BUDS AND BLOSSOMS;

  OR,

  STORIES OF REAL CHILDREN.

  BY A LADY.

  LONDON:
  J. HATCHARD AND SON, 187, PICCADILLY.
  1832.




  LONDON:
  IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.




INTRODUCTION.


I have some little children who are fond of listening to me while I
tell them stories; but I always find, that when they are very much
pleased with one, they ask these questions: “Is it all _true_, mama? Is
it about a real little boy and girl?” and when I am obliged to answer,
“No, I do not think it is,” their countenances fall, and they seem as
if half their pleasure and half their interest were gone. Now I cannot
help fancying that other little boys and girls may have the same love
for true stories that mine have; so I think I will write some and
try. Would you then like to hear about some real children who are now
alive, and at the moment you read of them, most likely either playing
or learning their lessons, either good or naughty, just as they are
going to be described to you? You would.--Well then, Emily, Edwin, and
Charles, are my children, and I will make you know them as well as if
they were your own playfellows; and who can tell but you may some time
or other chance to see them, and to play with them in reality? How
droll it would be to meet them, and to find out that they were the very
children you had been reading about, and how surprised they would be to
see that you knew all that had ever happened to them. Why, they would
think that you must be little fairies, and would be half afraid to
trust themselves with you for fear that you should play off some elfish
trick upon them.




THE WISH.


“Mama,” said Emily to me the other day, “I like to hear you tell
Charles about God, and to see him listen as if he wanted to understand
all you say, so very, very much. Do tell me how you first began to
teach me, and whether I seemed to love to be taught as much as Charlie
does. I suppose you began when I was a very little girl, and now I am
nearly six years old; so of course I cannot remember such a long time
ago.”

“I think, dear Emily, the first time I told you any thing about God
was when you were a little more than two years old. I had been drawing
different things to amuse you. After the house, and the tree, and the
cow, which you so often hear little Charlie beg for, you asked me to
draw the sun, and the moon, and the stars; then, lifting up your little
face, you said, ‘But, mama, who could reach up and draw those pretty
great pictures of the sun and moon that Emmie sees in the sky?’”

_Emily._--“O then, mama, no doubt you told me that they were not really
pictures, but great lights which God, who is better and wiser than we
are, and can do every thing and reach every where, placed in the sky
for our sakes; and then you could easily go on to tell me, about his
creating us, and taking care of us by night and by day; and how we
ought to thank and to love him.

“And did I love him, mama?”

“Yes, my Emily; and I believe you thought that every thing he
made should do the same; for one day, when I was working in the
drawing-room, and you were with me, I observed that you stood at the
window quite quiet for a long time, watching something, but _what_ I
did not know. At last you turned round, and said, ‘Mama, how dearly the
little birds must love God!--they fly up in the sky so often to see
him. Emmie wishes she was a little bird too.’”




THE FIRST RIPE STRAWBERRY.


“Now, Emily and Edwin, bring your little stools close by me, and
Charlie shall climb into my lap, and we will have a good gossip over
this bright fire.”

_Emily._--“O that will be so nice, mama! I do love a gossip; and what
shall we talk about?”

_Edwin._--“Let us talk about next summer; I am so fond of next summer,
because then there will be fruit and flowers and young birds.”

“Well, suppose we begin by talking about _last_ summer, because we know
most about it. So first Emily shall talk about the fruit, and then
Edwin about the flowers; and I will talk about the young birds, which
are the three things you are so fond of. So what have you to say about
the fruit, Emily?”

“O do you remember how we used to go every day for such a long time to
peep at the strawberry-beds, because Edwin did not recollect even what
a ripe strawberry was like, and I wanted to show him the first; but the
tiresome flowers staid on so long, that I scolded them, though they
looked so white and pretty; and then they seemed to laugh in my face
with their little saucy yellow eyes; and when at last they did drop
off, there were only little hard green heads, that looked as if they
never could be ripe, never could be soft and red and juicy. Well, but
then it rained for two whole days, and the next morning, though the sun
was very hot indeed, the grass was so wet that we could not run across
the lawn to the fruit-garden. But the day after, mama said, ‘Now,
Emily and Edwin, you may go and peep at the strawberry-beds.’ So we ran
away hand in hand, and then--ah, ah, Mr. Eddie! I see you remember what
we found, for your eyes sparkle, and you open your little mouth just as
you did when I popped the first ripe strawberry into it.”

_Edwin._--“Yes, Emmie, and how long I hunted for one for you, and
lifted up every leaf, but there was not one more ripe, and I had eaten
mine quite, quite up; but you said, ‘Never mind, for I am old enough to
remember how they taste.’”

_Emily._--“And it would indeed have been silly to have minded, for the
next day there was one for each of us, and the day after a great many;
and the day after that, mama let us fill our little basket to surprise
old nurse with a treat at our tea-time.--O when will it be summer
again?”

_Edwin._--“It will be Charles’s turn to be feasted now instead of
me; for, poor little boy, he only knows about oranges and figs and
sweetmeats, and perhaps remembers a very little about grapes and
peaches and morella cherries.”

“But I think, Edwin, by poor Charlie’s face, he does not seem to
consider the things you have just mentioned quite so worthless as you
suppose, or that he would be so very much to be pitied if he never saw
any other fruit at all.”

_Emily._--“O! but then, mama, that is because he does now know what
a ripe strawberry is. It is not that a strawberry tastes only of
strawberry, but that it tastes of summer all over.--O sweet summer!
when will you come again?”




THE FLOWERS.


“Now then, Edwin, it is your turn to talk; so what have you to tell us
about the flowers?”

_Edwin._--“O not a great deal about the garden flowers, mama, because
I can never recollect their names;--only just the Dahlias, because I
used to be so fond of standing before them to watch that sweet little
humming-bird-bee, which used to spin round and round, and dart its
long tongue that looked just like a bill, first into one flower and
then into another; and Emily and I thought it really was a bill, and
that the humming-bird-bee really was a bird; and we used to hunt among
the shrubs for its tiny nest, and wonder whether its eggs were bigger
than the beads of Emmie’s necklace; till one day you caught the little
cheat under your handkerchief, and we found out that instead of being
a beautiful lilac bird, it was nothing but a plain dull-coloured moth,
and that it was only its spinning round and round that made its colour
and its shape so pretty.--Yes, yes, Mr. Humming-bird-bee, you may twirl
about as much as you please when you come back in the summer, (for we
did let you go, though you were such a sad cheat,) but you will never
take us in again, I promise you.

“And I remember, mama, about the trumpet-honeysuckle, because of my toy
trumpet, and because of something that happened about it too. We had
been watching a poor bee a long time, which was working very busily
getting its little wings and legs all laden with honey, and every now
and then it came to the mouth of the trumpet-honeysuckle, and we saw
its little powdery nose, and then it went back again, as if it thought
it might still get a little more; at last it came quite out, and seemed
very busy packing the wax and honey tight under its wings, that it
might not be blown away as it flew;--and then, O what a sad, sad thing
happened to the poor bee! A great horrid hornet came rushing over our
heads, pounced upon it, carried it away in its frightful arms, settled
upon a laurel leaf just by, and began to devour it with a crackling
noise, till Emmie threw her basket at it, and then it soared in the
air, and carried the poor bee off far over our heads to some tall tree,
where I dare say it eat it up, honey and all, in a minute.”

_Emily._--“Now, mama, it is your turn, and I am sure you must have a
great deal to remind us of, for you were quite as much interested about
the young birds as we were.”

“It is too late to begin now, dear Emily, and to-morrow evening I
shall be from home; but on the one following, I will certainly keep my
promise. But now my loves, good night.”




THE PIANO-FORTE.


_Emily._--“Mama, I like the evening after you have dined out, for you
have always something to tell. You have either seen some little boys
or girls, or heard some amusing story; so pray now think of some nice
thing to entertain us with.”

“Well, I believe I can satisfy you to-night, for I have something to
tell, and something to read also.

“When the ladies went into the drawing-room after dinner, we found,
besides the little Russells, a sweet-looking girl who was staying with
them. She had been seated at the pianoforte playing for the little
Russells’ amusement; but she got up hastily on our entering the room,
and placed herself modestly behind her young friends. ‘That was a
beautiful air that we heard as we crossed the hall, and appeared to be
most beautifully played,’ said one of the party.

“‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Russell, ‘Ellen Ross does play beautifully, and I
shall not allow her a very long respite before I ask her to let us hear
her.’

