"Oh, Bessie! I've such an idea, _such_ a good one, and _so_ sure, you
can't think how it came either, if you guessed and tried for a week!"
"Child, you are always having ideas, but they amount to nothing; you
have enough to do at home, without continually fretting your head
about what you cannot carry out."
"But, Bessie, this is _just splendid_, and it came to me all of a
sudden, and I'm sure as sure can be that it is a real _good_ idea. Now
wont you listen!"
"I suppose I must, if I want any peace; but I'm very tired, so if it
is like your latest--to catch fish and sell them in the town, or to
have your curls cut off and let some city hair-dresser pay you for
them--there will be no use to tell it to me."
"Tain't neither, Bessie dear, it's a real clever idea, and I know you
wont say 'no' to it. I was looking over some of the old picture papers
this morning, and I found a funny picture of a gentleman that had gone
fishing with, oh! the greatest lot of lines, and a fine rod, and a
basket swung at his back, and he looked ever so nice; but he hadn't
caught any thing and he was ashamed to go back to the city with an
empty basket; and then there was another picture where he was buying a
great string of fish from a bare-footed little country boy, that had
caught them all, and had only a rough old pole and an old line on it."
"So it _is_ the fishing idea, again," said Bessie, "but the present
variation does not improve on the last."
"No, it just ain't the fishing idea any more; it's this: you know all
the excursion parties that come up here, are coming all the time now;
well, the ladies all gather autumn leaves, lots and lots, handsful and
handsful of them. But they get tired of carrying so many after a
while, and by the time they get ready to go back to the cars, their
leaves are thrown away, and they are empty-handed. Now just listen! If
I go to work and pick out the _very_ prettiest leaves and do them up
in the _very_ sweetest bunches, and tie them so they are easy to
carry, and meet them when they are starting to go home, I'm _sure_
they will buy them, just like the gentleman did the fish from that
boy. Now, ain't that a _real good_ idea?"
"I believe there is something in it, Katie," answered the eldest
sister.
"I knew you would," cried Katie, joyously, "and may I try it?"
"If you will be very careful and not talk too much to the people you
know nothing of, I have no objections; it can do no harm, at all
events," and poor, tired Bessie sighed as she looked at her bright
young sister and thought of the time when she too was young and full
of hope and gay spirits.
There was quite a family of these Wilsons in the little house at the
foot of the mountains, in Pennsylvania. The widowed mother, sickly and
almost blind; Bessie, a young lady, the eldest daughter, aged
twenty-three, who taught a very large school for very small pay; then
Katie not quite twelve, and Robbie, the baby, the pet, the boy, who
was only five.
Three years before, their father had been living, and they had enjoyed
all that wealth could bring them. Suddenly he sickened and died, and
then came the dreadful knowledge that he left nothing for his family;
he was deeply in debt to his partner, with whom he had worked a large
coal-mine, and this Mr. Moore was what all people called a "hard man,"
he was old and crabbed, and always wanted and would have every cent
coming to him. Bessie was to have been married to his son, Philip, but
when poverty came to her, the old man refused to let Philip see her
more, and the girl was too proud to go into a family where she was
not wanted, and, beside, she had her poor mother, who had given up
and failed fast after her misfortunes, she had her to look after. So
Bessie taught school; Katie attended to the little home into which
they had moved from the great house on the hill, a noble little
housekeeper she was; Robbie did about as he pleased and was well
content with life, except when neat Katie would seize him and wash his
face with plenty of soap in his eyes, and comb his tangled curls with
a comb that "allus pulled," as he cried.
It was hard for them to pay the rent, to get food and the many
delicacies Mrs. Wilson had always been used to, and now needed more
than ever. Bessie's small wages from her school were taken, every
cent, for these, and Katie was continually bothering her young head
with "ideas" as to how _she_ could make money to help them all. The
autumn leaves were the latest, and it really did seem as though there
were something in it.
The next day was Saturday, Bessie was free from school duties, and so
her little sister had more time at her disposal. Friday evening she
and Robbie gathered a great quantity of bright-colored leaves; the
next morning, bright and early, they were out again; the little back
porch was filled with them.
With her own natural good taste, aided by Bessie's more cultivated
judgment, they made up many neat, beautiful bunches of those
bright-colored droppings from the forest trees. These she placed in a
large but pretty basket that once had been sent, filled with rare
fruit, to Bessie, from Philip, and the older girl sighed when she gave
it to her sister.
Then Katie started, leaving Robbie behind crying; and with a trembling
heart and a big lump in her throat, but bravely as a little soldier,
she made her way to the path by which the excursion parties would have
to return to the cars. Soon they began to come along, all tired,
trying to be merry ladies and gentlemen.
