LITTLE WIDE-AWAKE
A Story Book for Little Children

BY
MRS. SALE BARKER

WITH FOUR HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON AND NEW YORK
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
1877

SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:

ROSIE.

Rosie is the name of the little girl whose picture you see on the first page, with a snowball in her hands. Of course her name is Rosa really, but somehow we always call her Rosie. Has she not a bright, pretty, laughing little face, with her blue eyes, and fair hair? She is a fine strong little maiden into the bargain; a trifle wilful, perhaps, and a good deal of a romp.

Last Christmas I was staying at Cranley Grange—Rosie’s home in the country,—when one morning at breakfast her mamma said to me—“Charlie is coming home to-day; I can’t go to meet him, my cough is so bad. I wonder if you would mind driving down to the station, and taking Rosie and Frank?”

Charlie, who was the eldest son, and a great favourite of mine, was coming home for his Christmas holidays. He was about fourteen years old, while Rosie was only ten, and Frank two years younger.

I said I should be delighted to go, thinking what a pleasant drive it would be with those merry laughing children. Little did I anticipate the trial to my nerves, and the succession of frights, that were in store for me.

We were soon seated in the open wagonette, and off we started. Though I should not say seated, for the children scarcely sat down at all: they kept jumping up, changing places, pushing each other, and playing all sorts of pranks. I was in an agony of fear lest they should tumble out; and during the whole drive, I sat with my arms extended, clutching hold, sometimes of one, sometimes of the other, to save them. This was fright number one.

At last we arrived at the station;—the children still in uproarious spirits, though with cherry noses, as well as rosy cheeks, from the cold. I must tell you that there was snow upon the ground; and as, unluckily, we had ten minutes to wait for the train, they began to amuse themselves by snowballing each other. Frank set the example, and they found it such fun that I scolded, and begged them to be quiet, in vain. At last I observed Rosie standing quite at the end of the platform, where the snow was thicker, and she had collected a large snowball, which she held up in her hands. As I looked at her, and thought what a pretty picture she made, I noticed, in the landscape behind her, a little puff of white smoke. It was the approaching train, at a distance of not more than half a mile. I thought her position, at the extremity of the platform, and just at the edge too, terribly dangerous. And this may be called—fright number two.

I had just opened my lips to call out to her that the train was coming, when a whole handful of snow came dab into my face, filling my mouth and eyes. It was that little rogue Frank, who had crept close up to me, and playfully bestowed upon my face the snow he had been collecting. Recovering from the shock, I looked out again for Rosie. She was no longer in the same place; but, quite beyond the platform, and close upon the rails, I saw her kneeling down in the snow. I screamed with all my might, and a railway porter ran to her, whisked her up in his arms, and brought her safely on to the platform again. This was fright number three; and never, I think, before or since, have I been so much frightened as I was for the moment.

Directly afterwards the train stopped, and Charlie jumped out. When he heard of Rosie’s danger, he scolded her as if he had been a little grandfather, and his words seemed to have much more weight than mine. I now observed that Rosie had a tiny white rabbit in her arms, and she told us that this was what she was picking up out of the snow upon the rails. She thought it was quite excuse enough for herself when she said:—“Only think, Charlie dear, haven’t I saved the life of this pretty little rabbit?”

On the way home, Charlie sat in front and drove, with the coachman beside him; but he contrived now and then to turn his head a little, and keep up his lecture to his brother and sister about their riotous behaviour all the way. Meanwhile I sat quiet, rather humbled at observing how much more respect they showed for the scolding they got from their big brother than for mine. But of one thing I am certain: nothing would ever induce me to take charge of those two lively young people on an expedition of the kind again.

THE ROBIN’S SONG.

The snow’s on the ground,

And the cold’s in the air;

There is nothing to eat,

And the branches are bare:

Tweet, tweet, tweet!

Open the window,

Kind lady, we pray;

Bestow a few crumbs

Upon us to-day:

Tweet, tweet, tweet!

You’ve flannel and furs

To keep yourself warm;

You are not obliged

To be out in the storm:

Tweet, tweet, tweet!

We’ve only our feathers

For bonnet and dress;

We’re cold and we’re hungry,

We freely confess:

Tweet, tweet, tweet!

Then feed us while winter

Spreads snow o’er the plain,

And we’ll sing you our songs

When it’s summer again:

Tweet, tweet, tweet!

PUZZLE-PAGE.

Now here is a puzzle page for you to find out. One object begins with A, one with B, one with C, one with G, one with O, and one with P.

A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.

CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH WE MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A NICE LITTLE BOY, AND A PRETTY WOODEN HORSE.

There stood once, in the good old time—that is to say some fifteen years ago, which we may call ages for you, my little readers, who have not yet lost your pretty first teeth;—there stood, then, once, in a delightful valley, between Long-Pont and Savigny, in France, a charming country house, surrounded by a wood, which spread along the bank of a little winding river.

The house of which I speak was called a chateau—that is, a castle—by the peasants of the neighbourhood. To tell the truth, however, it was only a moderate-sized house; but it was kept in excellent order, although a very old building. In spite of its age, therefore, it wore a smiling aspect, like the faces of those amiable and good grandmammas, who smile at your pretty ways, my children.

