Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Mother, has a bird just such nerves?”

  “Very much the same.”

  “And what are muscles?”

  “Did you never pull a piece of lean meat into little strings?” said his mother. “ Yes,” said Jamie.

  “Well, a muscle is a bundle of such little strings, and these strings generally end in a strong, tough cord, called a tendon. This muscle has the power of shrinking up short, like India rubber; and when it shrinks it pulls the tendon, and the tendon pulls whatever it is fastened to. I can show you some tendon in a moment. Pull the back of your hand; don’t you find that there is a tough, hard cord runs down from every finger? these are tendons. Now take hold tight round your arm, and shut up your hand.”

  Jamie did so, and exclaimed, “O, mother, when I shut up my hand, I feel something move up here by my elbow.”

  “That is the muscle,” said his mother; “you feel it drawing up short, and it pulls the tendons, and these tendons pull down your fingers.”

  Jamie amused himself some time with opening and shutting his hand, and then he said, —

  “Well, are all the movements that we make done in the same way, by muscles and tendons?”

  “Yes,” said his mother, “and all the motions of the animals. There are dozens and dozens of muscles, shrinking, and stretching, and pulling about in little Cherry every few moments, and yet none of them wear out, or break, or get out of order, or give him the least trouble.”

  “I guess Cherry don’t think much about them,” said Jamie, as he watched the little fellow hopping about in his cage.

  “Poor little Cherry,” said his mother, “he cannot understand how much God has done for him, with what watchful care he has made his little body, how carefully he has guarded it from all kinds of suffering, and how many beautiful contrivances there are in it to make him happy.”

  “No, indeed,” said Jamie; “if he did he would love God.”

  “Well, Jamie,” said his mother, “how should you feel, if you had contrived some curious and beautiful little plaything, and just as you had it all nicely finished off, some boy should come along with a great stick, and knock it all to pieces?”

  “Feel?” said Jamie; “why, I should be mad enough.” —

  “And suppose that some gentleman should invite you and two or three other boys to his house, and should show you into a large hall fall of most beautiful pictures, and looking glasses, and flowers, and every kind of beautiful things, and you should amuse yourselves with breaking his looking glasses, and beating down his flowers, and pulling to pieces all his curious and beautiful things; how do you think he would feel?”

  “Why, I should think he would feel very angry, to be sure.”

  “Well, Jamie, when little boys go out into the woods and fields which God has filled with beautiful trees and flowers, and with hundreds of little happy birds, all so curiously and beautifully made, and amuse themselves only with throwing stones at them, and killing them, must not God be displeased?”

  “Certainly, I should think he must,” said Jamie. After a few minutes, he added, “And it is a great deal worse to kill little birds than it is to break looking glasses, and such things, because little birds can feel, you know.”

  “Yes,” said his mother, “and the care with which God has made them shows how much he has thought about them, and how careful he has been to do all he can to make them happy. The Bible says, his tender mercies are over all his works; he is not merely good to every thing, but he is tender and careful in all he does, as a mother is tender in taking care of a little helpless infant. Now,” said his mamma, “I am going to read you a little story.”

  THE NEST IN THE ORCHARD.

  IT was a bright and beautiful morning in April. The snows had melted into the little brooks, and the little brooks ran rattling and gurgling about among the green, mossy stones. The violet had opened its fair blue eyes to look forth from its tufts of leaves; the broad blades of the water flag and the blue lily were shooting up fresh and green; the yellow dandelions spotted the grass, and tufts of golden cowslips grew close by the water. The little leaves had just begun to show themselves, and looked like a thin green veil spread over the trees. The little birds had come back a long way through the air from the various countries where they had been spending the winter, and were filling the whole air with music.

  On a mossy rail, a part of the orchard fence, sat two beautiful bluebirds enjoying the bright sunshine, and twittering and chattering to each other with all their might. This little pair of birds, the last year, had made their nest in this very orchard, and brought up a whole family of little birds. All winter they had been chirping about and enjoying themselves among the warm, sunny valleys of the Bahama Isles; and now they had come back again to go to house keeping in the old orchard.

  In the very middle of this peaceful orchard was a spreading apple tree, whose bending branches almost touched the ground all around. The tall grass and clover grew up so high under this tree as to mix with the leaves and fruit on the end of these boughs, and underneath there was a delicious cool little room, roofed by the branches, where all summer long no creature had admission but the birds, and the little flies, and the honey bees — for this tree stood in the very middle of the orchard, and Farmer Brown kept good watch that no boys should get into it to trample down the long grass before mowing time. Well, in the trunk of this old tree, just where the branches parted, was a snug little hole. It was exactly big enough for a bird to build its nest in, and it was so situated that any one standing under the tree and looking up could not have thought of there being any hole there. A safer little house for a bird could never have been found; and here these little birds had concluded to build their nest.

  So they set to work and picked out all the rubbish and dry sticks that had fallen into the hole, and after they had nicely cleaned it out, they laid the foundation of their little house with small twigs, which they plastered firmly together with mud; then they picked up straw and hay for the next layer, and wove them into a little round nest; and after that they flew all over the neighborhood to pick up all the stray feathers, and soft bits of wool or moss that they could find, to line the inside and make it soft and warm.

