You would hardly have known Johnny the next morning, he looked so spruce and tidy and handsome, as he ran up-stairs and down, in a pair of soft shoes, which Betty had carefully provided him, lest he should shock Mrs. Bond’s nerves. Poor useless Mrs. Bond, who had been brought up to be a fine lady, and who thought one proof of it, was to be constantly talking of “her nerves;” poor unhappy Mrs. Bond, who never thought of any thing, or any body save herself; who never knew the luxury of doing a kind action, and whose greatest pleasure consisted in making every body wait upon her. It would have been a blessing had her house caught fire, and turned her out of doors, and had she been obliged to work for her living; I think nothing else would have cured “her nerves,” or made her understand that there were other people in the world beside herself. I am sure little Johnny was five times as happy as she, with all her wealth. It was like a glimpse of sunshine to see his face after looking at hers, all knotted up with selfishness and discontent. I think Mr. Bond thought so too; I think he was glad to escape from her and her poodle, the long winter evenings, and teach Johnny to read and write in the library, and I think he hardly imagined, when he did so, that the poor little Irish boy would one day be taken in as a partner in the firm of “Bond & Co.;” but so it was, and a very good partner he proved to be; and many a bright gold-piece he sent over to Ireland for his old mother, and many a warm shawl he bought for his friend Betty, who was so afraid the first day he came, to have him in the same room with the “silver forks.” Poor old Betty, she could not bear joking about it now; she said “it made her feel like crawling through the key-hole,” but then, as she said, how should she know that she was “entertaining an angel unawares?”
THE
CHILD PRINCE AND THE CHILD PEASANT.
You know that Queen Victoria has a brood of little children; fat little cubs they are, too, if we may trust the pictures of them that we see in the shop-windows; and although they are a queen’s children, I will bet you a new kite that you have more cake and preserves and candy than they ever had all together in their lives, for English people do not allow their children such unwholesome things. Their rosy cheeks come of good roast beef and mutton, dry bread, and very plain puddings, with plenty of sweet milk. That is the way to make stout, healthy boys and girls. Victoria is a right good, sensible mother; her children, though they are princes and princesses, do not go unpunished, you may be sure, when they do naughty things. She wants to make them fit to rule England when they are called to do so; and in order to do that properly and wisely, she knows that they must first learn to rule themselves. Not long since she went with her little family to the Isle of Wight. While there, her young son, the Prince of Wales, took it into his royal little head to pick up shells by the sea-shore. While doing this, his little lordship noticed a poor little peasant-boy who had picked quite a basket-full of pretty shells for himself. The naughty little prince thought it would be good fun to knock the poor boy’s basket over, and spill out all his shells; so he gave it a kick with his royal little foot, and away it went! Now, the little peasant-boy did not relish that sort of fun as well as the prince. He quietly picked them all up, replaced them in his basket, and then said, “Do it again if you dare,” for he knew he had his rights as well as the prince. Up went the prince’s naughty little foot again, and over went the peasant-boy’s shells. Very soon after, the prince went crying home to his mother, Victoria, with a bloody nose and a swelled face. Victoria asked him where he had been, and how he got hurt so badly; and the prince told her that the little peasant-boy had done it, because he (the prince) had kicked over his basket of shells. Did Victoria hug up the little prince, and say, “You poor, dear little child, how dare that good-for-nothing little peasant-boy lay his hands on my noble little son? I will send and have him severely punished for his impertinence?” Did she, the queen, say this to the little bruised, crying prince? No, indeed. She looked him sternly in the eye, and said, “The peasant-boy served you just right, sir. I hope you will always be thus punished when you do so mean an action.” Then she sent for the little peasant-boy, made him some presents, and provided his father with means to give him an education. Was she not a sensible mother? and was not this a good lesson for the little proud prince? I warrant you he will remember it all his life long, and when he gets to be king, if he is half as sensible as his mother, he will thank her for it. Another good thing I must tell you of Queen Victoria; they say that she has each of her children taught some trade; so that if Fortune’s wheel should turn round so fast as to whirl them off the throne some day, they would then be able to get their own living. I like Queen Victoria, and I hope her little family will grow up to be a great comfort to her, for a mother is a mother, all the world over, whether she wears a crown on her head or not, and queens have a great deal of care, and much less happiness than you think.
