must be half filled with water, and on blowing into the spout a
melodious gurgling arises. This is supposed to be an exact imitation of
the ravishing song of the sad poetic nightingale. Then there is a drum,
a trumpet, a triangle, and many other things conducive to noise and
music. Each performer has a separate sheet to read his notes from, and
the effort to count properly, to wait for rests, and to make the right
entrances, gives much serious employment. But when at last everything
goes well together the effect is very merry and pleasing. One of
Chwatal's symphonies is called 'The Sleigh-Ride.' The jingling of a set
of small sleigh-bells is a feature in this. I should think," added Mrs.
Martin, "that some of these symphonies would be a great addition to your
musicals, and give lots of fun. The trumpeter of the occasion must take
pains, however, not to fall into the error of the man who blew a
tremendous blast upon his horn in the middle of a piece of music,
producing a horrid discord. When the leader asked him, angrily, 'What in
the world did you play that dreadful wrong note for?' the man meekly
replied, 'Ach Himmel, there was a fly on the fourth line of the staff,
and I _played him_!' Nor must you," went on Mrs. Martin, smiling at her
reminiscences, "copy the negligent daring of a friend of mine who sang
in a well-known German _Verein_. Things had been going badly, and
finally the conductor in despair cried out, as he stamped his foot and
gesticulated wildly, 'Tenors, tenors, you are a measure behind!'
Whereupon my friend called back lustily to him, 'Ach! muss man denn _so
genau_ sein?'--must one then be so very particular?" The children
laughed heartily at their dear hostess's jokes, as they tried always to
do when it was at all possible.
"And now," said tall Ethel, "won't you please tell us all about the
evening of the musical, and what we shall wear, and how to write the
invitations?"
"Wear?" said Mrs. Martin. "Why, of course you would wear your very best
evening gowns, you girls, and of course, to my mind, those who were
dressed in white would look the prettiest. And the boys would wear their
Tuxedo suits, or whatever they looked smartest in. As to the
invitations, do not send out so many as to crowd your parlor
uncomfortably. The rule which I have found safe to believe is that
one-third of all the people invited will decline. This gives a hostess
the liberty of paying a compliment to many more of her friends than her
house will actually hold. The form of the invitation may be thus:
"_Mrs. Dudley requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Allison's
company on Thursday evening, November 12, at half past eight._
"_Music at nine o'clock._
"_160 Saint Bernard Street._
"Or your mother's ordinary visiting-card will do, if she writes in one
corner, 'Music at nine o'clock.' Invitations should be sent at least a
week or ten days beforehand. If it is possible for you to have a
grand-piano, never use a square or an upright one. If you must use
either of the latter kinds, turn it away from the wall, and drape the
back of the upright with some pretty soft drapery, which can be held in
place by books, vases, and a lamp on the top of the piano. All the
portières or other curtains that can be taken down should be removed,
and all the rugs and heavy furniture carried out of the room. Music
sounds so much better in a place free from soft thick hangings.
"It is good to have programmes, for people enjoy listening to pieces
much more if they know their names. Should expense deter you from having
them printed, they may be nicely written off on a sheet of note-paper.
For printed programmes, a card ten inches by three and a half, folded
once in the middle of its length, makes an extremely good form.
"Would you like me to give you some idea of the programme, musically and
spiritually considered, as well as from its purely material
stand-point?" said Mrs. Martin, after a few moments' silence, "for I
believe, with that exception, that I have told you all I can. Get out
your note-book, Bertram, and put down what I tell you."
PROGRAMME.
1. Mixed Quartet { 'Farewell to the Forest' _Mendelssohn_
{ 'O, Hush Thee, my Baby' _Sullivan_
2. Piano Solo, 'Spring' _Grieg_
3. Female Chorus, { Lullaby _Brahms_
{ 'My Flaxen-haired Lassie' _Koschat_
4. Tenor Solo, 'Máppari,' from 'Martha' _Flotow_
(Or song by Chadwick, 'Du bist wie eine Blume.')
