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"Lewis entered the festive hall, with Louisa leaning 
 on his arm, and followed "by her parents " — Page 75 
 

 3H- 
 Hs\e 
 
 THE C 
 
 T CI 
 
 A FRESH FLOWER 
 
 SHE 
 
 E©3LIBA¥i< 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 \m dJ @§©Tpk©. Mm 
 
 
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 *SS 
 
 Illustrated with 32 engravings frora original designs 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 EDWARD DUNIGAN & BROTHER, 
 
 151 fulto.n-street. 
 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1649, 
 
 By Edward Bdsioan & EROTHia, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Boutnern 
 District cf New York. 
 
REMARKS 
 
 We have, after much search, found 
 a new flower for our little friends. 
 Among all the Annuals there has nev- 
 er before been a Crocus. The real 
 blossoms of this pretty flower are of 
 different colors — white, blue, and yel- 
 low. The white shall stand for in- 
 nocence and love ; the blue, for truth 
 and industry ; the yelhiv, for obedi- 
 ence and piety. All these beautiful 
 lessons are taught in the Stories and 
 Poems of our Crocus. 
 
Vi REMARKS. 
 
 The Stories are translations from 
 the German : the writer, Christopher 
 Von Schniid, is considered one of 
 the best writers for the young in 
 Europe. The Tales here given are 
 very interesting and excellent. 
 
 S. J. H. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 The Crocus. — Miss Gould x 
 
 The Rosebush 7 
 
 The Screech-Owl. — Mrs. Howitt 93 
 
 The Redbreast 95 
 
 My Daughter. — Mrs. Sigourney 131 
 
 Farewell to the Year. — Mrs. Hale 133 
 
 The Forget-me-not 135 
 
 The Cakes 155 
 
 The Child's Gift.— Mrs. Osgood 183 
 
 The Cherries 185 
 
 New-Year's Eve 219 
 
 Dumb Girl 225 
 
THE CROCUS* 
 Br Miss HI F. Gould. 
 
 Down in my solitude under the snow, 
 Where nothing cheering can reach me ; 
 
 Here, without light, to see how to grow, 
 I'll trust to nature to teach me. 
 
 I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown, 
 Locked in so gloomy a dwelling ; 
 
 My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall 
 run down, 
 While the bud in rav bosom is swelling 
 
 D 
 
 Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, 
 From this cold dungeon to free me, 
 
 I will peer up with my little bright head, 
 And all will be joyful to see me. 
 
 * This pretty flower blooms early in the spring : its 
 colors are yellow, purple, and white. 
 
X THE CROCUS. 
 
 i 
 
 Then from my heart will young petals di- 
 verge, 
 
 As rays of the sun from their focus ; 
 I from the darkness of earth will emerge, 
 
 A happy and beautiful Crocus ! 
 
 Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower, 
 This little lesson may borrow — 
 
 Patient to-day, through the gloomiest hour, 
 We come out the brighter to-morrow. 
 
fewas a very rich 
 and intelligent mer- 
 chant, and, what is 
 still better, he was a 
 most virtuous man. 
 By a kind of affability peculiar to himself, 
 and expressing the genuine feelings of his 
 soui he won the affections of all his neigh- 
 bors ; while a certain unaffected and nat- 
 ural dignity of manner, in all his words 
 
8 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 and actions, gained for him universal re- 
 spect. Though advanced in years, he still 
 had the marks of a well-spent } T outh ; for 
 his complexion was so fresh and youthful, 
 that strangers, who saw him for the first 
 time, always took him to be ten years 
 younger than he really was. His dress 
 was unostentatious and plain, his favorite 
 attire being a coat of very fine dark-green 
 cloth, without any mark whatsoever to 
 lead one to suspect his enormous wealth, 
 except a single costly diamond ring which 
 he wore on his finger. His house was a 
 handsome, well-built mansion, but though 
 he could afford to adorn it with princely 
 magnificence, the furniture was like that 
 of any ordinary citizen, and even some- 
 what old-fashioned ; for he hated expensive 
 show, and never w 7 ould buy extravagant 
 articles of furniture, because he deemed 
 them unsuited to a person in his rank. 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 9 
 
 The sole ornaments of his house (and they 
 were really valuable) were some splendid 
 paintings by the great masters. The or- 
 der and punctuality with which he super- 
 intended his extensive business, were most 
 exemplary ; he was so upright, moderate, 
 and faithful in all his engagements, that 
 every person found a pleasure in doing 
 business with him. 
 
 Some persons, indeed, blamed him for 
 employing his capital in many trifling con- 
 cerns which appeared too low for him, and 
 which brought him much trouble, little 
 profits, and even sometimes very consid- 
 erable losses. But his sole object in car- 
 rying on this sort of business, was to sup- 
 port a number of industrious families, who 
 would otherwise be left without bread, and 
 who now earned under him a comfortable 
 livelihood. He considered this plan of giv- 
 ing relief, the best sort of charity. But 
 
~—z] 
 
 10 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 he was most liberal in his donations to 
 those poor persons who could not work, 
 and who were ashamed to beg ; and he 
 also often secretly gave very large sums 
 of money to families, who were involved 
 in pecuniary embarrassments without any 
 fault of their own. No wonder, then, that 
 he was generally esteemed as a charitable 
 man, and as a true benefactor to his kind ; 
 though he was no favorite, it is true, with 
 the lazy and thoughtless spendthrifts, who 
 sometimes came to borrow money from 
 him ; because, wishing to teach them a 
 practical lesson in economy, moderation, 
 and industry, he always had ready for 
 them, in his various and extensive busi- 
 ness, some suitable employment or other, 
 by which they could support themselves 
 in comfort, if they pleased. But they did 
 not relish these offers — and accordingly 
 hated him in their hearts. He had lived 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. H 
 
 years in the g:eatest happiness with his 
 wife, who was in every respect an excel- 
 lent woman. It was not for her beauty, 
 though she was very beautiful, nor for her 
 wealth, of which she had very little, that 
 he had made her the object of his choice. 
 Her best portion and strongest recommen- 
 dation in his eyes, were her unaffected 
 piety, her amiable simplicity, her virgin 
 modesty, her industry, and all her other 
 domestic virtues ; and after her death, 
 which afflicted him sorely, he could never 
 think of marrying a second time. 
 
 Many of his children died young, and 
 there remained to him but an only son, 
 Lewis, who was now about twenty years 
 of age, and who was the true counterpart 
 of his father. His complexion was fair 
 and blooming; his figure well knit and 
 graceful ; he was constant in all his reso- 
 lutions, prudent in his business, affection- 
 
12 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 ate to his friends, charitable to the poor, 
 blameless in his morals, and full of rever- 
 ence for God, and for all that should be 
 held sacred by men. He was the sole 
 pride of his father's heart, and an orna- 
 ment to his native town. At the time at 
 which our story opens, he was absent in 
 England, whither he had gone, partly on 
 business, and partly to extend the sphere 
 of his commercial knowledge ; and his 
 father was daily expecting his return. 
 
 One evening, as the rain fell heavily, 
 and the wind howled through the streets, 
 Mr. Alkmar was sitting in his comfortable 
 parlor, smoking his pipe and sipping a cup 
 of coffee. Mr. Wohlmuth, his head clerk, 
 who had been his schoolfellow in youth, 
 and whom he still was wont to call his 
 best friend, on account of his fidelity and 
 integrity, was sitting with him in the 
 parlor, and both were planning some fes- 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 13 
 
 tive rejoicings for the return of Lewis. 
 The postman entered with a sealed packet 
 of letters. Mr. Alkmar opened the packet 
 and took a rapid glance at its contents. 
 While he was reading one of the letters, 
 which appeared at first to please him 
 very much — his color suddenly changed, 
 and the hand in which he held the letter 
 trembled violently. Wohlmuth was start- 
 led. He knew well, that losses in trade, 
 which, though very frequent, had never 
 disturbed Mr. Alkmar's temper, could not 
 be the cause of his present agitation. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, what is the matter 
 with you?" exclaimed Wohlmuth, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " Alas, read this !" answered Alkmar 
 with a sigh, giving him the letter. He 
 then fell back on his sofa, clasped his 
 hands, and raised his eyes to heaven in 
 the deepest affliction. 
 
14 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 Wohlmuth read the letter. It was from 
 a commercial correspondent in Hamburg, 
 who merely mentioned in the postscript 
 the wreck of a ship, and that ship, though 
 the Hamburg merchant was not aware of 
 it, was the very one in which Lewis was 
 to return. 
 
 This news was a thunderbolt for Wohl- 
 muth. But he endeavored to console his 
 friend Alkmar. " The letter," he re- 
 marked, " states that some persons were 
 saved. Perhaps Lewis was among the 
 happy few, or perhaps he was not in that 
 vessel at all. Perhaps the kind provi- 
 dence of God threw some obstacle in his 
 way, that detained him in England, and 
 prevented him from embarking. We 
 have many examples of the gracious in- 
 terference of our good God to avert im- 
 pending calamities from men." 
 
 " Dear Wohlmuth," answered Alkmar, 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 15 
 
 " you have raised a slight gleam of hope 
 in my heart. But, I fear, it will soon be 
 extinguished. We must soon know the 
 whole truth of the matter." 
 
 He rang the bell, and ordered the ser- 
 vant to run to the posthouse, and order 
 an express. " Tell the postmaster," said 
 he, " to give the courier the fleetest horse 
 in the stables. The letter which he is to 
 carry, will follow you in a few moments." 
 
 Mr. Alkmar then ordered all his ser- 
 vants to inquire of the different mer- 
 chants in the town, whether they had 
 received any more particular intelligence 
 of the loss of the vessel. He himself sat 
 down and wrote without delay to his cor- 
 respondent in Hamburg. When the ser- 
 vants returned, they stated that the ves- 
 sel was certainly w r recked, but that eleven 
 persons, and amongst them a young mer- 
 chant, were saved. They could not as- 
 
16 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 certain the name of the merchant. Alk- 
 mar had still some hope. The following 
 day was spent in racking suspense. The 
 courier's return was watched with the 
 most intense anxiety. Alkmar felt a 
 weight of sorrow pressing on his heart, 
 and was obliged to summon all his 
 strength to save himself from sinking 
 under it. "Father," he prayed, "if this 
 
 cup do not pass away from me, if I must 
 drink it, give me strength and courage to 
 bow to thy holy will." 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 17 
 
 As Lewis was universally esteemed and 
 beloved, the whole city anxiously expect- 
 ed the courier's return. Lewis's fate was 
 the sole topic of conversation. The an- 
 swer, at length, returned — he had embark- 
 ed in the ship, but his name was not among 
 the saved. " Gracious God." exclaimed 
 Alkmar, with great agitation, " it was then 
 Thy will ! Whatever Thou dost is for 
 the best. I humbly submit to Thy inscru- 
 table, but ever wise and paternal decrees !" 
 
 His sorrow was so intense, that it could 
 not vent itself in tears. He shut himself 
 up in his chamber, in silent grief to avoid 
 the crowd of friends and relations who 
 came to console him. He sought his con- 
 solation from God alone. 
 
 2* 
 
18 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FULLER PARTICULARS ABOUT LEWIS. 
 
 Some days after the receipt of the cer- 
 tain intelligence of the death of Lewis, an 
 old sailor presented himself to Mr. Alkmar. 
 He was sitting at his desk, in deep mourn- 
 ing, and admitted the sailor immediately. 
 He had been on board the lost vessel, and 
 was able to give Mr. Alkmar a circum- 
 stantial account of her wreck. 
 
 " A storm burst upon us," said the sail- 
 or, "the like of which the oldest of our 
 crew had never encountered. The wind 
 began to rise after nightfall, and drove the 
 ship before it with irresistible fury. We 
 were blown from our course, and at length 
 could not tell where we were. Masses of 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 19 
 
 black clouds covered the whole heavens : 
 the night was so dark, that we could not 
 see our hand before us. A few hours af- 
 ter midnight, we suddenly felt a shock 
 w r hich threw all of us off our legs ; a fear- 
 ful crash told us that we were wrecked. 
 The waves rushed in from all sides on the 
 vessel : in a few moments she was dashed 
 to pieces. The helmsman, myself, seven 
 other sailors, and two passengers, who 
 were good swimmers, gained the top of 
 the rock on which the vessel split. The 
 captain, and all the other souls on board, 
 were drowned. 
 
 " Young Mr. Alkmar," the sailor con- 
 tinued, as he brushed the tears from his 
 eyes, " was lamented by us all. The sail- 
 ors, in particular, were devotedly attached 
 to him, he was so kind and affable. He 
 conversed familiarly with us, asked us 
 many questions regarding the whole man- 
 
20 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 agement of the ship, and often gave us re- 
 freshment, when he saw us fatigued with 
 duty. There was not one of us, I am 
 certain, who would not have laid down 
 his life for him, if it were possible to save 
 him. But we had not time, even to think 
 of it. The very evening before the storm 
 rose, I saw him sitting on the deck. Even 
 still, I think I see him. Wrapped in his 
 dark blue coat, he was sitting on a bench, 
 reading a letter, and a letter- case of red 
 morocco was lying by his side. He ap- 
 peared deeply affected ; perhaps, he had 
 some foresight of what was impending. 
 That was the last we saw of him. I 
 found the letter-case among the fragments 
 of the ship. Here it is. There are sev- 
 eral letters, and a bank-note in it. That 
 is the reason I was anxious to present it to 
 yourself." 
 
 With a trembling hand, Mr. Alkmai 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 21 
 
 took the letter-case, opened it, and found 
 his own letters to his son. "Poor Lewis," 
 said Mr. Alkmar, " he kept all my letters 
 carefully, and always carried them with 
 him ; and, I am sure, he often read them, 
 as I desired him." 
 
 The affectionate father, who up to this 
 moment, could not shed one tear, now, at 
 the sight of the letters, burst into a flood 
 of tears, that relieved his oppressed heart. 
 
 "Weep, weep," said the sailor, as his 
 own tears fell fast oyer his weather-beaten 
 cheeks, " weep, for he deserves your tears. 
 Oh! that he were here, and that I were 
 in his place in the bottom of the sea ! 
 He could still be of use in the world, but 
 what good am I — a decrepit old man ?" 
 
 The sailor then finished his sad story. 
 " The morning after our shipwreck, we 
 found ourselves on a naked rock, with no 
 object in sight but the boundless sea. As 
 
22 
 
 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 we had nothing to eat or drink, but the 
 shellfish and some rain-water, which we 
 found in the hollows of the rocks, we 
 should certainly have died of hunger, had 
 not God sent a ship in sight. She sailed 
 
 at no great distance from the rock, and 
 perceived our signal of distress — some 
 canvass which we raised on the only spar 
 which was saved from the wreck. We 
 were taken up and carried to Hamburg, 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 23 
 
 bringing with us from the lost vessel, 
 nothing but the news of her wreck." 
 
 Mr. Alkmar took the bank-note out of 
 the letter-case, and gave it to the sailor. 
 " Accept this," said he, " as a return for 
 your love to my son, and for the honesty 
 with which you have restored it. My 
 book-keeper will change it for you : keep 
 it as a provision for your old age." The 
 sailor was filled with joyful surprise at 
 this generous offer, and with tears in his 
 eyes returned thanks to God and Mr. 
 Alkmar. 
 
 Mr. Alkmar' s grief for the loss of his 
 son began, after some days, to prey on 
 his constitution. His health gradually 
 gave way. One Sunday morning, after 
 returning from church, he found himself 
 ill. He had not time to throw off his 
 clothes, but sunk exhausted on a sofa. 
 Wohlmuth, who had accompanied him, 
 
24 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 hoped that the attack would not be se 
 vere, and assured Mr. Alkmar that he 
 would soon be better. 
 
 " Dear Wohlmuth," said Alkmar, " my 
 hopes in this world are over. But I have 
 consoling hopes above. Yes : I shall 
 soon be better — away in a better world. 
 I have this morning settled the affairs of 
 my conscience with heaven, and strength- 
 ened myself for the long journey with 
 the bread of life. I hope my eternal in- 
 terests are in order — I must now arrange 
 my worldly concerns. Sit down at the 
 table, and take the pen, ink, and paper 
 I will dictate my last will to you, and we 
 shall then have it signed and sealed by a 
 notary and witnesses. The great wealth 
 which God has given me, should all go to 
 my relations, but . from my knowledge of 
 them, it would be a real curse, and not a 
 blessing to them. Still, though they are 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 25 
 
 not nearly related to me, they shall have a 
 considerable share ; but only on certain 
 conditions, which shall prevent them from 
 squandering it, and compel them to make 
 a good use of it. The principal rights 
 must be vested in their children : but if 
 the children do not promise well, and are 
 not well conducted, they never shall touch 
 one penny of my money. You, my dear 
 Wohlmuth, and all my faithful servants, 
 who have helped to make my fortune, 
 must be well provided for. The schools 
 and the poor shall not be forgotten. 
 Write quickly — I think I have not much 
 time to live." Alkmar then began to dic- 
 tate, but on a sudden he stopped short, 
 and exclaimed, " Merciful Heaven ! what's 
 the matter with me ? — I feel — the Lord 
 comes and calls me away. He will dis- 
 pose of this affair which I cannot con- 
 clude. He will turn all things to the best 
 3 
 
26 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 for those who are concerned." Here he 
 stopped suddenly — moved his lips, as if in 
 prayer, and then said with a faltering 
 voice, " Dear heavenly Father, take me to 
 Thyself, and unite me in Thy presence 
 above to my beloved, who are gone be- 
 fore me — my virtuous wife — my good son 
 Lewis, and my other children." 
 
 With these words he expired. It was 
 an attack of apoplexy ; for it was by this 
 easy death, God took him rapidly to him- 
 self. Every person in the house rushed 
 to the apartment on hearing Wohlmuth's 
 cries. No pen could describe their sor- 
 row on beholding their beloved master 
 lying in his mourning dress on the sofa, 
 already a corpse — his head sunk helpless- 
 ly on Wohlmuth's breast ! But the ap- 
 pearance of the pallid face of their bene- 
 factor consoled them. He looked so calm 
 and beautiful, so pious and happy, thai 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 27 
 
 they all devoutly clasped their hands. He 
 looked as if a smile of joy beamed on his 
 features, for having brought his earthly 
 course to a blissful end. 
 
 "Truly," remarked Wohlmuth, "he has 
 sown abundantly, and is now gone where 
 he can reap a plentiful reward." 
 
28 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED APPARITION. 
 
 The death of old Mr. Alkmar, like the 
 news of the death of his son, was sin- 
 cerely felt as a calamity by the whole 
 city. His relations alone were not much 
 grieved ; on the contrary, they were trans- 
 ported with joy for the rich inheritance 
 that fell to them so unexpectedly. While 
 thousands shed tears at the funeral of Mr. 
 Alkmar, they could scarcely restrain their 
 delight ; and many of them rubbed their 
 eyes with their white handkerchiefs, as if 
 they were drying their tears, though, in 
 reality, they did so only to make others 
 believe that they were crying. 
 
 It was reported that the inheritance was 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 29 
 
 enormous. It amounted, in fact, to sev- 
 eral hundred thousand, perhaps a million 
 of florins. But when they came to divide 
 it, and inspect the books, papers, and seal- 
 ed desks — great as it was, it was too small 
 for these avaricious relatives. They treat- 
 ed the faithful old clerk, Wohlmuth, most 
 unkindly. So far from giving any present 
 to him, or to any of the other faithful ser- 
 vants, for whom Alkmar would have pro- 
 vided, had he lived, they discharged them; 
 and of all the charitable aid which Alk- 
 mar used to dispense weekly to the poor, 
 not one penny continued to be paid. 
 
 The relatives too soon began to quarrel 
 among themselves, and a lawsuit appeared 
 almost inevitable. But the desire of get- 
 ting instant possession of the money pre- 
 vailed. They agreed among themselves 
 on a division of the property ; and then 
 their sole thought was, how they could 
 
30 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 best enjoy their good fortune. One of 
 them began immediately to build, another 
 purchased a- landed property, a third gave 
 up his little trade to enjoy his ease, and 
 purchased a carriage and horses. So little 
 did they think of Alkmar, that, though they 
 were called upon by the authorities of the 
 town, they would not even raise a monu- 
 ment over his grave. They ordered, it 
 is true, several models for a splendid mon- 
 ument ; but they would never agree which 
 model to select — because they were, in 
 reality, anxious to have some excuse for 
 not raising any monument, that they might 
 avoid the expense of its erection. 
 
 The largest share of the inheritance, 
 including the house and garden, fell to a 
 Mr. Pracht. The house was commodious 
 and well built, though somewhat in the old 
 style, but Mr. Pracht gave orders at once 
 to have it rebuilt and decorated with the 
 
 . 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 31 
 
 most costly ornaments. The dining-room, 
 in particular, was enlarged, richly painted, 
 and adorned with large mirrors in gilt 
 frames, and with magnificent crystal chan- 
 deliers. As soon as the house was finish- 
 ed, Mr. Pracht gave all the relations a 
 great supper and a splendid ball. He had 
 promised this when they were dividing the 
 property. He wished, as he remarked, to 
 inaugurate his new house in this sumptu- 
 ous fashion. The ballroom was illumina- 
 ted with a hundred wax lights, which were 
 reflected from the large mirrors, tinting 
 the gleaming crystal with all the hues of 
 the rainbow, and lending a dazzling lustre 
 to the rich silver plate on the table. All 
 the heirs of the good Alkmar, who had 
 been so suddenly enriched by his death, 
 were assembled, dressed in the most bril- 
 liant style ; the ladies, and particularly the 
 younger ones, were in the highest spirits, 
 
32 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 as this was the first occasion on which 
 they appeared in their new splendor, after 
 laying aside their mourning. Mr. Pracht, 
 who had given a large sum of money for 
 the little word von, (which in that country 
 is used to designate persons of rank,) and 
 who was now styled Mr. von Pracht, and 
 his w r ife, Mrs. von Pracht, assumed dig- 
 nified airs, and endeavored to receive their 
 guests in the most fashionable manner. 
 Miss von Pracht, their only daughter, was 
 decked out like a princess, and assumed all 
 the attitudes and positions that could ex- 
 hibit her rich diamonds to the best advan- 
 tage. After an entertainment of all but 
 princely splendor, the company adjourned 
 to the dancing-room, and the ball was 
 opened. 
 
 A burst of music resounded through 
 the ballroom, and dancing was kept up 
 without interruption till midnight. The 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 33 
 
 great clock of the castle was in the act of 
 striking twelve, when, suddenly, horror 
 and alarm seized upon the entire com- 
 pany — the music stopped short — the dan- 
 cers stood, as it were, rooted in their 
 places; a deathlike silence spread through 
 the saloon, interrupted only by the solemn 
 stroke of the clock, or by an occasional 
 exclamation of terror or astonishment — 
 for lo, the folding doors of the saloon flew 
 suddenly open, and the form of young 
 Alkmar, dressed in the deepest black, and 
 pale as death, stalked into the apartment, 
 and passed, silent and solemn, with slow 
 steps and indignant looks, through the 
 midst of the company ! / 
 
 Had he actually and really returned 
 from the grave, the horror and alarm 
 could not have been more intense : all 
 present felt a chill of deathlike horror 
 even after they were satisfied that it was 
 
34 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 his rea? living self; and deeply as they 
 felt the propriety and even necessity of 
 feigning to rejoice at his return, and to 
 receive him affectionately, they could not 
 do it ; the loss of the inheritance was too 
 terrible — the awaking from their happy 
 dream, from the intoxication of enjoy- 
 ment, was too sudden and too frightful. 
 Mr. yon Pracht flung himself into a seat ; 
 Mad am von Pracht fainted away and was 
 carried to a sofa; her daughter fell down 
 in a swoon. 
 
 The generous young man had not im- 
 aginsd that his appearance could have 
 thrown the company into such fearful 
 alarm ; in mercy to them, therefore, he 
 wit! drew ; but long after he had closed 
 the doors behind him, they continued to 
 ask " Are we awake or dreaming ? Was 
 it really he, or an apparition from the 
 dead?" 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH 35 
 
 The entire company hurriedly sepa- 
 rated, with pale and gloomy faces and un- 
 steady steps. 
 
 
30 THE ROSE-BUSH 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LEWIS'S ESCAPE. 
 
 The disappointed heirs could not con- 
 ceive how young Alkmar, whom the 
 whole city regarded as no more, and 
 whom the courts had even formally de- 
 clared to be dead, could dare to come 
 to life again, and terrify them by his un- 
 expected appearance. Indeed his return 
 must have seemed to them very wonder- 
 ful, but it had taken place in a very natural 
 manner. 
 
