woman who knit the blue mittens, and several children who never had a
flower except the dusty dandelions in the park. One can easily imagine
how happy these bits of spring made them, and how they welcomed the
sweet things with their woody fragrance and rosy faces.
When the last was given, mamma proposed a little walk over the bridge,
for it was a lovely day, and she seemed in no haste about breakfast.
Bertie was very hungry before they got back, and was quite ready to go
in the back way, directly to the dining-room, where his bread and milk
was waiting for him. Right in the middle of breakfast, Mary, the girl,
gave mamma a card, on which was written two words: "All ready!"
Why mamma should laugh when she read it, and why Mary should say, in a
whisper, "It's just lovely, ma'am," and then run out of the room
giggling, Bertie could not understand.
"Can't I know, mamma?" he asked, feeling sure that some joke or secret
was afoot.
"Yes, dear, all in good time. Go now and see if Mr. Patterson has
found the May-flowers you hung on his window."
Away went Bertie to the balcony, found the posy gone, and the room
empty; so he turned about and was going back, when all of a sudden he
saw something that nearly took his breath away with surprise and
delight.
Now you must know that the house on the other side of Bertie's jutted
out a little, and the niche thus made was covered with a woodbine that
climbed up from the grass-plot below. All summer this vine rustled its
green leaves above that end of the balcony; in the autumn it hung
crimson streamers there, and through the winter the sparrows loved to
cuddle down among the twisted stems, sunning their backs in the
sheltered corner, and pressing their downy breasts against the warm
bricks. Bertie used to hang great shells full of plants there, and
called it his garden, but now something even more delightful and
ornamental than ivy or flame-colored nasturtiums met his eye.
Up among the budding sprays stood a charming little house, with a wide
piazza all round it; a white house, with cunning windows and a tiny
porch, where the door stood hospitably open, with the owner's name
painted on it.
When Bertie read "C. Twitters," he had to hold on to the railing, lest
he should tumble over, so pleased was he with this delightful surprise.
As if nothing was wanting to make it quite perfect, Cocky himself came
flying up to say "Good morning;" and after a long survey of the new
house went to examine it. He walked all round the piazza, sat upon the
chimney to see if that was all right, popped his head into the porch,
appeared to read the name on the door, and to understand all about it,
for with one shrill chirp, he walked in and took possession at once.
Then Bertie danced for joy and called out, "Oh, mamma, come and see!
He likes it; he's gone in, and I'm sure he means to live there!"
Mamma came, and so did Mr. P., both pretending to be much amazed at
Cocky's daring to build a house so near without asking leave.
But Bertie was not deceived a bit, and hugged them both on the spot,
with many thanks for this charming joke, while Cocky sat at his door
and twittered, like a grateful, happy little bird, as he was.
That was only the beginning of it; for the interesting things that
happened after this May-day were too many to tell. Cocky was married
at once, and went to house-keeping in his new villa. Mrs. Twitters
evidently liked it extremely, and began to bring in her straw furniture
and feather-beds, like a busy little house-wife. Papa Twitters came
too; though they had a hard job to get him there, he was so lame with
rheumatism. But the vine helped the poor old dear; for after he had
got safely across the street, he hopped up the woodbine, little by
little, till he got to the porch, and there sat down to rest.
He did not stay long, however, for, like a wise bird, he felt that the
young folks would do better alone, and after a nice visit, he returned
to the brown nest in the park, where his children called every day and
never forgot to take the old papa a crumb of comfort.
Cocky made an excellent husband, and often brought his wife to call on
Bertie, who, when the warm days came, sat much in the balcony, always
ready for a chat, a game, or a song. All the other birds were chirping
gayly, so he joined the chorus; and his favorite was that merry ballad
beginning,--
"A little cock-sparrow,
Sat up in a tree,
And whistled, and whistled,
And thus whistled he."
While Bertie and Cocky sang, mamma smiled over her work within, and a
gray head often popped out of Mr. P.'s window, as if he loved to listen
and to learn still more of the sweet, new language his little neighbors
taught him.
VIII.
MARJORIE'S THREE GIFTS.
Marjorie sat on the door-step, shelling peas, quite unconscious what a
pretty picture she made, with the roses peeping at her through the
lattice work of the porch, the wind playing hide-and-seek in her curly
hair, while the sunshine with its silent magic changed her faded
gingham to a golden gown, and shimmered on the bright tin pan as if it
were a silver shield. Old Rover lay at her feet, the white kitten
purred on her shoulder, and friendly robins hopped about her in the
grass, chirping "A happy birthday, Marjorie!"
