The Pearl Box Part 7

I will tell you an anecdote about Mrs. Hannah More, when she was eighty years old. A widow and her little son paid a visit to Mrs. More, at Barley Wood. When they were about to leave, Mrs. M. stooped to kiss the little boy, not as a mere compliment, as old maidens usually kiss children, but she took his smiling face between her two hands, and looked upon it a moment as a mother would, then kissed it fondly more than once. "Now when you are a man, my child, will you remember me?" The little boy had just been eating some cake which she gave him, and he, instead of giving her any answer, glanced his eyes on the remnants of the cake which lay on the table. "Well," said Mrs. M., "you will remember the cake at Barley Wood, wont you?" "Yes," said the boy, "It was nice cake, and you are _so kind_ that I will remember both." "That is right," she replied, "I like to have the young remember me for _being kind_--then you will remember old Mrs. Hannah More?"

"Always, ma'am, I'll try to remember you always." "What a good child,"

said she, after his mother was gone, "and of good stock; that child will be true as steel. It was so much more natural that the child should remember the cake than an old woman, that I love his sincerity." She died on the 7th of Sept., 1833, aged eighty-eight. She was buried in Wrighton churchyard, beneath an old tree which is still flourishing.

BENNY'S FIRST DRAWING.

You have perhaps heard of Benjamin West, the celebrated artist. I will tell you about his first effort in drawing.

One of his sisters, who had been married some time, came with her babe to spend a few days at her father's. When the child was asleep in the cradle, Mrs. West invited her daughter to gather flowers in the garden, and told Benjamin to take care of the little child while they were gone; and gave him a fan to flap away the flies from his little charge. After some time the child appeared to smile in its sleep, and it attracted young Benny's attention. He was so pleased with the smiling, sleeping, babe that he thought he would see what he could do at drawing a portrait of it. He was only in his seventh year; he got some paper, pens, and some red and black ink, and commenced his work, and soon drew the picture of the babe.

Hearing his mother and sister coming in from the garden, he hid his picture; but his mother seeing he was confused, asked him what he was about, and requested him to show her the paper. He obeyed, and entreated her not to be angry. Mrs. West, after looking some time, with much pleasure, said to her daughter, "I declare, he has made a likeness of _little Sally_," and kissed him with evident satisfaction. This gave him much encouragement, and he would often draw pictures of flowers which she held in her hand. Here the instinct of his great genius was first awakened. This circ.u.mstance occurred in the midst of a Pennsylvania forest, a hundred and four years ago. At the age of eighteen he was fairly established in the city of Philadelphia as an artist.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE GREY OLD COTTAGE.

In the valley between "Longbrigg" and "Highclose," in the fertile little dale on the left, stands an old cottage, which is truly "a nest in a green place." The sun shines on the diamond paned windows all through the long afternoons of a summer's day. It is very large and roomy.

Around it is a trim little garden with pleasant flower borders under the low windows. From the cottage is a bright lookout into a distant scene of much variety.

Some years ago it was more desolate, as it was so isolated from the world. Now the children's voices blend with the song of the wood birds, and they have a garden there of dandelions, daisies, and flowers. The roof and walls are now covered with stone crop and moss, and traveller's joy, which gives it a variety of color. The currant bushes are pruned, and the long rose branches are trimmed, and present a blooming appearance. This house, with forty acres of land, some rocky and sterile, and some rich meadow and peat, formed the possessions of the Prestons in Westmoreland. For two hundred years this land had been theirs. Mr. Preston and his wife were industrious and respectable people. They had two children, Martha and John. The sister was eight years older than her brother and acted a motherly part towards him. As her mother had to go to market, to see to the cows and dairy, and to look after the sheep on the fell, Martha took most of the care of little Johnny.

It is said that a very active mother does not _always_ make a very active daughter, and that is because she does things herself, and has but little patience with the awkward and slow efforts of a learner. Mrs.

Preston said that Martha was too long in going to market with the b.u.t.ter, and she made the bread too thick, and did not press all the water out of the b.u.t.ter, and she folded up the fleeces the wrong way, and therefore she did all herself. Hence Martha was left to take the whole care of Johnny, and to roam about in the woods. When she was about fifteen her mother died, so that Martha was left her mother's place in the house, which she filled beyond the expectation of all the neighbors. Her father died when Johnny was sixteen, and his last advice to his daughter was, to take care of her brother, to look after his worldly affairs, and above all to bear his soul in prayer to heaven, where he hoped to meet the household once more. The share of her father's property when he died, was eighty pounds. Here Martha spent her days, frugal, industrious and benevolent. And it is said, there will not be a grave in Grasmere churchyard, more decked with flowers, more visited with respect, regret, and tears, and faithful trust, than that of Martha Preston when she dies. In the next story you will be interested in what happened at the Grey Cottage.

THE BOY FOUND IN THE SNOW.

One winter's night when the evening had shut in very early, owing to the black snow clouds that hung close around the horizon, Martha sat looking into the fire. Her old sheep dog, Fly, lay at her feet. The cows were foddered for the night, and the sheep were penned up in the yard. Fly was a faithful dog, and for some reason, this evening, he was very restless. Why he p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, and went snuffing to the door, and pacing about the room, was more than Martha could tell.

