Buds and Blossoms; or, Stories for Real Children
Date: 2022-03-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's stories

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Title: Buds and Blossoms; or, Stories for Real Children

Author: active 19th century Lady

Release date: March 24, 2022 [eBook #67695]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: J. Hatchard and Son, 1832

Credits: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUDS AND BLOSSOMS; OR, STORIES FOR REAL CHILDREN ***

BUDS AND BLOSSOMS;

OR,

STORIES OF REAL CHILDREN.

BY A LADY.

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

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

INTRODUCTION.

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

THE WISH.

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

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

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

“And did I love him, mama?”

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

THE FIRST RIPE STRAWBERRY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FLOWERS.

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

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

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

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

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

THE PIANO-FORTE.

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

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

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

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

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

THE BIRTH-DAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE YOUNG BIRDS.

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

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

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

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

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

THE BLACK FROCK.

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

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

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

THE PERVERSE LITTLE GIRL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WRENS.

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

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

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

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

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

THE STRANGE CAT.

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

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

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

THE THUNDER STORM.

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

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

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

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

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

THE GIPSIES.

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

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

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

THE STOLEN CHILD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Not you I know, my lady; your’s is made already, and a happy one it is, my lady; but these pretty young ladies would surely like to know.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Your child, then, is safe!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘I have seen none, my lady.’

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

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

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

CONCLUSION.

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

LONDON:

IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

INTERESTING WORKS

Published by J. Hatchard and Son.

1.

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

2.

SCENES IN OUR PARISH. By a “Country Pastor’s” Daughter. Second Edition corrected. 12mo. 5s. bds.

By the same Author,

A SECOND SERIES. In the Press.

3.

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

By the same Author,

1. TWELVE LECTURES upon the HISTORY of ABRAHAM. Fourth Edition. 12mo. 5s. 6d. canvas.

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

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

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious errors in punctuation have been corrected.

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

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

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

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

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Table of Contents

- BUDS AND BLOSSOMS; OR, STORIES OF REAL CHILDREN.

- INTRODUCTION.

- THE WISH.

- THE FIRST RIPE STRAWBERRY.

- THE FLOWERS.

- THE PIANO-FORTE.

- THE BIRTH-DAY.

- THE YOUNG BIRDS.

- THE BLACK FROCK.

- THE PERVERSE LITTLE GIRL.

- THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WRENS.

- THE STRANGE CAT.

- THE THUNDER STORM.

- THE GIPSIES.

- THE STOLEN CHILD.

- CONCLUSION.

- INTERESTING WORKS

- Transcriber’s Notes

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE