Child Life in Prose Part 16

None but the sun saw how long the child continued to smile and to think. Silently she sat dreaming, as the wind moved the shadows of the branches around her. Then she gazed at the clouds, motionless on the horizon, or chasing each other through the sky. As in the wide s.p.a.ce without, so in the soul of the child, the cloud-pictures arose and melted away.

Thus, day after day, Amrie lived.

"_The Little Barefoot._"

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THE ROBINS.

A thing remarkable in my childhood was, that once going to a neighbor's house, I saw on the way a robin sitting on her nest, and as I went near her she went off, but, having young ones, flew about, and with many cries told her concern for them.

I stood and threw stones at her, until, one striking her, she fell down dead. At first I was pleased with the exploit, but after a few minutes was seized with horror for having in a sportive way killed an innocent creature while she was careful of her young. I beheld her lying dead, and thought that these young ones, for which she was so heedful, must now perish for want of their parent to nourish them; and after some painful considerations on the subject, I climbed up the tree, took all the young birds and killed them, supposing that to be better than to leave them to pine away and die miserably. I believed in this case that the Scripture proverb was fulfilled: "The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel."

I then went on my errand, but for some hours could think of little else than the cruelties I had committed, and was troubled.

He whose tender mercies are over all his works hath placed a principle in the human mind which incites to goodness towards every living creature; and this being singly attended to, we become tender-hearted and sympathizing; but being frequently rejected, the mind becomes shut up in a contrary disposition.

I often remember the Fountain of Goodness which gives being to all creatures, and whose love extends to the caring for the sparrow; and I believe that where the love of G.o.d is verily perfected, a tenderness toward all creatures made subject to us will be felt, and a care that we do not lessen that sweetness of life in the animal creation which their Creator intended for them.

_John Woolman._

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THE FISH I DIDN'T CATCH.

Our old homestead (the house was very old for a new country, having been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through these, a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed, rippled, and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden-side, wound, silently and scarcely visible, to a still larger stream, known as the Country Brook. This brook in its turn, after doing duty at two or three saw and grist mills, the clack of which we could hear in still days across the intervening woodlands, found its way to the great river, and the river took it up and bore it down to the great sea.

I have not much reason for speaking well of these meadows, or rather bogs, for they were wet most of the year; but in the early days they were highly prized by the settlers, as they furnished natural mowing before the uplands could be cleared of wood and stones and laid down to gra.s.s. There is a tradition that the hay-harvesters of two adjoining towns quarrelled about a boundary question, and fought a hard battle one summer morning in that old time, not altogether bloodless, but by no means as fatal as the fight between the rival Highland clans, described by Scott in "The Fair Maid of Perth." I used to wonder at their folly, when I was stumbling over the rough ha.s.socks, and sinking knee-deep in the black mire, raking the sharp sickle-edged gra.s.s which we used to feed out to the young cattle in midwinter when the bitter cold gave them appet.i.te for even such fodder. I had an almost Irish hatred of snakes, and these meadows were full of them,--striped, green, dingy water-snakes, and now and then an ugly spotted adder by no means pleasant to touch with bare feet.

There were great black snakes, too, in the ledges of the neighboring knolls; and on one occasion in early spring I found myself in the midst of a score at least of them,--holding their wicked meeting of a Sabbath morning on the margin of a deep spring in the meadows. One glimpse at their fierce shining heads in the sunshine, as they roused themselves at my approach, was sufficient to send me at full speed towards the nearest upland. The snakes, equally scared, fled in the same direction; and, looking back, I saw the dark monsters following close at my heels, terrible as the Black Horse rebel regiment at Bull Run. I had, happily, sense enough left to step aside and let the ugly troop glide into the bushes.

Nevertheless, the meadows had their redeeming points. In spring mornings the blackbirds and bobolinks made them musical with songs; and in the evenings great bullfrogs croaked and clamored; and on summer nights we loved to watch the white wreaths of fog rising and drifting in the moonlight like troops of ghosts, with the fireflies throwing up ever and anon signals of their coming. But the Brook was far more attractive, for it had sheltered bathing-places, clear and white sanded, and weedy stretches, where the shy pickerel loved to linger, and deep pools, where the stupid sucker stirred the black mud with his fins. I had followed it all the way from its birthplace among the pleasant New Hampshire hills, through the sunshine of broad, open meadows, and under the shadow of thick woods. It was, for the most part, a sober, quiet little river; but at intervals it broke into a low, rippling laugh over rocks and trunks of fallen trees. There had, so tradition said, once been a witch-meeting on its banks, of six little old women in short, sky-blue cloaks; and if a drunken teamster could be credited, a ghost was once seen bobbing for eels under Country Bridge. It ground our corn and rye for us, at its two grist-mills; and we drove our sheep to it for their spring washing, an anniversary which was looked forward to with intense delight, for it was always rare fun for the youngsters. Macaulay has sung,--

"That year young lads in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep";

and his picture of the Roman sheep-washing recalled, when we read it, similar scenes in the Country Brook. On its banks we could always find the earliest and the latest wild flowers, from the pale blue, three-lobed hepatica, and small, delicate wood-anemone, to the yellow bloom of the witch-hazel burning in the leafless October woods.

Yet, after all, I think the chief attraction of the Brook to my brother and myself was the fine fishing it afforded us. Our bachelor uncle who lived with us (there has always been one of that unfortunate cla.s.s in every generation of our family) was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the great pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook.

