nature; he puts
his Spirit into us, and makes us new creatures; and when we have
got this new nature, it fights against our selfishness, and will not
let it rule us. There have been many blessed children who have
356 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

had clean hearts given to them, almost before they knew their right:
hands from their left, and little Annie was one of these. Her motherdid
not understand, till after the death of this sweet child, what had
made her so different to other children; but her father knew that.
it was God who had thus blessed his little girl; and often and
often when he was far away over the seas, he used to think of
the wonderful power of God in changing the heart of a little child,
‘and making his glory thus to shine in a mere baby. He used to.
remember at those times all her pretty gentle ways; and it often
came into his mind, though the thought was sad to him, that she
was not fit for this world, and may be might not live to bear its.
troubles.

No one could know Annie without loving her, and even during
the little time she lived after she came to the village, she had won
the hearts of several persons.

Whilst Annie lay on her death-bed, several letters passed between
Mr. Russell and the clergyman of the parish in which the father
of the sailor’s widow resided.

The clergyman gave a very satisfactory account of Susan Amwell,
the poor widow, saying that she was an honest, well-meaning per-
son; but he spoke of her father as having children depending on
him, and wholly unable to help her.

The following

ee f=
i Xe OES : picture will show
A ae e you one of the
7 cottage girls who
had known and
loved Annie, kneel-
ing and strewing
flowers upon the
mound underwhich
her remains were
laid.
Susan was so
ee wholly overcome
by the loss of Annie, who had been her comfort under all her


OR, THE SAILOR'S FAMILY. 357

former trials, that at first she seemed to be unable even to think
for herself. After’ a little while, however, Providence seemed to

arrange things for her. Jane Smith invited her still to occupy her

‘Spare room, and the ladies who had hitherto been so kind to her,

provided her with needle-work, and she was found to be very quick

~ and skilful, and it was hoped would soon be able to maintain
herself and her child. Still, as the baby was weakly, and she was
utterly destitute of clothing and many other necessaries, she con-
tinued to need much help; but her friends, however, were pleased
to find that she did not attempt to encroach upon their kindness,
and that she tried to make as decent an appearance as her poor
‘means would allow, never seeming to forget wees they had done
for her departed Annie.

But now I am going to tell you how many of the wants of this
poor woman were supplied, and how in some measure (through
the goodness of God) she owed this supply to that dear child
who was then no more with her. Frank Beauchamp had, by
the divine grace, been a thoughtful, feeling boy, quite from a
very little child; but Kate had been thoughtless like her brother
Leonard.

It pleased God, however, that her mind should have been much
‘struck with the view of the sufferings, and the very happy death
of Annie. Children feel more for other children than for grown

. people, and are more alarmed when they see them die.

Kate was made to feel that this little girl was altogether different
from herself; that she was not giddy, nor selfish, nor forgetful of
her God, though she had wandered over the country almost: begging
her bread; and whilst she thought of this difference, she seemed,
for the first time in her life, to feel the truth of what her mother
had often told her; that the nature of all human beings ‘is vile;
and that God only makes some to differ from Cece by giving
them a new and divine nature.

It was one fine summer’s morning that this thought came into
her mind. She had done her lessons, and her mother had given
her leave to take her needlework into some shady place out of
doors.
358 . FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

The churchyard was close to her father’s garden, and she had

_liberty to go into it when she pleased.
She was thinking, as
' she often did, ot Annie;
and thither she went,
and sat down on a heap
of sod opposite to the
new-made grave, and
there she sat, her work
neglected, whilst God
was putting many sweet
_ thoughts into her young
mind, and her heart was
* lifted up in prayer. When
I tell you what was her
. hhext conversation with
her brother Frank, you will know the nature of some of these
thoughts.

You know, Frank, said Kate, when they next met, that we are
each allowed sixpence a week. I have been thinking, that I will
save mine till I have enough to buy Willy a frock and cap to
wear on Sundays, and I will get mother to cut them out, and I
will make them myself.

