are you, if you'd own it," said Julia, throwing herself down for a nap
before midnight.
"I shall _not_ give it up till I'm satisfied. Sleep away, I'll read
awhile and call you if anything comes," answered Sally, bound to prove
the truth of her story if she waited all summer.
Julia was soon off, and the lonely watcher sat reading till past eleven;
then put out her light and went to take a turn on the flat roof of the
piazza that ran round the house, for the night was mild and the stars
companionable. As she turned to come back, her sharp eye caught sight of
something moving on the house-top as before, and soon, clear against the
soft gloom of the sky, appeared the white figure flitting to and fro.
A long look, and then Sally made a rush at Julia, shaking her violently
as she said in an excited whisper:
"Come! she is there. Quick! upstairs to the cupola; I have the candle
and the key."
Carried away by the other's vehemence Julia mutely obeyed, trembling,
but afraid to resist; and noiseless as two shadows, they crept up the
stairs, arriving just in time to see the ghost vanish over the edge of
the roof, as if it had dissolved into thin air. Julia dropped down in a
heap, desperately frightened, but Sally pulled her up and led her back
to their room, saying, when she got there, with grim satisfaction, "Did
I dream it all? Now I hope they will believe me."
"What was it? Oh, what could it be?" whimpered Julia, quite demoralized
by the spectacle.
"I begin to believe in ghosts, for no human being could fly off in that
way, with nothing to walk on. I shall speak to Miss Orne to-morrow; I've
had enough of this sort of fun," said Sally, going to the window, with a
strong desire to shut and lock it.
But she paused with her hand raised, as if turned to stone, for as she
spoke the white figure went slowly by. Julia dived into the closet, with
one spring. Sally, however, was on her mettle now, and, holding her
breath, leaned out to watch. With soundless steps the veiled thing went
along the roof, and paused at the further end.
Never waiting for her comrade, Sally quietly stepped out and followed,
leaving Julia to quake with fear and listen for an alarm.
None came, and in a few minutes, that seemed like hours, Sally returned,
looking much excited; but was sternly silent, and, to all the other's
eager questions she would only give this mysterious reply:--
"I know all, but cannot tell till morning. Go to sleep."
Believing her friend offended at her base desertion at the crisis of the
affair, Julia curbed her curiosity and soon forgot it in sleep. Sally
slept also, feeling like a hero reposing after a hard-won battle.
She was up betimes and ready to receive her early visitors with an air
of triumph, which silenced every jeer and convinced the most skeptical
that she had something sensational to tell at last.
When the girls had perched themselves on any available article of
furniture, they waited with respectful eagerness, while Sally retired to
the hall for a moment, and Julia rolled her eyes, with her finger on her
lips, looking as if she could tell much if she dared.
Sally returned somewhat flushed, but very sober, and in a few dramatic
words related the adventures of the night, up to the point where she
left Julia quivering ignominiously in the closet, and, like Horatius,
faced the foe alone.
"I followed till the ghost entered a window."
"Which?" demanded five awestruck voices at once.
"The last."
"Ours?" whispered Kitty, pale as her collar, while Cordy, her room-mate,
sat aghast.
"As it turned to shut the window the veil fell back and I saw the face."
Sally spoke in a whisper and added, with a sudden start, "I see it now!"
Every girl sprang or tumbled off her perch as if an electric shock had
moved them, and stared about them as Nelly cried wildly, "Where? oh,
where?"
"There!" and Sally pointed at the palest face in the room, while her own
reddened with the mirth she was vainly trying to suppress.
"Cordy?"
A general shriek of amazement and incredulity followed the question,
while Sally laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks at the dumb
dismay of the innocent ghost.
As soon as she could be heard she quickly explained: "Yes, it was Cordy,
walking in her sleep. She wore her white flannel wrapper, and a cloud
round her head, and took her exercise over the roofs at midnight, so
that no time might be lost. I don't wonder she is tired in the morning,
after such dangerous gymnastics as these."
"But she couldn't vanish in that strange way off the house-top without
breaking her neck," said Julia, much relieved, but still mystified.
"She didn't fly nor fall, but went down the ladder left by the painters.
