What will all these busy people have for dinner to-day? Fat bears'-paws, brought from the dark forest fifty miles away,—these will do for that comfortable-looking mandarin with the red ball on the top of his cap. I think he has eaten something of the same kind before. A birds'-nest soup for my lady in the great house on the hill; birds' nests brought from the rocks where the waves dash, and the birds feel themselves very safe. But "Such a delicious soup!" said Madam Faw-Choo, and Yang-lo, her son, sent the fisherman again to the black rocks for more.

What will the soldiers have,—the officer who wears thick satin boots, and doesn't look much like fighting in his gay silk dress? A stew of fat puppies for him, and only boiled rats for the porter who carries the heavy tea-boxes. But there is tea for all, and rice, too, as much as they desire; and, although I shouldn't care to be invited to dine with any of them, I don't doubt they enjoy the food very much.

In the midst of all this buying and selling Lin sells his fish, some to the English gentleman, and some to the grave-faced man in the blue gown; and he goes happily home to his own dinner in the boat. Rice again, and fried mice, and the merry face and small, slanting black eyes of his little sister to greet him. After dinner his father has a pipe to smoke, before he goes again to his work. After all, why not eat puppies and mice as well as calves and turtles and oysters? And as for birds'-nest soup, I should think it quite as good as chicken pie. It is only custom that makes any difference.

So pass the days of our child Pen-se, who lives on the great river which men call the child of the ocean. But it was not always so. She was born among the hills where the tea grows with its glossy, myrtle-like leaves, and white, fragrant blossoms. When the tea-plants were in bloom, Pen-se first saw the light; and when she was hardly more than a baby she trotted behind her father, while he gathered the leaves, dried and rolled them, and then packed them in square boxes to come in ships across the ocean for your papa and mine to drink.

Here, too, grew the mulberry-trees, with their purple fruit and white; and Pen-se learned to know and to love the little worms that eat the mulberry-leaves, and then spin for themselves a silken shell, and fall into a long sleep inside of it. She watched her mother spin off the fine silk and make it into neat skeins, and once she rode on her mother's back to market to sell it. You could gather mulberry-leaves, and set up these little silkworm boxes on the windowsill of your schoolroom. I have seen silk and flax and cotton all growing in a pleasant schoolroom, to show the scholars of what linen and silk and cotton are made.

Now those days are all past. She can hardly remember them, she was so little then; and she has learned to be happy in her new home on the river, where they came when the fire burned their house, and the tea-plants and the mulberry-trees were taken by other men.

Sometimes at night, after the day's work is over, the ducks have come home, and the stars have come out, she sits at the door of the boat-house, and watches the great bright fireflies over the marshes, and thinks of the blue lake Syhoo, covered with lilies, where gilded boats are sailing, and the people seem so happy.

Up in the high-walled garden of the great house on the hill, the night-moths have spread their broad, soft wings, and are flitting among the flowers, and the little girl with the small feet lies on her silken bed, half asleep. She, too, thinks of the lake and the lilies, but she knows nothing about Pen-se, who lives down upon the river.

See, the sun has gone from them. It must be morning for us now.



THE LITTLE DARK GIRL.

In this part of the world, Manenko would certainly be considered a very wild little girl. I wonder how you would enjoy her for a playmate. She has never been to school, although she is more than seven years old, and doesn't know how to read, or even to tell her letters; she has never seen a book but once, and she has never learned to sew or to knit.

If you should try to play at paper dolls with her, she would make very funny work with the dresses, I assure you. Since she never wore a gown or bonnet or shoes herself, how should she know how to put them on to the doll? But, if she had a doll like herself, I am sure she would be as fond of it as you are of yours; and it would be a very cunning little dolly, I should think. Perhaps you have one that looks somewhat like this little girl in the picture.

Now I will tell you of some things which she can do.

She can paddle the small canoe on the river; she can help to hoe the young corn, and can find the wild bees' honey in the woods, gather the scarlet fruit when it is fully ripe and falls from the trees, and help her mother to pound the corn in the great wooden mortar. All this, and much more, as you will see, Manenko can do; for every little girl on the round world can help her mother, and do many useful things.

Would you like to know more of her,—how she looks, and where she lives, and what she does all day and all night?

Here is a little round house, with low doorways, most like those of a dog's house; you see we should have to stoop in going in. Look at the round, pointed roof, made of the long rushes that grow by the river, and braided together firmly with strips of mimosa-bark; fine, soft grass is spread all over this roof to keep out the rain.

If you look on the roof of the house across the street you will see that it is covered with strips of wood called shingles, which are laid one over the edge of the other; and when it is a rainy day you can see how the rain slips and slides off from these shingles, and runs and drips away from the spout.

Now, on this little house where Manenko lives there are no shingles, but the smooth, slippery grass is almost as good; and the rain slides over it and drips away, hardly ever coming in to wet the people inside, or the hard beds made of rushes, like the roof, and spread upon the floor of earth.

In this house lives Manenko, with Maunka her mother, Sekomi her father, and Zungo and Shobo her two brothers.