Let us go in: I wish to make you acquainted with a little companion, whom I hope you will love very much. There he is with his mamma in the drawing-room, where the window, opening to the ground, shows us a garden beyond. At this moment he is repeating a fable to his mother. It is one which teaches that pride is a great fault; that we ought not to assume airs of superiority towards the unhappy and humble, nor endeavour to excite envy in their hearts; and that Providence, moreover, takes upon itself sometimes to punish those who do so. This fable, as you have already guessed perhaps, is called—“The Oak and the Reed.”

THOSE OF MY READERS WHO ARE ACCUSTOMED TO BE DRESSED UP AS SOLDIERS—TURCOS OR ZOUAVES.

My little friend’s attention from the first has been about equally divided between the fable he is repeating and a beautiful wooden horse, which stands fastened by the bridle to a tree in the garden: but before the fable is finished, it is evident that his thoughts are altogether taken up by the horse. It is a pity; because, not attending to the punishment of the oak, he will lose the moral of the fable. But let us not be more severe on him than his mamma, who does not seem much distressed about the matter. Besides, who can keep the thoughts from wandering sometimes, particularly during study?

This little boy’s name is Maurice; a nice soft-sounding name, I think; and he is five and a half years old. I am not going to say, like some mammas I know,—“This is the most beautiful child in the world, and has fair curly hair, great blue eyes, and little rosy lips.” No! In our hearts we—that is, his relations and friends—all considered little Maurice to be Nature’s masterpiece, but I won’t describe his beauty in detail; and only say that he had chestnut hair and an intelligent face.

Those of my young readers who are accustomed to be dressed up as soldiers—Turcos or Zouaves; or, if they are girls, to be clothed in silk and velvet, would no doubt like to know how my little friend was dressed. Well then, his mamma did not let him wear such fine clothes as would interfere with his exercise or his games. Perhaps some of my elegantly dressed little readers would not care to play with him when they hear that he wore neither velvet nor fur, nor even a feather in his cap; but had simply a jacket and trowsers, made of linen in summer, and of warm cloth in winter. For all that, however, he was a good little boy, and well brought up.

Directly he had repeated the last verse of the fable—which he did without thinking at all of its meaning—Maurice bounded off from the drawing-room into the garden. In a moment he had unfastened the horse, and placing his foot in the stirrup, had sprung on its back. Then he called out: “Gee-up, Cressida! gee-up, my friend!”

Cressida, after shaking its head and flowing mane, started off at a gallop, putting out its legs in the most graceful way imaginable. Because I have said that Cressida was a wooden horse, you picture it to yourselves perhaps as resembling other wooden horses that you have seen,—pretty toy horses, no doubt: but either they have been only rocking-horses, or they have just moved a little means of some mechanism which does not produce the real action of a horse. Cressida was like none of these; but lifted up its legs one after the other with the grace and elegance of a thoroughbred English horse.

Yes, certainly, for a horse made of wood, it was very wonderful. It had a curving neck, a long black tail. The muscles were marked, as you see in well-bred horses; the chest was powerful, the head small, the ears delicate, the eyes full of fire, and the skin was soft and glossy. Add to all this that every time you stroked Cressida on the neck it neighed joyously, and it obeyed the bridle like the most docile Arab horse.

It had many other precious qualities; but were I to tell you all, this book would not contain the description: I should be obliged to make a second volume. I will only add, therefore, that this wonderful horse could remain without food or drink for any length of time that circumstances might render convenient.

Unfortunately I can give no precise details concerning the birth, education, or infantine peculiarities of Cressida. It would even be impossible to learn them now; for the only person who knew anything about them—the old man who gave the horse to my little friend—is no longer alive. We know very little even of this old man himself. He was a native of Nuremberg, an ancient city of Germany, where it is supposed that clocks were first invented. It seems that in his own country, Fritz—for that was the only name we knew him by—had been considered an extraordinary mechanician; and he was driven away from Nuremberg through the jealousy and enmity of a rich and powerful Burgomaster of the city, who had a turn for mechanical inventions himself.

The invention upon which this Burgomaster most prided himself, was an automaton, or wooden figure, of a woman, which walked, and smirked, and smiled, like a real lady; but he could not make her speak. Fritz, who was then young, devoted himself to a similar work; and made a figure representing a young peasant-girl, who could say, “Good morning,” and inquire after your health; and, if you took her by the hand, would look down with admirable modesty and grace. The success of Fritz gave great offence to the Burgomaster; and there grew up between the two, first a rivalry, then an enmity, which at last caused Fritz to leave the city.

When little Maurice first knew him, Fritz could hardly have been less than seventy-five years old: he was so old that his hair was quite white, his head shook a little, and he only walked by the help of a stick. He lived as if he was very poor, in a small cottage near the house of Maurice’s parents. Whenever Maurice saw him, the little boy always wished him good morning, and stopped to talk to him. Fritz was very much pleased with these attentions, and began to feel a strong affection for the child; who was not slow to return it.

The child’s instinct told him that Fritz was good and unfortunate, deserving to be loved and pitied. And indeed he did deserve pity. In the decline of his life, not only did he live in poverty, but the peasants of the village he had chosen for his retreat, hurt perhaps by the coldness and reserve of his manners, used to laugh at him, and sometimes insult him. The boys of the place, generally mischievous and badly brought up, would run after him, and mimicking his German accent, inquire whether he had a cold in his head that he was obliged to speak through his nose.

