Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe
by Charlotte M. Yonge
I— MOTHER BUNCH
THE SOUTH SEAS
CHAPTER V— TYROL
CHAPTER X— THE
CHAPTER XII— THE
PARIS IN THE
CHAPTER XVI— THE
THE DREAM OF ALL
"Young fingers idly roll
The mimic earth or trace
In picture bright of blue and gold
Each other circling chase."—KEBLE
There was once a wonderful fortnight in little Lucy's life. One
evening she went to bed very tired and cross and hot, and in the
morning when she looked at her arms and legs they were all covered
with red spots, rather pretty to look at, only they were dry and
Nurse was frightened when she looked at them. She turned all the
little sisters out of the night nursery, covered Lucy up close, and
ordered her not to stir, certainly not to go into her bath. Then
there was a whispering and a running about, and Lucy was half
alarmed, but more pleased at being so important, for she did not feel
at all ill, and quite enjoyed the tea and toast that Nurse brought up
to her. Just as she was beginning to think it rather tiresome to lie
there with nothing to do, except to watch the flies buzzing about,
there was a step on the stairs and up came the doctor. He was an old
friend, very good-natured, and he made fun with Lucy about having
turned into a spotted leopard, just like the cowry shell on Mrs.
Bunker's mantel-piece. Indeed, he said he thought she was such a
curiosity that Mrs. Bunker would come for her and set her up in the
museum, and then he went away. Suppose, oh, suppose she did!
Mrs. Bunker, or Mother Bunch, as Lucy and her brothers and sisters
called her, was housekeeper to their Uncle Joseph. He was really their
great uncle, and they thought him any age you can imagine. They would
not have been much surprised to hear that he sailed with Christopher
Columbus, though he was a strong, hale, active man, much less easily
tired than their own papa. He had been a ship's surgeon in his younger
days, and had sailed all over the world, and collected all sorts of
curious things, besides which he was a very wise and learned man, and
had made some great discovery. It was not America. Lucy knew
that her elderly brother understood what it was, but it was not worth
troubling her head about, only somehow it made ships go safer, and so
he had had a pension given him as a reward. He had come home and
bought a house about a mile out of town, and built up a high room from
which to look at the stars with his telescope, and to try his
experiments in, and a long one besides for his museum; yet, after all,
he was not much there, for whenever there was anything wonderful to be
seen, he always went off to look at it, and, whenever there was a
meeting of learned men—scientific men was the right word—they
always wanted him to help them make speeches and show wonders. He was
away now. He had gone away to wear a red cross on his arm, and help to
take care of the wounded in the sad war between the French and the
But he had left Mother Bunch behind him. Nobody knew exactly what
was Mrs. Bunker's nation; indeed she could hardly be said to have any,
for she had been born at sea, and had been a sailor's wife; but
whether she was mostly English, Dutch or Spanish, nobody knew and
nobody cared. Her husband had been lost at sea, and Uncle Joseph had
taken her to look after his house, and always said she was the only
woman who had sense and discretion enough ever to go into his
laboratory or dust his museum.
She was very kind and good natured, and there was nothing that the
children liked better than a walk to Uncle Joseph's, and, after a play
in the garden, tea with her. And such quantities of sugar there were
in her room! such curious cakes made in the fashion of different
countries! such funny preserves from all parts of the world! And still
more delightful, such cupboards and drawers full of wonderful things,
and such stories about them! The younger ones liked Mrs. Bunker's room
better than Uncle Joseph's museum, where there were some big stuffed
beasts with glaring eyes that frightened them; and they had to walk
round with hands behind, that they might not touch anything, or else
their uncle's voice was sure to call out gruffly, "Paws off!"
Mrs. Bunker was not a bit like the smart house-keepers at other
houses. To be sure, on Sundays she came out in a black silk gown with
a little flounce at the bottom, a scarlet crape shawl with a blue
dragon on it—his wings over her back, and a claw over each shoulder,
so that whoever sat behind her in church was terribly distracted by
trying to see the rest of him—and a very big yellow Tuscan bonnet,
trimmed with sailor's blue ribbon.
But during the week and about the house she wore a green gown, with
a brown holland apron and bib over it, quite straight all the way
down, for she had no particular waist, and her hair, which was of a
funny kind of flaxen grey, she bundled up and tied round, without any
cap or anything else on her head. One of the little boys had once
called her Mother Bunch, because of her stories; and the name fitted
her so well that the whole family, and even Uncle Joseph, took it up.
Lucy was very fond of her; but when about an hour after the
doctor's visit she was waked by a rustling and a lumbering on the
stairs, and presently the door opened, and the second best big
bonnet—the go-to-market bonnet with the turned ribbons—came into
the room with Mother Bunch's face under it, and the good-natured voice
told her she was to be carried to Uncle Joseph's and have oranges and
tamarinds, she did begin to feel like the spotted cowry-shell to think
about being set on the chimney-piece, to cry, and say she wanted Mamma.
The Nurse and Mother Bunch began to comfort her, and explain that
the doctor thought she had the scarlatina; not at all badly; but that
if any of the others caught it, nobody could guess how bad they would
be; especially Mamma, who had just been ill; and so she was to be
rolled up in her blankets, and put into a carriage, and taken to her
uncle's; and there she would stay till she was not only well, but
could safely come home without carrying infection about with her.
Lucy was a good little girl, and knew that she must bear it; so,
though she could not help crying a little when she found she must not
kiss any one, nay not even see them, and that nobody might go with her
but Lonicera, her own china doll, she made up her mind bravely; and
she was a good deal cheered when Clare, the biggest and best of all
the dolls, was sent into her, with all her clothes, by Maude, her
eldest sister, to be her companion,—it was such an honor and so very
kind of Maude that it quite warmed the sad little heart.
So Lucy had her little scarlet flannel dressing gown on, and her
shoes and stockings, and a wonderful old knitted hood with a tippet
to it, and then she was rolled round and round in all her bed-
clothes, and Mrs. Bunker took her up like a very big baby, not
letting any one else touch her. How Mrs. Bunker got safe down all the
stairs no one can tell, but she did, and into the carriage, and there
poor Lucy looked back and saw at the windows Mamma's face, and Papa's,
and Maude's and all the rest, all nodding and smiling to her, but
Maude was crying all the time, and perhaps Mamma was too.
The journey seemed very long; and Lucy was really tired when she
was put down at last in a big bed, nicely warmed for her, and with a
bright fire in the room. As soon as she had had some beef-tea, she
went off soundly to sleep and only woke to drink tea, give the dolls
their supper, and put them to sleep.
The next evening she was sitting up by the fire, and the fourth day
she was running about the house as if nothing had ever been the matter
with her, but she was not to go home for a fortnight; and being wet,
cold, dull weather, it was not always easy to amuse herself. She had
her dolls, to be sure, and the little dog Don, to play with, and
sometimes Mr. Bunker would let her make funny things with the dough,
or stone the raisins, or even help make a pudding; but still there was
a good deal of time on her hands. She had only two books with her, and
the rash had made her eyes weak, so that she did not much like reading
them. The notes that every one wrote from home were quite enough for
her. What she liked best—that is, when Mrs. Bunker could not attend
to her—was to wander about the museum, explaining the things to the
dolls: "That is a crocodile, Lonicera; it eats people up, and has a
little bird to pick its teeth. Look, Clare, that bony thing is a
skeleton —the skeleton of a lizard. Paws off, my dear; mustn't touch.
That's amber, just like barley sugar, only not so nice; people make
necklaces of it. There's a poor little dead fly inside. Those are the
dear delightful humming-birds; look at their crests, just like Mamma's
jewels. See the shells; aren't they beauties? People get pearls out of
those great flat ones, and dive all down to the bottom of the sea
after them; mustn't touch, my dear, only look; paws off."
One would think that Lonicera's curved fingers, all in one piece,
and Clare's blue leather hands had been very moveable and mischievous,
judging by the number of times this warning came; but of course it was
Lucy herself who wanted it most, for her own little plump, pinky hands
did almost tingle to handle and turn round those pretty shells. She
wanted to know whether the amber tasted like barley-sugar, as it
looked; and there was a little musk deer, no bigger than Don, whom she
longed to stroke, or still better to let Lonicera ride; but she was a
good little girl, and had real sense of honor, which never betrays a
trust; so she never laid a finger on anything but what Uncle Joe had
once given them leave to move.
