its front covered with a beautiful trumpet creeper, which went
climbing up to the very top of the many-cornered old chimney, and
wreathing itself over the little porch and the bow window of the
sitting-room, until the house looked like a quiet green nest. A great
white cat peeped out from behind the geraniums which filled the
window; a greyhound lay upon the doormat, and beneath and about the
porch hung several bird-cages, containing half a dozen canaries and
two mocking-birds, while a donkey and a tame goat looked, the one
over, the other between the bars of the fence which divided their
little pasture ground from the neat garden. For Aunt Patty was very
fond of dumb pets, and had collected about her a number, each one of
which knew her voice, and would come at her call; and she was never
sharp and short with them as she sometimes was with her own fellow
creatures, for they never, even by accident, gave her offence.
The old lady herself came to the door to meet her guests, more pleased
than she would have been willing to say, that they had come to visit
her on the first day of their stay at Chalecoo. She seized Frankie
in her arms and covered him with kisses; but that roguish young
gentleman after exclaiming, "Hallo, Patty!" would have nothing more
to say to her, and struggled to be set free that he might run and see
"dat nanny-doat and dat pony wis long ears."
Maggie and Bessie were more polite than their little brother, and
though they would have liked to follow him at once, waited quietly
till Aunt Patty asked them if they did not wish to run about and make
acquaintance with all her pets.
Glad of the permission, the little girls ran out, and turned to the
paddock, where they found Frankie seated upon the donkey's back.
The boys had not gone into the house, but after shaking hands with
Aunt Patty at the door, had remained without in search of what
amusement they could find. The donkey was the first thing that had
taken their attention as well as that of Frankie; and when the little
fellow came out clamoring for a ride, they were quite ready to indulge
him. Harry had been half doubtful if they had not better first ask
Aunt Patty's permission, but Fred had said,--
"Pooh! what's the use? She would let Frankie dance on her own head, if
he wanted to."
So Harry had allowed himself to be persuaded, and in another moment
the donkey, much to his own astonishment, found Frankie seated upon
his back.
Now this donkey was not at all accustomed to children; for those of
Mr. Alexander Bradford, who lived at the homestead, seldom came to
see Aunt Patty, and when they did so, they would as soon have thought
of asking to ride upon her back as upon that of the donkey. To be
harnessed in the little pony-carriage, and trot about with the old
lady for her daily drive, was all the work to which Nonesuch was
used; and when he found Frankie perched upon him, he was very much
displeased, and began a series of antics and prancings which were more
becoming some frisky pony than a sober, well-behaved donkey. But try
as he would, he could not shake Frankie off. The bold little rogue
was not at all frightened, and clung like a burr to his indignant
steed. It was hard to tell which would come off victor. But at the
side of the paddock ran one of the many streams in which this mountain
country rejoiced, shadowed with a growth of elder, sumach, and other
high bushes. Nonesuch had raced with Frankie to the very edge of this
little rivulet, and then stood still for a moment as if considering
what he would do next, when a hand, holding a long, thorny switch, was
suddenly put forth from the clump of bushes, and Nonesuch received a
stinging blow across his haunches. Down went the donkey's nose and up
went his heels, as he sent Frankie flying directly over his head into
the stream, and then tore away to the further side of the field.
Maggie and Bessie were very much startled, and screamed aloud, and
even Harry and Fred were a good deal alarmed; but the child himself
did not seem to be at all frightened, and when his brothers pulled him
out of the water, did not cry, but looked after the donkey in great
surprise, exclaiming,--
"Why, dat pony spilled me a little!"
Harry and Fred laughed at this, but Maggie and Bessie thought it no
laughing matter; nor did mamma, when alarmed by their screams the
grown people came running from the house. Frankie was drenched from
head to foot, and had to be carried at once to the house, undressed
and rubbed dry. Then he was wrapped in a blanket, while a messenger
was sent to the homestead to borrow some clothes for him. The little
fellow thought this rather hard, and a very poor ending to his
afternoon's amusement, especially when no clothes could be found to
fit him but those of little Katy Bradford.
Meanwhile Fred was off, no one knew where. At the moment Frankie had
gone over the donkey's head a loud mocking laugh had resounded from
behind the clump of bushes, as though the person who had given the
blow were rejoicing in the mischief he had done.