  It took these little birds two or three days before their nest was finished. But on the evening of the third day, just as the long, bright, beams of the setting sun were darting between the apple trees of the old orchard, the two little birds might have been seen chirping and chatting together over their finished nest in the happiest manner in the world.

  “What a lucky thing it was, my dear,” said the little wife, “that you found such a snug hole! I am sure nobody will ever find us out here. We can fly all about under this great tree, and nobody will ever see us or suspect what we are doing.”

  “And, ray dear,” said the little husband, “I am delighted with your weaving here, in the inside of the house. How nicely you have worked in that little bit of red silk on one side! I had no idea, when the good woman swept that piece out of doors, that you could make so much of it. Then how soft and warm the wool is. Ah, very few bluebirds can make a handsomer nest than this.”

  “Yes,” said the wife, “and there is almost a yard of lace woven into it. I picked it off from a bush, where an old lady had hung it on purpose for me.” When the old apple tree began to put forth its pink buds, after a few days five little blue eggs made their appearance in the nest, and then the mother bird began to sit; while her mate spent all his time either in flying about to look up food for her, or perching about in different parts of the tree, and entertaining her with his music. At length the buds on the old tree opened, and it grew white with fragrant blossoms, and five little downy birds were to be seen in the nest. Nobody can say how delighted both parents were. They carefully picked out all the broken bits of the eggs from their nest, and then, while one Would sit with wings outspread to keep the little creatures warm, the other would range about and get flies and worms to feed them. Little birds are amazingly hu
ngry; and when either parent returned with food, you might have seen five little red mouths gaping wide open, all ready to receive their portion. And when their hunger was fully satisfied, the mother would nestle over them with her warm feathers, and the father bird would sit beside her, and they would admire the beautiful sheet of white blossoms over their heads, and have long talks about their little family, and how soon they would be learning to fly, and then what journeys they would take with them, and what good times they would have.

  One beautiful morning, while the dew drops were yet twinkling among the blossoms, the father bird prepared to go on one of his voyages after food. He bade good morning to his little family in a sweet song, which he sung on the highest branch of the apple tree, and then soared off into the blue sky, as happy a little bird as ever was seen.

  Just at the same time, a man with a large bag tied about his neck, and a long gun in his hand, made his appearance in the fields. Pretty soon he saw our poor little bluebird, as he was sitting on the top of a tree with a worm in his mouth, which he was just going to carry home to his family.

  So he drew up his gun and fired, and down fell the poor little bluebird. The man walked to the spot and picked him up — the shot had gone through his head, and he was quite dead.

  “What could he want to shoot the little birds for?” said Jamie.

  “My dear boy, some people have an absurd way of thinking that birds will injure the fruit; and as there were one or two ripe cherry trees in this orchard, the man thought they would get his cherries. It is a very foolish idea; for little birds, in fact, do more good by devouring the grubs and insects that injure trees and plants, than all the harm they can do by helping themselves now and then to a little fruit.”

  Well, it came noon, and the mother bird remained in the old apple tree, still brooding and tending her little ones, and wondering that their poor father did not return as he had promised. Very soon the long shadows stretched to the east, and showed that the afternoon was far spent; and still he did not return, and the mother bird wondered, and the little birds began to call for their food. So the mother left the little birds, and went to the top of the tree, and began to call on her husband; but she could not make him hear. She fluttered around among the trees of the orchard, looking for him, and calling him; but in vain. Then she picked up some food for her little ones, and returned home weary and sad. The dark night came, but no kind father returned. And in the morning there was no merry song in the old tree, for the father was gone and the mother was silent. But she used to fly about in the orchard picking up food for her little ones as well as she was able.

  While she was thus flying about one day, the same man, with the gun on his shoulder, came spying about the old orchard, for he had said that it was an excellent place to shoot birds. Pretty soon he saw the poor mother picking worms from a mossy rail, and pointed his gun at her. The shot struck her wing and went into her side; but still she was not killed; and all bleeding as she was, she thought she would try to get home to her little ones once more. When she came to the old apple tree, her little strength was quite spent — her feathers were dripping with blood; and when she had put the food she had gathered into their mouths, she fell down at the foot of the tree. She flattered a few moments, and then her soft little eyes closed, and the poor mother bird was dead.

  A great while after, when the old apple tree was loaded with bright yellow apples, the farmer’s men mowed the grass under the tree, and one of the boys thought he would go up and shake off some apples. While he was climbing, he put his hand into the hole and found our bird’s nest.

  He drew it out, and there were five little dead birds in it! So much for shooting little birds!

  THE END

  SOJOURNER TRUTH, THE LIBYAN SIBYL

  Sojourner Truth ( c. 1797-1883) was an African-American abolitionist and women’s rights activist. Truth was born into slavery in Swartekill, Ulster County, New York, but escaped with her infant daughter to freedom in 1826. After going to court to recover her son, she became the first black woman to win such a case against a white man.