I will help you, Kate, replied Frank. You shall have all my
sixpences till you have enough for the things. I was going to buy
some laughing-gas and a bladder, but I am better without them.

Kate saved her sixpences, and Frank helped her, and when the
things were ready, Susan was sent for to bring Willy. The little
boy was quite clean, though his clothes patched and darned, and
very thin. How happy was Kate when she had dressed him, and
he was set on his feet to run about the room. See, he is admiring
the pattern of the carpet, and he is trotting to look into Mrs.
Beauchamp’s work-basket. He is not frightened though his mother
was out of the room whilst Kate dressed him.

Kate wished that Annie could have seen him, he fooled so
pretty ; but her mother told her that Annie was above all earthly


OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILF. 359

concerns now, and could, if she knew anything that was passing
here below, only rejoice in knowing that those whom she left
behind were living according to the will of their God.



A few days after this, the summer’s holidays for Mr. Russell’s
boys began, and Leonard could think of nothing but of the plea-
sures he was to enjoy.

Father, he said, the very next morning, may I have a ride on
Norton’s donkey? Do say yes, father. And he stood before his
father, shaking and fidgetting as if he could hardly wait to hear
the answer before he was off. ;

- My dear boy, said his father gravely, why is this great hurry?
Have not you six weeks of holidays before you? I must think
before I give you an answer; because if I say yes about the donkey
to-day, I shall-be asked to say yes about something else to-
morrow, and so on for every day; and these schemes of yours
all cost money.

Now as you and Frank are getting to be great boys, I wish you.
to use some self-command, and sometimes to deny yourselves some
of your whims; for selfishness, my son, is the great sin of our
nature, and is what separates us from God, whose nature. is love.

I do not understand you, father, answered Leonard.

Well, then, said Mr. Beauchamp, we will speak of this subject
another time; but perhaps you will understand me when I tell
360 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

you my plan:—for the next seven weeks, I will give each of you
my children five shillings a week, and I will add another five
shillings at the end of the holidays, which will make up two pounds
to each of you; but, remember, that this money is to cover all
which you spend for your private pleasures.

Leonard was no longer slow
in understanding his father, or
in expressing his joy and thank-
fulness. Two pounds, he thought,
why I shall never get through
*-it; and as he ran off full speed
to Norton’s, he bought a whip
at a small shop by the way,
and thought that he would have
a ride every day, not reckoning
that Norton charged a shilling |
- for the use of the donkey, and
that there was a turnpike some-
times to pay, and that the whip had already cost him a shilling.
Thus his first day’s pleasuring had taken more than one-third of
; his allowance. There he is,
riding away, and he has just
met Frank, and is telling him
what his father had said, and is
inviting Frank to try to get
another donkey, to ride with
him.

But Frank had promised to
read a story in a new book to
yi; his sister, whilst she did some
needle-work, and Frank was
not the boy to break a promise.

Perhaps you would like to
hear the story that Frank read
to his sister; but first look at
the picture which represents the Condor Vulture.




OR, THE SATLOR’S FAMILFE. 301

The condor is the largest bird of the vulture kind. When its
wings are extended, they measure from ten to sixteen feet from
one end to the other.. The hollow part of the quill of its largest
feathers is equal in width to the finger of a man.

The bird is furnished with talons like a cock, and its beak is
so strong and sharp, that it can pierce a bull’s hide. The feathers
are black, sprinkled white, and on its head it has a crest. Condors
are of the hawk species, and they dwell in the highest mountains
of South America.

Sometimes many of them meet. together; and clap their wings ~
so loudly, that all who hear them are terrified. Then,. again, they
often soar so high, that they look like motes in the sun. They
descend often together into the valleys in search of food. They
can lift a lamb from the ground and carry it away; they tear out
the eyes of calves and foals, and then kill them. Two or three
together will attack and kill large beasts.

When they can get food, they gorge till they are too heavy
to fly away, and remain until they have thrown up some part of it.

