Some days later, Fritz appeared in the kitchen, only to be speedily
informed by Rosetta that “I hain’t no time to bother with young ones
now! Here, take a cookie if ye want it, an’ clear out!”
“I don’t want a cookie, and I don’t want to clear out. I want somebody
to talk to.”
“Talk ter somebody ’tain’t so busy as I be, then! I’ve got about forty
hundred things ter do this very day, an’ here it is goin’ on ten
o’clock, a’ready.”
“What ‘forty hundered’ things, Rosetta? Paula says that you zaggerate
turribly. I don’t know ezactly what zaggerate means, but I’m afraid
it is somethin’ like tellin’ a lie. You wouldn’t tell a lie, would
you, Rosetta?” responded the little boy, in a tone that revealed his
distress over Rosetta’s danger.
“Here, if ye hev sunthin’ ter do ye won’t ast so many foolish
questions. Take this bowl of raisins an’ set down an’ stun ’em.”
That was labor wholly congenial to Fritzy’s temper, or he fancied that
it would be, and he obediently took the bowl and dropped upon the floor
to “help Rosetta,” as he had occasionally been allowed to do before.
The good woman was indeed very busy. She was a famous cook, but in
all the time he had been at The Snuggery, Fritz had never smelled so
many and such savory odors as permeated her kitchen at that moment.
In the great Dutch oven, from “the hole in the wall,” as he called
it, there came whiffs of perfume suggesting to the chronically hungry
child the delights of roasting fowls, and even the unusual but
never-to-be-forgotten fragrance of a “little piggy cookin’ whole.”
The range oven was full of pies, the shelves of the pantry were laden
with cakes and jellies, and even the little oil-stove was pressed into
service to bake tin after tin of puffy looking biscuits. Fritz didn’t
understand it at all. And when he had asked Content why every one was
“tearin’ around as if they was possessed so for,” she had answered him
with honest sympathy:--
“I haven’t the least idea in the world, dearie. It seems as if
grandmother must be expecting a lot of company; for even we couldn’t
eat half the stuff Rosetta is preparing. I asked Aunt Ruth if any one
was coming, and she told me to ‘watch out sharp and see.’ I knew then
that I was to ask no more questions; but I do hope we shall have a
taste of all the nice things; don’t you?”
“Don’t I?” responded Fritz; and with that hope in mind he had invaded
the kitchen.
Rosetta at last bethought herself that the child was unusually quiet,
and paused in her vigorous thumping of the bread dough to look behind
her toward his corner. There was a goodly pile of sticky seeds upon her
polished floor; the bowl of raisins had become a bowl of emptiness; but
in the basin which should have been filled, to make all the terms of
the problem satisfactory, there were but a few torn and scraggy bits of
fruit.
“Fritzy Pickel! What in the name o’ common-sense! Where hev ye put them
raisins?”
“Where? Wh--why, in the basin,” answered the boy, bending forward and
looking into it with a perfectly satisfied expression on his dirty
face. “Didn’t you say to put ’em there?”
“That’s just what I did say; but, ye bad boy, ye’ve put ten in yer
mouth ter ary one went inter the dish! I don’t want no more sech help,
an’ ef my hands wasn’t all over dough, I’d fix ye! Clear right out o’
here, quick!”
Fritz waited no second order. Rosetta’s face was not a pleasant one
at that instant; but when he stopped to ask, from a prudently safe
position outside the doorway, what she was “a-cookin’ sech a lot for?”
she replied savagely, if with something like tears in her eyes: “I’m
a-cookin’--fer folks! But I’d a’most ruther do it fer a fun’ral!”
More perplexed than ever, and with that sort of feeling in his small
stomach which demanded sympathy, he wandered away into “grandmother’s
part” of the house. It was always sunshiny and delightful in
“grandmother’s part,” and to it as a haven of rest the raisin-surfeited
youngster turned, secure of a reception that would be kind.
