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He came forward to speak to Emilie, and his eye fell upon poor Jacques, who was overcome with emotion at seeing a school where children who had been lame from weakness found the use of their limbs on recovering their health.
Before the colonel had time to ask who this boy was, – for he knew Jacques was not one of his scholars, – Emilie seized his hand, and with the coaxing voice that children know how to use so well when they want to ask a favor, she said, —
“I can walk without crutches now, colonel.”
“I am rejoiced to hear it, my child. You ought to be able to do so.”
“And I have grown almost an inch in six months. O, I am so much obliged to you, colonel!”
“You mean to my gymnasium, my dear child.”
“No, to you, colonel, to you. For really I was much worse than Jacques is, and to-day I am better than he is.”
“Who is Jacques?”
“This boy that you see here,” said Emilie, taking the hand of Jacques, who was hiding behind her, and making him come forward before the colonel. “He is the son of a slater. His father is dead. He fell from a roof. Poor man! His mother is very miserable, for she has another child to take care of; so you see yourself, colonel, it is quite necessary that he should be able to stand alone.”
All the time that M. Amoros was examining Jacques, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket to see his arms, turning up his trousers to look at his legs, feeling his spine, and making him stretch out his limbs, Emilie continued, with a coaxing voice, —
“If you are willing, Colonel Amoros, we can make an arrangement. O, you must not refuse me, I beg of you!”
“What?” said the kind man, continuing his examination.
“This boy is very poor – very, very poor. If he is not cured, he will never be able to get his living. He has a mother and sister to support; and see, colonel, I am very sure my poor Jacques will die soon.”
“Will you hold your tongue, you little simpleton?” said the colonel, suddenly turning round at the word “die.”
“He will die soon if you don’t take pity on him, dear Colonel Amoros,” added the little girl, clasping her small hands eagerly before the colonel, who was too much engaged in examining poor Jacques, and considering the best way to cure him, to pay much attention to Emilie’s words.
“Please let Jacques take part in the exercises, and I will pay you out of my savings; or if you are willing to wait, I will pay it when I am married. And besides that, I will write to my father, and tell him to let me come and take lessons here after I am entirely cured.”
The colonel could not restrain his mirth at the idea of Emilie wishing to pay him for a kind action, which his generous heart prompted him to do without any persuasion.
“It does not require so much eloquence to urge me to do a kindness, my little friend,” he replied. “Do you think I don’t enjoy my practice? I will receive your protégé with pleasure, if he will promise to obey my orders, and if he will resemble his protectress in the love of doing good.”
While speaking these words, the colonel called one of the teachers, and pointing to Jacques, – who did not know whether he was dreaming or not, – he said, —
“Take this boy, give him a belt, and a knot of scarlet ribbon on the left shoulder; that is the side which needs strengthening.”
Then he explained which exercises he should take, and those he ought to avoid.
He then gave a signal for the bell to ring, and the professors and children were soon busy in the centre of the gymnasium.
It was a pretty sight, I can assure you. Such a wonderful combination of poles, ropes, posts, and ladders! You might wonder, at first, what they all meant. But soon every child came along in his turn, without effort, and with such perfect enjoyment, that it explained the mystery.
Gymnastic exercises were practised with great care by the ancients. They formed part of the education of a gentleman. They give that physical beauty and grace which only spring from a fine muscular development. Among the Greeks and Romans, men frequented the gymnasium and the circus. Philosophers, judges, and soldiers took part in these exercises with the citizens, that they might become stronger and more athletic, more active and capable of bearing fatigue.
M. Amoros not only gave health and strength to the pupils of his gymnasium, but he taught them to call only those deeds great which were inspired by bravery, love of humanity, and pure benevolence.
Two years had passed away; spring had arrived at the old chateau on the Loire, and M. Martel, the father of little Emilie, had returned from his voyage to Martinique. He was busy in making many necessary repairs in his family mansion, and many workmen came from Paris for that purpose. The night after their arrival, the chateau was discovered to be on fire. M. Martel awoke in haste; startled by the light of the flames, which suddenly illuminated his room, he ran to see where the fire sprang from, and called aloud for his daughter, whom he could not see anywhere. The spectacle that met his view quite overwhelmed him. The story that was on fire was the place where his daughter slept. It could be reached only from a neighboring roof, that was almost consumed. A single beam connected one building with the other. Notwithstanding his age and the gout, which paralyzed one of his limbs, the poor father wished to climb up and save his daughter, or to die with her. They held him back; he uttered fearful shrieks, when a young man, little more than a boy, was seen on the beam, which tottered with his weight. He walked along without fear. A profound silence succeeded to the cries of terror. The souls of the spectators seemed to look out of their eyes. M. Martel fell upon his knees.
