Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Instant Download Basic Business Statistics Australian 4th Edition Berenson Test Bank PDF Full Chapter
Instant Download Basic Business Statistics Australian 4th Edition Berenson Test Bank PDF Full Chapter
The pet which took little Carlo’s place in our home and hearts was a
pretty, chestnut-colored water-spaniel, named Cora. She was a
good, affectionate creature, and deserved all our love. The summer
that we had her for our playmate, my brother Albert, my sister Carrie,
and I, spent a good deal of time down about the pond, in watching
her swimming, and all her merry gambols in the water. There grew,
out beyond the reeds and flags of that pond, a few beautiful, white
water-lilies, which we taught her to bite off and bring to us on shore.
Cora seemed to love us very much, but there was one whom she
loved even more. This was little Charlie Allen, a pretty boy of about
four or five years old, the only son of a widow, who was a tenant of
my father, and lived in a small house on our place. There grew up a
great and tender friendship between this child and our Cora, who
was always with him while we were at school. The two would play
and run about for hours, and when they were tired, lie down and
sleep together in the shade. It was a pretty sight, I assure you, for
both were beautiful.
It happened that my father, one morning, took Cora with him to the
village, and was gone nearly all day; so little Charlie was without his
playmate and protector. But after school, my sister, brother, and I
called Cora, and ran down to the pond. We were to have a little
company that night, and wanted some of those fragrant, white lilies
for our flower-vase. Cora barked and leaped upon us, and ran round
and round us all the way. Soon as she reached the pond, she sprang
in and swam out to where the lilies grew, and where she was hid
from our sight by the flags and other water-plants. Presently, we
heard her barking and whining, as though in great distress. We
called to her again and again, but she did not come out for some
minutes. At last, she came through the flags, swimming slowly along,
dragging something by her teeth. As she swam near, we saw that it
was a child,—little Charlie Allen! We then waded out as far as we
dared, met Cora, took her burden from her, and drew it to the shore.
As soon as we took little Charlie in our arms, we knew that he was
dead. He was cold as ice, his eyes were fixed in his head, and had
no light in them. His hand was stiff and blue, and still held tightly
three water-lilies, which he had plucked. We suppose the poor child
slipped from a log, on which he had gone out for the flowers, and
which was half under water.
Of course we children were dreadfully frightened. My brother was
half beside himself, and ran screaming up home, while my sister
almost flew for Mrs. Allen.
O, I never shall forget the grief of that poor woman, when she came
to the spot where her little dead boy lay!—how she threw herself on
the ground beside him, and folded him close in her arms, and tried to
warm him with her tears and her kisses, and tried to breathe her own
breath into his still, cold lips, and tried to make him hear by calling,
“Charlie, Charlie, speak to mamma! speak to your poor mamma!”
But Charlie did not see her, nor feel her, nor hear her any more; and
when she found that he was indeed gone from her for ever, she gave
the most fearful shriek I ever heard, and fell back as though she
were dead.
By this time, my parents and a number of the neighbours had
reached the spot, and they carried Mrs. Allen and her drowned boy
home together, through the twilight. Poor Cora followed close to the
body of Charlie, whining piteously all the way. That night, we could
not get her out of the room where it was placed, but she watched
there until morning.
Ah, how sweetly little Charlie looked when he was laid out the next
day! His beautiful face had lost the dark look that it wore when he
was first taken from the water; his pretty brown hair lay in close
ringlets all around his white forehead. One hand was stretched at his
side, the other was laid across his breast, still holding the water-lilies.
He was not dressed in a shroud, but in white trousers, and a pretty
little spencer of pink gingham. He did not look dead, but sleeping,
and he seemed to smile softly, as though he had a pleasant dream in
his heart.
Widow Allen had one other child, a year younger than Charlie,
whose name was Mary, but who always called herself “Little May.” O,
it would have made you cry to have seen her when she was brought
to look on her dead brother. She laughed at first, and put her small
fingers on his shut eyes, trying to open them, and said, “Wake up
Charlie! wake up, and come play out doors, with little May!” But
when she found that those eyes would not unclose, and when she
felt how cold that face was, she was grieved and frightened, and ran
to hide her face in her mother’s lap, where she cried and trembled;
for though she could not know what death was, she felt that
something awful had happened in the house.
