heap, high fence, and prickly hedge), with intrepid courage. Wellington
won many a Waterloo in the melon patch, and Washington glorified every
corner of the garden by his heroic exploits. Grant smoked sweet-fern
cigars at the fall of Richmond; Sherman marched victoriously to Georgia
through the corn and round the tomato bed, and Phil Sheridan electrified
the neighborhood by tearing down the road on a much-enduring donkey,
stung to unusual agility by matches tied to his tail.
It grew to be an almost daily question among the young people, "What are
the Morton boys at now?" for these interesting youths were much admired
by their mates, who eagerly manned the fences to behold the revels, when
scouts brought word of a new play going on. Mrs. Morton believed in
making boys happy at home, and so allowed them entire liberty in the
great garden, as it was safer than river, streets, or ball-ground, where
a very mixed crowd was to be found. Here they were under her own eye,
and the safe, sweet tie between them still held fast; for she was never
too busy to bind up their wounds after a fray, wave her handkerchief
when cheers told of victory, rummage her stores for costumes, or join in
their eager study of favorite heroes when rain put an end to their
out-of-door fun.
So the summer was a lively one, and though the vegetables suffered some
damage, a good crop of healthy, happy hours was harvested, and all were
satisfied. The little house looked much the worse for the raids made
upon it, but still stood firm with the stars and stripes waving over it,
and peace seemed to reign one October afternoon as the boys lay under
the trees eating apples and planning what to play next.
"Bobby wants to be a knight of the Round Table. We might take him in and
have fun with the rites, and make him keep a vigil and all that,"
proposed William Wallace, anxious to admit his chosen friend to the
inner circle of the brotherhood.
"He's such a little chap he'd be scared and howl. I don't vote for
that," said the Black Prince, rather scornfully, as he lay with his
kingly legs in the air, and his royal mouth full of apple.
"I do!" declared Henry of Navarre, always generous, and amiable. "Bob is
a plucky little chap, and will do anything we put him to. He's poor and
the other fellows look down on him, so that's another reason why we
ought to take him in and stand by him. Let's give him a good trial, and
if he's brave, we'll have him."
"So we will! Let's do it now; he's over there waiting to be asked in.
_He_ doesn't go poking his nose where he isn't wanted, as some folks
do," cried Billy, who had often been snubbed by the big boys in his
efforts at knightly feats.
A whistle brought Bobby, with a beaming face, for he burned to join the
fun, but held back because he was not a gentleman's son. A sturdy,
honest little soul was Bobby, true as steel, brave as a lion, and loyal
as an old-time vassal to his young lord, kind Billy, who always told him
all the plans, explained the mysteries, and shared the goodies when
feasts were spread.
Now he stood leaning against one of the posts of the little house
whither the boys had adjourned, and listened bashfully while Harry told
him what he must do to join the heroes of the Round Table. He did not
understand half of it, but was ready for any trial, and took the comical
oath administered to him with the utmost solemnity.
"You must stay here locked in for some hours, and watch your armor.
That's the vigil young knights had to keep before they could fight. You
mustn't be scared at any noises you hear, or anything you see, or sing
out for help, even if you stay here till dark. You'll be a coward if you
do, and never have a sword."
"I promise truly; hope to die if I don't!" answered Bobby, fixing his
blue eyes on the speaker, and holding his curly head erect with the air
of one ready to face any peril; for the desire of his soul was to own a
sword, like Billy, and clash it on warlike occasions.
Then a suit of armor was piled up on the red box, which was by turns
altar, table, tomb, and executioner's block. Banners were hung over it,
the place darkened, two candles lighted, and after certain rites which
cannot be divulged, the little knight was left to his vigil with the
door locked.
The boys howled outside, smote on the roof, fired a cannon, and taunted
the prisoner with derisive epithets to stir him to wrath. But no cry
answered them, no hint of weariness, fear, or anger betrayed him, and
after a half-hour of this sort of fun, they left him to the greater
trial of silence, solitude, and uncertainty.
The short afternoon was soon gone, and the tea bell rang before the
vigil had lasted long enough.
"He won't know what time it is; let's leave him till after supper, and
then march out with torches and bring him in to a good feed. Mother
won't mind, and Hetty likes to stuff fellows," proposed Harry, and all
being hungry, the first part of the plan was carried out at once.
But before tea was over, the unusual clang of the fire bells drove all
thought of Bobby out of the boys' minds, as they raced away to the
exciting scene, to take their share in the shouting, running, and
tumbling about in every one's way.
The great hotel was burning, and till midnight the town was in an
uproar. No lives were lost, but much property, and nothing else was
thought of till dawn. A heavy shower did good service, and about one
o'clock, people began to go home tired out. Mrs. Morton and other ladies
were too busy giving shelter to the people from the hotel, and making
coffee for the firemen, to send their boys to bed. In fact, they could
not catch them; for the youngsters were wild with excitement, and
pervaded the place like will-o'-the-wisps, running errands, lugging
furniture, splashing about with water, and howling till they were as
hoarse as crows.
"This is the battle of Beauvais, and we've set the city a-fire by
flinging pitch-pots over the walls," croaked Harry to Ned as they bumped
against each other, one carrying a great coffee-pot and the other a
feather-bed.
"No, it's the fall of Troy, and I'm AEneas lugging off the old man,"
panted Ned, staggering away with the heavy load on his back.
At last the flurry was over, and our three lads, very dirty, wet, and
tired, went to bed and to sleep, and never once thought of poor Bobby,
till next morning. Then Harry suddenly rose up, with an exclamation that
effectually roused both his brothers.
"By St. Dennis, we've left that boy there all night!"
"He wouldn't be such a fool as to stay; that old lock's broken easy
enough," said Ned, looking troubled, in spite of his words.
"Yes, he would! He promised, and he'll keep his word like a true knight.
It rained and was cold, and no one knew where he was. Oh dear, I hope he
isn't dead," cried Billy, tumbling out of bed and into his clothes as
fast as he could.
The others laughed, but dressed with unusual speed, and flew to the
garden house, to find the lock unbroken, and all as still inside as when
they left it. Looking very anxious, Harry opened the door and all peeped
in. There, at his post before the altar, lay the little knight fast
asleep. Rain had soaked his clothes, the chilly night air made his lips
and hands purple with cold, and the trials of those long hours left the
round cheeks rather pale. But he still guarded his arms, and at the
first sound was awake and ready to defend them, though somewhat shaky
with sleep and stiffness.
The penitent boys poured forth apologies, in which fire, remorse, and
breakfast were oddly mixed. Bobby forgave them like a gentleman, only
saying, with a laugh and a shiver, "Guess I'd better go home, ma'll be
worried about me. If I'd known being out all night and getting wet was
part of the business, I'd 'a' left word and brought a blanket. Be I a
Round Table now? Shall I have a sword, and train with the rest? I didn't
holler once, and wasn't much scared, for all the bells, and the dark,
and the rain."
"You've won your spurs, and we'll knight you just as soon as we get
time. You're a brave fellow, and I'm proud to have you one of my men.
Please don't say much about this; we'll make it all right, and we're
awfully sorry," answered Harry, while Ned put his own jacket over the
wet shoulders, and Billy beamed at him, feeling that his friend's
exploit outdid any of his own.
Bobby marched away as proudly as if he already saw the banners waving
over him, and felt the accolade that made him a true knight. But that
happy moment was delayed for some time, because the cold caught in that
shower threatened a fit of sickness; and the boys' play looked as if it
might end in sad earnest.
Harry and his brothers confessed all to mamma, listened with humility to
her lecture on true knighthood, and did penance by serving Bobby like
real brothers-in-arms, while he was ill. As soon as the hardy boy was
all right again, they took solemn counsel together how they should
reward him, and atone for their carelessness. Many plans were discussed,
but none seemed fine enough for this occasion till Billy had a bright
idea.
"Let's buy Bob some hens. He wants some dreadfully, and we ought to do
something grand after treating him so badly, and nearly killing him."
"Who's got any money? I haven't; but it's a good idea," responded Ned,
vainly groping in all his pockets for a cent to head the subscription
with.
"Mamma would lend us some, and we could work to pay for it," began
Billy.
"No, I've a better plan," interrupted Harry with authority. "We ought to
make a sacrifice and suffer for our sins. We will have an auction and
sell our arms. The boys want them, and will pay well. My lords and
gentlemen, what say ye?"
