THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES 9*4 THE OLD OAK TUBE. Pago IT. , HAPPY HOURS; OR, THE HOME STORY-BOOK. BT MARY CHERWELL. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS BY GILBERT. NEW YORK: C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY. BOSTON: J. H. FRANCIS & CO., WASHINGTON STREET. 1851. CONTENTS. PAGE THE OLD OAK-TREE ....,.... 6 THE WHITE PIGEON 21 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS . 45 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS ... ... 73 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY : HERO 86 COUSIN JOHN'S SECOND STORY : FLUSH AND ROVER . 113 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN 138 EMILY MAYNARD 163 HENRY MORTON 171 AGNES AND HER PETS ... - 177 THE SISTERS 188 4.83888 LIBRARY HAPPY HOURS; THE HOME STORY-BOOK. THE OLD OAK-TREE. IT was in the first month of the year, and on the first day of that month New- year's day that two little boys, George and Edward Howard, were seen wending: ^^- ' their way through one OT the quiet lanes in the neighbourhood of Cranford. It was one of those bright joyous mornings known only at that season of the year. The air was clear and bracing; the 6 THE OLD OAK-TREE. branches of an avenue of trees, inter- woven overhead, and covered with white rime, appeared like a Toof of lace work ; here and there, in the hollows of the road, were seen pools of frozen water, which, a stray gleam of sunshine would cause to shine like mirrors ; while the white frost, with which the grass was clad, glistened with the brilliancy of countless gems. The two boys I have mentioned cheerfully pursued their way ; their shrill voices and merry laughter ringing again through the light morning air. Edward, who was by one year the younger of the two, was carrying a parcel, carefully packed in brown paper, and his brother George was jumping nimbly backward and forward over the ditches which skirted THE OLD OAK-TREE. 7 the road : or sliding on any pieces of ice wmcn fell in his way, till his face glowed with health and exercise. " Ah ! I wish I were as warm as you are. George/' cried Edward ; " I declare my fingers are quite cold with carrying this parcel. I wonder why Uncle Philip wished us particularly to bring it" " Well if you are cold Edward," said his brother, " why not run about as I do. See, here is a capital slide just before us ; put the parcel down for a moment, and take a run with me.' " No, it is not worth while to stop now," said Edward, , " for you know you must carry the parcel half the distance. That old oak-tree is just halfway between our house and Uncle Philip's : when 8 THE OLD OAK-TREE. we reach that I shall have done my portion." " I mean to carry it half way, and only half way," returned George ; " and I am certain that that tree is not the place ; for you know very well, Edward, that Thomas the gardener told us the other day he had measured the distance, and the half mile was ten yards on the other side of the oak." "I don't care what Thomas fancied," cried Edward ; " I know that every one else says the tree is half way, and I shall carry the parcel there and no further." At the beginning of this conversation, George had been on the point of offering to carry the parcel the remainder of the distance ; but, no sooner did his brother THE OLD OAK-TREE. tell him that he expected him to carry it half way, than he obstinately resolved not to do so ; merely, as he said, because he would not be dictated to by a younger brother. Edward, feeling convinced that he had done his share, determined, with equal obstinacy, not to yield the point. I am afraid from what has been said about the two brothers, that my young readers will fancy them to have been very obstinate, quarrelsome boys, but such was not generally the case. They were good- tempered and obliging to all their friends, kind to their poorer neighbours, and, ex- cept on one point, seldom disagreed with one another ; but each had a foolish pride about being directed to do anything by 10 ii IE OLD OAK-TREE. the other; and when that feeling hap- pened to be aroused, you could not have found two more obstinate little fellows in the whole village of Cranford. Their Uncle had, on the morning to which this tale refers, come to pass the day with their father ; and had asked his nephews to go to the Grange, which w r as the name of his residence, and bring him a parcel, which he expected would be left there by the coach : the boys, who always delighted to oblige their Uncle in any way, had cheerfully set out on their errand. Just before they reached the Grange, the coachman had left the parcel, and with it they started, on their return home we have seen with what success. Arrived at the Oak-tree, Edward as- THE OLD OAK-TREE. 11 serted that he had fulfilled his share of the distance ; set down his load, and refused to carry it a step further. " Well, a nice tale you will have to tell Uncle Philip when you reach home/' said George ; " for I declare I will not touch the parcel till you have carried it ten yards further." " I shall tell my Uncle I have done my duty/' said Edward ; " I do not intend to touch it again." "Neither will I," cried George. And at length off they walked, actually leaving their Uncle's property under the tree, to any chance that might await it. After walking a few paces in silence, George began to feel rather ashamed of the part he had been taking, and had his brother shown any concession, he would 12 THE OLD OAK-TREE. willingly have turned back. Nearly the same thoughts were passing through Ed- ward's mind. " After all," he thought, " it was only ten yards, and I might as well have given up : I w r ould go back now only I do not like to seem to yield first:' But as they walked on in silence, of course neither knew the other's thoughts, and in a few minutes more they stood empty- handed before their Uncle. " Well, my dear boys," said Uncle Philip, looking up from the newspaper he was reading, " now W 7 hat success, what news of the parcel ? I trust the coachman has not disappointed me." " N n o,'' stammered George, " it came by the coach." " Ah ! that's right ; I am glad it is come THE OLD OAK-TREE. 13 but bring it here, then. Why Eh? where have you put it ?" George and Edward glanced at one another ; then held down their heads, and looked as confused and foolish as possible; but neither of them spoke. Uncle Philip was puzzled : " Perhaps they did not care to oblige me," he thought. " Why, George Edward !" he said, looking hurt and offended, " if I had known that you considered it too much trouble to execute a little commission for me, I would not have asked." " Oh no, uncle, no, indeed, we did not think it a trouble : we are always glad to do any- thing to please you; but but" they could get no further: neither wished to complain of the other, for each knew he 14 THE OLD OAK-TREE. had been behaving very foolishly. Their father at this moment entered the room, and knowing his sous' failings, had very little difficulty in discovering how mat- ters stood. " I am sorry to find/' said Mr. Howard seriously, "that notwithstanding all I have said to you on the subject, you still continue to indulge in such feelings. Oil you particularly as the elder, George, I had hoped my advice would have had more effect," " Oh indeed it was my fault as much as George's," said Edward. " No, no," cried George, " I was most to blame ; I feel I have been very fool- ish and very obstinate: I will run back directly and fetch the parcel." " No, George," said Mr. Howard, "your uncle THE OLD OAK-TREE. 15 will not trouble you again ; with his per- mission I will send a messenger, who I doubt not will prove more trustworthy," He then rang the bell, and after describ- ing the spot in which he would find it, desired the servant to go in quest of the forsaken parcel. John found it exactly as the boys had left it, and soon returning placed it before uncle Philip ; who in the mean time had been conversing apart with Mr. Howard. " You leave the matter in my hands then," said the latter, as they returned to the boys. The fact was. Uncle Philip was very fond of his nephews, and had intended to surprise them by a* New-year's gift ; and though at first vexed at what he justly thought not only obstinacy but want of proper attention 16 THE OLD OAK-TREE. and respect to himself, yet now that he saw how foolish and mortified they looked, he almost thought them already suffi- ciently punished. But in compliance with a wish their father had expressed, he agreed to let him proceed in the affair as he thought best. Mr. Howard took a knife, cut the strings of the parcel, removed the outer covering, and drew forth two small packages; on the first was written "Master George Howard;' and on the second " Master Edward Howard, with their Uncle Philip's love." " These," said their father, " your uncle had kindly in- tended as presents to you both." Tffe boys looked up, Mr. Howard removed the paper which covered them, and there THE OLD OAK-TREE> 17 stooa two of the neatest little desks