No More Learning

In another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed as if
something immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy had flung his
large cap over the bird, and a hand came underneath and caught the
clerk by the back and wings so roughly, that he squeaked, and then
cried out in his alarm, "You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the
police-office! " but it only sounded to the boy like "tweet, tweet;" so
he tapped the bird on the beak, and walked away with him. In the
avenue he met two school-boys, who appeared to belong to a better
class of society, but whose inferior abilities kept them in the lowest
class at school. These boys bought the bird for eightpence, and so the
clerk returned to Copenhagen. "It is well for me that I am
dreaming," he thought; "otherwise I should become really angry.
First I was a poet, and now I am a lark. It must have been the
poetic nature that changed me into this little creature. It is a
miserable story indeed, especially now I have fallen into the hands of
boys. I wonder what will be the end of it. " The boys carried him
into a very elegant room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady
received them, but she was not at all gratified to find that they
had brought a lark--a common field-bird as she called it. However, she
allowed them for one day to place the bird in an empty cage that
hung near the window. "It will please Polly perhaps," she said,
laughing at a large gray parrot, who was swinging himself proudly on a
ring in a handsome brass cage. "It is Polly's birthday," she added
in a simpering tone, "and the little field-bird has come to offer
his congratulations. "

Polly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing
proudly to and fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been brought
from his own warm, fragrant fatherland, the summer previous, began
to sing as loud as he could.

"You screamer! " said the lady, throwing a white handkerchief
over the cage.

"Tweet, tweet," sighed he, "what a dreadful snowstorm! " and then
he became silent.

The clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was placed in
a little cage close to the canary, and not far from the parrot. The
only human speech which Polly could utter, and which she sometimes
chattered forth most comically, was "Now let us be men. " All besides
was a scream, quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the
canary-bird, excepting to the clerk, who being now a bird, could
understand his comrades very well.

"I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the blooming
almond-trees," sang the canary. "I flew with my brothers and sisters
over beautiful flowers, and across the clear, bright sea, which
reflected the waving foliage in its glittering depths; and I have seen
many gay parrots, who could relate long and delightful stories.

"They were wild birds," answered the parrot, "and totally
uneducated. Now let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the lady and
her visitors can laugh at this, surely you can. It is a great
failing not to be able to appreciate what is amusing. Now let us be
men. "

"Do you remember," said the canary, "the pretty maidens who used
to dance in the tents that were spread out beneath the sweet blossoms?
Do you remember the delicious fruit and the cooling juice from the
wild herbs? "

"Oh, yes," said the parrot; "but here I am much better off. I am
well fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a clever head;
and what more do I want? Let us be men now. You have a soul for
poetry. I have deep knowledge and wit. You have genius, but no
discretion. You raise your naturally high notes so much, that you
get covered over. They never serve me so. Oh, no; I cost them
something more than you. I keep them in order with my beak, and
fling my wit about me. Now let us be men.

"O my warm, blooming fatherland," sang the canary bird, "I will
sing of thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams, where the
bending branches kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing of the
joy of my brothers and sisters, as their shining plumage flits among
the dark leaves of the plants which grow wild by the springs. "

"Do leave off those dismal strains," said the parrot; "sing
something to make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the highest
order of intellect. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, they can cry;
but to man alone is the power of laughter given. Ha! ha! ha! "
laughed Polly, and repeated his witty saying, "Now let us be men. "

"You little gray Danish bird," said the canary, "you also have
become a prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests, but still
there is liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten to close the
cage, and the window is open at the top. Fly, fly! "

Instinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the same
moment the half-opened door leading into the next room creaked on
its hinges, and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes, the cat crept in
and chased the lark round the room. The canary-bird fluttered in his
cage, and the parrot flapped his wings and cried, "Let us be men;" the
poor clerk, in the most deadly terror, flew through the window, over
the houses, and through the streets, till at length he was obliged
to seek a resting-place. A house opposite to him had a look of home. A
window stood open; he flew in, and perched upon the table. It was
his own room. "Let us be men now," said he, involuntarily imitating
the parrot; and at the same moment he became a clerk again, only
that he was sitting on the table. "Heaven preserve us! " said he;
"How did I get up here and fall asleep in this way? It was an uneasy
dream too that I had. The whole affair appears most absurd. "