“In a short time, then, Ellen was again seated at the pianoforte,
and her playing was really quite astonishing for so young a girl. I
expressed my admiration to Mrs. Russell, who said, ‘The story attached
to that dear girl’s playing is more singular than her playing itself.
Last summer I was staying with the Sydneys in Hampshire, who are the
Ross’s nearest neighbours and great friends. Mrs. Sydney, who doats
on Ellen, told me a story of her which pleased me so much, that I
wrote it down immediately for the amusement of my own little girls,
who, after hearing it, never let me rest till I had invited Ellen Ross
to stay with us. If you like, I will lend it to you to read to your
Emily.’ And here it is; so as we are all together, I will read it to
you at once.”




THE BIRTH-DAY.


“Ellen,” said Colonel Ross to his daughter one day, “I have been
mortified this morning, but I own not surprised. I have had a note from
your music-master, declining to give you any more lessons. I believe
the honest man knows I can ill afford the expense, and he is candid
enough to tell me that my ‘daughter’s extreme volatility, and total
neglect of practising, render it perfectly useless for him to continue
to attend her’--Ellen,” continued Colonel Ross, glancing sadly at a
beautiful pianoforte which stood in the otherwise simply-furnished
drawing-room, “I had hoped that that instrument, which indeed I did
not purchase without a sacrifice, would have become the source of many
an hour of solace, and that my little girl would have loved to have
played away some of her papa’s weary evenings when his shattered health
and spirits unfit him for employment. But don’t cry, my love,--and,
Ellen, do not ask me to let you learn again. I have long seen your
dislike to practising, and as my little girl does every thing else so
well, perhaps I ought to have released her from the one irksome thing
sooner; but I have had reason to be fond of music,” and Colonel Ross’s
eye rested on the portrait of Ellen’s mother, painted as a St. Cecilia.
“Good night, my child,” added he, “let us never mention this subject
again,--let me see your last drawing when you come down to-morrow
morning, love. I will try and centre my amusement in a pursuit which is
a favourite one with you also.”

Ellen received her papa’s kiss in silence, and restrained her tears
till, as she had nearly crossed the hall, a sound reached her, which
sent them rapidly down her cheeks. She heard her papa lock the
pianoforte, and as he did it, sigh deeply.

Till within the last year Ellen Ross’s had been a wandering life: she
had accompanied her parents from climate to climate in search of that
health for her dear mother, which it, however, pleased Providence to
withhold from her. She died in Italy, and her husband and child had
returned to England, and were now fixed in a retired village on the
edge of the New Forest. Ellen’s wanderings, though they had in many
respects cultivated her taste and contributed to her accomplishments,
for she had acquired the French and Italian languages without trouble,
and warbled their national airs as if she had been born amongst their
own purple vineyards, had prevented her from gaining those steady
habits of perseverance which are never more wanted than during the
first drudgery which the learning music must inflict. Poor Ellen’s
love of sweet sounds, and recollection of having heard them abroad
in their utmost perfection, gave her no assistance now. The tedious
scales, and the childish tunes which she blundered through, offended
her ear exactly in proportion as it was alive to the delights of real
music; and she would quit the instrument in disgust, and wander in
the garden to do what she _could do_--to warble the airs which found
their own way so naturally from her heart to her lips. But now, now
she had a motive which no selfish repugnance could weaken. Her papa
had been mortified--disappointed. Her indolence had robbed him of an
expected pleasure--a pleasure which he had said he “made a sacrifice to
obtain.” Ere she closed her eyes that night, Ellen’s plan was formed,
and the instant she opened them in the morning, she exclaimed, “Ah!
it is nearly day-light already, and Caroline Sydney always gets up
early--_she_ is never idle.”

Another hour found the two friends closeted in Caroline’s school-room,
and Mrs. Sydney was soon called in to aid the consultation. It was
settled that Ellen was to have the use of Caroline’s pianoforte for
the purpose of practising, and as she had always been in the habit of
passing two or three hours every day with her young friend, her absence
from home for this object could excite no inquiry. Mrs. Sydney and
Caroline readily promised to assist her with all the instruction she
could require; and with such a motive, such teachers, and a natural
talent for music, who can wonder that her progress was indeed rapid?

“How delighted her papa will be!” exclaimed Caroline Sydney to her mama
one day, while Ellen was playing one of Colonel Ross’s most favourite
airs. “He will indeed, Caroline,” replied Mrs. Sydney, “and that remark
of yours calls out Ellen’s powers like magic.”--“I know it does, mama,”
said Caroline, “and I can always guess when Ellen is thinking of her
papa’s surprise,--she plays her tunes then with as much spirit as if
she had composed them herself. I can hardly wait for Colonel Ross’s
birth-day; and yet,” she added, addressing Ellen, “you must not betray
the secret sooner, for you know I always spend that day with you, and
it would break my heart not to be present.”

“O Caroline!” said Ellen, springing from the music-stool, and throwing
her arms round her friend’s neck, “how can you think I could be so
ungrateful as to cheat you of your share of a pleasure which I should
never, never have enjoyed without your own and your dear mama’s
kindness?”

The birth-day at length arrived. “Ellen, my love,” said Colonel Ross,
entering the room in which she was sitting, putting the last touch to a
drawing which was to be one of the offerings of the evening, and which
she slipped into her portfolio as her papa came in, “I fear your own
and Caroline Sydney’s pleasure will be rather spoiled this evening by
the arrival of a stranger; but General Malcolm is a very old friend of
mine, who has taken Earl Court. He has just found out that I am in his
neighbourhood, and has written to propose spending to-day with me. We
were old soldiers together, and I have not seen him for many years, and
I cannot do so ungracious a thing as to refuse to receive him.”

It may be guessed that Ellen’s first feeling was that of consternation.
The fondly cherished scheme of a whole year seemed to be at once
disconcerted. A stranger was to be with them on that evening on which
the discovery was to have taken place; and as Caroline was so engaged
that she could not be present till after dinner, the birth-day must,
she thought, pass away without a chance of the surprise which was to
have made it for her the happiest she had ever hailed.

However, no selfish feeling could find a resting-place for many moments
in Ellen’s mind. She remembered how often she had wished that her papa
had some friend within his reach of his own habits and profession,
whose society might beguile the gloom with which ill health and sad
recollections would sometimes overshadow his fine mind and naturally
even temper, and she said cheerfully, “Then, dear papa, I must offer
you my drawing _now_, though I think I could have improved it before
the evening; but I should be shy at showing it before a stranger.” The
drawing was full of taste, and the kiss full of affection with which it
was received, and Colonel Ross left the room to write an acceptance of
General Malcolm’s offered visit.

The afternoon came, and with it General Malcolm. Ellen presided at
the dinner-table in compliment to the day, and then retired to the
drawing-room to await her young friend’s arrival.

“Poor Caroline!” thought she, “how disappointed she will be! I cannot
expect she will be comforted as completely as I am, when I tell her
how very, very much dear papa seems to enjoy having his old friend with
him. But, ah! I hear her coming.”

In spite of the comfort of which Ellen had been boasting, a tear
accompanied the kiss with which she greeted her friend. Poor Caroline
was indeed in dismay, and many a reproachful epithet did she lavish on
the unconscious general for his ill-timed arrival. “How I shall hate
the very sight of him, provoking creature! Could he not have fixed
on any day but this? I shall not be able to speak to him civilly, or
to look at him with common patience--But, Ellen, could you not play
still?”--“O Caroline! how can I before a stranger?--You know I shall be
quite sure to cry; and” added she, her sweet eyes filling with tears,
“I should not wonder if my dear papa cried too.”