in the world ! Uncle Philip fidgeted about, blew his nose, placed his hands under his coat-tails, and walked to the window. I really think he longed to interfere ; he seemed vexed that what he had in- tended as a pleasant surprise for his nephew r s, should through their ill conduct have been the cause of all the present disquietude. " They were, I say, intend ed for you," continued Mr. Howard; "but, as you have allowed your foolish pride so far to get possession of you, as not only to cause you to disagree, but also to commit a breach of trust, (for though the two desks were intended for you, yet at the time you could not have known what property of your uncle's you 2 18 THE OLD OAK-TREE. \vere leaving to the chance of being lost:) I have resolved" "Yes, yes, there there that will do, Papa,'' interrupted Uncle Philip, " they will be good boys in future ; they will not do the same again." " It is to prevent such a repetition, my dear brother," said Mr. Howard, " that I must now stand in the way of your kind intentions. Having proved yourselves/ 7 he said, again addressing George and Edward, " unworthy of your uncle's kindness, I must beg that he will take back with him the desks which he so kindly designed for you. He will no doubt find some, amongst his young friends, who will be glad to accept them-; and who, instead of quarrelling as to which can do least, will rather strive THE OLD OAK-TREE. 19 which can do most, to oblige the other." " Oh ! I really think now you are too hard upon them," whispered Uncle Philip; "remember, young people will be young people, boys will be boys." "But we must strive to make them good boys," said Mr. Howard. " No, my dear brother! I an sorry that my sons have not proved themselves deserving of your kindness. You will oblige me by taking back the desks: we will say nothing further on the subject" I shall not tell my readers whether this lesson made a proper impression on George and Edward ; I shall leave them to guess. Thus much however I will say: About six months after the occurrence of the events I have just related, was Uncle 20 THE OLD OAK-TREE. Philip's birthday. Mr. Howard and his sons passed the day with him, and a very merry day they made of it ; and when the boys took their departure for the night, each was observed to carry under his arm a parcel, about half the size of that which they had left six months before, beneath the Old Oak-Tree. THE WHITE PIGEON. IN some remote part of Ireland there formerly stood a fine old castle, in which castle dwelt a widow lady, the mother of an only son. I have forgotten the lady's name, so will call her Lady O'N.; but the little boy's, I remember well, was Des- mond. Lady O'N. was doatingly fond of her little boy ; but in spite of all her affection, she did not quite understand the right method of making him happy. It is true she surrounded him With every indulgence : 22 THE WHITE PIGEON. in her power to procure ; humoured all his childish caprices ; and could not endure that any one should for a moment oppose him. All the servants in the castle were expected to consult the wishes and attend to the orders of little Master Desmond, with as much deference as if he had been a sensible considerate man, instead of a thoughtless troublesome child. His tem- per, as you may suppose, was very much spoilt by all this indulgence and atten- tion; indeed, by the time he was six years of age, he had grown so self-willed and overbearing, he could not put up with the slightest contradiction or disap- pointment Now, in a rude hut, distant about a mile from the castle, dwelt a poor old THE WHITE PIGEON. 23 man who had known many sorrows. His three sons had fallen in battle, and a grand-daughter, the child of his last sur- viving son, who, he had hoped, would have been spared to be the joy and con- solation of his old age, had also been taken from him within a year after her fathers death. The poor old man was very sad and melancholy, and the only thing which now seemed to give him pleasure, was to feed and pet a gentle white pigeon which had belonged to his poor Norah. The lady at the castle, who was a gen- tle and charitable dame, pitying the soli- tary old man, had often called to see his little grand-daughter when she lay ill, and had sent delicacies from the castle for 24 THE WHITE PIGEON. the sick child, which he could not have afforded to purchase. On one of her visits to the lone hut, she had taken her little son Desmond with her, and the old man, desirous to amuse the little boy as well as he was able, had taken him round his little garden, in which he cultivated a few roots and herbs ; and, amongst other things, had shown him poor Norah's pretty favourite. It was a few days after that visit that the little girl died. Unfortunately for the good old man, it happened, about the same time, that young Master Desmond, in spite of the constant efforts of all in the castle to amuse and keep him in good-humour, was at more than usual loss for amuse- ment. Rain fell almost incessantly for THE WHITE PIGEON. Page 24. THE WHITE PIGEON. 25 several days, and he was not able to enjoy any of his out-of-door pleasures. He could not have a ramble in the woods, or a gallop on his own little black pony, neither could he go out on the beautiful lake which extended in front of the castle, where his mama kept a little boat purposely for his use ; and in fine weather he was rowed about on the clear bright water whenever he liked. " What can we do, Bridget, to amuse the dear boy this dull morning ? ' said Lady ON. on one of these rainy days, to a young woman who was working with her at an embroidery frame. Mistress Bridget suggested, first one thing and then another nothing, how- ever, that Desmond was particularly dis- 26 THE WHITE PIGEON. posed to do or be pleased \vith. But 'as his mother continued to talk about his little important sel he sat down on a cushion at her feet, and, leaning his lace on both his hands, looked very thought- ful for a minute or two. If a book had been on his knee you would have fancied he was learning his lesson very atten- tively, but Desmond, though he lived in a splendid mansion, and was dressed and tended like a little prince, was as ignorant as any of the rough-looking little children who played barefoot about the doors of the peasants' huts : he did not even know his letters. There were not to be sure, so many pretty little books in those days as there are now, to tempt little boys and girls to study, and reward them for the THE WHITE PIGEON. 27 pains they take in learning' to read. But what, then, was passing in Desmond's mind that he leant his head on his hand, and looked so grave ? Perhaps he was thinking what he could do to give plea- sure to his kind mama, who loved him so dearly. No: little Desmond was thinking only of himself. Presently he jumped up, and, with a hright smile on his face, which* delighted his mama and made her clasp him in her arms and kiss him fondly, he cried, "Oh I have thought of what I should like to amuse me." He fancied he had done something very clever in finding this out for himself. "I should like the pretty white pigeon,' 7 he continued, " mama, do you remember, that the old man showed me, the day you took me with you to his 28 THE WHITE P1GEOX hut ?" " Yes, my darling," said his mo- ther, "and I dare say the poor old m:ui will be very willing" to sell it. I will to him this morning ; it will be a chang- ing pet for you. And now run and ;,sk Michael to look out a nice little house for the pretty bird to roost in." Oft ran little Desmond, in high glee, to find Mi- chael, and Lady O'N. immediately sum- moned one of her servants, and putting money in his hand, desired him to go to the hut of the old peasant and give him whatever he asked for his white pigeon, as Master Desmond wished to possess it. The servant accordingly set off, and, finding the old man in his hut, told him on what errand he had come. To his surprise, the old man steadily refused to THE WHITE PIGEON. 29 part with bis bird. The servant, knowing how serious a matter it was to disappoint Master Desmond of anything to which he took a fancy, offered him a sum more than treble the value of the pigeon. But the old man sadly replied "That, and ten times more, would not buy this poor bird of me. I do not want gold ; this hut will shelter me while I live; but the pigeon my poor Norah loved, and that used to feed from her hand, I cannot part with." The servant saw that the old man was in earnest, and that it would be in vain to urge him further. He therefore went back to the castle to tell his lady of his ill success. Lady O'N. was very much disap- 30 THE WHITE PIGEON. pointed to see him return empty-handed ; but when she heard how much the poor old man valued his'pigeon. she felt that it would be quite cruel to wish any longer to deprive him of it. The next thing to be done was to break the news to little Desmond. He had heard that the ser- vant was come back, who had been sent to the old man's dwelling, and now came running into the room, crying eagerly, " Where is my pigeon ? O let me see my pigeon !" " Come to me, my love," said Lady O'N. ; "come and listen to a sorrowful little story I have to tell you. When you have heard it, I am sure you will not wish any longer for the poor old man's bird." THE WHITE PIGEON. 