THE BEST THING THE GOLOSHES DID

Early on the following morning, while the clerk was still in
bed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who lodged on the same
storey, knocked at his door, and then walked in. "Lend me your
goloshes," said he; "it is so wet in the garden, but the sun is
shining brightly. I should like to go out there and smoke my pipe. " He
put on the goloshes, and was soon in the garden, which contained
only one plum-tree and one apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small
garden like this is a great advantage.

The student wandered up and down the path; it was just six
o'clock, and he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the street.
"Oh, to travel, to travel! " cried he; "there is no greater happiness
in the world: it is the height of my ambition. This restless feeling
would be stilled, if I could take a journey far away from this
country. I should like to see beautiful Switzerland, to travel through
Italy, and,"--It was well for him that the goloshes acted immediately,
otherwise he might have been carried too far for himself as well as
for us. In a moment he found himself in Switzerland, closely packed
with eight others in the diligence. His head ached, his back was
stiff, and the blood had ceased to circulate, so that his feet were
swelled and pinched by his boots. He wavered in a condition between
sleeping and waking. In his right-hand pocket he had a letter of
credit; in his left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis
d'ors were sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his
breast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost one or
another of these possessions; then he would awake with a start, and
the first movements of his hand formed a triangle from his
right-hand pocket to his breast, and from his breast to his
left-hand pocket, to feel whether they were all safe. Umbrellas,
sticks, and hats swung in the net before him, and almost obstructed
the prospect, which was really very imposing; and as he glanced at it,
his memory recalled the words of one poet at least, who has sung of
Switzerland, and whose poems have not yet been printed:--

"How lovely to my wondering eyes
Mont Blanc's fair summits gently rise;
'Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,--
If you have gold enough to spare. "

Grand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The
pine-forests looked like little groups of moss on high rocks, whose
summits were lost in clouds of mist. Presently it began to snow, and
the wind blew keen and cold. "Ah," he sighed, "if I were only on the
other side of the Alps now, it would be summer, and I should be able
to get money on my letter of credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter
prevents me from enjoying myself in Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on
the other side of the Alps. "

And there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the midst of
Italy, between Florence and Rome, where the lake Thrasymene
glittered in the evening sunlight like a sheet of molten gold
between the dark blue mountains. There, where Hannibal defeated
Flaminius, the grape vines clung to each other with the friendly grasp
of their green tendril fingers; while, by the wayside, lovely
half-naked children were watching a herd of coal-black swine under the
blossoms of fragrant laurel. Could we rightly describe this
picturesque scene, our readers would exclaim, "Delightful Italy! "

But neither the student nor either of his travelling companions
felt the least inclination to think of it in this way. Poisonous flies
and gnats flew into the coach by thousands. In vain they drove them
away with a myrtle branch, the flies stung them notwithstanding. There
was not a man in the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured
with the stings. The poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on
their backs in swarms, and they were only relieved when the coachmen
got down and drove the creatures off.

As the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not however
of long duration. It produced the feeling which we experience when
we enter a vault at a funeral, on a summer's day; while the hills
and the clouds put on that singular green hue which we often notice in
old paintings, and look upon as unnatural until we have ourselves seen
nature's coloring in the south. It was a glorious spectacle; but the
stomachs of the travellers were empty, their bodies exhausted with
fatigue, and all the longings of their heart turned towards a
resting-place for the night; but where to find one they knew not.
All the eyes were too eagerly seeking for this resting-place, to
notice the beauties of nature.