But Cora’s sorrow was also sad to see. When the body of Charlie
was carried to the grave, she followed close to the coffin, and when it
was let down into the grave, she leaped in and laid down upon it,
and growled and struggled when the men took her out. Every day
after that, she would go to that grave, never missing the spot, though
there were many other little mounds in the old church-yard. She
would lie beside it for hours, patiently waiting, it seemed, for her
young friend to awake and come out into the sunshine, and run
about and play with her as he was used to do. Sometimes she would
dig a little way into the mound, and bark, or whine, and then listen for
the voice of Charlie to answer. But that voice never came, though the
faithful Cora listened and waited and pined for it, through many days.
She ate scarcely any thing; she would not play with us now, nor
could we persuade her to go into the pond. Alas! that fair, sweet
child, pale and dripping from the water, was the last lily she ever
brought ashore. She grew so thin, and weak, and sick, at last, that
she could hardly drag herself to the grave. But still she went there
every day. One evening, she did not come home, and my brother
and I went down for her. When we reached the church-yard, we
passed along very carefully, for fear of treading on some grave, and
spoke soft and low, as children should always do in such places.
Sometimes we stopped to read the long inscriptions on handsome
tombstones, and to wonder why so many great and good people
were taken away. Sometimes we pitied the poor dead people who
had no tombstones at all, because their friends could not afford to
raise them, or because they had been too wicked themselves to
have their praises printed in great letters, cut in white marble, and
put up in the solemn burying-ground, where nobody would ever dare
to write or say any thing but the truth. When we came in sight of
Charlie’s grave, we talked about him. We wondered if he thought of
his mother, and cried out any when he was drowning. We thought
that he must have grown very weary with struggling in the water, and
we wondered if he was resting now, sleeping down there with his
lilies. We said that perhaps his soul was awake all the time, and that,
when he was drowned, it did not fly right away to heaven, with the
angels, to sing hymns, while his poor mother was weeping, but
stayed about the place, and somehow comforted her, and made her
think of God and heaven, even when she lay awake in the night, to
mourn for her lost boy.
So talking, we came up to the grave. Cora was lying on the mound,
where the grass had now grown green and long. She seemed to be
asleep, and not to hear our steps or our voices. My brother spoke to
her pleasantly, and patted her on the head. But she did not move. I
bent down and looked into her face. She was quite dead!
JACK, THE DRAKE.
I have hesitated a great deal about writing the history of this pet, for
his little life was only a chapter of accidents, and you may think it
very silly. Still, I hope you may have a little interest in it after all, and
that your kind hearts may feel for poor Jack, for he was good and
was unfortunate.
It happened that once, during a walk in the fields, I found a duck’s
egg right in my path. We had then no ducks in our farm-yard, and I
thought it would be a fine idea to have one for a pet. So I wrapped
the egg in wool, and put it into a basket, which I hung in a warm
corner by the kitchen-fire. My brothers laughed at me, saying that the
egg would never be any thing more than an egg, if left there; but I
had faith to believe that I should some time see a fine duckling
peeping out of the shell, very much to the astonishment of all
unbelieving boys. I used to go to the basket, lift up the wool and look
at that little blue-hued treasure three or four times a day, or take it
out and hold it against my bosom, and breathe upon it in anxious
expectation; until I began to think that a watched egg never would
hatch. But my tiresome suspense finally came to a happy end. At
about the time when, if he had had a mother, she would have been
looking for him, Jack, the drake, presented his bill to the world that
owed him a living. He came out as plump and hearty a little fowl as
could reasonably have been expected. But what to do with him was
the question. After a while, I concluded to take him to a hen who had
just hatched a brood of chickens, thinking that, as he was a
friendless orphan, she might adopt him for charity’s sake. But Biddy
was already like the celebrated
“Old woman that lived in a shoe,
Who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”
With thirteen little ones of her own, and living in a small and rather
an inconvenient coop, it was no wonder that she felt unwilling to
have any addition to her family. But she might have declined civilly. I
am afraid she was a sad vixen, for no sooner did she see the poor
duckling among her chickens, than she strode up to him, and with
one peck tore the skin from his head,—scalped him,—the old
savage! I rescued Jack from her as soon as possible, and dressed
his wound with lint as well as I could, for I felt something like a parent
to the fowl myself. He recovered after a while, but, unfortunately, no
feathers grew again on his head,—he was always quite bald,—which
gave him an appearance of great age. I once tried to remedy this evil
by sticking some feathers on to his head with tar; but, like all other
wigs, it deceived no one, only making him look older and queerer
than ever. What made the matter worse was, that I had selected
some long and very bright feathers, which stood up so bold on his
head that the other fowls resented it, and pecked at the poor wig till
they pecked it all off.
