Happy Days for Boys and Girls

“Who is it?” they asked. “How beautiful! how lovely!”

The fairy heard them with a smile, and said, “Fair flowers, I was a shabby butterfly; what I am, you see. I came to you poor and weary; and because I was poor and weary you shut me out from your hearts.”

The pansy and the wall-flower bent their heads in sorrow, and Lady Rose blushed with shame.

“If I had only known!” muttered the peony; “but who would have thought it?”

“Who indeed?” laughed the fairy; “but learn, proud peony, that he who thinks always of self loses much of life’s sweetness – far more than he ever suspects; for goodness is as the dew of the heart, and yieldeth refreshment and happiness, even if it win no other recompense. But it is meet that it should be rewarded. Behold, all of you!” and the fairy touched with her wand the white blossom on which she had rested, saying, “For thy sweetness be thou loved for ever!” At these words a thrill of happiness stirred the sap of the rough, neglected briar, and a soft, lovely blush suffused the petals of its flowers, and from its green leaves came forth an exquisite odor, perfuming the whole garden and eclipsing the other flowers in their pride.

Then the fairy rose in the air, and hovering over her resting-place for a moment ere she vanished said, “Such is the reward of goodness. Fare thee well, sweet briar!”

WORKING IS BETTER THAN WISHING

NOW then, Tom, lad, what’s up? in trouble again?” asked a good-natured sailor of his messmate, one snowy day on the wide Atlantic.

The boy was leaning moodily against the bulwarks of the vessel – a pleasant, ruddy young fellow of fourteen, but with a cloud on his face which looked very like discontent.

Snow was falling heavily, but he did not heed it; he looked up, however, at the approach of his friend, and answered, —

“I’m all right, Pearson; it isn’t that. I was only wishing and wondering why I can’t get what I want; it seems a shame, it does!” and Tom paused abruptly, half choked by a sob.

“What is it, Tom?” asked Pearson; “have the other lads been plaguing? Such a big, hearty fellow as you ought not to fret for that.”

“I don’t,” said Tom, sharply; “it’s not that; but they’ve found out that my little brother is in the workhouse at home, and they throw it at me. I’d do anything to get him out, too, for he oughtn’t to be there: we come of a better sort, Pearson,” he said, proudly; “but father and mother dying of that fever put us all wrong. Uncle got me to sea, and then, I suppose, he thought he’d done enough; so there was only the workhouse left for Willy. He’s the jolliest little chap, Pearson, you ever saw, and I’d work day and night to get him out, if I could; but where’s the use? A poor boy like me can do nothing; so I just get in a rage, or don’t care about anything, and fight the other lads; or I’m had up for neglect of duty, or something.”

“And so you lose all chance of getting on, and being able in time to help your little brother,” said Pearson, as if musing; “but what’s that you have in your hand, Tom – a picture?”

“It’s Willy,” said the boy; “yes, you may look, Pearson. Mother had it taken just before she fell ill; he’s only four, but he’s the prettiest little chap, with yellow hair all in curls. I dare say they’ve cut them off, though,” he added, bitterly. “There’s a bit of a sickly child on board, belonging to the tall lady in black, that reminds me a little of him, only he isn’t near as pretty as Willy.”

“Yes, he is a pretty little lad,” said Pearson, returning the photograph; “and now, Tom, mind my word: I am an old fellow compared to you, and I’ll give you a bit of advice. The little lad is safe, at any rate, in the workhouse; he’s got food and clothes, and you couldn’t give him that; so be content, and try to do your own duty. If you get a good character, instead of being always had up for sulking or fighting, that’s the best chance for you, and, after you, for Willy. As for the lads’ teasing, why, be a bit hard of hearing, and before many years, I warrant, you’ll be having Willy aboard ship as boy, when you’re an able-bodied seaman.”

Tom laughed. “Thank you, Pearson. Well, I’ll try; but I do get wishing and bothering of nights.”

“Ah, that wishing’s a poor trick,” said Pearson; “give it up, Tom, and work instead.”

People don’t often take advice, but this time it was followed. A great deal of rough weather came on; every one had as much as he could do, and Tom worked with the best of them, and to his great joy was noticed by the ship’s officers as a willing lad.

