POP-GUNS.
ONE SERIOUS AND ONE FUNNY.
_LIST OF POP-GUN SERIES._
_I._—_Pop-Guns._
_II._—_One Big Pop-Gun._
_III._—_All Sorts of Pop-Guns._
_IV._—_Funny Pop-Guns._
_V._—_Grasshopper Pop-Gun._
_VI._—_Post-Office Pop-Guns._
[Illustration: The Dogs’ Dinner Party.]
POP-GUNS.
ONE SERIOUS AND ONE FUNNY.
BEING
THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SERIES.
BY
AUNT FANNY,
AUTHOR OF “NIGHTCAPS,” “MITTENS,” “PET BOOKS,”
“WIFE’S STRATEGEM,” ETC.
“Shoot folly as it flies.”
“I love God and little children.”—RICHTER.
NEW YORK:
SHELDON & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
498 & 500 BROADWAY.
1865.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864,
BY FANNY BARROW,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
C. A. ALVORD, STEREOTYPER.
THIS, AND ALL THE BOOKS OF THE SERIES,
I DEDICATE
TO
THOMAS LINCOLN,
THE SON OF
THAT LOYAL, FEARLESS, HONEST MAN,
THE
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
1. A POP-GUN LETTER FROM AUNT FANNY 11
2. ABOUT THE CHILDREN 24
3. HOW PHILIP BADBOY BECAME PHILIP WISEMAN 30
4. THE DOG’S DINNER PARTY 115
5. CONCLUSION 147
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1. THE DOG’S DINNER PARTY—_Frontispiece._
2. “WE ALL GOT IN THE BOAT” 19
3. POP-GUN, “BE GOOD, IF YOU WISH TO BE HAPPY.” 30
4. LITTLE ESSIE GOING TO MEET HER FATHER 65
5. THE HONORABLE MR. KITE 73
6. POP-GUN, “PRACTISE TRUE POLITENESS.” 114
PREFACE.
TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS.
In these little books, I have complied with a request repeatedly
expressed to me, to write stories avowedly for the purpose of “pointing a
moral.”
Any one who will take the trouble to look over the “Nightcap,” “Mitten,”
or “Sock” books, will see that I have tried to remember this duty;
although I own to loving children so tenderly, as to administer _my_
pills, sugar-coated.
Even now, I cannot resist employing the whimsical mask of an odd title;
but my dear friends, _try my pop-guns_, and if then you are convinced
that I have sincerely endeavored to “shoot folly as it flies,” pray
believe also, that AUNT FANNY well knows that stories called “Pop-Guns,”
will make quicker and more enduring marks in the loving hearts of her
darlings, the children, than twenty folios, written by a thousand times
greater authors, with the dry title of “Moral Lessons for the Young.”
NEW YORK, _May, 1864_.
POP-GUNS.
A POP-GUN LETTER FROM AUNT FANNY.
DARLING CHILDREN,—
Last summer, when I was in the country, I met a family of six charming
children. As soon as they heard who I was, they did not stop one minute
to think about it, but just ran up and kissed and hugged me, and told me
they loved me dearly.
Oh! how sweet that was to know: but I put on a funny grave face, and said—
“I cannot imagine why you should love such a little brown woman; don’t
you think you have made some mistake?”
“No indeed, Aunt Fanny,” they all cried together, “and we are _so_ glad
we have found you at last. We are glad you are little, that’s the best
of it! and don’t look so _very_ brown. Come, please sit down, and tell us
what has become of the Night-cap children, won’t you? Oh, do!”
There was no resisting that “Oh, do!” with six pair of loving bright eyes
looking into mine; so I answered—
“Well, let us all get in a corner together, and have a nice long talk.”
At this one of the boys threw up his hands, made a dry dive down on the
carpet, and bumped the top of his head, in his joy; another, hopped on
one foot till he lost his balance, and had to make a one-sided somerset,
to bring himself up on his feet again; the third and smallest laid his
curly head lovingly against my dress; while the little girls danced
and skipped so lightly around me, that I caught myself wishing for the
hundred and fiftieth time that I were a child too.
But never mind. I love children with my whole heart, and that helps to
comfort me, when I think what an old “Aunt Fanny” I am getting to be.
So we all sat down in the corner, just as close together as we could
get, and I told them how, as they knew already from the “Mitten” books,
that George was a captain in the army, and as he had always been a good
boy, he was now a noble and good young man; and how Harry had gone to
the naval school at Newport, and could run about the rigging of a ship,
like any monkey; and Anna was engaged to be married; at which they were
greatly surprised.
“Why, Aunt Fanny!” they exclaimed, “is she as _old_ as that?”
“Yes,” I answered, “she _would_ grow up into a lovely young lady, all I
could do—and the rest are growing older too, for Clara has left school;
little Minnie knows how to make cake; the ‘TREMENDOUS DOG’ has died of
old age; and even little Johnny, who packed up his mother’s false hair
in an old tin tomato-can, and gave it to the express-man to carry off, is
taller than I am.”
“Oh, Aunt Fanny! How old they all are!” cried Sophie, the eldest girl,
“they are _too_ old to have any more stories told to them. Oh! Oh!” she
exclaimed, clapping her hands, “please tell the next stories to us. Won’t
you? Will you?”
_Such_ a shout as the rest of the children gave at this! “Yes! yes!
yes!” they all cried. “We’ll be the Night-cap children! we want the next
stories! Oh my! How delightful it would be!”
