Happy Days for Boys and Girls Part 17

Rogers lifted her out, and led her up the broad steps; and she found he was taking her into the beautiful white house, under the windows of which she had sat with Willie and Fred the day before.

"Now," said Mr. Rogers, rolling a comfortable arm-chair for Sweetie in front of a glowing fire, "while you are getting warm, and eating your dinner, I am going to tell you about my Christmas tree, and how your s.h.i.+p came in."

A little table was brought in, and set between them, filled with so many delicacies, that Sweetie's head grew dizzy at the sight. She thought of her little hungry brothers and sister, and would rather not have eaten, but Mr. Rogers made her.

"My little girl," said he, finally, "never forget this: G.o.d always rewards a faithful heart. If he seems to be a long time without caring for his children, he never forgets or forsakes them."

Then he told her that he had overheard her conversation with her brothers under his window, and that G.o.d had suddenly put it into his heart to take care of some of the poor and fatherless in that great city. "And I am going to begin with Sweetie," said he, very tenderly; "and this is the way her s.h.i.+p shall come in. She shall have a new home to give to her mother for a Christmas present, and the boys shall sing their Christmas hymns to-night in the bright little parlor of the corner store, instead of the dingy old garret; and here are the deeds made out in Katie Lawson's own name, and n.o.body can take it away from her. But come, little woman," he added,--for Sweetie was sobbing for joy, and could not thank him,--"go and wash your face, for the horses are tired of standing in the cold, and we must go and fetch the boys, or I shall never get my Christmas tree set up."

An old lady, with a face beaming with kindness,--it was Mr. Rogers's housekeeper,--then took Sweetie, and not only washed her tear-stained cheeks, but curled her soft brown hair, and put on her the loveliest blue dress, with boots to match. All the time she was dressing her, Sweetie, who could not believe her senses, kept murmuring,--

"It's only a dream; it's too good to be true; the boys won't believe it, I know; it's just like a fairy story, and, of course, it's only pretending."

"No, indeed," said the old lady; "it's really true, my dear, and I hope you'll be so grateful and kind to Mr. Rogers that he won't be so lonely as he has been without his own dear little children."

Sweetie could hardly realize her own good fortune; and, when she went down into the parlor, she burst into tears again, saying,--

"O, sir, I can't believe it. I am so happy!"

"So am I, Sweetie," said Mr. Rogers; and really it was hard to tell which was the happier--it is always so much more blessed to give than to receive. Together they rode to the new home, and laughed and cried together as they went all over it. After they had been up stairs, and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber, as Mr. Rogers said, he put her into the carriage again.

"James," said he to the coachman, "you are under this young lady's orders to-night, and must drive carefully."

Then, kissing Sweetie, he put the key of her new home into her hand, and, telling her he should want her help to-morrow about his Christmas tree, he bade her good night.

James drove Sweetie home, for the last time, to the dilapidated old house. She ran up stairs, Freddy said afterwards, "just as Harry always did when he'd had a good day." "Mother and children," said she, "Mr. Rogers, the kind gentleman who was here, has sent me back in his carriage to take you all to see something beautiful he has been showing me. Harry, you be the gentleman of the house, and hand mother and Jennie to the carriage, and I'll come right along." She stopped long enough--this good child, who, even in her own good fortune, did not forget the misfortunes of others--to run into the next room, where an old woman lived, who was a cripple, and whose daughter supported her by sewing.

"Mrs. Jones," said she, hurriedly, "a kind gentleman has given us a new home, and we are going to it to-night, never to come back here to live any more. Our old room, with the rent paid for a year, and all there is in it, I want you to take as a Christmas present from Sweetie; and I wish you a Happy, happy New Year, and please give this to Milly;" and, slipping a five-dollar bill, which Mr. Rogers had given her, into the old woman's hand, she ran out, and jumped into the carriage. The street lamps blinked at them, like so many stars, as they rolled along, and the boys and Jennie screamed with delight; but Sweetie sat quite still.

James knew where to stop. Sweetie got out first, and ran and unlocked the door of the little corner store. When they were all inside, and before any one had time to ask a question, Sweetie threw her arms about her mother's neck.

"Mother," she cried, "Sweetie's s.h.i.+p's come in; but it never would have come if it had not been for Mr. Rogers; and it's brought you this pretty house and shop for your own, and, please G.o.d, we'll all have--"

"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" shouted Willie, ending her sentence just as she had ended the story the day before.

"And all the better," said Fred, who remembered too, "because Christ was born that day."

Mrs. Lawson, overwhelmed with joy, fainted. She soon recovered, however, though Sweetie insisted on her lying on the soft lounge before the fire, while she set the table. How pretty it looked, with its six purple and white plates, and cups and everything to match! How they did eat! How happy they were!

"Now," said Mrs. Lawson, when the dishes were washed, and they all sat round the fire, "my little Sweetie, whose patience, and courage, and cheerfulness have kept up the hearts of the rest of us, and proved the s.h.i.+p that has brought us this cargo of comforts, you must tell us your Christmas story before we go to bed."

So Sweetie told them all Mr. Rogers had said and done for her. They were so excited they sat up very late, and happiness made them sleep so soundly, that they did not wake till the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly into the little shop. People began to come in very early, to make little purchases. One lady bought a whole dollar's worth of toys, which made them feel as if they were full of business already.

Later in the forenoon, Mr. Rogers sent for Harry and Sweetie to come and help dress his Christmas tree; and Christmas night his parlor was filled with poor children, for each of whom some useful gift hung on the tree. Milly was there by Sweetie's invitation, and Mr. Rogers sent her home in his carriage, with the easiest chair that money could buy for her old lame mother. The tears filled his eyes as Milly thanked him again and again for all his kindness; and, as he shut the door after the last one, he said,--

"Hereafter I will make it always a Merry Christmas for G.o.d's needy ones."