5. Male Quartet, { 'Verlassen bin ich' ----
{ 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' _Ingraham_
6. Violin Solo, 'Simple Aven' _Thorne_
7. Piano, four hands, Ballet Music from Feramors _Rubinstein_
PROGRAMME NO. 2.
1. Piano, four hands, 'Hochzeitsmusik' _Jensen_
2. Female Chorus, 'Rest Thee on this Mossy Pillow' _Smart_
3. Violoncello Solo, 'Love Scene' _Victor Herbert_
4. Soprano Song, 'Parting' _Rogers_
5. Violin Solo, 'Romance' _Mrs. Beach_
6. Male Quartet, 'It was not So to Be' _Nessler-Vognih_
"And then," said Mrs. Martin, "you could finish with the Kinder Symphony
as a merry ending, or add one or two numbers to those I have suggested,
and keep the Kinder Symphony for a separate evening's entertainment. At
all events, I hope you will find that I have inspired and helped you a
little, and that you will carry out the plans I have laid down."
"Yes, we will!" cried all the young people, in a breath; and Bertram,
putting his note-book in his inside coat pocket, said, dreamily, "It's
awfully late; suppose we go in and take the gift of sleep!"
OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING.
BY M. L. VAN VORST.
Come, will you help me harness the bay?
Come, will you help me hitch up the gray?
Grandfather's lent us the great big sleigh.
Hip hurrah for Thanksgiving-time!
Chestnuts and cider and fire's glow,
Five good miles through the woods to go,
Clear cold winds and a driving snow.
Hip hurrah for the bells achime!
Fly by the hedge of the country-side,
By the gleaming fields and the farm-lands wide.
Hey for the boys and the girls as they ride!
Hip hurrah for the gray and the bay!
Snow-wreaths hang on the fir and pine,
And the bells are ringing like silver fine;
Bright cheeks are glowing and bright eyes shine.
Hip hurrah for the jolly sleigh!
Come, will you go with us, one and all,
To the games and romps in the country hall,
Where the rafters ring with our shout and call?
Hip hurrah for the fun and cheer!
Months of the holly and mistletoe
We would hold you fast, for we love you so.
Thanksgiving and Christmas and sparkling snow
Gladden the days of the dying year.
THE HANGING OF TEDDY.
Halloween was sure to see a variety of pranks played in Scottsville. It
was a fortunate front fence which had its own gate the next morning. All
of which shows that there were boys in Scottsville.
"Well, gates are good enough if you can't do any better," said Teddy, on
the afternoon of a last day in October, "but I'm getting tired of them."
"What about signs, then?" asked Joe.
"Signs are all right--genuine signs up on buildings--not these
pasteboard cards saying 'To Rent,' and sewing-machine boards nailed on
fences, and such stuff."
"You don't think you could get a big store sign down, do you?" asked
Fred.
"Yes, I do."
"Whose?"
"Oh, a lot of 'em. Mr. Parks's would be an easy one."
"But it's up over the door, and runs clear across the front of the
building!" protested Joe. "And it's fastened up with irons!"
"Don't care if 'tis. We're good for it, if we only think so. I've been
looking at it. The irons are loose, and there's room to stand on the
ledge behind it. It would be just as easy as nothing to take it down."
"What would you do with it?" asked Joe.
"Well," answered Ted, slowly, "it says on it, 'M. Parks. Cheap Cash
Grocery.' I think it would look sort of funny to take it up and put it
on the school-house."
The other boys instantly fell in with this idea, though they still
doubted their ability to get the sign down. Then Fred thought of the
village's night watchman, who spent most of his time in the business
part of town.
"But what about Billy Snyder?" he asked.
"Oh, my pa says Billy goes to sleep every night at nine o'clock,"
answered Teddy, confidently. "He says burglars might pull Billy's boots
off and he'd never know it."
"Well, if he sleeps all night, he must walk in his sleep," said Joe, who
lived farther down town than the others. "I've been awake 'way in the
night sometimes, and heard him tramping round."
"But, don't you see, to-night he'll be up town looking out for fellows
lugging off gates," returned Teddy, not to be convinced that there was
any danger from the watchman. "Besides, Billy can't run for shucks."