Katie stood with her basket on her arm. She did not know how pretty
she looked, with her brown curls floating out from beneath her big
sun-bonnet, her pure white apron, her dark dress which Bessie had made
from one of her own, with delicate bits of lace at the wrists, a
bright bit of ribbon about her throat and a plain little breast-pin
clasping it. Her big black eyes looked longingly at the passers-by,
her red lips tried, many times, to utter some words that would help
her sell her wares, but she could not speak, she could only up her
hand and _look_ her wants.
"What lovely leaves!" cried a young lady, "these of mine seem all
faded by the carrying, and I'm tired of the great load anyhow," and
she threw away a great lot tied round with her handkerchief, and
hastened toward the little merchant.
"What a pretty girl," said the young man with her.
"How much are these?" inquired the lady.
Bessie had not thought of what she would ask for her bunches, and now,
between pleasure and fright, she could not think of any price to put
upon them.
"Whatever you please, Miss," she faintly murmured.
"How lovely they are," said the lady, and taking three bunches, she
gave two to the young man with her, telling him: "Harry, you must
carry these, and pay the child," the third one she kept in her own
hand.
The gentleman put his hand in his pocket, drew it out, and dropped
into Katie's basket a silver dollar.
The tears almost blinded the little girl--tears of joy over her first
success--she could hardly see what the coin was, but when she picked
it up she managed to stammer that she "had no change."
"Don't want any, little one," said the young man pleasantly, "the
sight of you is worth all the money and more." Then the couple hurried
away.
But their stopping had attracted many more, and a dozen bought of
Katie, and, though few were as generous as her first customers, she
soon disposed of most of her stock at ten cents a bunch, having gained
courage to fix and state her price. Quite a number gave her more than
that sum, and she began to feel a very rich little girl, indeed.
More than half her stock was sold, when an old gentleman and a young
lady came along. The lady, as usual, was the first to admire the
bright bunches, she took two, the old gentleman giving Katie fifty
cents and telling her that "was right." He seemed a cross old man, but
still spoke pleasantly.
"What's your name, child?" he asked.
"Katie Wilson, sir," replied the little girl, faintly.
"Um! um! Come along Helen," said he, hastily, and hurried away.
These were the last of the excursion parties, except an elderly lady
having in charge a dozen children, all dressed alike; little ones from
a soldiers' orphan school, for whom some kind person had provided a
day's pleasure. They were tired and worn out with romping, and dragged
along slowly; they looked at Katie's bright face and longingly at the
pretty leaves in her basket. The girl's heart was touched; timidly she
held out a bunch to a little boy who half stopped in front of her, he
took it eagerly; in a moment the others were about her. By good
fortune, she had enough to give on to each and an extra bunch to the
lady.
With the thanks of these poor children in her heart, an empty basket
and a happy jingle in her pocket she ran nearly all the way home,
burst in on Bessie, put her arms about her neck and sobbed for
happiness.
When the elder sister at last succeeded in calming her, she told the
whole story of her afternoon's work.
Together they counted the money--three dollars and eighty-five
cents--just think of it!
If ever there was a happy, excited little girl, it was Katie that
night. She could not sleep or eat. When she _had to_ go to bed, she
lay awake long, long hours, thinking how _she_ would buy back the big
house, how mother should have doctors and every thing she needed, how
Bessie should stop teaching and have a horse and little carriage, and
pretty dresses, and a piano, like she used to, and how Robbie should
go to school and college and grow up to be a great man and finally be
President. She never thought of herself, except that _she_ was to do
all this, and when she fell asleep she dreamed the whole thing over
again, and that it had turned out just as she planned.
All through the excursion season Katie sold her leaves, and though she
never made as much as on the first day, yet when people stopped coming
she had over one hundred dollars in Bessie's hands, all made by
herself, all made by being up early and attending to her household
duties and working hard so as to have her bunches ready by the time
that visitors were returning to the train.
She was brave, and true, and unselfish, and her reward was great.
It was one chill November evening, toward Thanksgiving day, that she
and Robbie had wandered out among the mountain paths; the little
fellow was wild as a colt and ran here and there until it was all
Katie could do to keep track of him. Finally she caught him; both were
tired out, and when she looked around, to her great terror, she could
not make out just where they were. They wandered along and at last
came to a road, but she did not know which way to go. Robbie was cross
and sleepy; she could not carry the heavy boy, and he _would_ lay
down; at last she let him rest. He dropped by a fallen log and in a
moment was asleep. She covered him with a little cloth cape she wore,
and sat down beside him; her eyes were heavy, she nodded, and very
soon was as sound as he.