Fred only waited to see Frankie safely out of the water, and then,
leaving him to the care of his brother and sisters, darted across the
stream and forced his way through the bushes in search of the guilty
person. At a little distance from him stood two miserable looking
objects, a boy about his own size, a girl rather younger; both dirty,
ragged, and half-starved, hatless and shoeless. A wicked looking boy
and girl they were too, and as Fred appeared they greeted him with
grimaces and vulgar noises; then as he darted at the boy, turned and
ran.
Fred gave chase, and in a moment had overtaken the girl. But
hot-tempered and hasty though he was, Fred was not the boy to fight
with one who was weaker than himself; and he passed her without
notice, keeping on after her companion. But active as he was, he soon
found he was no match for the young rascal in front of him, whose feet
scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and who threw himself headlong
over fences and hedges, as though he had forgotten he had a neck and
limbs which might be broken.
So turning about, Fred went after the girl, and soon had his hand
upon her arm, calling upon her to stop. She did so, at the same time
cowering and raising the other arm to shield her head and face as if
expecting a blow.
"You don't think I am going to strike you?" said Fred, "a nice kind of
a chap I'd be to strike a girl. I say, what did you hit that donkey
for?"
"I didn't," she replied sullenly, "it was him."
"What did he do it for? Nobody was doing anything to him. And I'll be
bound you had the will to do it."
"He did it cos he had a mind to," she said, shaking herself free from
Fred's hold, "and he'll do it agin if he has a mind to."
"He'd better not," said Fred, "if he does, I'll fix him."
"S'posin' you can catch him," she answered, growing bold and impudent,
as she saw she need fear no violence from Fred. "'Taint none of your
donkeys."
"It was my little brother he meant to plague though," said Fred. "He'd
better look out how he troubles us again. Just you tell him that."
"He aint afraid of you," said the girl, "I jist hope the young un's
fine clothes was spoiled. Good enough for him," and making up a
hideous face at Fred she ran off a few steps, and then as if the
spirit of mischief within her were too strong even for her fear of
him, stooped, and picking up a large stone threw it with all her
strength. It hit Fred upon the knee with such force that, brave as he
was, he could scarcely help crying aloud, and was obliged to sit down
upon the ground until the pain had somewhat passed. By the time he was
on his feet again the girl was out of sight, and poor Fred limped
back to Aunt Patty's cottage.
Here the bruised and swollen knee was bathed and bound up, but Fred
was forced to keep still, not only this afternoon, but for several
succeeding days.
It would be hard to tell with what horror the children looked upon the
boy and girl whom Fred described, and who had done all this unprovoked
mischief.
After the donkey and goat, the birds, kittens and other pets had been
visited, there was not much to interest the children in Aunt Patty's
house; and they were not very sorry when the visit came to an end, and
they were all on their way to the homestead.
There was certainly enough to please them here. It was a grand old
house, standing in the midst of a grove of maples, and behind it
stretched an immense orchard, with its mossy old apple trees giving
promise of the rich harvest they would furnish a few months later.
There was the flower garden, delicious with all kinds of roses now
in full bloom; the very swing where papa used to swing when he was a
boy, the stream and pond where he used to sail his boats and set up
his water-mills; and beyond all, the large farm-yard with its many
outbuildings, looking almost like a village by itself; while from
one of the great barns whose wide doors stood open came the cackling
of poultry and cooing of pigeons, the lowing of cows and oxen, and
bleating of calves, all the pleasant noises of a large and thrifty
farm.
The children were all anxious to see the spot where the old burnt
barn had stood, the place where Aunt Patty had saved Uncle Aleck from
the fire; but all trace both of fire and barn had long since passed
away, and a bright green pasture field, where a flock of sheep were
feeding, took up the very ground where, as Maggie said, "the story had
happened."
The children of the homestead, eight in number, of all ages and sizes,
from cousin Ernest, a tall youth of eighteen, down to little Katy,
the household darling and pet of four, were only too glad to welcome
their city cousins and show them all the wonders of the place.
They had the most delightful summer play-room; one side of the
verandah enclosed with a lattice work, covered with flowering vines,
where they kept their bats and balls, graces, hoops, rocking horse and
other toys. They had a little garden house too, where they kept their
spades, rakes and other tools, for each child had a plot of ground
for its own, and every fall they had a flower and fruit show, when
their father and mother gave prizes, not only for the best flowers and
fruit, but also to those whose gardens had been neatly kept during the
summer.
