Kitabı oku: «Bessie in the City», sayfa 3

"We shall not be bucked, dear," said grandpapa, smiling. "Does my Bessie think I would take her or Maggie where there was danger?"

"No, grandpapa, but – " Bessie still hung back.

"You shall not go this way, dear, if you do not wish; but these are our cows, and I know them to be all peaceable and good-tempered. But if we turn back and go through the garden again, I shall be too tired to take you down to the river."

"I think we'll go this way," said Bessie, and so they went on; but as they passed the cows, grandpapa felt the little hand he held nestle itself very tightly in his own, and as he saw how her color came and went, he was sorry he had not turned back. The cows did not notice them at all, not even when Flossy, who seemed to think it would be a very fine thing to bark at something so much larger than himself, ran up to one and began woof woofing in a very absurd manner. The cow just lifted up her head and looked at him for a moment; then, as if she well knew that such a tiny thing could do her no harm, put it down and began to eat again.

"Isn't it er-dic-u-lous, grandpapa," said Maggie, "to see Flossy barking at that great cow?"

"Rather ridiculous," answered grandpapa. "Look at those little lambs, Bessie."

Bessie quite forgot the cows when she saw the lambs playing by the side of their mothers. But when Flossy found the cattle cared nothing for him, he thought he would try to make a little fuss here, and away he ran after one of the lambs. The sheep did not take it as quietly as the cows; the lamb was frightened, and the mother, who did not understand that this was Flossy's fun, and that he could not have hurt her child even if he had wished to, put it behind her, and lowering her head, stamped her foot at Flossy as if she were very angry. Mr. Duncan called the puppy away, but he would not mind, and Maggie ran to take him up in her arms. The poor sheep saw her and thought here was something else coming to hurt her baby, so she must fight a little herself. She ran at Maggie, and butting her head against the little girl, threw her over upon the grass. The other sheep had stood looking on; but now, as if afraid of being punished for what one of their number had done, the whole flock turned and scampered away to the opposite side of the field.

Maggie sat up upon the grass. She was not at all hurt, but rather frightened and very much astonished.

"Are you hurt, little woman?" asked grandpapa, as he lifted her up and placed her upon her feet.

"No, grandpapa, but – who did it?"

"Who did it? Why, the mother sheep there."

"She is very ungrateful," said Maggie, indignantly. "I came to help her, and she oughtn't to do it."

"She did not know that, dear," said grandpapa. "She thought you, too, were coming to hurt her lamb, and she could not tell what else to do. See there, Bessie, the cows which you were so afraid of did not even look at us, while this meek, timid sheep, of which you had not the least fear, has knocked over Maggie. Do not look so distressed, dear; Maggie is not hurt at all."

It was some time before Bessie could quite believe this. It seemed to her scarcely possible that her dear Maggie should have been thrown down in such a rude fashion, and yet not be hurt. But so it was; not a scratch nor a bruise was to be found. The ground was not very hard just here, and the grass quite soft and long; and beyond the fright and a streak or two of earth on her white dress, Maggie had received no harm from her fall. It made her feel rather sober, however, and she walked quietly along by grandpapa's side without skipping and jumping as she had done before.

"Grandpapa," said Bessie, "don't you think the sheep ought to know better?"

"Well, Bessie, I think we must not blame the poor creature. She did not know that Maggie was her friend, and Flossy had frightened her and made her angry. If she had been alone, she would probably have run away; but she loved her child better than she did herself, and took the best way she knew to keep it from harm."

"You are very naughty, Flossy," said Bessie. "You did a deal of misfit. You frightened the poor little lambie, and made my Maggie be knocked down."

"Yes," said Maggie, "he'll have to be taught, 'to do to others.' Poor little fellow! He don't know much himself."

"Yes," said Mr. Duncan, "like all young things, he has much to learn, and his teachers must have a good deal of patience."

"Grandpapa," said Bessie, "are not lambs pretty good baby animals?"

"I rather think they are, Bessie. Perhaps their mammas sometimes find them troublesome; but we seldom or never hear of a lamb getting into mischief or naughty ways. So when a child is obedient and gentle, we say it is like a little lamb."