This was a very big pair of globes—bigger than globes commonly are
now, and with more frames round them—one great flat one, with odd
names painted on it, and another brass one, nearly upright, going
half-way round from top to bottom, and with the globe hung upon it by
two pins, which Lucy's elder sisters called the poles, or the ends of
the axis. The huge round balls went very easily with a slight touch,
and there was something very charming in making them go whisk, whisk,
whisk; now faster, now slower, now spinning so quickly that nothing on
them could be seen, now turning slowly and gradually over and showing
all that was on them.
The mere twirling was quite enough for Lucy at first, but soon she
liked to look at what was on them. One she thought more entertaining
than the other. It was covered with wonderful creatures: one bear was
fastened by his long tail to the pole; another bigger one was trotting
round; a snake was coiling about anywhere; a lady stood disconsolate
against a rock; another sat in a chair; a giant sprawled with a club
in one hand and a lion's skin in the other; a big dog and a little dog
stood on their hind legs; a lion seemed just about to spring on a
young maiden's head; and all were thickly spotted over, just as if
they had Lucy's rash, with stars big and little: and still more
strange, her brothers declared these were the stars in the sky, and
this was the way people found their road at sea; but if Lucy asked
how, they always said she was not big enough to understand, and it had
occurred to Lucy to ask whether the truth was not that they were not
big enough to explain. The other globe was all in pale green, with
pink and yellow outlines on it, and quantities of names. Lucy had had
to learn some of these names for her geography, and she rather kept
out of the way of looking at it first, till she had really grown tired
of all the odd men and women and creatures upon the celestial sphere;
but by and by she began to roll the other by way of variety.
VISITORS FROM THE SOUTH SEAS
"Miss Lucy, you're as quiet as a mouse. Not in any mischief?" said
Mrs. Bunker, looking into the museum; "why, what are you doing there?"
"I'm looking at the great big globe, that Uncle Joe said I might
touch," said Lucy. "Here are all the names just like my lesson-book
at home: Europe, Africa, and America."
"Why, bless the child! where else should they be? There are all
them oceans and seas besides that I've crossed over, many's the time,
with poor Ben Bunker, who was last seen off Cape Hatteras."
"What, all these great green places, with Atlantic and Pacific on
them; you don't really mean that you've sailed over them! I should
like to make an ant do it on a sunflower seed! How could you, Mother
Bunch? You are not small enough."
"Ho! ho!" said the housekeeper, laughing; "does the child think I
sailed on that very globe there?"
"I know one learns names," said Lucy; "but is it real?"
"Real! Why, Missie, don't you see it's a sort of a picture? There's
your photograph now, it's not as big as you, but it shows you; and so
a chart, or a map, or a globe, is just a picture of the shapes of the
coast-line of the land and the sea, and the rivers in them, and
mountains, and the like. Look here!" And she made Lucy stand on a
chair and look at a map of her own town that was hanging against the
wall, showing her all the chief buildings, the churches, streets, the
town hall, and at last helping her find her own Papa's house.
When Lucy had traced all the corners she had to turn in going from
home to Uncle Joe's, and had even found little frizzles for the five
maple trees before the Parsonage, she understood that the map was a
small picture of the situation of the buildings in the town, and
thought she could find her way to some new place if she studied it
Then Mrs. Bunker showed her a big map of the whole country, and
there Lucy found the river, and the roads, and the names of the
villages near, as she had seen or heard of them; and she began to
understand that a map or globe really brought distant places into an
exceedingly small picture, and that where she saw a name and a spot
she was to think of houses and churches; that a branching black line
was a flowing river full of water; a curve in, a pretty bay shut in
with rocks and hills; a point jutting out, generally a steep rock with
a lighthouse on it.
"And all these places are countries, Bunchey, are they, with fields
and houses like ours?"
"Houses, yes, and fields, but not always like ours, Miss Lucy."
"And are there little children, boys and girls, in them all?"
"To be sure there are, else how would the world go on? Why, I've
seen them by swarms, white or brown or black, running down to the
shore as soon as the vessel cast anchor; and whatever color they
were, you might be sure of two things, Miss Lucy, in which they were
"Oh, what, Mrs. Bunker?"
"Why, in making plenty of noise, and in wanting all they could get
to eat. But they were little darlings, some of them, if I only could
have got at them to make them a bit cleaner. Some of them looked for
all the world like the little bronze images your Uncle has got in the
museum, which he brought from Italy, and they hadn't a rag more
clothing on either. They were in India. Dear, dear, to see them tumble
about in the surf!"
"Oh, what fun! what fun! I wish I could see them."
"You would be right glad, Missie, I can tell you, if you had been
three or four months aboard a vessel with nothing but dry biscuits and
salt junk, and may be a tin of preserved vegetables just to keep it
wholesome, to see the black fellows come grinning alongside with their
boats and canoes all full of oranges and limes and grape-fruit and
cocoanuts. Doesn't one's mouth fairly water for them?"
"Do please sit down, there's a good Mother Bunch, and tell me all
about them. Come, please do."
"Suppose I did, Miss Lucy, where would your poor uncle's preserved
ginger be, that no one knows from real West Indian ginger?"
"Oh, let me come into your room, and you can tell me all the time
you are doing the ginger.
"It is very hot there, Missie."
"That will be more like some of the places. I'll suppose I'm there!
Look, Mrs. Bunker! here's a whole green sea; the tiniest little dots
all over it."
"Dots? You'd hardly see all over one of those dots if you were in
one. That's the South Sea, Miss Lucy, and those are the loveliest
isles, except, may be, the West Indies, that ever I saw."
"Tell me about them, please," entreated Lucy. "Here's one; it's
name is—is Isabel—such a little wee one."
"I can't tell you much of those South Sea Isles, Missie, as I made
only one voyage among them, when Bunker chartered the Penguin
for the sandalwood trade; and we did not touch at many, for the
natives were fierce and savage, and thought nothing of coming down
with arrows and spears at a boat's crew. So we only went to such
islands as the missionaries had been to, and had made the people more
gentle and civil."
"Tell me all about it," said Lucy, following the old woman hither
and thither as she bustled about, talking all the time, and stirring
her pan of ginger over the hot plate.
How it happened, it is not easy to say. The room was very warm, and
Mother Bunch went on talking as she stirred, and a steam rose up, and
by and by it seemed to Lucy that she had a great sneezing fit; and
when she looked again into the smoke, what did she see but two little
black figures, faces, heads, and feet all black, but with an odd sort
of white garment round their waists, and some fine red and green
feathers sticking out of their wooly heads.
"Mrs. Bunker, Mrs. Bunker!" she cried; "what's this? Who are these
"Ugly!" said the foremost; and though it must have been some
strange language, it sounded like English to Lucy. "Is that the way
little white girl speaks to boy and girl that have come all the way
from Isabel to see her?"
"Oh, indeed! little Isabel boy, I beg your pardon. I didn't know
you were real, nor that you could understand me! I am so glad to see
you. Hush, Don! don't bark so!"
"Pig, pig; I never heard a pig squeak like that," said the black
"Pig! It is a little dog. Have you no dogs in your country?"
"Pigs go on four legs. That must be pig."
"What, you have nothing that goes on four legs but a pig! What do
you eat, then, besides pig?"
"Yams, cocoa-nut, fish—oh, so good, and put pig into hole among
hot stones, make a fire over, bake so nice!"
"You shall have some of my tea and see if that is as nice," said
Lucy. "What a funny dress you have; what is it made of?"
"Tapa cloth," said the little girl. "We get the bark off the tree,
and then we go hammer, hammer, thump, thump, till all the hard thick
stuff comes off;" and Lucy, looking near, saw that the substance was
really all a lacework of fibre, about as close as the net of Nurse's
"Is that all your clothes?" she asked.
"Yes, till I am a warrior," said the boy; "then they will tattoo my
forehead, and arms, and breast, and legs."
