Southern literary gazette. (Charleston, S.C.) 1850-1852, December 27, 1851, Image 1
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cDrigitial
For th Southern Literary Gazette.
THE CURSE OF THE EXILE.
RAUMF.KT FROM ▲ POEM CALLED “THE EXILE. ’
om the Mae. of a young Southern l'oet at Seventeen ]
>oom\i by my country!—ln that rush of
feeling
That follows hard upon the evil done,—
fth every passion roused, and mad, and reel
ing,
Beneath the agony I may not ahun,
I steer my bark to seek a favouring sun,
er foreign wilds and ocean wastes to roam,
Seeking the favour I have never won,
’ I found not in my native home,
•e front hate and wrong, perchance a
crueller doom !
)eath!—Yet death itself were nonght to
npared with grief in hopes and promise
fled:
justify the curse I pour on thee,
country,—yet not mine ; since I have
fled,
tortures at thy hands; whom thou hast
bred,
vere in mockery of my birth, to blight;
•reed to boul’s denial ; fenceless head,
st mine eyes had opened on the light,
which was dark to me, a dawn begun in
night.
me, ye mountains! Forest winds be
still,
lile now I speak my deadly malison ’
ye, with a curse that may not kill,
t strengthen for new woes, oach day be
gun ;
ron be all your fields, fruition shun
pastures,—may your hope beneath the
sky
w hollow with vain promise—be the sun
warms all other climes your enemy,—
plant, and flower, and fruit, with hope
and rapture, die.
rn ot shame to me hast thou been known
shameless in thy people. Thou hast
stood,
art, yet unperforming ; slow to own,
i worth of others; yet, in active blood,
v base stagnating ; with the sluggard’s
mood,
; escape occasion, ’till no more,
j chance was left thee to be great or
good ;
lense of shame sufficient to deplore,
t no virtuous pride to conquer and restore!
• - he true sign of ruin to a race,
ndertakes no march, and, day'by day,
*‘9 in camp, or with the laggard’s pace,
Iks sentry o’er possessions that decay ;
tined with sensible waste, to fleet away;—
e first secret of continued power,
• ie continued conquest ;—all our swav
itic •• i low o and lofty
if. * oe U’ f- -sh will* f*wift ye..ia,
har my curse, •> the Fate’s decreed,
’ - - - i*‘genng life in tears,
u shame and bitter bondage—with a
need,
have not soul to satisfy by deed ;
lling and groping, with sufficient sense,
consciousness of shame, and with a
greed,
hungers still for noble recompense,
y not ask, or hope, and look for. Heaven
knows whence !
ihere be, within thy hollow bones,
soul of promise ; —if the vigorous
growth,
ne greet spirit, shall, within thy domes
die a better prospect of fresh youth ;
that the seed within thy fields he sow’th,
swell with better being, and restore
i life and greatness thou hast lost by
10th ;—
be my curse that thou shalt be no more—
•vagiog seas above, and let there be no
shore!
m the young promise in its dawning hour,
>nge me ; —and avenge the noble hearts,
ihainelewnew, thy long perverted power,;
w punished with oblivion and base arts,
‘undjng with bitter wrong, and cruel darta i
ln R the generous hope, the noble aim, i
Ibe thou could’at not love, in acorn de
parts,—
jxile from a land of siu and shame,
with the very love that honour'd might
reclaim.
tho waters whelm not this ba9e land,
ortuiie cruelly admit to life,
dill reluctant at nty fierce demand,
is not the unsparing and relentless knife,
it the land of never steepteaa strife ;
or ‘gainst brother mar perpetual w-age,
uir bones with all earth's miseries grow
rife;
t slaughter youth, and wither, —age with
age,
de with Hyen hate, nor hate their wrath
assuage.
te gaunt stranger fatten on thy soil,
ierc thou hast basely sacrificed thine own; ;
y they strove to save thee, by fond toil,
id love and manhood ; —they we left un
known,
driven abroad, all desolate, to tnoan ;
’till thou feel’st their loss !—'till thou art
taught,
loy might have saved them !—O’er fhia
knowledge groan,
•les, unpitied, with the vulture Thought,
wing in bigot brains, which all the evil
wrought.
a prat’st of Freedom. Would’st assert thy
claim,
o the benign reality! Thy sons,
i oil them, —are tlioy freemea 1 Lo 1 the
shame,
hat through successive generations runs !
rhold them as they pass.’ The censor
shuns,
strong pollution of each presence now :
nd he whose father's name was Honour’s
once !
leas'd with shame, he bares his felon brow,
1 walks unloathed by those, too low to
loathe the low.