"Mamma taught us such a pretty hymn last week about a lamb," said Bessie.

"Can't you let me hear it?" said grandpapa. So Bessie repeated these verses: —

 
"Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and gave thee feed,
By the stream, and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight, —
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice.
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
 
 
"Little lamb, I'll tell thee!
Little lamb, I'll tell thee!
He is callèd by thy name.
For He calls Himself a lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I, a child, and thou, a lamb,
We are callèd by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!"¹
 

She said them slowly and carefully, not missing one word, and grandpapa was much pleased.

"That is indeed pretty, my darling," he said, "and grandpapa is much obliged to you. What a dear, good mamma you have, always teaching you something useful or pretty."

"Oh, yes!" said Bessie, "she is just the most precious mamma that ever lived."

Grandpapa looked down as if he thought the dear mamma's little daughter was rather precious, too; but he did not say so.

"I never saw such a good helper as our mamma," said Maggie. "She always can tell us how to do things."

Then Maggie told how mamma was helping them to buy the library, and of all their little plans. Grandpapa listened, and seemed very much interested; and by the time the story was finished, they had reached the river.

Mr. Duncan led them through a grove of locust-trees, and just beyond was the pretty sight he had brought them to look at. This was a pond into which the water flowed by a narrow canal cut from the river. Upon it were floating two beautiful white swans. The children had never seen them before, for the pond had been made, and the swans brought there, since their last visit to Riverside. Over the canal was a pretty rustic bridge, and below it a wire fence, which allowed the water to flow in, but through which the swans could not pass. On the other side of the pond was a little house, made, like the bridge, of boughs twisted together.

"Oh, grandpapa," said Maggie, "what beautiful birds! How did they come there? And that water, too? It did not use to be there."

"No," said Mr. Duncan. "The pond was made this summer, while you were at Quam Beach. Those birds are swans."

"And is that their little house?" asked Bessie.

"Yes," said grandpapa; and then taking from his pocket a couple of crackers which he had brought for the purpose, he gave one to each of the children, and told them they might feed the swans. The birds were not at all afraid of the little girls, and came swimming up to where they stood, arching their graceful necks as if they quite expected to receive something nice to eat. Indeed, they were so tame that when the crackers were broken up, they took pieces from the children's hands as if they had known them all their lives. Maggie and Bessie were delighted, and Maggie thought she would like to stay by the pond all day; but now Mr. Duncan said it was time to go back to the house, so they bade good-by to the swans.

By this time Flossy was tired, and was quite willing to let Maggie take him up in her arms and carry him. Before they reached home he was asleep, and Maggie laid him in a corner of the sofa in the hall, and covered him up with a shawl. After a while, Bessie seeing him, thought she was tired too, so she climbed on the sofa, took Flossy in her arms, nestled down on the cushions, and in five minutes she, too, was fast asleep. There Maggie, who had been down in the kitchen, begging the cook for some milk for the puppy, found her. She stood looking at her for a moment, then ran into the library where her father and Uncle John were sitting.

"Oh, papa," she said, seizing his hand, "come and see the prettiest thing you ever saw. Come, Uncle John, do come; but do not make any noise."

Papa and Uncle John followed the eager little girl, who led them to the sofa where Bessie and Flossy lay.

"Isn't she sweet?" whispered Maggie. "Isn't it just like a picture?"

It was indeed a pretty sight. The sleeping child in her white dress, with her curls falling over the red cushions, and the little dog clasped in her arms, his face cuddled up against her shoulder. But Mr. Duncan and Mr. Bradford thought that not the least pretty part of it was the affectionate little sister standing by, looking at Bessie with so much love in her eyes. Her father could not help stooping to kiss her. Just then Aunt Helen passed through the hall.

"Come here, Helen," said Mr. Duncan.

"Isn't that a pretty picture, Aunt Helen?" said Maggie, as her aunt paused to look. "I am going to call mamma."

"No, no," said Mrs. Duncan, "do not call her. You have given me an idea, Maggie. Can you keep a secret?"

Maggie promised, and her father said he thought she might be trusted.

