"DEAR PAPA.
"I am sorry to say I have not seen you since you went to the war.
Grandpa has two pigs. I want a drum so much!
"We have lots of squirrels: they chip. We have orioles: they say,
'Here, here, _here_ I be!'
"I want the drum because I am a _captain_! We are going to train with
paper caps.
"I get up the cows and have a good time.
"Good-by. From your son,
"HORACE P. CLIFFORD.
"P.S. Ma bought me the soldier-clothes. I thank you."
About this time Mrs. Clifford was trying to put together a barrel of
nice things to send to her husband. Grandma and Aunt Madge baked a
great many loaves of cake and hundreds of cookies, and put in cans of
fruit and boxes of jelly wherever there was room. Aunt Louise made a
nice little dressing-case of bronze kid, lined with silk, and Grace made
a pretty pen-wiper and pin-ball. Horace whittled out a handsome
steamboat, with _green_ pipes, and the figurehead of an old man's face
carved in wood. But Horace thought the face looked like Prudy's, and
named the steamboat "The Prudy." He also broke open his savings-bank,
and begged his mother to lay out all the money he had in presents for
the sick soldiers:
"Horace has a kind and loving heart," said Margaret to Louise. "To be
sure, he won't keep still long enough to let anybody kiss him, but he
really loves his parents dearly."
"Well, he's a terrible try-patience," said Louise.
"Wait a while! He is wilful and naughty, but he never tells wrong
stories. I think there's hope of a boy who _scorns a lie_! See if he
doesn't come out right, Louise. Why, I expect to be proud of our Horace
one of these days!"
*CHAPTER VII*
*IN THE WOODS*
"O, ma," said Horace, coming into the house one morning glowing with
excitement, "mayn't I go in the woods with Peter Grant? He knows where
there's heaps of boxberries."
"And who is Peter Grant, my son?"
"He is a little boy with a bad temper," said Aunt Louise, frowning
severely at Horace.--If she had had her way, I don't know but every
little boy in town would have been tied to a bed-post by a clothes-line.
As I have already said, Aunt Louise was not remarkably fond of children,
and when they were naughty it was hard for her to forgive them.
She disliked little Peter; but she never stopped to think that he had a
cross and ignorant mother, who managed him so badly that he did not care
about trying to be good. Mrs. Grant seldom talked with him about God
and the Saviour; she never read to him from the Bible, nor told him to
say his prayers.
Mrs. Clifford answered Horace that she did not wish him to go into the
woods, and that was all that she thought it necessary to say.
Horace, at the time, had no idea of disobeying his mother; but not long
afterwards he happened to go into the kitchen, where his grandmother was
making beer.
"What do you make it of, grandma?" said he.
"Of molasses and warm water and yeast."
"But what gives the taste to it?"
"O, I put in spruce, or boxberry, or sarsaparilla."
"But see here, grandma: wouldn't you like to have me go in the woods
'some place,' and dig roots for you?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear," said she innocently; "and if you should go, pray
get some wintergreen, by all means."
In Horace's heart gave a wicked throb of delight. If someone wanted him
to go _after_ something, of course he _ought_ to go; for his mother had
often told him he must try to be useful. Strolling into the woods with
Peter Grant, just for fun, was very different from going in soberly to
dig up roots for grandma.
He thought of it all the way out to the gate. To be sure, he might go
and ask his mother again, but "what was the use when he knew certain
sure she'd be willing? Besides, wasn't the baby crying, so he mustn't
go in the room?"
These reasons sounded very well; but they could be picked in pieces, and
Horace knew it. It was only when the baby was asleep that he must keep
out of the chamber; and, as for being sure that his mother would let him
go into the woods, the truth was, he dared not ask her, for he knew she
would say, "No."
He found Peter Grant lounging near the school-house, scribbling his name
on the clean white paint under one of the windows.
Peter's black eyes twinkled.
"Going, ain't you, cap'n! dog and all? But where's your basket? Wait,
and I'll fetch one."
"There," said he, coming back again, "I got that out of the stable there
at the tavern; Billy Green is hostler: Billy knows me."
"Well, Peter, come ahead."
"I don't believe you know your way in these 'ere woods," returned Peter,
with an air of importance. "I'll go fust. It's a mighty long stretch,
'most up to Canada; but I could find _my_ way in the dark. I never got
lost anywheres yet!"
"Poh! nor I either," Horace was about to say; but remembering his
adventure in Cleveland, he drowned the words in a long whistle.
They kept on up the steep hill for some distance, and then struck off
into the forest. The straight pine trees stood up solemn and stiff.
Instead of tender leaves, they bristled all over with dark green
"needles." They had no blessings of birds' nests in their branches; yet
they gave out a pleasant odor, which the boys said was "nice."
"But they aren't so splendid, Peter, as our trees out West--don't begin!
_They_ grow so big you can't chop 'em down. I'll leave it to Pincher!"
"Chop 'em down? I reckon it can't be done!" replied Pincher--not in
words, but by a wag of his tail.
"Well, how _do_ you get 'em down then, cap'n?"
"We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's girdlin' the tree and then,
ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself."
"O, my stars!" cried Peter. "I want to know!"
