 CHAPTER 1 Richard, come and play with me, underneath the willow tree, sitting in its peaceful shade, will sing the song papa has made, whilst its drooping branches spread, stretching far above our head, sweetly tempering the blaze of the sun's meridian rays. There the rose and violet blow, the lily with her bell of snow, and the richly scented woodbine round about its trunk doth twine. There the busy bee shall come and gather sweets to carry home. Oh, how happy we shall be, underneath the willow tree! CHAPTER 2 Sleepy Mary Mary raised that sleepy head, for the lark doth carol high, and the sun has left his bed. Mary ope that sleepy eye. Come and let me wash you clean, brush your hair, and tie your frock. There's your sister, Geraldine, waiting at the mossy rock. Hark! the little chickens cries, loudly call for Mary's care. But if the sluggard will not rise, George their breakfast shall prepare. Who shall get the fresh-laid egg to place beside her father's cup? Who shall pour the tea I beg, if my Mary is not up? CHAPTER 3 Mary's Lesson Come, little Mary, come to me, and say your lesson on my knee. Your book is there, the pointer in it, all ready to begin this minute. What? Pouch your lip and scream and cry, and say, I won't, I can't, oh, fie! Then go, and in that corner stay, till sobs and tears have passed away. Till you can come with your voice more mild, and say, Mama, forgive your child? What little girl is this, whose eyes smile through her tears, while thus she cries? My dear mama, I love you, pray forgive your child, and let me say my lesson standing at your knee. Then give a kind sweet kiss to me. It is my Mary. Now her look is turned attentive to her book, and now her lesson she has read. Her task without a fault has said. Mama's best kiss she now has won, so well her lessons she has done. She's happy now, and good and gay, and joins her sisters at their play. There on the grass they skip, they sing, till all the hills and valleys ring. CHAPTER IV Edward thought he knew better than his mama. Brightly shines the winter's sun, or mountains clad with snow. Bly, then gay, the youthful throng sport in the plains below. Come, the venturous Edward cries, let's try yon glassy tide, upon its smooth and frozen breast will make a glorious slide. Oh, stay, his sister Ellen said. My dear's Edward, stay. You know mama forbade us all to try the ice today. Hush, foolish Ellen, see how strong, how firm the ice appears. Mama, I'm sure, if she were here, would banish all her fears. This stone with mighty force I throw, nor break, nor crack you see. Then surely I may slide secure, it will not yield with me. He said, and darted o'er the stream, then turned in triumph round. Come follow me, my comrade's brave, what danger have I found? In his success exulting now, he leaps with sudden spring. It cracks, it breaks, his cries are vain, he plunges headlong in. Who now, the hapless boy, shall snatch from a cold, watery grave? For Ellen flies with breathless speed, her brother's life to save. He rises half, her shawl she flings into his eager hand. Then with her playmate's added strength, she drags him safe to land. With shivering limbs, in dripping clothes, homeward he pensive turns. He deeply now alas, too late, his disobedience mourns. For three long months poor Edward groaned upon a bed of pain, twas three long months before he felt the breeze of heaven again. These three long months did Ellen strive by every tender care, to soften Edward's grief, and soothe the pain she'd wished to share. What joy for both, when he once more could join the festive throng. Yet off he paused amid their sports, to think if this were wrong. CHAPTER FIVE IMPATIENT JULIA Bring me my breakfast instantly, the impatient Julia said. It came, tis meal, tis nasty meal, when I had ordered bread. She tastes, oh, it is burnt, she cried. Pray take it all away, and bring some fresh and quickly to, nor keep me here all day. Her mother passing near the door, or heard her loud commands, and entering met the maid who held the breakfast in her hands. Julia, what shameful words are those, what shameful conduct, too. The milk is good, too good for those who ask and speak like you. From Betty, now your breakfast take, and drink it, if you choose, and beg that she your haughtiness and passion will excuse. What, silent and perverse become? Then, Betty, you may go, and