Now Aunt Helen could draw and paint very beautifully, and her "idea" was to make a little picture of Bessie as she lay sleeping, and to give it to her mother as a Christmas gift. She ran to her room, and bringing paper and pencils, began to sketch her little niece.

Mr. Bradford looked over her shoulder.

"Could you not put the other one in?" he whispered, looking at Maggie, who still seemed as if she could not take her eyes from her sister. "We never separate them, you know, and it will be a double pleasure to Margaret."

So Mrs. Duncan drew Maggie, too, though Maggie did not know this, for her aunt said she should not let her see the picture until it was quite finished.

"And mind," said Uncle John, "if you say a word about it, I shall look at you with both my eyes, and put your nose between your ears."

Maggie laughed, and promised to be very careful; and now, as Bessie began to stir, Aunt Helen ran away with the picture.

Flossy was taken home in the carriage that afternoon, and I must say, he behaved very badly all the way. He was not used to riding, and he did not like it at all. On the first half of the road, he whined and fretted all the time; and when he became a little accustomed to the motion, he would not keep quiet; and either scrambled all about the carriage, or if Maggie or Bessie took him upon her lap, put his head out of the window and barked at every person he saw, so that his little mistresses were quite mortified.

"Mamma," said Bessie, "please don't think he's the troublesomest little dog you ever saw. We will teach him to behave better. If you hadn't teached us, maybe we would have been as full of misfit as he is."

Mamma said she did not doubt that Flossy would learn better in time, and she would have patience with him.

V.
THE COLONEL'S STORY

ON Sunday morning Maggie and Bessie were made ready, and taken over to Mrs. Rush's rooms at nine o'clock, as had been arranged. As Maggie had told Mr. Hall, Mrs. Rush could not leave the colonel to go to the church school; but she was very anxious to do something for the lambs of the Good Shepherd, who had so lately brought her dear husband into the fold, and so she had begged that these little ones might come to her. Mrs. Bradford was very glad to have her children go. Bessie had never been to Sunday-school, and her mother thought the walk too much for her on a cold day; but Mrs. Rush's rooms were so near their own home that she could go there in almost any weather. As for Maggie, she was rather glad not to go back to the church school. Her teacher, Miss Winslow, was going away, as you know, and she did not at all like the idea of having a new one.

"I should be so very homesick after Miss Winslow, mamma," she had said, "but now I shall not mind that so much; and then Bessie will be with me, so we will be very happy."

Truly it was a pleasant class. Four little girls who dearly loved each other, and the sweet young lady who was to be their teacher. Then the room was so bright and sunny, and the colonel, to please his wife and her little scholars, perhaps also to please himself, had taken a great deal of pains to have all nicely prepared for them. Four small cane-seated chairs stood side by side, and on each of them lay a Testament and a hymn-book, while on the table were a number of picture-cards and a neat case containing a dozen books, which were to be their library.

"When these are all read," said the colonel, "they shall have some more."

There was only one thing which seemed wrong, but that was rather serious. The dear teacher appeared as if she would scarcely be able to do her part that morning. Mrs. Rush had taken a severe cold, and had a bad headache and a sore throat. She looked quite ill, and when Mr. Bradford, who had brought the little girls over, shook hands with her, he said, "I think you are in no fit state for teaching to-day. You had better let me take the children home, and make a beginning next Sunday."

"So I have told her," said Colonel Rush; "but she cannot bear to disappoint herself or them, and I have agreed to let her try, on condition that, if she find it too much for her, I am to take her place. I do not know what kind of a teacher I shall make, but, at least, I can tell them a story."

Mrs. Rush said she thought she should do very well; so Mr. Bradford went away, and in a few minutes Gracie Howard and Lily Norris came in, and they all took their seats. Colonel Rush went into the inner room, where he could not be seen, but where he could hear if he chose; and his wife began.

First, she made a short prayer, asking our Father in heaven to bless them with his presence and his love, that he would give her strength and grace to teach these lambs aright, and to them, hearts gentle and tender, and ready to learn the way of life, and that he would bring them all at last to dwell with him in his home beyond the sky. Then she read to them of Christ blessing little children, and, showing them a card on which a picture of this was painted, talked to them about it.