THE WILD ROSE.
Maud was a funny little thing; she was so fat that she could scarcely waddle. Her eyes were so round, and so black, and so full of fun! her cheeks so plump and red, her shoulders so white and dimpled, and her hands looked like two little white pincushions. Maud was a country child, as you might know. Her parents were good, honest farming-people, who were not afraid of rain, or sun, or dew; who worked hard from Saturday till Monday, and from Monday till Saturday again; who owed nobody a cent, owned the farm they lived on, and were as contented and happy as two persons could possibly be.
Maud had no nursery-maid—not she. Maud took care of herself, and liked it right well too. She toddled round after her mother, into the dairy-room, into the kitchen, up chamber, out to the well, over to the barn, crowing, laughing, tumbling and picking herself up again, for her mother was too busy to stop to do it; eating bits of bread, drinking drops of milk, peeping into every thing she saw, and educating herself, as nobody else could possibly do; and when she tumbled into her little bed at night, she slept so soundly, that the old rooster had hard work to crow her awake the next morning. Maud’s playthings were corn-cobs, squashes, clothes-pins, rusty nails, broken broom-handles, bits of string, and a broken snuff-box—then there were the hens and chickens, who went in and out of the house whenever they liked, and the old horse, who often stepped his hoofs inside the back door, to see how things were going on; beside a little lamb and a flock of geese, who made noise enough for a small regiment. Yes, Maud had enough to do. It is city children, with a whole nursery full of toys and half a dozen nurses to take care of them, who are always crying because they “don’t know what to do.”
One morning, when little Maud was sitting on the door-step watching the old hens catch grasshoppers, a woman came through the gate and up the path toward the house. Maud did not run away; she liked the looks of the strange woman with moccasins on her feet, embroidered in bright-colored beads, with a gay blanket pinned round her shoulders, and a man’s hat on her head, with a bright red feather in it.
“Pretty papoose,” said the Indian woman, looking at little Maud’s rosy face and black eyes; “pretty papoose;” and down she sat beside Maud on the door-step. Maud did not know that papoose meant baby. In fact, she did not think any thing about it, she was so busy looking at something on the Indian woman’s back that was bobbing up and down inside her shawl. Maud thought perhaps it was a cat or a kitten, and she put out her little hand to feel of it.
“Want to see Indian papoose,” said the strange woman to Maud, and reaching her hands up over her head, she pulled off her back from under her shawl, a little brown Indian baby, with twinkling black eyes, and hair as black as ink.
Maud’s mother hearing some one talking on the door-step, came out with her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and spots of flour all over her check apron, for she was making some good country pies. When she saw the Indian woman, she took her papoose in her arms, and invited her to come in to the kitchen and get some dinner; for country folks are always kind to travelers. So the woman said, “Good,” and went in, and the little brown baby seemed to think it was “good” too, when Maud put a crust of bread in its fist for it to nibble. Then the Indian woman asked leave to light her pipe, for she was as fond of smoking as any Broadway loafer, and down she sat on the kitchen door-step—puff—puff—puff—while Maud’s mother stepped round to get her breakfast ready. The little Indian papoose did not laugh when Maud said “boo” to it, and touched its dusky chin with her little white forefinger. It looked as solemn as a judge, as it lay there twinkling its beadlike black eyes. Little sociable Maud did not like that; when she played with her spotted kitty, the good-natured kitty always said “purr—purr—purr;” when she went out to see the little frisky, pink, and white pigs, they ran up to the side of the pig-stye and said, “ugh! ugh! ugh!” when she met the old rooster, he halloed out as loud as he could, “cock-a-doodle-do!” the horse said “neigh!” the cow said “moo!” the dog Ponto said “bow-wow!” and that little Indian papoose was as dumb as a dead toad, and would not even laugh. Maud did not like such solemn babies.