“Who, my child?”
“God.”
Then Luly’s mother thought of what her grandmother had said: “Luly will not live; Luly will die,” and she clasped her little girl tightly to her breast, as if she feared even then she would go from her.
But no mother’s clasp could hold little Luly; no mother’s tears could bribe the Death Angel. Rose-red grew the cheek, then white as snow, the little hands grew hot, then icy cold, the soft eye bright, then dim, and she who never grieved us living, grieved us dying.
A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.
I wish I knew what that cow is thinking about; how lazily she stands there, switching her sides with her tail, and looking up and down the meadow. I am no judge of cows, but I think that is a pretty cow. Any lady might be proud of her great, soft brown eyes. I am glad she does not know that one of these days, the butcher will thump her on the head and sell her for beef; I am glad she does not know that the pretty little calf, which frolics by her side, will be eaten for veal, next week. Munch away, old cow, and enjoy the fresh clover while you can; I don’t believe you have any idea what a pretty picture you and your baby calf make, as you stand with your hoofs in that brook and bend your heads to drink. I like to think, though I know it is not so (because you have no soul, old cow), that when you raise your head from the brook and lift it toward the sky, you are thinking of Him who made the pretty clover grow and the sparkling brook to flow. And now the little calf is nursing. Pull away, little rogue? if you have not a better right to your mother’s milk than Sally, the dairy-maid, I will agree to go without butter; pull away, it does me good to see you; now kick up your heels and run like mischief over the meadow; see the old cow blink and wink, as she looks after her, as if to say, Well, well, I was young myself, once; calves will be calves, spite of cows. And there is a hen and her cunning little chickens; I should like to catch that tiny white one, which blows over the meadow like a piece of cotton wool, and cuddle her right up in my neck; I am sure the old hen would not object if she knew how I liked chickens; but she don’t, and she would probably take me for a highwaywoman, and I can’t have my character called in question that way, even by a hen; beside her beak is sharp, and so are her claws: I think I had better admire her little soft white baby at a distance. Nice little thing, how glad I am it does not have to be fixed up in lace and embroidery, every morning, and have a nurse rubbing its nose enough to rub it off, every time a stray breeze makes it sneeze; how glad I am the little thing can roll and tumble in the grass, instead of being stewed up in a hot nursery and sweltered under a load of crib-blankets, till all its strength oozes out in perspiration; dear little chick, I hope you will find plenty of little worms to eat, and I hope no old rooster will cuff your ears for doing it; I hope you will have the downiest side of your mother’s wing to sleep under, and plenty of meal and water when worms are scarce. But, see! there’s a shower coming up; you had better scamper under the shed; don’t you hear the thunder, little chick? don’t you see that beautiful zig-zag lightning darting out of that dark cloud? and don’t you see that lovely blue sky over yonder, peaceful as the good man’s soul, when the cloud of trouble threatens him? No, little chick, you don’t notice it a bit; you are only chasing after your mother, and trying to dodge the rain-drops; well, pretty as you are, I had rather be born with a soul; I am glad my soul will live millions of years after you are dead; I want to know so much that puzzles me here on earth, but which I am willing to believe is all right, until God Himself explains it all to me. I am glad I am not a little chick without a soul, because I want to learn about these things in heaven.
THE CIRCUS.