The little girls were now interrupted by the entrance of the two
gentlemen. During tea, the conversation turned on the general’s new
house. “Have you completed the furnishing it?” asked Colonel Ross.
“There is only one thing I believe materially wanting; though, as
an old bachelor, I have no constant means of enjoying the luxury of
music, I cannot bear to deprive myself of the chance of hearing it
occasionally from my lady-guests.--You do not, I fear,” continued
General Malcolm, “chance to know of a fine-toned pianoforte to be
disposed of in the neighbourhood?”--“I have been for the last year
looking out for a purchaser for the one you see before you,” replied
Colonel Ross, with a sigh; “Ellen does not play, and it is useless
to me.”--“What, devotedly fond as I know you are of music, have you
not made a point of your daughter’s learning?” exclaimed General
Malcolm. “She did begin, but she does not like it, and music is not
an accomplishment to be _forced_. It requires too great a sacrifice
of time, unless there is a certainty of success.”--“I should not have
thought that your daughter disliked music,” said General Malcolm,
almost unconsciously glancing at the picture of her mother, whose
talent had so often charmed him; and then resting his eyes on Ellen’s
countenance, beaming with the same seraphic sweetness, “I should have
thought the very soul of music dwelt there:--But could I not hear a few
notes?--a chord or the simplest scale would enable me to judge of the
tone of the instrument.”--“Caroline Sydney has unfortunately sprained
her wrist,” said Colonel Ross, “or we should have no difficulty.”
Caroline cast a beseeching look on the blushing, hesitating
Ellen. “Papa,” said she, timidly, “I think I could remember a few
notes.”--“Well, you may at least try,” said her papa; and as he took
the key from the drawer in which it had so long lain useless, Ellen
once more heard it turn in the lock of the pianoforte, and heard also
once again the sigh which accompanied the action, but with feelings
how different from her former ones! She sat down, and after a light
and brilliant prelude, played one of her mother’s most favourite airs,
adding variations full of taste and beauty of her own arranging.

“Good Heavens, Ross!” exclaimed General Malcolm, in a tone of equal
astonishment and admiration; “and is this the instrument you would part
with?--And is this the daughter who is not fond of music?” But how was
the explanation given? It was not by words, but by Colonel Ross’s
folding his beloved child in his arms, and letting his tears fall on
her lovely forehead as he sobbed, “My Ellen, I shall now be able to
close my eyes, and fancy that your sainted mother lives again to bless
me!”

A year has passed away, and the warm-hearted General Malcolm is no
more. His landed property has descended to a distant relation, but his
will contained a bequest of the sum of ten thousand pounds to “Ellen
Ross, as a token of affectionate admiration, and to enable her to
increase the comforts of her beloved father.”




THE YOUNG BIRDS.


“Mama,” said Emily, “I was so much interested in the story of Ellen
Ross, that I quite forgot to claim your promise of telling us all you
remember about the young birds of last summer; but we have both settled
that we cannot let you off this evening, so pray, pray begin.”

“Well, then, I recollect that we were all sitting under the great
pear-tree. I was plaiting rush baskets for you, and you and Edwin were
picking out the longest and greenest rushes for me to use; when all at
once we saw pussy run in a great hurry across the lawn with something
in her mouth; and then we saw two pretty goldfinches flying over her
head, and uttering the most distressed cries as if to beg her to spare
their little one--for it was a young goldfinch, which she held so tight
in her mouth. We ran after her, but she hid herself in the thickest
part of the shrubbery; and long before we could scramble through, the
little goldfinch had been quite eaten up, and but one or two shining
yellow feathers left on the ground. Well, we returned sadly to our
seat, but just as I was beginning to work at the basket again, we saw
naughty pussy creeping softly, softly back again towards the part
of the garden from which we had first seen her come with the little
bird in her mouth; and then the same pair of old goldfinches began to
fly round and round above her head, uttering their plaintive cry. We
ran to the spot, and when puss saw that we got there before her, she
skulked back with a disappointed growl, and we soon found two sweet
little young birds sitting close together on the border, their feathers
shivering from fright. Part of their nest lay by them as if it had been
blown down by the wind, and they had fallen with it before they were
strong enough to fly. We knew, that if we left them, sly pussy would
come back the moment she saw she was not watched, and mop them up as
she had already mopped up their poor little brother. So we made them as
warm a nest as we could of wool and feathers. Emily ran into the house
for an empty cage, and we shut the little creatures in it, and set it
at the open window of the drawing-room.”

“And do you recollect your delight when first you saw that the old
birds had found them out?”

_Emily._--“Yes, yes, mama; at first they perched on the top of the
plane-tree opposite; then by degrees they fluttered down from branch
to branch, lower and lower, calling their young ones all the time.
Then they took little short flights towards the window, and back again
to the plane-tree. Then they first rested a moment on the branches of
sweet briar which waved before the window, then on the cage; and at
last--O how nice that was! they grew quite, quite bold, and ventured
backwards and forwards into the room even when we were sitting in it,
and fed their little ones with flies and seeds, chirping all the time
they fed them, amusing them with a pretty song when they had done.”

“Now, my children, it is bed-time.--Why, I declare poor Charlie is
fast asleep in my lap, and I quite forgot my own sweet nestling while
we were talking about the little birds. To-morrow you are to spend
with the Stanleys, but the next evening, if you are in the humour for
it, I will remind you of our prettiest pets of all--the golden-crested
wrens.”




THE BLACK FROCK.


“Now, my dear Emily, let me hear all about your visit at Mrs.
Stanley’s.--Who was there besides the little Stanleys? What did you do?
Did you enjoy your evening?”

_Emily._--“Oh! there were the little Vincents, nice merry little girls,
and I played a great deal with them at first; but, mama, there was
one little girl whose name I did not know, with a face so pretty, but
so pale, and with a black frock on, who did not play at all, and I
could not help watching her; and I began to pity her, so that I left
off playing, and sat down close by her on the grass; but I did not
speak to her, because she looked so very sad, and I did not know what
to say to comfort her; but I think she saw I pitied her, for she took
hold of my hand, and said, ‘I could love _you_, but you would not love
_me_ long.’ I was going to say, ‘Indeed I would,’ but just then Lucy
Stanley came running up to us, and said, ‘Your servant is come, Emily,
and Edwin is in such a hurry to go, he is looking for his little hat,
and begs me to call you.--Do you think he is tired of us, that he is
in such haste to leave us?’--‘O no,’ I said, ‘Edwin does not want to
leave you, but he is such a good little boy, that he is always in a
hurry to do what he knows mama wishes, and she told us not to keep
nurse waiting.’--And then, mama,--what could it be for?--the little
pale girl burst into such a fit of crying, let go my hand, and jumped
up, and ran into the house, and Lucy looked after her, and said, ‘Poor
unhappy Clara!’ Do you know why she is in black, mama; and why she is
so unhappy, and why what I said about Eddie could make her cry?”

“Poor Clara! my heart indeed aches for the unhappy little girl. I will
tell you her story--it is a sad one, but might be useful to many a
little girl who may have the same fault which has rendered her so very
wretched.”




THE PERVERSE LITTLE GIRL.


“Clara Glanville had a mama who loved her tenderly--as tenderly as
a fond mama was likely to love an only little girl, and Clara, I
believe, loved her mama also; but though she had a warm heart, she had
a perverse temper, and while she really wished to please her mama, this
strange fault constantly tempted her to grieve and contradict her. It
was not any positive act of disobedience that she was guilty of, but a
perpetual vexatious disputing of her mama’s wishes, more wearing even
than disobedience itself would have been. For instance: if her mama
desired her to walk out, she would weary her with reasons for staying
in the house. If she asked her to do one particular lesson, she would,
from mere perverseness, torment her to allow her to do a different one
instead. Sometimes she would ask a long string of useless questions;
and when her mama, who had been ill, and was still far from strong,
was obliged to say that she was too tired to answer any more, Clara
would go on repeating, ‘But _do_ answer me, mama--but do answer me,
mama,’ crying all the time, till her mama was so worn out, that she
was ready to cry herself from mere exhaustion. Then she would mildly
say, ‘My Clara, go, you make me ill, _very_ ill;’ and Clara would look
at her mama, and see by her pale cheeks and heavy eyes, that she was
indeed ill, and she would burst into tears of penitence, and say, ‘O
mama, mama, I will never, never vex you again!’ Alas! she had so often
repeated these words, that Mrs. Glanville could now only shake her head
distrustfully, and say, ‘God grant it, my poor child! you are laying
up misery for yourself, which will, I fear, last longer than that
you are causing me. O Clara! you will often think of these things!’
Clara did not know _all_ that her mama meant, but she felt that she
had been cruel and perverse, and no doubt determined sincerely at the
moment, that she would never vex her mama again; but she had given
way too long to her perverse temper to allow of its being conquered
all at once, and the next, perhaps the very same day, witnessed a fit
of the same obstinacy, followed by the same repentance and the same
vain resolution of amendment. One day, after having borne with Clara’s
perverseness as long as her spirits would permit, Mrs. Glanville was
forced to send her out of the room with an injunction not to return
till she was really good. After the struggle between her pride and her
better feelings had lasted some time, Clara stole back to her mama’s
dressing-room. She paused behind the open door, for she had not quite
brought down her stubborn spirit to own her fault, and to beg her
mama’s pardon. At this moment, her papa came into her mama’s room, and
she could not help hearing the conversation which passed between them.

