[Illustration: CHICKENS AND "POETRY." Page 111.]
THE MARTIN AND NELLY STORIES.
NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOLDAYS.
BY
JOSEPHINE FRANKLIN.
AUTHOR OF "NELLY AND HER FRIENDS."
BOSTON:
FRED'K A. BROWN & CO., PUBLISHERS,
29 CORNHILL.
1862.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
BROWN AND TAGGARD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
LIST OF THE
"MARTIN AND NELLY STORIES."
I. NELLY AND HER FRIENDS.
II. NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOLDAYS.
III. NELLY AND HER BOAT.
IV. LITTLE BESSIE.
V. NELLY'S VISIT.
VI. ZELMA.
VII. MARTIN.
VIII. COUSIN REGULUS.
IX. MARTIN AND NELLY.
X. MARTIN ON THE MOUNTAIN.
XI. MARTIN AND THE MILLER.
XII. TROUTING, OR GYPSYING IN THE WOODS.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
MILLY 7
CHAPTER II.
"MELINDY" 25
CHAPTER III.
COMFORT'S NEFFY 51
CHAPTER IV.
"LET'S MAKE FRIENDS!" 72
CHAPTER V.
CHICKENS AND "POETRY" 109
CHAPTER VI.
GETTING LOST 129
NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS.
CHAPTER I.
MILLY.
Not very far from Nelly's home, stood a small, time-worn, wooden house.
It was not a pleasant object at which to look. A few vines that had
been trained over one of the front windows, and a stunted currant-bush
which stood by the door, were the only green things within the broken
fence. In summer, the cottage looked bald and hot, from its complete
exposure to the sun (no trees grew near to shade it), and in winter,
the rough winds rattled freely around its unprotected walls.
In this house lived a family by the name of Harrow. It consisted of the
widowed mother, a woman who had once moved in a far higher sphere of
life, and her two daughters, Milly and Elinor. There was a son, too,
people said, but he did not live at home, having had the ingratitude,
some time before the Harrows moved to the village, to desert his home
and run away to sea.
Mrs. Harrow and her children were very poor. No one knew but themselves
how hard they found it to get work enough to earn their daily bread.
The neighbors, among whom they were much respected, had long supposed
from many outward signs that the family had no means to spare, but
they were far from conjecturing that often, the mild, patient-looking
Mrs. Harrow, and her two gentle girls, were losing their strength from
actual famine. The little money they had, came to them through their
own exertions; their needle-work was celebrated far and near for its
delicacy and exquisite finish. In that small neighborhood, however, the
sewing which was brought to them to undertake, did not amount to much,
and the prices, too, were low, and provision-rates very high.
At last, just as despair was dawning on the household, Elinor, the
eldest daughter, heard of a situation as domestic in the family of a
farmer, who lived over the mountains, near Nancy's old home. The poor
girl's pride was dreadfully wounded at the thought of applying for
such a place, she a lady born and bred, but necessity knew no law,
and a few days only elapsed before pretty Miss Elinor was located at
the farm as a servant. It was a hard trial; mournful tears forced
themselves from her eyes whenever she gave herself time to think about
such a state of affairs.
The farmer was a poor, hard-working, painstaking man, and his wife was
quite as thrifty and industrious, so that between them they managed to
lay by a little money, every year, in the Savings Bank.
When Elinor came to them, the bustling farmer's wife could not realize
that the tall, pale, elegant-looking creature was not quite as able to
rub and scrub from morning to night as she was herself. She did not
take into consideration that the girl was unaccustomed to much hard
labor, and that her frame was not equal to the burdens that were put
upon it.
The consequence was that when Elinor went to her room at night, she was
too completely worn out to sleep, and in the mornings, rose feeling
sick and weary. She did not complain, however, but went about her
duties day after day, growing gradually more pale and feeble, and
storing in her system the seeds of future disease.