While Jack was yet young, he one day fell into the cistern, which had
been left open. Of course he could not get out, and he soon tired of
swimming, I suppose, and sunk. At least, when he was drawn up, he
looked as though he had been in the water a long time, and seemed
quite dead. Yet, hoping to revive him, I placed him in his old basket
of wool, which I set down on the hearth. He did indeed come to life,
but the first thing the silly creature did on leaving his nest was to run
into the midst of the fire, and before I could get him out, he was very
badly burned. He recovered from this also, but with bare spots all
over his body. In his tail there never afterwards grew more than three
short feathers. But his trials were not over yet. After he was full-
grown, he was once found fast by one leg in a great iron rat-trap.
When he was released, his leg was found to be broken. But my
brother William, who was then inclined to be a doctor, which he has
since become, and who had watched my father during surgical
operations, splintered and bound up the broken limb, and kept the
patient under a barrel for a week, so that he should not attempt to
use it. At the end of that time, Jack could get about a little, but with a
very bad limp, which he never got over. But as the duck family never
had the name of walking very handsomely, that was no great matter.
After all these accidents and mishaps, I hardly need tell you that
Jack had little beauty to boast of, or plume himself upon. He was in
truth sadly disfigured,—about the ugliest fowl possible to meet in a
long day’s journey. Indeed, he used to be shown up to people as a
curiosity on account of his ugliness.
I remember a little city girl coming to see me that summer. She
talked a great deal about her fine wax-dolls with rolling eyes and
jointed legs, her white, curly French lap-dog, and, best and prettiest
of every thing, her beautiful yellow canary-bird, which sung and sung
all the day long. I grew almost dizzy with hearing of such grand and
wonderful things, and sat with my mouth wide open to swallow her
great stories. At last, she turned to me and asked, with a curl of her
pretty red lips, “Have you no pet-birds, little girl?” Now, she always
called me “little girl,” though I was a year older and a head taller than
she. I replied, “Yes, I have one,” and led the way to the back-yard,
where I introduced her to Jack. I thought I should have died of
laughter when she came to see him. Such faces as she made up!
I am sorry to say, that the other fowls in the yard, from the oldest hen
down to the rooster without spurs, and even to the green goslings,
seemed to see and feel Jack’s want of personal pretensions and
attractions, and always treated him with marked contempt, not to say
cruelty. The little chickens followed him about, peeping and cackling
with derision, very much as the naughty children of the old Bible
times mocked at the good, bald-headed prophet. But poor Jack
didn’t have it in his power to punish the ill-mannered creatures as
Elisha did those saucy children, when he called the hungry she-
bears to put a stop to their wicked fun. In fact, I don’t think he would
have done so if he could, for all this hard treatment never made him
angry or disobliging. He had an excellent temper, and was always
meek and quiet, though there was a melancholy hang to his bald
head, and his three lonesome tail-feathers drooped sadly toward the
ground. When he was ever so lean and hungry, he would gallantly
give up his dinner to the plump, glossy-breasted pullets, though they
would put on lofty airs, step lightly, eye him scornfully, and seem to
be making fun of his queer looks all the time. He took every thing so
kindly! He was like a few, a very few people we meet, who, the uglier
they grow, the more goodness they have at heart, and the worse the
world treats them, the better they are to it.
But Jack had one true friend. I liked him, and more than once
defended him from cross old hens, and tyrannical cocks. But
perhaps my love was too much mixed up with pity for him to have felt
highly complimented by it. Yet he seemed to cherish a great affection
for me, and to look up to me as his guardian and protector.
As you have seen, Jack was always getting into scrapes, and at last
he got into one which even I could not get him out of. He one day
rashly swam out into the mill-pond, which was then very high, from a
freshet, and which carried him over the dam, where, as he was a
very delicate fowl, he was drowned, or his neck was broken, by the
great rush and tumble of the water. I have sometimes thought that it
might be that he was tired of life, and grieved by the way the world
had used him, and so put an end to himself. But I hope it was not so;
for, with all his oddities and misfortunes, Jack seemed too sensible
for that.
ELEGY.
I must now, dear children, pass over a few years of my life, in which
I had no pets in whose history you would be likely to be interested.