HE SHOWED MAURICE HOW TO SIT THE HORSE FIRMLY AND GRACEFULLY.

One summer evening, when Maurice and his parents were in the garden, enjoying the freshness of the air and the perfume of the flowers, they heard the bell ring at the gate, and presently Fritz came up to them, leading by the bridle a pretty little black horse. In few words the old man explained the motive of his visit. He wished, before leaving the world, to make Maurice a present of the wooden horse which he had brought with him.

“A wooden horse!” they all exclaimed, for they had mistaken Cressida for a real live pony.

“It is not a being created by God,” said Fritz, “but only a thing made of wood. By some mechanism, which I will not explain to you, it is endowed with the action and movements of a real horse. Cressida is what I possess most precious in the world, and I have made up my mind to part with it only because I love your little son, and know he deserves to possess an object which I care more for than I do for the few days of life that remain to me.”

Then he explained to Maurice how to manage the horse; how to make it move, and to guide it. He took the little hand of the child and placed it softly on the pony’s neck, which immediately neighed as if with pleasure. He showed Maurice how to sit the horse firmly and gracefully; and when the little boy, who was very intelligent, understood all this, Fritz told him he might start off. The child had only to press his knees hard against the sides of Cressida, and off it went at a gallop. The rider’s heart beat quickly, but he kept his seat, and guiding the pony back again, pulled up at the spot he had started from.

Maurice’s father and mother were lost in amazement; they did not know how to show their gratitude, for Fritz was not a man to offer money to. They begged him to leave his cottage and come and live with them. Fritz thanked them, but said that he intended in a few days to leave the village to go to Nuremberg, and that at his age he could hardly calculate upon returning. He was going to see for the last time his niece and her three little children, who were the only relations that remained to him. This niece’s husband had gone to America a year ago, to settle there: he had been successful, and the wife and children would follow him soon. Fritz said that before he died he was going to see them once again.

On taking leave, Fritz asked Maurice to give him a promise that he would never sell, or part with, Cressida. “Unless, indeed,” he added, “it should be for the sake of helping somebody in great distress.”

Maurice had a stable arranged for Cressida in the house, and acted as groom himself. He rose every morning at six o’clock, and went to clean and rub down his little horse, which always stood quiet the time.

And now it occurs to me, my little readers, that you would probably like to know the name of Maurice’s father and mother, which I have not yet told you. The father’s name was Felix de Roisel, and the mother was called Julie. She was very pretty and very gentle: as gentle and pretty a mamma as you have ever seen. Still she could be severe if it was really necessary: but this was not often with so good a child as my little friend.

(To be continued.)

WHAT NEWS?

“What’s the news of the day,

Good neighbour, I pray?”

“They say the balloon

Has gone up to the moon.”

“O-oh!”

WINTER.

Outside, the meadows are covered with snow;

Fluffity, fluffity, fluff.

All round the cottage the winds roughly blow;

Puffity, puffity, puff

Inside, the cottagers pleasantly talk:

Chatterty, chatterty, chat.

They talk of the time when baby will walk;

Patterty, patterty, pat.

CATS.

Well, my little friends, I think I need hardly describe this animal to you; for there is scarcely a home in England, rich or poor, which is without a pussy.

How the children all love the little kitten, the nursery pet, with its pretty playful ways and graceful movements! But kitty grows up too soon into the sedate old mother-cat, like the one we see in the picture holding the poor little mouse in her mouth. Ah! that to me is a terrible drawback to Pussy,—that love of killing.

I am so fond of cats that this year I went to the Crystal Palace Cat Show, where I saw some beauties: among others a tortoiseshell Tom, which is said to be a great rarity. Hundreds of cats, large and small, long-haired and short-haired, long-tailed and tailless, cats of every colour known to catdom, filled the cages, which were arranged in long rows. And I must say they bore their imprisonment with wonderful patience. For three days they had been shut up in those wire houses, like birds: and some of the cages housed a whole family. One, I remember, contained a mamma and her six children; the latter small, but very rampageous. I pitied this poor mother with all my heart: how her patience must have been tried during those three dreadful days!

Though we may not like to see cats kill small animals, Puss is often valued in proportion as she can rid the house of rats and mice. So it is, I suspect, with the cat in the picture. She is evidently owned by a carpenter, who perhaps found his workshop infested by rats and mice till he possessed this handsome tabby. She will soon rid him of them, I think: and see how she is teaching her kittens to follow her example!

But in spite of their natural instinct to destroy mice and birds, cats may be easily taught to live in friendship with these very creatures; and I will tell you a story of a pet cat which, I think, will amuse you better than hearing about the poor little mice being killed.

A lady that I know had a fine tabby cat, and also a very beautiful canary. The cat’s name was Bijou; the canary’s—Cherry. Now Bijou had been brought up from kittenhood with Cherry: that is, he had been accustomed to sit on the rug beside the fire, while Cherry sang in his cage on the table, or hanging at the window. Bijou always behaved perfectly well, and never attempted to molest Cherry.

