Part 11

These boys learned very rapidly, and the gentleman who had befriended them soon took them from the Italian's cottage, and sent them to the best schools in America. Both became distinguished scholars. Silvio is now a celebrated artist, and Francesco a musician whose vocal and instrumental acquirements have charmed the largest audiences, and received the highest praise of the world. Both have visited their native country, and have pursued their studies among their own countrymen, but they have never heard of any of their own kindred. The gentleman who befriended them still lives to see the good results of his kind deed, and they, in return, look upon him with feelings of love and gratitude.

THE LITTLE MILKMAID.

"Please, Grandmother, I can milk Daisy."

"There, child! Nonsense!" said the old woman crossly. "Daisy would kick thee and thy pail over in no time. We should lose our milk, and happen have thee to nurse as well."

"But Daisy likes me, Granny," pleaded the would-be milkmaid. "I never throw stones at her or pull her tail; she would not kick me. I know how to milk, don't I, Grandfather?"

"Eh, bless her, so she do!" returned a feeble voice from the bed in the corner of the kitchen. "It's a brave little lass, that it is! I'd sooner trust her than Tom, for all he's three years older."

Grandmother gave a reluctant consent, and forth went the little milkmaid, her bucket on her arm, and her dog Gypsy jumping about and inviting her to have a race with him. Play was a very good thing, and Susie dearly loved a romp, but this morning she shook her head, and told Gypsy he must wait until her task was safely over. She was very proud of Grandfather's confidence in her, and made up her mind to deserve it.

Susie looked like a part of the bright May morning as she tripped gayly down the pathway to the brook, brushing the dew off the grass and flowers with her bare little white feet, and singing a gay "good-morning" to the birds fluttering in and out of the bushes.

A kind little girl was Susie, loving all the living creatures about her moorland home, and loved by them. The birds knew better than to come within reach of Tom, but they hardly paused in their busy nest-building as Susie passed by; only singing a little more gayly than before, which was their way of welcoming her, so Susie said.

Grandfather's cottage was built on the top of a steep field. At the bottom a bubbling, noisy little brook went tumbling and bustling merrily over the stones, filling the sweet, warm air with a cheery song of its own. A plank served as a bridge across the stream; and as Susie walked steadily over it she noticed a fat, motherly old duck nestling down amongst the ferns and dock-leaves on the bank. Mother Duck uttered a startled and indignant "Quack, quack," as Gypsy jumped over her head and dashed headlong into the cool, bright water.

"Ah, Mrs. Duck," cried Susie merrily, "I see now where your eggs go! I shall pay you a visit presently; I can't stop now, because I am going a-milking."

The old duck looked after her with quite an air of understanding all about it, and gravely watched her run on towards the field where Daisy the cow stood waiting at the gate. Tom had forgotten all about milking-time, but Mistress Daisy had good reasons of her own for liking punctuality in such matters. So she poked her long white nose through the bars of the gate, and greeted Susie with a long, doleful complaint of the sad way in which she had been neglected that morning.

Perhaps it was Daisy's reproachful "Moo" which first made the little maid conscious that she had forgotten the milking-stool, but she now decided to do without it. The good old cow's temper must not be tried by any further delay, so down she knelt in the cool, dewy grass, and, carefully fixing the pail, began her task.

She found it not so easy as she expected, for milking requires practice, and some strength of fingers, and Susie had little of either. But Daisy was very good, and so the sweet, frothy milk rose higher and higher in the little pail, until at length the task was done. Daisy showed she thought so by suddenly beginning to walk away. The pail had a narrow escape then, but Susie got it safely out of the way, and began her homeward walk. Very steadily she carried the pail to the brook. There a surprise awaited her; while she had been milking some one had pulled away the plank, and thrown it down on the opposite bank. Wet feet are no hardship to little girls who wear no shoes and stockings. Susie soon tucked up her dress, and walked carefully through the bubbling stream, taking good heed of the stones at the bottom. She got across safely, and began to climb the steep, narrow path leading to the cottage. On either side the grass was long, sometimes almost meeting across the path. All in a moment her foot caught in some hidden trap, and down she fell! Alas for the poor little milkmaid! Her pail was upset, and the milk—the precious milk—ran hither and thither amongst the primroses and daisies, and finally trickled down into the brook.

