One great object of delight and interest to the children was the immense number of robins around Newport. These pretty, saucy, little birds were constantly to be seen hopping about the soft, velvety lawns for which this place is famous; picking up whatever crumbs fell in their way, or such unwary worms and caterpillars as had ventured forth for air and exercise; swinging on the branches of the trees, or perched with an independent, look-at-me sort of an air, upon the fences and railings; shaking down showers of diamond dew-drops from slender sprays, in the early morning; charming all ears with their sweet notes; welcome guests whenever and wherever they came.

The first thing done by the children after breakfast, was each morning to beg for crumbs and bits of bread to feed the robins, who would come hopping close to the piazza to receive the welcome gift. Even Baby Annie must throw out her share, and would hold up her tiny little finger to keep off any one who, she feared, would disturb the birds, saying,—

“Ss, ss, badie fy,” which meant, “Hush, hush, birdie fly.”

Then there was the bathing in the sea, now as formerly, such a source of pleasure to Bessie. Maggie, too, enjoyed it, for she had lost all fear of the waves while she was at Quam Beach. It afforded endless amusement, too, to Maggie, to see the droll figures presented by the bathers when they were dressed for their dip in the sea. Her merry, ringing laugh provoked smiles not only from lookers-on, but from the very wearers themselves; for there was no rudeness or unkindness in that laugh, and she was quite as much diverted at her own appearance as she was at that of others.

From nine to twelve, the beach was generally crowded with bathers; some coming from the water, others going from the line of bathing-houses towards it; others still, in every color and style of dress, bobbing up and down in the waves. There were carriages driving back and forth over the yielding sand; many walkers, too,—people who came only to look at the bathers, or who were moving about after their own bath. The beach was a merry, lively place, where there was never a lack of “something to do;” for the children always brought their little pails and shovels with them, and when their frolic in the water was over, they would dig in the sand, or pick up small shells. Sometimes they would watch the clam-fishers turning over the sea-weed with their long-pronged instruments, or sail bits of wood and light scallop-shells down the pretty, shallow stream of fresh water; which, running from the pond beyond, and crossing the beach near its upper end, mingles its pure waters with the salt waves of the sea.

There was a story connected with this beach, told by Mr. Bradford to his children,—a story strange and romantic enough to satisfy even Maggie’s love of the marvellous, yet perfectly true.

One fine, bright morning, more than a hundred years ago, a vessel was seen coming down directly towards the beach, where no vessel had ever been known to venture before. Her sails were all set, her colors flying; and the alarmed spectators watched her with the most painful interest, expecting each instant to see her dashed to pieces upon the rocks. But no: on she came safely; past craggy points and over hidden reefs, and struck her keel into the soft sand of the beach. No person was seen on board; and, when the anxious townspeople reached her decks, the only living creature there was a dog. A cat was found in the cabin, where coffee was boiling, and other preparations made for breakfast; but not a sailor was to be seen. What became of her crew was never known: but it was supposed, that, finding themselves too near the rocks, they took to the life-boat, which was missing, and were lost; while the vessel came safely to land, without hand or eye to guide her.

Beyond this beach, a most lovely drive, with the ocean in view all the way, leads to Purgatory and Paradise. The former is a great gulf or chasm in the solid rock of the point or bluff which separates the first from the second beach; a dark, gloomy-looking place, from which Maggie, Bessie, and Belle drew back in alarm, without the least desire to look down. Neither did they like to hear the stones which the boys threw into the cleft, and which went bounding with a dull sound, from side to side, till they plunged sullenly into the dark waters below.

Reckless Fred ventured too near the edge, where a slip upon the short grass, or a stray pebble would have sent him down into the dark abyss. The Colonel drew him back with no gentle hand, and a sharp reprimand, all of which made the little girls still more ready to seek a pleasanter spot.

“For,” said Maggie, in a tone of great wisdom, “I don’t think it is at all prudent to come into places where one can be killed with such felicity.”

Maggie meant facility.