But the little maid neither saw nor heard, for her eyes were fixed on
the green pods, and her thoughts were far away. She was recalling the
fairy-tale granny told her last night, and wishing with all her heart
that such things happened nowadays. For in this story, as a poor girl
like herself sat spinning before the door, a Brownie came by, and gave
the child a good-luck penny; then a fairy passed, and left a talisman
which would keep her always happy; and last of all, the prince rolled
up in his chariot, and took her away to reign with him over a lovely
kingdom, as a reward for her many kindnesses to others.
When Marjorie imagined this part of the story, it was impossible to
help giving one little sigh, and for a minute she forgot her work, so
busy was she thinking what beautiful presents she would give to all the
poor children in her realm when _they_ had birthdays. Five impatient
young peas took this opportunity to escape from the half-open pod in
her hand and skip down the steps, to be immediately gobbled up by an
audacious robin, who gave thanks in such a shrill chirp that Marjorie
woke up, laughed, and fell to work again. She was just finishing, when
a voice called out from the lane,--
"Hi, there! come here a minute, child!" and looking up, she saw a
little old man in a queer little carriage drawn by a fat little pony.
Running down to the gate, Marjorie dropped a curtsy, saying
pleasantly,--
"What did you wish, sir?"
"Just undo that check-rein for me. I am lame, and Jack wants to drink
at your brook," answered the old man, nodding at her till his
spectacles danced on his nose.
Marjorie was rather afraid of the fat pony, who tossed his head,
whisked his tail, and stamped his feet as if he was of a peppery
temper. But she liked to be useful, and just then felt as if there
were few things she could _not_ do if she tried, because it was her
birthday. So she proudly let down the rein, and when Jack went
splashing into the brook, she stood on the bridge, waiting to check him
up again after he had drunk his fill of the clear, cool water.
The old gentleman sat in his place, looking up at the little girl, who
was smiling to herself as she watched the blue dragon-flies dance among
the ferns, a blackbird tilt on the alder-boughs, and listened to the
babble of the brook.
"How old are you, child?" asked the old man, as if he rather envied the
rosy creature her youth and health.
"Twelve to-day, sir;" and Marjorie stood up straight and tall, as if
mindful of her years.
"Had any presents?" asked the old man, peering up with an odd smile.
"One, sir,--here it is;" and she pulled out of her pocket a tin
savings-bank in the shape of a desirable family mansion, painted red,
with a green door and black chimney. Proudly displaying it on the rude
railing of the bridge, she added, with a happy face,--
"Granny gave it to me, and all the money in it is going to be mine."
"How much have you got?" asked the old gentleman, who appeared to like
to sit there in the middle of the brook, while Jack bathed his feet and
leisurely gurgled and sneezed.
"Not a penny yet, but I'm going to earn some," answered Marjorie,
patting the little bank with an air of resolution pretty to see.
"How will you do it?" continued the inquisitive old man.
"Oh, I'm going to pick berries and dig dandelions, and weed, and drive
cows, and do chores. It is vacation, and I can work all the time, and
earn ever so much."
"But vacation is play-time,--how about that?"
"Why, that sort of work _is_ play, and I get bits of fun all along. I
always have a good swing when I go for the cows, and pick flowers with
the dandelions. Weeding isn't so nice, but berrying is very pleasant,
and we have good times all together."
"What shall you do with your money when you get it?"
"Oh, lots of things! Buy books and clothes for school, and, if I get a
great deal, give some to granny. I'd love to do that, for she takes
care of me, and I'd be so proud to help her!"
"Good little lass!" said the old gentleman, as he put his hand in his
pocket. "Would you now?" he added, apparently addressing himself to a
large frog who sat upon a stone, looking so wise and grandfatherly that
it really did seem quite proper to consult him. At all events, he gave
his opinion in the most decided manner, for, with a loud croak, he
turned an undignified somersault into the brook, splashing up the water
at a great rate. "Well, perhaps it wouldn't be best on the whole.
Industry is a good teacher, and money cannot buy happiness, as I know
to my sorrow."
The old gentleman still seemed to be talking to the frog, and as he
spoke he took his hand out of his pocket with less in it than he had at
first intended.