“‘What has happened to distress you, my love?’ said her papa; ‘I
know Clara has been wearing you out by her perverseness. You will
never regain your strength while that child gives you such perpetual
vexation. Do pray consent to her going from home; your sister would,
I know, take great care of her, and I am sure it would be better
for Clara as well as for yourself. You have not strength to struggle
against her strange temper, and it grows upon her every day.’ Her mama
was silent for a few moments, and when she did speak, Clara knew from
her voice that she had been crying. ‘Well, I believe that you are
right,’ she said; ‘I care not for myself, but perhaps my poor Clara
might be benefited by being parted from me for a time. Perhaps, when we
were once separated, she might remember all the pain she has given me;
and as she would not have an opportunity of breaking her resolutions
when they were only just formed, they might acquire strength, and she
might return to be once more a comfort to me. I think she loves me,
though her strange perverseness makes her often give me such bitter
pain. But do not tell her why she goes; I could not bear that she
should think herself banished, it would break her heart, and make the
parting so painful, that I could not support her grief and my own.’
‘Well, my love, I will only say that she is to go; I do not wish to
tell her why: she would only beg to stay, and repeat her promises of
amendment till she persuaded you to try her again, and again she would
break them, and hurt you more than ever.’”

_Emily._--“O mama, what must poor Clara have felt when she heard all
this! And did she not run into the room and kneel to her papa and mama,
and entreat them not to send her away from them, and promise to be the
very best little girl in all the world if they would but let her stay;
and did she not keep her promise, and were not she and her mama happy
ever afterwards? But O the black frock!”

“You shall hear, my Emmie. Clara did nothing of all that you
suppose. She saw that her papa would not believe her promises, and
her conscience told her that he was right. She stole then back with a
bursting heart to her own room, shut the door, and threw herself on
the bed. After a few minutes, ‘O my dear, dear mama!’ she sobbed to
herself, ‘I will not trust myself; I will not ask to stay; I will not
kill you by my sad, sad temper. You shall get strong and well, and
when I do come back, perhaps God will have made me good. I will pray
to him so earnestly, and I shall not make you ill again, but happy!--I
shall make my own mama happy! O why, why have I not always done so? But
perhaps it is not now too late.’--Ah, poor Clara!

“O what did she not suffer during the rest of that day? Her mama
breathed not a word about her going, but her fond caresses, and tender
tone of voice seemed to say, ‘My poor child, you little know the
banishment your conduct has brought upon you.’ Before she went to bed
her papa kissed her, and said kindly, but gravely, ‘Clara, you are to
go to-morrow morning to stay some time with your aunt. Be a good girl
whilst you are absent, and try to be good when you return home. Wish
your mama good-bye--she is not allowed to be disturbed as early as you
must set off.’

“Clara said not one word--she received her papa’s kiss with downcast
eyes, stood still for a moment, and then sprung to her mama, buried
her head in her bosom, raised her little face with her eyes shut to
restrain her bursting tears, received her mama’s fond kiss on her
quivering lips, and then ran out of the room. She thought she heard
her mama call her back, but her papa’s voice reached her ear more
distinctly, saying, ‘No, no, my love; believe me, it is better as it
is--let her go; I must consider your health first.’

“Clara spoke not one word while her maid undressed her; then she said
her prayers fervently, and sobbed herself to sleep. The next morning
she was called early, her breakfast was brought to her in her own room,
but her poor little throat ached so sadly from sobbing, that she could
not swallow, nor had she much wish to eat.

“The carriage came to the door; Clara stole softly along the passage
not to disturb her mama.--Was she asleep? Clara paused for a moment at
her door--she thought she heard her sigh, but she was not sure; so she
passed on, saying to herself, ‘When I come back I _may_ kiss her, and
be certain that I hear her voice, and I will ask her forgiveness, and
will show her that I can keep my promise, and I will make her happy!’
Comforted by this thought, Clara tripped on with a lighter heart and
step. She found her papa waiting to lift her into the carriage. ‘God
bless you, my child! you were a good girl not to wake your mama, she
has had a sadly disturbed night.--O Clara! try to please her when you
come home; you know not what a blessing you have in such a mother, or
what it would be to lose her.’ Her papa’s voice trembled, and he turned
away; the carriage door was closed, and Clara fell back with a swelling
heart and streaming eyes.

“‘And I might have been good, and I might have stayed with my own
mama, and she might have been now blessing me, and wishing me good
night!’ said Clara to herself that evening, as she laid her head on
her strange pillow, and compared her aunt’s grave, frigid manner, to
her mama’s, so tender and caressing. A few weeks passed heavily away;
her aunt set Clara her appointed tasks in the morning, sent her to walk
a stated time in a precise garden, with an old servant as stiff and
unbending as herself, made her spend her evenings in working silently
by her side, and then dismissed her to bed with a cold kiss, and a
formal ‘Good night.’

“At last, after one of her tedious walks, on coming into the
drawing-room, Clara found her aunt, not sitting up stiffly at her
work as usual, but leaning with her face buried in her hands, which
were clasped upon an open letter on the table before her. Clara stood
quietly till a deep sigh from her aunt made her draw still closer, and
whisper, ‘My aunt, O tell me what has happened!--my dear mama!’ Her
aunt, so cold, so unmoved in general, now caught Clara in her arms,
strained her to her breast, and said, ‘My poor Clara, your mama is
very, very ill. Be ready to set off. God grant we may be in time!’

“They were _not_ in time. Clara did indeed steal to her mama’s door,
did indeed kiss those pale lips; but O! she could not then even fancy
that she heard that voice. Her mama had died, and she had _not_ begged
her forgiveness--had _not_ shown that she would keep her promise--had
_not_ made her happy!

“My Emily, do you now wonder that the little pale girl in the black
frock did not play, and that when you innocently said, ‘Eddie is a good
little boy, and always in a hurry to do what his mama wishes,’ she
burst into tears, and ran into the house, or that Lucy Stanley looked
so sorrowfully after her, and exclaimed, ‘Poor unhappy Clara!’”




THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WRENS.


_Emily._--“Now, mama, pray keep your promise; the fire is burning
brightly, and here are our little stools, and a chair for you, and we
are quite in the humour for being reminded of the golden-crested wrens;
besides, I want something to make me forget poor Clara--her story has
made me quite sad.”

“Well then, one day soon after your squirrel had escaped from his cage,
we were standing under a fir-tree, watching the little fellow as he
was scraping the fir-apples with his teeth, and sending down showers
of the outside shell upon our heads. All at once we heard the quick
soft chirp, scarcely louder than a grasshopper’s, which you had learned
to know so well, and looking up, we saw a pair of golden-crested wrens
pop into a snug little nest, which hung from the twig of a cedar
close by. O how you and Edwin jumped about for joy at the discovery,
while you cried out, ‘Do, mama, let us bring the pruning steps--see,
they are close by; do let us get up them, and have one peep at the
eggs, not bigger than peas, or the little tiny birds, if they are
hatched.’ The steps were soon placed at the foot of the cedar; but O!
what happened;--they slipped, and a branch which they had kept back,
escaped and flew against the nest. The little birds were startled, and
one after the other came half tumbling, half fluttering down to the
ground. Out sprung naughty pussy from the shrubbery where she had been
watching, and we could scarcely pick them up quick enough to save them
from her claws. Poor little things! we did not mean to hurry you out
of your nice soft nest; we only wished to have one peep at your pretty
bead-like eyes, your funny chuffy faces, and your little green bodies,
not an inch long.”

“But now, mama,” said Edwin, “we were obliged to save them from that
savage pussy,”--“we were; so we took them into the house and put them
in the canary’s cage--but ah! they flew through the wires as easily as
if they had been tiny bees instead of birds; so we contrived a wire
front to a box till we could have a cage made on purpose for them. Then
we got their own soft nest and put it in the box, and set them on the
porch beneath my window. And do you remember what pleasure it was to
see the old birds come, and cling to the wires with the food sticking
to their little sharp black bills, which the young ones so cleverly
picked off.”

