"It is the call for the cavalry drill," said the doctor; "you had better run."

Off scampered the children to the edge of the parade-ground, their eyes dancing with expectation and eagerness.

On their way they passed the encampment; they gazed at the snow-white tents of the cadets with the utmost interest, and indeed would rather have lived in these delightful canvas houses, than in a king's palace.

"Oh! Harry!" exclaimed Anna, "I wonder if we mightn't just peep into one of them."

"Certainly," answered Harry, who was always ready for adventures, and he lifted up the opening of the tent nearest.

"Oh! what a perfect place!" he cried; "come! look!" and he disappeared within.



The children all peeped in, their heads looking like a bunch of grapes, all piled one on top of the other; while Harry, inside, pretended he was a showman, and made them a speech.

"Walk in, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "and see the show—all for sixpence; children half price. Here you have one small bed, or humble cot, one camp stool, one very small looking-glass, on the back of which," he continued, turning it suddenly over, "is a picture of the great Napoleon Bonaparte, running away, with his drawn sword in one hand, and a leg of mutton in the other; while just below is another of an old cadet, poking a young one with his bayonet."

The children were laughing heartily over these specimens of the fine arts, drawn by one of the cadets, when

Bang! tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr. Bang! tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr went the drums again. Off they hurried to the parade-ground, and there, out in the bright morning sunlight, which came down like "flickering gold" through the glowing air, galloped that fierce and brave Colonel Hardie, who looked as if he should consider it the merest trifle to fight a dozen enemies at once, and kill them all, as a matter of course.

And out galloped a regiment of cadets, while Colonel Hardie, wheeling round, awaited their coming.

With their drawn swords flashing in the glorious brightness, and the gallant Colonel now at their head; they wheeled about, and turned about, dashed here and there, suddenly advancing, then as suddenly retreating, with their horses rearing and prancing, and snorting and dancing, till you would have been sure they were in the greatest possible hurry to rush full tilt at somebody, no matter who, and instantly run them through with their sharp naked swords, without giving them a ghost of a chance to cry "Quarter."

The children looked on with great eyes and a kind of delicious fear, and were almost crazy after the drill was over, to run and beg the cadets to lend them their horses and swords, so as to practise the cavalry drill themselves.

They walked on the edge of the parade-ground, looking all around them with the most amused and delighted interest; at times fairly singing and skipping for joy, and eagerly planning long walks and voyages of discovery.

Minnie thought there must be a "day party" somewhere, the people were dressed so fine, and everybody seemed so very happy.

Numbers of elegantly dressed ladies were walking about, and some fine-looking officers were paying them all the compliments they could think of. In the midst of a group of gentlemen, high above them all, towered the majestic form of the brave General Scott, who has won so many battles for us in Mexico, and who is Commander-in-Chief of all the soldiers in our country. The children looked at him with the greatest admiration; and the boys made up their minds that it was absolutely necessary they should be soldiers when they grew up; and they would have given all they possessed to sleep now in the canvas tents like the brave cadets.

And now the children began to descend a winding path, and wandered down a beautiful road where the trees met overhead. The air was fragrant with the woodbine which curled round the trunks of the trees, while, at their feet, tiny harebells and the purple violet modestly peeped up.

Jumping, skipping, and gathering wild flowers, they came at length to a lovely open space scooped out of the rock, as it seemed, in the centre of which is a crystal spring, which comes up sweet and clear into a stone basin.

Upon this basin they read the name of the great "Kosciusko;" and this was his garden, where he used to sit for many hours in the day reading his book, or admiring the glorious works of God spread before him. The children looked with love and admiration upon the name and place where the good and brave Pole had been; and the boys audibly hoped that they would do something very noble and brave when they grew up, so that everybody might speak well of them.

As they drew near the house, they saw a lady sitting in the bowery porch with their mother.

"Goodness!" cried half a dozen of them, "it's Aunt Fanny! Did you ever?" And thereupon they charged like a company of cadets going to fire on the run, and shot Aunt Fanny with a whole volley of kisses.

It was really a wonder she looked so well after it; fifty kisses in a minute is pretty severe loving; but Aunt Fanny only laughed when she could catch her breath, and, taking Minnie on her lap, asked what particular fun and mischief they had been about lately.

Then didn't they have a grand time, telling about their journey? and the wonderful fairy adventures of Charley? And Charley, who was sitting leaning against his mother, declared that he could not have dreamt them, because he remembered them all so well, and he had felt so much better ever since the beautiful fairy Queen had taken him in charge.

