"I wish Mother had taken us all three with her, and had locked the

house and put the key in her big pocket, as she has done before," said

little Joan, as she got into the rocking-chair, to put her doll to

sleep.

"Yes, it would have done just as well," So-so replied, as he stretched

himself on the hearth.

By-and-bye Joan grew tired of hushabying the doll, who looked none the

sleepier for it, and she took the three-legged stool and sat down in

front of the clock to watch the hands. After awhile she drew a deep

sigh.

"There are sixty seconds in every single minute, So-so," said she.

"So I have heard," said So-so. He was snuffing in the back place,

which was not usually allowed.

"And sixty whole minutes in every hour, So-so."

"You don't say so!" growled So-so. He had not found a bit, and the

cake was on the top shelf. There was not so much as a spilt crumb,

though he snuffed in every corner of the kitchen till he stood

snuffing under the house-door.

"The air smells fresh," he said.

"It's a beautiful day, I know," said little Joan. "I wish Mother had

allowed us to sit on the doorstep. We could have taken care of the

house----"

"Just as well," said So-so.

Little Joan came to smell the air at the keyhole, and, as So-so had

said, it smelt very fresh. Besides, one could see from the window how

fine the evening was.

"It's not exactly what Mother told us to do," said Joan, "but I do

believe----"

"It would do just as well," said So-so.

By-and-bye little Joan unfastened the bar, and opened the door, and

she and the doll and So-so went out and sat on the doorstep.

Not a stranger was to be seen. The sun shone delightfully. An evening

sun, and not too hot. All day it had been ripening the corn in the

field close by, and this glowed and waved in the breeze.

"It does just as well, and better," said little Joan, "for if anyone

comes we can see him coming up the field-path."

"Just so," said So-so, blinking in the sunshine.

Suddenly Joan jumped up.

"Oh!" cried she, "there's a bird, a big bird. Dear So-so, can you see

him? I can't, because of the sun. What a queer noise he makes. Crake!

crake! Oh, I can see him now! He is not flying, he is running, and he

has gone into the corn. I do wish I were in the corn, I would catch

him, and put him in a cage."

"I'll catch him," said So-so, and he put up his tail, and started off.

"No, no!" cried Joan. "You are not to go. You must stay and take care

of the house, and bark if anyone comes."

"You could scream, and that would do just as well," replied So-so,

with his tail still up.

"No, it wouldn't," cried little Joan.

"Yes, it would," reiterated So-so.

Whilst they were bickering, an old woman came up to the door; she had

a brown face, and black hair, and a very old red cloak.

"Good evening, my little dear," said she. "Are you all at home this

fine evening?"

"Only three of us," said Joan; "I, and my doll, and So-so. Mother has

gone to the town on business, and we are taking care of the house, but

So-so wants to go after the bird we saw run into the corn."

"Was it a pretty bird, my little dear?" asked the old woman.

"It was a very curious one," said Joan, "and I should like to go after

it myself, but we can't leave the house."

"Dear, dear! Is there no neighbor would sit on the doorstep for you

and keep the house till you just slip down to the field after the

curious bird?" said the old woman.

"I'm afraid not," said little Joan. "Old Martha, our neighbor, is now

bedridden. Of course, if she had been able to mind the house instead

of us, it would have done just as well."

"I have some distance to go this evening," said the old woman, "but I

do not object to a few minutes' rest, and sooner than that you should

lose the bird I will sit on the doorstep to oblige you, while you run

down to the cornfield."

"But can you bark if anyone comes?" asked little Joan. "For if you

can't, So-so must stay with you."

"I can call you and the dog if I see anyone coming, and that will do

just as well," said the old woman.

"So it will," replied little Joan, and off she ran to the cornfield,

where, for that matter, So-so had run before her, and was bounding and

barking and springing among the wheat-stalks.

They did not catch the bird, though they stayed longer than they had

intended, and though So-so seemed to know more about hunting than was

supposed.

"I daresay Mother has come home," said little Joan, as they went back

up the field-path. "I hope she won't think we ought to have stayed in

the house."

"It was taken care of," said So-so, and "that must do just as well."

When they reached the house, the widow had not come home.

But the old woman had gone, and she had taken the quilted petticoat

and the duffle cloak, and the plumcake from the top shelf away with

her; and no more was ever heard of any of the lot.

* * * * *

"For the future, my child," said the widow, "I hope you will always do

just as you are told, whatever So-so may say."

"I will, Mother," said little Joan. (And she did.) But the house-dog

sat and blinked. He dared not speak, he was in disgrace.

I do not feel quite sure about So-so. Wild dogs often amend their ways

far on this side of the gallows, and the Faithful sometimes fall; but

when anyone begins by being only So-so, he is very apt to be So-so to

the end. So-sos so seldom change.

But this one was _very_ soft and nice, and he got no cake that

tea-time. On the whole we will hope that he lived to be a Good Dog

ever after.

THE TRINITY FLOWER.

A Legend.

"Break forth, my lips, in praise, and own

The wiser love severely kind:

Since, richer for its chastening grown,

I see, whereas I once was blind."

--_The Clear Vision_, J. G. WHITTIER.

In days of yore there was once a certain hermit, who dwelt in a cell,

which he had fashioned for himself from a natural cave in the side of

a hill.

Now this hermit had a great love for flowers, and was moreover learned

in the virtues of herbs, and in that great mystery of healing which

lies hidden among the green things of GOD. And so it came to pass that

the country people from all parts came to him for the simples which

grew in the little garden which he had made before his cell. And as

his fame spread, and more people came to him, he added more and more

to the plat which he had reclaimed from the waste land around.

But after many years there came a Spring when the colors of the

flowers seemed paler to the hermit than they used to be; and as Summer

drew on, their shapes, became indistinct, and he mistook one plant

for another; and when Autumn came, he told them by their various

scents, and by their form, rather than by sight; and when the flowers

were gone, and Winter had come, the hermit was quite blind.

Now in the hamlet below there lived a boy who had become known to the

hermit on this manner. On the edge of the hermit's garden there grew

two crab trees, from the fruit of which he made every year a certain

confection, which was very grateful to the sick. One year many of

these crab-apples were stolen, and the sick folk of the hamlet had

very little conserve. So the following year, as the fruit was

ripening, the hermit spoke every day to those who came to his cell,

saying:--

"I pray you, good people, to make it known that he who robs these crab

trees, robs not me alone, which is dishonest, but the sick, which is

inhuman."

And yet once more the crab-apples were taken.

The following evening, as the hermit sat on the side of the hill, he

overheard two boys disputing about the theft.

"It must either have been a very big man, or a small boy, to do it,"

said one. "So I say, and I have my reason."

"And what is thy reason, Master Wiseacre?" asked the other.

"The fruit is too high to be plucked except by a very big man," said

the first boy. "And the branches are not strong enough for any but a

child to climb."

"Canst thou think of no other way to rob an apple tree but by standing

a-tip-toe, or climbing up to the apples, when they should come down to

thee?" said the second boy. "Truly thy head will never save thy heels;

but here's a riddle for thee:

Riddle me riddle me re,

Four big brothers are we;

We gather the fruit, but climb never a tree.

Who are they?"

"Four tall robbers, I suppose," said the other.

"Tush!" cried his comrade. "They are the four winds; and when they

whistle, down falls the ripest. But others can shake besides the

winds, as I will show thee if thou hast any doubts in the matter."

And as he spoke he sprang to catch the other boy, who ran from him;

and they chased each other down the hill, and the hermit heard no

more.

But as he turned to go home he said, "The thief was not far away when

thou stoodst near. Nevertheless, I will have patience. It needs not

that I should go to seek thee, for what saith the Scripture? _Thy sin_

will find thee out." And he made conserve of such apples as were left,

and said nothing.

Now after a certain time a plague broke out in the hamlet; and it was

so sore, and there were so few to nurse the many who were sick, that,

though it was not the wont of the hermit ever to leave his place, yet

in their need he came down and ministered to the people in the

village. And one day, as he passed a certain house, he heard moans

from within, and entering, he saw lying upon a bed a boy who tossed

and moaned in fever, and cried out most miserably that his throat was

parched and burning. And when the hermit looked upon his face, behold

it was the boy who had given the riddle of the four winds upon the

side of the hill.

Then the hermit fed him with some of the confection which he had with

him, and it was so grateful to the boy's parched palate, that he

thanked and blessed the hermit aloud, and prayed him to leave a morsel

of it behind, to soothe his torments in the night.

Then said the hermit, "My Son, I would that I had more of this

confection, for the sake of others as well as for thee. But indeed I

have only two trees which bear the fruit whereof this is made; and in

two successive years have the apples been stolen by some thief,

thereby robbing not only me, which is dishonest, but the poor, which

is inhuman."

Then the boy's theft came back to his mind, and he burst into tears,

and cried, "My Father, I took the crab-apples!"

And after awhile he recovered his health; the plague also abated in

the hamlet, and the hermit went back to his cell. But the boy would

thenceforth never leave him, always wishing to show his penitence and

gratitude. And though the hermit sent him away, he ever returned,

saying,

"Of what avail is it to drive me from thee, since I am resolved to

serve thee, even as Samuel served Eli, and Timothy ministered unto St.

Paul?"

But the hermit said, "My rule is to live alone, and without

companions; wherefore begone."

And when the boy still came, he drove him from the garden.

Then the boy wandered far and wide, over moor and bog, and gathered

rare plants and herbs, and laid them down near the hermit's cell. And

when the hermit was inside, the boy came into the garden, and gathered

the stones and swept the paths, and tied up such plants as were

drooping, and did all neatly and well, for he was a quick and skilful

lad. And when the hermit said,

"Thou hast done well, and I thank thee; but now begone," he only

answered,

"What avails it, when I am resolved to serve thee?"

So at last there came a day when the hermit said, "It may be that it

is ordained; wherefore abide, my Son."

And the boy answered, "Even so, for I am resolved to serve thee."

Thus he remained. And thenceforward the hermit's garden throve as it

had never thriven before. For, though he had skill, the hermit was old

and feeble; but the boy was young and active, and he worked hard, and

it was to him a labor of love. And being a clever boy, he quickly knew

the names and properties of the plants as well as the hermit himself.

And when he was not working, he would go far afield to seek for new

herbs. And he always returned to the village at night.

Now when the hermit's sight began to fail, the boy put him right if he

mistook one plant for another; and when the hermit became quite blind,

he relied completely upon the boy to gather for him the herbs that he

wanted. And when anything new was planted, the boy led the old man to

the spot, that he might know that it was so many paces in such a

direction from the cell, and might feel the shape and texture of the

leaves, and learn its scent. And through the skill and knowledge of

the boy, the hermit was in no wise hindered from preparing his

accustomed remedies, for he knew the names and virtues of the herbs,

and where every plant grew. And when the sun shone, the boy would

guide his master's steps into the garden, and would lead him up to

certain flowers; but to those which had a perfume of their own the old

man could go without help, being guided by the scent. And as he

fingered their leaves and breathed their fragrance, he would say,

"Blessed be GOD for every herb of the field, but thrice blessed for

those that smell."

And at the end of the garden was set a bush of rosemary. "For," said

the hermit, "to this we must all come." Because rosemary is the herb

they scatter over the dead. And he knew where almost everything grew,

and what he did not know the boy told him.

Yet for all this, and though he had embraced poverty and solitude with

joy, in the service of GOD and man, yet so bitter was blindness to

him, that he bewailed the loss of his sight, with a grief that never

lessened.

"For," said he, "if it had pleased our Lord to send me any other

affliction, such as a continual pain or a consuming sickness, I would

have borne it gladly, seeing it would have left me free to see these

herbs, which I use for the benefit of the poor. But now the sick

suffer through my blindness, and to this boy also I am a continual

burden."

And when the boy called him at the hours of prayer, saying, "My

Father, it is now time for the Nones office, for the marigold is

closing," or, "The Vespers bell will soon sound from the valley, for

the bindweed bells are folded," and the hermit recited the appointed

prayers, he always added,

"I beseech Thee take away my blindness, as Thou didst heal Thy servant

the son of Timeaus."

And as the boy and he sorted herbs, he cried,

"Is there no balm in Gilead?"

And the boy answered, "The balm of Gilead grows six full paces from

the gate, my Father."

But the hermit said, "I spoke in a figure, my Son. I meant not that

herb. But, alas! Is there no remedy to heal the physician? No cure for

the curer?"

And the boy's heart grew heavier and heavier day by day, because of

the hermit's grief. For he loved him.

Now one morning as the boy came up from the village, the hermit met

him, groping painfully with his hands, but with joy in his

countenance, and he said, "Is that thy step my Son? Come in, for I

have somewhat to tell thee."

And he said, "A vision has been vouchsafed to me, even a dream.

Moreover, I believe that there shall be a cure for my blindness."

Then the boy was glad, and begged of the hermit to relate his dream,

which he did as follows--

"I dreamed, and behold I stood in the garden--thou also with me--and

many people were gathered at the gate, to whom, with thy help, I gave

herbs of healing in such fashion as I have been able since this

blindness came upon me. And when they were gone, I smote upon my

forehead, and said, 'Where is the herb that shall heal my affliction?'