_Emily._--“Yes, mama; and when we got their pretty new cage with its
swinging perches, how nice it was to see the little funny things
sitting all in a row with their soft sides pressed so close to each
other, and all their little cunning faces turned the same way, watching
for the food we gave them. Sometimes we used to treat them by sticking
a branch of honeysuckle in the cage, and then they would run up and
turn the flowers inside out, hanging by their tiny claws, and helping
themselves to the blight. O how tame and pretty they grew, and their
little crests came peeping on their heads and looked like crocus-buds.
But now, mama, are we not coming to the melancholy part?”

“Yes, indeed we are; so we will not spoil this evening’s pleasure, but
leave the recollection of what happened to your pretty pets at last,
till another evening.”




THE STRANGE CAT.


_Emily._--“Now the fire burns dimly, mama, and so it ought for such a
melancholy story; and I feel quite sad enough to listen to the rest of
what happened to our pretty little wrens; so pray, mama, begin.”

“One day we were sitting at the window sorting seeds to sow in your
little gardens, when we heard a scrambling noise in the jessamine which
runs up from the porch to my window, where we had just before left
the pretty wrens, chirping and stretching their tiny wings to catch
the warm sun-beams. The next moment a strange half-starved cat sprung
from the jessamine, and crept along the turf till she reached the
shrubbery, and then forcing herself through the bushes, hid herself
from our sight.

“There was a cry of distress from all the little birds which had before
been singing so merrily among the branches, and we saw the poor parent
golden-crested wrens wheeling round and round in the air, and following
the direction which the strange cat had taken. We remembered the poor
goldfinches, so we guessed but too well what had happened. We ran up
stairs, and there we heard a fluttering, and we dared scarcely look
into the cage; but when we did look, there lay one poor pretty thing
quite dead, with its breast all bleeding from a stab by the strange
cat’s cruel claw, and the others were all beating the wires with their
little gasping bills: in a few minutes two of them dropped down dead by
the side of their little brother, and before night the last had pined
itself to death.”




THE THUNDER STORM.


“O mama, how I do love to watch a thunder storm,” said Emily to me one
evening in April, whilst she leant at the open window gazing at the
clouds, and listening to the awful peals which from time to time burst
from them. “It reminds me of that beautiful story of Samuel, I could
always say, ‘Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth.’--Don’t you think, mama,
it seems as if God really spoke to us? But you do not seem to enjoy
it;” added she, turning round; “you hide your eyes, and seem quite
sad.--Are you _frightened_, mama?”

“Not for myself, Emily; but I cannot forget that your papa is now
crossing the heath, and exposed to these awful flashes of lightning.”

“And _I_ did forget it!--How could I?” said Emily, changing colour,
and quitting her post at the window to place herself close by me with
her little hands on my lap, clasping one of mine closely between them.
Another flash!--She watched my countenance, but said nothing.--Another,
still more vivid! She raised herself on tiptoe, and whispered in my
ear, “But we have been anxious about papa often before, and yet he has
come home safe.--Does that comfort you, mama?”

“It ought, dear Emily; but O what a flash was that!” Emily let go
my hand, and darted into my dressing-room, where she remained a few
minutes; then returning with a bright cherubic smile, she took her
station by me again.

At that moment the whole room was illumined, but Emily did not this
time flinch or change colour, but she threw her little arms round my
neck, and said, “Mama, I am not frightened now, and perhaps you will
be bolder when I tell you what I have done. You do not know why I went
into your dressing-room: it was to kneel down and pray God and Jesus
Christ to let dear papa come home safe to us again; and if Jesus Christ
does suffer little children to come to him, (which you tell me may mean
by prayer,) surely it will be when they pray him to take care of their
own dear papas--the papas God gave them!--But hark! I hear a horse! It
is, it is papa, and he is come home safe!”




THE GIPSIES.


“Do tell us, mama, whether gipsies really steal children?” said Edwin,
on his return from his morning’s walk with his nurse and sister. “There
is a camp to-day in the green lane, and nurse would not let us stir a
step from her side. I thought that the stories about them were only
silly fables like those of witches and fairies.”

“Most of those you meet with are no doubt inventions, but I believe
there have been some actual instances of these wandering tribes
carrying off children, either for the purpose of swelling their
numbers, or of exciting compassion when they beg. I remember one story
which professes to be true, and which at any rate may interest you and
Emily. Shall I tell it to you?”

“O pray, pray let us hear it!” cried Emily and Edwin at once. So here
it is.




THE STOLEN CHILD.


“I think you had best not bring Miss Julia in, for I fear my children
are sickening with the measles, and I should be sorry the pretty
soul ran the risk of taking them,” said a fisherman’s wife to Julia
Aubrey’s nurse, who had been desired in the course of their stroll on
the beach to call and give directions concerning some fruit-nets on
which the poor woman was employed. The nurse looked perplexed; she
had many directions to give, and this was an office of which she was
particularly fond.

“‘O do trust me, nurse, while you go in,’ said Julia eagerly; ‘the
beach is very wide here, and I promise I will not go near the edge; I
will only keep close to the rocks to look for the little shells which
are always left by the tide sticking in the clefts. You will find me
just round that corner.’ The nurse still hesitated. ‘Do, dear nurse,’
said Julia coaxingly, ‘do trust me; you know that the birds are eating
all the fruit, and that the gardener has told you all about the sizes
the nets should be. He can’t come here with his broken leg himself, and
every one else but you would blunder about it.’

“This last argument, though not intentional artifice on Julia’s part,
was certain to carry her point. Julia’s nurse contented herself with
reminding her of her promise to keep away from the waves, and to be
sure not to go beyond the ‘black rock just round the corner.’ Away
tripped Julia, and proud of being trusted out of sight, never stopped
till she had attained the utmost limit of her furlough. The corner of
the cliff once turned, she placed her little basket on the shingle,
and stooping down, began busily to pick up the shells and sea weeds,
which, still wet and shining, glittered most temptingly in the sun.
Her own intentness on her employment, and the deafening murmur of the
waves, chafed as they were at that point by the broken rocks that
fretted their course, prevented Julia from hearing an approaching step,
and the terrified child all at once found her bonnet roughly snatched
off, and her whole head tightly muffled in a woollen cloak. To scream
was impossible, for besides the folds of the cloak, the unhappy child
felt a hard bony hand clapped over them on her mouth. In this way she
was carried rapidly along some distance, when the person who bore her
suddenly stopped. ‘What have you got there?’ asked a harsh voice.

“‘Why, I hardly know, and I hardly know why I took her,’ was the
reply, and the old gipsy (for such she was) shook Julia roughly off
her shoulders. ‘I had been prowling about,’ continued she, ‘since
cock-crow, and had knapped nothing; so, as I found this chick without a
hen to watch it, I took it, rather not to come back without booty, than
for any good it is like to do us.’

“‘Good!’ exclaimed the first voice; ‘I think it’s like to do us a great
deal of ill! They’ll rid the country of us if they catch us, and I
think the sooner we rid it of ourselves the better. We had best take
to the boat again directly. Our old comrade, Dick the smuggler, is now
below just ready to push off, and as his boat brought us at sunrise, so
it had better take us back at sunset, for aught I can see.’

“‘Do you grumble at what I have done?’ said the old woman in a voice of
rage and authority: ‘A’n’t I the mother and the ruler of your tribe,
eh? However, the counsel itself,’ added she less harshly, ‘is good, and
the sooner we are off, I believe, the better.’

“Dick the smuggler, who had lately exchanged for that, his former
profession of gipsy, readily consented to convey the party to some
unfrequented part of the coast, and as soon as the boat was fairly at
sea, Julia’s head was unmuffled, and she was at least allowed to cry
for a few moments at her ease.

“I will not attempt to describe her feelings; indeed, she was too young
to allow of their taking a connected turn. My little readers can easily
guess what it would be to be torn away from their own sweet home, and
all the dear accustomed faces and soft familiar voices attendant on
it, and to find themselves rocking in a rude boat on the rough sea,
surrounded by strange figures, haggard and horrible, and voices rough
or shrill, sometimes uttering unintelligible gibberish, and sometimes
harshly scolding her for being ‘such a simpleton as to cry when nobody
was hurting her;’ adding a threat, that if she did ‘not stop her
whimpering, they would give her something to cry for in good earnest.’
The evening of the next day found the gipsy party safely landed, and
encamping for the night at the edge of the New Forest. The old gipsy
heaped some cloaks on the ground, and pointing them out to Julia, told
her to ‘go to rest, for that was her bed.’ The poor child stopped her
sobbing, and instinctively dropped on her knees, as if she had been in
her own quiet nursery, and clasping her little hands, began her evening
prayer. ‘O Lord, thou art a God of great power and mercy, thou seest
me by night as well as by day;’ when she was stopped by a blow across
the shoulders from the old gipsy, accompanied by an angry order to ‘lie
down; for,’ added she, muttering, ‘who that sees her do _that_, will
think she belongs to _us_?’

