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THE GIFT OF
Ruth Cattermale -


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STORIES,
NOT FOR GOOD CHILDREN, NOR
BAD CHILDREN,
º -
Ruºr
F0 R RE, AL CHILDREN.
--~~~~~---
THE MOSS CUP.





:
-
“The Child is father of the Man;
And I would wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.”
WoRDsworth


*
, - - TO
the ſilothers of our (ſpuntry,
- -
who are WILLING THAT
-
NATURE SHOULD DEVELOP HER SWEET Work
-
INHER own sweeTwAY, witHouT ForcING
IT INTO PREcocious DEVELOPMENT,
T H E S E PAGES
ARE AFFEctionATELY INscRIBED, By a -
* . T H E A U THOR,


*


P. R. E. F. A. C. E.
A solitary man, travelling amid the
a sands and dryness of Africa, .#.
at one time, naked, hungry, and athirst, the
night coming on, and he alone, afar from
any human aid. Overcome with the wretch-
edness of his state, he cast himself upon the
ground, thinking he must assuredly die.
All at once, his eye fell upon a tuft of moss,
with the pretty cups ready to be filled with
dew. He burst into tears, for the moss cup
had brought him a great thought. It was
this. *
If God, in this wilderness, careth for a
useless thing, like a moss cup, to adorn it
with freshness and beauty, he will not let
me perish for want of succor.
Thus he grew strong and hopeful, and
lived to tell how this least of God's beauti-
ful children may bring a great truth to the


friends, the little folks. :
t
I0 PR E FA C E .
heart. Hence our book shall be the Moss
Cup, humble in itself, but able to touch the
springs of fresh, and generous, and cheer-
ing thought. -
The writer wishes hereafter to do some-
thing more for her little friends, some-
thing which may bring her still nearer to
their dear hearts. She keeps a child-heart
herself, and writes for them out of the love
she holds there; she does not feel that any
thing, and all things, will do for a child; but
she does feel that whatever she may say to
such from a pure and loving spirit, cannot
fail at some time to please them. She is
therefore the more earnest to write out some
of the many pleasant fancies which grow
upon her mind, whenever she thinks of her


C O N T E N T S.
- • Page.
CHRISTMAs DAY, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
GEMS AND REPTILES, ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35
THE CHARM of Hom E, ...............71
THE LITTLE WITCH, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .73
THE CHILD AND THE FLow ERs, ..... 104
... 107
HoMEsicRNEss, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
INADIzzIE, or THE WANDERER, .
IRETTA, THE FAIRY THAT would BE
IMMORTAL, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .126
SARAH's Home, .....................188
Dog Hood, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .140
THE CHILD EVA, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
A CHAPTER About BEING RICH, ... . . . 154


T H E M O S S C U P. 15
of all kinds’”. Of course he meant,
in part, such bondage as having to
serve little, ugly, black-looking sol-
diers, called letters.”
“How you do stare, Eva! and those
tears are drying upon your cheeks a
little saltish. Well, Eva, ’tis a pity
you were not just a little wicked,— not
much, you know, but so you would
need to cry about your own naughti-
ness, just as I do; and then you would
let other folks alone. But I do like .
a good hearty fellow, that does some-
times dash into a scrape, but is man
enough to know what is bad, and to
repent in earnest when he does it.”
Eva tucked both little hands under
her armpits, as small girls do of a
cold morning, and sidled down upon
a bench to listen ; for Clarence was a
terrible boy for making speeches. At
this moment, grandmamma laid aside


- a -
e º
.**
- º
º
*.
16 T H E M O S S C U P.
the picture and her spectacles, say-
ing, with a sigh, “That boy has been
treated wrong some way, I’m sure.”
“Eva, put that picture so that I
can see it,” said Clarence. “I won’t
read about it; I won't break my word
of honor this day, nor any day.”
Eva put her arm over the reading
part, and Clarence gave one glance at
the picture of distress and fury pre-
sented. “George Wanderlyn !” he
exclaimed; and away he burst into
one of his most energetic speeches.
Clarence never feels nor talks by
halves. When excited, all the strong
words, not bad words, (for Clarence
is a boy of conscience, and a gentle-
man,) in the language leap to his
tongue; and then he seems to feel as
if these were flat. He rises from his
seat at these times, and stands or
steps about very firmly. *


T H E M O S S C U P. 17.
Eva listens to his speeches in
silence, and then, when she begins
to “preach,” as he calls it, he kneels
down beside her, and takes her pret-
ty little reproofs as meekly as a boy
twice as patient might do, for he
loves her very tenderly, and Clarence
has a fine generous heart.
“Treated wrong ! So poor George
Wanderlyn has fallen into the hands
of the Philistines | Poor George He
had a heart — was wide awake; no
sneaking about him.”
Eva drew a trifle nearer to her
cousin Clarence, and looked in his
face with such sweet credulity, that
it made her look a creature that had
been sent by mistake to the wrong
world. Eva hadn’t learned the fun-
ning way to talk, which some chil-
dren learn, and by which they first
begin to grow false. She took every
-

- 2.


T H E M O S S CUP. 19
-
Sure enough, it was a portrait of
George Wanderlyn; and I had often
heard, the year before, his aunt tell
the terrible story of the destruction
of the Christmas gifts, which she told
every where as a proof of the badness
of poor George, who was more honest
than most boys, but not bad. He
was only too ready to act just as he
felt at the time, without stopping to
think; and I must confess that New
England children are taught to think
so much, that they begin to think it is
wrong to feel at all. It is better to
feel warmly and rightly, than merely
to think rightly, I think.
CHAPTER II.
George was no prodigy, nor ideal
of a boy. He was generous, affec-


º
sº
20 T H E M O S S C U P.
tionate, well-disposed, and impulsive.
He had a boy's devotion to play, and
a boy’s aversion to books. After the
death of his mother, he had been sent
to an aunt's, who lived in a pleasant
New England village, with its inva-
riable spired church, white acad-
emy with a little belfry at one end,
and a snug, wood-colored school-
house. Then there was the Circu-
lating Library, and the Lyceum, and
the “apprentice association,” the
“mechanic * ditto, besides “encour-
agement societies,” “improvement”
ditto, all going to show that every part
of the moral and intellectual nature
of all kinds of people was well cared
for in the place. • .
George hated humbug in every
shape. He hated to be thought bet-
ter than he was ; hence he was apt
to make himself appear a little worse


T H E M Q S S C U P. 21
º
than the reality. He would seat him-
self manfully to the mastery of his
lesson, because it was his duty to
study; but if told to study because
“other good little boys” did the
same, he became nauseated, and flung
down the book with contempt.
He used to say he hated “good
little boys. A fellow couldn't help
going wrong sometimes, but he needn't
go twice in the same way. He wouldn't
be good because other boys were good,
but he would do what was right be-
cause he ought to do right.”
The ranges of little boys with scanty
pantaloons, hands coming a little too
far from their jacket sleeves, white
collars, and high foreheads, the hair
of each brushed from one side to show
a large “widower's peak,” and all
studying away for dear life, had a gro-
tesque aspect to him. He knew the


