'No,' said Paul, 'for when she called you to the chaise door

Produced by David Edwards, Ross Cooling and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at

http://www.pgdpcanada.net. (This file was produced from

images generously made available by The Internet

Archive/American Libraries.)

[Illustration: The BLUE JAR Story Book]

[Illustration: "The guinea,--the guinea, sir, that you got from this

child!"--Page 35]

THE _Blue Jar_ STORY BOOK

[Illustration]

By MARIA EDGEWORTH, CHARLES LAMB, MARY LAMB, ALICIA C. MANT,

and OTHERS.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

McLOUGHLIN BROTHERS

Copyright, 1906, by

McLoughlin Bros., New York.

[Illustration: The BLUE JAR STORY BOOK CONTENTS]

PAGE

The Blue Jar 5

The Basket Woman 15

The Sea Voyage 39

The Changeling 49

The Inquisitive Girl 69

The Little Blue Bag 81

[Illustration: The moment it was on the table Rosamond ran up to it

with an exclamation of joy.]

[Illustration: _The Blue Jar_ Story Book.]

_THE BLUE JAR._

MARIA EDGEWORTH

Rosamond, a little girl about seven years of age, was walking with her

mother in the streets of London. As she passed along she looked in at

the windows of several shops, and saw a great variety of different sorts

of things, of which she did not know the use or even the names. She

wished to stop to look at them, but there was a great number of people

in the streets, and a great many carts, carriages, and wheelbarrows, and

she was afraid to let go her mother's hand.

'Oh, mother, how happy I should be,' she said, as she passed a toy-shop,

'if I had all these pretty things!'

'What, all! Do you wish for them all, Rosamond?'

'Yes, mother, all.'

As she spoke they came to a milliner's shop, the windows of which were

decorated with ribands and lace and festoons of artificial flowers.

'Oh mother, what beautiful roses! Won't you buy some of them?'

'No, my dear.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't want them, my dear.'

They went a little farther, and came to another shop, which caught

Rosamond's eye. It was a jeweller's shop, and in it were a great many

pretty baubles, ranged in drawers behind glass.

'Mother, will you buy some of these?'

'Which of them, Rosamond?'

'Which? I don't know which; any of them will do, for they are all

pretty.'

'Yes, they are all pretty; but of what use would they be to me?'

'Use! Oh, I'm sure you could find some use or other for them if you

would only buy them first.'

'But I would rather find out the use first.'

'Well, then, mother, there are buckles; you know that buckles are useful

things, very useful things.'

'I have a pair of buckles; I don't want another pair,' said her mother,

and walked on. Rosamond was very sorry that her mother wanted nothing.

Presently, however, they came to a shop which appeared to her far more

beautiful than the rest. It was a chemist's shop, but she did not know

that.

'Oh, mother, oh!' cried she, pulling her mother's hand, 'look,

look!--blue, green, red, yellow, and purple! Oh, mother, what beautiful

things! Won't you buy some of these?'

Still her mother answered as before: 'Of what use would they be to me,

Rosamond?'

'You might put flowers in them, mother, and they would look so pretty on

the chimney-piece. I wish I had one of them.'

'You have a flower-pot,' said her mother, 'and that is not a

flower-pot.'

'But I could use it for a flower-pot, mother, you know.'

'Perhaps, if you were to see it nearer, if you were to examine it, you

might be disappointed.'

'No, indeed, I'm sure I should not; I should like it exceedingly.'

Rosamond kept her head turned to look at the blue vase till she could

see it no longer.

'Then, mother,' said she, after a pause, 'perhaps you have no money.'

'Yes, I have.'

'Dear me! if I had money I would buy roses, and boxes, and buckles, and

blue flower-pots, and everything.' Rosamond was obliged to pause in the

midst of her speech. 'Oh, mother, would you stop a minute for me? I have

got a stone in my shoe; it hurts me very much.'

'How comes there to be a stone in your shoe?'

'Because of this great hole, mother; it comes in there. My shoes are

quite worn out. I wish you would be so very good as to give me another

pair.'

'Nay, Rosamond, but I have not money enough to buy shoes, and

flower-pots, and buckles, and boxes, and everything.'

Rosamond thought that was a great pity. But now her foot, which had been

hurt by the stone, began to give her so much pain that she was obliged

to hop every other step, and she could think of nothing else. They came

to a shoemaker's shop soon afterwards.

'There, there, mother, there are shoes; there are little shoes that

would just fit me, and you know shoes would be really of use to me.'

'Yes, so they would, Rosamond. Come in.' She followed her mother into

the shop.

Mr. Sole, the shoemaker, had a great many customers, and his shop was

full, so they were obliged to wait.

'Well, Rosamond,' said her mother, 'you don't think this shop so pretty

as the rest?'

'No, not nearly; it is black and dark, and there are nothing but shoes

all round, and, besides, there's a very disagreeable smell.'

'That smell is the smell of new leather.'

'Is, it? Oh,' said Rosamond looking round 'there is a pair of little

shoes; they'll just fit me, I'm sure.'

'Perhaps they might, but you cannot be sure till you have tried them on,

any more than you can be quite sure that you should like the blue vase

_exceedingly_ till you have examined it more attentively.'

'Why, I don't know about the shoes, certainly, till I have tried; but,

mother, I am quite sure that I should like the flower-pot.'