The road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it reminded the
student of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a lonely inn, and
close by it a number of crippled beggars had placed themselves; the
brightest among them looked, to quote the words of Marryat, "like
the eldest son of Famine who had just come of age. " The others were
either blind, or had withered legs, which obliged them to creep
about on their hands and knees, or they had shrivelled arms and
hands without fingers. It was indeed poverty arrayed in rags.
"Eccellenza, miserabili! " they exclaimed, stretching forth their
diseased limbs. The hostess received the travellers with bare feet,
untidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors were fastened together with
string; the floors of the rooms were of brick, broken in many
places; bats flew about under the roof; and as to the odor within--

"Let us have supper laid in the stable," said one of the
travellers; "then we shall know what we are breathing. "

The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but
quicker than air came in the withered arms and the continual whining
sounds, "Miserabili, eccellenza. " On the walls were inscriptions,
half of them against "la bella Italia. "

The supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of watery
soup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last delicacy played a
principal part in the salad. Musty eggs and roasted cocks'-combs
were the best dishes on the table; even the wine had a strange
taste, it was certainly a mixture. At night, all the boxes were placed
against the doors, and one of the travellers watched while the
others slept. The student's turn came to watch. How close the air felt
in that room; the heat overpowered him. The gnats were buzzing about
and stinging, while the miserabili, outside, moaned in their dreams.

"Travelling would be all very well," said the student of
divinity to himself, "if we had no bodies, or if the body could rest
while the soul if flying. Wherever I go I feel a want which
oppresses my heart, for something better presents itself at the
moment; yes, something better, which shall be the best of all; but
where is that to be found? In fact, I know in my heart very well
what I want. I wish to attain the greatest of all happiness. "

No sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long white
curtains shaded the windows of his room, and in the middle of the
floor stood a black coffin, in which he now lay in the still sleep
of death; his wish was fulfilled, his body was at rest, and his spirit
travelling.

"Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave," were the words
of Solon. Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every corpse
is a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might
unveil its own mystery in the words which the living had himself
written two days before--

"Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;
Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.
Earth's garden reaper! from the grave's cold bed
The soul on Jacob's ladder takes her flight.

Man's greatest sorrows often are a part
Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,
Which press far heavier on the lonely heart
Than now the earth that on his coffin lies. "


Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was
the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent
over the dead.

"Look! " said Care; "what happiness have your goloshes brought to
mankind? "

"They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who
slumbers here," she said.

"Not so," said Care, "he went away of himself, he was not
summoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to discern the
treasures which he had been destined to discover. I will do him a
favor now. " And she drew the goloshes from his feet.

The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised
himself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she
looked upon them as her own property.




SHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING

The mayor stood at the open window. He looked smart, for his
shirt-frill, in which he had stuck a breast-pin, and his ruffles, were
very fine. He had shaved his chin uncommonly smooth, although he had
cut himself slightly, and had stuck a piece of newspaper over the
place. "Hark 'ee, youngster! " cried he.

The boy to whom he spoke was no other than the son of a poor
washer-woman, who was just going past the house. He stopped, and
respectfully took off his cap. The peak of this cap was broken in
the middle, so that he could easily roll it up and put it in his
pocket. He stood before the mayor in his poor but clean and
well-mended clothes, with heavy wooden shoes on his feet, looking as
humble as if it had been the king himself.

"You are a good and civil boy," said the mayor. "I suppose your
mother is busy washing the clothes down by the river, and you are
going to carry that thing to her that you have in your pocket. It is
very bad for your mother. How much have you got in it? "

"Only half a quartern," stammered the boy in a frightened voice.

"And she has had just as much this morning already? "

"No, it was yesterday," replied the boy.

"Two halves make a whole," said the mayor. "She's good for
nothing. What a sad thing it is with these people. Tell your mother
she ought to be ashamed of herself. Don't you become a drunkard, but I
expect you will though. Poor child! there, go now. "

The boy went on his way with his cap in his hand, while the wind
fluttered his golden hair till the locks stood up straight. He
turned round the corner of the street into the little lane that led to
the river, where his mother stood in the water by her washing bench,
beating the linen with a heavy wooden bar. The floodgates at the
mill had been drawn up, and as the water rolled rapidly on, the sheets
were dragged along by the stream, and nearly overturned the bench,
so that the washer-woman was obliged to lean against it to keep it
steady. "I have been very nearly carried away," she said; "it is a
good thing that you are come, for I want something to strengthen me.
It is cold in the water, and I have stood here six hours. Have you
brought anything for me? "

The boy drew the bottle from his pocket, and the mother put it
to her lips, and drank a little.