“I’ll tell grandma about that old Rosetta thing! She’s crosser than
cross!” But though grandmother smiled sweetly upon her little grandson
as he entered, it was in an absent sort of way which seemed rather the
force of habit than of welcome. She was talking with Fritzy Nunky; and,
as naturally as possible, Fritz second marched to the uncle’s knee to
be lifted up.
“Nunky can’t take you now, little man. Run away and read your books in
the corner.”
Fritzy was mad. And his stomach did begin to feel very queer. He
kept tasting raisins and tasting them, till he felt as if he should
never care to see another. But as there was absolutely nothing else
to be done, he went to the corner designated, and sat down to look at
pictures.
Grandmother and Uncle Fritz paid no attention to him; indeed, they
quite forgot his presence, and went on talking as if he were a nobody.
Fritz resented this at first; then he became interested in what they
were saying; and at a word of Uncle Fritz about Munich and the schools
there, he sat up and listened intently.
“Nay, Fritz!” said grandmother; and her voice had rarely sounded so
sharp. “Nay, thee must not ask that. Thee is taking the light of my
eyes away from me in my old age, but thee must leave me my children’s
children.”
That was queer, wasn’t it? Yet Uncle Fritz appeared to be doing nothing
but sitting there in the easy-chair and looking straight upon the
carpet. Finally, he replied:--
“Thou must not blame me, Mother Amy. Thou shouldst blame thy own self,
who hast made her the lovely woman that she is. I could not help but
love her; and thou--thou must have left thy mother’s side also.”
“Does thee think I will fight against nature, Fritz? I blame nobody;
but when thee and she think to rob me of my little ones, then I will
not let thee have thy will.”
Fritz second began to be very much interested, indeed. He forgot all
about the “raisiny-pain,” and pictured pages were as dross. He knew
they were talking about “the children,” and that included himself.
“But the care, think of the care. Even for the six months that we shall
be away it will be too much for thy feeble strength.”
“Humph!” said grandmother, and she said it exactly like Aunt Ruth. “I
am only seventy-seven years of age. I have excellent health, and my
parents lived to be over ninety.”
“If thou wouldst only go with us!” pleaded Fritzy Nunky, eloquently.
Grandmother shook her head vigorously. “In this house I have lived
ever since my husband left me. In this house I will remain till my own
summons comes. Having nobody else to cosset, Ruth has cosseted me, and
pretended to her loving heart that I required it. I do not. I am fully
capable of caring for all those whom the Lord sends to my keeping. I
have thought it all out. There shall come a governess here, and the
children shall be regularly taught all that it is necessary they should
know. Melville will be with his great professor in a very few weeks, so
friend Winslow tells me. The rest of us will abide in our place and be
at peace. Go, thee and Ruth, and be as happy as were my companion and
I. I could wish thee nothing more; but take this step only in the fear
of the Lord.”
Fritzy got up and walked softly to his grandmother’s chair.
By that time Fritzy Nunky was pacing up the long apartment and down
again, in a very disturbed sort of fashion. No wonder, Fritz the second
thought, if, as grandmother said, he was really taking away from her
the light of her eyes! The child felt a sudden revulsion of feeling
toward his beloved guardian of which he might not have been thought
capable. He cast a scowling glance upon the burly, striding figure,
and wished that he could fight it. Then he leaned his sticky hands on
Mother Amy’s knees and peered curiously up into her tear-dimmed eyes.
“What is it, little lad?” asked the old lady gently, and bending down
to kiss her darlings’ face.
“Is he really doing it? What makes him? And does it hurt you very much?”
“Doing what, Fritz?”
“Taking the light out of your eyes.”
“Nay, nay! not wholly so!” cried Grandmother Amy, bending her face upon
the sturdy little shoulder of the child; “he cannot do that, little
one, while he leaves me thee.”
Then Fritz climbed up into her lap, and scowled ferociously at Uncle
Fritz, who--terrified, it may be--went quickly out and closed the door.
