MR. TOMPKINS’S SMALL STORY.
“It must be a small one,” said Mr. Tompkins.
“Oh, yes! we’ve agreed to that,” said Mr. Plummer.
Mr. Tompkins then asked if they were willing it should be merely a
hen-story.
“We’ll take the vote on that,” cried Hiram. Then, turning to the
company, he said,—
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is known to you that our friend Mr.
Tompkins has paid his forfeit, and that he has been judged to redeem
it by telling a story. It was no more than right for him to pay a
forfeit; for he laughed at a quiet old lady who never did him any
harm, and treated her in an unkind manner. Mr. Tompkins now wishes
to know if his small story may be merely a hen-story. All who are
willing that Mr. Tompkins’s small story shall be merely a hen-story
please to say ‘Ay.’”
“Ay, ay, ay, ay!” was shouted many times by young and old; and, what
with the shouting and the laughing and the hand-clapping, there was
such a racket as set Snip a-barking at the top of his voice. Josephus
crowed, and made his feet fly, and patted cakes, and tossed them up
so high, that he nearly threw himself over backward. The cat hopped
out of her private box, her tail standing straight in the air: and it
is more than likely that the kittens’ eyes came open with wonder;
which would have been a very great wonder indeed, seeing that the
nine days were not much more than half over.
Mr. Tompkins then told the following short and simple story, which
was written down upon the spot by the only person present who had a
lead-pencil:—
* * * * *
There was once a hen who talked about another hen in a not very good
way, and in a not at all friendly way. The hen she talked about was
named Phe-endy Alome. Her own name was Teedla Toodlum. They both
belonged to a flock of white hens which lived in the far-away country
of Chickskumeatyourkornio.
Now, the one that was named Teedla Toodlum went around among the
other hens, making fun of Phe-endy Alome on account of her having a
speckled feather in her wing. She told them not to go with Phe-endy
Alome, or scratch up worms with her, or any thing, because Phe-endy
had that speckled feather in her wing.
One of the hens that Teedla Toodlum talked to in this way was deaf,
and therefore could not hear very well. She had become deaf in
consequence of not minding her mother. It happened in this way: A
tall Shanghai roost-cock crowed close to her ear when she was quite
small; when, in fact, she was just hatched out of her shell. She had
a number of brothers and sisters who came out at almost the same
time. The Shanghai stood very near, and in such a way that his throat
came close to the nest, and he crowed there. The chicks wanted to put
their heads out from under their mother, and see who was making such
a noise. Their mother said,—
“No, no, no! Keep under! You might be made deaf: I’ve heard of such a
thing happening.”
But one chick did put her head out, and close to the Shanghai’s
wide-open throat too, and when he was crowing terribly.
Then her mother said,—
“Now I shall punish you: I shall prick you with my pin-feathers.”
And the chick was pricked, and she became deaf besides; so that, when
she grew up, she hardly could hear herself cackle. And this was the
reason she could not understand very well when the hen named Teedla
Toodlum was telling the others that the hen named Phe-endy Alome had
a speckled feather in her wing.
One day, the hen named Teedla Toodlum scratched a hole in the sand
beneath a bramble-bush, and sat down there, where it was cool; and,
while she was sitting there, a cow came along at the other side of
the bramble-bush, with a load of “passengers” on her back. The cows
in the country of Chickskumeatyourkornio permit the hens to ride on
their backs; and, when a great many are on, they step carefully, so
as not to shake them off. In frosty weather they allow them to get up
there to warm their feet. Sometimes hens who have cold feet fly up
and push off the others who have been there long enough.
The cow passed along at the other side of the bush, and by slipping
one foot into a deep hole which was hidden with grass, and therefore
could not be seen, upset the whole load of passengers. She then
walked on; but the passengers staid there, and had a little talk
together,—after their own fashion, of course. The deaf one happened
to be among them; and, seeing that the others were having great
sport, she wanted to know what it was all about. Upon this the
others—those of them who could stop laughing—raised their voices; and
all began at once to try to make her understand. And this is what
they said:—
“Think of that goose of a hen, Teedla Toodlum, telling us not to go
with Phe-endy Alome because Phe-endy Alome has a speckled feather
in her wing, when at the same time Teedla Toodlum has _two speckled
feathers in her own wing, but doesn’t know it_!
Teedla Toodlum was listening, and heard rather more than was pleasant
to hear. She looked through the bramble-bush, and saw them. Some had
their heads thrown back, laughing; some were holding on to their
sides, each with one claw; and some were stretching their necks
forward, trying to make the deaf one understand, while the deaf one
held her claw to her ear in order to hear the better.
“Ah, I feel ashamed!” said Teedla Toodlum to herself. “I see now that
one should never speak of the speckled feathers one sees in others,
since one can never be sure that one has not speckled feathers one’s
self.”
“Why, that’s the way _our_ cow does!” cried the Jimmyjohns as soon as
Mr. Tompkins had finished.
“What! talks about speckled feathers?” asked cousin Floy.
“No: lets hens stay on her back.”
“Her parents, or grandparents, or great-grandparents, then,” said Mr.
Tompkins, “probably came from Chickskumeatyourkornio.”
FLOWERS WAKING UP.
[Illustration: Flowers waking up]
“It must be that spring has come,” said the Pansy, “or I should never
feel so uneasy, and so very wide-awake. I’ve a great mind to put my
head up out of the ground, and see. Hark! Yes, there are the birds.
They are calling to the flowers. ‘Awake!’ they say, ‘awake, and come
forth! There’s nothing to be afraid of now; for Old Winter has gone
away. He can’t hurt you any more. Violet! Snowdrop! Pansy! Don’t stay
down there any longer. We little birds are lonesome without you.’
Yes, birds, we are coming, and that right soon; for it is quite time
the spring work was a-doing; and as old Goody Grass says, if some of
us do not spring up, there will be no spring at all.
“Ah, how charming to breathe fresh air, and to be in the light! Why,
I feel all alive, all astir! This warm sunshine thrills me through
and through. ’Twas very dismal down there; but how light and cheerful
it is up above! And here are all our old neighbors; come to spend the
summer, I hope. Dear Violet, I’m so glad to see you! When did you
come up?”
“Only just this moment, Pansy. When the birds began to call, I felt
that we ought to start immediately. It is really very pleasant to be
awakened by music; pleasant, too, to meet old friends once more. And,
oh, how good it is to be alive! I have just your feelings, and cannot
keep myself quiet. What is the charm that works upon us so?”
“I believe,” said Pansy, “that the great shining sun up there has
something to do with it, in a way we don’t understand.—Ah! Neighbor
Snowdrop, how do you do? No doubt, being so early a riser, you were
one of the very first upon the ground.”
“Why, yes,” said Snowdrop, “I do make a practice of coming early. It
seems as if the birds should have some one to welcome them back: it
must be hard work singing to bare ground, after what they’ve been
used to at the South. And, besides, my dreams were so unpleasant,
that I was really glad to shake them off. Probably I slept too near
the surface; for the terrible uproar above ground disturbed me,
even in my sleep. I dreamed that a mighty giant was striding about,
shaking the world to pieces; that he stamped upon the flowers; and
was so cruel to the trees as to make them groan dreadfully. Once I
half awaked, and shuddered, and said to myself, ‘Oh! what can be
going on overhead?’ then fell asleep again, and dreamed that the
whole beautiful earth was covered with something white and cold, and
that a voice said, ‘Go up through the snow!’ to which I answered,
‘Oh! I’m afraid to go alone.’
“When I awoke, the voice seemed still saying, ‘Go up!’ Then I
remembered the birds, and came, but came trembling; for the cold
white snow was truly here, and I feared that dreadful giant might be
real also. My good friends, did you have no bad dreams? and were you
not disturbed by the tumult?”
“Not at all,” said Pansy. “When our mother told us the good Summer
who loved us had gone, and that there was a dreadful old Winter
coming, who would growl and pinch and bite, and that we’d better keep
our heads under cover, then I went to sleep, and slept soundly. I
haven’t heard any thing of all this rowdedow you say has been going
on overhead, but, on the contrary, have had very charming dreams. I
dreamed of being in a place where the sky was made up of the most
beautiful colors,—purple, yellow, pale gold, and straw-color; and
there were purple and yellow rainbows reaching down from the sky to
me. At last I awoke, and heard the birds calling. Wasn’t that pretty?
Now, little Violet, what did you dream?”
“In my dreams,” said the Violet, “the sky was all over blue,—a deep,
beautiful blue. And I can’t tell you how it was,—the dream was a
strange one,—but, while it lasted, this blue seemed to fall upon
me,—to fall gently, as the dew falls; and with the blue came a
delightful perfume. It was a very sweet dream.”
“Now I slept here quite accidentally,” said a young Sunflower,
starting up; “but I, too, had my dreams. I dreamed of seeing
something round and bright and glorious moving across the
sky,—something which I so worshipped, so longed to be like, that,
wherever it went, I never failed to turn towards it; and, in return
for my worship, this glorious object sent me down floods of its
golden light.”
“As for me,” said a Damask Rose-Bush, “I haven’t been to bed at all,
but have slept standing; and in my dreams the sky was the color of
the east just before sunrise, and every object seemed bathed in its
lovely light. There was a fragrance, too, in the air about me, and
whispers, very faint whispers, which sounded like this,—‘Love, love,
love!’ and there were little winged boys hovering around.”
“Now I,” said the Woodbine, “slept leaning against the house, and my
dreams were chiefly of climbing. Nothing would satisfy me but getting
higher. And really the dream seems to have meant something. I have
strange sensations: I feel active, restless. What has got into me, I
wonder. It must be the sap. Well, here I go!”
* * * * *
The other dreams seemed to have meant something too: for the Snowdrop
bore a flower the color of snow,—a pale, trembling blossom, that
looked as if it were afraid old Winter would come back, and have a
grab at it yet; and the Pansy’s flower was of the wondrous hues she
dreamed of,—purple, yellow, and straw-color; the Violet’s was blue,
and shed around it a delicious perfume, like that which in her dream
came down with the blue from the heavens.
The Sunflower grew up very tall, and produced a flower which always
turned to the sun, from the time of his rising in the east to his
setting in the west, and thus drew into itself such floods of golden
light, that at last this devoted flower came to resemble somewhat the
sun it worshipped.
The buds of the Damask Rose were used by lovers when they wished to
tell their love in the most beautiful way; and no doubt they and
those who received them heard whispers in the air like those the
Rose-Bush dreamed of; and if they did not see the little winged
boys,—why, they might have been there, for all that.
As for the Woodbine, it climbed till the house-top was reached, and,
at last accounts, was still creeping up the roof.
THE LITTLE PULLWINGER’S DREAM.
“You must know, children,” said uncle Joe, “that I have taken great
pains to collect dreams. Whenever strange ones or funny ones are told
me, I write them down in this ‘dream-book.’ Some of them would make
you laugh till the tears ran out of your eyes. It is really curious
what singular things do come to us in dreams,—such wonders! such
jumbles! such sillinesses! and yet they all seem right enough when we
are dreaming them.
“Now, there was little Barnabas Springer, who dreamed he was
ploughing with an ox on the sea-shore, (of all places in the world to
be ploughing!) and that the ox made a stifled, ‘rumble-grumble’ sound
in its throat several times. He dreamed, that, when they reached the
end of the furrow, he saw standing there a tall lady, whose head—now
mind this—was set on in such a way that her face came over her right
shoulder; and that this tall lady spoke to him in a loud voice, like
a person scolding,—
“‘Barnabas Springer! that ox was trying to tell you to say “Gee” to
him, so that he might “gee,” and not wet his feet.’
“Now, ‘gee’ means ‘turn to the right,’ and the tall lady’s face
looked over her right shoulder; and, when Barnabas woke up, he was
lying on his right side, with his eyes, nose, and mouth in the
pillows: all of which is something to think of.
“Then there was my pet niece Susie dreamed she was her own kitten,
trying to catch her own canary-bird, and that she understood every
thing the bird said in his flutterings, and just what his feelings
were. The poor child cried herself awake, and no wonder.
“But among the strangest of the strange ones in this collection,”
said uncle Joe, opening his dream-book, “is that of Jimmy, my little
nephew. He dreamed he was a fly, and that he talked with a sorrowful
butterfly (which died in the dream), and with a bluebird, and also
with a curious being who wore five tall black-and-white plumes,—one
in his hat, and two on each shoulder. The curious being also wore a
cow’s horn, standing in front of his hat; for which reason he was
called the ‘Great Head-Horner.’
“He had ten ‘helpers.’ These helpers had each one plume, but no
horn. Their plumes stood up straight, in the middle of the crowns
of their tall hats. You will hear about them presently; for I have
the whole dream written down here, just as Jimmy told it to me,
dialogue-fashion.
“It happened in this way: One summer afternoon Jimmy had been doing
something naughty (you will find out what it was by and by); and his
mother, after talking with him, read to him a story about a boy who
had done the same thing, and other things somewhat like it. She also
told some true stories of cruel men whom she had known, and read
several short pieces of poetry on the same subject.
“Now that I have spoken the word ‘cruel,’ I may as well say that
Jimmy had been tormenting insects in ways which it would give me pain
to tell, and give you pain to hear, and that the men of whom his
mother spoke had been cruel to dumb animals.
“While she was talking, three or four officers in uniform passed by.
