CHAPTER VIII.

WE GIVE A RECEPTION.

Everything pleasant comes to an end, even pleasant vacations, and when

the golden-rods were bowing to the asters, like gallant knights to their

ladyloves, and the red sumachs were hanging out the first flags of

autumn, we girls had to think of school once more.

The books which had been closed for almost three months beckoned us

again, and delightful as the Clover Leaf meetings had grown, we knew

that for the next nine months we should hold them only on Saturdays,

perhaps not always then.

"Girls," said Linda Curtis, "what shall we do for a wind-up to the

summer? Something which has never been done in Bloomdale. Something

which will be remembered when we are grown up and have forgotten our

girlish pranks?"

Linda's suggestion was approved unanimously, but nobody could propose

anything which everybody liked.

Finally Jeanie and Amy, who had been putting their heads together, and

whispering until the Chair had to call them to order, showed by their

smiling faces that they had a bright idea.

"Miss President," said Jeanie, "if I may, I should like to make a

motion."

"Miss Cartwright has the floor," said the President, gravely.

"I move that the Bloomdale Clover Leaf Club give a reception in the

Academy to all the Bloomdale neighbors and friends, _with a programme_,

and refreshments afterward."

"Is the motion seconded?" inquired the President.

"I second the motion," exclaimed Miss Amy Pierce, rapturously.

"It is moved and seconded that we give a reception at the Academy, with

a programme and refreshments. Are there any remarks?"

I should think there were. Why, they flew about like snow-flakes in a

hurricane.

"Why in the Academy?"

"Why not in somebody's parlor?"

"What sort of a programme?"

"Tableaux would be splendid!"

"Not tableaux! Charades?"

"Why not have a little play? That would be best, and we could all act."

"What sort of refreshments? A regular supper, or lemonade and cake, or

cake and ice-cream?"

At last it was resolved to carry out the reception idea, and to have a

little play in which Dot and Dimpsie could be brought in, also a very

magnificent Maltese cat belonging to Patty Curtis, and Miss Muffet's

parrot. The cat, arrayed in a lace ruff, with a red ribbon, would be an

imposing figure, and the parrot would look well as one of the

properties. Miss Muffet herself, in some character, probably as a Yankee

school-mistress, must be persuaded to appear.

Well, you may imagine what a flutter we were in! We trimmed the old

Academy with ferns and running pine and great wreaths of golden-rod,

while feathery clematis was looped and festooned over the windows and

around the portraits of former teachers, which adorned the walls.

Our play was written for us by Mr. Robert Pierce, Amy's brother, who

goes to Harvard, and he brought in both our pets, and the cat and

parrot, and had in ever so many hits which Bloomdale folks could enjoy,

knowing all about them.

The only thing which interfered with my pleasure was that mother was not

here, and I had expected her home. I nearly cried into the lemonade, and

almost blistered the icing of the pound-cake with tears; but seeing

grandmamma gaze at me with a whole exclamation point in her eyes, I gave

myself a mental shake, and said, not aloud, but in my mind: "Don't be a

baby, Milly Van Doren! A big girl like you! Be good! There, now!"

But I was not the most unhappy girl when, just after my part in the

play was over, I heard a little movement in the audience, and saw a

stirring as of surprise at the other end of the room.

Who was that? A sweet face in a Quaker bonnet, a white kerchief folded

primly over a gown of dove-colored satin, a pure plain dress, looking

very distinguished, for all its simplicity, among the gay toilet of the

"world's people."

Surely, no--yes, it was, it could be no one but mother!

I threaded my way through the crowded aisles, gentlemen and ladies

opening a path for me, and before everybody I was clasped in her dear

arms. And there was father smiling down at me, and saying, as mother

told me, to be composed, for I was half crying, half laughing: "Of

course she'll be composed. I have always said thee could trust our

little lass."

I squeezed myself into a seat between the two darlings, forgetful that I

was the President of the Clover Leaf Club; and there I sat till the play

was over, when something happened that was not on the programme.

A tall shabby form advanced to the front of the room, and mounted the

stage.

It was Jack Roper! We held our breath. What did this mean?

"I want, fellow-townsmen and ladies," said Jack, with the utmost

coolness, "to return thanks to the Clover Leaf young ladies for the good

example they've been a settin' our wives and darters. Them girls is

trumps!"

Down sat Jack in a storm of applause. This speech, if not elegant, was

at least sincere.

He was followed by a very different personage. No less a man than Judge

Curtis arose and gave us a little address, after which Amy Pierce and

Lois Partridge played a duet on the piano.

Then the refreshments were distributed. There was a merry time talking

and laughing over the feast, and we all went home. Miss Muffet looked

radiant, she had so many compliments, and Aunt Hetty, who appeared in

her stiffest calico, was not backward in accepting some for herself.

Though what she had done, except try my patience, it was puzzling to us

to tell.

My precious mother had the very prettiest surprise of all for us when

her trunks were opened. It is her way to make people happy, and she goes

through the world like an angel.

For every girl in the club she had brought home a silver pin in the

shape of a four-leaved clover. "Whether you keep up the club or not,"

she said, "it will be a pretty souvenir of a very happy summer."

I don't know whether I have made mother's way plain to all my readers,

but I hope they see it is a way of taking pains, of being kind, of being

honest and diligent, and never doing with one hand what ought to be done

with both. If I learn to keep house in mother's way I shall be perfectly

satisfied.

Father says: "Thee certainly may, dear child! For my part, I trust my

little lass."

The Lighthouse Lamp.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

The winds came howling down from the north,

Like a hungry wolf for prey,

And the bitter sleet went hurtling forth,

In the pallid face of the day.

And the snowflakes drifted near and far,

Till the land was whitely fleeced,

And the light-house lamp, a golden star,

Flamed over the waves' white yeast.

In the room at the foot of the light-house

Lay mother and babe asleep,

And little maid Gretchen was by them there,

A resolute watch to keep.

There were only the three on the light-house isle,

But father had trimmed the lamp,

And set it burning a weary while

In the morning's dusk and damp.

"Long before night I'll be back," he said,

And his white sail slipped away;

Away and away to the mainland sped,

But it came not home that day.

The mother stirred on her pillow's space,

And moaned in pain and fear,

Then looked in her little daughter's face

Through the blur of a starting tear.

"Darling," she whispered, "it's piercing cold,

And the tempest is rough and wild;

And you are no laddie strong and bold,

My poor little maiden child.

"But up aloft there's the lamp to feed,

Or its flame will die in the dark,

And the sailor lose in his utmost need

The light of our islet's ark."

"I'll go," said Gretchen, "a step at a time;

Why, mother, I'm twelve years old,

And steady, and never afraid to climb,

And I've learned to do as I'm told."

Then Gretchen up to the top of the tower,

Up the icy, smooth-worn stair,

Went slowly and surely that very hour,

The sleet in her eyes and hair.

She fed the lamp, and she trimmed it well,

And its clear light glowed afar,

To warn of reefs, and of rocks to tell,

This mariner's guiding star.

And once again when the world awoke

In the dawn of a bright new day,

There was joy in the hearts of the fisher folks

Along the stormy bay.

When the little boats came sailing in

All safe and sound to the land,

_To the haven the light had helped them win,

By the aid of a child's brave hand._

The Family Mail-bag.

BY MARY JOANNA PORTER.

The family mail-bag was made of black and white straw arranged in

checks. It was flat and nearly square, was lined with gray linen and

fastened at the top with narrow black ribbon. It had two long handles,

finely made of straw, and these handles Luella and Francis were

accustomed to grasp when, twice a day regularly, at half-past eight in

the morning and at half-past three in the afternoon, they went for the

family mail.

Their instructions were always to go back and forth to the post-office

without stopping, always to tie the bag securely after putting the mail

inside, and never to open it after it was thus fastened. They were to

take turns in carrying the bag, and upon returning to their home were

always to take it at once to the study of their father, Rev. Mr.

Robinson.

So important a personage as a public mail-carrier had never been seen in

the small village in which they lived. In his absence the two children

performed their service well. At least they always did excepting on one

unfortunate day, and that is the day of which our story is to tell.

The children went to the office as usual, and were quite delighted at

finding there a registered letter addressed to "Luella and Francis

Robinson." Luella felt very proud when the postmaster asked her, as the

elder, to sign the registered receipt.

