Then there was a glass case full of swords, and dirks, and daggers, and all sorts of instruments to kill people; and you would have been as glad as I was, had you seen them hanging up there so harmlessly, instead of making widows and orphans, on the battlefield.

Then, there were beautiful pianos with silver keys, and rich sofas, and bedsteads, and chairs, and tables, and bureaus; and pretty, tempting work-boxes, full of all sorts of knick-knacks to tempt ladies to be industrious; and such dainty little writing desks!—oh, I can tell you, it was very hard work not to covet those.

Then the diamonds, and amethysts, and emeralds, and pearls, and rubies, fit for a queen's diadem;—they flashed in my eyes till I was almost blind—but I would rather have had that little image of the sleeping baby than the whole of them.

Then there were silks, and satins, and gauzes, and embroideries, and worsted jackets, and tippets, and gloves, and shoes fit for Cinderella.

Then there were dolls, (boys and girls) dressed up to show off the fashions. I should be sorry to see you finified up so. Then, there was a beautiful baby's cradle, lined with soft, white satin, with a rich lace curtain, fit for Queen Victoria's baby, or your mother's; and a tiny little robe and cap lying near it, delicate as a lily leaf.

Then there was a tall wax lady dressed in deep black, (black eyes too) to show off the mourning goods; and between you and me, I think she mourned quite as much as a great many persons who put on black.

Then there was a pyramid of perfumery—done up in bottles—enough to sweeten the handkerchiefs and dispositions of all the young ladies in New-York.

Then there were silver and gold tea-sets, and dishes and trays, and knives and forks, for rich ladies who like to be tied to a bunch of keys, and sleep with one eye open.

Then there were beautiful pictures, which many a poor artist had toiled and sighed over, and which I should like to give him a good bag of money for, and then hang them up in my parlor. Pictures are such pleasant, quiet company.

Then there were a great many machines, and instruments, and engines, of much importance, which grown up people would be interested in, but which I will not describe to you.

Well, these pretty things I have told you about were not all on the lower floor of the Palace. No; part of them were in the galleries. You could sit there and look down below upon the great statue of General Washington on horseback; upon Daniel Webster; and then, upon the Lilliputians that were walking around looking at them; then, you could shut your eyes and listen to the music, and fancy you were in some enchanted region, for it was quite like a fairy tale, the whole of it.



KIZZY KRINGLE'S STORY.

I am an old maid. Perhaps I might have been married. Perhaps not. I don't know as that is anybody's business.

I have a little room I call my own. There's a bedstead in it covered with a patched quilt, made of as many colors as "Joseph's coat," and an old-fashioned bureau with great claw feet, and a chair whose cushion is stuffed with cotton batting; a wash-stand, a table, and a looking-glass over it. At the side of the looking-glass is a picture of Daniel Webster, which I look at oftener than in the looking-glass—for I am an ugly old maid, and Daniel was one of a thousand.

Old maids like to have a good time, as well as other folks; so, I don't shut myself up moping in my little salt-box of a room. When the four walls close too tight round me, there are four or five families where I go visiting, sometimes to breakfast, (for I'm an early riser,) sometimes to tea, sometimes to dinner, and sometimes to all three;—sometimes I stay all night.

Everybody is glad to see me, because I pay my way. If the baby has the colic, I tend it; if Johnny wants a new tail to his kite, I make it; if Susy has torn her best frock, I mend it; and if Papa comes slily up to me and slips a dicky into my hand, I sew the missing string on, and say nothing.

I have lately made the acquaintance of a new family, by the name of Tompkins; and very pleasant people they are, too. They have a whole house full of children,—not one too many, according to my way of thinking. Louisas and Jennys, and Marthas and Marys, and Tommys and Johnnys, besides a little baby that its mother has never had time to name.

I love to watch little children. I love to hear them talk when they don't think I am listening. I love to read to them and watch their eyes sparkle. I love to play with them, and walk with them. They are often much pleasanter company than grown people—at least, so Kizzy thinks. But that is only an old maid's opinion.

I hadn't visited at the Tompkins' long, before I noticed that little "Luly," as they called her, was one by herself; that is, she was not a favorite with the rest of the family. At first I didn't understand how it was, and I felt very much like saying I didn't like it; for Luly seemed to be a nice little girl, and playful as a little kitty. She was always laughing, singing, and dancing—now in at one door, and now out at the other, like a will-o'-the-wisp, or a jack-o'-lantern. Why on earth they didn't like Luly, I couldn't see. Being an old maid, of course I couldn't rest easy till I found out the reason of this; and I soon did it, as you'll see, if you read on to the end of my story.

One day Luly came to me saying, "Tell me a story, there's a good Kizzy, I am tired of running round."

Well, I knit to my seam needle, and then I took her up on my lap and began:

Once there was a little girl whose name was Violetta. She had never kept still five minutes since she was born, and I suppose the shoemakers were very glad of it. She was as much like a little squirrel as a little girl could be—nibbling and scampering, scampering and nibbling, from sunrise to sunset.

When Violetta came into the room, everybody looked uneasy. If her papa was writing, he'd lay one hand over his papers, and push his ink-stand as far as possible into the middle of the table; mamma would catch up her work-basket and put it in her lap; her little brothers and sisters would all scrabble up their playthings, and run; even the little baby would crawl on its hands and knees as fast as it could, and catch hold of its mother's gown.

You might be sure if you laid a thing out of your hand, you never would find it in the same spot where you left it, if Violetta were in the room. She would run off with your scissors, your bodkin, your needlebook, and your spool of cotton; she would stuff your handkerchief in her pocket by mistake; she'd break the strings of your bag, trying to open it; she'd try your spectacles on to her kitten, and tie your new tippet on the dog Ponto's neck.

Then she would run into the kitchen and dip her fingers into the preserves, and upset the egg-basket, and open the oven door and let the heat all out when the pies were baking, and leave the cover off the sugar bucket, and dip into the milk to feed her kitty, and disturb the cream, and nibble round a loaf of fresh cake, just like a little mouse.

Well, of course everybody disliked her, and hated to see her come where they were. She never got invited anywhere, because nothing was safe from her little Paul Pry fingers; and when company came she generally got sent out of the room. It was a great pity, because she was really a pretty little girl, and a very bright one, too.

"Oh, Miss Kizzy," said Luly, "I never will do so any more, I——"

Why, Luly, I didn't say you did so; I was talking about Violetta.

"Oh, but it is just like me," said the honest little girl; "I have done all those things, Miss Kizzy—every one of them; but I didn't think it would make everybody hate me. I want to be loved, Miss Kizzy; but you don't know how dreadful hard it is for a little girl to 'keep still.'"

Yes I do, Luly; and you needn't "keep still," as you call it, but you mustn't meddle with what don't belong to you. I see how it is: you are a very active little girl, and want something to do all the time. I'll ask your mother to let you go to school—(Luly frowned)—to me, Luly!

"Oh, that's so nice," said Luly. "Don't get a bench—will you? Don't make me set up straight. Don't make me fold up my hands and keep my toes still, will you, Miss Kizzy?"

Well, Luly came to my school, and stood up or sat down, just as she liked. She was the only scholar I had, so I was not particular about that; but after she had learned to read, she would "keep still" for hours together without minding it, if you'd only give her a book.

Poor little Luly; she didn't mean to be naughty; she only wanted something to do. She is one of the best little girls now that ever carried a satchel.



NEW-YORK IN SHADOW.

My dear little readers: But a step or two from the famous Broadway, in New-York, where one sees so much riches and splendor, is a place called the "Five Points," where the wicked poor live, huddled together in garrets and cellars, half starved, half naked, and dirty, and wretched, beyond what you, in your pure and happy homes, ever could dream of. They were recently so numerous, so strong, and so cunning, that even the police were afraid to go among them, for fear they should get killed.

A good man by the name of Mr. Pease heard of this dreadful place, and went down there to see what he could do to make the people better. I had heard how much good he had done, and to-day I went down to the Five Points to see for myself.

Oh, I couldn't tell you half the misery that stared me in the face, as I passed through those streets. Slatternly women, huddled round cellar doors; dirty children, half naked, playing in the muddy gutters, and hearing words that may never, never be written for you to read.

Then, there were drinking shops, with such shocking odors issuing from doors and windows; and red-faced, blear-eyed men, half drunk, leaning against the barrels, and sitting on the side-walks; and decayed fruit, in windows so thick with dirt that one could scarcely see through them; and second-hand, faded dresses and bonnets for sale, swinging from out the doorways; and girls with uncombed hair and bare feet and bold faces, fighting and swearing; and old, gray-haired men, smoking pipes and drinking. I was quite sick at heart, and was glad to get into Mr. Pease's house, and find something doing to make things better.

