GETTING LOST.
The next day, when Nelly went to school with her verse-paper in her
hand, all ready for presentation, she found the children talking
together in little groups, in tones of great surprise and delighted
satisfaction.
Melinda, now grown kind and loving to Nelly, as a consequence of that
little girl's own patience and affectionate effort, came forward at
once to tell the news.
"Only think!" she said; "Mrs. Harrow's son, Sidney, has come home, and
oh, Miss Milly and Miss Elinor are _so_ glad!"
"And so am I," cried Nelly; "if ever there was good luck, that is."
"I am not so sure about that," said Melinda, with a sage, grown-up air;
for she liked to seem like a woman, and often told her companions,
"dear knows, if _she_ wasn't big enough to be thought one, she would
like to know who _was_!"
"Why, isn't Mr. Sidney a nice young man, Melindy?" asked Nelly, in
bewilderment.
"Hush!" said Melinda, drawing her into a corner; "don't talk so loud.
You see, he's come home as poor as he went, and folks are afraid that
he will go on just as he did before,--that is, spend all his own
earnings and plenty of his mother's, too."
"Dear, dear!" said Nelly; "that will be hard for Miss Milly."
"Anyway," continued Melinda, wisely, "we can hope for the best, you
know. Miss Milly is so glad to have him back, that she came into
this 'ere school-room, this very morning, and told the scholars she
was going to take them all on a picnic, to-morrow, up yonder, on Mr.
Bradish's mountain. We are to ask our mothers if we can go, and then
come here with our dinners in our baskets, and set off together as soon
as the grass dries. Fun, isn't it?"
Nelly's eyes danced.
"A picnic! well, if that isn't nice! I hope Comfort will put something
real good in my basket, to-morrow." Then she added, thoughtfully, "I
wonder if Martin might not go, too?"
"I'll ask," said Melinda; and up she went to Miss Milly, who at that
moment entered.
Little Johnny Bixby, a boy of ten, now came up to wish Nell
good-morning, and talk about the picnic. Nelly gave him her poetry, and
he read it, and said,
"It's splendid, Nelly; I'll show it to mother as soon as I get home."
The next day came. The skies were clear, but the wind was high, and
swayed the branches of the trees around the farm-house, and swept the
long, wet grass to and fro.
"Is it going to storm?" asked Nelly, anxiously, of Martin, as
immediately after breakfast they stood together in the door-way and
looked forth.
"No," said Martin; "I think it will not storm, but the breeze will be a
pretty stiff one all day. Perhaps Miss Milly will postpone the picnic."
"Oh, dear!" cried Nelly; "I hope not. What! put it off after Comfort
has baked us that great, bouncing sponge-cake, Martin?"
Martin was going too, for Miss Milly had sent him an invitation, and
Mr. Brooks had granted him, very willingly, a holiday. He had only to
help milk the cows early in the morning, and then he was free to follow
his pleasure till sundown. He was dressed now in his Sunday suit; his
hair was combed smoothly over his forehead, and his best cloth cap was
in his hands. Altogether he looked so tidy, so good, so happy, that
when Mr. Brooks came in the room, he asked Comfort, with a smile, if
she didn't think a lad of about the age of Martin ought to have at
least a dime of spending money, when he went to picnics. On Comfort's
saying heartily, without taking one single instant for reflection,
"Yes, Sir," the farmer put his hand in his pocket, drew out a new and
bright quarter of a dollar, and dropped it in Martin's cap. Martin
tried to return it, but Mr. Brooks would not hear to any such thing,
but shouldered his hoe and went off, whistling, into the garden.
"I'll tell you what to do with it," said Nelly, in a confidential
whisper; "buy round hearts; they're four for a penny. Only think of
four times twenty-five round hearts! How much is that, Martin?"
Martin laughed, and said he guessed he would not invest in round
hearts, for Comfort's cake was so large.
"So _monstrous_ large," put in Nelly, dividing a glance of affection
between Comfort and the cake.
