The fairy who whispered to Fritz when he was crossing the Atlantic, told him if he were diligent and saving, she would perhaps bring him the old clock; and she kept her promise better than fairies sometimes do; for it chanced that the heir of Father Rudolph came to America, and brought it with him. The price Fritz offered for it was too tempting, and it now stands in his thatched cottage. Its carved black case, inlaid with grotesque figures of birds and beasts in pearl, is more wonderful than a picture-book to the children. When any of them are out of health, or out of humour, their father sets the old bewildered tunes agoing, and they soon join in a merry mocking chorus, with “Cluck, cluck, cluck! Whirr, whirr, whirr! Rik a rik a ree!”
Note.—The accidental purchase of his parents by a German emigrant actually occurred a few years since; and this story was suggested by the fact.
HOME AND POLITICS.
FOUNDED ON AN INCIDENT THAT OCCURRED IN NEW YORK, DURING THE EXCITEMENT ATTENDING THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT POLK.
O friendly to the best pursuits of man!
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life.
Cowper.
At the bend of a pleasant road winding under the shade of a large elm, stood a small school-house. It was a humble building; and the little belfry on the top seemed hardly large enough for the motions of the cow-bell suspended there. But it was a picturesque feature in the landscape. The elm drooped over it with uncommon gracefulness, and almost touched the belfry with its light foliage. The weather-beaten, moss-grown shingles were a relief to the eye of the traveller, weary of prim staring white houses. Moreover, a human soul had inscribed on the little place a pastoral poem in vines and flowers. A white Rose bush covered half one side, and carried its offering of blossoms up to the little bell. Cypress vines were trained to meet over the door, in a Gothic arch, surmounted by a cross. On the western side, the window was shaded with a profusion of Morning Glories; and a great rock, that jutted out into the road, was thickly strewn with Iceland moss, which in the springtime covered it with a carpet of yellow stars.
It was at that season it was first seen by George Franklin, a young New York lawyer, on a visit to the country. He walked slowly past, gazing at the noble elm slightly waving its young foliage to a gentle breeze. Just then, out poured a flock of children, of various ages. Jumping and laughing, they joined hands and formed a circle round the elm. A clear voice was heard within the school-house, singing a lively time, while measured strokes on some instrument of tin marked the time. The little band whirled round the tree, stepping to the music with the rude grace of childhood and joy. After ten or fifteen minutes of this healthy exercise, they stopped, apparently in obedience to some signal. Half of them held their hands aloft and formed arches for the other half to jump through. Then they described swift circles with their arms, and leaped high in the air. Having gone through their simple code of gymnastics, away they scampered, to seek pleasure after their own fashion, till summoned to their books again. Some of them bowed and courtesied to the traveller, as they passed; while others, with arms round each other’s necks, went hopping along, first on one foot, then on the other, too busy to do more than nod and smile, as they went by. Many of them wore patched garments, but hands and faces were all clean. Some had a stolid, animal look; but even these seemed to sun their cold nature in the rays of beauty and freedom, which they found only at school. The whole scene impressed the young man very vividly. He asked himself why it could not be always thus, in the family, in the school, every where? Why need man forever be a blot on Nature? Why must he be coarse and squalid, and gross and heavy, while Nature is ever radiant with fresh beauty, and joyful with her overplus of life? Then came saddening thoughts how other influences of life, coarse parents, selfish employers, and the hard struggle for daily bread, would overshadow the genial influences of that pleasant school, which for a few months gilded the lives of those little ones.
When he repassed the spot, some hours after, all was still, save the occasional twittering of birds in the tree. It was sunset, and a bright farewell gleam shone across the moss-carpet on the rock, and made the little flowers in the garden smile. When he returned to the city, the scene often rose before his mind as a lovely picture, and he longed for the artist’s skill to re-produce it visibly in its rustic beauty. When he again visited the country after midsummer, he remembered the little old school-house, and one of his earliest excursions was a walk in that direction. A profusion of crimson stars, and white stars, now peeped out from the fringed foliage of the Cypress vines, and the little front yard was one bed of blossoms. He leaned over the gate, and observed how neatly every plant was trained, as if some loving hand tended them carefully every day. He listened, but could hear no voices; and curiosity impelled him to see how the little building looked within. He lifted the latch, peeped in, and saw that the room was empty. The rude benches and the white-washed walls were perfectly clean. The windows were open on both sides, and the air was redolent with the sweet breath of Mignonette. On the teacher’s desk was a small vase, of Grecian pattern, containing a few flowers tastefully arranged. Some books lay beside it, and one had an ivory folder between the leaves, as if recently used. It was Bettine’s Letters to Günderode; and, where it opened at the ivory folder, he read these lines, enclosed in pencil marks; “All that I see done to children is unjust. Magnanimity, confidence, free-will, are not given to the nourishment of their souls. A slavish yoke is put upon them. The living impulse, full of buds, is not esteemed. No outlet will they give for Nature to reach the light. Rather must a net be woven, in which each mesh is a prejudice. Had not a child a world within, where could he take refuge from the deluge of folly that is poured over the budding meadow-carpet? Reverence have I before the destiny of each child, shut up in so sweet a bud. One feels reverence at touching a young bud, which the spring is swelling.”
The young man smiled with pleased surprise; for he had not expected to find appreciation of such sentiments in the teacher of a secluded country school. He took up a volume of Mary Howitt’s Birds and Flowers, and saw the name of Alice White written in it. On all blank spaces were fastened delicate young fern leaves, and small bits of richly-tinted moss. He glanced at the low ceiling, and the rude benches. “This seems not the appropriate temple for such a spirit,” thought he. “But, after all, what consequence is that, since such spirits find temples everywhere?” He took a pencil from his pocket, and marked in Bettine’s Letters: “Thou hast feeling for the every-day life of nature. Dawn, noon-tide, and evening clouds are thy dear companions, with whom thou canst converse when no man is abroad with thee. Let me be thy scholar in simplicity.”
He wrote his initials on the page. “Perhaps I shall never see this young teacher,” thought he; “but it will be a little mystery, in her unexciting life, to conjecture what curious eye has been peeping into her books.” Then he queried with himself, “How do I know she is a young teacher?”