"We will!" responded the loyal subjects of King Henry.
"Winter is coming, and we can't use them," said Billy, innocently.
"And by next spring we shall be too old for such games," added Ned.
"'Tis well! Ho! call hither my men. Bring out the suits of mail; sound
the trumpets, and set on!" thundered Harry, striking an attitude, and
issuing his commands with royal brevity.
A funny scene ensued; for while Billy ran to collect the boys, Ned
dismantled the armory, and Hal disposed of the weapons in the most
effective manner, on trees, fences, and grass, where the bidders could
examine and choose at their ease. Their mates had always admired and
coveted these war-like treasures, for some were real, and others
ingenious imitations; so they gladly came at sound of the hunter's horn
which was blown when Robin Hood wanted his merry men.
Harry was auctioneer, and rattled off the most amazing medley of
nonsense in praise of the articles, which he rapidly knocked down to the
highest bidder. The competition was lively, for the boys laughed so much
they hardly knew what they were doing, and made the rashest offers; but
they all knew what the money was to be used for, so they paid their
bills handsomely, and marched off with cross-bows, old guns, rusty
swords, and tin armor, quite contented with their bargains.
Seven dollars was realized by the sale, and a fine rooster and several
hens solemnly presented to Bobby, who was overwhelmed by this unexpected
atonement, and immediately established his fowls in the wood-shed, where
they happily resided through the winter, and laid eggs with such
gratifying rapidity that he earned quite a little fortune, and insisted
on saying that his vigil had not only made a knight of him, but a
millionnaire.
III. BABIES.
The little house stood empty till spring; then a great stir went on in
the garden, getting it ready for a new occupant. It was mended, painted
red, fitted up with a small table and chairs, and a swing. Sunflowers
stood sentinel at the door, vines ran over it, and little beds of
flowers were planted on either side. Paths were dug all round the lawn,
and a baby-carriage was rolled up and down to harden them. The neighbors
wondered what was coming next, and one June day they found out; for a
procession appeared, escorting the new tenant to the red mansion, with
great rejoicing among the boys.
First came Billy blowing the horn, then Ned waving their best banner,
then Hal drawing the baby wagon, in which, as on a throne, sat the
little cousin who had come to spend the summer, and rule over them like
a small, sweet tyrant. A very sprightly damsel was four-year-old
Queenie, blue-eyed, plump, and rosy, with a cloud of yellow curls,
chubby arms that embraced every one, and a pair of stout legs that
trotted all day. She surveyed her kingdom with cries of delight, and
took possession of "mine tottage" at once, beginning housekeeping by a
tumble out of the swing, a header into the red chest, and a pinch in the
leaf of the table. But she won great praise from the boys by making
light of these mishaps, and came up smiling, with a bump on her brow, a
scratch on her pug nose, and a bruise on one fat finger, and turned out
tea for the gentlemen as if she had done it all her life; for the table
was set, and all manner of tiny cakes and rolls stood ready to welcome
her.
This was only the beginning of tea parties; for very soon a flock of
lovely little friends came to play with Queenie, and such pretty revels
went on it seemed as if fairies had taken possession of the small house.
Dolls had picnics, kittens went a-visiting, tin carts rattled up and
down, gay balloons flew about, pigmy soldiers toddled round the paths in
paper caps, and best of all, rosy little girls danced on the grass,
picked the flowers, chased butterflies, and sang as blithely as the
birds. Queenie took the lead in these frolics, and got into no end of
scrapes by her love of exploration,--often leading her small friends
into the strawberry-bed, down the road, over the wall, or to some
neighbor's house, coolly demanding "a dint a water and dingerbed for all
us ones."
Guards were set, bars and locks put up, orders given, and punishments
inflicted, but all in vain; the dauntless baby always managed to escape,
and after anxious hunts and domestic flurries, would be found up a
tree, under the big rhubarb leaves, in a hen house, or calmly strolling
to town without her hat. All sorts of people took her to drive at her
request, and brought her back just as her agitated relatives were flying
to the river in despair. Once she departed with a flock of sheep, and
was returned so dirty no one knew her till she was scrubbed. Another
time, she passed the morning in the pig-pen, having fallen over the
fence; and finding pleasant society in a dozen young piggies, stayed to
play with them till discovered among the straw, surrounded by her new
friends, one of whom slept sweetly in her arms.