"Yes," continued Martin; "it is so _monstrous_ that it ought to last,
at least, two whole days."
The farmer's wife came in just then, and told them she would pack the
dinner-basket herself, to see that everything was right, and that it
was full enough, for she said she had heard somebody remark that good
appetites were sure to go along on picnics. Nelly and Martin stood by
and looked at her as she unfolded a clean white towel, and outspread
it in the basket, so that the ends hung over the sides. After this
she took some thin pieces of cold beef and put them between slices of
bread and butter, and these she packed away first. Now came Comfort's
sponge-cake, cut in quarters, and as many little lady-apples as
remained from the winter's store,--for it was late in the spring. A cup
to drink out of the mountain streams was also added, and the towel-ends
were nicely folded over the whole and pinned together.
A happy pair they were, when they set out,--Martin carrying the
provisions, and Nelly singing and making flying skips beside him. When
they reached the school-house, nearly all the children were assembled.
Miss Milly was there, and her brother too, a handsome young lad, of
about eighteen, with a very brown, sunburnt face. Nelly knew him, the
moment she saw him, to be the same person she had seen before. They
were not to start for an hour yet, for, high as the wind had been, and
was, the grass was still glittering with dew. The little road-side
brooks were furrowed into white-crested waves, and the school-house
creaked and moaned with the gusts that blew against it.
"I am almost afraid to venture taking the children out," said
Miss Milly; but upon hearing this, such a clamor of good-humored
expostulation arose, and so many sorrowful "oh's," and "oh dear me's,"
resounded through the room, that Sidney Harrow, as any other boy would
have done, begged his sister to have mercy and never mind the wind.
In a little while the party started. Mr. Bradish's mountain, the
proposed scene of the picnic, was distant about one mile from the
school-house. The route to it lay through a long, shady lane that
gradually wound towards the woods, and lost itself at last amid
the huge, gray rocks and dense shade of the hill-top itself. It was
spring-time, and the grass was very green, and delicate wild flowers
starred all the road-side. Here and there, in the crevice of a mossy
stone, grew a tuft of wild pinks, nodding against a group of scarlet
columbines, while, wherever the ground afforded unusual moisture, blue
violets thrust up their graceful heads in thick masses.
"Hurrah!" cried Johnny Bixby, as they reached the summit of the
mountain; "Hurrah! here we are at last. The picnic's begun!"
Miss Milly said the children might stray around together for some time
before it would be the dinner-hour, and they might gather as many wild
flowers as they wished, to decorate the picnic grounds. All the girls
set to work, and such a crowd of violets, anemones, wild buckwheat,
and pinks as was soon piled around Miss Milly's feet, was a sight
to behold. While Sidney Harrow with Martin and the rest of the boys
were fishing in a little stream that ran over the mountain, about one
quarter of a mile distant, Miss Milly's party tied bouquets to the
branches of the trees, and hung garlands on the bushes, around the
spot where they were to dine. The wind died away, the birds sung out
merrily, and the air grew soft and warm, so that, after all, there
was no fear of little folks taking cold. The brook where Sidney and
Martin led the boys was not a very deep one, and therefore it was not
dangerous, but it was celebrated for miles around for its fish. A
large, overhanging rock, under the shade of a tree, served, as Martin
said, for a "roosting-place," and from it they found the bites so
frequent that quite a little string of fish was made, and hung on some
dead roots that projected from the bank.
"What a wild place this is," said Martin, looking around him, as he
drew in his line for the fourth time.
"Yes," said Sidney; "it is. That is the best of it. I wouldn't give a
fig for it if it wasn't. Look at that cow coming to drink. I wonder
where she hails from! How she looks at us!"
The cow did indeed regard them with a long stare of astonishment, and
then, scarcely tasting the water, she plunged, bellowing, into the
woods again.
"She is frightened," said Martin; "that's old Duchess, one of Mr.
Bradish's cows. He turns them out with their calves every summer, to
take care of themselves till fall."
"Why, is the pasture good enough for that, up here on this mountain?"
asked Sidney, baiting his hook.
"Yes," replied Martin; "I think so; it's rather rough, but cows are
mighty knowin', and pick out the best. Besides, they have their
freedom, and they thrive on that as much as anything. Then the calves
are so well grown in the fall by these means, that when farmers, who
put them out, go to drive them home to winter-quarters, they hardly
know their own again."
"There, she's coming back!" cried a little boy; "and a whole lot with
her!"
Martin looked where the crashing of boughs told of the approach, and
saw about a dozen cows, headed by Duchess, making for that part of
the stream where they were fishing. Some half-grown calves scampered
at their heels, in a frightened way, that showed they were not much
accustomed to the sight of human beings.
"Poor Duchess! Good Duchess!" said Martin, in a kind tone; but Duchess
tossed up her nice, brown nose, and snorted at him.
"She don't like the looks of us, that's flat," said Sidney, with a
little alarm that made Martin smile; "I'm sure I don't like _her_
appearance one bit. Suppose she should horn us!" And he jumped hastily
up from the rock.
"What!" said Martin; "you, a sailor, who know what it is to face
death on the ocean, every day of your life, and yet afraid of a cow!
Besides, she hasn't a horn to her head! Just look at her. She has
nothing but two little, miserable stumps!"
Sidney came back again, for he had retreated a step or two, under the
trees, and looked somewhat ashamed.
"What's the use of jumpin'?" said Johnny Bixby, in a big, pompous
tone, that he meant to be very courageous and manly; "Duchess is only
frightened at seeing us. This is her drinking-place, may be."
"Oh!" said Sidney; "of course _I_ am not afraid;" but his lips turned
blue as Duchess made a sudden move, half-way across the stream, and
then stood still, and roared again.
"She's a little scared at us, that's all," said Martin; "she'll get
used to the sight of us pretty soon."
"After she's made the water muddy and spoiled the fishing," said
Sidney, in an ill-natured tone.
Martin took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and
waded slowly across the brook towards the herd of cattle, holding
out his hand and speaking to one or two of the animals by name, in a
coaxing, petting way:
"Come here, Spotty,--come here, good little White Sue,--come here, my
poor old Duchess!"
The cows stood and looked at him, very quietly. The one he called Sue,
was small, and entirely white, with the exception of a bright red star
on her forehead; she was a very pretty creature. She seemed to remember
having seen Martin before, for presently she marched slowly up to
him and sniffed his hand, while staring at him from head to foot. The
boy scratched her ears, as he had often done before upon passing Mr.
Bradish's barnyard; she appeared to be pleased, and rubbed her head
against his shoulder.
"Softly, there, Susie," said Martin; "I don't like that. That's my
Sunday go-to-meeting coat."
He stepped back as he spoke, and the abrupt movement alarmed the whole
troop. White Sue gave a loud bellow, and dashed abruptly across the
stream into the woods on the other side,--her companions hurriedly
following, splashing the water over themselves and their calves as they
did so.
Sidney Harrow dropped his pole, and with a half-shriek, ran in the
opposite direction, towards the picnic ground.
As the fishing at that place was now over, on account of the
disturbance of the water, Martin told the boys they had better join the
rest of the party; so they gathered up the fish and bait, and left the
spot, Martin carrying the rod of the brave sailor in addition to his
own.
They found Miss Milly building a fire in a small clearing, where it
would not scorch the trees. Sidney was with her. As he saw the boys
approach he got down on his knees and began to blow the flame into a
blaze, and puffed and panted so hard at his work, that he could not
even get his breath to say "thank you," when Martin remarked, "Here is
your rod, Sidney. You left it on the rock. I'll lean it against this
maple, till you are ready to take charge of it."
"I am glad you have come," said Miss Milly to the group of boys; "for
we are getting magnificent appetites, and I wanted Sidney and Martin to
roast the clams."
