Part 1
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: _"No Talent."—Frontispiece._ Amity told her story, and the men clustered round to look at the dog.]
NO TALENT. A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
AND
PHIL'S PANSIES. A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.
PHILADELPHIA: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. ————————— NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE. CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.
CONTENTS.
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NO TALENT. A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
CHAP. I.—IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE
CHAP. II.—PUG
CHAP. III.—PATCHWORK
CHAP. IV.—KNITTING
CHAP. V.—THE KNITTING FINISHED
PHIL'S PANSIES. A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
CHAP. I.—THE SEEDS
CHAP. II.—SEEDS BY THE WAYSIDE
CHAP. III.—THE WEEDS
CHAP. IV.—FLOWERS
CHAP. V.—THE FRUIT
NO TALENT.
A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.
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"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."—Matt. 25:40.
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PHILADELPHIA: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. ————————— NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE. CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
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NO TALENT.
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CHAPTER FIRST.
IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE.
AMITY BOGARDUS sat in the little summer-house, which stood on the top of the great pile of rocks in her grandfather's grounds. To speak with precision they were her grounds, for this little plain Amity, who was sitting in such a mournful posture coiled up on the rustic sofa, was the owner of this great place with its grand old stone house, its beautiful gardens and great trees, and lawns shaven as smooth as velvet, with gray, mossy rocks sticking up through the turf here and there. The greenhouses, and hot-houses, and grape-houses, the carriages and horses, and high-bred Alderney cows, and all the rest belonged to her. Yes, the prettiest and grandest place in all Brookvale belonged to this little plain girl, and thousands upon thousands of dollars beside.
"An heiress!" says somebody. "Oh, then we know all about her. She is a vain, proud girl, who looks down on every one, and thinks nothing of people who are not rich. And then she is going to lose all her property somehow, and get good all of a sudden. That is always the way with heiresses."
I confess that is very apt to be the way with heiresses in books; but it was not at all the way with Amity Bogardus. A more humble-minded child, one who thought less of herself and more of her neighbors, it would be hard to find. Indeed, the mean opinion she had of herself, her looks, her manners, her talents, often made her very unhappy, as was the case just now. She was apt to steal away by herself, and sit and think how very sad it was to be a poor, homely little girl, with a round Dutch face all of a color, grayish hazel eyes, and straight hair, which was only light—not golden, nor flaxen, nor auburn, nor even red—which would have been something.
"It is just the color of the light part of Aunt Julia's Pug," said Amity, pulling a lock of the offending hair round into the light, with a spiteful little twitch, as if the poor hair could help its color. "And, to make the matter better, I must have dark eyebrows coming together over my nose and green eyes."
And then Amity pushed the offending hair off her forehead and laid her head down on the window seat, and cried a little, as she reflected how delightful it would be to be as handsome and accomplished as her aunt Julia, till from dreaming awake she came to dreaming in earnest. She was waked from her nap by the sound of voices near by.
"Shall we take the trouble to climb up to the summer-house?" said Aunt Julia. "It is so hazy I am afraid the view would hardly pay us for the labor."
"Suppose we sit down here in the shade," said another voice, which Amity knew at once to be that of Mrs. Paget, a lady whom Amity had often admired at a distance, but with whom she had been too shy to make acquaintance.
"And what about Amity?" said Mrs. Paget. "Is she like her father?"
"Oh, not a bit—just her mother over again," said Miss Julia, decidedly.
"If she is her mother over again, she must be a very good child," said Mrs. Paget. "A more blameless person than Anna Van Schoonhoven I never knew."
"Oh, the child is good enough—that is, I have never seen anything to the contrary," answered Miss Julia, carelessly. "But the trouble is she is so totally uninteresting. She has no talent."
"Of any kind?" asked Mrs. Paget. And Amity knew by the tone of her voice just how her eyebrows went up as she spoke.
"Why no," answered Miss Julia. "She has no ear for music; in fact she can hardly tell one tune from another. She has no talent for drawing, and I don't believe she will ever pronounce French decently. And then she is so hopelessly common looking. Her figure might be improved by proper corsets, I think, but she complains that they hurt her, and so papa won't let her wear them. Such absurd ideas men have! But it don't make much difference. No dressing will ever make anything of her but a dowdy Dutch doll. It is really a great disappointment."
"I dare say," said Mrs. Paget.
