Binney the beaver, and other stories

By Lucy Ellen Guernsey

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Title: Binney the beaver
and other stories

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: January 13, 2025 [eBook #75101]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Henry A. Young & Co, 1875

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BINNEY THE BEAVER ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.

[Illustration]

Binney the Beaver

AND

Other Stories

BINNEY THE BEAVER.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

THE NICE HOME.

BINNEY was a young beaver, who lived with several brothers and sisters,
and a great many aunts, uncles, and cousins, in a beautiful pond by a
stream which empties into the Missouri a long way off to the north-west.

This was not a natural pond. Some years before, two beavers, whose
house had been destroyed by the Indians, set out on a journey to found
a new town. They travelled along at their leisure, living upon the
tender bark of the low and cotton-wood shoots, which they found in
great abundance, and looking for a home. They found no place to suit
them for a great many days. One stream was too swift, another too slow;
another was subject to great freshets, as was plainly shown by the
heaps of driftwood which lay piled on the banks, and the great logs in
the bed of the stream.

At last, however, after travelling till they were tired and almost
discouraged, they came one morning to the banks of a large and clear
brook. Willows and cotton-wood grew all around it, there were no signs
of men anywhere about, and just in the shadiest, pleasantest place
there was a long reach of still water.

"This will suit very nicely," said Mr. Beaver. "I have not seen such a
pleasant place since we left home."

"No place can ever be to me like that old home," said Mrs. Beaver,
sighing. "I do not feel any courage at all about beginning to build in
this new, strange stream."

"O, you must not be downhearted," returned Mr. Beaver, cheerily. "We
shall soon have a family about us again, and every thing will be as
pleasant as before our misfortunes commenced. See how handily those
young cotton-woods grow for our dam. We can never be at a loss for food
here, as you know was sometimes the case in our old home. We ought to
be thankful also that it is early spring instead of fall. We have all
the summer before us in which to work, and I can see no reason why we
should not have a very nice, pleasant home before winter comes upon us."

Mrs. Beaver sighed again, but she reflected that there is no use in
crying for what cannot be helped; and as she really loved her husband,
she did not wish to discourage him by fretting, so she put on a
cheerful face, and set to work with a good will.

It was indeed needful to keep up a stout heart, for the two beavers had
a deal of hard work before them. Their first care was to build up a dam
to shut in the water and make a pond. They began operations by cutting
down a great many young trees about as thick as a man's wrist. Then
they cut off the branches, and stripped them of their bark, which they
piled away in heaps for food in winter. With these trees and branches
they built their dam, sticking the ends down into the mud at the bottom
of the stream, weaving them firmly together with smaller sticks, long
grass, and reeds, and plastering them neatly over with mud, so that the
dam, when done, was quite water-tight. It was about ten feet wide at
the bottom, and sloped to two feet at the top, and was so long as to go
clear across the stream, and a good way up on either bank. All this was
done at night, for beavers prefer to work at night, and sleep or play
in the daytime.

You may perhaps wonder how the two beavers contrived to do so much
work, but they knew beforehand just what they wished to accomplish, and
they had tools well adapted to their uses. Their sharp teeth were their
saws and axes, wherewith to cut down the trees, and strip them of their
bark, while their paws and their broad, flat tails served for hoes and
trowels, to dig up the mud, and spread it for mortar. *

* Some say the beavers never use their tails for trowels.

When Mrs. Beaver saw how nicely the work went on, she was quite cured
of her low spirits, and by fall she had almost forgotten that she had
ever lived anywhere else.

By the time cold weather came they had quit, finished their dam, and
had also built themselves a very nice house. It was made of branches
piled up cross-ways, and mixed with mud and stones, with a roof in the
shape of a dome, and it was so strong and tight that no rain or snow
could get through it. In this house they made very neat little beds of
dried grass, and here they lived very happily, sleeping and playing,
and eating the nice bark and roots which they had stored up in the fall.

CHAPTER II.

IDLERS DRIVEN OUT.

IN the spring, Mr. Beaver took a very long journey, as beavers are used
to do at that time of the year; and when he came home he found that his
wife had a nice little family of five young ones, big enough to run
about and help in the work of the house. That summer two more pairs
of beavers came and set up housekeeping on the banks of the stream.
They were very good-natured, helpful people, willing to do their share
of all the work which was going on, and Mr. and Mrs. Beaver gave them
a warm welcome, showing them where the best bark grew, and where the
white lily roots were sweetest, for beavers are usually very polite and
kind to one another.

The next year there were many young beavers frisking about the dam and
in the water, and in the course of time the colony grew to be a very
large one. They had not been disturbed by hunters or trappers; they
always had plenty to eat; they were kind to one another, and upon the
whole, they were very happy.

However, nobody gets through the world without some trouble, and the
beavers had their share. One year three or four of the young beavers
refused to work at the dam, or at bringing in bark and branches for
food. They did not like rooting in the mud, they said, or gnawing at
branches till their jaws ached. They were made perfect slaves of, and
they would stand it no longer. And with that they set up their backs,
and showed their teeth, and tried to look very grand and independent,
but they only succeeded in looking cross. Their fathers and mothers
talked to them kindly about their faults, and then tried punishing
them, but all did no good. They were just as idle and naughty as before.

When the other beavers saw this, they called a council to consult as
to what was to be done; and after talking the matter over, they agreed
that unless the idle beavers came to their senses, and were willing to
do their fair share of the work, they must be driven from the village,
and live by themselves as they best could.

The idlers said they did not care; they could live well enough
anywhere. So the old beavers drove them out of the village, and would
not let them come back any more. They also warned the other young
beavers to have nothing to do with them in any way, for they were wise
enough to know how soon good manners are spoiled by bad company.

So these idlers went away and lived in the woods, not very far from the
beaver dam. They were too lazy and stupid to build nice houses, so they
just scratched holes in the ground to sleep in, and spent their whole
time in doing nothing at all, which is just the hardest work in the
world when one has too much of it.

It was about two years after the idlers were driven from the village
that Binney was born. As soon as he was able to notice anything, he
found himself lying on a nice bed of hay with three other little
beavers just like himself. They all had bright black eyes, short stout
legs, very long strong fore-feet, and hind-feet webbed like those of a
goose, having long claws, with which they soon learned to comb their
soft fur, and keep it in nice order. They had also broad, flat tails,
shaped like a mason's trowel, and clothed with scales instead of hair.
They were merry little things, and soon began to have fine games of
play with the other little beavers in the town. With these little
friends they swam in the pond, dived from the dam, and ran about the
banks of the stream all day long.

But they soon found out that life was not to be all play. As soon as
they were big enough, their mothers began to teach them to work. First
they learned to bring grass and straw for the nest, holding the load
under their chins with one paw, and walking with the other three. Then
they were taught to dive for mud and moss at the bottom of the pond,
and at last to gnaw down twigs and sticks for the dam.