Poor Fred with his lame knee could not run about with the others, and
as he sat on the verandah with his cousin Ernest, who stayed with him
lest he should be lonely, and heard all about the flower show, he
began to wish that he and his brother could have something of the same
kind.
"I dare say Mr. Porter would give us each a little piece of ground,"
he said, "but then it is too late to plant things, is it not?"
"Oh, no," replied his cousin, "it is only the middle of June, and
there are several things which you might yet plant. Then you could
join us and try for the prizes at our show, and I would ask father to
have it a little earlier in the fall, before you go home. There are
lots of seeds and plants that we will give you if you have a mind to
try."
Fred was eager enough, as he always was for every thing new, and
promised to ask his brother if he would like to have a garden, and
also to speak to his father and Mr. Porter about it.
"And your sisters, too," said Ernest, "would they not like to try what
they could do?"
"Oh! they are too little," said Fred. "What could such a mite as
Bessie do with a garden of her own? She might dig and plant in it to
be sure, but then she would not know how to take care of her flowers
and things, and she would only be disappointed if she failed."
"You and Harry might help her," said Ernest, "and even if she did
not have any fine flowers she might gain a prize if she had been
industrious, and tried as well as she knew how. It is not so much for
the worth and beauty of the flowers themselves, as for the pains we
have taken with them and what we deserve, that father rewards us. Why,
last year dear little Katy took a prize and for what do you think?
Why, for a poor forlorn zinnia which she had nursed through the whole
summer, and which bore but one scanty flower."
"I'll tell Maggie and Bessie then," said Fred, "and Harry and I will
do all we can to help them with the work that is too hard for them. I
am sure papa will be willing for us to try, if your father will allow
us to join you."
"He is willing enough," said Ernest, "indeed he was saying the other
day he should like it. You had better ask Mr. Porter for the ground
and begin directly."
Fred was so anxious to talk over this new plan with his brother and
sisters, and to ask his father and Mr. Porter what they thought of it,
that he could scarcely wait to do so till it was time to go home.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
_LEM AND DOLLY._
As soon as they were all once more in the carriage, and the horses'
heads turned homeward, Fred told what Ernest had proposed. Mr.
Bradford willingly gave permission for his children to join their
cousins in preparing for the flower show, and promised to furnish
whatever seeds and plants it would be best for them to have, in case
Mr. Porter could give them the ground.
"That I will," said the old man readily. "And, by the way, there's a
plot in the lower part of the garden that will be just about the right
thing for you. There's nothing planted there yet, for I only took it
in this spring, but it has been all dug and raked over, and is ready
for whatever is to go in it. I'll give you boys each ten feet square,
and the girls six. I guess that's about as much as they can manage."
"More, I fear," said Mrs. Bradford, "at least such little hands as
those of my Bessie, are scarcely strong enough for work that could
raise any flowers fit to take a prize."
"But we will help her, mamma," said Fred "and if she tries, and
cousin Alexander thinks she has done her best, that is all that is
necessary." And he told the story of little Katy and her zinnia.
"I may try, mamma, may I not?" said Bessie earnestly, "Katy is a very
little girl, only four years old; and I am quite old, you know, for I
was six last month."
"Certainly you may try, my very old girl," said mamma, kissing the
little, eager, upturned face; "and I will do all I can to help you;
but then if you and Maggie do not take the prizes you must not be too
much disappointed."
"Oh! no, and I can have satis--fac--tion in my garden any way,
mamma," said Bessie, "in 'tending to it and watering it; and then I
can give my flowers to you and Aunt May and every one else I love, and
that will be enough of pleasure for me."
Mamma smiled and thanked her, and thought if her dear little girl were
to give flowers to every one who loved _her_ she would need a very
large garden with a great many blossoms in it.
Mr. Porter knew that Frankie had been in the water, but he had not
heard how the accident came about, nor of its after consequences; and
now as he saw Fred moving restlessly to ease his aching knee, he asked
him how he had been hurt.
Fred told the story of Frankie's ducking, of his own chase after the
mischief-makers, and of what had happened to himself.
"Whew--ew--ew!" said Mr. Porter, as he finished, "I am sorry to hear
this; sorry enough, sorry enough. Can you tell me what kind of looking
boy and girl they were?"
Fred described the boy and girl, as nearly as he could, and Mr. Porter
gave another long dismayed whistle.
