BEAU PHILIP and Beau Bobby stood side by side on the doorstep of their
father’s house. They were brothers, though you would hardly have
thought it, for one was very big and one was very little.
Beau Philip was tall and slender, with handsome dark eyes, and a silky
brown moustache which he was fond of curling at the ends. He wore a
well-fitting overcoat, and a tall hat and pearl-gray kid gloves.
Beau Bobby was short and chubby, and ten years old, with blue eyes and
yellow curls (not long ones, but funny little croppy locks that _would_
curl, no matter how short he kept them). He wore a pea-jacket, and red
leggings and red mittens.
There was one thing, however, about the two brothers that was just the
same. Each carried in his hand a great red rose, lovely and fragrant,
with crimson leaves and a golden heart.
“Where are you going with your rose, Beau Bobby?” asked Beau Philip.
“I am going to make a New Year’s call,” replied Beau Bobby.
“So am I,” said Beau Philip, laughing. “We may meet again. Good-by,
little Beau!”
“Good-by, big Beau!” said Bobby, seriously, and they walked off in
different directions.
Beau Philip went to call on a beautiful young lady, to whom he wished
to give his rose; but so many other people were calling on her at the
same time that he could only say “good-morning!” to her, and then stand
in a corner, pulling his moustache and wishing that the others would
go. There were so many roses in the room, bowls and vases and jars of
them, that he thought she would not care for his single blossom, so he
put it in his buttonhole; but it gave him no pleasure whatever.
Beau Bobby trotted away on his short legs till he came to a poor
street, full of tumble-down cottages.
He stopped before one of them and knocked at the door. It was opened by
a motherly looking Irish woman, who looked as if she had just left the
washtub, as, indeed, she had.
“Save us!” she cried, “is it yersilf, Master Bobby? Come in, me jewel,
and warm yersilf by the fire! It’s mortal cowld the day.”
“Oh, I’m not cold, thank you!” said Bobby. “But I will come in. Would
you—would you like a rose, Mrs. Flanagan? I have brought this rose for
you. And I wish you a Happy New Year. And thank you for washing my
shirts so nicely.”
This was a long speech for Beau Bobby, who was apt to be rather silent;
but it had a wonderful effect on Mrs. Flanagan. She grew very red as
she took the rose, and the tears came into her eyes.
“Ye little angil!” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. “Look at
the lovely rose! For me, is it? And who sint ye wid it, honey?”
“Nobody!” said Bobby. “I brought it myself. It was my rose. You see,”
he said, drawing his stool up to the little stove, “I heard you say,
yesterday, Mrs. Flanagan, when you brought my shirts home, that you had
never had a New Year’s call in your life; so I thought I would make you
one to-day, you see. Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year to yersilf, me sweet jewel!” cried good Mrs. Flanagan.
“And blessings go wid every day of it, for your kind heart and your
sweet face. I had a sore spot in my heart this day, Master Bobby, bein’
so far from my own people; but it’s you have taken it away this minute,
wid yer sweet rose and yer bright smile. See now, till I put it in my
best chiny taypot. Ain’t that lovely, now?”
“Isn’t it!” cried Beau Bobby. “And it makes the whole room sweet. I am
enjoying my call _very_ much, Mrs. Flanagan; aren’t you?”
“That I am!” said Mrs. Flanagan. “With all my heart!”