ROBIN REDBREAST
At the time of my possessing my wonderful Robin, we had left our
country home, my brothers were most of them abroad in the world,
and I was living with my parents in the pleasant city of R——. I was a
school-girl, between fifteen and sixteen years of age. That spring, I
commenced the study of French, and, as I was never a remarkably
bright scholar, I was obliged to apply myself with great diligence to
my books. I used to take my grammar and phrase-book to my
chamber, at night, and study as long as I could possibly keep my
eyes open. In consequence of this, as you may suppose, I was very
sleepy in the morning, and it usually took a prodigious noise and
something of a shaking to waken me. But one summer morning I
was roused early, not by the breakfast-bell, nor by calling, or
shaking, but by a glad gush of sweetest singing. I opened my eyes,
and right on the foot-board of my bed was perched a pretty red-
breasted robin, pouring out all his little soul in a merry morning song.
I stole out of bed softly, and shut down the window through which he
had come; then, as soon as I was dressed, caught him, carried him
down stairs, and put him into a cage which had hung empty ever
since the cat made way with my last Canary.
I soon found that I had a rare treasure in my Robin, who was very
tame, and had evidently been carefully trained, for before the
afternoon was over he surprised and delighted us all by singing the
air of “Buy a Broom” quite through, touching on every note with
wonderful precision. We saw that it was a valuable bird, who had
probably escaped, and for some days we made inquiries for its
owner, but without success.
At night I always took Robin’s cage into my chamber, and he was
sure to waken me early with his loud, but delicious, singing. So
passed on a month, in which I had great happiness in my interesting
pet. But one Saturday forenoon I let him out, that I might clean his
cage. I had not observed that there was a window open, but the bird
soon made himself acquainted with the fact, and, with a glad,
exulting trill, he darted out into the sunshine. Hastily catching my
bonnet, I ran after him. At first, he stayed about the trees in front of
the house, provokingly hopping from branch to branch out of my
reach, holding his head on one side, and eyeing me with sly,
mischievous glances. At last he spread his wings and flew down the
street. I followed as fast as I could, keeping my eye upon him all the
time. It was curious that he did not fly across squares, or over the
houses, but kept along above the streets, slowly, and with a
backward glance once in a while. At length, he turned down a narrow
court, and flew into the open window of a small frame-house. Here I
followed him, knocking timidly at the door, which was opened at once
by a boy about nine years old. I found myself in a small parlour, very
plainly, but neatly furnished. In an arm-chair by the window sat a
middle-aged woman, who I saw at once was blind. A tall, dark-eyed,
rather handsome girl was sitting near her, sewing. But I did not look
at either of these more than a moment, for on the other side of the
room was an object to charm, and yet sadden, my eyes. This was a
slight girl, about my own age, reclining on a couch, looking very ill
and pale, but with a small, red spot on each cheek, which told me
that she was almost gone with consumption. She was very beautiful,
though so thin and weary looking. She had large, dark, tender eyes,
and her lips were still as sweet as rose-buds. I think I never saw
such magnificent hair as hers; it flowed all over her pillow, and hung
down nearly to the floor, in bright, glossy ringlets.
At that moment she was holding the truant Robin in her white,
slender hands, crying and laughing over him, calling him her “dear
lost pet,” her “naughty runaway,” and a hundred other loving and
scolding names. I, of course, felt rather awkward, but I explained
matters to Robin’s fair mistress as well as I could. She looked
pleased, and thanked me warmly for the good care I had taken of the
bird. Then she made me sit down by her side, and asked my name,
and told me hers, which was Ellen Harper, and introduced me to her
mother, sister, and brother, all in the sweetest manner possible. We
got quite well acquainted, and talked like old friends, till Ellen’s
cough interrupted her. Then, as I rose to go, she made me promise
to come again very soon, and raised herself as though she would
kiss me before I went. Just as I bent down to press my lips to hers,
Robin, who, of his own accord, had taken possession of his old
cage, which had been left open for him, burst out into a sweet, merry
warble, full of the most astonishing trills and shakes. Then I felt that it
was well that we two should love one another.
After that, I went almost daily to see Ellen Harper. I carried her
books, I read to her, talked to her, and listened to her low gentle
voice, and looked down deep into her clear hazel eyes, till I grew to
love the sweet, patient girl more than I can tell. I think that she was a
most remarkable person. Her parents were quite poor, and she had
enjoyed few advantages; but she was far beyond me in scholarship
and reading. And then she was a true Christian, with a calm hope,
and a cheerful resignation; she seemed indeed to have given her
heart to God.