Mr. Pease is a very sensible man, as well as a kind hearted one. Some people who had always had enough to eat, drink, and wear themselves, wished him only to pray for, and talk to these poor creatures, and give them tracts; but Mr. Pease knew that many of them were willing to work, and only stole because they could not get work to do, and must either steal or starve. So he knew it was no use to talk and tell them they must be good, so long as he didn't show them any way by which they could earn their living honestly.

So, like a sensible man, in the first place he took a shop, and got a great many coarse shirts to make, and told these poor women if they would come in and make them, he would pay them money, and then they needn't steal. And they came, too; for many of them were weary enough of such a wretched life. Nobody likes to be dirty, instead of clean; nobody likes to be despised, instead of loved; nobody likes a police-man's hand on his throat, instead of the twining arms of the good and pure.

No, indeed! Nobody likes to be afraid to look up at the holy stars, lest their bright eyes should see into their dark souls; nobody likes to drink till they are senseless as a beast, to stifle the sweet voice of conscience; nobody likes to be hungry, or thirsty, or sick and diseased, or so miserable that death would be a blessing.

No, no—no, no! my dear children. So, these poor creatures came flocking to Mr. Pease's shop, glad to work,—glad of a chance to be honest,—glad to see somebody, like Mr. Pease, who would reach out his hand and pull them out of this SEA OF SIN, instead of standing on shore, with his hands folded, while they were drowning, reading them a tract. They saw that he was in earnest,—they saw that he didn't think himself too good to come right down and live in that dreadful neighborhood, if he only could help them. And then, when he had shown them how to put honest bread in their mouths,—when he had found the way to their hearts, (for these wretched creatures have hearts,)—then he talked to them of God and Heaven, till the tears rained down their cheeks,—then he asked them to promise him to "go and sin no more;" and they have kept their word, too. Isn't that good?

Another good thing Mr. Pease has done: he opened a school in this house of his, for the children in the neighborhood, and I asked him to take me in to see them. So, he opened a door, and there sat the little creatures on low benches;—some black as "Topsy;" some white as you are; some barefoot; some with shoes; some so small that their little feet didn't touch the floor from the low benches; some sickly looking and pallid; some rosy and bright; but all with clean hands and clean faces.

At a signal from the lady teacher, they all began to sing, "A brighter day will dawn to-morrow." I had to cry. I couldn't help it.

Some of the children had such pure, sweet faces, that as they sat there singing, with their soft eyes looking upwards, I felt as if I had almost rather they would die there, than go home through those dreadful streets, into those wretched cellars, and hear the shocking words I had heard, as I passed along through them.

I was so glad to learn from Mr. Pease, that some of these little children, who had no parents, lived there in the house with him, and that he kept the others in the day time, giving them their dinners at noon. Poor, little innocent children! I looked at one little face after another, and I couldn't make it right that they should have to live where they can't help sinning,—where they are taught to be wicked,—where they are whipped and beaten for not being wicked,—because rich people love silks and jewels too well, to give Mr. Pease money to find them bread and shelter, and take them away.

Oh, if the rich ladies and gentlemen who live in fine houses, had only seen those poor children as I did, and heard their sweet voices, I can't believe that they would suffer them to remain in such a sinful and wretched condition. Some of them have sent money, which has helped Mr. Pease to buy a place in the country, where he means to carry all the children he can get, away from that vile neighborhood.

Is not that nice? How I should like to see them running over the fields, when work is done; tumbling about under the trees, growing brown and rosy and healthy; listening, not to curses and oaths, but to the warble of some dear little bird, praising God in his own sweet way, for his share of light and air and sunshine!

And now, as you sit in your happy homes, where you hear only kind, good, pure words,—where you never tremble at your father's footfall, or creep under the bed for fear of your own mother,—where you are never hungry, or thirsty, or cold,—where you meet only loving smiles, and go to sleep with the hand of blessing on your bright young head,—oh, remember the poor little outcast ones still forced to live at the Five Points; and if you cannot give them money to help them away, fold your hands and pray God every night to "keep them from the evil that is in the world."



HATTY'S MISTAKE.

"I am so glad it is Saturday afternoon!"—and little Hatty tossed off her bonnet, and shook out her hair, and skipped up to her mother, who sat making the baby's new red frock,—"I am glad it is Saturday; I don't see the use of going to school, and I wish I never had to look into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time, into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.

Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and Hatty said she should like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of "helping" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her pocket: then she looked up and said,

"Bridget! I wish I were you; I should have such a good time tasting the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."

Bridget didn't answer, but she turned away and took a long-handled shovel and poked her pies into the hot oven, and then Hatty heard her draw a great long sigh.

"What is the matter, Bridget?" said Hatty. "Is your crust heavy?"

"No," said Bridget,—"but my heart is. I was thinking how I wished I knew how to read and write. There's Patrick, my brother, way over in Ireland—the last time I saw him I wasn't taller than that butter firkin. Father and mother are dead, and Pat is just the pulse of my heart, Hatty! Well, when he writes me a letter, it's me that can't for the life of me read a word of it; and if I get Honora Donahue to read it, I'm not sure whether she gets the right sense of it; and then a body wants to read a letter more than once, you know; and so I take it up, my darlin', and turn it over and over, and it's nothing but Greek and Latin to poor Bridget. And so many's the time, Hatty, I've cried hours over Pat's letters, for reason of that. Then I can't answer them—cause you know I can't write—and in course I don't want to turn my heart inside out for anybody else to write it to Pat for me; and so you see, my darlin', it's a bother all round entirely,"—and Bridget shut to the oven door, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her check apron.

Hatty was a very warm-hearted little girl, and she couldn't bear to see Bridget cry, so she threw down the bit of paste in her hand; then starting to her feet, as if a sudden thought had struck her, ran quickly up stairs into the parlor, where her mother was sitting, talking with two ladies.

Hatty forgot that her face, and hands, and check apron, and even her curls, were all over flour, when she burst into the room, saying,

"Oh, Mamma!—Bridget and I have been talking, and Bridget—(great big Bridget!)—don't know how to read and write! and she has nobody to love but Pat—and Pat is in Ireland; and when he writes her a letter she can't read it, and she can't answer him, because she don't know how to write; and she hasn't seen Pat since—since he was as little as a butter firkin—and she is so unhappy—and, Mamma, mayn't I have an A-B-C book, and teach Bridget how to read and how to write?" And little Hatty stopped—not because she had no more to say, but because she was out of breath.

Hatty's mamma smiled, and said, "There was a little girl just your size, in here about an hour ago, who 'didn't see the use of going to school, and wished she might never look into another book so long as she lived.' Have you seen anything of her?"



Hatty blushed and said, "Oh, Mamma, I never will be so foolish again. I see now how bad it is not to learn when one is a little girl."

Well, the A-B-C book was bought, and very funny it was to see little Miss Hatty looking so wise from under her curls, and pointing out the letters to Bridget with a long knitting needle. It was very slow work, to be sure; but then Hatty was patient, for she had a good, kind heart; and how proud she was when Bridget was able to read Pat's letters! and prouder yet when she learned to answer them! and you may be sure that Hatty never was heard to say again that "she didn't see the use of going to school."



MIN-YUNG.

Did you ever see a China-man? I used to know one. His head was quite shaved, except a long braid, which hung down below his waist behind. I suppose it wasn't all his own hair; but that's none of my business. He had as much right to tie on a false tail, if he liked, as the gentlemen in Broadway have to wear false whiskers, and false moustaches.

Perched on the top of his head was a little skull-cap, just about big enough to fit your little baby brother. On his feet were wooden shoes, curled up at the toes like the end of an Indian canoe. He also wore blue and white stockings, and a blue Canton-crape wrapper.

Min-Yung (that was his name) had not been a great while in the United States. He was coaxed away from China, with many others of his countrymen, by some Americans, who imagined that they could make money by exhibiting them over here, in their different Chinese dresses, and making them play tricks, like so many monkeys. When they got them here, they found "it didn't pay"; that is, people didn't care to give money to go to see them. So they ran off, and left the poor Chinese, without a cent, to take care of themselves in a strange country. Was not that very mean?

Poor Min-Yung had pawned one of his dresses after another to pay for things he needed, till they were all gone, and he looked quite worn out and miserable. He couldn't speak but a word or two of our language, and I couldn't speak Chinese; but I saw that he was sick and unhappy. So I shook hands with him, and pointed to his forehead, and looked as pitiful as I knew how; and then he nodded his head, and pulled up his sleeve, that I might feel his pulse, and leaned his head on one side, to show me how forlorn and weary he felt.

I thought that, perhaps, he might be faint, and need something to eat, or drink; so I said "Tea?" for I knew that a China-man would be sure to understand that word.

You should have seen what a horrid grimace he made, and how he lifted up both his hands, as if to wave off an imaginary cup of tea! I always thought that the tea sent over to this country from China was a miserable humbug; so poor Min-Yung's horror at being asked to drink a cup of it, quite upset me, and I laughed immoderately. Min-Yung laughed, too; and understood by the way I shook my fore-finger at him, just as well as if I had said, "You know very well, my dear Min-Yung, that your countrymen make us swallow and pay for any sort of a mess which they choose to baptize by the name of 'tea.'"

