Robert W. Woodruff
Library
Special Collections
EMORY UNIVERSITY
LITTLE CHARLEY.
toI. i. p. 180.
libs anb Ikssmns.
EDITED BY THOS. & SUMMERS.
IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. I.
^[as^biHe, SCctttt.:
PUBLISHED BY E. STEVENSON & F. A. OWEN, AGENTS,
FOE THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH, SOUTH.
1855.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
E. STEVENSON & F. A. OWEN, AGENTS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Middle District
of Tennessee.
STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON ft CO.
PHILADELPHIA.
PREFACE,
Here are some beautiful "buds and blos¬
soms" for very little children. We have
taken pains to put them up in nice little
bouquets for them; and we dare say they
will be pleased with them. We wonder if
our young friends know which is the most
lovely flower that blooms this side of the
paradise of God—if they do, let them never
rest until they have made that flower their
own.
The Editor.
Tuscaloosa, Ala., Dec. 1, 1854.
5
CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Story of a Daisy 9
Rover and his Friends 26
Little Frank 41
The Little Fortune-Seekers 56
The Blackberry Gathering 71
The Fir-Tree's Story 85
The Child's Search for Fairies 100
The Fisherman's Children 115
Little Peepy 132
Rabbits and Peewits 148
Alice and her Bird 163
Little Charley «... 180
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
®|e iitflrjj irf s Jnsj).
Deep down in a snug little dell, beneath a high
bank, near the road-side, grew a wild daisy. It
was a young little plant, growing up by its parent's
side; and it had not yet borne a flower, nor seen
a summer.
The little daisy-plant had sprung up in the au¬
tumn from a tiny seed, and it had sent out a
few green leaves before winter; but that was all.
There was no sign of a flower.
And when winter came, with its sharp, cold
frost, which reached down to the very bottom of
the daisy's Iiome—the snug little dell—and made
the ground as hard as a stone, the little daisy-plant
was sad and sorrowful. The tender leaves shrunk
up, and looked ready to die. If it could have
moved itself then, it would have been glad to take
shelter under the bigger leaves of the mother-
daisy ; but its roots were held fast below, and it
9
10
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
could not stir an inch. Poor young daisy! it did
not like the cold frost a bit, and it felt as if it
could never live to have a single flower of its own.
After the frost, came snow ; and this cheered
up the young daisy-plant; for the: snow covered
it over, and kept off the cold air. In a short time
the little daisy got warm in its bed, with such a
soft, feathery coverlet; and its hopes revived. It
might have flowers of its own yet.
By and by, spring came, and frost was driven
out of the country for that time. Snow went
away too; for snow does not like Spring sunshine.
They do not agree together well; and when spring
comes, snow is not wanted any longer.
Snow was a good while getting away from the
snug, sheltered dell—the young daisy's home.
The sun did not rise soon enough, nor climb up
high enough, to get at it, for many a day; and the
white coverlet—rather dirty now, though,—was
still spread over daisy's bed. But it got shorter,
and narrower, and thinner every hour, till, one
day, just at twelve o'clock, daisy pushed up one
of its tender green leaves right through the snow-
cover, and soon there was an end of it. It melt¬
ed away, one little morsel after another, and sank
into the ground at daisy's feet. Daisy was glad
of this, for it felt thirsty; so, opening its tiny
mouths at the end of its roots, it drank and drank,
THE STORY OP A DAISY.
11
till it was quite refreshed. Saucy young daisy!
it swallowed up its coverlet, and was all the better
for it.
No fear of its dying now. No fear now of its
not having flowers of its own. It began to grow
and grow, from root to leaf, till, one day, when
the sun wus shining bright on it, a little bud-—
such a little one!—peeped Out from between its
leaves. And was not daisy-plant glad \hen ? It
was going to have a flower of its own !
There was something now for daisy-leaves to do.
They had to shelter little1 daisy-bud at night, and
in cold, sunless days. They took care of themselves
also, like sensible leaves, and were always ready
to drink a drop of dew when it was offered them j
for leaves as well as roots have mouths. And so,
from root to bud, young daisy-plant got on glo¬
riously.
But bud was not to be long a bud. One night
it went to bed, as usual, among the leaves; and
next morning, when daisy-plant awoke, the bud
had become a blossom. It was small, to be sure,
but it would grow bigger—no fear of that. Yes,
daisy-plant had got a flower of its own.
And day after day, daisy-plant got stronger:
its roots spread themselves out bravely beneath
the ground: more leaves came above, and soon were
as big as the older leaves, which had stood the
12
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
winter through ; and in the midst of them all, on
a stout, strong stalk, did daisy-flower lift up its
head, and open its yellow eye, right in the face
of the sun, as much as to say,—" Shine on bright
sun, you cannot put me out of countenance : I like
to feel your pleasant heat:' it does me good." It
did not mind the rain either : it rather liked it.
And as to the dark, chilly night, it had only to
shut up its eye and go to sleep till niorning, and
all was right again.
But before this, little daisy-flower had passed
through more than one peril, and daisy-plant had
been in great danger of losing its beauty and pride.
One day, a donkey strayed into the snug little
dell, and trampled down poor little daisy, leaves,
flower and all, to get at a thistle which grew on
the bank. But there was no great harm done.
Next day, daisy perked up its head, and looked as
brisk as ever.
Another time, a cow found its way into the dell,
and bit off great mouthfuls of grass, and dozens
of daisies besides; but our little daisy-plant es¬
caped with nothing worse than a fright.
There was a nearer escape than this, when, the
very next day, a whole tribe of young children
ran shouting and laughing down the steep bank
into the dell, looking for early spring flowers
Nothing came amiss to them, and it was a wonder,
THE STORY OF A DAISY.
13
indeed, that they did not find out poor little daisy-
plant's only flower. But; daisy-flower was. not so
fine and big at that time; and the children went
away without making it their prize.
It was when daisy-flower had grown tal^ and
large and strong, that it was lost, forever to the
snug little dell in whieh it had first, been brought
to light. But it was not withered, nor faded, nor
crushed, nor gathered. Nq, no : it has a .better
ending than that,—this story of a daisy. Listen,
and I will tell.
"You must not touch that flower, you must not,
indeed," said a nursemaid one day, to a little girl
whom she was taking care of in a pretty garden—
very prim and very neat. " Oh, naughty, naughty
Emma, you have gathered that beautiful hyacinth !
What will your papa say ?"
"I think he won't be angry," answered the little
girl: "I shall go and tell him that I gathered it j"
and away she ran down the garden-path, into the
cottage, and did not stop till she was in the par¬
lour, where her papa sat alone, very busy writing.
Emma's papa and mamma, and Emma herself,
and Jane the nursemaid, had been but a few days
in the cottage. Their home was in a large town.
But mamma was .very unwell, and Mr. Ware, the
doctor, had said that country air might do her
VOL. i. 2
14
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
good. So they had left their home, to live for a
few months in the country.
Emma was five years old then; and every thing
was new and fresh, and pleasant for she had never
lived in the country before; and that very day she
had meant to gather a fine large nosegay of beau¬
tiful flowers from the garden, to take to dear
mamma, when Jane so suddenly put a stop to it.
" Papa," said the little girl, " I gathered this
flower, and Jane says I must not touch the flowers.
I may, mayn't I ?"
" Jane was right, my little one," said papa: " I
do not wish the flowers iii the garden to be med¬
dled with. I am sorry you gathered that flower."
"But, papa, I did not gather it for myself. I
wanted it for dear mamma."
" That was kind of my little girl; and I will go
with you into the garden, and get a nosegay."
" But, papa, I should like to get it all by myself,"
said little Emma, very much disappointed.
" That must not be," said papa: " I am afraid of
your doing mischief. You would trample the beds,
and get the wrong flowers. I must help you."
" I wish I had a garden, all my own," the little
girl said, and sighed.
"Do you, Emma ? Then you shall have a garden,
all your own," said kind papa; "and I will put
some flowers in it, that you may get nosegays from,
THE STORY OF A DAISY.
15
as often as you please; and we will take a walk
presently, and you sliall gather a nosegay, all by
yourself, for dear mamma. There are violets and
primroses in the hedges, and on the banks:—
mamma is fond of violets and primroses."
" Thank you, dear papa," said Emma; and away
she ran.
Daisy-plant was snug in bed that day in its little
dell.: Wide awake was it, however, and right re¬
joiced had it reason to be, for it had sent out new
roots and put forth new leaves, and among these
leaves were two more tiny buds, like little green
buttons, just ready to peep out. And daisy's first¬
born flower was there, as bright and bold as ever,
with its big yellow eye, and white petals, tipped
with crimson. There was not a happier young
daisy-plant in the whole dell, nor yet a happier
flower.
All at once came the sound of a clear, merry
voice, which might have been heard from one end
of the dell to the other.
"Papa, papa, I can run down this bank. Let
me run down this bank, all by myself, dear papa."
And before papa could say nay, down ran little
Emma, and stood close beside the daisy-plant.
There was a small basket on her arm, half full of
violets and primroses, and daisies too.; but not one
16
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
of them" waS so fine and bright as daisy-plant's
only flower.
Ah, daisy-plant, daisy-plant! what.will become
of you now, if you lose your pride and beauty ?
Daisy-flower did not know its danger then, or,
maybe, it would have shut up its eye, and hung
down its head, for very fear. But, instead of this,
it looked up as boldly as a modest daisy well could,
into the little girl's face.
And a pleasant little face it was to look at—
bright as a May morning, with eyes as blue as
violets, and sparkling as a sunbeam on the river.
" I am here, papa," shouted the young stranger,
in a merry tone; " and there are heaps of flowers
in this pretty little place. I shall have such a bas¬
ketful to carry home to dear mamma;" and her little
fingers were busy as bees, searching for flowers.
"Don't you think you have enough, now?"
asked papa, standing on the high bank, and look¬
ing down into the snug little dell.
" Not yet, not yet," said she. " But Oh, papa,—
this darling daisy! only look, papa!" and Emma's
finger and thumb, in one little minute, had tight
hold of the young daisy-plant's only flower.
Tremble now, daisy-plant: one little nip, and
pride will be gone !
But something else than this was in store for
poor daisy-plant.
THE STORY O? A DAISY.
IT
" I won't gather the daisy: I have enough for
dear mamma without it. It shall go into my gar¬
den, papa, jqs$ as it is."
So, daisy-plant was taken from its snug little
dell, and was carefully planted in Simmy's garden.
Never, sure, was wild daisy-plant tended more
carefully than this! Strange company it got into,
though, in little Emma's little garden. I can¬
not tell how many fine flowers with fine names
papa had planted in that small hit of ground,
but there was just room for the wild young
daisy.
At first, daisy-flower hung down its head when
it found itself in such grand company, and half
covered up its yellow eye with its crimson-tipped
petals,—though it looked slyly from under them,
for all its shyness : the green leaves, too, hung
drooping down, and felt very faint and poorly:
and the roots could not make themselves at home
for a little while. But, indeed, Emma's garden
was quite a bed of sick plants for a day or two :
for all of them had been moved away from their
homes, and they did not like it. Some of them
seemed to say as much as that they should never
be happy again; and when the sun shone hot upon
them, they quite fainted away, and were ready to
die. But their little nurse gave them plenty of
2*
18
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
cold water to drink, night and morning, and in a
day or two, all had recovered.
Daisy-plant was the first to get well; and then,
to see how it throve and prospered, was quite mar¬
vellous. In a feW days, daisy-flower had two little
brothers, and promise of more to come; and as to
the green leaves out of which they sprang, it
would have taken long to count them1—they were
so many. And every day the roots drank to their
fill of pure clean water, which little Emma gave
them to drink. Daisy-plant was very happy, then)
and after a very short time it could spare a flower
or two without missing them so very much. It was
a glad day to little Eirima when she gathered the
first nosegay from her own garden, to take to dear
mamma, in her sick room, which she was too ill to
leave. And in the middle of that first-offered
nosegay from Emma's own little garden, was daisy-
plant's first flower, which had been reared in spite
of frost and snow, and had first seen the light and
felt the sunshine in its dear native dell. And was it
not pleasant to be gathered, to make one flower in
such a nosegay as that ? Ah! little wild daisy-
flower had not lived in vain.
No more running about in the garden, or by
the roadside, or down the high bank into the snug
little dell, which was not half a mile from the
THE STORY OF A DAISY.
19
pretty cottage. No more gathering of nosegays
from the banks and hedges, or from Emma's own
small garden, for dear mamma. No more tending
of flowers, and watching them, and watering them :
—for dear little Emma fell sick, and had to he
kept quiet in her bed.
Her head was sad, and she was bad,
And she retired to rest.
No, not to rest, either: for dear little Emma
could not rest, though her bed was soft, and her
friends were kind.
I cannot tell what was the matter with her, but
Emma's strength was gone: her little fingers be¬
came thin, and her face pale and sorrowful, when
it was not fiery red with burning pain : her eyes
lost their bright blue look, and her lips were dry
and parched. Poor little Emma!
Papa was very kind to his sick little girl, and
so was Jane. Mamma, too, though she was ill,
almost forgot how ill she was, in nursing her dar¬
ling Emma.
The doctor came, the good, kind doctor; and
he said that the little girl must be kept very still,
and must be carefully tended. He gave her some
medicine, and said he was sorry he could not make
it more nice to her taste; but though he could not
say that it was nice, it would do her good.
20
BIJDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Emma did not like the medicine. It was bitter,
and it looked so. thick and bad, like muddy water,
that it almost made her sick to see it in the cup.
But she shut her eyes, and drank it off, as she was
told, though she made a wry face or two over it.
Emma had to take medicine a great many times
before she got better. It was three weeks before
she could have her clothes put on ; and then she
was so weak that she could not leave the room,
where she and dear mamma were. But every day
after that, she got stronger; and one fine day, when
it was quite warm and dry, stie asked papa to carry
her in his arms to see her dear little garden.
And what had becQme of daisy-plant and all
the rest of Emma's pretty flowers, while she had.
been ill in bed ?.
All were safe and well—all but poor daisy: for
Ned, the gardener, had been told to come and put
the flower-beds in order, and to clear away the weeds
from papa's garden, and from Emma's as well.
So he came, with his garden-fork and his hoe
and his rake.
And when he came to Emma's small garden,
he trimmed up the flowers, and forked the ground
between them, and, night after night, he watered
them. That was all quite right.
But when, as he said, he was " doing up the
bed," he saw among the fine garden-flowers
THE STORY OP A DAISY.
21
"a great weed."—Poor daisy-plant! poor daisy-
flowers ! to be called a weed! nothing but a weed !
But Ned did not know any better.
A daisy in the garden-bed
A silly daisy was, to Ned,
And it was. nothing more.
So, without wasting another thought about it, up
came poor daisy by the roots, and away it was
thrown, as if it were only rubbishI
Poor, ill-uSed daisy ! Dear, sorrowful Emma!
"0, papa, papa, papa/' cried little Emma, at
the very first sight of her garden: "my pretty,
dear, darling daisy! 0, papa, papa, somebody has
taken it away: that dear, dear daisy, that I got and
put in my own garden, by my own self!"—and the
little girl burst into tears.
Papa knew nothing about it, nor did Jane; and
Ned was not there to give an account of the logt
daisy and himself:—so all thought it quite gone,
and forever. And it was hard to comfort dear
little Emma. It was a great loss to her. Such a
beautiful flower it seemed in her eyes ; and she
had found it, and put it into her own garden, all
by her own self, and had watehed it, and watered
it. No wonder the little girl was so sad to lose it.
22
3UDS AND BLOSSOMS-
And what had become of poor daisy-plant ?
Had it withered and perished ?
No, no : daisy-plants don't give up life and hope
so soon or so easily as that. Daisy-plant was safe
yet, though it had been thrown on a heap of
rubbish.
But Emma did not know this, and it was a sad
tale of wo she had to tell mamma, about her
poor, lost, daisy. She was still thinking about it,
as she lay on the sofa, that day, when papa came
in, with something in his hand, which he had co¬
vered with a handkerchief.
" Take away this handkerchief, darling," said
he, stooping down to his little,girl.
Emma took away the handkerchief, and then
she clapped her hands for very joy.—" My own
dear daisy!" she said: " Yes, I am sure it is.
Thank you, dear, dear papa. Look, mamma, look!
this is my own darling daisy."
Yes, papa had searched for it until he had found
it on the heap of rubbish: then he had washed
it from dirt, and clipped off its broken leaves, and
put it into a pretty little flower-pot, with sonie fine,
rich mould. And there was brave, hardy little
daisy-plant, as brisk and bright as ever.
And every day, almost, from that time, did daisy-
plant improve in beauty j and every week, all the
THE STORY OF A DAISY.
28
summer long, did it put forth fresh flowers; and
every flower seemed, in Emma's eyes, finer and
handsomer than those which had come before. No
fear, now, of gardener's.hoe and rake, or rubbish-
heap.
And if ever little girl had a treasure in a flower¬
pot, dear Emma had one in hers, though it was
only a daisy.
Only a daisy ! What a mistake, though, to say
only a daisy! as if it were not a flower of the
great Giod's making. Who, beside Him, could
make a daisy to grow ?
" God made the stars and daisies too,
And watches over them and you;"—
and Emma learnt this lesson, and many others
beside, from the daisy in her pretty flower-pot.
Summer passed away, and autumn came; and
still the petted daisy flowered, and Emma was as
fond of it as ever.
And when Emma's papa and mamma, and Jane,
and Emma herself, had to say good-by to the
pretty countTy cottage, and go back to their old
home in the large town—which was dear to Emma,
though it had no garden—she took care not to be
parted from her daisy.
And Emma was glad: for, all that summer, her
24
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
mamma had been getting better and stronger.
Emma loved her daisy; but she loved her papa
and mamma with a better and richer sort of love.
So they returned home.
One day, while Emma was in the parlour with
papa and mamma, Mr. "Ware, the doctor, came in.
" I need not come again/' he said : "lam come
to say good-by. You want no more of my medi¬
cines now."
Then Emma's papa thanked Dr. Ware very
much for his kind attention to dear mamma, and
to dear little Emma also, while they were ill. He
said that but for him and his good advice, and use¬
ful medicines, and constant attention, he thought
mamma would have died; and that Grod had blest
those means in making mamma well again.
Emma heard all this, and more that was said
than I can repeat; and for awhile shq looked
thoughtful and troubled. At last her little coun¬
tenance cleared up, and she skipped out of the
room like a little fawn.
And just as good Dr. Ware was putting on his
hat and gloves in the hall, he felt a little, gentle
touch on the arm, and looked round.
It was Emma, dear Emma, and in her hand
was daisy-plant, in pretty flower-pot, and it was
rich with yellow-eyed, crimsonrtipped flowers.
THE STORY OF A DAISY.
25
" This is for you," said the little girl to the kind
doctor^ " for making mamma well. I would like
you to have my dear, darling daisy—would you
not like to have it ?"—and she gave little daisy-
plant one last kiss, and I am not sure that a little
tear did not drop, on one of the daisy flowers, as
she put it into the kind doctor's hand.
VOL. I.
3
$0tor aitJr p Jmnbs.
Ah, Rover, Rover, what will you do now, I
wonder? You have run away from your home,
Rover; and where will you find another? You
have turned off your master, and how will you
contrive to get an honest living ? I should like
to know that, Rover. Are you not ashamed of
yourself, to run along the road in that fashion,—
with your little bit of a stump of a tail curled un¬
der you, so silly-like, instead of being cocked up
in the air, as, in the very nature of such things,
a dog's tail ought to be : Eh, Rover ?
And now I look at you closer, you are very
poor and very thin. You seem half-starved—poor
little Rover. You would be glad now, if any one
would give you a good dinner, wouldn't you ?
And how can you drink such dirty water as
that, out of such a puddle of mud ? Are you
very thirsty, Rover? 'Tis a hot day, to be
sure; and 'tis warm work, running so fast. But
why need you run at all, little dog ? There is
nobody behind you to drive you on. "Why don't
26
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
27
you walk a nice, easy jog-trot pace now ? Answer
me that, Rover.
Ah, well: Rover wont say a word : so I must
tell his story as well as I can.
Rover had run away from his master, because
his master had whipped him;' and he didn't like
being whipped.
Rover's master was an old tinker, who travelled
the country, and -never stayed long in one place.
Rover didn't mind that. He had been brought
up to a travelling life ever since he was a puppy,
and that was a year ago; and he rather liked
travelling: he saw more of the world than stay-
at-home dogs. But he didn't like being whipped,
—Rover didn't.
When Rover was quite a puppy, his master had
clipped off the long end of his tail with a pair of
great ugly shears, to make him a handsome dog.
If Rover's advice had been asked , about this, be¬
fore it was done, he would have perhaps said—
Please to let my tail alone. I like it best where it
is. I think it is best off while 'tis on. But nobody
thinks it worth while to talk to a dog on such a
subject; so off came Rover's tail. Rover did not
like this a bit; but he did not run away then.
His tail couldn't be cut off a second time; but he
could be whipped again and again, and he did not
approve of being whipped : so he ran away.
28
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Rover's master was poor, and sometimes had not
enough to eat; and then poor Rover fared badly
enough, you may be sure. And that was how it
was he came to be whipped. He ate up his mas¬
ter's breakfast, as wbll as his own, one morning,
and was hungry after that. He didn't mind being
hungry: he was used to it. But he did mind be¬
ing whipped: he did not want to be used to that:
so he ran away from his master, without saying
good-by.
And so Rover ran on, and on, and on, till he
was out of sight.
There was a little boy, and his name was Bon¬
nie. He had a little sister, and her name was Min¬
nie. Their mother loved them very dearly, and
thought they were very good children.
Their father, too, was fond and proud of them.
He used to carry them on his shoulders, and play
at horses with them, and a good many other games
that Bonnie and Minnie were pleased with.
Bonnie and Minnie, and their mother and fa¬
ther, lived in a cottage far away from any town,
in a wild country, with high hills all round, and
a great, thick, dark wood not far off. There were
not many houses near; and sometimes they did not
see their nearest neighbour for days and days.
Bonnie's and Minnie's father was not a rich
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
29
man. He had to work hard for a living. Some¬
times he went into the great wood to cut fagots;
and sometimes he went on the high hills to look
after a small flock of sheep, and lead them from
one feeding-place to another; and then he did
not come home to his cottage for days together.
This was his summer-work. It was in winter that
he used to cut fagots in the wood; and then the
sheep were put into a fold near the cottage, and
fed with food which had been laid up for them in
the autumn.
The sheep belonged to a person who lived a
good way off. But though they were not his own,
Bonnie's and Minnie's father took great care of
them, and there was not a better shepherd in that
part of the country.
The mother of this little boy and girl had enough
to do: for when she was not at any other work, she
carded wool, and spun it into threads to be woven
into cloth. Her spinning-wheel was never long at
rest; and as she sat spinning, she used to teach
Bonnie his letters, and hear him spell. Little
Minnie was not old enough for this: so, when her
mother was spinning, and her brother was spelling,
she amused herself with her playthings.
One evening in summer, Bonnie and Minnie
were eating their supper of oatmeal-cake outside
the cottage-door. Their father was a long way off,
3*
30
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
on the hills, with the sheep; and their mother was
spinning inside the cottage.
Bonnie and Minnie were so busy eating, that
they did not look up to see what was coming till
the little girl felt something very cold rubbing
against her hand. Then she saw a dog close be¬
side her, with a little bit of a stump of a tail wag¬
ging very fast, a^d his eyes fixed quite lovingly on
her supper.
" 0 doddy, doddy, where do you tome from ?"
said little Minnie, not at all frightened, though
she could not speak plain.
"'Tis Hover! that it is!" cried out,Bonnie,
quite delighted:—" Old Tom's Bover! How came
you back here; and wbere is your master, Bover?"
It was plain that Bover was not a stranger to
Bonnie and Minnie. No: be had been there only
the week before; and while Tinker Tom was mend¬
ing the old kettle that had the spout broken off,
they had made friends with Bover, and Bover
with them.
But Bover could not answer Bonnie's question,
for all that. All he could do was to look pleased,
and wag his short tail faster than ever, and smell
at the oat-cake in Minnie's hand, as much as to
say, Please, do give me a bit.
Yes, yes : if Bover could have spoken, he would
have said, Iran away from my master, old Tinker
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
31
Tom, because Tie whipped, me, and I don't like be¬
ing whipped ; and I have been-running, running,
all day, till I am very < tired; and I have had
nothing to eat aU day, since breakfast, and then
X did not get enough; and Tinker Tom is a great
U>ay off, I hope, and I don't want ever to see him
again; and I came here because you were kind to
when, I was here Jbefore, and I thought you
would give me something to eat and to drink, and
would not whip me. And here Iaril, you see: so
pray give me some supper !
