BROTHER'S RETURN

AND OTHER STORIES.

BY

A. L. O. E.,

AUTHOR OF "FAIRY FRISKET," "FAIRY KNOW-A-BIT," "THE GIANT-KILLER," ETC. ETC.

London: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1886.

CONTENTS.

THE BROTHER'S RETURN

BLACK YARN AND BLUE

THE SHEPHERD'S DOG

WHAT BIRD WOULD YOU BE?

THE HERO AND THE HEROINE

BEWARE OF THE WOLF

THE BROTHER'S RETURN

AND OTHER STORIES.

The Brother's Return.

"I COULD have been sure that John's house stood here," murmured Ralph Daines to himself as he looked around. "I know that it stood by the turn of a road, just as one came in sight of the church, and that it had a clump of trees in front, just like these before me. Ah! Well, well," he added, "it's more than twenty years since I turned away from my brother's door—turned away in anger—and twenty years will bring changes. Perhaps I've mistaken the place, after all. I stayed but a short time with John, so that I never knew his home well. In twenty years, one may forget; yes, one may forget a spot, but there are some things which never can be forgotten, however long we may live."

And amongst those things which rested upon Ralph's mind was his quarrel with his brother, Long John—a quarrel so sharp, that, after the two had parted, they had never seen nor written to each other again. For twenty years and more, Ralph had dwelt in a distant land, and had never so much as sent a letter to inquire after the welfare of the brother whom he had left in England. But when Ralph at last returned to his native isle, his heart began to yearn towards the only near relation whom he had upon earth. His anger had been softened by time; and Ralph thought that his brother's home should be his home, and that, though they had parted in anger, they might yet meet again in affection.

Ralph Daines, after leaving his luggage at the inn nearest to the place where his brother had dwelt, set out on foot for the house, being sure that he knew the road well enough to enable him to find it without much trouble. But the traveller was perplexed, when he came near the spot where he thought that the house should be, to see only waste land overgrown with thistles and charlock, with bits of a tumble-down fence which could not keep out some sheep that were grazing where once a garden had been.

"Perhaps I've taken the wrong road, after all; perhaps I should have turned to the left after passing the mile-stone," mused Ralph. "I wish now that I had inquired the way at the inn, but I thought that I could not miss it. However, it matters little, for here comes a child tripping along the path over yon meadow. She perhaps may be able to tell me the way to the house of John Daines."

Ralph leaned over the rough paling which bordered the meadow, and waited till the little girl whom he saw carrying a bundle of fagots should come up to the place where he stood. The child looked poor, but her dress was neat, and her cheeks were as rosy as the flowers which she had stuck in her bosom.

"I say, my little friend," began Ralph, as soon as the child could hear him, "is there not a lonely house near this place, with red tiles and a porch, and a poultry-yard behind it?"

"I dun no, sir," said the child.

"Was there not once such a house on the plot of waste land behind me?"

"I dun no," repeated the child, who was scarcely four years old.

"I do not seem likely to get much information out of this little one," said Ralph to himself; "but she may know people, though she does not know places.—Does a Mr. Daines live near this spot?" he inquired.

The child looked doubtful for a minute, then muttered, "Dun no;" and seemed inclined to pass on.

"Wait a bit, little one," said Ralph. "You may perhaps have heard of Mr. Daines as 'Long John,' for he often went by that name!"

A gleam of intelligence broke at once over the rosy young face. "Eh! Yes; he be father!" she cried. "Nobody don't call him mister."

"Your father!" exclaimed Ralph in surprise; for the speech and dress of the little girl were those of a poor peasant child—not such as might have been expected in one brought up in the comfortable house of his brother. "Do you mean to say that Long John Daines is your father?"

The child nodded her head.

"And where is he now?" cried Ralph.

The little girl raised her sunburnt arm and pointed towards the church which appeared at a little distance.

"Can you take me to the place, my little friend? I will help you over the stile, and carry your fagots for you, and you shall have a bright new shilling when we arrive at your home."

The eyes of the child brightened. She let the stranger lift her over the stile, and kiss her, and gaze in her face—saying that her eyes were just like her father's. She then tripped merrily along by his side, and in reply to Ralph's questions, told him that her name was Mary, and that sometimes she was called Polly. She did not know whether she had any other name, but she knew that she was Long John's little child, for all the folk knew that.