"Now we will sing," she said, "or rather you may, for I shall not be able to help you. We will take something you all know quite well, that there may be no difficulty about the tune. 'I want to be an angel.' Who will start it?"

Any one of the children, if she had been alone, could have started the tune and sung it through without trouble; but with all the rest waiting, not one felt as if she could begin. They all sat looking at one another, each little girl afraid to trust her own voice.

"Why," said Mrs. Rush, "are we to have no singing at all? Cannot one of you do it?"

Then came two or three notes from the other room. Bessie took them right up, and the rest followed immediately. As soon as they were fairly started, the colonel paused, and let them sing it through by themselves. Very nicely they did it, too; their sweet young voices making pleasant music in the ears of their kind friends.

"I want you each to learn a new hymn and a Bible verse, during the week, to say to me next Sunday," said Mrs. Rush. "We have had no regular lesson for to-day. Can you not each remember a hymn to repeat now?"

"I'll say, 'Saviour, like a shepherd lead us,'" said Gracie; and she repeated the hymn very correctly.

Lily said, "Little travellers, Zionward;" but, as you probably know both of these pretty pieces, there is no need to write them here.

Bessie said the verses about the lamb, which she had repeated to Grandpapa Duncan at Riverside.

Maggie's turn came last. "I am going to say the very best hymn that ever was made," she said.

"How do you know it is the very best?" said Gracie. "Maybe it isn't so pretty as the one Bessie said. I like that very much."

"So do I; but then this one is the best, for my own mamma made it," answered Maggie, as if there could be no doubt after this that her hymn was the best that could be written.

Gracie opened her eyes wide, and listened with all her might. To have a mamma who wrote hymns, must, she thought, be very fine, and she did not wonder that Maggie felt rather proud of it.

"Shall I say it?" asked Maggie of Mrs. Rush.

"Certainly," said the lady; and Maggie began.

 
"Little one, what canst thou do,
For the Lord who loved thee so,
That he left his heavenly throne,
To our sinful world came down,
On the cross to faint and die,
That thy ransomed soul might fly
Far beyond all sin and pain,
Where the Crucified doth reign?
 
 
"Little hands, what can ye do
For the Lord who loved me so?
 
 
"Little hands fit work may find,
If I have a willing mind;
And whate'er the service small,
If I only do it all
For the sake of God's dear Son,
He the simplest gift will own.
Little hands, so ye may prove
All my gratitude and love.
 
 
"Little lips, what can ye do
For the Lord who loved me so?
 
 
"Let no harsh or angry word
From these little lips be heard;
Let them never take in vain
God's most glorious, holy name
Let sweet sounds of praise and joy
All your childish powers employ.
Little lips, so ye may prove
All my gratitude and love.
 
 
"Little feet, what can ye do
For the Lord who loved me so?
 
 
"Follow Him who day by day
Guides thee on the heavenward way.
Little feet, turn not aside,
Tread down shame and fear and pride,
Aught might tempt ye to go back
From the safe and narrow track.
Little feet, so ye may prove
All my gratitude and love.
 
 
"Little heart, what canst thou do
For the Lord who loved me so?
 
 
"Thou canst love him, little heart,
Such thy blessed, happy part.
In his tender arms may rest,
Lying there content and blest.
This is all he asks of thee,
Little heart, oh! lovest thou me?
Little heart, so thou mayst prove
All my gratitude and love.
 
 
"Little one, this thou canst do
For the Lord who loved thee so.
Little hands and little feet
Still may render service meet;
Little lips and little heart
In such glorious work bear part.
Little one, thus thou mayst prove
All thy gratitude and love."
 

"Oh, how nice!" said Gracie; and Lily said the same thing.

"And mamma is going to make music for it," said Bessie, "so we can sing it."

"Then we will all learn it," said Mrs. Rush. "We shall have a piano here next Sunday, and there need be no more trouble about our tunes. Now I will tell you a little story."

But when she began to talk again, she was so hoarse that she could scarcely speak, and the children saw that her throat was very painful.