This would have been a long speech for a dog
to make; and Rover did not make it.in so many
words, bnt lie looked as much of it Us he could.
And Ronnie understood his meaning.
" 0 Rover! Rover! yon have run away from
your master, I suppose : naughty dog !" said Bon¬
nie. And Rover left off wagging his bit of a tail
that very minute, and hung down his head.
"And Rover, you are hungry, and thirsty, and
tired, are you not?" said Bonnie again. And
Rover whined, as much as to say, To be sure I am.
"Yober, Yober, have some tate?" said little
Minnie; and she held out a bit of her supper to
him. It was soon down Rover's throat—that was;
and he wagged his tail brisker than ever, which
meant Thank you, Minnie, as plainly as need be.
Then Bonnie and Minnie called their mother,
32
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
and she had pity on poor little Rover, and gave
him a large bowl of water, which he lapped quite
up, and something to eat as well. Then she made
a bed for poor Rover in one corner of the fire¬
place: for she said, "Perhaps his master, old
Tinker Tom, is coming this way again; and we
will take care of Rover till he comes."
Rover was of a different opinion about old
Tinker Tom, but he did not say so; and he was
glad to curl himself up and lie down on the little
bed, and go soundly to sleep.
Rover soon made himself quite at home with
Bonnie and Minnie. He did not seem at all to
wish to run away from them; and they had no
wish to part with him. But of course we must,
they thought, when Tinker Tom comes this way
again.
But day after day went away, and no Tinker
Tom came; and every day Rover was fed, so that
he began to look quite sleek and pretty. And to
show his gratitude for the kindness of his friends,
or his gladness, he played such a number of funny
tricks that Bonnie and Minnie were quite de¬
lighted.
Sometimes Bonnie said to him, "Catch your
tail, Rover;" and then Rover would run round
and round, trying to catch the end of his tail with
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
33
his mouth. But it was of no use his trying to do
that, it had been cut off so short, and was such a
little bit of a stump of a tail!
Then Bonnie taught him to sit upright on his
hind legs, and beg; and to hold a bit of bread or
cake on his nose very patiently, while'Bonnie said,
" Make ready"—" Present"—" Fire!" Then,
when Bonnie said "Fire," Rover used to toss the
bit of bread or cake into the air, and catch it in
his mouth as it fell.
Another of Rover's amusing tricks was to run
after a great ball of wool that Bonnie made on pur¬
pose for this game. Bonnie and Minnie and Ro¬
ver used to go to the top of a hill, very near the cot¬
tage, and then Bonnie threw the ball with all his
might down the hill, for Rover to run after ; and
sometimes he was so eager to catch the ball, that
he tumbled over, and rolled quite down to the bot¬
tom of the hill, without being able to stop. But
he always got the ball at last, and ran back with
it in his mouth, to lay it at Bonnie's feet. Some¬
times Bonnie would say, "Take it to Minnie."
And Rover understood it, and did as he was told.
But one day, a good while after they had had
the little dog, as they were playing this game,
Rover did not come back with the ball. Instead
of that, when he got to the bottom of the hill, he
looked round, and then ran off as hard and fast as
34
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
he could run, 'with his little bit of a tail hanging
down; and he had not stopped running when
Bonnie and Minnie lost sight of him, and that
was not till he had reached the great wood, and
had run right into it.
What now, Rover ? What now ? Ah ! your
old trick again, Rover!—running away! Why, you
silly dog, don't you know when you are well off?
Why, you have been well fed, and have been let to
play all day long, and have a nice warm bed to
sleep on at night, or any other time that you choose;
and you have not been whipped, Rover!—What
do you run away for ?
Ha, ha! cunning Rover! Sharp-eyed Rover!
He knew what he was about—Rover did. Look
along the path, Bonnie, quite in the other direc¬
tion from the great wood; and, a great way off
yet, who is it you see ? Tinker Tom, to be sure;
with his pack upon his back. Ha, ha! Rover
hadn't a mind to be Tinker Tom's Rover again,
—to be half-starved and whipped: so Rover
stole himself away in time: wise Rover! funny
Rover!
Tinker Tom didn't care. He did not want Ro¬
ver back again, he said, when he heard where he
was. They might keep Rover, he said; but he
was hungry, and would be glad of a bit of food.
If Bonnie's and Minnie's mother would give poor
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
35
Tinker Tom that, tliey might keep Rover for their
own, and welcome.
So Tinker Tom got a good dinner, and went
away again, with his pack upon his back.
Cunning Rover ! Sly Rover ! When Tinker
Tom had been gone a good long time, and it was
getting dark, back came Rover again. I guess he
had watched, while he was in the wood, and. seen
his master go away, and had given him time to get
ever so far off, before he ventured back again.
And when he came, he looked so pleased and
proud, and frisked about, as if he had done some
mighty wise thing; and he said, as plainly as he
could speak,—Don't you thinlc Rover is a clever
dog now ?
And Bonnie and Minnie were very glad when
they knew that Rover was their own.
Rover must work now. When Bonnie's and
Minnie's father came home one day from the hills,
he said, "We must not let Rover be idle all his
life, hie must do something to get an honest
living. I shall take him with me to-morrow, and
teach him to be a shepherd's dog. He will help
me nicely, if he takes well to that trade."
So the next day, Rover went off to the hills with
his new master.
At first, it Was a good deal of trouble to teach
36
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Rover to take care of sheep. It was good fun to
him, to be sure, to run after them, and bark at
their heels in a good-natured sort of way j but he
didn't know when to bark, and when to be quiet;
and though he tried ever so hard, he could not
understand all that his master wanted him to do.
But he improved every day j and when Bonnie's
and Minnie's father went home next, he said that
Rover was a good, teachable dog, and would be a
useful servant some day.
And, indeed, by the time the summer was over,
and the sheep were brought home, and Bonnie's
and Minnie's father went to his trade of wood¬
cutting, Rover had become a capital sheep-dog,
and was very much prized for his cleverness.
Bonnie and Minnie were very glad to hear this;
and they were very glad, too, to have their old
friend Rover back again. Rover was glad also:
so they were all glad together.
While Rover had been away, Bonnie's mother
had not been idle: nor had Bonnie either. She
had spun a great quantity of wool, to be woven and
made up into winter clothes; and Bonnie had be¬
gun to learn to knit stockings. He would soon
be able, he thought, to knit a pair for his father.
He had learnt to read, too, as well as spell; and
he had taught Minnie some of the letters of the
alphabet.
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
87
And so, all through the winter, Rover's master
made fagots in the woods. Sometimes Rover went
with! hiim/and sometimes he stopped at home. At
night, Ronnie and Minnie, and' their father and
mother, all sat round a nice wood-fire, and were
as happy as they had "been in summer, though
the weather was cold, and there were no flowers
for Minnie- to gather. Rover was very happy
too, for he got plenty to eat, and wasn't
whipped. And the sheep were' well cared for:
they had a nice warnr shed to shelter them
at night.
But one night, the silly sheep got out of the
shed, and when morning came not one of them
could be seen anywhere.
There was great trouble then; and Rover's
master went into the cottage, and said—
■i( Rover," my man, all the sheep are awav. What
shall we do?"
Ah, Rover, Rover! now is the time for you to
show your thanks for a good home and a good
master. Jump up, Rover, and hear what is said
to you.
" What shall we do, Rover?" his master said
again.
It was just as if Rover understood every word.
Up he jumped in a minute, and ran out at the
door, and began to run round and round the shed
Vol. I. 4=
38
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
and the fold, smelling, with his nose to the
ground all the while.
Then off he trotted, and his master with hinq
toward the high hills where the sheep had fed in
the summer.
There was no snow on the ground that morning ;
but before noon it began to come down very fast;
and Bonnie's and Minnie's mother was in great
distress to think that their father was out on the
hills in such weather. She was afraid he would
lose his way, and perhaps perish with cold and
hunger, as many have done in the snow amcfng
the hills.
Bonnie and Minnie, too, were quite sad and
silent when night came, and no father at home.
At last they heard him coming, and he opened
the door. Oh, how glad they were to see him!
But there was sorrow in his looks. He was
covered with snow from head to foot, and was very
tired and very hungry. He had lost his way more
than once on the hills, and had had nothing to eat
all day.
But this was not the worst. He had not found
the sheep, and he had lost poor- Rover.
"The poor, silly sheep," he said, "will perish in
the snow; and we shall be ruined."
Bonnie and Minnie cried, and their mother
could not help Crying too. But she made some
ROVER AND HIS FRIENDS.
39
broth for her poor tired husband, and begged hirn
to eat it.
And little Minnie crept between her father's
knees, and looked up in his face:—"Eat turn
tuppa, tatta," she said.
The father did eat some supper, and he was all
the better for it.- But he could not help thinking
of the poor sheep and Rover, who had no supper
•that night.
Next morning, before it was light, the shepherd
went out again to look' for his sheep,—and the
next day after that,—and the next.
But they were all sorrowful days. The sheep
were nowhere to be found, nor poor Rover neither.
No person whom Bonnie's and Minnie's father met,
had seen them or heard of them.
He did not meet many people on the hills.
One day he came home, and he said, "It is
no use looking for the sheep any more. They are
all dead before now, I think, and buried under
the snow-drifts on the hills. I must go and
tell my master that all his sheep , are lost. It
was a sad night for us that they got out of the
shed!"
But while he was saying this, he heard a great
noise outside his cottage. And Bonnie heard it,
and Minnie heard it, and their mother heard it;
and they all ran out at the cottage door.
40
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
"Baa—baa." ."Bow-wow." "Baa—baa-r^-
baa." " Bow-wow-wow!"
What could be the meaning of those noises?
It was very plain what the meaning was.
"There's Hover come back, father," shouted
Bonnie, before he had reached the door.
"Yober's torn bat, tatta!" cried out little
Minnie.
" And the sheep are come back!" said their
mother.
"All of therti—revery one!" said their father.
Yes, there the sheep were) and there was poor
Rover, as glad as any of his friends.
But dear ! dear! so tired he was with running,
and so hoarse with barking, and so hungry !—you
would have been sad to see him.
Ah, well! that was soon set to right It was a
nice dish of food that Hover got then ; and a nice
warm bed that was made up for him j and a nice
long sleep he had after his long toil!
But hoy far Rover had travelled over the hills
for the sheep, or where he had found them, or how
he had managed to drive them all home, safe and
sound—nobody can know.
Good Hover I Clever, grateful, faithful Rover!
f iiih |ranL
If you were to go into Mr. Farre's house, in
Bertha Terrace, Highbury, any morning before
eight o'clock, you would see a pleasant sight.
From nursery to kitchen, every one is awake and
busy. Little children, fresh and rosy from their
morning hath, are playing about merrily. Cook is
making toast and preparing bacon, and Jane, the
housemaid, setting out the pretty white breakfast-
cups and saucers, and the gay flower-mugs on the
snow-white cloth of the parlour table. Quick and
business-like is Jane as she sets on the large
jug of milk for the children, and the teapot for
the papa and mamma. All is ready just as Mrs.
Farre walks down stairs. Then the bell, rings for
prayers, and all the little ones come down, from
Frank, the eldest boy of eight years old, to Blanche,
the tiny baby-girl, who can just run with the help
of nurse's finger. It was a cold, chilly morning
in April, and the fire was very welcome, although
the sun did shine. Yes, the sun shone so brightly,
that Mrs. Farre's flowers in the stand looked quite
happy) and the canary, in its bright wire prison-
4* 41
42
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
home, sang such loud songs of joy, that every
one wished it would he quiet. Mamma was obliged
once or twice to cry " Hush ! hush I" for there
were little voices which made as much noise as the
canary; and just like the canary, they were still
for a minute or two, and then began again. That
did not matter very much, for Mr. and Mrs. Farre
liked to hear their good, happy little ones talk.
Such a group of merry faces ! -No, do not look
at the eldest first. There is Ernest, the second
boy. No sunbeam nor summer flower ever smiled
so much. His was the smile of heart-sunshine,
of peace and love. Then there was Clara, his twin-
sister. She smiled when Ernest smiled, but it
was a sort of reflection of his joy rather than joy
of her own : as when the sun shines on the par¬
lour wall, making that bright and cheerful which
has no light of its own. She was a meek, thought¬
ful child, was Clara : too thoughtful for a little one
of seven; but as she grew stronger, and saw only
that which was lovely and joyous, so her mamma
hoped she would lose her careful look and her
quiet way; but every one loved Clara. There
were two more at the table—little, sprightly chat¬
terers—Agnes and Lucy, and the baby. Of course
the baby did not sit up to breakfast. I am afraid
he would have made more confusion than canary-
bird and talkative brothers put together.
LITTLE FRANK,
43
The postman's knock!—and three letters canle
in. What could he the matter, every one asked, as
mamma looked up from her letter ? I am afraid
the postman, has brought a disappointment to you,
my dears," said Mrs. Farre, at length. " Your
Aunt Mary wrjtes , me a very , mournful letter.
Fanny, and John, and little Charley are all ill of
the; measles. It will not be safe to go to Dorking
for. the Easter holydays, even if it would be kind
to give trouble in your aunt's sick and sorrowful
house,"
There had been a cloud hanging over one child's
heart from the moment of his first awaking. He
was not always—indeed he was very seldom—
a naughty boy; but this morning he awoke in
that uncomfortable frame which nurses sometimes
call "out of sorts." Nothing was right. His
lessons for the day were difficult. He remembered
that two of yesterday's tasks still remained unsaid,
and, worse still, unlearned. Yet he lay in bed till
the very last moment—I believe until the bell rang
for prayers—and just came down as Jane brought
up the coffee. He was discontented with every
thing. There was no brown bread on the break¬
fast table. That was one grievance. Another was,
that Ernest spilled a cup of milk into his plate,
and did not seem half sorry enough. AncJ now,
to finish it all, to complete his misery, the Dork
44
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
ing visit was put off. All country joys were at an
end. Poor, unfortunate Frank !
Oh, what a pity it is, that such a pleasant
household should he spoiled by a discontented face
amid the bright, smiling ones ! But yet it is most
likely you have seen that which I describe; and
as there is a lesson to be learned from pictures,
you may learn one from mine just as well as if I
painted it all sunshine. It is not very often that
a landscape is all bright. Sometimes it is so; but-
more often, if you look far on, there is a distant
hill, lying in a mist, or a pretty village in a nook,
on which a cloud is resting. Just so, in this happy
family, there was a shadow to-day. Mr. and Mrs.
Farre did not say, as some papas and mammas
may have said to their little ones, that they must
not be so cross and discontented, because it would
be wrong, and selfish, and so forth. By-and-by,
when the first edge of the vexation was gone, they
would tell them all this. They did not expect
them to bear the disappointment like men and
women, silently and quietly; but were so full of
love and sympathy with their darlings, that one
might have supposed they were themselves as dis¬
appointed as they. But soon papa began to show
how much worse it was for poor John and Fanny
to be in bed this fine weather, with aching heads
and feverish bodies, and bad coughs, and unplea-
J.ITTLE FRANK.
45
sant medicine: so by, degrees, in beginning to
pity others, tbey forgot to pity themselves at all.
This is always the best way to forget self, if one
can. Frank, however, did not forget himself,
Jle- went on with his inward murmurings and
grumblings, and was getting in a bad way alto¬
gether.
While this was going on in the Farres's pleasant
breakfast-parlour, a little girl had been calling her
inorhing cry of "Water-creases, four bunches a
penny," past the house, along the terrace where
they lived. They had often heard her plaintive
cry, but had seldom thought of the poor street-
seller who uttered it. , They seldom bought water-
cresses,- and the child had only one regular cus¬
tomer in the row of houses-—an old gentleman; and
now jhe was ill in bed, and water-cresses were not
good for him: so she cried in vain; and it seemed
that she had a cold this morning, for, as she sat
down on the step of the Farres's door, to arrange
her green bunches in her little tin, she coughed
sadly. Clara heard the cough, and she listened
attentively. Cook was now sweeping out the hall,
the front-door being open.
Clara heard the order for the child to get off the
steps. " That's the water-cress girl, mamma : may
I give her one of my pennies ? She could buy lico¬
rice wit'h it, and that would do her cough good."
46
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Her mamma was quite willing that she should
give the penny; but she doubted whether the
child would dare to buy licorice with it. She was,
no doubt, sent into the street to earn her loaf for
breakfast. " Children, very young children, had
to do this," Mrs. Farre said, in answer to Clara's
wondering look ; " but take the penny, dear, or
the child will be gone."
So Clara took the penny. The child, a pale,
thin girl, had no childish way nor look with her.
Oh, no: there were lines of care instead of dim¬
ples, and an old, thoughtful face, instead of a
childish one. She was counting the bunches on
her tray, and wrapping her thin shawl about her,
and was just preparing to move away as Clara ap¬
peared. When she offered the penny, the girl
began to count four bunches of cresses in return;
but " No !" Clara said,"1 don't want any cresses,
thank you : I only brought you this penny to get
you some licorice or sugar-candy for your bad
cough."
The water-cress girl looked astonished. " I don't
know what that is," said she: "is it sweet stuff?"
"Yes; and good for colds."
The child shook her head gravely. " I take all
I get to mother. Mother is very good to me. I
never eat sweet stuff, miss."
"Have you had any breakfast?"
LITTLE FRANK.
47
"Breakfast! No. I've had bad luck to-day.
I don't go 'home to breakfast till I have sold all
my creases out."
" Stop a minute," said Clara, as she ran in to
ask for just a piece of bread and butter, and some
tea, for the pale little girl that had had no
breakfast.
"You may have mine," said Frank, pettishly :
kl the bread is old, and I like brown bread best."
Clara took the bread, and Ernest followed with
the milk: they told the child to sit down on the
step and eat. She thanked them, but she must
not wait, she said : her only chance of selling was
" afore nine o'clock," and she must go on : so she
drank the milk, and hastily taking the bread,
would have walked away, but that Mrs. Farre,
who had followed the children, and pitied the
water-cress gild as much as Clara did, asked where
she lived ? Her answer was not very plain. How¬
ever, Mrs. Farre made out that it . was somewhere
in Sun Court, Gray's Inn Lane, and that her
name was Martha. This was all the. child seemed
to know. ' Happy little Clara ! she had been think¬
ing so much of others, that she had forgotten her¬
self and her disappointment; and when Frank re¬
newed his complaint about the long-expected
Dorking visit being put off, a for these tiresome
measles," Clara looked up surprised—the room
48
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
looked so snug, the fire so bright, her little bro¬
thers and sisters so healthy and clean, compared
with that pale, thin, half-clad water-cress girl.
The lessons went on very ill this day: Miss
White, the morning governess, looked more grave
than ever, and the long list of backward lessons
swelled terribly. This was not the worst. If we
do not do our duty in one thing, we are almost
sure to forget it in another. Frank was put out
with himself and every one else.
" Will you come and walk with me ?" said Mrs.
Farre gravely to her little boy. " Clara, Ernest,
and I are going to see where the little pale water¬
cress girl lives. Will you not come ?"
Frank had no greater pleasure, at most times,
than that of walking with his mother; but he did
not feel it to be a pleasure to-day. There was that
in her calm, steady eye, as it rested on him, which
Frank could read very well. It seemed to say,
"Oh my child, how discontented you are, and how
sorry you make me !" Frank put his hand in his'
mother's, and walked silently by her side. It was
not a pretty walk : no one could say that it was.
Gray's Inn Lane and the road to it from High¬
bury is not pleasant. There are few fine shops—
none, indeed, after you leave Islington, and all
the murmuring thoughts were stirred up within
Frank's young heart, for he could not forget Dork-
LITTLE ERANK.
49
ing and the country walks. He well remembered
these, and he kept calling all the pleasures of the
country to his mind, until the town seemed to him
scarcely to be borne. Little Clara, meanwhile,
Jfound pleasure in the dim and airless streets.
Hers was a spirit, no less than that of her glad
twin-brother Ernest, which shed peace and joy
about her path. This was indeed an errand suited
to her taste, and she chatted in her quiet, pleasant
way, to her mother, as they walked along.
Suddenly a thought seemed to strike Mrs. Farre,
and stopping short, she said, (CClara, darling, will
you go back with Ernest; and do not think me
unkind that I do not take you to-day ?"
Clara's eyes filled with tears. This was her
disappointment, but she took Ernest's hand at
once : " Mamma knows best," was the language of
her simple, trusting heart. Mrs. Farre was quite
right. Scenes of poverty and distress were bad
for little Clara. She was not likely to feel too
little in this life. The fear was that she might
feel too much; and while she was so young and
delicate, her mother wisely kept her from all that
was likely to be too distressing or painful.
Frank went on, and, after a little search, they
found Sun Court; but Sun Court had so many in¬
habitants, that for a long time it seemed unlikely
that they would discover Martha, the cress-girl.
Vol. I. 5
50
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Rude, dirty children, playing on the dust-heaps,
unwashed, untaught, and ill fed, answered either
holdly or shyly to the inquiry, for the water-cress
seller. At last they spied Martha herself. She
was bending under the weight of a pail of water,
which she was trying to convey by slow stages up
the crooked, narrow staircase. The gentle voice
of the kind, motherly Mrs. Farre, seemed strange
music to the ear of the little wanderer; and she
set down her pail, and looked curiously in the
lady's face.
" Is your cough better ?" asked Frank's mother.
"No," answered the girl roughly; but it was
only a manner that she had. Her heart was really
softened by the lady's tone.
"You are very young to carry that heavy load.
Let my little boy help you. He is stronger than
you."
Frank looked surprised, but he could not re¬
fuse, and he lifted the pail a stair or two. Then
the child tried, and by degrees they were on the
top-stair. Martha went first, and the visitors fol¬
lowed. What a room it was! Frank had time to
look round it, while his mother talked with a poor,
sickly woman who sat by the only light part of
the room, near a broken window, employed in
sewing the fur-skins together for a furrier. Mrs.
Farre complained how sorry Martha's cough had
LITTLE FRANK.
51
made her little daughter, and how her pale, thin
cheeks and poor clothing, had excited her own
pity ■ and she asked if any thing could be done for
the child.
The woman did not answer at first. At last
she began to cry. " She could not have her loaf,
ma'am, except she earned it," she said. " She
is a good girl, and her day's work is hard for her
day's bread, poor lamb ! I have three younger,
ina'am," and she pointed to a baby asleep in an
old basket, and to two little rough-headed, sickly
looking girls, playing on the floor with oyster
shells, and a bunch of cresses, at " selling, like
Martha." "Yes," said the old woman in answer
.to Mrs. Farre, " she is young for such work. Five
o'clock, at latest, she has to be up in the morning,
and dress by the lamp-light in the court, in win¬
ter, and out she goes with her little tray to Far-
ringdon market, and sixpence in her hand to buy
the creases. They buy a lapful for threepence,
and for sixpence as much as the basket there will
hold. It's cold work, ma'am, I know, for the
little ones on cool spring mornings; and on winter
mornings 'tis worse, to take the dirty creases to the
pump and wash them. Then they have to sit all
in the cold, poor dears, and tie them up, before
they begin their rounds. My girl is not often
home till ten, and to-day, she has had bad luck:
52
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
she could not sell her creases. She says her cough
teased her, and she couldn't cry them well; and
that's true enough, as I know."
"Have you had your dinner, Martha?" asked
Mrs. Farre of the child.
" No, ma'am: I don't get dinner. Mother gives
me bread and butter and a cup of tea, when I
come home from my rounds, and then I go till
tea-time."
" Ah! and a hard pinch we have to get that,"
said the poor woman.
Frank looked amazed. Two meals a-day, of
bread and butter and tea, and a hard pinch to get
that! A room with a broken roof, and almost
paneless window, a sloping floor, two pine chairs
and a stool, a mattress on the floor in one corner,
and some straw and an old rug in another; and
he had grumbled at his breakfast that day, had
thought his a hard lot, because he could not go
into the country. Oh, what shame ! what sorrow
he felt for his.bad spirit! Little Martha stood
before him almost in reproof, and his heart swelled
with gratitude now, as it had done with discontent
and ill-humour but a little time before. His
mother saw that the lesson was understood, and
she rejoiced that it was.
"Are you happy?" she asked of Martha:
"don't you wish sometimes to go out into the
UTTLE FRANK.
53
beautiful country, to see the streams where the
eresses grow, and to hear the pretty birds sing?"
"No : I never wished that."
