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THE YOUNG EMIGRANTS; MADELAINE TUBE; THE BOY AND THE BOOK;
AND THE CRYSTAL PALACE

Charles Scribner, New York, 1851






[Illustration: Frontispiece]




CONTENTS.


THE YOUNG EMIGRANTS.

CHAPTER I. Sights at Sea.

CHAPTER II. The New World.

CHAPTER III. A New Home, and a Narrow Escape.

CHAPTER IV. An Intruder.

CHAPTER V. Striving and Thriving.




MADELAINE TUBE.

CHAPTER I. The Broken Cup.

CHAPTER II. A Picture of Poverty.

CHAPTER III. Uneasiness.

CHAPTER IV. Christmas Gifts.

CHAPTER V. Happiness Destroyed.

CHAPTER VI. New Misfortunes.

CHAPTER VII. Trouble Increases.

CHAPTER VIII. The Sale.

CHAPTER IX. When Distress is Greatest, Help is Nearest.

CHAPTER X. The Wonders of the Eye.

CHAPTER XI. The Journey and the Baths.

CHAPTER XII. The Operation.

CHAPTER XIII. The Enjoyment of Sight.

CHAPTER XIV. Conclusion.



THE BOY AND THE BOOK.

PART I. The Boy.

PART II. The Book.



THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.



List of Illustrations:

"Frontispiece"

"Camping for the night"

"Fishes with wings"

"Prepared to give battle"

"May God give you a happy Christmas"

"Read to him out of Father Gottlieb's books"

"Hans Gensfleisch"

"Hans sprang forward to defend his friend"





THE YOUNG EMIGRANTS


[Illustration: CAMPING FOR THE NIGHT.]




CHAPTER I.


SIGHTS AT SEA


It was a lovely morning towards the end of April, and the blue waves of
the Atlantic Ocean danced merrily in the bright sunlight, as the good
ship _Columbia_, with all her canvass spread, scudded swiftly before the
fresh breeze. She was on her way to the great western world, and on her
deck stood many pale-faced emigrants, whom the mild pleasant day had
brought up from their close dark berths, and who cast mournful looks in
the direction of the land they had left a thousand miles behind them.

But though fathers and mothers were sad, not so the children--the ship's
motion was so steady that they were able to run and play about almost as
well as on land; and the sails, filled full by the favorable wind,
needed so little change that the second mate, whose turn it was to keep
watch, permitted many a scamper, and even a game at hide-and-seek among
the coils of cable, and under the folds of the great sail, which some of
the crew were mending on the deck. Tom and Annie Lee, however, stood
quietly by the bulwarks, holding fast on, as they had promised their
mother that they would, and though longing to join in the fun, they
tried to amuse themselves with watching the foaming waves the swift
vessel left behind, and the awkward porpoises which seemed to be rolling
themselves with delight in the sunny waters.

"For shame, Tom," said his more patient sister, "you know what mother
means? Suppose you should fall overboard!"

"I should be downright glad, I can tell you! I'd have a good swim before
they pulled me out,--aye, and a ride on one of those broad-backed black
gentlemen tumbling about yonder!"

"Oh, Tom!" sighed the gentle little girl, quite shocked at her brother's
bold words, and she turned from him to watch for her father. To her
great content, his head presently appeared above the hatchway.

"You look very dull, Tom," said he as he joined them; "what are you
thinking of?"

"Why, father," replied Tom, "I don't want to be standing about, holding
on always, like a baby. I wish mother wouldn't be so afraid of me. She
won't let me run up the rigging, or do anything I like."

"You mean she will not let you break your neck, foolish boy. You know
well, Tom, your mother refuses you no reasonable amusement. Hey, look
there!" As Mr. Lee spoke, a dozen or so of flying fishes rose from the
sea, and fell again within a yard of the ship's side. As the sun shone
on their wet glittering scales, you might have fancied them the broken
bits of a rainbow. Annie clapped her hands and screamed with delight,
and even Tom's sulky face brightened.

"Why, father," cried he, "I never knew before that there were fishes
with wings!"

[Illustration]

"These have not exactly wings, though they resemble them," answered Mr.
Lee, "but long fins, with which they raise themselves from the water,
when too closely pursued by their enemies. But I came to call you to
dinner--your mother is waiting. Should it be pleasant to-night, we will
bring her on deck, when George and Willie are in bed, and show her the
sights."

"What sights, what sights?" cried both the children at once, but their
father was already on the ladder, and did not reply.

The night was mild and clear, and the bright full moon shone high in the
heavens, when the little Lees came up again with their father and
mother. Tom was no longer the discontented grumbling boy he seemed in
the morning, for though he often spoke thoughtlessly, and murmured
sometimes at his parents' commands, he knew in his heart that all they
wished was for his good, and soon returned to his duty, and recovered
his temper. He was just turned twelve, and considered himself the man of
the family in his father's absence, often frightening poor Annie, who
was a year younger, and of a quiet, timid disposition, by his
declarations of what he "wouldn't mind doing." Little George, who was
seven, admired and respected him exceedingly.

"I promised to show you some sights, this evening," said Mr. Lee, as
they walked slowly up and down the deck, "and is not this ship bounding
over the heaving ocean, with its white sails spread, and its tall masts
bending to the wind, a most striking one? Is it not a great specimen of
man's skill and power? And look above at that starry sky, and that
bright lamp of night which shines so softly down on us,--look at the
dashing waters, whose white crested waves sparkle as they break against
our vessel--are they not wonderful in their beauty?"

"They are indeed beautiful," replied his wife, "and man's work shrinks
into nothing when compared with them! And how fully the sense of our
weakness comes upon us while thus tossing about upon the broad sea. What
a consolation it is to remember, that He who neither slumbereth nor
sleepeth, protects us ever."

"Father," cried Annie, after a short silence, "I do not understand at
all how the captain finds out the way to America. It is so many miles
from any other land! Tom knows all about it, but he says he can't
exactly explain."

"Come, come, Tom," said his father, "try; nothing can be done without a
trial; tell us now what you know on the subject."

"Well, father," answered Tom, "the man at the wheel has a compass before
him, and he looks at that, and so knows how to point the ship's head. As
America is in the west, he keeps it pointed to the west."

"Quite right, so far," said his father, "but tell us what a compass is."

"Oh! a compass is a round box, and the bottom is marked with four great
points, called North, South, East, and West; then smaller points between
them; and in the middle is a long needle, balanced, so that it turns
round very easily, and as this needle always points to the North, we can
easily find the South, and East, and West."

"But, father," cried Annie, "why does that needle always point to the
North? my needle only points the way I make it when I sew."

"Your needle, dear Annie, has never been touched by the wonderful stone!
You must know that some few hundred years ago, people discovered that a
mineral called the loadstone, found in iron mines, had the quality of
always pointing to the North, and they found, too, that any iron rubbed
with it would possess the same quality. The needle Tom tells us of has
undergone this operation. Before the invention of the compass, it was
only by watching the stars that sailors could direct their course by
night. Their chief guide was one which always points towards the North
pole, and is therefore called the Pole star. But on a cloudy night, and
in stormy weather, when they could not read their course in the sky,
think what danger they were in! Such a voyage as ours, they could never
have ventured on."

"Listen!" cried Mrs. Lee, "do you know, I fancy I hear the twittering
of birds."

"Yes, ma'am, and no mistake," said the mate, who was pacing the deck,
near them, wrapped up in a great dreadnaught coat, and occasionally
stopping to look up at the sails, or at the compass, or over the ship's
side; "Mother Carey's chickens are out in good numbers to-night."

"Are they not a sign of rather rough weather, Mr. James?" asked Mr. Lee.

"Why, so some say, sir; but I have heard them night after night in as
smooth a sea and light a wind as you would wish for."

"What a funny name they have," said Annie. "I wonder it they are
pretty."

"Can we catch them?" asked Tom, eagerly.

"I have caught them," said Mr. James, "but it was many years ago, and
perhaps they have grown wiser; but we can try if you like. Only
remember, no killing; we sailors think it very unlucky!"

"It would be very cruel, because very useless," said Mrs. Lee; "but are
they not also called Stormy Petrels?"

"Yes, ma'am, in books, I believe; but come, Tom, fetch some good strong
cotton, such as your mother sews with, and I will show you how to catch
some of Old Mother Carey's brood."

Off ran Tom, and soon returned with a reel from Annie's work-box; Mr.
James fastened together at one end a number of very long needlefulls,
which he tied to the stern of the vessel, where they were blown about by
the wind in all directions. Tom and Annie were very curious to know how
these flying strands could possibly catch birds, but their father and
mother could not explain, and Mr. James seemed determined to keep the
secret. So they had no alternative but to await the event. As they
leaned over the stern to fasten their threads, they were surprised to
see the frothy waves which the vessel left behind shine with a bright
clear light, and yet the moon cast the great black shadow of the ship
over that part of the sea. Their astonishment was increased, when their
father told them that this luminous appearance was produced by a
countless number of insects, whose bodies gave forth the same kind of
lustre as that of the glow-worm, and Mr. James assured them that he had
seen the whole surface of the ocean, as far as the eye could reach,
glittering with this beautiful light.

"And now, children," said Mrs. Lee, "I think it is bed-time--say good
night to Mr. James."

"And kiss father!" cried Annie, as she jumped at his neck, and was
caught in his ever-ready arms.

The children were beginning to doubt Mr. James's power of catching
Stormy Petrels, when early one morning, as they were dressing, they
heard the three knocks he always gave on the deck when he wanted to show
them something. They hurried up, and to their delight found
him-untwisting the cotton strands from the wings of a brownish-black
bird, which had entangled itself in them during the night.

"Oh! what a funny little thing!" cried Annie; "what black eyes! and what
black legs it has!"

"Is that one of Mother Carey's chickens?" asked Tom; "I thought they
were much larger."

"Yes," replied Mr. James, "this is one of the old lady's fowls, and a
fine one, too; her's are the smallest web-footed birds known. Just feel
how plump it is--almost fat enough for a lamp."

"For a lamp!" cried Tom. "What do you mean, Mr. James?"

"Just what I say. Master Tom. I once touched at the Faroe Islands, and
saw Petrels often used as lamps there. The people draw a wick through
their bodies, which is lighted at the mouth; they are then fixed
upright, and burn beautifully."

"How curious they must look!" said Annie.

"Rather so; but now watch this one running on the deck; it can't fly
unless we help it by a little toss up such as the waves would give it."

The odd-looking little thing, whose eyes, beak, and legs were as black
and bright as jet, ran nimbly but awkwardly up and down, to the great
amusement of the children. Annie made haste to fetch her mother and
father, George, and even Willie, who laughed and clapped his hands, and
cried, "Pretty, pretty!" At length Mr. James thought the stranger had
shown himself quite long enough, so taking it up, he threw it into the
air, and it disappeared over the ship's side. Every one ran to get a
look at it on its restless home, but in vain--it could be seen nowhere.

Mrs. Lee, however, was surprised by the color of the water in which they
were then sailing; it was of a beautiful blue, instead of the dark,
almost black hue it had hitherto appeared: immense quantities of
sea-weed were also floating in it. Mr. James informed her that this
water was called the Gulf Stream; a great current flowing from the Gulf
of Mexico northwards along the coast of America. "In the sea-weed,"
added he, "are many kinds of animals and insects; I will try what I can
find for Georgy." So saying, he seized a boat-hook, and soon succeeded
in hauling up a great piece, from which he picked a crab not much bigger
than a good-sized spider. Georgy nursed it very tenderly until he went
to bed, and, even then, could with difficulty be persuaded to part with
it till morning.

A few days after this, a cry of "Land!" was heard from the mast-head,
and when just before tea the Lee family came on deck it was to watch the
sun set amid clouds of purple and gold, behind the still distant but
distinctly seen shores of the land which was to be their future home. By
the same hour on the following day, the good ship _Columbia_ had
borne them safely across the deep, and was anchored in the beautiful bay
of New York.




CHAPTER II.


THE NEW WORLD.


Mr. Lee was a religious, kind-hearted, sensible man, and his wife as
truly estimable as himself. They both loved their children dearly, and
were unceasing in their efforts to secure their happiness and
prosperity. Still it is possible they would never have thought of
seeking fortune in the wild back-woods of the United States, had it not
been for the repeated entreaties of Mrs. Lee's only brother, John Gale,
an industrious, enterprising young man, who had gone there some four
years before this tale commences. John soon perceived that all his
brother-in-law's exertions in England would never enable him to provide
as well for his children, nor for the old age of himself and wife, as he
could in America. Privations at the outset, and very hard work, would
have, it is true, to be endured; but John believed him and his wife to
be endowed with courage and patience to sustain any trial. He therefore
spared no pains to prevail on them to cross the Atlantic, and settle on
some small farm in one of the western States. He promised his help until
they felt able to do without him, if they would only come. After some
hesitation and deliberation, Mr. Lee determined to follow John's advice.
He therefore gave up his situation as foreman in a large furniture
manufactory in London, sold off all his household goods, and only adding
somewhat to the family stock of clothes, which are cheaper in England
than any where else, he left his native country for the strangers' land,
with but a hundred pounds in his pocket; but with a stout heart, a
willing hand, and a firm reliance on the never-failing protection of
Divine Providence.

John Gale had made the purchase of two eighty-acre lots for them before
they sailed, and was to meet them at the town nearest to their
destination. They made as short a stay, consequently, as possible, in
New York; and by railways, canal-boat, and steamer, in about a week
arrived at the beautiful city of Cincinnati. As the vessel neared the
wharf, they were gladdened by the sight of a well-known face, which
smiled a heartfelt welcome on them from among the busy crowd which
awaited the landing of the passengers.

"Hurrah!" cried Uncle John, for the face belonged to him, waving his
hat, and quite red with the excitement, and pushing his way; "Hurrah!
here you are! Hurrah!"

Then jumping on board, even before the vessel was safely moored, he
caught his sister in his arms, kissing her most heartily; and when he at
last released her, it was to shake Mr. Lee's hand as if he meant it to
come off.

"And where are the children?" cried he. "This Tom! how he is grown! Give
me your hand, my boy! Here is quiet little Annie, I'm sure. Kiss me,
dear! Ah! Master Georgy, that's you, I know, though you did wear
petticoats when I last saw you! Is that the young one? Don't look so
cross, sir! But come along. Where's your baggage? This way, sister--this
way. I'm so glad to see you all again!"

*       *       *       *       *

"Uncle John," said Tom, as he and George were walking with their uncle
the day after their arrival, "I never saw so many pigs running about a
town before. I wonder the people let them wallow in the streets so! Just
look at those dirty creatures there."

"Don't insult our free-born, independent swine," cried Uncle John,
laughing. "Those dirty creatures, as you call them, are our scavengers
while alive, and our food, candles, brushes, and I don't know what
besides, when dead! But look, Georgy! what say you to a ride?"

They turned a corner as he spoke, and beheld half a dozen boys mounted
on pigs, which squealed miserably as they trotted along, now in the
gutter, and now on the sidewalk, to the great discomfort of the
pedestrians. George was so moved by the fun, and encouraged by his
uncle's good-natured looks, that letting go his hand, he rushed after a
broad-backed old hog, which, loudly grunting, permitted himself to be
chased some short distance, and then, just as George thought he had
caught him, flopped over in a dirty hole in the gutter, bringing his
pursuer down upon him. The poor little fellow was in a sad condition
when Tom helped him up--his face and clothes covered with mud, and his
nose bleeding.

"You're strangers here, I guess," said a man who had witnessed the whole
affair, "or you would know that old fellow never lets a boy get on his
back. He's well known all over the city for that trick of his."

George did not recover his spirits during the remainder of the walk, and
was very glad to get home to his mother again, and have his poor swelled
nose tenderly bathed, and his stained clothes changed.

The next few days were busily employed in buying and packing the things
necessary for their future comfort; and Mr. Lee had reason to rejoice
that he had so good a counsellor and assistant as Uncle John. Flour,
Indian meal, molasses, pickled pork, sugar and tea, a couple of rifles,
powder and shot, axes saws, etc., a plough, spades and hoes, a churn,
etc., were the principal items of their purchases; and to convey these,
and the boxes they had brought from England, it was necessary to hire
one of the long, covered wagons of the country. Uncle John had already
bought, at a great bargain, a pair of fine oxen, and a strong ox-cart.
These were a great acquisition. Mrs. Lee was anxious to get a cow and
some poultry; but her brother advised her to wait, as they would be so
great a trouble on the journey, and it was, besides, most probable that
they could be procured from their nearest neighbor--a settler about ten
miles from their place.

Early one bright morning, they started for their new home, the wagon
taking the lead. It was drawn by four strong horses, driven by Mr.
Jones, from whom it had been hired, and contained the best of the goods:
the beds were arranged on the boxes within, so as to form comfortable
seats for Mrs. Lee, Annie, and the two little ones. The ox-cart
followed, guided by Uncle John, assisted by Mr. Lee and Tom, both of
whom were desirous to learn the art of ox-driving, of which they were to
have so much by-and-by. The journey was long and wearisome; and it was
not until the evening of the fifth day after leaving Cincinnati, that
they arrived at Painted Posts--a village about twenty miles distant from
their destination. From this place the road became almost impassible,
and the toil of travelling very disheartening. They were frequently
obliged to make a long circuit to avoid some monster tree which had
fallen just across the track, and to ford streams whose stony beds and
swift-flowing waters presented a fearful aspect. Mr Jones the wagoner
walked nearly all day at the head of the foremost pair of horses, with
his axe in his hand, every now and then taking off a slice of the bark
of the trees as he passed. Annie watched him for some time with great
curiosity.

"What can he do it for?" said she to her mother. "Please ask him,
mother?"

"We call it blazing the track, Marm," replied Mr. Jones to Mrs. Lee's
inquiry. "You see, in this new country, where there's no sartain road,
we're obliged to mark the trees as we go, if we want to come back the
same way. Now, these 'ere blazed trees will guide me to Painted Posts
without any trouble, when I've left you at your place."

At sunset on the sixth day, they found themselves within five miles of
the end of the journey, happily without having experienced worse than a
good deal of jolting and some occasional frights. As it was impossible
to travel after dark, they camped for the night near a spring on the
road side. A good fire was kindled at the foot of a large tree, the
kettle slung over it by the help of three crossed sticks; and while Mrs.
Lee and Annie got out the provisions for supper, the men and Tom fed and
tethered the horses and oxen close by. When Mr. Jones had done his part
in these duties, he brought from his private stores in the wagon a large
bag and a saucepan.

"I reckon I'll have a mess of hominy to-night," said he. "It's going on
five days since I've had any."

"A mess of hominy," cried Tom; "that does not sound very nice."

"I guess if you tasted it you'd find it nice," answered the wagoner.
"You British don't know anything of the vartues of our corn."

He poured into the saucepan as he spoke a quantity of the Indian corn
grains, coarsely broken, and covering it with water, put it on the fire.
It was soon swelled to twice its former bulk, and looked and smelt very
good. With the addition of a little butter and salt, it made such a
"mess of hominy," as Mr. Jones called it, that few persons would not
have relished. Tom certainly did, as he proved at supper, when the
good-natured wagoner invited all to try it.

The meal was a merry one, notwithstanding the fatigue they had all
experienced during the hard travel of that day--the merrier because of
their anticipated arrival on the morrow at their future home. They all
talked of it, wondering where they should build their house--by the
river (for Uncle John had told them there was one near) or by the wood?
Tom wished for the first, as he thought what fine fishing he might have
at any hour; but Annie preferred the shade of the trees.

"Oh! father," cried she, "I hope there will be as many flowers as I saw
to-day on the road. Such beautiful Rhododendrons! a whole hill covered
with them, all in blossom! And did you see the yellow butterflies?
Mother and I first noticed them when they were resting on a green bank,
and we thought they were primroses until they rose and fluttered off."

"I tell you what, Annie," said Tom, "you'll have to keep a good look-out
after your chickens. There are plenty of hawks about here. I saw one
this afternoon pounce down on a squirrel, and he was carrying it off,
when I shouted with all my might, and he let it drop."

"Oh, Tom! was it hurt?"

"Not it! but hopped away as if nothing had happened."

"You must learn to use your rifle, Tom," remarked Uncle John; "you'll
find it very necessary, as well as useful, in the woods."

"Well, uncle, I'll promise you a dish of broiled squirrels before
October of my own shooting! I intend to practice constantly, if father
will let me."

"If, by 'constantly,' you mean at fitting times," replied Mr. Lee, "I
certainly shall not object. I, too, must endeavor to become somewhat
expert, for in this wild country, where bears and wolves are still
known, it is absolutely necessary to be able to defend oneself and
others."

"I never think of savage animals," said Mrs. Lee, "but of snakes, I must
confess I am very much afraid of them, particularly of rattlesnakes."

"You needn't mind them a bit, Marm," answered Mr. Jones; "they none of
them will strike you, if you don't meddle with them; and as for the
rattlesnake, why, as folks call the lion the king of beasts, I say the
rattlesnake is king of creeping things; he don't come slyly twisting and
crawling, but if you get in his way, gives you sorter warning before he
bites."

"Indeed, sister," said Uncle John, "Mr. Jones is right when he tells you
you need not be afraid of them--they are more afraid of us, and besides
are wonderfully easy to kill; a blow with a stick, in the hand of a
child, on or about the head, will render them powerless to do hurt."

"And if you should get a bite, Marm," added Mr. Jones, "the very best
thing you can do is to take a live chicken, split it in two, and lay it
on to the wound: it's a sartain sure cure."

"Why, Annie, if there are many rattlesnakes," cried Tom, laughing, "it
will be worse for your chickens than the hawks!"

"Annie will dream to-night of you, and snakes, and chickens, all in a
jumble, Mr. Jones; but don't you think it is time to prepare our
sleeping-place? It is past eight o'clock, and we must be stirring
early."

After packing up the remains of the supper, Mrs. Lee and the children
retired to their mattresses in the wagon, and the men having put
together a kind of wigwam of branches for themselves, and piled up the
fire, were soon resting from the labors of the day.

The sun had scarcely risen the next morning when our travellers were
prepared for their last day's journey. All was bustle and excitement
with Uncle John and Tom; and Mr. and Mrs. Lee, though quiet, felt an
eager impatience for a sight of their future dwelling-place. And fast
and hard was the beating of their hearts, when after a few hours they
beheld before them their own little possession! Some thirty acres of
rich pasture-land, sloped gently to the margin of a broad stream, which
flowed with a smooth and rapid current, and whose opposite shore gave a
view of a lovely undulating country, bounded by distant mountains, robed
in misty blue. The grand primeval forest nearly enclosed the other three
sides of this vast meadow. It was a beautiful scene, and to Mr. Lee it
almost seemed that he must be dreaming, to look upon it as his own. Deep
and heartfelt was the thanksgiving he silently breathed to the Giver of
all good, that He had brought him to this land of plenty, and given him
such a heritage in the wilderness.

But more than gazing and admiring had to be done that day, so after a
hasty dinner, a sheltered spot was sought for the erection of the
shanties, which were to serve them as sleeping-rooms until the house
should be built. This was soon found, and in a couple of hours two
good-sized ones were made; the walls were formed of interwoven branches,
and the roofs of bark; the fourth side of the men's was to be left open,
as a fire was kept up every night in front of it, to scare away the
wolves, and other wild beasts, should there be any in the neighborhood.

The next morning a council was held as to their future proceedings; to
prepare a house was, of course, a work to be commenced immediately, but
it required some deliberation as to how they should set about it. Mr.
Jones had taken a great liking to the family, and he now proved his
goodwill by declaring that he would "stay awhile, and help them a bit."
But first of all, the goods must be unpacked, and a shed of some kind
made to receive them. This was set about at once, and by dinner time it
was completed, the wagon and cart unloaded, and their contents arranged
as most convenient to Mrs. Lee. The rest of the day was occupied in
chopping down trees for the principal building, and very hard work it
was, especially to Tom, whose young arms and back ached sadly when he
went to bed that night. By the end of a week of this toil, a good number
of logs had been prepared, and Uncle John proposed that he and Tom
should make their way to the settler's, about ten miles distant, and see
if there were any men he could ask to help put up the house, as the
raising of the great logs would prove a slow and laborious task to so
few workmen as they now numbered. He was provided with a pocket-compass,
a rifle, and a good map of the country, and there was no real danger to
be feared, so Mrs. and Mr. Lee readily consented, and accordingly Uncle
John mounted on one of Mr. Jones's horses, and Tom on his father's,
which was one of the four that had drawn the wagon, with a bag of
provisions slung behind him, and an axe to blaze the track, started the
next morning by day-break. Although they were not expected to return
until the next day, the night passed anxiously with the little family,
and it was a joyful relief to them when about three in the afternoon
they heard Tom's well-known halloo from the western wood, and presently
saw him appear, followed by two strangers, and his uncle driving a fine
cow.

"Here we are, mother, safe and sound!" exclaimed the boy, as he jumped
from his horse, and ran to kiss her, "and a fine time we've had!"

"We've been successful you see, sister," said Uncle John, who had also
dismounted, and came up with the cow; "Mr. Watson and his son have very
kindly consented to help us; and isn't this a beauty?"

"Indeed, ma'am," said Mr. Watson, shaking her hand heartily, "it's but a
trifling way of showing how well pleased we are to get neighbors. We
have been living some six years out here, and never had a house nearer
than Painted Posts, a good thirty miles off. My wife says she hopes to
be good friends with you, and when you are fairly settled she will come
over. She's English, too, and longs sadly to talk about the old country
with some one just from it."

"It will give me a great deal of pleasure to see her, Mr. Watson,"
replied Mrs. Lee, looking as she felt, very happy at this prospect of
not being quite alone in the wilderness; "and as we shall both meet with
the wish to be good friends, I think there is no fear of our not being
so."

