GIFT or Dr. William H. Ivie dk'.,^'^-:M^^S'^?. -J^ i^ \3iU Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/childlifeinproseOOwhitrich V .\-. > X VTv \ Child Life in Prose EDITED BY JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER iUttjstraUD, BOSTON; JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, Late Ticknoe & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 1875. PEEFAOE THE unexpectedly favorable reception of the poetical compila- tion entitled " Child Life " has induced its publishers to call for .the preparation of a companion volume of prose stories and sketches, gathered, like the former, from the literature of widely- separated nationalities and periods. Illness, preoccupation, and the inertia of un elastic years would have deterred me from the undertaking, but for the assistance which I have had from the lady whose services are acknowledged in the preface to " Child Life." I beg my young readers, therefore, to understand that I claim littlo credit for my share in the work, since whatever merit it may have is largely due to her taste and judgment. It may be well to admit, in the outset, that the book is as much for child-lovers, who have not outgrown their child-heartedness in becoming mere men and women, as for children themselves ; that it is as much about child- hood, as for it. If not the wisest, it appears to me that the happiest people in the world are those who still retain something of the child's creative faculty of imagination, which makes atmosphere and color, sun and shadow, and boundless horizons, out of what seems to prosaic wisdom most inadequate material, — a tuft of grass, a mossy rock, the rain-pools of a passing shower, a glimpse of sky and cloud, a waft of west-wind, a bird's flutter and song. For the child is always something of a poet ; if he cannot analyze, like "Wordsworth and Tennyson, the emotions which expand his being, even as the fulness of life bursts open the petals of a flower, he finds with them all Nature plastic to his eye and hand. The soul of genius and the heart of childhood are one. Not irreverently has Jean Paul said, " I love God and little iv;34S8C9 vi PREFACE. children. Ye stand nearest to Him, ye little ones." From the Infinite Heart a sacred Presence has gone forth and filled the earth with the sweetness of immortal infancy. Not once in history alone, bat every day and always, Christ sets the little child in the midst of us as the truest reminder of himself, teaching us the secret of happiness, and leading us into the kingdom by the way of humility and tenderness. In truth, all the sympathies of our nature combine to render childhood an object of powerful interest. Its beauty, innocence, dependence, and possibilities of destiny, strongly appeal to our sen- sibilities, not only in real life, but in fiction and poetry. How sweetly, amidst the questionable personages who give small Qcca- sion of respect for manhood or womanhood as they waltz and wander through the story of Wilhelm Meister, rises the child-figure of Mignon ! How we turn from the light dames and faithless cava- liers of Boccaccio to contemplate his exquisite picture of the little Florentine, Beatrice, that fair girl of eight summers, so " pretty in her childish ways, so ladylike and pleasing, with her delicate fea- tures and fair proportions, of such dignity and charm of manner as to be looked upon as a little angel ! " And of all the creations of her illustrious lover's genius, whether in the world of mortals or in the uninviting splendors of his Paradise, what is there so beautiful as the glimpse we have of him in his Vita Nuova, a boy of nine years, amidst the bloom and greenness of the Spring Festival of Florence, checking his noisy merry-making in rapt admiration of the little Beatrice, who seemed to him " not the daughter of mortal man, but of God " % Who does not thank John Brown, of Edin- burgh, for the story of Marjorie Fleming, the fascinating child- woman, laughing beneath the plaid of Walter Scott, and gathering at her feet the wit and genius of Scotland % The labored essays from which St. Pierre hoped for immortality, his philosophies, senti- mentalisms, and theories of tides, have all quietly passed into the limbo of unreadable things ; while a simple story of childhood keeps his memory green as the tropic island in which the scene is laid, and his lovely creations remain to walk hand in hand beneath the palms of Mauritius so long as children shall be born and the hearts PREFACE. ^ vii of youths and maidens cleave to each other. If the after story of the poet-king and warrior of Israel sometimes saddens and pains us, who does not love to think of him as a shepherd boy, " ruddy and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look upon," singing to his flocks on the hill-slopes of Bethlehem 1 In the compilation of this volume the cMef embarrassment has arisen from the very richness and abundance of materials. As a matter of course, the limitations prescribed by its publishers have compelled the omission of much that, in point of merit, may com- pare favorably with the selections. Dickens's great family of ideal children, Little NeU, Tiny Tim, and the Marchioness ; Harriet Eeecher Stowe's Eva and Topsy ; George MacDonald's quaint and charming child-dreamers ; and last, but not least, John Brown's Pet Marjorie, — are only a few of the pictures for which no place has been found. The book, of necessity, but imperfectly reflects that child-world which fortunately is always about us, more beautiful in its living realities than it has ever been painted. It has been my wish to make a readable book of such literary merit as not to offend the cultivated taste of parents, while it amused their children. I may confess in this connection, that, while aiming at simple and not unhealthful amusement, I have been glad to find the Hght tissue of these selections occasionally shot through with threads of pious or moral suggestion. At the same time, I have not felt it right to sadden my child-readers with gloomy narra- tives and painful reflections upon the life before them. The les- sons taught are those of Love, rather than Fear. " I can bear," said Richter, " to look upon a melancholy man, but I cannot look upon a melancholy child. Fancy a butterfly crawling like a cater- pillar with his four wings pulled off" ! " It is possible that the language and thought of some portions of the book may be considered beyond the comprehension of the class for which it is intended. Admitting that there may be truth in the objection, I believe with Coventry Patmore, in his preface to a ohild's book, that the charm of such a volume is increased, rather than lessened, by the surmised existence of an unknown amount of power, meaning, and beauty. I well remember how, at a very viii PREFACE. early age, the solemn organ-roll of Gray's Elegy and the lyric sweep and pathos of Cowper's Lament for the Royal George moved and fascinated me with a sense of mystery and power felt, rather than understood. " A spirit passed before my face, but the form thereof was not discerned." Freighted with unguessed meanings, these poems spake to me, in an unknown tongue indeed, but, like the wind in the pines or the waves on the beach, awakening faint echoes and responses, and vaguely prophesying of wonders yet to be revealed. John Woolman tells us, in his autobiography, that, when a small child, he read from that sacred prose poem, the Book of Eevelation, which has so perplexed critics and commentators, these words, " He showed me a river of the waters of life clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb," and that his mind was drawn thereby to seek after that wonderful purity, and that the place where he sat and the sweetness of that child-yearning remained still fresh in his memory in after life. The spirit of that mystical anthem which Milton speaks of as "a seven-fold chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies," hidden so often from the wise and prudent students of the letter, was felt, if not comprehended, by the simple heart of the child. It will be seen that a considerable portion of the volume is devot- ed to autobiographical sketches of infancy and childhood. It seemed to me that it might be interesting to know how the dim gray dawn and golden sunrise of life looked to poets and philosophers ; and to review with them the memories upon which the reflected light of their genius has fallen. I leave the little collection, not without some misgivings, to the critical, but I hope not unkindly, regard of its young readers. They will, I am sure, believe me when I teU them that if my own paternal claims, like those of Elia, are limited to " dream children," I have catered for the real ones with cordial sympathy and tender solicitude for their well-being and happiness. J. G. W. Amesbuet, 1873. CONTENTS STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. Page Little Annie's Ramble . . Nathaniel HaiothorTve . 13 Why the Cow turned her Head away . Ahhy Mwion Diaz 22. The Baby of the Regiment . . T. W. Higginson . . 27 Prudy Parlin .... '' Sophie May" . 38. Mrs. Walker's Betsey . . Helen B. Bostwick . 43 The Rainbow-Pilgrimage . Grace Greenwood 54 On White Island .... . Celia Thaxter . 58. The Cruise of the Dolphin . T. B. Aldrich . 64 A Young Mahometan . . Mary Lairib 7& The Little Persian . Juvenile Miscellany . 81 The Boys' Heaven .... . L. Maria Child 8a Bessie's Garden .... Caroline S. Whitmarsh 87 How the Crickets brought Good I 'ORTUNE P. J. Stahl 97 Paul and Virginia . Bemardin de Saint Pierr e 101 Oeyvind and Marit . Bjornsteme Bjornsen 10^ Boots at the Holly-Tree Inn Charles Dickens . 11^ Amrie and the Geese . . Berthold Auerhach . 131 The Robins John Woolman . 135 The Fish I did n't catch . John G. Whittier . 137 Little Kate Wordsworth Thomas De Quincey 142 How Margery wondered • Lucy Larcom . 145 The Nettle-Gatherer From the Swedish 14^ Little Arthur's Prayer • Thomus Hughes 156 Faith and her Mother . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 161 The Open Door .... • John de Liefde 165 The Prince's Visit . Horace Scudder . 167 CONTENTS. FANCIES OF CHILD LIFE. The Hen that hatched Ducks . Blunder ...... Star-Dollars The Immortal Fountain . The Bird's-Nest in the Moon Dream-Children : A Revert . The Ugly Duckling The Poet and his Little Daughter The Red Flower .... The Story without an End Harriet Beecher Stowe . 175 Louise E. Chollet . 185 Grimm's Household Tales 192 L. Maria Child . . 193 New England Magazine . 201 Charles Lamb . . 204 Hans Christian Andersen 209 Mary Howitt . . 220 Madame De Gasparin . 226 German of Carove . 229 MEMOEIES OF CHILD LIFE. Hans Christian Andersen 253 Madame Michelet 262 Jean Paul Richter 271 Charles Lamb . 276 Hugh Miller 281 Walter Scott 286 Frederick Douglass . . . ' 290 Charles Dickens . . . . . 297 STORIES OF CHILD LIFE, STOEIES OF CHILD LIFE. 3>5KC LITTLE AN^NIE'S EAMBLE. telling ING - DONG ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ' The town-crier has rung his heU at a distant corner, and little Annie stands on her father's door-steps, trying to hear what the man with the loud voice is talking Let me listen too. 0, he is the people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal tiger, and a horse with horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, have come to town, * and will receive aU visitors who choose to wait upon them ! Perhaps httle Annie would like to go. Yes ; and I can see that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street, with the green trees fling- ing their shade across the quiet sunshine, and the pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept them with her broom. She feels that impulse to go stroUing away — that longing after the mystery of the great world — which many children feel, and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a ramble with me. See ! I do but hold out my hand, and, like some bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upwards from her white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street. 14 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. Smooth back your brown curls, Annie ; and let me tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth ! What a strange couple to go on their rambles together ! One walks in black attire, with a meas- ured step, and a heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I have a smile that children love ; and, on the other hand, there are few grown ladies that could entice me from the side of little Annie ; for I delight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless child. So come, Annie ; but if I moralize as we go, do not listen to me ; only look about you and be merry ! Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with bar- rels from the wharves ; and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will be smashed to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a tumult 1 No : she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on with fearless confidence, — a happy child amidst a great throng of grown people, who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to extreme old age. Nobody jostles her ; all turn aside to make way for little Annie ; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her claim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure ! A street musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church, and pours forth his strains to the busy town, a melody that has gone astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder % None but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loath that music should be wasted without a dance. But where would Annie find a partner % Some have the gout in their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints ; some are stiff with age j some feeble with disease ; some are so lean STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 15 that their bones would rattle, and others of such ponderous size that their agility would crack the flagstones ; but many, many have leaden feet, because their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad thought that I have chanced upon. What a company of dancers should we be 1 For I, too, am a gentleman of sober foot- steps, and therefore, little Annie, let us walk sedately on. It is a question with me, whether this giddy child or my sage self have most pleasure in looking at the shop windows. We love the silks of sunny hue, that glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods' men ; we are pleasantly dazzled by the bur- nished silver and the chased gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the window of the jeweller ; but Annie, more than I, seeks for a glimpse of her passing figure 16 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. in the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware stores. All that is bright and gay attracts us both. Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on the dainties of a confectioner ; those pies, with such white and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant apple, delicately rose-flavored ; those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid ; those sweet little circlets, sweetly named kisses ; those dark, majestic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered with sugar ! Then the mighty treasures of sugar- plums, white and crimson and yellow, in large glass vases ; and candy of all varieties ; and those little cockles, or whatever they are called, much prized by children for their sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, by love-sick maids and bachelors ! 0, my mouth waters, little Annie, and so doth yours ; but we will not be tempted, except to an imaginary feast ; so let us hasten onward, devouring the vision of a plum- cake. Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. Is Annie a literary lady % Yes ; she is deeply read in Peter Parley's tomes, and has an increas- ing love for fairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscellany, But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop window the continual loitering-place of chil- dren. What would Annie think if, in the book which I mean to send her on New Year's day, she should find her sweet httle self, bound up in silk or morocco with gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman grown, with children of her own to read about their mother's childhood. That would be very queer. Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me onward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. my stars ! Is this a toyshop, or is it fairyland 1 For STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 17 here are gilded chariots, in which the king and queen of the fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers, on these small horses, should gallop in triumphal procession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too, are dishes of china-ware, fit to be the dining -set of those same princely personages when they make a regal ban- quet in the statehest hall of their palace, fuU five feet high, and behold their nobles feasting adown the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and queen should sit my httle Annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. Here stands a turbaned Turk, threat- ening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is. And next a Chinese mandarin, who nods his head at Annie and myself. Here we may review a whole army of horse and foot, in red and blue uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and aU kinds of noise- less music ; they have halted on the shelf of this window, after their weary march from Liliput. But what cares Annie for sol- diers 1 No conquering queen is she, neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine ; her whole heart is set upon that doU, who gazes at us with such a fashionable stare. This is the Httle girl's true play- thing. Though made of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage, endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life ; the mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world with which children ape the real one. Little Annie does not understand what I am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in the window. "We will invite her home with us as we return. Meantime, good by, Dame Doll! A toy yourself, you look forth from your window upon many ladies that are also toys, though they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave visages. 0, with your never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would you be ! Come, little Annie, we shaU find toys enough, go where we may. Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to meet -with living creatures that had their birthplace in some far solitude, but have acquired a 18 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. second nature in the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that canary-bird, hanging out of the window in his cage. Poor little fellow ! His golden feathers are all tarnished in this smoky sun- shine ; he would have glistened twice as brightly among the sum- mer islands ; but still he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half so well without the uproar that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not know how mis- erable he is ! There is a parrot, too, calUng out, " Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll ! " as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll, though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she had said "Pretty Annie," there w^ouLl have been some sense in it. See that gray squirrel, at the door of the fruit-shop, whirling round and round so merrily within his wire wheel ! Being condemned to the treadmill, he makes it an amusement. Admirable phi- losophy ! Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman's dog in search of his master ; smelling at everybody's heels, and touching littlo Annie's hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted him. Success to your search. Fidelity ! And there sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpu- lent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory world, with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of philosophers ! Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier, and his ding-dong bell ! Look ! look at that great cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over Avith Avild beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king, according to their custom in the days of ^sop. But they are choosing neither a king nor a president, else we should hear a most horrible snarling ! They have come from the deep woods, and the wild mountains, and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do homage to my little Annie. As we enter among them, the great elephant makes us a bow, in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain bulk. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 19 with trunk abased and leg thrust out behind. Annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of the elephant, who is cer- tainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. The lion and the lioness are busy with two beef-bones. The royal tiger, the beauti- ful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recalling the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such inferior animals, from the jungles of Bengal. Here we see the very same wolf, — do not go near liim, Annie ! — the self-same wolf that devoured little Red Iliding-Hood and her grandmother. In the next cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless howled around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own forests, are fellow-prisoners and most excellent friends. Are there any two living creatures who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends 1 Here sits a great white bear, whom common observers would call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation ; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom he left roll- ing in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear of sentiment. But 0, those unsentimental monkeys ! the ugly, grinning, aping, chat- tering, ill-natured, mischievous, and queer little brutes. Annie does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. But here is a little pony, just big enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. And here, — with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding-whip in his hand, — here comes a little gentle- man, small enough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Mer- rily, merrily plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. Come, Annie, into the street again ; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there ! Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live in ! Did 20 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. Annie ever read the Cries of London City? With what lusty- lungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters ! Here comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as to say " Fresh fish ! " And hark ! a voice on high, like that of a muez- zin from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney- sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air. What cares the world for that 1 But, wella- day ! we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympa- thizes, though without experience of such direful woe. Lo ! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan 1 I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession, far and near. Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the din of the town ; it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and draws each man's mind from his own business ; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar-kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who, of all that address the public ear, whether in church or court-house or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town-crier? What saith the people's orator 1 " Strayed from her home, a little girl, of five years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will bring her to her afflicted mother — " Stop, stop, town-crier ! The lost is found. my pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair, STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. ■ 21 and has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand ! Well, let us hasten homeward ; and as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, that, after wandering a little way into the world, you may return at the first summons, with an untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But I have gone too far astray for the town-crier to call me back. Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, throughout my ramble with little Annie ! Say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a revery of childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice. Has it been merely this 1 Not so ; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday ; when life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children. After drinking from those fountains of still fresh exist- ence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, to struggle on- ward and do our part in life, perhaps as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie ! Nathaniel Hawthorne. 