give the milk to that poor girl who's in the yard below. She spins or labors hard all day, yet eats the coarsest food. She's thankful for the smallest gift, and smiles, because she's good. But you, with that sad, pouting lip, in brow or hung with gloom, may, if you please, from hence retire, and stay in your own room. No breakfast will you have today, nor need again appear, till from your brow you chase that frown, and from your eye the tear. Till you can come with cheerful mean and pardon ask from me, then if you are a better girl, forgiven you may be. CHAPTER VI. THE KUKU Little Kuku, comes thou here when the blooming spring is near, to sing thy song and tell thy tale to every hill and every veil? Tell me, is thy distant home far across the salt sea foam, or hast thou, hidden from the day, slept the wintry hours away? Welcome, cheering bird to me, where ere thy wintry mansion be in the earth, or o'er the main, welcome to these fields again. Short thy visit to this shore, April and May are quickly o'er, then, Kuku, chant thy strain in peace, for in June thy song shall cease. CHAPTER VII. RED SHOES AND BLACK SHOES Which must I have, little black shoes or red shoes, little thick shoes or thin shoes, which shall be mine? In winter, tis wet, and the roads are all dirt, in summer tis dry, and the weather is fine. Then come, little black shoes, tis now winter weather, your soles are so thick, you will keep me quite dry. Not a splash nor a spot can get into my stockings, so nice and so tight round my ankles you tie. And you, little red shoes, so slender and thin, you shall wait in my drawer till the dirt's gone away. When I'll walk with mama when she goes to the farm, you will never feel heavy through a long summer's day. Then, red shoes and black shoes, you both shall be mine. The one in the dirt I will constantly wear. The others, in summer, when the walks are all dry, so thick shoes and thin shoes rest quietly here. CHAPTER VIII. THE GARDENERS Now the wintry winds are gone, see how brightly shines the sun, the violet sweet and primrose pale now adorn the sheltered veil, the pile-wirt rears her joyous head to the sun-beam widely spread, whilst her little glossy eye glows with a deep and yellow dye. To the garden we will go, take the rake, the spade, the hoe, dig the border nice and clean, and rake till not a weed be seen. Then our radish seed will sow, and mignonnette a long, long row, and every flower-it of the year shall have a place of shelter here, and gay profusion they shall spread, or each border and each bed, and when joyous may shall come will deck the lofty pole at home. Garland's gay and wreaths will twine, that with brightest colors shine, and dance around till setting sun proclaims the children's day is done. CHAPTER IX LITTLE GIRL LITTLE GIRL, LITTLE GIRL, WHERE ARE YOU GOING? DOWN IN THE METTO WHERE COW SLIPS ARE BLOWING? LITTLE GIRL, LITTLE GIRL, WHAT TO DO THERE? TO GATHER A GARLAND TO DECK MY BROWN HAIR? LITTLE GIRL, LITTLE GIRL, WHY ALL ALONE? MY MOTHER HAS SENT ME, AND PLAYMATES I'VE NONE. THEN FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW ME DOWN TO YON WOOD, WHERE YOU SHALL FIND PLAYMATES BOTH GENTLE AND GOOD. WE'LL ASK THEM, WE'LL ASK THEM TO JOIN IN YOUR PLAY, AND YOUR MOTHER SHALL GIVE YOU A LONG HOLIDAY. FROM ARIN, FROM ARIN THE CAUTER SHALL BRING, TO TWINE A GAY GARLAND, HER SHAMROCK OF SPRING, AND HER PLAD, AND HER PLAD, SCOTCHEA'S DAUGHTER SHALL COME, WITH THE THISSLE THAT GROWS ON HER MOUNTAINS AT HOME. THE PESENT, OF FRANCE, SHALL BE THERE, AND ADD TO THE CHAPLET HIS LILLY SO FAIR. DARK GLANCING, DARK GLANCING, THE DAUGHTER OF SPAIN, WITH THE BLOOM OF HER ORANGE, SHALL JOIN THE GAY TRAIN, AND LEAVING, AND LEAVING HIS COLD NORTHERN TIDES, A PLOOM FROM HIS EGLE THE RUSSIAN PROVIDES, WHILE EGLAND, FAIR EGLAND, THE REETH SHALL ADORN, WITH HER ROSEBUD MORE BRIGHT, THAN THE BLUSHES OF MORN, THAN CAROL, THAN CAROL, THE SWEET STRAINS OF PEACE, AND NEVER AGAIN MAY HER HARMONY SEES, MAY THE DREAMS, MAY THE DREAMS OF AMBITION BE OR, AND THE FALTION OF WAR, BE AT REST EVER MORE. CHAPTER X THE BLIND BOY Mama, what a pretty new basket you've got, little Emma exclaimed with delight. The strawwork below is so firm and so neat, and the bag such a beautiful white. I am glad you approve it, my love. I myself think it pretty and neat, I confess. And when I have told you by whom it was