Loe raamatut: «More Mittens; with The Doll's Wedding and Other Stories», lehekülg 2

The first mouthful tasted "first rate," but, presently Arthur sang out, "Hollo! I'm choking! my mouth's full of scales, and there is something inside of this fish, that I never saw at home."

"Oh, goodness! I never thought of cleaning them; how stupid!" said Charlie; "Never mind, boys! we'll know better next time."

"But I want some salt, and some bread and butter," said little George; "Robinson Crusoe had them."

"Where's my ship, to get all these things," said Charlie; "we're not on an island."

"But I thought you said you had every thing fixed."

"So I did – in my head; but you see – " answered Charlie, hesitating and scratching his head, and looking very much bothered – "you see – "

"Come, come, boys," interposed Harry, "no fighting in the camp; we are a sort of greenhorn gipsies, now, but we shall be all right by-and-bye, and have a first-rate time. I wish I had a drink of water – but never mind. Hurrah for the gipsies, and success to our side!"

Harry's good humor infected the rest of the party, and their hunger being quieted by the meal, bad as it was, they piled more sticks on the fire, just for the pleasure of seeing them burn, and sat down at a little distance, to tell stories to each other, of all the gipsies, and wild adventures they could remember.

By this time the glorious flush of sunset rested upon every thing. The little fairy glade, with the fire in its centre; the handsome, animated faces of the thoughtless boys, as they sat grouped together in careless but not ungraceful attitudes; the crimson, purple, and golden clouds above, altogether, made a very charming picture, and, so far, gipsy life certainly seemed coleur de rose.

But the shadows gradually lengthened; the glowing colors became fainter; and the gray twilight came stealing on. Occasionally a dissipated little bird would give a faint twitter, as he was hurrying home in the deepening gloom, from a late dinner party. Insensibly the boys relapsed into silence, and, wearied with their long tramp, began to think of going to bed; but here commenced new troubles.

"The beds! and the tents! Even the real gipsies did not sleep upon the bare ground – what was to be done?"

"Here's a pretty how-de-do!" cried Arthur; "this is worse than the fish and the fire; matches may be sometimes dropped in the woods, but mattresses never," and here poor Charlie came in for a scolding chorus from every body.

"Let's get some big branches, and lean them against a tree," said little George.

"Where's the axe to cut them with," said Richard.

"Dig a cave," cried Harry.

"What with – our nails? I have a jackknife," said Richard, "I'll lend it to you; suppose you begin."

Charlie's face looked about as blank as this O, while the boys were talking. He was completely nonplussed, and too proud to acknowledge it. And now, for the first time, his father's warning voice rose in his memory, and in the midst of his vexation, another voice, "the still small voice" of conscience, reproached him for having acted with silly impetuosity; and this time he had brought his friends, as well as himself, into discomfort and trouble. A bitter repentant tear came into his eye, but he hastily dashed it away, with the cuff of his sleeve. By this time all was dark; there was no moon that night, and the stars, blinking and twinkling in their far-off homes, gave scarcely a glimmer of light in the dense forest. The burning twigs alone revealed to Charlie the wearied, vexed faces of his companions. Throwing his hair back from his forehead, by the quick, characteristic movement I have mentioned, he said cheerfully:

"I tell you what, fellows, we are here, and we must stay here to-night, at least. We can't burrow like rabbits, and we don't understand roosting on one foot like birds; suppose we all lie down in a heap, one top of the other, and, when the bottom one of all is warm enough, take him out and put him on top."

This made the boys roar with laughter, and at last, somehow or other, they squeezed, and pushed, and tumbled, and jumbled themselves together, like a family of kittens, and not a soul could tell which were his own arms or legs, as they stuck out, over, under, and across each other, and then they shut their eyes, and tried to fall asleep.