T H E M O S S C U P. 23
pented heartily of all his mischievous
pranks, wondering to himself that,
when he had resolved never to com-
mit any offence twice, he was so ready
to fly off in a tangent, and commit an-
other quite as bad. He began to wish
he was like other boys about, who
seemed to keep so easily to the re-
spectabilities; who, if they never did
any thing especially good, and gener-
ous, and hearty, never did any thing
very bad, and always did it with a
wry face, as if conscience were hold-
ing up a whip, which they feared, as
cowards do, and yet dared to do what
their conscience told them was wrong,
which George never did ; for his mis-
chief was done in a flash, as it were,
and he was sorry for it a long time
afterwards.
Well, George thought these things
over, till he grew perplexed and weary,


24 T H E MO S S CU P.
and then he wished his mother was
only near, to talk to him of the right
and the wrong in this world; and then
he wept long over the memory of her
sweet teachings, and the pleasant
Christmas mornings, when she used
to help him unload the stocking filled
by Santa Claus; and then the child
dreamed of being restored once more
to the severed circle of home, and
sitting by his mother's knee.
Early in the morning George rushed
down stairs to examine the stocking.
It had been taken from the wainscot,
where he had fastened it as in by-gone
days. He looked round aghast. At
length he approached the table, on
which he espied a variety of beautiful
pens, pencils, and papers, and a pile
of books. Mechanically he opened
one. His own name was written
therein —“Presented by his affection-


T H E M OS.S C U P. 25
ate aunt, in the hope he will be more
dutiful and studious.”
Instantly the leaf was torn from the
cover. Another and another followed,
and poor little George's rage grew in
the ratio of indulgence.
“I won't be wheedled into goodness;
I won't be cheated into knowledge,”
he cried, tearing the books in a man-
ner that showed he was in no danger
of being deluded in that way.
“Tear away, my fine lad,” cried
Clarence, looking at the picture after
I told the story. “I like your spirit.
If a body takes medicine, let him do it
honestly, and not humbug himself with
a lozenge. Preach or play, one or the
other; no sneaking about, and mixing
things up.”
“But think of the nice books, dear
Clarence, and the kind aunt,” said
little Eva, taking things in detail.


26 T H E M OSS C U P.
“But think of the cheat about Santa
Claus, Eva, and having a reproach
written out in a Christmas gift.
Think of having a book which would
be always reminding you of the mis-
chief you had done, and telling you
that people think you bad. It's enough
to make a fellow bad.”
“True, Clarence, you are right,” I
said; “I never blamed George Vander-
lyn much in this matter. Children are
half the time taught evil by having it
so often forced upon them in the way
of reproach and counsel. It is better
to trust something to impulsive good-
ness of nature. Foster the good, and
the evil will die out.” • **
George felt himself aggrieved. He
was too young to respect the pious
scruples of his aunt, who saw a relic
of Popery in this homage to Saint Nich-
olas. Suspecting everything not graced


T H E M O S S C U P. 27
with the palpable odor of morality, rev-
erencing intellect as all New England-
ers do, she was apt to question the
most harmless geniality, and to con-
sider all time as lost, that did not,
directly or indirectly, minister to the
growth of knowledge.
Hence she could have no perception
of the mysterious visit of Santa Claus,
the genial friend of children — the
stocking crammed with nuts, and can-
dies, and toys, and knick-knackeries in
every shape; the well-dissembled sur-
prise of the household, the merriment,
the noise; the universal hurry and
good-will; the cracking of candy, and
firing of pea-nuts; the squeaking of
tin trumpets, and the beating of drums.
“Great, glorious !” cried Clarence,
discharging a volley of nuts, kissing
Eva, and striking up a march all in a
breath. “Santa Claus doesn't come


28 T H E M O S S C U P.
to preach sermons, but to impart hap-
piness. He is a big boy himself, ready
for a freak when it will harm nobody,
and a downright lover of fun and ge-
niality;” in confirmation of which faith
he gave Eva another kiss, pinched
Carlo's ears for the sake of caressing
him afterward, and in a fever of good-
will looked out of the window, where,
seeing a half-frozen girl creeping by,
with a dirty basket upon her arm, he
raised the window by stealth, and
tossed in a handful of crollers, dodg-
ing his head so quickly that the child
never knew whence they came.
CHAPTER III.
WHEN Clarence thought the girl
must have gone by, he lifted himself
up, and looked out of the window, and


T H E Moss C U P. * 29
º
Eva came and stood beside him. They
both had their eyes fixed upon the
windows of a house opposite, where a
very pale lady was leaning just inside
of the curtains; and once or twice she
put a handkerchief to her face, and
they knew she was weeping. At last
she saw Clarence and Eva, and she
kissed her fingers to them, and moved
away.
Clarence's heart beat quick; he
breathed heavily ; and then, seeing Eva
with her eyes full of tears, he dashed
one from his, and tried to whistle. It
would not do, and he ran out of the
room. There was a grief even in such
a Christmas, bright as was the sun,
and joyful as every thing looked, and
plentiful as were the presents and the
kind wishes.
The lady in the house upon the


30 T H E Moss cup.
opposite side of Broadway, was Mrs.
Clide, a widow, with but one child in
this world, her oldest, a fine, frank boy,
having died, since the last Christmas,
of a brain fever.
Clarence and Henry Clide had
been congenial friends; and many
were the country tramps they had had
together, in the vacations and holydays,
and many the boy-secrets imparted by
each, and the generous sacrifices for
each other. They were rarely apart.
With them joy could not be joy unless
both shared it. They read, studied,
and played, together. Either would
have suffered any thing to ward suffer-
ing from the other.
The three days that Henry was ill,
Clarence never left him; and when he
died, poor Clarence came near dying
from grief. I dare not tell how Henry


T H E M O S S C U P. 33
\
:
º
tº
Poor Sam, I'm sure, was never known
To get in any sort of scrape;
The good with him is always done,
And mischief spurned in every shape:
He never has a heart for fun.
Well, somehow, I can't hardly tell
Why every pale-faced, moping boy, ,
Ready at stroke of school-house bell,
Who never whistles down his joy,
Is always liked so very well, -
And lads like Harry Clide and me
Are told to be like Sammy Grey,
Who sits about with book on knee,
And yawns and mopes the blessed day,
As crooked, too, as he can be :
A boy has much to learn, I think,
That is not found in any book,
From mountain breeze and water brink,
From forest way and running brook,
And music of the bob-o-link:
It makes him feel so stout and strong,
So full of life and all good-will,
3