At first Binney thought it would be a fine thing to work like a
grown-up beaver, but he soon found out that work is not as easy as
play. After a time he began to be idle, and would slip away from his
work to play in the woods on the bank of the stream. His mother talked
to him very kindly about his fault, and told him what would be the
consequence of it—that he would be driven from the town, and forced to
live in the woods, where he would often be cold and hungry, and where
none of his friends and relations would visit him, or speak to him.

Binney promised to be more industrious, and for a time was very good;
but he pretty soon forgot his loving mother's advice and grew idle
again, and the others began to look coldly upon him, and to forbid
their children to play with him, for it is thought very mean and
disgraceful in a beaver to be idle.

One day he was hanging about in the woods, whither he had been sent for
some birch twigs with which to mend the house. His was not a hard or
disagreeable task, for the twigs were small and tender, and the bark
was sweet and pleasant to the taste; but Binney had learned to hate
the very name of work. Still he did not dare to return without the
twigs which he had been sent for, as his father had been angry with him
that very morning, and said he would punish him severely unless he did
better.

So he was hanging about the woods, as I have said, feeling cross and
low spirited, wishing that his work was done, and yet unable to make up
his mind to go about it. All at once, as he walked along, he came upon
a beaver whom he had never met before.

CHAPTER III.

BAD COMPANIONS.

THE beaver that Binney met in the woods did not look at all like
Binney's friends in the village. His fur was ragged and dirty, and full
of burrs and straws, as though it had not been combed in a long time.
His eyes were partly closed, as if he were fast asleep, and he lounged
along in a careless, lazy way, very different from the active, busy
pace of the beavers in the town.

"Hollo, young one!" cried he, as he caught sight of Binney. "Who are
you, and what are you about here?"

Binney was not used to being addressed in this rude way, for beavers
are usually very polite to each other, and at first he did not know
what to reply.

"Can't you speak?" said the newcomer. "Do you live in the town, hey?"

"Yes," said Binney, finding his voice at last; "I was sent out here for
some birch twigs."

The stranger began to laugh in a very rude way. "O, sent for twigs,
were you! If I were a smart young fellow like you, I would be above
being sent here and there, and working like a slave for all the town.
I would take to the woods; and live by myself, and for myself! That's
what I would do."

"But my mother says the wood-beavers often go cold and hungry, and that
no decent beaver would speak to them," said Binney.

"What's that you say?" said the stranger, turning fiercely upon Binney.
"Do you know, young one, I have a great mind to bite your head off? How
dare you come here and be saucy to me?"

Binney was much alarmed, for the stranger looked very big and savage.

"Please, sir, I did not mean to be saucy," he said, humbly. "I did not
know that you were a wood-beaver."

"You are a fool!" said the wood-beaver roughly. "The wood-beavers are
much better off than such poor sneaks as you. I would not go into their
town—no, not to have the whole of it. But you dare not say your life
is your own, you are so afraid of your ma-a!", and he drawled out the
word, and laughed in a very disagreeable manner.

Binney felt very much vexed, and so he ought to have been; but it was
not in the right way. Instead of being angry at the wood-beaver for
speaking so disrespectfully of his kind friends, he was vexed to think
he should be laughed at, and that the wood-beaver should suppose he was
afraid to do wrong.

"I am not a slave either!" said he. "And I won't work unless I please."

"O yes, that is all well enough to say now," replied the wood-beaver;
"but you dare not go over to the other stream with me, to save your
life."

"How far is it?" asked Binney.

"O, not very far! Just beyond these woods, and across a meadow. There
are plenty of lily roots there, and nice red raspberries besides; but
they will never do you any good, because you are afraid to go after
them."

"I am not at all afraid," said Binney. "I will go this minute, if you
will only show me the way."

"Come along with me then," said the wood-beaver. "Now you show some
spirit. I should not wonder if you turned out a fine fellow after all."

Binney was just silly enough to be vastly pleased at being flattered
by his companion, and they walked along together through the woods,
talking as they went.

It was a long walk, and Binney was very tired before they reached the
place; but he dared not say so, for fear the wood-beaver should laugh
at him. At last, however, they reached the meadow, where they were
joined by several other wood-beavers, as ragged, dirty, and ill-bred as
his guide, who stared at Binney in a very rude manner, saying "Hollo!
What young one is this dressed up so very fine?"

"It is one of the town-beavers," said Binney's friend; "he wanted to
see a little of life, so I brought him along."

"Yes, to be a spy upon us, and then run home and tell tales," said a
very large and rough looking fellow. "Better bite his head off, and
stop his tattling once for all."

"You shall do no such thing," said Binney's friend. "We were all
town-beavers once, and he is as good as the rest. Never mind, Binney,
he shall not hurt you; you shall live with us, and learn to be free and
bold as we are."

Binney did not like the prospects of living with the wood-beavers; but
he thought they would be going home presently, and then he could slip
away and run home to the village. I am sorry to say he began to think
what sort of a story he should tell to excuse himself to his father,
for like most idlers, he had already learned to make false excuses. But
he made a sad mistake, as you will see by and by.

CHAPTER IV.

DISOBEDIENCE PUNISHED.

THE beavers played all day long about the pond, and in the meadow.
Binney knew very well how to dive for the lily roots, and when his
companions found this out they kept him busy enough. It was, "Binney,
just get me a piece, there is a good fellow;" and "Binney, just take
one more dive for me, and I will do as much for you some day," till
Binney was almost tired out, and began to think he might a good deal
better have got his twigs and gone home.

As the sun began to sink low in the sky he grew uneasy, and hinted to
his new friend that they might as well be turning homeward.

"We are going to stay here to-night," said the wood-beaver, stretching
himself and yawning. "One place is as much home as another to us. I
say, Binney, just pull that burr out of my ear, will you?"

Binney pulled out the burr, and then said, trying very hard to speak
bravely, "Well, I must go home at any rate, so good night, and thank
you."

"Heyday!" cried the largest of the wood-beavers. "Not quite so fast,
my young friend. You are not going back to the town to tell tales, and
bring all your friends to our feeding ground. Not if I know it."

"No, indeed!" cried all the wood-beavers. "You came of your own free
will, and now you must stay. There is no such thing as going back."

Poor Binney! He begged and prayed, but the wood-beavers only laughed at
him, and abused him, so that at last he dared say no more, but made up
his mind, though with a heavy heart, to spend the night away from home.
He could not help crying bitterly as he thought of his dear kind father
and mother waiting and looking for him; of the nice warm house, the
good supper, and frolics in the pond by moonlight with the good little
beavers of the town.