"This comes of sending babies a-milking," said Grandmother, who had seen the disaster from the cottage door. "Come in," she added crossly, as the distressed little maid came slowly up the path. "Thou'rt a bad, careless lass, and shall have no breakfast. Catch me sending thee a-milking again."

"Wait a bit, Grandmother," said the old man, in his feeble, quavering voice. "Did not I hear Tom say that he'd teach the little one to meddle with his job? You must go down the path and see for yourself if it is not one of his tricks. Something must have tripped the child up."

Grandmother could not refuse to go down the path, but she went unwillingly. Tom was her favorite, and she did not wish to find him out in the wrong. But when she came to the milk-dyed spot, and found the long grass tied together across the path, she could no longer deny that the child in fault was not little Susie. As she slowly wended her way back to the cottage, she felt not only angry with naughty, idle Tom, but grieved at her own lack of justice to the willing little milkmaid.

Tom's unkind and revengeful conduct did not this time go unpunished; but his grandmother's over-indulgence had sadly spoilt his character, and although she strove hard to remedy the evil, it is doubtful if he will ever learn to be as obedient and unselfish as his good little sister Susie.

MR. BOBOLINK.

"I wish I could catch a bobolink," said Samuel.

"Let us try to-morrow and see if we cannot catch one in a box trap," said his brother Robert.

"That will be real fun," said little Maggie. And so the three children talked the matter over, and made plans for the morrow.

"You must help me in the morning," said their father. "Samuel must drop the corn in the hills for the hired man to cover, Robert will drop the beans, and Maggie must put in the pumpkin-seed. We shall have it all done by ten o'clock, and then you can play the rest of the day. If a flock of bobolinks comes along you may be able to catch one, though they are very shy, and do not stop long in any one place."

The next morning the sun rose radiantly in the eastern sky, and climbed up among the golden clouds, and all the early birds joined in a glad song of welcome. The robin chanted from the lofty branches of the elm; the bluebird, with plumage brighter than the bluest sky, glided in and out among the apple-trees, and enlivened the scene by its occasional joyous song; the red linnet whistled and chattered in the shrubbery, and the sparrow chirped in the hedge. All around seemed full of life and joy.

The bobolink swung from the highest branches, and poured out his ecstatic feelings in thrilling song.

The children went to the fields amid all this morning music, and tried to translate the song of each bird into English.

The robin chanted, "Kill him! cure him! Kill him! cure him! Give him physic!"

Who he wanted treated in this manner they could not tell, but that seemed to be the language of his song.

The voice of the linnet or bluebird could not be interpreted easily, but the bobolink spoke very plainly, and seemed personal in his remarks, which were evidently intended for the eldest boy; for he said over and over again, "Samuel! Samuel!—Samuel, planting, planting. Samuel! Samuel! planting for bobolink! bobolink!"

This chattering and singing were kept up all the forenoon, and the children resolved that when their play-time came in the afternoon they would set some traps and try to secure one of these saucy songsters, who had been talking so much to Samuel during the forenoon.

Soon as dinner was over the three hurried off to the sheep pasture, where, among the maple-trees, a large flock of bobolinks were evidently resting a day or two on their journey towards Canada, that they might feast on the scattered grains of an old wheat-field near by. The children took a few handfuls of wheat, which they scattered upon the ground; and, as Maggie could sew better than the boys, she strung some grains of wheat on a small thread. This was tied to a slender prop which held up the cover of the trap, which was made by putting four blocks together in the shape of a box. In it was a handful of wheat. When all was ready the children hid behind some shrubbery and watched and waited the result. They whispered to each other, and laid plans concerning what could be done with the bird after he was caught.

Samuel said, "Sell him. I read of bobolinks being sold at bird-stores in the city for two or three dollars each. We could get money enough to buy snap-crackers and fireworks for next Fourth of July."

"Oh! I wouldn't do that," said Robert.

"Nor I," said little Maggie. "I should rather go without any money for Fourth of July. Let's keep him, and put him in Dicky's old cage, and teach him to sing."