'Well, which would you rather have--that jar or a pair of shoes? I will

buy either for you.'

'Dear mother, thank you! but if you could buy both?'

'No, not both.'

'Then the jar, if you please.'

'But I should tell you, that in that case I shall not give you another

pair of shoes this month.'

'This month! that's a very long time indeed! You can't think how these

hurt me. I believe I'd better have the new shoes. Yet, that blue

flower-pot. Oh, indeed, mother, these shoes are not so very very bad! I

think I might wear them a little longer, and the month will soon be

over. I can make them last till the end of the month, can't I? Don't you

think so, mother?'

'Nay, my dear, I want you to think for yourself; you will have time

enough to consider the matter whilst I speak to Mr. Sole about my

clogs.'

Mr. Sole was by this time at leisure, and whilst her mother was speaking

to him Rosamond stood in profound meditation, with one shoe on and the

other in her hand.

'Well, my dear, have you decided?'

'Mother! yes, I believe I have. If you please, I should like to have the

flower-pot; that is, if you won't think me very silly, mother.'

'Why, as to that, I can't promise you, Rosamond; but, when you have to

judge for yourself, you should choose what will make you happy, and then

it would not signify who thought you silly.'

'Then, mother, if that's all, I'm sure the flower-pot would make me

happy,' said she, putting on her old shoe again; 'so I choose the

flower-pot.'

'Very well, you shall have it. Clasp your shoe, and come home.'

Rosamond clasped her shoe and ran after her mother. It was not long

before the shoe came down at the heel, and many times she was obliged to

stop to take the stones out of it, and she often limped with pain; but

still the thoughts of the blue flower-pot prevailed, and she persisted

in her choice.

When they came to the shop with the large window Rosamond felt much

pleasure upon hearing her mother desire the servant who was with them to

buy the blue jar, and bring it home. He had other commissions, so he did

not return with them. Rosamond as soon as she got in ran to gather all

her own flowers, which she kept in a corner of her mother's garden.

'I am afraid they'll be dead before the flower-pot comes, Rosamond,'

said her mother to her, as she came in with the flowers in her lap.

'No, indeed, mother; it will come home very soon, I dare say. I shall be

very happy putting them into the blue flower-pot.'

'I hope so, my dear.'

The servant was much longer returning home than Rosamond had expected;

but at length he came, and brought with him the long-wished-for jar. The

moment it was set down upon the table, Rosamond ran up to it with an

exclamation of joy. 'I may have it now, mother?'

'Yes, my dear! it is yours.'

Rosamond poured the flowers from her lap upon the carpet, and seized the

blue flower-pot.

'Oh, dear mother,' cried she, as soon as she had taken off the top, 'but

there's something dark in it which smells very disagreeably. What is it?

I didn't want this black stuff.'

'Nor I, my dear.'

'But what shall I do with it, mother?'

'That I cannot tell.'

'It will be of no use to me, mother.'

'That I cannot help.'

'But I must pour it out, and fill the flower-pot with water.'

'As you please, my dear.'

'Will you lend me a bowl to pour it into, mother?'

'That was more than I promised you, my dear, but I will lend you a

bowl.'

The bowl was produced, and Rosamond proceeded to empty the blue vase.

But she experienced much surprise and disappointment on finding, when it

was entirely empty, that it was no longer a _blue_ vase. It was a plain

white glass jar, which had appeared to have that beautiful colour

merely from the liquor with which it had been filled.

Little Rosamond burst into tears.

'Why should you cry, my dear?' said her mother; 'it will be of as much

use to you now as ever for a flower-pot.'

'But it won't look so pretty on the chimney-piece. I am sure, if I had

known that it was not really blue, I should not have wished to have it

so much.'

'But didn't I tell you that you had not examined it, and that perhaps

you would be disappointed?'

'And so I am disappointed, indeed. I wish I had believed you at once.

Now I had much rather have the shoes, for I shall not be able to walk

all this month; even walking home that little way hurt me exceedingly.

Mother, I will give you the flower-pot back again, and that blue stuff

and all, if you'll only give me the shoes.'

'No, Rosamond; you must abide by your own choice, and now the best thing

you can possibly do is to bear your disappointment with good humour.'

'I will bear it as well as I can,' said Rosamond, wiping her eyes; and

she began slowly and sorrowfully to fill the vase with flowers.

But Rosamond's disappointment did not end here. Many were the

difficulties and distresses into which her imprudent choice brought her

before the end of the month. Every day her shoes grew worse and worse,

till at last she could neither run, dance, jump, nor walk in them.

Whenever Rosamond was called to see anything, she was detained pulling

her shoes up at the heels, and was sure to be too late. Whenever her

mother was going out to walk, she could not take Rosamond with her, for

Rosamond had no soles to her shoes; and at length, on the very last day

of the month, it happened that her father proposed to take her, with her

brother, to a glasshouse which she had long wished to see. She was very

happy; but when she was quite ready, had her hat and gloves on, and was

making haste downstairs to her brother and father, who were waiting for

her at the hall-door, the shoe dropped off. She put it on again in a

great hurry, but as she was going across the hall her father turned

round. 'Why are you walking slipshod? no one must walk slipshod with me.

Why, Rosamond,' said he, looking at her shoes with disgust, 'I thought

that you were always neat. Go; I cannot take you with me.'