One bright morning brought all the passengers on deck, – the ship was bound for Rio, – and among them came the tall lady in black, with her little boy in her arms. Tom’s duties took him near her, and he could not but steal a glance at the little face like Willy’s; but, O, so pale and pinched now! The child had suffered dreadfully in the rough weather; it was doubtful whether he would see land again, he was so weakened. Tom felt sorry for the little fellow, but his work engrossed him, and he had nearly forgotten the white-faced child, when, to his great surprise, the captain called him. The lady in black was a relative of the captain, and it seemed that while Tom had been glancing at the sick child, the child had been watching him, and had taken a fancy to his clear round face, and active movements.

“Let me see what sort of a head-nurse you can make,” said the captain to Tom; “this little fellow will have you carry him, he says, and teach him to climb the rigging.”

Tom smiled, but instantly checked himself, as hardly respectful to the captain.

They dressed Carlo up in a suit of sailor clothes. To be sure they were rather large for him, but then it was such fun to be a real little sailor. Under Tom’s care his face soon grew round and fat, and his merry laugh rang out on the air. And now he would live to see his father and his birthplace again, for he was born in South America, and had only left his Portuguese father for a few months, to accompany his English mother on a visit to her relatives.

The day before they sighted land, Tom was sent for into the captain’s cabin, and there a wonderful proposal was made to him – that he should give up sea life, and go to Bella Sierra as little Carlo’s attendant. Carlo’s parents were rich people; little Carlo had taken a great fancy to him, and he would have good wages.

It sounded very pleasant; but little Willy! he should never see him – it would not do. Tom hesitatingly explained this to Carlo’s mother, drawing the little photograph out of his pocket the while.

Then came the last and best proposition, – that Willy should come out on the Flying Star’s next voyage, and live, too, at Bella Sierra. Mrs. Costello – the lady in black – promised to pay all expenses, and put him in charge of the stewardess. Carlo, her only child, had grown so fond of Tom, that she would do anything to keep him.

“Such an active, willing boy,” she explained to the captain. “I have often watched him at work, and admired the way in which he did it.”

“Well, lad,” said Pearson, when Tom came to tell him the news, “wasn’t I right when I told you that the best way you could work for Willy was by doing your own duty? If you had gone on in that half-and-half, discontented way, no rich lady would have cared to have you about her house – would she?”

Tom looked thoughtful. “Yes, you were right, Pearson; you’ve done it all; and now I want you to do one thing more. Please look after Willy a bit when he comes out; he’s such a daring little chap, he’ll always be running away from the stewardess.”

“Ah, you want me to be nurse now – do you?” said Pearson; “all right, lad, and as the song says, ‘Don’t forget me in the land you’re going to.’ And you can still stick to my old motto, that ‘Working is better than Wishing.’”

KIND TO EVERYTHING

SOFTLY, softly, little sister,Touch those gayly-painted wings;Butterflies and moths, remember,Are such very tender things.Softly, softly, little sister,Twirl your limber hazel twig;Little hands may harm a nestlingThoughtlessly, as well as big.Gently stroke the purring pussy,Kindly pat the friendly dog;Let your unmolesting mercyEven spare the toad or frog.Wide is God’s great world around you:Let the harmless creatures live;Do not mar their brief enjoyment,Take not what you cannot give.Let your heart be warm and tender —For the mute and helpless plead;Pitying leads to prompt relieving,Kindly thought to kindly deed.

THAT CALF!

TO the yard, by the barn, came the farmer one morn,And, calling the cattle, he said,While they trembled with fright, “Now, which of you, last night,Shut the barn door, while I was abed?”Each one of them all shook his head.Now the little calf Spot, she was down in the lot;And the way the rest talked was a shame;For no one, night before, saw her shut up the door;But they said that she did, – all the same, —For they always made her take the blame.Said the horse (dapple gray), “I was not up that wayLast night, as I now recollect;”And the bull, passing by, tossed his horns very high,And said, “Let who may here object,I say ’tis that calf I suspect!”Then out spoke the cow, “It is terrible, now,To accuse honest folks of such tricks.”Said the cock in the tree, “I’m sure ’twasn’t me;”And the sheep all cried, “Bah!” (There were six.)“Now that calf’s got herself in a fix!”“Why, of course, we all knew ’twas the wrong thing to do.”Said the chickens. “Of course,” said the cat;“I suppose,” cried the mule, “some folks think me a fool;But I’m not quite so simple as that;The poor calf never knows what she’s at!”Just that moment, the calf, who was always the laughAnd the jest of the yard, came in sight.“Did you shut my barn door?” asked the farmer once more.“I did, sir; I closed it last night,”Said the calf; “and I thought that was right.”Then each one shook his head. “She will catch it,” they said;“Serve her right for her meddlesome way!”Said the farmer, “Come here, little bossy, my dear!You have done what I cannot repay,And your fortune is made from to-day.“For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door, quite;And if you had not shut it so neat,All my colts had slipped in, and gone right to the bin,And got what they ought not to eat —They’d have foundered themselves upon wheat.”Then each hoof of them all began loudly to bawl;The very mule smiled; the cock crew;“Little Spotty, my dear, you’re a favorite here,”They cried. “We all said it was you,We were so glad to give you your due.”And the calf answered, knowingly, “Boo!”Phœbe Cary.