"O, if I had only minded my father, and gone straight home," said he;
"but if I once get back, I will never be so naughty again." He did not
know that he was never to see his pleasant home nor his kind father any
more.

The next day was spent by the wood-beavers in eating, sleeping, and
fighting among themselves. Binney found himself a perfect slave. It
was, "Binney do this," "Binney do that," "Binney come here this minute,
or I'll bite your head off!" till the poor little beaver was tired off
his feet. He could not get the least chance to put his fur in order,
which added to his discomfort, for he had been brought up to very neat
habits. Once he began to comb out his fur a little, but the other
beavers found him out, and laughed at him so much that he did not try
it again.

Things went on in this way for two or three weeks and Binney grew
more and more homesick every day, but he could not run away. The
wood-beavers thought it a fine thing to have a slave to wait upon them,
and they kept a close watch upon all his motions. One day, however, as
he was sitting in a very sorrowful mood behind an old stump, where he
had crept for a little rest, his first acquaintance, who had several
times taken his part, came and sat down by his side.

"Binney," said he, "do you want to go home?"

"O, don't I though?" cried Binney.

"Come along then," said his friend; "I am going into the woods again,
and will show you the way; but we must set out this minute, before they
miss us. I do think they abuse you, that is the truth."

"O, I am so glad," said Binney, giving a great skip. "Now I shall see
my dear father and mother once more."

"Well, do not make such a great noise about it," said the wood-beaver
so gruffly that Binney was scared, and walked along quite meekly and
silently for a while, till his friend said in a milder tone, "So you
like the thought of going home, hey!"

"Yes, indeed," said Binney.

"Work and all?"

"Why, as to that, I have had to work a great deal harder since I left
home than ever I did before, and have had plenty of cuffs and bites
into the bargain. And besides, if you will excuse me for saying so—"

"Say away," said his friend.

"I do really think that town-beavers have better times than
wood-beavers. To be sure, they have to work sometimes when they don't
like it, but then each one has his own special task, and no one crowds
or imposes on another. They have plenty of time for fun, and when they
do play, they enjoy it very much."

"You did not think so when you were sent after the birch twigs," said
the wood-beaver.

"No," said Binney, with a deep sigh; "but I have learned a great deal
since that time."

"Well, little one, I think upon the whole you are right," said the
wood-beaver; "I do believe you are."

"If you think so, why don't you come back to the town yourself?" said
Binney, rather timidly.

The wood-beaver sighed. "They would not let me, Binney. Don't you know
it is the rule, that when a beaver is once driven away from the town,
he can never come back again. Even if I could return, I am too old; I
could not learn to work, and I should not know what to do with myself
in respectable society. No, I have made my choice, and now I must abide
by it. But you are young, and they will pardon you for running away.
I advise you never to try it again, but to obey the laws, and live in
peace. See, here is the brook."

"Is this our brook?" asked Binney. "It looks much larger."

"That is because we are low down," replied his friend. "We must follow
up the stream till we come in sight of the dam, and then you can easily
run home."

CHAPTER V.

CAUGHT IN A TRAP.

THE two beavers walked slowly along the bank till by and by they began
to smell something very strong and sweet; at least so they thought,
though I doubt whether any one but a beaver would have liked the
perfume.

"What is that?" inquired Binney, snuffing the air.

"Let us go and see," said his guide.

So they walked toward the edge of the water, where they saw some green
twigs stuck into the mud, from which the perfume seemed to proceed.
Somehow or other Binney did not like the look of these green twigs. He
had never seen any set in that way, and he suspected something—he did
not quite know what. "See there! What track is this upon the bank?"
said he.

"A bear's, of course," said the wood-beaver, without once looking at
it. If he had done so, he would have seen that no bear ever made such
a track; but he was in such a hurry to reach the green twigs that he
could think of nothing else.

Binney followed slowly, and it was well that he did so, for in a moment
more he heard his friend scream out with pain and fear. He ran to see
what was the matter.

"O, I am caught! I am caught!" cried the poor wood-beaver, pulling with
all his might to get away. But his paw was fast in the iron trap, and
he could not get it out.

"It must be a trap, such as I have heard my great-grandmother tell of,"
said Binney, trembling; "and I dare say the strange track I saw was
that of a man. What shall we do?"

"If you would gnaw this little thing off I could get my paw out," said
the wood-beaver.

Binney gnawed with all his might, but in vain. He could not make even
the least little mark on the iron of the trap.

"There, it is all of no use," said the wood-beaver, despairingly. "You
had better run right home, and leave me to my fate, Binney! It serves
me right for leading you astray in the first place. Keep on up the
stream till you come to the dam, and be sure you tell every beaver you
meet that there is a trapper about. Make haste, or he will come back
and catch you."

"I cannot go, and leave you in this scrape," said Binney, crying
bitterly. "It was as much my fault as yours. I would bite my own paw
off rather than be caught. Beavers do so sometimes. Grandmamma told us
so."

"I cannot get at it," replied his friend. "Run, Binney, I hear him
coming!"

But before Binney could make up his mind what to do, two men burst
through the bushes with guns in their bands. One of them gave the
wood-beaver a knock on the head which killed him, while the other
seized upon Binney, who, in his fright, did not know which way to run,
and so stood still. O how he did kick and bite; but all was of no use.
He could not get away.

"What is that? A young one?" asked one of the men.

"Yes, just what we want," replied the other. "Come, let us take him to
the camp."

Binney gave himself up for lost, and expected every moment to be killed.

The man who held him, however, did not seem to wish to hurt him, and
only laughed when Binney kicked and tried to bite. The men went along
up the stream, treading quietly and making no noise, till they came
within sight of the dam, when they stopped, and set their traps around.

You may guess how Binney felt when he saw his dear old home so near,
with all his friends and relations playing about it, and yet could not
even warn them of the cruel traps. But there was no help for it.

The men set their traps, as I have said, and then went away through the
woods to a place at some distance, where they had a camp, and where
some men were sitting around a fire.

"What have you there, Victor?" asked one of them.

"A young beaver, captain," said the man who held Binney. "Just such
as the Englishman wants. He is old enough to feed, and not too old to
tame."

The captain seemed much pleased, patted Binney's head, and offered him
some bread; but the poor little beaver was far too sad and scared to
care about eating. Binney was now fastened with a light chain to the
stump of a tree, and a box was given him to run under.

For two or three days he would eat nothing; he spent his whole time
gnawing at his chain; but he grew tired of that when he found it did
no good. And by and by he grew tamer, and began to relish the bits of
bread, and twigs, and the lumps of sugar which the men gave him; and
would soon have grown fond of his captors if he had not seen them kill
so many of his acquaintances. Every day they brought into the camp
beavers which they had caught in their traps. Binney soon observed,
however, that very few of the inmates of the village were taken in this
way. Almost all the bodies were those of the lazy wood-beavers. As
soon as they were brought in, the trappers skinned them, and dried the
skins. The bodies were then thrown away or buried, for beaver meat is
not very good to eat.