The way in which the people take them is the following. In
a round dish is a piece of beef well sprinkled with salt. The
condor has been gorging himself from that and other platters till
he is scarcely able to move; he spreads his wings and tries to fly,
but he is too heavy, and, as his custom is, he tries to throw up
his food; but the salt prevents him from being sick; then the
people surround him, and destroy him with guns, and sticks, and
stones. ,

When Frank had finished his story, he told his sister what he
had heard from Leonard about the allowance of five shillings a
week to be given to each of them.

I waited to see if father would tell us himself, he added, but
Tsee he is gone out, and I cannot keep it to myself any longer,
sister.

Why, Frank, said Kate, it is such a vast deal of money, that
I do not think we can ever spend it.

I have been thinking, answered Frank, that father has planned
this, that he may teach us by it how soon money may be spent, -
362 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

without being the better or happier for it. When father pays for
all our schemes, we do not know how much money they come to;
but when we are obliged to pay for them out of our allowance,
then we shall know it.

. The young brother and sister talked a_long time on this subject.
Kate spoke of little Annie, and said how earnestly she wished to
‘be made free from selfishness, like that child; and they both agreed,
if their father gave them the money, to put it by till there was an
opportunity of spending it well; and one very soon came.

Susan Amwell was found so worthy, and had herself been so
‘well taught, that it was proposed to her to set up a little dame-
school in the village, which was much wanted; but this could not
be done in Jane Smith’s cottage. Another was therefore to be hired,
and a little furniture got. Mr. Beauchamp and Mr. Russell assisted
with a few necessary articles, and Frank and Kate undertook to
provide forms and a table for the school-room.

How could they sperid their money to a better purnose ? and how
pleasant it was for Frank, during the holidays, to be going every
day to see how the carpenter got on with the benches and other
things.

How neat and nice did the room look when everything was
ready, and Mrs. Amwell, too, in the new plain clothing the ladies
had provided.

As to poor Leonard, when he had in three weeks contrived to
spend all his money in donkey-hire and some other schemes, when
he had got two or three tumbles, disordered himself once or twice
with laughing-gas, broken two whips, lost his every-day hat, and
torn his oldest suit to tatters, he came to his brother, confessed
his folly, and said that he hoped henceforth to be more with him,
and to enjoy the same pleasures with him.

When Susan Amwell found herself settled, and her school filling,
she sent to her father to invite him to come and live with her.
He was an old soldier, and had a pension of about twenty pounds
a year. He was to bring with him, besides hér own boy, her two
orphan nieces. Susan thought that they might help each other,
and, by the blessing of God, live very happily together; for it is
OR, THE SAILORS FAMILY. 363

God only who gives peace and contentment to families. Susan’s
friends approved this plan, and so the letter was sent, and the
answer came soon. The old man was so pleased with his daughter’s
invitation, that he said in the answer, that she might look for them
any day after the next three weeks were past.

Old soldiers go about their affairs in a very different way from
other people. The old man sold his goods, gave up his cottage,
and having bought an old donkey, on which he packed the clothes
of the whole family, they all set out to march from their village
in Yorkshire down to the south coast. How long they were on
the road, we do not pretend to say, nor how many times they
were soaked to the skin by showers; but upon the whole they had
fine weather. If littke Amwell and his two cousins, who were bigger
than himself, were to be believed, they had a most delightful
journey. Sometimes one of the children, and sometimes another,
got on the donkey between the panniers. As to the old man, he
scorned to go on four legs, so long as he could get on upon two;
and whenever the children asked him to take a ride, he bristled
up like one who felt himself affronted, and on these occasions he
was sure to come out with some story of the marches and coun-
termarches he had made in former days and in distant countries.
But though he was hot and touchy, he was a very good-natured
old man, and was ready to put himself to any inconvenience to
please the children. Many a happy dinner these travellers had
under a hedge or a tree, beside the roads along which they tra-
velled, whilst the poor donkey feasted and rested near them. The
bread and cheese which they brought with them tasted so good,
and the water so sweet, for they drank nothing but water on the
march, and their grandfather had so much to say and to tell to
them, that his discourse was as pleasant as a book, and pleasanter
too than many books.