"What a very queer person!" thought Marjorie, for she had not heard a
word, and wondered what he was thinking about down there.
Jack walked out of the brook just then, and she ran to check him up;
not an easy task for little hands, as he preferred to nibble the grass
on the bank. But she did it cleverly, smoothed the ruffled mane, and,
dropping another curtsy, stood aside to let the little carriage pass.
"Thank you, child--thank you. Here is something for your bank, and
good luck to it."
As he spoke, the old man laid a bright gold dollar in her hand, patted
the rosy cheek, and vanished in a cloud of dust, leaving Marjorie so
astonished at the grandeur of the gift, that she stood looking at it as
if it had been a fortune. It was to her; and visions of pink calico
gowns, new grammars, and fresh hat-ribbons danced through her head in
delightful confusion, as her eyes rested on the shining coin in her
palm.
Then, with a solemn air, she invested her first money by popping it
down the chimney of the scarlet mansion, and peeping in with one eye to
see if it landed safely on the ground-floor. This done, she took a
long breath, and looked over the railing, to be sure it was not all a
dream. No; the wheel-marks were still there, the brown water was not
yet clear, and, if a witness was needed, there sat the big frog again,
looking so like the old gentleman, with his bottle-green coat, speckled
trousers, and twinkling eyes, that Marjorie burst out laughing, and
clapped her hands, saying aloud,--
"I'll play he was the Brownie, and this is the good-luck penny he gave
me. Oh, what fun!" and away she skipped, rattling the dear new bank
like a castanet.
When she had told granny all about it, she got knife and basket, and
went out to dig dandelions; for the desire to increase her fortune was
so strong, she could not rest a minute. Up and down she went, so
busily peering and digging, that she never lifted up her eyes till
something like a great white bird skimmed by so low she could not help
seeing it. A pleasant laugh sounded behind her as she started up, and,
looking round, she nearly sat down again in sheer surprise, for there
close by was a slender little lady, comfortably established under a big
umbrella.
"If there were any fairies, I'd be sure that was one," thought
Marjorie, staring with all her might, for her mind was still full of
the old story; and curious things do happen on birthdays, as every one
knows.
It really did seem rather elfish to look up suddenly and see a lovely
lady all in white, with shining hair and a wand in her hand, sitting
under what looked very like a large yellow mushroom in the middle of a
meadow, where, till now, nothing but cows and grasshoppers had been
seen. Before Marjorie could decide the question, the pleasant laugh
came again, and the stranger said, pointing to the white thing that was
still fluttering over the grass like a little cloud,--
"Would you kindly catch my hat for me, before it blows quite away?"
Down went basket and knife, and away ran Marjorie, entirely satisfied
now that there was no magic about the new-comer; for if she had been an
elf, couldn't she have got her hat without any help from a mortal
child? Presently, however, it did begin to seem as if that hat was
bewitched, for it led the nimble-footed Marjorie such a chase that the
cows stopped feeding to look on in placid wonder; the grasshoppers
vainly tried to keep up, and every ox-eye daisy did its best to catch
the runaway, but failed entirely, for the wind liked a game of romps,
and had it that day. As she ran, Marjorie heard the lady singing, like
the princess in the story of the Goose-Girl,--
"Blow, breezes, blow!
Let Curdkin's hat go!
Blow, breezes, blow!
Let him after it go!
O'er hills, dales and rocks,
Away be it whirled,
Till the silvery locks
Are all combed and curled."
This made her laugh so that she tumbled into a clover-bed, and lay
there a minute to get her breath. Just then, as if the playful wind
repented of its frolic, the long veil fastened to the hat caught in a
blackberry-vine near by, and held the truant fast till Marjorie secured
it.
"Now come and see what I am doing," said the lady, when she had thanked
the child.
Marjorie drew near confidingly, and looked down at the wide-spread book
before her. She gave a start, and laughed out with surprise and
delight; for there was a lovely picture of her own little home, and her
own little self on the door-step, all so delicate, and beautiful, and
true, it seemed as if done by magic.
"Oh, how pretty! There is Rover, and Kitty and the robins, and me!
How could you ever do it, ma'am?" said Marjorie, with a wondering
glance at the long paint-brush, which had wrought what seemed a miracle
to her childish eyes.
