"Upon my word, you're a pretty little fellow!" and looked as if he would
like to shake him, if it were not for soiling his gloves.
Horace laughed when Mr. Lazelle called him "a pretty little fellow," and
thought it a fine joke. He laughed, too, when the young man told him to
"come out," for there was something in the pettish tone of his voice
which Horace considered very amusing.
"I'll wait till he gets through scolding, and goes to coaxing," thought
the boy: "he's a smart man! can't make such a little fellow mind!"
Mr. Lazelle was very much vexed with Horace, and firmly resolved that he
would never again take charge of a lady traveling with children. At one
time he flew into a passion, and boxed the boy's ears. Horace felt very
much like a wounded wasp. He knew Mr. Lazelle would not have dared
strike him before his mother, and from that moment he despised him as a
"sneak."
Whenever Mr. Lazelle was looking for him in great haste, he was very
likely to be missing; and when that sorely tried young gentleman was
almost in despair, a saucy little head would appear at the car-window,
and a small voice would shout,--
"Ho, Mr. Lazelle! why don't you come ahead? I beat you _in_!"
"Horace," said Mrs. Clifford, wearily, "you don't know how you tire me!
Here is this dear baby that I have to hold in my arms; isn't it enough
that I should have the care of him, without being all the while anxious
about you?"
"Yes," chimed in Grace, pushing back her beautiful curls, "you don't
know how ma and I fret about you. You'll kill poor ma before ever we
can get you East!"
Horace hung his head for shame, and decided that it didn't "pay" to
punish Mr. Lazelle, if his mother must suffer too. He meant, for her
sake, to "turn over a new leaf," though he did not say so.
On the afternoon of their second day's ride, they reached the beautiful
city of Cleveland.
Here they were to rest for a few hours. Their clothes were sadly
tumbled, their collars dust-color, and their faces and hair rough with
cinders. A thorough washing and brushing and some fresh ruffles and
laces gave a much tidier appearance to the whole party.
After Grace and Horace were ready, Mrs. Clifford thought they might as
well go downstairs while she tried to rock little Katie to sleep.
"Be sure not to go away from the house," said she. "Grace, I depend
upon you to take care of Horace, for he may forget."
The children had been standing on the piazza for some time, watching the
people passing, while Mr. Lazelle lounged near by, talking politics with
some gentlemen. In a little while Mrs. Clifford sent for Grace to go
upstairs and amuse the poor baby, who could not be rocked to sleep.
For a few moments after she had gone Horace stood near the door, still
gazing into the street, when suddenly he heard a faint sound of martial
music: a brass band was turning the corner. Soon they were in sight, men
in handsome uniform, drawing music from various instruments, picking,
blowing, or beating it out, as the case might be.
It was glorious, Horace thought. He could not keep still. He ran out,
and threw up his cap before he knew it almost, shouting with delight,--
"Ho, Mr. Lazelle! ain't that jolly? Ho, Mr. Lazelle! where _are_ you,
anyhow?"
Probably, if the boy had stopped to think, he might have remembered that
Mr. Lazelle was in the parlor; but no, Horace was sure he must have
crossed the street to look at the band.
"I'm going, too," said he to himself. "Of course, where Mr. Lazelle
goes, I can go, for he has the care of me!"
With that he dashed headlong into the crowd, looking here, there, and
everywhere for Mr. Lazelle.
But, O, that music! Did a little boy's boots ever stand still when a
drum was playing, "March, march away"? No doubt his father was keeping
step to just such sounds, on his path to martial glory! The fife and
bugle whistled with magical voices, and seemed to say,--
"Follow, follow, follow on!"
And Horace followed; sometimes thinking he was in search of Mr. Lazelle,
sometimes forgetting it altogether. He knew he was doing very wrong,
but it seemed as if the music almost drowned the voice of his
conscience.
In this way they turned street after street, till, suddenly, the band
and the crowd entered a large public building. Then the music died out,
and with it the fire of eagerness in the little boy's soul.
Where was Mr. Lazelle? If he could see him now, he would forgive the
boxed ears. How could he ever find his way back to the hotel? It had
not as yet entered his head to ask anyone.
He darted off at great speed, but, as it happened, in precisely the
wrong direction. The houses grew smaller and farther apart, and
presently he came to a high, sandy cliff overlooking the lake. Now the
shades of night began to fall, and his stout heart almost failed him.