"No, you _don't_ want to know, Peter, for I just told you! You may say
'I wonder,' if you like: that's what we say out West."
"Wait," said Peter. "I only said, 'I want to know what other trees you
have;' that's what I meant, but you _shet_ me right up."
"O, there's the butternut and the tree of heaven and papaw, and 'simmon,
and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."
"What's a 'simmon?"
"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right
sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when
they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n choke
cherries."
"What's a papaw?"
"A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat
it. It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to
work."
"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"
"O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know? It's a tree of heaven, I
suppose. It has pink hollyhocks growing on it. What makes you ask so
many questions?"
Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at
the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones.
Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was
strange how many it took to fill such "_enormous_ big baskets."
"Now," said Horace, "I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen.
You said you knew it by sight."
"Wintergreen? wintergreen?" echoed Peter; "O, yes, I know it well
enough. It spangles 'round. See, here's some; the girls make wreaths
of it."
It was _moneywort_; but Horace never doubted that Peter was telling the
truth, and supposed his grandmother would be delighted to see such
quantities of wintergreen.
After some time spent in gathering this, Horace happened to remember
that he wanted sarsaparilla.
"I reckon," thought he, "they'll be glad I came, if I carry home so many
things."
Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for there was not a root of any
sort which did not grow "in the pines;" of that he was sure. So they
struck still deeper into the woods, every step taking them farther from
home. Pincher followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never
dreaming that serious trouble was coming.
The boys dug up various roots with their jackknives; but they both knew
the taste of sarsaparilla and could not be deceived.
"We hain't come to it yet," said Peter; "but it's round here somewheres,
I'll bet a dollar."
"I'm getting hungry," said Horace: "isn't it about time for the
dinner-bell to ring?"
"Pretty near," replied Peter, squinting his eyes and looking at the sky
as if there was a noon-mark up there, and he was the boy to find it.
"That bell will ring in fifteen minutes: you see if it don't."
But it did not, though it was high noon, certainly. Hours passed.
Horace remembered they were to have had salt cod-fish and cream gravy
for dinner. Aunt Madge had said so; also a roly-poly with foaming
sauce. It must now be long ago since the sugar and butter were beaten
together for that sauce. He wondered if there would be any pudding
left. He was sure he should like it cold, and a glass of water with ice
in it.
O, how many times he could have gone to the barrel which stood by the
sink, and drunk such deep draughts of water, when he didn't care
anything about it! But now he was so thirsty, and there was not so much
as a teaspoonful of water to be found!
"I motion we go home," said Horace, for at least the tenth time.
"Well," replied Peter, sulkily, "ain't we striking a bee-line?"
"We've got turned round," said Horace: "Canada is over yonder, _I_
know."
"Pshaw! no, it ain't, no such a thing."
But they were really going the wrong way. The village bell had rung at
noon, as usual, but they were too far off to hear it. It was weary work
winding in and out, in and out, among the trees and stumps. With torn
clothes, bleeding hands, and tired feet, the poor boys pushed on.
"Of course we're right," said Peter, in a would-be brave tone: "don't
you remember that stump?"
"No, I don't, Peter Grant," replied Horace, who was losing his patience:
"I never was here before. Humph! I thought you could find your way
with your eyes shut."
"Turn and go t'other way, then," said Peter, adding a wicked word I
cannot repeat.
"I will," replied Horace, coolly: "if I'd known you used such swearing
words I never'd have come!"
"Hollo, there!" shouted Peter, a few moments after, "I'll keep with you,
and risk it, cap'n."
"Come on, then," returned Horace, who was glad of Peter's company just
now, little as he liked him. "Where's our baskets?" said he, stopping
short.
"Sure enough," cried Peter; "but we can't go back now."
They had not gone far when they were startled by a cry from Pincher, a
sharp cry of pain. He stood stock still, his brown eyes almost starting
from their sockets with agony and fear. It proved that he had stumbled
upon a fox-trap which was concealed under some dry twigs, and his right
fore-paw was caught fast.
Here was a dilemma. The boys tried with all their might to set poor
Pincher free; but it seemed as if they only made matters worse.
"What an old nuisance of a dog!" cried Peter; "just as we'd got to goin'
on the right road."
"Be still, Peter Grant! Hush your mouth! If you say a word against my
dog you'll catch it. Poor little Pincher!" said Horace, patting him
gently and laying his cheek down close to his face.
The suffering creature licked his hands, and said with his eloquent
eyes,----
"Dear little master, don't take it to heart! You didn't know I'd get
hurt! You've always been good to poor Pincher."
"I'd rather have given a dollar," said Horace; "O, Pincher! I wish
'twas my foot; I tell you I do!"
They tried again, but the trap held the dog's paw like a vice.
"I'll tell you what," said Peter; "we'll leave the dog here, and go home
and get somebody to come."
"You just behave, Peter Grant;" said Horace, looking very angry. "I
shouldn't want to be _your_ dog! Just you hold his foot still, and I'll
try again."
This time Horace examined the trap on all sides, and, being what is
called an ingenious boy, did actually succeed at last in getting little
Pincher's foot out.
"Whew! I didn't think you could," said Peter, admiringly.
"_You_ couldn't, Peter; you haven't sense enough."