“But let me tell you,” I said, with a serious air, “you would not be the
_Night-cap_ children. I have a new idea in my head. I am going to write
stories this time, in which I intend to show the evil effects of special
faults and bad habits, and the unfailing happiness children will find in
being good, and doing good. Yes, I am going to fire _guns_ this time;
and then, if the stories are first told to you, what _do_ you think you
will be called?”
“W-h-a-t?” cried all the children, with breathless interest.
I put on a monstrous solemn face, and raising my arms as if I was going
to shoot, uttered the first four words very slowly, and the last four,
very quickly—
“You—will—be—called—THE POP-GUN CHILDREN—BANG!”
But I could not help a merry twinkle in my eyes, and the children saw
it; so after the first instant of surprise at their new and queer title,
they burst out into hearty chuckling laughter, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun!
We are to be the ‘Pop-gun Children!’ Shoot away, Aunt Fanny. Make ready!
Take aim! Fire! Bang! bang! bang!” and they commenced to shoot each
other with their fore-fingers, and made such a terrible racket, that two
very grave and very prim old ladies, who were knitting stockings on the
other side of the room, looked at us so severely through their big round
spectacles, that I had a great mind to tell the children to take hold of
hands, and we would all march up in one long row, and with a One, two,
three! fall down plump on our fourteen knees, and say we were sorry for
being happy so loud.
But the next moment, I thought, that perhaps these poor old souls had no
children in their own homes, and were not used to so much noise—perhaps
they had only cats and parrots to love them—and then I felt sorry for
them in earnest, and whispered to the children, “Come, let us go out
under the trees, and finish our talk.”
It would have made you smile, if you could have seen how they tried to
get the dimples out of their faces, as they walked past the two old
ladies. They puckered their mouths into button-holes, and seemed to be
stepping on eggs, but the very instant they got outside the front door I
really thought they had wings all at once, for they seemed to fly under
a great oak-tree, where there was a large rustic seat, and tumbling down
pell-mell upon it, Fred, the eldest boy, cried out, “Walk up, ladies and
gentlemen! Here you will see the celebrated Pop-Gun Children, each a
head and five pair of shoulders taller than anybody else, because they
have got Aunt Fanny all to themselves: ten cents each, and children
half-price, and we intend to give the money to the _in_sanitary
commission.”
This made me laugh so, that I did not perceive that a lady and gentleman
who had been sitting reading under another tree a little way off, had
left their seats, and were standing close to us smiling, until Sophie
said, “Dear mamma and papa, this is ‘Aunt Fanny.’”
I tried to look grave, as I shook hands with “mamma and papa,” and heard
their kind words of welcome: words so kind, that I do not like to tell
them—and then all the children speaking at once, told about their new
funny name, and my new stories, at which mamma and papa seemed very much
delighted.
“But when will they begin?” asked the children; “to-morrow?”
“Not till next October.”
“O——h!” now came, in one long wail of disappointment.
“Why, my darlings,” I said, “I want to rest here in this lovely country
place, and laugh and frolic with you, and climb over ninety-nine fences,
and eat apples, and drink milk, and hear the birds sing, and watch the
dimples of sunlight peeping through the leaves of the trees, and feed
the chickens, and ride on the top of a load of hay, with forty thousand
grasshoppers in it, and sail or row on that beautiful little lake in
front of us, and forget all about the hard brick and stone city, until
the sweet summer is over.”
[Illustration: “We all got into the boat.”]
“Oh! Will you do all that with us, dear Aunt Fanny? then we will wait as
long as you like. When will you begin to climb the fences and row on the
pond? Let’s have a row now.”
“With all my heart,” I said, and we jumped up and ran down to the water’s
edge; at least the children ran, and I tried to, and we got into a
beautiful little boat, and had _such_ a nice row, with the cool soft wind
blowing in our faces, and the air full of golden light. Oh! it did me
more good than a thousand doses of Epsom salts.
The very minute we were on dry land again, Peter said, with a hop, skip,
and jump, “Now, Aunt Fanny, when shall we begin to climb the fences?”
“At five o’clock this afternoon,” I answered, laughing, “we will all go
out, for a nice long walk, and you shall hunt up the fences, and that
little pug-nosed dog, with no tail to speak of, shall go with us.”
“Why, that’s our dog!” cried the children.
“Is it? what is his name?”
“Something short.”
“Short? Is it Tip?”
“No, Aunt Fanny; something short.”
“Nip? Bip? Rip? Sap? Top?”
How they laughed as they said again, “Something short.”
Then I began to suspect the joke, and said, “Very well. I’ll fire one
of my pop-guns at Mr. Something Short, the very first time I catch him
chasing a cat, or rushing at cows’ noses to bite them.”
“Yes do, Aunt Fanny!” they answered. Then I got a good kiss and hug from
each, and went back into the house.
* * * * *
And here, my darling children who are out in the world, are the stories I
gave, one by one, to Sophie, Kitty, and Lou; Fred, the diver; Peter, the
hopper; and Bob. _You_ have them printed in books; but, oh dear! I cannot
see you as I did the others, and watch your sweet faces, to know if you
like them. I only wish I _could_ get hold of you all, and give you one
good kiss apiece. I often have my parlors filled with lovely children,
who wish to see “Aunt Fanny.” It makes me feel very, very happy; but I
keep wanting more to come all the time.
My Pop-gun children seemed really to know “Night-caps,” “Mittens,”
“Socks,” and the “Pet-Books” by heart; and I do hope that both they and
you who will read these new stories, will make an earnest resolution to
profit by the good examples I shall give, and avoid all that you will
find to be evil. I don’t mean it all for fun. No indeed! To be sure I
have given a funny title to the books, and shall try to tell _some_ funny
stories; but beneath this fun I want you to feel that I am also trying
to show you how the cultivation of high and generous qualities, and
noble and right principles, is the only way by which you may reap real
and steadfast happiness—the only way to win the love and respect of all
around you.
