WE have sent the children to school. Under the protecting wing of Mrs. Sparrowgrass, our two eldest boys passed in safety through the narrow channel of orthography, and were fairly launched upon the great ocean of reading before a teacher was thought of. But when boys get into definitions, and words more than an inch long, it is time to put them out, and pay their bills once a quarter. Our little maid, five years old, must go with them, too. The boys stipulated that she should go, although she had never gone beyond E in the alphabet before. When I came home from the city in the evening, I found them with their new carpet-satchels all ready for the morning. There was quite a hurrah! when I came in, and they swung their book-knapsacks over each little shoulder 184 by a strap, and stepped out with great pride, when I said, “Well done, my old soldiers.” Next morning we saw the old soldiers marching up the garden-path to the gate, and then the little procession halted; and the boys waved their caps, and one dear little toad kissed her mitten at us — and then away they went with such cheerful faces. Poor old soldiers! what a long, long, siege you have before you!
Thank Heaven for this great privilege, that our little ones go to school in the country. Not in the narrow streets of the city; not over the flinty pavements; not amid the crush of crowds, and the din of wheels: but out in the sweet woodlands and meadows; out in the open air, and under the blue sky — cheered on by the birds of spring and summer, or braced by the stormy winds of ruder seasons. Learning a thousand lessons city children never learn; getting nature by heart — and treasuring up in their little souls the beautiful stories written in God’s great picture-book.
We have stirring times now when the old soldiers come home from school in the afternoon. The whole household is put under martial law until the old soldiers get their rations. Bless their white 185 heads, how hungry they are. Once in a while they get pudding, by way of a treat. Then what chuckling and rubbing of little fists, and cheers, as the three white heads touch each other over the pan. I think an artist could make a charming picture of that group of urchins, especially if he painted them in their school-knapsacks.
Sometimes we get glimpses of their minor world — its half-fledged ambitions, its puny cares, its hope and its disappointments. The first afternoon they returned from school, open flew every satchel, and out came a little book. A conduct-book! There was G. for good boy, and R. for reading, and S. for spelling, and so on; and opposite every letter a good mark. From the early records in the conduct-books, the school-mistress must have had an elegant time of it for the first few days, with the old soldiers. Then there came a dark day; and on that afternoon, from the force of circumstances, the old soldiers did not seem to care about showing up. Every little reluctant hand, however, went into its satchel upon requisition, and out came the records. It was evident, from a tiny legion of crosses in the books, that the mistress’s duties had been rather tiresome that morning. So the small 186 colume was ordered to deploy in line of battle, and, after a short address, dismissed — without pudding. In consequence, the old soldiers now get some good marks every day.
We begin to observe the first indications of a love for society growing up with their new experiences. It is curious to see the tiny filaments of friendship putting forth, and winding their fragile tendrils around their small acquaintances. What a little world it is — the little world that is allowed to go into the menagerie at half price! Has it not its joys and griefs; its cares and mortifications; its aspirations and despairs? One day the old soldiers came home in high feather, with a note. An invitation to a party, “Master Millet’s compliments, and would be happy to see the Masters, and Miss Sparrowgrass to tea, on Saturday afternoon.” What a hurrah! there was, when the note was read; and how the round eyes glistened with anticipation; and how their cheeks glowed with the run they had had. Not an inch of the way from school had they walked, with that great note! There was much chuckling over their dinner, too; and we observed the flush never left their cheeks, even after they were in bed, and had 187 been asleep for hours. Then all their best clothes had to be taken out of the drawer and brushed; and the best collars laid out; and a small silk apron, with profuse ribbons, improvised for our little maid; and a great to-do generally. Next morning I left them, as I had to go to the city; but the day was bright and beautiful. At noon, the sky grew cloudy. At two o’clock, it commenced raining. At three, it rained steadily. When I reached home in the evening, they were all in bed again; and I learned they had been prevented going to the party on account of the weather. “They had been dreadfully disappointed,” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said; so we took a lamp and went up to have a look at them. There they lay — the hopeful roses of yesterday, all faded; and one poor old soldier was sobbing in his sleep.
We begin to think our eldest is nourishing a secret passion, under his bell-buttons. He has been seen brushing his hair more than once, lately; and, not long since, the two youngest came home from school, crying, without him. Upon investigation, we found our eldest had gone off with a school-girl twice his size; and, when he returned, he said he had only gone home with her, because 188 she promised to put some bay-rum on his hair. He has even had the audacity to ask me to write a piece of poetry about her, and of course I complied.