The foot was terribly mangled, and Pincher had to be carried home in
arms.
"I should like to know, Peter, who set that trap. If my father was
here, he'd have him in the lock-up."
"Poh! it wasn't set for dogs," replied Peter in an equally cross tone,
for both the boys were tired, hungry and out of sorts. "Don't you know
nothin'? That's a bear-trap!"
"A bear-trap! Do you have bears up here?"
"O, yes, dear me, suz! Hain't you seen none since you've been in the
State of Maine? I've ate 'em lots of times."
Peter had once eaten a piece of bear-steak, or it might have been
moose-meat, he was not sure which; but at any rate it had been brought
down from Moosehead Lake.
"Bears 'round here?" thought Horace, in a fright.
He quickened his pace. O, if he could only be sure it was the right
road! Perhaps they were walking straight into a den of bears. He
hugged little Pincher close in his arms, soothing him with pet names,
for the poor dog continued to moan.
"O, dear, dear!" cried Peter, "don't you feel awfully?"
"I don't stop to think of my feelings," replied Horace, shortly.
"Well, I wish we hadn't come--I do."
"So do I, Peter. I won't play 'hookey' again; but I'm not a-goin' to
cry."
"I'll never go anywheres with you any more as long as I live, Horace
Clifford!"
"Nobody wants you to, Pete Grant!"
Then they pushed on in dignified silence, till Peter broke forth again
with wailing sobs.
"I dread to get home! O, dear, I'll have to take it, I tell you. I
guess you'd cry if you expected to be whipped."
Horace made no reply. He did not care about telling Peter that he too
had a terrible dread of reaching home, for there was something a great
deal worse than a whipping, and that was a mother's sorrowful face.
"I shouldn't care if she'd whip me right hard," thought Horace; "but
she'll talk to me about God and the Bible and O, she'll look so white!"
"Peter, you go on ahead," said he aloud.
"What for?"
"O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher."
It was some moments before Peter would go, and then he went grumbling.
As soon as he was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his knees and
prayed in low tones,--
"O, God, I do want to be a good boy; and if I ever get out of this woods
I'll begin! Keep the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find the
way out, and forgive me. Amen."
Horace had never uttered a more sincere prayer in his life. Like many
older people, he waited till he was in sore need before he called upon
God; but when he had once opened his heart to Him, it was wonderful how
much lighter it felt.
He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to Pincher, "Poor fellow,
poor fellow, don't cry: we'll soon be home."
"Hollo there, cap'n!" shouted Peter, "we're comin' to a clearin'."
"Just as I expected," thought Horace: "why didn't I pray to God before?"
*CHAPTER VIII*
*CAPTAIN CLIFFORD*
When Horace entered the yard, holding the poor dog in his arms, he felt
wretched indeed. At that moment all the sulkiness and self-will were
crushed out of his little heart. It seemed to him that never, never had
there lived upon the earth another boy so wicked as himself.
He forgot the excuses he had been making up about going into the woods
because his grandmother wanted him to: he scorned to add falsehood to
disobedience, and was more than willing to take his full share of blame.
"If ma would whip me like everything," thought the boy, "I know I'd feel
better."
It was a long, winding path from the gate. The grounds looked very
beautiful in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The pink
clover-patch nodded with a thousand heads, and sprinkled the air with
sweetness.
Everything was very quiet: no one was on the piazza, no one at the
windows. The blinds were all shut, and you could fancy that the house
had closed its many eyes and dropped asleep. There was an awe about such
perfect silence. "Where could Grace be, and those two dancing girls,
Susie and Prudy?"
He stole along to the back door, and lifted the latch. His grandmother
stopped with a bowl of gruel in her hand, and said, "O Horace!" That
was all; but she could say no more for tears. She set down the bowl, and
went up to him, trying to speak; but the words trembled on her lips
unspoken.
"O, grandma!" said Horace, setting little Pincher down on a chair, and
clutching the skirt of her dress, "I've been right bad: I'm sorry--I
tell you I am."
His grandmother had never heard him speak in such humble tones before.
"O, Horace!" she sobbed again, this time clasping him close to her
heart, and kissing him with a yearning fondness she had hardly ever
shown since he was a little toddling baby. "My darling, darling boy!"
Horace thought by her manner they must all have been sadly frightened
about him.
"I got lost in the woods, grandma; but it didn't hurt me any, only
Pincher got his foot caught."
"Lost in the woods?" repeated she. "Grace thought you went home to
dinner with Willy Snow."
So it seemed they had not worried about him at all: then what was
grandma crying about?
"Don't go upstairs, dear," said she, as he brushed past her and laid his
hand on the latch of the chamber door.
"But I want to see ma."
"Wait a little," said Mrs. Parlin, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Why, what _is_ the matter, grandma; and where's Grace, and Susie, and
Prudy?"
"Grace is with your mother, and the other children are at Aunt Martha's.
But if you've been in the woods all day, Horace, you must be very
hungry."
"You've forgot Pincher, grandma."
The boy would not taste food till the dog's foot had been bandaged,
though all the while his grandmother was doing up the wound, it seemed
to Horace that she must be thinking of something else, or she would pity
Pincher a great deal more.