But here new troubles began. Myriads of insects came buzzing around them, a superannuated old bull-frog and his wife set up a dismal bellowing, in a swampy spot close by, and, apparently, any quantity of high-tempered owls were holding a mass meeting, all hooting and tooting, and talking at once. A general attack was made on the poor little gipsies by a nimble army of musquitoes, who seemed to be in a perfect frenzy of delight, at the fine supper provided for them. The boys slapped, and whacked, and kicked in the dark, and hit each other, three times as often as they did their foes.

"Oh, murderation!" exclaimed poor Charlie, "what shall we do – what shall we do?" as the boys, unable to bear the torment any longer, started to their feet, little George fairly blubbering with distress, and rummaging in vain in his pocket, for his pocket-handkerchief, to wipe away his tears, and rub his nose up, as little boys invariably do.

"Suppose we try to find some other place," said Richard, "we seem to have come to the very spot where all the musquitoes live."

"Oh! don't," cried little George, "don't go running about the woods in the dark. Who knows how many bears there may be up in the trees."

"And robbers, too, with guns and pistols," said Arthur.

"And how can we light another fire, if we leave this?" said Richard, who was more practical than the rest. "By-the-way, I think I've heard that smoke will drive away musquitoes; suppose we put on some green wood, and make a great smudge."

Any thing was better than being bitten; so the boys poked and groped around in the uncertain light, for the fire was very low, and picked up all the branches they could find, and heaped them upon the fire, and, sure enough, they did make a great "smudge," and set every body coughing, choking, and crying, until they were half crazy.

By degrees the musquitoes did seem to be driven off a little, or else the gipsies were so tired and sleepy that they ceased to hear or feel them, for one after another became, first silent, then drowsy, and, finally, dropped off into slumber, too sound to be easily broken.

It was now midnight. The weary faces of these thoughtless, naughty boys were now and then revealed by a fitful gleam of the dying fire; the leaves of the trees were motionless; and there was a sudden hush and stillness in the air, as if nature, too, was weary, and had sunk into a deathlike sleep. Presently faint mutterings were heard; the stars disappeared, and the darkness became intense; great masses of black clouds rolled up to the zenith, and came swiftly down on the other side; the air freshened, and, in a moment, the tops of the giant trees bent their proud heads, and a rustling, rushing, crashing sound came through their branches as the wind swept by, in its fury breaking off small twigs with a crackling noise, and hurling them with innumerable leaves to the ground.

Suddenly a fierce, sharp flash of lightning leaped from the clouds, instantly succeeded by a tremendous, rattling clap of thunder awakening the boys, who, with screams of horror, started to their feet and clung to each other in terror.

For an instant after there was a dead, solemn silence, and then came the first great drops of rain pattering through the leaves, and again the trees were tossed by the blast like the angry waves of a stormy sea.

And now the rain descended in torrents, forked lightning blinded the eyes, and the crashing thunder was deafening. Heart-stricken, and wild with terror, the unhappy gipsies clung together, the rain drenching them to the skin; and poor little George, dizzy with fright, reeled and fell to the ground, and the boys, in their agony, thought he was dead.

Charley, broken-hearted, fell on his knees and, with tears streaming down his face, implored God to forgive him, and bring George back to life, and not inflict upon him this awful – awful punishment. He felt like a murderer. He alone was to blame; he had been the tempter, and his father had truly said that there were two things that followed the yielding to temptation – sin and repentance. He did repent. If he could only get back home with his dear companions, he would – he would be a steady boy ever after.

With trembling hands he lifted up little George's head, and entreated him to speak one word to him – "only one single word." A low groan, and a faint "Oh, Harry, take me home!" issued from the childish lips, to Charley's great joy; and his brother and the rest hung round, trying to keep the rain off, and saying, "Don't give up, little fellow! try to bear it a little longer; the storm is almost over."

Hark! what was that they heard? A far-off, distant shout. They listened with painful intentness. It came faintly again: "Hol-lo!" It must be – it was – yes – somebody was calling them; and, altogether, they gave a shrill cry of joy! Their hearts beat wildly. The shouts sounded louder. They hear their names called: Char-ley – Har-ry! They answer again, trembling – their whole frames thrilling. Lights come dancing through the trees at a distance. They are coming nearer; and the boys, taking George in their arms, struggle through the wet branches with which the wind has covered the ground. In another moment they can dimly discern two men carrying lanterns, and Charley recognizes his father's voice.