We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying-lot to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside. I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing-pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows. It was a still sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before. My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it. "Try again," said my uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. "Now for it," thought I; "here is a fish at last." I made a strong pull, and brought up a tangle of weeds. Again and again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it back empty. I looked to my uncle appealingly.

"Try once more," he said; "we fishermen must have patience."

Suddenly something tugged at my line and swept off with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun.

"Uncle!" I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got a fish!" "Not yet," said my uncle. As he spoke there was a plash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream; my hook hung empty from the line. I had lost my prize.

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We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it the young folks don't agree with us. Our griefs, modified and restrained by reason, experience, and self-respect, keep the proprieties, and, if possible, avoid a scene; but the sorrow of childhood, unreasoning and all-absorbing, is a complete abandonment to the pa.s.sion. The doll's nose is broken, and the world breaks up with it; the marble rolls out of sight, and the solid globe rolls off with the marble.

So, overcome by my great and bitter disappointment, I sat down on the nearest ha.s.sock, and for a time refused to be comforted, even by my uncle's a.s.surance that there were more fish in the brook. He refitted my bait, and, putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my luck once more.

"But remember, boy," he said, with his shrewd smile, "never brag of catching a fish until he is on dry ground. I've seen older folks doing that in more ways than one, and so making fools of themselves. It's no use to boast of anything until it's done, nor then either, for it speaks for itself."

How often since I have been reminded of the fish that I did not catch!

When I hear people boasting of a work as yet undone, and trying to antic.i.p.ate the credit which belongs only to actual achievement, I call to mind that scene by the brookside, and the wise caution of my uncle in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb of universal application: "NEVER BRAG OF YOUR FISH BEFORE YOU CATCH HIM."

_John G. Whittier._

LITTLE KATE WORDSWORTH.

When I first settled in Grasmere, Catherine Wordsworth was in her infancy, but even at that age she noticed me more than any other person, excepting, of course, her mother. She was not above three years old when she died, so that there could not have been much room for the expansion of her understanding, or the unfolding of her real character. But there was room in her short life, and too much, for love the most intense to settle upon her.

The whole of Grasmere is not large enough to allow of any great distance between house and house; and as it happened that little Kate Wordsworth returned my love, she in a manner lived with me at my solitary cottage. As often as I could entice her from home, she walked with me, slept with me, and was my sole companion.

That I was not singular in ascribing some witchery to the nature and manners of this innocent child may be gathered from the following beautiful lines by her father. They are from the poem ent.i.tled "Characteristics of a Child Three Years Old," dated, at the foot, 1811, which must be an oversight, as she was not so old until the following year.

"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild; And Innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes, And feats of cunning, and the pretty round Of trespa.s.ses, affected to provoke Mock chastis.e.m.e.nt, and partnership in play.

And as a f.a.got sparkles on the hearth Not less if unattended and alone Than when both young and old sit gathered round, And take delight in its activity,-- Even so this happy creature of herself Was all-sufficient. Solitude to her Was blithe society, who filled the air With gladness and involuntary songs."

It was this radiant spirit of joyousness, making solitude, for her, blithe society, and filling from morning to night the air with gladness and involuntary songs,--this it was which so fascinated my heart that I became blindly devoted to this one affection.

In the spring of 1812 I went up to London; and early in June I learned by a letter from Miss Wordsworth, her aunt, that she had died suddenly. She had gone to bed in good health about sunset on June 4, was found speechless a little before midnight, and died in the early dawn, just as the first gleams of morning began to appear above Seat Sandel and Fairfield, the mightiest of the Grasmere barriers,--about an hour, perhaps, before sunrise.

Over and above my love for her, I had always viewed her as an impersonation of the dawn, and of the spirit of infancy; and this, with the connection which, even in her parting hours, she a.s.sumed with the summer sun, timing her death with the rising of that fountain of life,--these impressions recoiled into such a contrast to the image of death, that each exalted and brightened the other.

I returned hastily to Grasmere, stretched myself every night on her grave, in fact often pa.s.sed the whole night there, in mere intensity of sick yearning after neighborhood with the darling of my heart.

In Sir Walter Scott's "Demonology," and in Dr. Abercrombie's "Inquiries concerning the Intellectual Powers," there are some remarkable ill.u.s.trations of the creative faculties awakened in the eye or other organs by peculiar states of pa.s.sion; and it is worthy of a place among cases of that nature, that in many solitary fields, at a considerable elevation above the level of the valleys,--fields which, in the local dialect, are called "intacks,"--my eye was haunted, at times, in broad noonday (oftener, however, in the afternoon), with a facility, but at times also with a necessity, for weaving, out of a few simple elements, a perfect picture of little Kate in her att.i.tude and onward motion of walking.

I resorted constantly to these "intacks," as places where I was little liable to disturbance; and usually I saw her at the opposite side of the field, which sometimes might be at the distance of a quarter of a mile, generally not so much. Almost always she carried a basket on her head; and usually the first hint upon which the figure arose commenced in wild plants, such as tall ferns, or the purple flowers of the foxglove. But whatever these might be, uniformly the same little full-formed figure arose, uniformly dressed in the little blue bed-gown and black skirt of Westmoreland, and uniformly with the air of advancing motion.

_Thomas De Quincey._

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