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LIBRA ' OF CONGRESS^ 
 
 j^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. , 
 
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S T E L LA. 
 
 BY 
 
 S 
 
 MRS. MARY B. M. TOLAND. 
 
 Copyright, 1878, by Mary B. M. Toland. 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 J^lMES milleu, publisher 
 
 779 BROADWAY. 
 
■ff 3 & & & , i?; J. 1 
 
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 A true Story — every incident happened as related. One evening. I took my little boy on my lap, 
 to tell him a story, and suiting the language to his understanding, I recited in rhymes — 
 " Stella," or how I tamed a little Indian girl. He was so much interested, that he would insist 
 on my repeating the same story nearly every evening, until I concluded that, which pleased 
 him so much, would entertain other children. 
 
 The first edition was smaller, and in pamphlet form, which I have revised, and added six pages 
 which were suggested by an English Author, who said the scenes of her confirmation too 
 impressive to be omitted. 
 
 COME little Hugh, 'tis nearly time 
 To hear the old clock's measured chime- 
 One, two, three, four and five, then six, 
 While nurse shall your night-wrappers fix, 
 I will tell you a tale in rhyme. 
 
 What think you I saw, 
 
 As I went to the door ? 
 A wild little Indian 
 
 So meagre and poor. 
 Her arms were all bare, 
 
 And an old ragged sack 
 Was the only garment, 
 
 That covered her back. 
 
STELLA. 
 
 Her hair was on end, 
 
 Like the brush of a sweep, 
 And her little bead eyes 
 
 Were sunken and deep. 
 Her broad, ugly face 
 
 Had a little flat nose; 
 And she was all dirt 
 
 From her head to her toes. 
 
 Your papa had sent her 
 
 To be my own maid; 
 To teach her, and make her 
 
 A Christian, he said. 
 But I, when I saw her, 
 
 Would rather that she 
 Be maid of the forest 
 
 Than maiden to me, 
 I tried to refuse her, 
 
 And send her away 
 By the person who brought her, 
 
 I offered to pay 
 
STELLA. 
 
 Much more than your papa 
 Had paid him to bring 
 
 As a present to me 
 The odd little thing. 
 
 He would not,— and then 
 
 To the kitchen I brought 
 The poor little squaw, 
 
 To be clothed, fed, and taught. 
 A nurse from the country 
 
 Was waiting a place : 
 " To nurse a wild Injun," 
 
 She said, "was disgrace." 
 Then Mary, our cook, 
 
 With a heart warm and true, 
 Said the poor little thing 
 , Was hungry, she knew; 
 And gave her some cake, 
 
 Which she threw in her face, 
 And ran out of the door. 
 
 As if in a race. 
 
STELLA. 
 
 Much more than your papa 
 Had paid him to bring 
 
 As a present to me 
 The odd little thing. 
 
 He would not,— and then 
 
 To the kitchen I brought 
 The poor little squaw, 
 
 To be clothed, fed, and taught. 
 A nurse from the country 
 
 Was waiting a place: 
 " To nurse a wild Injun," 
 
 She said, "was disgrace." 
 Then Mary, our cook, 
 
 With a heart warm and true, 
 Said the poor little thing 
 . Was hungry, she knew; 
 And gave her some cake, 
 
 Which she threw in her face, 
 And ran out of the door. 
 
 As if in a race. 
 
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STELLA. 
 
 To catch her and bring her 
 
 Back into the house, 
 Was hardly as easy 
 
 As catching a mouse. 
 She was swift as an arrow, 
 
 And terribly wild, 
 Resembling a monkey 
 
 Much more than a child. 
 
 But the nurse-girl and Joe, 
 
 And Mary, the cook, 
 From chasing and searching 
 
 In every nook 
 Of the garden and yard, 
 
 And at last in the street, 
 Found her snugly ensconced 
 
 In a toy-store retreat, 
 Just back of the counter, 
 
 Among some old bags, 
 As if quite at home 
 
 In the rubbish and rags. 
 
STELLA, 
 
 She scratched, fought, and bit, 
 Every step of the way. 
 
 Said Joe, " Mum, I'm thinking 
 Her mind is asthray." 
 
