Small Means and Great Ends by Edited by Mrs. M. H. Adams
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Edited by Mrs. M. H. Adams >> Small Means and Great Ends
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"Please, ma'am, will you tell me what time it is?" said a little girl,
coming forward from one group of children.
"Quarter of nine," was the reply.
"I didn't think it was so late; did you?" said she, turning to her
companions. They had been out perhaps two hours, and thought it was most
noon, and back they went to their sports.
Soon I heard a sound of weeping. I went to the door, where stood a group
of children around the pump; one poor shivering child, looking blue and
cold, was having her hands and face washed by another, with water cold
from the pump, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and she sobbing
piteously.
"What is the matter, little girl?"
"Oh," said the one who was performing the washing operation, "she fell
from the top of the hill to the bottom, and made her nose bleed and hurt
her dreadfully."
The poor child still sobbed and shivered. We carried her in, set her
down before a hot coal fire, and tried to warm her red hands. Her little
companions came and stood beside her, and told her not to cry; but, oh!
she was so cold, and "the tops of her fingers did ache so!"
And this was going a Maying! But yet, next year, these very girls, I
doubt not, will start with just as buoyant hearts for May-day sports,
forgetful of the fall, the cold, and all inconveniences. Ah, childhood's
hopeful heart is a blessed thing!
I well remember now a May-day of by-gone years. Then we had a queen, a
tent, and a table set with numberless delicacies. We had rare sport that
day. The weather was not as cold as the day of which I have been
speaking; we had a few _real_ flowers, and some hardy girls even
appeared in white dresses. The forenoon passed pleasantly; numerous
visitors thronged to see us, and we were the happiest of all May-day
revellers. But all pleasure must have an end. Soon word came that we
must surrender the sails of our tent, for the owner had need thereof.
This caused a general _strike_, and, in the confusion which ensued, a
boy had the misfortune to sit or fall upon the queen's straw bonnet,
which had been laid aside for her flowery crown. It was literally
smashed, unfit for further use. "Ah what will mother say?" was all the
disappointed queen could say. Some few laughed at the queer, misshapen
thing, but more looked on with sad countenances, for it was the queen's
best bonnet.
We separated, tired, and, it may be, a little out of humor; but yet, a
few days made everything bright again; we remembered the pleasure with
pleasure, and thought of the disappointments only to laugh over them.
And that bent, spoiled bonnet! When the ex-queen appeared in a fine new
one, with gay ribbons, many looked on, and almost wished that they had
been so fortunate as to have had their bonnets spoiled.
As I look back, other May-days throng upon my mind. The memories of some
of these are sad, yea, very sad! One was the birth-day of a little one
who now rests beneath the green sod. And well do I remember another
bright May morning, when I wandered out over the hill, holding the hand
of a little fair-haired child within my own. Her tiny basket was filled
with flowers the children had given her, and her bright, sunny face was
radiant with smiles. That was her first May-day walk, and much did the
little being enjoy it.
It was her last! Ere the spring breezes came again, she lay within her
little shroud. The snows of winter fell silently upon her little grave,
by the side of him who had gone before, and, ere another May-day, the
sod was green above them.
These are the memories that come over me when I look out upon the
revellers; yet just as well do I love to see them at their sports, and I
can look upon their light, graceful forms, and hear their merry
laughter; and, though my heart goes to the grave-yard and mine eyes rest
upon the spot, yet I can smile upon the gay, living creatures before me,
for I know that childhood is a glad and joyous thing, and that these
beings are the light and joy of some homes, and I pray that these homes
may be never darkened by Death's shadow crossing the threshold.
These my May-day reveries have begun lightly, and ended, as May-days
themselves have done, in sad thoughts. But sad thoughts and life's
troubles are, or ought to be, the heart's discipline. For this purpose
do they come to us, and we should go forth from them purer and better.
THE SNOW-DROP.
BY MRS. M.A. LIVERMORE.
The gentle, laughing, spring had come
With eye and cheek so bright;
The bird glanced through the clear, blue air,
On wing of golden light;
And earth, in gladness, lay and smiled,
To see the beauteous sight.