Rosamond coloured and retired. 'Oh, mother,' said she, as she took off

her hat, 'how I wish that I had chosen the shoes! They would have been

of so much more use to me than that jar. However, I am sure--no, not

quite sure, but I hope I shall be wiser another time.'

_THE BASKET-WOMAN_

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

At the foot of a steep, slippery, white hill, near Dunstable, in

Bedfordshire, called Chalk Hill, there is a hut, or rather a hovel,

which travellers would scarcely suppose could be inhabited, if they did

not see the smoke rising from its peaked roof. An old woman lived in

this hovel, many years ago, and with her a little boy and girl, the

children of a beggar who died and left these orphans perishing with

hunger. They thought themselves very happy when the good old woman first

took them into her hut, and bid them warm themselves at her small fire,

and gave them a crust of mouldy bread to eat. She had not much to give,

but what she had she gave with goodwill. She was very kind to these poor

children, and worked hard at her spinning-wheel and at her knitting to

support herself and them. She earned money also in another way. She used

to follow all the carriages as they went up Chalk Hill, and when the

horses stopped to take breath or to rest themselves, she put stones

behind the carriage-wheels to prevent them from rolling backwards down

the steep, slippery hill.

The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the good-natured old

woman's spinning wheel when she was spinning, and to talk to her. At

these times she taught them something, which she said she hoped they

would remember all their lives. She explained to them what is meant by

telling the truth, and what it is to be honest. She taught them to

dislike idleness, and to wish that they could be useful.

One evening, as they were standing beside her, the little boy said to

her: 'Grandmother'--for that was the name by which she liked that these

children should call her--'grandmother, how often you are forced to get

up from your spinning-wheel, and to follow the chaises and coaches up

that steep hill, to put stones underneath the wheels to hinder them from

rolling back! The people who are in the carriages give you a halfpenny

or a penny for doing so, don't they?'

'Yes, child.'

'But it is very hard work for you to go up and down that hill. You often

say that you are tired. And then you know that you cannot spin all that

time. Now, if we might go up the hill, and put the stones behind the

wheels, you could sit still at your work; and would not the people give

us the halfpence? and could not we bring them all to you? Do, pray, dear

grandmother, try us for one day--to-morrow will you?'

'Yes,' said the old woman, 'I will try what you can do; but I must go up

the hill along with you for the first two or three times, for fear you

should get yourselves hurt.'

So the next day the little boy and girl went with their grandmother, as

they used to call her, up the steep hill, and she showed the boy how to

prevent the wheels from rolling back by putting stones behind them, and

she said: 'This is called scotching the wheels,' and she took off the

boy's hat and gave it to the little girl to hold up to the

carriage-windows ready for the halfpence.

When she thought that the children knew how to manage by themselves she

left them and returned to her spinning-wheel. A great many carriages

happened to go by this day, and the little girl received a great many

halfpence. She carried them all in her brother's hat to her grandmother

in the evening, and the old woman smiled and thanked the children. She

said that they had been useful to her, and that her spinning had gone on

finely, because she had been able to sit still at her wheel all day.

'But, Paul, my boy,' said she, 'what is the matter with your hand?'

'Only a pinch--only one pinch that I got as I was putting a stone behind

a wheel of a chaise. It does not hurt me much, grandmother, and I've

thought of a good thing for to-morrow. I shall never be hurt again if

you will only be so good as to give me the old handle of the broken

crutch, grandmother, and the block of wood that lies in the

chimney-corner, and that is of no use. I'll make it of some use, if I

may have it.'

'Take it, then, dear,' said the old woman, 'and you'll find the handle

of the broken crutch under my bed.'

Paul went to work immediately, and fastened one end of the pole into the

block of wood, so as to make something like a dry-rubbing brush.

'Look, grandmother--look at my _scotcher_! I call this thing my

_scotcher_,' said Paul, 'because I shall always scotch the wheels with

it. I shall never pinch my fingers again; my hands, you see, will be

safe at the end of this long stick. And, Sister Anne, you need not be at

the trouble of carrying any more stones after me up the hill; we shall

never want stones any more. My scotcher will do without anything else, I

hope. I wish it was morning, and that a carriage would come, that I

might run up the hill and try my scotcher.'

[Illustration: "Look, grandmother--look at my scotcher!"]

'And I wish that as many chaises may go by to-morrow as there did

to-day, and that we may bring you as many halfpence, too, grandmother,'

said the little girl.

'So do I, my dear Anne,' said the old woman, 'for I mean that you and

your brother shall have all the money that you get to-morrow. You may

buy some ginger bread for yourselves, or some of those ripe plums that

you saw at the fruit-stall the other day, which is just going into

Dunstable. I told you then that I could not afford to buy such things

for you, but now that you can earn halfpence for yourselves, children,

it is fair you should taste a ripe plum and bit of gingerbread for once

and a way in your lives.'

'We'll bring some of the gingerbread home to her, shan't we, brother?'

whispered little Anne.

The morning came, but no carriages were heard though Paul and his sister

had risen at five o'clock that they might be sure to be ready for early

travellers. Paul kept his scotcher poised upon his shoulder, and watched

eagerly at his station at the bottom of the hill. He did not wait long

before a carriage came. He followed it up the hill, and the instant the

postillion called to him and bade him stop the wheels, he put his

scotcher behind them, and found that it answered the purpose perfectly

well.

Many carriages went by this day, and Paul and Anne received a great many

halfpence from the travellers.

