Seven Little People and their Friends Part 3

"Do you go and get some water to put in the kettle, Effie," said her mother.

"Yes, mother," said she, and as she went she sang to herself--

"Work, hands! Love, heart!

Every one here has his part."

"Good-morning, little one," said her father, meeting her in the door-way; "here's a bright day for your new year!"

"Isn't it!" said Effie, giving him a kiss and then singing--

"Praise to thee! Praise to thee; Thou art all Purity.

Thou art the Source of Light."

"I believe the child's going to be a good girl, wife," said Father Gilder, coming into the house.

"Well, I hope she is, for she's been sulky enough before this," said Mother Gilder.

"True, true," replied he, "but sulky birds don't sing."

The year went slowly by. Effie sang the two songs as she worked, and helped her mother and was a comfort to her father. Every morning when she got up, she sang the Song of the Mountain, and through the day she kept singing, too, the Song of the Sea. Very often she thought of the old man, and wondered what she should ask for the third and last time he came. She thought she ought to ask for the best thing she could think of, but for a long time she could not make up her mind, until a few days before her birth-day, as she was singing the two songs. Then was she impatient for the day to come, that she might ask her last and great wish.

Wish the Third.--In the Cottage.

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The eighth birth-day came at last, but before the sun was to set, Mrs.

Gilder called her. "Here, Effie," said she, "I want you to go down cellar before it is dark, and sweep it clean. It's dreadfully dirty."

"Must I go now, mother?"

"Yes, right off; it'll be too dark if you don't make haste," and Mrs.

Gilder drew a bunch of keys out of one of her ap.r.o.n pockets and unlocked the closet door and brought out a broom for Effie. Effie took the broom and went down cellar. "Well," thought she, "I must do my work at any rate, and the old man may not come by till I get it done." So she set to work, sweeping out the cellar. She had just finished and stooped to pick up a perverse chip. As she lifted herself up, there stood that same old man again!

"Why! how _did_ you get in, sir?" said she.

"The sun is most down, Effie," said he without answering her question, "what is your Last Wish?" As he said it his head shook harder than ever before, and he leaned on his cane so that he was almost bent double.

"Oh, sir! I wish," said Effie, "that I might do some great work that should make others happy, and that I might be able to sing the whole of the Song of the Mountain." As she said this the old man raised his head slowly from his staff, and when she finished, lo! he was changed into a great beam of light that cast its rays all about the cellar. Effie flew up stairs with her broom, and ran to the cottage door. The sea was sparkling with light, and the sun went down clear and beautiful.

"Aye! there's a sunset for you, chicky," said Father Gilder, coming up from the sh.o.r.e. "There'll be no storm after that! Do you remember your last birth day, little one, when there was such a sudden storm came up?" Yes, indeed, Effie remembered it and wondered whether the sky would always be clear now.

The next day Effie looked for somebody to come and give her some great thing to do, and teach her the Song of the Mountain, as she had wished for her last wish. But no one came--no, nor the next day, nor the day after; and then every thing went wrong. Her mother became sick and cross, and finally died; and Effie had to wear the wonderful ap.r.o.n with so many pockets, and work hard every day. How could she do any great work? All she could do was to take care of the house and do little things--ever so many of them there were, too, so that when the evening came she was quite tired out. But her father said she was a comfort to him, and he loved to have her sit by him and sing to him. She sang the two songs over and over, as she did every day at her work, and never tired of singing them, nor did he tire of hearing them.

So she lived on. She had a great many more birthdays, but no old man came to see her, and n.o.body came to give her a great work to do, or to teach her the rest of the song. By and by her father died too, but Effie lived still in the little red cottage by the sea-sh.o.r.e. And if any were sick or in trouble, they were sure to come to her. For every body loved her, and wherever she went she seemed to carry the sunlight with her, and to make everybody better and happier. Still no one came, though every birth-day she sat at the door, looking for the old man.

But he did come at last. It was her birth-day. She was an old woman, but she sat in the door-way as she used to, watching for somebody to come to her with a great work to do, and the rest of the song. She sat in her great arm-chair, and her eyes were very dim so that she could not see very well, and her ears were very dull, so that she could hardly hear at all. There was the sun that had so often gone down without any one's appearing. But before it touched the water she heard a voice--that old sweet voice that she had never forgotten, saying, "Effie!" She looked, and there she saw the same face that the old man used to have, but that was all she could see. Then it said again, "Effie!" and she said:

"Oh, sir! have you come at last to give me my wish? I have looked for you year after year, and now I am an old woman, and have not many more days to live."

"Your wish has been granted, Effie. You asked for some great work to do to make others happy. All your life since you have been doing the great work. There is nothing right or holy done for others that is not great.

The little daily duties that you did so faithfully; the little kindnesses you showed to others; the little pleasant words you spoke--these are all great things."

"But the Song of the Mountain?" asked Effie.

"Dear child," said he, "you have sung the song all your life. If you have thanked G.o.d for his goodness to you--if you have loved him for his love to you--if you have prayed to him to make you good and holy--you have sung the Song of the Mountain."