"Ah, how much good that does, and how it warms me," she said;
"it is as good as a hot meal, and not so dear. Drink a little, my boy;
you look quite pale; you are shivering in your thin clothes, and
autumn has really come. Oh, how cold the water is! I hope I shall
not be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of that. Give me a little
more, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you must not get
used to it, my poor, dear child. " She stepped up to the bridge on
which the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water dripped
from the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from her
gown. "I work hard and suffer pain with my poor hands," said she, "but
I do it willingly, that I may be able to bring you up honestly and
truthfully, my dear boy. "

At the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, came
towards them. She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, and
with a large false curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which was
blind. This curl was intended to conceal the blind eye, but it made
the defect only more visible. She was a friend of the laundress, and
was called, among the neighbors, "Lame Martha, with the curl. " "Oh,
you poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the water! " she
exclaimed. "You really do need something to give you a little
warmth, and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take. "
And then Martha repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes,
all that the mayor had said to her boy, which she had overheard; and
she felt very angry that any man could speak, as he had done, of a
mother to her own child, about the few drops she had taken; and she
was still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor was going to
have a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, rich
wine, drunk by the bottle. "Many will take more than they ought, but
they don't call that drinking! They are all right, you are good for
nothing indeed! " cried Martha indignantly.

"And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child? " said the
washer-woman, and her lips trembled as she spoke. "He says you have
a mother who is good for nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but he
should not have said it to my child. How much has happened to me
from that house!
"

"Yes," said Martha; "I remember you were in service there, and
lived in the house when the mayor's parents were alive; how many years
ago that is. Bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and people
may well be thirsty," and Martha smiled. "The mayor's great
dinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but the news came
too late. The footman told me the dinner was already cooked, when a
letter came to say that the mayor's younger brother in Copenhagen is
dead. "

"Dead! " cried the laundress, turning pale as death.

"Yes, certainly," replied Martha; "but why do you take it so
much to heart? I suppose you knew him years ago, when you were in
service there? "

"Is he dead? " she exclaimed. "Oh, he was such a kind, good-hearted
man, there are not many like him," and the tears rolled down her
cheeks as she spoke. Then she cried, "Oh, dear me; I feel quite ill:
everything is going round me, I cannot bear it. Is the bottle
empty? " and she leaned against the plank.

"Dear me, you are ill indeed," said the other woman. "Come,
cheer up; perhaps it will pass off. No, indeed, I see you are really
ill; the best thing for me to do is to lead you home. "

"But my washing yonder? "

"I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can
stay here and take care of the linen, and I'll come back and finish
the washing; it is but a trifle. "

The limbs of the laundress shook under her, and she said, "I
have stood too long in the cold water, and I have had nothing to eat
the whole day since the morning. O kind Heaven, help me to get home; I
am in a burning fever. Oh, my poor child," and she burst into tears.
And he, poor boy, wept also, as he sat alone by the river, near to and
watching the damp linen.

The two women walked very slowly. The laundress slipped and
tottered through the lane, and round the corner, into the street where
the mayor lived; and just as she reached the front of his house, she
sank down upon the pavement. Many persons came round her, and Lame
Martha ran into the house for help. The mayor and his guests came to
the window.

"Oh, it is the laundress," said he; "she has had a little drop too
much. She is good for nothing. It is a sad thing for her pretty little
son. I like the boy very well; but the mother is good for nothing. "

After a while the laundress recovered herself, and they led her to
her poor dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha warmed a mug of
beer for her, with butter and sugar--she considered this the best
medicine--and then hastened to the river, washed and rinsed, badly
enough, to be sure, but she did her best. Then she drew the linen
ashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket. Before evening, she
was sitting in the poor little room with the laundress. The mayor's
cook had given her some roasted potatoes and a beautiful piece of
fat for the sick woman. Martha and the boy enjoyed these good things
very much; but the sick woman could only say that the smell was very
nourishing, she thought. By-and-by the boy was put to bed, in the same
bed as the one in which his mother lay; but he slept at her feet,
covered with an old quilt made of blue and white patchwork. The
laundress felt a little better by this time. The warm beer had
strengthened her, and the smell of the good food had been pleasant
to her.