I mention these things in order that you may the better account for
Jimmy’s curious dream.
“Jimmy fell asleep during the reading of the verses, and dreamed
of being in a strange place, where he saw close beside him a large
golden-spotted butterfly. He dreamed that it was a moaning, sighing,
sorrowing butterfly, and—what seemed more strange—that it spoke to
him, and called him a fly; and, stranger yet, that he thought, for a
time, he was a fly, though he felt like himself all the while. Even
this, however, is not so strange as the rest.
“In the dream-dialogue I call Jimmy by his true name, because, as
he said, he felt like himself. You will observe that the sorrowful
butterfly begins.”
_Butterfly._—Speak to him; ask him not to do it, dear, pretty fly!
_Jimmy._—You are not talking to me, butterfly, are you?
_Butterfly._—Yes, fly, I am talking to you.
_Jimmy._—But I am not a fly, butterfly: I am a boy, a Jimmy.
_Butterfly._—You are a fly, and this will prove it. Can a boy hear
butterfly-talk, and know the meaning of it?
_Jimmy._—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could fly.
_Butterfly._—So you can fly, fly. Flap, and try!
“He flapped in his dream, flew up, then flew down.”
_Jimmy._—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could crawl on the wall.
_Butterfly._—You can. Flap again, fly; fly to the wall, and crawl!
“He flapped in his dream, flew to the wall, and crawled.”
_Butterfly._—Now do you believe you are a fly?
_Jimmy._—Yes, butterfly: I am a fly, and I am a Jimmy; I am a
Jimmy-fly.
_Butterfly._—Oh, oh, oh! Help, he comes!
_Jimmy._—Who comes?
_Butterfly._—The giant. Ask him not to do it, dear, good fly! See,
see the sharp rod! I tremble, I quiver!
_Jimmy._—What will he do with it, butterfly?
_Butterfly._—He will run it through my body. Oh, dear! oh, dear!
_Jimmy._—Why don’t you fly away?
_Butterfly._—The window is shut. Do, _do_ speak to him!
_Jimmy._—A fly cannot talk to a giant.
_Butterfly._—But you can buzz to him. A poor butterfly cannot even
buzz. See, he comes near!
_Jimmy._—That is not a giant: that is only a boy.
_Butterfly._—Oh, it is a giant! Won’t you, _won’t_ you, buzz to him?
_Jimmy._—What shall I buzz to him?
_Butterfly._—Buzz that I want to live; that I long to live.
_Jimmy._—What shall I buzz that you want to live for?
_Butterfly._—To rock in the lily-bells.
_Jimmy._—What else?
_Butterfly._—To float up and down, up and down, all the summer-day.
_Jimmy._—What else?
_Butterfly._—For the honey of the flowers.
_Jimmy._—What else?
_Butterfly._—And for their fragrance. Flower fragrance is the breath
of life to a butterfly. Buzz all this to him. Quick! Ah, too late,
too late! Oh, oh, oh!
_Jimmy._—Will it take a great while to die?
_Butterfly._—A very great while. (Gasps for breath.) Oh, oh, dear!
Cruel, cruel, cruel giant!
“The Jimmy-fly flies up to the ‘giant’s’ ear, and tries to buzz
‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’
“A great hand strikes him off. He gets lost in the air; and when,
after a long time, he finds his way back, the golden-spotted
butterfly is almost dead. It takes no notice of any thing around, but
murmurs, faintly and more faintly, of ‘clover, bees, honey, perfume,
roses, mossy banks, lily-bells, dewdrops, humming-birds,’ and so
passes away in a pleasant butterfly vision.
“The Jimmy-fly flies up again, and buzzes in the giant’s ear, as well
as he can, ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’
“The window is opened, and he is driven out. He flies to a tree near
by, where sits a bluebird. The bird appears frightened, and-utters
cries of distress.”
_Jimmy._—Bluebird, what troubles you so?
_Bluebird._—There’s a gun below. It will kill me! Oh, if I could only
live!
_Jimmy._—It is strange. The butterfly wished the very same thing.
Now, what do you want to live for, bluebird?
_Bluebird._—Why, to sing with the other birds, and to swing on the
boughs; to take care of my little birdies, and to spread my wings,
and fly away and away over the treetops; also to go South with the
summer. Oh, but we birds have rare sport then! Have you heard of the
sunny South? Do you know that we go where the orange-trees bloom? We
find no frost there, but sunshine always, and flowers, and a mild
air. And then the fun of going all together! We sing, we fly races in
the sky, we follow the leader. Ah! a bird’s life is a happy life, and—
“A gun has been fired.
“The Jimmy-fly flies down, and finds the bird on the ground, gasping
for breath. Its bright eyes are closed. Its head fails on its breast.
One little flutter of the wings,—_dead_! The bluebird will never
sing again, nor swing on the boughs, nor fly away and away over the
treetops, nor go South with the summer.
“And here enters into the dream the curious being spoken of just
now, namely, the ‘Great Head-Horner,’ or captain, with his five tall
black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder.
Behind him, in single file, all keeping step, march his ten helpers.”
_Captain_ (in a loud voice).—Halt! Here is the boy.—Boy, step this
way!
_Jimmy._—I am not—a boy. I am—a—a—fly.
_Captain._—Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.
“It passes along the line, each helper saying to the next,—
“‘Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.’”
_Captain._—If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?
“All repeat this, one after the other, ‘If he is a fly, why doesn’t
he fly?’ till the noise of so many voices sounds like the bumbling of
hoarse bumble-bees.
“Jimmy flaps his arms, but cannot rise.
“A laugh passes along the line.”
_Captain._—Which are you now,—fly, or boy?
_Jimmy._—I think—I am—a boy.
_Captain._—He thinks he is a boy: _we_ think he is a pullwinger-boy.
Wheel about, my helpers.—Boy, these are my first company of
helpers.—Wheel about, my helpers; form a hollow square around the
boy; take him to the great “Bondenquol;” let him see what is being
done there!
“Jimmy is now taken to the great ‘Bondenquol.’”
_Captain._—First company of helpers, begin your work: bring in the
abusers of dumb animals. (The ten helpers march out.)
_Captain._—Helper No. 1, enter!
“Enter helper No. 1, driving before him a red-faced man who is
harnessed to a wagon in which is a load too heavy for him to draw.
Wagon moves slowly: man pulls with all his might. Helper No. 1
strikes him with a whip: man cries out, tries to move faster, but
cannot. Another blow: he groans, quivers, bends himself nearly double.
“Meantime other helpers have come in at other doors, each driving
a man who is trying to draw a load heavy beyond his strength. The
helpers use their whips. The men suffer pain: some of them are lame;
some blind; some are half starved, and so weak that their joints
tremble. The great ‘Bondenquol’ resounds with shrieks and groans.”
_Jimmy_ (to the captain).—What are they hurting those men for?
_Captain._—To let them know how whip-blows feel. Those are the
cruel: they abuse dumb animals. Do you know, that, were horses not
dumb, whoever passes along the street would hear shrieks and groans
worse than those you are now hearing? But come. You are waited
for.—Boy-punishers, roll the wall.
“The heavy wall moves along on rollers. The noise of this, together
with fright at the prospect of being punished, woke Jimmy from his
sleep. A wagon loaded heavily with coal was passing the house. It
was this which waked him. It came to a steep place in the road. The
horses could scarcely move. The driver swore at them. He took his
whip, and laid on the blows,—terribly hard blows!
“Jimmy ran out.
“‘Oh, don’t, Mr. Driver!’ he cried. ‘Please stop whipping the poor
horses! You don’t know how it hurts!’
“The driver could hardly tell what to make of it to be spoken to in
that way, and by a boy.
“‘And do _you_ know?’ he asked.
“‘Yes, yes!’ cried Jimmy. ‘I dreamed all about it.’
“The driver seemed more puzzled than ever. He stood still, looked
down at Jimmy; and at last said he,—
“‘Well, to please you, I’ll stop.”
[Illustration: THE BARREL-MAN LOOKING AT HIS POSSESSIONS.—FROM A
SKETCH BY THE BARREL-MAN HIMSELF.]
HOW THE BARN CAME FROM JORULLO.
TOLD BY THE FAMILY STORY-TELLER.
It was not a new story; indeed, it was hardly a story at all: but
the children liked the family story-teller’s way of telling it and
of acting it out. The family story-teller made a big matter of that
barn-moving. He put in words enough to describe an earthquake, or a
West-India hurricane, or a volcano pouring out red-hot melted lava,
or a steamboat bursting her boiler and blowing herself up. He also
wanted plenty of room in which to fling his arms about, and shake his
fists, and make other kinds of motions, so as to act out what was
done, and especially what the oxen-drivers did.
“Oh, yes!” the family story-teller said, taking a leap into the
middle of the floor: “I’ll tell how the barn came from Jorullo.
All keep quiet. The story is going to begin now. One morning the
barrel-man—a collector of barrels—went forth from his house by the
back-door; and there he stood with folded arms (like this), looking
at all his carts, wheelbarrows, barrels, haystacks, garden-tools, and
many other things. And he said, ‘Behold, I have carts, wheelbarrows,
barrels, haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things, but have no
roof whereunder to shelter them.’ And he said, ‘Behold, in Jorullo
there stands a barn,—a brown barn, a right goodly barn. This barn
will I buy. And I will get oxen (horned oxen with their drivers)
and horses, and moving-men with their stout wheels, and timbers,
and great iron chains; and the timbers shall be raised upon the
wheels, and the barn shall be raised upon the timbers, and the oxen
shall draw, and the wheels shall roll, and the barn shall come from
Jorullo; and in that will I shelter my carts, barrels, wheelbarrows,
haystacks, garden-tools, and many other things.’
“And he sent round about into all the country; and there came twenty
oxen, and horses besides, with their drivers, from South Stromriffe
and Smithersville and Mt. Lob and Trilerbite Four Corners; and the
Paxhamborough moving-men came with their stout wheels, and their
timbers, and their great iron chains; and the timbers were raised
upon the wheels, and the barn was raised upon the timbers. Then
the drivers began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this):
‘_Get up there!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Come along!_’ ‘_Hi, hi, hi!_’
‘_What’re ye ’bout?_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty
strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn began to move from
Jorullo.
“And first they came to a telegraph-wire, and there they stopped.
‘Take down that telegraph-wire!’ shouted the head moving-man, ‘and
let it stay down till the barn passes by.’ Then out came the ladders,
and up climbed the men, and down came the telegraph-wire.”
“And _out jumped a cat_!” cried one of the little boys.
[Illustration: Ladder and sign]
[Illustration: THE BARREL-MAN CUTS THE BRANCHES, AND THE OWNER
COMPLAINS.]
“Yes, out jumped a cat from the barn-window, with a kitten in her
mouth. She thought ’twas time to move into some other building.
She went back to Jorullo and left her kitten, and came back and
jumped in at the same window just as they were going to start again.
‘Ready!’ cried the head moving-man. Then the drivers began to shout,
and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Come along here!_’ ‘_Haw!_’
‘_Whoa!_’ ‘_Go on!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Get up there!_’ ‘_What ye ’bout
there?_’ The horses and oxen began to draw with mighty strength; the
wheels began to roll; and the barn moved on.
“And next they came to a railroad-crossing, and there they stopped.
Across the way was a signboard; and on the signboard were capital
letters, ‘LOOK OUT FOR THE ENGINE WHEN THE BELL RINGS.’ ‘Take down
that signboard!’ shouted the head moving-man, ‘and let it stay down
while the barn passes by.’ Then out came the ladders, and up climbed
the men, and down came the signboard.”
“And _out jumped the cat again_!” cried the same little boy.
“To be sure, out jumped the cat again, with another kitten in her
mouth, and ran. She had farther to go this time; and, before she
got back, the head moving-man called out, ‘Ready!’ Then the drivers
began to shout, and flourish their whips (like this): ‘_Move along
now!_’ ‘_What are ye doin’ there!_’ ‘_Hi, hi!_’ ‘_Get up!_’ ‘_Go
on!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Haw!_’ ‘_Keep a-movin’!_’ The horses and oxen began
to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn
moved on.
“And next they came to a great oak-tree, whose limbs overhung the
road, and there they stopped. ‘Chop off a few of those limbs!’
shouted the head moving-man. Then out came the ladders, and up went
the men with their hatchets; and _crack_, _snap_! went the limbs.
Soon ran somebody from a little house a long distance off, bawling
away, and shaking his fists, ‘What you doin’ up there? Stop chopping;
stop chopping! I’ll make you pay damages!’—‘All right! I’ll pay
damages!’ cried the head moving-man; and just then the cat came back,
and jumped in at the window. The drivers began to shout, and flourish
their whips (like this): ‘_Come up!_’ ‘_Gee!_’ ‘_Gee, I say!_’ ‘_Come
along!_’ ‘_Whoa!_’ ‘_Back!_’ ‘_Get up now!_’ ‘_Hawbuck!_’ ‘_Mind
there!_’ ‘_Hi, hi, hi!_’ ‘_Now go ’long!_’ The horses and oxen began
to draw with mighty strength; the wheels began to roll; and the barn
moved on.