The cold dinner which she set out on the table was very tempting, and he
ate heartily; but after every mouthful he kept asking, "What could be
the matter? Was baby worse? Had anybody took sick?"
But his grandmother stood by the stove stirring gruel, and would answer
him nothing but, "I'll let you know very soon."
She wanted the little boy to be rested and refreshed by food before she
told him a very painful thing. Then she took him upstairs with her into
her own chamber, which was quite shady with grape-vines, and so still
that you could only hear the buzzing of two or three flies.
She had brought a hot bowl of gruel on a little waiter. She placed the
waiter on the top of her wash-stand, and seated herself on the bed,
drawing Horace down beside her.
"My dear little grandson," said she, stroking his bright hair, "God has
been very good to you always, always. He loves you better than you can
even think."
"Yes, grandma," answered Horace, bewildered.
"He is your dear father in heaven," she added, slowly. "He wants you to
love him with all your heart, for now--you have no other father!"
Horace sprang up from the bed, his eyes wild with fear and surprise, yet
having no idea what she meant.
"Why, my father's captain in the army! He's down South!"
"But have you never thought, dear, that he might be shot?"
"No, I never," cried Horace, running to the window and back again in
great excitement. "Mr. Evans said they'd put him in colonel. He was
coming home in six months. He couldn't be shot."
"My dear little boy!"
"But O, grandma, is he killed? Say quick!"
His grandmother took out of her pocket a Boston Journal, and having put
on her spectacles, pointed with a trembling finger to the list of
"killed." One of the first names was "Captain Henry S. Clifford."
"O, Horace!" said Grace, opening the door softly, "I just thought I
heard you. Ma wants you to come to her."
Without speaking, Horace gave his hand to his sister, and went with her
while their grandmother followed, carrying the bowl of gruel.
At the door of Mrs. Clifford's room they met Aunt Louise coming out.
The sight of Horace and Grace walking tearfully, hand in hand, was very
touching to her.
"You dear little fatherless children," she whispered, throwing her arms
around them both, and dropping tears and kisses on their faces.
"O, I can't, I can't bear it," cried Grace; "my own dear papa, that I
love best of anyone in the world!"
Horace ran to his mother, and throwing himself on the bed beside her,
buried his face in the pillows.
"O, ma! I reckon 'tisn't true. It's another Captain Clifford."
His mother lay so very white and still that Horace drew away when he had
touched her; there was something awful in the coldness of her face. Her
beautiful brown eyes shone bright and tearless; but there were dark
hollows under them, deep enough to hold many tears, if the time should
ever come when she might shed them.
"O, little Horace," whispered she, "mother's little Horace!"
"Darling mamma!" responded the boy, kissing her pale lips and smoothing
the hair away from her cheeks with his small fingers, which meant to
move gently, but did not know how. And then the young childish heart,
with its little load of grief, was pressed close to the larger one,
whose deep, deep sorrow only God could heal.
They are wrong who say that little children cannot receive lasting
impressions. There are some hours of joy or agony which they never
forget. This was such an hour for Horace. He could almost feel again on
his forehead the warm good-by kiss of his father; he could almost hear
again the words:--
"Always obey your mother, my son, and remember that God sees all you
do."
Ah, he had not obeyed, he had not remembered!
And that dear father would never kiss him, never speak to him again! He
had not thought before what a long word _Never_ was.
O, it was dreadful to shut his eyes and fancy him lying so cold and
still on that bloody battlefield! Would all this awful thing be true
to-morrow morning, when he waked up?
"O, mamma," sobbed the desolate child, "I and Grace will take care of
you! Just forgive me, ma, and I'll be the best kind of a boy. I will,
I will!"
Grandma had already led Grace away into the green chamber, where Aunt
Madge sat with the baby. The poor little girl would not be comforted.
"O, grandma," she cried, "if we could know who it was that shot pa, our
mayor would hang him! I do wish I could die, grandma. I don't want to
keep living and living in this great world without my father!"
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE BLUE BOOK*
Days passed, but there was the same hush upon the house. Everybody
moved about softly, and spoke in low tones. Horace was not told that he
must go to school, but he knew Aunt Louise thought his shoes made a
great deal of noise, and just now he wanted to please even her. More
than that, it was very pleasant to see the boys; and while he was
playing games he forgot his sorrow, and forgot his mother's sad face.
There was one thing, however, which he could not do; he had not the
heart to be captain and drill his company, just now.
"Horace," said Grace, as they were sitting on the piazza steps one
morning, "I heard ma tell grandma yesterday, you'd been a better boy
this week than you had been before since--since--pa went away."
"Did she?" cried Horace, eagerly; "where was she when she said it? What
did grandma say? Did Aunt Madge hear her?"
"Yes, Aunt Madge heard her, and she said she always knew Horace would be
a good boy if he would only think."
"Well, I _do_ think," replied Horace, looking very much pleased; "I
think about all the time."
"But then, Horace, you know how you've acted some days!"
"Well, I don't care. Aunt Madge says 'tisn't so easy for boys to be
good."
Grace opened her round blue eyes in wonder.
"Why, Horace, I have to make my own bed, and sweep and dust my room, and
take care of my drawers. Only think of that; and Prudy always 'round
into things, you know! Then I have to sew, O, so much! I reckon you
wouldn't find it very easy being a girl."
