RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD, 
 
 OTHER STOEIES. 
 
 GRACE GREENWOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "HISTORY OF MY PBTS." 
 
 "WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM DESIGNS BY BILLINGS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 1866. 
 
Entered acforcflng to Afct of Congress, inlhe year 1881, by 
 t 3 A IWA. * J. *C t A if K A, 
 
 In the Clerk s* 6ffice of theDtrict* < T..iirt fofthS bistrtet of Massachusetta. 
 
Mob 
 
 Stiitntinn. 
 
 TO VMS 
 UNA AND JULIAN HAWTHOKNE, 
 
 HORACE AND OEOKGE MANN, 
 I AM PEOCD AND HAPPS TO DEDICATK THIS YOLUHK. 
 
 GRACE QKEENWOOD 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 TO THE MOTHEKS OF THE CHILDREN INTO WHOSH 
 HANDS THIS BOOK MAY FALL. 
 
 MY FRIENDS : 
 
 Many times, while writing this little volume of 
 stories, I have seemed to feel your eyes upon me, 
 in a look so serious, so searching, that my heart 
 almost quailed under it. I have felt, more deeply 
 than I can tell, that I was to be judged not alone 
 by literary umpires, by professional critics, but 
 by the unbiased reason, the quick conscience, the 
 jealous watchfulness, the wondrous instincts, of 
 your maternal hearts. 
 
 As a practical florist would watch keenly, if 
 not distrustfully, a young gardener, in his first 
 essays at binding up rose-trees, watering and prop 
 ping lilies, and training tender young vines, so, 
 but with infinitely deeper anxieties, must you 
 regard one like me, a stranger in your conserva- 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 tory of fair soul-flowers, newly blossomed out of 
 the great life of God, seeking to stay with some 
 rude support the luxuriant growth and affluent 
 flowering of childish affections, to nourish the pure 
 white bloom of earliest thought, to train those beau 
 tiful vine-like instincts of faith and holiness which, 
 even undirected, creep blindly toward heaven. As 
 Eve learned horticulture of the angels in Eden, so, 
 in the life of maternal love, have you been divinely 
 taught to rear your plants of immortality. Yet do 
 not distrust one who but seeks, as a subordinate, to 
 aid you in your labors. She may go about her 
 work with^ " a prentice hand," all too unskilful, 
 but, surely, neither rash nor ungentle. 
 
 Aside from the dear love I bear them, I have a 
 genuine reverence for children, for that open- 
 browed innocence, that simple trust, that utter 
 unworldliness, which once drew them into the arms 
 of Jesus, and called from his lips that blessing 
 which is the seal of his divinity to the heart of a 
 mother. I look upon a joyous group of children, 
 not envying them their careless happiness, with the 
 sad retrospective feeling which murmurs, "I, too, 
 dwelt in Arcadia ; J; but, regarding their purity, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I say, with a sort of grateful pride, " Have I not 
 been as one of these ? Did I not also inherit the 
 
 I have faith to believe that this book will speak 
 to the hearts of children, because, in writing it, I 
 truly lived again the life of my childhood ; my 
 heart was dismayed anew at its little dangers, and 
 thrilled by its little joys ; it bled again with its 
 sharp little sorrows, where the later, deeper wounds 
 of womanhood were healed forever. 
 
 It may be I have written too much as a child, 
 too impulsively and inconsiderately. You may think 
 the mirth of some portions of the book rather too 
 free and wild. I can only reply that my humor is 
 not under my control; it plays "fantastic tricks" 
 on its own responsibility, in defiance of good sober 
 sense and the nice rules of propriety. 
 
 For the homely democratic sentiments scattered 
 through the volume I make no apology; I will 
 stand by them at all times. The religious senti 
 ments are alike those of my reason and my heart. 
 I have sought to point my readers to a heaven of 
 peace and brightness, not of storm and gloom ; to 
 inculcate a belief which may bring comfort and joy 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 to their young spirits, not awe and terror; a 
 faith as bright, as free, as clear, as cheerful, as the 
 skies, the birds, the waters and the flowers, of my 
 own remembered childhood. 
 
 In regard to the language employed, I have not 
 been conscious of striving after simplicity. I have 
 been a good deal influenced by the advice of a little 
 girl, who, on hearing that a lady was writing a 
 juvenile work, said, " Do, papa, tell her not to talk 
 to the children more childishly than they ever talk 
 themselves." 
 
 And now, dear friends, let me say I do not even 
 hope that you will pronounce my story-book fault 
 less ; but, if you will only admit that it is harm 
 less, that it will do some little good, if you 
 will believe I have meant well, I shall be quite 
 content. G. CK 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOS 
 
 THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER AND HIS GRAND-DAUGHTER , 
 
 THE TORN FROCK, A LITTLE STORY FOR LITTLE 
 
 GIRLS ...... 14 
 
 THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE . . . .25 
 
 DENNIS O BRIEN . . ... 34 
 
 STRAWBERRYING ...... 45 
 
 TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY . . 55 
 THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY . . .70 
 
 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST ... 80 
 
 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL . .91 
 
 THE HERMIT . . . . . .107 
 
 EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING . . . 109 
 
 LIZZIE IN THE MILL 119 
 
 JACK AND HIS JACK-O LANTERNS . 131 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD, 
 
 TIGS OLD CHAIRr-MENDER AND HIS 
 GRAND-DAUGHTER. 
 
 PERHAPS some of my little readers have 
 seen in the country chairs bottomed with 
 thin strips of wood, or woven bark. These 
 make very easy seats, but do not last a 
 greac while. We had such chairs in our 
 kitchen, and about once a year they needed 
 repairing. There was an old man, by the 
 name of Richards, who used to do this 
 work for us. I remember him now, as 
 plainly as though I had seen him only yes 
 terday. He was a little fat man, between 
 sixty and seventy years of age, with a 
 good-natured, rosy face, and hair as white 
 as snow, which was very thick, and hung 
 dowi) on his shoulders. He generally wore 
 
2 RECOLLECTIONS OP MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 a suit of coarse cloth, called " sheep s 
 gray," and a brown felt hat, with a round 
 crown and a wide brim. He always came 
 in a little unpainted wagon, drawn by a 
 sorel one-eyed pony, in a home-made 
 harness of light leather, with rope reins. 
 I remember that this pony, whose name 
 was " Dolly," had once a little colt, which, 
 not being as sober-mannered and lazy as 
 herself, gave her more trouble than pleasure. 
 He seemed remarkably cunning, and would 
 often get on the blind side of his mother, 
 and keep as quiet as a mouse, while the 
 poor creature was whinnying for him, in 
 great distress. 
 
 Mr. Richards lived in a small log house, 
 a few miles east of us, with the only near 
 relative he had in the world, a little 
 grand- daughter, named Amy, who, from 
 the age of ten years, when her mother 
 died, was her grandfather s housekeeper. 
 
 Amy Ellis was one of the best, as she 
 was one of the prettiest girls in the coun 
 try, far and wide. People called her " a 
 
THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 8 
 
 perfect little woman/ she was so active, 
 so steady and industrious. She was strong, 
 healthy and happy, and really could do more 
 work in a day than many a full-grown 
 woman, and with less fuss. She was not 
 tall, but rather stout, like her grandfather ; 
 her hands were hardened by work, and her 
 feet somewhat spread by going without 
 shoes in the summer time ; but she had a 
 clear brown complexion, rosy cheeks, and 
 very handsome hazel eyes. Her frocks 
 and aprons, though plain, and cut in rather 
 an old-womanly way, were always neat and 
 whole, and her grandfather s clothes were 
 kept carefully brushed and mended. 
 
 I can see now that Amy was a very won 
 derful child ; but I own that there was a 
 time when I grew tired of her very name, 
 from hearing her praised so much, and held 
 up as a model for me to imitate. 
 
 Amy ha<J a good deal of taste. I remem 
 ber that she used to train up ivy-vines and 
 rose-bushes against her grandfather s house, 
 till you could scarcely see the logs. She 
 
4 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 was very fond of her old grandfather, and 
 he of her. It was pleasant to see them 
 working in the field and garden together, 
 or walking to church, or sitting of a Sunday 
 evening in the burial-ground, on the rough 
 bench, by the graves of old Mrs. Richards 
 and Amy s father and mother. They were 
 too poor to put up head-stones ; but they 
 had placed boards, with nicely painted 
 inscriptions, there, and had planted the 
 sweet-brier and violets in great abundance. 
 I remember the last chair which Mr. 
 Richards mended for us, and how it was 
 broken. There was a certain old soldier, a 
 very stout man, who was in the habit of 
 calling at our house and asking for cider. 
 He grew rather troublesome, at last, and my 
 mother resolved to give him no more, as he 
 was suspected of drinking too much, 
 though, for that matter, any cider is too 
 much. But, one hot summer day, he came 
 in, and asked for a drink. My mother 
 looked at him, saw that he had not been 
 drinking, and that he was very tired. Sa 
 
THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 5 
 
 she went for the cider herself, calling to 
 my brother William to hand the gentleman 
 a chair. Will was very mischievous, and 
 so brought forward an old arm-chair, the 
 bottom of which was broken in several 
 places. Of course, Mr. More, tired as he 
 was, came down so heavily that all gave way 
 under him, and when he rose the chair rose 
 with him. My mother returned in time to 
 reprove my brother for his " carelessness," 
 as she called it. I wish I could believe it 
 was carelessness, and no trick. She then 
 handed a brimming tumbler to our neigh 
 bor ; he drank one great swallow, then 
 made up a dreadful face, set down the glass, 
 and hurried angrily out of the house. My 
 mother, much astonished, tasted of that 
 which was left in the pitcher, and found 
 that it was vinegar. What a laugh we 
 children had at her " carelessness " ! But 
 old Mr. More never again called at our 
 house for cider. 
 
 Mr. Richards happened along in a day 01 
 two, and wove a new bottom for the chair. 
 
6 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 That time he brought with him his grand 
 daughter, who was then between eleven 
 and twelve years old. My sister and I, 
 wishing to amuse her, showed her our dolls ; 
 but she said, " How can you waste so 
 many pretty pieces of calico in these little 
 frocks and aprons ? I would sew them 
 together, and put them into a bed-quilt." 
 
 We took her to see our pretty pet pig, 
 " Nuggie," who lived in a little house by 
 himself, and was washed every day ; and 
 after looking at him a minute, she said, 
 " Do you mean to keep such a nice fat pig 
 as that ? If he were mine, I d have him 
 killed, and roast him." 
 
 I thought this was very cruel of Amy, 
 for our Nuggie was no common pig ; he 
 was civilized and good-mannered, and we 
 had taught him a great many cunning tricks. 
 I afterwards asked my mother if it was not 
 a hard-hearted remark ; but she replied that 
 Amy looked more to the useful than the 
 ornamental. Poor Nuggie died that very 
 
THE OLD CHAIU-MENDER. 7 
 
 summer, of cholera-morbus, from my over 
 feeding him with green apples. 
 
 Amy seemed most pleased with our ducks 
 and a pair of twin calves, which, she said, 
 were nearly as thriving as her own ; but 
 she soon went into the house, took out her 
 knitting, and sat down near her grand 
 father. My mother was making some pastry 
 in the kitchen, and Mr. Richards was con 
 versing with her. I remember that he was 
 talking of a neighbor of ours, who, he 
 said, was well enough off, but who had sold 
 out, " pulled up stakes," and started for 
 the far-away State of Ohio, in hopes of 
 making his fortune. He said, " As for me, 
 I have lamed in whatsoever state I am, 
 therewith to be content/ and all I want, 
 here below, is food and raiment, and mid 
 dling good clothing, and three meals of 
 victuals a day/ 
 
 " Why, grandfather," said Amy, "does 
 anybody ask more than that ?" 
 
 " Yes, child," he answered ; " some folks 
 take a notion that they must be rich or 
 2 
 
8 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 great. I had a brother that never would 
 give up peddling till he was worth a thou 
 sand dollars ; and my father, your great 
 grandfather, was a Justice of the Peace ; 
 but I don t think he was ever the happier 
 for his greatness. I rather think that it 
 shortened his life, though he was a-most 
 eighty when he died." 
 
 My mother invited Amy to stay with us 
 that night and the next day ; but she 
 answered, " I thank you, I cannot possibly 
 stay, for to-morrow is my baking-day/ 
 
 When she was going, we children offered 
 to lend her some of our story-books. She 
 looked at them as though she longed to take 
 them ; then shook her head, and said to my 
 mother, " I have no time to read such things 
 as these ; but, if you could lend me a good 
 cookery-book, I should be very glad." 
 
 The very autumn after the visit I have 
 described, Mr. Richards was taken down 
 with a fever. The neighbors kindly offered 
 assistance, and did all they could for him ; 
 but he liked best to be tended by Amy, and 
 
THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 9 
 
 she wished to do all the nursing for him. 
 One afternoon, when he seemed somewhat 
 better, and nobody, not even the doctor, 
 thought him dangerously ill, it happened 
 that Amy was alone with him. As she sat 
 by his bedside, he stretched out his thin 
 hand and laid it on her head, saying, in a 
 faint voice, "Poor Amy, I am sorry to 
 leave you ; you have been a good child to 
 me. Keep a good girl, love God, and He 11 
 take care of you. You must n t live here 
 all alone when I am gone ; but you 11 see 
 that somebody takes care of old Dolly." 
 
 "Why, grandfather," said Amy, "you 
 will live to take care of her yourself." 
 
 Mr. Richards was silent a moment ; then 
 he asked, 
 
 " Is there room between your mother and 
 your grandmother for me ? They 11 have 
 to take up the sweet-brier ; but, if it dies, 
 maybe you 11 plant another over your poor 
 old grand ther." 
 
 " 0, grandfather," cried Amy, " don t 
 
10 RECOLLECTIONS OP MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 talk so, don t ! You will live a great many 
 years yet, won t you, dear grandfather ? " 
 
 " Well Amy, I 11 try," he said ; "and 
 now I think I will sleep a little." 
 
 He turned his face toward the wall, and 
 lay very quiet. Amy sat by him more than 
 an hour ; then she went out softly and made 
 him some nice broth. When she came in 
 with this, she thought that he had slept long 
 enough ; so, laying her hand lightly on his 
 shoulder, she said, " Come, grandfather, 
 wake up and take your broth before it gets 
 cold !" But he did not wake. She stooped 
 over him, and when she saw his face, she 
 started with fear ; it was so white, and the 
 eyes were so sunken. She laid her hand 
 on his forehead, and it was quite cold. Her 
 grandfather was dead ! 
 
 Then Amy flung herself down beside 
 him, wound her arms about his neck, and 
 cried aloud. 
 
 It happened that a stranger gentleman 
 and his wife W$re at that moment passing 
 the house in a travelling carriage, and hear- 
 
THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 11 
 
 ing the mournful cries of the poor girl, 
 they alighted and came in. The first thai 
 Amy knew, she was lifted gently up from 
 the bed, and when she looked round she 
 saw a lady in deep mourning, who held her 
 in her arms, and was striving to comfort 
 her. She had never seen the sweet face 
 of that lady before ; but she loved her at 
 once, and clung to her as though she were 
 her own mother. 
 
 The strangers, Mr. and Mrs. Temple, had 
 a little while before lost their only child, a 
 daughter, about the age of Amy ; and after 
 hearing Amy s sad story, and seeing her 
 lonely condition, they resolved to befriend 
 her. They stayed in the village near by 
 till after the funeral of Mr. Richards, wait 
 ing to take his grand- daughter home with 
 them. 
 
 When Mr. Temple had led the weeping 
 Amy out of the little log house, so many 
 years her dear home, and handed her into 
 his carriage, he was heard to tell the driver 
 to drive rather slowly, so as not to hujry toe 
 
12 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 much lazy old Dolly, who was fastened 
 behind. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Temple soon grew to loving 
 Amy very much,, and finally adopted her as 
 their own daughter. They were wealthy, 
 and thinking that she should have a fine 
 education, they concluded to send her to a 
 fashionable boarding-school. But, though 
 Amy was clever, and proved to be a diligent 
 scholar, she was neither happy nor healthy 
 there. She grew so pale and languid, at 
 last, that her friends took her home, and 
 began to nurse her, and give her medicine. 
 But, one morning, Mrs. Temple missed her 
 from the sick room. She searched through 
 the house, and at length found her in 
 the kitchen, busy at the ironing-table. Then 
 it was agreed upon that Amy should do 
 some house -work every day, and study at 
 home ; and, I assure you, it was not long 
 before she was in fine health and spirits. 
 
 Amy is a woman now, and has a house 
 of her own to manage. She married a lit 
 erary man a poet, and a writer of stories. 
 
THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 13 
 
 I have heard it said that she took him 
 instead of any one of her wealthy lovers, 
 because she knew that, as his wife, she 
 should not be obliged to play the fine lady, 
 but would always have plenty of good hard 
 work to do. 
 
THE TORN FROCK. A LITTLE STORY FOR 
 LITTLE GIRLS. 
 
 I WAS the most unlucky child in the world 
 in respect to my clothes. My frocks and 
 aprons never kept whole, like those of other 
 little girls, but somehow went to pieces 
 before I knew it. If there was a brier in 
 my path, it was sure to fasten itself to my 
 pantalet, and tear the trimming off. If 
 a nail protruded from a box, I was sure to 
 come in contact with it, and find it was too 
 much for me. If a rail had an ugly splinter, 
 I was sure to undertake to get over the 
 fence in that very place ; and if there was 
 a thorn-bush on my way from school, just 
 as I was under full speed, my skirts were 
 sure to be blown against it, and awful con 
 sequences to follow. 
 
