good bit we must go, for I couldn't be turning here widout upsettin' the
whole of yez, it's that drifted. Rest aisy, and I'll fetch up at the
ould place in half an hour, plaze the powers," said Pat, who had lost
his way and wouldn't own it, being stupid with a sup or two he had
privately taken on the way, to keep the chill out of his bones he said.
On they went again, with the wind at their backs, caring little for the
snow that now fell fast, or the gathering twilight, since they were
going toward home they thought. It was a very long half-hour before Pat
brought them to the country-house, which was shut up for the winter.
With difficulty they ploughed their way up to the steps, and scrambled
on to the piazza, where they danced about to warm their feet till Mark
unlocked the door and let them in, leaving Pat to enjoy a doze on his
seat.
"Make haste, boys; it is cold and dark here, and we must get home. Mamma
will be so anxious, and it really is going to be a bad storm," said
Gwen, whose spirits were damped by the gloom of the old house, and who
felt her responsibility, having promised to be home early.
Off went the boys to attic and cellar, being obliged to light the
lantern left here for the use of whoever came now and then to inspect
the premises. The girls, having found books and doll, sat upon the
rolled-up carpets, or peeped about at the once gay and hospitable rooms,
now looking very empty and desolate with piled-up furniture, shuttered
windows, and fireless hearths.
"If we were going to stay long I'd have a fire in the library. Papa
often does when he comes out, to keep the books from moulding," began
Gwen, but was interrupted by a shout from without, and, running to the
door, saw Pat picking himself out of a drift while the horses were
galloping down the avenue at full speed.
"Be jabbers, them villains give a jump when that fallin' branch struck
'em, and out I wint, bein' tuk unknownst, just thinkin' of me poor
cousin Mike. May his bed above be aisy the day! Whist now, miss dear!
I'll fetch 'em back in a jiffy. Stop still till I come, and kape them
b'ys quite."
With a blow to settle his hat, Patrick trotted gallantly away into the
storm, and the girls went in to tell the exciting news to the lads, who
came whooping back from their search, with baskets of nuts and apples.
"Here's a go!" cried Mark. "Old Pat will run half-way to town before he
catches the horses, and we are in for an hour or two at least."
"Then do make a fire, for we shall die of cold if we have to wait long,"
begged Gwen, rubbing Rita's cold hands, and looking anxiously at little
Gus, who was about making up his mind to roar.
"So we will, and be jolly till the blunderbuss gets back. Camp down,
girls, and you fellows, come and hold the lantern while I get wood and
stuff. It is so confoundedly dark, I shall break my neck down the shed
steps." And Mark led the way to the library, where the carpet still
remained, and comfortable chairs and sofas invited the chilly visitors
to rest.
"How can you light your fire when you get the wood?" asked Ruth, a
practical damsel, who looked well after her own creature comforts and
was longing for a warm supper.
"Papa hides the matches in a tin box, so the rats won't get at them.
Here they are, and two or three bits of candle for the sticks on the
chimney-piece, if he forgets to have the lantern trimmed. Now we will
light up, and look cosey when the boys come back."
And producing the box from under a sofa-cushion, Gwen cheered the hearts
of all by lighting two candles, rolling up the chairs, and making ready
to be comfortable. Thoughtful Alice went to see if Pat was returning,
and found a buffalo-robe lying on the steps. Returning with this, she
reported that there was no sign of the runaways, and advised making
ready for a long stay.
"How mamma will worry!" thought Gwen, but made light of the affair,
because she saw Rita looked timid, and Gus shivered till his teeth
chattered.
"We will have a nice time, and play we are shipwrecked people or Arctic
explorers. Here comes Dr. Kane and the sailors with supplies of wood,
so we can thaw our pemmican and warm our feet. Gus shall be the little
Esquimaux boy, all dressed in fur, as he is in the picture we have at
home," she said, wrapping the child in the robe, and putting her own
sealskin cap on his head to divert his mind.
"Here we are! Now for a jolly blaze, boys; and if Pat doesn't come back
we can have our fun here instead of at home," cried Mark, well pleased
with the adventure, as were his mates.
So they fell to work, and soon a bright fire was lighting up the room
with its cheerful shine, and the children gathered about it, quite
careless of the storm raging without, and sure that Pat would come in
time.
"I'm hungry," complained Gus as soon as he was warm.
"So am I," added Rita from the rug, where the two little ones sat
toasting themselves.
"Eat an apple," said Mark.
"They are so hard and cold I don't like them," began Gus.
