I.
"She had on a dress that was silk all over it, an' it was almost as much as you could do to see her hands for the lace an' fringe an' ribbons. She was a good deal handsomer than them wax images in Smith & Jones's store, an' when she bought a paper of pins of me she give five cents, without waitin' for the change."
"Wot's five cents when jest as likely as not she had as much as five dollars in her pocket?" said Johnny Davis, the newsboy, who was sometimes spoken of, and to, by his proper name, but more often as "Water-melon Davis," because of his enormous appetite for the watery fruit.
Johnny spoke almost contemptuously of that which Katy Morrison, the "black-pin girl," considered a piece of good fortune, and if he did not actually turn his nose up in disdain, it was because nature had already so elevated that rather prominent feature of his face that it was impossible for him to get it any higher.
"Well"—and Jimmy Green, Johnny's partner in business, as well as particular friend of Katy's, spoke very slowly, as was customary with him—"five cents ain't to be sneezed at when a feller's only expectin' to get one, an' if Katy could get enough of 'em she'd make three, four dollars a day."
"How I wish I could!" said Katy, enviously, as with her stock of pins in her lap she sat on the door-step of an unoccupied store, her chin resting on one hand as she rattled the pennies in her pocket with the other. "If I could make that much, I'd buy me a whole dress, an' real shoes without any holes in 'em, an'—an'—an' I'd buy a pair of bracelets, that's what I'd do."
"Bracelets!" sneered Johnny, as he folded the paper that was undoubtedly fated to remain on his hands as stale goods from his morning's stock. "It makes me feel almost like gettin' mad, Katy, to hear you talk about buyin' bracelets, when you can get a pair of boxin'-gloves down to Levy's for as much as you'd pay for bracelets."
"Well, I don't know 'bout that," said Jimmy, as he rubbed his chin reflectively. "P'r'aps they'd do her more good than the gloves would, 'cause, you see, Katy don't know nothin' 'bout boxin'."
"Then she oughter learn," was the very decided response from Master Davis. "Girls could box as well as fellers if they'd get somebody to show 'em how."
"But I don't want to learn, an' I do want the bracelets," said Katy, thinking that possibly she had the right to say how this prospective money of hers should be spent. "That's all you boys think about, how you can hurt each other, an' you don't care what you wear nor how you look. I'd like to wear dresses that wasn't all torn, an' I'd like to look the way girls do what have mothers, an' don't have to live in such a old house as we do, an' pay 'most all our money for what Mother Brown calls board an' lodgin'. Then when I want bracelets, you tell me to get boxin'-gloves."
"Well, if you don't want 'em, don't get 'em," said Johnny, philosophically, and looking much as if he fully understood how difficult it is to persuade girls as to just what they really need. "Buy the bracelets, an' then you'll look fine, won't you? sellin' pins fur a cent a paper with a big pair of gold bracelets slippin' down over yer hands every time you try to shy a stick at a dog."
"I never throwed a stick at a dog in my life," said Katy, indignantly; and then she added, quickly, "'cept once, when Dutch Pete cheated me outer two herrin's, an' I hit his dog to get even with him."
"I tell you what it is, fellers," said Jimmy, who had been making mental calculations based upon this argument he had unwittingly started, until he believed he understood it better than either of his companions did: "neither one of you hain't got the money to buy either the bracelets or the gloves, so wot's the use of makin' a fuss over it? When I get a paper stand of my own, I'm goin' to buy Katy everything she wants, an' I ain't goin' to let her sell pins, neither."
"Ain't you kinder tired talkin' 'bout that stand, Jimmy? We've heard 'bout it ever since you an' I was pardners, an' you hain't got no nearer to it now than to owe Mother Brown five cents on last week's board."
Johnny said this in a reproving tone, but it is very probable that he did it more to hide his confusion, caused by his partner's first remark, than for any other purpose, for he was usually careful not to hurt Jimmy's feelings.
"I'll have it jest the same," was the calm reply, and then Jimmy relapsed into another fit of chin rubbing, from which he did not arouse himself until one of his friends in the same line of business rushed up with the startling intelligence that there had been "a big accident on the railroad, an' papers are jest goin' to fly to-night."