 Some people said that these .sad acci 
 dents happened to my clothes because I 
 
THE TORN FROCK. 15 
 
 never was slow or thoughtful, but did every 
 thing with a hop, skip, and jump. But I 
 knew it was luck. I was born to have my 
 frocks torn. My mother sometimes talked 
 of dressing me in stout brown linen ; but it 
 would have been of no use. I don t think 
 I should have been safe in a canvas frock 
 and cassimere pantalets. 
 
 When I was between seven and eight 
 years of age, my mother went away from 
 home, to spend some months, and left us 
 children under the care of a housekeeper. I 
 suppose that the widow Wilkins was a very 
 respectable, well-meaning woman ; she kept 
 the house neatly, sent us regularly to school, 
 and gave us enough to eat ; but I do think 
 she was rather too hard on me for tearing my 
 clothes. She did n t seem to believe in it 
 being all ill luck. Sometimes I would steal 
 slyly into the house, about dusk, with a 
 rent in my frock carefully pinned up, hoping 
 it would escape her notice ; but she never 
 failed to spy it out, and to be down upon 
 me at once. You would have thought that 
 3 
 
16 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 \ 
 
 she mistook me for her bottle of bitters, 
 labelled, " When taken, to be well shaken," 
 she exercised me in such a remarkable man 
 ner ; then she would settle me in my chair, 
 as though she meant that I never should 
 rise again on any occasion. But I did not 
 care so much for these things as I did for 
 her talk. Such long lectures as she would 
 give me on my carelessness ; such awful 
 warning of the poverty and want I was 
 bringing on myself; such dreadful stories 
 she would tell of the melancholy end of 
 little girls who kept on " slitting up " their 
 frocks and rending their pinafores ! 
 
 In late years, I have heard women speak 
 in public lecture and preach, sometimes 
 talking very fast, and often quite loud and 
 brave ; but, even now, as I look back, I 
 think the widow- Wilkins was a wonderful 
 woman with her tongue. 
 
 I did not improve under her severe 
 rule. I am sorry to say that I rather grew 
 worse ; for now, when I was not careless 
 
THE TORN FROCK. 17 
 
 I was awkward, from fear of her, and 
 blundered into tearing my clothes. 
 
 At last, our mother came home. How 
 well I remember that morning ! She 
 arrived early, came to our beds, and waked 
 us with her kisses. I remember how she 
 laughed at our youngest, Albert, who did 
 not know her at first, and as he was very 
 bashful, hid under the bed-clothes, and 
 when she caught him and pulled him out, 
 said, joyfully, "0, it s you, mamma ! I 
 thought twas a lady." 
 
 I remember that she brought the little 
 fellow some toys, the like of which were 
 never seen in our part of the country. 
 There was a wee man, called "Merry 
 Andrew," with a mouth on the broad grin, 
 and you had only to pull a string to make 
 him fling out his legs and throw up his arms 
 : n a surprising manner. There was a cob 
 bler always mending a shoe that was never 
 done, and a pasteboard cuckoo, which, with 
 a little squeezing, wguld send forth a sound 
 which we were so polite as to call singing. 
 
18 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 This my little brother smashed the next 
 day, to see what made the noise. But, most 
 wonderful of all, was a village, the little 
 white block-houses all standing in rows on 
 a green board, and with little figures of men 
 and women which you could move about. 
 There was a meeting-house, with a sharp 
 steeple ; and when all was rightly fixed, a 
 minister, with a very long face, was just 
 going into the door, and the people were 
 folloAving him. But Albert turned this 
 minister round, moved him across the street, 
 and made him going into the tavern-door, 
 which we told him was very wrong. 
 
 My sister Carrie and myself received each 
 a pretty black-eyed doll, all dressed, and a 
 new frock. Such splendid fine-lady dolls 
 we had never before seen. Why, they 
 actually had knee-joints and elbow-joints, 
 and red Morocco shoes ! Our frocks were 
 of fine buff lawn, figured with the tiniest 
 white rose-buds in the world ; and our mother 
 made them in some wonderful new fashion, 
 
THE TORN FROCK. 19 
 
 which almost threw us into convulsions of 
 delight. 
 
 There was in a distant part of the yard, 
 surrounding our house, an old apple-tree, 
 among the lower branches of which I had a 
 favorite seat, which I used to reach by the 
 help of a board, leaned against the trunk 
 of the tree. Two or three crooked limbs 
 formed an easy seat, and one higher up 
 made a nice shelf for books and playthings. 
 
 I have heard that the great poetess, Mrs. 
 Hemans, when a little girl of seven, had such 
 a perch, where she read Shakspeare. I never 
 undertook such fine reading in my apple- 
 tree, but I read "The Babes in the Wood" 
 and " Goody Two-Shoes" there, with great 
 pleasure ; and, though I was no genius, 
 I rather think I understood them quite 
 as well as she understood her grand old 
 Shakspeare. On my shelf, in pleasant 
 weather, I kept two rather plainly-dressed 
 cloth-dolls, called Polly and Betsy ; and to 
 these I went to complain when I had been 
 ill-used at school, or widow Wilkins scold- 
 
20 RECOLLECTIONS OP MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 ing had been more than I could bear. I 
 liked to talk to these two friends, they lis 
 tened so respectfully, never interrupting or 
 contradicting me. I can t say that they 
 comforted me, as I was obliged to say every 
 thing for them ; but they never blamed me, 
 or in any way took sides against me. 
 
 When, for the first time, I was dressed 
 in my new buff lawn, and it had been 
 admired by all in the house, I felt that I 
 really must give Polly and Betsy a sight of 
 it; and soon I was up in my lofty seat, 
 spreading out my fine gown, and talking of 
 the color, the fit, the ruffles and tucks, in 
 two little admiring voices, which I made 
 believe came from the pink button-hole 
 mouths of Polly and Betsy. When they 
 had said all the pretty and strong words I 
 could think of, I very uncivilly forgot their 
 presence, took up my book, and began to 
 read. The day was sultry, I was tired ; the 
 story was an old one, and, at last, I fell 
 fast asleep. When I awoke, some time after 
 sunset, I found that one of my mischievous 
 
THE TORN FROCK. 21 
 
 brothers had taken the board away from the 
 tree, and that I must get down as best I 
 could. I was too proud and independent 
 to call for help, though I knew the boys 
 -must be somewhere near, but jumped at 
 once. As usual, I forgot to gather my 
 frock around me; and, as I leaped from my 
 perch, there came an awful sound! a 
 sound I knew too well. As I rose from the 
 ground and looked about me, I found that 
 my beautiful new frock was torn half across 
 one breadth, in that hateful zigzag way 
 that my frocks were always tearing. Of 
 course, the first thing I did was to sit down 
 and have a good cry ; then I stole up to my 
 chamber by the back stairs, took off my 
 buff lawn, folded it, laid it away in my 
 drawer, and put on an old gingham frock, 
 feeling that it was vastly too good for me. 
 
 After a while, I went down to supper, 
 though I felt sure I could not swallow a 
 mouthful. As I took my seat at the table, 
 my brother Kufus looked up from his bowl 
 of bread and milk, and said, " ho ! you ve 
 
22 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 come down, have you ? I thought you had 
 gone to roost for the night/ 
 
 I wished to make a clean breast of it, and 
 tell all to my mother, but did not dare, for 
 fear she would punish me, or give me what 
 widow Wilkins had taught me to dread a 
 thousand times more a severe scolding. 
 That night, oh, how I longed to have some 
 kind fairy come, when I was fast asleep, and 
 nicely darn my torn frock ! I thought, too, 
 that the wicked being, whose name I never 
 then dared to speak, and even now would 
 rather not mention, that the evil one would 
 not be so very bad, after all, if he would go 
 about sewing tears for poor unlucky little 
 girls while they slept ! 
 
 The next day, at noon, my mother said 
 that I need not go back to school, but might 
 go with her to spend the afternoon at a 
 neighbor s house, a most pleasant place. I 
 knew that she would tell me to wear my 
 new buff lawn ; so I answered, " I would 
 rather go to school, if you please." My 
 mother was surprised at this, but she praised 
 
THE TORN FROCK. 23 
 
 me for being so fond of my books. How 
 ashamed I felt at her praises ! That night, 
 she told me that she had invited some little 
 girls of the house where she had visited to 
 spend the next afternoon with me. In the 
 morning, I longed more than ever to tell 
 her all; I even began, but the words 
 seemed to choke me, and I ran away to 
 school without having confessed. I knew 
 I should be required to put on the lawn ; 
 and I lingered on the way home, and paused 
 a long time on the door-step, fearing to go 
 in, because then my secret must come out. 
 At last, I softly opened the door, and 
 stepped into the sitting-room. My mother sat 
 by the window, sewing. I went up to her 
 so quietly that she did not hear me. In her 
 lap lay my new buff frock, and she was 
 putting the last stitches into the nicest piece 
 of darning ever done in the world ! I 
 started with both joy and alarm, and my 
 mother looked round with a smile, saying, 
 " Why, my little daughter is late to-day ! " 
 and that was all ! I knelt down by her 
 
24 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 side, hid my face in her lap, had a hearty 
 cry, and felt better. The girls soon came, 
 and we had a happy afternoon. 
 
 My mother said nothing about my frock 
 for days after, not even to ask how I had 
 torn it. But her silent, forbearing kindness 
 did more to make me careful in future that 
 any punishment or scolding could have done. 
 Yet I still tore my frocks occasionally ; and, 
 even now, I sometimes tear my best dresses, 
 and expect to tear them, as long as I live. 
 
 When, a year or two after my apple-tree 
 adventure, I saw my sister Sophie cutting 
 up my out-grown buff lawn for a bed- 
 quilt, I begged a scrap containing that 
 nicely-darned rent, which I had always 
 thought the prettiest part of the frock, and 
 laid it carefully away among my little treas 
 ures, where I kept it for many years, as 
 "a specimen of my mother s fine needle 
 work," I told others, but, in truth, as a 
 reminder of her patience and goodness 
 toward her careless and luckless child. 
 
THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 ONE summer afternoon, when I was about 
 eight years of age, I was standing at an 
 eastern window, looking at a beautiful rain 
 bow, that, bending from the sky, seemed to 
 be losing itself in a thick, swampy wood, 
 about a quarter of a mile distant. We had 
 just had a violent thunder-storm ; but now 
 the dark heavens had cleared up, a fresh 
 breeze was blowing from the south, the 
 rose-bushes by the window were dashing 
 rain-drops against the panes, the robins were 
 singing merrily from the cherry-trees, and 
 all was brighter and pleasanter than ever. 
 It happened that no one was in the room 
 with me, then, but my brother Kufus, who 
 was just recovering from a severe illness, 
 and who was sitting, propped up with pil 
 lows, in an easy-chair, looking out, with me, 
 at the rainbow. 
 
26 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " See, brother," I said, "it drops right 
 down among the cedars, where we go in 
 the spring to find winter-greens !" 
 
 "Do you know, Gracie," said my 
 brother, with a very serious face, " that if 
 you should go to the end of the rainbow, you 
 would find there purses filled with money, 
 and great pots of gold and silver ? " 
 
 "Is it truly so?" I asked. 
 
 " Truly so," answered my brother, with 
 a smile. Now, I was a simple-hearted child, 
 that believed everything that was told me, 
 although I was again and again imposed 
 upon ; so, without another word, I darted 
 out of the door, and set forth toward the 
 wood. My brother called after me as 
 loudly as he was able, but I did not heed 
 him. I cared nothing for the wet grass, 
 which was sadly drabbling my clean frock ; 
 on and on I ran ; I was so sure that I knew 
 just where that rainbow ended. I remem 
 ber how glad and proud I was in my 
 thoughts, and what fine presents I promised 
 to all my friends, out of my great riches, 
 
THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 27 
 
 Father should have a pair of new gold- 
 rimmed spectacles, and a silver tobacco-box. 
 Grandmother should have a gold snuff-box, 
 and silver knitting-needles. I would allow 
 my mother two or three purses of money, 
 but would reserve the right to lay it out 
 for her, in gayer dresses and caps than her 
 grave taste would allow her to purchase. 
 My eldest sister should have a white horse, 
 with the longest possible tail, and a crim 
 son side -saddle , with a silver stirrup. To 
 my sister Carrie and myself I promised 
 rings, necklaces, breast-pins, silk dresses 
 and false curls, in great abundance. My 
 elder brothers should have watches, guns, 
 silver fish-hooks, and each a scarlet soldiei- 
 coat, and a pair of green velvet pantaloons. 
 For Albert, the youngest, I would buy a 
 rocking-horse, that should whinny when he 
 should mount it, as his cuckoo had sung 
 when squeezed. Carlo should have a new 
 red Morocco collar, hung with silver bells ; 
 and I even resolved to furnish a silver ring 
 for the nose of my pet pig, Nuggie 
 
28 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 So thinking, and laying delightful plans, 
 almost before I knew it, I had reached the 
 cedar-grove, and the end of the rainbow 
 was not there ! But I saw it shining down 
 among the trees a little further off ; so on 
 and on I struggled, through the thick bushes 
 and over logs, till I came within the sound 
 of a stream which ran through the swamp. 
 Then I thought, "What if the rainbow 
 should come down right into the middle of 
 that deep, muddy brook! " Ah! but I was 
 frightened for my heavy pots of gold and 
 silver, and my purses of money. How 
 should I ever find them there ? and what a 
 time I should have getting them out ! I 
 reached the bank of the stream, and " the 
 end was not yet." But I could see it a 
 little way off, on the other side. I crossed 
 the creek on a fallen tree, and still ran on, 
 though my limbs seemed to give way, and 
 my side ached with fatigue. The woods 
 grew thicker and darker, the ground more 
 wet and swampy, and I found, as many grown 
 people had found before me, that there was 
 
THE RAINBOW- PILGRIMAGE. 29 
 
 rather hard travelling in a journey aftef 
 riches. Suddenly, I met in my way a large 
 porcupine, who made himself still larger 
 when he saw me, as a cross cat raises its 
 back, and makes tails at a dog. Fearing 
 that he would shoot his sharp quills at me, 
 and hit me all over, I ran from him as 
 fast as my tired feet would carry me. In 
 my fright and hurry, I forgot to keep my 
 eye on the rainbow, as I had done before ; 
 and when, at last, I remembered and looked 
 for it, twas nowhere in sight ! I suppose 
 because it had quite faded away. When I 
 saw that it was indeed gone, I burst into 
 tears ; for I had lost all my treasures, and 
 had nothing to show for my pilgrimage but 
 muddy feet, and a wet and torn frock. So 
 I set out for home. But I soon found that 
 my troubles had only begun ; I could not 
 find my way ; I was lost. I could not tell 
 which was east or west, north or south, but 
 wandered about, here and there, crying and 
 calling, though I knew that no one could hear 
 me. All at once, I heard voices shouting 
 
30 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 and hallooing ; but, instead of being rejoiced 
 at this, I was frightened, fearing that the 
 Indians were upon me ! I had never before 
 been afraid of the Onondagas, who were a 
 harmless, peaceful tribe ; but that week I 
 had been listening to a novel called " The 
 Wept of Wish-ton-wish," a story of the old 
 Indian wars, which my mother had read 
 aloud to my invalid brother. I remember 
 how, one night, when I was thought abed 
 and asleep, I was hid behind, or rather 
 under, my brother s great arm-chair, with 
 ears open and mouth close shut, scarcely 
 daring to breathe, till I was found out by 
 my sobs for the death of poor Uncas. Now, 
 I thought of the cruel deeds of those bloody 
 Indians of the old time, till, getting more 
 and more alarmed, I crawled under some 
 bushes, by the side of a large log, and lay 
 perfectly still. I was wet, cold, scared, 
 altogether very miserable indeed ; yet, 
 when the voices came near, I did not start 
 up and show myself. At last, I heard my 
 own name called ; but I rernembeied that 
 
THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 31 
 
 Indians were very cunning, and thought 
 they might have found it out some way ; so I 
 did not ansAver. Then came a voice near 
 me, that sounded like that of my eldest 
 brother, who lived away from home, and 
 whom I had not seen for many months; 
 but I dared not believe the voice was his. 
 Soon some one sprang up on to the log by 
 which I lay, and stood there, calling. I 
 could not see his face ; I could only see 
 the tips of his toes, but by them I saw that 
 he wore a nice pair of boots, and not moc 
 casins. Yet I remembered that some 
 Indians dressed like white folks. I knew 
 a young chief, who was quite a dandy ; 
 who not only 
 
 " Got him a coat and breeches, 
 And looked like a Christian man," 
 
 but actually wore a fine ruffled shirt, outside 
 of all. So I still kept quiet, till I heard 
 shouted over me a pet name, which this 
 brother had given me. It was the funniest 
 name in the world. I don t know where 
 ne found it. I rather think he made it up 
 
 himself, " Roxana Kusberger ! " 
 
 4- 
 
32 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I knew that no Indian knew of the name, 
 as it was a little family secret ; so I sprang 
 up, and caught my brother about the ankles. 
 I hardly think that an Onondaga could have 
 given a louder yell than he gave then ; and 
 he jumped so that he fell off the log down 
 by my side. But nobody was hurt ; and, 
 after kissing me till he had kissed away all 
 my tears, he hoisted me on to his shoulder, 
 called my other brothers, who were hunt 
 ing in different directions, and we all set 
 out for home. 
 
 I had been gone nearly three hours, and 
 had wandered a number of miles. Joseph s 
 coming, and asking for me, had first set 
 them to inquiring and searching me out. 
 
 When I went into the room where my 
 brother Rufus sat, after I had had a bath 
 and a change of dress, he said, " Why, my 
 poor little sister ! I did not mean to send 
 you off on such a wild-goose chase to the 
 end of the rainbow. I thought you would 
 know I was only quizzing you/ 
 
 I am afraid I made up a naughty face, as 
 
THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 33 
 
 I answered, " It was very cruel of you, 
 and now I will not give you that fine rifle I 
 was going to buy." 
 