The intrepid youth reached the window, and scaled it. They saw him unroll a long rope, or rope-ladder, and fasten it securely to the iron balcony which ornamented the window; then he disappeared.
Not a sound betrayed the anxiety of the spectators. The unknown man returned; he held a young person supported upon his back. He mounted the iron balcony, and suspended himself with his precious burden upon it, for she was well secured by a strong belt. This horrible suspense was more than M. Martel could bear. He covered his face with his hands. But soon the universal shouts of joy told him that his daughter was safe.
After the first moments of delight, the young girl turned to her deliverer. An exclamation of surprise fell from their lips.
“Jacques!”
“Mademoiselle Emilie!”
Then they gazed at each other in silence by the red light of the fire.
They were no longer two pale, sad children, with haggard little faces, already prematurely old. They had been separated ever since Emilie had left the gymnasium, and, not living in the same place, they hardly recognized each other. Emilie was a tall and beautiful girl, enjoying all the delight of perfect health. Jacques almost had become a man.
M. Martel had not heard without emotion about his daughter’s generous act, and her efforts to have Jacques received as a pupil in the Amoros gymnasium.
“Am I not well rewarded?” she exclaimed, extending her hand to the young man. “You would not have had any daughter without him, papa. The horror of my position, the impossibility of my finding a rope, a ladder, or any way of escape, frightened me so, that I lost my senses, and I should have been burned alive, if it had not been for Jacques.”
“Ah, mademoiselle,” said the slater’s son, with emotion, “it is not life alone that I owe to you; is it not more than life? It is health, the use of my limbs, and the happiness of being able to support my mother. Yes, mademoiselle,” added Jacques, with fervor, “I am a workman, and thanks to the lessons of our excellent professor, Colonel Amoros, I am more skilful than any of my fellow-laborers. I can support my family, and my wages are higher, because I can work harder and work longer than the rest.”
“Brave boy!” exclaimed M. Martel, pressing Jacques in his arms, who was quite overcome at the meeting. “From this day forward you shall be my son. I will take charge of your education and your advancement, of your mother and your sister. Brave boy! My daughter has done much for you, but you deserve it; she understood your heart.”
M. Martel kept his word. And some days after, when Jacques and his uncle met in the small attic of the poor widow, and were rejoicing over the happy change in their fortunes, the poor mother clasped her boy’s head to her heart, and bathed his curls with tears, and covered them with kisses, exclaiming, —
“Now you see, brother, Jacques was not a useless creature. It is owing to him that our fortune is made.”
“Yes, thanks to Colonel Amoros,” said the workman.
“Thanks to Mademoiselle Emilie,” said Jacques, heaving a sigh.
