it, for they say that Squire Meredith and Deacon Willetts are mornhalf
eaten up by mosquitoes, and are confined to the house with salt and
water, and crying out all the time that they can't stand it. I hope the
feathers will work, but if they don't, no matter. I think I shall be a
missionary, and do good to the heathen. I think I hear father coming in
the front gate now, so I must close.
THEIR BEST SECRET.
BY ELLA M. BAKER.
Two healthy, happy New England girls had been hunting for May-flowers
all the morning. They had found them growing so pink and in such
quantities that they were too busy filling their hands to notice the
sudden shadow sweeping over the sky. Percy Shipley in her brown calico,
her dark blue apron, and her log-cabin sun-bonnet, Reba Bradford in her
gray calico, her red apron, and a sun-bonnet to match Percy's, knelt
breathless on the warm turf, bewitched--and no wonder--by the pink and
white beauties that smiled up at them from among the dead leaves, like
babies just awakening in their pillowed cradles. So the dash of
impetuous rain fell, without any warning, smartly on the two log-cabin
sun-bonnets; but they only laughed merrily at it, sprang up, and ran for
the nearest pine-tree. Reba pulled off her "blinders," as she called the
sun-bonnet, while she ran. How black the cloud was growing! and against
the cloud stood out all the more distinctly a low white steeple.
"Percy! Percy! run for the old church," cried Reba, wheeling about.
Away they flew, dashing through the alders, dodging under the birches,
never minding the clinging blackberry vines, the low huckleberry bushes,
the bit of bosky swamp. The rain, as if it were running after them,
pattered faster and faster. It was in a delightful panic of haste and
heat that they brought up finally on the narrow stone steps of the old
church, and drew a long breath under the ugly little portico with half
its supporting pillars fallen out. Not another house was in sight; the
road in front had ridges of grass through the very middle, saucily
making themselves at home where it was plain horses did not often claim
right of way nowadays. Ever since Reba and Percy could remember--indeed,
long before that--the old church had stood just so, only growing more
forlorn year by year, seeming to be forgotten by everybody. As the new
village sprang up among the valley mills, the new churches were built
there, and the low-roofed houses one by one crumbled away, which the
Shipleys and Bradfords of fifty years ago had known in their prime.
"Let's get in if we can," said Reba, boldly.
"It don't look as if we could," Percy answered, doubtfully.
[Illustration: AT THE DOOR OF THE OLD CHURCH.--DRAWN BY JESSIE CURTIS
SHEPHERD.]
But nobody cared now to lock the disused door. At the united eager push
of the two girls, it opened in a rusty, rheumatic way, not widely, but
far enough for them to squeeze in.
"There!" said Reba. She pushed forward, sank on the pulpit stairs, and
shook the water from her sun-bonnet.
"There!" echoed Percy, with a great sigh. She deposited the old brown
egg basket full of the May-flowers that looked so pearly among the
wealth of thick green leaves, took off her "blinders" also, and sat down
in the nearest pew. They were both so out of breath that they said no
more at first.
The longer they kept silent, the more still and solemn seemed the empty
place. Dusty, indeed, littered, and defaced, it all was. Thick, dingy
cobwebs hung from the pulpit; a gray hornets' nest showed in one lofty
corner; the pulpit stairs were broken; many of the pews were gone
entirely; splinters of board and laths, stray leaves of hymn-books, a
tuning-fork, a broken lamp, fragments of mortar, and varied rubbish,
strewed the uneven floor. In spite of all that, it was still a church to
Percy. With reverent eyes she looked up at the pulpit, where the
minister used to stand, at the gallery, where the singers' seats used to
be. She wondered who used to sit in this very pew years and years ago;
she wondered if the clothes they wore, their Sunday best, looked like
the queer bonnets and gowns that Aunt Bethiah kept laid away in her old
locker. When Reba said, "Percy," she started, half shocked, as though
somebody had called out her name in service-time.
Reba, meanwhile, had been just as busy thinking, but her thoughts had
been very different ones.
"Percy Shipley," said she, solemnly, "I've thought of something
perfectly splendid."
"You have? What is it?" asked Percy, expectantly.
Reba was exploring the cobwebby pulpit. She leaned over the edge, and
said, in a low, impressive voice, with a flap of the damp sun-bonnet
toward Percy, who rose eagerly in her pew to listen: "Nobody uses this
church. Let's you and I use it."
