FROM BIRDLAND.
IF we only knew how to understand bird language, I fancy we might be made acquainted with a great many pretty secrets which now they keep to themselves.
I have been reading lately about a gentleman in New York who has a collection of birds, and who makes a study of those who flit about his home in summer. At one time he had a blind sparrow among his collection, and a little bird named Dick seemed to have adopted it. He waited at the door of its house for it to come out, calling it with tender little chirps, and when the blind one finally appeared he would lead the way to the seeds and water.
When his friend was ready to return home to rest Dick would shove him gently along the perch until he was opposite his own door, then give a chirp which seemed to say: “There you are, jump in,” and in would spring the little sparrow, safe at home. Surely Dick ought to be elected as at least an honorary member of the “Helping Hand Society.” What if he hasn’t any hands? He succeeds in being a very efficient helper.
Efil Srednow.
THERE are a few who make their life “a song,”
A silvery call to urge tired souls along,
A clear bell o’er the cope
Of the steep mountain they have had to climb
With such a patience, they have made sublime
The soul’s forlornest hope.
And when these dear ones hidden pass adown
“The other side,” beyond the mountain’s crown,
The silvery tinkling vein
Of gladness comes aback to touch us so—
New courage in our sinking heart doth grow,
We urge us on again.
—Selected.
AN OLD QUACK.
ANGIE’S CROSS.—I.
(Character Studies.)
EVERYBODY said Angie Conran had a “perfectly lovely voice,” extremely well cultivated for one so young. Her music teacher was in the habit of patting her hand in a patronizing way, at the close of almost every lesson, and saying, in broken French: “Mees Angie, you will make what you Americans call a mark in the world; remember I tell you.”
Angie was a member of the choir, and a very faithful one; a member of the “Choral Club,” and practiced early and late to help make it a success. On the particular evening of which I wish to tell you she was seated at the piano, giving a last half-hour of practice to the anthem before she went to rehearsal. Her mother and I sat in the back parlor, where we could have the full benefit of the music. How the exquisite melody filled the room, and how distinctly was every word spoken.
“Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee,
E’en though it be a cross
That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee!”
“That is as good as a recitation,” I said. “How very distinctly Angie speaks her words.”
“Yes,” said the proud mother; “she prides herself on being heard. She says she would never have any pleasure in singing Italian songs; that she would want the words as well as the music to be uplifting. Angie prefers sacred music, I think; her heart seems to echo the sentiment of the words. What she is practicing now is to be sung to-morrow morning, just before the sermon. Our pastor requested it. This is a new arrangement, with solo and quartette, and Angie takes the solo. If the other parts are as beautiful as the soprano, I think it will be lovely. Angie dear, isn’t it time you were going?”
“In a minute, mamma; I want to try this minor strain first.” The sweet, tender sounds filled the room:
“Though like a wanderer,
Daylight all gone,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone.”
“Isn’t that exquisite?” whispered the mother, when the last notes had died away. Then, in almost the same breath, “Angie dear, it is beginning to rain; are you prepared for rain?”
“O, dear, how provoking! No, ma’am, I can’t say I am in the least prepared for it.”
The mother arose and moved toward the music-room. “Why, dear child!” she said, in surprise, “you ought not to have that dress on to-night. Even if it were not a rainy evening it is not suitable to wear to a rehearsal.”
“Why not, pray? ever so many people come to the rehearsals. I want to be as well dressed as I am on Sunday.”
“My dear, that is a pretty evening dress, and the rain will spot it, you know. You would have to wear your gossamer, and that would crush the trimmings. Besides, it doesn’t look at all suitable for this evening. If you were going out to a social gathering you could not dress more than that. Do go and change it, dear; it won’t take you long.”
“I assure you, mamma, it is quite out of the question that I should change my dress now. It is already late; you just said I ought to be going. It was quite a work of art to get this dress on, and I haven’t the least desire to change it; I am not at all afraid of it.”
“But, my dear child, just consider how unsuitable it is. Those laces at the neck and wrists are real, you know, and as fine as cobwebs; you certainly could not dress more than that if you were going to a reception.”
“O, mamma! how absurd. As though anybody would take notice of me, or care whether my laces were real or not. They fit the dress, any way, and as long as I don’t object to them I don’t see why anybody else should.”
“My daughter, your mother objects to them. Moreover, the dress is lower in the neck than you have been wearing all day, and it is quite a cool evening; that in itself should be sufficient to make you change it. I really must insist on your putting on a more proper dress.”
Angie’s pretty fingers came down upon the keys with a crash which made me start in my chair; then she whirled herself about on the music-stool. “Really, mamma,” she said, and the voice was so sharp it hardly seemed possible that it could be the same which had filled the room with melody, “I should think I was old enough to decide what dress to wear; I am almost fifteen, and I think I might have the privilege of choosing my own clothes once in a while.”
“Do not speak in that tone, dear,” said her mother gently. “You shall have all the privileges I can give you; but we haven’t time to discuss it now. Run and slip on your gray cashmere, it is in order; I fixed that place in the sleeve this morning, and brushed it and got it all ready to put on.”
“Mamma Conran! that old gray cashmere. As if I would go out in it to-night! Why, the Barnards come to rehearsal, and the Needhams, and their cousin from New York. The idea of rigging up in that old thing and standing out there to sing, the most prominent person in the choir. I just can’t do it! If I can’t wear the dress I have on I’m not going at all.”
