The day before she died, she gave all her pets to her brothers and sisters, but she said to her mother--"_You_ take good care of poor old Wonder-Eyes--for he'll have nobody to love him when I am gone."
The owl missed Minnie very much; whenever he heard any one coming, he would cry "Who!" and when he found it wasn't his friend, he would ruffle up his feathers, and look as though he felt himself insulted. He grew crosser and crosser every day, till there would have been no bearing with him, if it had not been for the memory of Minnie.
The next time I saw the old owl, sitting glaring and growling on his perch, I understood why he was so unhappy and sullen. My heart ached for him--but so did the finger he had bitten; and I did not venture very near to tell him how sorry I was for him. When I think of him now, I don't blame him, but pity him for his crossness; and I always say to myself--"_Poor old Wonder-Eyes!_"
A deep, broad, lazy-flowing river! It is one of the loveliest things in nature. When I was a little boy I lived near one, and among my very pleasantest memories are those of the days when I fished, and swam, and dived in its clear deeps, or sailed my tiny boats and played "dick, duck, drake" over its sleepy surface.
About half-way up the hill-slope which made the western bank of this river, stood our house. It was a large, dark old building--somewhat gloomy-looking on the outside, may-be, to a stranger; but _inside_, even in the most out-of-the-way corners of those great rooms, there was no gloom--the sunshine of peace and love made light everywhere. The dear old home!
Among my father's servants there was an old negro, who, as occasion required, was, by turns, coachman, gardener, carpenter, and house-servant. His name was Horace; he had no other name, I believe--at least, I never knew of any. Horace was one of the blackest negroes I ever saw, and as large-hearted as he was black. He was very fond of children, and very good-natured usually, though not always, as you will see, by-and-by.
Horace could make the nicest little wagons and sleds, and the clearest, sweetest-toned willow whistles in the world, I used to think. He could tell to a day, almost, and without trying them, when the May-duke cherries had reached their luscious prime; he could remember, from year to year, exactly in which row, and how far from the end, the early-ripe apple tree stood; he knew too, the very moment, I thought, when the frost had opened the chestnut burrs and ripened the persimmons, so that they would not pucker up our mouths, as they did sometimes, when we were so foolish as to think we knew better than he; he could pick out the luckiest places for our rabbit-traps, and could always find worms for bait, no matter how dry the weather, when we wanted to go a-fishing. In short, Horace knew everything, it seemed to me then.