Look at the soles of her felt slippers, if you doubt me, and see the red
paint from the roof. We couldn't open the cupola windows, you remember,
but this morning I took a stroll and looked up and saw how she did it
asleep, though she never would dare to do it awake. Somnambulists do
dreadfully dangerous things, you know," said Sally, as if her experience
of those peculiar people had been vast and varied.
"How could I? It's horrid to think of. Why did you let me, Kit?" cried
Cordy, uncertain whether to be proud or ashamed of her exploit.
"Never dreamed of _your_ doing such a silly thing, and never waked up.
Sleep-walkers are always quiet, and if I had seen you I'd have been too
scared to know you. I'll tie you to the bed-post after this, and not
let you scare the whole house," answered Kitty, regarding it all as a
fine joke.
"What did I do when I got in?" asked Cordy, curiously.
"Took off your things and went to bed as if glad to get back. I didn't
dare to wake you, and kept the fun all to myself till this morning.
Thought I ought to have a good laugh for my pains since I did all the
work," answered Sally, in high glee at the success of her efforts.
"I did want to get as thin as I could before I went home, the boys
plague me so; and I suppose it wore upon me and set me to walking at
night. I'm very sorry, and I never will again if I can help it. Please
forgive me, and don't tell any one but Miss Orne; it was so silly,"
begged poor Cordy, tearfully.
All promised and comforted her, and praised Sally, and plagued Julia,
and had a delightfully noisy and exciting half hour before the breakfast
bell rang.
Miss Orne wondered what made the young faces so gay and the laughter so
frequent, as mysterious hints and significant nods went on around the
table; but as soon as possible she was borne into the school-room and
told the thrilling tale.
Her interest and surprise were very flattering, and when the subject had
been well discussed she promised to prevent any further escapades of
this sort, and advised Cordy to try the Banting method for the few
remaining weeks of her stay.
"I'll try anything that will keep me from acting ghost and making every
one afraid of me," said Cordy, secretly wondering why she had not
broken her neck in her nocturnal gymnastics.
"Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Orne?" asked Maud,--who did, in spite of
the comic explanation of this one.
"Not the old-fashioned sort, but there is a modern kind that we are all
afraid of more or less," answered Miss Orne, with a half-playful,
half-serious look at the girls around her.
"Do tell about them, please," begged Kitty, while the rest looked both
surprised and interested.
"There is one which I am very anxious to keep you from fearing. Women
are especially haunted by it, and it prevents them from doing, being,
and thinking all that they might and ought. 'What will people say?' is
the name of this formidable ghost; and it does much harm, for few of us
have the courage to live up to what we know to be right in all things.
You are soon to go away to begin your lives in earnest, and I do hope
that whatever I have been able to teach you about the care of minds and
bodies will not be forgotten or neglected because it may not be the
fashion outside our little world."
"_I_ never will forget, or be afraid of that ghost, Miss Orne," cried
Sally, quick to understand and accept the warning so opportunely given.
"I have great faith in _you_, dear, because you have proved yourself so
brave in facing phantoms more easily laid. But this is a hard one to
meet and vanquish; so watch well, stand firm, and let these jerseys that
you are so fond of cover not only healthy young bodies but happy
hearts, both helping you to be sweet, wise, and useful women in the
years to come. Dear girls, promise me this, and I shall feel that our
winter has not been wasted, and that our spring is full of lovely
promise for a splendid summer."
As she spoke, with her own beautiful face bright with hope and
tenderness, Miss Orne opened her arms and gathered them all in, to seal
their promise with grateful kisses more eloquent than words.
Long after their school days were over, the six girls kept the white
jerseys they wore at the breaking-up festival, as relics of the J. J.;
and long after they were scattered far apart, they remembered the
lessons which helped them to be what their good friend hoped--healthy,
happy, and useful women.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Little House In The Garden
"I think we little ones ought to have a story all to ourselves now,"
said one of the smaller lads, as they gathered round the fire with
unabated interest.
"So do I, and I've got a little tale that will just suit you, I fancy.
The older boys and girls can go and play games if they don't care to
hear," answered Aunt Elinor, producing the well-worn portfolio.
"Thanks, we will try a bit, and if it is very namby pamby we can run,"
said Geoff, catching sight of the name of the first chapter. Aunt Elinor
smiled and began to read about
THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE GARDEN.
