and the rest was made out by the weekly halfcrown from the church collections. So Georgy and his fellows were left to their own devices. In spring and summer they robbed birds' nests, and gathered whortleberries, which answer to our English bilberries-and, in the Isle of Man, ap-rary bed, and was transferred to his mother's pear as early as the month of June-and hunted the tiny "breeks" or young trout out of every nook and hiding-place in the shallows of the brook. In autumn there were the windfalls of apples and pears from the orchards, left open and unguarded from the public; the gleanings of barley, wheat, and oats, and the prolific blackberry gathering. Towards winter came the famous frolic of "hunting the wren," when little birds, with panting bosoms and meek timid eyes, were pursued from hedge to hedge by their ruthless enemies, until, at length, the "witch-wren" being secured, or supposed to be secured, its murdered form was suspended in the midst of a gay wreath of evergreens and rude paper flowers, and was carried on a pole from cottage so cottage, for such homely rations of barley-bread, herrings, clapcake, and skim-milk cheese as the occupants chose to bestow on the hungry bearers. Nay, sometimes there dropped into the boy's pockets a few stray half-pence, when the farmers made them more than usually welcome, in the year when wheat sold dearer than common. By-and-bye, young Georgy made a small rise in the world. A benevolent lady paid the twopence a week for him to go to the parish school for a few months, and there he learnt to read a little and to sign his name with difficulty. Great credit to Georgy, who was naturally both a sharp and a steady boy, to progress so far in so limited a period, and with such teachers as he had. The schooling over, he was engaged to do odd services for a poor farmer, who gave him trifling weekly wage and one meal of porridge a day. This was frequently the only food the growing lad had to work upon; what wonder that his enfeebled constitution failed and sank before he had attained the age of sixteen? By that time he had arrived the dignity of ploughboy with another and richer master, who allowed him the full wage of eight shillings a week; and the widow Margaret was just "blessing" herself on the help her dutiful son would be to her-for Georgy was ever kind and unselfish, and the most of his earnings always went to his mother and little sister -when a slight cold attacked the over-worked and under-fed frame, a rapid inflammation of the lungs ensued, and one evening poor Georgy came home to die. Vain was the aid of the skilful Douglas surgeon, hastily summoned from his country retreat at the neighbouring farm to prescribe," for the love of charity;" useless the help of the pitying neighbours and the benevolent lady who had paid for poor Georgy's schooling, and who now sent raspberry jam for the relief of his "sore neck," the only name the ignorant little sister could give his fatal complaint, in her tearful application for "something to do him good." Before the kind lady could come over to ascertain what was really the matter with her sometime protegé, Georgy had expired his last breath on the long deal table and the bundle of rags that served him for a tempocouch in the little darkened inner room, there to lie, with his young, honest, wax-like corpse's features, between the borrowed linen sheets, until the day that was to give him homely burial. Georgy had borne the agonies of his distressing illness without a sigh or murmur. Accustomed to toil and misery from his babyhood, this earthly life held nought very pleasant for him to leave; and he resigned it without a single complaint, and, but for parting with his mother, scarcely a wish that it were otherwise. In like manner the widow's grief was patient and very silent; she sat rocking herself before the low turf-fire, with her arms crossed upon her knees, the most of the Saturday and Sunday. The fowls and ducklings, somewhat neglected, crossed the threshold, and pecked and cheeped about the uneven earthen floor, and gentle-little Madge crept listlessly about and fed them. The neighbours came in, "by one, by two and three," and groaned, and gossiped, and discussed the boy's illness and death, and talked of famous remedies of herbs, and other strange, and some disgusting things, that might have been tried to save him, and were not; and some said "he could not have gone at a better time, for this was a wicked world and generation, and young men were apt to go astray," and then went to have another look at the still, solemn, honest young face, with an expression on it of the great mystery that the spirit had already solved. And so the weary time passed on, and the day of burial came. A cart had been borrowed for the occasion, and remained waiting some hundred yards off, in the lane. The body was already laid in the plain deal coffin provided by the parish: the bearers alone were wanting to the simple ceremony. Forth they came at last, neighbours from the near farm-houses and cottages. Rich