"Perhaps you are counting your game before 'tis caught," said Robert. "There are no birds near your trap yet."

Just then a large flock had discovered the scattered grain, and flew down near the trap. Each one of the children watched in breathless silence. Several birds entered the box, and chattered and feasted, but the cover did not fall, and the time the children were waiting in silence seemed very long. At length an old, strong bird caught up a grain attached to the string, and gave it a violent jerk. Out came the little prop, and down went the heavy cover, and a jolly old singer was entrapped. He screamed and fluttered, and his frightened companions flew away over the distant meadow.

The children ran to the trap, delighted with the capture they had made, and each one got down on his knees and peeped into the trap. Sure enough, there was Mr. Bobolink. He had on his black dress-coat and white waistcoat and breeches, and a pretty yellow necktie. They all thought him very handsome, and they laid plans for having him put into a nice brass cage at the front of the house, where they could every day hear his cheerful song. They were all delighted with their prize, and thoughts of much enjoyment went through their minds.

"Take him out carefully," said Robert, as Samuel knelt down to open the box.

"Don't hurt him," said Maggie; and Samuel raised the cover to put in his hand.

There was a flutter and a scream, and Mr. Bobolink flew away, and soared high into the air, and soon joined his travelling companions on their way to Canada.

The children were much disappointed, and when they told their father he laughed heartily, and repeated the old proverb:—

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the air."

MIDSUMMER MORNING.

In my garden hear the lark Carol aloft; Hear the dove her matins sing In answer soft. The night has fled away; Good morrow! lovely day.

Dawn has touched with fairy finger All things near, Left a dewdrop on each blossom Like a tear Sing! merry thrush, on high To the breaking summer sky.

Cobwebs, quiver in the sunlight Sparkling bright, Daisies ope their starry petals To the light. So with a rosy dawn Comes up this summer morn!

Horatia Browne.

HOW TODDIE WAS FOUND.

Old Jones, the sexton, toiled slowly up to the Rectory one winter morning. He had a sad tale to tell, and the ground was heavy with snow, and poor old Jones's heart was full of a great sorrow.

The Rectory lay cosily among the sheltering trees, and gleamed warm and cheerful beneath the gloomy skies. Mr. Chillingworth, the Rector, was a good man, and greatly beloved by the people in the parish of Redhall.

Old Jones, as I have said, was the sexton; and he tried his best, with very small success, to keep all the village boys in awe of him. He always went, with them, by the name of "old red Johnnie," for he wore a red woollen comforter through winter's cold and summer's heat.

He had a champion in one boy, however, called Toddie Banks; for you see poor Toddie was an orphan, and old Jones had been very kind to him when he was just a wee toddling laddie, had taken him to his own home, and treated him like a son, for the old man had neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, so Toddie was all of them put together to him.

And now Toddie had been missing for a whole day and night, and Jones had no doubt he had fallen over a precipice, or been lost in some deep snowdrift, for, you must know, Toddie was a bit of a naturalist, and used to take long walks in search of any curiosities he might find.

The poor old man had never been in his bed the whole of the previous night, but had been searching everywhere, helped by some kindly neighbors.

When Mr. Chillingworth understood the whole story, he at once volunteered to go in search of Toddie, accompanied by his splendid Newfoundland dog, Neptune.

"Cheer up, Jones," he said in his kindly way. "Neptune and I will do our best, with the blessing of God, to find your darling. Go home now, and have everything prepared, in case we find him overcome in the snow."

Neptune was perfectly aware that he and his master were to find Toddie, so he bounded on gayly before Mr. Chillingworth. They had not proceeded many yards before Neptune suddenly stopped, and, listening intently, galloped furiously in the direction of a stream that in summer time was a favorite haunt of Toddie's. On reaching the water he stood still, and, uttering a long, sorrowful howl, remained, evidently waiting for his master.