"What's that for?" asked Francis.

"It's for proof that you've received the letter. You see that a

registered letter usually contains something valuable."

"I wonder what it can be? It's from Aunt Maria. See, her address is

written on the side of the envelope?"

"Yes," said the postmaster, who was a very good friend of the children.

"It's certainly from your aunt, and it probably contains something for

you both, but, you'd better put it in your bag now and tie it up,

according to your father's wish."

The children obediently acted upon this suggestion and started for home.

On their way they talked constantly of their letter, trying vainly to

guess what it might contain.

"It's something small, anyway," said Luella, "for it doesn't seem to

take any room."

"Maybe 'tisn't anything, after all," said Francis.

"Oh, yes, it is; for the letter is registered, you know."

So they went on talking and wondering until they had gone about half the

distance toward home. Then they reached a spreading apple tree which

grew by a fence near the sidewalk, and beneath which was a large stone,

often used as a resting-place for pedestrians.

"Let's sit down a while," said Francis. "I feel tired; don't you?"

"Yes, but father wouldn't like us to stop."

"Oh, yes, he would, if he knew how tired we are. I'm going to rest a

moment, anyway. That can't be any harm."

Luella allowed herself to follow her brother's example. So they took the

first step in disobedience.

Next Luella said: "I wonder if we couldn't just unfasten the bag and

look at that letter again. It's our letter, you know."

"Of course, it is. Give me the bag. I'll open it."

Then, without more ado, Francis deliberately opened the bag. Thus the

second step in wrong-doing was taken.

They examined the letter closely and leisurely, not one minute, but many

minutes, passing while they were thus engaged. Then Luella said: "I'm

going to read the letter. It's all the same whether we read it here or

at home."

It proved to be a very kind letter from Aunt Maria, who had lately made

them a visit. She concluded by saying: "While I was with you I took

pleasure in noticing your constant obedience. As a sort of reward, I

enclose for you each a five-dollar gold piece. Please accept the gift

with my love."

"Where are the gold pieces?" asked Francis, taking the envelope from

Luella, "Oh! here's one in the corner of this thing. I'll take this; but

where's the other?"

Where was the other? It was easier to ask the question than to reply.

The two children folded and unfolded the letter. They turned the

envelope inside out. They searched through their clothing. They

inspected the grass and the path. If it had been possible, they would

have lifted the stone upon which they had been sitting; but that would

have been an herculean task. At length they reluctantly gave up the

search and sadly went on their way homeward.

"I wish we hadn't opened the letter," said Luella. "What are we going to

tell mother and father anyhow?"

"Well, I think we'd better tell them the whole story. Perhaps they'll

help us look for the other gold piece."

Francis, with the one coin in his hand, naturally took a more hopeful

view of the situation than his sister did.

"Perhaps Aunt Maria only put one in the letter," he suggested.

"Oh, no; she's too careful for that. She never makes mistakes," said

Luella, positively. "I only wish we'd minded. That's all."

Francis echoed the wish in his heart, though he did not repeat it aloud.

Thus, a repentant couple, they entered the house and the study. Mother

was upstairs attending to baby, and father was evidently out. The

brother and sister awaited his return in silence, Luella meanwhile

grasping the letter, and Francis the single coin.

"What's that you have?" asked Mr. Robinson; "a letter? How did it get

out of the bag?"

"It's ours," answered Luella, trembling while she spoke. "We--we--we--"

then she burst into tears.

"Let me have it," commanded Mr. Robinson.

Luella obeyed, and went on weeping while her father read. Francis wanted

to cry, too, but he thought it was unmanly, and choked back the tears.

"I need ask you no more questions," said their father. "The truth is

that I was calling on old Mrs. Brown when you stopped under the apple

tree, and I saw the whole thing from her window. You don't know how

sorry I felt when I found that my boy and girl couldn't be trusted. I

saw that you had lost something, and after you had left I examined the

grass about the stone and found the other gold piece. But I shall have

to punish you by putting the money away for a whole month. At the end of

that time I will return it to you, if I find that you are obedient

meanwhile. I do not intend to be severe, but I think that ordinarily you

are good children, and I understand how strong the temptation was. Are

you not sorry that you yielded to it?"

"Yes, sir, we are," exclaimed both children, emphatically.

"And now, what am I going to do about the mail-bag? Can I let you have

it after this?"

"Yes, father, you can," they both replied once more; and after that they

were always worthy of their trust.

When Aunt Maria made her next visit they told her the story of their

misdoing. Her only comment was: "You see, children, that it is necessary

always to pray, 'Deliver us from evil,' for even when we want to do

right, without help from above, we shall fail."

A Day's Fishing.

BY MARY JOANNA PORTER.

Six lively boys had been spending their vacation at Clovernook Farm,

and, as any one may imagine, they had been having the liveliest sort of

a time.

There were Mr. Hobart's two nephews, James and Fred; and Mrs. Hobart's

two nephews, John and Albert, and two others, Milton and Peter, who,

though only distant cousins, were considered as part of the family.

To tell of all the things that these six had been doing during the eight

weeks of their stay would be to write a history in several volumes. They

had had innumerable games of tennis and croquet; had fished along the

banks of streams; helped in the harvest field; taken straw-rides by

moonlight; traveled many scores of miles on bicycles; taken photographs

good and bad; gone out with picnic parties; learned to churn and to work

butter; picked apples and eaten them, and they had plenty of energy left

still.

The climax of their enjoyment was reached on the very last day of their

visit. Mr. Hobart had promised to take them for a day's fishing on a

lake about ten miles distant from his house. On this fair September day

he redeemed his promise. A jolly load set out in the gray of the early

morning, equipped with poles, lines, bait, and provisions enough for the

day. Having no other way to give vent to their spirits, they sang

college songs all along the road. Of course, they surprised many an

early riser by their vigorous rendering of familiar airs. Even cows and

chickens and horses and pigs gazed at them with wondering eyes, as if to

say, "Who are these noisy fellows, disturbing our morning meditations?"

As the boys approached the lake they saw a strange-looking object on the

water. What it might be they could not for a while decide. Certainly it

was not a boat, and what else could be floating so calmly several feet

out from the land?

At length their strained eyes solved the mystery. It was a rudely built

raft with a stool upon it, and upon the stool sat a ragged urchin ten or

twelve years of age.

"Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!" shouted the six boys in unison.

"Fine rig you have there!" called one.

"What will you take for your ship?" shouted another.

For all response the stranger simply stared.

"Don't hurt his feelings, boys," said Mr. Hobart kindly, "he's getting

enjoyment in his own way, and I suspect that it's the best way he knows

of."

Conscious of impoliteness, the boys subsided, and nothing more was

thought of the stranger for several hours.

About noon, however, as they were resting on the shore, he appeared

before them with an old cigar box in his hand.

"Want some crickets and grasshoppers?" he asked timidly. "I've been

catching them for you, if you want them."

"Yes, they are exactly the things we need," replied Mr. Hobart. "How

much do you want for the lot?"

"Oh, you're welcome to them. I hadn't nothin' else to do."

"Well, that's what I call returning good for evil. Didn't you hear these

chaps laugh at you this morning?"

"Yes, but that's nothin'. I'm used to that sort of thing. Folks has

laughed at me allus."

"Well, we won't laugh at you now. Have some dinner, if you won't have

any pay."

The boy had refused money, but he could not refuse the tempting

sandwiches and cakes which were offered to him. His hungry look appealed

to the hearts of the other boys quite as forcibly as his comical

attitude had before appealed to their sense of the ludicrous.

Now they shared their dinner with him in most hospitable manner.

Fortunately Mrs. Hobart was of a generous disposition, and had provided

an abundance of food. Otherwise the picnic baskets might have given out

with this new demand upon their contents.

"What shall we call you?" said Mr. Hobart to the unexpected guest.

"Sam Smith's my name. I am generally called Sam for short."

"Well, Sam, I think you're right down hungry, and I'm glad you happened

along our way. Where do you live, my boy?"

"I've been a-workin' over there in the farmhouse yonder, but they've got

through with me, and I'm just a-makin' up my mind where to go next."

"Seems to me you're rather young to earn your own living. Have you no

father or mother?"