But the hubbub of the kitchen did not extend to the other parts of
the great house; though, strangely enough, Aunt Ruth seemed to have
found plenty of occupation for everybody’s hands; though she assigned
the various tasks with a sort of gentle sadness which surprised the
toilers, so different was it from her usual brisk activity. And when
Octave had finished her allotted portion she sped to Melville’s room to
talk it over.
“My son, there is another ‘Mystery’ afoot. I know it, I feel it! It’s
‘borne in on me.’ There has been food enough cooked to feed a regiment,
and every nook and cranny of this mansion has been swept and garnished.
Strangest part of all, Aunt Ruth is in it; and I’m inclined to think
that Fritzy Nunky is too, for he acts so queer! A few minutes ago he
met me in the hall, and he stopped me and kissed me. ‘I wonder if I
am doing right by thee, my child,’ he said, in the gravest fashion. I
told him I considered that he was doing exactly right; for this very
morning he called me into his room and gave me a pretty silver watch,
and a pocket-book with ten whole dollars in it. Think of that, Melville
Capers! I, Octave Pickel, the impecunious, with ten real dollars all my
very own!”
“It is almost incredible. But don’t worry; you’ll not have them long;
you have no liking for money,” answered Melville, consolingly.
“Humph! I do so like it--to spend!”
“I, too, think there is another ‘Mystery’; but it can never be half so
splendid as ours. I think your Uncle Fritz is in it even more deeply
than Aunt Ruth. This morning, it must have been after he had given you
the pocket-book, he came in to see me; and he talked to me so seriously
about my responsibility as the ‘head of the family in America,’
that I couldn’t believe my own ears. It didn’t seem at all like his
jolly self; and, ‘Mystery’ or not, I don’t believe that these other
conspirators are getting half as much fun, or good either, out of it as
we did out of ours. There is a lot of company coming, though, I know.
Grandmother never had so much cooked before, Abry-ham says, even for
‘yearly meeting,’ when she has a houseful of thees and thous.”
In came Paula, visibly excited, and in great haste. “Octave, Aunt Ruth
says we are to go up stairs and put on our best dresses, for there is
company coming. A lot of old Quaker Friends, and who do you think? Why,
the great doctor and the great professor and his wife, and the village
folks, and everybody you can think of. I knew you’d have to mend your
frock, for you tore it the last time you had it on, so I thought I’d
tell you right away.”
“Oh, bother! I hate company! I wanted Octave to help me with some
problems. We haven’t had one single minute to study since the folks
came home!” exclaimed Melville, peevishly.
“Well, I’ve borne that deprivation in an angelic spirit,” retorted
Octave; who found sitting patiently to work out Melville’s
incomprehensible problems a terrible tax upon her restless spirit.
“But Aunt Ruth beats me; she ought to be in a perfect fever of
nervousness, but she is as calm--as calm!” said Melville, who had
received many unusual visits from her during that morning. Visits
which appeared to have no special object, but which were apparently
intended as sympathetic,--that is, as far as Melville could understand
them.
Soon after dinner the expected guests began to arrive; and even then
Ruth was everywhere about the house, receiving her friends and showing
them to the most comfortable seats in the great, old-fashioned parlor,
which had been thrown open to the fresh September air, and from which
a door opening into Melville’s sitting-room had been unlocked, for the
first time in many years. His cot had been rolled to this doorway, and
there he lay conversing with his revered professor, who had promptly
appeared on the noon train.
The great surgeon and Uncle Fritz were deep in the discussion of a
“beautiful case” which Fritz must be sure to see when he passed through
London.
London! Was he going away to it soon? Octave felt her heart sink
strangely; and she unconsciously clutched little Fritz’s hand so that
he protested.
Then everybody came in from all the rooms where they had been
wandering; even Rosetta, in a clean print gown, and Abry-ham in his
Sunday clothes, and Luke, smelling of bear’s oil and pomatum. And they
ranged themselves all around the place, so “fer all the world like a
fun’ral” that Rosetta was seized then and there with a desire to weep.