 On the fearful night when the ship 
 foundered, Lewis had clung to a floating 
 spar, and in a short time the wind and 
 waves drifted him to a distance of many 
 miles. The storm subsided, and was suc- 
 ceeded by a gentle breeze. Lewis, who 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 37 
 
 had clung to the spar with all the energy 
 of a man struggling with death, now in 
 some degree revived ; he sat erect upon 
 the spar, but when the morning dawned 
 he could not see any thing but the sea 
 and the sky. That whole day he spent 
 upon the sea, drenched to the skin, and 
 without a particle of food ; and as sunset 
 approached, he saw nothing but death be- 
 fore him. But he was sincerely pious ; 
 his good parents had brought him up in 
 the fullest reliance upon God's holy provi- 
 dence ; and his pious mother, in particular, 
 had instilled her own generous and trust- 
 ful piety into his youthful heart. In this 
 hour of trial, therefore, he prayed fer- 
 vently for safety, or at least for strength 
 from above to meet his fate with manly 
 resignation to God's holy will. " Save 
 me, Almighty God !" he cried, " or if it be 
 not thy holy will that I see my father once 
 
38 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 more, do thou comfort him and grant me 
 courage to die !" 
 
 But lo, at that very moment, he spied 
 in the far distance the white sail of a 
 ship — he prayed with fresh fervor — in the 
 gleam of the evening sun the ship came 
 nearer and nearer — he was seen, and 
 rescued from his perilous position ; and he 
 thanked God, his deliverer, as fervently 
 as he had prayed to Him in his hour of 
 peril. 
 
 After he had also expressed his gratitude 
 to the captain and the seamen, and re- 
 freshed himself with food, he told the his- 
 tory of his shipwreck, and entreated the 
 captain to put him ashore upon the near- 
 est land. The captain, whose name was 
 Anson, said to him : 
 
 " My dear young friend, I would gladly 
 do so, but you see this is an English ship- 
 of-war, and it is impossible for me to de- 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 39 
 
 part a hair-breadth from my appointed 
 course. You must, therefore, accompany 
 us to America, unless we should meet an- 
 other ship upon our voyage." 
 
 The ship arrived safe at one of the 
 smaller American islands to which she 
 was bound, but Lewis was deeply morti- 
 fied when he discovered that there was 
 not a single ship ready to sail to any part 
 of the world. The captain, who was a 
 very religious, moral, and well-conducted 
 man, endeavored to pacify him. 
 
 " What does it matter after all," said he, 
 " if you have to spend some time here ? 
 I myself shall have to spend a year here 
 guarding this island, till I shall be relieved 
 by another ship. Make a virtue of neces- 
 sity. There is no situation in which God's 
 holy providence places us that is not use- 
 ful and salutary for us, if it be not our own 
 fault. Your residence here may prove to 
 
40 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 be of the happiest influence upon your 
 whole future life." 
 
 The captain provided for him a neat 
 apartment, which looked out upon the sea, 
 and took care that he should not want foi 
 any thing. Lewis made several excur- 
 sions through the island, for the purpose of 
 seeing it. It was covered with intermina- 
 ble plantations of sugar-canes and coffee, 
 in which an immense number of negro 
 slaves were busily employed ; and he saw 
 here and there magnificent country-houses. 
 The rich and highly- cultivated plains were 
 encircled by rocks and forests which 
 reached almost to the clouds. 
 
 But before long the rainy season set in ; 
 the captain was engaged on duty from 
 morning till night, and Lewis had to sit 
 whole days in his lonely apartment, through 
 the window of which he could see noth 
 ing but the heavy clouds and the stormy 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 41 
 
 sea. To beguile the tedium, he asked for 
 books, and discovered that there was not 
 a single German book in the island. He 
 was very glad that he understood English, 
 and asked the captain for a few English 
 books to amuse him. 
 
 "I have not a single such book," said 
 the captain, " but I will bring you a book, 
 which, to a man of your disposition, can- 
 not fail to bring the richest and most 
 agreeable entertainment, and which, in- 
 deed, in this respect, infinitely surpasses 
 all the books in the world.'' 
 
 He brought him an old, but very beau- 
 tiful edition of the Bible. 
 
 " This heavenly book," said he, " was 
 given to me, as a keepsake, by a most be- 
 loved relative, a venerable old man, who 
 died a bishop in Ireland. He cautioned 
 me that there were many who did not 
 
 read it with a sincere desire for truth and 
 
 4* 
 
[ 
 
 42 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 edification, but, full of self-blindness and 
 perversity, abused it to their destruction. 
 But for you, dear Alkmar, I have no such 
 apprehension, and I can fearlessly say to 
 you, as was said of old to Augustine — 
 ' take and read.' " 
 
 Lewis used to read several chapters 
 every day, and, circumstanced as he then 
 was, separated from the concerns of busi- 
 ness and every source of distraction, this 
 divine book made a deep impression upon 
 him : he was enchanted and deeply moved 
 by the heavenly spirit which it breathed ; 
 his heart was penetrated with the love of 
 our Lord and Redeemer ; he felt himself 
 improve every day in piety and virtue. 
 
 When the mild, clear weather returned, 
 the captain usually came home towards 
 evening, and used to bring Lewis with 
 him to shoot ; but as he was very fond of 
 botany, he spent far more time, while they 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 43 
 
 ranged through fields and forests, or over 
 hill and valley, in searching for plants than 
 in pursuing game ; and when he discov- 
 ered some new plant hitherto unknown to 
 him, he would burst out into exclamations 
 of wonder at the multiplicity and variety 
 of the designs of God. Lewis, too, took 
 a great and increasing interest in this in- 
 nocent enjoyment. " You must set more 
 seriously to work," said the captain ; " I 
 will lend you a very solid work upon bot- 
 any, which will open for you a closer view 
 of this glorious province in God's crea- 
 tion." Accordingly, Lewis set about the 
 study, formed a collection of plants for 
 himself, and discovered therein, every day, 
 new evidences of God's power, wisdom, 
 and goodness. 
 
 " It was here in this island," said he to 
 the captain, " that I learned to know God 
 better in his word, the Holy Scripture, 
 
44 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 and in his works, Nature ; and surely to 
 know God and to love him is our weight- 
 iest and most profitable business. To 
 this business, which forms the soul and 
 prepares it for eternal happiness, all earth- 
 ly commerce, which caters but for the 
 wants of the body, must yield the palm. 
 You were right, Mr. Anson, in saying 
 that it was not without wisest designs 
 God brought me hither. My residence in 
 this island will be a blessing to me for the 
 rest of my life." 
 
 At last, after many months, a ship ar- 
 rived from New York, in America, and was 
 to return thither in the following week. 
 The captain advised Lewis to go in this 
 ship to New York. 
 
 "It is true," said he, "you are thus 
 going further from your native country, 
 but in New York you will easily find op- 
 portunities of going to London, and there 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 45 
 
 are ships sailing thence almost every week 
 to Hamburg." 
 
 Lewis was sensible of the soundness of 
 this advice, but he felt himself in great 
 embarrassment. He, the son of a very 
 rich merchant, was literally (what he had 
 never deemed possible) without a single 
 penny. The evening before his departure, 
 therefore, he was sitting at table in such 
 deep melancholy, that the captain asked 
 him what was the matter. Lewis told 
 him, that he did not know how he should 
 undertake this long journey, without a 
 penny in his purse. 
 
 " Oh ! is that all ?" asked the captain ; 
 "that is already provided for." 
 
 He counted out in gold to his wonder- 
 ing friend, a considerable sum of money, 
 which he had ready prepared. " Your 
 receipt," said he, "will be enough for me." 
 
 " What !" said Lewis, " will you trust 
 
46 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 me, whom } t ou took into your ship a poor 
 cast-away, with so much money ? You 
 know nothing of my connections, but from 
 my own mouth." 
 
 " I know your principles," said the cap- 
 tain, "and that is sufficient. I would 
 give you more if I had it ; however, this 
 will enable you to reach London. If I 
 would not trust such a man as you, I had 
 rather renounce all intercourse with man- 
 kind. But, indeed, you will do me a 
 favor by accepting this money, and re- 
 paying it in London to my aged mother, 
 who is dependent on me for support. 
 Visit the good woman in London, and 
 give her this letter." 
 
 Lewis promised to get from a com- 
 mercial friend in London, and pay over 
 to the captain's mother, not only this sum, 
 but all that he had already expended in 
 providing for him. 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 47 
 
 At parting in the morning, the two 
 friends cordially embraced one another. 
 Lewis set sail, and though it was a very 
 circuitous route, in the end reached Lon- 
 don. He immediately repaired to his 
 friend, a most upright merchant, in whose 
 house he had lived during his former resi- 
 dence in London. The merchant was 
 struck dumb with astonishment when he 
 saw Lewis, whom he had believed to be 
 dead, walk into his apartment full of life. 
 But Lewis's sorrow was still, still greater, 
 when he heard the death of his dear father. 
 His grief was beyond description. He 
 stayed only to draw upon the merchant for 
 the necessary funds — paid to the captain's 
 mother double the sum which her son had 
 advanced to him — provided himself with 
 mourning, and sailed by the first ship to 
 Hamburg. There he took the mail, and, at 
 last, arrived late at night in his native city. 
 
48 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 It was with a heavy heart he went 
 through the streets to his father's house. 
 He thought he should find it silent, and 
 in deep affliction. The glaring windows, 
 therefore, were a bitter sight to him ; and 
 the boisterous mirth, the gay music, and 
 the merriment of the dancers, wounded 
 his lacerated heart still more deeply. He 
 could not refrain from presenting himself 
 unannounced, and putting an end to this 
 unseemly confusion ; and hence, his sud- 
 den appearance in the saloon. 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 49 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE FATHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 Lewis's first walk, the next morning, 
 was to the graveyard, to seek out his be- 
 loved father's tomb. It was not very many 
 years since the old man had settled in the 
 city, and hence he had not any family 
 burial-place. Lewis wandered for a long 
 time among the graves. It was a lovely 
 morning, but he hardly observed it. " It 
 is wonderful," thought he, "that I cannot 
 find my father's tomb, though he is already 
 more than a year dead.' 5 
 
 The grave-digger was working at a new 
 grave. Lewis went up to him — 
 
 "Friend," said he, " will you be so good 
 as to show me the gravestone of the late 
 Mr. Alkmar ?" 
 

 50 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 The grave-digger was a loquacious old 
 man, and did not recognise Lewis. " I 
 will show you his grave," said he, striking 
 his spade into the newly-dug earth, " but 
 there is no gravestone, I am sorry to say. 
 The heirs have not raised, and I fear will 
 not raise any to him. They have already 
 forgotten him — the good old man !" 
 
 The scalding tears poured down Lewis's 
 cheek ; he followed the grave-digger to the 
 grave — it was covered with a nice green 
 turf, and a rose-bush, the most beautiful 
 Lewis had ever seen, was growing upon 
 it ; a number of buds and full-blown roses 
 gleamed through the dark-green leaves ; a 
 thousand dewdrops hung upon the leaves 
 and flowers, and sparkled in the morning 
 sun. The rose was in most beautiful or- 
 der — not a withered branch, not even a 
 frayed leaf could be discovered upon it. 
 
 Lewis stood a while with clasped hands, 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 51 
 
 and his tears dropped fast upon his father's 
 grave. The sight of the rose, however, 
 was a slight consolation to him, and cheer- 
 ed him somewhat. He prayed silently for 
 a long time, thanked his father for all the 
 affection he had shown him, and prayed 
 that they might meet in heaven. At last, 
 he inquired of the grave-digger who it was 
 that had planted the pretty rose-bush on 
 the grave. 
 
 " Oh !" said the grave-digger, " it was a 
 sweet good girl. It was Miss Louisa, 
 daughter of old Wohlmuth, who was Mr. 
 Alkmar's book-keeper. She was greatly 
 hurt that her dear departed master should 
 not have even a slab to mark his grave. 
 •'O! that w r e were rich!' she said: 'he 
 should have the finest tomb in the whole 
 graveyard ; but, as it is,' she continued 
 sorrowfully, ' I will even do what I can — I 
 will plant a little rose-bush upon the grave. 
 
52 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 Though it be not as costly as marble, it is 
 not a whit less well-meant ; and, perhaps, 
 there is many a generous heart which it 
 may touch, more than if a statue of mar- 
 ble were in its place, especially, when they 
 learn what a noble man he was whose 
 grave it marks. 5 Early in February, she 
 bought a rose-bush, and brought it here. 
 With her tender hands she took the spade, 
 which she borrowed from me, dug up the 
 earth with many a tear, and planted the 
 rose. With her own hands she arranged 
 the green sods, which she carried hither 
 with the assistance of her brothers. You 
 see how far it is from the graveyard to 
 the river ; she often brings water from 
 thence to water the rose ; and she brought 
 an earthen pitcher here for that purpose, 
 which she keeps concealed yonder, under 
 the tombstone. Every Sunday evening, 
 and frequently on week evenings also, she 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 53 
 
 comes here with some of her little broth- 
 ers and sisters, and her tears often bedew 
 the grave. Ay, many a time it went to 
 my heart to see her! There are many 
 who visit their living friends as long as 
 they have any thins; to bestow ; but the 
 old man can no longer give them any 
 thins;, and vet they still come here where 
 his bones repose — they are truly grateful 
 hearts !" 
 
 As Lewis listened with great interest, 
 the grave-digger continued. 
 
 " It would have been happy for honest 
 old Wohlmuth and his family had Alkmar 
 lived longer ; he never would have suffer- 
 ed them to know want ; but it was God's 
 will that both the old man and his worthy 
 son, who is said to have been as s;ood as 
 his father, should leave the world almost 
 at the same time. Never would these 
 
 two good men have thrust their trusty ser- 
 
 5* 
 
54 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 vant, with his wife and children, out of 
 doors, as the hard-hearted heir has done. 
 And, how true it is that ' sorrow never 
 comes alone !' The poor book-keeper had 
 vested his little savings in his master's 
 business, where it was accumulating for 
 him. But the heirs brought all sorts of 
 charges against the good honest man — 
 brought him before the court, charged 
 him with embezzling money, and at last 
 Mr. Pracht sequestrated Wohlmuth's cap- 
 ital. The old man, meanwhile, receives 
 no interest, and in the end will never see 
 his capital more. The daughter's needle 
 is now the sole resource of the numerous 
 family. The father cannot any longer 
 write as well as formerly, for his sight is 
 failing. The mother's health is never 
 quite strong, and the rest of the children 
 are too young to earn much as yet. 
 Meanwhile, however, they get through 
 
 J 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 55 
 
 the world honorably by the daughter's in- 
 dustry, and she embroiders, too, in first- 
 rate style. A few days ago I saw some of 
 her work ; she came here to the grave, 
 
 and then went down to the river for 
 water, to water the rose-bush ; her little 
 sister remained sitting; here, in the mean 
 time, with a small covered basket in her 
 
56 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 lap. As we are all curious, I asked to 
 see what she had in the basket, but the 
 little thing would not let me ; meanwhile, 
 Louisa came back, and the child com- 
 plained of me to her ; Louisa smiled, and 
 showed me a piece of embroidery which 
 she had finished, and was carrying to 
 some noble lady or other, for whom it had 
 been ordered. It was roses embroidered 
 upon white silk, and it is incredible how 
 she could bring it to such perfection with 
 the needle. As I am an honest man, 
 the roses and buds, and even the green 
 leaves, were as beautiful, ay, more beau- 
 tiful than those here upon the bush. 
 They could not be painted more per- 
 fectly !" 
 
 Lewis had listened attentively to the 
 whole story, and then plucked a rose-bud 
 from the tree upon the grave. 
 
 "My kind, dear, lost father!" said he, 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 57 
 
 " I had hoped that on my return to my 
 paternal home thou wouldst press me to 
 thy fatherly heart ; but, alas, it is now 
 mouldering under this turf. I will place 
 in my bosom this rose which has sprung 
 up from thy mortal remains ; let it wither 
 there, as all my joys on earth have wither- 
 ed and decayed !" 
 
 He dropped a tear upon the flower, and 
 placed it upon his heart. 
 
 He then gave the grave-digger, to his 
 great amazement, a gold piece ; asked him 
 to describe the street and the house in the 
 suburb where the Wohlmuth family had 
 taken their little lodgings, and bent his 
 course thither. 
 
58 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE WOHLMUTH FAMILY. 
 
 The report of Lewis's return had al- 
 ready filled the city, and had even pene- 
 trated to Wohlmuth's secluded abode. 
 He went out immediately to seek for 
 more detailed intelligence, and returning 
 overjoyed with a confirmation of the 
 happy tidings, stood telling it all in the 
 middle of his family, forgetting in his joy 
 to lay his hat and stick aside. Louisa 
 sat idle at her embroidery-frame ; the 
 needles of her two little sisters who sat 
 beside her (at other times so industrious) 
 were at rest ; one of the two boys stuck 
 his pen, as he had seen his father do, be- 
 hind his ear; and the other, instead of 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 59 
 
 looking at his book, which lay open before 
 him, sat with his eyes riveted upon his 
 father's face. The mother stood listening 
 for a full quarter of an hour, with the 
 milk-pottage (her children's breakfast) in 
 her hand ; and it never occurred to her 
 that the pottage was cooling, or that it 
 would be more convenient to lay the dish 
 upon the table. Wohlmuth concluded his 
 tale by thanking God aloud, and only re- 
 gretted that he had not been able to find 
 Lewis, and that no one could tell him 
 whither he was gone. It had never oc- 
 curred to the good man to look for him in 
 the churchyard. 
 
 Wohlmuth was still speaking, when the 
 door opened and Lewis walked in. They 
 all, at first, grew pale with joyful alarm, 
 and then burst into tears of joy. The old 
 man ran to him and clasped him, sobbing, 
 to his breast ; the mother and daughter 
 
60 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 seized his hands and bedewed them with 
 tears ; the rest of the children clasped his 
 knees, or hung upon his clothes — they al- 
 most went wild with joy. " Is it you, 
 Lewis ?" cried Louisa. " O Father in 
 heaven, what a happy sight !" 
 
 " Ah, that our dear master were alive to 
 see it !" cried the mother. " Yet still, ye 
 little ones, a new sun is rising for you, 
 w T hich will warm you by its rays, and in 
 which you shall grow and flourish !" 
 
 " I have lived lono; enough now," said 
 the old father. "Now, O Lord, let thy 
 servant depart in peace since my feeble 
 eyes have witnessed this. I am content 
 now, if such be God's holy will, to become 
 blind henceforth." 
 
 At last even the little ones found their 
 speech. " Thanks to God," they cried, 
 " that you are alive once more. But how 
 did you get back out of the sea ?" 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 61 
 
 Fred, who had just been reading about 
 Arion, the harper, whom a large dolphin 
 had taken upon his back and carried safe 
 to land, thought that some such friendly 
 dolphin must have shown the same good 
 
 service to Lewis. Frank, who knew a 
 
 i 
 
 little of natural history, said it was well 
 
 that some whale had not eaten him up ; 
 
 and the little erirls teased him to know if 
 
 he had brought them no pearls or coral out 
 
 of the sea. 
 
 Lewis sat down, and inquired about 
 
 the last days of his beloved father. Wohl- 
 
 muth told him at full length all that he 
 
 knew, and they all wept, for the generous 
 
 man, tears no less genuine than those of 
 
 Lewis himself. The old man then told 
 
 the history of the property, and how harsh, 
 
 selfish, and unfeeling the conduct of the 
 
 heirs, and especially of Mr. Pracht, had 
 
 been. More than ah hour passed, as 
 6 
 
62 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 though it had been but a moment ; Lewis 
 assured them all of his affection, promised 
 to return soon and improve their condi- 
 tion, and then went back to the city, to 
 pay some visits, and to transact some ne- 
 cessary business. 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 63 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. VON" PRACHT AND HIS FAMILY. 
 
 Duetng this time very different scenes 
 were passing in Mr. von Pracht's house ; 
 he, his wife, and his daughter Lucy, to- 
 gether with an old widowed aunt, who had 
 a great name for prudence, spent the whole 
 night together in the ballroom after the 
 luckless banquet, engaged in planning the 
 best course to be pursued. 
 
 " Nothing in the whole world could be 
 more dreadful to me," said Mr. von Pracht, 
 '•' than the return of that lad ; I had rather 
 the house had fallen on our heads and 
 crushed us all to atoms. I am becrsfared 
 if I must give up the property. What we 
 have spent already is twice more than all 
 
G4 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 we were worth before — we have less than 
 nothing — we are worse than beggars. " 
 
 " Oh ! heavens !" exclaimed his wife, 
 " must we sell our four beautiful bays, 
 and must I go on foot to the theatre like 
 the common rabble ? I can never endure 
 that." 
 
 " You shall be saved the trouble of go- 
 ing there at all," her husband answered ; 
 " we must now support ourselves for a 
 whole week on what the theatre would 
 cost for one night." 
 
 The tears stood in Lucy's eyes, as she 
 gazed anxiously on her diamond ring. 
 " Oh, dear !" said she, " must I part with 
 this beautiful ring ? No, no, young Alk- 
 mar will be gallant enough — he will even 
 be proud to leave me his mother's orna- 
 ment, since it has once come into my pos- 
 session." 
 
 "Sillv creature," her father retorted, 
 
, THE ROSE-BUSH. 65 
 
 "how can you feed yourself with such 
 hopes ? Ring and jewels, and gold and 
 silver, and house and gardens, and capital, 
 all must be given up — all is over with us." 
 " What good can repining do ?" asked 
 the aunt, assuming her wisest air. " I 
 have a plan : a marriage may set all 
 things right ; marriages often bring not 
 
 DO- 7 O O 
 
 only comedies but even the fiercest wars 
 to a happy issue. What if our Lucy 
 should marry young Alkmar, and thus 
 things could go on smoothly in the old 
 course r 
 
 Mr. von Pracht shook his head pen- 
 sively. Mrs. von Pracht said he would 
 scarcely marry a young lady without a 
 fortune ; but the vain daughter exclaimed, 
 with an air of triumph, " Be not alarmed, 
 dear mother ; before four weeks are over 
 he will be kneeling at my feet and begging 
 
 the honor of my hand. It is true, he is 
 
 6* 
 
G6 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 somewhat too grave, and (shall I say it ?) 
 too old-fashioned, and rusty in his tastes. 
 That was his character long before he 
 went to England. He is very exact, and 
 is not the man to allow much indulgence 
 to a wife ; still he is a handsome man, 
 and, as matters stand, I see there is no 
 chance left but to bite the apple, sour as 
 it is." 
 
 Being better acquainted with the fables 
 of Pagan mythology, than with the pre- 
 cepts of the Christian religion, she had ap- 
 peared at the ball in the character of 
 Flora — the goddess of flowers — and had 
 decked herself gorgeously with artificial 
 flowers of every hue, and costly jewellery. 
 She stood before the glass, viewing herself 
 with an air of the greatest complacency, 
 and exclaimed, ' ; The thing is all settled ! 
 He can never resist me !" 
 
 Morn was just breaking before they re- 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 67 
 
 tired to rest ; but though they were ac- 
 customed to such hours, they were too 
 much agitated now to be able to sleep. 
 In a few hours' time they were together 
 again, consulting on what was best to be 
 done. 
 
 They resolved to excuse as well as 
 they could the strange reception they 
 gave Alkmar yesterday, by urging their 
 great fright, on seeing what they thought 
 was an apparition, which froze up all their 
 feelings ; they were now to melt down 
 into kindness, and to load him with flat- 
 teries. Mr. von Pracht was just pro- 
 posing a splendid banquet in honor of the 
 happy return — when Lewis himself sud- 
 denly entered. All rose and ran to meet 
 him, and made most extravagant demon- 
 strations of joy for his wonderful return. 
 The aunt told him of the great banquet 
 intended for his honor; and Mr. von 
 
68 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 Pracht affected to be displeased with her, 
 for having robbed him of the happiness of 
 giving young Alkmar an agreeable sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Lewis did not reject the proposal ; but 
 he insisted expressly that he himself should 
 be the host, and that he should have full 
 liberty to invite any friends he might 
 think proper. He required, moreover, 
 that the festival should be deferred a fort- 
 night at least, as he wished to devote that 
 time to filial sorrow for his beloved father; 
 and then to have it followed by another 
 festival, on which all the affections of his 
 heart and the happiness of his future life 
 were set. 
 