22 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. WHY THE COW TUENED HEE HEAD AWAY. OOLLY COW barn is warm " nV yrOUJ^i^I UUW, your K.cvi.x^ xo rrc^xxxx, -«-^-J- cannot reach you, nor frost nor snow. the wintry winds Why are your eyes so sad 1 Take this wisp of hay. See, I am holding it up 1 It is very good. Now you turn your head away. Why do you look so sorrowful, Moolly Cow, and turn your head away 1 " STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 23 " Little girl, I am thinking of the time when that dry wisp of hay was living grass. When those brown, withered flowers were blooming clovertops, buttercups, and daisies, and the bees and the butterflies came about them. The air was warm then, and gentle winds blew. Every morning I went forth to spend the day in sunny pastures. I am thinking now of those early summer morn- ings, — how the birds sang, and the sun shone, and the grass glit- tered with dew ! and the boy that opened the gates, how merrily he whistled ! . I stepped quickly along, sniffing the fresh morning air, snatching at times a hasty mouthful by the way ; it was really very pleasant ! And when the bars fell, how joyfully I leaped over ! I knew where the grass grew green and tender, and has- tened to eat it while the dew was on. " As the sun rose higher I sought the shade, and at noonday would lie under the trees chewing, chewing, chewing, with half- shut eyes, and the drowsy insects humming around me ; or perhaps I would stand motionless upon the river's bank, where one might catch a breath of air, or wade deep in to cool myself in the stream. And when noontime was passed and the heat grew less, I went back to the grass and flowers. " And thus the long summer day sped on, — sped pleasantly on, for I was never lonely. No lack of company in those sunny pasture-lands ! The grasshoppers and crickets made a great stir, bees buzzed, butterflies Avere coming and going, and birds singing always. I knew where the ground-sparrows built, and all about the little field-mice. They were very friendly to me, for often, while nibbling the grass, I would whisper, ' Keep dark, little mice ! Don't fly, sparrows ! The boys are coming ! " " No lack of company, — no ! When that withered hay was living grass, yellow with buttercups, white with daisies, pink with clover, it was the home of myriads of little insects, — very, very little insects. 0, but they made things lively, crawling, hop- ping, skipping among the roots, and up and down the stalks, so happy, so full of life, — never still ! And now not one left alive ! They are gone. That pleasant summer-time is gone. 0, these 24 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. long, dismal winter nights ! All day I stand in my lonely stall, listening, not to the song of birds, or hum of bees, or chirp of grasshoppers, or the pleasant rustling of leaves, but to the noise of howling winds, hail, sleet, and driving snow ! " Little girl, I pray you don't hold up to me that wisp of hay. In just that same way they held before my eyes, one pleasant morn- ing, a bunch of sweet clover, to entice me from my pretty calf ! " Poor thing ! It was the only one I had ! So gay and sprightly ! Such a playful, frisky, happy young thing ! It was a joy to see her caper and toss her heels about, without a thought of care or sorrow. It was good to feel her nestling close at my side, to look into her bright,' innocent eyes, to rest my head lov- ingly upon her neck ! "And already I was looking forward to the time when she would become steady and thoughtful like myself ; was counting greatly upon her company of nights in the dark barn, or in roam- ing the fields through the long summer days. For the butterflies and bees, and all the bits of insects, though well enough in their way, and most excellent company, were, after all, not akin to me, and there is nothing like living -with one's own blood relations. " But I lost my pretty little one ! The sweet clover enticed me away. When I came back she was gone ! I saw through the bars the rope wound about her. I saw the cart. I saw the cruel men lift her in. She made a mournful noise. I cried out, and thrust my head over the rail, calling, in language she well understood, ' Come back ! 0, come back ! ' " She looked up with her round, sorrowful eyes and wished to come, but the rope held her fast ! The man cracked his whip, the cart rolled away ; I never saw her more ! " No, little girl, I cannot take your wisp of hay. It reminds me of the silliest hour of my life, — of a day when I surely made myself a fool. And on that day, too, I was offered by a little girl a bunch of grass and flowers. " It was a stiU summer's noon. Not a breath of air was stirring. I had waded deep into the stream, which was then calm and STORIES OF CHILD LIFE, 25 smooth. Looking down I saw my own image in the water. And I perceived that my neck was thick and clumsy, that my hair was hrick-color, and my head of an ugly shape, with two horns stick- ing out much like the prongs of a pitchfork. ' Truly, Mrs. Cow,' I said, ' you are by no means handsome ! ' " Just then a horse went trotting along the bank. His hair was glossy black, he had a flowing mane, and a tail which grew thick and long. His proud neck was arched, his head hfted high. He trotted hghtly over the ground, bending in his hoofs daintily at every footfall. Said I to myseK, ' Although not weU-looking, — which is a great pity, — it is quite possible that I can step beauti- fully, like the horse ; who knows *? ' And I resolved to plod on no longer in sober cow-fashion, but to trot off nimbly and briskly and lightly. " I hastily waded ashore, climbed the bank, held my head high, stretched out my neck, and did my best to trot like the horse, bending in my hoofs as well as was possible at every step, hoping that all would admire me. " Some children gathering flowers near by burst into shouts of laughter, crying out, ' Look ! Look ! ' ' Mary ! ' ' Tom ! ' ' What ails the cow 1 ' '■ She acts like a horse ! ' ' She is putting on airs ! ' ' Clumsy thing ! ' ' Her tail is like a pump-handle ! ' ' 0, I guess she 's a mad cow ! ' Then they ran, and I sank down under a tree with tears in my eyes. " But one little girl stayed behind the rest, and, seeing that I was quiet, she came softly up, step by step, holding out a bunch of grass and clover. I kept still as a mouse. She stroked me with her soft hand, and said, — " ' good MooUy Cow, I love you dearly ; for my mother has .told me very nice things about you. Of course, you are not hand- some. no, no ! But then you are good-natured, and so we all love you. Every day you give us sweet milk, and never keep any for yourself. The boys strike you sometimes, and throw stones, and set the dogs on you ; but you give them your milk just the same. And you are never contrary like the horse, stopping when 2 26 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. you ought to go, and going when you ought to stop. Nobody has to whisper in your ears, to make you gentle, as they do to horses ; you are gentle of your own accord, dear MooUy Cow. If you do walk up to children sometimes, you won't hook ; it 's only playing, and I will stroke you and love you dearly. And if you 'd like to know, I '11 tell you that there 's a wonderful lady who puts you into her lovely pictures, away over the water.' " Her words gave me great comfort, and may she never lack for milk to crumb her bread in ! But 0, take away ycur wisp of hay, little girl ; for you bring to mind the simimer days which are gone, and my pretty bossy, that was stolen away, and also — my own folly." Ahhy Morton Diaz. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 27 THE BABY OF THE EEGIMENT. "T"irT"E were in our winter camp on Port Eoyal Island. It was VV a lovely l^ovember morning, soft and spring-like; the mocking-birds were singing, and the cotton-fields still white with fleecy pods. Morning drill was over, the men were cleaning their guns and singing very happily; the officers were in their tents, reading still more happily their letters just arrived from home. Suddenly I heard a knock at my tent-door, and the latch clicked. It was the only latch in camp, and I was very proud of it, and the officers always clicked it as loudly as possible, in order to gratify my feelings. The door opened, and the Quartermaster thrust in the most beaming face I ever saw. " Colonel," said he, "there are great news for the regiment. My wife and baby are coming by the next steamer ! " " Baby ! " said I, in amazement. " Q. M., you are beside your- self." (We always called the Quartermaster Q. M. for shortness.) " There was a pass sent to your wife, but nothing was ever said about a baby. Baby indeed ! " " But the baby was included in the pass," replied the triumphant father-of-a-family. " You don't suppose my wife would come down here without her baby ! Besides, the pass itself permits her to bring necessary baggage ; and is not a baby six months old neces- sary baggage 1 " "But, my dear fellow," said I, rather anxiously, "how can you make the little thing comfortable in a tent, amidst these rigors of a South Carolina winter, when it is uncomfortably hot for drill at noon, and ice forms by your bedside at night 1 " "Trust me for that," said the delighted papa, and went off whistling. I could hear him telling the same news to three oth- ers, at least, before he got to his own tent. 28 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. That day the preparations began, and soon his abode was a won- der of comfort. There were posts and rafters, and a raised floor, and a great chimney, and a door with hinges, — every kixury ex- cept a latch, and that he could not have, for mine was the last that could be purchased. One of the regimental carpenters was em- ployed to make a cradle, and another to make a bedstead high enough for the cradle to go under. Then there must be a bit of red carpet beside the bedstead ; and thus the progress of splendor went on. The wife of one of the colored sergeants was engaged to . act as nursery-maid. She was a very respectable young woman, the only objection to her being that she smoked a pipe. But we thought that perhaps Baby might not dislike tobacco ; and if she did, she would have excellent opportunities to break the pipe in pieces. In due time the steamer arrived, and Baby and her mother were among the passengers. The little recruit was soon settled in her new cradle, and slept in it as if she had never known any other. The sergeant's wife soon had her on exhibition through the neigh- borhood, and from that time forward she was quite a queen among us. She had sweet blue eyes and pretty brown hair, with round, dimpled cheeks, and that perfect dignity which is so beautiful in a baby. She hardly ever cried, and was not at all timid. She would go to anybody, and yet did not encourage any romping from any but the most intimate friends. She always wore a warm, long- sleeved scarlet cloak with a hood, and in this costume was carried, or " toted," as the soldiers said, all about the camp. At " guard- mounting " in the morning, when the men who are to go on guard duty for the day are drawn up to be inspected. Baby was always there, to help to inspect them. She did not say much, but she eyed them very closely, and seemed fully to appreciate their bright buttons. Then the Officer-of-the-Day, who appears at guard- mounting with his sword and sash, and comes afterwards to the Colonel's tent for orders, would come and speak to Baby on his way, and receive her orders first. When the time came for drill she was usually present to watch the troops ; and when the drum STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 29 beat for dinner she liked to see the long row of men in each com- pany march up to the cook-house, in single file, each with tin cup and plate. During the day, in pleasant weather, she might be seen in her nurse's arms, about the company streets, the centre of an admiring circle, her scarlet costume looking very pretty amidst the shining black cheeks and neat blue uniforms of the soldiers. At " dress-parade," just before sunset, she was always an attendant. As I stood before the regiment, I could see the little spot of red, out of the corner of my at one end of the long line of looked with so much interest for her small person, that, instead of saying at the proper time, " Attention, BattaHon ! Shoulder arms ! " it is a wonder that I did not say, " Shoulder babies ! " Our little lady was very impartial, and distributed her kind looks 30 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. to everybody. She had not the sHghtest prejudice against color, and did not care in the least whether her particular friends were black or white. Her especial favorites, I think, were the drum- mer-boys, who were not my favorites by any means, for they were a roguish set of scamps, and gave more trouble than all the grown men in the regiment. I think Annie liked them because they were small, and made a noise, and had red caps like her hood, and red facings on their jackets, and also because they occasionally stood on their heads for her amusement. After dress-parade the whole drum-corps would march to the great flag-staff, and wait till just sunset-time, when they would beat " the retreat," and then the flag would be hauled down, — a great festival for Annie. Sometimes the Sergeant-Major would wrap her in the great folds of the flag, after it was taken down, and she would peep out very prettily from amidst the stars and stripes, like a new-born Goddess of Liberty. About once a month, some inspecting officer was sent to the camp by the General in command, to see to the condition of every- thing in the regiment, from bayonets to buttons. It was usually a long and tiresome process, and, when everything else was done, I used to tell the officer that I had one thing more for him to in- spect, which was peculiar to our regiment. Then I would send for Baby to be exhibited ; and I never saw an inspecting officer, old or young, who did not look pleased at the sudden appearance of the little, fresh, smiling creature, — a flower in the midst of war. And Annie in .her turn would look at them, with the true baby dignity in her face, — that deep, earnest look which babies often have, and which people think so wonderful when Eaphael paints it, although they might often see just the same expression in the faces of their own darlings at home. Meanwhile Annie seemed to like the camp style of housekeeping very much. Her father's tent was double, and he used the front apartment for his office, and the inner room for parlor and bed- room, while the nurse had a separate tent and wash-room behind all. I remember that, the first time I went there in the evening. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 31 it was to borrow some writing-paper ; and while Baby's mother was hunting for it in the front tent, I heard a great cooing and murmuring in the inner room. I asked if Annie was still awake, and her mother told me to go in and see. Pushing aside the can- vas door, I entered. No sign of anybody was to be seen ; but a variety of soft little happy noises seemed to come from some un- seen corner. Mrs. C. came quietly in, pulled away the counterpane of her own bed, and drew out the rough cradle, where lay the little damsel, perfectly happy, and wider awake than anything but a baby possibly can be. She looked as if the seclusion of a dozen family bedsteads would not be enough to discourage her spirits, and I saw that camp life was likely to suit her very well. A tent can be kept very warm, for it is merely a house with a thinner wall than usual ; and I do not think that Baby felt the cold much more than if she had been at home that winter. The great trouble is, that a tent-chimney, not being built very high, is apt to smoke when the wind is in a certain direction; and when that happens it is hardly possible to stay inside. So we used to build the chimneys of some tents on the east side, and those of others on the west, and thus some of the tents were always comfortable. I have seen Baby's mother running, in a hard rain, with little Eed-Eiding-Hood in her arms, to take refuge with the Adjutant's wife, when every other abode was full of smoke ; and I must admit that there were one or two windy days that season when nobody could really keep warm, and Annie had to remain ignominiously in her cradle, with as many clothes on as possible, for almost the whole time. The Quartermaster's tent was very attractive to us in the even- ing. I remember that once, on passing near it after nightfall, I heard our Major's fine voice singing Methodist hymns within, and Mrs. C.'s sweet tones chiming in. So I peeped through the outer door. The fire was burning very pleasantly in the inner tent, and the scrap of new red carpet made the floor look quite magnificent. The Major sat on a box, our surgeon on a stool ; " Q. M." and his wife, and the Adjutant's wife, and one of the captains, were all 32 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. sitting on the bed, singing as well as they knew how ; and the baby was under the bed. Baby had retired for the night, — was overshadowed, suppressed, sat upon ; the singing went on, and she had wandered away into her own land of dreams, nearer to heaven, perhaps, than any pitch their voices could attain. I went in and joined the party. Presently the music stopped, and another officer was sent for, to sing some particular song. At this pause the in- visible innocent waked a little, and began to cluck and coo. " It 's the kitten," exclaimed somebody. " It 's my baby ! " exclaimed Mrs. C. triumphantly, in that tone of unfailing personal pride which belongs to young mothers. The people all got up from the bed for a moment, while Annie was pulled from beneath, wide awake, and placid as usual ; and she sat in one lap or another during the rest of the concert, sometimes winking at the candle, but usually listening to the songs, with a calm and critical expression, as if she could make as much noise as any of them, whenever she saw fit to try. Not a sound did she make, however, except one little soft sneeze, which led to an im- mediate flood-tide of red shawl, covering every part of her but the forehead. But I soon hinted that the concert had better be ended, because I knew from observation that the small damsel had carefully watched a regimental inspection and a brigade drill on that day, and that an interval of repose was certainly necessary. Annie did not long remain the only baby in camp. One day, on going out to the stables to look at a horse, I heard a sound of baby-talk, addressed by some man to a child near by, and, looking round the corner of a tent, I saw that one of the hostlers had something black and round, lying on the sloping side of a tent, with which he was playing very eagerly. It proved to be his baby, — a plump, shiny thing, younger than Annie ; and I never saw a merrier picture than the happy father frolicking with his child, while the mother stood quietly by. This was Baby N'umber Two, and she stayed in camp several weeks, the two innocents meeting each other every day in the placid indifference that be- STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 33 longed to their years ; both were happy little healthy things, and it never seemed to cross their minds that there was any difference in their complexions. As I said before, Annie was not troubled by any prejudice in regard to color, nor do I suppose that the other little maiden was. Annie enjoyed the tent-life very much ; but when we were sent out on picket soon after, she enjoyed it still more. Our head- quarters were at a deserted plantation house, with one large parlor, a dining-room and a few bedrooms. Baby's father and mother had a room up stairs, with a stove whose pipe went straight out at the window. This was quite comfortable, though half the windows were broken, and there was no glass and no glazier to mend them. The windows of the large parlor were in much the same condition, though we had an immense fireplace, where we had a bright fire whenever it was cold, and always in the evening. The walls of this room were very dirty, and it took our ladies several days to cover all the unsightly places with wreaths and hangings of ever- green. In this performance Baby took an active part. Her duties consisted in sitting in a great nest of evergreen, pulling and fingering the fragrant leaves, and occasionally giving a lit- tle cry of glee when she had accomplished some piece of decided mischief. There was less entertainment to be found in the camp itself at this time; but the household at head-quarters was larger than Baby had been accustomed to. We had a great deal of company, moreover, and she had quite a gay life of it. She usually made her appearance in the large parlor soon after breakfast; and to dance her for a few moments in our arms was one of the first daily duties of each one. Then the morning reports began to arrive from the different outposts, — a mounted officer or courier coming in from each place, dismounting at the door, and clattering in with jingling arms and spurs, each a new excitement for Annie. She usually got some attention from any officer who came, receiving with her wonted dignity any daring caress. When the messengers had ceased to be interesting, there were always the horses to look 2* c 34 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. at, held or tethered under the trees beside the sunny piazza. After the various couriers had been received, other messengers would be despatched to the town, seven miles away, and Baby had all the excitement of their mounting and departure. Her father was often one of the riders, and would sometimes seize Annie for a good-by kiss, place her on the saddle before him, gallop her -round the house once or twice, and then give her back to her nurse's arms again. She was perfectly fearless, and such boisterous attentions never frightened her, nor did they ever interfere with her sweet, infantine self-possession. After the riding-parties had gone, there Avas the piazza still for entertainment, with a sentinel pacing up and down before it ; but Annie did not enjoy the sentinel, though his breastplate and but- tons shone like gold, so much as the hammock which always hung swinging between the pillars. It was a pretty hammock, with great open meshes ; and she delighted to lie in it, and have the netting closed above her, so that she could only be seen through the apertures. I can see her now, the fresh little rosy thing, in her blue and scarlet wrappings, with one roimd and dimpled arm thrust forth through the netting, and the other grasping an armful of blushing roses and fragrant magnolias. She looked like those pretty French bas-reliefs of Cupids imprisoned in baskets, and peeping through. That hammock was a very useful appendage ; it was a couch for us, a cradle for Baby, a nest for the kittens ; and we had, moreover, a little hen, which tried to roost there every night. When the mornings were colder, and the stove up stairs smoked the wrong way, Baby was brought down in a very incomplete state of toilet, and finished her dressing by the great fire. We found her bare shoulders very becoming, and she was very much interested in her own little pink toes. After a very slow dressing, she had a still slower breakfast out of a tin cup of warm milk, of which she generally spilt a good deal, as she had much to do in watching everybody who came into the room, and seeing that there was no mischief done. Then she would be placed on the floor, on our only STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 35 piece of carpet, and the kittens would be brought in for her to play with. We had, at different times, a variety of pets, of whom Annie did not take much notice. Sometimes we had young part.ridges, caught by the drummer-boys in trap-cages. The children called them " Bob and Chloe," because the first notes of the male and female sound like those names. One day I brought home an opossum, with her blind bare little young clinging to the droll pouch where their mothers keep them. Sometimes we had pretty green lizards, their color darkening or deepening, like that of chame- leons, in light or shade. But the only pets that took Baby's fancy were the kittens. They perfectly delighted her, from the first mo- ment she saw them ; they were the only things younger than her- self that she had ever beheld, and the only things softer than themselves that her small hands had grasped. It was astonishing to see how much the kittens would endure from her. They could scarcely be touched by any one else without mewing ; but when Annie seized one by the head and the other by the tail, and rubbed them violently together, they did not make a sound. I suppose that a baby's grasp is really soft, even if it seems ferocious, and so it gives less pain than one would think. At any rate, the little ani- mals had the best of it very soon ; for they entirely outstripped Annie in learning to walk, and they could soon scramble away beyond her reach, while she sat in a sort of dumb despair, unable to comprehend why anything so much smaller than herself should be so much nimbler. Meanwhile, the kittens would sit up and look at her with the most provoking indifference, just out of arm's length, until some of us would take pity on the young lady, and toss her furry playthings back to her again. " Little baby," she learned to call them ; and these were the very first words she spoke. Baby had evidently a natural turn for war, further cultivated by an intimate knowledge of drills and parades. The nearer she came to actual conflict the better she seemed to like it, peaceful as her own little ways might be. Twice, at least, while she was with 36 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. US on picket, we had alarms from the Eebel troops, who would bring down cannon to the opposite side of the Ferry, about two miles beyond us, and throw shot and shell over upon our side. Then the officer at the Ferry would think that there was to be an attack made, and couriers would be sent, riding to and fro, and the men would all be called to arms in a hurry, and the ladies at head- quarters would all put on their best bonnets, and come down stairs, and the ambulance would be made ready to carry them to a place of safety before the expected fight. On such occasions Baby was in all her glory. She shouted with delight at being suddenly un- cribbed and thrust into her little scarlet cloak, and brought down stairs, at an utterly unusual and improper hour, to a piazza with lights and people and horses and general excitement. She crowed and gurgled and made gestures with her little fists, and screamed out what seemed to be her advice on the military situation, as freely as if she had been a newspaper editor. Except that it was rather difficult to understand her precise directions, I do not know but the whole Eebel force might have been captured through her plans. And, at any rate, I should much rather obey her orders than those of some generals whom I have known; for she at least meant no harm, and would lead one into no mischief. However, at last the danger, such as it was, would be all over, and the ladies would be induced to go peacefully to bed again ; and Annie would retreat with them to her ignoble cradle, very much disappointed, and looking vainly back at the more martial scene below. The next morning she would seem to have forgotten all about it, and would spill her bread and milk by the fire as if noth- ing had happened. I suppose we hardly knew, at the time, how large a part of the sunshine of our daily lives was contributed by dear little Annie. Yet, when I now look back on that pleasant Southern home, she seems as essential a part of it as the mocking-birds or the magno- lias, and I cannot convince myself that, in returning to it, I should not find her there. But Annie went back, with the spring, to her I^orthern birthplace, and then passed away from this earth before STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 37 her little feet had fairly learned to tread its paths ; and when I meet her next it must be in some world where there is triumph without armies, and where innocence is trained in scenes of peace. I know, however, that her little life, short as it seemed, was a blessing to us aU, giving a perpetual image of serenity and sweet- ness, recalling the lovely atmosphere of far-off homes, and holding us by unsuspected ties to whatsoever things were pure. T, W, Higgiiison. 