Chapter II: Part 2

Some have asked, “Why a donkey prefers thistles to grass?”—“Because he’s _an ass_.” But these playful attacks he doesn’t mind at all; he would only like to put in a word, that he could do with more of them and fewer kicks and blows; but that he would even prefer corn to thistles.

CHARLEY FORDER AND HIS SISTERS.

Now, there are some of you boys that don’t care very much about your sisters. You may not like to own it, and would not, perhaps, confess it if you were asked, yet it is so; for I know you, though I have not seen you. You don’t care to kiss them night and morning; but if they are loth to go without this affectionate salute, then you merely put up your cheek to be operated on, and look quite like a martyr while it is being done. You are too grand to play with them, although they are quite willing to let you have your own way; they would always be the horses, and let you drive, or let you have first “turn” at any game you like to suggest. But no; girls are such “muffs” at any sensible games; all very well for tea-parties and skipping-ropes. They can’t give backs for leap-frog, they have no idea of throwing a ball, and they could no more spin a top than make one.

You don’t care to take baby out in your arms, though your sister, perhaps, has had her all the afternoon, and is really very tired; for though they call her “Toddles,” she has no idea of walking at present.

You don’t like even to go out to walk with your sisters, ever since the day when you were prevented going out walking with Tom Hawkins and Harry Wilkins, having promised your mother you would take the girls. I knew how ashamed you felt when you met your school-fellows, and they shouted out, “There’s a big girl! Take care of the baby, Dick!”

Now, young gentleman, I advise you to get out of these ways as soon as possible. You are now at a very disagreeable age, and when you are a little older you will wonder you could ever have been so “uppish.” I don’t doubt you will get over all this nonsense when you go out in life, and have to leave home; then you will miss the many little acts that your eldest sister, just about your own age, used to perform.

Dressing hurriedly of a dark winter’s morning, there goes a button! Never mind, let’s pin the shirt. Not long after, stooping down, or lifting a heavy parcel, or something else, gives you a hint about your substitute for a button, by a sudden prick, that makes you think of dear old Susy and her nimble fingers.

Going errands in the snow and wet, you feel your toes uncommonly cold; you put them up close to the fire in the shop while you are waiting to be served, or you do the “double shuffle” with your feet over a railing or on the pavement; but something better might be done if only Susy had your stockings, and darned these great holes through which your toes project.

Sooner or later, boys, you would think you had been very foolish in not having valued your sisters more. Well, never mind; they will soon forget any little want of attention, and we will cease to remind you what awkward customers you once were—that is, if you try and make up for it.

Ah! Charley Forder cared for his sister, I can tell you. “But who was Charley Forder!” Well, listen.

He was the eldest child of his parents, who lived at Lingford, a small town on the sea-coast.

His father was a sailor in the navy, and was now away on a four-years’ voyage to the Pacific. Mrs Forder had enough to do to look after her family, and help support them, by taking in plain needle-work; but Margaret, who was now ten years old, and a big girl for her age, was able to help her mother in minding her younger sisters. Charley, who was sixteen, had been a sailor boy for some two years; but his father, wishing him to be nearer home than he was likely to be, had entered him in the merchant service; and he was apprenticed to a firm whose vessels called in at Lingford.

His mother was very sorry to part with Charley, as he was a real comfort to her. He was always willing to rock the cradle, or look after little “Puss,” as he called his second sister; and then, when all the work was done, he would go out for a run with them on the down, or else stroll down to the beach, and watch what was going on. He and Margaret used to talk like grown-up people in their plans for helping their mother, for they knew that there was only what she earned and father’s half-pay to maintain them all.

“I tell you what ’tis, Madge, I shall leave here, and be doing something for myself, and for you all,” said Charley, one day, on the beach.

“And so shall I, Charley; why, I’m bigger than Susan Carter, and she’s in a place, and gets a shilling a week, and does not cost her mother anything, ’cos her missus gives her her old clothes.”

“No, that won’t do; you must stay at home and look after the little ones, so that mother will have more time for her work, and I’ll be off; that will be one less to keep.”