"Why," cried Aunt Fanny, "I shall have to go back to Idlewild, where I passed two delightful hours this morning, right away, and tell all this to the lovely children I saw there. I am sure Edith, and Daisy, and sweet little Bailey, would go straightway down to their beautiful Glen, to hunt up the fairies that no doubt live there hidden under the ferns and mosses, so fairily fine and delicate.

"O Aunt Fanny!" cried the children, "do tell us about Idlewild and dear little Edith, and Daisy, and Bailey Idlewild."

"That is not the name of the children, you monkeys," said Aunt Fanny, laughing, "any more than you are Harry and Minnie Nightcap. It is the fanciful, dreamily sweet name of the place; and the pure life and neighborly love ever adorning and brightening that graceful and kindly house-roof, make June sunshine all over the lovely place the year round."

"Ah! how delightful it must be," cried the children; "do tell us, Aunt Fanny, all about your visit."

"Well, to begin at the beginning, I went up to Cornwall upon some business, and I staid all night at a house just this side of the beautiful Idlewild Glen. In the evening I was invited to go to a Sunday-school celebration; I was very glad to get this invitation, because I love children so much. The services were all very interesting, but the best thing of all was a most beautiful story which was told, to prove the blessed effect of love upon the heart, and how much better it was to govern by love, than by fear and continual punishment."

"We know that!" exclaimed the children, "that's the very way mother governs us—don't you, mamma?" and they all had to give her a kiss before they said, "Please go on, Aunt Fanny; do tell us the story."

"The teacher said it was true, every word of it, but I do not know whether he got it out of a book, or whether it happened to some children he knew; perhaps you have read it already."

"O dear! no, we haven't, I'm sure," said the children, "and if we have, your way of telling it will make it new again. Come, Aunt Fanny, tell the story."

"Well, then, here it is—Once on a time a good old farmer said to his wife, 'Wife, you know poor neighbor Jones died a little while ago, and his little son Johnny is left alone in the world. Suppose we take him? One more will make very little difference. Shall we?'

"'O deary me! no,' said the wife, 'I wouldn't have him among our children for any thing! Why, he's worse than a little heathen!'

"'So he is,' said the farmer, 'I'm a little afraid to try it myself—that's a fact!'

"Now while the old farmer was talking, he was also busily engaged in eating his dinner of pork and greens, and his children had kept their ears open, and had heard all that was said.

"Presently one of the boys, whose name was Luke, looked up and said, 'Father, you know we send one good missionary among a great many heathen. Now, why can't we bring this one little heathen among a great many good people? I'll lend Johnny my kite and ball, and we'll be so kind to him he will never want to be bad. Father, WE'LL LOVE HIM GOOD.'

"The good old farmer, who tried his best to keep God's holy commandments, and especially to 'love his neighbor,' thought this an excellent plan; so he brought Johnny home with him the very next day.

"Sure enough, Johnny was worse than any heathen. He broke the good little boy's ball, tore his kite all to pieces, pulled little Susie's hair, pinched the baby, kicked the small children, and butted the large boys with his head, and, in short, behaved so badly, that they were all nearly crying: still they would not give up Luke's plan, but kept on trying to be kind to him.

"But it was all of no use; Johnny was really a dreadful boy. At last the old farmer said, 'Well, we can't go on so with Johnny; he must have obedience knocked into him like a nail in a plank of wood. I must try if I can't whip him into better behavior:' so he beat the bad boy, and whipped him, and shook him till his teeth rattled in his head, and his hair was all in a friz about his eyes. But, alas! it did no good; Johnny was as bad as ever.

"Then the farmer said, 'Wife, this is a very bad business; whipping does not make Johnny any better; we must try if we can't STARVE the obstinacy out of him.'

"'I don't like to do that,' said the wife.

"'But it must be done,' answered the old farmer; 'it is our duty to try to make him a good boy.'

"So they shut him up in the great garret, where paper bags of dried herbs, and strings of red peppers, and great cobwebs, kept him company. They gave him nothing to eat and drink but dry bread and a cup of water.

"Every now and then the farmer's wife would come, tap at the door, and say, 'Johnny, will you be good now?' and Johnny would shout out in a fierce defiant voice, 'No! no! I won't! You may lock me up forever and ever, and I won't be good.' So the poor farmer's wife would heave a sigh and go away.