38 ' CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. PRUDY PAELIK PRUDY PARLIN and her sister Susy, three years older, lived in Portland, in the State of Maine. Susy was more than six years old, and Prudy was hetween three and four. Susy could sew quite well for a girl of her age, and had a stint every day. Prudy always thought it very fine to do just as Susy did, so she teased her mother to let her have some patch- work too, and Mrs. Parhn gave her a few calico pieces, just to keep her little fingers out of mischief. But when the squares were basted together, she broke needles, pricked her fingers, and made a great fuss ; sometimes crying, and wishing there were no such thing as patchwork. One morning she sat in her rocking-chair, doing what she thought was a stint. She kept running to her mother with every stitch, saying, " Will that do 1 " Her mother was very busy, and said, " My little daughter must not come to me." So Prudy sat down near the door, and began to sew with all her might ; but soon her little baby sister came along looking so cunning that Prudy dropped her needle and went to hugging her. " little sister," cried she, " I would n't have a horse come and eat you up for anything in the world ! " After this, of course, her mother had to get her another needle, and then .thread it for her. She went to sewing again till she pricked her finger, and the sight of the wee drop of blood made her cry. " O dear ! I wish somebody would pity me ! " But her mother was so busy frying doughnuts that she could not stop to talk much ; and the next thing she saw of Prudy she was at the farther end of the room, while her patchwork lay on the spice-box. " Prudy, Prudy, what are you up to now 1 " STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 39 " Up to the table," said Prudy. " mother, I 'm so sorry, but I Ve broke a crack in the pitcher ! " " What will mamma do with you % You have n't finished your stint : what made you get out of your chair ] " " 0, I thought grandma might want me to get her specJdes. I thought I would go and find Zip too. See, mamma, he 's so tickled to see me he shakes all over — every bit of him ! " " Where 's your patchwork 1 " " I don't know. You 've got a double name, have n't you, dog- gie 1 It 's Zip Coon ; but it is n't a very double name, — is it, mother 1 " When Mrs. Parlin had finished her doughnuts, she said, " Pussy, you can't keep still two minutes. Now, if you want to sew this patchwork for grandma's quilt, I '11 tell you what I shall do. There 's an empty hogshead in the back kitchen, and I '11 lift you into that, and you can't climb out. I '11 lift you out Avhen your stint is done." " 0, what a funny little house ! " said Prudy, when she wa^ inside ; and as she spoke her voice startled her, — it was so loud and hollow. " I '11 talk some more," thought she, " it makes such a queer noise. * Old Mrs. Hogshead, I thought I 'd come and see you, and bring my work. I like your house, ma'arii, only I should think you 'd want some windows. I s'pose you know who I am, Mrs. Hogshead 1 My name is Prudy. My mother did n't put me in here because I was a naughty girl, for I have n't done nothing — nor nothing — nor nothing. Do you want to hear some singing 1 ' 0, come, come away, From labor now reposiu' ; Let husy Caro, wife of Barrow, Come, come away ! ' " " Prudy, what 's the matter 1 " said mamma, from the next room. " Did n't you hear somebody singing *? " said Prudy ; " well, 't was me." " 0, 1 was afraid you were crying, my dear ! " 40 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. " Then I '11 stop," said the child. " Now, Mrs. Hogshead, you won't hear me singing any more, — it mortifies my mother very much." So Prudy made her fingers fly, and soon said, " Now, mamma, I 've got it done, and I 'm ready to be took out ! " Just then her father came into the house. " Prudy 's in the hogshead," said Mrs. Parlin. "Won't you please lift her out, father ? I 've got baby in my arms." Mr. Parlin peeped into the hogshead. " How in this world did you ever get in here, child 1 " said he. " I think I '11 have to take you out with a pair of tongs." Prudy laughed. " Give me your hands," said papa. " Up she comes 1 Now, come sit on my knee," added he, when they had gone into the par- lor, " and tell me how you climbed into that hogshead." " Mother dropped me in, and I 'm going to stay there till I make a bedquilt, — only I 'm coming out to eat, you know." Mr. Parlin laughed; but just then the dinner-bell rang, and when they went to the table, Prudy was soon so busy with her roasted chicken and custard pie that she forgot all about the patch- work. Prudy soon tired of sewing, and her mother said, laughing, " If Grandma Eead has to wait for somebody's little fingers before she gets a bedquilt, poor grandma will sleep very cold indeed." The calico pieces went into the rag-bag, and that was the last of Prudy's patchwork. One day the children wanted to go and play in the "new house," which was not quite done. Mrs. Parlin was almost afraid little Prudy might get hurt, for there were a great many loose boards and tools lying about, and the carpenters, who were at work on the house, had all gone away to see some soldiers. But at last she said they might go if Susy would be very careful of her little sister. Susy meant to watch Prudy with great care, but after a wliile she got to thinking of something else. The little one wanted to STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 41 play " catch," but Susy saw a great deal more sport in building block houses. " Now I know ever so much more than you do," said Susy. " I used to wash dishes and scour knives when I was four years old, and that was the time I learned you to walk, Prudyj so you ought to play with me, and be goody." " Then I will ; but them blocks is too big, Susy. If I had a axe I 'd chop 'em : I '11 go get a axe.'' Little Prudy trotted off, and Susy never looked up from her play, and did not notice that she was gone a long while. By and by Mrs. Parlin thought she would go and see what the children were doing ; so she put on her bonnet and went over to the "new house." Susy was still busy with her blocks, but she looked up at the sound of her mother's footsteps. " Where is Prudy ? " said Mrs. Parlin, glancing around. " I 'm 'most up to heaven," cried a little voice overhead. They looked, and what did they see 1 Prudy herself standing on the highest beam of the house ! She had climbed three ladders to get there. Her mother had heard her say the day before that " she did n't want to shut up her eyes and die, and be all deaded up, — she meant to have her hands and face clean, and go up to heaven on a ladder." " 0," thought the poor mother, " she is surely on the way to heaven, for she can never get down alive. My darling, my dar- ling!" Poor Susy's first thought was to call out to Prudy, but her mother gave her one warning glance, and that was enough : Susy neither spoke nor stirred. Mrs. Parhn stood looking up at her, — stood as white and still as if she had been frozen ! Her trembling lips moved a little, but it was in prayer ; she knew that only God could save the precious one. While she was begging him to teU her what to do, a sudden thought flashed across her mind. She dared not speak, lest the sound of her voice should startle the child ; but she liad a bunch 42 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. of keys in her pocket, and she jingled the keys, holding them up as high as possible, that Prudy might see what they were. When the little one heard the jingling, she looked down and smiled. " You goin' to let me have some cake and 'serves in the china-closet, — me and Susy % " Mrs. Parlin smiled, — such a smile ! It was a great deal sadder than tears, though Prudy did not know that, — she only knew that it meant " yes." " 0, then I 'm coming right down, 'cause I like cake and 'serves. I won't go up to heaven till bime-hy ! " Then she walked along the beam, and turned about to come down the ladders. Mrs. Parlin held her breath, and shut her eyes. She dared not look up, for she knew that if Prudy should take one false step, she must fall and be dashed in pieces ! But Prudy was not wise enough to fear anything. no. She wiis only thinking very eagerly about crimson jellies and fruit- cake. She crept down the ladders without a thought of danger, — no more afraid than a fly that creeps down the window-pane. The air was so still that the sound of every step was plainly heard, as her little feet went pat, — pat, — on the ladder rounds. God was taking care of her, — yes, at length the last round was reached, — she had got down, — she was safe ! " Thank God ! " cried Mrs. Parlin, as she held little Prudy close to her heart ; while Susy jumped for joy, exclaiming, " We 've got her ! we 've got her ! 0, ain't you so happy, mamma 1 " "0 mamma, what you crying forT' said little Prudy, clinging about her neck. " Ain't I your little comfort 1 — there, now, you know what you speaked about ! You said you 'd get some cake and verserves for me and Susy." '' Sophie May." STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 43 MES. WALKER'S BETSEY. IT is now ten years since I spent a summer in the little village of Cliff Spring, as teacher in one of the pubHc schools. The village itself had no pretensions to beauty, natural or archi- tectural ; but all its surroundings were romantic and lovely. On one side was a winding river, bordered with beautiful willows ; and on the other a lofty hill, thickly wooded. These woods, in spring and summer, were full of flowers and wild vines ; and a clear, cold stream, that had its birth in a cavernous recess among the ledges, dashed over the rocks, and after many windings and plungings found its way to the river. At the foot of the hjll wound the railroad track, at some points nearly filling the space between the brook and the rocks, in others almost overhung by the latter. Some of the most delightful walks I ever knew were in this vicinity, and here the whole school would often come in the warm weather, for the Saturday's ramble. It Avas on one of these summer rambles I first made the acquaint- ance of Mrs. Walker's Betsey, ^ot that her unenviable reputa- tion had been concealed from my knowledge, by any means ; but as she was not a member of my department, and was a very irregular attendant of any class, she had never yet come under my observa- tion. I gathered that her parents had but lately come to hve in Cliff Spring ; that they were both ignorant and vicious ; and that the girl was a sort of goblin sprite, — such a compound of mis- chief and malice as was never known before since the days of witchcraft. Was there an ugly profile dmwn upon the anteroom wall, a green pumpkin found in the principal's hat, or an ink-bot- tle upset in the water-bucket % Mrs. Walker's Betsey was the first and constant object of suspicion. Did a teacher find a pair of tongs astride her chair, her shawl extra-bordered with burdocks, 44 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. her gloves filled with some ill-scented weed, or her india-rubbers cunningly nailed to the floor? half a hundred juvenile tongues were ready to proclaim poor Betsey as the undoubted delinquent ; and this in spite of the fact that very few of these misdemeanors were actually proved against her. But whether proved or not, she accepted their sponsorship all the same, and laughed at or defied her accusers, as her mood might be. That the girl was a character in her way, shrewd and sensible, though wholly uncultured, I was well satisfied, from all I heard ; that she was sly, intractable, and revengeful I believed, I am sorry to say, upon very insufficient evidence. One warm afternoon in July, the sun, which at morning had been clouded, blazed out fiercely at the hour of dismissal. Shrink- ing from the prospect of an unsheltered walk, I looked around the shelves of the anteroom for my sunshade, but it was nowhere to be found. I did not