When it grew dusk in the evening Anne said to her brother: 'I don't

think any more carriages will come by to-day. Let us count the

halfpence, and carry them home now to grandmother.'

'No, not yet,' answered Paul; 'let them alone--let them lie still in the

hole where I have put them. I dare say more carriages will come by

before it is quite dark, and then we shall have more halfpence.'

Paul had taken the halfpence out of his hat, and he had put them into a

hole in the high bank by the roadside, and Anne said she would not

meddle with them, and that she would wait till her brother liked to

count them; and Paul said: 'If you will stay and watch here, I will go

and gather some blackberries for you in the hedge in yonder field. Stand

you hereabouts, half-way up the hill, and the moment you see any

carriage coming along the road run as fast as you can and call me.'

Anne waited a long time, or what she thought a long time, and she saw no

carriage and she trailed her brother's scotcher up and down till she was

tired. Then she stood still and looked again, and she saw no carriage,

so she went sorrowfully into the field and to the hedge where her

brother was gathering blackberries, and she said:

'Paul, I'm sadly tired--_sadly tired!_' said she, 'and my eyes are quite

strained with looking for chaises. No more chaises will come to-night,

and your scotcher is lying there, of no use, upon the ground. Have not I

waited long enough for to-day, Paul?'

'Oh no,' said Paul. 'Here are some blackberries for you; you had better

wait a little bit longer. Perhaps a carriage might go by whilst you are

standing here talking to me.'

Anne, who was of a very obliging temper, and who liked to do what she

was asked to do, went back to the place where the scotcher lay, and

scarcely had she reached the spot when she heard the noise of a

carriage. She ran to call her brother, and, to their great joy, they now

saw four chaises coming towards them. Paul, as soon as they went up the

hill, followed with his scotcher. First he scotched the wheels of one

carriage, then of another; and Anne was so much delighted with observing

how well the scotcher stopped the wheels, and how much better it was

than stones, that she forgot to go and hold her brother's hat to the

travellers for halfpence, till she was roused by the voice of a little

rosy girl who was looking out of the window of one of the chaises. 'Come

close to the chaise-door,' said the little girl; 'here are some

halfpence for you.'

Anne held the hat, and she afterwards went on to the other carriages.

Money was thrown to her from each of them, and when they had all gotten

safely to the top of the hill, she and her brother sat down upon a large

stone by the roadside to count their treasure. First they began by

counting what was in the hat--'One, two, three, four halfpence.'

'But, oh, brother, look at this!' exclaimed Anne; 'this is not the same

as the other halfpence.'

'No, indeed, it is not,' cried Paul; 'it is no halfpenny. It is a

guinea--a bright golden guinea!'

'Is it?' said Anne, who had never seen a guinea in her life before, and

who did not know its value, 'and will it do as well as a halfpenny to

buy gingerbread? I'll run to the fruit-stall and ask the woman, shall

I?'

'No, no,' said Paul, 'you need not ask any woman, or anybody but me. I

can tell you all about it as well as anybody in the whole world.'

'The whole world! Oh, Paul, you forgot. Not so well as my grandmother.'

'Why, not so well as my grandmother, perhaps; but, Anne, I can tell you

that you must not talk yourself, Anne, but you must listen to me

quietly, or else you won't understand what I am going to tell you; for I

can assure you that I don't think I quite understood it myself, Anne,

the first time my grandmother told it to me, though I stood stock-still

listening my best.'

Prepared by this speech to hear something very difficult to be

understood, Anne looked very grave, and her brother explained to her

that with a guinea she might buy two hundred and fifty-two times as many

plums as she could get for a penny.

'Why, Paul, you know the fruit-woman said she would give us a dozen

plums for a penny. Now, for this little guinea would she give us two

hundred and fifty-two dozen?'

'If she has so many, and if we like to have so many, to be sure she

will,' said Paul; 'but I think we should not like to have two hundred

and fifty-two dozen of plums; we could not eat such a number.'

'But we could give some of them to my grandmother,' said Anne.

'But still there would be too many for her, and for us, too,' said Paul,

'and when we had eaten the plums there would be an end to all the

pleasure. But now I'll tell you what I am thinking of, Anne, that we

might buy something for my grandmother that would be very useful to her

indeed with the guinea--something that would last a great while.'

[Illustration: "We might buy something very useful with the guinea."]

'What, brother? What sort of thing?'

'Something that she said she wanted very much last winter, when she was

so ill with the rheumatism--something that she said yesterday, when you

were making her bed, she wished she might be able to buy before next

winter.'

'I know, I know what you mean!' said Anne--'a blanket. Oh, yes, Paul,

that will be much better than plums; do let us buy a blanket for her.

How glad she will be to see it! I will make her bed with the new

blanket, and then bring her to look at it. But, Paul, how shall we buy a

blanket? Where are blankets to be got?'

'Leave that to me; I'll manage that. I know where blankets can be got; I

saw one hanging out of a shop the day I went last to Dunstable.'

'You have seen a great many things at Dunstable, brother.'

'Yes, a great many; but I never saw anything there or anywhere else that

I wished for half so much as I did for the blanket for my grandmother.

Do you remember how she used to shiver with the cold last winter? I'll

buy the blanket to-morrow. I'm going to Dunstable with her spinning.'

'And you'll bring the blanket to me, and I shall make the bed very

neatly. That will be all right--all happy!' said Anne, clapping her

hands.