However, Min-Yung ate some nice jelly, without being poisoned, and pocketed some money which was given him by a gentleman present, and then he dropped on one knee very gracefully, and kissed first the gentleman's hand, and then mine; and his little huckleberry eyes twinkled, as much as to say, "You see, I'm very grateful."

With good, careful nursing, Min-Yung got better. I think it made him almost well to speak kindly to him, for he had a good, affectionate heart. When he got quite well and strong, he wanted to "be my servant." I liked Min-Yung, but I had nothing for him to do; beside, I like to be my own servant. It would make me as nervous as a cat in a china closet, to have anybody always standing behind my chair. So, the gentleman who gave him the money, said he was going to California soon, and would like to have Min-Yung go with him, to wait upon him. Wasn't that kind?

It did not take the poor China-man long to pack his trunk, for the very good reason that he had nothing to put in it. So, in less than a week's time, his wooden shoes walked on board the ship "Dolphin," and away he went to California, and I didn't hear of him again for many a long day.

It seems that after his master had got through all his business in California, he asked Min-Yung if he would like to go back to his own country and see his old father and mother, and his sisters, with the twinkling little feet;—and Min-Yung said yes. So the gentleman gave him some money, and he started off, in his little skull cap, for the "Celestial City."

I often used to think of him, and wonder if he found his old father and mother alive; and if they were glad to see him; and often, when I turned out a cup of tea, I laughed aloud to think of poor Min-Yung's horrid grimace, when I offered him some.

One day a huge box came for me, directed "United States of America." I couldn't imagine what was in it. I thought of mummies, and stuffed monkeys, and "infernal machines;" and walked round the box at a respectful distance, with one eye on the door.

By and by the lid was knocked off; and now, what do you think I found in it?—a chest of "tea;" none of your sham doses, but tea that a Chinese Mandarin wouldn't have turned up his celestial nose at, and a lovely little Chinese work-box, and a pretty scarlet, Canton-crape scarf, all from that comical, good, affectionate Min-Yung.

Won't you and I call on him, when we go to China?



TOM, THE TAILOR.

Tell you another story, Charley? Bless your blue eyes, how many stories high do you suppose I am?

Who made that jacket for you, hey?

"A tailor."

Do you like to see a man sewing, Charley? I don't. I don't believe that their great muscular arms were intended to wield a needle, especially when so many feminine fingers are forced to be idle for want of employment; so I never like to see a tailor.—Oh, yes, I do, too. I came very near forgetting Tom Willcut.

Who was he? I don't know, any more than you do. The first time I saw him, was in an old tumble-down building, where the wind played hide and go seek through the timbers; and where more men, women, dogs and children were huddled together, than four walls of the like size ever held before.

In one of the smallest of these rooms, I first saw Tom; sitting, with a white cotton cap upon his head, cross-legged on the floor, stitching away by the dim light of a tallow candle. A line stretched across the room, on which hung some coarse pea-jackets and trousers which he had finished, while at his side stood a rough table, with the remains of some supper, and two unwashed cups and saucers.

Two cups and saucers, thought I: pray, who shares this little room with that poor, pale tailor?

Ah, I see! In yonder bed, which I had not noticed, lies a woman, and on her breast a little wee baby. Well may Tom sit drawing out his thread, hour after hour, by that dim candle.

1 coughed a little bit. Tom shaded his eyes with his hand, looked up, and invited me in. That was just what I wanted, you know. Then, he dusted off a chair with the tail of his coat, and I sat down.

"Is that your baby?" said I.

"It is ours," said he, looking over, with a proud smile, at his wife.

I liked Tom from that very minute. Of course, his wife wanted to own half of such a nice little baby—and the first one, too—and it was very gallant of tailor Tom, to say "ours," instead of "mine:" it showed he had a soul above buttons. Ask your mother if it didn't.

Then I asked Tom if he got good pay for making those jackets. He clipped off his thread with his great shears, and, shaking his head, said, "My boss is a Jew, Missis."

What did he mean by that? Why, "boss" means master, and Jew, I am sorry to say, is but another name for a person who gets all the work he can out of poor people, and pays them as little for it as possible.

Tom's answer made me feel very bad,—he said it in such a quiet, uncomplaining way, as if, hard as it was, he had quite made up his mind to it, for the sake of that new baby and its mother.

I wanted to jump right up and take him by the hand, and say, "Tom, you are a hero!" but, I dare say he wouldn't have understood that. Your father, Charley, would probably call him a "philosopher," but you and I, who can't afford to use up the dictionary that way, will say he is a clever, good-hearted fellow.

When Tom was first married, he had a little shop of his own, and was "quite before-hand," as he called it; but one unlucky night it caught on fire, and burned up all his coats, and trousers, and jackets, and all the stuff he had laid in to make them of; and then his wife was taken sick; and, what with doctoring, and one trouble and another, although poor Tom was honest, temperate and industrious, he came down to that poor, miserable little room, after all.

But Tom was not a man to whine about his bad luck. No; he looked at that new baby, and made his fingers fly faster than ever, and wore a cheerful smile for his sick wife, beside. That's why I called him "a hero;" for, Charley, anybody can be courageous and endure a great deal when all the world are looking on and clapping their hands, and admiring them; but it is another thing, in an obscure corner, without food, without friends, without hope, to struggle—struggle—struggle on, fighting off Temptation, fighting off grim Want, day after day, with none to say, "God speed you."

That's why I said the poor tailor had a good, brave heart; that's why I honored him; that's why I prayed God a brighter day might dawn for him.

Did it? Yes! I tell you, Charley, never despair! no matter how dark the cloud is overhead, work on, and look up; the sun will shine through, by and by;—it did for poor Tom.

One day a gentleman called to see him, and asked him to go with him and look at some cloth for making jackets. Tom thought it was very odd;—he didn't remember that anybody ever asked his opinion before;—he didn't know what to make of it. However, he dropped his shears, pulled off his cotton cap, kissed his little baby, and followed the gentleman.

They went along through a great many streets, till they came to the business part of the town. The gentleman opened the door of a small shop, and Tom followed him in. There were cloths of all kinds on the shelves, and the gentleman took some down and asked Tom if they were the right sort for such jackets as he had been making; and Tom said it was "prime cloth."

And then the gentleman showed him a little room, divided off at the end of the shop, and asked Tom if it was light enough to work in, and Tom said it could not be better; and then the gentleman clapped him on the shoulder, and told him to go to work in it as soon as he pleased, for these were his goods, and that was his shop!

Poor Tom looked as if he were dreaming. He tried to speak two or three times, but failed. Then, great tears dropped over his cheeks, and he said, "God bless you, sir, but I don't know what to say."

"I'm very glad of it," said the gentleman, smiling; "because I don't want you to say anything; only go home and bring your wife and baby, because there is a nice parlor and bed-room overhead, and I want to see how they look in it."

Well, the amount of it was, that the poor tailor's wife was as crazy as the tailor himself; the baby crowed, and the little terrier dog barked; and, altogether, they had a moving time of it, that day.

I can't tell you the kind gentleman's name, because he never does a charity to have it published; but, sure I am, the recording angel has written it in the "Book of Life."



BETSEY'S DREAM.

It was very weary, lying there so long. Betsey had counted all the squares, and three-cornered pieces, and circles, in the patch-work quilt upon her bed; she knew there were six more red than green ones, and that one of the circles was pieced seven times.

Yes, poor lame Betsey was very tired; not that she was unused to lying there, day after day, while her mother went out washing; but, somehow, this day had seemed longer and more tedious than any which had gone before. To be sure she had last year's almanac, and a torn newspaper, but she knew them both by heart. Betsey wished she "only had a little book," but she knew mother couldn't buy books, when she had not money enough for bread; so she twisted and turned, and rubbed her lame foot, and lay and looked at the mantel with its pewter lamp, and the shelf with its two earthen bowls, and its wooden spoons and platters, and the bench with her mother's wash tub on it and a square of brown soap, and the brown jug full of starch, and the old worn-out broom and mop. Betsey could have seen them just as well had her eyes been shut, she had looked at them so many times.

Did I tell you Betsey was "alone?" Oh no—there were four or five families in the some entry. There was Mrs. O'Flanigan with her six red-headed, quarrelsome children and a drunken husband, who beat her everyday till she screamed with pain; and then the six little Flanigans all screamed, too, till Betsey would put her fingers in her ears to shut out the dreadful sounds.

Then, there was Mrs. Doherty, who had twin babies and one room, and took boarders in the corners. Then, there was black Dinah, who got her living by scraping the gutters, and came home every night with a great tow-cloth bag upon her back, and emptied the old bones and rugs and papers on the floor of her room, and kept a broom handle to whip the little Flanigans, who ran in to steal them, when she went to the pump in the alley to get a drink of water.