And a voice beside me said, 'Here, my Son,' And I cried to thee, 'Who

spoke?' And thou saidst, 'It is a man in pilgrim's weeds, and lo, he

hath a strange flower in his hand.' Then said the Pilgrim, 'It is a

Trinity Flower. Moreover, I suppose that when thou hast it, thou wilt

see clearly.' Then I thought that thou didst take the flower from the

Pilgrim and put it in my hand. And lo, my eyes were opened, and I saw

clearly. And I knew the Pilgrim's face, though where I have seen him I

cannot yet recall. But I believed him to be Raphael the Archangel--he

who led Tobias, and gave sight to his father. And even as it came to

me to know him, he vanished; and I saw him no more."

"And what was the Trinity Flower like, my Father?" asked the boy.

"It was about the size of Herb Paris, my son," replied the hermit.

"But instead of being fourfold every way, it numbered the mystic

Three. Every part was threefold. The leaves were three, the petals

three, the sepals three. The flower was snow-white, but on each of the

three parts it was stained with crimson stripes, like white garments

dyed in blood."[6]

[Footnote 6: _Trillium erythrocarpum_. North America.]

Then the boy started up, saying, "If there be such a plant on the

earth I will find it for thee."

But the hermit laid his hand on him, and said, "Nay, my Son, leave me

not, for I have need of thee. And the flower will come yet, and then I

shall see."

And all day long the old man murmured to himself, "Then I shall see."

"And didst thou see me, and the garden, in thy dream, my Father?"

asked the boy.

"Ay, that I did, my Son. And I meant to say to thee that it much

pleaseth me that thou art grown so well, and of such a strangely fair

countenance. Also the garden is such as I have never before beheld it,

which must needs be due to thy care. But wherefore didst thou not tell

me of those fair palms that have grown where the thorn hedge was wont

to be? I was but just stretching out my hand for some, when I awoke."

"There are no palms there, my Father," said the boy.

"Now, indeed it is thy youth that makes thee so little observant,"

said the hermit. "However, I pardon thee, if it were only for that

good thought which moved thee to plant a yew beyond the rosemary bush;

seeing that the yew is the emblem of eternal life, which lies beyond

the grave."

But the boy said, "There is no yew there, my Father."

"Have I not seen it, even in a vision?" cried the hermit. "Thou wilt

say next that all the borders are not set with hearts-ease, which

indeed must be through thy industry; and whence they come I know not,

but they are most rare and beautiful, and my eyes long sore to see

them again."

"Alas, my Father!" cried the boy, "the borders are set with rue, and

there are but a few clumps of hearts-ease here and there."

"Could I forget what I saw in an hour?" asked the old man angrily.

"And did not the holy Raphael himself point to them, saying, 'Blessed

are the eyes that behold this garden, where the borders are set with

hearts-ease, and the hedges crowned with palm!' But thou wouldst know

better than an archangel, forsooth."

Then the boy wept; and when the hermit heard him weeping, he put his

arm round him and said,

"Weep not, my dear Son. And I pray thee, pardon me that I spoke

harshly to thee. For indeed I am ill-tempered by reason of my

infirmities; and as for thee, GOD will reward thee for thy goodness to

me, as I never can. Moreover, I believe it is thy modesty, which is as

great as thy goodness, that hath hindered thee from telling me of all

that thou hast done for my garden, even to those fair and sweet

everlasting flowers, the like of which I never saw before, which thou

hast set in the east border, and where even now I hear the bees

humming in the sun."

Then the boy looked sadly out into the garden, and answered,

"I cannot lie to thee. There are no everlasting flowers. It is the

flowers of the thyme in which the bees are rioting. And in the hedge

bottom there creepeth the bitter-sweet."

But the hermit heard him not. He had groped his way out into the

sunshine, and wandered up and down the walks, murmuring to himself,

"Then I shall see."

Now when the Summer was past, one Autumn morning there came to the

garden gate a man in pilgrim's weeds; and when he saw the boy he

beckoned to him, and giving him a small tuber root, he said,

"Give this to thy master. It is the root of the Trinity Flower."

And he passed on down towards the valley.

Then the boy ran hastily to the hermit; and when he had told him, and

given him the root, he said,

"The face of the pilgrim is known to me also, O my Father! For I

remember when I lay sick of the plague, that ever it seemed to me as

if a shadowy figure passed in and out, and went up and down the

streets, and his face was as the face of this pilgrim. But--I cannot

deceive thee--methought it was the Angel of Death."

Then the hermit mused; and after a little space he answered,

"It was then also that I saw him. I remember now. Nevertheless, let us

plant the root, and abide what GOD shall send."

And thus they did.

[Illustration: HE HAD GROPED HIS WAY OUT INTO THE SUNSHINE AND

WANDERED UP AND DOWN THE WALKS.]

And as the Autumn and Winter went by, the hermit became very feeble,

but the boy constantly cheered him, saying, "Patience, my Father.

Thou shalt see yet!"

But the hermit replied, "My son, I repent me that I have not been

patient under affliction. Moreover, I have set thee an ill example, in

that I have murmured at that which GOD--Who knowest best--ordained for

me."

And when the boy ofttimes repeated, "Thou shalt yet see," the hermit

answered, "If GOD will. When GOD will. As GOD will."

And when he said the prayers for the Hours, he no longer added what he

had added beforetime, but evermore repeated, "If THOU wilt. When THOU

wilt. As THOU wilt."

And so the Winter passed; and when the snow lay on the ground the boy

and the hermit talked of the garden; and the boy no longer

contradicted the old man, though he spoke continually of the

hearts-ease, and the everlasting flowers, and the palm. For he said,

"When Spring comes I may be able to get these plants, and fit the

garden to his vision."

And at length the Spring came. And with it rose the Trinity Flower.

And when the leaves unfolded, they were three, as the hermit had said.

Then the boy was wild with joy and with impatience. And when the sun

shone for two days together, he would kneel by the flower, and say, "I

pray thee, Lord, send showers, that it may wax apace." And when it

rained he said, "I pray Thee, send sunshine, that it may blossom

speedily." For he knew not what to ask. And he danced about the

hermit, and cried, "Soon shalt thou see."

But the hermit trembled, and said, "Not as I will, but as THOU wilt!"

And so the bud formed. And at length one evening, before he went down

to the hamlet, the boy came to the hermit and said, "The bud is almost

breaking, my Father. To-morrow thou shalt see."

Then the hermit moved his hands till he laid them on the boy's head,

and he said,

"The Lord repay thee sevenfold for all thou hast done for me, dear

child. And now I pray thee, my Son, give me thy pardon for all in

which I have sinned against thee by word or deed, for indeed my

thoughts of thee have ever been tender." And when the boy wept, the

hermit still pressed him, till he said that he forgave him. And as

they unwillingly parted, the hermit said, "I pray thee, dear Son, to

remember that, though late, I conformed myself to the will of GOD."

Saying which, the hermit went into his cell, and the boy returned to

the village.

But so great was his anxiety, that he could not rest; and he returned

to the garden ere it was light, and sat by the flower till the dawn.

And with the first dim light he saw that the Trinity Flower was in

bloom. And as the hermit had said, it was white, and stained with

crimson as with blood.

Then the boy shed tears of joy, and he plucked the flower and ran into

the hermit's cell, where the hermit lay very still upon his couch. And

the boy said, "I will not disturb him. When he wakes he will find the

flower." And he went out and sat down outside the cell and waited. And

being weary as he waited, he fell asleep.

Now before sunrise, whilst it was yet early, he was awakened by the

voice of the hermit crying, "My Son, my dear Son!" and he jumped up,

saying, "My Father!"

But as he spoke the hermit passed him. And as he passed he turned, and

the boy saw that his eyes were open. And the hermit fixed them long

and tenderly on him.

Then the boy cried, "Ah, tell me, my Father, dost thou see?"

And he answered, "_I see now!_" and so passed on down the walk.

And as he went through the garden, in the still dawn, the boy

trembled, for the hermit's footsteps gave no sound. And he passed

beyond the rosemary bush, and came not again.

And when the day wore on, and the hermit did not return, the boy went

into his cell.

Without, the sunshine dried the dew from paths on which the hermit's

feet had left no prints, and cherished the spring flowers bursting

into bloom. But within, the hermit's dead body lay stretched upon his

pallet, and the Trinity Flower was in his hand.

THE KYRKEGRIM TURNED PREACHER.

A Legend

It is said that in Norway every church has its own Niss, or Brownie.

They are of the same race as the Good People, who haunt farmhouses,

and do the maids' work for a pot of cream. They are the size of a

year-old child, but their faces are the faces of aged men. Their

common dress is of grey home-spun, with red peaked caps; but on

Michaelmas Day they wear round hats.

The Church Niss is called Kyrkegrim. His duty is to keep the church

clean, and to scatter the marsh-marigold flowers on the floor before

service. He also keeps order in the congregation, pinches those who

fall asleep, cuffs irreverent boys, and hustles mothers with crying

children out of church as quickly and decorously as possible.

But his business is not with church-brawlers alone.

When the last snow avalanche has slipped from the high-pitched roof,

and the gentian is bluer than the sky, and Baldur's Eyebrow blossoms

in the hot spring sun, pious folk are wont to come to church some

time before service, and to bring their spades, and rakes, and

watering-pots with them, to tend the graves of the dead. The Kyrkegrim

sits on the Lych Gate and overlooks them.

At those who do not lay by their tools in good time he throws pebbles,

crying to each, "_Skynde dig!_" (Make haste!), and so drives them in.

And when the bells begin, should any man fail to bow to the church as

the custom is, the Kyrkegrim snatches his hat from behind, and he sees

it no more.

Nothing displeases the Kyrkegrim more than when people fall asleep

during the sermon. This will be seen in the following story.

Once upon a time there was a certain country church, which was served

by a very mild and excellent priest, and haunted by a most active

Kyrkegrim.

Not a speck of dust was to be seen from the altar to the porch, and

the behavior of the congregation was beyond reproach.

But there was one fat farmer who slept during the sermon, and do what

the Kyrkegrim would, he could not keep him awake. Again and again did

he pinch him, nudge him, or let in a cold draught of wind upon his

neck. The fat farmer shook himself, pulled up his neck-kerchief, and

dozed off again.

"Doubtless the fault is in my sermons," said the priest, when the

Kyrkegrim complained to him. For he was humble-minded.

But the Kyrkegrim knew that this was not the case, for there was no

better preacher in all the district.

And yet when he overheard the farmer's sharp-tongued little wife speak

of this and that in the discourse, he began to think it might be so.

No doubt the preacher spoke somewhat fast or slow, a little too loud

or too soft. And he was not "stirring" enough, said the farmer's wife;

a failing which no one had ever laid at her door.

"His soul is in my charge," sighed the good priest, "and I cannot even

make him hear what I have got to say. A heavy reckoning will be

demanded of me!"

"The sermons are in fault, beyond a doubt," the Kyrkegrim said. "The

farmer's wife is quite right. She's a sensible woman, and can use a

mop as well as myself."

"Hoot, hoot!" cried the church owl, pushing his head out of the

ivy-bush. "And shall she be Kyrkegrim when thou art turned preacher,

and the preacher sits on the judgment seat? Not so, little Niss! Dust

thou the pulpit, and leave the parson to preach, and let the Maker of

souls reckon with them."

"If the preacher cannot keep the people awake, it is time that another

took his place," said the Kyrkegrim.

"He is not bound to find ears as well as arguments," retorted the

owl, and he drew back into his ivy bush.

But the Kyrkegrim settled his red cap firmly on his head, and betook

himself to the priest, whose meekness (as is apt to be the case)

encouraged the opposite qualities in those with whom he had to do.

"The farmer must be roused somehow," said he. "It is a disgrace to us

all, and what, in all the hundreds of years I have been Kyrkegrim,

never befell me before. It will be well if next Sunday you preach a

stirring sermon on some very important subject."

So the preacher preached on Sin--fair of flower, and bitter of

fruit!--and as he preached his own cheeks grew pale for other men's

perils, and the Kyrkegrim trembled as he sat listening in the porch,

though he had no soul to lose.

"Was that stirring enough?" he asked, twitching the sleeve of the

farmer's wife as she flounced out after service.

"Splendid!" said she, "and must have hit some folk pretty hard too."

"It kept your husband awake this time, I should think," said the

Kyrkegrim.

"Heighty teighty!" cried the farmer's wife. "I'd have you to know my

good man is as decent a body as any in the parish, if he does take a

nap on Sundays! He is no sinner if he is no saint, thank Heaven, and

the parson knows better than to preach at him."

"Next Sunday," said the Kyrkegrim to the priest, "preach about

something which concerns everyone; respectable people as well as

others."

So the preacher preached of Death--whom tears cannot move, nor riches

bribe, nor power defy. The uncertain interruption and the only certain

end of all life's labors! And as he preached, the women sitting in

their seats wept for the dead whose graves they had been tending, and

down the aged cheeks of the Kyrkegrim there stole tears of pity for

poor men, whose love and labors are cut short so soon.