"You'll soon have some chickens, and turkeys, and pigs, mother," said
Tom; "Mrs. Watson has such a number, and she says you shall have some of
the best. And mother, just look what Jem Watson gave me!"

Tom opened the bag which the day before had carried the provisions for
the journey, and to Annie and Georgy's great delight, pulled out a very
pretty little puppy.

"Now, Annie, you shall name him; he's got no name yet. What shall it
be?"

The children went away to consult on this important matter, and Mr. Lee,
who had been chopping in the wood, now arriving, welcomed his friendly
neighbor, and thanked him warmly for so readily coming to help them.

"Nonsense," rejoined Mr. Watson; "no need of thanks; you would do the
same for me, or you don't deserve the blessings I see around you. My
maxim, Mr. Gale, is a helping hand and a cheering word for every one who
needs them."




CHAPTER III.


A NEW HOME, AND A NARROW ESCAPE.


Six weeks afterwards, our young emigrants felt themselves once more at
home. The log-house was finished, and consisted of one large room, which
served as kitchen and parlor, and of three smaller ones for sleeping.
The roof was covered with large pieces of bark; the chinks of the wall
were stopped up with clay; and the chimney and floor were of the same
material, beaten hard and smooth. The windows were as yet but square
openings with shutters, but before winter came, and it is very severe in
Ohio, Mr. Lee meant to put in glazed frames, as glass could be procured
at Painted Posts. The building stood upon the highest rise of the
prairie, and in front flowed the beautiful river, while the thick forest
screened it behind from the cold winds of the north. No trees, however,
were near it, except three fine sycamores, which gave a grateful shade
when the noon-day sun shone bright and hot. Tom had already contrived
seats of twisted branches beneath them, and it was very pleasant to sit
there in the evening and watch the glorious colors of the western sky,
which Annie compared to the changing hues of a pigeon's neck, or the
glancing of the brilliant fire-flies that night brought forth from their
hiding-places under the leaves. A well-fenced yard was at the back of
the dwelling, and enclosed the wood-pile, stable, and hen and
storehouses. A garden had also been commenced around the other three
sides of the house, in which Tom worked, assisted by his sister and
brother, whenever he could be spared from more important labors. He was
indeed an active, industrious boy, and by his example made even little
George useful. Mr. Jones, who had departed as soon as the walls of the
house were raised, used often to say of him, and it was intended as
great praise, "That Tom is a riglar Yankee--a rael go-a-head!"

In doors things also began to look comfortable; it is true they had only
three chairs and one table, but Mr. Lee had knocked together some stools
and a dresser, which the children thought superior to any they had ever
seen; a rack over it held their small stock of crockery, and a few
hanging shelves on the wall were their book-case: cleanliness and
neatness made up for the want of more and better furniture, and
cheerfulness and content were at home in the humble cottage. Annie was a
great help to her mother, and fast learning to be a good housewife. The
poultry was her particular care, and she had already received from Mrs.
Watson a cock, half a dozen hens, and two pairs of fine turkeys, with
many useful directions concerning their management. She would soon
perhaps have lost them all, however, if it had not been for an adventure
which happened to George, and which made her very watchful of them.

He came running home one day smelling so horribly that he was perfectly
intolerable, and the whole house was scented by his clothes.

"Oh, mother!" he cried, "I was playing in the wood, when I saw such a
pretty animal; I thought it was a squirrel at first, or a young fox, and
it seemed so tame that I ran to catch it, but it ran a little way off,
and then stopped and looked back at me--at last, just when I thought I
should get hold of it, it squirted all over me. Oh! it smells so nasty!"

"You may well say that, Georgy," said his uncle; "but it was lucky it
did not squirt into your eyes, or you might have been blinded for life.
That was a skunk, and very likely thinking of paying a visit to the
chickens when you disturbed it. It makes great havoc in a hen-roost,
Annie; and I would advise you to get Tom to make yours safe."

"That I will, this very day," cried Tom; "but, uncle, I never heard of a
skunk before; what kind of a looking thing is it?"

"Rather a pretty animal, Tom, about eighteen inches in length, with a
fine bushy tail as long as its body. Its fur is dark, with a white
stripe down each side. It can be easily tamed, and would serve very well
as a cat in a house, were it not for the disgusting way in which it
shows its anger. The fluid it squirts from under its tail will scent the
whole country round. Even dogs can't bear it."

"I feel quite uncomfortable now from the smell of George's clothes,"
said Annie.

"The worst of it too, is, that you can't get rid of it; no washing will
take it away."

And so it proved; for notwithstanding repeated washing and airings, that
suit of George's was so offensive that he could no longer wear it; and
as everything placed near it was infected, it was at last burnt.

Tom stopped up every cranny of the hen-house which looked in the least
dangerous, with such neatness and skill that his father and uncle were
quite pleased.

Annie and George were watching him finish his job, when Uncle John came
up with what looked like a large, green grasshopper, which he had caught
on a sycamore.

"Here, Annie," cried he, "is one of the fellows that make such a
grating, knife-grinding sort of noise every night."

"I thought you said the little tree-toads made it, uncle."

"The tree-toads and the katydids too. This is a katydid, or, perhaps, a
katydidn't; for people say they are divided in opinion, and that as soon
as one party begins to cry 'katydid,' the other shrieks louder still
'katydidn't,' which accounts for the noise they make."

"Oh, uncle! do they really?" cried George.

"You must listen, Georgy," replied his uncle, laughing.

"When we first came here" remarked Tom, "mother could not sleep for the
noise they and the tree-toads made."

"The voice of the tree-toad is very loud for so small a creature, but
the katydid has really no voice at all."

"No voice, uncle?"

"No, Annie; the chirp of all kinds of grasshoppers is produced by their
thighs rubbing against their wing-cases."

"How very curious!" exclaimed the children, and the katydid was examined
with still greater interest before it was released to rejoin its
companions on the sycamore.

*       *       *       *       *

"What do you think of our building a boat, Tom?" said his uncle to him,
a few days after he had finished the hen-house. "It seems to me that you
and I could manage it. What do you say?"

"Oh! capital!" cried Tom, with delight; "I'm sure we could! let's begin
to-day!"

"Well, we'll try at any rate. When you have driven out the cows, come to
me at the fences."

"Where there's a will there's a way," was Uncle John's favorite maxim,
and certainly he had reason to believe in the truth of it, for he
succeeded in everything he undertook. The boat was no exception: it was
built in a wonderfully short time, and launched one fine day in the
presence of the assembled family. It was not large enough to hold more
than two persons safely, but as Uncle John said, if it did well, it
would be an encouragement to build another capable of containing the
whole household, and then, what pleasant trips they might take!

The two boat-builders rowed several times a couple of miles up and down
the river in the course of the week, bringing home, after each
excursion, a tolerable supply of cat-fish. This was an acceptable change
in their diet, for, except when Uncle John killed some venison, which
had as yet only happened once, or Tom shot squirrels enough to broil a
dishfull, their usual dinner was salt pork and hominy.

But a couple of miles up and down did not at all satisfy Tom's desire of
exploration; he wanted to see more of the river, and especially to
discover a short cut by water to Mr. Watson's mill. Uncle John hesitated
to give his consent to going any distance until something more was known
of the currents and difficulties of the stream, so the boy determined to
go alone. One day, therefore, when his father and uncle were chopping
fences in the woods, he unmoored the little boat, and rowed off. The
weather was very fine, and the current rippled gently on between the
beautiful banks, which were now darkly wooded, now smiling with green
prairies and sunny flowers. The sweet clear song of the robin, or the
monotonous tapping of the brilliant crimson-headed woodpecker, alone
broke the stillness of the scene; and after a time, Tom, somewhat
wearied and heated by the exertion of rowing, felt inclined to yield to
the spirit of rest which breathed around. So he laid aside his oars, and
let the boat drift idly on while he refreshed himself with the cold meat
and bread he had provided for the occasion. The current gradually became
stronger, the banks grew rocky and steep--soon large masses of stone
appeared scattered in the river's bed, and the waters dashed noisily
past. Tom roused up at length, and began to wish that he had not
ventured so far; he seized the oars to return, but too late--his single
strength could no longer direct the laboring boat, now hurried along by
the rushing stream. The banks rose steeper--the river narrowed--the
hoarse sound of falling waters was heard, and Tom saw with despair that
he was approaching a terrific cataract. There seemed no escape from
destruction--there was no hope of help from human hand. The boy looked
around with a pale cheek, but brave heart--one chance yet remained to
save him from certain death--one chance alone! A black and rugged rock,
around which the waters madly leaped and broke, parted the current some
feet from the direction in which his little vessel was impelled;--if he
could reach it, he would be saved! As he approached it he stood
up;--could he make such a fearful leap?--he sat down again, and tried to
calculate calmly the distance and his powers. He drew near the
rock--still nearer--one moment more, and his only chance of life would
be gone forever! He sprang upon the edge of the boat, and, leaping from
it with all the strength of despair, fell, clinging with a death-grasp,
to the projections of the wet and slippery stone, while the boat,
whirling round and round by the impulse, dashed onwards and disappeared!

For some time Tom dared not raise his head; he felt too bewildered, too
terrified by the danger he had escaped, to comprehend perfectly his
present situation. At length he sat up, and endeavored to collect his
thoughts, and determine what next he should do. The river-bank rose
almost perpendicularly full twenty feet; no straggling vine, by whose
help he might have clambered up, fell from it, and the foaming torrent
rushing between it and him, rendered any attempt to scale it, without
some aid from above, utterly impossible. He must, then, call for help;
but who was there to hear him in this wild place--.and how could he make
himself heard above the din of the raging waters which surrounded him?
He was nigh despairing again, when he remembered the whistle with which
he used to call the pigs, and which he always carried about him; he took
it from his pocket, and blew a long, shrill cry--it rose high above all
the roar and tumult of the cataract, and his failing hope and courage
revived.

"Dick," said Jem Watson to his elder brother, as they were shooting
squirrels that afternoon in the woods, about three miles from home, "did
you hear that whistle just now?"

"A whistle! No; whereabouts?"

"It seemed to come from the Fall; but who should be there! father's at
home, isn't he?"

"Yes, father's at home. But, hark! I hear it now! Who can it be?--let's
go see!"

The young man ran off, followed by Jem, and they were soon on the cliff
above poor Tom, who sat wearily looking upwards. "Tom Lee!" they both
cried in a breath, as his pale face met their eyes.

"Why, Tom! how came you there?" called Jem.

"Don't stand bawling, Jem," said his brother; "he'd rather tell you up
here than where he is, I'll be bound! Cut off home as fast as you can,
and tell father to come and bring a rope--that one hanging over my tool
chest. Now be off--that poor fellow looks almost at death's door
already."

Jem needed no second telling, but was out of sight in a moment, while
Dick stayed near the cliff, that Tom might be encouraged by the sight of
a friend. He had not to wait long; in little more than an hour Mr.
Watson and Jem arrived with the rope, and after some trouble they
contrived to pull the wet and shivering boy up in safety. They hastened
with him to the farm, where Mrs. Watson made him change his dripping
clothes for a suit of Jem's, and take some very welcome refreshment,
after which she hurried his return home, knowing from her own mother's
heart how dreadful must be the anxiety of Mr. and Mrs. Lee, ignorant as
they were as to what had become of their son.

It was near sunset when Dick started on horseback, with Tom behind him,
for the ten mile journey through the forest. They had proceeded about
two-thirds of the distance, and had lighted one of the splinters of
turpentine pine they had brought for torches, when they heard a shot.
Dick answered it by another, and a loud halloo! and presently a light
appeared through the trees approaching them. As it came near, Tom
recognised his father and uncle, who had scoured the woods around the
log-house in search of him, and were now on their way to Mr. Watson's,
hoping almost against hope to find him there.

It would be vain to attempt to describe the tenderness lavished on the
truant that night by the happy family, or repeat the many grateful words
spoken to Dick. All the pain that the thoughtless boy had caused was
forgotten in joy for his safety. "You should have remembered, Tom, how
unhappy your absence without our permission would make your mother and
me. How often, my son, have I said to you that--

   "Evil is wrought from want of thought,
    As well as want of heart."

These were the only reproving words his father's full heart could utter,
but Tom felt them; and when all knelt together before retiring to rest,
to give humble and hearty thanks for the blessings of the past
day--while each heart poured forth its gratitude for the especial mercy
that had been granted--his prayed also for power to resist temptation.




CHAPTER IV.


AN INTRUDER.


"I wonder what is the matter with Snap," cried George one evening about
a week after, as the family were at tea; "he sits there looking at that
corner as if he was quite frightened; I've watched him such a time,
father!"

"Oh yes, father, do look!" cried Annie; "he sees something between that
box and the wall, I'm sure!"

"Hi! hi! good dog! at him!" shouted Tom, trying to incite the dog to
seize the object, whatever it might be. Snap's eyes sparkled and he ran
forwards, but as quickly drew back again, with every sign of intense
fear. At the same moment a mingled sound, as of the rattling of dried
peas and hissing, was heard from the spot. "A snake!" cried Uncle John,
jumping up from the table, and seizing a stout stick which was at hand,
while Mrs. Lee, at the word, catching Willie in her arms, and dragging
George, retreated to the farthest part of the room, followed by Annie.
As the box was carefully drawn away, the hissing and rattling became
louder, and presently a large rattlesnake glided out with raised head
and threatening jaws, and made for the door. Snap stood near the
entrance, as if transfixed by fear, his tail between his legs, and
trembling in every limb. Uncle John aimed a blow, but the irritated
reptile darting forwards bit the poor dog in the throat. Before,
however, Snap's yelp of agony had died away, the stick fell on the
creature's head, and it lay there lifeless.

"He's done for!" cried Tom, triumphantly.

"Yes, and so I fear is Snap, too," said his father; "poor fellow!"

"Can't we do anything for him, Uncle?" asked Tom, anxiously.

"Nothing that I know of--there is but one antidote, it is said, and that
is the rattlesnake weed,--the Indians believe it to be a certain cure
for the bite, but I don't know it by sight."

Mrs. Lee now ventured forward to look for a moment at the still writhing
snake, and Tom then dragged it out of the house; but before throwing it
away, he cut off the rattle, which was very curious. It consisted of
thin, hard, hollow bones, linked together, somewhat resembling the
curb-chain of a bridle, and rattling at the slightest motion. Uncle John
showed him how to ascertain the age of the reptile. The extreme end,
called the button, is all it has until three years old; after that age a
link is added every year. As the snake they had just killed had thirteen
links, besides the button, it must have been sixteen years old; it
measured four feet in length, and was about as thick as a man's arm.

The unfortunate dog died after three or four hours' great suffering, and
was buried the next day at the foot of a tree in the forest. His loss
was especially felt by George, who busied himself for some hours in
raising a little mound over the grave, and then fencing it round, as a
mark of esteem, he said, for a friend.

Meanwhile the summer was slipping fast away, and October came, bringing
with it cool weather and changing leaves. The woods soon looked like
great gardens, filled with giant flowers. The maple became a vivid
scarlet, the chestnut orange, the oak a rich red brown, and the hickory
and tall locust were variegated with a deep green and delicate yellow.
Luxuriant vines, laden with clusters of ripe grapes, twined around and
festooned the trees to their summits, while the ground beneath was
strewn with the hard-shelled hickory-nut and sweet mealy chestnut, which
pattered down in thousands with the falling leaves.

It was at day-break on one of the brightest and mildest mornings of this
delightful season, that the family were awakened by the shouts of Tom,
who was already up and out of doors, setting the pigs, which were his
particular charge, free for their daily rambles in the forest.

"Oh, Uncle John!" he cried, running in for his gun, "do get up: there
are such lots of pigeons about! Flock upon flock! you can hardly see the
sun!"

Every one hastily dressed and rushed out--it was indeed a wonderful
sight which presented itself. The heavens seemed alive with pigeons on
their way from the cold north to more temperate climates; they flew,
too, so low, that by standing on the log-house roof one might have
struck them to the earth with a pole. Millions must have passed already,
when there approached a dense cloud of the birds, which seemed to
stretch in length and breadth as far as eye could reach. It formed a
regular even column--a dark solid living mass, following in a straight
undeviating flight the guidance of its leader. The sight was so exciting
that Mr. Lee and Uncle John ran for their rifles as Tom had done, and
opened a destructive fire as it passed over.

The ground was soon covered with the victims, and the sportsmen still
seemed intent on killing, as if they thought only of destroying as many
as possible of the crowded birds, when Mrs. Lee called to them to
desist.

"There are more of the pretty creatures already slain," she said, "than
we can eat,--it is a shocking waste of life!"

"And see, Tom," cried his sister, "the poor things are not dead, only
wounded and in pain!"

They all instantly ceased firing, and Mr. Lee looked on the bleeding
birds scattered around, with the regretful feeling that he had bought a
few minutes' amusement at a great expense of suffering. Uncle John and
Tom, however, only thought of pigeon-pies, and went to work to put the
sufferers out of their misery, and prepare them for cooking.

A few days after this memorable morning, the children and Uncle John set
out for a regular nutting excursion; Annie had made great bags for their
gatherings, and Mrs. Lee provided a fine pigeon-pie for their dinner;
Tom took charge of it, his sister of Georgy, and Uncle John carried his
constant companion on a ramble--his good rifle. By noon they had gone
more than three miles into the depths of the forest; their bags were
nearly filled, and Tom began to grumble at the weight of the pie, so
that when they reached a pleasant open spot near a spring, it was at
once decided that they should dine there. They spread their little store
on the ground, adding to it some bunches of grapes from the vines
around, and then sat down with excellent appetites and the merriest of
tempers.

"I am never tired of watching the squirrels!" cried Annie, who had been
looking for some time at the lively little animals scampering in the
trees; "just look what funny little things those are!"

"The young ones are just old enough now to eat the nuts and berries,"
replied Uncle John; "see how they are feasting!"

"Where do they live, uncle; in a hole?" asked George.

"Oh, George! where are your eyes!" cried his brother; "look up there;
don't you see the little mud and twig cabins at the very top of the
tree! those are their nests!"

"I once read an interesting story," remarked Uncle John, "of a squirrel
that tried to kill himself; would you like to hear it?"

"Oh yes, uncle!" they all cried in a breath.

"Well, this squirrel was very ill-treated by his companions; they used
to scratch and bite him, and jump on him till they were tired, while he
never offered to resist, but cried in the most heart-rending manner. One
young squirrel, however, was his secret friend, and whenever an
opportunity offered of doing it without being seen, would bring him nuts
and fruits. This friend was detected one day by the others, who rushed
in dozens to punish him, but he succeeded in escaping from them by
jumping to the highest perch of the tree, where none could follow him.
The poor outcast, meanwhile, seemingly heart-broken by this last
misfortune, went slowly to the river's side, ascended a tree which stood
by, and with a wild scream jumped from it into the rushing waters!"

"Oh, uncle! what a melancholy story," cried Anne, quite touched by the
squirrel's sorrows.

"But wait, dear; our wretched squirrel did not perish this time, he was
saved by a gentleman who had seen the whole affair, and who took him
home and tamed him. He was an affectionate little creature, and never
attempted to return to the woods, although left quite free. His end was
a sad one at last; he was killed by a rattlesnake!"

"Oh, horrid!" cried George, "that was worse than drowning."

"So I think, Georgy. But isn't it time for us to move homewards? Wash
the dish, Annie, at the spring, and Tom shall bag it again."

It was nearly dark when they reached the log-house, tired with their
long walk, and the weight of their full bags, but in great spirits
nevertheless, for they brought back a prize in an immense wild turkey,
which Uncle John had shot on the return march. They had seen a great
many of these beautiful birds during the day, but none near enough to
shoot; at last a gang of some twenty ran across the path close to them,
and the ready rifle secured the finest. Uncle John carried it by the
neck, slung over his shoulder, and so stretched, it measured full six
feet from the tip of the beak to the claws. The plumage of its wings and
spreading tail was of a rich, glossy brown, barred with black, and its
head and neck shone with a brilliant metallic lustre.

The nutting party were very glad to get to bed that night, especially
George, who was more foot-sore than he liked to confess. Before saying
good-night, they agreed to rise very early the next morning, to spread
their chestnuts in the sun, as Uncle John had told them it would improve
their sweetness exceedingly, besides making them better for storing
during the winter. A great change in the weather took place, however,
during the night; a cutting north-easterly wind and rain set in, and
continued with little intermission for nearly a week. When bright, clear
days returned, the country showed that winter was approaching rapidly.
Uncle John took advantage of a call Dick Watson made at the log-house
with his team, to accompany him to Painted Posts to buy glass for the
windows. On their return, Dick stayed a couple of days to help with the
job, which was not finished before it was needed, for they had begun to
feel the cold very sensibly, notwithstanding the great wood fire they
kept up.

*       *       *       *       *

The Indian summer--a delightful week in the beginning of November, when
the air is mild and still, and a beautiful blueish mist floats in the
atmosphere, through which the landscape is seen as through a veil of
gossamer--had come and gone, and a slight flurry of snow had covered the
ground with a white mantle, when one morning a great squealing was heard
from the pen in which the pigs were now kept.

"What can be the matter there?" said Mrs. Lee, "they are not fighting, I
hope."

[Illustration]

"I'll go and see, mother," said Tom, running out. A moment after his
voice was heard shouting, "a bear! a bear!" and he was seen running
towards the prairie, armed with a rail which he had picked up in the
yard. When Mr. Lee and Uncle John rushed after him with their rifles, he
was gaining fast on a huge black bear, which had just paid a visit to
the hog-pen, and was now trotting off to the woods with a squalling
victim. "Stop, stop, Tom!" cried his father; but Tom was too excited to
hear or see anything but the object of his pursuit; he ran on, and soon
got near enough to make his rail sound on the bear's hard head. But
though Tom was a strong, big fellow for his years, he was no match for
an American bear, which is not so easily settled, and so Bruin seemed
determined to let him know; he immediately dropped the pig with a growl,
and erecting himself on his hind legs, prepared to give battle. Tom
tried to keep him off with the rail, but a bear is a good fencer, and a
few strokes of his great paws soon left the boy without defence. The
deadly hug of the angry animal seemed unavoidable, when a shot from
Uncle John, which sent a bullet through the left eye into the very
brain, stretched the bear lifeless on the snow.

"If it hadn't been for you I should have had a squeeze, uncle!" cried
Tom, laughing.

"You're a thoughtless, foolish boy, Tom!" said his uncle; "who but you,
I wonder, would have run after a bear with nothing but a rail!"

"He is indeed a thoughtless boy," said his father, "but I hope a
grateful one; you have most probably saved his life!"

"Uncle knows I am grateful, I'm sure," said Tom, "I needn't tell him!"

"It's a fine beast, and fat as butter," remarked Uncle John, feeling its
sides as he spoke, "yet he must have been hungry, fond as a bear is of
pork, to venture so near a house by daylight!"

"What a warm fur!" observed Mr. Lee, "just feel how thick the hair is!"

"But what can we do with such a mountain of flesh and fat?" asked Tom.
"We can't eat it, and we've no dogs."

"O, we'll eat it fast enough!" replied his uncle; "a bear ham is a
delicacy, I assure you."

"I think we may as well set about skinning and cutting it up for curing
at once, as we have little to do to-day. What say you, John?"

"Yes, we had better; but we must do the business here, for the skin
would be quite spoiled were we to attempt to drag the carcase into the
yard, though it would be more convenient to have it there. We can take
the hams and fur, and leave the rest."

"What a busy day this has been," said Tom, that evening, when he and his
sister had finished the reading and writing lessons their father gave
them every night; "what with helping to catch the bear, and then to skin
and cut him up, and dinner and tea, and reading and writing, I've not
had a spare moment."

"As to helping to catch the bear," said his father, laughing, "you may
leave that out of the catalogue of your occupations."

"Not at all, father; for, if I hadn't gone to see what was the matter,
he would have walked off with the pig, and no one the wiser."

"Oh, certainly, Tom helped!" cried his uncle; "and his mother helped,
too, for, you remember, she wondered what was the matter in the
hog-pen!"

"I don't mind your fun, uncle," said Tom; "I shall shoot a bear myself
some day."

"I'm glad that, if the poor bear was to come, it came to-day rather than
to-morrow, for to-morrow will be Sunday," remarked Annie; "the week has
seemed so short to me!"

"So it has to me," said her brother; "the weeks seem to fly fast."

"Because you are always occupied," observed Mr. Lee; "time is long and
tedious only with the idle. What a blessing work is; it adds in every
way to the happiness of life!--it is good for the mind, and good for the
body!"

"I used to think it very disagreeable, I remember!"

"You have grown wiser as well as older, Tom, during the past year," said
his mother.

"If I only do so every year, mother!"

"If you do, Tom, you will indeed be a happy man, for the ways of wisdom
are ways of pleasantness;--but it must be time for your usual wash."

"Aye, so it is! I believe I like the Saturday night wash almost as well
as the Sunday rest. One seems to feel better, as well as cleaner, after
it!"

*       *       *       *       *

Sunday, in the family of the emigrants, was generally happy; even the
very youngest seemed to be influenced by the spirit of peace that
breathed around on that holy day. No loud boisterous voice, no jeering
laugh was ever heard; a subdued, composed, yet cheerful manner, marked
the enjoyment of rest from the fatigues of the past well-spent six days
of labor, while the earnest remembrance of their Maker, the eager desire
and striving to learn and to do their duty to Him and to each other,
made the commencement of each new week as profitable as it was welcome.
The recollection, too, of the land they had left was more tender on this
quiet day, and past joys and trials were often recalled with a kind of
melancholy pleasure, sometimes with an almost regretful feeling that the
scenes in which they had laughed and toiled should know them no longer.
The green fields--the hawthorn hedges--the cottages and the little
gardens, gay with the rose and the hollyhock--the ivy-grown village
church--all were remembered and talked of in love--seeming ever more
beautiful as memory dwelt on them. They acknowledged with thankfulness
the blessings of their present lot--they looked forward hopefully to the
future--but, oh! how deeply they felt that the far-off island, the land
of their birth, could never be forgotten!

