LESSON 17. Sheep and Lambs. Now, by a sudden turn, we get a peep at an adjoining meadow, where the sheep are lying. Poor, harmless, quiet creatures, how still they are! Some lying socially side by side; some grouped in threes and fours; some quite apart. Ah! there are lambs among them-pretty lambs! nestled in by their mothers. Soft, quiet, sleepy things! Not all so quiet though-there is a party of these young lambs as wide awake as heart can desire; half a dozen of them playing together,-frisking, dancing, leaping, and crying in the young voice, which is so pretty a diminutive of the full-grown bleat. How beautiful they are, with their innocent spotted faces, their mottled feet, their long curly tails, and their light flexible forms, frolicking like so many kittens; but with a gentleness, an assurance of sweetness and innocence, which no kitten, nothing that ever is to be a cat, can have. How complete and perfect is their enjoyment of exist ence. Ah! little rogues! your play has been too noisy; you have awakened your mothers; and two or three of the old ewes are getting up; and one of them, marching gravely to the troop of lambs, has selected her own, given her a gentle butt, and trotted off, the poor rebuked lamb following very meekly, but every now and then stopping and casting a longing look at its playmates, who, after a moment's pause had resumed their gambols; whilst the stately dam every now and then looked back, in her turn, to see that her little one was following. At last, she lay down, and the lamb by her side. It was the prettiest pastoral scene I ever saw in my life; I never saw but one which affected me more. I once met a large flock of sheep, with the usual retinue of shepherds and dogs, lingering after them; and almost out of sight was a straggling ewe, trotting along slowly, and every little while stopping to look back and bleat. A little lamb, trudged behind, occasionally answering her call, and doing its very best to keep up with her. Her fore-feet were both lame; her knees were bent; and she seemed to walk on the very edge of the hoof,-on tiptoe, if I may so speak. The distress and fondness of the poor mother; her perplexity to see the rest of the flock getting out of sight; the effort the poor lamb made to keep up a sort of trot; and their mutual calls and lamentations were very affecting. I could not find a boy to carry the lamb, and she was too big for me to manage; but I knew the affectionate ewe would not desert her; and as dark was coming on, I hoped the shepherds would miss them, and come back for them. I am happy to say, it so proved; the ewe and her little one were tenderly taken care of. LESSON 18. A Letter from Emily to Julia. My dear Julia, HAZELWOOD, Jan. 1. As it is the first day of January, I believe I ought to begin my letter with wishing you many happy new years; which I am sure I do with all my heart. A merry Christmas I suppose you have had, and so have we, though we have not had parties nor been out visiting much, for you know we have very few neighbours, except our good friends the Hargraves; them we see very often, for none of us think much of running a mile through the snow for the sake of spending two or three hours together. We have all been joining to build up a man of snow in our garden, and I wish you could see him. He is taller than any of us, and makes a very formidable figure, I can assure you. We call him the Woodman, and he holds a hatchet in his hand, and a pipe in his mouth. Every morning, after breakfast, we carry out the crumbs for the robins, and other poor little birds, who begin to be very much distressed for food; they come in flocks, and are growing quite tame, and there are several of them, who have been to visit us, so often, that we have grown acquainted with them, and have given them names. It is very amusing to see them fluttering and hopping about. We have set them pans of water too; for now that the springs and streams are all frozen, they are often as much in want of drink as of food. Father told us, the other day, how cleverly some ducks contrived to get themselves water, when their pond was frozen up. They first tried to break it with their great broad bills; but when they found it too hard for that, they flew up into the air, and then let themselves fall down upon it. By this means they cracked the ice, and found water to drink and little fish to eat. Father told us also what foxes do in very cold countries. They have a great many tricks, you know; but when all others fail, a fox will lie down on the ground, stretch out his legs, and make believe to be dead. Instantly, the kites and hawks, and carrion crows, who are as hungry as he, come flocking about, thinking to make a meal of him; but no sooner does a good large bird come fairly within his reach, than up he starts, and catching him in his paws and sharp teeth, soon shows him whose turn it is to be eaten. We have evening readings now, just like those delightful ones we used to have at your house in Crofton. We are reading the history of England. I found it very difficult to remember all the little kings in the Saxon Heptarchy (when there were seven kings in England at once, you know),-but now we have read past Egbert, who united England all under one king, I think I shall like it and remember it better. For a great treat, mother picks out charming pieces of poetry, and reads to us. I was so delighted with some lines she read out of Cowper's Task, about the poor little birds in winter, that I have learned them by heart, and here they are: “How find the myriads, that, in summer cheer The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? Earth yields them nought; th' imprisoned worm is safe Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs The long protracted rigor of the year Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die." The Hargraves are just going to London, for the winter; which is a great grief to some, but not to all of us; the reason of which is, that they have invited one of my brothers to go and pay them a visit. Robert would have been the one, as he is the eldest; but my uncle Frederic had promised to take him a journey in the summer, so it was thought fair that Edward should go to London. He is not to go for a good while yet, but he is almost out of his wits with joy at the thoughts of it already. I am very glad he is going because it will be such a treat; and though we shall miss him a good deal at home, I dare say we shall have nice long letters from him, and that will be almost as good as having him here to talk with. Not quite though-for I am sure, my dear Julia, I had much rather have you by my side this minute, than sit writing to you-one's pen moves so much slower than one's tongue. It is a great thing, however, to be able to write letters, and I am sure I am much obliged to my dear mother for all the pains she took in teaching me to write and spell, and I am very glad that you like letter-writing. Pray send me word in your next what you are reading, and whether you have any pretty work in hand, and then I will tell you more about what I am doing. LESSON 19. The Rivulet's Song. I travel on, I travel on, By weedy bank and mossy stone; To bending flower and waving grass; See me in the early Spring! |