31 "I do not want to hear a story!" cried the spoilt child ; and burst out a crying*, as he was accustomed to do whenever he could not get what he wished. " I do not care about anything if I cannot have the white pigeon/' It was of no use that his mama tried to make him feel pity, by talking to him about the grief of the poor old man, and explaining to turn why he could not part with his grand-daughter's favourite pet Desmond would not attend to any thing she said, but kept crying and sobbing, and insisting on the pigeon being got for him. This could not be done; but Lady O'N., lamenting his disap- pointment, tried to divert him in every way she could think of It was all in 32 of the habit OA' ij^ pom tine lit, that nothing they Vi ere able to give or promise him could make him forget the pretty white pigeon he had so much set his mind on having. When at length his passion was exhausted and he could not cry any more, he sat down sullenly in a corner, and would not speak or take notice of any- body. At dinner-time much to the con- cern of his ma inn, he would not eat raiy- ; in- short, lie c I in this comfortless humour the rest of the clay, and when evening came, after the manner ; >rro.wing children, sobbed himself to Lady ON. hoped he would think less about it on the morrow : but, alas! he arose the next morning in the THE WHITE PIGEON. 33 same disconsolate mood. He would not play; lie would not smile; he would not speak. Lady ON. felt quite unhappy ; she feared he would fret himself into a fever, and began to reproach herself for having indulged her little boy so foolishly. Slie could not, however, bear the thoughts of his making himself ill, and, since no- thing but the possession of the pretty white pigeon W 7 ould pacify him, she resolved to go herself to the hut of the old peasant, and see what could be done about the matter. Without telling Desmond of her in- tention, for fear of another disappoint- ment, she set oil On reaching the old man's hut, she found him engaged in supplying his favourite with a cup of 3 34 THE \VlilTL: PIGLOX. fresh water. When he saw the lady, however, he came forward respectfully, though with his usually sad aspect, to greet her. With much reluctance she made him acquainted with the object of her visit; telling him how inconsolable her little boy was, because he had not been able to obtain the pretty white pigeon he had once seen at that spot, and how much she feared that fretting after it would make him ill. The poor old man now feit very much perplexed. He would not have sold his favourite at any price : but, calling to remembrance the good lady's kindness to his grand-daughter, he felt it would be ungrateful to refuse her what she thought necessary for her child's comfort THE WHITE PIGEON. 35 So, after keeping silence for a moment or two, he replied, in a sorrowful tone, " You shall have the pigeon, good Madam, since Master Desmond has so much set his heart on it." The old man spoke almost with tears in his eyes, and Lady O'N., who saw how great a trial it was for him to part with his bird, felt quite ashamed of her little boy's selfishness. She assured him, however, that Desmond would take great care of the pretty pigeon when it was in his possession, and, should he grow tired of it, which, in less than a month, might very likely be the case, she would return it in safety to its old abode. Then, thanking the old man for the sacrifice he made for the sake of her little son, she left the hut, after the old S6 THE WHITE PIGEON. man had promised to bring the pigeon himself to the castle in the course of an hour or two. Little Desmond, who had never waited so long and so hopelessly for anything he wanted before, was almost wild with joy when, on Lady O'N/'s return home, she informed him that the pretty white pigeon would soon be his own. Even his mama almost forgot the sadness of the old man, and the selfishness of the child, in her delight at seeing the rosy colour return to his cheeks, and happy smiles again brightening his-face. " And when will it be here, dear mama ?'' cried Desmond, as he clasped his arms round his mother's neck. "Not till the afternoon, I dare say, THE WHITE PIGEON. 37 love," said Lady O'N., for she thought of the reluctance with which the poor old man would doubtlessly set out on his errand. But it was no longer a difficult matter to keep little Desmond in good humour; and joyous and happy in the prospect of having his wish gratified, we will leave him for a little time and go back to the humble dwelling of the poor peasant. The good old man, though it was such grief to him to part with his bird, had no thought of delaying the fulfilment of his promise ; but as soon as the lady had left the hut, prepared to carry his treasure to its new home. The pretty pigeon, ignorant of all that was to befal it, was fluttering gaily about 38 THE WHITE PIGEON. its perch, its white wings gleaming in the sunshine; hut when the old man came near, it flew down, and alighted on his out-stretched hand. Very gently, he put the tame little bird into a small wicker-basket, and carefully tied clown the lid; then, with his oaken-staff in one hand, and imprisoned pet in the other, took his way forthwith to the castle. When he arrived there, the porter, \vho usually opened the outer-gate, hap- pened to be out of the way ; but a stupid- looking boy came forward to ask what he wanted. This boy, whose name was Michael, could seldom deliver any order or direc- tion in the words he received it; or THE WHITE PIGEON. 39 ] should rather say. he rarely compre- hended the purport of what was said to him ; and, in repeating" a message, gene- rally left out, or added something, so as to completely alter its sense. His want of understanding had been the cause of so many droll mistakes, that it was some- times suspected that there was some lurking love of mischief joined to his d ulness and stupidity. However this might be, it was the old man's ill-luck to give the basket, containing his precious pigeon, into the hands of this urchin. He left it with a simple message, saying, he had brought the bird Master Des- mond so longed for, and begged Michael to carry it carefully and present it to him immediately. The boy promised to do 40 THE WHITE PIGEON. so; and the old man stood for a moment gazing mournfully at his treasure, as Michael bore it away. He then turned to retrace his steps homeward, uncon- scious as the poor bird itself of the fate that awaited it within the castle. The old man had no sooner departed, than the stupid boy hurried to the castle kitchen with the basket, and opening the lid, said, " See, here is a fine plump little pigeon, which is to be dressed immedi- ately for Master Desmond's dinner. He was crying for one all day yesterday, and the old man who brought this here, said my lady ordered it herself/ The cook looked with compassion at the poor little white pigeon, which lay at the bottom of the basket, very frightened THE WHITE PIGEON. 41 at the strange laces that were peering in on it, and said, ""it was a thousand pities to kill such a pretty gentle bird; but, to be sure, Master Desmond must have everything he wanted." That day little Desmond scarcely cared to obey the summons to dinner. He was so impatient to see the pretty white pigeon, wliich his mama was promising would arrive every moment, that he could think of nothing else. Poor bird! it arrived at last in a very different state from what he expected. The little, living, fluttering pigeon, which Desmond had so much wished to possess, and the old man had parted with so reluctantly, neither of them ever saw again. " What dainty have we here ?" said 42 THE WHITE Lady Q'N, aft a small silver dish was placed before Desmon 1 ; in the centre of which appeared a little bird delicately dressed. " It is the pigeon, Madam," said the servant in reply. Desmond opened his eyes very wide, and looked in great amazement, first at the dish before him, and then at his mother. " The pigeon ! what pigeon <" cried Lady O'N., hastily; dreading that some mistake had occurred. The servant explained, that an old man, about two hours before, had brought a pretty little white pigeon to the castle, which, he snid. Master Desmond was to have as ^uon as possible ; and the cook, accordingly, had dressed it immediately, in great haste. THE WHITE PIGEON. 