"Poh! don't I have to feed the chickens, and bring in the eggs, and go
for the cows? And when we lived home--"
Here Horace broke down; he could not think of home without remembering
his father.
Grace burst into tears. The word "home" had called up a beautiful
picture of her father and mother sitting on the sofa in the library,
Horace and Pincher lying on the floor, the door open from the balcony,
and the moon filling the room with a soft light; her father had a smile
on his face, and was holding her hand.
Ah! Grace, and Horace, and their mother would see many such pictures of
memory.
"Well, sister," said Horace, speaking quite slowly, and looking down at
the grass, "what do I do that's bad?"
"Why, Horace, I shouldn't think you'd ask! Blowing gunpowder, and
running off into the woods, and 'most killing Pincher, and going
trouting down to the 'crick' with your best clothes on, and disobeying
your ma, and--"
"Sayin' bad words," added Horace, "but I stopped that this morning."
"What do you mean, Horace?"
"O, I said over all the bad things I could think of; not the swearin'
words, you know, but 'shucks,' and 'gallus,' and 'bully,' and 'by
hokey,' and 'by George;' and it's the last time."
"O, I'm so glad, Horace!" cried Grace, clapping her hands and laughing;
"and you won't blow any more powder?"
Horace shook his head.
"Nor run off again? Why, you'll be like Ally Glover, and you know I'm
trying to be like little Eva."
"I don't want to be like Ally Glover," replied Horace, making a wry
face; "he's lame, and besides, he's too dreadful good."
"Why, Horace," said his sister solemnly; "anybody can't be too good;
'tisn't possible."
"Well, then, he's just like a girl--that's what! I'm not going to be
'characteristic' any more, but I don't want to be like a girl neither.
Look here, Grace, it's school time. Now don't you 'let on' to ma, or
anybody, that I'm going to be better."
Grace promised, but she wondered why Horace should not wish his mother
to know he was trying to be good, when it would make her so happy.
"He's afraid he'll give it up," thought she; "but I won't let him."
She sat on the piazza steps a long while after he had gone. At last a
bright idea flashed across her mind, and of course she dropped her work
and clapped her hands, though she was quite alone.
"I'll make a merit-book like Miss All'n's, and put down black marks for
him when he's naughty."
When Horace came home that night, he was charmed with the plan, for he
was really in earnest. His kind sister made the book very neatly, and
sewed it into a cover of glossy blue paper. She thought they would try
it four weeks; so she had put in twenty-eight pages, each page standing
for one day.
"Now," said she, "when you say one bad word I'll put down 'one B.W.' for
short; but when you say two bad words, 'twill be 'two B.W.,' you know.
When you blow gunpowder, that'll be 'B.G.'--no, 'B.G.P.,' for gunpowder
is two words."
"And when I run off, 'twill be 'R.O.'"
"Or 'R.A.,'" said Grace, "for 'ran away.'
"And 'T.' for 'troutin','" said Horace, who was getting very much
interested; "and--and--'P.A.L.' for 'plaguing Aunt Louise,' and 'C.' for
'characteristic,' and 'L.T.' for 'losing things.'"
"O, dear, dear, Horace, the book won't begin to hold it! We mustn't put
down those little things."
"But, Grace, you know I shan't do 'em any more."
Grace shook her head and sighed. "We won't put down all those little
things," repeated she; "we'll have 'D.' for 'disobedience,' and 'B.W.,'
and--O! one thing I forgot--'F.' for 'falsehood.'"
"Well, you won't get any F's out of me, by hokey," said Horace, snapping
his fingers.
"Why, there it is, 'one B.W.' so quick!" cried Grace, holding up both
hands and laughing.
Horace opened his mouth in surprise, and then clapped his hands over it
in dismay. It was not a very fortunate beginning.
"Look here, Grace," said he, making a wry face; "I move that we call
that no 'count, and commence new to-morrow!"
So Grace waited till next day before she dated the merit book.
All this while Pincher's foot was growing no better. Aunt Louise said
you could almost see the poor dog 'dwindle, peak, and pine.'
"But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't a sickness."
"I reckon," returned Horace sadly, "it isn't a _wellness_, neither."
"Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested Aunt Madge. "If anyone can
help the poor creature, it is she."
Mrs. Duffy was the village washerwoman, and a capital nurse. It was an
anxious moment for little Horace when she unwrapped the crushed paw,
Pincher moaning all the while in a way that went to the heart.
"Wull," said Mrs. Duffy, who spoke with a brogue, "it's a bad-looking
fut; but I've some intment here that'll do no harrum, and it may hulp
the poor craycher."
She put the salve on some clean linen cloths, and bound up the wound,
bidding them all be very careful that the dog "didn't stir his fut."
"O, but he don't want to stir!" said Horace. "He just lies down by the
stove all day."
Mrs. Duffy shook her head, and said, "He was a pooty craycher; 'twas
more the pities that he ever went off in the wuds."
Horace hung his head. O, if he could have blotted out that day of
disobedience!
"Wasn't it a real rebel, _heathen_ man," cried Prudy, "to put the trap
where Pincher sticked his foot in it?"
Pincher grew worse and worse. He refused his food, and lay in a basket
with a cushion in it, by the kitchen stove, where he might have been a
little in the way, though not even Aunt Louise ever said so.
If Grace, or Susie, or Prudy went up to him, he made no sign. It was
only when he saw his little master that he would wag his tail for joy;
but even that effort seemed to tire him, and he liked better to lick
Horace's hand, and look up at his face with eyes brimful of love and
agony.
Horace would sit by the half hour coaxing him to eat a bit of broiled
steak or the wing of a chicken; but though the poor dog would gladly
have pleased his young master, he could hardly force himself to swallow
a mouthful.
These were sad days. Grace put down now and then a "B.W." in the blue
book; but as for disobedience, Horace had just now no temptation to
that. He could hardly think of anything but his dog.
Pincher was about his age. He could not remember the time when he first
knew him. "O, what jolly times they had had together! How often
Pincher had trotted along to school, carrying the satchel with the
schoolbooks in his teeth. Why, the boys all loved him, just loved him
so."
"No, sir," said Horace, talking to himself, and laying the dog's head
gently on his knee: "there wasn't one of them but just wished they had
him. But, poh! I wouldn't have sold him for all the cannons and
firecrackers in the United States. No, not for a real drum, either;
would I, Pincher?"
Horace really believed the dog understood him, and many were the secrets
he had poured into his faithful ears. Pincher would listen, and wink,
and wag his tail, but was sure to keep everything to himself.
"I tell you what it is, Pincher," Horace burst forth, "I'm not going to
have you die! My own pa gave you to me, and you're the best dog that
ever lived in this world. O, I didn't mean to catch your foot in that
trap! Eat the chicken, there's a good fellow, and we'll cure you all
up."
But Pincher couldn't eat the chicken, and couldn't be cured. His eyes
grew larger and sadder, but there was the same patient look in them
always. He fixed them on Horace to the last, with a dying gaze which
made the boy's heart swell with bitter sorrow.
"He wanted to speak, he wanted to ask me a question," said Horace, with
sobs he did not try to control.
O, it was sad to close those beautiful eyes forever, those beseeching
eyes, which could almost speak.
Mrs. Clifford came and knelt on the stone hearth beside the basket, and
wept freely for the first time since her husband's death.
"Dear little Pincher," said she, "you have died a cruel death; but your
dear little master closed your eyes. It was very hard, poor doggie, but
not so hard as the battlefield. You shall have a quiet grave, good
Pincher; but where have they buried our brave soldier?"
*CHAPTER X*
*TRYING TO GET RICH*
With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper, who did little but hold
the nails and look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while Abner dug
his grave under a tree in the grove.
It was evening when they all followed Pincher to his last resting-place.
"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help crying."
"I don't want to help it," said Grace: "we ought to cry."
"What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susie, "he won't go to
heaven."
"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice. "Wouldn't he
if he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?"
The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed as if
everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever thought
before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious a thing it
is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased with himself;
but alas, poor Pincher!
The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of little
sparkles. The soft sky and the twinkling water seemed to be smiling at
each other, while a great way off you could see the dim blue mountains
rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor Pincher.
It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new leaf.
He was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open
when puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the kitchen door
with a bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still kept his chamber
in a state of confusion,--"muss," Grace called it,--pulling the drawers
out of the bureau, and scattering the contents over the floor; dropping
his clothes anywhere it happened, and carrying quantities of gravel
upstairs in his shoes.
Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even she could not help seeing
that on the whole he was improving. He "cared" more and "forgot" less.
He could always learn easily, and now he really tried to learn. His
lessons, instead of going through his head "threading my grandmother's
needle," went in and stayed there. The blue book got a few marks, it is
true, but not so many as at first.
You may be sure there was not a good thing said or done by Horace which
did not give pleasure to his mother. She felt now as if she lived only
for her children; if God would bless her by making them good, she had
nothing more to desire. Grace had always been a womanly, thoughtful
little girl, but at this time she was a greater comfort than ever; and
Horace had grown so tender and affectionate that it gratified her very
much. He was not content now with "canary kisses;" but threw his arms
around her neck very often, saying, with his lips close to her cheek,--:
"Don't feel bad, ma; I'm going to take care of you."
For his mother's grief called forth his manliness.
She meant to be cheerful; but Horace knew she did not look or seem like
herself: he thought he ought to try to make her happy.
Whenever he asked for money, as he too often did, she told him that now
his father was gone, there was no one to earn anything, and it was best
to be rather prudent. He wanted a drum; but she thought he must wait a
while for that.
They were far from being poor, and Mrs. Clifford had no idea of
deceiving her little son. Yet he _was_ deceived, for he supposed that
his mother's pretty little porte-monnaie held all the bank-bills and all
the silver she had in the world.
"O, Grace!" said Horace, coming downstairs with a very grave face, "I
wish I was grown a man: then I'd earn money like sixty."
Grace stopped her singing long enough to ask what he meant to do, and
then continued in a high key,--
"Where, O where are the Hebrew children?"
"O, I'm going as a soldier," replied Horace: "I thought everybody knew
that! The colonels make a heap of money!"