After a time the men found they had as many beaver skins as they
wanted, so they broke up their camp and went away. Binney travelled
many days and nights, now by land, and now by water; sometimes on
horseback, or in a wagon; now on the cars, and again in a great ship
over the ocean, till at last he arrived at the city of London.

CHAPTER VI.

FRIENDS IN LONDON.

WHEN Binney came to London, he was taken to the house of a gentleman
who was very fond of animals. This gentleman was a very wise and good
man, and he has written a number of charming books about animals,
which you will read some day. Binney was taken into a room on the
ground-floor, where sat a very nice and kind looking old lady, who was
busy stoning raisins.

"A sailor has just brought this here little beast to my master, ma'am,"
said the servant. "Here is a letter which came along with it."

"I suppose it must be the beaver which Mr. B— expected from Canada,"
said the old lady, who was the housekeeper. "Poor thing! How dirty it
is. Bring a basin of water, Thomas. I dare say it will like to drink."

Thomas brought a large basin full of clean water, and set it down on
the stone hearth. Now Binney had not had any water to wash in for a
long, long time, and seeing this fine bowl of clean water, he plunged
into it head first, rolling about and grunting with delight.

"Poor thing, how pleased it is with its bath," said the old lady, who
was very neat herself, and a great admirer of cleanliness in others.
"I have heard that beavers live mostly in the water. I wonder what it
eats?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Thomas, who, to say the truth, did not
know much about any thing except opening the door, and waiting upon the
table. "I can't think why master wants so many animals about. Dirty
things, always making a litter for me to clean up."

"As to that, Thomas, your master has a right to please himself," said
the old lady. "I suppose, at any rate, a biscuit will do the creature
no harm."

She opened a cupboard door as she spoke, and taking out a large sweet
biscuit, she gave it to Binney, who had never before tasted anything so
good. It was soon eaten, and Binney, after combing out his fur with his
claws, lay down at the housekeeper's feet, and fell fast asleep.

By and by Mr. B— came home to his dinner, which he usually took quite
late. As Thomas was clearing away the things, he said to his master:

"If you please, sir, the beaver have come, and brought you a letter
from Canada."

"Ah!" said Mr. B—, smiling. "A letter of introduction, I suppose. Bring
him up stairs, Thomas, and let us have a look at him."

Thomas made no reply, but went down to the housekeeper's room, where
Binney lay at the kind old lady's feet. He had combed his fur out clean
with his long claws, and looked and felt much better than when he
arrived, so much so that he was rolling over and over before the fire,
playing in his clumsy way, and grunting with pleasure. He had not felt
so happy since he left his home in the north-west.

"Master says I am to bring this here beast up stairs; but how I am to
bring him, I should like to know," said Thomas, sulkily. "I dare say he
will bite me if I touch him. Here, beast! Come here, sir!"

But Thomas did not speak kindly, and Binney would not follow him.

"I will take him up myself," said the kind housekeeper, rising. "Come
along, there is a good little fellow."

Binney was very ready to follow the old lady who had been so good to
him, and he trotted along after her up the stairs, which were very low
and easy, till he came to the drawing-room. It was a large, handsome
room, nicely furnished, and had a thick, soft carpet upon the floor.
Mr. B— sat before the bright fire, reading the paper; but he looked up
as the housekeeper came in with Binney behind her.

"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Smith," said he. "So you have brought our new pet.
How does he seem?"

"Well, sir, he seems a deal better than when he came," replied Mrs.
Smith. "I have fed him, and given him some water to wash in, and he
seems quite lively and playful like."

Just then something bounded from the top of a high bookcase, and came
down on the floor. Binney looked at it in great surprise. He had
never seen such a creature in all his travels. It was a little animal
of a reddish gray color, about the size of a half-grown kitten, but
much more active and graceful. Its face was white, its nose long and
sharp, and its eyes extremely large and bright. Its feet were shaped
much like a man's hands, and it had a very long furry tail. It was a
white-fronted lemur, from the island of Madagascar, far away in the
Indian Ocean.

"O ho, Mackey! So you have waked up," said Mr. B—. "You seem in fine
spirits to-night. Here is a new playmate for you."

At that moment Mackey, for that was the lemur's name, caught sight
of Binney, whom he had not noticed before. With one bound he sprang
from the rug by the fire to the top of a high door, a distance of many
yards, where he sat staring down at the newcomer as though he did not
know what to make of him.

Binney, on his part, was as much astonished as the lemur. He had seen
the squirrels in the woods make great leaps, but nothing compared to
Mackey's.

By and by Mackey seemed to make up his mind that Binney was not
dangerous, for he came down from his high post to the arm of his
master's chair, and from that to his feet, where he sat very
contentedly with his long furry tail wrapped round his neck and arms,
like the boas which ladies used to wear some years ago. After staring
at Binney for a while longer, he wrapped himself up still closer, and
went to sleep.

CHAPTER VII.

A STRANGE COMPANION.

BINNEY and Mackey, the lemur, soon became great friends, and every day
after dinner they had a good frolic in the drawing-room. Binney would
come up to Mackey as he sat on his master's foot before the fire, and
by all sorts of odd motions invite him to play. Mackey was very ready
to accept the challenge, and in an instant would jump on Binney's back,
or on his broad, flat tail, and off again to the tables and chairs,
skipping and dancing, and making a hundred motions to Binney's one.

Binney would shuffle and prance in his clumsy way, run after Mackey
with his mouth open, and slap his tail on the carpet till he made all
ring again; but they never quarrelled in their play. They often had
cake, nuts, and other dainties given them, which they always shared in
the most amiable manner, and upon the whole they were very happy.

One day when Binney was left alone in his master's dressing-room, he
thought he would try to build a dam. To be sure, he had no twigs,
sticks nor stones with which to build; no mud nor moss for mortar, and
there was no water to run over the dam when it was done; but he thought
it would make things seem a little like home again. So to work he went
in a corner of the room, and dragged together tongs and shovels, the
hearth-broom and warming-pan, his master's canes and umbrellas, and a
broom and dusting brush which Mary the housemaid had left behind her
that morning. These things he piled up as well as he could, till he had
made quite a high dam.

Just as he finished it, Mackey, who had been asleep on the mantel over
the fire, waked up, and jumped down to see what his friend was about.

"I am building a dam," said Binney; "only there is no water."

"A dam!" said Mackey. "What is a dam? I never heard of such a thing."

"We always built dams at home," said Binney. "Where I used to live
there was such a big one—O! as long as this house, and almost as high
as this room. Its use is to set back the water in the brook, and make a
pond, in which we build our houses."