43 " O, Desmond," cried Lady O'N., re- proachfully, "It is the old man's bird. O, what grief he will be in when he hears of the fate of his poor little pet. If you had not so selfishly wished to deprive him of his treasure, the pretty pigeon would now be fluttering on its perch, as gaily as it was this morning, when I begged him for your sake, to let me have it.'' Little Desmond began to cry very much, partly for his own disappointment, but partly also for the old man, and partly because his mama had never spo- ken to him in a tone of so much displea- sure before. I never heard what the poor old man said, or how much grieved he appeared 44 THE WHITE PIGEON. when he was told of the fate of his pigeon. One good, however, resulted from Michael's unfortunate mistake. Lady O'N. resolved to teach her little boy to consider the feelings of others more than she had hitherto done ; and Desmond, I am happy to say, became, in a little time, a more amiable, as well as a happier boy THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. ARMYTAGE HOUSE was a large, old- fashioned, Gothic building; over which the ivy grew with such luxuriance, that its small windows were rendered smaller still, so deeply were they embedded in their verdant mantle. In front of the house was a neatly laid-out garden, where there were none of your fanciful fountains or mimic heaps of rock-work, which, by their presumptuous imitation of nature, only serve to remind us of their insignificance. No, there was nothing of 46 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. the kind in the garden of Armytage House. The paths were smooth and dry. the box edgings were cut with the greatest nicety, and the beds which they surrounded were filled in summer with an abundance of sweet-smelling flowers ; now. however, the bare stems alone re- mained, save that one or two sickly rose- buds had struggled into bloom against the inclemency of the season. Two tall yew-trees, cut into trim shapes, overshadowed the garden-gate, on which was seen a brass plate bearing this in- scription. ; Dr. MeanwelFs Classical Academy:' But I will not detain my readers by a lengthened description of the outside of the house, for though I am an old lady . THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 47 now, yet I recollect well that I always made a point of skipping any long 1 ac- counts of verdant slopes, flowery meads, or storied piles, which I met with in the story books which my kind mama pre- sented to me when I was a little girl. So, if my young friends will kindly join me, we will step in at once, and see what is going on in Dr. Meanwell's school- room. It is Wednesday, a half-holiday, and the fifth of November. The Doctor is seated at a high desk, from which he can see that his young subjects are paying proper attention to their various studies. He is dressed in black, and by his side lies a cane, whose only duty it is to give a smart tap-tap on the desk, whenever it 48 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. does not suit him to raise his voice to enjoin silence ; for the full penalty of the law, Hogging, is never resorted to at Armytage House. The Doctor is look- ing grave, for the boys of the first Latin class are repeating their lesson it is finished. The morning has passed satis- factorily ; the boys have been as attentive as most boys can be; and the Doctor smiles blandly around him, and is prepa- ing to dismiss them to the play-ground, when suddenly a titter is heard at the further end of the long desk which runs down the whole length of the school- room. " Silence !" cried Doctor Meanwell. "Boys, it is now twelve o'clock; your conduct to-day has pleased me much, THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 49 you have oeen steady and attentive, and, as nothing gives me greater pleasure than to see you happy, I shall consent to the request you made this morning : as soon as it is dark, the bonfire shall be lighted, and the fireworks commence. But mark me : there must be no playing with the fireworks. The gardener will superin- tend the festivities; and " Here the Doctor paused; for from the same end of the desk, whose occupants had been called to order at the commencement of his speech, there proceeded the sound of smothered laughter. The Doctor removed the spectacles from his nose, and sent an inquiring glance to the corner whence these dis- respectful sounds proceeded. "Young 4 50 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. gentleman," he exclaimed, " what is the reason of this interruption ?" The boys returned no answer ; but, directed by the glance of many a merry pair of laughter- loving eyes, he soon discovered that the cause was no other than a rough portrait sketched on the wall with a blackened cork, by some precocious draughtsman. " Heyday ! what have w r e here ?" said Doctor Meanwell, W 7 ho in the innocence of his heart, at first supposed it to be a representation of the popular Guy Faux 7 but, on a nearer inspection the truth began to break upon him. Could it be ! Yes, it certainly was, a caricature-likeness of himself yes, there were his spectacles and his bald head ; and even the little wart which had taken up its abode on THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 51 his time-honoured nose, was faithfully pourtrayed. Now, the Doctor had a great dislike of ridicule in any shape. He always checked it when displayed by his pupils upon one another; and it was not to be expected that he would endure it with particular patience when directed against himself. He threw a searching and inquiring glance along the forms on which his pupils were seated in quest of the delinquent; (for, without asking questions, Doctor MeanwelPs quick- ness of observation often enabled him to detect an offending urchin;) but though many a little cheek was ready to burst with ill-surpressed laughter, on none did he detect any symptoms of em- 52 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. barrassment, till his eye fell on Charles Radnor and Arthur Newell. And what were the signs of guilt that there met his penetrating glance? Charles Rad- nor's eye fell as the Doctor's met his; and little Newell, pencil in hand, pre- tended to be working most industriously at a sum which his master had told him was right ten minutes before. " Charles Radnor;' said the Doctor, " was this your doing ?" There was a striking difference in the personal appearance of the two boys, who thus drew Dr. Meanwell's attention. Little Newell, as Arthur was called by his schoolfellows, was of small stature, rendered in walking the more conspicuous from a lameness in one of his feet, the consequence of a fall THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 53 received in infancy : he had light curling hair, blue eyes, and a fair com- plexion ; bat the glow given by active exercise to the countenance was wanting in his. Charles Radnor, on the contrary, tall of his age, and easy and elegant in form, excelled amongst his companions in the skill and agility required fbr out- door sports and games. A strong friend- ship subsisted between these two boys, which had commenced and increased gradually from the time they had first met at school, notwithstanding they bore no greater resemblance to each other in character than in person. Arthur, the ' boy of slight and delicate frame, pos- sessed the greater portion of courage and firmness of mind. Quiet and mild in 64 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. manner, he had strong and acute feelings, and returned affection with gratitude. Charles was of a more lively disposition, and had less steady principle, but his kindness and goodness of heart made him a general favourite in the school, and by none of his young comrades was he more beloved than by Arthur Newell. Schoolboys are generally thoughtless and high-spirited, and Arthur's lameness often attracted heedless remarks from his companions, who would take an incon- siderate pride in boasting of their strength and agility to one w r ho was quite unable to mingle in any active sport. Charles Radnor had too much consideration for the feelings of his friend ever to make such remarks; and the THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 55 gratitude felt towards him by the poor lame boy in return, was great in the extreme. ' But with all his kindness of heart, Charles had two great failings a love of mischief, and yet so great a terror of the punishment consequent upon his own acts, that to screen himself he would often descend to the meanness of telling a falsehood. Yet, let it not be supposed that he sinned thus quite deliberately, or without self-reproach: many and many were the times he had resolved to conquer himself of this fault, "On the next .opportunity," he would think, "I will make a resolute stand against such sin- ful weakness;" but no sooner did the temptation occur, than it proved too 56 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. strong for him, and all his good refla- tions vanished in the momentary dread of punishment But all this time, Doctor Mean well's question has been unanswered " Did you do this, Charles Radnor?" Need we tell the answer? He had drawn the likeness, or rather the attempt at likeness, but with no intention that it should meet the eye of the original. It was his effort to efface it, unobserved r that first roused the laughter of his com- panions ; no sooner were they silent than he again attempted to remove