EPITAPH.
FOR a DISEASED FOETMESTER.
e lies a bard, whose wretched verses ran
lark oblivion faster than the man ;
Death took pity on hi* haplesa lot,
1 now both rhyme* and author ar* forgot.
SDHIH MMMi? m i
cDrigittul inks.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE BACHELOR UNCLE,
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
BY SEM SOUTHLAND.
CHAPTER I.
“Oh, dear me! dear me!” cried
Phoebe Sherwood, wringing her hands,
as she passed nervously up and down
the spacious garret allotted to her as a
school-room, in the disorderly mansion
of Mrs. John Smith, of Linkertown.
“Dear me! dear me! what am I to
do with such a set of noisy, disobe
dient, unmanageable children 1 Such
c lamour, Much confusion, .rA nurelomt
ness; 1 never saw such children in my
life.”
As she ceased speaking, her eye fell
upon a letter lying open on her desk—
a nicely penned, neatly sealed letter,
sadly in contrast with every thing in
its vicinity—the tidy, pretty young
school-mistress excepted.
“Ah! my own dear quiet home,”
sighed the poor girl, the tears stream
ing from her eyes as she took up her
mother’s letter for the third time, and
began to read it over. “How little 1
thought, when I was leaving you, that
1 was coming to such a scene as this
and blinded by her tears, she put the
letter down again, and turned towards
a window, which opened upou a yard
of extraordinary dimensions, and not
very remarkable for its beauty or
cleanliness.
In Mr. John Smith’s extensive lot,
the out-houses were in groups, huddled
together like pigs on a cold frosty day,
and the yard, with its tumble-down
fences, and “sloppy” puddles, might
have been not inaptly compared to a
somewhat sizeable “stybut beyond
the precincts of this wide spread do
main, was a neat little cottage, em
bowered among trees, at sight of
which,poor Phoebe’s tears flowed afresh,
and coursed down her cheeks with re
newed vigour.
“Oh! my dear, dear home !” she
sobbed again and again, “oh! if
could only go back to you, my gen’
kind mother, my sweet little sist
my nice auiet Ht.i-. wm, with
y p
<•■■■ 4 ■ -wn
g.iv •” at . . ’i' f; C(
- Utu iiul, duu weeping, tried tc
that it bore some resemblance
own loved home.
Her tearful soliloquy was interruj
ed by an in-burst of all the children,
who came tearing in after their usual
fashion, tumbling one upon another,
and knocking over chairs, tables and
inkstands, without any mercy.
‘"Miss Sherwood!” cried one, “1
want my hat!”
“Miss Sherwood!” cried another,
“where is my hall ?”
“Miss Sherwood!” cried a third,
“Jack has knocked the ink all over
my new hooks.”
Miss Sherwood gazed out upon the
home-like little oottage, and the tears
poured down in torrents.
“What is she crying about 1” whis
pered one to another.
Their riot hushed for an instant at
■ the sight of sorrow, but as nobody
seemed to know, they simultaneously
| concluded to decamp; one pounced
upon a whip, another upon his ball,
and so they all made off, except lit
tle fair-haired blue-eyed Lizzie, who
remained standing silent in wonder
and sympathy.
“Don’t cry, Phoebe,” she said at
length, going up to her youthful gov
erness, and twining her arms gently
around her, “Christmas is coming soon,
and you will go home then. We won’t
be such had children any more, dry
your eyes, we will study so hard and
do all you tell us. Please don’t cry
any more,” and finding all her efforts
at comforting her Irieiid unavailing,
she lost heart and began to cry too.
“What the mischief are you two
crying about?” exclaimed Lizzie’s bach
elor uncle, standing all amazed in the
door-way. “Why, Miss Sherwood, Pm
astonished at you ! You actually—”
and quite at a loss for a word exactly
expressive of the feeling which the
sight elicited in his breast, he drew a
long breath, and ejaculated—“surprise
me.”