The streams went singing to the sea,
And dancing to their song;
Its carpet, had the young grass spread
The hills and vales among;
Yet not a flower its bloom had shed,
The fresh green earth along.
Not yet the violet had unsealed
Its blue and loving eye;
Nor had the primrose dared unfold,
For fear that it might die;
And on the tree-tops shook the leaves,
Which oped to kiss the sky.
But so it chanced, one gentle day,
While softly wept the rain,
And sadly sighed the mourning breeze,
The flowers to see again;
A silvery snow-flake fell to earth,
Escaped from winter's chain.
And daintily it laid itself
Where greenest grass was spread,
And where the bland and warm south-wind,
Soft-footed, loved to tread,
And here the white-robed fugitive
Made for itself a bed.
The flower-goddess smiled to see
This new-born snow that fell;
"I'll change it to a flower," said she
"By magic touch, and spell;
For 'twill be long ere blossoms ope,
That spring doth love so well."
Then with a wand of living light,
She touched the feathery snow;
And on it, radiant from her cheek,
There streamed a sunny glow.
Forth from the tiny, crystal flake,
The pearly petals came;
The stem sprang up--there waved a flower,--
The SNOW-DROP was its name!
CAGING BIRDS.
I never liked the idea of rearing birds in cages; of confining those
little creatures, that seem to enjoy liberty most of all God's vast
family, in the little, stinted prison-house of a cage. Girls seldom
incline to keep them caged; I wish, fewer women did; but boys seem
almost to possess a different nature. Many really enjoy taking the
little helpless fledglings from the nest, hid away so slyly among the
thick boughs of the forest-tree; crowding two, three, or even four, into
one cage, oftentimes not eighteen inches square. They are even so
heartless as to laugh at the fluttering, slapping, and beating of the
poor prisoner against the wiry walls of his gloomy, unnatural home.
To be sure, I once owned a caged bird. It was a robin. A dear brother
had kept him several years, and, on leaving home for a residence in
Boston, where he could not take care of the bird, he gave him to me. It
was not at a season of the year when we could safely release him from
confinement; and, besides that, our oldest brother had taught him to
whistle parts of several tunes, and we feared, moreover, that he might
suffer even in the best season of the year, from the fact of his having
been taken when so young from other robins. Confinement, probably, does
not destroy the instinct of birds, so that they would starve if
released. After having been an inmate of our family nine years, having
suffered countless frights and manglings from the many kittens we had
kept in the time, he at last died by the claws of the family cat, when
released one fine afternoon for an airing, and to have his cage cleaned.
I never since have wished to own a caged bird. The song of a canary
bird, born and reared in a cage, never pleases me like the cheerful
warbling or merry whistle of the wild, free birds of our woodlands. The
one seems but the expression of a cheerful forgiveness of unkind
treatment, the bursting forth of a happy nature in spite of man's
cruelty; while the other seems a free outpouring of perfect happiness,
and the choicest notes of a grateful little being directed to the good
GOD of nature.
I know we often hear of happy, contented little pet birds; yet I never
saw one that did not seem to prefer the freedom of an out-of-door
excursion on the strong, free wing, to the hopping, swinging, perching,
and fluttering, within a narrow cage. The taming and petting of
sparrows, robins, yellow-birds, snow-birds, and swallows, round the
doors or windows of one's house, I admire. There is nothing inhuman in
this practice. It rather calls forth some of the better feelings of the
heart--gives pleasure to us and the birds, yet violates no law of
nature.
I here give you a little story of a pet swallow that I met with in a
little English book, which, perhaps, few of you have read. The children
named in the story were certainly kind-hearted towards their little pet,
and very indulgent. Mark well their reward! Some of you may be induced
to imitate them; at least, I hope you will not again be so selfish as to
cage a bird for his song, while, with the exercise of a little patience
and kindly attention, you can tame them so easily at your door.
THE PET SWALLOW.