 Then my eldest brother took xne on his 
 knee, and told me what the rainbow really 
 was : that it was only painted air, and did 
 not rest on the earth, so nobody could ever 
 find the end ; and that God had set it in 
 the cloud to remind him and us of his 
 promise, never again to drown the world 
 with a flood. 
 
 " 0, I think God s promise would be a 
 beautiful name for the rainbow!" I said. 
 
 " Yes," replied my mother, " but it tells 
 us something more than that he will not send 
 great floods upon the earth, it tells us of 
 his beautiful love always bending over us 
 from the skies. And I trust that when my 
 little girl sets forth on a pilgrimage to find 
 God s love, she will be led by the rainbow 
 of his promise through all the dark places 
 of this world, to treasures laid up in 
 heaven/ better, far better than silver or 
 gold." 
 
DENNIS O BKIEN. 
 
 ONCE, when I was quite a little girl, 1 
 went to spend a few months in the family 
 of my uncle, Colonel Grove, who lived in 
 an old country-house, on a large farm, some 
 twenty or thirty miles from us. Here I was 
 always as happy and contented as in my own 
 home, as everybody was kind to me, and I 
 was allowed to have pretty much my own 
 way. 
 
 I found living at my uncle s an Irish lad, 
 a sort of boy of all work, named Dennis 
 O Brien. He was about sixteen, but rather 
 short of his age, with a broad, ruddy face, 
 bright blue eyes, and auburn hair. Though 
 not handsome, he looked frank and intelli 
 gent, and almost everybody liked him at first 
 sight. He had always been industrious, 
 had earned enough money in Ireland to 
 bring him to this country,* and he was now 
 
DENNIS O BRIEN. 35 
 
 working very hard, and saving every penny, 
 BO as to be able to send for his widowed 
 mother and young sister. Was he not a 
 noble boy ? 
 
 Dennis and I struck up a great friendship, 
 at once. In the long winter evenings, when 
 there was company in the parlor, I liked 
 nothing better than to sit by the great kitchen 
 fire, and listen to his stories of Ireland, 
 especially of the Irish fairies, or " little 
 folk," as he called them. But, though Den 
 nis talked a great deal at these times, he was 
 never idle, but was always making axe- 
 helves, hoe-handles, or pudding-sticks, 
 which he sold in the neighborhood, or 
 small cross-bows and arrows for me, as I was 
 much given to shooting at the barn-yard 
 fowls, who took it all in good part, as they 
 were seldom hit. I have now a little bow, 
 and two arrows, whittled out of a shingle by 
 the great General Houston, but which, I am 
 sorry to say, do not come up to those my 
 Irish friend used to make for me. 
 
 One evening, after sitting quite still for 
 
36 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 some minutes, Dennis asked, in a humble 
 way, if I would teach him to read. I was 
 astonished ; a boy sixteen years old not 
 know how to read ! But I ran for a 
 spelling-book, and began at once to teach 
 him. I never knew any one learn so easily 
 and eagerly as he. I soon had him through 
 a b abs, but he stuck a while on " Baker." 
 After that, all seemed smooth sailing, and 
 we were in words of four and five syllables 
 before we knew it. Ah, I was a proud girl 
 about those days ! I had never been a re 
 markably good scholar myself; I could 
 count up on my fingers, without the aid of 
 my toes, all the times I had been at the 
 head of the second class in spelling. Now 
 I found out that teaching was the work for 
 me to sit with the spelling lesson before 
 me, so that there was no danger of my mak 
 ing mistakes, and laugh or look severe at 
 the blunders of my pupil. I began to put 
 on the airs of a school-ma am, and begged a 
 little old penknife of my aunt, with which I 
 was always whittling hen s quills into tooth- 
 
DENNIS O BRIEN. 37 
 
 X 
 
 picks, and calling them pens; and if my 
 pupil had been a little smaller, I don t know 
 but I should have flourished a switch about 
 his ears. He was so provokingly good, he 
 never would have given me any occasion to 
 use it ; as it was, he scarcely gave me 
 chances of reproving him enough to keep 
 up my dignity. 
 
 When Dennis went from spelling to read 
 ing, I gave him, as a reward of merit," 
 a nice " New England Primer." I first set 
 him to learning the verses beginning 
 
 " In Adam s fall 
 We sinned all." 
 
 "You know about Adam s fall, don t 
 you, Dennis ? " I said, very solemnly. 
 
 " Och, yes, Miss," he answered; "he 
 fell from an apple-tree, in the Garden of 
 Aden, did n t he ? " 
 
 " Dennis," said I, " I m afraid your 
 folks are heathens." 
 
 But Dennis got his lesson very well, only 
 he would always say, 
 
38 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " Goliah s beauteous wife 
 Made David seek his life," 
 
 when the good little book says it was 
 Uriah s wife that did the mischief. 
 
 "Faith," he would say, "and did n t 
 David go out to slay Goliah with a sling, 
 and so sake his life ? 
 
 " But you don t suppose that little David 
 would want to marry a big giant s wife 
 you stupid fellow ! " 
 
 When Colonel Grove heard what I had 
 been doing, he praised me very much ; and 
 when he found how anxious Dennis was to 
 learn, he bought him books, and sent him 
 to the district school. I was willing to let 
 him go ; for, to tell the truth, I was getting 
 rather tired of teaching ; besides, I some 
 times suspected Dennis of slyly making fun 
 of me ; he certainly did not stand in much 
 awe of his school-ma am. 
 
 After school, Dennis used often to draw 
 me on a large sled to the top of a steep hill, 
 near the house, then sit down in front of me 
 to steer with his feet, and down we would 
 
DENNIS O BRIEN. 39 
 
 go, like a flash ! Ah, how I enjoyed the 
 sport ! One very cold evening, he took me 
 out, wrapped in a warm cloak of my aunt s, 
 and fearing that my feet would be cold, he 
 drew this over them, and tied it down with 
 his handkerchief. We were hardly started 
 on the first course, before he happened to 
 tip us over, and I began to roll down the 
 hill. Dennis called to me to stop ; but 
 how could I stop, bagged up as I was ? I 
 rolled on, faster and faster, and did not 
 pause till I was half across the pond, at the 
 bottom of the hill. 
 
 My uncle had many maple -trees in his 
 wood, from which he made sugar every 
 spring. The place where this agreeable 
 work was done was called " the sugar- 
 camp ; " there were great iron kettles, set 
 upon large stones, for boiling down the sap, 
 and bright fires kept burning under them ; 
 there was a. shanty built -of green hemlock 
 Doughs, quite nice and comfortable. Alto 
 gether, this sugar- camp was a very pleasant 
 place. My aunt, her daughter and I, visited 
 5 
 
40 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 it daily, and watched my cousin and Dennis 
 at their work, which, though really hard, 
 seemed to me to be half play. 
 
 One night Dennis happened to be all 
 alone in the camp. We had just been 
 " sugaring- off," and a dozen pans, filled with 
 the nice, soft sugar, were standing in the 
 shanty. My uncle had given Dennis all 
 that he could make after that day ; and, as 
 you may suppose, the lad was very happy 
 and proud. 
 
 Near midnight, he took his buckets, and 
 went to some trees, at a distance, for more 
 sap ; and when he came back, he found a 
 number of young men and boys in the 
 shanty, making free with the sugar. He 
 set down his buckets, and boldly shouted 
 out, " This way, Colonel Grove ! this way, 
 Master Harry ! Here are thaves staling 
 your sugar." 
 
 In a minute, the cowardly fellows scat 
 tered and ran, crackling through the brush 
 wood, and tumbling over one another in 
 
DENNIS O BRIEN. 41 
 
 their fright, leaving Dennis to laugh at his 
 own wit. 
 
 How kind was Dennis always ! I remem 
 ber that this spring, when he was ploughing, 
 he would let me sit on the little round of 
 timber before him, with my feet on the 
 plough, and sometimes even let me hold the 
 reins. I don t suppose it would look very 
 proper in me to indulge myself in that way 
 now ; but, to this day, I cannot think of 
 any kind of riding half so pleasant. 
 
 I soon had an opportunity to repay Den 
 nis for some of his kindness. One day, I 
 was sent to carry him his dinner to a distant 
 field, where he was ploughing with one 
 horse, between the rows of corn. I found 
 him unhitching his plough to come home. 
 He said the little boy who had been riding 
 the horse had been sent for by his mother, 
 and he must give up for the day, though 
 the corn needed ploughing sadly. " Stop, 
 Dennis ! " I said ; " I 11 ride horse for this 
 afternoon." He laughed at me at first, but 
 after a while agreed to let me try. I did 
 
42 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 my best, and we got along famously 
 Though I went home at night dusty, tired, 
 and sunburned, I felt that I had done my 
 duty, and earned my supper of bread and 
 milk. 
 
 After this visit, I did not see any more 
 of Dennis, but I heard that at the end of the 
 very next year he was able to send enough 
 money to Ireland to bring over his mother 
 and sister. He hired a little place for them 
 in the country, which he afterwards bought. 
 Though he still worked very hard through 
 spring, summer, and fall, he gave every 
 spare moment he could get to his books, 
 and every winter attended school. At last, 
 he had a fine education, and commenced the 
 study of the law. Soon after he began to 
 practise, he moved out West, and I heard no 
 more of him. 
 
 Not many months ago, as I was crossing 
 the Alleghany Mountains, a friend in the 
 cars introduced a fine-looking gentleman to 
 me as "Judge O Brien, of Iowa/ The 
 stranger smiled as though he knew me very 
 
DENNIS O BRIEN. 43 
 
 well, and I thought I had seen his pleasant 
 face before ; but I could not tell when or 
 where. There was a man sitting near us, 
 holding a little model of a patent plough in 
 his hand. This Judge O Brien took for a 
 moment, and pointing to the little round of 
 wood between the handles, said, " When I 
 was a farmer-boy, there was a little black- 
 eyed gypsy of a child, who used to sit be 
 fore me, on this part of the plough, and ride 
 by the hour." 
 
 Then I knew him; but I only said, 
 " What a sad romp she must have been ! " 
 
 We just then began to go down an in 
 clined plane, very swiftly ; and the judge 
 said, with a sly smile, 
 
 " This is very fast riding ; but don t you 
 think it is pleasanter to slide down a steep 
 hill, on a sled, in the winter time ? " 
 
 "Yes, Dennis," I answered, laughing, 
 "if you don t let some awkward fellow tie 
 you up, tip you over, and dump you down 
 hill, like a bag of potatoes ! " 
 
 After that, we had a K)ng, lively talk 
 
44 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 about old times ; and then my friend told 
 me of his success in the West ; how he had 
 made quite a fortune, had been appointed 
 judge, and had married "the best wife in 
 the world/ 
 
 "I thank God," he said, "for bringing 
 me to America, and giving me such 
 friends." 
 
 But Dennis O Brien would never have 
 had such friends, if he had not himself been 
 so good, so faithful, and industrious. 
 
STRAWBERRYING. 
 
 ONE pleasant Saturday, in June, when I 
 was about ten years of age, and my sister 
 Carrie twelve, we had an unexpected visit 
 from a little girl of the village, Susan 
 Smith, the merchant s daughter. We were 
 happy to see her, but we really did not 
 know what to do with her. She was no 
 older than Carrie, and small of her age, 
 but in her own opinion quite too much of 
 a woman to play with dolls, though we had 
 a pretty little house fitted up with every 
 convenience (it had once been the smoke 
 house), and containing no less than fourteen 
 inhabitants, of all sizes and conditions. 
 She was quite too grand to take any notice 
 of our pet dogs, cats, ducks or chickens, 
 and too much of a little coward to mount 
 Milly, and take a good gallop. At length, 
 my mother proposed that we should go after 
 
46 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 strawberries, to a meadow, about a mile 
 distant. We joyfully agreed, and started 
 off at once, with our baskets on our arms ; 
 all three, or rather four, for Carlo, tho 
 pointer, was with us, as merry and noisy 
 as we could well be. Susan Smith said a 
 great many bright things ; at least, she 
 laughed at them a good deal, and Carrie 
 and I thought it no more than polite to 
 laugh also. She had a brother Sam, of 
 whom she was very proud, and she talked 
 about him nearly all the way. It was very 
 amiable in her to love her brother ; but, 
 between you and me, dear children, there 
 are some better young men in the world 
 than Sam Smith. I am sorry to say that 
 he was a wild, idle fellow, that nobody 
 knew much good of. As we were passing 
 a field where my brothers were hoeing 
 corn, Susan exclaimed, " Why, do your 
 brothers do such work as that? Our Sam 
 tends store in the day-time, and, in the 
 evening, he dresses up, oh, so fine! and 
 goes to parties and balls." 
 
STRAWBERRYING. 47 
 
 "Isn t it wicked to go to balls ?" I asked. 
 f< My Sunday-school teacher says it is." 
 
 " Why," answered Susan, looking very 
 much astonished at iny stupidity, " didn t 
 I tell you our Sam goes to balls ? and our 
 Sam can t sin." 
 
 After crossing our farm, and passing 
 through a piece of woods, we came upon 
 the strawberry-plot. We had never found 
 a great many here before, but this season 
 they were very plentiful. We had only to 
 part the high grass to find the ground all 
 red with the ripe, luscious fruit. Sister 
 and I went to work in good earnest, saying 
 how pleasant it would be to take home our 
 baskets quite full ; but Susan soon com 
 plained of being tired. She would pick 
 away diligently for a little while, and 
 then lie down in the grass and eat all she 
 had gathered. At last, .as she lay looking 
 up into the sky, she called to us to stop, 
 and start for home, as a storm was surely 
 coming on. We saw that the clouds were 
 rolling up, dark and threatening ; but our 
 
48 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD 
 
 were not quite filled, so we omy 
 picked the faster. Before we knew it, the 
 rain was upon us. It ,was one of those 
 pelting, soaking showers, which drive you 
 to seek any shelter. There was but one 
 house in sight, a little log building, on the 
 edge of the wood, and to this we ran. The 
 woman who came to the door knew my sis 
 ter and me at once ; she had often spun 
 yarn and woven linen for our mother. She 
 took us into her one room, very kindly 
 kindled a fire, and began to take off our 
 wet clothes, declaring that we hadn t " a 
 dry thread to our backs." She was all 
 alone, she said, as her husband (her " old 
 man," she called him) was "down to the 
 village," and her son Jerry had gone " to 
 his grandther s;" so we need not be afraid. 
 But the poor woman was soon puzzled what 
 to do. She had never had any little girls, and 
 had but two spare dresses of her own, one 
 for my sister, and one for Susan. What 
 was I to wear, while my clothes were dry 
 ing ? Presently, she began to laugh ; she 
 
STRAWBERRYINGL 49 
 
 was a good-natured, funny old lady, and 
 said she thought I would " become " Jerry s 
 new summer suit. I refused to put it on, 
 at first, saying I would rather go to bed for 
 an hour or two ; but she said she didn t 
 want her nice bed tumbled and torn to 
 pieces by children. I shall always suspect 
 that worthy Mrs. Jones really wanted the 
 fun of seeing me dressed in boy s clothes. 
 Any how, she had her way, and I was soon 
 rigged out in a pair of fine tow pantaloons, 
 and a long-tailed striped linen coat, with 
 great, shiny brass buttons. 
 
 Jerry was a big boy, of thirteen or four 
 teen, so his clothes were not a very nice 
 fit. The coat-tails nearly touched the floor 
 and Mrs. Jones was obliged to roll up the 
 t cuffs several inches to get at my hands 
 indeed, I felt very much at large in the 
 whole suit. 
 
 0, how Susan and Carrie laughed at me ! 
 But they could not say much, for Mrs. 
 Jones was a very stout person, and they 
 looked like two old women in her great 
 
50 RECOLLECTIONS OP MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 brown gingham frocks, with the big balloon 
 sleeves. Mrs. Jones told us that we should 
 not make sport of one another ; but I sus 
 pected her of sticking her head into the 
 cupboard, two or three times, to hide her 
 own laughter. 
 
 When she had made us " all nice and 
 comfortable," as she said, she set out a 
 little round table, covered it with a white 
 cloth, placed on it some excellent bread and 
 milk, hulled some of our strawberries, and 
 invited us to sit up and take our dinner. 
 She had had hers two hours before. We 
 gladly obeyed. I helped the ladies politely, 
 and behaved like a gentleman, as well as I 
 knew how. I remember how Susan Smith 
 took up her pewter spoon, turned it over 
 and over, and looked at it very contemptu 
 ously, which was certainly rather ungrate 
 ful and uncivil. Mrs. Jones did not seem 
 to mind it, but, as the rain had now ceased, 
 she took our wet and soiled frocks, and car 
 ried them to a stream, a little way off, to 
 rinse them. When she was gone, Susan com- 
 
STRAWBERRYING. 51 
 
 plained that she could hardly lift her spoon, 
 and that she tasted the tin of her bright 
 basin. She said she had never been used 
 to eating bread and milk out of anything 
 but a china bowl, with a silver spoon. I 
 answered that these spoons were the best that 
 Mrs. Jones had ; that they were clean and 
 bright, and that I did not see but that bread 
 and milk and strawberries tasted as good 
 eaten from a tin basin as from grand 
 mother s silver porringer. That hushed 
 her at once. I don t think she had ever 
 heard of a silver porringer before. I did 
 not see but that Miss Susan ate as heartily 
 as sister and myself. Fine ladies do not 
 always have delicate appetites. 
 