"All the morning little Susie had been very silent, with the tears just trembling on her eyelids. She felt very much grieved that Johnny was such a bad boy, and she could not bear to think of him in the lonely garret with no company but his wicked thoughts: so, after dinner, she crept softly up to her mother, and said, 'Mother, I think I can get Johnny to be good, if you will let me try.'

"'Well,' said her mother, smoothing her hair lovingly, 'what is your plan?'

"'Why, mother,' answered the little girl, 'I will go and tell Johnny that I will be locked up instead of him, and he may go play with my dear little boat that brother made, and named for me.'

"The mother looked at her a moment with a loving tear swelling in her eyes, then she said, 'Very well, you may go.'

"So Susie took down the key of the garret, which hung behind the door, and went up stairs, unlocked the door, and then tapped gently. 'Johnny, may I come in?' said she.

"'What do you want now?' grumbled the bad boy. Susie went in, and going softly up to him, she said—'Johnny, mother says you may go and play with my little boat this afternoon, and I will be locked up instead.'

"I am ashamed to say that Johnny was mean enough to accept this offer, and let the little girl bear his punishment; for without even stopping to thank her, he started up and made off, slamming the door behind him, and locking it with a spiteful snap.

"He had a famous time sailing the pretty little boat in the brook; and only came in at tea-time—as hungry as a bear.

"After he had eaten a hearty meal of bread and butter, baked pears, and a great piece of nice gingerbread, he noticed that the farmer's wife commenced to clear away the things, and then he remembered poor little Susie. He sat silent a good while, but at last he could not stand it any longer, and he said—'Say? ain't you agoing to give that little gal up stairs any tea? say?'

"'Yes, Johnny,' answered the mother, 'you can take this to her,' and she handed him a piece of dry bread on a plate.

"Johnny took the plate, carried it up stairs, and began to kick and bang at the door—Thump! bump! thump!

"'Unlock it and come in,' cried Susie. So Johnny did so, and went in; but when he saw the dear little child sitting there so patiently and smiling at him, a strange trembling came to his lips, and without saying a word, he put down the plate, and darted away.

"All that night Susie staid in the garret, and slept as quietly and sweetly as if she had been in her own little room.

"When the next day came, Johnny felt very much like asking pardon for his bad conduct, and begging that Susie might come down from her captivity, while he took her place; but the sun was shining gloriously, and Johnny thought of the little boat; and so, driving away the good thoughts and impulses, he eat his breakfast, snatched up the boat, and ran out to play.

"When dinner-time came, he was the very first to come in, he was so hungry; and soon after the rest of the family, except one, took their places.

"'Where's Susie?' asked Johnny.

"'She is locked up in the garret,' said her mother.

"'Can't she have any dinner?'

"'Yes; she can have some dry bread;' and the farmer's wife gave him a piece on a plate, as before.

"Johnny took it, and went slowly up stairs. He opened the door. There sat Susie, patient and silent. He put the plate beside her, but instead of going away, he stood looking at her in silence.

"Presently he burst out with—'Susie! you're a fool, I say! a perfect fool! Before I'd let myself be locked up, I'd—I'd—' here Johnny stopped; a great lump came into his throat, and was choking him. He drew in his breath with a painful sob, and then burst into an agony of tears, and rushing up to Susie, he threw his arms about her neck, and cried out—

"'O Susie! Susie! please forgive me. I'll never be so bad again, never. They might have whipped me forever, and starved me forever, and it would just have made me worse; but you (and here the great tears came fast and faster)—you have LOVED ME GOOD.'"

"O——h!" cried the children, taking long breaths, and wiping their eyes, "how lovely!—what a good, GOOD story—what a dear, darling Susie! She must have heard of mamma, when she wanted to LOVE Johnny good."

"Yes," said Aunt Fanny, "I think she was very much like your dear mother, and you children can hardly know what a blessed lot is yours, in having a mother who rules you by LOVE."

"Yes, we do! yes, we do!" cried the children; we know she is a perfect darling; and thereupon the little mother underwent a series of caresses quite alarming to witness.

"And now about my visit to Idlewild," said Aunt Fanny, when they were once more quiet. "Soon after breakfast I commenced my walk. I had to cross the wild and beautiful ravine. I am afraid I looked a little like a figure of fun, scrambling and scratching down the slippery descent. I have no doubt some of Charley's fairies were laughing at me all the time; and I am sure the beautiful little waterfall did, as it came joyously dancing down the great black rocks. Really, some of the places were as slippery as ice; and I had to go a-sliding in the summer time, whether I wanted to or not."