"Where is your mother?" asked Ralph. His brother had not been married when they had parted, twenty years back.

"Mother is with father," said Mary.

"And is that their home?" inquired Ralph, as he approached a pretty farmhouse which stood a little way back from the road.

"Oh no!" cried Mary, in surprise at the question. "Not a big home like that."

Ralph's face became graver and sadder, for the farmhouse was not so large as the dwelling in which he had last seen his brother. It was clear that Long John could not have prospered in life; and this made Ralph more deeply regret having so long harboured anger against him.

"Why had I the folly—the worse than folly—to keep up a quarrel with my own brother!" thought he. "Poor John has gone down in the world; I shall find him, perhaps, in distress. He has needed the help of a brother, and knew not where a letter would find me.—Has your father to work very hard?" he inquired.

"Oh no," replied the child again, with a look of surprise.

The mind of Ralph was relieved. "Then he is never very hungry?" said he.

"Never hungry," answered Mary gravely.

"It is a comfort that John has not known actual want," thought Ralph. "If I find him—as I expect—a poor man, I, with plenty of money in my pocket, shall be able to start him again in business."

Ralph walked for some time in silence by his little companion, for his thoughts were full of the days of old. He remembered how he had romped and played with his brother when they had been children together; and he remembered, alas! How often their sports had ended in quarrelling and fighting. Both were proud, passionate boys; neither liked to give in; neither could bear to ask pardon of the brother whom he had wronged. The last sad quarrel between Ralph and his brother had followed on a thousand lesser ones, which had embittered the lives of both.

"Ah, how often our poor mother urged us to love one another!" thought Ralph, now a worn elderly man, as he recalled the days of his youth. "How she spoke to us of the meekness and gentleness which should be shown by every Christian, and taught us that he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city! What grief it would have given to our mother could she have known that, after her death, her sons would be more than twenty years without seeing or hearing tidings of each other! But now I will make amends for the past. Poor John shall find that for him and his family I have an open purse and an open heart. I hope that the quarrel which has kept us so long asunder may be the last which shall ever arise between me and my only brother."

Ralph was so much engaged with thoughts such as these, that he scarcely noticed that his little guide was now taking him through the village churchyard, until she suddenly stopped quite still, which made her companion stop also. Mary pointed to a mound of turf, over which the long grass was growing. There was a low head-stone by the mound, with a short inscription upon it. Ralph started and trembled when his glance fell on that stone. It bore two names: the first that of MARY DAINES, who had died, aged twenty; the next that of her husband, JOHN DAINES, who (as the date showed) had died not a year before his brother's return. Little Mary was too young to spell out the words on the stone; but she had been taught to look on that grassy mound as the home of her father and mother.

Great was the surprise of the child to see the burst of grief to which her quiet, grave companion gave way. The little one knew not how great had been her own loss; her childish tears for her father had long since been dried; to her, there was no deep sadness in the peaceful churchyard, or the grassy mound on which daisies grew. Mary wondered why the tall stranger should fall on his knees by the mound, and bury his face in his hands, and sob as if he were a child. Mary knew not what a bitter thing it is to repent too late of unkindness shown to a brother; to wish—but to wish in vain—to recall words which should never have been spoken, deeds which should never have been done.

Ralph would at that moment have given all that he possessed upon earth to have been able to say to himself, "There was never anything but kindness and love between me and him whom I shall see no more upon earth!"

At length, Ralph arose from the grave, with a heavy heart, and eyes swollen with weeping. He took Mary up in his arms, pressed her close to his heart, then covered her face with kisses. He was thankful that there was yet one way left by which he could show affection to his lost brother; he would act the part of a father to John's little orphan girl. Ralph promised by his brother's tomb that he would watch over Mary, and care for her and love her, as if she were his own child.

And well did Ralph keep that promise,—well did he supply a parent's place to Mary. Not only did he feed and clothe her, and give her a happy home, but he earnestly tried to bring her up as a Christian child. He taught his little niece to give and forgive, to bear and forbear, and never to lie down at night to sleep before she had asked forgiveness of any one whom she had offended during the day.