“At home, Hepsy Bacon and another woman, Sophrony by name, sat
at the chamber-window, peeling potatoes. They had come to help
the barrel-man’s wife get the dinner ready; for the Paxhamborough
moving-men, and all the oxen-drivers from South Stromriffe and
Smithersville and Mt. Lob and Trilerbite Four Corners, must have
their dinners. And the barrel-man had said, ‘Watch out from the
chamber-windows; and, when the barn comes in sight, _put your
potatoes in the pot_.’
“Three great dinner-kettles were set boiling on the stove, besides
tea-kettles, frying-pans, stew-pans, sauce-pans, coffee-pots,
tea-pots, and many other things.
[Illustration: THE HORSES AND THE OXEN APPEAR IN SIGHT.]
“At two o’clock the great brown barn came in sight, with all the
horses and oxen and drivers, and a crowd of men and boys and dogs
following on. Then ran Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony, and dropped into the
pot their peeled potatoes, along with the meat, cabbages, parsnips,
squashes, turnips, carrots, rye-dumplings, and many other things; and
the table was set with plates, spoons, cups, saucers, forks, knives,
napkins, tumblers, and many other things.
“At half-past two the great brown barn came rolling past the windows,
with all the twenty oxen (twenty horned oxen) and horses (horses
with tails), and crowds of men, and drivers cracking their whips,
and boys shouting, and dogs barking, and a grand hurrah all round.
The barrel-man’s lame horse whinnied and ran; the cow mooed and
ran; the geese squawked and ran; the turkeys gobbled and ran; the
old pig grunted and ran; the little pigs squeaked and ran; the hens
cackled and ran; the two cats mewed and ran, and one jumped up on
the house; the dogs barked; while Hepsy Bacon and Sophrony, with
their long necks out the window, waved white handkerchiefs. When
the barn stopped, out leaped the cat that came from Jorullo, with
another kitten in her mouth. The boys hooted her,—‘Meauw, meauw!—’st,
’st!—quish! pr—rr—rr—rr—rr!’—and back she went again. Somebody chased
her in, and found she had one kitten there besides the one in her
mouth.
“When every thing was ready, the men came in to dinner,—tall men,
short men, fat men, lean men, dark men, light men, young men, old
men, curly-haired men, straight-haired men, men with shaggy coats,
men with butchers’ frocks, men with bruised hands, men with bad
coughs, men with pains in their shoulders, all tired, and all very
hungry; for they had eaten nothing since early in the morning,
and had walked all the way from their homes in South Stromriffe,
Smithersville, Mt. Lob, Paxhamborough, and Trilerbite Four Corners.
The barrel-man’s wife and Hepsy Bacon filled up the dishes as fast as
they were emptied; and Sophrony, with the coffee-pot in one hand and
the teapot in the other, asked each one, ‘Tea, or coffee, sir?’
“One poor sickly man who was troubled with a very bad cough was asked
to stay all night, so that he needn’t take anymore cold; and Hepsy
Bacon and Sophrony made for him in the frying-pan a cough-medicine of
molasses and castor-oil and pepper and sugar and butter and vinegar,
and many other things.
“Next morning there were four kittens in the barn. That cat must have
gone all the way back to Jorullo in the night, and brought those
others, one at a time.
“And now, children,” said the family story-teller in conclusion,
“stand around—little and big, old and young—while I show you the
beautiful, graphic, and animated drawings which the barrel-man made
himself on the very day that the barn came down from Jorullo.”
[Illustration: THE FOURTEEN HUNGRY MEN SIT AROUND THE TABLE; AND
SOPHRONY SAYS, “TEA, OR COFFEE, SIR?”]
A POTATO STORY WHICH BEGINS WITH A BEAN-POLE.
The family story-teller, being asked to tell one of his “ten-minute”
stories, said, “If it will content you, I will tell you a Potato
story which begins with a Bean-Pole.
“Once there was a Bean-Pole which was stuck into the ground by the
side of a Potato-Hill.
“‘Dear me!’ cried a young Cabbage, growing near, ‘what a stiff, poky
thing that is! and of no earthly use, standing there doing nothing.’
“But very soon a Scarlet-Bean, running about in search of something
to climb upon, found this same Bean-Pole.
“‘All right!’ cried the happy little Bean. ‘You are the very thing I
want. Now I’ll begin my summer’s work.’
“‘Well, to be sure!’ cried young Cabbage. ‘Every thing comes to some
use at last. But who would have thought it!’
“The Scarlet-Bean was a spry little thing. She ran up that pole just
as easy! Being of a lively turn, she began, at last, to make fun of
the Potato-Plant.
“‘How sober you are!’ said she. ‘Why don’t you try to brighten up,
and look more blooming?’
“The poor Potato-Plant, though doing her best, could only show a few
pale blooms.
“‘You don’t mean to call those things flowers?’ cried the frisky
Bean. ‘Just look at my beautiful blossoms!’ And she held up a spray
of bright scarlet.
“The Potato-Plant kept quiet.
“‘What stupid, useless things those Potato-Plants are!’ said young
Cabbage; ‘and how much room they take up!’
“Summer passed. The Bean began to fill her pods, and proud enough she
was of them.
“‘Why don’t you do something?’ she cried to the Potato-Plant down
below. ‘Only see what I’ve done! There’s a summer’s work for you!’
And, sure enough, she had hung her full pods all up and down the pole.
“‘Yes, why don’t you do something?’ cried Cabbage. ‘Your summer is
gone, and nothing done. Can’t you come to a head? Any thing but
idleness!’
“The Potato-Plant still kept quiet: but when digging-time came,
and the hill was opened, and the pile of ‘Long Reds’ appeared, her
neighbors could hardly believe their senses.
“‘Dear me! what a surprise!’ cried the Bean. ‘So we can’t always tell
by appearances.’
“‘I declare!’ cried Cabbage. ‘Then you were doing something all that
time! But how could I know? There’s that Bean: she hung her pods up
high, so that everybody could see. Well, well, well! After this, I’ll
always say of a plant which makes but little show, “Wait: _potatoes
inside there_, maybe.”’
“There are a great many Scarlet-Beans among the people I know,” said
the family story-teller, “and some Potato-Plants too, and perhaps a
few young Cabbage-Heads.”
THE WAY MRS. MACGARRET’S TEA-PARTY WAS BROKEN UP.
Mrs. MacGarret was an attic cat, and lived in the garret; but Mrs.
O’Cellary lived in the cellar. Mrs. MacGarret had three children,
and Mrs. O’Cellary had three children. Mr. MacGarret had gone away,
and so had Mr. O’Cellary. Mrs. MacGarret’s children were all of an
age, and Mrs. O’Cellary’s children were all of an age. The names of
the MacGarret children were Spotty MacGarret, Tabby MacGarret, and
Tilly MacGarret. The O’Cellary children were named, the first, Dinah
O’Cellary, after its mother; the second, Thomas O’Cellary, after its
father; while the third was called Bengal Tiger O’Cellary, after one
of their grand-relations.
One day Mrs. MacGarret said to her children, “My dears, I have
decided to have company this afternoon. I shall invite Mrs. O’Cellary
and her family. Behave well, or you will be punished. At supper eat
the poorest, and give the best to the company. Be very quiet, and
never interrupt. That you may look your best, I shall put up your
tails in curl-papers. Now, don’t cry if I pull some.” And they shut
their mouths tight, and never uttered a sound.
“Good children!” said Mrs. MacGarret. “Now you may go down and invite
the company.”
“What, in curl-papers!” cried Spotty. “Oh, not in curl-papers!” cried
Tabby. “You can’t mean in curl-papers!” cried Tilly.
“True,” said their mother: “you can’t go in curl-papers. I’ll step
down myself.”
“But we’re afraid to stay alone!” cried Spotty and Tabby and Tilly.
“Don’t go!” “Don’t go!” “Don’t go!” And each held up her fore-paw,
and begged and prayed and wept.
“Poor darlings!” said Mrs. MacGarret: “how can I leave you? Now, if
we were but good friends with Mr. Rat, how easily he could do the
errand! for yonder rat-hole leads to the cellar straight.”
“Can’t you speak down to her?” asked Spotty. “I think you might speak
down,” said Tabby. “Do speak down!” cried Tilly.
“To be sure,” said Mrs. MacGarret: “of course I can. ’Tis often done
in hotels. What smart children you are!”
Then Mrs. MacGarret spoke down, and invited Mrs. O’Cellary and her
family to tea at seven o’clock; and Mrs. O’Cellary answered up that
they would be most happy.
At quarter before seven the curl-papers were taken out.
“Charming!” cried Mrs. MacGarret. “All stand in a row, that I may
see. Charming! Don’t move!”
At seven o’clock Mrs. O’Cellary arrived with all her children, and
two young cousins who were paying her a visit: and, as it was a grand
occasion, supper was laid out on a black leather trunk bordered with
brass nails; and nothing could have been more elegant.
Now, this was what Mrs. MacGarret set before them for supper: first,
mouse; second, scraps; third, codfish dried; fourth, squash in the
rind, brought up from the kitchen in the dead of the night. Mrs.
MacGarret lamented that she was out of milk; but their saucer was
licked dry at dinner, and the milkman had not been round. But the
company all said they seldom took milk, and that every thing was
lovely. The talk was very entertaining, being mostly about the
boldness of a mouse, who would peep out of his hole at them, but who
popped back again the minute they stirred. They also talked much of
the bad boy. A new little whip had been given him, and travelling
through the passages was really quite unsafe.
“We were in great danger coming up, I assure you,” said Mrs.
O’Cellary.
“Very great danger, ma’am,” said Thomas.
“We ran for our lives, ma’am,” said Bengal T.
“Be not so forward to speak in older company,” whispered Mrs.
O’Cellary.
After supper a neighbor dropped in from the next attic, bringing her
children; and there was a very merry party; and all would have gone
well but for Tabby MacGarret, who did not do the right thing. This is
how it happened.
All the mothers sat down on a spinning-wheel to have a cosey talk,
and the children had great sport with the funny little mouse. First
he would peep out of his hole, and wink at them; and, when they all
jumped for him, he would dodge back again; and the next thing they
knew his little black eyes would be peeping out from another hole.
Then they would jump again. But he always popped back just in time.
“Now do come out, mousey, and play with us,” they said.
Said mousey, “I like this better.”
Now, Mrs. MacGarret had given the children all that was left at
supper to divide among themselves. They chose one to divide it; and
Tabby MacGarret was the one chosen. Pretty soon Spotty saw her clap
something under her paw in a very private way; and, guessing that all
was not right, she stepped softly round behind, and just bit the end
of her tail. This made Tabby lift up her paw, and then—they all saw!
She had taken the best piece for herself!
Such a time as there was! “O shame!” “Shame!” “Shame!” cried Spotty
and Tommy and Dinah; and “Shame!” cried Bengal Tiger O’Cellary. And
they all hissed and sputtered; and Tabby ran down the garret-stairs
with all the others after her, and all the mothers behind. The bad
boy was standing in the passage with his new whip; and he snapped
it and cracked it till they were frightened out of their wits, and
scampered to hide where best they could.
And it was in this way that Mrs. MacGarret’s tea party was broken up.
GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.
“Mother, do butterflies remember when they were worms and
caterpillars?” inquired Natty.
“What puzzling questions you children do ask!” said his mother. “The
idea never entered my head. You must ask your uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe,” asked Natty, again, “do butterflies remember when they
were worms and caterpillars?”
“Why, no!” said uncle Joe. “I should say not, if all stories are
true.”
“What stories do you mean, uncle Joe?”
“I am thinking now,” said uncle Joe, “of a story I once heard, which
perhaps you will like to hear. Yes? Then I will tell it.
“A poor tired worm was one day crawling slowly along the ground,
seeking for food; while above her happy insects darted through the
air, their bright wings flashing in the sunlight.
“‘Alas!’ sighed the worm, ‘what a toilsome life is ours! We move only
by great labor, and, even with that, can never travel far. Kept near
the damp ground, liable at any moment to be crushed, toiling up and
down rough stalks, eating tough leaves,—for it is only now and then
we find a flower,—oh, it is truly a wearisome life!
“‘Yet none seem to pity our sorrows. Those proud insects flitting
overhead,—the miller, the butterfly, the dragon-fly, the golden
bumble-bee,—they never notice us. Oh, but life goes well with
them! Flying is so easy! Wherever they wish to be, they have only
to spread their wings, and the summer wind bears them on. Dressed
gayly, at home with all the flowers, living on sweets, seeing fine
sights, hearing all that is to be heard, what care they for us poor
plodders? Selfish creatures, they think only of themselves. Now, for
my part, if I had wings, and could move about so easily, I would
think sometimes of the poor worms down below who cannot fly. I would
bring them now and then a sip of honey, or a taste of something nice
from the flower-gardens far away. I would come down and speak a kind
word; tell them something good to hear; in short, be friendly. Oh,
if one only had wings, how much good one might do! But these selfish
creatures never think of that.’
“Not long afterward, this complaining worm was changed into a
butterfly. Spreading her light wings, she passed the happy hours in
flitting from field to field, rocking in the flower-cups, idling
about where the sunshine was brightest, sipping where the honey was
sweetest. Oh! a right gay butterfly was she, and no summer day ever
seemed too long.
“One morning, while resting upon an opening rosebud, she saw below
her a couple of worms, making their slow way over the ground.
