The Poet and the Birds. POET lay sick in his lonely room, Through the weary, weary watches of night So away to the woods the swallow flew, With none near to speak comforting Then back with the swallow on swiftest wing Flew all the minstrel throng, Determined each to the poet to sing His sweetest, most cheering song. They perch'd on a solitary tree, Which grew near the poet's dwelling, And then with the sweetest harmony Their little throats began swelling. The blackbird, the thrush, and the goldfinch were there, And the linnet with voice so sweet, While the merry lark rose high in the air, The poet the nearer to greet. And many more birds of humbler song And the poet listen'd the whole day long; For he thought that perhaps by him their song Would not be heard on the morrow. And the songs of the birds brought back to his mind The thought of days of yore, And far-off fields and friends who were kind, And the dreadful word No more.' But the poet's pain was sooth'd, though he wept, And his heart was fill'd with sorrow; And when the birds' songs were hush'd, he slept, And awoke again on the morrow. And lo! when the poet awoke, he heard And saw the dear red-breasted bird And the robin seem'd to the poet to say,- Is there not a Balm in Gilead? Then from the East there shone a light, The robin then from the poet fled, But he soon came back once more and said 'I wish you A Happy New Year!' D. RICE JONES. Duty First. A STORY OF PHILADELPHIA. T is now something over a hundred years since Captain That worthy mariner, though aware that England and her buxom daughter America were not altogether on comfortable terms at the time, was mightily astonished on sighting the good city, where he usually disposed of his merchandise, to receive by the hands of a pilot a letter bidding him by no means approach nearer the city, but make the best of his way back to England. 'You and your tea may alike be maltreated otherwise,' ran the missive; for since the unjust taxation of our land people are monstrously enraged with your government. Hoping all are well on board and with you, as I am at present, Your sister by marriage, PATIENCE NICHOL.' So the letter ended. Master Thurston rubbed his eyes and shook his head. What! after bringing these fair chests of sweet-smelling tea safely over two oceans, must all his labour go for naught? He appealed to the pilot, a man scant of speech, as those not seldom are whose work is of a serious, often hazardous nature. But Michael Michelsen had his say here, and he said it. 'Better return than have your cargo flung into the sea, as they did at Boston the other day-three hundred and forty-two chests: a fine dish for the fishes,' added Michael, with a grim attempt at humour. Captain Thurston started, and turned as pale as a bronzed old sailor could. 'That would be ruin to us,' he said gravely. Thanks, Michael, for doing me the good service to awarn me of my danger. But surely Philadelphia is not in this excited state?' Nay, we are quieter folk,' said Michael, but the shopkeepers dare not take in your tea notwithstanding; and were you to attempt any secret measures for landing it, a mob might speedily assemble, glad to do an injury to an Englishman. The Royal Charlotte is safer out of our waters at this crisis.' 'But now 'Of that I am well convinced, friend,' said the Captain. another subject troubles me. Since my last voyage a heavy grief has befallen me in the loss of my good wife. She died most suddenly just before my sailing from London, and having no kin with whom it was convenient to leave my three-year-old daughter, I brought her away with me, trusting her aunt, Patience Nichol, might take charge of her for me. The little one has suffered sorely from sickness on the voyage. I fear to take her again on the wild sea; and besides she pines for woman's tending, and needs some petticoat to clutch at every minute in the day. What, then, in this strait can I do?' 'Mistress Nichol could not refuse the babe-a childless woman, with enough of this world's goods; and Master Nichol hath a kind heart,' said the pilot, considering the matter. 'I would fain put her in safe-keeping,' said the father, 'but I dare not leave my ship at this moment;' and again he pondered over his perplexities. The big pilot's face melted into softness. Would you trust me with the little one?' he asked; 'I would convey her safely to Mistress Duty First. Nichol. The night looks rough, but she would lie snugly in my coat at the bottom of the boat.' There was nothing else for it, and little Charlotte Thurston made no objection to the arrangement, as she was carried, a sleeping bundle of shawls, from her berth in the Royal Charlotte to the tiny boat of the Philadelphia pilot. 