"Here they are! they are found! they are safe!" and Charley, gasping for breath, leaps into his father's arms. He feels the hot tears on his cheek, and hears the broken voice say, "Oh, my son – my son! Thank God, I have found you at last." Not one word of reproach; but those dreadful tears – his father crying, and for him. He felt to his very heart's core what a wicked, ungrateful boy he had been.

With many sobs and broken words, he implored forgiveness. If his dear father would only love him as he did before, he would never – never grieve him again.

Harry's father embraced his lost boys with thankful joy; and both parents shook hands, and spoke kindly to Arthur and Richard. No word of reproach was uttered; and George, excited by his beloved father's voice, rallied, and seemed for the time almost well again.

The forest was very extensive, and the woods presented so little variety that you might go round and round in a circuit for days, thinking you were taking the most direct path out. If the little gipsies had not been thus found, through the guidance of a divine Providence, they might, and very probably would, have starved to death before assistance came to them.

And now the day begins to dawn. Rosy streaks shoot up into the zenith; and the birds sing with a rollicking gladness, as if they rejoiced over the rescue of the weary little band of gipsies – soon to be gipsies no longer. And, truly, they presented a most dismal and bedraggled appearance, with their hair full of broken bits of dried leaves, their faces streaked and disfigured with traces of tears, and their clothes soiled and wet. Wearily they toiled through the broken and tangled branches that lay upon the ground, and little George very soon had to be lifted tenderly into his father's arms. His face grew flushed and his voice hoarse, as he murmured, "Oh, papa, my throat hurts me so!" and his father saw with anguish that his little boy was very ill, and they were yet, as well as he could judge, some miles from home.

But how can I depict the sufferings of the poor mothers, who were left at home mourning, watching, and waiting, and becoming paler and more hopeless as the night slowly and painfully wore on!

The gray light of morning broke through the crevices of the closed shutters of those desolated homes, but it made them seem only the darker, for "they" had not come. And it was nearly two hours after sunrise before an unusual stir and bustle outside sent the blood in quick tides through the frames of these poor mothers. Suddenly they hear a joyful shout! they rush to the windows; they see their children coming. And now – only now, does the day brighten for them.

I have no words to describe the meeting. I am sure the boys will never forget the pale, tear-stained faces, which told of so much anguish suffered for them, or the trembling kisses they received, while a prayer of thankfulness ascended to heaven that the lost ones were found. Still, not a word of reproach. With a mixture of remorse and happiness, they hastened to remove all vestige of their gipsy life, and, with clean faces and hands, and thankful hearts, sat down to a nicely served and most welcome breakfast.

All but poor little George. He was ill for a long, long time, and Charlie shed many a bitter tear of self-reproach while his life was in danger; and, when he began to get better, the repentant boy was unwearied in coming to read pleasant stories to him, and to bring him every nice toy of his own, and beg his mother for little delicacies to tempt his sickly appetite.

In a few days, when Charlie had somewhat recovered his cheerfulness, his father had a kind, friendly talk with him in his library, (see picture); he pointed out to his son the folly and danger of yielding to every impulse, without first finding out whether it would lead to good results. Charlie listened to all his father said with respectful attention, and, I am sure, he profited by his excellent advice, for all this that I am telling you happened some years ago, and though I know Charlie intimately, and believe that it is impossible to do right all at once, still his past sad experience has had a wonderful effect, and when he feels tempted, by a hasty impulse, to do any thing particularly head-over-heels, he is sure to be arrested in time, by a still small voice within, which whispers, Remember what came of gipsying.