But the farmer slept as before.

"Do you expect to die?" asked the Kyrkegrim.

"Surely," replied the farmer, "we must all die some day, and one does

not need a preacher to tell him that. But it was a funeral sermon, my

wife thinks. There has been bereavement in the miller's family."

"Men are a strange race," thought the Kyrkegrim; but he went to the

priest and said--"The farmer is not afraid of death. You must find

some subject of which men really stand in awe."

So when Sunday came round again, the preacher preached of

Judgment--that dread Avenger who dogs the footsteps of trespass, even

now! That awful harvest of whirlwind and corruption which they must

reap who sow to the wind and to the flesh! Lightly regarded, but

biding its time, till a man's forgotten follies find him out at last.

But the farmer slept on. He did not wake when the preacher spoke of

judgment to come, the reckoning that cannot be shunned, the trump of

the Archangel, and the Day of Doom.

"On Michaelmas Day I shall preach myself," said the Kyrkegrim, "and if

I cannot rouse him, I shall give up my charge here."

This troubled the poor priest, for so good a Kyrkegrim was not likely

to be found again.

Nevertheless he consented, for he was very meek, and when Michaelmas

Day came the Kyrkegrim pulled a preacher's gown over his home-spun

coat, and laid his round hat on the desk by the iron-clamped Bible,

and began his sermon.

"I shall give no text," said he, "but when I have said what seems good

to me, it is for those who hear to see if the Scriptures bear me out."

This was an uncommon beginning, and most of the good folk pricked

their ears, the farmer among them, for novelty is agreeable in church

as elsewhere.

"I speak," said the Kyrkegrim, "of that which is the last result of

sin, the worst of deaths, and the beginning of judgment--hardness of

heart."

The farmer looked a little uncomfortable, and the Kyrkegrim went

bravely on.

"Let us seek examples in Scripture. We will speak of Pharaoh."

But when the Kyrkegrim spoke of Pharaoh the farmer was at ease again.

And by-and-bye a film stole gently before his eyes, and he nodded in

his seat.

This made the Kyrkegrim very angry, for he did not wish to give up his

place, and yet a Niss may not break his word.

"Let us look at the punishment of Pharaoh," he cried. But the farmer's

eyes were still closed, and the Kyrkegrim became agitated, and turned

hastily over the leaves of the iron-clamped Bible before him.

"We will speak of the plagues," said he. "The plague of blood, the

plague of frogs, the plague of lice, the plague of flies----"

At this moment the farmer snored.

For a brief instant anger and dismay kept the Kyrkegrim silent. Then

shutting the iron clamps he pushed the Book on one side, and

scrambling on to a stool, stretched his little body well over the

desk, and said, "But these flies were as nothing to the fly that is

coming in the turnip-crop!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the farmer sat suddenly

upright and half rising from his place, cried anxiously, "Eh, what

sir? What does he say, wife? A new fly among the turnips?"

"Ah, soul of clay!" yelled the indignant Kyrkegrim, as he hurled his

round hat at the gaping farmer. "Is it indeed for such as thee that

Eternal Life is kept in store?"

And drawing the preacher's gown over his head, he left it in the

pulpit, and scrambling down the steps hastened out of church.

* * * * *

As he had been successful in rousing the sleepy farmer the Kyrkegrim

did not abandon his duties; but it is said that thenceforward he kept

to them alone, and left heavier responsibilities in higher hands.

LADDERS TO HEAVEN.[7]

A Legend.

There was a certain valley in which the grass was very green, for it

was watered by a stream which never failed; and once upon a time

certain pious men withdrew from the wide world and from their separate

homes, and made a home in common, and a little world for themselves,

in the valley where the grass was green.

[Footnote 7: "Ladders to Heaven" was an old name for Lilies of the

Valley.]

The world outside, in those days, was very rough and full of wars; but

the little world in the Green Valley was quiet and full of peace. And

most of these men who had taken each other for brothers, and had made

one home there, were happy, and being good deserved to be so. And some

of them were good with the ignorant innocence of children, and there

were others who had washed their robes and made them white in the

Blood of the Lamb.

Brother Benedict was so named, because where he came blessings

followed. This was said of him, from a child, when the babies stopped

crying if he ran up to them, and when on the darkest days old women

could see sunbeams playing in his hair. He had always been fond of

flowers, and as there were not many things in the Brotherhood of the

Green Valley on which a man could full-spend his energies, when

prayers were said, and duties done, Brother Benedict spent the balance

of his upon the garden. And he grew herbs for healing, and plants that

were good for food, and flowers that were only pleasant to the eyes;

and where he sowed he reaped, and what he planted prospered, as if

blessings followed him.

In time the fame of his flowers spread beyond the valley, and people

from the world outside sent to beg plants and seeds of him, and sent

him others in return. And he kept a roll of the plants that he

possessed, and the list grew longer with every Autumn and every

Spring; so that the garden of the monastery became filled with rare

and curious things, in which Brother Benedict took great pride.

The day came when he thought that he took too much pride. For he said,

"The cares of the garden are, after all, cares of this world, and I

have set my affections upon things of the earth," And at last it so

troubled him that he obtained leave to make a pilgrimage to the cell

of an old hermit, whose wisdom was much esteemed, and to him he told

his fears.

But when Brother Benedict had ended his tale, the old man said, "Go

in peace. What a man labors for he must love, if he be made in the

image of his Maker; for He rejoices in the works of His hands."

So Brother Benedict returned, and his conscience was at ease till the

Autumn, when a certain abbot, who spent much care and pains upon his

garden, was on a journey, and rested at the Monastery of the Green

Valley. And it appeared that he had more things in his garden than

Brother Benedict, for the abbey was very rich, and he had collected

far and near. And Brother Benedict was jealous for the garden of the

monastery, and then he was wrath with himself for his jealousy; and

when the abbot had gone he obtained leave, and made a pilgrimage to

the cell of the hermit and told him all. And the old man, looking at

him, loved him, and he said:

"My son, a man may bind his soul with fine-drawn strands till it is

either entangled in a web or breaks all bonds. Gird thyself with one

strong line, and let little things go by."

And Benedict said, "With which line?"

And the hermit answered, "What said Augustine? 'Love, and do what thou

wilt.' If therefore thy labors and thy pride be for others, and not

for thyself, have no fear. He who lives for GOD and for his neighbors

may forget his own soul in safety, and shall find it hereafter; for

for such a spirit--of the toils and pains and pleasures of this

life--grace shall alike build Ladders unto Heaven."

Then Benedict bowed his head, and departed; and when he reached home

he found a messenger who had ridden for many days, and who brought him

a bundle of roots, and a written message, which ran thus:

"These roots, though common with us, are unknown where thou dwellest.

It is a lily, as white and as fragrant as the Lily of the

Annunciation, but much smaller. Beautiful as it is, it is hardy, and

if planted in a damp spot and left strictly undisturbed it will spread

and flourish like a weed. It hath a rare and delicate perfume, and

having white bells on many footstalks up the stem, one above the

other, as the angels stood in Jacob's dream, the common children call

it Ladders to Heaven."

And when Brother Benedict read the first part of the letter he laughed

hastily, and said, "The abbot hath no such lily." But when he had

finished it, he said, "GOD rid my soul of self-seeking! The common

children shall have them, and not I."

And, seizing the plants and a spade, he ran out beyond the bounds of

the monastery, and down into a little copse where the earth was kept

damp by the waters of the stream which never failed. And there he

planted the roots, and as he turned to go away he said, "The blessing

of our Maker rest on thee! And give joy of thy loveliness, and

pleasure of thy perfume, to others when I am gone. And let him who

enjoys remember the soul of him who planted thee."

[Illustration: BROTHER BENEDICT BLESSES THE FLOWERS.]

And he covered his face with his hands, and went back to the

monastery. And he did not enter the new plant upon his roll, for he

had no such lily in his garden.

* * * * *

Brother Benedict's soul had long departed, when in times of turbulence

and change, the monastery was destroyed, and between fire and plunder

and reckless destruction everything perished, and even the garden was

laid waste. But no one touched the Lilies of the Valley in the copse

below, for they were so common that they were looked upon as weeds.

And though nothing remained of the brotherhood but old tales, these

lingered, and were handed on; and when the children played with the

lilies and bickered over them, crying, "My ladder has twelve white

angels and yours has only eight," they would often call them Brother

Benedict's flowers, adding, "but the real right name of them is

Ladders to Heaven."

And after a time a new race came into the Green Valley and filled it;

and the stream which never failed turned many wheels, and trades were

brisk, and they were what are called black trades. And men made money

soon, and spent it soon, and died soon; and in the time between each

lived for himself, and had little reverence for those who were gone,

and less concern for those who should come after. And at first they

were too busy to care for what is only beautiful, but after a time

they built smart houses, and made gardens, and went down into the

copse and tore up clumps of Brother Benedict's flowers, and planted

them in exposed rockeries, and in pots in dry hot parlors, where they

died, and then the good folk went back for more; and no one reckoned

if he was taking more than his fair share, or studied the culture of

what he took away, or took the pains to cover the roots of those he

left behind, and in three years there was not left a Ladder to Heaven

in all the Green Valley.

* * * * *

The Green Valley had long been called the Black Valley, when those who

labored and grew rich in it awoke--as man must sooner or later

awake--to the needs of the spirit above the flesh. They were a race

famed for music, and they became more so. The love of beauty also

grew, and was cultivated, and in time there were finer flowers

blossoming in that smoky air than under many brighter skies. And with

the earnings of their grimy trades they built a fine church, and

adorned it more richly than the old church of the monastery, that had

been destroyed.

The parson who served this church and this people was as well-beloved

by them as Brother Benedict had been in his day, and it was in

striving to link their minds with sympathies of the past as well as

hopes of the future, that one day he told them the legend of the

Ladders to Heaven. A few days afterwards he was wandering near the

stream, when he saw two or three lads with grimy faces busily at work

in the wood through which the stream ran. At first, when he came

suddenly on them, they looked shyly at one another, and at last one

stood up and spoke.

"It's a few lily roots, sir, we got in the market, and we're planting

them; and two or three of us have set ourselves to watch that they are

not shifted till they've settled. Maybe we shall none of us see them

fair wild here again, any more than Brother Benedict did. For black

trades are short-lived trades, and there's none of us will be as old

as he. But maybe we can take a pride too in thinking that they'll blow

for other folk and other folk's children when we are gone."

* * * * *

Once more the fastidious[8] flowers spread, and became common in the

valley, and were guarded with jealous care; and the memory of Brother

Benedict lingered by the stream, and was doubly blessed.

[Footnote 8: It is well known that Lilies of the Valley are flowers

which resent disturbance, though they are perfectly hardy and vigorous

if left in peace.]

For if he is blessed whose love and wisdom add to the world's worth,

and make life richer in pleasant things, thrice blessed is he whose

unselfish example shall be culture to the ignorant or the thoughtless,

and set Ladders to Heaven for the feet of those who follow him!

SUNFLOWERS AND A RUSHLIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

"A MAN NAMED SOLOMON." JAEL AND THE CHINA POODLE. JOHNSON'S

DICTIONARY. NAIL-SPOTS. FAMILY BEREAVEMENTS. A FAMILY DOCTOR. THE

BOOKS IN THE ATTIC. A PUZZLING TALE. "A JOURNEY TO GO."

Doctor Brown is our doctor. He lives in our village, at the top of the

hill.

When we were quite little, and had scarlet-fever, and measles, and

those things, Dr. Brown used to be very kind to us, and dress his

first finger up in his pocket-handkerchief with a knot for the turban,

and rings on his thumb and middle finger, and do--"At the top of a

hill lived a man named Solomon," in a hollow voice, which frightened

me rather.

And then he used to say--"Wise man, Solomon! He lived at the top of a

hill," and laugh till his face got redder than usual, and his eyes

filled with laughter-tears, and twinkled in the nice way they do, and

I was not frightened any more.

Dr. Brown left off being our doctor once. That was when he and

Grandmamma quarrelled. But they made it up again.

It was when I was so unhappy--I tried to help it, but I really could

not--about my poor dear white china-poodle (Jael broke him when she

was dusting, and then she swept up his tail, though I have so begged

her to keep the bits when she cleans our room, and breaks things; and

now he never never can be mended, all the days of my life):--it was

when I was crying about him, and Grandmamma told Dr. Brown how silly I

was, to make me feel ashamed, that he said--"There are some tempers,

which, if they haven't enough people to love, will love things."

Margery says he did not say _tempers_ but _temperaments_. I know it

began with temper, because it reminded me of Jael, who said "them

tears is all temper, Miss Grace," which was very hard, because she

knew--she knew quite well--it was about my poodle; and though

accidents will happen, she need not have swept up his tail.

Margery is sure to be right. She always is. Besides, we looked it out

in Johnson's Dictionary, which we are rather fond of, though it is

very heavy to lift. We like the bits out of books, in small print; but

I could not understand the bits to the word _temperament_, and I do

not think Margery could either, though she can understand much more

than I can.