LITTLE HELPERS

PLANTING the corn and potatoes,Helping to scatter the seeds,Feeding the hens and the chickens,Freeing the garden from weeds,Driving the cows to the pasture,Feeding the horse in the stall, —We little children are busy;Sure, there is work for us all.Spreading the hay in the sunshine,Raking it up when it’s dry,Picking the apples and peachesDown in the orchard hard by,Picking the grapes in the vineyard,Gathering nuts in the fall, —We little children are busy;Yes, there is work for us all.Sweeping, and washing the dishes,Bringing the wood from the shed,Ironing, sewing and knitting,Helping to make up the beds,Taking good care of the baby,Watching her lest she should fall, —We little children are busy;Oh, there is work for us all.Work makes us cheerful and happy,Makes us both active and strong;Play we enjoy all the betterWhen we have labored so long.Gladly we help our kind parents,Quickly we come to their call;Children should love to be busy;There is much work for us all.

THE ANIMAL IN ARMOR

THIS picture of three curious little puppies looking at a tortoise reminds me of a story told of a countryman who saw some land-tortoises for the first time at a fair held in a market-place of his native village. Very much surprised at their queer look, he asked the man who was selling them how much they were.

“Eighteenpence a pair,” was the answer.

“Eighteenpence!” said the man; “that is a great deal for a thing like a frog. What will you take for one without the box?”

Little folks would not make such a stupid mistake as this; they would know that this strange-looking animal between its two shells was a tortoise. There are different sorts – some that live on land, and some in water. Those that live in the sea are called turtles, and their shells are not so hard as that of the land-tortoise. It is easy to see why this is: a turtle would not be able to swim with so thick a shell; it would be much as if a man in armor were to try. Their shells are not all in one, but joined together by a sort of gristle, which enables them to move with greater ease and not so stiffly.

Directly any one hears the name of tortoise, he begins to think of tortoise-shell. This ought really to be called turtle-shell, as it is made from the shell of the hawk’s-bill turtle. Tortoise-shell is made by soaking the plates of the shell in warm water until they are soft; then they are pressed into the shapes wanted in warm iron moulds, and taken out and polished.

Some of the sea-turtles are very fierce; and although they have no teeth, their jaws are so strong that they can bite a walking-stick in half. Land-tortoises are quite harmless; they only attack the insects they feed upon. They go to sleep, like the dormouse, in the winter, but they do not make a burrow; they cover themselves with earth by scraping it up and throwing it over their bodies. In doing this they would find their heads and tails very much in the way if it were not that they are able to draw them in between their shells. No one, of course, knows how they find their way out again in the spring; but it is supposed that they scratch the earth away and throw it underneath them, at the same time pushing their way up.

Tortoises live to a very great age. One was given to the Zoological Gardens in 1833 which had already lived seventy years in Port Louis, in the island of Mauritius. Its shell, from the head to the tail, measured four feet four inches and a half, and it weighed two hundred and eighty-five pounds.

THE IRON RING

CHANG WANG was a Chinaman, and was reputed to be one of the shrewdest dealers in the Flowery Land. If making money fast be the test of cleverness, there was not a merchant in the province of Kwang Tung who had earned a better right to be called clever. Who owned so many fields of the tea-plant, who shipped so many bales of its leaves to the little island in the west, as did Chang Wang? It was whispered, indeed, that many of the bales contained green tea made by chopping up spoiled black tea leaves, and coloring them with copper – a process likely to turn them into a mild kind of poison; but if the unwholesome trash found purchasers, Chang Wang never troubled himself with the thought whether any one might suffer in health from drinking his tea. So long as the dealer made money, he was content; and plenty of money he made.