It was accordingly arranged that the boys should meet that night across
the street from Mr. Parks's store at half past ten; and promptly at that
hour they were all on hand. It was a dark night, and the streets were
deserted.
"It's--it's pretty dark, isn't it, Ted?" said Joe, in a loud whisper.
"Course," answered Teddy, contemptuously. "Want it dark, don't we?"
"Y--yes. Seen anything of Billy?"
"Oh, he's all right--way off somewhere. He won't be down here to-night."
They tiptoed cautiously across the street, and looked up at the sign.
"Has he been raising it?" said Joe, very earnestly.
"No, of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently.
"Well, it never looked so high to me before," insisted Joe.
"Oh, you're scared!" returned the brave Ted. "Better run home."
"I'm not scared. How are you going to get up?"
"Climb the eaves-spout on the corner. It's easy as nothing," and he
started up.
He went up for five or six feet, but found it harder work than he
expected. He stopped and rested a moment, then struggled on. This he did
twice, feeling his hold weakening all the while. The last time he
stopped he looked down. It seemed a long ways. His hold suddenly grew
still weaker, and he slid back and rolled over on the ground.
"Are you hurt, Ted?" anxiously inquired the other boys.
"Of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently. "Came down to rest and put
a little dust on my hands," and he went out into the street and spatted
his palms on the ground.
"We ought to had Tom Ketcham along," said Joe, when Teddy came back.
"He's a bully climber."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ted. "If Tom Ketcham can climb any better'n I can I'd
like to know it. Just watch me now;" and he started up again.
Thanks to the street dust or to a determination to show Joe that he was
as good a climber as Tommy, he managed to get up this time and wriggle
in on the cornice, which made a sort of ledge behind the sign. He
loosened the iron on that end of the sign, and walked cautiously along,
taking a piece of clothes-line out of his pocket, with which he intended
to lower it. Just then footsteps were heard approaching.
"Billy's coming!" cried Fred, in a hoarse half-whisper, and he and Joe
started down the street.
"Hold on there!" called Teddy to the younger boys, in a fierce tone.
"Get in the doorway and keep still."
The others obeyed, and Ted himself lay down on the ledge behind the sign
and flattened out as much as possible. It proved to be only a man on his
way home, and he passed without seeing the boys.
Teddy's heart was thumping pretty hard as he thrust his chin over the
edge of the sign and whispered, "You fellows down there?"
"Yes," answered the boys.
"Well, what you so scared at?" he asked, tauntingly, as a way of keeping
up his own courage. "Look out, now, and I'll have this sign down there
before you know it." He rose up and started to hurry along the cornice,
but stumbled over something and went down with a great thump.
Fortunately he fell on the ledge, and the sign kept him from rolling
into the street.
"What's the matter, Ted?" asked the others, excitedly.
"Nothing. Don't know. Fell over something." He felt about in the
darkness, and added: "Iron thing to put a big flag in. Forgot it was
here."
He crawled on to the other end, and readily pulled up the other iron
that held the sign in place. Then he crept back to the middle, looking
out for the flag-staff bracket this time, and tied one end of his
clothes-line around the sign. He took a half turn with the line around
the flag-holder, which he stood astride, lifted up on the sign to
release it from the supports on which it rested, and began to lower it
slowly. "Get ready, there!" he whispered to the other boys. The sign was
heavier than he had expected, and the rope hurt his hands. But he shut
his teeth together and hung on, and slowly paid out the line. Just then
there came the sound of a heavy step up the street. Teddy tried to let
the rope go a little faster, but it suddenly shot through his hands. The
sign struck the stone sidewalk broadside with a report like a gun, and
the end of the rope, which was entangled with his feet, jerked him off
the ledge, and he shot down after the sign. But the flag bracket which
had tripped him up before saved him this time. Its upturned end caught
under the back of his jacket, and stopped him with a jerk, his
shoulder-blades against the front of the ledge, and his legs dangling in
the air above the doorway. Between the crash of the falling sign and the
heavy footsteps, which sounded precisely like the watchman's, the other
boys had been too frightened to think, and had scampered down the street
faster than they had ever run before.