"Don't try to tell us; you feel too sick," said Bessie. "We'll just sit still, and be as quite as mices."

Mrs. Rush smiled at her, and tried once more to go on, but just then the sound of the colonel's crutches was heard, and the next moment he came in the room.

"I cannot let you go on, Marion," said he. "I will take your place. Can you put up with a story from me, little ones, while my wife rests? She is able to do no more for you to-day."

Put up with a story from him! That was a curious question from the colonel, who was such a famous story-teller. They were all quite ready to listen to anything he might tell them, though they felt very sorry for dear Mrs. Rush, who, seeming rather glad to give her place to her husband, went to the other side of the room and took the great arm-chair, while the colonel settled himself on the sofa.

Bessie looked at him very wistfully.

"Well, what is it, my pet?" he asked.

"Don't you think you'd be more comfor'ble if I was on the sofa by you?" she asked. "I am sure I would."

"Indeed, I should," he answered, holding out his hand with a smile, and in a moment she was in her favorite seat beside him.

He told the others to stand around him, and commenced his story.

"A little child sat upon a green sunny bank, singing to himself in a low, sweet voice. It was not easy to understand the words of the song; indeed, there did not seem to be much wisdom in them. It was as if he were only pouring out in music the joy of his own young, happy heart.

"It was a lovely place. The bank on which the child rested was covered with a soft green moss, while around him bloomed sweet flowers, blue violets peeping up from their nest of leaves, and filling the air with their delicious scent, pure lilies of the valley with their snowy bells, and the pale pink primroses. Overhead grew tall trees, shading him from the rays of the sun which might else have beat too strongly on his tender head; and among their branches the soft winds whispered and the birds sang joyfully. At the foot of the bank was a path bordered with lovely ferns and grasses and flowers, such as grew above; and beyond this again ran a little stream sparkling in the sunlight, and gurgling and rippling over and around the stones and pebbles which lay in its way. And all – the boy, the birds, the whispering leaves, the sweet flowers, the running brook – seemed joining in one hymn of praise to Him who made them and gave them life.

"On the other side of the brook, and in a line with the narrow path, ran a broad road, on which also grew flowers gayer and brighter than those whose home was upon the bank or on the path; but when one came nearer, or tried to pluck them, they were found to be full of thorns, or turned to dust and ashes in the hand.

"Both road and path seemed to lead to the mountains, which lay in the distance; but it was not really so. There were many windings and turnings in both, so that one who travelled upon them could not see far before him. Sometimes they would lead over a hill, sometimes around its foot, sometimes through a forest, sometimes through a bog or stream. Those who became puzzled upon the broad road would lose their way and could seldom find either track again; for there was nothing to guide them, and they would go deeper and deeper into the dark woods or the treacherous bog, or perhaps fall into some deep pit, and so they were never seen again. But if one who travelled upon the narrow path was in doubt whether he were right or no, he had only to lift his eyes, and the true way would be pointed out to him; for all along were guide-posts, and upon them were golden letters which shone so brightly that he who ran might read; and they told him which turning he must take. By the side of the path there ran also a silver thread, and he who kept fast hold of this could seldom or never go astray; for if he was about to turn aside, fine points or thorns would rise up in the thread and, pricking him, bid him take heed to his steps. But however the path might wind, in and out, now here, now there, it still led onward to the mountains whose tops were to be seen in a straight line with the child's home; and he who followed it could not fail to come there.

"The child was still singing, when a stranger came up this path. He stood still and looked at the boy with a smile, as though the simple song pleased him.

"'What is thy name, little one?' he asked.

"'Benito,' answered the child.

"'Ah! thou art well named, for truly thou art a blessed child. What a lovely home thou hast!'

"'But this is not my home,' said Benito. 'My Father placed me here for a little while, but my home lies far away on the mountains yonder where he is. There is a beautiful city there, where my Elder Brother has gone to prepare a place for me. Stay;' and the child put his hand into his bosom and drew out a glass; 'look through this, and then thou wilt see the beautiful city; thou mayest even see my Father's house. This glass is called Faith, and my Brother bade me look through it when my feet were tired and my heart was faint.'

