they were all distributed, the company were invited to partake of
refreshments in the parlors, which consisted of very sour lemonade, and
such thin slices of cake, that they were all weak in the back, and fell
over double when they were taken up. Of course, nobody ought to be hungry
after such a “feast of reason” on Latin grammars, geology, mathematics,
chemistry, and I don’t know what besides—the very names of which made Dr.
Gradus smack his lips with delight. He, no doubt, would have preferred
to have dined off of Greek lexicons, with chemical sauce, instead of
plum-cake, with _comical_ sauce (that is, plenty of fun and laughing),
which you and I would much rather have, wouldn’t we?
Then Johnny introduced Kriss to his sister with great pride and delight;
and Essie’s sweet smile and soft pleasant voice won his heart, and he
immediately told Johnny, in a whisper, that his sister was _such_ a
dear little girl, and a great deal prettier than he expected, and her
lameness ought to make everybody as kind and tender as possible; and
moreover, that when he grew up to be a man, he meant to marry Essie, and
watch over her, and make her as happy as the day was long.
“Oh, delightful!” cried Johnny; “just fancy! then you’ll be my brother. I
always wished I had a brother. I don’t like the thought of finding that
cross Phil at home; it will half spoil my holidays. But we must write to
each other, Kriss; and you shall have Essie when you grow up; and then we
shall live together all our lives.”
So they parted; for after the examination there was to be a month’s
holidays; and Johnny had as much as he could do to shake hands and bid
good-by to the crowd of noisy, merry boys, every one of whom loved him.
All the teachers also shook hands, and hoped he would come back; and
Dr. Gradus, pushing up his spectacles, and clearing his throat with a
tremendous “hem,” said that Master Goodfellow quite fulfilled the promise
of his name; at which heavy joke everybody nearly died of laughter, and
all because it was the great Dr. Gradus who said it.
It was beautiful autumn weather. The leaves were just beginning to turn;
the dark green woods were flushing into gorgeous tropical beauty; and
four happy people were riding home, their hearts full of gratitude and
peace, beyond all price.
But when they drove into the crooked lane, didn’t the little brown dog
bark himself more sideways than ever before, in his frantic joy at
hearing Johnny’s voice, for it was now quite dark; and didn’t Hannah, and
the farm man, and Phil, rush out and cry, “Hurra! here they are!”—and
Phil’s voice sounded so hearty and pleasant, that Johnny shook hands with
him immediately, and said, “How are you, old fellow?” as if they had been
friends a year, which made Phil very happy, for he had been quaking at
heart lest Johnny should not speak to him at all, knowing what a bad boy
he had been.
As they were sitting at the tea-table, Phil said—
“There is a note for you, sir, on the table in the living-room.”
“Oh, is there? Hannah, will you bring it here? It looks like something
important,” he continued, as he took it in his hand. “Hm—hm—hm. Well,
wife, what do you think it is? An invitation for all of us to spend
to-morrow evening at Woodlawn.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Goodfellow, with a bright but peculiar smile on her
face. “Phil is invited, of course?”
“Certainly; and I am glad and proud to say that I know he will do himself
credit now, wherever he goes. Our good minister is to be there too.”
“Oh, I am glad of that!” said Phil; “he is my best earthly friend—” He
stopped, and his eyes filled with tears.
“What is the name of the family who have bought Woodlawn?” asked Johnny.
“Such a curious chap as it is!” answered the farmer, laughing. “Never
mind the name till to-morrow.”
That night there was another cot-bed put in the garret, and Phil and
Johnny had a long affectionate talk together. Phil frankly told all about
himself, and what Essie and the good minister, with God’s blessing,
had helped him to do; and Johnny cheered and encouraged him, and told
him that he had no doubt but that Phil’s parents had heard of his good
conduct, and might be expected at the farm almost any day.
But the poor little fellow suffered terribly himself while he was saying
all these kind things, for, as you know, Phil’s gain would be his loss.
If Mr. Wiseman was convinced of his son’s reformation, Johnny must go
back to farm work, and resign his precious hopes of growing up a learned
man. His kind father had not yet paid all the money for his farm; he
could not afford to hire another boy in his dear son’s place; and now
a few months in winter at the district school was all that Johnny must
expect.