Paradise, as might be supposed, proved much more attractive. This is a succession of lovely groves and mossy glades lying below and on the sides of a rocky hill, and as great a contrast as can be imagined to its neighbor, Purgatory.

But the place which the children loved the best, and where they spent the most of their time, was the lovely little beach lying just below the bluff on which stood Colonel Rush’s house. Here, too, they often bathed, instead of driving over to the larger and more frequented beach; and here they might be found at almost every hour of the day. Here Bessie would sit, forgetting her play, as she watched the blue billows with their crests of white foam, rolling up one after the other on the smooth sands, and listening to the chiming sound of the waves, the grand music of old ocean sounding ceaselessly, and speaking to all hearts, that will hear, of the power and goodness of the Almighty hand which holds it in its place.

Even in bad weather, when she could not go out, the sea afforded endless pleasure to Bessie; for she could sit at the window watching it, as the waves, lashed into fury by the wind, rushed foaming and dashing over the rocks and reefs, and sometimes even flung their spray above the edge of the cliff on which the house stood.

And sitting here one day, looking out from her perch over the stormy waters, the leaping waves, and foam-covered rocks, she was the first to observe, and call all the family to see a spectacle which they had long desired to witness.

This was the famous Spouting Rock in full play.

At a little distance from Colonel Rush’s house was a ledge of rocks, the under side of which has been worn into deep caverns by the constant fretting of the waves. One of them has an open shaft, or sort of natural chimney, which ends on the surface of the rock. In stormy weather, when the wind has blown for some time in a particular direction, the sea rushes with great power into these caverns, and forces itself up through the spout or chimney, often to a great height. But this does not happen very often, and one may spend months, perhaps years, at Newport, without ever seeing it.

All of Mr. Bradford’s children, and indeed the grown people of the party as well, had been very anxious to see this singular sight; and when Bessie, sitting by the window, and looking over towards these rocks, saw a jet of water forcing itself above them, she knew at once what it was, and called out eagerly,—

“Oh, the horn is horning! it is really horning; come and see, everybody.”

The horn spouted all that day, and the children never tired of looking at it; and Frankie, when he was asked if he knew what it was, answered,—

“I dess it is Dod’s fountain,” than which no answer could have been truer.

Not very far from Colonel Rush’s house, lay a calm, lovely lake, called Lily Pond, separated from the ocean only by a narrow belt of land, and making a striking contrast to the rolling billows of the ocean so near.

As may be supposed, the lake is named from the number of water-lilies with which it is covered during the season when these exquisite flowers are in bloom. They fill the air with their delicious fragrance; and the delicate, pearly, white blossoms are seen by all the passers-by, resting among their green leaves on the surface of the water.

Bessie’s mother, and Bessie herself, were both extremely fond of these lovely flowers; and when Harry came in one day with two which he had fished up from their watery bed with some trouble to himself, great was the rejoicing over them.

The next afternoon, Maggie and Bessie were out driving with Mrs. Rush and Aunt Bessie, when they came upon a boy and girl, perched upon a fence at the side of the road, and having a basket half-filled with water-lilies.

“Water-lilies! oh, water-lilies!” cried Bessie; “where did they gather so many I wonder. Could we find some for dear mamma, do you think, Aunt May?”

“I think those children have them for sale: we can buy some from them,” said Mrs. Rush; and she ordered the coachman to stop.

“But we have left all our money at home,” said Maggie, in a tone of regret.

“Well, I will buy them, and you may give them to mamma,” said Mrs. Rush.

“But that is not at all the same, Aunt May,” said Bessie: “it would only be pretend our present.”

“Suppose I lend you the money. You may give it back to me if you like, as soon as you go home.”

So Maggie and Bessie each bought a bunch of water-lilies from the boy and girl, who had come down from the fence and now stood beside the carriage, and Aunt May purchased the rest, leaving the basket empty.

The girl tossed her basket above her head, and, after thanking the ladies, bounded across the road and over the fence on the other side, making for Lily Pond as if she were after a fresh supply. The boy followed more slowly.