“My daughter, don’t be so foolish; the rehearsal surely doesn’t depend upon the dress you wear. You are wasting time; I cannot think of letting you go in that dress. If I had noticed it before I should have called your attention to it; but I hadn’t the least idea you would think of putting it on. The gray cashmere is entirely suitable, my dear. Your mother has not lost all sense of propriety, even though she is older than fifteen. You must allow yourself to be guided by her. I would not make a scene if I were you, and spoil the beauty of the music you have given us. There is ample time just to slip on another dress. Run along, and I will get out your wraps and have them ready for you when you come down.”
“Mamma, I’m not going to do it. I told you if I had to wear that old cashmere dress I shouldn’t go out of the house to-night, and I meant it. Other girls can wear decent dresses. Carrie Wheeler wears a white silk to rehearsal often, and here I have got to rig up like an old woman and sing the leading part. You don’t know anything about it, mamma; it is so long since you were a girl you don’t realize how girls dress now. I wouldn’t hurt this dress and you know it. It is just too mean for anything. You always spoil my pleasure.”
“Angeline!”—the mother’s gentle voice was growing stern at last—“I cannot allow you to speak to your mother in that way. There are the Wheeler girls coming up the walk now, to call for you. If you will go immediately and change your dress I will explain to them that you will be down in a few minutes.”
A loud, angry cry from Angie, a sound like that from a naughty child who had lost all control of herself, and between the sobs she managed to get out: “I won’t go a single step, and you can tell them so; and you can tell them the reason, if you choose; then they will understand just what hard times I have.” And with another jarring crash of the keys the angry girl left the room, slamming the door after her.
Myra Spafford.
THE SCHOOL-GIRL OF 1830.
THE BLOSSOMVILLE BAND.
ELSIE’S PLAN.—II.
(Something for Mamma.)
“I’M going to stop its raveling,” said Elsie serenely. “I’m going to overcast it, as mother does dress seams, and then line it with Margaret’s dress skirt; that is real strong, and will make it stand up beautifully.”
Sure enough, by dint of patient, painstaking effort, a circle of matting measuring nearly a yard around was cut off, the raw edges “overcast” with a large needle and strong linen thread, then the dress skirt was ripped and carefully smoothed. A journey to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hobbs, the woman who washed and ironed on the same day for this fallen family, was at work. Elsie hinted that it would save her time if Irma would see to the ironing, but at that moment Irma was in the depths of her book, and seemed to be deaf. Back again with her ironed skirt, the yard of matting was laid on the floor, the cloth spread over it and neatly tacked at sides and ends; then the long side seam was sewed, amid statements from Irma that it could not be done, because whose arms could be expected to reach down such a ridiculous cylinder as that to sew! It was hard work. Twice Elsie gave up with a sigh, and once was on the point of going to Margaret for advice, but the strong desire to do the work herself held her, and she actually did accomplish it! To stand the cylinder on one end, and draw with white chalk a “head” for it, and then another a trifle larger for a cover, was comparatively easy. These two were lined by cutting out a circle of cloth three inches larger than the matting circle, running a strong gathering string around the edge, and drawing it up around the matting.
“What is the use of that?” Irma demanded; and upon being informed that it was for strength and also to give something substantial to sew to, she said, with a little sniff, “Such a lot of trouble for what will only be an ugly bungle when you get it done.”
“It will be a bungle that will hold the clothes nicely,” Elsie said merrily.
She was so sure now of succeeding that she could afford to be merry.
The small patient fingers sewed away, and Irma, watching, grew interested in spite of herself. “You are not making a true round for the cover,” she presently exclaimed. “The thing wiggles in and out so, it is hard to make a true circle; you ought to cut a paper pattern first, and work at it until you get it true, then cut the matting by it. Here, I’ll make a pattern for you; and if I were you I would wire the creature around the top; that would make it stay in place.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Elsie said, “and I know just where there is a bit of wire that will do; I’ll run and get it.” She smothered a wee sigh as she went; it was a good plan to cut a pattern, and Irma’s eye for cutting was better than her own, but she had wanted to do this work entirely herself. The pattern was troublesome, but at last a fair circle was made, an edge of matting four inches deep sewed around it, the whole carefully lined, and the thing was done.
“It really looks very well,” Irma said, “and will do to stand in the back hall. That wire around the top was a good scheme.”
“Yes,” said Elsie heartily, “it was.”
Mrs. Harding gave no faint praise the next morning when the matting “hamper,” duly addressed and wrapped, stood close to her seat at table. She examined the workmanship most minutely, declared that the idea was original, and the completed work most useful.
“You have no idea how much more precious it is to me than anything bought with money could possibly be,” she said, kissing again the rosy cheeks of her youngest daughter, while the others looked on, smiling. Then truthful Elsie bethought herself. “Irma helped me,” she said quickly; “she made the circle true, and planned the wire for the top; it would not have been nearly so nice without her help.”
“I didn’t do the least thing, mother, except to cut a paper pattern for her, and to propose that some wire be sewed around the top. She had it nearly done before I said a word. It is all nonsense to say I helped. All I did was to give a little advice.”
The older daughters laughed merrily, for Irma was very fond of giving advice; but Mrs. Harding drew Irma to her side and kissed her lovingly, while she said: “There spoke my truthful girl. She is not going to be commended for what she has not done.”
“Oh! but, mother, she did truly help,” was Elsie’s eager explanation.
“Of course she did,” declared Margaret; “I have seen the time when I needed a little good advice more than any other kind of help.”
Pansy.