They are all very dark, darker than the brown baby. I believe you would call them black, but they are not really quite so. Their lips are thick, their noses broad, and instead of hair, their heads are covered with wool, such as you might see on a black sheep. This wool is braided and twisted into little knots and strings all over their heads, and bound with bits of red string, or any gay-looking thread. They think it looks beautiful, but I am afraid we should not agree with them.

Now we will see what clothes they wear.

You remember Agoonack, who wore the white bear's-skin, because she lived in the very cold country; and the little brown baby, who wore nothing but a string of beads, because she lived in the warm country. Manenko, too, lives in a warm country, and wears no clothes; but on her arms and ankles are bracelets and anklets, with little bits of copper and iron hanging to them, which tinkle as she walks; and she also, like the brown baby, has beads for her neck.

Her father and mother, and Zungo her brother, have aprons and mantles of antelope skins; and they, too, wear bracelets and anklets like hers.

Little Shobo is quite a baby and runs in the sunshine, like his little sister, without clothes. Dear little Shobo! how funny and happy he must look, and how fond he must be of his little sister, and our little sister, Manenko! We have all seen such little dark brothers and sisters. His short, soft wool is not yet braided or twisted, but crisps in little close curls all over his head.

In the morning they must be up early, for the father is going to hunt, and Zungo will go with him. The mother prepares the breakfast, small cakes of bread made from the pounded corn, scarlet beans, eaten with honey, and plenty of milk from the brown cow. She brings it in a deep jug, and they dip in their hands for spoons.

All the meat is eaten, and to-day the men must go out over the broad, grassy fields for more. They will find the beautiful young antelope, so timid and gentle as to be far more afraid of you than you would be of them. They are somewhat like small deer, striped and spotted, and they have large, dark eyes, so soft and earnest you cannot help loving them. Here, too, are the buffalo, like large cows and oxen with strong horns, and the great elephants with long trunks and tusks. Sometimes even a lion is to be met, roused from his sleep by the noise of the hunters; for the lion sleeps in the daytime and generally walks abroad only at night. When you are older you can read the stories of famous lion and elephant hunters, and of strange and thrilling adventures in the "Dark Continent."

It would be a wonderful thing to you and me to see all these strange or beautiful animals, but Zungo and his father have seen them so many times that they are thinking only of the meat they will bring home, and, taking their long spears and the basket of ground nuts and meal which the mother has made ready, they are off with other hunters before the sun is up.

Now the mother takes her hoe, and, calling her little girl to help, hoes the young corn which is growing on the round hill behind the house. I must tell you something about the little hill. It looks like any other hill, you would think, and could hardly believe that there is anything very wonderful to tell about it. But listen to me.

A great many years ago there was no hill there at all, and the ground was covered with small white ants. You have seen the little ant-houses many a time on the garden-path, and all the ants at work, carrying grains of sand in their mouths, and running this way and that, as if they were busy in the most important work. Oh, the little ants are very wise! They seem to know how to contrive great things and are never idle. "Go to the ant; consider her ways, and be wise," said one of the world's wisest men.

Well, on the spot where this hill now stands the white ants began to work. They were not satisfied with small houses like those which we have seen, but they worked day after day, week after week, and even years, until they had built this hill higher than the house in which I live, and inside it is full of chambers and halls, and wonderful arched passages. They built this great house, but they do not live there now. I don't know why they moved,—perhaps because they didn't like the idea of having such near neighbors when Sekomi began to build his hut before their door. But, however it was, they went, and, patient little creatures that they are, built another just like it a mile or so away; and Sekomi said: "The hill is a fine place to plant my early corn."

There is but little hoeing to do this morning, and, while the work goes on, Shobo, the baby, rolls in the grass, sucking a piece of sugar-cane, as I have seen children suck a stick of candy. Haven't you?

The mother has baskets to make. On the floor of the hut is a heap of fine, twisting tree-roots which she brought from the forest yesterday, and under the shadow of her grassy roof she sits before the door weaving them into strong, neat baskets, like the one in which the men carried their dinner when they went to hunt. While she works other women come too with their work, sit beside her in the shade, and chatter away in a very queer-sounding language. We couldn't understand it at all; but we should hear them always call Manenko's mother Ma-Zungo, meaning Zungo's mother, instead of saying Maunka, which you remember I told you is her name. Zungo is her oldest boy, you know, and ever since he was born she has been called nothing but Ma-Zungo,—just as if, when a lady comes into your school, the teacher should say: "This is Joe's mother," or "This is Teddy's mamma," so that the children should all know her.

So the mother works on the baskets and talks with the women; but Manenko has heard the call of the honey-bird, the brisk little chirp of "Chiken, chiken, chik, churr, churr," and she is away to the wood to follow his call, and bring home the honey.

She runs beneath the tall trees, looking up for the small brown bird; then she stops and listens to hear him again, when close beside her comes the call, "Chiken, chiken, chik, churr, churr," and there sits the brown bird above a hole in the tree, where the bees are flying in and out, their legs yellow with honey-dust. It is too high for Manenko to reach, but she marks the place and says to herself: "I will tell Ra when he comes home." Who is Ra? Why, that is her name for "father." She turns to go home, but stops to listen to the wild shouts and songs of the women who have left the huts and are coming down towards the river to welcome their chief with lulliloo, praising him by such strange names as "Great lion," "Great buffalo."

