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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

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shoulder 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

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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 hopes
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 or
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 irksome that morning. So the small

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column 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 its griefs; its cares and its mortifications;
its aspirations and its 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

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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

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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.

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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”—
Ivanhoe looked up with questioning eyes, as if he
would have said, “how did you know that?”

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 a 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

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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:—

“Birds of a feather flock together.”

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,

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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 Pesterity! 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 sadfaced
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

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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.

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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 women
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 on 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

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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.

p529-204

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