Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

And so Rome was saved from destruction by the intercession of Veturia; but Coriolanus, thus overcome, was immediately upbraided by Aufidius and the other Volscian generals for selling Rome and their dear revenge for a few tears. Coriolanus replied fiercely, and told Aufidius that he should yet see the day when he would again make his countrymen sorry as he did at Corioli; and then called him a boy. This so aroused the Volscian general, that he, with his companions, immediately fell upon Coriolanus, and slew him on the spot. As soon, however, as he was dead, Aufidius,――his passion being over,――remembering his many great deeds, and his noble spirit, burst into tears. “I have slain the noblest heart in all the world,” said he, and then, as the only recompense he could make for his rash act, he ordered the most splendid funeral to be prepared, and followed it as chief mourner.

The Rock of Gibraltar.

Gibraltar is a celebrated fortified rock, at the foot of which is a town of sixteen thousand inhabitants. The space occupied by the rock and town, is about seven miles in circuit. It is almost entirely surrounded by the Mediterranean sea, but it is connected with the continent by a low sandy isthmus.

As seen from a ship, nothing can be more desolate than the appearance of Gibraltar, but when you get upon it, you will find fig trees, orange trees, acacias, and a profusion of odoriferous plants. You will also find woodcocks, partridges, teal, and rabbits in abundance. If you will wander up the rocks, you will also find apes of considerable size frisking about, and seeming quite at home. This is the only spot in Europe where any animal of the monkey kind is found to be a native. It is fancied that these creatures pass through caverns under the sea to Africa, which is some twenty or thirty miles across at the narrowest part. It is unnecessary to say that this is impossible.

The rock of Gibraltar is perforated by a great number of natural caverns. St. Michael’s, on the south-west side, is the most famous. You enter this about one thousand feet above the level of the sea. At a little distance, you come to a spacious hall, supported by stalactite pillars. Beneath this is a series of beautiful grottoes, though difficult of access. It is said, that in some of these grottoes you can hear the sea roaring beneath, through crevices in the rock!

The rock and town of Gibraltar belong to the English. The former is strongly fortified, and is considered impregnable. It came into the hands of the English in 1704, since which they have held it, though it has often been attacked and besieged. The most memorable siege commenced in 1779, and it did not cease till February, 1783. The grand attack took place in September, 1782. Beside stupendous batteries, mounting two hundred guns, there was an army of forty thousand men, led by the celebrated Duc de Crillon, in the presence of two princes of the blood. In the bay, lay the combined fleets of France and Spain. The assault was dreadful. Four hundred pieces of artillery, on both sides, were playing at once. The roar was perpetual, and the rock shook as if by an earthquake. Yet the brave garrison held out, and the attack was unavailing.

The east and north sides of the Rock of Gibraltar, are by their nature inaccessible. Toward the south, also, it is very rocky and precipitous. To the west, it slopes to the town, and here the artificial batteries are erected. These are most formidable. To accommodate the operations of the garrison, there are galleries, leading from one point to another, of sufficient width for cannon carriages, and cut for nearly three miles through the very heart of the rock.

Order and Disorder.

“A place for everything, and everything in its place; that is my motto,” said Miss Steady.

“What stuff!” said Miss Thoughtless. “What is the use of being so precise and old-maidish?”

Miss Steady is a very orderly little girl, and so I must give you an account of her habits.

She is very remarkable for her neatness, and for the nice order in which she keeps her room and her clothes. She has had a very pretty little chamber all to herself since she was six years old; and you may go into it at any time, and not find anything out of its place. If you open any of her drawers, you will find everything laid out smoothly and sorted. There is a separate place for her prayer-book, another for her fan; and, as to her clothes, they are all doubled and folded in the neatest manner.

At eight o’clock Miss Steady goes to _bed by herself_. She folds up all her clothes very neatly, and puts them in a chair near the bed, with her shoes and stockings always laid by her. She puts all her chairs in order, places all her lesson-books and playthings carefully in her closet, undresses her doll, and folds up her doll’s clothes, and puts her to bed. After saying her prayers, she lays her every-day prayer-book and Bible on the table, where she keeps it.

All this she does by herself; and when she is ready to get into bed, she takes good care to place the extinguisher over her candle.

On Saturday night, she takes her clean clothes out of her drawer, and puts them all in their places; and she can go in the dark, and get anything she may happen to want. At any time, on any occasion, she always knows where to lay her hand on anything. She is also exceedingly polite.

She never asks questions out of order at breakfast or dinner-table. She knows when little girls may speak. She knows there is a place for her questions; by this means she never interrupts the conversation of others.

When she comes home from school, she always puts away her books, and her bonnet and shawl, and thus has never any trouble in hunting for them, as many persons have.