The chief comes from a long journey with the young men up the river in canoes, to hunt the elephant, and bring home the ivory tusks, from which we have many beautiful things made. The canoes are full of tusks, and, while the men unload them, the women are shouting: "Sleep, my lord, my great chief." Manenko listens while she stands under the trees,—listens for only a minute, and then runs to join her mother and add her little voice to the general noise.

The chief is very proud and happy to bring home such a load; before sunset it will all be carried up to the huts, the men will dress in their very best, and walk in a gay procession. Indeed, they can't dress much; no coats or hats or nicely polished boots have they to put on, but some will have the white ends of oxen's tails in their hair, some a plume of black ostrich feathers, and the chief himself has a very grand cap made from the yellow mane of an old lion. The drum will beat, the women will shout, while the men gather round a fire, and roast and eat great slices of ox-meat, and tell the story of their famous elephant-hunt. How they came to the bushes with fine, silvery leaves and sweet bark, which the elephant eats, and there hiding, watched and waited many hours, until the ground shook, with the heavy tread of a great mother-elephant and her two calves, coming up from the river, where they had been to drink. Their trunks were full of water, and they tossed them up, spouting the water like a fine shower-bath over their hot heads and backs, and now, cooled and refreshed, began to eat the silvery leaves of the bushes. Then the hunters threw their spears thick and fast; after two hours, the great creature lay still upon the ground,—she was dead.

So day after day they had hunted, loading the canoes with ivory, and sailing far up the river; far up where the tall rushes wave, twisted together by the twining morning-glory vines; far up where the alligators make great nests in the river-bank, and lay their eggs, and stretch themselves in the sunshine, half asleep inside their scaly armor; far up where the hippopotamus is standing in his drowsy dream on the bottom of the river, with the water covering him, head and all. He is a great, sleepy fellow, not unlike a very large, dark-brown pig, with a thick skin and no hair. Here he lives under the water all day, only once in a while poking up his nose for a breath of fresh air. And here is the mother-hippopotamus, with her baby standing upon her neck, that he may be nearer the top of the water. Think how funny he must look.

All day long they stand here under the water, half asleep, sometimes giving a loud grunt or snore, and sometimes, I am sorry to say, tipping over a canoe which happens to float over their heads. But at night, when men are asleep, the great beasts come up out of the river and eat the short, sweet grass upon the shore, and look about to see the world a little. Oh, what mighty beasts! Men are so small and weak beside them. And yet, because the mind of man is so much above theirs, he can rule them; for God made man to be king of the whole earth, and greater than all.

All these wonderful things the men have seen, and Manenko listens to their stories until the moon is high and the stars have almost faded in her light. Then her father and Zungo come home, bringing the antelope and buffalo meat, too tired to tell their story until the next day. So, after eating supper, they are all soon asleep upon the mats which form their beds. It is a hard kind of bed, but a good one, if you don't have too many mice for bedfellows. A little bright-eyed mouse is a pretty creature, but one doesn't care to sleep with him.

These are simple, happy people; they live out of doors most of the time, and they love the sunshine, the rain, and the wind. They have plenty to eat,—the pounded corn, milk and honey, and scarlet beans, and the hunters bring meat, and soon it will be time for the wild water-birds to come flocking down the river,—white pelicans and brown ducks, and hundreds of smaller birds that chase the skimming flies over the water.

If Manenko could read, she would be sorry that she has no books; and if she knew what dolls are, she might be longing every day for a beautiful wax doll, with curling hair, and eyes to open and shut. But these are things of which she knows nothing at all, and she is happy enough in watching the hornets building their hanging nests on the branches of the trees, cutting the small sticks of sugar-cane, or following the honey-bird's call.

If the children who have books would oftener leave them, and study the wonders of the things about them,—of the birds, the plants, the curious creatures that live and work on the land and in the air and water,—it would be better for them. Try it, dear children; open your eyes and look into the ways and forms of life in the midst of which God has placed you, and get acquainted with them, till you feel that they, too, are your brothers and sisters, and God your Father and theirs.



LOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER RHINE.

Have you heard of the beautiful River Rhine—how at first it hides, a little brook among the mountains and dark forests, and then steals out into the sunshine, and leaps down the mountain-side, and hurries away to the sea, growing larger and stronger as it runs, curling and eddying among the rocks, and sweeping between the high hills where the grape-vines grow and the solemn old castles stand?

How people come from far and near to see and to sail upon the beautiful river! And the children who are so blessed as to be born near it, and to play on its shores through all the happy young years of their lives, although they may go far away from it in the after years, never, never forget the dear and beautiful River Rhine.

It is only a few miles away from the Rhine—perhaps too far for you to walk, but not too far for me—that we shall find a fine large house, a house with pleasant gardens about it, broad gravel walks, and soft, green grass-plats to play upon, and gay flowering trees and bushes, while the rose-vines are climbing over the piazza, and opening rose-buds are peeping in at the chamber windows.

Isn't this a pleasant house? I wish we could all live in as charming a home, by as blue and lovely a river, and with as large and sweet a garden, or, if we might have such a place for our school, how delightful it would be!