"Clams!" cried Martin; "that was what made Sidney's load so heavy,
then, coming up the hill. How I like roasted clams!"
Miss Milly showed him Sidney's empty basket, and told him that she and
Melinda had prepared a compact bed of the clams on the ground, and that
they had then placed over them a quantity of dry branches, ready to
kindle when Sidney should come with the matches, which he carried in
his pocket, and had brought for the purpose.
The tablecloth was already spread on a flat rock near at hand, and the
little girls were still busy arranging the contents of their baskets
upon it, for, by general consent, they were to dine together that day,
and share with each other the eatables that had been provided for the
excursion.
Martin reached down his and Nelly's basket, from a high limb where he
had hung it for safety, and Comfort's big cake, which Mrs. Brooks had
cut in quarters, was fitted together and placed in the centre of the
cloth for the chief ornament.
"Will not Comfort feel proud when she hears it?" whispered Nelly to
Martin, as she passed him with her hands full of knives and forks.
The fire was soon blazing and sputtering over the clams, and in a
short time Sidney pronounced them cooked. With branches of trees, the
boys then drew the burning fragments away, and scattered the red coals
till the bed of baked clams presented itself. Miss Milly tried one and
found it was just in a fine state to eat, and then the children were
told that all was ready.
Armed with plates, pieces of bread and butter, and knives and forks,
they drew near, and the talking and laughing that ensued, as each
opened the hot shells, for his or herself, made a merry scene of it.
There were enough for all, and to spare; and when they left the
clam-bed, still smoking and smouldering, to assemble around
"table-rock," as Melinda called it, where the daintier part of the
feast was spread, Martin said he had never tasted such finely roasted
clams in his life.
"I expect," said Miss Milly, "that the charm lies in our appetites."
"Yes," said Johnny Bixby, taking an enormous bite of cake, and, to
Nelly's great horror, speaking with his mouth full--"yes, I think goin'
on picnics and such like, is real hungry work."
This speech was received with a shout of approbation; and, on Sidney
remarking that he thought that Johnny should be made the orator of the
occasion, the children laughed again, and quite as heartily as though
they fully understood what _orator_ meant.
When the dinner was over, and the larger girls began to gather up the
fragments, and restore plates and spoons to their owners, the rest
prepared for a ramble. Miss Milly said they must not go far, nor stay
long, and, promising to obey, the children set out together.
As soon as they were separated from the others, which happened
insensibly, Johnny Bixby gave Nelly, with whom he was walking, a very
animated account of Sidney Harrow's behavior at the fishing-ground.
"Afraid of cows!" said Nell; "well, that beats all I ever heard. I am
afraid that Sidney will not help Miss Milly along much. Come, show me
where you fished, Johnny, will you?"
Johnny led the way, and in a little while he and Nelly stood on the
very rock from which the boys had dropped their lines in the morning.
The moss upon it was trodden under foot, and it was quite wet where
the fish had been hauled in.
"I wonder if this is a creek," said Nell, looking up and down the brook
with an admiring gaze; "Marm Lizy used often to tell me of a creek
where she rowed a boat, when she was young."
"Marm Lizy?" asked Johnny; "who's that, Nell?"
Nelly turned very red, and was silent. She remembered, like a flash of
lightning, that John was a stranger in the village, his home being in
the adjacent city, and that therefore he had, perhaps, never heard the
story of her degraded childhood. Pride rose up and made her deceitful.
"Marm Lizy!" she repeated, carelessly; "oh, I don't know; somebody or
other who used to live in the village. What's that, Johnny, flopping
about in the grass?"
She pointed to the rock-side, where, as Johnny soon saw, a decided
"flopping" was indeed going on.
"A fish! a fish!" cried the boy, catching it and holding it up in both
hands, so that Nell could look at it; "I'll take it to Martin to put on
the string with the rest. It must have floundered off."