recollect having it with me in the morning, and believed it had been left at the school-house over night. The girls of my class constituted themselves a committee of search and inquiry, but to no purpose. The article was not in the house or yard, and then my committee resolved themselves into a jury, and, without, a dissenting voice, pronounced Mrs. Walker's Betsey guilty of cribbing my little, old-fashioned, but vastly useful sunshade. She had been seen loitering in the anteroom, and . afterward run- ning away in great haste. The charge seemed reasonable enough, but as I could not learn that Betsey had ever been caught in a theft, or convicted of one, I requested the girls to keep the matter quiet, for a few days at least; to which they unwillingly con- sented. " Eemember, Miss Burke," said Alice Way, as we parted at her father's gate, " you promised us a nice walk after tea, to the place in the wood where you found the beautiful phlox yesterday. We want you to guide us straight to the spot, please." " Yes," added Mary Graham, " and we will take our Botanies in our baskets, and be prepared to analyze the flowers, you know." My assent was not reluctantly given ; and when the sun was low STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 45 in the west we set forth, walking nearly the whole distance in the shade of the hill. We climbed the ridge, rested a few moments, and then started in search of the beautiful patch of Lichnidia — white, pink, and purple — that I had found the afternoon pre- vious in taking a " short cut " over the hill to the house of a friend I was wont to visit. " Stop, Miss Burke ! " came in suppressed tones from half my little group, as, emerging from a thicket, we came in sight of a queer object perched upon a little mound, among dead stick and leaves. It was a diminutive child, who, judging from her face alone, might be ten or eleven years of age. A little brown, weird face it was, with keen eyes peering out from a stringy mass of hair, that strag- gled about distractedly from the confinement of an old comb. " There" whispered Matty Holmes, " there 's Mrs. "Walker's Betsey, I do declare ! She often goes home from school this way, which is shorter ; and now she is playing truant. She '11 get a whipping if her mother finds it out." " Miss Burke, Miss Burke ! " cried Alice, " see what she has in her hand ! " I looked, and there, to be sure, was my lost parasol. " There, now ! Did n't we say so ! " " Don't she look guilty 1 " " "Were n't we right 1 " " Impudent thing ! " were the whispered ejaculations of my vigilance committee ; but in truth the girl's appearance was unconcerned and innocent enough. She sat there, swaying herself about, opening and shutting the wonderful " in- strument," holding it between her eyes and the light to ascertain the quality of the silk, and sticking a pin in the handle to try if it were real ivory or mere painted wood. " Let 's dash in upon her and see her scamper," was the next benevolent suggestion whispered in my ear. " Xo," I said. " I wish to speak to her alone, first. All of you stay here, out of sight, and I will return presently." They fell back, dissatisfied, and contented themselves with peeping and Hs- tening, while I advanced toward the forlorn child. She started a little as I approached, thrust the parasol behind her, and then pleasantly made room for me on the little hillock where she sat. 46 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. " Well, this is a nice place for a lounge," said I, dropping down beside her ; "just large enough for two, and softer than any tete-Or tete in Mrs. Graham's parlor. Now I should like to know your name 1 " — for I thought it best to feign ignorance of her ante- cedents. " Bets," was the ready reply. " Betsey what 1 " "Bets Walker, mother says, but I say Hamlin. That was father's name. 'T ain't no difference, though ; it 's Bets any way." " Well, Betsey, what do you suppose made this little mound we are sitting upon 1 " I asked, merely to gain time to think how best to approach the other topic. " I don' know," she answered, looking up at me keenly. " Maybe a rock got covered up and growed over, ever so far down. Maybe an Injun 's buried there." I told her I had seen larger mounds that contained Indian remains, but none so small as this. " It might 'a' ben a baby, though," she returned, digging her brown toes among the leaves and winking her eyelids roguishly. *' A papoose, you know ; a real little Injun ! I wish it had 'a' ben me, and I 'd 'a' ben buried here ; I 'd 'a' liked it first-rate ! Only I w^ould n't 'a' wanted the girls should come and set over me. If I did n't want so bad to get to read the books father left, I 'd never go to school another day." And her brow darkened again with evil passions. " Did your own father leave you books 1 " " Yes, real good ones ; only they 're old, and tore some. Mother could n't sell 'em for nothin', so she lets me keep 'em. She sold everything else." Then suddenly changing her tone, she asked, slyly, "You hain't lost anything, — have you]" " Yes," I answered ; " I see you have my sunshade." She held it up, laughing with boisterous triumph. " You left it hanging in that tree yonder," she said, pointing to a low-branching beech at a little distance. " It was kind o' careless, I think. S'posing it had rained ! " STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 4^1 Astonishment kept me silent. How could I have forgotten, what I now so clearly recalled, my hanging the shade upon a tree, the previous afternoon, while I descended a ravine for flowers ? I felt humiliated in the presence of the poor little wronged and neglected child. For many days after this the girl did not come to school, nor did I once see her, though I thought of her daily with increasing interest. Durina this time the principal of the school planned an excur- sion by railroad to a station ten miles distant, to be succeeded by a picnic on the lake shore. Great was the delight of the httle ones, grown weary of their unvaried routine through the exhaust- ing heats of July. Many were the councils called among the boys, many the enthusiastic discussions held among the girls, and seldom did they break up without leaving one or more subjects of contro- versy imsettled. But upon one point perfect harmony of opinion prevailed, and it was the only one against which I felt bound strongly to protest : this was the decision that Mrs. Walker's Betsey was quite unnecessary to the party, and consequently was to receive no notice. " Why, Miss Burke ! that looking girl ! " cried Amy Pease, as I remonstrated. " She has n't a thing fit to wear, — if there were no other reason ! " I reminded her that Betsey had a very decent basque, given her by the minister's wife, and that an old lawn skirt of mine could be tucked for her with very little trouble. " But she is such an awkward, uncouth creature ! She would mortify us to death ! " interposed Hattie Dale. " She could carry no biscuits, nor cake, for she has no one to bake them for her," said another. " She would eat enormously, and make herself sick," objected little IS'ellie Day, a noted glutton. In vain I combated these arguments, oflefing to take crackers and lemons enough for her share, and even urging the humanity of allowing her to make herself sick upon good tilings for once in her poverty-stricken life. Some other teachers joined me ; but when the question was put to vote among the scholars, it received a hur- ried negative, as unanimous as it was noisy. 48 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. " And now I think of it," added Mattie Price, the principal's daughter, " the Walkers are out of the corporation, and so Betsey- has no real right among us at all." This ended the matter. AU the night previous to the great excursion, I suffered severely from headache, which grew no better upon rising, and, as usual, increased in violence as the sun mounted higher upon its cloudless course. At half past nine, as the long train with its freight of smiling and expectant little ones moved from the depot, I was lying in a darkened room, with ice-bandages about my forehead, and my feverish pillow saturated with camphor and hartshorn. The disappointment in itself was not much. I needed rest, and the utter stillness was very grateful to my overtasked nerves. Besides, the slight put upon poor Betsey had destroyed much of the pleasure of anticipation. I lay patiently until two o'clock, when, as I expected, the pain abated. At five, I was entirely free, and feeUng much in need of a walk in the fresh air, which a slight shower had cooled and purified. Choosing the shaded route, I walked out upon the hill, ascend- ing by a gentle slope, and, book in hand, sat down under a tree, alternately reading and gazing upon the sweet rural picture that lay before me. Soon a pleasant languor crept over me. Dense wood and craggy hill, green valley and gushing brook, faded from sight and hearing, and I was asleep ! Probably half an hour elapsed before I opened my eyes and saw sitting beside me the same elfish little figure I had once before encountered in the wood. The same stringy hair, the same sun- burned forehead and neck, the same tattered dress, the same wild, weird-looking eyes. In one hand she held my parasol, opened in a position to shade my face from a slanting sunbeam ; with a small bush in the other she was protecting me from mosquitoes and other insect dangers. " Well done, little Genius of the Wood ; am I to be always indebted to you for finding what I lose 1 " I said, jumping up and shaking my dress free from leaves. She laughed immoderately. " First you lose your shade in the STORIES OF CHILD LIFE, 49 woods, and now you 've gone and lost yourself ! I guess you '11 have to keep me always," she giggled, trotting along beside me. " I was mighty scared when I see you lying there, and the sun creep- ing round through the trees, like a great red lion, going to spring at you and eat you up. I thought you 'd gone to the ride." I explained the cause of my detention, and saw that she looked rather pleased ; for, as I soon drew from her, she had been bitterly disappointed in the affair, and felt her rejection very keenly. She had come to this spot now for the sole purpose of peeping from be- hind some rock or tree at the return of the merry company, which would be at six o'clock. " I coaxed old Walker and his wife to let me have some green corn and cucumbers, and I put on my best spencer and went to the depot this morning, but none of 'em asked me to get in. Hal Price kicked my basket over, too ! I s'pose I was n't dressed fine enough. They all wore their Sunday things. I wish 't would rain and spile 'em. I do — so ! " I tried to console her, but she refused to listen, and went on with a fierce tirade, enumerating sundry disastrous events which she " mshed would happen : she did so !'' and giving vent to many very unchristian but very childlike denunciations. All on a sudden she stopped, and we simultaneously raised our heads and listened. It was a deep, grinding, crashing sound, as of rocks sliding over and past each other; then a crackling, as of roots and branches twisted and wrenched from their places ; then a jar, heavy and terrible, that reverberated through the forest, mak- ing the earth quake beneath our feet, and all the leafy branches tremble above us. We knew it instantly ; there had been a heavy fall of rock not far from us ; and with one exclamation, we started in the direction of the sound. The place was reached in a moment ; an enormous mass of rock and earth, in which many small trees were growing, had fallen directly upon the railroad track, and that too at a point where the stream wound nearest, and its bank made a steep descent upon the other side. 3 » 50 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. Dreadful as the spectacle was to me through apprehension for the coming train, I could only notice at that moment the wonder- ful change in Mrs. Walker's Betsey. She leaped about among the rocks, shrieking and wringing her hands ; she grasped the up- rooted trees, tugging wildly at them till the veins swelled purpl© in her forehead, and her flying hair looked as if every separate fibre writhed with horror. I had imagined before what the aspect, of that strange little face might be in terror ; now I saw it, and knew what a powerful nature lay hidden in that cramped, unde- veloped form. This lasted but a moment, however. Then came to both the soberer thought. What is to be done % It appeared that we were sole witnesses of the accident ; and though the crash might have been heard at the village, who would think of a land slide ? and upon the railroad ! Ten minutes must have elapsed before we could give the alarm, and in less time than that the cars were due. In that speechless, breathless moment, before my duller ear perceived it, Betsey caught the sound of the approaching train, deadened as it was by the hill that lay between us. It was advancing at great speed ; rushing on, — all that freight of joyous human life, — rushing on to certain destruction, into the very jaws of Death ! I was utterly paralyzed ! Not so Mrs. Walker's Betsey. " I 'm