"I'll show you presently; but tell me, first, if it looks quite right
and natural to you. Children sometimes spy out faults that no one else
can see," answered the lady, evidently pleased with the artless praise
her work received.
"It looks just like our house, only more beautiful. Perhaps that is
because I know how shabby it really is. That moss looks lovely on the
shingles, but the roof leaks. The porch is broken, only the roses hide
the place; and my gown is all faded, though it once was as bright as
you have made it. I wish the house and every thing would stay pretty
forever as they will in the picture."
While Marjorie spoke, the lady had been adding more color to the
sketch, and when she looked up, something warmer and brighter than
sunshine shone in her face, as she said, so cheerily, it was like a
bird's song to hear her,--
"It can't be summer always, dear, but we can make fair weather for
ourselves if we try. The moss, the roses, and soft shadows show the
little house and the little girl at their best, and that is what we all
should do; for it is amazing how lovely common things become, if one
only knows how to look at them."
"I wish _I_ did," said Marjorie, half to herself, remembering how often
she was discontented, and how hard it was to get on, sometimes.
"So do I," said the lady, in her happy voice. "Just believe that there
is a sunny side to every thing, and try to find it, and you will be
surprised to see how bright the world will seem, and how cheerful you
will be able to keep your little self."
"I guess granny has found that out, for she never frets. I do, but I'm
going to stop it, because I'm twelve to-day, and that is too old for
such things," said Marjorie, recollecting the good resolutions she had
made that morning; when she woke.
"I am twice twelve, and not entirely cured yet; but I try, and don't
mean to wear blue spectacles if I can help it," answered the lady,
laughing so blithely that Marjorie was sure she would not have to try
much longer. "Birthdays were made for presents, and I should like to
give you one. Would it please you to have this little picture?" she
added, lifting it out of the book.
"Truly my own? Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Marjorie, coloring with
pleasure, for she had never owned so beautiful a thing before.
"Then you shall have it, dear. Hang it where you can see it often, and
when you look, remember that it is the sunny side of home, and help to
keep it so."
Marjorie had nothing but a kiss to offer by way of thanks, as the
lovely sketch was put into her hand; but the giver seemed quite
satisfied, for it was a very grateful little kiss. Then the child took
up her basket and went away, not dancing and singing now, but slowly
and silently; for this gift made her thoughtful as well as glad. As
she climbed the wall, she looked back to nod good-by to the pretty
lady; but the meadow was empty, and all she saw was the grass blowing
in the wind.
"Now, deary, run out and play, for birthdays come but once a year, and
we must make them as merry as we can," said granny, as she settled
herself for her afternoon nap, when the Saturday cleaning was all done,
and the little house as neat as wax.
So Marjorie put on a white apron in honor of the occasion, and, taking
Kitty in her arms, went out to enjoy herself. Three swings on the gate
seemed to be a good way of beginning the festivities; but she only got
two, for when the gate creaked back the second time, it stayed shut,
and Marjorie hung over the pickets, arrested by the sound of music.
"It's soldiers," she said, as the fife and drum drew nearer, and flags
were seen waving over the barberry-bushes at the corner.
"No; it's a picnic," she added in a moment; for she saw hats with
wreaths about them bobbing up and down, as a gayly-trimmed hay-cart
full of children came rumbling down the lane.
"What a nice time they are going to have!" thought Marjorie, sadly
contrasting that merry-making with the quiet party she was having all
by herself.
Suddenly her face shone, and Kitty was waved over her head like a
banner, as she flew out of the gate, crying, rapturously,--
"It's Billy! and I know he's come for me!"
It certainly _was_ Billy, proudly driving the old horse, and beaming at
his little friend from the bower of flags and chestnut-boughs, where he
sat in state, with a crown of daisies on his sailor-hat and a spray of
blooming sweetbrier in his hand. Waving his rustic sceptre, he led off
the shout of "Happy birthday, Marjorie!" which was set up as the wagon
stopped at the gate, and the green boughs suddenly blossomed with
familiar faces, all smiling on the little damsel, who stood in the lane
quite overpowered with delight.
"It's a s'prise party!" cried one small lad, tumbling out behind.
"We are going up the mountain to have fun!" added a chorus of voices,
as a dozen hands beckoned wildly.
"We got it up on purpose for you, so tie your hat and come away," said
a pretty girl, leaning down to kiss Marjorie, who had dropped Kitty,
and stood ready for any splendid enterprise.
