^"(.)iAJME r.
OXEoUU
1875.
NlIMIiEK 30.
Frmu tlio YijiuhVi
MA’AM Wli^'gijl^Egk
iix Mks. 14. A. DEKiSON.
She kept fl, iitdo shop on C!hoi‘-
rv Street, and sold taffv, whicli
sfie made and pulled herself. It
was a sight to see lier standing
opposite a huge mass that looked
like yellow dough, drawitig out
the thick skeins, till they seemed
like spun gold, and glistened in
the light.
Then she would lake it down
from the hook, measure it into
lengths, cut it v.-itli a pair of
imormous scissors, place it in
large pans in the window, and it
was ready for sale. And Ma’am
Windlos’ candy never went beg
ging-
The children of the neighbor
ing schools called early and call
ed late. At recess the girls came
in w'ith their pennies, always sure
of a smile and a pretty word from
Ma’am Windles.
One day I went in to buy my
usual instalment. I was a big
girl theii,—^in my fifteenth year,
-—and the cheerful, comely wo
man would Hometimes enter into
conversation with me. I laugh
ingly told her that slie must be
getting rich, for her taffy was in
everybody’s mouth.
‘Well, I ’low I ought to be
pretty well off,’ she said, while a
sad look crossed her face,—the
first time I had ever seen such an
expression there,—‘lint you see
I’ve had Jimmy to take care of’
I suppose I looked curious.
'Of (Mjm-se yon didn’t know
about Jimmy,’ she said. ‘No
more didn’t most folks, for the
poor child got fraz( d at the gr at
fire, and I couldn’t find it in my
heart to send him away. So I
had to pay a man for staring
with him, and one way and an
other, in clothes and medicines,
he co.st me a heap of monoy,—
well, about all I could make.’
‘And is J.inimy dead f
She sighed, and nodded her
head, while the tears came i}ito
her eyes.
‘1 couldn't afford to go into
deep mourning, but God sees the
heart, and he knows that there—
inside—I wear all my mourning.
Yes, miss, the poor, dear fellow
was little else than a baby from
the time of the fire ; but, thanks
be to Heaven, the last week of
his life he knew me, and actually
called me ‘mammy dear,’—the
very last words I heard him
speak before his sense left him,’
‘And how old was Jimmy ?’
‘He was eighteen, poor fellow,
the very day he died ; but he
didn’t know more than a baby,
only that last week, I think he
knew he was going to leave me,
—going where he could catch up
with folks, and have his poor
mind restored to him.
‘He was my oldest boy, and as
brave and spright a little man as
you might see in a long time, I
was only eighteen when he wag’
horn, and had just come from the
Canadas to settle in this country.
Sometimes I’ve thought ill luck
was wished upon me,—-but no,
he wouldn’t ’a’ done that,’ and she
shook her head with a long, wist
ful look into vacancy. ‘Well,
tuisg, wo buried Jimmy last day
befe.re Christmas; ho was the
child I’ve laid in the
grave,
‘Eight chihlren ! And all dead!’
She smiled a ipiiet, sad smile.
‘Tve always liad to go riglit on
being liusy. I never could give
Up, no, not oven for a da}', not
even tor sorrow, for poverty’s
been upon me like a iveight ever
since X can remember. But the
liimteat thing ever I had to bear
was the fire. S’poso you’ve seen
a jiarrara, iiaven't you", mis.s ?’
‘Never in all my life,’ I said.
‘Well, then, you’ve missed a
sight. I come from a croivdcd,
Canada city -with my husband,
and I knowed w'but it was to see
dirt, and poverty, and ill manage
ment, and to feel that the air was
that bad and stifled it was a psyn
to breathe it. And when m}' man
told me that'he’d a little money,
and we were to come to this great
country, and live in the West on
the parrara, it seemed to me like
I was going to heaven. And C,
miss, u hen I’d got there, sure I
was the happiest creetur in all the
world ! lYe’d a little place built
of logs,—only tw'o rooms, but
large and comfortable enough,—
and 0, the wide, free country,
with the beautiful grass and ilow-
ors, and the tall trees, so clean in
their trunks away up tb the top !
We’d see the sky through the
chinks, often, but we liked that,
and all was so new, and so fresh
and different.
‘Well, my dear, we’d cleared
our land and planted it, and built
a snug little L to the house, and
the children were growing np
beautiful, when one night little
Benny, that was my youngest
boy then, came into the house
and said he wanted to go and see
pappy.
‘Now my man had gone twen
ty miles off,—started that very
(lay, and I didn’t expect him home
til! Saturday, that was throe days.
So I took, up littli; Benny, and I
■see his hands and head v,-;,s
hof, and I told him that papa was
gone a good ways, to got com,
ami fkiiir, ami meal for his little^
boy.
‘But still the child cried out
that he nmd go, and I had hard
work to pacii'y him. Milly, my
oldest girl, had charge of the chii-
dren then; she was nine, and
there wore three younger. In
the dead of the night .she came to
me and said that Benny could
hardly breathe.