Here in the woods, where no church was near, when the never-omitted
morning prayer was ended, Mr. Lee read aloud some good plain discourse,
and explained those passages the children had not perfectly understood;
the evening was spent in listening to interesting portions of the sacred
history, and in instructive and pleasant conversation. Before retiring
to rest, all voices joined in some sweet hymn of praise, and then, with
hearts softened by the touching sounds, and purified by the blessed
influences of a day so passed, they slept the calm, untroubled sleep of
innocence, to awaken on the morrow strengthened and refreshed, to obey
once more the Divine command--"Six days shalt thou labor."




CHAPTER V.


STRIVING AND THRIVING.


Ten years after the settlement and incidents related in the preceding
chapters, it would have been difficult to recognise the log-cabin in the
substantial farm-house that occupied its place. The forest which once so
nearly enclosed it was gone, or only to be traced here and there in a
few decaying stumps, or the gray ruins of girdled trees which yet
resisted wind and weather. The meadow land was covered with grazing
sheep and cattle, the yard filled with stacks of hay and fodder, and
large convenient barns and stables stood where the little out-houses,
which once sufficed to accommodate all the emigrants' gear, had formerly
been; corn fields, and orchards of peaches and apples surrounded the
dwelling, which, with its flowergrown piazza and gay garden, presented a
pretty picture of peace and plenty.

But these changes had only been wrought by slow degrees and hard work,
nor had they been unaccompanied by many trials and disappointments.
Crops had failed, or been destroyed, when promising a bountiful harvest,
by fierce storms of rain and wind; and once the woods had caught fire,
and spread desolation over the country. Prompt exertions saved the
house, but the labors of the year had been lost, and the corn-fields
ready for the harvest, and the rich pastures left black and smoking.

Nor was the neighboring country less changed and improved: the narrow
blazed tracks which had formerly led to Mr. Watson's and to Painted
Posts had widened into well-travelled roads; and clearings visible on
hill-sides in the distance, and frequent columns of curling smoke rising
above the far-off tree-tops, gave evidence of the habitations of men,
and that our emigrants were no longer alone in the wilderness.

Change had also been busy with the family, as well as with their home
and its surroundings. Mr. and Mrs. Lee showed least its power; for
though ten years older, the time had passed too prosperously on the
whole to leave many wrinkles on their cheerful, contented faces. But
some of the children were children no longer. Tom, now a fine young man
of twenty-two, had married Jem Watson's sister Katie, and settled on a
small lot which lay on the banks of the river just below the Fall that
had once been so nearly fatal to him. Taking advantage of the facilities
offered by the situation for a mill, he had raised one near the rapids,
and as the neighborhood became more populous, he found increasing
profit, as well as employment, and was quickly becoming a thriving
miller. Uncle John, still good-natured and light-hearted, had
established himself near him on a comfortable farm, with a wife he had
brought from Cincinnati, and who was as cheerful as himself, and the
cleverest housewife of the whole country round. They had a little son
and daughter, one four, the other two years old, who were the delight
and pride of their parents. "Bub," or "Bubby," as boys are familiarly
called in the United States, could already mount a horse, call in the
pigs, and sing Yankee Doodle as well, his father declared, as he could
himself; while "Sissy" nursed her rag-doll, and lulled it to sleep, in
her tiny rocking-chair, with as much tenderness and patience as a larger
woman. They were wonderful children! Uncle John said.

The kind and gentle Annie had grown up, beloved by all who knew her, and
Jem Watson had often thought what a good wife she would make, and what a
happy house that would be of which she was mistress, before he summoned
courage to ask her to be his. When she consented, he believed himself
the most fortunate man in Ohio. But she would not leave her mother quite
alone, with her many household cares, and therefore it was determined
that though the marriage should take place in the autumn, she should not
move to Jem's house until George, who had taken his elder brother's
place in helping his father, should be old enough to bring home a wife
to undertake his sister's duties. Jem, meanwhile was to cultivate and
improve the eighty-acre lot his father had purchased for him within six
miles of Painted Posts, a place which was rapidly increasing, and
already offered a profitable market to the neighboring farmers, more
especially as a railway now passed within two miles.

We shall have mentioned all our old friends when we add that the baby
Willy had become just such another thoughtless daring boy as Tom had
been at his age, and that Dick Watson was established in Cincinnati, now
called the "Queen of the West," as a pork merchant, and was getting rich
very fast.

The maize, or Indian corn, had attained its ripest hue, and been plucked
from the dry stems, which had been deprived of their leaves as soon as
the ear was fully formed, that nothing might screen the sun's hottest
rays from the grain, and the golden-colored pumpkins which had been
planted between the rows, that no land might be wasted, even left to
ripen alone amid the withering corn-stalks. The neighbors from far and
near had visited each other's houses in turn, for the "Husking frolic,"
when all joined to strip from the ear the long leaves in which it was
wrapped, and which were to be stacked as fodder for the sheep and
cattle. The apples had been sliced and dried in the sun, and then strung
and suspended in festoons from the kitchen ceiling, the pumpkins had at
last been gathered in and stored in great piles in the barn--all
provision for winter pies,--and the fall, as the Americans call the
autumn, from the falling of the leaf, was drawing to a close when
Annie's wedding-day arrived.

The Watson and the Lee families were so much respected by their
neighbors, that when Tom was married, a year before, and now, also, all
seemed to think that they could not sufficiently show their good will,
unless they overwhelmed them with whatever might be thought most likely
to please in the way of dainties. For a day or two before, the bearer of
some present might have been seen each hour at the Lees' door.

"Please, Mrs. Lee, mother sends her compliments, and a pot of first-rate
quince preserves," said one.

"I've just run over with some real sweet maple, Mr. Lee," cried another.
"I reckon it's better sugar than you've tasted yet!"

Annie and her mother began to wonder how such an abundance of good
things as poured in upon them could ever be disposed of.

Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the morning of the appointed
day, when Tom and Katie came trotting to the door in their light wagon.
They had scarcely alighted when Uncle John arrived, driving up with his
wife and children. "Only just ahead of us, Tom!" he cried, as he jumped
out, and ran up the steps to kiss Annie. "Bless you, my girl!"

"I am so glad you are all come," said Annie, with a smiling, blushing
face. "Mother is so busy, and wishing so for Aunt Abby and Katie!"

"Aye, they're two good ones for setting things to rights!" cried Uncle
John; "but I say, Annie, we met a party of red ladies and gentlemen
coming here."

"What do you mean, uncle?"

"Why, half a dozen Indians, with their squaws and papooses are on the
road, and I told them to stop here, and I would trade with them--so get
something for them to eat, will you?"

The travellers soon made their appearance; a strange-looking set of
red-skinned, black-eyed Indians, wrapped in dirty, many-colored
blankets. The men were hard-featured, and degraded in their bearing, not
at all resembling the description we have received of their warlike
ancestors, before the fatal "fire water," as they call rum, had become
known to them; but some of the women had a soft, melancholy expression
of countenance, which was very pleasing. They carried their babies,
which were bandaged from head to foot, so that they could not move a
limb, in a kind of pouch behind; the little dark faces peeped over the
mothers' shoulders, and looked contented and happy.

The party stopped at the gate, and all the family went out to inspect
the articles of their own manufacture, which the Indians humbly offered
for sale. These consisted of baskets ornamented with porcupine quills,
moccasins of deer-skin, and boxes of birch bark. Mrs. Lee's and Aunt
Abby's heart bled for the way-worn looking mothers and their patient
babes; they relieved their feelings, however, by making them eat as much
as they would. Uncle John and Tom were glad to buy some of the pretty
toys for wedding presents, and after an hour's stay the party resumed
their march.

"Those Indians always make me feel sad," remarked Uncle John when they
were gone; "a poor disinherited race they are,--homeless in the broad
land which once belonged to their fathers!"

"It is a melancholy thought at first, certainly," replied Mr. Lee; "but
if you reflect awhile you will find consolation. There are many towns
which were founded by persons still living, whose inhabitants already
outnumber all the hunter tribes which once possessed the forest; and
surely the industry of civilization is to be preferred to the wild rule
of the savage!"

"You are right," said Uncle John, with a sigh; "but still I must be
sorry for the Indians!"

The Watsons arrived shortly after, and every one was busy, though, as
Mrs. Lee often said laughingly, no one did anything but Aunt Abby, and
she was indefatigable. Soon after dinner the neighbors began to
assemble, and when the minister from Painted Posts arrived, the ceremony
which united the young couple was performed in the neat little parlor of
the farm-house. At six o'clock an immense tea-table was spread with all
the luxuries of the American back-woods;--there were huge dishes of hot
butter-milk rolls, and heaps of sweet cake (so called from its being in
great part composed of molasses)--and plum cakes, and curiously twisted
nut-cakes--and plates of thin shaven smoked beef, of new made cheese and
butter--and there were pies of pumpkin, peach, and apple, with dishes of
preserves and pickles. The snow-white table-cloth was scarcely visible,
so abundant was the entertainment which covered it. After this feast,
the evening passed in merry games among the young people, while the
elders looked on and laughed, or formed little groups for conversation,
of which, indeed, the remembrance of former weddings was the principal
subject.

Mr. Watson and Mr. Lee, now doubly connected through their children, sat
together a little apart, recalling, as they talked, the various trials
of their first experience of the wilderness, and comparing the present
with the past.

"Who would have anticipated such a scene as this," remarked the latter,
"when you and Dick came to help us build the log-house?"

"And yet it has come to pass by most simple means," replied Mr.
Watson,--"industry and perseverance. These qualities, as we are now old
enough to know, will gain a home and its comforts in any part of the
world,--in our native land as well as here, although too many doubt the
fact. Yet there are times when a man in the crowded communities of
Europe sees no refuge but in emigration. When such is the case, he must
make up his mind to leave behind the faults and the follies which have
there hindered his well-being. If he cannot do this he will be as poor
and discontented here as in England. You and I have reason, my friend,
to be grateful that the Providence which guided us hither, gave us
courage to bear patiently the dangers and privations which must be
conquered before a home and prosperity can be won by the Emigrant."




MADELAINE TUBE

and Her Blind Brother

A Christmas Story for Young People



[Illustration: "May God give you a happy Christmas."]



CHAPTER I.


THE BROKEN CUP.


"Come! boys," said Master Teuzer, a potter of Dresden, to his work
people, who had just finished their breakfast, consisting of coffee and
black bread, "Come! to work."

He stood up; the work people did the same, and went into the adjoining
work-shop, where each of them placed himself at a bench.

"Who is knocking at the door?" said the Master, interrupting the silence
which reigned. "Come in there!" he added in a rough tone. The door
opened, and a little girl entered, saluted him timidly, and remained
standing on the threshold. The clock had not yet struck five,
nevertheless the fair hair of the little girl, who was about ten years
old, had already been nicely combed, and every part of her dress,
although poor, was neat and in order, her cheeks and hands were of that
rosy color which is produced by the habit of washing in cold water.

Master Teuzer observed all this with secret satisfaction, he looked
kindly at the timid child. "Ah, my little one, so early, and already up,
are you then of opinion that the morning is best for work? It is well,
my child, and appears to agree with you--you are as fresh as a rose of
the morning. Well; what have you brought me?"

The little girl took from her apron, which she held up, a china cup,
broken into two pieces--"I only wished to ask you," said she, in a sad
voice, "if you can mend this cup so that the crack will not be seen."

Teuzer examined the pieces attentively, they were of fine china, and
ornamented with painted flowers. "So that one must not see the crack,"
he repeated, "it will be difficult--but we will try." So saying, he laid
the pieces on one side, and returned to his work. But the little girl,
looking much disappointed, said, "Ah, sir, have the kindness to mend the
cup immediately, I will wait until it is done."

The potter and his workmen began to laugh; "then," said the former, "you
will have long enough to wait, for after being cemented, the cup must be
baked. It will be three days before I heat the furnace again, and it
will be five before you can have your cup."

The child looked disappointed, and Teuzer continued, "Ah, I see why you
are up so early--your mother does not know that you have broken the cup,
and you wanted to have it mended before she is awake. I am right I
see--go then and tell your mother the exact truth--that will be best,
will it not?"

The little girl said "Yes," in a low voice, and went away.

Very early on the following morning the child returned.

"I told you," said Teuzer, frowning, "that you could not have your cup
for five days."

"It is not for that I have come," replied the child, "but I have brought
you something else to mend,"--and she took from her apron the pieces of
a brown jar.

Teuzer laughed again, and said, "We can do nothing with this--you think
it is china because it is glazed, but it is from the Waldenburg pottery,
and quite a different clay from ours. It would be a fine thing indeed if
we could mend all the broken jars in Dresden, we should then be soon
obliged to shut up shop, and eat dry bread--throw away the pieces,
child."

The little girl turned pale, "The jar is not ours," she said, crying,
"it belongs to Mrs. Abendroth, who sent us some broth."

"I am sorry for it," replied Teuzer, "but you must be more careful in
using other people's things."

"It was not my fault," said the child--"my poor mother has the
rheumatism in her hands, and cannot hold anything firmly--and she let it
fall. Have you jars of this kind, and how much would one of this size
cost?"

Teuzer felt moved with compassion, "I have a few in the warehouse," he
answered, "but they are three times as dear as the common ones."

He went to look for one to make a present to the little girl, but on his
return, chancing to glance into her apron, he saw a little paper parcel.
"What have you there," he asked, "coffee or sugar?"

The little girl hesitated a moment. She was almost afraid to tell him
what she had in her apron. She thought he might possibly suspect that
she had been taking something which did not belong to her. Still, she
hesitated but a moment. She felt that she was honest, and she saw no
good reason why he should doubt her honesty. So she said,

"It is seed for our canary, our pretty Jacot. He is a dear little
creature, and he has had nothing to eat for a long time. How glad he
will be to get it."

"Oh, seed for a bird," said Teuzer, slowly; and putting down the jar he
was about to give her, he returned to his work, saying to himself, "if
you can afford to keep a bird you can pay me for my goods. Yes, yes,
people are often _so_ poor, _so_ poor, and when one comes to
inquire, they keep dogs, cats, or birds; and yet they will ask for
alms."

So the little girl had to go away without the jar; however, she returned
at the end of four days for her cup. The crack could scarcely be
perceived, and Teuzer asked sixpence for mending it. The little girl
searched in her pocket, without being able to find more than four-pence.

"It wants two-pence," said she, timidly, and looking beseechingly at the
potter, who replied, dryly, "I see: well, you will bring it to me on the
first opportunity," he then gave her the cup, and she slipped away quite
humbled.

"Now I have got rid of her," said Teuzer, to his men, "we shall see no
more of her here."

But to his surprise, she returned in two days bringing the two-pence.

"It is well," said he to her, "it is well to be so honest, had you not
returned, I knew neither where you lived, nor your name. Who are your
parents?"

"My father is dead, he was a painter, we live at No. 47 South Lane, and
my name is Madelaine Tube."

"Your father was a painter, and perhaps you can paint also, and better
too, than my apprentice that you see there with his great mouth open,
instead of painting his plates?"

The boy, looking quite frightened, took up his pencil and became red as
fire, while Madelaine examined his work.

"Come here, Madelaine," said Teuzer, "and make him ashamed, by painting
this plate."

Madelaine obeyed timidly. Even if she had performed her task
badly--Teuzer would certainly have praised her to humiliate his
apprentice; but this was not the case. With a firm and practised hand,
the child drew some blue ornaments upon the white ground of the plate.

Without saying a word, Teuzer went to his warehouse, and returned with a
Waldenburg jar which he gave to the little girl. "Take it," said he, "it
was intended for you some days since. One who although so little and so
young as you are, is already so clover, can well afford to keep a bird.
If you like to paint my plates and other little things you shall be well
paid."

Madelaine was delighted, her face shone with joy; she gladly consented
to this proposal, and having thanked Master Teuzer, skipped away
carrying her jar.




CHAPTER II.


A PICTURE OF POVERTY.


Madame Tube, the mother of Madelaine, was a great sufferer from
rheumatism. Severe pain had kept her awake almost the whole night; but
towards morning a heavy sleep gave her some relief, and prevented her
hearing the crowing of a cock in a neighboring yard, which usually
disturbed her: Madelaine, however, heard it well, and making as little
noise as possible, she rose from her miserable bed.

It was still quite dark in the little room, yet as Madelaine was very
tidy, she easily found her clothes, put them on quickly, and going very
gently into a narrow yard in front of this wretched room she washed her
face, hands, and neck, at the fountain. Perceiving on her return that
her mother still slept, she knelt down and repeated her morning prayer,
with great attention, then taking up the stocking she was knitting,
worked diligently at it until the daylight came feebly in at the little
window, when, putting her knitting aside, she lighted the fire in the
stove and began to prepare breakfast.

"The smoke suffocates me," said Madame Tube, as she awoke coughing.

"Good morning, dear mother," said Madelaine affectionately, "the wood is
damp and the stove full of cracks, but I will try if I cannot stop the
smoke." She then took some clay which she had ready wetted in a broken
cup, and endeavored to stop the large cracks in the stove, which was of
earthenware.

"Raise me a little," said the mother. Madelaine hastened to her--she put
her arms round the child's neck, who had to exert all her strength to
raise her. Madame Tube, whose constant suffering had made her fretful,
said, in a complaining tone, "Where does this terrible draught come
from, is the window open there?"

Madelaine examined it: "Ah," said she, "the rain has loosened the paper
I had pasted to the broken pane, I will cover it up." She then placed an
old oil painting against it, which looked as if it had often served the
same purpose.

"Is the coffee ready?" asked Madame Tube.

"Very soon," replied Madelaine: "only think, dear mother, I have had
some very good beef bones given to me, with which I can make you some
nice soup, and the cook at the hotel has promised to keep the
coffee-grounds for me every day, so we can have some _real_ coffee
this morning, instead of the carrot drink."

"But why are you going about without shoes," said her mother to
Madelaine, "you will take cold on the damp stones? Why do you not put on
your shoes, I say?"

"Do not be angry, dear mother, I must be careful--the soles are already
thin, _so_ thin--like paper."

"Alas! what will become of us?" said Madame Tube.

"Do not fret, dearest mother, I can already earn a little at good Master
Teuzer's, and besides, God who is so very good will not abandon us."

"It is true," replied the mother, "but we have waited long."

"When the need is greatest, help is nearest," rejoined Madelaine.

"Is Raphael not yet awake?" asked Madame Tube.

Something was at this moment heard to move in the dark-corner behind the
stove, and soon after a little boy, half-dressed, came out softly, and
feeling his way. Madelaine advanced towards him, and kissing him with
much affection, said, "Good morning, my Raphael."

The little boy returned her caress, and then asked anxiously, "What is
the matter with Jacot? he does not sing!"

"It is too dark still," said Madelaine, "he is not awake."

Madame Tube said, in a displeased voice, "Yes, yes, his bird makes him
forget every thing, even to say good morning to his mother."

"Do not be angry," answered the little boy as he approached the bed, "I
did not know that you were awake, dear mother, and I dreamed such a sad
dream--that some one had taken away our Jacot--and I was so _very_
unhappy, forgive me, dear mother"--and saying this, he kissed her
affectionately.

Meanwhile Madelaine had placed the mended cup and two others upon the
table--then taking from her basket a penny loaf, she said, smiling, "The
baker at the corner gave me that yesterday evening, because I helped his
Christine to sweep the shop. It is true it is rather stale, but we can
soon soften it in our coffee--and I have milk too, we want nothing but
sugar."

She drew the table close to her mother's bedside, and the little family
ate their poor breakfast with pleasure.

Take example from them ye rich ones of this world, who when you have
every luxury spread before you, are nevertheless often dissatisfied.

Madelaine, joyous from the consciousness of having done her duty, amused
even her suffering mother by her prattle. Thus the time passed quickly
by, when suddenly a beautiful canary, yellow as gold, roused himself in
his narrow cage and sent forth a loud and melodious song.

"Jacot, my Jacot!" cried Raphael, delighted.

His mother said, "The bird recalls us to our duty,--_he_ praises
his Creator before he breakfasts"--and with a weak and trembling voice
she began, "May my first thoughts on this day be of praise to thee, O
Lord!" Kneeling down, the two children joined her as she repeated her
morning prayer, with deep devotion.

At last it grew light in the little room. Madelaine took a needle and
thread and began to mend her frock. Raphael felt about for a heap of
little pieces of silk, which he began to unravel. Both children were
silent, for their mother had taken up a book. After about an hour thus
spent, a loud knocking was heard at the door, and almost before
Madelaine could say "Come in," the door opened and a man entered, who
was so much surprised at the darkness of the room, that at first he
could see nothing. Looking quite embarrassed, he asked, "Is it here that
Madame Tube lives?"

"Ah, it is good Mr. Teuzer, mother, who has come to see us," said
Madelaine, joyously.

Madame Tube tried, but in vain, to rise to salute him. As for Raphael,
he ran to hide behind the stove.

"Well," said Master Teuzer to Madelaine, "I thought you were very ill,
for I have not seen you these four days. Where have you been?"

Madelaine looked quite astonished, and said, "I have been at your house,
sir, and told your apprentice to excuse me to you, because my mother had
a fresh attack of rheumatism, and could not spare me."

"What a naughty boy, he has never told me one word of it. When I go home
I will punish him severely. This then is your mother? She suffers from
rheumatism, you say? Sad malady! but this room is a perfect dungeon,
enough to kill a strong man. Poor people! The stove smokes,
too--wretched stove that it is, made before the flood, I should think. I
must speak to the landlord; it is inexcusable to let such a hole for any
one to live in."

Whilst examining the stove, Master Teuzer had almost fallen over
Raphael, who was sitting behind it unravelling some pieces of silk:
"What!" he exclaimed, "some one else? My little fellow, you will lose
your sight in this Egyptian darkness."

Madelaine sighed, and Madame Tube said in a voice of deep grief, "He has
lost it already."

Teuzer started! "Bl--blind, did you say?" he stammered, and quite
shocked, he led the poor boy to the light--"Look at me, my child," he
said.

"I cannot see you," spoke Raphael, softly as he turned his blind eyes
towards Teuzer.

There is something very touching in such a look. Teuzer was deeply
moved, and turned away as if to examine the stove but in reality to hide
the tears which filled his eyes--"What a misfortune," he said at last,
"and you have not told me of this, Madelaine. Has he been long blind?"

"Since his second year," replied Madame Tube.

"How did it happen?" asked Teuzer.

"We do not know; we perceived it when too late to have anything done;
and in a short time he became quite blind."

"My boy," inquired Teuzer, "do you remember anything of the brightness
of the sun, the blue of the sky, or the face of thy mother?"

Raphael shook his head slowly, and with a pensive air.

"You know nothing, then, of the beauty of the spring--the colors of the
flowers--the whiteness of the snow--the--?"

Here the mother made a sign to Master Teuzer, who, seeing the boy look
very sorrowful, ceased his lamentations, and said, "What is there, then,
that gives you pleasure, my poor boy?"

Raphael's face brightened up, as he answered,--"Oh! I am very happy when
my mother is pleased with me--when Madelaine caresses me--and when I
hear my Jacot sing."

Teuzer reflected a moment--"You are happier, although blind, than
thousands who possess all their faculties. You can hear the kind and
gentle voices of your mother and sister--can tell them of your wants and
sorrows--sure of finding affection and sympathy in their hearts. Compare
yourself, then, my boy with those less happy than yourself; but above
all, raise your heart to Him who has promised to be a Father of the
fatherless, for he will never forsake you." Thus saying, he slipped some
money into Raphael's hand, and took leave of the poor family, who
blessed this benevolent man.




CHAPTER III.


UNEASINESS.


Soon after the departure of Master Teuzer, the landlord arrived: he
spoke roughly to the poor woman. "How is this? How dare you send that
potter to me? Did I force you to take this room? If it does not suit
you, why do you not leave it? The stove has lasted for thirty years, and
I certainly shall not buy a new one for you."

On hearing these invectives, Raphael had hidden behind his mother's bed.
Madelaine trembled, and dare not pronounce a word. But Madame Tube,
extending her hands and trying to rise, cried, "Oh! Mr. Duller, I am
quite innocent; I never thought of complaining of my room; I know but
too well that poor people cannot expect to lodge like princes. Master
Tenzer has been used to better stoves, but I am contented if the tiles
do not fall upon our heads."

These words softened the landlord a little. "If it is so," said he, "I
shall know how to treat this Master Tenzer if he comes again to meddle
with things which do not concern him; he preached me a sermon upon your
misery, and on the duty of assisting so poor a family. I am satisfied if
he chooses to help you, for I shall have the better security for my
rent. I have also called to inform you that an inspector of the poor
will call to inquire into your circumstances. I know they are none of
the best; but do not let him see the canary-bird, for then he will do
nothing for you. But stay--the bird pleases me, I will give you
half-a-crown for it--you had better sell it, for then you will have one
less to feed."

At these words, Raphael could not conceal his grief--his sobs were heard
from behind, the bed--but the hard-hearted landlord took up the cage, as
if the matter was settled.

Madame Tube, moved by the grief of her blind child, answered in a
decided tone, "No, Mr. Duller, I will not sell the bird, it is the joy
of my Raphael; only think what it is to be _blind_--to see nothing,
absolutely nothing, of the beautiful creation of God! All creation, all
the riches of nature belong to those who see; as for the blind, their
enjoyments are only those passing ones of taste and harmony. I can give
nothing but dry bread, potatoes, and water, to my blind child--the song
of his bird is his only enjoyment. Be comforted, my Raphael," she said,
turning to the weeping boy, "I will not sell your favorite."

"As you please," rejoined the landlord angrily; "my intention was good,"
and muttering to himself, he went away.