“‘Poor creatures!’ she said. ‘Life goes hard with them. Dull things,
how little they know! It must be stupid enough down there. No doubt
their lives could be brightened if proper means were taken. Some
few pleasures or comforts might be given them; and I hope this
will be done. If I were not so busy—but really I haven’t a moment
to spare. To-day there is a rose-party, and all the butterflies
are going there. To-morrow the sweet-pea party comes off, and all
the butterflies are going there. Next day the grasshoppers give a
grand hop, and at sundown there will be a serenade by the crickets.
Every hour is occupied. The bumble-bees and hornets are getting up
a concert. Then there is a new flower blossoming in a garden far
away, and all are flying to see it. The two rich butterflies—Lady
Golden-Spot and Madame Royal-Purple—have arrived in great state, and
they will expect great attentions. The bees have had a lucky summer,
and, in honor of these new arrivals, have promised to give a grand
honey-festival, at which the queen herself will preside. The wasps
are on the police; and they will, I trust, keep out the vulgar. The
gnats and mosquitoes have formed a military company, called the
Flying Militia, which will serve, if needed. It is to be hoped that
no low creatures, like the two creeping along below, will intrude
themselves. Poor things! If I had the time, I really would try to do
something for them; but every sunny day is taken up, and stirring out
in the wet is not to be thought of.
“‘Besides, one meets with so much that is not pleasant in mixing
with low people. Their homes are not always cleanly: I might soil my
wings. And, if once taken notice of, they will always expect to be.
Why make them dissatisfied? They are well enough off as they are.
Perhaps, after all, it is my duty not to meddle with them: in fact, I
have no doubt of it.
“‘Here comes Miss Gossamer. Welcome, Miss Gossamer! All ready for the
rose-party? How sweetly you look! Wait one moment till I have washed
my face in this dew-drop: the sun has nearly dried it up while I
have been pitying those mean worms below there. It is folly, I know,
to thus waste the time; but my feelings are so tender! I actually
thought of calling! What would Lady Golden-Spot think, or Madame
Royal-Purple? Have you seen them pass? They are sure to be there. Do
you suppose they will take notice of us? If they don’t, I shall be
perfectly wretched. Come, dear Miss Gossamer, one more sip, and then
away!’”
THE STORY OF FLORINDA.
A party of small cousins were spending New-Year’s at grandma Bowen’s;
and, while waiting for tea, they begged her to tell them the story of
Florinda,—some because they had never heard it, others because they
had. The old lady was more than willing. “Yes,” said she, “we Bowens
ought to keep alive the memory of Florinda, the faithful hired girl;
and I will tell you the story just as your grandfather told it to me,
and just as his grandfather told it to him, and as _his_ grandfather
told it to _him_. Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather
remembered Nathaniel Bowen very well; and _his_ father—Nathaniel
Bowen’s father, the first Mr. Bowen of all—came over from England in
the bark ‘Jasper’ more than two hundred years ago. He brought his
family with him, and they settled in this very place where we live
now. The country was covered with woods then. Indians, buffaloes,
deer, wolves, and foxes had it pretty much to themselves.
“But, if I am going to tell the story,” continued the old lady,
suddenly raising her voice, and sitting straight in her chair, “there
is something to be done first, so that we may seem to see just how
they lived in those days. For instance, carry out the furniture, and
the stove, pictures, carpet (_make believe_, you know); then tear
the house down, leaving only this one room, and let this one room
pass for that one-roomed hut. But knock away lath and plaster: the
walls must be made of logs; the same overhead. Cut square holes for
windows, and hang wooden shutters inside (one of the square holes may
have four small panes of glass); cover the others with oiled paper
(there was no glass made in this country then). Let a stone chimney
run up through the logs overhead at one end; and at the other end
a ladder, leading to a loft: the fireplace must be very large. And
now, to furnish the hut, bring in a bed, a meal-chest, a large, heavy
clothes-chest, a spinning-wheel, a bench or two, and a few chairs.
Can you _see_ that hut now?”
“And the _stumps_!” cried some of the listeners, who knew the whole
story.
“Yes, dears,” said the old lady, looking pleased, “and some stumps of
trees, sawed off short, for the children to sit on.
“There was one house beside in the valley, and only one, and that
belonged to a man named Moore. It stood nearly an eighth of a
mile off in that direction” (pointing). “Four miles off in _that_
direction” (pointing the opposite way), “at the Point, called then
Mackerel Point, there were some dozen or twenty houses, a store, and
a mill. There was no road between here and the Point: there was only
a blind pathway through the woods. Those woods reached hundreds and
hundreds of miles.
“When Mr. Bowen had lived in this country a little more than a year,
his wife died, leaving three children,—Philip, not quite eleven years
old; Nathaniel, six; and Polly, three: and to take care of these
children, and to keep his house, he hired a young girl named Florinda
LeShore, who came over from England as servant in some family. This
Florinda was born in France; but she had spent the greater part of
her life in England. She was only fifteen years old,—rather young to
take the care of a family. There were so few whites in this country
then, however, that Mr. Bowen was glad to get even a girl fifteen
years old. I suppose he little thought she would be the means of
saving the lives of two of his children.
“Florinda hired out to Mr. Bowen some time in November. On the 29th
of December, as Mr. Bowen and Mr. Moore were saddling their horses
to go to the store for provisions, word came that they must set out
immediately for a place about fifteen miles off, called Dermott’s
Crossing, to consult with other settlers as to what should be done to
defend themselves against the Indians; for there were reports that in
some neighborhoods the Indians were doing mischief.
“So the two men turned their horses’ heads in the direction of
Dermott’s Crossing. It was woods most of the way; but they knew
the general direction of the bridle-path, and thought they should
make good time, and be back by noon of the next day. Florinda baked
corn-meal into thin cakes, and put the cakes and some slices of bacon
into the saddle-bags along with corn for the horses. The men were to
return by way of the store, and bring provisions.
“Two days and two nights passed, and they had neither come, nor sent
any message. By that time there was not much left to eat in either
house. Florinda and the children slept both nights at Mrs. Moore’s.
Mr. Bowen said it would be better for them to sleep there. He did not
fear any actual danger (the Indians in this neighborhood had never
been troublesome at all): still, in case any thing should happen,
Mrs. Moore’s house was much the safer of the two. It was built of
heavy timbers; and its doors were oak, studded with spikes. The
Indians never attacked a strong house like that, especially if it
were guarded by a white man with fire-arms. Mrs. Moore was a feeble
woman. She had two little children; and her brother was then living
with her,—a young man named David Palmer, at that time confined in
doors on account of having frozen his feet badly.
“On the second morning, Philip begged Florinda to let him take his
hand-sled and go to the store and get some meal and some bacon for
themselves and Mrs. Moore. Florinda felt loath to let him go. It
was a long distance: there was snow in the woods, and no track. But
Philip said that he wasn’t afraid: the oldest boy ought to take care
of the family. And at last Florinda said he might go: indeed, there
seemed no other way; for, unless he did, they might all starve,
especially if there should come on a heavy snow-storm.
“Philip had a hand-sled made of barrel-staves. He took this
hand-sled, and took a shovel to dig his way through the open places
where the snow would be drifted. Mrs. Moore had him start from her
house, because she wanted to be sure he was well wrapped up. She, as
well as Florinda, felt badly about his going. There was danger that
he would lose his way; and there were other dangers, which neither
of them liked to speak of. He left home in good spirits, about
nine o’clock in the morning, on the thirty-first day of December,
promising to be back before evening.
“Florinda spent the day in spinning and in other work for the family.
As soon as it began to grow dark, Mrs. Moore sent her little boy over
to inquire. Florinda sent word back that Philip had not come, but
that she expected him every minute, and that she should wait until he
did come before going over to Mrs. Moore’s.
“After the boy had gone back, Florinda barred the door, and shut all
the window-shutters but one. She left that open, so that Philip might
see the firelight shining through. The children began to cry because
Philip was out all alone in the dark woods; and Florinda did every
thing she could to take up their minds. Nathaniel told afterward of
her rolling up the cradle-quilt into a baby for little Polly, and
pinning an apron on it; and of her setting him letters to copy on
the bellows with chalk. He said she tied a strip of cloth round his
head to keep the hair out of his eyes when he bent over to make the
letters. He remembered her telling them stories about the people
in France, of their out-door dancings and their grape-pickings;
and that, to amuse them, she took from her clothes-box a spangled
work-bag that was made in France; and then took out a funny
high-crowned cap her mother used to wear, and put the cap on her
own head to make them laugh; and that, when little Polly wanted a
cap too, she twisted up a handkerchief into the shape of a cap for
her; and he remembered her stopping her wheel very often to listen
for Philip. He always spoke of Florinda, as a sprightly, bright-eyed
girl, who was pleasing both in her looks and her manners.
“At last little Polly fell asleep, and was placed on the bed.
Nathaniel laid his head on Florinda’s lap, and dropped asleep there,
and slept till she got up to put more wood on. It was then nearly
twelve o’clock. He woke in a fright, and crying. He had been dreaming
about wolves.
“In the midst of his crying there came a tap at the door. Florinda
made no answer. Then a voice said, ‘’St, ’st’ Still she made no
answer. Then the voice said softly, ’_Florinda!_’ It was the young
man David Palmer, Mrs. Moore’s brother. He had crawled all the
way from the other house to see if they were safe, and ask if
they would not come over. Florinda said no; that it would soon be
morning; that she had plenty of work to do, and that she was not
afraid: the Indians had always been kind to the family, and the
family to them. The young man told her that what had happened in
far-off neighborhoods might happen there; that, at any rate, the
window-shutter ought to be shut to keep the light from shining out,
in case any Indians passed through the woods; and that, when Philip
got within half a mile of the house, he could keep his course by the
brook. Florinda closed the shutter. He pointed to a knot-hole in the
shutter, and she hung a shawl over it. Then he dried his fur mittens
a few minutes longer at the blaze, and went back to stay with his
sister.
“When the young man had been gone a little while, Nathaniel climbed
up and looked through the knot-hole, and told Florinda he saw a
fire in the woods. Florinda said she thought not; that maybe it was
the moon rising; and kept on with her spinning. By and by he looked
again, and said he did see a fire, and some Indians sitting down by
it. Florinda left her wheel then, and looked through, and said yes,
it was so. She kept watch afterward, and saw them put out the fire,
and go away into the woods toward the Point. She told Nathaniel
of this, and then held him in her arms and sang songs, low, in a
language he could not understand. By this time the night was far
spent.
“On the back-side of the hut, near the fireplace, there had been in
the summer a hole or tunnel dug through to the outside under the
logs. It was begun by a tame rabbit that belonged to Nathaniel. The
rabbit burrowed out, and got away. The children at play dug the hole
deeper and wider, and it came quite handy in getting in firewood.
This passage was about four feet deep. They called it the _back
doorway_. When winter came on, it was filled up with sand and moss.
Florinda thought it well to be prepared for any thing which might
happen; and therefore she spent the latter part of that night in
taking the filling from the _back doorway_. The outer part was frozen
hard, and had to be thawed with hot water. When this was done, she
took the work-bag out of her clothes-box, and put into it Mr. Bowen’s
papers and the teaspoons (among the papers were deeds of property in
England). Little Polly waked and cried, and both children complained
of being hungry. There were a few handfuls of meal left. Florinda
baked it into a cake, and divided it between them. She said a great
deal to Nathaniel about taking care of little Polly; told him, that,
if any bad Indians came to the door, he must catch hold of her hand,
and run just as quick as he could, through the _back way_, to Mrs.
Moore’s. Her chief care, then and afterward, seemed to be for the
children. And, when danger came in earnest, she made no attempt to
save herself: her only thought was to save them.
“While she was talking to Nathaniel in the way I have said, they
heard a step outside. It was then a little after daybreak. Some
one tapped at the door; and a strange voice said, ‘A friend; open
_quick_!’ She opened the door, and found a white man standing there.
This white man told her that unfriendly Indians were prowling about
to rob, to kill, and to burn dwelling-houses, and that several were
known to be in that very neighborhood. The man was a messenger
sent to warn people. He could not stop a moment. This was on the
morning of the 1st of January. As soon as the man had gone, Florinda
double-barred the door, raked ashes over the fire, put on her things
and the children’s things, and got ready to go with them over to
Mrs. Moore’s. She made up several bundles; gave one to each of the
children, and took one herself. But, before starting, she opened the
shutter a crack, and looked out; and there she saw two Indians coming
toward the door. She flung down her bundle; snatched the children’s
away from them; hung the work-bag round Nathaniel’s neck, whispering
to him, ‘_Run, run! you’ll have time; I’ll keep them out till you get
away!_’ all the while pulling at the clothes-chest. He heard the
Indians yell, and saw Florinda brace herself against the door, with
her feet on the chest. ‘_Run, run!_’ she kept saying. ‘_Take care of
little Polly! don’t let go of little Polly!_’
“Nathaniel ran with little Polly; and on the way they met the young
man, David Palmer, creeping along with his gun. He had got the news,
and had come to tell Florinda to hurry away. Just at that moment he
heard the yells of the Indians, and the sound of their clubs beating
in the door. David Palmer said afterward, that it seemed to him
he never should reach that house: and, when he had almost reached
it, his gun failed him; or rather his hands failed to hold it. He
started without his mittens; and his fingers were stiff and numb from
creeping over the frozen snow.
