ney, the curious little dormer windows, then, quite naturally, the old church tower, the lines of the distant hills, even the great masses of white clouds, where she saw all the heroes of the fairy tales she knew so well. It was all done to give the doves a place to perch upon, and a background. 66 "There, my dears. How do you like sitting for your portraits?" and she added a heavier line to Elsa's beak, and made Lohengrin's tail feathers more airy. At this moment, Dornröschen and the Prince happened to appear on the scene, and perched lower down on the same roof. "Dearie me, I must make you too or you'll be jealous as usual!" laughed Frieda, and Dornröschen and the Prince were added to the sketch. It was really very curious. Frieda had never drawn anything in all her life. Her papa used to draw, and Johann too was quite clever with his pencil. But a little girl like her !— the idea had never occurred to her. Now, in this careless fashion, having finished her doves, she shut her eyes an instant in order to see better, and then with bold, clear strokes began to draw the picture that was imprinted on her soul,--the shafts, the high arches, the rich window where the lovely lights streamed in,-in short, the whole of her favorite corner in the cathedral. Swiftly, unhesitatingly the child's hand moved. Her cheeks flushed. The doves fluttered about her in vain. She heard no sounds rising from the street. She was back in the old days. Again she was listening to the organ, and to the high, clear, angel voice leading her soul far away. And when it was finished, she gave a sigh of relief, then closing the book, thought no more about it. She might indeed have remembered her sketches and laughingly have shown them to Bäbele, had not a misfortune come to them which put such trifles quite out of her head. Poor Bäbele was brought home that very day with a badly sprained ankle. She had slipped on a wet floor and fallen, as she was moving a heavy tub. She tried hard to be patient and not distress Frieda, but the prospect of long helpless days with her foot up in a chair was trying enough to the active woman, and more than that, she knew they needed her daily work for their daily bread. But how good everybody was! The baker round the corner sent some rolls the next day as soon as he heard of the accident, and the butcher a bit of good meat, and the rival washerwoman on the same floor came in to take home clothes that were finished and wash-books and Bäbele rubbed her eyes and said, "It's all because of that blessed angel!" It was Monday that she came home unfit for work. Thursday morning there was a violent knock at the door. Bäbele started instinctively, but lay back with a moan, as Frieda opened the door. A gray-haired old gentleman with shaggy eyebrows, and looking quite cross, came in. In one hand he carried a cane, in the other something very like a wash-book. He gave one sharp look at Bäbele with her foot up- another at Frieda, who thought he was more like an ogre than any being she had ever seen. "Good-morning," he said, gruffly. "I wish to find the young man who made these things in my book." And he pointed a stern forefinger at Frieda's sketches. She came timidly forward. "If you please, sir, it was I. I did n't mean any harm, sir. I was only making my doves at first. I am very sorry I scribbled in your book, sir." The gentleman looked at her in blank amazement. "You!" was all he could ejaculate, glancing at the shy little figure before him. "Yes, if you please, sir," said Frieda, now thoroughly alarmed. "You, indeed!" said the gruff voice again; and, taking out his handkerchief, this very strange old gentleman gave a loud and vehement blast. "Yes, sir," said Frieda, great tears gathering in her eyes, "and I'm sure I'm very sorry, sir." "H'm!" muttered the stranger, "if you did it, do it again now." Frieda seized her stump of a pencil and obediently looked about for a sheet of paper. "Take this," he said, abruptly, giving her the wash-book. With perfect simplicity the child took it and began. Leaning an elbow on the table, and resting her head on her left hand, her long hair falling over her face, steadily and firmly she did her work. She quite forgot the cross old gentleman's sharp eyes, and only saw the soft violet lights from the stained window, as the picture grew beneath her sure, rapid touch. The gentleman stood near, watching her closely. He gave no sign of sympathy or encouragement, but Bäbele saw his eyes twinkle, and though she did not understand what it was all about, she felt that he meant no harm. Presently, having completed her corner of the cathedral, Frieda, without a word, began to do the roofs and doves, calmly beginning as before with Elsa's head. At this the gentleman smiled, and then Bäbele was sure he meant only good. Frieda gave him the book. "H'm!" was his only acknowledgment. But he did not seem so fierce as he did at first. Frieda thought him the most extraordinary person she had ever seen - to be so angry because she had spoiled a couple of pages in his wash-book, and to grow gentle when she did the same thing over. "Who