The longing grew so strong to see mother, and Grace, and baby, that the
tears would start, in spite of himself.
At last, just as he was wondering which way to turn next, somebody
touched his shoulder, and a rough voice said,--
"Hullo, my little man! What you doin' in this ward? Come; don't you
pull away from me: I'm a city officer. Got lost, hey?"
Horace shook with fright. O dear, was it a crime, then, to get lost?
He remembered all the stories he had ever heard of lock-ups, and
state-prisons, and handcuffs.
"O, I didn't mean any harm, sir," cried he, trying to steady his voice;
"I reckon I ain't lost, sir; or, if I am, I ain't lost _much_!"
"So, sor," laughed the policeman, good-naturedly; "and what was your
name, my little man, before you got lost, and didn't get lost _much_?"
"My name is Horace Clifford, sir," replied the boy, wondering why a
cruel policeman should want to laugh.
"Well, well," said the man, not unkindly, "I'm glad I've come across ye,
for your mother's in a terrible taking. What set ye out to run off?
Come, now; don't be sulky. Give us your hand, and I guess, seein' it's
you, we won't put you in the lock-up this time."
Horace was very grateful to the officer for not handcuffing him on the
spot; still he felt as if it was a great disgrace to be marched through
the city by a policeman.
Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Mr. Lazelle met them on the way.
"O, my dear, dear son," cried Mrs. Clifford, as soon as she could speak;
"do you know how you've frightened us all?"
"I followed the band," stammered Horace. "I was looking for Mr.
Lazelle."
"You're a naughty, mean little boy," cried Grace, when she had made sure
he was not hurt anywhere. "It would have been good enough for you if
you'd drowned in the lake, and the bears had ate you up!"
Still she kissed her naughty brother, and it was to be noticed that her
eyelids were very red from crying.
"I'll never let go your hand again, Horace," said she, "till we get to
grandma's. You're just as _slippery_!"
Mr. Lazelle looked as if it would be an immense relief to him if Miss
Grace would keep her word; he thought he was undergoing a great trial
with Horace.
"It's a shame," said he to himself, "that a perfect lady, like Mrs.
Clifford, should have such a son! I'd enjoy whipping him--for her sake!
Why in the world don't she _train_ him?"
Mr. Lazelle did not know of the faithful talk Mrs. Clifford had with
Horace that night, nor how the boy's heart swelled with grief, and love,
and new resolutions.
This adventure caused a day's delay, for it made the party too late for
the boat. Horace was so sorry for his foolish conduct, that he spent
the next day in the most subdued manner, and walked about the chamber on
tiptoe, while Grace tried to sooth little Katie.
But, in crossing the lake, he "forgot" again. His mother allowed him to
go up on the hurricane deck with Mr. Lazelle, just for ten minutes; and
there he became acquainted with the pilot, who was struck with his
intelligence, and freely answered all the questions he asked about the
engine, "the whistle," and the steering.
"O, pshaw!" said Horace; "I'll make a steam-boat myself, and give it to
Grace for a present!"
Full of this new plan, he left the pilot without so much as a "thank
you," running down the steps, two at a time, unobserved by Mr. Lazelle,
who was playing the flute. He wanted to see how the "rigging" was made,
and stopped to ask leave of nobody.
Down another flight of stairs, out across trunks, and bales, and ropes,
he pushed his way to get a good sight of the deck. He paid no heed to
people or things, and nearly ran over an Irish boy, who was drawing up
water in buckets for washing. Somebody shouted, "He's trying to kill
hisself, I do believe!"
Somebody rushed forward to seize the daring child by the collar of his
jacket, but too late; he had fallen headlong into the lake!
A scream went up from the deck that pierced the air,--"Boy overboard!
Help! help! help!"
Mrs. Clifford heard, and knew, by instinct, that it was Horace. She had
just sent Grace to call him, not feeling safe to trust him longer with
Mr. Lazelle. She rushed through the door of the state-room, and
followed the crowd to the other side of the boat, crying,--
"O, can't somebody save him?"
There was no mistaking the mother's voice; the crowd made way for her.
"Safe! safe and sound!" was the shout now. "All right!"
The Irish lad, at Horace's first plunge, had thrown him his bucket--it
was a life-preserver; that is, it would not sink--and the drowning boy
had been drawn up by means of a rope attached to the bail.