There is a very odd bit to the word _temperamental_, and it is signed

_Brown_; but we do not know if that means our Dr. Brown. This is the bit:

"That _temperamental_ dignotions, and conjecture of prevalent humours,

may be collected from spots in our nails, we concede."--_Brown._

We could not understand it, so we lifted down the other volume (one is

just as heavy as the other), and looked out "Dignotion," and it means

"distinction, distinguishing mark," and then there is the same bit

over again, but at the end, is "_Brown's Vulgar Errors_." And we did

not like to ask Dr. Brown if they were his vulgar errors, for fear he

should think us rude. I thought we might perhaps ask him if they were

his errors, and leave out _vulgar_, which is rather a rude word, but

Margery thought it better not, and she is sure to be right. She always

is.

But we should have liked to ask Dr. Brown about it, if it had not been

rude, because we think a good deal of spots on our nails. All we know

about them is that you begin at your thumb, and count on to your

little finger, in this way,

"A Gift, a Beau,

A Friend, a Foe,

A Journey to go."

I like having a Beau, or a Friend; Margery likes a Gift or a Journey

to go. We neither of us like having Foes.

And it shows that it does come true, because Margery had a white spot

in the middle of her left little finger nail, just when our father's

old friend wrote to Grandmamma, for one of us to go and pay him a

visit; and Margery went, because she was the elder of the two.

I do not know how I bore parting with her, except with hoping that she

would enjoy herself, for she always had wanted so very much to have a

journey to go. But if she had been at home, so that I could have taken

her advice, I do not think I should have been so silly about the

Sunflowers and the Rushlight.

She says--"You'd have put on your slippers, and had a blanket round

you at least. But, oh, my dear Grace, you always are so rash!"

I did not know I was. I thought rash people were brave; and if I had

been brave, the Rushlight would never have come out of the roof. Still

Margery is sure to be right. I know I am very foolish and lonely

without her.

There are only two of us. Our father, and our mother, and our brother,

all died of fever, nearly five years ago. We shall never see them

again till we go to Paradise, and that is one reason why we wish to

try to be good and never to be naughty, so that we may be sure to see

them again.

I remember them a little. I remember being frightened by sitting so

high up on my father's shoulder, and then feeling so safe when I got

into my mother's lap; and I remember Robin's curls, and his taking my

woolly ball from me. I remember our black frocks coming in the

hair-trunk with brass nails to the sea-side, where Margery and I were

with our nurse, and her telling the landlady that our father and

mother and brother were all laid in one grave. And I remember going

home, and seeing the stone flags up in the yard, and a deep dark hole

near the pump, and thinking that was the grave; and how Margery found

me stark with fright, and knew better, and told me that the grave was

in the church-yard, and that this hole was only where workmen had been

digging for drains.

And then never seeing those three, day after day, and having to do

without them ever since!

But Margery remembers a good deal more (she is three years older than

I am). She remembers things people said, and the funeral sermon, and

the books being moved into the attic, and she remembers Grandmamma's

quarrel with Dr. Brown.

She says she was sitting behind the parlor curtains with Mrs.

Trimmer's Roman History, and Grandmamma was sitting, looking very

grave in her new black dress, with a pocket handkerchief and book in

her lap, and sherry and sponge biscuits on a tray on the piano, for

visitors of condolence, when Dr. Brown came in, looking very grave

too, and took off one of his black gloves and shook hands. Then he

took off the other, and put them both into his hat, and had a glass

of sherry and a sponge biscuit, so Margery knew that he was a visitor

of condolence.

Then he and Grandmamma talked a long time. Margery does not know what

about, for she was reading Mrs. Trimmer; but she thinks they were

getting rather cross with each other. Then they got up, and Dr. Brown

looked into his hat, and took out his gloves, and Grandmamma wiped her

eyes with her pocket handkerchief, and said "I hope I know how to

submit, but it has been a heavy judgment, Dr. Brown."

And Margery was just beginning to cry too, when Dr. Brown said, "A

very heavy judgment indeed, madam, for letting the cesspool leak into

the well;" and it puzzled her so much that she stopped.

Then Grandmamma was very angry, and Dr. Brown was angry too, and then

Grandmamma said, "I don't know another respectable practitioner, Dr.

Brown, who would have said what you have said this morning."

And Dr. Brown brushed his hat the wrong way with his coat sleeve, and

said, "Too true, madam! We are not a body of reformers, with all our

opportunities; we're as bigoted as most priesthoods, but we count

fewer missionary martyrs. The sins, the negligences, and the

ignorances of every age have gone on much the same as far as we have

been concerned, though very few people keep family chaplains, and

most folk have a family doctor."

Then Grandmamma got very stiff, Margery says (she always is rather

stiff), and said, "I am sorry, Dr. Brown, to hear you speak so ill of

the members of an honorable profession, to which you yourself belong."

And Dr. Brown found out that he had brushed his hat the wrong way, and

he brushed it right, and said, "Not at all, madam, not at all! I think

we're a very decent set, for men with large public responsibilities,

almost entirely shielded from the wholesome light of public criticism,

who handle more lives than most Commanders, and are not called upon to

publish our disasters or make returns of our losses. But don't expect

too much of us! I say we are not reformers. They rise up amongst us

now and again; but we don't encourage them, we don't encourage them.

We are a privileged caste of medicine-men, whose 'mysteries' are

protected by the faith of those to whom we minister, a faith fortified

by ignorance and fear. I wish you Good morning, madam."

Margery has often repeated this to me. We call it "Dr. Brown's

Speeches." She is very fond of spouting speeches, much longer ones

than Dr. Brown's. She learns them by heart out of history books, and

then dresses up and spouts them to me in our attic.

Margery says she did not understand at the time what they were

quarrelling about; and when, afterwards, she asked Grandmamma what a

cesspool was, Grandmamma was cross with her too, and said it was a

very coarse and vulgar word, and that Dr. Brown was a very coarse and

vulgar person. We've looked it out since in Johnson's Dictionary, for

we thought it might be one of Dr. Brown's vulgar errors, but it is not

there.

Margery reads a great deal of history; she likes it; she likes all the

sensible books in the attic, and I like the rest, particularly poetry

and fairy tales.

The books are mother's books, they belonged to her father. She liked

having them all in the parlor, "littering the whole place," Jael says;

but Grandmamma has moved them to the attic now, all but a volume of

Sermons for Sunday, and the Oriental Annual, to amuse visitors if they

are left alone. Only she says you never ought to leave your visitors

alone.

Jael is very glad the books were taken to the attic, because "they

gather dust worse than chimney ornaments;" so she says.

Margery and I are very glad too, for we are sent to play in the attic,

and then we read as much as ever we like; and we move our pet books to

our own corner and pretend they are our very own. We have very cosy

corners; we pile up some of the big books for seats, and then make a

bigger pile in front of us for tables, and there we sit.

Once Dr. Brown found us. We had got whooping cough, and he had come

to see if we were better; and he is very big, and he tramped so

heavily on the stairs I did really think he was a burglar; and Margery

was a little frightened too, so we were very glad to see him; and when

he saw us reading at our tables, he said, "So this is the Attic salt

ye season life with, is it?" And then he laughed just as he always

does.

There is one story in my favorite Fairy Book which Margery likes too;

it is called "A Puzzling Tale." I read it to Margery when we were

sitting in our tree seat in the garden, and I put my hand over the

answer to the puzzle, and she could not guess; and if Margery could

not guess, I do not think any one else could.

This is the tale:--"Three women were once changed into flowers, and

grew in a field: but one was permitted to go home at night. Once, when

day was dawning, and she was about to return to her companions in the

field and become a flower again, she said to her husband, 'In the

morning come to the field and pick me off my stalk, then I shall be

released, and able to live at home for the future.' So the husband

went to the field as he was told, and picked his wife and took her

home."

"Now how did he know his wife's flower from the other two, for all the

three flowers were alike?"

(That is the Puzzle. This is the answer):

"_He knew his wife because there was no dew upon her flower._"

There is a very nice picture of the three flowers standing stiff and

upright, with leaves held out like hands, and large round flower

faces, all three exactly alike. I have looked at them again and again,

but I never could see any difference; for you can't see the dew on the

ones who had been out all night, and so you can't tell which was the

one who was allowed to go home. But I think it was partly being so

fond of those round flower faces in the Puzzling Tale, that made me

get so very very fond of Sunflowers.

We have splendid Sunflowers in our garden, so tall, and with such

large round faces!

The Sunflowers were in bloom when Margery went away. She bade them

good bye, and kissed her hands to them as well as to me. She went away

in a cab, with her things in the hair trunk with brass nails on the

top. She waved her hand to me as long as ever I could see her, and she

wagged one finger particularly. I knew which finger it was, and what

she meant. It was the little finger with that dignotion on the nail,

which showed that she had a journey to go.

CHAPTER II.

"ON THE WING. SUNFLOWER SAINTS. DEW-DRENCHED. A BAD NIGHT. A BAD

HEADACHE. REGULAR REGIMEN IN GRANDMAMMA'S YOUNG DAYS. TIRED

NATURE'S SWEET RESTORER. A SINFUL WASTE OF CANDLE GREASE."

The Sunflowers were in bloom when Margery went away; and the swallows

were on the wing. The garden was full of them all the morning, and

when she had gone, they went too. They had been restless for days

past, so I dare say they had dignotions of their own, that they had a

journey to go as well as Margery.

But when they were gone, and she was gone, the garden felt very

lonely. The Sunflowers stretched out their round faces just as if they

were looking to see if the cab was coming back; and there was a robin,

which kept hopping on and off the pump and peeping about with his

eyes, as if he could not imagine what had become of all the swallows.

And Margery's black cat came and mewed to me, and rubbed itself

against my pinafore, and walked up and down with me till I went in and

got the "Ancient Mariner" and my little chair, and came back and read

to the Sunflowers.

Sunflowers are quite as good as dolls to play with. Margery and I

think them better in some ways. You can't move them about unless you

pick them; but then they will stand of themselves, which dolls will

not. You can give them names just as well, and you can teach them

lessons just as well. They will grow, which dolls won't; and they

really live and die, which dolls don't. In fact, for tallness, they

are rather like grown up people. Then more come out, which is nice;

and you see the little Sunflowers growing into big ones, which you

can't see with dolls.

We can play a Sunday game with the Sunflowers. We do not have any of

our toys on Sunday, except in winter, when we have Noah's Ark. In the

summer we may go in the garden between the services, and we always

walk up and down together and play with the Sunflowers.

The Sunday Sunflower game is calling them after the black-letter

saints in the Kalendar, and reading about them in a very old book--a

big one with a black leather binding--in the attic, called "Lives of

the Saints." I read, and then I tell it to Margery as we walk up and

down, and say--"This is S. Prisca, this is S. Fabian, this is S.

Agnes, this is S. Agatha, and this is S. Valentine"--and so on.

What made us first think of having them for Saints on Sunday, was that

the yellow does sometimes look so very like a glory round their faces.

We choose by turns which name to give to each, but if there is a very

big one with a lot of yellow flaming out, we always called him S.

George of England, because there is a very old figure of S. George

slaying the Dragon, in a painted window in our Church; and S. George's

hair is yellow, and standing out all round; and when the sun shines

through the window, so that you can't see his nose and his mouth at

all clearly, he looks quite wonderfully like a Sunflower. Then on week

days, the game I like best, is pretending that they are women changed

into flowers.

They feel so grown up with being so tall, that they are much more like

grown up people turned into flowers than like children. I pretend my

doll is my child when I play with her; but I don't think I could

pretend a Sunflower was my child; and sometimes if Margery leaves me

alone with rather big Sunflowers, when it is getting dusk, and I look

up at them, and they stare at me with their big faces in the twilight,

I get so frightened for fear they should have got leave to go home at

night, _and be just turning_, that I run indoors as hard as ever I

can.

Two or three times I have got up early and gone out to see if any one

of them had no dew; but they have always been drenched, every one of

them. Dew, thick over their brown faces, and rolling like tears down

their yellow glories. I am quite sure that I have never seen a

Sunflower yet, that had had leave to go home at night, and Margery

says the same. And she is certain to know.

I had a very bad night, the night after Margery went away. I was so

terribly frightened with being alone in the dark. I know it was very

silly, but it was most miserable. I was afraid to go and wake Jael,

and I was more afraid of going to Grandmamma, and I was most of all

afraid of staying where I was. It seemed to be years and years before

the light began to come a little; and the noises left off creaking,

and dropping, and cracking, and moving about.

Next day I had a very bad headache. Jael does not like me when I have

headaches, because I give trouble, and have to have hot water and

mustard for my feet at odd times. Jael does not mind bringing up hot

water at night; but she says she can't abide folk wanting things at

odd times. So she does not like me when I have headaches; and when I

have headaches, I do not much like her. She treads so very heavily, it

shakes the floor just as ogres in ogre-stories shake the ground when

they go out kidnapping; and then the pain jumps in my head till I get

frightened, and wonder what happens to people when the pain gets so

bad that they cannot bear it any longer.