A few hours afterwards, a man knocked, and announced himself as the
inspector. He found the situation of the family truly miserable;
inquired into all their circumstances, and satisfied himself that their
distress was not occasioned by any misconduct on their part. But the
bird was again the stumbling-stone. He said he could not consent to give
the money subscribed for the poor of the town to those who would spend
some of it in buying seed for a canary-bird. All that he could do was to
get Madelaine admitted to the free-school. Since her husband's death,
Madame Tube had been unable to pay for sending her little girl to
school, so she was much pleased at this offer, and thanked the inspector
cordially. From that time Madelaine went to school, but gladly availed
herself of every holiday, to go to paint at Master Teuzer's.

Several months passed away, and Christmas was approaching; but with that
period came more trials to the poor family. Their rent would then become
due, and Madame Tube, owing to her long illness, had been unable to earn
anything towards it. What little Madelaine gained at Teuzer's, was only
sufficient to buy food of the poorest description. The severe season had
added much to their sufferings; and they looked forward with great
anxiety lest the landlord should turn them out in the snow, if they were
unable to pay him.

Master Teuzer was preparing for the approaching Christmas fair a great
quantity of little articles for children. This gave Madelaine plenty of
employment; and thus, those things which would contribute to the
amusement of other children, were to her a source of gain, and of the
purest and best gratification, for she hoped to earn enough to pay her
mother's rent. With this view, she devoted her mornings to working at
Master Tenzer's, instead of going to school. Her absence would, no
doubt, have been excused, had she gone to her teacher and mentioned the
reason of her staying away, but by neglecting to do so, Madelaine
committed a fault, the consequences of which were very serious.




CHAPTER IV.


CHRISTMAS GIFTS.


The most diligent and best conducted children of the free-school
received rewards two days before Christmas, in the large schoolroom,
where numbers of ladies assembled, bringing different gifts for the poor
children, and rejoicing at the sight of their happiness. Madelaine knew
that she should not be of the number of those who received rewards, for
she had not been long enough at school. She felt no envy or ill-temper
on this account, but wished greatly to see the other children enjoying
themselves; and in the afternoon she said to her brother, "Come, my
Raphael, let us go to the fair together, and afterwards to the school;
it is not good for you to sit in the house always, and although you
cannot see, yet you can hear the sound of happy voices, the bells of the
sledges, the hymns of the children, and then I will describe to you
exactly all the beautiful things in the booths, the wind-mills that turn
round, the rocking-horses, the gingerbread men, and quantities of other
pretty things. Come, my Raphael." His mother also encouraged the poor
boy to go with his sister; so having washed his face, neatly parted his
hair, and arranged his poor but carefully darned clothes as tidily as
possible, Madelaine took his hand, and led him out. The cold air brought
a slight color into his pale cheeks, and the cheerful sounds raised his
spirits, a contented smile lighted up his features, which generally wore
an expression of suffering. He listened with pleasure to the animated
descriptions of his sister, and willingly agreed to accompany her to the
school. As they approached it, a long procession of happy-looking
children passed them; several of those in Madelaine's class nodded to
her, and one of them separating herself from the others, ran up to
Madelaine, and said hastily, "Is it true, Madelaine, that you have
stayed away from school without leave for six days? An apprentice told
our teacher, and he is very angry with you."

Madelaine was going to explain, but the little girl had joined her
companions. She felt much grieved, and longed to be able to tell all to
her teacher; she looked up anxiously at the high windows which were now
lighting up brilliantly. Numbers of people were arriving on foot, and in
carriages, hastening in to witness the happy scene. She only, with her
poor blind brother, was rudely pushed back by the guards. Poor Raphael
began to feel the cold painfully, and Madelaine perceiving that his
hands were benumbed, untied her apron, and rolled them up in it.

Seeing this, a poor fruit woman, whose stall was near, said, "You are
almost frozen, my poor children; why are you not at the school fête?
This poor boy has no warm socks; come here, my child, warm yourself at
my stove."

Madelaine thanked her, and led her brother to the stall. The woman was
struck by this, and asked, "Can he not see plainly?"

"He cannot see at all," answered Madelaine, sighing, "he is blind."

"Unfortunate child," said the fruit-woman, and looking around her for
something to please him, (for the compassion of the poor is often active
and thoughtful,) she put a hot baked apple into each of his hands, "this
is good both for cold and hunger," she added, "may God give you a happy
Christmas." Madelaine received a similar present, and the two children
went away, after having thanked the kind woman cordially.

The numerous lights suspended across the windows of the school,
continued to illuminate the dark street. Presently the sound of several
hundred young voices was heard, at first very softly, then swelling
louder and louder, as they joined in singing the praises of their
Heavenly Father, who, by the gift of his Son, has offered salvation to
the children of men. Then the eyes of the blind boy filled with tears of
joy, and he raised his heart in gratitude and praise to the Saviour of
sinners. "Listen," said he, in a low voice, as if afraid of disturbing
the sound, "listen, Madelaine, is it not like angels singing their
hallelujahs around the throne of God? Oh, that I could fly to heaven,
far, far, above this earth!"

"And leave mother and me here below," replied Madelaine, reproachfully.

"No, no," said Raphael, quickly, "I should come back very often to see
you and mother."

"But she will be uneasy about us now," said Madelaine, "so come, let us
return home, and think no more of flying. The children have done
singing." They returned home, and related to their mother all that had
passed. Raphael dreamed only of angels singing, and being in heaven.
Thus he was happy at least in his sleep.




CHAPTER V.


HAPPINESS DESTROYED.


Early the following morning, which was the day before Christmas-day,
Madelaine went to Master Teuzer's to assist in carrying his wares to the
fair. She had already made several turns from the warehouse to the
marketplace, when Teuzer's apprentice said to her, with a malignant joy
which he could ill conceal, "Hark, a policeman is coming to seek you."
Madelaine was greatly frightened, she thought of her absence from
school, and of what her school-fellow had said to her. "To ask for me?"
she stammered, turning pale.

"Yes," replied the boy, "and he said he would be sure to find you."

And this proved but too true, for the next time that Madelaine arrived
with her basket full at Teuzer's stall, she found a policeman waiting
for her. "Put that down" he said gravely, "and follow me."

Madelaine trembled so violently that she was unable to obey, and the
woman who kept the stall for Master Teuzer, and the policeman, were
obliged to support her. "But," asked the former, "what has the poor
child done to be arrested?"

"She will soon know," replied the other, as he led Madelaine away. She
walked beside him in silence, her head hanging down, for she felt too
much ashamed to raise her eyes; but she became still paler, and a
torrent of burning tears ran down her cheeks when she heard harsh voices
saying, "She is a thief: so young and already a thief." Even the
policeman now felt pity for her grief, and to turn her attention from
the remarks of the passers by, he said to her, "Your teacher has
reported you for being absent from school six days without leave. Is it
your mother's fault? for in that case you are free, and I must arrest
her."

"My mother is entirely innocent," answered Madelaine firmly, and looking
up, for she felt some comfort in the thought, that her poor mother would
be spared punishment. Madelaine had not even mentioned to her being
absent from school. The policeman brought her to a lockup house, where
she was put into a large room, already crowded with females, waiting to
be examined for their various offences. Madelaine's heart sunk, when she
looked around upon those into whose society she was thus thrust. Some
were intoxicated, others were gambling, quarrelling, and using profane
and dreadful language. Mixed among these miserable women were several
children, seeing and hearing all this wickedness.

How deeply responsible are those, who instead of trying to reclaim young
offenders, place them in situations were they must inevitably become
worse!

Poor Madelaine, like a timid bird, crouched into a corner, where
covering her head with her apron she wept bitterly. "How my mother is
grieving about me," she thought, "and poor Raphael, who will make their
soup to-day? Mother cannot even cut bread, or light the fire, and it is
so cold, they must stay in bed all day. If I could even send them the
six shillings which Master Teuzer paid me to-day, it is of no use here,
and mother would be so glad to have the money to give the landlord, lest
he should turn them into the street, if he does not get any of his
rent."

Thus uneasiness tormented Madelaine, the people she was among inspired
her with disgust, she wished to be deaf that she might not hear their
dreadful words. She thought of her teacher who had brought her to this,
she could not have believed him capable of such harshness, she felt sure
the apprentice must have shamefully calumniated her. And so indeed he
had, for feeling jealous of the praise which his master bestowed upon
this modest and industrious young girl, he took this means of removing
her, envious at the idea of her sharing in the Christmas presents, which
his master intended to distribute.

The hours which always flew so rapidly when Madelaine was engaged in her
work, now appeared insupportably long. "How many little cups and plates
could I have painted!" she said to herself. "How many rows of my
stocking I could have knitted. Yes, work is a real blessing, for all the
world I would not be a sluggard."

At noon, large dishes of soup, vegetables, and bread, were brought in,
but although the food was far better than Madelaine was accustomed to,
she could not eat.

The afternoon passed wearily away, at last Madelaine took courage and
approached the barred window which looked into a street, she saw many
people passing, taking home different things intended for Christmas
presents. Pastry-cooks carrying baskets and trays full of sugar plums,
cakes, and all kinds of sweetmeats. Others bearing Christmas
trees--boxes of playthings--rocking-horses--dolls' houses--
hoops--skipping-ropes, and numbers of other delights of children.

As the evening closed in, Madelaine could see the lights burning on the
Christmas trees in the neighboring houses, and could hear the distant
cries of joy of the children as they received their gifts, and as she
thought sadly that she might also have enjoyed the same pleasure at
Master Teuzer's, her tears flowed afresh, and she sunk back into her
corner, where at last sleep, that friend of the poor and afflicted, came
and closed those red and swollen eyes.




CHAPTER VI.


NEW MISFORTUNES.


Before six on the following morning, the firing of cannon, which
announced Christmas-day, awoke Madelaine from her agitated sleep. At the
same time all the church-bells rang a merry peal. Madelaine alone was
awake; but as she looked around upon her wretched companions, she felt
all the misery of her situation--she thought again of her mother and
brother--of their anguish on her account--and falling upon her knees,
she poured out all her grief to her Father in heaven, and felt comforted
as she remembered that He has said, "Call upon me in the day of trouble,
and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me."

At eight o'clock the jailer's wife brought in breakfast. Madelaine took
courage to address her, and begged for some employment.

This request surprised the woman; she looked pleased at Madelaine, and
said, "Work? yes, I have plenty; if you will promise not to run away,
and to be very industrious, you can help me scour the coppers."
Madelaine promised readily, and following the woman into the yard, felt
less miserable when she found herself in the open air. The jailor's wife
silently observed her for some time as she worked, and then coming to
her with a large piece of white bread and butter, she said, "One can
easily see that this is not the first time you have done this work; you
might well engage yourself as a servant. Stay, eat a little, and rest
yourself."

Just as Madelaine was thanking her for this kindness, a crowd of people
hurried into the court, speaking loudly.

"He ought to be punished," cried one, angrily.

"Severely," exclaimed several others.

"Another child run over," said one man to the constable on guard.

"But who is this boy who has ventured all alone into the street, blind
as he is?" asked another.

These words struck Madelaine to the heart. She threw down her bread and
rushed into the crowd, which opened before her, and let her see the
blind Raphael carried by two men, pale as a corse, his right arm hanging
down, and the broken bone showing through the skin.

"Oh, Raphael! my Raphael!" cried Madelaine in agony.

At this well-known voice, a ray of pleasure brightened the face of the
boy; he stretched out his left arm to draw her towards him, and hiding
his face in her bosom, he said, sobbing, "Mother is dying, and
Jacot--and I--dying of grief."

"But," said Madelaine, "how have you come here? How were you run over?"

"Mother was so unhappy, and never ceased crying about you; she would
have come to look for you but she was too weak. Since yesterday, Jacot
has had no seed; we gave him a few crumbs, but he does not sing, and
mother said he sits quite still upon his perch, and that he will die. In
my grief I came out to search for you, and to beg some seed for Jacot. I
walked along by the houses for some time very well, but when I was
crossing a street, a carriage came past at full gallop, threw me down,
and the wheel went over my arm."

Madelaine shuddered as she looked at the arm, and said, "poor Raphael!
you are in great pain."

"Yes," he replied, "but if you will only come home, and if Jacot does
not die, then I can bear the pain."

"His arm must be set without delay," said one of the spectators, "it is
swelling."

"The boy must be taken to the hospital," observed another.

"No, oh no!" cried Raphael in agony, and holding his sister firmly, "I
will stay with Madelaine, with my mother, and Jacot."

"Compose yourself," said Madelaine, "I will stay with you."

"That cannot be," interrupted the jailor, "you have not yet been
examined, but your brother will not remain long here." Saying these
words, he tried to disengage Madelaine from her brother. Raphael
screamed, and tried with all his strength to hold her.

There was a murmur among the crowd; threatening words were spoken
against the police. At this moment a gentleman came forward, and
addressing Raphael in a kind voice, said, "Do not torment yourself, my
child, you are only going to the hospital to have your arm set. If you
do not like to remain there, you can return home. In a few hours your
sister will be at liberty, and then she can remain with you; and I will
go immediately to your mother and tell her all that has happened."

"But my bird?" said Raphael.

"I will take him a large bag of canary-seed," replied this good man.

Raphael's heart was relieved of a great burden; his features became
calm, and in a voice of deep feeling, he said, "A thousand thanks, dear,
good gentleman."

Madelaine and the people joined in thanking and blessing this benevolent
man, who went directly to do as he had promised. In the meantime, a
litter had been brought, Madelaine helped to place her brother upon it,
then kissing him tenderly, she returned weeping to her work.




CHAPTER VII.


TROUBLE INCREASES.


Madame Tube had already shed many bitter tears for her daughter--she
shed many more when she heard of Raphael's misfortune. When the unknown
gentlemen told her of it, anguish prevented her speaking; but looking
about the room she at last found the handle of an old broom, which she
held as a support between her trembling hands, and set off for the
hospital.

Thus, the stranger was obliged to feed the bird, and shutting up the
house, he gave the key to the landlord; then he ran after Madame Tube,
who could get on but slowly with her swelled feet. The people who passed
saluted this gentleman, and named him the king's minister.
Notwithstanding, he did not appear the least ashamed to give his arm to
this poor woman, and to accompany her to the hospital, where, thanks to
his presence, admittance was soon granted to her. Raphael was already
there, waiting for the surgeon, who had not yet arrived, and looked
delighted to hear his mother's voice, and receive her tender caresses.

When the surgeon came, he cut away the sleeve of Raphael's jacket and
shirt, and then called some men to assist him while he set the bone. The
pain was dreadful--every cry of her child pierced the heart of Madame
Tube, who fainted during these cruel moments. At last the arm was set
and bandaged; the severest pain was over, and Raphael was laid upon a
bed, where his mother watched him through the night. He soon became
restless--the fever was very high, and he was with difficulty prevented
from turning and injuring his broken arm again. Towards morning the
fever abated a little. Madame Tube had not slept for an instant--she had
not thought of eating or drinking--and now feeling quite exhausted, she
determined to return home and take a few hours repose. On her way
thither she remembered having left her door open, and feared that all
her little property might have been stolen. She was re-assured on
finding the door locked, and thinking the landlord had done her this
kindness, she went to him for the key.

On seeing her, he appeared astonished, and said, that as she had stayed
away so long, he had let the room to a fruiterer, who wanted to put
fruit there, and had already taken possession, he added, that he had
seized her goods to be sold by auction for the rent she owed him.

Madame Tube clasped her hands in despair, praying to be supported under
this new trial, she turned from the hard-hearted man, and with
difficulty retraced her steps to the hospital. There she found Madelaine
released, and nursing her brother. Madame Tube obtained permission to
occupy one of the beds until her son could be removed; and Madelaine
felt thankful to be able to go out and purchase a little food for her
mother with the money she had earned at Master Teuzer's; she also hired
a little room instead of their former one, but she was obliged to pay a
month's rent in advance, which left her but a few pence.




CHAPTER VIII.


THE SALE.


"Lot 47," cried the auctioneer, "a padlock and key."

"Gentlemen, will you make an offer, the padlock is still very good, and
no doubt cost at least a shilling. Who will bid?"

"Two-pence," answered a voice.

"Two-pence," repeated the auctioneer, "once. Two-pence, twice. Will no
one bid higher? It is going for nothing, the key is worth more. Have you
all done?"

While the auctioneer continued to invite the bystanders to offer more,
the door opened, and Madame Tube entered, with Madelaine and Raphael,
who held his arm in a sling. They stopped timidly at the entrance, when
Raphael entreated his sister to lead him once more to Jacot. "Let me
take leave of him," he said. They made their way through the crowd to
where the cage was placed.

"Jacot," spoke Madelaine, in a low voice, as she raised a corner of the
handkerchief which covered the cage. The bird chirped at the sound of
the well-known voice.

"Do not touch that cage," said a constable, roughly, and Madelaine let
fall the handkerchief. At this moment, "Lot 42. A canary and cage," was
called, "a charming little bird," continued the auctioneer, "yellow as
gold, and sings like a nightingale. How much for the canary?"

Raphael's heart beat violently, Madelaine hastened to count the money
she had left. "Courage," she whispered to Raphael, "make an offer
stoutly, you can go to ten-pence, and perhaps they will let you have it
out of compassion."

"Six-pence to begin with," said the constable.

"Seven-pence," cried another voice.

"Eight-pence," stammered poor Raphael.

"Nine-pence," replied the other.

"Ten-pence," said Raphael, gasping for breath.

The attention of those around was attracted to the poor boy, who with
his arm in a sling, and pale as death, had his blind eyes turned towards
the auctioneer, his countenance expressing intense anxiety.

A short but profound silence succeeded, then a number of questions were
asked, the history of the poor child was told, every one felt moved with
compassion, and no one would bid again for the bird, which was knocked
down to Raphael for ten-pence.

Madelaine placed the cage in his hand, her eyes beaming with joy; he
pressed it closely as a treasure without price, then quite overcome, he
sobbed aloud.

As soon as the poor family had quitted the room, the sale of the other
miserable articles continued, and last of all the old picture which used
to serve to stop up the window, was sold at a high price to an artist,
it having been discovered to be a painting of considerable value.




CHAPTER IX.


"WHEN DISTRESS IS GREATEST, HELP IS NEAREST."


By prayers and entreaties, Madame Tube had obtained her bed and some
indispensable articles from the constable; but in their new habitation
they had neither table, chair, bread, wood, or candle--neither had they
any clothing but what they wore--and yet they felt happy--happy at being
together again; they seemed to love each other more than ever, and felt
thankful that although so very poor, they had the comfort of not being
obliged to live with strangers, or with the wicked. Raphael was
delighted to have his bird, and his mother and sister rejoiced at his
happiness; but the question now was, What to do? How to live? The bird
was there, it is true, but there was no seed for him. This caused Madame
Tube to say, "After all we have been foolish to give our last ten-pence
for Jacot--we shall suffer for want of it, and in the end the bird will
die of hunger. Yes, my Raphael, it is not well to attach our hearts so
much to any earthly thing--sooner or later it is taken from us, and then
we are miserable. Let us then set our affections on things above, and
not on those of the earth."

Thus spoke Madame Tube, while Raphael caressed his bird.

Then Madelaine jumping up suddenly, exclaimed, "I must go immediately to
my teacher--I cannot bear that he should think so ill of me." She ran
off, and in about half-an-hour returned. "Mother, mother," she cried,
"all is right, and I am quite happy. The teacher is _so_ grieved
that he should have listened to the falsehoods which that wicked
apprentice told of me; and see, dear mother, the beautiful present he
has given me." So saying, she took from her apron a large parcel,
containing a new Bible nicely bound. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she
said, "Now, Raphael, I can read so many beautiful stories to you."

"May the blessing of God enter our house, with his Word!" said Madame
Tube, solemnly.

They were all silent for a few moments, when Madelaine spoke, "I ought
also to go to good Master Teuzer, mother--I am sure he will employ me
again."

She went, and after a considerable time returned, knocked at the door,
and called to her mother to open it--she entered quite loaded. Her
mother looked on in astonishment as she spread before her a large cake,
apples, nuts, oranges, several pairs of warm stockings, a knitted
jacket, and four shillings. "All these are given by kind Master Teuzer,"
said Madelaine, "he has been from home, and did not hear any thing of
our distress, but he kept all these Christmas presents for me, and I am
to work with him as often as I can, and the wicked apprentice is sent
away:" and pulling Raphael along with her, she danced about the room.

The sun had set, and it was already almost dark, when several gentle
knocks were heard at the door, the children were frightened lest some
new misfortune was coming, but it was not so. Five children, three girls
and two boys, between the ages of four and thirteen, entered timidly.
They remained standing silently, and looking at the door as if they
expected some one. Madame Tube and her children were much astonished at
such an unexpected arrival, but in a few minutes a servant entered,
carrying two heavy baskets. "Well?" she cried to the children, as she
put down her heavy load. Upon this the two boys advanced towards
Raphael, and leading him into a corner, dressed him in a suit of their
own clothes, which although they had been worn, were still strong and
good; they also gave him a new pair of strong boots and cloth cap. In
the meantime their sisters had given Madame Tube and Madelaine warm
gowns, flannel petticoats, and shoes. All this was done in silence--on
the one side from timidity--on the other from astonishment.

At last the servant said, "It is as dark as a dungeon here--where
Christmas presents are giving, there should be light to see them;" and
taking from one of her baskets a large parcel of candles, a match, and
two candlesticks, she soon illuminated the little chamber. Then the
young visitors began to empty the baskets, and with delighted looks
spread before the poor family a large loaf of bread, a piece of beef
ready cooked, a cheese, butter, coffee, sugar, rice, salt, some plates,
knives and forks, cups and saucers, a coffee-pot, saucepans, and a
kettle.

Madame Tube was overwhelmed. She said, "You must be mistaken, these
things are not intended for us, they are for some other people."

The children smiled at each other, but the servant answered, "All are
really for you, Madame Tube; the children have thought of nothing else
but the pleasure of giving them to you--they have talked of it day and
night."

"May we come in?" asked a voice at the door. It opened, and a gentleman
entered; a sweet-looking lady was leaning on his arm. "May we also see
the gifts?" he said.

"Papa, mama," exclaimed the children, joyously, as they surrounded their
beloved parents.

"And how are you, Madame Tube?" inquired the gentleman; "do you feel
better? Christmas week has been a sad one for you, we will hope that the
new year is about to open more brightly."

The gentleman's face was not unknown to Madame Tube; she reflected a
moment, and then recollected it was the king's minister, who had
accompanied her to the hospital. Madelaine also recognised the
benevolent man, and the blind boy knew his voice the moment he spoke.
They all surrounded their noble benefactor and thanked him with tears of
gratitude; but he stopped them by saying, "My children wished to have
this pleasure--it is they who have collected all these little
things--and is it not true," he continued, turning to his children,
"that there is more happiness in giving than in receiving?"

"Oh, yes, yes," they replied eagerly, "never in our lives before have we
felt so happy."

Their father smiled, and added, turning to Madame Tube, "To-morrow a
load of wood will arrive for you--I have mentioned your sad story to
some of our town's people, and have already received much help, which I
will lay out to the best advantage for your most pressing wants. And now
I am sure Madame Tube has need of repose, so we will wish her good
night, and a happy New Year."

Thus in the midst of thanks on one side, and good wishes on the other,
they separated.

Shortly afterwards, a young man entered, and advancing to Madame Tube,
said, "The auctioneer has sent me to inform you that your old oil
painting sold for eight pounds, and he sends you seven pounds which
remain for you after paying Mr. Duller his rent." He handed her the
money, and wishing her good night, left the room.

So many unexpected events were almost too much for Madame Tube, she felt
overcome, but falling on her knees, "Come, my children," she said, "let
us thank God, for he is good, and his mercy endureth for ever. He hears
the young ravens when they cry to him for food, and he has heard our cry
and has helped us." The children joined in her heartfelt thanksgivings,
and the Lord made his face to shine upon them and gave them peace. The
children soon fell asleep with these happy feelings, but before Madame
Tube lay down, she gazed long at her children. Never had she seen her
Raphael look so well, a delicate red tinged his cheek, and a happy smile
played around his mouth; and kissing him gently she thought how
willingly she would give up all else to restore to him his sight.

In the midst of the silence of the night, the cathedral clock struck
twelve, the old year with its griefs and sorrows had disappeared. The
New Year had commenced, bringing with it joy and hope. "Cast all thy
care upon him who careth for thee," murmured Madame Tube, as she laid
her head on her pillow, and slept in peace.




CHAPTER X.


THE WONDERS OF THE EYE.


Madame Tube had been relieved from great suffering, she was now
comparatively at her ease; but it was not in the power of her benevolent
friends to relieve her from bodily suffering, nor to restore Raphael's
sight. What an inestimable blessing is health, and how seldom is its
value acknowledged until it is lost.

As for Madelaine, she enjoyed perfect health, which she chiefly owed to
her habits of early rising, cleanliness, and activity. She left nothing
undone to comfort her mother in her suffering, and to cheer her brother;
and for this she had a constant resource in her Bible, the magnificent
promises and heavenly consolations of which, soothed and comforted her
mother, while Raphael was edified and delighted by the beautiful
histories and parables that were read to him.

One day, when she had just finished reading the miracle of the blind man
receiving sight, she said, "Ah! Raphael, I would go to the end of the
earth, if I could obtain that blessing for you."

"But I would not let you go," he replied, "you must never leave us
again, and besides I cannot fancy that sight is such a _very_
precious thing--describe to me what it is."

"I will explain it as well as I can," answered a stranger, who had
entered unperceived, with the king's minister. Raphael was going to run
behind the stove, but the minister prevented him. "Stay, my dear boy,"
he said, kindly, "this gentleman is the king's physician, and he wishes
to be of use to you and your mother, it is with that view he has come
here."

