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THE PANSY
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_Volume 13, Number 18._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_March 6, 1886._
THE PANSY
[Illustration: THE HAMLIN NURSERY.]
THE HAMLIN NURSERY.
THE little Hamlins were all down with the scarlet fever; and when we
say the Little Hamlins, we mean Lucy, Cathie, Harry, Bertie, and the
baby; five of them! It was a hard time in the Hamlin nursery, both for
the children and the older people. Though Mrs. Hamlin had a nurse from
the training school, besides the children's regular attendant, she was
quite worn out with the care and anxiety.
"The very last Sabbath I was in church," said she to Doctor Wheeler,
"Mr. Lewis said in his sermon, that even our afflictions had a blessing
wrapped up in them. But I do not believe there is one inside this
trouble. I can't conceive of any good that can possibly come out of it
all!"
"Well, I don't know," replied Doctor Wheeler, "I should never have
conceived of anything like that statue, yet it was inside the marble
all the time, and plainly discerned by the eye of the sculptor. There
are things in the spiritual world which we cannot conceive until they
are revealed to us."
Poor Mrs. Hamlin shook her head doubtfully. She was very sure no good
could grow out of this trial. Doctor Wheeler was a sweet-voiced little
woman who looked upon the bright side of things and whom the children
loved; they were very sorry for their little friend across the street
who had the fever and whose father insisted upon sending for that gruff
old Doctor Smith, who never had a smile for children.
"Your children have good constitutions and you have good nurses, I see
no reason why they should not pull through easily," said Doctor Wheeler
when Mr. Hamlin asked her opinion as to the prospects of the recovery
of his little folks. "But what about that oldest boy of yours? Does he
not have an Easter vacation?"
"Yes; and I suppose he ought not to come home?"
"Most certainly not! It will not be safe for several weeks; he must
be kept away from this vicinity, though I hope the disease will not
spread. You should send word for him to remain at the school through
the vacation."
It was a very sober face indeed that presented itself at Doctor Brown's
study door, a day or two after this conversation took place.
Doctor Brown was the principal of Howland Hall School for boys, and was
the right man in the right place.
"What is it, Fred?" he asked kindly. "Come in and let me hear about it."
"It is this," replied Fred Hamlin, handing the Doctor his father's
letter.
"Ah! Well, my boy, it might be worse news. You understand, the little
folks at home are all on the high road to recovery, and it is on your
account that you are not to go home."
"I know; but it will be dreadful lonesome here with the boys all away."
"That is so; and what will make it worse is, that we have planned
a little trip which will take us all away excepting Mr. and Mrs.
Jennings. I am afraid it will be rather doleful for you alone in this
great house; but that will be better than the scarlet fever. Eh?"
Fred turned away in a very disconsolate frame of mind. The Easter
vacation to which he had been looking forward was likely to be anything
but pleasant. Now Fred Hamlin was by no means a model boy, and matters
did not always go smoothly with him at home. His own mother died when
he was a baby, and his grandmother had taken charge of him until Fred
was ten years old. Then she too died, and the boy was taken home by
his father. The second mother tried earnestly to win the boy's heart,
but seeds of suspicion and jealousy had been dropped into the young
mind, and he refused to be won. After three years of trial Mr. Hamlin
concluded to send Fred to school. Doctor Brown had the reputation of
being a strict disciplinarian, and Mr. Hamlin hoped much as a result
of school discipline. But Watt Vinton, Fred's room-mate, knew very
well that any such expectations were not likely to be realized. I
cannot tell you of all the ways in which Fred contrived to make himself
disagreeable to his quiet and gentlemanly companion. But so well did
he succeed, that Watt, sometimes, with his face buried in the pillow,
would whisper just to himself, "He is the hatefulest, meanest, crossest
fellow I ever saw! I don't believe he has a particle of respect or love
for anybody on earth!" Now perhaps you will almost doubt me when I
tell you that the pillow was Watt's only confident. He never breathed
a word of his troubles to a single person. There were several reasons
for this reticence. Watt was an orphan, and had learned to keep his
troubles to himself. He was too proud to complain; he had a notion that
it would be more manly to endure annoyances than to make a fuss over
them. It was only when he got out of patience that he took his troubles
to his friend the pillow. This will explain why Watt Vinton frowned a
little over a letter which he received a few days before the Easter
vacation, and why he carried it in his pocket a whole day before coming
to a decision in regard to one of its propositions. The letter was from
his cousin, May Vinton, and here is one sentence from it: "Now that it
is settled that you are to spend your vacation here, would you like to
bring a boy with you? If there is somebody who cannot go home, or who
needs a chance, whom you would like to bring, you may invite him to be
your guest for the week."