'But stay! Hush! don't clap your hands so, Anne. It will not be all

happy, I'm afraid,' said Paul, and his countenance changed, and he

looked very grave. 'It will not be all right, I'm afraid, for there's

one thing we have neither of us thought of, but that we ought to think

about. We cannot buy the blanket, I'm afraid.'

'Why--Paul, why?'

'Because I don't think this guinea is honestly ours.'

'Nay, brother, but I'm sure it is honestly ours. It was given to us, and

grandmother said all that was given to us to-day was to be our own.'

'But who gave it to you, Anne?'

'Some of the people in those chaises, Paul. I don't know which of them,

but I dare say it was the little rosy girl.'

'No,' said Paul, 'for when she called you to the chaise door she said,

"Here's some halfpence for you." Now, if she gave you the guinea, she

must have given it to you by mistake.'

'Well, but perhaps some of the people in the other chaises gave it to

me, and did not give it to me by mistake, Paul. There was a gentleman

reading in one of the chaises, and a lady, who looked very

good-naturedly at me, and then the gentleman put down his book, and put

his head out of the window and looked at your scotcher, brother, and he

asked me if that was your own making; and when I said yes, and that I

was your sister, he smiled at me, and put his hand into his waistcoat

pocket, and threw a handful of halfpence into the hat, and I dare say he

gave us the guinea along with them because he liked your scotcher so

much.'

'Why,' said Paul, 'that might be, to be sure, but I wish I was quite

certain of it.'

'Then, as we are not quite certain, had not we best go and ask my

grandmother what she thinks about it?'

Paul thought this was excellent advice, and he was not a silly boy who

did not like to follow good advice. He went with his sister directly to

his grandmother, showed her the guinea and told her how they came by it.

'My dear honest children,' said she, 'I am very glad you told me all

this. I am very glad that you did not buy either the plums or the

blanket with this guinea. I'm sure it is not honestly ours. Those who

threw it you gave it you by mistake, I warrant, and what I would have

you do is to go to Dunstable, and try if you can at either of the inns

find out the person who gave it to you. It is now so late in the evening

that perhaps the travellers will sleep at Dunstable instead of going on

the next stage; and it is likely that whosoever gave you a guinea

instead of a halfpenny has found out their mistake by this time. All you

can do is to go and inquire for the gentleman who was reading in the

chaise.'

'Oh!' interrupted Paul, 'I know a good way of finding him out. I

remember it was a dark-green chaise with red wheels, and I remember I

read the innkeeper's name upon the chaise, "John Nelson." (I am much

obliged to you for teaching me to read, grandmother.) You told me

yesterday, grandmother, that the names written upon chaises are the

innkeepers to whom they belong. I read the name of the innkeeper upon

that chaise. It was John Nelson. So Anne and I will go to both the inns

in Dunstable, and try to find out this chaise--John Nelson's. Come,

Anne, let us set out before it gets quite dark.'

Anne and her brother passed with great courage the tempting stall that

was covered with gingerbread and ripe plums, and pursued their way

steadily through the streets of Dunstable; but Paul, when he came to the

shop where he had seen the blanket, stopped for a moment, and said: 'It

is a great pity, Anne, that the guinea is not ours. However, we are

doing what is honest, and that is a comfort. Here, we must go through

this gateway into the inn-yard; we are come to the Dun Cow.'

'Cow!' said Anne, 'I see no cow.'

'Look up, and you'll see the cow over your head,' said Paul--'the sign,

the picture. Come, never mind looking at it now; I want to find out the

green chaise that has John Nelson's name upon it.'

Paul pushed forward through a crowded passage till he got into the

inn-yard. There was a great noise and bustle. The ostlers were carrying

in luggage; the postillions were rubbing down the horses, or rolling the

chaises into the coach-house.

'What now? What business have you here, pray?' said a waiter, who almost

ran over Paul as he was crossing the yard in a great hurry to get some

empty bottles from the bottle-rack. 'You've no business here, crowding

up the yard. Walk off, young gentleman, if you please.'

'Pray give me leave, sir,' said Paul, 'to stay a few minutes to look

amongst these chaises for one dark-green chaise with red wheels that has

Mr. John Nelson's name written upon it.'

'What's that he says about a dark-green chaise?' said one of the

postillions.

'What should such a one as he is know about chaises?' interrupted the

hasty waiter, and he was going to turn Paul out of the yard; but the

ostler caught hold of his arm, and said: 'Maybe the child _has_ some

business here; let's know what he has to say for himself.'

The waiter was at this instant luckily obliged to leave them to attend

the bell, and Paul told his business to the ostler, who as soon as he

saw the guinea and heard the story shook Paul by the hand, and said:

'Stand steady, my honest lad. I'll find the chaise for you, if it is to

be found here; but John Nelson's chaises almost always drive to the

Black Bull.'

After some difficulty the green chaise with John Nelson's name upon it,

and the postillion who drove that chaise, were found, and the postillion

told Paul that he was just going into the parlour to the gentleman he

had driven to be paid, and that he would carry the guinea with him.

'No,' said Paul; 'we should like to give it back ourselves.'

'Yes,' said the ostler, 'that they have a right to do.'

The postillion made no reply, but looked vexed, and went on towards the

house, desiring the children would wait in the passage till his return.