"Tattoo? what's that!"
"Make little holes, and lines all over the skin with a sharp shell,
and rub in juice that turns it all to blue and purple lines."
"But doesn't it hurt dreadfully?" asked Lucy.
"Hurt! to be sure it does, but that will show that I am brave. When
father comes home from the war he paints himself white."
"With lime made by burning coral, and he jumps and dances and
shouts. I shall go to the war one of these days."
"Oh no, don't!" said Lucy, "it is horrid."
The boy laughed, but the little girl whispered, "Good white men say
so. Some day Lavo will go and learn, and leave off fighting."
Lavo shook his head. "No, not yet; I will be brave chief and
warrior first,—bring home many heads of enemies."
"I—I think it nice to be quiet," said Lucy; "and—and—won't you
have some dinner?"
"Have you baked a pig?" asked Lavo.
"I think this is mutton," said Lucy, when the dish came up,—"It is
Lavo and his sister had no notion what sheep were. They wanted to
sit cross-legged on the floor, but Lucy made each of them sit in a
chair properly; but then they shocked her by picking up the
mutton-chops and stuffing them into their mouths with their fingers.
"Look here!" and she showed the knives and forks.
"Oh!" cried Lavo, "what good spikes to catch fish with! and knife—
knife—I'll kill foes! much better than shell knife."
"And I'll dig yams," said the sister.
"Oh, no!" entreated Lucy, "we have spades to dig with, soldiers
have swords to fight with; these are to eat with."
"I can eat much better without," said Lavo; but to please Lucy his
sister did try; slashing hard away with her knife, and digging her
fork straight into a bit of meat. Then she very nearly ran it into her
eye, and Lucy, who knew it was not good manners to laugh, was very
near choking herself. And at last saying the knife and fork were
"Great good—great good; but none for eating," they stuck them through
the great tortoise shell rings they had in their ears and noses. Lucy
was distressed about Uncle Joseph's knives and forks, which she knew
she ought not to give away; but while she was looking about for Mrs.
Bunker to interfere, Don seemed to think it his business and began to
growl and fly at the little black legs.
"A tree, a tree!" cried the Isabelites, "where's a tree?" And while
they spoke, Lavo had climbed up the side of the door, and was sitting
astride on the top of it, grinning down at the dog; and his sister had
her feet on the lock, going up after him.
"Tree houses," they cried; "there we are safe from our enemies."
And Lucy found rising before her, instead of her own nursery, a
huge tree, on the top of a mound. Basket-work had been woven between
the branches to make floors, and on these were huts of bamboo cane;
there were ladders hanging down made of strong creepers twisted
together, and above and around, the cries of cockatoos and parrots and
the chirp of grasshoppers rang in her ears. She laid hold of the
ladder of creeping plants and began to climb, but soon her head swam,
she grew giddy, and called out to Lavo to help her. Then suddenly she
found herself curled up in Mrs. Bunker's big beehive chair, and she
wondered whether she had been asleep.
"If I could have such another funny dream!" said Lucy. "Mother
Bunch, have you ever been to Italy?" and she put her finger on the
long leg and foot, kicking at three-cornered Sicily.
"Yes, Missie, that I have; come out of this cold room and I'll tell
Lucy was soon curled in her chair; but no, she wasn't! She was
under a blue, blue sky, as she had never dreamt of; clear, sharp,
purple hills rose up against it. There was a rippling little
fountain, bursting out of a rock, carved with old, old carvings,
broken now and defaced, but shadowed over by lovely maidenhair fern
and trailing bindweed; and in a niche above a little roof, a figure
of the Blessed Virgin. Some way off stood a long, low house propped
up against the rich yellow stone walls and pillars of another old,
old building, and with a great chestnut-tree shadowing it. It had a
balcony, and the gable end was open, and full of big yellow pumpkins
and clusters of grapes hung up to dry; and some goats were feeding
Then came a merry, merry voice singing something about
vendemmia; and though Lucy had never learnt Italian, her
wonderful dream knowledge made her sure that this meant the vintage,
the grape-gathering. Presently there came along a youth playing a
violin and a little girl singing. And a whole party of other children,
all loaded with as many grapes as they could carry, came leaping and
singing after them; their black hair loose, or sometimes twisted with
vine-leaves; their big black eyes dancing with merriment, and their
bare, brown legs with glee.
"Ah! Cecco, Cecco! cried the little girl, pausing as she beat her
tambourine, "here's a stranger who has no grapes; bring them here!"
"But," said Lucy, "aren't they your mamma's grapes; may you give
"Ah, ah! 'tis the
vendemmia! all may eat grapes; as much as
they will. See, there's the vineyard."
Lucy saw on the slope of the hill above the cottage long poles such
as hops grow upon, and clusters hanging down. Men in shady, battered
hats, bright sashes and braces, and white shirt sleeves, and women
with handkerchiefs folded square over their heads, were cutting the
grapes down, and piling them up in baskets; and a low cart drawn by
two mouse-colored oxen, with enormous wide horns and gentle-looking
eyes, was waiting to be loaded with baskets.
"To the wine-press! to the press!" shouted the children, who were
politeness itself and wanted to show her everything.
The wine-press was a great marble trough with pipes leading off
into other vessels around. Into it went the grapes, and in the midst
were men and boys and little children, all with bare feet and legs up
to the knees, dancing and leaping, and bounding and skipping upon the
grapes, while the red juice covered their brown skins.
"Come in, come in; you don't know how charming it is!" cried Cecco.
"It is the best time of all the year, the dear vintage; come in and
tread the grapes."
"But you must take off your shoes and stockings," said his sister,
Nunziata; "we never wear them but on Sundays and holidays."
Lucy was not sure that she might, but the children looked so
joyous, and it seemed to be such fun, that she began fumbling with
the buttons of her boots, and while she was doing it she opened her
eyes, and found that her beautiful bunch of grapes was only the
cushion in the bottom of Mother Bunch's chair.
"Now suppose I tried what the very cold countries are like!" And
Lucy bent over the globe till she was nearly ready to cut her head
off with the brass meridian, as she looked at the long, jagged
tongue, with no particular top to it, hanging down on the east side
of America. Perhaps it was the making herself so cold that did it,
but she found herself in the midst of snow, snow, snow! All was snow
except the sea, and that was a deep green, and in it were monstrous,
floating white things, pinnacled all over like a Cathedral, and as
big, and with hollows in them of glorious deep blue and green, like
jewels; Lucy knew they were icebergs. A sort of fringe of these cliffs
of ice hemmed in the shore. And on one of them stood what she thought
at first was a little brown bear, for the light was odd, the sun was
so very low down, and there was so much glare from the snow that it
seemed unnatural. However, before she had time to be afraid of the
bear, she saw that it was really a little boy, with a hood and coat
and leggings of thick, thick fur, and a spear in his hand, with which
he every now and then made a dash at a fish,—great cod fish, such as
Mamma had often on a Friday.
Into them went his spear, up came the poor fish, which was strung
with some others on a string the boy carried. Lucy crept up as well as
she could on the slippery ice, and the little Esquimaux stared at her
with a kind of stupid surprise.
"Is that the way you get fish?" she asked.
"Yes, and seals; father gets them," he said.
"Oh, what's that swimming out there?"
"That's a white bear," he said coolly; "we had better get home."
Lucy thought so indeed; only where was home?—that puzzled her.
However, she trotted along by the side of her companion, and presently
came to what might have been an enormous snow-ball, but there was a
hole in it. Yes, it was hollow; and as her companion made for the
opening, she saw more little stout figures rolled up in furs inside.
Then she perceived that it was a house built up of blocks of snow,
arranged so as to make the shape of a beehive, all frozen together,
and with a window of ice. It made her shiver to think of going in, but
she thought the white bear might come after her, and in she went. Even
her little head had to bend under the low doorway, and behold, it was
the very closest, stuffiest, if not the hottest place she had ever
been in! There was a kind of lamp burning in the hut; that is, a wick
was floating in some oil, but there was no glass, such as Lucy had
been apt to think the chief part of a lamp, and all round it squatted
upon skins these queer little stumpy figures dressed so much alike
that there was no knowing the men from the women, except that the
women had much bigger boots, and used them instead of pockets, and
they had their babies in bags of skin upon their backs.