Then, there was little Pat Rourke, who lived up the alley, and kept a little black dog named Pompey. When Pat didn't know what else to do, he would open Betsey's door, and put the dog in to worry her cat, and enjoy Betsey's fright.

Pompey would chase Pussy all round the room, and then Pussy would spit at him, and hump up her back and hide behind the wash-tub; and then Pompey would turn over the wash-tub, and seize Pussy by the neck; and then her eyes would turn all green; and then Betsey would scream and beg Pat to drive Pompey off; and then Pat would point to her lame foot and say, "Let's see you do it yourself, honey;" and then Betsey would hide her face under the coverlid and cry; and then Pat would run off, leaving the door wide open, and the cold air blowing right upon the bed. Yes, Betsey had all this to amuse her, besides the torn newspaper and the old almanac.

But why didn't her mother come home?—that was the question. It must be late in the afternoon;—Betsey knew that, for the sun had crept round to the west window long since. They must have a great wash to do up at the big house. Betsey hoped the lady wouldn't go out to ride in her carriage, and forget, as she sometimes did, to pay her mother; and she hoped the cook would give her some cold tea to warm for their supper, and perhaps a bit of meat, or some potatoes. The lady herself never gave Betsey's mother anything, except an old gauze ball dress "to make over for her little girl," which Betsey's mother sold for twenty-five cents, to buy some tea.

And then Betsey wondered if rich people were always born without hearts, and if her foot would always be lame, and she should never be able to help her mother, but must always be a burden; and then she thought it would be better if she died; and then she thought not, because when her mother came home at night ever so weary, she remembered that she always kissed her cheek, and called her "a little darling," and divided her piece of bread with her, and smiled just as sweetly as if she hadn't worked ever since the sun rose, for a mere penny.

Then Betsey was so weary that she fell asleep, and dreamed she was an angel. She was not lame any longer; she had bright wings, and a pure white robe, and a golden harp. There was no misery there, and night and day she sang, "Worthy, worthy, worthy the Lamb!" and thousands of bright winged angels echoed it back; and then—poor little Betsey woke, crying because it was only a dream, and found herself again in the little old room all alone,—all but Pussy, who was rubbing her lank sides against the bed post and the wicker chair, and looking wistfully up into Betsey's face, as much as to say, aint you very hungry, Betsey?

* * *

"Rein up—rein up! Stop your horses, I say! It's no use—she's down." "Move your omnibus,"—"Get out of the way, there,"—"Go ahead"—"What do you block up the street, for?"—"What's to pay?"—"Who's killed?"

"Only a beggar woman," said the omnibus driver, gathering up his reins; "she slipped on the wet pavements, yonder, and the horses went over her, and killed her. Can't be helped, you know,—there's enough beggars left—everybody knows that," and he whipped up his horses, and drove on.

Then a police-man picked up Betsey's dead mother and carried her to the watch house; while some little Irish boys ran off with her basket and ate up Betsey's supper.

There was nobody to take care of lame Betsey, so she was carried to the poor-house. It didn't matter much to her, when she found her mother was dead, where they took her. She was used to seeing misery; so the groans of the poor creatures on the hospital cots about her was nothing new. But she grew very weak, day by day, and couldn't eat the food they brought her; and one morning the old nurse found her lying with her little cheek in her hand, and a smile upon her face. Betsey's dream had come true: she was an angel!



SCOTT FARM.

What a blessed thing it is to have a good grandmother! Sophy had one. Sophy loved to go and see her.

It was in the country where Grandmother Scott lived, just a pleasant ride from Sophy's home; in a good, old-fashioned farm-house, with green moss growing out of the sloping roof, shaded by trees that looked a century old. It is autumn there now; so you see on the cellar door and under the front windows, crooked necked squashes and round yellow pumpkins, mellowing in the warm sunbeams. Strings of dried apples are festooned from chamber windows; and paper bags of catnip and spearmint and thoroughwort and penny-royal and mullen hang drying on the garret walls.

On "the buttery" shelves are broad pans of fresh, new milk, crusted with cream that would make a New-Yorker stare; and great round cheeses, and little pats of golden butter, stamped with a rose, and jars of pickled cucumbers, and pots of preserved plums, and peaches, and barberries, tied down with tissue brandy papers; and loaves of "riz cake," and plates of doughnuts, and pans of apple dowdy, beside an earthen jar of rich English plum cake.

Then, there's the sitting room, where the bright sun shone in, on a picture of General Washington, and a sampler of Grandma Scott's, representing a woman crying over a tombstone shaded by a pea-green willow; and black profile likenesses of all the Scott family cut by a traveling artist, hanging in spots over the fire place; and an old-fashioned clock, standing guard in the corner, with the picture of the rising sun on it, and Grandpa's spectacles, and loose copies of the "Scott-town Daily Bulletin" tucked in round the wood work at the sides; and great, comfortable-looking arm-chairs, with patch cushions; and a sideboard with a silver pitcher on it, presented to Grandpa Scott by the Agricultural Society and a china mug with a gold rim round it, and "Betsey" on the side, given by the minister to Grandma Scott when she was a little girl, for learning her catechism right; and a great big china closet, with a glass door, to show off the rows of china cups and saucers and flowered plates, all ready if the minister or the President should come to tea.

Then, out of doors, wasn't there a great barn for the children to play in?—with piles of hay, and ladders reaching up to the roof; and old Dobbin nibbling and munching oats in his stall; and Brindle, and her little two-day old, red and white calf cuddled down in a straw bed in the corner; and the little field mice darting over the barn floor; and the swallows twittering overhead among the beams and rafters; and the old grindstone that the children liked to turn; and the scythe and pitchfork that Grandpa charged them "not even to look at;" and the yellow ears of corn peeping out of their dry husks, in a pile in the corner, and the old rooster strutting round it, (followed by his hen wives,) now and then stopping short, with one foot lifted up, and cocking his eye at them from under his red cap, as much as to say, "Stir if you dare, till I give the signal!" Oh, I can tell you, that barn was a grand old place to play in, to frolic in, or to read and think in.

Then, there was the pig-stye under it, with such lazy great pigs, and such frisky little ones, with their tails curled up so tight that they lifted their hind legs right up, jumping round and tumbling heels over head over their mother, who lay half-buried in a mud-puddle, winking her pink eyes at the bright sun, and looking just as happy as if there wasn't a butcher in the world, or as if "the Governor and council" wouldn't sign her little piggies' death warrant with the Thanksgiving proclamation.

Thanksgiving! Oh, wasn't that an affair? Grandma Scott would mount her silver-bowed spectacles, strip her arms to this elbows, tie on a check apron, pin up her cap strings, and stew pumpkins and squashes and apples and quinces, and pound spices, and chop meat and suet, and roll out pie-crust, and heat the oven, and turn out so many pies and tarts and "pan-dowdies," and loaves of cake, that it would make your apron strings grow tight just to look at them!

Then, the first thing the hens in the barn-yard knew, they didn't know anything! but lay on the kitchen table with their yellow boots kicked up in the air, waiting to be singed, stuffed, and skewered. Poor things, they had laid their last egg, and swallowed their last kernel of corn, every rooster's daughter of 'em!

What a party of horses stamped their iron shoes in Grandpa Scott's barn on Thanksgiving morning! What a party of little children in bright autumn-leaf dresses and white aprons, went scampering through the house! What a fuss they all made over the littlest baby! What a fire (big enough to roast an ox whole) blazed in the great, wide, sitting-room fireplace!

How Grandpa Scott walked round, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, patting this one on the head, chucking the other under the chin, and tossing a third up to the wall. How he looked all round, with his arms a-kimbo, and said if any grandpa in the United States had a prettier set of grandchildren than that, he'd like to see them; and how Grandma said, "Pshaw! Grandpa," because she was so proud of them herself that she didn't know what else to say!

And how Grandma looked as if she never would grow old, with her nice lace cap, and her own brown hair, with scarce a silver thread in it, curling round her happy face; and how Grandpa would whisper slily to the boys, "After all, your mother is handsomer than any child she ever had!"

How contented and satisfied Grandmamma looked, sitting at the head of her Thanksgiving table; plenty of chickens and turkeys boiled and roasted before her. What a time she had getting all the little Scott-ites seated to her mind, and napkins tucked properly under each chubby chin; how she would carve the turkey herself, because, when Grandpa got busy talking, he cut off the wings before he did the legs!

How she insisted upon "all just tasting some of that chicken-pie," when it was quite impossible to stow away another mouthful, because "she had no idea of making it for nothing."

How she would give the little wee baby a "wish-bone," though it could not hold it one minute in its limpsy little fingers; and how she would keep on passing round nuts, and oranges, and grapes, and apples, and wonder what had become of all their appetites.

