A year has passed away, and the warm-hearted General Malcolm is no more. His landed property has descended to a distant relation, but his will contained a bequest of the sum of ten thousand pounds to “Ellen Ross, as a token of affectionate admiration, and to enable her to increase the comforts of her beloved father.”
THE YOUNG BIRDS.
“Mama,” said Emily, “I was so much interested in the story of Ellen Ross, that I quite forgot to claim your promise of telling us all you remember about the young birds of last summer; but we have both settled that we cannot let you off this evening, so pray, pray begin.”
“Well, then, I recollect that we were all sitting under the great pear-tree. I was plaiting rush baskets for you, and you and Edwin were picking out the longest and greenest rushes for me to use; when all at once we saw pussy run in a great hurry across the lawn with something in her mouth; and then we saw two pretty goldfinches flying over her head, and uttering the most distressed cries as if to beg her to spare their little one—for it was a young goldfinch, which she held so tight in her mouth. We ran after her, but she hid herself in the thickest part of the shrubbery; and long before we could scramble through, the little goldfinch had been quite eaten up, and but one or two shining yellow feathers left on the ground. Well, we returned sadly to our seat, but just as I was beginning to work at the basket again, we saw naughty pussy creeping softly, softly back again towards the part of the garden from which we had first seen her come with the little bird in her mouth; and then the same pair of old goldfinches began to fly round and round above her head, uttering their plaintive cry. We ran to the spot, and when puss saw that we got there before her, she skulked back with a disappointed growl, and we soon found two sweet little young birds sitting close together on the border, their feathers shivering from fright. Part of their nest lay by them as if it had been blown down by the wind, and they had fallen with it before they were strong enough to fly. We knew, that if we left them, sly pussy would come back the moment she saw she was not watched, and mop them up as she had already mopped up their poor little brother. So we made them as warm a nest as we could of wool and feathers. Emily ran into the house for an empty cage, and we shut the little creatures in it, and set it at the open window of the drawing-room.”
“And do you recollect your delight when first you saw that the old birds had found them out?”
Emily.—“Yes, yes, mama; at first they perched on the top of the plane-tree opposite; then by degrees they fluttered down from branch to branch, lower and lower, calling their young ones all the time. Then they took little short flights towards the window, and back again to the plane-tree. Then they first rested a moment on the branches of sweet briar which waved before the window, then on the cage; and at last—O how nice that was! they grew quite, quite bold, and ventured backwards and forwards into the room even when we were sitting in it, and fed their little ones with flies and seeds, chirping all the time they fed them, amusing them with a pretty song when they had done.”
“Now, my children, it is bed-time.—Why, I declare poor Charlie is fast asleep in my lap, and I quite forgot my own sweet nestling while we were talking about the little birds. To-morrow you are to spend with the Stanleys, but the next evening, if you are in the humour for it, I will remind you of our prettiest pets of all—the golden-crested wrens.”
THE BLACK FROCK.
“Now, my dear Emily, let me hear all about your visit at Mrs. Stanley’s.—Who was there besides the little Stanleys? What did you do? Did you enjoy your evening?”
Emily.—“Oh! there were the little Vincents, nice merry little girls, and I played a great deal with them at first; but, mama, there was one little girl whose name I did not know, with a face so pretty, but so pale, and with a black frock on, who did not play at all, and I could not help watching her; and I began to pity her, so that I left off playing, and sat down close by her on the grass; but I did not speak to her, because she looked so very sad, and I did not know what to say to comfort her; but I think she saw I pitied her, for she took hold of my hand, and said, ‘I could love you, but you would not love me long.’ I was going to say, ‘Indeed I would,’ but just then Lucy Stanley came running up to us, and said, ‘Your servant is come, Emily, and Edwin is in such a hurry to go, he is looking for his little hat, and begs me to call you.—Do you think he is tired of us, that he is in such haste to leave us?’—‘O no,’ I said, ‘Edwin does not want to leave you, but he is such a good little boy, that he is always in a hurry to do what he knows mama wishes, and she told us not to keep nurse waiting.’—And then, mama,—what could it be for?—the little pale girl burst into such a fit of crying, let go my hand, and jumped up, and ran into the house, and Lucy looked after her, and said, ‘Poor unhappy Clara!’ Do you know why she is in black, mama; and why she is so unhappy, and why what I said about Eddie could make her cry?”