it; but the laughter of the other boys again, drew the Doctor's attention to the spot ; and now nothing was wanting, but to discover the mischievous artist Charles THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 57 thought but of the probable punishment that would await him that he should be confined, solitary, to the house, while the rest of his companions were enjoying the bonfire and fireworks and the tempta- tion proved too strong for him. All his good resolutions vanished in air, and the ready falsehood released him for the time from the consequences of his fault. The Doctor passed on to little Newell. " Newell, do you know anything of this ?" ? "Charles will be doubly punished if I say it was he," thought Newell; "I would rather endure the blame myself a hundred times, if it were not for the meanness of telling a falsehood. And yet it will seem so unkind to betray him, and get him into disgrace, when I could 58 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. so easily save him. It cannot be so mean or dishonourable to tell an untruth to save one's friend, as telling an ordinary falsehood would be; and see how pale and frightened poor Charles looks ! I really cannot tell the Doctor it was his doing." Again the Doctor urged his ques- tion. " Was this your doing, Newell ?" Newell still paused : his conscience whispered to him, " Tell the truth." But another glance at the pale face of his friend made him hesitate ; and, while he coloured with shame at the act he was committing he stammered out It was, Sir." Dr. Meanwell looked grieved. " I had hoped," he said, " that as we commenced the day, so we should have finished it, THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 59 without one fault calling for serious re- proof. As regards the rudehess to myself, I could have overlooked it ; but, as mas- ter of this school, I should not be doing my duty were I not to insist on a proper degree of respect, more especially as I have resolved to dispense with all cor- poral punishment. I must own, too? that I feel hurt that any of you, and more especially Newell, whom I have treated with more than usual kindness, should repay my care by striving to cast ridicule upon me. Newell, you will remain in the school-room this afternoon. I am sorry to be obliged to punish you on a day which I hoped would have been one of pleasure to you all. For the rest of you, your lessons are over for the day ; amuse 60 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. yourselves in making preparations for the evening. There are plenty of materials about. I shall be looking out for a famous bonfire: 7 Off ran the schoolboys, leaving their solitary companion in possession of the deserted room, which now seemed doubly dreary from the absence of the noise and bustle which had been there but the moment before. Newell sat sadly, listening to the dis- tant shouts and laughter of his compa- nions, w r ho were busily engaged in piling brushwood, brambles, thorns, or wiiatever they could lay their hands on, suitable for the bonfire. At no time are the sounds of cheerful sports more tantalizing to the young, than when they are pre- THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 61. vented joining in them themselves, and more especially when it has been caused by their own conduct And as Newell sat listening, gloomily, to the distant sounds, every whoop and shout of laugh- ter but served to depress his spirits more and more. He had another source of regret the Doctor thought him un- grateful ; and Newell, always warm in his affections when kindly treated, was now reproaching himself for having allowed the Doctor to think him forgetful of his attention and kindness. The more he thought upon the matter, the more uneasy he grew. " The Doctor is the best and kindest friend I have/' he cried. " How often has he told us that a false- hood always bears its own punishment 62 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. with it! And now he must for ever think me either ungrateful, or guilty of the meanness of telling an untruth." The thoughts of Charles Radnor were not more enviable than those of his friend. What to him now were the enjoyments of the evening, to which he, in common with his companions had so long looked forward with pleasure ? He felt in constant dread that some of his school- fellows, knowing him to be the real offender, might inform the Doctor of his meanness. While all around him were gay and cheerful he stood silent and apart. What mattered it to him now that he should be thought the most active in the playground the most skilful in his class ? He felt that the smallest boy in THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 63 the school was his superior he felt little in his own eyes. Every moment he was inclined to run to the Doctor to tell him the whole truth, and clear his conscience from its stain ; but then arose the fear and dread of punishment : and when the opportunity presented itself, he had not sufficient courage or strength of mind to carry out his intentions. As it grew dusk, the solitary prisoner could hear that the festivities of the even- ing had commenced. A bright stream of light, which, as it reached the clouds, would burst into sparkling stars, pro- claimed when the rushing rocket rose high in air. The sudden flash, and the loud shouts of the schoolboys, told when any firework of great brilliancy was dis- 64 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. charged ; but broader still grew the light, and louder still the shouts, as the great bonfire suddenly burst forth its flame and smoke. " They are all happy/' thought Newell ; " and even Radnor, perhaps^ enjoys himself and thinks nothing of the sacrifice I have made for his sake:' His sorrows were too much for him : he burst into tears and hid his face in his hands, sobbing bitterly. But surely the bonfire is stronger than ever bonfire was before, for the heat of it seems to reach him even in the room and it must be the scent of the burning wood and tar which he smells, and the crackling of the brushwood which he hears. See, even the smoke seems to have penetrated the chamber ! But why THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 65 that sudden shout, followed by as sudden a stillness ? It is different from any he has heard before that evening. Again, those are voices which he hears ; they must be under the school-room window. And, can it be ? yes, there is his own name shouted Newell! Newell! and the ap- palling truth bursts upon him as the cry of fire ! fire ! resounds through the ah*. Newell rushed to the door, but it was too late. A spark from one of the torches (carried from the house for the purpose of lighting the bonfire) had fallen in the hall; the current of air caused by an open door had soon spread and fanned it into a flame. Already the broad staircase was in a blaze, and the volume of smoke which rushed in at the school-room door 5 66 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. drove him back, gasping for breath. He scrambled on to the window-sill, and looked despairingly around him ; the height was far too great for a leap, and he well knew that there was no ladder at hand of sufficient length to reach him. Beneath him stood his frightened school- fellows, each shouting to him to escape, and each giving different advice. " Jump, jump, Newell," cried one party. "No, no/' cried another ; " he would be dashed to pieces. Keep where you are ; the Doc- tor has sent for assistance ; we shall have a ladder in a few minutes." " Silence, all !*' cried the commanding voice of the Doctor. " Newell, listen to me : be calm ; raise yourself gently from the window; cling firmly to the stout THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 67 branches of the ivy, and so let yourself down." Poor Newell trembled, and his face looked ghastly pale. From his lameness he had generally been prevented from joining in the athletic sports of the other boys, arid he had never attempted to climb in his life. " I cannot, I cannot/' he cried, as in obedience to the Doctors directions he strove to make his way from the window. " Courage, courage," cried the Doctor, though his own voice trembled as he spoke, while he saw the feeble efforts made by the poor boy to cling to the ivy. " It is useless," cried poor Newell ; " I feel I have not sufficient strength. It is my own fault that I am here ; I am justly 68 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. punished. But but, dear Mr. Meanwell, I was not ungrateful I was not unmind- ful of your kindness. I did not Oh God forgive me ! Do not cry so, dear Charles ; you could not know it would come to this. God bless you bless you all!" "Oh, Arthur! Arthur! I shall die," cried his conscience-stricken friend. " Oh Sir, Sir, he was punished for my fault. It was I drew that picture, and I basely allowed Newell to be punished for me. Oh, I have murdered him! But though my repentance may have come too late, still if I cannot save him I can perish with him. I will