34 T H E Moss cup.
º
º
º
-
To leap the rocks, the sea along,
And climb the rocky, steep-side hill,
Up where the wild bird weaves his song !
I’m graver than I used to be,
Dear Harry Clide : Another lad
I'll never love as I loved thee,
Fºr things that once looked bright and
glad,
Now thou art gone, are changed to me.
- -


T H E MO S S CUP. 35
GEMS MMD REPTILES,
A N O L D S T O R Y TO L D 0 W. F. R.
*-
CHAPTER I.
Was the Child evil 9
O DEAR what a naughty girl I
am l. I must be naughty, for nobody
loves me, and nobody speaks kindly to
me. My aunt and cousin tell me,
every day I live, I am the worst girl
in the world. It must be true, they
say it so much; and yet I don't know
what it is that I do so very bad.”
Little Blanch looked round, for she
thought somebody said, close to her
ear, “Nothing, nothing.” But she
must have been mistaken. . There
was no one in sight, and she could


T H E M O S S C U P. 37
---
pebbles, eddying around the roots of
the old trees, and slipping over the
spotted backs of the trout as they hur-
ried with them, and then hid under
the shelf of an overarching rock.
Blanch began to feel quite happy,
though she couldn't tell why; and
then she looked down into the foun-
tain, and saw her own eyes peeping
up, and she laughed; and the girl in
the water laughed; and both laughed
together, till the old woods took up the
chorus, and the hills and rocks sent it
back again.
“O dear! what a noise I am making!
and my aunt will be angry with me
for staying so long.”
Blanch looked once more into the
water, but the little girl from beneath
did not laugh this time; on the con-
trary, her face was quite pale and sad,
and Blanch looked into her melancholy


33 THE M O S S C U P.
eyes till the tears gushed to her own,
and fell into the water. The drops
circled away in dimpling lines, grow-
ing larger and larger, and completely
hiding the face of the little girl in the
Water.
Blanch rubbed her eyes, and looked
again, for she saw something exceed-
ingly beautiful, stirring the pebbles at
the bottom of the fountain. She held
back her hair with both hands, and
looked down close and still ; for there,
right beside her own face, she saw a
most lovely being, smiling, and hold-
ing up its small, pale hands.
Blanch let her hair fall, till it almost
blinded her eyes, and even dipped into
the fountain, while she held out both
hands to the little lady of the water.
“Thank you,” said the beautiful
creature, springing lightly on the bank,


40 T H E M O S S C U P.
ful creature beside her could not be
one of these. -
The lady's cheek and neck were
of the pure color of the inner lip of
the ocean shell, growing of a brighter
and brighter hue, till, just below the
eye, it became of that rich beautiful
tint we find upon the shell as we look
in, in, to its very heart. Then her
hair was soft and bright, like long
threads of amber, waving and glitter-
ing in the light. Her eyes were of
the deep, deep blue, seen upon the
surface of the muscle-shell, but so soft,
so liquid in their lovingness and beauty,
that Blanch thought she could never
tire in looking at them. Her voice
was like breathed melody; soft and
murmuring, like the sound of the shell
when held to a human ear.
She had a coronal of pearls about
her head, and bracelets of the same


42 T H E M OSS C U P. º
º
“Would you like some of these
pearls and diamonds, Blanch 7"
“O, they are very beautiful,” said
the child ; “but I should have no time
to play with them. Dear, dear! how
long I have staid O, my aunt will
scold.” She took up the pitcher, and
was hurrying away in great trouble;
but Fontana stopped her.
“You must not go yet, Blanch. I
will see that your aunt doesn't scold
you ; so sit down, and let us talk
a while.” -
Blanch was very loath to stay; but
Fontana was so gentle, and promised
so earnestly that all should be well,
that at last she sat down again by the
fountain. -
“If you don't want pearls and dia-
monds, Blanch, what do you wish for 7
What shall I do for you ? Shall I


T H E M O S S C U P. 43
punish your aunt and cousin for treat-
ing you so ill ?” -
“O, no, no,” said the little girl,
very earnestly; “they treat me so be-
cause I am so very naughty. How
could you think of such a thing? I'm
sure I never did.” *
Fontana smiled, and kissed the
cheeks, and eyes, and lips, of the
child.
“I love you dearly, Blanch, and do
wish you could think of something I
can do for you.”
Blanch dropped her eyes, as if
thinking earnestly; and then her face
dimpled all over with smiles as she
said, -
“I wish you would help me to be
good, so that my aunt and cousin, and
every body, will love me. I should
be quite happy then.”
“What, don't you want to be rich
-


44 T H E M O S S C U P.
and ride in a coach, and have servants,
and dress grandly; and then let your
aunt and cousin be poor, and go with
bare feet, just as you do?”
“O dear, no,” said Blanch, turning
quite pale: “how could you think of
such a thing 7 °
“Well, let your aunt and cousin be
rich, too, - then wouldn't you like to
dress grandly, Blanch 1”
“O dear! I only want to be good,
and be loved,” said the poor girl, turn-
ing her head away quite sorrowfully.
Fontana took her in her arms, and
kissed her many times, and Blanch felt
the tears upon her cheek; she heard
sweet, far-off melody; the sky seemed
brighter than ever, and she thought
she must be dreaming, she felt so
happy. Then the lady placed her
upon the green bank; and when the
child looked around, there was nothing


46 T H E M OSS , GUP.
Blanch did tell every word; for there
was something within, that told her
she ought to tell the truth, and the
whole truth. Sometimes her aunt
laughed, and sometimes she frowned ;
but when she came to that part where
the lady would have given her fine
clothes, and a coach to ride in, her
cousin called her “a poor, mean-spir-
ited fool. So then you only asked to
be good, you precious little fool, did
you ?” she said, scornfully.
The tears came into Blanch's eyes,
and fell upon her lap.
“What is that rolling about in your
lap 7” said Adeline. “I never saw
such tears before; they don't soak
in.” And the heartless girl shook
them upon the floor. Sure enough,
they rolled away, clear, brilliant dia-
monds, large as peas.
Adeline laughed, and scrabbled after


T H E M O S S C U P. 47
them, and told Blanch to “cry away;”
she liked such tears. But the little
girl laughed as well as her cousin, and
scrabbled too for the diamonds, it made
her feel so happy to see smiling faces.
“I will go down to the well, too.”
said Adeline, “and see if I cannot get
something handsome.”
She soon came back, flushed and
angry; she declared there was nobody


T H E M O S S C U P. 49
the wants of her aunt and cousin, that
she seemed to know what was desired
even before they spoke. She wished,
in the guilelessness of her young heart,
that she only had a whole mine of
gems to give them, so thankful did
she feel for gentle words and kind
looks.
It was, soon found that jewels came
from the mouth of Blanch only when she
returned a gentle reply to the harshness
of others ; her tears were gems only
when they were tears of compassion or
of sorrow.
Adeline was making a lily, all of
pearls; she hadn't quite enough to
finish it. Half in earnest, half in
sport, she gave Blanch a blow, say-
ing, “Cry, child; I want some more
pearls.”
Blanch had never felt just so before :
her face reddened, and she was about
4 -