" Don't you sometimes wish for a better dinner
or supper ? Does it not seem hard to pass break¬
fast tables covered with good food, while you are
cold, and weak, and hungry ?"
" Sometimes it feels hard; but many a girl in
our court has not even that much,—and that is
harder."
How Frank blushed at this! and well he might.
"Then you don't rest all the morning, when
you come home ?"
" No: I must work for mother."
"And how old are you?"
"I shall be nine, come my birthday."
"Just my age," thought Frank; "but how old
and wise she seems!" The child had begun to
"tidy," as she called it, their little room. She
picked up all the pieces that lay about, and taking
a brush, began to scrub the farther part of the
floor, coughing at times sadly.
Her mother looked at her anxiously once or
twice, and then said, " She's a good girl,—never
thinks of herself nor of her own troubles: it's
always her mother or the little ones that's upper¬
most; and she never complains, bless her! let the
weather be ever so bad. Ah! ma'am, I'd take
5*
54
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS,
her out of the streets, if I could: 'tis a hard life,
but we must work for bread, or we roust go with¬
out it. I have lost my husband, and there's only
her hands and mine to bring in our loaf and pay
our rent."
After a little help, and a promise tQ come again
soon, and to buy a pennyworth of water-cresses of
little Martha now and then, Mrs. Farre and her
child left the narrow court. How fresh the air
felt in Gray's Inn Lane, after the stifling atmo¬
sphere of Sun Court; and when they came to
Islington, it seemed like the country to Frank, as
he thought in his own childish way on the past
lesson.
" I know why you brought me to-day, mamma.
I might forget your lessons: I often do, I know,
but I shall never forget little Martha. Her voice
of a morning will remind me, if I am disposed to
grumble, I think."
" Of what will it remind you, Frank ?"
" Of my discontent, mamma."
" And is that all ? Will you not ask if you de¬
serve more than the ill-fed girl who passes your
door day by day ?"
" Yes, mamma."
" And will you not try to be thankful for these
things, which you take as matters of course?
Will you not ask yourself how it is that your
XlTTLE FRANK.
55
table is spread every day, and thrice a day, with
"plenty of good food, while little Martha has to
content herself with two scanty meals ? Will you
not ask if it is by chance that your home is in the
purer air and clearer light of Highbury, while
her's is in the dark, unwholesome court in Gray's
Inn Lane? Will you again complain that you
cannot enjoy a week in the country, when you see
little Martha going on her hard-working life cheer¬
fully and honestly?"
" I will try, mamma, and ask God to keep these
thoughts in my heart, Mine is indeed a beautiful
home," said he, as he saw the garden-plot in the
distance, " compared with poor Martha's. I will
not say that I will never grumble again, but I will
think more of others) and if I forget myself, I
shall not be so likely to complain." The mother
silently asked a blessing on her boy's resolve, and
they went hand in hand to enjoy, with cheerful
hearts, the blessings of happy home.
f jj* fittU $axtmSitht$.
how alan rayner and his brother and sister
set off to seek their fortunes.
Young as Alan was, lie had heard from his
Uncle Paul, who had been abroad, many a long
story about people seeking their fortune; so hav¬
ing a holyday one fine summer day, he set off down
the dale at the back of the house, with his brother
Owen and his little sister Amy, a-fortune-seeking.
Alan carried a stick in his hand, Amy had a little
covered basket on her arm. The stick was to
defend them in their dangers, and the basket to
supply them with food.
Full of courage, Alan, being the eldest, led the
way, telling Owen and Amy to keep close to him,
and to fear nothing. What there was to be afraid
of Alan did not say, but he looked very resolute.
Some people are quite as bold when they know
that they are safe, as when they are in danger.
As they passed by Lakin's pond, a duck gave
a loud quack: when they came to the great ash-
tree, a bee buzzed by them; and just as they were
56
the! little fortune-seekers. 57
Opposite the old hovel, the crows cawed high above
their heads in the air; hut neither the quacking,
buzzing, nor the cawing frightened the bold Sir
Alan, and on he went, holding up his stick.
Pleasant it is to hear the birds singing in the
bush, and to witness the lambs at play in the daisy
meadow, but still more pleasant to see children
who love one another, with sparkling eyes and
happy hearts, enjoying a holyday.
how they met with difficulties and
dangers.
Alan dearly loved Owen and Amy, and they
loved him quite as much in return: they were
always doing one another some little acts of kind¬
ness. Again and again as they went along, Owen
offered to carry the basket for his sister; and Alan
told her, whatever happened in their travels, he
would protect her.
The simple habits of children agree well with
country scenes, with fields and green leaves, and
buttercups and daisies. Amy had soon a full hand¬
ful of flowers and grasses : Owen now and then
picked up a pretty stone, and Alan, full of his ad¬
venture, talked of little things as though they were
great things.
They had almost reached the sawyer's cottage,
'58
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
•when a very little puppy ran out playfully toward
them. Alan, who had just been telling OwOn and
Amy a tale about wild beasts, asked them if he
should attack the tiger? Owen would have it
that it was only a puppy-dog, but Alan said that
did not matter, for it had four legs, and a head and
a tail, and so had a tiger. Owen thought he had
better let it alone, and little Amy tamed the tiger
at once by giving it a bit of bread and butter from
her basket.
Alan had no easy task to persuade Owen and
Amy to call a clump of trees a forest, and a little
pond a large lake; but where was the use of their
going to seek their fortunes, unless they met with
some strange adventure ? In one place, Alan spoke
of the m'oors and the mountains, and in another
of swamps and plains, when neither the one nor
the other was to be seen.
Suddenly they came to a spot in the lane where
five or six geese and a few goslings were stocking
up the grass with their bills. All in a moment,
the gander came toward them, stretching out his
long neck and hissing loudly. Owen and Amy
ran back, followed by Alan, who told them that
if he had stopped, and hit the gander with his
stick, he would have been sure to frighten the
goslings.
As there was a stile near, leading into a field,
the little fortune-seekers.
59
Alan bethought bim that it "would be more pleasant
to walk along tlxe field than the lane; so they all
got over the stile, and thus passed the geese without
frightening the goslings.
" I wonder how that gander would like it," said
Alan, when he had gone a little distance, " if I
were to turn back, and lay hold of him by his long
neck, and shake him ?" Amy begged of him by
po means to think of such a thing j and so Alan
told her that he would not. Little did the gander
know of his narrow escape I
how poor amy \vas lost a day and a night
in a forest.
Alan had agreed with Owen and Amy, before
they set out on their travelsy to share whatever
befel them, of good or evil- u If I find a gold¬
mine," said he, " you shall have your share y and
if you should be taken and shut up in a Turkish
prison, I will be shut up too." Neither of these
things seemed very likely to oecur; but strange
events sometimes happen to travellers.
" What shall we do with this great snake ?"
said Alan, making a stand and looking on the
ground ; but Owen and his sister both said it was
only a poor little snail, and Amy put it out of the
path very tenderly " How do you like this bird
60
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
of Paradise?" said Alan, pointing to a beautiful
moth which had settled on a flower. " It is a
butterfly," said Owen, "and I would not hurt it
on any account." Pleasant it is to see a beautiful
butterfly on a flower, but a hind-hearted little girl
tenderly removing a poor snail out of danger,
makes a much prettier picture.
Alan, who had heard from his Uncle Paul how
on many occasions he had been lost in the woods,
and what he had suffered from hunger, thought
that by all means one of them ought to be lost,
without having any thing to eat. This being agreed
upon, the affair was conducted in the following
manner:
In the first place, the basket was hidden in a
dry ditch. Then Amy was taken among some
bushes, and left in the very middle of them. Then
Alan went one way to look for her, and Owen the
other, seemingly very much distressed.
It was a sad sight to see the poor dejected bro¬
thers wandering about in search of their lost
sister, but, at last, a day and a night being sup¬
posed to have passed away, they found her in the
very same place where they had left her. Great
was their rejoicing at their good fortune. Soon
after this, they discovered their provisions, and sat
down to regale themselves with happy hearts.
the little fortune-seekers. 61
how they crossed a riyer, without one op
them being drowned.
Having finished their repast, Alan once more,
with stick in hand, put himself at the head of the
party. As he went along, he asked Amy what
she thought her mamma would say to her being lost
in the forest ? But Amy told him that she was
not really lost, for that she had seen him and Owen
all the while through the bushes.
The sun kept shining, the birds kept singing,
and the wind blew gently and fresh, as they wan¬
dered on, and every thing around them was calm
and peaceful; but, ah me ! what perils await those
who go on their travels to seek their fortunes ! The
little brook that trickles through a part of the dale
was now before them, and Alan told them the
river must be crossed. It seemed very odd to
Owen that Alan should call that a river, which he
could in some parts jump over. However, he re¬
mained silent, and Alan went on talking.
(l The river must be crossed," said he, " and I
hope that none of us will be carried away by the
stream. What we shall do if a fed Indian springs
from behind the bushes, or a crocodile comes out
of the sedge, I don't know. Here is the narrowest
part of the river. I will lay my stick across it,
Vol. i. 6
62
buds and blossoms.
and if we make believe very much, it will do for a
bridge."
"But I can't walk along your stick," said Amy.
"Never mind that," said Alan: "a bridge is a
bridge, whether we walk aloDg it or not." So
Alan laid his stick across the narrow part, and
then jumped over the brook, followed by Owen and
Amy. No red Indian sprang from the bush, no
crocodile came out of the sedge, and the river was
crossed without so much as one of them being
drowned.
how a fierce wolf made a ^terrible attack
on amy.
All at once it came into Alan's head that
Uncle Paul had once been attacked by a wolf, and
that they ought to have an adventure of the same
kind; he therefore asked Owen if he would con¬
sent to be eaten up by a wolf. Owen said he did
not like it; he thought Alan ought to be eaten, for
he was the biggest. Alan said that would never
do, for then there would be nobody to take care of
him and Amy.
But, beside this difficulty, there was another:
they had no wolf, and where to get one they did
not know. At last it was settled. Owen was to
be the wolf, and.to spring on little Amy; but be-
THE LITTLE FORTUNE-SEEKERS.
ca
fore he had eaten her up, or even so much as snap¬
ped off her little finger, Alan was to rush upon
him with his stick, and drive him back into the
woods.
Amy was now left alone, that Owen might get
behind one bush and Alan behind another. No
sooner was this done, than with her basket on her
arm she went on her jouroey.
And now little Amy was almost come to the
bush behind which Owen was crouching down.
For a moment she made a stop, as though she
hardly durst venture to go by, but at last she went
on. Suddenly the wolf leaped out, and caught
hold of her.
And now what was poor Amy to do? It"was
of no use to call out, for she could not see anybody.
It was of no use to strive with the wolf, for he was
too strong for her. Well was it for her that Alan
happened to come up. Many people are frightened
at wolves, but Alan did not seem frightened at
all.
It was a hard struggle, for the wolf pulled poor
Amy one way, and Alan pulled her the other; but
at length Alan won the day. " Shall I kill the wolf,
Amy ?" cried he, lifting up his stick. " Shall I
kill the wolf?." " No, no 1" cried Amy; " he has
not hurt me a bit. He is not a real wolf, but only
my brother Owen." Any one who had seen how
64
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
heartily little Amy threw her arms round Owen's
neck, might have said that she was as likely to eat
the wolf as the wolf was to eat her.
HOW ALAN, OWEN, AND AMY SEPARATED ONE
FROM ANOTHER-
The affair of the wolf having passed off so well,
Alan began to bethink himself of other adventures.
" Perhaps," said he " if we seek our fortunes by
ourselves for some time, it will be better."
Just then they came to a spot where there were
three paths. One went straight on between some
bushes, while the others went round in opposite
ways. It was agreed that Amy should take the
middle path, and Alan and Owen the others.
"Farewell, Owen! and farewell, dear Amy!" said
Alan, giving them both a kiss: "let us hope to
meet again. Remember, whatever may happen to
us of good or bad fortune, we must love one
another."
Amy took out her handkerchief, and held it up
to her eyes in a very natural way, and thus they
parted, hoping that some day or other they might
meet again. The separation did not seem likely
to be a long one, as the three paths, they well
knew, united again at about the distance of a
hundred yards.
THE LITTLE FORTUNE-SEEKERS. 65
When Amy was left alone, she put away her
handkerchief, for no good is got by giving way to
sorrow. There Were flowers of different kinds
glowing on the banks under the bushes. " This
shall be papa's flower," said she, gathering a fine
honeysuckle. " This shall be for mamma," pluck¬
ing a wild rose; u and this for little Dolly," break¬
ing off the stem of a forget-me-not close to the
root. Having twisted a bit of paper round the
stalks of these flowers, she put them in her basket.
On went Amy, now talking to herself, and now
peeping to see whereabout her brothers were, until
she came to the end of the path; and just then
Alan and Owen came up to her. How" very odd
that, after all going different roads, they should
meet at the same spot! Much had they to tell
one another about their adventures.
HOW ALAN GETS SADLY WOUNDED IN SEEKING
FOR RED INDIANS.
So much had Alan heard from Uncle Paul
about red Indians, that his heart was set on going
among them, and, if he could, on doing them a
kindness. He had a knife, which he said would
be very useful to them, and he should like to teach
some of them to read.
Both Owen and Amy wondered where he would
6*
66
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
find the red Indians, but Alan pointed to a little
copse at some distance from them. " That copse
yonder," said he, "is quite as likely a place to
find them in as any that I know."
" But we have not seen one yet," said Owen.
"No," replied Alan: "red Indians always get
behind the trees." This made Owen and Amy
look about them, as if they feared every tree had
an Indian behind it.
Alan set off for the coppice, while Owen and
Amy sat down to rest themselves, and to talk over
their travels • but it was not long before Alan again
joined them. Whether the red Indians were
absent on some expedition, or whatever else might
be the cause, certain it was that Alan had found
no Indians in the coppice. He had, however, torn
one of the legs of his trousers, so he asked Amy to
bind up his wounds.
" But you have not hurt your leg," said Amy :
"you have only torn a hole in your trousers."
" Never mind that," replied Alan: "we are out
on our travels seeking our fortunes, and must make
the most of every thing: bind up my wounded
leg.';
Little Amy tied up his leg with his handkerchief;
and, considering that she had never bound up a
wound before, it did her great credit. If little
girls knew more about binding up wounds than
THE LITTLE FORTUNE-SEEKERS. 67
they do, it would not hurt them. It might, on the
contrary, assist them in the kind actions they may
be called upon to perform.
HOW THE TRAVELLERS FOUND A TREASURE.
It is due to Alan to say, that the misfortune of
his wounded leg by no means cooled his courage.
Some people who meet with accidents are sadly
cast down by them, but Alan bore his very pa¬
tiently. "What is the use," said he, "of com¬
plaining? Those who go to seek their fortunes
must learn to bear pain."
" But you are not really in pain," said Amy.
Whether Alan heard her or not, he took no notice
of what she said.
One of Alan's plans was to find a treasure; and
as they had neither spade nor pick-axe with them,
to dig for gold, he thought the best way would be
for them to find a bag of money. Little Amy said,
if they found a bag of money, she should like to
take l3olly some. This being generously agreed to
by Alan and Owen, they proceeded with their plan.
Alan took Amy's handkerchief, and tied up
some grass in it. He then told Owen to go on a
little way and drop it, and this Owen did.
" Hey-day 1" cried Alan, when he came up
to the spot, "what have we here? Who would
63
BTJDS AND BLOSSOMS.
have thought that a merchant would have dropped
a great hag of money in such a place as this ?"
The place, certainly, did hot appear at all likely
for such a thing, but, as was said before, strange
events sometimes happen to travellers.
All at once, Owen and Amy bethought them¬
selves that they had no right to the gold, as it be¬
longed to the merchant who had lost it, but Alan
met this objection by saying, that they could easily
inquire for the merchant as they went along, and
give up the money, if they found him. Thus paci¬
fied, Owen and Amy allowed Alan to lift the heavy
bag of money into the basket: this he seemed to do
with great difficulty.
But now there arose another difficulty, for how
was the basket to be carried with so heavy a weight
in it? Alan, nothing daunted, told them that
"Where there was a will, there was a way." A
stick was procured, and passed through the handle
of the basket: one end of the stick rested on
Owen's shoulder, and the other end on the
shoulder of little Amy.
Hardly could there be a more forlorn picture
taken than that of poor Alan with his leg tied up,
leaning on his stick for support as he hobbled on¬
ward, and Owen and Amy, as they appeared to toil
with might and main, bending under their pon¬
derous load.
THE LITTLE FORTUNE-SEEKERS.
69
"If we should not find the merchant," said
Alan, " after giving a little of our gold to Dolly,
I think we should give all the rest of it to papa
and mamma." "Yes! yes!" replied Owen and
Amy; and so this was agreed to. Alan, Owen,
and Amy had reason to love their parents, for they
were bringing them up to love one another, and to
fear God and keep his commandments.
HOW THEIR ADVENTURES WERE SUDDENLY
BROUGHT TO AN END.
Alan, limping on his lame leg, and Owen and
little Amy, heavily burdened with their weighty
treasure, had almost come to the turn by the birch-
trees, when suddenly, to their great surprise, Dash,
their own favourite dog, came barking joyfully
toward them. How little did they suspect, that
at that very moment their parents were waiting
for them with the pony chaise, in the little hollow
at the end of the dale. The truth was, that Mr.
Rayner, having agreed with Mrs. Rayner that she
should drive round by the turn pike-road to meet
him, had watched over his children from the high-
ground ever since they had entered the dale, that
no mischief might befall them. Even thus in life
our heavenly Father looks down from above upon
TO
BUDS AND BL0SS03IS.
those who love him, watching them in all their
ways, and guarding them from evil.
No sooner did oar little fortune-seekers set eyes
on the pony chaise, than off they set in a scamper,
strangely forgetful of what had passed. It was won¬
derful to see how nimble Alan was, in spite of his
poor wounded leg, and with what ease Owen and
little Amy ran along with that heavy load of gold
in the basket, whieh before had well-nigh weighed
them both down to the ground. Mr. and Mrs.
Rayner, pleased with the affection of their children,
clasped them in their arms.
As they proceeded on their way, Alan, Owen,
and little Amy related their adventures, neither
forgetting the dangers they had passed through,
nor the treasure they had found. In some things
they differed in opinion, but they all agreed in this,
that a kind papa and mamma are much better than
a bag of money, and that those who have a happy
home never need really wander abroad to seek
their fortune.
ffct §.lattarg (iatftmng.
"The blackberries are ripe 011 Farnley Com¬
mon," cried little Harry Thorp, as he and the
rest of the village children came crowding out of
school, one fine autumn day at noon. "Who'll
go this afternoon to Farnley Common, to gather
blackberries V1 cried he, still louder, throwing his
cap up into the air.
Before the cap came down again, a number of
voices shouted out eagerly, "I will!" "I'll go!"
—some few of them adding afterward, "If mother
will let me," or, " If father dpes not want me."
The children planned to meet at the white gate
at the end of the lane leading to Farnley, and then
ran off to their homes, hungry for dinner, and im¬
patient to get permission to go blackberry-hunting
that afternoon on Farnley Common.
It was not much that such young children could
do at home on half-holidays, and their fathers and
mothers were glad they should have the treat at
least once a-year, while the blackberries were so
ripe. They remembered how, when they were
71
72
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
children themselves, there was no place like Fans-
ley Common for blackberries,—no place anywhere
about, where they were in such abundance and so
fine, and so easily got at, to say nothing of the
dewberries that were to be found there, with their
large round pips covered with such a delicate
purple bloom. They were glad that the children
should go; and so that they were at home again by
sunset, they were willing for them to spend a good
long afternoon on Farnley Common.
The children could hardly wait till their din¬
ners were over, so eager were they to be off. They
hunted out such baskets as they had to take with
them, and one after another popped out of the cot¬
tages that stood around the village green, and ran
away toward the white gate where they were all
to meet. Away went Harry Thorp and his little
sister Annie, and Bobbie Sykes, and "Willie Green,
and Jane and Susan Maples, with their little bro¬
ther Jemmy, and many more besides, whose names
we need not give. They had nearly all assembled,
and were preparing to start, when some one asked
after Kitty Groves. Kitty Groves had not come,
and yet she had been pretty sure that her mother
would let her be of the party. What could Kitty
be about?
While they were talking about her, Kitty was all
the time preparing to come. But she had one or
TI1E BLACKBERRY GATHERING.
78
two Kttle matters to do before she started, which
made her so late. After she had eaten her own
dinner, she had to take up stairs a plate of pud¬
ding to her little brother Martin, who was only
just recovering from a bad fever, and was still very
weak and ill. She did not like, too, to go away
for a whole afternoon without having a little talk
with Martin. He liked to hear all about where
she was going, and to receive her promise of
bringing him home some nice ripe blackberries.
She promised him, too, not to be very late in re¬
turning home, for his mother was going to carry
him down stairs that evening for the first time,
and he should like to see her, and get his black¬
berries before he was taken up stairs again to bed.
Kitty promised all this, as she tied on her bonnet
and tippet; and then kissing Martin, she was off
and across the green, and at the white gate in a
little time.
Everybody was glad not to be kept any longer
waiting, and hardly listened to Kitty's excuses for
being so late. The troop of merry children set off
on their walk down the nice shady lane, and then
over a stile and across some fields, through which
a pathway led to the common. Everybody liked
getting over stiles better than going through gates,
and the more stiles the better. But they came to
where the Farnley brook crossed between two fields,
74
bi/ds and blossoms.
with only such a, narrow plank for a bridge, that
many of the girls did not half like going over it.
The brook was fuller than usual, and looked so
deep, that they quite trembled at the thought of
venturing on it. The boys ran over fearlessly, and
then stood on the opposite bank, and laughed at
the'girls as they stood in a cluster, no one daring
to be the first to cross. If there had only been a
hand-rail, they would not haye cared j but there was
nothing to hold by, and they could not tell that
they might not turn giddy in the middle of the
plank, and pop into the stream. It only made
the matter worse to be laughed at, they said, and
some of the girls looked back across the fields, and
began to consider whether it would not be better
to turn back, and go the long way round by Farn-
ley village. They said so, and then the boys were
angry, and said they would lose so much time,
and that they would not wait for them. Some of
the brothers, too, had promised their mothers to
keep with their sisters, and take care of them; so
that this plan would never do. All at once Harry
Thorp scrambled down the bank of the stream, and
gathered one of the tall, stout bulrushes that were
growing there, and then coming half-way across
the plank, he held it out to the girls, to serve as
a kind of support for them, to hold by. Susan
Maples was the first to lay hold of the thick end
THE BLACKBERRY GATHERING. 75
of the bulrush, by which Harry led her across.
Then the other girls followed, and the plan
answered very well until it came to Kitty Groves,
and then, just as 'she was in the middle of the
plank, Bobbie Sykes went and jumped on the other
end of the plank, and shook it so that she would
have fallen into the water, had hot Harry held her
tight, and led her over. "Kitty was so frightened,
that even after she was safe on the other side, she
could not help havihg a little cry. Everybody
said it was very ill-natured of Bobbie to have tried
to frighten her, and Bobbie was very angry, and
declared he did not do it on purpose. Then Kitty
dried her eyes, and said it did not matter after all,
and blamed herself for being so foolish, and begged
the others not to say any more about it, and so
76
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
spoil the pleasure of the party. They trudged
eagerly on, to make amends for the delay.
Only once did they stop to rest, and that was
where some trees had been felled near the begin¬
ning of the common, and the trunks that were ly¬
ing on the ground made it so tempting to sit down
and get cool. They did not rest long, for even
where they sat they could see the bramble-bushes
rising up above the heath and fern on the common.
Was it quite fancy to think they could see, even
at that distance, the clusters of blackberries from
among the green and brown leaves ? After think¬
ing so, they pould Stay and rest no longer, and up
they all jumped, and were soon scattered about
over the uneven surface of the common—busy at
work where the brambles grew the thickest—
crushing in among them in spite of their prickles,
and bending down the long, straggling branches, at
the ends of which the berries grew. Never were
blackberries finer or riper -} but, just as usual, it
seemed as if the very largest and ripest clusters
were always the most difficult to get at. The boys
cut themselves hooked sticks to pull down the
branches with, and their mouths were soon black
with the berries they had eaten. The girls were
not so successful in getting them off the high
branches, but they sometimes found out nice ripe
clusters in the middle of all the tangle of brambles
THE BLACKBERRY GATHERING. 77
and fern, quite low down, and they went steadily,
on, filling theit baskets. Some said they would
not eat until they had quite filled their little
baskets: others thought they would try to take
home enough for their mothers to make a pudding
of the next day. Then, after all, they could not
but stop now and then, and sit down to rest and
eat, after comparing with one another what they
had gathered.