"We must tie her up," said Mrs. Morton, quite worn out with her pranks.
So a strong cord was put round Queenie's waist, and fastened to one of
the rings in the little house where Tom used to be chained. At first she
raged and tugged, then submitted, and played about as if she didn't
care; but she laid plans in her naughty little mind, and carried them
out, to the great dismay of Bessie, the maid.
"I want to tut drass," she said in her most persuasive tones.
So Bessie gave her the rusty scissors she was allowed to use, and let
her play make hay till her toy wagon was full.
"I want a dint a water, pease," was the next request, and Bessie went in
to get it. She was delayed a few moments, and when she came out no sign
of Queenie remained but a pile of yellow hair cut off in a hurry, and
the end of the cord. Slyboots was gone, scissors and all.
Then there was racing and calling, scolding and wailing, but no Queenie
was to be seen anywhere on the premises. Poor Bessie ran one way, Aunt
Morton another, and Billy, who happened to be at home, poked into all
the nooks and corners for the runaway.
An hour passed, and things began to look serious, when Harry came in
much excited, and laughing so he could hardly speak.
"Where _do_ you think that dreadful baby has turned up? Over at Pat
Floyd's. He found her in the water pipes. You know a lot of those big
ones are lying in the back street ready to use as soon as the place is
dug. Well, that little rascal crept in, and then couldn't turn round, so
she went on till she came out by Pat's house, and nearly scared him out
of his wits. The pipes were not joined, so she had light and air, but I
guess she had a hard road to travel. Such a hot, dirty, tired baby you
never saw. Mrs. Floyd is washing her up. You'd better go and get her,
Bess."
Bess went and returned with naughty Queenie, looking as if rats had
gnawed her curls off, and the sand of the great desert had been ground
into her hands and knees,--not to mention the iron rust that ruined her
pretty pink frock, or the crown of her hat rubbed to rags.
"I wasn't frighted. You said Dod be'd all wound, so I goed wite alon,
and Mis Foyd gived me a nice cold tater, and a tootie, and the bid dord
washed my hands wif his wed tun."
That was Queenie's account of the matter, but she behaved so well after
it that her friends suspected the perilous prank had made a good
impression upon her.
To keep her at home she was set to farming, and the little house was a
barn. In it lived a rocking horse, several wooden cows, woolly sheep,
cats and dogs, as well as a queer collection of carts and carriages,
tools and baskets. Every day the busy little farmer dug and hoed,
planted and watered her "dardin," made hay, harvested vegetables, picked
fruit, or took care of animals,--pausing now and then to ride her horse,
drive out in her phaeton, or go to an imaginary fire with the engine
Billy had made for her.
The little friends came to help her, and the flower-beds soon looked as
if an earthquake had upheaved them; for things were planted upside down,
holes dug, stones piled, and potatoes laid about as if expected to dig
themselves. But cheeks bloomed like roses, small hands got brown, and
busy feet trotted firmly about the paths, while the red barn echoed with
the gayest laughter all day long.
On Queenie's fifth birthday, in September, she had a gipsy party, and
all the small neighbors came to it. A tent was pitched, three tall poles
held up a kettle over a "truly fire" that made the water really boil,
and supper was spread on the grass. The little girls wore red and blue
petticoats, gay shawls or cloaks, bright handkerchiefs on their heads,
and as many beads and breastpins as they liked. Some had tamborines, and
shook them as they danced; one carried a dolly in the hood of her cloak
like a true gypsy, and all sung, skipping hand in hand round the fire.
The mammas looked on and helped about supper, and Bess sat in the tent
like an old woman, and told pleasant fortunes, as she looked in the
palms of the soft little hands the children showed her.
They had a charming time, and all remembered it well; for that night,
when the fun was over, every one in bed, and the world asleep, a great
storm came on; the wind blew a gale and chimney tops flew off, blinds
banged, trees were broken, apples whisked from the boughs by the bushel,
and much mischief was done. But worst of all, the dear little house blew
away! The roof went in one direction, the boards in another, the poor
horse lay heels up, and the rest of the animals were scattered far and
wide over the garden.
Great was the lamentation next morning, when the children saw the ruin.