'Good-bye, my lass! God bless thee !' said the Captain, kissing the tangled mass of flaxen curls. 'Grow up a good maid, and if we chance to meet no more on earth, we shall in Heaven.' Parting words, that though the babe neither heard nor understood, were treasured for her by good Michael, as he bore his pretty burden to his own small craft. And so it came to pass that the little English-born maid, Charlotte, or, as she called herself, Lottie Thurston, changed home, and country, and friends, at a very early age. Her aunt, a precise, somewhat hard-natured woman, received the little waif, as her father had desired; and the loss of that father at sea shortly after decided Lottie's fate, and made her, as her aunt secretly desired, altogether American. For Mrs. Nichol was proud of her status as a descendant of one of the oldest settlers in the colony, only yielding the palm of long descent to her husband, who was of that race of Swedes who originally peopled Pennsylvania. Big, strong, fair men, of large frames and amiable tempers, such were most of them, and of this people Jan Nichol and Michael Michelsen were good specimens. But how then could Lottie Thurston, English-born on both sides, claim kinship with these alien folk? The tie was but slight. A dead brother of Captain Thurston, also a seafaring man, had married a younger sister of Mistress Nichol, taken her to sea with him, and left her and her infant child buried in the deep waters of the Indian Ocean. It was Captain Thurston who bore the news of her death, and shortly after of that of the husband, to the sister at Philadelphia; and whether his deep feeling on the subject touched the heart of the somewhat stern woman, or whether she recognised Captain Thurston's true worth as a friend, despite difference of country and feeling, none knew, but she always made him welcome to her home, called him brother, and finally took his little girl willingly in charge. What Mistress Nichol did was always agreeable to Master Nichol, and whatever regard Lottie had for her aunt, she loved her uncle dearly; the good, gentle giant, who, though caring for little beyond his own fireside, was yet stirred up in the troubled days of the War of Independence to fight and die for his country. Mistress Nichol was of the Quaker sect, and was greatly troubled in her mind at this period as to the duty of Americans in general, and her husband in particular, with regard to the war then raging with England. But gentle Jan in this instance asked no leave of his strongminded mate, but joined the army under Washington; and, meekly and uncomplainingly as he had lived, went through the terrible winter of 1777 encamped at Valley Forge, dying at last of exposure, and its consequent diseases, not twenty miles from his own hearthstone. He did not live to see the English enter Philadelphia. Lottie often asked for Uncle Jan in those sad days that followed, and fretted terribly when a neighbour endeavoured to make her realise that he was gone for ever: her Aunt Patience never spoke of him to any one. Duty First. After Uncle Jan's death the small household suddenly seemed to narrow down to very close limits, and even Lottie felt the privations which war and the loss of the bread-winner must necessarily entail. Her dress, always plain as the Quaker sect would have it, was now coarse as well, and the food provided was as simple as possible. Still the maiden flourished, and grew up, if lithe and slender, a cheerful, busy little person. Her aunt, though uncomplaining, had but feeble health, and Lottie was a real help to her, not only in the lighter household work but in the severer occupations of washing and scouring. Work was Lottie's amusement; her trials were the long visits of Friends,' when she was expected to sit and listen to their lengthy and often tedious accounts of their own experience, or the still worse attendance at meeting, when, instead of the cheerful, hearty worship of praise and prayer, in which even children can take pleasure, there was the dreary silence, only broken by the drearier utterances of such as felt themselves impelled to speak. Lottie often fell asleep at meeting in the hot summer time, try as she would to keep her heavy eyelids open, thereby incurring serious rebuke from Aunt Patience. If they would only read Bible stories, like they do sometimes,' urged poor Lottie, 'I should not want to sleep: but, even though I pinch my finger hard, I cannot keep awake while Friend Joshua tells us about himself.' 