 When the dinner- dishes had been cleared 
 away, and our frocks were spread on chairs 
 before the fire to dry, Mrs. Jones went up 
 the ladder-stairs to her weaving, and left 
 us to amuse ourselves as we could. I had 
 lost my shame-facedness, and felt in very 
 good spirits since dinner. Seeing an old 
 hat of Jerry s hanging against the wall, I 
 
52 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 took it down, placed it on my head, a little 
 to one side, and began striding up and down 
 the room, thrusting my hands into my 
 pockets, and talking large, in a way very 
 unbecoming to a little girl, but which I 
 thought only brave and manly in a boy. For 
 getting the length of the pantaloons, I some 
 how got entangled, and tripped myself up. 
 But I was on my feet in an instant, as large 
 as ever. 
 
 The girls, who were more prudent and 
 kept their seats, laughed heartily at my 
 fall. 
 
 " I think, sir/ said my sister, " that you 
 would walk more gracefully if you would 
 shorten your suspenders don t you say so 
 too, Susan ?" 
 
 " You be quiet, old ladies!" said I; 
 " what do you know about suspenders, and 
 such things ? " 
 
 Just at that moment Carlo set up a loud 
 barking, and I heard a whistle and a step 
 near the door ! I gave but one bound, and 
 was under the bed ! The quilt came down 
 
STRAW3ERRYIXG. 53 
 
 low in front, and I felt quite safe. But, 
 alas ! those unlucky long coat-tails, with 
 their shining buttons, betrayed me ! They 
 were partly left out, and Jerry Jones for it 
 was he who came in saw r them at once. 
 "Why, how came my Sunday-coat under 
 the bed?" he said, and, stooping down, he 
 pulled me from my hiding-place. " Hello ! " 
 he cried, "what fellow is here, rigged out 
 in my clothes? Let me see Avho you are, 
 won t you ? " And, while I struggled and 
 cried, he laughingly pulled my hands away 
 from my face. "Why," said he, "this 
 boy is a girl ! 0, I know you now ! But 
 don t cry ; this kind of dress is becoming 
 to you, and my new suit never looked so 
 handsome before, don t cry ! " 
 
 "Jerry Jones, do you clear out of the 
 house ! " called his mother from the top of 
 the ladder. Jerry did not wait for another 
 word, but took himself olf. He stayed in 
 the garden till our clothes were ironed, and 
 we started for home, when he asked leave to 
 go with us, and carry our baskets. All the 
 
54 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 way, though he talked constantly, he never 
 once spoke of catching me in such a ridicu 
 lous dress; and though I was so ashamed 
 I could hardly say a word, even to thank 
 him when he helped me over a fence, or a 
 wet place, I liked him, and always liked 
 him, from that day to this. Mrs. Jones, too, 
 that good, kind woman, I must always think 
 pleasantly of her. She and her " old man" 
 were living on the same place, but in a new 
 house, when I heard about them last. By 
 great industry and economy, they were able 
 to educate Jerry, to send him to college. 
 lie is a minister now ; but, for all that, I 
 don t believe he has grown too solemn to 
 laugh whenever he remembers pulling me 
 out from under the bed, by the long skirts 
 of his striped linen coat. 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY 
 
 NEAR the home of my early childhood, 
 there lived a plain but wealthy farmer, by 
 the name of Austin. He was a pleasant, 
 intelligent man, and his wife was an excel 
 lent woman. They had a fine family of 
 children, from Ann, about sixteen, down 
 to Johnny, a bright little rogue of six. 
 But the pleasantest and cleverest of all was 
 Frank, the oldest son a happy, handsome, 
 hearty, funny fellow, whom everybody liked, 
 although he was rather mischievous, and 
 fond of playing off little tricks. More was 
 pardoned to him than to any one else, be 
 cause he was never ill-natured, even when 
 he seemed most wild and lawless. 
 
 Mr. Austin had a sister married to a rich 
 
 merchant of the city of Albany, Mr. Shelby, 
 
 who had a son about the age of Frank, a good 
 
 enough boy at heart, but rather wild in his 
 
 6 
 
56 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 ways, and full of foolish, fine -gentleman 
 notions. One spring, when Frank was about 
 thirteen, he made a short visit to the city, 
 and when he tame home, brought his cousin 
 with him to spend the summer and fall. It 
 was whispered about the neighborhood that 
 Master Tom was sent into the country 
 because " his folks could n t manage him at 
 home/ I do not know that this was the 
 case ; but very likely the report was correct. 
 I was very intimate with Hattie Austin, 
 one of the dearest and prettiest playmates 
 of my childhood, and happened to be 
 making her a visit when the boys arrived. 
 Frank leaped down the steps first, embraced 
 his mother heartily, and hugged all the 
 children. Master Tom Shelby descended 
 with slow dignity. He was dressed in a 
 suit of fine blue broadcloth the panta 
 loons tightly fitting, and strapped down 
 under a pair of stylish, narrow- toed, high- 
 heeled boots. His delicate hands were en 
 cased in dark kid gloves, and very much on 
 one side of his head he wore a black velvet 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 57 
 
 cap, with a long dangling tassel. His hair 
 was long and straight ; by the way, 
 Frank could afterwards vex him very much 
 by telling that it curled naturally in Albany, 
 but that somehow it straightened out more 
 and more, the further he travelled from 
 French hair-dressers. I remember Tom 
 so plainly because he was the first dandy I 
 ever saw. 
 
 The first thing he did was to brush the 
 dust from his polished boots with his cam 
 bric handkerchief ; then, looking up to the 
 driver, he drawled out, "Bey, will you 
 hand me down my dressing-case ? " 
 
 " Yes, grandfather," answered the good 
 natured driver, taking off that elegant arti 
 cle, and the other baggage. 
 
 That afternoon, a number of the boys and 
 girls of the neighborhood came to welcome 
 Frank home, and to have a peep at the 
 young stranger. I never shall forget the 
 airs that fellow gave himself. He walked 
 about the yard where we were at play, for 
 all the world, as a fine peacock struts among 
 
58 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 a crowd of pullets, ducks, and young 
 roosters. How scornfully he eyed our 
 homely clothes, and refused to join in our 
 merry game of "tag," saying it was too 
 rude and childish ! Some of us took off our 
 stockings and shoes, to run the faster, and 
 he looked down at our bare feet with as 
 much horror as though they had been hoofs 
 or claws. But he soon found out, as some 
 great people had done before him, that it 
 was tiresome work to be grand. We let 
 him alone, and he soon came down from his 
 stilts. He began to talk about Albany 
 " We do this," and " We have that, in Al 
 bany ;" everything was handsomer and 
 finer there than in the country. 
 
 " Dreadful big of his Albany ! " said little 
 Johnny. I had read in my copy-book, that 
 " God made the country, and man made the 
 town," and I told him so, right to his face, 
 and said I did n t think men had better set 
 ap to do things better than God. 
 
 "I don t know about that," he said; 
 f but I do know that we city people put up 
 
TOM SHELBY ri V1EIT TO THE COUNTRY. 59 
 
 handsomer buildings than you country people 
 ever dreamed of. My father, now, lives in 
 a great brass- house, with a brick knocker 
 on it!" 
 
 What a laugh we had at his blunder ! 
 
 In the morning, we all went to take a 
 stroll in the woods. On the way, Tom 
 amused himself, and, I must confess, us 
 also, by telling of the tricks that, before he 
 left home, he had played off on Frank, who, 
 he said, was " as green as that meadow," 
 pointing to a wheat-field. He had made 
 his poor visitor drink the water from his 
 finger-glass, for lemonade ; had sent him to 
 the Female Academy, telling him it was the 
 Capitol ; and to an undertaker s to buy a 
 new trunk ; and one evening he sent him 
 home on the full run, by pointing to a watch- 
 aian, and telling him that after one appeared 
 ;n the streets all strange boys were liable 
 to be dragged oil to the watch-house. 
 Frank laughed good-humoredly while Tom 
 was relating these cunning exploits ; but 
 shook his head once in a while, as much as 
 
60 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 to say, " Wait a bit, my lad, and I 11 pay 
 you!" 
 
 As we were passing through a cow 
 pasture, on the edge of the wood, we came 
 upon a flock of geese, with a host of goslings, 
 and a fierce old gander flew at us, hissing 
 like a serpent. Tom started back, and 
 called out, " Why, Frank, what is the mat 
 ter with that great white goose, that it hisses 
 so?" 
 
 "It does behave strangely," said Frank, 
 quite soberly ; " what can ail it 1 Can it 
 be that it has gone mad ? " 
 
 In a moment Tom took to his heels, and 
 did not stop till he reached -the wood, rods 
 away. While we were screaming with 
 laughter, Frank called out, " Stop, Tom ! 
 stop ! it s only a gander ; you re the 
 goose yourself! " 
 
 In the afternoon, Tom brought out his 
 fishing-tackle, his nice-jointed rods, his 
 delicate lines, and his Hies, and invited 
 Frank to go trouting with him. Though he 
 talked large, as usual, Frank saw at once 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 61 
 
 that he knew little or nothing of that sort 
 of fishing. So he started out with him, 
 stopped at the first piece of water they canie 
 across, put his finger on his lip in token of 
 silence, then lazily flung himself on the 
 grass under a willow, to watch the sport. 
 The little sheet of water was nothing but a 
 frog-pond, weedy and muddy, where fish 
 had never made their appearance. Torn, 
 had heard that trout were exceedingly shy, 
 and went very softly to work, never 
 speaking above a whisper to Frank. After 
 about an hour, he concluded that flies were 
 not inviting -bait, and, by Frank s advice, 
 used worms instead. 
 
 " Do they bite now ? " whispered Frank, 
 yawning, for he had taken a nice nap in the 
 shade of the willow. 
 
 "No," said Tom, "but they begin to 
 nibble ; " and in a minufe after he cried, 
 joyfully, " Now I have one ! Come, Frank, 
 and help me out with it. I think it must be 
 a salmon- trout." 
 
 But before Frank reached him, he pulled 
 
62 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 up a great mud-turtle, which he had hooked 
 by the leg. Frank rolled on the ground 
 with laughter, and Tom did not soon hear 
 the last of his fine " salmon-trout." 
 
 The next day, however, Frank took his 
 cousin to a real trout stream, some miles 
 distant, and taught him how to capture that 
 most shy and delicious fish. 
 
 Not long after this, Tom proposed a hunt. 
 Now, Frank was a good shot, but Tom knew 
 about as much of hunting as he had known 
 of trouting. Yet you would have supposed, 
 from his way of talking, that he was a per 
 fect Nimrod a " mighty hunter." He 
 had an elegant little fowling-piece, and all 
 the accoutrements, even to a hunting-jacket 
 of the latest English fashion. But, alas ! his 
 fine outfit brought him neither skill nor 
 luck ; he popped away incessantly, and, as 
 the boys say, " killed nothing but powder." 
 At last, Frank, who had separated from him, 
 and had nearly filled his game-bag with 
 squirrels and partridges, took pity on the 
 poor fellow. He happened, himself, to have 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY* 63 
 
 shot an old owl, and, climbing xf tree, he 
 fixed this on a large limb, so that it looked 
 very lifelike and natural. Then, going for 
 Tom, he led him softly within sight of the 
 game, telling him that there was a big bird 
 of some sort, he might have for the shooting. 
 Thinking that a big tyrd would require a 
 big charge, Tom put in a double quantity 
 of powder and shot, and the consequence 
 was, that he was kicked clean over boys 
 will understand how. But he brought down 
 the owl, and never would believe but that 
 he had the first shot at him. 
 
 A few days after this, Mr. Austin said to 
 his young guest, "I ve a letter from your 
 father, my boy, and he tells me to set you 
 to work, and get some of the nonsense out 
 of you. I don t want to put you to hard 
 labor; you may do as you please; but 
 Frank, here, has been fooling about long 
 enough, he must go to work." 
 
 Tom turned up his aristocratic nose at 
 the thought of Us working on the farm ; 
 and when he saw Frank shoulder his hoe, 
 
64 EECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 and go cheerfully over the hill to the corn 
 field, he wondered at and pitied him. 
 
 But Tom had somehow become attached 
 to his good-natured playmate ; and, as he 
 idled away hour after hour of the pleasant 
 morning, through the house and about the 
 yard, he found himself very lonely and 
 stupid. 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon of the 
 second day, he felt that he really could not 
 stand it any longer ; so paid a visit to the 
 corn-field, " just to see how they got along," 
 he said. After watching his cousin a while, 
 he went to Mr. Austin, and asked for a 
 hoe, " just to help Frank a little." His 
 uncle gave him one, with a smile, telling 
 him to be careful of his fine clothes. 
 Though Tom found that this work was even 
 harder than fishing for trout in a frog-pond, 
 though it made his back ache, and almost 
 blistered his hands, yet he liked it, and 
 hoed his row bravely. The next morning, 
 after an early breakfast, he drew on an old 
 pair of boots, rolled up his pantaloons, 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 65 
 
 shouldered his hoe, and set out with the 
 other workmen, feeling very stout and im 
 portant. In the course of the week, he 
 found in his room a regular farmer s suit of 
 clothes, more easy than elegant, of 
 strong, but cool material. These he put on 
 with much pleasure ; indeed, it was soon 
 hard to persuade him to dress himself in 
 broadcloth, even to go to church. He said 
 that, in tow jacket and corduroy trousers, a 
 man had room, a man could do as he 
 pleased, and that a good straw hat was 
 the thing for a man, after all. 
 
 Mr. Austin gave his nephew a small piece 
 of land in the corn-field, for a melon-patch. 
 Tom planted and cultivated it, and was very 
 proud of the thriving condition of his water 
 melons and canteleups. It happened that a 
 neighboring farmer had a fine melon-patch 
 in the very next field. This Mr. Johnson 
 was a cross, disobliging man, on whom the 
 boys loved to play little mischievous tricks, 
 so I suppose Tom did not think he was 
 proposing anything wicked, when he said 
 
66 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 to his cousin, one evening in September 
 "Frank, let s go, to-night, and hook old 
 Johnson s water-melons ! " 
 
 " Do you mean steal them, Tom ? " asked 
 Frank. 
 
 " Why, yes ; if you ve a mind to call a 
 little fun by such a hard name. I don t see, 
 for my part, what harm there could be in 
 taking a few water-melons from such a stingy 
 old fellow." 
 
 Frank, with all his wildness, had never 
 been guilty of a mean or a dishonest act ; 
 yet now, after thinking a moment, he agreed 
 to go with his cousin, but persuaded him to 
 wait till the moon was down, and it was 
 quite dark. Then, by a roundabout way 
 through the woods, he led Tom to his own 
 melon-patch, where he told him to hurry and 
 fill the basket, while he kept watch at a 
 little distance. He afterwards said that he 
 never came so near dying with silent laugh 
 ter, as he did when he saw Tom creeping 
 softly about on all fours, stealing his own 
 melons, thinking that they were Mr. John 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 67 
 
 sen s ! At last, hearing some noise near, 
 a cow, or a colt, perhaps, he shouted, 
 " Run, Tom ! run ! Look out for old John 
 son I" and started for home, at full speed. 
 Tom followed- fast, breathing hard, and 
 dropping a melon or two, in his fright. But 
 he reached the house with three fine ones, 
 of which he ate enough to make him so ill 
 that he was obliged to lie abed and take 
 medicine the next forenoon. At night, 
 when he was much better, Frank confessed 
 the trick he had played off; and, I assure 
 you, the poor fellow made up a worse 
 face at the story than he had at the 
 bitter dose of the morning. Yet he did not 
 keep anger long, and he never forgot the 
 hard lesson he had learned, never at 
 tempted to steal again, even from himself. 
 Tom Shelby was more and more liked, 
 the longer he stayed with the Austins ; and 
 in little more than half a year he grew to 
 be a sensible, industrious, agreeable lad. 
 So much did he become attached to his 
 cousin, that he could not be persuaded to 
 
68 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 return home without him ; and it was finally 
 agreed that Frank should be sent to one of 
 the excellent schools in Albany, and that 
 the two friends, if they remained good boys, 
 should be educated together. 
 
 I remember the day they left us. They 
 were to go by stage some twenty miles, to 
 the town of S . It was a keen morn 
 ing in November, yet these two hardy, 
 ruddy-cheeked boys chose to ride outside, 
 with the driver. The night before, they had 
 gone all about the neighborhood, to bid 
 their friends good-by ; and everybody, even 
 old Johnson, was sorry to see the merry lads 
 go. Tom had laid out a generous portion 
 of his pocket-money in parting gifts, 
 from a " Pilgrim s Progress/ in large type, 
 for grandmother Austin, to a bag of painted 
 marbles for little Johnny. But to Hattie, 
 his favorite, he made half a dozen handsome 
 presents, for her " to remember cousin Tom. 
 by," he said. If he could have known how 
 she cried over them, when he was gone, he 
 
TOM SHELBY S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 69 
 
 f 
 
 would have been both glad and sorry, I 
 think. 
 
 After the boys had taken a hearty leave 
 of us all, and clambered to their seats, 
 while the driver was gathering up the reins, 
 Tom called out, "If any of you happen to 
 meet a slender, long-haired, milky-faced 
 young dandy, from Albany, who was about 
 here for a while last spring, just bid him 
 good-by for me, for I never shall see him 
 again. " 
 
THE TWO LADIES FROM THu CITY. 
 
 IT was near Christmas time, and Frank 
 Austin was at home for the holidays, hav 
 ing with him his cousin, Tom Shelby. The 
 friends, now nearly sixteen, were as full of 
 merriment, as fond of laughter, and all 
 sorts of innocent fun, as ever. Ah ! such 
 wild times as we all had together, for more 
 than one of my brothers might be counted 
 on, at any time, for any kind of a frolic. 
 