You know Solomon says, “Even a _child_ is known by his doings—whether his
work be pure, and whether it be right;” and you will be more laughing and
merry—more full of fun and frolic at the right times—more the pictures
of almost perfect happiness—the more earnestly you endeavor to obey your
parents, study your Bible, learn your lessons, and, above all, the more
faithfully you say your prayers. Never, never forget your prayers, my own
darlings; then you will be certain, if the good God spares your lives, to
grow up good and useful men and women.
Forgive me for this grave little lecture. It all came out of LOVE—that
best love which seeks your good. If you love me, I know you will
understand this.
And now here are the Pop-gun Stories, which I send with a—Take aim! fire!
bang!! and on top of all a kiss and a blessing, from your loving
AUNT FANNY.
ABOUT THE CHILDREN.
One clear soft autumn evening, in the beginning of October, just after
dinner, Aunt Fanny went up into her bedroom, and put on her bonnet and
sack. They were both black, and trimmed with crape, for she had lately
lost a relative she dearly loved. Then opening a drawer in her precious
little library-table, upon which she wrote all her stories, she took out
a manuscript, and tried to get it into her pocket.
But it was written on such wide paper that the end would stick out, so
she had to return to the dining-room with a quarter of the roll in full
view.
“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Alice, “where are you going? and what is that
sticking out of your pocket?”
“I am going to see my new children, and this is the but-end of a pop-gun.”
“Oh, mamma, take me! I want to go.”
“But, darling, I thought Lizzie Lyman was coming to help you make a new
Spanish waist for Ginevra.”
“So she is; I forgot;” and Alice pulled out Miss Ginevra, who was a
lovely little porcelain doll, and who lived in the top of her own trunk,
and kissed her fondly.
So Aunt Fanny and her tall husband, after a dozen kisses or so from Sarah
and Alice, trotted off.
If you will promise never to tell, I will mention that the new children
lived in Twenty-third street, in the very middle of a long row of
brown-stone houses. It was not a very long walk, and soon Aunt Fanny had
pulled the bell, which was one of those funny spring bells which give
one loud “tching,” as if they had jumped out of their skins with a jerk
and a scream; and jumped in again with another, the next time anybody
pulled them. As the door was opened, she saw a bright little face peeping
from the dining-room, and the very next instant she heard the joyous
exclamation, “If it isn’t Aunt Fanny!”—and then came a rushing, and a
tumbling, and a racing, and a laughing! and all the six children fell
lovingly upon her, and knocked down—not Aunt Fanny, not a bit of it,
or of her, but two hats, three umbrellas, a great-coat, a whisk-broom,
and a paper parcel marked “From A. T. Stewart,”—all of which had been
peacefully hanging or resting upon the hat-stand; and when papa and mamma
came out to see who was creating such a riot, there was Aunt Fanny with
the whisk-broom perched like a flower on top of her bonnet, Peter and
Fred rushing after the hats which had rolled off in different corners;
all the rest of the articles scattered on the floor; Bob and the three
little girls jumping straight up and down, kissing Aunt Fanny, and
begging pardon for upsetting so many things over her; while the waiter
and Aunt Fanny’s husband were standing near, laughing as hard as ever
they could at the fun.
They got into the parlor at last, and sat down—the children with their
bright eyes fastened upon their welcome guest, who, trying to look grave,
asked, the very first thing, if the children had had any dinner that day.
“Why yes, plenty, Aunt Fanny; dessert too—flower-pot pudding.”
“_Flower-pot_ pudding! who ever heard of such a pudding! Is it any thing
like dirt-pies?”
“Why no, Aunt Fanny!” cried all the children; “it is _cooked_ in
flower-pots; at any rate, we call them so; but there are no holes in the
bottoms of them. Mamma brought ever so many of these funny little brown
earthen pots from Boston. The cook puts them in the oven only half full
of the pudding, but when they come out, oh my! how funny they look! for
each one has swelled up twice as high as the pot, and some of them hang
over on one side, as if they were perfectly tipsy; and when you come to
cut them, pop! goes the knife into a great hole inside, and there’s where
you must put the sauce, and that makes them taste so nice! but—why do you
ask?”
Aunt Fanny laughed, and said—
“When you came at me so furiously, I thought you might have been living
on a slice or two of buttered paper and a teacup or so of sunbeams
to-day, and meant to eat me up for supper.”
“Oh, Aunt Fanny! we love you dearly, but we wouldn’t eat you up for all
the world.”
“But what’s that sticking out of your pocket?” asked Sophie, spying the
end of the roll of manuscript, for the first time.
“A Pop-gun. Bang!” she answered, pulling it out and pointing it at them.
“Come, sit down, for I have brought it on purpose to read to you.”
With a great many “hushes,” and flourishes, and skirmishes, to get the
seats on either side of her, Aunt Fanny unrolled her story, and began as
follows:
HOW PHILIP BADBOY BECAME PHILIP WISEMAN.
[Illustration: Be GOOD if you wish to be HAPPY.]
Once upon a time not so very long ago, there lived a stupid, heavy
looking boy, named Philip, who bore any thing but an agreeable character;
for he was naughty, lazy, greedy, and impudent. His companions all hated
him, for when he appeared among them after school hours, he was sure to
kick their marbles into the middle of the street, knock the little boys’
caps over their eyes, twitch balls and kites out of their hands, and set
them all fighting and quarrelling.
