“Isn’t it a nice day, Maggie?” said Bessie, coming to her sister, who was leaning with both arms on the railing which guarded the upper-deck, watching the flashing water, the magnificent mountains, the blue sky, and all the other beauties around and above her.

“Yes,” answered Maggie; “and we’re having such a nice sail, except for that man. Bessie, my head is quite full of poetry about it.”

“Write some then,” said Bessie; “and we’ll send it to my soldier. He’ll be so pleased. I’ll ask papa for a pencil and some paper;” and she made her request to her father, who let her take his memorandum-book for the purpose; and, furnished with this and excited by all the beauty around, Maggie broke forth into the following verses, the first of which was thought remarkably fine by Bessie and herself, as being not only extremely poetical, but also as containing a great deal of religious sentiment very touchingly expressed:—

“‘Hate’ there only means ‘can’t bear,’” said Maggie, when she had finished this last verse and read it aloud to her sister: “but you see ‘can’t bear’ don’t rhyme very well with ‘fate;’ and I want to put that, it is such a very poetical word, and sounds so very grown-up-y. I had to put that verse about Mr. Temple for a relief to my feelings; and ‘hate’ must be excused.”

“That first verse is lovely,” said Bessie. “It sounds so very nice; and, besides, it is so pious.”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “I thought I’d better begin with a little religion and gratitude. Besides, it was that made the poetry come into my ideas, Bessie. I was thinking how very good and grateful we ought to be, when God gives us such a very beautiful world to look at, and travel about in.”

“Yes,” said Bessie, putting her head on one side and giving her sister a look which expressed as much admiration and affection as a look could do, “yes: what a very smart, nice girl you are, Maggie!”

“You think so,” said Maggie; “but everybody don’t.”

“That’s they don’t know any better,” said Bessie, whose praise might have spoiled Maggie, if the latter had been at all vain and conceited.

“The second verse isn’t very pious,” said Maggie, looking at it doubtfully; “but I guess I’ll leave it in.”

“And you can explain it to Uncle Horace when you write to him,” said Bessie. “But make some more, Maggie: your poetry is splendid.”

Thus encouraged, Maggie went on,—

“Oh, what lovely description you do make!” exclaimed Bessie, when Maggie read these two verses.

“We’ll have to read gra-te-ful to make it come right with beautiful,” said Maggie, “but it sounds good enough.”

“Oh! it’s perfectly lovely,” said Bessie.

“What does ‘greet’ mean?” asked Bessie.

“It means something like welcome,” answered Maggie. “I can’t explain exactly; but I know it is a word poetry-writers use a great deal, and I thought I had better put it in.”

Maggie wrote on,—

“That is enough for to-day,” said Maggie “but I am going to make a long poem out of it, and I’ll do some more another time. I s’pose Niagara will be a good thing to put in it. You know they say it is splendid.”

“What is ‘roam’?” asked Bessie, who must always inquire the meaning of every word she did not understand.

“To travel about. Just what we’re doing,” answered Maggie.

“Then why don’t you say travel? I think it’s the nicest word.”

“But it is not so uncommon,” said Maggie; “and you know when people write poetry they always put in all the uncommon words they can find.”

“Do they?” said Bessie, as if she did not quite approve of this rule.

“Yes, to be sure,” answered Maggie. “You know prose is just common talking; but poetry is uncommon talking, and you have to make it sound as fine as you can, and put words you don’t use every day.”

“Oh!” said Bessie. “Well, if you have done, I guess we’d better give papa back his book.”

Accordingly, the book was carried to papa, who had not had any idea that Maggie’s poetical fancy would carry her so far, and who was rather surprised to see several pages scribbled over with verses that were lined and interlined, scratched out and written over, in a manner which did not add to the beauty or neatness of the book.

However, he only laughed, and taking out his penknife carefully cut out the scribbled leaves and gave them to the little poetess, who rolled them up, and tying them round with a bit of twine, stowed them away in her satchel, till such time as she should be ready to copy and add to them.

But she did not find leisure for this till they had been at Niagara for two or three days; and then, when she looked in her travelling-bag for the precious poem, lo! it was gone! In vain did she and Bessie take out all the other contents from the satchel, shake it, and feel in each corner and pocket: no poem came to light, and great was the sorrowing over its loss.

“Then I s’pose I’ll never hear of it again,” said Bessie, regretfully, when mamma said she thought Maggie must have pulled it out with some of the other things her bag contained, and so dropped it, unseen.

But poor Maggie was to hear of her poem again; to hear a little too much of it.

The two parties spent a week or more at Niagara Falls, visiting many a point of interest and beauty,—sometimes together, sometimes apart; now standing below the level of the Rapids, and looking backward at their white foaming crests drawn sharply against the blue sky, as the mad waters went whirling and rushing over the slope; now, in the early morning, looking up to the top of the Great Fall, which shone and flashed like jewels in the rays of the sun, the gray mist curling below, and a glorious rainbow stretching from shore to shore; now taking the little steamer which plies to the foot of the cataract, into the very midst of the thick, blinding spray. Mamma did not think it best for Bessie to go on this expedition; but strong, hardy, little Maggie was allowed to go, well wrapped in water-proof, and held fast in papa’s or Uncle Ruthven’s arms. On the whole, however, Maggie did not enjoy this as much as she did the other excursions. In the first place, Bessie was not with her, and then she wanted to laugh at the droll, miserable-looking figures about her, but would not do so, lest she should “hurt their feelings, when they looked so very unhappy, and as if they wished they had not come.”