"Oh, let us put it back," cried Nelly; "poor Mr. Fish! I think you
would really like to try your hand at swimming again."
"Fin, you mean," laughed John; "fishes don't have hands that ever _I_
heard tell. Shall I let it go?"
"Oh, yes!" cried Nell; "but wait till I get down from the rock so
that I can see it swim away." She clambered down, and soon stood by
Johnny's side on the long grass that grew close to the brook's edge,
and mingled with the little white bubbles on its surface. Johnny
stooped, and, holding the fish, put his hands under the water. The
moment the poor, tortured thing felt the touch of its native element,
it gave a start and would have darted away.
"Oh, Johnny!" exclaimed Nell; "don't tease it so cruelly. Please let it
go."
Johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off so swiftly
that they could scarcely see which way it went. At last Nelly espied it
under the shadow of the rock, puffing its little sides in and out, and
looking at them with its keen, bright eyes, in a very frightened way.
[Illustration: "Johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish
swam off." Page 154.]
"Poor fish!" said Johnny; "swim away, and remember not to nibble at
boy's hooks again. A worm is a very good thing for you when it isn't at
the end of a piece of string."
The fish gazed at him a little longer, then seeming to take his advice,
darted from the rock to where the water was deeper and darker, and was
soon lost to sight.
"That's the place Sidney's cows came from," said Johnny, pointing
to the opposite side of the stream, where the bushes were torn and
trodden, and marks of hoofs were in the mud and grass.
"Let us take off our shoes and stockings and wade over and follow their
track, to see where it leads," cried Nelly; and, suiting the action to
the word, the two children soon found themselves bare-footed,--Nell
tying her boots to dangle one from each of her apron-strings, and
Johnny carrying his in his hands. Nell got her feet in first, but drew
back, saying it was cold; so Johnny dashed over, splashing his little
bare legs, and leaving a muddy track all across the brook.
"There," said he, somewhat boastfully, "that's the way! I am glad I'm
not afraid like girls."
Nelly did not like this treatment, and she was about giving a hasty and
angry answer, when, sobered by the recollection of the deep fault she
had already committed, by her late untruth, she only said,--
"Sidney was afraid of _cows_!" and waded slowly and silently through
the water.
They found the path to be quite a well-worn one. It was evidently
that by which the cows were in the habit of coming to drink. It was
pretty, too, and very wild. In a little while, as they left the brook
farther and farther behind them, the walking became dry and very good,
so that they resumed their shoes, but not their stockings,--Johnny
stating that he hated the latter, and would rather "scratch himself to
pieces" on the blackberry thorns than put them on again. The shade was
very pleasant. Once or twice they paused to rest on the large stones
which were scattered here and there through the path, but this was not
for any great length of time; they wandered on and on, taking no note
of time, nor of their prolonged absence from their companions, but
enjoying every thing they saw, and wishing all the days in the year
were like this one.
The openings in the trees were very few; they were penetrating,
although they did not know it, into the very heart of the wood. Once,
and once only, they caught a glimpse, through the branches, of a small
clearing. Half-burned stumps still showed themselves amid the rank
grass. On the top of an elevation, at one side of this clearing, a
horse was quietly grazing. As he moved, Johnny saw he was lame, and
from this the children judged that, like the cows, he was turned out to
pasture for the summer. As Nelly parted the bushes to look at him, he
gave a frightened start, and began to paw the grass. He still stood on
the little hill, in beautiful relief against the soft blue of the sky,
the rising breeze of the coming sunset blowing his long, black mane and
tail gracefully in the air as the children turned away to pursue their
journey. The cow-path soon branched into others more winding and narrow
than the one they had just quitted. The time since dinner had passed so
rapidly and happily, that they did not dream night was coming, or that
they had strayed too far away from their companions. The wild flowers
grew so thickly, and the mosses were of such surprising softness and
length, that it was scarcely any wonder they forgot their teacher's
parting injunction.