climb up to the school- room by the ivy, in the same way that you told Newell to descend." And he rushed forward to carry out his project THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 69 " Stay, stay, rash boy !" cried the Doc- tor, holding him back; "and yet," he thought, as he saw the smoke now issuing from the window, "it seems his only chance. Before the gardener returns with the ladder the poor boy may perish. Be firm, Radnor, then," he said ; " be firm : take this rope with you ; when you reach the room tie one end of it firmly round Newell's waist, pass the other round the leg of the desk which is close to the win- dow, and throw it down to us; by that means we can save you both." Radnor waited not another instant, but boldly commenced the ascent Every eye was strained after him, as from branch to branch, and from stem to stem, he drew himself up. Once he paused, and it was 70 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. thought his strength was exhausted, but it was only for a moment to recover breath, in the next he had started with renewed vigour, and paused not again till he was by the side of little Newell. Here he followed the Doctors directions, and in a few minutes both boys were safe from the reach of the devouring flames. But the excitement, joined to the suffo- cating heat and smoke, had proved tco much for the weak frame of poor Newell, and as he reached the ground the good Doctor caught him fainting in his arms, and bore him to a neighbouring house. When he returned slowly to conscious- ness, the flames were nearly subdued by the exertions of the neighbours, and the Doctor and Charles Radnor were bending THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. Page 71. THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 71 anxiously over him, the latter bitterly reproaching himself for his past con- duct, " Is that you, dear Charles ?" said New- ell, faintly. " Oh, Newell," cried his friend, "can you ever forgive me for the meanness I have been guilty of; and if you do, can I ever forgive myself?'' " Dear Charles," said Newell, " do not ask my for^eness; I have nothing to forgive. If you have done me any wrong, you would have more than repaid it by risking your life to save mine, as you did so bravely but a few moments since." " But, my dear boys," said Doctor Meanwell, " there is indeed ONE of whose forgiveness you both stand in need ONE whom you have indeed this day grievously 72 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. offended. How far better, how far nobler would it have been had you told the truth at once ! You must feel that you have both been much to blame, and that I am indeed right when I say that nothing can serve as an excuse for falsehood ; that in telling an untruth we but fashion a rod for our future punishment. Oh ! before you close your eyes this night, fall down and pray to your Heaven^ Father for strength in future to resist every tempta- tion of falsehood." FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. THE month of June was a time looked forward to with joy by Frederick Sedley and in fact by many other young people of his .age ; not only because then the fields and hedge-rows would be decked with their gayest flowers, but because there approached, Avhat is dearer to little boys and girls than the bright shining sun, or the prettiest flowers that ever bloomed the midsummer holidays, when they would see again their kind parents and their own. dear little brothers and sisters. 74 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. Frederick Sedley was a very good boy; he had gained the prize at school, for good behaviour, and had written home such a pretty letter to tell his dear papa and mama that the academy would break up for the midsummer vacation on the eighteenth, and that his kind Instructor, Mr. Parsons, would bring him home in the coach w T hich passed through Elms- dale, which was the name of the place where Frederick lived. Very few of the schoolboys wanted calling up on the morning of the eight- eenth of June, for the thoughts of home had made them sleep lightly. Frederick was one of the first to rise, and the time seemed to go so slowly, that the boys felt sure the coach must have passed ; for it FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. 75 seemed longer coming that morning than it had ever done before. But no! the clock struck nine, and punctual to its time, up drove the coach that was to convey them home. Then there was such shouting, and clapping of small hands. Only some of the elder boys tried to look grave, because they knew Mr. Parsons was very good to them all, and though they were as pleased as the others to go home, yet they did not like to seem unmindful of his kindness. But Mr. Parsons only smiled kindly upon his noisy pupils ; for though he was very fond of them, yet he knew it was only natural for them to prefer home to school. When Frederick reached home he found his papa and mama and his little 76 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. brother and sister, Thomas and Lucy, all waiting to see him. Then he had to dis- play his reward for good conduct, and opened his ciphering-book to show all the long sums he had gone through, till little Lucy held up her hands in surprise at his being able to add up such long puzzling rows of figures. Now nothing delighted Mr. and Mrs. Sedley so much as to see their children cheerful and happy; and as they were much pleased with Frederick's conduct at school, they asked him what he would like best for his amusement in the holi- days. Frederick considered for a moment, for he was not a selfish boy; he did not think of his own amusement only : so he replied, that he should prefer something FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. 77 that would please his little brother and sister also. " Go, then," said Mr. Sedley, " and consult together." Then there was a great consideration among the young folks to hit upon something which would give enjoyment to them all. At last little Thomas proposed a donkey, and as this pleased all parties, a donkey, it was set- tled, it should b.e. The next morning Mr. Sedley took them to the stable, and there they found one of the nicest donkeys they had ever seen ; he had a beautiful saddle and bridle, and looked so sleek and good-tempered, that there really seemed no occasion for the pretty whip which was hanging by his side. " Now, my dear children," said Mr. Sedley, "I have one thing to mention 78 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. which you will be sure to observe : you may ride over the common, and round the orchard and through the fields at the back of the house, but on no account, and I speak particularly to you, as the eldest, Frederick, on no account go on the high-road." " Oh no, papa, we do not want to ride on the dusty road," said Frederick ; " and we shall be sure not to go there now that we know it is against your wish." " Mount, then," cried Mr. Sedley, " and let us see how you can manage your steed. Off with you !" And off went the merry party. First one mounted, and then the other; and on they rode through the fields and lanes, and picked the bright hedge-flowers, and FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. 79 made wreaths of king cups to put round the donkey's neck ; and the donkey nib- bled the grass as he went along, and switched his tail, and seemed quite proud of the fine figure he cut. So they passed day after day, and three happier children were not to be found? But, I am sorry to say that this happi- ness was at last suddenly marred, and all through one act of disobedience. You remember that Mr. Sedley had told them on no account to go on the high- road. Well, they all paid great attention to his wishes, till, one morning, when, as they were riding on the common, they were joined by Alfred Faulding, a little boy, the son of one of their father's friends. After Alfred had patted and admired 80 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. the donkey, he began to tell them of all the pretty things he had at home. " Ah P he said, " I have two such beautiful rab- bits, one of them is covered with black and white spots ; the other is jet black. You must come and see them, Frederick." But Frederick said, " No thank you Alfred, not to-day." He did not say the reason, for he was afraid of being laughed at. Little Thomas, however, saved him the trouble, for he said, " Oh ! no, indeed, Frederick cannot go without asking papa's leave ; for you know, Alfred, he cannot reach your house without passing the road ; and papa said we were none of us to go there." " That is all very well for a little fellow like you, Master Thomas," said Alfred; FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. 