When she did so, with audible moans, it was high time to put an end to
the--“Mystery.”
So, evidently, thought Uncle Fritz; for he arose and, crossing to Aunt
Ruth’s side, held out his great hand invitingly.
Then she, looking like a sweet blush rose, wrapped in a cloak of
soft gray moss, stood up and faced him; and before anybody could do
much more than sigh their amazement, those two people had--married
themselves!
So that was the “Mystery” then! A Quaker wedding! “Pooh!” said
Melville; “it wasn’t half so great as ours. _Anybody_ can get married!”
Then there was such a deal of hand-shaking and good-wishing that Octave
couldn’t just bear it. She was sorry and she was glad; and all she
knew was that she was thankful when it was over, and the whole family
gathered in characteristic groups to watch the misbehaving aunt and
uncle drive away.
There was Octave, supporting Melville so that he could see through
the window what others witnessed from the doorway; “the girls,” with
Christina between them, clinging together on the steps; and Fritzy,
close beside Grandmother Amy.
Aunt Ruth leaned far out of the carriage, and her face was all a
conflict of joy and pain. “Fare thee well, my mother! Do not thee
misjudge me, and do--keep safe!”
“Pooh! Aunt Ruthy, don’t you worry. _I’ll_ take care of her,” said
little Fritz; and the last glimpse Ruth caught of her home showed
that valiant lad with his arms about his grandmother’s waist, and the
protecting pride of manhood in his honest blue eyes.
THE END.
NEW BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
=A SCORE OF FAMOUS COMPOSERS.= By NATHAN HASKELL DOLE, formerly
musical editor of the Philadelphia _Press_ and _Evening Bulletin_.
With portraits of Beethoven, Wagner, Liszt, Haydn, etc. 12mo, $1.50.
No pains have been spared to make this volume of musical biographies
accurate, and at the same time entertaining. Many quaint and curious
details have been found in out-of-the-way German or Italian sources.
Beginning with Palestrina, “the Prince of Music,” concerning whose life
many interesting discoveries have been recently made, and ending with
Wagner, the twenty Composers, while in the majority of German origin,
still embrace representatives of England and Italy, Hungary and Russia,
of France and Poland. Free from pedantry and technicalities, simple
and straightforward in style, these sketches aim above all to acquaint
the reader, and particularly the young, with the personality of the
subjects, to make them live again while recounting their struggles and
triumphs.
=FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN.= By SARAH K. BOLTON, author of “Poor Boys
Who became Famous.” With Portraits of Gladstone, John Bright, Robert
Peel, etc. 12mo, $1.50.
Mrs. Bolton has found a peculiarly congenial subject in her latest
contribution to the series of “Famous” books. Nearly all of the
English statesmen whose biographies she so sympathetically recounts,
have been leaders in great works of reform; and with many Mrs.
Bolton had the privilege of personal acquaintance. She has given
succinct, yet sufficiently detailed descriptions of the chief labors
of these statesmen, and the young reader will find them stirring and
stimulating, full of anecdotes and bright sayings.
=THE JO-BOAT BOYS.= By Rev. J. F. COWAN, D.D., editor of “Our Young
People,” etc. Illustrated by H. W. Peirce. 12mo, $1.50.
The shanty boats which shelter the amphibious people along the banks of
the Ohio are called Jo-Boats, and Dr. Cowan has chosen this original
environment for the earlier scenes of his remarkably lively and
spirited story. It will appeal to every boy who has a spark of zest in
his soul.
=AN ENTIRE STRANGER.= By Rev. T. L. BAILY. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.
The heroine of Mr. Baily’s naïve and fascinating story is a
school-teacher who is full of resources, and understands how to bring
out the diverse capabilities of her scholars. She wins the love and
admiration of her school, and interests them in many improvements. It
is a thoroughly practical book, and we should be glad to see it in the
hands of all teachers and their scholars.