That morning, I thought I never should have got dressed; stooping and

fastening things do make you so very bad. I was very late, and

Grandmamma was beginning to scold me, but when she saw I had got a

headache she didn't--she only said I looked like a washed-out pocket

handkerchief; and when I could not eat any breakfast, she said I must

have a dose of rhubarb and magnesia, and as she had not got any

rhubarb left, she sent Jael up to Dr. Brown's to get some.

I did not like having to take rhubarb and magnesia; but I was very

glad to get rid of Jael for a bit, though I knew she would hate me for

having had to take a message at an odd time. It was her shaking the

room when she brought in the urn, and knocking the tongs into the

fender with her dress as she went by, that had made me not able to eat

any breakfast.

Just as she was starting, Grandmamma beckoned to her to come back, and

told her to call at the barber's, and tell him to come up in the

afternoon to "thin" my hair.

My hair is very thick. I brush as much out as I can; but I think it

only gets thicker and thicker. Grandmamma says she believes that is

what gives me so many headaches, and she says it is no use cutting it

shorter, for it always is kept cut short; the only way is to thin it,

that is, cutting lumps out here and there down to the roots. Thinning

does make less of it; but when it grows again it is very difficult to

keep tidy, which makes Jael say she "never see such a head, it's all

odds and ends," and sometimes she adds--"inside _and_ out." Margery

can imitate Jael exactly.

When Jael came back, she said Dr. Brown would step down and see me

himself. So he came.

Then he felt my pulse and asked me what sort of a night I had had, and

I was obliged to tell him, and Grandmamma was very much vexed, and

made me tell the whole truth, and she said I did not deserve any pity

for my headaches when I brought them on myself, which is true.

I think it was being vexed with me that made her vexed with Dr. Brown,

when he said rhubarb and magnesia would not do me any good. She said

she liked a regular system with the health of young people; and when

she and her six sisters were girls they were physicked with perfect

regularity; they were bled in the spring, and the fall of the leaf;

and had their hair thinned and their teeth taken out, once a quarter,

by the advice of their excellent friend and local practitioner, who

afterwards removed to London, and became very distinguished, and had

his portrait painted in oils for one of the learned societies. And

Grandmamma said she had been spared to survive all her family, and had

never had a headache in her life.

Though my head was so bad, I listened as hard as I could to hear what

Dr. Brown would say. For I thought--"if he makes one of his speeches,

they will quarrel, and he will leave off being our doctor again."

But he didn't, he only said--"Well, well, madam, I'll send the child

some medicine. Let her go and lie down at once, with a hot bottle to

her feet, and as many pillows as she wants under her head; and don't

let a sound reach her for the next three or four hours. When she

wakes, give her a basin of bread and milk."

So he went away, and presently he came back himself with the medicine.

It tasted very nice, and he was very kind; only he made Jael so cross

with saying she had not put boiling water in the hot bottle, and

sending it down again; and then making her fetch more pillows out of

the spare bedroom (Jael does not like odd things any more than odd

times). But I never had such a hot bottle or such a comfortable

headache before, and he pulled the blind down, and I went to sleep. At

first I dreamt a little of the pain, and then I forgot it, and then

slept like a top, for hours and hours.

When I woke I found a basin of bread and milk, with a plate over it to

keep it warm, on the rush-bottomed chair by the bed. It hadn't kept it

very warm. It made me think of the suppers of the Three Bears in their

three basins, and I daresay theirs were rather cold too. Perhaps their

Jael boiled their bread and milk at her own time, whether they were

ready for it or not.

But I think mine must have been like the Little Bear's supper, for I

ate it all up.

My head was much better, so I went up to our attic, and got out the

Fairy Book, that I might not think too much about Margery, and it

opened of itself at the Puzzling Tale. I was just beginning to read

it, when I heard a noise under the rafters, in one of those low sort

of cupboard places that run all round the attic, where spare boxes and

old things are kept, and where Margery and I sometimes play at Voyages

of Discovery.

I thought Margery's black cat must be shut up there, but when I went

to look, there was another crash, and then the door burst open, and

out came Jael, with her cap so crushed that I could not help laughing.

I was glad to see her, for my head was well, so I liked her again, and

did not mind her being ogre-footed, and I wanted to know what she was

doing; but Jael had not got to like me again, and she spoke very

crossly, and said it was more trouble of my giving, and that Dr. Brown

had said that I was to have a light in my bedroom till Miss Margery

came back--"if ever there was a sinful waste of candle-grease!" and

that it wasn't likely the Mistress was going to throw away money on

box night-lights; and she had sent the boy to the shop for

half-a-dozen farthing rushlights--if they kept them, and if not, for

half-a-pound of "sixteen" dips, and had sent her to the attic to find

the old Rushlight-tin.

"What's it like, Jael?"

"It's like a Rushlight-tin, to be sure," said Jael. "And it's not been

used since your Pa and Ma's last illness. So it's safe to be thick

with dust, and a pretty job it is for me to have to do, losing the pin

out of my cap, and tearing my apron on one of them old boxes, all to

find a dirty old Rushlight, just because of _your_ whims and fancies,

Miss Grace!"

"Jael, I am so sorry for your cap and apron. I will go in and find the

Rushlight for you. Tell me, is it painted black, with a lot of round

holes in the sides, and a little door, and a place like a candlestick

in the middle? If it is, I know where it is."

I knew quite well. It was behind a very old portmanteau, and a tin box

with a wig and moths in it, and the bottom part of the shower-bath,

just at the corner, which Margery and I call Bass's Straits. So I made

a Voyage of Discovery, and brought it out, "thick with dust," as Jael

had said.

And Jael took it, and went away very cross and very ogre-footed, with her

cap still awry; and as she stumped down the attic-stairs, and kept

clattering the Rushlight against the rails, I could hear her muttering--"A

sinful waste of candle-grease--whims and fancies--scandilus!"

CHAPTER III.

PAIN PAST. A REPRIEVE FROM THE BARBER. SUNFLOWER SLEEP. LITTLE

MICHAELMAS GOOSE. SNUFFING A RUSHLIGHT. A PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE

UNDER DIFFICULTIES. GRANDMAMMA WITH A WATCHMAN'S RATTLE.

Jael's ogre-footsteps had hardly ceased to resound from the wooden

stairs, when these shook again to the tread of Dr. Brown.

He said--"How are you??" and I said--"Very happy, thank you," which

was true. For the only nice thing about dreadful pain is that, when it

is gone, you feel for a little bit as if you could cry with joy at

having nothing to bear.

Then I thanked him for asking Grandmamma to let me have the Rushlight

till Margery came home; and he said I ought to be very much obliged to

him, for he had begged me off the barber too. So I asked him if he

thought my hair gave me headaches, and he felt it, and said--"No!"

which I was very glad of. He said he thought it was more what I grew

inside, than what I grew outside my head that did it, and that I was

not to puzzle too much over books.

I was afraid he meant the Puzzling Tale, so I told him it was very

short, and the answer was given; so he said he should like to hear

it--and I read it to him. He liked it very much, and he liked the

picture; and I told him we thought they were Sunflowers, only that the

glory-leaves were folded in so oddly, and we did not know why. And he

said--"Why, because they're asleep, to be sure. Don't you know that

flowers sleep as soundly as you do? _They_ don't lie awake in the

dark!"

And then he shook with laughing, till he shook the red into his face,

and the tears into his eyes, as he always does.

Dr. Brown must know a great deal about flowers, much more than I

thought he did; I told him so, and he said, "Didn't think I looked as

like a flower sprite as yourself, eh? 'Pon my word, I don't think I'm

unlike one of your favorites. Tall, ye know, big beaming face, eh?

There are people more unlike a Sunflower than Dr. Brown! Ha! ha! ha!"

He laughed, he always does; but he told me quite delightful things

about flowers: how they sleep, and breathe, and eat, and drink, and

catch cold in draughts, and turn faint in the sun, and sometimes are

all the better for a change ("like Miss Margery," so he said), and

sometimes are home-sick and won't settle ("which I've a notion might

be one of your follies, Miss Grace"), and turn pale and sickly in dark

corners or stuffy rooms. But he never knew one that went home at

night.

Except for being too big for our chairs and tables, and for going

voyages of discovery, I do think Dr. Brown would make a very nice

person to play with; he seems to believe in fancy things, and he knows

so much, and is so good-natured. He asked me what flower I thought

Jael was like; and when I told him Margery could imitate her exactly,

he said he must see that some day. I dared not tell him Margery can do

him too, making his speeches in the shovel hat we found in an old hat

box near Bass's Straits, and a pair of old black gloves of

Grandmamma's.

When he went away he patted my head, and said Margery and I must come

to tea with him some day, and he would show us wonderful things in his

microscope, and if we were very good, a plant that eats meat.

"But most flowers thrive by 'eating the air,' as the Irish say, and

you're one of 'em, Miss Grace. Do ye hear? You're not to bury yourself

in this attic in the holidays. Run out in the garden, and play with

your friends the Sunflowers, and remember what I've told you about

their going to sleep and setting you a good example. It's as true as

Gospel, and there's many a rough old gardener besides Dr. Brown will

tell you that flowers gathered in the morning last longer than those

gathered in the evening, because those are fresh after a night's nap,

and these are tired and want to rest, and not to be taken into

parlors, and kept awake with candles. Good bye, little Michaelmas

Goose!" And away he went, clomping downstairs, but not a bit like

Jael.

When bedtime came I was a good deal tired; but after I got into bed I

kept my candle alight for a time, hoping Jael would bring the

Rushlight and put it on the floor near Margery's bed, as I had asked

her to do. But after a while I had to put out my candle, for

Grandmamma is rather particular about it, and then I was so sleepy I

fell asleep. I was awakened by a noise and a sort of a flashing, and I

thought it was thunder and lightning, but it was only Jael; she had

come stumping in, and was flashing the Rushlight about before my eyes

to see if I was asleep, and when she saw I was, she wanted to take it

away again, but I begged and prayed, and then I said Grandmamma had

promised, and she always keeps her promises, and I should go and ask

her. So at last Jael set it down by Margery's bed, and went away more

ogre-footed than ever; grumbling and growling about the waste of

candle-grease. But I had got the Rushlight, so I didn't mind; I only

hugged my knees, and laughed, and lay down again. And when I heard

Jael go stumping upstairs, I knew that she had waited till her own

bedtime to bring the Rushlight, and that was why it was late. And I

thought to-morrow I would tell Grandmamma, for she promised, and she

always performs. She does not spoil us, we know, but she is always

fair. Jael isn't, always.

A Rushlight is a very queer thing. It looked so grim as it stood by

Margery's bed, in a little round of light; rather like a ruined castle

in the middle of a lake in the moonshine. A castle with one big door,

and a lot of round windows with the light coming through. They made

big spots and patches of light all about the room. I could not shut my

eyes for watching them, for they were not all the same shape, and they

kept changing and moving; at last they got so faint, I was afraid the

Rushlight was going out, so I jumped up and went to see, and I found

there was a very big thief in the candle, so I got the snuffers out of

my candlestick, and snuffed it, and got into bed again; and now there

were beautiful big moons of light all over Margery's bed-valance.

Thinking of the thief in the Rushlight made me think of a thief in a

castle, and then of thieves getting into our house, and that if one

got in at my window I could do nothing except scream for help, because

Grandmamma keeps the Watchman's Rattle under her own pillow, and locks

her bedroom door. And then I looked at my window, and saw a bit of

light, and it made me quite cold, for I thought it was a burglar's

lantern, till I saw it was the moon.

Then I knew how silly I was, and I determined that I would not be such

a coward. I determined I would not think of burglars, nor ghosts, nor

even Margery.

Margery and I are quite sure that we can think of things, and prevent

ourselves thinking of things, by trying very hard. But it is rather

difficult.

I tried, and I did. I thought I would think of flowers, and of Dr.

Brown, for he is very cheerful to think of. So I thought of

Sunflowers, and how they eat the air, and go to sleep at night, and

perhaps look like the three women in the Fairy Tale. And I thought I

would always pick flowers in the morning now, and never at night, when

they want to go to sleep and not to be woke up in a parlor with

candles.

And then I wondered: Would they wake with candles if they had begun to

go to sleep? Would they wake with a jump, as I did, if Jael flashed

the Rushlight in their faces? Would the moon wake them? Were they

awake then, that very minute, like me, or asleep, as I was before Jael

came in? Did they look like the picture in the Fairy Book, with their

glory leaves folded over their faces? If I took a candle now, and held

it before S. George of England, looking like that, would he wake with

a start, and spread his glory leaves out all round, and stare at me,

broad--wide awake?

Then I thought how often I had gone out early, and wet my petticoats,

to see if any of them had no dew on their faces, and that I had never

gone out at night to see if they looked like the women in the Fairy

Tale; and I wondered why I never had, and I supposed it was because I

was silly, and perhaps afraid of going out in the dark.

Then I remembered that it wasn't dark. There was a moon: besides my

having a Rushlight.

Then I wondered if I was very very silly, and why Dr. Brown had called

me a Michaelmas Goose. But I remembered that it must be because

to-morrow was the 29th of September.