"I want papa to send her to Mrs. Green's," continued Miss Julia: "I am sure she will make something of the child, if any one can; but he has taken up the most singular prejudice against Mrs. Green, and won't let her go. He says Mrs. Green has no reality in herself, and takes all they have out of her pupils. I wish you would use your influence with him."
"I am afraid I do not like Mrs. Green any better than Mr. Bogardus does," said Mrs. Paget. "But where is Amity? I have not seen her at all."
"Oh, she is moping about the place somewhere, I suppose," said Aunt Julia. "She is given to that kind of thing. See, there is a carriage. Shall we go in?"
"I don't think I will. I don't care about meeting strangers," said Mrs. Paget, glancing at her deep mourning. "I will climb up on the rocks and look at the view—I should like to see the summer-house again."
Mrs. Paget was a light, active little body, and she did not seem to find the steep path up the side of the ledge at all fatiguing. She had another object in the climb besides the view. She had seen the flutter of a little black dress, and she was quite sure she had heard a suppressed sob; and the idea crossed her mind that Amity might have overheard the talk below, and been hurt by it.
She was quite right. Amity had overheard her aunt's remarks, and been cruelly hurt by them. To be sure she had said the same thing to herself a hundred times, but nobody had ever spoken it out in plain English before. It seemed somehow to make matters a great deal worse.
"'A dowdy Dutch doll!'"
Yes, that was all she was, or ever would be, and there was no use in trying. She wished she were a Roman Catholic, so that she might go into the great convent down by the river, and hide herself from the relations that were ashamed of her. Or else she wished she could die; then they would have the money and the fine place, and she would be with her mother, who loved her dearly, and had never been mortified because her little girl was not a beauty nor a genius. These were foolish thoughts, and rather naughty besides, but Amity was a poor, lonely, unhappy little girl, with nobody to whom she could tell her troubles; so it is no great wonder that she gave way to impatience.
"Poor little thing! I imagined as much," thought Mrs. Paget; but she did not say a word.
She was one to whom God had given a great many talents, and among them was that of sympathy. She knew how to comfort others with the comfort wherewith she herself was comforted of God, as the apostle indicates (2 Cor. 1:4). She saw that Amity was greatly hurt and excited, and not in any state to hear reason; so she just sat down, and lifting the little girl's head from the hard bench laid it in her lap, on her cool, soft cambric handkerchief, and stroked the hair as gently as if it had been the most beautiful wavy auburn hair in the world—stroked it as no one had ever done since the child's mother died.
Somehow her very touch calmed and comforted Amity. Presently she raised her tear-stained face.
"I am afraid it was very naughty to listen," said she, in a quivering voice; "I didn't mean to, but I was caught here, and did not know what to do at first."
"I understand," said Mrs. Paget; "I don't think you were at all to blame, so don't fret about it, my dear. Was that what you were crying about?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But, my dear, you must not let idle words hurt you so much. There are plenty of them always flying about, and if we let them sting us every time they come near, we might as well live in a wasps' nest."
"If they had not been true, I would not have minded," said Amity. "But it is all so. I am just what Aunt Julia called me, and I shall never be anything else. Even 'a Dutch doll' is good to play with, and I am not that."
"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Paget.
"Every one says so," answered Amity.
"How many is 'every one'? I am sure your grandfather never said so."
"No: grandpapa is so polite he would never hurt any one's feelings; but I am sure he is disappointed because I don't look like his family. I suppose when I am of age I shall have ever so much money, and perhaps I can do some good with that," continued Amity, who somehow felt as if it would be a comfort to tell all her thoughts to her new friend. "But I don't think it is always easy to do good with money either."
"Very true and besides, you would have a good while to wait. Eleven years is a long time to live in the world without doing any good in it; don't you think so?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Amity, slowly. "I don't know what I can do though. It is just as Aunt Julia says: I have no talent. I don't like music, at least I don't care about any but hymn tunes, and such like. I can't draw one bit—not even a straight line."
"Few people can the first time they try," said Mrs. Paget.
"And I am very slow about learning," continued Amity, "especially French. I can't catch the sounds somehow, and I hate the sound of it. It is just like a wagon rattling over a rough road."
Mrs. Paget smiled.
"You make out a hard case, Amity. But now will you let me ask you two or three serious questions?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why do you suppose God made you and set you in this world?"
