Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends Part 23

He was on the gun-powder order, I can tell you; bound to make a _fizz_ wherever he went, always popping up in odd places, and frightening nervous old ladies, and little two-year-olders, who had ventured away from their mothers' ap.r.o.n strings. Every cat and dog, for ten miles round, made for the nearest port when Hal and his torn straw hat loomed up in the distance.

Hal never was in a school room in his life; but it didn't follow that he did no studying for all that. On the contrary, he sat there, on the steps of his father's grocery store, with his chin between his little brown palms, doing up more thinking than the schoolma'am would have allowed, except in recess.

Hal was very fond of Natural History;--in fact, he had about made up his mind, that as soon as he owned a long-tailed coat, he would own a menagerie. Pigs, geese, hens, ducks, cows, oxen, nothing came amiss to him that went into Noah's ark. He expected to have a grand time when he got that menagerie--setting them all the cars, and hearing them growl behind their bars.

One day he sat on the door-step running it over in his mind, when the old rooster, followed by his hens, marched in a procession past the door.

There was the speckled hen, _black and white_, (with red eyes) looking like a widow in half mourning; there was the white one that _would_ have been pretty, hadn't she such a turn for fighting that her feathers were as scarce as brains in a dandy's head; there was the _black_ one, that contested her claims with the white hen, to a kernel of corn, and a place in the procession next the rooster, in a manner that would have delighted the abolitionists.

Hal watched them all, and then it struck him, all of a sudden, that he had never seen a _hen swim_. He had seen ducks do it, and swans, and geese, but he never remembered to have seen a HEN swim.

What was the reason? Didn't they know how? or _wouldn't_ they do it?

Hal was resolved to get at the bottom of that problem without delay; so he jumped up and chased one round till he fell down and tore his jacket, and the hen flew up in a tree.

Then he tried for the speckled widow; _she_ of course was too sharp for him.

At last he secured the brown one, and hiding her under his jacket started for the "creek," about a quarter of a mile off. He told the hen, going along, that if she didn't know how to swim, it was high time she did, and that he was going to try her any how; the hen c.o.c.ked up her eye but said nothing, though she had her thoughts.

The fact was she never had been in the habit of going out of the barn-yard, without asking leave of the rooster, who was a regular old "Blue Beard;" and she knew very well that he wouldn't scratch her up another worm, for a good twelve-month, for being absent without leave.

So she dug her claws into Hal's side, every now and then, and tried to peck him with her bill, but Hal told her it was no use, for go into that creek she _should_.

Well, he got to the creek at last, and stood triumphantly on a little bank just over it. He took a good grip of his hen, and then lifted up his arm to give her a nice toss into the water.

He told her that now she was to consider herself a _duck_, instead of a _hen_, (what a _goose_!) then over he went _splash_ into the water _himself_. The question was not _now_ whether the _hen_ could swim, but whether _he_ could; he floundered round and round, and screeched like a little bedlamite, and was just thinking of the last fib he told, when his brother Zedekiah came along and fished him out.

Hal prefers now to try his experiments on his father's door-step; as to the hen, poor chicken-hearted thing! she didn't dare to show her wet feathers to her lordly old rooster; so she smuggled herself into neighbor Jones' barn-yard and laid her eggs wherever it suited the old farmer, for the sake of her board.

KNUD IVERSON.

I suppose that every boy and girl who reads my "Little Ferns," has heard or read of martyrs. You have all owned a primer with the picture of "John Rogers," who was burned alive for being a good man; then, you remember "Stephen," of Bible memory, who was stoned to death, for the same reason.

In 1853, when Religion walks in satin slippers, perhaps you think that no martyrs can be found. Dear children, Aunt f.a.n.n.y sees them every day; bearing tortures worse than the fire, or the rack, and opening their burdened hearts to G.o.d alone.

But it is not of these that I would speak _now_. I am going to tell you of a _little boy martyr_.

"Knud Iverson" was a little Norwegian, a countryman of the famous "Ole Bull," the great violinist.

Knud's parents had come over from Norway to this country, and settled in Chicago. (You will find that place if you look in your Atlas, and I should like to have you find it, because I want you to remember all about this dear little boy.)

Knud had been early taught how to be a good boy. His parents' words did not pa.s.s into his ears to be forgotten. Knud remembered _everything_ they said; and, what was better, he _practiced_ it. They were quite sure that when Knud was out of their sight, he behaved just as well as if their eyes were on him. Can _your_ father and mother be as sure of YOU?