I. BEARS.
A brown bear was the first tenant; in fact, it was built for him, and
this is the way it happened:--
A man and his wife were driving through the woods up among the
mountains, and hearing a queer sound looked about them till they spied
two baby bears in a tree.
"Those must be the cubs of the old bear that was killed last week," said
Mr. Hitchcock, much interested all at once.
"Poor little things! how will they get on without their mother? They
look half scared to death, and cry like real babies," said the kind
woman.
"They will starve if we don't take care of them. I'll shake them down;
you catch them in your shawl and we'll see what we can do for them."
So Mr. Hitchcock climbed up the tree, to the great dismay of the two
orphans, who growled funny little growls and crept as far out on the
branch as they dared.
"Shake easy, John, or they will fall and be killed," cried the wife,
holding out her shawl for this new kind of fruit to fall into.
Down they came, one after the other, and at first were too frightened to
fight; so Mr. Hitchcock got them into the wagon safely bundled up, and
Mrs. Hitchcock soothed their alarm by gentle pattings and motherly
words, till they ceased to struggle, and cuddled down to sleep like two
confiding puppies, for they were not much bigger.
Mr. Hitchcock kept the hotel that stood at the foot of the king of the
mountains, and in summer the house was full of people; so he was glad of
any new attraction, and the little bears were the delight of many
children. At first, Tom and Jerry trotted and tumbled about like
frolicsome puppies, and led easy lives,--petted, fed and admired, till
they grew so big and bold that, like other young creatures, their pranks
made mischief as well as fun.
Tom would steal all the good things he could lay his paws on in kitchen
or dining-room, and cook declared she couldn't have the rascal loose;
for whole pans of milk vanished, sheets of ginger-bread were found in
his den under the back steps, and nearly every day he was seen
scrambling off with booty of some sort, while the fat cook waddled
after, scolding and shaking the poker at him, to the great amusement of
the boarders on the piazza. People bore with him a long time; but when
he took a lively trot down the middle of the long dinner-table one day,
after eating all he liked, and smashing right and left as he scampered
off, with a terrible clatter of silver, glass, and china, his angry
master declared he wouldn't have such doings, and chained him to a post
on the lawn. Here he tugged and growled dismally, while good little
Jerry frisked gayly about, trying to understand what it all meant.
But presently _his_ besetting sin got _him_ into trouble likewise. He
loved to climb, and was never happier than when scrambling up the rough
posts of the back piazza to bask in the sun on the roof above, peeping
down with his sharp little eyes at the children, who could not follow.
He roosted in trees like a fat brown bird, and came tumbling down
unexpectedly on lovers who sought quiet nooks to be romantic in. He
explored the chimneys and threw into them any trifle he happened to
find,--being a rogue, and fond of stealing hats, balls, dolls, or any
small article that came in his way. But the fun he liked best was to
climb in at the chamber windows and doze on the soft beds; for Jerry
was a luxurious fellow and scorned the straw of his own den. This habit
annoyed people much, and the poor bear often came bundling out of
windows, with old gentlemen whacking him with canes, or ladies throwing
water after him.
One evening, when there was a dance and every one was busy down stairs,
Jerry took a walk on the roof, and being sleepy, looked about for a
cosey bed to take a nap in. Two brothers occupied one of these rooms,
and both were Jerry's good friends, especially the younger. Georgie was
fast asleep, as his dancing days had not yet begun, and Charlie was
waltzing away down stairs; so Jerry crept into bed and nestled down
beside his playmate, who was too sleepy to do anything but roll over,
thinking the big brother had come to bed.
By and by Charlie did come up, late and tired, and having forgotten a
lamp, undressed in the moonlight, observing nothing till about to step
into bed; then, finding something rolled up in the clothes, thought it a
joke of the other boys, caught up a racket and began to bang away at the
suspicious bundle. A scene of wild confusion followed, for Jerry growled
and clawed and couldn't get out; Georgie woke, and thinking his
bed-fellow was his brother being abused by some frolicsome mate, held on
to Jerry, defending him bravely, till a rent in the sheet allowed a
shaggy head to appear, so close to his own that the poor child was
painfully reminded of Red Riding Hood's false grandmother. Charlie was
speechless with laughter at this discovery, and while Jerry bounced
about the bed snarling and hugging pillows as he tried to get free,
terrified Georgie rushed down the hall screaming, "The wolf! the wolf!"
till he took refuge in his mother's room.