"Yes, in the city. But they have seven other boys and it's pretty hard

work to get along. I'm the oldest, I am, so I try to turn a penny for

myself. A gentleman got me this place, and paid my way out here, but

he's gone back to town now. I s'pose he hoped the folks would keep me,

but they don't need me no longer."

Mr. Hobart was a man of kindly deeds. More than that, he was a

Christian. As he stood talking with the stranger lad the words of the

Master ran through his mind: "The poor ye have with ye always, and

whensoever ye will ye may do them good."

Certainly here was an opportunity to help a friendless boy. It should

not be thrown away.

"How would you like to engage yourself to me for the fall and winter?

These boys are all going off to-morrow, and I need a boy about your size

to run errands and help me with the chores."

"Really? Honest?"

"Yes, really I do. I want a good boy who will obey me and my wife, and I

have an idea that you may suit."

"I'll try to, sir."

"Then jump into that boat and help us fish and I'll take you home with

me to-night."

Sam cast a farewell glance at his raft, just then floating out of sight.

He had nothing else to take leave of, and no further arrangements to

make; no packing to do and no baggage to carry. He had simply himself

and the few clothes he wore. At evening he went home with Mr. Hobart in

the most matter-of-course way. When the load of fishermen drew up at the

barn-door he jumped out and began to unhitch as though that had been his

lifelong work.

Mrs. Hobart, coming out to give a welcome to the chattering group,

appeared rather puzzled as she counted heads in the twilight. Mr. Hobart

enjoyed the surprise which he had been expecting.

"Yes, wife," said he aside, answering her thoughts, "I took out six this

morning and I've brought back seven to-night. We've been for a day's

fishing, you know, and I rather guess I've caught something more

valuable than bass or perch, though they're good enough in their way."

"Where did you find him?" asked Mrs. Hobart.

"Sitting on a raft out on the lake."

"He's a poor, homeless fellow, and I reckon that there's room in our

house for one of Christ's little ones. Isn't that so, wife?"

"Yes, Reuben, it is."

"Then we'll do the best we can for this young chap. I mean to write to

his parents, for he has given me their address. I think there will be no

trouble in arranging to have him stay with us. We'll see what we can

make out of him."

"Reuben, I believe you're always looking out for a chance to do some

good!"

"That's the way it ought to be, wife."

This conversation took place behind the carryall. None of the boys heard

it. The six visitors, however, all caught the spirit of benevolence from

their host. Before departing next day each one had contributed from his

wardrobe some article of clothing for Sam, and they all showered him

with good wishes as they left.

"Hope to find you here next summer," they shouted in driving off.

"Hope so," responded Sam.

Why Charlie Didn't Go.

BY MARY JOANNA PORTER.

"Dear me! There come Uncle Josh and Aunt Jane, and not a bed in the

house is made!" Mrs. Upton glanced nervously at the clock--then about to

strike eleven--surveyed with dismay the disordered kitchen, looked

through the open door into the dining-room, where the unwashed breakfast

dishes were yet standing, took her hands out of the dough and ran to

wash them at the faucet.

"Maria, Maria, stir around. See what you can pick up while they're

getting out of the cab. Isn't it always just so?"

Maria, the daughter of fifteen, hastily laid aside her novel and did her

best to remove the cups and saucers from the breakfast table, not

omitting to break one in her hurry. Meanwhile her mother closed the

kitchen door, caught up from the dining-room sofa a promiscuous pile of

hats, coats, rubbers and shawls, threw them into a convenient closet,

placed the colored cloth on the table and hastened to open the front

door to admit her guests.

"Come in! Come in! I'm ever so glad to see you, but you must take us

just as we are. Did you come on the train?"

"Yes, and got Jenkins to bring us up from the station. He's to take us

back at three o'clock this afternoon. We can't make a long visit, but

we're going to take dinner with you, if it's perfectly convenient."

"Oh, yes! of course. It's always convenient to have you. We don't make

strangers of you at all."

While Mrs. Upton spoke these hospitable words her heart sank within her

at the remembrance of her unbaked bread and her neglect to order meat

for dinner.

"Here, Maria, just help Aunt Jane to take off her wraps, I'll be right

back."

Mrs. Upton darted up-stairs, carrying with her a pair of trousers which

she had been over an hour in mending. For want of them Charlie had been

unable to go to school that morning. He was reading in his room.

"Here, Charlie! Put these on and run down to the butcher's and get some

steak, and stop at the baker's and get some rolls and a pie, and tell

them I'll pay them to-morrow. I don't know where my pocketbook is now."

"Ma," drawled Charlie in reply, "I haven't my shoes up here, only my

slippers and rubbers."

"Well, wear them then and keep out of the mud. I don't want you sick

to-night. Be sure to come in the back way so that Uncle Josh won't see

you. He'll think we're always behindhand."

If Uncle Josh had thought so he would have been near the truth. Mrs.

Upton was one of those unfortunate persons who seem to be always hard at

work and always in the drag. She had the undesirable faculty of taking

hold of things wrong end first.

As water does not rise higher than its level, so children are not apt to

have better habits than their parents. Charlie and Maria and the rest of

the family lived in a state of constant confusion.

At noon Mr. Upton came to dinner. It was not unusual for him to be

forced to wait, and he had learned to be resigned; so he sat down

patiently to talk with the visitors. Soon three children came in from

school, all eager to eat and return. What with their clamorous demands,

and the necessity for preparing extra vegetables and side-dishes, and

anxiety to please all around, and to prevent her bread from growing

sour, Mrs. Upton was nearly distracted. Yet Maria tried to help, and

Aunt Jane invariably looked upon matters with the kindly eye of charity.

Things were not so bad as they might have been, and dinner was ready at

last.

After the meal was over the two visitors found a corner in which to

hold a conference.

"Wife," said Uncle Josh, "Charlie's too bright a young fellow to be left

to grow up in this way. Suppose we take him home with us for a while?"

"There's nothing I would like better," responded Aunt Jane, whose

motherly heart was yet sore with grief for her own little Charlie, who

had been laid in the church-yard years before.

When Mrs. Upton again emerged from the depths of the kitchen they

repeated the proposal to her, and gained her assent at once.

Charlie was next to be informed, but that was not an easy matter. The

boy could nowhere be found.

"Perhaps he's gone to school," suggested Aunt Jane.

"No, I told him that since he had to be absent this morning he might as

well be absent all day. He's somewhere about."

A prolonged search ended in the barn, where Charlie at last was found,

trying to whittle a ruler out of a piece of kindling-wood. He wished to

draw maps and had mislaid or lost most of the articles necessary for the

work.

"Charlie!" exclaimed his mother, "Uncle Josh and Aunt Jane want to take

you home with them for a long visit. We've been looking all over for

you. I've been putting your best clothes in a bag, but you'll have to

be careful about holding it shut, because I can't find the key. Now

hurry and dress yourself if you want to go."

Charlie gave a loud whistle of delight and hastened to the house to

arrange his toilet. He washed his face and hands, brushed his hair, put

on a clean collar, and then went to the kitchen to blacken his shoes. He

expected to find them on his feet, but lo! there were only the slippers

and rubbers, donned in the forenoon and forgotten until now.

"Ma! where are my shoes?" he called in stentorian tones. Mrs. Upton

replied from above stairs, where she was putting a stitch in her son's

cap: "I don't know--haven't seen them."

"Well, I left them in the kitchen last night. Here, Maria, help a

fellow, won't you? I can't find my shoes and it's nearly train time.

There's Jenkins at the door now."

The united efforts of all present resulted in finding the shoes

entangled in an afghan which Mrs. Upton had unintentionally placed in

the heap in the closet when she relieved the sofa of its burden.

"Here they are at last. Bravo!" shouted Charlie. Yet his joy was short

lived. One shoe wouldn't go on. He had slipped it off on the previous

night without unfastening. There were several knots in the string, and

all were unmanageable. He struggled breathlessly while Uncle Josh and

Aunt Jane were getting into the cab, then broke the string in

desperation just as Jenkins, hearing the car-whistle, drove off to reach

the train.

"Very sorry! Can't wait another instant!" called out Uncle Josh.

Charlie, having repaired damages as best he could, reached the front

door in time to see the back of the carriage away down the street.