"I don't know," answered Amity, rather doubtfully.
"Doesn't it seem as if he must have meant you to do something?"
"I suppose so," answered Amity. "The trouble is to find out what he wants me to do."
"If you really wish to work for him, I don't think you will fail in finding work," said Mrs. Paget. "I never knew any of his children to suffer in that way. The difficulty often is that they are not willing to do the work which he provides, but they want to do something else—something which shall make a great figure in the eyes of the world, or perhaps of the church; something which will be pleasant and easy, or for which they fancy they have a particular genius, which nobody appreciates. A young lady thinks it would be a fine thing to be a 'Sister of Charity,' though she cannot possibly sit up at night with a sick neighbor, or help to lay out a dead child. She wants to go on a foreign mission, but she can't take a class in Sunday-school or sewing-school."
"That reminds me of something," said Amity, eagerly. "I heard you say the other day that you wanted some patchwork basted for the sewing-school, and I thought perhaps you would let me do it. Mother taught me to sew when I was very little, and I like patchwork. I have made a whole bed-quilt for a lady in the hospital since I came here."
"Then it seems you have one talent, and a very useful one. As to the patchwork, I assure you I shall be glad to turn the whole basket over to you, if only I can depend on your having the work ready—if you won't get tired of it after a week or two."
"I don't think I shall," said Amity modestly. "I almost always do stick to what I begin, because I hate to leave things half done."
"Then there is another talent."
"But, after all, I am a homely little thing," said Amity, recurring to her first grievance. "If only my eyebrows were not so ugly, I don't think I should mind the rest."
"The ancient Greeks would have considered your eyebrows a great beauty," said Mrs. Paget. "I am not going to flatter you, Amity, by telling you that you are pretty, or to say that beauty is of no account. I don't think so. Beauty is like other gifts of God, to be used for his service and glory. He has not seen fit to give it to you, and you must try to be content without it. Your duty toward your neighbors requires you to be neat and tidy, and to dress so as not to offend the taste of those about you. After that, the less you think of your looks the better.
"As to the rest, do whatever comes in your way; help when you can and comfort when you can, and do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, remembering his words, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' and 'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.' Do you love him, my dear?"
Amity looked down on the floor, and a color came to her face which made her look lovely for the moment.
"Yes, ma'am," she whispered. "I love him because he died on the cross for my salvation."
"And have you asked him to show you what he would have you do?"
"I don't think I have," said Amity. "I never thought of it in that way."
"Then let that be your first work. Now we have talked enough; only remember this, my child: every person has at least one talent given him, for which he must answer to him who gave it. Remember, too, that the man who had one talent was the man who hid it away, and was judged and punished accordingly. Now let us go up to the house."
CHAPTER SECOND.
PUG.
MRS. PAGET did not go back to the house after all. At the turn of the road she met her carriage, with a note from her daughter telling her of the arrival of friends from a distance; so she got into the carriage and went home, leaving with Amity a note for Miss Julia.
Amity, left alone, turned out of the broad gravel road into a little path which went winding among the shrubs and trees. She knew she would not be wanted at the house, and she felt as if she would like to think over what she had heard.
She thought to such good purpose that her eyes grew bright, her head was raised, and the corners of her mouth lifted themselves up as if somebody had put little pulleys in them. Before she had finished her walk, she had come to the wise conclusion that she had been making herself very unhappy for nothing, and that after all she had a great deal to be thankful for. Every one was good to her—even Aunt Julia, who, after all, had not meant to hurt her feelings, since she could not know that any one was in the summer-house. She had books and flowers, and grandpapa let her have as many pets as ever she liked, and had promised her a pony.
"And if I am not handsome, why, then I am not, and that is all about it," said Amity, very wisely. "Miss Lilly Paget is not handsome either, and every one likes her quite as well as they do Aunt Julia, for aught I know. And if I can't play or paint, or do any of the grand things, I must be content with the little ones, that's all."
And then Amity fell into a still graver way of thinking. She was a thoughtful little girl; she had been her mother's only companion and comfort for years. Mrs. Bogardus had not been a happy woman. I cannot tell you all about it here, but there had been a sad family quarrel, which lasted for years. It grew out of the fact that Mr. Henry Bogardus married the daughter of his father's half-brother, against the will of the parents and other friends on both sides. There was a great deal of money involved, and many lawsuits grew up, and, as I said, the quarrel lasted for years, long after poor foolish young Henry Bogardus was lying in his far-away grave in South America, whither he had gone in hopes of doing something for his wife and child.
But the feud was made up in the last year of Mrs. Bogardus's life, and Grandfather von Schoonhoven, seeing that he could not possibly take his great property into the grave with him, gave it all to little Amity. She was left to the guardianship of old Judge Bogardus, and all the family had come to spend the summer at Pine Ridge.
Amity, having been for some years her mother's only companion, was old—rather too old—for her years.
"The child needs young society," Mrs. Paget said to Miss Julia.
And Miss Julia replied, "That is another reason for sending her to Mrs. Green's."
At which, Mrs. Paget tossed up her beautiful chin in way she had, and said nothing more.
Amity turned aside once more to a little rustic seat around the trunk of a great chestnut, and sat some little time leaning her head on her hands. Then she arose and went down a somewhat steep path with something like a dancing step till she came to a little bridge which was thrown over a deep hollow or chasm in the ground, at the bottom of which was a small pond. There was a way to get down to the water, but it was steep and rather dangerous. Amity was about to cross the bridge when she heard a pitiful whine, and looking down she saw an old friend—or I might better say an old enemy—in great trouble.
"Why, Pug!" she exclaimed. "How in the world did you get down there?"
Pug raised his little black nose and gave a pitiful howl, as if he would say, "The question is how I am to get up again."
He had fallen into the pond and seemed to be hurt, for he could hardly keep his head above water; and though he was close to the edge of the pond, he could not scramble out.
Now Amity had no reason to like Pug, who Was a sadly-spoiled dog. He would never be friends with her; he often barked and snapped at her; and he expected her to get up and open the door for him twenty times in an hour, if he chose to go in and out as often.
But she could not see the poor little fellow in danger of drowning without feeling sorry for him. At first she thought she would call one of the men; but it was a long way to the house or barn, and she felt sure that Pug would be drowned before she could get back. She looked at the path.
"It is pretty steep; but after all, I have been up and down a great deal worse places than that, in Vermont," said she. "I can't go and leave him there. Yes, poor fellow, yes, Mite is coming!"
"Mite" had been Mrs. Bogardus's pet name for her little girl, and Amity loved it dearly; but nobody called her by it now. She went slowly and safely down the path, and holding fast by a stout bush, stooped down, and, by the aid of Pug's collar, she succeeded in landing him safely on the bank.
The poor dog yelped piteously, and Amity rather expected he would snap at her; but instead of that, he licked her hand. He was very much hurt—so that he could not stand; one of his paws was cut, and Amity thought his leg was broken.
"You poor little thing! How did you get into such a scrape?" said Amity.
Pug whined and licked her hand again, but he could not tell his story. The fact was he had seen a water-rat, and being a rash and inconsiderate, as well as a brave, dog, he had jumped after the rat without even thinking how or where he was to land. The result was that he did not land at all, but fell first on a sharp ridge of rock, and then tumbled into the water.
"Now I should like to know how in the world I am to get you up," said Amity. "I don't see how it is to be done, unless I carry you in my apron—if only you won't bite me!"
But Pug had no notion of biting. He was a sensible dog, with all his faults, and he perceived that Amity was trying her best to help him, so he submitted patiently when Amity gathered him up in her apron. And though the journey up the bank hurt him cruelly, he only whined to himself, and never offered to bite.
"You are a darling dog, so you are!" said Amity, patting the poor, piteous little black nose which Pug held up to her. "I suppose I had better take you straight to Aunt Julia. She must be very uneasy about you."
Aunt Julia was standing out on the lawn with some visitors, and she looked—like a queen, Amity thought, with her lace shawl, and her shady hat with a long white feather curling round the crown. In her interest for the dog, Amity quite forgot to be shy of the strange ladies. She had draggled her frock in the wet bushes, and the blood from Pug's wound had soaked through her white apron, so that she made rather an untidy figure.
"You unlucky child!" said Aunt Julia. "What have you done now?"
"Have you hurt yourself?" asked one of the ladies, in a kindly voice.
"No, ma'am," answered Amity: "it is Pug who is hurt. He has fallen down the bank by the pond, Aunt Julia, and I am afraid his leg is broken. Just see!"