"What! preach in it?" gasped Percy.
"No, no," said Reba, laughing until the sun-bonnet fell out of her hand,
and went tearing through the cobwebs, "but have it for our place, don't
you see? to keep house, and tell secrets, and have a lovely time in. Oh,
Percy! wouldn't it be grand?"
"Oh, Reba! would you dare?"
The soft, clear eyes, full of wonder and appeal, in Percy's pew, lifted
up wide open toward the great black ones of Reba looking down from the
pulpit. The dark ones, with a flash of excitement in them, never
wavered.
"Dare? yes, indeed, I'd dare for both of us if there were anything to be
afraid of. But there isn't, Percy. Why, nobody comes here; it's out of
everybody's sight. We won't tell a soul; and as for asking leave, no one
owns it, so there's no one to ask. And we can't hurt it." The pulpit
spoke with authority and slight impatience. The pew replied gently but
persistently.
"It would be the greatest fun, and it's just like you to think of it,
Reba; I only mean that perhaps it would be wrong to play and make good
times here. Remember, it's a church, Reba."
"Well, _let's_ remember it's a church," answered the pulpit, meeting the
scruples with a ready argument as skillful as any that may have
proceeded from it before: "let's agree, to begin with, that we'll always
behave when we're here, and just run outside if we want to be cross, or
selfish, or anything not fit for a church. We won't do anything here
that we'd be ashamed to do if we remembered its being a church. That
will make it all right, for I'm sure, Percy, a church is the very place
to be good in."
The pew was convinced. Percy fairly clapped her hands, and cried, "It
will be the very best secret we ever had, Reba!" as they helped each
other enlarge upon the plan.
And I think myself that few girls have a nicer secret. With tidy
housekeeping instincts that they had learned at home, Percy and Reba
first set themselves to make the place as neat as circumstances would
allow. They picked up the litter, and swept the floor over and over.
Many a torn leaf of catechism and hymn-book they lingered to read over
as they labored, imagining that they should find there something new and
strange. They never did, and the catechism answers did not stay long in
their memories; but a single couplet of one hymn that they found
afterward they never did forget, perhaps because it was so associated
with the sweeping of the old church. The line was this well-known verse,
"Who sweeps a room as by Thy laws
Makes that and the action fine."
As high as they could reach they rid the place of dust and cobwebs.
Percy chose one square pew, and Reba another, to be peculiar personal
property, in which to set up housekeeping, and many an imaginary comedy
or tragedy they enacted in those pews, many an odd treasure came to be
stored there with nobody to say, "Do take that rubbish off!" Oh! it felt
grand to have so much room, so much airy, unused space, and to be able
to trim up whenever they liked with evergreen branches, blossoming
boughs, and all the lavish greenery they had patience to bring! Here
they learned their lessons together; here they practiced each other on
the "pieces" that were to be declaimed at school on exhibition-day. It
was fine to see Reba ascend the broken stairs, and courtesying to Percy
with a flourish, recite "Casabianca" or "We are Seven," until it would
seem the very hornets' nest must be thrilled with her accents. Percy,
somehow, never was willing, when her turn came, to occupy the same high
place, but she used to be sure that she would make no mistake on
exhibition-day if only she could have that same broken window, filled in
with blue sky, to fix her eyes upon as she spoke.
She would not forget, nor let Reba forget, the compact they had agreed
upon. To be sure, they were not often tempted to be cross or unjust to
each other, but there did occur a crisis sometimes when one or the other
would stop in the middle of an impatient word and run out of the church.
Nearly always her companion would follow after; in the open air it would
all be made up, and with arms entwined they would go peacefully back
into the church again.
But there came a week when everything seemed to go wrong. It was
intensely hot and dry. Reba complained fretfully that nothing but heat,
dust, and flies came in at their windows. Percy declared that the hum of
the hornets made her nervous.
"And, Reba," said she, "I don't think it's fair for you to disarrange
the things in my part. You never used to do it."
"I haven't touched your things, Percy," retorted Reba, in a lofty tone;
"and I shouldn't think you'd better say much, when you've been mussing
over here in my pew the way you have."
"Why, Reba Bradford! what do you mean?"
"Why, Percy Shipley! you needn't pretend."
Reba's eyes flashed angrily; Percy's cheeks were all afire.