It was quite touching to see how solemnly the old soldiers listened, when this was being read to them; and when I came to the lines: —
“ I feel as if something had got in my throat,
And was choking against the strap” —
It is surprising how soon children — all children — begin to love poetry. That dear old lady — Mother Goose! what would childhood be without her? Let old Mother Goose pack up her satchel and begone, and dreary world this would be for babies! No more “Pat-a-cake baker’s man;” no more “Here sits the Lord Mayor;” no more “This little pig went to market;” no more “Jack and Jill,” going up the hill after that unfortunate pail of water; no more “One, two, buckle my shoe;” and “Old Mother Hubbard,” who had such an uncommonly brilliant dog; and “Simple Simon,” who was not quite so simple as the pieman thought 190 he was; and “Jacky Horner,” whose thumb stands out in childhood’s memory like Trajan’s legended pillar; and the royal architecture of “King Boggin; and the peep into court-life derived from the wonderful “Song of Sixpence:” — what would that dear little half-price world do without them? Sometimes, too, the melodious precepts of that kind old lady save a host of rigid moral lessons — “Tell-tale-tit,” and “Cross-patch, draw the latch,” are better than twenty household sermons. And then those golden legends: “Bobby Shaftoe went to sea;” and “Little Miss Muffitt, who sat on a tuffit;” and the charming moon-story of “Little Bo Peep with her shadowless sheep;” and the capital match Jack Sprat made, when he got a wife “who could eat no lean;” and the wisdom of that great maxim of Mother Goose: —
What could replace these, should the priceless volume be closed upon childhood for ever?
When we think of the great world, and its elaborate amusements — its balls, and its concerts; its theatres and its opera-houses; its costly dinners, and toilsome grand parties: its clanging pianos, 191 and its roaring convival songs; its carved furniture, splendid diamonds, rouge, and gilding; its hollow etiquette, and its sickly sentimentalities, what a poor, miserable show it makes beside little Posterity, with his toils and pleasures; his satchel, and scraps of song, sitting by his slender pathway, and watching with great eyes the dazzling pageant passing by. Little Posterity! Sitting in judgment by the wayside, and only waiting for a few years to close, before he brings in his solemn verdict.
What delicate perceptions children have, lively sympathies, quick-eyed penetration. How they shrink from hypocrisy, let it speak with never so soft a voice; and open their little chubby arms, when goodness steps into the room. What a sad-faced group it was that stood upon our bank, the day little Tommy was drowned.
There is a smooth sand beach in front of our house, a small dock, and a boat-house. The railroad track is laid between the bank and the beach, so that you can look out of the car-windows and see the river, and the Palisades, the sloops, the beach, and the boat-house. One summer afternoon, as the train flew by the cottage (for the 192 station is beyond it a short walk), I observed quite a concourse of people on one side of the track — on the dock — and sat down by the water’s edge. So when the cars stopped, I hurried back over the iron track I had just passed, and on my way met a man, who told me a little boy was drowned in the water in front of my house. What a desperate race Sparrowgrass ran that day, with the image of each of his children successively drowned, passing through his mind with the rapidity of lightning flashes! When I got in the crowd of people, I saw a poor woman lying lifeless in the arms of two other women; some were bathing her forehead, some were chafing her hands, and just then I heard some one say, “It is his mother, poor thing!” How cruel it was in me to whisper, “Thank God!” but could I help it? To rush up the bank, to get the boat-house key, to throw open the outside doors, and swing out the davits, was but an instant’s work; and then down went the boat from the blocks, and a volunteer crew had pushed her off in a moment. Then they slowly rowed her down the river, close in shore; for the tide was falling, and every now and then the iron boat-hook sank under the water on its errand of mercy. 193 Meanwhile we lashed hooks to other poles; and along the beach, and on the dock, a number of men were busy with them searching for the body. At last there was a subdued shout — it came from the river, a little south of the boat-house — and the men dropped the poles on the dock, and on the beach, and ran down that way, and we saw a little white object glisten in the arms of the boatmen, and then it was laid tenderly, face downward, on the grass that grew on the parapet of the railway. Poor little fellow! He had been bathing on the beach, and had ventured out beyond his depth in the river. It was too late to recall that little spirit — the slender breath had bubbled up through the water half an hour before. The poor woman wrapped up the tiny white death in a warm shawl; and one stout fellow took it in his arms, and carried it softly along the iron road, followed by the concourse of people.
When I came up the bank again, I thanked God, for the group of small, sad faces I found there — partly for their safety — partly for their sympathy. And we observed that afternoon, how quiet and orderly the young ones were; although the sun went down in splendid clouds, and the 194 river was flushed with crimson, and the birds sang as they were wont to sing, and the dogs sported across the grass, and all nature seemed to be unconsciously gay over the melancholy casualty; yet our little ones were true to themselves, and to humanity. They had turned over an important page in life, and were profiting by the lesson.