The mistress of these two pets used to let the canary fly about sometimes in her bedroom, but she never had quite confidence enough in Bijou to do this while he was there. One day in summer the window of the bedroom happened to be open at the top without her noticing it, and the canary, after flying about the room a little while, passed out of the window. It flew round and about, from tree to tree, seeming to enjoy its liberty very much.

The lady feared she had lost it for ever, but she brought out the cage and placed it upon the lawn, thinking there was just a chance that the canary might come back to its old home of its own accord. As she stood at the window watching, she presently saw the bird alight on the lawn. A moment afterwards she saw Bijou, who had been crouching in a bed of flowers, spring out, pounce upon the little creature, and seize it in his mouth.

Then, to the lady’s astonishment, who expected to see the bird devoured, Bijou trotted with it up to the cage, and deposited the truant safely inside again. Cherry was dreadfully frightened, but not at all hurt, and after shaking its rumpled feathers into their places, sat on its perch as happy as ever.

PETER’S RAVEN.

Peter was a little boy who was very fond of birds and animals. He had a raven which he taught to do all manner of tricks. Trusty Tim—that was the raven’s name—would fetch and carry like a dog, and would call upstairs to his master when anyone came to the cottage door, like a housedog barking. He would also help his master to pull off his boots, by taking the toe in his beak and giving it a tug.

Like other clever people, however, Trusty Tim sometimes made a mistake. One day Peter’s little brother, Johnny, put out his foot to see if the raven would do the same for him. Unluckily there was a tiny hole at the toe of the boot, and Trusty Tim could not resist the temptation of pecking at the hole, and taking a little bit of Johnny’s toe. And didn’t Johnny scream!

NURSERY RHYME.

There was a monkey climbed up a tree;

When he fell down, then down fell he.

There was a crow sat on a stone;

When he was gone, then there was none.

There was an old wife did eat an apple;

When she ate two, she had ate a couple.

There was a horse going to the mill;

When he went on, he didn’t stand still.

There was a butcher cut his thumb;

When it did bleed, then blood it did run.

There was a jockey ran a race;

When he ran fast, he ran apace.

There was a cobbler clouting shoon;

When they were mended, then they were done.

There was a navy went into Spain;

When it returned it came back again.

OTTO IN THE WATER-BOTTLE.
A FAIRY STORY.

It had been such a day! The flakes of snow had been falling, falling like feathers on the pavement all day long. It was now dark, and little Otto stood at the dining-room window, watching them still falling in the light of the lamps outside. Otto is a handsome boy of about seven years old. It is New Year’s Eve; and he is going to a party this evening. Bertha, his sister, is being dressed for it at the present time, but he had been so noisy and troublesome, up in the nursery, while the ceremony of her dressing was going on, that he was sent downstairs to wait till his turn came.

Otto had been to a good many parties, and to two pantomimes this winter; still he was not at all tired of either parties or pantomimes; on the contrary, the more he went to the more he seemed to like them. But it was only at Christmas Otto was so gay; for did he not do lessons all the rest of the year with his sister’s governess? Miss Wigly was very strict, and thought children were much better without many holidays;—“particularly little boys,” she said. But perhaps that was because she was so anxious to get Otto well forward before he went to school.

For the last ten minutes he had been staring at the snow outside the dining-room windows, then he turned round and looked at the things in the room. A bright fire blazed on the hearth, the cloth was already laid for the dinner of the older members of the family, and by the side of the fire stood a comfortable easy chair, which papa generally sat in as soon as he had done his dinner.

Otto seated himself in this chair, and began to look at a bottle of water, which stood at the corner of the table nearest to him. His attention was attracted by the odd way in which things were reflected in the water. How minute the reflections were, and how they all curved, so as to make the room look round, as if seen in a mirror! He observed, too, his own little face, sometimes lengthened, sometimes widened, according to the part of the bottle he saw it in. These observations did not prevent him from thinking at the same time what a comfortable easy chair he was sitting in, and what a nice warm fire it was.

How long he had been reflecting upon all these things he never knew, when he observed, to his surprise, that the bottle was growing bigger; and, in another moment, instead of looking at it from the outside, he found himself inside it, looking at the objects beyond. And these were all changed. There was no water in the bottle now, but the water was outside, and the bottle itself was floating upon a river. The river seemed to wind along between mountains, and had beautiful buildings and trees upon its banks. A boat, rowed by two queer little men, was fastened by a chain to the bottle; and, as they rowed, the bottle was towed along. Gold and silver fish were playing about in the water; tiny children with wings were sporting in the air. The bottle inside was fitted up like an elegant drawing-room; and—most wonderful of all!—a beautiful fairy reclined on a sofa in the midst of it.

Otto knew she was a fairy, because she was just like those he had seen at the play, dressed all in gold and silver tissue, and sparkling with jewels. Besides, although she looked grown-up, she was not bigger than Otto himself. She spoke to him also in the beautiful language used in plays:—

“Mortal child,” she said, “thou lovest well to join in the festivities of other mortals,—what sayest thou now to making one in a fairy revel?”

“A fairy party, do you mean, ma’am?” asked Otto. “It would be awfully jolly, I should think.”

“Come, then, with me,” said the fairy, rising from her sofa.

As she did so, it occurred to Otto that they would wonder what had become of him at home. He hesitated, and said,—

“Could I go back home for a minute first, if you please, ma’am, to let them know where I am? And I think my sister, Bertha, would like very much to come too, if she might.”