It took Watt a whole day to make up his mind that he could do it. But
at the end of the twenty-four hours he wrote to his cousin, "I am going
to bring my chum."
Well, what came of it all--the scarlet fever, Mrs. Hamlin's trouble,
Fred's disappointment, and Watt's sacrifice?
Do you suppose God knew that May Vinton could reach that wayward boy's
heart, and help him to a better life, and so planned all this to
bring about the meeting? Do you not suppose that he knew that Watt's
sacrifice would make him stronger and better? It was a day or two after
the boys reached the beautiful home of the Vintons that Fred sat in
May's lovely room, chatting confidentially with her. Watt had been
called to the library by his guardian, and the boy was left alone with
the loveliest young lady he had ever met. Just how it was I do not
know; Fred himself does not know, but it was not long before he was
telling this new and it seemed to him first friend he had ever known,
all his story; how nobody loved him, and how he hated everybody; how
dreadful it was to have a stepmother, and a great deal of nonsense
which to the mistaken and misunderstood boy seemed very solemn truth.
I have not space in which to tell you how May Vinton helped him to a
better understanding of himself, and of his position. But at the close
of one of the many conversations which they had during Fred's visit, he
said:
"I see how it is! I have been more to blame than anybody else. But the
boys have got so used to expecting hatefulness from me, they would
never understand if I tried to do differently."
"Never is a long time," said Miss Vinton.
One day Watt said to his cousin, "What have you done to Fred? He is so
different here!"
"Perhaps more will come of your sacrifice than you expected," replied
May quietly.
"What do you know about a sacrifice?" asked Watt quickly.
A smile was her only reply.
More did grow out of it all than anyone would have suspected. May
Vinton's seed-sowing was on good ground. By her love and sympathy she
had softened the soil, and the heart of the friendless boy opened to
the refining and elevating influences she threw around him, and a month
later Watt wrote, "Fred is just as different as you can think. The boys
all like him now."
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.
SO THEY READ IN THE BOOK IN THE LAW OF GOD DISTINCTLY,
AND GAVE THE SENSE, AND CAUSED THEM TO UNDERSTAND THE
READING.
SO WILL I GO IN UNTO THE KING, WHICH IS NOT ACCORDING
TO THE LAW; AND IF I PERISH, I PERISH.
BEHOLD, I WILL SEND MY MESSENGER, AND HE SHALL PREPARE
THE WAY BEFORE ME.
THY THRONE, O GOD, IS FOREVER AND EVER; THE SCEPTRE OF
THY KINGDOM IS A RIGHT SCEPTRE.
GRANDMA BURTON looked steadily at the first verse, and laughed. "I
wish I could show you children the picture I see whenever I read this
verse," she said. "Though I don't know as you would think I ought to
feel much like laughing."
"Why, Grandma?" and, "O Grandma, tell us what you see!" and, "Grandma,
show us the picture, won't you?" this was the chorus which greeted her
laugh.
"Dear me! It isn't much of a story, but I remember it as well as though
it happened yesterday. I was a little thing, not much over four, I
should think. It was a warm Sunday, and first I see myself in church.
I was in my best dress, a lovely white slip with blue stars all over
it."
"Grandma, who ever heard of blue stars?" This from Marion.
"I did, child, many a time when I was of your age, and younger; it
used to be the favorite print. Mine was very pretty and was made in
the latest fashion--a yoke in the neck, and a long full skirt. I had
slippers, too, with straps which went around my ankle and buttoned at
the side; those slippers had just come in, and I felt very fine in
them. I had a shirred hat of white mull, with a puffing of pink ribbon
around the edge, and a pink bow exactly on the top. I went to church
with father and mother; the high, old-fashioned pew was rather an
uncomfortable seat; the only relief I had was to kick my heels softly
against the back. I remember it seemed to take the ache out of them
wonderfully. Generally I was a pretty good girl in church, but on this
day I don't know what was the matter with me--I had the fidgets. Mother
shook her head, and grandma gave me a caraway seed to suck, and father
looked at me over his spectacles, but it all did no good, I could not
seem to sit still. I plaited folds in my nicely-starched calico until
mother took my hand and held it for awhile; then I took off my hat and
tried to hang it on the button which fastened the door, until father
took it away; then I turned the leaves of the psalm book until it
scared me by dropping on the floor with a thud. Oh! I couldn't begin to
tell you all the naughty things I did; but the last and most dreadful
was to fumble in my brother Ralph's pocket until I found a little
wooden comb which he always carried, then I softly tore a fly leaf from
the psalm book, and before I knew it I went 'toot, toot, toot!' right
out there in the meeting.