"How nice!" cried the children; "that would just have suited the old woman in Mother Goose, who wanted her children to slide on dry ground. You can't drown that way, you know."

"Not exactly; but at last I stood upon the famous zigzag bridge, which is only a single plank with a railing on one side, made of a long, slender sapling. And now, how lovely the scene was that I looked upon! The sun came in dimples and ripples of light through the trees, and the waterfall, with its soft white foam, talked to me in a voice full of power and beauty, of the greatness and goodness of God.

"When I got to the house, I was welcomed by its fair and gentle mistress with a simple courtesy, that made me feel at home at once. Very soon a sweet little maiden came to me, and shyly offered her hand; she told me her name was Daisy, and then she called her baby brother. He was afraid of me at first, but when I said, 'Why, Bailey, I know all about you. I know how you fed the little birds last winter'"—

"Oh," interrupted the children, "how did he feed the little birds, Aunt Fanny?"

"If you will put me in mind, I will tell you by and by. Then Bailey looked at me when I said that, with wide-open eyes; and I continued, 'I know all about the peacock, too, so I do—more, too.'

"Then he came right up to me, and laid his dear little curly head in my lap, and looking up in my face with his merry, bright blue eyes, he said—'I've got a horse.'

"'Why, no! You don't tell me so!' I exclaimed. 'Why, I'm astonished! How many legs has he?'

"'Two, nailed fast, and two, kicking up in the air.'

"'My patience! what a horse!' said I.

"'But come!' said the little darling fellow, pulling at my dress, 'come see my horse! come!'

"So Daisy and the mother, and Bailey and I, went out of the room. Of course I expected to be conducted to the stables; but we began to mount the stairs, and up we went till we arrived at the third story, Bailey holding me fast by the hand. We went into a large room—the children's play-room—from the windows of which there was a magnificent view. Sitting at one of them, was the kind, motherly-looking nurse, to whom I was introduced as to an old friend. As I pressed her hand, her eyes turned fondly upon her mistress and the lovely children. I looked around, and sure enough, in one corner was a prancing charger, standing on his hind legs, which were made fast to a spring rocker, while the others were kicking up in the air, just as Bailey had told me.

"Then the little fellow was lifted up on his horse, and I said, "Get up, pony;" and then all of a sudden such a funny little shy fit came over Bailey, that down went his curly head on the horse's neck, and he very nearly tumbled off. After that he dismounted, and pulling down the prancing legs of the horse, got between them, and holding fast, he had a fine ride after an ingenious invention of his own; for, as the horse's legs rose in the air, up went little Bailey, and then down he came with a funny little stamp of his feet on the carpet, which sent him into the air again.

"Then the dear little fair-haired Daisy showed me her birds, 'Buttercup' and 'Primrose,' and two others whose names I did not hear; and then we went down stairs again.

"In the charming library we met another daughter, a lovely young lady, and a friend who was visiting her. I knew this young lady before, and loved her very much; and I was very glad to meet her; and you may be sure we were very merry together.

"Just then we heard Bailey's voice in the hall, lifted up in loud wailing and weeping. We all rushed out, thinking the sweet little fellow had fallen down stairs. But he was safe, though the great tears were running down his cheeks; and he sobbed out, 'Mamma! mamma! Edith won't come to see Aunt Fanny!' Dear little fellow! It seems that Edith was the shyest little maiden in the world, and Bailey, in his loving endeavor to get her to come to me, had first coaxed her, then kissed her over and over again, and at last, broken-hearted about it, had burst into loud crying. Edith stood at the turn of the stairs, ready to dart away; and when I said, 'Do come, darling—come, little Edith,' she fled like a frightened fawn, upon which Bailey began lamenting again, and I had hard work to bring the peace once more into his little, loving, troubled heart.

"When we returned to the room, Miss Laura, the young lady who was visiting the family, told a funny story about Bailey. She was walking in the beautiful glen before breakfast, and frolicking round her were Gouldy, and Caesar, and Bailey."

"Were they all boys? or what?" asked the children.

"Not exactly, for two of them were dogs; but far better and gentler companions than some boys I know. Gouldy was a dear old fellow, that would not have hurt a hair of your head for a thousand dollars in gold, even if he knew about or cared for money; and Caesar—Oh! he was something and somebody very extra indeed."