50 T H E M OSS C U P.
to make an angry reply, when she felt
a dash of water all over her face. She
stopped short, and looked about, but no
one was near but Adeline. Then she
thought of the sinful feeling within,
and knew it must have been Fontana,
that sprinkled the drops in her face
Blanch knew she had felt wrong, and
she shed tears of penitence: they were
pearls.
CHAPTER III.
-
.Never despise the Aged.
“CoME, Blanch,” said Adeline, “take
the pitcher, and I will go down to the
well with you; — I like the lady's gifts
vastly, and shall know better what to
ask for than you did.”
The child did as she was bid, step-
ping, with her little bare feet, lightly


|||}|
º --
|
| ||
|
ſº 52 T H E M O S S C U P.
said the old woman, in a low, trembling
voice.
Little Blanch descended the bank in-
stantly, to do as she was desired; but
Adeline cruelly spurned her with her
foot, saying, “Get up, you old hag ; I
wouldn’t give you a drink — not I.”
The old woman glanced at the hard-
hearted girl with a severe and searching
look, and slowly rose from the ground.


54 * T H E Moss C UP.
“She could only frown upon me.” .
She stopped short, for just then a small
green lizard hopped from her mouth,
and the terrified girls ran home as fast
as they could go,
Adeline struck Blanch, and said she
had bewitched her; and every time she
spoke, small snakes and toads darted
from her mouth. Then she would cry
with horror and vexation, when bugs
and spiders fell from her eyes.
Poor Blanch stood by, weeping and
wringing her hands; and the pearls and
precious stones rolled all about the
room, for no one heeded them. She
thought of a thousand things, but not one
that had any prospect of relieving her
cousin.
“O dear, dear! I wish Fontana were
only here !” cried Blanch. She felt a
slight sprinkle upon her face, and she
knew the lady must be near. Then
*


56 T H E M O S S C U P.
en. She was still gentle and loving,
like a little child, with a smile always
ready for a cheerful look, and a tear
for a sad one. Some thought it good-
ness alone that made her so beautiful ;
others thought it the kisses of the lady
of the fountain; for she sometimes ap-
peared, when Blanch was sad or un-
happy, and spoke words of hope and
love.
A&line, too, had grown a tall, proud
girl, with large black eyes of glittering
brightness, and a step like a queen.
There were yet times when the reptiles
sprang from the mouth of the violent
girl, in her moments of pride or anger.
Sometimes, amidst the splendor and tri-
umph of a ball, she would be obliged
to go out in the greatest confusion; for
pride, and envy, and malice, would
bring the reptiles to her throat.
Blanch still wept her pearls, and spoke


60 . T H E M O S S C U P. º
Adeline said she was no judge, and
many other things, such as foolish, vain
girls say, who are in love.
CHAPTER IV.
The Good sometimes made happy in this
World.
Poor Blanch was greatly distressed
at all this art in her aunt and cousin,
and grew every day more pale and gen
tle, and a great deal more beautiful
too; for love always softens, as well as
exalts, the style of beauty.
She sometimes wished she had never
seen the stranger, for she couldn't help
looking through the lattice where the
vines grew thickly, to see him at his work
among the flowers; and he would some-
times look up, too, and she was certain
he was becoming pale and melancholy,


*
* T H E M O S S C U P. 6]
º
and she thought it not unlikely that he
might be in love with her cousin Ade-
line, and growing sad because there
could be no hope for him. And Blanch
wept in holy compassion for the poor
young servant.
So she took her pitcher in her hand,
and went down to the fountain. She
wept a long time, she could hardly tell
why. Fontana came and kissed her
cheek, and wiped her tears with gossa-
mer muslin. Blanch saw that she
smiled faintly, and looked quite sad; so
she tried to talk of pleasant things.
“How Ilove you, Blanch!” said Fon-
tana. “You must have all you de-
sire. What shall I do for you?”
“Smile upon me, dear Fontana;
there is no one else to love me; and
when you smile, I am quite happy.”
There was a rustling in the bushes.
Blanch looked up. Fontana was


THE Moss C U P. 65
the stranger, and poor Blanch grew
quite pale and dispirited. Adeline was
in high spirits; she teased and scolded
Blanch all in a breath, and then, when
she wept, she laughed, and said she
should have the more jewels for her
bridal. Blanch disliked Adeline's lover
more and more every day; for, though
she thought he might be rich, he seemed
low-bred and as ignorant as any dolt
could be. And then he was so loaded
with finery, he must, at the very best, be
a conceited coxcomb. But as long as
her cousin was pleased, she had no right
to say a word.
The day for Adeline's marriage
came ; and after Blanch had dressed her
cousin, and done all the work she could
do before the arrival of the guests, her
aunt took her and thrust her down into
an old cellar, half filled with mire and
5


66 T H E M O S S C U P.
water, that she might not be seen by
any of the company.
Adeline looked splendidly, with her
proud beauty and magnificent dress.
The ceremony was just over, when they
all heard the sound of carriage wheels
and the trampling of horses. The
bridegroom looked from the window,
and was the first to go out and kneel to
the stranger. All was awe and amaze-
ment. The people had just time to
observe the splendor of the carriage,
and the rich livery of the servants, and
the six snow-white horses, when a gen-
tleman dressed in velvet and cloth of
gold entered the room.
“Where is Blanch?” he inquired,
looking sternly round.
“Blanch is dead,” replied the aunt,
solemnly.
“Dead?” repeated the stranger, turn-


T H E MOS S CUP. 67
º º
ing pale, while the bridegroom stared
with astonishment.
“Dead?” he again repeated: “it
cannot be. Ho, here, search the
house !” he cried to his servants.
The bridegroom would have gone
out to obey the order, but the aunt rose
in great rage. “I demand, sir, by
what right you order my house to be
searched.”
“The right that the king has over
the lives and property of his subjects,”
answered the stranger with great ma-
jesty. Then taking off the plumed cap
and velvet cloak, the young servant of
the new cottage stood before them.
Every head was uncovered, and every
knee bent. It was the king. Adeline
and her mother turned pale. The
king went on.
“The fame of the goodness and
beauty of Blanch had reached even to


68 T H E M O S S CU P.
our palace, and I came here disguised
as a servant, that I might learn the
truth. I find the half has not been told
me, and I have now come to claim her
for my bride.”
At this moment the door opened, and
Fontana led Blanch, pale and trem-
bling, but more lovely than ever, into
the room. She was dressed in white,
with a girdle of pearls, and her eyes
were bent meekly downward.
Fontana laid the hand of Blanch
within that of the king, who knelt to
receive it, while the fair girl blushed
and cast down her eyes.
“Thus,” said the lady, “are the
good sometimes rewarded even in this
life.”
Then, turning to Adeline and her
mother, she said, “I leave you to the
punishment prepared in your own
-


70 T H E M O S S C U P.
that the king banished them to the cot-
tage he had built beside their old dwell-
ing. Blanch often wept for them, and
sent them many proofs of her kindness
and remembrance.