"I tell you, that was a dreadful minute!" said Grandma, looking sober,
while her audience giggled. "I hadn't the least idea of making such a
noise. It had never gone very well for me before, and I was as much
astonished as any one could be to hear it sound out like that. The
minister stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked at me with
a solemn face. Father set me down hard on the seat, and mother's face
turned the color of the red roses which were looking in at the side
window. Of course they took the comb and the psalm leaf away, and it
frightened me to think they went in my father's pocket. I knew I should
hear more of it. After that I sat pretty still, but I did not dare to
raise my eyes to the minister's face.
"I always used to like Sunday afternoon, because mother told us a
story, and grandfather took us a walk through our own home fields and
had always something sweet and interesting to tell us. First, though,
we went to grandfather's room right after dinner, and each told all
we could remember about the church service. I generally had my little
story to tell, young as I was. Sometimes it was only a line of a hymn,
or a little piece of the text, or maybe one sentence in the prayer.
On this Sunday I had not a word to tell; try as I would, I could not
recall a line or word. The only thing I could seem to think of, was
that noise I made on the comb. Father asked the questions instead
of grandfather, and that frightened me, because I knew father was
displeased with me. 'What was the matter, Ruth?' he asked at last.
'Don't you think the minister spoke distinctly?' I thought a minute,
then I said I didn't believe he did; for if he had, I should have
remembered a little bit about it.
"'What do you think the sermon was about?' he asked. And I said, 'It
was about Ahab.' I don't know what made me say that; only I had heard a
story of Ahab only the Sabbath before, and he was in my mind. I thought
from father's face that I had guessed right, so when he asked me for
any words in the text, I thought I would guess again; and I said it was
about Ahab's doing worse than all the rest of the kings. Then father
turned to your uncle Ben, and said, 'Benjamin, you may repeat the text;
do it slowly, that Ruth may see what part she has left out.' Just think
how I felt when Ben repeated, 'So they read in the book in the law of
God distinctly, and gave the sense, and caused them to understand the
reading.' I cannot tell you how ashamed I felt!
"What do you suppose I did! I wanted to hide my face in mother's lap,
and tell her how sorry I was; if I had done so, it would have been
better for me. Instead, I slipped behind her chair and ran out of the
side door. There stood the old well with the bucket full of water and
the dipper hanging beside it. I felt very hot, and I thought I would
take a drink of water to cool me; then if father asked why I run away,
I could say I went for a drink of water. It was an unlucky day for me
all around; what ailed that dipper I never could understand. Perhaps
it was because I had my hat on; I was swinging that by its elastic
when father was questioning me, so finding I had it in my hand when I
slipped away, I put it on my head, and I think maybe the dipper hit
against its edge; anyway, what did that water do but stream down over
my starched Sunday dress, and my white dimity collar; and I never knew
it until I drank my fill!
[Illustration: "I THOUGHT I WOULD TAKE A DRINK OF WATER."]
"Ben came in search of me, and led me back into grandfather's room, wet
as I was, and struggling to get free. 'Put her to bed!' said father,
in a voice which I knew must be obeyed. So I was undressed and laid
in my trundle bed, and all that bright afternoon I had to lie there.
My father wasn't over severe, children."--Grandma paused to say this,
seeing disapproval in the eyes of her audience.--"You see I had been
told not to help myself to a drink from that bucket because it was
set too high for me; so, though I did not think of it at the time, of
course it was disobedience. Well, I lay there, and the only occupation
I had was to spell out the words of that text, to repeat to father the
next morning. He sent it up to me all printed out on a card; I was just
beginning to learn to read print, and I had to work hard, I tell you,
to get it learned. But the worst was the next day. There was to be
a ride on the lake in the afternoon, and I was to go. When I was all
dressed, in my blue and white, made fresh for the occasion, father came
in, took out of his pocket that dreadful comb, with the fly leaf of the
psalm book wrapped around it, and said: 'Ruth, your mother and I have
decided to give you a treat this afternoon while we are gone for our
ride. You are to sit in this chair by the window, and make music on
this comb; make it as loud and as much as you want to.'
"And if you'll believe it, they went away on their ride and left me
sitting there!"
The children exclaimed over this, and Marion ventured to say she had no
idea that Great-grandfather Wells could be so cruel; she was sure dear
Grandfather Burton would never do such a thing; and as for papa, he
_never_ could.
"Cruel!" said Grandma Burton, with a flash in her eyes which made them
look like Marion's. "Never you call him that; a better father never
lived in the world; only times are changed, that is all. Mind you this:
I never misbehaved in church again; and I could always repeat the real
text, after that, instead of stopping to make one up."