Here lives Louise, my blue-eyed, sunny-haired little friend, and here in the garden she plays with Fritz and sturdy little Gretchen. And here, too, at evening the father and mother come to sit on the piazza among the roses, and the children leave their games, to nestle together on the steps while the dear brother Christian plays softly and sweetly on his flute.

Louise is a motherly child, already eight years old, and always willing and glad to take care of the younger ones; indeed, she calls Gretchen her baby, and the little one loves dearly her child-mamma.

They live in this great house, and they have plenty of toys and books, and plenty of good food, and comfortable little beds to sleep in at night, although, like Jeannette's, they are only neat little boxes built against the side of the wall.

But near them, in the valley, live the poor people, in small, low houses. They eat black bread, wear coarse clothes, and even the children must work all day that they may have food for to-morrow.

The mother of Louise is a gentle, loving woman; she says to her children: "Dear children, to-day we are rich, we can have all that we want, but we will not forget the poor. You may some day be poor yourselves, and, if you learn now what poverty is, you will be more ready to meet it when it comes." So, day after day, the great stove in the kitchen is covered with stew-pans and kettles, in which are cooking dinners for the sick and the poor, and day after day, as the dinner-hour draws near, Louise will come, and Fritz, and even little Gretchen, saying: "Mother, may I go?" "May I go?" and the mother answers: "Dear children, you shall all go together"; and she fills the bowls and baskets, and sends her sunny-hearted children down into the valley to old Hans the gardener, who has been lame with rheumatism so many years; and to young Marie, the pale, thin girl, who was so merry and rosy-cheeked in the vineyard a year ago; and to the old, old woman with the brown, wrinkled face and bowed head, who sits always in the sunshine before the door, and tries to knit; but the needles drop from the poor trembling hands, and the stitches slip off, and she cannot see to pick them up. She is too deaf to hear the children as they come down the road, and she is nodding her poor old head, and feeling about in her lap for the lost needle, when Louise, with her bright eyes, spies it, picks it up, and before the old woman knows she has come, a soft little hand is laid in the brown, wrinkled one, and the little girl is shouting in her ear that she has brought some dinner from mamma. It makes a smile shine in the old half-blind eyes. It is always the happiest part of the day to her when the dear little lady comes with her dinner. And it made Louise happy too, for nothing repays us so well as what we do unselfishly for others.

These summer days are full of delight for the children. It is not all play for them, to be sure; but then, work is often even more charming than play, as I think some little girls know when they have been helping their mothers,—running of errands, dusting the furniture, and sewing little squares of patchwork that the baby may have a cradle-quilt made entirely by her little sister.

Louise can knit, and, indeed, every child and woman in that country knits. You would almost laugh to see how gravely the little girl takes out her stocking, for she has really begun her first stocking, and sits on the piazza-steps for an hour every morning at work. Then the little garden, which she calls her own, must be weeded. The gardener would gladly do it, but Louise has a hoe of her own, which her father bought in the spring, and, bringing it to his little daughter, said: "Let me see how well my little girl can take care of her own garden." And the child has tried very hard; sometimes, it is true, she would let the weeds grow pretty high before they were pulled up, but, on the whole, the garden promises well, and there are buds on her moss-rose bush. It is good to take care of a garden, for, besides the pleasure the flowers can bring us, we learn how watchful we must be to root out the weeds, and how much trimming and care the plants need; so we learn how to watch over our own hearts.

She has books, too, and studies a little each day,—studies at home with her mother, for there is no school near enough for her to go to it, and while she and Fritz are so young, their mother teaches them, while Christian, who is already more than twelve years old, has gone to the school upon that beautiful hill which can be seen from Louise's chamber window,—the school where a hundred boys and girls are studying music. For, ever since he was a baby, Christian has loved music; he has sung the very sweetest little songs to Louise, while she was yet so young as to lie in her cradle, and he has whistled until the birds among the bushes would answer him again, and now, when he comes home from school to spend some long summer Sunday, he always brings the flute, and plays, as I told you in the beginning of the story.

When the summer days are over, what comes next? You do not surely forget the autumn, when the leaves of the maples turn crimson and yellow, and the oaks are red and brown, and you scuff your feet along the path ankle-deep in fallen leaves!

On the banks of the Rhine the autumn is not quite like ours. You shall see how our children of the great house will spend an autumn day.

Their father and mother have promised to go with them to the vineyards as soon as the grapes are ripe enough for gathering, and on this sunny September morning the time has really come.

In the great covered baskets are slices of bread and German sausage, bottles of milk and of beer, and plenty of fresh and delicious prunes, for the prune orchards are loaded with ripe fruit. This is their dinner, for they will not be home until night.

Oh, what a charming day for the children! Little Gretchen is rolling in the grass with delight, while Louise runs to bring her own little basket, in which to gather grapes.