And the matter was talked over, and a letter written to the father; and when his consent was gained, after several months’ interval, Charley joined a schooner that was engaged in the fruit trade, and went between Valencia and London. The vessel was just going out for a cargo, and it was expected she would call in at Lingford. It would be a good opportunity for Mrs Forder to get up some clean linen for Charley, and also something out of the way of junks of salt pork and biscuit for him to eat. The children had the bundle of clothes and the tin of good things in readiness on the beach, and waited for the “Stirling Castle” as she came round the point. It was a windy day, so Margaret thoughtfully set baby on a rock, with her back to the sea, not minding how she herself was blown about; and little “Puss” was too intent on seeing Charley to think of herself at all.

At last a vessel hove in sight, and neared the land, a boat put off for the shore, with Charley in her, bearing a letter to one of the partners, which he was to deliver, to wait an answer, and then return at once.

The lad had just time to run in to his mother and thank her for her kindness, after embracing his sisters on the beach. Poor boy! he was obliged to tear himself away. He tried to be merry, and told Madge she had given him a _smack_ when she kissed him, but perhaps he should have a _schooner_ some day; but it was with a heavy heart he left them.

That evening the fresh meat was taken with salt tears trickling down his face, yet he felt happy when he rose from his knees and turned into his hammock.

Good-bye, Charley—God bless you!

MY GRANDFATHER.

Among the pleasantest recollections of my youth are the memories of my dear grandfather.

I have a very distinct remembrance of the satisfaction I felt when I presented myself at church for the first time in jacket and trousers; and a much clearer one of having discovered in the depths of the pocket of the latter garment a fourpenny bit, than of anything the minister said that day.

I recall my feelings on breaking up at the end of my first half, away from heme at boarding-school. That was very jolly; and if I stopped to relate them, I could jot down several occasions, the remembrance of which I have never lost; but, as I said, the pleasantest recollections of my youth are concerning my grandfather.

He lived at no great distance from us, and so we often saw him; in fact, he made it his duty, and I am sure it was his pleasure, to come and see us once every fortnight. If he had lived at a distance, and had only come to us once a year, say at Christmas time, we should, of course, have been very glad to see him; but then we should not have learned to respect or love him as we did.

It is no very difficult thing to make one’s-self popular with youngsters, if one brings them presents; and especially at Christmas, when most people’s hearts are more than usual kindly disposed; so that if a person could not make himself agreeable then, he must be a bear. Had grandfather only paid us these annual visits he might, by an effort, have impressed us very favourably even had he not been particularly fond of children; but these frequent visits, when we saw him under varied circumstances, sometimes under trial, sometimes in bodily pain, sometimes anxious about some of his children or grandchildren, gave us so many opportunities of observing that he was always the same to us youngsters. The rattle of his stick on the railings would bring us down to the door at once, however interestedly we were engaged; and though we were always delighted to see him, I must say that our hearts beat with a throb of curious joy when we noticed, as we were sure to do in a moment, that his pockets looked at all bulky. The contents were never disclosed until after dinner; the delay kept up our interest, and I think also it was a little generalship on his part, as it gave him an opportunity of having forty winks whilst we were engaged with our presents, either eating them, if they were for consumption, or amusing ourselves with them, if they were for recreation. After the real nap would come an assumed one. We could always tell where the one ended and the other began by the smile that played round his mouth as he opened one eye, and then shut it up quickly, if we were looking. Then he was supposed to be a sleeping giant, or a grizzly bear, and we tried to get near him and touch him, and fly off before he could reach us. How angry he would pretend to get at our impudence; how severely he appeared to feel our tiny slaps; what dreadful threats he uttered, the severest of which, “seeing our noses above our chins,” was always received by us with defiant laughter.

I need not say we ran some terrible risks until success making us very bold, we put ourselves entirely within reach of the enemy, were fairly caught, and were mercilessly tickled.

Then would come a more vigorous romp sometimes in the hall, at his suggestion, lest we should disarrange the parlour too much. He was always more than a match for us, both with his arms and legs; but in our desperate struggles, when I would try to trip him up, and my sister to pull him down, he would pretend to be almost conquered. This gave great zest to the fun, and made it much more enjoyable than if he had, as he might have done, turned us over on our backs like sailors do the turtle on the sands; and at tea time, when we related the encounters, he took good care to break in with some such remark as—“Ah! I must look out when you get a little bigger,” or else rubbed his shoulder, as if by our gigantic efforts we had nearly pulled his arm out of the socket. Though defeated, we were never humiliated; and his sweet, amiable disposition was seen in all his conduct. He always tried to make the most of every one; he would always encourage, or draw out whatever was in them, unless he met with any one very forward or conceited.