“But there was one of the horde on whom Julia’s action and
half-finished prayer had made a far different impression. There was
among the gipsies an orphan girl, named Keziah: her father and mother
had died in her infancy, and her grandmother (the same old woman who
had stolen Julia) had brought her up with more of tenderness than might
appear to have belonged to her nature. She was delicate in health, and
timid in disposition; so that, not being thought fit to share in their
predatory excursions, it was generally her office to remain with their
tent, to watch their fires, or to dress the provisions they brought.
Solitude had given a thoughtful cast to her young mind, and many were
the vague notions of better things that wavered across it during her
hours of lonely watching in the dark hollows of the woods, or the quiet
nooks of the green lanes in which their tent was commonly pitched. She
had, too, occasionally heard the sabbath bells, and she had seen from
the hills the villagers flocking to their parish churches; and well she
knew they went there to worship some Being of whom she had been taught
nothing; and when the last lingerers had quitted their leaning postures
by the rails and grave-stones in the sunny churchyard, and the sound
of the closing of the doors reached her ears, followed by the burst of
solemn melody as the congregation, with one heart and one voice, sent
up the sacrifice of their morning hymn, Keziah would throw herself on
the green sward, and folding her arms passionately across her breast,
sob out, ‘O that I could hear the words that flow from those happy,
happy lips, that I might join them too!’ But any questions which
she ventured on the subject of the unknown Being whom she panted to
worship, were received with ridicule by the younger gipsies, and with
anger by her grandmother. The beginning of Julia’s simple prayer--‘O
Lord, thou art a God of power and great mercy, thou seest me by night
as well as by day,’ gave the poor ignorant Keziah more knowledge of her
Creator than she had ever before had an opportunity of possessing.
‘She shall teach me,’ thought the young gipsy to herself; and when
she laid herself down to rest that night, she drew her heap of straw
close to Julia’s bed, and clasping her own hands beneath her cloak, she
repeated in her heart the words she had just heard uttered.

“The terror and fatigue of the preceding day, and a night passed in the
open air, had their natural effect on poor Julia. The next morning she
was ill.

“‘What shall we do?’ said the old gipsy; ‘it would bode us no good that
she should die here. Keziah,’ added she, ‘thou art fonder of nursing
sick bantlings than the rest of us, I give this one to your charge. If
she gets well, thou canst make her pick sticks for thee to feed the
fires, and she will be some company for thee, and may be, hinder thee
from getting so mopish as thou hast done of late, by being left so
much alone.’

“Keziah received her charge most gladly, and from that hour Julia was
carried on the young gipsy’s back by day, and folded in her arms, with
her cloak wrapped closely round her, by night. To guard her little
charge from fresh cold, Keziah spread a tent each night, under which
they slept. She purposely placed it a few yards distant from the
rest of the party, and before they composed themselves to sleep, she
said softly to Julia, ‘Now you may safely kneel down and say what my
grandmother hindered you from saying the first night you were with us,
but not too loud, and you shall teach it to me too in a whisper.’

“‘O, may I?’ said Julia. ‘I shall not be so very unhappy now, for that
will make me fancy myself at my home before I go to sleep, and then
perhaps God will comfort me by letting me dream of my own dear papa and
mama; and I will teach you my morning prayer also, and my catechism
that I used to read every morning in my bed. It is about ‘the great God
who made heaven and earth,’ and about his Son Jesus Christ’s coming
down from the sky to die for us, that God might forgive us our sins,
and about our going to live with God in heaven after we die if we are
good, and going to everlasting fire if we are wicked. O, I will tell
you all mama has taught me, for you are very kind to me, though you do
live with that cruel old woman.’

“‘Hush!’ said Keziah, ‘she is my mother’s mother, and she is kind to
_me_; but I wonder she could find in her heart to bring you away; but
I will do all I can to comfort you, if I cannot make you happy;’--and
the young gipsy kept her word.

“From this time Keziah and her little charge were inseparable. During
the absence of the rest of the party on their foraging excursions,
Keziah and Julia were left for hours together alone. These hours were
sometimes passed by Keziah in eagerly listening to all that her little
companion could tell her of her God and her religion; sometimes,
to amuse the poor child, the gipsy girl would sing to her the wild
ballads of her tribe; sometimes she would teach her to detect the
scarlet strawberry from beneath its dark green leaf, or the dormouse’s
moss-covered hoard. She would tell her the names and notes of the
woodland birds, and point out to her the crested wren’s nest swinging
from the branches of the oak, or the oval one of the blue titmouse,
wove of many-coloured lichens, and filled so full of tiny eggs with
the yoke blushing through their transparent shell. At other times they
would watch together the parent squirrels climbing over their nest,
followed by their young ones, to be carefully practised in balancing
their feeble limbs on the waving branches of the firs, and, their daily
exercise over, to be led back to rest and shelter; often too the young
gipsy would teach her little favourite to plat baskets of rushes and
variously tinted mosses. At these times, Keziah’s promise was more than
kept: Julia was ‘comforted,’ and not unhappy; but then came the old
gipsy’s return, and her detested sight brought back all Julia’s terror
and heart-breaking pinings for her home.

“Nearly four months had passed since Julia had first been stolen by the
gipsy, and the party were encamped in a secluded hollow of Windsor
Forest, about two miles distant from the town of Egham. The prospect
of the races had drawn the gipsies to the spot. The number of the idle
and the thoughtless which such a scene attracts, the pauses between the
heats, to relieve the tediousness of which any amusement of the moment
is eagerly caught at, promised a rich harvest to the tribe of whom
fortune-telling was one of the most profitable callings. ‘I must have
the loan of your puppet for the day, Keziah,’ said the old woman on the
first morning of the races; ‘a pretty face at one’s back pays well on a
race-course.’

“Keziah and Julia exchanged sorrowful looks; it was all they dared do,
and even this was observed by the keen-eyed gipsy. She stooped her
shrunk body so as to bring her withered face even with her victims, and
grinding her teeth, muttered in a voice of suppressed fury, ‘And hark
ye, good for nought, if thee dost but speak or look without my bidding,
no fowl that thou hast seen plucked and roasted by our crackling fire,
has ever died the death that thou shalt.’ Then pausing to enforce the
warning, she pointed her skinny finger, and shook her grizzly head, and
ordered Keziah to ‘pack the bantling on her back.’ The girl obeyed,
and as she arranged the folds of the cloak so as to shade her poor
favourite from the scorching rays of the sun, she imprinted a kiss and
a tear on her pale, pale cheek.

“Once more, then, the terrified Julia found herself in the grasp of her
cruel enemy, who, without speaking to her again, tramped on at a rapid
pace towards the race-course.

“The sight of the gay carriages filled with ladies (‘such looking
ladies,’ thought poor Julia, ‘as her mama’s friends used to be,’)
brought a momentary gleam of joy to her mind; but it vanished in an
instant, for, as if guessing the feeling, the old gipsy made a sudden
stop, and turning back her head, again shook her grizzly locks, again
pointed her bony finger, and grinning horribly, muttered the terrible
word--‘Remember!’

“Many were the silver coins which were grasped in the old gipsy’s
hand that day. With the cunning of her tribe, she knew how to adapt
her language to the temper of each party that she addressed. To the
young and trifling she presented herself as a shrewd and flattering
fortune-teller; to the old and grave, as a starving beggar, with an
orphan grand-child depending on her for support; and many a copper coin
was exchanged for one of silver, when the donor chanced to cast a
look at the pale and innocent face which looked sadly from the gipsy’s
shoulder.

“Among the former description of parties one now attracted the old
woman’s notice. An open barouche contained a lady, with two or three
merry-looking girls, who might be her daughters: they were gaily
chattering with their brothers and their brother’s friends, some of
whom were hanging about the carriage, and others coaxing their horses
to stand patiently near it.

“‘Do ye draw off your glove from your pretty white hand, and let me
just cross the marks with a bit of silver.’

“‘We don’t want our fortunes told, my good woman,’ said the elder lady.

“‘Not _you_ I know, my lady; _your’s_ is made already, and a happy one
it is, my lady; but these pretty _young_ ladies would surely like to
know.’