 It happened that Mr. and Mrs. Austin 
 
 went to the town of S , for a day or 
 
 two, on business, they said, which we 
 suspected meant little else than the 
 purchase of Christmas gifts. They left 
 Ann, the eldest daughter, as housekeeper. 
 By the way, I have scarcely mentioned 
 Ann. She was a kind-hearted, clever 
 girl, but was a little spoiled by reading 
 novels, and by some grand ideas of style 
 and fashion, which nobody knew how she 
 
THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 71 
 
 came by. For instance, she disliked her 
 plain name, and always wanted to be called 
 Antoinette. Her brothers called her by 
 that romantic name, when they wanted 
 buttons sewed on, or hats lined ; if they 
 wished to see her vexed, they called her 
 Ann ; but they must make up their minds to 
 be chased out of the house with the broom 
 stick, if they called her "Nanny" She 
 really loved hard work, and yet she was 
 ashamed to be caught at it. Once, I remem 
 ber, in house-cleaning time, while she was 
 washing the kitchen-floor, in an old gown, 
 with her sleeves rolled up, and no stockings 
 on her feet, the minister called. No one 
 heard his knock, and he walked through the 
 sitting-room, into the kitchen, where Ann 
 was making a great splashing with her mop. 
 When she caught sight of that solemn man, 
 she screamed, dropped her mop, and jumped 
 through an open window, right into the 
 rain-water trough. 
 
 But Ann was the pleasantest sort of a 
 housekeeper while her mother was gone, 
 
72 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 and we had things quite to our liking. 1 
 say we, for I was visiting Hattie that week. 
 To be sure, there was old grandmother Aus 
 tin, always sitting in the warmest chimney- 
 corner ; but she was amiable, and so deaf 
 and sleepy that she did not interfere with 
 us much. 
 
 One afternoon, at supper, Ann talked 
 a good deal with Frank and Tom about two 
 young ladies from Albany, Miss Flagg, and 
 Miss Dillingham, who were visiting some 
 friends in the village. Ann had made an 
 early call on them, but did not see them, 
 they were not at home ; and now she was 
 fretting because the call had not been 
 returned. 
 
 After supper, I noticed Frank and Tom 
 whispering together, and presently they 
 said they were going to our house, to see 
 my brothers for a little while ; and, putting 
 on their caps, they went off, running mer 
 rily down the road, and chasing each other 
 with snow-balls. 
 
 In the course of an hour, a sleigh came 
 
THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 73 
 
 jingling up to the house ; two ladies got 
 out, came to the door, and knocked, rather 
 loudly. Mrs. Austin s only hired girl was 
 out for the evening ; Hattie and I were too 
 bashful to go to the door ; so Ann was 
 obliged to open it herself. " Is Miss 
 Antoinette Austin at home ?" asked one of 
 the ladies, in a little, mincing voice. "Yes, 
 ina am," answered Ann. "Well, then, 
 my good girl," said the other lady, with a 
 toss of her head, " will you inform her that 
 Miss Flagg and Miss Dillingham have 
 called?" "Why, I am Miss Antoinette 
 Austin, myself." 
 
 " 0, 1 beg your pardon," said Miss Dil 
 lingham, while she and her friend walked 
 forward and took the chairs which Ann 
 offered them ; but they would not sit very 
 near the fire, or the candle, and kept their 
 black lace veils partly over their faces. 
 
 "Grandmother," said Ann, "these are 
 some ladies from the city, Miss Flagg 
 and Miss Dillingham." 
 
 "Who?" said the poor, deaf old lady 
 
74 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " Miss Ragg and Miss Dinner-horn, did you 
 say ? " 
 
 "No, grandmother," answered Ann, 
 speaking loud in her ear, " Miss Flagg and 
 Miss Dillingham ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I hear ; Miss Lagg and Miss 
 Dingha?nmer ." 
 
 The ladies laughed outright at this, and 
 poor Ann grew very red in the face. But she 
 sat down and began conversing with her 
 visitors, about Albany. I don t suppose that 
 she knew it, but she talked very affectedly, 
 indeed, in a little, fine voice, nobody ever 
 heard her use before. She spoke of the 
 city as though she knew all about it, and 
 once in a while she brought out a French 
 word, but pronounced it so queerly that 
 Miss Flagg made her repeat it, and, even 
 then, didn t seem to understand it. Once 
 she asked, "Do you know my aunt, Mrs. 
 Mayor Shelby ?" 
 
 "No," answered Miss Dillingham, " but 
 I know Mrs. Alderman Shelton." 
 
 Hattie and I sat on a settee, near the 
 
THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 75 
 
 fire, watching the grand visiters. " An t 
 it funny, " whispered Hattie, " that such 
 little voices come out of such great 
 mouths ! " 
 
 " Yes/ I answered, " and haven t they 
 big feet, for such fine ladies ! " 
 
 I think that Miss Flagg heard me, for she 
 drew her feet under her cloak. Then I 
 noticed that both her cloak and bonnet were 
 like those my eldest sister wore, and that 
 Miss Dillingham s were a good deal like my 
 mother s. I felt proud to know that my 
 mother and sister were in the fashion. 
 
 After a rather short call, the ladies rose, 
 made each a great courtesy, and took 
 leave. As we watched them from the win 
 dow, getting into the sleigh, I thought the 
 boy that drove looked strangely like my 
 brother Will. 
 
 In about half an hour, the boys came 
 home. Hardly were they in the house 
 before Ann cried out, " 0, you don t 
 know what you have missed ! Miss Flagg 
 and Miss Dillingham have been here, and 
 
76 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 oh, such elegant, genteel young ladies as 
 they are ! I never was so provoked in my 
 life, for Susan was gone, and I was obliged 
 to be waiter myself ; they actually took me 
 for a servant-girl. But you should have 
 seen them ! such airs ! Just proud and 
 haughty enough, I think." 
 
 " Well, I say," spoke up old Mrs. Aus 
 tin, "that they are two pert, affected hus 
 sies, with no manners at all." 
 
 " Why, grandmother," said Ann, "you 
 have always lived in the country, and don t 
 exactly know what is genteel." 
 
 " I know," said Mrs. Austin, raising her 
 voice, " that it s not the sign of a lady to 
 grip a body s hand as they did ; and no real 
 lady or gentleman would giggle out loud at 
 a deaf old woman s mistake." 
 
 " You are very right, grandmother," said 
 Frank, " and Tom and I beg pardon for our 
 rudeness." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Ann. 
 
 "Why, Nanny," said Frank, mimicking 
 
THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 77 
 
 her, " do you know my aunt, Mrs. Mayor 
 Shelby?" 
 
 " You good-for-nothing, hateful fellows ! 
 how dare you play off such a trick on me ? " 
 said Ann, laughing and crying all at once, 
 while we set up a perfect shout. But the 
 boys soon soothed her, by promising not to 
 tell her father, who loved dearly to tease 
 her about any such foolish little thing. I 
 saw how it was : the boys had been dressed 
 at our house, had come in our sleigh to 
 make their visit ; and I was not sure that 
 my mother and sister were in the fashion, 
 after all. But I enjoyed the joke, rather 
 more than Ann, I think. Yet she profited 
 by it, certainly, for she was never known 
 to talk in an affected or boasting way again. 
 The real ladies, from the city, came to see 
 her, a day or two after. They were nice, 
 quiet girls, with frank, easy manners, and 
 liked Ann so well, on acquaintance, that they 
 persuaded her to spend some time with 
 them the next winter, when she visited her 
 aunt, in Albany. Then she saw city-life 
 
78 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 without having her head turned by its 
 grandeur, but came home loving the coun 
 try, the dear, free, fresh, healthful coun 
 try, better than ever. 
 
 The spring after that merry Christmas 
 time, we moved from our old home, further 
 west, and saw no more and heard very lit 
 tle of the Austins. I parted from Hattie 
 with great sorrow. We solemnly agreed to 
 love each other dearly, for ever and ever ; 
 we exchanged locks of hair, and she prom 
 ised to take care of the cat I left behind 
 me. 
 
 A year or two since, I received a call 
 from a " Dr. Austin," whom I recognized, 
 at once, as my old friend Frank. I was 
 glad to see that he was as healthy and 
 hearty, as fond of laughter and fun, as ever. 
 He brought me a short letter from his sister 
 Ann, who wrote that they still lived in the 
 old place ; that her mother had been dead 
 three or four years, and that Hattie was 
 married, and living near ; that was all the 
 news she told me. " Why, Frank," I said, 
 
THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 79 
 
 " Ann does not tell me the name of Hattie s 
 husband." 
 
 " Ah, haven t you heard ?" he replied, 
 " it s cousin Torn Shelby. His father 
 couldn t make a merchant, a lawyer, a min 
 ister, or a doctor, out of him ; he would be 
 nothing but a farmer. So he bought old 
 Johnson s place, married our Hattie, and 
 settled down to farming, as happy as a 
 king." 
 
 " 0, I am very glad to hear it ! " I said. 
 " But how is this, Frank ! I see, by your sis 
 ter s letter, that she does not write her 
 name Antoinette any more." 
 
 " Why, no," he answered; " she calls 
 herself plain Ann, now ; but no one else 
 calls her so, for, I assure you, my sister is a 
 very pretty woman ; and she is better than 
 pretty, she is good ; you know she always 
 was, but now more than ever, for, since 
 mother died, she has been like a mother to 
 us all." 
 
 8 
 
PART SECOND. 
 
 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 
 
 IN the eastern part of the State of New 
 York, there once lived two sisters, Sarah 
 and Jenny Starr. They were left orphans 
 when very young, and had been adopted by 
 some kind relations ; but Sarah, who was 
 four or five years the oldest, took almost all 
 the care of Jenny. Sarah was a good, 
 motherly girl, very prudent and serious ; 
 she was plain in all but a pair of large, 
 dark brown eyes, and a great mass of curly 
 black hair. But she thought nothing of 
 herself, so dearly did she love her little 
 sister. And Jenny was, indeed, a darling 
 child, with a far prettier face than Sarah s, 
 and the gladdest heart in the world. She 
 would play, and laugh, and sing, all the day 
 
THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 81 
 
 long. No one ever saw Jenny sad, or out 
 of humor ; but, perhaps, this was partly 
 because, being so beautiful and so prettily 
 dressed always, everybody was kind to her, 
 and indulged her. It is easy for such pet 
 ted children to be happy and good-natured. 
 But, any way, it was a pleasant sight to see 
 her dancing about here and there, chasing 
 butterflies, hunting flowers, frolicking with 
 her pretty spaniel Fido, laughing like a 
 little silver brook, and singing like some 
 merry mocking-bird ; most often with her 
 gypsy hat fallen back from her head, and 
 her long bright curls floating in the wind. 
 
 When Jenny was only sixteen, she was 
 married to a Mr. Silsbee, a very wealthy 
 gentleman, and went to live in a beautiful 
 place, near the town where she was born. 
 She had an elegant house, surrounded with 
 trees and flowers, and everything delightful 
 about her. 
 
 Soon after this, Sarah was also married 
 to a young man who had loved her a num 
 ber of years, but whom she had not been 
 
82 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 
 
 willing to marry until she could see her sis 
 ter Jenny living in a home of her own 
 Henry Williams was not rich, but he was a 
 good, amiable person. Sarah loved him, 
 and was very happy to be his wife. He 
 was a physician, and soon took her with 
 him to the far west, thinking that he might 
 do better there than in the east. 
 
 The sisters grieved much at parting. 
 Both wept a great deal, Jenny the most 
 violently, and Sarah the longest. But they 
 hoped to see each other before a very long 
 time. 
 
 In about two months, Jenny had a long 
 letter from her sister. Dr. Williams had 
 bought some land, and built a little frame 
 house, in a beautiful oak-grove, on one of 
 the great western prairies. Sarah wrote 
 very cheerfully, and begged her sister to 
 come out and make her a visit, in a year or 
 two. But Jenny was indolent, and dreaded 
 the trouble of journeying, which was much 
 greater at that time than it is now. So 
 she was always promising, but never went 
 
THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 83 
 
 to see her sister ; neither did she write to 
 her regularly. Sarah grew tired of writing 
 long letters, which received short answers, 
 or none at all, and wrote herself less often ; 
 and, at last, the sisters, who, in childhood, 
 had been such close and loving companions, 
 scarcely heard from one another once a 
 year. Yet they loved each other still, 
 though the thoughtful Sarah remembered 
 the dear old times oftener than the light- 
 hearted Jenny. 
 
 And so eight long years went by. Jenny 
 was yet as happy as ever. Her husband 
 was very fond of her, and she still had all 
 around her that her heart could desire. 
 First, among the good things that God had 
 given her, were three lovely children, 
 two boys, Georgie and Willie, and one 
 daughter, " little Kate." 
 
 Jenny made a funny sort of a mother. 
 She was just like a child with her children ; 
 would romp and laugh with them, run 
 races, and play with balls, kites, kittens and 
 doll-babies. And Jenny looked like a child 
 
84 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 
 
 herself. She was short and plump, \\ith 
 dimpled cheeks, rosy lips, bright curls, and 
 twinkling blue eyes. Any little boy or girl 
 would be very unreasonable to ask a merrier 
 playmate than Jenny Silsbee. 
 
 To Sarah had been given two daughters, 
 whom she had named for her mother and 
 sister, Alice and Jenny. They were not so 
 pretty as the children of Mrs. Silsbee, for 
 the climate of the new country proved 
 unhealthy, and they were always pale and 
 sickly. But their father and mother loved 
 them all the more dearly and cared for 
 them the more tenderly for that. Mrs. 
 Williams was also often sick, and her hus 
 band did not have much practice ; so they 
 were quite poor. But the doctor was a 
 proud man, and did not ask his friends in the 
 east for assistance ; and Sarah was also too 
 independent in her feelings to write to her 
 wealthy sister for help. She did not doubt 
 but that Jenny would be glad to give it ; 
 but she knew it must come from Mr. 
 Silsbee, and she did not wish to have the 
 
THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 85 
 
 doctor indebted to him, for Sarah was only 
 proud for her husband. 
 
 One chilly autumn day, about sunset, 
 Mrs. Silsbee was sitting in a comfortable 
 arm-chair, before a bright fire, in her hand 
 some parlor, stitching away at some worsted- 
 work. After quite tiring herself out frol 
 icking with her children, she had turned 
 them into the hall to finish their play by 
 themselves. Suddenly, she heard the dog 
 barking furiously in the yard; and, soon 
 after, Georgie and Willie burst into the 
 parlor, crying, "0, mamma! come into 
 the hall ! there is such a queer-looking 
 old woman there, with such a funny plaid 
 cloak, and such an old old-fashioned bon 
 net on!" 
 
 Half dragged by her inerry boys, Mrs. 
 Silsbee went into the hall. At her first 
 look on the stranger s old-fashioned dress, 
 Jenny laughed with the children, she was 
 BO childish. But, in a moment, she saw 
 that the woman was poor, for her clothes 
 were much worn ; that she had been sick, 
 
00 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 
 
 for her face was thin and pale ; and that 
 she was probably tired, for she carried a 
 heavy carpet-bag on her arm. 
 
 So Jenny said, kindly, " Will you not be 
 seated ? And pray tell me what I can do 
 for you, my good woman." 
 
 "Don t you know me?" replied the 
 stranger, sadly. Jenny shook her head. 
 
 The woman took off her bonnet, and, as 
 she did so, her hair fell on her shoulders, 
 Sarah s own curly black hair. "Now, 
 don t you know me, Jenny ? " she cried, her 
 great brown eyes filled with tears. Jenny 
 sprang toward her, caught her in her arms, 
 arid then the sisters kissed one another, 
 and wept together. The children were 
 sadly puzzled to know what all this meant ; 
 but they cried too, clinging to their mother. 
 At last, Mrs. Silsbee said to them, " This, 
 children, is your aunt Sarah, from the west, 
 whom I have told you so much about. 
 Come, and kiss her." And they kissed her 
 very affectionately. 
 
THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 87 
 
 When they were all seated around the 
 fire, in the parlor, Jenny said, 
 
 " Now, dear sister, do tell me what this 
 means ! Why do you come to us alone, 
 and in this condition ? " 
 
 Sarah replied calmly, " It means, Jenny, 
 that my husband is dead. He was ill a 
 long time with the fever, and the expenses 
 of his sickness made us very poor. I was 
 obliged to sell everything, to get money 
 enough to bring me to you." 
 
 " But your children, where are they ? " 
 Jenny asked. 
 
 " They died before their father." 
 
 " What, both ? " 
 
 "Yes, both," answered Sarah, " my 
 two dear little girls. So, Jenny, I would 
 have no children to make sport of you, 
 should you come, poor and alone, to see 
 
 me." 
 
 " 0, sister, sister, don t say anything 
 
 about that again, but forgive me and the 
 
 children! " said Jenny, weeping; and lifting 
 
 Sarah s dry, bony hand, she kissed it in a 
 
 9 
 
88 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 
 
 humble, loving way. But Willie looked up 
 in her face, and said, stoutly, though his 
 lip quivered all the while, 
 
 " Why, Aunt Sarah, we didn t know it 
 was you, or we wouldn t have laughed at 
 your queer old bonnet. Now, you may 
 wear two or three such bonnets, one on 
 top of the other, and we won t make fun 
 of you." 
 
 Even the sad aunt laughed at this funny 
 speech. Jenny and the other children 
 joined in, and they all made friends. 
 
 Mr. Silsbee soon came in to tea. Ho 
 seemed very glad to see his sister-in-law, 
 and welcomed her to his home. 
 
 Afterwards, he and his wife did all they 
 could to make Sarah comfortable and happy; 
 the children grew very fond of their gentle 
 aunt, who seemed to love them almost as 
 well as though they were her own. One 
 jesson she taught them by her coming : never 
 to be rude to strangers, or to laugh at any 
 person for wearing a poor or old-fashioned 
 dress. 
 
THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 89 
 
 Sarah grew better in health, and became 
 quite cheerful ; yet often, at sunset, she 
 would sit by the windows, looking out 
 toward the west. At such times, Jenny 
 would cease laughing and chatting, and the 
 children would gather about their aunt, very 
 still and sorrowful, for they knew she was 
 thinking of their uncle Henry, and the 
 " two dear little girls," Alice and Jenny, 
 all lying in their lonely graves, in the dis 
 tant prairie land. 
 
 She has left her husband sleeping, 
 
 With a child on either side ; 
 Did he hope so soon to meet them, 
 
 That he wept not when they died ? 
 
 Brightly on the mound above him, 
 
 And above each little grave, 
 Soon all golden, blue and crimson, 
 
 Shall the western wild-flowers wave. 
 
 Though thou rt far, sad wife and mother, 
 
 From the home so dear to thee, 
 Where the long grass of the prairies 
 
 Rolls in billows like the sea, 
 
 Grieve not for thy babes, foV sickness 
 Pains no more their tender breasts, 
 
 And their father, worn and weary, 
 Close beside them sweetly rests 
 
90 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 
 
 Though upon their graves thy tear-drops 
 Fall no longer with the dew, 
 
 Till the stars come out in heaven, 
 And the moon rolls up the blue, 
 
 God s good angels guard their grave-rest, 
 In the distant prairie land ; 
 
 God shall bring you all together, 
 In a heavenly household band. 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 WALTER and Charlie Harrison were the 
 sons of a sea-captain, and lived in one of 
 the fine old seaport towns of Massachusetts. 
 
 These boys were as unlike as two brothers 
 could well be. Walter was a rough, plain 
 boy, large of his age, and rather clumsy, 
 with a passionate, jealous temper, which 
 gave his friends a great deal of trouble. 
 But he had some noble qualities : he was as 
 brave as a young lion, faithful, diligent, 
 perfectly honest and truthful, and sometimes 
 very tender in his feelings. Charlie, some 
 two years younger than Walter, was a deli 
 cate, beautiful, sweet-tempered boy, who 
 loved everybody, and in return was greatly 
 beloved. He was fair, pale, and slight, 
 with blue eyes and golden curls. Walter 
 said he looked like a girl, and sometimes 
 laughed at his delicacy ; but, for all that, 
 
92 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 he was jealous of the poor child s beauty 
 even of his weakness. 
 
 Captain Harrison was most of the time 
 at sea, and his gentle wife found it difficult 
 to control the impatient spirit, or correct the 
 even more unamiable moodiness, of her eld 
 est son. If she reproved him sternly, he 
 would often accuse her of being partial to 
 her youngest and handsomest son, and say 
 that she petted and indulged Charlie so 
 much, that he could not be disobedient, or 
 give her any trouble ; he himself, he said, 
 would be good, if he were so treated. 
 
 Walter really thought himself slighted 
 and unloved, because he knew he was very 
 plain, and he saw his sickly brother cared 
 for constantly. He never seemed to think 
 how ridiculous it would look in his mother 
 to be nursing and petting a stout, healthy 
 boy, who was one of the strongest wrestlers, 
 and the best hand with the ball, in all the 
 town. 
 
 Walter, with all his fine health, was often 
 silent and sullen, while his brother was sel- 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 93 
 
 iom too ill to be talkative and cheerful ; so 
 It was very natural for visiters to notice 
 Charlie the most, and, as they supposed he 
 needed amusing, to send him books and to 
 make him presents most frequently. All 
 this " partiality" was shown to him, Walter 
 said, because he happened to have a plain 
 face, and did n t know how to put himself 
 forward. Charlie was grieved at this,, and 
 always wished to share his gifts with his 
 brother ; but Walter could never be per 
 suaded to accept anything. 
 
 One time, when Charlie was about ten 
 years old, his mother had a visit from a 
 pious maiden aunt, who spent some weeks 
 in the family. During Miss Hannah Per 
 kins stay, she became much attached to 
 quiet little Charlie ; but as Walter gave way 
 to his temper, two or three times, before 
 her, and made sport of some of her queer 
 ways, she did not like him over-much, 
 though she thought he might be made a 
 good boy of, with proper management. She 
 wondered how his mother could let such fits 
 
94 LITTLE CHAELIE S WILL. 
 
 of passion and such naughty tricks pass 
 without severe punishment. If he were her 
 child, she said, she would soon whip that 
 bad temper out of him. But Mrs. Harrison 
 believed that one blow would put more evil 
 passion into the heart of such a proud boy 
 as Walter than she could ever get out. 
 
 She never failed seriously to reprove his 
 faults and wrong actions ; and she knew 
 what she told no one that Walter would 
 always come to her, after an outburst of 
 impatience or bad feeling, and ask her for 
 giveness. She knew that he loved her, his 
 father, brother and little sister, intensely: 
 so she was patient, and prayed God to soften 
 the heart and subdue the temper of her 
 unhappy child. 
 
 A short time after Aunt Hannah returned 
 home, she sent the boys each .a book. 
 Charlie s happened to be opened first. It was 
 a handsome illustrated copy of " Robinson 
 Crusoe." Walter then eagerly opened his 
 own, which was rather gayly bound. It was 
 " The Memoirs of a Sunday-school Scholar." 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 95 
 
 Walter flung it down, saying, angrily, 
 " What did the old maid send me this for, 
 I wonder ? I have had enough of such 
 things out of the Sunday-school Library. 
 She did not send you such a humdrum sort 
 of a book, Charlie. I suppose she thought 
 you were pious enough, without." 
 
 "0 brother," said Charlie, " don t talk 
 so hard. I am sure Aunt Hannah meant 
 very kindly by us both." 
 
 Walter took up his book, and began look 
 ing through it ; but he soon broke out again, 
 " Pshaw ! just as I thought ; nothing but 
 early piety, early piety. Why could n t 
 she have sent me some story about wars, or 
 pirates, or even Indians ? I am tired to 
 death of early piety ! 
 
 " You will never trouble your friends with 
 it, my son," said Mrs. Harrison, who had 
 just entered the room. Walter started and 
 blushed ; he did not know that his mother 
 was so near. But he replied, sullenly, " I 
 wish I might not trouble them in any way, 
 any longer. It would be better for all if I 
 
96 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 were dead and buried ; for I m of no use 
 in the world, and nobody loves me." 
 
 After having said these unkind words, 
 Walter took his ball- club, and went out on to 
 the village-green, where the boys were al 
 ready at play. Charlie soon followed ; not 
 to mingle in the sport, for he was not strong 
 enough for that, but he loved always to 
 watch his brother, and felt proud of his 
 skill and strength. 
 
 After about a half-hour s play, many of 
 the boys set out for home, as a hard storm 
 seemed coming on. The clouds were rolling 
 up thick and black, the lightnings flashed, 
 and the thunder broke overhead. Walter 
 Harrison, who had appeared half angry in 
 all his play, was now leaning against the 
 side of the church, within a yard or two of 
 the lightning-rod. The boys called to him 
 to come away, as he was in a dangerous 
 place ; but Walter would not stir. Charlie 
 ran up to him, and begged him to go home ; 
 but he only said, "I don t care if the 
 lightning does strike me. I tell you again, 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 97 
 
 I m of no use in the world nobody loves 
 me. You may run home, if you are afraid. " 
 
 "I am not afraid for myself, brother/ 
 said Charlie, his lip quivering ; " but I will 
 go home and beg mamma to come for you." 
 
 Charlie had not run half across the green, 
 when there came a great blaze of lightning, 
 and a heavy crash of thunder, which seemed 
 to shake the very ground, The boys who 
 were looking toward the church said that 
 they saw the lightning roll down the rod 
 like a ball of fire, and disappear in the 
 earth ; and that, at the same instant, Wal 
 ter fell to the ground. They ran to him at 
 once, raised him up, and carried him home, 
 The poor boy s eyes and mouth were open, 
 but he seemed quite dead. The doctor was 
 sent for, came immediately, took Walter 
 from the bed, laid him on the floor, and began 
 pouring cold water upon him by the bucket 
 ful. Mrs. Harrison had been strangely 
 calm, at first ; but when Walter began to 
 show some little signs of life, the joy was 
 more than she could bear, and she fainted 
 
98 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 away. She went from one fainting fit into 
 another ; and when Walter was at last so 
 much restored as to ask for her, she was 
 lying quite insensible. Then first he knew 
 how deeply and dearly his mother loved him. 
 Little Charlie threw himself down by Wal 
 ter, in the water, which was flooding the 
 room, and the brothers kissed one another, 
 and cried for joy. It was many days before 
 Walter was entirely well ; but, \vhen he did 
 get about, everybody noticed a great change 
 in him. He was more kind and pleasant ; 
 far less jealous and passionate ; he was 
 happier, and made others happier, than ever 
 before. He was so sure now that his mother 
 truly loved him ; and he knew, he said, that 
 he could never again be jealous of his little 
 brother. But, alas ! Walter did not know 
 himself. When he was fourteen, and his 
 brother still called c < little Charlie 
 about twelve, a wealthy uncle came from 
 Boston for a brief visit. As this gentleman 
 had no family, it was thought that Walter, 
 who had been named for him, would be the 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 99 
 
 heir to his fortune. For this very reason, 
 Walter was too proud to pay him any court ; 
 indeed, he hardly paid him proper respect 
 and attention, and was generally silent and 
 reserved in his presence. Mr. Kogers did 
 not understand this manner ; he thought 
 Walter sullen and cold, and, though he 
 could but see that he was an honest, intel 
 ligent boy, he was not, on the whole, pleased 
 with him. But, like all other visiters^ he 
 was quite charmed with little Charlie ; and 
 he had not been long gone from the village, 
 before there arrived from Boston a beautiful 
 white pony, handsomely saddled and bri 
 dled, "For Master Charles Harrison. 1 
 In a letter to his sister, Mr. Kogers said, 
 " Thinking that a daily ride may benefit my 
 little invalid nephew, I send a pony, which 
 is both spirited and docile. I hope that 
 Charlie will accept it, with the kind wishes 
 of < Uncle Walter/ " 
 
 Both Mrs. Harrison and Charlie were 
 pained that no present came for Walter, and 
 that he was scarcely mentioned in the let- 
 
100 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 ter ; while, as for Walter, he felt the old 
 jealous feeling boiling up from his heart, 
 hotter than ever, and said some hard things, 
 which he had better have left unsaid. 
 
 " Why, brother," said Charlie, " the pony 
 shall be as much yours as mine ; you may 
 ride it every day." 
 
 fct No, I won t ! " answered Walter, an 
 grily ; " I never will mount it, as long as I 
 live. I would n t be so mean." 
 
 But Walter had little call to be envious 
 of his brother, who was quite too weak to 
 ride his pretty pony. A few rods only, 
 gave him a severe pain in the side, so 
 very delicate was poor Charlie. 
 
 This spring he seemed far worse than 
 usual : he did not complain, but he daily 
 grew weak and languid, till finally he could 
 no longer be about the house. 
 
 One afternoon, when he came from school, 
 Walter found Charlie sitting up in his bed, 
 writing ; but he hid his paper and pencil 
 under the pillow, when he saw his brother, 
 and hastily wiped away some tears which 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S win-. ( 10 J 
 
 were on his cheek. That very night he 
 grew much worse ; a fever came on, and he 
 was quite delirious. All night long they 
 watched over him, with great anxiety ; and 
 during the next day, though he was more 
 quiet, and slept most of the time. When 
 awake, he did not speak much, or seem to 
 recognize any one. 
 
 Just at sunset, Walter was sitting in his 
 own chamber by the window, with his face 
 hid in the curtains, for he was grieving for 
 his gentle brother, who was like to die, 
 when his mother entered, holding a paper in 
 her hand. Walter saw that she had been 
 weeping, as she said, "I found this paper 
 under little Charlie s pillow ; you may read 
 it, if you will." 
 
 Walter opened it, saw that it was in 
 Charlie s handwriting, and read, 
 
 " MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. 
 
 " I leave to my dear mamma my gold- 
 clasped Bible, my trunk, and all my clothes, 
 except my new green cloth roundabout, 
 
LITT.LE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 which I leave to Cousin John, -because he 
 likes it, and it just fits him. To iny papa 
 I leave my pictures of Jesus Christ stilling 
 the Tempest, and the fight between the 
 Constitution and Gmrriere^ my seal 
 of Hope and the anchor, and the Voyages 
 of Captain Cook/ To my sister Clara I 
 leave my canaries, my pet squirrel, my 
 flowers, and all my fairy story-books. To 
 my brother Walter I give the rest of my 
 library, my chessboard and men, my battle 
 dores and shuttle-cock, my rabbits, my dog, 
 and my white pony : and when I am dead, 
 I hope he will believe I have loved him 
 dearly. CHARLES HARRISON." 
 
 Walter wept bitterly over this will ; but 
 when he had grown calm, he said, " May I 
 go to him, mother ? " " If you will promise 
 not to disturb him," she answered. Walter 
 promised, and stole softly into the dim 
 chamber where Charlie was now alone, 
 sleeping quietly. He knelt down by the 
 bedside, hid his face in the counterpane. 
 
LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 103 
 
 and oilently prayed God to forgive all his 
 sins, to give him a better heart, and to make 
 his brother well again. Suddenly he felt a 
 soft hand laid on his head. He looked up, 
 and Charlie s mild blue eyes were smiling 
 on him. " Come and lie by my side," he 
 said ; and Walter laid himself down there, 
 and the brothers again embraced, and kissed 
 each other. 
 
 As thus they lay, talking softly and 
 sweetly together, they heard some unusual 
 noise below, and then their mother coming 
 up stairs with some one who stepped a little 
 heavier. It was their father, returned from 
 his longest and last sea voyage ! Now he 
 promised to stay at home with them always. 
 
 The return of Captain Harrison did more 
 than medicine to cure his little son, who 
 soon became stronger than he had ever been 
 before. 
 
 One afternoon, when Charlie had been a 
 fortnight about the house, it was arranged 
 that he should take a short ride on his white 
 pony, soon after breakfast, the next day. 
 10 
 
104 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 When Walter came down in the morning, 
 his mother kissed him more tenderly than 
 usual, and his father, shaking hands with 
 him heartily, wished him many happy re 
 turns of the day. Walter looked as though 
 he did not know what to make of this, and 
 his mother said, " Why, my son, is it pos 
 sible you have forgotten this is your birth 
 day ?" 
 
 "Ah, yes, mamma/ he answered; "I 
 only remembered that it was Charlie s first 
 day out." 
 
 "And so," said his father, "you are to 
 give him a ride ; pray, what are you to 
 do?" 
 
 " 0, I 11 trot along by his side, on foot. 
 I believe I can outrun that pony, now." 
 
 When breakfast was over, Walter helped 
 his brother into the saddle, and was arrang 
 ing the bridle, when Charlie called out, joy 
 fully, "Look there, brother! " pointing with 
 his riding-whip to another white pony, 
 somewhat larger than his own, standing on 
 the other side of the yard. Walter ran to 
 

LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 105 
 
 it, took off a slip of paper which was pinned 
 to the rein, and read : " Will Walter, our 
 first-born and beloved son, accept this birth 
 day gift from his parents ? " 
 
 Walter laid his face against the slender, 
 arching neck of his beautiful horse, and 
 burst into tears. But he was too happy to 
 weep long ; he soon ran into the house, 
 thanked and kissed his father and mother, 
 ran out again, mounted, and rode off with 
 his brother. 
 
 They had a fine ride. They had many 
 fine rides together in the years that fol 
 lowed ; for Charlie continued to improve, 
 till he became quite strong and vigorous. 
 As for Walter, he always kept his robust 
 health ; he did not grow to be handsome, 
 but he became what is far better, truly 
 amiable and agreeable. Even Aunt Hannah 
 Perkins grew to liking him, at last ; and 
 Uncle Walter Rogers, who sent him to col 
 lege, has been heard to declare that he 
 shall leave him all his fortune, knowing 
 that he will not hoard it like a miser, or 
 
106 LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 
 
 waste it like a spendthrift, but so use it as 
 to do a great deal of good, and make a 
 great many people happy. But I do not 
 believe that the writing that gives to Walter 
 Harrison a large sum of money, land, and 
 houses, will ever be so dear to him as a 
 little scrap of paper, which he keeps among 
 his most valuable and sacred things in his 
 private desk, and on which he has written, 
 " LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL." 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 I KNOW an old man, with snowy white hair, 
 
 And figure all bony, and swarthy, and spare ; 
 
 With a long Roman nose, like a parrot s hooked beak, 
 
 And little cross eyes, all rheumy and weak ; 
 
 Like an odd piece of crockery laid on the shelf, 
 
 This funny old man lives away by himself; 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 In a mouldering mill, with moss o ergrown ; 
 Too lonesome for dogs and for sociable cats, 
 And only not too much battered for bats ; 
 Down in a hollow, dark, swampy, and damp, 
 Where frogs might have agues, and die of the oramp, 
 
 And feathery owls be a-cold, 
 There he grindeth his corn, and maketh his bread, 
 And stirreth the straw that formeth his bed ; 
 There taketh he patches, and needle and thread, 
 
 And mendeth his garments old. 
 
 Sometimes he sings a dismal old tune, 
 In a small, cracked voice ; sometimes, at noon, 
 When the sun is warm, and the wind from the south, 
 He falls fast asleep, with his pipe in his mouth. 
 
108 THE HERMIT. 
 
 This old, old man was once a child, 
 
 How strange it seems ! was once a child ; 
 
 Over his cradle a father smiled, 
 
 And a mother, on her gentle breast, 
 
 Sung and hushed him into rest, 
 
 Smoothed from his forehead the silky soft hair, 
 
 And kissed the cheek of her baby fair. 
 
 Perhaps, as on her lap he lay, 
 
 He saw proud brothers round him play, 
 
 Who brought him toys to check his cries, 
 
 And sisters laughed at his cunning cross-eyes. 
 