They seemed to be kind people, for they made room near their lamp
for the little girl, and asked her where she had been wrecked. Then
one of the women cut off a great lump of raw something—was it a
walrus, with that round head and big tusks?—and held it up to her;
and when Lucy shook her head and said, "No, thank you," as civilly as
she could, the woman tore it in two, and handed a lump over her
shoulder to her baby, who began to gnaw it. Then her first friend, the
little boy, hoping to please her better, offered her some drink. Ah!
it was oil, just like the oil that was burning in the lamp!—horrid
oil from the whales! She could not help shaking her head; and so much
that she woke herself up!
"Suppose I could see where that dear little black chamois horn came
from! But Mother Bunch can't tell me about that I'm afraid, for she
always went by sea, and here's the Tyrol without one bit of sea near
it. It's just one of the strings to the great knot of mountains that
tie Europe up in the middle. Oh! what is a mountain like?"
Then suddenly came on Lucy's ears a loud blast like a trumpet;
another answered it farther off, another fainter still, and as she
started up she found she was standing on a little shelf of green
grass with steep slopes of stones and rock above, below, and around
her; and rising up all round were huge, tall hills, their smooth
slopes green and grassy, but in the steep places all terrible cliff
and precipice; and as they were seen further away they looked a
beautiful purple, like a thunder-cloud.
Close to Lucy grew blue gentians like those in Mamma's garden, and
Alpine roses, and black orchids; but she did not know how to come
down, and was getting rather frightened, when a clear little voice
said, "Little lady, have you lost your way? Wait till the evening hymn
is over, and I'll come and help you;" and then Lucy stood and
listened, while from all the peaks whence the horns had been blown
there came the strong, sweet sound of an evening hymn, all joining
together, while there arose distant echoes of others farther away.
When it was over, one shout of "Jodel" echoed from each point, and
then all was still except for the tinkling of a cow-bell. "That's the
way we wish each other good night," said the little girl, as the
shadows mounted high on the tops of the mountains, leaving them only
peaks of rosy light. "Now come to the chalet, and sister Rose will
give you some milk."
"Help me. I'm afraid," said Lucy.
"That is nothing," said the mountain maiden springing up to her
like a kid, in spite of her great heavy shoes; "you should see the
places Father and Seppel climb when they hunt the chamois."
"What is your name?" asked Lucy, who much liked the looks of her
little companion in her broad straw hat, with a bunch of Alpine roses
in it, her thick striped frock, and white body and sleeves, braced
with black ribbon; it was such a pleasant, fresh, open face, with such
rosy cheeks and kindly blue eyes, that Lucy felt quite at home.
"I am little Katherl. This is the first time I have come up with
Rose to the chalet, but I am big enough to milk the cows now. Ah! do
you see Daisy, the black one with a white tuft? She is our leading
cow, and she knows it, the darling. She never lets the others get into
dangerous places; she leads them home at the sound of a horn; and when
we go back to the village she will lead the herd with a flower on the
point of each horn, and a wreath round her neck. The men will come up
for us, Seppel and all; and may be Seppel will bring the prize medal
for shooting with the rifle."
"But what do you do up here?"
"We girls go up for the summer with the cows to the pastures, the
grass is so rich and good on the mountains, and we make butter and
cheese. Wait, and you shall taste. Sit down on the stone."
Lucy was glad to hear that promise, for the fresh mountain air had
made her hungry. Katherl skipped away towards a house with a
projecting wooden balcony, and deep eaves, beautifully carved, and
came back with a slice of bread and delicious butter, and a good
piece of cheese, all on a wooden platter, and a little bowl of new
milk. Lucy thought she had never tasted anything so nice.
"And now the gracious little lady will rest a little while," said
Katherl, "whilst I go and help Rose to strain the milk."
So Lucy waited, but she felt so tired with her scramble that she
could not help nodding off to sleep, though she would have liked very
much to have stayed longer with the dear little Tyrolese. But we know
by this time where she always found herself when she awoke.
Oh! oh! here is a little dried crocodile come alive, and opening a
horrid great mouth, lined with terrible teeth, at her.
No, he is no longer in the museum; he is in a broad river, yellow,
heavy, and thick with mud; the borders are crowded with enormous reeds
and rushes; there is no getting through; no breaking away from him;
here he comes; horrid, horrid beast! Oh, how could Lucy have been so
foolish as to want to travel in Africa up to the higher parts of the
Nile? How will she ever get back again? He will gobble her up, her and
Clare, who was trusted to her, and what will mamma and sister do?
Hark! There's a cry, a great shout, and out jumps a little black
figure, with a stout club in his hand. Crash it goes down on the head
of master crocodile. The ugly beast is turning over on its back and
dying. Then Lucy has time to look at the little negro, and he has time
to look at her. What a droll figure he is, with his wooly head and
thick lips, the whites of his eyes and his teeth gleaming so brightly,
and his fat little black person shining all over, as well it may, for
he is rubbed from head to foot with castor- oil. There it grows on the
bush, with broad, beautiful, folded leaves and red stems and the
pretty grey and black nuts. Lucy only wishes the negroes would keep it
all to polish themselves with, and not send any home.
She wants to give the little black fellow some reward for saving
her from the crocodile, and luckily Clare has on her long necklace of
blue glass beads. She puts it into his hand, and he twists it round
his black wool, and cuts such dances and capers for joy that Lucy can
hardly stand for laughing; but the sun shines scorching hot upon her,
and she gets under the shade of a tall date palm, with big leaves all
shooting out together at the top, and fine bunches of dates below, all
fresh and green, not like those papa sometimes gives her at dessert.
The little negro, Tojo, asks if she would like some. He takes her
by the hand, and leads her into a whole cluster of little round mud
huts, telling her that he is Tojo, the king's son; she is his little
sister and these are all his mothers! Which is his real mother Lucy
cannot quite make out, for she sees an immense party of black women,
all shiny and polished, with a great many beads wound round their
heads, necks, ankles, and wrists; and nothing besides the tiniest
short petticoats: and all the fattest are the smartest; indeed, they
have gourds of milk beside them, and are drinking it all day long to
keep themselves fat. No sooner however is Lucy led in among them, than
they all close round, some singing and dancing, and others laughing
for joy, and crying, "Welcome, little daughter from the land of
spirits!" And then she finds out that they think she is really Tojo's
little sister, who died ten moons ago, come back again from the grave
as a white spirit.
Tojo's own mother, a very fat woman indeed, holds out her arms, as
big as bed-posts and terribly greasy, gives her a dose of sour milk
out of a gourd, makes her lie down with her head in her lap, and
begins to sing to her, till Lucy goes to sleep; and wakes, very glad
to see the crocodile as brown and hard and immovable as ever; and that
odd round gourd with a little hole in it, hanging up near the ceiling.
"It shall not be a hot country next time," said Lucy, "though,
after all, the whale oil was not much worse than the castor
oil.—Mother Bunch, did your whaler always go to Greenland, and never
to any nicer place?"
"Well, Missie, once we were driven between foul winds and icebergs
up into a fiord near North Cape, right at midsummer, and I'll never
forget what we saw there."
Lucy was not likely to forget, either, for she found herself
standing by a narrow inlet of sea, as blue and smooth as a lake, and
closely shut in, except where the bare rock was too steep, or where on
a somewhat smoother shelf stood a timbered house, with a farm-yard and
barns all round it. But the odd thing was that the sun was where she
had never seen him before,—quite in the north, making all the shadows
come the wrong way. But how came the sun to be visible at all so very
late? Ah! she knew it now; this was Norway, and at this time of the
year there was no night at all!
And here beside her was a little fellow with a bow and arrows, such
as she had never seen before, except in the hands of the little Cupids
in the pictures in the drawing-room. Mother Bunch had said that the
little brown boys in India looked like the bronze Cupid who was on the
mantleshelf, but this little boy was white, or rather sallow-faced,
and well dressed too, in a tight, round, leather cap, and a dark blue
kind of shaggy gown with hairy leggings; and what he was shooting at
was some kind of wild-duck or goose, that came tumbling down heavily
with the arrow right through its neck.