But knowing how to make money is quite a different thing from knowing how to enjoy it. With all his ill-gotten gains, Chang Wang was a miserable man; for he had no heart to spend his silver pieces, even on his own comfort. The rich dealer lived in a hut which one of his own laborers might have despised; he dressed as a poor Tartar shepherd might have dressed when driving his flock. Chang Wang grudged himself even a hat to keep off the rays of the sun. Men laughed, and said that he would have cut off his own pigtail of plaited hair, if he could have sold it for the price of a dinner!

Chang Wang was, in fact, a miser, and was rather proud than ashamed of the hateful vice of avarice.

Chang Wang had to make a journey to Macao, down the great River Yang-se-kiang, for purposes of trade. The question with the Chinaman now was, in what way he should travel.

“Shall I hire a palanquin?” thought Chang Wang, stroking his thin mustaches; “no, a palanquin would cost too much money. Shall I take my passage in a trading vessel?”

The rich trader shook his head, and the pigtail behind it – such a passage would have to be paid for.

“I know what I’ll do,” said the miser to himself; “I’ll ask my uncle Fing Fang to take me in his fishing-boat down the great river. It is true that it will make my journey a long one; but then I shall make it for nothing. I’ll go to the fisherman Fing Fang, and settle the matter at once.”

The business was soon arranged, for Fing Fang would not refuse his rich nephew a seat in his boat. But he, like every one else, was disgusted at Chang Wang’s meanness; and as soon as the dealer had left his hovel, thus spoke Fing Fang to his sons, Ko and Jung: —

“Here’s a fellow who has scraped up money enough to build a second Porcelain Tower, and he comes here to beg a free passage in a fishing-boat from an uncle whom he has never so much as asked to share a dish of his birds’-nests soup!”

“Birds’-nests soup, indeed!” exclaimed Ko; “why, Chang Wang never indulges in luxuries such as that. If dogs’ flesh were not so cheap, he’d grudge himself the paw of a roasted puppy!”

“And what will Chang Wang make of all his money at last?” said Fing Fang, more gravely; “he cannot carry it away with him when he dies.”

“O, he’s gathering it up for some one who will know how to spend it!” laughed Jung. “Chang Wang is merely fishing for others; what he gathers, they will enjoy.”

It was a bright, pleasant day when Chang Wang stepped into the boat of his uncle, to drop slowly down the great Yang-se-kiang. Many a civil word he said to Fing Fang and his sons, for civil words cost nothing. Chang Wang sat in the boat, twisting the ends of his long mustaches, and thinking how much money each row of plants in his tea-fields might bring him. Presently, having finished his calculations, the miser turned to watch his relations, who were pursuing their fishing occupation in the way peculiar to China. Instead of rods, lines, or nets, the Fing Fang family was provided with trained cormorants, which are a kind of bird with a long neck, large appetite, and a particular fancy for fish.

It was curious to watch a bird diving down in the sunny water, and then suddenly come up again with a struggling fish in his bill. The fish was, however, always taken away from the cormorant, and thrown by one of the Fing Fangs into a well at the bottom of the boat.

“Cousin Ko,” said the miser, leaning forward to speak, “how is it that your clever cormorants never devour the fish they catch?”

“Cousin Chang Wang,” replied the young man, “dost thou not see that each bird has an iron ring round his neck, so that he cannot swallow? He only fishes for others.”

“Methinks the cormorant has a hard life of it,” observed the miser, smiling. “He must wish his iron ring at the bottom of the Yang-se-kiang.”

Fing Fang, who had just let loose two young cormorants from the boat, turned round, and from his narrow slits of Chinese eyes looked keenly upon his nephew.

“Didst thou ever hear of a creature,” said he, “that puts an iron ring around his own neck?”

“There is no such creature in all the land that the Great Wall borders,” replied Chang Wang.

Fing Fang solemnly shook the pigtail which hung down his back. Like many of the Chinese, he had read a great deal, and was a kind of philosopher in his way.

“Nephew Chang Wang,” he observed, “I know of a creature (and he is not far off at this moment) who is always fishing for gain – constantly catching, but never enjoying. Avarice – the love of hoarding – is the iron ring round his neck; and so long as it stays there, he is much like one of our trained cormorants – he may be clever, active, successful, but he is only fishing for others.”

