During the holiday season two American girls have shown how useful an accomplishment swimming is. One was Fannie Coman, of Harlem, a slim blue-eyed girl of fourteen, who, when a little girl fell from the wharf into the river where both current and tide were strong, called to those on shore to come to her help, and diving into the stream, brought the child up and placed her in a boat moored off the wharf, and then swam off to recover her slipper. The second was Emma Hamilton, a girl of fifteen, living at Northport, Long Island, who made a gallant though fruitless effort to save her cousin when he was seized with a cramp while bathing, and at last recovered his body.
Two other heroes, the youngest of all, remain to be mentioned. One was a five-year-old boy at Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, named Carey, who, when a playmate fell into the water, held him up by the hair till assistance reached them. The other was the elder of two very young brothers who broke through the ice while skating at Cincinnati, and were clinging desperately to the slippery floes while the rescuers were toiling to reach them. "Be sure you take Willie out first!" were the only words the elder brother said; but before assistance came the little fellows sank together in the icy water.
These are the stories of brave boys and girls, the youngest five, the eldest only fifteen, born some in Europe and some in America, some city bred and delicately reared, others the children of farmers and rude laborers. Upon each devolved, without an instant's warning, the most sacred and awful of responsibilities—the saving of the lives of others at the risk of one's own life. In not one case did childhood falter, and in every instance the bravest thing was done in the wisest way.
Some of the children, doubtless, had read and admired the histories of patriots and brave soldiers, and had wondered whether such heroes lived nowadays, or such heroic deeds could ever again be done. And when the need came the hero was found, and the hero was the child that had read and wondered.
[THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.]
BY MARGARET SANGSTER.
"Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird?
And why do you hurry away?
Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred,
In the sweet golden sunshine to-day."
"I know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright,
And the leaves are asleep on the tree,
But three times the dream of a cold winter's night
Has come to my children and me.
"So good-by to you, darling, for off we must go,
To the land where the oranges bloom,
For we birdies would freeze in the storms and the snow,
And forget how to sing in the gloom."
"Will you ever come back to your own little nest?"
"Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here,
We'll return to the orchard we all love the best,
And then we will sing to you, dear."