PANSY.
WALTER TAYLOR'S FAULT.
WALTER talked too much. He was simply irrepressible. He could never
keep anything to himself either of own affairs or of the affairs of
other people; either of his own opinions or what he might know or guess
of the opinions of others. No secret was safe with him. Even family
affairs took occasional airings through this propensity for talking
too much. This one fault was likely to bring Walter into no end of
trouble first and last, and, what was worse, to bring other people into
trouble. One does not like to be obliged to be always on guard lest
some private affair slip out in the presence of a boy or girl who will
set it flying through the town. Mr. Taylor sometimes found his business
sadly interfered within this way.
One instance will illustrate; a neighbor had a piece of land to sell.
It was not valuable land, but Mr. Taylor wanted it because if anyone
bought it for a building spot it would cut off the view of the lake
from the front piazza, and Mr. Taylor very indiscreetly remarked in
Walter's presence, "I shall buy that corner at any price, for it is
worth a great deal more to me than to anyone else."
On his way to school Walter stopped to look at what he already counted
a part of the home grounds. He was planning rows of trees, and gravel
walks, when the owner came along and entered into conversation. Walter
was ready to talk, and desirous of telling what he knew, and very early
in the conversation he said, "Father means to buy this corner."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; he says he will have it at any price, for it is worth a great
deal more to him than to anyone else; so he means to bid on it
to-morrow."
"Well, we shall give him a chance," said the owner, laughing. And as he
walked on he secretly thanked Walter for that bit of information. To
Mr. Taylor's surprise, he found another apparently anxious bidder the
next day, and he found himself forced either to pay an exorbitant price
or relinquish the idea of becoming the owner of the lot. Before he had
fully decided to do the latter, his rival stopped bidding and the lot
was struck off to him at three times its real value. The former owner
chuckled over what he called his "good luck," and though Mr. Taylor
wondered a little, he never knew that his boy's folly in repeating
a careless remark of his own, had cost him so dear in giving his
unscrupulous neighbor the opportunity of taking an unfair advantage.
Another time Walter spoiled a surprise which his father and mother
meant to give his sister.
"You'd better hurry home from school to-night," he said that morning as
they neared the academy.
"Why?" asked Ella.
"O, nothing! only it is my advice to get home as quick as you can, and
see what is going on."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll find out!"
"Are we going to have company?"
"Company? Well, yes--I don't know but it might be called company--a
sort of dumb companion--well, no--you couldn't call it dumb either."
"Walter Taylor! is it something father and mother do not want me to
know?"
"I don't know how they will help your knowing."
"I believe you are letting out a secret and I will not listen! I should
think folks would learn not to tell you any secrets."
"They didn't tell me. I heard a man tell father that it had come."
Ella Taylor failed in her recitations that morning for the first time
during the quarter. Her thoughts were at home, in the parlor; she knew
exactly where _it_ ought to stand and wondered if they would put it in
the right place. She tried to study, but Walter's hints which were too
plain to be misunderstood insisted upon crowding themselves into her
mind.
"Come in, Ella!" her mother called from the parlor as Ella was hanging
her hat and wraps in the hall. Ella obeyed the call with flushed
cheeks. She could not feign a surprise which she did not feel, and she
stood embarrassed and uncertain what to do for a moment, then burst
into tears.
"Poor child! the surprise is too much for her," said her father.
"It isn't that," said Ella; "I tried to be surprised and I couldn't,
that is why I cried."
"Did you know about it?" asked Mr. Taylor.
"Yes, sir; Walter told me this morning, and I was so glad, I could not
study at all."
Mr. Taylor turned towards Walter who began to excuse himself.
"I never said a word about a piano!"
"But you said enough for me to guess," said Ella. "I tried not to
know," she added, turning to her parents, "but I could not help it. But
don't blame Walter. He didn't think."
"I do blame him," said Mr. Taylor sternly. "Walter, will you never
have any regard for other people's property? You have no more right to
dispose of other's secrets than you have to dispose of their money!
If you took five dollars from my desk you would be a thief. But what
do you call yourself when you take my secrets and use them to gratify
your love of talking? I sometimes wonder if you will ever have a lesson
severe enough to cure you of this fault. Now you have spoiled this
little surprise which we had planned and given Ella an uneasy day."
"I am sure I did not mean to tell her; I only wanted to tease her a
little."
"You wanted to let her know that you possessed knowledge which she did
not, I suppose. Or rather I presume you simply wanted to talk. My boy,
if you would learn to regard the secrets of others and also to reserve
your own opinions now and then, you would save yourself and your
friends much mortification."