taught you?" he asked at length. "Nobody," said Frieda, wonderingly. "And you only wanted to make your doves?" "Yes, sir," replied Frieda, meekly. "And then you thought you'd fill up the opposite page?" believed she was the most wonderful little being on the earth. And as soon as Bäbele was well, he proposed that they should leave their home in the roof and come to him. He was a lonely, eccentric, cross old fellow, he told them, but that was all the more "Yes, sir," and Frieda began to feel quite reason why he should be taken care of and imanxious again. "Well, my dear, you are a witch," remarked this strange old gentleman. And how it happened nobody could exactly tell, but Frieda found herself on his knee, and his eyes did not look ogreish at all, but quite mild and merry, behind his goldbowed spectacles, and they were soon telling him all about the Freiburg days and the cathedral, and steady Johann, clever Heinrich, and fly-away Otto; and the more Bäbele and Frieda related of their simple life, the more this most delightful but very curious old gentleman sniffed and snorted and wiped his spectacles. Why — neither Bäbele nor Frieda could imagine, yet it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be telling him about it all. He did not ask many questions, but he soon knew as much about it as they themselves. He even discovered Bäbele's uneasiness, because she must be idle for so long. He shook her hand warmly when he rose to go, telling her not to be troubled; and she took heart of grace without knowing why. That was certainly a day of wonderful experiences. In the first place, soon after the gentleman went, a great box came, filled with good things, enough to last for weeks, and on a card was written: "To the little witch in the roof, from her devoted friend, "Prof. RUDOLPH REINWALD.” And when they were still rejoicing over good fortune, another knock came, and in walked a gentleman, who said he was Professor Reinwald's friend and physician, and the professor had sent him to look after Bäbele Hartneck's sprained ankle. And later still, a comfortable reclining-chair made its appearance. The excitement in the roof was really tremendous. The neighbors came in to wonder, rejoice, and sympathize, and Bäbele, bandaged, and extended in her comfortable chair, received her guests with the dignity of a queen. The professor came again in a few days and after that frequently. Frieda used to watch eagerly for him, and grew so used to him, she quite forgot to be shy and sang her little songs to him and played her sweet airs on the queer, cracked piano, and chattered to him about the heroes of her fairy tales, until the good man, who was an old bachelor and who knew nothing about children, really proved, and he needed just such a faithful soul as Bäbele to look after his house, and just such a dear child as Frieda to make his home happy. And so they came to him, and did indeed make him as happy as he had made them. It was a great house, where Bäbele had every opportunity to bustle about until everything shone to her heart's content. And Frieda had a garden with great shady trees and a hammock, a piano whose voice was not cracked, and best of all she studied systematically and learned to draw and to be helpful to her "other papa," as she called the professor. For he was an architect, devoted to his profession, and he had recognized, in spite of its childishness and imperfection, the real talent in Frieda's sketches of her dear roofs and her beloved arches. She never grew tall nor strong, and there were days when the pain came just as it did when she was a child, but she was a happy, thankful soul. The boys did well in school, and came to visit her every vacation. The first thing Frieda did when she saw Otto was to tie his cravat, feeling sure it had been awry ever since he had left her. She saw the cathedrals of many lands, but never loved any as she did the one that had taught her so much that was beautiful and good when she was a little lonely child in the old days. She saw famous pictures. She met distinguished men. But no features ever seemed so lovely to her as Bäbele's rough, adoring face, nobody so clever, so altogether admirable, as her "other papa." In the professor's studio, directly by his desk, hang two small pencil sketches a bit of a cathedral interior and a study of quaint steep gables, with doves pluming themselves in the sunshine. The lines are faint. The paper rough and curious. "And what may this be?" inquires a guest who is examining the professor's rare engravings. "Ask my daughter Frieda," says the professor, turning with a tender smile to the lame girl with the happy face who sits quietly by his desk. "Ask Bäbele, ask our house-angel, what the doves mean," says Frieda, as Bäbele comes to lead her from the room. And Bäbele, who is a privileged character, tries to frown, then tugs violently at her apron, then asks appealingly, “Now, do I look much like doves, and angels, and such?" And she is right; she does not by any means, the dear, brave, true-hearted Bäbele. A FISH ACROBAT. ONE warm afternoon, a stroller coming to