“Mortal boy, dost fear to trust thyself with us?” exclaimed the fairy, indignantly.

Otto felt he had offended her, but before he could reply, she had disappeared. For a moment everything seemed confused: “Just like a change of scene in a pantomime,” thought Otto to himself. Afterwards, instead of floating along upon the river, he found himself sitting upon its bank, while a very large moon rose over the water. Bertha was sitting by his side, and two lovely fairies stood by them, but not the same fairy as before. In front of him, standing up in the water, was a very shabby, damp-looking, white-bearded old man. Otto was puzzled to account for him at first, then he recollected to have seen a picture somewhere of old Father Thames, and he assumed that this old man must be the river-god. There were also some little naked fairies hovering about him, “And those,” thought Otto, “must be little streams that run into the river.” Besides all these, there was a large tortoise or turtle close to Otto, which crept up, and stared him in the face.

The old man, addressing Bertha and Otto, said,—“Tell me, children, what is your wish?”

Before Otto could put in a word, Bertha exclaimed,—“I want to go to the fairy revel.”

“Why, she seems to know all about it!” thought Otto, very much surprised. The words—fairy revel—uttered by Bertha, were repeated by voices in the air, on the earth, among the reeds, in the water, everywhere. Gradually the sounds died away in the distance, and as they did so, Otto discovered that he was alone.

“Why, they have all gone off to the fairy ball, and left me behind,” said Otto, aloud to himself. “How shall I ever get there now?”

“Jump on my back,” cried a voice from the grass. It was the tortoise: and Otto observed that it had a kind of side-saddle on its back, and a bridle in its mouth.

“Can you go fast?” said Otto, doubtingly.

“Try me!” briefly replied Mr. Tortoise.

Otto did so, seating himself as he thought a lady-fairy might do. Rather to his own surprise, he felt no alarm when the creature rose up from the earth, and bore him rushing through the air. He seemed to be rapidly approaching the moon, when suddenly a harsh voice sounded in his ears:—“Why, you’re not dressed.” He looked at himself, and perceived, to his dismay, that he had on his nightgown. “How stupid of me,” thought he; “why, I must have jumped out of bed, and come off, without dressing. What shall I do at the fairy ball?”

Again the same great voice cried,—“You’re not dressed,” and the words were followed by a merry peal of laughter. Otto looked at himself again, and now all was changed: he had on his usual little jacket, his nickerbockers, warm stockings, and shoes. He was in his father’s easy chair, and the water-bottle was on the table before him. Bertha stood there, dressed for her party, laughing with all her might; while Mrs. Crump the nurse looked very cross.

“Oh, nurse, why did you wake me? I was on my way to the fairies’ ball.”

“Fairies’ fiddlestick!” rejoined Mrs. Crump. “Come and get dressed directly.”

“Oh, Bertha, Bertha, I have had such a wonderful dream; just like being at the play. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Well, never mind now,” replied Bertha, snubbing him with all the importance of a sister three or four years his senior. “Make haste and dress, or we shan’t go to Aunt Julia’s ball, which I care more about.”

CHRISTMAS-TIME.

Tis Christmas time!—the joyous time,

When, loud from belfry towers, the chime

Of merry bells, so glad and gay,

Proclaim the holy Christmas-day.

The church is decked with holly bright,

Each face is beaming with delight,

And mourners put their grief away

Upon the joyful Christmas-day.

’Tis Christmas-day, that brings to each

Something to learn, something to teach;

Something to do, if understood:

All have their mission here for good.

Good will to man and peace on earth:

Rejoice with pure and guileless mirth,

And highest praises to Him pay,

Through whom we have our Christmas-day.

Give with free hand, our choicest store

To all who need, to old and poor;

With friends rejoice, with children play,

Make happy all our Christmas-day.

Nor let the common thought appear,

That Christmas comes but once a year;

And till next year has passed away,

Let it be ever Christmas-day.

MAMMA’S SUNDAY TALK.
MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR.

WATER TURNED INTO WINE.

Now, darling children, come round me while we have a little talk fit for Sundays. You remember that during the past year I gave you some account of our Saviour’s teaching, and of the principal events of His life. Now I shall tell you about some of the miracles He performed.

The word “Miracle” signifies simply—wonder: but there may, of course, be many wonderful events which are not miracles. As the word is used, a miracle means strictly an act by which the laws of nature are set aside: and though the wisest of us do not understand all nature’s laws, we should be able, I think, generally to distinguish what was really a miracle from what was merely wonderful. For instance, if a doctor were to cure a blind man by anointing his eyes, we might think it wonderful, but should conclude that he had discovered a cure for that kind of blindness. If the physician, however, were to give sight to the blind man by merely commanding him to see, we might then pronounce the cure a miracle.

The Jews expected that all who claimed to be prophets should perform some miracle to prove that they were divinely inspired; as did Moses, Elijah, Elisha, and several of the prophets. When the divine promise was given to Moses and others, that a great prophet should be raised up for the people of Israel, it was foretold that this prophet should be known by the greatness and variety of the miracles which he performed.

By such signs he was to be distinguished from all pretenders, and Isaiah says:—“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened; and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing.”