Then, after tea, before we went to bed, we gathered round him. I used to sit on his knee until my mother declared I was too big to be nursed; but my sister had that privilege long after she had outgrown the size at which I had to give it up. There were some old stories and jokes that we insisted on having every time he came; and so well did we know them that, when, for fun, he would vary them, or omit portions, we at once detected him, and would have the “full, true, and particular account.”

Always before he left us he would gradually get us sober; not suddenly repressing our laughter, or jerking his face into a solemn expression, but generally leading round the last story or subject in the direction of religion. I can never forget the Bible stories as he told them; he made the characters so real and lifelike by telling us of them in a plain, simple way, and by looking at them from a child’s stand-point. We never tired of hearing of the Good Shepherd; he made Jesus appear to us as especially the Saviour of little children; and as he unfolded to us the tender, pitying, gentle love of Christ, we nestled close into him, and fancied we were indeed His lambs, and that His very arms were folding us to His bosom.

Since then, Ethel has been welcomed into the heavenly fold by Jesus himself; and I—well, trust I am not wandering away from Him; at all events, I know I am nearer than I should have been had I not been blessed with such a grandfather.

I often think of him, but especially when Christmas comes round. It was on Christmas Day that he last visited us. We were sitting round the fire, before the lights were lit for tea, and as usual, Ethel and I were close to him. He was holding each of us by the hand, and, raising us, we stood at his side. He was speaking about the Babe of Bethlehem; he said he felt, soon, very soon, he too, like the shepherds, should see Him, though not as they saw Him. Presently I felt a tear fall on my hand, and then another; at length the tears fell fast, and the words stopped. Looking up in his face, Ethel said, “Are you ill, grandpa?” “No, my child,” he replied, “I was thinking how long I should have to wait in heaven until the Shepherd fetched my darlings and His.”

He died before the New Year, and he had not long to wait for little Ethel.

THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL.

Many places there surely are in London that it would do one good to visit—many places to which you have never been, and many more to which we have never been together. I don’t mean peepshows, or waxworks, or places of amusement at all; but places that are set apart for some wise, and good, and holy objects, places where something, at all events, is done to lessen the misery and wretchedness that everywhere surround us. One such place is the Hospital for Sick Children, in Great Ormond Street, and if you have never been there—I trust you never have been as an inmate—you will be interested in tracing my steps.

My visit was a very recent one, and I may say I had you, my young readers, in my mind as I went.

Waiting a short time in a large reception-room, I had time to observe that the house formerly was a mansion, and I found out that a hundred years ago men of literature and science assembled here. Here Addison and Pope and Swift met and talked, sometimes gravely and sometimes gaily; but now the present little inhabitants forbid one’s gaiety, at all events. Then children’s feet ran up and down those broad oak stairs; but now the children that pass up are borne, helpless and afflicted. Then the rich paintings on the walls, the gilding on the ceiling, the cornices and figures, were objects of no wonder to those who saw them so frequently; but now they are looked upon with childish admiration, and even delight.

Ah! but the children are not left to be pleased with things they cannot handle; for, look! did you ever see so many toys in one room, that was not a shop? This used to be the drawing-room; but it is now hung round with pictures of child life, and is filled with little beds, in each of which is a poor suffering little girl.

Here they lie so patiently, so uncomplainingly—not because a stranger is visiting them, but this is the character the nurses give them. Who shall say how much is owing to the gratitude they bear for the comforts they have, which they never had at home, and for the kindness with which they are supplied? I did not hear one cry, or moan, or complaint, except from a little fellow suffering from fits, which seemed to have confused his mind as to the ownership of a two-horse omnibus with which another boy was playing. The fact was, his own had been placed on one side by the nurse as a little act of discipline.

Over each bed there is a little platform, on which are placed the child’s toys. Some were sitting up playing with theirs. One little girl had fallen asleep, placing the greatest confidence in a number of wild animals that lay upon the pillow beside her; another, a tiny little thing of three years of age, who was suffering from skin disease, sat up in her bed looking very sad, which even the presence of three rag dolls at her feet could not remove. Ah! perhaps had it been some of you, there would have been something worse than a sad look—even cries or tears.