‘Ah, my dear, it was t(X> true.
The boy had an awful fever on,
and he struggled and fought for
breath. I took him up, and I
worked over him, but it did no
good ; he grew worse and worse,
till I just sot still and cried.
There was nobody within six
mile of us, but the man that liv
ed there knew a good deal about
yarbs, and was considered quite
a doctor. But what was I to do,
—father away, and only little
children round me ?
‘Well, after a time I missed my
Milly. If you'll believe me, that
child bad gone out and cauglit
the pony, and rode him, without
any saddle, all th.at six mile, at
the dead (.>’ night, ’riia day was
just breaking when she come witli
the doctor ; bat bless you, miss,
tJie child wasn’t troubled any more
with his breathing. He laid uigiht
aerost my lap,—a pretty Kttle
piece of white elay. I doa’t often 1
feel this bad, but some wav, all
at once,’—she broke out .so’obiug,
—-‘I .seemed to see his bright
curls, though it.s many a year
tliey’vo been covered with parra
ra mould
‘Well, miss, lie were my baby,
and in loss than n. week I’d lo'st
every one of ’em the same way,
except my girl and jjoor Jimmy.
Three were laid in the B'rolind,
one, after the other, rtnd I could
see ’em from my door,—three lit
tle graves.
‘Tm sure T don’t know what
makes me tel! all this long story ;
but I’m coming to the fire.
‘That was six years after, and
there were three more children,-—
another Benny, and two little
girls. The Weather’d been un
comfortably hot, and pap had
gone agin to the . town to lay in
provisions, when Benny came in
one evening and told us there
wa-s a great clond of smoke, that
looked red, and seemed rolling
away qff to the north.
‘Something mi.sgive me the mo
ment I see it But I felt tliat
helpless that I just sot down and
cried. Jimmy had run np a lit
tle way, for tlio ground swelled a
bit front of the house, and then
he came back with a scared look,
and called out that it was fire.
‘Well, I’d been sick, and I
couldn’t run with a young babe
in my arms, and I just give up ;
but Jimmy and the girl, they
seemed to have tiie sense at one©
ol men and women. The grass
was dry and hot, and they begun
at the garden and burnt away
from tlie house, clear down to a
little sti’eam that I’an perhaps a
quarter mile away.
‘I’l never forgit how that boy
worked, andihow the day of indg-
inent seemed come, for we were
all afire,-—and hot! Well, miss,
if we’d been roasting- v/e couldn’t
hai-'ily have suffered more for a
little time, 'i Imd to tiirow water
(,n the house, and the trees were
burning, and the great hike of
fire, as it looked, roiling on and
on! O it makes me sliudder to
think ou’t!
‘ ‘Run for the river, mother !’
cried Jimmy, and he caught one
child, and Milly the other ; and
seeing the homso couldn’t be sav
ed, we ail made for the water.
-What come next, miss, I never
could tell. There was a roarino-
and a thundering. My baby fefl
out of my arms and was drown
ed. Jimmy held mei up, and
kept the one child, and Milly, she
hung on to tlie bank and held the
other child. There was a thick
red gust, a blinding, awful feel
ing, and the flame had swept over
us and gone on,
‘I’ll never forget my coming, to
and looking for the poor little ba
by, and going back to see our
house all gone, and Milly scorch
ed, and dumb with the trouble,
and Jimmy trying to comfort me,
and the little dead baby, that had
just opened its eyes on the world
to be dealt with so cruel, and the
crying children, and nothing to
eat
‘Don’t agk me, mi.-is, how we
lived for two miserable day.s; I
couldn’t tell ye. Nor how, when
iny man same homo sick, it took
the heart out of him ; nor' ffow'
we lived in the open air for weeks,
ami my man dietL. and we had to
bury him.
‘O, miss, I lio])e ye’ll ne-V-er
think common misfortunes no sort
o’ trouble. But I’ve lived throngli
them, and lost all my children,
and still lived; and nursed Jim-
m)', whose head never was right
after that year,—and b}' the help
of kind friends, tuniod an honest
penny, and now I’m waiting,—
la, miss ! there’s the post. A let
ter, — Canady post-mark, -you
don’t say ! Well, now 1 never
was no hand at reading Writing.
Would it be a trouble to you to
read it for me P
I opened the letter with tremb
ling hand, and read tlie follow
ing;
Dear Mrs. ff.;—t heard .-is how j-oti wete
living a wiildorj and make Ixjld to renew iny
proposal, made twenty years ago. I’ve been
tfaveliiig with a high family for yearsj and
laid up fuUr htJtidfed }K?nttd - stediDg. My
hsart is still tfew, and I have never so much
as once tlnxjght ttf Jnarrying since yon told mo
no. Ilut now 1 hoar you are alone, and so
am I. I will send yon money enough to come
here, and will make yon a good husband, tjo.l
willing.
So no more from yonr nifeo-tionate Mend,
Wji/LIAm MobrIs.
