WISH that all little nurses were as trustworthy as Silverwing, or as kind and patient with their charges! While Polly Bright has sat in her mother’s cottage trimming her bonnet, till it looks as absurd as pink ribbons can make it, the poor baby has been crying unheeded in his cradle, except that now and then, when vexed more than usual by the noise, with an almost angry look she pauses for a moment to rock the cradle with her foot. She does not notice that little Johnny has been clambering up by the pail, which her mother has set aside for her washing, till the[27] sudden sound of a fall, and a splash, and a child’s frightened cry, startle her, and she sees little streams running all over the stone floor, and Johnny flat on his face in the middle of a loud roar,—and a pool of water.  
A MISHAP.
Up she jumps, not in the best of tempers. Poor Johnny is dragged up by one arm, and receives one or two slaps on the back, which only makes him cry louder than before; he stands a picture of childish misery, with dripping dress and open mouth, the tears rolling down his rosy cheeks, helpless and frightened, as his careless sister shakes and scolds him, and shakes him again, for what was the effect of her own negligence.
[28]Happily for the little boy, Minnie Wingfield is a near neighbour, and comes running at the sound of his distress.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear little man?” are her first words as she enters the cottage.
“Look here! did you ever see anything like it? His dress clean on to-day! I cannot turn my back for a moment but he must be at the pail,—naughty, tiresome, mischievous boy!” and poor Johnny received another shake. “A pretty state the cottage is in,—and there—oh, my bonnet! my bonnet!” exclaimed Polly, as she saw that in her hurry and anger she had thrown it down, and that, pink ribbons and all, it lay on the floor, right across one of the little streams of water.
“Never mind the bonnet; the poor child may be hurt, and—oh, take care, the baby will be wetted!” and without waiting for Polly’s tardy aid, Minnie pushed the cradle beyond reach of danger.
[29]While Polly was yet bemoaning her bonnet, and trying to straighten out its damaged ribbons, Minnie had found out something dry for the shivering little boy, had rubbed him, and comforted him, and taken him upon her knee; then asking him to help her to quiet poor baby, had hushed the sickly infant in her arms. Was there no pleasure to her kind heart when its wailing gradually ceased, and the babe fell into a sweet sleep,—or when Johnny put his plump arms tight round her neck, and pressed his little lips to her cheek?
There are some called to do great deeds for mankind, some who bestow thousands in charity, some who visit hospitals and prisons, and live and die the benefactors of their race. But let not those who have not power to perform anything great, imagine that because they can do little, they need therefore do nothing to increase the sum of happiness upon earth. There is a terrible amount of suffering caused by neglect of, or[30] unkindness to, little children. Their lives—often how short!—are embittered by harshness, their tempers spoiled, sometimes their health injured; and can those to whose care the helpless little ones were confided, imagine that there is no sin in the petulant word, the angry blow, or that many will not have one day to answer for all the sorrow which they have caused to their Lord’s feeble lambs, to those whose spring-time of life should be happy?
Would my readers like to know a little more of Minnie Wingfield, whose look was so kind, whose words were so gentle, that her presence was like sunshine wherever she went? She lived in a little white cottage with a porch, round which twined roses and honeysuckle. There was a little narrow seat just under this porch, where Minnie loved to sit in the summer evenings with her work, or her book when her work was done, listening to the blackbird that sang in the apple-tree, and the humming of the[31] bees amidst the blossoms. Little Minnie led a retired life, but by no means a useless one. If her mother’s cottage was the picture of neatness, it was Minnie who kept it so clean. Her brother’s mended stockings, his nicely-washed shirts, all did credit to her neat fingers. Yet she could find time to bestow on the garden, to trim the borders, to water the plants, to tie up the flowers in which her sick mother delighted. Nor did Minnie neglect the daily school. She was not clever, but patient and ever anxious to please; her teacher regarded her as one of her best scholars, and pointed her out as an example to the rest. But Minnie’s great enjoyment was in the Sunday-school; there she learned the lessons which made duty sweet to her, and helped her on the right way through the week. The small Bible which had been given to her by her father, with all his favourite verses marked, was a precious companion to Minnie: not studied as a task-book, or carelessly read as a matter[32] of custom; but valued as a treasure, and consulted as a friend, and made the rule and guide of daily life.
And was not Minnie happy? In one sense she certainly was so, but still she had her share of this world’s trials. The kind father whom she had fondly loved had died the year before; and besides the loss of so dear a friend, his death had brought poverty upon his family. It was a hard struggle to make up the rent of the little cottage, which Mrs. Wingfield could not bear to quit, for did not everything there remind her of her dear husband,—had he not himself made the porch and planted the flowers that adorned it! Often on a cold winter’s day the little fire would die out for want of fuel, and Minnie rise, still hungry, from the simple meal which she had spared that there might be enough for her parent and her brother.
Mrs. Wingfield’s state of health was another source of sorrow. She was constantly ailing, and never felt well, and[33] though saved every trouble by her attentive child, and watched as tenderly as a lady could have been, the sufferings of the poor woman made her peevish and fretful, and sometimes even harsh to her gentle daughter.
[34]
 
MINNIE WITH THE FIREWOOD.
[35]Tom, her brother, was also no small trial to Minnie. Unlike her, he had little thought for anything beyond self; he neither considered the comfort nor the feelings of others. If Minnie was like sunshine in the cottage of her mother, Tom too often resembled a bleak east wind; and though Mrs. Wingfield and her daughter never admitted such a thought, their home was happiest when Tom was not in it.
But it is time to return to our hive.