"What! did he have horns on his head?" asked Harry.



"Not a horn; but he once belonged to the good and famous Dr. Kane, the great Arctic explorer; and Caesar had seen as many icebergs and white bears as he wanted to, and a few over, I imagine; for Dr. Kane gave him to his friend, the owner of Idlewild; and the good dog tells his new master every day by an extra flourish of his tail, how happy he is, and how much he loves to live in such a lovely place, and with such lovely children.

"Well, as I was telling you, the dogs and little Bailey were scampering here and there, while Miss Laura walked in the glen, thinking how sweetly the rippling golden light came down through the green leaves. After a while she thought it was time to return, so she called—'Come, Gouldy, come, Caesar, come, Bailey. It is time to go home.' Up bounded the two dogs at her bidding, but the darling little rogue, Bailey, pretended to be very busy looking for something in the grass. Then the dogs, seeing that he did not mind, went leaping off, tumbling over each other, pretending to bite, and growling at a great rate. So Miss Laura walked a few steps nearer Bailey, and called again—'Come, Gouldy, come, Caesar, come, Bailey.' The dogs ran to her as before, but Bailey walked as grave as any deacon, and looking sideways at her, with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes, and a comical little chuckle, he said—'Miss Laura, there is no dog of that name in this place.' His face looked so full of fun and mischief, that Miss Laura screamed out laughing, and then Bailey laughed, and was very glad he had been so funny."

"What a funny little fellow," exclaimed the children, "to make believe Miss Laura did not mean him when she called. I do wish he could come and play with us. He's a darling! Well, please go on Aunt Fanny."

"While we were sitting in the parlor, Bailey brought me a superb book of engravings to look at. They were flowers. I only wish you could have heard him telling me the long names, slowly and carefully, in such a sweet little voice—'This is the Rho-de-den-dron,' and then giving a quick, satisfied sigh, because he had gotten it all right. When he showed me a picture of a splendid lily, I looked at the beautiful flower, and then at his innocent baby-brow, and in his unclouded eyes, through which the immortal soul shone purer and whiter than any lily, and softly said—'Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin;' and as I bent over to kiss this immortal lily, I heard the gentle little mother murmur—'Yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.' Truly the innocence of a little child invests him with a greater glory than any this world can give. Why may we not always retain it, pure and undefiled?

"At last the carriage came to take me away; and they all bid me a kind adieu; and Bailey and Daisy kissed me so lovingly, that I felt the kisses all the way to my heart, where I mean to keep the memory of them as long as I live. Wonderful to relate, something happened at the very last moment, that made Bailey dance with delight, for Edith, shy Edith, ran to me and put up her sweet pink and white cheek for a kiss; and so I left beautiful Idlewild, a very happy Aunt Fanny."

The children were delighted with this account, which Minnie called "a very nice inscription."

"And now about the birds, Aunt Fanny. You know you told us to put you in mind."

"Oh, yes. Well, I will try to remember what I read in the Home Journal a year ago about the dear little winter birds at Idlewild."

"There is a charming study at the north-west corner of the house; and the father of Daisy, and Edith, and Bailey, began his beautiful little story, by saying that he had two very sociable sets of visitors in his study early every morning. First the little folks jump out of their beds, and run in to him in their slippers and nightgowns, just as Laina the cook, with her kind dark face, comes along with the tea-tray for him, and bread for the second set of visitors. The children crumble the bread very joyfully and carefully, and the window is quickly opened, (for it is winter, and snowing,) and the bread-feast is spread out over the roof of the portico.

"Then the children cluster round the fire, and talk about the dogs and the peacock and their lessons, keeping one eye upon the window, near which the snow-white hemlocks are bowing in the wintry wind.

"Presently—'Hush! There they are!' and the little nightgowns flutter softly to the window, and gaze lovingly at fifteen or twenty little birds, in only their bare feet and feathers, who have come with the first peep of dawn, and are made happy with a bountiful breakfast. They were dear old birds, that had been before, and no doubt some invited friends. Such a nice time as they all have! inside the window and out; and the children are so delighted that they can soften the winter for those poor little houseless ones out in the cold, who, remembering the kindness of last year, came so trustingly again. It was this confidence and love that was shown by the dear little birds, that made the children so glad; and a rosier, happier troop of little folk, could hardly be found than this early morning party in Idlewild study."