"There," said the boy, "I'll take that, and sell it to the Norse
farmer's wife up in the house above there."
"Who are you, then?" said Lucy.
"I'm a Lapp. We live on the hills, where the Norseman has not
driven us away, and where the reindeer find their grass in summer and
moss in winter."
"Oh! have you got reindeer? I should so like to see them and to
drive in a sledge!"
The boy, whose name was Peder, laughed, and said, "You can't go in
a sledge except when it is winter, with snow and ice to go upon, but
I'll soon show you a reindeer."
Then he led the way, past the deliciously smelling, whispering pine
woods that sheltered the Norwegian homestead, past a seater or
mountain meadow where the girls were pasturing their cows, much like
Lucy's friends in the Tyrol, then out upon the gray moorland, where
there was an odd little cluster of tents covered with skins, and droll
little, short, stumpy people running about them.
Peder gave a curious long cry, put his hand in his pocket, and
pulled out a lump of salt. Presently, a pair of long horns appeared,
then another, then a whole herd of the deer with big heads and horns
growing a good deal forward. The salt was held to them, and a rope was
fastened to all their horns that they might stand still in a line,
while the little Lapp women milked them. Peder went up to one of the
women, and brought back a little cupful of milk for his visitor; it
was all that one deer gave, but it was so rich as to be almost like
He led her into one of the tents, but it was very smoky, and not
much cleaner than the tent of the Esquimaux. It is a wonder how Lucy
could go to sleep there, but she did, heartily wishing herself
Was it the scent of the perfumed tea, a present from an old sailor
friend, which Mrs. Bunker was putting away, or was it the sight of the
red jar ornamented with black-and-gold men, with round caps, long
petticoats, and pigtails, that caused Lucy next to open her eyes upon
a cane sofa, with cushions ornamented with figures in colored silks?
The floor of the room was of shining inlaid wood; there were
beautifully woven mats all round; stands made of red lacquer work, and
seats of cane and bamboo; and there was a round window, through which
could be seen a beautiful garden, full of flowering shrubs and trees,
a clear pond lined with colored tiles in the middle, and over the wall
the gilded roof of a pagoda, like an umbrella, only all in ridge and
furrow, and with a little bell at every spoke. Beyond, were
beautifully and fantastically shaped hills, and a lake below with
pleasure boats on it. It was all wonderfully like a pretty china bowl
come to life, and Lucy knew she was in China, even before there came
into the room, toddling upon her poor little, tiny feet, a young lady
with a small yellow face, little slips of eyes sloping upwards from
her flat nose, and black hair combed up very tight from her face and
twisted with flowers and ornaments. She had ever so many robes on, the
edge of one peeping out below the other, and at the top a sort of blue
China-crape tunic, with very wide, loose sleeves dropping an immense
way from her hands. There was no gathering in at the waist, and it
reached to her knees, where a still more splendid white silk,
embroidered, trailed along. She had a big fan in her hand; but when
she saw the visitor she went up to a beautiful little, low table, with
an ivory frill round it, where stood some dainty, delicate tea-cups
and saucers. Into one of these she put a little ball, about as big as
an oak-apple, of tea-leaves; a maid dressed like herself poured hot
water on it, and handed it on a lacquer-work tray. Lucy took it,
said, "Thank you," and then waited.
"Is it not good?" said the little hostess.
"It must be! You are the real tea people," said Lucy: "but I was
waiting for sugar and milk."
"That would spoil it," said the Chinese damsel; "only outer
barbarians would think of such a thing. And, ah! I see you are one!
See, Ki-hi, what monstrous feet!"
"They are not bigger than your maid's," said Lucy rather disgusted.
"Why are yours so small?"
"Because my mother and nurse took care of me when I was a baby, and
bound them up that they might not grow big and ugly like those of the
poor creatures who have to run about for their husbands, feed silk
worms, and tend ducks!"
"But shouldn't you like to walk without almost tumbling down?" said
"No, indeed! Me a daughter of a mandarin of the blue button! You
are a mere barbarian to think a lady ought to want to walk. Do you
not see that I never do anything? Look at my lovely nails."
"I think they are claws," said Lucy; "do you never break them?"
"No; when they are a little longer, I shall wear silver shields for
them as my mother does."
"And do you really never work?"
"I should think not," said the young lady, scornfully fanning
herself; "I leave that to the common folk, who are obliged to. Come
with me and let me lean on you, and I will give you a peep through
the lattice, that you may see that my father is far above making his
daughter work. See, there he sits, with his moustachios hanging down
to his chin, and his pig-tail to his heels, and the blue dragon
embroidered on his breast, watching while they prepare the hall for a
grand dinner. There will be a stew of puppy dog, and another of
kittens, and bird's-nest soup; and then the players will come and act
part of the nine-night tragedy, and we will look through the lattice.
Ah! father is smoking opium, that he may be serene and in good
spirits! Does it make your head ache? Ah! that is because your are a
mere outer barbarian. She is asleep, Ki-hi; lay her on the sofa, and
let her sleep. How ugly her pale hair is, almost as bad as her big
Lucy had been disappointed at not having a drive with the reindeer,
and she had been telling Don how useful his relations were in other
places. Behold, she awoke in a wide plain, where, as far as her eye
could reach, there was nothing but snow. The few fir-trees that stood
in the distance were heavily laden; and Lucy herself,—where was she?
Going very fast? Yes, whisking over the snow with all her might and
main, and muffled up in cloaks and furs, as indeed was necessary, for
her breath froze upon the big muffler round her throat, so that it
seemed to become as hard as a stone wall; and by her side was a little
boy, muffled up quite as close, with a cap, or rather hood, casing his
whole head, his hands gloved in fur up to the elbows, and long fur
boots. He had an immense long whip in his hand, and was flourishing
it, and striking with it—at what? They were an enormous way off from
him, but they really were very big dogs, rushing along like the wind,
and bearing along with them— what? Lucy's ambition—a sledge, a
thing without wheels, but gliding along most rapidly on the hard
snow; flying, flying almost fast enough to take away her breath, and
leaving birds, foxes, and any creature she saw for one instant, far
behind. And—what was very odd—the young driver had no reins; he
shouted at the dogs and now and then threw a stick at them, and they
quite seemed to understand, and turned when he wanted them to turn.
Lucy wondered how he or they knew the way, it all seemed such a waste
of snow. They went so fast that at first she was unable to speak; then
she ventured on gasping out, "Well, I've been in an express train, but
this beats it! Where are you going?"
"To Petropawlowsky, to change these skins for coffee, and rice, and
rice," answered the boy.
"What skins are they?" asked Lucy.
"Bears'—big brown bears that father killed in a cave—and wolves'
and those of the little ermine and sable that we trap. We get much,
much for the white ermine and his black tail. Father's coming in
another sledge with, oh! such a big pile. Don't you hear his dogs
yelp? We'll win the race yet! Ugh! hoo! hoo! ho-o-o-o!—On! on! lazy
ones, on, I say! don't let the old dogs catch the young ones!"
Crack, crack, went the whip; the dogs yelped with eagerness,—they
don't bark, those Northern dogs; the little Kamschatkadale bawled
louder and louder, and never saw when Lucy rolled off behind, and was
left in the middle of a huge snowdrift, while he flew on with his load.
Here were his father's dogs overtaking her; and then some one was
picking her up. No, it was Don! and here was Mrs. Bunker exclaiming,
"Well, if here is not Miss Lucy asleep on Master's old bearskin!"
"What a beautiful long necklace, Mrs. Bunker! May I have it for
"You may play with it while you are here, Missie, if you'll take
care not to break the string, but it is too curious for you to take
home and lose. It is what they call a Turkish rosary; they say it is
made of rose-leaves reduced to a paste and squeezed ever so hard
together, and that the poor ladies that are shut up in the harems
have little or nothing to do but to run them through their fingers."