 Mr. von Pracht and his wife readily as- 
 sented to these arrangements, and Lucy, 
 with a sly look, whispered in her aunt's 
 ear, " Do you notice any thing ?" From 
 that moment her attentions to young Alk- 
 
THE RO^E-BU^H. 60 
 
 mar were so marked, and indeed obtrusive, 
 that whether he would or not, he could 
 not but hold her in the most hearty con- 
 tempt. Still, for the present, he strove to 
 repress his feelings, and the vain young 
 woman regarded her conquest as secure, 
 looking forward to the coming festival as 
 her bridal day. 
 
70 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 L.OUISA WOHLMUTH. 
 
 The morning of the eventful day at 
 length arrived. Towards evening Lewis 
 visited the old book-keeper's cottage, and 
 invited him, his wife, and his daughter, to 
 take a walk. Louisa asked a few mo- 
 ments to dress, but he insisted that she 
 should go as she was — dressed in her plain, 
 simple check gown. 
 
 When they approached the churchyard, 
 Lewis said they should go in and see his 
 father's grave. Louisa's heart throbbed. 
 Lewis had not as yet said one word re- 
 garding the rose-tree, and the modest girl 
 was afraid that he would now discover 
 how grateful she had been, and what rev- 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 71 
 
 ere nee and love she had shown to his fa- 
 ther's memory. Walking up to the grave 
 with them, he took off his hat, and re- 
 mained for a considerable time standing in 
 silence. All were silent — nothing was 
 heard save the whispering of the evening 
 breeze through the leaves of the rose-tree, 
 or the rustling of a fallen leaf as it rolled 
 over the grave. The tears stood in their 
 eyes. 
 
 At length, Lewis, in a tone of the deep- 
 est emotion, addressing Louisa, said, " The 
 first ray of comfort that fell on my soul, 
 when I had heard of my father's death, 
 arose from the sight of that rose-tree, which 
 your hands planted here. I respected your 
 excellent disposition from my earliest youth 
 — I learned now to value them more high- 
 ly than ever. You have always taken an 
 interest in my welfare, and your rapturous 
 joy for my safe return, has clearly proved 
 
72 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 the sincerity of your feelings. It is now a 
 fortnight since we met ; and during that 
 time, my feelings can scarcely have re- 
 mained a secret to you — what I am going 
 to say cannot surprise you. Were my 
 father alive now, I would lead you into his 
 presence, and say to him, ' Here is the 
 chosen companion of my life — give us 
 your blessing ;' but since he is dead, I 
 bring you, dearest Louisa, to his grave, 
 which is a sacred spot for you as well as 
 for me, and here, I beg the happiness of 
 your hand, and the blessing of your vir- 
 tuous parents." 
 
 Old Wohlmuth, who had never dreamed 
 of such good fortune, was so surprised that 
 he could not utter a syllable. The mother 
 burst into a flood of tears. Louisa herself 
 was at once amazed, and almost overpow- 
 ered with joy. " Do you forget, Lewis," 
 at length stammered Wohlmuth, " do you 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 73 
 
 forget that you are worth almost, a million 
 of money, and that this poor child has 
 nothing — absolutely nothing ?" 
 
 " If you have no objection/' said Lewis, 
 "I, for my part, am perfectly happy. You 
 see that I have made no account of money 
 in making my choice ; and, in truth, the 
 hundredth part of what I have, would be 
 more than enough to support us happily. 
 My father always taught me to value vir- 
 tue more than money ; but it was only 
 when I was thrown upon the wide sea, 
 that I became fully convinced that virtue 
 is better than gold. Louisa's heart is worth 
 more than a million." He then plucked a 
 rose and put it in her hair. " These flow- 
 ers," said he, " with which she has decked 
 my father's grave, shall be her bridal or- 
 nament — they are portion enough. Dear 
 parents, give us your blessing." 
 
 The father and mother were so deeply 
 
74 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 moved, that they could scarcely articulate 
 their blessing. " God bless you, dear chil- 
 dren ! what happiness has He not kept for 
 our old age ! How good He is to us ! 
 May you both be ever as happy as we are 
 now! 
 
 " Louisa," continued Lewis, " here, in 
 presence of my father's grave, I promise 
 to love and honor you until death, and 
 when we are dead, may our children stand 
 over our graves with the same tears of 
 gratitude, which we now shed over this." 
 Louisa fell weeping upon his breast. 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 75 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 LUCY VON PRACHT. 
 
 Lewis's heart was so full that he scarce- 
 ly spoke a word, as he returned with Lou- 
 isa and her parents to his father's house. 
 " I am expected here," said he. " Is it not 
 a pity that I must interrupt the calm sor- 
 rows and delicious pleasures of this eve- 
 ning, bv mingling with a disagreeable com- 
 pany ? But my word is pledged ; I must 
 be there, and you must accompany me." 
 
 Lewis entered the festive hall, with 
 Louisa leaning on his arm, and followed 
 by her parents. The hall was brilliantly 
 lighted, and adorned with garlands of flow- 
 ers. The music struck up to welcome 
 them ; but Louisa on Lewis's arm, was 
 
76 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 an apparition as astounding to the proud 
 family of the Prachts, as his own unex- 
 pected apparition a fortnight ago in the 
 ballroom. Mr. von Pracht muttered a 
 terrible oath. 
 
 " What brings them here ?" he cried. 
 " The lawsuit, I suppose. They have ap- 
 pealed to his pity, and he drags them here 
 with him now. Oh, that I had thrown 
 some charity-money to that churl, Wohl- 
 muth, and I had got rid of him forever. ' 
 
 Mrs. von Pracht gnashed her teeth, and 
 was almost suffocated with rage. " How 
 intolerable," said she, " to bring a common 
 seamstress here, and in the dress too of 
 the lowest beggar. I fear so strange and 
 singular a son-in-law can never possess 
 his mother-in-law's love." 
 
 Her daughter, Lucy, was pale with 
 rage ; she was decked out in glittering 
 diamonds, nodding plumes, and silvered 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 77 
 
 robes wreathed with flowers ; she stood 
 prouder than a princess, near the poor 
 young woman, who was dressed in her 
 plain linen gown, and who, as she stood 
 by Lucy, was abashed and almost over- 
 powered when the lordly splendor and 
 pomp of the hall burst on her view. 
 
 " What an absurdity !" the old aunt 
 said ; " the laborer's daughter, who does 
 not know how to conduct herself, had 
 much better remain where she was. Look 
 how she stands — the very image of a wo- 
 man that lives by her wheel, or of a beg- 
 gar asking alms." Still she gave Lucy a 
 hint to salute the poor stranger kindly. 
 
 The music had prevented this conver- 
 sation from being overheard bv Lewis. 
 But the aunt told every word of it next 
 day to her kind friends, who published it 
 through the town. 
 
 Lewis advancing into the hall gave a 
 
78 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 sign to the musicians, and the music 
 ceased. He still had Louisa on his arm, 
 and as she was on his right, Miss Pracht 
 was obliged, to her evident mortification, 
 to take her place on the left. Louisa's 
 father and mother stood near her, and 
 Mr. von Pracht, his wife, and the old aunt 
 near her rival. The rest of the gay com- 
 pany stood in a circle around them. 
 
 Mr. von Pracht was the first to break 
 silence. 
 
 " I know, my dear Alkmar," said he, 
 " why you bring these good people here. 
 It is on account of the lawsuit that I had 
 with them. I am very sorry — extremely 
 sorry, indeed, that I ever had any dispute 
 with the worthy Mr. Wohlmuth. But a 
 hint from you, Mr. Alkmar, is enough. 
 The lawsuit is given up. This very eve- 
 ning I will pay the money in dispute. Hol- 
 loa, there — call my cashier!" 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 79 
 
 "If you please, Mr. Pracht, that is no 
 longer your affair, but mine. Mr. Wohl- 
 muth shall certainly get his own. But 
 that was not my reason for introducing 
 here these excellent and amiable persons. 
 My motive was of a very different kind, 
 as you shall soon know. Where do you 
 think I have been a few moments ago ? 
 Would you believe that we have returned, 
 just as you see us, from my dear father's 
 grave ?" Mr. von Pracht grew pale, and 
 had almost broken out with the impreca- 
 tion, " Have all the evil spirits conspired 
 against us to-day ?" But he succeeded 
 in controlling his fury, and said, as if in 
 the deepest affliction, " It is, indeed, a 
 shame for me that I have not executed 
 my intention of raising a splendid monu- 
 ment to your father, that noble and worthy 
 man. What a gratification it would have 
 been for me to surprise so excellent a son 
 
80 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 with a monument really worthy of so ad- 
 mirable a parent! But these artists are 
 self-willed people — there is no getting any 
 thing out of their hands. And I must 
 confess, too, that I have had a hard stand 
 with my relatives, the coheirs of the prop- 
 erty. They would not leave to me alone 
 the honor of erecting the monument, and 
 then, on the other hand, my designs (which 
 were for a monument of truly regal mag- 
 nificence) appeared to them too gigantic 
 and too costly.'"' 
 
 " Ah," simpered Lucy, " would that the 
 monument, as I have often urged upon 
 them, were speedily finished, and in sump- 
 tuous Carrara marble ! Well did the dear 
 man deserve the most splendid that could 
 be raised ! How often have I visited the 
 holy spot where his ashes repose ! It is 
 but two days since I was there, and 
 wept tears of silent sorrow." 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 81 
 
 The last words she said with an af- 
 fected tone., covering her eves with her 
 white pocket-handkerchief, as if she were 
 really weeping. 
 
 Every feeling of Lewis's heart revolted 
 at the hideous lies of Mr. von Pracht, and, 
 still more, at his daughter's hypocrisy. 
 
 " I am glad to hear that you were at 
 the grave so lately," said he, ''"'for you 
 must have seen the little monument which 
 is already there. I was delighted with 
 it. How did you like it ? I should be 
 very glad to hear your opinion of it, and 
 to admire your taste." 
 
 The wretched girl grew red and pale by 
 turns. 
 
 " I was," she faltered, " I don't know — 
 it must be — " 
 
 She paused abruptly. A most painful 
 silence followed this fatal exposure. Lucy 
 could have crept under the earth for 
 
82 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 shame ; and, even the aunt could not de- 
 vise a new lie, to smooth over the lie of 
 her shame-stricken niece. She could only 
 say, in her own mind, " The man is a 
 perfect mar-sport. At our last ball, he 
 played us the confounded trick of coming 
 upon us so completely unannounced, that 
 we took him for a ghost ; and, now he 
 comes straight from a graveyard, talks of 
 graves and tombstones, and brings three 
 goblins along with him ; for, in their mis- 
 erable trim, they do not look much bet- 
 ter." 
 
 She did her best, however, to cover her 
 niece's confusion. " I think you must be 
 mistaken, my dear," said she, " it is longer 
 than that since you were there. You 
 must have meant a day or two earlier, 1 
 think, before Mr. Alkmar could possibly 
 have got the monument put up." 
 
 " You are, yourself, equally mistaken, 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. S3 
 
 madam," said Lewis ; " I assure you.. Lucy 
 could never possibly have been there, not 
 even once ; nor could you yourself, or 
 Mr. or Mrs. Pracht, without observing 
 the monument, which has now been sev- 
 eral months there ; and, to speak openly, 
 as becomes an honest man,'' he continued 
 in a serious and cutting tone, '''it grieves 
 me to the soul, Mr. Pracht, to find that 
 you have not raised even a stone to my 
 father, who had so many claims on the re- 
 spect of his fellow-citizens ; and who, as 
 you imagined, had left you such an im- 
 mense sum of money. This is pushing 
 thoughtlessness, ingratitude, and insensi- 
 bility, to too great an extreme. As for 
 you, Miss Pracht, I shall not put you 
 further to shame by any remark on vour 
 gratuitous and disingenuous hypocrisv. 
 They cover you with a deformity which 
 all your charms and arts cannot conceal !" 
 
S4 THE ROSE-BUSH, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 " I observe," said Lewis, turning to the 
 rest of the party, " I observe in this nu- 
 merous, though not altogether well- assorted 
 assembly, many sincere friends of my late 
 father. I recognise many dear friends of 
 my own, who have loved and esteemed 
 me from my childhood. I am deeply 
 touched by the interest which you have 
 taken in my return ; and I thank you for 
 your kindness, in honoring with your 
 presence this festival, which is intended to 
 welcome me to my home. I must inform 
 you, however, that this festival is a very 
 important one in another respect — it is 
 the evening of my betrothal ; and I have 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. S5 
 
 now the honor to present to you, my 
 bride — Miss Louisa Wohlmuth." 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen from a cloud- 
 less sky into the circle, it could not have 
 caused more excitement among the bv- 
 standers. Mr. Pracht and his wife be- 
 came as pale as death — Lucy cried with 
 rage, shame, and vexation. Even the 
 aunt, with all her finesse, could not con- 
 ceal her mortification — she could not get 
 out a word but monosyllables. " She !" 
 she cried, and remained with her mouth 
 wide open. " So !" she continued, drawl- 
 ing out the word longer than the longest 
 note in music. " Ah ! see, see ! well, 
 well, I wish you joy !" 
 
 "Almost every one present," said Lewis, 
 " seems to be amazed at my choice ; and 
 perhaps another, placed here in my posi- 
 tion, between these two young ladies, 
 
 would have chosen differently. It is pos- 
 
 8 
 
SG THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 sible that all the splendor of this richly 
 adorned lady might blind him, and that 
 he might scarce bestow even a pitying 
 glance on the poor modest girl in this 
 humble check gown. But for my part, I 
 find nothing to admire in these waving 
 plumes, these flowers, these glittering 
 spangles ; nor can I conceive how a ra- 
 tional man can admire a person more, on 
 account of such idle frippery. The sim- 
 ple natural rose in Louisa's hair, has more 
 value in my eyes, than all these sparkling 
 diamonds. For, let me tell you, it was 
 this bride of mine, who planted the rose- 
 bush on my father's grave, and gave me 
 so convincing a proof of her noble heart. 
 It was that rose-bush that laid the founda- 
 tion of this marriage/* 
 
 He told the whole story, and contin- 
 ued — 
 
 " How was it possible, that I should not 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 87 
 
 prefer this generous grateful soul who, in 
 addition to these qualities, had been main- 
 taining her poor parents and family by 
 her industry, to another, in whose soul the 
 noblest feelings — respect for virtue, grati- 
 tude, modesty, quiet industry — are stran- 
 gers ? How was it possible that I should 
 not choose the pious, unassuming, virtuous 
 Louisa, in preference to one, whose sole 
 concern is the desire of admiration, pas- 
 sion for show, and idle ostentation — who 
 seeks but for enjoyment — despises and 
 scorns every domestic joy — and could not 
 fail to make a husband miserable? I feel 
 that I have chosen aright. Ay, if I stood 
 at Miss Pracht's side, myself as poor as 
 she now is, and were she covered with 
 diamonds, and did she bring me moun- 
 tains of gold as her dowry, still I would 
 not choose her. It is only a noble heart 
 that gives value to the character. He 
 
88 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 who finds this, has found all. And I 
 trust, under God's help, to be unspeakably 
 happy." 
 
 " I have spoken," added he, after a few 
 moments' pause, " with more warmth, per- 
 haps, than I should have done. But if 
 what I have said is not courteous, it is 
 nevertheless true. Falsehood, dissimula- 
 tion, and hypocrisy are an abomination to 
 my soul. But to change the subject — as 
 this house and my whole property, (the 
 greatest part of which is still in Mr. 
 Pracht's hands.) have now reverted to 
 me, and are again at my sole disposal, I 
 hasten to make use of my right of hospi- 
 tality — and beg to welcome with all my 
 heart, all of you, who feel with me, and 
 to request that you will spend this evening 
 with me." 
 
 v All his father's old friends loudly ap- 
 plaud ;d Lewis's sentiments, and advanced 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 89 
 
 to offer him their welcome and congratu- 
 lations. The cry, " Long live the bride- 
 groom and bride, Lewis and Louisa !" 
 rose simultaneously from them all, and 
 was joyously echoed by the trumpets and 
 kettle-drums. But the Prachts, with their 
 aunt and the other relatives, slunk silently 
 away, and now felt bitterly that dishonor- 
 able sentiments bring no roses in their 
 train. 
 
 Lewis, with his bride and her parents, 
 spent a delightful evening among his gen- 
 erous-minded friends. They were so 
 happy, that no one even ;hought of dan- 
 cing, and the ball was entirely forgotten ; 
 and, when at Lewis's regular hour, ten 
 o'clock, they all rose from table, he ap- 
 pointed the day for his wedding, and in- 
 vited them all to be present at the fes- 
 tivity. 
 
 The marriage was perfectly happy 
 
90 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 " That rose-bush," he would often say, 
 " had no thorns for me — nothing but the 
 sweetest roses. Had not you, dear Louisa, 
 been so grateful as to plant it on my 
 father's grave, we had never been so 
 happy !" 
 
 "And had not you," would Louisa re- 
 ply, "loved your father so dutifully, and 
 visited his grave so soon, your relatives 
 would soon have raised a monument in 
 the place of the rose-bush, and perhaps we 
 might never have met one another!" 
 
 "Your generous dispositions, dearest 
 children," said her mother, " were the 
 origin of all our happiness. Such dis- 
 positions always bring roses, and at every 
 season." 
 
 "And had not God," concluded her 
 father, "disposed this so happily, we 
 should never have been so fortunate. It 
 was He who laid the foundation of all our 
 
THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 91 
 
 good fortune : under His directing hand, 
 all these countless joys have sprung from 
 a single little rose-bush !" 
 
93 
 
 THE SCREECH-OWL. 
 By Mrs. Mart Howitt. 
 
 Pray thee, Owl. what art thou doing, 
 With that dolefulest tu-whoo-ing ? 
 Dark the night is, dark and dreary, 
 Never a little star shines cheery ; 
 Wild north winds come up the hollow, 
 And the pelting rain doth follow ; 
 And the trees, the tempest braving, 
 To and fro are wildly waving! 
 Every living thing is creeping 
 To its den, and silence keeping, 
 Saving thou, the night hallooing 
 With thy dismalest tu-whoo-ing! 
 
 Pr'y thee, Owl, what is't thou'rt saying, 
 So terrific and dismaying ? 
 
94 THE SCREECH-OWL. 
 
 Dost thou speak of loss and ruin, 
 In that ominous tu-whoo-ing ? 
 While the tempest yet was stiller, 
 Homeward rode the kindly miller, 
 With his drenched meal-sacks o'er him, 
 And his little son before him ; 
 Dripping wet, yet loud in laughter, 
 Rode the jolly hunters after; 
 And sore wet, and blown, and wildern, 
 Went a huddling group of children ; 
 But each, through the tempest's pother, 
 Got home safely to its mother. 
 
 Hoot away, then, an' it cheer thee, 
 Only I and darkness hear thee, 
 Screech-Owl ! and we'll fear no ruin, 
 Spite thy ominous tu-whoo-ing! 
 
There is nothing I would not give to have nnrfc 
 a "bird in our room in winter " — Page 105. 
 

 < f&artin ora/n-H 
 
 WAS a. gallant 
 soldier, who had 
 served a number 
 of years, made 
 many campaigns, 
 and fought hon- 
 orably for his country. When he re- 
 turned home from the wars, he found that 
 
 ■■ 
 
98 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 his poor parents were dead. They had 
 left him nothing but an old rickety house 
 and a little orchard. The brave man 
 now found himself in a very wretched 
 situation ; his wounds rendered all se- 
 vere labor impossible ; he was very mel- 
 ancholy ; and considered earnestly night 
 and day how to earn an honest liveli- 
 hood. One day, in the neighboring for- 
 est, he remarked that the old stumps 
 and roots of the maple-trees that had 
 been cut down, presented some very 
 beautiful pieces of streaked and varie- 
 gated wood, but were little esteemed, or 
 rotted useless in the ground. He im- 
 mediately set to work to make pipe- 
 heads and tobacco boxes out of this 
 wood, and soon brought them to ex- 
 traordinary perfection : the pipe-heads, 
 which were neatly cut out of the pret- 
 tiest wood, and beautifully polished, 
 
THE REDBREAST. 99 
 
 were specially admired, and met with a 
 rapid sale. Many gentlemen of high 
 station preferred these pipe-heads, when 
 mounted in silver, even to Meerschaum 
 ones. 
 
 The industrious man labored unwea- 
 riedly the whole week in his workshop, 
 or in carrying home maple from the 
 wood, and dressed no better than a com- 
 mon laborer, while thus engaged. But 
 on Sunday he appeared in his green 
 uniform with red facings, and with his 
 silver medal on his breast ; and went 
 early, leaning on his corporal's staff, (as 
 his foot was somewhat lame,) with meas- 
 ured steps to church, and in the evening 
 for an hour, or at most two, to see his 
 friends. He still had something martial 
 in his appearance and countenance, and 
 continued to wear his mustachios. He 
 was much esteemed for his uprightness, 
 
100 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 intelligence, and regularity ; and, by his 
 industry and prudent economy, he ac- 
 quired a very respectable competence. 
 For he was not one of those who, when 
 they establish a good business, immedi- 
 ately begin to expend, and think that it 
 will ever continue so. Amongst other 
 things he improved his old wooden house, 
 which a wealthy friend had caused to be 
 pulled down and rebuilt ; and he ar- 
 ranged it so, that he lived very happily 
 and conveniently in it ; and it looked very 
 well with its deep brown wood, its new 
 round panes, and the shining lead of the 
 frames, amidst the high pear-trees and 
 wide-spreading apple-trees of the or- 
 chard. He got married, and brought up 
 his children, a son and daughter, ad- 
 mirably, and provided very well for them. 
 " He who is not wanting in industry," 
 said he often, " will never want for bread. 
 
THE REDBREAST. 101 
 
 Even the most insignificant craft can 
 support a man. Do your duty faithfully, 
 and trust in God, and God will do his 
 part, and will not suffer you to want his 
 aid, which is so necessary." 
 
 When honest Martin Frank had at- 
 tained a tolerable old age, and his good 
 and faithful wife was no more, the gallant 
 old soldier looked after his house himself, 
 and without employing a house-maid. 
 At the same time he took his grandson to 
 live with him, a lively blooming boy, who 
 had been christened Martin in honor of 
 his grandfather. Little Martin loved his 
 grandfather with his whole heart and soul, 
 and did every thing to please him, divining 
 his wishes from his very looks. His 
 grandfather made use of him as an as- 
 sistant in his trade, and at their work, 
 related to him sometimes merry, some- 
 times fearful, tales of his campaigns, from 
 
 Lr 
 
102 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 which, however, he always drew some 
 good moral. 
 
 The grandfather often spent whole 
 days in the woods, selecting maple roots 
 and stumps, and bringing them home. 
 He always took his grandson with him, 
 and these were the happiest days of the 
 boy's life. He never was so happy as in 
 the woods. His grandfather taught him 
 the names of all the trees there, and the 
 qualities and uses of the different kinds. 
 "We can never sufficiently thank our 
 good God," said he, among other things, 
 "that He has caused the great trees to 
 grow up around us. Had He not given 
 us trees, we should have been sadly off. 
 The firs and the pines yonder on the 
 mountain afford us beams, planks, and 
 laths : our whole house is built of fir ; 
 and even the tables and chairs, chests 
 and bedsteads, are made of it. The fir 
 
THE REDBREAST. 103 
 
 certainly is somewhat soft ; but other 
 trees, such as the oak and beech yonder, 
 have very firm hard wood. If our wheel- 
 barrow here were not made of such hard 
 wood, it would not last long ; nay, with- 
 out hard wood, we could not even have 
 a durable handle for our tools. It is a 
 very beautiful provision, too, that each 
 kind of wood has a peculiar color ; red, 
 or brown, or yellow, and thus they serve 
 for all sorts of nice furniture. But the 
 wood of the maple is veined like marble, 
 and it is so close, that you cannot distin- 
 guish the fibres of the wood, for which 
 reason we can make it into such fine 
 articles. We cannot, it is true, eat the 
 fruit of forest trees ; but nevertheless 
 these trees support many thousand in- 
 dustrious men, who earn their livelihood 
 by working in wood. We, too, owe our 
 living to the maple-tree. So wisely has 
 
104 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 God disposed all things. We must rec- 
 ognise his wisdom and goodness in all 
 things, and ever cherish a grateful heart 
 towards him." 
 