One amusement in particular gave him great delight. This was to tie a
knot in the end of his handkerchief and snap with it at the little boys’
legs. I really hope no one reading this has ever made a “snapper.” If
he has, and if he has gone round snapping other boys’ legs, I am sure
his face has turned as red as a stick of sealing-wax when he reads these
lines, and knows that I call him _a cowardly tormentor_; and no better
than Philip.
His whole name was Philip Wiseman, but his companions changed it to
Philip Badboy.
His parents tried long and faithfully to improve their wayward child; but
nothing altered him for the better—indeed, whippings, and locking him
up, only seemed to make him worse.
Do not imagine for a moment that he was _happy_. No indeed! He was
discontented, fretful, forever wishing that dinner was ready, and
oftentimes hating the sight of every thing and everybody.
At last, quite wearied out, his father put him at a celebrated
boarding-school in Sing Sing; but they might better perhaps have put
him in the famous prison at the same place, for not a single button did
Philip care for lessons or punishment.
At this same school was a bright little fellow, as full of good-nature,
fun, and mischief as he could hold. He did not always know his lessons,
and there really seemed no end to the monkey tricks he was constantly
playing upon his school-fellows; but somehow, when he said he was sorry
for his idleness, and his capers, in his coaxing voice, and trying to
keep back two dimples that would come in his cheeks, neither teachers
nor comrades could help forgiving him immediately. Everybody loved little
Kriss Luff.
He even tried to make friends with Philip; and one bright summer morning
resolved to get him up in time for prayers. When the first bell rang,
Kriss went to the sleeping boy’s bed, and shaking him well, shouted out:
“Come, Lazybones, it’s time for you to be learning your A, B, C; Get up!
get up!”
Philip only snored louder, and gave a kick with one of his legs,
whereupon the little fellow, with a tremendous push, tilted him suddenly
out on the floor, and then had to run for his life, or he would have got
a good thrashing from the angry boy.
Thanks to the upset, Philip was down this morning in time for prayers;
but went sound asleep again while on his knees, and his neighbors had
to poke and pinch him well, to get him upon his feet, when the morning
service was ended.
But you may be certain he managed to keep awake at the breakfast table,
where he made up for having a head as empty as a drum, by filling his
stomach till he could scarcely breathe. He never stopped for salt or
pepper; he did not waste his time talking; and was always the very last
one at the table, getting up with his cheeks sticking out like a balloon,
from thrusting into his mouth every thing he could catch in a hurry.
During school hours, Master Philip went to sleep again—and the master
coming up rapped so loudly and suddenly on the desk, that he jumped half
a yard high, exclaiming: “Dear me, how _could_ you frighten me so!” while
all the boys shouted with laughter.
You may imagine that our friend Philip did not injure himself in the
least with studying. He was always wishing that his slate was a hot
buttered pancake, so he could eat it up, and never see it again; he would
stare at his books as if they were scarecrows, and the idea of writing a
composition brought the tears in his eyes quicker than red pepper. The
whole of his pocket-money was spent in buying tough pastry; little round
stale pound-cakes, with three dead flies and two currants stuck over the
top; some oranges, green apples, and molasses candy. Not a suck or a bite
did one of his school-fellows ever get, for a greedy boy is _always_
selfish.
At last Dr. Gradus gave up in despair, and wrote a letter to Philip’s
father, informing him very frankly that there were no more brains in his
son’s head than in a cocoa-nut; that he would do nothing but sleep and
cram, from morning till night; that he woke the boys in his dormitory
every night by yelling with the nightmare, because he had eaten so much
at supper; and that he was very sorry, but Master Philip must leave the
school; and he advised, that the very best thing to do with him was to
bind him out to a plain country farmer, where he would _have_ to rise at
the first peep of day—and work hard till sunset.
Philip’s father thought long and seriously over this letter—then he
took a journey; and on his return he brought with him a farmer, and an
intelligent-looking country lad.
The boy’s name was John Goodfellow, and he looked as good as his name—for
his clear blue eyes sparkled with good-nature; his cheeks shone with
good health; and his voice had a tone of good-breeding, notwithstanding
his plain country dress and manners. I have no doubt his mother was a
good woman, his father a good man, and we know the name of all three was
Goodfellow—and so much goodness in a bunch, makes me write about it with
extra goodwill.
A day or two after the return of Philip’s father, a great clumsy farm
wagon came lumbering up the avenue of Dr. Gradus’s seminary; driving it,
was a rough-looking man, and beside him sat a bright-faced boy,—the same
man and boy who made their appearance, when Philip’s father returned from
his journey.
The man got down and rang a tremendous peal upon the bell. The servant
thought the President of the United States had arrived, and flew to
answer it.
“Does Dr. Great Dust live here?” asked the man.
“How dare you come and tear the house down at this rate?” cried the angry
servant, seeing that it was not “grand company.” “What do you want, you
old bear?”
The old bear, being good-natured, burst out laughing. “Don’t spoil your
pretty face,” he said, “by getting it into a twist. When I give a pull,
I always give a strong one; and you must a been greasing of your bell,
for it came out like a shot. Hum! Now s’pose you tell me if Dr. Great
Dust lives here. I should think he did, by the one you’ve kicked up about
nothing.”
“Well, he does, and what of it?”
“Only I want to see him, and here’s a letter,” holding it out.
The woman took the letter and showed the farmer and his boy into a small
room, while she went up-stairs to the doctor’s study.