Mr. Chillingworth hastened up; and there was Toddie, lying to all appearance quite dead. In scrambling up the river bank he had been apparently overcome by the deadly cold and sleep from which few ever waken to life again. He had a bunch of scarlet berries in his hand, and it was pathetic to see the cold stiff fingers still clutching their treasure. Being so near the Rectory, Mr. Chillingworth just lifted the lad and bore him rapidly to his house. What was his joy, after half an hour's untiring effort to revive him, to see Toddie slowly open his eyes, and, by the time old Jones and his neighbors reached the Rectory, Toddie was able to sit up and relate his experiences. It was as the Rector thought; in reaching after the berries he fell, and remembered nothing afterwards. Poor old Jones and Toddie were heroes ever after that, and I am glad to say the village boys ceased to call him "old red Johnnie."

THE HORSE

SUGGESTED BY A LITTLE GIRL OF FOUR.

Oh a strange and curious thing is a horse, Believe or not, as you choose. For he takes it quite as a matter of course That he goes to bed in his shoes.

And his shoes, which are iron and not soft leather, Are nailed to his feet with pegs And he falls asleep without minding the weather, As he stands upright on his legs

And his hair doesn't grow in the proper place But out of his neck instead And his ears are not at the side of his face, But stand on the top of his head.

F. W. H.

THE TINKER'S VAN.

"Ronald! Ronald! our van has come! John saw it go past the gate whilst we were in school."

"Has it!" exclaimed Fred Norton, no less excited at the news than his brother; "then let's go down at once and have a look at it."

Off ran the two little fellows, and were soon in the village; and there, sure enough, drawn up in a side street, was the van of a travelling tinker. The old horse had been taken out of the shafts and was standing patiently on one side, while the tinker's wife, with her baby in her arms, walked slowly up and down, casting from time to time an anxious look up the street.

Her sunburnt face beamed with a hearty smile as the two boys rushed up to her.

"Here you are, young gentlemen!" she said, with evident delight; "I was looking out for you. I thought you'd see us go by; but my old man, he says, 'Susan, what are you thinking of? Those young gentlemen have forgotten you by this time, for it's six months more or less since we last passed by here.'"

"We haven't forgotten you," said little Ronald indignantly. "How could I forget when you were so kind to me? I could not have got home that day I sprained my foot, and then your van came up, and you jumped out and carried me in, and bathed my foot, and brought me home. Why—why—" stammered the little fellow in his eagerness, "I should be a pig if I forgot you."

"Step inside, sirs," said the woman, quite confused by Ronald's gratitude; "I want you to see how beautiful the clock looks that your mamma gave me. It goes just splendid; my old man is proud of it; it never loses a minute, and yet it gets many a jolt."

The children needed no second invitation. The van was a paradise to them, and they ran up the steps and looked at everything, and everything seemed charming. They longed to possess such a treasure, and thought the tinker and his wife must be the happiest of mortals.

"I should like to live here always," said Fred, as he and Ronald stood at the door of the van and looked out at the scene around them. "It's so jolly free," continued the boy, "so far better than always being in one house; and the cat there, and the cocks and hens, and old Dobbin—I'd much rather look at things like that than at the maps and pictures on our schoolroom walls."

"Ah! but you don't know all, sir," said the woman, shaking her head. "I was born in a van, and have always lived in one, but I don't want my little laddie here to lead the life," and she danced the crowing baby in her arms as she spoke. "I hope, by and by, we shall have a little cottage of our own and settle down, and my boy can go to school and learn to read his Bible, which is more than his mother can do, for I never had a day's schooling in my life."

"Can't you read?" said little Ronald in astonishment. "I'll come every day that you stay here and teach you. I'll begin to-night!" and before another word could be said he had darted out of the van and was up the street and out of sight, returning in a very few minutes with a large picture-book, out of which he himself had learned to read.

Ronald was a wise little fellow to have brought a picture-book; for such a work of art had never been seen by the woman before, and if reading was only looking at pictures like that she felt she might manage it after all.

She was by no means a stupid scholar, and Ronald was so earnest a little teacher that the progress made was really astonishing. The tinker found a good many jobs in the village, and stayed nearly a fortnight, and by that time Susan could spell little words very nicely, and no longer read a-s-s, donkey, as, misled by the picture, she had done at the beginning of the lessons.