Others were sleeping sweetly, forgetful of their pain and suffering, dreaming, perhaps, of the time when they ran and frisked about, which some of them would never do again. For instance, here is a child, only six years old, that has lost her leg—cut off up to the thigh, for hip disease. Poor child, she does not even know that it is gone; but sad as this may appear, it really shows how skillfully the doctor did his part, and how tenderly the nurse did hers, and also how mercifully her heavenly Father provided the chloroform that prevented her feeling any pain.

I said they all had their toys—that is, each child its own. There are some large toys, such as a beautiful doll in a glass case and a musical-box which shows a number of funny old figures playing various instruments, that belong to the room. The Queen sent this last one; but the smaller toys, that she herself bought when in Germany, and sent here, were given to the children to play with, and to take away when they left. Most of those who had them had gone away; still I saw two of Her Majesty’s toys, and was glad to find they were just ordinary ones, that would amuse any child. There was a man on a stand driving three sheep to market, with a dog behind him. The white leather invited me to press the bottom, but the squeak was gone; but had it been there I could not have told you whether it was intended to be the man, or the dog, or the sheep, making the noise. I was more successful with a bird in a cage, for here the cage decidedly squeaked, and saved the bird the trouble.

At Christmas time there was a large Christmas tree provided, when several former patients were invited, and the presents from the Queen and from others were distributed.

I noticed also that Prince Alfred had sent a large lion with a woolly mane—not so ample as it might have been, but perhaps it had been deprived of its wool by little people who wanted a memento of this royal present.

I hear that lately the youngest prince was much pleased at having to select a number of toys for the children; whilst two of the Princesses have on more than one occasion sent little garments for the children made by themselves.

But we must go upstairs to the boys’ ward, where the same order and cleanliness and comfort are seen. The first thing that strikes me is a rocking horse, in a worse state than any inmate, for he has lost his head. Ah! I am glad to see that, for it tells me that the dear boys have had many a ride on him.

But here are many poor little fellows who will not be able to ride for a long while—some never again. Here is one that has had his leg cut off above the knee, only a fortnight ago, and yet he is cheerful and happy, and, I am glad to say, is getting on favourably. I asked him if he was in pain, and he said, “Not now; but I often feel great pain in my toes at night.” Strange as it may seem, this is borne out by others, for I have heard of many cases of persons complaining of pains in their feet, or of suffering from corns years after their feet, and corns too, have been removed.

Another boy cannot move his chin from his chest, through contraction of the muscles, caused by being burnt. Poor boy, he looks very sad and wretched, but he, too, has his toys, and he, too, murmurs not.

I hope all these—both boys and girls—will soon get into the convalescent ward, where there is plenty to interest them.

There are plenty of toys and plenty of books; and then two doves in a cage, and gold fish swimming in an aquarium, and last of all a shaggy dog—all alive. This last inmate was asleep, and so I asked the nurse if he was convalescent too, and she told me that he liked being in that ward. I dare say he does; he prefers the company of children who can move about and play with him rather than of those who are in bed.

I have been over the house. I am nearly at the end of my paper. But you would like to hear a word about the institution, and how it is supported. About twenty years ago the first little girl was admitted, and since then they have been able to increase their number of beds as their means have allowed them. Now there are many more; but how few when there are so many poor children who should be here. If my young readers would reflect that more than 21,000 children under ten years of age die in London every year, they would wish to do something for the hospital. Can you do anything? Why, yes. I saw a beautiful scrap-book that had been made and sent by a lady; some of you boys and girls could make some plainer ones. In India, when some Hindoo girls heard about the Hospital, they sent over several dolls dressed in Hindoo costume.

Your contributions might not be large, but you would help to cheer the afflicted and the suffering, and you would draw down a blessing into your own hearts while you thus ministered unto your Saviour, by ministering to his little ones.

MY FIRST BEAR.