“I wonder why they sell lilies,” said Maggie: “they do not look so very poor. At least they’re not ragged and dirty, though the girl has a pretty ugly frock.”

“If I was poor and had to make some money, I would choose to be a water-lily girl,” said Bessie; “and I would try to be so polite, and ask so nicely, that people would like to buy of me.”

“I do not think people would be very apt to refuse you, my lily girl,” said Aunt Bessie, with a loving look at the sweet little face before her, which was bent over the lovely white blossoms, not purer than itself.

“I would like to paddle in and pick the lilies,” said Maggie; “but I would not like to sit on top of a fence, waiting for people to come and buy my flowers: it must be so stupid.”

“The boy looks as if he were better able to do that than to pick the lilies,” said Mrs. Rush. “He has an interesting, thoughtful face, but looks delicate.”

“My anxiety is all upsidedown about him,” said Maggie. “Maybe he wants money to pay a doctor. Bessie, when we go out to walk to-morrow morning, let’s ask nurse to come this way, and see if we can find these children. Maybe we could help them a little. We must have a whole lot of charity money, for you know we have not had much use for it on our travels.”

Accordingly, the next morning the children waited for Belle; and, as soon as she came, the whole flock started with Mammy and Jane on the road towards Lily Pond, the little girls having taken care to be provided with money. They found the boy and girl, not sitting on top of the fence this time, but near the lake; the boy lying flat upon a rock with a book in his hand, the girl sitting beside him, busy shelling pease.

They looked up as our party drew near, and the girl said with a pleased look,—

“Oh! it’s the little girls who bought all the lilies yesterday.”

“Yes, it is us,” said Maggie. “Have you more to sell us to-day? We meant to buy a whole lot, and have brought a basket in baby’s wagon.”

“We haven’t picked any to-day,” said the boy: “we don’t generally gather them till later, when it’s time for the gentle-folks to come riding this way; but we can get some for you right away. In a few days, when they’re more plenty, there’ll be lots of fellows up here after them; but they mostly take them down to the beach and around the town to sell.”

“We have a little pond of our own, where there are a few,” said the girl; “but we get most off of this one.”

“Where do you live?” asked Belle.

“Over yonder,” said the girl, pointing to a small farm-house standing among its out-buildings on the other side of the road. “Now, Johnny, I’m ready.”

Johnny went a few steps off, where the bushes grew thickly, and drew from among them two long, hooked sticks. One of these he gave to the girl, and kept the other in his own hand. While they had been talking, the girl had pulled off her shoes and stockings; and now, to the surprise of all the children, she waded into the water, while her brother stayed upon the rock, without offering to follow.

Sallie, so he called her, stepped out till the water touched her knees; and having gathered such lilies as she could reach with her hand, drew others towards her with the hooked stick. The long, slender stems yielded easily; and, as she plucked one after another, she tossed them towards her brother, who drew them in with his own stick.

How lovely and delicious they were, just fresh from their watery bed, with the drops still glittering like diamonds on the rich, creamy-white petals! how they filled the whole air with their fragrance!

“I think if I could carry flowers to heaven, I would like to take these,” whispered Bessie to Maggie and Belle, as all three hung delighted over their prize. “They look as if they were very large stars fallen down out of God’s sky, to tell us how sweet every thing is there.”

“O Bessie, you darling!” said Maggie. “What a lovely idea! That’s good enough to put in a book. Bessie, do you know that is talking prose?”

“What is prose?” asked Belle.

“You know what rhyme is,” said Maggie.

“Yes,” said Belle: “it means cat and hat, and mouse and house, and mean and queen.”

“That’s right,” said Maggie. “Well, if you say a nice thing in rhyme, that’s poetry; but if you say it in unrhyme, then it’s prose.”

“Oh!” said Belle, quite satisfied with Maggie’s explanation. “I wish I were as smart as you two. You write poetry, Maggie; and Bessie can talk prose: and I can’t do either.”

“Never mind,” said Maggie, consolingly. “Maybe you’ll be able to some day.”

