Part 3

MABEL HOWARD AND HER PET.

Mabel Howard, my little heroine, was not exactly an English girl, though she was the daughter of English parents. She was born in India, in Calcutta, where her father, Colonel Howard, was stationed for several years with his regiment. Mabel was not, I am sorry to say, a bright and blooming little maiden, though she had a sweet, intelligent face, and very endearing ways. From her birth, she had been pale, slight, and feeble. The climate was very bad for her; and, though all possible pains were taken with her health, she did not gain strength, but grew weaker and weaker. At last, when she was about nine years of age, it was resolved to send her to England, to stay with her grandparents, who lived in London. Neither her papa nor her mamma could go with her; but Katuka, her ayah, or native nurse, a kind, faithful woman, would go and stay with her always, and a friend of Colonel Howard, an officer returning home, would take charge of them both till they should reach London.

Poor Mabel's loving little heart was almost broken at the thought of being sent so far away from her papa and mamma and baby-brother; but she knew it was all meant for her good, and did not complain.

Of all Mabel's pets, she loved best a beautiful red and white cockatoo, that her papa had given her on her seventh birthday.

Bobby--for so this favorite was called--was a very knowing bird indeed--talking fluently, if not wisely, in both English and Hindostanee; and though somewhat vain of his beauty and accomplishments, and a little too selfish and fond of good living, never arrogant or surly, but the most gracious and amiable of cockatoos.

Bobby had a fine gilded cage, which hung in a shaded veranda, where the family sat in the cool morning and evening hours; so, when not talking, or talked to himself, he picked up a good deal of knowledge by listening to the conversation of others.

Everybody liked Bobby, he was so clever and comical; but Mabel not only liked and petted him, but cared for him constantly; patiently ministered to his dainty appetite, and tried always to teach him good and useful things. Indeed, I am afraid that, if it had not been for his young mistress, Bobby would have been a wicked little heathen, like other Hindoo cockatoos.

When Mabel was told that she must go to England, almost the first words which she sobbed out were, "May I take Bobby?"

"Of course, darling," said her papa; "Bobby shall go with you."

But on the morning when Katuka and her young mistress sailed, lo, Bobby was nowhere to be found! He had been stolen in his cage from the veranda, and carried away during the night, by some straggling native; and poor little Mabel was obliged to go away with a new grief weighing down her tender, childish heart. All through the long voyage, she missed and mourned for her lost pet, and, when she reached London, her good grandmamma could give her nothing that would quite take its place.

Everybody was kind to the lonely little girl, and much was done to make her well and happy. Every day her grandmamma or her good ayah took her to drive or walk in Hyde Park, or Kensington Gardens, or out on the open, breezy heaths; and Mabel soon grew better, healthier, and stronger, and a soft color stole into her pale cheeks, and deepened and brightened, day by day, like the flush of an opening rose.

Mabel dearly loved her kind English friends, but there were sometimes chill wintry days, or dull rainy evenings, when she was very homesick, and cried to see again her far-off Indian home, her papa and mamma, and little baby-brother.

At such times, she would often say to her kind ayah, who wept with her, "Ah, Katuka, if I only had poor Bobby here, it would be some consolation."

One day, when Mabel had been about six months in England, her grandmamma took her to the Zoological Gardens. She was greatly interested in seeing the animals, though she shrank away with a shudder from the tigers, of whom she had heard fearful stories in India. At last, they entered a long, beautiful gallery, all hung with bright gilded cages of gorgeous birds, mostly parrots, of many different species. As Mabel walked slowly along, admiring the pretty chattering creatures, but sadly remembering her lost Bobby, and thinking that no one of all these was half so beautiful as he, suddenly she heard, from a cage just before her, a joyous familiar cry: "Good morning, Miss Mabel!--come to bring Bobby dinner? Poor Bobby hungry!"

With a cry of delight, Mabel sprang forward and flung her arms about the cage, and kissed the crimson-tuffed head of a pretty cockatoo, thrust through the bars--Bobby's head--for it was indeed her own dear lost bird!

Sir John Howard, Mabel's grandfather, was able to buy Bobby of the Zoological Society, who had bought him of a sailor from Calcutta so Mabel had her pet again.

He seemed the same intelligent, affectionate bird as ever. He had forgotten nothing he had ever known; but he had learned some rather rough sayings of the sailors, on his voyage from India, which did not go very well with the good things his gentle little mistress had taught him. But for all that, he was a great comfort to her, and she never was homesick any more.