And then how all the family would go back into the sitting-room after dinner; and how Tom, the family "Mozart," would sing "Home, Sweet Home;" and how Grandma Scott would rub her eyes with her handkerchief, and declare that the room smoked! And how all the grown-up boys and girls would begin to look hysterical; and how Maggie, who believed in "a time to dance," would jump up and seize sober Uncle Walter by the waist, and waltz round the room with him; and how Grandmamma would smile and say, "Will anything ever tame that girl?" Poor, merry Maggie! she's "tame" enough now, though Grandmamma didn't live to see the sorrow that it took to do it.

And bright-eyed Hal, and golden-haired Letty, and brave, handsome Walter, and cherry-lipped Susy, and dimpled little Benny,—and Grandmamma with her warm, big heart and cheerful smile; and Grandpapa with his silvery locks, and beaming eye, and kindly hand of welcome—oh, where are they all now?

Dear children,

"There is a reaper, his name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He cuts the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between."

Yes, other families have "Thanksgiving" now under the mossy eaves of the old farm-house—other strange little voices lisp "Grandpapa," "Grandmamma;" and long graves and short graves are in the old churchyard; and names look you in the face from marble tablets, that were once at Scott Farm—oh, such cherished "household words!"



A TRUE STORY.

People say that it is a sign of good luck to tumble up stairs. I am glad of it; for, what with my long skirts, and what with the broken stairway, and the pitch darkness, I did nothing but tumble. However, it's my motto never to give up; so, of course I gained the top at last, and, opening a door, found myself in a garret, piled up as high as my waist with old rags, and old papers, and old bits of bones.

"Go down, I say! Don't want you,—don't want anybody. I've got a dreadful pain——. Go down,—there's nothing here;—go down, I say," growled a voice, from a pile of rags in the corner.

I passed by this growling man, without noticing him; for, in the middle of the room was a woman, (oh, so miserable a looking creature!) with her hands crossed hopelessly in her lap, and so buried up in the piles of rags about the floor, that I could see nothing but her head and shoulders.

She was quite young,—not more than twenty. She was not that old man's wife, nor his daughter, nor his sister—but that was her home; and every day she went out with him and scraped the gutters, and refuse barrels, for old rags and papers; and then came back and emptied them out upon the garret floor at night, to pick them over. One whole year she had lived in that dirty den. How came she here? Listen, and I will tell you.

Mary once lived in the country, amid sweet, green fields, and clustering vines, and shady trees, and murmuring brooks. Her father was a good old farmer, as happy and contented with his few acres, as if he owned all Great Britain. Mary was his only child. Her mother died when she was a very little girl. Mary could not even remember how she looked; but her father often used to part her hair away from her white forehead, and say, "You are so like your mother, Mary"—and then Mary would run to the little mirror, over the dresser, and see a sweet pair of hazel eyes, and clusters of rich, brown hair falling over rosy cheeks and snowy shoulders; and then she'd toss her curls, and run back again to her father. Mary knew that her mother must have been very pretty.

Mary had an uncle, named Ralph. He was a bad man; but Mary's father was so good and honest himself, that it was hard to make him believe anybody was dis-honest. So he lent his brother large sums of money—(Ralph all the while promising to pay him at a certain time.) By and by, Ralph got away all his money, and the old farm, too, with all the cows and horses, and sheep and oxen; and then Mary's father worried so much that it made him very sick, and he soon died, leaving poor Mary without a penny in the world.

Uncle Ralph told her to go to the city, and he would find employment for her. But, after he got her there, he left her, and ran off; and poor Mary wandered about, quite heart-broken, till finally she found some coarse work to do, for which she was paid a trifle. She worked on with a brave heart, from day to day, for some weeks, till her employer died; and then, poor Mary knew not what to do,—nobody would employ her; and wicked people came and tempted her to sin, but Mary was good, and would not listen to them; and so she had to sell her clothes, one after another, as poor people do, till she had nothing left but the calico dress she had on. Even her under-clothes were gone, to pay the woman where she lived for her lodging. Alas! then poor Mary said, despairingly, "It is of no use for me to try to be honest any longer,"—and wicked people came again and tempted her, and nobody said, "Mary, struggle on, and I will help you; I will give you work to do." No; nobody said that; and everything looked dark and gloomy, and she forgot the little prayer she used to say at the old farmhouse, and made her home with wicked people; and the sweet, innocent look faded out from her soft blue eyes, and her heart grew hard—and wrong seemed right to poor Mary.

But sometimes Mary would wake at night, when all was still, and think of her childhood's home, under the linden trees; and of her good old father sitting in the porch, with the Bible on his knee, and the soft wind gently lifting the gray hair from his temples. Then she thought of the old church-yard, where her mother lay buried; and then she would press her hands tightly over her eyes, as if in that way she could shut out the torturing picture.

Mary could not bear such thoughts; they drove her almost wild. So, she drank wine (when she could get it) to drown her misery, and passed from one place of shelter to another, till at last she was glad of a home in the wretched garret where I found her.

When I spoke to Mary, she would not answer me; but looked me in the face as if she had been a stone image. She seemed to be afraid of the old man with whom she lived in the garret. Finding, after many earnest attempts, that I could do Mary no good, I left her; and soon after I heard that the old man had died, and that Mary had found a great many dollars in gold and silver, hid away in the garret, that he had earned picking up old rags.

So, Mary had all the old miser's money. But did it bring back the sweet, innocent look to her eyes? or take the misery out of her heart? No, no. She'd count over her gold, and say, with a horrid laugh, "It comes too late—too late!"

Oh! how I wished that all who give only——good advice! to a poor, tempted, starving, fellow creature, could have heard those dreadful words: "Too late,—too late!"



THE LITTLE EMIGRANTS.

Tell you a story, Harry? Do you like to hear about poor people? Well, jump up into my lap. So;—now look straight into my eyes.

Last night I went to see some poor Italian emigrants. I threaded my way through dirty streets and alleys, and up rickety old staircases, where it was so dark that I had to feel my way, and where I coughed and choked at every step, with the tobacco smoke and bad air.

At last I opened the door of a small room, lighted with one window, where were a dozen persons—men, women and children. Some were seated on straw beds, which were lying upon the floor; some were sitting upon old boxes, and others were looking out the window (as if bewildered) upon the strange scenes in the street below.

Crouched upon the hearth, was a very old woman, with thin, gray locks, toothless gums, and bare bosom. She was stretching out her skinny hands over a few shavings that she had kindled into a blaze; while a little baby lay in a shawl beside her, rubbing its eyes, and crying at the smoke that was every instant puffed into its little face. On the opposite side of the hearth, was a little boy and girl, quite naked to the waist from whence hung a little dirty tunic to their bare knees. A tin pan of raw potatoes lay between them, which they were slicing off with a great knife, and greedily devouring, as if they were half-starved.

Harry, what do you think of that? How should you relish a raw potato for supper? How should you like to come from a warm, sunny country, into a cold, chilly climate, and be obliged to go half-naked because you had no money to buy clothes? How should you like not to be able to understand a word anybody there said to you, or not to be able to make them understand you? How should you like to have your mother, or your father, go wandering round, day after day, making signs to people, to try to get employment, and have to keep giving away one article of their poor clothing after another for a loaf of bread? How should you like to be turned out (even of that miserable room) into the street, some stormy night, by a cruel landlord? How should you like to see your mother sit down on a door step, in the dark, dark night, and droop her weary head upon her bosom and die?

Oh, Harry! all that had happened to the poor little boy and girl who were eating raw potatoes at the hearth. They were poor little orphans, and that old woman was their grandmother. They had all wandered about, from place to place, ever since they left the ship that brought them out.

They were pretty children, with great dark eyes, and curly hair, and such a bright smile when we spoke kindly to them. Their grandmother was all they had now to love; and she, poor woman, couldn't live long to take care of them, for the cold, and exposure, and anxiety, had almost killed her, too. So, she felt very anxious about what would become of little Pietro and Annita, when she was dead; and she kept patting them on the head, as if she was determined to make them as happy as possible while she lived.

Well, do you know, Harry, it struck me that Mrs. ——, who lives in New-York, might like to adopt the little orphans. She has no children of her own, and she loves children. That's why I took her with me to see the poor emigrants last night.

How she did cry when she saw the poor things eating raw potatoes! She turned round to me, and said, "Fanny, I must have those children. I'll take them right home, and I'll ——" then she couldn't stop to tell me the rest, but ran up to the grandmother, and asked her, in Italian, if she might not have Pietro and Annita.

At first, the poor old grandmother looked at them both, and said she couldn't give them up. Then she looked round that dismal room, and drew her torn shawl up over her shoulders; and then she called them both to her, and hugged and kissed them; and then, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, she took them by the hand and led them up to Mrs. ——, and told her to be "a kind mamma to them."