He was a pious old man, and pious in the right way; for he
had got all his notions of religion by the blessing of God in reading
the Bible; and there was scarcely a day in their travels in which he
did not make the children read a chapter or two aloud from the old
Bible, which was packed up in a cloth and carried in the panniers.
364 5; FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

Would not you,-my young reader, like to make a journey of a
hundred miles, in a quiet, safe country like England, in the same
kind of way, supposing the season to be open and fine, and the
company pleasant? It is quite a mistake to think that finery and
grandeur make people happy. To know that we are loved by God,
and pardoned for all our sins through the merits of Christ our
Lord, and that the Holy Spirit is dwelling within us, lies at the
root of all contentment; and when we are quite sure of these
things, we may find happiness in any place where God puts us,
and quite as much of it when eating bread and cheese under a
hedge, as in dining with a prince in a golden hall.

But before this journey was at an end, the whole party were
beginning to stand in need. of much more scouring and repairing
than they could get upon the road. Little Amwell’s shoes and
stockings were fairly out at the toes, and his every-day jacket
quite out at the elbows, for his grandfather would not let him
wear his best. The two little girls also looked very like gipsies,
and there was not a tidy person amongst them but the old man,
who seemed as tight at last as at first, and as brisk too. He much
enjoyed this roving life, and was almost sorry when he found, by
a distant view of the Channel, that they were coming to their
journey’s end, though he was impatient to see his good daughter.

It was about noon on a Saturday, little more than a month .
after the answer had come to Susan Amwell, when the travellers
first saw the sea from the top of a rising ground over which the
road passed. They had come far that morning, or, as the old man
said, had made a forced march; and though they had only a few
miles to go, as the grandfather reckoned, yet they were forced to
take some rest. There was a spreading tree, and a circle of grass
around it, just at the top of the height. They unloaded the ass,
and took the bit from the creature’s mouth, that it might enjoy
itself. :

They also seated themselves on the grass, and spread out their
bread and cheese, whilst the old man took up his parable, that is,
began to talk as though he were reading out of a book.

So here we are, he said, nigh to our journey’s end, and have
OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 305

the greatest of causes to be thankful to God that we have come
so far without mischief or harm. Now I see down below us, betwixt
us and the sea, as many as three villages, with their churches
half-hidden, as one may say, among the trees; for the country is
wonderful rich, seeing it is so nigh the salt water. Now I would
gladly know which of those three villages is the one to which we
are bound. There is a bit of uncertainty, for the folks at our last
halt knew as little of the bearings of the country, as a recruit
knows of the duties of a general. They have not half the sense of
the red men of the New World, who know as many miles of their
country- as our people know feet of this land.

But, passing over this little matter of uncertainty here we are,
and we may say that we see our home before us, though as it
might be somewhat confusedly; and all I have to say is this, may
we all, when we come near to the end of our journey of life, have
the same feelings of the care of God, and the promise of happiness
when our travels shall be over, as we now have.

The old soldier might have gone on for half an hour more, if
he had not seen an old man with a net over his shoulder, plodding
up the hill the way they had come: this was Norton; and the
grandfather calling to him, asked him the names of the villages
before them.

Instead of answering, Norton said: And who be you, and, whence
did you come? You have travelled far, methinks.

Be you from the New World, asked the grandfather, that you
can’t answer a straightforward question ? I never knew a chap across
the Atlantic as ever could answer straightforward to anything put
in the form of a question.

Oh! said Norton, you have been a far traveller, I see. You are
an old soldier, and I am an old sailor, and I expect that I know
who you are, and who those children are; and if so be, I can
tell you that your daughter and the child is well, and that she
has been on the look-out for you all this week, wondering at
your delay.

What’s her name? asked the old soldier, wishing to be quite
sure of no tricks before he put out his hand to Norton.
366 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ,;

Susan Amwell, replied Norton.

All right, said the wary soldier shaking the old fisherman heartily

by the hand, that is the very pass-word; so come and just sit
down with us a bit, and take of what we have, though it is scarce
worth offering, and tell us all about it. Do you know much of my
daughter, and did you know that pretty one that died?
- Norton threw the net with a flourish upon the ground, and the
next minute he was seated on the grass with the old soldier and
the children, as ready to tell as they were to ask all about Susan
and Annie, and the kind friends whom they had met with in the -
village. :

And so, said the grandfather, so as you say, that little precious
one died in the faith, and she is now happier than we could have
made her; and she lies, you say, under the yew trees in yon
churchyard which lies right afore us: and that is the village. Come,
children, let us be moving; methinks the last few miles of a journey
always seem longer than all the rest.

It was five in the evening when Norton led the party up the
village street; all the people came to their doors to stare.

The good folks think that you have picked up a parcel of tram-
pers, friend, said the grandfather; but these young ones are fresh
to a long march; and you know it is only the old soldiers who
can keep themselves tight and smart in their fatigue clothes.

Never mind the outside, if the children are well, replied Norton;
that is soon set right.

What a joyful meeting there was when Norton brought the tra-
vellers to the door of Susan’s cottage; and there was nothing talked
of in the church-porch the next day, but the arrival of Susan’s
father and the children.

The next half-year passed happily with the little Beauchamps,
and when the Christmas holidays were come, the children’s great
uncle came to see them.

It was always a happy time when uncle John arrived;—he
always brought useful and curious things with him, for his nephews
and nieces. Amongst other things, he this Christmas brought a toy
to surprise them.
OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 367

It is a little swan, in the beak of which is a loadstone; and.
when the swan is put into a basin of water, it can be attracted



by a magnet to any side of the dish; but if one end of the
magnet is held to it, it swims away. I assure you there was no
small astonishment among the children, till their uncle explained
to them the principle on which this was done.

Uncle John made a very long visit at Mr. Beauchamp’s, and
might have stayed much longer, if a letter had not come from a
friend in Scotland, requiring his presence on some important busi-
ness. He prepared to start the following morning, much to the
sorrow of his young friends.

Little did Frank expect the happiness which this letter was to
bring him. He did not expect that uncle John, would ask his
father’s leave to take him with him, and that his father would
give his leave at once. Frank had never yet been twenty miles
from his home, and now he was going some hundreds, and ane
uncle John was to be with him.

The first part of their journey was along a railroad, which some-
times went over the country on high embankments of earth, and
368 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

sometimes through dark tunnels. The following picture shows the
’ entrance to a tunnel. 3

But much astonished as Frank had
been at the railway, he was even more
surprised at the Menai Bridge, near Bangor,
to which uncle John turned aside in his
way to Liverpool, in order that Frank
might have the pleasure of seeing it.

This bridge stretches across the Menai
Straits, from Caernarvonshire to the Isle
of Anglesea, without being supported by
any arches in the middle; the bridge being
suspended by immense chains, attached
to strong piers on each side, built into
the land. This bridge is so high that a first-rate ship can go
under it full sail.





Dumiries, in Scotland, was the place to which uncle John and
‘Frank went: they made part of their journey by sea. Uncle John
soon settled his business, and then he and Frank had nothing
to do but to see what was to be seen.
Ok, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 369.



It was the coldest time of the year, and Frank thought Dum-
fries much colder than England, but he liked anything for a change.
They took up their lodging at an inn, and as soon as the business
was off uncle John’s mind, he took Frank all over the town and
its neighbourhood.



The roofs of the cottages and the meadows were white with
frost, and they had to walk very quickly to keep themselves from
freezing too.

Frank was much pleased to see some boys and men playing at
goff. Goff is a game in which the parties divide equally, and every
two have a ball between them, which they strike with clubs or
sticks, the one always throwing it towards the other, and it is his
concern to avoid it as it is struck back.

There is the game to warm a man in such weather as this, said
a countryman with a hatchet in his hand going towards the cottage.

Z
370 _ FRANK BEAUCHAMP;

And a game where one might have the chance of some hard
blows, my friend, replied my uncle John.