"Oh! oh! how sweet! how lovely!" cried the children. "How we wish we lived at Idlewild, or at any rate in the country, where we could feed the little birds. We wish it would snow like every thing this very minute."

Aunt Fanny laughed, and said she was delighted, the story had pleased them so much, but was afraid she had not done it justice, as it had been most beautifully told in the Home Journal; but she could not remember the exact words.



After tea that evening, the whole family went out in a large row-boat. It was bright moonlight. A light breeze stole through the tree-tops, making soft music; and it was so still and sweet on the water, that everybody felt a thrill of delight.

Charley had been carried down to the water, and he sat in the bow of the boat, leaning his head upon his mother's breast. He was in no pain, and soothed by the measured and musical drip of the oars, he closed his blue eyes and fell into a sweet sleep.

In a few moments he was awakened by a tap upon his arm; opening his eyes, he beheld, close by him, seated upon the back of a flying-fish, an ugly kelpie, or water-fairy, with a malevolent, evil aspect, who regarded him with a look of hate.

"Come out of the boat! come out of the boat!" he said, in a baleful whisper.

Spite of his terror and shrinking, Charley felt himself impelled to lean over and look down into the moon-lit water.

Oh! what frightful forms he saw! Some riding on crabs, some on great leeches, and more on the backs of flying-fishes, who took tremendous leaps in the air, while their riders uttered frantic yells of delight.



The poor boy felt that some horrible but irresistible power was dragging him down, down into the deep water, where these wicked imps would bury him in some dark cave. He struggled to resist the impulse to plunge, but it grew stronger and stronger, till, with a faint moan of despair, he was just yielding to his hapless fate, when the sound of distant fairy music broke upon his ear, and raising his head, he beheld, riding swiftly down on the moonbeams, in all the pomp and blazonry of military equipment, a band of armed fairy knights, with Firefly at their head. On they came, with dash and hurry, and soon the air was darkened with arrows and javelins hurled at the hateful water-sprites.

Fast and sharp they came, and in a very few moments a still more brilliant light gleamed from the eyes of the victorious army, as the kelpies, after a short but furious resistance, sank yelling with rage and disappointment beneath the wave, and the water became still and glassy as before.

The agitated boy heard a tiny but hearty shout of triumph, and then the brave little fairy soldiers, after kissing their hands and waving their gossamer scarfs at Charley, turned and flew on their light and winged steeds, towards the beautiful hollow from which the good Queen had sent them, for she knew, by her fairy power, the danger her beloved Charley was in.

The music, faint and sweet, lingered till the last lance had flashed in the moonbeams, as it disappeared over the tall tree-tops, and then it died insensibly away, so lingering were the delicious notes.

Then the wondering boy looking round, saw only the bright moon, the still water, and the row-boat full of his brothers and sisters.

"Why, Charley," said his mother, kissing him, "you have had a nice little sleep; haven't you?"

"Sleep? Oh no!" answered the bewildered child. "Did you see the battle?"

"BATTLE!" screamed all the children. "Why, Charley, you must be getting crazy!"

"Not at all," said Charley, very earnestly, "this time it really happened;" and he told of the battle of the fairies, while the children opened their eyes and mouths so wide with astonishment, that their faces looked all holes; and they stared with all their might up at the moonbeams and down into the water, in the hope that at least some one fairy might have found it necessary to see Charley safe on dry land; but I am sorry to have to relate that they were not gratified with a sight, though their very eye-balls stuck out, so intense and eager did they look, and so sure was Charley that he had not been asleep.

Had he been asleep?

And now, for more than a month after this, Charley and the rest of the children lived a most delightful life. They were up at drum-beat every morning. They would not have missed a parade on any account whatever, that is, all except Charley, and he enjoyed it almost as much as the rest. They were so enthusiastic and glowing in their descriptions. They even went to a stag-dance at night, and almost killed themselves laughing at the cadets.

This stag-dance is performed on the green. A ring is formed, and a tallow candle is stuck in a cut potato, and placed at intervals round the circle; and within this not very brilliant illumination, the cadets dance with each other to the excellent music of the band. Those who personate ladies, take hold of their little bob-tailed jackets, and prink and mince, and take fine airs upon themselves, and look so precisely like fine ladies, that the real fine ladies looking at them, want to give them a good shaking.

But the children went off into fits of laughter at the long and quizzical shadows on the ground. When the cadets dance a figure, their shadows look like a company of sickly, melancholy monkeys, which dodge about in a distracting way, and look so irresistibly funny, that everybody shouts with laughter—and it is a very merry spectacle.