It-was all very pleasant; and they Were merry
enough even to make fun of the various little
disasters that occurred. Jane Maples, for instance,
was left bare-headed once by a bough catching to
her bonnet, and swinging it up in the air far above
where she could reach. Some one lost a shoe,
and many faces and arms were scratched by the
thorns; and one boy sunk over his shoes in a
swamp, that was so covered over with grass that
no one Suspected there was any wet there. All
these things could, however, be laughed at, and it
was only when they began to get very tired, that
some of the party became cross.
The sun sank down low in the west, and the
children remembered that they had their long
walk home before them. They began to feel
hungry and thirsty, and thought of their suppers
of milk and bread, which awaited them on their
return. They said it was time to go.
78
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
When they aH rested again on the felled trees
at the beginning of the common, it was perhaps be¬
cause the boys were cross and tired, *that they
were vexed to find what nice baskets of blackber¬
ries some of the girls had got, who had been pick¬
ing all the time, and never stopping to eat, and
who could now sit in the shade and refresh them¬
selves by eating some of their own blackberries;
but they ceased to be cross when the girls, good-
naturedly, held out their baskets to them, and let
them take as many as they liked. They all of¬
fered their blackberries ope to another—all but
Kitty Groves. Kitty did not give any of her
blackberries away, and yet she had a better basket¬
ful than any one. Some of the children, who
peeped into her little basket as she held it care¬
fully before her, thought that they had not found
any blackberries so large and fine as Kitty's; and
mixed up with them were some beautiful dew¬
berries, of which only one or two of the party had
found any. Besides h§r basketful of blackberries,
Kitty, too, had gathered a branch of bramble, which
she was taking carefully home, which was really
quite a picture to look at. It had on it, quite at
the end, some very large and very black berries;
then a little farther down the branch, the berries
were red, and not quite ripe; and lower still, they
were bright-green; and then came two or three
THE BLACKBERRY GATHERING. 79
pale-pink bramble-flowers, still in blossom among
the prettily cut leaves—green on otie side and white
on the other. Nothing could be prettier than this
bramble-branch y and as the children admired it,
they seemed to remember 4or the first time that
blackberries begin by being the centres of the
bramble flowers—a little green knob at first, and
then swelling out and gradually ripening into the
black, juicy berry. They wished they had got
such fruit and flower-boughs themselves !
Kitty sat holding her basket and her bramble-
branch very carefully somewhat apart -from the
rest.
" Kitty hag not eaten more than half-a-dozen
blackberries/' said one of the children in a whisper.
"And has never given one aWay!" said an¬
other.
They were angry with Kitty, 'without well know¬
ing why.
It was perhaps because Bobbie Sykes had been
vexed with her about the plank over the brook,
which made him Say that Kitty was greedy, and
was going to eat her blackberries all by herself.
The other children could hardly have thought that
this was the case, and yet they did not take Kitty's
part. There were one or two other unkind things
said in whispers, that perhaps Kitty heard, for she
got up and walked aw iy in silence. The rest of
80
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
the children followed, whispering among them¬
selves. Some of the girls who liked Kitty, said
they were sure that she was not greedy; and yet
they were sorry that she had not shared her black¬
berries like the rest. Little stories were remem¬
bered and told about Kitty, 'when she was a very
little girl, and really was greedy, as perhaps they
all had been. Nobody went and walked With her
all the way home; 'and when they Uame tq the
plank over the stream, the children passed over,
and would have left Kitty to get over by herself
as she could, had not Harry Thorp been good-na¬
tured enough to turn back and lead her over. He
carried her basket, too, for her, as she crept along
the plank; but though Kitty thanked him again
and again for being so kind as to help her, she did
not give him any of her blackberries, nor offer him
her bramble-branch. She never thought of it.
When Harry joined the rest of the children,
they found this out, and thought worse than ever
of Kitty.
Now, as they crossed the fields on their way
home, many of the girls picked nosegays of all
the wild flowers they met with, and some of them
made daisy-chains and dandelion-chains to take
home with them, while the boys had filled one of
their caps with some fine large acorns that they
had knocked off the outermost branches of a wide
THE BLACKBERRY GATHERING*. 81
spreading oak that stood near where they rested
on the common. But flowers will always fade so
■soon, when carried in hot hands, that the girls had
not crossed the last stile before they began to doubt
whether it was worth while to take their nosegays
home, and then got tired of carrying them—and so
threw them away. Others, in getting over the
stiles, broke their daisy and dandelion-chains—and,
worst of all, the boys got quarrelling about their
acorns just as they were at Farnley brook; and in
trying to pull the cap out of the boy's hand who
carried it, the aoorns were tumbled into the water
and lost. Perhaps it was all this that made them
still more angry than ever with Kitty Groves,
when they found that she had all this time kept
her treasures quite safe, while they had nothing
to take home. It made them find out still more
things to say against her.
Meanwhile, Kitty did not care much for their
unkind whisperings about her, nor for any thing
but getting hoane as quickly as she could. She
walked eagerly on, and got before the rest. She
was the first to reach the white gate which stood
at the end of the lane and opened on the village
green. The setting sun was sending out such a
red glow, that it looked just as if all the cottages
were on fire at the other side bf the green. The
children parted at the gate—some going across
82
BUDS AND "BLOSSOMS.
to the rosy-windowed cottages, and others to those
that stood on the shady side. Harry Thorp,
Bobbie Sykes, and the two Maples had to go on
the same side as Kitty Groves. They followed
her as she hastened home.
" She will eat her blackberries fast enough, I
dare say, when she once gets home," said Bobbie
Sykes.
Turning round as she got hear her mother's door,
Kitty nodded to them all good-humouredly, as if
to say good-by. If she had heard some of the
things that had been said about her, it was clear
that she forgave them all. Kitty, in faet, was
going home too well pleased to think about such
things, and she had caught a sight of something
that had greatly quickened her steps. The cottage
door was open. 'Her mother stood on the thres¬
hold, pointing to something within. It was Mar¬
tin—little Martin, down stairs for the first time
since his long illness. There he was, carefully
wrapped up, sitting within the doorway in the
warm, rosy sunshine, enjoying—oh ! so enjoying,
—the soft evening air, and the sight once more
of the green grass, the ducks, and the pond, and
the smell of the clematis over the porch ! Poor
little Martin was very thin and weak, although he
was getting well; but the glow of the setting sun,
which fell on his cheek, made him look not quite
THE BLACKBERRY GATHERING.
83
so pale—or was jt pleasure that' flushed his cheek
at the sight of Kitty, as she eame running up with
her basket of blackberries,and branch of bramble ?
As she placed the basket on his lap, and told him
she had gathered them all for him, and showed
him the black, red, and green berries, and pretty
pink bramble-flowers on the branch, he looked up
in her face with such a pleased and grateful look,
as made Kitty very happy.
Others, besidp Kitty's mother, saw all this.
Harry Thorp, and Bobbie Sykes, and Jane and
Susan Maples, all stood there, not far from the
door, and saw the joy of poor little Martin Groves,
and knew then for what Kitty had saved her black¬
berries and carried home so carefully her bramble-
branch. They looked at each other in silence at
first, and then, as they turned away, Harry Thorp
said—" "We should not have called Kitty greedy,
that's very plain."
" No," said Susan Maples, eagerly: "1 always
liked Kitty, and now I shall love her."
They had gone some distance from Kitty's
home, and Harry Thorp had reached his mother's
door, when Kitty came running after him. "Oh !
Harry," said she, as she panted for breath,
" .here's my pretty branch of bramble : would you
not like to have it ? I only brought it home to
show to poor Martin) and now he has looked at it,
84
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
he likes that I should give it to you, because you
were so kind to me to-day, you know, at the bridge
over Farnley brook. Good-by 1 good-by ! I can¬
not stay. X must go back to Martin," said she,
as she left the branch in Harry's hand. " Poor
Martin does so like his blackberries. Good-by!
good-by!"
No one in all the village ever thought of calling
Kitty Groves greedy again after that day; and
many of the children said to themselves, how from
that very time they would never think unkind
thoughts of any one again.
%\\t $ir-fee's Sfcorg.
Away ift the forest there grew a trim little fir-
tree, on a pleasant spot where it could see the sun,
where there was plenty of air, while all around
stood its many companionsr larger and taller, pines
as well as firs. But the.little fir-tree believed
that, except to grow fast, nothing else was worth
caring for: it gave no thought to the warm sun
and the fresh air, and took no heed of the Gottage
children, who often came there and played and
chatted, and went in and out among the tree3,
looking for wild strawberries or huckleberries. At
times, when they had gathered a basketful, they
would sit down to eat them under the little fir-tree,
and say to one another, "Ha! what a nice little
tree it is !" And this the tree did not at all like
to hear.
In the next year it put out a branch) and grew
taller, and the year after taller still; and as fir-
trees grow taller, we can see how old they are by
the number of branches which they put forth.
Oh, if I were but as big a tree as the others!"
VOL. i. 8 85
86-
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
sighed the little fir-tree, " then I could spread out
my branches afar, and look out upon the world
from my crown. Then the birds would build
nests among my boughs, and when the wind blew
I could bend gracefully, just the same as the
others."
It had, indeed, no pleasure in the glad sun¬
shine, nor in the twitter of the birds, nor in the
ruddy clouds that floated across the morning and
evening sky.
No# it was winter, and the snow lay all around,
white and shining, and there came a hare running
along, and leaped right over the little tree. ' That
was mortifying. But two winters passed, and in
the third the tree was so tall that the hare had to
run round il "Oh, grow! grow old and great:
that is the only joy in the world!" thought
the tree.
Every year, in autumn, there came wood-cutters
to the forest, and cut down some of the largest
trees; and the young fir-tree, which had now grown
to a good size, shuddered at the sight: for the tall
and beautiful trees fell with crack and crash to the
earth, the branches were hewn off, and they
looked lanky, small, and naked. Indeed, they
could scarcely be known; but soon they were laid
upon trucks, and horses dragged them slowly out
of the forest.
THE FIR-TREE'S' STORY.
87
"Where do they go ? What is to happen to them ?
In the spring, when the stork and the swallows
came, the young tree.asked them, "Do you know
where they were dragged to ? Did you not meet
them?'
The swallows did not know, but the stork looked
as though he was considering, nodded his head, and
said, "Yes, I think I know. I met many new ships
as I flew hither from Egypt; and in the ships
were stately masts, and I dare say that these were
they, for they had the smell of fir-trees."
"Qh, I wish I were tall enough to travel away
over the seaJ What is the sea really like, and
how does it look ?"
"Ha! that is too long a story to tell," answered
the stork, and flew away,
"Be glad of thy youth," said the sunbeams to
the young tree: "rejoice in thy fresh, quick
growth, and the young life that is in thee."
And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew
wept soft tears over it, but the fir-tree compre¬
hended them not.
About' the time of Christmas, many young trees
were always cut down—-some of them not so old
or so tall as our fir-tree, which could never have
peace or quiet, but always wished to go away. It
was always the prettiest trees that were cut down,
and they were not stripped of their branches, but
88
BlfDS AND BLOSSOMS.
were placed in wagons, and dragged by horses
slowly out of the forest.
" Where do they go ?" ashed the fir-tree. " They
are not bigger than I: indeed, there was one much
smaller; and why do they keep their branches?
Where do they go to?**
"We know—we know," twittered the sparrows.
"Yonder, in the city, we saw through a window.
We know where they go to. Oh! they come to
the greatest pomp and splendour that an}- one can
think of. We looked in at the window, and saw
them planted in the middle of a warm room, and
ornamented with the most beautiful things—gol¬
den apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and hun¬
dreds of lighted candles.''
"And then?"—asked the fir-tree, trembling in
all his branches,—" and then ? What happened
then?"
"Oh, we saw nothing more. It was incom¬
parable."
Then the fir-tree mused. "Am I, indeed,
destined to travel this glittering path ? That is
far better than to sail over the sea. I suffer with
longing. Oh; if it Vrere but Christmas ! I am tall
now, and spread out like "the others which were
taken away in former years ! Ah, if I were only
in the wagon! I were only in the warm room,
with all the pomp and splendour! and then yes,
THE FIR-TREE S STORY.
89
then will follow something better, still more beau¬
tiful, or else why should they ornament me so?
There must be-something else still more grand and
glorious to come!—^hut what? Oh, I languish,
I long—indeed, I hardly know how it is with me."
"Rejoice jn me/' said the wind and the sun¬
shine : " rejoice in thy fresh youth here, under the
open sky."
But the fir-tree rejoiced not at all; it grew and
grew: winter and summer it stood there in its
d„eep, dark-green, and people who went by said,
" That is a handsome tree!" and when Christmas¬
time came again, it was the first to be cut down.
The axe went deep through its marrow, and the
tree fell to the ground with a sigh: it felt a pain
and faintness instead of the expected pleasure,
and was sorry to be separated from its home—
from the spot whereon it had grown up. It knew
that it would never see its dear old comrades again
—the little bushes and the flowers all round about,
and perhaps not oven the birds. The departure
was not at all agreeable.
The tree first came to itself again when, as it
lay packed among other trees, it heard a voice say
in the court-yard of a house—" This one is hand¬
some : we will only keep this."
Then two servants came in showy liveries, and
carried the tree into a large and splendid drawing¬
s'
90
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
room. Pictures hung- around the walls, and near
the stove stood great china jars with lions on the
covers : there were rocking-chairs, silk-trimmed
sofas, long tables covered with picture-books, and
playthings that cost hundreds of dollars—at least,
so said the children. Presently the tree was stood
up in a large vase filled with sand, but no one
could see that there was a vase, for it was hung
all round with green twigs, and stood upon a many-
coloured carpet. Ah, how the tree trembled with
delight! Whht was it that was going to happen ?
for the servants and the lady of the'house began
to ornament it. On one branch they hung little
nets cut from coloured paper, each net filled with
sugar-work; on other branches golden apples and
walnuts were hung, as though they had grown
there, and all about were stuck more than a hun¬
dred of red, blue, and white candles. Dolls which
looked as though they were alive—never had the
tree seen such before—peeped out here and there
from the green, and high on the topmost point a
star of shining gold was fastened. It was beauti¬
ful ! beautiful beyond measure!
And every one exclaimed—"How it will glow
and glitter this evening!"
"Oh," thought the tree, "I wish it were eve¬
ning! that the candles were soon to be lighted!
and then, what will happen next? Will there
THE FIR-TREE'S STORY.
91
come trees from the forest to see me? 'VTill the
sparrows fly against the window panes ? Shall I
grow fast and firm here, and stand covered with
ornaments all through winter and summer?"
Yes, anticipation may'he pleasant; but the im¬
patience and longing brought on a bark-ache; and
the bark-ache is as uncomfortable for a tree as the
headache is for tis.
At last all -the candles were lighted. What ra¬
diance 1 what splendour! Every twig of the tree
quivered with delight, so that the green spines
were scorched' and singed, and at last set on fire
by one of the candles.
"Alas!" cried the lady, and put it quickly out.
The tree no longer dared tov tremble with de¬
light, and a dread fell upon it, lest it should lose
any of its glory. It was in complete brilliance
when the folding-doors flew open, and a troop of
children rushed in as if they would overturn the
tree, while the old folks came thoughtfully in the
rear. The young ones stood dumb with admira¬
tion—but only for a moment, and they began again
to shout for joy, so that the room echoed again;
they danced round and round the tree, and pulled
off the presents one after the other.
" What are they doing ?" thought the tree:
"what is going to happen?" One by one, the
candles burnt down close to the branch, and each
92
BUDS AND. BLOSSOMS.
in turn was extinguished, and then permission was
given to the children to strip the tree. Ah, how
they sprang-upon it, till every branch cfacked!
and had it not been fastened to the ceiling at the
top, where the glittering star Bhone brightly, it
would have fallen down.
The children danced about with their pretty
playthings: no one thought about the tree except
the old, nursery -maid, who went peeping among
the branches, but it was only to see whether a fig
or an apple might not have been 'forgotten.
"A story, a story," cried the children after
a time, and laying, hold of a short, little man,
who was one of .the company, they drew him
toward the tree, &pd be sat dowp underneath it, so
that they might be, as he said, "jin the green wood;
and the tree can listen as well as you, but I shall
tell only one story. Shall it be' about Hicklety-
Hacklety, or. about Humpty-Dutnpty, who fell
down stairs, but was raised up again, and married
the princess?"
" Hicklety-Hacklety," said some; " Humpty-
Dumpty," exclaimed the others: there was nothing
but 'outcry and shotting: the fir-tree alone was
still and silent, and thought, " Shall I not come in
too ? is there nothing that I can do ?" But iL
truth it had shared, it had done all that it had
to do.
THE FIR-TREE'S STORY.
93
And the little man told about Hu'mpty-Dumpty,
who fell down stairs, and yet was lifted up again,
and married the princess. And the children clap¬
ped their hands, and cried, " Tell another—tell
another." They wished also to hear the story of
Hicklety-Hacklety, but they could only get
Humpty-Dumpty. The fir-tree stood dumb and
thoughtful: the birds of the forest had never told
any thing like that. "Humpty-Dumpty fell down
stairs, and yet married the princess ! Yes, yes: so
it goes in the world," it said to itself, and believed
the story to be true, because it had been related
by so pleasant a little man. " Yes, yes: who
knows ? perhaps I shall fall down stairs, and marry
a princess." And it felt glad at the thought of
being decorated agaiu the next day with candles
and playthings,.and gold, and fruits.
" I will not tremble to-morrow," it said: " I
will fully enjoy all my splendour. To-morrow I
shall hear once more the story of IIumpty-Du mpty,
and perhaps Hicklety-Hacklety too." And the
tree stood still and thoughtful all night.
In the morning the footman and the maid came
in. "Now the show is going to begin again,"
thought the tree; but they dragged it out of the
room, and up to a loft, and thrust it away in a
dark corner, where no daylight could enter. " What
docs that mean ?" thought the tree again : " what
94
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
am I to do here ? What is there to be heard in
this place V' And it leaned against the wall, and
thought and thought. And it had plenty of time,
for days and nights went by : no one came ; and
when at length somebody did come, it was only to
put away some great chests. The tree was all
amazed : one might believe it was quite forgotten.
" Now it is winter out of doors," said the tree
one day : " the ground is hard and covered with
snow, and men cannot plant. Therefore I shall
stay here till spring under shelter. How well
covered it is! Men are kind, after all!—if it were
only not so dark and so terribly lonesome ! Not
even a little hare! It was rather grim, though, out
there in the forest, when the snow lay on the ground,
and the hare went running past, and even leaped
over me; I did not much like it then. But up
here it is so terribly lonesome 1"
"Peep ! peep !" said a little mouse at that mo¬
ment, and crept stealthily out, followed by another
just as small. They sniffed about the fir-tree,
and slunk into a chink between the branches.
" It is cruelly cold," said the little mice; "but
for that it would be comfortable enough here :
would it not, old fir-tree ?"
" I am not at all old," answered the tree : "there
are plenty far older than I."
"How came you here?" asked the mice; "and
THE FIR-TREE'S STORY.
95
what do you know ?" so inquisitive were they.
"Tell us about the most beautiful place in the
world. Have you ever been there ? Have you
ever been in the store-room, where cheeses lie on
the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling: where
you can dance on tallow candles—go in lean and
come out fat ?"
"I don't know that place," answered the tree;
"but I know the forest, where the sun shines and
the birds sing." And then it told them all about
its youthful days, and the little mice had never
before heard the like, and they listened on, and
said, " "Well, how much you have seen! How happy
you have been I"
" I ?" cried the fir-tree, and reflected over that
which he had related " Yes, after all, those had
been really happy times." And then it told about
Christmas-eve, when it was ornamented with cakes
and candles.
"Oh!" exclaimed the mice, "how happy you
have been, old fir-tree !"
" I am not at all old," replied the tree : " it
is only this winter that I came from the forest.
1 am in my prime, though rather tall for my age."
" How nicely you tell a story !" said the little
mice; and the next night they came there again,
with other little mice, who also wanted to hear the
tree tell its tales; and the more he told, the better
98
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
did it remember all that had passed—and thought,
" After all, those were really happy times! but
they can come again—they can come again.
Humpty-Dumpty fell down stairs, and yet he
married the princess." And then the fir-tree
thought of a little delicate birch which was grow¬
ing in the forest, and which seemed to it a really
beautiful princess.
Who is Humpty-Dumpty ?" asked the little
mice. Then the fir-tree related the whole story,
for he remembered every word, and the little mice
were ready to leap to the very topmost branch for
joy. The next night there came still more mice,
and On the Sunday two rats; but they thought the
story was not at all a pretty one, for which the
little mice were sorry.
" Do you know only the one story ?" asked the
rats.
" Only the one," answered the tree : " I heard
it on the happiest night of my life; but then I
knew not how happy I was."
" It is a very wretched story. Don't you know
any about bacon and tallow, or about a pantry?"
" No," said the fir-tree.
" Oh," answered the rats, " we thank you all
the sameand back they went to their comrades.
The little mice at last went away also, and then
the tree sighed. " How pleasant it was tc have
THE FIR-TREE'a STORY.
97
them sitting about me and listening—the nimble
little mice, while I told stories! Now that is all
past. But I will think upon it to gladden myself,
if ever I get out of this place again."
But when would that happen ? Yes, at length,
one morning, people came and swept and cleaned
the loft, the coffers were removed, and the tree
was taken out and flung, pretty hard, it is true,
on the landing, and a servant immediately dragged
it away, to where it could see daylight.
"Now the sport will begin again," thought the
tree. It felt the air, the warm sunbeams, and pre¬
sently it was thrust out into the court-yard. Ali
passed go quickly, that the tree quite forgot to
look at itself, and there was so much to be seen
on all sides. Close to the yard lay a garden, in
which all was blooming; the roses hung fresh and
sweet-scented over the trellis^ the linden-trees were
in full flower; the swallows flew round and round,
and said, " Quirre-virre-vit, my husband's come;"
but it was not the fir-tree that they meant.
" Now I shall live again 1" cried the tree, and
spread "all its branches out as far as they could
reach; but they were all yellow and withered;
and before long it found itself in a corner, among
weeds and nettles. The gilded star was still fast
on the top, and glittered in the sunshine.
A group of lively children were playing about.
Vol. I. 9
98
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
who had danced round the tree on Christmas-eve,
and had frolicked so under its branches. One "of
the youngest ran up and tore off the star.
"See," he cried, "what there is still on the
ugly old fir-tree and he trampled on the branches,
so that they cracked and broke under his feet.
And the tree looked at all the beauty of the
flowers and the fruits in the garden, and looked
at itself, and wished that it had been left in the
dark corner in. the loft 'It thought of its glad¬
some youth in the forest, of the merry Christmas-
eve, and the little mice, who had listened so cheer¬
fully to the story of Humpty-Dumpty.
" Past—past!" said the poor tree. " Oh, if
I had but been as happy as I might have been !
Past—past!"
Soon a servant came, and chopped the tree
into small pieces, till there was a great heap.
How brightly it flickered and flared under the
great soup-kettle!—and the tree sighed so deep¬
ly, and each sigh was like a little shot. The
children heard the sound; they ran up and placed
themselves by the fire, and cried, "piff—paff!"
But at each report, which was a sigh, the tree
thought of a summer day in the forest, of a win¬
ter night in the open air, when the stars twinkled
in the sky! It thought 'on the Christmas-eve,
on Humpty-Dumpty, the only story that he
THE FIR-TREE'S STORY.
99
had ever heard or could relate; and then all was
burnt.
The children played in the garden, and the
youngest had on his breast the golden star, which
the fir-tree had. borne on its happiest evening.
Now all was past, as well with the tree as with
the story. And so it ever is : all things pass away,
and stories come to an end.
(ftp&'s jtatfr for fairies.
It is a summer evening, and the sun has not jet
set, but for all that Ella and May are in bed. Only
on great occasions, such as birthdays, are they al¬
lowed to sit up after seven o'clock. They find it
rather hard to go to sleep when they are so wide
awake, and when the sun is shining so cheerily,
and they turn round, and stretch and gape, till at
last they call Margaret, and say how impossible it
is to sleep, and would she come and sing one of
her pleasant songs, or better still, tell one of her
beautiful stories, just one ! then the sun would have
gone down a little more, and they would try and
sleep. So Margaret, good, kind creature as she
was, left her friend, the housemaid, to sew by her¬
self in the dressing-room, and came and told a tale
to the wakeful little ones; and they lay watching
her lips almost breathless, as she began, in the old
way of fairy tales—"Once upon a time—yes,
once upon a time, there was an old lady who had
two daughters, Anne and Mary. Anne, the el¬
dest, was shrewd and talkative; and with some
100
THE CHILD'S SEARCH FOR FAIRIES. 101
people, that passes for sense. Besides, she was
pretty; and with many people, that is thought of
more consequence than good humour and good
sense.