It was not until quite a late hour in the afternoon that the three friends, who boarded in the same house, met again after their interview was broken in upon by the news of a probable activity in the newspaper business, and when they did meet both the boys were in the highest possible state of excitement.
The prediction that papers would "fly" had been verified, and more than one of Mother Brown's boarders had been made happy. Particularly was this happiness apparent in Jimmy's case. Even while the rush of trade was at its height he had been thinking of what Katy had said about wearing a dress that was not torn, and as his profits accumulated he conceived a plan so brilliant that he could hardly wait to meet Katy before he explained it.
The stores had been closed, and Katy, finding no customers for her pins, was walking slowly toward the not very cheerful place where Mrs. Brown kept a boarding-house for those children of the streets who have no idea of what home is, save as they see it from the outside, peering curiously in at those more fortunate ones who have a father, mother, home, and everything which goes to make up happiness and content.
She had walked nearly down town—for, as may be imagined, Mrs. Brown's house was not in the most pleasant portion of New York—and she was just beginning to wonder where her friends were, when she saw them coming toward her, looking quite as important and a great deal more satisfied than the most prosperous merchant on the street.
"Say, Katy," shouted Jimmy, while he was yet some distance away, his secret having grown so overpowering in the last few moments that he could hardly keep it until he saw the girl, "I've made a dollar 'n' forty-one cents, an' what d'yer s'pose I'm goin' to do with it?"
"Goin' to start your stand?" and Katy seemed quite as much pleased by the good fortune as Jimmy was.
"NO, SIR; I'M GOIN' TO BUY YOU A NEW DRESS."
"No, sir! I'm goin' to buy you a new dress, after I pay Mother Brown, an' give Tom Brady the cent I owe him. That'll leave me a dollar 'n' thirty-five cents, an' you shall have the best one we can find in the city. I shouldn't wonder if we'd have money enough to get the bracelets too," he added, in the tone of one who is certain, but prefers to let the matter remain in pleasing doubt for a time.
"Oh, Jimmy," cried Katy, in delight, for the thoughts of what she might have if she only had the money had made her very nearly unhappy during the remainder of that afternoon, when trade had been dull, "are you goin' to spend that money for me?"
"Every cent," was the decided reply, as the money was rattled to give greater emphasis to the words.
"But you mustn't, Jimmy," said Katy, as she began to understand that her friend needed it quite as much as she did. "You can get your stand with that, an' I can wear this dress as well as not."
"But I'm goin' to buy the dress, an' the bracelets, an' a lot of things," was the reply, in a tone that admitted of no argument.
"An' ef he hain't got enough, I can put out the balance," said Johnny, speaking thus tardily because there had been a great struggle in his mind as to whether or no he would not be doing Katy a greater favor by buying the boxing-gloves for her.
Never since Katy Morrison could remember had she worn a dress that was made of new material. Even before her mother had died, leaving her to the anything but tender care of Mrs. Brown, her dresses had been made of old ones, and now the mere idea of having one without a hole in it seemed almost too good to be true.
She did make another protest against her friends spending their money for her, though she admitted that if the pin market remained in its present overstocked condition she could never hope to buy one from her earnings; but Jimmy had made up his mind, after much rubbing of his chin, and nothing she could have said would have caused him to change it. He and Johnny discussed the question of what color the dress should be—that it was to be of silk was understood, and Katy hardly knew how to contain her joy, so impossible had such a thing seemed a few hours before.
While they were talking they had passed through City Hall Park, and as they started to cross the street they were still eagerly discussing the question of color, Johnny being decidedly in favor of red, while Jimmy believed a bright green would be more suitable. Katy was just behind them, taking no part in the conversation, because one color would please her as well as another; the "whole" dress, whatever its shade, was sufficient for her.
So heated had the argument become that neither of the boys noticed, amid the general bustle of the square, the clatter and rush of a horse attached to a light express wagon, nor did they hear the warning cries of the driver until it was close upon them.
Then they had only time to escape being knocked down by the horse. As they jumped suddenly they heard a cry from Katy, another from those on the sidewalk, and they turned just in time to see the poor girl, whose thoughts of a new dress had rendered her careless to everything around her, lying on the pavement, with a great crimson stain, that grew larger and larger, upon her hair.