One day we had been out gathering primroses, and, to put the pretty pale
flowers neatly into baskets, we had sat down under one of the windows in
the old church tower. Mary was sitting next the wall, when something
touched her shoulder, and fell on her knee. It was a young swallow,
without any feathers, that had fallen, or perhaps had been thrown, out
of the nest, by some quarrelsome brother or sister.
The poor primroses were cast away, and every little hand was ready to
seize the prize. When we found it was not killed, or even hurt, by its
fall, some called for a cage; others said, "Let us put it back in the
nest; we do not know what to give it to eat; we may be sure it will
die." And this seemed so very true that we were all obliged to agree;
but, alas! the poor swallow having built in a false window of the tower,
there was no way of getting to the nest, and so the cage was brought,
and the little bird did not die, but grew bigger and prettier every day,
until at last it could skim through the room on its pretty, soft wings,
and would dive down to us, and light upon our shoulders, or let itself
fall into our hands. How we did love that little bird! and oh, how sorry
we were one day, when it flew out at the window! We all ran down to the
lawn; we were quite sure it would never come back to us again, for it
seemed so happy to be free; and we watched it flying here and there--now
high in the air, now close down to the ground. We had called our pretty
bird Fairy, and it really seemed like a fairy now; one moment it was
quite out of sight, the next so near it almost touched us. At last, Fred
gave a long, loud whistle; when he began, it was up in the air, high,
high above our heads, but, before the sound passed away, it was
fluttering its pretty dark wings upon his face. From this time Fairy was
allowed to go free; and it would skim about before our windows all day
long, coming in from time to time to pay us visits, and to sleep at
nights in its old post on the top of one of our little beds in the
nursery.
At last August came, and then our pretty Fairy skimmed through the air,
far, far beyond the reach of Fred's whistle, for it had set out, with
all the other swallows, on its long voyage across the seas.
We had never thought of this,--never thought that our faithful Fairy
would so leave us,--and it was many days before the hope of its coming
back next year could make us feel at all happy again.
But Fairy, our own dear little Fairy, _did_ come back, and it remembered
us all, as if it had been away only for a few hours, instead of nearly
eight whole months.
It was a very happy day, the day that Fairy came back, and it seemed to
feel as much joy as we did; first it flew to Mary, and then to Fred, and
then to one after the other, twittering its wings, and rubbing its
pretty black head on our hands or faces, as we see dogs and cats do
when they want to show great kindness.
It flew to the top of the little bed at night, pecked at the window when
it wished to get out in the morning, and would dart down at Fred's
whistle as readily as it had been used to do the year before. In short,
notwithstanding the long voyage it had made, Fairy seemed to have
forgotten neither its old friends nor its old ways.
When it came near the time for the swallows to fly away again, we grew
very sad at the idea of losing our pretty Fairy: some thought it would
be wise to put it into a cage, and keep it there until all the others
were gone; while some, who were wiser, said it was Fairy's nature to go
away, and that Fairy must go. But what do you think was our joy to find,
that, of its own good will, Fairy stayed with us? All the others went
away; and, whether it had grown fonder of us, or that it had not liked
the long voyage it had been led into by the example of others, I cannot
say; but for four winters it stayed always with us, taking a flight now
and then in the open air, but spending the greatest part of the day in
the school-room, till summer came, when it would again join its friends,
and always build its nest in the very window from which it had fallen
into Mary's lap.
Six years had passed since then, but what now became of it we could
never learn. For a long time we hoped it had gone again over sea and
land, to visit far countries with all the others, but whether it had or
not we never knew, for we saw our pretty Fairy no more.
LAST PAGE.
The last bright page before you,
Kind reader and good friend,
Is of another Annual
The very pleasant end.
Our Book's communication
To goodly themes applied,
None of its pages would we wish
To change, expunge, or hide.
With us be Life's brief pages,
When looking back to youth,
So filled with kindly words of love,
And timely Christian truth,
That with an honest confidence
In what our deeds shall say,
With steady and firm hand we write
Our "last page," and away!
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