" Mary was neither pretty nor talkative, but
she was gentle, and there was beauty in her calm,
meek f^ce, which some persons loved better than
the bright eye of her sister Anne. Now, the mo¬
ther thought Anne so clever, that she would not
let her work much. If the room wanted cleaning,
Mary was always called to do it. If the stock¬
ings had great holes in them, it was Mary's task
to mend them. The dirty work, the hard work,
and indeed almost all the work,'fell to Mary's
share ; but she was happy and merry over it, and
did not fret at her lot.
" One day she was sent to a well to draw some
water for dinner. She sang as she went with her
brown pitcher on her head, and not a bird in the
green boughs was blither than Mary.
"Just as she was leaving the well, a poor wo¬
man met her, and said, ' My love, I have walked a
long way, and am tired and thirsty; let me, if
you please,* have a draught of that nice sparkling
water.'
" 1 To be sure,' said Mary, 1 but the pitcher is
heavy; let me hold it up for you, good mother,
that you may the more easily drink.'
9*
102
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS,
"This woman was a fairy, and in spite of her
poor, worn dress, was a rich fairy, with many bright
gifts in her power; so she kissed the girl, and
said, 'Dear girl, from this time, whenever you
speak, a flower, a pearl, or a diamond shall drop
from your lips;' and then hade her good-morrow.
" All this had kept Mary a little longer than her
mother well liked, so when she came back she
received' a sad scolding. Mary did not answer an¬
grily or pertly, but was begging her mother's par¬
don, when two pearls and two roses dropped on
the floor, and by-and-by, as the old lady stooped
to pick them up, two diamonds fell.
"'Pearls! roses! diamonds!' said the mother,
in astonishment: 'why, what does this all mean?'
Mary told the tale which I have told you, but the
mother did not feel quite content that the fairy
gifts should be given to her younger daughter only;
so, calling Anne aside, she said, 'This will never
do; here is Mary with roses and pearls falling
from her lips whenever she speaks. Go you, child,
to the well, and wait till the beggar-woman comes
up. If she asks you to draw water for her, mind
you do not refuse, and your fortune will soon be
made.'
" The girl pouted and frowned : ' I don't like
to draw water for any one,' said she, ' and as to
waiting on a beggar; indeed !■ much it would be-
THE CHILD'S SEARCH FOR FAIRIES. 103
come me !' However, by much coaxing, the mo¬
ther brought Anne round, and taking her best sil¬
ver tankard, off she went to the well. This time no
beggar appeared, but a finely-dressed lady, who came
up to her straightway, and asked for some water.
"'Do you think I came here to draw for you?
Draw it yourself,' said the ill-tempered girl.
"'You are not very obliging,' said the lady:
' and I shall, therefore, leave you a gift to re¬
member me by. You shall throw toads and snakes
from your lips, young lady, whenever you speak."
"'Oh, that was the fairy!' thought Anne, as
the lady disappeared. \ The fairy ! and I have
lost my pearls and diamonds.' And indeed she
had: for on reaching home, and beginning to
grumble at her hard lot, two toads and a viper
fell from her lips, to her mother's great horror.
" Miss Ella," and here Margaret stopped in
her tale—" Miss Ella, you are half asleep !"
" Well, Anne lived miserably all her days, while
Mary married a prince, and continued to throw
roses and pearls in the path of herself and others
to the end of her days. And the moral, my dears,"
—but " Ah, dear me! never mind the moral,"
said the little girls, drowsily, and soon went to
sleep.
So happily they rested till the morning! Six
times struck the old cuckoo-clock on the passage,
104
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
and punctual to the hour came John, the gardener,
to mow the grass, while the dew yet lingered on
the blade. Now, when John began to whet his
scythe with a masterly stroke, the little children
turned round and rubbed their eyes.
"Poor little daisies !" said May, "they will all
be cut down. I am sorry to think we shall not
see their pretty heads any more •/' and as May lay
thinking of the daisies, she had very nearly fallen
asleep again.
A beautiful little fairy, however, who stood by
May's pillow, could not allow of this ; and waving
her hand before her closing eyes, fanned the sleep
that hung there quite away, whispering, in her low
tones, "Pise, little one ! birds, bees, and flowers
are awake, and will you be sleeping ?" Then she
crossed over to Ella, and said much the same to
her; but Ella was not fond of this good little
fairy, and she shook the tiny hand off her shoulder-
rather rudely.
The fairy's name was Thought, and much loved
by May, who used to like her pretty stories, or
her pretty pictures; but just at this time, Thought
advised her to get up and dress. So May, who
liked to please the fairy, followe.d h«r advice,
while Ella was very busy listening to a cousin of
the fairy's, who had just entered the room. This
little sprite was called Fancy. She wore all the
THE CHILD'S SEARCH FOR FAIRIES.
105
colours of the rainbow; and just as Thought
turned away, she caught hold of Ella's hand, and
said, " Come, quick ! quick ! my merry little Ella,
and I will show you where my fairy friends hide
their heads. If you will come down to the stream-
side, I can bring you that kind, good creature that
Margaret told you about last night, who makes
little children drop diamonds and pearls whenever
they open their lips."
So Ella, too, jumped out of bed; and although
Thought looked grave, she did not heed her, but
resolved to go out into the wood, and sit by the
stream, hoping for a peep at the pearl-giving fairy.
As to Thought, Ella hardly looked at her, while
with her small hand she pointed to the bedside.
She wished to remind them that they should kneel
down, and say a few words of thanks to their lov¬
ing Father in heaven, who had not forgotten to
watch over and to keep two helpless, sleeping
children. But Fancy, a mischievous little thing,
would keep showing her frolicsome head over
Ella's shoulder, and sadly disturbed the child, who
knew that now, at least, she ought to listen to
Thought.
The prayer ended, Fancy again invited the little
girls to go with her on the fairy hunt. Thought
wished Ella and May to tap at their mamma's door,
and ask if they might go to the fir-grove, and the
106
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
clear stream ; and finding that Fancy was drawing
the children on, she called Up a little lady, a re¬
lative of hers, who was, up to this time, asleep in
some fold of the children's dress. Conscience, for
that was her name, when fairly awake, put the
case plainly before both little girls. She said that
they knew very well their mamma did not like them
to go to the stream alone at any time-—certainly
not this morning, for the dew was heavy and
the grass long. Fancy laughed quitf loudly at
this—so loudly, indeed) that both Thought and
Conscience stepped back quite abashed. Fancy
seized the opportunity, and dragged Ella forward,
and even May went a few steps, until Conscience,
giving them both a sharp prick with the point of
her fairy spear, brought them once more to a stand.
Fancy gave May's hand up, but still held Ella's
fast; and after a few moments' more talk with
Conscience, she ran off. Yes, she was gone: gone
away from Thought, Conscience, and little May.
Ahl when Fancy gets hold of a ehild by one
hand and Self-will by another—for I should tell
you that he had joined the party—the voice of
Thought and Conscience are no more to be heard
than the humming: of a gnat amid the war of
the ocean. May stayed a moment, as though she
longed to run after her sister, but Conscience and
Thought would not give her up; and soon the
THE CHIIijfg SEARCH FOR FAIRIES. 107
little girl was quietly listening to the pleasant
tones of Thought.
" Do not go to the stream, sweet May. -Think
of the long grass you will have to run through;
and as to pearls and diamonds, I do not believe
Fancy ean bring you up the fairy that gives these.
Yes, let Ella go. She will not listen to us, you
see. Gome, walk with me, little girl, along this
south wall, where it is warm and dry. Look at
the pink blossoms; little maiden. What fairy gifts
can be richer than these ? A few weeks ago, and
frost spangled those boughs over, which are now
so gay with flowers ; and do you not remember how
those orchard-trees yonder, now hung with gar¬
lands, were covered with snow, and their topmost
branches bent with the weight of their white
mantle ? Then, when it melted, you saw little sign
of life in the dark houghs, but life was there; and
the April showers- first, and the warm sun next,
have opened the lovely buds With crimson and
white flowers; and the seed is safely taken care
of, hidden by those pretty petals until the right
time eomes for them to fall, when the fruit will he
safely set for autumn use."
May lifted her blue eyes to the spangled trees,
and thanked the fairy for showing her the pretty
sight, " which I should have missed," said she.
" if I had run away with Fancy."
108
BUDS AND BLOSSOMSi
"See, too," said Thought, "how that little wren
is working for its morning meal. Ah! she has
found just the thing she is wanting for her little
nestlings, and off she flies. The birds are very
much alive this morning: perhaps some new arrival
has taken place. Some traveller, or as they are
called, passage-birds, after crossing the blue sea,
are come to their English homes again. The story
of a passage-bird must be very pleasant. How
many sights he must have seen since he went away
last autumn ! Strange flowers and fruits—ah! and
strange birds too! Perhaps the nightingale en¬
tertains the songsters at eventide with its traveller's
tales; and listen! there is the pretty black-cap
singing on the willow spray to the quiet robin
below. How full and deep its tones are! The
black-cap, too, is a passage-bird, and may be sing¬
ing to the stay-at-home robin the songs of other
lands.* Are you tired of the birds ? Well, come
then, May, we will look at the flowers. Ah!
what are those purple, pink, and white blossoms,
twining round the ash-tree's trunk ? Hid you
put them there, May? No, you say. Think a
moment. Do you remember the dull brown seed,
which you and Horace sowed one cold afternoon
* The black-cap, a bird of passage, sings so sweetly, that
in some parts of England it is called the mock nightingale.
THE CHILD'S -SEARCH FOR FAIRIES. 109
in February ? That seed had life within, as well
as the orchard-trees. You thought no more of it
after the first day or two; and when you found it
did not spring up and flower all at once, you left
it to itself; but some Hand has been at work in
the garden ground; and that same Hand, little
May, has brought you^ thus far on your life's
journey.
Thus did Thought talk to May; but where was
Ella all this time ? After getting her shoes wet
through, and her little pink frock dirty, and torn
in more places than one with brambles, Fancy
brought her to the stream's side. A charming
place was this stream on a dry midsummer's noon,
but not a fit place for a thinly-shod little girl, on a
dewy morning in early summer; but Fancy had
led her on a fairy hunt to the water's ed^e, and
she sat down quite out of breath upon a log of
wood, which had lain so long that its stem was
covered with grey moss, wet, as all beside was,
with dew. Fancy now seemed rather at a loss
for a subject: indeed, she is not nearly such a
good companion as Thought. She is far more
brilliant at first, but has so many variations, that
every one who has tried the society of the two,
says that she soon tires, and that Thought is the
better friend after all. I scarcely know what Ella
would have done, had it not been for the arrival
Vol. I. 10
110
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
of an honest, sensible old woodman, who had
worked many years for the children*s father, and
at this moment came up to the seat.
" Well, Miss Ella, this is early indeed for you •
but are you wise to sit on this damp log ? What
brings you here, all alone ?"
Ella blushed, as she replied, " that she had run
on, for she had been thinking perhaps she might
see a fairy there. It was just like the place, she
fancied, where, in the story-book, the fortunate
little girl met the kind lady who gave her the rare
gift of dropping pearls and roses whenever she
spoke."
The old woodman, who was past the fairy-tale
age, looked at Ella rather curiously as she repeated
the tale which Margaret had told her, but of which,
as you know, she did not care to hear the moral.
The woodman saw it, however, in a moment.
" Oh, I know the lady," cried he ; " but what
could have brought you here, little miss, to seek
her ? You are far more likely to come across the
other old lady who has not half such pretty gifts
in her power—nothing but snakes and toads. I
have a little lass at home who knows her well. If
she is sent on arf errand to the shop, or to the well
for water, when she is not quite in the mind to
go, and is creeping rather slowly along, stopping
to gossip with a school-fellow, looking in at the
THE CHILD'S SEARCH FOR FAIRIES. Ill
cake-shop, or longing for a smart ribbon, at the
draper*s window—Discontent, sister of the snake-
giving fairy, taps ber on the shoulder. She begins,
with her long face, and tells her how much better
off some children are with servants to wait on them,
instead of being forced to wait upon others. Then,
after having stirred up all kinds of bad-tempered
little sprites in the child's heart, she leaves her to
Anger; and out come the snakes and toads in
abundance."
At this moment, who should be seen running
fast toward them but Margaret ? She was calling
very loudly for Ella, but I am sorry to say Ella
did not answer; and instead of showing herself,
she dived down behind a thick bush. Soon Mar¬
garet was not many yards from the log of wood,
but the grass was so long and thick, she did not
like to cross it: so she had still to speak rather
loud.
"Have you seen that tiresome little creature,
Miss Ella, Hunt ? I fancied I caught sight of
her pink frock." Ella laughed mischievously to
herself, but Hunt did not help her in her trick of
hiding.
" Yes, here she is, Mistress Margaret: she is
fairy hunting."
Now Ella did not like to be called tiresome, and
was vexed to be called little. Having in her hid-
112
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
ing-place been found out by tbe fairy Discontent,
sbe began to say sbe was not a baby, and did not
choose to be treated like one : that it was very
hard she could never come out alone, but that
Margaret must come plying after her, as if she
could not be trusted 3 and how much more she
might have said, I cannot tell, had not Hunt cried
out, " Toads and snakes!"
Little May, who had closely followed Margaret,
had said nothing all this time; but Content had
not been walking with her in the sweet morning
hour without effect, and presently the tokens fell
from her lips in pleasant, gentle words. She said,
merrily, " Oh, Ella dear, there is a beautiful sight
under the ivy wall—a nest just within our reach:
such darling little birds ! I hid myself behind a
laurel to watch the mother feed them ; and there
is a brood of chickens just hatched, so Billie says 3
and if we come home very soon, perhaps Margaret
will let us go and feed them before breakfast."
" What have you been fairy hunting for, little
Miss'Ella?" said Hunt cheerily. "Why, Miss
May has found out the pearl-giver ! See ! see 1
"how quickly the roses and the diamonds fall from
her lips!"
Little May blushed, for she had no idea that
she was dropping pearls, and looked innocently
down on the path where she stood. There was a
THE CHILD'S SEARCH FOR FAIRIES. Il8
struggle or two with Discontent, Anger, and Self-
will, all relations, and disagreeable fairies: after
which, little Ella jumped across the log, and giv¬
ing Margaret her hand, said, "I will ask leave
another time, Margaret." Thus they all three
went happily together toward the house. The
wet dress and socks were changed, and mamma
was quite willing to excuse, particularly when May
told the object of Ella's search.
" Ah ! Ella, my child," said the mother, " you
are not the first who has gone off with the fairy
Fancy, instead of listening to Thought. Do not
trust her as a guide again : • she may lead you
into greater troubles than those of this morning.
You went hunting for pearls, and you found snakes:
was it not so ?
"Not all snakes, mamma; for Hunt said,when
May spoke kindly, that those were the best pearls
and diamonds after all."
" Well, do you try, to-day, to make friends with
the fairies Content and Love, and I shall expect
to see pearls and diamonds from your lips."
So the little girls went hand in hand on their
day's journey. The fairy Discontent was not
quite overcome though: Ella, having once made
her acquaintance, found she was rather troublesome
to shake off; but she saw May's eye and her
mother's eye lovingly upon her, and when the
10*
114
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
lesson was difficult, and Discontent whispered little
sayings such as these, " Too hard for you—very
unreasonable to expect it," and so on : or when
she found the poultry-yard door locked, and the
maid not quite at liberty to open it, and Anger
darted up her fiery head for a moment, the toads
and snakes did not fall, and she won the victory.
When evening came, her little brother, who had
sprained his ankle at school that day, was lying
sorrowfully on the sofa, thinking how sadly dull
it was to miss the pleasant walk to the woods, in
search of wild flowers; and something of the sort
he said, as he declared it to be the longest day he
had ever known. The colour came into Ella's
face, for the fairy Love had sent her messenger,
Self-denial, on a little errand to Ella's heart.
"Let me stay with you, dear Willy, and we
can play games together—'fox and goose,' or any
thing else you like. No, don't say 'No,' Willy
—please don't: it would make me happier to
stay."
Her mamma, standing by the door, heard little
Ella's voice in this pleasant, loving strain, and
softly whispered in her ear, as she gave her a kiss,
" These are pearls worth seeking after, my child:
kind words and gentle actions are the most precious
of jewels."
It was a November morning, but tbe sky Was
clear, and tbe air, although fresh, was not cold.
The beach was quite lively, for it was the time of
herring-fishing, and many a stout, strong sailor
was pushing off to sea, full of hope and joy.
Women came down the cliff with little white-
headed children, some clinging to their skirts, and
more than one mother had a baby in her arms—a
baby which kicked and crowed as its father gave
it the good-by kiss. And now the boats move all
off but one, and little Joe Bourne and his sister
Susy had a hearty kiss from the man who jumped
into that last boat, and the mother waved her
apron as he rowed away, and asked God to take
care of poor John, and bring him safe home again.
Long after the boats were off, did Joe and Susy
stand by the sea, with little Meggie, an orphan
child whose grandfather was gone off too, and they
were delighted to see the big boats riding away on
the waves.
"I wish I was old enough to go," said Joe.
115
116
buds and blossoms.
"Father says he will take me next year, at
mackerel-fishing.''
"I'm sure I don't ever want to go on that great
water," said Meggie. " It does a deal of harm."
The children laughed, but Meggie did not laugh;
and when the brother and sister looked at the rusty
black frock which Meggie wore, they grew grave,
and took Meggie's hand, and Susy kissed her.
the storm.
It was now noon, and the air was chill; there
was a dismal, whistling .sound, which the wind
made; and a mist over the sea so thick that you
could scarcely see the fishing-boats, which an hour
before wete very plain, though at some distance.
Old men with grey hair came down the cliff, and
stood talking anxiously together j women left the
pot to boil over on the fire while they ran down
to hear what the old sailors thought of the weather.
Every one looked much more serious than in the
early morning. Susy and Joe stood hand in hand,
and the waves broke with a great noise on the
shingly beach. Meggie crept behind them, and
started as each wave broke. Meggie did not love
the sea. She feared it, she said,
" The pretty white foam," said Susy, as she
gathered it up in her tiny hands, and threw it
at Joe.
THE FISHERMEN'S CHILDREN. 117
"I don't like it," said Meggie; "it makes me
think of that time when it lay so thick on the
beach, and when poor father lay among it. I
wish grandfather was but home."
The wind rose higher; the sea rose too, and the
rain fell fast.
"We shall have a storm," said the old men,
shaking their heads. And very sorrowfully did
the women repeat one to another, " We shall have
a storm."
It was eight o'clock in the evening. The
wind was now blowing louder still, so that you
could hear no other sound except, indeed, that
made by the dashing of the huge waves on the
shore. Most of the boats were in; they had
either landed at Happisburg Or at the village
near. All were safe home now but one boat;
it was that of Meggie's grandfather. Susy slept
through -that long stormy night, and if she heard
the noisy wind, it only seemed like music in
her dreams. Happy little child ! Joe was not
asleep: he had crept from his straw mattress in
the corner to his father's knee, and quite enjoyed
the howling storm. The father and mother gave
many thanks to God because they were safe, but
they could hot forget the missing boat, with poor
old James Harrison in it, and his nephew Grant.
Many times did the fisherman go to the door, and
118
PUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
even to the beach, where, by this time, strong men
could scarcely stand; but it was quite dark, and
there was nothing to be done, but to wait till morn¬
ing. The fact was, that old Harrison had some
business to do at Winterton, a few miles, further
on the coast, and he had gone there in his boat in
the morning. He had not been heard of since
noon, when the Winterton fishermen said he had
put off to sea. Oh, it was a long, long night to
poor Meggie; and the woman who took care of her
said that her pillow was wet with tears.
Hpw strange and dismal the beach looks after
a storm! Heaps of sea-weed, long lines of brown,
dirty foam, bits of wood thrown up by the sea; no
fishermen going out to fish, but their boats drawn
up as far from the sea as possible; no ships in
sight, and nothing but water, water,
Susy and Joe were on the beach, and little Meg¬
gie too. She sat on a large stone, her blue pina¬
fore thrown over her head, crying as if her young
heart would break. Kind-hearted men tried to
comfort her, and one sailor took her into his arms,
and kissed her, as a father would kiss his little
daughter; but Meggie cried on.
Sad news came—sad,.sad news. The boat had
gone down, and both the fishermen had been
drowned.
Many days passed on. What was to be done
the fishermen's children. 110
with poor Meggie ? The neighbours were very
poor. Most of them had large families of little
children, and those who had not, strange to say,
did not open their hearts to the little orphan
girl."
"Yes, she must go to the work-house; no doubt
of it," said Mrs. Jones.
" She'll be happy when once she is there," said
old Dame Friar, who once was there herself, but
had not been so very happy.
All this time Meggie was very sorrowful. Some¬
times, indeed, she forgot her sorrows for a minute
or two and began to play with Susy and Joe} but
" Oh, dear! dear grandfather!" the little child
would call out suddenly, and then would run away
from the children, and hide herself among the
coils of the dark nets, and sob till she was tired.
what can children do?
Susy and Joe were keeping house. It was
Saturday, and mother was gone to market. Little
Ned and Sally were playing with oyster-shells on
the hearth, for it was getting late, and their father
was mending his boat. Baby was in the cradle,
and Susy rocking it, whilst Joe cut out boats with
an old knife. The kettle began to §ing, and Susy
and Joe began to talk.
120
buds and blossoms.
" I wish poor Meggie could be kept out of the
1 house,' "* said Joe at last.
" Ah, so do I! Why doesu't mother take her
in, I wonder," said Su^y.
" Why, just think, Susy, how many of us there
are ! and how bad the times were last winter."
" Ah!" said Susy, shaking her little head—
" Ah !" and she looked into the fire for some time.
Was it a bright thought she found there which
made her jump up ?
" Joe, if we were to work I if we were to do
something, now, couldn't we help to keep Meggie
out of the 1 house V "
11 Why, Susy, what can we do? such little chil¬
dren as we. Besides, mother wants you to mind
the baby now, and can't even give you time to go
to school. Oh no, Susy, tia no good: what can
we do ?"
Joe settles it, but not so Susy.
sunday thoughts.
Sunday came—a quiet, sweet Sunday morning.
The very sea seemed to keep the Sabbath as a day
of rest: the winds were still again, and there was
peace and quiet in the little fishing village. The
bells 'of the distant church sounded like the softest
* The work-house.
THE vEISHERMEN'Sj CHILPREN.
121
music, and" many a- clean blue-jacketed sailor and
his neat wife wen! to thank God that day for' his
care of him in the -late storm, and to pray for all
those still " travelling by water." . . Susy' and Joe
went with their father.: but mother would Wait
till afternoon. Puller and, fuller was the. child's
heart of her grand scheme as she went up the hill
to church: but Joe's words kept coming up,
" What can, such as we do I" Puller still she was
of grateful, loving purpose when she knelt down
by her dear father's side, and felt she was safe ■
and when service was over she said, " Oh, father,
don't let Meggie go I Don't let Meggie go I"
" Why, my lass," said the father, " I would
keep her gladly, but I have more mouths now to fill
than victuals to fill them with, and you none of you
bring in any thing yet. If I were rich, indeed!"
, Poor little Susy 1 her heart sank, but she ven¬
tured to say, as she slipped her small, fat hand into
lier father's rough, one—" Let's go and see little
Polly's grave, father."
Polly's grave was scarcely green, and the tears
for Polly's death were scarcely dry. The fisher¬
man and his child stood side by side at the little
mound. A bright thought now came into Susy's
loving heart.
" Suppose, father, G-od took care of Polly, that
you might take Meggie !"
Vol. I. 11
122
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Bourne passed his brown hand over his eye, and
said, "We'll see, Susy—we'll see."
They went home to dinner. Now let us look
at the fisherman's dinner-table, and peep in at their
only sitting-room. This room served for kitchen,
parlour, nursery, and for the bed-room, too, of Joe
and little Ned. To-day it was neat and clean as
Mrs. Bourne could make it.
Baby was asleep, and she was just laying the
rough cloth and setting on some plates, once white,
but now brown, scratched, and chipped, yet quite
clean. Where was the dinner? Oh, that was on
the fire at present. Dumplings and potatoes ! Is
that all? you say. No meat? Indeed, it was
all, and sometimes they had only potatoes without
dumplings, when flour was very dear: and some¬
times dumplings and no potatoes, when potatoes
were bad and scarce. There was a herring or
two, but the children did not care for them.