There he sat, to be sure, a grave, learned man, with spectacles perched
on his nose, a great frown in his forehead, rather dirty wristbands, a
pen behind his ear, and ever so many papers before him, written as full
as they could hold of Latin and Greek themes, which the larger boys in
the school had sent in for examination. Of course there was no end of
mistakes in most of them; and as to Philip’s copy, it was just one
hodge-podge of farrago and nonsense.
“Oh, that hopeless booby of a boy!” the doctor was exclaiming to himself,
as he took up this last paper, when there came a knock at the door.
With the permission to enter, the servant approached, handed the letter,
and said that there were two bumpkins down stairs waiting for the answer.
“Show them up,” said the doctor.
Then he opened his letter, took out an envelope, read the first, stared,
read again, rang the bell, and sent for Philip, first giving the servant
an order in a low voice.
In the mean time the rough-looking farmer and the boy, neither of whom
deserved to be called bumpkins, came in, and, having bowed as well as
they knew how, sat down in a corner.
It was during recess in school hours that all this happened, and our idle
friend, Master Philip, was fast asleep in the school-room. The rind of
an orange, the cores of several apples, a grammar turned upside down,
and some very sticky paper that had held candy, lay on the desk. In the
midst of them was Philip’s head. His face was very sticky too, and glued
fast to the extreme end of his nose was a paper pellet with which Kriss
Luff had carefully ornamented it, to the tittering delight of half a
dozen of his comrades. This and his sticky face had made it the duty of
every fly in the room to invite each other to the spot to a mass meeting
on business, to which was added a grand feast, and gymnastic exercises;
so there they all were, as lively as you please—standing on their heads,
hanging by one leg, whisking, and frisking, and eating, and buzzing, and
grumbling, and fighting over the spoils, like hungry hawks or aldermen.
“Wake up, Master Philip!” cried the servant, giving him a push. “You’re
wanted in the doctor’s study, and his face is as long as my arm. I guess
he has got bad news for you. What’s that on the end of your nose?”
“Bad news,” repeated Philip, tearing off the paper pellet. “Was it worth
while disturbing my nap for that? Go to Guinea!”
“But you must come—”
“Go to Guinea with your bad news!”
“Well, I will tell the doctor what you say.”
This threat started Philip, and grumbling to himself he hurried into the
study.
When he entered he saw a boy of his own age, who was now standing up
studying with great interest a large map of the United States which hung
against the wall, a plain, good-natured looking man, and the doctor, who
was handing him a letter.
“Philip,” said the doctor, with a very solemn face, “I am sorry to tell
you that my letter from your father informs me that you must leave
school immediately: not to go home,” he added, for he saw the boy’s
face brightening. “Your father and mother have just left the country on
important business; where they have gone is to be kept a secret; and now,
as you are determined not to learn—as you have made up your mind to grow
up an ignorant, useless creature—your father has bound you apprentice to
this worthy farmer, whose son takes your place here. If the good man is
pleased with you, he is to give you a small weekly allowance; but I warn
you beforehand, he will put up with none of your lazy habits; and if he
finds that you will not obey him, why then”—here the doctor lowered his
voice—“he has in his stable a horse-whip, which will wake you up better
than my ferule.”
Philip stood perfectly petrified at this sudden and most dreadful
disclosure. His knees shook—he dropped his letter—his teeth chattered;
and when the farmer, at a sign from the doctor, approached him with,
“Come, my little man, go and get ready; my time is money to me,” poor
Philip sprawled down on his knees, crying—
“No! no! I don’t want to go! Oh, Dr. Gradus, pray let me stay here! I
will study! I will; indeed I will! I will sit up all night and construe
my Latin, and work out those awful logarithms which nearly crack my head
to understand. I’ll never say again I can’t bear the sight of figures.
Oh, I shall go distracted! Oh! oh! oh!”
“No doubt you think you will learn _now_, but by to-morrow you will have
forgotten all these fine promises”—and the doctor gave the farmer another
sign, who grinned understandingly; then, bringing his great fist down
upon the table, and making some glass retorts and all the books bounce,
cried in a gruff voice—
“Come, sir, this won’t answer; neither I nor my horses can stand here
doing nothing. Make your bow to the master, and come along.”
Philip struggled, and kicked, and tumbled about, looking as if he was all
legs and arms—not a very graceful figure, you may believe; and he cried
and screamed, “Let me go-o-o! let me go-o-o!” as the farmer dragged him
all the way down stairs, and out of the house. Yes, he screamed louder
than ever out of the house, in hopes of attracting some attention from
his school-fellows to his sad fate; but not a single boy ran to see who
was making such a dismal howling; they were all now in class.
When he was safely stowed away in the wagon, amidst the empty corn-sacks,
the servant brought out his trunk of clothes which the doctor had ordered
her to pack, and the letter which the now sobbing boy had dropped in
the study; then she went back for a moment and returned with some
school-books fastened together by a leather strap; and seeing how much
Philip appeared to be suffering, she forgot how many times he had thrown
her dust-cloth out of the window, and sent her broom and dust-pan flying
after it; her heart melted, and she said kindly—
“Never mind, Master Philip; if you doesn’t behave, you must expect to
be punished; but it’ll do you good, like physic. Just you try to be a
first-rate boy, and you’ll be back here in a good deal less than no time.”
“_Master_ Philip, indeed!” cried the farmer. “Pretty well for a
stable-boy! You’ll be plain Phil as long as you live with me, I can
tell you. Stop that plaguy snuffling and sighing, making such a dismal
whistling about my ears! it’s enough to knock a sloop over. If you are
ever so good, you will never make up for the loss of my Jack, and I’ll be
bound his poor little sister Essie is crying for him this very moment.”