made, you will not, I think, like it the less. You remember no doubt that blind boy on the green, whose father and mother both died, and left him in poverty, sickness and grief, without a protector or guide. A kind and rich lady who heard his sad case restored him to life by her aid, then placed him secure in the house for the blind and all the expenses defrayed. There they taught him these beautiful baskets to make with strawwork of every kind, and now he's employed and his living can earn and is useful and happy, though blind. And may I believe it, cried Emma, that Jem, why so helpless and poor us to be, has made this nice basket without any help and as neatly as if he could see. As you doubt poor Jem's powers, her mother replied, what I've said to be true I must prove. So finish your work, get your bonnet and coat, and quickly come to me, my love. Her work was soon finished, her books all laid by, her coat and her bonnet put on. And joyfully taking Mama's ready hand to the school for the blind, she is gone. With delight and amazement, there Emma beheld poor Jem at his daily employ. As he plaited his basket, he sung to his work and smiled with contentment and joy. Ah, Mama exclaimed Emma, as home they returned, every penny you give me I'll save. Neither gingerbread, comfit, nor nut will I buy, till a basket of Jem's I can have. Entry winds no longer blow, far away are frost and snow. Peeping from its grassy bed, the primrose rears its modest head, amidst its leaves the violet blue, sense the air and morning dew. Hark, the skylark mounting high, carols in the clear blue sky, the thrush and blackbird from the spray, chant their blithesome roundelay. The little lambkins, safe from harm, in their snow-white fleeces warm, gamble o'er the sunny mead and prove their strength and try their speed, from yon grassy knoll they spring, and chase each other round the ring, to the farmyard we will go, where they milk the hornless cow. Mama will give us wine and cake, and a celibab will make. Then Jane shall hold the bowl, and margaretta milk it full. Each shall join to help the others, like good sisters and good brothers. CHAPTER XII SUMMER What does Bounteous Summer bring? The lengthen day and shortened night, milder breezes softly blowing, warmer suns, in skies more bright. Long and thick the grass is grown, ready for the mower's care, when his sith has laid it low, to the hay-field we'll repair. Each shall have a fork and rake to spread it widely to the sun. Many hands together joined make the labour quickly done. In the hedge the woodbind twining fills the air with sweet perfume. The blushing rose in gay profusion joins its fragrance and its bloom. In a mossy hedge row peeps the strawberry with lowly head. We can quickly fill our baskets with its berries, rosy red. Little Anna dearly loves strawberries red, and milk so white. We will carry plenty home, on them she can sup to-night. Anna loves to skip and play, but she can also read and spell. She learns with careful hand to sow, and she deserves her supper well. CHAPTER XIII. Autumn comes her prospects glow with yellow fields of waving corn, the reaper with his sickle bright haste to work at early morn. Whilst the morning breezes blow through the burning sultry noon, and till evening doos descend, still he works and labours on. Let us seek the harvest field, there is work for you and me. We can help the sheaves to bind, idle hands we need not be. When Maria's task is done we will too, the nut would go. Each a bag and hook it stick down to pull the clustered bow. Oh! How tempting ripe they hang! Softly, softly pull them down, lest the bright brown nuts should fall, and leave the empty husk alone. Bags and pockets all are full, and evening says we must not stay. With heavy loads we'll hasten home, and come again another day. These shall be our winter store. When Christmas holidays are come, then round the fire we'll social be, and give our happy playmates some. CHAPTER XIV WINTER Howling through the leafless trees, winter calls his northern breeze. Do not flower its dare appear in this season of the year? Yes, amidst the wintry scene, the daisy's lowly gem is seen, and though it boasts no varied dyes, the Christmas rose a charm supplies. Even through the frost and through the snow, in a merry group we'll go. Take our sledges and our skates, winter nare for sluggards waits. We'll