It is, however, very different with Miss Thoughtless; for she is so idle, and disorderly, and negligent, that sometimes she forgets to clean her teeth in the morning, and would, I believe, forget to wash her face sometimes, if she were not told of it.

Then, as to her playthings, they are all crammed together; what you would call higgledy-piggledy, or scattered about in various places. On one occasion her dolls were stuffed into the kitchen drawer, along with greasy dusters, corks, black-lead, whiting, shoe-brushes, and hearthstones.

Then, as to her clothes. At night she slips them off in a bunch, and just as they came off, so they lie; sometimes on the floor, or they are thrown on the bed.

Sometimes she leaves the candle burning after she gets to bed, and on one occasion, she set her bed-curtains on fire.

She is continually calling out to Mary; “Mary, where is my bonnet? Mary, have you seen my shawl?” Once or twice in the morning she came down stairs with only one stocking on, because she could not find the other. She had gone to bed with her stockings over her heels, and one had got wrapped up in the bed-clothes.

Miss Thoughtless rarely does anything for herself. She wants Mary, on all occasions, to pin her tippet, to tie her shoes, or to put on her India rubbers. When she proceeds to do anything, she wants the servants to wait on her.

What a difference between these two young ladies! If you were to see them, you might soon tell which was Miss Thoughtless; because you would see something disorderly in her looks, something disorderly in her dress, and something disorderly in her manner of speaking.

* * * * *

WISDOM FROM A JESTER.――Bishop Hall tells us, that there was a certain nobleman who kept a fool or jester, (a thing common in former days in the families of the great,) to whom one day he gave a staff, with a charge to keep it till he should meet with one who was a greater fool than himself. Not many days after, the nobleman was ill, and near death. The jester came to see him, and his lordship said to him, “I must soon leave you.” “And where are you going?” asked the fool. “Into another world,” replied his lordship. “And when will you come again? within a month?” “No.” “Within a year?” “No.” “When then?” “Never?” “Never!” said the jester; “and what provision hast thou made for thy entertainment there where thou goest?” “None at all.” “No!” said the fool, “none at all! Here, then, take my staff; for, with all my folly, I am not guilty of any such folly as this!”

The Little Mariner.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,
How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea?
My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years,
I can remember night and day my mother’s prayers and tears.

I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale;
And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail;
Hers was a patient, silent grief; but fears and long delay,
And wakeful nights and anxious days, were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn’s leaves were red,
I watched with heavy heart beside my mother’s dying bed;
Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say,
The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save;
My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.
He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;
And, spite of grief, the winter-time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times and more,
And, sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador.
He knew the Spice isles every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow,
And the aloe towers, a stately tree, with clustering bells of snow.

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood;
Through Persia, where the peacocks brood, a wild bird of the wood;
And, in the forests of the west, had seen the red deer chased,
And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told, of lands so strange and new;
And in my ignorance I vowed I’d be a sailor too:
My father heard my vow with joy,――so in the early May
We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind,
With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind.
There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand,
And I sat for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for
land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning tropic
seas,
To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshning
breeze.
Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free,
Until we neared the rocky shoals, within the western sea.

Yet, still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night,
The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!”
The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock,
The ship sprang forward, with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

“All hands aloft,” our captain cried――in terror and dismay,
They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away,
’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck,
And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast,
And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast.
I knew not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim,
A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew was how at morn, on a bleak and barren shore,
Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.
I looked around like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm,
And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm.

And with a rigid dying grasp, he closely held me fast,
Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight, on the mast.
With humble hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band,
Praying Him, who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding
hand.

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came,
His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame:
And after months of weary wo, sickness, and travel sore,
He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a house or friend, I wander far and near,
And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear.
Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,
How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea?

The Old Lady and her Cat.

Cats have nine lives, so everybody says. Certainly, they go through more disasters than any other animal, and have more hair-breadth escapes. I have seen cats fall from the top of a house, and get up, and run away as if nothing had happened. That is, you will say, because they always alight on their feet. Perhaps there may be something in this; be that as it may, I am about to relate to you the adventures of a cat, which are as wonderful as they are true.

I wish you could have seen her picture; she seemed as if she were entering into conversation with her mistress. And so she did in her way; she could purr when she was happy, and mew when she wanted anything. But more than this, she could show by her looks, that she understood a good deal the old lady said to her.

She was a good old creature, this old lady, and she loved her cat, because she had nobody else to love, and her cat loved her; and well she might, for the old lady made a pet of her. She fed her every morning from her own table, with new roll and new milk; then for dinner she would have cooked for her a little kidney, or some other savory morsel. At tea time, puss used to stand with her feet on the elbow of the old lady’s chair, and many a nice bit did she receive during that meal, with a saucer of milk before the tea things were taken away.

