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Read Ebook: Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought by Gould Elizabeth Porter
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Ebook has 84 lines and 7044 words, and 2 pages
CHILDISH FANCIES.
My little nephew, four years old, A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy, Was one day playing by my side With this and that pet toy,
When all at once he said to me,-- As, laying down my book, I paused a while to watch with joy His bright, expressive look,--
"If Mac and I should plant today Some paper in the ground, Say, would it grow to be a book Like yours, with leaves all bound?"
These were the same two little boys Whose nurse searched far and wide For little sister's rubber shoes; "Where can they be?" she cried.
"I know," replied Mac, eagerly, "We planted them last night, To see if they would bigger grow To fit our feet all right."
Dear little boys! These fancies hint Of future questions deep, When evolution's grand idea Shall o'er their vision sweep.
God grant that when these come to them, As at Truth's shrine they bow, A childlike faith and earnestness May fill them then as now.
WHAT LITTLE BERTRAM DID.
Our little Bertram, six years old, Sat on his grandpa's knee, Enjoying to the full the love That grandpa gave so free,
When, looking up bewitchingly, He said,--the little teaze,-- "Will grandpa give me just one cent To buy some candy, please?"
Who could resist such loveliness? This grandpa could not, sure. So with a kiss he gave the cent-- Ah, how such things allure!
No sooner was the cent in hand, Than off the fair boy ran To buy his candy, "'lasses kind," Or little "candy-man."
Now on his way, in scanning well A window full of toys, He spied a ring with big red stone, O'erlooked by other boys.
All thought of candy was forgot. He'd buy that ring so fine For his new sister, Rosamond-- Oh, how his eyes did shine!
How could he stop to calculate The size of such a thing; His only care was for the price-- Would one cent buy the ring?
Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought; And never girl or boy Went tripping homeward through the streets With greater wealth or joy.
"DEAR LITTLE MAC."
When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac Was called from out his happy home-life here To that blest sphere Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back.
"His questions wise will now sure answer find," Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face, In happy chase Of many a thought which flitted through his mind.
"Yes, he knows more than we," another said, "Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide To where abide The things we need most to be comforted."
While thus the older ones their comfort sought, Two of the children paused in midst of play, To have their say Concerning this great mystery Death had brought.
"Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh, "He's gone way up to heaven where angels are, Way up so far That we can't ever see him till we die."
"He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be. I saw them put him in the cold dark ground, And I went round And threw some flowers in for him to see."
A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought, While Miriam felt the joy of victory. Then suddenly The lovely six-year-old this idea caught:
"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground; His head, his feet, and every other part, But just his heart-- And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."
The child thus solved the thought that troubled so. And as I overheard this earnest talk,-- Which might some shock,-- I wondered if we could more wisdom show.
As each seemed satisfied, their play went on. But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind, And left behind The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.
MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.
WILLARD AND FLORENCE ON MOUNT WACHUSETT.
Happy little girl and boy, Dancing hand in hand Over hill and valley land, Filled with summer joy;
Climbing up the steep path side To Wachusett's top, With that graceful skip and hop Born where fairies hide;
Seeing Holyoke from the height, Old Monadnock clear, While Washacum twin-lakes near Sparkle in sun-light;
Tripping down the mountain-road Back to cottage home, Only pausing there to roam Where laurel finds abode;
Jumping on the new-mown hay, Sitting under trees, Feeling every mountain breeze, Hearing birds' sweet lay;
Down at pretty Echo Lake, Plucking maiden-hair, Gathering glistening "sundew" there For "dear mamma's sake";
Picking in the pastures near Berries red and blue; Spying where the mayflowers grew Earlier in the year;
Watching for the sun to rise, Following sunset-cloud, Singing low and singing loud While the swift day flies;
Waiting for the "Tally-Ho," With its looked-for mails, Hearing strangers tell their tales As they come and go;
Happy little girl and boy, Dancing hand in hand Over hill and valley land, Filled with summer joy.
A LITTLE BRAZILIAN.
'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day, While at a family feast, A little girl of five years old The merriment increased,
"Here, give her one," the host exclaimed, Pleased with her childish glee. "'Twill show her as no words could show What ice is, and must be."
She grasped the "white stone" in her hand, All watching eagerly, When suddenly she let it fall, And cried, "It's burning me."
But, anxious still to see it more, She asked a servant near To hand it in a napkin wrapped-- Then there would be no fear.
Again the ice was in her hand, Her plaything for the day, When all at once she cried aloud, "The stone is running away."
A glass of water now was used, Sure that would keep it hers. But no! with all her loving watch The same result occurs.
The plaything gone, at evening hour She sat on uncle's knee. "Who makes those white stones, you or God?" She asked, inquiringly.
"In Miss Brown's land God makes them," answered he. "But in Brazil a factory-man Makes them for you and me."
A moment's pause. Then said the child,-- Heaven's blessing on her fall,-- "Why doesn't God get from Brazil A man to make them all?"
THE LITTLE DOUBTER.
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