THE OLIVE-BRANCH

And Other Stories.

BY

A.L.O.E.

AUTHOR OF "EXILES IN BABYLON," "TRIUMPH OVER MIDIAN," "THE YOUNG PILGRIM," ETC.

London:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. —————————— 1885.

Contents.

I. THE OLIVE-BRANCH

II. THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN

III. NEVER MIND SCOFFS

IV. A PEEP INTO A BACK-KITCHEN

V. THE TWO PATIENTS

VI. IT'S VERY HARD

VII. THE PIC-NIC

VIII. CATCHING AT A SHADOW

IX. GO AND DO LIKEWISE

X. THE BEST FRIEND

XI. THE THICKET OF FURZE

XII. THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST

XIII. SENDING HORSES TO TRAVELLERS

XIV. THORNS AND FLOWERS

XV. HEIR TO SOMETHING BETTER

XVI. THE TWO PETS

XVII. THE TWO STANDARD MEASURES

THE OLIVE-BRANCH ——————————

I.

THE OLIVE-BRANCH.

"IF you are going for the fodder for our cow, Carlo, what say you to taking our little Rosina with you? It is long since she has been beyond our village, and a ride upon our trusty old Duchessa will do her good."

It was Bice, the wife of an Italian peasant, who spoke these words to her husband, as she stood at her cottage door, with her bright little girl at her side.

"What say you, Rosina?" asked the smiling father. "Have you a mind for a ride?"

The little girl clapped her hands for joy. "Oh, if we are going to the farmer's for the fodder," she cried, "then we will pass by Aunt Barbara's cottage. May I go in and see her, father, and carry her one of mother's little goat-milk cheeses that she always likes so much?"

Rosina saw with surprise a shade of sadness gathering upon her father's sunburnt face. And when she turned to look at her mother, Bice was brushing a tear from her eye.

"You cannot go to your aunt, Rosina," said Carlo; and his voice sounded almost stern to his child.

"Is poor aunt ill?" asked the little girl; for she saw that her mother was greatly distressed.

"Ask no questions, my child," said Carlo. Then, turning to his wife, he went on: "She cannot understand, poor lamb, why a woman should quarrel with an only sister, who never meant to give her cause of offence."

Rosina heard her father's words with increasing wonder. She knew that her Aunt Barbara had a peevish and angry temper, but she could not think how she, or any one else, could possibly quarrel with that gentle mother who had always taught Rosina to love and forgive. The child did not, however, venture to ask any more questions, though her heart was sad at the idea that any one could by unkindness bring a tear to her mother's eye.

"Perhaps, after all, Carlo," said Bice, looking up earnestly into the face of her husband, "it might be as well for you to let our little one run in and see her aunt, as you are passing her very door. Barbara has always been kind to Rosina; it might—" Bice's voice dropped to a whisper as she added, "it might do good—it could scarcely do harm."

"It would look like an attempt to make up with her," said Carlo, rather proudly; "and after her insolent conduct to you, I would not choose to take the first step."

"I would take not the first step only, but go the whole way, if I could but win back my sister to love me," said Bice, clasping her hands. "O Carlo, 'Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.'"

"I never knew any one more ready to forget and forgive than you are, Bice," said her husband; "it is all the greater shame to Barbara that she quarrels with such a sister. But she is a woman who would snap at any one who chanced to stand in her light. However, as you wish it, our little Rosina shall run in and wish her aunt good-day; a child should never be mixed up with the disputes of older people."

"And may I carry aunt one of your nice cheeses?" whispered Rosina, standing on tip-toe, and drawing down her mother towards her that she might breathe the words in her ear.

"Alas! Rosina, my darling, she would now accept nothing from me!"

"Not even a 'kiss?'" whispered Rosina.

The mother's heart was too full for reply; for, notwithstanding Barbara's unkindness, she was dear to her only sister. Bice could only lift her darling up in her arms, and half cover her rosy face with kisses.

"Half of these are for your own little girl, half are for auntie," said simple Rosina; and she resolved to be a trusty messenger, and deliver faithfully what she considered to be tokens of love and forgiveness.

Carlo started on his way to the farm, leading the patient and trusty Duchessa, while Fidele, the dog, ran by his side. The day was warm and bright, sunshine lay on the valley and gilded the distant hills, but Rosina sat on her ass more quiet and silent than usual—she had scarcely a word even for her old friend Fidele. Carlo might have missed her merry prattle had not his own thoughts been painfully occupied with the family quarrel. He little guessed what was passing through the mind of the child scarcely four years of age.