THE CHILD HEROINE

On a clear balmy morning in July, six years ago, two magnificent steamboats, the Henry Clay and the America, left Albany at the same time, for New York. A gentle breeze just curled the waters of the noble and beautiful Hudson River. Both boats were filled with happy-looking people, and the bustle of departure, the laughing voices, and general hilarity, combined with the bright, blue sky above, contributed to raise the spirits, and fill every one with that exhilarating gladness, which makes the mere physical sense of living and breathing a happiness.

And now the rush and roar of steam arose; the ponderous wheels make great waves in the hitherto tranquil tide, and, with the cry of "All aboard," the stately boats cleave their paths through the waters, and move swiftly down the river.

Too swiftly, for they were racing, and on the Henry Clay, especially, the captain and officers, excited and reckless, were crowding on steam, and forcing the boat to her utmost speed. For a while some of the passengers enjoyed the race, and urged and encouraged the officers to "go ahead," and one comfortable, fat old lady, who was going down to "York market, with farm produce, consisting of fat pork, butter, and various kinds of sass," and who was certainly old enough and ugly enough to know better, was in such a high state of exhilaration at the bustle and fun of the race, that she could not keep still an instant. She answered every body's questions she chanced to hear, whether addressed to her or not, and when the Henry Clay fell back a very little the foolish old soul twitched off her spectacles, set her arms a-kimbo, and declared "she never seed sich a goosey gander of a capting," and straightway fell into such a state of worry and excitement, that a waggish young gentleman, standing near, solemnly advised her to do like another silly old lady, under similar circumstances, who hobbled up to the captain and screamed in his ears, "Capting, now don't you give it up now; now, don't now; ef all your wood is out, capting, I've got a bar'l of fat pork aboard – could you put that on the fire to help on the steam?"

Swiftly the boats sped past the smiling, picturesque villages dotting each side, and entered the bolder parts of the majestic river, where the high banks curve sharply round into mimic bays. And now the passengers, seeing the great danger in these sudden turns, vainly entreated the captain of the Henry Clay to give up the race, and have a regard for their lives. But his passions were aroused, and he turned a deaf ear to their remonstrances; he cared nothing for their precious lives in comparison with being beaten by his opponent; and he was only awakened to a sense of his broken trust, by a shriek of horror and a simultaneous crash! as the America came into violent collision with the Henry Clay.

Fortunately the damage done was not great; but the people on the Henry Clay had not recovered from their fright and excitement, as she stopped at Poughkeepsie to receive more passengers.

Waiting at the wharf was a tall, fair and graceful lady. She held by the hand a sweet little girl, about ten years of age, whose large, dark, dreamy eyes, transparent purity of complexion, and great delicacy of form and feature, caused her to seem scarcely an inhabitant of earth, but rather an ærial being, whom a breath of wind might melt away like a summer cloud. Not that the little one was either sad or grave; on the contrary, as she held her mother's hand a continual little dancing motion, and a childish song, that came in broken snatches from her rosy and beautiful mouth, caused many to turn and smile upon her, and rejoice in her innocent gayety.

"Now, dear mother," said Maggie, in a sweet coaxing voice, "let us hurry on board, or the boat will leave us. I want to see my dear father this very night."

But the mother had a vague presentiment that made her reluctant to go. She observed the excitement, and apparent confusion, on the crowded boat, and if she had not thought that yielding to a presentiment was foolish, she would have turned back. As it was, after hesitating until the last moment, she stepped on board, trembling at she knew not what, and her feelings of disquiet were greatly increased, when the ladies in the saloon informed her of the disaster that had already occurred.

But little Maggie, in her childlike and happy ignorance of any thing to fear, was delighted with all she saw. She flitted hither and thither, with her little dancing step, and her bird-like song, now gazing at the diamond sparkles in the river, now peering fearfully down into the raging depths of the great iron monster who, with seething sighs and hoarse groans, was bearing them along.

Many were the smiles and blessings that followed the dainty little lady as she glided about, and if any sought to detain her she answered their questions with a kind of child-like dignity, mingled with bashfulness enchanting to behold, and then darted back to her mother, whose melancholy eyes were always on the watch.