In the passage there was standing a decent, clean, good-natured looking

woman with two huge straw baskets on each side of her. One of the

baskets stood a little in the way of the entrance. A man who was pushing

his way in, and carried in his hand a string of dead larks hung to a

pole, impatient at being stopped, kicked down the straw basket, and all

its contents were thrown out. Bright straw hats, and boxes, and

slippers, were all thrown in disorder upon the dirty ground.

'Oh, they will be trampled upon! They will all be spoiled!' exclaimed

the woman to whom they belonged.

'We'll help you to pick them up, if you will let us,' cried Paul and

Anne, and they immediately ran to her assistance.

When the things were all safe in the basket again the children expressed

a desire to know how such beautiful things could be made of straw, but

the woman had not time to answer before the postillion came out of the

parlour, and with him a gentleman's servant, who came to Paul, and

clapping him upon the back, said:

'So, my little chap, I gave you a guinea for a halfpenny, I hear, and I

understand you've brought it back again; that's right, give me hold of

it.'

'No, brother,' said Anne, 'this is not the gentleman that was reading.'

'Pooh, child! I came in Mr. Nelson's green chaise. Here's the postillion

can tell you so. I and my master came in that chaise. I and my master

that was reading, as you say, and it was he that threw the money out to

you. He is going to bed; he is tired, and can't see you himself. He

desires that you'll give me the guinea.'

Paul was too honest himself to suspect that this man was telling him a

falsehood, and he now readily produced his bright guinea, and delivered

it into the servant's hands.

'Here's a sixpence apiece for you, children,' said he, 'and good-night

to you.' He pushed them towards the door, but the basket-woman whispered

to them as they went out: 'Wait in the street till I come to you.'

'Pray, Mrs. Landlady,' cried this gentleman's servant, addressing

himself to the landlady, who just then came out of a room where some

company at supper--'pray, Mrs. Landlady, please to let me have roasted

larks for my supper. You are famous for larks at Dunstable, and I make

it a rule to taste the best of everything wherever I go; and, waiter,

let me have a bottle of claret. Do you hear?'

'Larks and claret for his supper,' said the basket-woman to herself as

she looked at him from head to foot. The postillion was still waiting,

as if to speak to him, and she observed them afterwards whispering and

laughing together. '_No bad hit_,' was a sentence which the servant

pronounced several times.

Now, it occurred to the basket-woman that this man had cheated the

children out of the guinea to pay for the larks and claret, and she

thought that perhaps she could discover the truth. She waited quietly in

the passage.

'Waiter! Joe! Joe!' cried the landlady, 'why don't you carry in the

sweetmeat-puffs and the tarts here to the company in the best parlour?'

'Coming, ma'am,' answered the waiter, and with a large dish of tarts and

puffs he came from the bar. The landlady threw open the door of the best

parlour to let him in, and the basket-woman had now a full view of a

large cheerful company, and amongst them several children, sitting round

a supper-table.

'Ay,' whispered the landlady, as the door closed after the waiter and

the tarts, 'there are customers enough, I warrant, for you in that room,

if you had but the luck to be called in. Pray, what would you have the

conscience, I wonder now, to charge me for these here half-dozen little

mats to put under my dishes?'

'A trifle, ma'am,' said the basket-woman. She let the landlady have the

mats cheap, and the landlady then declared she would step in and see if

the company in the best parlour had done supper. 'When they come to

their wine,' added she, 'I'll speak a good word for you, and get you

called in afore the children are sent to bed.'

The landlady, after the usual speech of '_I hope the supper and

everything is to your liking, ladies and gentlemen_,' began with: 'If

any of the young gentlemen or ladies would have a _cur'osity_ to see any

of our famous Dunstable straw-work there's a decent body without would,

I dare say, be proud to show them her pincushion-boxes, and her baskets

and slippers, and her other _cur'osities_.'

The eyes of the children all turned towards their mother; their mother

smiled, and immediately their father called in the basket-woman, and

desired her to produce her _curiosities_. The children gathered round

her large pannier as it opened, but they did not touch any of her

things.

'Ah, papa,' cried a little rosy girl, 'here are a pair of straw slippers

that would just fit you, I think; but would not straw shoes wear out

very soon, and would not they let in the wet?'

'Yes, my dear,' said her father, 'but these slippers are meant--'

'For powdering-slippers, miss,' interrupted the basket-woman.

'To wear when people are powdering their hair,' continued the gentleman,

'that they may not spoil their other shoes.'

'And will you buy them, papa?'

'No, I cannot indulge myself,' said her father, 'in buying them now. I

must make amends,' said he, laughing, 'for my carelessness, and as I

threw away a guinea to-day I must endeavour to save sixpence at least.'

'Ah, the guinea that you threw by mistake into the little girl's hat as

we were coming up Chalk Hill. Mamma, I wonder that the little girl did

not take notice of its being a guinea, and that she did not run after

the chaise to give it back again. I should think, if she had been an

honest girl, she would have returned it.'

'Miss!--ma'am!--sir!' said the basket-woman, 'if it would not be

impertinent, may I speak a word? A little boy and girl have just been

here inquiring for a gentleman who gave them a guinea instead of a

halfpenny by mistake and not five minutes ago I saw the boy give the

guinea to a gentleman's servant, who is there without, and who said his

master desired it should be returned to him.'

'There must be some mistake or some trick in this,' said the gentleman.