Barbara, it is true, had hitherto been always kind to Rosina; the child had seen her angry with others, but had never had a harsh word herself. Yet Barbara's temper was such that Rosina's love for her had always been mixed with some fear. What the child had just heard and seen had increased that feeling of fear to a painful degree. Rosina quite dreaded having to go alone into the presence of her aunt, the stern black-eyed woman, whose unkindness had made even her mother cry. Rosina would far rather have quietly passed the door on her ass; and she knew that a word to her father would be enough to make him spare her what she now felt to be a very great trial of courage. But then her mother's tears and her mother's kisses! Rosina could not forget these, and she ought to deliver them. Besides, her mother had said such beautiful words from Scripture; oh, if Aunt Barbara could but have heard them, surely she would become a peacemaker too, and never be angry or cross any more!

So, while the ass went on at her slow, steady pace, little Rosina was repeating to herself over and over again, "'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"

Her young heart beat faster as Duchessa stopped, as she often had done before, at the vine-covered porch of Barbara's door, over which hung clusters of ripe dark grapes. Rosina felt almost inclined to cling to her father's arm, and beg him to drive on Duchessa, for she dared not go in by herself. But even one as young as Rosina may be guided by conscience, and conscience was whispering to the child that her mother wished her to go, that it was right to go, and that the great God of peace could put kind thoughts into the heart of her aunt.

Barbara was sitting alone in a darkened room: it was dark because she had made it so; she had so choked up her window with thick-growing plants that the light which shone so brightly outside could hardly creep in through the leaves. And so poor Barbara was shutting out the sunshine of love from her home and her heart, and making them both dull and cheerless when they might have been so bright. Do you think that the proud, quarrelsome woman was happy? Ah, no, dear reader; for there never is true happiness with sin. It has been truly said that a little sin disturbs our peace more than a great deal of sorrow. Barbara was in her secret soul vexed at having quarrelled with her sister; she was vexed, but she would not own it, for her heart was full of pride. Barbara had resolved never to confess herself wrong, and rather to live all her life unloving and unloved than to bend her haughty spirit to make friends with her younger sister.

There sat unhappy Barbara, with no companion but bitter thoughts. She felt terribly alone in the world, but it was her own pride and temper that had made a desert around her. She could not help thinking of the happy days of childhood, when she and her sister had been merry playmates together. Barbara's eyes chanced to rest on a little olive-plant in her window; and the sight of that plant had brought back to her memory days of old. She recollected how Bice, then a rosy-cheeked child, had once asked her what shrub or tree she would choose for her own especial favourite.

"I would choose the laurel," had been Barbara's proud reply; "for that is the plant of which wreaths are made for those who conquer in war."

"I would choose the olive," little Bice had said; "for it was the leaf of the olive that was brought by the dove to Noah; and it always seems as if the plant, with its juicy fruit and silvery hue, made one think of gentle peace."

So from that day the olive had always been connected in the mind of Barbara with the thought of her gentle sister.

"I'll throw that plant away; I'll pull it up," muttered Barbara; "I don't care to keep anything now to remind me of her."

The proud woman had hardly uttered the words when a soft—a very soft—knock was heard at the door.

At Barbara's rough "Come in," the door slowly opened, and a little child appeared, so like to what Bice had been at her age that Barbara could almost fancy that she was looking again at her earliest playmate.

Rosina crept in timidly at first, for she thought that her aunt looked terribly stern.

"Why do you come here?" asked Barbara, with a little softening, however, in her tone.

"I have something to give you from mother," said the child.

"I will take nothing from her," replied Barbara; "I'll return it, whatever it be."

"Will you?" cried Rosina, suddenly running up to her aunt, and opening wide her little arms. The next moment the arms were clasped tightly round Barbara's neck, and the soft little lips were printing kisses on her cheek.

Barbara was a proud, ill-tempered woman, but she still had a heart, and a heart that might be conquered by love. She would have spurned a gift, but she could not refuse a kiss. Barbara could not help pressing her sister's child to her bosom, and a strange choking sensation appeared to rise in her throat.