"Time and tide wait for no man," observed his mother exasperatingly.

Perhaps her quotation of the proverb carried with it the weight of her

experience. Perhaps she thought it her duty to give moral lessons to her

son, regardless of illustrations.

Charlie's disappointment was rendered bitterer still, when the following

week there came a letter from Uncle Josh saying that he and Aunt Jane

were about taking a trip to the West.

"Tell Charlie," said the letter, "that if we only had him with us we

should certainly take him along."

"Isn't it too bad," said Charlie, "to think I've missed so much, and all

through the want of a shoe-string?"

Uncle Giles' Paint Brush.

BY MARY JOANNA PORTER.

It was a rainy day in summer. A chilly wind swept about the house and

bent the branches of the trees, and reminded every one who encountered

it that autumn, with its gales, would return as promptly as ever.

A bright fire was blazing in the sitting-room, and near it were Mrs.

Strong with her two little girls, and also Aunt Martha Bates, whom they

were visiting. Rufus Strong, aged fourteen, stood by a closed window,

listlessly drumming on a pane.

He was tired of reading, and tired of watching the ladies sew, and tired

of building toy houses for his sisters.

"I guess I'll go out to the barn and find Uncle Giles," said he at

length.

Mrs. Strong, who had found the music on the window pane rather

monotonous, quickly responded in favor of the plan.

"Just the one I want to see!" exclaimed Uncle Giles, as Rufus made his

appearance at the barn door. "I'm getting my tools in order, and now you

can turn the grind-stone while I sharpen this scythe."

Rufus cheerfully agreed to this proposal, and performed his part with a

hearty good will.

"Do you always put your tools in order on rainy days?" he asked.

"Well, yes; I always look over them and see if they need attention. Then

when I want them they are ready for use. Now, since this job is done,

suppose you undertake another. Wouldn't this be a good time to paint

those boxes for Aunt Martha's flowers? You know you promised to paint

them for her, and if you do it now, they'll be good and dry when she

wants to pot her plants in September?"

"I think you believe in preparing for work beforehand, don't you, Uncle

Giles?"

"Yes, indeed, that I do. It saves ever so much time when you have any

work to do to have things all ready. What's the matter, can't you find

the paint brush?"

"No, Uncle, and I'm sure that I saw it in its place not very long ago."

This reminded Uncle Giles that neighbor Jones had borrowed the brush a

few days previous and had not yet returned it.

"He promised to bring it home that day," said Mr. Bates, "but he's not

apt to do things promptly. I guess you'll have to step over to his house

and ask him if he's through with it."

Rufus started off on the errand and soon, returned carrying the brush in

a small tin pail, half-full of water.

"Mr. Jones is much obliged to you for the use of it," he said to his

uncle, "and he's sorry that he hasn't had time to wash out the brush."

Mr. Bates looked rather annoyed. Accustomed to perfect order himself, he

was often irritated by the slovenly ways of his neighbor.

"Then there's nothing for you to do but repair damages as well as you

can. What color of paint is in the brush?"

"Red, sir."

"And you want to use green. You'll have to go to the house and get some

warm soap-suds and give the brush a thorough washing."

Rufus found that he had plenty of occupation for some time after that.

The brush was soaked up to the handle in the bright red paint, and it

was a work of patience to give it the necessary cleaning. Indeed, dinner

time found him just ready to begin the task which might have been easily

accomplished in the morning had it not been for that long delay.

After dinner he and Uncle Giles again repaired to the barn, where the

elder cleaned harness while the younger painted.

"I think I begin to realize," said Rufus, "that your plan of having

tools ready is a good one."

"Yes, it's good, no matter what sort of work you're going to do. I

believe you wish to be a minister one of these days, don't you, Rufus?"

"Yes, I think so now, Uncle."

"Then you are getting some of your tools ready when you are studying

Latin and history and other things in school. And you are getting others

ready when you read the Bible, and when you study your Sunday-school

lesson, and when you listen to the preaching of your minister. You need

to take pains to remember what you learn in these ways, for the good

things in your memory will be the tools that you will have constant use

for.

"I know a young man who is now studying for the ministry. I think he

will succeed, for he is very much in earnest and he has natural ability,

too. Yet he finds his task rather difficult, because he had no

opportunity to study when he was younger. He has not been trained to

think or to remember, and the work he is doing now is something like

your washing the paint brush this morning. It must all be done before he

can go on to anything better, and he regrets that it was not done at the

proper time."

"I suppose that the moral for me is to improve my privileges."

"Yes, that's just it. Improve your privileges by getting ready

beforehand for the work of life. If the paint brush teaches you this

lesson, you may be glad that you had to stop to get it clean."

The Pied Piper of Hamelin.

(_A Child's Story._)

BY ROBERT BROWNING.

I.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

II.

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in their cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

III.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy:

And as for our Corporation--shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's best to rid us of our vermin!

You hope, because you're old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robe ease!

Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking

To find the remedy we're lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV.

An hour they sat in council,

At length the Mayor broke silence:

"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,

I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain--

I'm sure my poor head aches again,

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber door, but a gentle tap!

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"

(With the Corporation as he sat

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous).

"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

V.

"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red,

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin

No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in;

There was no guessing his kith and kin!

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one: "It's as if my great-grandsire,

Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

VI.

He advanced to the council-table:

And "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,

By means of a secret charm, to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep, or swim, or fly, or run

After me so as you never saw!

And I chiefly use my charm

On creatures that do people harm,

The mole and toad and newt and viper;

And people call me the Pied Piper."

(And here they noticed round his neck

A scarf of red and yellow stripe,

To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying

As if impatient to be playing

Upon his pipe, as low it dangled

Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats:

And as for what your brain bewilders,

If I can rid your town of rats

Will you give me a thousand guilders?"

"One? Fifty thousand!" was the exclamation

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

VII.

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;

And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered,

You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling--

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives--

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped, advancing,

And step for step they followed dancing,

Until they came to the river Weser

Wherein all plunged and perished,

Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar,

Swam across and lived to carry

(As _he_, the manuscript he cherished)

To Rat-land home his commentary:

Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,

And putting apples, wondrous ripe,

Into a cider-press's gripe:

And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,

And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,

And a breaking the hoops of butter casks:

And it seemed as if a voice

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery

Is breathed) called out, 'Oh, rats, rejoice!

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,

All ready staved, like a great sun shone

Glorious scarce an inch before me,

Just as methought it said, 'Come bore me!'--

I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

VIII.

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.

"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles,

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders,

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a--"First, if you please, my thousand

guilders!"

IX.

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;

So did the Corporation too.

For council dinners made rare havoc

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!

"Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,

"Our business was done at the river's brink;

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,

And what's dead can't come to life, I think.

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something for drink,

And a matter of money to put into your poke;

But as for the guilders, what we spoke

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty:

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

X.

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,

"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!

I've promised to visit by dinner-time

Bagdad, and accept the prime

Of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in,

For having left, in the caliph's kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions, no survivor:

With him I proved no bargain-driver,

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe to another fashion."

XI.

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook

Being worse treated than a cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

XII.

Once more he stept into the street,

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,

And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by--

--Could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

And now the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However he turned from south to west,

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed

And after him the children pressed;

Great was the joy in every breast.

"He never can cross that mighty top!

He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!"

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed,

And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say, all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,--

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me.

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were born with eagles' wings:

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before;

And never hear of that country more!"

XIV.

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says that heaven's gate

Opes to the rich at as easy rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North and South,

To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,

Wherever it was man's lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,

And Piper and dancers were gone forever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear:

"And so long after what happened here

On the twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children's last retreat,

They called it the Pied Piper's Street--

Where any one playing on pipe or tabor

Was sure for the future to lose his labor.

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,

And on the great church-window painted

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away,

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe

Of alien people that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbors lay such stress,

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

XV.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers

Of scores out with all men--especially pipers!

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

A Girl Graduate.

BY CYNTHIA BARNARD.

I.

It was examination week at Mount Seward College, but most of the work

was over, and the students were waiting in the usual fever of anxiety to

learn the verdict on their papers, representing so much toil and pains.