Out popped night-capped heads, anxious voices cried, "Is it fire?" and
in a moment the house was astir. The panic might have been serious if
Jerry had not come galloping down stairs, hotly pursued by Charlie in
his night-gown, still belaboring the poor beast, and howling, "He was in
my bed! He scared George! I'll thrash him!"
Then the alarmed ladies and gentlemen laughed and grew calm, while the
boys all turned out and hunted Jerry up stairs and down, till he was
captured and ignominiously lugged away to be tied in the barn.
That prank sealed his fate, and he went to join his brother in
captivity. Here they lived for a year, and went to housekeeping in a den
in the bank, with a trough for their food, and a high, knotted pole to
climb on. They had many visitors, and learned a few tricks, but were not
happy bears; for they longed to be free, and the older they grew, the
more they sighed for the great forest where they were born.
The second summer something happened that parted them forever. Among the
children that year were Fred and Fan Howard, two jolly young persons of
twelve and fourteen. Of course the bears were very interesting, and Fred
tried their tempers by tormenting them, while Fan won their hearts with
cake and nuts, candy and caresses. Tom was Fred's favorite, and Jerry
was Fan's. Tom was very intelligent, and covered himself with glory by
various exploits. One was taking off the boards which roofed the den, so
that the sun should dry the dampness after a rain; and he carefully
replaced them at night. Any dog who approached the trough got his ears
smartly boxed, and meddlesome boys were hugged till they howled for
mercy. He danced in a way to convulse the soberest, and Fred taught him
to shoulder arms in such a funny imitation of a stout old soldier of the
town that the children rolled on the grass in fits of laughter when the
cap was on, and the wooden gun flourished at word of command by the
clumsy hero.
Jerry had no accomplishments, but his sweet temper made many friends. He
let the doves eat with him, the kittens frolic all over his broad back,
and was never rough with the small people who timidly offered the buns
he took so gently from their little hands. But he pined in captivity,
refused his food, and lay in his den all day, or climbed to the top of
the pole and sat there looking off to the cool, dark forest, with such a
pensive air that Fan said it made her heart ache to see him. Just before
the season ended, Jerry disappeared. No one could imagine how the chain
broke, but gone he was, and never came back, to Fan's satisfaction and
Tom's great sorrow. He mourned for his brother, and Mr. Hitchcock began
to talk of killing him; for it would not do to let two bears loose in
the neighborhood, as they sometimes killed sheep and did much harm.
"I wish my father would buy him," said Fred, "I've always wanted a
menagerie, and a tame bear would be a capital beginning."
"I'll ask him, for I hate to have the poor old fellow killed," answered
Fan. She not only begged papa to buy Tom, but confessed that she filed
Jerry's chain and helped him to escape.
"I know it was wrong, but I couldn't see him suffer," she said. "Now if
you buy Tom I'll give you my five dollars to help, and Mr. Hitchcock
will forgive me and be glad to get rid of both the bears."
After some consultation Tom _was_ bought, and orders were sent to have a
house built for him in a sunny corner of the garden, with strong rings
to chain him to, and a good lock on the door to keep him in. When he was
settled in these new quarters he held daily receptions for some weeks.
Young and old came to see him, and Fred showed off his menagerie with
the pride of a budding Barnum. A bare spot was soon worn on the grass
where Tom's parade ground was, and at all hours the poor fellow might be
seen dancing and drilling, or sitting at his door, thoughtfully
surveying the curious crowd, and privately wishing he never had been
born.
Here he lived for another year, getting so big that he could hardly turn
round in his house, and so cross that Fred began to be a little afraid
of him after several hugs much too close to be safe or agreeable. One
morning the door of the house was found broken off, and Tom gone. Fred
was rather relieved; but his father was anxious, and ordered out the
boys of the neighborhood to find the runaway, lest he should alarm
people or do some harm. It was an easy matter to trace him, for more
than one terrified woman had seen the big, brown beast sniffing round
her back premises after food; a whole schoolful of children had been
startled out of their wits by a bear's head at the window; and one old
farmer was in a towering rage over the damage done to his bee-hives and
garden patch by "the pesky critter, afore he took to the woods."