"Oh, my child!" Ralph would say with a sigh to Mary, whenever she showed any sign of a proud or passionate temper, "never let anger have time to grow, for its fruit is sin and bitter sorrow. Pray for grace that you may be able to keep the blessed command, 'Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil-speaking, be put away from you, with all malice; and be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ's sake, hath forgiven you.'"

Black Yarn and Blue.

SOFTLY outside Mary's cottage fell the rain, the gentle April rain; and round and round went the wheel within the cottage, where Mary sat at her spinning. Never did her husband wear a pair of socks that was not of Mary's spinning and knitting. The hum of the cottager's busy wheel was a pleasant sound; and cheerful and bright looked Mary's face as she busily spun her blue yarn.

But the face of her son Jemmy was neither cheerful nor bright, as he sat, with his crutches beside him, in front of the fire, with his back turned towards his mother. First Jemmy yawned, then yawned again, and then he took to sighing; and his sigh had so dreary a sound, that it drew the attention of Mary.

"What are you thinking of, Jemmy, my lad?" asked the mother, stopping the wheel for a minute.

"I am thinking of all my troubles," was the mournful reply, uttered slowly, and in a tone most plaintive.

"Well, the accident to your leg was a great trouble; but the poor leg is getting better,—the doctor says that you will soon throw your crutches away," observed Mary cheerfully; and round again went her wheel.

"I was not thinking of great troubles, but of little troubles," said Jemmy; "this has been an unlucky day. It rains when I want to go out."

"Oh! The blessed rain, which will do the country such good!" interrupted his mother.

"And I've lost my silver penny," continued Jemmy. "I cannot find it, though I've hunted in every nook and cranny."

"Certainly that is no great trouble," laughed Mary. "Wait till I've spun this yarn, and I'll help you to look for your silver penny. And what is your next trouble, my boy?"

"That pretty plant which the gardener gave me is dying; it is curling up all its leaves," sighed doleful Jemmy, glancing towards a flowerpot which stood on the sill.

"I daresay that it only wants a little water," said Mary. "See how the spring shower is making the fields and hedges green! Your poor prisoner in the flowerpot has not had a drop to drink since yesterday, when you brought it home. Have you any more troubles, my boy?" The question was so playfully asked, that Jemmy felt rather ashamed of his sighing and grumbling.

"Only that Tom is unkind; he is always teasing me to come out and fly the kite with him, when he knows that I have a lame leg. He said, when he went out this morning, that my coddling at home was all nonsense; that he'll make a bonfire of my crutches some day, and that I never shall miss them! It was very, very unkind."

"Tom is a little too fond of joking; but I really don't see anything in that joke to set you sighing," said Mary, laughing. "My dear boy, you are much too ready to set that brain of yours spinning gloomy thoughts. Suppose that I were to put black wool upon my wheel, what should I spin but black yarn, and your father would have nought but black stockings to wear. Why should one choose a dark colour, when it costs nothing to have a cheerful one? So with the yarn of thought. Take something pleasant to think of, something bright to turn round and round in your mind. Suppose now that, instead of your troubles, big or little, you take to counting up all the kindnesses which you have received since yesterday morning."

Jemmy had shifted his position, so that he was now sitting looking at his mother; and a sight of her cheerful face was in itself enough to brighten him up a little. Still, it was rather in a grumbling manner that he replied, "I don't know what kindnesses I have to count up. No one is ever kind to me,—except, of course, you and my father."

"We count for something," cried Mary. "But think a little longer, my lad—turn your wheel round a little faster." And the spinner suited her action to her words.

"Well, Tom did mend my kite this morning; I suppose that you would call that kind," observed Jemmy.

"Now were you not needlessly spinning black yarn instead of blue, when you thought of Tom's rough joke instead of his real act of kindness?" asked Mary.

"And perhaps it was kind in the gardener to give me that plant; only it's dying now," said Jemmy.

"It was not dying when he gave it; I've seldom seen a prettier flower. Have you no other kind deeds to remember?" asked his mother.

It was a new thing to Jemmy to count up kindnesses instead of troubles, and he rubbed his forehead, as if rather perplexed.

"My grandfather gave me a shilling yesterday," he said at last, "and that was a kindness."