"Roast some!" cried Ruth.
"And crack nuts," suggested Alice.
"Pity we can't cook something in real camp style; it would be such fun,"
said Tony, who had spent weeks on Monadnock, living upon the supplies he
and his party tugged up the mountain on their backs.
"We shall not have time for anything but what we have. Put down your
apples and crack away, or we shall be obliged to leave them," advised
Gwen, coming back from an observation at the front door with an anxious
line on her forehead; for the storm was rapidly increasing, and there
was no sign of Pat or the horses.
The rest were in high glee, and an hour or two slipped quickly away as
they enjoyed the impromptu feast and played games. Gus recalled them to
the discomforts of their situation by saying with a yawn and a
whimper,--
"I'm so sleepy! I want my own bed and mamma."
"So do I!" echoed Rita, who had been nodding for some time, and longed
to lie down and sleep comfortably anywhere.
"Almost eight o'clock! By Jove, that old Pat _is_ taking his time, I
think. Wonder if he has got into trouble? We can't do anything, and may
as well keep quiet here," said Mark, looking at his watch and beginning
to understand that the joke was rather a serious one.
"Better make a night of it and all go to sleep. Pat can wake us up when
he comes. The cold makes a fellow _so_ drowsy." And Bob gave a stretch
that nearly rent him asunder.
"I will let the children nap on the sofa. They are so tired of waiting,
and may as well amuse themselves in that way as in fretting. Come, Gus
and Rita, each take a pillow, and I'll cover you up with my shawl."
Gwen made the little ones comfortable, and they were off in five
minutes. The others kept up bravely till nine o'clock, then the bits of
candles were burnt out, the stories all told, nuts and apples had lost
their charm, and weariness and hunger caused spirits to fail
perceptibly.
"I've eaten five Baldwins, and yet I want more. Something filling and
good. Can't we catch a rat and roast him?" proposed Bob, who was a
hearty lad and was ravenous by this time.
"Isn't there anything in the house?" asked Ruth, who dared not eat nuts
for fear of indigestion.
"Not a thing that I know of except a few pickles in the storeroom; we
had so many, mamma left some here," answered Gwen, resolving to
provision the house before she left it another autumn.
"Pickles alone are rather sour feed. If we only had a biscuit now, they
wouldn't be bad for a relish," said Tony, with the air of a man who had
known what it was to live on burnt bean-soup and rye flapjacks for a
week.
"I saw a keg of soft-soap in the shed. How would that go with the
pickles?" suggested Bob, who felt equal to the biggest and acidest
cucumber ever grown.
"Mamma knew an old lady who actually did eat soft-soap and cream for her
complexion," put in Alice, whose own fresh face looked as if she had
tried the same distasteful remedy with success.
The boys laughed, and Mark, who felt that hospitality required him to do
something for his guests, said briskly,--
"Let us go on a foraging expedition while the lamp holds out to burn,
for the old lantern is almost gone and then we are done for. Come on,
Bob; your sharp nose will smell out food if there is any."
"Don't set the house afire, and bring more wood when you come, for we
must have light of some kind in this poky place," called Gwen, with a
sigh, wishing every one of them were safely at home and abed.
A great tramping of boots, slamming of doors, and shouting of voices
followed the departure of the boys, as well as a crash, a howl, and then
a roar of laughter, as Bob fell down the cellar stairs, having opened
the door in search of food and poked his nose in too far. Presently they
came back, very dusty, cobwebby, and cold, but triumphantly bearing a
droll collection of trophies. Mark had a piece of board and the lantern,
Tony a big wooden box and a tin pail, Bob fondly embraced a pickle jar
and a tumbler of jelly which had been forgotten on a high shelf in the
storeroom.
"Meal, pickles, jam, and boards. What a mess, and what are we to do with
it all?" cried the girls, much amused at the result of the expedition.
"Can any of you make a hoe cake?" demanded Mark.
"No, indeed! I can make caramels and cocoanut-cakes," said Ruth,
proudly.
"I can make good toast and tea," added Alice.
"I can't cook anything," confessed Gwen, who was unusually accomplished
in French, German, and music.
"Girls aren't worth much in the hour of need. Take hold, Tony, you are
the chap for me." And Mark disrespectfully turned his back on the young
ladies, who could only sit and watch the lads work.
"He can't do it without water," whispered Ruth.
"Or salt," answered Alice.
"Or a pan to bake it in," added Gwen; and then all smiled at the dilemma
they foresaw.