After a long tramp poor Tom was found rolled up in a sunny nook, resting
after a glorious frolic. He went home without much reluctance, but from
that time it was hard to keep him. Bolts and bars, chains and ropes were
of little use; for when the longing came, off he went, on one occasion
carrying the house on his back, like a snail, till he tipped it over and
broke loose. Fred was quite worn out with his pranks, and tried to sell
or give him away; but nobody would buy or accept such a troublesome pet.
Even tender hearted Fan gave him up, when he frightened a little child
into a fit and killed some sheep, in his last holiday.
It was decided that he must be killed, and a party of men, armed with
guns, set out to carry the sentence into effect. Fred went also to see
that all was properly done, and Fanny called after him with tears in her
eyes:--
"Say good by for me, and kill him as kindly as you can."
This time Tom had been gone a week and had evidently made up his mind to
be a free bear; for he had wandered far into the deepest wood and made
a den for himself among the rocks. Here they found him, but could not
persuade him to come out, and no bold Putnam was in the troop, to creep
in and conquer him there.
"Bullets will reach him if we can't, so blaze away, boys, and finish him
off. We have fooled away time enough, and I want to get home to supper,"
said the leader of the hunt, after many attempts had been made to lure
or drive Tom from his shelter.
So they "blazed away," and growls of pain proved that some of the
bullets had hit. But Tom would not budge, and having used up their
ammunition, the disappointed hunters went home resolving to bring dogs
next day and finish the job. They were spared the trouble, however, for
when Fred looked from his window in the morning he saw that Tom had
returned, and ran down to welcome the rebel back. But one look at the
poor beast showed him that he had only come home to die; for he was
covered with wounds and lay moaning on his bed of straw, looking as
pathetic as a bear could, his shaggy coat full of burrs, his head and
breast full of shot, and one paw apparently broken.
Fanny cried over him, and Fred was quite bowed down with remorse; but
nothing could be done, and soon, with a vain effort to lick the hands
that stroked him, poor Tom lifted his great paw for a farewell shake,
and died, with his great head on his master's knee, in token of
forgiveness. As if to atone for their seeming cruelty, Fanny hung the
little house with black while Tom lay in state, and Fred, resisting all
temptations to keep his fine skin, buried him like a warrior "with his
martial cloak around him," in the green woods he loved so well.
II. BOYS.
The next tenants of the little house were three riotous lads,--for
Fred's family moved away,--and the new comers took possession one fine
spring day with great rejoicing over this ready-made plaything. They
were queer fellows, of eleven, twelve, and fourteen; for, having read
the "Boys' Froissart" and other warlike works, they were quite carried
away by these stirring tales, and each boy was a hero. Harry, the
eldest, was Henry of Navarre, and wore a white plume on every occasion.
Ned was the Black Prince, and clanked in tin armor, while little Billy
was William Tell and William Wallace by turns.
Tom's deserted mansion underwent astonishing changes about this time.
Bows and arrows hung on its walls; battle-axes, lances, and guns stood
in the corners; helmets, shields, and all manner of strange weapons
adorned the rafters; cannon peeped from its port-holes; a drawbridge
swung over the moat that soon surrounded it; the flags of all nations
waved from its roof, and the small house was by turns an armory, a fort,
a castle, a robber's cave, a warrior's tomb, a wigwam, and the Bastile.
The neighbors were both amused and scandalized by the pranks of these
dramatic young persons; for they enacted with much spirit and skill all
the historical events which pleased their fancy, and speedily enlisted
other boys to join in the new plays. At one time, painted and
be-feathered Indians whooped about the garden, tomahawking the unhappy
settlers in the most dreadful manner. At another, Achilles, radiant in a
tin helmet and boiler-cover shield, dragged Hector at the tail of his
chariot (the wheel-barrow), drawn by two antic and antique steeds, who
upset both victor and vanquished before the fun was over. Tell shot
bushels of apples off the head of the stuffed suit of clothes that acted
his son, Coeur de Leon and Saladin hacked blocks and cut cushions _a la_
Walter Scott, and tournaments of great splendor were held on the grass,
in which knights from all ages, climes, and races, tilted gallantly,
while fair dames of tender years sat upon the wood-pile to play Queens
of Beauty and award the prize of valor.