S. W. Lander.A DINNER AND A KISS
I HAVE brought your dinner, father,”The blacksmith’s daughter said,As she took from her arm the kettle,And lifted its shining lid.“There is not any pie or pudding;So I will give you this;”And upon his toil-worn foreheadShe left the childish kiss.The blacksmith took off his apron,And dined in happy mood,Wondering much at the savorHid in his humble food,While all about him were visionsFull of prophetic bliss;But he never thought of the magicIn his little daughter’s kiss.While she, with her kettle swinging,Merrily trudged away,Stopping at sight of a squirrel,Catching some wild bird’s lay,O, I thought, how many a shadowOf life and fate we would miss,If always our frugal dinnersWere seasoned with a kiss!MY MOTHER
“Honor thy father and thy mother.”FATHER and mother! sacred names and dear;The sweetest music to the infant ear,And dearer still to those, a joyous band,Who sport in childhood’s bright enchanted land.And when, as years roll on, night follows day,The young wax old and loved ones pass away,Through mists of time yet holier and more dear,“Father and mother” sound to memory’s ear.The days, the hours, the moments as they speed,Each crowned by loving thought or word or deed,Oh, heart’s long-suffering, self-denying! sureEarth holds no love more true, and none so pure.Thou happy child whom a good God hath givenA parents’ shelt’ring home, that earthly heaven,Where ceaseless care, where tireless love and true,Nurse thy young life as flowers are nursed by dew.E’en as the flowers, for the dear debt they owe,Bloom, and sweet odors in rich meed bestow,Let the fair blossoms of thy love and dutyCluster about thy home in fragrant beauty.Never from eye or lip be seen or heardThe sullen glance or the rebellious word,And never wilfully or heedless painThe tender hearts that cannot wound again.But fond caress, sweet smile and loving tone,Obedience prompt and glad, be thine alone,For filial love, like mercy, is twice blest;While to the parent of earth’s joys the best,Richer than treasures of the land or sea,It wins God’s blessing, O my child, for thee!REGINALD’S FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS
ONE frosty morning in January two delicate-looking children were sitting before a blazing fire in a long, low nursery with oak rafters running across the ceiling. Between them lay a great shaggy dog.
“You will take good care of Rover whilst I am away?” said the boy, winding his fingers in Rover’s shaggy hair and leaning his head against him.
“Yes; he shall go for a walk with me every day, and in the twilight I will talk to him about you,” answered Alice. “You might send messages to him in your letters,” she added.
“Would you understand them, old fellow?” asked Reginald, lifting up the dog’s head and looking into his eyes.
The dog wistfully returned his master’s gaze and gave him his paw.
“I believe he understands,” said Reginald, throwing his arms round the dog’s neck. “Oh, Rover, Rover, if I could only take you with me!”
“It would not be so bad then,” sighed Alice.
“It won’t be really bad when I get accustomed to it. Just at first it may be strange, but I shall be sure to like one, at any rate, out of the forty boys. It is going out into the world, and my father says it is well for a boy to learn his level early. On the whole, I am glad I am going; it is only the first bit of it that one is not sure about.”
It was a large room, with desks and benches on either side, and an aisle, as Reginald called it, up the middle. It had four large windows looking out on the playground, and a fireplace at each end, round which some dozen or two of boys were clustered.
Reginald advanced toward the fireplace at the lower end of the room, hoping that some one might speak to him and rid him of the strange, uncomfortable feeling that crept over him; but none of the boys spoke, though they regarded him critically, as if measuring the sort of being he was before committing themselves to any closer acquaintance.
So he sat down on a bench halfway down the school-room, tried to look unconscious, and half wished himself at home again.
“Have any of you fellows got a knife? I want to cut this piece of string,” said a tall boy, addressing the group generally.
In a moment Reginald had taken out his new knife and offered it to the speaker.
“Ah!” said Thompson, the tall boy; “a capital knife. Much obliged; will borrow it for the present;” and after using it he quietly put it into his pocket.
Some of the boys laughed. One of them, however, murmured, in an undertone, “What a great shame!”
Reginald’s color rose. He walked straight up to Thompson:
“Will you please to give me my knife again?”
Thompson looked surprised:
“No; I shall please to do nothing of the kind. You offered it, and I accepted it. An offer’s an offer.”
“I lent it to you to cut the string.”
“You did not say so.”
“I do not think it just of you to take my knife in that way,” said Reginald, thoroughly aroused; “and if you do not return it at once, I shall speak to Dr. Field about it.”
“Oh!” said Thompson, coolly; “you’re a sneak, are you?”
The boys, who had been gathering round Reginald, admiring his spirit in confronting the tall boy, now drew back, and the words “tell-tale!” “blab!” “sneak!” were distinctly heard. And Reginald found himself standing alone, deserted by those who had drawn near in sympathy with him, for Thompson was the tyrant of the school.
Presently, when the boys had returned to their places by the fire, and Reginald was apparently forgotten, a merry-looking boy a year older than himself sat down by him.
“No,” said he; “you must not say anything to Dr. Field. You must let your knife go, and learn wisdom for the future.”
Reginald looked up.
“It’s mean and unfair,” he said.
“That may be, but the boys would say it was meaner still to complain. One has to put up with things of this sort at school, and make the best of them.”