"You wish to know what sight is, my boy," said the doctor. "The wisest
men cannot tell exactly, but I will try to explain it to you in some
degree. The eye is most wonderfully formed, it resembles a round mirror,
on which, all objects, whether near or distant, are reflected--this
mirror is called the crystal, and is scarcely so large as a cherry
stone, and yet the largest objects as well as the smallest, are exactly
reflected on it; for example, our cathedral, with its fine towers, its
doors, and windows; how impossible would it be for the most skillful
painter to represent these on so small a space as the pupil of the eye;
but God has so formed that wonderful organ, that it can receive the
reflection of the whole in an instant."

"How wonderful!" exclaimed both mother and daughter, who had listened
with much greater interest than Raphael, who could not understand what
was said in the least.

"But why is it," asked Madelaine, taking courage, "that my brother
cannot see? Why are not objects reflected upon his eyes as they are upon
ours?"

"My child," replied the doctor, "light is a necessary condition for
sight, and this is what your brother's eyes want, because there is a
thick skin formed over them, which excludes all light." The physician
then examined Raphael's eyes carefully, and found the cataract (as this
skin is called) nearly ripe.

"My advice," he said to Madame Tube, "is, that you and your son should
go, as soon as the weather is warm enough, to Toeplitz for the benefit
of the baths, which will be of much service to you both; and I shall see
you there in the course of the summer."

The poor family warmly thanked the physician, and the king's minister,
who then took leave, the latter promising to provide means for the
proposed journey.




CHAPTER XI.


THE JOURNEY AND THE BATHS.


As soon as summer had arrived, the minister sent a comfortable
_char-à-banc_ a sort of jaunting car, to convey Madame Tube and her
children to Toeplitz; he also sent her a present of money for her
expenses.

Madame Tube and Madelaine were delighted with the beautiful scenery
through which they passed. When they had reached the top of the Saxon
Erzgebirge, and had descended on the Bohemian side, they were charmed
with all they saw. Blue mountains, across which light clouds floated,
surround the flowery valley in which Toeplitz is situated. Rocks peeped
out from amidst the dark pines on the wooded declivity of the mountain,
inviting the traveller to enjoy the magnificent view. On the other side
(gloomy as was the age in which it was built,) rose proudly the ruined
towers of the strong-hold of some warrior chief. From the valley rose
the blue smoke of the huts of a little hamlet, while the sweet chimes of
the village church floated through the pure, sweet morning air. Passing
under a green arch of lime-trees, they reached the pretty town of
Toeplitz, where they soon engaged a little apartment. Having rested for
some hours, they went out to view the wonderful waters which God in his
goodness has provided for the relief of suffering humanity. Great was
their astonishment to see in several places the springs bubbling up
boiling out of the earth, and this astonishment was increased, when they
remembered that from time immemorial without interruption, in winter as
in summer, these health-restoring waters flow always equally abundant,
and hot; prepared in the bosom of the earth. Here thousands come in
search of health, arriving on crutches, or carried by their attendants
to the baths; at the end of a few weeks they are able to walk without
support. Madame Tube soon found benefit, each bath strengthened her, and
relieved the pain from which she had so long suffered.

Madelaine led Raphael daily to the spring for the eyes, where much
sympathy was excited for the children among the visitors, who observed
their neat, although poor dress, and their modest behavior. One day, as
Madelaine was applying the water to her brother's eyes, and looking at
him with the deepest anxiety, a gentleman stopped and asked if the
little boy had weak eyes.

Madelaine's soft eyes filled with tears as she answered, "My brother is
quite blind, sir."

"In that case, these waters will be of no use to him, but something else
may be done," he added; then asking Madelaine's name and address, he
left them. They then returned home, and related to their mother what had
passed.

In about an hour after, their kind friend the physician from Dresden,
entered the room, accompanied by the unknown gentleman, who proved to be
the Prince Royal of Wurtemberg, who had just arrived with his physician
at Toeplitz.


The doctor having examined Raphael's eyes once more, fixed the following
Thursday for the operation. The Prince spoke kindly to Madame Tube, and
promising to see her again, left the room, followed by the doctor.




CHAPTER XII.


THE OPERATION.


Thursday was come--before the sun had risen from behind the mountains,
Madelaine was up, hope and anxiety had kept both her and her mother
awake nearly the whole night.

Madelaine arranged the little room with the greatest care and neatness.
She then washed and dressed herself. Gladly would she have done the same
for her brother, but the doctor had forbidden anything which would cause
him the least excitement. Nine o'clock was the hour fixed for the
operation: at six Madelaine was ready. She then joined with her mother
(for Raphael still slept) in earnest prayer, for God's blessing on the
work about to be done. After these fervent supplications, Madelaine
asked her mother's permission to go to the fields to gather a bouquet of
wild flowers. She returned some time before the doctor arrived. He
entered the room as the clock struck nine, accompanied by an assistant,
their appearance produced some agitation in the family; but the doctor
entered into conversation on indifferent subjects for a while, before he
spoke of the object of his visit.

He then said, "My dear friends, I do not know whether I can entirely
fulfil my promise of operating on this little boy's eyes to-day. I must
first try whether he will remain still when the instrument touches his
eyes. Come then, my little fellow, be firm." He led Raphael to the
window, and desiring him to open his eyes wide, asked, "Does that hurt
you?" as he passed the instrument across his eye.

"Not at all," replied Raphael.

"That is well," rejoined the doctor. Then calling his assistant to him,
they commenced the operation; after a considerable time, during which
Madame Tube and Madelaine suffered intense anxiety, Raphael suddenly
cried out. "Why did you cry out?" asked the doctor calmly, as he covered
the eye, "it is impossible that could hurt you."

"It did not exactly hurt me," answered Raphael, in a trembling voice,
"but it felt in my eye as if--" He stopped and tried in vain to express
what he felt. "I understand," said the doctor, "and I am satisfied by
this that the operation will succeed. We will now leave you to rest
until to-morrow." Then giving strict orders to Madame Tube that the
covering should not be removed from the eye, the doctor took his leave,
expressing at the same time every hope of the happy termination of the
operation.

At the appointed hour next day the doctor arrived, and completed the
operation; then having the room very much darkened, he permitted the
covering to be removed, when Raphael exclaimed in delight, "Oh! I see
many things, many things."

The impression which these words produced on his mother and sister, was
inexpressible. With cries of joy they rushed towards him, saying, "God
be praised! God be praised!"

"My son, my son, thou art doubly given to me," ejaculated his mother,
sobbing.

"Are you my dearest mother?" asked Raphael, as she folded him in her
arms. "Now at last I shall learn to know your dear features."

"Raphael, Raphael," said Madelaine, sadly, "have you quite forgotten me?
let me at least see your eyes that are no longer dead." He turned
quickly towards her, and both wept for joy in each other's arms.

"Now, it is enough," said the doctor, "it is only by degrees that he can
become accustomed to the light, and for this reason, my boy, you must
remain blind for a few days longer;" he replaced the bandage and added,
"whenever this is taken off, the room must be darkened, as the light
must be admitted only by degrees, until his eyes are accustomed to it.
Neglect of this precaution would deprive him of sight for ever."

Madame Tube promised to be careful, then seizing the doctor's hand,
"Permit me," she said, "to kiss the hand which has, with God's blessing,
restored sight to my child. I cannot reward you for this noble action.
May God give you his choicest blessings!"

"Oh! good, kind gentleman," broke in Madelaine, "how happy you have made
us all; if I could but express all I feel; but I am too ignorant, I can
only thank you a thousand times."

"And I," said Raphael, "I can only thank you now, but I will pray for
you, my benefactor. When I rise in the morning, when I lie down at
night,--when I look around me on this beautiful world, I will always
think of you, and ask God to bless you."

"It is enough, enough," said the doctor, "I am very happy that I have
been successful." As he spoke, his countenance beamed with benevolence,
and doubtless the heartfelt thanks and prayers of the poor family, and
the consciousness of having performed a kind action, gave him most
sincere pleasure. He quitted the little room, followed by silent
blessings.




CHAPTER XIII.


THE ENJOYMENT OF SIGHT.


A new world was now open to Raphael--hearing and taste were before his
greatest pleasures, but now he forgot every thing in the enjoyment of
sight. The first time the bandage was removed from his eyes, he amused
his mother and sister by trying to reach the bouquet of forget-me-nots,
which was at the further side of the room. He was quite astonished to
find his hand did not reach it. His mother, who had remarked this said,
laughing, "My dear Raphael, you are like a little infant who stretches
out its hands towards every object it sees, whether near or distant."

When the thick curtain was withdrawn, Raphael would have put his head
through the window, had not his mother prevented him and when shown the
glass, he was all amazement.

One day he said to Madelaine, "There is some one looking at us through
that little window there; who is it that lives so very near us?"

Madelaine looked at him, and laughed with all her heart. "It is the
looking-glass," she answered, "and that person is no other than
yourself."

But Raphael would not believe her until his mother took down the
looking-glass to convince him. He looked behind it, expecting to find
some one there. "Ah," said his mother to Madelaine, "we shall have many
curious questions to answer our Raphael, before he becomes acquainted
with the world in which he lives."

After sunset, Madame Tube prepared to take a walk with her children. She
turned to the road which led to the nearest hill. They proceeded but
slowly, for Raphael stopped continually to ask the meaning of something
new to him. The smoke from the chimneys--the water at the springs--the
trees with their thick trunks and delicately formed leaves--all were to
him new wonders. His mother must tell him the name of every little
fly--of the commonest weed--and even of each stone; but when he came in
sight of the majestic mountains, his astonishment knew no bounds. "What
an immense time it must have taken to make such mountains!" he
exclaimed.

"The most powerful king," replied his mother, "were he to employ
millions and millions of men, could not raise such; but God is the
All-powerful King, who is wonderful in all his works, from the least to
the greatest--from the smallest flower to the glorious sun which is just
setting. Look, Raphael, what a magnificent bed he has--those purple
clouds with their splendid border, like a fringe of gold."

"Is the sun very far from us?" inquired Raphael.

"Very far," replied his mother; "millions and millions of miles are
between us and the sun."

"Turn round," said Madelaine, laughing, to her brother, "you will see a
beautiful balloon rising." Raphael turned quickly, and beheld a large
silver ball rising slowly and majestically above the mountains. It was a
beautiful spectacle!

Raphael was enchanted; at last he said, "What is it? who has made such a
beautiful thing? But the people do not appear to be aware of it--they
are walking quietly along as if they did not see it."

"They see it very well," said his mother, but they have seen it so often
they do not care for it."

"Not care for it," cried Raphael, "I should never be tired of such a
glorious sight; and I should prefer remaining here, where I can see it,
to going home to Dresden."

"Be comforted," said his mother, "you will see it rise many times every
month at home as well as here; for that which you consider so
extraordinary an object, is the moon."

Raphael shook his head, "When I was still blind," he replied, "I have
several times walked out with you and Madelaine in the evening, and I
have often heard you say the moon is rising, but in quite an indifferent
tone, as if the moon were but a farthing candle; therefore I can
scarcely believe that this wonderful ball is the moon."

"He is right," said his mother, "habit renders us almost ungrateful for
the blessings which surround us. Look still higher, my son," she
continued, "contemplate the innumerable stars and the Milky Way, with
its millions of worlds."

Raphael raised his head and looked, and looked until his eyes filled
with tears of emotion and delight; then falling on his mother's neck, he
murmured, "How good, and great, and glorious, is God!"

Soon after they turned towards the town; but Raphael was led by his
mother and sister, for he still kept his eyes fixed on the heavens; and
when it was time for him to go to bed, he went to the window to look
once more at the silver moon, saying, "Now for the first time I
understand this blessing: 'The Lord make his face to shine upon us, and
be gracious unto us. Amen'"




CHAPTER XIV.


CONCLUSION.


Some days after this, as Madame Tube and her children were walking in
the gardens of the palace, they met the Prince Royal, accompanied by the
good physician, whose name was Wundel. Raphael ran joyously up to them,
and kissing Dr. Wundel's hand, said, "How happy you have made me."

The Prince answered Raphael, "You are happy, indeed, to have recovered
your sight; but have you nothing more to desire?"

"Nothing," replied Raphael, "unless I could show my gratitude to the
good doctor."

"Good boy," said the Prince, "let me do it in your place." He drew from
his finger a brilliant ring, which he presented to Dr. Wundel "I thank
you in the name of this child," he added, "and beg of you to wear this
ring in remembrance of him." Then giving ten guineas to Madame Tube, he
turned again to Dr. Wundel, observing, "I can give them but a few pieces
of gold, but you have been the means of restoring sight."

After the Prince and Dr. Wundel had left them, Madame Tube said to her
children, "How many benevolent men we have met with! Master Teuzer; the
king's minister; Dr. Wundel, and the Prince Royal--and only two who
sought to injure us--our landlord, and Teuzer's apprentice."

"Mother, mother," cried Madelaine, much excited, and pointing to the
road; "there he is, there he is."

"Who, where?" asked her mother.

"Teuzer's apprentice; that wicked Robert."

It was he indeed, handcuffed, and accompanied by several
repulsive-looking men, also handcuffed, and guarded by armed police.

"What have these men done?" asked Madame Tube, of a spectator.

"They are smugglers," he replied, "and when taken, they fought
desperately, and have wounded several of the police. They are now going
to prison."

"Remark," said Madame Tube to her children, "how true it is, that sooner
or later, all evil is punished. But how did Robert happen to join the
smugglers?"

"Master Teuzer sent him away at Christmas," replied Madelaine, "in
consequence of the shameful falsehoods he spread--his next master
discovered that he sold his goods and retained the money--after leaving
him, I suppose, he joined the smugglers."

Madame Tube was now so much recovered, that she wished to return to
Dresden. Raphael longed to see his Jacot, which had been left in Master
Teuzer's charge; and Madelaine felt anxious to return to school, and to
her occupation of painting. Consequently, early in the following week
was fixed for their departure. On the appointed day the
_char-à-banc_ came to convey Madame Tube and her children back to
Dresden; how greatly her enjoyment was enhanced by Raphael's delight at
all he saw during the journey. They were warmly welcomed by their kind
friends at Dresden, who had, during their absence, fitted up their
little apartments comfortably.

Madelaine returned to school, and had the happiness of taking her
brother with her there. Some years after, Raphael devoted his recovered
sight to painting, for which he showed great talent. When he had arrived
at a great degree of perfection in this beautiful art, he painted a
picture of _Christ Restoring the Blind to Sight_. Large sums were
offered him for this _chef-d'oeuvre_, but he rejected them all, and
sent the picture to Dr. Wundel, who showed his beautiful present to the
Prince Royal. Raphael's gratitude pleased the Prince even more than the
picture; he immediately named him his painter, and allowed him a
considerable salary, which Raphael had the inexpressible happiness of
sharing with his beloved mothers and no less beloved and fondly
cherished Madelaine.



          THE
    BOY AND THE BOOK
          or
   HANS GENSFLEISCH,
  The  Little Printer

[Illustration: frontispiece]


PART I.


THE BOY.

Can English boys and girls living now in the nineteenth century, carry
their minds back so far in time as to the period when our Henry the
Fourth was reigning in England, and can they travel in thought so far
distant as to the country called Germany, and picture to themselves the
life of a little boy at that time and in that country? If so, we will
tell them something of the life of Hans Gensfleisch, the only son of a
poor widow, who lived about the beginning of the fifteenth century, not
far from Mainz, or Mayence, a city built on the banks of the river
Rhine, about half-way between its source and the sea. The father of Hans
had been a dyer, and had at one time carried on rather a thriving
business in Mainz; but after his death Frau[1] Gensfleisch had gone with
her son to live at a little village called Steinheim, about three miles
from the city walls, where, on a few acres of land, bought with her
husband's savings, and laid out partly as garden, and partly as field
and vineyard, she contrived to live with this, her only child. Hans and
his mother cultivated the little garden, sowed their own crops of barley
and flax in their little fields, and tended and trained the vines in
their small vineyard. Strong and active, and fond of employment, the
life of the little Hans was one long course of busy industry, from the
sowing of seeds in Spring to the gathering in of their small vintage
late in the Autumn. And in the long winter nights, there was always too
much to do within the cottage walls, by the light of their pine wood
fire, for him ever to find the time hang heavy on his hands. One night
he would be busy helping his mother to comb and hackle her little store
of flax; on another he would mend the net, with which he at times
contrived to catch his mother a river fish or two for supper; and it
would be _play_ to him when nothing else was wanting his help, to
go on with the making of a cross-bow and arrows with which he intended
some day to bring down many a wild duck or wood-pigeon.

The principal occupation of Hans was, however, to assist his mother in
carrying on some part of her husband's former trade; she having become
acquainted with many of the secrets of the art by which colors could be
extracted from plants and mineral substances, so as to give to wool,
flax, and silk, bright and unchanging colors. In those days such
operations, instead of being carried on in large factories and
workshops, and by wholesale as it were for the manufacturer of the
material, were often done just as people wanted any one particular
article of dress to be of a particular color. For instance, a woman who
had fashioned for her husband a rudely knitted vest of wool of her own
spinning; would bring the rather dingy garment to Frau Gensfleisch to
have it made red or blue, so that, worn under his brown leather jerkin,
it might look smart and gay;--or the young hunter, on going to the
chase, would come to her to have the tassels of his bow or horn made
scarlet or yellow;--or the knight equipping himself for war would send
to her the soiled plume of his helmet, to be made of a brilliant
crimson--to say nothing of the knight's lady, who, as she sat at home in
her dismal castle, with little else to amuse her but the embroidery
frame, would be forever sending down her maidens and serving-men into
the valley with skeins of wool and silk, to be dipped into Frau
Gensfleisch's dye-pots, and brought back to her of every color of the
rainbow. In this way Hans' mother continued to make a comfortable
living, and Hans himself was a very important help to her, in the
carrying on of her little art.

It was Hans' business to collect the numerous herbs and plants that his
mother required for the different colors. He not only knew well which
plants would produce certain colors, but knew where they could be found,
and at what seasons they were fit for use. Of some he carefully
collected the blossoms when fully expanded in the mid-day sun--of others
the leaves and stalks--while in many the coloring matter was to be
extracted from the roots, which Hans would carefully dig up, knowing
well by the forms of the leaves above ground, the kind of root that grew
beneath the soil.

This kind of knowledge which Hans had been picking up ever since he was
a very young child, made him at twelve years old a most useful little
personage, and although he had never learned to read or write, or even
been in a school, yet he could not by any means, be called ignorant, for
he not only observed and remembered all that came in his way, but he
turned his knowledge to the best account, by making it of use to himself
and others.

We say that Hans could neither read nor write, but it must not therefore
be thought that such acquirements were not valued in those days; on the
contrary, it was considered at that time one of the very best and most
desirable things in the whole world to be able to read, and one of the
cleverest things in the world to be able to write; while he who was so
happy as to be the possessor of a book, was esteemed one of the most
fortunate of human beings.

This may seem strange to you little girls and boys, my readers, who ever
since you were born have been surrounded with books of all sizes and
shapes, and on all sorts of subjects, from the books of grown-up people
that you could not understand, down to your most favorite story book
that you do understand and like so well as to read again and again.

We must, however, remind you, that books in those days were very
different things from what they are now, and their great value arose
from the fact that they were all written with pen and ink upon
parchment; for although a kind of paper had been made at that time, it
was not commonly used; and it was only after weeks and months of careful
labor, that one of these written books could be produced, so that it is
no wonder that a great value was set upon them. A book too was so
prized, that people liked to ornament it as much as possible, and many
of these written or manuscript books, which means _written by
hand_, had not only beautiful pictures in them, but were bound in
rich bindings, sometimes silk embroidered with gold and silver thread,
and sometimes even the backs were of beautifully carved ivory, or
adorned with filagree work, and pearls, and precious stones.

We value books in our time, but we do not ornament them so very much,
because we would rather have twenty interesting books on our shelves to
read by turns, than one precious volume locked up with clasps, and kept
in a box only to be taken out on particular occasions; and instead of a
man spending half his life over the writing of such a book, letter by
letter, word by word, and page by page, a man who in the course of a
little time has set the small metal letters together, which we call
printing types, so as to form a number of pages, can print those pages
if he likes on ten thousand sheets of paper, which will form a part of
ten thousand books of the same kind, and which when finished can be read
by _ten times ten thousand_ human beings!

But we will return to little Hans. We have said that he lived not far
from the town of Mainz, in Germany, and we must mention that one of the
most pleasant things he had to do in his little life was to pay a visit
occasionally to this great town and see all the busy and wonderful
things that were going on there. Mainz was a rich and important town at
that time, and was governed by an Archbishop, who was called an Elector,
because he was one of those who had the right of choosing an Emperor for
Germany, when one was wanted. Many Princes had also this right, but the
Archbishop of Mainz had the particular privilege of setting the crown on
the new Emperor's head, when he was crowned in the neighboring city of
Frankfort. Besides seeing all that was going on at Mainz, and purchasing
the different things that his mother wanted in the market, Hans' great
delight was to pay a visit to an uncle, who lived in the monastery of
St. Gothard, near the great cathedral.

This uncle was a monk, and called Father Gottlieb, and was considered at
that time a very learned man. He was good as well as learned, and full
of kindness to his little nephew Hans, who, from having so early lost
his own parent, looked up to Uncle Gottlieb as a real father, and loved
him as one.

[Illustration]

A monastery, I must tell you, was a place where a number of men lived
together away from the rest of the world, in order, as they thought, to
devote themselves more to the service of God, than if they were mixed up
with the business and pleasure of life. Whether they were right or wrong
in so doing, we will not now stop to inquire, but we must point out that
this custom had at that time a great many advantages, and certainly
enabled these monks to do a great deal of service to their
fellow-creatures. One of the most important of these services was with
regard to the making of books, such as we have before described. It was
in these monasteries, or houses of monks, that nearly all the books of
those times were written or transcribed, and a number of the monks were
always employed, if not in writing books, at all events in making copies
of those which had been written before. A room called the Scriptorium,
or writing-room, was to be found in every monastery, and most of the
monks could either write or read, and were looked upon in consequence as
very learned and wise. This made the visits of little Hans to his uncle
very pleasant. There was nothing he thought so great a treat as to have
something read to him out of one of Father Gottlieb's books, for he
possessed two of these precious volumes. One was a copy of the book of
Genesis, the first book in the Bible, you know, and the other was a
history of the lives of some of the holy men that have been called
saints by the Catholics. Seated on a low stool at his uncle's knee, Hans
could have listened for hours to stories of the patriarchs Abraham, and
Jacob, and Joseph, which Father Gottlieb slowly read from the pale
written volume; but the duties of the convent allowed him only short
portions of time, in which, shut up in his own little room or cell, he
could entertain his dearly loved nephew; and often when both were so
engaged he had to jump up at the sound of a bell calling him to prayers,
and then, hastily locking up the precious volume, he would kindly stroke
the boy's curly head, and with a message to his mother, bid him
farewell. At other times he would take Hans into the beautiful chapel
belonging to the monastery, and show him its gaily adorned altars, and
curious images; and once or twice Hans got a peep into the Scriptorium,
or writing-room, were the monks were at work over their sheets of
parchment, writing so carefully one after another the curiously formed
letters which were then in use, and which are still used in the printed
books of Germany. Being read to, and finding what pleasure arose from
being able to read, and seeing so much of book-making and writing, made
little Hans wish very much to be able to read and write. A few years
before, he had thought that nothing could be so grand or nice as to be a
knight and go to the wars, and he would make himself a helmet of rushes,
and with a long willow wand in his hand for a spear, and his cross-bow
slung at his back, he would try to fancy himself a warrior, and set off
in pretence to the Holy Land, to fight against the Turks; but latterly
he had begun to think that he should like nothing so well as to be able
to read and write like Father Gottlieb, and the rest of the monks, and
it was a great delight to him, when his uncle allowed him to take in his
own hands one of the precious volumes to pick out the different letters
and learn their names.

What brought Hans at this time very often to the monastery, was, that
his uncle, whose turn it was to be purveyor or provider for the convent,
had employed his mother to make what they called writing color or dye,
for the copyist. This was, of course, something the same as what we call
_ink_ and it so happened that Frau Gensfleisch was in possession of
a secret by which a black dye could be made, which would not turn brown
with time, as that of many of the manuscripts. Every ten days or
fortnight, therefore, it was Hans' business to take to the convent a
small flask of the valuable fluid, which his mother had carefully
prepared, from certain mineral and vegetable substances, and it was no
fault of his, if he did not on each occasion, somehow or other, add to
his own stock of knowledge; getting at one time perhaps a verse or two
read by his uncle, which finished the history of Joseph, or puzzling out
for himself the difference between the shape of a C and a G, till he
could quite distinguish them; or being told by his uncle some wonderful
legend or history connected with the paintings and carvings on the walls
of the convent; so that it may be said that the education of little Hans
was slowly proceeding in those matters, which at that time was
considered learning and science. In the midst of all his other
employments which did not require thought, Hans' mind would be occupied
with this new knowledge; and as he worked in the garden, or weeded and
dressed the vines in their little vineyard, the remembrance of the
stories Uncle Gottlieb had read to him or told him, would come into his
mind, and the pictures he had shown him appear as it were before his
eyes. At night too, as he sat by his mother's spinning-wheel, he would
try to trace on the sanded floor the letters he had learned from the
books, or begging a drop of black dye, he made attempts with a pointed
stick to mark them on the wooden table. Wherever he was, in fact, and
whatever he was about, letters would dance before his eyes, and his
former hopes of being a famous hunter or warrior when he grew up were
all lost in the one great hope, which now filled his mind, of one day
becoming a learned copyist or scribe. Such was the change that had taken
place in the mind of little Hans, when, on visiting the convent one day,
he found to his great dismay that his good uncle had gone on a journey
to the city of Frankfort, which lay some thirty or forty miles off, upon
the banks of the same river Maine, which just by Mainz empties its
waters into the Rhine. It was the time of the great Frankfort Market or
Fair, and Father Gottlieb had gone there to purchase for the convent all
that was wanted for the next year. He had gone up the river in a boat
with a party of monks and merchants, and was not expected to return
until the next week, as he would wait to bring with him all the
merchandise he purchased. It was a great trial to Hans to have another
whole week to wait before he saw his dear uncle again, but then what a
pleasure had he in his next visit to the convent; not only Uncle
Gottlieb to see, but all the beautiful and wonderful things which he had
brought back from the Frankfort Fair, and his own present to receive
too, which the kind uncle had not forgotten amid all his bustle and
business. This was no less than a knife--the first that Hans had ever
possessed of his own. It had a pretty stag's-horn handle and a green
leather sheath, so that, stuck in his girdle, it looked quite like that
of a real woodsman or hunter, and made Hans not a little proud.