Then she had a nice bed. A cushion stuffed with wool, by day to repose herself upon, and for night she had a little wicker basket with a hole to creep in at; there she curled herself so snugly, that many a poor creature would have envied her. In the morning she used to run up stairs, the moment the servant came down, and mew at her mistress’s door till she was let in; and there she would stop with her till she was dressed, turning her tail and rubbing against her mistress’s garments, till she came down stairs, as much as to say, I am glad to see you this morning.

But it was not always so with Miss Puss, I assure you: she had seen many adventures, and had many escapes. Few cats had gone through more troubles than she. I will tell you one of the events of her life. I think the story will please you. Well, you must know that Mogette, for that was her name, was, what is called a stable-cat; that is, a cat kept in the stable to look after the rats, that they might not eat the horses’ corn.

Mogette once had five little kittens; and pretty little things they were, and fond enough she was of them. She thought too, she had secured them all from danger by hiding them in a hole in the hay-loft; which she had lined with hay to make it nice and warm. She never left her young ones except she was very hungry; and then only a few minutes, just to keep herself from starving. She would then return, and purr fondly over her kittens, showing how much she loved them.

There was an ugly, ill-tempered stable-boy, named Sturt, and a very cruel boy he was to cats. He was very fond of dogs, and never so fond of them as when they turned a cat on its back, or drew a rat from his hole. His chief delight was in cat hunting.

He had a fierce little terrier dog, which he taught to be as cruel as himself. This dog was always on the watch for cats.

Poor puss, like a wise cat, had secreted her kittens in the hay-loft, on purpose to guard against this dog. But she often heard him bark in the day, and felt quite frightened, although she knew he could not get up into the hay-loft, still she feared that some day, when her kittens grew larger, they would come down and he would tease them.

The dog _Snap_, for that was his name, never saw puss but he chased her round the stable-yard. On one occasion, this boy, Sturt, set him on, and puss could not get out of the way till she flew up an apple tree, and here the dog watched her, and would not let her come down. Puss thought of her kittens, and at last made a desperate plunge at Snap, scratching his face and eyes most wofully, and ran with all speed to the ladder leading to the hay-loft.

Up this she ran, and Snap after her. When she had mounted three or four of the steps, she turned round and gave him such a parting scratch, as tumbled him off the ladder; while Sturt threw the curry-comb at her, as she made good her retreat into the hay-loft.

Nor was this all; for, feeling incensed at his dog being beaten, Sturt followed puss, and at last found her hiding-place, with the five little kittens. “Oh, oh! marm,” said he, “here are you and your kittens.” With that, he attempted to drag the kittens out; but puss flew at him with the greatest violence, and bit and scratched his hands till they bled profusely.

It was a day or two before the fourth of July, and Sturt had for some time been preparing squibs and crackers for that well known day. It occurred to him that the best way to dislodge the old cat would be to treat her to a squib or two: “for that will bring her out,” he said to himself, “if anything will.”

Full of this notion he hastened down stairs, and groped his hand to the bottom of the oat-bin, where he had his combustibles, for fear of being found; and, procuring a light, he took one of the largest “double-bangers” he could find, and ascended quietly into the hay-loft.

He crept cautiously to pussy’s hole, and having lit the end of the squib, placed the thick part so that it would rush into the hole as soon as it took fire, and retreated to the corner of the hay-loft to see the sport.

Presently the squib ignited, and just as he had supposed, darted into the cat’s hole. But puss never came out, and in a moment _the whole of the hay-loft was on fire_!

Sturt hastened to run down the ladder; but in his hurry and alarm, missed his step, and put his leg through a hole in the floor of the loft. Before he could extricate himself, the flames were all blazing around him. He called as loud as he could, but all to no purpose. He made, however, towards the outside door――at last he reached it; but he was all of a blaze. He leaped down into the stable-yard, half roasted, and in the fall broke his leg.

As to puss, after the squib exploded, she endeavored to get off; but she could not leave her kittens. First she took one up in her mouth, and then the other; then she tried to take two at once. Oh! if you had seen this poor cat’s affection for her young, how much better you would have thought her, than that wicked boy.

At last, however, poor puss darted off with one of her kittens. She was in a terrible fright, you will believe. She ran up a wooden waterspout, leading in a slanting direction to an adjoining shed, with the kitten in her mouth. She then bore it over the gable end of a house, till she got into a gutter on the other side; along this she travelled, and again mounted another roof; on the top of this she walked, still carrying her kitten in her mouth, till at last she came to a cow-house and hay-stack at the other side of the farm. Into this hay-stack she leaped, bearing her offspring with her in safety.

Poor puss returned for her other kittens; but alas! when she got back, nothing was to be seen but a quantity of red and black rafters, and vast masses of burnt hay. The poor kittens had perished in the flames.