  Sojourner Truth, The Libyan Sibyl

  First printed in the Atlantic Monthly, April 1863

  MANY years ago, the few readers of radical Abolitionist papers must often have seen the singular name of Sojourner Truth, announced as a frequent speaker at Anti-Slavery meetings, and as travelling on a sort of self-appointed agency through the country. I had myself often remarked the name, but never met the individual. On one occasion, when our house was filled with company, several eminent clergymen being our guests, notice was brought up to me that Sojourner Truth was below, and requested an interview. Knowing nothing of her but her singular name, I went down, prepared to make the interview short, as the pressure of many other engagements demanded.

  When I went into the room, a tall, spare form arose to meet me. She was evidently a full-blooded African, and though now aged and worn with many hardships, still gave the impression of a physical development which in early youth must have been as fine a specimen of the torrid zone as Cumberworth’s celebrated statuette of the Negro Woman at the Fountain. Indeed, she so strongly reminded me of that figure, that, when I recall the events of her life, as she narrated them to me, I imagine her as a living, breathing impersonation of that work of art.

  I do not recollect ever to have been conversant with any one who had more of that silent and subtle power which we call personal presence than this woman. In the modern Spiritualistic phraseology, she would be described as having a strong sphere. Her tall form, as she rose up before me, is still vivid to my mind. She was dressed in some stout, grayish stuff, neat and clean, though dusty from travel. On her head, she wore a bright Madras handkerchief, arranged as a turban, after the manner of her race. She seemed perfectly self-possessed and at her ease, — in fact, there was almost an unconscious superiority, not unmixed with a solemn twinkle of humor, in the odd, composed manner in which she looked down on me. Her whole air had at times a gloomy sort of drollery which impressed one strangely.

  “So this is you,” she said.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Well, honey, de Lord bless ye! I jes’ thought I’d like to come an’ have a look at ye. You’s heerd o’ me, I reckon?” she added.

  “Yes, I think I have. You go about lecturing, do you not?”

  “Yes, honey, that’s what I do. The Lord has made me a sign unto this nation, an’ I go round a’testifyin’, an’ showin’ on ’em their sins agin my people.”

  So saying, she took a seat, and, stooping over and crossing her arms on her knees, she looked down on the floor, and appeared to fall into a sort of reverie.

  Her great gloomy eyes and her dark face seemed to work with some undercurrent of feeling; she sighed deeply, and occasionally broke out, —

  “O Lord! O Lord! Oh, the tears, an’ the groans, an’ the moans! O Lord!”

  I should have said that she was accompanied by a little grandson of ten years, — the fattest, jolliest woolly-headed little specimen of Africa that one can imagine. He was grinning and showing his glistening white teeth in a state of perpetual merriment, and at this moment broke out into an audible giggle, which disturbed the reverie into which his relative was falling.

  She looked at him with an indulgent sadness, and then at me.

  “Laws, Ma’am, he don’t know nothin’ about it — he don’t. Why, I’ve seen them poor critters, beat an’ ‘bused an’ hunted, brought in all torn, — ears hangin’ all in rags, where the dogs been a’bitin’ of ‘em!”

  This set off our little African Puck into another giggle, in which he seemed perfectly convulsed.

  She surveyed him soberly, without the slightest irritation.

  “Well, you may bless the Lord you can laugh; but I tell you, ‘t wa’n’t no laughin’ matter.”

  By this time I thought her manner so original that it might be worth while to call down my friends; and she seemed perfectly well pleased with the idea. An audience was what
she wanted, — it mattered not whether high or low, learned or ignorant. She had things to say, and was ready to say them at all times, and to any one.

  I called down Dr. Beecher, Professor Allen, and two or three other clergymen, who, together with my husband and family, made a roomful. No princess could have received a drawing-room with more composed dignity than Sojourner her audience. She stood among them, calm and erect, as one of her own native palm-trees waving alone in the desert. I presented one after another to her, and at last said, —

  “Sojourner, this is Dr. Beecher. He is a very celebrated preacher.”

  “Is he?” she said, offering her hand in a condescending manner, and looking down on his white head. “Ye dear lamb, I’m glad to see ye! De Lord bless ye! I loves preachers. I’m a kind o’ preacher myself.”

  “You are?” said Dr. Beecher. “Do you preach from the Bible?”

  “No, honey, can’t preach from de Bible, — can’t read a letter.”

  “Why, Sojourner, what do you preach from, then?”

  Her answer was given with a solemn power of voice, peculiar to herself, that hushed every one in the room.

  “When I preaches, I has jest one text to preach from, an’ I always preaches from this one. My text is, ‘WHEN I FOUND JESUS.’”

  “Well, you couldn’t have a better one,” said one of the ministers.

  She paid no attention to him, but stood and seemed swelling with her own thoughts, and then began this narration: —

  “Well, now, I’ll jest have to go back, an’ tell ye all about it. Ye see, we was all brought over from Africa, father an’ mother an’ I, an’ a lot more of us; an’ we was sold up an’ down, an’ hither an’ yon; an’ I can ‘member, when I was a little thing, not bigger than this ‘ere,” pointing to her grandson, “how my ole mammy would sit out o’ doors in the evenin’, an’ look up at the stars an’ groan. She’d groan an’ groan, an’ says I to her, —