"Many thanks, you good soul," she said to Martha. "Now the boy
is asleep, I will tell you all. He is soon asleep. How gentle and
sweet he looks as he lies there with his eyes closed! He does not know
how his mother has suffered; and Heaven grant he never may know it.
I was in service at the counsellor's, the father of the mayor, and
it happened that the youngest of his sons, the student, came home. I
was a young wild girl then, but honest; that I can declare in the
sight of Heaven. The student was merry and gay, brave and
affectionate; every drop of blood in him was good and honorable; a
better man never lived on earth. He was the son of the house, and I
was only a maid; but he loved me truly and honorably, and he told
his mother of it. She was to him as an angel upon earth; she was so
wise and loving. He went to travel, and before he started he placed
a gold ring on my finger; and as soon as he was out of the house, my
mistress sent for me. Gently and earnestly she drew me to her, and
spake as if an angel were speaking. She showed me clearly, in spirit
and in truth, the difference there was between him and me. 'He is
pleased now,' she said, 'with your pretty face; but good looks do
not last long. You have not been educated like he has. You are not
equals in mind and rank, and therein lies the misfortune. I esteem the
poor,' she added. 'In the sight of God, they may occupy a higher place
than many of the rich; but here upon earth we must beware of
entering upon a false track, lest we are overturned in our plans, like
a carriage that travels by a dangerous road. I know a worthy man, an
artisan, who wishes to marry you. I mean Eric, the glovemaker. He is a
widower, without children, and in a good position. Will you think it
over? ' Every word she said pierced my heart like a knife; but I knew
she was right, and the thought pressed heavily upon me. I kissed her
hand, and wept bitter tears, and I wept still more when I went to my
room, and threw myself on the bed. I passed through a dreadful
night; God knows what I suffered, and how I struggled. The following
Sunday I went to the house of God to pray for light to direct my path.
It seemed like a providence that as I stepped out of church Eric
came towards me; and then there remained not a doubt in my mind. We
were suited to each other in rank and circumstances. He was, even
then, a man of good means. I went up to him, and took his hand, and
said, 'Do you still feel the same for me? ' 'Yes; ever and always,'
said he. 'Will you, then, marry a maiden who honors and esteems you,
although she cannot offer you her love? but that may come. ' 'Yes, it
will come,' said he; and we joined our hands together, and I went home
to my mistress. The gold ring which her son had given me I wore next
to my heart. I could not place it on my finger during the daytime, but
only in the evening, when I went to bed. I kissed the ring till my
lips almost bled, and then I gave it to my mistress, and told her that
the banns were to be put up for me and the glovemaker the following
week. Then my mistress threw her arms round me, and kissed me. She did
not say that I was 'good for nothing;' very likely I was better then
than I am now; but the misfortunes of this world, were unknown to me
then. At Michaelmas we were married, and for the first year everything
went well with us. We had a journeyman and an apprentice, and you were
our servant, Martha. "

"Ah, yes, and you were a dear, good mistress," said Martha, "I
shall never forget how kind you and your husband were to me. "

"Yes, those were happy years when you were with us, although we
had no children at first. The student I never met again. Yet I saw him
once, although he did not see me. He came to his mother's funeral. I
saw him, looking pale as death, and deeply troubled, standing at her
grave; for she was his mother. Sometime after, when his father died,
he was in foreign lands, and did not come home. I know that he never
married, I believe he became a lawyer. He had forgotten me, and even
had we met he would not have known me, for I have lost all my good
looks, and perhaps that is all for the best. " And then she spoke of
the dark days of trial, when misfortune had fallen upon them.