‘Well, to think !’ cried the wid
ow, ‘and I to believe he wdshed
ill luck upon ine. Poor William!
if I ever 1’
I bought candy but once after
that of Ma’am Windles. The shop
passed into the hands of a tall,
sharp-nosed woman, and the taffv
deteriorated under her nifttiipxda-
tioii. I never he;u-d anything
more of Ma’am Windles, only that
she had gone to Canada; but I
sincerely hope, indeed I almost
know, that she is happy.
“that in
clay you see
lanprcssibllty of chtldren
We ai'e too readily discouraged
in our efforts to impress religious
tnith upon the mind of children.
The brief period, of time which
any one idea car keep possession
of their minds, and the rapid and
abrupt transition of their thoughts,
often make oiu- attempts appear
a failnre ivlien they are not so,
Geologists show us the indelible
impressions of little birds’ feet
in solid rock; they must have
been made when the rock
soft and pliable; there was a
touch, a Hitting, and the wan
derer was gone on wings swift as
thought flies upon when passing
over the minds of our little ones,
and yet there remains the im
prints for all time. An incident
once occurred impressing this
truth upon my mind.
Ned and James came clatter
ing down from their chamber one
morning, exclaiming, “O, auntie,
you can’t guess what we’ve been
saying. We’ve been making a
resolution,” said Ned, “that we
would be kind and loving brothers
all the week.” A few words of
approbation and encouragement
confirmed their resolution, and
they went to their play.
That evening, as I sat alone in
the twilight, thinking, two little
hands, play-weary, wei-e laid up
on my knee, and on them rested
a little head which never seemed
to weary. Processions of gro
tesque and incongruous tiioughts,
chased tireless through the brain,
and were as tirelessly spoken.
“Have you suceerfed in keep
ing your rasolutiom t” I a.sked,
stroking, the hair.
“■Y-es,” said Ned, doubtfully. I
I '‘1 suppose,” said L
looking back over the da,
some spots wliovo you wore net
So kind to Janilo as yoil tilight
have I'een,”
“Yes,” replied he, “I do ”
“1 think I can tell vfoU ,a 'iVliy
to make such dark spots fewer,”
said I, “To-morrow moriiing,
as soon as Jamia has gotio doWii
stairs, and yotl cad' have yOur
room alone,- shut the dmt, and
kneel down, and ask God to help
you to he kind and loViiig to
Jufnio all the day, and beg hiirt
to g-ivo you etreiigtll to resist
when Satan tempts you to be un
kind and cross.” If God sees
that you desire his help enough
to come and aslt for it, yotf may
be sure he fi'ill give It to you.”
“Auntie, can you gtless what
paiits I've got on ?” was the sud
den interested query, before tlie
last-words were quite goiid front
my lips, lly heart, sunk -within
me. I thought that ill the sub
duing (luiot of the darkne*, I had
arrested the child’s attention. I
had been speaking with the hope
tliat my words would ai-m the lit
tle soul for its battles with self j
but how far astray my hopes had
led me 1 “I might as Well tiy
th teach that stone anything, as
that Child,” I eJiclaimed -Wearily
to myself, as I rose to light the
lamp.
Tlie next moming, ilUniediately
after brCakfast, I had occasion to
go to my room. I found Ned On
the stairs just before me, and a.S
he passed on to his cha,mbor, I ob
served that he closed his doori
Tins was an occuiTenco so un
usual, that it aiTceted my (ittOU-
tion, and brought the last even
ing’s conversation to mind. I
rai.sod a silent prayer that those
words ink-ht cofflo back to hi.n,
and that ills little petition mi;;,' i
be heard.
That e-veulng as 1 sat in the
twilight as before, the little handa
Were again laid upon my knee,
and the Kttle head Sgaih rested
upon tliem. There "tollow-ed a
few racmetifs' silence, which was
a thing so Unilsal, that I ■Wa.s
■was just ciisting about ifl irty mind
what the cause could bo, when
the little lips, UHequttl to longer
quiet,- opened.
"Theye are not so many spots
as there Were yesterday,” said
the child softly, and still "keeping
his face in his hands.
“Ah .said I, “I anl delighted
to hear ii Did you remember
what 1 Said to you Irst night I”
“Yes,” said lie, "I did.”
“And did you ask God this
morning to help you
“Yes,” was tlie reply, “and all
along through the duy, too, and
there are not half so many spots
to-night,”
My ho'art, -Bhlch -was full of
weariness and discouragement the
night before, -was now full of re
proaches, that 1 should so often
have read, and so offen have for
gotten, “Ye have need of patienco,
that after ye have done the will
of God, ye might receive the pro
mise,”—’Christian Weeklt/,
N‘,Tor Reproach a oliild with the inisdeodi^
of its parents, no'mtvttc? ho«- ilcserving they
may It'D of your reinsure. It is the very refine
ment of eniel'ty, and in the heart of the child
there nill spring u)) Jiatrod lor you wlucb wili
never- be eradicated.