What, more kicks than halfpence, said the cottager. May be so,
but I says to our lodger, who came to us half dead, I may say,
from somewhere up in the north, says I, Mr. Amwell, if you had
_ played every day at that there game up in that country, you would
never have fallen into the condition in which you now are.

Amwell did you say? asked Frank, who was not quite sure that
he had heard the name aright.

But the countryman had so much to say that he did not hear
him.

Oh, sir, he added, if you was to hear the unaccountable tales
he tells of the country he comes from, you would be all amaze-
ment. To be sure, I myself have been a great traveller, being a
native of a country as far south as York, as you might know by
my tongue; but still I can hardly credit all he says about the
people wearing nothing but fur for covering, and many other strange
things as he tells. He went out some eighteen months ago, in the
timber trade, to the coast of Norway, and there his vessel suffe-
ted shipwreck, as he says; and he was taken up for dead by some
of the honest folks, and was months before he could reach even
‘as far as this place.

The queer people there, he says, were
very kind to him, and he was with them
all through the last winter, and late in
the spring; and then, sir, he was so for-
tunate as to get a situation on board a
whaler—and a good situation it was, for
whilst on board he gave such satisfaction,
that he got promoted to be master’s mate,
and a pretty thing he made of it. He has
only been here a fortnight, .being forced
to lie by with the rheumatism.

Frank would have spoken again, but the
cottager was either deaf, or pretended to
.be so.


OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 371

He has brought’ his leather buskins and snow boots with him,
he added, and they must make a man look uncommon droll when
they are on.

And what do you think, sir, but he tells me that up there in,
the north they have a kind of deer, which they call the rein-deer,
because they. put it to: draw a sledge, and guide it with a rein;
and so, sir, as I’ was:saying—

It does not signify, thought Frank, I cannot bear this man’s
tattle any longer; if.he .will not hear me, I must take some other
way of satisfying my curiosity.

. Without waiting another moment, he ran forward to the cottage
which he found a far more respectable place than he had supposed
it to be. _

There was a very decent woman, the cottager’s wife, in the kit- .
chen, and from the kitchen there was a door into an inner room,
which was by the little Frank saw of it-set out with some taste.

The woman seemed to be something much. superior-to her hus-
band; and there was a boy, her son, about Frank’s age, who-was
just coming .in at one door as Frank entered at the other... -

And the first words he heard were: Oh, .mother! mother! is not
he kind? he has bought me these pretty images, and all because
he says I nurse him so well.

Before the mother could answer, eee stepped forward, and
said he wished to. see the lodger. The woman looked at him, and
seeing that he was dressed like a gentleman, she directed her son
to conduct him into the lodger’s room.

The -picture which follows will show you he room. There sits
the sick man in his chair, with a pillow at his back; there is a
jug of water standing on the floor by him, and a bottle of medicine;
behind him is his bed from whence he has not Jong risen; there
are the figures of coarse pottery, which the sick man bought from
a woman who came to the door that very morning;..and Frank
had just turned to make himself quite sure of the name of. the
lodger, before he speaks to him. He did not think of oa aes
before he went into.the room.

When told the name, and when que aesurad “that: re man
372 FRANK BEAUCHAMP ;

was no other than the husband of Susan Amwell, Frank had
nothing to do but to
introduce himself to him,
and to tell him that he.
knew his wife and child,.
and where they were..
He did not at the first
moment recollect that he
should have one piece of
very painful news to tell
him; if he had, he per-
haps would not have been
in such a hurry to make
himself known to him.

He had however gone:
far in his story before he thought of this; and when he did think
of it, there was nothing else to be done, but to tell the whole:
truth, and to try to comfort the poor man for the loss of his little
Annie, by telling how happily she had died, and how his instruc-
tions had been blessed to her in her last moments.

John Amwell, we may be assured, was a pious man. We had
proofs of that before we knew him. Deep as his grief was for the:
child of his heart, yet he was enabled to take much comfort from
the account given by Frank of her last days. He wept, as fathers.
weep for a departed child; but he pressed Frank’s hand in his,
and endeavoured to express his gratitude to him for all the kindness.
which had been shown to his poor wife and forlorn babes.