Some of the girls were nearly as much concerned about their graduating

gowns as about their diplomas, but as independence was in the air at

Mount Seward, these rather frivolous girls were in the minority. During

term time most of the students wore the regulation cap and gown, and

partly owing to the fact that Mount Seward was a college with traditions

of plain living and high thinking behind it, and partly because the

youngest and best-loved professor was a woman of rare and noble

characteristics, a woman who had set her own stamp on her pupils, and

furnished them an ideal, dress and fashion were secondary considerations

here. There were no low emulations at Mount Seward.

A group of girls in a bay-window over-looking the campus were discussing

the coming commencement. From various rooms came the steady, patient

sound of pianos played for practice. On the green lawn in front of the

president's cottage two or three intellectual looking professors and

tutors walked up and down, evidently discussing an affair that

interested them.

The postman strolled over the campus wearily, as who should say, "This

is my last round, and the bag is abominably heavy."

He disappeared within a side door, and presently there was a hurrying

and scurrying of fresh-faced young women, bright-eyed and blooming under

the mortar-caps, jauntily perched over their braids and ringlets,

rushing toward that objective point, the college post-office. One would

have fancied that letters came very seldom, to see their excitement.

Margaret Lee received two letters. She did not open either in the

presence of her friends, but went with a swift step and a heightened

color to her own suite of rooms. Two small alcoves, curtained off from a

pleasant little central sitting-room, composed the apartment Margaret

shared with her four years' chum Alice Raynor. Alice was not there, yet

Margaret did not seat herself in the room common to both, but entered

her own alcove, drew the portiere, and sat down on the edge of the iron

bed, not larger than a soldier's camp cot. It was an austere little

cell, simple as a nun's, with the light falling from one narrow window

on the pale face and brown hair of the young girl, to whom the unopened

letters in her hand signified so much.

Which should she read first? One, in a large square envelope, addressed

in a bold, business-like hand, bore a Western postmark, and had the

printed order to return, if not delivered in ten days, to Hilox

University, Colorado. The other, in a cramped, old-fashioned hand, bore

the postmark of a hamlet in West Virginia. It was a thin letter,

evidently belonging to the genus domestic correspondence, a letter from

Margaret's home.

Which should she open first? There was an evident struggle, and a

perceptible hesitation. Then she laid the home letter resolutely down on

the pillow of her bed, and, with a hair-pin, that woman's tool which

suits so many uses, delicately and dexterously cut the envelope of the

letter from Hilox. It began formally, and was very brief:

"MY DEAR MISS LEE:--The trustees and faculty of Hilox

University have been looking for a woman, a recent graduate of

distinction from some well-established Eastern college, to take the

chair of Greek in our new institution. You have been recommended as

thoroughly qualified for the position. The salary is not at present

large, but our university is growing, and we offer a tempting

field to an energetic and ambitious woman. May we write you more

fully on the subject, if you are inclined to take our vacancy into

your favorable consideration?

"Very respectfully yours."

Then followed the signature of the president of Hilox, a man whose name

and fame were familiar to Margaret Lee.

The girl's cheek glowed; her dark eyes deepened; a look of power and

purpose settled upon the sweet full lips. For this she had studied

relentlessly; to this end she had looked; with this in view her four

years' course had been pursued with pluck and determination. The picture

of Joanna Baker, as young as herself, climbing easily to the topmost

round of the ladder, had fired and stimulated _her_, and she had allowed

it to be known that her life was dedicated to learning, and by-and-by to

teaching.

All the faculty at Mount Seward knew her aspirations, and several of the

professors had promised their aid in securing her a position, but she

had not expected anything of this kind so soon.

Why, her diploma would not be hers until next week! Surely there must be

some benignant angel at work in her behalf. But--Hilox? Had she ever met

any one from Hilox?

Suddenly the light went out of the ardent face, and a frown crinkled the

smooth fairness of her brow. This, then, _he_ had dared to do!

Memory recalled an episode two years back, and half-forgotten. Margaret

had been spending her vacation at home in the West Virginia mountains,

and a man had fallen in love with her. There was nothing remarkable in

this, for a beautiful girl of seventeen, graceful, dignified,

accomplished, and enthusiastic, is a very lovable creature. A visiting

stranger in the village, the minister's cousin, had been much at her

father's house, had walked and boated with her, and shared her rides

over the hills, both on sure-footed mountain ponies. As a friend

Margaret had liked Dr. Angus, as a comrade had found him delightful, but

her heart had not been touched. What had she, with her Greek

professorate looming up like a star in mid-heaven before her--what had

she to do with love and a lover? She had managed to make Dr. Angus know

this before he had quite committed himself by a proposal; but she had

understood what was in his thought, and she knew that he knew that she

knew all about it. And Dr. Angus had remained and settled down as a

practitioner in the little mountain town. The town had a future before

it, for two railroads were already projected to cross it, and there were

coal mines in the neighborhood, and, altogether, a man might do worse

than drive his roots into this soil. She had heard now and then of Dr.

Angus since that summer--her last vacation had been passed with cousins

in New England--and he was said to be courting a Mrs. Murray, a rich and

charming neighbor of her father's.

Dr. Angus had friends in Colorado. Now she remembered he had a relative

who had helped to found Hilox, and had endowed a chair of languages or

literature; she was not certain which. So it must be to _him_ she was

indebted, and, oddly, she was more indignant than grateful. The natural

intervention of a friendly hand in the matter took all the satisfaction

out of her surprise.

Not that she loved Dr. Angus! But she did not choose to be under an

obligation to him. What girl would in the circumstances?

II.

All this time the letter from home lay overlooked on the pillow. If it

could have spoken it would have reproached the daughter for her

absorption in its companion, but it bided its time. Presently Margaret

turned with a start, saw it, felt a remorseful stab, and tore it open,

without the aid of a hair-pin.

This is what the home letter had to say. It was from Margaret's father,

and as he seldom wrote to her, leaving, as many men do, the bulk of

correspondence with absent members of the family to be the care of his

wife and children, she felt a premonitory thrill.

The Lees were a very affectionate and devoted household, clannish to a

degree, and undemonstrative, as mountaineers often are. The deep well of

their love did not foam and ripple like a brook, but the water was

always there, to draw upon at will. "The shallows murmur, but the deeps

are dumb." It was so in the house of Duncan Lee.

"MY DEAR DAUGHTER MARGARET" (the letter began),--"I hope

these lines will find you well, and your examination crowned with

success. We have thought and talked of you much lately, and wished

we could be with you to see you when you are graduated. Mother

would have been so glad to go, but it is my sad duty to inform you

that she is not well. Do not be anxious, Margaret. There is no

immediate danger, but your dear mother has been more or less ailing

ever since last March, and she does not get better. We fear there

will have to be a surgical operation--perhaps more than one. She

may have to live, as people sometimes do, for years with a knife

always over her head. We want you to come home, Margaret, as soon

as you can. I enclose a check for all expenses, and I will see that

you are met at the railway terminus, so you need not take the long

stage-ride all by yourself. But I am afraid I have not broken it to

you gently, my dear, as mother said I must. Forgive me; I am just

breaking my heart in these days, and I need you as much almost as

your mother does.

"Your loving father, "DUNCAN LEE."

A vision rose before Margaret, as with tear-blurred eyes she folded her

father's letter and replaced it in its cover. She brushed the tears away

and looked at the date. Four days ago the letter had been posted. Her

home, an old homestead in a valley that nestled deep and sweet in the

heart of the grand mountain range, guarding it on every side, rose

before her. She saw her father, grizzled, stooping-shouldered,

care-worn, old-fashioned in dress, precise in manner, a gentleman of the

old school, a man who had never had much money, but who had sent his

five sons and his one daughter to college, giving them, what the Lees

prized most in life, a liberal education. She saw her mother, thin,

fair, tall, with the golden hair that would fade but would never turn

gray, the blue child-like eyes, the wistful mouth.

"Mother!" she gasped, "mother!"

The horror of the malady that had seized on the beautiful, dainty,

lovely woman, so like a princess in her bearing, so notable in her

housewifery, so neighborly, so maternal, swept over her in a hot tide,

retreated, leaving her shivering.

"I must go home," she said, "and at once!" With feet that seemed to her

weighted with lead she went straight to the room of the Dean, knowing

that in that gracious woman's spirit there would be instant

comprehension, and that she would receive wise advice.