They must ride in the broad old family carriage, for the little ones cannot walk so far; but, when they reach the river, they will take a boat with white sails, and go down to where the steep steps and path lead up on the other side, up the sunny green bank to the vineyard, where already the peasant girls have been at work ever since sunrise. Here the grapes are hanging in heavy, purple clusters; the sun has warmed them through and through, and made them sweet to the very heart. Oh, how delicious they are, and how beautiful they look, heaped up in the tall baskets, which the girls and women are carrying on their heads! How the children watch these peasant-girls, all dressed in neat little jackets, and many short skirts one above another, red and blue, white and green. On their heads are the baskets of grapes, and they never drop nor spill them, but carry them steadily down the steep, narrow path to the great vats, where the young men stand on short ladders to reach the top, and pour in the purple fruit. Then the grapes are crushed till the purple juice runs out, and that is wine,—such wine as even the children may drink in their little silver cups, for it is even better than milk. You may be sure that they have some at dinner-time, when they cluster round the flat rock below the dark stone castle, with the warm noonday sun streaming across their mossy table, and the mother opens the basket and gives to every one a share.

Below them is the river, with its boats and beautiful shining water; behind them are the vine-covered walls of that old castle where two hundred years ago lived armed knights and stately ladies; and all about them is the rich September air, full of the sweet fragrance of the grapes, and echoing with the songs and laughter of the grape-gatherers. On their rocky table are purple bunches of fruit, in their cups the new wine-juice, and in their hearts all the joy of the merry grape season.

There are many days like this in the autumn, but the frost will come at last, and the snow too. This is winter, but winter brings the best pleasure of all.

When two weeks of the winter had nearly passed, the children, as you may suppose, began to think of Christmas, and, indeed, their best and most loving friend had been preparing for them the sweetest of Christmas presents. Ten days before Christmas it came, however. Can you guess what it was? Something for all of them,—something which Christian will like just as well as little Gretchen will, and the father and mother will perhaps be more pleased than any one else.

Do you know what it is? What do you think of a little baby brother,—a little round, sweet, blue-eyed baby brother as a Christmas present for them all?

When Christmas Eve came, the mother said: "The children must have their Christmas-tree in my room, for baby is one of the presents, and I don't think I can let him be carried out and put upon the table in the hall, where we had it last year."

So all day long the children are kept away from their mother's room. Their father comes home with his great coat-pockets very full of something, but, of course, the children don't know what. He comes and goes, up stairs and down, and, while they are all at play in the snow, a fine young fir-tree is brought in and carried up. Louise knows it, for she picked up a fallen branch upon the stairs, but she doesn't tell Fritz and Gretchen.

How they all wait and long for the night to come! They sit at the windows, watching the red sunset light upon the snow, and cannot think of playing or eating their supper. The parlor door is open, and all are waiting and listening. A little bell rings, and in an instant there is a scampering up the broad stairs to the door of mother's room; again the little bell rings, and the door is opened wide by their father, who stands hidden behind it.

At the foot of their mother's white-curtained bed stands the little fir-tree; tiny candles are burning all over it like little stars, and glittering golden fruits are hanging among the dark-green branches. On the white-covered table are laid Fritz's sword and Gretchen's big doll, they being too heavy for the tree to hold. Under the branches Louise finds charming things; such a little work-box as it is a delight to see, with a lock and key, and inside, thimble and scissors, and neat little spools of silk and thread. Then there are the fairy stories of the old Black Forest, and that most charming of all little books, "The White Cat," and an ivory cup and ball for Fritz. Do you remember where the ivory comes from? And, lest Baby Hans should think himself forgotten, there is an ivory rattle for him.

There he lies in the nurse's arms, his blue eyes wide open with wonder, and in a minute the children, with arms full of presents, have gathered round the old woman's arm-chair,—gathered round the best and sweetest little Christmas present of all. And the happy mother, who sits up among the pillows, taking her supper, while she watches her children, forgets to eat, and leaves the gruel to grow cold, but her heart is warm enough.

Why is not Christian here to-night? In the school of music, away on the hill, he is singing a grand Christmas hymn, with a hundred young voices to join him. It is very grand and sweet, full of thanks and of love. It makes the little boy feel nearer to all his loved ones, and in his heart he is thanking the dear Father who has given them that best little Christmas present,—the baby.



LOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE WESTERN FOREST.

There are many things happening in this world, dear children,—things that happen to you yourselves day after day, which you are too young to understand at the time. By and by, when you grow to be as old as I am, you will remember and wonder about them all.

Now, it was just one of these wonderful things, too great for the young children to understand, that happened to our little Louise and her brothers and sister when the Christmas time had come around again, and the baby was more than a year old.

It was a cold, stormy night; there were great drifts of snow, and the wind was driving it against the windows. In the beautiful great parlor, beside the bright fire, sat the sweet, gentle mother, and in her lap lay the stout little Hans. The children had their little chairs before the fire, and watched the red and yellow flames, while Louise had already taken out her knitting-work.

They were all very still, for their father seemed sad and troubled, and the children were wondering what could be the matter. Their mother looked at them and smiled, but, after all, it was only a sad smile. I think it is hardest for the father, when he can no longer give to wife and children their pleasant home; but, if they can be courageous and happy when they have to give it up, it makes his heart easier and brighter.

"I must tell the children' to-night," said the father, looking at his wife, and she answered quite cheerfully: "Yes, tell them; they will not be sad about it I know."