"Those are mother's kisses—dear mother's kisses—and you promised to return whatever she sent," cried Rosina. "Give me the kisses back for my mother!"

And if Barbara did give the kisses, and if her proud eyes were moist as she did so, who can wonder? She would have mocked at words of reproach; she would have retorted insult or scorn; but the kiss, the fond kiss, sent through the little child, subdued both her anger and pride.

Barbara rose from her seat, and slowly walked to the window; perhaps it was partly to hide her eyes that she did so. She broke off a large branch from the olive, and suddenly turning round, held it out to her little niece.

"Take this to your mother from me, Rosina," she said, "and tell her to remember our early choice. The laurel, I have found, bears but a poisonous berry; the fruit of the olive is good—I will cultivate it from this day."

If Rosina did not fully understand the message, she understood the smile which followed it, which looked so pleasant on a face so lately furrowed with gloomy frowns.

And when Rosina, bearing the olive-branch in her little hand, ran out to her father, and told him all that had passed, his look of amusement and pleasure more than rewarded the child for the effort she had made.

"Brava, my brave little messenger!" exclaimed Carlo, giving Rosina a hearty kiss as he lifted her up to Duchessa's back. "Brava, little peacemaker! So you made her give back the kisses again! That bit of olive will bring as much joy to your mother's heart as if it were made of silver, with blossoms of pearl and leaves of gold."

Very joyful was the return of Rosina to her home. The fodder which Carlo procured from the farm, and heaped high on the patient Duchessa, looked like a little throne for the child, who, as she saw her mother standing at her door to welcome her, merrily waved her branch of olive, the token of joy and success.

Carlo planted the olive-twig in his garden, where it took root, and in time grew up to be a goodly tree with blossoms and fruit. Barbara, who was often a guest at her sister's cottage, watched the growth of the olive with peculiar interest; and Rosina always on her aunt's birth-day bore to her a little spray from the tree.

And when Rosina herself had grown up to be a woman, and married, and had little children of her own, their favourite spot for play was under the shadow of what was called "the peacemaker's tree."

Dear children, plant in the gardens of your own little hearts the olive-branch of peace.

II.

THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN.

AN ass finding the skin of a lion, put it on, and in the disguise of the king of beasts soon sent the more timid animals scampering in terror before her. The fox alone showed no fear.

"What!" brayed the ass. "Are you not frightened? Do you not dread the lion's terrible jaws?"

"Ah, my good friend," said the fox, "creatures at a distance may be alarmed at sight of the tawny hide of the lion, but I have come near enough to hear the bray and spy the long ears of the ass!"

THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN.

Those who try to inspire respect by false pretences are sure to betray themselves in the end.

———————— FALSE PRETENCES.

"You say that your father keeps a butler and footman, why that's nothing!" exclaimed Master Tom Talkaway in a pompous tone to one of the group of schoolfellows amongst whom he had come for the first time. "'My' father keeps six men and two boys," added the young boaster, looking round him with an air of triumph.

"I say!" exclaimed Jack, one of the boys whose mother could only afford to have one general servant.

"Oh, you should see how we go on in London!" cried Tom. "You've not a notion of real high life in a poor little village like this. Why," he continued in his swaggering way, sticking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat, "I've seen five, six, seven carriages waiting before father's door, and the most of them had coronets on them."

"I say!" repeated poor Jack; while the other boys exchanged looks of surprise, scarcely knowing whether to believe their companion or not.

Mr. Gilbert, the usher, who had been sitting by the window reading, raised his eyes from his book.

"Tom Talkaway," he quietly said, "I happen to know about your father: he is a respectable haberdasher in London, and, for aught that I know, may keep six men in his shop and two boys to carry his parcels; nor should I be surprised if some of his customers came in carriages even with coronets on them."

Tom was thunderstruck at these words; his thumbs were pulled out of his pockets, he flushed up to the roots of his hair. There was a general roar of laughter from his schoolfellows, and cries of "Look at the great son and heir of the haberdasher!" which increased the boy's confusion.

"Hush!" cried the usher, raising his hand to command silence. "There is 'nothing' to be ashamed of in 'honest' trade, but 'a great deal' to be ashamed of in 'dishonest pretence.' And," he added, looking sternly at Tom, "it is only the 'ass' that puts on the skin of the lion, and he is sure soon to be found out, and to meet the scorn which he merits."

III.