Meantime Ella had dried her tears and was now ready to try the new
piano, but Walter was too chagrined to enjoy music, and went up to his
own room saying within himself, "I wonder if I can never learn to hold
my tongue!"
"By thy words shalt thou be justified, and by thy words shalt thou be
condemned."
Just when he had read or learned those words Walter did not know, but
they came into his mind suddenly. He supposed they were in the Bible,
but he thought it queer that he should have remembered them just then.
And as he repeated them he thought, "I suppose that means that if one's
words are wrong or foolish, he is condemned--that makes solemn business
of talking!"
WILMOT CONDEE.
HAPPINESS.
THE idea has been transmitted from generation to generation, that
happiness is one large and beautiful precious stone, a single gem so
rare that all search after it is vain, all effort for it hopeless. It
is not so. Happiness is a mosaic, composed of many smaller stones. Each
taken apart and viewed singly, may be of little value, but when all are
grouped together and judiciously combined and set, they form a pleasing
and graceful whole--a costly jewel. Trample not under foot, then, the
little pleasures which a gracious Providence scatters in the daily
path, and which, in eager search after some great and exciting joy, we
are apt to overlook. Why should we keep our eyes fixed on the distant
horizon, while there are so many lovely roses in the garden in which we
are permitted to walk? The very ardor of our chase after happiness may
be the reason she so often eludes our grasp. We pantingly strain after
her when she has been graciously brought nigh unto us.
[Illustration: DID YOU DO IT, KITTY?]
_Volume 13, Number 19._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_March 13, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: NETTIE.]
REACHING OUT.
(_A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends._)
BY PANSY.
CHAPTER V.
I DARE say some of you think Nettie Decker was a very silly girl to
care so much because her dress was a blue and white gingham instead of
being all white.
You have told your friend Katie about the story and asked her if she
didn't think it was real silly to make such an ado over _clothes_; you
have said you were sure you would just as soon wear a blue gingham
as not if it was clean and neat. But now let me venture a hint. I
shouldn't be surprised if that was because you never do have to go to
places differently dressed from all the others. Because if you did, you
would know that it was something of a trial. Oh! I don't say it is the
hardest thing in the world; or that one is all ready to die as a martyr
who does it; but what I _do_ say is, that it takes a little moral
courage; and, for one, I am not surprised that Nettie looked very sober
about it when the afternoon came.
It took her a good while to dress; not that there was so much to be
done, but she stopped to think. With her hair in her neck, still
unbraided, she pinned a lovely pink rose at her breast just to see how
pretty it would look for a minute. Miss Sherrill had left it for her to
wear; but she did not intend to wear it, because she thought it would
not match well with her gingham dress. Just here, I don't mind owning
that I think her silly; because I believe that sweet flowers go with
sweet pure young faces, whether the dress is of gingham or silk.
But Nettie looked grave, as I said, and wished it was over; and tried
to plan for the hundredth time, how it would all be. The girls, Cecelia
Lester and Lorena Barstowe and the rest of them, would be out in their
elegant toilets, and would look at her so! That Ermina Farley would be
there; she had seen her but once, on the first Sunday, and liked her
face and her ways a little better than the others; but she had been
away since then. Jerry said she was back, however, and Mrs. Smith said
they were the richest folks in town; and of course Ermina would be
elegantly dressed at the flower party.
Well, she did not care. She was willing to have them all dressed
beautifully; she was not mean enough to want them to wear gingham
dresses, if only they would not make fun of hers. Oh! if she could
_only_ stay at home, and help iron, and get supper, and fry some
potatoes nicely for father, how happy she would be. Then she sighed
again, and set about braiding her hair. She meant to go, but she could
not help being sorry for herself to think it must be done; and she
spent a great deal of trouble in trying to plan just how hateful it
would all be; how the girls would look, and whisper, and giggle; and
how her cheeks would burn. Oh dear!
Then she found it was late, and had to make her fingers fly, and to
rush about the little wood-house chamber which was still her room, in a
way which made Sarah Ann say to her mother with a significant nod, "I
guess she's woke up and gone at it, poor thing!" Yes, she had; and was
down in fifteen minutes more.
Oh! but didn't the little girls look pretty! Nettie forgot her trouble
for a few minutes, in admiring them when she had put the last touches
to their toilet. Susie was to be in a tableau where she would need a
dolly, and Miss Sherrill had furnished one for the occasion. A lovely
dolly with real hair, and blue eyes, and a bright blue sash to match
them; and when Susie got it in her arms, there came such a sweet,
softened look over her face that Nettie hardly knew her. The sturdy
voice, too, which was so apt to be fierce, softened and took a motherly
tone; the dolly was certainly educating Susie. Little Sate looked
on, interested, pleased, but without the slightest shade of envy.
