DOROTHY'S RIDE. BY MRS. C. E. CHENEY. I WANT to tell you about something that happened many years ago in the town of Nantucket. Quite on the brow of the highest hill stood a curious old-fashioned mill, the sails of which were so long that they nearly touched the ground, and of course they rose almost as high above the top of the mill when they were whirled up by the wind. Near this old windmill the miller lived, with his wife and two children. John was a sturdy, sun-browned boy, two years older than Dorothy, but he was very good and gentle to her, for he loved his sister dearly, and spent much of his time playing with her. They were always happy together, and in summer, when the weather was fine, they used to sail a tiny boat on one of the many ponds. Their little craft was not a French toy with painted hull and gay streamers, but a plain affair which their father had made for them in the long evenings, and it had a coarse bit of cotton for a sail. But that did not matter. No, indeed! They tied a string at either end, and as the ponds were very shallow, they waded about, pulling it merrily from side to side, using all kinds of real ship names and words, which they had learned from the sailors. So the summers flew away until, alas! John was thought old enough to be sent to school, and poor little Dorothy was left to play all alone. She was At last, she began going with her father to the mill; and all day she flitted about, as busy as a bee, and humming as cheerily. Sometimes she would lie on the grass and watch the mill-sails as they swept slowly down, and rose again on the other side,-thinking all sorts of odd thoughts about them. One day, while she was lazily watching them, she had a bright idea. What fun! Springing up, she waited for a sail to come within her reach, and caught it, holding on until it lifted her off her feet, and then she let go, and a helpful little girl, and saved the mother many steps. Still, she found her play-time very dull, because she did n't care any longer for the boat. VOL. VIII.-54. seized another, and another, until she was tired. Day after day she amused herself thus; and when Saturday came, she brought John to see the sport. She had become too well acquainted with her great friend, the mill, to have any fear of it, and each time she trusted herself to its arms, she let them carry her a little higher, so that she began to see a long way off, over the land and the ocean. What a heroine she must seem to her brother, she thought, for he had never tried it, not once. Elated by her success, she sprang upon the sail for a last ride, as it was dinner-time. Looking back over her shoulder to see the effect of her daring upon John, she clung a little longer than she meant to, and in a twinkling she found that she could see farther away than she had ever dreamed. There was the harbor, with its white sails set to dry. She could look away down into the town, and see the people in the streets. There, too, was the Sankety Head light, so far away; now she must be as high as the tall lighthouse. Thoroughly frightened, yet not daring to let go at this dizzy height, she began to cry. She saw her mother coming to call them to dinner, and she thought, poor little girl, "I shall never see my dear mother again!" Higher and still higher she flew, her dress floating out on the wind, and her poor little heart nearly bursting with terror and grief. She did not see John, so pale with fear, nor did she hear her father cry: "Oh, my child will be killed! My poor little girl!" She had now only eyes and ears and thought for that terrible journey, and once she wondered if she were going to heaven, for she was sure it could not be much higher than she had risen. Still she clung tightly, and at last she shut her eyes. The top once reached, slowly the sail, with its precious burden, began to descend. How they all watched it! Nobody spoke, and they hardly dared breathe. Lower and lower it came, until within a few feet of the ground, when Dorothy opened her eyes, and, overcome with a sense of safety, her little fingers unclasped, and down she came. She fell pretty hard, but, luckily, there are no stones in Nantucket, so no bones were broken; but her head had such a bump that she saw bright lights flashing, and heard a hum of strange sounds; and soon her poor back began to ache, and her head felt sore, and she opened her eyes once more to find herself safe in her dear father's arms; and then they all wept together for thankfulness. And this was the last ride that Dorothy ever took on the sails of the old windmill. THERE was a little girl, And she had a little curl Right down in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good She was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid. There was a little boy, And he had a fur cap Which came to the middle of his forehead. And when he was cold. He was very, very cold, But when he was warm he was torrid. ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. BY ELLA F. MOSBY. ST. FRANCIS lived in Italy in the thirteenth century, and founded the order of friars called the Franciscans. He was noted for his piety, his hatred of all quarrels, and the great kindness of his heart. He loved animals, and was gentle to them, even in an age when human life and suffering were of small account. He loved to wander alone over the beautiful Umbrian mountains, singing hymns that told of his joy in the light of the sun and moon, and of his love for the birds and animals, whom he called his "brothers and sisters." It is said that once he saw a number of birds together, and, coming up, talked to them in such gentle tones about God's care for them that they did not fly away, but, waving their wings, looked up at St. Francis with their bright eyes, as if they could understand what he said; and I have no doubt that they did understand that he loved them. When he walked in the fields, the sheep and their young lambs would follow him; and even hares and rabbits would yield to his gentle power, winning tones and looks, and, drawing near, would nestle in his bosom. One day, he was passing through a meadow, when he saw one little lamb feeding in the midst of a flock of goats; and he was filled with pity, fearing that they might hurt it in some way. He longed to get the lamb out of danger, and wanted to buy it and take care of it himself; but he had no money. While he was grieving about it, a rich man came by, and him he persuaded to buy the lamb. The man then gave the timid little creature to St. Francis, and it fed gladly from his hand, and laid its head in his bosom. Whenever St. Francis found helpless insects in his path, he gently lifted them out of the way, so that they might not be trodden on, nor injured. The grasshoppers would alight on his friendly hand and play their fiddles to him; and at one time a lark, whose nest was near his cell, and who had become used to his loving voice and quiet movements, brought her little nestlings to be fed from his hand. Perhaps we all might live on such kindly terms with the wild creatures of the wood and field, if only we should love them as he loved them. I remember that the sparrows would alight upon my father's head and hand while he was resting in the porch, and the bees would walk about over his hands without stinging him, although they would quickly and fiercely drive away an intruder whom they did not trust. Nathaniel Hawthorne tells us, in his story "The Marble Faun," of a young man who had taught the dumb creatures in his native woods to love him and come at his call. But afterward he had the misfortune to slay a human being, and then the shy animals fled from him, as if they had been told of the crime of their formerly guiltless friend. No doubt they felt the changed tone of his voice and the restlessness of his movements. St. Francis of Assisi loved especially the birds, and of all birds he loved best the dove; but many beautiful stories are told about him and the swallows that chirped and nested under the eaves of his dwelling, of the multitudes of birds upon the lagoons of Venice, and of the nightingale that sang near him at night. He once saw a young man going to town, carrying some doves for sale; and he begged so tenderly for them that they were given to him. He put them in his bosom, and carried them home, where he made a nest for them and tended them until they learned to eat from his hands in perfect trust. He had a friend, Antony of Padua, who was full of the same spirit of peacefulness and loving goodwill. This man was an eloquent preacher, and in his sermons he told the people, who crowded to hear him, about the gentleness and whiteness of the swans, the mutual love of the storks, and the purity and fragrance of the blossoms; and he tried to show how beautiful is a life of love and peace. The country was full of wars, and quarrels, and oppressions, but Antony bravely went among the roughest men in the wildest places, to help the poor and ill-treated, and to tell the truth to all. St. Francis and he were wonderfully patient and loving toward dumb creatures, and believed strongly in the good that the animals do and might be brought to do. And so it was not so very strange that people who knew them should believe the pretty tale that these kind men preached to the birds and fishes who crowded to listen to their loving words. Perhaps the story was not true; but it is true that all men should be gentle to the creatures of earth, air, and water, as were the good St. Francis of Assisi and Antony, his friend. It is pleasant to hear of men like these, who, even hundreds of years ago, were such stanch lovers and defenders of our lowly fellow-creatures. |