Cinderella by - (e ink ebook reader txt) 📕

and sweet,

Dry leafage encumbers the ground;

The pathways, once verdant and soft to my feet,

In fetters of ice are bound.

 

“The pride of the barn-yard sits humped with the cold,

One frozen foot under his wing;

And the sheep huddle closely, for warmth, in their fold;

The ice tyrant reigns as king.”

 

She turns from this picture of ruin and death,

And seeks the broad casement again;

And, lo! from the dews of her wasted breath

Great forests have grown on the pane.

 

Such beautiful trees! such ferns! and such flowers!

Such rivers and mountains bold!

Such charming cascades! she gazes for hours,

And worships the ice king cold.

 

MALMO, THE WOUNDED RAT.

 

A poor man saw, by the roadside, a large white rat. It seemed

to be dead. Moving it gently he found it was alive, but had a

broken leg. He took it up and carried it to his lonely home. He

bound up the bruised leg, fed the poor creature, and soon it was

quite well.

 

Sam Tills trained the rat to gentle ways, and taught it many

little tricks. Malmo was the only company Sam had. He worked

in a cotton mill, and took Malmo with him. He rode in his

master’s coat-pocket. It looked droll to see his white head

peeping out.

 

Sundays both went to dine with Sam’s sister. Malmo’s funny

ways made everybody laugh. When Sam said, “Malmo, go sit in

my hat,” he went at once. He curled himself up in it, and nodded

off to sleep.

 

When his master said, “Malmo, we’re going now; slip in,” the

droll pet jumped from the hat, ran up to his pocket-nest, said

good-by in his own fashion, and was ready to start. Evenings,

when Sam was reading or singing from his mother’s hymn-book,

Malmo had a nap on his master’s head. When it was time to go

to bed Sam stroked Malmo’s soft fur. The rat rubbed himself

against his master’s hand. It was their good-night to each other.

Then Malmo crept into his basket, and the candle was blown out.

Soon both were fast asleep.

 

MAMA’S HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

 

It had seemed to the little Wendell children that they would have

a very sad Christmas. Mama had been very ill, and papa had been

so anxious about mama that he could not think of anything else.

 

When Christmas Day came, however, mama was so much better that

she could lie on the lounge. The children all brought their

stockings into her room to open them.

 

“You children all seem as happy as if you had had your usual

Christmas tree,” said mama, as they sat around her.

 

“Why, I NEVER had such a happy Christmas before,” said sweet

little Agnes. “And it’s just because you are well again.”

 

“Now I think you must all run out for the rest of the day,” said

the nurse, “because your mama wants to see you all again this

evening.”

 

“I wish we could get up something expressly for mama’s

amusement,” said Agnes, when they had gone into the nursery.

 

“How would you like to have some tableaux in here?” asked their

French governess, Miss Marcelle.

 

“Oh, yes,” they all cried, “it would be fun, mama loves

tableaux.”

 

So all day long they were busy arranging five tableaux for the

evening. The tableaux were to be in the room which had

folding-doors opening into Mrs. Wendell’s sitting-room.

 

At the proper time Miss Marcelle stepped outside the

folding-doors and made a pretty little speech. She said that some

young ladies and a young gentleman had asked permission to show

some tableaux to Mrs. Wendell if she would like to see them. Mrs.

Wendell replied that she would be charmed.

 

Then mademoiselle announced the tableaux; opening the doors wide

for each one. This is a list of the tableaux: First, The Sleeping

Beauty; second, Little Red Riding Hood third, The Fairy Queen;

fourth, Old Mother Hubbard; fifth, The Lord High Admiral.

 

Miss Marcelle had arranged everything so nicely, and Celeste,

the French maid, helped so much with the dressing, that the

pictures all went off without a single mistake.

 

Mama was delighted. She said she must kiss those dear young

ladies, and that delightful young man who had given her such a

charming surprise.

 

So all the children came in rosy and smiling.

 

“Why, didn’t you know us?” asked the little Lord Admiral.

 

“I know this,” said mama, “I am like Agnes. I NEVER had such a

happy Christmas before.”

 

CURED OF CARELESSNESS.

 

Mrs. Bertram sat reading a book one morning, or trying to. It was

not easy to do so, for her little boy, Roger, was out in the hall

playing with his drum. Suddenly the drumming ceased, and in a

moment Roger rushed into the room crying as if his heart would

break.

 

“I’ve burst it. I’ve burst it,” he sobbed.

 

“Your drum asked his mother. “How did you do that?”

 

“I was beating it with the poker and the tongs and—”

 

“With the poker and tongs!” exclaimed his mother. “Why, where

were your drum-sticks?”

 

Then Roger stopped crying, and hung his head with shame.

 

“Where are your drum-sticks?” asked his mother, again.

 

“I—I—don’t know,” sobbed Roger.

 

“Have you lost those, too?” said Mrs. Bertram. She needed no

words for answer. Roger’s manner was quite enough. “You know,

dear, what I said would happen the next time you lost anything.”