When the farmer's wife saw her moving slowly around her tidy, spotless
kitchen, she thought her a lazy girl, and often told her so in a loud,
sharp tone, that was a very great trial to hear patiently, which
Elinor always did, and then set about working more steadily than ever.
So the weeks went on, till, one morning, the maid of all work was
missing from her place. She had been seized with a sickness, that had
long been secretly hanging over her, and now she could not rise from
her bed.
Martin, a boy who lived at Mr. Brooks', told Nelly that Miss Elinor
fell at her post like a sentinel wounded on duty.
When the doctor came, he informed the farmer and his wife that their
servant had lost the use of her limbs, through an affection of the
spine, which had been brought on by lifting too heavy burdens, and she
was indeed as unable to move hand or foot to help herself as a baby
could be. Her mind, however, was not impaired. The farmer thought it
would have been fortunate if it had been, for she seemed to suffer such
terrible mental anguish about her misfortune, and the new care and
misery she was bringing on her mother and sister.
The farmer took her home in his wagon, a confirmed cripple. Her mother
and Milly helped him to carry her up to her old bedroom, and there she
lay, suffering but little pain, it is true, but at the time of our
story, having no hope of recovery.
The days were very long to Elinor now. She despised herself for ever
having repined at fate before. What was all she had endured previously,
to this trial? There was no light work of any kind, not even sewing,
which she could do, as she lay on her bed, and this made the time seem
longer. She was forced to be idle from daylight till dark. She could
have read, it is true, but she had no books, and to buy any was an
extravagance, of which, with the scanty means of the family, she did
not allow herself to dream.
The neighbors were shocked to hear of Elinor's misfortune. They visited
her, and at first, sent her little delicacies to tempt her appetite,
but by and by, although they pitied her as much as ever, they forgot
her in the events of their own domestic circles.
One very cold winter night Milly came into Mrs. Brooks's kitchen, and
asked Comfort, a colored woman who worked for the family, where her
mistress was. Comfort promptly led the way to the sitting-room, where
grouped coseyly around the centre-table were the different members of
the farmer's family. A bright fire blazed on the hearth, and the woolen
curtains were tightly drawn to keep out the winds that whistled around
the farm-house.
At the sight of this picture of comfort, Milly's pretty lips quivered.
She took kind-hearted Mrs. Brooks aside.
"Dear Mrs. Brooks," said Milly, "I _must_ say it; we are starving!
Elinor lies dying with cold and hunger, in her bed. Mother has not
tasted a mouthful since yesterday, and she is so proud she would not
let me beg. What _are_ we to do? I have run over here to ask your
sympathy and aid, for we have not one friend to whom we feel as though
we might apply."
Tears gathered in Milly's eyes.
"And pray," said the farmer's wife, "what do you consider _me_, Milly,
if not a friend? You ought not to have delayed so long in this matter.
I feel really hurt. Why did you not come to me before?"
She led the way into the kitchen that the young girl's sad tale might
not draw upon her too close attention from the children.
Milly Harrow sank upon a seat, before the fire on the hearth, and wept
such bitter, heart-breaking tears as it is to be hoped no one who reads
her story has ever known. She was a gentle, refined, well-educated girl
of twenty, and had met much more sorrow than happiness.
"Milly," said the farmer's wife kindly, and advancing as she spoke,
from the open door of the pantry, "come here to the table and see how a
bit of this roast fowl tastes. And try this glass of currant wine,--you
need not be afraid of it, it is home-made. While you are busy with it,
I'll get a little basket ready, and put on my cloak to run over with
you when you go back."
Milly blushed crimson. It was difficult to her to learn the hard
lessons of poverty. Nevertheless, she ate some bread and cold chicken,
and was quite ready to praise the delicate wine for the grateful warmth
it sent thrilling throughout her frame.
When she had finished, Mrs. Brooks was ready to accompany her, and
Comfort too, having received private instructions, stood with her
shawl over her head, and a large basket of wood in her hand.
So they set out together, Milly leading the way, the snow crunching
under their feet, along the path.