But he got up the next day bright and happy. It was something—yes,
indeed, it was a great deal—to have such a home as his; and after he had
washed, dressed, and said his humble, thankful prayers, he was quite
ready to race eagerly out with Phil and the little brown dog, and see
which could get to the end of the crooked lane and back again first.
It was lucky that the little brown dog’s tail was fast at one end, and
the hair on it not a wig, for he certainly would have shook it off,
and every single hair out, if incessant and furious wagging would have
done it; and the boys and the dog seemed to have each taken a dose of
laughing-gas, they flew hither and thither in such a ridiculous way, just
because they were so happy.
Then Johnny helped Phil with the horses and the rest of the farm work,
and the little brown dog helped too by getting between their legs and
nearly upsetting them half a dozen times, and by riding on one of the
horse’s backs to water, barking the whole time to make him hurry, which,
of course, was very funny, and made the boys laugh heartily.
And when they went in to breakfast, there was Essie, with a welcome
shining in her sweet blue eyes, and her Bible all ready to read a
chapter, before her father asked a blessing on the labors and pleasures
of the day.
The day was soon spent in cheerful work, and in the evening they all
prepared for their visit to Woodlawn. Phil made himself as neat as
possible in his farmer’s-boy Sunday suit. He thought first of asking Mr.
Goodfellow to let him wear the fine broadcloth clothes in which he came
to the farm, but he said to himself a moment afterwards—
“No; I am only a farm-boy now; I will make no pretence to be any better,
until my father gives me leave.”
He did not need the fine clothes to improve his appearance, for his
excellent habits had made such a change, that he would hardly have been
known for the same boy. His eyes were bright, his manner animated, and he
had learned to be unselfish, industrious, polite, and kind to all—though
not without many hard struggles and constant prayer.
As the party drove into the great gate of Woodlawn, and up the long
beautiful avenue, they heard the sound of music, and a hundred colored
lanterns met their eyes suspended from the trees. They had the effect of
enchantment; and Essie said she was sure she saw little fairies dancing
in the shaded alleys on either side, and peeping and smiling at her from
the bushes. The boys laughed, but they too felt the strange magic of the
scene; and when they arrived at the brilliantly lighted entrance, they
were prepared, they thought, for all manner of wonderful events.
After taking off bonnets, shawls, and hats, they were ushered into a
small room, the walls of which were covered with beautiful paintings,
at which both the boys gazed with delight. Two immense closed doors,
opposite the windows, led into another room, from which sounds of
laughing and talking proceeded.
Presently the good minister came into the small room, and it was
delightful to witness the mixture of respect and grateful affection with
which Phil hastened to meet him, and place a comfortable arm-chair for
his use.
“Our host and hostess will be here very soon,” he said. “Meanwhile,
Philip, if you like, I will ask you and my friend Johnny some questions
about your studies.”
The boys were delighted, and immediately placed themselves before him,
their arms around each other’s necks.
Question after question was poured out, and readily answered by the boys
in turn—Johnny sometimes having to prompt Phil, and Phil quite as often
helping his friend; while the farmer, his wife, and Essie listened with
delighted attention: _and two others listened_—for a door behind the boys
had been softly opened, and a gentleman and lady stood with the rest,
their faces beaming and radiant with love and eagerness.
The good minister saw them, and turning to Phil, he said—
“My dear boy, you have done so well, not only in your studies, but in
what is of far more importance, in conquering your bad habits, that all
that there is left to wish for is, that your parents might take you back
to their home and hearts.”
The lady gave a sudden start towards him at this, but the gentleman laid
his hand gently on her arm.
“Oh, sir,” answered Phil, his lip quivering, “will they ever love me
again? Can they ever forgive me?”
“Oh, yes! yes! my own darling boy!” screamed the lady.
Philip turned quickly around, became deadly pale, staggered towards her,
and fell nearly fainting into the outstretched arms of his mother; while
his father, seizing his hand, cried—
“God bless you, my son! God bless you! You have done nobly. You have made
us very, very happy.”
Then the rest went softly out of the room, and Phil had a few moments of
blissful joy. He curled his arm around his mother’s neck, and kissed her
over and over again. He hugged his father with eager affection; and then
darted back to his mother—laughing, crying, now smoothing her hair, now
crumpling her beautiful lace collar—perfectly beside himself with ecstasy.