"My dear!" said the Dean, "you have heard from Hilox, haven't you? We

are so proud of you; we want you to represent our college and our

culture there. It is a magnificent opportunity, Margaret."

The Dean was very short-sighted, and she did not catch at first the look

on Margaret's face.

"Yes," she answered, in a voice that sounded muffled and lifeless, "I

have heard from Hilox; I had almost forgotten, but I must answer the

letter. Dear Mrs. Wade, I have heard from home, too. My mother is very

ill, and she needs me. I must go at once--to-morrow morning. I cannot

wait for Commencement."

The Dean asked for further information. Then she urged that Margaret

should wait over the annual great occasion; so much was due the college,

she thought, and she pointed out the fact that Mr. Lee had not asked her

to leave until the exercises were over.

But Margaret had only one reply: "My mother needs me; I must go!"

A week later, at sunset, the old lumbering stage, rolling over the steep

hills and the smooth dales drew up at Margaret's home. Tired, but with a

steadfast light in her eyes, the girl stepped down, received her

father's kiss, and went straight to her mother, waiting in the doorway.

"I am glad--glad you have come, my darling!" said the mother. "While you

are here I can give everything up. But, my love, this is not what we

planned!"

"No, my dearest," said the girl, "but that is of no consequence. I wish

I had known sooner how much, how very much, I was wanted at home!"

"But you will not be a Professor of Greek!" said the mother that night.

It was all arranged for the operation, which was to take place in a

week's time, the surgeons to come from the nearest town. The mother was

brave, gay, heroic. Margaret looked at her, wondering that one under the

shadow of death could laugh and talk so brightly.

"No. I will be something better," she said, tenderly. "I will be your

nurse, your comfort if I can. If I had only known, there are many things

better than Greek that I might have learned!"

Hilox did not get its Greek professor, but the culture of Mount Seward

was not wasted. Mrs. Lee lived years, often in anguish unspeakable,

relieved by intervals of peace and freedom from pain. The daughter

became almost the mother in their intercourse as time passed, and the

bloom on her cheek paled sooner than on her mother's in the depth of

her sympathy. But the end came at last, and the suffering life went out

with a soft sigh, as a child falls asleep.

On a little shelf in Margaret's room her old text-books, seldom opened,

are souvenirs of her busy life at college. Her hand has learned the

cunning which concocts dainty dishes and lucent jellies; her

housekeeping and her hospitality are famous. She is a bright talker,

witty, charming, with the soft inflections which make the vibrant

tunefulness of the Virginian woman's voice so tender and sweet a thing

in the ear. Mount Seward is to her the Mecca of memory. If ever she has

a daughter she will send her there, and--who knows?--that girl may be

professor at Hilox.

For though Margaret is not absent from her own household, she is not

long to be Margaret Lee. The wedding-cake is made, and is growing rich

and firm as it awaits the day when the bride will cut it. The

wedding-gown is ordered. Dr. Angus has proposed at last; he had never

thought of wooing or winning any one except the fair girl who caught his

fancy and his heart ten years ago, and when Margaret next visits her New

England relations it will be to present her husband.

The professor, who had been her most dearly beloved friend during those

happy college days, her confidante and model, said to one who recalled

Margaret Lee and spoke of her as "a great disappointment, my dear:"

"Yes, we expected her to make a reputation for herself and Mount Seward.

She has done better. She has been enabled to do her duty in the station

to which it has pleased God to call her--a good thing for any girl

graduate, it seems to me."

A Christmas Frolic.

BY MRS. M.E. SANGSTER.

We had gone to the forest for holly and pine,

And gathered our arms full of cedar,

And home we came skipping, our garlands to twine,

With Marcus, the bold, for our leader.

The dear Mother said we might fix up the place,

And ask all the friends to a party;

So joy, you may fancy, illumined each face

And our manners were cordial and hearty.

But whom should we have? There were Sally and Fred,

And Martha and Luke and Leander;

There was Jack, a small boy with a frowsy red head,

And the look of an old salamander.

There was Dickie, who went to a college up town,

And Archie, who worked for the neighbors;

There were Timothy Parsons and Anthony Brown,

Old fellows, of street-cleaning labors.

And then sister had friends like the lilies so fair,

Sweet girls with white hands and soft glances;

At a frolic of ours these girls must be there,

Dear Mildred and Gladys and Frances.

At Christmas, my darlings, leave nobody out,

'Tis the feast of the dear Elder Brother,

Who came to this world to bring freedom about,

And whose motto is "Love one another."

When the angels proclaimed Him in Judea's sky

They sang out His wonderful story,

And peace and good will did they bring from on high,

And the keystone of all laid with glory.

A frolic at Christmas must needs know not change

Of fortune, or richer or poorer;

If any one comes who is lonesome and strange,

Why, just make his welcome the surer.

We invited our friends and we dressed up the room

Till it looked like a wonderful bower,

With starry bright tapers, and flowers in bloom,

And a tree with white popcorn a-shower.

And presents and presents, for every one there,

In stockings, and bags full of candy,

And old Santa Claus (Uncle William) was fair,

And--I tell you, our tree was a dandy.

Then, when nine o'clock struck, and the frolic and fun

Had risen almost to their highest,

And pleasure was beaming, and every one

Was happy, from bravest to shyest.

Our dear Mother went to the organ and played

A carol so sweet and so tender;

We prayed while we sang, and we sang as we prayed,

To Jesus, our Prince and Defender.

Oh! Jesus, who came as a Babe to the earth,

Who slept 'mid the kine, in a manger;

Oh! Jesus, our Lord, in whose heavenly birth

Is pledge of our ransom from danger.

Strong Son of the Father, divine from of old,

And Son of the race, child of woman;

Increasing in might as the ages unfold,

Redeemer, our God, and yet human.

We sang to His Name, and we stood in a band,

Each pledged for the Master wholly,

To work heart to heart, and to work hand to hand,

In behalf of the outcast and lowly.

Then we said "Merry Christmas" once more and we went

Away from the holly and cedar,

And home we all scattered, quite glad and content,

And henceforward our Lord is our Leader.

Archie's Vacation.

BY MARY JOANNA PORTER.

"Papa has come," shouted Archie Conwood, as he rushed down stairs two

steps at a time, with his sisters Minnie and Katy following close

behind, and mamma bringing up the rear. Papa had been to Cousin

Faraton's to see if he could engage summer board for the family.

Cousin Faraton lived in a pleasant village about a hundred miles distant

from the city in which Mr. and Mrs. Conwood were living. They had agreed

that to board with him would insure a pleasant vacation for all.

Papa brought a good report. Everything had been favorably arranged.

"And what do you think!" he asked, in concluding his narrative. "Cousin

Faraton has persuaded me to buy a bicycle for you, Archie. He thought it

would be quite delightful for you and your Cousin Samuel to ride about

on their fine roads together. So I stopped and ordered one on my way

home."

"Oh, you dear, good papa?" exclaimed Archie, "do let me give you a hug."

"Are you sure it's healthful exercise?" asked Mrs. Conwood, rather

timidly. After the way of mothers, she was anxious for the health of

her son.

"Nothing could be better, if taken in moderation," Mr. Conwood

positively replied, thus setting his wife's fears at rest.

The order for the bicycle was promptly filled, and Archie had some

opportunity of using it before going to the country. When the day for

leaving town arrived, he was naturally more interested in the safe

carrying of what he called his "machine" than in anything else connected

with the journey.

He succeeded in taking it to Cousin Faraton's uninjured, and was much

pleased to find that it met with the entire approbation of Samuel, whose

opinion, as he was two years older than himself, was considered most

important.

The two boys immediately planned a short excursion for the following

day, and obtained the consent of their parents.

Breakfast next morning was scarcely over when they made their start. The

sunshine was bright, the sky was cloudless; they were well and strong.

Everything promised the pleasantest sort of a day. Yet, alas! for all

human hopes. Who can tell what sudden disappointment a moment may bring?

The cousins had just disappeared from view of the group assembled on the

piazza to see them start, when Samuel came back in breathless haste,

exclaiming:

"Archie has fallen, and I think he's hurt."

