VOL. II.]

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

THE CIDER-MILL.

BY CLARENCE COOK.

I walked along the country road on a bright October day. The woods were just taking their autumn colors; the asters, who all the summer had with patience heard themselves called goodfor-nothing weeds, by the tall, round-faced sunflowers, who thought, because they grew so fast and had such large leaves, they must be of great consequence,-now sprinkled the whole bank with their clusters of stars, some dark purple, like the robes of a queen, some lighter, and others clear white; but all so beautiful, that the poet said,

when he saw them, "They are the violets of the autumn;" yet even this did not make the asters vain. Then, beside the asters, there was a field in which the sumach grew thick like a wood, and they were so splendid, with their scarlet and purple leaves and rich crimson heads, that the little brown rabbit, who was born last May, said to his younger brother, that in all his life he had never seen anything half so fine.

I walked on, looking to the right and left, thinking I would go to the wood and see what I could find there; perhaps ripe filberts, for I had met a party of little boys with their wagons full, and bags slung over their shoulders, that looked

[No. 12.

heavy enough; and if these urchins had stripped the filbert bushes bare, at least there might be walnuts and butternuts, or even chestnuts, better than all. But just as I passed a curve in the road, I heard the creaking of wheels behind me, and, looking round, saw a large wagon heaped with apples, and driven by two farmers, one an old, ruddy-faced man, and the other a young, sprightly fellow.

The apples were of all colors; and in the back part of the wagon were some barrels, so that I thought they must be going to a cider-mill, and was stepping up to ask, when I saw that the horses were in trouble. There were two horses, as there were two drivers, and, like the men, one was old, fat, well-fed and quiet-the other was young, frisky and frolicksome. It seemed this was the first day the pretty colt had ever been in harness; he was not pleased, that was plain, for every now and then he started and kicked, and there was not a bird that flew out of its road-side nest, nor a bright colored spray of leaves by the wall, that did not make him frisk and caper.

I could not help feeling sorry for the proud young animal, tied to the side of her plodding, comfortable old mate; and it was pleasant to see the old man in the apple-cart, looking down kindly on her, as if to say, "Aye! aye! Polly, jump over the traces, do! I have, jumped over them myself, and given my masters trouble enough, in my young days, I warrant!" So the good-natured old farmer did not trouble himself to get angry with the colt-though, by his own showing, this was the third time she had played him that trick of jumping out of the traces-but merely sat there in the wagon, and made himself fatter than ever, munching apples and laughing.

But "Hub," the old horse, did not look so happy. Bad enough he thought it, poor fellow, to tug and pull, up hill and down, with a heavy load of apples, barrels and men behind him; but to have to pull a young, giddy-headed colt more than half the time, and to plod on steadily, while she danced and leaped, and gave him an occasional kick, was more than he thought fair. He looked cross; and though it was a pretty sight enough, to see Polly, with her sleek body, and quick, bright eye, doing what she knew was mischievous and troublesome, and though I felt pity for the gay, free-born creature, learning for the first time what a hard-working world she was born into, I began

to feel a little pity also for her poor mate, who must put up uncomplainingly with all her airs, and do her share of the work beside.

When the harness was put in order, Hub and Polly dragged the wagon on, and I walked beside it, until we reached the cider-mill. It was like a large barn, open to the roof, and in the inside were the presses at one end, and at the other great bins heaped with apples. I had always fancied a cider-mill a pleasant place, but this was far from being so. First, there was a disagreeable, sour smell, and then the place was not kept clean; the pigs ran in and out, and the rain, that fell the night before, had run in and made the floor wet and sloppy.

The pretty red and yellow apples were heaped up in the bins, and the men were busy in unlading the cart that had just arrived, and putting the new comers with those that had been there some time. Another set of men were filling a great trough in the middle of the barn with apples; and when it was full, an old, blind horse, fastened to a long beam, began to go round and round, and I heard a crunching, and rolling and hissing, and saw that the apples in the trough ran out as the horse went round, and were chopped into little pieces ready for the press. Then I thought of the young colt and of the pretty apples on my apple tree that I watched day by day to see ripen, and I said to myself, "Why is it, then, that all pretty things must come to such sad ends?" And as I looked into the tub half filled with clear, golden cider, and heard the tinkle, tinkle of the running stream, as it dripped from the press, I seemed to see, down in the tub there, such a pretty picture! There was a beautiful orchard of young apple trees mixed with old ones in rows, and it was May, so that the whole orchard was white and red with blossoms, and the air was full of sweetness and the humming of bees, and all beneath the trees the fresh, green clover was springing up, and there was no sign of a house or any living creature, except the bees, and the birds that flew in and out of the branches, singing and making their nests.

And presently the blossoms on the trees grew larger, and smelled sweeter, and the bees came back and forth more frequently, and the leaves stirred as if something was about to happen, and I saw the old trees that had no blossoms lean over toward the young ones, and seem to caress them and try, as it were, to shelter them with their branches, but I fear they knocked more blossoms off than they meant to, or than was good for the

young trees.

In a moment another strange thing happened, for all the trees turned their leaves in one direction, and I saw coming toward them a flying creature like a large globe of nettle-down filled with humming-birds, and as it came there was a sweet music, so that all the little birds came from far and near, to hear singing so much more beautiful than their own. When the old trees heard it they said, "This is the Fairy who brings all the little apples into the world," and they cried out with one voice, as if a heavy wind sighed through all the orchard branches, "Dear Fairy! must all the pretty little apples grow up, and have red cheeks, for nothing but to go to the ugly mill under the trees, where nobody that goes in ever comes out again?"

And the Fairy turning round and round until all the bright little wings of the humming-birds gave

sant place, and out of sweet flowers, and you know that if they grow up ever so gnarled and crooked, the flower is always to be found in them, and they are sung to night and morning by the prettiest little gay-colored birds and bees laden with honey, and not a breeze blows that does not come over clover fields or rose gardens, and the little children walk under the trees and think pleasant thoughts about the rosy-cheeked apples, so that every way there is no pleasanter life than that an apple leads. Then comes the time when his long summer's pleasure is over, and he must make others happy in his turn, and be of use, and does it seem hard, even if he has to go into the dark house in the field yonder, to be made ready to do good?"

This was what the lovely Fairy said, and while she was speaking I saw that she first became sadcolored as if the humming-birds had changed into tears, and then she came sailing through a sunbeam, and the light made the tears like rainbows, and such sparkles came from her that I could not long look at her, and just then, all the trees, young and old, fell a-weeping, and I heard their tears trickle, trickle, down in a stream, and the little birds flew up and kissed the blossoms, and told them not to let tears fall; but still I heard the tears trickle, trickle down, and then a tramp, tramp, and a crunching, grinding and hissing: and though I looked harder than ever into the tub, there was nothing there but cider and a few dry leaves that had blown in at the great doors from the orchard on the hill-side near.

So I came away from the cider-mill, and as I wandered home by the orchard, leafless and cheerless, I was glad the old trees could not ask me if I had seen their little red-cheeked children, and what it was that happened to them in the old red cider-mill.

And rain, snow, and hail, are the treasures they keep.
When God ope's the windows of heaven, they fall,
As His blessings and mercies, alike upon all.
As from dark clouds the whitest of treasures take
wing,

COUNTRIES I HAVE SEEN.

Travels, Descriptions, Tales and Historical Sketches.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

LOCH LOMOND-LOCH KATRINE-THE MACGREGORS. Loch Lomond is considered the finest of all the Scottish lakes. It is twenty-three miles in length, and five in breadth, at the widest, and contains a multitude of the most lovely and fairy-like islands you can imagine. The scenery of its shores is wonderfully beautiful and grand,—now filling the heart with delight -now thrilling it with awe, or lifting it in loving gratitude to God, who has placed us in a world of so much beauty and sublimity, and gifted us with souls to enjoy and reverence the works of his hands.

The day of our trip up this lake, was delightful. A soft, autumnal sun goldened all the landscape, and the blue waves danced in a light, pleasant wind, while the atmosphere was so clear that we could see to a great distance. To the northward, the dark, lofty mountains-to the southward a fair, fertile country-on either side shady and flowery islands, or noble shores, with rocks, crags and caves, smooth grassy slopes, or abrupt, heathery heights.