"Yes, I thought so," he said, "there's no one here about but those two
who would have been up to such an ugly trick as that. So, they're back
again. I hoped we were rid of them for good and all."
"Who are they?" asked Mr. Bradford.
"Lem and Dolly Owen, sir; as bad a pair, and the children of as bad
a father as one could find on a long summer day. Poor neglected
creatures, they are to be pitied too; but it is useless to try to do
anything for them, for all help is worse than thrown away. They live
in a little tumble-down shanty back of the rocks at the lower end of
the lake, and a terrible nuisance they are to me and every one in the
neighborhood. The father is a drunkard of the worst sort, the mother
long since dead, and these two children, liars, vagabonds and thieves,
up to every sort of wicked mischief, and a terror to all the children
in Chalecoo. They live as they can, by robbing orchards, hen-roosts,
dairies and cornfields during the summer; picking up odd bits, and
stealing whatever they can lay their fingers on in the winter, half
starved and half frozen the most of the time."
"Can nothing be done for them?" asked Mr. Bradford.
"No, sir; as I say, it is not worth while to try to help them. All
that the father can lay his hands on he spends in drink. My wife was
distressed about the children, especially the girl, to think she
should be growing up in such wickedness and misery; and last winter
she fixed up a suit of warm clothes for her, and coaxing her into
the house with a deal of trouble, for she is as wild as a hawk, she
dressed her in them, and promised to give her and her brother a good
meal every day if they would come quietly to the house and get it. My
dear old woman hoped she might do them both some good if she could
but keep a hold on them in this way. But the girl just took what she
could get that day as sullenly as you please, never speaking a word
of thanks, and making no promises, though she did look mighty proud
of her new clothes, and hugged herself up in them as if she were glad
to feel herself in something warm and comfortable. My wife, knowing
what a thief she was, watched her all the time, and thought she could
not possibly carry off anything; but somehow the sly creature got
the better of her, and she had scarcely gone when a china plate was
missed. Now my wife set a deal by that plate, for it had been hers
when she was a little child, and the boys set out at once in search
of Dolly. Well, will you believe it? no sooner did she catch sight
of them, and guess what they were after, than she just dashed the
plate down on the rocks, smashing it to atoms, and ran like a deer.
They'd promised their mother not to hurt her, so they let her go; but
the next day she was seen in all her old rags, and we found the new
clothes had been sold by Owen at the next village. Of course they
went for liquor, and that's the way everything goes. Kindness is all
wasted on the children; they'll take what you give them with one hand,
and steal from you with the other, and then abuse you for what you've
done for them."
"Did Dolly and her brother come to get the nice meal kind Mrs. Porter
promised them?" asked Bessie.
"No, indeed; they've kept clear enough of the family ever since; not
that they are ashamed, but afraid."
"I should think they ought to be ashamed," said Maggie, indignantly.
"I never heard of such ungratefulness, and Mrs. Porter ought to serve
Dolly right, and never do another thing for her; she don't deserve it."
"Ah! my little girl, if we were all served right, and had nothing
but what we deserve, where would we be?" said the old man. "But that
did just discourage my wife, and she has left the wretched creatures
to themselves since. She saw it was of no use. Owen won't leave his
children a decent thing to their backs, a bed to sleep on, or a cup or
plate to eat from. My old woman is not the first that has taken pity
on them, and tried to make them a little comfortable; but whatever is
given them just goes for drink, drink; and we have all given it up as
a hopeless job. Besides, the children themselves are so lawless and
thankless, that every kindness that is done for them they only turn
into a means of mischief."
"Does the father ill-treat them?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"Yes, he not only encourages them to steal and lie, but beats them
when they bring nothing home which he can exchange for liquor. We
often hear their cries away up at my house, but there's no way of
stopping it, as I see."
"And must these poor children just be left to go to ruin?" asked Mrs.
Bradford, sadly.