"Ma," said Grace, when they were all safely in the cars at Buffalo, and
Horace as well as ever, though a little pale, "I do believe there never
was anybody had such an awful journey! _Do_ you suppose we'll ever get
Horace home to grandma's?"
*CHAPTER IV*
*AT GRANDPA PARLIN'S*
It was over at last--the long, tedious journey, which Horace spoiled for
everybody, and which nobody but Horace enjoyed.
When they drove up to the quiet old, homestead at Willowbrook, and
somebody had taken the little baby, poor Mrs. Clifford threw herself
into her mother's arms, and sobbed like a child. Everybody else cried,
too; and good, deaf Grandpa Parlin, with smiles and tears at the same
time, declared,--
"I don't know what the matter is; so I can't tell whether to laugh or
cry."
Then his daughter Margaret went up and said in his best ear that they
were just crying for joy, and asked him if that wasn't a silly thing to
do.
Grace embraced everybody twice over; but Horace was a little shy, and
would only give what his aunties called "canary kisses."
"Margaret, I want you to give me that darling baby this minute," said
Mrs. Parlin, wiping her eyes. "Now you can bring the butter out of the
cellar; it's all there is to be done, except to set the tea on the
table."
Then Grandma Parlin had another cry over little Katie: not such a
strange thing, for she could not help thinking of Harry, the baby with
sad eyes and pale face, who had been sick there all the summer before,
and was now an angel. As little Prudy had said, "God took him up to
heaven, but the tired part of him is in the garden."
Yes, under a weeping-willow. Everybody was thinking just now of tired
little Harry, "the sweetest flower that ever was planted in that
garden."
"Why, Maria," said Mrs. Parlin, as soon as she could speak, "how did you
ever travel so far with this little, little baby?"
"I don't know, mother," replied Mrs. Clifford, "I think I could never
have got here without Grace: she has been my little waiter, and Katie's
little nurse."
Grace blushed with delight at this well-deserved praise.
"And Horace is so large now, that he was some help, too, I've no doubt,"
said his grandmother.
"I would have took the baby," cried Horace, speaking up very quickly,
before anyone else had time to answer,--"I would have took the baby, but
she wouldn't let me."
Mrs. Clifford might have said that Horace himself had been as much
trouble as the baby; but she was too kind to wound her little boy's
feelings.
It was certainly a very happy party who met around the tea-table at Mr.
Parlin's that evening. It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp,
with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow to the pleasant
dining-room.
First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest bread, and the
sweetest cream.
"This makes me think of Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "I hope
she is living yet."
"She is," said Margaret, "but twelve years old."
Grace looked up in surprise.
"Why, that's only a little girl, Aunt Madge!"
"My dear, it's only a cow!"
"O, now I remember; the little blue one, with brass knobs on her horns!"
"Let's see; do you remember Dr. Quack and his wife?"
"O, yes'm! they were white ducks; and how they did swim! It was a year
ago. I suppose Horace doesn't remember."
"Poh! yes, I do; they were _spin-footed_!"
"Why, Horace," said Grace, laughing; "you mean _web-footed_!"
Horace bent his eyes on his plate, and did not look up again for some
time.
There was chicken-salad on the table. Margaret made that--putting in
new butter, because she knew Mrs. Clifford did not like oil.
There was delicious looking cake, "some that had been touched with
frost, and some that hadn't," as grandpa said, when he passed the
basket.
But the crowning glory of the supper was a dish of scarlet strawberries,
which looked as if they had been drinking dew-drops and sunshine till
they had caught all the richness and sweetness of summer.
"O, ma!" whispered Grace, "I'm beginning to feel so happy! I only wish
my father was here."
After tea, grandpa took Horace and Grace on each knee, large as they
were, and sang some delightful evening hymns with what was left of his
once fine voice. He looked so peaceful and happy that his daughters
were reminded of the Bible verse, "Children's children are the crown of
old men."
"I think now," said Mrs. Clifford, coming back from putting the baby to
sleep, "it's high time my boy and girl were saying, 'Good-night, and
pleasant dreams.'"
"Aunt Madge is going upstairs with us; aren't you, auntie?"
"Yes, Horace; your other auntie wouldn't do, I suppose," said Louise.