Ellen knew that she was dying; she knew that, young and fair and
beloved as she was, she had not long to stay in this bright, beautiful
world. But she did not fear, or complain, for she knew also that a kind
Father called her away, to a world far brighter and many times more
beautiful than ours. It was touching to see her trying to comfort her
sister Lucy, whose strength would sometimes give way as she saw
that slight form growing weaker every day; or her young brother
Willie, when he would leave his book, or his play, and come and lay
his face against her bosom and cry; or her father, when he would
come home from his work at night, and sit down beside his darling
child, and hold her thin, fair fingers in his great, brown hand, and say
no word, only sigh as though his poor heart was breaking; or her
mother, who was blind, and could not see the change in her “own
little Nellie,” as she called her, and so had to be told again and again
that she was failing fast. For all these dear ones, Ellen had words of
consolation, and they always felt stronger after she had talked with
them.
On some of those mornings when I went over to dress her beautiful
hair, which I dearly loved to do, she talked to me as an angel might
talk, I thought, and told me many sweet and holy things, which I shall
remember all the days of my life.
As long as she stayed with us, Ellen had great pleasure in her pet
Robin. She said that to her ear he always seemed to be singing
hymns, which was a great joy to her after she became too weak to
sing them herself.
Dear Ellen died at night. She had been very restless in the evening,
and at last said that, if she could lie in her mother’s arms, as she
used to lie when she was a little child, she thought that she could
sleep. So Mrs. Harper laid down beside her daughter, who nestled
against her bosom and slept. Ellen’s happy spirit passed away in
that sleep. But her mother was blind, and could not see when her
child was dead; and when her husband, fearing what had happened,
came near, she raised her finger and said, “Hush, don’t wake Nellie!”
The next morning, Lucy sent over for me to come and dress Ellen’s
hair for the last time. I found my friend looking very much as I had
always seen her, only with a sweeter smile, if possible, hovering
about her lips. She was lying on her couch, dressed in white muslin,
and with many flowers scattered around her. A vase of roses stood
on a stand at her feet, and over it hung the pretty cage of Robin, and
Robin himself was singing very sweetly, but in lower tones than
usual, as if he thought his young mistress was sleeping, and feared
to waken her.
They had cut away some of the hair from the back of Ellen’s head,
but around the forehead the familiar ringlets were all left. These I
dressed very carefully, though my tears fell so fast, I could scarcely
see what I was doing. I shall never forget the scene when the family
came into the parlour to look upon Ellen, after she had been laid out,
that morning. Lucy, sobbing and trembling, led her mother to the
couch. The poor woman felt in the air above the dead face a
moment, and said, “How I miss her sweet breath round me!” Then
she knelt down, and, with her arms flung over the body, swayed back
and forth, and seemed to pray silently. The father took those shining
curls in his hands, and smoothed them tenderly and kissed them
many times, while his great hot tears fell fast on the head of his child,
and on the rose-buds which lay upon her pillow, and seemed to give
a flush to her white, cold cheek.
I noticed that little Willie was the calmest of them all. He seemed to
have taken to heart the words of his sister, when she told him that
she was going into a better and happier life, where she would
continue to love him, and whither he would come, if he was good
and true in this life. So he did not grieve for her, as most children
grieve, but was quiet and submissive.
Ellen was buried in a beautiful cemetery a mile or two from the noise
and dust of the city. The morning after she had been laid there, I
went to plant a little rose-tree over her grave. I was somewhat
surprised to find Willie there, and with him Robin Redbreast, in his
pretty cage.
“Why have you brought the bird here, Willie?” I asked.
“Because,” said he, in a low, trembling voice, “I thought that, now
sister’s spirit was free, I ought not to keep her bird a prisoner any
longer.”
“That is right,” I said, for I thought that this was a beautiful idea of the
child’s.
So Willie opened the door of the cage, and out flew the Robin. This
time he did not alight on the trees, but mounted right up toward
heaven. There was a light cloud floating over us, and, as we stood
looking up after the bird, Willie seemed troubled to see that it passed
into this, and so was lost to our sight. “Ah,” he said, “I hoped he
would follow Nellie! but he has gone into the cloud, and sister’s soul,
I am very sure, passed away into the sunshine.”