There was a jug of water, and this was all. But
stay—they had not even as much dumpling or
potatoes as they could have eaten. There was
each child's portion and no more; and dinner
was soon over. Susy looked at her dumpling,
and then at her father, and said, " I could spare
half J father."
the fishermen's children. 123
meggie's new home.
When Susy's plan was told Mrs. Bourne, she
shook her head. But when Susy's words were
repeated—"Perhaps God took care of Polly that
you might take care of Meggie," her heart was
moved, and she said, "Well, we will take her in
for a week or two, and see : hut mind, Susy, you
must try and turn a penny somehow. You will
have less time to play on the sands, remember."
It was rather disappointing to Susy next day,
when she went to take little Meggie and her small
bundle to her father's cottage, to find that the child
was not overjoyed to know that she. was not to go
to the "house," and that she was to come and
live with her, and' sleep in her bed, and be her
sister. Still more was she vexed to find that
Meggie clung to Mrs. Jones, cross and cold as she
always had been to the child : but Meggie was a
timid, sickly little thing, and truth to tell, her
poor grandfather had sadly spoiled her.
One thing Susy had learned, which gave her
hopes that she could, although a child, do some¬
thing fbr the orphan. Besides being a good net-
ter, and having a chance now and then of a job
of mending a neighbour's net, Susy could sew
neatly. She could always sew, she said, and cer¬
tainly when little more than three, her mother used
124
BUDS AlfD BLOSSOMS.
to tell how she would sit quite still by her side,
and be as happy as a little queen, if only she had
a needle and cotton and a piece of rag to sew. She
was now more than nine, and could do any plain
work very nicely, that was fixed and made ready
for her.
The day after Meggie came was so stormy that
there was no fishing, and poor Mr. Bourne looked
grave, and Mrs. Bourne sad, as she spread the
brown cloth that day and doled out potatoes with¬
out dumplings. Susy's heart" was full, but little
Meggie ate her share very contentedly, and did
not take much notice when Susy slipped some of
her portion on to the child's plate. When dinner
was over and baby asleep, and Susy had helped to
wash up, she and Joe took the little ones, with
Meggie, to the beach, and began to talk very seri¬
ously about earning something. The tide was
out, and it-struck Joe that perhaps he might go
and gather pinpatches or periwinkles. He had
sometimes done it for fun; nbw he would do it for
work. So Joe went on the rock " winkling," as the
sea-side children call it, and Ned wanted to go too.
"No, Ned," said Joe, "you are too little; you
will only be tumbling into the water, and cutting
your knees on the sharp stones. Ned must stay
with Susy."
Susy would have liked the sport of " winkling"
THE FISHERMEN'S CHILDREN. 125
better than the toil of keeping the little ones
amused on the beach; but it was certain that Susy
was in her right place, so she was doing something
for Meggie after all. Joe came in very wet and
tired, and asked his mother to boil the winkles for
him. She was busy netting, and told him they
must be some time in salt water to get the sand
out; so Joe could not sell his winkles that day.
Next morning he got up very early, and ran to
Mr. Wilkes, the grocer, to ask if he should want,
him that day. Mr. Wilkes said, " No." So Joe
ran back to see if his winkles were boiled. He
found them on the fire, and after breakfast, his
mother put them in a basket, with a little tin half-
pint pot to measure them, and they found there
were six quarts. Joe went out very boldly, knock¬
ing at one door after another, and asked, " Pray
do you want any winkles?"
But no one bought a single half-pint. Poor
Joe! So he walked on till he came into the
country, and at a small white house, with pretty
green Venetian blinds, and a neat garden in front,
he stopped and meekly asked a servant who was
cleaning the brass handle of the gate if she would
buy some winkles. She said she would ask her
mistress, who said " Yes," and she came out
to pay for them herself, holding her servant's hand.
The face was a kind face, the voice a sweet, kind
11*
126
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
voice; the eyes were shut, however, for the poor
lady was blind, quite blind.
"Yes, my boy, I will buy a pint of winkles,"
she said. " I have not tasted them since I was a
little girl and used to go and pick them off the
rocks. Where do you live, little boy ?"
Joe told her, and said, too, that he wished he
could sell his periwinkles. He had been out two
hours, and that was the first twopence he had taken.
The lady smiled. " I can only eat a pint, I'm
afraid. But what makes you take out winkles?"
" Why, ma'am, I want to earn a few pence to
keep little Meggie Harrison out of the " house."
Father can't get us all food enough sometimes,
and Meggie lives with us; and Susy, that is my
sister and I, we are trying to get money; but it
seems very hard, and 'tis so little children can do."
"Can Susy sew?"
"Oh yes, ma'am."
"Well, send Susy to me this afternoon."
Meggie promised to mind the children on the
beach, and Mr. Bourne, who was going to net,
promised to mind them all, and Susy was going
after dinner, full of hope, to Miss Boper's, the
blind lady's. Joe had sold three quarts of winkles
during his morning's walk, and altogether they
had a very happy dinner of potatoes and herrings.
Little Susy could scarcely walk soberly through
THE FISHERMEN'S CHILDREN. 127
the town, she felt so pleased to think she might
now earn something; She quite ran when she
came to the bridge' just out of the town, and was
in such a hurry. that she ran past Miss Roper's
house. The maid showed her into a parlour where
the blind lady sat, who told Susy to sit down, fot
she heard She was out of breath, and then began
to talk to her about poor Meggie.' She was pleased
to see how willing Susy was to give of her oion
to the orphan. -She was'pleased also to see that
she did not talk 'proudly nor boastfully about it,
but that she said she hoped she should not grow
tired of the work : if only she and Joe could earn
something, so as " not to rob father and mother."
Miss Roper said a great deal to Susy which she
remembered for many a 4jiy, and gave her some
good advice. She said a little child with a willing
heart may do her part in the world better' than a
grown man without a willing heart. Every one
may do something. She now gave Susy some
pocket-handkerchiefs on which to try her skill, and
said they must be neatly done, and she would give
her threepence a-piece for them. "Little girl,"
she said, "do you not wonder what I can do for
God or man ? When God first took away my
eyesight, I thought, now I am no use to any one,
and I almost wished to die; but he soon showed
me that"was a sinful thought; and I find that
128
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
though I am a poor blind woman, I may yet do
something, and I would help you now; go and see
wh^t you can do."
Susy ran home very pleased, and would have
begun her pocket-handkerchiefs at once, but her
mother wanted her just then to go and hold baby.
Then came another trouble. She had fixed to
get up quite early to sew, but the mornings were
dark, and candles cost money. Joe and she talked
about it in secret, and at last Joe said, "Well,
Susy, I will beg for once." So he went to Mr.
Wilkes, and begged a candle, promising to go er¬
rands at any time his father did not want him, so
as to pay for it. Mr. Wilkes was a kind man, and
Susy had a candle at five o'clock next morning,
and worked very happily till six.
The little girl in her cold, low room beside her
sleeping brothers and sister, and the little orphan
Meggie, working by candle-light, without a fire,
on a dark November morning, was far happier
than a lazy, selfish child in a soft, downy bed, for
she was doing something for another: yes, Sus}'
was a happy child.
The handkerchiefs were finished in about a fort¬
night, and Susy and Meggie walked up with them
to Miss Roper's. Grace, the maid, said they
were very neatly done, and Miss Roper was
pleased.
THE FISHERMEN'S CHILDREN. 129
"But cannot Meggie work?" asked the lady.
"No, Meggie don't like work," said Susy.
Meggie put her finger in her mouth.
" Meggie must learn," said Miss Roper. " Come
ap here every day at two; and, Grace, will you
teach Meggie to sew?"
Grace said " Oh yes," and little Meggie learned
to sew, and had many a nice piece of cold meat
and pudding given her to take home to her kind
friends, so that Mr. Bourne found they were not
yet the poorer for Meggie; and so the winter
passed away.
Spring came. Meggie seemed to bring a bless¬
ing with her; and so it is, if we do right, a bless¬
ing will come, be sure of that: God smiles on
those who live not to themselves. The fishing
prospered. Little Susy had as much work to do
as her young fingers could manage.
Meggie never loved work, but still she was less
idle than, in days gone by. Miss Roper had done
a great deal in the garden of her heart, and while
she sat at work, the blind lady would give her
many wise and gentle lessons, and the little orphan
grew a good girl Joe soon left off winkling, and Mr.
Wilkes took him as errand-boy, at two shillings
a week and his dinner. This was a very great thing.
130
BUDS- AND BLOSSOMS.
THE LAST.
Two years passed; there was a sad scene in the
fisherman's cottage. Little Susy—active, kind,
busy Susy—had been ill many months, and at
last she lay down in her bed in the corner of the
cottage kitchen to die. She was buried next to
Polly in the green churchyard among the hills,
and as they stood round the open grave, Mr. Bourne
thought of the child's words on that November
morning long ago—"Perhaps God took care of
Polly that you might take care of Meggie."
And now whose hand was it that was put
lovingly iiito the poor father's? It was Meggie's.
Who kept the little children quiet and happy
during that long funeral day ? It was Meggie.
WTho did all that Susy had done in sewing, nurs¬
ing, cooking? It was Meggie. Who, when the
poor mother, sick with sorrow and fatigue, was
stretched on her bed for many weeks, smoothed
her pillow, made her nice broth and gruel, and
loved and tended her as her own mother ? Meggie,
still. And whose voice, evening by evening, reads
out of the Bible which the blind lady had given,
words of peace and comfort, and, when at work,
sung sweet songs and hymns, taught her by the
same lady ? Why, it was Meggie's voice.
The parents could not forget Susy. Oh no; but
THE FISHERMEN'S CHILDREN.
131
they often talked of the orphan child as Susy's
gift to them, and recalled the dying girl's words
>—"Ah, father and mother, Meggie will he a
daughter to you when I am gone. You took
care of her once, and now she must take care
of you."
f ittU f up.
far, far away.
Far, far away, little Peepyj far, far away.
Beyond the wide, deep sea, father and mother are
going. Mother is not well, and the doctor says she
must go into a warm country for a little while, to
get strong again. Papa will go, too, to take care
of her, and you must he left behind—poor little
Peepy!
But they are coming back again, Peepy, if God
pleases. Next year, darling, you shall see them
again. Pray to God, little Peepy, to keep them
from harm by nigbt and by day, and bring them
back safe again, to make dear mamma quite well,
and to help you to be a good child while they are
gone.
Your uncle promises to take care of you while
father and mother are away : you will go with him
in the coach to his farm in the country, and you
will get roses on your pale cheeks, and grow
132
little peepy.
133
plump and strong. Father and mother will
scarcely know you when they come baqk, little
Peepy, you will he grown such a great girl. All
this, and more too, if God pleases.
There are cousins at the Farm, darling:—one,
two, three, four, five \ and their names are Patty
and Mary, and Thomas and John, and Kate.
You must love them, little Peepy, and play with
them so nicely, and mind you don't get angry with
them, ever.
You are four years old now, little one: when
father and mother come back, you will be five.
Be happy and good, darling pale-fac6; and don't
forget father and mother. One kiss more—and
another—and another. Good-by, Peepy, good-by.
So Peepy was rattled away in the coach, over
tae rough street, miles away into the country, to
her uncle's farm. And next week, Peepy's father
and mother were in a good ship out at sea—far,
far away.
peepy's troubles.
Poor little Peepy! Nobody seems to care much
for her, she thinks. She has been six whole
months at uncle's farm; and uncle has left off
taking great notice of her: she gets in aunt's way
sometimes, and then aunt scolds her: cousins are a
little tired of their new play-fellow, who does not
vol. i. 12
134
bhds and blossoms.
understand all their rough games. Timid little
one! she creeps about like a frightened child, as
she is, and in trying to get out of the way, she
gets into it the more) and then she is scolded :
then she cries, and creeps into a corner, and thinks
about dear papa and mamma—far, far away; and
wonders when they will come back again. Then
Cousin Patty comes, and finds her crying in the
corner, and pulls her roughly out of it, and says,
" I declare, Peepy is always crying: I wish she
had never come here." And this does not com¬
fort little Peepy at all, who goes on sobbing
very loud, till aunt comes and wants to know what
is the matter, and scolds poor Peepy again for
crying when there is nothing to cry about.
They don't mean to be unkind to little Peepy;
but they do not know exactly how to deal with a
little, weakly child, that is pining after father and
mother, who are far, far away. They do not un¬
derstand the little one; and think she is sullen
because she is sad.
the bright, new shilling.
A happy day it was for little Peepy when a
strange lady and gentleman paid a visit to uncle and
aunt at their farm; for they had known her papa
and mamma, and talked kindly to the little girl,
and took her for a ride with them in their chaise;
LITTLE PEEPY.
135
and when they went away, gave her a bright, new
shilling.
" Only look at Peepy," said Cousin Mary, the
morning after: " see if she is not trying to sew,
—a little awkward puss ! Where did you get a
needle and thread, Peepy; and that bit of stuff;
and what are you doing ?"
Peepy had begged the needle and thread of
Sally, the maid, and the bit of cotton print also;
and she was trying to make a little bag, to keep
the bright, new shilling in. But she did not say
so, for somehow she had got to be very silent when
spoken to.
Little Peepy did not want to lose the bright,
new shilling. It was a great sum to her. She
would keep it very safe till her papa and mamma
came home, she thought: perhaps they might
want it. She had heard that it cost a great deal
of money to go in the ship across the sea, far, far
away. Ah, yes ! and papa had told her once that
he was not very rich; so would he not be glad
of her bright, new shilling? Thoughtful little
Peepy!
So Peepy would not tell Cousin Mary what she
was doing with the needle and thread. Her secret
was found out, though, before long; and then,
poor little Peepy! they said she was a silly miser.
136
buds and blossoms.
and laughed at her for the care she took of her
bright, new shilling.
the pedlak.
One day, a pedlar came to the farm. He was
a merry man, and had a great pack at his hack,
and a basket on his arm.
" Here's the stuff that will never wear out,"
said the pedlar, when he got to the door: "sheets,
and towels, and table-cloths. Here are bright
colours that sun wont fade, nor water wash out:
shawls, and silks, and cotton prints. Here are the
pretty toys for little girls and boys: was dolls
and wooden dolls: dressed dolls and naked dolls :
tops, marbles, and balls : pocket books and purses.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?"
Soon he had some customers. Aunt bought a
table-cloth: Sally, the servant, bought a shawl:
Patty coaxed her mother to buy a new frock for
her j and Mary did the same. Tom bought a peg-
top, and John bought some marbles, and little
Kate had a doll.
" And what is this little lady to have ?" said the
pedlar; for Peepy was looking on, too, with long¬
ing eyes.
"What will you buy with your bright, new shil¬
ling, Peepy ?" asked Patty.
"Ha, ha! Peepy is a miser," said Tom.
little peepy.
187
"Have a doll, my pretty little one," said the
pedlar—"a nice wax doll, in fine clothes."
Poor little Peepy: she wished to have a doll;
hut she thought that papa and mamma would be
glad of her bright, new shilling when they came
home, so she would not spend it; and her cousins
laughed again, and said, " What a little miser is
Peepy!"
christmas-day.
Wake up, little Peepy—Christmas-day is come.
Hark! the church-bells are ringing. Listen to
the story they tell.
Once, a long while ago, a babe was born at
Bethlehem. His parents were poor, and they
were far away from their home; and because there
was no room in the inn, they put their little baby
to sleep in a stable.
There were shepherds watching their flocks by
night, little one: and while they watched, a glori¬
ous, bright angel came, and told them good tidings
of great joy, about a babe that was born that
night in Bethlehem. Then they heard sweet
music, such as they had never heard before,
and never would hear again while they lived;
and they looked up and saw angels—more than
they could number—shining in brightness, and
knew that they were singing praises to Cod,
lOSi
138
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
because of this little babe that was born in
Bethlehem.
Don't you remember this story, little Peepy, that
mamma used to tell you as you sat on her knee ?
—and how this little baby was Lord of lords and
King of kings?—how he grew up, and never did
any wrong, but was good and loving ?—how he
went about doing good, and loved little children,
and blessed them ?
Wake up, wake up, little Peepy! Christmas-
day is come; and uncle and aunt, and all your
cousins are going I know not where. They mean
to have a holiday, darling; and off they go, dressed
in Sunday clothes, in the covered van, so snug
and warm : laughing and talking they are at the
thought of their holiday. And here is little Peepy
left behind. Poor Peepy, she must stay at home.
There was not room for her in the van.
Don't cry, little Peepy! if you can help it.
Remember the little babe, who was laid to sleep
in a stable, darling—there was not room for him
in the inn.
She did not mind it much; and when Sally told
her she might put on her bonnet and her gloves,
and her little brown cloak, and run on the road,
as far as the round tree, she tripped along quite
cheerfully over the hard, frosty ground; and won¬
dered whether she were not as happy, all alone
little peepy.
139
there, as she would have been with her cousins in
their covered van.
the captive rescued.
" Please, please don't—don't be so cruel: how
can you be so cruel ?"
There were two boys in the road; and they
had a poor little robin redbreast, which they had
caught in a trap that morning.
They were using the poor robin very sadly.
They had tied a string to its legs, and when the
poor bird tried to fly away, they pulled it back
again, and laughed at its struggles. At last the
little robin was so tired and frightened, that it lay
on the ground panting, with its feathers ruffled,
and its beak wide open, and its eyes half closed.
It seemed ready to die. Then the rude, cruel boys
pulled the string to make it fly again.
"Please don't be so cruel. How can you be so
cruel ?" said little Peepy; and she ran to the poor
bird, and took it up very gently.
" You let our bird alone," one of the boys cried
out; but little Peepy still held it, and was ready
to cry when she saw how it panted, and felt its
little heart beating with fear.
" Do give it to me, please," said the little girl.
"I will thank you very much."
But the boys laughed at poor Peepy; and still
140
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
they told her, very roughly, to let the bird alone ;
and one of them came close to her, and pushed
her angrily on the bank.
"You should not meddle with our bird," the
boy said. " Let it go, I tell you, and run off with
you, or else you will be sorry."
Brave Peepy. She still held the poor robin
fast, and yet so tenderly.
" Don't hurt it—please don't hurt the poor little
bird," Cried Peepy.
But the rude boys only laughed the more at the
little girl's distress.
"I wonder whether they would sell it," thought
Peepy; and then she remembered that she had
no money, only the bright, new shilling.
"Papa and mamma wouldn't mind, I think,"
said Peepy to herself. "Let me have the bird—
poor little bird," said Peepy; " and I will give—"
"Eh ! what will you give for it ?" said one of the
boys.
Little Peepy took from her pocket the bag she
had made, and showed the boys the shilling. It
did not want many words to that bargain; so Peepy
carried home the bird, and never saw any more of
her bright, new shilling.
little peepy.
141
the cage.
Who can tell how happy Peepy was when she
got the robin safe away from the cruel boys?
Very glad was she that she had not gone with her
cousins that day, for their Christmas holiday.
And, oh, how pleased she was when she found that
poor robin liad been more frightened than hurt
with the cruel usage it had received! "
To be sure, Sally said she was a silly little girl
to give away a shilling for a bird that would be
more plague than profit; and told Peepy that she
would never get rich if she did such foolish things;
and that aunt would be aBgry; and I know not
what beside. But Sally had a kind heart, and
she could not blame Peepy very much.
" And what shall you do with the bird, now you
have got it ?" Sally asked.
"I*should like to keep it, if I might," said
Peepy.
There was an old, cage in the store-room; and
that afternoon Sally and Peepy were very busy
mending the cage, and making it fit for poor
robin. Then they gave it a good meal of crumbs
of bread and potatoes; and you may guess how
pleased Peepy was when the little bird hopped
about the bottom of the cage to pick up the
crumbs, and then got upon the perch and
142
buds and blossoms-
chirped out thanks that sounded like " peep,
peep, peep."
C( I declare he knows my name, and is calling
me," said little Peepy; and she laughed so merrily,
it would have done you good to hear her.
Then, when it got dark, and Sally lighted a
candle, they threw a handkerchief over the cage,
and presently, when Peepy lifted up the handker¬
chief and looked in, she saw that poor robin was
sound asleep.
This was a happy Christmas-day for our little
Peepy.
peepy's pet.
Peepy's cousins came home that night very
tired j and next day they laughed at her for part¬
ing so foolishly with her bright, new shilling. But
aunt was not angry; and after that Peepy was
more happy than she had been before.
She loved her little bird, very dearly indeed;
and fed it every day so carefully and kindly, and
talked to it so pleasantly, that soon poor robin
knew her voice, and was always ready with a
" PeeP> PeeP> PeeP;" when Peepy was near.
It was a pretty fellow—Peepy's robin—with
such a bright red breast, and such smooth feathers;
and all that winter it seemed very well pleased
with its cage.
LITTLE PEEPY.
143
Then spring came, with its violets, and primroses,
and daisies.
Peepy was glad to see these, for she had not
forgotten her father and mother; and she knew
they had not forgotten her, for they had sent her
a letter, and had told her that when spring came,
they should come too, if all were well. And after
that letter came, Peepy had grown stouter than
she was before: her cheeks had roses, and she
oftener smiled than cried or fretted. She had got
more used to her cousins and their ways, and was
better able to play with them than when she first
went to her uncle's farm. And, indeed—it does
not matter how the change was brought about—
but all seemed kinder to Peepy than they had
been, and she left off being sorrowful.
But yet, little Peepy wanted very much to
see her father and mother, and live with them
again.
One day, the sun shone very brightly, and Peepy
thought her little robin would like to feel the warm
sunshine. So she took the cage into the garden,
and hung it on a tree.
And then, you should have seen poor robin—
how he fluttered his wing, and beat his pretty red
breast against the cage, and cried—" peep, peep,
peep," so sadly.
"Oh, dear, dear! what can be the matter?" said
144
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
the little girl. " Don't hurt yourself so, poor
Bobby. Are you hungry?" Then Peepy gave
it some fresh food; but Bobby would not touch it*
"Poor Bobby! are you not well?" said Peepy.
But all Bobby said was " peep, peep, peep;" and
fluttered its wings all the while. And still Peepy
said, " Oh, dear me, what can the matter be ?"
"Shall I tell you, Peepy?" said a voice just
behind her. The little girl turned round, and
there, at her elbow, stood the kind lady and gen-
tleman who had given her the bright, new shilling.
They had come in their chaise while Peepy was
talking to her bird in the garden. Their visit
this time was to Peepy; and so they had gone
into the garden to find her.
" Shall I tell you, Peepy ?" said the gentleman,
as he stooped down to kiss the little girl, who was
very, very glad to see him.
" Oh yes, if you please, sir," said Peepy. " Poor
Bobby! I am afraid he is not well."
"He is quite well, Peepy; but he wants his
liberty. Now one weather is come, he wishes to
fly away into the woods. He does not like being
shut up in a cage."
Poor Peepy looked very much distressed at
this.
"You are a good little girl, Peepy," said the
lady. " We have heard how kind you have been
LITTLE PEEPY.
145
to the poor bird; and how you love it j and how
dearly it cost you. Now you can do one thing
more for it, that will make it quite happy."
Peepy understood what the lady meant quite
well. Her little bosom heaved sadly, and a tear
started in her eye. Then, without saying one more
word, she opened the door of the cage, and took
poor Bobby in her hand. She kissed its pretty
red breast, two or three times, and said "good-by,
dear, dear Bobby." Then she opened her hand,
and away flew the little bird—glad of its liberty.
It did not fly far at first; but perched on a tree a
little way off, and sung a sweet song. Then it
spread its wings again, and went far, far away,
while Peepy watched it till it was out of sight.
Dear little Peepy!
the last.
" Shall we tell her now?" said the lady in a
whisper, to the gentleman, as Peepy was looking
sorrowfully at her empty cage.
"Not yet," whispered the gentleman: "let us
only ask her if she would like a ride.
"If you will go with us in our chaise," said the
lady to Peepy, "we will try to find you something
you will like better than Bobby. Would you like
to go home with us for one night, Peepy ?"
Yes, Peepy thought she would; and aunt and
vol i. 13
146
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
uncle, who were in the secret, were willing she
should go; and she was soon ready.
It was a beautiful day; and they went on, mile
after mile in the chaise; and Peepy began to forget
her trouble about poor Bobby, and to enjoy her
drive very much.
"Do you remember your mamma and papa,
Peepy," ashed the lady, when the chaise stopped
at a fine large house.