But poor little Pietro and Annita clung to their grandmother, and kissed her wrinkled face, and hung round her neck, and hid their little curly heads in her lap, for they had seen so many strange faces, and so much misery, that it had made them as shy as little rabbits, and they were afraid to venture away from grandmother. Mrs. —— spoke to them in Italian, and tried to coax them with promises of all sorts of pretty things. But it was of no use; they only shook their little curly heads, and ran back to their dear old grandma, who patted them both, and laughed and cried together.

Then, Mrs. —— said "she would take grandma, too:" and that she should help her to take care of Annita and Pietro. When the little rogues heard this, they wiped away their tears, and smiled, and showed their little white, glittering teeth, and kissed Mrs. ——'s hands, and said, "We will go."

So, we got a carriage, and took them all in, to Mrs. ——'s house in Fourth street, where they were washed, and dressed, and ate some nice hot supper; and before I came away, they were asleep in a cunning little trundle-bed, with their little curly heads nestled on the same pillow, and their little cheeks close together, and just as rosy as if they had never shivered, half naked, in that old smoky room.

And Mrs. ——'s husband, who is an artist, stood there over them, with his pencil in his fingers, taking a sketch of their little Italian faces; and by and by he will finish a beautiful picture of Pietro and Annita, in the old ragged dresses in which they were found; and if he paints their little dimpled shoulders and cunning little legs and feet half as pretty as they really are, I know you will say with me, that the "Little Emigrants" are worth looking at, and worth loving.



ALL ABOUT THE DOLANS.

Tobacco! tobacco! If there's anything I hate worse than a dandy, it is tobacco. Such a headache as I have this morning, all for that vile pipe that Bridget Dolan's husband was smoking, when I went over to see her.

Charley, I believe if an Irishman hadn't a potato to put in his blarney-ing mouth, he would own a pipe and a puppy. Jim Dolan had both.

Now, Bridget Dolan was full clever enough to have been a born Yankee, and, of course, was a great deal too good for Jim Dolan. She had more children than you could count, if you were in a hurry, and a baby in her arms, year in and year out. For all that, she is never out of patience trying to keep their elbows and knees and toes in, and make up for what Jim wastes in smoking and drinking. I verily believe Bridget would fight anybody who said he was not the best husband in the world,—black and blue spots on her arms to the contrary. Well, if she has patience to put up with it, it is no affair of yours or mine; all I have to say is, that her name ought to be Job, instead of Dolan.

Last night I thought I would go over to see her; so, I lifted up my dress and waded through the alley, and after getting away from a drunken woman, who insisted upon having my bonnet, I reached Bridget's door in safety.

There they were, all in a heap, as usual,—Michael and Johnny, and Sammy and Pat, and Fanny and Katy, and Mike and the baby. Bridget's face shone like a new milk-pan, when I opened the door (she knows I pity her); she flew round and got me a wooden chair, scrubbed the baby's face with her apron, put one hand on Mike's hair to make it lie down, sent Snip, the dog, yelping under the bed, and asked me how I did; while Jim knocked the ashes out of his pipe, twitched a lock of hair that hung over his forehead, and scraped out his hind foot, by way of a bow.

Presently Johnny began to whisper to Sammy, and Sammy whispered to Mike, and Mike whispered to his mother; and then his mother got up and gave them something out of the closet, which they came and laid in my lap, with their eyes shining like a cat's in the dark. And when I held it up to the light, it turned out to be two new jackets, one for Sammy and one for Johnny, that their good, thrifty mother had made out of an old coat that somebody had given her.

Of course, I admired them; and of course, I buttoned the little boys up in them; and of course, they strutted round, as smart as little corporals; and Sammy shook his red head, and said he would "like to hear Brian Doherty call him a beggar now!"

Bridget smiled, and said, "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy;" and then, Johnny pulled at my gown again, and pointed up in the corner, and right between the windows, where nearly every pane of glass was broken out, stood a brand new cooking stove, with all its shining pots and pans and kettles, set in order on the top, as if the most magnificent dinner that ever was dreamed of, was hissing and stewing and broiling and baking and roasting inside.

As to Sammy, he lifted up all the lids, and poked his nose in, as if he could already smell the dinner. Mike spread out his little blue hands, as if some time or other they would get warm over it; Johnny shouldered the poker and showed me how they were going to rattle the coal out when somebody should give mother work enough to earn money to buy it, and the baby got well enough to let her do it. Then Sammy held the light, and we all walked in a procession, round and round the stove, and voted it a most magnificent affair.

But how did they get it? That's what I wanted to know. Stoves cost money. Sammy saw I was dying to know, so he whispered in my ear, loud enough to be heard in South America, "Mammy earned it shaking carpets, she did."

I turned round and looked at Jim Dolan. If I could have had my own way, I would liked to have put a petticoat and a bonnet on him, and marched him up to the looking-glass!—a great, able-bodied, idle six-footer! I don't think much of a man that will let his wife support him. Do you?

All the way home I was thinking over what poor Bridget said: "It takes so little to make the poor lads happy." I want you to think of that, children, when you pout because the potato is not put on the right side of your plate; or, because little Minnie has climbed into your chair at the table; or, because the apple dumplings are not sweet enough for your dainty little tooth; or, because the tailoress put six buttons instead of seven, on your new overcoat.

Johnny and Sammy would toss their caps up in the air and go wild with joy, if they had all the nice things you have. Poor little fellows! I loved them, because they were so proud of their mother. Oh, children! there's nothing in the wide earth like a mother. All the friends in the world couldn't make up to you for her loss. There's no arm but God's so true and safe to lean upon; there's no heart but His so full of love and pity, so long-suffering and forgiving.

Love your mother, little ones.



FRONTIER LIFE:

OR,

MITTY MOORE.

"Frontier life!" I think I hear my little readers echo, knitting their brows; "frontier life,—I wish FANNY FERN wouldn't write about things we don't understand."

Suppose I should tell you a story to make you understand it? How would you like that?

Mitty Moore's father took it into his head that he should like frontier life. So he traveled hundred and hundreds of miles—way off where the sun goes down, to find a place in which to settle. The roads were rough and bad. Sometimes it would be a long while before they reached a place where travelers could get drink and food; and Mitty's little bones would ache, and she began to think with "Paddy," that the end of the journey was cut off.

At last Mr. Moore found a place to his mind; and they all halted, with the old baggage wagon, in the woods; and Mitty, and her little brothers and sisters, jumped out and stretched their limbs, and looked way up into the great tall trees to try to see the tops, which seemed to pierce the clouds.

They made a sort of pic-nic dinner, out of some provisions stowed away in the old wagon; after which Mitty's father and eldest brother pulled off their coats, stripped up their shirt-sleeves, and went to work to make a "clearing," as they called it, for a log house—felling the trees, and cutting and burning the underbrush.

It took them a long while to hew down those fine old trees. I'm glad I didn't see it done, for I should have sung out, with General Morris,

"Woodman! spare that tree! Touch not a single bough,"—

for, a house, you know, can be put up by any carpenter who owns a set of tools, but it takes many a long year of dew and sunshine to make those grand old trees tower up to heaven.

However, it was all fine fun for Mitty, who sat on an old stump, with her chin resting in her hands, watching to see the stout old trunk stand like a rock against their heavy blows; then lean a little; then creak, as if it were groaning with pain that its green branches must so soon wither; then totter; then fall, crashing to the earth, like the "giant" before little "David." Mitty liked it, though it was rather dangerous sport; for, if the tree had fallen upon her pretty little head, she never would have tossed back her bright curls again.

Mitty was just the right sort of a Mitty for a little frontier girl. She seemed to know just when to hand her father the axe, or the hatchet, or the pick-axe; and just when they could rest a minute to take a drink of water, or a mouthful of bread and cheese. She didn't talk to them when they were busy, but amused herself making little log houses, with chips, for her dolly. She didn't scream or run, if a snake or a rabbit went over her foot; she was not all the time conjuring up bears, and tigers, and raccoons, or catching hold of her father every time she heard a little squirrel squeal;—not she—she loved everything; and her soul looked out as fearlessly from her sweet blue eyes, as if pain and danger and death had never followed the Serpent into Eden.

Now, I suppose you are wondering what people so buried in the woods did for stores, and shops, in which to buy things, and for meeting-houses and newspapers.

In the first place, when they went there, they made up their minds that silk dresses and ice-creams didn't grow on frontier bushes! and they soon became astonished to find how many things there were that were not at all necessary to their happiness, which they had always felt they could not do without.

They kept a cow, and she found them in milk; they kept hens, and the hens kept them in eggs; they kept a pig, and the pig made no objection to being cut up, whenever they got ready to eat him; then, they brought meal and flour enough with them, to last till they could plough the land, and raise corn and wheat of their own, which they intended doing as soon as the log house should be raised over their heads.