Then the stairs clock struck eleven.

I counted all the strokes, and then I saw that the Rushlight was

getting dim again, so I got up and snuffed it, and all the moons came

out as bright as ever; but I did not feel in the least sleepy.

I did not feel frightened any more. I only wished I knew for certain

what Sunflowers look like when they are asleep, and whether you can

wake them up with candles. And I went on wondering, and watching the

moons.

Then the stairs clock struck a quarter-past eleven, and I

thought--"Oh, Grace! if you were not such a coward, if you had jumped

up when the clock struck eleven, and slipped down the back stairs,

with the Rushlight in your hands, and unlocked the side door, you

might have run down the grass walk without hurting your feet, and

flashed it in the faces of the Sunflowers, and had a good look, and

got back to bed again before the clock struck a quarter-past; and

then it would have been done, and couldn't be undone, and you would

have known whether they look like the picture, and if they wake up

with candles, and you never could have unknown. But now, you'll go on

putting off, and being frightened about it, and perhaps to-morrow Jael

will tell Grandmamma you were asleep, and she won't let you have a

Rushlight any more, not even when you are a grown-up young lady; and

even when you get married and go away, you may marry a man who won't

let you have one; and so you may never know what you want to know, all

because you're a Michaelmas Goose."

Then the Rushlight began to get dim again, so I got up and snuffed it,

and it shone out bright, and I thought "If it was Margery she would do

it straight off. I won't be a Michaelmas Goose; I'll go while I'm up,

and be back before the stairs clock strikes again, and then it will be

done and can't be undone, and I shall know, and can't unknow."

So I took up the Rushlight and went as fast as I could.

I met a black beetle on the back stairs, which was horrid, but I went

on. The side door key is very rusty and very stiff; I had to put down

the Rushlight and use both my hands, and just then the clock struck

the half-hour, which was rather a good thing, for it drowned the noise

of the lock. It did not take me two minutes to run down the grass

path, and there were the Sunflowers.

I did it and it can't be undone, but I don't know what I wanted to

know after all, for the moon was shining in their faces, so they may

not have been really sound asleep. They are so tall, the Rushlight was

too heavy for me to lift right up, so I opened the door and took out

the candle, and flashed it in their faces. But they did not take as

much notice as I expected. Their glory leaves looked rather narrow and

tight, but they were not quite like the flower-women in the picture.

Sunflowers are alive, I know; they look so different when they are

dead. And I am sure they go to sleep, and wake up with candles, or Dr.

Brown would not have said so. But it is rather a quiet kind of being

alive and awake, I think. Something like Grandmamma, when she is very

stiff on Sunday afternoon, and goes to sleep upright in a chair, and

wakes up a little when her book drops. But not alive and awake like

Margery's black cat, which must have heard me open the side door, and

followed me without my seeing it. It did frighten me, with jumping out

of the bushes, and looking at me with yellow eyes!

Then I saw another eye. The eye of a moth, who was on one of the

leaves. A most beautiful fellow! His colored wings were rather tight,

like the Sunflower's glory leaves, but he was wide awake--watching

the candle.

I should have got back to bed quicker if it had not been for Margery's

black cat and the night-moths. I wanted to get the cat into the house

again, but she would not follow me, and the moths would; and I had

such hard work to keep them out of the Rushlight.

There was nothing to drown the noise the key made when I locked the

side-door again, and when I got to the bottom of the back stairs, I

saw a light at the top, and there was Grandmamma in the most awful

night cap you can imagine, with a candle in one hand, and the

watchman's rattle in the other.

CHAPTER IV.

HEADS OFF! JAEL AND MASTER JOHN. FAREWELL. FRIEND IN NEED. A FREE

PARDON.

The worst of it was, I caught such a very bad cold, I gave more

trouble than ever; besides Grandmamma having rheumatism in her back

with the draught up the back stairs, and nothing on but her night

things and the watchman's rattle. I knew I deserved to be punished,

but I did not think my punishment would have been such a terrible

one.

I hoped it might have been lessons, or even, perhaps, not having the

Rushlight again, but I did not think Grandmamma would think of hurting

the Sunflowers.

She waited till I was well enough to go out, and I really began to

think she was going to be kind enough to forgive me, with a free

forgiveness. But that day she called me to her, and spoke very

seriously, and said, that to punish me for my misconduct, and to try

and cure me of the babyish nonsense I gave way to about things, she

had decided to have all the Sunflowers destroyed at once, and not to

have any seed sown for new ones, any more. The gardener was to do it

next morning, and I was to be there to see. She hoped it would make me

remember the occasion, and teach me better sense for the future.

I should have begged and prayed, but it is no use begging and praying

to Grandmamma; Jael attends more to that. There was no comfort

anywhere, except in thinking that Margery would be at home in two

days, and that I could pour out all my sorrow to her.

As I went crying down the passage I met Jael.

"What's the matter now?" said she.

"Grandmamma's going to have all the Sunflowers killed," I sobbed. "Oh,

I wish I'd never gone to look at them with the Rushlight!"

"That's how it is," said Jael sagely, "folks always wishes they'd

done different when it's too late. But don't sob your heart out that

fashion, Miss Grace. Come into the pantry and I'll give you a bit of

cake."

"Thank you, dear Jael, you're very kind, but I don't think I _could_

eat cake. Oh Jael, dear Jael! Do you think she would spare one, just

one?"

"That she wouldn't, Miss Grace, so you needn't trouble your head about

it. When your Grandmamma's made up her mind, there's no one ever I saw

can move her, unless it be Dr. Brown. Besides, the missus has never

much mattered those Sunflowers. They were your mamma's fancy, and

she'd as many whims as you have, and put your Grandmamma about a good

deal. She was always at your papa to be doing this and that to the

place 'Wasting good money' as your Grandmamma said. Your papa was a

very easy gentleman. He wanted to please his wife, and he wanted to

please his mother. Deary me! I remember his coming to me in this very

pantry--I don't know if it would be more than three months afore they

were both taken--and, standing there, as it might be you, Miss Grace,

and saying--'Jael,' he says, 'this window looks out on the yard,' he

says; 'do you ever smell anything, Jael? You are here a good deal.'

'Master John,' I says, 'I thank my Maker, my nose never troubles me;

but if it did' I says, 'I hope I know better than to set _my_self up

to smell more than my neighbors.'--'To be sure, to be sure,' he says,

looking round in a foolish kind of a way at the sink. Then he says,

'Jael, do you ever taste anything in the water? My wife thinks there's

something wrong with the well.' 'Master John,' I says, 'with all

respect to your good lady, she disturbs her mind a deal too much with

books. An ounce of ex-perience, I say, is worth a pound of book

learning; and I'll tell you what my father said to them parties that

goes round stirring up stinks, when they were for meddling with his

farm yard. "Let wells alone," he says, "and muck heaps likewise." And

my father passed three-score years and ten, Master John, and died

where he was born.' Well-a-day! I see your poor Pa now. He stood and

looked as puzzled as a bee in a bottle. Then he says--'Well, Jael, my

wife says Sunflowers are good against fevers; and there's no harm in

sowing some.' Which he did that very afternoon, she standing by him,

with her hand on his shoulder; but, bless ye, my dear! they were took

long before the seeds was up. Your mother was a pretty woman, I'll say

that for her. You'd never have thought it, to look at her, that she

was so fond of poking in dirty places."

"Jael!" I said, "Mamma was right about the smells in the back yard.

Margery and I hold our noses"--"you'd a deal better hold your

tongues," interrupted Jael.

"We do, Jael, we do, because I don't like mustard plasters on my

throat, and when the back yard smells a good deal, my throat is always

sore. But oh, Jael! If Sunflowers are good for smells, don't you think

we might tell Grandmamma, and she would let us have them for that?"

"She'll not, Miss Grace," said Jael, "so don't worry on. They're

ragged things at the best, and all they're good for is to fatten

fowls; and I shall tell Gardener he may cut their heads off and throw

'em to the poultry, before he roots up the rest."

I could not bear to hear her, so I went out to bid the Sunflowers good

bye.

I held their dear rough stems, rough with nice little white hairs, and

I knew how easily their poor heads would cut off, there is so much

pith inside the stems.

I kissed all their dear faces one after another. They are very nice to

kiss, especially in the sun, for then they smell honey-sweet, like

blue Scabious, and lots of flowers that have not much scent, but only

smell as if bees would like them. I kissed them once round for myself,

and then once for Margery, for I knew how sorry she would be.

And it was whilst I was holding S. George of England's face in my two

hands, kissing him for Margery, that I saw the Dignotion on my middle

finger nail.

A Gift, a Beau, _A Friend!_--

And then it flashed into my mind, all in a moment--"There can be no

friend to me and the Sunflowers, except Dr. Brown, for Jael says he is

the only person who ever changes Grandmamma's mind."

I dawdled that night when I could not make up my mind about going out

with the Rushlight, but I did not wait one minute now. I climbed over

the garden wall into the road, and ran as hard as I could run up to

the top of the hill, where lived a man--I mean where Dr. Brown lived.

Now, I know that he is the kindest person that ever could be. I told

him everything, and he asked particularly about my throat and the

smells. Then he looked graver than I ever saw him, and said, "Listen,

little woman; you must look out for spots on your little finger-nails.

You're going away for a bit, till I've doctored these smells. Don't

turn your eyes into saucers. Margery shall go with you; I wish I could

turn ye both into flowers and plant ye out in a field for three

months! but you are not to give me any trouble by turning home-sick,

do you hear? I shall have trouble enough with Grandmamma, though I am

joint guardian with her (your dear mother's doing, that!), and have

some voice in the disposal of your fates. Now, if I save the

Sunflowers, will you promise me not to cry to come home again till I

send for you?"

"Shall you be able to change her mind, to let us have Sunflowers sown

for next year, too?

"Yes!"

"Then I promise."

I could have danced for joy. The only thing that made me feel

uncomfortable was having to tell Dr. Brown about the spot on my middle

finger-nail. He would ask all about it, and so I let out about

Johnson's Dictionary and the Dignotions, and Brown's Vulgar Errors,

and I was afraid Margery would say I had been very silly, and let a

cat out of a bag.

I hope he was not vexed about his vulgar errors. He only laughed till

he nearly tumbled off his chair.

I never did have a spot on my journey-to-go nail, but we went away all

the same; so I suppose Dignotions do not always tell true.

When Grandmamma forgave me, and told me she would spare the Sunflowers

this time, as Dr. Brown had begged them off, she said--"And Dr. Brown

assures me, Grace, that when you are stronger you will have more

sense. I am sure I hope he is right."

I hope so, too!

TINY'S TRICKS AND TOBY'S TRICKS.

TINY.

"Oh Toby, my dear old Toby, you portly and princely Pug!

"You know it's bad for you to lie in the fender:--Father says that's

what makes you so fat--and I want you to come and sit with me on the

Kurdistan rug.

"Put your lovely black nose in my lap, and I'll count your great

velvet wrinkles, and comfort you with kisses.

"If you'll only keep out of the fender--Father says you'll have a fit

if you don't!--and give good advice to your poor Little Missis.

"Father says you are the wisest creature he knows, and you are but

eight years old, and three months ago I was six.

"And yet mother says I'm the silliest little girl that she ever met

with, because I am always picking up tricks.

"She does not know where I learnt to stand on one leg (unless it was

from a goose), but it has made one of my shoulders stick out more than

the other.

[Illustration: "YOU KNOW IT IS BAD FOR YOU TO LIE IN THE FENDER"]

"It wasn't the goose who taught me to whistle up and down stairs. I

learnt that last holidays from my brother.

"The baker's man taught me to put my tongue in my cheek when I'm

writing copies, for I saw him do it when he was receipting a bill.

"And I learn't to wrinkle my forehead, and squeeze up my eyes, and

make faces with my lips by imitating the strange doctor who attended

us when we were ill.

"It was Brother Jack himself who showed me that the way to squint is

to look at both sides of your nose.

"And then, Toby--would you believe it?--he turned round last holidays

and said--'Look here, Tiny, if the wind changes when you're making

that face it'll stay there, and remember you can't squint properly and

keep your eye on the weathercock at the same time to see how it

blows.'

"But boys are so mean!--and I catch stammering from his school

friend--'_Tut-tut-tut-tut-Tom_,' as we call him--but I soon leave it

off when he goes.

"I did not learn stooping and poking out my chin from any one; it came

of itself. It is so hard to sit up; but mother says that much my worst

trick.

"Is biting my finger nails; and I've bitten them nearly all down to

the quick.

"She says if I don't lose these tricks, and leave off learning fresh

ones, I shall never grow up like our pretty great-great-grandmamma.

"Do you know her, dear Toby? I don't think you do. I don't think you

ever look at pictures, intelligent as you are!

"It's the big portrait, by Romney, of a beautiful lady, sitting

beautifully up, with her beautiful hands lying in her lap.

"Looking over her shoulder, out of lovely eyes, with a sweet smile on

her lips, in the old brocade Mother keeps in the chest, and a pretty

lace cap.