72 THE MO S S C U P.
º
For affections always grow
stronger round the lowly hearth.
Fondly still we backward turn,
While in life's long path we go;
And that home, through dim, cold years,
Fresh in beauty seems to glow.
-
Clinging to its love we turn,
When the storm grows fierce and cold,
As the ivy closer clings -
Round the fabric worn and old.


74 T H E M O S S C U P. r
her mother seemed more pale and sor-
rowful than she had ever before been;
and after they were in bed, she raised
her head from the pillow at the least
sound, and trembled violently. The
wind was cold and gusty; and as it
whirled down the great stone chimney,
it sent the ashes about the hearth, and
blew the embers up almost to a blaze.
Sarah was lying with her eyes half
open, and she could see, as the back-
log lighted occasionally under the heap
of ashes, the Bible, where it always lay,
upon the little pine table; the old Eng-
lish chest of drawers reaching to the
top of theroom, and standing upon small
round legs, high enough for a large
trunk to stand beneath. A tall, straight-
backed arm-chair, in which her grand-
father had died some years before, was
in the corner, with her mother's serge
dress lying across it; and Sarah raised


T H E M 0 S S C U P. 77
--sº- ºr
minutes, and then, in a low voice,
“Your grandfather was a deadly enemy
to King Charles. I can tell you no
more; but that is why he staid here, and
why I would be near him, and leave
home and country to comfort him. But,
dear Sarah, since you cannot sleep, I
will tell you that we have greater perils
in the future.”
Little Sarah was ill; she felt as if
she could bear nothing more, and she
clung to her mother's neck, crying,
“O dear, dear! what shall we do?
Let us get up now, in the night, and go
away, and live in a cave in the woods,
where no bad people can find us.”
“Ah, my poor, dear child, this can- .
not be done; people will take us away
to a prison, and God only knows what
they will do with us.”
Sarah saw that her mother was very
pale, and her voice low, and she felt
– º –- –––


T H E Moss cup. 79
true, and I will tell them so; and then
it will be all over, and they will be
sorry for grieving us, dear mother. How
the wind roars 1 and how terrible peo-
ple make themselves but we will try
to be happy, dear mother.”
Sarah put her cheek close to her
mother's, and while she prayed inwardly
that God would deliver them from evil,
she fell asleep.
CHAPTER II.
EARLY the next morning, while Sarah
and her mother were at breakfast, some
rude-looking men came in and took
them away to prison. Mrs. Benson was
ordered to remain at home; but she
would not leave Sarah.
In the middle of the day, there was
a great meeting of all the people in the


8.4 T H E M O S S C U P.
that that dear good mother had suf.
fered, and made her inwardly deter-
mine to do all in her power to comfort
her.
“I dare say,” said Cotton Mather,
who was present, and a stern man,
who believed in witchcraft, and did
not believe what people said, unless
he wished to believe it, —“I dare say
that the devil has helped you to a good
story; but he must help you to a better
before we believe it.”
“I have told the truth, and only
the truth,” said Mrs. Benson.
“Did you write your name in the
book of the old man 7” asked Cotton
Mather.
“Yes, often,” said Sarah: “it was
the copy.”
“Pretty good, pretty good,” cried
Mather; “ you see the art of the devil
in this. In faith, I pity you, child, and


86 T H E M O S S CUP.
Jane cried that Sarah had stuck the
blade into her.
“Is this blade yours?” asked one of
the judges, holding it up.
“It looks like one that I lost many
weeks ago,” answered the child. “I
have not had it for a long time.”
“But it was yours?” said Mather.
“I think it was,” she answered.
Jane now screamed and cried so
bitterly, that nothing could be heard
in the room, and all the people gath-
ered to see her. She was indeed very
pale and thin, and her eyes were wild,
as if from pain, while she seemed suf-
fering from terrible fits.
It was at length ordered that Sarah
should be carried back to prison; for
there could be no doubt of her being
a witch. Jane declared she could feel
her bite her arms, whenever the poor
child, in the distress of her heart, held
6





88 T H E M O S S C U P.
her teeth together, lest she should say
what were best left unsaid. If her
fingers moved, in her nervousness and
grief, Jane said she felt her pinch her.
All this, to the people, was proof that
she was a witch ; and she was sent
back to the prison till they determined
what to do with her.
CHAPTER III.
WHEN Sarah was put into the pris-
on, she gave one look at the rough,
dreary place; and, seeing some straw
in the corner, she laid herself down,
for she was very faint. She lay a
long time with her eyes shut, and
feeling very miserable, but dull, so
that she could not weep.
She was glad her mother could not
see how wretched she was ; and while


T H E Moss C U P. 89
she thought of her poor mother, so
lonely in her grief, the tears gushed
into her eyes, and she prayed God to
comfort her. Never before had Sarah
felt such need of prayer. Her whole
little heart was on her lips, beseeching
the great and holy Father in heaven
to forgive those who caused them such
sorrow, and to deliver them from evil.
In this way she passed the whole
night, alone in the dark, and in prayer;
for she could not sleep,
As soon as it was light, she heard
her mother urging the keeper to let
her come and see her child. But he
would not. He had no orders from
the court. This was the worst case
of witchcraft, he said, that had ever
been known in the colony; and he
dared not act in any way without or-
ders from the court.
Mrs. Benson put her lips to the lock,


90 , T H E Moss cup.
and cried, “Sarah, Sarah, speak, and
tell me how it fares with you.”
The child crawled to the door, and
tried to speak in a brisk voice, as if
doing very well; but her mother saw
she was sick at heart.
About ten o’clock, the door was
opened, and the keeper came in with
her mother, who brought her some
food. She had expected to see Sarah
nearly dead with fear and grief. On
the contrary, although quite pale and
feeble, she was wonderfully cheerful,
and said many things to strengthen
her mother.
When they had knelt together and
prayed, Sarah took some food, -for she
would not eat till they had done so, -
and then they talked long together.
“They have accused me of being
a witch, too, Sarah; and that is why I
am here.” *


T H E M O S S CUP. 91
“Let us trust in God,” said the
child.
Both were silent for a while.
“Will they take away our lives, do
you think, mother ?” at length Sarah
asked.
“I do not know. Many have died
in England, Germany, and other coun-
tries, under charges of this kind; and
it may be that we shall die here.
Ah! dear Sarah, we must suffer our-
selves, deeply suffer, sometimes, before
we are able to perceive what is in
itself right and true; before we are
ready to judge rightly of the actions
of our neighbors. We must not judge
them according to the appearances of
things about them, which may be
caused by circumstances concealed,
in justice to others, as was the case
in regard to your grandfather.
Suddenly Sarah 'sprang from her