Then again they would pass over to some of the lovely little islands, which here and there break the rapids above the American Fall. Two of them, Ship and Brig Islands, had a special interest for the children, from their resemblance to ships under full sail. Even Bessie, who could never be persuaded to imagine any thing which she did not distinctly see, noticed this, and said she felt almost sorry for them, for it seemed as if they were “real live ships trying to sail out of the waters that were hurrying them away so fast.”

Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton had gone over to Goat Island one afternoon, taking the little girls with them. Here they were lying and sitting under the overarching trees, looking at the Hermit’s Cascade, and listening to the deep, never-ceasing voice of the great cataract, when they were joined by the younger portion of the Maynard party,—Kate and her brother, and Mr. and Miss Temple.

Maggie and Bessie had by this time taken Mr. Charlie Maynard into special favor, looking upon him with eyes nearly as friendly as those with which they regarded his sister; and they were glad to see both him and Kate. Miss Temple, too, a quiet, lady-like girl, they liked very well, and did not object to her; but they could very well have dispensed with her brother’s society. However, he did not on this occasion seem at first disposed to prove teasing or troublesome, but stretched himself upon the grass, with his head supported on his arm and his hat half over his eyes.

But, by and by, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton, seeing an old friend at a little distance, went to speak to him; the former telling his little girls to remain where they were till he returned. They were scarcely out of hearing, when George Temple, turning lazily over so as to face Maggie, though he still kept his eyes shaded by his hat, said,—

“This is delightful! One could dream half one’s life away in this enchanting place and in such pleasant company. Have we not a poet or poetess among us to put it all into verse? What! no answer to the call? Then I shall have to try my hand at it.”

“You making verses!” said his sister, laughing, and playfully pulling the brown locks which escaped from beneath his hat. “You making verses! a lame style of poetry that would be, to be sure.”

“I don’t know,” said George. “Certainly I never appeared to have much talent that way; but no one can tell what he may be able to do when a fitting time arrives. I feel on the present occasion like the gifted authoress who says so touchingly,—

Maggie started, and looked up from the little bunch of wild flowers she was arranging to carry home to her mother.

Mr. Maynard and the young ladies laughed; and Charlie said,—

“What a gem! Who is your authoress?”

“She is Anon., I believe,” said George, sleepily. “She closes the couplet with,—

Now I am in just such a frame of mind, and quite agree with her when she goes on to say,—

“George,” said Miss Temple, “how can you be so foolish?” but she laughed again, and the others, too, went on laughing and joking him about his “nonsense;” while poor Maggie sat,—with downcast-eyes, changing color, and beating heart,—listening intently to every word her tormentor uttered, and wondering how much more pain he would put her through. As for Bessie, she had at first heard in wondering surprise those strangely familiar lines; but surprise soon changed to sympathy for her Maggie, and indignation against Mr. Temple.

Suddenly Kate turned her eyes towards the two little faces, and the expression of both left no room for doubt as to who was the author of the unfortunate verses. Maggie was in an agony of embarrassment: too well did Kate know the signs, and remember with shame how, not long since, she herself had found as much amusement in them as George Temple was probably now doing, since he was taking so much pains to excite them. But Kate had learned better, and had grown more thoughtful and considerate, more careful not to give pain to another for the sake of a little passing enjoyment to herself. How cruel Mr. Temple’s teasing seemed to her now, and how she felt for Maggie!

For Bessie, too, who she saw was trying to keep down her rising temper, she was very sorry. She must come to the rescue in some way.

“I might have known from the first,” she said to herself, “that those were Maggie’s verses. They sound just like her,—just like her happy, grateful, little heart, always so ready and eager to give praise and gratitude where they are due. They are not bad for such a child, either; but I must help her out of this. Poor little Maggie!”

“There’s another sentiment of the talented writer, to which I shall also say amen,” began Mr. Temple again,—

“I thought you meant to try your own powers of rhyming,” said Kate. “I am glad you have not, for I know you could not do nearly as well as the writer you quote; and I am sure you have not half as feeling a heart. But we have had enough.”

This was an unlucky speech of Kate’s; for it gave Mr. Temple an opportunity of doing still worse.

“A feeling heart!” he repeated: “well, I don’t know about that; her feelings seem to have been mixed, for she says,—

Now, I am in a much more amiable frame of mind; for I do not see in this present company a single person whom it is ‘my unhappy fate’ to hate. How is it with you, Maggie?”

But Maggie was overwhelmed, and could not possibly have answered if she had wished to do so ever so much.

“Maggie,” said Kate, seeing no way to spare the child further confusion but by taking her away, “you have not enough green with those flowers. Come over there, I see some pretty leaves, and we will gather them.”