 And seeing her capers, 
 
 I soon thought the same, 
 With wonder how I 
 
 Such a savage could tame- 
 She scowling defiance, 
 
 With threatening frown, 
 Her face with revenge 
 
 Getting blacker than brown. 
 
 A mission imposed— 
 
 Unpleasant, unsought— 
 Your papa a practical 
 
 Lesson had taught 
 To me, as a Christian. 
 
 I bowed to his will, 
 But could not help feeling 
 
 Disgust at her still. 
 
STELLA. 
 
 The two girls then filled up 
 
 A large washing tub; 
 They gave her a bath, 
 
 With a scrubbing-brush rub; 
 And sheared her stiff hair off, 
 
 While I sat me down, 
 With warm scarlet flannel, 
 
 To make her a gown. 
 
 She would eat no cooked food, 
 
 Preferring raw meat, 
 Which she took from the dogs; 
 
 Or else she would eat 
 The breast off a duck, 
 
 Which so frightened poor Joe, 
 Said he, " Mum, I'm fearing 
 
 "Shell ate me up so. 
 " If I was to spake, mum, 
 
 " And tell yez my mind, 
 " I'd be sending her back 
 
 "To the forest to find 
 
STELLA. 
 
 " Her natural diet 
 
 "Of moles, mice, and snakes— 
 " The house in sich awful 
 
 "Confusion she makes." 
 
 I thought, the next morning, 
 
 That Joe was quite right 
 A crowd in the street 
 
 Gave us all such a fright. 
 What strange thing had happened ? 
 
 A fire, perchance. 
 No, Stella was dancing 
 
 A wild native dance, 
 In front of the window, 
 
 Without shame or fear, 
 The crowd looking on 
 
 With jest and with jeer. 
 
 The moment she saw us, 
 
 She crept into bed, 
 And under her blankets 
 
 She covered her head 
 
STELLA. 
 
 Soon after I missed 
 
 My prettiest pet; 
 Though I never once thought 
 
 It was Stella who ate 
 My lovely canary, 
 
 So gentle and tame. 
 'Twould light on my finger 
 
 And answer its name. 
 
 Then, day after day, 
 
 As I came from my drive, 
 One less of my pets 
 
 Would be found alive; 
 Until seven in all 
 
 Of my birdlings were gone, 
 And Joe found 'twas Stella 
 
 The mischief had done. 
 For in her small box, 
 
 With rags altogether, 
 He found some birds' legs, 
 
 A beak, and tail feather. 
 
STELLA. 
 
 She had eaten them all, 
 
 The same as a cat. 
 Disgust turned to loathing, 
 
 I'm sure, after that. 
 
 Days, weeks, passed away — 
 
 I never once saw 
 The dread of our household, 
 
 The poor little squaw, 
 Until, crossing the hall, 
 
 I met her one day, 
 And she looked in my face, 
 
 As much as to say, 
 " Please, mistless, be kind," 
 
 Then offered a plum 
 Of sugar, all stuck to her 
 
 Finger and thumb. 
 It melted my heart, 
 
 And I never again 
 Of our Stellas wild tricks 
 
 Had cause to complain. 
 
-SUM* ' 
 
STELLA. 
 
 We christened her Stella— 
 
 As star of the night: 
 She grew out of darkness, 
 
 So faithful and bright. 
 Her Sunday School teacher 
 
 Would smile when she saw 
 The first at the church 
 
 Was the poor little squaw. 
 
 On every Feast Day 
 
 She was up with the dawn, 
 Gleaning fair flowers 
 
 From garden and lawn ; 
 Which she took to the church 
 
 As her offering of love, 
 That their fragrant beauty 
 
 Her Lord would approve. 
 
 And never a Fast 
 
 Of the church but she kept 
 On solemn Good Friday, 
 
 Most sadly she wept; 
 
STELLA, 
 
 And, sobbing, would ask me 
 Again to explain 
 Our crucified Jesus 
 Arisen again. 
 
 "You tell me that Heaven 
 
 "Is dazzling bright. 
 " Is it there where the stars 
 
 " Do gather their light ? 
 "And, mistless, please tell me, 
 
 "Will Stella be fair- 
 " If her spirit is good — 
 
 " As the angels up there ?" 
 