NEVER MIND SCOFFS.

"I'LL splash that duck all over! I'll make it as wet as a sponge in the water! I'll soon take out all the shine from its green and glittering neck!"

So cried little Guy, as with both hands he flung water at the beautiful bird. But calmly the duck swam on; its rich plumage was dry, not a drop would rest upon it, and bright as ever in the sunlight shone its green and glittering neck.

"I shall pelt it with water from my squirt!" cried Guy. "I shall certainly wet it at last, and make its feathers like those of the dead pigeon which I found yesterday in the brook!"

THE BOY AND THE DUCK.

Yet calmly the duck swam on; its rich plumage was dry, not a drop would rest upon it, and bright as ever in the sunlight shone its green and glittering neck.

Why was the duck never wet, though the boy in his malice threw so much water upon it? Because Nature has given it oil on its feathers that throws off the moisture at once. Even when the bird dives in the stream, it rises unwetted and unstained.

When we are pelted with scoffs and words of unkindness, let the "oil of patience" keep our temper unruffled, and then they have no more real power to harm us than water to injure a duck. There are those who laugh and mock at others for refusing to join them in evil: they pelt them with bitter jests, and try to throw shame upon them. Are not such acting the part of Guy? Let all who are laughed at for doing right go steadily on their way; shame cannot rest upon them, nor dim the brightness of a character that will shine but the more clearly for such vain attempts to blot it.

IV.

A PEEP INTO A BACK-KITCHEN.

"WHAT can a little boy of seven years of age do?" I would ask of my young readers. Perhaps they will answer, "He can read, perhaps write in a very big round hand; he can bowl a hoop, toss a ball, spin a top, and fly a kite."

"But can such a child be of any 'real use' in the world?"

Let me answer this question by giving a truthful account of a visit which I paid a few days ago to a family in one of the poorer streets of London.

My ring at the door of a lodging-house for the poor was answered by little Ben, a boy of about seven years of age. The sound of a baby's cry was heard from the back-kitchen, from which he had just come, and which was the dwelling-place of the family.

No wonder was it that the poor baby cried, for I found, on descending the pitch-dark staircase, that Ben was the sole nurse for the time of the sickly infant. That scene in the dark dull kitchen was a strange picture of life amongst the poor. There was Ben, after he had followed me down-stairs, hushing the baby in his little arms, and soon succeeding in quieting it, for he was evidently an experienced and skilful nurse. There were two other children under his care—Polly, about four years old, and Annie, not two. One might almost have said that Ben had "three" babies to look after, but I soon found that Polly was already to be reckoned as his little assistant.

Annie began to cry; Polly went up to her sister, put her hands on either side of her face, and tried, as well as she could, to soothe her. Annie, however, cried still. Ben said a word or two to Polly, and the little nursemaid, "four years of age," hastened to get a cup, into which she poured water from a jar which stood on the ground, and she then brought the drink to her thirsty little sister. The boy had guessed the cause of the crying, and Polly having thus removed it, we had again quietness in the back-kitchen.

Ben, a very intelligent little fellow, entered freely into conversation with me, while he nursed the baby in his arms. That boy had been in sole charge of the three children for two hours, while his poor half-blind mother was out, procuring necessaries for the family.

"Are you happy?" I inquired. The question seemed a strange one to be asked in so gloomy an abode.

"Yes, I'm happy," replied the boy, with an honest smile on his face.

What a lesson for many a pampered, peevish child, grumbling and discontented in a comfortable home!

"Does Polly ever go out?" I inquired, for the low dark room looked something like a prison.

"Yes; I sometimes take her out."

"And does Annie go out?"

BEN NURSING THE BABY.

"Yes, when Polly goes, she goes; I take them in the 'chay.'"

This "chay" was twice mentioned by Ben, which rather surprised me, for I certainly did not suspect that the family kept a carriage. My attention was, however, directed at last to a substantial-looking perambulator, which in the dim light I had not noticed before.

"Father made that," said Ben.

This was almost too much for me to believe. I questioned the boy closely, but he was sure of the fact. I found afterwards, from the mother's account, that the father had bought the wheels and other iron parts, the wreck of a former perambulator, for "ninepence," as they were to be sold as old iron. He had actually made all the rest of the carriage for his little ones, stuffing the cushion with hay. It was a striking proof of the father's ingenuity, that labour of love!