"It has a very nice smell," said Lucy, examining the dark brown
beads, which hung loosely on their string, and letting them fall one
by one through her hands, till of course that happened which she was
hoping for: she woke on a long, low sofa, in the midst of a room all
carpet and cushions, in bright colors and gorgeous patterns, curling
about with no particular meaning; and with a window of rich brass
And by her side there was an odd bubbling that put her in mind of
blowing the soap-suds into a froth when preparing them for bubble
blowing; but when she looked round she saw something very unlike the
long pipes her big brother used, or the basin of soap-suds. There was
a beautifully shaped glass bottle, and into it went a very long
twisting tube, like a snake coiled on the floor, and the other end of
the serpent, instead of a head, had an amber mouth-piece which went
between a pair of lips. Lucy knew it for a hubble-bubble or Turkish
pipe, and saw that the lips were in a brown face, with big black eyes,
round which dark bluish circles were drawn. The jet-black hair was
carefully braided with jewels, and over it was thrown a purple satin
sort of pelisse over a white silk embroidered vest, tied in with a
sash, striped with all manner of colors; also immense wide white
trousers, out of which peeped a pair of brown bare feet, on which,
however, were a splendid pair of slippers curled up at the toes.
The owner seemed to be very little older than Lucy, and sat gravely
looking at her for a little while, then clapped her hands. A black
woman came, and the young Turkish maiden said, "Bring coffee for the
little Frank lady."
So a tiny table of mother-of-pearl was brought, and on it some
exquisite little striped porcelain cups, standing not in saucers, but
in silver filigree cups into which they exactly fitted. Lucy
remembered her Chinese experience, and did not venture to ask for
milk or sugar, but she found that the real Turkish coffee was so pure
and delicate that she could drink it without.
"Where are your jewels?" then asked the little hostess.
"I'm not old enough to have any."
"How old are you?"
"Nine! I'm only ten, and I shall be married next week——"
"Married! Oh, no, you are joking."
"Yes, I shall. Selim Bey has paid my father the dowry for me, and I
shall be taken to his house next week."
"And I suppose you like him very much."
"He looks big and tall," said the child with exultation. "I saw him
riding when I went with my mother to the Sweet Waters. 'Amina,' she
said, 'there is your lord, in the Frankish coat—with the white
"Have you not talked to him?" asked Lucy.
"What should I do that for?" said Amina.
"Aunt Bessie used to like to talk to nobody but Uncle Frank before
they were married," replied Lucy.
"I shall talk enough when I am married," replied the little Turk.
"I shall make him give me plenty of sweetmeats, and a carriage with
two handsome bullocks, and the biggest Nubian black slave in the
market to drive me to Sweet Waters, in a thin blue veil, with all my
jewels on. Father says that Selim Bey will give me everything, and a
Frank governess. What is a governess? Is it anything like the little
gold case you have round your neck?"
"My locket with Mamma's hair? Oh, no, no," said Lucy, laughing; "a
governess is a lady to teach you."
"I don't want to learn any more," said Amina, much disgusted; "I
shall tell him I can make sweetmeats, and roll rose-leaves. What
should I learn for?"
"Should you not like to read and write?"
"Teaching is only meant for men," replied Amina. "They have got to
read the Koran, but it is all ugly letters; I won't learn to read."
"You don't know how nice it is to read stories all about different
countries," said Lucy. "Ah! I wish I was in the schoolroom, at home,
and I would show you how pleasant it is."
And Lucy seemed to have her wish all at once, for she and Amina
stood in her own schoolroom, but with no one else there. The first
thing Amina did was to scream, "Oh, what shocking windows! even men
can see in; shut them up." She rolled herself up in her veil, and
Lucy could only satisfy her by pulling down all the blinds, after
which she ventured to look about a little. "What have you to sit on?"
she asked with great disgust.
"Chairs and stools," said Lucy, laughing and showing them.
"These little tables with four legs! How can you sit on them?"
Lucy sat down and showed her. "That is not sitting," she said, and
she tried to curl herself up cross-legged.
"Our teacher always makes us write a long grammar lesson if she
sees us sitting with our legs crossed," said Lucy, laughing with much
amusement at Amina's attempts to wriggle herself up on the stool from
which she nearly fell.
"Ah, I will never have a governess!" cried Amina. "I will cry and
cry, and give Selim Bey no rest till he promises to let me alone. What
a dreadful place this is! Where can you sleep?"
"In bed, to be sure," said Lucy.
"I see no cushions to lie on."
"No; we have bedrooms, and beds there. We should not think of
taking off our clothes here."
"What should you undress for?"
"To sleep, of course."
"How horrible! We sleep in all our clothes wherever we like to lie
down. We never undress but for the bath. Do you go to the bath?"
"I have a bath every morning, when I get up, in my own room."
"Bathe at home! Then you never see your friends? We meet at the
bath, and talk and play and laugh."
"Meet bathing! No, indeed! We meet at home, and out of doors," said
Lucy; "my friend Annie and I walk together."
"Walk together! what, in the street? Shocking! You cannot be a
"Indeed I am," said Lucy, coloring up. "My papa is a gentleman. And
see how many books we have, and how much we have to learn! French, and
music, and sums, and grammar, and history, and geography."
"I will not be a Frank! No, no! I will not learn," said the
alarmed Amina on hearing this catalogue poured forth.
"Geography is very nice," said Lucy; "here are our maps. I will
show you where you live. This is Constantinople."
"I live at Stamboul," said Amina, scornfully.
"There is Stamboul in little letters below—look."
"That Stamboul! The Frank girl is false; Stamboul is a large,
large, beautiful place; not a little black speck. I can see it from
my lattice. White houses and mosques in the sun, and the blue Golden
Horn, with the little vessels gliding along."
Before Lucy could explain, the door opened, and one of her brothers
put in his head. At once Amina began to scream and roll herself in the
window curtain. "A man in the harem! Oh! oh! oh! Were there no
slippers at the door?" And her screaming awoke Lucy, who found herself
at her Uncle Joe's again.
"I liked the mountain girl best of all," thought Lucy. "I wonder
whether I shall ever get among the mountains again. There's a great
stick in the corner that Uncle Joe calls his alpenstock. I'll go and
read the names upon it. They are the names of all the mountains where
he has used it."
She read Mount Blanc, Mount Cenis, the Wengern, and so on; and of
course as she read and sung them over to herself, they lulled her off
into her wonderful dreams, and brought her this time into a meadow,
steep and sloping, but full of flowers, the loveliest flowers, of all
kinds, growing among the long grass that waved over them. The fresh,
clear air was so delicious that she almost hoped she was back in her
dear Tyrol; but the hills were not the same. She saw upon the slope
quantities of cows, goats, and sheep, feeding just as on the Tyrolese
Alps; but beyond was a dark row of pines, and above, in the sky as it
were, rose all round great sharp points—like clouds for their
whiteness, but not in their straight, jagged outlines. And here and
there the deep gray clefts between seemed to spread into white rivers,
or over the ruddy purple of the half-distance came sharp white lines
As she sat up in the grass and looked about her, a bark startled
her. A dog began to growl, bark, and dance round her, so that she
would have been much frightened if the next moment a voice had not
called him off—"Fie, Brilliant, down; let the little girl alone. He
is good, Madamoiselle, never fear. He helps me keep the cows."
"Who are you, then?"
"I am Maurice, the little herd-boy. I live with my grandmother, and
work for her."
"What, in keeping cows?"
"Yes; and look here!"
"Oh, the delicious little cottage! It has eaves and windows, and
balconies, and a door, and little cows and sheep, and men and women,
all in pretty white wood! You did not make it, Maurice?"
"Yes, truly I did; I cut it out with my knife, all myself."
"How clever you must be. And what shall you do with it?"
"I shall watch for a carriage with ladies winding up that long
road; and then I shall stand and take off my hat, and hold out my
cottage. Perhaps they will buy it, and then I shall have enough to
get grandmother a warm gown for the winter. When I grow bigger I will
be a guide, like my father."
"Yes, to lead travellers up to the mountain-tops. There is nowhere
you English will not go. The harder a mountain is to climb, the more
bent you are on going up. And oh, I shall love it too! There are the
great glaciers, the broad streams of ice that fill up the furrows of
the mountains, with the crevasses so blue and beautiful and cruel. It
was in one of them my father was swallowed up."