'Friend Joshua is a worthy man, and thou art, alas! but a graceless child,' said poor Patience Nichol. And she really believed that it was lack of grace which made the. hapless child fidget and droop at meetings. She forgot that God is no tyrant, exacting paralysed stillness from young limbs that He made so free and active. When Lottie was twelve years old a real ray of sunshine came into her little grey life; a certain cousin from England appeared in Philadelphia a brisk, bright lad of seventeen, only a distant cousin of her dead mother; but he came laden with a few possessions and a little money left to Lottie by her father, of which the war had previously prevented the transmission. 'And as I wanted to see the world and you, little cousin,' said the boy, 'I made bold to bring them myself. I can turn my hand to anything,' added he somewhat proudly, and I made a famous seaman on the voyage.' Patience Nichol could not refuse to take in for a season this merry English lad, but it was against her will all the same; it unsettled the house, she thought, and upset Lottie, who had lately been quieter and more like a demure little Friend. But even her stern nature could not altogether condemn the innocent merriment of the two young people, and Georgie Merivale was so helpful, so considerate to herself, the ailing woman, that she let matters be for awhile. And now came Lottie's holiday-time in life: she roamed about with Cousin George; heard his accounts of her own country, far-off England; gathered that people, good and learned as Friend Joshua and Aunt Patience, lived in the world, and yet were not Quakers; and finally one bright spring Sunday was led by George, trembling and half afraid, Duty First. into the old church of Philadelphia, where people prayed and sang as Lottie's father and mother had once done in far-away England. True, no bells rang now to call the worshippers, for in that sad time of Uncle Jan's death, and war and tribulations of all kinds, Lottie remembered to have heard that they had been taken down and buried in the river Delaware, to preserve them from falling into the hands of the British: but peace was now restored, and there was talk of the bells being reinstated. Aunt Patience was half displeased when Lottie told her she had been to the steeple-house, but she said little after George's outspoken remark that Aunt Patience must not wonder that his little cousin had a curiosity to go to the church, since her father and mother had been married and she christened in one. George was not a deep thinker, and he laughed equally at Patience Nichol's Quaker fancies and Lottie Thurston's childish enthusiasm, for Lottie was deeply touched by the new prayers, to which each and all might respond, the hearty singing, and the plain discourses such as a child could understand, which they found at Christ Church. Aunt Patience finally made small objection to Lottie and George attending the services there regularly on a Sunday, provided Lottie went first to meeting with her; and the little girl appreciated the privilege so highly that she often drew George Merivale there when he would have preferred a walk in the bright sunshine, or a lazy stretch under the trees in their little garden. It was a new thing to Lottie to discover that she, a young child, had her part too in the service of God: it had seemed to her at meeting that she was only in the way, a fidgety troublesome atom for Friend Joshua to scowl at, or Friend Deborah to rap on the knuckles. Amongst her treasures was an English Prayer-book, inscribed on the fly-leaf with her mother's name, 'Dorothy Dean;' and to follow the service out of this well-thumbed dingy red book was her great delight, only inferior to the joy of getting George to tell over and over again the meagre recital of his first and only glimpse of that dead young mother. George seemed almost a link with Heaven in Lottie's young eyes, and she shed her first bitter tears when he went away back to that strange, dim England, which Lottie loved she knew not why, in spite of the hard words often used regarding it around her. Truly Lottie Thurston was no American. George came again, a few years later. Trade with England on a new footing once more brought British ships to American ports; but Lottie was a grown maiden now, and Patience Nichol never again permitted the pleasant intercourse of past days: nay, she seemed to grow harsh in her treatment of the young people, urged probably thereto by Friend Joshua. George she denounced as a worldling, and Lottie she almost forbade to speak to him. George was by this time deeply in love with his pretty cousin, and wresting from her the fact that she was not indifferent to him, strove vainly to induce her to meet him secretly during his short stay in Philadelphia; but Lottie steadily refused to do this, only permitting him to occupy a corner near her in church on Sunday. The little Quaker had kept to her old custom of hastening thither after meeting, in company with her old red Prayer-book. |