Oh, they got on famously. It was good, healthy work, this digging, and hewing, and ploughing. It made the muscles on their arms stand out like whip cords; it bronzed their pale faces, and made their eyes bright, and gave them a good appetite for their bread and milk; and when they went to bed, they didn't stop to see if the seam of the sheet was exactly in the middle, or to count the feathers in the pillows under their heads. They had neighbors (off in different directions); some four miles away; some two; some six, and some eight. Not city neighbors who shut themselves up in their great jails of houses, and wouldn't care if a hearse stood before your door every day in the year. No, indeed! They were warm-hearted country folks, with hearts as big as their pumpkins. If you were out of meal, or molasses, or sugar, or tea, you were welcome to borrow of them till you could spare time to send to "the settlement" for some. That's the way they lived. The men folks had too many trees to cut down to keep tackling up the old oxen every five minutes, and go "gee-hawing" over to the stores, every time the women wanted an Indian cake. No; they borrowed of each other till somebody had time to go to the store or to mill; and then, whoever went, took all their errands and did them up in a bunch, to save time. They went by the "golden rule."

People who live in the woods, where the trees are all the time whispering of God, and the little birds singing of Him, don't feel like being quarrelsome, and disobliging, and ugly; no, they leave that to city people, who live in such a whirl that they never remember they have a soul till Death comes after it.

Well, as I was saying, they helped one another. Orphy Smith, Mr. Moore's next neighbor, took his bag of corn one day, to carry it to mill. Mitty was very glad, because they had been out of meal some days, and she was rather tired of potatoes. So she made up her mind, and her mouth, that when Orphy came back, they would all have "a prime supper." But Orphy didn't come back that night, or the next morning, either; but, late the next afternoon, he came crawling back, with the meal, and told them that "he should have been home with it long ago, if that pesky wheel hadn't come off his wagon, and it hadn't taken such a powerful long time to blacksmith it on again."

How glad little Mitty was to see that bag of meal! and what a nice time she had of it that night, sitting on a little cricket before a blazing hickory fire, and eating the buttered cakes that her mother handed down to her from the table. Oh, you city children couldn't get up such a frontier appetite for your fricassees, and mince-pies, if you tried a lifetime.

"They didn't have any newspapers there."

Ah! there you have me! More especially as I had as lief go without my breakfast as without my newspaper; but, then, I can tell you, that there were things all the time happening there on the frontier, that many a newspaper editor would have given his scissors and easy chair to have got hold of, for his paper. I'll tell you about some.

One night Mitty lay in her little bed of straw and husks, almost asleep, when she heard her father at the door, singing out, "H-a-l-l-o-o! h-a-l-l-o-o!" as loud as ever he could; and then a faint voice, way off, caught it up, and echoed back, "H-a-l-l-o-o! h-a-l-l-o-o!" Then Mitty's father lit a great bright torch, and moved it, flaming, back and forth before the door; and in a little while a poor, weary, frightened traveler, who had got lost in the dark woods, heard the voice that had answered to his, and saw, by the torch, where to come to find Mr. Moore; and in less than an hour after, he was snoring away under Mr. Moore's roof, with a good, comfortable supper tucked under his ribs while the bears had to go without any.

Bears? Certainly!—I didn't mention the gentlemen before, for fear it would make your mother trouble when it came your bed-time; but, nevertheless, it is a naked fact that bears live on the frontier.

One day a woman came in to Mr. Moore's, crying and "taking on" in a most pitiful manner. Mitty couldn't understand (the woman sobbed so much) what it was all about; but she concluded that something special was to pay, because her mother let her brown bread all burn to a crisp in the oven, while she was listening to her. Then her mother ran out in the cornfield, with her cap strings all flying, after her father; and Mr. Moore dropped his hoe, ran to the house and caught up a great tin horn, and stood at the door, blowing with all his might; "Too—hoo—too—hoo—too—hoo;" and then Orphy Smith, the next neighbor, caught up his horn, and blew, too; and then the next, and the next; and, in a very short time, all the neighbors knew that Mr. Moore wanted them to come to his log house, just as fast as their horses legs could carry them.

So, in they flocked,—Orphy Smith, and Seth Jones, and Pete Parker, and Jesse Jenkins, and Eph. Ellet, and a whole host more; and Mitty's father told them that Desire Dibden's child (whose father had been killed by the Indians,) was lost in the woods; and that was enough to say;—every man of them started off through the door, as if he had been shot out of a pop-gun, to help find the child.

Certainly;—didn't I tell you that "farmers had hearts?" When a child gets lost in the city, the fat old town crier (if he is paid for it) "takes his time" and his bell, and crawls through the street, whining out sleepily, "C-h-i-l-d l-o-s-t;" and the city folks pay about as much attention to it, as if you told them that a six-days' kitten had presumptuously stepped into a wash-tub.

You didn't catch the nice, big-hearted farmers acting that way; they didn't say it was none of their business,—that their corn wanted hoeing, and their hay wanted stacking, and their meadows wanted ploughing! The sight of that poor weeping mother was enough. They started right off in companies, to scour the woods for the poor, little, lost boy, hoping to find him before night-fall.

There sat poor Desire, in the chimney corner, sobbing and wringing her hands, and rocking her body to and fro. She wouldn't eat, though good, kind, motherly Mrs. Moore, baked, on purpose for her, some of her most tempting cakes; she wouldn't drink, though Mrs. Moore handed her a nice hot cup of tea. She did nothing but cry fit to break her heart; while sensible little Mitty whispered to her mother to know "if she hadn't better go out of the way, for fear the sight of her, safe in her mother's log house, might make poor Desire cry the harder."

Dinner time came; but the men didn't come back. Supper time;—then evening came on, dark and chilly, and Desire's lips grew paler every minute: still, no tidings yet of the boy. Through the long night she listened—listened—listened, till every gust of wind made her tremble like the leaves. Morning dawned,—noon came again,—then night. Then, indeed, at last they heard the tramp of heavy feet.

Desire sprang from her chair and ran toward the door, then back again to her seat, with her hands pressed tightly on her heart; then back to the door, as if her straining eye could pierce the darkness. It did, God pity her! What did she see? Her little Willy, quite dead, lying on a litter, carried by Mr. Moore and Orphy.

Poor little Willy! They had tracked him to an old shanty, in the woods, where he had gathered some dry leaves and slept. There was the mark of his little form upon the leaves. Then they tracked him out into the woods, along, along, farther than one would have thought his little feet could have carried him; and then they found him, with his little head leaning against a tree, quite dead from exhaustion and hunger.

Poor Desire! There wasn't one of those nice old farmers who wouldn't have given his farm to bring that little sleeper back to life. They took his mother's cold hands in theirs, and chafed them, and bathed her temples, and wept (strong men as they were) to think of the bitter waking she would have. But God was merciful;—she never did wake in this world. In Heaven she found her boy.



UNCLE JOLLY.

"Well, I declare! here it is New Year's morning again, and cold as Greenland, too," said Uncle Jolly, as he poked his cotton night-cap out of bed—"frost an inch thick on the windows, water all frozen in the pitcher, and I an old bachelor. Heigho! nobody to give any presents to—no little feet to come patting up to my bed to wish me 'A happy New Year.' Miserable piece of business! Wonder what ever became of that sister of mine who ran off with that poor artist? Wish she'd turn up somewhere with two or three children for me to love and pet. Heigh-ho! It's a miserable piece of business to be an old bachelor."



And Uncle Jolly broke the ice in the basin with his frost-nipped fingers, and buttoned his dressing gown tightly to his chin; then he went down stairs, swallowed a cup of coffee, an egg, and a slice of toast. Then he buttoned his surtout snugly up over them, and went out the front door into the street.

Such a crowd as there was buying New Year's presents. The toy-shops were filled with grandpas and grandmas, and aunts and uncles and cousins. As to the shopkeepers, what with telling prices, answering forty questions in a minute, and doing up parcels, they were as crazy as a bachelor tending a crying baby.

Uncle Jolly slipped along over the icy pavements, and finally halted in front of Tim Nonesuch's toy shop. You should have seen his show windows! Beautiful English dolls at five dollars a-piece, dressed like Queen Vic's babies, with such plump little shoulders and arms that one longed to pinch 'em; and tea sets, and dinner sets, cunning enough, for a fairy to keep house with. Then, there were dancing Jacks, and jumping Jennys, and "Topsys," and "Uncle Toms" as black as the chimney back, with wool made of a raveled black stocking. Then, there were little work-boxes with gold thimbles and bodkins, and scissors in crimson velvet cases, and snakes that squirmed so naturally as to make you hop up on the table to get out of the way, and little innocent looking boxes containing a little spry mouse, that jumped into your face as soon as you raised the lid, and music boxes to place under your pillows when you had drank too strong a cup of green tea, and vinaigrettes that you could hold to your nose to keep you from fainting when you saw a dandy. Oh! I can tell you that Mr. Nonesuch understood keeping a toy shop; there were plenty of carriages always in front of it, plenty of taper fingers pulling over his wares, and plenty of husbands and fathers who returned thanks that New Year's didn't come every day!