But Tony was equal to the occasion, and calmly went on with his task,
while Mark arranged the fire and Bob opened the pickles. First the new
cook filled the pail with snow till enough was melted to wet the meal;
this mixture was stirred with a pine stick till thick enough, then
spread on the board and set up before the bed of coals to brown.
"It never will bake in the world." "He can't turn it, so it won't be
done on both sides." "Won't be fit to eat any way!" And with these dark
hints the girls consoled themselves for their want of skill.
But the cake did bake a nice brown, Tony did turn it neatly with his
jack-knife and the stick, and when it was done cut it into bits, added
jelly, and passed it round on an old atlas; and every one said,--
"It really does taste good!"
Two more were baked, and eaten with pickles for a change, then all were
satisfied, and after a vote of thanks to Tony they began to think of
sleep.
"Pat has gone home and told them we are all right, and mamma knows we
can manage here well enough for one night, so don't worry, Gwen, but
take a nap, and I'll lie on the rug and see to the fire."
Mark's happy-go-lucky way of taking things did not convince his sister;
but as she could do nothing, she submitted and made her friends as
comfortable as she could.
All had plenty of wraps, so the girls nestled into the three large
chairs, Bob and Tony rolled themselves up in the robe, with their feet
to the fire, and were soon snoring like weary hunters. Mark pillowed his
head on a log, and was sound asleep in ten minutes in spite of his
promise to be sentinel.
Gwen's chair was the least easy of the three, and she could not forget
herself like the rest, but sat wide awake, watching the blaze, counting
the hours, and wondering why no one came to them.
The wind blew fiercely, the snow beat against the blinds, rats scuttled
about the walls, and now and then a branch fell upon the roof with a
crash. Weary, yet excited, the poor girl imagined all sorts of mishaps
to Pat and the horses, recalled various ghost stories she had heard, and
wondered if it was on such a night as this that a neighbor's house had
been robbed. So nervous did she get at last that she covered up her face
and resolutely began to count a thousand, feeling that anything was
better than having to wake Mark and own she was frightened.
Before she knew it she fell into a drowse and dreamed that they were
all cast away on an iceberg and a polar bear was coming up to devour
Gus, who innocently called to the big white dog and waited to caress
him.
"A bear! a bear! oh, boys, save him!" murmured Gwen in her sleep, and
the sound of her own distressed voice waked her.
The fire was nearly out, for she had slept longer than she knew, the
room was full of shadows, and the storm seemed to have died away. In the
silence which now reigned, unbroken even by a snore, Gwen heard a sound
that made her start and tremble. Some one was coming softly up the back
stairs. All the outer doors were locked, she was sure; all the boys lay
in their places, for she could see and count the three long figures and
little Gus in a bunch on the sofa. The girls had not stirred, and this
was no rat's scamper, but a slow and careful tread, stealing nearer and
nearer to the study door, left ajar when the last load of wood was
brought in.
"Pat would knock or ring, and papa would speak, so that we might not be
scared. I want to scream, but I won't till I see that it really is some
one," thought Gwen, while her heart beat fast and her eyes were fixed on
the door, straining to see through the gloom.
The steps drew nearer, paused on the threshold, and then a head appeared
as the door noiselessly swung wider open. A man's head in a fur cap, but
it was neither papa nor Pat nor Uncle Ed. Poor Gwen would have called
out then, but her voice was gone, and she could only lie back, looking,
mute and motionless. A tiny spire of flame sprung up and flickered for a
moment on the tall dark figure in the doorway, a big man with a beard,
and in his hand something that glittered. Was it a pistol or a dagger or
a dark lantern? thought the girl, as the glimmer died away, and the
shadows returned to terrify her.
The man seemed to look about him keenly for a moment, then vanished, and
the steps went down the hall to the front door, which was opened from
within and some one admitted quietly. Whispers were heard, and then feet
approached again, accompanied by a gleam of light.
"Now I must scream!" thought Gwen; and scream she did with all her
might, as two men entered, one carrying a lantern, the other a bright
tin can.
"Boys! Robbers! Fire! Tramps! Oh, do wake up!" cried Gwen, frantically
pulling Mark by the hair, and Bob and Tony by the legs, as the quickest
way of rousing them.
Then there was a scene! The boys sprung up and rubbed their eyes, the
girls hid theirs and began to shriek, while the burglars laughed aloud,
and poor Gwen, quite worn out, fainted away on the rug. It was all over
in a minute, however; for Mark had his wits about him, and his first
glance at the man with the lantern allayed his fears.