81 " but if I were Frederick, I would not be such a milk-sop as that; I should be ashamed to be tied to mama's apron- strings, like a great baby." Frederick was so foolish as to feel quite ashamed of Alfred's ridicule. " It cannot make much difference," thought he, "I shall be back again in a minute, and if I do not tell where I have been, papa need know nothing about it." And Alfred at length persuaded him to ride to his house and look at the rabbits. They were indeed very pretty rabbits, with long drooping ears, which, Alfred said, were called "lop-ears." Frederick was quite delighted with them, and could have watched them for hours, as they sat munching the cabbage-stalks which he 6 82 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. gave tnem. But Alfred having now dis- played his treasures, thought it as well for them to be moving back again : " For/' he said, "somebody might be sent for you, Frederick; and then I suppose I should have a share of the blame for bringing you here." So they both mounted the donkey at once, arid oflf they started on their way back to the spot where they had left Thomas and Lucy. " You see, Frederick, you had nothing to be afraid of," said Alfred ; ^ and you might never have seen my beautiful rab- bits, if you had minded exactly what your papa told you; and I should like to know what harm was likely to have hap- pened to you ?" FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. 83 Frederick did not feel easy, though he tried to appear so, as he answered, " Oh ! I see there was no danger at all." But he spoke rather too soon, for at this mo- ment, when they were within sight of the common, a coach, at full speed, turned the corner of a neighbouring lane. The coachman saw the two boys, but it was too late for him to stop the horses. He shouted to them to get out of the way. Frederick flogged the donkey, and tried with all his might to do so, but in vain. The animal, frightened at the noise, turned round in the middle of the road ; in the next instant the coach had passed at full gallop, and Frederick, Alfred, and the donkey were dashed together to the ground. Little Lucy screamed with 84 FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. terror ; but Thomas, although quite as much frightened, had presence of mind enough to run immediately to the house for assistance. Mr. Sedley has- tened to the spot, and found Frederick lying quite still in the path by the road- side, where he had been thrown. He raised him in his arms, and carried him to the house, followed by Alfred, who had escaped with scarcely any injury. Though stunned and bruised, it was soon found that Frederick had not been so seriously hurt as was at first feared ; but his ancle was sprained, and for several days he was obliged to keep at 'home and lie quietly on a sofa. When he re- covered, there were no more pleasant rides to be had on the donkey, for Mr FREDERICK SEDLEY'S HOLIDAYS. 85 Sedley at once sent him back to his former owner. Frederick felt that this punishment of his fault was but just. He regretted the loss of the donkey, but he felt still more sorry to have forfeited his father's confidence by suffering him- self to be so easily persuaded to disobey his commands. It was a lesson he never forgot, nor would he ever afterwards allow the sneers or laughter of his com- panions to turn him from what his con- science told him was right. COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. HERO. " OH, Cousin John, will you draw me some pretty pictures, if you please, and tell me some amusing stories about them r So spoke Willy Franklin, a little fair- haired boy, of some six or seven years old: for nothing amused him more than to sit by his cousin and watch him at his drawings ; and when he had finished them, to ask him to explain what they all meant : and as Cousin John was very COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 87 fond of children generally, and particu- larly so of little Willy, he would good- naturedly take his pencil and sketch him as many little drawings as he pleased. So he answered, " Well then, Willy, my little man, come and sit on this chair by my side, and I will see what I can do." Then he sketched and sketched away, till he had finished two nice drawings. " Oh what pretty pictures," cried Willy, " what can they be about ?" " The first," said Cousin John, " is, as you see, the picture of a handsome black charger, with an officer mounted on his back ; the name of the horse was Hero, and the rider is intended for my father, and your uncle, Willy. My father, as you know, held a commission in the 88 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. army during the late war; and in all the battles in which he was engaged he always rode i Black Hero/ because he was a horse he could always depend upon, being possessed of great strength and speed. Then he was beautifully shaped, with a fine arching neck and rich flowing mane ; but, what was better than all his beauty, was, that he might always be trusted in hour of need: neither the deep roar of the artillery nor the sharp rattle of the musketry raised any feeling of fear in him : he would rush to the very cannon's mouth *as bravely as if he had been taking an ordinary canter in the fields. " In the course of an engagement which took place between our forces and COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 89 the French, the regiment to which my father belonged was ordered to charge some of the enemy's cavalry, who were posted on an opposite hill. In the encounter my father was wounded in the arm by a musket-ball ; and, being unable to control his horse or keep up with his companions, he was captured by a French soldier, who, seeing his helpless con- dition, contented himself with disarming him and leading him to the rear of the French regiment. The contest was kept up with fearful energy, and the enemy were at first driven back by the resolute courage of our troops ; but as reinforce- ment after reinforcement continued to arrive to the assistance of the French, they in turn became victors; and the 90 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. English commander, seeing the inutility and folly of contending against such superior numbers, ordered the retreat to be sounded, which in cavalry regiments, is done by the trumpet sound. " My father's horse, hearing the notes he had always been accustomed to obey, burst suddenly from the soldier who was holding him, galloped at full speed through the very centre of the French regiment, and carried his master safely to the side of his old comrades. u You may be sure that after this my father was always very fond of Black Hero, for he had probably saved his life, or, at all events, had rescued him from a long and dreary imprisonment " At the conclusion of the war my BLACK IIEKO. Page 91. COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 91 father returned to England, and brought with him the noble animal, the com- panion of his toils. I was a little boy then, Willy, but I recollect well the day when they rode up to our own door, and mama, in her joy, actually threw her arms around Hero's neck. And he grew such a favourite with us all, for he was so gentle and dotile, he would let me and my little brothers and sisters mount him, and then he would walk about as quietly as a lamb." " Oh what a good brave horse," said Willy ; " how I should have loved him. But what does the other picture mean ? Is that about Hero, too ?" " Thai,' 1 said his cousin, "refers to anotner part of his history. My father 92 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. soon after his return home received a letter from a very old friend of his, a Mr. Manby, who was very anxious to see him, but who w^as prevented by his infirm- ities from travelling so far as our house. So Hero was saddled and brought round to the door, and my father started off on his expedition. His friend was delighted to see him, and they regained so long chatting and talking over old times, that when my father rose to depart, the eve- ning had already set in. It was then the latter end of September, and the sky, which had been serene and beautiful during the day, had now become dark and overclouded. Already distant flashes of lightning were to be seen, and a few large drops of rain which fell proclaimed COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 93 that a heavy storm was at hand. Mr. Manby tried to persuade my father to remain under the shelter of his roof foi thenigitt; but knowing the anxiety mama would be in during his absence, he deter- mined at once to hasten homewards Mr. Manby then offered to despatch a messenger to our house to inform us of his intention of not returning till the next dayf but my father would not for an instant hear of another being exposed for his sake to danger from which he would himself shrink. 