'Are the children gone? I must see them; send after them.'

'I'll go for them myself,' said the good-natured basket-woman. 'I bid

them wait in the street yonder, for my mind misgave me that the man who

spoke so short to them was a cheat, with his larks and his claret.'

Paul and Anne were speedily summoned, and brought back by their friend

the basket-woman; and Anne, the moment she saw the gentleman, knew that

he was the very person who smiled upon her, who admired her brother's

scotcher, and who threw a handful of halfpence into the hat; but she

could not be certain, she said, that she received the guinea from him:

she only thought it most likely that she did.

'But I can be certain whether the guinea you returned be mine or no,'

said the gentleman. 'I marked the guinea; it was a light one, the only

guinea I had, which I put into my waistcoat pocket this morning.' He

rang the bell, and desired the waiter to let the gentleman who was in

the room opposite to him know that he wished to see him.

'The gentleman in the white parlour, sir, do you mean?'

'I mean the master of the servant who received a guinea from this

child.'

'He is a Mr. Pembroke, sir,' said the waiter.

Mr. Pembroke came, and as soon as he heard what had happened he desired

the waiter to show him to the room where his servant was at supper. The

dishonest servant who was supping upon larks and claret, knew nothing of

what was going on; but his knife and fork dropped from his hand, and he

overturned a bumper of claret as he started up from the table in great

surprise and terror, when his master came in with a face of indignation,

and demanded, '_The guinea--the guinea, sir_, that you got from this

child! that guinea which you said I ordered you to ask for from this

child!'

The servant, confounded and half intoxicated, could only stammer out

that he had more guineas than one about him, and that he really did not

know which it was. He pulled his money out, and spread it upon the table

with trembling hands. The marked guinea appeared. His master instantly

turned him out of his service, with strong expressions of contempt.

'And now, my little honest girl,' said the gentleman who had admired her

brother's scotcher, turning to Anne--'and now tell me who you are, and

what you and your brother want or wish for most in the world.'

In the same moment Anne and Paul exclaimed: 'The thing we wish for the

most in the world is a blanket for our grandmother.'

'She is not our grandmother in reality, I believe sir,' said Paul; 'but

she is just as good to us, and taught me to read, and taught Anne to

knit, and taught us both that we should be honest--so she has, and I

wish she had a new blanket before next winter to keep her from the cold

and the rheumatism. She had the rheumatism sadly last winter, sir, and

there is a blanket in this street that would be just the thing for her.'

'She shall have it, then; and,' continued the gentleman, 'I will do

something more for you. Do you like to be employed or to be idle best?'

'We like to have something to do always, if we could, sir,' said Paul;

'but we are forced to be idle sometimes, because grandmother has not

always things for us to do that we _can_ do well.'

'Should you like to learn how to make such baskets as these?' said the

gentleman, pointing to one of the Dunstable straw baskets.

'Oh, very much!' said Paul.

'Very much!' said Anne.

'Then I should like to teach you how to make them,' said the

basket-woman, 'for I'm sure of one thing, that you'd behave honestly to

me.'

The gentleman put a guinea into the good natured basket-woman's hand,

and told her that he knew she could not afford to teach them her trade

for nothing. 'I shall come through Dunstable again in a few months,'

added he, 'and I hope to see that you and your scholars are going on

well. If I find that they are I will do something more for you.'

'But,' said Anne, 'we must tell all this to grandmother, and ask her

about it; and I'm afraid--though I'm very happy--that it is getting very

late, and that we should not stay here any longer.'

'It is a fine moonlight night,' said the basket-woman, 'and is not far.

I'll walk with you, and see you safe home myself.'

The gentleman detained them a few minutes longer, till a messenger whom

he had despatched to purchase the much-wished-for blanket returned.

'Your grandmother will sleep well upon this good blanket, I hope,' said

the gentleman, as he gave it into Paul's opened arms. 'It has been

obtained for her by the honesty of her adopted children.'

[Illustration]

_THE SEA VOYAGE._

CHARLES LAMB.

I was born in the East Indies. I lost my father and mother young. At the

age of five my relations thought it proper that I should be sent to

England for my education. I was to be entrusted to the care of a young

woman who had a character for great humanity and discretion; but just as

I had taken leave of my friends, and we were about to take our passage,

the young woman suddenly fell sick, and could not go on board. In this

unpleasant emergency, no one knew how to act. The ship was at the very

point of sailing, and it was the last which was to sail for the season.

At length the captain, who was known to my friends, prevailed upon my

relation who had come with us to see us embark to leave the young woman

on shore, and to let me embark separately. There was no possibility of

getting any other female attendant for me in the short time allotted for

our preparation, and the opportunity of going by that ship was thought

too valuable to be lost. No other ladies happened to be going, and so I

was consigned to the care of the captain and his crew--rough and

unaccustomed attendants for a young creature, delicately brought up as

I had been; but, indeed, they did their best to make me not feel the

difference. The unpolished sailors were my nursery-maids and my

waiting-women. Everything was done by the captain and the men to

accommodate me and make me easy. I had a little room made out of the

cabin, which was to be considered as my room, and nobody might enter

into it. The first mate made a great character for bravery, and all

sailor-like accomplishments; but with all this he had a gentleness of

manners, and a pale, feminine cast of face, from ill-health and a weakly

constitution, which subjected him to some ridicule from the officers,

and caused him to be named Betsy. He did not much like the appellation,

but he submitted to it the better, saying that those who gave him a

woman's name well knew that he had a man's heart, and that in the face

of danger he would go as far as any man. To this young man, whose real

name was Charles Atkinson, by a lucky thought of the captain the care of

me was especially entrusted. Betsy was proud of his charge, and, to do

him justice, acquitted himself with great diligence and adroitness

through the whole of the voyage. From the beginning I had somehow looked

upon Betsy as a woman, hearing him so spoken of, and this reconciled me

in some measure to the want of a maid, which I had been used to. But I

was a manageable girl at all times, and gave nobody much trouble.