When night at last really began to approach, and Nelly looked anxiously
around at the gathering twilight in the woods, Johnny said it was
nothing but the natural shadows of the trees, and so they concluded
to go on a little farther to gather a few of the laurel blossoms they
saw growing amid their shining green leaves, a short distance beyond.
When they had reached this spot, and captured the desired treasures,
Nelly saw with dismay, that the path ended abruptly against the side
of an immense rock, quite as large, she thought, as the whole of the
farm-house at home.
"Nell!" said Johnny, suddenly; "I believe we are lost! How to find our
way back again over these long paths we have been walking through all
the afternoon, I am sure I do not know."
"And I am so tired now, I can hardly stir," said Nelly, in a
complaining tone; "and night is near, as I told you before."
Johnny looked around without answering. He saw that there was no help
for it; they must return the way they came, long as it was, or stay in
the woods all night.
"Come, Nelly," he said, "we must go back on the same path, if we can."
It was getting quite dusky. They took each other by the hand and
trudged along. One by one the flowers dropped from Nelly's full apron,
to the ground, and at length her weary fingers unclasped, and the apron
itself resumed its proper position. Everybody knows how easy it is to
lose one's way, and what a difficult thing it is to find it again. Our
wanderers discovered it to be so. They got upon a wrong path that led
them into soft, wet ground, where, the first thing they knew, they were
up to their ankles in mud; and when they had extricated themselves as
well as they could, and struck out boldly for home, confident that they
were now making a direct short-cut for it, they found themselves, in
a little while, on the same path, at the foot of the same large rock
where they were before.
This was a little too much for the patience of the two picnickers.
Johnny looked at Nell gravely.
"Don't!" he said, "don't, Nelly dear!"
"Don't what?" asked Nelly, dropping down where she stood, so completely
exhausted as to be glad of a moment's rest.
"Don't cry. You look just like it. All girls cry, you know."
[Illustration: "They saw then, that this huge rock was on the very
summit of the mountain." Page 163.]
"Do they?" asked Nell, absently looking about her. Then she asked, with
energy, "Johnny, do you know what I think we ought to do? We must climb
this big mountain of a rock, some way, and see what there is on the
other side of it. Maybe we are near home."
"I guess not," said Johnny; "but I can climb it if you can."
After thinking the case over, they clasped hands once more, and began
the ascent. They had to sit down several times, to rest, on the way.
The sharp points of the rock and the narrow crevices which they
mounted, hurt their tired feet.
At last they reached the top, and found themselves in comparative
daylight, because they were now out of the woods. They saw then, that
this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain on which the
picnic had taken place. They beheld from it, distinctly, their homes
in the valley beneath. The rock was entirely free from foliage, and
nothing obscured the splendor of the landscape below. The sun had just
set red and misty in the west, shedding his parting glow over the
peaceful village and the scattered farm-houses, on its outskirts.
No wonder the two children were overcome by fatigue,--they had been
gradually, but unconsciously ascending the hill the whole afternoon.
They stood there now, hand in hand, looking down upon their far-off
homes.
"Are you afraid, Nell?" asked her companion, in a low voice.
"No," said Nell; "not now, that we are out of those dark woods;
besides, I have thought of a plan to make them see us from below. Look
here."
She put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a match.
"Sidney Harrow dropped this when he was kindling the fire, and I
thought of Comfort's savin' ways and picked it up. Can you guess what I
am going to do? We must get together some brush-wood, and make a fine
blaze that they will see in the village."
"And even if they don't come to bring us home," said Johnny, "it will
keep us warm till morning, and then we can find our own way. But we
must go down the rock to get the wood. Oh dear! I don't think much of
picnics, do you, Nell?"
Very soon a fire burned on the top of the rock, and notwithstanding
their fatigue, the children kept it in a broad blaze. As the last
bright cloud of sunset faded away, the flames spread boldly into the
night air, a signal of distress to those who were safely housed in the
farm-houses beneath.