Oh yes, to be sure Peepy did. But she had not
time to say so: for in the same minute she was
safe in the arms of her dear mamma; and close
by was papa waiting to kiss his little Peepy.
"0 papa, mamma—mamma, papa—are you
really, really come? and shall I live with you
again?" glad little Peepy said. Her heart was
very full of joy.
Oh yes: they were not going far, far away any
more: mamma was come home quite well, and they
would not leave their little Peepy again. And
when she heard that, was she not happy!
And they did not want her bright, new shilling,
either: they had brought home as much money
as they needed; and presents for little Peepy,
that cost many bright new shillings; and for
Peepy's cousins, too. And when they all met next
day at uncle's farm, Peepy had quite forgotten
LITTLE PEEPY.
147
that her cousins had not always been so kind to her
as they might have been.
And when she saw poor Bobby's empty cage,
she was glad she had given him his liberty. " I
am so happy," she said: "and I am glad poor
Bobby is happy too."
gaftbits anii pMs,
The March winds were over, and some little
children, who lived with their papa and mamma
in an old red brick house, in a town, one day
brought home the good news that the green leaves
were really coming out, and that the birds sung
like spring birds once more.
A day or two after this a pleasant sound was
heard. It was a noise the children knew well.
It was Thomas, the man-servant, bringing down
boxes out of a closet high up in the roof, which
was called the "box closet." That very morning
they went to the shoemaker's for some strong
shoes, and to the straw-hatmaker's for coarse
country hats and bonnets, and the next day pack-
ing-up began. They were going to the house in
the sweet country—a house not far from the sea¬
side, and standing amid woods of pine and fir-
trees. Papa was not going. Oh, no! Papa had
business in town, but he liked to send his little
children into the fresh air of the country, and for
this purpose was quite willing to part with them.
148
rabbits and peewits.
149
John was to go, Edward too; and little Martin,
and Anna, and Mary were going.
At last all were ready. Thomas was ready, in
his ,hlne coat and bright buttons. Betsey, the
chestnut pony, was ready in some smart new
harness;' and Bill, the old white horse, was ready
too, but not quite so pleased at the prospect of a
journey as Betsey, for he was older, and knew
what a long journey was. And how do you think
all the children, and servants, and ponies were
going to travel twenty miles? I will tell you.
Mamma first drove off with nurse and baby in the
pony gig: then Thomas and two of the maids in
another sociable sort of carriage; and then came
a coach up to the hall door, to take the children
and governess; and a heavy load the coach had,
I can tell you; but it was twenty years ago, and
people did not travel by railway then.
A»d now they were really on their .way to
Elmerton.
the arrival.
At six o'clock the children called out that they
could see the chimneys of the dear old house, and
in five minutes more they were in the well-known
parlour! Mamma was ready to give them tea,
to cheer the little tired ones, and to keep
the elder boys in order. r> There was the table
set out, with white china cups and plates, and
150
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
plenty of new milk and cream, and—a strange
thing for April—harvest-cakes, which are very
plain affairs, being little more than home-made
bread with a few eurrants in it; but the little
Wiltons thought them so very nice. The boys
had a great deal to see, and could scarcely wait to
eat harvest-cake; but Anna and little Mary must
not, their mamma said, go Out that night. The
evenings were yet very damp and cool. So they
went into the school-room, and having found their
Elmerton dolls quite safe in the drawer where
they had put them last year, the little sisters were
soon busy at play, while John, and Edward, and
Martin were still running about in the garden and
field in search of their treasures. At last garden
and field were left for the night: the house was
quiet, and the children were all gone to bed.
Next morning, after lessons, Anna and Mary
had a walk, and the brothers a ride on donkeys.
Anna and Mary went to see two neighbours who
lived close by. They lived in two cottages with a
pond before them, and they had each. a garden
full of gooseberry and currant-bushes. Mrs. Wil¬
ton used always to give little Bessy Sadler most
of Anna's old clothes, and Joe Williams most of
Martin's; but it was a sad pity to see how jealous
Mrs. Williams was of Mrs. Sadler, and Mrs. Sadler
of Mrs. Williams. Envy is a bad fault; it is a
RABBITS AND PEEWITS.
151
weed in the heart, better pulled up early in spring
—I mean in childhood. You eannot think how
had it is when it grows large and strong, as it did
in the case of these two poor women.
Then there were some rabbits to see, in the
coach-house, which the gardener, Curtis, had put
there to surprise the young ladies—and very much
surprised, and pleased too, they were. It was so
nice to see the little, long-eared things, with their
meek, pinky-looking eyes, nibbling at the cabbage
and carrots, or munching the bran. "Oh, kind
Curtis I" they said, and stood watching the rabbits
a long time. At last Martin, who was a thought¬
ful little boy, could not help seeing that though
the rabbits looked very meek and pleasant, they
were not very amiable creatures. " Sally," as
Curtis called one great white doe, with long, flap¬
ping ears, snatched a carrot out of her husband
Spot-tie's mouth, and ran away into a corner to
munch by herself. Spottle, a black and white
rabbit, a very sober fellow, bore this quietly, and
went and pulled a cabbage-stalk which Sally had
left; but Grizzle, a little grey fellow, who looked
so timid you quite pitied him, would not let Spottle
eat his meal in peace, but scampered away from
his bran, and tugged and pulled the cabbage till
poor Spottle gave it' up, and went and sat sulkily
by himself in a corner.
152
buds and blossoms.
"Ah !" said Curtis: "see, little folks, how bad
quarrelling looks. Poor dumb things, they know
no better, but you cannot feel to love them with
their greedy, selfish ways. Look at Spottle, poor
fellow, sitting sad and moped in the corner, while
that greedy Sally is nibbling a carrot twice as
large as she can eat. If you are inclined to be
selfish at any time, young ladies, just think of the
rabbits, and say, if it looks badly in a rabbit to be
cross and selfish, how much worse it must be in a
little girl."
This was Curtis's lesson.
more about pets.
The country life of these children was much
the same, day after day, but they thought it very
pleasant. The gardener's present of rabbits was a
great delight. Spottle was Anna's favourite, and
Grizzle little Mary's. Sally and Biddy always
seemed more quarrelsome and greedy than Spottle
and Grizzle, so that the little Wiltons thought there
was some difference in the nature of rabbits. Curtis
had given some good advice about the time and
manner of feeding these little creatures. He used
often to beg the children not to throw them so
many cabbage-leaves, or to give them so much
green food, for he told them that if the}' did, they
would lose their pets; but they thought just one
RABBITS AND PEEWITS.
153
more, and only one more, could not hurt, and soon
Spottle, instead of looking fatter, got thinner every
day. One morning, as the children were running
to the rabbit-room, they met Curtis dangling some¬
thing by its long ears. It was poor Spottle, greedy
Spottle, quite dead. Anna cried a little, and Mar¬
tin too. "But," said Martin, " rather than cry,
we will dig a grave for Spottle." So they got their
little spades, and dug a grave as deep as they had
patience to dig it, and then went into the house to
ask for a box to make a coffin for the dead rabbit.
Spottle was a large old fellow, and his coffin had
to be large too. Cook, however, found an old box
which had been used for candles, in which they
laid the poor thing, and after lessons in the after¬
noon, they buried him. John and Edward carried
him to the grave, and Martin, Anna, and Mary
followed as mourners. In a few weeks after, when
the mound they raised was grown green, an
epitaph appeared on the spotted rabbit. It was
written by John, and is pretty good, excepting one
false rhyme:—
" Beneath this mound there lies a rabbit,
Who had, alas, one grievous habit—
'Twas that of overeating.
Cabbages brought him to his end,
And here I hope not to offend
By gardener's words repeating:
154-
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
Rabbits, like children, must be guided,
And not have all the food provided
"Which they may wish to swallow;
Had Spottle's greediness been curb'd,
This ground would not have been disturb'd,
And spared had been our sorrow."
There were many contrivances tried in order
to stick the epitaph up on the grave. They wrote
it first on paper, and put it in a slit of a stick; but
the first shower, of course, washed the ink off, so
that no one could read it; and those who wanted
to see the lines on the rabbit had to go to mamma,
who kept them snug in her desk. After Spottle
died, there were a great many more rabbits, and
Curtis was often sorry for his present, for some¬
times the careless little children left the door open,
and then—oh what sad doings in the garden! nice
rose-bushes nibbled, and pretty shrubs injured.
"If they kept to the parsley and carrots, indeed,
I should not mind," said Curtis; " but my poor
flowers !"
The children were sorry, and begfln to fear the
rabbits would be sent away in disgrace; so, for
some time, they shut the rabbit-room door. They
put their pets on a spare diet of bran, with only a
carrot and a little bit of parsley now and then; and
the rabbits grew and prospered.
Thomas, the groom, one day brought home a poor
lame leveret, or young hare, which had been caught
rabbits and peewits.
155
in a snare, and which the gamekeeper had given
him. The leveret was put into the rabbi t-room;
but it was'wrong to do so. Tame animals never
treat wild ones, even of their own race, kindly;
and the rabbits were so furious against the leve¬
ret, that next morning the poor thing was found
mangled and dead in a corner.
A wild rabbit, fresh from the woods, shared the
same fate; but in this case the tame ones made a
meal of their visitor, and only the ears and tail
were seen when the children paid their daily visit
to the room. They did not love the rabbits any
more after this. They had no longer pleasure in
gathering parsley and carrots for them; and to the
joy of Curtis, and of the boy who had to keep the
room clean, Grizzle and Sally, Biddy and all the
little rabbits, white, black, brown, and mottled,
were sent away.
a ride.
One morning, soon after the rabbits went away,
Thomas drove up in the car in which the little
ones went their long rides, and Jphn came canter¬
ing from the stables on Betsey, the chestnut pony,
with Banger, the brown spaniel, running by his
side. They rode through lovely lanes, the banks
of which were, in spring, covered with the delicate
yellow primrose; but by this time spring was over,
156
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
and only the long green leaves of the plant were
to be seen. The sky was blue when they set out,
but in the distance, just where you caught sight
of the sea, there were a few clouds rising, and
Miss Rowe looked to see if the umbrellas were
there. No ! they had been forgotten, all but one;
and there was not a shawl nor a cloak in the car.
Miss Rowe wished to turn back, but the children
were sure it would not rain. We shall see who
was right. Thomas now asked if they knew why
he was come with the great basket that was under¬
neath the seat.
"No!" they said: "it was not blackberry-time
yet. What could the basket be for ?"
He nodded his head and drove on, Ranger bark¬
ing and wagging his long brown tail (he was a
water-spaniel) very merrily, as if he knew all
about it. Ah, and so he did,—more than the
children thought.
Presently they came to a low, marshy sort of
place, and Thomas drew up and looked very grave
at brown Ranger. "Ah, Ranger, my boy, we
should have left you at home," said Thomas : for
Ranger knew well what was in the marshy field,
and was snuffing and scampering away in high glee.
"Come back, Ranger! here, Ranger! Ranger!"
called John, but all in vain. So they let him have
his way, and then Thomas said he was come to
RABBITS AND PEEWITS.
157
find "lapwings," or "peewits," as they-are ,also
called. On this morning they were running and
skimming across the land, crying almost as?
plainly as you can say it, "Pee-wit," "Pee-wit."
It was the young peewits that Thomas wanted; and
the old peewits seemed to know this: for what do
you think they did? The hen-bird lay down and
pretended to be dead*. She wished the bird-catcher
to take her, and to leave her little nestlings; but
though the old peewits tried to, iempt Thomas
away from the nest, and though Hanger barked
loudly enough to frighten, all the birds away, he
came away scccessful.. He was an old hand at
lapwing-catching, and'five young lapwings were
put into the basket and safely covered down.
Eanger, seeing the horse move, came back very
unwillingly, and they prepared to go home, Anna
and Mary rather sorry about the birds. "Why
will you take (hem, Thomas?" they said.
" Oh, miss, they will be happy enough," said
Thomas. "They are all,fledged, and can do. with¬
out their mothers; and snails and slugs are feast¬
ing on my dahlias: this is why I want peewits."
The clouds by this time were very black, rnnd
there was no doubt about some drops that fell on
Anna's face as she said, Oh, the rain will be no¬
thing." But rain came, and thunder too, and one
of the horses was frightened, and reared. This
Vol. I. 14
158
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
made Miss Howe resolve to stop and ask for .shel¬
ter at the mill-house near. A man who was at
work in a shed close by, took pity on them, and
soon they were under cover, and the horse quiet
again.
A long time it seemed to little hungry children
to wait in an empty shed, with nothing to look at
but spiders and rafters, and Mary cried; but she
was very young. Martin, who was a wise little
boy, advised Mary not to cry for nothing, for fear
some real trouble should come. Martin had al¬
ways a little good advice ready, and then he tried
to cheer the little girl, and put his arm round her
waist lovingly, telling her how in that shed, in
the thunder-storm, God could take care of them,
and how mamma had often told him that tempests
did good, making the air cool and fresh, and kill¬
ing a great many insects which are very trouble¬
some. The little lapwings in the basket at this
moment making a faint "peewit," Mary forgot
her troubles; and as the cloud passed away from
her little heart, so did the cloud from the sky, and
they left the shed and began their journey home.
But Ranger!-—where was Ranger?
Ranger was Mary's dog—her dear dog, as she
said; and when Mary was a very little baby,
Ranger used to love to lick her face, to watch her
on the garden-plot, and when she began to run
RABBITS AND PEEWITS.
159
alone would walk solemnly by her side. A call¬
ing for Ranger now arose. Could he be gone back
after the peewits? No, "Thomas did not think it
likely. Perhaps he was gone homewards: so they
drove on, Thomas whistling and John calling, but
no dog came. So they went back a little way,
and as they drove close under a hedge that bound¬
ed a fine plantation, they heard a dreadful howl.
It was the poor spaniel; and Martin's words were
copae true, that little Mary might have something
more to cry for in her life's journey than being
caught in the rain and having to shelter under the
roof of a coal-shed. She did not cry so loud this
time." People often cry more for fancied troubles
than real ones; but she looked frightened and
sorry. Thomas jumped out, and soon came back
with a long face and a sad tale. Ranger, who
was very fond of going where be ought not to go,
had trespassed into the woods, where many traps
were laid, and Ranger had been caught. What
was to be done ? the leg was so Ibroken that the
poor thing could not live. Thomas unfastened
the trap, and laid the moaning favourite on the
mat at Miss Rowe's feet; but it was a sad ride
home, and a sad tale for their mamma. Peewits
and tempests were all forgotten in Ranger's acci¬
dent, and Ranger died that very night, or, rather,
he had to be shot. For when dumb creatures are
160
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
so injured as to be in great suffering, and not
likely to recover, it is only kind and rigbt to end
tbeir pain and tbeir life together. Ranger was
'buried near tbe rabbit, and more tears were sbed
at his funeral than at that of Spottle, for he was a
faithful, loving dog, and seemed to have but one
fault—that of going into places where he had no
business. "But that is no fault in a dog," said
Anna, " for he knows no better." The peewits had a
very disagreeable life of it at first, but by-and-by
they seemed contented enough, and forgot all
about their kind mother, who had lain herself down
to die to save them. That, too, was their nature,
and what the Maker designed that they should
leam—to be independent of the mother-bird. This
is the difference between instinct and love, you see.
Your mother would never forget you; but after a
few days, or perhaps hours, the peewits' mother
was happily skimming over the marsh, and the
little ones, who had lived under her wing, were
eating slugs and snails in the strange garden at
Elmer ton.
After Ranger died, they turned their hearts
very much to the lapwings; but one morning Anna
could find but four. The lost one could not have
flown away, for Thomas had clipped all their wings
only the day before. Anna was very sorry. She
knew each bird perfectly, and had a name for
RABBITS AND PEEWITS.
161
each—Jack and Jill, Joan and Bill, and poor
Whitey. It was Whitey, the prettiest of the lot,
that was missing. I am sorry to say that some
person put it into little Miss Anna's head that
perhaps James Sadler, or some village child, had
taken the pretty bird. It is a had thing to put
suspicion into a child's heart. Never suspect a
person to be wrong without reason. Better to
think too well than too ill of any one.
Anna thought James took her bird, and she
would not look at him when he touched his hat
next day, and offered her a bunch of blue-bells from
the hills. 0 Anna! "Charity thinks no evil."
In a few days, another lapwing went, and now
Anna was sure little James knew about it. Thomas
promised to watch, and the next night he did
watch, but no little James appeared. As he stood
on the lawn, he heard a queer kind of hooting
noise. It was an owl's hoot ■ and soon a great barn-
owl, with bright green eyes, flapped past him.
He shot, but missed the owl, who fled off to the oppo¬
site barn to tell the little owlets, in owl language,
that lapwings were scarce that night, and I suppose
she carried them some field-mice instead. This
tale of the owl took away all suspicion of little
James. Anna was then sorry for her hard
thoughts, and one day told him why she did not
take the blue-bells.
14*
162
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
James said, "Well, miss, I wish you hadn't
thought it of me. ' Did I ever take any thing out
of your garden yet?"
Anna was obliged to say, "Oh no."
" Then why did you think I took your peewits,
miss? Was I more likely than owls or cats?"
However it was all made up; and when the milk
came that afternoon, a large bunch of blue-bells
came too, which Anna always calls " charity flowers"
to this day, because they remind her of the text,
"Charity thinlceth no evil."
I could tell you a great deal more about these
little children's happy lives in the country, but
there is not room in this tiny book. Those chil¬
dren are now far, far away from the Elmerton
House; some have little ones of their own, and
have seen many things in this wide world of ours;
but there is no part of their past life on which
they look back with such pleasure as their country
joys at Elmerton.
I]tr §ir&.
part first.
" Come down stairs, nurse, dear, and see the
beautiful present Uncle Edward has sent me on
my birthday !" cried little Alice Grey, as she ran
into the room one morning where her old nurse
was sitting at work. " You really must come, in¬
deed. Papa and mamma and cousins are all look¬
ing at it;" and she led her nurse down stairs by
the hand, talking as she went along as fast as pos¬
sible, "You know, Uncle Edward wrote in mam¬
ma's letter that he should send me a live plaything
on my birthday, and nothing could be prettier than
it is I Mamma says I may do every thing for it
myself, and that she shall like me to have it, if
I only remember always to feed it and clean out
its cage. There, now! I have almost told you
what it is after all."
" Is it a squirrel, Miss Alice ? I do think it
must be a squirrel."
" No, nurse, you have not guessed it. You are
quite wrong; but you will soon see what it is;" and
163
164
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
she opened the door of the room where the party
were standing round a table looking at a canary
bird in a beautiful wire cage. Alice was quite
delighted when nurse declared it to be the pret¬
tiest little dickey she had ever seen. His form
was so slender, his plumage so sleek, and his eyes
so bright; and when was ever canary of a more
bright, yet delicate yellow? Nurse hoped that he
would sing sweetly, too, for she was very fond of
hearing the birds chirping and singing as she sat
at work. Alice's papa whistled to him to try and
make him sing. But, no ! Dickey was far too
frightened to sing, and only put his little head on
one side as if to listen to the sound. Alice was
not surprised that he should be sby before so many
strangers. She was always frightened herself,
when she had to repeat any of her favourite verses
before those she was not accustomed to.
" You must give him a piece or two of sugar,
Alice, and then he will soon learn to know you,"
said one of her cousins. Then Alice's mamma gave
her a piece of sugar to put in his cage. Dickey
soon perceived the sugar, and began to hop very
cautiously nearer and nearer to the tempting
morsel, and then, putting his head first on one side
and then on the other, he extended his beak and
nipped a corner off, and then another and another,
till Alice, afraid of her fingers getting an uu-
ALICE AND HER BIRD.
165
pleasant little pinch, fixed the sugar between the
wires, and withdrew them.
Then -Alice had a great deal of talk with her
cousins about what kind of seed her canary was
to be fed with, and how often she might indulge
him with groundsel or chick weed; and the next
question was, where should the cage be hung ?
Nurse suggested that cats were very fond of
birds, and that Mopsy was a clever climber. Alice
thought that her good old pussy would never think
of touching such a lovely little fellow as Dickey.
Others thought that Mopsy would not wait to con¬
sider whether her prey was dressed in a brown or
yellow coat. So various safe places were sug¬
gested, and at last the side of the breakfast-room
window was decided upon. There Dickey would
get the morning sun, and the cage, when hung
upon a strong hook, would be out of the reach of
any cat, and, moreover, would be under the nursery
window, where Alice could hear her bird sing while
dressing in the morning, and nurse listen to it as
she sat at work.
In a few minutes the nail was hammered fast in,
and the cage very carefully hung where it was to
remain in future. Although Alice had a famous
game of play that afternoon with her cousins, she
could not help running away every now and then
to see if Dickey was comfortable, as she said, and
166
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
whether he was more at„easej and she brought
hack news each time of what he was doing—now
hopping about in his cag6 from perch to perch—
noW pecking at his sugar, and now sipping a little
water in his beak, and holding his head up so as to
let it run down his throat. Alice and her cousins
were very busy preparing a grand feast for the
dolls, who were going to have a party, and dinner
was nearly ready to be served up. There was only
one dish of hash to be made of chopped apple—
when, hark! Some one heard the warbling of a
bird. They listened for a moment to see if it
could be a blackbijrd or thrush in the garden—
but no! it came from the breakfast-room; and away
ran Alice, to make herself quite sure that it was
the little canary singing his first song, and now
quite comfortable and happy in his new abode.
Every one thought that he had a particularly
sweet and mellow voice.
When her lessons were over each morning she
always had some talk about her little canary, and
she would describe all the little tricks of her
favourite, and the various reasons she had for
thinking that he knew her. She said that she
thought she liked all birds better than ever, now
that she had one of her own.
Then Alice's mamma told her that there was
much to learn about the habits of birds which would
ALICE AND HER BIRD.
167
greatly interest and amuse her when she was able
to watch them and read about them. Some people
spent their lives in studying the ways and doings
of birds, not only in gardens, fields, woods, and
forests, but on sea-shores, in sandy deserts, marshy
grounds, and all about the banks of rivers and
lakes. Birds are everywhere ! Many birds, too,
are named from their manner of living; such as
'he coursers, who live on sandy plains and. run
very swiftly when pursued; the turnstones, which
have their name from turning the stones over on
the sea-shore to get at the small shell-fish, the
little crabs and worms, that are hidden under them;
the oyster-catchers, which pass their bills between
the gaping shells of the oysters, and wrench out
and swallow their contents.
But of all the stories about the ways of birds,
the one which Alice liked the best was about the
satin-bower birds. These little creatures make
themselves arbours or bowers of twigs and leaves,
and then decorate them with pretty-coloured fea¬
thers, snail-shells, and stones, and line them with
the scarlet and red petals of flowers; and when
made, they chase each other through these bowers,
as if playing at hide-and-seek—"just as you,
Alice," said her mother, " play with your cou¬
sins among the trees and shrubs in the garden."
And there was much to observe, Alice's mamma
168
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
t
said, about .the way in whicti the bodies of birds
were suited to their manner of life and wants: each
being so beautifully adapted by the great Creator
for the place in which it has to live, and the way
in which it has to support life. Those which have,
to seek their food, for instance, in marshy ground,
have long legs for wading, or long bills and necks
for diving down under the water for fish and worms:
birds that feed on carrion, or prey on other birds,
hp,ve strong hooked bills : while all the lesser birds,
which feed on insects and berries, seeds and grain,
have slight and pointed bills; and the eyes of all
are well suited for searching out their food.
"If birds have been thus made so well fitted for
supplying themselves with food when free, how
much more particular ought we to be/' said Alice's
mamma, "to take good care of those, which' we
keep in confinement,and which are so very depend¬
ent on us."
Alice thought so too, and it made her very care¬
ful never to neglect her little canary. Every morn-
ning, after her breakfast, she ran away to feed
Dickey, and clean out his cage, however much she
would have liked to follow her papa into the gar¬
den when he went to take his morning walk. She
always resisted every .little temptation that came
in the way to interfere with this little duty, and
the duty she found to be a pleasure.
alice and her. bird.
169
When her Uncle Edward came to see her papa
and mamma, he would sometimes ask Alice how
often her canary had been almost starved to death,
and Alice could always answer, very honestly, that
such a thing had never happened, because she had
never once forgot to feed him.
part second.