I remember a little incident of this trip-trifling enough, but which struck me at the time. I observed a large hawk, hovering in the air, near our boat, and circling lower and lower. Suddenly, he darted downward, and caught a fish from the water. He then began to ascend, rather slowly, impeded by the weight of his prey. It happened that there was on board, a Scotch Duke, who had been sporting in the Highlands, and who now having his fowling-piece loaded, took a shot at the bold marauder, and it seemed slightly wounded him; for a few feathers floated lightly down the air. He gave a hoarse scream, and in his pain, or fright, dropped the fish, which fell apparently lifeless into the lake. Scarcely, however, had it touched the water, when the indomitable hawk was after it again! He caught it in his talons and bore it off in triumph, screaming

down a democratic defiance to the Duke. I re

member saying that none but a Highland hawk would be so courageous and persevering.

We landed at Inversnaid, on the east shore of the lake, and drove through a rough, narrow glen about five miles long, to Loch Katrine. On our way we passed the ruins of Inversnaid fort, erected to check the famous outlaw-chief, Rob Roy Macgregor, and a forlorn Highland cabin, in which his wife, Helen Macgregor was born.

'Tis thus, my dear child, with earth's beautiful things,

ten miles long, and at no place more than two broad. A mere pond-compared with our great inland seas, it is surely not grand, yet the scenery which surrounds it is some of the grandest, as well as the most enchanting in the world.

We descended Loch Katrine by the tiniest steamer I ever voyaged upon,-whose speed was proportional to her size. She passed over the little waves, with little nervous jumps, puffed out a little column of smoke, and left an exceedingly little wake behind her. Yet, we reached the most beautiful and romantic part of the lake at a very favorable time-just at sunset, when moun

the sweetest wavering music, for her humming. birds could sing, she said, in a voice as if a rose should speak.

We think like Manoah the visions are won,

were bathed and glorified in gorgeous lights of purple and gold.

Near the eastern shore is "Ellen's Isle," a charming spot, particularly interesting to the admirers of "The Lady of the Lake." A little way

beyond Loch Katrine lie "The Trosachs," or "bristled territory," a wild, mountainous country, through which winds the dark defile of Beal-auDuine, the place where, according to the poem, the "gallant grey" of Fitz-James sunk down and died.

Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine and the country around are closely associated with the melancholy and romantic history of the Macgregors, of whom I will try to give you a clear, though brief ac

count.

THE CLAN MACGREGOR, AND THE STORY OF ROB

ROY.

The Highlands of Scotland have been, for many centuries, inhabited by a remarkable race of people, called Celts,-naturally hardy, proud and warlike, and descended from the ancient Britons, who took refuge in that almost unknown country, at the time when the Romans invaded and conquered Great Britain. To this day, they have a distinct language, the Gaelic, utterly unlike the English, or the Scotch dialect of the Lowlands. Their dress is very peculiar and picturesque; but as you have all doubtless some idea of this from pictures, I will not stop to describe it.

tenants.

The reign of James the Sixth was perhaps their darkest time. Then for the slaughter of the Colquhouns and Buchanans at Glenfruin-or the Glen of Sorrow,-a royal decree was passed abolishing forever the name and clan of Macgregor.

All that bore that surname were commanded to

All the members of each of these clans believe themselves descended from one great ancestor, and were generally called by his name, with the addition of Mac, which signifies sons. Each clan had its chief-supposed to be a descendant in the most direct line of the founder of the family. This Chief they all implicitly obeyed-even when to do so was to go against their own wishes and rebel against the king.

These different clans occupied distinct mountain districts, and were far enough I am sorry to say, from dwelling in peace with each other, or their common enemy, the Lowlanders. Indeed, they were such a bold belligerent people that it might be said of them that they were never happy except when in trouble and tumult-never content except when fighting and marauding. Yet they had their own good qualities. They were brave, enduring, liberty-loving, trustworthy, hospitable and unrivaled in their loyal devotion to their hereditary chiefs, and those they recognized as their rightful sovereigns-especially, which was noblest of all-when those sovereigns were in difficulty.