Having got the fire well going, and a large stock of wood on hand to
feed it, the weary, dispirited children sat down to rest, beside it.
Neither spoke for a long time. They listened intently for the expected
aid, yet nothing but the dreary hoot of the owls met their ears,
mingled with the moan of the wind, which now being steadily increasing,
blew the flames high in the air.
Nelly got up to poke the coals with a branch she kept for that purpose,
and when she had done so, she stood leaning upon it and looking
sorrowfully into the valley, where she saw lights twinkling from
windows.
"Johnny," she said, softly, "do you believe anybody can be _perfectly_
good in this world?"
"Yes," said Johnny, carelessly, "I s'pose so, if a fellow tries hard
enough. I guess it's pretty tough work though, don't you?"
"The more _I_ try, the worse I seem to be; at least,--well, you see,
the worse I _feel_ myself to be."
"We've neither of us been very good to-day, Nell. Miss Milly told us
not to go far, nor to stay long, and I believe we've gone as far as we
could, and I'm sure we've stayed a deal longer than we want to,--_I_
have. Are you afraid _now_, Nell?"
"God takes care of us, always," said little Nell, solemnly, still
leaning on her branch and crossing her feet. "Comfort tells me that,
and mother reminds me of it when she hears me say my prayers on going
to bed."
"Do you believe it? Does He see us _now_?" questioned her companion,
raising himself on his elbow and gazing at her as she stood between him
and the bright fire.
"I believe it," was the reverent answer. "Dear Johnny, let us not
forget our prayers to-night, if we stay up here."
There was another long, long pause.
"Johnny?"
"Well, Nell."
"I was wicked to you to-day. I was proud, and told you I didn't know
who Marm Lizy was, when you asked me. That wasn't true, and now I'm
sorry."
"Well, who was she, Nell?"
Tears of repentance for her own sin, and likewise of sorrow at the
recollection of poor Marm Lizy's misspent life, rose to Nelly's eyes,
and glittered on her cheeks in the red firelight, like rubies. Johnny
looked at her with redoubled interest.
"Marm Lizy," said Nell, getting through her self-imposed confession
with a little difficulty, "Marm Lizy was a--a--a sort of mother to me.
She wasn't good to me, and I wasn't good to her. She beat me sometimes,
and--and I didn't know any better than to hate her. I wouldn't do so
_now_, I think. I should be sorry for her."
"Where is Marm Lizy now, Nelly?"
The boy did not know what remembrances that simple question awoke.
Nelly did not answer, but crouched down by the fire, and buried her
face in her hands.
After a long interval she started up again.
She heard shouts, faint at first, but gradually growing nearer.
She and Johnny set up a long, loud, eager cry in return, that woke a
dozen mountain echoes. Then dogs barked, lanterns gleamed through the
dark woods, the shouts burst forth again, and many voices were heard
calling them by name!
The fire had done its work. The LOST were FOUND at
last, for in a short time Nelly was clasped in her father's arms.
So terminated the picnic.
THE END.
Transcriber's Note:
Spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as in the
original publication except as follows:
Page 36
fish-fork. It wasn't your _changed to_
fish-fork. "It wasn't your
Page 54
I--'blieve--I shall--crack _changed to_
I--b'lieve--I shall--crack
Nelly,--'spose now, I had _changed to_
Nelly,--s'pose now, I had
Page 55
growing interest; what's _slave_ _changed to_
growing interest; "what's _slave_
Page 63
little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' _changed to_
little grimly, "Stockin' or no stockin'
Page 87
evergreens are permitted to remain. _changed to_
evergreens are permitted to remain."
Page 89
'What!' said my uncle _changed to_
"'What!' said my uncle
Page 100
All the people were more _changed to_
"All the people were more
Page 104
It do'n't seem a bit _changed to_
It don't? seem a bit
Page 162
patience of the two picnicers _changed to_
patience of the two picnickers
End of Project Gutenberg's Nelly's First Schooldays, by Josephine Franklin