 Such questions she'd ask. 
 
 While her little bead eyes 
 Seemed searching my heart, 
 
 As I made her replies. 
 "Tis strange I'm so dark," 
 
 She often would say— 
 " Is there nothing will wash 
 
 "This color away?" 
 
STELLA. 
 
 With her book in her hand 
 
 From morning till night, 
 We never could teach her 
 
 To spell, read, or write. 
 She tried, but she could not; 
 
 The simplest word 
 Was forgotten so soon as 
 
 Another she heard. 
 Illustrated primers of every kind 
 
 Were brought into service, 
 But none reached her mind. 
 
 Seven years passed away--- 
 
 She had gained all our love, 
 So faithful, devoted, 
 
 And true, did she prove. 
 So robust and healthy, 
 
 And happy she seem'd, 
 That Stella was ill, 
 
 We never once dreamed. 
 And yet she grew thoughtful 
 
 And sad every day, 
 
STELLA. 
 
 Alone by herself 
 
 She would wander away, 
 As yearning for something 
 
 That we could not give. 
 In this stifled atmosphere 
 
 She could not live. 
 From sleeping she'd waken 
 
 To tell me her dream : 
 
 " I was playing last night 
 
 By the same mountain stream, 
 Where I lived long ago, 
 
 So near the blue sky 
 I could touch the soft clouds, 
 
 The hills were so high. 
 I had a long line, 
 
 With a little sharp hook, 
 And caught some nice fishes, 
 
 From out of the brook 
 On its green mossy bank 
 
 Grew grasses so sweet, 
 
STELLA. 
 
 I gathered a handful, 
 But when I would eat, 
 
 I could not, and trembling 
 I awoke in a fright, 
 
 To see the stars shining 
 In darkness of night." 
 
 Then clasping my hand 
 
 As I drew near her bed, 
 She looked in my face, and 
 
 With pleading voice— said 
 " Please, Mistress, I'm wishing 
 
 Dear Bishop to see, 
 I love him so much ; 
 
 Will you ask him for me ? 
 You promised, Whitsunday, 
 
 That I, with the rest 
 Should kneel at the Altar— 
 
 In pure white be dressed, 
 And confirmed in our church 
 
 How happy I'd be. 
 
STELLA. 
 
 But, Mistress! no Whitsun— 
 Again shall I see." 
 
 Next day on the street, 
 
 Our good Bishop I met, 
 And Stella's sad mission 
 
 I did not forget. 
 "So ill," he exclaimed 
 
 "Why did you not send 
 For me? Tis my duty 
 
 Such calls to attend. 
 I will go with you now." 
 
 Then gladly I led 
 Our Right Reverend friend, 
 
 To Stella's sick bed. 
 
 She whispered with joy 
 As we entered her room; 
 
 "I am happy, dear Mistress, 
 I knew he would come." 
 
 Then timidly turning 
 Her glad beaming face, 
 
STELLA. 
 
 She asked in the fold of 
 Our- Church for a place. 
 
 Next morning an Altar 
 
 Was raised near her bed, 
 With tear-trembling voices 
 
 Responses were said; 
 With flowers, all fragrant, 
 
 But withering there, 
 We knelt at the last, in 
 
 Deep silence of prayer. 
 Robed in white— 'twas her wish- 
 
 And thus as she lay, 
 Her spirit departed 
 
 Ere noon of that day. 
 
 The elements sacred 
 
 Her lips had just pressed; 
 
 She whispered, " So Jesus 
 The little ones blessed! 
 
 I'm happy! so happy! 
 
 Oh, please, do not weep"-- 
 
STELLA. 
 
 And she smiled as if angels 
 Were guarding her sleep. 
 
 I may not tell the rest my boy, 
 Tis wrong to cloud your childish joy; 
 For Stella is so happy there, 
 Among the angels good and fair, 
 
 We think of her as one. 
 Dying, she left her savings all, 
 Her legacy, we well may call, 
 To buy the Font, the very same 
 Where you received your Papa's name. 
 
 Good-night! our story's done.