 Where are they now ? All gone all gone ! 
 Dead and buried these many years ; 
 And now, alack ! he never hears, 
 
 Day or night, one kindred tone ! 
 He never looks on a loving face, 
 The last of all his humble race, 
 
 The poor old fellow must die alone ! 
 
 But little cares he. For the Lord of all, 
 Who heeds the sparrows when they fall, 
 He trusts to forgive his errors past, 
 And see him safe in heaven at last. 
 
EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING 
 
 EFFIE GREY, though one of the sweetest, 
 was one of the most singular girls in the 
 world. She seemed to have two distinct 
 lives. Almost every bright moonshiny 
 night, she was up, softly walking about the 
 house, and sometimes in the garden and 
 yard, all in her sleep. Sometimes she dimly 
 remembered these rambles, as though she 
 had dreamed of them, but oftenest she had 
 not the least recollection of them. In dark 
 or unpleasant nights, she seldom was known 
 to go abroad ; but when disposed to take a 
 stroll by moonlight, nothing could prevent 
 her ; for she moved so quietly and softly, 
 that she awoke no one ; and if she found the 
 doors locked and the keys taken away, she 
 would escape by the windows. 
 
 When Effie was fifteen or sixteen years 
 old, she outgrew this strange habit, and 
 
110 EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 
 
 learned to sleep quietly in her bed, like 
 other people. Some two years before, how 
 ever, an odd adventure happened to her. 
 It was this : 
 
 On a pleasant Saturday afternoon, early 
 in the autumn, Effie, with her two brothers, 
 Jamie and Archie, and three or four of her 
 schoolmates, went into the woods to gather 
 wild grapes. The boys would climb the 
 trees, break off the ripe clusters, and drop 
 them into the spread aprons of the girls ; 
 sometimes they would tear away whole 
 vines, and fling them to the ground. 
 
 Altogether, they had a right merry time, 
 though they were somewhat disappointed in 
 not getting quite so many nice grapes as 
 they expected to find. Many of the vines 
 grew so much in the shade, that the fruit 
 was stunted and sour. 
 
 On their way home, they perceived across 
 a dark stream a large vine, which, growing 
 from between two rocky ledges, clambered 
 up the almost perpendicular bank, and hung 
 its rich clusters of purple fruit over the 
 
EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. Ill 
 
 water. These were by far the largest and 
 ripest grapes the children had seen, and 
 they stood for some moments looking at 
 them with longing eyes. But they could 
 only be gathered by climbing the bank from 
 the water, and not even the boys were 
 brave enough for such an exploit ; for, 
 though the stream was not deep, it was 
 very black and miry. So they all went on 
 their way, leaving the grapes for the wild 
 birds to feast upon, at their leisure. 
 
 That night, Effie was for a long time too 
 tired to sleep. She tossed and turned on 
 her soft bed, as though it had been stuffed 
 with corn-stalks, or even chestnut-burs. 
 She lived over the toilsome sport of the 
 afternoon : now scrambling after grapes ; 
 now tumbling over logs, and breaking her 
 way through bushes ; and, last before she 
 went to sleep, she thought longingly on 
 those nice, ripe, un-get-atable grapes, hang 
 ing over the creek. 
 
 When Effie awoke in the morning, she 
 felt strangely lame and stiff ; and when she 
 11 
 
112 EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 
 
 thrust her feet out of bed, what was her 
 astonishment to find them all covered with 
 thick black mud ! The linen sheets of her 
 led, so snowy clean the night before, were, 
 now in a shocking condition ; and, from a 
 window opening on to a piazza, led miry 
 foot-prints across the nice rush matting. 
 But, strangest of all, on the table stood a 
 large basket, filled with grapes ; she re 
 membered having seen that basket on the 
 piazza the night before. Effie saw, at once, 
 that she had gone in her sleep, at some hour 
 of the moonlight night, for the grapes which 
 had tempted her so much in the daytime ; 
 and she burst into a passionate fit of crying, 
 from a feeling half grief, half shame, which 
 she could hardly herself understand. Her 
 first thought was to conceal the adventure 
 from everybody. She could easily wash the 
 mud from her feet and ankles ; but what 
 was she to do with her soiled night-dress, 
 the bed-clothes, and the matting ? 
 
 She must tell her mother ; there was no 
 help for it. She must bear, as best she 
 
EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 113 
 
 could, her father s jokes, and the laughter 
 of her merry brothers. But then she had 
 the grapes, that was some consolation. 
 
 Early in the winter that followed, James 
 Grey, Effie s eldest brother, died quite 
 suddenly, of brain fever, caused, it was 
 thought, by too hard study in preparing for 
 college ; for James was a remarkably stu 
 dious and ambitious boy, and had never 
 been very strong. He had been lovely in 
 his life, and in his death he was mourned 
 by all who knew him ; but his father 
 grieved most bitterly of all! It had always 
 been said that Jamie was Judge Grey s 
 favorite child. I do not know how that was, 
 but it surely seemed that when the noble 
 boy was called away into " the better land," 
 his father must go too. Day and night he 
 groaned and wept for his dear dead son. 
 He neither ate nor slept ; he seemed not to 
 know what was passing around him, and to 
 have almost forgotten that he had yet living 
 children, and a true, loving wife. 
 
 A few months before this son s death, 
 
114 EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 
 
 Judge Grey had taken him to sit to a good 
 artist, who had painted a fine portrait of 
 him, which was prettily framed, and hung 
 in a little parlor where the family met for 
 prayers, and where they could look at it 
 night and morning, when Jamie should be 
 far away at college. Now the poor father 
 would stand before this picture hour after 
 hour, with his arms folded on his breast, the 
 tears slowly sliding down his cheeks ; and 
 now and then he would give a sigh, oh, 
 so deep and sorrowful ! At last, when this 
 had continued for many days, Effie went 
 gently up to him, took his hand in hers, and 
 tried to lead him away ; but he would not 
 go. Then her mother came, and wound her 
 arms about him, and pleaded with him, for 
 her sake, and the children s sake, to stand 
 no longer grieving before that portrait ; yet 
 still he would not go. 
 
 Late that night, after all the rest of the 
 family had retired, and wept themselves to 
 sleep, he stood with a lamp in his hand, 
 gazing on the likeness of his lost boy. It 
 
EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 115 
 
 was hard to say good-night to that smiling 
 face, for there was no more any good night 
 or good morning for him. 
 
 In the morning, when the family came 
 together, what was their surprise to find a 
 thick veil drawn closely over Jamie s por 
 trait ! Judge Grey was much agitated, and 
 asked who had done this. Mrs. Grey knew 
 nothing of it ; but when Effie was ques 
 tioned, she said, timidly, "I remember 
 thinking, last night, that the picture should 
 be veiled, a little while, for your sake, 
 father ; and that is all I know about it." 
 
 Mrs. Grey then offered to remove the 
 veil ; but her husband said, 
 
 c Let it remain, Mary. I have been rightly 
 reproved for my selfish grieving ; and I 
 will not look on that dear face again until 
 I can say, { The Lord gave, and the Lord 
 hath taken away ; blessed be the name of 
 the Lord/ " 
 
 As month after month went by, Judge 
 Grey grew more resigned and cheerful. He 
 began, at last, to talk freely of his lost son ; 
 
116 EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 
 
 he could even smile at the recollection of 
 some of the light-hearted boy s wild tricks 
 and funny sayings. But he never removed 
 the veil from the portrait, though he knew 
 that no one else would presume to take it 
 away. He feared that his heart was not yet 
 strong and submissive enough to look calmly 
 on that pleasant face, that always smiled on 
 his tears. 
 
 One night, early in June, as the Greys 
 were all standing on the vine-shaded piazza, 
 in the moonlight, listening to the low mur 
 mur of the brook which ran near the door, 
 and breathing in the fragrance of roses, 
 Effie heard her father say to her mother, 
 " Do you remember, Mary, that to-morrow 
 will be Jamie s birth- day ? He would have 
 been fifteen, had God left him with us. 
 How he used to enjoy a night like this ! 
 and he had a real girlish love of roses/ 
 
 " But, my dear husband," answered Mrs. 
 Grey, "we know there is no lack of light 
 and flowers, and all beautiful things, where 
 our Jamie is gone." 
 
EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 117 
 
 But next morning, when the family gath 
 ered together in the little parlor, to thank 
 God for his care of them through the night, 
 the first thing that met the eyes of parents 
 and children was Jamie s portrait, with the 
 dark veil taken away, and a beautiful wreath 
 of roses hanging in its place ! 
 
 All looked at Effie, who turned pale, then 
 blushed deeply, and burst into tears. " Did 
 /do it, mother?" she sobbed out; "in 
 deed, indeed, I cannot remember/ 
 
 " I think you must have done it, my dear 
 daughter," replied Mrs. Grey. 
 
 "Yes, Effie," said her father, folding 
 htr in his arms, " it was you, or some other 
 angel." 
 
 And this was the last of Effie Grey s 
 sleep-walking. 
 
 Do not always weep, when thinking 
 Of the loved ones early gone ; 
 
 And their names speak not so sadly, 
 Breathe them in a pleasant tone. 
 
118 EFFIE GREY S SLEEP-WALKING. 
 
 
 
 Think of them as dear lambs, kindly 
 Borne away from storm and cold, 
 
 By the tender shepherd, Jesus, 
 Gathered safely to the fold. 
 
 Think not of the dreary graveyard, 
 When comes on the wintry even ; 
 
 Think how beautiful the place is, 
 They call home, and we call heaven. 
 
 Sweetest, brightest thoughts weave round them, 
 When their faces you recall, 
 
 Even as Erne crowned with roses 
 Jamie s picture on the wall. 
 
LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 MANY years ago, in a pleasant village of 
 New England, lived the little girl whose true 
 story I am about to relate, Lizzie Stone, 
 the only daughter of the miller. 
 
 Lizzie was a child whom everybody loved ; 
 not only because she was so pretty, lively, 
 and intelligent, but for her being so sweet, 
 gentle, and peaceable, so truly good. 
 Lizzie had two brothers a few years older 
 than herself, who were very fond of her, 
 and of whom she was very fond. These 
 three children always went to school and to 
 church together, and played in perfect 
 agreement. 
 
 It happened that one sunny autumn after- 
 njon they had a visit from two little girls, 
 their cousins, who lived about a mile dis 
 tant. They had a wild, joyous time ; they 
 played in the yard, in the barn, and all over 
 
120 LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 the house. Mrs. Stone, who was a kind, 
 pleasant woman, looked on and laughed, if 
 she did not mingle in their sport. She got 
 them a nice early tea by themselves ; and, 
 when the visiters, after one last merry game, 
 were about leaving, she said to Lizzie, 
 
 " Your brothers will go home with Alice 
 and Celia. You may go with them as far 
 as the mill ; but be sure to stop there, 
 and come home with your father." 
 
 As the cousins set out, laughing and frol 
 icking along, Mrs. Stone stood in the little 
 front portico of her cottage, looking after 
 them, as they went down the lane, and 
 thinking what handsome, and happy, and, 
 above all, what good children they were. 
 She smiled at Lizzie s affectionate way of 
 taking leave of her, though she was to be 
 gone so short a time. Lizzie never parted 
 from her mother, even for a half-hour, with 
 out kissing her lovingly, and bidding her 
 good-by in a voice as sweet and tender as 
 the cooing of a dove. Now, as Mrs. Stone 
 went into the house, she said softly to her- 
 
LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 121 
 
 self, " It is nearly ten years since God gave 
 me that child, and she has never yet caused 
 me one moment s sorrow." 
 
 The children played so much along the 
 road, and stopped so often to pick flowers 
 and berries, that it was nearly dark when 
 they reached the mill. Then, when the 
 girls came to part, they had yet so many 
 things to tell to each other, so many invita 
 tions to give, so many good-by s to say, it 
 was no wonder that they lingered a while. 
 
 It seemed that Lizzie could not let her 
 cousins go. She parted from them, in her 
 loving way, so many times, that her brothers 
 grew a little impatient, and George, the 
 eldest, said, " Why, sister, I don t see but 
 that Ned and I will have to help you in your 
 kissing, or you 11 never get through." 
 
 Then Alice and Celia, blushing and laugh 
 ing, broke away from their cousin, and ran 
 fast down a little hill towards their home. 
 The boys soon overtook them ; and Lizzie, 
 after watching the group a while, and think 
 ing lio w good was God to give her such amiable 
 
122 LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 cousins, such noble brothers, and such dear 
 parents to love, turned and went into the 
 mill. She found it going, and was almost 
 frightened by the din it made, and by the 
 darkness ; for night was fast coming on. 
 She called her father s name, and he an 
 swered ; but the machinery made so much 
 noise that she did not hear. Thinking that 
 he had already gone, she turned to go home 
 alone. She took a way she had often safely 
 taken, over the flume, by the great water- 
 wheel. But to-night she was bewildered, 
 lost her footing, and fell off on to the wheel, 
 which whirled her down, down, crushing 
 and tearing her in a shocking manner ! It 
 happened that just at that moment her 
 father, thinking that Lizzie had been sent 
 to call him home, stopped the mill, and be 
 gan to search for her. Led by her cries, he 
 came to the wheel, and there found what 
 had occurred. "Are you badly hurt, my 
 daughter 1 " he asked, in great grief and 
 terror. "Yes, father. I seem to be all 
 crushed to pieces, and I cannot stir ; but I 
 
LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 123 
 
 think I shall live till you get me out. Leave 
 me here, -and go for help/ 
 
 The neighborhood was soon roused, and 
 many men hurried, with saws and axes, to 
 the mill. But they found that only one or 
 two could work at a time in cutting away 
 the strong, heavy timbers, and that it would 
 be some hours before Lizzie could be taken 
 from the cruel place where she was held so 
 fast, and crushed so dreadfully ; and they 
 said that to move the wheel backward or 
 forward might kill her at once. 
 
 When Mrs. Stone came, one of the men 
 let down a light into the wheel, so that she 
 could see her poor child. When she saw 
 Lizzie s white face, and the bleeding arms 
 held toward her, she shrieked and cried bit 
 terly. But Lizzie called up to her as sweetly 
 and cheerfully as she had ever spoken in 
 her life, and said, " Don t cry, mother! 
 They will get me out before long ; keep up 
 good courage, and pray to God for me." 
 
 And so she continued to talk, hour after 
 hour, while the men kept cutting and saw- 
 
124 LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 ing at the great timbers : so she cheered 
 and comforted her parents, and her poor 
 brothers, when they too came to the mill. 
 
 Once her voice grew very low and in 
 distinct, then it ceased altogether : the 
 doctor looked down, and said she had fainted 
 away, and they sprinkled water upon her. 
 As soon as she revived, she began again to 
 say comforting things, and to beg her mother 
 and brothers not to cry. She said she did 
 not suffer so much pain as at first, and that 
 she was sure she should live to be carried 
 home. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when the last tim 
 ber that held her was sawed away, and a 
 workman lifted her gently up, and laid her 
 in her father s arms. The pain of being 
 moved caused the poor child to faint again, 
 and she did not revive until she had been 
 carried home. When she opened her eyes, 
 she found herself on her own little bed, with 
 her dear father and mother and brothers at 
 her side. 
 
 The doctor carefully dressed Lizzie ? 
 
LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 125 
 
 wounds, and gave her some opium to make 
 Her sleep ; but he told her father and mother 
 that she could not possibly get well. When 
 he heard the dreadful words, Mr. Stone 
 groaned, and covered his face with his 
 hands ; and, for a few moments, Mrs. Stone 
 leaned her head on her husband s shoulder, 
 and cried. Then, lifting her eyes, and 
 clasping her hands, she said, " Thy will, oh 
 Lord, be done ! " and went and sat down 
 calmly by Lizzie s side, and watched her 
 till she slept. 
 
 The poor little girl remained sleeping most 
 of the next day. She would often wake, and 
 ask for water ; but she then seemed hardly to 
 know where she was, or who was with her. 
 Her cousins, Alice and Celia, came to see 
 her ; but she did not recognize them, and 
 they went away, sobbing bitterly. 
 
 Early in the night, however, she awoke, 
 and seemed better. She knew all about 
 her, and smiled on them, but said that she 
 must leave them very soon. She told her 
 father that she wanted to hear him pray once 
 
126 LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 more ; and Mr. Stone knelt down by her 
 bedside, and asked God to take safely home 
 the little daughter he had given them, and 
 thanked him for leaving her with them so 
 long. Then Lizzie said to her mother, 
 " Will you sing me just one verse of the 
 hymn I love so much, c Jesus sought me 1" 
 Her mother tried, but she could not sing 
 for weeping; and Lizzie said, "Never 
 mind, where I am going, there is beautiful 
 singing. Yet it seems to me I shall hear 
 no voice so sweet as yours, mamma. Why 
 do you cry? Only think, mamma, if I 
 should live, now, how crooked and sickly 
 I should be. I might be a poor hunchback, 
 and give a great deal of trouble and sorrow 
 to you all. Will it not be better to bury up 
 this crushed body, and let the pleasant grass 
 grow over it, and have a new and glorious 
 body, such as the angels have ? " 
 
 As she spoke these words, she smiled, and 
 did not weep ; but when, afterwards, she 
 asked for a faithful house-dog, and her 
 pretty Maltese kitten, and they were brought 
 
LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 127 
 
 to her, she burst into tears. " Good-by, old 
 Bose! good-by, Kitty!" she said. "1 
 cry, mamma, to part from these, because I 
 never, never shall see them again ; for they 
 have no souls, poor things ! But you and 
 papa will come to heaven before many years; 
 and you, too, brothers, if you are good boys." 
 