"Don't stay here, dear Susy, if it makes you cry," said the elder of two little girls; "I thought you said it would make you happy to come out and look at the New Year's presents, though we couldn't have any."

"I did think so," said Susy; "but it makes me think of last New Year's, when you and I lay cuddled together in our little bed, and papa came creeping up in his slippers, thinking we were asleep, and laid our presents on the table, and then kissed us both, and said, 'God bless the little darlings!' Oh! Katy—all the little girls in that shop have their papa's with them. I want MY papa," and little Susy laid her head on Katy's shoulder and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

"Don't, dear Susy," said Katy, wiping away her own tears with her little pinafore; "don't cry—mamma will see how red your eyes are,—poor, sick, tired mamma,—don't cry, Susy."

"Oh, Katy, I can't help it. See that tall man with the black whiskers, (don't he look like papa?) kissing that little girl. Oh! Katy," and Susy's tears flowed afresh.

Uncle Jolly couldn't stand it any longer;—he rushed into the toy shop, bought an armful of play-things helter-skelter, and ran after the two little girls.

"Here, Susy! here, Katy!" said he, "here are some New Year's presents from Uncle Jolly."

"Who is Uncle Jolly?"

"Well, he's uncle to all the poor little children who have no kind papa."

"Now, where do you live, little pigeons?—got far to go?—toes all out your shoes here in January? Don't like it,—my toes ain't out my shoes;—come in here, and let's see if we can find anything to cover them. There, now, (fitting them both to a pair,) that's something like; it will puzzle Jack Frost to find your toes now. Cotton clothes on? I don't wear cotton clothes;—come in here and get some woolen shawls. Which do you like best, red, green, or blue?—plaids or stripes, hey?

"'Mother won't like it?' Don't talk to me;—mother's don't generally scratch people's eyes out for being kind to their little ones. I'll take care of that, little puss. Uncle Jolly's going home with you. 'How do I know whether you have got any dinner or not?' I've got a dinner—you shall have a dinner, too. Pity if I can't have my own way—New Year's day, too.

"That your home? p-h-e-w! I don't know about trusting my old bones up those rickety stairs,—old bones are hard to mend; did you know that?"

Little Susy opened the door, and Uncle Jolly walked in,—their momma turned her head, then with one wild cry of joy threw her arms about his neck, while Susy and Katy stood in the door-way, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

"Come here, come here," said Uncle Jolly; "I didn't know I was so near the truth this morning when I called myself your Uncle Jolly; I didn't know what made my heart leap so when I saw you there in the street. Come here, I say; don't you ever shed another tear;—you see I don't,"—and Jolly tried to smile, as he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes.

Wasn't that a merry New Year's night in Uncle Jolly's little parlor? Wasn't the fire warm and bright? Were not the tea cakes nice? Didn't Uncle Jolly make them eat till he had tightened their apron strings? Were their toes ever out of their shoes again? Did they wear cotton shawls in January? Did cruel landlords ever again make their mamma tremble and cry?

In the midst of all this plenty, did they forget "papa?" No, no! Whenever little Susy met in the street a tall, princely man with large black whiskers, she'd look at Katy and nod her little curly head sorrowfully, as much as to say—"Oh, Katy, I never—never can forget my own dear papa."



A PEEP UNDER GROUND.

THE RAFFERTYS AND THE ROURKES.

I have made up my mind, that there is nothing lost in New-York. You open your window and toss out a bit of paper or silk, and though it may be no bigger than a sixpence, it is directly snatched up and carried off, by a class of persons the Parisians call, "Chiffoniers" (rag-pickers)! You order a load of coal, or wood, to be dropped at your door;—in less than five minutes a whole horde of ragged children are greedily waiting round to pick up the chips, and bits, that are left after the wood or coal is carried in and housed; and often locks of hair are pulled out, and bloody noses ensue, in the strife to get the largest share. You will see these persons round the stores, looking for bits of paper, and silk, and calico, that are swept out by the clerks, upon the pavement; you will see them watching round provision shops, for decayed vegetables, and fruits, and rinds of melons, which they sell to keepers of pigs; you will see them picking up peach stones to sell to confectioners, who crack them and use the kernels; you will see them round old buildings, carrying off, at the risk of cracked heads, pieces of decayed timber, and old nails; you will see them round new buildings, when the workmen are gone to meals, scampering off with boards, shingles, and bits of scaffolding. I thought I had seen all the ingenuity there was to be seen, in picking up odds and ends in New-York, but I hadn't then seen Michael Rafferty!

Michael Rafferty, and Terence Rourke, who was a wood sawyer by profession, lived in a cellar together; the little Raffertys, and little Rourkes, with their mammas, filling up all the extra space, except just so much as was necessary to swing the cellar door open. A calico curtain was swung across the cellar for a boundary line, to which the little Rourkes and little Raffertys paid about as much attention, as the whites did to the poor Indians' landmarks.

At the time I became acquainted with the two families, quite a jealousy had sprung up on account of Mr. Rafferty's having made a successful butter speculation. Mrs. Rourke, in consequence, had kept the calico curtain tightly drawn for some weeks, and boxed six of the little Rourkes' ears (twelve in all,) for speaking to the little Raffertys through the rents in the curtain.

All this I learned from Mrs. Rafferty, as I sat on an old barrel in the north-west corner of her cellar. "It was always the way," she said, "if a body got up in the world, there were plenty of envious spalpeens, sure, to spite them for it;" which I took occasion to remark to Mrs. Rafferty, was as true, as anything I had ever had the pleasure of hearing her say.

Just then the cellar door swung open, and the great butter speculator, Mr. Michael Rafferty, walked in. He nodded his head, and gave an uneasy glance at the curtain, as much as to say "calicoes have ears." I understood it, and told him we had been very discreet. Upon which he said, "You see, they'll be afther staling my thrade, your ladyship, if they know how I manage about the butther."

"Tell me how you do it, Michael," said I; "you know women have a right to be curious.

"Well," said he, speaking in a confidential whisper, "your ladyship knows there are plenty of little grocery shops round in these poor neighborhoods, where they sell onions, and combs, and molasses, and fish, and tape, and gingerbread, and rum. Most of them sell milk, (none of the best, sure, but it does for the likes of us poor folks.) It stands round in the sun in the shop windows, your ladyship, till it gets turned, like, and when they have kept it a day or two, and find they can't sell it," (and here Michael looked sharp at the calico curtain,) "I buys it for two cents a quart, and puts it in that churn," (pointing to a dirty looking affair in the corner,) "and my old woman and I make it into butter." And he stepped carefully across the cellar, and pulled from under the bed, a keg, which he uncovered with a proud flourish, and sticking a bit of wood in it, offered me a taste, "just to thry it."

I couldn't have tasted it, if Michael had shot me; but I told him I dare say he understood his trade and hoped he found plenty of customers.

"I sell it as fast as I can make it," said he, putting on the cover and shoving it back under the bed again.

"What do you do with the buttermilk?" said I.

He looked at Mrs. Rafferty, and she pointed to the bright, rainbow ribbon on her cap.

"Sell it?" said I.

"Sure," said Michael, with a grin; "we are making money, your ladyship; we shall be afther moving out of this cellar before long, and away from the likes of them," (pointing in the direction of the curtain); "and, savin' your ladyship's presence," said he, running his fingers through his mop of wiry hair, "Irish people sometimes understhand dhriving a thrade as well as Yankees;" and Michael drew himself up as though General Washington couldn't be named on the same day with him.

Just then a little snarly headed boy came in with two pennies and a cracked plate, "to buy some butther."

"Didn't I tell your ladyship so?" said Michael. "Holy Mother!" he continued, as he pocketed the pennies, and gave the boy a short allowance of the vile stuff, "how I wish I had known how to make that butther when every bone in me body used to ache sawin' wood, and the likes o' that,—to say nothing of the greater respictability of being in the mercantile profession."

Well, well, thought I, as I traveled home, this is high life under ground, in New-York.



"BALD EAGLE;"

OR,

THE LITTLE CAPTIVES.

Do you like Indians? Our forefathers didn't admire them much. They had seen too many scalps hanging at their belts, and had heard their war whoops rather too often, to fancy such troublesome neighbors. They never felt as if they were safe, and wouldn't have thought ever of going to meeting without a loaded musket. I suppose that's the way the fashion originated for men to sit at the bottom of the pews, and women and children up at the other end. The men wanted to get on their feet quickly if a posse of Indians yelled at the door. Ah! men were men, then, from the tips of their noses to their shoe-ties; they didn't wear plaid pants, and use perfume and Macassar, as they do now-a-days.