Happy Days for Boys and Girls

Such a pretty picture she made, too, with her light shawl draped gracefully over her shoulders, her kerchief and cap so snowy, and her sweet face so full of God’s love and his divinest peace!

In her hands she held the gold beads, and there was something very like tears in her gray eyes, for the necklace had a history that only grandma knew – she and one other, whose face that night was far away where they need no light of the moon, nor of the sun, for God is the light of the place.

“Come here, Daisy,” she said, presently. “Come to grandma.”

The little creature flew like a bird, for she loved the sound of that dear old voice; and besides, Daisy was a happy child that night, and in her heart the singing-birds of content and joy kept up a merry music of their own.

Grandma Ellis threw the little necklace over Daisy’s head as she came toward her, and lifting her to her knee and kissing her glad eyes said, speaking low and softly,

“That is for my Daisy to keep always, for grandma’s sake. It is not just the ornament for your little dear neck in these days, but keep it always, because grandma loved it and gave it to her darling that would not deceive her, even for the sake of flying Jimmy Martin’s kite at the picnic.”

Then Daisy was sure grandma knew all about her sad temptation, and how she had coveted the bright gold beads for just one little day. Now they were to be hers for ever, and half for shame, half for very joy, Daisy hid her curly head in grandma’s bosom and sobbed aloud.

“Hush, darling!” grandma said; “we are all tempted to do wrong sometimes, and the dear Father in heaven suffers this to be that we may grow stronger through resistance. Now, if you had yielded to the voice of pride and desire this morning, do you think you could have been happy to-day, even with the necklace and flying Jimmy’s kite?”

“No, no! Oh, grandma, forgive me!” sobbed the little voice from grandma’s bosom.

“Yes, dear, as I am sure God does, who saw how you were sorely tried and surely conqueror. Kiss me good-night now; and when you have said your ‘Now I lay me,’ add, ‘Dear Father, help grandma’s Daisy to be good and happy always.’”

An hour later, with the gold beads still about her neck, Daisy in her little bed was dreaming of the beautiful fields and flowers that are for ever fadeless in the land we name eternal; and the blessed angels, guarding her slumber and seeing the smile upon her happy lips, were glad because of Daisy’s temptation, for they knew that the dear child would be stronger and purer and better because she had overcome.

ANSWER TO A CHILD’S QUESTION

DO you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say “I love and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent, the wind is so strong;
What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving, all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings and he sings, and for ever sings he,
“I love my love, and my love loves me.”

WHAT NELLY GAVE AWAY

NELLY RAY was a bright, brave-hearted little girl, whom no one could help loving.

Singing like a lark in the morning, wearing sweet smiles on her face all day, cheerful even when the shadows fell, it would have been strange indeed if her humble home had not seemed like a bit of paradise, and the ground under her feet had not blossomed like the rose.

It was a pleasant day in the early spring, when the grass was just lifting itself above the moist earth, when the soft south wind was blowing among the tender little leaves of the lilac bushes, when the birds were busy building their nests, when the merry little brook was beginning its song and the great round world looked glad and bright, that Nelly began to make her garden.

Her father had dug the ground and made it ready for her, and so she took her little red basket full of seeds of different kinds, each kind tied up by itself and labelled, and down in the little beds she dropped candy-tuft, and phlox, and lady-slippers.

How happy she was at her work! Her cheeks were the color of ripe peaches, her eyes were as sweet as twin violets, and her little mouth was like a fresh rosebud, but better and brighter far than the cheeks and lips was the light of kindness that shone in her eyes.

Her sister Jennie, who sat sewing by the window, watched her with loving interest.

“Mother,” she said, at length, looking up from her work, “do you know what a generous little girl our Nelly would be if she was only a rich man’s child?”

“Is she not generous now, Jennie?” asked her mother.

“Oh yes, surely she is. But I was thinking how much good she would do, and how much she would give away, if only we were not poor.”

She saw that her mother was smiling softly to herself.

“She gives away more now, of course, than some rich children do. Just think how faithfully she works in that little garden, so as to have flowers to give away! I do not believe there is a house anywhere near us into which sickness or poverty comes where her simple flowers will not go.”

“Did you ever think, dear Jennie, of the other garden which Nelly weeds and waters every day?”

“No, mother. What garden do you mean?”

“The garden of her heart, my dear child. You know that the rain which the clouds take from the lakes and rivers comes back to refresh and beautify our fields and gardens; and so it is with our little Nelly’s good deeds and kind, loving words. She gives away more than a handful of violets, for with them goes a bright smile, which is like sunshine to the sick heart. She gives more than a bunch of roses, for with them always goes a kind word. And doing these little things, she gets a large reward. Her own heart grows richer.”

A STRANGE COMBAT

WE are told that the old Romans greatly delighted in witnessing the combats of wild beasts, as well as gladiators, and that they used to ransack their whole broad empire for new and unheard-of animals – anything and everything that had fierceness and fight in it. Those vast amphitheatres, like the Coliseum, were built to gratify these rather sanguinary tastes in that direction.