The wretched boy choked down his sobs, and crept into a corner among the
corn-bags, where he hid himself, wiping away the big tears that fell
silently. Soon the slow motion of the wagon soothed him. He lay for a
while drowsily watching the trees and the wild roses growing on the
fences, that sent their faint sweet perfume in to him with a gentle wave
of their pretty heads; and presently, as the horses turned into a road
which lay through a cool, quiet wood, the myriad leaves of which made a
deep shade, our young friend gave a final sigh, and, opening his mouth
and shutting his eyes, forgot all his troubles, and snored tunefully to
the end of the journey.
After four hours’ driving, just as the sun was setting, the farmer
turned down a crooked lane, perfectly alive with grasshoppers, and soon
came in sight of a straggling red house, at the door of which stood a
nice-looking woman, and a little pale, yellow-haired girl, supported by
crutches. In another moment out rushed a very small brown dog, who fairly
“barked himself sideways,” in his intense joy at seeing his master; then
he jumped up so high that he fell over backwards,—the whole time wagging
his ridiculous morsel of a tail so fast, that it looked like six tails
all going round like a windmill.
The farmer jumped out of the wagon, and, heartily kissing his wife,
stooped down and tenderly stroked the soft locks of the little pale
crippled child; then lifting her in his arms, he kissed her five or six
times, saying between each kiss, in a deep loving voice, “My little
Essie—my little Essie.”
“My little father,” laughed Essie, patting the big man’s cheek, “what a
dear, good little man you are.”
At the sound of her soft, gentle voice, and the pat of her small hand,
the farmer hugged her closer to his breast. Then he looked down into her
sweet blue eyes, and said, “O-h, Essie!” The great love that flowed out
with these two words, no pen can show.
“Tell me, little father,” whispered Essie, “have you got the bad boy with
you?”
“Yes, big darling,” said the farmer.
Then he carried her to the side of the wagon, and showed her a great,
red-faced boy, fast asleep on the corn-sacks.
“Why, he’s asleep!” she said.
“Sound as a top; but we’ll wake him up, my little maid.” So the farmer
picked up a long straw from under the seat, and drew it across Phil’s
upper lip.
“Ow! get out,” cried the boy, rubbing his face violently.
Essie laughed, and the farmer tickled Phil under the nose again.
“Ow! ow!” cried Phil, kicking out with both his legs, and butting his
head against the side of the wagon. “Hang the old fly.” Then starting up,
he opened his eyes, and stared wildly at Essie and her father.
“Come, Phil,” said the farmer kindly, “we’re home; get down, and come in
the house.”
All at once the boy remembered, and with something between an oh! and a
groan, he followed his new master.
In they all went—and what a nice little room it was, to be sure! Great
bunches of feathery asparagus filled the fireplace; a canary bird, in a
pretty cage, hung in the open window, through which the sweet breaths of
honeysuckles came floating; not a speck of dust could be found on chairs
or table, and the rag carpet was as clean as brooms could make it. Over
the mantelpiece was an engraving of Cain and Abel, which Essie did not
like; and opposite, one of little Samuel praying, which she did. Through
the door facing to that by which they had entered came a sound of frying,
and an appetizing fragrance of ham.
Phil flopped sulkily down on the first chair; then he gaped as if the
top of his head had got unhinged, and was falling off backwards; then
he stretched out his arms till his shoulder-blades cracked, and then he
grumbled out—“I am hungry.”
“What, already!” exclaimed the farmer. “Why, the girl at Dr. Gradus’s
said you had eaten one orange, three apples, and a quarter of a pound of
lollipops, beside your dinner.”
“I don’t care! I’m hungry! Oh, what will become of me! Where can my
father be gone! Oh! how miserable I am!” whined Phil.
“Poor boy!” said little Essie, her blue eyes filling with compassionate
tears; “give me my crutches, please, dear father, and I will go right in
the kitchen and hurry the tea.”
Her father did as she wished, and oh! then, it would have done you good
if you could have seen the little thing hobbling to the kitchen door, and
crying out so pleasantly, as she rested on the crutches, to give a smart
clap of her hands—“Hurry up, Hannah. Let’s have tea before you can say
Jack Robinson!”
You would hardly believe how the good woman bustled about after that!
She tore to the dresser and got a dish; she flew to the table and caught
up a fork; and in a trice the ham was out of the frying-pan, in the
dish, and on the table, which was already set in the kitchen; then one,
two, three, a dozen hot snowballs of potatoes—that’s a funny idea!—were
whipped out of a pot in the corner, into a big bowl, and those put on the
table, opposite the ham; then the tea was set to steam, and, while that
was doing, Hannah skipped round like a crazy monkey, and thump, thump,
thump, thump, just like that, four chairs were set to steam—no, I don’t
mean that—I mean, to the table; but I’m in such a hurry to tell it all
before you can say Jack Robinson, you know! and then tea was ready.
It was all done in two minutes, because Hannah loved little Essie so
dearly; but she could not help looking rather crossly at the greedy
boy, who hardly waited for grace to be said, before he began to eat as
if he meant to give himself half-a-dozen stomach aches, and a horrible
nightmare, when he went to bed, by his gourmandizing.
When he could not possibly swallow another morsel, he pushed back his
chair, and, in five minutes, was in a heavy sleep, snoring like a trumpet.
“Wife,” said the farmer, “if that chap’s father hadn’t promised to give
our Johnny at least three months of first-rate education, if we would
consent to this queer experiment, I don’t think I _could_ keep such a
lout about the place.”