"Hullo, Uncle Ed! We are all right. Got tired of waiting for you, so we
went to sleep."
"Stop screaming, girls, and quiet those children! Poor little Gwen is
badly frightened. Get some snow, Tom, while I pick her up," commanded
the uncle, and order was soon established.
The boys were all right at once, and Ruth and Alice devoted themselves
to the children, who were very cross and sleepy in spite of their
fright. Gwen was herself in a moment, and so ashamed of her scare that
she was glad there was no more light to betray her pale cheeks.
"I should have known you, uncle, at once, but to see a strange man
startled me, and he didn't speak, and I thought that can was a pistol,"
stammered Gwen, when she had collected her wits a little.
"Why, that's my old friend and captain, Tom May. Don't you remember him,
child? He thought you were all asleep, so crept out to tell me and let
me in."
"How did he get in himself?" asked Gwen, glad to turn the conversation.
"Found the shed door open, and surprised the camp by a flank movement.
You wouldn't do for picket duty, boys," laughed Captain Tom, enjoying
the dismay of the lads.
"Oh, thunder! I forgot to bolt it when we first went for the wood. Had
to open it, the place was so plaguy dark," muttered Bob, much disgusted.
"Where's Pat?" asked Tony, with great presence of mind, feeling anxious
to shift all blame to his broad shoulders.
Uncle Ed shook the snow from his hair and clothes, and, poking up the
fire, leisurely sat down and took Gus on his knee before he
replied,--"Serve out the grog, Tom, while I spin my yarn."
Round went the can of hot coffee, and a few sips brightened up the young
folks immensely, so that they listened with great interest to the tale
of Pat's mishaps.
"The scamp was half-seas over when he started, and deserves all he got.
In the first place he lost his way, then tumbled overboard, and let the
horses go. He floundered after them a mile or two, then lost his
bearings in the storm, pitched into a ditch, broke his head, and lay
there till found. The fellows carried him to a house off the road, and
there he is in a nice state; for, being his countrymen, they dosed him
with whiskey till he was 'quite and aisy,' and went to sleep, forgetting
all about you, the horses, and his distracted mistress at home. The
animals were stopped at the cross-roads, and there we found them after a
lively cruise round the country. Then we hunted up Pat; but what with
the blow and too many drops of 'the crayther,' his head was in a muddle,
and we could get nothing out of him. So we went home again, and then
your mother remembered that you had mentioned stopping here, and we
fitted out a new craft and set sail, prepared for a long voyage. Your
father was away, so Tom volunteered, and here we are."
"A jolly lark! now let us go home and go to bed," proposed Mark, with a
gape.
"Isn't it most morning?" asked Tony, who had been sleeping like a
dormouse.
"Just eleven. Now pack up and let us be off. The storm is over, the moon
coming out, and we shall find a good supper waiting for the loved and
lost. Bear a hand, Tom, and ship this little duffer, for he's off
again."
Uncle Ed put Gus into the captain's arms, and, taking Rita himself, led
the way to the sleigh which stood at the door. In they all bundled, and
after making the house safe, off they went, feeling that they had had a
pretty good time on the whole.
"I will learn cooking and courage, before I try camping out again,"
resolved Gwen, as she went jingling homeward; and she kept her word.
IX.
MY LITTLE SCHOOL-GIRL.
The first time that I saw her was one autumn morning as I rode to town
in a horse-car. It was early, and my only fellow-passenger was a crusty
old gentleman, who sat in a corner, reading his paper; so when the car
stopped, I glanced out to see who came next, hoping it would be a
pleasanter person. No one appeared for a minute, and the car stood
still, while both driver and conductor looked in the same direction
without a sign of impatience. I looked also, but all I could see was a
little girl running across the park, as girls of twelve or thirteen
seldom run nowadays, if any one can see them.
"Are you waiting for her?" I asked of the pleasant-faced conductor, who
stood with his hand on the bell, and a good-natured smile in his eyes.
"Yes, ma'am, we always stop for little missy," he answered; and just
then up she came, all rosy and breathless with her run.
"Thank you very much. I'm late to-day, and was afraid I should miss my
car," she said, as he helped her in with a fatherly air that was
pleasant to see.
Taking a corner seat, she smoothed the curly locks, disturbed by the
wind, put on her gloves, and settled her books in her lap, then modestly
glanced from the old gentleman in the opposite corner to the lady near
by. Such a bright little face as I saw under the brown hat-rim, happy
blue eyes, dimples in the ruddy cheeks, and the innocent expression
which makes a young girl so sweet an object to old eyes.