agoin' to run and yell" she said, and was off upon the instant. Screaming at the top of her voice, keeping near the edge of the bank, where she could be soonest seen from the ap- proaching train, plunging through the underbrush, leaping over rocks, she dashed on to meet the cars. " Fire ! Fire ! Murder ! Stop thieves ! Hollo the house ! Thieves ! Mad dogs ! Get out of the way. Old Dan Tucker ! " were only a few of the variations of her warning voice. I followed as I could, seemingly in a sort of nightmare ; won- dering why I did not scream, yet incapable of making a sound ; expecting every moment to fall upon the rocks, yet taking my steps with a sureness and rapidity that astonished me even then. Betsey's next move was to run back to me and tear my shawl STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 51 from my shoulders, — a light crape of a bright crimson color. Then bending down a small sapling by throwing her whole weight upon it, she spread the shawl upon its top and allowed it to rebound. She called me to shake the tree, which I did vigorously. It stood at an angle of the road, upon a bank which commanded a long view, and was a most appropriate place to erect a signal. Then leaping upon the track, she bounded on like a deer, shouting and gesticidating with redoubled energy now that the train appeared in sight. It was soon evident that the engineer was neither blind nor deaf, for the brakes were speedily applied, and the engine was reversed. Still it dashed on at fearful velocity, and Betsey turned and ran back toward the obstructed place in an agony of excitement. Gradually the speed lessened, the wheels obeyed their checks, and when at last they came to a full stop the cow-catcher was within four feet of the rock. 52 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. Many, seeing the danger, had already leaped off; many more, terrified, and scarcely conscious of the real nature of the danger, crowded the platforms, and pushed off those before them. It was a scene of "wildest confusion, in the midst of which my heart sent up only the quivering cry of joy, " Saved, saved ! " Betsey had climbed half-way up the bank, and thrown herself exhausted upon the loose gravel, with her apron drawn over her head. I picked my way down to the train to assist the frightened children. ^Ir. Price, the principal, was handing out his own three children, and teachers and pupils followed in swarms. " Now, Miss Burke," said the principal, in a voice that grew strangely tremulous as he looked at the frightful mass before him, " I want to hear who it was that gave the alarm, and saved us from this hideous fate. Was it you *? " I believe I never felt a glow of truer pleasure than then, as I answered quickly : " I had nothing to do with saving you, Mr. Price. I take no credit in the matter. The person to whom your thanks are due sits on the bank yonder, — Mrs. Walker's Betsey ! " Every eye wandered toward the crouching figure, who, with head closely covered, appeared indifferent to everything. Mr. Price opened his portemonnaie. " Here are ten dollars," he said, " which I wish you to give the girl for myself and children. Tell her that, as a school, she will hear from us again." I went to Betsey's side, put the money in her hand, and tried to make her uncover her face. But she resolutely refused to do more than peep through one of the rents in her apron, as the whole school slowly and singly defiled past her in the narrow space be- tween the train and the bank. A more crestfallen multitude I never saw, and the eyes that ventured to look upon the prostrate figure as they passed within a few feet of her had shame and con- trition in their glances. Once only she whispered, as a haughty- looking boy went past, " That 's the boy that kicked over my basket. I wish I 'd 'a' let him gone to smash ! I do — so ! " The children climbed over the rocks and went to their homes sadder and wiser for their lesson, and in twenty-four hours the track was again free from all obstruction. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 53 The principal, though a man but little inchned to look for the angel side of such unprepossessing humanity as Mrs. Walker's Betsey, had too strong a sense of justice, and too much gratitude for his children's spared lives, not to make a very affecting appeal to the assembled school on the day following. A vote to consider her a member of the school, and entitled to all its privileges, met with no opposition ; and a card of thanks, drawn up in feeling terms, received the signature of every pupil and teacher. A purse was next made up for her by voluntary contributions, amounting to twenty dollars ; and to this were added a new suit, a quantity of books, and a handsome red shawl, in which her brunette skin and nicely combed jetty hair appeared to great advantage. Betsey bore her honors meekly, and, no longer feeling that she was regarded as an intruder, came regularly to school, learned rapidly, and in her neat dress and improved manners gradually be- came an attractive, as she certainly was a most intelligent child. In less than a year her mother died, and her drunken step-father removed to the far West, leaving her as a domestic in a worthy and wealthy family in Cliff Spring. The privileges of school were still granted her, and amid the surroundings of comfort and refinement the change from Mrs. Walker's Betsey to Lizzie Hamlin became still more apparent. She rapidly rose from one class to another, and is now employed in the very school, and teaches the youngest brothers and sisters of the very scholars who, ten years ago, voted her a " nuisance " and a plague. There is truth in the old rhyme, — " It is n't all in bringing up, Let men say what they will ; Neglect may dim a silver cup, — It will be silver still ! " Helen B. Bostvrick. 54 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. THE EAIl!^BOW-PILGRIMAGE. ONE summer afternoon, when I was about eight years of age, I was standing at an eastern window, looking at a beautiful rainbow 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 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 Rufus, who was just recovering from a severe illness, and was sitting, propped up Avith pillows, in an easy-chair, looking out, with me, at the rainbow. " See, brother," I said, " it drops right down among the cedars, where we go in the spring to find wintergreens ! " " 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 sHver?" " Is it truly so T' I asked. " Truly so," answered my brother, with a smile. Now, I was a simple-hearted child who believed everything that was told me, STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 55 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 gTass, 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 remember how glad and proud I was in my thoughts, and what fine presents I promised to all my friends out of my great riches. 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 httle farther 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 1 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 rather hard travelling in a journey after 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. Fear- ing 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, it was nowhere in sight ! 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. 56 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. 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, cry- ing and calling, though I knew that no one could hear me. All at once I heard voices shouting and hallooing ; but, instead of being rejoiced at this, I was frightened, fearing that the Indians were upon me ! I crawled under some bushes, by the side of a large log, and lay perfectly still. I was wet, cold, scared, — alto- gether 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 remembered that Indians were very cunning, and thought they might have found it out some way ; so I did not answer. 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 moccasins. 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 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 kiss- ing me till he had kissed away all my tears, he hoisted me on to his shoulder, called my other brothers, who were hunting in differ- ent directions, and we all set out for home. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 57 I had been gone nearly three hours, and had wandered a num- ber of miles. My brother 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 Eufus sat, 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." Then my eldest brother took me 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 Gods 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." Grace Greenwood. ^-^^W^^" 58 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. o:n" white isla:n'd. I WELL remember my first sight of White Island, where we took up our abode on leaving the mainland. I was scarcely five years old ; but from the upper windows of our dwelling in Portsmouth I had been shown the clustered masts of ships lying at the wharves along the Piscataqua River, faintly outlined against the sky, and, baby as I was, even then I was drawn with a vague longing seaward. How delightful was that long, first sail to the ;S'M Isles of Shoals ! How pleasant the unaccustomed sound of the in- cessant ripple against the boat-side, the sight of the wide water and limitless sky, the warmth of the broad sunshine that made us blink like young sandpipers as we sat in triumph, perched among STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 59 the household goods with which the little craft was laden ! It was at sunset that we were set ashore on that loneliest, lovely rock, where the lighthouse looked down on us like some tall, black-capped giant, and filled me with awe and wonder. At its base a few goats were grouped on the rock, standing out dark against the red sky as I looked up at them. The stars were beginning to twinkle ; the wind blew cold, charged with the sea's sweetness ; the sound of many waters half bewildered me. Some one began to hght the lamps in the tower. Eich red and golden, they swung round in mid-air ; everything was strange and fascinating and new. We entered the quaint little old stone cottage that was for six years our home. How curious it seemed, with its low, whitewashed ceding, and deep window-seats, showing the great thickness of the walls made to withstand the breakers, with whose force we soon grew acquainted ! A bhssful home the little house became to the chil- dren who entered it that quiet evening and -slept for the first time lulled by the murmur of the encircling sea. I do not think a happier triad ever existed than we were, living in that profound isolation. It takes so little to make a healthy child happy ; and we never wearied of our few resources. True, the winters seemed as long as a whole year to our httle minds, but they were pleasant, nevertheless. Into the deep window-seats we climbed, and with pennies (for which we had no other use) made round holes in the thick frost, breathing on them tiU they were warm, and peeped out at the bright, fierce, windy weather, watching the vessels scudding over the intensely dark blue sea, all feather-white where the short waves broke hissing in the cold, and the sea-fowl soaring aloft or tossing on the water ; or, in calmer days, we saw how the stealthy Star-Islander paddled among the ledges, or lay for hours stretched on the wet sea-weed, watching for wild-fowl with his gun. Sometimes the round head of a seal moved about among the kelp-covered rocks. In the long, covered walk that bridged the gorge between the lighthouse and the house we played in stormy days, and every evening it was a fresh excitement to watch the lighting of the 60 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. lamps, and think how far the lighthouse sent its rays, and how many hearts it gladdened with assurance of safety. As I grew older, I was allowed to kindle the lamps sometimes myself. That was indeed a pleasure. So little a creature as I might do that much for the great world ! We waited for the spring with an eager longing ; the advent of the growing grass, the birds and flowers and insect life, the soft skies and softer winds, the everlasting beauty of the thousand tender tints that clothed the world, — these things brought us unspeakable bliss. To the heart of Nature one must needs be drawn in such a life ; and very soon I learned how richly she repays in deep refreshment the reverent love of her worsliipper. With the first warm days we built our httle moun- tains of wet gravel on the beach, and danced after the sandpipers at the edge of the foam, shouted to the gossiping kittiwakes that fluttered above, or watched the pranks of the burgomaster gull, or cried to the crying loons. The gannet's long white wings stretched overhead, perhaps, or the dusky shag made a sudden shadow in mid-air, or we startled on some lonely ledge the great blue heron that flew off", trailing legs and wings, stork-like, against the clouds. Or, in the sunshine on the bare rocks, we cut from the broad, brown leaves of the slippery, varnished kelps, grotesque shapes of man