farmer Killip, in his fine broadcloth and patentleather boots, with his auburn wig surmounting his pleasant rosy countenance, and stepping with decent awe across the brook, to take his place at the head of the coffin as chief-bearer. To him came farmer Kewish, his somewhat inferior neighbour and distant relative; Cain, the blacksmith, and Kennish, the carpenter; little Hughy Teare, the tailor, and Corlett, the quarryman, completed the coffin-bearers. Now they issued from the little garden of the widow's cottage, treading with slow steps down to the cart that was in waiting, where they reverently deposited the coffin. By this time the neighbours had poured out from all the cottages: some in what slight mourning they could get together, others in their ordinary clothing-all prepared to show neighbourly attention and respect by following the body to the grave. Boys and girls, men and women, they ranged A A themselves promiscuously behind the cart. Some intended to accompany it the whole way; others, and these the most numerous portion, would drop off at various points of the road, summoned away by their work-day duties. Some of the smaller children, including the little sister of the deceased, had been placed in the cart beside the coffin, familiarised with which by the simple customs of the Isle, they felt no fright of that which lay within, and the driver had taken his place in front, ready to proceed, when a heart-rending scene detained the homely procession. Forth from the cottage bereaved mother, in strong hysterics, made her way frantically through the throng, in spite of the efforts of two or three women to detain her, and made as if she would have leaped into the cart upon the coffin of her son, shrieking out: 66 the 'My Georgy, my baugh-a-villish! Oh! he'll never come back to me again!" Her pitying neighbours surrounded her. 66 'No, Margaret, woman; but you shall go to him, please God, in His own good time." "Come back, come back, poor woman; it is God's will, surely." "Oh!" moaned the stricken creature, a little calmed, "he was such a pretty boy! Little I thought, last Friday, when he came back to me, that he would leave his poor mother so soon. Oh! he was such a good boy, he'd save all for his poor mother!" Thus, alternately weeping and groaning, and dwelling on the good qualities of the deceased, she was gradually led back to her desolated cottage, where two or three friends remained with her, while the sad cortége departed. The fifty or sixty pedestrians now began to raise a funeral hymn, well known to them all, and as its wailing notes floated round the hill already described, and penetrated the various glens and hollows, carts came forth from hidden cottage-nooks, bearing each their burden of simple mourners, and joined the thickening procession. Other mourners stepped from the cottage-doors as the funeral passed, so that those who dropped off were constantly replaced by others; and thus a very respectable company remained to the very entrance of the churchyard. There poor Georgy was placed in his humble grave beside his deceased father, and all was over. The company departed to their several homes, the impoverished circumstances of the widow forbidding the usual entertainment, where revelry too often replaces the decent sorrow of the occasion; and the memory of poor Georgy alone remained, for some weeks haunting the ivied cottage, where his mother dared not for the present sleep, and lingering in the gossiping reminiscences of the kindly neighbours. LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. LITTLE HANS, THE ORGAN-BOY. It was a gloomy afternoon in December, and the rain, which all the morning had hung over the city of Edinburgh in dark lowering clouds, now descended in heavy drops. The east wind came sweeping up the Firth, driving before it the few fishing-boats that had not yet, like their more fortunate neighbours, found shelter in the little fishing harbours scattered along the coast. It had struck four by the West church clock, when a boy, toiling under the weight of a heavy barrel-organ, turned the corner of Walker-street into Coates-crescent. Pausing before the first house, he set down the organ and began to grind the popular tune of " Bonnie Dundee." His organ was not a good one of its kind, and his hands were so numbed with cold that he could hardly turn the handle. Poor little fellow! it was sad to see the stamp of care and anxiety on his thin pale face, and the wistful glance of his eyes as they passed rapidly from window to window. They were riveted for a few moments on one in which a young lady and gentleman were sitting, talking and laughing. They had found a source of amusement in the little figure standing below in the cold and rain, grinding the wearisome tunes over and over again. At last the lady rose, and putting her fingers to her ears, with a merry look, left the window. With a crimsoned cheek our little organ-boy raised his organ, and proceeding along the crescent, did not pause till he reached a house at the further