“And you’re just good enough for us, any way,” said Bessie, with an affectionate kiss to her little friend; an example which was followed by Maggie.

“Why don’t you go in the water, and let your sister stay out?” said Belle to Johnny, rather reprovingly.

Johnny, who was a gentle-looking boy, colored a little, but answered quietly,—

“They say I ought not to wet my feet, and I want to keep well very much.”

“Yes,” said Sallie, who had just stepped out of the water, and was wringing out her dripping skirts: “it don’t hurt me to go in the water; but it’s not good for him.”

“Are you sick?” asked Bessie.

“No,” said Johnny, looking as if he thought the little girls were blaming him in their own minds for not taking the wetting himself, as indeed they were.

“He’s not just sick,” said Sallie; “but he’s not just strong, and we’re bound he shall go to school this winter, at least for one quarter. He’s an awful fellow for his books and learning.”

“Will one quarter make him too sick to go any more?” asked Bessie.

“Oh! I didn’t mean that,” said Sallie, sitting down on the rock, and spreading out her wet feet and dress to dry in the sun; “but, you see, we’re not sure we’ll put by enough money even to pay for one quarter. Shall I tell you about it?” she added, seeing her little customers looked interested.

“Yes,” said Bessie.

“Well, as I said, Johnny’s such a fellow for book learning, and he’s smart too; and these two winters he’s tried hard for going to the Common School down in the town; but it’s a terrible long walk, and so cold; and both years he’s been taken down sick, and had to give it up; and the doctor told father he was not to try it again. But there’s a young man lives just round the turn of the road who is learning to be a minister, and he’s ready to teach a few boys if they pay him for it; and father said he couldn’t afford to pay a dollar this winter, for it’s been a bad year with him; but he said we might keep all we could make ourselves to pay for Johnny’s schooling; but I don’t know as we’re likely to put by even enough for one quarter. So that’s the reason, you see, why I go in the water. I’m hearty, but Johnny takes cold easy, and then he coughs.”

“Yes, ‘one man’s meat is another man’s poison,’” said Maggie. “Well, you’re a good girl and a dutiful sister.”

“We’ll buy water-lilies of you every day,” said Bessie, “so we can help along. But we don’t come this way every day,” she added, thoughtfully.

“We could bring them to you, if you liked,” said Johnny. “We do take them every day to a lady down yonder,” and he pointed in the direction of the bluff on which Colonel Rush’s house stood, with several others.

This was agreed upon; and the nurse, saying they must be moving homeward, as it was time to go to the beach and bathe, they said good-by to Johnny and Sallie.

“I’ve a plan in my head,” said Maggie; “but then, I’ve learned experience by a very bad lesson, so I thought I’d better not mention it till I’ve advised with mamma.”

Maggie’s bad lesson was this,—

One day, just before they left home for the Southern trip, Maggie was standing on the front stoop, waiting for her mother and Bessie, with whom she was going out, when a poor-looking man spoke to her. He told a most pitiful story; and Maggie, full of sympathy, emptied her little purse into his hand. But this did not satisfy the beggar; and he asked “if the little lady had not an old coat to give a poor soldier.”

“I’ll ask mamma,” said Maggie, and off she rushed upstairs, leaving the beggar-man standing on the stoop by the open hall-door.

Mamma said she could not give old clothes away, unless she was sure the man was deserving: for she knew of many such who needed them; and told Maggie to go back at once and tell Patrick to shut the door, and she would see the man when she came down.

But when Maggie reached the foot of the stairs, the beggar was gone. So far from waiting for the old coat, it was soon found that he had walked off with a new one of papa’s, which lay on the hall table.

Poor Maggie was excessively mortified, and much distressed, not only at the loss of the coat, but at that of her little stock of spending money. Mamma made the last good to her; but told her she should not do so again if she acted without thought; and begged her to take counsel of some older person when she felt inclined to help those she did not know.

So Maggie had “learned experience,” and since that time had been careful to ask advice before she allowed her sympathies to run too far with her.