I have not knowledge enough to give an account of my voyage, or to

remember the names of the seas we passed through or the lands which we

touched upon in our course. The chief thing I can remember (for I do not

recollect the events of the voyage in any order) was Atkinson taking me

upon deck to see the great whales playing about the sea. There was one

great whale came bounding up out of the sea, and then he would dive into

it again, and then he would come up at a distance where nobody expected

him, and another whale was following after him. Atkinson said they were

at play, and that the lesser whale loved that bigger whale, and kept it

company all through the wide seas; but I thought it strange play and a

frightful kind of love, for I every minute expected they would come up

to our ship and toss it. But Atkinson said a whale was a gentle

creature, and it was a sort of sea-elephant, and that the most powerful

creatures in Nature are always the least hurtful. And he told me how men

went out to take these whales, and stuck long pointed darts into them;

and how the sea was discoloured with the blood of these poor whales for

many miles' distance; and I admired the courage of the men, but I was

sorry for the inoffensive whale. Many other pretty sights he used to

show me, when he was not on watch or doing some duty for the ship. No

one was more attentive to his duty than he, but at such times as he had

leisure he would show me all pretty sea-sights: the dolphins and

porpoises that came before a storm, and all the colours which the sea

changed to--how sometimes it was a deep blue, and then a deep green, and

sometimes it would seem all on fire. All these various appearances he

would show me, and attempt to explain the reason of them to me, as well

as my young capacity would admit of. There were a lion and a tiger on

board going to England as a present to the King, and it was a great

diversion to Atkinson and me, after I had got rid of my first terrors,

to see the ways of these beasts in their dens, and how venturous the

sailors were in putting their hands through the grates, and patting

their rough coats. Some of the men had monkeys, which ran loose about,

and the sport was for the men to lose them, and find them again. The

monkeys would run up the shrouds and pass from rope to rope, with ten

times greater alacrity than the most experienced sailor could follow

them, and sometimes they would hide themselves in the most unthought-of

places, and when they were found, they would grin and make mouths, as if

they had sense. Atkinson described to me the ways of these little

animals in their native woods, for he had seen them. Oh, how many ways

he thought of to amuse me in that long voyage!

[Illustration: "He would show me all pretty sea-sights."]

Sometimes he would describe to me the odd shapes and varieties of fishes

that were in the sea, and tell me tales of the sea-monsters that lay hid

at the bottom, and were seldom seen by men, and what a glorious sight it

would be if our eyes could be sharpened to behold all the inhabitants

of the sea at once, swimming in the great deeps, as plain as we see the

gold and silver fish in a bowl of glass. With such notions he enlarged

my infant capacity to take in many things.

When in foul weather I have been terrified at the motion of the vessel,

as it rocked backwards and forwards, he would still my fears, and tell

me that I used to be rocked so once in a cradle, and that the sea was

God's bed and the ship our cradle, and we were as safe in that great

motion as when we felt that lesser one in our little wooden

sleeping-places. When the wind was up, and sang through the sails, and

disturbed me with its violent clamours, he would call it music, and bid

me hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he quieted my tender

apprehensions. When I have looked around with a mournful face at seeing

all _men_ about me, he would enter into my thoughts, and tell me pretty

stories of his mother and his sisters, and a female cousin that he loved

better than his sisters, whom he called Jenny, and say that when we got

to England I should go and see them, and how fond Jenny would be of his

little daughter, as he called me; and with these images of women and

females which he raised in my fancy he quieted me for a while. One time,

and never but once he told me that Jenny had promised to be his wife if

ever he came to England, but that he had his doubts whether he should

live to get home, for he was very sickly. This made me cry bitterly.

That I dwell so long upon the attention of this Atkinson is only because

his death, which happened just before we got to England, affected me so

much, that he alone of all the ship's crew has engrossed my mind ever

since, though, indeed, the captain and all were singularly kind to me,

and strove to make up for my uneasy and unnatural situation. The

boatswain would pipe for my diversion, and the sailor-boy would climb

the dangerous mast for my sport. The rough foremast-man would never

willingly appear before me till he had combed his long black hair smooth

and sleek, not to terrify me. The officers got up a sort of play for my

amusement, and Atkinson, or, as they called him, Betsy, acted the

heroine of the piece. All ways that could be contrived were thought upon

to reconcile me to my lot. I was the universal favourite. I do not know

how deservedly, but I suppose it was because I was alone, and there was

no female in the ship besides me. Had I come over with female relations

or attendants, I should have excited no particular curiosity, I should

have required no uncommon attentions. I was one little woman among a

crew of men, and I believe the homage which I have read that men

universally pay to women was in this case directed to me, in the absence

of all other womankind. I do not know how that might be, but I was a

little princess among them, and I was not six years old.