"what can't be cured must be endured."

old proverb.

it was the wish to see little miss once more that led my wings past her nursery window; besides, i had a curiosity to look at the clock.

it is an eight-day clock, in a handsome case, and would, undoubtedly, have been a becoming perch for a bird of my dignified appearance, but i will not describe it to-day. nor will i speak of my meditations as i sit in my ivy bush like any other common owl, and reflect that if i had not had my own way, but had listened to little miss, i might have sat on an eight-day clock, and been godfather to the children. it is not seemly for an owl to doubt his own wisdom, but as i have taken upon me, for the sake of little miss, to be a child's counsellor, i will just observe, in passing, that though it is very satisfactory at the time to get your own way, you may live to wish that you had taken other folk's advice instead.

the eight-day clock

from that nursery i have taken flight to others. i sail by the windows, and throw a searching eye through these bars which are, i believe, placed there to keep top-heavy babies from tumbling out. sometimes i peer down the chimney. from the nook of a wall or the hollow of a tree, i overlook the children's gardens and playgrounds. i have an eye to several schools, and i fancy (though i may be wrong) that i should look well seated on the top of an easel—just above the black-board, with a piece of chalk in my feathery foot.

not that i have any notion of playing school-master, or even of advising school-masters and parents how to make their children good and wise. i am the children's owl—their very own—and all my good advice is intended to help them to improve themselves.

master jack

it is wonderful how children do sometimes improve! i knew a fine little fellow, much made of by his family and friends, who used to be so peevish about all the little ups and downs of life, and had such a lamentable whine in his voice when he was thwarted in any trifle, that if you had heard without seeing him, you'd have sworn that the most miserable wretch in the world was bewailing the worst of catastrophes with failing breath. and all the while there was not a handsomer, healthier, better fed, better bred, better dressed, and more dearly loved little boy in all the parish. when you might have thought, by the sound of it, that some starving skeleton of a creature was moaning for a bit of bread, the young gentleman was only sobbing through the soap and lifting his voice above the towels, because nurse would wash his fair rosy cheeks. and when cries like those of one vanquished in battle and begging and praying for his life, rang through the hall and up the front stairs, it proved to be nothing worse than master jack imploring his friends to "please, please" and "do, do," let him stay out to run in a final "go as you please" race with the young browns (who dine a quarter of an hour later), instead of going in promptly when the gong sounded for luncheon.

aunt in bed

now the other day i peeped into a bedroom of that little boy's home. the sun was up, and so was jack, but one of his numerous aunts was not. she was in bed with a headache, and to this her pale face, her eyes shunning the light like my own, and her hair restlessly tossed over the pillow bore witness. when a knock came on the bedroom door, she started with pain, but lay down again and cried—"come in!"

the door opened, but no one came in; and outside the voices of the little boy and his nurse were audible.

"i want to show her my new coat."

"you can't, master jack. your aunt's got a dreadful headache, and can't be disturbed."

no peevish complaints from jack: only a deep sigh.

"i'm very sorry about her headache; and i'm very very sorry about my coat. for i am going out, and it will never be so new again."

his aunt spoke feebly.

"nurse, i must see his coat. let him come in."

enter jack.

it was his first manly suit, and he was trying hard for a manly soul beneath it, as a brave boy should. he came in very gently, but with conscious pride glowing in his rosy cheeks and out of his shining eyes. his cheeks were very red, for a step in life is a warming thing, and so is a cloth suit when you've been used to frocks.

it was a bottle-green coat, with large mother-o'-pearl buttons and three coachman's capes; and there were leggings to match. the beaver hat, too, was new, and becomingly cocked, as he stood by his aunt's bedside and smiled.

"what a fine coat, jack!"

"made by a tailor, auntie julie. real pockets!"

"you don't say so!"

he nodded.

"leggings too!" and he stuck up one leg at a sudden right angle on to the bed; a rash proceeding, but the boy has a straight little figure, and with a hop or two he kept his balance.

"my dear jack, they are grand. how warm they must keep your legs!"

he shook his beaver hat.

"no. they only tickles. that's what they do."

there was a pause. his aunt remembered the old peevish ways. she did not want to encourage him to discard his winter leggings, and was doubtful what to say. but in a moment more his eyes shone, and his face took that effulgent expression which some children have when they are resolved upon being good.

"—and as i can't shake off the tickle, i have to bear it," added the little gentleman.

i call him the little gentleman advisedly. there is no stronger sign of high breeding in young people, than a cheerful endurance of the rubs of life. a temper that fits one's fate, a spirit that rises with the occasion. it is this kind of courage which the gentlemen of england have shown from time immemorial, through peace and war, by land and sea, in every country and climate of the habitable globe. jack is a child of that empire on which the sun never sets, and if he live he is like to have larger opportunities of bearing discomfort than was afforded by the woolly worry of his bottle-green leggings. i am in good hopes that he will not be found wanting.

some such thoughts, i believe, occurred to his aunt.

"that's right, jack. what a man you are!"

jack is a gentleman

the rosy cheeks became carmine, and jack flung himself upon his aunt, and kissed her with resounding smacks.

a somewhat wrecked appearance which she presented after this boisterous hug, recalled the headache to his mind, and as he settled the beaver hat, which had gone astray, he said ruefully,

"is your headache very bad, auntie julie?"

"rather bad, jack. and as i can't shake if off, i have to bear it."

he went away on tiptoe, and it was only after he had carefully and gently closed the bedroom doorbehind him, that he departed by leaps and bounds to show himself in his bottle-green coat and capes, and white buttons and leggings to match, and beaver hat to boot, first to the young browns, and after that to the general public.

the children

as an observer, i may say that it was a sight worth seeing; and as a bird of some wisdom, i prophesy well of that boy.

proverbs.

fine feathers make fine birds.

manners make the man.

clowns are best in their own company; gentlemen are best everywhere.

where there's a will there's a way.

all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.

what can't be cured must be endured.