After a few years, Mabel's papa, mamma, and little brother came to England to live--never to return to India. Ah, there was a joyful meeting one morning, in Leicester Square. Sir John and Lady Howard were overjoyed to see their darling only son again; and he, bronzed and weather-beaten soldier as he was, felt as glad to get home as he had ever been when he was a homesick school-boy at Eton. Mrs. Howard was welcomed as a real daughter, and her beautiful little boy almost smothered with kisses. Mabel was half wild with happiness, and her parents were surprised and delighted to find her grown so healthy and handsome. The faithful Katuka kissed the hands of her master and mistress with tears of joy--while Bobby, grown impatient at not being noticed, called out sharply from his perch--"Avast there shipmates! what a hullabaloo! Bobby wants breakfast!"

St. Paul's Cathedral

STORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

The Cathedral Church of St. Paul's is the largest religious edifice in London, and one of the largest in the world. It stands on high ground in the centre of the city, and can be seen for a long distance in several directions, though it is too closely surrounded by other large buildings to show to the best advantage. It is less beautiful than some of the old English minsters, but in size grander than any. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and covers more than two acres of ground. The dome is nearly as large as that of St. Peter's, at Rome, and from every part of the vast city of London you can see it looming up toward the sky--a dark, stupendous object--sometimes gilded by the setting sun, sometimes wreathed by the mists of morning. The dome is surmounted by a cupola, called "the lantern," over which is placed an immense ball of gilt copper, weighing five thousand six hundred pounds, and bearing above it a gilt cross, weighing three thousand six hundred pounds.

The interior of the cathedral is very grand, but rather dark and gloomy, even under the great central light of the dome--except when viewed by a very clear sunshine, the rarest thing in the world in "great London town;" for what with the smoke, the fog, and the rain, the poor old sun has few opportunities of making himself agreeable to the Londoners. But when he does get a chance to shine, he seems to make the most of it, and surely nothing can be more pleasant than a right [Transcriber's note: bright?] sunny morning in London. On such a morning we visited St. Paul's Cathedral.

Before ascending to the dome, we wandered about for some time in the nave and transept, examining with much interest the monuments, statues, and tablets, erected in honor of celebrated English poets, artists, soldiers, naval heroes, and statesmen, and seeking out the famous epitaph of the noble architect, and the great and good man, Sir Christopher Wren. This is in Latin, but translated, reads thus:--

"Beneath lies Christopher Wren, the architect of this church and city, who lived more than ninety years, not for himself alone, but for the public. Reader, do you seek his monument? look around!"

About the interior of the dome are a series of pictures, illustrating the life of St. Paul. An incident occurred during the painting of these which I will relate, as a remarkable instance of presence of mind. The artist, Sir James Thornhill, painted standing on a scaffold, erected of course at a great height from the ground. This scaffold was securely built, but not protected by any railing. One day, while fortunately a friend was with him watching him at his work--having just finished the head of one of the apostles, he forgot where he was, and with his hand over his eyes, stepped hastily backward, to see how the picture would look from a distance. In a moment he stood on the very edge of the platform; another step--another inch backward were certain death! His friend dared not speak, for fear of startling him; but catching up a large brush, he dashed it over the face of the apostle, smearing the picture shockingly. Sir James sprang forward instantly, crying out:

"Bless my soul! what have you done?" "I have saved your life," replied his friend, calmly. For the next moment the two stood face to face, very pale and still, but thanking God fervently in their full, loud-beating hearts.

Within the dome is "The Whispering Gallery." This is surely very curious; the least whisper breathed against the wall at a certain point, being distinctly heard on the opposite side of the gallery, or making the entire inner circle of the great dome. After a long, weary ascent of very dirty and dark staircases, we reached the cupola, and great London and its environs lay beneath us! Oh, what a wide and wonderful view was that! It was almost overwhelming--and so bewildered me at first, that I could not clearly make out any thing. But soon that dizziness of astonishment passed away, and I began to recognize, one after another, places and buildings that had grown familiar to me. There was Hyde Park, looking at that distance like a plantation of young trees; there was Buckingham Palace, the new palace of Westminster, and the grand old Abbey. I could see the flash of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, and trace the silver winding of the Thames, through miles on miles of docks and warehouses, under dark bridges, past darker prisons, far up into the green and smiling country, and far down toward the blue and shining sea. There was the Tower, which, though not a dark or dilapidated building, always has a guilty, gloomy look,--after you know what it is. There was the Monument, towering toward the sky, in memory of the great conflagration in London, when, where those magnificent buildings now stand, were piles and masses of fire--and great flames going up in red columns, to heaven.

Brightly shone the sun on hundreds of spires and domes, cheerily lighting up all that vast scene beneath us; the wide, elegant streets, open squares and parks of the town, and the busy crowded streets and narrow lanes of the city. The kindly rays fell just as warmly and clearly into the dark and damp courts of the miserable parish of St. Giles, as on to the noble terraces and into the palace gardens of fashionable West End. Oh, the beautiful sunshine! God's manna of light--falling for the poor as well as for the rich.