"There's no one can reach them to teach them better, I am afraid,"
said Mr. Porter. "You'll just get hard words and worse for your pains
if you try it. Why, there was the clergyman from down in the village,
came up to see them, and he brought along a bundle of good things and
gave them to Dolly; and while he was talking kindly to her, he got a
blow on the back with a big stone, and others came about him thick and
fast. He knew it was Lem, but what could he do? He could not see the
boy or fix it on him. And that's the way; they are both so sly and
artful, they are seldom or never caught in the act; so though when
a melon patch or hen-roost is robbed, or some fine young trees are
hacked to pieces, every one feels sure it was Lem or Dolly who did
the mischief, yet it is difficult to prove it on them. Lem has had
more thrashings than any boy of his size that ever lived, I believe,
but what's the use? It only makes him worse than ever. Farmer Grafton
caught him once stealing clothes from the bleaching-ground, and
handed him over to the constable for a few days; but that night his
hay-ricks were burnt down. Folks first thought it was Owen that did
it, but he was proved to have lain dead drunk all night in the liquor
shop down in the village; and then everybody believed it was Doll,
and with reason too, for she's just bad enough to do it, young as she
is. Last March they all went off, father and children, and I did hope
we should see no more of them; but here the young ones are back, it
seems. I trust Owen is not with them. If you little ones come to me
to-night, I'll tell you what old Sol here did for that fellow, and how
the dumb beast showed himself the wisest of the two."
"I am very sorry for Lem and Dolly," said Bessie. "If their mother
had not died maybe they would not have been so naughty. It's very
sorrowful for children not to have any mamma to teach them better.
Don't they have any one to love them, Mr. Porter?"
"Well, they seem to love one another after their own rude fashion,"
answered Mr. Porter. "It's about the only mark of good that's left in
them."
"I wish we could do something to make them a little better," said
Bessie.
"The Lord love you for the wish," said Mr. Porter, looking kindly
around at her, "but you could never do anything, you little lamb. Why,
they'd tease you out of your senses if you went to speak to them,
and they're not fit for the like of you to notice either. Just you
keep out of their way as much as you can, dearie, or they'll do you a
mischief if they find the chance."
Mr. Bradford here began to talk of something else, and they all forgot
Lem and Dolly for the time. But as they were about half way home,
Fred, who was sitting in front with Mr. Porter, suddenly exclaimed,--
"There are those children!" and looking before them, they all saw
the ragged, miserable boy and girl standing on a stone at a little
distance from the road side.
As the carriage approached, they darted away into the woods, but soon
after a shower of gravel and sand flying into the carriage, as it
slowly toiled up a hill between two walls of rock, made it known in a
very disagreeable manner that they had returned to annoy our party by
further mischief. They kept out of sight behind the trees and rocks,
however; and when Fred, who was furiously angry, begged Mr. Porter
to go after them with his long whip, the loud, taunting laugh which
rang from above told that their tormentors felt themselves secure from
punishment.
The carriage was soon beyond this narrow pass, and they saw and heard
no more of Lem and Dolly, and reached home without further mischief.
"Why, how long you stayed," said good Mrs. Porter, coming out as they
drove up to the door. "I waited to feed the chickens, as I promised
the dear little girls here; but I am afraid they want their supper
badly. Come along, my darlings," and with a pan in each hand, and
followed by Maggie, Bessie and Frankie, the kind old lady went out to
feed the fowls.
"Margaret and Bessie, come here," said Mr. Stanton, calling his wife
and sister to the door as they passed through the hall. "Is not that a
picture?"
A picture it was indeed, and one which mamma thought so pretty that
she had to call the rest of the family to enjoy it. Beneath a great
spreading pear-tree sat the motherly old lady, the last golden rays of
the setting sun falling over her ample figure, in her neat black gown,
white apron, and snowy kerchief folded over her bosom, spectacles in
hand, and in her lap the pan which held the corn and barley; while
around her were the three little ones dipping their chubby hands into
the measure, and scattering the contents among the noisy, scrambling
crowd of fowls, themselves full of glee and happiness at this, to
them, new pleasure.
[Illustration: Bessie among the Mountains. p. 86.]
There was one jealous old fellow, a pet rooster and a great beauty,
who would take his supper from no hand but that of his mistress;
and flying on the bench beside her, he courted her notice and a supper
by himself. Mrs. Porter was about to indulge him, but Flossy, who was
seated by her, watching with great satisfaction the feeding of the
chickens, seemed to think it quite unfair that he should not take his
chance with the others, and soon chased him from the bench. Upon which
the rooster refused to eat at all, and after pecking one or two of
the smaller chickens pretty severely, he strutted away with his neck
stretched very straight, and expressing his displeasure in a loud and
by no means pleasant voice. In vain did Mrs. Porter call him by his
name, "Coxcomb," which he knew quite well; he only flapped his wings
and walked farther away, screaming louder than ever.