The Boys' And Girls' Library Part 26

"Come, George!" urged his mother, again disturbing him. "Emily is up and dressed for a walk. And the sun is up, too."

This time the little boy opened his eyes, rubbed them, stretched himself, half arose from his pillow and then sunk down again and went to sleep.

"A little more sleep and a little more slumber," said Mrs. Hope, smiling. "Ah, George! I'm afraid you will be a sad sluggard. Come! come!

this will never do!" and she shook him harder than before.

"Don't you see, George, that your sister is all dressed, and that the sun is streaming in at the window?" she continued, as her boy started up quickly. "Come, be quick now, or every bright dew-drop will be kissed from the leaves and blossoms before we can get into the fields."

"I don't care about going, mother," replied George, sinking back upon his pillow. "You and Emily can go this time. To-morrow morning I will go with you."

"And to-morrow morning you will feel just as dull and sluggish as you do now. No, no, George; now is the time. So, come, rouse yourself up, and don't keep us waiting for you any longer."

As the mother said this, she lifted her little boy from his bed, and, seating him on her lap, first of all washed his face in a basin of cool, clean water. This made him as bright as a new shilling. In a little while he was all ready for the walk; and then mother, George, and Emily, accompanied with gay little Fido, who went barking before them, started off for their morning walk.

"An't you glad, now, that you got up to go with us, George?" asked Emily, as they tripped along, and drank in the pure morning air.

"Oh, yes. I wouldn't be in that warm bed, feeling as dull as I did, for anything. I'm so glad that mother made me get up."

"It was because I knew what was best for you, my son, that I made you get up. I knew that the fresh morning air would not only be good for you, but that when you once breathed it, and exercised in it, you would feel like a new person."

"Oh, see that beautiful b.u.t.terfly!" Emily exclaimed, pausing near a sweet-briar bush, upon one of the delicate blossoms of which reposed a large b.u.t.terfly, with wings glowing in colours the richest and most varied, gently fanning the pure air.

"Shall I catch it, mother?" eagerly asked George, taking off his cap, and beginning to move stealthily towards the sweet-briar bush.

"No, my child," said Mrs. Hope, laying her hand gently on the boy's arm, and detaining him.

"But, mother, it is such a beautiful one, I should like to take it home and shew it to father."

"And what do you think your father would say, if you were to take him that gay insect?"

"He would call it very pretty, I am sure, and say I was a good boy for bringing it to him."

"No, George," replied his mother. "He would more probably say,--'George, my dear boy, I am grieved that you have crushed, and soiled, and hurt this pretty creature. See, how the beautiful colours have already faded from its wings! See, how it droops in my hand, unable to fly as it did a little while ago from flower to flower, a gay and happy thing. You were wrong, my dear boy, to have touched so delicate a creature, born only for the sunshine and the flowers, and too fragile to be handled by anything ruder than a summer breeze.'"

"But I won't hurt it, mother."

"You could not possibly touch it, my dear, without hurting the delicate thing. Your little fingers, that to my hands are soft and smooth, would be so rough to the wings of a b.u.t.terfly, as to rasp off the rich painting that adorns them, and even to crush their delicate frame-work.

And I am sure my boy would not wish to hurt any of G.o.d's creatures."

"Oh, no, mother! I wouldn't hurt that b.u.t.terfly for the world. But see, it has risen up from the flower, and now away it goes, floating along like a pretty blossom with wings. And there goes Fido, barking after it.

Foolish dog! You can't catch the pretty b.u.t.terfly."

"See, mother, here is a bee, right in the middle of this large flower,"

said George, looking up into his mother's face with a glow of pleasure upon his own. "He is getting honey, is he not?"

"Yes, dear. The bee is a very industrious little creature, and when the blossoms are out he is up with the sun, and works all through the day, busily engaged in procuring honey for his winter's store. You never find him asleep after the sun is risen, as my little boy was this morning."

"But then, mother," said George, as they all walked on, and left the bee and the sweet-briar bush, "I don't have to gather honey as the bee does.

I am a little boy, and don't have to work to lay up bread in the winter."

"Can't you teach your brother a better lesson than that, Emily?" said Mrs. Hope, turning to her little girl. "Don't you remember the talk we had yesterday about the use of learning, and how necessary it was for us, like the bee in spring and summer, to lay up a store of knowledge in our minds, against the winter of old age?"

"O, yes, mother, I remember that I said, just as George did just now, that it wasn't as necessary for me to work as the bee, for I had kind parents who provided everything for me. And then you told me that I had been made very different from the bee; that the bee had not a mind as I had; and, therefore, that it only required food to supply the natural wants of its body, which food it industriously obtained and stored up in the season when it could be found. You then told me that I had a spiritual body as well as a natural body, and that my spiritual body required food as well as my natural body; that to learn about everything that my parents and teachers wished me to learn about, was the way to store up food for this spiritual body, which would require more and more food, the older I grew; and that, at last, when I became very old--when the winter of life came, I would not be able to store up food as in early life, but would have to live upon that already laid by."

By this time the mother and her children had extended their morning walk as far as was intended, and then they turned their steps towards home.

In pa.s.sing the sweet-briar bush, the bee and the b.u.t.terfly were recalled to the minds of the children; and George said, that whenever he pa.s.sed that bush he should remember that his fingers were too rough for a b.u.t.terfly's wings; and that, like the bee, he must diligently store up food for the mind, in early years, that he might have a full supply when the winter of old age should come upon him.