"Are you going to build a house now?" asked Mackey.

"Yes, under that high bureau. Don't you want to help me? When it is all
done, we will sit in it and tell our own histories."

"O what fun," cried Mackey, and he set to work at once, for lemurs,
like monkeys, are very fond of imitating what they see any one else
do. So the two friends dragged together boots and slippers, and all
the small things they could find, with which they filled up the spaces
between the legs of the bureau, and thus made a very nice little house.

"Now we ought to have some hay to put into it," said Binney, "but I
don't know where to find any."

Mackey cast his great keen eyes round the room till they fell upon a
tall press full of clean linen, which had been accidentally left open.

"I know, I know!" cried Mackey, clapping his tiny hands in great glee.
"I know where there is plenty of nice hay."

And with one jump, he was on the top shelf of the press, where he found
a great quantity of clean sheets, tablecloths, napkins, and towels.
These he threw down to Binney, who dragged them into the house which
they had made, till it was half full of the nice clean linen. When it
was all done, they lay down in the midst of the nest, and began telling
their stories. Binney told Mackey about the dam and they pond, the deep
woods and the meadows, the tame and good beavers in the town and the
wild beavers in the woods; but as you have heard all that before, I
shall not repeat it. Then Mackey told his own story, as follows:

"I was born a great many thousand miles from London, in the island
of Madagascar. There is never any cold weather in that island. Water
never freezes as it does here, and there is no snow nor sleet; but it
rains a great deal in one part of the year. Almost the whole island is
covered with thick, deep woods, in which grow all sorts of curious and
beautiful things. There are many large vines which run from tree to
tree for long distances, making the nicest bridges in the world for us
lemurs to run upon. There are tall, many-colored canes, which shoot up
fifty or sixty feet without a leaf, and as smooth as if they had been
varnished. There are palm trees like great green plumes, which bear
the cocoanuts they sell here; other palms which bear dates, and others
still with large broad leaves as long as this room. There are beautiful
plants with leaves like green lace, which grow under the water, and
others which grow upon the branches of tall trees, and bear lovely,
wax-like flowers.

"There are bright colored birds, like bits of Mrs. Smith's cap ribbons,
which live upon trees, and others which stay on the ground. Then you
may see the loris, or slow-monkey, which sleeps nearly all day, and
crawls about the trees at night so slowly that you can hardly see him
move. You would think a snail could far outrun him any day, and yet he
manages to catch game enough to live upon very nicely. No one would
ever take him for my cousin."

"I should say not," remarked Binney. "Slowness is not one of your
faults, Mackey."

"For all that, he is always kind and good-natured," resumed Mackey.
"Nothing can put him out of temper, except being hurried. Then there
are tigers and wildcats, and many other such creatures, besides
poisonous snakes, whose bite would kill you in a few minutes, and
huge serpents big enough to kill a deer, squeezing him to death, and
swallowing him whole afterwards."

"Really and truly, Mackey? Or are you joking?" asked Binney.

"Really and truly, Binney. I have seen with my own eyes one of these
serpents kill a huge goat and swallow him, and I know that they kill
cows in the same way. After they have taken this big mouthful they lie
asleep and stupid for three or four weeks before they want any more."

"It is a good thing that they do not want to eat very often," said
Binney.

CHAPTER VIII.

DIED OF A BROKEN HEART.

"IN just such a place as I have described to you I was born," continued
Mackey. "The first thing I remember clearly, I was hanging on my
mother's back with both my arms round her neck, as she ran along one
of the vines I have spoken of, which formed a bridge across a rapid
roaring stream. My father was before us, and just as we reached the
middle of the bridge, he stopped, and began shaking it in play. I
screamed with terror, for I thought we should certainly fall, and my
mother called on him to stop, telling me at the same time that there
was no danger. When my father saw that I was really frightened, he
ceased his play, and brought me a ripe date to comfort me.

"O, we used to have fine frolics in those woods. There were a great
many of us, and we were all very friendly together. Now and then we
young ones got into a quarrel, but we soon made friends again. We had
plenty of fruit and nuts, nice tall trees to play and sleep in, and
nothing to fear except the snakes and wildcats."

"I should think a wildcat would have had hard work to catch you,"
remarked Binney.

"Yes, if I saw him first; but then, you know, he might pounce upon me
unawares. Well, in this way I lived for the first long happy year of my
life. One unlucky day, however, I left my father and mother on a tree,
and went away by myself into the woods for a ramble. I travelled along
at leisure, now and then stopping to gather dates, or some other fruit,
till I found myself upon the sea-shore, and then I thought I would go
down to the beach and see what I could find there.

"I noticed a tall ship on the water, and some sailors in a boat near
the shore; but I had seen them before, and did not feel any alarm, as
I was quite sure of my ability to keep out of their way. I saw some
broken biscuits lying under the tree, and I thought I would go down
and examine them. I took a bit very cautiously at first, and finding
it very nice, was proceeding to make a hearty meal, when all at once I
found myself caught in a net, while at the same moment a sailor sprang
from a thicket near by, and made me prisoner. O how I did scratch and
bite, but it was of no use. I could not get away.

"The sailor was very much pleased with his prize. He carried me on
board the ship, and gave me to the captain, who received me kindly,
admired my fine fur and long bushy tail, and offered me all sorts
of good things to eat. But you may guess I had not a great deal of
appetite at that time. From the ship I could see the shore and the
green woods, and I almost fancied I could hear my father and mother
calling me.

"The next day the ship sailed away. I saw the woods sink lower and
lower, and the land grow more and more dim and distant, till at last it
faded away entirely, and nothing met my eyes but water, water in every
direction. I was very sad at first, and almost thought my heart would
break. But the captain and all the men were kind to me; I had plenty to
eat and drink, and abundance of playmates, and I began to find out that
running up and down the ropes was almost as good fun as climbing trees.
Once I fell into the water. I gave myself up for lost at that time,
for I cannot swim at all; but one of the men threw me a rope, which I
caught, and he hauled me on board wrapped me up in a blanket to warm
me. After that I was more careful.

"After a voyage of many months I came to this country, and the captain
gave me to our master. I am very happy here. The days are cold and
dark, and there are no pretty trees; but every one is kind to me, and
now that I have you to play with, my dear, good old Binney, I am as
contented as if I were at home in Madagascar."

So saying, Mackey put his little arms round Binney's neck, and gave him
a good hug; and when Mrs. Smith came up to see what had become of her
pets, she found them fast asleep together in the nest which they had
made.

And now I come to the end of Binney's history; a very melancholy end,
I am sorry to say. Mr. B— had occasion to leave town for a while, and
thinking that a change would be good for Binney, who had grown fat
and lazy from too much good living, he sent him to the Tower, where a
number of wild animals were kept at that time. Cops, who had the charge
of these animals, received Binney with pleasure, and treated him with
the greatest possible kindness.