"I should very much like to be like her when I grow up to that age;

Mother says she was twenty-six.

"And of course I know she would not have looked so nice in her picture

if she'd squinted, and wrinkled her forehead, and had one shoulder

out, and her tongue in her cheek, and a round back, and her chin

poked, and her fingers all swollen with biting;--but, oh, Toby, you

clever Pug! how am I to get rid of my tricks?

"That is, if I must give them up; but it seems so hard to get into

disgrace.

"For doing what comes natural to one, with one's own eyes and legs,

and fingers, and face."

TOBY.

"Remove your arms from my neck, Little Missis--I feel unusually

apoplectic--and let me take two or three turns on the rug.

"Whilst I turn the matter over in my mind, for never was there so

puzzled a pug!

"I am, as your respected Father truly observes, a most talented

creature.

"And as to fit subjects for family portraits and personal

appearance--from the top of my massive brow to the tip of my curly

tail, I believe myself to be perfect in every feature.

"And when my ears are just joined over my forehead like a black velvet

cap, I'm reckoned the living likeness of a late eminent divine and

once popular preacher.

"Did your great-great-grandmamma ever take a prize at a show? But let

that pass--the real question is this:

"How is it that what I am most highly commended for, should in your

case be taken amiss?

"Why am I reckoned the best and cleverest of dogs? Because I've picked

up tricks so quickly ever since I was a pup.

"And if I couldn't wrinkle my forehead and poke out my chin, and

grimace at the judges, do you suppose I should ever have been--Class

Pug. First Prize--Champion and Gold Cup?

"We have one thing in common--I do _not_ find it easy to sit up.

"But I learned it, and so will you. I can't imagine worse manners than

to put one's tongue in one's cheek; as a rule, I hang mine gracefully

out on one side.

"And I've no doubt it's a mistake to gnaw your fingers. I gnawed a

good deal in my puppyhood, but chewing my paws is a trick that I never

tried.

"How you stand on one leg I cannot imagine; with my figure it's all I

can do to stand upon four.

"I balance biscuit on my nose. Do you? I jump through a hoop (an

atrocious trick, my dear, after one's first youth--and a full

meal!)--I bark three cheers for the Queen, and I shut the dining-room

door.

"I lie flat on the floor at the word of command--In short, I've as

many tricks as you have, and every one of them counts to my credit;

"Whilst yours--so you say--only bring you into disgrace, which I could

not have thought possible if you had not said it.

"Indeed--but for the length of my experience and the solidity of my

judgment--this would tempt me to think your mamma a very foolish

person, and to advise you to disobey her; but I do _not_, Little

Missis, for I know

"That if you belong to good and kind people, it is well to let them

train you up in the way in which they think you should go.

"Your excellent parents trained me to tricks; and very senseless some

of them seemed, I must say:

"But I've lived to be proud of what I've been taught; and glad too

that I learned to obey.

"For, depend upon it, if you never do as you're told till you know the

reason why, or till you find that you must;

"You are much less of a Prize Pug than you might have been if you'd

taken good government on trust."

* * * * *

"Take me back to your arms, Little Missis, I feel cooler, and calmer

in my mind.

"Yes, there can be no doubt about it. You must do what your mother

tells you, for you know that she's wise and kind.

"You must take as much pains to _lose your_ tricks as I took to _learn

mine_, long ago;

"And we may all live to see you yet--'Class Young Lady. First Prize.

Gold Medal--of a Show.'"

TINY.

"Oh, Toby, my dear old Toby, you wise and wonderful Pug!

"Don't struggle off yet, stay on my knee for a bit, you'll be much

hotter in the fender, and I want to give you a great, big hug.

"What are you turning round and round for? you'll make yourself giddy,

Toby. If you're looking for your tail, it is there, all right.

"You can't see it for yourself because you're so fat, and because it

is curled so tight.

"I daresay you could play with it, like Kitty, when you were a pup,

but it must be a long time now since you've seen it.

"It's rather rude of you, Mr. Pug, to lie down with your back to me,

and a grunt, but I know you don't mean it.

"I wanted to hug you, Toby, because I do thank you for giving me such

good advice, and I know every word of it's true.

"I mean to try hard to follow it, and I'll tell you what I shall do.

"Nurse wants to put bitter stuff on the tips of my fingers, to cure me

of biting them, and now I think I shall let her.

"I know they're not fit to be seen, but she says they would soon

become better.

"I mean to keep my hands behind my back a good deal till they're well,

and to hold my head up, and turn out my toes; and every time I give

way to one of my tricks, I shall go and stand (_on both legs_) before

the picture, and confess it to great-great-grand-mamma.

"Just fancy if I've no tricks left this time next year, Toby! Won't

that show how clever we are?

"I for trying so hard to do what I'm told, and you for being so wise

that people will say--'That sensible pug cured that silly little girl

when not even her mother could mend her.'

"----Ah! Bad Dog! Where are you slinking off to?--Oh, Toby, darling!

do, _do_ take a little of your own good advice, and try to cure

yourself of lying in the fender!"

THE OWL IN THE IVY BUSH.

OR, THE CHILDREN'S BIRD OF WISDOM.

INTRODUCTION.

"Hoot toots, man, yon's a queer bird!"

--_Bonnie Scotland._

I am an Owl; a very fluffy one, in spite of all that that Bad Boy

pulled out! I live in an Ivy Bush. Children are nothing to me,

naturally, so it seems strange that I should begin, at my time of

life, to observe their little ways and their humors, and to give them

good advice.

And yet it is so. I am the Friend of Young People. In my flight abroad

I watch them. As I sit meditating in my Ivy Bush, it is their little

matters which I turn over in my fluffy head. I have established a

letter box for their communications at the Hole in the Tree. No other

address will find me.

It is well known that I am a Bird of Wisdom. I am also an Observing

Bird; and though my young friends may think I see less than I do,

because of my blinking, and because I detest that vulgar glare of

bright light without which some persons do not seem able to see what

goes on around them, I would have children to know that if I can

blink on occasion, and am not apt to let every starer read my counsel

in my eyes, I am wide awake all the same. I am on the look-out when

it's so dark that other folk can't see an inch before their noses, and

(a word to the foolish and naughty!) I can see what is doing behind my

back. And Wiseacre, Observer, and Wide-awake--I am the Children's Owl.

Before I open my mouth on their little affairs, before even I open my

letters (if there are any waiting for me) I will explain how it came

about that I am the Children's Owl.

It is all owing to that little girl; the one with the fluffy hair and

the wise eyes. As an Observer I have noticed that not only I, but

other people, seem to do what she wants, and as a Wiseacre I have

reflected upon it as strange, because her temper is as soft and fluffy

as her hair (which mine is not), and she always seems ready to give

way to others (which is never my case--if I can help it). On the

occasion I am about to speak of, I could _not_ help it.

It was last summer that that Bad Boy caught me, and squeezed me into a

wicker cage. Little did I think I should ever live to be so poked out,

and rummaged, and torn to shreds by such a thing as a boy! I bit him,

but he got me into the cage and put a cloth over it. Then he took me

to his father, who took me to the front door of the house, where he is

coachman and gardener, and asked for Little Miss to come out and see

the new pet Tom had caught for her.

"It's a nasty tempered brute, but she's such a one for taming things,"

said the coachman, whipping off the cloth to show me to the housemaid,

and letting in a glare of light that irritated me to frenzy. I flew at

the housemaid, and she flew into the house. Then I rolled over and

growled and hissed under my beak, and tried to hide my eyes in my

feathers.

"Little Miss won't tame me," I muttered.

She did not try long. When she heard of me she came running out, the

wind blowing her fluffy hair about her face, and the sun shining on

it. Fluffed out by the wind, and changing color in the light and

shade, the hair down her back is not entirely unlike the feathers of

my own, though less sober perhaps in its tints. Like mine it makes a

small head look large, and as she has big wise eyes, I have seen

creatures less like an owl than Little Miss. Her voice is not so

hoarse as mine. It is clear and soft, as I heard when she spoke:

"Oh, _how_ good of you! And how good of Tom! I do so love owls. I

always get Mary to put the silver owl by me at luncheon, though I am

not allowed to eat pepper. And I have a brown owl, a china one,

sitting on a book for a letter weight. He came from Germany. And

Captain Barton gave me an owl pencil-case on my birthday, because I

liked hearing about his real owl, but, oh, I never hoped I should

have a real owl of my own. It _was_ kind of Tom."

To hear that Bad Boy called kind was too much for endurance, and I let

them see how savage I felt. If the wicker work had not been very

strong the cage would not have held me.

"He's a tartar," said the coachman.

"Oh, no, Williams!" said Little Miss, "he's only frightened by the

light. Give me the cloth, please."

"Take care, Miss. He'll bite you," cried the coachman, as she put the

cloth over the cage, and then over her own head.

"No, he won't! I don't mind his snapping and hissing. I want him to

see me, and know me. Then perhaps he'll get to like me, and be tame,

and sit on the nursery clock and look wise. Captain Barton's owl used

to sit on his clock. Poor fellow! Dear old owlie! Don't growl, my owl.

Can you hoot, darling? I should like to hear you hoot."

Sometimes as I sit in my ivy bush, and the moon shines on the spiders'

webs and reminds me of the threads of her hair, on a mild, sleepy

night, if there's nothing stirring but the ivy boughs; sitting, I say,

blinking between a dream and a doze, I fancy I see her face close to

mine, as it was that day with the wicker work between. Our eyes

looking at each other, and our fluffiness mixed up by the wind. Then I

try to remember all the kind things she said to me to coax me to

leave my ivy bush, and go to live on the nursery clock. But I can't

remember half. I was in such a rage at the time, and when you are in a

rage you miss a good deal, and forget a good deal.

I know that at last she left off talking to me, and I could see her

wise eyes swimming in tears. Then she left me alone under the cloth.

"Well, Miss," said the coachman, "you don't make much of him, do ye?

He's a Tartar, Miss, I'm afraid."

"I think, Williams, that he's too old. Captain Barton's owl was a

little owlet when he first got him. I shall never tame this one,

Williams, and I never was so disappointed in all my life. Captain

Barton said he kept an owl to keep himself good and wise, because

nobody could be foolish in the face of an owl sitting on his clock. He

says both his godfathers are dead, and he has taken his owl for his

godfather. These are his jokes, Williams, but I had set my heart on

having an owl on the nursery clock. I do think I have never wished so

much for anything in the world as that Tom's owl would be our Bird of

Wisdom. But he never will. He will never let me tame him. He wants to

be a wild owl all his life. I love him very much, and I should like

him to have what he wants, and not be miserable. Please thank Tom very

much, and please ask him to let him go."

"I'm sorry I brought him, Miss, to trouble you," said the coachman.

"But Tom won't let him go. He'd a lot of trouble catching him, and if

he's no good to you, Tom'll be glad of him to stuff. He's got some

glass eyes out of a stuffed fox the moths ate, and he's bent on

stuffing an owl, is Tom. The eyes would be too big for a pheasant, but

they'll look well enough in an owl, he thinks."

My hearing is very acute, and not a word of that Bad Boy's brutal

intentions was lost on me. I shrunk among my feathers and shivered

with despair; but when I heard the voice of Little Miss I rounded my

ear once more.

"No, Williams, no! He must not be stuffed. Oh, please beg Tom to come

to me. Perhaps I can give him something to persuade him not. If he

must stuff an owl, please, please let him stuff a strange owl. One I

haven't made friends with. Not this one. He is very wild, but he is

very lovely and soft, and I do so want him to be let go."

"Well, Miss, I'll send Tom and you can settle it with him. All I say,

he's a Tartar, and stuffing's too good for him."

Whether she bribed Tom, or persuaded him, I don't know, but Little

Miss got her way, and that Bad Boy let me go, and I went back to my

Ivy Bush.

OWLHOOT I.

"What can't be cured must be endured."

--_Old Proverb._

It was the wish to see Little Miss once more that led my wings past

her nursery window; besides, I had a curiosity to look at the clock.

It is an eight-day clock, in a handsome case, and would, undoubtedly,

have been a becoming perch for a bird of my dignified appearance, but

I will not describe it to-day. Nor will I speak of my meditations as I

sit in my Ivy Bush like any other common owl, and reflect that if I

had not had my own way, but had listened to Little Miss, I might have

sat on an Eight-day Clock, and been godfather to the children. It is

not seemly for an owl to doubt his own wisdom, but as I have taken

upon me, for the sake of Little Miss, to be a child's counsellor, I

will just observe, in passing, that though it is very satisfactory at

the time to get your own way, you may live to wish that you had taken

other folk's advice instead.

From that nursery I have taken flight to others. I sail by the

windows, and throw a searching eye through these bars which are, I

believe, placed there to keep top-heavy babies from tumbling out.

Sometimes I peer down the chimney. From the nook of a wall or the

hollow of a tree, I overlook the children's gardens and playgrounds. I

have an eye to several schools, and I fancy (though I may be wrong)

that I should look well seated on the top of an easel--just above the

black-board, with a piece of chalk in my feathery foot.

