A New Story Book for Children

by Fanny Fern

I should tell you that this handsome boy was born with a deformed foot, which prevented him from exercising, like other children; and that he suffered not only from this restraint, but from the painful, and, as it proved, useless remedies, that were resorted to for his cure. An active, restless, lame boy! Cannot you see that this must have been hard to bear? But when I add that his own mother, in her angry fits, used to taunt him with his lameness, till the mere mention of his twisted foot, or even a glance at it, nearly drove him crazy, I am sure you cannot but pity him. And so this personal defect, which she might have soothed and loved him into feeling it a happiness to bear, because it should naturally have called out the fullness of a mother’s pitying heart, became to him, through her mismanagement, like a nest of scorpions, to lash into fury his worst passions. This was very dreadful. I try to remember it, and you must, when you read the bitter, bad words of his manhood, which stand over against his name, and, alas! will always stand; for the hand is cold and powerless now, which should have dashed them out; the eyes are closed now, from which the tear of repentance should fall to wash them away; the voice is forever hushed, which should say, beware! to the young feet, which he would lure with flowers, only to be bitten by serpents.

And yet, it is beautiful to know, that his unhappy childhood, which, like a blighting mildew, overspread all his future life, had not power quite to extinguish the angel in him. Thus we hear that, when sent away to an English school, he interfered, notwithstanding his lameness, between a big boy and a little one, whom the former was severely punishing. Unable to fight in defence of the poor little fellow, upon whom the torturing blows were descending, Byron stood boldly up before his persecutor, and begged, with crimson cheeks and tearful eyes, that he might, at least, “take half the blows that were intended for the little boy.” I think you will agree with me that this was very brave and magnanimous. I have another little anecdote of the same kind to tell you. Not long after this, a little boy came to the school, who had just recovered from a severe illness, which had left him very lame. Byron, seeing a bigger boy threatening him, took him one side, and said, “Don’t be troubled; if he abuses you, tell me, and I’ll thrash him if I can,” and he afterward did it.

Unfortunately for Byron, he became a lord, while he was yet a schoolboy. I say unfortunately, because, had he been a poor boy, I think it might have made a man of him. His mother, delighted at his being a lord, took every opportunity to make him as proud as a little peacock, by telling him of how much consequence it would make him in the eyes of the world; as if being a lord was of any account if he did nothing but strut about to parade his title, and enjoy the mean pleasure of forcing those who were “beneath him” (by so much as that they lacked a coat of arms) to make gracious way for him. Imagine this little schoolboy, so puffed up with that idea of his mother, that the first time he was called by his title in school, he actually burst into tears—from sheer delight! One can’t smile at it, for it was the sowing of a poisonous seed, which should spring up into a “tree,” under whose shadows should die the sweet flowers of kindness and generosity which, I have already told you, were springing up in the child’s heart. Such grand airs did “my lord” put on, that the boys used to nickname him “the baron.” You will not be surprised to hear, that this foolish pride of rank grew with his youth, and strengthened with his strength, so that, when he became a man (could he be said to be one, when under the dominion of such a childish feeling?) he would have his coat of arms put on his bed-curtains, and everywhere else where it could possibly be placed; and upon one occasion, when his title was omitted, he flew into the most absurd paroxysm of rage. Petty and pitiful, was it not?

It is a dreadful thing when a child is unable to respect and reverence a parent. There are such cases; this was one. Byron’s mother sometimes came to school to see him. On one occasion, being displeased with something she met there, she burst into a furious passion with the teacher. When one of Byron’s schoolmates, with more simplicity than politeness, said to him, “George, your mother is a fool,” “I know it!” was the boy’s gloomy reply. This seems to me the saddest thing that ever fell from a child’s lip. Still, it is due to him to say, that with this knowledge bitterly burned in upon his soul, he never failed in outward attention to her wishes, or in letters during his absence, informing her carefully of all that most nearly concerned him; although for the sweet, holy name of “mother,” he substituted “Madam,” or “Dear Madam.” Unhappy mother! unhappy son! So much that was naturally kind in both, each loving the other, and yet, in each, the active elements of perpetual discord. Each yearning for affection with the intensity of strong natures, and yet perpetually a great gulf between them, over which their outstretched hands might never meet!