 Little Martin was delighted beyond 
 measure with the birds in the wood and 
 their sweet songs. " Grandfather," said 
 he, " may we not catch one and take it 
 home to the house ?" 
 
 "Nay," answered his grandfather, "that 
 must not be." 
 
 "Why not?" said the child; "they 
 sing delightfully. In the house we might 
 always hear them sing." 
 
 " You can hear them singing here in 
 the wood," said his grandfather ; " it 
 sounds far better here. The poor birds 
 that men catch so cruelly, seldom live 
 long, and often perish by their neglect." 
 
 One fine harvest day, however, in 
 autumn, the grandfather and his grand- 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 105 
 
 son were seated in a sunny opening of 
 the wood at their humble dinner, which 
 the boy had as usual brought with him in 
 a basket. A robin redbreast came and 
 picked up the crumbs scattered about. 
 The little fellow was delighted with it. 
 " What a very pretty bird !" exclaimed he 
 to his grandfather, speaking low, how- 
 ever, in order not to disturb it. " There 
 is nothing I would not give to have such 
 a bird in our room during the winter." — 
 " And so you may," answered his grand- 
 father : " the robin is a very tame bird, 
 and willingly dwells with man. Perhaps 
 it would rather pass the winter under a 
 roof, than in the open air." His grand- 
 father then taught the boy how to catch 
 one. 
 
 Little Martin ran every day, for a 
 w T hole week, to the wood, to see if there 
 was not a robin caught. But he alwavs 
 
106 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 came home empty-handed, and had al- 
 most given up all hopes of getting one. 
 At last, one day he came running home 
 full of joy. " Grandfather," he cried, 
 " see, I have one at last ! Oh look at his 
 beautiful little bright black eyes, and 
 what a lovely yellow red his breast is ! 
 1 am not sorry now for all my care and 
 trouble." He let the bird fly in the room, 
 and his delight was vet greater when he 
 perceived that it was not afraid, but 
 snapped up the flies about the room, ate 
 the grated yellow turnips mixed with 
 flour out of the little green earthenware 
 trough, and washed himself in the water 
 bowl. Martin brought a fresh green little 
 pine, from the wood, and fixed it in the 
 corner of the room. The bird immedi- 
 ately flew to it. " Aha !" exclaimed Mar- 
 tin, " he knows his place. How lively 
 he hops from branch to branch ! How 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 107 
 
 roguishly he looks out from between the 
 branches, and how prettily his red breast 
 contrasts with their dark green !" The 
 robin soon became quite well acquainted 
 with him, would pick the flies off his 
 fingers, sit on the edge of his plate, and 
 eat with him, and soon came to relish 
 potatoes exceedingly. He often went out 
 of the open window into the garden, 
 hopped about the hedge singing, but al- 
 ways came back of his own accord. The 
 bird was the source of a thousand pleas- 
 ures to Martin — and when he first began 
 to sing, Martin held his breath, and list- 
 ened with such delight to the low, lively 
 twitter, that no prince ever heard a first- 
 rate flute-player with more pleasure. 
 
 His grandfather's name-feast came 
 round again. The grandfather looked, 
 one Sunday evening, in the almanac, and 
 said, " Ah ! how time slips away ! Next 
 
 2* 
 
108 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 Tuesday is Saint Martin's day. How 
 different since last year. Then my dear 
 Elizabeth was alive, and we ate together 
 the Martinmas goose which she had spe- 
 cially i'atted for my festival. But now — 
 
 it will be a sad festival. Nothing is right 
 when there is no housewife to look after 
 the household. We cannot even observe 
 the good old custom of eating a goose on 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 109 
 
 St. Martin's nia^ht : I had forgotten it, 
 
 and it is now too late." He put on his 
 green uniform in rather low spirits, and 
 went to the Golden Eagle, where on 
 Sunday evenings he sometimes read the 
 newspaper to the peasants, and related 
 his campaigning adventures to them. 
 
 The grandfather had scarcely left the 
 house, when young Adolphus, the son of 
 the Lord of Waldberg, who lived in the 
 castle on the hill, entered the door to 
 order a pair of pipe-bowls according to 
 the pattern he carried. Little Martin 
 was just then playing with his robin, 
 which had flown on to his finger, and 
 was picking some bruised hemp-seed from 
 his hand. 
 
 "What will you take for the bird?" 
 said Adolphus. "It is very tame ; I will 
 buy it. from you." — " I set great value on 
 him," answered Martin, stroking the bird's 
 
110 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 feathers with the finger of his othei 
 hand ; " I cannot sell him for any price." 
 But the rich young gentleman begged 
 again and again, and offered him a florin. 
 Then the thought struck Martin that for 
 a florin he might buy a goose, and so 
 afford his grandfather an unexpected 
 pleasure. He therefore gave the bird to 
 the young gentleman, charging and beg- 
 ging him most earnestly to treat the 
 gentle little creature well. " Take good 
 care," said he, " that the cats in the castle 
 do not get near him ; and lest they should, 
 do not cut his wings." 
 
 Martin now went from house to house 
 to find a goose for sale. A farmer's 
 wife had one fat goose left ; but she 
 said she could not sell it for less than a 
 crown. Martin said sorrowfully, that he 
 had no more than a florin, and told how 
 he had sold his bird, in order to provide 
 
THE REDBREAST. HI 
 
 a treat for his grandfather. This pleased 
 the woman. " Well," said she, " for your 
 love for your grandfather, you shall have 
 the goose for a florin." 
 
 Martin thanked her joyfully, and said 
 he would come for the goose the next 
 evening. 
 
 The evening before the long-expected 
 feast, little Martin came solemnly with 
 the well-fatted goose under his arm into 
 the room, repeated a salutation to his 
 grandfather, which, at Martin's earnest 
 request, the schoolmaster had composed 
 in pretty verse, but which the goose, to 
 the boy's great annoyance, several times 
 interrupted with its gabbling. At the 
 end of the speech, Martin, with a low 
 bow, offered his grandfather the goose as 
 a gift for his feast-day. 
 
 The old man, who was a great stickler 
 for honesty, at first was not pleased. 
 
 ^MH 
 
112 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 He had some suspicions, and spoke to 
 the boy very sharply. " Where did you 
 get the goose, or the money for it ?" 
 exclaimed he with great earnestness, 
 standing up from his arm-chair, and rais- 
 ing his hazel stick with a threatening air. 
 He still could wield the corporal's stick 
 right well, though he had had no need to 
 use it with his good-hearted, obedient 
 nephew. Martin was silent. " Where 
 did you get it ?" repeated the old man in 
 his deep expressive tones ; " tell me !" 
 Martin recounted the sale of his dear 
 robin. His grandfather was much touched, 
 and wiped aw T ay a tear from his musta- 
 chios, which had fallen during the rela- 
 tion. "Bravo!" he exclaimed, "you have 
 done well. I am delighted that you love 
 your grandfather so much. Martin's night 
 will yet be a joyful feast for me — a real 
 festival for my heart. Go now and put 
 
THE REDBREAST 
 
 113 
 
 the goose for the present into the empty 
 coop." 
 
 As the lad turned away, the grand- 
 father said to himself, " That boy has a 
 heart that is worth more than gold. 
 What he has done is an act worthy of 
 St. Martin. St. Martin gave half his 
 cloak to the beggar ; but this lad gave 
 away his whole delight to gratify his 
 grandfather. My holy Patron will not 
 take it amiss, that I should say that this 
 boy has done almost more than holy 
 Martin, who, if I remember right, was a 
 soldier too ! The boy will yet be a great 
 man." 
 
 The grandfather, who in his campaigns 
 had often cooked, and still exercised his 
 skill, prepared himself this unusual dish, 
 and during the dinner gave the nicest 
 part to his grandson. Whilst they were 
 sitting at table, there came, quite unex- 
 
114 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 pectedly, a servant from the castle with 
 a bottle of wine, and said that his master 
 and mistress had learned from the young 
 Baron Adolphus, how little Martin had 
 sold his pretty robin to buy a goose for 
 his grandfather's day ; and that they sent 
 the corporal a glass of wine to drink with 
 it, and wished him the compliments of his 
 feast. The old man felt much gratified 
 by this favor, and little Martin too re- 
 joiced that his robin had procured his 
 grandfather not only a roast goose, but 
 also a draught of good wine besides. 
 
 Poor Martin, however, missed his dear 
 little bird sadly ; he could hardly bear to 
 look at the fir-tree which stood solitary 
 and deserted in the corner of the room. 
 One evening the grandfather and his 
 grandson were sitting round the fire. As 
 the sky was cloudy, it was dark earlier 
 than usual, and they had therefore lit the 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 115 
 
 fire the sooner. It was a very bitter 
 November evening ; it snowed and rained 
 together ; the storm whistled and roared 
 as though it would carry their cotta.ge 
 away. On a sudden little Martin ex- 
 claimed, " Oh ! there's a bird at the win- 
 dow ; he is pecking against the glass as if 
 he wanted to be let in." He opened the 
 window — the bird flew in— and who can 
 describe the boy's joy when in the bird 
 he recognised his beloved robin ! He 
 had tied a thread of red silk round its 
 foot, by which he would have known it, 
 even if he did not otherwise recognise it. 
 " Oh, you dear little fellow," exclaimed 
 he, " so you have come back ! You have 
 not forgotten your Martin. How did 
 you find out our house again ? Do you 
 love this humble roof better than the 
 stately castle 1 Well, well, we too have 
 
 a warm room here for winter, warm 
 
 3 
 
11(5 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 soup, to eat our fill, and, what is better 
 than all, a light heart. And who need 
 wish for more ?" 
 
 He stretched out his hand, and the bird 
 flew to him. " Would you not like," said 
 he, " to stay here 1 But you don't under- 
 stand any better : Alas ! I cannot keep 
 you here ; that were but to steal you. I 
 must — must take you back again. Ah," 
 sighed he, and he pressed the little bird 
 to his moist cheek, " you don't know how 
 hard it is for me to part with you ; but it 
 must be." 
 
 " Bravo, boy !" said his grandfather, 
 " that is right ; that is your duty. Take 
 the bird back therefore, at once ; else it 
 will be harder for you to do so. What 
 is not ours should never stay a night 
 under our roof. And make haste to be 
 back before it becomes quite night." 
 
 Martin took his new fur cap, which 
 
THE REDBREAST. 117 
 
 his grandfather had made him a present 
 of on his Patron-day, and ran through 
 the rain and snow up to the castle. 
 Little Adolphus was delighted when he 
 saw the bird again in the boy's hand. 
 But his mother, who was sitting on a 
 sofa at work before a table on which 
 stood two bright wax candles, was much 
 pleased with the honesty of the lad. 
 
 " You have done very well, my little 
 fellow," said she, " in bringing back the 
 bird. You might easily have kept it 
 without our knowing any thing about it. 
 Nay, even if I had seen it in your house, 
 I should have thought it was another 
 robin. But I should never have thought 
 that so little a bird would have had such 
 affection for men, and that he would have 
 been able to find out again the house 
 where he had been kindly received and 
 treated. Since so little a creature is not 
 
118 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 destitute of feeling, but is grateful and 
 affectionate, how much more should men 
 be so !" 
 
 When Martin had given the bird up to 
 the young Baron Adolphus, his coun- 
 tenance was very sorrowful. But the 
 lady said to Adolphus, " Dear Adolphus, 
 you see the poor robin was the poor lad's 
 whole joy ; he sold it, as you well know, 
 sorely against his inclination, to afford 
 pleasure to his grandfather. You al- 
 lowed the bird to escape through your 
 forgetfulness, but it was so fond of him, 
 that it returned of his own accord. He 
 has been so honest as to bring it back, 
 though he loved it dearly and would so 
 gladly have kept it. Now, would it be 
 right to take the bird from him again ?" 
 
 " Oh no," exclaimed Adolphus, " it 
 would not be fair. There, good Martin, 
 take your robin again ; I make you a 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 119 
 
 present of it, as a reward for your hon- 
 esty." Martin was unwilling to accept 
 of the robin, for which the young baron 
 had paid so dear. But Adolphus insisted. 
 " Take it, take it," said he, " and the 
 next robin you catch, you can bring it to 
 me." 
 
 Martin was highly delighted. " If you 
 had given me the whole castle," said he, 
 "you could not have done me a greater 
 favor." But the lady, who was even 
 more pleased with the noble sentiments 
 of her son, than Martin with his robin, 
 went to her desk, and taking a bright 
 piece of gold, gave it to Martin, saying, 
 " Since my Adolphus knows so well how 
 to appreciate your excellent heart, and 
 has given you the bird as a reward for 
 your honesty, how could his mother leave 
 you unrewarded ! Take this gold ; for 
 
 your honor is more precious than gold." 
 
 3* 
 
120 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 Martin came down the castle hill at 
 full speed, jumping for joy, and almost 
 burst the door in. " I have the robin 
 here again," said he ; " this is the third 
 time that he comes under our roof. He 
 is really a lucky bird. See here, grand- 
 father, what he has brought me !" 
 
 He held out the gold coin to his strand- 
 
THE REDBREAST. 121 
 
 father, and said, " Is it not a beautiful 
 piece of gold ? You must take it — I am 
 rich enough in having my dear little bird 
 
 O CD J 
 
 back again." 
 
 " You see," said his grandfather, " that, 
 what I always tell you is true. The 
 noble lady, too, prized honor more than 
 gold. All good men think so. So thought 
 the good king too, whose image is on 
 this coin, whom I once had the honor to 
 serve. Look at his portrait ! he seems 
 as if he were going to speak ; and if he 
 could speak, he would say, what old cor- 
 poral Frank ahvays says, ' My lad, be 
 always an honorable man.' With this 
 money I will get you a new uniform. 
 This coat will be a true dress of honor for 
 you : for you have won it by your honor- 
 able conduct. Take care, during your 
 whole life, never to wear any thing but 
 what is acquired by honor and honesty." 
 
122 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 But his robin produced more than a 
 dollar to the noble-minded little Martin. 
 He and his grandfather were, by this in- 
 cident, brought under the notice of the 
 owners of the castle. One fine winter's 
 morning, the family went out to walk, and 
 chanced to pass by Martin's house. The 
 young baron said, "I should like to see 
 whether the robin is alive!" They en- 
 tered, and the Baron von Waldberg, who 
 hitherto had known Corporal Frank only 
 by sight, entered into conversation with 
 him, inquired about his campaigns, and 
 was highly pleased with him. Henceforth 
 he always stopped to speak to him, as he 
 went to shoot in the wood, and often came 
 to his house to order a pipe-bowl, and 
 watched him at work, talking to him for 
 hours together. Adolphus, too, often, came 
 with him, played with Martin, and fre- 
 quently invited him to come to the castle. 
 
THE REDBREAST. 123 
 
 Meanwhile the grandfather felt more 
 and more the weight of years, and it 
 became the whole wish of his heart to 
 provide well for his grandson before his 
 death. He had always thought, till now, 
 that Martin might support himself by 
 making boxes and pipes. But other in- 
 dustrious people in the village, who were 
 employed in field labor in summer, and 
 had nothing to do in winter, had taken 
 to this trade after the example of the 
 thrifty soldier. There was not so good 
 a sale therefore for boxes and pipes, now 
 that they had become more common. 
 The grandfather therefore often thought 
 of getting his grandson taught some other 
 trade, which might require more know- 
 ledge and skill, but which would support 
 a man better. But he had given so 
 much to his son and daughter, that he 
 had but little left for himself, and his 
 
124 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 grandson, Martin, had so many brothers 
 and sisters, that his parents had enough 
 to do to maintain them all. The good 
 old man, therefore, could see no way to 
 get the fee and expenses to be paid 
 with little Martin for teaching him a 
 trade. 
 
 Just at this time young Martin, who 
 was now fourteen years old, came one 
 day to the castle to compliment the 
 young Baron Adolphus on his birthday. 
 Adolphus showed him a beautiful wri- 
 ting-desk, most exquisitely made, which 
 his father had given him as a birthday 
 present. " The most skilful artisan in 
 town, made it," said Adolphus: "how do 
 you like it ?" 
 
 Martin examined the desk with great 
 care " This is beautiful wood," he ex- 
 claimed ; " I never saw finer ! The other 
 wood is beautiful. This dark brown, is 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 125 
 
 walnut ; the red, cherry ; the yellow, 
 pear ; and this nice white is of the plane- 
 tree." 
 
 The Baron von Waldberg, who 
 chanced at this moment to enter the 
 room, wondered how Martin came to 
 know the names of all these woods, and 
 said, " Who taught you all this so well ?" 
 " My grandfather, Sir," answered Mar- 
 tin. " I have' made a collection of all 
 sorts of wood that grow in our forests 
 and orchards. They are only boards, 
 but they are made into little pieces, just 
 like the pretty books on the desk there, 
 and are ranged in a row just like them. 
 They look just like books ; the bark, 
 which I have left on them, is for the 
 backs, and the rest of the wood, which 
 I have polished nicely, is for the cover 
 and the leaves." 
 
 Baron von Waldberg thought that he 
 
12o 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 could not celebrate his son's birth-day 
 better than by an act of generosity. 
 
 " Well, Martin," said he, " you under- 
 stand the different kinds of wood very 
 well. I know, too, that you can make 
 pipe-bowls very cleverly ; but such a 
 desk as that is a far finer piece of work. 
 Would you like to learn this trade and 
 be a cabinet-maker ?" 
 
 " That I would," said Martin. " There 
 is nothing I would like better ; but my 
 grandfather cannot afford the money for 
 my prentice-fee." 
 
 " Well, then," said the baron, " as for 
 the fee, I will provide that. If your 
 grandfather agrees, I will have you bound 
 apprentice to the master who made that 
 desk." 
 
 Martin was delighted with this offer, 
 and his grandfather, too, thought it. most 
 fortunate, or rather an interposition of 
 
 ■■B^BBflB 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 1-27 
 
 God's bounteous providence ; and ex- 
 horted his grandson to thank God with 
 his whole heart for so great a favor. 
 
 Martin learned his business ; in three 
 years became a journeyman, travelled 
 into foreign countries, and returned at 
 length to the great joy of his old grand- 
 father, a healthy, virtuous young man, 
 well clad, and in the bloom of youth 
 and health, and very skilful in his trade. 
 The Baron von Waldberg was highly 
 pleased with the first specimen of work 
 which he ordered. 
 
 " Well, my good Martin," said he, " it 
 has long been my wish to have a skilful 
 cabinet-maker in this village. I will 
 assist you to open a workshop of your 
 own." The old house was rebuilt. Baron 
 von Waldberg supplied him with all 
 necessary wood without any expense, 
 and the young tradesman executed all 
 
128 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 his work with his own hands : he soon 
 found abundant employment, for he was 
 as moderate in his charges as skilful ; 
 and in the course of time he married 
 the daughter of one of the burghers of 
 the town, a very virtuous, prudent, and 
 industrious girl. 
 
 His grandfather, now a venerable old 
 man, lived to see this happiness, and 
 dwelt with his grandson in the new 
 
 n^n 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 129 
 
 house, highly honored and beloved. 
 Martin was also able to do great service 
 to his parents and his brothers and sis- 
 ters. 
 
 On one occasion, when Martin had 
 invited his parents, his sisters, and all 
 the rest of his relations, to eat a Martin's 
 goose together, on his grandfather's Pa- 
 tron-day, and they were all happy and 
 joyous, the grandfather said, " This is 
 very likely the last time in my life, that 
 I shall see all my children collected 
 around one table ! With joy do I re- 
 member, when Martin, then a little boy, 
 for love of me sold his Robin Redbreast 
 to procure me a happy St. Martin's 
 evening. Under God's providence, that 
 bird was the first cause of Martin's good 
 fortune. God has rewarded his love for 
 me, his honor, his industry, and his good 
 conduct, and placed him in a position 
 
130 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 to make the evening of my life happy, 
 and to afford valuable assistance to you 
 all. Now shall I die contented, since He 
 who taketh care of the birds of the air, 
 hath, by means of a Robin Redbreast, 
 so lovingly provided for us all." 
 
TO MY ABSENT DAUGHTER. 
 By Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Where art thou, bird of song ? 
 
 Brightest one and dearest ! 
 Other groves among, 
 
 Other nests thou cheerest ; 
 Sweet thy warbling skill 
 
 To each ear that heard thee, 
 But 'twas sweetest still 
 
 To the heart that rear'd thee. 
 
 Lamb, where dost thou rest ? 
 
 On strange bosoms lying ? 
 Flowers, thy path that drest, 
 
 All uncropp'd are dying; 
 
132 TO MY ABSENT DAUGHTER. 
 
 Streams where thou didst roam 
 Murmur on without thee : 
 
 Lovest thou still thy home ? 
 Can thy mother doubt thee ? 
 
 Seek thy Saviour's flock, 
 
 To his blest fold going, 
 Seek that smitten rock 
 
 Whence our peace is flowing; 
 Still should love rejoice, 
 
 Whatsoe'er betide thee, 
 If that Shepherd's voice 
 
 Evermore might guide thee. 
 
FAREWELL TO THE TEAR. 
 Br Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. 
 
 Farewell ! thy destiny is done, 
 
 Thy ebbing sands we tell, — 
 Blended and set with centuries gone, 
 
 Thou dying Year, farewell ! 
 
 Gifts from thy hand — Spring's joyous 
 leaves, 
 
 And Summer's fragrant flowers, 
 Autumn's bright fruit and bursting sheaves; 
 
 — These blessings have been ours : 
 
 They pass with thee — even now they seem 
 
 Like tales of fairy spell, 
 Or like some sweet remember 'd dream ; — 
 
 We bid those gifts farewell ! 
 
134 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE YEAR. 
 
 Though frail the fair, rich things of earth, 
 Must mind's bright hopes be trail ? 
 
 And those pure thoughts, that owed their 
 birth 
 To thee, — thus with thee fail ? 
 
 Not if the soul but gird her might, 
 Her treasures guard with care, — 
 
 The storm-swell'd stream, that sweeps the 
 height, 
 But lays the rich mine bare. 
 
 The high resolve, the holy fear, 
 Waked by thy passing knell, 
 
 O take not these, thou dying Year ! — 
 We bid not these farewell ! 
 
- . 
 
 " She forgot to water the heautiful flowers in 
 the halJ of the castle, which were entrusted to 
 her care, and they withered and perished " — 
 Page 138. 
 
ITTLE Minna 
 was a kind, ten- 
 der-hearted girl, 
 who willingly 
 shared all she 
 had with others, 
 gave clothes to 
 poor children, prepared broth and other 
 food for the sick, carried it to them with 
 her own hands, and, in a word, was 
 never so happy as when she could re- 
 lieve the wants of others, with the last 
 
138 
 
 THE FOKGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 penny of her own pocket-money. But 
 with all her good qualities, incredible 
 as it may appear, she often caused great 
 annoyance to good people — for she was 
 very forgetful. She made many prom- 
 ises — and forgot them all next day. She 
 often gave a large price for a thing she 
 did not want ; and it was only when a 
 poor person appealed to her charity, 
 that she began to think what good use 
 she could have made of her money. At 
 another time, she forgot to water the 
 beautiful flowers in the hall of the castle, 
 which were intrusted to her care, and 
 they withered and perished, to the great 
 grief of her mother. At another time, 
 poor Minna — she, who would give her 
 own clothes to the poor, and would not 
 hurt the smallest thing that breathes — 
 would forget her own dear Canary bird, 
 and starve it to death. 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 139 
 
 In the village, not far from Minna's 
 paternal castle, there lived Sophia, a poor 
 little girl. Her father, Colonel Bruhl, a 
 worthy old soldier, had been disabled 
 by his wounds in foreign service, and 
 was now living on his pension. He had 
 returned to his native land, to spend 
 the remainder of his days in peace. But 
 his scanty income was scarcely sufficient 
 for his support. His pension was not 
 paid regularly, and many months had 
 elapsed just then, without bringing any 
 remittance to him. 
 
 Sophia, his only daughter, supported 
 him, in the mean time, with her needle, 
 and other useful accomplishments of her 
 sex, She was a great favorite of Min- 
 na's, who gave her a great deal of 
 work, took lessons from her in embroi- 
 dery, paid her most liberally, and never 
 addressed her with a less affectionate 
 
140 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 name than her dear friend. But even 
 this dear friend often suffered severely 
 from Minna's forgetfulness. 
 