Before they could reach her a policeman had carried her to the sidewalk, and they were obliged to stand on the outside of a large crowd of curious ones, who always gather at anything unusual as if by magic, while the only being in the world who loved them and whom they loved, was perhaps dying, perhaps dead.
Clutching each other's hands tightly, while the great tears of a sorrow that had almost stupefied them rolled down their cheeks, the two stood there, near the curb-stone, not knowing what to do or say. They did not even know how long they remained there; but when the ambulance came, and they saw the still, lifeless form of "their girl," as they called her, lifted into the black, ominous-looking wagon, there was such a lump in the throat of each that it seemed as if he could not breathe.
The ambulance started off at full speed, its bell clanging the warning to drivers of other vehicles to clear the way, and without knowing where it was going, or anything save the fact that "their girl" was in it, the two boys ran after it regardless of fatigue or danger.
On and on the precious load was carried, until finally, when it seemed to Jimmy a physical impossibility that he could run any further, the ambulance was stopped before a huge building, which both the boys knew was the hospital.
One more glimpse they had of Katy as she was carried through the gate, and then they waited in painful suspense, as if they expected some word would be sent to them.
It was late in the evening when one of the attendants came out of the building, and found the boys crouching close by the gate. Before he had time to ask them what they were doing there, they overwhelmed him with questions as to the fate of Katy, and when he finally understood who they were inquiring about, he told them that it was impossible to say whether she could recover or not, as her injuries were believed to be very severe.
For several moments the boys stood looking at each other in mute fear, after the man had passed on, and then Johnny said, solemnly,
"Jimmy, did you ever pray the same as the rich folks do?"
"No."
"Let's do it now, an' p'r'aps Katy'll get well."
"Well, let's," replied Jimmy, earnestly, and there, upon the dusty street, two boys whose ragged coats covered true, kindly hearts, prayed, after their fashion, to the God of whom they had but seldom heard, for the life of "their girl."
[to be continued.]
"BREAD-AND-BUTTER DAYS."—From a Painting by Weedon Grossmith.
[AN UNKNOWN HERO.]
Deep down in a mine in Wardley Colliery, Newcastle, England, there is a brave boy who deserves to be called a hero. In a situation of sudden peril he used precautions which prevented a dreadful explosion, simply by behaving with courage and presence of mind.
He noticed that his lamp flared up, a sure sign of the presence of dangerous gas. Had he hastily rushed away, his light might have burst through the wire gauze which surrounds a miner's lamp, and setting fire to the gas, caused a heart-rending accident.
The lad did nothing so silly. When questioned by the Superintendent as to how he had found out that there was gas in the neighborhood where he was at work, he replied, "Because my lamp flared."
"And what did you do then?" asked the gentleman.
"I took my pricker, and pulled down the wick, but the lamp still flared."
"Well, my boy, and how did you manage then?"
"Why, I put the lamp inside my jacket, and covered it up tight, and the light went out."
Of course, the lamp could not burn without air.
To think of the right thing to do, and then promptly to do it, boys, that is what makes the difference between a common man and a hero.
This little fellow, whose name is not mentioned—Mick, or Ted, or Jack—has in him the making of a grand man, cool, resolute, and clever.
Fortunately there was an overseer near him, who, when, he heard from the lad about his lamp, went bravely through the gas, in total darkness, and set open a door, the closing of which had forced the gas into the main-ways of the mine.
All honor to them both.
[DEACON DODD'S CALF.]
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
Three of us boys—Will Harald, his cousin from the nearest city, who was visiting him, and myself—went down to Deacon Dodd's farm one Friday afternoon, after tea. We found the old gentleman mowing the grass in the front yard.
"Come in, boys; set down on the steps there. Hot, isn't it?" He wiped his forehead vigorously with his red silk handkerchief.
"Deacon," said Will, "we came to ask you for a peck or so of your pound sweets, for our fishing excursion to-morrow."
"Have a drink of cold water? Pound sweets, eh? Well, now, I'm sorry. Won't anything else do you? Fact is, every pound sweet I've got's promised; there wa'n't many this year, and they're a skurse kind, you see. But you can have anything else you can find on the farm, and welcome. The bell-flowers are tiptop—help yourselves."