and bird and beast, that withered in the wind and blew away ; or we fashioned rude boats from bits of driftwood, manned them with a weird crew of kelpies, and set them adrift on the great deep, to float we cared not whither. We played with the empty limpet-shells ; they were mottled gray and brown, like the song-sparrow's breast. We launched fleets of purple mussel-shells on the still pools in the rocks, left by the tide, — pools that were like bits of fallen rainbow with the wealth of the sea, with tints of delicate sea-weed, crimson and green and ruddy brown and violet ; where wandered the pearly eolis with rosy spines and fairy horns, and the large round sea- urchins, like a boss upon a shield, were fastened here and there on the rock at the bottom, putting out from their green, prickly spikes transparent tentacles to seek their invisible food. Eosy and lilac STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 61 star-fish clung to the sides ; in some dark nook perhaps a holothiiria unfolded its perfect ferns, a lovely, warm, buff color, delicate as frost-work ; little forests of coralline moss grew up in stillness, gold- colored shells crept about, and now and then flashed the silver- darting fins of slender minnows. The dimmest recesses were haunts of sea-anemones that opened wide their starry flowers to the flowing tide, or drew themselves together, and hung in large, half-transparent drops, like clusters of some strange, amber-colored fruit, along the crevices as the water ebbed away. Sometimes we were cruel enough to capture a female lobster hiding in a deep cleft, with her millions of mottled eggs ; or we laughed to see the hermit-crabs challenge each other, and come out and fight a deadly battle till the stronger overcame, and, turning the weaker topsy- turvy, possessed himself of his ampler cockle-shell, and scuttled ojff with it triumphant. I remember in the spring kneeling on the ground to seek the first blades of grass that pricked through the soil, and bringing them into the house to study and wonder over. Better than a shop full of toys they were to me ! Whence came their color 1 How did they draw their sweet, refreshing tint from the brown earth, or the limpid air, or the white light ? Chemistry was not at hand to answer me, and all her wisdom would not have dis- pelled the wonder. Later the little scarlet pimpernel charmed me. It seemed more than a flower; it was like a human thing. I knew it by its homely name of poor-man's weather-glass. It was so much wiser than I, for when the sky was yet without a cloud, softly it clasped its little red petals together, folding its golden heart in safety from the shower that was sure to come ! How could it know so much? Here is a question science cannot answer. The pimpernel grows everywhere about the islands, in every cleft and cranny where a suspicion of sustenance for its slender root can lodge ; and it is one of the most exquisite of flowers, so rich in color, so quaint and dainty in its method of growth. I never knew its silent warning fail. I wondered much how every flower knew what to do and to be : why the morning- 62 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. glory did n't forget sometimes, and bear a cluster of elder-bloom, or the elder hang out pennons of gold and purple like the iris, or the golden-rod suddenly blaze out a scarlet plume, the color of the pimpernel, was a mystery to my childish thought. And why did the sweet wild primrose wait till after sunset to unclose its pale yellow buds ; why did it unlock its treasure of rich perfume to the night alone ? Few flowers bloomed for me upon the lonesome rock; but I made the most of all I had, and neither knew of nor de- sired more. Ah, how beautiful they were ! Tiny stars of crim- son sorrel threaded on their long brown stems; the blackberry blossoms in bridal white ; the surprise of the blue-eyed grass ; the crowfoot flowers, like drops of yellow gold spilt about among the short grass and over the moss ; the rich, blue-purple beach-pea, the sweet, spiked germander, and the homely, dehghtful yarrow that grows thickly on all the islands. Sometimes its broad clus- ters of dull white bloom are stained a lovely reddish-purple, as if with the light of sunset. I never saw it colored so elsewhere. Dandelions, buttercups, and clover were not denied to us ; though we had no daisies nor violets nor wild roses, no asters, but gorgeous spikes of golden-rod, and wonderful wild morning-glories, whose long, pale ivory buds I used to find in the twilight, glimmering among the dark leaves, waiting for the touch of dawn to unfold and become each an exquisite incarnate blush, — the perfect color of a South Sea shell. They ran wild, knotting and twisting about the rocks, and smothering the loose boulders in the gorges with lush green leaves and pink blossoms. Many a summer morning have I crept out of the still house before any one was awake, and, wrapping myself closely from the chill wind of dawn, climbed to the top of the high clifl" called the Head to watch the sunrise. Pale grew the lighthouse flame before the broadening day as, nestled in a crevice at the cliff's edge, I watched the shadows draw away and morning break. Facing the east and south, with all the Atlantic before me, what happiness was mine as the deepening rose-color flushed the delicate cloud-flocks STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 63 that dappled the sky, where the gulls soared, rosy too, while the calm sea blushed beneath. Or perhaps it was a cloudless sunrise with a sky of orange-red, and the sea-line silver-blue against it, peaceful as heaven. Infinite variety of beauty always awaited me, and filled me with an absorbing, unreasoning joy such as makes the song-sparrow sing, — a sense of perfect bliss. Coming back in the sunshine, the morning-glories would hft up their faces, all awake, to my adoring gaze. It seemed as if they had gathered the peace of the golden morning in their still depths even as my heart had gathered it. Celia Thaxter. 64 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. THE CEUISE OF THE DOLPHIK EVERY Rivermouth boy looks upon the sea as being in some way mixed up with his destiny. While he is yet a baby lying in his cradle, he hears the dull, far-off boom of the breakers ; when he is older, he wanders by the sandy shore, watching the waves that come plunging up the beach like white-maned sea- horses, as Thoreau calls them ; his eye follows the lessening sail as it fades into the blue horizon, and he burns for the time when he shall stand on the quarter-deck of his own ship, and. go sailing proudly across that mysterious waste of waters. Then the town itself is full of hints and flavors of the sea. The gables and roofs of the houses facing eastward are covered with red rust, like the flukes of old anchors ; a salty smell per- vades the air, and dense gray fogs, the very breath of Ocean, peri- odically creep up into the quiet streets and envelop everything. The terrific storms that lash the coast ; the kelp and spars, and sometimes the bodies of drowned men, tossed on shore by the scornful waves ; the shipyards, the wharves, and the tawny fleet of fishing-smacks yearly fitted out at Eivermouth, — these things, and a hundred other, feed the imagination and fill the brain of every healthy boy with dreams of adventure. He learns to swim almost as soon as he can walk ; he draws in with his mother's milk the art of handling an oar : he is born a sailor, whatever he may turn out to be afterwards. To own the whole or a portion of a row-boat is his earliest am- bition, ^o wonder that I, born to this life, and coming back to it with freshest sympathies, should have caught the prevailing infection. lN"o wonder I longed to buy a part of the trim little sail-boat Dolphin, which chanced just then to be in the market. This was in the latter part of May. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. 65 Three shares, at five or six dollars each, I forget which, had already been taken by Phil Adams, Fred Langdon, and Binny Wallace. The fourth and remaining share hung fire. Unless a purchaser could be found for this, the bargain was to fall through. I am afraid I required but slight urging to join in the invest- ment. I had four dollars and fifty cents on hand, and the treasurer of the Centipedes advanced me the balance, receiving my silver pencil-case as ample security. It was a proud moment when I stood on the wharf with my partners, inspecting the Dolphin, moored at the foot of a very slippery flight of steps. She was painted white with a green stripe outside, and on the stern a yellow dolphin, with its scarlet mouth wide open, stared with a surprised expression at its own reflection in the water. The boat was a great bargain. I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the stairs leading down from the wharf, when a hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I turned, and faced Captain Nutter. I never saw such an old sharp- eye as he was in those days. I knew he would n't be angry with me for buying a row-boat ; but I also knew that the little bowsprit suggesting a jib, and the tapering mast ready for its few square yards of canvas, were trifles not likely to meet his approval. As far as rowing on the river, among the wharves, was concerned, the Captain had long since withdrawn his decided objections, having convinced himself, by going out with me several times, that I could manage a pair of sculls as well as anybody. I was right in my surmises. He commanded me, in the most emphatic terms, never to go out in the Dolphin without leaving the mast in the boat-house. This curtailed my anticipated sport, but the pleasure of having a pull whenever I wanted it remained. I never disobeyed the Captain's orders touching the sail, though I sometimes extended my row beyond the points he had indicated. The river was dangerous for sail-boats. Squalls, without the slightest warning, were of frequent occurrence ; scarcely a year passed that six or seven persons were not drowned under the very- windows of the town, and these, oddly enough, were generally sea- £ 66 CHILD LIFE IN PROSE. captains, who either did not understand the river, or lacked the skill to handle a small craft. A knowledge of such disasters, one of which I witnessed, con- soled me somewhat when I saw Phil Adams skimming over the water in a spanking breeze with every stitch of canvas set. There were few better, yachtsmen than Phil Adams. He usually went sailing alone, for both Fred Langdon and Binny Wallace were under the same restrictions I was. Xot long after the purchase of the boat, we planned an excur- sion to Sandpeep Island, the last of the islands in the harbor. We proposed to start early in the morning, and return with the tide in the moonlight. Our only difficulty was to obtain a whole day's exemption from school, the customary half-holiday not being long enough for our picnic. Somehow, we could n't work it ; but fortune arranged it for us. I may say here, that, whatever else I did, I never played truant in my life. One afternoon the four owners of the Dolphin exchanged signifi- cant glances when Mr. Grimshaw announced from the desk that there would be no school the following day, he having just received intelligence of the death of liis uncle in Boston. I was sincerely attached to Mr. Grimshaw, but I am afraid that the death of his uncle did not affect me as it ought to have done. AVe were up before sunrise the next morning, in order to take advantage of the flood tide, which waits for no man. Our prepara- tions for the cruise were made the previous evening. In the way of eatables and drinkables, we had stored in the stern of the Dol- phin a generous bag of hardtack (for the chowder), a piece of pork to fry the cunners in, three gigantic apple-pies (bought at Pettin- gil's), half a dozen lemons, and a keg of spring- water, — the last- named article we slung over the side, to keep it cool, as soon as we got under way. The crockery and the bricks for our camp-stove we placed in the bows with the groceries, which included sugar, pepper, salt, and a bottle of pickles. Phil Adams contributed to the outfit a small tent of unbleached cotton cloth, under which we intended to take our nooning. STORIES OF CHILD LIFE. AVe unshipped the mast, threw in an extra oar, and were ready to embark. I do not beheve that Christopher Columbus, when he started on his rather successful voyage of discovery, felt half the responsibility and importance that weighed uj)on me as I sat on the middle seat of the Dolphin, with my oar resting in the row- lock. I wonder if Christopher Columbus quietly slipped out of the house with- out letting his esti- what he was up to 1 lovely the river pie stirred on the ken only by the our tiny craft. The red as an August time peering above drifted behind us, tering among the Sometimes we with our boat-hook on either side. As mouth of the har- now and then water, shook the foliage, and gently mist-wreaths that shore. The meas- ured dip of our oaTS and tK« drowsy twitterings of the birds seemed to minijle with, rather than break, the enchanted silence that reigned about us. The scent of the new cloy