Their conversation was very long, and uncle John, who now began
to understand how things were, and who this lodger was, would
not suffer any one to interrupt them. He had followed Frank into:
the cottage, and was kindly listening to the long stories of the
cottagers, for both wife and husband had a vast deal to say.

From them he learned that John Amwell had sent more than
one letter to his wife since he had been with them, but had received
no answer, her present abode being unknown at the postoffice to
which the letters were sent.


- OR, THE SAILOR'S FAMILY. T3738

He told uncle John that his lodger seemed to be not so badly
off for money as might have been expected from a sailor who liad
been shipwrecked; he knew that he had made a pretty penny in
the whaler, and had money saved somewhere, as well as all that
was needed for present expenses.

Uncle John and Frank remained several days at Dumfries after
they had found John Amwell. As the weather became warmer from
the advance of spring, the sick man got better; his mind, in
‘consideration of the many mercies to the rest of his family, and
of the great peace of his sweet child’s death, daily, after the first,
became more easy and reconciled; and before Frank left, he was
able to look forward to follow him very soon; and he could not
refuse Frank the pleasure of opening in his own way to Susan,
the good news of his being alive; for Frank was able to tell him,
by a letter from Kate, that no news of him had yet reached his
wife. It was settled, however, that Amwell was to write to Frank
when he could fix the day of his arrival at his new home.

There is not much to say of uncle John and Frank’s journey
home; they seemed, as they travelled southward, to have left
winter far behind them. Instead of frost and cold winds, they found
opening buds and fragrant flowers in the sweet south.

Frank told his secret to no one but his father and mother, and
his sister and brother, though he went very soon to see Susan
Amwell, and found her old father and his eldest son with her,
with his two orphan grandchildren. He liked Edward, Susan’s
eldest boy, at the very first sight, because he smiled like Annie.

How impatient were Frank, and Leonard, and Kate for the
letter which was to fix the day for the arrival of John Amwell.
When it came, it fixed not only the day but the hour, all being
well, and the worthy man said he would come to a village about
two miles distant from his wife’s house, by coach, at about four
in the afternoon of the day after the letter came.

Mrs. Beauchamp was of opinion, that Susan Amwell should be
prepared to receive him. She did not like surprises, she said; but
Mr. Beauchamp said it was a pity to disappoint Frank, who had
done so much for the family; and then it was agreed that Susan
374: - FRANK BEAUCHAMP;

should be told: that she was to give a holiday, dress herself and
her family in their best, and prepare a little treat, for some fs
were coming to see her.

I hope, said Susan, that those Gictas will prove to be you,
Master Beauchamp, and Master Leonard and Miss Kate. I have
no friends who can be so welcome.

We will all come, replied Frank, we have got leave.

Four o’clock was the time at which the coach was to stop at
he place where Amwell was to get down. Frank had sent old
Norton to the place, to bring the person who was expected the
shortest way over the fields; and at four o’clock he set out with
his brother and sister to the cottage. On their way they saw little.
Beier oe oe with a group of his schoolfellows.

Kate called him to go
with her to see the company
who were coming to his
mother’s. He came forwards.
smiling, presenting her with
his violets, for he loved her
very much. Mrs. Beauchamp
had stated to Frank, that
it would be but right to pre-
pare the poor woman a little
before her husband might
appear, and Frank and Leo-
nard promised to do it very
carefully.

But the boys had under-
taken what was beyond their
skill; their very looks betrayed
almost everything an knew, before they spoke one word.

Before they could scarcely say, Susan, you must be prepared
for wonderful news; she had fallen on one knee, and caught hold
of Frank’s hand in one of hers, then raising her other hand-in
supplication, she exclaimed, Oh! for pity’s sake, tell me what I
have to hope; has my heavenly Father delivered him from the waves ?


OR, THE SAILORS FAMILY. 375

Her father and the two orphans were behind her; how anxiously
did they all look at the boys; but Susan had turned pale as marble.
She could not have spoken another word.