Then this pleasant family had the most delightful tea parties in an arbor at the back of the house. To be sure the ear-wigs and daddy-long-legs, would drop into their tea once in a while, making them first squeal, and jump up, and then laugh, and a grasshopper or two, would hop suddenly on the cake, and hop more suddenly off, before they could catch him; but what of that? Some people shriek so if a grasshopper hops near them, you would think it was an elephant come to pack them up in his trunk, for the rest of their lives; but these children had more sense, and did not mind a little insect a thousand times smaller than themselves.

* * * * *

And now I must come to a sad, sad part of my story—I dread to begin it—and would gladly have told you a great deal more about the fairies, and what they did for Charley; but Mr. Appleton says, you would not like to have the same story go through two books, and this, I am afraid, is already too long.

But I must relate one circumstance. Charley had retired to his little bed one evening earlier than usual; dark, lowering clouds had sped quickly over the sky, soon after he fell asleep. The tops of the high trees, skirting the fairy hollow, waved restlessly to and fro, and the angry growls of the thunder portended a violent storm. This night, there was to have been a festival in the beautiful hollow.

As the fairies flew along in the troubled air, and the Queen tried vainly to charm away the coming tempest, (for they were to carry Charley to the hollow that night,) a dark form, like gathered mist, went slowly past, her head bent, her arms folded.

And now, the lightnings came with a blinding glare, and the grand booming of Heaven's artillery awoke the solemn echoes. Fast the affrighted, shuddering fairies sped away, to hide under the fern leaves, and in the tiny caves at the foot of the rocks. But the misty, shadowy form still floated past, till it arrived at the open window of Charley's room.



With noiseless motion it glided to the bed, bent over Charley, and whispered in a soft, sweet voice, "Beloved one, you are taken away in your early and lovely spring-time, because for you, to live, is to suffer. You will go where there are no storms, no sorrows, no sufferings; clasped in my arms, you will sleep, and be at rest forever."

And Charley smiled lovingly upon the ANGEL OF DEATH, and his sleep grew deeper, and calmer, and sweeter. But the next day, he told his mother, and sisters, and brothers, of his mournful visitor, who had passed out of the window into the veiling clouds, and disappeared. The children burst into passionate weeping, and clasped him in their arms, and refused to let him go. The little mother knew he had been dreaming as before; but alas! she knew also only too well, that her darling's time had come. He suffered no pain; but he became weaker and weaker, and life was slowly but surely ebbing away. Consumption, that fell disease, had nearly finished her baleful work, and his lamp of life, flickering and dim, would soon pass away into the dark valley of the shadow of death.

God knew best, and in His infinite wisdom saw fit to take Charley out of this wearisome world, in which, if he had lived, he would suffer so much.

But the child was so much beloved. He was the sunlight of the house; and the pang of parting would be so cruel. They knew that they would meet again in the place Jesus had prepared for them in His Father's house—they knew that; but how could they help grieving now?

The good doctor came every day, and used his utmost skill, for he dearly loved the sweet, patient child; but it was of no avail, Charley's everlasting HOME was ready for him.

Slowly and sadly the poor children wandered around; for their sorrow pressed like a weight upon them. They would come softly to his bedside, smooth his golden hair, and kiss his forehead, and hope he would yet get well; then seeing his pallid face, and little wasted hands lying so still outside of the white bedspread, they would go hastily away, and shed bitter, bitter tears; vainly struggling to repress them, lest he should hear and be grieved.

The joyous little birds still sang in the trees; the majestic Highlands still rose in the blue air; and the splendid sunset clouds still covered their summits with a glory; the glittering water was beautiful as ever. The drums beat to reveille, and crowds of gay people walked about the parade-ground.

And Charley was dying.

Even now, the loving guardian angels were waiting on the other side of the dark valley, to conduct this summer blossom to his heavenly home. Myriads of little children were tuning their golden harps, to greet his purified spirit with a hymn of joyful welcome, and Jesus was saying, "Come."

And now, his last day on earth was passing—lovely and serene. Charley's little bed had been moved in the afternoon, close to the open window, where he could see the white sails gliding by on the smooth silvery water. A peace from within, not of this world, illuminated his sweet face. He had sent for all his brothers and sisters, and with a faint voice, and at broken intervals, was talking to them, and giving to each one some little trifle belonging to him; and one by one, convulsed with sobs, they would rush from the room—and after a painful struggle would return, with their tears forced back; their loving gaze fastened upon him, whom in a few short hours they would see no more.