The two fathers ran at full speed to the spot where Archie was, and

found him pale and almost fainting by the roadside. They picked him up

and carried him tenderly back to the house, while Samuel hurried off for

the village doctor. Fortunately he found him in his carriage about

setting forth on his morning round and quite ready to drive at a rapid

rate to the scene of the accident.

The first thing to be done was to administer a restorative, for Archie

had had a severe shock. The next thing was an examination, which

resulted in the announcement of a broken leg.

Surely there was an end to all plans for a pleasant vacation.

The doctor might be kind, sympathetic and skillful, as indeed he was.

The other children might unite in trying to entertain their injured

playfellow. They might bring him flowers without number, and relate to

him their various adventures, and read him their most interesting

story-books--all this they did. Mother might be tireless in her

devotion, trying day and night to make him forget the pain--what mother

would not have done all in her power?

Still there was no escape from the actual suffering, no relief from the

long six weeks' imprisonment; while outside the birds were singing and

the summer breezes playing in ever so many delightful places that might

have been visited had it not been for that broken leg.

Archie tried to be brave and cheerful, and to conceal from every one the

tears which would sometimes force their way to his eyes.

He endeavored to interest himself in the amusements which were within

his reach, and he succeeded admirably. Yet the fact remained that he was

having a sadly tedious vacation.

The kind-hearted doctor often entertained him by telling of his

experiences while surgeon in a hospital during the war.

"Do you know," he said one day in the midst of a story, "that the men

who had been bravest on the field of battle were most patient in bearing

suffering? They showed what we call fortitude, and bravery and fortitude

go hand in hand."

This was an encouraging thought to Archie, for he resolved to show that

he could endure suffering as well as any soldier. Another thing that

helped him very much was the fact, of which his mother reminded him,

that by trying to be patient he was doing what he could, to please the

Lord Jesus.

"It was He," she said, "who allowed this trial to come to you, because

He saw that through it you might grow to be a better and a nobler boy.

And you will be growing better every day by simply trying to be

patient, as I see you do."

"I want to be, mamma," Archie answered; "and there's another thing about

this broken leg, I think it will teach me to care more when other people

are sick."

"No doubt it will, Archie, and if you learn to exercise patience and

sympathy, your vacation will not be lost, after all."

A Birthday Story.

BY MRS. M.E. SANGSTER.

Jack Hillyard turned over in his hand the few bits of silver which he

had taken from his little tin savings-bank. There were not very many of

them, a ten cent piece, a quarter, half a dollar and an old silver

six-pence. And he had been saving them up a long, long time.

"Well," said Jack to himself, soberly, "there aren't enough to buy

mother a silk dress, but I think I'll ask Cousin Susy, if she won't

spend my money and get up a birthday party for the darling little

mother. A birthday cake, with, let me see, thirty-six candles, that'll

be a lot, three rows deep, and a big bunch of flowers, and a book.

Mother's never had a birthday party that I remember. She's always been

so awfully busy working hard for us, and so awfully tired when night

came, but I mean her to have one now, or my name's not Jack."

Away went Jack to consult Cousin Susy.

He found her very much occupied with her dressmaking, for she made new

gowns and capes for all the ladies in town, and she was finishing up

Miss Kitty Hardy's wedding outfit. With her mouth full of pins, Cousin

Susy could not talk, but her brown eyes beamed on Jack as she listened

to his plan. At last she took all the pins out of her mouth, and said:

"Leave it all to me, Jack. We'll give her a surprise party; I'll see

about everything, dear. Whom shall we ask?"

"When thou makest a dinner or a supper," said Jack, repeating his golden

text of the last Sunday's lesson, "call not thy friends, nor thy

kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also bid thee again and a

recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor,

the maimed, the lame, the blind, and thou shalt be blessed, for they

cannot recompense thee."

"Jack! Jack! Jack!" exclaimed Cousin Susy.

"I was only repeating my last golden text," answered Jack. "We don't

often have to give a feast, and as it was so extraordinary," said Jack,

saying the big word impressively, "I thought of my verse. I suppose we'd

better ask the people mother likes, and they are the poor, the halt, the

blind, and the deaf; for we haven't any rich neighbors, nor any kinsmen,

except you, dear Cousin Susy."

"Well, I'm a kinswoman and a neighbor, dear, but I'm not rich. Now, let

me see," said Miss Susy, smoothing out the shining white folds of Kitty

Hardy's train. "We will send notes, and you must write them. There is

old Ralph, the peddler, who is too deaf to hear if you shout at him ever

and ever so much, but he'll enjoy seeing a good time; and we'll have

Florrie Maynard, with her crutches and her banjo, and she'll have a

happy time and sing for us; and Mrs. Maloney, the laundress, with her

blind Patsy. I don't see Jackie, but you'll have a Scripture party after

all. Run along and write your letters, and to-night we'll trot around

and deliver them."

This was the letter Jack wrote:

"DEAR FRIEND:--My mother's going to have a birthday next

Saturday night, and she'll be thirty-six years old. That's pretty

old. So I'm going to give her a surprise birthday party, and Cousin

Susy's helping me with the surprise. Please come and help too, at

eight o'clock sharp.

"Yours truly,

"JACK."

When this note was received everybody decided to go, and, which Jack did

not expect, everybody decided to take a present along.

"You'll spend all my money, won't you?" said Jack.

"Certainly, my boy, I will, every penny. Except, perhaps, the old silver

sixpence. Suppose we give that to the mother as a keepsake?"

"Very well, you know best. All I want is that she shall have a good

time, a very good time. She's such a good mother."

"Jack," said Susy, "you make me think of some verses I saw in a book

the other day. Let me read them to you." And Cousin Susy, who had a way

of copying favorite poems and keeping them, fished out this one from her

basket:

LITTLE HANS.

Little Hans was helping mother

Carry home the lady's basket;

Chubby hands of course were lifting

One great handle--can you ask it?

As he tugged away beside her,

Feeling oh! so brave and strong,

Little Hans was softly singing

To himself a little song:

"Some time I'll be tall as father,

Though I think it's very funny,

And I'll work and build big houses,

And give mother all the money,

For," and little Hans stopped singing,

Feeling oh! so strong and grand,

"I have got the sweetest mother

You can find in all the land."

Now, some people couldn't do very much with the funds at Cousin Susy's

disposal, but she could, and when Jack's money was spent for

refreshments what do you think they had? Why, a great big pan of

gingerbread, all marked out in squares with the knife, and raisins in

it; and a round loaf of cup cake, frosted over with sugar, with

thirty-six tiny tapers all ready to light, and a pitcher of lemonade, a

plate of apples, and a big platter of popped corn.

Jack danced for joy, but softly, for mother had come home from her day's

work and was tired, and the party was to be a surprise, and she was not

to be allowed to step into the little square parlor.

That parlor was the pride of Jack and his mother. It had a bright rag

carpet, a table with a marble top, six chairs, and a stool called an

ottoman. On the wall between the windows hung a framed picture of Jack's

dear father, who was in heaven, and over the mantelpiece there was a

framed bouquet of flowers, embroidered by Jack's mother on white satin,

when she had been a girl at school.

"Seems to me, Jack," said Mrs. Hillyard as she sat down in the kitchen

to her cup of tea, "there is a smell of fresh gingerbread; I wonder

who's having company."

Jack almost bit his tongue trying not to laugh.

"Oh!" said he grandly, "gingerbread isn't anything, mamma. When I'm a

man you shall have pound-cake every day for breakfast."

By and by Mrs. Maloney and Patsy dropped in.

"I thought," said Mrs. Maloney, "it was kind o'lonesome-like at home,

and I'd step in and see you and Jack to-night, ma'am."

"That was very kind," replied Mrs. Hillyard.

"Why, here comes Mr. Ralph," she added. "Well the more the merrier!"

Tap, tap, tap.

The neighbors kept coming, and coming, and Jack grew more and more

excited, till at last when all were present, Cousin Susy, opening the

parlor door, displayed the marble-top of the table covered with a white

cloth, and there were the refreshments.

"A happy birthday, mother."

"Many returns."

"May you live a hundred years."

One and another had some kind word to say, and each gave a present, a

card, or a flower, or a trifle of some sort, but with so much good will

and love that Mrs. Hillyard's face beamed. All day she stood behind a

counter in a great big shop, and worked hard for her bread and Jack's,

but when evening came she was a queen at home with her boy and her

friends to pay her honor.