throw the snowballs far and wide beneath the mountain's hoary side. Or build a giant tall and strong, with shoulders broad and limbs as long, as Gog and Magog in Guildhall, there it shall tower above us all, till sun and thaw shall melt its crown, and bring its snowy honors down. And when the darkening evenings come, fast away we'll scamper home, and standing close around the fire, the blazing faggots we'll admire, and sip our milk, and work and read, till nurse cries out, to bed, to bed. CHAPTER FIFTEEN ANN AND EDWARD PART ONE Loudly blows the northern wind, and fast the snow descends, low before the driving storm the slender willow bends. Why on such a dismal night does Anna open her door, and in her little ragged cloak walk quickly o'er the moor? She hastens to the neighboring town to beg some friendly aid, to save her mother, who so sick and ill in bed is laid. Her little brother by her side will watch whilst Anne's away, and gladly, for his mother's sake, he leaves each favorite play. But see how quickly Anne returns, a cheerful look she wears, and softly underneath her cloak, medicine and food she bears. These to her mother, day by day, with dutious love she gives, whilst little Edward's cheerful smile her anxious care relieves. CHAPTER FIFTEEN ANN AND EDWARD PART TWO Bright shines the sun, the gentle breeze, and softened murmurs blows, and softly through the verdant mead the little streamlet flows. Close by a young fragrant violet bank, beneath the spreading thorn, his mother's stool and cushion chair are by a young Edward born, and from the lowly cottage door, with feeble steps and slow, Anna supports her mother's frame as to the bank they go. There, seated on her pillowed chair, she breathes the balmy breeze, whilst Anne and Edward quietly are seated at her knees. With merry hearts they now can meet her kind approving eye, and to her various questions give a cheerful quick reply. They have not now her death to fear, but know that time and care will soon restore their mother dear to their most ardent prayer. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN George and Edmund Come hither, George, young Edmund cried, come quickly here to me, for yonder floats the little boat upon the swelling sea. Tis fastened by a single rope, and there is each an oar. And were we once, but safely in, we soon could push from shore. Oh, go not, Edmund, George replied. The storm is rising fast. The forest bends, the sea spray flies before the howling blast. The wind may howl, perhaps it does, but not so loud as you, who always scold and cry out, don't, when pleasure is in view. An anger Edmund spoke, and turned in pride, and scorn away, to wear the boat so temptingly, tossed in the little bay. He loosed the rope, he seized the oar, and vaulted oar the side, and rapidly his little boat flies through the stormy tide. The wind is loud, the waves are strong, and vainly Edmund strives to guide his boat, which furiously the tempest onward drives. His passion gone, his fears increase, and loud to George he cries. He looks, he listens, calls again, but still no George replies. In terror now, and wild afright, all prudence he forgets. In springing quick from side to side the boat, he oversets. His father saw the dreadful plunge, his father heard his shriek. For George, when Edmund would not stay, some aid had flown to seek. With desperate haste he forward springs, and throwing off his coat, plunges amid the foaming waves to gain the struggling boat. He reached its side, and diving down, seized on poor Edmund's hand. And senseless through the beating surge, he bore him back to land. It was long air signs of life returned, or he enclosed his eyes. The longer far it was, ere he from his sick bed could rise. What anguish and remorse he felt, what tears of sorrow shed. How good, how mild he vowed to be, when he should leave his bed. And let us hope his vow he'll keep. Become a steady boy. Know more his friends or parents grieve, but prove their pride and joy. CHAPTER XVIII FANNY Oh, look! the little Fanny cried, as wandering by her mother's side. They passed a cottage neat, though poor, with wood-binds clustering round the door. Oh, look, Mama, what lovely flowers I hear could stand in gaze for hours. That beautious rose, those lilies fair, and that gay bed of tulips there. Oh! How I wish they all were mine. They'd make my