MY MOCKING-BIRD.
But you should see her when Mornie—that's the homely bird's name—makes up his mind to sing. She retires to the most distant corner of her cage, curls herself up in a still little heap, puts her head on one side, and listens without the flutter of a feather. Either I imagine it or there really does come a sad look in her eyes, as though she thought she would give all the yellow in her lovely tail if she could sing like that.
Oh, how he sings! Sometimes like a canary, sometimes like a wood-robin in a spring morning, sometimes like the true mate of the pretty little goldfinch herself. In fact, like any bird that he has ever heard; springing the notes from one style of music to another much more quickly than a young Miss at the piano can change her music, and begin again.
A mischievous bird is this Mornie of mine. In addition to his musical powers, he can cackle exactly like a hen; and when Mollie, my little errand girl, first came to live with me, Mornie kept her half the time running to see which hen had laid an egg, so sure was she that she would find a fresh one.
Then, no sooner does Tom go to sawing wood in the back-yard, than Mornie begins her "Screak! Screak! Screak!" so exactly like the sound which the saw makes, that you would be almost certain to think Tom had moved his work to the side piazza where Mornie hangs. Very often he wakens in the middle of the night and gives us a song. But there is this queer thing about him then. All his fun seems to be gone. Whether he is lonely and homesick or not, I do not know, but the plaintive little note that belongs to him is all he sings in the night.
That is not the time, he thinks, for mocking anybody.
I have some trouble in preparing his food for him; he is really very dainty, unlike my goldfinch. He is very fond of raw meat chopped fine; and indeed must have it, or he would lose his health. Mush and milk is also a favorite dish of his; at least, that is what we call it, though the meal is not cooked like our mush, but stirred raw into the milk.
Then, too, he must have his fresh fruit in its season. Strawberries are his special favorites, but he will kindly condescend to eat any fruit that he can get after strawberries are gone. Still, you need not suppose that his tastes are all so dainty. He is by no means above eating a good-sized grasshopper or beetle, and a fat worm now and then he considers a special dainty.
Now I have taken a good deal of pains to inquire into the character and habits of mocking-birds, and I find that mine is not an unusual one, but is quite like his race; so that if you think of getting such a bird for a pet, you may safely feed him as I do mine, and expect him to act very much as Mornie does.
He and all his class are very brave when they have any young birds to defend; they have been known to kill snakes by darting at their eyes and biting, and by striking them sharp blows on the head with their beaks. It is said that even cats discover that it is wise to keep away from the pretty little nest where young mocking-birds are being reared; if they don't, the fierce father bird will dart at them and pick their eyes out.
My cat Tabby has learned by some means that she is not to have any thing to do with Mornie; I never taught her, so I think he has explained it to her. By the way, another accomplishment he has is to bark like a dog. Tabby, who is mortally afraid of dogs, went around half the time with her back arched like a bow, when Mornie first came into the house; but she has learned now, that the bark which she dreads comes from the bird in the cage; and if she is awakened suddenly from a nap, and begins to arch her back in fear, she remembers in a trice, and goes off under the barn to feel ashamed.
Isn't it a wonder that Mornie never tries to talk? Perhaps he does try, but he never succeeds. I often feel sorry for him, to think that when he knows so much, he cannot learn to speak one little word. However, he gives me a great deal of pleasure with his music; as much as goldfinch does with her pretty ways and her gay dress; both of them are cheerful and happy all day long, and do just as well as they know how. Without any judgment, or reason, or soul, each contrives to do well and joyfully just what God wants him to do.
["LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"]
MEN, women, children, rich and poor, black and white, are hurrying into the post-office, and pressing close up to the delivery window. Some are expecting letters from distant friends.
That old man you see standing nearest the window, has been coming for a long time. He gets nothing, yet keeps coming.
He had a son once, whom he brought up very tenderly. He was an only child and was dearly loved. But the boy had a bad companion who led him astray. Once he enticed him into a saloon and to drink. He was carried back to his father drunk.
Do you wonder the poor father was heart-broken, and that he spoke severe words.
But the boy instead of being ashamed and begging his father's forgiveness, became very angry, and after a little, gathered all he had into a bundle, and without a word of farewell slipped away one dark night, where no one could tell.
When the father awoke the next morning and learned that his boy had gone, his grief knew no bounds. He wrote letters in all directions and put notices in a great many newspapers about his lost son. And he travelled many hundred miles in search of him. But all to no purpose.
He thinks he is somewhere in Mexico. Poor old man! In the last few months he has grown gray very fast. I don't think he will come here many more mornings asking for news from his lost Henry. Death will come and take him to the arms of Jesus, I trust, and maybe then he will get some good word about his wandering boy.
How are you treating your parents and your Heavenly Father?
Standing next to this old man is a boy nine years old. His mother has sent him to see if a letter has come yet from his father. Not long ago this father joined the army and went a thousand miles away to the West to fight the wild Indians.
But not a word has come from him. Many battles have been fought with the savages, and the papers say that some of the soldiers have been shot down.
Sometimes the soldiers wander away from the camp and while every thing seems so safe around them, suddenly the crack of a rifle is heard, and a bullet from an Indian gun speeds through the soldier's heart.
Or maybe he finds his way to a saloon and becomes drunk, and quarrels, and is killed, and his friends far-away at the East, expecting some day to welcome back a brave soldier, hear no more from him. I suppose whisky kills a great many more than war.