Then what wonderful things had not his uncle to relate of the large and
rich city of Frankfort. Of all the beautiful works in gold and silver
with which the shops were filled; of the grand old hall where the
Emperors were elected and the chapel in which they were crowned; and
then of the curious people called Jews, who live in such numbers in one
part of the city, who did not worship Christ or the virgin, and were the
same people whom he had heard about in the stories of Jacob and Joseph.
Long after his usual time did Hans stay listening to all these matters,
and it was nightfall ere he got back again to his mother's cottage with
his present to her of a piece of fine cloth for a new head coif, which
Father Gottlieb sent her.

For many days Hans could think of nothing but his new knife, and well
pleased was he to show it to his young companions, many of whom had
never before seen so polished a piece of iron. In his herb-gatherings
for his mother, too, how useful it was to him in cutting through the
tough stalks of some of the plants and in digging up the roots; and what
fine things it enabled him to cut and carve for his mother,--new comb
for her flax amongst other things, and a spoon to stir her pots of dye.

He grew very expert in using his knife, and cutting and carving with it
almost put out of his head his dearly beloved letters that he had taken
such pains to learn.

It happened, however, one day, that after having been some hours out on
the hills, behind his mother's cottage, collecting a quantity of acorns
and oak-galls, which his mother required to make her black dye or ink, a
very violent storm came on, which obliged him to take shelter under a
large spreading beech tree, behind whose trunk he crept while the wind
and hail beat fiercely down. The storm lasted long, and to amuse himself
Hans began to exercise his carving powers upon the smooth bark of the
beech tree which sheltered him.

He carved some letters upon it; cutting away the bark of the beech and
leaving the letters white. Some he cut deep into the wood in sharp
furrows like the letters on a seal. Then he tried cutting away the bark
and leaving the letters stand out _in relief_ as it is called, from
the tree, like the letters on the impression of a seal. This was the
prettiest way of all, and he began to carve the letters of his own name.
The word _Hans_ he could manage very well, for he knew well the
letters which formed it, and he got on very well with the rest of his
other name as far as _Gens_,--but here, alas! he was stopped, for
he did not know how to make an F. He had learned how his name was spelt,
but it had never occurred to him before to write it; but it did not
matter--he was going the very next day to the convent, and he would
learn how an F was made, and then too he could also make himself sure of
the C, which he had always a difficulty in distinguishing from G, as he
had never learnt the alphabet in proper order. The next day accordingly,
on visiting the convent, after delivering his flask of ink, he asked his
uncle to show him once more the different letters which he did not yet
know perfectly; and his uncle not only did this, but on a strip of old
parchment he kindly wrote down all the letters from A to Z, so that at
any time Hans could use it as a copy when he wanted to put letters
together so as to make words.

Hans was greatly delighted. It seemed to him now as if he had got
possession of a key which locked up a great deal of valuable knowledge,
for his alphabet would not only help him to write but to read also. He
could not rest that evening, even before he had taken the bowl of milk
and piece of black bread that his mother had left for his supper, till
he had climbed the hill to the great beech tree, and carved upon it the
other letters of his name. When finished, his name reached half round
the tree, and each letter was nicely formed and neatly cut. All the
lines were straight, and the little points were all sharp and clear.
Written in those (to us) old-fashioned letters it looked perhaps
something like this:--

[Illustration: hans gensfleisch]

Hans wished his mother could but see it!

"Do mother, I pray thee, come up the hill as far as the great beech
tree," said he one evening as he thought of his nice piece of writing;
"I want to show thee how strangely the elves have marked the bark." This
he said in jest, hoping to entice his mother to see the wonder.

"Nay, child," said she, "my old bones are too stiff for climbing
now-a-days, and nought that the elves can do can make me wonder, seeing,
as I do, all the strange new things that are coming every day into the
world." And it was In vain that Hans tried to persuade her.

Some days after this, however, Hans on paying a visit to the tree and
finding that the white wood of the beech, from which he had peeled away
the bark, was becoming brown, so that the letters no longer looked out
plain and distinct, the thought came into his head of cutting each of
these raised letters away from the tree and taking them home. He did
so--slicing them carefully off, so that they were not split or broken,
and he was thus able to carry home to his mother, as she would not come
to see them, this first specimen of his own writing.

We shall see how the carrying home of those letters was afterwards to
influence the fate of Hans Gensfleisch--and of the whole world!

Proud was Hans that evening, when after his frugal supper was over, he
swept away the crumbs from off their little table, and arranged side by
side the letters of his name before his astonished mother--so that when
she compared them with his name upon the slip of parchment which was the
register of his birth, she could see that it was really and truly her
son's name that the curious signs signified. She thought her Hans very
clever, and she was pleased. We are not sure that Hans did not think
himself very clever too!

Hans put his letters carefully away in an old leather pouch which had
once belonged to his father, and often after his day's work was done
would he pull them out and arrange them on the table or on the hearth
before the fire. He soon found out that besides making his own name, he
could put together several other words which he had learned to spell.
Out of the letters which formed Hans Gensfleisch, for instance, he could
make the word _fisch_ which is the German for fish--_lang_,
long--_schein_, shine; and it was a great delight to his mother as
well as to himself, when he found too that he could put together the
letters of her name, _Lischen,_ just as they were also written on
the parchment register of his birth.

But he had other discoveries still to make with regard to his letters;
for one evening it so happened that as his mother was busy over a
boiling of ink that he was to take the next day to Mainz, and had put
some of it out in a sort of saucer or bowl upon the table to cool, Hans
in playing with his letters let one of them fall into the black color,
and pulling it hastily out again he popped it on to the first thing that
lay near, which happened to be a piece of chamois leather which was
stretched out after being cleaned ready for dyeing.

Scarcely had the letter laid an instant on the white leather than Frau
Gensfleisch, turning round, saw with dismay the mischief that was
done;--a large =h= was marked upon the chamois skin!

"Ah Hanschen! Hanschen!" cried she, "what art thou about--thou hast
ruined thy poor mother. See, lackaday! the lady of Dolberg's beautiful
chamois skin that was to be dyed of a delicate green for her ladyship's
slippers. See the ugly black marks that thou hast made upon it! This
comes of all thy letter making and spelling of words and names. Away
with the useless--things! Thou canst do better with thy knife and thy
time than to be bringing thy mother thus into trouble." And in her anger
the Frau Gensfleisch swept the precious letters off the table and threw
them into the fire.

Hans started forward in dismay to save them but it was too late. One
=g= alone remained of his treasured letters, but it was enough. He
had his knife and he could make others--and more than that, there was
left with him a valuable thought. The impression left on the white
chamois skin by the blackened letter had caused a new idea to flash into
his mind--the idea of Printing. On that evening, and in that little
cottage, in fact, the _invention of Printing_ took place.

It was something to have a lucky thought come into one's mind, but it is
quite another thing to have patience and industry and perseverance
enough to put that thought into action as it were, and make it turn to
profit and use. Luckily for Hans and for the world, he had these good
qualities even when thus a little boy, and from that time he made it the
business of his life to turn the thought to good account. We do not say
that the little boy Hans Gensfleisch could at that time foresee any but
a very small part of the good which might arise out of the invention of
printing. He could not possibly tell before-hand, how through its means,
knowledge would be spread all over the face of the earth, nor that that
book which was then only to be found in convents and monasteries--locked
up and rarely opened--read by a few learned monks, and seldom or ever
read to the people;--that this book, or the Bible, would through the
invention of Printing, be distributed all over the world, and that rich
and poor, wise and simple, young and old, would be able to possess it,
and read it, and learn from it the Word of God:--he did not foresee
this; but he saw that there might be an easier and a quicker way of
making books, and this he felt would be a good and useful thing to bring
about, and he resolved that he would do it. He saw that instead of
spending so much time in shaping over and over again the same letters,
that it would be a great saving of trouble, if letters were to be carved
out of wood or any other hard substance, and then blackened with ink and
pressed or _imprinted_ on the parchment, for then the same letters
could be used many times in making different words in different books.

Hans saw this plainly. He was sure of it, and he was almost sure that no
one had ever thought of it before. With a very natural feeling, and
certainly not a wrong one, he determined that it should be himself who
should bring about this new method of writing. He would keep it secret
from every one until he could _prove_ that it was a great and
useful discovery.

In the meantime, however, he had much to do. First, he must learn to
read and spell, and then he must also be able to write well, so as to
shape all the letters correctly when he carved them. From that time Hans
lost no more time in play. His cross-bow was laid aside, and he seldom
or never joined the other boys of the village in their games of running
and wrestling, nor did he follow the hunters to the chase on the hills
as he had been accustomed to do, or spend time in loitering with his net
along the river side. Instead of all this, he would go on every possible
pretext into the town and to the monastery to visit his uncle and get
all the knowledge he could. And after some time he told his uncle of his
great wish to learn to read and to become a scribe, and begged him to
persuade his mother to let him follow out his wish.

Father Gottlieb was pleased with the boy's earnest desire. He was good
and pious, and when he saw how full of this high hope was the mind of
the young boy, he said, "It is the will of God. He makes the humblest of
us tools for the furtherance of his wise designs. His will be done!" And
he talked to the Frau Gensfleisch upon the matter, and though he did not
think it right to tell her that her son might one day become a great and
learned man, yet he persuaded her that it would be wrong to oppose the
earnest wishes of Hans who had always been a good, and dutiful, and
loving son; and so it was settled between them that henceforth a part of
the widow's savings were to pay for the labor which was required for the
field and garden, and that Hans was to come to the convent every day to
be taught by the monks to read and write.

Henceforward Hans was to be a scholar, and his joy indeed was great.




PART II.


THE BOOK.


We must pass quickly over several years of the time during which Hans
Gensfleisch was going through the tedious operation of learning to read
and write. We can all of us remember it to be tedious, but in those days
it was so even more than now; since there were no such things as
spelling books, and children's story books to help on the young scholar,
and the letters were not as plainly written, nor of such a simple form
as our English letters. Hans' reading and spelling book was, perhaps,
some musty old parchment manuscript, discolored by age; and he had to
pore over it whole hours and days, before he could make out the meaning
of a simple page. The monks who had to teach him, too, were not all of
them so patient and kind as Father Gottlieb, his uncle, whose duties in
the convent did not often allow him to be his young nephew's instructor;
and there were hours and days when Hans grew sadly wearied of the task
he had undertaken, and his resolution would waver and falter. Instead of
being shut up in that close cell in the convent, where the small and
high window allowed only a tiny piece of sky to be seen, and where fresh
air scarcely ever entered; how much pleasanter would it be, he often
thought, to be out and away on the hills with his bow, or armed with his
knife herb-gathering for his mother. His bright vision of being the one
who should make books in a new and quick method grew dim in his mind,
and other ways of living seemed better and happier. But then again, at
such times it would perhaps happen that his uncle would send for him to
his own cell, and would make him read to him that he might see his
improvement, and would praise him for his progress, and encourage him to
go on; so that Hans' very heart would glow within him, and fresh zeal
and courage come to him again, and he would go back to his work
refreshed, and pleased, and hopeful as before.

At times, too, it would happen that he had something given him to read
to the monks, which interested him very much; some portion of the
history of a saint, perhaps, or a curious legend, so that no trouble was
too great in deciphering the crabbed writing, provided that he could
only get to the end of it, and make out all the sense; and he would
carry home the story in his head, and entertain his mother with it over
their evening meal. Then all this time, too, was he busy carving with
his knife, out of the hardest wood he could find, a stock of letters,
with which, when an occasion offered, he meant to make trial of
_imprinting_ whole sentences with ink. He did this secretly. He
feared to vex his mother, and run the risk of his letters being burned
as before, and he feared, too, that some one might find out his plan,
and make use of it before he was ready prepared to show it as his own.

All this kept him silent and reserved, and he nourished within his mind
many thoughts and hopes that no one knew of or suspected. To his mother
he was ever kind and good, and as of old, he would in all his leisure
hours gladly help her in her little household affairs, and in the
preparation of her dye, and while doing the latter, he would also make
trial of different kinds of ink that might be better for his letter
imprinting than the thin ink used by the copyist. He saw that a thicker
and more sticky kind of ink would be wanting for this purpose, and he
endeavored to find some substance that would produce this stickiness and
thickness. And thus was he ever preparing himself for the time when he
could bring everything to bear on the great plan which he cherished in
his mind; and in the meanwhile he grew up to be a man.

No longer a boy, at the age of eighteen Hans had not only learned to
read and write well his native language, but had also learned the Latin
tongue, which it was at that time quite necessary for him to know,
seeing that many of the books then written were in that language. He
came to be looked upon as a most learned youth, and the monks who had
taught him, thinking that he would be a credit to their convent, were
anxious that he should join them and become a monk like themselves,
devoting the rest of his life to copying manuscripts and writing books.
But this would not have suited at all with the purpose of Hans, and he
knew that he could be much more useful when out in the world than shut
up all his life writing in the convent. It grieved him to disappoint his
good uncle, who had always hoped that he would become a monk, but he
knew that he was right in refusing, and this made him strong and firm.

Hans was not always faithful, however, at this time to his good
purposes, and we must confess the acquaintanceship of some gay young
companions led him into some difficulties and dangers. He had one very
favorite friend, who, like himself, had been a scholar in the convent,
and this Conrad, for so he was called, being the son of a rich burgher
in the town, Hans was led into companionship with many gay and
thoughtless youths, who spent much of their time in feasting and
pleasure taking, and who were not like Hans accustomed to labor from
morning till night, and live on simple fare. And not only did Hans,
through the means of his friend Conrad, fall in the way of pleasure
taking, as we have said, but was also brought into a good many quarrels
and disputes, which otherwise he would not have been exposed to. At this
time it happened that there was in most towns two classes of people, who
were more distinct from each other than they are now-a-days. These were
the nobles or gentlemen, and the burghers or trades-people. Instead of
living peacefully together, and serving one another, these people were
continually quarrelling; the nobles trying to oppress the burghers, and
the burghers in their turn ever trying to resent the oppressions of the
nobles. With the youths, especially in the town of Mainz, a continual
warfare was always going on. The sons of the rich nobles being proud,
and not liking to hold companionship with the sons of the burghers; and
seeking on every occasion to vex and annoy them; and the latter, since
they were rich, thinking that they had a right to the same pleasures and
privileges as those of nobler birth, and being determined to stand up
for them; so that their disputes would not unfrequently end in fighting
and bloodshed.

It would have been easy for Hans, who was only the son of a poor and
humbler cottager, to have kept out of the way of these noble youths, and
he was far from being of a quarrelsome disposition; but it so happened
that he was often mixed up in the quarrels of his friend Conrad, who
being very generous and kind to him, Hans thought himself obliged to
take his part and defend him when any strife arose.

All this turned out very unfortunately for Hans Gensfleisch, as it was
the occasion at last of his being obliged to leave his native city, and
be absent for many years from his poor mother.

One evening, it happened that a party of youths were entertaining
themselves in a place called the Tennis-court, where a particular game
of ball was played, which was a favorite amusement among the youths of
that time. The greater number of the players on this occasion were
burghers' sons, and among them Hans and Conrad, who were very expert at
the game. Presently a party of nobles came up, who were vexed to find
the place so occupied. They accordingly placed themselves so as to
observe the game, and amused themselves with making rude remarks on the
burgher youths and with laughing at their gestures and dress.

"See the fine gentlemen," said they, "how daintily they handle the ball!
Better for them to keep to measuring silk or dealing out spices in their
fathers' shops, than try their skill here." "And the learned scholars,
too," said another, "they ought to stick to their musty parchments and
books, and not amuse themselves with such idle games as these."

Then one of them, on observing Hans, exclaimed, "See, too, the dyer's
son, with his rusty black jerkin. 'Tis a pity he does not dip it in one
of his old mother's dye-pots, if he would have himself pass for a
gentleman."

Conrad overheard this last remark and was very angry. A scornful
allusion to his friend was almost more than he could bear. It was his
turn to throw the ball, and scarce knowing what he did, he threw it with
force in the direction of the group of young nobles, and it struck one
of them on the temple. The youth drew his sword, (for at that time it
was common for the sons of nobles to wear them as ornaments), and ran
fiercely at him. Hans sprang forward to defend his friend and placed
himself before him. He had no weapon but his knife, and in defending his
friend with this, it so happened that he wounded the youth severely in
the side.

[Illustration]

A cry arose of "To prison with the assassin!" and it was with difficulty
that Hans could make his escape from out of the crowd which ran up from
all sides to see what was passing and take part in the affray. He
succeeded, however, in getting to the house of his friend, which was
near at hand, and here he was soon followed by Conrad, who was in great
distress. He said that the wound of the young man being found to be
dangerous, the officers of justice were already in search of Hans. He
advised him to leave the town immediately and to make the best of his
way to Worms, which is a town also on the banks of the Rhine, south of
Mainz. Here lived friends of his father, who would, he said, be ready to
receive him, and he furnished him with money for the journey. It was
nightfall, and wrapped in a cloak which was lent to him by Conrad, Hans
crept through the darkest and most retired streets until he reached the
convent, in order that he might relate his unfortunate adventure to his
uncle and take leave of him.

Not without much shame and sorrow had Hans to acknowledge to the good
father how he had neglected his oft-repeated cautions and advice, and it
was indeed a grief to his uncle to find into what dangers and
difficulties Hans had fallen, which would thus oblige him to leave his
friends and protectors and suddenly go forth alone into the world. He
reproached him severely for having gone into the company of riotous and
quarrelsome youths, and pointed out to him that as a monk he would have
been saved from all such dangers and temptations. He recommended him,
however, to repair immediately to a convent of monks in the town of
Worms, of which the superior, or chief monk, was known to him, and
giving him a letter of recommendation, he hoped that he might by this
means get employment as a scribe. With much good advice, and many
prayers for his safety, Father Gottlieb bade him farewell, laying his
hands on his head and bestowing on him his parting blessing. Hans had
now to take leave of his poor mother, and he turned his steps with a
heavy heart towards her cottage. Grieved was he indeed to tell her all
that had befallen;--how that he had shed the blood of a fellow creature,
and that he must leave her, when to return he knew not.

Frau Gensfleisch wept long and sore. She knew not what she should do
without her Hans. It was like tearing the life from out her body, she
said. Old as she was, who could tell that she should ever see him again.
Where would his wanderings end? What would become of him in the strange,
wide world into which he was thus thrown without guide or guard? While
she lamented, however, she hastily made a number of little preparations
with motherly care, to preserve him from want and to secure his comfort.
A bundle of clothes put together, a knapsack with bread and pieces of
dried meat and cheese, and a purse with all the money that she possessed
in the world, which she insisted on his taking.

"I will come back to thee, mother," said Hans, in a tone of more
cheerfulness than he really felt. "I will come back to thee again, and
see if I shall not one day become rich and great,--see if thou wilt not
have reason to be proud of thy Hanschen."

His mother shook her head. She could then only feel that she was losing
his daily care and presence, and that the future was all uncertain. But
she was at the same time pleased to see him of good cheer, and that his
courage and spirit did not forsake him. She promised to find out if the
young man whom he had wounded recovered, and to discover some means of
sending him word when he might return in safety; and with many embraces
and blessings, and parting words of love he went away.

Hans had not gone far, however, before turning his thoughts to the
future, and thinking of what had been his former hopes and intentions,
he all at once remembered the little bag of letters which he had some
years before carved out of wood, and which hung in the back room of the
cottage. He called to mind all the schemes and visions which of old he
had formed over these letters, and he thought to himself that now,
perhaps, was come the right time for turning them and all his acquired
knowledge to account. He determined to go back and fetch his letters;
and he thought it best to do so unknown to his mother, so that he might
not renew in her the sorrow of parting; retracing then his steps, he got
over the hedge which divided his mother's little garden from the road,
and softly opening the door that led to the little room in which he had
been accustomed to sleep, and where he had kept his treasured letters,
he took the little pouch from the nail on which it hung, and was
hastening away--when the sound of his mother's voice struck his ear. She
was weeping--but in the midst of her tears was she also praying for her
son. "Oh, good Lord," she said, "protect my child from the dangers of
the world. Let him not again sin against thy laws. Be thou to him a
shield, a fortress of defence, and let him love thy word and law.
Preserve him, I pray thee, to me good and pure, and let my eyes behold
my child again, ere they are closed in death."

Hans was deeply moved by these words of his poor forsaken mother, and he
also prayed. He prayed that her hopes might be fulfilled; and that he
might be a comfort and a blessing to her old age; and he said to
himself, that he would henceforth lead a life of usefulness and peace;
and so he went forth, strong in purpose, yet full of tenderness and
love.

After this parting, many years passed over Frau Gensfleisch's head ere
she beheld her son again; and few and far between were the tidings of
him that reached her cottage. Long and weary years were they to her; and
the hope so long deferred of seeing him again made, indeed, her heart
grow sick. Many and many a time would she go on foot into the town to
make inquiries of Father Gottlieb as to whether aught had been heard of
the absent one; and if by chance she was told of some traveller who had
come into the town from the south, she would go there though ever so
weak and weary, and never rest until she had found the stranger out, to
question him herself about all the youths whom he might have fallen in
with, in the hope that her Hans might have been one of them.

Through Father Gottlieb she heard of his safe arrival at Worms; and
these tidings came written on a slip of parchment by Hans himself, and
was brought by a travelling monk who was going about to collect alms,
and who called at the convent of St. Gothard in Mainz. In return, Frau
Gensfleisch got one of the monks to write for her a letter, in which she
told Hans of the recovery of the youth whom he had wounded, and begged
him to return to her. This letter was given into the charge of the same
monk, who, after visiting several other cities, was likely to return to
Worms; but as it did not bring Hans home again, no one felt sure that it
had ever reached him.

Several years passed without any more tidings of her son reaching Frau
Gensfleisch, until there called at her cottage one day a pilgrim who was
returning from the Holy Land, and was on his way to the city of Treves,
to which he was taking some holy relics. He brought to Frau Gensfleisch
a small bag of silver coin, as much in value as the money she had given
to Hans at his departure. The pilgrim told her it was sent by a youth in
the town of Strasburg, who sent with it love and greeting, and directed
him where to find her cottage. The pilgrim had forgotten the name of the
youth, he said, but that he had marked the little bag with a mark that
he was sure his mother would know; and sure enough she did; for there on
the leather had been imprinted the very same letter =g= which Hans
had saved from the fire, when his other letters were burnt. Frau
Gensfleisch knew by this that the money came from Hans, and her heart
beat for joy at the knowledge that he was well and rich, and above all
that he had not forgotten her.

Years rolled on, and the mother and son had never met again; when one
summer evening of the year 1438, a traveller, who had that morning
arrived in the town of Mainz, passed out of it towards the little
village of Steinheim. He was weary and way-worn; his clothes soiled and
dusty with long travel, and his cheeks tanned from long exposure to the
sun. Upon his back he bore a knapsack, and under his arm he carried a
large and carefully wrapped packet. As he reached the little hill at the
foot of which the village lay, he paused to look around him; and he
looked not as one who beholds for the first time a beautiful view,
taking in at a glance the whole picture which was spread before him; but
seeking out rather each well remembered object that was connected with
the past years of youth and childhood. Stretching from the north, and
far away to the west, was a long and wavy chain of hills, behind which
the sun was setting in a bright blaze of gold and red. How often had the
traveller seen such a sunset behind the blue summits of those hills
before! Flowing yet nearer to him was the noble river Rhine, winding
onward to the north, and bearing on its bosom many a little skiff which
scudded quickly before the evening breeze, or raft of timber which
floated slowly down its stream. How often had the stranger sailed in
such little barks upon its surface, or bathed and fished in its waters!
At his feet lay the little cluster of cottages which formed the village
of Steinheim; and amid its clustering trees and vineyards, it was not
fancy, perhaps, that led the traveller to think that he could
distinguish one roof from all the rest, and one patch of vines from out
the other larger vineyards. He passed on with quickened steps; but as he
approached the cottages, he found--not like the distant mountains or the
wide river--that much was new and changed. Houses and cottages had
sprung up where fields of barley and flax had grown, and a new church
stood where once a barn had been. He sought out the little cottage that
once he had known so well. Alas! it was strangely changed. A stone wall
supplied the place of the old briar-hedge, and shrubs had grown up into
trees, shadowing the door and window, whilst moss and ivy covered the
walls and roof. With a trembling hand he knocked at the lowly door. The
lattice was opened, and a strange face came to answer his inquiries.

"Does not the Frau Gensfleisch live here?" asked the stranger with a
faltering voice.

"The Frau Gensfleisch," said the woman; "nay, my good friend, the Frau
Gensfleisch has left our village this many a day. Maybe she lives now in
the town, or maybe she is dead; I cannot tell thee which."

The traveller turned away.