But the change was a sad one for poor Binney. He missed the liberty he
had enjoyed in his master's house; he missed his merry little playmate,
the lemur; and above all, he pined for his kind friend, Mrs. Smith. He
grew thin and weak, moped about all day, and would take no food except
a few raisins now and then. At last Mr. Cops grew so much alarmed about
his health that he determined to carry him home again. But it was too
late. The beaver's heart was broken. As soon as he saw his old friend,
he gave a little cry of joy, crept to his favorite place under her
chair, and died!

Mackey's destiny was not so mournful. His master thought he would be
sorrowful without the society of his old friend, so he sent him to the
Regent's Park gardens, where there are a great many wild animals of all
descriptions. Here they gave him a nice house, and a pretty little wife
of his own species, with whom he lived long and happily, and for all I
know, he may be living yet.

THE EXHIBITION IN THE BARN.

[Illustration]

TOM, Charley, and Sue were making a visit to their cousins, and it was
rather trying to have a rainy day. In the first place, it was in the
spring, and they had expected to have a delightful ramble after early
flowers that very morning; in the next place, the house was a small
one, and there were eight children besides the older people who lived
in it, so there was not room for any very extensive in-door plays. Who
wanted to sit down and read in all that hubbub, or to play "What is my
thought like?" or "Capping Poetry," when the snow was all gone?

Whatever feelings were entertained by the young people, they were
fully, though secretly, reciprocated by the older ones, who thought
with dismay of what their ears must endure before the sun shone again.

Therefore, when Charley flung up his cap, (which he always had
conveniently by him, even in the house, notwithstanding his mother's
lessons upon good manners,) and shouted, "I have it! Let's have an
exhibition in the barn!" the proposition was received with universal
acclamation.

It was Charley's private idea that since the number of children was
much greater than the number of "grown-ups," as he irreverently called
them, it would be more satisfactory, and more like a real exhibition,
if some of the little ones were to act as audience instead of
performers. But Charley was a very kindhearted boy, and did not like to
say this, so he consulted his Aunt Mary on the subject.

"Ah, my dear," said she, "to be sure it would be more like a real
exhibition if you should do so, but I don't think it would be more
satisfactory. I think you will give satisfaction to a greater number of
people by letting all take part."

"Done," said Charley, running into the room where the other children
were.

"Boys and girls come out to play
In the barn upon the hay,
Hooray!"

And the eleven took up their line of march in the proposed direction.

"I'll tell you," said George; "we can have this little low haymow for
the stage, it's first-rate; almost all the hay is gone, and we can
pitch the rest of it back into one corner."

This was speedily done, though not without some delay, caused by Tom
and Fred, who, younger than their brothers, had not their business
turn, and persisted in turning somersaults on the fragrant hay.

"What shall we do for a curtain?" said George. "We never can get along
without one."

"I know," said his sister Alice; "there's that red patch bed quilt: I
guess mother will let us have that."

So the bed quilt was procured, and put up in a very satisfactory
manner, though, as a true story-teller, I am bound to relate that to
its latest days it bore the marks of some small nails which were driven
through it with the utmost care by George, who thought it as well to do
it first, and confer with his mother about it afterwards.

"But now," said he, in some perplexity, as he surveyed his completed
work, "how are we going to work to make it stay up while we speak our
pieces?"

"That's no matter," said Sue; "we only want a curtain while we are
getting ready. We can come in front of it when we get ready to speak."

"I did when I speaked my piece at the exsmishun," squeaked little Ben
in a small voice.

But little Ben was immediately hissed down, for Charley and George
felt that they never could endure the humiliation of coming before the
curtain, instead of having the curtain rise before them.

"I'll tell you," said Charley, "let some of the little ones stand and
hold the curtain back while we are speaking."

"Yes," said Alice, with the kindest intentions, "Ben can do that. It'll
be just as nice as speaking, Ben, because then the people can see you
all the time. Besides, you haven't any piece to speak."

"Yis I hev," said Ben, opening his round blue eyes with an injured
look; "I kin speak the one I speaked at the exsmishun."

Now the fact was, on the memorable occasion alluded to, Master Ben had
found himself, to his astonishment, all abroad the moment he appeared
before the curtain, and after having repeated the last two lines of
the second verse, followed by the first two of the fourth, he had
ignominiously retreated. But, he had been applauded, and applause is
sweet to youth, so he had no objection to winning new laurels on the
present occasion.

Alice thought it unwise to allude to his former defeat, so she only
said, "O, you've forgotten it, Ben."

"No, I haven't," said Ben, still in an aggrieved tone. "You see—

"Twintle, twintle, little star,
How I wonder—how I wonder—how I wonder—"

"How I wonder what comes next," suggested Fred.

"No, that ain't it," said Ben. "How I wonder—how I wonder—"

"How I wander from the subject," suggested George. "I'll tell you what,
Ben, you'll think it is splendid to hold up the curtain. You may wear
my soldier cap if you want to, and I guess mother 'll let you have the
peacock's feather over the looking-glass to put in it."

"Yes," said Alice, "and you may have my red scarf for a sash."

Thus solicited, Ben very prudently refrained from any further
speculations about the star, and addressed himself to the work of
collecting the articles necessary for his adornment.

"Now, in the first place," said Charley, "we want one good, long
dialogue, and then we'll each speak a piece besides."

"I don't see how we are going to learn a dialogue in such a little
while," said Sue.

"I know what we can do," said Alice; "we can have a charade, and then
we shan't have to learn it beforehand."

"And whatever we may do," said Charley, "we must have a band of music."

"How are you going to get it?" asked Tom.

"Well, that's what I don't know," said Charley, considering. "I suppose
Uncle George wouldn't let us move the piano out here for such a little
while, would he?"

"No, indeed," said Alice, who loved music, and had no idea of having
her piano banged about in that style.

"See here," said Fred, "I can play the clappers."

"And I can beat my drum," said Jamie.

"I can play on the jews-harp," said Tom.

"O, just let me play on my 'monicon," squeaked little Ben.

"Well," said Charley, "that's capital; and you whistle, George, and
then they'll know what tune it is. And let me take your trumpet, and I
know I can come in, in time."

"I think it will be splendid," said Jamie.

And according to the ideas of some, it was probably splendid. The
family assembled in the barn soon after dinner, for it had taken
all the morning for the preparations. One bench held the whole
audience—Aunt Mary, Uncle George, Grandma, and Patty, the maid.