“‘Do send the woman away, George,’ said Mrs. Carleton, addressing her
son, ‘I am quite sure she will get knocked down among all these horses,
and that poor child at her back looks frightened out of its very
senses.’

“At that moment there was a rush to the ropes. The clerk of the course
was clearing it. The sudden crack of his whip, accompanied by the
shouts of the people near him, alarmed the horses round Mrs. Carleton’s
carriage: one of them made a desperate plunge, and in an instant the
old gipsy was trampled beneath its feet. A scream of horror burst from
Mrs. Carleton’s lips, whilst all the young men instantly dismounted and
crowded round the unfortunate gipsy. ‘Is she killed? O tell me! Is the
child injured?--Do speak,’ continued Mrs. Carleton.

“‘The old woman is certainly stunned, and I fear her forehead has been
severely kicked. The child is not hurt; she dropped it from her back, I
believe, the moment the horse first plunged,’ answered her son.

“‘O pray lift the poor child into the carriage!’ said his mother, ‘I
will take charge of her for the present; the poor old woman had better
be carried instantly into a booth, and see what can be done for her.’

“‘The surgeon of our regiment is on the course,’ said Captain Wyndham,
one of the gentlemen who stood near; ‘I will ride instantly, and seek
for him.’

“‘O do!’ exclaimed Mrs. Carleton; ‘and George, you can endeavour to
find out any of the gipsy party to which the unfortunate old woman
belongs, and tell them where the child may be found, for I will drive
directly home, and take the poor little creature with me.’

“In another moment the carriage was rapidly proceeding towards Oakley
Hall, while poor little Julia sat pale and trembling on Mrs. Carleton’s
lap, every now and then bending forward and looking fearfully behind.
The Carletons watched her in silent pity, attributing her anxious looks
and evident trepidation to alarm for the fate of the wretched gipsy.
At length Julia could bear her suspense no longer, and she timidly
whispered--‘Will she follow us?’

“‘I hope she soon may be able,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, wishing to
soothe the anxious child. Julia shuddered, and became again silent.

“‘Emma,’ said Mrs. Carleton to her younger daughter, when they reached
home, ‘I give this poor child into your care, while your sisters and
I are at dinner. Comfort her as well as you can perhaps, when your
brothers and their friends return, we may have some hope to give her of
the poor old woman’s safety--perhaps she may soon be with her again.’

“‘O no!’ Julia was going to add, but the recollection of the terrible
look and the terrible threat checked her, and she followed her young
conductress in silence to the school-room. Scarcely had General and
Mrs. Carleton sat down to dinner, after waiting some time for the
return of the rest of the party, when their son and his friends entered
the room. They looked grave and harassed, and Mrs. Carleton at once
guessed the tidings which they brought. All efforts to save the old
gipsy had proved vain; but once only had she opened her eyes, and
darted a searching look of mingled rage and pain amongst those who
stood around her, as if she wished to detect and blast the author of
her calamity;--but once, and then they were closed again, and for ever!

“All attempts to discover traces of any of the party to whom she
might be supposed to belong had proved fruitless. Two or three other
gipsies had indeed been seen on the course during the day, but at what
hour they had left it, and in what direction, no one appeared to have
observed.

“The dinner lingered on without any of the party appearing much
disposed to partake of it, when one of the servants brought a note to
Mrs. Carleton. It was written in pencil, and from her daughter Emma.
‘Dear mama,’ she wrote, ‘all of us, and our governess too, feel quite
certain that the poor child you have brought home did not really belong
to the old gipsy, but had been stolen. We judge from her whole manner,
and the things we find, that she has been taught; but when we question
her she only cries, without attempting to answer.--May we dress her in
one of Ellen’s frocks, and bring her down with us after dinner?’

“‘I fear this is some romantic fancy of the children’s, to which their
good-natured governess is won over,’ said Mrs. Carleton, sending the
note to the General; ‘however, I want to see the poor little creature
myself. Tell Miss Emma,’ continued she, addressing the servant, ‘that I
have no objection to her doing as she proposes.’

“In a short time, then, behold the door open, and our poor little Julia
entering between her young protectresses.

“She was dressed in a white muslin frock, her beautiful fair hair,
no longer rough and entangled, fell in graceful ringlets over her
shoulders, and mixed itself with the blue ribbons which looped her
sleeves. She bent her delicate neck forward, and stood in an attitude
of suspense, her sweet eyes looking timidly through their dark lashes
as if in search of some dreaded object, her young lips parted, and
her transparent cheek varying with every instant that passed by. All
at once, she loosed her hands from those of her companions, drew a
deep breath, whilst her forehead and neck became flushed with crimson,
stood one moment irresolute, and then exclaiming, ‘There are none of
them here, and you all look as if you might be my own mama’s friends!’
ran to Mrs. Carleton, and first burying her face in her lap, and then
raising it, and looking beseechingly in her face, added, ‘You would not
be afraid of the gipsies if they _were_ to come, would you?--There are
so many of you!--You will not let them have me, will you? O how my papa
and mama will love you, if you will give me back to them again!’

“Mrs. Carleton was at once convinced that her daughter’s belief was
correct: and deeply affected by the poor child’s earnest appeal, she
took her in her arms, and mixing tears with her kisses, assured her
that she would never part with her excepting to her ‘own mama.’ ‘Then,’
continued she, ‘you did not love the old gipsy, my poor child?’

“‘O no,’ whispered Julia, instinctively glancing round, as the terrible
look crossed her memory; ‘I _could not_ love her, and that often made
me unhappy, because my own mama had told me that I ought to love
every body, and so I used before that dreadful old woman carried me
away.--Do you think my mama will be vexed when she knows I did not
love her?’

“Mrs. Carleton now asked Julia to relate to her all she was able of the
circumstances attending her being stolen. Poor Julia’s story was soon
and simply told, and listened to with the deepest interest by her new
friends. But when she was asked her parent’s name, and the place of
their abode, she could only answer that her papa ‘used to be called Sir
Charles, and that she was called Miss Julia, and that the name of her
home was the Abbey.’

“‘It is strange,’ said General Carleton, ‘that we have no recollection
of having heard of the disappearance of a child under such singular
circumstances.’

“‘You must remember,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, ‘that we were probably
abroad at the time, and an event of such a nature, however talked of at
the moment, is soon forgotten by those not immediately interested.’

“‘I think I do remember something of the kind in the papers during the
Easter vacation,’ said George Carleton; ‘but I know our old curate
hoards up all his newspapers; let us question the little girl as to
time, and then we can send for a packet of the right date.’ Julia’s
simple calendar of the events of the month in which her woodland life
first began, agreed with George Carleton’s recollection--‘The hawthorn
was in blossom, and the hedges full of birds’-nests; the violets and
primroses were nearly over, but the cowslips still in flower.’

“The packet of newspapers was soon before them, and ere long their
search rewarded by the discovery of the following paragraph:--‘We
lament to state that a melancholy occurrence took place on the 2nd
instant at Coombe Beach, by which Sir Charles and Lady Aubrey have been
plunged into the deepest affliction. Their only child, a lovely and
interesting little girl of five years of age, had been imprudently left
on the shingle while her nurse went into a fisherman’s cottage. On the
return of the woman, shocking to relate, her charge was nowhere to be
found; but her bonnet floating on the waves, and her little basket half
full of wet sea-weeds lying on the shingle, too plainly proved that
having ventured too near the edge, she had been caught by a wave, and
carried out to perish in the sea. The body has not yet been washed on
shore.’

       *       *       *       *       *

“The shades of evening had fallen, the curtains had been closed,
and the lamps placed in the drawing-room of Cove Abbey. It was the
evening of their lost Julia’s birth-day; and though no open allusion
had been made to this circumstance either by Sir Charles or Lady
Aubrey, yet the tender and watchful attentions of the former, and
the forced cheerfulness of the latter, sufficiently proved to each
the recollection that was uppermost in their minds. Lady Aubrey was
apparently intent upon her work, but her head was frequently turned,
and her slender finger raised to brush away the tears that gathered
on her eyelids. Sir Charles stooped over an open book, his forehead
rested on his hand, but from beneath its shade many were the stolen
and sorrowful glances which he cast at the evidences of patient grief
before him.

“Suddenly they were startled from their sad thoughts by the sound of
the gate bell, followed by that of wheels rolling rapidly through the
court. ‘Who can be coming at this hour?’ exclaimed Sir Charles.