Frau Gensfleisch, however, was not dead. Finding that the care of her
little fields and vineyard was more than she was able to manage in her
declining years, she sold her cottage and land, and returned into the
town of Mainz to live, so that she might be near the Father Gottlieb,
who was now the only relation she had left besides her absent son. To
the good Father she could at least talk about Hans, and he was able
sometimes to cheer her fading hopes, by telling her that the day might
yet come when Hans would return to spend the rest of his life with her.
She lived in a dark and narrow street, and seldom went from home except
on certain days, when, as of old, she would take a flask of her ink to
the convent for the use of the monks, who were still, as during the
childhood of Hans Gensfleisch, busied over their endless copying and
writing. It was on the morning of the day on which the traveller we have
spoken of above had inquired after her at her old cottage, that a
message came to her from Father Gottlieb to say that she must come to
the convent with all speed, to hear some tidings of her son, which had
been brought by a traveller from the south. With a beating heart she
went, and from the Father Gottlieb she heard that a learned scribe had
come that day into the town who had known her son in the city of
Strasburg. This scribe had brought with him a most wonderful book, and
all the town was filled with surprise and curiosity to hear that this
volume, which was a copy of the Bible, had been written by one man--the
traveller himself--and that in its production he had used neither pen,
nor style,[2] nor reed, but had _imprinted_ it with ink in some
unknown way, which had caused the writing to be more regular and even,
and plainer to read than that of any manuscript which had ever been seen
or heard of. The whole town was talking of the book, and the wonder of
the people was even greater still when the traveller said that he could
at will produce many such books as this, and that each should be so much
alike the other, that not one letter--not one jot or one tittle of a
letter should be different. Frau Gensfleisch listened in wonder,--but
wonder was lost in hope, for she said to herself, "This man has known my
Hans, for he too could imprint letters;" and she eagerly inquired his
name.



Father Gottlieb said that the name of the stranger was Johann Gutenberg,
and that he was tall and dark, and spoke with a northern tongue. He
promised Frau Gensfleisch, however, that she should see him and question
him herself about her son, as soon as the stranger returned from the
palace of the Archbishop, where had gone to exhibit his wonderful book,
and he left her in his cell, promising to return and fetch her when the
stranger should arrive.

Frau Gensfleisch sat in silence and alone for two heavy hours. She heard
bell after bell rung, which summoned the monks to their prayers or to
their meals. And many a passing footstep made her cheeks flush and her
pulse quicken, as she said to herself, "Now, I shall hear about my son;"
and she repeated over to herself all the questions that she would ask
and the messages she would send, in case the stranger really knew her
Hans; when at last the door of the cell was unlocked and the Father
Gottlieb came.

He said he would take her to the apartment of the Superior, to which the
traveller had been summoned on his return from the Archbishop, and there
she could wait until he had time enough to speak with her about her son.
When Frau Gensfleisch entered the room of the Superior, a crowd of monks
was so gathered round the stranger that she could see neither his face
nor form. He was opening out his wonderful volume, and the curious monks
pressed eagerly round him. Loud and long were their exclamations of
surprise as the book was opened, and page after page displayed. It was
wonderful--it was marvellous--It was not like the work of hands, they
said no scribe or copyist would write each letter so like another, and
they said it must be done by magic, for that no mortal hands could write
so wonderfully plain and exact and regular; and they questioned the
stranger about his method of _imprinting_ but he replied to all
their questioning, "It is not magic, holy fathers, but it is patience
which hath done it."

Scarcely had these words been uttered, when catching the ear of Frau
Gensfleisch, she started from her seat, and pushing aside the monks, who
stood around the stranger, she made her way up to him, and she said, as
she laid hold of his cloak and looked him in the face, "Stranger, what
is thy name--what is thy true name? Is it not Hans Gensfleisch--wert
thou not born here--art thou not my son?" And as she spoke she grasped
eagerly both his hands.

The stranger paused, and a pang as if of sorrow seemed to pass across
his brow, as he saw the weakness and infirmity of her who stood
trembling before him. The years which had passed over his own head and
had changed him from the slender youth into the strong and healthy man,
had indeed laid a sore and heavy hand on her, who all this time had been
left alone and unprotected, bowed down with sorrow and infirmity. He
reproached himself for his long absence and neglect. Then falling on her
neck, he embraced her long and tenderly, and he said, "Mother, I am
indeed thy Hans!" and then turning to the wondering monks, "Yes, holy
fathers, I am the Hans Gensfleisch, who was in this convent taught to
read and write. When but a child, it was chance which first gave me the
thought of thus imprinting books, but long years of patience and
industry have been needed ere I could bring it to perfection." Then to
his mother, he said, "I will leave thee no more. Too much of my life has
been passed away from thee--but now shalt thou have thy son again to
cheer thy last days and to make thee happy."

And happy indeed was Frau Gensfleisch, and she needed no promises from
her son to assure her of the joy and comfort which his care would secure
her for the few remaining years of her life. One thing alone displeased
her, which was that he should have adopted a name different from that by
which he had been known in childhood, but when he told her of the
ridicule which had followed him wherever he went, when his strange name
of Gensfleisch[3] was heard, she was reconciled; especially when he
reminded her too, that the name which he had taken, was one which
belonged to his family and to which he had some claim; and when in
future she would hear her son called by his name of Gutenberg, and was
told that that name was become known not only all over Germany, but in
strange and distant lands, she would say, "Yes, Gutenberg--it soundeth
well. It is a goodly name,--but he is still my Hans, my own son Hans!"



And Father Gottlieb, too, when they talked to him of the fame which his
nephew had gained, and how that his native town felt proud that one of
her citizens should had discovered and made perfect so wonderful and
useful an art, so that he was looked upon as a great and famous man--the
good Father would thank God that the fame and the greatness he had
gained stood not in the way of his being likewise a duteous, loving son,
and a good and pious man.

*       *       *       *       *

And thus our _story_ ends--but we will venture to add something of
the _history_ of Johann or John Gutenberg. Nothing, we believe, in
the foregoing story is contrary to _what is known_ of the real
history of the first inventor of printing, and it is certain that after
his return from Strasburg to his native city in the year 1438, he
established a printing-press in Mainz, and produced from it many printed
books, principally in Latin. He had for some time as a kind of partner
in his art, a man of the name of Faust, or Fust, the son of a goldsmith
of Mainz, who afterwards separating from Gutenberg went to Paris, where
he printed books, and in consequence was persecuted as a magician or
sorcerer; so wonderful was it thought to produce books so easily, and so
much like each other.

Gutenberg was afterwards assisted in the carrying on of his printing by
a rich burgher of Mainz of the name of Conrad Hammer, whom we may
suppose to have been the early friend through defence of whom he was
obliged to fly from home.

Shortly after the invention of printing, it would appear that paper was
made in sufficient perfection to be employed instead of parchment in the
formation of books. A celebrated Latin Bible, printed by Gutenberg in
1450, of which a very perfect copy is to be seen in the public library
at Frankfort, is beautifully printed on paper: and it must strike every
one with astonishment that such great perfection could have been
attained in so short a time in so difficult an art--especially when we
call to mind that each of the little letters with which it was printed,
had to be carved separately out of wood, since metal letters or
_type_ were not used till a few years later. The printing, too, is
remarkably clear, distinct, and regular, and is a striking proof of the
extraordinary skill and industry--and as he himself says in our story,
patience--which must have been employed over it.

The great superiority of printing over writing was so generally felt and
acknowledged, that before the end of the century in which Gutenberg
lived, printed books began to be common, and in the year 1471, an
Englishman of the name of Caxton, introduced the art into England, and
set up a printing press in Westminster.

We have alluded to the advantages we enjoy in our days from the
_commonness_ of books, and from the knowledge which by their means
is spread all over the world; and the sense of this advantage has led
people to feel a great interest in all that concerned the inventor or
discoverer of printing.

The city of Mainz especially, has always felt proud that he was born
there, and, about two hundred years after his death, erected a statue to
him in one of their streets. In 1837, however, another and a finer
statue in bronze was erected, and the people of the town celebrated the
event with all kinds of rejoicings and festivities. They liked to do
honor to their ingenious and useful citizen, even though he had been
dead nearly four hundred years, and they hung garlands of flowers on his
statue, and had music and processions and illuminations--all to
celebrate the memory of the son of the poor widow Gensfleisch.

No one who then looked upon the beautiful bronze statue of Gutenberg, or
sees it now as it stands in the middle of the city of Mainz, can doubt
for a moment that such a patient, persevering, and ingenious man, the
inventor of such a great and useful an art, deserves better to have a
statue raised to his memory, than any hero, king, or conqueror, that has
ever yet existed.


FOOTNOTES:


[Footnote 1: The German for Mistress]

[Footnote 2: The style was a pointed instrument made of metal, and used
for writing with by the ancients. Pens made of reeds were also used.]

[Footnote 3: In English _Gooseflesh_.]





THE CRYSTAL PALACE

A Story for Boys and Girls



CHAPTER I.


"I wish the holidays, were here!" said Frank Grey, to his school-fellow,
George Grant, "for I want so much to see 'The Crystal Palace;' and I
know Grandma will take me, if I ask her."

"Ah! it must be a jolly place, I'm sure," said George; "but _I_
shall never see it, I dare say."

"Why not?" asked Frank; "just tell _your_ Grandmother, and she will
take you, too."

"But I have no Grandmother," said George, despondingly; "I never had, as
long as I can recollect."

"Oh! then I don't know what you are to do, I'm sure," said Frank;
"unless you have an aunt or uncle who will take you: for you have no
mother, have you?"

"Why, certainly, I have," replied George, laughing, "and a father, too;
but then he is always busy in the factory; and mother, she is mostly
poorly, or shut up in the nursery with the little children, and often
says, she's sorry that she has neither time nor strength to take me
sight-seeing."

"That's rather vexing, though," said Frank, shaking his curly head. "I
think I should not like to change with you; but that's not bragging, is
it."

"Why, no; what made, you think of that?" asked George, astonished.

"Because grandma has often told me, that to _boast_ is rude,
unkind, and wicked," replied Frank.

"Ha, ha! how very odd!" cried George; "whatever could she mean?"

"I know," said Frank.

"Then, tell me; do."

"No, no; for you will only laugh, and then I shall feel vexed; so, say
no more about it," returned Frank.

"But I will not laugh, upon my word," said George, who felt his
curiosity excited.

"Well, then," said Frank, looking a little shy; "she says, that it is
_rude_, because it seems as if I thought myself above my
schoolfellows; and it is _unkind_, because, by doing so, I pain
their feelings; and it is _wicked_, because God expects us to be
humbly thankful for all the good things He gives us; and not to bride
ourselves upon them, in the least."

"I can't see any good in it," said George. "I know, that I am very proud
to show _my_ presents, when I get any; and I see no harm in it, I'm
sure."

"But my grandma knows more than you about it, a great deal," said Frank;
"and so she shall tell you, when you see her; for I mean to ask her, if
you may go with us, to see 'The Crystal Palace.'"

"Oh no; I think you had better not; she might be angry if you did," said
George, with a look that plainly contradicted what he said.

"Why, bless you, grandma's never angry," said Frank, laughing at the
very thought; "for she's the very kindest, dearest grandma in the world,
I do believe; and says, she never likes to disappoint me, when I ask for
what is _right_"

"I wish I had a grandma like her," said George, pouting; "for then I
should see every sight in London; I would teaze her till I did. I often
try to do so now; but mother looks as if she soon would cry, and bids me
say no more about it; for that she has neither time nor strength to take
me out."

"Dear me; I would not ask her then," said little Frank: "because fatigue
might make her worse, you know; and then, how very sorry you would
feel!"

George gave a little kind of cough, that seemed to say, lie should not
feel for anything so much as his own pleasures.

"Besides," continued Frank, "I am always told, that only naughty
children _teaze_; and I should never be rewarded for impatience."

"Ah! that's all very fine," cried George; "but how is one to get one's
way without? I suppose that you would have me stay at home, and mope
with mother all the holidays, and never go outside the door. But that is
not the way I manage, I can tell you; for I often slip away, and run out
on the sly, and have a game with any boys I meet."

"What! without asking leave?" inquired Frank, looking at him
sorrowfully.

"To be sure I do," said George.

"Well; I should be quite frightened," replied Frank. "And the thought
that my mother might miss me, and be made uneasy, would be sure to spoil
my sport."

"I never think about it," answered George; "for when I get a thing into
my head, nothing will turn me, as nurse often says to mother. I dare say
I shall see 'The Crystal Palace' in this way, at least, if I can find it
out alone."

"Now, promise me that you will not attempt it," cried Frank,
affectionately; "and I will promise you that you shall go with me, in
grandma's carriage, which will be far more proper, and nice, you know.
Do you not think so?"

"Of course I do," said George. "And shall I _really_ go? and will
your grandma take me? and shall you fetch me, the _first_ day after
go home, do you suppose?"

"No; for the first day will be Sunday," replied Frank; "and then we
never even talk about such things."

"Well, Monday, then. Will it be Monday?"

"Monday, perhaps, or Tuesday; for we shall have so much to talk about on
Saturday, when I go home, that grandma may not have the time to settle
it. I often wish the holidays began upon a Thursday, or a Friday at the
latest, that I might have my chatter out before the Sunday comes."

"I never thought of such a thing before," said George. But the writer
fully sympathises with her little friend, and wishes that all pious
teachers would profit by his hint.

During the previous conversation, the two boys had been kneeling up,
upon a form, with their arms extended on the table, on which "The
Illustrated London News" was spread before them. It was often purchased
by their kind schoolmistress for their amusement and instruction. And
greatly did the pictures please them; though, for the present, they
profited but little by the printed news.

"Ten more horrid days before _this half_ is over," said George,
peevishly. "It seems an age. I count the very hours. But you think that
we are _sure_ to go on Monday, don't you?"

"Not sure," said Frank. "We must not be too sure of anything, my grandma
says."

"Well, then, I dare say I shan't wait for you," said the impatient
George; "I do hate waiting, above all things."

"But you must try to be more patient," said Frank gently. "Does not your
poor mamma say so, to you?"

"Ah! very often; almost every day," cried George; "but what's the good
of that? for I keep hammering on, for anything I want. Oh! how I wish
the holidays were here just now; I am so wretched!"

"Dear me! and instead of that, I feel so happy," said dear Frank. "Ten
days will soon be gone, I think, and then--O then--Grandma will come,
and see my prize, and look so very pleased, and take me home with her!"




CHAPTER II.


And Frank was right, my dear young reader, for the ten days soon passed
away, and very pleasurably too, as even George confessed. There were so
many extra sports provided--a magic lantern, and dissolving views for
the last evening, with cakes and crackers, and amusing recitations, and
all went very merrily to bed, looking forward to the following day, when
they should see their friends and homes once more.

Frank felt a little sorry when the carriage came, without grandma to
fetch him. He fairly jumped about within it, as though to make it carry
him the faster to her. He bounded from it when it reached the door, and
ran with outstretched arms into the drawing-room, where she was waiting
to embrace him, and to listen fondly to all he had to tell. She gazed
with tears of pleasure in her eyes, upon the handsome volume he
presented, as a proof of his good conduct and improvement; and wiped her
spectacles with care, to read the nice inscription on the title-page,
and told him, "in return for his attention and obedience, it would give
her pleasure to grant him many treats throughout the holidays."

Frank thought at once about the Crystal Palace: but looking up, he saw
his grandmother was pale and delicate, and therefore would not name it,
until she should seem to him a little better; for already had he learnt,
in some degree, to follow Him "who pleased not himself."

George Grant was rather glad to learn, that he was to go home by
railway, for having an indifferent character, and no prize whatever, he
did not long to see his mother's face, at least at school, lest painful
questions should be asked as to his conduct. Still he was happy when he
saw her, and made more noise about it, far, than Frank.

When asked, "if he had gained a prize," he looked a little sheepish; and
speaking in a sullen tone, began to make complaints about "unfairness in
the teachers," and said his "schoolmistress had favorites, he was very
sure," with many other things, equally untrue.

His mother listened to his list of troubles, and told him, that she
feared the fault lay nearer home, and that he had not taken all the
pains he ought, nor sought to profit by her kind instructions.

George strove to justify himself, but failed in his endeavors to
convince his mother that he had been dutiful and diligent; but as her
strength was small, she gave up the debate, and listened languidly,
whilst he talked on unceasingly about "The Crystal Palace," and wondered
whether Frank would _ever_ think about his promise, and listened
for the sound of every carriage wheel that rumbled in the distance and
rushed up to the window, whenever any vehicle came down the quiet
street, and wearied both himself and all around him, by his useless
lamentations.

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday too, thus passed away. But on Wednesday he
had grown quite insupportable, and his mother was compelled to banish
him from her own bedroom, and giving him a puzzle she had purchased,
requested him to go into the dining-room, and put them all together. But
George rejected all amusements but the _very_ one he wanted, and
went instead into the nursery, where he plagued the younger children,
took away their little toys, played with them so roughly, that he threw
them on the floor, made _them_ all fretful, and the maid so vexed,
that she told him he had grown quite tiresome, and "that she panted for
the time when he would be packed off to school again." Whereupon he flew
into a passion, which ended in a fit of sobbing and crying: the noise
awoke the baby, nurse grew very angry, and pushed him out into the
dining-room, bidding him stay there alone, and come no more near her.

Just at this very time Frank saw his dear Grandma appeared much better,
coughed much less frequently, spoke much more easily, and moved about
more freely. So he thought the time was come to talk about "The Crystal
Palace." He said "how much he wished to see it, when it was convenient,
and that he should also like to show it to George Grant, if she had no
objection, for that his parents had no time to take him to it."

Pleased with his consideration, his grandmamma immediately complied with
his request, and, as the day was very fine for winter, ordered the
carriage to be ready in two hours, and promised to go round and take up
his young friend.

Frank ran to smother her with kisses, and looking lovingly upon him she
exclaimed--"God grant that I may live to see my own dear boy a Crystal
Palace!"

"Now, Granny dear, that is a funny wish," cried Frank, "for why should I
be made of glass, instead of flesh and bones, I wonder?"

"Let us take a little time to talk about it, dear; fancy yourself at
school again, going to take an _object_ lesson," she replied.

"No, thank you, no!" said Frank, cutting a caper; "I would rather think
myself at home instead."

"Well, then, at home, but tell me the properties of Crystal."

Frank seated himself beside her on the sofa, looked up wisely into the
corner of the ceiling, and said, after a pause, "Is crystal glass,
Grandma?"

"Why, not exactly, yet they have so many qualities in common, that you
may almost think of them as one."

"Glass, then, is clear, transparent, bright; what else, Grandma?"

"It is pellucid, that is, not opaque, or dark--it gives admission to
the light, and reflects it back again in all its beauty, brilliancy, and
purity. I do not wish to see my little boy a _green-house,_ or a
_glass-house_ merely, for then he would be brittle, and not
strong--easily damaged, if not broken up. But crystals are hard bodies;
they resist all injuries, they can bear a beating without breaking; for
they are regularly formed, and complete in all their parts. And crystal
glass is the firmest and the best, has fewest flaws and imperfections,
and can best sustain a storm."

"And so, for all these reasons, they call the great building we are soon
to see, a Crystal Palace, I suppose?"

"Exactly so. What more have you to add, my Frank?"

"Why, that for the same reason you wish to see me like it, I suppose,
that I may be transparent, pure, and strong, and have the light of
Goodness shining through me."

"It is indeed my earnest wish, and daily prayer, my dear; and doubtless
you can tell me, _Who_ alone can cause you to resemble this
beautiful and useful building? I know your Governess agrees with Dr.
Johnson, who once said that 'the end of all learning should be piety,'
and therefore I feel certain she has taught you how _true wisdom_
can be found."

"Oh yes, Grandma, she often tells us God alone can bless our learning,
and make it really useful to us, and that therefore we should ask Him
for the teaching of His Holy Spirit many times a day."

"And does my Frank attend to this advice?"

"Sometimes I do, and then I feel quite light and happy like; but when I
grow careless, and forget it, I am sure to get into some scrape or other
soon. So then, I am glad enough to go back to my old ways, and ask that
God would help me in the future."

"A safe and blessed practice, dear, and one that will preserve you from
all dangers. Prayer is our strength, our safety; and when we ask the aid
of God with _all our hearts_, we shall never ask in vain, you may
be sure."

After a little pause, Frank broke into a peal of merry laughter.

"What is it that amuses you so much?" said Mrs. Grey.

"Why, Grandma, I was thinking," said he, colouring, and looking shy,
"what an enormous-looking fellow I should be, if I were like 'The
Crystal Palace.'"

"Yes; then you would be 1800 feet in length, and 450 feet in breadth,
and noble trees would be sheltered by your arms, and you would be a kind
of modern Atlas, that the fables tell us could support the globe."

"I would rather be a little boy, than anything made of bricks and
mortar, though," said Frank, complacently.

"But there is no brick, or stone, or mortar, in the whole;--but all is
iron, wood, and glass--and the vast building is composed of very many
parts, each only eight feet square, but so great in number, that it is
longer than any street you know, for it covers 18 acres of ground, which
is nine times larger than your garden at the school, and all is
supported upon iron pillars of the same size and pattern. Yet this
immense erection is all formed of complete and distinct parts, not half
as large as the room we are now sitting in. Let this teach you, that
mere size is not necessary to completeness; but that a number of
beautiful and little parts, put well together, form a noble, grand, and
most effective whole."

"I see, Grandma," said Frank, smiling archly; "so you mean, that though
_I_ am but very little, and all that, yet I may be complete and
useful too."

"You understand me thoroughly, my dear; for were any of these parts
defective, the whole would be incomplete, and we might never have the
pleasure of walking for miles, on a wet day, under the cover of 'The
Crystal Palace,' as I hope we shall do during the next Christmas
holidays. So you see, that small things are of great importance, after
all."

"I thought it was to be a great bazaar, and not a garden, Grandmama,"
said Frank.

"And you are right, for in the first instance it is destined to receive
specimens of the industry of _the whole world_ and a novel and a
grand idea it is,--for which we have to thank Prince Albert, who is not
only almost the highest person in the land, but also one of the wisest
and the best; and often should we thank God for giving us so good a
Queen and Prince, so very different to many that you read about in
history."

"Yes, Grandma, I read in 'Peter Parley' of many wicked kings;--but will
this bazaar be larger than the Pantheon?"

"Very much larger than I can make you comprehend, until you see it; for
it will be twenty _miles_ to walk over, and when the great
'_Exposition_,' as it is called, is ended, it will be filled,
perhaps, with graceful shrubs and lovely flowers, flourishing all
through the winter, where we may enjoy ourselves for hours daily, and
quite forget the frost and snow outside."

"It is quite delightful to think of, I declare, Grandma. I believe that
I shall like it better then, than now."

"Both will be very charming, dear. But, perhaps the _first_ will be
the most instructive; for there will be goods from _every country in
the world_--specimens of natural productions,--the arts and
manufactures,--of every invention that the ingenuity of man has
constructed; and of almost all the glorious things that God has given
us, in this lovely world."

"Why, Grandma, there never was anything so grand and beautiful before!"

"Nothing, upon so large a scale; but bazaars are not a novelty. They
have long been common in the Eastern countries, such as Egypt, Persia,
India, and Turkey. In these countries, the shops are not spread abroad
through many streets, as we now see them, but are collected in one spot,
and are arranged in heads or classes, according to the various kinds of
trades, or articles for sale.

"In fact, the word 'Bazaar' means market; and these markets are usually
built with high brick roofs, and cupolas, that will admit but little
light. They have their passages all lined with shops on each side, and
each exactly like the other. All of them are raised above the path on
which the customers are standing, and are open to the air, having no
walls, but such as separate the various shops. This plan was found
convenient, in climates where the heat forbids exertion. It saved the
purchasers much trouble and fatigue; for exercise is not as pleasant, or
as healthy there, as here."

"I fancy that I should not like such places very much, Grandma," said
Frank; "for I do love a walk with you uncommonly, and more especially
when you are going shopping, as you sometimes do, one sees so many
pretty things, that one never heard or thought about before."

"And I am pleased to take you, Frank, because you never trouble me to
purchase what may be too expensive or unsuitable;--neither do you stand
looking on the toys and pretty things, with greedy, longing eyes, that
tell as plainly your desires as words could do." "Because, Grandma, I
know that you will give me all that you think proper, and so the sight
quite satisfies me. But I may not be so quiet on the matter when we see
the Great Bazaar;--I wonder that they only have them in the East,
though."

"They do, at times, my dear--and the first Bazaar in Europe, or
'_Exhibition of Industry_,' as it was called, took place in France,
and was held in the Palace of St. Cloud, a beautiful and royal
residence, which was emptied for the purpose."

"A second and a larger followed, the next year, and displayed all the
manufactures and the curiosities then known in Paris--and these excited
so much interest that Bonaparte, who then reigned in France, had a
building erected expressly for the purpose, in the _Champs de
Mars_. It was made of wood, and lined with the old flags that he had
just brought home from his war in Italy, and decorated with his
banners,--and so these sad trophies of the wickedness of man, and of his
anger, hatred, and revenge, were turned to a good purpose at the last.

"Then some years afterwards, there were wooden galleries placed around
the quadrangle of the Palace of the Louvre, to receive similar
contributions; and people were still so pleased by them, that a
_fourth_ succeeded.

"The fourth was on a larger scale, for Bonaparte had then become an
Emperor, and wished all things he did to be _Imperial_, or very
grand.

"A building, therefore, was erected for the purpose, by the side of the
river that runs through Paris. Can you recollect its name?"

"The Seine, Grandma."

"Yes. It was built beside the Seine, facing the _Champs Elysèe_,
and was then considered very beautiful.

"A fifth, a sixth, and seventh followed, in the course of time; but I
will not dwell upon them now, but only add that--

"The eighth was held by Louis Phillippe, who then reigned in France--for
Bonaparte had died in St. Helena--banished from his throne and his
adopted country, and brought to see the folly of his mad ambition; and
this Bazaar was held in the _Place de la Concorde_, a suitable
locality for such an object,--for _Concorde_, you know, means peace
and harmony, instead of war and fighting."

