Tell me its name."--"A columbine. It grows In clefts of rocks. That's an anemone: We call it so because the leaves are torn So easily by the wind; for _anemos_ Is Greek for wind."--"Oh! here's a b.u.t.tercup!

I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.

Isn't the dandelion beautiful?

And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?"

"That's a wild rose."--"What, does the rose grow wild?

But is not that delightful? A wild rose!

And I can take as many as I want!

I did not dream the country was so fine.

How very happy must the children be Who live here all the time! 'Tis better far Than any garden; for, Miss Percival, The flowers are here all free, and quite as pretty As garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever bird So sweetly sing?"--"That was a wood-thrush, dear."

"O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!

Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"--"A squirrel."

"Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?

How I would like a nut to throw to him!

What are these little red things in the gra.s.s?"

"Wild strawberries, my dear."--"Wild strawberries!

And can I eat them?"--"Yes, we'll take a plate And pick it full, and eat them with our dinner."

"O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberries That we have picked ourselves!"

And so the day Slid on to noon; and then, it being hot, They crossed a wall into a skirting wood, And there sat down upon a rocky slab Covered with dry brown needles of the pine, And ate their dinner while the birds made music.

"'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken: "How nice this dinner! What an appet.i.te I'm having all at once! My father says That I must learn to eat: I soon could learn In such a place as this! I wish my father Himself would eat; he works too hard, I fear; He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.

See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraid He pays for me more than he can afford, Seeing he has a mother to support And a blind sister; for, Miss Percival, I'm but his step-child, and my mother died Two years ago; then my half-sister died, His only little girl, and now he says That I am all he has in the wide world To love and cherish dearly,--all his treasure.

What would I give if I could bring him here To these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"

So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessert Of berries being ended, Linda sat On the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses off Or looked up through the branches of the pines At the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.

From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the child Darted through leafy lanes, when, all at once, A scream roused Linda.

To her feet she sprang!

Instinctively (but not without a shudder) She grasped the little pistol she had brought At the child's prompting; from the rock ran down, And, at a sudden bend, encountered three Young l.u.s.ty ruffians, while, a few rods off, Another lifted Rachel in his arms, And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.

The three stood side by side as if to bar The path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.

The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"

She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don't Fool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said: "And so, my lady--" But before the word Was out there was a little puff of smoke, With an explosion, not encouraging,-- And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.

Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca, Over the scattered branches Linda rushed, Till she drew near the leader of the gang, Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand, While with the other he held Rachel fast, Placing her as a shield before his breast.

But Linda did not waver. Dropping into The old position that her father taught her When to the shooting-gallery they went, She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage, Told her she had not missed her aim,--the jaw The ruffian left exposed. One moment more, Rachel was in her arms. Taking a path Transverse, they hit the public road and entered The railroad station as the train came in.

When they were safely seated, and the engine Began to throb and pant, a sudden pallor Spread over Linda's visage, and she veiled Her face and fainted; yet so quietly, But one among the pa.s.sengers observed it; And he came up, and taking Rachel's place Supported Linda; from a lady near Borrowed some pungent salts restorative, And finding soon the sufferer was herself, Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.

But at the city station, when arrived, This gentleman came up, and bowing, said: "Here stands my private carriage; but to-day I need it not. Let my man take you home."

Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in, And she and Rachel all at once were riding With easy bowling motion down Broadway.

The evening papers had this paragraph: "In Baker's Woods this morning two young men Were fired on by a female lunatic Without a provocation, and one wounded.

The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson, With his accustomed skill and prompt.i.tude, Performed the operation; and the patient Is doing well. We learn the unhappy woman-- She had with her a child--is still at large."

"I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.

She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's, Wiped it, and reverently put it by.

Three summers and an autumn had rolled on Since the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.

Midwinter with its whirling snow had come, And, shivering through the snow-enc.u.mbered streets Of the great city, men and women went, Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.

The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemen Told each importunate beggar to move on.

In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt, But which the up-town movement now had left A street for journeymen and small mechanics, Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen, A female figure might be seen to enter A lodging-house, and pa.s.sing up two flights Unlock a door that showed a small apartment Neat, with two windows looking on the rear, A small recess with a low, narrow bed, A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.

'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blue Flashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.

Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,-- But with a certain grace no modiste's art Could have contrived. Youthful she was, and yet A gravity not pertinent to youth Gave to her face the pathos of that look Which a too early thoughtfulness imparts; And this was Linda,--Linda little changed, Though nearer by four years to womanhood Than when we parted from her in the shadow Of a great woe.

Preoccupied she seemed Now with some painful thought, and in a slow, Half-automatic manner she replenished With scanty bits of coal her little stove; Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air, Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down; Motionless sat awhile till she drew forth A pocket-book, and from it took a letter, And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt: It now has run three months, and if to-morrow It is not paid, we must seek legal help."

A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father-- Some twenty dollars only! And yet Linda Saw not the way to pay it on the morrow.

He, the poor artisan, on whose account She had incurred the liability, Lay prostrate with a malady, his last, In the small room near by, with little Rachel His only watcher. What could Linda do?

At length, with lips compressed, and up and down Moving her head as if to give a.s.sent To some resolve, now fixed, she took her seat At the piano,--from her childhood's days So tenderly endeared, and every chord Vibrating to some memory of her mother!

"Old friend,"--she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.

I.

Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in song The grief that now must say to you Farewell!

No music like to yours can ease my heart.

II.

An infant on her knee I struck your keys, And you made sweet my earliest lullaby: From you I thought my requiem might come.

III.

Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!

Harder the shame would be, if help were not; Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.

IV.

Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear?

Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear.

Farewell, but not to love--but not to thee!

When little Rachel, by her father sent, Came in to take her lesson the next day, Behold, no instrument was in the room!

What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda, "Our music for a little while. Perhaps I soon shall have my dear piano back."

Then they went in to see the sufferer.

A smile lit up his face,--a grateful smile, That lent a beauty even to Disease, Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:

"Is not the air Quite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air."

"So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.

Dear lady--but you've been a friend indeed!

In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.

All that I have is in it. Take and use it.

A fellow-workman brought me yesterday Fifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed: Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.

To-morrow some one of my friends will come To see to what the morrow may require.

You've done so much, dear lady, I refrain From asking more."--"Ask all that you would have."

"My little Rachel--she will be alone, All, all alone in this wide, striving world: An orphan child without a relative!

Could you make interest to have her placed In some asylum?"--"Do not doubt my zeal Or my ability to have it done.

And should good fortune come to me, be sure Rachel shall have a pleasant home in mine."

"That's best of all. Thank you. G.o.d help you both.

Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.

... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.

That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your mother How good and diligent and kind you are; How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes; And what a nurse you've been,--how true and tender.