end. He had not finished the first part of "Annie Laurie," when there appeared at the window the round rosy face of a little girl. She looked at him and disappeared. In a short time the outer door was opened, apparently with much difficulty, and the rosy-faced little girl ran down the steps towards the organboy, regardless of the rain that fell on her bare neck and shoulders. "That's from mamma," she said, giving him a sixpence; "and this is from Minnie's own self," she added, thrusting into his hand a small nondescript quadruped that had evidently once seen the inside of a Noah's Ark. "Go home, and get dry and warm, poor boy." And darting away, she ran into the house and shut the door. Poor little Hans! it was seldom he heard so kind a voice, and it still rang in his ears as he continued grinding. He forgot the east wind's piercing cold as he thought of the sweet voice and smile of the little girl. He wondered if she had any brothers and sisters. If she had, how dearly they must love her! What beautiful eyes she had! of the same clear blue as those of his dead sister Gretchen. They were like each other, too; only Gretchen's curls were more golden and her cheeks paler. Sweet little Gretchen! if she had lived, he would not have been alone in the wide world. The boy's heart smote him for his selfish wish as he remembered that if his sister had lived, she would then be alone, in a dreary room, shivering with cold, and faint with hunger; and he thanked the great God, with a grateful heart, that He had taken little Gretchen away from all pain and care, to the Happy Land, where "hunger and thirst are felt no more." The twilight shades were fast deepening over the city as Hans crept wearily home. Little children, what a pleasant word "Home" sounds to you! When you have been away to school for many weeks, and the long-wished-for holidays come at last, how happy you feel! for you are going home to your papa and mamma and brothers and sisters, to be received with kind smiles and loving welcomes. Or when you have been out walking, and a storm comes on, how anxious you find them all at home when you return; and how they haste to take off your wet clothes, and make you warm and comfortable! One of the most ancient parts of the old town of Edinburgh is a long, winding street, called The Canongate, at the foot of which stands Holyrood, the former palace of the Scottish kings. The lofty, irregular houses of The Canongate, once the principal residences of the nobility of Scotland, are now the abodes of the poorest portion of the Edinburgh population, and present a mean and squalid appearance. Near the top of one of those tall grey houses is a dreary, very poor-looking room. The furniture consists of a little deal table with a broken leg, propped up against the wall; a shelf, with a plate or two, and a cup. A mattress lies in one corner, covered over with a counterpane, very coarse, but very clean; an old kettle on the bars of the empty grate, and that is all-no food of This any description, no coals, are visible. room is Han's home, where he lives entirely alone. We left Hans slowly wending his way home. He had left the New Town behind him, and having with difficulty struggled through the crowded thoroughfare of the North Bridge, he was crossing the busy High-street when there arose a sudden tumult around him. Bewildered with the shouts of "Get out of the way!" that rose on either side, and, encumbered with his heavy organ, ere he could gain the pavement, a horse came galloping wildly past, and Hans was thrown violently to the ground. He was instantly surrounded by the eager crowd. "He's dead, the bonny lamb," said a woman, smoothing back the long hair from the death-pale face. "Hoot, woman! dinna haver; and dinna ye a' stand glowerin' round like a wheen fules, but tak' the bairn up to the Hospital without | terials for his work, was obliged to seek some ony mair fash," said a sturdy fishwife, as she elbowed her way through the crowd, and bent over Hans. Her energetic words had a due effect, and in a few minutes Hans was stretched on a shutter, and on his way to the Hospital. On the following morning Hans awoke from a troubled sleep, and gazed around him in bewildered surprise. He was lying on a little bed in a long narrow room, all down which on either side were rows of beds similar to his own, some of them occupied, others not. Hans shut his eyes, and tried to remember where he was and what had happened. He remembered crossing the High-street, the shouts, the horse coming rapidly towards him, the struggle to get out of its way-the fearful shock. Then he remembered no more, till he was roused by a dreadful pain in his arm, and looking up, met the dark eyes of a gentleman who was bending over him, and who told him in a kind voice that he was a brave boy, and that the pain would soon be 'over. Days passed, and weeks followed, and still little Hans lay in the hospital. His uncomplaming patience made him a favourite with all; and in spite of the pain his arm gave him, Hans felt happier in