She was only five years old, hardly that, but a stout, healthy little
creature, full of love and fun, but often hard to manage.
Maggie was her name, but she would call herself nothing but "Davy's
girl."
Davy, her brother, a brave, good boy, about fifteen years of age, was
all she had to cling to, and she was his only treasure. They were
orphans; their father had been drowned, with many other poor
fishermen, when Maggie was a wee baby, and the mother, soon after,
died, from worry and hard work.
So these two were all alone in the world, but they did not feel
lonely, for each one was all the world to the other.
They lived with an old fisherman and his wife, on the shores of the
ocean, in New Jersey; and in the inlets and about outside, Davy used
to go with the men, in the boats, and help them fish; sometimes he
would work in-shore, for the truck farmers; sometimes help to gather
the salt hay from the marshes. He would work hard at any thing so as
to make money to keep his little sister comfortable and to give her
all it was well for her to have.
In winter he would tramp through cold and snow and storms, several
miles, to the little town where the school was, and so, every year, he
gained a few weeks of instruction.
The people among whom these orphans lived were rough, but
kind-hearted, and Davy always had enough work to enable him to earn
money sufficient to keep Maggie and himself in the simple way in which
every body about them lived.
Whenever he had an idle half-day, or even a few hours, he would take
the little girl and his books, and go down to the shore, and getting
into one of the boats always to be found drawn up on the sand, he
would study hard to learn, for he was anxious to get on in the world,
not only for his own, but his sister's sake, and Maggie would take one
of the books, and open it, and run her little fat finger over the
page, and move her lips, and make believe that she, too, was studying
her lessons and she would keep still as a little mouse, until, after a
few minutes of nodding, her eyes would close, then her head would drop
on Davy's knee, and she would be off--sound asleep, until it was time
for him to go.
It happened, one afternoon, as Davy, with Maggie, was going to the
boat, which was his favorite place of study, a farmer drove along and
asked him if he could not go and help with some work.
They were very near home yet, and when Davy said, "Maggie, will you
run right home?" she answered, "'Es;" so the brother saw her start off
towards the house, which was in sight, then jumped in beside the
farmer, and they drove off.
It was several hours before the boy returned. He went directly home,
and as soon as he entered, called, "Maggie!"
"Maggie aint here," said Mrs. Baker, who was busy cleaning up the
floor, "she hasn't been here since you took her out with you."
If ever there was a frightened boy, it was Davy, then. He knew how
careless his little sister was, and how she loved to go down and
splash in the water, and play around the deep pools. He could look,
from the door, all along the beach and out on the sea, and there was
no sign of his little girl. Mrs. Baker was frightened, too, when he
told her all. They ran to the few houses about, and while some of the
children had seen Maggie, it was hours before; since then she had
disappeared entirely.
It was a terrible blow to the poor boy, and he blamed himself as he
thought that perhaps his dear little sister was dead under the great
waves, or her body was being washed away far beyond his reach. He ran
up and down, everywhere calling her name as loudly as he could, but
no answer came.
Almost blind, with the tears in his eyes, he stood still for a moment
to think, when he caught sight of a little paper book. He knew it at
once; he had made it for Maggie so that she would not soil or tear his
own. In a moment he was running as fast as his feet would carry him to
the boat on the sand, a considerable distance off; quickly he reached
it, and climbed up the side. No Maggie yet.
The great sail lay in a heap before him; he walked around it, and
there, all curled up, fast asleep, was his runaway girl.
How his heart did jump for joy as he picked her up, and kissed and
petted her.
But Maggie cried, and said he hurt her.
Then he found that in climbing into the boat to "study her lessons,"
she had sprained her ankle, and she had been very miserable all by
herself, and cried and called for him until she fell asleep.
The books, all but one, were lying on the other side of the boat, on
the sand. Davy never minded them, precious as they were to him, but
taking his little sister on his strong back, he carried her home, her
arms about his neck and her cheek close to his; and Maggie had to stay
in the house, with her foot bandaged, for a week. But Davy never
forgot that fright nor left her to herself again until she was much
older; and the little girl never thought of disobeying his orders
after that. They had both learned a hard lesson.