“How long is he to stay?”
“Why, I tell you, it is to be for three months, if he gives up his lazy,
ugly ways; if not, six months; and all this time he’s not to know where
his parents are; and I’ve promised to watch him like a cat, so that he
don’t run away.”
“I tell you what, husband,” said the good woman, “if any thing will make
a good boy of him, it will be living with our little Essie here;” and she
looked through the kitchen door, into the sitting, or “living room,” as
country people call it, at her darling, who was bending her golden curls
over a book called “Neighbor Nelly Socks,” and laughing out every little
while, as if it was very amusing.
All this time Philip was snoring. The farmer’s wife let him sleep until
Hannah had had her tea, and had washed the plates and dishes, and made
all neat; then she shook him up and down as if he were a big bottle of
medicine, and, taking his arm, helped him up-stairs into the garret,
where was a little cot bed in a corner, with a straw mattress, covered
with coarse, but clean sheets.
“Is—this—my—room?” gasped Philip, with a horror-struck countenance.
“Plenty good enough for a stable-boy,” answered Mrs. Goodfellow, for of
course you know by this time that she was Johnny Goodfellow’s mother.
“But I’m a-f-r-a-i-d.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I d-o-n’t know. It’s such a big, dark place.”
“Oh, if that’s all, there’s nothing here but dried apples and onions; two
broken chairs, which my Johnny has played horses with many a time, and an
empty poll parrot’s cage, which has travelled with him and his horses,
all over the world, up here in the old garret. Bless your heart! Johnny
thinks it’s great fun to bring little Essie up here, to play, rainy days.
So you say your prayers, and go to sleep; as it is your first night here,
I’ll leave the light. Good-night.”
She left the unhappy boy, who sat on the side of his cot, and stared
fearfully around. The little oil lamp gave but a feeble glimmer, and
he jumped as if he had seen a ghost, as his eye caught sight of an old
great-coat hanging from one of the rafters; then he began slowly to
undress. As he took off his jacket a letter fell out of the pocket. It
was the one Dr. Gradus had given him from his father, which in his misery
he had forgotten. He opened it and read as follows:
“MY DEAR SON—You seem to think that the whole world is made
of plum puddings and pie-crust, and that all you have got to
do is to eat your way through it, with as little exertion as
possible. ‘There is no royal road to learning.’ If you want to
grow up any better than a two-legged donkey, you must study and
work.
“If you won’t do this, you had better go on all fours at once.
“I shall now make one last effort to rouse you to diligence,
and a wish to discover what your brains were made for. At
present they are no better than calves’ brains, only fit to
be boiled and served up with sauce; although you have been
told often enough that they were given you for your own use,
improvement, and the good of others; that the more you study
and cultivate your faculties, the wiser, better, and happier
you will be. But this good advice has been thrown away, and I
intend to bestow all your advantages upon Johnny Goodfellow,
the farmer’s son, who loves learning as much as you do pastry
and cake; and you are to take his place—groom horses, follow
the plough, chop wood, draw water, and do up generally what
farmers call ‘chores,’ which, I believe, means a hundred and
fifty different things.
“When you have learned to execute all these things quickly
and cheerfully—mind! I say _cheerfully_—if you wish to return
to your studies, and become something more than a two-legged
donkey, I shall be very glad to take you back to your home
and my love; but until then, do not expect to hear from your
grieving mother, or sorrowful father,
“JAMES WISEMAN.”
Here was a terrible letter indeed! and Philip sank down on his bed, and
miserably reflected upon his bad habits, and the happy home which now
seemed lost forever. Conscience began to be busy with him; and all the
little fellows whom he had tormented with his “snapper” appeared to rise
up in the far gloom of the garret, laughing inaudibly, and making faces
at him. “Oh,” he thought, “if I could only get back to school, I _would_
be kind to them, I _would_ study, I _would_ try to please Dr. Gradus and
my parents.” In the midst of these very sensible reflections, the trouble
of which was, that they came a _little too late_, the light went out,
and, covering his head with the bed-clothes, Philip lay shaking with
foolish fears, till he fell into a troubled sleep. _He forgot to say his
prayers._
The next morning, just after daylight, a sonorous voice resounded through
the garret, and seemed to shake the brown rafters—“Phil-ip, Phil, wake
up!”
“Yes sir,” cried the boy, springing out of bed, and staring wildly. “Why,
where am I?”
Alas! it all came back too soon, and Philip felt that he was indeed
only a stable-boy, when he saw that a coarse pair of dark blue overalls
and rough cow-hide shoes had been put on the chair by the side of the
bed, in place of his own fine broadcloth pantaloons and patent leather
boots. He put the rough clothes on with heavy sighs, not waiting to tie
the shoes, as the farmer shouted to him to “make haste and come to the
stable.”
When he got there, he was taught how to wash and curry the great farm
horses, put on halters, and take them to a trough in the farmyard to
water. Then he had to bring them back and harness them, and fasten them
to the pole of the wagon, for the farmer, who had been loading it with
vegetables and fruit to take to market to sell, while Phil was left
behind with orders to clean the stables, and prepare the litter for
night. He was not alone in these labors, for a man who helped in the
fields and garden, worked with him for the present, and gave him a great
deal of good-natured advice and assistance.
Phil felt very miserable, almost desperate; but he had the sense to
perceive, that the only way to get back to his former station was to do
his duty here. So he worked slowly but steadily all day, with many sighs
and groans, wiping away a great tear now and then with his shirt-sleeve.