The most remarkable of the Highland clans, in character and history, were the Macgregors-descendants of Gregor, son of Kenneth Mac Alpine, King of the Scots and Picts. This takes them back a long way, and, indeed, the Macgregors made a great boast of their antiquity, saying that "Hills, waters and MacAlpines were the oldest things in Albion."

They were a proud, powerful and wealthy clan, down to the time of King Robert Bruce, when their reverses and persecutions began. That monarch, whom they had not favored, undertook in the height of his power to check and humble them, by depriving them of a large portion of their possessions. From that time, misfortunes and wrongs thickened upon their heads, but without dismaying, or subduing them. All the other clans submitted to the king, and received from him charters for their lands, but the Macgregors scorned to secure themselves by such concessions.

In the fifteenth century it was proclaimed that their territory had all been bestowed upon their enemies, the Campbells. But they stood sturdily

every man was forbidden to wear arms. Those who rebelled against these severe laws were hunted down like beasts, by their old enemies, now in the employ of the king, and assisted by the royal troops. Through a long series of years, law after law was passed, bearing harder and harder upon them, till it was a wonder their very souls were not crushed out of them by oppression. The most brutal of all, was one commanding their women to be branded with the mark of a key in the face; but I believe that no one was ever found bold or cruel enough to execute this law.

During the civil wars of Cromwell, the Macgregors rallied and fought bravely for King Charles, notwithstanding all the wrongs inflicted on them by his father, James the Sixth. On the restoration of Charles the Second, they were allowed to reassume their ancient name, and were again recognized as an independent clan. After the English Revolution, the hard laws against them were revived, but never very strictly carried out, and as the civil wars of the two coun tries came to an end, the persecutions of this unfortunate clan gradually ceased.

The story of Rob Roy is told in full, in Scott's Novel by that name, and in the introduction to that work. I can only give you a slight sketch of the character and life of this last hero of the Macgregors.

money he had risked, with the interest! This of course, could not be ;-Rob offered him his share of the little that was left, which he would not accept, but advertised the unfortunate drover as a swindler and a thief, and offered a reward for his apprehension as a culprit.

This finished the ruin of the Macgregor,-he fled to his native hills and glens, and took up the life of an outlaw and freebooter.

The Duke of Montrose seized upon Rob's property of Graigroystan,—his men sold all the stock and furniture, and even insulted and abused Helen Macgregor,—a proud and passionate woman, who, with her husband, from that day, swore vengeance against Montrose and his party.

Rob Roy soon found himself at the head of a formidable band of Macgregors, who had their own wrongs to avenge, and their own living to get, by desperate means. Their robberies were principally of cattle, and they were called cearnach's, or "cattle lifters." Rob said that he was only carrying on his old business in a new way.

Rob himself was a generous and benevolent freebooter-if such a thing can be—and very like the English Robin Hood,-often taking from the abundance of the rich to supply the needs of the poor. He believed that he had been cruelly driven into his lawless life, and often declared that he would much prefer a more honorable and peaceable career. In the Rebellion of 1715 he took the side of the Stuarts, and had a commission in the rebel army. But when that rash enterprise failed, he was obliged to return to his old haunts, when he again devoted himself to the great business of his life-tormenting the Duke of Montrose. Two or three times the Duke made out to capture the outlaw, but just as he was rejoicing over his good luck, Rob slipped, eel-like, out of his hands. Once he built a fort at Inversnaid, to protect the country against the bold robber, and distributed arms among his tenants;-but Rob very soon routed the garrison and got possession of every one of the Duke's muskets.

As Rob Roy grew to be an old man, he felt a stronger desire to return to an honest way of living. He had an idea of resuming cattle-dealing, and redeeming his reputation! He even addressed a petition to one of King George's officers, for pardon and permission to take his forfeited place in society, without danger of arrest and death. This touching request was taken no notice of, and poor Rob was obliged to die an outlaw. He died in the year 1738, a very old man, professing the Christian's hope. Just before he breathed his last, he requested his piper to play the mournful Gaelic dirge, Ha til mi tulidh—"We return no more."