"Ah! then how can you love them?" said Lucy.
"Because they are so grand and so beautiful," said Maurice. "No
other place has the like, and they make one's heart swell with
wonder, and joy in the God who made them."
And Maurice's eyes sparkled, and Lucy looked at the clear, stern
glory of the mountain points, and felt as if she understood him.
Caper, caper; dance, dance. What a wonderful dance it was, just as
if the little fellow had been made of cork, so high did he bound the
moment he touched the ground; while he jerked out his arms and legs as
if they were pulled by strings, like the Marionettes that had once
performed in front of the window. Only, his face was all fun and life,
and he did look so proud and delighted to show what he could do; and
it was all in clear, fresh, open air, the whole extent covered with
short, green grass, upon which were grazing herds of small lean
horses, and flocks of sheep without tails, but with their wool puffed
out behind into a sort of bustle or panier. There was a cluster
of clean, white-looking houses in the distance; and Lucy knew that she
was in the great plains called the Steppes, that lie between the
rivers Volga and Don.
"Do you live there?" she asked, by way of beginning the
"Yes; my father is the hetman of the Stantitza, and these are my
holidays. I go to school at Tcherkask the greater part of the year."
"Tcherkask! Oh, what a funny name!"
"And you would think it a funny town if you were there. It is built
on a great bog by the side of the river Volga; all the houses stand on
piles of timber, and in the spring the streets are full of water, and
one has to sail about in boats."
"Oh! that must be delicious."
"I don't like it as much as coming home and riding. See!" and as he
whistled, one of the horses came whinnying up, and put his nose over
the boy's shoulder.
"Good fellow! But your horses are thin; they look little."
"Little?" cried the young Cossack. "Why, do you know what our
little horses can do? There are not many armies in Europe that they
have not ridden down, at one time or another. Why, the church at
Tcherkask is hung all round with Colors we have taken from our
enemies. There's the Swede—didn't Charles XII. get the worst of it
when he came in his big boots after the Cossack?—ay, and the Turk,
and the Austrian, and the French? Ah! doesn't my Grandfather tell how
he rode his good little horse all the way from the Volga to the Seine,
and the good Czar Alexander himself gave him the medal with "Not unto
us, but unto Thy Name be the praise'? Our father the Czar does not
think so little of us and our horses as you do, young lady."
"I beg your pardon," said Lucy; "I did not know what your horses
"Oh, you did not! That is some excuse for you. I'll show you."
And in one moment he was on the back of his little horse, leaning
down on its neck, and galloping off over the green plain like the
wind; but it seemed to Lucy as if she had only just watched him out of
sight on one side before he was close to her on the other, having
whirled round and cantered close up to her while she was looking the
other way. "Come up with me," he said; and in one moment she had been
swept up before him on the little horse's neck, and was flying so
wildly over the Steppes that her breath and sense failed her, and she
knew no more till she was safe by Mrs. Bunker's fireside again.
"Suppose now I go to sleep again; what should I like to see next? A
sunny place, I think, where there is sea to look at. Shall it be
Spain, and shall it be among the poor people? Well, I think I should
be where there is a little lady girl. I hope they are not all as lazy
and conceited as the Chinese and the Turk."
So Lucy awoke in a large, cool room with a marble floor and heavy
curtains, but with little furniture except one table, and a row of
chairs ranged along the wall. It had two windows, one looking out into
a garden,—such a garden!—orange-trees with shining leaves and green
and golden fruit and white flowers, and jasmines, and great lilies
standing round about a marble court. In the midst of this court was a
basin of red marble, where a fountain was playing, making a delicious
splashing; and out beyond these sparkled in the sun the loveliest and
most delicious of blue seas—the same blue sea, indeed, that Lucy had
seen in her Italian visit.
That window was empty; but the other, which looked out into the
street, had cushions laid on the sill, an open-work stone ledge
beyond, and little looking-glasses on either side. Leaning over this
sill there was seated a little maiden in a white frock, but with a
black lace veil fastened by a rose into her jet-black hair, and the
daintiest, prettiest-shaped little feet imaginable in white satin
shoes, which could be plainly seen as she knelt on the window-seat.
"What are you looking at?" asked Lucy, coming to her side.
"I'm watching for the procession. Then I shall go to church with
mamma. Look! That way we shall see it come; these two mirrors reflect
everything up and down the street."
"Are you dressed for church?" asked Lucy. "You have no hat on."
"Where does your grace come from not to know that a mantilla is
what is for church? Mamma is being dressed in her black silk and her
"And your shoes?"
I could not wear great, coarse, hard shoes," said the little Dona
Ines; "It would spoil my feet. Ah! I shall have time to show the
Senorita what I can do. Can your grace dance?"
"I danced with Uncle Joe at our last Christmas party," said Lucy,
with great dignity.
"See now," cried the Spaniard; "stand there. Ah! have you no
castanets?" And she quickly took out two very small ivory shells or
bowls, each pair fastened together by a loop, through which she
passed her thumb so that the little spoons hung on her palm, and she
could snap them together with her fingers.
Then she began to dance round Lucy in the most graceful swimming
way, now rising, now falling, and cracking her castanets together at
intervals. Lucy tried to do the same, but her limbs seemed like a
wooden doll's compared with the suppleness and ease of Ines. She made
sharp corners and angles, where the Spaniard floated so like a
sea-bird that it was like seeing her fly or float rather than merely
dance, till at last the very watching her rendered Lucy drowsy and
dizzy; and as the church bells began to ring, and the chant of the
procession to sound, she lost all sense of being in sunny Malaga, the
home of grapes.
There was a great murmur and buzz of learning lessons; rows upon
rows of little boys were sitting before desks, studying; very few
heads looked up as Lucy found herself walking round the room—a large
clean room, with maps hanging on the walls, but hot and weary-feeling,
because there were no windows open and so little fresh air.
"What are you about, little boy?" she asked.
"I am learning my verb," he said; "moneo, mones, monet."
Lucy waited no longer, but moved off to another desk. "And what are
"I am writing my analysis."
Lucy did not know what an analysis was, so she went a little
further. "What are you doing here?" she said timidly, for these were
somewhat bigger boys.
"We are writing an essay on the individuality of self."
That was enough to frighten any one away, and Lucy betook herself
to some quite little boys, with fat rosy faces and light hair. "Are
you busy, too?"
"Oh, yes; we are learning the chief cities of the Fatherland."
Lucy felt like the little boy in the fable, who could not get
either the dog, or the bird, or the bee, to play with him.
"When do you play?" she asked.
"We have an hour's interval after dinner, and another at
supper-time, but then we prepare our work for the morrow," said one
of the boys, looking up well satisfied.
"Work! work! Are you always at work?" exclaimed Lucy; "I only study
from nine to twelve, and half an hour to get my lessons in the
"You are a maiden," said the little boy with civil superiority;
"your brothers study more hours."
"More; yes, but not so many as you do. They play from twelve till
two, and have a holiday on Saturday."
"So, you are not industrious. We are. That is the reason why we can
all act together, and think together, so much better than any others;
and we all stand as one irresistible power, the United Germany."
Lucy have a little gasp! it was all so very wise.
"May I see your sisters?" she said.
The little sisters, Gretchens and Katchens, were learning away
almost as hard as the Hermanns and Fritzes, but the bigger sisters
had what Lucy thought a better time of it. One of them was helping in
the kitchen, and another in the ironing; but then they had their books
and their music, and in the evening all the families came out into the
pleasure gardens, and had little tables with coffee before them, and
the mamma knitted, and the papas smoked, and the young ladies listened
to the band. On the whole, Lucy thought she should not mind living in
Germany, if they would not have so many lessons to learn.
PARIS IN THE SIEGE
"And Uncle Joe is in France, where the fathers and brothers of
those little Prussian boys have been fighting. I wish I could see it."