I leave my readers to guess whether the sharp dealer understood his uncle’s meaning, or whether Chang Wang resolved in future not only to catch, but to enjoy. Fing Fang’s moral might be good enough for a heathen, but it does not go nearly far enough for a Christian. If a miser is like a cormorant with an iron ring round his neck, the man or the child who lives for his own pleasure only, what is he but a greedy cormorant with the iron ring? Who would wish to resemble a cormorant at all? The bird knows the enjoyment of getting; let us prize the richer enjoyment of giving. Let me close with an English proverb, which I prefer to the Chinaman’s parable – “Charity is the truest epicure, for she eats with many mouths.”

A. L. O. E.

SUMMER

I’M coming along with a bounding paceTo finish the work that Spring begun;I’ve left them all with a brighter face,The flowers in the vales through which I’ve run.I have hung festoons from laburnum trees,And clothed the lilac, the birch and broom;I’ve wakened the sound of humming-bees,And decked all nature in brighter bloom.I’ve roused the laugh of the playful child,And tired it out in the sunny noon;All nature at my approach hath smiled,And I’ve made fond lovers seek the moon.For this is my life, my glorious reign,And I’ll queen it well in my leafy bower;All shall be bright in my rich domain;I’m queen of the leaf, the bud and the flower.And I’ll reign in triumph till autumn-timeShall conquer my green and verdant pride;Then I’ll hie me to another climeTill I’m called again as a sunny bride.

CHARLIE’S CHRISTMAS

OH how cold and miserable everything is! Hardly a thought to be uppermost on Christmas eve in the mind of a little school-boy; and yet it was that which filled the mind of Charlie Earle on the Christmas eve of which I am going to tell you. Only a few hours before, he had been as happy as any boy could be. Everybody was going home, and everybody was in the highest spirits and full of the most delightful hopes of what the holidays would bring them; and now everybody except Charlie has gone home, and he is left alone in the dreary school-room, knowing that at any rate Christmas day, and maybe many other days, are to be spent away from home, and from all the pleasant doings which he had pictured to himself and others only the very day before.

The coming of the post-bag had been scarcely noticed in the school-room that morning. So when old Bunce, the butler, looked in at the door and said, “Master Earle is wanted in the doctor’s room,” the boys all wondered, and Charlie’s neighbor whispered to him, “Whatever can he want you for, Earle?” The doctor’s tale was soon told, and it was one which sent Charlie back to the school-room with a very different face to the one with which he had left it. A letter had come to Doctor West from Charlie’s father, and in it a note from his mother to Charlie himself, written the night before, and saying that a summons had come that very morning calling them to Charlie’s grandmother, who was very ill, and that they were starting for Scotland that night and would be almost at their journey’s end when Charlie got the news. The note said that Laura, Charlie’s sister, would go with them, but that they could not wait for Charlie himself, so they had written to Mrs. Lamb, Charlie’s old nurse, who lived about ten miles from Dr. West’s, and had asked her to take charge of him for a day or two, till more was known of his grandmother’s state and some better plan could be made for him. It was sad enough for Charlie to hear of the illness of his kind old grandmother – sad enough to see the merry start of the other boys, while he had to stay behind; but to have to think of Christmas day spent away from father and mother, away from Laura and home, was excuse enough for a few bitter tears. But unpleasant things come to an end as well as pleasant ones, and Charlie’s lonely waiting in the school-room came to its end, and he found himself that afternoon snugly packed into the Blackridge coach, and forgetting his own troubles in listening to the cheery chatter of the other passengers, and in looking at what was to be seen as the coach rolled briskly along the snow-covered road. It was quite dark when they reached Blackridge, and Charlie looked out at the people gathered round the door of the “Packhorse Inn,” and a sudden fear filled his mind lest there should be no one there to meet him; but he soon saw by the light at the inn door Nurse Lamb herself, with her kind face looking so beaming that it seemed a little bit like really going home.

“Here, father,” said Nurse Lamb to her jolly-looking husband; “here’s Master Charlie, safe and sound! You bring the luggage in the barrow while I take him home quick, for I am sure he must be cold.”

And so nurse bustled Charlie off down a lane and across a meadow, till they came to a wicket-gate, beyond which stood the back of a low, deep-thatched cottage half buried in snow. On getting round to the front the door was opened by a little girl, and nurse called out, “Here, Molly, here we are;” adding, “Molly is my step-daughter, Master Charlie – the one I used to tell you about before I was married, when we were down at Hastings.”