Our Saviour may be said generally to have had two objects in performing miracles. In most instances, one object was the immediate relief of suffering. But He always had the greater object by His miracles of proving that He was the Christ, whose coming had been foretold to the Jews so long before. The miracles were the signs that He was the Messiah.

The first miracle performed by our Saviour was that of turning water into wine.

We are told by St. John that there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee, and at the feast our Saviour and His mother were present. After a time the servants found that the supply of wine for the guests was running short. One of them told this to the mother of Jesus, and she, going to Him, said:—“They have no wine.”

The miracle which followed is thus related in the words of Scripture:—

“Jesus saith unto them: Fill the water-pots with water. And they filled them to the brim. And He saith unto them: Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it. When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the governor of the feast called the bridegroom, and saith unto him: Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now.”

This was the first miracle that Jesus did: in our next Sunday-talk, my children, I will tell you more of them.

ST. VALENTINE’S DAY

It was the thirteenth of February; to-morrow would be St. Valentine’s day; and the children were as busy as bees preparing valentines. They were as merry, too, as they were busy; all except Annie—little Annie, the delicate one, the pet of the family. While the others were skipping and jumping about as they did up their valentines, and eager and noisy, as it is the nature of children to be, Annie sat on the hearthrug, with her hands clasped round her little knees, staring into the red fire; and her pale face looked quite old and wan from trouble.

I was very hard at work directing the envelopes for the children, while they clamoured and clustered round me; but looking at our dear little girl’s wistful face, I took advantage of a moment’s respite from my work to go and ask her what it was that seemed to trouble her so much.

“Oh, auntie,” she said, as she began to cry, “it is because Jack has taken my darling Tip away from me.”

Tip was a nice little Scotch terrier that belonged to Annie’s cousin, Jack, who had been staying for two or three weeks at Annie’s home during his holidays. Tip had come on the visit with his master, and had gone away with him only that morning. But during those two or three weeks Tip and Annie had become dear friends and play-fellows.

“I had taught him so many pretty tricks,” continued Annie, “and he loved me so: I am sure, auntie dear, he loved me better than Jack.”

“But, darling,” I said, “after all Tip is Jack’s own doggie, and he is very fond of the little creature, you know, so of course he took him away with him. Now, dear, don’t fret any more, but try and be cheerful.”

Annie is a good little girl, and did try her best to be cheerful, I could see. She came to the table, and looked over the valentines with the others; but she had not forgotten her sorrows.

Presently, her little brother Tommy said to her,—“Annie, don’t you hope you’ll get a jolly lot of valentines to-morrow?”

“I don’t care,” sighed Annie, “unless Tip could send me one.”

“What stuff!” remarked Tommy: “Tip can’t send you a valentine, you know.”

“Well, he might bring me one, at any rate,” said Annie, “for I taught him to carry letters.”

Annie’s remark gave me an idea, and I formed a little plan, of which you shall hear the result.

The next morning—St. Valentine’s morning—as the children were at breakfast in the nursery, a scratching was heard at the door; and when it was opened, there appeared in the doorway—what do you suppose now? There was a little doggie, the very likeness of Tip, standing on his hind legs, with a valentine in his mouth. The valentine was addressed to Annie: and when I followed the little terrier into the room, and told her that not only the valentine, but the doggie too was for her—that I gave it to her to be her very own, she was more delighted than I can describe to you.

When I formed this little plan the day before, I had just remembered where a doggie, very like Tip, was for sale. I had bought him that very afternoon, and managed the surprise as you see. Annie very soon grew as fond of Charlie—that was the name of the little dog—as she had ever been of Tip.

THE FAIRY QUEEN.

See what a pretty Fairy Queen!

Such a one is seldom seen:

A little crown of golden hair,

And little robes so clean and fair.

All behind her trumpets blowing;

All before her banners flowing;

A valiant guard upon her right,

With a sword so keen and bright;

And on her left a dame discreet

To answer her with converse sweet;

And a prancing steed before

Her triumphal car to draw.

Surely such a Fairy Queen

Has been very seldom seen:

For guards and dames and steeds appear

Her brothers and her sisters dear.

And there the kind old nurse the while

Looks on with merry jest and smile.

THE SPARROW-HAWK.

This is a picture of a bird called the Sparrow-hawk. It is rather a small kind of hawk, and contents itself with swooping down upon poor little unoffending sparrows, and such small game. Like other birds of prey, it is becoming more scarce every year in England, and being a very wild shy bird, it does not come near people or houses if it can help it. Still, when it is very hungry, or has little hungry bird-children at home in its nest, it becomes very brave and fierce, as you will see by the story I am going to tell you of what happened to me when I was a little girl.

It was, I remember, a very cold morning, and the trees were standing bleak and bare against the sky; the world looked dreary enough, and there were heavy clouds hanging over all. I had come out into the garden to bowl my hoop, when old Tidyman, the gardener, who was sweeping the snow from the paths, and who dearly loved a little chat, said to me,—

“We’ll be having a fine fall, missie, presently: it’s rare and cold surely. The birds is a’most starving: there be a sparrer-hawk a’hoverin over here as seems precious hungry. It have a nesty, I know, in that there holler tree in the park, and as soon as ever them pore little birds you see there trying to peck a bit, comes together, that there sparrer-hawk he comes after them. Looky there!” exclaimed the old man, pointing to a hawk high in the air above our heads, “if he ain’t a’hoverin over us now!”