the borders of a small pond, threw himself down beside a little tree that leaned over the water, so that its lowest branches were but a few feet above the surface. While reclining in the shade, and idly watching the leaves that fell upon the water and sailed away, the stroller suddenly heard a chirping overhead, and looking up saw on a long limb two small sparrows. Near them, fluttering in the air, rising, falling, and now alighting beside them, was the mother-bird. She was evidently engaged in giving the fledgelings their first lesson in flying. But the young birds could not be induced to leave their support; they merely raised their little wings and followed their mother out from the tree by edging along side by side on the limb. As she renewed her efforts, the faster they went, until finally they were out on the very tip of the branch overhanging the water which reflected their every movement. For some time these motions of the mother and young were kept up, and perhaps our observer sank into a doze, for he suddenly became aware that one of the birds had disappeared, that a great splash had occurred under the limb, and that the mother-bird had changed her cries to those of alarm. But it was evident from the motherbird's actions that the little bird had not flown away. The stroller concluded that it had fallen into the water, and he rose to see if he could recover it, when there shot up from the water a long, slender fish, that quickly darted through the air and snatched the remaining bird from the limb, falling back into the pond with a splash and a whisk of its tail. This startling leap astonished the observer, but it also fully explained to him the disappearance of the other young bird. The pike was evidently out hunting, and spying the birds upon the limb, it had carefully measured the distance, and by two vigorous jumps had captured them VOL. XI.-50. both. The mother-bird was both grieved and dazed by the sudden calamity that had befallen the fledgelings, and perhaps fearing a similar fate for herself, she soon flew away. TheLitle house In Therarden EIGHTH SPINNING-WHEEL STORY. "So do I, and I have a little story here that will just suit you, I fancy. The older boys and girls can go and play games if they don't care to hear," answered Aunt Elinor, producing the well-worn portfolio. "Thanks, we will try a bit, and if it is very namby-pamby we can run," said Geoff, catching sight of the name of the first chapter. Aunt Elinor smiled and began to read about THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE GARDEN. I. BEARS. A BROWN bear was the first tenant; in fact, it was built for him. And this is the way it happened: A man and his wife were driving through the woods up among the mountains, and hearing a queer sound, looked about them till they spied two baby bears in a tree. "Those must be the cubs of the old bear that was killed last week," said Mr. Hitchcock, much interested at once. "Poor little things! how will they get on without their mother? They seem so frightened, and cry like real babies," said the kind woman. "They will starve if we don't take care of them. I'll shake them down; you catch them in your shawl and we 'll see what we can do for them." So Mr. Hitchcock climbed up the tree, to the great dismay of the two orphans, who growled "Shake softly, John, or they will fall and be Down they came, one after the other, and at first were too frightened to fight; so Mr. Hitchcock bundled them up safely in the wagon, and Mrs. Hitchcock soothed their alarm by gentle pattings and motherly words, till they ceased to struggle, and cuddled down to sleep like two confiding puppies, than which they were not much larger. Mr. Hitchcock kept the hotel that stood at the foot of the king of the mountains, and in summer the house was full of people; so he was glad of any new attraction, and the little bears were the delight of many children. At first, Tom and Jerry trotted and tumbled about like frolicsome puppies, and led easy lives,- petted, fed, and admired, till they grew so big and bold that, like other young creatures, their pranks made mischief as well as fun. Tom would steal all the good things he could lay his paws on in kitchen or dining-room, and cook declared she could n't have the rascal loose; for whole pans of milk vanished, sheets of gingerbread were found in his den under the back steps, and nearly every day he was seen scrambling off with booty of some sort, while the fat cook waddled after, scolding and shaking the poker at him, to the great amusement of the boarders on the piazza. People bore with him a long time; but when, one day, after eating all he liked, he took a lively trot down the middle of the long dinner-table, smashing right and left as he scampered off, with a terrible clatter of silver, glass, and china, his angry master declared he would n't have such doings, and chained him to a post on the lawn. Here he tugged and growled dismally, while good little Jerry frisked gayly about, trying to understand what it all meant. But presently his besetting sin got him into trouble likewise. He loved to