“He threw the gun down, and went on just as fast as a man could in
such a condition, and presently saw two Indians start from the house,
and run into the woods, dropping several things on the way,—stolen
articles, some of which were afterward found. He listened a moment,
and heard dogs barking; then crept round the corner of the house.
The door had been cut away. Florinda lay across the chest, dead, as
he thought; and indeed she was almost gone. They had beaten her on
the head with a hatchet or a club. One blow more, and Florinda would
never have breathed again. David Palmer did every thing he could do
to make her show some signs of life; and was so intent upon this,
that he paid no attention to the barking of the dogs, and did not
notice that it was growing louder, and coming nearer every moment.
Happening to glance toward the door, he saw a man on horseback,
riding very slowly toward the house, leading another horse with his
right hand, and with his left drawing something heavy on a sled. The
man on horseback was Mr. Moore. He was leading Mr. Bowen’s horse
with his right hand, and with the other he was dragging Mr. Bowen on
Philip’s hand-sled.”
“_Philip?_” cried two or three. “Did _he_ come?”
“No,—yes; that is, he came at last. He had not come, though, at the
time of their finding his sled. Mr. Moore found the sled, or rather
Mr. Moore’s dog found it, as they were riding along. Those two men
had a good reason for staying away; though such a reason can hardly
be called _good_. Coming home from Dermott’s Crossing, Mr. Bowen was
taken sick. They knew of a house a mile or two out of the way, and
went to it. There was nobody there. The family had left on account of
the Indians; but Mr. Moore found some means of getting in.
“Just as soon as Mr. Bowen was able to be bound to his horse, and
carried, they set out for home, but had to travel at a very slow
pace. When they had almost reached home, Mr. Moore’s dog, in racing
through the woods, stopped at a clump of bushes; and there he sniffed
and scratched and yelped, and made a great ado. Then Mr. Bowen’s dog
did the same. Mr. Moore hitched the horses, and went to see, and
found Philip’s sled among the bushes, with a bag of meal on it, and
a shoulder of bacon. Mr. Bowen being then weary and faint, and much
travel-bruised, Mr. Moore put the bag of meal and the bacon on the
horse, then covered the sled with boughs, and laid Mr. Bowen on top
of them, and drew him along. It was supposed that the barking of
those dogs frightened away the Indians.
“Philip himself left the sled under those bushes. That day he went
to the Point, he had to wait for corn to be ground, which made him
late in starting for home. He heard a good many reports concerning
the Indians, and thought, that, instead of keeping in his own tracks,
it would be safer to take a roundabout course back; and, by doing
this, he lost his way, and wandered in the woods till almost twelve
o’clock at night, when he came out upon a cleared place, where there
were several log-huts. The people in one of these let him come in
and sleep on the floor, and they gave him a good meal of meat and
potatoes. He set out again between four and five in the morning,
guided by a row of stars that those people pointed out to him.
“A little after daybreak, being then about a quarter of a mile from
home, in a hilly place, he thought he would leave his sled, the load
was so hard to draw, and run ahead and tell the folks about the
Indians. So he pushed it under some bushes; and then, to mark the
spot, he took one of his shoe-strings, and tied one of his mittens
high up on the limb of a tree.”
“One of his _leather_ shoe-strings!” cried some of those who knew the
whole story.
“Yes, my dears,” said the old lady, looking pleased again, “one of
his leather shoe-strings; and then he ran toward home. Just as he
came to the brook he heard some strange sounds, and climbed up into
a hemlock-tree which overhung the brook, to hide out of sight, and
to look about. He lay along a branch listening, and presently saw
Nathaniel, with the work-bag around his neck, hurrying toward the
brook, leading little Polly, and was just going to call out, when
he caught sight of three Indians, standing behind some trees on
the other side, watching the two children. Little Polly was afraid
to step on the ice. She cried; and at last Nathaniel made her sit
down and take hold of a stick, and he pulled her across by it.
Philip moved a little to see better, and by doing this lost sight of
them a moment; and, when he looked again, they were both gone. He
heard a crackling in the bushes, and caught sight of little Polly’s
blanket flying through the woods, and knew then that those Indians
had carried off Nathaniel and little Polly; and, without stopping to
consider, he jumped down and followed on, thinking, as he afterward
said, to find out where they went, and tell his father. Philip was a
plucky fellow, as you will find presently. His pluck brought him into
danger, though; and, if it had not been for an Indian woman of the
name of Acushnin, he might have lost his life in a very cruel way.
This woman, Acushnin, lived in a white family when a child. She had a
son about the age of Philip. It was perhaps on account of both these
reasons that she felt inclined to save him. But I must not get so far
ahead of my story.
“Philip, by one way or another, kept on the trail of those Indians
the whole day. Once it was by finding the stick that little Polly
dropped; once it was by seeing a shred of her blanket; another time
it was by coming across a butcher-knife the Indians had stolen from
some house: and he had wit enough to break a limb or gash a tree now
and then, so as to find his way back; also to take the bearings of
the hills. When the Indians halted to rest, he had a chance to rest
too.
“At last they stopped for the night in a sheltered valley where
there were two or three wigwams. He watched them go into one of
these, and then he could not think what to do next. The night was
setting in bitter cold. The shoe he took the string from had come
off in his running; and that foot was nearly frozen, and would have
been quite if he had not tied some moss to the bottom of it with his
pocket-handkerchief. The hand that had no mitten was frozen. He had
eaten nothing but a few boxberry-plums and boxberry-leaves. It was
too late to think of finding his way home that night. He lay down on
the snow; and, as the Indians lifted the mats to pass in and out, he
could see fires burning, and smell meats cooking. Then he began to
feel sleepy, and, after that, knew nothing more till he woke inside
of a wigwam, and found two Indian women rubbing him with snow. They
afterwards gave him plenty to eat. He did not see Nathaniel and
little Polly: they were in another wigwam. There were two Indians
squatting on the floor, one of them quite old. Pretty soon another
came in; and Philip knew he was one of those that carried off the
children, because he had Florinda’s work-bag hanging around his neck.
He thought, no doubt, from seeing it on Nathaniel’s neck, that there
was the place to wear it. Philip suffered dreadful pain in his foot
and hand, but shut his mouth tight, for fear he might groan. He said
afterward, when questioned about this part of his story, that _he_
was not going to let them hear a white boy groan.
“It was probably from seeing him so courageous that they decided to
offer him to their chief’s wife for adoption. It was a custom among
them, when a chief’s wife lost a male child by death, to offer her
another, usually a captive taken in war, for adoption. If, after
seeing the child offered in this way, she refused to adopt him, he
was not suffered to live.
“Now, one of those two squaws in the wigwam, the older one, was the
_Acushnin_ I spoke of just now; and she felt inclined to save Philip
from being carried to Sogonuck, which was where the chief lived: so
next morning before light, when the Indians all went off hunting,
she sent the other squaw out on some errand, and then told Philip in
broken English what was going to be done with him, and that it would
be done in two days; and told him in a very earnest manner, partly
by signs, that he must run away that very morning. She bound up his
foot; she gave him a moccasin to wear on it; she gave him a bag of
pounded corn and a few strips of meat. Philip had found out that the
Indians supposed him to be a captive escaped from another party; and
he thought it would be better not to mention Nathaniel and little
Polly, but to get home as quick as he could, and tell people where
they were.
“When the young squaw came in, the old one set her at work parching
corn, with her back to the door; then made signs to Philip, and he
crept out and ran. After running a few rods, he came unexpectedly
upon a wigwam: this made his heart beat so that he could hardly
breathe. There was a noise of some one pounding corn inside; and,
when that stopped, he stopped; and, when that went on, he went on,
and so crept by.
“As soon as it began to grow light, he kept along without much
trouble, partly by means of the signs on the trees: but as he got
farther on, there being fewer of these signs (because they came so
swift that part of the way), he took the wrong course,—very luckily,
as it proved; for by doing so he fell in with two men on horseback,
and one of these carried him home.
“As they came near the house, Philip saw by the chimney smoke that
there was some one inside, and began to whistle a certain tune.
“Up to this time, Mr. Bowen had not been able to shed a tear; but,
the moment he heard that familiar whistle, he fell down on the floor,
and cried like a little child.
“Florinda seemed dull, stupid, indifferent, and scarcely noticed
Philip at all. It was found that she had no clear recollection of any
thing that took place after Mr. Bowen’s going to meet the council.
Indeed, even after she was her own self again, she never could wholly
recall the events of those few days; which was, perhaps, quite as
well for her.”
“And did those two ever get found?” asked a small listener.
“Yes. Philip described the place; and that very night a party was
sent out, which captured the Indians, and brought back Nathaniel and
little Polly.”
“And the work-bag, and the papers, and the teaspoons?”
“Yes, all. Florinda had half the teaspoons. She was married, not many
years after all this happened, to David Palmer; and Mr. Bowen gave
them to her for a wedding-present. Mr. Bowen did a great deal for
Florinda, as well he might. One of those spoons has come down in the
Palmer family, and is now owned by Mr. Thomas Palmer of Dermotville.
“And here is one of those that Mr. Bowen kept,” continued the old
lady, going to a corner cupboard, and holding up a small, thin, slim
teaspoon, very oval in the bowl, and very pointed at the handle.
“This was given to your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather by
Mr. Nathaniel Bowen himself. Nathaniel Bowen was your ancestor. Your
grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather remembered him very well, as
I told you at the beginning. You may be sure that this story is every
word true; for the Palmer family have it in writing, copied from the
account which David Palmer wrote down at the time it happened.”
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
Oh! Jack was the fellow who lived long ago,
And built him a house, as you very well know,
With chimneys so tall, and a cupola too,
And windows set thick, where the light could go through.
And this is the house that Jack built.
Now, Jack he was so tender-hearted and true,
He loved every dear little childling that grew.
“The old folk can do very well without me,
And I’ll be the friend of the children,” quoth he.
So away in his store-room he stored up a heap
Of corn-bags well filled, full seven yards deep;
While ranged very near them, in beautiful show,
Were a great many corn-poppers, set in a row.
And this is the corn that lay in the house that Jack built.
And a blazing red fire was ever kept glowing
By a great pair of bellows that ever kept blowing;
And there stood the children, the dear little souls!
A-shaking their corn-poppers over the coals.
[Illustration: A-shaking their corn-poppers over the coals]
Soon a motherly rat, seeking food for her young,
Came prying and peeping the corn-bags among.
“I’ll take home a supply,” said this kindest of mothers:
“My children like corn quite as well as those others.”
And this is the rat, &c.
Run quick, Mother Rat! Oh, if you but knew
How slyly old Tabby is watching for you!
She’s creeping so softly! pray, pray do not wait!
She springs! she has grabbed you!—ah, now ’tis too late!
And this is the cat, &c.
[Illustration: THE CAT THAT CAUGHT THE RAT.]
Too late! yes, too late! All your struggles are vain:
You never will see those dear children again!
All sadly they sit in their desolate home,
Looking out for the mother that never will come.
When Pussy had finished, she said with a smile,
“I think I will walk in the garden a while,
And there take a nap in some sunshiny spot.”
Bose laughed to himself as he said, “I think not!”
Just as Puss shuts her eyelids, oh! what does she hear?
“Bow-wow!” and “Bow-wow!” very close at her ear.
Now away up a pole, all trembling, she springs;
And there on its top, all trembling, she clings.
And this is the dog, &c.
Said Bose to himself, “What a great dog am I!
When my voice is heard, who dares to come nigh?
Now I’ll worry that cow. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if she
Should run up a pole, how funny ’twould be!”
[Illustration: THE DOG THAT WAS TOSSED.]
Poor Bose! You will wish that you’d never been born
When you bark at that cow with the crumpled horn.
’Way you go, with a toss, high up in the air!
Do you like it, old Bose? Is it pleasant up there?
And this is the cow, &c.
Now, when this old Moolly, so famous in story,
Left Bose on the ground, all bereft of his glory,
She walked to the valley as fast as she could,
Where a dear little maid with a milking-pail stood.
And this is the maiden, &c.
[Illustration: THE COW WITH THE CRUMPLED HORN.]
Alas! a maiden all forlorn was she,
Woful and sad, and piteous to see.
With weary step she walked, and many a sigh:
Her cheek was pale; a tear bedimmed her eye.
She sat her down with melancholy air
Among the flowers that bloomed so sweetly there,
And thus with clasped hands she made her moan:—
“Ah me!” she said; “ah me! I’m all alone!
[Illustration: THE MAIDEN ALL FORLORN.]
In all the world are none who care for me;
In all the world are none I care to see;
No one to me a kindly message brings;
Nobody gives me any pretty things;
Nobody asks me am I sick or well;
Nobody listens when I’ve aught to tell;
Kind words of love I’ve never, never known:
Ah me!” she said, “’tis sad to be alone!”
Now up jumps the man all tattered and torn,
And he says to the maiden, “Don’t sit there forlorn.
Behind this wild rose-bush I’ve heard all you said;
And _I’ll_ love and protect you, you dear little maid!
For oft have I hid there, so bashful and shy,
And peeped through the roses to see you go by:
I know every look of those features so fair;
I know every curl of your bright golden hair.
My garments are in bad condition, no doubt;
But the love that I give you shall never wear out.
Now, I’ll be the husband, if you’ll be the wife;
And together we’ll live without trouble or strife.”
And this is the man, &c.