"We had five hundred dollars," she said, "and there was a house in
the street to be sold for two hundred, so we thought it would be worth
our while to pull it down and build a new one in its place; so it
was bought. The builder and carpenter made an estimate that the new
house would cost ten hundred and twenty dollars to build. Eric had
credit, so he borrowed the money in the chief town. But the captain,
who was bringing it to him, was shipwrecked, and the money lost.
Just about this time, my dear sweet boy, who lies sleeping there,
was born, and my husband was attacked with a severe lingering illness.
For three quarters of a year I was obliged to dress and undress him.
We were backward in our payments, we borrowed more money, and all that
we had was lost and sold, and then my husband died. Since then I
have worked, toiled, and striven for the sake of the child. I have
scrubbed and washed both coarse and fine linen, but I have not been
able to make myself better off; and it was God's will. In His own time
He will take me to Himself, but I know He will never forsake my
boy. " Then she fell asleep. In the morning she felt much refreshed,
and strong enough, as she thought, to go on with her work. But as soon
as she stepped into the cold water, a sudden faintness seized her; she
clutched at the air convulsively with her hand, took one step forward,
and fell. Her head rested on dry land, but her feet were in the water;
her wooden shoes, which were only tied on by a wisp of straw, were
carried away by the stream, and thus she was found by Martha when
she came to bring her some coffee.

In the meantime a messenger had been sent to her house by the
mayor, to say that she must come to him immediately, as he had
something to tell her. It was too late; a surgeon had been sent for to
open a vein in her arm, but the poor woman was dead.

"She has drunk herself to death," said the cruel mayor. In the
letter, containing the news of his brother's death, it was stated that
he had left in his will a legacy of six hundred dollars to the
glovemaker's widow, who had been his mother's maid, to be paid with
discretion, in large or small sums to the widow or her child.

"There was something between my brother and her, I remember," said
the mayor; "it is a good thing that she is out of the way, for now the
boy will have the whole. I will place him with honest people to
bring him up, that he may become a respectable working man. " And the
blessing of God rested upon these words. The mayor sent for the boy to
come to him, and promised to take care of him, but most cruelly
added that it was a good thing that his mother was dead, for "she
was good for nothing. " They carried her to the churchyard, the
churchyard in which the poor were buried. Martha strewed sand on the
grave and planted a rose-tree upon it, and the boy stood by her side.

"Oh, my poor mother! " he cried, while the tears rolled down his
cheeks. "Is it true what they say, that she was good for nothing? "

"No, indeed, it is not true," replied the old servant, raising her
eyes to heaven; "she was worth a great deal; I knew it years ago,
and since the last night of her life I am more certain of it than
ever. I say she was a good and worthy woman, and God, who is in
heaven, knows I am speaking the truth, though the world may say,
even now she was good for nothing. "




GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is
quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild,
gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you
good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked
on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most
wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive
before father and mother--that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book
with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book,
between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so
pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she
smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes. "I
wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book
that way? Do you know? " Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the
rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room
with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around
her is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a
charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,
bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those
mild, saintly eyes, are the same,--they have been left to grandmother.
At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and
she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections
of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has
withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an
old woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.

Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,
telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she
said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could
hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter
and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It
was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and
then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking
mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though
her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.
We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had
been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose
still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and
then they buried grandmother.

On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among
the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church
sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were
written in the old book under the head of the dead one.

The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;
every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from
the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are
living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange
thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.
They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth
has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within
it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh
roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there
still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,
gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will
once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for
the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in
the grave.




A GREAT GRIEF

This story really consists of two parts. The first part might be
left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful.

We were staying in the country at a gentleman's seat, where it
happened that the master was absent for a few days. In the meantime,
there arrived from the next town a lady; she had a pug dog with her,
and came, she said, to dispose of shares in her tan-yard. She had
her papers with her, and we advised her to put them in an envelope,
and to write thereon the address of the proprietor of the estate,
"General War-Commissary Knight," &c.

She listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused, and begged
us to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and she wrote; but
in the midst of the "General War-" she struck fast, sighed deeply, and
said, "I am only a woman! " Her Puggie had seated itself on the
ground while she wrote, and growled; for the dog had come with her for
amusement and for the sake of its health; and then the bare floor
ought not to be offered to a visitor. His outward appearance was
characterized by a snub nose and a very fat back.