She wanted no dolly; or, if she did, there was a little black-faced,
worn, rag one reposing at this moment in the trundle bed where little
Sate's own head would rest at night; kissed, and caressed, and petted,
and told to be good until mamma came back; this dolly had all of
Sate's warm heart. For the rest, the grave little old women in caps
and spectacles, which wound about her dress, crept up in bunches on
her shoulders, lay in nestling heaps at her breast, filled all Sate's
thoughts. She seemed to have become a little old woman herself, so
serious and womanly was her face.
Nettie took a hand of each, and they went to the flower festival. There
was to be a five o'clock tea for all the elderly people of the church,
and the tables, some of them, were set in Mr. Eastman's grounds, which
adjoined the church. When Nettie entered these grounds she found
a company of girls several years younger than herself, helping to
decorate the tables with flowers; at least that was their work, but as
Nettie appeared at the south gate, a queer little object pushed in at
the west side. A child not more than six years old, with a clean face,
and carefully combed hair, but dressed in a plain dark calico; and her
pretty pink toes were without shoes or stockings.
I am not sure that if a little wolf had suddenly appeared before them,
it could not have caused more exclamations of astonishment and dismay.
"Only look at that child!" "The idea!" "Just to think of such a thing!"
are a few of the exclamations with which the air was thick. At last,
one bolder than the rest, stepped towards her: "Little girl, where did
you come from? What in the world do you want here?"
Startled by the many eyes and the sharp tones, the small new-comer hid
her face behind an immense bunch of glowing hollyhocks, which she held
in her hand, and said not a word. Then the chorus of voices became more
eager:
"Do look at her hollyhocks! Did ever anybody see such a queer little
fright! Girls, I do believe she has come to the party." Then the one
who had spoken before, tried again: "See here, child, whoever you are,
you must go right straight home; this is no place for you. I wonder
what your mother was about--if you have one--to let you run away
barefooted, and looking like a fright."
Now the barefooted maiden was thoroughly frightened, and sobbed
outright. It was precisely what Nettie Decker needed to give her
courage. When she came in at the gate, she had felt like shrinking away
from all eyes; now she darted an indignant glance at the speaker, and
moved quickly toward the crying child, Susie and Sate following close
behind.
"Don't cry, little girl," she said in the gentlest tones, stooping and
putting an arm tenderly around the trembling form; "you haven't done
anything wrong; Miss Sherrill will be here soon, and she will make it
all right."
Thus comforted, the tears ceased, and the small new-comer allowed
her hand to be taken; while Susie came around to her other side, and
scowled fiercely, as though to say: "I'll protect this girl myself;
let's see you touch her now!"
A burst of laughter greeted Nettie as soon as she had time to give heed
to it. Others had joined the groups, among them Lorena Barstow and
Irene Lewis. "What's all this?" asked Irene.
"O, nothing," said one; "only that Decker girl's sister, or cousin, or
something has just arrived from Cork, and come in search of her. Lorena
Barstow, did you ever see such a queer-looking fright?"
"I don't see but they look a good deal alike," said Lorena, tossing her
curls; "I'm sure their dresses correspond; is she a sister?"
"Why, no," answered one of the smaller girls; "those two cunning little
things in white are Nettie Decker's sisters; I think they are real
sweet."
"Oh!" said Lorena, giving them a disagreeable stare, "in white, are
they? The unselfish older sister has evidently cut up her nightgowns to
make them white dresses for this occasion."
"Lorena," said the younger girl, "if I were you I would be ashamed;
mother would not like you to talk in that way."
"Well, you see Miss Nanie, you are not me, therefore you cannot tell
what you would be, or do; and I want to inform you it is not your
business to tell me what mother would like."
Imagine Nettie Decker standing quietly, with the barefooted child's
small hand closely clasped in hers, listening to all this! There was a
pretense of lowered voices, yet every word was distinct to her ears.
Her heart beat fast and she began to feel as though she really was
paying quite a high price for the possibility of getting Norm into the
church parlor for a few minutes that evening.
At that moment, through the main gateway, came Ermina Farley, a colored
man with her, bearing a basket full of such wonderful roses, that for
a minute the group could only exclaim over them. Ermina was in white,
but her dress was simply made, and looked as though she might not be
afraid to tumble about on the grass in it; her shoes were thick, and
the blue sash she wore, though broad and handsome, had some way a quiet
air of fitness for the occasion, which did not seem to belong to most
of the others. She watched the disposal of her roses, then gave an
inquiring glance about the grounds as she said, "What are you all doing
here?"
