Why she remained in a cold and bleak spot, so far from London, from whence she came, her friends often wondered; and her daughter Julia, when she heard the wind coming in great gusts up the valley, or the rain beating against the windows, as if it insisted on coming in, would wish she was back again in the pretty house at Kensington. Mrs. Martin was not poor, but she was not rich, and she had taken the old house for three years, because the rent was very low; her own house in town she had let, and the change was made that her only son, Frederic, might study as a painter. How many mothers thus deny themselves comforts, that they may save money for those dearer to them than their own lives! How few meet with any reward for their self-denial! Mrs. Martin was constant in her visits to the families of the fishermen; gave them tracts to read; made clothes for the poor children; and was always ready, in time of illness, with medicine for the sick, and soup for those getting better. She also tried to teach them cleaner habits; but in this she failed. Julia soon got tired of going with her mother to see people who persisted in having such bad smells in and about their houses, wondering, at the same time, that, with water so near, the village was not kept cleaner; to which an old woman would sometimes reply, that fish never smell ill to them. One stormy day in January, Mrs. Martin and Julia sat at the window watching the huge waves that came tumbling in, with, as Julia said, “great white caps on their heads.” The fine weather of yesterday, said Mrs. Martin, I hear, has tempted poor John Penman to go out fishing, in spite of his having hardly got rid of the fever he has so long had. I am afraid that as he knew that Frederic is coming we should like some fish to-day. The weather changed so suddenly in the night, that I feel quite anxious lest he should have been lost. Mrs. Martin’s fears were too well founded, for John Penman, his eldest son, and another lad, never saw their homes again: the boat had been lost during the heavy gale, and all on board had perished.
How dreadful! said Julia. I wish we did not live where we were always hearing and seeing such disagreeable things. We must not, my dear Julia, said her mother, indulge in such selfish feelings; let us rather think what we can do for the poor widow and her orphans, whether it is disagreeable or not. The next morning, though it was still stormy, Mrs. Martin set out for the cottage of Mrs. Penman; and as Julia thought it was too cold to venture out, she was spared the sad scene that was seen by Mrs. Martin. The children were crying round the bed of their poor mother, where she lay in too much grief to attend to the kindness of the neighbors, who crowded round trying to comfort her.
The room was small and dirty, with but little furniture in it; but strange to say, on one side of it hung an old circular painting, and though it was nearly black with smoke, Mrs. Martin could see it was no common picture. With the hope that it might prove of some use to the poor woman, she got the eldest boy to carry it to her house, sending back by him a basket laden with food for his desolate home. Frederic had arrived in due time the night before, and his mother now begged him to look at the old painting. Although he had not long been an artist, he at once saw that it had been painted by a skilful hand. While cleaning it from the smoke and dirt, they found the name of the painter and of the lady on the canvas. On inquiry, they also found that John Penman’s father had saved the picture from a great house, which had been burnt to the ground many years ago. Mrs. Martin wrote to the family to whom the painting had once belonged, and they were glad to pay the poor woman, to her great surprise and joy, a handsome sum of money for it. She was then able to buy a share in a net, which her husband had always been too poor to do, and by it was enabled to bring up her family in the humble way to which they had always been accustomed.
Ah! mother, said Julia, what good you have been able to do from always thinking of other people rather than yourself. I will never grumble again at the smells of the fishing village, but try, if I can, to be as useful there as you have been; and Julia, in spite of the cold and bleak winter, well kept her promise.
SUMMER
THE HAYMAKERS.
The haymakers are working blithely, tossing about the grass, and talking and laughing right merrily. This is a holiday, both for old and young. Many who are employed in manufactures, with their wives and children, obtain leave to work in the fields when hands are scarce; and doing so seems like a new life to them. You may see at the further end, hillocks of grass thrown up in long rows; the haymakers call them wind-cocks; they are piled light and high, that the wind may blow through them; but in this part of the field people are tossing the hay about. Gray-headed old men are here, aged women, and children, seemingly without number. Their parents are hard at work and very glad are they to put the “wee things” in safe keeping among the old folks, who yet can help a little. Look at those girls and boys at play—see how they pelt one another with the hay, and roll each other over upon the grass—these are happy days. See those youngsters, scarcely able to totter, how they tumble on the sweet, fresh grass; while those who have strength to handle the rake mimic the labors of their parents, and draw tiny loads along the greensward. Meanwhile the hay is thrown about, and with each returning day comes the same pleasant labor, till the creaking of a wagon, lumbering up the hollow-road from the old farm-house, half way down the hill, gives the signal, which tells that the haymaking season is about to close. A short time elapses, and the creak of the heavy laden wagon is heard ringing over the stones. It comes up again for another load, then lumbers back to the old farm, where laborers are busily employed in placing the hay upon a strong foundation of wattled boughs. Some tread down the hay; others throw it up from out the wagon; till at length loud huzzas, that wake up all the neighboring echoes, announce that all the hay-stacks are completed.