"Perhaps you know what you mean, Reba Bradford; I don't," said Percy,
bitterly. "But I do know that the frosted cake my mother gave me, and
that I saved to make a feast of with you, is all gone but a few crumbs,
and nothing in my keepsake box is as I left it."
"And you don't know anything about the mottoes and sugar kisses I was
saving up for you in my keepsake box, I suppose?" sneered Reba. "And you
couldn't account for the way my gilt mug came broken here?"
"Do you dare to think I'd steal from you?" cried Percy, stamping her
foot.
Oh, it was quite dreadful! They both forgot the place and their compact.
I'm afraid they both called each other names, and the end of it all was
that they marched off home different ways, one weeping angry tears, and
the other vowing "never to speak to her again."
For three doleful days Reba did not go near the old church nor Percy's
house. At the end of the three days she said frankly to herself, "If
Percy should spoil all my things, and eat every sugar-plum I ever have,
it would be better than this." She set off that very minute to go and
tell Percy so. But Percy's mother met her at the door.
"No, dear, you mustn't come in," she said, kindly. "I know how you love
Percy; but her fever seems pretty high, and you mustn't run any risk of
catching it. Wait until she is better."
Reba gave a sob and hurried away, dreadfully shocked and frightened.
Poor Percy! perhaps it was the sickness coming on that had made her so
unlike herself that foolish day when they quarrelled. Reba instinctively
hurried to the old church to cry by herself; and having arrived there,
she did cry until every tear was spent. Her face was still buried in her
apron, when there came echoing through the silent space a rough voice
that said, pitifully, "Don't take on so; what is the matter?"
Reba was no coward, but she did give a great leap that brought her to
her feet. A boy's face was peering over the gallery at her. It was a
homely face, but a kind one. Reba was sure she had never seen it before.
"Who are you? What are you here for?" said she, sharply.
The boy laughed; then he grew sober at once. "I wouldn't tell you," said
he, "if I didn't believe you're the 'pon honor sort. As 'tis, I'll tell
you the whole truth, and trust you. If you shouldn't be 'pon honor, so
much the worse for me. I'm running away."
"Running away from what?" questioned Reba, as sharply as before.
"From a bad master," said the boy, with a scowl, "and I was getting
along very well till I hurt this foot of mine, not far from here. When I
couldn't drag myself much further, I came in sight of this old church,
and crawled in for the night. I was pretty hungry, and perhaps you won't
blame me so much if I did rummage over your little traps down there in
hopes of finding something to eat. I'm sorry I broke the mug; I hit it
in the dark; and now you won't blame the other one, will you? I meant,
any way, to clear her before I went."
"You've been here ever since?" cried Reba; "and do you mean to say you
haven't had anything else to eat?"
"Oh yes," said the boy, cheerfully; "when I found I couldn't get along
further till my foot healed, I hobbled out and found roots and berries
quite near."
Reba loved adventures, and in Plumley adventures happened but rarely.
She made much of this one, only longing for Percy to share it. How she
enjoyed taking meat, bread, and fruit to the refugee in their own old
church, tyrannizing over him, and making him bathe, bandage, and salve
his injured foot just as she said, coaxing him to tell her the whole
story of his hard life, and contriving a couch for him out of the few
faded melancholy cushions to be found on the premises!
And when Percy was better, and able to talk, what a great thing it was
to tell her all about the strange thing that had happened!
"He's just as much your boy as mine," declared Reba, magnanimously, "and
I wouldn't do or say anything about him till you were well enough to
tell what you think best, Percy. Everything about the old church is half
yours, and more than half, and we'll remember better than ever after
this, won't we?"
What Percy advised was that Reba's father should be told the whole
story, and taken properly in his capacity of Doctor to see the lame
foot.
"Well, well, certainly the most unexpected call I ever had in my life,"
said the Doctor, when Reba proudly escorted him to the old church.
"Who'd ever have thought of finding a patient here?"
But he took the kindest interest in the friendless orphan, carried him
in his carriage to his own house, and ended by liking him so well for
his plain, blunt, manly ways that, when the foot was healed, he engaged
him as office-boy.