92 T H E M O S S C U P.
seat. “Mother, mother, to be hung, to
be burned, to go out strong and well,
and have life forced from us! — I cannot
bear it, I cannot.” She fell fainting
upon her mother's lap.
Mrs. Benson almost hoped, in her
heart, that Sarah would never again
open her eyes, – for she, too, felt as if
the trial were too great for human
strength to contemplate, – and she held
the pale child in her arms, and prayed
aloud, “O God, if it be possible, let
this cup pass from me.”
“Nevertheless, not my will, but
thine, be done,” whispered poor Sa-
-rah.
She now grew quite calm, and
talked over the prospect of death, in
this terrible manner, without any more
emotion.
“There is one way in which you
t


94 T H E M O S S C U P.
mother, life would be a terrible life, if
purchased by a lie.”
The mother and child both dropped
upon their knees and prayed together.
They even sung a hymn, so peaceful
did they feel, now that all was clear
to their minds.
N -
º
A
“Though evil men may me despise,
And fill my soul with dread,
Lord, thou wilt in thy strength arise,
And guard my fainting head.


T H E M O S S C U P. 97
can't be trusted— can't be trusted. He's
got no marcy. He'll make a great
palaver, and then take out your life.
But an Injin does it short off, and
doesn’t give you time to dread it.”
Then, raising his voice, he spelled
three or four long words, so that the
keeper might hear him outside.
“Don’t you go to sleep to-night.
I'll have you out. The Injins re-
member the old man; they'll help his
child. Keep awake, and don't be
afraid of the Injins.”
With that Zenas got up, and pound-
ed with both fists upon the door, and
screamed, “Let me out—let me out, I
say ! I shall choke to death, shut in
here. Let me out, I say! What pos-
sessed a man to invent locks | He
ought to be hung up without marcy.
Let me out, I s—a—y !”
The keeper was a stout, dark man,
rºy
4.


98 T H E M O S S C U P.
who enjoyed the terror of poor Zenas;
and he was in no hurry to unfasten
the bolt. While he delayed, Zenas
saw that the oaken door opened into a
small entry, and that the keeper, in
reaching it, had to open a gate in the
rear of the building, there being an
opening both front and back. He
saw that, by securing the door in the
back of the house, he might prevent
any aid from that quarter.
“I hope you won't hang the witches
yet a while,” said Zenas, “I haven't
got near through with my reading
yet.”
The man, thus reminded of his duty,
put on a very solemn face, and said
he thought the court would hang them
very soon, for Mistress Goodhue's ser-
want had cried out upon Mistress
Benson, and Jane could have no rest
for the torments of Sarah.
**-º


T H E M O S S C U P. 99
--------------
Zenas opened his mouth wide, and
asked if they could bewitch him by
teaching him to read. -
The man shook his head, and re-
plied, “Why, Zenas, many's the time
you've been seen with the black dog,
º that came to the women; and it may
be that is the cause of your foolish-
ness, for in truth, Zenas, you are not
over wise.”
Zenas gave a great leap into the
air; and then he set up an Indian cry,
- and laughing as loud as he could laugh,
* :- went off.
| CHAPTER IV.
s * MISTRESS BENson did not fail to
remember what Zenas had said ; and
she sat in the dark, hour after hour,
hearing no sound but the breathing
of Sarah, who had fallen asleep upon


T H E M O S S : C U P. 109
- - --—
- - ------
-----—
Inadizzie cleared away the ground,
and planted corn and beans; and at
night and at morning he sang songs.
The magic tongue still hung about his
neck. Thus he sang—
S on G F O R T H E C o R N .
I HAve worked, O Earth, with thee;
Given seed unto thy breast;
Waited when the time should be
It should leave its place of rest.
Ask imploring for the light,
Call the sunbeams all around,
Drink the dewdrops all the night.
*-
Lo! two fingers from the ground -
Slow and timidly, corn cometh
- Folded in his leaf of green;
- All the day the insect hummeth,
Near his heart, the leaves between. ſ
Now embattled from the plain
Stoutly stands the full-grown corn;
On him sounds the falling rain,
On him gleams the dew of morn.


110 T H E M os S C U P.
Flauntingly, the stout corn standeth
With his plume upon his head,
And his joints with strength he bandeth,
Like a chief with planted tread.
'Tis thy work, O Earth, and mine:
Gladly I the seed imparted:
Thine the rain, the sunshine thine,
I have helped thee thankful-hearted.
Thus Inadizzie sang the delights
of labor. But he was alone. The
corn grew, and the blossom came
forth at his feet. The birds sang in
concert with him. But yet he was
alone.
He remembered that he had been
commanded to go onward. He was
told that joy awaited him in the di-
rection of the setting sun. Yet he
did not go. He planted corn, and ate
honey, and placed his feet to the fire
which he had made, but did not go
onward.


114 T H E M O S S C U P.
Inadizzie could not bear this; and
he opened his hand, and let the white
dove depart, which instantly joined its
mate, and flew over the hill. When
they were gone, Inadizzie found him-
self singing, —
Mated browse the nimble deer;
Mated doth the panther prowl;
Gentle ones, or savage, here
Mated gambol, mated howl.
Alone, all alone, weary me !
Weary me !
He listened, and was convinced that
the song was repeated from the other side
of the hill. Inadizzie now went forth.
He did not stop for any thing in the
lodge. He left the corn, and the honey,
and all things whatsoever had pleased
him, to go in the direction of the voice
which echoed his own.
He travelled many days; for the hill,


116 THE Moss cup.
seemed to sleep, as it were, in the midst
of the great lonely hills. The trees
were down to the water's marge.
Beautiful islands were in it, and birds
of all kinds were sporting upon the
waters, or singing amid the branches.
The gull plunged its white breast into
the wave, and came up with its fel-
lows full of activity. The cry of the
loon was heard quivering and solitary,
dying away in the glens, as if silence
sought to hush the sound. The duck
stretched forth its neck, and paddled
onward with its feet, diving and plun-
ging in its joy. The heron looked sol-
emnly down into the lake; the fish
leaped upward, scattering a shower
of light.
Inadizzie felt himself awed while
looking upon this great sheet of wa-
ter set apart in the wilderness, and
hemmed in upon every side by moun-


THE Moss cup. 117
tains. He felt as if he could go no
farther. A strange, solemn dread
grew upon him, and he wept.
He lifted up his eyes, and saw one
solitary peak” rising, like a white
cone, in the distance. Although in
the midst of mountains, it yet held
itself apart and aloft. Inadizzie
grew joyful to see there was yet
something beyond — a country yet to
be learned. Looking intently upon
all sides, he saw a narrow opening
between the hills; and he rejoiced
greatly, for he saw that even the lake
had found an outlet, and was not
doomed to perpetual isolation from
its kind. -
* Katahdin.


