GRANDPA’S BALD HEAD—Page [27].
GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD.
“Shall I have a bald head, grandfather, when I am eighty?” asked little Kitty; “and will it shine, and be smooth, like yours?” “Your head don’t look much like it now, little puss!” said the old man, lifting the silky, yellow curls; “and that puts me in mind that I’ve a story to tell you—a ‘real, true story;’ and all about grandpa, too.
“When grandpa was little, like you, he didn’t live in a city like this, where the houses all touch one another, and it is as much as ever one can get a glimpse of the sky, because they are so tall. He lived in a little log house, ’way off in the forest, and there was no other log house in sight for a great many miles. There were no carriages to be seen there, or fine ladies, or fine gentlemen; but there were plenty of squirrels darting up and down the trees, and running off to their hiding places; and there were more little birds than I could count hopping over the ground, and singing in the branches overhead; and there were plenty of pretty wild flowers, peeping out here and there, in quiet, out-of-the-way little places, and little patches of bright green moss, so soft and thick, that they looked just like velvet cushions, for little fairies to sit on; and there was a red and white cow, who gave us plenty of good milk for breakfast and supper; and some funny little pigs, with black, twinkling bead eyes, and very short tails, who went scampering about just where they liked, and munching acorns.
“The log house was very rough outside, but my mother had planted blue and white morning glories, and bright yellow nasturtiums, all around it, and they climbed quite up to the little roof, and hung their blossoms about it, so that, had it not been for the funny old chimney, peeping out of the top, you might have thought it a little bower, like the one down in your mother’s garden yonder. Sometimes my mother took me on her knee at sunset, and sat in the doorway, to watch the little birds and squirrels as they went to bed, and sometimes I sat by her side in the grass, while she milked the old red and white cow. Sometimes I watched my father as he chopped wood. I liked to see the great ax come down in his strong hand, and I liked to see the splinters of wood fly about. Often he would cry out, ‘Not so near, Dan! not so near, boy; or some fine day I’ll be chopping your head off!’ At this, my mother would come running out of the house, and catching me up under her arm, set me down in the doorway, after she had placed a board across, to prevent my clambering out again. But one day my mother had gone out, far into the forest, to look for the old red and white cow, who had strayed away; so I was left alone with my father. I was very glad of that; because he was so busy chopping and piling up his wood, that he hadn’t much time to say ‘What are you at, Dan?’ as my mother did, who seemed to me to have eyes in the back of her head, whenever I wanted to be mischievous. So, at first I sat quite still on the doorstep, as my mother told me, watching my father’s ax as it gleamed in the sun, and then came down with a crash in the wood. By and by I got tired of this, and crept a little nearer; and as my father did not notice it, I hitched on a little farther and then a little farther, so that I could see better. Then I got quite close up, and just as my father raised the ax to strike, I stooped my head to pick up a splinter of wood from the log he was chopping. The next moment I found myself fastened down tight to the log, and heard my father groan out, as if he were dreadfully hurt. Then he caught me up in his arms, kissed my face, and held it up to the light, while his own was as white as if he were dead; for there, on the log, on the edge of the ax, lay one of my long yellow curls, and I was not killed at all, nor even scratched; and here,” said the old man, taking a paper from his pocketbook, and drawing out a bright, golden curl, “here is the lock that the ax cut off, instead of grandpa’s head; it don’t look as if it ever grew on this bald, shiny pate, does it? See, it is just the color of yours, Kitty; grandpa keeps it in his pocketbook, and whenever he feels troubled and worried about anything, he looks at it, and says, Well, God took care of me then, and I won’t believe that he will forget me now.” Little Kitty took the curl in her hand, and looked at it very steadily awhile. Presently she looked up at her grandpa and said, “Did your mother whip you when she came back, for getting off the doorstep?” “No,” said grandpa, laughing, “I think she forgot to do that. I remember she gave me a great deal of milk that night for my supper, and kissed me, and cried a great deal, when she tied on my nightgown and put me into bed.”
JOHN BROWN.
“John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave,
His soul is marching on!”
You have all heard that song, sung at the piano at home, whistled in the street, and shouted by the soldiers as they went off to the war; well, shouldn’t you like to have me tell you what sort of a child John Brown was?