 Minna's mother fell dangerously ill. 
 The most eminent physician of the near- 
 est town was called in ; and Minna had 
 promised that he should pay a visit to 
 Sophia's father, who still, after the lapse 
 of so many years, often suffered great 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 141 
 
 torments from his wounds. Sophia had 
 no sooner heard of the physician's visit 
 to the castle, than she ran with all speed 
 to remind Minna of her promise, but 
 before she arrived, the physician was 
 gone. Minna remembered her promise 
 the moment Sophia appeared — she was 
 confused — confounded — she blushed, beg- 
 ged Sophia's pardon, and expressed such 
 hearty sympathy for the sufferings of 
 the poor officer, that the tears streamed 
 down her cheeks. But the physician — 
 alas ! to call him back, was impossible. 
 
 On another occasion, Minna proposed, 
 with the help of Sophia, to embroider 
 a screen for her mother's birth-day. Ac- 
 cordingly, Minna brought to her young 
 friend a beautifully painted pattern, rep- 
 resenting a garland of flowers. " We 
 can easily work the garland," said So- 
 phia ; " but I must go to town myself 
 
142 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 and purchase the silk ; for it requires 
 an experienced eye to select proper silk, 
 to represent, truthfully, the delicate shades 
 and tints of the flowers." 
 
 " That's the best plan," answered Min- 
 na ; " if you, my kind friend, be so good 
 as to take the trouble. In the mean 
 time, during your absence, I will take 
 care of your father, and prepare his din- 
 ner, and bring it to him with my own 
 hands." 
 
 Sophia relied on her young friend's 
 promise, and started for town. But, un- 
 fortunately, it so happened that a dis- 
 tinguished visiter drove from town to 
 visit the castle, and, amid the distrac- 
 tions and pleasure of this visit, Minna 
 forgot her promise. The poor officer 
 was confined to his room. He could 
 not stir ; and as all his neighbors were 
 out in the meadows at the hay-making. 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 143 
 
 no person was within call. Bread and 
 water were his only fare — while all the 
 luxuries of life were plenteously circula- 
 ting at the festive board of the castle. 
 
 Next morning Minna, accompanied by 
 two young ladies, her visiters, went to 
 walk in the village. Sophia was water- 
 ing a piece of linen, the production of 
 her industrious winter evenings — which 
 she had laid out to bleach on the small 
 green plot, between her house and the 
 stream. Minna's heart smote her when 
 she saw Sophia, for it was then only she 
 remembered her promise. But Sophia 
 was too delicate to upbraid her friend 
 in presence of the strangers. Still she 
 felt strongly inclined to convey some 
 intimation, that, henceforward, she ought 
 not to be so forgetful, at least, in such 
 matters. Sophia invited the three young 
 ladies to see her garden. They entered, 
 
144 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 and admired the beautiful rose-trees which 
 she had planted with her own hand, and 
 the forget-me-nots which grew wild on 
 the brink of the stream. She then con- 
 ducted them into her parlor, and, at the 
 request of Minna, showed them all her 
 work. While the young ladies were en- 
 gaged admiring the beautiful patterns, 
 and exquisite embroidery, Sophia return- 
 ed to the garden and selected some 
 flowers. To the two strangers she gave 
 roses ; but to the forgetful Minna, a 
 bunch of forget-me-nots — simply, but 
 tastefully wreathed with some green 
 leaves. Minna understood the meaning 
 of this present. She was deeply sensible 
 of the refined delicacy of her friend's 
 device, and thanked her, with her whole 
 soul, for having taken this means to ad- 
 monish her of her forgetfulness. " Truly, 
 you know the flowers that become me 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 145 
 
 best," said she, blushing, and placing the 
 blue nosegay on her bosom. 
 
 Minna returned, with the two young 
 ladies, to the castle, and accompanied 
 them to the apartments that were pre- 
 pared for them. They placed their flow- 
 ers in a crystal vase near the window. 
 After the lapse of a few weeks, Minna 
 happened to enter that chamber ; the 
 young visiters had carried away their 
 own flowers, but there stood Minna's 
 " forget-me-nots," which, to this very mo- 
 ment, she had completely forgotten. The 
 fragrant leaves, which she had wound 
 around her nosegay, were withered, but 
 the forget-me-nots, themselves, were of 
 as fresh and vivid a blue as on the day 
 they were gathered from the river's brink. 
 Minna was not a little amazed. " How 
 is this possible," said she ; " there is not 
 a drop of water in the glass, and all the 
 
146 
 
 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 other shrubs are as yellow and shrivelled 
 as autumnal leaves." She examined the 
 bunch more closely, and discovered that 
 the forget-me-nots were not natural, but 
 artificial. Sophia was a perfect mistress 
 of that delightful art of imitating natural 
 flowers — she had made these forget-me- 
 nots with her own hand — and so cor- 
 rect was the outline, so true and nat- 
 ural the coloring, that it required no 
 ordinary skill to distinguish them from 
 real flowers. 
 
 " You are perfectly right, kind So- 
 phia," thought Minna, " I understand you 
 perfectly. Indeed, I stand too much in 
 need of some such admonition. These 
 unfading flowers are a perpetual warn- 
 ing to me ' not to forget :' never — never 
 more, dear friend, will I forget thee. 
 These very flowers shall I henceforth 
 use, to remind me of my duty." 
 
THE FORGETOIE-NOT. 147 
 
 Without further delav, she took the 
 blooming forget-me-nots, with their with- 
 ered wreath, and placed them in a beau- 
 tiful crystal vase, elegantly ornamented. 
 Then hastening away to her friend, So- 
 phia, she cordially thanked her for her 
 happy device, and praised the exquisite 
 skill and taste she had shown in making 
 the flowers. " Whenever I make a prom- 
 ise, henceforward," said she, " I will set 
 these flowers on my work-table or piano, 
 and not allow them to be removed by 
 any person but myself, when my promise 
 is fulfilled." 
 
 " Bravo, bravo," exclaimed the old 
 colonel, " do so. Whenever I wish to 
 remember any thing particularly, I al- 
 ways place a piece of white paper on 
 my box, and my sergeant used to make 
 a mark in his pocket-book ; but, for a 
 
 young lady, flowers are the most ap- 
 
 2* 
 
148 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 propriate memento. I admire the happy 
 suggestion, which led men to select the 
 most beautiful flowers in the field, as a 
 memento of sweet associations, and call 
 them forget-me-nots ; but I admire, still 
 more, the idea of using them to remind us 
 of our duties, especially the sacred duties 
 of charity. Happy thought, indeed — it 
 delights me — it is a most happy thought." 
 Minna kept her word, and the forget- 
 me-nots secured many blessings to her- 
 self and to the poor. Many a poor per- 
 son, whom Minna would have forgotten, 
 had to thank those sweet flowers for a 
 bowl of good soup, or a glass of wine, 
 or a piece of bread. Many a duty, once 
 carelessly neglected, was now punctually 
 discharged — and many a sorrow and re- 
 morse of conscience, and painful remem- 
 brance, were now spared to Minna, by 
 the silent forget-me-nots. 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 149 
 
 The great improvement in her habits 
 was soon obvious to the fond eye of 
 her mother. " How is it," she asked, 
 " that you do not forget the slightest 
 thing now ? What has caused this great 
 change ?" 
 
 Minna told the whole story of the 
 forget-me-nots, with which her mother 
 was highly pleased. " You are good 
 children," said she, " and I must find 
 some means of making you happy." She 
 accordingly purchased, from the gold- 
 smith in the town, two rings of the 
 purest gold, and had set on each of them 
 a forget-me-not in precious stones — five 
 sky-blue sapphires, and a yellow diamond 
 stone in the centre. 
 
150 
 
 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 When the rings came home, she gave 
 one of them to Minna. " Make the same 
 use of this ring," said she, " as you have 
 formerly made of the forget-me-nots. 
 Whenever you make a promise, or are 
 engaged in any important concern, put 
 this forget-me-not ring on your finger, 
 and do not lay it aside, until you have 
 fulfilled that promise, or performed your 
 business. This other ring, I intend for 
 your good friend, Sophia, whose suc- 
 cessful device for reforming your for- 
 getful habits, eminently deserves some 
 acknowledgment at my hands. That 
 plain ' forget-me-not,' which she present- 
 ed to you, is of infinitely greater value 
 than the ring which I now present to 
 her." 
 
 Minna hurried away to present the 
 ring to her friend. " Oh !" said she, 
 " you have no need of such a ring. You 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 151 
 
 never forget any thing. Still, accept 
 and wear this ring, as a keepsake from 
 a friend, on whom your simple flower 
 has conferred a priceless benefit." 
 
 11 Ah ! my dear friend," said Sophia, 
 " who is the person that does not some- 
 times require to be reminded of his duty? 
 Whenever we look on this costly forget- 
 me-not, may we resolve to do some good 
 
152 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 act ; to relieve some poor person ; or 
 to do whatever is in our power to make 
 others happy." Both promised faithfully 
 to carry that resolution into effect. 
 
 " Well resolved, my children," said the 
 colonel, " and whoever cannot wear so 
 costly a ring as yours, may he still make 
 your good resolution, whenever he sees 
 the forget-me-not growing wild in the 
 meadow or on the river's brink. But 
 above all, may that sweet flower remind 
 him of Him that made him, and whom 
 every flower should bring to our minds. 
 Then would every forget-me-not that 
 grows in our fields, be of more real 
 value than if its stem were of gold, and 
 its leaves of the most costly diamonds." 
 
 This adventure of the forget-me-nots 
 was attended with other good effects. 
 When stern winter set in, and all the 
 fields around the castle were clothed 
 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 153 
 
 every morning in their chilly mantle of 
 hoar-frost, and the hoarse winds howled 
 through the halls, Minna and her mother 
 returned to their town residence. The 
 story of the forget-me-not was circulated 
 among Minna's numerous acquaintances, 
 and forget-me-not rings became a fashion. 
 Every person knew the circumstance that 
 led to the adoption of the ring — and the 
 prince himself now remembered that 
 good old colonel, whom he had formerly 
 trusted and esteemed. The paymaster, 
 who had forgotten to pay the pension, 
 soon received a royal admonition, which 
 he could not easily forget ; and the poor 
 colonel, whose wants had been previously 
 unknown, was rewarded with a con- 
 siderable augmentation of pay. For this 
 unexpected change of his fortunes, many 
 a time did the grateful old soldier ex- 
 claim, " How great are the blessings 
 
154 
 
 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 which God has poured down on me 
 and others through that simpie Forget 
 me-not I' 
 
Fred thought he had never feasted so sumptu- 
 ously. ' — Page 161. 
 
H. 
 
 OUNG FRED, a gay live- 
 ?jm ly boy about ten years old, 
 
 was the son of the wood- 
 ranger at Grunenthal. His father received 
 a letter one morning, which he was to carry 
 from Herr von Grunenthal to Rauhen- 
 stein, a castle that lay beyond very high 
 mountains, and in the heart of a thick 
 forest. 
 
 " It will be a hard journey," said the 
 
158 THE CAKES. 
 
 father, " especially as the hurt I got the 
 other day in the foot, when we were hunt- 
 ing, is not yet healed. From here to Rau- 
 henstein is three good leagues. But since 
 our good master orders it, I must obey." 
 
 But Fred offered to carry the letter. 
 " Send me, dear father," he said. " The 
 whole road, I know, goes through a forest, 
 but I do not mind that. I know it well 
 from this to our own bounds, and can easily 
 find out the rest of it, and safely give the 
 letter into the hands of Herr von Rauhen- 
 stein." 
 
 " Very well," said the father ; " give the 
 letter into his own hands — you know him 
 well. There is a large sum of money in 
 the letter ; perhaps you may get something 
 for your trouble." He then described the 
 road for Fred, from their own bounds to 
 Rauhenstein. 
 
 The little fellow buckled on his hunting- 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 159 
 
 pouch, and slinging his fowlingpiece over 
 his shoulder, started on his journey. 
 
 He arrived safe at the castle, and told 
 the servants that he had been directed to 
 deliver the letter into the master's own 
 hand. A servant led him up the broad 
 stone steps, into a splendid apartment, 
 where von Rauhenstein was eno-asfed with 
 a party of officers at the card-table. Fred 
 made his best bow to the gentlemen, and 
 delivered his letter, in which, it appeared, 
 there were one hundred gold pieces. Herr 
 von Rauhenstein went to his writing-desk, 
 and wrote a few lines, acknowledging the 
 receipt of the money. " All right," said 
 he, sitting down in a hurry to the card- 
 table. " You can retire now — no other 
 answer is at present necessary — it will 
 follow you." 
 
 With a heavy heart poor Fred returned 
 down the broad stone stairs ; for he was 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 hungry and thirsty, and quite tired. But 
 as he was passing through the court, he 
 was met by the cook, who was coming 
 out of the garden, with a large knife in 
 one hand and cauliflowers in the other. 
 She knew by the poor boy's face, the state 
 of his feelings. 
 
 " Come with me, little forester," said 
 she, kindly, " and I will give you some 
 bread and a drink of* good beer. You 
 might otherwise faint upon the road — you 
 are far from home — and there is not a 
 single house on the way. You must not 
 take it ill of our master, that he offered 
 you nothing to eat : he does not think of 
 such things ; yet he finds no fault when 
 we give something to people." 
 
 The cook led Fred into the kitchen, 
 where the large fire was blazing on the 
 hearth. " Lay aside your pouch and fowl- 
 ingpiece, and sit down here," said she, 
 
THE CAKES. 161 
 
 pointing to a little table in the corner of 
 the kitchen. She then brought him plenty 
 of soup and meat, vegetables and bread, 
 and a small pot of beer. Fred thought he 
 had never been feasted so sumptuously. 
 He was refreshed and ready for his jour- 
 ney ; but before he started he said to the 
 cook, one hundred times, at least, " God 
 reward you ;" and that, too, with as much 
 reverence as if she had been the lady of 
 the castle. He even kissed her hand, al- 
 though she tried to prevent him. 
 
 Happy as a prince, Fred set out on his 
 journey. But when he had been nearly 
 a half hour on the road, he saw a squirrel 
 in an open space in the forest. The little 
 animal was quite a rarity to him, for he 
 had scarcely ever seen one in the forest 
 of Grunenthal. Fred was very young, 
 and, perhaps, the good beer had got into 
 his head, but, at all events, he resolved to 
 
162 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 take the squirrel alive. He flung a piece 
 of a rotten bough at the little animal, and 
 started in full chase, from oak to oak, into 
 the depths of the black forest, where he 
 lost sight of his game, and what was much 
 more serious, lost the road. He wandered 
 about during the rest of the day, and half 
 the succeeding night, through the thick 
 forest, till, at last, sinking with hunger and 
 fatigue, he crept beneath some low bushes, 
 and fell into a troubled sleep. He rose in 
 the morning, more faint than he had been 
 before he lay down. He looked around, 
 and advanced he knew not whither. The 
 place was utterly unknown to him. The 
 wild deer, starting up and bounding off in 
 terror when they saw him, convinced him 
 that he must be in the heart of some un- 
 frequented wood. A herd of swine cross- 
 ed his path, and among them a huge boar, 
 which threatened him with its sharp tushes, 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 163 
 
 and made the poor boy scream in agony, 
 and fly for his life. He continued to wan- 
 der about until noonday, when, unable to 
 move farther, he tottered and fell exhausted 
 to the ground. He cried and called as 
 loud as he could, but there was no answer 
 except the echo of his voice in the silent 
 forest. He could nowhere find a berry 
 or even a drop of water to quench his 
 hunger and thirst. He cast himself faint 
 and despairing at the foot of a pine-tree. 
 He earnestly prayed to God not to let 
 him famish in the forest. Tormented 
 bv hunger, he searched in his pouch, to 
 find, if possible, a few crumbs of the bread 
 which he had brought with him from home, 
 and eaten on the road to Rauhenstein. 
 But what was his joy — his rapture, on find- 
 ing a large piece of cake and some juicy 
 pears. " Oh !'"' said he, " it was the cook 
 put these here, without my knowledge." 
 
1G4 THE CAKES. 
 
 The poor boy shed tears of gratitude, and 
 resolved that he would be always charita- 
 ble to the needy, especially if they were 
 strangers ; and also, that if ever he were 
 rich enough, he certainly would not forget 
 that kindness of the good cook. " Under 
 God," said he, " it was she that saved my 
 life. If she had not given me the cake 
 and pears, I should have perished here in 
 the wild forest." 
 
 Fred rose, refreshed and strengthened, 
 and proceeded onward again with renew- 
 ed courage. He walked on in the direction 
 of Grunenthal, as well as he could judge 
 by the position of the sun, and after having 
 advanced for about a league, he heard the 
 cheering sounds of the woodman's axe in 
 the distance. Hurrying on in the direc- 
 tion of the sounds, he found two men cut- 
 ting down a large pine-tree. They point- 
 ed out the road to Grunenthal, where he 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 165 
 
 arrived safely to the great joy of his pa- 
 rents, who had been dreadfully alarmed on 
 his account. 
 
 His father reproved him severely, and 
 gave him good advice. " Thus it is," said 
 he, among other things, " when men allow 
 themselves to be drawn away from the 
 right road to follow their pleasures. You 
 might have perished in that wild wood far 
 from your father's house, without the poor 
 consolation even of catching that, squirrel. 
 Our way through life is like a road through 
 a wild forest, where many a pleasure, like 
 that alluring little animal, seeks to entice 
 us from the path of virtue. As I, dear 
 Fred, faithfully described to you the right 
 road through the forest, so God points out 
 to us in his commandments the true path 
 for our pilgrimage through this world. Let 
 no earthly pleasure ever seduce you to the 
 right or the left from the way of virtue. 
 
106 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 One false step might ruin you forever, and 
 prevent you from entering your true Fa- 
 ther's house beyond the grave. 
 
 " The love of pleasure," he continued, 
 " perverts the heart of man, and makes 
 him insensible to noble and generous feel- 
 ings. Herr von Rauhenstein, with whom 
 you are so much displeased, is far from 
 being a bad man. But he was so much 
 taken up with his play, that he never 
 thought either of giving you some refresh- 
 ment, though you stood so much in need 
 of it, or some money, though the hundredth 
 part of what he had staked that morning, 
 would have sent you home as happy as a 
 prince. But guard yourself against that, 
 which displeases you so much in another ; 
 let your pleasure or your own will never 
 engage you, so as to make you insensible 
 to the wants and happiness of others. Imi- 
 tate whatever you find good in others ; be 
 
 BO^H^HH 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 107 
 
 ever as kind and generous to all men, as 
 Rosalie, the cook, was to vou in the castle 
 of Rauhenstein." 
 
 Fred grew up a good forester, faithful 
 and true to his employer, open and generous 
 to all, and without one stain on his good 
 name. But he was particularly remarkable 
 for his kindness and charity to travellers 
 and the poor. He never forgot Rosalie's 
 kindness. He went to the castle, once, to 
 tell her how much she had done for him, 
 but she had left the service, and no person 
 could give him any account of her. From 
 that day forward he never got any intelli- 
 gence of his kind benefactress. 
 
 In the course of some years, Fred was 
 promoted for his integrity and skill to the 
 office of chief huntsman under the king's 
 woodranger, and afterwards was made 
 forester of Tannek, one of the most lu- 
 crative posts in the gift of his master. 
 2* 
 
168 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 After his marriage, he often told his wife, 
 who was as benevolent as himself, of many 
 adventures of his boyish days, and, especial- 
 ly, how he had been saved from certain 
 death in the forest, by the kindness of Ro- 
 salie. They resolved that since they could 
 not find her, they would prove their sense 
 of her goodness, by as liberal charity to 
 travellers and the poor, as their means 
 allowed. They had a good opportunity 
 of indulging their charitable dispositions, 
 as the forester's lodge, in which they lived, 
 lay on the border of the forest near the 
 high road. 
 
 Fred's wife went one very sultry after- 
 noon to bring a glass of water from the 
 well. There she found a poor woman 
 sitting on the bench which her husband 
 had made under the shady pines, near the 
 well, for the accommodation of travellers. 
 The strange woman, though clean and 
 
THE CAKES. 169 
 
 neatly dressed, was evidently poor, and 
 appeared very tired and unhappy. A 
 wicker basket and her walking-stick lay 
 near her on the bench. Struck by the 
 mild and wo-begone expression of her 
 
 countenance, Fred's wife saluted her cor- 
 dially, and invited her to the lodge to take 
 some refreshment. The stranger grate- 
 fully accepted the kind offer, and entered 
 the house. Fred's wife served up a rem- 
 
170 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 nant of roast venison, and poured out for 
 her a glass of beer. The two soon became 
 so sociable that the stranger told the whole 
 history of what was weighing so heavily 
 on her heart. 
 
 " I live," said she, " about twelve leagues 
 from this. My husband is a gunsmith, and 
 was able to earn much money by making 
 rifles, muskets, and pistols. He worked 
 day and night, so that we were able not 
 only to support ourselves and the two chil- 
 dren with whom heaven has blessed us, 
 but also to lay aside something for the 
 future. But latterly it was the will of God 
 to send us many hard trials. My hus- 
 band's hand was hurt so severely by the 
 bursting of a new musket which lie was 
 trying, that he has not been able to work 
 during the last year. The war which 
 ravaged our neighborhood had already 
 stripped us of the greater part of our 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 171 
 
 property. The doctor's bill still continued 
 a heavy drain, and as we had no money 
 coming in, we were badly able to meet 
 it — but. to crown all our misfortunes, we 
 lost our only cow by the murrain. We 
 had already raised money on the credit of 
 our lands and house, and had no means 
 left of replacing our cow, as the neighbors 
 would not lend the money. Without a 
 cow we could not live : so I resolved to 
 undertake a Ions iournev to my brother, 
 hoping that he would give the money. I 
 did make that long journey, and I am now 
 on my way home. I told him my hard 
 case, and begged his help. Twenty or 
 thirtv crowns would have bought a cow 
 for me. My brother was willing enough 
 to help me, but his wife would not allow 
 him to give me a penny. She was dis- 
 pleased with me, she said, because I had 
 married a man who had no property. All 
 
172 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 I got was a small sum, that my brother 
 slipped secretly into my hand, but it will 
 hardly cover half the expenses of my jour- 
 ney. But it was all the pocket-money 
 he had then at his disposal. Alas!" she 
 sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes, " I 
 pity my brother, and still more, my poor 
 husband and children. They are anxiously 
 praying for my return, and expecting some 
 help : what a grief it will be to them, when 
 I meet them with empty hands !" 
 
 At this moment the forester returned 
 home, with his bag well stocked with game. 
 He saluted the poor stranger kindly. His 
 wife told him how she had invited her to 
 come in, and what a melancholy tale had 
 just been told. 
 
 " Right, right, Dora," said Fred, " it 
 makes my heart glad, to see you acting 
 as I would, consoling the poor stranger, 
 and giving her a share of what God has 
 
THE CAKES. 173 
 
 given to us. Generosity, especially to 
 strangers and travellers, is a most sacred 
 duty. 
 
 "' And good reason I have to say so," 
 said he. taking a chair and sitting down 
 near the woman, while his wife placed 
 a glass of ale on the table before him. 
 He then told his boyish adventure in the 
 forest, and how he had been saved from 
 starvation, by the kindness of Rosalie, the 
 good cook of Rauhenstein. 
 
 " Good God !" exclaimed Rosalie, clasp- 
 ing her hands, " I am that cook. Rosalie 
 is my name. Frederic is yours — and your 
 father was forester of Grunenthal. I can 
 tell you some particulars you omitted in 
 your story. The food that I set before 
 you consisted of soup, green peas and car- 
 rots, with smoked beef — and the beer-glass 
 had a pewter cover, with a stag stamped 
 on it, which particularly struck your fancy. 
 
174 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 You were very much displeased with Herr 
 von Rauhenstein, and remarked that he was 
 true to his name, but I told you he was a 
 better man than he appeared to be. When 
 you left me, you kissed my hand, out of 
 gratitude, but against my will. Words 
 cannot tell how happy I am, that the bit 
 of cake saved your life, and that I see you 
 now so happy and independent. Wonder- 
 ful are the ways of God — I should never 
 have recognised you. The slender, little 
 forester is now grown an able and fine- 
 looking man, and God, as I see, has blessed 
 you in all things." 
 
 The forester now expressed his joy on 
 meeting his old friend, and bade her a 
 thousand welcomes. " I thought I knew 
 you," said he, " when I met you first, but 
 I could not distinctly remember who you 
 were or where I had seen you. The 
 thought struck me, that you might be 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 i-J 
 
 my friend Rosalie., though time had made 
 some change in you. To be sure of the 
 fact, I told you my adventure in the forest. 
 God be praised ! I have found you at last. 
 I am the happiest man under the sun. — 
 You must not stir this day. — Come, Dora, 
 — the best in your kitchen and cellar for 
 our friend/ 5 
 
 Rosalie pressed hard to be allowed to 
 depart. " By to-morrow evening I must 
 be at home," said she. " Now that the 
 heat of the day is over, I will walk a 
 few leagues farther — the twelve leagues 
 would be too long a journey for to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 " That matter can be easily managed," 
 said Fred. " To-morrow morning I will 
 harness the pony to my light wagon, 
 and drive you as far as I can. I would 
 drive you to your own door, if I were 
 not obliged to attend the prince, with the 
 
 — 
 
176 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 hunting-party that are on a vi^sit with 
 him." 
 
 Fred's wife was as happy as himself, on 
 finding Rosalie. There was no resisting 
 their united entreaties. She consented to 
 stop that night. The hostess prepared a 
 supper in her best style, and at the end of 
 the meal produced a large cake, prepared 
 in the same way as that which Rosalie 
 had given to Fred. It was wreathed with 
 garlands of the most beautiful flowers, and 
 in the centre, the words " To gratitude," 
 were formed with white sugar, in imitation 
 of pearls. 
 
 " Oh !" said Rosalie, " don't cut that beau- 
 tiful cake. I have dined so heartily I will 
 not touch it." 
 
 " Very well," said the hostess, " but then 
 you must put the cake in your basket, and 
 carry it home in the morning to your chil- 
 dren." 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 177 
 
 Fred had ordered his best wine from 
 the cellar ; and he and his wife drank to 
 the health and happiness of Rosalie and 
 her family, and Rosalie must pledge them. 
 " For had it not been for you," said the 
 forester, " we should not now be sitting 
 here, and this house, in which I and my 
 Dorothy live so happily together, would 
 have other tenants." 
 
 Next morning, at break of dav, Fred 
 was busy preparing to escort his old friend 
 to her family. His wife had a good break- 
 fast on the table ; and when all was ready, 
 she put the large cake into Rosalie's bas- 
 ket, together with other provisions for the 
 road, and some few presents for the chil- 
 dren. Fred accompanied Rosalie half the 
 journey. When he took leave of her, he 
 promised to visit her as soon as possible, and 
 to get his fire-arms repaired by her husband, 
 — a promise which he faithfully performed. 
 
178 THE CAKES. 
 
 Rosalie continued her journey in good 
 spirits. When she approached her house, 
 she saw her two children, William and 
 Theresa, advancing on the road to meet 
 her. When they saw her, they sprung 
 forward with joyful cries, and asked what 
 she had in the basket. " Oh, wait until we 
 reach home," said she, " you must not be 
 so impatient and curious." 
 
 Her husband met her at the door, and 
 all entered together. Rosalie told the hard 
 reception she had got from her sister-in- 
 law, and also announced the sad news, 
 that she brought home no money. Her 
 husband was sadly disappointed ; nor could 
 all she said of the happy night she spent 
 with the forester, dispel his gloom. Rosalie 
 opened her basket, and produced the cake. 
 The sight of it made the children forget 
 all their sorrows ; but when the father saw 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 179 
 
 them clapping their hands, and loudly ex- 
 pressing their joy, he could scarcely re- 
 press his tears. 
 
 " What good is the cake," said he ; "where 
 are we to get twenty or thirty guilders, to 
 buy a cow ?" 
 
 But lo — when the mother tried to cu\. 
 the cake for the children, the knife stuck 
 so fast in it, that all her strength could not 
 divide it. 
 
 " This is a singular cake," said she ; "it 
 must have been baked too much." She 
 broke the crust — and the first thin^ that 
 met her eye, were two thalers of gold — 
 and below them, in order, a dozen others. 
 
 Fred's joy on finding the cake in his 
 pouch, was not greater than hers, when 
 she saw the glittering coin. " Gracious 
 heaven !" said she, " Frederic told his 
 wife to put them in the cake, to enable 
 
180 
 
 THE CAKES. 
 
 us to buy a cow, and to raise us from 
 poverty." 
 
 " The gold is worth thirty-two guilders 
 and some crowns," said little William, 
 who was learning his table of coin in 
 school ; " it will buy a fine cow for 
 us. 
 
 " And then we can have milk and butter 
 again," said Theresa, hopping about and 
 clapping her hands. 
 
 But the father took off his cap, and 
 thanked God with tears, and the mother 
 and children joined in his prayer. " That 
 piece of cake which you gave, many 
 years ago, to the little boy," said he, 
 " was capita] well laid out ; we receive 
 it back now a hundred, nay, a thousand 
 fold." 
 
 " Yes," said the mother, " and the 
 smallest act of kindness, to one of our 
 
THE CAKES. 
 
 181 
 
 brethren, will be much more amply re- 
 warded in heaven." 
 
 "Oh, my dear children," added the fa- 
 ther, " let us be always merciful, that we 
 may obtain mercy." 
 
THE CHILD'S GIFT. 
 
 By Mrs. S. F. Osgood. 
 
 A child beside a window stood, 
 A merry child, in smiling mood ; 
 A little boy went slowly by, 
 A beggar-boy, with pleading eye. 
 
 Why did the sweet girl's sunny face 
 A sudden cloud of sorrow wear ? 
 
 She mark'd the beggar's lingerini;; pace, 
 Alas ! those little feet were bare ! 
 
 She glanced a moment at her own, — 
 Her pretty shoes were bright and new,- 
 
 A quick, glad thought like sunlight shorn 
 The trembling tears of pity through ! 
 
184 
 
 THE CHILD'S GIFT. 
 
 'Twas done as soon as thought : she b^nt 
 Her soul on her sweet task intent ; 
 Drew off her shoes with eager joy, 
 And flung them to the beggar-boy ' 
 
" Caroline ran and brought in, on a -white porce- 
 lain plate, some of the ripest cherries." — Page 195. 
 

 Wi 
 
 fjN the banks o r 
 flff;- ; i the Rhine, in the 
 pleasant little village 
 of Rebenheim, sur- 
 rounded by orchards 
 and vineyards, lived Ehrenberg, the village 
 mayor. He was universally respected for 
 the fidelity with which he discharged his 
 duty, enforcing order and justice in the 
 place intrusted to his care. His wife, too, 
 was beloved for her great charity to the 
 
188 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 poor. They had an only daughter — the 
 little Caroline — who gave early promise 
 of a superior mind and a benevolent heart. 
 She was the idol of her parents, who de- 
 voted their whole care to give her a sound, 
 religious education. 
 
 Not far from the house, and close by 
 the orchard and kitchen-garden, there was 
 another little garden, planted exclusively 
 with flowers. The day that Caroline was 
 born, her father planted a cherry-tree in 
 the middle of the flower-garden. He had 
 chosen a tree with a short trunk, in order 
 that his little daughter could more easily 
 admire the blossoms and pluck the cherries 
 when they were ripe. When the tree 
 bloomed for the first time, and was so 
 covered with blossoms that it looked like a 
 single bunch of white flowers, the father 
 and mother came out one morning to en- 
 joy the sight. Little Caroline was in her 
 
THE CHERRIES. 
 
 189 
 
 mother's arms : the infant s'miled, and 
 stretching out her little hands to the blos- 
 soms, endeavored, at the same time, to 
 speak her joy, but in such a way as no one 
 but a mother could understand : " Flowers, 
 flowers, pretty, pretty." The child en- 
 gaged more of the parents' thoughts, than 
 all the cherry blossoms, and gardens, and 
 orchards, and all they were worth. They 
 resolved to educate her well : they prayed 
 to God to bless their care and attention, 
 by making Caroline worthy of Him, and 
 the joy and consolation of her parents. 
 
 They spared no pains or expense in 
 their parental solicitude The mother 
 gave to Caroline her first instructions in 
 religion. She told her, fondly and feeling- 
 ly, of that good Father in heaven, who 
 makes the flowers bloom, and the trees 
 bud, and the cherries and apples grow 
 ruddy and ripe : she told her, also, of that 
 
190 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 Infant Son of God, who so tenderly loved 
 good children. She also instructed little 
 Caroline in the various household duties, 
 for which her increasing strength and in- 
 telligence qualified her, while the most 
 delightful and serious occupation of the 
 father's vacant hours was, to give lessons 
 to his little daughter in reading and wri- 
 ting. His garden was his principal, and, 
 in truth, his sole recreation. It was a 
 pleasure to him to enjoy the green carpet 
 and rich leaves of his orchard, after having 
 spent the greater part of the day in his 
 office over his books. From the first 
 dawn of spring, to the moment in autumn 
 when he gathered in his fruits, the or- 
 chard afforded him much employment. 
 The kitchen-garden was under the care 
 of his wife and the servant-maid : but 
 from Caroline's eighth year, the flower- 
 garden was intrusted to her, under the 
 
THE CHERRIES. 
 
 191 
 
 superintendence, however, of her mother. 
 Caroline was proud of her charge ; and 
 surpassed, by her diligence and taste, her 
 mother's fondest anticipations. 
 
 Her father gave the cherry-tree, in the 
 centre of the flower-garden, to Caroline, 
 which was to her a greater treasure than 
 all the flowers. She watched and admired 
 it every day, from the moment the first 
 buds appeared, until the cherries were 
 ripe. She grieved, it is true, when she 
 saw the white blossoms turn yellow and 
 drop to the earth, bat her grief was changed 
 into joy, when she saw the cherries appear, 
 green at first, and smaller than peas, and 
 then growing daily larger and larger, un- 
 til the rich red skin of the soft ripe cherry, 
 at last blushed between the screen leaves. 
 " Thus, it is," said her father, " youth and 
 beauty fade like the blossoms, — but virtue 
 is the fruit which we expect from the tree. 
 
192 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 This whole world is, as it were, a large 
 garden, in which God has appointed to 
 every man a place, that he may bring 
 forth abundant and good fruit. As He 
 sends rain and sunshine on the trees, so 
 does He send down grace on men, to 
 make them grow in virtue, if they will 
 but do their part." 
 
 Little Caroline promised to do her duty, 
 and her daily conduct justified the fond 
 hopes of her parents. The little family 
 lived happy and content, and contributed, 
 not less by example than by word and 
 counsel, to make the villagers and the 
 peasants around them, live in harmony 
 and peace, and promote the general hap- 
 piness. 
 
 But the war, which, at the close of the 
 last century, had desolated the fair banks 
 of the Rhine, at last approached this quiet 
 village, which had hitherto been the abode 
 
THE CHERRIES. 193 
 
 of peace and domestic bliss. The village 
 was taken and retaken, several times, by 
 friends and foes, and. of course, suffered 
 severely. At one time the enemy, who 
 were in great want of provisions, plunder- 
 ed it so dreadfully, that they left scarcely 
 a morsel of bread to the inhabitants. But 
 they were expelled again. The Germans 
 had attacked them with great courage at 
 break of day, and penetrated to the heart 
 of the village. Here, the battle raged 
 fearfully — the discharge of small-arms was 
 incessant, while the cannon thundered 
 from the hills on the opposite sides of the 
 village. Balls and shells whizzed about 
 the mayor's dwelling, and several houses 
 at the extremity of the village caught fire. 
 The moment the discharge of musketry 
 slackened, the father made strenuous exer- 
 tions to extinguish the flames ; his wife 
 stood wringing her hands, her eves raised 
 
194 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 in prayer to heaven, and. by her side, at 
 the window, little Caroline was kneeling, 
 praying fervently with her mother. It 
 was now three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 A ring was heard at the house door. The 
 mother looked out of the window. She 
 saw an officer of hussars standing at the 
 door, holding his horse by the reins. " Oh ! 
 thank God," said she, " he is a German." 
 Caroline ran to open the door, and was 
 followed by her mother. The officer had, 
 in the mean time, tied his horse to a tree. 
 " Oh," said he, in a friendly tone, " how 
 dreadfully frightened you appear," when 
 he saw their pale faces. " Cheer up," 
 said he, " the danger is over : you are safe. 
 The fire in the village, too, is almost ex- 
 tinguished ; and your husband will be here 
 in a few moments. I beg you for some 
 refreshment, even if you can give me noth- 
 ing more than a morsel of bread and a drink 
 
THE CHERRIES. 195 
 
 of water. Then entering the parlor, he 
 laid his sword in a corner, and wiped the 
 reeking perspiration from his forehead. " It 
 was sharp work," said he, " but thank God, 
 we have conquered." 
 
 The news and the visiter were like an 
 angel from heaven to poor Caroline and 
 her mother. There were a few bottles of 
 good old Rhenish wine still remaining, 
 which the mother had concealed under 
 the sand, in which their winter vegetables 
 were preserved. These had, fortunately, 
 escaped the hands of the plunderers. She 
 produced a flask of the wine and some rye 
 bread, excusing herself, at the same time, 
 for not having any thing better. " Enough, 
 enough ;" said the officer, eating the bread 
 with a hearty relish, " this is the first mor- 
 sel I have tasted this day." 
 
 Caroline ran and brought in, on a white 
 porcelain plate, some of the ripest cherries. 
 
196 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 " Cherries !" exclaimed the officer, " they 
 are a rarity in this district. How did they 
 escape the enemy ? All the trees in the 
 country around are stripped." 
 
 " The cherries," said the mother, " are 
 from a little tree in Caroline's flower-gar- 
 den, which was planted on her birthday. 
 It is but a few days since they became 
 ripe ; the enemy, perhaps, did not notice 
 the little tree." 
 
 " And is it for me you intend the 
 cherries, my dear child ?" asked the 
 officer. " Oh, no, you must keep them. 
 It were a pity to take one of them from 
 you." 
 
 " How could we refuse a few cherries," 
 said Caroline, " to the man that sheds his 
 blood in our defence ? You must eat them 
 all," said she, while the tears streamed 
 down her cheeks : " do, I entreat you — 
 eat them all." 
 
He took some of the cherries, and laid 
 them on the table, near his wine-glass. 
 But he had scarcely placed the glass to 
 his lips, when the trumpet sounded. He 
 sprung up and girded on his sword. 
 " That's the signal to march," said he : 
 ' ; I cannot wait one instant." The moth- 
 er stood before him, with the wine-glass 
 2 # 
 
IDS 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 in her hand, and pressed him to drink. 
 Caroline had wrapped the cherries in a 
 roll of white paper, and insisted he should 
 put them in his pocket. " The weather is 
 very warm,'' said she, " and even cherries 
 will be some refreshment." 
 
 " But I have no pocket to put them in," 
 said the officer. " See, I carry all my 
 baggage about me. I am as heavily laden 
 as a packhorse." 
 
 " Ah !" said Caroline, " it will be easy 
 to find a little room for the cherries." 
 
 So hard did she press the poor officer, 
 that he was obliged to surrender, and taking 
 out a pocket-book which he placed under 
 his vest, the cherries were safely deposited 
 in his pocket. 
 
 " Oh !" said he, with emotion, *' what a 
 happiness it is for a soldier, who is often 
 obliged to snatch each morsel from unwil- 
 ling hands, to meet with a generous and 
 
THE CHERRIES. 199 
 
 benevolent family ! What a pity that I 
 cannot remain some time with you ! I 
 wish it were in my power, my dear child, 
 to give you some pledge of my gratitude ; 
 but I have nothing-, not so much as a sin- 
 gle groat. You must be content with my 
 thanks." With these words, he sprung 
 into his saddle, and once more bidding 
 Caroline and her mother an affectionate 
 farewell, he spurred rapidly out of sight. 
 
 The joy of the good family for their 
 happy liberation, was, alas, of short con- 
 tinuance. Some weeks after, a dreadful 
 battle was fought near the village, which 
 was reduced to a heap of ruins. The 
 mayor's house was burned to the ground, 
 and all his property destroyed. Father, 
 mother, and daughter, fled away on foot, 
 and wept bitterly when they looked back 
 on their once happy, but now blazing vil- 
 lage. 
 
The country fell into the hands of the 
 enemy. The brave mayor, who was de- 
 votedly attached to his native land, and 
 loyal to his prince, was very fortunate in 
 having escaped with his life. He had not 
 the slightest idea of returning to his con- 
 quered country, so he retired to a distant 
 town, and lived there in very great dis- 
 tress. His own prince was a homeless 
 exile, and could not give him any assist- 
 
 
THE CHERRIES. 
 
 201 
 
 ance. The mayor endeavored to obtain 
 a livelihood as a clerk or scrivener ; his 
 wife worked at dressmaking and millinery; 
 and Caroline, who soon became skilful in 
 all such matters, faithfully assisted her. 
 Thus they endeavored to support them- 
 selves independently. 
 
 Countess von Buchenhain, who had, for 
 some time, been residing in the town, gave 
 them much employment. She had given 
 an order for a bonnet, and little Caroline 
 was at her door with it, early in the morn- 
 ing, at the appointed hour. The chamber- 
 maid told her that the countess had com- 
 pany ; her sister and family having come 
 the evening before to visit her. The maid 
 took the bonnet, and after praising it high- 
 ly, told Caroline to wait a few moments, 
 and disappeared. After some delay she re- 
 turned. " Oh," said she, '"the bonnet pleased 
 every person — the two young ladies say 
 
20.2 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 they must have such a one : come with me 
 at once ; you will get many orders." She 
 then conducted Caroline to the garden, 
 where the countess and her visiters were 
 taking coffee in the large summer-house. 
 
 Caroline entered. The two young la- 
 dies were still in raptures with the bonnet. 
 Their mother gave orders for three bon- 
 nets, and passed the highest encomiums 
 on the blue flowers, which were the work 
 of Caroline's own hands. 
 
 " The bonnet and flowers," said the count- 
 ess, "are beautiful. Caroline has great taste. 
 But the prudence and modesty of my young 
 friend, as I must call her, deserve more 
 praise than her skill and taste in millinery." 
 The countess now related poor Caroline's 
 misfortunes, and praised the unwearied in- 
 dustry with which she helped to support 
 her poor parents. 
 
 The count was standing with his broth- 
 
THE CHERRIES. 203 
 
 er-in-law, the colonel, at some distance 
 from the door of the bower. The colonel, 
 a fine-looking man, in a splendid uniform, 
 and with a star on his breast, overheard 
 the conversation. He took his cigar from 
 his mouth, and, coming up, looked closely 
 at Caroline. " My heavens !" said he, 
 "you must be the daughter of the mayor 
 of Rebenheim : how tall you have grown ! 
 I should scarcely have recognised you — 
 though we are old acquaintances." 
 
 Caroline stood there abashed, looking 
 full in the face of the stranger, her cheeks 
 covered with blushes. Taking her gently 
 by the hand, he conducted her to his wife, 
 who was sitting near the countess. " See, 
 Amelia," said he, " this is the young lady 
 who saved my life ten years ago, when she 
 was only a child." 
 
 " How can that be possible ?" asked 
 Caroline, in amazement. 
 
204 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 "It must, indeed, appear incomprehen- 
 sible to you," answered the colonel ; " but 
 do you remember the hussar officer that 
 rode up, one day, on his smoking horse, 
 to your father's house in Rebenheim ? do 
 you remember the cherries which you 
 kindly gave him ?" 
 
 " Oh, was it you ?" exclaimed Caroline, 
 "while her face beamed with a smile of re- 
 cognition. " Thank God, you are alive — 
 but how I could have done any thing 
 towards saving your life, I cannot under- 
 stand." 
 
 " In truth it would be impossible for you 
 to guess the great service you did to me," 
 said he, " but my wife and my daughters 
 know it well. I wrote to them of it at 
 once ; and I look upon it as one of the 
 most remarkable occurrences of my life." 
 
 " And one that I ought to remember 
 better than any other event of the war," 
 
THE CHERRIES. 205 
 
 said his lady, rising, and affectionately em- 
 bracing Caroline. 
 
 " Well," said the countess, " neither I 
 nor my husband ever heard the story. 
 Please give us a full account of it." 
 
 " Oh ! it's easily told," said the colonel. 
 " I entered the house in which Caroline 
 and her parents dwelt, hungry and thirsty 
 — and, to tell the plain truth, I begged for 
 some bread and water. They gave me a 
 share of the best they had — and did not 
 hesitate to do so, though their village and 
 themselves were in the greatest distress. 
 Caroline robbed every bough on her cher- 
 ry-tree to refresh me. Fine cherries they 
 were — and, as I am an honest man, the 
 only ones probably in the whole country. 
 But the enemy did not give me time to 
 eat them — I w T as obliged to mount in a 
 hurry. Caroline insisted, with the kindest 
 hospitality, that I should take them with 
 
206 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 me, but that was no easy matter. My 
 horse had been shot under me the day be- 
 fore. I snatched whatever I could, in a 
 hurry, from my knapsack, and thrusting 
 them into my pockets, I fought on foot, 
 until a hussar gave me his horse. All 
 I was worth was in my pockets ; so that, 
 to make room for the cherries, I was 
 obliged to take the pocket-book out of my 
 pocket, and place it here beneath my vest. 
 The enemy, who had been driven back, 
 made a feint of advancing on us, and I led 
 down my hussars on their horse in gallant 
 style. But suddenly we found ourselves 
 in front of a body of infantry, concealed 
 behind a hedge. One of them fired at me, 
 and the fellow had taken good aim, for the 
 ball struck me here on the breast. But it 
 rebounded from the pocket-book — other- 
 wise I should have been shot through the 
 body, and have fallen dead on the spot. 
 
THE CHERRIES. 207 
 
 " Tell me," said he, in a tone of deep 
 emotion, " was not that little child an in- 
 strument, in the hands of God, to save me 
 from death ? am I right or not, when I 
 give Caroline the credit of having saved 
 my life ? Her must I thank, that my Ame- 
 lia is not a widow, nor my daughters or- 
 phans ; that I now stand here smoking my 
 cigar, and enjoying the face of this lovely 
 earth." 
 
 All agreed with him. His wife, who 
 had Caroline's hand locked in her own 
 during the whole narrative, now pressed 
 it affectionately, and with tears in her eyes. 
 "You, then," said she, "were that good 
 angel, that averted such a terrible misfor- 
 tune from our family," Her two daugh- 
 ters also gazed, with pleasure, at Caroline. 
 " Every time that we ate cherries," said 
 the younger, " we spoke of you without 
 knowing you." 
 
208 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 " Oh, how happy we are," said the elder, 
 " that our fond prayer has been heard at 
 last ! often we prayed that we might meet 
 you. 
 
 The two young ladies then placed Caro 
 line between them, and poured out coffee 
 for her in a beautiful gilded porcelain cup. 
 
 But the colonel had become pensive and 
 thoughtful. 
 
 " You are always praising my feats of 
 arms," said he, " but what is man — what 
 can he do ? But for that plate of cherries, 
 [ had Ions since mouldered in the church- 
 yard at Rebenheim, beneath a tombstone, 
 bearing my name as lieutenant, and another 
 would now be colonel in my place. The 
 star upon my breast, my fame, and my 
 fortune, I owe to that handful of cherries, 
 or, rather to the hand of God, who em- 
 ployed the child to save the soldier, and 
 to crown him with victory." 
 
THE CHERRIES. 209 
 
 " We shall meet again," said the colonel, 
 turning suddenly to Caroline. "At present 
 I have some business to attend to with my 
 brother-in-law." The two gentlemen re- 
 tired ; Caroline remained some time longer, 
 and then took her leave of the countess, 
 who saluted her affectionately. 
 
 In the mean time the colonel had retired 
 to a corner of the garden, with his brother- 
 in-law, the Count of Buchenhaim. The 
 count's steward had died a few months 
 ago. Many proposals had been made for 
 the vacant place. The count did not know 
 whom to choose, and had, this very morn- 
 ing, been consulting the colonel on the 
 subject. The selection could not be de- 
 feried any longer, as business had accumu- 
 lated, since the death of the last occupant. 
 
 " Come, close the matter at once,'"' said 
 
 the colonel, '-'appoint Ehrenberg. It is not 
 
 without the design of Providence that his 
 3* 
 
210 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 little daughter, Caroline, came here this 
 morning ; and that I remained here last 
 night to have the happiness of meeting her 
 before the place was disposed of." " It is 
 true," said the count, " we are under great 
 obligations to this family. Ehrenberg is 
 said to be an honest and intelligent man ; 
 yet as I have seen him but a few times, we 
 must deliberate." "What the deuce do 
 you want to deliberate about ?" asked the 
 colonel, in his usual impassioned mood. 
 " Search all Germany, and you cannot find 
 a better man. Have I not twice, during 
 my campaigns, ridden to Rebenheim, in 
 order to see and thank the good child that 
 saved my life — and have I not made all 
 possible inquiries after her ? I could not 
 discover where Caroline and her parents 
 were living, but I heard other things that 
 made my heart warm. The whole village 
 was unanimous in praise of Caroline and 
 
 .J 
 
THE CHERRIES. 
 