* * * * *

CORNELIA.――A lady of Campagnia in Italy, who was very rich, and fond of pomp and show, being on a visit to Cornelia, the illustrious mother of the Gracchi, displayed the diamonds and jewels she possessed, with some ostentation, and then requested Cornelia to permit her to see her jewels. This eminent woman dexterously contrived to turn the conversation to another subject, till her sons returned from one of the public schools; when she introduced them, saying, “these are _my_ jewels!”

A Sliding Party:

A MOTHER’S STORY.

It was one of the finest evenings in January; I can remember it very well. I was then a young girl, and was delighted with such beautiful evenings as the one I am going to tell you about. The moon shone bright, the stars glittered like so many gems in the sky; not a dark cloud was to be seen; there was not a breath of wind, not so much as to shake the tops of the smallest trees. True it was very cold, and the snow laid deep on the ground; and though most of the busy world had retired to their houses, to enjoy a long evening by their wintry fireside, I was tempted to take a stroll out to admire the beautiful prospect. I did not remain out long, as it was the practice of my father to relate stories to amuse us in the evening, while mother and myself sat at work. When I returned home, I found them all seated round the blazing fire, ready; and all seemed happy but my eldest brother John; he was evidently uneasy, and could not sit still long together, and kept looking about and listening, and often going to the window.

At last, he told his father that his playmates were going on the river to slide, and that he should like to go. We all begged him not to think of going out on the ice, and told him it would be better for him to stay at home and hear father’s stories; but all to no purpose; he had made up his mind to go, though he knew how unhappy we should all be while he was away. He promised to be home at nine, and said he would not go near the bridge; for there the current was more rapid, and of course they would not be safe; and his father cautioned him of the openings in the ice, and that he might be liable to fall in and get drowned. John heard all that his father said; but boys love to roam and are fond of adventure; and, I am sorry to say, that, when they set their hearts on anything, it often happens that the advice of parents is of no use to them; and so it was in this case. He had just turned the corner of the house, when he heard the merry shout and laugh of the party; and he waited till they came up, and they all went towards the river. They had a mile to walk, but that was nothing to a set of crazy-headed, self-willed boys; they soon got there, and were busily engaged in their sport.

It was indeed, very fine sliding; and they staid till the clock struck nine, when John proposed to go home; but the rest insisted on staying a _little_ longer, “only a few minutes,” as they said. John had many unpleasant feelings about stopping after the clock had struck nine, for he knew that his father would expect him agreeably to his promise; but he at length yielded to the entreaties of the rest, and tried not to think of the uneasiness his absence would cause at home.

From the time John went, we were all unhappy, and kept asking father if he were not afraid that he would get drowned? So much were we all concerned about our brother, that it made the tears steal silently down our father’s face, and he resolved that in future he would spare us all this anxiety, by using his authority to keep him at home. After the clock had stuck nine, and John did not return, we became impatient, especially our little sisters, who ought to have been in bed long before that time, but they were unwilling to go until they saw their brother return; and father did not compel them, for he was the kindest of fathers, and sometimes a little too indulgent. But when the clock struck ten, the pain of the whole family was extreme. Father would have gone after him to have seen if anything had happened, but he was lame with the gout, and could hardly walk across the room; and we had nobody to send. Oh! what a wretched half hour we spent!

There lived at the public tavern a man whom they called Sailor Jem; he had once been a sailor, and he happened to see the party set off for the river. While he was sitting telling stories and hearing the news, a man came in to warm his feet, and Jem asked him what news he had. “A sad accident,” said he, “has just happened at the bridge; a party of boys were sliding, and one of them is drowned.” Jem heard no more, but came breathless to my father’s. He found us already in trouble, but his story made us half distracted. My father was more composed, and begged of Jem to go directly to the river, or the road which he saw John take, and see if he could make any discoveries.

Jem started immediately; he had only got a quarter of a mile, when he met the boys returning, all safe. So he accompanied John, and saw him restored to his anxious family. Our joy was great when we saw him safe, and father did not interrupt it that night, by talking to my brother about his conduct; but the next morning, at breakfast, he endeavored to show him wherein he had done wrong. They had not been to the bridge, it was true, but then he did not come home at the appointed time.

You will see by this, how much you can do, if you choose, to make a whole family unhappy, by not taking the advice of those whose age and experience enable them to judge better for you, than you can for yourselves. And remember one thing, that promises should be held sacred. Had he come at nine, as he ought to have done, he would have saved us an hour and a half of the most intense suffering; and I hope, if you make a promise, even the most trifling, that you will keep it.