"That makes me think of the way this same Horace used to treat me when
he was two years old. '_Her_ can't put me to bed,' he would say; 'her's
too _little_.'"
"I remember," said Margaret, "how he dreaded cold water. When his
mother called him to be washed, and said, 'Ma doesn't want a little
dirty boy,' he would look up in her face, and say,
"'Does mamma want 'ittle _cold_ boy?'"
The happy children kissed everybody good-night, and followed their Aunt
Madge upstairs. Now, there was a certain small room, whose one window
opened upon the piazza, and it was called "the green chamber." It
contained a cunning little bedstead, a wee bureau, a dressing-table, and
washing-stand, all pea-green. It was a room which seemed to have been
made and furnished on purpose for a child, and it had been promised to
Grace in every letter Aunt Madge had written to her for a year.
Horace had thought but little about the room till to-night, when his
Aunt led Grace into it, and he followed. It seemed so fresh and sweet
in "the green chamber," and on the dressing-table there was a vase of
flowers.
Aunt Madge bade the children look out of the window at a bird's nest,
which was snuggled into one corner of the piazza-roof, so high up that
nobody could reach it without a very tall ladder.
"Now," said Aunt Madge, "the very first thing Grace hears in the morning
will probably be bird-music."
Grace clapped her hands.
"And where am _I_ going to sleep?" said Horace, who had been listening,
and looking on in silence. His aunt had forgotten that he was sometimes
jealous; but she could not help knowing it now, for a very disagreeable
expression looked out at his eyes, and drew down the corners of his
mouth.
"Why, Horace dear, we have to put you in one of the back chambers, just
as we did when you were here before; but you know it's a nice clean
room, with white curtains, and you can look out of the window at the
garden."
"But it's over the kitchen!"
"There, Horace," said Grace, "I'd be ashamed! You don't act like a
little gentleman! What would pa say?"
"Why couldn't I have the big front chamber?" said the little boy,
shuffling his feet, and looking down at his shoes.
"Because," said Aunt Madge, smiling, "that is for your mother and the
baby."
"But if I could have this little cunning room, I'd go a-flyin'. Grace
ain't company any more than me."
Aunt Madge remembered Horace's hit-or-miss way of using things, and
thought of the elephant that once walked into a china shop.
Grace laughed aloud.
"Why, Horace Clifford, you'd make the room look like everything; you
know you would! O, auntie, you ought to see how he musses up my
cabinet! I have to hide the key; I do _so_!"
Horace took the room which was given him, but he left his sister without
his usual good-night kiss, and when he repeated his prayer, I am afraid
he was thinking all the while about the green chamber.
The next morning the children had intended to go into the garden bright
and early. Grace loved flowers, and when she was a mere baby, just able
to toddle into the meadow, she would clip off the heads of buttercups
and primroses, hugging and kissing them like friends.
Horace, too, had some fancy for flowers, especially flaring ones like
sunflowers and hollyhocks. Dandelions were nice when the stems would
curl without bothering, and poppies were worth while for little girls,
he thought, because, after they are gone to seed, you can make them into
pretty good teapots.
He wanted to go out in the garden now for humming-birds, and to see if
the dirt-colored toad was still living in his "nest," in one of the
flowerbeds.
But the first thing the children heard in the morning was the pattering
of rain on the roof. No going out to-day. Grace was too tired to care
much. Horace felt cross; but remembering how many messages his
grandmother had sent to her "good little grandson," and how often Aunt
Madge had written about "dear little Horace, the nephew she was so proud
of," he felt ashamed to go downstairs scowling. If his good-morning
smile was so thin that you could see a frown through it, still it was
better than no smile at all.
The breakfast was very nice, and Horace would have enjoyed the hot
griddle-cakes and maple sirup, only his Aunt Louise, a handsome young
lady of sixteen, watched him more than he thought was quite polite,
saying every now and then,--
"Isn't he the image of his father? Just such a nose, just such a mouth!
He eats fast, too; that is characteristic!"
Horace did not know what "characteristic" meant, but thought it must be
something bad, for with a child's quick eye he could see that his pretty
aunt was inclined to laugh at him. In fact, he had quite an odd way of
talking, and his whole appearance was amusing to Miss Louise, who was a
very lively young lady.
"Horace, you were telling me last night about Mr. Lazelle: what did you
say was the color of his coat?"