"Praise to thee! Praise to thee!" murmured the old woman. Then she thought she heard the whole mountain singing as it did the morning she listened to it; and the great song was sung, and she sang also, and the voice beside her sang.

----The people who lived about there say, that when they came in the morning to see Old Effie, she was sitting in her arm-chair, with her hands folded, and her lips half parted as if she had sung herself to sleep; and when they touched her she did not move--for Old Effie was dead.

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A Christmas Stocking

With a Hole in it

BEN'S STORY

I.

The Stocking is Hung.

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At Christmas-tide in New York, the people who live in the upper part of the city cannot hear the chimes that ring from Trinity steeple; but in the dwelling streets which run in and out among the warehouse streets, and in the courts which stand stock still and refuse to go a step further,--there the Trinity music is heard and the "merry Christmas" of the bells is flung out to all however poor. Beside Trinity there are but few chimes of bells in the city, neither do poor children there sing Christmas carols in the streets and thus unlatch the doors of even crabbed hearts.

But the merriest chimes of bells are played and the sweetest carols sung even in New York. For when at Christmas one walks in the crowded streets he may hear on all sides the merry Christmas! merry Christmas to you! to you! rung out on every key and the chiming makes perfect music; the poor children sing carols too, for are they not each little songs as they stand in their rags before well-to-do folk--songs without words--reminding us of the poor child Jesus and the blessings which He brought? Yes, the bells ring in our hearts and we hear carols then at least if not at other times; and in some old cobwebbed heart does Christmas fancy or Christmas memory enter and ring disused bells that sound but a hoa.r.s.e blessing, so rusty has their metal become, but a blessing at least well-meant. Blessed be Christmas that it knocks so at the door of our hearts.

Now it was on a certain Christmas that some very pleasant chimes were rung, and that too within hearing of Trinity bells. In the street on Christmas eve were Bundles of great coats and furs tied together with tippets, who hurried along like locomotives, puffing and snorting and leaving behind a line of smoke. But all the people in the streets were not Bundles, by any means. Some scarcely had any wrappings, let alone such heavy coverings as great coats and furs. Little boys may be Bundles if they are properly wrapped up and tied with a tippet or scarf, but not all little boys are Bundles. On this eve one might see many who were not. They kept their hands in their pockets or breathed upon their red fingers, and drew their shoulders together and screwed their faces as if they were trying to hide behind themselves, while the wind blew through every crevice of their bodies and rattled the teeth in their mouths.

One of these little boys upon this very Christmas eve hung up his stocking, and what became of it is now to be told. His name was Peter Mit. He had been out all day selling cigars, and was on his way home to supper. But hungry and cold as he was, he could not help stopping to look through the shop-windows at the beautiful things spread out so temptingly behind them. Such toys and games and picture books! "Now,"

said he, "I must run;" but just as he started, he came to a window so much finer than any he had seen that he stopped before this also. There was a string fastened across the inside of the window with picture and story papers hung upon it; the gla.s.s was not very clear, for the frost made it almost like crown-gla.s.s, but it was clear enough in the corner to shew one of the pictures, which was a double one; in one part there was a little boy in his night-gown hanging a stocking upon the door of his bed-chamber; in the other part the little boy is shown snugly asleep in his bed, while a most odd little man hung over with toys and picture books of all kinds stands on tip-toe before the stocking, filling it with playthings. There was some printing underneath that explained the picture; as well as Peter could make out, this little boy like a great many others hung up his stocking before he went to bed on Christmas eve, and some time during the night, Santa Klaus, a queer old man, very fond of little folk, came down the chimney and filled the stocking with presents. This was all new to little Peter, and astonished him exceedingly; but it was really too cold to stand there looking at even the most wonderful picture, so he blew into his red fist, and ran off home, taking long slides on the ice wherever he could.

He left the bright Main Street and turning one or two corners came to Fountain Court. That is a fine-sounding name, but the houses are very wretched and low, though quite grand people lived there in olden times; where the fountain was no one could say, unless the wheezy pump that stands at the head of the court were meant for it; of this the Pump itself had no doubt. It was very large and had a long heavy handle that always stood out stiffly; there was a k.n.o.b on the top of the pump that had once been gilded but that was a long time ago, when the Pump was aristocratic and presumed itself to be a Fountain. It was dingy and broken now, but the Pump was none the less proud and dignified; it took pleasure in holding out its handle stiffly and never letting it down though people stumbled against it every day. "It had been there the longest," the Pump said, "it had a right to the way; people must learn to turn out for it."

It was down this Fountain Court--though people now generally called it Pump Court--that little Peter Mit ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He stopped at the fourth house on the right-hand side; it was a low building, only a story and a half high, yet a respectable merchant had lived there formerly. Before the door stood a battered wooden image of a savage Indian, holding out a bunch of cigars in his hand, and looking as if he meant to tomahawk you if you didn't take one. The Indian was quite stuck over with snow-b.a.l.l.s, for he was a fine mark for the boys in the court, who divided their attention between his head and the k.n.o.b on top of the Pump. If it were not so dark, one might spell out on the dingy sign over the door, the names "MORGRIDGE AND MIT DEALERS IN TOBACCO."