* * * * *

A ROMAN JUDGE.――While Octavius Cæsar was at Samos, after the famous battle of Actium, which made him master of the then known world, he held a council, to examine the prisoners who had been of Anthony’s party. Among the rest, there was brought before him a man named Metellus, oppressed with age and infirmities, disfigured by a long beard and a neglected head of hair, but especially by his clothes, which, through adversity, had become ragged. The son of this Metellus was one of the judges, and had great difficulty to recognise his father in the deplorable condition in which he now saw him. At length, however, recollecting his features, instead of being ashamed of his unhappy parent, he ran with tears to embrace him. Then, returning to the tribunal, “Cæsar,” said he, “my father has been your enemy, and I your officer; he deserves to be punished, and I to be rewarded. The favor I ask of you, is, that you would save him on my account, or order me to be put to death with him.” All the judges were touched with compassion at the affecting scene. Octavius himself relented, and granted to old Metellus his life and liberty.

* * * * *

PATRICK HENRY.――This eminent American left in his will the following important passage:

I have now disposed of all my property to my family; there is one thing more I wish I could leave them, and that is, the Christian religion. If they had that, and I had not given them one shilling, they would be rich; and if they had not that, and I had given them all the world, they would be poor.

The Old Owl.

I.

The owl is a bird that flaps along
With a lonely loud halloo;
He has but one unceasing song,
_To whit, to whit, to woo._
In dusky light he takes his flight,
The twilight dim is the time for him,
And when the midnight scowls,――
’Tis then he silently prowls,
And hunts the mice and moles.

II.

A lonely owl once built her nest
In the hole of a hollow tree,
And she with a fine young brood was blest
As ever owl could be.
She loved her young, and as they clung
Beneath her downy wing,
She o’er them oft, on a branch aloft,
As they reposed below,
Would shout and sing, while the woods would ring,
_To whit, to whit, to woo._

III.

A boy came by that hollow tree,
With a fierce and wild halloo;
And this the birds, all startled heard,
And answered, _to whit, to woo_.
As the old bird shrieked, the young ones squeaked;
“Oh ho!” said the boy,
In a frantic joy,
“An owl is the bird for me,
And here are its young ones three.”
Then with eager look,
He that bird’s-nest took;
While plaintive and slow,
Rose a note of wo
From the owl in its hollow tree,
_To whit, to whit, to woo._

IV.

That boy now took his victims home,
And put them in a cage;
And cooped up there,
In their despair,
They bit and scratched in rage;
They caught his fingers once or twice,
And made him scream with pain;
And then he vowed,
In curses loud,
That they should all be slain.
He tied them to a stake, and got
An iron pin, and made it hot,
To burn out their young eyes.
“Ha, ha!” said he, “you’ll not bite me,
You’ll not bite me again:”
Then in the sky
A wing flapped by
That seemed to stop his breath;
’Twas the old owl, with a heavy scowl,
Lamenting her young ones’ death――
_To whit, to whit, to woo._

V.

That boy grew up――became a man,
A _cruel_ man was he,
His heart had grown as hard as stone,
Which none but God could see.
One dreary night,
In the wan moonlight,
Beneath that hollow tree
He vengeful stood, to spill the blood
Of a hated enemy.
With a furious blow, he laid him low,
Then plunged his knife
To take his life,
Deep to its haft,
And wildly laughed,――
“You will not again plague me.”
But yet as he knelt
O’er that foe, he felt
A shudder that quailed all his blood’s full glow;
For oh, he heard,
On the tree that bird,
The same old owl, o’er that murder foul,
Cry, _whit, to whit, to woo._

VI.

He fled――the owl’s reproaching cry
Still ringing in his ears;
But ah, ’twas in vain for the wretch to fly,
So loaded with guilt and fears.
He quick was caught,
And to justice brought,
And soon in prison lies.
And oh, while there,
In his deep despair,
In lonely tears and sighs,
He thought of the iron cage!
And he thought of the cruel rage!!
And the red-hot pin, that he once thrust in,
To burn out the young bird’s eyes.

Condemned to die――’twas his destiny
To die on that hollow tree,
And there as he hung,
And there as he swung
In the night-wind to and fro,
That vengeful bird
Was often heard,
When scarcely a breath the forest stirred,
In screamings high,
All the night to cry,
_To whit, to whit, to woo.
To whit, to whit, to woo._

* * * * *

A FISHERMAN’S WIDOW.――One of the small islands in Boston Bay was inhabited by a single poor family. The father was taken suddenly ill, and there was no physician at hand. The wife, on whom every labor for the household devolved, was unwearied in her care for her suffering husband. Every remedy in her power to procure was administered, but the disease was acute, and he died. Seven young children mourned around the lifeless corpse. They were the sole beings upon that desolate spot. Did the mother indulge the grief of her spirit and sit down in despair? No. She entered upon the arduous and sacred duties of her station. She felt that there was no hand to assist her in burying her dead. Providing as far as possible for the comfort of her little ones, she put her babe into the arms of the oldest, and charged the two next in age to watch the corpse of their father. She unmoored her husband’s fishing-boat, which but two days before he had guided over the seas to obtain food for his family. She dared not yield to those tender recollections, which might have unnerved her arm. The nearest island was at the distance of three miles. Strong winds lashed the waters to foam. Over the rough billows that wearied and sorrowful woman rowed and was preserved. She reached the next island and obtained necessary aid. With such energy did her duty to her desolate babes inspire her, that the voyage which depended upon her individual effort, was performed in a shorter time than the returning one, when the oars were managed by two men who went to assist in the last offices of the dead.