"Lie down, Fly,--good dog--lie down," she said; but Fly would not mind her, which was an unusual thing. She was certain something was the matter, and she felt she must go up to the fell; and with the foresight common to the Dale's people, who knew what mountain storms are, she took under her cloak a small vial of gin, which was kept in case of any accident, and set out with the dog Fly. The snow fell fast, the wind blew, and the drifts lay thick. She had great confidence in Fly, that if any thing was the matter he would find it out. He ran straight up the little steep path which led through the woods. On she followed, her cloak white with snow, until she came into the more open ground, where she lost sight of Fly, and for a time stood bewildered, until he should return and guide her. The birds and beasts had gone to rest, and the stillness of the moors was awful. It was night, and dark. Suddenly she heard a child's feeble voice, and in an instant she pressed on towards the spot from which the sound came; soon she heard Fly's loud howl for aid. At last she reached the spot, and found a little boy half asleep, a kind of drowsiness which precedes death. He could not speak; he could only moan. She moistened his lips with the gin, and poured a little down his throat. She then raised him up and carried him a short distance down the hill; then she stopped to rest awhile; and then she got as far as the woods, where the winds were not so cold. Again she gave him a few drops from her vial, and now he was able to walk a few steps; then Martha put up a fervent prayer to G.o.d for a.s.sistance, as she dragged the lost boy to her cottage. She now laid him down to the warm fire, while Fly snuffed around him in great joy. She took off his wet clothes, and wrapped him in her woollen cloak. He soon recovered and was able to tell his story.

His father had sent him up to the fells for a sheep that was missing.

The dog left him, and night and snow came on, and he got lost on the fells. The family had lately come to live near Rydal, and the lad did not know all the landmarks. Martha took the best of care of the boy till the morning, when his mother came, with a grateful heart towards G.o.d for the means which had guided Martha to her lost boy.

THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

(_In three Stories._)

THE PARTING SCENE.

In one of our western cities was a poor woman, in the garret of a lonely house, who was very sick, and near dying. She had two children, a brother and sister, who knelt beside her bed to catch her dying words.

"Annie, my daughter," said the mother, "soon, and your young brother will have no earthly friend but you; will you, my daughter, be to him a faithful sister?"

"Yes, mother, _I will_" said the daughter, as she wiped away her tears.

And then she laid her hand upon the head of her son, and said, "Be a good boy, w.i.l.l.y, and mind your sister; she is but three years older than yourself, but as far as her knowledge goes, she will be a guide for you; and she and you have a Father in Heaven who will never leave you. Will you promise to do as she wishes?"

w.i.l.l.y raised his eyes to his mother, and bowed his head in token of a.s.sent, and then burst into tears. The mother was a Christian, and putting her arm around the neck of w.i.l.l.y, and with the other hand clasping her daughter, she calmly said to them, "Weep not, dear children, you will find friends; G.o.d is the father of the fatherless.

Keep in mind that his eye is upon you; be honest and virtuous, faithful and believing, and all things will work together for your good."

The dying mother could say no more; her breath grew short, and stretching out her arms, she cried, "My dear children, I must leave you: let me kiss you--G.o.d bless and keep--"

Her arms fell from around them, the words died away on her lips, and her weary soul departed.

After the funeral of this mother, the moon shone brightly into the desolate chamber, and revealed a beautiful scene, that of a sister's love.

Anna sat near the window, and little w.i.l.l.y lay his weary head in her lap. They were now without father or mother. Sleep had stolen upon the weary eyes of w.i.l.l.y. Anna smoothed back the dark hair which hung over his brow, then carefully raised his slender frame in her arms and laid him upon his bed. Then seating herself beside him she thought of her mother's last request to take care of w.i.l.l.y.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "I must begin to-morrow. I will go out and try to get some work, for poor w.i.l.l.y must remain at school. Dear boy," she exclaimed, "I will never see him suffer." You will, in the next story, find

ANNA SEEKING EMPLOYMENT.

It was a wearisome day to poor Anna, as she walked from square to square, calling at the houses for employment. Some received her kindly, and patronised her themselves, and promised to interest their friends in her behalf, while others, alleging that she could not earn as much as a woman, endeavored to beat her down a few shillings in her price. But among all, Anna found means of subsistence for many months. But soon her const.i.tution began to grow weak, and her friends thought it best for w.i.l.l.y to give up his school awhile, and to obtain some place as errand boy, and for Anna to pursue a more active life.

Soon Anna found herself in a new home, doing the work of a family which devolved on her. She kept a diary, and she would often go away in her own little room, and scribble a few lines in her book. Here is an extract from her writings:--

"To-day I am very tired, and yet but very little has been accomplished.

I know I could do well enough if I was allowed to regulate my work, or if there was only order in the arrangement. There is certainly a great want of system in this family; I am never allowed to finish one piece of work before I am called off to another, and then blamed because I did not do the first in time.

"One wants me to put the dough in the pans, and before I get my hands clean, another calls me to go and get some wood; another tells me to go to the store for some thread; another cries out, Anna! Anna! and away I am sent to the third story after a book. Do they think a girl like me is never tired? Ah, me! I must seek another place. I love little children, and I think I should do for a child's nurse; I will advertise."

And she did advertise, and it was not long before she was answered by a request to call at Number 4, Elm street, at three o'clock on Wednesday.

In the next story we shall find