In a short time, a bright fire was burning in patient Elinor's room,
while the remains of a little feast on a table in the centre, showed
that the family suffered no longer from the pangs of actual starvation.
Elinor was bolstered up in bed, looking like a wan, despairing woman
of fifty, instead of a girl of twenty-two. Care and sickness had aged
her before her time. A faint, sweet flush was dawning on her cheeks
to-night, however, for she was not now enduring hunger, and Mrs. Brooks
sat there by the cheerfully blazing hearth with her mother and sister,
and talked hope into all their hearts.
"I tell you what it is, Mrs. Harrow," said the farmer's wife, in a
pleasant, hearty tone, "we must set this Milly of yours to work. Things
ought not to go on this way with your family any longer."
"Work!" echoed Milly, a little bitterly. "I've seen the time, dear Mrs.
Brooks, when I would have given anything for a month's work. Only tell
me something to do, and see how grateful I shall be."
"Well," said the farmer's wife, "the darkest hour is just before day,
Milly; who knows but that yours is now over, and dawn is coming. I have
been thinking about your opening a school."
Mrs. Harrow clasped her hands eagerly.
"Oh, if she could! oh, if she could!" she cried. "But who would think
of sending their children to us, when there are already two or three
other schools in the village?"
"Miss Felix is just giving hers up, and is going to the city," said
Mrs. Brooks. "I know it to be a fact, because I went to see her about
taking Nelly last week. That will be quite an opening. I can go to her
to-morrow, get a list of her pupils, and call on the parents to secure
their good-will, if you say so, Milly."
Milly could scarcely answer for sobbing. At last she said in a broken
voice, "dear, dear Mrs. Brooks, this is more than I have any reason to
hope. How can I ever repay you for your kindness?"
"By taking good care of Nelly when I send her to you as your first
pupil," was the cheerful reply. "And now let me see what are your
accommodations. You must have our Martin for a day or two, to knock you
together some long benches with backs, and Comfort can help you cover
and cushion them with some old green baize that I have in the garret.
What room can you give to the use of the schoolmistress, Mrs. Harrow?"
"Well," said the old lady, smiling for the first time in a month, "the
front room, down-stairs, is best, I think, because it opens directly
on the road. I can take the furniture out, (what there is of it!) and
clean it up like a June pink, in a day or two."
"The carpet is rather shabby and threadbare," suggested Milly. "And
little pegged shoes will soon spoil it completely," added Mrs. Brooks.
"I should say a better plan will be to take it up entirely. A clean
board floor, nicely swept and sanded every morning, is plenty good
enough. What books have you, Milly?"
"All my old school-books, and brother's, and Elinor's too," said the
young girl. "That will do to begin on till the pupils purchase their
own."
"I could teach French," put forth Elinor's voice from the bed,--"that
is, if it would answer for the class to come up here. You know, mother,
I used to speak it fluently when I was at Madame Thibault's. Don't you
think I might try? My voice and my patience are strong, if _I_ am not;"
and she smiled, oh, such a smile! It brought tears into the eyes of
all in that poor, little, desolate apartment.
"Try!" said the farmer's wife; "why, Elinor, that is just the thing for
you! You may count _me_ as one in your class. It was only yesterday I
was regretting having no opportunity to practise what little of the
language I know already. We must arrange your room a little, Ellie, and
have everything looking spruce, and Frenchified, eh?"
At this Elinor herself began to cry.
"You are so, s-o-o g-o-o-o-d," she exclaimed.
"Good! Not at all!" said Mrs. Brooks; and by way of proving how far
from good she was really, she hopped up like a bird, and was at the
bedside in a minute, smoothing out the pillows and kissing Elinor's
pale forehead.
"I'll take my first lesson to-morrow afternoon," she said, "if you have
no objections; and your kind mother here, can begin to profit herself
at once by your labor, and send over to our meal-bag and dairy as often
as she pleases."