 A little while after this, she said, "Geor- 
 gie, give my love to Alice and Celia, and 
 tell them I am glad I kissed them so many 
 times last night. Eddie, take care of my 
 flowers : and, boys, don t miss me too much 
 in your play," 
 
 After lying very quiet for some moments, 
 she again spoke, and said, 
 
 " Mamma, are the shutters open, and 
 has the morning come very brightly? " 
 
 "No, my daughter," her mother an 
 swered, " it is still dark night." 
 
 "0, then," said Lizzie, " it must be the 
 windows of God s beautiful palace I see, 
 with the pleasant light shining through. I 
 am almost there ! Good-by, mamma, and 
 papa, and brothers, good-by ! " and, with a 
 12 
 
128 LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 smile spread over her face, Lizzie stretched 
 out her arms, looked upward, and so died ! 
 When Lizzie lay in her coffin, that smile 
 was on her sweet face still, brighter and 
 purer than the white roses that lay upon her 
 pillow, and Mrs. Stone tried not to let her 
 tears fall upon it ; for she said, " God has 
 taken back a little angel he lent to me for a 
 few years, and why should I weep for my 
 happy, happy child ? " 
 
 LIZZIE GONE. 
 
 Lizzie lieth cold and still, 
 In the church -yard on the hill, 
 Where the winter winds shall rave, 
 All night long, around her grave ; 
 Poor little Lizzie ! 
 
 She 11 not breathe the airs of spring, 
 Nor hear the tuneful robin sing ; 
 She 11 not feel the sun s bright glow, 
 Nor see the early violets blow ; 
 Poor little Lizzie ! 
 
 She 11 not join her brothers play, 
 Through the sunny days of May ; 
 
LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 129 
 
 Nor mark how God his love discloses, 
 In the coming forth of roses 
 Poor little Lkzie ! 
 
 She li glean the yellow grain no more, 
 Not iaste the orchard s ripened store, 
 Nor see the leaves, in autumn hours, 
 Come down in gold and crimson showers ; 
 Poor little Lizzie ! 
 
 She 11 not run to meet, again, 
 Her dear tired father in the lane ; 
 Nor hear her mother s Sabbath-singing, 
 Nor the church-bells solemn ringing ; 
 Poor little Lizzie ! 
 
 She hath left the love and mirth, 
 All the sights and sounds of earth, 
 Long before her life s bright noon, 
 Must she go to sleep so soon ? 
 Poor little Lizzie ! 
 
 Say not so ; for cold and still, 
 In the church-yard on the hill, 
 Only her crushed body lies ; 
 Far in holy Paradise 
 
 Lives the soul of Lizzie f 
 
 Where the fair and sweet-breathed flowers 
 Die not in the pleasant bowers ; 
 
130 LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 
 
 And the lovely time of roses 
 Never fades and never closes, 
 There dwelleth Lizzie ! 
 
 Where the tuneful waters flow, 
 Comes no night, nor winter s snow, 
 For the sunshine all abroad 
 Is the constant smile of God, 
 There dwelleth Lizzie ! 
 
 Where the seraphs, winged and crowne 
 With their harps make sweetest sound, 
 Where the blessed angels sing 
 Glad hosannas to their King, 
 There singeth Lizzie ! 
 
 She will feel no cruel pain, 
 She will never cry again ; 
 For the Lord, once crucified, 
 Who in bitter anguish died, 
 
 Comforts little Lizzie. 
 
 Leaning on his tender breast, 
 Who the little children blessed, 
 Waiting till her dear ones come, 
 Till the Father calls them homo,.- 
 Happy angel Lizzie 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LANTERNS. 
 
 NEAR the small village of H , in one 
 
 of our Western States, may be seen an old 
 fort, built by the French, at the time of the 
 French and Indian war, many years ago. 
 This stands on a small hill, near the turn 
 pike ; and, as the walls are much broken 
 down, and grown over with grass and shrub 
 bery, it is a very pretty place, indeed. 
 
 Some years since, there came to reside in 
 H an Englishman by the name of Hen 
 derson. He was a hard, severe -looking 
 man, whom nobody knew anything about, 
 except that he seemed to possess consider 
 able property, that he had a meek, sad-faced 
 wife, and four very idle, good-for-nothing 
 boys. There was also in his family a dark, 
 slender child, about eleven years of age, 
 who seemed to be a sort of an adopted son. 
 This John Elliot proved to be a very strange 
 
132 JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LANTERNS. 
 
 boy, almost as shy and wild as a young 
 savage. Nobody appeared to care for him ; 
 he was seldom seen with the other members 
 of the family, but spent most of his time 
 in the fields and woods, coarsely, if not 
 shabbily dressed, and often without shoes 
 or hat. He was never seen rambling or at 
 play with the Henderson boys, who, it was 
 said, were far from kind to him ; and their 
 father was known to treat him very cruelly. 
 He was never sent to school, or to church ; 
 it may be that he could not have been per 
 suaded to go, he was so exceedingly shy 
 always. He never could be prevailed upon 
 to enter a neighbor s house ; and seemed 
 afraid to converse many minutes at a time 
 with any one, though he would answer very 
 civilly any question put to him. He never 
 complained of the hard treatment he had at 
 home, but surely his sad face and neglected 
 look were complaint enough. 
 
 Every one who heard him speak noticed 
 that he had a voice of remarkable sweet 
 ness ; and he seemed to have a talent for 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LAN TERNS. 133 
 
 music ; for he would sing, when he thought 
 himself quite alone, wild, mournful, com 
 plaining airs ; but nobody could ever catch 
 the sense of the words, and very likely they 
 had little meaning. 
 
 John, or Jack, as the Hendersons always 
 called him, seemed to take to the fort from 
 the first. He spent hour after hour there 
 searching for the stone arrow-heads, pipes 
 and beads, of the Indians, and rusty buckles, 
 bullets, and bayonets, of the French soldiers. 
 At one time he dug up an old iron-hilted 
 sword, with only about an inch of the point 
 broken off; this he hung at his side, by a 
 leathern belt, and for months was never seen 
 without it. 
 
 It happened that the summer Jack came 
 to H , Miss Ellen Hay ward, the minis 
 ter s daughter, a very sweet young lady, was 
 in delicate health, and was in the habit of 
 walking every morning. Often she went to 
 the fort, and, after climbing the little hill, 
 would sit down to rest on the grassy em 
 bankment. 
 
134 JACK AND HIS JACK-O LANTERNS. 
 
 After a long time, she became acquainted 
 with Jack, who interested her very much. 
 
 Once she asked him to tell her about the 
 Hendersons and himself. He looked all 
 around them, as though he feared some one 
 mi^ht overhear him, before he answered. 
 He said he believed that Mr. Henderson was 
 not nearly related to him ; that once, when 
 he was very small, he lived in a beautiful 
 home, where there never was any winter, 
 but where the flowers were always bright, 
 and the trees green ; that he remembered a 
 tall man, in soldier s dress, his papa, and a 
 sweet, kind mamma. He said he recol 
 lected that one morning somebody came to 
 him, and told him his mamma was dead, and 
 he was never to see her any more ; and that 
 afterwards his papa took him to a ship, and, 
 after kissing him many times, left him there 
 with a nurse ; and that they sailed day after 
 day, over the sea, till they reached England, 
 when Mr. Henderson came on board, and 
 took them to his home. The next thing 
 he remembered was, that one morning his 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK-0*LANTERNS. 135 
 
 good nurse kissed him, and cried over him a 
 long time, and said they were going to send 
 her away ; she went, and he never saw her 
 again. Then he was sent to a great noisy 
 school for some years ; then they all came to 
 America, where they had moved from place 
 to place, till they settled at II . 
 
 " Poor boy ! " said Miss Hay ward, when 
 Jack had finished his little story. " You 
 have had a hard time, so far ; but cheer up ! 
 your father will come for you, yet." 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Jack, throwing himself 
 down on the ground, and hiding his face in 
 the long grass ; "he will never come so far 
 for me, he will never find me. And then 
 I m afraid he has been killed, long ago, 
 my brave soldier-papa ! " 
 
 "I think, \said Miss Hayward, "that 
 you must have been born in India, and that 
 your father was an English officer." 
 
 "I think so, too," said Jack; "but I 
 
 never could get anybody to tell me anything 
 
 about it. I know my papa was a British 
 
 soldier ; for he wore a red coat, and because 
 
 13 
 
136 JACK AND HIS JACK- 0* LANTERNS. 
 
 I love swords, bayonets, forts, and all such 
 things, and think God save the King a 
 braver fighting tune than Yankee Doodle/ 
 
 The next day Miss Hayward brought Jack 
 that sweet East-Indian story, by Mrs. Sher 
 wood, called " Little Henry and his Bear 
 er." Scarcely had she read a page to him, 
 before he cried out, joyfully, 
 
 " 0, I had just such a home as that ! I 
 had just such a bearer as Boosy, who car 
 ried me on his back everywhere. 0, I was 
 born in India ! I was born in India ! " 
 
 And Jack was right. The true story of 
 John Charles Elliot, as it afterwards came 
 out, was this. He was the only child of 
 English parents, and was born at a military 
 station near Calcutta. He was a delicate 
 boy, about five years old, when his mother 
 died ; and his father, Captain Elliot, fearing 
 that he could not live in the climate of India, 
 sent him to England, and placed him under 
 the care of a cousin and an old school-mate 
 of his own, Mr. Henderson ; for it happened 
 that neither the father nor the mother of the 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK-O* LANTERNS. 137 
 
 boy had any near relations then living in 
 England. Captain Elliot had great con 
 fidence in Mr. Henderson ; he made him 
 the guardian of his son, and placed in his 
 hands little John s entire fortune, left to him 
 by his mother. But the frank, honest sol 
 dier was deceived in his cousin, who was a 
 wicked, dishonest man, All the while that 
 Mr. Henderson was writing pleasant, friendly 
 letters to Captain Elliot, far in India, he was 
 treating very ill his lonely little boy, and 
 even using for himself and his family the 
 money rightly belonging to John. 
 
 He sent away the lad s nurse, and forbade 
 every one in the family to talk with him 
 about India, for fear that, when he was old 
 enough, he would write to his father, and 
 tell him how he was treated. 
 
 When Mr. Henderson left England for 
 America, with his family, it was because he 
 feared that Captain Elliot was coming home, 
 and would find out what a villain he had 
 been for so many years. Of course, he did 
 not write to the captain that he was about 
 
138 JACK AND HIS JACK- LANTERNS, 
 
 to leave England ; and after he had left, he 
 did not write at all : so, for two years, poor 
 Captain Elliot heard not a word from his 
 little son. 
 
 Jack was not altogether sad. He had a 
 quiet love of mischief and fun, which showed 
 itself in an amusing way, the sunfmer he 
 
 spent at H . It chanced that some silly 
 
 men got it into their heads that there was 
 money buried somewhere in the old fort, 
 and went to work digging for it. 
 
 Though, like Jack, they found nothing 
 but arrow-heads, pipe-bowls, and pieces of 
 old guns and swords, they were not dis 
 couraged ; for they had consulted a famous 
 fortune-teller, who, after looking very sol 
 emnly in a blue tea-cup, for ten minutes, told 
 them that " Somewheres inside of the fort, 
 the French sartin buried five great iron pots 
 full of gold and silver/ She told them 
 that they must always begin to dig just at 
 midnight. And so, from twelve till the 
 cock crew for daylight, a watcher might see 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LANTERNS. 139 
 
 their lanterns burning on old Fort Hill, and 
 hear the sound of their pickaxes and spades. 
 
 Well, one evening Jack went alone to the 
 fort, carrying a spade and an iron dinner- 
 pot. He then dug a new hole, very near 
 the last place where the men had been 
 digging, pressed the pot down into the earth 
 with all his strength, so that it would leave 
 a deep impression, then took it up, hid it in 
 the bushes, and hid himself there until the 
 gold-diggers came. Presently, he heard 
 one of the men call out, c Hallo ! some 
 thief has been here, and stole one of our 
 money-pots ! Now, boys, for the other 
 four, they must be somewhere near ! " 
 
 As you may suppose, they went to work 
 harder than ever ; and it was broad daylight 
 before they gave up, shouldered pickaxe 
 and spade, and went home. 
 
 The next day, Jack told his friend Miss 
 Hayward of the joke he had played off on 
 the foolish fellows who were spoiling the 
 fort by digging such great holes in the 
 ground. The story was soon all over town, 
 
140 JACK AND HIS JACK-O LANTERNS. 
 
 and the gold-diggers were completely 
 laughed out of their folly. 
 
 Close behind the fort lay a large marsh ; 
 and, in the dark nights of the autumn, this 
 was all lit up with brilliant jack-o lanterns. 
 They even came pouring over the walls, and 
 danced about in the old fort as though they 
 were having rare frolics together. Strange 
 to say, Jack Elliot who, people began to 
 think, was not in his right mind might 
 often be seen with them there ; dancing 
 with the merriest, chasing the swiftest, call 
 ing to them as though they were real play 
 mates, and singing more wildly than ever. 
 
 One night in October, as a traveller on 
 horseback was passing the fort, he observed 
 the jack-o lanterns, who were out in great 
 numbers. He checked his horse to watch 
 their shining play, and presently he saw a 
 slight, dark figure moving about with them. 
 It was Jack, at his nightly frolic with his 
 friends. The gentleman felt curious to know 
 what that strange boy was about ; so dis 
 mounted, went softly up the hill, and hid 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK- 0* LANTERNS. 141 
 
 among the bushes, near where Jack was 
 shouting, laughing, and striving in vain to 
 catch the dancing lights in his arms. Sud 
 denly the boy began singing, in his sweet, 
 wild voice, such words as, 
 
 " Dance, dance around me ! Don t fly so high ! 
 
 Don t run away, now, be good, and come back ! 
 Bright jack-o lanterns ! merry jack-o lanterns ! 
 Only play-fellows of poor little Jack ! " 
 
 That voice ! oh, it sounded to the stran 
 ger like the voice of his dear young wife, 
 dead these many years ; and like the voice 
 of her boy and his, sent away from him 
 long ago, and for whom he had sought vainly 
 in England and America, for the stranger 
 was Captain Elliot ! 
 
 He now sprang forward, and caught Jack 
 in his arms, saying, "0 my boy! my dear 
 boy ! thank God, I have found you at last ! ?J 
 
 Jack was never known to be frightened, 
 or even startled ; so now he said, quite 
 calmly, but joyfully, "Papa! my brave 
 soldier-papa ! is it you ? I thought you 
 never were coming, never, never ! " 
 
J.42 JACK AND HIS JACK-O LANTERNS. 
 
 In a short time there were great changes 
 with the Hendersons. They were obliged to 
 give up the little that now remained of John 
 Elliot s property, and to begin to live like 
 poor people, as they were. For the sake 
 of Mrs. Henderson, who had been as kind 
 to John as she dared to be, Captain Elliot 
 did not punish her husband as severely as 
 he deserved ; but everybody despised and 
 shunned the family, as long as they remained 
 
 in H . It would take me a long time 
 
 to tell just how Captain Elliot found his 
 son ; how he followed Mr. Henderson 
 from England to America, and tracked him 
 from state to state, and town to town, till 
 he reached that little village in the West. 
 
 Captain Elliot was a tall, soldier-like per 
 son, still very handsome, though much sun 
 burned, and beginning to show a few white 
 locks in the black curls around his forehead. 
 He had left the army, and said he intended 
 to return to England, and go to live with 
 his son on some property of his own in the 
 country. 
 
JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LANTERNS. 143 
 
 It was noticed that Jack did not rest till 
 he brought his father acquainted with his 
 only friend, Miss Hayward, the minister s 
 daughter ; and it was also noticed that this 
 pretty girl seemed to please the father full 
 as well as the son. Soon the three might 
 often be seen walking together to the old 
 fort, sometimes on jack-o lantern nights. 
 Then people began to say, c I wonder what 
 that Captain Elliot stays here so long for ? 
 His business is all done ; and it s getting 
 rather late in the season to cross the ocean." 
 And one good, careful, tea-drinking old 
 lady said, 
 
 " It s well Ellen Hayward has got over 
 her last spring s sickness, or she d run the 
 risk of catching her death- cold, in taking so 
 many evening walks." 
 
 One morning, early in November, Captain 
 Elliot said to John, "My son, put on your 
 best suit of clothes ; I want you to go to 
 church with me." 
 
 " To church, papa ? " said John ; "why, 
 it is n t Sunday." 
 
144 JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LANTERNS. 
 
 " I know that," answered his father ; 
 4 but if I go up there this morning, the 
 good minister will give his daughter Ellen 
 to me, for my wife, and your mother ; and 
 we may take her with us to England/ 
 
 " papa, how glad I am ! " cried John ; 
 "you did this all to make me happy, did 
 you not ? " Captain Elliot laughed, as he 
 answered, " I am afraid I am not quite so 
 good as that. I own I want Miss Hay ward 
 to finish taming my young savage ; but 
 then I want her full as much for myself. 
 She is a noble girl ! I think, John, that 
 she looks very much as your mother did." 
 
 As John Charles Elliot took his sweet 
 one friend, his new mamma, with him to 
 England, there was nobody to mourn for 
 
 him when he went from H ; in fact, 
 
 nobody missed him much. One would have 
 thought that the jack-o lanterns might have 
 been sorry for his going ; but even they 
 made light of it, and that very night danced 
 away as merrily as ever 
 
GENERAL LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA BERKELEY 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the 
 
 date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 :. 
 
 JUN 
 
 EP 30 fle 1986 
 
 INTER-LIBRARY RECEIVED 
 LOAN 
 
 MAR 13 
 
 MAR 9" 1974 2 2 
 
 8 1:: 
 
GENERAL UBBABV- U . C . BEBKELEy 
 
 Boooa??,"" 
 
 M124829, -. 
 
 re 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
HHRHI