But I doubt whether even the old Romans, with all their large experience, ever beheld so strange and grotesque a “set-to” (I’m pretty sure none of our American boys ever did) as the writer once stumbled upon, on the shores of one of our Northern Maine lakes – Lake Pennesseewassee, if you can pronounce that; it trips up editors sometimes.

I had been spending the day in the neighboring forest, hunting for a black squirrel I had seen there the evening before, having with me a great, red-shirted lumberman, named Ben – Ben Murch. And not finding our squirrel, we were making our way, towards evening, down through the thick alders which skirted the lake, to the shore, in the hope of getting a shot at an otter, or a mink, when all at once a great sound, a sort of quock, quock, accompanied by a great splashing of the water, came to our ears.

“Hush!” ejaculated Ben, clapping his hand to his ear (as his custom was), to catch the sound. “Hear that? Some sort of a fracas.”

And cautiously pushing through the dense copse, a very singular and comical spectacle met our eyes. For out some two or three rods from the muddy, grassy shore stood a tall, a very tall bird, – somewhere from four to five feet, I judged, – with long, thin, black legs, and an awkward body, slovenly clad in dull gray-blue plumage. The neck was as long as the legs, and the head small, and nearly bare, with a long, yellowish bill. Standing knee deep in the muddied water, it was, on the whole, about the most ungainly-looking fowl you can well imagine; while on a half-buried tree trunk, running out towards it into the water, crouched a wiry, black creature, of about average dog size, wriggling a long, restless tail, and apparently in the very act of springing at the long-legged biped in the water. Just now they were eying each other very intently; but from the splashed and bedraggled appearance of both, it was evident there had been recent hostilities, which, judging from the attitude of the combatants, were about to be renewed.

“Show!” exclaimed Ben, peering over my shoulder from behind. “An old hairn– ain’t it? Regular old pokey. Thought I’d heered that quock before. And that creatur’? Let’s see. Odd-looking chap. Wish he’d turn his head this way. Fisher – ain’t it? Looks like one. Should judge that’s a fisher-cat. What in the world got them at loggerheads, I wonder?”

By “hairn” Ben meant heron, the great blue heron of American waters —Ardea Herodias of the naturalists. And fisher, or fisher-cat, is the common name among hunters for Pennant’s marten, or the Mustela canadensis, a very fierce carnivorous animal, of the weasel family, growing from three to four feet in length, called also “the black cat.”

The fisher had doubtless been the assailant, though both had now that intent, tired-down air which marks a long fray. He had probably crept up from behind, while old long-shanks was quietly frogging along the shore.

But he had found his intended victim a game one. The heron had a character to sustain; and although he might easily have flown away, or even waded farther out, yet he seemed to scorn to do either.

Not an inch would it budge, but stood with its long, javelin-like beak poised, ready to strike into the fisher’s eye, uttering, from moment to moment, that menacing, guttural quock, which had first attracted our attention.

This sound, mingling with the eager snarling and fretting of the cat, made the most dismal and incongruous duet I had ever listened to. For some moments they stood thus threatening and defying each other; but at length, lashing itself up to the proper pitch of fury, the fisher jumped at his antagonist with distended jaws, to seize hold of the long, slender throat. One bite at the heron’s slim neck would settle the whole affair. But this attempt was very adroitly balked by the plucky old wader’s taking a long step aside, when the fisher fell into the water with a great splash, and while struggling back to the log, received a series of strokes, or, rather, stabs, from the long, pointed beak, dealt down with wonderful swiftness, and force, too; for we distinctly heard them prod into the cat’s tough hide, as he scrambled upon the log, and ran spitting up the bank. This defeat, however, was but temporary, as any one acquainted with the singular persistence and perseverance of the whole weasel family will readily guess. The fisher had soon worked his way down the log again, the heron retiring to his former position in the water.

Another succession of quocks and growlings, and another spring, with even less success, on the side of the cat. For this time the heron’s bill wounded one of his eyes; and as he again retreated up the log, we could see the bloody tears trickling down over his shaggy jowl.

Thus far the battle seemed favorable to the heron; but the fisher again rallied, and, now thoroughly maddened, rushed down the log, and leaped blindly upon his foe. Again and again his attacks were parried. The snarling growls now rose to shrieks, and the croaking quocks to loud, dissonant cries.

“Faugh!” muttered Ben. “Smell his breath – fisher’s breath – clean here. Always let that out somehow when they’re mad.”

Even at our distance, that strong, fetid odor, sometimes perceptible when a cat spits, could plainly be discerned.

“Old hairn seems to be having the best of it,” continued Ben. “I bet on him. How cool he keeps! Fights like a machine. See that bill come down now! Look at the marks it makes, too!” For the blood, oozing out through the thick fur of the cat in more than a dozen spots, was attesting the prowess of the heron’s powerful beak.