The boys felt that it was past mending, and gave it up; while Queenie
consoled herself for the devastation of her farm by the childish belief
that a crop of new cats and dogs, cows and horses, would come up in the
spring from the seed sowed broadcast by the storm.
So that was the sad end of the little house in the garden.
[Illustration]
DAISY'S JEWEL-BOX, AND HOW SHE FILLED IT
"Plenty of time for another. Let the little folks go to bed, now they've
had their story, and please go on, auntie," cried Min, when all had
listened with more interest than they would confess to the children's
tale.
So the small people trotted off, much against their will, and this most
obliging of aunts drew forth another manuscript, saying, as she glanced
at several of her elder nieces, brave in the new trinkets Santa Claus
had sent them:--
"This is a story with a moral to it, which the girls will understand;
the boys can take naps while I read, for it won't interest them."
"If it shows up the girls we shall like it," answered Geoff, and
composed himself to hear and enjoy
DAISY'S JEWEL-BOX, AND HOW SHE
FILLED IT.
"It would be perfectly splendid, and just what I long for, but I don't
see how I _can_ go with nothing fit to wear," said Daisy, looking up
from the letter in her hand, with a face full of girlish eagerness and
anxiety.
Mrs. Field set every fear at rest with a reassuring smile, as she
quietly made one of the sacrifices mothers think so small, when made for
the dear creatures for whom they live.
"You shall go, dear; I have a little sum put by for an emergency.
Twenty-five dollars will do a good deal, when tastes are simple and we
do our own dressmaking."
"But mother, that was for your cloak. You need it so much I can't bear
to have you give it up," said sober little Jane, the home-girl, who
never cared for visiting like her gay elder sister.
"Hush, dear; I can do very well with a shawl over my old sack. Don't say
a word to spoil Daisy's pleasure. She needs a change after this dull
autumn, and must be neat and nice."
Janey said no more, and fell to thinking what she had to offer Daisy;
for both took great pride in the pretty girl, who was the queen among
her young friends.
Daisy heard, but was so busy re-reading the letter that she took no
notice then, though she recalled the words later.
"Come and pass the holidays with us. We all want to see you, and Laura
begs you will not disappoint her."
This was the invitation that came from Laura's mother; for the two girls
had struck up a great friendship during the summer the city family
passed in the little country town where Daisy lived. She had ardently
hoped that Laura would not forget the charming plan, and now the cordial
message came, just when the season would be gayest in town.
"I suppose I must have the everlasting white muslin for a party dress,
as that is the cheapest thing a girl can wear. A nun's-veiling is what I
long for, but I'm afraid we can't afford it," she said with a sigh,
coming back from visions of city delights to the all-important question
of dress.
"Yes, you can, and new ribbons, gloves, and slippers as well. You are so
small it doesn't take much, and we can make it right up ourselves. So
run and collect all your little finery, while I go and do the shopping
at once."
"You dearest of mothers! how you always manage to give me what I want,
and smooth all my worries away. I'll be as good as gold, and bring you
the best present I can find."
Daisy's grateful kiss warmed the dear woman's heart, and made her forget
how shabby the old sack was, as she trudged away to spend the money
carefully hoarded for the much needed cloak.
Needles and fingers flew, and two days before Christmas, Daisy set out
for the enchanted city, feeling very rich with the pretty new dress in
her trunk, and five dollars for pocket money. It seemed a large sum to
the country girl, and she planned to spend it all in gifts for mother
and Janey, whose tired faces rather haunted her after she had caught the
last glimpse of them.
Her reception was a warm one, for all the Vaughns were interested in the
blooming little creature they had found among the hills, and did their
best to make her visit a pleasant one. The first day she was in a
delightful sort of maze, things were so splendid, gay and new; the
second she felt awkward and countrified, and wished she had not come. A
letter from her mother on Christmas morning did her good, and gave her
courage to bear the little trials that afflicted her.
"My clothes do look dowdy beside Laura's elegant costumes, though they
did seem very nice at home; but my hair isn't red, and that's a
comfort," she said to herself, as she dressed for the party that
evening.
She could not help smiling at the bonny figure she saw in the long
mirror, and wishing mother and Janey could see the work of their hands
in all its glory; for the simple white dress was most becoming, and her
kind host had supplied her with lovely flowers for bosom and bouquet.