Happy Days for Boys and Girls Part 62

And from the lane, and court, and den, In ragged skirts and coats, Come hither tiny sons of men, Wild things, untaught of book or pen, The little human goats.

One hot and cloudless summer day, An overdriven sheep Had come a long and dusty way; Throbbing with thirst the creature lay, A panting, woollen heap.

But help is nearer than we know For ills of every name; Ragged enough to scare the crow, But with a heart to pity woe, A quick-eyed urchin came.

Little he knew of field or fold, Yet knew enough; his cap Was just the cap for water cold-- He knew what it could do of old; Its rents were few, good hap!

Shaping the brim and crown he went, Till crown from brim was deep.

The water ran from brim and rent; Before he came the half was spent-- The half, it saved the sheep.

O, little goat, born, bred in ill, Unwashed, ill-fed, unshorn!

Thou meet'st the sheep from breezy hill, Apostle of thy Saviour's will, In London wastes forlorn.

Let others say the thing they please, My faith, though very dim, Thinks He will say who always sees, In doing it to one of these Thou didst it unto him.

FROM BAD TO WORSE.

Come, children, leave your playing, And gather round my knee, And I'll tell you a little story: Away across the sea, In a meadow where the mosses And the gra.s.s were frozen brown, Three little maids sat milking One day as the sun went down-- Not cows, but goats of the mountain; And before their pails were full, The winds, they pierced like needles Through their gowns of heavy wool.

And as one hand, then the other, They tried to warm in their laps, The bitter weather froze their breath Like fur about their caps.

And so, as they sat at their milking, They grew as still as mice, Save when the stiff shoes on their feet Rattled like shoes of ice.

At last out spoke the youngest As she blew on her finger-nails: I have planned a plan, sweet sisters: Let us take our milking-pails, And go to the side of the mountain As fast as we can go, And heap them up to the very top From the whitest drifts of snow; And let us build in the meadow Where we will milk our goats at night A house to keep us from the cold, With walls all silver white.

We will set the door away from the wind.

The floor we will heap with moss, And gather little strips of ice And shingle the roof across.

Then all the foolish maidens, They emptied their pails on the ground, And bounded up the mountain-side As fast as they could bound, And came again to the meadow With pails heaped high with snow, And so, through half the night, the moon Beheld them come and go.

But when with the daybreak roses The silver walls shone red, The three little foolish maidens Were lying cold and dead.

The needles of the frost had sewed Into shrouds their woollen coats, And with cheeks as white as the ice they lay Among their mountain goats.

ALICE CARY.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GRACIE AND HER FATHER.]

MY STORY.

Many years ago, when the sky was as clear, the flowers as fragrant, and the birds as musical as now, I stood by a little mahogany table, with pencil and paper in hand, vainly trying to add a short column of figures. My small tin box, with the word _Bank_ in large letters upon it, had just been opened, and the carefully h.o.a.rded treasure of six months was spread out before me. Scrip had not come into use then; and there were one tiny gold piece, two silver dollars, and many quarters, dimes, half-dimes, and pennies. For a full half hour I had been counting my fingers and trying to reckon up how much it all amounted to; but the problem was too hard for me. At last I took pencil and paper, and sought to work it out by figures.

"What are you doing, Gracie?" pleasantly inquired my father, entering the room with an open letter in his hand.

"O, papa! is that you?" I cried, eagerly turning towards him. "Just look--see how much money I've got! John has just opened my bank. It is six months to-day since I began to save, and I've more than I expected."

"Yes, you are quite rich."

"So much that I can't even count it. I've done harder sums in addition at school; but somehow, now, every time I add, I get a different answer. I can't make it come out twice alike."

"Where did you get that gold piece?"

"Why, don't you know? _You_ gave it to me for letting Dr. Strong pull out my big back tooth."

Father laughed.

"Did I?" said he; "I had forgotten it. But where did you get those two silver dollars?" he inquired.

"O, grandmother gave me this one. It's _chicken_ money. She gave it to me for feeding the chickens every morning all the while I staid there; and the other is _hat_ money. Aunt Ellen told me if I'd wear my hat always when I went out in the sun, and so keep from getting sun-burned, that she would give me another dollar; and she did."

"Where did the remainder come from?"

"Mostly from you, papa. You are always giving me money. These two bright, new quarters you gave me when you looked over my writing-book, and saw it hadn't a blot. How much is there in all?" I earnestly asked.

Father glanced at the little pile, and smilingly said,--

"Seven dollars and ten cents. That's a good deal of money for a little girl only nine years old to spend."

"And may I spend it just as I please?"

"Certainly, my dear; just as you please. It's a great thing for little people to learn to spend money wisely."

Saying this, he seated himself by the window, and drawing me towards him, placed me upon one knee.

"Gracie, dear, I have just received a letter from grandmother. She proposes that I come to Vermont and bring you; that I remain as long as business will admit, and leave you to pa.s.s the summer just as you did last year. How would that suit?" fixing his kind dark eyes full upon my upturned face to read my changing thoughts.

"O, I should like it very much!" I quickly exclaimed, clapping my hands with delight. Then I reflected a moment, and a shadow fell over my prospective happiness.

"On the whole, papa," I said, earnestly, "I think I had better go, and not stay any longer than you can stay. I am all the little girl _you_ have, and you are all the parent _I_ have, and we should be very lonely without each other."

I felt his warm, loving kiss upon my cheek as he folded me to his heart, and a tear fell on my forehead. For two years I had been motherless; but a double portion of pity and tenderness had been lavished upon me by my indulgent father. He was a New York merchant of ample means. Our home was elegant and tasteful.

The home of my father's only surviving parent, my doting grandmother, whom we were designing to visit, was a plain, unpretending farm-house, snuggly nestled up among the hills of Vermont. There were tall poplar trees and a flower-garden in front, a little orchard and a whole row of nice looking out-buildings in the rear. There was no place on earth so full of joy for me. The swallows' nests on the barn; the turkeys, geese, and chickens; the colt, lambs, and little pigs; in short, everything had an ever-increasing attraction, far exceeding any pleasures to be found within the limits of the crowded city.

The prospect of another visit to Woodville filled my heart with intense delight.

A week pa.s.sed, and on one of the sunniest and freshest of June mornings we started for Vermont. I was exceedingly fond of travelling in the cars, and it seemed as if a thousand sunbeams had suddenly fallen upon my young life. The train left New York, and we found ourselves rapidly whirling past hills, forests, towns, and villages.

Sometimes we were flying through dark, deep cuts, then crossing streams and rich green fields and meadows.

We expected to reach grandmother's that evening. I had written to inform her of our coming. One hour after another pa.s.sed. The day was declining, and the sun was slowly sinking in the west.

"How much longer have we to go?" was the question I had asked for the fiftieth time at least.

"About another hour's ride, Gracie," smilingly answered my father. "I think we shall reach Woodville about eight."