There was a thunder and a whizzing in the air and a sharp rattling
noise besides; a strange, damp unwholesome smell too, mixed with that
of gunpowder; and when Lucy looked up, she found herself down some
steps in a dark, dull, vaulted-looking place, lined with stone,
however, and open to the street above. A little lamp was burning in a
corner, piles of straw and bits of furniture were lying about, and
upon one of the bundles of straw sat a little rough-haired girl.
"Ah! Madamoiselle, good morning," she said. "Are you come here to
take shelter from the shells? The battery is firing now; I do not
think Mamma will come home till it slackens a little. She is gone to
my brother who is weak after his wounds. I wish I could offer you
something, but we have nothing but water, and it is not even sugared."
"Do you live down here?" asked Lucy, looking round at the dreary
place with wonder.
"Not always. We used to have a pretty little house over this, but
the cruel shells came crashing in, and flew into pieces, tearing
everything to splinters, and we are only safe from them down here. Ah,
if I could only have shown you Mamma's pretty room! But there is a
great hole in the floor now, and the ceiling is all tumbling down, and
the table broken."
"But why do you stay here?"
"Mamma and Emily say it is all the same. We are as safe in our
cellar as we could be anywhere, and we should have to pay elsewhere."
"Then you cannot get out of Paris?"
"Oh no, while the Prussians are all around us, and shut us in. My
brothers are all in the Garde Mobile, and, you see, so is my doll.
Every one must be a soldier, now. My dear Adolphe, hold yourself
straight." (And there the doll certainly showed himself perfectly
drilled and disciplined.) "March—right foot forward—left foot
forward." But in this movement, as may be well supposed, little
Coralie had to help her recruit a good deal.
Lucy was surprised. "So you can play even in this dreadful place?"
"Oh yes! What's the use of crying and wearying one's self? I do not
mind as long as they leave me my kitten, my dear little Minette."
"Oh! what a pretty, long-haired kitten! But how small and thin!"
"Yes, truly, the poor Minette! The cruel people ate her mother, and
there is no milk—no milk, and my poor Minette is almost starved,
though I give her bits of my bread and soup; but the bread is only
bran and sawdust, and she likes it no more than I."
"Ate up her mother!"
"Yes. She was a superb Cyprus cat, all gray; but, alas! one day she
took a walk in the street, and they caught her, and then indeed it was
all over with her. I only hope Minette will not get out, but she is so
lean that they would find little but bones and fur."
"Ah! how I wish I could take you and her home to Uncle Joe, and
give you both good bread and milk! Take my hand, and shut your eyes,
and we will wish and wish very hard, and, perhaps, you will come there
with me. Paris is not very far off."
THE AMERICAN GUEST
No; wishing very hard did not bring poor little French Coralie home
with Lucy; but something almost as wonderful happened. Just at the
time in the afternoon when Lucy used to ride off on her dream to visit
some wonderful place, there came a ring at the front door; a quite
real substantial ring, that did not sound at all like any of the
strange noises of the strange worlds that she had lately been hearing,
but had the real tinkle of Uncle Joe's own bell.
"Well," said Mrs. Bunker, "what can that be, coming at this time of
day? It can never be the doctor coming home without sending orders!
Don't you be running out, Miss Lucy; there'll be a draught of cold air
Lucy stood still; very anxious, and wondering whether she should
see anything alive, or one of her visitors from various countries.
"There is a letter from Mr. Seaman," said a brisk young voice, that
would have been very pleasant if it had not gone a little through the
nose; and past Mrs. Bunker there walked into the full light a little
boy, a year or two older than Lucy, holding out one hand as he saw her
and taking off his hat with the other. "Good morning," he said, quite
at ease; "is this where you live?"
"Good morning," returned Lucy though it was not morning at all;
"where do you come from?"
"Well, I'm from Paris last; but when I'm at home, I'm at Boston. I
am Leonidas Saunders, of the great American Republic."
"Oh, then you are not real, after all?"
"Real! I should hope I was a genuine article."
"Well, I was in hopes that you were real, only you say you come
from a strange country, like the rest of them, and yet you look just
like an English boy."
"Of course I do! my grandfather came from England," said Leonidas;
"we all speak English as well, or better, than you do in the old
"I can't understand it!" said Lucy; "did you come like other
people, by the train, not like the children in my dreams?"
And then Leonidas explained all about it to her: how his father had
brought him last year to Europe and had put him to school at Paris;
but when the war broke out, and most of the stranger scholars were
taken away, no orders came about him, because his father was a
merchant and was away from home, so that no one ever knew whether the
letters had reached him.
So Leonidas had gone on at school without many tasks to learn, to
be sure, but not very comfortable: it was so cold, and there was no
wood to burn; and he disliked eating horses and cats and rats, quite
as much as Coralie did, though he was not in a part of the town where
so many shells from the cannons came in.
At last when Lucy's uncle and some other good gentlemen with the
red cross on their sleeves, obtained leave to enter Paris and take
some relief to the poor, sick people in the hospitals, the people
Leonidas was with, told the gentleman that there was a little
American left behind in their house.
Mr. Seaman, which was Uncle Joe's name, went to see about him, and
found that he had once known his father. So, after a great deal of
trouble, it had been managed that the boy should be allowed to leave
the city. He had been driven in a coach, he told Lucy, with some more
Americans and English, and with flags with stars and stripes or else
Union Jacks all over it; and whenever they came to a French sentry, or
afterwards to a Prussian, they were stopped till he called an officer
who looked at their papers and let them go on.
Mr. Seaman had taken charge of Leonidas, and given him the best
dinner he had eaten for a long time, but as he was going to another
city to other hospitals, he could not keep the boy with him; so he
had put him in charge of a friend who was going to London, to send
him down to Mrs. Bunker.
Fear of Lucy's rash was pretty well over now, and she was to go
home in a day or two; so the children were allowed to be together,
and enjoyed it very much. Lucy told about her dreams, and Leonidas
had a good deal to tell of what he had really seen on his travels.
They wished very much that they could both see one of these wonderful
dreams together, only—what should it be?
THE DREAM OF ALL NATIONS
What should it be? She thought of Arabs with their tents and
horses, and Leonidas told her of Red Indians with their war-paint,
and little Negroes dancing round the sugar-boiling, till her head
began quite to swim and her ears to buzz; and all the children she
had seen seemed to come round her, and join hands and dance.
Oh, such a din! A little Highlander in his tartans stood on a
barrel in the middle, making his bagpipes squeal away; a Chinese with
a bald head and long pigtail beat a gong, and capered with a solemn
face; a Norwegian herd-boy blew a monstrous bark cow-horn; an Indian
juggler twisted snakes round his neck to the sound of the tom-tom; and
Lucy found herself and Leonidas whirling round with a young Dutch
planter between them, and an Indian with a crown of feathers upon the
other side of her.
"Oh!" she seemed to herself to cry, "what are you doing? How do you
all come here?"
"We are from all the nations who are friends, brethren," said the
voices; "we all bring our stores: the sugar, rice, cotton of the West;
the silk and coffee and spices of the East; the tea of China; the furs
of the North: it is all exchanged from one to the other, and should
teach us to be all brethren, since we cannot thrive one without the
"It all comes to our country, because we are clever to work it up,
and send it out to be used in its own homes," said the Highlander; "it
is English and Scotch machines that weave your cottons, ay, and make
"No; it is America that beats you all," cried Leonidas; "what had
you to do but to sit down and starve, when we sent you no cotton?"
"If you send cotton, 'tis we that weave it," cried the Scot.
Lucy was almost afraid they would come to blows over which was the
greatest and most skilful country. "It cannot be buying and selling
that make nations love one another, and be peaceful," she thought. "Is
it being learned and wise?"
"But the Prussian boys are studious and wise, and the French are
clever and skilful, and yet they have had that dreadful war: I wonder
what it is that would make and keep all these countries friends!"
And then there came an echo back to little Lucy: "For out of Zion
shall go forth the Law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. And
He shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people; and
they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into
pruning-hooks; nations shall not lift up sword against nation, neither
shall they war any more."
Yes; the more they learn and keep the law of the Lord, the less
there will be of those wars. To heed the true law of the Lord will do
more for peace and oneness than all the cleverness in book-learning,
or all the skilful manufactures in the world.