The crusty gentleman evidently agreed with me, for he peeped over the
top of the paper at his pleasant little neighbor as she sat studying a
lesson, and cheering herself with occasional sniffs at a posy of
mignonette in her button-hole.
When the old gentleman caught my eye, he dived out of sight with a loud
"Hem!" but he was peeping again directly, for there was something
irresistibly attractive about the unconscious lassie opposite; and one
could no more help looking at her than at a lovely flower or a playful
kitten.
Presently she shut her book with a decided pat, and an air of relief
that amused me. She saw the half-smile I could not repress, seemed to
understand my sympathy, and said with a laugh,--
"It _was_ a hard lesson, but I've got it!"
So we began to talk about school and lessons, and I soon discovered that
the girl was a clever scholar, whose only drawback was, as she confided
to me, a "love of fun."
We were just getting quite friendly, when several young men got in, one
of whom stared at the pretty child till even she observed it, and showed
that she did by the color that came and went in her cheeks. It annoyed
me as much as if she had been my own little daughter, for I like
modesty, and have often been troubled by the forward manners of
schoolgirls, who seem to enjoy being looked at. So I helped this one
out of her little trouble by making room between the old gentleman and
myself, and motioning her to come and sit there.
She understood at once, thanked me with a look, and nestled into the
safe place so gratefully, that the old gentleman glared over his
spectacles at the rude person who had disturbed the serenity of the
child.
Then we rumbled along again, the car getting fuller and fuller as we got
down town. Presently an Irishwoman, with a baby, got in, and before I
could offer my seat, my little school-girl was out of hers, with a
polite--
"Please take it, ma'am; I can stand perfectly well."
It was prettily done, and I valued the small courtesy all the more,
because it evidently cost the bashful creature an effort to stand up
alone in a car full of strangers; especially as she could not reach the
strap to steady herself, and found it difficult to stand comfortably.
Then it was that the crusty man showed how he appreciated my girl's good
manners, for he hooked his cane in the strap, and gave it to her,
saying, with a smile that lighted up his rough face like sunshine,--
"Hold on to that, my dear."
"Ah," thought I, "how little we can judge from appearances! This grim
old soul is a gentleman, after all."
Turning her face towards us, the girl held on to the stout cane, and
swayed easily to and fro as we bumped over the rails. The Irishwoman's
baby, a sickly little thing, was attracted by the flowers, and put out a
small hand to touch them, with a wistful look at the bright face above.
"Will baby have some?" said my girl, and made the little creature happy
with some gay red leaves.
"Bless your heart, honey, it's fond he is of the like o' them, and
seldom he gets any," said the mother, gratefully, as she settled baby's
dirty hood, and wrapped the old shawl round his feet.
Baby stared hard at the giver of posies, but his honest blue eyes gave
no offence, and soon the two were so friendly that baby boldly clutched
at the bright buttons on her sack, and crowed with delight when he got
one, while we all smiled at the pretty play, and were sorry when the
little lady, with a bow and a smile to us, got out at the church corner.
"Now, I shall probably never see that child again, yet what a pleasant
picture she leaves in my memory!" I thought to myself, as I caught a
last glimpse of the brown hat going round the corner.
But I did see her again many times that winter; for not long after, as I
passed down a certain street near my winter quarters, I came upon a
flock of girls, eating their luncheon as they walked to and fro on the
sunny side,--pretty, merry creatures, all laughing and chattering at
once, as they tossed apples from hand to hand, munched candy, or
compared cookies. I went slowly, to enjoy the sight, as I do when I meet
a party of sparrows on the Common, and was wondering what would become
of so many budding women, when, all of a sudden, I saw _my_ little
school-girl.
Yes, I knew her in a minute, for she wore the same brown hat, and the
rosy face was sparkling with fun, as she told secrets with a chosen
friend, while eating a wholesome slice of bread-and-butter as only a
hungry school-girl could.
She did not recognize me, but I took a good look at her as I went by,
longing to know what the particular secret was that ended in such a gale
of laughter.
After that, I often saw my girl as I took my walks abroad, and one day
could not resist speaking to her when I met her alone; for usually her
mates clustered round her like bees about their queen, which pleased me,
since it showed how much they loved the sunshiny child.
I had a paper of grapes in my hand, and when I saw her coming, whisked
out a handsome bunch, all ready to offer, for I had made up my mind to
speak this time. She was reading a paper, but looked up to give me the
inside of the walk.