[_Extracted from a Letter from a Gentleman in the Civil Service of India to a friend in England._]

In my last letter I told you I had gone to the hills for a holiday for the benefit of my health; and you will now be glad to hear that I am all the better for the change. After the heat of Calcutta, the freshness of the atmosphere here is most exhilarating, and out-of-door exercise, instead of being irksome or fatiguing, is positively most refreshing. I often wish you and Bessie and Fred were here, for I know you would enjoy it immensely. We are very quiet up here; there are some nice families resident here; then there are some of our men and a few army officers; and though we are not gay as society is in our cities, we are not without opportunities of recreation and pleasure.

“But I must tell you of a most amusing adventure that befel me here shortly after my arrival, which I do all the more readily, as it was considered quite an event for this place.

“Wanting to see if there was any shooting in the neighbourhood, I got four natives to accompany me to a rocky and mountainous district some few miles from here. I selected this spot, as I had heard that some time before a bear had been seen in the woods. I furnished my guides with guns and ammunition; and with a good stock of provender we started. The way was enlivened by the recital, by the natives, of the daring exploits they would perform, and of the unflinching courage which each of them possessed. They spoke of bears and even lions with the greatest contempt, and assured me that their experiences in shooting these wild beasts was most extensive.

“To tell you the truth, though I had heard about the bear, I was not very sanguine about meeting one, but I fortunately provided myself and companions with shot suited to his capacity. I might just as well have supplied my companions with peas—but there, I am anticipating. To come to the point, then, at once. We really did come across the bear, or, rather, he came across us; for whilst we were on some high rocks, one of the natives espied Master Bruin in the woods, trotting towards us. They all shouted at the top of their voices, in the hope of driving him off, but seeing that he was not to be so easily diverted, they then begged me to fire, as they very considerately said they should like me to have the honour of killing him.

“I knew if I did not, they would not, and that perhaps Bruin might kill some of us; so waiting till he came clear of the trees, so that I could get a good shot at him, I fired one barrel, and struck him somewhere in the head without killing him. It arrested his progress, however, and he stood still.

“He was now not more than a few yards from me; between us there was a deep ravine, which the bear could have easily cleared at a bound, but he thought better of it; and whilst he was reflecting on what course to take, I discharged my second barrel into his shoulder. This was enough for him; he turned round and retired into the woods.

“Where were my companions all this time?” you ask. They were behaving themselves in the most gallant manner. At the near approach of the bear they showed signs of fear; and when he came to the edge of the cliff, and seemed as if he would be on us with a bound, they all fell back in the greatest fright. One let his gun fall from his hand, and it fell down the ravine; two of them _fairly_, or, as I should say, _unfairly_, turned tail and ran off; and the fourth, running backwards, fell over a bush and performed an involuntary summersault. When they satisfied themselves that the bear had made off, and was not likely to be seen again, they plucked up courage to return, not at all ashamed of their cowardice. In fact, two of them had the effrontery to say that they were running off to get a shot at him from a point higher up on the rocks.

“However, even then they were too much afraid to show me the way up through the valley into the wood, as the ravine was rather wider than I cared to jump; and as it was getting late, and I was somewhat tired (not being quite so much up to work on my legs as I used to be in the Highlands), and I had to walk home, I was obliged to leave the issue of my shots doubtful.

“Next morning, however, there was some excitement near the Residency, occasioned by the bringing in of the carcass of a bear, which a party of natives declared they had that morning killed. They hoped to get a reward from the Resident for the destruction of an animal which might have done so much mischief but for their timely slaughter of him; but when I made my appearance, one of the valiant huntsmen, who was one of my brave comrades on the day previously, was slow to prefer his claim any longer.

“The fact was, he had thought I might have killed or severely wounded the bear, and so had gone into the woods to reconnoitre; and finding the dead body, had brought it in with his companions rejoicing. On examining the body I found it almost cold; so that Bruin must have retired to die after my second shot.”

THE PLOT DISCOVERED.

AS TRUE AS IT IS WONDERFUL.

Now boys and girls, I am no spiritualist; I do not believe in table-turning, except when some one lays a very clever snare and falls into it, then the tables are turned on him; nor do I believe in table-rapping, except in the method your fathers may adopt, when you are making so much noise that they can’t hear themselves speak; then they may sometimes rap the table with advantage. Nor do I take much notice of dreams generally: of course, if folks will make hearty suppers of indigestible food, they must expect to fall off the church tower, or be pursued by a mad bull (especially if beef-steaks figured at supper), or come into contact with robbers, once or twice in the night. But if we are careful of ourselves, and if we are in good health we shall not be troubled with dreams much! the mind will be active when the body is still, but when we awake to the duties of the day, it finds scope enough there, and soon forgets its exercise in the night.