Thought the maid to herself, “Oh, what beautiful words!
Sweeter than music, or singing of birds.
How pleasant ’twill be thus to live all my life
With this kind little man, without trouble or strife!
If his clothes are all tattered and torn,—why, ’tis plain
What he needs is a wife that can mend them again.
And he brought them to such sorry plight, it may be,
’Mong the thorns of the roses while watching for me!”
And, when this wise maiden looked up in his face,
She saw there a look full of sweetness and grace.
[Illustration: THE MAN ALL TATTERED AND TORN.]
’Twas a truth-telling face. “Yes, I’ll trust you,” said she.
“Ah, a kiss I must take, if you trust me!” quoth he;
“And, since we’re so happily both of a mind,
We’ll set off together the priest for to find.”
Now hand in hand along they pass,
Tripping it lightly over the grass,
By pleasant ways, through fields of flowers,
By shady lanes, through greenwood bowers.
The bright little leaves they dance in the breeze,
And the birds sing merrily up in the trees.
The maiden smiles as they onward go,
Forgotten now her longing and woe;
And the good little man he does care for her so!
He cheers the way with his pleasant talk,
Finds the softest paths where her feet may walk,
Stays her to rest in the sheltered nook,
Guides her carefully over the brook,
Lifts her tenderly over the stile,
Speaking so cheerily all the while!
And plucks the prettiest wild flowers there
To deck the curls of her golden hair.
Says the joyful maid, “Not a flower that grows
Is so fair for me as the sweet _wild rose_!”
Thus journeying on by greenwood and dell,
They came at last where the priest did dwell,—
A jolly fat priest, as I have heard tell;
A jolly fat priest, all shaven and shorn,
With a long black cassock so jauntily worn.
And this is the priest, &c.
“Good-morrow, Sir Priest! will you marry us two?”
“That I will,” said the priest, “if ye’re both lovers true.
But when, little man, shall your wedding-day be?”
“To-morrow, good priest, if you can agree:
At the sweet hour of sunrise, when the new day
Is rosy and fresh in its morning array,
When flowers are awaking, and birds full of glee,
At the top of the morning, our wedding shall be.
And, since friends we have none, for this wedding of ours
No guests shall there be, save the birds and the flowers;
And we’ll stand out among them, in sight of them all,
Where the pink-and-white blooms of the apple-tree fall.”
“Od zooks!” cried the priest, “what a wedding we’ll see
To-morrow, at sunrising, under the tree!”
Next morning, while sleeping his sweetest sleep,
The priest was aroused from his slumbers deep
By the clarion voice of chanticleer,
Sudden and shrill, from the apple-tree near.
“Wake up, wake up!” it seemed to say;
“Wake up, wake up! there’s a wedding to-day!”
And this is the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog, that worried the cat,
that caught the rat that ate the corn that lay in the
house that Jack built.
[Illustration: “GOOD-MORROW, SIR PRIEST! WILL YOU MARRY US TWO?”]
A LITTLE GUESS-STORY.
“O mother, look up!—look up in the sky! away, ’wa—y up there! Oh!
isn’t a kite a pretty sight? Now it only looks like a speck of
something. I wonder where it comes from.”
“Yes, Nannie, I think it is a pretty sight; and no doubt the owner
of it thinks so too. I wish we could see him. Let’s guess about him:
what do you say to that? Let’s play we could follow the string down,
down, down, away down behind yonder hill, till we come to the boy at
the other end.”
“Oh, yes, mother! You guess about him, please.”
“I will try, Nannie. Ah, there he is! I’ve found the little fellow!
He lies in the grass, flat on his back, paste on his hands, I think,
and on his trousers too. The buttercups are thick about him,—bright
yellow buttercups; but the dandelions are turning white.”
“Why do you shut up your eyes, mother?”
“Because I can guess prettier things with my eyes shut. The little
boy holds fast to his kite-string. There’s a row of lilac-bushes
near, and an apple-tree—a beautiful apple-tree—all in bloom;
cherry-trees and pear-trees too, white as snow. I wish we were
there, Nannie. A little brook goes dancing by all so gayly! Happy
little brook, to be dancing so merrily on among the flowers! and
happy little boy, to be lying there listening to its song, and
smelling the apple-blossoms, with the south wind blowing over him!
The clover-tops and the cool green clover-leaves come close to his
cheeks,—his round, rosy cheeks; and there’s a little buttercup right
under his chin, seeing for itself whether he loves butter or not.”
“And does he?”
“Yes, he loves butter. And now he has picked a dandelion-ball, and
is blowing it to see—hold fast to your string, my boy!—to see if his
mother wants him. Three blows.”
“Do they all blow off?”
“No, not all: a few stay on.”
“Then she doesn’t want him.”
“No, his mother doesn’t want him quite yet. He can lie there a little
while longer, and watch his kite, and smell the flowers, and hear the
birds sing. I wish I were a little boy lying in the grass.”
“How lovely is your little _guess-boy_, mother?”
“Oh! quite lovely, quite lovely. He has brown wavy hair, and bright
eyes, and a right pleasant, laughing face. Two cunning pussy-flowers
come close down, and tickle his ear.—Be careful, little _guess-boy_!
don’t let the string slip. That kite is too good to lose. Great
pains you took to make its frame light and smooth and even; worked
hard with newspapers and paste; the tail was a trouble; the bobs got
tangled: but that’s all over now.”
“What is your little _guess-boy_’s name, mother?”
“His name?—let me think. Ah! his name is Ernest. Now Ernest turns his
head; now he smiles; now he whistles.”
“And what is he whistling for?”
“I think, his dog. Yes, yes! there he comes,—a noble shaggy fellow,
leaping, frisking, bounding. Ernest calls, ‘Ranger, Ranger, Ranger!
here, Ranger!’”
“How noble is Ranger, mother?”
“Very noble. Oh! he’s a splendid fellow!—a knowing, good-natured
fellow. Now he comes bounding on. The boy laughs, and lets Ranger
lick his face all over.
“‘Now _down_!’ he says,—‘_down_. Ranger, _down_, _down_, sir!’ Good
dog: he lies down by Ernest, and winks his eyes, and snaps at the
flies and the bumble-bees.”
“O mother! what is your little _guess-boy_ doing to his kite? It
snakes; it pitches: oh, it is falling down!—blowing away!”
“My poor little boy! Perhaps a bumble-bee startled him: it flew right
in his eye, I’ve no doubt, and made him let go. How he runs! Too
late, my boy: your kite is gone, and will never return,—never, never!”
“Where has it gone, mother?”
“Far, far over the woods: now it falls into the river, and the river
will float it away to the sea.”
“Can you see it go floating along?”
“Yes: it floats along by green banks where willow-trees are growing.”
“Please don’t open your eyes yet. Can’t you see some little
_guess_-children coming to pick it out?”
“Perhaps I can. Now it gets tangled in the roots of a tree; now on it
goes again; now it stops behind a rock. Yes, there are some little
_guess_-girls, little frolicking _guess_-girls, coming to the bank of
the stream.”
“Do they see it?”
“Yes; but they can’t reach. Take care, you little thing with a blue
dress ruffled round the bottom! you are bending too far over. Ha, ha,
ha!”
“What are you laughing at, mother?”
“Why, there’s a little bareheaded one tugging a long bean-pole.
She’ll never do any thing with that. Now they throw stones. One hits;
another hits. There goes the kite; and there goes the bean-pole; and
there—dear, dear!—no; but she did almost tumble in. On, on floats the
kite,—on to the sea.
“There’s a little boat coming, rowed by two children. They steer for
that odd thing which floats upon the water. ‘What is it?’ they ask.
An oar is reached out, and a kite-frame picked up,—nothing but a
frame: the paper is soaked away.”
“And what has become of Ernest, mother? Is he lying down there now,
smelling the blossoms, and hearing the brook go?”
“Ah, yes, poor little boy! he has lain down again among the
buttercups; but I think he is not listening to the brook, nor
smelling the apple-blossoms. I think he is crying. His head is turned
away, and his face hidden in the grass.
“Now Ranger comes again, but not, as before, leaping and bounding;
not frisking, and wagging his tail. Oh, no! he looks quite solemn
this time. Dogs know a great deal. Ranger understands that something
bad has happened. He puts his head close down, and tries to lick
the boy’s face. Now he gets his nose close up to Ernest’s ear, as if
he were whispering something. What is he whispering, I wonder. Poor
Ernest! he seems very sad; and no wonder. Any boy would to lose a
kite like that.
“But he jumps up; he smiles, and looks almost happy. Something good
must have been whispered to him either by Ranger or by his own
thoughts.”
“What was it, mother?”
“I think it was, ‘_Don’t cry for lost kites; don’t cry for lost
kites! Run home and make another; run home and make another!_’”
“And will he?”
“I think so: I think he will. Yes, there he goes! He runs through the
grass, leaps the brook, springs over the fence, whistling to Ranger
all the while. Ranger is so glad, he barks and bounds like a crazy
dog.
“There’s the house; and there’s his mother, looking out of the
window, very glad to see her boy, if some of the dandelion feathers
did stay on. I hope she’ll find some more newspapers for him, and let
him make more paste on her stove.”
“O mother! please let’s go take a walk and find the little
_guess_-boy, and see him make his kite.”
THE LITTLE BEGGAR-GIRL.
One day, when uncle Joe could think of no story to tell, he read to
the children one which he had borrowed from a friend, and which was
entitled “The Little Beggar-Girl.” The story was as follows:—
There were once two beggar-children, named Paul and Nora. Paul was
ugly and cross; but Nora was so sweet-tempered, that nothing could
make her speak an unkind word. She had beautiful eyes, and her hair
was of a golden brown. These children had no home, and not a single
friend in the world. On pleasant nights they slept in a market-cart;
but, if it was rainy, they crept underneath. It was their business to
wander about the city, begging whatever they could.
One day Paul found an old basket with the handle gone. “Now,” said
he, “we will go into the bone business.”
“And then won’t you beat me any more?” said Nora.
“Not if you mind me,” said Paul, “and beg something nice for me every
day. What have you got there?”
[Illustration: THE LITTLE BEGGAR-GIRL.]
Nora showed him some bits of bread and dry cake, a chicken-bone,
and a bunch of grapes, which an old gentleman had given her because
her eyelashes were like those of his dear little grandchild who had
died years before.
“Why didn’t you get more grapes?” said Paul. “I could eat twenty
times as many. Here, you may have three, and the whole of that
chicken-bone.”
Nora threw her arms about his neck, and said, “O Paul, how good it is
to have a brother! If I didn’t have you, I shouldn’t have anybody.”
That night they crept under the cart; for it was rainy. But first
they covered the ground with some old straw. “How good it is to have
a cart over us,” said Nora, “and straw to sleep on!” But Paul bade
her stop talking; for he was tired.
After he was asleep, Nora crept out to pay a visit to her window. She
called it her window. It was on the back-piazza of a nice house. The
curtains hung apart a little, leaving a crack; and every night she
paid a visit here to watch the undressing and putting to bed of a
little girl.
She could see the laughing face as it peeped through the long, white
night-gown, and the rosy toes as they came out of their stockings.
She could see the little girl’s arms holding tight around the
mother’s neck, and the mother’s arms holding tight her little girl.
She could also both see and hear the kisses; and, by putting her ear
close to the window, could sometimes catch the very words of the
evening hymn. Nothing seemed to her half as beautiful as this; for it
was the only singing of that kind she had ever heard.
But on this particular night she dared not stay long at the window;
for Paul had said they must start out of the city by daybreak to look
for bones, and had bade her go to sleep early. She only waited to see
the little girl’s hair brushed, and then to see her spat the water
about in the wash-bowl.
After creeping under the cart, where Paul was sleeping, she put out
her hands to catch the rain-drops, and washed her face. Molly the
rag-picker had given her an old comb she had found in a dirt-barrel,
and a faded handkerchief. For these she had given a bit of cake. To
be sure, the cake was dry, and required a stone to break it; but it
contained two plums; and, when Molly made the trade, she was thinking
of her little lame boy at home. And so Nora sat up in the straw, and
combed out her pretty hair. It was long (for there was no one to cut
it), and of a most lovely color. To tell the truth, there was not a
child in all the street whose hair was half as beautiful.
“I cannot be undressed,” she thought, “because I have no
night-clothes; and I cannot be kissed or sung to sleep, because I
have only Paul. And Paul—he couldn’t; oh, no! Paul doesn’t know the
way; but I can do this.”
And, while thinking such thoughts as these, she combed out her long
hair just as she had seen the little girl’s mother do; and, by tying
the three-cornered handkerchief under her chin, she kept it smooth.
The next morning they set forth at sunrise to search for bones,
swinging the basket between them.
“How bright the sun shines!” said Nora: “now our clothes will dry.”
And, when they were out of the city, she said, “No matter for shoes
now, Paul, the grass is so soft.”
“You are always being pleased about something,” said Paul. “Anybody
would think you had every thing you want.”
Nora was still for a moment; and then she said, “Oh, no, Paul! I want
one thing a great deal: I think about it every night and every day.”
“What is it?” said Paul. “Can’t you beg for one?”
“No,” said she, “I couldn’t.”
“Why don’t you tell?” said Paul, speaking crossly.
“I don’t like to say it,” said Nora.
“Tell,” said Paul, giving her a push, “or I’ll strike you.”