When the good doctor entered, and saw that the end was so near, his features worked painfully, and covering his face with his hands, in another moment the great scalding tears trickled through. This brave man, in the midst of battle, with the death strokes falling right and left, and the great cannons booming destruction before him, had walked without fear or flinching among the dead and wounded, giving help and succor; but now, loving and tender-hearted as he was brave, he had covered his face, and was weeping like a child.

"Tell the doctor not to cry," whispered the dying boy. "I am going home to Jesus. I am going now," he said, with a gasping sigh. "Kiss me, mother. Oh! how I thank you for all your love and kindness. I thank you all; I bless you all. God bless you all;" and thus to the end, grateful and loving, Charley spoke his last words.

For now his silken hair lay heavy and damp upon his snow-white forehead; and as the solemn twilight deepened into shade, and the first star broke like a promise in the sky, one little upward fluttering sigh was heard, and they knew that this life was ended, and Charley was winging his bright way to HEAVEN.

Not a word was spoken, not a sob broke the stillness. The moonbeams, struggling into the room, disclosed the little mother on her knees by the small white couch, her head buried in the white coverings. The children sat sorrow-stricken, motionless, almost breathless, their eyes fastened on the face of the dead child, in a despairing hope that he might speak again; but not a breath stirred those still lips. The good doctor, after a while, tenderly raised the heart-broken mother, and led her away, and then sending for some kind neighbors, they gently and lovingly prepared the remains of Charley for their last quiet resting-place.

How lovely now looked what was left of the good and lovely boy. The glistening golden curls pressed closely around the broad, open brow, white as a lily, and a heaven-sent smile just parted the pale lips. The leaves of a cluster of white roses curled around his little hands, which were folded so tenderly above his stilled and quiet heart; and every flower that he loved was placed with tears and kisses all about him.

But oh! what a desolate cry arose in those children's hearts when the little coffin was closed, and the sweet, peaceful face was seen no more. Charley was in heaven—Charley was happy, but they wanted him, they wanted him.

It seemed so cruel that the world should go on gay as ever, and their Charley dead. They wondered, as they came on board the boat, which was to carry what was left of their darling back to New York, they wondered why every face was not tearful, when theirs was so full of sorrow.

They made a little grave for him in the beautiful Greenwood Cemetery. The soft moonlight sleeps lovingly upon it, and people tread lightly as they approach and read the name of "LAME CHARLEY."

Slowly and sadly passed the rest of the summer, for the little mother told no more stories. Once she tried, for she could not bear to see the sad faces of her children; alas! that one vanished face, with its sweet, grateful smile, and little tender ways, came before her, and the story was lost in a flood of tears.

But late one lovely evening, as she was sitting by the open window, thinking of her loved and lost one, some friend, unseen beneath, sang these words, to a sweet and tender melody—

"Mildly, sweet summer moon, Shine on this mother, weeping; Whisper within her heart, 'He is not dead, but sleeping.'

"Softly, sweet summer stars, Evermore vigil keeping, Tell her, in steadfast tones, 'He is not dead, but sleeping.'

"Gently, sweet summer wind, All things in perfume steeping; Breathe in her sorrowing soul, 'He is not dead, but sleeping;

"'And safe in Jesus' arms, His great reward is reaping.' Up! mother, up! and cry, 'He is not dead, but sleeping.'"

A faint flush passed over the mother's pale cheek, for she knew that some one who loved her, had thus tenderly warned her that her grief was not endured as hopefully as it should be. She had not remembered that her beloved Charley was only "gone before, not lost."

With an earnest, prayerful effort, she once more grew cheerful, and with her cheerfulness came happiness to the children's hearts, though they all their lives will remember their good, pure, and tenderly beloved brother—whom you, dear little reader, also love, and know as

LAME CHARLEY.

Dear little readers, you and I have now followed Charley together through six books, in which his life, and the lives of his brothers and sisters, have been faithfully portrayed. If the good and pure life of the little lame child, now happy in heaven, gives you one steadfast resolution, to endeavor, from this time forth, to lead a good and pure life, it will gladden the inmost heart of your loving

AUNT FANNY.

THE END.



Transcriber's Note:

Variations and inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation in the original text have been retained in this ebook.