* * * * *

“Moral deformity seems not in the fiend so horrid as in woman.”

“Holy men, at their death, have good inspirations.”

The Zebu, or Indian Ox.

The most common of the Indian breeds of the ox kind, is the zebu, a humped variety, the smallest specimens of which are not bigger than a full-grown mastiff, while others are found almost as large as the finest of our English cows. The zebu has been considered by naturalists as not a distinct species, but only a degenerate kind of bison, diminished in size by scantiness of food, which has a decided effect upon the bulk of all horned cattle. We see that the horse dwindles into a pony in the Shetland Isles, and why not the ox shrink into a zebu?

The zebu, like the bison, is extremely gentle when tamed, and very useful to mankind, both as affording food and serving for a beast of draught or burden. These animals are employed in pairs to draw a two-wheeled vehicle, called _gadee_, which holds but one person, and is used by the wealthy Hindoos. When destined for this purpose, their horns, when young, are bent so as to grow nearly upright, inclining backwards a little toward the top. They are often covered with rich carpets; adorned with rings and chains of gold and other metal, and their legs and chests painted with various colors. The women of the lower classes, in India, frequently travel on bullocks, which they ride astride upon a very large saddle. The animals have bells hung round their necks, and are guided by means of a cord passed through the nostrils.

* * * * *

“My dear friend, that woman has been talking about you so again! She has been telling the awfullest lies you ever heard; why, she railed away about you for a whole hour!”

“And you heard it all, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, after this, just bear in mind that it takes two to make a slander; one to tell it and one to listen to it.”

The Bison, or American Buffalo.

As there has lately been an exhibition of a number of bisons through New England, and as no doubt many of our readers have seen them, we think it will amuse them, particularly, to learn something about the manners, habits and nature of these creatures. We hope, too, that all others who may look into our pages, may find it agreeable to read a description of such extraordinary animals.

The bison is very different from the European buffalo,――the latter having very long, spreading horns. The buffalo is also a more fierce and daring animal. Our bison is as large as the largest ox, and roams in vast herds over the prairies of the west. Sometimes several thousand are seen in a flock, and as they proceed, fighting, lowing, leaping, and tearing the earth with their horns, the noise is terrific. The earth at such a time seems to tremble as if shaken by an earthquake. The bison is not now found east of the Mississippi, though it probably inhabited in former times, the whole country to the shores of the Atlantic. It bears considerable resemblance to the German Aurochs. Its horns are short, and it has a prodigious hump over the shoulders. The head, shoulders, and upper parts are covered with long, brownish, woolly hair. The tail is tufted with black.

These animals, while feeding, scatter themselves over the country, but when moving, they form a dense column, which, once in motion, is scarcely to be impeded. Their line of march is seldom interrupted, even by considerable rivers, across which they swim, without fear or hesitation, in the order in which they traverse the plains. They constantly wander about, either from being disturbed by the hunters, or in search of food. They are very fond of the soft and tender grass, which springs up after a fire has spread over the prairie. In winter they scrape away the snow, to reach the grass. They are timid and fly from man, but when wounded, they become desperate and dangerous. The Indians make incessant war upon them for their flesh and skins. Their favorite method of attack, is to ride up to the fattest of the herd on horseback, and shoot them. Sometimes they drive them over precipices, by which they are killed. They also take them in enclosures made of sticks, about a hundred yards in diameter. The herds are attended by packs of wolves, ready to fall upon the sick and wounded. Travellers describe the noise made by the bellowing, the trampling, and galloping of a large herd of bisons, as impressing the mind with an emotion amounting to terror. The bison was the only native animal of the ox kind found by the first settlers in America.

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ANECDOTE.――In a town of western Virginia, a few years ago, an old lady from the country went to a store to procure a few articles. She purchased several of the clerk, and at length, observing a neatly painted and varnished bellows hanging by the post, she inquired what it was. The clerk, perceiving that the old lady was rather ignorant, and being something of a wag, informed her that it was a new-fashioned fan, which he had lately received from the east; at the same time taking the bellows down and puffing with it in his face, told her that was the mode of operation. The old woman repeated the operation on herself, and was so delighted with the new fan, that she purchased it forthwith and departed.