All at once a band of musicians struck up a martial air, the great
sliding-doors moved back, and Phil’s father and mother, taking his hands,
went forward and introduced him to the company, for they were the owners
of Woodlawn. All knew his story—for you can’t keep such a thing secret in
a country place—and they looked at him with such intense interest, that
he was becoming confused, when who should dart forward to welcome him but
Kriss Luff and half a dozen of his old schoolmates, all wanting to shake
hands at once, and this making him laugh, he was soon at his ease.
Oh, what a delightful evening it was! They played games and sang, they
laughed and frolicked—the good minister joining in every thing, like a
real Christian as he was. They partook in moderation of all manner of
nice things which were loading down a table in the dining-room, and each
one went home with the recollection of a delightful evening well spent.
Of course, Phil stayed at Woodlawn, and that was one little drop of
unhappiness to the kind people with whom he had lived so long, and who
had learned to love him very much. They could not bear to part with him.
But Johnny was made so happy, that I do not think he knows to this day
whether he walked home on his head or like other people; for Mr. Wiseman,
patting his sturdy shoulders, said to him—
“Well, my son, are you tired of school yet?”
“Oh dear, no, sir. I love my books. I even love Dr. Gradus.”
“Well, that last _is_ convincing; so if your good father, to whom I owe
more than I shall ever be able to repay, will permit me to find him a
farm-boy, you shall go to school and through college with Phil, and, if
you like, choose a profession afterwards, still under my care.”
“Hurra! hurra!” cried Kriss and all the boys; “Johnny Goodfellow is
coming back to school. Philip _Badboy_ has flown to the moon, and Philip
WISEMAN is to come in his place. It’s the jolliest thing that ever
happened. Three cheers for Mr. Wiseman.”
They gave three cheers and a “tiger,” a big one too, little Essie helping.
“Now,” said Kriss, who had voted himself master of ceremonies, “three
cheers for Farmer Goodfellow.”
They were given, Phil hurraing with such a will, that he got perfectly
crimson in the face.
“Now, three cheers for little Essie,” said Kriss.
If Phil _could_ have made more noise, he would have done so this time; as
it was, in his eager desire to honor Essie, he hurraed himself sideways,
like the little brown dog, and nearly cracked his throat.
“_Now_, boys, three cheers for Phil, our _new_ friend.”
Didn’t they give it, though! YES, THEY DID, and such a royal Bengal tiger
to end with, that the very windows rattled again.
To the children who do not live in New York, I ought to say that we have
a splendid regiment of soldiers, called the “Light Guard,” who, whenever
they cheer, always say, “Hurra! hurra! hurra! ti-g-a-r!” I don’t know why
they do it, but this is what is meant by “three cheers and a tiger.”
Phil bade the farmer, his wife, and little Essie good-night with tears
in his eyes, promising to come and see them every day. Mr. Wiseman had
invited Kriss and the other boys to stay a week at Woodlawn, which was a
most delightful fact to know and experience. A merry, merry week they all
had, and you may be sure Johnny was included in every day’s pleasure, and
Essie was with them very often.
And now, my darlings reading this, do you think it likely that Mr.
Wiseman will ever have to send Philip away again? I do not, and I hope
you are of the same opinion; but if you would like me to keep one eye
on his future movements, and write to you about them, just let me know,
won’t you?
* * * * *
“That’s all,” said Aunt Fanny. “What do you think of it, my merry men and
ladies? Will Philip Badboy Wiseman do for a beginning?”
“It’s perfectly splendid!” cried the children.
“And you don’t mean to eat greedily of flower-pot pudding after this, or
snap each other’s legs with knots in your pocket-handkerchiefs?”
“Oh no, dear Aunt Fanny. This pop-gun has made us better already. We mean
to be ever so kind, industrious, and unselfish after this.”
“I wish I had a kite like Johnny’s,” said Peter.
“Who knows, if you try to be a loving, obedient child, but what the
Honorable Mr. Kite may call upon you next spring, all ready for an
airing. I’ll have a talk with my friend Johnny about it.”
“Oh goody! will you?” cried Peter, jumping straight up and down in the
air. “My! how good I’ll be! I’m going to begin right away;” and he sat
down, solemn and stiff, twirling his thumbs one over the other, and
saying, “Look at me! Only see how good I am!” while the rest laughed
merrily at the joke.
Then Aunt Fanny had a kind kiss from all, and bade them good-night.