the hospital than he had been for a long time. Grateful though he felt to all for the kindness shown to him, there was one for whose step he eagerly watched, and at whose approach his cheek flushed and his eyes grew bright. This was the young doctor, to whose pleasant voice he had first wakened in the hospital, and who had been very kind to him ever since. Great was the boy's affection for his new friend, who listened to his simple story with interest and sympathy. Ernst Gerhardt, the father of Hans, was a native of Mentz, a German town situated on the banks of the river Rhine. He was a toymaker by trade, and was a steady, hard-working man. His business, though not a very lucrative one, served to support his family, which consisted of a wife and two children, in comparative comfort till the youngest child, Gretchen, was about five years of age. At this time Ernst Gerhardt's business slowly began to fail. In an evil hour he determined to leave his native country, strengthened in his resolution by the representations of a fellow-workman, who had just returned from Edinburgh, where he had prospered exceedingly in his trade. Accordingly, in a short time, Gerhardt, accompanied by his wife and children, bade farewell to his native town. He was a clever and ingenious workman, and having got into good employment in Edinburgh, was becoming quite prosperous, when he caught a fever, and died on the fifth anniversary of the day he left Germany, leaving a boy of fourteen, named Hans, to be the sole support of his sickly mother and little sister Gretchen. Hans had been accustomed to help his father in his trade, and tried to continue it by himself; but not having the money to buy the requisite ma other way of earning money. He had no friends to aid him in obtaining work. Every day he went out as soon as it was daylight, and at dark returned home weary and discouraged, and faint with hunger, with perhaps a few halfpence that he had received for going messages, Those were his fortunate days; on others he returned without a single penny. At last, when all other means of obtaining money had failed, a man who lived in the same house, who kept barrel-organs for hire, and had taken a fancy to the young German, offered to let him have the use of one of his organs if he promised to divide the profits with him. Though Hans disliked gaining money by playing in the streets, he had no resource but to accept the offer. He felt it was but a mode of begging, and it needed the thought of his mother and sister starving at home to overcome his feeling of shame when the passer-by carelessly tossed a penny to the organ-boy. The summer passed; the autumn followed, and winter-that season feared by the poorcame rapidly on. Great is the suffering endured by the poor during the long winter months. "Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace: Ah! who shall hide us from the winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. From winter, plague, and pestilence Good Lord, deliver us!" During those trying months, Hans' mother died, followed shortly by his little sister, and Hans was left alone. Yet not utterly desolate; for the Father of the fatherless had compassion in an old woman who lived in the room next to on the lonely boy, and gave him a kind friend his, and she nursed him with care and tenderness through a dangerous and lingering illness. and sad, again grinding his organ in the streets. The returning spring saw Hans, looking pale He was trying to obtain sufficient to carry him back to Mentz, to the home of his only relation, a brother of his father's, who lived in that town. Such was the little history which Hans related to the young doctor. There is a bustle on one of the Leith piers. The steamer bound for Rotterdam is just going to start. A boy is standing on one of the paddle-boxes, and as he turns his face, we recognize little Hans, neatly dressed, and looking stouter than he did a few weeks ago. He is gazing intently on a gentleman from whom he has just parted, who is standing on the pier. He feels very sad at parting with his friend, the young doctor of the Edinburgh hospital. The steamer now moved rapidly away, while Hans still stands on the paddle-box gazing on the pier, which is soon a mere speck in the distance. A few more minutes pass, and he sees it no more. If you turn to the map of France, and search out the Department of Vosges, you will find the source of a large and beautiful river, named the Moselle. At first a small stream, trickling forth from the Vosges mountains, it pursues its course, growing gradually larger as its tributary streams join its onward way. The stream soon swells into the river, spreading wider and wider as it journeys on now sweeping past the grey walls of some ancient city, now winding gently along between the vine-clad hills, past smiling meadows and shady woods, now swelling fuller and more joyous as kindred rivers hasten to join its rapid progress with their waters. Flowing by the cities of Epinal, Toul, Meley, and Thionville, the Moselle