Nora crept up close to him, and whispered, “I want somebody to call
me darling.”
“You’re a ninny,” said Paul: “you don’t know any thing. _I_’ll call
you darling. Darling, hold up the basket.”
“But that isn’t real,” said Nora: “you don’t know the right way; and
the darling isn’t in your eyes,—not at all. Yesterday I met a little
girl,—as little as I. Her shoes were pretty, and a kind lady was
walking with her; and, when they came to a crossing, the lady said,
‘Come this way, my darling;’ and it was in her eyes. You couldn’t
learn to say it right, Paul; for you are only a brother, and can’t
speak so softly. Did we two have a mother ever, Paul?”
“To be sure we did!” said Paul: “she used to rock you in the cradle,
and tell me stories. I wasn’t but four then: now I’m eight, and most
nine.”
“Was she like Molly?” asked Nora.
“Not a bit! her face was white, and so were her hands,—jolly white.
She used to cry, and sew lace.”
“Cry?—a mother cry? What for?”
“Can’t say; hungry, maybe. Sometimes father hit her. But stop
talking, can’t you? I want to run down this hill: catch hold.”
As they were walking along the road, at the bottom of the hill,
breathing fast from running so hard, they met a wicked-looking man,
whose whiskers were black and very heavy. His nose was long, and
hooked over at the end. He had a short-waisted coat with a peaked
tail. He laughed almost every time he spoke.
When he saw Paul and Nora, he said, “Where are you going,
children?—going to take a walk? He, he, he!”
“To pick up bones,” said Paul. “I know a man that buys them.”
“I’ll buy your bones,” said the man, “and give you a good price for
them. My shop is in this yellow brick house. Come this evening; come
about eight; come to the back-door. Is this your little sister?”
“Yes,” said Paul.
“Well, bring your sister. I like your little sister. He, he, he!
Good-morning, and good-luck to you.” Then he patted Nora’s head, and
went away, laughing, “He, he, he!”
* * * * *
It was hard work for Nora, walking far out of town, and climbing
fences, looking for bones which had been thrown out, or hidden by
dogs; and many times they were driven away by cross servants.
“It’s all your fault,” said Paul. “You are always peeping in at
windows. If you don’t stop it, I’ll strike you.”
“I only want to see what the little girls do,” said Nora. “They go up
the steps, and the door shuts; and then, when I can’t see them any
more,—then what do they do, Paul?”
“How should I know?” said Paul. “Can’t you stop talking, and give me
something to eat? What have you got?”
Nora showed him all her broken bits, and then untied the corner of
her handkerchief. There were a few pennies tied up there, given her
by a lady who was pleased with her pleasant face. “What shall we do
with these, Paul?” said she.
“Well,” said Paul, “I think—I think I’ll buy a cigar. I never had a
cigar.”
“To be sure!” said Nora: “a boy ought to have a cigar.”
And, while Paul smoked his cigar, she sat upon a stone near by,
watching the smoke. He leaned back against a tree, puffing away, with
his feet crossed high up on a rock. Nora was so pleased!
“How glad I am I’ve got you!” said she. “If I didn’t have you, I
shouldn’t have anybody. When I grow up, maybe I’ll be your mother,
and give you good things.”
“You’re a little fool!” said Paul. “Stop your talk now, and go look
for more bones. There’s no need of both of us sitting idle.”
“Oh, my feet ache so!” said Nora. But she minded Paul, and went
searching about till he called her to go back to the city.
The walk back was so tiresome, that Nora almost dropped down from
weariness. “O Paul!” said she, “my hands are too little; and they
are sore, and my feet are too. I can’t hold on. Oh! it’s going, Paul!
it’s going!”
Paul gave her a blow across the shoulders. “There!” said he. “Let
that basket go down again, will you? Hurry up! Who wants everybody
staring?”
Nora’s bare feet were bleeding, her arms ached, and her shoulders
smarted where his hand came down. She was so little!—so very little!
Poor thing! she did her best.
* * * * *
Upon reaching the yellow brick house, Paul and Nora walked directly
in at the back-door, as they had been told. The wicked-looking man
came to meet them, and took them into a room very low in the walls,
and hung round with bird-cages. In these cages were canary-birds,—a
great many canary-birds; also Java sparrows and mocking-birds. The
room smelt strong of soap. In a door leading to the next apartment
there were two squares of glass set: through this small window they
could see a man’s face, tipped a little backwards, which the hand of
another man was covering with soap-foam. By this they knew it must be
a barber’s shop.
The wicked-looking man took Nora by the hand, and said, as he placed
her in a chair, “All right, my little lady,—he, he, he! All right, my
little beauty! I want to cut off your hair.”
“Oh, no! oh, no!” said Nora; and she covered her head with both hands.
“Oh, yes! oh, yes!” said the man. “I won’t charge you any thing,—not
a penny: cheap enough,—he, he, he!” The wicked-looking man wanted
Nora’s beautiful hair to make up into curls, such as ladies buy. He
came close up with his shears.
“Oh, I want it, I want it!” said Nora, beginning to cry.
“Let the man have it, can’t you?” said Paul.
“Oh, I can’t let him! I can’t, I can’t!” said Nora, sobbing.
“Why not? what’s the use of it?” said Paul.
“Oh!” said Nora, “because—because—I like it. And I have no boots, and
no night-clothes, and nobody to lead me; and so—and so—I want it.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the man. “I’ll give you something
for it. What do you want most?—he, he, he! Think now. Isn’t there any
thing you want most?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nora; for she remembered what she had told Paul in
the morning.
“Well,” said the man, “I thought so. What is it? Say.”
“I don’t like to speak it,” said Nora.
“Don’t like to? Why?”
“Because,” said Nora, sobbing, “you haven’t—it seems like—as if you
couldn’t.”
Paul burst out laughing. “She wants somebody to call her darling,”
said he.
“To call her _what_?”
“To call her darling.” And then he burst out laughing again; and
the man raised both hands, and put up his shoulders, and burst out
laughing, and they both laughed together.
At last the man took a walk round among his bird-cages, and said,
“Come, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll give you a bird. If you’ll
give me your hair, I’ll give you a bird.”
“A live one?” asked Nora.
“Yes, a live one. And, besides that, your hair will grow: then you
will have both.”
“Will it sing?” asked Nora.
“When he’s old enough,” said the man. “And here’s a little basket to
keep him in. It used to be a strawberry-basket. I’ll put some wool in
it. It looks like a bird’s nest. I’ll hang it round your neck with
this long string. There, how do you like that?—he, he, he!”
He hung it around her neck. The bird looked up into her face with its
bright little eyes. Nora put down her lips, and kissed it. Then she
looked up at the man, and said faintly, “I will.”
The man caught up his great shears, and in less than five minutes
Nora’s hair lay spread out upon the table. She turned away from it,
weeping.
But Paul pulled her roughly along; and she soon dried her tears by
saying over to herself, “It will grow; it will grow. And I have two
now,—the bird and Paul. Before I had but one,—Paul: now two,—Paul and
the bird, the bird and Paul,—two.”
For a whole week after this, Nora could think of nothing but her
bird. It was lame. The man had cheated her: he had given her a bird
that would not sell. But Nora loved it all the better for this. She
would sit on the curb-stone, and let it pick crumbs from her mouth.
While she was walking about, the bird hung from her neck in its
little basket. Nights, she let it sleep in her bosom.
Very often, ladies and gentlemen passing along the street would stop
when they saw her feeding her bird. They seemed to think it a very
pretty sight. Or if people met her walking, the basket hanging around
her neck, with the bird’s head peeping out, they would turn and say,
“Now, isn’t that cunning?”
But one day, at the end of the week, Paul came from fighting with
some boys: they had beaten him, and this had made him mad and cross.
Nora had begged nothing very nice that day. He called her lazy, and
came behind, as she was feeding her bird, and knocked it upon the
pavement.
“There!” said he: “now you will do something.”
The bird was killed. Nora caught it to her bosom, and sobbed out, “O
Paul! my little bird! O Paul!” Then she lay down upon the pavement,
and cried aloud. Paul ran off, and presently a policeman came and
ordered her up.
Nora had now lost her only comfort: no, not her only comfort; for she
could still watch the little girls walking with beautiful ladies; and
could still listen, standing upon the back-piazza, to the singing of
evening hymns. And one day she discovered something which gave her
great joy.
Without knowing that she could, without meaning to try to sing, she
herself sang. At first it was only a faint, humming noise: but she
started with pleasure; for it was the very tune in which the lady
sang hymns to her little girl. She tried again, and louder; then
louder still; and at last cried out, “O Paul! it’s just the same!
it’s just the same! I didn’t think I could! How could I, Paul?—how
did I sing?”
That was a hard summer for Nora. They had to go every day out of
town: and wearisome work it was, climbing fences, and walking over
the rough ways; and very few pennies did they get.
When winter came, they fared still worse. Nora begged a few clothes
for herself and Paul; but all they could get were not enough to
prevent them from suffering with cold. On nights when they had not
even a penny apiece to pay for a place on the floor in some filthy
garret or cellar, they piled up what old straw the cartmen would give
them, and crept under that, in the best place they could find.
One very cold evening, when they had no shelter, Paul said, “Now
to-night we shall surely freeze to death.”
“Oh, no!” said Nora: “I know where there are such heaps of straw! A
man came and emptied a whole bedful on a vacant lot just back of a
church.”
And when it grew dark they brought bundles of this straw, and made a
bed of it in an archway under the church.
“Now, if we only had something for a blanket!” said Paul: “can’t you
beg something for a blanket?”
“Oh, no!” said Nora; “it is so cold! Let me stay here.”
“Go, I tell you,” said Paul.
“Oh! I don’t want to beg in the evening,” said Nora.
“You shall go,” said Paul; and he gave her a push.
Then, as he grew very cross, she said, “I’ll try, Paul,” and ran off
in the dark.
It was a bitter cold night: the sharp wind cut through her thin
garments like a knife. Men stamped to keep their feet from freezing.
Ladies hid their faces behind their furs. Scarcely any one spoke; but
all went hurrying on, eager to get out of the cold.
“None of these people have anything to give me for a blanket,”
thought little Nora.
She ventured to beg at a few houses: but the servants shut the doors
in her face; and she could hear them answer to the people above
stairs, “Only a beggar-girl.”
For all it was so cold, Nora could not pass the window of the
back-piazza without looking in for a moment. The curtain was partly
drawn aside. No one was in the room; but through the door she could
see another larger room, brilliantly lighted. There were wax candles
burning, and a bright fire was blazing in the fireplace. There were
vases of flowers upon the table, and the walls were hung-with large
pictures in shining gilt frames. Around the fire many people were
seated, and the little girl was there kissing them all good-night.
Nora could see them catch her up in their arms. One gave her a ride
on his foot, another gave her a toss in the air, and one made believe
put her in his pocket; and to every one the little girl gave a kiss
on both cheeks.
Then her mother led her into the room where Nora had so many times
watched the going to bed; and Nora saw, as she had often seen before,
the white shoulders catch kisses when the dress slipped off, then the
bright face peep through the night-gown and catch a kiss, and the
little rosy feet put up to have their toes counted. Then there were
huggings, and showers of kisses; and the little girl was laid in her
crib, and blankets tucked close about her.
Next came the evening hymn, which the mother sang, sitting by the
crib. Poor little Nora was almost benumbed with cold; but this
singing was so sweet, she must stop just a few moments longer.
Wrapping her thin shawl tightly about her, she stood bending over,
her ear close to the window, that not a note might be lost.
And soon, almost without knowing it, she, too, was singing. But, as
Nora had never learned any hymns, she could only sing what was in
her mind: “Nora is cold; Nora has no blanket; Nora cannot kiss any
mother.”
She sang very softly at first; but her voice would come out. It grew
louder every moment; and this so delighted her, that she forgot
where she was, forgot the cold, forgot every thing except the joy of
the music. And, when the tune ran high, her voice rang out so loud
and clear, that a policeman came toward the gate; and then Nora was
frightened, and ran away. She ran back to the place where Paul was
lying. He was asleep now. She crept in among the straw, and sat there
shivering, looking up at the stars. She looked up at the stars: but
she was thinking of the good-night kisses in the lighted room around
the fireside, and of the little girl lying asleep in her crib, with
the loving mother watching near; and the more these pleasant thoughts
passed through her mind, the more lonely and sorrowful she felt.
“O Paul!” she whispered, “if I didn’t have you, I shouldn’t have
anybody in the world. Good-night, Paul.” She put her arms softly
around him, stroked his hair, and then tucked her thin shawl closely
about him, just as the lady had tucked the blankets about her little
girl, and kissed him. “Good-night, Paul,” she whispered again.
Then she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and began to sing, but
very softly, lest some one should hear. She sang of the blazing fire,
of the candles burning, of the flowers, of the pictures, of the
undressing, of the kisses, of the sleeping child, and then of other
little children walking in the streets, led by beautiful ladies.
Then it seemed as if she herself were one of these little girls. In
her dream, she, too, was dressed in gay clothes, warmed herself by
glowing fires, or was led along sunny streets by a gentle lady: and
all the while she seemed to keep on singing; and everybody—the loving
mothers and the pretty children—sang with her, until the whole air
was filled with music. Her little bird, too, seemed to be there, and
was singing with the rest: he came and nestled in her bosom.