It was certainly lonely dull work; and some of it not very nice; for he
had to feed about fifty great pigs, and everybody knows that pigs never
use Cologne, and had rather roll in a mud-puddle than take a warm bath
with plenty of nicely scented soap. So all the time he was bringing these
grunting, snorting, bad-smelling animals their food, which the farm man
very properly called “swill,” he held his breath till he nearly burst;
while the pigs, fighting, kicking, butting, and pushing, ate their dinner
in the midst of a regular riot. Oh! I wonder if children ever eat in this
fashion?
There was one pleasant duty which helped to brighten the gloom of the
rest. Just before sundown, Essie came to find him, almost skipping on her
little crutches.
“Will you come and help me feed the chickens?” she asked, in her sweet
song-voice.
Philip ran to her. He did not speak, but she saw that he was glad to
come. They both went into the kitchen, and Essie directed him to get a
great tin pan, and fill it with rich-looking gold-colored Indian meal.
Then she poured hot water into it from a pitcher, while he stirred the
meal with a wooden spoon, with all his might and main. Oh, how good it
smelt! Phil almost wished he was a chicken.
They went out, and Essie called, “Chick, chick: here, chick, chick.” In
a moment there was such a scuttling, and clucking, and running! Up they
rushed by dozens; and as Phil threw great spoonfuls of the meal, how
they did scratch, and snatch, and give each other sudden sly pecks! It
was very funny, Phil thought, and he and Essie laughed merrily; but only
funny, I am sure they would say, for _chickens_. I do not think any one
will ever try to teach chickens or pigs to eat with knives and forks, and
say, “If you please,” and “Thank you,” for what they get; but you will
all agree that neatness and politeness at the table are expected as a
matter of course from well-bred _children_.
And now the sun had set, like a king gone to repose, with his crimson and
gold curtains closing round him. In the gorgeous light little Essie stood
looking at the west, the red clouds tinging her pale cheeks with a faint
blush, and shedding a warm glow over her yellow curling hair.
“Oh, Phil,” she murmured, “how kind God is to make us such a beautiful
world. Thank you, dear Father in heaven,” she continued, folding her
small hands reverently, and looking upwards; then turning to Philip,
“_You_ say your prayers. _You_ love Jesus, don’t you?”
The color rushed into his face, and every nerve in him thrilled, as he
looked at the lovely child and heard her words. In a hoarse, broken
voice, he answered—
“I haven’t said prayers for a long time.”
“Oh, Phil, how dreadful! when our Saviour loves you so much, and begs you
to bring all your troubles to Him. What made you? Did you forget?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so,” said Phil, looking down.
She went close up to him, and leaning on her crutches, curled her arms
round his neck, and whispered—
“Pray to-night, dear Phil, will you?”
A great sob rose in his throat. With a terribly painful effort, he choked
it down, for he was too proud to cry before a girl, and he managed to
say, “I’ll try,” to Essie, whom God seemed to have chosen as His little
minister to lead Phil back to Him.
Just then a lumbering farm wagon came in sight. In it was just the
pleasantest-looking old man that ever was seen, with long snow-white hair
and blue eyes, still, clear, and bright.
“Well, little bonny bird,” he said to Essie, “do you know I have promised
to catch you up, and carry you off?”
“Do you mean to lock me up in a fairy palace?” asked Essie, laughing.
“I am to take you to a great big man, who will snap you up, put you in
his wagon, and hold you fast, so that you cannot escape.”
“Did the big man call me his ‘Little Essie?’”
“This is what he said: ‘Farmer Hardy, I’ve got to turn off about two
miles from home, on some business. You’ll be going past my house; won’t
you stop and bring my little Essie, on your way home? I will be at
the cross-roads and meet you, and get my white lamb, and take her back
again.’”
[Illustration: Little Essie going to meet her father.]
“It’s _dear_ father,” said Essie, and she laid down her crutches, and was
tenderly lifted into the wagon, and bidding Phil “good-by” for an hour,
drove off with good old Farmer Hardy, talking pleasantly with him.
And poor Phil was left behind lamenting; for it seemed as if it grew
suddenly dark, as the sound of the wheels got faint and fainter, and at
last died quite away. Then he went to the end of the crooked lane, and
climbed into the fork of a tree to watch for Essie’s return.
You may be sure, when the dear little child was met by her father, and
lovingly placed close beside him for the pleasant ride home, she told him
how good Phil had been all day, at which Farmer Goodfellow looked very
much pleased; and when he and Essie got to where the tree was in which
Phil had perched himself, he was told to jump into the wagon, and they
all came down the crooked lane, just as the stars were peeping out, three
very happy people.
I don’t think you would have known Phil for the same boy, had you seen
how he flew round, giving the horses their supper, putting them in their
comfortable stalls, and dragging at the wagon, with, the help of the farm
man, to get it safely housed. The boys at the school would certainly
have declared that it could not be “Philip Badboy,” but a sensible,
industrious fellow called Philip Wiseman.
And the farmer showed how much he was gratified, by giving him a
seat next his own at the table, and letting Essie help him twice to
apple-sauce.
“I dare say,” said the farmer, “you will like farming better than Greek
and Latin; while my son John is all for books. Learning suits _him_ to a
T.”
Phil blushed deeply, and hung down his head.
“Never mind,” said the farmer; “you’ve got your good points too.
To-morrow is Sunday. After you have done your stable-work, you can go to
church, and if you listen to our good parson, you can’t help improving.”
That night Philip knelt down in his lonely garret, and asked God to
forgive his many sins, for Jesus’ sake. His face was wet with penitent
tears when he rose, and God heard his prayer, and saw the tears.
* * * * *