As long as the old church stood, Bob Sheffield used to look at it with
gratitude; and years after a bolt of lightning had destroyed it during
one summer night, Percy in her new home at the West, Reba in her stately
house in an Eastern city, loved to tell the children stories of the good
times two little country girls used to have under the roof of an old
deserted church out in the woods.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
Most of our boys and girls are busy, happy, and well. Do you ever think
what a glorious thing it is to be simply _well_--not to have a headache,
or a pain, or the least bit of weariness, no matter how long you play,
or how high you climb, or how far and fast you run? Half the fun and
pleasure you have comes from the fact that you can go to sleep the
moment your heads touch the pillow, and that when you awake in the
morning, you wake all over at once, and spring out of bed, ready for
anything that may be before you. If you do happen to be ill
occasionally, there are always kind hands to care for you; and it gives
you a good chance to find out what a loving father and mother you have,
so tenderly they see to your wants. Even the doctor, with his shrewd
face and droll manner, becomes dear to you when you are sick; and you
always call him yours, in a new way, after you have taken his pills and
powders, with mother's nice jam to take their taste away. So now, boys
and girls, will you please read the letter a lady has asked us to
publish, and make up your minds about helping along in the work she
proposes?
TO THE CHILDREN, LARGE AND SMALL, SICK AND WELL, WHO READ THIS PAPER:
Do you all want to do something for me? I am sure your answer is,
Yes; for I think children always like to be helping others. Well, I
want you to give me ever so much money. I imagine I see round eyes
grow big, and hear you say: "Pray what for? You are a stranger, and
we never have much money; nor do we know what you want it for,
anyway." I will tell you, for though you don't know me, it makes no
difference, as I do not ask it for myself. I want it to do good to
some poor little sick children, and to yourselves in giving it. In
the city of New York, as most of you know, there are a great many
little children who, when they are sick, or meet with an accident,
have no one to take care of them, or if they have, are compelled to
stay in a small close room, where there are a great many people, a
great deal of noise, which makes it very hard for them to get well.
Knowing this, some kind people have built a house, called "St.
Mary's Free Hospital for Children," 405 and 407 West Thirty-fourth
Street. It is an Episcopal institution, under the care of some kind
women. They take in any child, black or white, of any creed, under
fourteen years old, who has no disease which other little ones
might take, so long as they have space and money to take care of
them.
In the Rev. Dr. Houghton's church, Twenty-ninth Street, New York,
is a society which sews for and takes care of sick little children;
and this year they have furnished one ward in the hospital, for
children under six years old. This is the ward I want you to take a
special interest in. I hope you will go some day and see them. On
any day, except Sunday, between 11 and 12 A.M., and 3 and 4 P.M.,
they will be very glad to see you. Oh, such a dear little baby as I
saw there the other day! He had fallen down stairs and broken his
hip, and his mother brought him there because the doctor said he
never could get well in his own home; and though he had to lie on
his back for some weeks, he was merry as a cricket, and seemed very
happy. Those who can be up have playthings of all sorts to keep
them busy; and for these also there is a nice, sunny, large
play-room up stairs, where they have fine times. What I want you to
send your money for is to endow a bed in this "little folks' ward."
To "endow" means that when you shall have paid money enough, there
will be one bed always there for some little sick child, and money
to take care of it while there. This would be called the "Harper's
Young People Cot"; and if every one of you tries to help, you will
be able to have it. When you buy candy, it is soon eaten, and that
is the end of both candy and money; but in this case the good of
your money will last always, and the self-denial it costs will help
you to grow stronger to "fight for the right." Jesus will know it,
and will send His blessing to those who care for His suffering
little ones.
"Little self-denials,
Cost us what they may,
Help us in this earthly life
To learn the heavenly way."
If you will all set to work in _earnest_, we shall soon be able to
have the amount needed. Who will send the first contribution, and
head the list? The first of every month the names and amounts
contributed will be published in this paper, which has kindly
offered its help. Send your contribution, with name, for "Young
People's Cot," to St. Mary's Hospital for Children, New York, to
Miss E. A. Fanshaw, care of Mr. George A. Fanshaw, 43 New Street,
New York.
The sooner the better. Don't you remember that story of the "Daisy
Cot" which pleased you all so much? Let us have a "Young People's
Cot."
* * * * *
VERONA, ITALY, _June_ 23, 1881.
Although so far away in the old city of Verona, I have the great
pleasure to receive every week, through my papa's kindness,
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, which delights me. I think the readers of
YOUNG PEOPLE would like to receive little accounts from my
note-book. I will send a letter now and then.