I wish I could tell you that this unhappy child grew up a happy, and, what is better, a good man. But neither was true. His fine poetical talent was not used to bless, or soothe, or instruct his fellow beings. His powers of pleasing were exerted for unworthy purposes, and wasted upon unworthy objects—and the miseries which his unbridled temper and extravagance brought upon him in after years, he neither accepted as his just punishment, nor strove, in a manly way, to atone for, and retrieve. Lord Byron has been called “a great man.” I do not think him such. The “greatness” which lacks moral courage to meet the ills of life, which only makes them an excuse for wallowing in wickedness, must of necessity be a spurious greatness. It is put to shame by the quiet heroism of thousands of women, many of whom can neither read, write, nor spell, who toil on by thousands all over our land, facing misery, poverty, wretchedness in every form, with trust in God unwavering to the last moment of life. That’s what I call “greatness.” One would think, that the more a man knew, the better should he be able to hold the fiery horses of his passions with a master hand—to keep them subservient by a strong bit and bridle. Else, of what use is his intellect? He might as well be a mere animal; better, too, by far, because for the animal there is no remorseful future. He is but a pitiable specimen of manhood, who has resolution enough in a land of plenty to endure the keen pangs of hunger day by day, lest eating should spoil the outline of his handsome face and form, and yet is powerless to control passions which, scorpion-like, will sting him, long after his perishable body has crumbled into dust.

THE POLICEMAN.—Page [165].

THE POLICEMAN.

I heard a little boy say, the other day, “When I grow up, I mean to be a policeman!” He liked the bright star on the policeman’s breast, and the big club in his hand. He thought it would be “fun” to sound his whistle, when he spied a fellow getting a ride for nothing on the steps of an omnibus, and to see him running off as fast as he could, for fear of a crack from the driver’s long whip. He thought it would be nice to walk up and down, and scare the little beggar girls, who were teasing for “one penny, please,” from the ladies on the sunshiny side of the street, as they came out of the shops. But he didn’t think, how many policemen have kissed their little boys and girls, when they left at night, and been killed before these little ones woke in the morning, by some robber, or murderer, whom they had to catch in the night. He didn’t think how many wretched, drunken men and women they have to drag through the streets, to the station houses, every day, and how many shocking fights they have to see and take part in. He didn’t think how forlorn it must be to pace up and down of a cold, dismal night, that other people might lie snug and safe in their warm beds, till morning. He didn’t think how sick a policeman might get of misery, and poverty, and wretchedness, and how glad he was sometimes to walk into a nice, clean neighborhood, where people had enough to eat, and drink, and wear, and live clean and comfortable. You see, Johnny was only nine years old, and didn’t know about all these things. It was his birthday, that very day that he said, “I want to be a policeman,” and he had beautiful presents, and a little sugared plumcake, made on purpose for him by his grandmother; and he was to have a little party in the evening, and ice cream and cake to eat; and they were to play blind man’s buff, and all go to the circus in the evening, to see the horses, who flew round so fast that you could hardly tell what color they were. Well, that very day the policeman he was looking at, and envying, had seen a dreadful sight. As he was going round on his “beat,” through one of the narrow streets in New York, he heard a little girl, who was just nine years old that very day like Johnny, crying piteously. He went into the room where the noise came from, and saw, not a birthday party, of warmly-dressed little children, and a bright fire, and pretty pictures on the walls, and such beautiful roses on the pretty carpet, that one almost hated to step on them. No, indeed! The floor was bare, and so were the walls; there was no bed in the room, no chairs, no tables; but on the floor lay a dead woman, and over her stood her own little girl, named Katy, only nine years old that very day, crying, as I told you, as if her little heart would break. In her hand was a basket of cold victuals, that her mother had sent her out alone to beg; and there lay her mother, dead! and now little Katy was all alone in the great city, with no friend to whom she could tell her troubles, and no money even to buy a coffin for her dead mother. No wonder she cried. The policeman asked the little girl how long her mother had been dead; and when she could stop sobbing, she told him, that her mother told Katy, in the morning, to go beg some food, and that she had to be gone a long while, before she could get any; and when she came back, she found her mother lying so still on the floor; and that she called “Mother!” and she didn’t speak; and that, when she touched her, she was so cold, she knew she must be dead; and then poor little Katy trembled, because she didn’t know what was to become of her, or whether the policeman would take her away from her mother; for, while her body lay there on the floor with her, the poor little girl felt as though her mother was still with her. But the policeman didn’t speak, for he was looking round the room, and presently he found a bottle; there was nothing in it now, but there had been some rum in it; and now you know why it was the room had no fire and no furniture, and how a mother could stay at home, and send her poor little girl out alone in a great city to beg. Katy didn’t say a word. I suppose she, too, knew that her mother used to get drunk; but she didn’t want to talk about it. She only knew that her mother was all the friend she had, bad or good, and that she lay there dead, and would never say “Katy” any more; and so she began to cry again, as if her heart would break. Well, the policeman had a little girl of his own, and he felt very sorry for her; so he didn’t take her to the “station house,” where all sorts of drunken people are carried, but he took her to his own home, and asked his kind-hearted wife, to whom he told Katy’s story, to give her some warm breakfast, and keep her till he came back again. At first Katy didn’t want to stay there, warm and pleasant as it was. She would rather have sat on the bare floor, beside her dead mother; but the sorrows of most little children are soon forgotten by them; and when little Katy looked round again at the clean, bright, warm room, and had eaten a nice little bit of beefsteak, and some bread, and drank a cup of warm milk, she began to feel a great deal better. Nanny, the policeman’s little girl, had a beautiful doll, which she let Katy hold in her own hands. This pleased Katy very much; she had often seen dolls in the shop windows, but she never thought to have one in her own hand all her life. Well, little Nanny gave her leave to take off the dolly’s dress, and put it to bed; and Katy was so bright and happy, when the policeman came back, that he hardly knew she was the same little Katy; but at the sight of him, tears came into her eyes, she gave the dolly back to Nanny, and sobbed out, “I want to see my mother.”