The poor little dickies, who were pecking away at a few crumbs, which had been thrown out to them in the garden by some kind-hearted maid belonging to the house, seemed suddenly to become conscious of their danger, and flew off with a frightened twittering cry. One only—a very young and very foolhardy little sparrow—remained to take a last peck. The hawk singled out this poor birdie for his prey, and allowing the others to fly away in peace, suddenly swooped down upon the little laggard, fastening his cruel beak in its poor quivering body.

This took place within half-a-dozen yards of the spot where old Tidyman and I stood talking. I was but a child of seven years old, but I hated cruelty, and always longed to help the weak against the strong; so I rushed at the hawk, hoopstick in hand. The little sparrow was already dead; but what do you think the savage hawk did? It turned upon me, and flew at my face. I put my hand up just in time, and had a piece pecked out of one of my fingers instead.

When Tidyman came up, the horrid bird flew off, not forgetting, though, to pick up and carry off the little dead sparrow in triumph. I have no doubt the baby-hawks, in their nest in the hollow tree, greeted him with open mouths, as you see them in the picture, and they were fed not only with the little dead sparrow, but also with a nice piece out of my poor little finger.

A STORY OF A WOODEN HORSE.

CHAPTER II.
A SPOILT CHILD.—JEANNE.—MAURICE MAKES COMPARISONS.

A Sister of Mr. de Roisel was married to a gentleman named Hector de Malassise, and they had an only child, a son, of about the same age as Maurice. They lived in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau, where Mr. de Malassise had an estate. The two families, living so far apart, were accustomed to pay long visits, which generally lasted some weeks, at each others’ houses.

Soon after Fritz had made a present of the wooden horse to Maurice, it was arranged that the family of de Roisel should pay a visit to their relations at Malassise. Now Maurice, to tell the truth, did not look forward with pleasure to this visit; for Eusèbe—that was the name of his cousin—had a very bad temper, and my little friend found it very difficult to get on with him. This boy was thoroughly spoiled, and made everyone about him miserable by his caprices and his tyranny. His papa and mamma did not dare to punish, or even to scold him, for they had got an idea into their heads that, if he was thwarted or contradicted, it might bring on a nervous illness.

A country doctor being one day at the house of Mr. de Malassise, when Eusèbe was teasing his father to give him something he ought not to have, had carelessly said,—“Oh, pray let him have it, or he’ll worry himself into a nervous fever.” The doctor afterwards in vain assured the parents that he had not made the remark at all seriously; he could not remove the impression his words had produced. The parental hearts had taken alarm, and from that day the father and mother were always in fear lest their dear boy should be put out, or anything should make him angry. His wishes became laws for the whole household: at his slightest frown every one about him trembled, as it is said the gods on Mount Olympus trembled at the frown of Jupiter;—and he was a pagan deity who, I assure you, was not wanting in caprices.

A GOAT-CHAISE IN THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES.

While his papa and mamma were waiting in trembling anxiety for this attack of nerves, which never came, Eusèbe, in spite of his bad temper, enjoyed excellent health; and ate, drank, and slept, as well as possible. They were in fact the only things he did do well.

Eusèbe always had beautiful toys, and he delighted in showing them to Maurice with an air of superiority that was humiliating to his little cousin, whose toys were common and cheap. It was only natural that the latter should have some wish to retaliate, and hearing that they were going to Malassise, he thought what a pleasure it would be to take Cressida with him. Eusèbe could not have a toy-horse like that. Mr. de Roisel, however, put a stop to this project; because, as he said, if Eusèbe should take a fancy to the horse, Maurice would be expected to give it up to him; and that would not do at all. Maurice saw that his papa was right.

I need hardly say that Eusèbe always got tired of his toys very soon, and every time Maurice went to stay with him there was a new collection to be seen. On the occasion of this visit, Maurice found that Eusèbe’s favourite plaything for the moment was a goat. Not a goat of wood or pasteboard, such as you children have all possessed perhaps, but a real live one; as much alive as those you may see any day harnessed in goat-chaises in the Champs-Elysées at Paris; only she was prettier than any I have seen there.

The goat was called Jeanne, as I daresay some of my little readers are called, but they need not be ashamed of their namesake. She was a well-behaved, graceful creature, and her long silky coat, which was perfectly white, shone in the sunshine like silver. She had no horns, it is true, but this was scarcely to be regretted, for the most gentle animals are apt sometimes to use their horns against their friends. So Eusèbe had nothing to fear on this account. She wore round her neck a red collar, on which her name was embroidered in letters of gold. Eusèbe would tie a string through this collar, and lead her three or four times a day into a meadow near the house, where she nibbled the grass and flowers.

I cannot describe to you the delight with which Maurice watched Jeanne jumping about, or playing with her two little kids; and all with an ease such as nature alone can give. He could not help making a comparison between her and Cressida. Then he looked into her soft dark eyes, which appeared to express thoughts: Cressida had fine dark eyes too, but somehow they were not the same thing. Jeanne liked to climb on to high banks, and would stand sometimes on the edge of a precipice, stretching out her neck to eat the leaves of some tree: Cressida was strong upon the legs too, and its knees had never been marked by a fall; still it could not have done so much. Out in the fields Jeanne seemed to listen to distant noises, which you scarcely heard; her little ears kept moving about in all directions as if to let no sound escape her: Cressida had also pretty little ears, but somehow the wooden horse never seemed to listen as Jeanne did.