[Illustration: PRACTISE TRUE POLITENESS.]
The next time Aunt Fanny came she had a funny and rather mischievous
twinkle in her eyes. She did not say a word, while she unfolded her
manuscript but quietly read out the Pop-gun printed above, and then said
her story was called by the comical title of
THE DOG’S DINNER-PARTY.
The children looked at each other, wondering what was coming, then
fastened their eager eyes on the reader, who began as follows:
Once upon a time there lived a funny, bustling, little old gentleman,
who thought that dogs, horses, cats, and monkeys, ought to live just as
he did; that is, first and foremost, to behave with perfect politeness,
learn to read and write, sit at the table and eat their meals with knives
and forks, and sleep in French bedsteads, all tucked up warm. He even
insisted on their wearing clothes and patent leather boots, and they ran
clattering about the house on their hind legs, with trousers and coats
on, and their tails dangling out behind, like a pocket handkerchief out
of a pocket.
The little bustling old gentleman was a bachelor. He had tried about
twenty-nine times to get married, but the ladies, one and all, insisted
that the dogs, cats, and monkeys must be turned out of the house, if they
consented to come in, which was very disagreeable and unreasonable, and
made the old gentleman so mad, he said to himself he would see them to
Jericho first; so making each one in turn a very low bow, for he was the
very pink of politeness, he took himself off, and that was the last of
getting married.
So his family consisted of four fine dogs, six beautiful cats, eight
comical monkeys, one fat cook, and one fat coachman, two thin housemaids,
and nobody knows how many grooms and footmen—and they all lived together,
a great deal happier than Barnum’s happy family, and what do you suppose
was the reason? Why, they were taught by the bustling little old
gentleman to be _perfectly polite_. I forgot to tell you that his name
was Lord Chesterfield.
One day Beppo—one of the family—a handsome brown and white spaniel, went
out for a walk. As soon as he got out of sight of the house, he dived
into a bramble bush, and scratched off all his clothes, for they plagued
him to death, and he trotted joyously along, whistling—
“With reading, and writing, and riches,
For once in my life, I have done!
I’ve got rid of that old pair of breeches;
So, hurrah! my brave boys, for some fun!”
Presently he came to a fine river, and was just thinking he would take a
swim, when he heard a piercing scream, and something went splash into the
water.
Beppo rushed to the brink just in time to see a little golden-haired
child disappear under the rippling waves.
In he dashed, like a flying-fish, swam like lightning to the spot, and
caught the little child’s dress in his mouth; then turning, swam back,
and laid it, drenched and gasping, on the green bank, just as the nurse,
her face white with terror, and her limbs trembling, was struggling to
reach the shore.
The poor woman caught the beautiful child in her arms and kissed her,
and thanked Heaven for her rescue. Then she patted and hugged Beppo, who
stood wagging his tail and shaking the water out of his long silky hair.
“Ah, madam,” he said, with a very polite how, and his fore-paw on his
heart, “I am truly grateful that I was made a spaniel: if I had been a
stupid poodle-dog I should have been afraid of the water, and the poor
little darling would have been drowned.”
“Why!” exclaimed the nurse in astonishment, “is it possible you can talk?”
“Yes, ma’am, my master, the Lord Chesterfield, will have it, though I’d
much rather bark; and he makes us eat at the table out of plates, and
cut our food with knives and forks, when I think a marrow-bone to gnaw,
out in the court-yard, is as nice again; but he says gnawing bones is
perfectly dreadful, and we must learn to eat politely.”
“Well, that is very funny! I shall tell about it as soon as I get home.”
So the nurse hastened away, with the pretty child, and was soon telling
the frightened mother how little Lucy had run away from her, and tumbled
into the river, and how the beautiful spaniel, who could talk like a
Christian, had saved her life.
The grateful mother went out the next morning and bought a splendid gold
collar, and had this inscription engraved upon it: “_For the noble and
brave dog Beppo, who saved little Lucy’s life._”
When the parcel came, the little bustling old gentleman opened it, and
reading the words on the gold collar, called Beppo to him.
“Why, only look at this splendid collar, my good fellow,” he cried; “why
did you not tell me of your adventure?”
“I only did my duty,” Beppo modestly answered.
“Ah! I am quite proud of you. I shall give you a dinner-party, and you
shall carry round the invitations yourself.”