A word to granny, and away went the happy child, sitting up beside
Billy, under the flags that waved over a happier load than any royal
chariot ever bore.
It would be vain to try and tell all the plays and pleasures of happy
children on a Saturday afternoon, but we may briefly say that Marjorie
found a mossy stone all ready for her throne, and Billy crowned her
with a garland like his own. That a fine banquet was spread, and eaten
with a relish many a Lord Mayor's feast has lacked. Then how the whole
court danced and played together afterward! The lords climbed trees
and turned somersaults, the ladies gathered flowers and told secrets
under the sweetfern-bushes, the queen lost her shoe jumping over the
waterfall, and the king paddled into the pool below and rescued it. A
happy little kingdom, full of summer sunshine, innocent delights, and
loyal hearts; for love ruled, and the only war that disturbed the
peaceful land was waged by the mosquitoes as night came on.
Marjorie stood on her throne watching the sunset while her maids of
honor packed up the remains of the banquet, and her knights prepared
the chariot. All the sky was gold and purple, all the world bathed in
a soft, red light, and the little girl was very happy as she looked
down at the subjects who had served her so faithfully that day.
"Have you had a good time, Marjy?" asked King William; who stood below,
with his royal nose on a level with her majesty's two dusty little
shoes.
"Oh, Billy, it has been just splendid! But I don't see why you should
all be so kind to me," answered Marjorie, with such a look of innocent
wonder, that Billy laughed to see it.
"Because you are so sweet and good, we can't help loving you,--that's
why," he said, as if this simple fact was reason enough.
"I'm going to be the best girl that ever was, and love everybody in the
world," cried the child, stretching out her arms as if ready, in the
fulness of her happy heart, to embrace all creation.
"Don't turn into an angel and fly away just yet, but come home, or
granny will never lend you to us any more."
With that, Billy jumped her down, and away they ran, to ride gayly back
through the twilight, singing like a flock of nightingales.
As she went to bed that night, Marjorie looked at the red bank, the
pretty picture, and the daisy crown, saying to herself,--
"It has been a _very_ nice birthday, and I am something like the girl
in the story, after all, for the old man gave me a good-luck penny, the
kind lady told me how to keep happy, and Billy came for me like the
prince. The girl didn't go back to the poor house again, but I'm glad
_I_ did, for my granny isn't a cross one, and my little home is the
dearest in the world."
Then she tied her night-cap, said her prayers, and fell asleep; but the
moon, looking in to kiss the blooming face upon the pillow, knew that
three good spirits had come to help little Marjorie from that day
forth, and their names were Industry, Cheerfulness, and Love.
IX.
PATTY'S PLACE.
I.
HOW SHE FOUND IT.
Patty stood at one of the windows of the Asylum, looking thoughtfully
down into the yard, where twenty girls were playing.
All had cropped heads, all wore brown gowns and blue aprons, and all
were orphans like herself. Some were pretty and some plain, some rosy
and gay, some pale and feeble, but all seemed happy and having a good
time in spite of many drawbacks.
More than once one of them nodded and beckoned to Patty, but she shook
her head decidedly, and still stood, listlessly watching them, and
thinking to herself with a child's impatient spirit,--
"Oh, if some one would only come and take me away! I'm so tired of
living here I don't think I can bear it much longer."
Poor Patty might well wish for a change; for she had been in the Asylum
ever since she could remember; but though every one was kind to her,
she was heartily tired of the place, and longed to find a home as many
of the girls did.
The children were nursed and taught until old enough to help
themselves, then were adopted by people or went out to service. Now
and then some forlorn child was claimed by relatives who had discovered
it, and once the relatives of a little girl proved to be rich and
generous people, who came for Katy in a fine carriage, treated all the
other girls in honor of the happy day, and from time to time let Katy
visit them with hands full of gifts for her former playmates and
friends.
This event had made a great stir in the Asylum, and the children were
never tired of talking it over and telling it to new comers as a modern
sort of fairy tale. For a time, each hoped to be claimed in the same
way, and stories of what they would do when their turn came was one of
the favorite amusements of the house.
By and by Katy ceased to come, and gradually new girls took the place
of those that left, and her good fortune was forgotten by all but
Patty. To her it always remained a splendid possibility, and she
comforted her loneliness by visions of the day when her "folks" would
come for her, and bear her away to a future of luxury and pleasure,
rest and love.