“‘And on this night!’ added Lady Aubrey, with a tremulous voice. The
next moment the servant opened the door, and presented a card to Sir
Charles, saying, ‘The gentleman requests, Sir, to be allowed to speak a
few minutes with you in private,--General Carleton.’

“‘I know no such person,’ said Sir Charles; ‘however,’ added he to the
servant, ‘order lights into the library, and show the gentleman there.
I will attend him immediately.’

“The servant left the room, and Sir Charles lingered an instant to
address a few words of soothing tenderness to Lady Aubrey, and then
followed to the library to join his unknown guest. What was his
surprise, when, instead of a formal explanation of the purport of his
visit, he found his hand eagerly grasped by the stranger, while he said
with a voice tremulous from emotion, ‘Sir Charles, can you bear good
news?’

“‘I have already borne evil tidings,’ answered Sir Charles sorrowfully,
‘and I believe, were happy ones in store, they would not upset me.’

“‘Your child, then, is safe!’

“‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Sir Charles, staggering, and grasping a pillar
for support, ‘say, say the words again, that I may know I heard them
right.’

“‘Your child is safe, and,’ continued General Carleton, speaking
slowly, and watching the effect his words produced, ‘she is under my
care--she is here--here in my carriage--at your door.’ Sir Charles’s
first impulse was to rush from the room, his second to return, and lay
his hand on General Carleton’s shoulder; ‘I cannot thank you now,
but may God reward you for all we must have owed you. I will not even
see my child till I have imparted the strange, joyful tidings to her
broken-hearted mother;--but you, our best friend, you will bring her
here, and when her mother is in a state to bear the meeting, I will
lead her to our child.’

“There are some scenes which cannot be described in words, because in
them words have no share. I will pass over, then, the mute swelling of
the heart which followed Lady Aubrey’s first hearing of the safety of
her long-lost child, the burst of passionate tears which relieved that
suffocating feeling, the perpetual claspings to the heart, the long
kisses that seemed as if they could not end, which marked the first
meeting between the parents and their child; the questionings, the
explanations between them, the fervent thanks that were poured on the
kind-hearted General Carleton; and hasten to relate an event which was
alone wanting to the completion of Julia’s newly-restored happiness.

“Mrs. Aubrey and her daughter were hastening home one evening in
September from sauntering in the shrubberies which surrounded the
Abbey. The birds were busily preparing to roost, and darting into their
accustomed haunts in every direction. ‘What is that small-speckled
bird, mama, with a long bent bill, that has just forced itself into the
ivy round the sycamore-tree?’ exclaimed Julia.

“‘I remarked it also,’ replied her mama, ‘but I have no idea of what
species it could be.’

“‘O, if _Keziah_ was here, she could tell me in a moment,’ said Julia
sadly! ‘she knew every bird that flies.’

“‘I really believe,’ said Lady Aubrey, half reproachfully, ‘that my
little girl sometimes almost pines after her woodland life with that
young gipsy.’

“‘Not after my life, mama!--O don’t say that!--but I do want sadly to
see poor, poor Keziah once more.--O if you did but know how kind and
good she was, how she used to carry me on her back when she was ready
to drop herself, and how she used to rob herself of all her own poor
covering at night for my sake, and how she used to let me talk to
her of you and my papa, and pray that God would bless you for having
taught me such wonderful things of Him and of his goodness, you would
not wonder that I love her, and that it grieves me to think she is
still obliged to lead a life that she hates with those wicked, wicked
gipsies.--O mama! I believe that but for her, I should never, never
have lived to come back to you again!’--and Julia burst into tears.

“‘I do not wonder at your feelings, my child,’ said Lady Aubrey
soothingly, ‘and I love your poor Keziah too; and would to God that I
could repay her for all she has done for you!’

“They now reached the house, and were met by a servant, who told Lady
Aubrey that ‘a young girl was waiting, and earnestly begged to be
allowed to speak to her, or to Miss Julia.’

“‘To _me_!’ cried Julia; ‘O it must, it must be Keziah!’

“‘What is her appearance?’ asked Lady Aubrey.

“‘She might be a gipsy, my lady, from her eyes and complexion,’ said
the old butler; ‘but her manner is quite different--quite modest and
simple.’

“‘O, mama, let her, let her come; I _know_ it is Keziah.’

“Lady Aubrey changed colour--‘Are you sure there are no others lurking
near the house?’

“‘I have seen none, my lady.’

“‘Well, let her come,’ said Lady Aubrey: ‘but do you, Andrews, stay
near.’ The old man soon returned, followed by the slight and almost
shadowy form of the gipsy girl. The next instant Julia had sprung to
her neck. Keziah looked timidly towards Lady Aubrey as if doubting
whether she might venture to return the grateful child’s caresses; but
the moist eyes and kindly smile that met her glance encouraged her, and
kissing Julia’s forehead and hands, she burst into a flood of tears.
Keziah’s history was quickly told. As soon as the report of the old
woman’s fearful accident, and the child’s being safe and taken under a
lady’s protection, had reached the ears of the gipsies, who had also
attended the race-course, they concluded that a discovery of their
share in the detention of the child was certain; and instantly quitting
the course, they hastened by by-paths to join the rest of the gang,
whom they had left in the forest. It was immediately determined that,
for the general safety, they should disperse and join themselves singly
to such tribes as they might be able to fall in with; and Keziah, who
had always been despised by some for her timidity, and hated by others
for the partiality with which her grandmother had regarded her, was
permitted to take her own lonesome way unquestioned and uncared for.
Her resolution was soon formed. She owed no duty to any but the old
woman who had met with so terrific an end. The gipsy life, always
distasteful, was now become loathsome to her. She determined to beg
her way to Julia’s home, to give what tidings she could of her to her
parents, if she was not yet restored to them, and at all events to
throw herself on their protection, offering her labour for her bread.

“Many were the dangers and privations which the poor girl had met with
on her weary way. She had sometimes subsisted for days and days on
nuts, roots, and berries; she has sometimes been reduced to beg, and
the glittering silver had been held out to tempt her to spell fortunes:
‘but,’ said she, with a glow of honest pride, spreading over her fine
expressive features, ‘the bread of deceit has never touched these lips.’

“Keziah was now established for ever in her grateful Julia’s home. The
thirst of her soul was gratified. She learned all she had so yearned
to know, of her God, her Saviour, her religion. She had no longer to
gaze at a distance and with mysterious awe, on the walls of a forbidden
church, but she was admitted within its doors, to become, by the rite
of baptism, in name, as she was already in heart--a Christian.”




CONCLUSION.


And now, my little readers, I will pause. I have told you so long a
story, that perhaps we all require a little rest. I shall soon find
out, however, whether what I have written for you gives you pleasure.
If it does, I promise you another volume very soon; if it does not, you
shall receive now my farewell.


LONDON:

IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.




INTERESTING WORKS

_Published by J. Hatchard and Son._


1.

JUVENILE SUNDAY LIBRARY, Vol. I. Containing Lives of the Apostles and
Early Martyrs of the Church. By the author of the “Trial of Skill.”
18mo. 4_s._ neatly half-bound.


2.

SCENES IN OUR PARISH. By a “COUNTRY PASTOR’S” DAUGHTER. Second Edition
corrected. 12mo. 5_s._ bds.


_By the same Author_,

A SECOND SERIES. In the Press.


3.

TWELVE LECTURES upon the HISTORY of SAINT PAUL, delivered during Lent,
1831, at the Church of the Holy Trinity, Upper Chelsea. By the Rev. H.
BLUNT, A.M. Part I. Second Edition, 12mo. 5_s._ 6_d._ bound in canvas.


_By the same Author_,

1. TWELVE LECTURES upon the HISTORY of ABRAHAM. Fourth Edition. 12mo.
5_s._ 6_d._ canvas.

2. NINE LECTURES upon the HISTORY of ST. PETER; delivered during Lent,
1829, at the Church of St. Luke, Chelsea. Eighth Edition. 12mo. 4_s._
6_d._ canvas.

3. EIGHT LECTURES upon the HISTORY of JACOB; delivered during Lent,
1828. Eighth Edition. 12mo. 4_s._ 6_d._ canvas.




Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious errors in punctuation have been corrected.

Page 11: “taid on so long” changed to “staid on so long”

Page 13: “poor Charley’s face” changed to “poor Charlie’s face”

Page 20: “to to read” changed to “to read”

Page 112: “TWELVE LECTURES upon the HISTORY ABRAHAM” changed to “TWELVE
LECTURES upon the HISTORY of ABRAHAM”