At the breakfast table they met their father, and George told him all about what they had seen, and what their mother had said to them, and how determined he was to be like the diligent bee.

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THE OSTRICH.

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There are many large and respectable birds;--the long-legged stork, the crane, the bustard, the heron, the eagle, the vulture, the ca.s.sowary; but all these are mere dwarfs compared with the _ostrich_. This bird is often nine or ten feet in height, and is as remarkable for its great strength and swiftness, as for its size. Neither the swiftest horse nor fleetest hound can compete with the ostrich in speed; but, fleet as the whirlwind, he sweeps over the sandy wastes of Africa. And this is indeed fortunate for him, since, although a bird, he is unable to fly. He has feathers only upon his wings and tail, the rest of his body being covered with hair. The ostrich has eyelashes upon the upper lid, and can, like quadrupeds, see a thing with both eyes at once; although other birds look sideways, and use but one eye at a time. His bare, plump feet are furnished with only two toes or claws; and his stomach can digest the hardest substances,--wood, stone, leather, metals, and gla.s.s.

It was imagined that the ostrich was a very stupid bird, because, when pursued, it thrusts its head into the nearest hole, apparently imagining that when _he_ sees n.o.body, he cannot himself be seen. The fact, however, is, that when quite exhausted by a long pursuit, it shields its head, because it is the most tender and weakest part, and surrenders the rest of the body to its pursuers. Had the ostrich been in any way as stupid as the goose, the race would long ago have been extirpated, as it has many enemies both among men and animals. It is, on the contrary, a very prudent bird, and in a clear field extremely difficult to catch, for it takes flight the moment its quick sight threatens it with the slightest danger; and as it lives in the deserts of Arabia and Africa a few minutes is sufficient to carry it beyond the sight of its pursuers.

As the ostrich belongs to the same species as fowls, it leads, as they do, a domestic life. Every ostrich family consists of one male bird and five females, who keep constantly together. These birds have a common nest, which consists merely of a hole in the sand, protected by a wall of sand. Every egg stands upon its pointed end, in order to take as little room as possible. When there are from ten to twelve eggs in the nest, they begin to sit upon them alternately, the female by day and the male by night; as, from his superior strength, he is better able to guard the nest from the attack of the wild-cats, which are allured by the eggs; and that he understands how to protect it, is proved by the dead bodies of these animals being found in the neighbourhood of the nests. During the brooding, the female continues to lay until the nest is full; and it generally contains about thirty eggs. They also lay eggs on the outside of the nest, with which to feed the young ostriches, which, as soon as hatched, are as large as full-grown fowls; and, like fowls, immediately begin to eat greedily.

The parent birds break one egg after another, until the young are strong enough to find their own food. The size of the egg is in proportion to the size of the bird; it is as large as a child's head, and yields as much nourishment as four-and-twenty hen's eggs. Four hungry men may make a good meal on one. The sh.e.l.l is so extremely hard and close, that it remains fresh for a considerable time; and in the desert countries is a real treasure.

THE VIOLET.--MODESTY.

The fragrance of the violet is noticed when the flower itself is not seen--just as benevolent persons' actions are sometimes known and felt, while the _actors_ remain out of sight.

Four hundred years ago, some gentlemen of rank, who were very fond of poetry, were walking at Toulouse; one of them remarking the beauty of the violet, all agreed to write some verses on it, as a sort of trial of skill. At the end of the week, the poets met, and each read the verses he had written, and the umpire decided which of the poems was the best.

Wishing to extend a love of poetry, those gentlemen, with some others, drew up a circular letter in rhyme, and addressed it to all the poets of Languedoc, inviting them to come to Toulouse on the first of May, and read their verses, promising a golden violet to him who should compose the best poem. This society continued until the middle of the last century, when it became more celebrated from an incident connected with Marmontel, the French poet. He was the child of very poor parents, but being very fond of study, he gave his life up to it. After contending with great difficulties, he obtained admittance into a college, and hearing of this annual challenge, resolved to enter the list of the Toulousian writers. He was very fond of his mother, and, for _her_ sake, more than anything else, he determined to obtain the prize of the golden violet.

The hall was filled with the gentry, and the young students of the university were present. When the successful candidate was announced, the hall resounded with the sounds of music and the shouts of the audience.

Marmontel had been kept in great suspense during the time of the decision by the judges. It was first announced that the prize for the ode had been withheld; and as he had offered an ode to the academy, and had been the author of an unsuccessful idyll, everybody pitied the youth for his disappointment. But when the poem which gained the prize was proclaimed, Marmontel stood up and received it. Some were glad of this, and said, "Poor fellow, he missed twice--but he did not fail a third time; he has more than one string or arrow to _his_ bow." He retired to his seat, but only to be called up the second time for the second prize; again he retired, and again returned to receive the other prize, amid the redoubled and enthusiastic applause of the mult.i.tude. But, in the midst of this applause, the young poet looked around among the vast mult.i.tude, and there he beheld two arms stretched out to receive him; they were those of his tutor. Close beside stood his mother, shedding tears of joy. He rushed forward through the crowd,--"My father!" said he, "my mother!--take them all,--they are yours;" and so saying, he threw all the prizes, together with himself, into the arms extended to receive him.

"Ah! my children;" said he, when he became an old man, "that which interests the heart is always sweet. I care nothing for the golden violet now. But the feelings of love which burned in my heart for my mother and good old tutor, are as fresh as ever, and survive the blight of other things, as the fragrance of the violet survives its withered leaf."

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