'And besides/ said he, ' Hero and I have faced so many dangers already, that, trusting in Provi- dence, we need not fear to encounter even so stormy a night as this." So, drawing his coat about him, and bending 94 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. his head before the wind and rain, off he dashed on his homeward way. " Soon the rain descended in torrents, and the night grew darker and Barker, save that every now and then a bright flash of lightning would illume the road with a noonday light. But still my father urged on his steed, and the noble animal, regardless of the pelting of the sharp hailstones in his face, or, the (Jeep and appalling roar of the thunder overhead, kept bravely on his way. The road now lay across a bleak common without tree or shelter of any kind, and here the full fury of the storm burst upon them. My father kne\v the road well, for it was one he had often travelled as a boy, and he had not for an instant doubted of easily COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 95 finding 1 his way home ; but, deceived by the darkness and the storm, he at length found himself in a part of the heath en- tirely unknown to him. Utterly at a loss which way to turn, he had only the usual chance of benighted travellers, loosing the rein, and leaving it to chance and his horse's instinct to extricate him from his difficulty. Left to himself, Hero sped swift- ly across the heath; but soon a new and unexpected impediment presented itself. As my father rode on, he heard the rushing of water, and, on a nearer approach, had some difficulty in recognising the broad and rapid stream, swollen by the sudden deluge, which lay before him, as what had in the morning been but a small rivulet What was to be done ? My father had 96 COUSIN JOHX'S FIRST STORY. been too much in the habit of overcoming difficulties and dangers, by boldly facing them, to be daunted by his present di- lemma ; and after a moment's pause, he chose what seemed the most suitable spot for the attempt, and pressed his horse to the stream. For the first time in his life Hero refused to obey. When brought to the edge of the water he snorted fearfully, tossed his head, and could not be per- suaded to attempt the passage. At length, on being again and again urged, he sud- denly took the bit in his teeth, galloped some distance up the bank of the stream? and finally plunged in at a spot^ where the water seemed chafing and rushing with more force and rapidity than anywhere around. Well accustomed to the manage- COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 97 ment of his horse, my father kept his broad chest to the stream ; for it required all the skill and resolution of both horse and rider to enable them to reach the opposite bank. " Mama and all of us children were sit- ting up listening to the raging of the storm; for although we hoped that my father would have staid the night with his friend, still we were in too great a state of anxiety and uncertainty to think of sleep. It was now past twelve o'clock, and mama was just insisting upon our retiring to rest, though by the anxious look of her pale face, I could see she had no such in- tention herself, when the sounds of a horse's hoofs were heard in the avenue, and the next instant my father galloped 98 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. up to the door, drenched to the skin, and covered with his horse's foam. " After our first joy at seeing him safe had somewhat subsided, we did not forget to pat and praise Black Hero for the part he had taken in the night's exertion. It afterwards appeared, from the marks of the horse's hoofs on the spot, that my father must, in the darkness, have mis- taken the usual ford; for, had he suc- ceeded in forcing the horse into that part of the stream which he first attempted, he would probably have perished, as the very stillness of the water was there only occa- sioned by its greater depth. / " I must tell you one more of Hero's feats, and then I shall have done. He performed it when he was growing old ; COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 99 twelve months only before he died. It was his last grand deed, but it was his best and his bravest. " We were living, at the time the inci- dent I am about to relate to you occurred, on the coast of shire. Our house was beautifully situated. Behind it rich ma- jestic woods extended further than the eye could reach; while before it lay a smooth verdant plain, gradually sloping to the sea. You might have wandered for hours in that secluded spot without meeting a single human being. The sea presented nearly the same appearance, for we seldom caught more than a distant view of some far-off vessel, visible but for a moment above the horizon, and in the next lost to the eye, as it pursued its course of business or pleasure. 100 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. " We had been out one afternoon roam- ing amongst the woods, plucking the wild flowers, playing at hide-and-seek among the trees, running and jumping about, laughing till we made the place ring again with our merriment, when we heard mama's voice calling to us to return home. We begged of her to allow us to stay out a little longer, as we were enjoying our- selves so much. c And besides, mama/ we urged, i it will not be dark yet for an- other hour.' < But, my dear children/ said mama, i you must come in an hour earlier this evening, for, from the appearance of the sky, we are fearful that a heavy storm is at hand.' " So bats, balls, and hoops were collected COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 101 together, and in we went ; and I can as- sure you we were not sorry we had taken mama's advice, for in half an hour it began pouring with rain, and we should certainly have got wet through, had we not gone in when we did. " In the evening we were all sitting round the table, listening eagerly to my father, who was relating some adventure which he had met with abroad ; when suddenly a bright gleam of light shone before the window, and, the next instant, was fol- lowed by a loud report. All of us chil- dren fancied it must have been a flash of lightning. But my father shook his head. i No,' said he, < it was the report of a gun; it came from the sea: it must have been from some vessel in distress ; and 102 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORV. from the sound she must be close on our coast 7 " Even as he spoke a report louder, and apparently nearer still than the former one, burst on our ears. My father sum- moned his servants around him, caused bonfires to be lit to show the position of the coast to those on the ship, and has- tened to the beach, to see what further assistance could be rendered. " The storm had now somewhat subsided, and by the fitful light of the moon he dis- covered a vessel, the masts hanging over her sides, a complete wreck, driven entirely at the mercy of the winds and waves, which were fast drifting her on the rocky coast. Every instant brought her nearer and nearer, till at length the people on deck COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 103 ^ould be distinctly seen, in every attitude of despair, rushing franticly about, and expecting every moment to be over- whelmed in the raging waves. When with- in only a short distance of the shore, the ship struck violently, and became firmly fixed between a cleft of the rock. No longer borne up by the buoyancy of the water, the waves swept uncontrolled over her, threat- ening to sweep every living soul from the devoted vessel. The shrieks of the wretched crew and passengers, men, women, and children, were perfectly heart-rending; for though so near shore, no assistance could be rendered to them, as no boat was to be found within miles of the spot. * Yet something must be done/ cried my father ; ' we cannot "see our fellow- 104 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. creatures perish thus, without an attempt to save them.' ' Adam/ he said to an old servant, who had formerly been a soldier in his regiment, ' saddle Hero instantly. I will gallop over to the next village to seek assistance of some kind. 7 " Adam soon saddled and led forth Hero, who neighed and tossed his noble head, as if he knew that a fitting moment had arrived to call forth his prowess. My father mounted, and was on the point of starting off; but on looking again at the vessel, he checked himself. ' It would be useless/ he said : ' before I could reach the village and return with assist- ance? the rising tide will have buried every vestige of the wreck. There is but one chance ; Hero is still strong, COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. 105 and I doubt not could swim with me to the vessel F " i Oh, my dear, dear master F cried old Adam, ' tempt not so the fearful waves ; many a noble form will they roll over this night. Oh ! add not your own to the number. If yonder stout vessel could not withstand their fury, how can you expect to brave them ?' " i We must trust in Providence, Adam,' said my father ; ' He has power to save and to destroy ; to confound the mighty, and to bid the weak be strong. 7 " * Then, dear Sir/ said Adam, ' if some one must go, let it be me. I am an old man. I have neither wife nor child to mourn for me; and with the waves that roll over him, old Adam will be fovgotten.' 106 COUSIN JOHN'S FIRST STORY. " l Nay, nay ; think not so seriously of it, Adam/ replied my father.