"He doesn't bite," said the lady; "he has no teeth. He is like one
of the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is my
grandchildren's fault, for they have teased him; they play at wedding,
and want to give him the part of the bridesmaid, and that's too much
for him, poor old fellow. "

And she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her arm. And
this is the first part of the story which might have been left out.

PUGGIE DIED! ! That's the second part.

It was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and put
up at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which was divided
into two parts by a partition of planks; in one half were many skins
and hides, raw and tanned. Here was all the apparatus necessary to
carry on a tannery, and it belonged to the widow. Puggie had died in
the morning, and was to be buried in this part of the yard; the
grandchildren of the widow (that is, of the tanner's widow, for Puggie
had never been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful
grave--it must have been quite pleasant to lie there.

The grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and strewn
over with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half a beer bottle,
with the neck upwards, and that was not at all allegorical.

The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys
among them, a practical youngster of seven years, made the proposition
that there should be an exhibition of Puggie's burial-place for all
who lived in the lane; the price of admission was to be a trouser
button, for every boy would be sure to have one, and each might also
give one for a little girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.

And all the children out of the lane--yes, even out of the
little lane at the back--flocked to the place, and each gave a button.
Many were noticed to go about on that afternoon with only one
suspender; but then they had seen Puggie's grave, and the sight was
worth much more.

But in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood a
little girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with curly
hair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure to look into
them. The child said not a word, nor did she cry; but each time the
little door was opened she gave a long, long look into the yard. She
had not a button--that she knew right well, and therefore she remained
standing sorrowfully outside, till all the others had seen the grave
and had gone away; then she sat down, held her little brown hands
before her eyes, and burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen
Puggie's grave. It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can
experience.

We saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many a grief
of our own and of others can make us smile! That is the story, and
whoever does not understand it may go and purchase a share in the
tan-yard from the window.




THE HAPPY FAMILY

The largest green leaf in this country is certainly the
burdock-leaf. If you hold it in front of you, it is large enough for
an apron; and if you hold it over your head, it is almost as good as
an umbrella, it is so wonderfully large. A burdock never grows
alone; where it grows, there are many more, and it is a splendid
sight; and all this splendor is good for snails. The great white
snails, which grand people in olden times used to have made into
fricassees; and when they had eaten them, they would say, "O, what a
delicious dish! " for these people really thought them good; and
these snails lived on burdock-leaves, and for them the burdock was
planted.

There was once an old estate where no one now lived to require
snails; indeed, the owners had all died out, but the burdock still
flourished; it grew over all the beds and walks of the garden--its
growth had no check--till it became at last quite a forest of
burdocks. Here and there stood an apple or a plum-tree; but for
this, nobody would have thought the place had ever been a garden. It
was burdock from one end to the other; and here lived the last two
surviving snails. They knew not themselves how old they were; but they
could remember the time when there were a great many more of them, and
that they were descended from a family which came from foreign
lands, and that the whole forest had been planted for them and theirs.
They had never been away from the garden; but they knew that another
place once existed in the world, called the Duke's Palace Castle, in
which some of their relations had been boiled till they became
black, and were then laid on a silver dish; but what was done
afterwards they did not know. Besides, they could not imagine
exactly how it felt to be boiled and placed on a silver dish; but no
doubt it was something very fine and highly genteel. Neither the
cockchafer, nor the toad, nor the earth-worm, whom they questioned
about it, would give them the least information; for none of their
relations had ever been cooked or served on a silver dish. The old
white snails were the most aristocratic race in the world,--they
knew that. The forest had been planted for them, and the nobleman's
castle had been built entirely that they might be cooked and laid on
silver dishes.

They lived quite retired and very happily; and as they had no
children of their own, they had adopted a little common snail, which
they brought up as their own child. The little one would not grow, for
he was only a common snail; but the old people, particularly the
mother-snail, declared that she could easily see how he grew; and when
the father said he could not perceive it, she begged him to feel the
little snail's shell, and he did so, and found that the mother was
right.

One day it rained very fast. "Listen, what a drumming there is
on the burdock-leaves; turn, turn, turn; turn, turn, turn," said the
father-snail.