Phoebe dashed away her tears, and
laughed like one ashamed at being
caught in some very foolish act, and
little Lizzie, seeing nothing better to
do, laughed too, and looked from one
to the other, as if she did not know
whether to continue laughing or cry
ing.
“Well, this is a pretty piece of bu
siness,” continued Mr. Reuben Smith,
seating himself like a school-boy on
one of the long benches in front of the
teacher’s desk. “Two young ladies up
in an old dusty garret, crying ready to
break their hearts, instead of being
out in the glorious sunshine, singing !
with the birds ; it is enough to turn a i
tender hearted man distracted, put on |
your bonnets this minute, and come
out for a ride over the hills.”
Phosbe smiled and thanked him, but
said she had a letter to answer, and
would rather defer her walk to the
evening.
“Oh! cotne along,” ejaculated the
bluff gentleman. “Crying never did
anybody any good yet, put up that
letter, I don’t know what makes peo
ple write such doleful letters, they on
ly make young ladies sentimental.—
Are you coming or not 1 ?”
Phoebe smiled again, but took up
her pen to begin writing, and the wor
thy bachelor saw that the case was
hopeless. Muttering between his teeth,
“conlbuud it, these woman are all as
obstinate as ,” tie departed, car
rying little Lizzie along with him.
“What is Miss Sherwood crying
about, Lizzie ?” he asked as they step
ped out from the lower story into the
street, there being but a single step
between the solid clay and the draw
ing-room carpet.
“I don’t know,” said Lizzie, inno
cently, “unless it is that we are all so
dirty, and noisy, and careless.”
“The mischief,” ejaculated the bach
elor uncle, stopping short, and looking
down at his own unblacked boots.—
“Miss Sherwood, thinks we are all dir
ty, and noisy, and careless, does she?”
“1 expert so,” said Lizzie, looking
unusually demure, “she is all the time
trying to keep things straight, and no
body will help her.”
“Poor thing,” ejaculated her uncle.
“She scolds us children all day
long,” pursued Lizzie, “that is, she
does’nt scold exactly , but she almost
scolds, and she seems as if she does’nt
want to scold either , and so she says:
“ ‘Jack, I wonder if you hadn’t bet
ter put all your books in one pile,’ and
Jack say? —
“ ‘They’ll get along very well where
they are,’ and with that he sails the
wet sponge at Billy’s head, and clears
out ; and then Miss Sherwood says—
“ ‘Billy, 1 want you to go to mom
Betty and ask her to comb your head.’
“ ‘Bless you, said Billy, Hi aint been
’ know when, anil it would
si t do it, it’s no go.’
n if she tries to talk him
1 1 begins to turn somersets,
can’t hear her.”
wr: .-uimmca trie eu
ncle again, “she has a nice
I don’t wonder the poor
g jtting thin.”
hen,” continued Lizzie, whose
ies seemed all enlisted on the
her teacher, “she tries to get
nom Betty to clean the candle-sticks,
and the andirons, and mom Betty
grumbles and says, ‘She nebber see
such petiekilar folks in her life,’ and
looks cross for a whole week after
wards.”
“Confound her!” exclaimed the old
bachelor, “and what do you do, Liz
zie?”
“Why, I tear all my dresses climb
ing persimmon trees, and she gets
them all and mends them up up, just
as if I was her own little sister, and
theu when 1 come in with them all
torn to pieces again, she holds up her
hands and looks so sorrowful.”
“You ought to be ashamed of your
selves, every one of you!” exclaimed
the uncle, his sympathy for the in
structess all at once changing into an
ger at the pupils. “I’d like to know
why you can’t do what she tells you,
and not be turning everything upside
down with your capers ! There is Jack
crossing the street now, with one shoe
off and the rim half torn off from his
hat. Confound me! if I ever saw such
a careless, dirty family.”
“But uncle,” said Lizzie, her love of
mischief and impudence wakened up
by the old bachelor’s sudden outbreak,
“wliat is the reason that you always
go out at elbows, and never have any
buttons on your shirts? There you
nave got a great rusty pm stuck in
your bosom now, and one ot your
wristbands is hanging out from under
your sleeve, as if the pin had dropped
out. You don’t do any better than
the rest of us.”