118 T H E M O S S CUP.
CHAPTER III.
Inadizzie finds the Maiden with the White
Pearl. How she loves her own Image,
and loves Inadizzie only when she forgets
herself.
INADIzzIE followed the outlet of the
lake, going westward. As he came
near one of the mountains, which
seems to step its feet, as it were, into
the lake, he beheld a little sunny dell,
in the midst of which was a lodge
covered with vines." In the front of
the lodge was a clear stream of water
flowing.
Inadizzie was faint and weary. He
approached the lodge, thinking of the
old chief's beautiful daughter, who had
cut the tongue from his head, when
she found him crawling upon the floor
in the shape of a turtle.
As he drew near, he saw a young


120 THE Moss cup.
the foliage, with her hand pressed upon
the pearl, which gave such grace to
her person. Seeing no one, she stepped
down to the stream, where she stood
as before, looking into the water.
A sweet smile was upon her lips;
and, though she did not move nor speak,
she seemed quite joyful. Then Ina-
dizzie saw that she looked at her own
image in the waves. A long time she
stood in this wise; then she dipped up
some of the water in a gourd, and
went her way.
Many days Inadizzie staid in the
dell, thinking of the maiden with the
white pearl, but not daring to approach
her, although every day he saw her
stand beholding herself in the stream.
He bethought himself of a thousand
modes of diverting her attention from
herself; but nothing would do; for at


THE Moss cup. 121
the least sound she started, filled the
gourd, and was gone.
He built himself a bower near by ; ;
he sang; but she did not lift her eyes
from her own image, although she
stood with a smile upon her lips, as
if pleased with the song.
At length, Inadizzie determined to
drain off the water in which she be-
held herself, and see how it would
effect her. For this purpose, he dug
a new channel for the stream, so that
it turned aside, instead of flowing in
front of the lodge. He did this at
night, and waited impatiently for the
time when she should come forth with
the gourd in her hand, as she always
did early in the day.
At length, she lifted the vines, and
came forth, going, as usual, where the
stream had before flowed. Inadizzie
waited to see her stop, surprised to


122 T H E M O S S Cty P,
find no water, as she had expected;
but she went onward, never once lift-
ing her eyes; she went on, on, through
the forest, in a straight line. Inadizzie
was amazed, and knew not what to do.
He followed in her path till noonday,
and she did not stop nor look around.
At length, he ran along, and placed
himself in the pathway before her.
She stopped; she looked intently in
his face, and then burst into tears.
Inadizzie took her hand in his, and
she became his wife. She confessed
that she was well content, so long as
she should be kept from beholding
herself. “Never let me see my own
image,” she said, “and all will be
well.”
Inadizzie was careful to remember
what she said. In passing a stream,
he placed her head in his bosom, or
bound her long hair about her eyes,


T H E M OS S C U P.
125
---
Other brooks, to other eyes,
May as bright and sparkling fall;
But the one by which we played
Hath the sweetest sound of all.
All is dear—the zigzag fence,
With the hazels growing near;
And the stile, o'er which we climbed,
Winneth now a mournful tear.
Childhood's days are thronging back;
Childhood's perils suffered o'er ;
And we see with our young eyes,
Feel with our hearts once more.
-


128, T H E M O S S C U P,
left his palace to herself and court,
while he went, in solitary grief, to the
frozen regions of Iceland.
Iretta belonged to that class of little
spirits, whose duty it is, as the shadows
of evening creep over the earth, to
fold up the delicate petals of the young
blossoms, lest the midnight airs should
rest too coldly upon them, or brush
away the flour, and thus rob the bee
of her breakfast. The young fairy
moved about, carefully folding the
leaves together, or enclosing them in
their green calyx. After each plant
was put to sleep, she kissed the sealed-
up altar, and then went to rest in the
folds of the feathery mimosa,” the fa-
vorite haunt of the fairies; and this
is why it shrinks from the touch of
mortals.
Sometimes the fairies became indo-
* The sensitive plant.


T H E M O S S C U P. 133
good thought is upward; and God gives -
a creature no desire without something
to meet that desire.
A bright spirit stood beside the gen-
tle fairy.
“Remember, Iretta, the child must
die ere its spiritual life begins. I may
not tell thee aught of death; but the
purest soul, in its highest thoughts,
shrinks therefrom.”
“True ! but to live forever; to
dwell with such as thou; to visit other
worlds; to know something of the Most
High; I would suffer, ay, more even
than mortals, and then die, could I but
live again.” A company of spirits softly
raised the sleeping child, and, amidst
the hymning of far-off melody, bore it
away upon their wings.
# $ # # # #
Iretta soon felt that, in taking the lot
of mortals, she must become subject


134 T H E M O S S C U P.
to many disquiets, and to many a pang
of agony. But the certainty of her
immortality filled her with happiness,
and nothing seemed too much for her to
endure in view of such a gift. Still
many, many were her joys. In her
slumbers, she saw beings of loveliness
and purity, who taught her sweet
things of heaven and its blessed chil-
dren. The sight of a flower, too, re-
called all her former tenderness for
these fair proofs of our Creator's love,
and she often wondered how her friends
could so long debar her from the sun-
shine and the flowers, when they so
largely added to her enjoyment. She
understood, too, the language of every
bird and insect, as it lifted its voice in
the summer air.
If her thoughts went back to her sis-
ter fairies, sporting in perpetual youth
and health, she did not repine, for she


I36 T H E M O S S C U P.
.*
she was willing to endure so much, was
of little value in the eyes of those
whose inheritance it of right was. It
was bartered for the dust of the mine,
the gems of the mountain, and the
pearls of the deep. Daily did she
behold beings, meant for the Eternal,
lost in the pomp, the turmoil, and cares
of life; and the sunlight came, and the
shadows gathered upon the earth, and
scarcely one knelt to bless his Creator
for the gift of reason and the hopes of
immortality.
Alas! none on earth felt, as did the
gentle fairies, that to be happy is to ful-
fil one's destiny cheerfully, and always
to add something to the great stock of
happiness. :* # # #
Again the angel stood beside her.
Iretta eagerly stretched up her dimpled
hands. “Blessed spirit, let me die;
let me dwell forever with those who love


T H E M O S S C U P. 137
-—
to worship our good Creator. Why
should I stay till age and weariness
come upon me? Let me go ere my
spirit shall be clouded by the shadow
of a sin.” .# # # #
Beneath a snowy shroud lay a beau-
tiful babe, its clear brow untouched by
sorrow, and its young cheek unfaded
by suffering. Pale cheeks and tearful
eyes bent over its marble beauty, and
fresh flowers are strown over the early
dead. A little hillock, almost lost
amidst tangled blossoms, tells that the
young and innocent sleep beneath. A
babe has passed from earth, soon to be
no more remembered; but an immortal
spirit has gone to the eternal city.
Weep not for the early dead!