The eleven performers were unseen, but not unheard behind the curtain.
Then the six boys appeared in front, each with a red scarf round his
waist, to signify that they were a band in uniform. As Charley had
suggested, by the efforts of George, who was a good whistler, the
listeners were enabled to distinguish the tune of "Rally round the
Flag," though their efforts to decide what it was were made somewhat
difficult by the drum, which came in invariably upon the wrong beat of
the measure, by the clatter of the clappers, which threatened to drown
everything else, and by the plaintive wail of the harmonicon, upon
which Ben had as yet learned to produce but two sounds, one by blowing
out and the other by blowing in.

The applause at the close of the piece was so pleasing that Charley was
just proposing that they should repeat it, when the cheering ceased,
Uncle George saying that it would really be unfair to take advantage of
their willingness to accommodate when they had paid an admission fee
sufficient to entitle them to hear each piece once.

The next article on the programme was a poem, beginning, "The boy stood
on the burning deck," recited by Master Jamie, the curtain, meanwhile,
being held up by Master Ben, gorgeous in his cap and feather.

Directly after this followed a duet from Alice and Sue—"Two merry
hearts are we," which was very prettily sung. Next, Tom appeared before
the curtain, a great bustle going on behind it at the same time, and
recited a humorous poem, which concluded with a moral, stating that
"Vinegar never catches flies."

Then there was a prolonged pause of preparation for the central
attraction—the charade. Then those who did not appear in the first
scene came out and took their places in the audience, and the curtain
rose. Behold a ricketty old chaise-top, to which a rocking-horse was
harnessed! In the chaise sat Charley, with a sermon of Uncle George's
in his hands, a tall hat on his head, and grandma's spectacles across
his nose. Behind the chaise stood George, with a bell in his hand,
which he rang ten times, the first nine times slowly and the tenth
quickly.

"That must mean just half-past nine o'clock. Just the hour of the
'earthquake shock,'" said Aunt Mary.

But before the words were out came a crash and a bang; over went the
chaise, and it was buried in an instant under a load of hay pitched
upon it by the little boys, from the midst of which Charlie's head
presently rose, in a rather fouled condition, and an expression of
bewilderment on his countenance. This was the point at which the
curtain should have fallen, and fall it did, though quite unconsciously
on Ben's part, since he was so lost in admiration of the scene that he
forgot his duty of holding it up, instead of remembering his duty of
letting it fall.

"I guess that means 'shay,'" said grandma, wisely.

Another tremendous bustle behind the curtain. Then it rose again.
Alice, in a dress of her grandmother's, with spectacles and knitting,
sat by a little work-table; Sue, with a basket of mending, was on the
other side; Emma sat on a stool reading aloud, and the little twins
were playing with their blocks on the floor.

"Hush!" said Alice, laying down her knitting; and the others listened,
too. "I think I hear a noise. Daughter, wont you look and see what it
is?"

So Sue pretended to go to a window and look out. "I don't see
anything," said she, and sat down again.

Emma began to read.

"Stop a minute," said Alice again. "I'm sure I heard a noise."

"And so do I," said Sue, starting up.

"It makes me think of the old times of the war, when I was a girl,"
said Alice.

"Why, there's a war now, grandma," said Emma.

"Yes, yes, child," said Alice, hastily. "What is that noise?"

At that instant there was a shrill whoop from behind the breastwork
of hay thrown up in the corner, and all the boys—except Ben, who,
notwithstanding the glory of his dress, looked on sorrowfully—arrayed
in tall caps adorned with rooster's feathers, and with such toy muskets
and tin swords as are to be found in the garret of any house where
there are four boys, rushed in and seized hold of the girls, who had
risen with what was meant for a terrified look, though Emma could not
refrain from snickering a little.

"In the name of Jefferson Davis, you are prisoners!" said Charley in a
stentorian voice, who wore the tallest feathers and the longest sword.

Then the girl took to tears, and the boys to threats, and finally the
boys led the girls off captives, after a very amusing and exciting
scene.

Then George appeared again, and stated that in acting the syllables of
the word they had acted the whole; and Aunt Mary won a great reputation
for smartness, because she guessed it was "charade" (shay-raid).

Now followed a scene between Brutus and Cassius, performed by Charley
and George.

Then Emma sang the touching ballad of the "Three little kittens." Fred
was eloquent as Rienzi addressing the Romans, and the twins recited in
concert,—

"Very little things are we;
O, how good we ought to be.
Never quarrel, never fight,
That would be a shocking sight."

After this Charley gave a finishing touch to the entertainment by an
original epilogue.

"Dear friends, we're about to part,
And I hope from my heart,
That you think we've been smart.
We've done our best,
With a great deal of zest.
It must be confessed,
Since our riddle you guessed,
That you are smart, too,
And therefore, adieu."

And so the rain did no harm, after all, to anything but the patch bed
quilt; and Aunt Mary said that was of no consequence but it would have
been right to ask her before driving the nails through it. And though
George at first felt rather ashamed of himself on account of the bed
quilt, the exhibition closed with a very pleasant feeling all around.

THE MOTHER'S LEGACY.

[Illustration]

THE sun had gone down behind the steeples and chimneys of the city, and
left a bright sky in the west to conclude a day which was a happy New
Year's day to many hearts.

But there were others in that city who saw nothing in the bright red
sky to assure them that the new year was likely to prove to them any
better than the old, and who would have been glad enough, amid many
years of want and sorrow, to have one happy new year.

Mr. Ellison had been calling on a friend, and had just stepped from
door when he was accosted by a young girl, who asked, "Please, sir, do
you know of any one wanting a nurse-girl?"

He looked earnestly at the face before him, and replied, "I have a
little boy at home who lost his nurse lately, but you look rather young
for that position. What is your name?"

"My name is Norah, sir; my mother is dead, and I live with Judy
Finegan; but the times are too hard for her to keep and feed me any
longer. I would try to suit you, sir, if you would take me."

"It is too cold to stand here; tell me where you live, and I will call
and see you in the morning." And receiving her answer, he passed on.

[Illustration]

"My dear," said Mr. Ellison to his wife, as they sat at their pleasant
tea-table, "I heard of a nurse for you to-day. Are you suited yet?"

"No. Where did you meet with her?"

Mr. Ellison related the circumstances, and continued: "There was
something in the girl's face that particularly interested me. The fact
is, I believe she looks like you."

Mrs. Ellison smiled. "It was probably nothing but your kind heart,
which allows itself to be interested in a case of suffering where
another would be unconcerned. But seriously, husband, if I should take
so young a nurse, I fear, instead of relieving me, she would add to my
perplexities."

"Well, what say you, Aunt Hannah?" asked Mr. Ellison of a prim,
but mild-looking old lady in the quaint Quaker dress, who had been
listening to the conversation.

"What do I say? Why, that in this matter thee has erred more than is
thy wont. Thee knows that a girl taken from the streets of this wicked
city is not a fit companion for thy innocent little Kate, who, though
only six years old, is an apt scholar. I wonder at thee, John, for
thinking of it;" and Aunt Hannah replaced her spectacles, and looked
gravely at her nephew.