climb, and was never happier than when scrambling up the rough posts of the back piazza to bask in the sun on the roof above, peeping down with his sharp little eyes at the children, who could not follow. He roosted in trees like a fat brown bird, and came tumbling down unexpectedly on lovers who sought quiet nooks to be romantic in. He explored the chimneys and threw into them any trifle he happened to find, for he was a rogue, and fond of stealing hats, balls, dolls, or any small article that came in his way. But the fun he liked best was to climb in at the chamber windows and doze on the soft beds; for Jerry was a luxurious fellow and scorned the straw of his own den. This habit annoyed people much, and the poor little bear often came bundling out of windows, to the accompaniment of a whack from an old gentleman's cane, or a splash of water thrown at him by some irate servant-girl. One evening, when there was a dance, and every one was busy down-stairs, Jerry took a walk on the roof, and being sleepy, looked about for a cozy bed in which to take a nap. Two brothers occupied one of these rooms, and both were Jerry's good friends, especially the younger. Georgie was fast asleep, as his dancing day had not yet begun, and Charley was waltzing away down-stairs; so Jerry crept into bed and nestled beside his playmate, who was too sleepy to do anything but roll over, thinking the big brother had come to bed. By and by Charley did come up, late and tired, and having forgotten a lamp, undressed in the moonlight, observing nothing till about to step into bed; then, finding something rolled up in the clothes, he thought it a joke of the other boys, and catching up a racquet, began to bang away at the suspicious bundle. A scene of wild confusion followed, for Jerry growled and clawed and could n't get out; Georgie awoke, and thinking that his bedfellow was his brother being abused by some frolicsome mate, held on to Jerry, defending him bravely, till a rent in the sheet allowed a shaggy head to appear, so close to his own that the poor child was painfully reminded of Red Riding Hood's false grandmother. Charley was speechless with laughter at this discovery, and while Jerry bounced about the bed snarling and hugging pillows as he tried to get free, the terrified Georgie rushed down the hall screaming, "The wolf! the wolf!" till he gained a refuge in his mother's room. cried, "Is it fire?" and in a moment the house was astir. The panic might have been serious if Jerry had not come galloping down-stairs, hotly pursued by Charley in his night-gown, still waving his weapon at the poor beast, and howling, "He was in my bed! He frightened Georgie! Then the alarmed ladies and gentlemen laughed and grew calm, while the boys all turned out and hunted Jerry up stairs and down, till he was captured and ignominiously lugged away to be tied in the barn. That prank sealed his fate, and he went to join his brother in captivity. Here they lived for a year, and went to housekeeping in a den in the bank, with a trough for their food, and a high, knotted pole to climb on. They had many visitors, and learned a few tricks, but were not happy, for they longed to be free, and the older they grew, the more they sighed for the forest where they were born. The second summer something happened that parted them forever. Among the children who came to the hotel that year with their parents, were Fred and Fan Howard, two jolly young persons of twelve and fourteen. Of course, the bears were very interesting, and Fred tried their tempers by tormenting them, while Fan won their hearts with cake and nuts, candy and caresses. Tom was Fred's favorite, and Jerry was Fan's. Tom was very intelligent, and covered himself with glory by various exploits. One was taking off the boards which roofed the den, so that the sun should dry the dampness after a rain; and he carefully replaced them at night. Any dog who approached the trough had his ears smartly boxed, and meddlesome boys were hugged till they howled for mercy. He danced in a way to convulse the soberest, and Fred taught him to shoulder arms in imitation of a stout old soldier of the town with so droll an effect, that the children rolled on the grass shouting with laughter when the cap was on, and the wooden gun was flourished by the clumsy hero at word of command. Jerry had no accomplishments, but his sweet temper made him many friends. He allowed the doves to eat with him, the kittens to frolic all over his back, and was never rough with the small people who timidly offered him buns which he took very gently from their little hands. But he pined in captivity, refused his food, and lay in his den all day, or climbed to the top of the pole and sat there looking off to the cool, dark forest with such a pensive air that Fan said it made her heart ache to see him. Just before the season ended, Jerry disappeared. No one could imagine how the chain broke, but gone he was, and—to Fan's satisfaction and Tom's great sorrow - - he never came back. Out popped night-capped heads, anxious voices Tom mourned for his brother, and Mr. Hitchcock |