 

“Yes,” said Roger, “I you said I must give away all my toys to

some little boys who would take care of them.”

 

“Yes,” said his mother. “I see you remember. I shall send them

all to-night to the Children’s Hospital.”

 

“But, mama,” said Roger, “if I don’t have any toys to take care

of, how can I learn to take care of them?”

 

Mrs. Bertram had to turn away so that Roger should not see her

smile.

 

“I shall have to think of some other way to teach you to be

careful. Now go and bring me all your toys.”

 

Roger went out of the room to do as his mother said. When he had

gone, Mrs. Bertram sat thinking until he came back.

 

“I have decided that I want you to dust the library every

morning.”

 

Roger looked astonished. “Boys don’t dust,” he said.

 

“Sometimes,” said his mother, smilingly. “Your Uncle Fred had to

dust his own room when he was at West Point. Now if you dust the

library every morning for two months faithfully, and do not break

a single ornament, I shall know you have grown careful in one

way, and that may help you to be careful in another.”

 

The next morning Roger began his work. At first he disliked it

very much, but after a while he grew very particular. It was not

pleasant to be without any toys, and he determined to earn them.

 

The day when his trial of two months would be up, would be

Christmas Day. He did not know if his presents this year would be

toys or useful things. All his mother had said about his work

was, “My dear, you are improving.”

 

Christmas night came, and with it a beautiful tree. Imagine

Roger’s delight when he saw on and about it new skates, a new

sled, a new violin and a new drum.

 

And up in the highest branches, in letters of gold, these words:

“For the boy who has proved he can be careful when he tries.”

 

A VISIT FROM A PRINCE.

 

Harry was playing with his letter blocks one afternoon, when a

prince came to visit him.

 

Harry knew the prince very well, indeed. As soon as the prince

came into the room Harry said:

 

“Hullo, old fellow, is that you?”

 

Was not that a very strange way to greet a prince?

 

And wasn’t it stranger yet for Harry to say next:

 

@“Come, sit up, old boy, and give us your—”

 

Was it hand Harry was going to say? No, indeed, it was paw. “Sit

up, old boy, and give us your paw.”

 

Prince was a beautiful dog, as black as a coal. Indeed, his real

name, his whole name, was Edward, the Black Prince. Now you must

ask somebody to tell you about the man who was called the “Black

Prince,” the man for whom Harry’s dog was named.

 

When Harry asked Prince to give his paw, the dog did not do it as

quickly as he ought to have done.

 

Did Harry beat him for that? No, indeed. Did he say, “Never mind,

Prince, you need not obey me if you do not want to?” No, indeed,

again.

 

He sat up himself, and then he made Prince sit up on his hind

legs. Then he ordered Prince to give his paw. Prince did so. Then

Harry made him do it again, then again and again and again, until

the dog seemed to understand that he must learn to obey when he

was spoken to.

 

After Prince appeared to have learned that lesson quite

perfectly, Harry taught him something new.

 

He taught him to stand on his hind legs and hold a pipe in his

mouth.

 

This he soon did so well that Harry clapped his hands and cried,

“Good, good, you smoke as well as his royal highness, the Black

Prince, himself.”

 

Which remark showed that Harry had not yet begun to study

history. If he had, he would have known that in the country where

the Black Prince lived, tobacco was never heard of until many,

many, MANY years after his death.

 

STRINGING CRANBERRIES.

 

Arthur Bancroft was feeling very cross one morning in December.

He had a bad cold, and his mother did not think it would be wise

for him to go out-of-doors. That was why he was cross. The

skating was finer than it had been that season; every other boy

he knew was enjoying it.

 

He walked about the house with a very sulky face; would take no

notice of books or games, and seemed determined to be miserable.

 

He was standing looking out of the window when his sister Laura

came into the room. Laura carried in her hand a basket filled

with cranberries.

 

She put the basket on the table, took a needle from her mother’s

needle book, threaded it with a long, stout thread, and began

stringing the berries.

 

Laura was a dear little thing! She was always busy. No one ever

heard her say, “I wish I had something to do.” And she was

generally doing something for some one else.

 

She made a sweet little picture as she sat bending over the

basket of crimson cranberries. Some such idea may have come into

Arthur’s mind as he turned and looked at her. As he watched her

silently for some moments, the cross expression on his face

became a little less cross.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

 

“Stringing cranberries for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” answered

Laura. “Don’t you want to help me?”

 

“It’s girls’ work,” replied Arthur.

 

“Isn’t a boy smart enouhg to do a girl’s work?” asked Laura.

 

“Of course, he’s SMART enough. I don’t mean that! Perhaps he

doesn’t want to.”

 

“Oh,” said Laura, “I wish you did want to.”

 

“Why?” asked Arthur.

 

“I promised to string all these for the Mullins’ Christmas tree”

replied Laura. “The market-man brought them so late, I have not

much time now.”

 

“Thread another needle,” said Arthur.

 

In a few moments he was working as busily as Laura, herself.

As