“What’s your name?” asked Reginald, suddenly, for there was something about the boy that he liked, and he thought this might be the one who was to be his friend.
“Barton. And yours?”
“Reginald Murray.”
“Murray’s enough, without the other.”
“I should like you to be my friend.”
Barton glanced at the large dark eyes that were fixed upon him, and at the delicate and somewhat mournful face, and felt attracted also.
“I think I shall like you,” he returned; “but I must wait and see how you go on. I think you’ve the right spirit; but you must take my advice about the knife. Will you?”
There was a struggle in Reginald’s mind. It was very hard to give up the knife that Alice had saved up her pocket-money to buy for him. Still, Barton had been at school for some time, and knew better than he what ought to be done, so he answered, “I will.”
But Barton was not prepared for his manner of carrying out the decision. To his great surprise, Reginald marched straight up to Thompson. “I shall not,” he said, “speak to Dr. Field about the knife. It’s unfair and unjust of you to take it, and I sha’n’t be friends with you as long as you keep it. But Barton says it would be telling tales if I made a complaint.”
Some of the younger boys stood quite aghast at Reginald’s boldness; one or two even murmured, “Well done!”
Thompson stared, half in astonishment, half in anger. “You’re too fast, young sir; you’ll have to be put down, I see,” said he. But he did not give Reginald his knife again.
School was indeed a new world to Reginald. He made friends and found enemies; he worked hard – indeed, often sat up by candle-light to prepare examples for the next day. He played well, and on the whole was tolerably popular. Thompson, however, still kept the knife, using it upon all occasions, which caused a thrill of indignation to go through Reginald’s delicate frame.
“If I can’t get it one way, I will another,” thought he; and he brooded over the knife until he magnified every word that Thompson said into a series of insults to himself, and Thompson, pleased with the power he possessed over the boy, exercised it on all occasions.
So the spring went by, and the summer came, and the days slipped away, and the holidays were close at hand.
“If I were strong enough, I would fight him for it,” said Reginald to Barton, one day, when Thompson had been more than usually aggravating.
The remark was repeated to Thompson, who was standing by the side of the river that ran at the foot of the playground.
At that moment Reginald drew near.
“So you would like to fight me if you were big enough?” said he, with a sneer.
“I should!” answered Reginald, warmly.
“Ah! it’s a bad state of feeling. If the knife causes such wicked thoughts, the best way is to get rid of it. So here it goes, and there is an end of it!” And drawing the knife from his pocket, he flung it into the river. It fell short of where he intended, and Reginald saw his beloved knife through the clear river, lying within what he supposed to be an easy reach. Without a moment’s thought he jumped in after it, regardless of the cry that rose, “The water’s deeper than it looks!”
His hand had, as if by instinct, grasped the knife, but as he tried to struggle back through the swiftly-running water he got confused, for, as the boys had called out to him, it was a great deal deeper than it looked, and just there the ground shelved suddenly, and Reginald, taking a false step, lost his footing.
There was a general outcry, which brought Dr. Field and a visitor who had just arrived to the spot:
“Murray’s in the river!”
And they pointed to the spot where the poor boy had sunk.
With such a cry as the boys long remembered, the visitor had plunged into the water, and had caught the boy, who had risen for the last time, by the arm.
And the next thing that the boys knew was that a white, dripping form was carried through the playground into the house.
Then a whisper went round, “It was his father.”
Then a whispered question, “Is he dead?”
And Thompson shuddered as he heard it.
But Reginald did not die; he opened his eyes to find his father clasping his hand. At first he could remember nothing, then he looked round anxiously: “Is the knife safe? I went to pick up my knife.”
Then he closed his eyes and remained for a long time silent; and when he spoke again, it was in the wild ravings of delirium.
The shock had been too much for the delicate boy. Fever came on, and it was weeks before he could be moved home. And then he was ordered to the South, and Italy was the chosen place in which Mr. and Mrs. Murray and their two children should sojourn until Reginald should have completely recovered his health.
And this time Rover was to go with his young master.
The day before Reginald left home a carriage drove up to the door, and Thompson stepped out of it.
He and Reginald were alone for a quarter of an hour, and they parted friends.
“I have my knife now, Thompson,” said Reginald, “and so the quarrel is over.”
And Thompson returned to Dr. Field’s a better and a wiser boy. He never bullied any one again.
CLEOPATRA
WE’VE called our young puss Cleopatra;’Twas grandpa who named her like that.He says it means “fond of good living” —A queer enough name for a cat!She leads the most lovely existence,And one which appears to enchant;Asleep in the sun like a snow-flakeThat tries to get melted and can’t;Or now and then languidly strollingThrough plots of the garden, to stealOn innocent grasshoppers, crunchingHer cruel and murderous meal!Or lapping from out of her saucer —The dainty and delicate elf! —With appetite spoiled in the garden,New milk that’s as white as herself.Dear, dear! could we only change places,This do-nothing pussy and I,You’d think it hard work, Cleopatra,To live, as the moments went by.Ah! how would you relish, I wonder,To sit in a school-room for hours?You’d find it less pleasant, I fancy,Than murdering bugs in the flowers.Edgar Fawcett.DECLAMATION
SHAKSPEARESHE sat in her eternal house,The sovereign mother of mankind;Before her was the peopled world,The hollow night behind.“Below my feet the thunders break,Above my head the stars rejoice;But man, although he babbles much,Has never found a voice.“Ten thousand years have come and gone,And not an hour of any dayBut he has dumbly looked to meThe things he could not say.“It shall be so no more,” she said;And then, revolving in her mind,She thought, “I will create a childShall speak for all his kind.”It was the spring-time of the year,And, lo! where Avon’s waters flow,The child, her darling, came on earthThree hundred years ago.There was no portent in the sky,No cry, like Pan’s, along the seas,Nor hovered round his baby mouthThe swarm of classic bees.What other children were he was;If more, ’twas not to mortal ken;The being likest to mankindMade him the man of men.Before he came, his like was not,Nor left he heirs to share his powers.The mighty mother sent him hereTo be her voice and ours;To be her oracle to man;To be what man may be to her;Between the Maker and the madeThe best interpreter.Richard H. Stoddard.SMILES AND TEARS
BOTH sword and guns are strong, no doubt,And so are tongue and pen,And so are sheaves of good bank-notes,To sway the souls of men;But guns and swords, and gold and thought,Though mighty in their sphere,Are often poorer than a smile,And weaker than a tear.NICOLO’S LITTLE FRIEND
NICOLO, Nicolo, where are you? Where have you hidden yourself? Come here; I want you.”
It was a very bright-eyed little girl who spoke these words – under a bright sky, too – the sunny sky of Italy.
But Nicolo, a boy some years older than herself, looked far from bright or happy; he was lying full length on the ground in the sunlight; but his face was overcast and melancholy.
“Lazy fellow!” said little Gianetta, laughingly, as she came up to him; “I am out of breath calling to you. Come along; I want you. Mother has done with me, and we can make some music together.”
But Nicolo shook his head, though he smiled at his little friend.
“What is it?” asked Gianetta. “Why can’t you come? Is it the father again?”
Nicolo sighed. He was a cheerful, happy-tempered boy by nature. And yet Gianetta often found him looking very sad.
“Tiresome, bad man!” broke forth the little girl. “He has been scolding you again; but no. Stop; I will say no wicked things of him, for he is your father; and we must honor our parents, be they bad or good, Father Clement says. But tell me, Nicolo, what has he said or done?”
“It is nothing,” said Nicolo, rousing himself at length – “nothing, my little Gianetta; but it wearies me. It is the old tale; he likes not my music – thinks it an excuse for idleness. Listen, little one. I make my plans now. I cannot bear this life. I must do as he wishes – learn a trade or somewhat, and give up my violin.”
“That you never shall do,” said Gianetta, earnestly. “You think me naughty, Nicolo; but I am not. I only see it plainer than you or your father. God has given you this talent, – this great one, – and you shall not hide it, you shall not bury it.” The little girl’s face was so eager, that Nicolo smiled at her.
But she went on, more excitedly: —
“Get up this moment, Nicolo, and come in with me. We will play somewhat together. Your father never scolds you when I am by. And you shall not give up your music.”
The boy, half in earnest, and half amused, let the child drag him into a little house near, put his violin into his arms, and then seat herself at the piano, while in the distance sat Nicolo’s father, gloomily watching the pair.