“Hem!” coughed the old bachelor,
“1 oelieve you are right, my dear, I’ll
attend to the matter at once. Hello,
there!” called he to a woman who,
with a huge basket of clothes on her
head, was trudging away towards the
Smith mansion. “Sally, come this
way. Arc those my clothes in that
basket ?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sally, looking some
what provoked that her rapid strides
had been stopped. “I’m in a hurry,
Mr. Smith. I never washed for such
a family in my life, clothes upon clothes,
and so dirty, too. Pshaw ! I can’t
stand it another year, that I cant.”
“The mischief!” exclaimed the bach
elor, who, being principled against
oaths and expletives in general, made
one or two harmless ones do service
for the whole catalogue. “Will you
carry all those clothes back home, and
I darn them all, do you hear ? And put
I buttons on, and mind you! don't you
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 27, 1851.
ever let another shirt of mine come
home without buttons , or 1M discharge
you to a certainty !”
“Psha! Mr. Smith, how you talk,”
exclaimed the incensed matron, turn
ing on her heel. “1 suppose you don’t
know that I’ve got five children of my
own to take care of, lot ’lone taking
care of other peoples.”
Something very much like an impre
cation passed the bachelor’s lips, but
lie smothered his wrath, and simply
muttered, “who the mischief am I to
get to keep them in order if she does
not, plague take the woman.”
That evening, much to the am°ze>-
ment of Mr. Shear, draper and
Mr. Uc <ben Smith orctrtf.fl eon -■
new suit of broadcloth ; at and the h ;se
boy was hired to clear his boots uigi.i |
ly to the brightest pitch os blackness.
The children, too, were sui prised by a
private lecture on neatness, obedience
and order, together with the informa
tion, that if they gave Miss Sherwood
any more trouble, they were “to look
out for squalls,” which announcement
the juveniles greeted with peals of
laughter, and a loud derisive “hurra!”
Uncle Reuben made a dash at the ring
leader, who slipped under the table and
reappeared on the opposite side, vocif
erating “hurra !” louder than before.—
The youngsters clapped their hands at
this, and Uncle Iteubtn concluded that
the children and the washerwoman had
both better be left to have their own
way.
“It is no use,” thought he, “they have
had it all along, it is no use to begin
‘this time of day.’ ”
CHAPTER 11.
After Mr. Reuben Smilh and his lit
tle niece left the school-room, Phoebe
Sherwood wiped away her tears, and
deliberately read one page of her moth
er’s letter over and over again—it ran
thus—
“ You tell me, my dear child, that
you despair of ever accomplishing
what you have undertaken. That af
ter three months of the most laborious
exertion on your part, your pupils are
more refractory, more noisy, and more
careless, than ever; t hat your school
room, spite of all your scolding, is a
scene of endless and dire confusion,
and that out of school hours, the whole
house is a perfect Babel of discord,
ore. which you nave not me siigmest
control. I know it is not your own
discomfort that you are lamenting, al
though, very naturally, til this makes
you sigh for home, more than perhaps
you would do under happier circum
stances. But it is not, as you seem to
suppose, alogether homo-sickness which
is oppressing you, it is the feeling that
you are wasting your best energies, en
during fatigue, and accomplishing noth
ing, and could you but see that you
were benelitting others, and contribu
ting materially to their future welfare
and usefulness, your own selfish regrets
would very soon sink into apparent in
significance. Now Cos me, the case
does uot seem nearly so difficult as it
does to you. You are young and in
experienced, and when th ngs go wrong,
you either get desponding, or you be
gin to scold. Take m} word for it,
scolding only adds to the confusion,
and makes matters worse. You say
that the children are amiable and affec
tionate, but untutored and ungovern
ed; well then, find your w r ay to their
hearts, and bring all their good feelings
into play. Try to make them neat
and orderly, by showing them how
much their carelessness throws upon
their poor sick mother. Incite them
to study, that they may improve be
fore their father comes back, and be
gin your lessons on industry by set
ting them to work to make Christmas
presents for their parents and for each
other. It is a sin against humanity to
resort to fault-finding and scolding,
when gentleness, patience and love can
accomplish what is to be done, far
more effectually; aid even good hab
its, and decorum, are dearly paid for,
when they are purchased by the sacri
fice of the kindly sensibilities of child
hood, which invariably follows upon
harsh or even irritating treatment. If
you want to make these “warm-heart
ed independent spoiled children” irri
table, obstinate, and deceitful, scold
them and find fault 1!’ you want to
develope all the fine and general qual
ities of their natures, expostulate if
needs be, but bring every noble and
unselfish motive to bear upon what is
naturally good in their characters, and
trust that, in time, their faults will give
way before their growing virtues.—
Above all, keep a gaurd upon yourself,
and never forget to look above for
strength, patience and wisdom.”