"But, Aunt," answered Mr. Ellison, warmly, "this, I am sure, is no
common street vagrant; besides, we have not decided the matter; Mary
will go with me to see her in the morning, and if she is not satisfied,
there is an end of it."

"Well, well, nephew, thee knows my mind, and thee can do as thee
pleases."

Though wearied by her walk, Norah burst joyfully into the humble room
she called home. "I saw a kind looking gentleman that wants a nurse,
and he promised to come and see me in the morning. Now I shall earn
money, and buy all you need, and you shall have a doctor, for you are
growing pale and thin."

It was a homely and thoroughly Irish face that turned to Norah, and a
kind voice that sought to calm the excited child.

"Be quiet, honey; ye mustn't be afther making such a time o' it, at all
at all. The promises o' great folks are not as it is wid de poor, and
ye may niver see the gintleman again, nor de likes o' him. I have seen
de likes o' it before now. Come and eat your supper," she continued,
taking at the same time a cup containing some broken pieces of bread
and meat, which had been simmering over the fire.

Norah finished her supper, and then throwing herself on a little straw
pallet, which she drew up to the fire, was soon sleeping as peacefully
as though she rested on a bed of down.

Judy waited until the regular breathing betrayed Norah's sound slumber;
then going to a chest, she took from it a worsted dress, which she had
already commenced to alter into one of smaller size. By the light of a
penny candle and the flame of the fire, which was occasionally supplied
with pieces of an old tub, the dress was completed, and with a mingled
look of admiration and regret she laid it on the chest, and lay down by
the side of Norah.

By morning's dawn she was again astir. While scrubbing the door-step
a wagon load of potatoes stopped just in front of the house to allow
a train of carriages to pass. Judy gazed with wistfulness toward the
wagoner, which, though she was silent, he could not fail to understand.

"Here, ma'am, take a couple; I own but a peck of them myself, or you
would be welcome to more." And grasping as many as his brawny hand
could hold, he threw them into her apron, whipped up his horses, and
drove on.

"What's up?" said Dick Carrow, talking to himself. "'Pears as if my
mouth would whistle in spite of me, and my heart is as light as a
feather." It was his kind act which had brought its own reward.

Judy leaned over the fire, her face brimful of honest joy, and stole a
glance at Nora, who went, by her direction, to get the dress prepared
for her; but great was the good woman's surprise to see the child throw
herself upon it, and burst into a flood of tears.

"Doesn't it plaze you," asked Judy, who, expecting to see
demonstrations of joy, did not know how to offer consolation.

"You know I like it," said Norah, as soon as she could speak; "but you
have cut up your only decent dress, and now what will you do?"

"Why, bless your heart, if that is all," said Judy, "I can soon tell ye
what I will be afther, doing for myself, I will wear what I have, till
Miss Norah, the darlint, buys me an illegant one wid flowers as big as
me hand. It's a real fit anyhow;" and she surveyed Norah in it with
admiring eyes; "not a dressmaker in the city could bate it."

After watching from eight o'clock until ten, Norah was at last rewarded
by a sight of Mr. Ellison and his wife.

She opened the door in answer to their knock, and gave to Mrs. Ellison
the only chair the room afforded, while Mr. Ellison seated himself upon
the chest.

"Judy stepped into a neighbor's to borrow a tub," said Norah, as she
leaned against the fire-place, her face coloring as she saw the lady
looking intently upon her.

Aunt Hannah's suggestions in regard to little Kate had led Mrs. Ellison
almost to determine not to engage the girl, and yet in talking with
her an interest was awakened. Surely she had seen that face before—but
where? The sweet expression of the mouth, the blue eyes, shaded by
their dark lashes, seemed as the reminiscence of an early dream.

"John, I have it now," she suddenly exclaimed. "It is my sister Ella's
face. I was young when Ella married and went to India, but I am sure
the resemblance is close. Could this girl possibly be in any way
connected with her?"

Before Mr. Ellison could reply, Judy came in. In answer to their
questions she told her story.

"It was fourteen years ago last summer I came over in a ship to this
counthry. My man Michael and my baby were wid me when I started, but
two days afther we sailed my baby died, and was buried in the say. My
heart was well-nigh broke, and as I sat crooning one day, a lady wid a
baby about the age of mine, came to me and put her on my lap. I felt
the betther for that, madam; and many a time afther that day I nursed
and carried the little baby, and she learned to love me, I assure ye of
that.

"The lady told me about herself; how she had been to a far off
counthry, where her husband died. Then she started to come home, and
many weary months was she on the way, sometimes obliged to lay by for
weeks, until her money was spint, and then she feared she niver should
see her own counthry. She resaved no answer to the many letters she had
sint; and when she rached Liverpool she had barely enough money to pay
her passage to New York.

"The second week we were on the wather the cholera broke out, and the
misery of that time I shall niver forget. I was one of the first taken
down with it, but I soon got over it; but och, my dear good lady, there
was poor Michael, my husband; he died in sax hours afther he was taken.

"The first day I went on deck, I saw the mother and child. The baby
put out its hands to come to me, and the mother too gave me a welcome.
'Judy,' she said, and I shall never forget her swate pale face as she
talked, 'I have a treasure to commit to your hands. I fale sure that I
shall not rache New York, and I want you to care for my child until you
can put her in my sister's hands. I have left all the directions in my
dressing-case.'

"I promised, and took the child to kape that night, for I saw she was
not well at all. And thin they waked me in the night to go to the lady.
Sure enough it was the cholera, and by noon next day she was dead. I
niver could find the dressing-case, and the only thing belonging to her
was a book, and that was in her hand, they told me, when she was taken
sick."

Here Judy handed Mrs. Ellison a small pocket Bible, handsomely bound.
The lady gave but one glance. The words written inside, "Ella Campbell,
from her husband," told the whole story, and she clasped closely to her
breast her sister's orphan child.

"Who can doubt there is a Providence that directs our steps?" said
Mr. Ellison to Aunt Hannah, as they sat the same evening talking over
the wonderful discovery. "She will take her mother's name. Judy gave
her the name of her own child when she took her; she did not know or
remember the child's real name."

"And what will thee do with Judith?"

"We have secured her as nurse, and in this we have great cause for
thankfulness, for one who has acted so faithfully and tenderly by our
niece, will not fail to do her duty.

"We intend to provide for her the rest of her life. For Ella, we will
at present procure a governess. She is not backward naturally, and I
have no doubt she will do justice to her teachers."

It is needless to say that Mr. Ellison's predictions were verified.
Ella became, in all things, a dear child and companion for her aunt,
while mother Judy, as she continued to call her foster mother, found a
comfortable home at Mr. Ellison's as long as she lived.

THE END.

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