I am so glad this dear child does not know what dreadful thing has happened to his father, or his face would not be so sunny.
Next to this child is a lady. She is richly dressed and seems very cheerful. She is laughing and talking with the gentleman near her. She tells him she expects good news from her husband who is in Europe. But, see! There comes a letter for her, and there's a black border about it. She turns pale and trembles, and can hardly command herself enough to break it open. I wonder what it says; she has hurried away weeping and groaning.
And now the crowd presses on. The clerk says to this one and that, "Nothing for you!" "Nothing for you!" "Pass along there!" "Don't block up the way!" But there comes a rough-looking man. Wonder if he really expects any one will write him a letter.
Yet the clerk hands him out one, large and handsomely addressed. How astonished the man is. He blushes and shuffles away to a corner by himself, and after trying a long time he brings forth a great fine parchment. But, poor man! He can't read. He looks around the room for help. His eye rests upon me.
"Sir, will you be so kind as to give me the meaning of this paper? I'm a poor man without education, sir."
I take the large letter. It is from Europe, written by a lawyer, and it says that one of this man's relatives has died and left him five hundred pounds.
[A QUEER KIND OF SALT.]
THEY had been gathered around uncle Dick, who had just come back from the Old World.
The children all thought this a very queer name, all except Mary, the eldest, who thought she knew a little bit more than anybody else. She told her mother in triumph, that she "got ahead of Lucy Jones the other day, in geography, on the question: 'What is the Old World?'"
And little five-year-old Rose said that she "Fought it was queer it s'ould be older'n any ovver one; s'e dessed zis world was mos' sixty years old!"
But to go back to my story. Mamma came in and said:
"Children, you must go to bed now. I declare, if Rose isn't asleep already over the statue of Milton!"
So with their thoughts full of Milton, they reluctantly went to bed, and I am led to suppose that they dreamed of Milton that night. The next day at dinner they had corn-beef.
"Oh, dear!" said mamma. "This meat has too much saltpetre in it. I declare, I will never buy of that meat-man again!"
After dinner the children gathered around uncle Dick.
"Uncle," said Willie, getting up on uncle's knee, "what was that mamma said the meat had too much of in? Salt—"
"Why, Willie Lathrop!" exclaimed Mary. "It is saltpetre. You ignorant boy; I'm ashamed of you!" Mary was very much ashamed of Willie sometimes, and sometimes he had reason to be ashamed of her.
"What is saltpetre, then, Mary?" said uncle Dick.
"Why, wh-y, wh-y—it's saltpetre. That's all I know."
"Then you see that after all you don't know so much," said he.
Perhaps this was unkind, but he did not mean it to be so.
"Do tell us about it," said the children, all except Mary, she had gone over in the corner of the sofa.
"Well," continued uncle Dick, "when I was in India, it lay all over the ground like the snow here in winter, (only not so thick) in some parts of the country—kind of salt. When tasted it has a cooling, but bitter taste. About an inch of the earth is taken up and put in large tanks something like that you saw at Long Branch last summer (only not near so large) full of water, and soaked there. The water is then taken out, and the saltpetre is found in the bottom of the tanks. The most that we use comes from the East Indies. It is sometimes called nitre. In a great many places it is also found in caves."
"Well, now," said mamma, who had come in during the conversation, "that's something I never knew before."
"Nor I either," said Mary.
"But you know a little more about it than you did awhile ago, don't you?"
This from uncle Dick.
"How queer!" said Freddie and Willie.
[JOSEPH AND RICHARD.]
TWO boys about whom I think you will like to hear. Great friends they were, and schoolmates. If you had lived a few years earlier, and had been sent to London to school, you might have attended the school known as the "Charterhouse," and sat beside Joseph and Richard. I wonder if you would have liked them? They were very unlike each other. Joseph was a quiet, handsome, well-behaved boy, who always had his lessons, always did very nearly what was right, and always took a prize, sometimes two or three of them. But poor Richard was forever getting into trouble. A good-natured, merry boy who did what he happened to think of first, "just for fun," and sometimes spent hours in bitter repentings afterwards.
Yet in spite of their being so different, as I told you, the two boys were great friends, and in vacations, Joseph used to take wild Richard home with him to the minister's house; for his father was a clergyman.
Well, the years passed on, and the two boys became young men and went to college together. Perhaps you think you will hear now that the fun-loving boy became a great scholar, and the sober Joseph grew tired of study! Not a bit of it; they kept just about as far apart as when they were children. Joseph was a scholar and a poet; Richard slipped along somehow, contriving to study very little.
Why am I telling you about them? Why, because I know you like to get acquainted with people, and these are not boys put into a story—they actually lived, and were just such persons as I have been describing. It is time you heard their full names: Joseph Addison and Richard Steele. Stop just here and look carefully at their pictures. Yes, they lived a good while ago, their style of dress would tell you so much.
It is a little more than two hundred years since they were born. If you want to be very particular about it, I might tell you that Richard was born in 1671 and Joseph in 1672.
When they were quite through with school life, among other things that they did, they published together a paper called "The Tattler." I suppose you never saw a paper quite like it. "Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff" was the imaginary name of a person, who, according to this paper, went everywhere and saw every thing and told his story in "The Tattler" to amuse and instruct other people. After two years the two friends changed the name and style of their paper. They called it "The Spectator," and in it a delightful man was made to visit all the interesting places in and about London, and elsewhere, and tell the most interesting things that took place.