passes out of France and enters Germany above Trèves. More and more beautiful it grows as it flows on. Towns and villages rise upon its banks; hoary rocks overhang the water, their grey sides hid beneath clustering vines; ruined castles gleam from among groups of majestic oaks; and now, nearing its journey's end, the Moselle sweeps on, till, at the city of Coblentz, it flows into the Rhine. Below Trèves, situated on the banks of the Moselle, is the little town, or rather village, of Piesport, surrounded by the most lovely scenery. The town itself is in no wise beautiful to look upon it consists of one long straggling street. The houses are curiously built, and look grey and melancholy. One summer afternoon, two travellers-a lady and gentleman-emerged from the town, and wandered slowly along the banks of the Moselle. There is something familiar in the face of the gentleman-in the glance of his dark eye and the tones of his voice, as he speaks to the lady at his side. Yes! though seven years have gone by since he bent over the little organ-boy, it is easy to recognise the young doctor of the Edinburgh hospital. Oh, Harry, look at that boat!" said the young lady, pointing to a boat, laden with grapes, coming floating down the river, the rowers carolling the vintage songs. "How well they sing! "Their voices keep tune, and their oars keep time." " They stood listening till the voices died away in the distance, and then walked slowly on, arrested at every step by some fresh object of interest: perhaps a group of girls, washing clothes in the river; or, the mouldering remains of some old castle, around whose ruined arches the vine and convolvolus clustered in bright profusion, for wherever there is an inch of ground accessible on the banks of the Moselle there are vines; they cover the sides of the mountains, they hang around the gnarled trunks of the forest oaks. "What a dear little cottage!" said the lady, as an opening in the woods disclosed a small cottage surrounded by a pretty garden, its walls and roofs covered with creepers. While they stood admiring it the door opened, and a young, pleasant-looking woman, carrying a child in her arms, advanced towards them, and begged them to come into the cottage and rest. They thanked her, and followed her into the little dwelling. It was a perfect gem of a cottage-so clean, so fresh, so tidy. Sitting down, the lady took the baby from the peasant, and won the mother's heart by her praises of the sturdy little fellow. They had been chatting for some time, when the lady, looking round, missed her husband from the porch where he had been standing, admiring the breadth and height of the oaks that surrounded the cottage. "The gentleman is not far away, lady," said the peasant, "he is with my husband in the garden; I hear their voices." Presently the doctor entered, accompanied by a young man. "Ellie," said the lady's husband, drawing the young man towards her, "do you remember the face?" The lady looked up earnestly at the sunburnt face, admiring its open truthful expression; but she could not recollect having seen it before. "I will help you to remember," said her husband: "Do you recollect one day, seven years ago, having an interview with a boy who looked about twelve, though he was several years older, and who was leaving Scotland to go home to his native land; and how good you were to that boy, and how you gave him a Bible (there it lies), and the sweet little lady your sister, another book?" "Ah! her voice had spoken the first kind words to me that I had heard for so long!" exclaimed the young peasant, eagerly. "And you are Hans!" said the lady, shaking hands with him. "Oh! I am very, very glad." "Yes, Ellie," said her husband, "it is the veritable organ-boy become a man; and not only that, but a married man and a father." Hans then said a few words to his wife, who coloured with delight, and stepping forwards had taken the doctor's hand and kissed it before he was aware of what she was going to do. While his wife was busy bringing forth the best provisions the house afforded, to do honour to the visitors, Hans related what had happened to him since he left Edinburgh. His story was a very short one. He reached Mentz without any adventure, and had received a warm welcome from his uncle, who, having only one child-a daughter-took him into his house and treated him as a son in every respect. Years passed by happily with Hans. He obtained a a good situation at Piesport, and had been married to his cousin for nearly two years. "Hans has many and many a time told me of the good doctor, who was so kind to the poor organ-boy," said Hans' wife Natalie, looking up gratefully at the doctor. It was evening ere the travellers rose to go and bade farewell to Natalie, who stood watching their retreating figures from the door of the pretty cottage. Her husband insisted on seeing them safe through the wood, and did not leave them till they reached the little inn of Piesport, where they bade an affectionate farewell to Hans the Organ-boy. E. C. E. M. |