"A pleasanter and better thing is peace than war, I think, Grandma,"
said Frank. "I wish there was no quarreling at all."

"I join you heartily, my dear, and hope the time will shortly come when
wars shall cease for ever. But the building raised by Louis Phillippe in
La Place de la Concorde, consisted of four pavilions, joined by
galleries together; and as many as 2500 persons sent in their
contributions.

"But the ninth surpassed all former ones,--covered 120,000 feet of
ground--consisted of eight large apartments, with a noble hall, and
spacious galleries. It cost nearly £15,000, and had 3300 exhibitors this
time.

"All this success at length induced the men of Manchester to make a
similar display--and their example was soon followed by the men of
Leeds, and many other of our largest towns.

"And then, once more, in the year 1844, the French announced another
'_L'Exposition de l'Industrie Francaise'_--which gained great
praise from all who visited it.

"Next, '_The Free-Trade Bazaar_' excited universal interest, and
was held in Covent Garden Theatre, in the year 1845, when tens of
thousands went to see and purchase the beautiful commodities displayed.

"And last of all was the Exhibition held a year ago in Paris, which
exceeded all that had ever been attempted. The area of the former
building was increased so much, that it now amounted to 221,000 feet,
making it about one-third as large as the enormous Crystal Palace now
erected in Hyde Park.

"It was formed of wood and zinc, and cost £16,000; but will speedily be
eclipsed by the one we are about to look at. And so you have a little
history of these various plans, which will give you a greater interest
in our own, I think."

"It will, indeed, Grandma," said Frank; "for, like a stupid fellow, I
thought that this was the beginning of the whole."

"And very natural, my dear; for distant objects never impress the mind
like what is visible and present. But other nations soon followed France
and England, and Belgium and Bavaria were among the earliest, and
_Munich_ had the honor of completing the _first permanent_ or
lasting building, devoted only to the purposes of an industrial
exhibition for native goods, in 1845."

"But _ours_ is for all the world, I think you said, Grandma?"

"Yes, dear, for every nation; and a wonderful assemblage there will be
of all things useful, beautiful, and curious. Rare carvings from China,
splendid shawls from India, gorgeous carpets from Persia, all elegant
and tasteful things from France, all native manufactures from Russia and
the North, all specimens from New Zealand, California, and the Countries
of the South. In fact, all the nations of the earth, and the islands of
the sea, will unite with our own dear countrymen in making a display of
their talents and their treasures."

"And of them all, what shall _I_ like the best, Grandma?" said
Frank, bewildered by the catalogue.

"It is not possible that I can know your taste, my dear," said Mrs.
Grey, smiling at the simple question; "and yet I can imagine that an
enormous _globe_ will interest you most. It is to be made by Mr.
Wyld, and will be fifty-six feet in diameter, so tell me how great will
its circumference be?"

"One hundred and sixty-eight, Grandma," said Frank so readily, that he
had a kiss in consequence.

"Well, this great globe will cost £5000, which is more money than you
can comprehend at present; but you _can_ fancy how beautiful it
will look, with all the mountains raised upon it, and all the seas and
rivers clearly marked, and all the nations seen distinctly, and with no
mistake about their boundaries, which sometimes puzzle little folks to
find, and all the cities and large places plainly visible, without the
need of looking for them long and carefully; in short, a year or two of
the study of Geography mastered in an hour."

"But how shall I get at it?" asked Frank, with an air of disappointment.
"It will be so far above my head: look here, Grandma, I only reach as
high as _this_," said he, posting himself against the wall, "and
this globe will be higher than the ceiling, I should think?"

"It will be higher than the house, my dear, but, to remedy the
difficulty, there will be galleries all round it, and staircases to
mount them, so that there will be no danger, and nothing to prevent the
sight, and I think you will find it a great treat."

"Grandma!" said Frank, drawing a deep breath, "it seems too much to
think about, it will be so very grand and lovely. I really must be very,
very good _next half_, or else perhaps you will not let me see it,
after all?"

"Fear not, my child; you _will_ be good, if you ask of God to make
you so, for Jesus' sake, as many times a day as you are told to do at
school. And now I see the carriage waits, so let us go."




CHAPTER III.


"I really think _you_ are a _perfect_ Crystal Palace, dearest
Grandmama," said Frank, when Mrs. Grey had given orders to the coachman
to drive round and call for Master Grant, "for you are always good, and
kind, and happy."

"Alas! my child, my defects are most deplorable, and my faults are very
many, and I daily have to say, as well as you, 'O Lord! make haste to
help me.'"

"I cannot fancy it, I do assure you," said the little doubter; "you seem
to _me_ so very, very good."

"And so I may, and yet never be a Crystal Palace, Frank; for only the
child of God, and the believer in Jesus, can be really one. Many, I
fear, mistake in this great matter, and are thought true Christians by
others and themselves, when they only seek the praise of men, and not
the favor and the love of God. We must try ourselves by this test, dear,
and alter everything that is not done to please our kind and heavenly
Father. Besides, you know, there never has been more than one
'_perfect_' Crystal Palace in this world, from the beginning. Can
you tell me who it was?"

"Adam, I suppose, Grandma."

"Well, Adam truly was a Crystal Palace when he was _first_ created,
but he soon became opaque, and lost his purity, transparency, and
beauty, all at once. How did he do this, dear?"

"By disobedience."

"Yes, by wilful disobedience. He did not try to keep the _one_
command of God, nor did he ask for help to do so, but indulged his
foolish, wicked wish instead; and so, because he pleased his greedy eye,
his whole body became full of darkness (Matt. vi. 23), and he was no
longer the temple of the living God." (2 Cor. vi. 16.)

"Jesus was the only _perfect_ Crystal Palace, then, Grandma? I
should have thought of that before."

"Yes, Jesus was God, and God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all.
(1 John i. 5.) Jesus was _the light_ of the world, and He promised
all His children that they should not walk in darkness, but should have
the light of life." (John viii. 12.)

"So, then, Grandma, the real followers of Jesus _are_ Crystal
Palaces, but _not perfect_ Crystal Palaces;--that is what you mean,
I think?"

"It is, my dear. But is this the house where George Grant lives? I see
that James has stopped the horses."

"I do not know, indeed, Grandma; he only came to school at Michaelmas,
and I know but little of him; yet, as he wished so very much to see the
Crystal Palace, I thought that you would take him."

"You thought right, Frank, and James shall ask his mother's leave, or
rather, perhaps, it will seem kinder if we alight ourselves and do so."

"Thank you, Grandma," cried Frank, "I am sure that he will not be
disappointed now, as he expected, for no one can refuse _you_, when
you ask a favor."

Mrs. Grey smiled at his affectionate enthusiasm, and bade him follow
her.




CHAPTER IV.


Mrs. Grey inquired for Mrs. Grant, and learnt with sorrow that she was
too unwell to be seen by any visitors; she therefore sent a kind and
civil message, requesting her permission to convey her little son to see
the Crystal Palace, and promising to bring him home quite safely in two
hours. The servant left them in the drawing-room, which, though not
shabby, looked dusty and uncomfortable, and seemed to want the care and
presence of a mistress, and to prove, besides, that those who
_served_ had not the fear of God within their hearts, or they would
have done their duty faithfully, and kept it in far better order, though
their poor lady was laid aside by illness.

The maid returned in a few minutes, and brought the grateful thanks of
Mrs. Grant, with regret that she could not come down to see her guests,
and then left the room to get her little master ready.

Mrs. Grey sat waiting long and patiently, whilst Frank trotted round the
room, tried every chair and sofa,--examined every ornament about
it,--and placed himself at last before the window, to watch the
passers-by, for his amusement, saying at the time, "It seems as if
George never meant to come, Grandma."

"I must confess that they are very long in bringing him, my dear," said
Mrs. Grey; "but sickness in a house occasions often much confusion, and
therefore we must have more patience."

"How long have we been here, Grandma?" said Frank, after a long silence,
as Mrs. Grey had taken up a book, and he would not interrupt her
reading: "it seems almost a day to me."

"It is almost an hour, indeed," replied his Grandmama, looking at her
watch; "and as the horses are more restive and impatient than my little
Frank, and cannot so easily be taught their duty, I will ring, and ask
the reason of so much delay."

The maid appeared all fright and bustle, and said that, from the attic
to the kitchen, she had sought for Master George, in vain.

Mrs. Grey was quite concerned, and said, "She feared some dreadful
mischief had befallen him, and hoped his poor mamma would not be told."

The girl then changed her tone, and appeared more angry than alarmed,
and said, "It was only one of his old tricks," and that "she wished he
might be flogged when he was found."

Frank felt his eyes brimful of tears, and looked beseechingly at Mrs.
Grey, as if to ask her powerful mediation. She read his thoughts, and
said:--

"Beating will do but little good, unless he can be first convinced of
its necessity, which does not often happen."

"There's no one _here_ can take that trouble, ma'am," said the
maid, peevishly; "I do assure you, Master George teazes us all, beyond
endurance. I'm sure I wish the time were come for him to be sent back to
school--for there is no peace within the house whilst he is in it."

"Dear me," thought Frank, "how very sorry I should he if Grandma's
servants said the same of me;--but they are all so very kind,
instead--and seem so glad to see me, and so pleased at all my treats. I
think this maid is rather cross, and feel afraid she often scolds poor
George."

"I fear that waiting longer will be useless, then," said Mrs. Grey; "but
I wish that you would bring the little truant up to me, when he returns,
for I should like to have some conversation with him."

"He will not like to show his face to you, ma'am, I should think," said
Mary; "he will be mad enough when he comes back, let him be where he
may--and it just serves him right," she added, as if rejoicing in his
disappointment. "I declare I cannot say that I am sorry, for he has led
me such a life about this 'Crystal Palace,' that, what with the illness
of my _missus_, and the noise of the children, added to my usual
work, I'm driven almost wild. I wonder who would ever have the plague of
them--not I, if I could help it!"

"Then suffer me to say, that you act a most dishonest part in taking
such a situation," said Mrs. Grey, with dignity.

Mary bridled up, and "hoped she always did her duty--and was sure that
her character could bear the strictest scrutiny--and that she had had
the care of twenty times more property in many of her former places."

"I bring no charge against you as a thief," said Mrs. Grey; "you quite
misunderstand my meaning. You may be very careful of the tea and
sugar--you may never waste your master's money--you may keep the
children clean, and neatly mend their clothes--you may even make them
say their prayers each night and morning--but if they do not see you
_love_ them--if you take no pleasure in their sports--feel no
delight in their society--no joy when they are good--no pain when they
are naughty--you will never gain a proper influence, and should not
enter into a situation that you cannot fitly occupy. This is the
dishonesty I spoke of, and not purloining goods or money."

"I did not rightly understand you ma'am," said Mary, still looking hot
and angry.

"But now you do. I think you feel the force of what I said?"

"Perhaps so, ma'am," said Mary, with reluctance.

"When, formerly, I had to hire a nurse," said Mrs. Grey, "my first
inquiries were--

"Are you very, _very_ fond of children? Do you love them tenderly
and constantly? Have you patience with their provoking little ways? Are
you calm and gentle, when you must rebuke or punish them? And do you
strive to make them good, as well as merry?

"These were my questions," she continued; "and those who could not
conscientiously say _Yes_, ought not, I said, to take the charge of
children. For _love alone_ will lead us to make sacrifices, and
children constantly require us to give up our own ease and
self-indulgence, and devote ourselves unceasingly to all their wants. A
nurse should feel herself a _temporary_ mother, and should make her
every thought tend to her children's welfare. It is a high and honorable
post, and has a rich reward, when well sustained. You must excuse me,
therefore, if, with such opinions, I spoke, as you might think, too
freely on the subject."

Mary was mollified by so much condescension, and, curtseying, said:--

"Oh, never mind, ma'am; no doubt you said it for my good; but could you
have to do with Master George, I do believe that he would even try
_your_ patience. There is no rest or quiet in him; he never will be
satisfied with what he has, but is always worrying for what he has not
got. Nothing will pacify him; and we often are obliged to shut him up
alone for hours together, he is so very troublesome."

"You had better, far, _employ_ him," said Mrs. Grey, "and so keep
him out of mischief, for solitude is only useful to the thoughtful and
the happy."

"But he does not love his book, ma'am, and is only pleased with
rioting," said Mary. "So what is to be done with such a boy?"

"No doubt he is a very troublesome and trying child," said Mrs. Grey;
"and I hope that God will give you grace and strength to bear with him,
and set before him _quietly_ his numerous faults. I have always
found this plan the most successful, and I advise you to begin it."

Just at this moment Mrs. Grant appeared. Surprised at hearing so much
conversation in the drawing-room, she had left her easy chair, and
having reached the landing-place, she leant against the banisters, and
listened to the conversation we have just recorded.

Delighted with the wisdom and the kindness of the observations, she felt
obliged to make a desperate effort and go to thank the visitor who gave
such good advice.

She looked so weak and delicate, that it was evident she had no power to
contend with her unruly son, and much less to inflict upon him the
needful discipline.

Frank stood before her, wondering in his little heart how any boy could
vex or tease so gentle and so sweet a mother.

"I should like to sit upon a stool beside her," said he to himself, "and
read some pretty book, and talk it over afterwards, and put her pillows
smooth, and watch when she seemed tired, and then hold my tongue awhile,
and let her fall asleep. I would walk on tip-toe in her room, and never
talk too loud to make her head ache, and run of all her errands, and so
try to save the servants trouble. Mary would not grumble then, I hope. I
must persuade poor George to turn over a new leaf, and see if he is not
more happy by it."

Mrs. Grant spoke very nicely to him; told him her little boy was very
fond of him, and gave him a good character, and that she hoped he would
be like him very soon. She regretted that her own ill-health prevented
her from giving him the indulgences he wanted, and that his father was
too busy in providing for his welfare, to spare him any time. She bade
him prize his own more happy lot, and seemed to wish to make all
possible excuses for the unkindness and undutifulness of her only son.

Fearing she would suffer from fatigue, Mrs. Grey took leave, promising
to come again and give her little boy some other treat, if he improved
his conduct.

Frank felt dull and disappointed just at first, but when he reached the
lively, bustling scene, where stood the Crystal Palace, he soon forgot
his short-lived troubles in astonishment and joy.

His Grandmama explained the use of every part, showed him the columns
and their sockets, the girders and the ribs, the sheets of glass, all
four feet long, the gutters and the water-pipes, the frames and
ventilators, the bolts, the rivets, and the nuts; the central aisle and
transept, each seventy-two feet wide, and more than sixty high, running
along the length and breadth of the whole building; the galleries,
running too along the sides, with the ingenious plans adopted to keep
the whole well aired, and have it neither hot nor cold. But as we hope
to have a very full account prepared for the use of our young friends,
by the time that they come home again at _mid-summer_--when the
whole will be completed, and filled with all its varied stores--we will
say no more at present on the subject, but reserve it for their study,
just before they make their visit to the Crystal Palace, in their next
holidays.

Frank and his Grandma were highly gratified; and having both expressed
their thanks to the kind friend who had given them an order of
admission, they were walking back towards the carriage, when a rush, a
hubbub, and a frightful screaming, stopped them in their way. Frank
turned very pale, for he fancied that he knew the voice. Alas! it was
too true--poor George had fallen down from off a scaffolding, and had
put out his collarbone, and broken several ribs!

He had slily left his home, according to his threat at school; had asked
his way at last to Kensington--all weary, hot, and frightened--and then
had found, too late, that there was "_no admission but on
business_" allowed.

Determined not to be defeated in his plans, he contrived to climb over
the fencing at a private corner, by the help of some loose stones that
lay beside it, caught his jacket on a nail, and tore it from the
shoulder to the wrist, and looking all around in great alarm, beheld
Frank Grey, a little way before him, walking with a lady and a
gentleman, switching his little cane, and looking up delighted in their
faces.

He took another glance at his torn coat, saw that his shoes were muddy,
and his hands all dirt, and blood, and scratches, and remembered--worse
than all--oh! far, far worse!--that he was there by stealth--a naughty,
wilful, disobedient boy, who dared not look upon his friends, because
his conscience told him how he was degraded. So, anxious to avoid his
little play-mate, he rushed up a ladder leading to the scaffolding, to
hide himself--missed his footing in his hurry, and fell down on to the
ground from a great height.

Oh! how his shrieks and groans did wound the heart of our dear Frank! He
wanted to push through the crowd, and get to him; but he was ordered
back by a wise doctor, who had just arrived, and who had his patient
placed upon a plank, and carried to the hospital hard by.

Mrs. Grey begged that her carriage might be used; but the doctor civilly
declined, and said that "it was most important that the little fellow
should be given up to him; but that his mother had been sent for, just
before, and was the _only_ person who might see him."

Oh! how dear Frank sobbed, as the shrieks rent the air!--- and as they
grew fainter and fainter in the distance, his Grandmama ordered the
servant to lift him to the carriage, that he might be taken quickly
home.

Frank snoozed up close beside his Grandmama, and sat so silent that she
hoped he slept, exhausted by his tears and pity; but, lifting up his
eyes, at length he said--

"Grandma, I fear poor George is not a 'Crystal Palace.' Is he?"

"Not now, my dear, but he may yet be one; and if he live to come again
to school, you must never tell him of this day's disgrace; for neither
boys nor men are goaded into goodness; but you must try, and pray, to
win him back to Jesus, and make him love and wish to imitate that
gracious Saviour, who, when himself a little boy, was said to grow in
favor both with God and man (Luke ii. 52)."

"I will, indeed; indeed, I will!" said Frank, weeping afresh; and so, to
turn his thoughts, his Grandmama proposed that they should call on Mrs.
Scott, and ask after her health.

Frank willingly agreed, for Harry Scott had always been a favorite with
him, though many years his senior. He was a noble, generous, and
condescending lad, who liked to play with little fellows, and not to
teaze and banter them, as too many of them do. Frank never was more
happy than when he was allowed to have a game with Harry. But now he had
not seen him for six months, and then only once or twice, as Harry and
his mother were going to the sea for change of air.

What, then, was his surprise and sorrow, to be told, that he had now
been very ill five months, and that it was not at all expected that he
ever would be better, until he went to dwell in the New Jerusalem--that
_'Noblest Crystal Palace',_--"descending out of heaven from God,
having the glory of God: and whose light is like unto a stone most
precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal; with gates of
pearl, and angels for the porters; with streets of gold, and a pure
river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne
of God and of the Lamb."--Rev. xxi. and xxii.

Poor Frank began to cry again, and think that he could hardly bear this
second trial. But Mrs. Scott looked cheerful, to his great astonishment,
and begged that they would walk up stairs, and see her son, who knew of
their arrival, and would be glad to see them.

Frank had mixed feelings as he listened to the invitation. He longed to
see dear Harry, and yet he was afraid of a sick chamber, and pictured it
all darkness and distress; and feared that he might hear again such
groans and shrieks as George had uttered.

He held his Grandma's hand quite tight, as he went with her along the
hall, and felt disposed to ask her not to go further, when they got to
the first landing; but then, remembering that Harry had expressed a wish
to see them, he thought it would be selfish and cruel to refuse; and so
he walked on bravely, though his little heart went pit-a-pat, and
sometimes seemed about to jump into his throat!

But when the door was opened, all his dread had gone! The room was light
and cheerful, the shutters were unclosed, and the blinds were up. A
cheerful fire blazed and crackled, and dear Harry lay beside it on a
sofa, looking lovely and lovingly as ever on him!

He put out both his hands to welcome him, and Frank saw that they were
very, very, very thin! Indeed, they looked almost transparent, they were
so white, and small, and delicate. Frank gave a little cough to stop a
sob, and stooped down to kiss him tenderly. But Harry gently put him
back, for he knew his cough was coming, caused by the opening of the
door. Long, long it lasted: the perspiration poured from his pale
forehead, and was dried upon his burning cheek; and the phlegm was
rattling in his throat, and yet would not come higher, and Frank really
feared he would be choked!

But soon the coughing ceased, and, smiling sweetly, he lay awhile quiet
and exhausted. Frank never took his eyes from off his face, and thought
it looked more beautiful than ever he had known it; and whilst he stood
and wondered what could make him look so calm amidst such suffering,
Harry once more opened his sweet soft hazel eyes, and said:--

"I hope, dear little Frank, I have not frightened you. I tried to stop
my cough on your account, and it made it worse than usual."

Poor Frank now stooped again to kiss him, but could not restrain his
tears another moment, yet kept repeating, "Oh! pray forgive me, Harry! I
do not mean to fret you; but indeed I cannot help it. Do forgive me; do
forgive me, Harry dear!"

It was now Harry's turn to be affected, and he could scarcely refrain
from weeping, with his feeling little friend; but resolutely mastering
his emotion, he began:--

"I asked you up to see me, dearest Frank, not to distress you, but to
comfort you, and cheer you, and prepare you for my death, which will
very shortly happen. I know you love me, and will grieve to lose me: and
_I_ feel sorry too, sometimes, to leave all those I love so
well--but then I go to others dearer still, even to God and Jesus, my
_own own_ Saviour!"

Little Frank began to dry his tears, and smile upon his happy friend.

"I have been to see 'The Crystal Palace,' Harry, and it is _so_
large and grand!" said he, hoping to amuse him.

"No doubt it will be, when completed, quite like a scene in fairy-land,"
said Harry, calmly; "but before that time arrives, angels will have
fetched me to one of the 'many mansions' that Jesus has prepared for all
who love him. (John xiv. 1, 2.) And think what palaces of light and
glory _they_ will be, dear Frank!"

"No doubt they will," said Frank, but looked as if he had no wish to see
them either, for the present.

Harry read his little thoughts, and said, "You are glad you are not in
my condition too. You would rather stay on earth with Grandmama, and all
the nice things that surround you here."

"Why, yes, I must confess I would," said Frank; "but I hope _that_
is not wrong? Is it anything against me, Harry?"

"By no means, Frank. And when I was in health like you, I felt the
same."

"Oh! I am glad of _that_" said Frank, relieved.

"But now that this earthly house of my tabernacle is dissolving, it is
very sweet to feel that I have a building of God, a house not made with
hands, eternal in the heavens, (2 Cor. v. 1); and I want to tell you how
you may have one too."

"I should like to know, I'm sure," said Frank.

"Yes. It is the one _thing needful_, dear; and all the time, and
trouble, and labor, spent in getting ready to take possession of it,
will be well repaid, the very moment that we see it. And however fair
that house may be I shall be fitted to inhabit it, which is another
comfort; for Jesus will present me faultless before his presence, with
exceeding joy. (Jude, 24.) He has loved me--suffered for me--saved me,
and preserved me to this hour; and now he is going to take me to
himself. There I shall see his glory; there I shall love him, and obey
him, and adore him, as all the blessed spirits do who are already
there."

"I can hardly wonder that you wish to go," said Frank, catching the
inspiration of his friend.

"No; it is far more wonderful that so many wish to stay."

"And yet this is a very pleasant place," said Frank. "I always feel it
so when I am good."

"And God means it for a very pleasant place, my dear. He has given us
the mountain and the glen, the forest and the grove, the lake and the
waterfall, the fruits and the flowers, the beasts and the birds, and all
that is beautiful and good for us! And when I think of these, I repeat
my favorite verse, and say--

    "O God! O Good beyond compare!
    If thus thy meaner works are fair--
    If thus thy bounty gilds the span
    Of ruined earth and sinful man,
    How glorious must the mansion be
    Where thy redeemed shall dwell with thee!"

"I am glad that it is proper to be happy," said Frank, thoughtfully; "I
used to tell George Grant at school I thought it was; but he said that
all good people must be dull and sad, and called them '_spoonies_.'"

"Then you must show him his mistake, dear, and let him see you always
cheerful; because you are obedient, industrious, affectionate, and
grateful."

"I wish I _was_ a Crystal Palace, I am sure, from the bottom of my
heart," said Frank.

"A what! my dear?" asked Henry in surprise.

"Tell him what I mean, Grandma; you can explain it better, far, than I
can do," said Frank.

"No; try yourself, instead."

"I really can't, Grandma, though I do _quite_ understand it; so
tell him, if you please."

Mrs. Grey explained the previous conversations, with which the reader is
acquainted, and at the conclusion, Frank exclaimed:--

"And, Harry dear, it is delightful to see that God has made of you a
'Crystal Palace,' I am sure."

Poor Harry shook his head at first, and said, "A very little palace,
dear, I am afraid."

"But Grandma says, that little things may be complete, and beautiful,
and luminous," said Frank.

"Well, shall I tell you, then, how it has been formed?" said Harry.

"Oh, do!" said Frank; "that will be kind."

"Then tell me what is _all_ glass made of?"

"Of flint and sand," said Frank.

"Exactly; and how are they melted down to glass?"

"By a great fire, called a furnace," replied Frank.

"Just so; and in this very furnace of affliction has my heart of flint,
and my loose sand of character, that would not fix itself to any good,
been melted down by God, to what you see. Let Him have _all_ the
praise, dear boy."

Harry now laid back his head, and looked fatigued.

Frank turned towards his grandmama, to see if she observed it, and would
take her leave.

Harry watched them both, and stretching out his arms, embraced Frank
tenderly, and said:--"You will live to be a 'Crystal Palace,' darling.
Only promise me one thing, before you go, that you will never, never
cease to pray about it."

Mrs. Scott now rose, and wished them hastily to leave the room, for she
saw her son was very faint; and before Frank and Mrs. Grey had left the
house, Harry had gone to take possession of his mansion!

His Grandmama did not inform him, for she thought it would too much
excite him; but after sitting silent in the carriage for a time, Frank
said:--

"Grandma! I never will forget one word that dearest Harry said to me;
nor will I cease to pray that both George Grant and I may each become a
_living_ 'Crystal Palace.'"