Knud loved to go to Sabbath school; he never was absent from his cla.s.s once. He was not frightened away by a drop of rain, or a warm sun; he _loved_ to go. His mother did not have to say to him, "Come, come, Knud! don't you know it is time you were preparing to go to school?"

or, "Come, come, Knud! it is time you were looking over your Sunday school lesson." No; he was always ready; his lesson in his _head_, and love for G.o.d in his _heart_; and away he trudged, cheerful and happy, to gladden the eyes of his kind teacher by being promptly in his place.

Perhaps you think because Knud loved to _pray_ that he didn't love to _play_. Not at all. You didn't know that good boys enjoy play much better than _bad_ ones, did you? Well, they _do_; because their consciences are not troubling them all the while, as those of bad boys are.

Yes, Knud loved to play; but he could never play with _bad_ boys, or help them to do wrong. And he wasn't a coward, either, as you will see.

He spoke right up, and told them kindly what he thought, and begged _them_ not to do evil, either.

One day he was walking peaceably along, thinking happy thoughts, when a party of bad boys came up to him, saying: "Knud, we know where there is some splendid fruit, and we want some, and what is more, we are determined to have some; and we want you to go with us and help us to get it."

"What, _steal_?" said Knud; fixing his clear, pure eyes on the naughty boys. "Steal! I would not do it for all the world."

"But you _shall_," said a great, strong boy, bigger than Knud.

"You shall?" echoed all the other boys, "or, we will drown you, Knud; yes, drown you in the river, just as sure as you stand there."

Knud looked at them. He saw that they were in earnest. They were stronger than he, and Knud knew that they _could_ kill him, for there was n.o.body near to help him. His father and mother were not within call. Knud loved his father and mother; he thought this world a very fair and pleasant one, with its birds, its sunshine and its flowers; but, did he tremble and drop on his knees before those wicked boys and say, "_Don't_ kill me--_don't_--I will do _anything_ if you won't kill me!"

No, no; dear, n.o.ble, courageous little fellow! He stood up and faced them all, and said, "I cannot steal; no--not even if you kill me!"

You would have thought that they would have put their arms about his neck and begged his forgiveness, but they were little monsters. I cannot bear to think there are _children_ with such bad hearts, because we look to see _them_ innocent, and good, and pure. But you will weep when I tell you that they seized Knud and dragged him down to the river and plunged him in, and that the waters closed over the sunny little head, that is now wearing a martyr's crown.

You pity Knud? _I_ pity his murderers.

Do you think that they can sleep peaceably at night? No; in their dreams they hear the plashing waves, and see a pallid, upturned face, with pure and pleading eyes, from which _they turned away_!

Ever at their side, at golden morn, and busy noon, and dewy eve, a little form, unseen by other eyes, shall follow--follow--follow. Ever in their startled ears, a little childish voice, that no noise may drown, no earthly power may hush, shall ring, "Oh, I _cannot_ steal, not even if you _kill_ me! I _cannot_ steal!"

CHILDREN IN 1853.

I went with a friend, the other day, to look at some "rooms to let."

She liked the rooms, and the man who owned them liked she should have them; but when she mentioned she had children--he stepped six paces off--set his teeth together--pulled his waist-coat down with a jerk, and said--"_Never--take--children,--ma'am!_"

Now, I'd like to know if that man was _born_ grown up?

I'd like to know if children are to have their necks wrung like so many chickens, if they happen to "_peep_?"

I'd like to know if they haven't just as much right in the world as grown folks?

I begin to feel catamount-y about it!

I'd like to know if boarding-house keepers, (after children have been in a close school-room for five or six hours, feeding on verbs and p.r.o.nouns,) are to put them off with a "second table," leaving them to stand round in the entries on one leg, smelling the dinner, while grown people (who have lunched at oyster shops and confectioner's saloons) sit two or three hours longer than is necessary at dessert, cracking their nuts and their jokes?

I'd like to know if, when they have a quarter given them to spend, they must _always_ receive a bad shilling out of it at the stores, in "change"?

I'd like to know if people in omnibuses are at liberty to take them by the coat collar, lift them out of a nice seat, take it themselves, and then perch them on their sharp knee-bones, to jolt over the pavements?

I have a great mind to pick up all the children, and form a colony on some bright island, where these people, who were made up in a hurry, without hearts, couldn't find us; or if they did, we'd just say to them when they tried to come ash.o.r.e--_Never take grown-up folks here, sir!_ or, we'd treat them to a "second dinner,"--bill of fare, cold potatoes, bad cooking b.u.t.ter, bread full of saleratus, bones without any meat on them, watery soups, and curdled milk--(that is to say, after we had picked our nuts long enough to suit us at dessert!) How do you suppose they'd like to change places with "children" that way?