"And were you surprised, and did you like the cake and the thirty-six

candles, dearest, darling mamma?" said Jack, when everybody had gone

home.

"Yes, my own manly little laddie, I liked everything, and I was never so

surprised in my life." So the birthday party was a great success.

A Coquette.

BY AMY PIERCE.

I am never in doubt of her goodness,

I am always afraid of her mood,

I am never quite sure of her temper,

For wilfulness runs in her blood.

She is sweet with the sweetness of springtime--

A tear and a smile in an hour--

Yet I ask not release from her slightest caprice,

My love with the face of a flower.

My love with the grace of the lily

That sways on its slender fair stem,

My love with the bloom of the rosebud,

White pearl in my life's diadem!

You may call her coquette if it please you,

Enchanting, if shy or if bold,

Is my darling, my winsome wee lassie,

Whose birthdays are three, when all told.

Horatius.[1]

_A Lay Made About the Year of the City CCCLX._

By T.B. MACAULAY.

I.

Lars Porsena of Clusium

By the Nine Gods he swore

That the great house of Tarquin

Should suffer wrong no more.

By the Nine Gods he swore it,

And named a trysting-day,

And bade his messengers ride forth,

East and west, and south and north,

To summon his array.

II.

East and west, and south and north,

The messengers ride fast,

And tower and town and cottage

Have heard the trumpet's blast.

Shame on the false Etruscan

Who lingers in his home,

When Porsena of Clusium

Is on the march for Rome!

III.

The horsemen and the footmen

Are pouring in amain,

From many a stately market-place,

From many a fruitful plain;

From many a lonely hamlet,

Which, hid by beech and pine,

Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest

Of purple Apennine;

IV.

From lordly Volaterræ,

Where scowls the far-famed hold

Piled by the hands of giants

For godlike kings of old;

From sea-girt Populonia,

Whose sentinels descry

Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops

Fringing the southern sky;

V.

From the proud mart of Pisæ,

Queen of the western waves,

Where ride Massilia's triremes

Heavy with fair-haired slaves;

From where sweet Clanis wanders

Through corn and vines and flowers;

From where Cortona lifts to heaven

Her diadem of towers.

VI.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns

Drop in dark Auser's rill;

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs

Of the Ciminian hill;

Beyond all streams Clitumnus

Is to the herdsman dear;

Best of all pools the fowler loves

The great Volsinian mere.

VII.

But now no stroke of woodman

Is heard by Auser's rill;

No hunter tracks the stag's green path

Up the Ciminian hill;

Unwatched along Clitumnus

Grazes the milk-white steer;

Unharmed the water-fowl may dip

In the Volsinian mere.

VIII.

The harvests of Arretium

This year old men shall reap;

This year young boys in Umbro

Shall plunge the struggling sheep;

And in the vats of Luna

This year the must shall foam

Round the white feet of laughing girls

Whose sires have marched to Rome.

IX.

There be thirty chosen prophets,

The wisest of the land,

Who always by Lars Porsena

Both morn and evening stand;

Evening and morn the Thirty

Have turned the verses o'er,

Traced from the right on linen white

By mighty seers of yore.

X.

And with one voice the Thirty

Have their glad answer given:

"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;

Go forth, beloved of Heaven:

Go, and return in glory

To Clusium's royal dome,

And hang round Nurscia's altars

The golden shields of Rome."

XI.

And now hath every city

Sent up her tale of men;

The foot are fourscore thousand,

The horse are thousands ten.

Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array.

A proud man was Lars Porsena

Upon the trysting-day.

XII.

For all the Etruscan armies

Were ranged beneath his eye,

And many a banished Roman,

And many a stout ally;

And with a mighty following

To join the muster came

The Tusculan Mamilius,

Prince of the Latian name.

XIII.

But by the yellow Tiber

Was tumult and affright:

From all the spacious champaign

To Rome men took their flight.

A mile around the city

The throng stopped up the ways;

A fearful sight it was to see

Through two long nights and days.

XIV.

For aged folk on crutches,

And women great with child,

And mothers sobbing over babes

That clung to them and smiled;

And sick men borne in litters

High on the necks of slaves,

And troops of sunburnt husbandmen

With reaping-hooks and staves;

XV.

And droves of mules and asses

Laden with skins of wine,

And endless flocks of goats and sheep,

And endless herds of kine,

And endless trains of wagons

That creaked beneath the weight

Of corn-sacks and of household goods,

Choked every roaring gate.

XVI.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian,

Could the wan burghers spy

The line of blazing villages

Red in the midnight sky,

The Fathers of the City,

They sat all night and day,

For every hour some horseman came

With tidings of dismay.

XVII.

To eastward and to westward

Have spread the Tuscan bands;

Nor house nor fence nor dovecot

In Crustumerium stands.

Verbenna down to Ostia

Hath wasted all the plain;

Astur hath stormed Janiculum,

And the stout guards are slain.

XVIII.

I wis, in all the Senate,

There was no heart so bold

But sore it ached and fast it beat

When that ill news was told.

Forthwith up rose the Consul,

Up rose the Fathers all;

In haste they girded up their gowns

And hied them to the wall.

XIX.

They held a council standing

Before the River Gate;

Short time was there, ye well may guess,

For musing or debate.

Out spake the Consul roundly,

"The bridge must straight go down,

For, since Janiculum is lost,

Naught else can save the town."

XX.

Just then a scout came flying,

All wild with haste and fear:

"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul;

Lars Porsena is here!"

On the low hills to westward

The Consul fixed his eye,

And saw the swarthy storm of dust

Rise fast along the sky.

XXI.

And nearer fast, and nearer,

Doth the red whirlwind come;

And louder still, and still more loud,

From underneath that rolling cloud,

Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud,

The trampling and the hum.

And plainly and more plainly

Now through the gloom appears,

Far to left and far to right,

In broken gleams of dark-blue light,

The long array of helmets bright,

The long array of spears.

XXII.

And plainly and more plainly,

Above that glimmering line,

Now might ye see the banners

Of twelve fair cities shine;

But the banner of proud Clusium

Was highest of them all,

The terror of the Umbrian,

The terror of the Gaul.

XXIII.

And plainly and more plainly.

Now might the burghers know,

By port and vest, by horse and crest,

Each warlike Lucumo.

There Cilnius of Arretium

On his fleet roan was seen;

And Astur of the fourfold shield,

Girt with the brand none else may wield,

Tolumnius with the belt of gold,

And dark Verbenna from the hold

By reedy Thrasymene.

XXIV.

Fast by the royal standard,

O'erlooking all the war,

Lars Porsena of Clusium

Sat in his ivory car.

By the right wheel rode Mamilius,

Prince of the Latian name;

And by the left false Sextus,

That wrought the deed of shame.

XXV.

But when the face of Sextus

Was seen among the foes,

A yell that rent the firmament

From all the town arose.

On the house-tops was no woman

But spat toward him and hissed,

No child but screamed out curses

And shook its little fist.

XXVI.

But the Consul's brow was sad,

And the Consul's speech was low,

And darkly looked he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe.

"Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down;

And if they once may win the bridge

What hope to save the town?"

XXVII.

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the Gate:

"To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers

And the temples of his gods.

XXVIII.

"And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest,

And for the wife who nurses

His baby at her breast,

And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame,

To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame?

XXIX.

"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play.

In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand,

And keep the bridge with me?"

XXX.

Then out spake Spurius Lartius,

A Ramnian proud was he:

"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand

And keep the bridge with thee."

And out spake strong Herminius,

Of Titian blood was he:

"I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee."

XXXI.

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,

"As thou sayest, so let it be."

And straight against that great array

Forth went the dauntless Three.

For Romans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold,

Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,

In the brave days of old.

XXXII.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the State;

Then the great man helped the poor,

And the poor man loved the great;

Then lands were fairly portioned;

Then spoils were fairly sold;

The Romans were like brothers

In the brave days of old.

XXXIII.

Now Roman is to Roman

More hateful than a foe;

And the Tribunes beard the high,

And the Fathers grind the low.

As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold;

Wherefore men fight not as they fought

In the brave days of old.