Phoebe mused over her mother’s ad
vice for a long tin e, and then, bury
ing her face in her hands, prayed.
She had scarcely begun to write her
answer, when the dinner-bell rang, and
the hubbub ascending from below, in
formed her that the scuffle for chairs
and plates had begun, She hastily
put away her unfinished letter, and
locking her desk as the only chanco
for keeping things safe, proceeded
dowr. to the basement story where her
presence was sadly needed.
“Mother! Jack has taken my seat,”
cried Charley, in a tone of angry com
plaint, as Miss Sherwood, in all the
dignity and gentleness of her new re
solves, entered the apartment.
“Billy took mine, mother,” respond
ed Jack, without stirring from the con
tested place.
“Well, 1 haven’t got any seat!”
cried poor Billy, relinquishing his seat
to Charley, with a doleful face.
Miss Sherwood made room for Billy
next, to her aml v,.ni-r>,,r,vl something
!in i i ear 1 Inch caused bin- to look j
| t i- a his aao'.l -rV sad, i- ue. ,
jA. .a. winle ,'C* ~ ok sonif x.--- t”- ;
I mull breaking out. Billy whispered to ;
Charley, and Charley whispered to
Jack, and so the whisper went round,
and the meal passed in comparative
quiet, much to the gratification of the
bachelor uncle, who had all at once
become very nervous about the con
duct of the family.
Mrs. Smith, poor woman, had an
anxious, sorrowful, careworn look, and
well she might. Her whole life was
spent in a perpetual effort to keep
things straight, and not knowing how
to set about, everything she did seem
ed only to increase the prevailing dis
order and confusion. Her husband
had left her some time before the
opening of our story, to go to Califor
nia in search of wealth, which he, in
his ignorance, concluded would cer
tainly remedy all the evils of a mis
managed household. T'or a time he
had written home regularly and hope
fully, but of late, his letters had been
scarce, and news had reached tile vil
lage of the illness and death of sever
al of those who had left in company
with him. Poor Mrs. Smith held out
very well as long as there was a pros
pect of his returning safe and sound,
but when week after week passed with
out his writing, and when Christmas
approached without bringing any news
of him, her heart sank within her, and
time after time she wept and sighed,
“oh! how I wish I had never let him
go.” Sometimes she reproached her
self with not having made his home
more comfortable ; conscience told her
that their means were already fully
■ • t.i —4 j H y w ‘ r
perous neighbour, and that, if she had
managed things properly, there would
have been no necessity for his going
away, and so poor Mrs. Smith became
sick and nervous, and then things in
stead of growing better, grew worse
and worse. Meanwhile, the husband’s
brother, finding the seven children run
ning wild, proposed a govemness, and
volunteered to pay her salary, and
Phoebe Sherwood was transplanted all
at once from her peaceful, orderly
country home, into the tumble down,
rackrent, village mansion occupied by
the “John Smiths.”
The afternoon of the cry in the
school-room, Mr. Reuben Smith was
seen “trapesing” across the “Court
house square” to the barber’s shop, fol
lowed by the whole troop of Smith
boys, whose heads after undergoing a
thorough “trimming” at the barber’s
hand in the little back-room, reappear
ed, one by one, at the front door, fol
lowed last of all by uncle Reuben, who
forthwith conducted them First to the
shoe-maker’s and then to the “draper’s
and tailor’s.”
Phoebe, who happened to be at her
chamber window at the time, watched
them as they sped across the town —
some out at elbows, and some slip
shod, and thought in her own mind
they were about as shabby a set, as
she would care to see—uncle included
—but spite of their rusty clothes, and
shaggy locks, their kind won
her’s, and her eyes followed them, no
tingevery skip and bound, and brighten
ing at every merry trick and prank.