On the next day, the minister had an appointment to preach at a neighboring school-house in the country. The congregation being assembled, while the minister was in the act of reading the first hymn, who should pop in but the old lady with her new-fashioned fan, and having taken her seat, immediately commenced puffing away in good earnest! The congregation knew not what to make of it――some smiled, and some looked astonished; but the ludicrous prevailed over everything else, and to such an extent, that the minister himself was obliged to stop reading, and hand the book to his brother in the desk. After the usual preliminary services, he rose to preach, but there sat the lady with the bellows, and a hand hold of each handle, the nose turned up towards her face, and with much self-complacency puffing the gentle breeze in her face. What to do, or how to proceed, he knew not, for he could not cast his eyes over the congregation without meeting with the old lady. At length, summoning resolution, and trying to feel the solemnity of the duty imposed on him, he proceeded. He finished his discourse, but it cost him more effort than any sermon before or since.――_Mt. Vernon Watchman._

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A PIOUS MOTHER.――It is said, that, in the hand of one of the mummies found in a pyramid, was discovered a bulbous root, which being placed in the earth, grew and bloomed a beautiful but unknown flower, after having been buried for many hundred years. So may the good seed of God spring up after many years. We mention a case in point. Some years since, a venerable old man, upwards of one hundred years old, was the subject of converting grace in an American state. The cause of his conversion was hearing a text of Scripture, which his pious mother had taught him in England, one hundred years before!

“Though seed lie buried long in dust;
It shan’t deceive our hope;
The precious grain shall ne’er be lost,
For grace insures the crop.”

The Medallion.

The subscribers to the Medallion, edited by Uncle Christopher, have already been informed that that paper is discontinued; and it is requested that those who have heretofore given it their support, will now lend their aid to Merry’s Museum. In token of his good will, Uncle Christopher has lent us his countenance, as you see above, and we venture to guess that in the April number, we shall be able to offer one of his pleasing stories.

We have a variety of new tales on hand, some of which are interesting; we shall begin one or two of them in our next.

Good and Evil.

An aged man along the road
Pursued his weary way――
His back was bent beneath a load,
His thin long locks were gray.

The aged man with tottering tread
And many a sigh did go,
And misery seemed to bow his head
And mark his brow with wo.

Yet on his lip there lurked a sneer,
As sorrow, like a spell,
On every traveller he came near,
With clouds and darkness fell.

Still on he sped with restless bound,
As if a fire within
Burned at his heart, which only found
Relief in deeds of sin.

“What is thy name?” a traveller cried――
As he the old man met.
“’Tis Trouble”――thus the seer replied――
“Canst thou my form forget?

“No pilgrim on life’s rugged road
Can fail to feel my wrath;
On every back I lay a load――
Strew thorns in every path.

“Time’s tooth, that crumbles all beside,
These ghastly limbs defy;
No shelter from my form can hide――
No wing my sceptre fly!

“Yet seest thou yonder gentle maid,
That follows with her wiles?
She dares my kingdom to invade,
And turns my tears to smiles.”

While yet the hoary tyrant spoke,
The angel maiden came――
A light around her footsteps broke,
For Comfort was her name.

With anxious look the wizard sped,
And darkness marked his way――
But on his track the maiden fled,
And turned the night to day.

The load that bowed each pilgrim back,
She lightened with her wand,
And if Earth’s sky was hung with black,
She showed a Heaven beyond.

Under this title, we propose hereafter to devote a portion of each number of our Magazine to the special benefit of our very young friends――the _A b c darians_――those who have just begun to read. We intend, in fact, _to make a little magazine on purpose_ for them.

And now, at the very outset, we wish to make a bargain in behalf of our littlest friends; those who have just learned to spell _crucifix_, _amplification_, &c. It is as follows:

The big Black-eyes and Blue-eyes have a right to read the older part of our magazine, first; after this, the A b c darians must be permitted to read our Little Leaves. We foresee that there will be a squabble between the old aristocrats and the young democrats, if we do not settle this point beforehand. Now, having spoken our will, we trust we shall be obeyed.

If any trespass upon our law, here laid down, occurs――if any little friend of ours is elbowed out of his rights――if his elder brother or sister ventures to peep into the story of Limping Tom, or Inquisitive Jack, before he has read it, we hope the case will be laid before us, and we shall forthwith proceed to hear and adjudge the matter according to law and justice. Hear ye and obey!

The Story of Limping Tom.

You will, perhaps, be surprised to hear that Limping Tom had two as good legs as were ever seen. Why then did he limp? That is a natural question, and I shall proceed to answer it.

Tom was not a boy――but a cat! He was born and brought up in a barn. One day, when he and his little brothers and sisters were frolicking over the barn floor, all alone, a little snappish dog peeped in and saw what was going on.