What is that they hear? A cry of "fire! fire! The boat is on fire!"

With a thrill of horror every person in the saloon arose and rushed to the doors, and Maggie, with a shrill scream of terror, fell into her mother's arms. The ladies were rudely pushed back by the men in charge of the boat, with an assurance that there was "no danger," and they must "keep quiet," and the doors were shut upon them. They heard the frantic cries outside, and a dense smoke came in upon them. Bewildered, despairing, fainting on every side, a scene of indescribable distress and confusion ensued. The flames were approaching. Already they felt their scorching breath, and the distracted mother, with a burst of passionate tears, folded her child, her sweet Margaret, her "pearl" – so truly named – in her arms, and prepared for death.

Choked with her sobs, but struggling to speak calmly, she said, "My darling child – my own little Maggie, – life is sweet to both of us: but we must die! The awful flames are coming nearer every moment. I cannot bear to think, that my darling should die by the torture of fire. Let us bid each other good-bye, Maggie, and jump into the water. We shall not suffer long; but, oh! how bitter to think I shall never more look upon my husband's face – never embrace my two noble boys!"

With a wild, despairing cry issuing from her white, parted lips, Maggie clung to her mother, and sobbed out, "Oh, mother! I cannot jump – I cannot jump! I am afraid!" and her sweet little face grew more ghastly with terror. "Some one will surely come, dear mother; they will not let us die without trying to save us. Oh! they will try to come! They will not let a poor little girl burn up in these dreadful flames! and if they save me, I will save you, mother! I will never go without you!"

But, alas! all was in the wildest, the most frantic confusion. The panic-stricken passengers, pressing upon each other, were jumping and falling overboard in every direction. The fire separated the two extremes of the boat, and no help or succor was near. And now came the pang of parting. For a brief, agonizing moment, the mother held her child in her arms, then drew her to one of the windows.

All at once, a wonderful change came over the little tender child. For one moment, a radiant flush lighted up the sweet face, and then died away, leaving a deathly paleness as before, but with it a rapt, angelic expression, as if, in that moment, a loving, merciful Father had given the pure spirit a glimpse of heaven.

Drawing her garments closely about her, she said, "Kiss me, dear mother, I am going;" and, climbing through the window, she leapt into the water – in her eyes the same uplifted, celestial expression, as she sank beneath the wave. God, in His mercy, had taken away the sting of death. Little Maggie was going Home.

The poor mother turned away in agony; then, with a prayer that their sufferings might be short, she followed her child, and the waves closed over her.

But now the ways of God, which are not our ways, became manifest. Maggie's buoyant form rose out of the water directly under one of the stanchions, which supported that part of the deck projecting beyond the hull. Gasping, panting, and almost senseless, she instinctively clutched at this, and passing her arm around it, hung there, half in, half out of the water. As she regained her consciousness, she looked vainly around for her mother, and the poor little child became convulsed with terror, at finding herself alone in this painful and fearful position.

At this moment, Maggie felt something coming to the surface directly beneath her, and to her joy, recognized her mother's bonnet. Grasping it with all her little strength, what was her horror to feel it give way, and remain in her hand, while her mother sank slowly down again out of sight! Coming up the second time, the child, with desperate energy, clutched at her hair, and this time raised her mother's head above the water.

"Mother, mother!" she cried, "here I am – your own little Maggie. Speak to me, oh! speak to me, mother, or I shall die!"

The large hazel eyes of the mother unclosed, and, struggling with the water that was choking her, she murmured, – "Thank God! thank God! we may yet be saved."

"Oh, yes, mother," answered the little one, "God did not mean that we should die. I will hold you up, until my arm burns off. Don't be afraid – I will never let you go. Only see, dear mother, how strong I am. I have wound your long hair all round my hand. Do not shut your eyes, dear mother – look at me. While you look at me, I can bear any thing."