Maggie sprang to her feet, letting the flowers fall to the ground, and seized eagerly upon the kind hand held out for her relief. The tears, which she had been struggling to hold back, flowed freely the moment she was beyond the sound of her tormentor’s voice; but she felt better for them and for Kate’s sympathy.

“Never mind, dear,” said Kate, soothingly. “I know the poetry is yours, Maggie, and it is very nice indeed; but I would not say so before Charlie and Mary. I thought you would not like it. George Temple could not have written it himself, and he ought to be ashamed to tease you so.”

“It’s too, too mean,” sobbed Maggie; “and that man is too horrid. I didn’t really mean I hated him; but now I most feel as if I did.”

Meanwhile Bessie, who had lingered a moment to pick up Maggie’s flowers, was receiving in dignified silence Mr. Temple’s questions as he asked “what ailed her sister?”

“What is the matter, George?” said Miss Temple, seeing something was wrong. “Are you teasing Maggie? Are those verses hers?”

“I told you they were Anon.,” replied her brother.

This was a little too much. It was quite bad enough for Mr. Temple to torment Maggie so; but that he should give the credit of those beautiful verses to another, was more than could be borne, and Bessie turned upon him, saying, with the utmost severity, but without passion,—

“They’re not. Miss Anon. didn’t write them. My Maggie did; and you know it, and you took them out of her bag.”

Mr. Temple laughed with the others at the first part of the speech, but looked grave again at its ending.

“Hallo!” he said, rousing himself from the lazy attitude he had kept until now, “do you know what you are saying, little lady? That would be stealing.”

Bessie stood looking at him for a moment in silence.

“I picked them up off the deck of the steamboat,” said the young gentleman, a shade of vexation crossing his face as he noted the expression of the child’s.

With grave reproach in her great, serious eyes, she made answer,—

“I don’t see why it’s not just the same.”

“The same as what, as stealing?”

“You knew they were not yours, sir,” answered the child. “I don’t suppose it was just stealing, but I think it was”—

“Well,” said Mr. Temple, seeing she hesitated.

“I had better go away,” said Bessie: “I feel pretty saucy and I might say something you deserved;” with which she turned away, and ran after Kate and Maggie.

Mr. Temple looked, as he felt, uncomfortable. The joke had proved more serious than he had intended; and the remarks made by his two companions, and their amusement at Bessie’s words, did not tend to make him better pleased with the consequences of his own conduct.

Kate added her reproaches when she returned, after leaving Maggie and Bessie in their father’s care, saying,—

“I had rather, for your own sake, that you had done this thing to any other children than those two, George. They are both so truly just, and have such a high sense of honor, which you have rudely shocked.”

“A child’s sense of honor,” repeated George, rather scornfully. “I am sorry I teased them, and had no idea Maggie would take it so hardly; but I am not troubled in regard to my self. A child’s opinion does not signify much.”

“It does with me,” said Kate, “and I can tell you a story to the point, and which may show you what a child’s sense of honor is worth. I think they sometimes see the right and wrong more clearly than we do.”

“You seem to have great faith in these little friends of yours,” said Mr. Temple.

“Yes,” replied Kate, “I have reason. They have been tried and not found wanting, as you shall hear;” and Kate told the story of the prize composition,—the hopes and fears regarding it, its loss and recovery, and the noble way in which our little girls had acted.

“Capital!” said Charlie, as she ended. “They judge others only by the rules by which their own conduct is guided; and there is a wise saying in an old book we all know of, which we would do well to remember: namely, ‘Take heed that ye offend not one of these little ones.’ I take that to mean, not only that we are to set a good example to them, and that we must so act and speak as not to confuse and disturb their ideas of right and wrong; but also, that whoever purposely hurts or grieves one of them, commits a sin in the eyes of Him who gave them His special care and blessing. Which of us could have calmly borne ridicule thrown upon some cherished work of our own, such as you cast, George, on the simple verses of that shy, sensitive, little Maggie? Poor little poetess! And I honor Bessie, baby though she is, for the way in which she struggled with her temper, and removed herself from the temptation to give way to it, and ‘say something you deserved.’ Could there have been a more severe reproof than that?” and Mr. Maynard laughed again at Bessie’s speech and manner, though he felt that this had become no laughing matter.

“They have both forgiven him now,” said Kate, dryly; “and Bessie made the excuse for him which she usually makes for others who do what she considers wrong, that ‘maybe Mr. Temple had never been taught better, and so didn’t know what was very true and honest, or he wouldn’t have kept Maggie’s verses, when he knew they were hers, for such a very unkind purpose as to tease her.’ ‘And maybe he didn’t know how very bad I felt, and never thought much about doing unto others,’ added Maggie. I cannot believe you meant to be as cruel as you were, George; for you did not know how much Maggie dreads notice drawn upon herself. You see,” she added, playfully, “I have myself so lately learned the lesson how much suffering such thoughtlessness may cause another, that I feel entitled to preach on the subject to others.”

Mr. Temple took the preaching in good part. He had a lazy kind of good-nature which would not allow him to take offence readily; and, besides, he was really sorry and vexed with himself for what he had done. Perhaps he would have regretted it still more, had he seen part of a letter written that afternoon by Maggie to Colonel Rush:—