"I said it was _blueberry_ color," replied Horace, who could see almost
without looking up that Aunt Louise was smiling at Aunt Madge.
"He is a _musicianer_, too, I think you said, and his hair _crimps_.
Dear me, what a funny man!"
Horace was silent, and made up his mind that he should be careful
another time what he said before Aunt Louise.
Soon after breakfast he and Pincher went "up-attic" to see what they
could find, while Grace followed her grandmother and aunties from parlor
to kitchen, and from kitchen to pantry. She looked pale and tired, but
was so happy that she sang every now and then at the top of her voice,
forgetting that little Katie was having a nap.
Pretty soon Horace came downstairs with an old, rusty gun much taller
than himself. Mrs. Clifford was shocked at first, but smiled the next
moment, as she remembered what an innocent thing it was, past its
"prime" before she was of Horace's age.
The little boy playfully pointed the gun towards Grace, who screamed
with fright, and ran away as fast as she could.
"I don't care," cried she, coming back, a little ashamed at being
laughed at. "How did _I_ know it wasn't loaded? Do you think 'twould
look well for a little girl not to be afraid of a gun?"
This speech amused everybody, particularly Horace, who was glad to have
Grace say a foolish thing once in a while. It raised his self-esteem
somehow; and, more than that, he liked to remember her little slips of
the tongue, and tease her about them.
It was not long before he had seen all there was to be seen in the
house, and wanted to "_do_ something." As for reading, that was usually
too stupid for Horace. Grace kindly offered to play checkers with him;
but she understood the game so much better than he did that she won at
every trial.
This was more than he could bear with patience; and, whenever he saw
that she was gaining upon him, he wanted to "turn it into a
_give-game_."
"But that isn't fair, Horace."
"Well, ma, just you see how mean Grace is! There, she wants me to jump
that man yonder, so she'll take two of mine, and go right in the
king-row!"
"But, Horace," said Grace, gently, "what do I play for if I don't try to
beat?"
"There, now," cried he, "chase my men up to the king-row, so I can't
crown 'em, do!"
"Just what I'm doing," replied Grace, coolly.
"Well, I should think you'd better take 'em all, and be done with it!
Before I'd be so mean as to set _traps_!"
"Look, Horace," said Grace; "you didn't jump when you ought to, and I'm
going to _huff_ your man. See, I blow it, just this way; old Mr. Knight
calls it _huffing_."
"Huff away then! but you stole one of those kings. I'll bet you stole
it off the board after I jumped it."
"Now, Horace Clifford," cried Grace, with tears in her eyes, "I never
did such a thing as to steal a king; and if you say so I won't play!"
"Horace," said Mrs. Clifford, who had been trying for some time to
speak, "what do you play checkers for?"
"Ma'am? Why, to beat, of course."
"Well, do you consider it work or play?"
"Work or play? Why, it's a game, ma; so it's play."
"But Grace was so obliging that she wished to amuse you, my son. _Does_
it amuse you? Doesn't it make you cross? Do you know that you have
spoken a great many sharp words to your kind sister?
"Shut the board right up, my child; and remember from this time never to
play checkers, or any other game, when you feel yourself growing
fretful! As you sometimes say, 'It doesn't pay.'"
Horace closed the board, looking ashamed.
"That's sound advice for everybody," said Aunt Madge, stroking her
little nephew's hair. "If children always remembered it, they would get
along more pleasantly together--I know they would."
Grace had been looking ill all the morning, and her mother now saw
symptoms of a chill. With all her tender anxiety she had not known how
tired her little daughter was. It was two or three weeks before the
child was rested; and whenever she had a chill, which was every third
day for a while, she was delirious and kept crying out,--
"O, do see to Horace, mamma! Mr. Lazelle will forget! O, Horace, now
_don't_ let go my hand! I've got the bundles, mamma, and the milk for
the baby."
And sometimes Mrs. Clifford would call Horace to come and take his
sister's hand, just to assure her that he was not lying cold and dead in
the waters of Lake Erie. It was really touching to see how heavily the
cares of the journey had weighed on the dear girl's youthful spirits.
*CHAPTER V*
*CAPTAIN OF A COMPANY*
At first Mrs. Clifford thought she did not care about having the
children go to school, as they had been kept at their studies for nearly
nine months without a vacation, except Christmas holidays.