We thanked him, but didn't care for anything else. We had plenty of other apples ourselves, and had set our minds on having some of the Deacon's great yellow pound sweets. We wandered discontentedly into the orchard without finding anything we wanted, peeped at the big snapping-turtle by the spring, patted the pretty gentle Jersey cow and her half-grown calf, both of which were the pride and delight of the Deacon's heart, and then sat down in the open doorway of the great barn.
"He's a mean old skinflint, I say," said George, the boy from town. Will and I knew he wasn't any such thing, but we were out of humor at having our walk for nothing, and did not take the trouble to argue the matter.
"I don't think he would have missed a peck," I said.
"Wants to sell 'em, I s'pose. Seems to me I'd oblige a few boys even if it was a few cents out of my pocket."
"Let's play a trick on the old codger," said George. "Last summer our teacher wouldn't give us a holiday when we wanted it, so we shut him up in the school till late at night."
"And what came of it?" we inquired, in great interest.
"Oh, well, one or two of us got expelled for awhile, but that just suited us."
This did not sound to me like a very successful issue of the trick, but George went on:
"Let's run off his calf."
"How do you mean?" asked Will.
"Why, lead it clear off, and tie it up somewhere, so he'll think it's lost."
"He thinks about as much of that cow and calf as he does of his children," I said, with some misgivings.
"All the better—he'll be in a jolly sputter over it. We won't hurt anything; just have a little fun on the old fellow. Nobody'll know. Come on."
Somehow I couldn't help feeling that I hated to do anything like playing a trick on the Deacon, for as a general thing he was very good to us boys. But then, on the other hand, it did seem perfectly unreasonable for him to refuse to give us just a few of those apples when we knew he had three times as many as he and all his family put together could eat. Still, I don't think I would have given in if George hadn't urged the matter so. He is one of those fellows who always takes the lead, and the rest of us just follow on. He started off, and Will and I went after him.
We quietly stole round the back of the barn to the lot in which we had seen the cow and calf. No one happened to be about just then. We found a rope, tied it to the calf, and led her into a lane. Soon she got tired of being handled by so many strangers, and I tell you she gave us a lively time. She was a stout, skittish little creature, and we boys had no end of exercise getting her along. She would walk quietly enough for a few steps, and then make a jump forward, which would nearly jerk us off our feet; or she would stop suddenly and turn back, tipping over a boy or two, like enough. At last we put our apple-bag over her head, and she travelled a little easier, but you'd better believe all our hands were sore hanging on to that rope. At last we tied her in a bushy grove about half a mile from the far end of the Deacon's farm.
We had thought it great fun as long as we were all together, but when I was at home alone it didn't seem half so smart to be putting a joke on an old man, and a good kindly old man at that. I woke up several times in the night with the stinging and burning in my hands, and thought what if anything should happen to the calf. Not a word had been said between us as to how it was to be got back again—I don't believe any of us had thought so far ahead as that.
It is dreadful hard work to sleep when you've got anything troublesome on your mind. I tossed about and thought it over just what the Deacon would say when he found the calf was gone; and how Mrs. Dodd would worry. Finally I thought of the piles of doughnuts she had given us boys at one time and another. I got so wretched that I couldn't stand it any longer.
I didn't know how long George intended to keep it hidden, but I made up my mind to get up with the first streak of day, and went to see if I couldn't get the calf back by myself. Then I meant to leave George and Will to bother themselves awhile, wondering what could become of it. It was a long walk, but at last I reached the place, and then I tell you I stood and stared—that calf was gone!
I hunted and hunted all about there, but it was no use. The faces of Will and George grew as blank as my own as I told them, and we joined the fishing party of a dozen or so boys with a heavy sinking at our hearts, and many doubts as to what might be the outcome of our clever joke on the old Deacon.
Early in the afternoon we saw a spring-wagon working its way along under the willows where we were fishing. Two men were in it, one of whom, a stumpy, freckle-faced Irishman, I recognized as Deacon Dodd's new hired man. The other was a neighbor of ours, and it was not until he had beckoned George and Will and myself a little apart from the other boys that I remembered all of a sudden, with a great addition to the weight on my mind, that he was the deputy-sheriff.
"Yis, sor, thim's the very b'ys," said the Irishman, with a very positive nod of his head at us.
The deputy-sheriff looked puzzled.
"Why, my man," he said, "you don't mean it's these boys you're after?"
