Part 4 (2/2)
”Then I move to be called Uncle Josiah directly!” I said, laughing; ”so, my dear niece and nephew, don't you think it would be a good plan for us to go down on that nice yellow sand there, and look at the waves?”
The children were delighted with this plan, so we all three walked to the steep wooden steps that lead from the bluff to the beach below, and were soon on the sands. Gipsey came racing after as usual, and in his haste to join us, ran so fast down the steps, that he couldn't stop himself, but had to bring up on the sand past the water mark, looking comically astonished. To put a finis.h.i.+ng touch to his misfortunes, a great big wave came tumbling in just then, and over poor Gipsey it went!
sousing him head and ears! It frightened him so much that he rushed dripping wet to Neighbor Nelly, and jumped into her lap, squealing dismally. Such a perfect shower-bath of cold salt water as rained all over her pretty muslin dress, and trim little gaiters and stockings! We had to shake her well, and put Gipsey to bed on a sandhill near us, where he went to sleep, and, I hope, forgot his miseries.
Perhaps you don't know it, but the sand is a famous place to write your name. You go as near the retreating wave as you dare, and then, with a walking stick or an umbrella, or your finger, if nothing better is to be had, write your name, or draw a hideous spook on the wet sand. You have to be quick about it, too; for just as you are putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the work, another great billow is sure to come tearing at you, with a wide, deep hollow of emerald green, and foaming crest, looking like molten silver in the moonlight. Cras.h.!.+ it falls on the beach; and a long rush of foam slides up the sand as you scamper out of reach, not always without a wet shoe or two. Now the water has all run back, but where is the writing? The sand is smooth once more, and ready, like a great blackboard, to be marked on anew. So the sea is always clearing your writing book for you, and giving you a chance to begin again and see how long it will last!
I should think we wrote ”Nelly,” ”Jimmy,” and ”Neighbor Oldbird,” about fifty times each on the sand, with my walking stick; and then we ”hung Jeff. Davis on a sour apple tree,” and depicted him with Old Spookey coming after him, and told the Atlantic Ocean, ”We like blue fish,” and ”We're going in bathing Monday,” and never succeeded in keeping one of our achievements more than half a minute.
We stayed down on the delightful beach until nearly half-past nine; and, dear me, what a heap of sand we got in our shoes! It was quite wonderful how it contrived to work its way in; but there it was, making us lift up our feet as heavily as though we had cannon b.a.l.l.s tied to our ankles.
But it was getting late, and high time for small people to be off to bed; so, with a shake of the hand from one of my little neighbors, and a ”good kiss” from the other, I don't say _which_, Gipsey was waked up, and they all trotted off together.
Next morning was Sunday, and a beautiful suns.h.i.+ny day. The first thing I did when I woke up, was to pop my head out of the window and take a look at the ocean. There it was, as beautiful as ever, and now I found out a funny thing about Long Branch that I hadn't noticed the evening before.
”Why,” said I, ”is it possible I am in the country? Where are the trees?” They were nowhere to be seen, not so much as a bush; while the flowers were represented by everybody's bathing dresses hanging over all the fences, and on ever so many clothes-lines besides, to dry. The fact is, that the Atlantic Ocean is determined to let nothing be admired but itself; so it will not permit a tree to grow any nearer its sh.o.r.es than half a mile. So all the foliage there consists of the direful old bathing dresses, flapping in the wind and looking like so many scarecrows put up to frighten off the fishhawks.
In the morning we went to the cunning little Episcopal church, and listened to the earnest teachings of the n.o.ble young rector, who is working so bravely in his Master's cause with such poor earthly reward.
That he is laying up treasure where ”neither moth nor rust doth corrupt,” we cannot but believe. We did not like to leave the quiet little church for the great noisy hotels, in one of which, as we pa.s.sed it, they were _playing billiards_. Oh! what an occupation for G.o.d's holy day! I cannot believe they were Christians who were playing, but I know I wanted to go and beg them to stop.
In the afternoon it clouded up, and began to rain very hard; so we could not go to church, and as it was very little like Sunday in the crowded hall and parlor, Mrs. Lawson proposed we should all come and sit in her room, which opened on one of the upper piazzas. So we established ourselves here, where it was quiet and cool, very glad to escape from the bustle down stairs.
”Suppose you were to repeat that pretty German hymn I gave you the other day,” said her mother to Nelly. ”Perhaps Mr. Oldbird would like to hear it.”
”Yes, that I should,” I said; so Nelly began the beautiful verses called--
”ALL THERE.”
”Nothing is lost; the treasures which the ocean Hath taken to itself in ages fled, The lives that rest beneath its ceaseless motion Until 'the sea shall render up its dead:'
”The dew drops that the warm bright suns.h.i.+ne drieth, The cloud that melts away in summer air, The bud that lifteth its sweet head--and dieth, They are not lost--G.o.d keeps them in his care.
”Nothing is lost; the anguish of the mourner, And bitter tears that fall like solemn rain, Are safely stored within the heavenly garner, Till Christ shall come unto his own again.
”And our beloved ones that Death doth gather To their calm, dreamless sleep beneath the tomb, Like tender flowers, are cherished by the Father In the celestial fields of Heaven to bloom.
”Nothing is lost; oh, let the promise cheer us; By G.o.d himself to weary mortals given; Our darling ones shall soon again be near us, Our hopes shall bloom, unfadingly, in Heaven.”
”I think that is the best hymn I know,” added Nelly, when she had finished. ”Now, what shall we do?”
”Let's play church!” suggested Jimmy.
”Oh yes! that's the very thing!” said Nelly. ”Suppose we ask Kitty and Robby Morris to come in.”
So Kitty and Robby were found, and consented to join the play, which straightway began; mamma and I looking on, though we made believe not to be taking notice, for fear of disturbing the little visitors.
Robby, who was a dear little fellow, only five years old, with long golden curls and great blue eyes, was the minister, at his own special request. The children dressed him in a long white sack of Mrs. Lawson's by way of a gown, and gave him a small table for a pulpit. The others, with Gipsey, and a large gray cat, the property of Robby and Kitty, which marched in after them, were the congregation, sitting on the edge of the bed, to be like the long church pew. The minister took for his text, ”Little children, love one another,” and his sermon was such a dear, funny little discourse, that I must write it down for you.
”Now, my dear peoples,” he said, ”I hope, whenever you feel like karrelling,[A] or being as cross as bears, you will 'member what the Bible says 'bout loving one another. Gipsey fighted my tat to-day, and pulled some of her fur out; but he's only a dog, and I readed in my Dr.
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