empty garden shine. Your empty garden? Fanny, pray, have all your flowers been stolen away? Or do you for your neighbor's sigh, because your own you leave to die? The little girl whose flowers these are, watches and prunes them all with care. She rises early, labors hard, and does not toil nor care regard, but thinks her trouble well repaid. If she her parents thus can aid. These flowers to market off she takes, and many pence by them she makes. You surely, therefore, would not strive of this advantage to deprive the grateful child, who takes such pains to help her parents scanty gains. But come, my love, we must not stay, that shower will reach us on our way. Come, Fanny, come. Mama I will, but Fanny stayed and lingered still, each plant and flower at length being viewed, her way she thoughtfully pursued. A week had passed, when Fanny ran to her mama and thus began, mama, when you have time I pray that you would kindly walk this way, and let me show you what last night I finished ready for your sight. Mama complies, and Fanny bounds delighted, through the verdant grounds. With sparkling eye and steppelate, open she throws the garden gate, and look she cries in joyful tone, what play hours in one week have done. No weeds do now my garden spoil, the stones I cleared and turned the soil, the trees I pruned, I planted flowers, and watered them with plentious showers. Perhaps mama, with time and care, some new skays I may hence prepare, for that good girl who takes such pains to help her parents scanty gains. And of Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Alfred. How can I the south from the north ever know, when there is no S in the sky? Oh, how can I tell the east from the west when not the least mark I can spy? His mother, who sat at her work by the fire, to Alfred's request thus replied. Come listen to me, and I'll soon tell you how, the difficult point did aside. Wherever the sun rises, there is the east. Now that is both easy and clear. Wherever at evening he sets from your view, the west, my beloved, is there. Now you know where to find both the west and the east. We soon shall discover the rest. To the left is the south. To the right is the north, when your face is turned full to the west. And of Chapter 19, Chapter 20, William. My dear, cried his mother to William one day, as glowing and panting with heat, the parlor he entered in haste and alarm, and threw himself down on a seat. My dear, what misfortune has hurried you now, and brought you so soon from your play? Have you lost your new ball in the field or the pond, or has your kite flown far away? My ball, my dear mother, is safe in my desk. My kite rides secure in the air. But I brought a poor boy whom I left in the hall, and who claims your attention and care. I found him just now, as returning from play, I passed by the side of the wood. He was stretched on the ground, and senseless and pale, and his face was all covered with blood. Oh, quick, let us go, sure, we linger too long, cried his mother. My love, lead the way. William bounded, all eager, and soon reached the place where, reviving but weak, his friend lay. His bruises and wounds were examined with care, and happy was William to hear, that patience and time would restore him to health, for his life he had nothing to fear. With unwearyed attention, he sat by his side, and anxiously waited to know. If in climbing he fell, or if mischief was hurt, or another had given the blow, and as eagerly too did his invalid friend, to his mother and William relate, the cause of his sufferings and how he was found in so sad and so helpless a state. He had hastened, he said, in his play hour at noon, to the strawberry bank in the wood, or some ripe ones to take to his sister at home, who was ill, and they might do her good. As he climbed some high rocks in his search for the fruit, and held by the trees that hung oar, he slipped, the branch broke, and he fell to the ground, but he knew and remembered no more. His name too, he told, in the place where he lived, and quickly young William ran there. To tell his good mother, her son was now safe, and from them would receive every care. Delighted to hear of her gemmy again, she gratefully thanked his kind friend, who promised to bring him himself to his home, as he knew he would speedily mend. End of Chapter 20 Also the End of the Keepsake by Anonymous