So the father told to his wondering little ones that he had lost all his money; the beautiful great house and gardens were no longer his, and they must all leave their pleasant home near the Rhine, and cross the great, tossing ocean, to find a new home among the forests or the prairies.

As you may suppose, the children didn't fully understand this. I don't think you would yourself. You would be quite delighted with the packing and moving, and the pleasant journey in the cars, and the new and strange things you would see on board the ship, and it would be quite a long time before you could really know what it was to lose your own dear home.

So the children were not sad; you know their mother said they would not be. But when they were safely tucked up in their little beds, and tenderly kissed by the most loving lips, Louise could not go to sleep for thinking of this strange moving, and wondering what they should carry, and how long they should stay. For she had herself once been on a visit to her uncle in the city, carrying her clothes in a new little square trunk, and riding fifty miles in the cars, and she thought it would be quite a fine thing that they should all pack up trunks full of clothing, and go together on even a longer journey.

A letter had been written to tell Christian, and the next day he came home from the school. His uncles in the city begged him to stay with them, but the boy said earnestly: "If my father must cross the sea, I too must go with him."

They waited only for the winter's cold to pass away, and when the first robins began to sing among the naked trees, they had left the fine large house,—left the beautiful gardens where the children used to play, left the great, comfortable arm-chairs and sofas, the bookcases and tables, and the little beds beside the wall. Besides their clothes, they had taken nothing with them but two great wooden chests full of beautiful linen sheets and table-cloths. These had been given to the mother by her mother long ago, before any of the children were born, and they must be carried to the new home. You will see, by and by, how glad the family all were to have them.

Did you ever go on board a ship? It is almost like a great house upon the water, but the rooms in it are very small, and so are the windows. Then there is the long deck, where we may walk in the fresh air and watch the water and the sea-birds, or the sailors at work upon the high masts among the ropes, and the white sails that spread out like a white bird's wings, and sweep the ship along over the water.

It was in such a ship that our children found themselves, with their father and mother, when the snow was gone and young grass was beginning to spring up on the land. But of this they could see nothing, for in a day they had flown on the white wings far out over the water, and as Louise clung to her father's hand and stood upon the deck at sunset, she saw only water and sky all about on every side, and the red clouds of the sunset. It was a little sad, and quite strange to her, but her younger brothers and sisters were already asleep in the small beds of the ship, which, as perhaps you know, are built up against the wall, just as their beds were at home. Louise kissed her father and went down, too, to bed, for you must know that on board ship you go down stairs to bed instead of up stairs.

After all, if father, mother, brother, and sister can still cling to each other and love each other, it makes little difference where they are, for love is the best thing in the universe, and nothing is good without it.

They lived for many days in the ship, and the children, after a little time, were not afraid to run about the deck and talk with the sailors, who were always very kind to them. And Louise felt quite at home sitting in her little chair beside the great mast, while she knit upon her stocking,—a little stocking now, one for the baby.

Christian had brought his flute, and at night he played to them as he used at home, and, indeed, they were all so loving and happy together that it was not much sorrow to lose the home while they kept each other.

Sometimes a hard day would come, when the clouds swept over them, and the rain and the great waves tossed the ship, making them all sick, and sad too, for a time; but the sun was sure to come out at last, as I can assure you it always will, and, on the whole, it was a pleasant journey for them all.

It was a fine, sunny May day when they reached the land again. No time, though, for them to go Maying, for only see how much is to be done! Here are all the trunks and the linen-chests, and all the children, too, to be disposed of, and they are to stop but two days in this city. Then they must be ready for a long journey in the cars and steamboats, up rivers and across lakes, and sometimes for miles and miles through woods, where they see no houses nor people, excepting here and there a single log cabin with two or three ragged children at play outside, or a baby creeping over the doorstep, while farther on among the trees stands a man with his axe, cutting, with heavy blows, some tall trees into such logs as those of which the house is built.

These are new and strange sights to the children of the River Rhine. They wonder, and often ask their parents if they, too, shall live in a little log house like that.

How fresh and fragrant the new logs are for the dwelling, and how sweet the pine and spruce boughs for a bed! A good new log house in the green woods is the best home in the world.

Oh, how heartily tired they all are when at last they stop! They have been riding by day and by night. The children have fallen asleep with heads curled down upon their arms upon the seats of the car, and the mother has had very hard work to keep little Hans contented and happy. But here at last they have stopped. Here is the new home.

They have left the cars at a very small town. It has ten or twelve houses and one store, and they have taken here a great wagon with three horses to carry them yet a few miles farther to a lonely, though beautiful place. It is on the edge of a forest. The trees are very tall, their trunks moss-covered; and when you look far in among them it is so dark that no sunlight seems to fall on the brown earth. But outside is sunshine, and the young spring grass and wild flowers, different from those which grow on the Rhine banks.

But where is their house?

Here is indeed something new for them. It is almost night; no house is near, and they have no sleeping-place but the great wagon. But their cheerful mother packs them all away in the back part of the wagon, on some straw, covering them with shawls as well as she can, and bids them good-night, saying, "You can see the stars whenever you open your eyes."