Then the policeman’s wife wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and turned away to the window; for she thought, Oh, how dreadful it would be, if my little, curly-headed Nanny were as friendless as this poor little girl. And then she and the policeman whispered together at the window a long while, and Katy heard the policeman say, “But it will be so much trouble for you, Mary, and, you know, I can hardly earn enough now to eat and to wear for you and me and Nanny!” but his wife only cried the more, and said, “Poor little thing! suppose it were our own little Nanny, John!” and then they whispered together again; and then the policeman patted his wife on the shoulder, and took up his hat and his big club, and went out; and then his wife got some warm water, and some soap, and washed Katy’s face, and hands, and neck, and combed her bright, brown hair smooth and nice, and put on one of Nanny’s little dresses, and told her, while she was doing it, that she was going to be Nanny’s little sister now, and always live there with them, and have plenty to eat, and never go shivering out in the streets, to beg cold victuals any more; but still little Katy sobbed out, every now and then, “I want to see my mother.” Poor little girl! she forgot that her mother was very unkind to her sometimes; that she used to drink rum, and beat her when she came home, if she did not beg cold victuals enough, or bring some pennies; she forgot all this; and every time she thought of her, it was only as lying on the floor, cold and dead; and the great big lump came up again in her throat, and she wanted to go back to the old, dreadful room, and look at her dear, dead mother once more. But Katy’s mother was not there, though she did not know it; they had carried her away and buried her out of sight; but they didn’t tell Katy that, till she became used to living with them, for fear it would make her little heart ache so bad; but by and by, when her little thin cheeks had grown round and rosy, like Nanny’s, and when she began to run about the house and play “Puss in the Corner” with Nanny, then they told her. And, do you know, after a while, it seemed to little Katy that she had always lived with the good policeman and his wife, and that the dreadful, desolate room, and the cold victuals, and the ragged clothes, were only a bad dream, and not real at all. It just seemed to her as though Nanny were really her little own sister, when they slept in the same bed at night, and laid their rosy cheeks on the same pillow. By and by the policeman’s wife was taken very sick, and then she found out what a good heart the little beggar girl had; for Katy ran up stairs and down for her, and gave her the doctor’s medicine; and sat by her bed, and bathed her hot forehead, and repaid her for all her care; and, after many years, when the policeman’s wife died, and Katy was married, and had a home of her own, she took poor, motherless Nanny there, and gave her a nice little room all by herself, and a table to put her dear mother’s workbox on, and very pretty pictures on the wall; and when Nanny said, with wet eyes, “How good you are to me, Katy!” she said, “Ah! I haven’t forgotten who took me in when I had no mother, and fed and clothed me!”