"But, Horace, you might get shot--just think!"
"Then I'd dodge when they fired, for I don't know what you and ma would
do if _I_ was killed."
"Well, please step out of the way, Horace; don't you see I'm sweeping
the piazza?"
"I can't tell," pursued he, taking a seat on one of the stairs in the
hall: "I can't tell certain sure; but I may be a minister."
This was such a funny idea that Grace made a dash with her broom, and
sent the dirt flying the wrong way.
"Why, Horace, you'll never be good enough for a minister!"
"What'll you bet?" replied he, looking a little mortified.
"You're getting to be a dear, good little boy, Horace," said Grace,
soothingly; "but I don't _think_ you'll ever be a minister."
"Perhaps I'd as soon be a shoemaker," continued Horace, thoughtfully;
"they get a great deal for tappin' boots."
His sister made no reply.
"See here, now, Grace: perhaps you'd rather I'd be a tin-peddler; then
I'd always keep a horse, and you could ride."
"Ride in a cart!" cried Grace, laughing. "Can't you think of anything
else? Have you forgotten papa?"
"O, now I know," exclaimed Horace, with shining eyes: "it's a lawyer
I'll be, just like father was. I'll have a 'sleepy partner,' the way
Judge Ingle has, and by and by I'll be a judge."
"I know that would please ma, Horace," replied Grace, looking at her
little brother with a good deal of pride.
Who knew but he _might_ yet be a judge? She liked to order him about,
and have him yield to her: still she had great faith in Horace.
"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war and turn out a general; now
you see if I don't."
"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.
"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma needs the money now. I
wish I could earn something right off while I'm a little boy."
It was not two days before he thought he had found out how to get rich;
in what way you shall see.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE LITTLE INDIAN*
Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd
"better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."
"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a black
man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."
Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian
woman, who had no idea of harming anyone.
"What are Nindians?" asked the child.
Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had
once been filled by them; but the English came, a great many years ago,
and shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off
a tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive.
Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were
quiet and peaceable people.
Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up the
river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat
a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in
the act of firing.
Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as
Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across
the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little
stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes were
keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes
of an intelligent dog.
"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.
"Me no understand."
"I asked what your _name_ is," continued Horace, who was sure the boy
understood, in spite of his blank looks.
"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."
"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"
No answer, but a shake of the head.
"I reckon they call you _John_, don't they?"
Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.
"His name no _John_! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo!
short name, speak um quick!--Jaw-awn. Great long name!" drawled she,
stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with
an air of disgust.
"What does she mean by calling 'John' _long_?" thought Horace.
The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown,
stockingless feet and gay moccasins.
Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into her
eyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.
While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to the
door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but
when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showing
a row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather handsome, for she was
very straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads. Her
hair he considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided
and tied with gay ribbons. She was dressed in a bright, large-figured
calico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest,
queerest ear-rings. Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles,
and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat
in the bathing-tub. If they only "scooped" a little more they would
answer for teaspoons. "Plenty big as I should want for teaspoons," he
decided, after another gaze at them.
The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not
at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.
"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me make
you basket, pretty basket for put apples in."
"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that they
pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knew
very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with
him to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper,
who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.
"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin's
grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver
poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.
"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."
"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"
"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."
"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had asked
advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great haste
to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I
ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."
In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut the
trees, or allow anyone else to cut them, without leave. To his great
delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few
branches where they would not show much.
When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum
did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.
"Me no hurt trees," said he gravely; and he did not: he only cut off a
few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.
"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.
"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration; "how many
boughs has he got? One, two, three."
"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery,
peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick."
"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count.
"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick,
peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin,
peddery-bumpin, jiggets."
"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;" and he
rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.
Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sort
of boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The young Indian
assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house good as white folks;
he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat."
"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.
Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me has fires in
wigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;--keep off them
things," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; "keep smoke out
tent," pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.
Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion that he resolved to
treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the hoys, he
ran into the house to ask his grandmother.
"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"
"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."
Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had
adopted a new friend.
"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have
you play much with a strange boy."
"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indians
and negroes as good as white folks? 'Specially _tame_ Indians," said
Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoeknife in hand, to cut
the watermelon.
This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum.
For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life
of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often
went in to see them make baskets.
"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If
you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or
steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very
young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."
The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over
another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the
family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was
hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various
directions, like a clothesline.
It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the
white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work!
It brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for
him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace
was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.
For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and
really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor
Wampum after a lesson in "baker."
He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one--red, white, and
blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green,
the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the
Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it,
surely.
"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I
never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."
"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that!
I forgot all about it."
What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money,
since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking
with little boys.
"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern
you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."
"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I
couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one--see
if I don't!"
Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would
ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy
tried to make was a horse-basket.
"Me tell you somethin'," said little Wampum, next morning, as he and
Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want
um,--um,--um,"--putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which
signified that he meant something to eat.
"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."
"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No
tell what you call um. E'enamost water, no _quite_ water; e'enamost
punkin, no _quite_ punkin."
"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd remember
that as easy as pumpkin."
"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood,
"me like um."
"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."
"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters,
me give you moc-suns."
"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."
Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.
"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no want _een_--me want
bimp--bumpin--jiggets."
Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins
very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors
of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he
wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!
But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which
his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.
"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me _not_ to give
the watermelons."
"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; _that_ stands for
stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father,
_steal_! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said,
'Remember God sees all you do'!"
"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk!
Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me
a bushel of 'em."
After this Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering
that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half civilized
child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very
bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have
dropped his society all the same; because after Wampum proved to be a
thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play
with him any longer.
Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace
did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered
what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but,
at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him
the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians.
"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered
he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."
"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a
little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow.
Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine
little shaver."
To say that Horace was very happy would not half express the delight he
felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest
own," beyond the right of dispute.
The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing
surprising that, the very next morning after they left, Grandpa Parlin
should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing
left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.
*CHAPTER XII*
*A PLEASANT SURPRISE*
"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make
baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"
"Pick berries," suggested Grace.
And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susie and Aunt
Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing
Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day
than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was
beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good
time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to
be happy when you are doing right.
They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached
home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of
berries.
When Horace timidly told Aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all
they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if
they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she
supposed it was for the soldiers.
"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did
not wish his Aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills
in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."
"Ah," said Aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret
drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it.
She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for
your mother wouldn't deceive you."
"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned
half a somersault, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum
would cost.
The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs.
Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were
the letters "D.," "B.W.," "B.G.P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one
above another. But there were no figures before the letters but the
"B.W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller, as you
could see by looking carefully.
"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad
words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the
fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."
"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you
never talk anything worse than lingo."
"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."
"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and
slammed doors, and lots of things; but you know I didn't set that down."
I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothers
as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I might
have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she loved
Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so,
and was always glad to have him do right.
Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissed
Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of their
lives.
One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the
mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of
men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening
to the news, which someone was reading in a loud, clear voice.
Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a
newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace
rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large
tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses
hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.
He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle,
thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war news.
But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to have
the daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will.
"I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody's
more'n a minute going to the office and back."
"Is this all?" said Aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, one
to Aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather.
"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, to
be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters, but as he could not
find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and said
nothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, and
soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strange dream
of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post; and of
the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into a pair of
shining gold muskets.
A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford sat
mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks,
jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattled
when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in her
finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, worn
letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin."
"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carried
the letter all summer."
But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washington
about two weeks before--"a soldier's letter." She carried it down to
Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.
"Let me see," said Aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder,
and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do
you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"
Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the
letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with
trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers
trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to
reel about.
There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She sat
reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and
the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her hands
together, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.
When she was sure her sister Maria had gone upstairs, she ran out to the
kitchen, whispering,--
"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.
"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.
Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.
"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really
dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."
"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said Aunt Louise: "do
speak quick."
"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed
truth! Now hush! We must be careful how we tell Maria!"
Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for breath.
Louise dropped into a chair.
"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at once.
"He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone. He
lay for weeks just breathing, and that was all."
"But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course Maria
would have gone to him at once."
"There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself there was no
hope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and after that
operation he was very low again."
"O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can see for
ourselves?"
But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to collect
her ideas, Aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and then the
three looked over the surgeon's letter together, sometimes all talking
at once.
Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the letter
said. A young man was to come with him to take care of him, and they
were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a fortnight.
"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.
This letter had been written to prepare the family for Captain
Clifford's arrival. It was expected that Aunt Madge would break the
news to his wife.
"It's a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you the letter
in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days to get used
to it."
"Wait a minute, dear," said Aunt Madge, as Susie came in for a drink of
water: "please run up and ask Aunt Maria to come downstairs. Now,
mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the story, if you please."
"We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting her
checked apron nervously.
When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that something
had happened. Her mother with a flushed face was opening and shutting
the stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-plate, with tears in her
eyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggs
into it. Nobody wanted to speak first.
"What do you say to hearing a story?" faltered Louise.
"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford by both
hands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make you
happy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good news for you?"
"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.
"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the floor: "yes,
indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's a
mistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-night."
All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford was
shocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with
fixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother and
Margaret had not caught her in their arms.
"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so quick!
Henry is _almost_ dead, Maria: he is _nearly_ dead, I mean! He's just
alive!"
"Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly.
"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't mean to
be so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should have sent me
out of the room."
This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong: she had a
funny way of blaming other people.
It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but Louise's
thoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all feared. Mrs.
Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two was wonderfully
calm, looking so perfectly happy that it was delightful just to gaze at
her face.
She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with her own
lips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaring
it was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep still, while
as for Horace, he was too happy to talk.
"Then Uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy. "Hasn't
he been to heaven at all?"
"No, of course not," said Susie: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be here
to-night?--Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot
it up 'twill be awful."
"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas Uncle Henry,
and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."
How the family found time to do so many things that day I do not know,
especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children under
everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things,
the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adorned
with autumn flowers and green garlands.
Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, and
every candlestick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a
sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was all
ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza and
part of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had been
unlatched for hours, and everybody waiting for the carriage to drive up.
The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like a
baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green
had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and Aunt Madge had gone
with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was
with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about him
carefully enough.
I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in those
brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful
happiness falls to anyone's lot in this world.
While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clinging
to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm,
embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take leave of them and
the whole family for the present, with many kind good-bys.