Mother was right, thought Frank; she cannot bear to. have her
hopes raised, and yet to be left ie doubt. He hastened then to
tell her that her husband was safe, and that he was even expected
that hour.

It was well that Mrs. Beau-
champ, and Mrs. Russell came .
in at that moment, otherwise
Susan would have fainted quite
away; indeed, the ladies had -
great difficulty in keeping her
from so doing, by . throwing
water in her face, and using -
other means. Young people are
very fond of making surprises,
but even joyful surprises are ,
very hard to be borne; we are “7
not made for them; the more
quietly things are managed in de
general, the better. Frank was:
very sorry when he saw Susan
looking so very pale.

But the colour soon came back.to her anes apa lips, and
then she. began to cry and. sob. as if something very bad had
happened; and this frightened Frank again. But his mother said,
Let her cry, it will do her good; nothing. could be better.

There was, not one child in the house who could understand why
Susan should cry,.when she must be so happy.

After a little while, however, the poor woman became more calm,
and then set about putting every thing straight and in order in
the. cottage; for whilst she had been almost fainting, things had
been put ate some disorder. She: had set out her tea things, and
the things which had been provided for the little entertainment,
which was to be on a large board and tressels which she had


376 FRANK BEAUCHAMP;

borrowed. She had covered it with a white cloth, and there was
plenty of every thing; for Mrs. Beauchamp had sent many things,
and Mrs. Russell had added a large piece of cold bacon and
mustard for the old soldier and Norton, who would not have
thanked the ladies for their cakes and muffins. Mrs. Russell would
have the bacon and plates put upon another table, with a loaf;
and she kept Susan busy with these things till Leonard, who had
been on the watch, came running in with his eyes as round as
the tea-cups, saying in a loud, startling whisper, They are coming!
they are coming!

Every one in the cottage heard the whisper, and the eyes of
all the children became as round as Leonard’s.

Who can describe the scene when the husband and wife met,
and when Amwell took his children in his arms, and held them
to his heart; and it would not be easy to describe his manner
when he turned about and thanked the friends met in the cottage
for all their kindnesses, unnumbered kindnesses, to his wife and
children; nor did he forget to speak his gratitude to his heavenly
Father, for having put it into the hearts of these strangers tu be
thus kind to his wife in her affliction.

We cannot doubt but that he thought of his Annie, even in
that happy hour; but in the very happiest hour in this life there
must always be something wanting; we never can gather together
all we love in this life. We shall have all we can desire in the
world to come, when we are with our Redeemer, for then all
tears will be wiped from our eyes, and there shall be no more
sorrow.

When Mr. Beauchamp and Mr. Russell came in, they found all
the party seated at the two tables; Norton and the grandfather,
who were become very close friends, were busy with the gammon
and a little fresh beer. Amwell was at the other table with his
youngest boy on his knee. He was too happy to say much, but
he showed by his manner that he knew what good company was.
The ladies and the children only were able to talk.

After the meal Mr. Russell said, Come, let us kneel down, and
you shall follow me in a prayer of thanksgiving.
OR, THE SAILOR’S FAMILY. 377

Mr. Russell did not make his prayer long, but every one joined
in it with their whole hearts. The visitors then took their leave,
and went to Mr. Russell’s house to finish the evening.

Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp and their children only remained to
witness the first burst of joy between the husband and wife, the
father and his children: and they walked home, thinking of the
joyful meeting which had just taken place.

Now turn to the frontispiece and tell me what you see there.
There is John Amwell, he has got the situation of Mr. Beauchamp’s
gamekeeper; he lives in the lodge in the park. His wife’s afflic-
tions have done her good; her heavenly Father has used them to
bring her nearer to himself. How pretty and thriving are the
children, and how fair is the view of the park seen through those
latticed windows.

It is the autumn; but Susan has now no cause to fear the
approach of winter. Her husband will leave his home no more,
and she has been brought even to look at the grave of her Annie
without a sigh; for it has been granted to her to believe. that her
beloved one is with Gop.

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