When in London I went to the great Westminster Abbey, in which I
saw the urn which contains the bones of the two Princes murdered in
the Tower in the year 1483. In the Tower I saw the steps where
their bodies were found. In the Arsenal were primitive cannon-balls
made of stone, and all sorts of old weapons; also ten small cannons
presented to Charles II., when a boy, to practice with; also much
old armor, and many instruments of torture. Among many curious
things in the British Museum, I saw a gigantic land tortoise, which
weighed 870 pounds when found, was supposed to be eighty years old,
and was still growing.
In my next letter I will tell you about Paris.
I am nine years old, and before my next birthday I expect to see
many old and wonderful things on the Continent.
ALBERTO D. M.
* * * * *
CINCINNATI, OHIO.
I was much interested in your account of the flying-squirrel given
in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 87, Vol. II. I have never seen this
graceful little animal, but from what I have heard, I suppose it is
a pretty creature.
The little common squirrel inhabiting the woods is frequently seen
where I live, on Walnut Hills. One day, when I was walking down a
certain street with a friend of mine, I saw a pet squirrel nestling
on the shoulder of a boy, who kept hold of a chain which was
fastened around the little squirrel's neck. I did not think that
this precaution was necessary, for the little creature did not show
any inclination to run away, but, on the contrary, seemed quite
contented.
I have often wondered whether or not squirrels would be happier
when frisking about among the branches of trees in their native
woods than when shut up in close cages. I should think that they
would pine for their former freedom.
LIZZIE C. C.
Unless the squirrels are made captives when they are very young, they
are very wretched in confinement. We once knew about a squirrel which
really fretted itself to death in its cage, and we wondered how the boy
who owned it could ever be happy afterward. He gave it quite a little
funeral, and erected its monument in the garden, with an inscription;
but that did not make up for its unhappy days, nor restore its life. A
squirrel's cage should be large enough for a boy of twelve to stand up
and take several steps in, and it should be dressed with green boughs,
to make it seem as much like a bit of the woods as possible. Children
who have such pets should not chain them unnecessarily, and they should
be careful to keep their homes clean, and give them plenty of food and
fresh water.
* * * * *
ETNA, CALIFORNIA.
I have just been reading some of your interesting letters, and I
thought that I would sit down and write to your nice paper, which
we all enjoy reading. We live in Northern California, among the
mines, ninety-two miles from the railroad. Papa kept store for a
while, and the miners changed gold for money; and once a man
brought a piece of gold, that he had just dug out of his mine, in
the shape of a horseshoe.
My sister is thirteen years of age, and I am eleven. We both take
music lessons. We have a nice day-school and Sunday-school. There
are fourteen little girls in my class in the latter. We are
building a new church. My sister is secretary of the Sunday-school.
NELLIE J. F.
* * * * *
AUGUSTA, MAINE.
I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE almost a year, and I like it
ever so much. I just loved Toby Tyler, and wasn't the big, fat
woman good? I like such _big_ folks, because they are so kind
always. I live away down in Maine, on the beautiful Kennebec River.
Augusta is the capital, and is the head of navigation. We have
large schooners which come up here, but no ships. The schooners
bring coal, and carry away ice. Papa says the Kennebec produces the
best ice in the world, and our ice crop last year brought into the
State over $1,000,000. I like the letters from all the boys and
girls, and hope mine is not too long to be put in with others.
CHARLIE F. P.
We always wonder why Maine people say "away _down_ in Maine." It is
quite far up on the map. Yours is a nice letter, and the information
about the ice is very pleasant in this sultry weather.
* * * * *
HOPE, INDIANA.
I love to read the children's letters in your nice little paper. I
have two sisters, one eight and the other fifteen years old, and
one brother who is twenty years old. For pets I have a little dog
named Trippy and a little bird named Ruby. They are both very cute.
I am thirteen years old.
We have a piano, and I spend a good deal of my time playing. I can
not do much work, as I am crippled, and have to walk with crutches.
I have been sick a long time. I was taken ill last November a year
ago, but I am again able to go to school. I have been attending the
young ladies' seminary this spring. It has just closed, and we had
a musical entertainment, in which I was able to take part. My papa
is postmaster in this place.
Please print this, as I have not seen any letters from this place.
GERTRUDE E. M.