Along the road came a thin, old, but active man; he stepped out firmly
and aided his steps with a stout cane. It was after dusk of the
evening. He spied something in the gloom, on the other side of the
road, something unusual; he crossed over; it was a little girl leaning
against a big, fallen tree and a small boy stretched on the ground
beside it; both were fast asleep. He touched the girl's shoulder; she
sprang up. "Oh!" she gasped, "don't hurt Robbie! We weren't doing any
harm, indeed we weren't."
"What are you doing here any how?" he inquired.
"It was Robbie, no, it was me, he was so sleepy and so was I, and we
were just resting until we could start and try to find home again."
"Um! so you're lost, are you?"
"No, sir, I guess not only--only we don't know the way."
"Well, I should say that's pretty near being lost. Where do you live?
What's your name?"
"We live in the old Mill cottage, and my name's Katie Wilson, and
Robbie's is Robert T. Wilson."
"Um! um! Yes; well, I know where you live; come along, I'll put you
right. Come! wake up here, young man!" and he gently poked Robbie with
his cane. But Robbie was sleepy and cross, and cried and kicked, and
it was all Katie could do to get him on his feet and moving. Then as
they went slowly on, she holding her brother's hand, her own in that
of the stranger, he asked her: "Weren't you frightened to be out all
alone?"
"Why, no, sir," she answered. "I was frightened for mother and Bessie
being worried, but not for us; I just said my prayers and covered
Robbie, and then I fell asleep and didn't know any thing until you
woke me up."
"Um! said your prayers, did you!" and the old man stopped and looked
at her.
"See here, Katie!" he said, in a very gentle voice, "say your prayers
for me, I'd like to hear them."
The child looked at him in astonishment and trouble. Could it be that
the gentleman could not say his prayers for himself, that he did not
pray himself! "Oh, sir!" she said, with choking voice and tears in her
eyes, "I can't say them to you, only to Bessie or mother: It's just
God bless mother, and Bessie and Robbie and me, and take care of us in
the night and day, and--and that's all, sir."
"Well, never mind now, little Katie, come along, we must get Robbie
home to the mother and Bessie soon, or they'll think the bears have
eaten you both," and the old man's voice was still more gentle, and he
hurried as fast as the little ones could go. He knew the roads well,
and in half an hour they were on a path that the children were well
acquainted with, and near home.
There was a cry of joy, and Bessie sprang upon the little ones at a
bend in the road and gathered them in her arms, and kissed and scolded
and petted them, all at the same time.
The old gentleman hurried away as soon as he saw they were safe; but
he did not go far; he stepped back in the dark and heard Katie tell
the tale of adventure and take all the blame herself, and excuse
Robbie, and talk about the kind gentleman who had found them and
brought them home, and wonder where he had gone so quickly before she
had time to thank him. He followed them at a distance; he saw them
enter their home, and he watched outside until the lamp was lighted in
the little sitting-room; then he came near the window and looked in;
he watched while the sick, half-blind mother cried over her children;
he saw pale, sweet-faced Bessie comforting all; he stood there an
hour without noticing the cold and wind that grew about him. He saw
brave, hard-working Bessie, and true Katie, and the little boy, and
the mother of all, kneel at their chairs, and he thought he could hear
the prayers of thanks that came from the hearts of all and the lips of
the older sister, and he felt drops upon his cheek, not rain, but
tears--tears. It had been many years since his eyes had been wet with
tears, but they were there and they softened the heart of "hard old
man" Moore, and he turned away at last with a strange resolution in
his mind.
Three days after he was in the sitting-room of that cottage; with him
was his son Philip, by Philip's side was Bessie, looking ever so much
younger and prettier, and _so_, _so_ happy, and standing by the side
of "hard old man" Moore was little Katie, wondering to see such an old
man wipe the tears from his eyes, wondering at the way in which he
held one arm close around her, and wondering still more why he should
keep saying, all the time, "You did it, little Katie, you did it all."
The Wilsons are comfortable and happy now. Bessie is Mrs. Philip
Moore; the mother has doctors and luxuries; Robbie is at school and
learning fast; Katie, _our_ Katie, is learning fast also, but she is
still the same Katie as of old; she did not have to sell bunches of
leaves another season; but there are always great bouquets of the
beauties in the house, and old Mr. Moore, "hard" no longer, calls her
nothing but his little "Autumn leaf."
[Illustration: {BIRDS ON A TWIG.}]