And now, the cruel, hungry flames were bursting through the hull, and the poor, little strained arm that supported them both, was scorching, and the hand was burning! but the brave heart of the child flinched not; earthly pain had no power over her; an overshadowing presence sustained the little spirit. She even smiled– that brave child! – that her mother should not know the fierce pain she was enduring. But at last, her strength began to fail; an intense ashen paleness overspread her lovely face, and the large, soul-lit eyes were now bent upon the shore with a look so piteous – so appealing! Oh! how long it seemed! Would help never —never come?

A few moments more, and it would be too late. But now they are seen by a gentleman on shore. He rushes to a boat lying at the dock, and offers the owner a reward if he will row him to the drowning lady and child.

"I can't go," said the man. "It is too dangerous. I am waiting to see the boiler burst. I expect it to burst every moment."

"Will you suffer those poor unfortunates to perish before our eyes, you heartless fellow?" remonstrated the other. "Give me the oars – I will go alone."

"I will not," growled the man. "It is no use. You can't save them, and you will lose your own life. I tell you, the boiler will burst, and you will be killed."

But with one effort of his powerful arm, this good Samaritan hurled the boatman away, and jumping into the boat, and springing to the oars, he soon rowed to where little Maggie hung, her arm, by this time, wrenched, strained, and burned, beyond the endurance of many a strong man.

Supporting the mother with one arm, with the other, he tenderly lifted the poor little sufferer into the boat. Her mother was so much exhausted, that it was with the utmost difficulty he raised her out of the water; and, although he rowed quickly back, she was perfectly senseless when she was laid on the beach.

And now, Maggie watched with alarm and anxiety the means used to bring her mother back to life.

After a while they were successful, and then, with such dry clothes as could be hastily procured, the grateful pair departed, on the Hudson River Railroad for New York, accompanied by the gentleman who had so generously risked his life to save theirs.

In the rail-car, Maggie's mother fainted. Her strength was utterly gone, from long exposure to the water. With earnest sympathy, the kind-hearted gentleman once more came to their relief. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her, and the increased warmth it afforded soon restored her to consciousness. A dim recollection crossed her mind, as she looked up to thank their "friend in need." Another look, and she recognized, to her great surprise and pleasure, one whom she had known well many years ago; and he was doubly thankful that he had been an instrument, in the hands of God, of saving from a violent death a lady for whom, through long years of separation, he had retained the highest esteem and friendship.

And now, dear little reader, I must tell you, the wonderful telegraph had sent the news of the burning of the steamboat to New York, while yet the panic-stricken passengers were making their awful choice of death by fire or water, and little Maggie's father was one of the first at the terrible scene. He knew that his wife and daughter were to return in this boat, and with anguish he searched upon the beach, and looked into the faces of the dead, dreading to find his loved ones among them.

But they were not there. Then he went down to the water side, and, nearly all that dreadful night, he dived to the bottom again and again, bringing up many a poor victim, and every time his cheek grew paler and his heart throbbed more wildly. At last, exhausted and despairing, he gave up the dreadful task. They were gone for ever – he should never again see even the dead faces of his dear wife and his sweet little "pearl of great price."

Suddenly a faint hope, like a far-off star, dawned upon his heart. It was just possible that Maggie and her mother were safe in Poughkeepsie; they might have changed their minds at the last moment. An engine was there ready to start; it was offered to him. He gratefully accepted, and, without a single car, the engineer and himself jumped upon the panting iron monster and almost flew back to Poughkeepsie.

Alas! they had gone. These terrible words blanched his cheek again, and, all hope deserting him – utterly broken down, the strong man covered his face with his hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears. His wife – his dear companion, and his little Margaret – his tender, delicate bud of promise, to be burned – burned, till nothing human was left of them, or else now lying among the rocks beneath the waters. It was too horrible. It must not be. He would go back; he would try once more. Surely, this time, he would recover the drowned bodies of those he loved so well; and then, at least, he would have the melancholy comfort of knowing that they were tenderly and reverently laid in the earth.