"It's jist these same I'm maning—the very wans me own eyes saw shtalin' away the Daacon's calf."
At this we burst out laughing, and gave the deputy-sheriff an account of our frolic of the night before. Mike listened unmoved, simply asking, as we finished:
"But wheriver is the Daacon's baste, thin?"
This we could not answer. The deputy-sheriff whispered with the Irishman, seeming to intercede for us; but Mike only answered, doggedly:
"The Daacon was called away suddint lasht night, and only mesilf to see to things. Them b'ys had the calf—wheriver is the calf?"
His stubborn faithfulness was not to be shaken, and the deputy-sheriff gave up.
"Well, boys, seeing he's so set, I guess you'd better just jump in and go along with me—being such a valuable animal, you see. Of course it won't amount to anything, mere matter of form; only a little talk before Squire Granger."
We were a crest-fallen three as we mounted that spring-wagon, dimly realizing that, spite of the deputy-sheriff's politeness, the plain English of all this was that we were under arrest, and on our way to a magistrate's office. Our worst fears all the morning had been of our being called upon to pay the price of a choice specimen of blooded stock, but an indefinite train of horrible possibilities now seemed to open out before our imaginations.
How our cheeks burned as we found ourselves before the country justice, and perceived the crowd drawn by the excitement of a preliminary examination, and heard the astonishment and horror expressed that we should be the criminals. How our shame and confusion increased as the other members of the picnic, whom we had devoutly hoped would not allow their day's sport to be shortened by our leaving the party so early, quietly filed in, and added their gaze to the others'.
The justice seemed somewhat embarrassed himself. There did not seem to be much of a case, but what little there was was dead against us. The only thing about it was Mike's unwavering testimony to having seen us in the lane driving away the calf. This we could not deny, and all our protestations of its being only a joke were thrown into confusion by his stubbornly repeated question:
"Thin, wheriver is the Daacon's baste?"
The thing began to look less and less like a joke to us as we found it impossible to bring any witnesses for the defense. The justice and the deputy-sheriff whispered solemnly together.
All at once there was a stir in court. Deacon Dodd elbowed his way into our neighborhood, and as he looked us over, his genial face expanded into a laugh that shook the very rafters.
"Well, boys, have you had enough fun?"
We had nothing to say. The justice seemed cheered by the entrance into the case of something lively, and asked the Deacon if he had any evidence to offer. We, the prisoners, were not encouraged, feeling very sure his testimony could not be in our favor. The justice had some trouble in getting things sobered down enough to swear the Deacon properly, but when this was accomplished he was allowed to give his account in his own way, which went something like this:
"Yes, your honor, I felt bad when the boys wanted them pound sweets, for I always do take to giving to boys—used to be a boy myself, you know, and it don't seem so very long ago neither, 'though I don't pretend to be as young as I was once. Well, when I got into my little tool-room in the barn to hang up my scythe, and sat there to cool off a bit, being as the evening was warmish, and them poor chaps, after having tired themselves all out trying to find something nice in the orchard, and couldn't, come to take a rest at the barn door, and says they, 'The Deacon's an old skinflint, and wants to put every cent he can in his pocket.' Likewise wishing every apple on his place would rot and such like—I say, Squire, I could hardly forbear just getting up and going out to them boys and saying, 'Boys, just you go 'n' get every pound sweet on that tree—don't you leave one.' But, you see, my wife, Mis' Dodd, had told me how she'd been and promised every individual one of them pound sweets to the hospital; for them poor souls lying there sick found it hard to get anything real relishing, and liked 'em baked. So I couldn't help myself, seeing she'd passed her word for a charity, and would 'a felt hard at me, naturally, if I'd gone back on her.
"But when the boys thought they'd like a little fun with the Jersey calf, I knew they wouldn't do the pretty creatur' any hurt, for I heard 'em saying how they knew I set great store by her. The evening was getting cooler then, so I just took a walk along behind the hedge, they being on t'other side.—You did have a time with her, didn't you, boys?"
What a roar went up from that roomful of listeners!
"'Twas tough; yes, I could see that, a regular tussle to get her along. I'd 'a helped you, for she follows me like a lamb, only I was afraid 'twould spoil your fun if I took hold too. So I just kept along till you tied her up safe and comfortable—"
Here Mike broke in, in total disregard of the proprieties of a court-room:
"But, Daacon, wheriver's the baste now? Be the howly poker she's clane gone off the farrum!"
"She's in the northeast corner pasture. I'd been calculating to put her there, to be more in the shade, and the boys gave me just so much help with her, you see. After I'd put her there and got home, I found a letter from my son Isaac, telling how he was sick, and wanted to see me and his mother, Mis' Dodd. So I just hitched up, and without waiting to see Mike, me and her started off to drive over there—better than four miles 'tis—and the calf slipped my mind till I just now got back, and heard tell how Mike here was making a bother with the boys. That's all, your honor."
His honor, I knew, had been dreadfully worried at not having been able to give more dignity to the court, and he now opened his mouth, I suppose to dismiss the proceedings in proper form, but the Deacon gave him no chance at all. I am not prepared to say that we three are not legally under arrest to this day.
"Better go back to your fishing now, boys," he said. "Too bad to have your day broke up so; but Mike meant well, you know."
"Three cheers for Mike!" shouted some one, intent on pushing the fun as far as possible.
"Three cheers for Deacon Dodd!" came next, and when they had been given with a will by the merry crowd, a cry arose:
"Three cheers for the half-grown calf!"
Before they had died away, Mike turned with a most meaning look at us three boys, exclaiming:
"Ivery wan of 'em."
And they gave us a tiger.
[A SWAN DESIGN FOR FLAT POCKET PIN-CUSHION.]
BY MRS. T. W. DEWING.
Mark very exactly on some thin white material of a polished surface and fine quality outlines of the pincushion and the design. The best way to do this is to make a very careful tracing of the design, and transfer it by means of transfer-paper. Any carelessness in following the design loses all the style it may possess. This done, outline the swan and all the markings of the wing feathers, eyes, etc., with simple stitching in a gray silk so pale as to appear white until contrasted with the brilliant white cloth. Work the part representing water in simple horizontal lines of chain stitch, as shown in the design, with silk of light blue across the lower end of the circle. Work the rest of the background in darning stitch perpendicularly from the top of the circle to the water in a rich deep blue silk, being very careful not to interfere with the outline of the swan or of the water.
Cut two pieces of card-board exactly the size and shape of the circle. Mount the embroidery upon one of them, and cover the other with blue satin. Baste the two circles thus covered together back to back, having laid carefully between them three little circles of flannel a very little smaller than the outer circles. Then overhand the two edges of the pincushion very carefully together.
[THE BUILDING OF ST. MARY'S OF THE PEOPLE.]
A LEGEND OF CHRISTIAN ROME.
BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.
Entering Rome by what was anciently called the Flaminian Gate, but is now the Porta del Popolo, or People's Gate, the stranger finds himself in a large, beautiful open place called the People's Square. It lies at the foot of the Pincian Hill, called by the ancient Romans, in the language of the time, the Hill of Gardens. If it deserved this name in those days, it does not deserve it less now. The most beautiful gardens in Rome, laid out with lovely flower beds, commodious carriage drives, and shady walks, are on its summit. A military band plays there in the afternoons, and it is the favorite resort of the rank and fashion of modern Rome, from the King downward.
Like much else in Rome, the history of the Pincian Gardens is sad and terrible. The great Mistress of the World, if she was at times rich in virtues, was just as often famed for terrible crimes. These gardens belonged at one time to the famous epicure Lucullus. This man, possessor of enormous wealth, loved good dinners much, but hated the trouble of ordering them as heartily as many a fine lady of the present day. To save himself this trouble, then, he had a number of dining-halls in his house, each arranged in a different manner. His steward was so well trained that he knew to a nicety, on receiving the order as to which hall the supper was to be served in, how it was to be arranged, and what degree of splendor it was to be of. The banquets of Lucullus became proverbial for luxury. It is even told of him that being very fond of a certain sort of eel he had a pond made for them in this garden. Their favorite food being human flesh, the legend tells us that he occasionally ordered a slave to be thrown in to them, to help to make them fat and savory for his table.
After the death of Lucullus, these gardens passed into the hands of a certain patrician named Valerius Asiaticus. This was during the reign of the Emperor Claudius. The Emperor's wicked wife Messalina coveted them for herself, so she got up a false accusation against poor Asiaticus, who seems, on the whole, to have been a very worthy man. But his innocence did not save him. He was condemned to death, and his property given to Messalina. The wretched woman's triumph did not last long, however. Claudius was told of her wicked life, and she was killed by his command on the very place she had obtained for herself by such a horrid crime. Word was brought to the Emperor while he was sitting at table that his wicked wife was dead. He made no reply, and went on quietly eating his supper. They were a queer people, those old heathen Romans.
To return to the People's Square. In the centre is a tall obelisk brought from the Temple of the Sun in Egypt during the reign of Augustus. It was thousands of years old, perhaps, before Rome was built. A beautiful fourfold fountain at its base spouts clear sparkling water from the mouths of four antique lions of basalt. It is the most picturesque square in Rome.
At the left-hand side of the Porta del Popolo, as you enter, stands the ancient Church of St. Mary's of the People, concerning the building of which the following story is told:
When the bloody and cruel Emperor Nero, who had wantonly killed so many people during his short reign, was killed in his turn, he was so execrated by the people that none could be found to give him burial. Then his nurse Eclaga, who still went on loving him, as some gentle souls will do, in spite of his dreadful crimes, buried him, with the help of two other women, compassionate like herself, in a tomb at the foot of the Hill of Gardens. On this tomb, for many years, a wreath of fresh flowers was found every morning, no one knowing who had placed it there. So they watched one night, and just before break of day discovered this poor faithful old woman bringing this loving offering to the memory of him whom she remembered only as the innocent babe she had nursed in her arms.
As time went on, these offerings ceased. Eclaga was dead and gone, and with her had passed away every loving remembrance of the wretched man who was buried at the foot of the Pincian Hill. Horror and loathing were the only sentiments his memory inspired. By-and-by nothing marked the spot where his body lay but a gigantic walnut-tree which had grown out of his grave. It was so large that it overshadowed all the place and covered it with gloom.
This gloom was still further increased by an innumerable quantity of large crows that had taken up their abode in this tree. They darkened the air all around by their flight. The people inhabiting the neighborhood had no rest by night or by day by reason of their hideous, unearthly croaking. Every means tried to drive them away proved vain. They kept their abode on the tree above Nero's tomb, and defied all earthly power to assail them.
Then a great fear fell on all the people, for they thought that it was not with natural crows they had to do, but with demons who were keeping watch over the grave of the wicked Emperor. Then, as there was no help in man, they prayed to God.
Now Paschal the First, who was Bishop of Rome at that time, and a good and holy man, had a strange dream one night. In this dream it was revealed to him that no earthly power could drive away the demon crows, which, if not exorcised, would soon overpower the whole of Rome. The only way to do this effectually was to go forth at early morning, at the head of all his clergy, singing psalms and hymns and praying fervently. Then they were to cut down the tree, and take it out by the roots to the very last fibre of it, and build a church on the spot where it had stood.
Full of joy at this revelation, Paschal summoned his clergy, and told them of his dream. Then he went, as he had been directed, at their head in procession through the city, singing psalms and hymns. Arrived at the spot, they knelt down and prayed fervently. Then they commenced to hew down the tree, the supposed demons all the while uttering wild and unearthly croakings. After the tree was cut down, and every root of it taken up, the crows flew away with a terrible noise.
A beautiful church was then built on the spot; and as the funds for its erection were entirely collected and given by the common people, it received the name of St. Mary's of the People. There are some beautiful marbles in it, and many fine old paintings, some of them by the most famous of the old masters.
Oh, such a bunch of posies!
We found them on our way,
And gathered them for Robin,
Who lies abed all day.
"You'll soon be well, dear laddie,"
The posies sweet will say.
Oh dear, but he's queer, this wonderful snail,
O'er the whole wide world he may travel and sail;
But where'er he may go on the longest track,
He carries his house on his funny back.
What wonder, then, that he likes to roam,
When the comical fellow is always at home.
Wilt thou listen, Jesus dear,
To the prayer that I would say;
Thou didst promise Thou wouldst hear
When the little children pray.
I would like, dear Lord, to be
Patient, gentle, good, and mild,
Ever growing more like Thee,
And as Thou wert when a child.