In he came, and began to chase the kittens. They were awfully frightened, and scampered in all directions. Some dove into a hole in the floor――one hid behind a barrel, and two attempted to climb up the hay-mow. One of these was our hero Tom. But, alas, as he was scratching up, the dog caught him in his back, and gave him a terrible grip with his long sharp teeth.

Tom screamed, and the old cat, who was out behind the barn watching a mouse, heard him. She knew that something bad was going on. She left the mouse in an instant, and ran into the barn. I wish you could have seen her as she approached the dog, who was shaking poor Tom, in his teeth.

Her back was sticking up as well as her tail. The hair of the latter was extended so as to make it look as large round as a lady’s boa. Her mouth was open, her teeth bare, her eyes flashing like fire. She seemed to dance along the floor toward the dog, as if the wind blew her.

Before the dog knew what was coming, puss was upon him with teeth and claws. Now was his turn to squeal. She bit his ears and scratched his eyes, before he could turn round. Then he fled, yelling with all his might. Puss followed, jump for jump, and laying her claws at every leap upon the dog’s hinder quarters, the hair flew as if her paws had been a couple of curry-combs. When the dog came to the street, he laid down his ears, hid his tail between his legs, and, stretching away, at last escaped.

Puss came back, and there lay poor Tom, unable to move. She took him up gently in her mouth, and carried him to the bed. She laid him down, mewed to him with a soft purring voice, as if to comfort him. She then licked off the blood, and finally curled herself around him, to keep him warm. Poor Tom at last went to sleep. What a good mother was old puss, and how much like the kind mothers of little children!

The next day Tom was very stiff and sore. He could not move, or sleep, or eat. Oh, how he did suffer! But puss was by his side, almost all the time. She licked his wounds gently, so as to soothe and not to hurt them. She kept him warm, and purred to him, and did all she could. In three or four days he began to get better. In a month his wounds were healed, but one of his hind legs, being broken, was shorter than the others, and always remained so. It was also rather weak; so that Tom, when he grew up, was lame, and therefore he got the name of Limping Tom.

Now, you might suppose that this defect would be a great evil to Tom, in life. But we shall see how it was. He was taken by a girl named Lucilla, or Lissa, as they called her. Why she chose him, rather than his more perfect mates, I cannot tell; though I guess it was because she had a tender heart, as many pretty girls have, and was guided in her choice by a sweet kindness excited by misfortune.

Well, Lissa carried Tom home. Though lame, he was still a cheerful kit as ever you saw. Some thoughtless people used to laugh at him, as he flew about, for his hinder parts went up and down in a very queer fashion, as he gambolled over the floor or grass. Lissa saw nothing ridiculous in all this; on the contrary, Tom’s limp was really graceful and interesting to her. I believe the girl loved him all the better for his imperfection.

You may be curious to know how this is to be accounted for. I will try to tell you. Tom was really a good, lively little fellow. He was not quite so nimble as other cats, but he did the best he could; he showed a good disposition. This was a great thing, for everybody loves a good disposition. It is not necessary to be smart in order to be loved. Do the best you can, and nobody will ask more. Make the best of everything, and you will satisfy and gratify all around you.

Now, this was the way with Tom; he was good-tempered; he did the best he could; he never had the sulks; whenever his mistress wished to play, he was ready; when she was busy, he kept out of the way. Being lame, he was humble; being good, he was cheerful. So Lissa loved him, and he was happy.

Thus, Limping Tom grew up. And now he was a cat. It was his duty to guard the house, to chase away the rats, and keep the mice in order. He looked grave, and seemed to feel the responsibility of his station. But still, he did not altogether lose his love of fun. Most cats, when they grow old, grow dull and uninteresting. They lay aside their gambols and frolics, and amusements, and accomplishments; they prowl about at night with melancholy cries; doze away life in the chimney corner, and if you chance to tread on their tails, woe be to you!

Not exactly so with Tom. Despite his lameness, he was rather a jolly fellow, still. He did his duty all day――but at night, he regularly came to Lissa, and provoked her into a game of romps. Lissa was now a young lady, and a black-eyed young man came to see her almost every night. Tom was jealous at first――but finding that Lissa liked the young man, as in duty bound, he began to like him too.

At last Lissa and her lover were married. They went to live in a house of their own, and Tom went with them. He was a marked cat, you may be sure. Everybody noticed his limp, and asked questions about him. This led Lissa and her husband to tell his story, and to praise him. So Tom came to be very celebrated, and a universal favorite. His limp actually made his fortune; and the reason was, that instead of growling and snarling about it, he made the best of everything, did his duty, and was good-tempered, industrious and faithful. So it seems that even a natural defect may, by good will and good sense, be turned to good fortune.

The Mourner Comforted.