“May I invite little golden-haired Lucy?” asked Beppo. “I should like to
_so_ much.”
“Certainly,” said Lord Chesterfield; “suppose you write the note
yourself; it will be a very delicate attention.”
Down sat Beppo, joyously, and soon he had penned this fine invitation:
“Master Beppo wishes you to dine with me to-morrow at five o’
clock.
“MISS LUCY HILL.”
This was not exactly the right way to word it, but you see his education
was not yet completed.
Then the little bustling old gentleman wrote the rest of the notes;
for Beppo was rather slow, and ran his tongue out in the most fearful
manner, in his anxiety to spell the words right, and then they were
nicely sealed up in envelopes, and he put them all together in a pretty
little basket.
And now the coachman was ordered to bring out the state carriage and four
horses, and Beppo, sitting up inside on his hind-legs, very grand, and no
doubt exceedingly uncomfortable, carried the notes of invitation to the
most fashionable dogs of his acquaintance.
Three of the dogs to be invited lived in the house, as you know; but
they had notes as well as the rest, for that is the way to be perfectly
polite. I dare say you have many a time heard people say something like
this—
“Oh, it don’t make any difference what there is for dinner when _you_
come, because we are so intimate; but I should be mortified to death, not
to have every thing nice when General Fusbos is invited, as he is such a
stranger.”
This is abominable manners—as if you ought not to treat those you love
far better than a stranger. It always makes me very indignant when such
a remark is made to _me_; and I sincerely hope you will profit all your
life by this hint about _true_ politeness from our friend Beppo.
You can’t have a great many at a dinner party, you know; so you must
be careful to invite the most agreeable people, and as many ladies as
gentlemen. Beppo knew this as well as you, and so you may be sure he had
taken great pains to have a pleasant party.
The next morning there were a great many people ringing at the little
bustling old gentleman’s door, and each one left a note.
Beppo ran into a corner with them, as fast as they arrived, and read them
in a great hurry. At last one came, very pretty, of a three-cornered
shape, and smelling of roses. The moment Beppo opened it, and glanced
at the contents, he danced around the room for joy, waving the note in
the air with one of his fore-paws. Then he rushed up to his master,
exclaiming—
“She’s coming! my Lord Chesterfield, she’s coming! Just fancy how
delightful to have her sweet face and golden curls among our hairy
muzzles! Oh, we must be very polite, and make her as happy as possible.”
It was a lovely summer’s day. The sun turned the ripples of the river
into shifting gold, and there was singing, and buzzing, and whispering,
and laughing everywhere; all felt kind and loving. Even the hideous old
scarecrow in the cornfield allowed Beppo, in his joy, to dash at him and
playfully throw him down, bang! on his old red nose, and he never once
attempted to get up; for he said, in his pine-wood heart—
“I’m a brute, after all, to frighten the poor birds out of their wits.
I’ll just lie down here and take a nap, and let the dear little things
have a good time for once.”
Oh, it was charming to see that even an old scarecrow could be polite,
which, after all, is only another name for loving-kindness.
Just before five o’clock, the nurse brought little Lucy, dressed in blue,
and looking like a fairy. Strange to say, although only four years old,
she was not in the least frightened, but put her soft white arms around
Beppo’s neck, and said, “Oh, I love oo, good dog!” and hugged him so
kindly, that he would have given all the world to have had her tumble
into the water again, so that he might save her life once more.
The little bustling old gentleman took her by the hand, and showed her
all over his curious old house, with its suits of rusty armor, great stag
horns nailed to the walls, and queer black-looking paintings; and Beppo
followed wherever they went, gently wagging his tail, and answering every
question with admirable politeness.
And now all the dogs who had been invited had come, and were sitting in
the parlor waiting for the dinner-bell to ring, talking and laughing as
pleasantly and properly as the king, or the president, or you, or I.
Of course, the first thing any one said, after “How-de-do?” was, “It’s a
fine day!” because that’s the solemn rule in all polite society. Then, of
course, they went on to say it was worse weather last week, and would be
better weather next week; and after about a dozen more deeply interesting
remarks upon the weather, the dinner-bell rang, and made them all jump.
But the very next instant they sat down again, trying to look as if they
were in no sort of hurry, as it would have been very bad manners to rush
pell-mell down stairs. Everybody knows that.