He was buried in the old church-yard of Balquidder. No name is on the tomb-stone, but a broadsword is carved upon it, as a sign of his fierce spirit and lawless life. Yet he seems to rest as tranquilly as any innocent babe in all the church-yard-the birds are not afraid to sing above his grave, nor the grass and flowers to creep over it-neither do dews and sunbeams refuse to descend upon it.

The lesson, dear children, which I would draw from these old stories of wars, tumults, wrongs and oppressions, is a grateful trust in the steady advance of the world, toward a time of peace, justice and brotherhood. True, there are wars now-sad, terrible wars, but they are between rival nations, not bitter, bloody strifes between clan and clan, family and family. The clans of

Scotland now dwell in perfect peace, indeed are almost merged together, and it would now be as impossible for any one of them to be unjustly persecuted, as that any man should be driven to the life of an outlaw because of a failure in a business undertaking. When you hear unhappy, croaking people say, "Ah me! the world is getting worse and worse!" don't believe them. It is constantly growing better, and the nations are slowly drawing nearer to each other, and so, to God. there is room enough for improvement, and it is not for us to be puffed up with our civilization and righteousness.

Yet,

We look back with pity and horror, to the hunted and half barbarous Macgregors, of two or three hundred years ago, but they had some noble qualities, which would put to the blush too many in our enlightened times. In proof of this, I will relate

A LITTLE STORY.

One morning a young Macgregor, the son of an old chieftain residing at Clenurchy, went out, with a party of his clansmen, to shoot on the moors. During the day, they fell in with a young gentleman by the name of Lamont, and toward night invited him to go with them to an inn, for some refreshment. All went very pleasantly and merrily for some time, and then a quarrel arose, about some trifle, between young Macgregor and the stranger, over their wine. In a moment, swords were drawn, and at the first pass Macgregor fell dead! Lamont made his escape and fled, but was fiercely pursued by the friends of the man he had slain. All night long he ran, through the wild Highland country, and in the morning sought refuge at the first house he saw. An old man was standing at the door. "Save my life!" panted out Lamont; "I am pursued by enemies." "Whoever you are, you are safe here," replied the old man, taking him in, and commending him to his wife and daughters. But presently the Macgregors came up, and told the generous host that his only son had fallen in a quarrel, and that he was harboring the murderer! For a moment, the poor old father bowed his face in his hands, crying out bitterly, "O, my son! my son!" His wife and daughters burst into sobs and shrieks; the clansmen pressed forward with curses and threats toward Lamont, who gave himself

up for

Kittle Pilgrim

PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 1855.

MISSING NUMBERS.

STORY OF A FOX.

We particularly commend to to our readers, Mr. Giles' delightfully humorous Story of a Fox; also, the Cider-Mill, by Clarence Cook. The pictures which so admirably illustrate both, are by Mr. White.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We have received, from our friend, Mrs. Newton Crosland, (Camilla Toulmin) the distinguished English authoress, a noble article, entitled "THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER, which will soon appear.

We accept with thanks, Miss Anne T. Wilbur's translation from the French, The Flame Spirit; Orphan Ida, Jessie Carroll's pretty poem; The Traveler at the Well, and Jacob's Vision, two of

will say, that while life and health are spare to us, there shall be no falling off whatever in the paper, and that we shall never abandon an undertaking so peculiarly dear to our hearts, until it shall seem not almost, but altogether our duty so to do.

In sustaining a work of this kind, we deem it no sacrifice of delicacy or dignity, to frankly solicit not only your earnest sympathy, but your active aid. A publication of the purely domestic character and modest subscription price of The Little Pilgrim benefits comparatively little by advertisements, circulars and agencies. It must depend mainly upon individual interest and effort. Let each one of you who honestly believes the Little Pilgrim to be a pleasant, intelligent and profitable fireside visitor, say so to friends and guests; lead him forth, let him be seen and heard, and we are confident all will go well, for him and us, and none the worse for you.

We mean this for the fathers and mothers of boys and girls, as well as for boys and girls themselves.

Hoping that you may all be able to bid a grateful good-night to the old year, and a happy goodmorning to the new, we remain, faithfully, yours, GRACE GREENWOOD.