140 T H E M 0 S S CUP.
D0ſ;H00I),
-
* Mark what a generosity and courage a dog will
put on when he finds himself maintained by a
man, who to him is instead of a God, or
‘melior natura,’ which courage is manifestly
such as that creature, without that confidence
of a better nature than his own, could never,
attain.”—Bacon.
I was walking, one day, in the out-
skirts of Brooklyn, where I saw two
children sitting by the way-side, with
a pretty dog between them. The chil-
dren were rosy and full of health, yet
certainly might never have tempted the
most inveterate lover of childhood to
give them a kiss, for their faces were
guiltless of the Croton, (which, unhap-
pily, is not yet conveyed under the
Sound, the projectors not having deci-
ded upon the best place to sink the
w


T H E M O S S C U P. 141
tunnel,) their curly locks were burned
in the sun, and their very scanty gar-
ments told of nothing but robust pov-
* erty. A painter would have denied
himself a good dinner and a night's
rest for the group as I beheld it.
It was the dog season; and the dog
man and the dog cart were slowly re-
ceding in the distance. The child,
most fortunate in length of garment,
had spread a portion of it over the dog,
from which it was just emerging, tied
by a hempen string ; while both urchins
were straining their eyes after the dog
man, half doubting they had really es-
caped him.
I walked slowly to see the eager ca-
ressings of the children, and hear how
many pretty endearments they uttered,
and how the dog barked in his wonder-
ment, and the children forgot the dog
man, and laughed and capered, and


THE Moss cup. 143
little fellows, grown valiant, and indig-
nant at the contemplated wrong, arose,
and threw himself into an attitude,
and, doubling up a round, harmless lit-
tle fist, shook it in the wake of the cart,
I confess I could not help sending a
spiteful look to go with the fist, and
worry the heart of the dog man. Every
moment augmented my sense of his
enormities. He grew to be a murderer
in my eyes. I thought upon the attri-
butes of doghood till his guilt grew
momentarily blacker.
I wondered how, in a Christian com-
munity, such an official could be toler-
ated. I thought how the dog had been
reclaimed from the savage state, or
rather, how every where, as man had
advanced in civilization, the dog had
kept even pace with him, so that, in
going into a new country, you may infer
the degree of refinement there by the


T H E M O S S C U P. 145
is content to serve, and feasts upon
the fragments left by him in his waste
places. In like manner, there is a small
fish which follows the whale ; but in
neither of these cases do we find these
superior animals making war upon
their humble and admiring compan-
ions.
It is left for man alone to change the
nature of an animal, to infuse into him
qualities peculiar to himself, and then
yield him up to dangers rendered ten-
fold more terrible from his educated
instincts. I remember hearing a gen-
tleman tell how his dog (he would
never indulge himself with but one of
the species) was pursued by the dog-
killers, and how a host of boys joined
in the pursuit. The creature fled and
doubled, and sought coverts with pain-
ful sagacity, and more than once as-
cended the house steps; but there was
10


T H E M O S S → C U P. 149
º
There is a moral wrong in leaving
a dog to a hap-hazard development.
He is capable of qualities positively
good, – I mean good in doghood, –
and these should not be suffered to lie
dormant, nor be left to die out from
want of exercise. It is a well-known
fact that a dog assimilates to the habits
of his master. James Hogg says his
dog grew to be so like him, that he
used sometimes to send him to kirk,
where he sat upon the seat in his mas-
ter's place, and looked so steadily up
at the pulpit, that the good minister
“never kenned the difference.”
Now, this language may be slightly
extravagant; but we all know that it
has its foundation in truth; that the dog
of an alderman never affects any an-
tics; and that the little wiry, hard-faced
ragadoon, dodging around corners, hit-
ting the boys a clip, and getting into


a ºr H E M O S S : C up. 153
They taught her infant lips to sing
With them a hymn of praise —
The song that in the woods is heard,
Through the long summer days.
And every where the child was traced
By snatches of wild song,
That marked her feet along the vale,
Or hill-side, fleet and strong.
She knew the haunts of every bird,
Where bloomed the sheltered flower,
So sheltered, that the searching frost
Might scarcely find its bower.


154 T H E M OSS C U P.
A CHAPTER ABOUT BEING RICH,
IN this world people are often poor, “ . .
very poor; sometimes rich; but hav- ' ,
ing much or little gold should make
no difference with our true selves.
We can grow rich if we choose, just
as we can grow wise or learned, by
laboring to be so.
If you wish to be rich, or to be * ,
comfortable, in food, clothes, houses, * *
and such things, you have only to
work steadily so many hours through
the day. Never buy what your situa-
tion does not require, keep actively to
one kind of business, and forbear to
change it, and you will not fail to
grow rich. You may do all this, and
if you have a strong, manly heart, a
cheerful temper, a healthful and active
º


T H E M O S S C U P. 157 .
º
*
with us, and be made miserable through
our evil deeds. This is another rea-
, son why we should avoid a wrong, and
strive for a high and true life.
In our country, all must labor in
some way or another — the rich in look-
ing after their money, and the poor to
earn it. This is a nobler life than one
of idleness. God has so made us that
labor is needful to the exercise of the
faculties he has given, and we are hap-
* piest when we so exercise them. I would
have you feel this, that you may know
the delight there is in a free and health-
ful body, with the red blood coursing
the veins, giving joy to the heart, which
in turn gives back joy at beholding the
beauty of this most beautiful earth.
I would say, then, aim, if not to be
rich, at least to be far above want.
You can be so by proper and steady
effort. In this way, you can most


T H E M O S S C UP. 159
º
deadening effects of poverty, who else
... might have been worthy and beloved.
Again, then, I would say, choose
some regular employment, and keep to
it; insure yourself the comforts and
the respect which should belong to
age, by early and systematic labor.
Your taste, or that of your friends,
must decide what this labor shall be;
but it must rest with you to make
it honorable. If you are bred a lawyer,
a doctor, a preacher, keep aloof from
the tricks, the quackery, and the cant
of these things, and seek for the true
and the good in each. º
If you are a baker, a blacksmith, a
shoeblack, be perfect in your trade;
make it respectable; be so much the
man, that your trade shall become en- -
nobled through you. Have no squeam-
ishness about your trade or your pov-
erty, if you do not at any time prosper


º - -
- º
s .*
-
160 THE MOSS Cup. a * *
well; but dare to act out the truth;
feel that “none of these things move
you; ” that you have enough in you
to command respect, in spite of all the
petty ills that may beset you. Feel
your own truth, your own manhood,
and you will find things will brighten
before you, and you will at least feel
that
“A man's a man for a’ that."
-
*


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HiSTORICAL