"The stranger took it from his hand, and looking through it, gave a glad cry of surprise; then took from his own breast a glass like the boy's, but not so fresh and bright.

"'I, too, have a glass,' he said; 'but it is not so clear as thine. It is my own fault, for it needs constant use to keep it pure and undimmed, and I have not brought it forth as often as I should have done. But now the beautiful sight which I have seen through thine has taught me what I lose by letting it lie hidden away. And when art thou to go to thy Father's house?'

"'Now,' said Benito, 'for the message has come for me, and I am to start to-day upon the very path on which thou standest.'

"'But it will be a hard way for thee,' said the stranger, in a pitying voice. 'I am taller than thee, and can look farther ahead, and I see rocks and stones which will hurt those tender feet, and hills which will be difficult for thee to climb, and streams whose waves will be almost too much for thee. Wait till thou art a little stronger and more able to travel.'

"'I cannot wait,' said Benito; 'I have heard my Father's voice, and I must not stay.'

"'And hast thou food and drink for the journey?'

"'My Father has promised that I shall be fed with the bread of life, and drink from living waters.'

"'But that white robe of thine will become soiled with the dust and heat of the day.'

"'This white robe is called Innocence,' said the child. 'My Father clothed me in it when he left me here; and if it should become spotted by the way, he has said that it shall be washed white again before I go into his presence.'

"'Truly thou hast made good use of thy glass,' said the stranger; 'and thine own courage puts my fears for thee to shame. I, too, am bound for the mountains, for thy Father is my Father, thy home my home. Come, shall we journey there together? We may perhaps aid one another. I can help thee over the rough places; and thou mayest now and then let me take a look through thy glass till mine own is brighter with more frequent use.'

"'I will go with thee,' said Benito, who liked the kind, gentle face of the stranger; and coming down from his mossy seat, he put his hand in that of his new friend, who told him his name was Experience.

"'Men call me a hard teacher, my child,' he said; 'I trust I may be gentle with thee. I shall not be able to be always at thy side, for I may have work to do which thou canst not share, and I may leave thee for a time; but I will always await thee or follow on after thee.'

"Experience was a grave-looking man, and his face had a sad and weary look as though he longed for home and rest. But he had always a smile for the child when he turned towards him. His dress was of gray, and about his neck he wore a chain of golden beads. So they journeyed on together, the man and the boy; each with a hand upon the silver thread which ran by the wayside.

"'What is that chain about thy neck?' asked Benito.

"'It is the gift I carry to our Father,' said Experience, looking down with a smile at the chain.

"'I have no gift,' said the child; 'I did not know that I should need one. My Elder Brother told me he had paid the price which should give me entrance to the beautiful city.'

"'He has done so,' said the other, 'and though thou goest with empty hands, thou shalt have as loving a welcome as if thou hadst all the wealth of the universe to offer. But still, one would wish to have some gift to lay at our Father's feet. Perhaps thou mayest find some jewel on the road. I had nothing when I started. These beads have been given to me, one by one, by those whom I have helped or taught by the way; for, little one, thou art not the first whose hand has been laid in mine; and I have strung them together as a fit offering for him to whom we go.'

"'I have no bead to give,' said Benito, sadly.

"'No matter; that white robe of thine gives thee a claim upon my care, which I could not set aside if I would. Cheer up, sweet child. If a jewel fell in thy way, and thou didst not stop to pick it up, that thou mightst carry it to our Father, then indeed there would be reason to fear his displeasure, but if thou findest none, he will ask none.'

"So Benito was comforted, and once more went on his way rejoicing. His sweet talk cheered the older pilgrim, and every now and then they would both break out into songs of praise and joy. Experience helped the little one over many rough places, for though the path was at first easy and pleasant, it soon grew hard and stony. Then they passed through a dark forest, where Benito could scarcely have kept his feet but for the help of his older and wiser friend, who took him in his arms until they were again upon the open road. But even among the brambles and thickets of the forest the way was plain, if they but looked up at the guide-posts; for the greater the darkness, the brighter shone the letters.