NEW BOOKS.

FRIEDEL; AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. From the German of W. O. Von Horn. Philadelphia, G. Collins, No. 1, South Sixth Street:

This is one of those simply told, life-like narratives which have made German child-literature so irresistibly attractive to young and old, the world Sawyer, Editor of "The Rose of Sharon," and is over. It is admirably translated by Mrs. C. M.

illustrated by several neat cuts.

CURIOUS STORIES ABOUT FAIRIES AND OTHER FUNNY PEOPLE. With Illustrations by Billings. Boston, Ticknor & Fields:

of "The King of the Golden River;" "Siegfried, Here is a holiday book, truly. It contains stories the Dragon-Slayer;" the never-tiring history of "The Good-natured Bear;" "The Story without an End;" and last, Robert Browning's humorous, rhyming story of "The Pied Piper." All children who like Fairy stories, (and what child does not?) should add this volume to their collection.

saying

He

"Be quiet; let no man touch the youth! has the Macgregor's word for his safety, and, as God lives, he shall be safe while he is in my

house."

He faithfully kept his word; and even accompanied Lamont to Inverary, with a guard, and having landed him on the other side of Loch Fyne, said

"Lamont, you are now safe, if you keep out of the way of my clan. I can no longer protect you. Farewell, and may God forgive you."

The happiest part of this story is, that when a new persecution of the Macgregors broke out, and the old chief of Clenurchy was driven from his property, he and his family were offered a home in the house of Lamont, who ever after devoted himself to the work of atoning to the exiles, for the wrong he had done them.

poor

Dear children, let us bless the good God who, in all ages and in all countries, has implanted such generous and beautiful sentiments in the human heart.

The ingredients of health and long life are-
Great temperance, open air,
Easy labor, little care.

Sir P. Sidney.

low Tree; Jerry Camden; The Drowned Child;

My Dog Leo; To an Infant sleeping; Reveries of a dressed to the Little Pilgrim, by L. B. H. And Student-an admirable number. A Poem, adseveral other excellent contributions, about which we have written to the authors.

TO OUR SUBSCRIBERS.

Dear friends:-With this number of our journal, we reach the close of the second year of our efforts to do good, to give pleasure, and meet our obligations to you. We are about to enter upon our third year in this work, and it is for you to say whether with renewed hope and interest, or feelings of disappointment and weariness. Fail us not, leave us not, and our hands shall be strengthened, and our hearts touched with new ardors of enthusiasm.

Not that we have any doubts of the worthiness of our work; we know that it is noble-we know that it is needed; but, as you will see by our list of terms, we have reduced the price and profits so very low that unless our subscription list is very large, we shall not be repaid for the time we give to the paper.

We trust that we need make no new pledges. You have seen what our paper has been for twelve months; let it speak for itself. Yet, we

Olive Leaf Circle. For sale by G. W. Taylor, N.W. cor. 5th and Cherry Streets, Philadelphia: We have here a package of little stories, written in simple, yet attractive style, the object of which is to show children how beautiful and blessed a thing is peace-how much better it is for all of us to do good than to do evil. They are neatly printed, and put up in little bundles of sixty. The price of the whole bundle is ten cents only.

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

THE EBONY TREE.

BY MRS. E. JESSUP EAMES.

Yes! purely beautiful and bright thou standest,
As did the whited sepulchres of yore,
Fresh foliage and fair flowers thou sweetly blendest,
Yet is thy Heart black to its inmost core !
As Plutus who the Ebor sceptre bore!
Fair as the apples pluck'd by the Dead Sea,
But on the tempted lip to ashes turning;
The fabled fruit found on St. Oderick's tree,

Sweet to the taste, but with the bitter burning.
Well acted falsehood, smooth hypocrisy-
Thou 'mindest me of much, black-hearted tree,

That tread the earth thro' the dim path of evil,
Invisible, save to His eye alone

Who marks each descent to its lowest level, The treacherous smile, and the deceitful tone, Type of the Fair and False, O, then dark Tree, Strange, lurking ills, will rise at thoughts of thee!