”yy nat a pity they are uii ~ wue
less,” thought she, “they really are an
amiable, interesting family.”
Whit was her surprise to see them
returning about supper time, clad in
full new suits, and limping in shoes
that wtre entirely too tight for them.
The uncle, too, had bought anew
beaver,and had been otherwise brushed
up, although still out at elbows, and
not us yet decorated with the usual
compliment of buttons.
Phoebe admired the metamorphosis
not a little, and made her comments
accordingly, but she little dreamed
that she had had a hand in it, until lit
tle Lizzie let the cat out of the bag by
narratiig some weeks afterwards her
dialogue with her uncle.
CHAPTER 111.
The text morning, at the usual time,
Miss Sherwood rang the bell for school,
but as usual, none of the children
obeyed the summons.
“I must go down after them,” she
said, after waiting patiently for sever
al minutes, and accordingly she de
scended the long staircase, and running
out of the back-door, seized hold of
Billy, who, quite uumindful of school
hours, was racing an unfortunate little
pig across the yard.
“Let me go ! let me go!” screamed
Billy, getting perfectly desperate at
being stopped in his career. “Let me
go, or I’ll bite you !”
,‘But, Billy,” said Miss Sherwood,
with difficulty retaining her hold, “it is
time to go to school.”
“I’m not going !” cried Billy, strug
gling furiously, “there, now !” he ex
claimed, as the unlucky pig crawled
under the garden fence, and got in
among the turnips and cabbages.—
“There ! now you see the pig has got
, “rough the hole already, and I just
uted to catch him by the tail L” :uul
■ set up a ery of auger aud disap
iitment.
•• vv’ho’s that making such a fuss out
there ?” stormed uncle Reuben, coming
all at once from the front room. “Go
to your lessons at once, sir, or I’ll get
at you with a sharp stick!”
Billy replied by sailing a raw Irish
potato at him, aud then making a dash,
slipped by, and ran up the stairs to
wards the school-room, whooping and
hurraing as he went.
“Confound such children!” exclaim
ed the bachelor uncle. “Excuse me,
Miss Sherwood, I’ll go and look the
rest up, and send them to you in short
order.”
And Phoebe, quite delighted at ob
taining such a powerful auxiliary, re
turned with a light heart to herschool
rooin, whither she was soon followed
by her boisterous pupils.
“Keep quiet here, all of you !” ex
claimed the uncle, bringing up the
rear. “Now, Miss Sherwood, if these
children give you any more trouble,
you are just to call me, that is all, and
as for you, you young scape-graces, if
Miss Sherwood has to call me, you
look out for yourselves.”
The children expressed their under
standing of the threat, by opening
their eyes at him and making faces.
“Very well, you’ll see,” said their
uncle, shaking his head at them, and
then turned on his heel to conceal the
laugh which had all along been twink
ling in his eye. “I’m coming up here
again,” said he, putting his head back
into the door-way, “to see how you
say your lessons, and those that don t
Kiivrt vhcti o, aiiau'b Rate “HUT titftlier.
Now go to work and study.”
The last two sentences he managed
to utter in such a dictatorial voice, that
the children half believed him, and be
gan to hunt up their books with more
than usual assiduity.
“Children, come here,” said Phoebe,
gathering them around her, as she
seated herself on a low stool near the
lire place, “I want to tell you a story
before we open school.”
The children came closer up to her,
some kneeling and some standing, and
she began her impromptu narrative.
“Once upon a time there was a fath
er who loved his children very much.
He did everything he could to make
them happy, and would sooner go with
out the comforts of life himself, than
that his children should want anything.
Their mother, too, loved them dearly,
and worked day and night for them.
Long after they were all sound asleep,
she would sit up at night, and make
clothes for them, and when Christmas
came, she would make them all sorts
of nice cake and candy, and their fath
er would fill their stockings with pretty
toys and fire-works.”
“That is just like our father and
mother,” said Jack.