It is a new bed and a hard one. However, the children are tired enough to sleep well; but they woke very early, as you or I certainly should if we slept in the great concert-hall of the birds. Oh, how those birds of the woods did begin to sing, long before sunrise! And Christian was out from his part of the bed in a minute, and off four miles to the store, to buy some bread for breakfast.

An hour after sunrise he was back again, and Louise had gathered sticks, of which her father made a bright fire. And now the mother is teaching her little daughter how to make tea, and Fritz and Gretchen are poking long sticks into the ashes to find the potatoes which were hidden there to roast.

To them it is a beautiful picnic, like those happy days in the grape season; but Louise can see that her mother is a little grieved at having them sleep in the wagon with no house to cover them. And when breakfast is over she says to the father that the children must be taken back to the village to stay until the house is built. He, too, had thought so; and the mother and children go back to the little town.

Christian alone stays with his father, working with his small axe as his father does with the large one; but to both it is very hard work to cut trees; because it is something they have never done before. They do their best, and when he is not too tired, Christian whistles to cheer himself.

After the first day a man is hired to help, and it is not a great while before the little house is built—built of great, rough logs, still covered with brown bark and moss. All the cracks are stuffed with moss to keep out the rain and cold, and there is one window and a door.

It is a poor little house to come to after leaving the grand old one by the Rhine, but the children are delighted when their father comes with the great wagon to take them to their new home.

And into this house one summer night they come—without beds, tables, or chairs; really with nothing but the trunks and linen-chests. The dear old linen-chests, see only how very useful they have become! What shall be the supper-table for this first meal in the new house? What but the largest of the linen-chests, round which they all gather, some sitting on blocks of wood, and the little ones standing! And after supper what shall they have for beds? What but the good old chests again! For many and many a day and night they are used, and the mother is, over and over again, thankful that she brought them.

As the summer days go by, the children pick berries in the woods and meadows, and Fritz is feeling himself a great boy when his father expects him to take care of the old horse, blind of one eye, bought to drag the loads of wood to market.

Louise is learning to love the grand old trees where the birds and squirrels live. She sits for hours with her work on some mossy cushion under the great waving boughs, and she is so silent and gentle that the squirrels learn to come very near her, turning their heads every minute to see if she is watching, and almost laughing at her with their sharp, bright eyes, while they are cramming their cheeks full of nuts—not to eat now, you know, but to carry home to the storehouses in some comfortable hollow trees, to be saved for winter use. When the snow comes, you see, they will not be able to find any nuts.

One day Louise watched them until she suddenly thought, "Why don't we, too, save nuts for the winter?" and the next day she brought a basket and the younger children, instead of her knitting-work. They frightened away the squirrels, to be sure, but they carried home a fine large basketful of nuts.

Oh, how much might be seen in those woods on a summer day!—birds and flowers, and such beautiful moss! I have seen it myself, so soft and thick, better than the softest cushion to sit on, and then so lovely to look at, with its long, bright feathers of green.

Sometimes Louise has seen the quails going out for a walk; the mother with her seven babies all tripping primly along behind her, the wee, brown birds; and all running, helter-skelter, in a minute, if they hear a noise among the bushes, and hiding, each one, his head under a broad leaf, thinking, poor little foolish things, that no one can see them.

Christian whistles to the quails a long, low call; they will look this way and that and listen, and at last really run towards him without fear.

Before winter comes the log house is made more comfortable; beds and chairs are bought, and a great fire burns in the fireplace. But do the best they can the rain will beat in between the logs, and after the first snowstorm one night, a white pointed drift is found on the breakfast-table. They laugh at it, and call it ice-cream, but they almost feel more like crying, with cold blue fingers, and toes that even the warm knit stockings can't keep comfortable. Never mind, the swift snowshoes will make them skim over the snow-crust like birds flying, and the merry sled-rides that brother Christian will give them will make up for all the trouble. They will soon love the winter in the snowy woods.

Their clothes, too, are all wearing out. Fritz comes to his mother with great holes in his jacket-sleeves, and poor Christian's knees are blue and frost-bitten through the torn trousers. What shall be done?

Louise brings out two old coats of her father's. Christian is wrapped in one from head to foot, and Fritz looks like the oddest little man with his great coat muffled around him, crossed in front and buttoned around behind, while the long sleeves can be turned back almost to his shoulders. Funny enough he looks, but it makes him quite warm; and in this biting wind who would think of the looks? So our little friend is to drive poor old Major to town with a sled-load of wood every day, while his father and brother are cutting trees in the forest.

Should you laugh to see a boy so dressed coming up the street with a load of wood? Perhaps you wouldn't if you knew how cold he would be without this coat, and how much he hopes to get the half-dollar for his wood, and bring home bread and meat for supper.

How wise the children grow in this hard work and hard life! Fritz feels himself a little man, and Louise, I am sure, is as useful as many a woman, for she is learning to cook and tend the fire, while even Gretchen has some garters to knit, and takes quite good care of the baby.

Little Hans will never remember the great house by the Rhine; he was too little when they came away; but by and by he will like to hear stories about it, which, you may be sure, Louise will often tell her little brother.

The winter is the hardest time. When Christmas comes there is not even a tree, for there are no candles to light one and no presents to give. But there is one beautiful gift which they may and do all give to each other,—it makes them happier than many toys or books,—it is love. It makes even this cold dreary Christmas bright and beautiful to them.