"We are having a tableau," said Lorena Barstow. "Look behind you, and
you will see the Misses Bridget and Margaret Mulrooney, who have just
arrived from ould Ireland shure."
Most of the thoughtless girls laughed, mistaking this rudeness for wit,
but Ermina turned quickly and caught her first glimpse of Nettie's
burning face; then she hastened toward her.
[Illustration: "ONLY LOOK AT THAT CHILD!"]
"Why, here is little Prudy, after all," she said eagerly; "I coaxed her
mother to let her come, but I didn't think she would. Has Miss Sherrill
seen her? I think she will make such a cunning Roman flower-girl, in
that tableau, you know. Her face is precisely the shape and style of
the little girls we saw in Rome last winter. Poor little girlie, was
she frightened? How kind you were to take care of her. She is a real
bright little thing. I want to coax her into Sunday-school if I can.
Let us go and ask Miss Sherrill what she thinks about the flower-girl."
How fast Ermina Farley could talk! She did not wait for replies. The
truth was, Nettie's glowing cheeks, and Susie's fierce looks, told her
the story of trial for somebody else besides the Roman flower-girl; she
could guess at things which might have been said before she came. She
wound her arm familiarly about Nettie's waist as she spoke, and drew
her, almost against her will, across the lawn. "My!" said Irene Lewis.
"How good we are!"
"Birds of a feather flock together," quoted Lorena Barstow. "I think
that barefooted child and her protector look alike."
"Still," said Irene, "you must remember that Ermina Farley has joined
that flock; and her feathers are very different."
"Oh! that is only for effect," was the naughty reply, with another toss
of the rich curls.
Now what was the matter with all these disagreeable young people? Did
they really attach so much importance to the clothes they wore as to
think no one was respectable who was not dressed like them? Had they
really no hearts, so that it made no difference to them how deeply they
wounded poor Nettie Decker?
I do not think it was quite either of these things. They had been, so
far in their lives, unfortunate, in that they had heard a great deal
about dress, and style, until they had done what young people and a few
older ones are apt to do, attached too much importance to these things.
They were neither old enough, nor wise enough, to know that it is a
mark of a shallow nature to judge of people by the clothes they wear;
then, in regard to the ill-natured things said, I tell you truly, that
even Lorena Barstow was ashamed of herself. When her younger sister
reproved her, the flush which came on her cheek was not all anger,
much of it was shame. But she had taught her tongue to say so many
disagreeable words, and to pride itself on its independence in saying
what she pleased, that the habit asserted itself, and she could not
seem to control it. The contrast between her own conduct and Ermina
Farley's struck her so sharply and disagreeably it served only to make
her worse than before; precisely the effect which follows when people
of uncontrolled tempers find themselves rebuked.
Half-way down the lawn the party in search of Miss Sherrill met her
face to face. Her greeting was warm. "Oh! here is my dear little
grandmother. Thank you, Nettie, for coming; I look to you for a great
deal of help this afternoon. Why, Ermina, what wee mousie have you
here?"
"She is a little Roman flower-girl, Miss Sherrill; they live on
Parker street. Her mother is a nice woman; my mother has her to
run the machine. I coaxed her to let Trudie wear her red dress and
come barefoot, until you would see if she would do for the Roman
flower-girl. Papa says her face is very Roman in style, and she always
makes us think of the flower-girls we saw there. I brought my Roman
sash to dress her in, if you thought well of it; she is real bright,
and will do just as she is told."
"It is the very thing," said Miss Sherrill with a pleased face; "I am
so glad you thought of it. And the hollyhocks are just red enough to go
in the basket. Did you think of them too?"
"No, ma'am; mamma did. She said the more red flowers we could mass
about her, the better for a Roman peasant."
"It will be a lovely thing," said Miss Sherrill. Then she stooped and
kissed the small brown face, which was now smiling through its tears.
"You have found good friends, little one. She is very small to be here
alone. Ermina, will you and Nettie take care of her this afternoon, and
see that she is happy?"
"Yes'm," said Ermina promptly. "Nettie was taking care of her when I
came. She was afraid at first, I think."
"They were ugly to her," volunteered Susie, "they were just as ugly to
her as they could be; they made her cry. If they'd done it to Sate I
would have scratched them and bit them."
"Oh," said Miss Sherrill sorrowfully. "How sorry I am to hear it; then
Susie would have been naughty too, and it wouldn't have made the others
any better; in fact, it would have made them worse."