But what was to be done with Horace? Aunt Louise, who was not
passionately fond of children, declared her trials were greater than she
could bear. Grace was a little lady, she thought; but as for Horace,
and his dog Pincher, and the "calico kitty," which he had picked up for
a pet!--Louise disliked dogs and despised kittens. Sometimes, as she
told Margaret, she felt as if she should certainly fly; sometimes she
was sure she was going crazy; and then again it seemed as if her head
would burst into a thousand pieces.
None of these dreadful accidents happened, it is true; but a great many
other things did. Hammers, nails, and augers were carried off, and left
to rust in the dew. A cup of green paint, which for months had stood
quietly on an old shelf in the storeroom, was now taken down and stirred
with a stick, and all the toys which Horace whittled out were stained
green, and set in the sun to dry. A pair of cheese-tongs, which hung in
the back room, a boot-jack, the washing-bench, which was once red,--all
became green in a very short time: only the red of the bench had a
curious effect, peeping out from its light and ragged coat of green.
The blue sled which belonged to Susie and Prudy was brought down from
the shed-chamber, and looked at for some time. It would present a
lovely appearance, Horace thought, if he only dared cross it off with
green. But as the sled belonged to his little cousins, and they were
not there to see for themselves how beautiful he could make it look,
why, he must wait till they came; and then, very likely, the paint would
be gone.
Of course, Horace soiled his clothes sadly: "that was always just like
him," his Aunt Louise said.
This was not all: A little neighbor, Gilbert Brown, came to the house at
all hours, and between the two boys there was a noise of driving nails,
firing pop-guns, shouting and running from morning till night.
They built a "shanty" of the boards which grandpa was saving to mend the
fence, and in this shanty they "kept store," trading in crooked pins,
home-made toys, twine and jack-knives.
"Master chaps, them children are," said Abner, the good-natured hired
man.
"Hard-working boys! They are as destructive as army worms," declared
grandpa, frowning, with a twinkle in his eye.
Horace had a cannon about a foot long, which went on wheels, with a box
behind it, and a rammer lashed on at the side--not to mention an
American flag which floated over the whole.
With a stout string he drew his cannon up to the large oilnut tree, and
then with a real bayonet fixed to a wooden gun, he would lie at full
length under the shade, calling himself a sharpshooter guarding the
cannon. At these times woe to the "calico kitty," or Grace, or anybody
else who happened to go near him! for he gave the order to "charge," and
the charge was made most vigorously.
Upon the whole, it was decided that everybody would feel easier and
happier if Horace should go to school. This plan did not please him at
all, and he went with sulky looks and a very bad grace.
His mother sighed; for though her little boy kept the letter of the law,
which says, "Children, obey your parents," he did not do it in the
_spirit_ of the commandment, "_Honor_ thy father and thy mother."
In a thousand ways Mrs. Clifford was made unhappy by Horace, who should
have been a comfort to her. It was sad, indeed; for never did a kind
mother try harder to "train up a child" in the right way.
It did not take Horace a great while to renew his acquaintance with the
schoolboys, who all seemed to look upon him as a sort of curiosity.
"I never knew before," laughed little Dan Hideout, "that my name was
Dan-yell!"
"He calls a pail a bucket, and a dipper a _tinkup_," said Gilbert Brown.
"Yes," chimed in Willy Snow, "and he asks 'Is school _took up_?' just as
if it was knitting-work that was on needles."
"How he rolls his r's!" said Peter Grant. "You can't say hor-r-se the
way he does! I'll bet _the ain't_ a boy can do it unless it's a
Cahoo-jack." Peter meant _Hoosier_.
"Well, I wouldn't be seen saying _hoss_," returned Horace, with some
spirit; "that's _Yankee_."
"I guess the Yankees are as good as the Cahoo-jacks: wasn't your mother
a Yankee?"
"Yes," faltered Horace; "she was born up north here in the Frigid Zone;
but she isn't so much relation to me as my father is, for her name
wasn't Clifford. She wouldn't have been _any_ relation to me if she
hadn't married my father!"
One or two of the larger boys laughed at this speech, and Horace, who
could never endure ridicule, stole quietly away.
"Now, boys, you behave," said Edward Snow, Willy's older brother; "he's
a smart little fellow, and it's mean to go to hurting his feelings. Come
back here, Spunky Clifford; let's have a game of _hi spy_!"