 211 
 
 her parents. Gray-haired men came up 
 to me with tears in their eyes, ' Oh, sir/ 
 said they, c Mr. Ehrenberg was a pattern 
 of justice, and honor, and charity. We 
 never could make a due return for his ser- 
 vices. Wherever he may be, and what- 
 ever may be his circumstances, he cannot 
 but prosper. He deserves this for his con- 
 duct towards every person among us.' So 
 said the peasants : make haste, now, I say 
 — take the pen and write the appoint- 
 ment — I will carry it to him, myself, at 
 once." 
 
 The count consented ; the order was 
 drawn out and duly signed, and the colonel 
 was happier than he had been for many 
 years : his heart never throbbed more 
 proudly and joyfully in the glow of vic- 
 tory, than on this happy morning. 
 
 While this affair was thus happily set- 
 tled, Caroline, never suspecting the good 
 
fortune that awaited her, was returning 
 home in the highest spirits. " Well, my 
 little maid," said the father, " what news ? 
 Why are your eyes glistening with joy ?" 
 Caroline told how the cherries had been 
 the means of saving the officer's life. "May 
 God's providence be forever praised," ex- 
 claimed the delighted parents. 
 
 " This is a ray of hope," added the 
 mother ; " perhaps brighter days are com- 
 ing." 
 
THE CHERRIES. 
 
 •213 
 
 " Yes, Caroline," said the father, " your 
 kind, good temper when a child may per- 
 haps render you the prop and consola- 
 tion of your parents in their declining 
 years." 
 
 " If I had this kind, good temper," 
 answered Caroline, modestly, " it is only 
 an inheritance derived from my dear pa- 
 rents." 
 
 While they were speaking on the events 
 of the morning, suddenly they heard the 
 colonel's voice, and the clanking of his 
 sword, as he bounded up the steps. " Good 
 morning, master steward of Buchenhaim," 
 said he, bursting into the room. 
 
 " Buchenhaim — what ?" asked Ehren- 
 bersr. 
 
 <: Just so," said the colonel, taking out 
 his pocket-book. "I never carry this ex- 
 cept on great occasions, such as the present, 
 when I found my friend Caroline. Look 
 
214 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 here," said he, pointing to a rent in the 
 cover — " here the ball struck — Caroline 
 has probably told you about it." 
 
 " Delighted we were to hear it," said 
 Ehrenberg. 
 
 The colonel then opened the pocket- 
 book and took out a paper. " Read that," 
 said he to Ehrenberg. Ehrenberg read, 
 and was amazed to find himself duly ap- 
 pointed, by legal deed, steward of Buchen- 
 haim, with a good salary of a thousand 
 thalers, and several other perquisites. The 
 good man, who, up to this time, had suffer- 
 ed much from the change in his circum- 
 stances, as was visible enough from his 
 threadbare coat, could scarcely believe 
 his own eyes. " Read it aloud," said the 
 colonel : " your wife, and my preserver, the 
 good Caroline, appear anxious to hear it." 
 Ehrenberg read the document aloud, in a 
 voice trembling from emotion ; and moth, 
 
THE CHERRIES. 
 
 215 
 
 er and daughter wept for joy, at the happy 
 announcement. 
 
 " Hussars do things quickly," said the 
 colonel. " A few hours ago, no man in 
 the world dreamed that you would be 
 steward in Buchenhaim. But the end 
 must be in keeping with the beginning. 
 Come then with me at once, that I may 
 present you to my brother-in-law." Eh- 
 renberg begged a few moments to change 
 his dress. ' : I give you a quarter of an 
 hour," said the colonel : "within that time 
 I expect you at my chamber in my broth- 
 er-in-law's house. And you, too," said he 
 to Caroline and her mother, " prepare at 
 once to remove. Your lodgings here are 
 so confined. I have never seen worse 
 quarters, except during my campaigns. 
 But you will find it very different in the 
 house which your father will occupy in 
 Buchenhaim. The dwelling is large and 
 
216 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 commodious, with a fine garden attached, 
 well stocked with cherry-trees. Next 
 Monday you will be there — and this very 
 day you must start. What a happy feast 
 we shall have there ! not like the hasty 
 meal you gave the hussar officer, amid the 
 thunder of cannon, and the blazing roofs 
 of Rebenheim. Do not forget to have 
 cherries, dear Caroline, for the dessert. I 
 think they will be full ripe by that time." 
 
 With these words the colonel hurried 
 away, to escape the thanks of this good 
 family, and, in truth, to conceal his own 
 tears. So rapidly did he disappear, that 
 Ehrenberg could scarcely accompany him 
 down the steps. 
 
 " Oh Caroline !" said the happy father 
 when he returned, " who could have ever 
 imagined, that the little cherry-tree I plant- 
 ed in the flower-garden, the day you were 
 born, would ever produce such good fruit." 
 
THE CHERRIES. 217 
 
 " It was the Providence of God/' ex- 
 claimed the mother, clasping her hands. 
 " I remember, distinctly, the first day the 
 blossoms appeared on that tree, when you 
 and I went out to look at it, and little 
 Caroline, then an infant in my arms, was 
 so much delighted with the white flowers. 
 We resolved there to educate our daughter 
 piously, and prayed fervently to God, that 
 she, who was then as full of promise as 
 the blossoms on the tree, might, by His 
 grace, one day be the prop of our old age. 
 That prayer is now fulfilled, beyond our 
 fondest anticipation. Praise, forever, be 
 to the name of God !" 
 
 " Yes," said the father : " no pious and 
 hearty prayer of parents, for the good of 
 their child, is ever rejected. May He, 
 who then listened to our prayer, as we 
 stood near that cherry-tree in Rebenheim. 
 now accept our heartfelt thanks !" 
 
218 
 
 THE CHERRIES. 
 
 Caroline joined heartily in their grateful 
 prayers. " Eternal thanks to Thee, my 
 God," she exclaimed, " whose love and 
 solicitude for man, exceed the fondest and 
 most ardent love of parents for their chil- 
 dren." 
 
NEW-YEAK'S EYE. 
 
 Little Gretchen, little Gretchen, 
 Wanders up and down the street, 
 
 The snow is on her yellow hair. 
 The frost is at her feet. 
 
 The rows of long dark houses. 
 
 Without look cold and damp. 
 By the struggling of the moonbeam, 
 
 By the flicker of the lamp. 
 
 The clouds ride fast as horses, 
 The wind is from the north. 
 
 And no one cares for Gretchen, 
 And no one looketh forth. 
 
220 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 The board is spread with plenty, 
 Where smiling kindred meet, 
 
 But the frost is on the pavement, 
 And the beggars in the street. 
 
 With a little box of matches, 
 She could not sell all day, 
 
 And the thin, thin tatter'd mantle, 
 The wind blows every way, — 
 
 She clingeth to the railing, 
 She shivers in the gloom, — 
 
 There are parents sitting snugly 
 By the firelight in the room ; 
 
 And groups of busy children 
 Withdrawing just the tips 
 
 Of rosy fingers press'd in vain 
 Against their bursting lips, 
 
 With grave and earnest faces, 
 Are whispering each other, 
 
NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 221 
 
 Of presents for the New- Year made 
 For father or for mother. 
 
 But no one talks to Gretchen, 
 And no one hears her speak. 
 
 No breath of little whisperers 
 Comes warmly on her cheek ; 
 
 No little arms are round her, 
 Ah me ! that there should be, 
 
 With so much happiness on earth, 
 So much of misery ! 
 
 Sure they of manv blessings 
 Should scatter blessings round, 
 
 As laden boughs in Autumn fling 
 Their ripe fruits to the ground. 
 
 And the best love man can offer 
 To the God of love, be sure, 
 
 Is kindness to His little ones, 
 And bounty to His poor. 
 
222 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 Little Gretchen, little Gretchen. 
 
 Goes sadly on her way ; 
 There's no one looketh out at her. 
 
 There's no one bids her stay. 
 
 Her home is cold and desolate. 
 
 No smile, no food, no fire, 
 But children clamorous for bread, 
 
 And an impatient sire. 
 
 So she sits down in an angle, 
 Where two great houses meet, 
 
 And she curleth up beneath her, 
 For warmth, her little feet ; 
 
 And she looketh on the cold wall, 
 
 And on the colder sky, 
 And wonders if the little stars 
 
 Are bright fires up on high. 
 
 And she heard a clock strike slowly, 
 Up in a far church tower, 
 
NEW- YEAR'S EVE. 223 
 
 With such a sad and solemn tone, 
 Tolling the midnight hour ! 
 
 The chilly winter morning 
 Breaks up in the dull skies, 
 
 On the city wrapp'd in vapor, 
 On the spot where Gretchen lies. 
 
 The night was wild and stormy, 
 The morn is cold and gray, 
 
 And 2:ood church bells are ringing 
 Christ's circumcision day. 
 
 And holy men were praying 
 
 In many a holy place, 
 And little children's angels 
 
 Sing songs before Christ's face. 
 
 In her scant and tatter'd garment, 
 With her back against the wall, 
 
224 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 She sitteth cold and silent, 
 She answers not their call. 
 
 They have lifted her up fearfully. 
 
 They shudder'd as they said, — 
 " It was a bitter, bitter night — 
 
 The child was frozen dead !" 
 
 The angels sung their greeting 
 For one redeem'd from sin ; 
 
 Men said, — " It was a bitter night : 
 Would no one let her in ?" 
 
" Look there, if ever you opcE your mourn to any 
 person but me and my mother, we will murder you 
 more cruelly than that man there." — Page 275, 
 
,ed a lonely 
 and sorrow- 
 ful life on her 
 paternal es- 
 tate. Mis- 
 fortunes had 
 fallen fast and heavy on her. Two years 
 before she had lost a beloved husband, 
 and, accompanied by her three little chil- 
 dren, she had followed his remains to the 
 grave. Within another year two of those 
 
228 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 children — two beautiful and promising 
 boys — were carried off by the measles, 
 and once more the widow's tears flowed 
 over the fresh clay as she fixed the white 
 garlands on their graves. In the begin- 
 ning of this year news came, that her only 
 brother, a brave officer, had fallen in de- 
 fence of his country, and this new sorrow 
 opened all her wounds, and made them 
 bleed afresh. One consolation alone re- 
 mained for her on this earth — her only 
 daughter, Melina — a lovely child — about 
 eight or nine years old. 
 
 One day, as they were sitting at the 
 work-table, in the parlor, the mother sew- 
 ing, according to her custom, and her 
 little daughter, whom she herself instruct- 
 ed, reading aloud from a book that lay 
 open on the table, a stranger entered. 
 He held a paper in his hand, and after 
 having saluted them, he said, that this was 
 
THE JDUMB GIRL. 229 
 
 a claim for a small debt of some thousand 
 dollars, due to him by the late Mr. von 
 Grunau. The claim appeared highly im- 
 probable to the widow, especially as the 
 stranger was very badly dressed, and had 
 rather the appearance of a vagabond, than 
 one who could lend so much money. But 
 she was afraid, because none of her ser- 
 vants were in the house. The butler had 
 gone to town to see his mother, who was 
 dangerously ill ; the cook had accompa- 
 nied him ; and the other servants were 
 saving hay in the meadow. Mrs. von 
 Grunau ordered Melina to call the stew- 
 ard, who came, and declared positively 
 that the claim was a forgery. " I know, 
 beyond all doubt," said he, " that Mr. von 
 Grunau did not owe one penny at his 
 death. That signature is a forgery." The 
 stranger appeared transported with fury, 
 and with shocking imprecations, poured 
 
230 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 out a torrent of calumnious invectives on 
 the deceased. The mother, not wishing 
 that her daughter should hear such hor- 
 rible things, ordered her to go into the 
 garden. The stranger then began to give 
 a tedious and confused account of the 
 time and place where the debt was con- 
 tracted, stating that Mr. von Grunau, 
 when at college, had borrowed the money 
 from him. At last the steward lost all 
 patience. " Begone," said he, " you are 
 a liar ; if my good master had owed you 
 ten dollars, instead of your large claim, 
 you would have come long ago to demand 
 the money, which you seem to want very 
 sadly, and not waited until now — two 
 years after his death." But the stranger 
 persisted in urging his claim, and could 
 not be induced to stir. Hot words passed 
 between him and the steward, and brought 
 on a long altercation. The widow was 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 231 
 
 sorry that her servants were not at home 
 to drive away the man by force, or take 
 him into custody. After some time he 
 went off, threatening still to bring his 
 claim before the courts. 
 
 Mrs. von Grunau was much annoyed 
 by this intrusion, and walked into the 
 garden to see her daughter. But no trace 
 of the child could be found. A very 
 rapid river flowed outside the hedge ; on 
 the banks, at a point where they were 
 very steep, she found Melina's little water- 
 ing-pot. The poor mother almost fainted 
 in despair. A shepherd-boy came up with 
 Melina's straw hat. 
 
 " The hat," he said, " had floated down 
 the river, until it was caught by a willow 
 branch. He knew it by the fine blue 
 ribands." 
 
 " O God !" exclaimed the poor mother, 
 raising her pale face and clasped hands to 
 
232 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 heaven, " my darling child has fallen into 
 the river." 
 
 "Oh," said the boy. with a shudder, 
 "the poor little girl is certainly drowned. 
 You see there — the grass is beaten from 
 the place where the water-pot lay, down 
 to the river's brink. Alas, kind Melina, it 
 was only yesterday evening you gave me 
 bread and butter !" 
 
 The agitated mother cried out : " Run, 
 run quickly — call the people : perhaps they 
 may save her ?" Herself ran to the stew- 
 ard — and told him what had happened. 
 The whole village was out in search of 
 the child. But they sought in vain. 
 
 The disconsolate mother now spent sor- 
 rowful days and sleepless nights. "Oh!" 
 she would often exclaim, " my dear hus- 
 band and my three children are gone from 
 me, and are with Thee now in heaven, 
 my God. My noble brother, too, died far 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 233 
 
 away from his native land. I am left 
 alone and comfortless. My property has 
 no charms for me : the world is dead to 
 me. My sole pleasure is, to think of the 
 day which shall unite us in heaven. My 
 only hope is beyond the grave. Heaven 
 was, at all times, my most ardent desire ; 
 but now, with greater ardor than ever— I 
 pray that I may soon find rest there." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MAJOR VON BERG. 
 
 Mr. von Berg, the widow's brother, 
 though supposed to be dead, was still 
 alive : he was captain of a regiment of 
 hussars ; and had been thrown from his 
 horse in a terrible battle, and was aban- 
 doned by his soldiers in the confusion of 
 
234 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 their flight. They believed that he was 
 killed, but he was only severely wounded. 
 Being carried away prisoner to a distant 
 fortress in the enemy's country, he had no 
 means of sending news to his friends, nor 
 did any news come to them from any 
 other quarter. 
 
 Peace was proclaimed : the major was 
 liberated, and was returning home at the 
 head of his regiment. They halted for a 
 time at a village on the borders of a great 
 forest, in which a friend of the major's 
 dwelt. He rode to his friend's castle, 
 and learned the sad tidings of his brother- 
 in-law's death, but could not get any in- 
 formation of his sister and her children. 
 
 When the major and his servant were 
 returning to the camp in the evening, 
 through the wild and wooded country, 
 they lost their way. Autumn had al- 
 ready far advanced. The country, with 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 235 
 
 its gloomy pines, became, at every step, 
 wilder and more savag-e. For a time, 
 the moon, then in her first quarter, threw 
 a flickering light through the dark pines, 
 waving their arms over the travellers' 
 path. But large masses of dark clouds 
 soon gathered over their heads : the storm 
 howled through the forest ; and mingled 
 rain and snow dashed in the travellers' 
 faces. The darkness was so great, that 
 not a glimpse of the moon or sky could 
 be caught through the trees. " Our hor- 
 ses," said the major, at last, " are so 
 tired, that, cold and frosty though it be, we 
 must spend this night in the forest." 
 
 " Well," answered his servant, Haska, 
 " it is not our first time. As we have 
 nothing to eat or drink, we must have a 
 fire, at all events." He accordingly dis- 
 mounted ; and having tied his horse to a 
 tree, sought some sheltered spot, but all 
 
236 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 his endeavors to light a fire were fruitless. 
 The fallen twigs and branches were too 
 wet ; and he gave up in despair. Sud- 
 denly, during a pause in the howling of 
 the storm, they heard the barking of a 
 dog. " Thank God," said the major, " we 
 cannot be far from a village or house." 
 " No," answered his servant : " let us 
 mount again, and ride in the direction 
 where the dog barked." 
 
 After a short ride, they saw a light 
 glimmering through the trees. They rode 
 towards it, and came to a solitary house, 
 surrounded with a high wall, enclosing a 
 garden, the yard, and stabling. The re- 
 flection of a large fire from the kitchen, 
 flung a reddish glare on the old trunks and 
 moss-grown arms of the trees. The house 
 appeared to be very strongly built : the 
 windows were secured with massive iron 
 grating : and several parts of the wall, 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 237 
 
 from which the plaster had fallen off. were 
 incrusted with green and yellow moss 
 or weeds. Both riders dismounted, and 
 leading their horses by the bridles, walked 
 round the wall to find the door. Haska 
 knocked loudly : after a pause, a small 
 lattice in the door was opened, a light ap- 
 peared, and a voice within asked, " Who 
 are you ?" " Travellers," answered Has- 
 ka, " who have lost our way in the forest." 
 "Ha, ha," muttered the voice, "you come 
 at an untimely hour. How many are 
 you ?" " Two and our two horses," an- 
 swered Haska. " Good," was the reply : 
 "four in all." An old, wrinkled face, was 
 then thrust through the opening, to take a 
 view of the travellers. 
 
 "Ha!" thought the major, "if I had not 
 seen the dress, I would swear it was a 
 grisly old hussar." He drew nearer to 
 
 the door, and asked to be admitted. 
 
 2* 
 
238 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 " Since you are such a handsome voung 
 fellow," said the old hag, " we could not 
 shut the door against you." She un- 
 locked the door, and the major entered, fol- 
 lowed by Haska and the two jaded horses. 
 " There's the stable," said she, pointing to 
 a door : " you will find a lantern inside. 
 Bring it here until I light it ; you have 
 room and hay enough, but our supply of 
 oats is out." 
 
 Haska led the horses into the stable. 
 The major, also, wished to see how they 
 were tended, and found every thing to his 
 taste. The old woman locked the door 
 very carefully, and brought in the keys. 
 
 ' Now, my fine young gentleman," said 
 she, "come into our hall." 
 
 " With all my heart," answered the ma- 
 jor : " and, good landlady, get a warm 
 supper in haste : I am cold as a wet dog, 
 and hungry as a wolf." 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 039 
 
 " With pleasure," said she : " but I am 
 very sorry that I cannot treat you as I 
 wish : my son is not at home : I must do 
 as well as I can. I limp — as you see : to 
 lay the table, and cook, and bring up the 
 dishes, is too much for me — I must call 
 down Ursula, my little grandchild. The 
 poor child is dumb, and cannot utter one 
 syllable ; but her hearing is very good ; 
 and, for so young a child, she is of great 
 use to us. My son will be home in about 
 half an hour's time, and then we can 
 amuse and entertain you more hospi- 
 tablv.''" 
 
240 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 The major threw off his wet mantle, 
 and sat opposite the large blazing fire. 
 The old hostess introduced Ursula, telling 
 
 her to salute the strangers. The poor 
 girl did so. " Prepare the table now," 
 said the old woman, giving her a table- 
 cloth. The girl wore a black gown, a 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 241 
 
 red shawl drawn over her shoulders, and 
 a cap and apron white as snow. She ap- 
 peared pale and sorrowful ; and excited 
 the warmest sympathy of the kind-hearted 
 soldier, who could not behold, without pity, 
 so young and beautiful a face clouded 
 with grief. "God bless you, dear girl," 
 said he : " what a pity that you are dumb 
 — I wish I could have a few words from 
 you." The girl cast one kind, but sor- 
 rowful glance at the major ; pressed her 
 finger to her lips ; prepared the table, and 
 retired. 
 
 In a few minutes she brought in the 
 supper. The major rose and seated him- 
 self at table. Contrary to his expecta- 
 tions, the table linen and napkins w r ere 
 of the finest quality, and white as snow. 
 The spoons and other articles were silver ; 
 and the supper itself was excellent. He 
 was loud in his praise of the attendance. 
 
242 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 " Good !" said he, " I have found out ex- 
 cellent quarters : I can make some amends 
 for the fatigues of the road." Once more 
 the girl cast a look at him of the most in- 
 describable sorrow, burst into tears, and 
 withdrew. 
 
 "Astonishing," thought he, "that the 
 child is so sad. But to hear and not to 
 be able to speak, must be very afflicting 
 to one so young, especially a girl. Still, 
 there must be some other cause for her 
 grief. I pity the poor thing from my 
 heart ; and would wish, above all things, 
 that she could tell me her sorrow." 
 
 After some time Ursula brought some 
 roast venison and salad, and secretly 
 slipped a piece of paper into the major's 
 hand. She glanced first at the paper, 
 then at the kitchen- window, and retired. 
 The major understood that he was to read 
 the paper secretly, for, on looking to the 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 243 
 
 window that opened into the kitchen, he 
 found that the old woman was watching 
 him. He unfolded the paper without stir- 
 ring from the table, and read the following 
 words. They had been scrawled with a 
 pencil, and, evidently, with a trembling 
 hand. 
 
 " You have fallen into a den of murder- 
 ers : you shall be murdered this night : 
 be on your guard : God be with you — 
 rescue me." 
 
 The major was thunderstruck. He 
 doubted whether he should fly at once, or 
 hold himself on his guard where he was. 
 He had still some doubts whether the in- 
 formation was true. 
 
 Haska came into the chamber with the 
 portmanteau, from which he was about to 
 take what his master wanted for the night. 
 The major spoke to him in a low tone, 
 such as could not be heard bv the old 
 
244 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 woman, telling him of the contents of the 
 note, and asking his advice on the best 
 plan to escape, or meet the danger with 
 which they were threatened. The trusty 
 servant shook from head to foot. " Come, 
 come," said the major, " we must not lose 
 courage. Though it be no laughing mat- 
 ter, we must laugh, as if we were in the 
 best possible humor. If we look so gloomy 
 the old hag will certainly suspect us." 
 
 Haska instantly burst into a loud and 
 hearty laugh, as if the major had said 
 something very pleasant. " O," said the 
 major, " that's too loud ; bring my pair of 
 double-barrelled pistols. They must stand 
 the first charge — and then my hope is in 
 the edge of this good sabre. Examine, 
 also, whether there may not be something 
 suspicious in the house, either arms or 
 stolen goods ; or perhaps some servants 
 lurking concealed, so that it would be bet- 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 245 
 
 ter for us to escape if possible. I will 
 keep the hag engaged in the mean time, 
 and prevent her from watching you. As 
 soon as she is ready in the kitchen, I will 
 call her and keep her in chat here." 
 
 Haska went as he was ordered, and 
 after a short delay returned with the pis- 
 
 tols, and laid them on the table. He was 
 pale and agitated. " Oh ! I have seen 
 enough," said lie. " There is a small room 
 
246 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 near the stable for servants ; I examined it 
 closely, and saw something like a trapdoor 
 under the bed ; I removed the bed, raised 
 the door, and looked down — and what did 
 I see, but heaps of rich clothes, silks, satins, 
 all daubed with blood. A splendid waist- 
 coat, which certainly must have belonged 
 to some distinguished person, was bored 
 through with a dagger, just over the heart ; 
 and the marks of a stream of blood were 
 clotted on the white vest, around and be- 
 low the rent. Horrible, horrible — we are 
 in a den of murderers. There is no chance 
 of escape by flight. The door is secured 
 with strong bolts and locks, and the keys 
 are concealed. The walls are very high — 
 we have no ladder, and even though we 
 had, how could we leave our horses here. 
 I think the robbers would have us taken 
 again in a very short time." 
 
 " I would not be afraid of a dozen of 
 

 THE 
 
 DUMB 
 
 GIRL. 
 