Nevertheless there are occasions when dreams are important, when they so vividly impress the mind as to lead to definite action from which important results follow.

I believe, occasionally, but very rarely perhaps, that some persons are “warned of God in a dream,” and I will give you an instance which has never yet been made public so far as I know, but for the truth of which I can vouch.

I have often heard the story from the mother of the master of the first boarding-school I was at.

She was too good a woman to deceive us, and besides, the circumstances happened to her own uncle, and were in this wise.

He was a minister in Cornwall, surrounded by wicked neighbours, who hated him because he so constantly reproved them by his voice and example. And so they determined to get rid of him. It was the time of the French war, and they had him arrested for supplying the enemy with gunpowder.

He was in gaol at Launceston, and on the night before the assizes, a gentleman at Stonehouse, in Devonshire, who knew nothing of these circumstances, dreamed that he must go to Launceston: he awoke his wife and told her, but she sensibly advised him to go to sleep again. He did so, but soon awoke, having again dreamed that he must go there. And on his informing his wife, she suggested his going to sleep again, saying that if there were anything in the dream, it would be repeated the third time.

He went to sleep again; and again did he awake with the impulse, stronger than ever, that he must go to Launceston.

While he was dressing, the thought occurred to him that he would not be able to catch his horse, which was in a field near the house. In broad daylight it was a matter of difficulty, and the animal was only captured by the sight of the corn measure, and the promise of some oats at the bottom, and not then until he had indulged in a canter or two round the field. You may imagine that the gentleman was much surprised to find his horse standing at the gate, waiting for him, as it were, and allowing himself to be saddled and bridled at once. On his master rode through Devonport, wondering to himself how at that time of night he should cross the Tamar that separates Devon from Cornwall. The ferry had stopped for hours; but as he was riding down to the water’s edge, he was shouted to by a man, “Come on, sir.” The voice came from the ferryman, who was waiting with his boat, and who asked the gentleman where his companions were. He replied he had none. “Oh, then,” said the man, “it must have been some drunken men who shouted to us—several of them—to bring over the ferry. But it appears we have not come on a wild-goose chase after all; so step in, sir.”

Once on the other side, there was no further difficulty in the way, so that the gentleman trotted on to Launceston full of the importance of his errand, but quite in the dark as to its purport. Nearing the town, he overtook numbers of people, and hearing they were on their way to the assizes, he decided on going there too.

Squeezing his way into court, he remained there for some little time an obscure and unobserved individual; but he was soon destined to play a very important part in a trial that had just begun. He was startled at hearing his own name called out loudly by the crier of the court, from which he knew he was required as a witness. He pushed forward into the witness-box, when a number of men standing near appeared much confused, and hurriedly left the court. On being sworn he was asked his name, residence, and business, and then the counsel said,—

“I believe on the —— (mentioning the date) you had a large order for gunpowder. Will you please to inform the court of the transaction.”

“I never had such an order, nor do I at all know to what these proceedings relate,” said the gentleman in an astonished manner.

“What!” said the judge, “do you mean to say you know nothing of the prisoner at the bar, nor of the crime with which he is charged.”

“Absolutely nothing, my lord,” was the reply.

“Then, why are you here?”

The gentleman then, in as few words as possible, related the circumstances with which you are already familiar, when it became apparent to all, that the prisoner had been the victim of a base and murderous plot.

Inquiries were made for those who had instigated the trial, but they were nowhere to be found. Doubtless they had arranged for some one to palm himself off as a gentleman of whom the powder was bought, but the arrival at the right moment of the real individual, frustrated all their deeply laid plans, and saved the life of an innocent and godly man.

There, now, boys and girls, there is my tale; it is strictly true, as I remember it told to me by the niece of the accused, except that, for the filling up of the story, I have not given the exact words used at the trial, as they have not been preserved, but a conversation similar to the one that took place, when the truth was elicited.

You may make what you like of it, but I shall always hold that the dream was no delusion, that the arrival in the court was not an accident, but that it was the last link in the chain of God’s providence with which He encompassed His faithful servant.

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