[to be continued.]
[MR. THOMPSON AND A BIRD WITH A LANTERN.]
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
"Pooh!" said Mr. Thompson, after examining a dark lantern I had purchased for the skating season—"pooh! there is nothing new about a dark lantern; they are very common. Why, down on Long Island, where I spent last summer, even the birds carry them."
As I was about to exclaim, he interrupted me with:
"Not all the birds, of course; but there is a kind of heron, a Qua bird—a mighty intelligent fellow he is, too. He carries a lantern when he goes fishing at night—'fire-lighting,' you know. A nice bird, and a bright talker."
"Did you talk with him?" I ventured to ask.
"Of course I did. Long talk. Funny time. I'll tell you about it," replied Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly.
I will not try to repeat the story in Mr. Thompson's own language, for his sentences are somewhat disconnected, but the gist of it is as follows:
Mr. Thompson lay on the shore of a little creek down on the east end of Long Island. He had fled from the farm-house where he was boarding, partly on account of the heat, but principally to escape the sewing circle which met at the house that evening. He had been lying on the bank for some time, and was just beginning to feel cold, when he saw two queer-looking lights bobbing along the shore, and moving toward him.
"Somebody trying to steal Farmer Brown's oysters," he murmured, and prepared to give the intruders a good scare. But the lights came so slowly that his mind wandered off, and he was only aroused from his musings when he heard a peculiar voice near the shore remark:
"It's a man, but he's asleep, and he hasn't any gun."
"Hack!" replied the other, in a guttural tone; "he couldn't hit us if he had a gun."
"No," said the first. "He's a pretty good sort. I've seen him before, and he don't go shooting much."
Just at this moment the cold was too much for Mr. Thompson, and he gave way to a prolonged "Achew!"
"Hark!" screamed both voices. Then one remarked:
"He's a nice man," and he spoke then almost like one of the noble family of Ardea. "Say!" he continued, addressing Mr. Thompson, "what did you come out here for?"
Mr. Thompson was not surprised at having them speak to him, and he answered, politely,
"I came into the country to escape the heat of the city."
"Just what we came from Florida for."
Mr. Thompson looked carefully at the two speakers, and could see dimly outlined against the water the dark forms of two birds. They had long legs and necks, and long sharp bills. Mr. Thompson immediately concluded from their appearance, and the reference to the family of Ardea, that they were a species of heron.
The birds noticed Mr. Thompson's look, and one of them said, kindly,
"I suppose that you want to have a good look at us, so I'll just light my lantern, and introduce myself," saying which he threw aside the long feathers on his breast, and disclosed a ball of light, very much like that which is seen on the common fire-fly. This light he obligingly turned full upon his companion, while the other performed the same office for him. In the flood of pale phosphorescent light Mr. Thompson was able to see them perfectly.
The first speaker was about three feet high, with a black head and back, and tail and wings of ashy blue; his legs and bill were long like a crane's, and his throat and breast were cream white; on the top of his head were three long white feathers. His companion was the same, with the exception of the feathers on the head. After Mr. Thompson had looked at them for a few minutes, the one with the plumes on his head said: "Now, I suppose that you would like to know our names. In Florida and the Southern States we are called Qua birds; in Virginia they call us Lamp-lighters; when we come up here to Long Island, we are Quaks; and if we go further north, into Connecticut, they add an s, and call us Squaks. But we don't like those appellations: our proper name is Ardea Nycticorax. I am Mr. Nycticorax, and this is my wife, Mrs. N."
Mr. Thompson bowed gallantly, and introduced himself as Mr. John Thompson, of New York. Then he continued: "I don't like to be inquisitive, but your having a lantern makes me peculiarly interested in you; would you mind telling me something about yourself?"
"Certainly not," answered the bird: "I should be most happy to do so. I was born in Florida. We live there in great villages of five or six thousand families, and we generally take a trip every summer for our health. We stop along by the way, and some prefer to spend the summer in one place and some in another, so you see that by the time we get here we are pretty well scattered. When we get here we go to housekeeping. But," he added, deftly snapping up a fish in his long bill, and tossing it to Mr. Thompson, "just eat that, and I'll show you the rest."
Mr. Thompson swallowed the fish without thinking. In a moment he began to experience the most peculiar sensations. His neck began to stretch, his nose to elongate, his hands and arms became covered with feathers. Almost before he knew it he was a full-grown Quak.
"Now," remarked Mr. Nycticorax, "you look something like other people. If you will just follow me, I will introduce you to some of my friends who are keeping house over here in the woods. Come."
"Come," urged Mrs. Nycticorax, and the two flapped their wings and flew rapidly over toward the woods. Mr. Thompson followed, and soon they alighted on the top branch of a tall tree. Just beneath them was a large nest built of twigs; on it was seated a motley-looking Quak, who welcomed Mr. Thompson cordially.
She raised herself a little, and proudly showed four light green eggs. In another tree was a small family about three weeks old. They could not fly yet, but had climbed out of the nest with the aid of their strong bills and claws, and were perched comfortably on a high limb waiting for their parents to return from a fishing excursion.
After Mr. Thompson had talked for some little time, he suddenly remembered that his friends at the farm-house would be worried at his prolonged absence. As he was about to excuse himself, his friend said, "I will go back with you as far as where we first met."
Soon they were again on the shore of the creek, and Mr. Nycticorax was saying good-night, when Mr. Thompson detained him.
"One more question," said that unwearied searcher after knowledge. "What is your lantern composed of?"
"Some kind of phosphorus or other," replied the bird, and at the same time threw back his breast feathers.
Mr. Thompson stretched out his hand to feel of it.
"Ouch! you tickle!" screamed the bird, and flew away. At the same moment Mr. Thompson felt some one grasp his shoulder, and a familiar voice remarked,
"Wa'al, now, I reckon you've ketched a powerful cold, sleepin' here." It was 'Lisha, one of the farm hands.
Mr. Thompson insists that he did not go to sleep; but his fellow-boarders are rather inclined to believe 'Lisha's statement, to the effect that "Mr. Thompson was a-sneezin' and a-snorin', and a-snorin' and a-sneezin'; and ef I hadn't waked him up, he'd 'a ketched his death."
Certain it is that Mr. Thompson has suffered with a tremendous cold in the head ever since.
"WINTER."—From a Painting by Laura Alma Tadema.
["THINK AND THANK."]
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
"Granny, please tell me more about my father," pleaded a little voice in the gathering darkness.
"Ah, child, it hurts me to talk of him. The sea has been his bed, I doubt not, this many a long day."
"But you were telling me how blithe and brave he was, and what merry songs he sang. What made him go to sea?"
"All lads think they can do well on the water. They tire of the fields and the plough. But your father was no fool to think a sailor's life an easy one. He did not go until your mother died, and then he was not brave enough to bear sorrow as we poor women have to do."
The child asked no more, but knit away at the stocking her grandmother had set up for her.
Presently the old woman said, with a shiver: "It's growing cold; there's snow in the air. Put some more sticks on, Peggy."
The child arose and made a pretense of adding to the fire, for there was no more wood, and she had not the heart to say so. Then taking off a little shawl from her shoulders, she put it about those of her granny.
But the old woman had that keenness of perception which is so often a merciful compensation to the blind.
"Child," she said, "you are robbing yourself. The warmth of your own little heart is in this shawl. Is there no more wood?"
"No more, Granny."
"And the flour, does it hold yet, Peggy?"
"It is all gone, Granny; but there's oat-cake enough for the breakfast, and we've a nice sup of porridge on the fire."
"Let us eat it then, and be thankful," said the old woman, solemnly.
The child divided her portion with the cat, and then, with what seemed like careless indifference to the grandmother began to play about the room with her pet.
"Peggy, Peggy, how can you be so light-hearted when we have no food for the morrow?"
Peggy stopped playing, and began to look grave. Suddenly her face lighted up, and she clapped her hands.
"To-morrow is dole-day. Granny; don't you remember? They give out the loaves at church, and your turn began last week."
"Sure enough, yes. To think that I should have lived to be one of the oldest people of the parish, as well as one of the poorest! Ah me!—I who began life so well!"
"And you shall end it well, too. I can do something."
"You remind me much of your father, lassie. You're a brave little woman. God forgive me for despairing!" Then they went to bed as the easiest way to keep warm.
The Sunday was late in dawning. Daylight came slowly, and the weather was cold and windy and cheerless. The old woman wondered to hear her child singing hymns in a high clear voice that had no rhythm of hunger. But Peggy, like the boy who "whistled for want of thought," was singing to keep up her courage. She was hungry, and wished it was afternoon, that they might have their nice loaf of white bread from the church. Then she began to wonder what she should do when the loaf was gone. How would the old cat taste if they killed her for broth? "Oh, what an awful thought!" and then she hugged and kissed her old pussy, and whispered in her ear that she was sorry she had no breakfast for her, and she must hunt for a mouse.
But the day wore on. They went to church, and, after the second service they staid with the other old people to whom the bread was due, and received, besides, several yards of good warm flannel.
Peggy was now in haste to be home. She did not envy the nicely dressed little children in the church-yard, for she was proud to have her dear old Granny lean upon her, and tell her all about the Bruces, from whom the dole of bread had come, and how their family motto was "Think and Thank." Granny said it meant consideration for the poor, and gratitude for everything. But as they neared their cottage, Granny stopped and listened.
"What is it, Granny?"
"I hear a strange step, child."
As she spoke, a man with a big bunch of bananas over his shoulder, and a silk handkerchief in which were golden oranges, stopped at their very door-step.
"Oh, dear Granny, it is a strange man," said Peggy, giving her loaf a little tighter hug.
"We must ask him in to supper, Peggy," said Granny, firmly.
"But, Granny, we've so little," said the child, "I am ashamed."
"Never be that, Peggy, unless you have done wrong. What does the man look like?"
"A traveller; he's brown and funny-looking."
"For the sake of my son, we must be kind to all that sort; but perhaps he can tell me about Tom."
At that moment the man spoke: "Can you give me a night's lodging, madam?"
Granny stood for a moment as if she had become a statue—fixed, immovable. Then with a cry she rushed at the man, and put her trembling fingers on his head and face and hands. Then she fell sobbing on his shoulder, for Tom had come back, her dear son Tom, whom she had so long supposed to be drowned.
And then came a long tale of suffering and shipwreck and privation. Granny in her turn had to tell how she had lost her sight. And then Tom kissed Peggy, whom he had left as a baby, and promised never again to leave her.
Ah, it was a happy time—and how Peggy did enjoy the oranges!—great juicy globes of nectar.
After that there was no more hunger. The cottage looked like a little bower, with its blooming plants, its warm curtains, and its cheerful blaze on the hearth. Peggy had white bread enough and to spare. Her father brought her home a canary and a parrot; the latter she taught to say "Think and Thank," and every time she remembered her thought of making broth of old pussy, she gave her an extra bowl of milk thick with cream.
It may not be generally known that the custom of a weekly dole of bread is still observed in Trinity parish, New York. Sixty-seven loaves of bread are given to the poor every Saturday at St. John's Chapel. A bequest for this purpose was made thirty years ago by John Leake, Esq.
["GOOD-BY, WINTER."]
BY M. D. BRINE.
Good-by, old Winter, good-by once more;
At twelve to-night will your reign be o'er.
We're tired of you and your sleet and snow,
We're tired of hearing your chill winds blow;
We long for breezes that fill the air
With the scent of the Spring-time flowers fair;
We long for meadows where daisies white
Lift up their heads in the warm sunlight,
And where the grasses are nodding all day.
With the Spring-time breezes forever at play.
Good-by, old Winter. We're sorry for you,
But we're glad your season is nearly through.
You brought us plenty of fun, we know,
For sleighing and snow-balling come with snow;
But O for a breath of the Spring-time sweet,
When the earth and the sky in beauty meet!
And O for the trees where the birds all day
Are singing the golden hours away!
Good-by, old Winter; the Spring is near,
And you may sleep for another year.
BARNUM'S SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.