Teddy's first thought was to call for help, but he was too frightened to
call; and by the time he had found his voice he had concluded that it
would be best to wait a few minutes, since he was not particularly
uncomfortable, and see if he could not get himself out of the fix he was
in without being caught. The approaching footsteps had ceased, and there
was not a sound to be heard. "Billy has stopped and is trying to make
out what all the racket is about," Teddy thought to himself. "If I keep
still he may not see me in the dark, after all." His jacket was drawn
pretty tightly across his chest, and there was a good deal of strain on
the buttons, but he knew his mother had sewed them on and that there was
not much danger of their giving way. But it was rather hard to breathe.
He wriggled about a little, and tried to get his elbows up on the
cornice in the hope of raising himself, but he couldn't do it. Nothing
more was heard of Billy, and the earth seemed to have swallowed up Joe
and Fred. It seemed to Teddy that he had hung there half an hour, though
it probably wasn't more than three or four minutes, when he ventured to
call, in a subdued voice, "Joe!"
"Is that you, Ted?" came from directly beneath him in Tom Ketcham's
voice.
"Yes, Tom. I'm caught. Help me down, somehow."
"Is that you hanging up there?"
"Yes. I'm caught on the flag-holder."
"Yes; we heard it fall. Phil's with me."
"Was that you I heard coming? Thought the walk sounded like Billy."
"We--we had a gate, and I guess that made us walk pretty heavy."
Just then Joe and Fred crept back, emboldened by the sound of the
voices. The four boys on the sidewalk now held a whispered consultation
as to the best way of getting Teddy down, but they reached no decision.
Tom thought Ted ought to take his knife, cut off his buttons, and drop
out of his jacket, but Teddy objected to this. Joe thought a ladder was
the only hope, but Fred was of the opinion that if they had a long pole
he could be got down with that; but no one knew where either a pole or
ladder could be found. Teddy himself thought that if two of the boys
should climb up on the ledge that they could pull him up, and as Phil
shared this view it was decided to try it.
"And hurry up," pleaded poor Ted, "'cause I'm getting pretty tired of
this, and can't hardly breathe."
Tom and Phil accordingly started up the leader, and soon wriggled on to
the ledge as Teddy had done. The sign being gone, there was great danger
of their slipping off into the street, and they crept along very
cautiously. When they found themselves over the suspended Ted, they rose
up on their feet, stooped over, and each got a good hold on his collar
with one hand. Then they lifted together with all their strength, but
they might as well have lifted on a thrifty oak-tree for all they
accomplished. Ted had settled down so far that his shoulders were half
drawn under the cornice, and though he tried to wriggle about and help
them as they lifted, his wriggling really consisted of nothing but
thrashing his legs about in the air.
"We can't do it, Tom," said Phil.
Tom felt around on the front of the building, and replied:
"'Fraid we can't. If there was only something for us to hold on to we
could lift a good deal more; but there isn't."
"Not a thing. And if we lift another pound we'll pull ourselves into the
street and break our necks. What shall we do?"
"Don--don't leave me," implored Teddy, with just a suspicion of a
whimper in his voice. "Wish I'd never heard of the sign. It's my last
sign if I ever get down."
"We'll get you down some way, Ted," answered Tom. "Just you keep a stiff
upper lip."
"I--I am," returned Teddy. "But I can't hang much longer. Feel like I
was going to die, or something."
Just then distant footsteps were heard on the sidewalk.
"Ssh!" said Phil. "Somebody's coming. Get in the doorway, you fellows
down there."
Joe and Fred obeyed, and the footsteps came nearer.
"That's Billy's walk, for sure," whispered Tom. "Can't fool me on that.
Lie down, Phil," and the two boys flattened out on the ledge.
Poor Teddy could do nothing but hang, as if he were a sign put out in
front of a store where small boys were kept for sale. Nearer and nearer
came the footsteps, till they were almost in front of the building. Then
there was a sudden stumble, a smothered ejaculation, and a man fell full
length on the walk, while something which showed a little point of light
went rolling along the walk. It was Billy, and he had fallen over the
sign, and his dark-lantern had rolled away. The boys all had hard work
to keep from laughing, except Teddy.
"Geewhillikans!" howled Billy, as he scrambled to his feet and made a
dive for his lantern. "What's all this?"
The next second he flashed his bull's-eye on the walk, and began an
investigation.
"You may shoot me if it ain't old Parks's sign!" he went on, throwing
the stream of light along the board. "More Halloween monkey business, I
s'pose. I'd like to catch the scalawags! Wonder how they got it down?"
He stepped back to the edge of the walk and turned the light upward.
[Illustration: "WELL, WELL! IF THERE AIN'T A BOY, THEN I'M A GOAT!"]
"Well, _well_! If there ain't a boy, then I'm a goat! Come down here,
you young imp!"
Teddy only swung his legs.
"Come down, I say, or I'll--I'll--I'll--" and Billy paused, unable to
think of anything terrible enough.
"I--I can't, Billy," Teddy managed to get out.
"Hung up, hey? Good enough for you. You ought to be hung up by the
_heels a week_! I'll get you down, young man. Just you be calm till I
fetch Whitney's ladder," and Billy started up the street on a trot,
muttering to himself.
The new danger sharpened Master Teddy's wits, and made him think faster
than he had ever done before.
"You fellows get down quick as you can," he cried to Tom and Phil.
"Hurry!" The boys scrambled along the ledge and slid down the leader.
"Get hold of that sign, the whole four of you, and stick one end of it
up here like a ladder," went on Teddy, his voice all in a tremble, but
the words coming with a rush. Up came the sign beside him. He got his
legs over and around it, half wriggled his back onto it, reached his
arms over his head, and by exerting every muscle in his body to the
utmost, managed to pull and kick himself up enough to release his coat.
Then he shot down the steep sign like a toboggan, and struck the ground
all in a heap. Billy was coming down the street with his ladder and
lantern. "Down with it!" said Tom, and he put his shoulder against the
sign.
"No you don't," cried Teddy; "I've had enough of signs and Halloweens.
Let's git;" and he did with all his might, a sadder but a wiser boy.
There has not been a case of sign lost on Halloween or any other day or
night since in Scottsville.
THANKSGIVING.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
When the Indians used to prowl
Round the house at dead of night,
And the north wind's angry howl
Sounded fierce by candle-light;
When the very babies learned
How to whisper when they cried,
And the young boys early earned
Right to carry arms with pride--
In those wild exciting days,
Often hungry, often cold,
Men uplifted songs of praise,
Women's hearts were strong and bold.
And amid their penury,
In their want and peril, they
Set apart, with courage free,
Their first brave Thanksgiving day.
Over harvests gathered in
With a stealthy foe anear,
Over scanty byre and bin,
Over joys which cost them dear,
Gallant souls that would not bend
Met their trustful grace to say,
Heart to heart and friend to friend;
So they kept Thanksgiving day.
Ours to-day a happier fate:
Royal wealth on us outpoured,
Wide our pleasant land, and great
Is the throng about our board.
Run the dear old flag aloft;
Let it float from ship and spire!
Wake Thanksgiving, field and croft,
House and home, and child and sire.
MARTY'S PUMPKINS.
BY RAY STANNARD BAKER.
"M-a-rty! Mart--e--e!" called a shrill voice from the woodshed door.
The speckled rooster stopped scratching in the chip-pile, raised his
head, blinked his eyes, and chuckled protestingly.
"Mart-e-e!" called the voice again, and a plain woman in a calico dress
stepped out into the morning sunlight. "I wonder where thet child has
gone. She'd try the patience of a saint. Mart--e--e!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Come right here this minute."
Around the corner of the chicken-coop ran a little figure with flying
hair.
"Where hev you been?" demanded Mrs. Tucker, impatiently.
Marty's bare brown toes burrowed in the chip-pile, and she hung her
head. She was a slender girl, and a pair of big, wistful eyes looked out
from under her sun-bonnet.