“Is it, indeed !” said Phoebe, quite
surprised. “ Well, the mother and
father that 1 am telling you about, had
very good, affectionate children, but
then k unfortunately, they were very
thoughtless, and very often did things
that grieved their parents very much;
they wouldn’t learn their lessons, but
wanted to ploj’ all :.•, -- J
would tear their clothes, and kick out
their shoes, and shoot at their hats, and
throw stones at the window-sashes; and
then they would run through the house
with their hare, dirty feet, and their
poor mother and father were all the
time working to keep things straight,
hut could’nt succeed. So after a while
the mother was taken sick, and they
all thought she was going to die. The
doctor said she had worked too hard,
and that it was work that was killing
her, and the children began to cry be
cause they remembered how much
trouble they had given her, and how
often she had worked until late at night
to mepd the clothes which they had
been so careless about. They remem
bered how often they had made a noise
and disturbed her when she had head
ache, and they remembered how hard
she had tried to teach them all that
was right, and they wouldn’t learn,
and so they cried, and said, ‘Oh ! if
our dear, dear mother gets well again,
we will try and do what she tells us,’
and so they did. She got well after a
while, and her children never forgot
how they felt when they thought they
had killed her, they studied when
FOURTH * *>,—KO. 35 WHOLE ;
school , ci n : t t
to tear , - . ; . i,c
and thi . i ,■’ :•• • w> :1; in . v
den, ar ■ ’ an” ke; ‘
the cat h •• . n . 1 h
did all -i.- lie. ?Vlic. i* i
instead : . ■(••t
forgot, hen i nrsti , . < cr • .
ing, ti ork. with” i'-ir
parents ‘ “... aboa* it.
and ma nice j
little presents. They were not very
great j • • . 1 .
rents’ l
dren hi. ; u..;le tie! and “i ‘ n
Christn e.n;.<. w re ,i'.so La -
py.”
“Hui
rememl • - -
make a in >
ponderi
fully ini ‘
“Wh
mas pre
from hit
“Yes,
lated th - i.f i.
“We on’t ’a (■! U
school,” “and ’ - i
want to w-ii..: ; ri-t.
must sti :y y i:r !<•
to say t ■
pens so a ■ ‘ 1 i-i t]’
read th “
was silently
CHAPTER (\.
“Any
wood?” asked Mr. Reuben Smith, en
tering the school-room about mid-day
with a formidable club in his hand.
“No, indeed,” said Phoebe, ST ;, irr’
as she caught sight of the huge \
“I think I can dispense with y
thority for the present. Go o° wall
your lesson, Lizzie. \\ hat is a
“A noun,” said Lizzie, hesitating,
“what is a noun ?”
“Yes, what is a noun? Come, Liz
zie, you have been a week learning
this lesson, now tel! me, what is a
noun ? Don’t be so slow.”
,‘Now, if you hurry me, I can’t say
it,” cried Lizzie, who really was trying
her very best. “A noun —a noun is
the name of any person —is that it ?”
“Yes.”
“Place?”
“Y*”
“Or thing ?”
“Yes,” said Phcebe, quite satisfied.
“Now, Lizzie, tell me what sort of a
noun ‘girl’ is.”
“Common,” said Lizzie, after consid
erable thought.
“Very well—why ?”
“Because,” said Lizzie, doubtfully',
“there is a plenty of ’em.”
The bachelor uncle at this, threw
himself on one of the benches, drop
ped his stick, and laughed outright,
when Billy began to “hurrrah” but
stopped. The school-mistress laughed
at first too, but afterwards said grave
ly—
“No, my dear, ‘girl is common’ be
cause it is a general name.”
“1 don’t see any sense in that, ’ said
Lizzie, looking puzzled. Her teacher
looked somewhat puzzled too, and hav
ing already explained it two or three
times, concluded after a moment’s
thought not to try it again.
“What sort of noun is Mary?” said
she interrogatively.
“Common,” replied Lizzie, confi
dently.
“No, it is not common.”
“Why, la!” exclaimed Lizzie, “how
can you make that out, when almost
all of my acquaintances are named
Mary ?”
Here there was a fresh outbreak
from the chief magistrate, and Miss
Sherwood seeing no probability of
keeping any thing like order over the
grammar lesson, concluded to try Geo
graphy. Unluckily, however, Lizzie’s
geography lesson was all about the
nirspticres, which she could not by
any means be made to understand.
Miss Sherwood explained and illustra
ted until she was tired, but it was all
midnight to Lizzie, at last, in despair,
she took up an apple which lay upon
her desk.