SOON SHE BECAME FAMILIAR WITH MAURICE, AND LET HIM CARESS HER.

Very soon Jeanne became familiar with Maurice, and let him caress her; while, by way of thanking him, she would lick his hands: Cressida had never made such advances as this to its young master. Yet another advantage had Jeanne over the horse: when she had been running, her sides moved up and down; you could see that a heart was beating in her breast: but Cressida’s sides, beautiful and glossy as they were, never heaved after a gallop. Maurice was making these comparisons during a whole day, and in the evening was so occupied with his reflections, that instead of playing at dominoes with Eusèbe, he sat silent by the side of his mamma.

The next morning he talked a great deal in praise of Cressida, but did not cease to caress and play with Jeanne. While he was stroking her, Eusèbe suddenly said to him:—“I am beginning to get tired of Jeanne; if you like, we’ll make an exchange.”

“What do you mean?” asked Maurice.

“You shall give me Cressida; I should like to make his acquaintance very much; and then in exchange I’ll give you this goat, that you think so pretty.”

“No, I cannot give you Cressida.”

“Can’t give me Cressida! why not?”

“I can never part with Cressida.”

“You mean,” rejoined Eusèbe, “that you don’t think Jeanne is worth so much as the horse. Then the fact is that you don’t think her so pretty after all; and you’ve been telling lies in calling her pretty all this time.”

“Telling lies?”

“Yes, you have. She’s ugly in reality; she is; I think she’s frightful now. Oh, you ugly beast, I’ll kill you! There, there, there’s something for you to punish you for being so ugly.”

And he gave the poor goat several cuts on the head with a whip.

“Eusèbe,” cried my little friend, “how can you be so cruel?”

Maurice saw the tears trickling from the eyes of Jeanne, and pointed them out to Eusèbe, who only shrugged his shoulders. He was not in the least ashamed of himself, and added,—

“If you don’t like me to hit her, give me your famous horse in exchange; that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“I cannot, because I’ve promised not to part with it.”

“Oh, you’ve made a promise, have you? What does that matter? Why, I make promises every evening, and break them every morning.”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Maurice.

“Why, of course, every evening mamma says to me, ‘My pretty Eusèbe, my little treasure, promise me now that you won’t put yourself into passions, nor disobey me any more; promise me that, dear, and here are some bonbons for you, and some chocolate à la crème.’ I promise of course, naturally. Afterwards, in the morning, when I want some more, she refuses, because, she says, I ought not to eat them before breakfast; but I put myself into such a terrible passion that she gives me them directly. That’s how it is, you see.”

“You are very wrong to behave in that way,” said Maurice: “but after all, your promises are not made quite seriously.”

“And what are yours, pray?”

“Mine are serious promises, and I keep them.”

“Now, that’s just because you’ve heard that men keep their promises,” replied Eusèbe, “and you want to be like a man. But the truth is, men are like me, I can tell you: they make promises to get what they want, and then they break them again to get what they want. It’s all very fine for them to say to us children—‘Don’t tell lies, be always just, keep your promises!’ Oh, I’m not to be taken in; I know all about it.”

Now, my little readers, I do not say to you that the world is peopled with only honest men: that would be deceiving you. But be assured that those who tell falsehoods are everywhere despised; and when anyone speaks of them, or writes about them, it is in order to show how much they ought to be hated.

“Yes,” added Eusèbe, “you make a fine mistake when you think you are obliged to keep the horse because you made a promise.”

“That’s your opinion, but I know the contrary,” said Maurice. “Don’t let us talk any more about it.”

“Well, you won’t have Jeanne, you know.”

The next day the vintage began in the vineyards of Mr. de Malassise. Eusèbe was so much amused with all the bustle, and the coming and going of so many grape-pickers, that he had no time to think of Jeanne. This lasted three or four days, and the poor beast began to think she was free from her tormentor altogether: but no such luck for her! After that time, Eusèbe, already tired of the vintage, and particularly of the grape-pickers, who would not let him beat them, came back to make a victim of her. Maurice reasoned with him, and tried in vain to soften him.

“Very well then,“ said Eusèbe, “if you pity her so much, take her and give me your horse. Unless you do, she belongs to me, and I can do what I like with her—sell her, beat her, or kill her.”

“But your papa wouldn’t let you.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he indeed! He’d be nicely punished if he interfered.”

“I should like to know how?”

“Why, I’d have a nervous attack directly.”

Maurice was very unhappy. Do what he would to persuade himself to the contrary, he recognised the superiority of Jeanne over Cressida. He would willingly have made the exchange, but that he remembered the solemn way in which Fritz asked him to promise that he would never part with the little horse; and child though he was, he knew he was bound to keep his promise. Still, a struggle was going on in his own mind. He felt drawn towards Jeanne, as it is said little birds are sometimes fascinated and attracted by the gaze of certain snakes. At last he adopted a bold resolution: he went to his father, and said: