No and Other Stories Compiled by Uncle Humphrey Part 4

"Just below this opening there was one of the most lordly looking oak trees that I ever saw. It was taller than any of the other trees, and the trunk was so large, that when two of us children stood, one on each side, and reached our arms around it we could only touch the tips of each other's fingers. We had to hurry and get our ground pine, for the days were very short, and it grew dark fast There was plenty of it growing under the trees with another strange-looking evergreen, which ran close to the ground, in long vines with little soft narrow leaves, which felt like fur. The boys called it bear's gra.s.s. I don't think that was the right name, but I never knew any other. After we had trimmed up our caps and bonnets with the early leaves of pine, and made ourselves tippets of the bear's gra.s.s, we hastened back again; but the stars were in the sky, and the Gurnet lights were beaming brightly over the waters, long before we reached our homes.

"After this we went there a great many times, for we were fond of rambling in the woods, and almost everything which is usually found on hilltop or valley, seemed to grow there. There were May flowers, violets and anemonies, in spring time; box, whortle, and black berries, in summer, and acorns and walnuts in autumn.

"One fourth of July, when soldiers were marching about the streets--boys were firing crackers--dogs barking, and every body seemed just ready to run crazy, Alfred, and Charlie, who was but a 'wee bit' of a boy, then, with sister Una and myself, determined to make our escape from this scene of confusion. We took a little basket of provision, with a hatchet and a jug of water, and started for our favorite hollow. Often, in the long winter evenings, we brothers and sisters would sit round the fire, and tell what we would do when we grew up to be men and women. But there was one thing which we always agreed upon, and it was this: that we would all live together, in a little cottage in the woods, where we could have plenty of room to move about in, and do just as we pleased.

Now we thought we had dreamed of this long enough and we determined to have a little of the reality; so, as soon as we reached the hollow, we began to build a bower with the branches which we cut from the trees with our hatchet. We worked away very busily, for a long time, toiling and sweating, yet all the time feeling never so happy. Oh, I do wish that all you children, and a great many more beside, could have been there with us, to see what a nice, pretty place it was, when it was finished. Hiram of Tyre, in his stately palace of cedar, fir, and algum wood, could not have felt prouder or happier than we did, in our little sylvan bower.

"We spread a shawl on the ground, and laid our provisions upon it. Here we sat and sung, and told stories, till we saw a great dark shadow coming down the hill-side; and what do you suppose it was, Thanny?"

"Well I don't know, unless it was a great black bear, coming down to get some of his gra.s.s for supper."

"Oh fie! No. What do you think it was, Nelly?"

"Wasn't it old Pan and Sylva.n.u.s, who were astonished to hear such a noise in their woods?"

"No, you haven't got it right either. What do you say, Janie?"

"Well, I guess it was the shadows of evening, coming down the hill-side."

"That's it--and we were very much surprised to find it so, for the time had pa.s.sed very quickly and pleasantly. We gathered up our things, and started for home. But first we stopped under the old acorn-tree, and sung 'a song to the oak, the brave old oak.' We didn't know the right tune, and so we sung it to the air of 'there is nae luck about the house.' It wasn't the music we cared so much about, as the beautiful words, they were so pretty and appropriate.

"Well, we did not go into the woods much, after this, for we had a great many other things to take up our minds. Charlie and I went to school, and father needed Alfred to help him all the time.

"I have told you how we found the hollow and how much we enjoyed ourselves there; now I will tell you what became of it."

"What became of it! Why! did it catch afire and burn up?"

"No."

"Did it blow away in a strong north wind?"

"No."

"Did it get filled up with dust and dry leaves, or did you forget the way there, and never find it again? What _did_ become of it?"

"Well, let me tell you. It was one of those beautiful spring days--when we feel that we cannot possibly stay at home, and our feet will run away with us, in spite of ourselves--that the old spirit and desire for rambling came over us once more, and away we started for the woods.

'Which way will you go?' said Alfred as we stopped at a place where two roads led in different directions. 'Acorn Hollow,' was the answer of all; and accordingly we went that way. But oh, wonder of wonders! How we stood by the once loved spot, and stared at each other, and rubbed our eyes, and looked again and again. Where were the beautiful trees that grew so closely side by side, intermingling their foliage, and locking their arms together like loving brothers and sisters? Where was the 'brave old oak,' that had stood there with his broad green arms outstretched, and shook his myriad leaves whenever we came, as if he loved us children, and welcomed us to a resting-place in his shadow. And where was the soft green carpet of moss and tender gra.s.s that was spread out so beautifully at the bottom of the hollow? It was all changed, as if the breath of an evil spirit had blown upon it. 'Isn't it too bad!'

we all exclaimed; and after we had given expression to our feelings by these few words, we proceeded to a closer examination. All the trees along the hill-side had been cut down, and little piles of wood were put up, to carry away. The May flowers were all dried up in the sun, and the ground pine and bear's gra.s.s were as sere and yellow as the autumn leaves. Down in the bottom of the hollow, the turf had been cut up and carried off, and there lay the bones of an old horse bleaching in the sun. There was only a little stump left of the acorn tree, with a few withered branches. 'Isn't it a sin, and a shame!' said Alfred, indignantly. 'I never want to come here again,' murmured Charlie; and I sat down on the stump and cried. If all the world had been looking at me I couldn't have helped it.

"Then I thought how strangely everything was changing around me. Nothing appeared the same to me, save the sun and stars and the broad blue sea.

Father and mother, brothers and sisters, and the great world itself, were all changing. I too was changed. Time and study, with daily trial, were making me an altogether different being from what I had been, and I knew that the finger of the Almighty was writing lessons upon my heart, which I could never forget; no, not through all eternity. I wept; and then a truth--a great and a good one--rose in my heart, like the morning star, for I knew, at that moment, that all these changes were but the lessons which the angel teachers are giving us, to fit us for higher duties in the world to come. The memory of that beautiful spot is as fresh and fair in my heart as ever, and the lesson which I learned there has had a blessed influence upon my life; for now, when I feel sad and disheartened, I strive to keep my eye fixed on the great point to which we all tend, forgetting the little sorrows that lie between. And I hear the calm sweet voice of him who died on Calvary, saying, 'fear not; I am thy friend and brother. I too have dwelt in the flesh and know its conflicts and trials; trust in me, for I am the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever.'

"Hark! don't I hear the clock strike?--eight, nine, ten. O, naughty children! when I only came in here to stop ten minutes; and now you have kept me here till ten o'clock! Only think how dark it is, and what a long way over to the green. I guess you will be sorry, if you should hear, in the morning, that I had walked off the bridge into the mill-brook, or fallen into the cistern on the Green."

"Oh aunt Lissa! as if there wasn't any fence to the bridge, and a cover on the cistern, with a stone on it. You needn't try to frighten us in that way."

"Well then, let me go, lest grandmother should feel frightened; but first you must pay me for telling you a story."

"Well, how much do you ask?"

"Oh, not much; only a kiss from each of you."

"That you may have and welcome, and as many as you please."

"Good night."

INDUSTRY AND IDLENESS.

The necessity of cultivating industrious habits in early youth was never more fully exemplified than in the case of two girls, daughters of the same mother, who were born in a village about forty miles from the city of Boston.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Mary and Sophia had the advantage of a mother who was herself full of enterprise and energy, and who having been left a widow, and knowing that the success of her children depended mainly on their own conduct, strove to bring them up to habits of industry. Sophia, the younger of the two sisters, inherited much of her mother's tact and vivacity. When the elder persons of the family were engaged in any domestic employment, she delighted to watch their movements; and they, being pleased with this mark of early promise, never failed to instruct her in the duties of a housewife. She learned rapidly under their tuition, and as she never thought she knew too much to learn, she thrived greatly; so that when she became old enough to be married, she was fully acquainted with all the branches of domestic business. She knew what implements to use, and she had a dexterous way of using them, which not only helped to forward the business of the day, but also gave much pleasure to those persons who saw with what grace and ease she performed her labor. She married a worthy young man, who never ceased to admire her, because his house was always in order, his meals were on the table at the exact hour, and her dress was always arranged with a regard to neatness and to beauty, and the most perfect cleanliness reigned from one end of the house to the other.

With regard to her sister Mary, I regret that I have too much reason to speak otherwise. Although Mary knew very well that her fortune, for good or for evil, depended wholly upon herself, yet she thought it unnecessary to take any pains to acquire industrious habits, or to learn the business of housekeeping. While she was yet a very little girl, she was obstinate and self-willed, and thought herself too good to work, or to learn any useful art. While the rest of the family were engaged in necessary labor, she was amusing herself; and if called upon to do the least thing, she complained bitterly as if some great injury had been done to her. She thought it very much beneath her to learn to sew or to make bread, or to milk one of the cows, and could talk half an hour and make very fine excuses in order to get rid of any such little exercise.

When she was twelve years old, she supposed that she was born to be a lady, and she took this notion into her head, merely because she did not know how to do a single useful thing. If her mother or sisters said anything to her about her dress, which was never put on as it should be, or about her hair, which was never done up neatly, she flouted at them with disdain, and said that clothes did not make the woman; which was very true of itself, but nevertheless, neatness in dress is always required to make a respectable woman. One may be ever so poor and may have ever so little clothing, but one can always tell by a girl's appearance, what is to be laid to the account of poverty, and what is to be laid to the account of s.l.u.ttishness.

Mary grew up in this way, and as she did not improve herself by useful occupation, she found other employments which did her no good. She read every foolish and extravagant story and novel which give false ideas of life, and which poison the mind by unreasonable views of love and of married life. She now thought that she was becoming very accomplished, but no young man who knew her history desired to unite himself with such a partner. At last, however, a stranger who entirely misapprehended her character offered her his hand, and she professed to love him very much.

But her professions were all frothy and vain; for she had read so many extravagant fictions, and knew so little of real life, that she did not know her own mind, and supposed that she was very much in love, when she did not even know how to form a serious attachment. The man whom she married was very respectable and well disposed, and if he had married a smart and industrious woman would have succeeded well in the world. But Mary had never been either smart or industrious, and she seemed to suppose that now she was married there was no necessity for doing anything. When her husband complained that it was hard to live, she only smiled, and said that she knew if she were a man she could get along well enough, and that every man ought to expect, as a matter of course, to support his family. Such talk as this did not comfort him, as he was daily laboring very hard to maintain his family, for his wife had one daughter, and he thought that his companion ought to take an interest in his misfortunes. But she had no regard for the cares and troubles of her husband. She thought that it was bad enough for her to be debarred from riding in a coach, and putting on rich clothing, and she often complained that she could not lead the life of a lady. As their family increased, her husband found that she possessed no tact at all. He would have hired a housekeeper had he been able, in order that his wife might lounge about and read novels all day: he would also have employed some person to dress her, as her clothing was always put on in so negligent a manner that he was ashamed to invite a friend to his house. But Mary imagined that she had a very hard time, because she could not be a lady, and she a.s.sociated with some idle, gossipping women, who encouraged her to find fault with her husband, because he could not put her into a palace. Her husband never could have his meals ready betimes, and when he went home to his dinner, the breakfast dishes were found still unwashed upon the table. Mary's children were pretty and healthy, but having been always allowed to go dirty and ragged, they were treated with contempt by all decent children. These things wore upon her husband's mind more and more, until he left his family in despair, and never returned to them again. Mary is now in the poor house; for, being too idle to work, and never having learned how to support herself, it could not be expected that she should provide honestly for her family.

n.o.body pities her, and there are many who ask her how she likes being a lady, and who joke her about riding in her coach. Such is the fatal effect of forming idle habits early in life.

ENVY.

I once knew two little girls who attended the same school and occupied the same bench, yet who were entirely unlike each other in disposition, so that while Martha was beloved by all who knew her, Mary was as generally disliked. Martha was gentle, kind and affectionate; but Mary was of a very different spirit Her chief fault was _envy_, and so much did she indulge this base pa.s.sion that she was unhappy whenever she heard one of her little school-mates praised. She was very unkind to Martha, for she envied her the ease with which her lessons were committed to memory, and more than all else she envied her the love of her kind teacher. Therefore she wished to injure Martha, and to take away that love.

One day Mary, being, according to her usual custom, idle, amused herself with tearing and defacing her books. After spending some time in this manner, she took them to her teacher, and with many loud complaints, told her that Martha had thus injured them. She hoped that Martha would have been punished, and that her school-mates would not love her so well, but would believe that she had done so wrong an action.

But it was not so. The teacher did not believe Mary's complaint, and when Martha said she was innocent, she knew that it was so, for truth was in her heart. Then one of the little girls said that she had seen Mary herself injuring the books, and the wicked child was defeated in the plan that she had formed.

After this, none of the children would talk or play with Mary, and she soon left the school. None regretted her absence, for all said, "What a pity that so sweet a name should be accompanied by so ungentle a spirit."

Now this little girl had many faults, but I think that the one wherein she most erred was envy. We have seen how this fault led her to commit many sins. It led her to unkindness, falsehood, and disgrace. And however trivial the circ.u.mstance I have related may appear, yet it early stamped upon my mind a lesson which after years have not effaced. May it bear to some young hearts the same lesson--_beware of envy_.

CONCLUSION.

And now, my dear readers, we have come to the last page in this little volume; and that its precepts may abide in all your hearts, is the sincere desire of your friend,

UNCLE HUMPHREY.