I am sure he did, for he had Sweetie always near him. He used to call her his "Christmas Sweeting;" and then she would laugh, and say he was her "Golden Sweeting."

What is better than gold he gave the family: he found patrons for Mrs.

Lawson, and customers for the shop, and placed Harry in a mercantile house, where he soon rose to be head clerk. The other children he put at school. Sweetie he never would let go very far out of his sight. He had her thoroughly and usefully educated, and no less than her mother, and brothers, and sister, did he bless the day when "Sweetie's s.h.i.+p came in"--

A s.h.i.+p which brought for every day A welcome hope, an added joy, A something sweet to do or say, And hosts of pleasures unalloyed,

Its cargo, made of pleasant cares, Of daily duties to be done, Of smiles and laughter, songs and prayers, The glad, bright life of Happy Ones.

MARGARET FIELD.

[Ill.u.s.tration: NOTHING TO DO.]

NOTHING TO DO.

I have sailed my boat and spun my top, And handled my last new ball; I trundled my hoop till I had to stop, And I swung till got a fall; I tumbled my books all out of the shelves, And hunted the pictures through; I've flung them where they may sort themselves, And now--I have nothing to do.

The tower of Babel I built of blocks Came down with a crash to the floor; My train of cars ran over the rocks-- I'll warrant they'll run no more; I have raced with Grip till I'm out of breath; My slate is broken in two, So I can't draw monkeys. I'm tired to death Because I have nothing to do.

I can see where the boys have gone to fish; They bothered me, too, to go, But for fun like that I hadn't a wish, For I think it's mighty "slow"

To sit all day at the end of a rod For the sake of a minnow or two, Or to land, at the farthest, an eel on the sod: I'd rather have nothing to do.

Maria has gone to the woods for flowers, And Lucy and Rose are away After berries. I'm sure they've been out for hours; I wonder what makes them stay?

Ned wanted to saddle Brunette for me, But riding is nothing new; "I was thinking you'd relish a canter," said he, "Because you have nothing to do."

I wish I was poor Jim Foster's son, For he seems so happy and gay, When his wood is chopped and his work all done, With his little half hour of play; He neither has books nor top nor ball, Yet he's singing the whole day through; But then he is never tired at all Because he has nothing to do.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TWO GENTLEMEN IN FURS.]

TWO "GENTLEMEN IN FUR CLOAKS."

This is the name given to the bears in Kamschatka by the Laplanders, who think they will be offended if they are called by their real name; and we may give the same name to the bears in the picture. They are Polar bears, who live in the seas round the North Pole, and fine white fur coats they have of their own. They are white on purpose, so that they may not be seen easily among all the snow and ice in which they live. The head of the Polar bear is very long and flat, the mouth and ears are small in comparison with other bears, the neck is long and thick, and the sole of the foot very large. Perhaps you will wonder how the bear manages to walk on the ice, as n.o.body is very likely to give him skates or snow-boots. To be sure, he has strong, thick claws, but they would not be of much use--they would only make him slip on the hard ice--but the sole of the foot is covered nearly all over with thick, woolly hair, so the bear walks as safely as old ladies do when they wrap list round their boots.

The Polar bear likes to eat fish, though he will eat roots and berries when he can get no better, and he is a very good swimmer; he can dive, too, and make long leaps in the water. If he wants a boat, he has only to get on a loose piece of ice, and then he can float about at his ease.

This is a full-grown bear, of course. Young bears cannot do all these things; they have to stay with their mothers on sh.o.r.e, where they eat seals and seaweed; the seaweed is their vegetable, I suppose. When the young bears travel and get tired, they get on their mother's back, and ride there quite safely, whether in the water or on land.

Bears are very fond of their young, and will do anything to defend them. There is a story told of a poor mother-bear and her two cubs which is almost too sad to tell, but it will make us think kindly of the bear, so I will tell it to you.

Years ago a s.h.i.+p which had gone to the North Pole to make discoveries got fixed tight in the ice; one morning, while the s.h.i.+p was still unable to get loose, a man at the lookout gave warning that three bears were coming across the ice toward the s.h.i.+p. The crew had killed a walrus a few days before, and no doubt the bears had smelled it. The flesh of the walrus was roasting in a fire on the ice, and two of the bears ran eagerly to it, dragged out the bits that were not burnt, and began to eat them; they were the cubs, but were almost as large as their mother.

The sailors threw some more of the flesh they had on board on to the ice. These the old bear fetched; and putting them before her cubs, she divided them, giving them each a large piece, and only keeping a small bit for herself. When she came to fetch the last piece the sailors shot at the cubs, killing them; they also wounded the mother, but not mortally; the poor mother never thought of herself, only of her cubs.

They were not quite dead, only dying, and she crawled to where they lay, with the lump of meat she had fetched, and put it down before them, as she had done the first time. When she found they did not eat, she took hold first of one, then of the other, and tried to lift them up, moaning pitifully all the time, as if she thought it would be of no use. Then she went a little way off and looked back. But the cubs were dead now, and could not move, so she went back to them and began to lick their wounds. Once more she crawled away from them, and then again came back, and went round and round them, pawing them and moaning. At last she seems to have found out that they were dead; and turning to the s.h.i.+p, she raised her head and uttered a loud growl of anger and despair. The cruel sailors fired at her in reply, and she fell between her poor dead cubs, and died licking their wounds.