Not many months were passed over, during
which Alice took such kind care of her bird, before
she began to think that he knew her, and liked
her better than any on£ else. It seemed quite
natural that it should be so; for did not Alice her¬
self repay all the tender care that was taken of
her by mamma, papa, and nurse, in loving them
dearly and better than any ohe else ? And so, in
return for the fresh seed each day, the clean and
sparkling water, the nice, clean, sanded floor to his
dwelling, and the pleasant boWer of groundsel or
chickweed which sheltered him occasionally from
the sun, and the buds and leaves of which he
pecked with such a relish—what wonder that he
should flutter and chirp at the sight of the kind
provider of all these nice things, and that he should
even put his beak between the bars to get a kiss,
and be willing to peck at the bit of sugar which
she held to him between her little rosy lips ?
It was just at this time, when Alice and her bird
vol. i. 15
170
BUDS AND BUOSSOMS.
had become such, good friends, that she, had, an
adventure with him which caused her a great deal
of anxiety. She was cleaning out his cage one
morning, when it came into her head that she
would give Dickey a ,bath; and having found a
small saucer which would go through the door of
his cage, she filled it with water and put it in,
and soon had the pleasure of seeing her bird bob¬
bing his head into it and spurting the water
over his back, and fluttering his wings into it, as
if he rejoiced in its pleasant coolness. Alice was
so interested in watching Dickey's operations that
she quite forgot to fasten the door, and presently,
while filling his trough with seed, she was startled
by the sound of a fluttering of wings which seemed
to pass over her head; and, behold! there was
Dickey out of his cage, and perched upon the
handle of her mother's work-basket on a little
table near the open window. "What terrible alarm
for Alice! She did uot dare to mpve, nor call for
help: she knew not what to do; and there stood
Dickey, as pleased and proud as possible, pluming
his feathers after his flight,,and looking around him
as if he thought no bird had ever flown such a long
journey through,the air before. Breathless with
fear and suspense Alice still hoped that he would
return to take his breakfast in his own snug home,
and she gently moved toward him the tempting
ALICE AND'HER BIRD.
171
looking trough, now filled to the brim with golden
seeds. But alas! just at that moment the door
of the room was opened by nurse—the bird was
startled, and taking sudden flight, to Alice's
amazement and alarm, was soon seen perched on
the bough of a tree which was two or three yards
from the house. Then it was, that, with tears in
her eyes, poor Alice went to her mamma for as¬
sistance and advice. What must she do to entice
her little favourite back again, or must she indeed
make up her mind never to see him more ?
Her mamma advised her to place the cage near
the window, and trust that after a while he would
return to it again. She feared that any attempt
to catch him would only frighten him, and make
him fly still farther away, and she recommended
Alice to employ herself, so that she might not
lose all the morning thinking about her loss.
Alice was always So ready to be guided by her
mamma that she sat down to her lessons, and did
her very best not to think quite every moment
of whether he would ever come back again. The
lessons done at last, she ran into the garden, and
then crept quietly under the trees, where she still
hoped he might be perching. There, in the midst
of the light green leaves of an acacia-tree, was
Dickey in his yellow coat, fluttering about from
branch to branch. She called to him, she whistled,
172
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
and she scattered the most tempting crumb.?
beneath the tree, in vain. Dickey seemed to say,
"I have gained my liberty, and I like my new
life best! Here can I use my wings just as 1
please. These green boughs shade me from the
sun, and I dare say I shall find plenty of food
when I am hungry. My wings were given me to
make use pf in flying about, and in my cage they
were quite useless, for I could only hop from
perch to perch. Good-by, little mistress: thanks
for all your care and all the nice dainties you have
given to me; but I am going to see something of
the pretty world around me, and can easily find
food for myself, I do not doubt."
"Foolish bird!" said Alice, as if in answer,
when she sav he was not inclined to return to her:
"you will soon be sorry that you left me. You'll
find it not so easy to get the food you like. How
will you bear the cold, when night comes on?
Where is your nice warm nest, such as the other
birds have got? You silly little bird!" and then
she called to it, and whistled, all in vain.
Vexed and disappointed with he? little pet,
Alice was at last obliged to return to the house.
She would have been very unhappy, if her mamma
had not consoled her with the hope that, before
night came on, Dickey might take it into his head
to return to his cage, which still stood at the open
ALICE AND HER BIRD.
173
window. And her kind mamma tried, too, to di¬
vert her thoughts by taking her out to walk, and
to the houses of some of her neighbours, where
there were children, to whom Alice related all
about the escape of her bird, and then had to
hear all the different opinions of her little friends
as to whether he would or would not come hack.
The afternoon passed soon, and evening came on,
and it became darker and darker, and still the lit¬
tle bird was missing, The singing and chirping
of all the other birds was hushed: even the rooks
had flown home to their nests in the tall elms,
and the sun had set and many stars had come out,
and still poor Dickey's cage was empty, and Alice
herself must go to bed.
Fortunately, it was warm summer-time, and the
nights were warm and balmy—almost as warm,
Alice hoped, as in those islands which were the
native place of poor Dickey's race. Before lying
down in her little bed, she stretched her head out
of the nursery window to bid good-night to her
favourite, and to chide him for his folly; and the
first thing the next morning, she ran down into the
garden to look for him.
How was Alice's heart relieved from anxiety
when she at length discovered her little pet, chirp¬
ing and hopping about as well as ever! and when
Alice called to him, he seemed to listen to her
15*
174
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
voice, and warbled in return some of his very
sweetest notes.
Again that morning was the cage placed at the
open window, in the hope of enticing its owner
hack again. Fresh groundsel was hung upon it,
and a tempting hit of sugar placed between the
wires. Papa, mamma, and little Alice were at
breakfast before the window which looked into the
garden, and many were the hopes expressed that
Dickey would come and take his breakfast too.
And then they talked of other things : yes, even
Alice chatted away about Mopsy, her dolls, her
new picture-books, when suddenly her mamma
cried hush! Her finger was raised and pointed to
the window. There, on the balcony, was the little
canary—hopping about and peeping and peering
into the room. Scarcely could Alice refrain from
darting forward; but her mother laid her hand
on her arm. All eyes watched Dickey's movements
as he hopped nearer, and came now on the window-
sill, then on to the table, and at last—after peck¬
ing up the few seeds which lay scattered on the
table—into the very cage itself. Then Alice arose
quietly, and closed the door upon the little wan¬
derer, who was soon busy cracking the seeds out
of his trough and drinking the water out of his
glass fount. Alice drew a long breath, and clasped
her hands with delight. She would not kiss her
ALICE AND HER BIRD,
175
bird to welcome him home again, but she went
and threw her arms, round her mother's neck, to
express her joy. It was a happy day for Alice,
that on which her little pet returned to her again;
and Dickey himself seemed pleased %ith his past
frolic, and glad -to be at home again, and he war¬
bled ajll day his very sweetest songs.
And after all this trouble and labour, this fear
and joy, the little canary was a greater' pleasure
than ever to Alice, for she now felt sure that the
comforts of his cage were better liked by him than
even freedom out of doors.
Months of happiness were passed' by the little
girl and bird. The parents fondly tended their
176
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
child, and she in her turn took tender care of her
little pet. It became winter, and then it was that
an event happened which showed still plainer all
this care and love. Late one night, when Dickey
had long been asleep on his perch, and all the
household had retired to rest, Alice was awakened
by her nurse, who stood by the side of her little
bed with a candle in her hand, looking very pale
and frightened. "Wake up, Miss Alice, dear!"
said she: "you must get up and dress, and
quickly, too."
"What is the matter, nurse ?" cried Alice, rub¬
bing her eyes and starting Up in bed.
" Only get up and let me dress you, dear," said
nurse, "and then I will tell you all about it."
And Alice got up, and tried not to be frightened,
though the more nurse said " Don't be alarmed,
my dear," the more she felt afraid.'
Then as nurse, with trembling hands, put on
some of the little girl's clothes, she told her that
the kitchen chimney was on fire, and that though
some men were trying to put it out, it might so
happen that the whole house would be set on fire,
and that they would all be obliged to go out of it
and take refuge with a neighbour who lived near.
"It is best, at all events, to be ready, you see,"
said nurse; "so put on your slippers, my dear,
Your mamma and everybody else is dressing too.''
ALICE AND HER BIRD.
177
Alice made as much haste as she could, hut she
felt startled and bewildered by all nurse's talk and
looks of alarm. " Pear me," cried she*, when the
door was opened: " what a bustle there is in the
house, and what a smell of smoke 1"
Then her mamma came in already dressed,
bringing a warm shawl to wrap Alice in; but
though she looked anxious, the fears of her little
girl were somewhat quieted by the sound of her
calm and quiet voice. " I fear they cannot ex¬
tinguish the fire," said she; "so we will go down
stairs and join your papa."
It was enough to frighten a little girl of the
age of Alice, even when elapsing the hands of her
mother and nurse, to hear all the strange sounds
that were now to be heard of people calling to one
another and shouting, and the trampling of strange
feet about the house—all in the middle of the night.
Then the voice of the father was heard : " Make
haste! make haste!" cried he, as he met them on the
stairs. "ThankGod that the dear child is safe!" and
he pressed little Alice in his arms, and wrapped the
shawl still closer round her. When they reached
the hall, in a few hurried words it was told them
that flames had burst out, that the engines had
been sent forA but that they found it would be too
late to save the house from being burnt. Smoke
burst into the hall as they spoke, and darkened
178 BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
their way, ahd the smell of fire grew stronger and
stronger. All was confusion and dismay. Little
Alice was hurried forward. She felt kind arms
clasping around her. She heard the words, " Take
care of Alice,—Wrap her up warmly,—hold her
tight;" and it seemed as if the kind care taken of
herself by others made her think, even in the
midst of this alarm, of the little creature who de¬
pended upon her. Alice thought of her bird!
She stopped suddenly, and said, " 0, mamma! I
had almost forgotten Dickey. I will not leave
him behind. He must not be burnt to death.
Dear papa and mammal- only just let me go to
fetch him. I am sure I can find him, even in the
dark •/' and loosening herself from their grasp, she
tried to run toward the room where the canary
bird hung in its cage. But her father stopped her,
and promised his kind-hearted and courageous little
girl that her bird should be saved. Bidding her
stay with her mamma and nurse, he went himself
to fetch it, and in a few minutes returned with
poor frightened and fluttering Dickey. Then, with
her little pet in safety, and holding his cage in
her trembling hands, Alice now left the burning
house.
When morning camey the once happy and com¬
fortable home of Alice and her parents was a heap
of smoking ruins, but no living creature was burnt
ALICE AND HEE BIRD.
179
or hurt. Quite at the beginning of the alarm had
old Mopsy made her escape, and the little prisoner
who could not have stretched his wings and flown
away from the stifling smoke and fast-devouring
fire, had been sayed by the kind thought of his
little mistress.
The children who read this tale will like to be
told that this is true) and that in the time of fear
and danger, a little girl—herself the object of
much care and love—could thus be kind and brave,
thus mindful of the life of her favourite little bird.
Situ* Cfrarkg.
the rainy day.
Have you never heard it said, u Mamma knows
best V I think you have; for it is so true, and
so necessary for every child to know, that it is
told to them when they are very young, and told
to them not only once, but often.
Hearing a truth, and believing it, are, however,
two very different things. I have known some
little folks who have often been told that mamma
knows best, and though they have sometimes
proved it to be true, yet at other times they act as
though they had never heard it, or else that they
really did not at all believe.it.
Charley was a bright-eyed, cheerful little boy;
quick in learning his A, B, C, or any thing else
that he was taught. He was a happy, contented
child, when nothing went contrary to his wishes.
It is not very difficult to be contented then, is it ?
But it is when our wishes are thwarted that we
must try to give up cheerfully, and be happy.
Little Charley often forgot this; and what is worse,
180
ilTTLE CHARLEY.
181
he often determined that he would not give up his
wish, even when his dear mamma required it.
One day he put himself into a very angry
temper, because, when he had made up his mind to
go Out for a Walk, his mamma told him that he must
set aside his wish, and try to he happy at home.
She told him that although it did not rain at that
minute, she could see that it very soon would, and
the ground was so wet and dirty that it was quite
unfit for him to go out.
Now little Charley knew, as well as any child
that " mamma knows best," and it would have been
a good thing if he, had remembered it; but just
then, self-will and naughty temper came, one on
each side of him, and made him listen to them,
and he quite forgot all that he knew about good
mamma; and he behaved in so sad a manner, that
I should not like to describe it.
Yery soon the rain came pouring down in tor¬
rents, so that those who were in the street with
umbrellas put them up, and all walked as fast as
they could, and the street was quickly cleared of
people.
Little Charley stood at the window and saw all
this, and I believe he felt glad that he was in a
nice warm parlour. And then he began to re¬
member what he had been taught about mamma
knowing best.
Vol. I. 16
182 BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
In a little time lie went near to Lis mamma's
chair, and whispered, " Mamma, I am sorry I have
been so naughty."
" Well, my dear boy," said his kind mamma, "if
you are really sorry, you will let me see it by en¬
deavouring to bear a disappointment better another
time. Now sit down by my side, and I will re¬
peat a few verses, while I am working •
' My father, my mother, -I know
I cannot your kindness repay,
But I hope, that as older I grow,
I shall learn your commands to obey.
You loved me before I could tell
Who it was that so tenderly smiled;
But now that I know it so well,
I should be a dutiful child.
I am sorry that ever I should
Be naughty, and give you a pain;
But I hope I shall learn to be good,
And so never grieve you again.
But lest, after all, I should dare
To act an undutiful part,
Whenever I'm saying my prayer,
I'll ask for a teachable heart.'"
"Mamma," whispered Charley, "that is very
pretty. I should like to learn those verses."
So his mamma found them for him in a book,
and with a little help, he was soon able to repeat
them.
little charley.
188
But learning good lessons, and practising them,
ijire two things ; and though Charley was often re¬
minded that "mammaknows best," and made some
good resolutions to trust to her kindness to do best
for him, he did not always quietly give up his
wish to have his own way; .if he had, X should
not have had this story to tell.
another disappointment.
Charley's home was a pretty country-house,
and his papa and mamma often took him out to walk
or ride with them.
A few miles from his home was Willow Cottage,
where his uncle, and aunt, And cousins lived. Char¬
ley had been promised that as soon as his parents
could make it convenient, he should go with them
to Willow Cottage. He kept this promise very
much upon his mind, and wondered when the time
would be that he should go there.
One day Charley was standing at his nursery
window, when he saw the chaise driven up to the
door. He immediately made up his mind that his
papa and mamma were going to ride out, and
that he should like to go with them.
Just then his mamma went into the nursery,
and taking him on her knee,' she kissed him, and
said that she hoped he would be a good little boy
while she and his papa were away. She told him
184 bubs and blossoms.
that they had occasion to go to Willow Cottage
that day, and that they should not return until
the next.
"But I should like to go with you, mamma,"
said Charley.
"I dare say you would, my little boy," said his
mamma; " but to-day it would not be convenient
to your aunt to receive you, and you may be sure
that as your parents have promised to take you,
it will be a pleasure to them to do so the first time
they can. So, to-day, I hope you will make up
your mind to be a good little contented boy at
home."
At that moment his papa came in, and both his
parents wished him' good-by, and left him before
he had made up his mihd what to say or how to
behave.
He stood still for a little while, and the beauty
of his cheerful countenance and bright eye was
quite hidden by a sulky, scowling look. Soon he
walked to the window again, ahd looked at the
chaise, which was still waiting.
tells about the drive.
Half-an-hour afterward the chaise was on a full
drive toward Willed Cottage, with Charley's papa
and mamma in it. When they had got part of
the way on their journey, his mamma said, "Is
LlfTLE CHARLEY.
185.
Flora in the chaise? for I think I feel something
moving near my feet."
Charley's papa "said that he was sure Flora was
not with them, for he saw the little dog standing
in the road, watehing them ride away. It was
most likely that a little box which "was there was
shaken, and seemed like Flora moving.
So his mamma forgot all about Flora, and said
that she hoped Charley would be a good little boy
while they were away; and she .thought that next
week he might go to spend a few days at Willow
Cottage, for then his aunt would be at liberty to
receive him.
His papa replied, that if, upon their return, he
found that Charley had behaved well, he should
feel great pleasure in taking him.
When Charley's parents were two or three miles
from Willow Cottage, his mamma said again, "I
am nearly sure that I feel some living thing mov¬
ing near my feet." And indeed she was very
soon quite sure. And She not only felt, but she
also heard. She heard a little voice; and whose
voice do you think it was? It was little Charley's,
saying, "Mamma, mamma, I cannot stay here any
longer: will you let me out ?"
Very pitiful indeed the little boy looked; and,
oh, how surprised were his parents! They stopped
the chaise, and talked about going back to take
16*
186
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
him home again. But they did not wish to give
up their engagement at Willow Cottage, which
they found they must do if they returned; so they
let him Tide on with' them. And while we sup¬
pose they are finishing their journey, I Will tell you
how it came that Charley was there.
TELLS HOW CHARLEY IMPRISONED HIMSELF.
You know that after his parents left him in
the nursery, he went to the window and watqhed
the chaise, feeling very angry that he was not
going.
"It is too had," he said to himself, "that I
should be left at home; and I will go.*' Just
then the thought came into his head that he could
creep under the seat of the chaise, and keep very
quiet there until it reached his uncle's house.
Like a silly little boy, he did not stay to consi¬
der how very wrong it would be for him to do so.
Neither did he think what a strange way it would
be in which to pay a visit. And he quite forgot
that 'his papa and mamma would be very much
displeased with him for so disobeying their wishes,
and that if they were angry with him, ho could
not have a pleasant holiday.
All that he just then had in his little head or
heart was, "I will go: I will." And so he did.
He popped out of the nursery as quickly as pos-
LITTLE CHARLEY.
187
sible, and was in the chaise and under the seat in
almost no time.
In a few minutes his parents got into the chaise,
and Charley rejoiced that he was really on his way
to "Willow Cottage.
By-and-by, however, he began to feel that he
was rather uncomfortable in his position; and his
little heart went pit-a-pat the faster, when he be¬
gan to think that most likely his parents would he
angry when they found him; and he more than
half wished that he had waited until he could go
in a proper manner, sitting by and talking with
his dear papa and mamma. It was these thoughts,
and the discomfort of his situation, that caused
him to move about as he had done, when his
mamma asked if Flora was not there.
I will.tell you when he quite wished that he had
remained quietly in the nursery. It was when he
heard his parents talking about taking him to
Willow Cottage next week. And if there had
been some little fairy at hand, who could have
carried him home again in a moment, he would
have been very glad of that little fairy's help.
But there was no fairy, and Charley was getting
to feel quite sick and faint, and all he could do,
was to attract his mamma's attention, and implore
her to take pity on him, and let him out of the
prison where he had put himself. Very glad he
188
buds and blossoms.
was to feel the fresh air; but as to being happy,
he was far from that. He could see that although
his parents let him ride by them, yet they were
angry with him.
A strange figure Charley looked, to be riding
abroad. For when he forgot to obey his mamma's
wish, and " I will" came into his heart, he remem¬
bered nothing at all about hat, cap, or clothes;
and got into the chaise with his round pinafore,
and no cap.
tells how there was trouble abroad and
trouble at home.
In this plight Charley reached the home of his
uncle and aunt, and you my suppose they were
very much surprised. They looked as though
they would have said, as John Gilpin's friend said
to him,
" Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all."
When they heard all about it, they looked
grieved. His aunt said, "She should have
sent to ask for him to come to-day, only his little
cousins, with their nurse, were gone from home for
a few days; and as she had company with whom
his papa and mamma would be engaged, she
was afraid there would be no one to take care of,
or entertain him."
LITTLE CHARLEY,
189
So, instead of running joyfully to meet his cou¬
sins, and play with them, he was taken into their
empty nursery, where he was told that he must
try and get into no mischief, and was left to amuse
himself as well as he could.
The first thing Charley's papa did after reaching
"Willow Cottage, was to write a letter home, saying
what had become of Charley; and it was a good
thing that there was a stage-coach going that
way, and that the coachman would carry the
letter.
- You may fancy that every one in the house was
greatly troubled, when, as soon as his parents were
gone, Charley was looked for, and could not be
found anywhere.
The house and every closet in it was searched
from top to bottom; the garden and all the pre¬
mises were hunted over; and all in the house had
to leave their employments to look in places, likely
and unlikely, for the little boy that thought that
he would have his own way.
After a good deal of looking, which, of course,
was of no use, a messenger was just mounting a
horse to ride over to Willow Cottage to tell his
parents that Charley was lost, when the letter from
his papa was taken to them.
They were very glad, indeed, to hear that the
little boy was safe. But I do not think he would
190
buds and blossoms.
have been very glad to hear all that the servants
said about him, for giving them so much trouble
and frightening them so. I rather think that he
would really have been sorry that he had given
the trouble, for he was not always a naughty boy.
TELLS how charley eound himself where
he did not wish to be.
When Charley had been some time by himself
in the nursery, his aunt kindly went to see him,
and finding that he was dull, she gave him leave
to walk about the garden, which was a very pretty
one, and where he might have been amused a long
time, looking at all that was hew to him.
But Charley could not be easily amused, and
he could not feel happy: he was wishing himself
safe in his own nursery.
So he walked slowly along the garden, without
taking much notice of any thing, until he reached
LITTLE CHARLEY.
191
the farthest end of it. There he saw a railed fence,
with low shrubs in front: he very much wished
that he could see between1 the pretty green-painted
railings; hut the laurels, though low, were too
high for his little head; and do all he could, he
could not see over them.
He was walking along -rather discontentedly,
when he came to a gap in. the laurels, which was
closed up by a gate, and this gate, to his joy, stood
a little way open.
The thought certainly did Gome into his mind
that he only had leave to walk into the garden,
and he had not leave to go out of it. But, said he
to himself, "I should lil^e just to see what is there."
So, he opened the gate a little farther, and looked
through, and saw a. beautiful grassy bank gradu¬
ally sloping down to a river.
He was pleased with the sight, and perhaps
would have stood and looked at it without going
any farther, had not. a pair of swans just then
sailed in sight; and he could not resist the temp¬
tation of going as near to them as possible.
So he went right through the gate and down
the grassy hank to see the swans. Then he could
see—^rhat before was hidden from his view—an
open boat, painted green and white, with cushions
on the seats, and a nice white awning over a part
of it.
192
BUBS AND BLOSSOMS.
It appeared to hina that he should he quite
happy, if he could only get into this boat and sit
under the pretty white awning.
There were some steps in the bank close by the
edge of the boat, which made it easy for him to
get in; and he was just planning to get over a
seat to reach the one he wished, when he trod on
one side of the boat. The next thing he remem¬
bered was a splashing in the water, and wondering
where he was. In falling he gave a loud scream,
which was heard by the gardener, who was not
very far off.
Sadly puzzled was the gardener, to think what
child could be there. He knew all the little ones
of the family were away, or he would not have left
the water-gate unlocked. However, he ran as fast
as he could to the place, and with some difficulty
got poor Charley out of the water.
He was carried into the house, and put in bed
directly, and did not get up again that day.
Charley's mamma felt very thankful that her
little boy had not been drowned; and she felt so
anxious about him, that she gave up her intention
of going with the party on the water, for whom
the boat had just been prepared; and while her
friends were on the water enjoying themselves,
she stayed at home beside Charley.
When Charley understood that he had deprived
LITTLE CHARLEY.
193
his kind mamma of this pleasure, the tears of sor¬
row started to his eyes; and gladly would he have
undone his day's work, if he could.
But sorrow cannot undo the past. Charley's
parents, however, hoped that it would prove a les¬
son to him for the future.
The next morning Charley, with his papa and
mamma, was on his way home. Although his
parents believed that he felt sorry for having acted
so disobediently, as well as for the trouble he had
given, yet they wished to impress lastingly upon
his mind that a little child ought at all times to
attend to the wishes of its parents, and always
should remember that " Mamma knows best."
They told Charley that, although they had
hoped to take him to Willow Cottage next week,
yet they must, as a punishment, put off his
long talked-of holiday until the same time next
year; and they hoped that during that time he
would acquire the habit of submission, and endea¬
vour to be patient and contented, even when he
could not have his own way.
A whole year seemed a long* long time for Char¬
ley to look forward to. Nevertheless, the year ran
its round, and I am happy to say that at the pro¬
mised time Charley paid his second visit to Wil¬
low Cottage.
This time he had many nice games of play with
Vol. I.
194
BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
his cousins in the beautiful garden, and many a
pleasant row on the water, to say nothing of happy
hours in-doors with toys, puzzles, and picture-
books, of which there was no scarcity at Willow
Cottage.
But what made him most happy was, that his
parents were pleased with him.
END OF VOLUME I.
BTKllKOTYrtD BY JOBNk'ON AND CO.
PHILADELPHIA.
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