"Out lookin' after my punkins," she answered, shyly.
"Your punkins!" said Mrs. Tucker, explosively. "You won't have punkins
long ef you don't answer when I call."
"I didn't hear you, ma'am."
"Stuff an' nonsense! I tol' Eb it wa'n't good sense to put such punkin
notions in yer head. Now take this cup an' run over to Mis' Wiskins an'
ask the loan of some yeast."
Marty's feet twinkled as she ran, and Mrs. Tucker was so surprised to
see her back so soon that she sent her on another errand. But at last
Marty was free to hurry again into the corn-field. Here she went about
among the shocks, and lifted the yellow pumpkins, one by one, and
carried them to a "double-decker" wagon that stood not far away, climbed
up on a stepladder, and dropped them in. Some of them were so large that
when she tried to reach around them the sleeves of her outgrown gingham
dress drew up over her sunburnt elbows. But she tugged and staggered and
wrinkled her freckled nose until the wagon was heaping full. Just as she
was completing her task old Ebenezer Tucker came out to the field.
"Got 'em loaded?" he asked, gruffly.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, we'll take 'em to town to-morrow and see what they'll bring."
Marty jumped up and clapped her hands.
"Oh, Uncle Eb--"
"There! neb mind," he said, but there was a note of kindness in his
voice.
The sun had gone down and the air was frosty and still. Marty's bare
toes tingled with the cold, but her face glowed with joy as she trudged
toward the house at her uncle's side. She would have liked to take hold
of his hand, not only to rest her tired legs, but because her happy
heart wanted to show the affection of which it was so bubbling full, but
she was afraid.
Marty was happier than she had ever been before in her life. That wasn't
saying much, for Marty's mother had died when she was very young, and
had left her and little Tim alone in the world. They had been passed
around from relative to relative for a number of years, and Marty had
taken care of Tim, and lavished on him all the affection of her timid
heart. While they were together she hadn't minded poor clothes and hard
work, but when Uncle Ben had taken "the boy," and Uncle Eb had taken
her, Marty's heart was quite broken. For Uncle Ben lived in Shelbyville,
miles away, and how would little Tim get along without her?
Aunt Tucker was known and respected in the community as a "good
provider" and a good Christian, but she didn't understand Marty. Besides
that, she had Elly and Susie and John, her own children, to look after.
Marty was shy and timid and dreamy, and so it happened that she became
little maid-of-all-work, a kind of country Cinderella. But she tried to
keep a brave face, and dreamed of the time when Tim would be big enough
to earn his own living and could take her away.
As the summer passed, Marty had grown more and more lonesome; she felt
as if she hadn't a friend in the world. One day she was in the
barn-yard, and Dot--Uncle Eb's old white cow--looked around at her so
sympathetically with her big, kind eyes that a knot tied itself in
Marty's throat, and she ran and threw her arms around Dot's neck.
"You'll be my friend--won't you, Dot?" she sobbed.
Dot was evidently about to say something sympathetic, when Marty felt a
hand on her head. It was Uncle Eb's.
"What's the matter, Marty?" he asked, and his raspy voice sounded as if
it had just been oiled.
She had always been afraid of Uncle Eb. He was big and silent, and his
bushy eyebrows scowled. But she said:
"I'm lonesome. I want to see Tim."
The old farmer stopped and patted her head, and then sat down to milk.
One day he said,
"Want to earn some money, Marty?"
Marty's head swam. With money she could see Tim. Her face flushed
faintly.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Well, you pick up the pumpkins in the corn-lot and load 'em on the
wagon every day, and I'll give you one load."
There were a great many loads of pumpkins, and it was very hard lifting
for Marty; but she worked bravely, because she remembered Tim. She could
have finished the loading much sooner if Aunt Tucker hadn't called her
so often--Aunt Tucker didn't like the pumpkin idea; she said she didn't
believe in children having money. But now, after weeks of work, the last
load stood in the field.
"Thet's yours," Uncle Eb had said, quietly.