Next winter will not be so hard, for in the spring corn will be planted, and plenty of potatoes and turnips and cabbages; and they will have enough to eat and something to sell for money.

But I must not stay to tell you more now of the backwoods life of Louise and her brothers and sister. If you travel some day to the West, perhaps you will see her yourself, gathering her nuts under the trees, or sitting in the sun on the doorstep with her knitting. Then you will know her for the little sister who has perhaps come closest to your heart, and you will clasp each other's hands in true affection.



THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS.

Here, dear children, are your seven little sisters. Let us count them over. First came the brown baby, then Agoonack, Gemila, Jeannette, Pen-se, Manenko, and Louise. Seven little sisters I have called them, but Marnie exclaims: "How can they be sisters when some are black, some brown, and some white; when one lives in the warm country and another in the cold, and Louise upon the shores of the Rhine? Sallie and I are sisters, because we have the same father and live here together in the same house by the seaside; but as for those seven children, I can't believe them to be sisters at all."

Now let us suppose, my dear little girl, that your sister Sallie should go away,—far away in a ship across the ocean to the warm countries, and the sun should burn her face and hands and make them so brown that you would hardly know her,—wouldn't she still be your sister Sallie?

And suppose even that she should stay away in the warm countries and never come back again, wouldn't she still be your dear sister? and wouldn't you write her letters and tell her about home and all that you love there?

I know you would.

And now, just think if you yourself should take a great journey through ice and snow and go to the cold countries, up among the white bears and the sledges and dogs; suppose even that you should have an odd little dress of white bear-skin, like Agoonack, wouldn't you think it very strange if Sallie shouldn't call you her little sister just because you were living up there among the ice?

And what if Minnie, too, should take it into her head to sail across the seas and live in a boat on a Chinese river, like Pen-se, and drive the ducks, eat rice with chopsticks, and have fried mice for dinner; why, you might not want to dine with her, but she would be your sweet, loving sister all the same, wouldn't she?

I can hear you say "Yes" to all this, but then you will add: "Father is our father the same all the time, and he isn't Pen-se's father, nor Manenko's."

Let us see what makes you think he is your father. Because he loves you so much and gives you everything that you have—clothes to wear, and food to eat, and fire to warm you?

Did he give you this new little gingham frock? Shall we see what it is made of? If you ravel out one end of the cloth, you can find the little threads of cotton which are woven together to make your frock. Where did the cotton come from?

It grew in the hot fields of the South, where the sun shines very warmly. Your father didn't make it grow, neither did any man. It is true a man, a poor black man, and a very sad man he was too, put the little seeds into the ground, but they would never have grown if the sun hadn't shone, the soft earth nourished, and the rain moistened them. And who made the earth, and sent the sun and the rain?

That must be somebody very kind and thoughtful, to take so much care of the little cotton-seeds. I think that must be a father.

Now, what did you have for breakfast this morning?

A sweet Indian cake with your egg and mug of milk? I thought so. Who made this breakfast? Did Bridget make the cake in the kitchen? Yes, she mixed the meal with milk and salt and sugar. But where did she get the meal? The miller ground the yellow corn to make it. But who made the corn?

The seeds were planted as the cottonseeds were, and the same kind care supplied sun and rain and earth for them. Wasn't that a father? Not your father who sits at the head of the table and helps you at dinner, who takes you to walk and tells you stories, but another Father; your Father, too, he must be, for he is certainly taking care of you.

And doesn't he make the corn grow, also, on that ant-hill behind Manenko's house? He seems to take the same care of her as of you.

Then the milk and the egg. They come from the hen and the cow; but who made the hen and the cow?

It was the same kind Father again who made them for you, and made the camels and goats for Gemila and Jeannette; who made also the wild bees, and taught them to store their honey in the trees, for Manenko; who made the white rice grow and ripen for little Pen-se, and the sea-birds and the seals for Agoonack. To every one good food to eat—and more than that; for must it not be a very loving father who has made for us all the beautiful sky, and the stars at night, and the blue sea; who sent the soft wind to rock the brown baby to sleep and sing her a song, and the grand march of the Northern Lights for Agoonack—grander and more beautiful than any of the fireworks you know; the red strawberries for little Jeannette to gather, and the beautiful chestnut woods on the mountain-side? Do you remember all these things in the stories?

And wasn't it the same tender love that made the sparkling water and sunshine for Pen-se, and the shining brown ducks for her too; the springs in the desert and the palm-trees for Gemila, as well as the warm sunshine for Manenko, and the beautiful River Rhine for Louise?

It must be a very dear father who gives his children not only all they need for food and clothing, but so many, many beautiful things to enjoy.

Don't you see that they must all be his children, and so all sisters, and that he is your Father, too, who makes the mayflowers bloom, and the violets cover the hills, and turns the white blossoms into black, sweet berries in the autumn? It is your dear and kind Father who does all this for his children. He has very many children; some of them live in houses and some in tents, some in little huts and some under the trees, in the warm countries and in the cold. And he loves them all; they are his children, and they are brothers and sisters. Shall they not love each other?

THE END