“Now Lizzie,” she said, “suppose 1
was to cut this apple in halves.”
“Well, then my dear,” said Lizzie,
quite weary of the subject, and forget
ting all her sober resolves for the time,
“You would eat one half and 1 would
eat the other , and so there would he an
end of it.”
Her baffled instructress dropped the
miniature globe, and raised her hands
in hopeless dismay', looking at her pu
pil so reproachfully, that Lizzie’s levi
ty departed on the instant.
“Now I’hcebe,” she exclaimed,throw
ing herself into her teacher’s lap, and
clasping her tight around the neck, “it
is no use to look at poor Lizzie so—
you know the poor girl never learned
any thing in her life, and how can you
expect her to learn all at once. Kiss
me now, and mark me a first rate les
son, and I’ll learn it better another
time.”
What could poor Phoebe do ? The
j bachelor un.'le went down sta:
I ;eg and PI ’.e rang the b
jco s. Ami uov the t idreu, •
‘done tem ikably well I* *
I them) ip;ang trot’ their -
, “now for Christmas
“Don’t you wjo
i iam r fcv.t ?” a 1
| from her th.v
| hardly 10--
I l' !i ’
“N-.
1 . •
t > anu ‘ ke U P <> n !
<.*■* morning, in it was on try toil
et table, with pits .I .. - or it.—
Now, Lizzie, yon could make on* like
“Oh, yes’” *.claimed Liv,., “that
is just the tiling, but will you show
me how’ to make it ?”
Miss Sherwood nodded assent, and
drew out a nett'd bag.
this h, ; very small and fine,
, “but if it was netted of
i .in i in J some buckskin at the
> it ui make a beautiffll bird
hag.”
“And I could make one for father,”
cried Jack, “hurrah for thatj!”
“Charley, you are a little fellow,”
continued Phoebe, “but 1 think you
could manage to make a mop-handle
and 1 could easily show you Low to
make the mop.”
And so on she went, finding some
thing to stir up the energies of each
one, so that, before school hours came
they were all fairly interested, and on
ly anxious to sat right w work. It was
agreed that they were all to meet in
the school-room for an hour after din
ner every day,and that Miss Sherwood
was to superintend their manufactures.
On the third afternoon of their la
bours, they were surprised by a visit
trom their uncle Reuben, who came up
to see what was making the children
so good all at once, and was so delight
ed at finding out what they were at,
that he presented them with a dollar
apiece, to be spent in whatever they
wanted for carrying on their opera
tions.
“Let us give mother a surprise !”
cried little Lizzie, clapping both hands
ou her mouth as if to keep in the won
derful revelation.
“I wonder if that is’nt just what we
are going to do,” said Billy, scorn
fully.
“Gh !” said Lizzie, “but this is a big
surprise, the others are only little sur
prises. Suppose we take down the
shabby drawing room curtains, and put
up new ones. 1 saw such pretty curtain
calico at Mr. Bell’s store. Oh! what
a nice idea V and she jumped up and
down in her glee.
“ Capital! ’ exclaimed her uncle,
“and 1 vote for anew papering, and
getting mom lsetty to clean the bras
ses and rub the furniture. We will
have to entrap somebody into shaking
the carpet, 1 judge! 1 w ouldn’t un
dertake the job myself, or be in the
neighbourhood for a good round sum.
Here, Miss Sherwood,” he continued,
handing her a bank note, “I commis
sion you to improve things to the best
of your ability, and if funds give out,
! just call on me.”
So saying, he departed, leaving the
young girl quite amazed at his thought
■ fulness and generosity.
1
CHAPTER V.
Christinas was coming nearer and
nearer, and the presents were almost
all completed, but alas ! the father of
; the family had not yet been heard
from, and heavier and heavier grew
the heart of the sorrowing w ife. So
taken up was s’ -th 1 axiety
about her husba- .. ’ of
preparing for C . from
her mind, and il • . .1 r few
days before that ‘.me, t.-t a petition
from her children surprised her ruto
remembering that she had not sent ‘
the city, as was her custom. f
claus to fill the stock’
dren’s petition
let them *•
int*-’
. uo humo
ed . ery thing, acced
tot Aithout a moment
itat.o, -ad moved into the “strange
room”—an apartment which open