=THROWN UPON HER OWN RESOURCES; OR, WHAT GIRLS CAN DO.= By “JENNY
JUNE” (Mrs. Croly). A book for girls. 12mo, $1.25.
Mrs. Croly, the able editor of _The Home Maker_, in this book for
girls, shows in her practical, common-sense way, what chances there are
open to young women, when the necessity comes for self-support. The
wise, prudent words of one who has had so much experience in dealing
with the problems of life will be welcomed by a large class of readers.
=LED IN UNKNOWN PATHS.= By ANNA F. RAFFENSPERGER. Illustrated. 12mo,
$1.25.
A simple, unpretentious diary of homely, every-day life. It is so true
to nature that it reads like a transcript from an actual journal. It is
full of good-humor, quiet fun, gentle pathos, and good sound sense. One
follows with surprising interest the daily doings, the pleasures and
trials of the good family whose life is pictured in its pages.
=HALF A DOZEN GIRLS.= By ANNA CHAPIN RAY, author of “Half a Dozen
Boys.” Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.
A book for girls displaying unusual insight into human nature with
a quiet, sly humor, a faculty of investing every-day events with a
dramatic interest, a photographic touch, and a fine moral tone. It
ought to be a favorite with many girls.
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., Publishers, New York.
MRS. BOLTON’S FAMOUS BOOKS
“_The most interesting books to me are the histories of individuals
and individual minds, all autobiographies, and the like. This is my
favorite reading._”--H. W. Longfellow.
“_Mrs. Bolton never fails to interest and instruct her
readers._”--Chicago Inter-Ocean.
“_Always written in a bright and fresh style._”--Boston Home Journal.
“_Readable without inaccuracy._”--Boston Post.
=POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. Short biographical sketches of George Peabody,
Michael Faraday, Samuel Johnson, Admiral Farragut, Horace Greeley,
William Lloyd Garrison, Garibaldi, President Lincoln, and other
noted persons who, from humble circumstances, have risen to fame and
distinction, and left behind an imperishable record. Illustrated with
24 portraits. 12mo. $1.50.
=GIRLS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. A companion book to “Poor Boys Who Became Famous.”
Biographical sketches of Harriet Beecher Stowe, George Eliot, Helen
Hunt Jackson, Harriet Hosmer, Rosa Bonheur, Florence Nightingale, Maria
Mitchell, and other eminent women. Illustrated with portraits. 12mo.
$1.50.
=FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. Short biographical sketches of Galileo, Newton,
Linnæus, Cuvier, Humboldt, Audubon, Agassiz, Darwin, Buckland, and
others. Illustrated with 15 portraits, 12mo. $1.50.
=FAMOUS AMERICAN STATESMEN.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. A companion book to “Famous American Authors.”
Biographical sketches of Washington, Franklin, Jefferson, Hamilton,
Webster, Sumner, Garfield, and others. Illustrated with portraits.
12mo. $1.50.
=FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. With portraits of Gladstone, John Bright, Robert
Peel, Lord Palmerston, Lord Shaftesbury, William Edward Forster, Lord
Beaconsfield. 12mo. $1.50.
=FAMOUS EUROPEAN ARTISTS.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. With portraits of Raphael, Titian, Landseer,
Reynolds, Rubens, Turner, and others. 12mo. $1.50.
=FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. Short biographical sketches of Holmes, Longfellow,
Emerson, Lowell, Aldrich, Mark Twain, and other noted writers.
Illustrated with portraits. 12mo. $1.50.
=FAMOUS ENGLISH AUTHORS OF THE 19th CENTURY.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. With portraits of Scott, Burns, Carlyle, Dickens,
Tennyson, Robert Browning, etc. 12mo. $1.50.
=STORIES FROM LIFE.=
By SARAH K. BOLTON. A book of short stories, charming and helpful,
12mo. $1.25.
_For sale by all booksellers. Send for catalogue._
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., Publishers, New York.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Many page numbers in the Table of Contents are incorrect in the
original. The correct page numbers appear in this eBook.