What a mob of boys! There’s Bill Saunders, and Ned Hoyt, and Tom Fagin, and Lewis Coates, and John Harris; and, sure as the world, there’s that little tomtit, Harry Horn, without a sign of a cap on, jumping up and down as if there were pins in his trowsers. What can be the matter, I wonder? Now they shout, “Hurra—hurra!”—but then boys are always screaming hurra. I have done breaking my neck leaning out of the window to see what is the matter. I won’t look at the little monkeys. There it goes again—“Hurra! hurra!” One would think General Washington, Lafayette, or some other great person, was coming down street. Now they move one side—ah, now I see what all the fuss is about! A great flaming red and yellow handbill is posted on the fence; and on it is written, “Pat Smith’s Circus! next Wednesday afternoon and evening.” Circus! no wonder little Harry Horn forgot to put his hat on, and jumped up and down as if he were trying to jump out of his trousers. If there is any thing that drives boys crazy, it is a circus. I should like to know why; I have a great mind to go to Pat Smith’s Circus myself, just to find out; for I never was in a circus in my life. Yes, I will go, and I will take Nelly; she never was in a circus either. No, I won’t; I will leave her at home with black Nanny. No, I wont; I will take black Nanny too; but then I am not sure Pat Smith allows colored people in his circus. “Well, if he is such a senseless Pat as that, he may go without three twenty-five cent pieces, that’s all, for Nanny likes a little fun as well as if her skin were whiter; and if Nanny can’t come in, Nelly and I won’t. But Nanny can; Pat is not such a fool. So, come along, Nanny; come along, Nelly; it don’t matter what you wear. Walk a little faster, both of you; we must get a good seat, or we shall lose half the fun. Short people are apt to fare badly in a crowd. Here we are! This a circus! this round tent? How funny! Music inside; that’s nice; I like music; so do Nelly and Nanny. Here’s your money, Mr. Pat Smith. Goodness! you don’t mean that we have got to clamber up in those high, ricketty-looking seats, without any backs? Suppose we should fall through on the ground below? Suppose the seats should crack, and let all these people down? I think we’ll climb up to the highest seat, for in case they do break, I had rather be on the top of the pile than underneath it. That’s it; here’s a place for you, Nanny. Bless me, what a “many people,” as little Harry Horn says. Little babies, too, as I live;—well, I suppose their poor tired mothers wanted a little fun too; but the babies are better off than we, because they can have a drink of milk whenever they are thirsty. Ah, I was a little too fast there, for Pat Smith has provided lemonade, and here comes a man with a pailful. Circus lemonade!—no, I thank you; it may be very good, but I prefer taking your word for it. How the people flock in! What’s that coming in at yonder door? Nanny! Nelly!—look! Is it a small house painted slate-color? No—it is an elephant—a live elephant. What a monster! what great flapping ears! what huge paws! and what a rat-ty looking tail! I don’t like his tail; but his trunk is superb. I am afraid he has had a deal of whipping to make him behave so well. How he could make us all fly, if he chose; what mince-meat he could make of those little fat babies yonder. I am glad he don’t want to; they are too pretty to eat. What are they going to do with him, I wonder? It can’t be that they mean to make him walk up that steep pair of stairs. Yes—see him! Would you believe such a great monster could do it so gracefully? He lifts his paws as gently as a kitten. Now that’s worth seeing; but how in the world are they going to get him down, now that he has reached the top? See—he is going to back down; not one false step does he make; now he has reached the bottom. Clever old monster! It seems a shame to make such a great, grand-looking, kingly creature, perform such dancing-master tricks. Now his master lies flat on his back on the ground, and the old elephant is going to walk over him. Suppose he should set that great paw of his on his master’s stomach, and crush him as flat as a pancake? No; see how carefully he steps over him with those big legs; never so much as touching his gay scarlet-and-white tunic. Splendid old fellow, to have so much strength, and yet never use it to the harm of those who torment him with all this nonsense. How I should like to see you in your native jungles, old elephant, with all your baby elephants; your little big babies, old fellow. There he goes. I am glad they have done with him. It makes me sad to see him. Good-by, old Samson.”
What now? a lady on horseback, Mr. Pat Smith’s wife; she sits her horse very well, but that’s nothing remarkable; I can sit a horse as well as that myself; but I couldn’t make a leap on his back over that five-barred gate—mercy, no—he will break her neck, I know he will; I am afraid Mr. Pat Smith wants a second wife. Oh, see, the horse has come down safe with her on the other side of the gate; now she is going to try it again; what a woman that is! I hope Mr. Pat Smith gives her half the money that he takes this hot night, for I am sure she has earned it; but wives don’t always get what they earn, and I dare say Mrs. Pat Smith don’t.