Not that I have any notion of playing schoolmaster, or even of

advising schoolmasters and parents how to make their children good and

wise. I am the Children's Owl--their very own--and all my good advice

is intended to help them to improve themselves.

It is wonderful how children _do_ sometimes improve! I knew a fine

little fellow, much made of by his family and friends, who used to be

so peevish about all the little ups and downs of life, and had such a

lamentable whine in his voice when he was thwarted in any trifle, that

if you had heard without seeing him, you'd have sworn that the most

miserable wretch in the world was bewailing the worst of catastrophes

with failing breath. And all the while there was not a handsomer,

healthier, better fed, better bred, better dressed, and more dearly

loved, little boy in all the parish. When you might have thought, by

the sound of it, that some starving skeleton of a creature was moaning

for a bit of bread, the young gentleman was only sobbing through the

soap and lifting his voice above the towels, because Nurse would wash

his fair and rosy cheeks. And when cries like those of one vanquished

in battle and begging and praying for his life, rang through the hall

and up the front stairs, it proved to be nothing worse than Master

Jack imploring his friends to "_please, please_," and "_do, do_," let

him stay out to run in a final "go as you please" race with the young

Browns (who dine a quarter of an hour later), instead of going in

promptly when the gong sounded for luncheon.

Now the other day I peeped into a bedroom of that little boy's home.

The sun was up, and so was Jack, but one of his numerous Aunts was

not. She was in bed with a headache, and to this her pale face, her

eyes shunning the light like my own, and her hair restlessly tossed

over the pillow bore witness. When a knock came on the bedroom door,

she started with pain, but lay down again and cried--"Come in!"

The door opened, but no one came in; and outside the voices of the

little boy and his nurse were audible.

"I want to show her my new coat."

"You can't, Master Jack. Your Aunt's got a dreadful headache, and

can't be disturbed."

No peevish complaints from Jack: only a deep sigh.

"I'm very sorry about her headache; and I'm very very sorry about my

coat. For I am going out, and it will never be so new again."

His aunt spoke feebly.

"Nurse, I must see his coat. Let him come in."

Enter Jack.

It was his first manly suit, and he was trying hard for a manly soul

beneath it, as a brave boy should. He came in very gently, but with

conscious pride glowing in his rosy cheeks and out of his shining

eyes. His cheeks were very red, for a step in life is a warming thing,

and so is a cloth suit when you've been used to frocks.

It was a bottle-green coat, with large mother-o'-pearl buttons and

three coachman's capes; and there were leggings to match. The beaver

hat, too, was new, and becomingly cocked, as he stood by his Aunt's

bedside and smiled.

"What a fine coat, Jack!"

"Made by a tailor, Auntie Julie. Real pockets!"

"You don't say so!"

He nodded.

"Leggings too!" and he stuck up one leg at a sudden right angle on to

the bed; a rash proceeding, but the boy has a straight little figure,

and with a hop or two he kept his balance.

"My dear Jack, they are grand. How warm they must keep your legs!"

He shook his beaver hat.

"No. They only tickles. That's what they do."

There was a pause. His Aunt remembered the old peevish ways. She did

not want to encourage him to discard his winter leggings, and was

doubtful what to say. But in a moment more his eyes shone, and his

face took that effulgent expression which some children have when they

are resolved upon being good.

"--_and as I can't shake off the tickle, I have to bear it_," added

the little gentleman.

I call him the little gentleman advisedly. There is no stronger sign

of high breeding in young people, than a cheerful endurance of the

rubs of life. A temper that fits one's fate, a spirit that rises with

the occasion. It is this kind of courage which the Gentlemen of

England have shown from time immemorial, through peace and war, by

land and sea, in every country and climate of the habitable globe.

Jack is a child of that Empire on which the sun never sets, and if he

live he is like to have larger opportunities of bearing discomfort

than was afforded by the wooly worry of his bottle-green leggings. I

am in good hopes that he will not be found wanting.

Some such thoughts, I believe, occurred to his Aunt.

"That's right, Jack. What a man you are!"

The rosy cheeks became carmine, and Jack flung himself upon his Aunt,

and kissed her with resounding smacks.

A somewhat wrecked appearance which she presented after this

boisterous hug, recalled the headache to his mind, and as he settled

the beaver hat, which had gone astray, he said ruefully--

"Is your headache _very_ bad, Auntie Julie!"

"Rather bad, Jack. _And as I can't shake it off, I have to bear it._"

He went away on tiptoe, and it was only after he had carefully and

gently closed the bedroom door behind him, that he departed by leaps

and bounds to show himself in his bottle-green coat and capes, and

white buttons and leggings to match, and beaver hat to boot, first to

the young Browns, and after that to the General Public.

As an Observer, I may say that it was a sight worth seeing; and as a

Bird of some wisdom, I prophesy well of that boy.

OWLHOOT II.

"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling."

--_The Raven._

"Taffy was a thief."--_Old Song._

I find the following letters at the Hole in the Tree.

"X LINES, SOUTH CAMP, ALDERSHOT.

"SIR,--You speak with great feeling of that elevated position (I

allude, of course, to the top of the eight-day clock), which

circumstances led you somewhat hastily to decline. It would

undoubtedly have become you, and less cannot be said for such a

situation as the summit of an easel, overlooking the black-board, in

an establishment for the education of youth. Meanwhile it may interest

you to hear of a bird (not of your wisdom, but with parts, and a

respectable appearance) who secured a somewhat similar seat in

adopting that kind of home which you would not. It was in driving

through a wood at some little distance from the above address that we

found a wounded crow, and brought him home to our hut. He became a

member of the family, and received the name of Slyboots, for reasons

with which it is unnecessary to trouble you. He was made very welcome

in the drawing-room, but he preferred the kitchen. The kitchen is a

brick room detached from the wooden hut. It was once, in fact, an

armorer's shop, and has since been converted to a kitchen. The floor

is rudely laid, and the bricks gape here and there. A barrack fender

guards the fire-place, and a barrack poker reposes in the fender. It

is a very ponderous poker of unusual size and the commonest

appearance, but with a massive knob at the upper end which was wont to

project far and high above the hearth. It was to this seat that

Slyboots elevated himself by his own choice, and became the Kitchen

Crow. Here he spent hours watching the cook, and taking tit-bits

behind her back. He ate what he could (more, I fear, than he ought),

and hid the rest in holes and corners. The genial neighborhood of the

oven caused him no inconvenience. His glossy coat, being already as

black as a coal, was not damaged by a certain grimeyness which is

undoubtedly characteristic of the (late) armorer's shop, of which the

chimney is an inveterate smoker. Companies of his relatives constantly

enter the camp by ways over which the sentries have no control (the

Balloon Brigade being not yet even in the clouds); but Slyboots showed

no disposition to join them. They flaunt and forage in the Lines, they

inspect the ashpits and cookhouses, they wheel and manoeuvre on the

parades, but Slyboots sat serene upon his poker. He had a cook-house

all to himself.... He died. We must all die; but we need not all die

of repletion, which, I fear, was his case. He buried his last meal

between two bricks in the kitchen floor, and covered it very tidily

with a bit of newspaper. The poker is vacant. Sir, I was bred to the

sword and not to the pen, but I have a foolish desire for literary

fame. I should be better pleased to be in print than to be

promoted--for that matter one seems as near as the other--and my wife

agrees with me. She is of a literary turn, and has helped me in the

composition of this, but we both fear that the story having no moral

you will not admit it into your Owlhoots. But if your wisdom could

supply this, or your kindness overlook the defect, it would afford

great consolation to a bereaved family to have printed a biography of

the dear deceased. For we were greatly attached to him, though he

preferred the cook. I can at any rate give you my word as a man of

honor that these incidents are true, though, out of soldierly modesty,

I will not trouble you with my name, but with much respect subscribe

myself by that of

SLYBOOTS."

The gallant officer is too modest. This biography is not only true but

brief, and these are rare merits in a memoir. As to the moral--it is

not far to seek. Dear children, for whom I hoot! avoid greediness. If

Slyboots had eaten tit-bits in moderation, he might be sitting on the

poker to this day. I have great pleasure in making his brief career

public to the satisfaction of his gallant friend, and I should be glad

to hear that the latter had got his step by the same post as his

Owlhoot.

The second letter is much farther from literary excellence than the

first. I fear this little boy plays truant from school as well as

taking apples which do not belong to him. It is high time that he

learnt to spell, and also to observe the difference between _meum_ and

_tuum_. From not being well grounded on these two points, many boys

have lost good situations in life when they grew up to be men.

"deer mister howl,--as you say you see behind your bak i spose its

you told varmer jones of me for theres a tree with a whole in it just

behind the orchurd he wolloped I shameful and I'll have no more of his

apples they be a deal sowerer than yud think though they look so red,

but do you call yourself a childerns friend and tell tails i dont i

can tell you.

TOM TURNIP."

[PUBLISHER'S NOTE. Mrs. Ewing did not live to complete "The Owl

in the Ivy Bush." This, and "Tiny's Tricks and Toby's Tricks"

were first published after her death.]

* * * * *

_Roberts Brothers Juvenile Books._

DEAR DAUGHTER DOROTHY.

_BY MISS A. G. PLYMPTON._

With seven illustrations by the author. Small 4to. Cloth.

PRICE, $1.00.

[Illustration: DEAR DAUGHTER DOROTHY.]

"The child is father of the man,"--so Wordsworth sang; and here

is a jolly story of a little girl who was her father's mother in

a very real way. There were hard lines for him; and she was

fruitful of devices to help him along, even having an auction of

the pretty things that had been given her from time to time, and

realizing a neat little sum. Then her father was accused of

peculation; and she, sweetly ignorant of the ways of justice,

went to the judge and labored with him, to no effect, though he

was wondrous kind. Then in court she gave just the wrong

evidence, because it showed how poor her father was, and so

established a presumption of his great necessity and desperation.

But the _Deus ex machina_--the wicked partner--arrived at the

right moment, and owned up, and the good father was cleared, and

little Daughter Dorothy was made glad. But this meagre summary

gives but a poor idea of the ins and outs of this charming story,

and no idea of the happy way in which it is told.--_Christian

Register._

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.

* * * * *

LOUISA M. ALCOTT'S WRITINGS.

_Miss Alcott is really a benefactor of households_--H H

_Miss Alcott has a faculty of entering into the lives and

feelings of children that is conspicuously wanting in most

writers who address them, and to this cause, to the consciousness

among her readers that they are hearing about people like

themselves, instead of abstract qualities labelled with names,

the popularity of her books is due_--MRS SARAH J HALE

_Dear Aunt Jo! You are embalmed in the thoughts and loves of

thousands of little men and women_--EXCHANGE

Little Women, or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy With

illustrations 16mo $1.50

Hospital Sketches, and Camp and Fireside Stories With

illustrations 16mo 1.50

An Old-Fashioned Girl With illustrations 16mo 1.50

Little Men Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys With

illustrations 16mo 1.50

Jo's Boys and How they Turned Out A sequel to Little Men

With portrait of Aunt Jo 16mo 1.50

Eight Cousins, or The Aunt Hill With illustrations 16mo 1.50

Rose in Bloom A sequel to Eight Cousins 16mo 1.50

Under the Lilacs With illustrations 16mo 1.50

Jack and Jill A Village Story With illustrations 16mo 1.50

Work A Story of Experience With character illustrations by

Sol Eytinge 16mo 1.50

Moods A Novel New edition revised and enlarged 16mo 1.50

A Modern Mephistopheles, and A Whisper in the Dark 16mo 1.50

Silver Pitchers, and Independence A Centennial Love Story

16mo 1.25

Proverb Stories New edition, revised and enlarged 16mo 1.25

Spinning Wheel Stories With illustrations 16mo 1.25

A Garland for Girls and Other Stories With illustrations

16mo 1.25

My Boys &c First volume of Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag 16mo $1.00

Shawl-Straps Second volume of Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag 16mo 1.00

Cupid and Chow-Chow, &c Third volume of Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag

16mo 1.00

My Girls, &c Fourth volume of Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag 16mo 1.00

Jimmy's Cruise in the Pinafore, &c Fifth volume of Aunt Jo's

Scrap Bag 16mo 1.00

An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving, &c Sixth volume of Aunt Jo's

Scrap Bag 16mo 1.00

Little Women Illustrated Embellished with nearly 200

characteristic illustrations from original designs drawn

expressly for this edition of this noted American Classic

One small quarto bound in cloth with emblematic designs 2.50

Little Women Series Comprising Little Women Little Men Eight

Cousins Under the Lilacs An Old Fashioned Girl Jo's Boys Rose in

Bloom Jack and Jill 8 large 16mo volumes in a handsome box 12.00

Miss Alcott's novels in uniform binding in sets Moods Work

Hospital Sketches A Modern Mephistopheles and A Whisper in

the Dark 4 volumes 16mo 6.00

Lulu's Library Vols I II III A collection of New Stories

16mo 1.00

_These books are for sale at all bookstores, or will be mailed, post

paid, on receipt of price, to any address_

ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

_Boston, Mass._

* * * * *