 247 
 
 them/' s 
 
 aid the 
 
 major, 
 
 " still 
 
 I think it 
 
 better to 
 
 ask the 
 
 keys 
 
 quietly 
 
 of the old 
 
 hag, and 
 
 ride out 
 
 once 
 
 more in 
 
 the forest. 
 
 I do not 
 
 wish to 
 
 shed blood when I can 
 
 avoid it.' 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HOST AND HOSTESS. 
 
 " Come here, good landlady," cried the 
 major, in a loud voice. 
 
 " What do you want in such a hurry ?" 
 she asked, limping into the room. But 
 just at this moment, three loud and heavy 
 knocks were heard at the door. " Ah," 
 said she, " the master is come, I must let 
 him in before I hear what you have to 
 order." The major, with a candle in his 
 hand, accompanied her, as if to light her 
 to the door, but in reality to ascertain 
 
 it-..- 
 
248 THE DU31B GIRL. 
 
 whether the master was coming alone. 
 He was alone. The major returned with 
 him to the room, and sat down at the 
 table on which the pistols were lying. 
 He entered into an animated conversation 
 with his host on the late war, and appeared 
 perfectly free from all suspicion or fear. 
 
 In the mean time Haska, having fed 
 the horses, came in and sat down at 
 another table. The major said to him 
 secretly : — " Eat your supper quickly and 
 prepare my chamber. Take my port- 
 manteau with you. Retire then to your 
 own room as if you were going to bed, 
 but be on the watch. When you hear 
 me leaving this room, come to my sleep- 
 ing-room, and don't forget your pistols and 
 sabre." 
 
 Haska went with the portmanteau to 
 his master's room, and after returning, 
 pretended to be very sleepy, and yawned 
 
 [t^T^Zl. 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 249 
 
 heavily. " You strain your jaws/' said 
 the host, "as if you would swallow me 
 hair and hide." Haska laughed. 
 
 " I would do so with pleasure," said he ; 
 " but in truth, I am very drowsy ; I rose 
 before daylight this morning and have 
 been on the road all day. I will sleep 
 the whole night as sound as a badger. 
 Awaken me in the morning, to feed the 
 horses ; but if you don't rap loudly, I cer- 
 tainly will not hear you." The host ap- 
 peared quite pleased, and lighted Haska to 
 the servant's room, near the stable. 
 
 When the host returned, the major re- 
 newed the conversation, but observing 
 that the man threw, now and then, a 
 glance at the pistols, " Do you like them, 
 good host?" he asked. 
 
 " Very much, indeed," was the answer ; 
 
 " but why have you not left them in your 
 
 holsters ? You have no need of them 
 3* 
 
250 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 here. As I am an honorable man, you 
 are under the safest roof in the world." 
 
 "Your declaration is, I am sure, per- 
 fectly true. Your house is as safe as 
 yourself are honorable. But it has al- 
 ways been my habit to take care of my 
 pistols. Both are charged to the muzzle ; 
 they might easily do some harm." 
 
 " I will put them in that press there in 
 the wall, and you can keep the key," said 
 the man. 
 
 " O, not at all," said the major, " don't 
 give yourself that trouble. I always have 
 had the custom, or the folly, of bringing 
 my pistols to my bedchamber, and leaving 
 them on a table by my bedside." 
 
 The host appeared pensive for a few 
 moments, and paced up and down the 
 room. "What can this be," said he at 
 last, " it is only now I observed it ; you 
 have nothing but water to drink. My 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 251 
 
 old mother is very forgetful. She gave 
 you no wine ; I must bring you some of 
 the best in my cellar, and we shall have a 
 glass together." 
 
 He went out to the kitchen and said, in 
 a loud voice, to his mother, " Mother, you 
 forgot to give wine to your noble guest. 
 Bring a lamp and come with me. We 
 must have some of that butt which I re- 
 serve for honorable guests." 
 
 " What does the villain mean," thought 
 the major, " to poison me, or give me a 
 sleeping draught ?" 
 
 But, before he had time to think more, 
 the host rushed to the door, exclaiming, 
 " O, good sir, come quickly to my help, 
 for Heaven's sake : my poor mother, 
 while carrying the candle, fell down in 
 the cellar. I don't know whether she is 
 dead or alive : come help me to carry the 
 poor creature up." 
 
252 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 " Most willingly," said the major ; " take 
 that candle on the table and show me the 
 way." 
 
 They came to the cellar, which the ma- 
 jor perceived had a trapdoor. " O, look 
 down," said the man, " my poor mother is 
 below and gives no stir or sign of life." 
 
 The major knew not whether the wo- 
 man had really fallen, or whether this was 
 a trick to lock himself in the cellar. He 
 stood at the head of the stone steps, and 
 said, " Go before me with the light, lest I 
 might break my neck going down." 
 
 The man descended. The major now, 
 for the first time, perceived the edge of a 
 dagger, glittering under his coat. " I 
 know what the villain means," thought 
 the major, "he will stab me with that dag- 
 ger, while I am engaged carrying the old 
 hag." Suddenly he gave the robber a 
 thrust, which whirled him down to the 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 yao 
 
 bottom of the steps, exclaiming at the 
 same time, " Who digs a pitfall for an- 
 other falls into it himself." The robber 
 rolled over his mother, who suddenly 
 started up, and seizing him by the hair, 
 screamed aloud, " You wretch, I fear you 
 have broken a couple of my ribs." The 
 major let fall the trapdoor, and secured 
 it above with strong iron bolts. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL SPEAKS. 
 
 The major ran to the door, and shouted 
 " Haska, Haska \" Haska came, as an old 
 hussar comes to the assault, w T ith a pistol 
 in each hand, and his naked sabre across 
 between his teeth. '-'You don't need 
 
 — w—— — wm 
 
254 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 your arms," said the major, laughing, " the 
 birds are caught. The hag and her son 
 are safely locked in the cellar." 
 
 " Victory !" shouted Haska ; " the for- 
 tress is ours. We must reconnoitre now, 
 to be on the defensive if necessary. The 
 keys must be found first, and kept se- 
 curely." 
 
 After a long search Haska found them 
 in the kitchen, under an old pot. The 
 jolly hussar put them on a plate, and with 
 a low bow, presented them to his master, 
 as if he were surrendering the keys of a 
 captured fortress. 
 
 They first examined all the apartments 
 in the lower story of the house, and then 
 ascended the narrow flight of stone steps, 
 and went through all the dark passages, 
 lest some persons might be concealed in 
 them. As they were passing by a door, 
 they heard some person praying most ear- 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 255 
 
 nestly. " O, good God." said a soft sweet 
 voice, " have mercy on the noble soldier, 
 and his faithful servant. Save them and 
 save me from this horrible house/' 
 
 The major, on opening the door, ex- 
 claimed in amazement, " Ursula, is it you 
 that are praying so fervently ? I thought 
 you were dumb." 
 
 " O no, good sir, others pretended that," 
 said she. " The wicked wretches in this 
 house murdered a strange man, and threat- 
 ened to do the like to me, if I ever ut- 
 tered one syllable in the presence of a 
 
 stranger 
 
 " Cheer up," said the major, " the mas- 
 ter and mistress can do you no more 
 harm ; they are settled." 
 
 " Oh, heavens !" said the poor child ; 
 " surely you have not killed them ?" 
 
 "No," answered the major; "I have 
 only locked them up in the cellar. Come 
 
256 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 down with us now, and let us be merry, 
 and tell me how you happened to fall into 
 this horrible house." 
 
 " O, sir," said the poor child, " you are 
 not safe yet. There are twenty other 
 robbers in this forest yet, and twelve of 
 them are expected here this night. We 
 were getting dinner for them. O ! take 
 care — do not let the horrible fellows into 
 the house." 
 
 " Come, Haska," said the major, " we 
 must take the proper measures to defend 
 ourselves. I think they cannot enter, ex- 
 cept through the door." 
 
 "No," answered the girl; "all the win- 
 dows are well secured with iron bars. There 
 is a balcony to the house, which the robbers 
 call their lighthouse. The master sets up 
 a light there whenever he expects his as- 
 sociates, to show 7 them the way. When 
 they come, they always give three heavy 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 257 
 
 knocks at the door, and then the old wo- 
 man or her son opens the door." 
 
 '•' Well," said the major, " if the dozen 
 do not come in a body, we will let them 
 in. If only half a dozen come, it would 
 be only child's sport for us. We must 
 give them a warm reception. Run and 
 see whether the lamp be lighted in the 
 balcony." 
 
 Haska ran, and returned, saying with a 
 smile, " Our host and hostess are very 
 punctual people, they lighted a fresh torch 
 before they went down into the cellar. 
 The light is so strong and bright, that we 
 can easily see how many of the villains 
 will come at the same time to the door." 
 
 " Right, Haska," said the major. " Come 
 down, now, into the yard, and we will 
 make all our preparations." The brave 
 soldier threw off his military cloak, re- 
 marking that the sight of the hussar uni- 
 
 
258 THE DU3IB GIRL. 
 
 forms would not be encouraging to the 
 robbers. " Get cords now," he added, 
 " with which we can bind the fellows." 
 
 Suddenly the three raps were heard at 
 the door. Haska ran up to the balcony, 
 and, descending in a minute, told the 
 major, softly, that there were only two 
 outside. " Open the door," said the major, 
 " and stand behind it. Leave the first that 
 comes in to me ; you take the second. 
 Lay down the lantern on the ground." 
 
 Haska opened the door. The major 
 seized the first robber by the collar, clap- 
 ped a pistol to his breast, and cried out in 
 a voice of thunder, " Surrender, or you 
 are a dead man !" The wretch flung him- 
 self on his knees, and begged his life. 
 Haska brought his man to the ground in a 
 twinkling. The two robbers were bound 
 hand and foot, and lay stretched on the 
 ground. " If you attempt to stir, or utter 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 259 
 
 one word,"' said the major, " I will shoot 
 you without mercy." 
 
 Three other heavy raps were again 
 heard at the door. It was from two rob- 
 bers, who came loaded with heavy packs 
 on their shoulders. They were admitted, 
 overpowered, and bound like their com- 
 rades. The brave officer and his sturdy 
 servant stood at their post until near 
 morning. But no other robber came, nor 
 gave any sign of approach. 
 
 " I don't know r why they are not com- 
 ing," said Haska ; " perhaps they have 
 smelt the roast meat. But the villains 
 will not escape their punishment." 
 
260 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE UNCLE. 
 
 When morning arose over the black 
 forest of pines, Haska said, " Now we may 
 retire." But the major told him that all 
 danger was not over yet. 
 
 " You heard," said he, " that there are 
 twenty robbers in the forest still. Before 
 we could look about us, a ball from a bush 
 or a thicket might bring us down. We 
 must consult on what is best to be done." 
 
 Suddenly Haska cried out, " I hear the 
 tramp of a troop of horse, I fear their whole 
 force of horse and foot is coming on us." 
 He ran up to the window, and in a few 
 minutes came down, bounding with joy. 
 " They are our own men — a whole troop 
 of hussars !" 
 
 Haska threw open the doors, and the 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 261 
 
 hussars came in. They saluted the major, 
 and their comrade, with all the cordiality 
 of soldiers. " We were in great trouble 
 for you, major," said the officer ; " you are 
 always so punctual at your post, that when 
 we found you absent last night, at the ap- 
 pointed hour, we feared you had either 
 lost your way in the forest, or fallen into 
 the hands of the robbers that infest this 
 district. We mounted our horses, and rode 
 through the forest, and perceiving, by the 
 light of our torches, the tracks of two 
 horses, ' That's the track of the major's 
 horse,' said I, pointing to one. ' No other 
 horse, far or near, has a hoof like that ;' so 
 we followed the tracks and they brought 
 us here." 
 
 " It is the mercy of Heaven," said the 
 major, " that we have met again ; I thank 
 you heartily for your zeal." 
 
 " Ah," said Haska to the hussars, " I 
 
262 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 know now why the robbers did not come. 
 You frightened them." 
 
 The major gave a brief account of what 
 had happened, and then gave his orders. 
 " Guard these four prisoners, and bring up 
 the old woman and her son from the cellar. 
 Search the whole house, break in all the 
 doors, chests, and presses : you must find 
 heaps of stolen goods here ; make free use 
 of the wine and provisions with which the 
 house is well supplied." The hussars glad- 
 ly obeyed all his orders, especially the last, 
 and soon dispatched the roast meat that 
 had been prepared for the robbers' dinner. 
 
 The major himself went to the room 
 where he had left his young preserver, and 
 brought her to the chamber lighted from 
 the balcony. " Now, my dear girl," said 
 he, " sit here on this sofa, and tell me your 
 history ; how you happened to fall into the 
 hands of these ruffians ; for I am confident 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 263 
 
 you cannot be a daughter of the robber — 
 a grandchild of that malignant old hag. 
 Tell me your history,, dear Ursula." 
 
 " My name is not Ursula," said the girl, 
 " my name is Melina. I was stolen from 
 my mother and carried to this place. My 
 father died two years before my capture 
 — he was Count von Grunau." 
 
 " Good heavens \" exclaimed the major, 
 clasping his hands, " are you, then, my sis- 
 ter's child ? I am your uncle— a thousand 
 blessings on you, dear Melina. When I 
 was going to the war, you were a baby, 
 and I took you in my arms and blessed 
 you. You are an angel, whom God has em- 
 ployed to save me from a horrible death." 
 The warm-hearted soldier clasped his 
 hands, and stood for some time with his 
 eyes devoutly raised to heaven. Melina, 
 too, prayed and wept. " Praise be to God," 
 said the major, (i that He has conducted 
 
264 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 me to you. 0, what a happiness for my 
 beloved sister !" The uncle and niece em- 
 braced affectionately, and shed torrents of 
 happy tears. 
 
 " But/' asked the major, " how were you 
 stolen from your mother ?" 
 
 " Oh," she answered, " a terrible man 
 came into my mother's house, showed a 
 paper to her, and cursed and swore most 
 horribly. My mother ordered me to go 
 into the garden. Another terrible man 
 caught me in the garden, stopped my 
 mouth with a handkerchief, and carried 
 me into a near wood, where a carriage was 
 waiting. His companion soon came, and 
 they brought me here." 
 
 The major conducted his niece down to 
 the yard, where the prisoners were lying. 
 " That man, with the grizzly black head, 
 showed the paper to my mother," said Me- 
 lina, " and this man, with the red hair and 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 265 
 
 whisjters, carried me away out of the gar- 
 den." 
 
 The major breakfasted with Melina ; and 
 gave orders to his men to get ready for 
 the march. He took Melina on horseback 
 with himself. The prisoners were con- 
 ducted, with their arms pinioned, between 
 a file of hussars. Four soldiers were 
 left to guard the house, and keep the 
 stolen goods, until the owners claimed 
 them. 
 
 The major delivered up his prisoners 
 to the magistrates in the nearest town. 
 The whole forest was surrounded and 
 examined, by more than two hundred hus- 
 sars. The entire band of robbers was 
 captured. During the inquisitions, which 
 lasted for a year, the following, among 
 other facts, was elicited : " Mr. von 
 Klauenberg, the sole surviving relative 
 of Mrs. von Grunau, a rich man, but a 
 
236 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 great miser, having heard that von Gru- 
 nau and his two children were dead, and 
 that the major had fallen in battle, thus 
 leaving Melina sole heiress of her moth- 
 er's large property, had instigated the 
 robbers to carry off the poor child. ' The 
 guilt of her blood,' said he, ' I don't wish to 
 have on my head ; but carry off the child, 
 and keep her close in some secure place, 
 where she will never be heard of more : 
 guard her securely: don't let her escape.' * 
 
 The captain of the gang undertook the 
 business. It was he that brought the pa- 
 per to the mother, while his companion 
 was prowling outside to seize the child. 
 It was he that placed the watering-pot on 
 the bank of the river, and hung the bon- 
 net upon the willow branch, before he 
 carried off Melina. 
 
 The captain and all his gang were con- 
 demned to death, and the wicked kinsman 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 >67 
 
 to a very large fine, and ten years' impris- 
 onment. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE HAPPY MOTHER. 
 
 The major resigned his commission ; 
 had his niece dressed suitably to her sta- 
 tion in life ; and conducted her home to 
 Grunau. As his sister believed him to be 
 dead, he took care to have her warned, 
 beforehand, of his return. He resolved 
 to present himself first, and break the 
 news to her that her daughter was alive. 
 He came to the old steward's house, who 
 was almost beside himself with joy on 
 seeing both alive. It was new life to him 
 — he could not find words to express his 
 feelings, but hastened away to the castle. 
 
 Madam von Grunau was seated on her 
 
268 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 sofa, pale and disconsolate. When she 
 heard that her brother was alive and com- 
 ing to see her, she would have hurried 
 away to meet him — but he entered at the 
 moment. She ran towards him and fell 
 into his arms. " O ! dearest brother," said 
 she, " you are really alive : God be praised : 
 I am not alone in the world !" 
 
 The major sat down beside her on the 
 sofa, and asked her to tell him all that had 
 occurred, since he went to the wars. 
 With many tears she told him how her 
 husband died, after a long and painful ill- 
 ness, which he bore with true Christian pa- 
 tience ; how her two sons, whom the ma- 
 jor knew and tenderly loved, were carried 
 off by the measles : and how her sole sur- 
 viving child, her daughter Melina, was 
 drowned in the river. 
 
 The major having listened to her with 
 great sympathy, added, at the close, " It is 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 269 
 
 not probable that Melina was drowned, 
 since you have not found her body." 
 
 "Oh!''" exclaimed the mother, her sor- 
 rowful face lighted up with joy, " Oh ! if 
 she were still alive, and if I could see her 
 but once before I died, how happy would 
 I be r 
 
 " Believe me," said he, " she is alive. 
 Klauenberg has surely had some hand in 
 this matter. Melina is not drowned. She 
 was carried away by robbers, and is de- 
 tained by them in some of their haunts." 
 
 " Better !" exclaimed the mother, her 
 tears flowing still more copiously, — " far 
 better to have her dead, than living 
 amongst wicked men. Better to have her 
 dead, than to have her lost both in body 
 and soul." 
 
 " Dearest sister," said the major, " youi 
 truly noble sentiments affect me deeply. 
 Believe me, she is still the same innocent, 
 
270 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 pure, angelic Melina, which you knew 
 her to be. You can have the proof your- 
 self. She has been actually rescued from 
 the robbers' hands." 
 
 The mother started to her feet, and ex- 
 claimed, " Gracious heaven, what do I 
 hear ? what new light is breaking on me ? 
 O, dear brother, tell me all. You have 
 seen her — have you not ? perhaps you 
 have her here ? come, come, dear brother, 
 bring me to her at once." 
 
 The major opened the door. Melina 
 rushed in ; threw herself into her moth- 
 er's arms, and could say no more, than, 
 " Mother, dearest mother !" 
 
 " Melina, dearest daughter — restored to 
 my arms — thanks, thanks forever, to Thee, 
 my God !" Thus the delighted mother 
 expressed her joy, while she embraced her 
 beloved child. 
 
 "Come, my daughter," said she, at 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 271 
 
 length, " sit here between me and your 
 uncle, on the sofa, and tell me how you 
 lived among the wicked robbers." 
 
 " When I was seized by the robber, and 
 carried away to the carriage, I thought," 
 said Melina, " I should have died of 
 fright. They drove me to that terrible 
 house, where I was very kindly received 
 by the old woman. She said she had 
 been expecting me anxiously, for a long 
 time before. She told me not to be cry- 
 ing. She gave me a great many sweet 
 things — brought punch and coffee, and 
 pressed me, with the rudest compliments, 
 to drink a glass to her health. She con- 
 ducted me to a neat little chamber ; ' Here,' 
 said she, 'this is your bedroom — that is as 
 clean and fine a bed as you could get 
 anywhere.' She told me that she could 
 bake, and boil, and roast for me, and 
 spoke on this topic so often and so hearti- 
 
272 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 ly, as if it were the greatest, the only 
 happiness of man — in this world — to eat 
 and drink. She dressed me in the dress 
 of a peasant girl — ' Now,' said she, ' you 
 belong to us ; the man of the house is 
 your father, and I, your grandmother.' 
 Both did all in their power to cheer me. 
 But I could not like them — my heart was 
 always with you, dearest mother. Oh ! 
 what a difference between those people 
 and you ! No pious word ever fell from 
 their lips. No prayer either morning or 
 night, or before or after meals. No book 
 in the whole house. I could scarcely 
 speak to them ; I shunned and dreaded 
 them. I was never happier, than in my 
 own little room, looking out into the gar- 
 den. There I used to recall all the good 
 instructions, the entertaining stories I had 
 heard from you. Oh! how many nights 
 did I pray there, when the moon rose 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 273 
 
 brightly over the dark and lonely forest, 
 and shone on the gray walls and iron bars 
 at my window. ' Yes,' I said, ' though I 
 am kept in the company of wicked peo- 
 ple, my heart can be with God.' What a 
 happiness, that day or night, wherever we 
 are, we can speak to God, and be certain 
 that our prayers will be heard ! 
 
 " The two men, that carried me away, 
 often came to the house with other com- 
 panions, like themselves. Their guests 
 were worse, even, than the people of the 
 house. They caroused and played cards, 
 with horrible oaths, saner all sorts of bad 
 songs, and said many things which set 
 them in roars of laughter — but which I 
 did not understand : I am sure, they must 
 have been very bad, as they gave pleasure 
 to such abandoned people. They often 
 quarrelled — flung jugs and glasses at each 
 
 other, and threatened to murder each 
 
 5* 
 
274 
 
 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 other. I used to fly, terrified and trem- 
 bling, to my own room. I resolved to 
 escape if possible — but all the windows 
 were secured with iron bars, and the door 
 was always carefully locked and bolted. 
 
 " One night, a merchant, a kind, friend- 
 ly man, came to spend a night in the 
 house. He had very valuable wares and 
 a large sum of money. The robbers mur- 
 dered him. I heard his screams, and ran 
 down to the scene. The sight almost de- 
 prived me of my senses. I told the mur- 
 derers, that it was a horrible crime, and 
 that God would certainly punish them for 
 it. They paid no attention to me ; but 
 charged me not to say one word on the 
 matter to any mortal. My keeper cried 
 out, ' From this moment, never open your 
 lips to a stranger — we will say you are 
 dumb.' He seized me by the arm, drag- 
 ged me over to the bloody corpse, and 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 275 
 
 said, with a horrible growl, ' Look there — 
 if you ever open your mouth to any per- 
 son, but me and my mother, we will mur- 
 der you more cruelly than that man there.' 
 I ran to my room, and throwing myself 
 on my knees, stretched out my hands to 
 heaven, and prayed, c O, good and merci- 
 ful God, Thou hadst mercv on the vouns; 
 Daniel in the lions' den. He sat as tran- 
 quil among the lions, as a shepherd-boy 
 among his sheep. Thou didst send an 
 angel to rescue him, and brought him 
 forth from the den. O ! have mercy on 
 me, a poor girl — save me from those sav- 
 age tigers — send an angel to my aid.' 
 God heard my prayer ; yes, dearest moth- 
 er, He sent an angel to my relief — your 
 beloved brother." 
 
 '•' Yes," answered the mother, " God has 
 had mercy on you, and on us all. He 
 allowed you to be taken away from me, 
 
276 THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 as a means of saving my brother's life ; 
 and God sent you, dearest brother, to the 
 robbers' den, to save the life of my daugh- 
 ter. It has not been without advantage 
 to me, to believe that my daughter was 
 dead ; for I prayed more earnestly and 
 frequently, than I otherwise would have 
 prayed, and looked forward, with pious 
 hope and resignation, to heaven. And 
 you, Melina, can learn this, at least, from 
 your long residence in a bad place, how 
 deeply men plunge in wickedness when 
 they do not rely on God — nor pray, nor 
 hear good instruction or conversation. 
 You have learned a greater horror of 
 vice, and a greater love for virtue. God 
 has comforted us all in our afflictions, 
 and turned our sorrow into joy. ! may 
 we thence learn to believe that He does 
 all for the best ! May we ever believe, 
 even in our greatest woes, that He can 
 
THE DUMB GIRL. 
 
 277 
 
 turn them to good ; and thank him from 
 our hearts, under his most heavy visita- 
 tions ! Yes, all his ways are wisdom and 
 goodness : to Him be unceasing, eternal 
 thanks." 
 
 '•'Amen, amen," said the Major, and the 
 prayer was re-echoed by the good Me- 
 lina. 
 
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