"And you chose to think more of the penny lost than of the shilling received! How fond some people are of choosing the black yarn!" cried Mary.

"There's no one else that has done anything kind to me; I can remember nothing more," said Jemmy, after a moment's reflection.

"I can remember something for you, then. Who taught you reading and spelling yesterday afternoon?"

"Oh, Sarah May," answered the boy. "But that is nothing new; she has done that ever since the hurt in my leg stopped my going to school."

"Yes, she has shown kindness to you every day for the last ten weeks, and therefore you have forgotten to think of it as kindness at all. O Jemmy, Jemmy. Here is a sad choosing of the black yarn instead of the blue!"

"Teaching me costs Sarah nothing," began Jemmy; but he stopped short, for he could not help feeling a little ashamed of such ungrateful words.

"That is an odd thing to say!" cried Mary. "Does not teaching cost Sarah trouble and time; and is it not for time and trouble that every workman and workwoman is paid, except those who, like Sarah, take to helping others from kindness? I know that Sarah went in her old dress to church last Sunday, because she had not had time to make up her new one; I know that she has stopped at home to teach you, when she might have been enjoying a pleasant walk with her brother. I suppose that my lame kiddie thinks so little of all this kindness because Sarah is good and patient, and never grumbles at small troubles like somebody that I know."

Mary went on with her spinning faster than before, leaving Jemmy to turn over in his mind her little reproof. Perhaps the yarn of his thoughts was dark enough at first; for Jemmy was mortified to find what a silly, discontented, ungrateful boy he had been. He sat silent for several minutes, and then saying, "I had better water that plant," he rose from his seat, and went slowly up to the water-jug, which stood in a corner of the room.

As soon as Jemmy had lifted the jug, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure. "Oh, here is my silver penny!" he cried. "It has been lying all the time under the jug!"

And in the jug all the time had been lying the water which was all that was needed to make the delicate plant revive, stretch out again its curling leaves, and lift up its drooping blossoms. Jemmy felt pleasure in watering his flower; to do so, he thought, was almost like giving drink to a thirsty animal.

Jemmy was all the more pleased, because he had a little plan in his mind, which he carried out on the following day. When his mother had set him to count the kindnesses which he had received, she had taught him also to feel grateful for them.

But the little spinning-wheel of his brain did not rest there, nor stop till Jemmy had found out some way of showing that he was grateful. It was indeed but little that the lame boy could do; but when he carried to Sarah May a nosegay of all his best flowers, and saw her smile of pleasure as she received it, a joyful sense of having done what was kind and right filled the heart of the grateful boy. The yarn of Jemmy's thoughts then seemed to have become as clear and blue as the sky.

Dear reader, what thoughts is your little brain now spinning? When you gratefully remember kindnesses from earthly friends, blue and bright is the hue of your thoughts; but when you are also thankful for all the countless blessings bestowed by your Heavenly Friend, then the thread is all turned into gold!

The Shepherd's Dog.

"WELL, uncle, and if I did kick the little beast, what of that? He's only a dog, a mere shepherd's dog," said Steenie Steers, in a tone of contempt, as he looked down on the rough little creature that had crouched for protection beside the chair of his master, Farmer Macalpine.

"And what is a dog—a shepherd's dog—but a useful creature, a grateful creature, that might teach a lesson to many of a nobler race?" said the farmer tartly.

Macalpine had a face almost as sharp and eyes almost as keen as those of his four footed companion, and his shock of tawny hair was almost as thick and rough as the coat of his faithful Trusty. There was nothing smooth about Farmer Macalpine, as his spoiled nephew found to his cost whenever he and his uncle chanced to be together.

Steenie Steers thought himself a very fine fellow indeed; in this, as in many other things, he had formed a very different opinion from that of Farmer Macalpine. Though Steenie was not yet quite twelve years of age, he already put on all the airs of a grown-up fop. Macalpine had found the boy lolling in the only easy-chair in the room of his aunt, Miss Steers, with his silver-tipped cane in his hand; and Steenie had hardly risen to welcome his uncle, though he had not met him for more than a week.

"I've come to see your Aunt Elizabeth, Steenie; is she at home?" asked Macalpine.