"I don't care," said Susie, but she did care. She said that, just
as you do sometimes, when you mean you care a great deal, and don't
want to let anybody know it. For the first time, Susie reflected
whether it was a good plan to scratch and bite people who did not, in
her judgment, behave well. It had not been a perfect success in her
experience, she was willing to admit that; and if it made Miss Sherrill
sorry, it was worth thinking about.
Well, that afternoon which began so dismally, blossomed out into a
better time than Nettie had imagined it possible for her to have. To be
sure those particular girls who had been the cause of her sorrow, would
have nothing to do with her; and whispered, and sent disdainful glances
her way when they had opportunity; but Nettie went in their direction
as little as possible, and when she did was in such a hurry that she
sometimes forgot all about them. Miss Sherrill, who was chairman of
the committee of entertainment, kept her as busy as a bee the entire
afternoon; running hither and thither, carrying messages to this one,
and pins to that one, setting this vase of flowers at one end, and
that lovely basket at another, and, a great deal of the time; standing
right beside Miss Sherrill herself, handing her, at call, just what she
needed when she dressed the girls with their special flowers. She could
hear the bright pleasant talk which passed between Miss Sherrill and
the other young ladies. She was often appealed to with a pleasant word.
Her own teacher smiled on her more than once, and said she was the
handiest little body who had ever helped them; and all the time that
lovely Ermina Farley with her beautiful hair, and her pretty ways, and
her sweet low voice, was near at hand, joining in everything which she
had to do. To be sure she heard, in one of her rapid scampers across
the lawn, this question asked in a loud tone by Lorena Barstow: "I
wonder how much they pay that girl for running errands? Maybe she will
earn enough to get herself a new white nightgown to wear to parties;"
but at that particular minute, Ermina Farley running from another
direction on an errand precisely like her own, bumped up against her
with such force that their noses ached; then both stopped to laugh
merrily, and some way, what with the bump, and the laughter, Nettie
forgot to cry, when she had a chance, over the unkind words. Then,
later in the afternoon, came Jerry; and in less than five minutes he
joined their group, and made himself so useful that when Mr. Sherrill
came presently for boys to go with him to the chapel to arrange the
tables, Miss Sherrill said in low tones, "Don't take Jerry please, we
need him here." Nettie heard it, and beamed her satisfaction. Also she
heard Irene Lewis say, "Now they've taken that Irish boy into their
crowd--shouldn't you think Ermina Farley would be ashamed!"
Then Nettie's face fairly paled. It is one thing to be insulted
yourself; it is another to stand quietly by and see your friends
insulted. She was almost ready to appeal to Miss Sherrill for
protection from tongues. But Jerry heard the same remark, and laughed;
not in a forced way, but actually as though it was very amusing to him.
And almost immediately he called out something to Ermina, using an
unmistakable Irish brogue. What was the use in trying to protect a boy
who was so indifferent as that?
SELECTION FOR RECITATION.
THE LAND OF THUS-AND-SO.
HOW would Willie like to go
To the land of Thus-and-So?
Everything is proper there:
All the children comb their hair
Smoother than the fur of cats,
Or the nap of high silk hats:
Every face is clean and white
As a lily washed in light;
Never vaguest soil or speck
Found on forehead, throat or neck;
Every little crimpled ear,
In and out, as pure and clear
As the cherry blossom's blow
In the land of Thus-and-So.
"Little boys that never fall
Down the stairs or cry at all,
Doing nothing to repent,
Watchful and obedient;
Never hungry, nor in haste.
Tidy shoestrings always laced;
Never button rudely torn
From its fellows all unworn;
Knickerbockers always new,
Ribbon tie, and collar, too;
Little watches, worn like men,
Only always half-past ten:
Just precisely right, you know,
For the land of Thus-and-So!
"And the little babies there
Give no one the slightest care;
Nurse has not a thing to do
But be happy and say 'Boo!'
While mamma just nods, and knows
Nothing but to doze and doze;
Never litter round the grate;
Never lunch or dinner late;
Never any household din
Peals without or rings within,
Baby coos nor laughing calls,
On the stairs, or through the halls:
Just great Hushes to and fro
Pace the land of Thus-and-So!
"O the land of Thus-and-So!
Isn't it delightful, though?"
"Yes," lisped Willie, answering me
Somewhat slow and doubtfully:
"Must be awful nice, but I
Rather wait till by and by
'Fore I go there; may be when
I be dead I'll go there then:
But"--the troubled little face
Closer pressed in my embrace:
"Le's don't never ever go
To the land of Thus-and-So!"
J. W. RILEY.
AT THE CLOCK TINKER'S.