Then in this beautiful dream she found herself sitting alone, clothed
in white garments, in the midst of a soft, silvery light. A river
rolled at her feet, beyond which hung, like a veil, a thin, shining
mist. It was from behind this mist that the light was shed about her.
Still the music kept on, but far more loud and sweet. It came from
beyond the river; and she heard a voice in the air, saying, “Come and
sing with the angel-children.”
Then she arose, and stood gazing like a lost child, not knowing how
to cross the stream. But instantly a smile spread over her face; for
she saw standing near, upon a bridge of flowers, a lady, in whose
face were exceeding beauty and sweetness. She stretched forth to Nora
her hands, saying in gentlest tones, “Come this way, my darling.”
And Nora trembled with joy, and smiled still more brightly; for the
countenance of the lady was beaming with love, and the darling was in
her eyes as she clasped to her bosom her own dear little child.
* * * * *
At early dawn a policeman found Paul lying in the straw asleep; and
leaning upon his shoulder was the face of his little sister, stiff
and cold in death. But the smile of joy was still there, and was
witnessed by hundreds that day; for a great many people came to see
the little frozen beggar-girl who had passed from her life of sorrow
with so sweet a smile.
One of these persons, after hearing the policemen, beggar-woman, and
others tell what they knew of Nora’s life, took one long look at her
face as she lay there like a child smiling in its sleep; then went
home and wrote the above story of the Little Beggar-Girl.
WIDE-AWAKE.
Da, da, da! Don’t sing “By-lo” anymore, nor rock harder, nor tuck in
the blankets, nor cover my eyes up, nor pat, nor sh— me: it really
makes me laugh; for I’m awake,—wide-awake! Shut up peepers? put my
little heddy down?—not a bit. Go to s’eepy?—no, I’m going to waky:
I am awaky; I see you; I see red curtains, see pictures, see great
doggy.
Haven’t had my nap out? When would it be out? I should like to know
that; yes, I should like to know when a baby’s nap would be out.
Haven’t you swept, and watered your plants, and made the bed, and
seen to dinner, and taken out your crimps, and more? Pudding?—yes,
now you want to make the pudding, and then the salad, and then the
Washington pie, and then run out a minute. I know: don’t tell me. A
baby’s nap is never out, never, never, so long as any thing is to be
done.
But I am awake, and I’m coming out of this right off. Drink not
ready?—why not? I ask why not, when you knew ’twould be called for?
But no: that must be left. And when you see my eyes wide open, and me
pulling myself up with my two hands,—you not offering to help,—then
you call out, “Get baby’s drink ready!” Who knows but the fire is
out, or the bottle-stopper lost!
But ’tis plain enough you thought I’d sleep all day. Yes, you’d like
that. You wouldn’t? Oh, I know; I know! Don’t you always say, “Too
bad baby’s waked up”? Why don’t you get some other kind?—get a rag
baby, or gutta-percha, or a wooden one, with its eyes screwed down,
or that doesn’t have any! Swap me off; I’m willing; I’d rather than
to be in the way: or else I’ll lay my little heddy down and go to
s’eepy, and never, never, open eyes again. You’d be sorry?—then why
don’t you take me?
There, that’s it,—da, da, da! “Now laugh, look glad!” I like that.
Kiss me; hug hard; call me “lovey-dovey;” call me “precious;” call
me “honey sweet;” trot me; cuddle me; tell “Little Boy Blue;” sing a
pretty song.
Will I walk a little? Oh, yes! and glad to. I’ve crept long enough.
Stand me up against the wall: now smooth down the carpet; now take
things out of the way; now hold up something pretty, and I’ll walk to
it. Your thimble?—no, you’ll cheat: you won’t let me have it. Not the
rattle: I’m too big for that, I hope! String of spools?—no, I’ve done
with spools. Fruit-knife?—well, yes, I’ll come for the fruit-knife.
Now, one, two, three, four steps up to mother. Da, da! kiss, kiss,
kiss! sweet as sugary candy!
Now will I sit on the floor and have the pretty things?—Yes: but
bring them all,—blocks, soldiers, ninepins, Noah’s ark, Dinah,
and Jumping-Jack, and hammer and clothes-brush and pans and
porringers,—every thing; I want every thing.
Oh, I’m left alone! Why didn’t she shake a day-day, so I could cry? I
don’t want these anymore: I’d rather get up: I’ll creep to something,
and get up,—creep, creep, creep. I’ll get up by this. What is this
funny thing, so soft and so warm? Now I’ll pull up; now I’m almost
up. Oh! it moves; it growls; ’tis slipping out; ’tis going off! down
I come again! Oh! wo, wo, wa, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody hear
me cry?
[Illustration: Now I’ll pull up; now I’m almost up]
Away I go—creep, creep, creep—to the rocking-chair. Now pull up by
this,—up, up, up; most up; way up,—da, da, da! But it shakes!—oh,
oh! down I come again!—oh, wo, wa, wo, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t
somebody come?
Creep, creep, creep. What is this so tall, and so black, and so
shining? Oh! this will do: let me catch hold. Now pull: but it
bends; it won’t hold up. Oh! ’tis nothing but a rubber-boot. Away I
roll over! Oh! wa, wa, wa, wo, wa! Why doesn’t somebody come? Oh!
where have I rolled? where is this? how dark it is! I’ve rolled
under the table. Let me get out,—creep, creep, creep. Ha! there’s
something!—the table-cloth: I’ll pull up by this.
But I don’t go up. It’s coming down. Oh, my head! What’s dropping
down?—-work-basket, dominos, glass tumbler, scissors, pin-cushion,
knitting-work, hooks and eyes, buttons. Oh, here’s the fun! Now I’ll
get pins; now I’ll pull the needles out; now I’ll put things in my
mouth!—da, da, da!
REASONS WHY THE COW TURNED HER HEAD AWAY.
REPORTED BY A BARN-SWALLOW.
“Moolly cow, your barn is warm: the wintry winds cannot reach you,
nor frost nor snow. Why are your eyes so sad? Take this wisp of hay.
See, I am holding it up! It is very good. Now you turn your head
away. Why do you look so sorrowful, Moolly Cow, and turn your head
away?”
“Little girl, it makes me sad to think of the time when that dry
wisp of hay was living grass; when those brown, withered flowers
were blooming clover-tops, buttercups, and daisies, and the bees and
butterflies came about them. The air was warm then, and gentle winds
blew. Every morning I went forth to spend the day in sunny pastures.
I am thinking now of those early summer-mornings,—how the birds sang,
and the sun shone, and the grass glittered with dew; and the boy that
opened the gates,—how merrily he whistled! I stepped quickly along,
sniffing the fresh morning-air, snatching at times a hasty mouthful
by the way: it was really very pleasant. And, when the bars fell,
how joyfully I leaped over! I knew where the grass grew green and
tender, and hastened to eat it while the dew was on.
[Illustration: Take this wisp of hay]
“As the sun rose higher, I sought the shade; and at noonday I lay
under the trees, chewing, chewing, chewing, with half-shut eyes,
and the drowsy insects humming around me; or perhaps I would stand
motionless upon the river’s bank, where one might catch a breath of
air, or wade deep in to cool myself in the stream. And when noontime
was passed, and the heat grew less, I went back to the grass and
flowers.
“And thus the long summer-day sped on,—sped pleasantly on; for I was
never lonely. No lack of company in those sunny pasture-lands! The
grasshoppers and crickets made a great stir, bees buzzed, butterflies
were coming and going, and birds singing always. I knew where the
ground-sparrows built, and all about the little field-mice. They
were very friendly to me; for often, while nibbling the grass, I
would whisper, ‘Keep dark, little mice! don’t fly, sparrows! boys are
coming!’
“No lack of company; oh, no! When that withered hay was living grass,
yellow with buttercups, white with daisies, pink with clover, it was
the home of myriads of little insects,—very, very little insects. Oh!
but they made things lively, crawling, hopping, skipping among the
roots, and up and down the stalks, happy, full of life, never still;
and now not one left alive. They are gone!—that pleasant summer-time
is gone! Oh these long, dismal winter-nights! All day I stand in my
lonely stall, listening, not to the song of birds, or hum of bees, or
chirp of grasshoppers, or the pleasant rustling of leaves, but often
to the noise of howling winds, hail, sleet, and driving snow.
“Little girl, I pray you don’t hold up to me that wisp of hay. In
just that same way they held before my eyes one pleasant morning a
bunch of sweet-clover, to entice me from my pretty calf.
“Poor thing! She was the only one I had; so gay and sprightly, so
playful, so frisky, so happy! It was a joy to see her caper, and toss
her heels about, without a thought of care or sorrow: it was good to
feel her nestling close at my side; to look into her bright, innocent
eyes; to rest my head lovingly upon her neck.
“And already I was looking forward to the time when she would become
steady and thoughtful like myself; was counting greatly upon her
company of nights in the dark barn, or in roaming the fields through
the long summer-days: for the butterflies and bees, and all the bits
of insects, though well enough in their way, and most excellent
company, were, after all, not akin to me; and there is nothing like
living with one’s own blood relations.
“But I lost my pretty little one. That bunch of sweet-clover enticed
me away. When I came back, she was gone. I saw through the bars the
rope wound about her; I saw the cart; I saw the cruel men lift her
in. She made a mournful noise: I cried out, and thrust my head over
the rail, calling in language she well understood, ‘Come back!—oh,
come back!’
“She looked up with her round, sorrowful eyes, and wished to come;
but the rope held her fast. The man cracked his whip; the cart rolled
away: I never saw her more.
“No, little girl, I cannot take your wisp of hay: it reminds me of
the silliest hour of my life,—of a day when I surely made myself a
fool. And on that day, too, I was offered by a little girl a bunch of
grass and flowers.
“It was a still summer’s noon. Not a breath of air was stirring.
I had waded deep into the stream, which was then calm and smooth.
Looking down, I saw my own image in the water; and I perceived that
my neck was thick and clumsy; that my hair was brick-color, and my
head of an ugly shape, with two horns sticking out much like the
prongs of a pitchfork. ‘Truly, Mrs. Cow,’ I said, ‘you are by no
means handsome.’
“Just then a horse went trotting along the bank. His hair was glossy
black. He had a flowing mane, and a tail which grew thick and long.
His proud neck was arched, his head lifted high. He trotted lightly
over the ground, bending in his hoofs daintily at every footfall.
Said I to myself, ‘Although not well-looking, it is quite possible
that I can step beautifully, like the horse: who knows?’ And I
resolved to plod on no longer in sober cow-fashion, but to trot off
nimbly and briskly and lightly.
“I waded ashore, climbed the bank, held my head high, stretched out
my neck, and did my best to trot like the horse, bending in my hoofs
as well as was possible at every step, hoping that all would admire
me.
“Some children gathering flowers near by burst into shouts of
laughter, crying out, ‘Look, look, Mary, Tom! What ails the cow? She
acts like a horse. She is putting on airs. Clumsy thing! her tail is
like a pump-handle. Oh! I guess she’s a mad cow.’ Then they ran, and
I sank down under a tree with tears in my eyes.
“But one little girl staid behind the rest; and, seeing that I was
quiet, she came softly up, step by step, holding out a bunch of grass
and clover. I kept still as a mouse. She stroked me with her soft
hand, and said,—
“‘O good Moolly Cow! I love you dearly; for my mother has told
me very nice things about you. You are good-natured, and we all
love you. Every day you give us sweet milk, and never keep any for
yourself. The boys strike you sometimes, and throw stones, and set
the dogs on you; but you give them your milk just the same. And you
are never contrary, like the horse; stopping when you ought to go,
and going when you ought to stop. Nobody has to whisper in your ears
to make you gentle, as they do to horses: you are gentle of your own
accord, dear Moolly Cow. If you do walk up to children sometimes, you
won’t hook; it’s only playing: and I will stroke you, and love you
dearly.’
“Her words gave me great comfort; and may she never lack for milk to
crumb her bread in! But, oh! take away your wisp of hay, little girl;
for you bring to mind the summer-days which are gone, and my pretty
bossy that was stolen away, and also—my own folly.”
TWO LITTLE ROGUES.
Says Sammy to Dick,
“Come, hurry; come, quick!
And we’ll _do_, and we’ll _do_, and we’ll _do_!
Our mammy’s away;
She’s gone for to stay:
And we’ll make a great hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
We’ll make a great hullabaloo!”
Says Dicky to Sam,
“All weddy I am
To do, and to do, and to do.
But how doeth it go?
I so ittle to know:
Thay, what be a hullabawoo?
Ri too, ri loo, woo, woo, woo!
Thay, what be a hullabawoo?”
“Oh! slammings and bangings,
And whingings and whangings,
And very bad mischief we’ll do:
We’ll clatter and shout,
And pull things about;
And that’s what’s a hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
And that’s what’s a hullabaloo!
“Slide down the front-stairs,
Tip over the chairs,
Now into the pantry break through;
We’ll take down some tinware,
And other things in there:
_All aboard_ for a hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
_All aboard_ for a hullabaloo!
“Now roll up the table
Far up as you’re able,
Chairs, sofa, big easy-chair too;
Put the poker and vases
In funny old places:
How’s this for a hullabaloo?
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
How’s this for a hullabaloo?
“Let the dishes and pans
Be the womans and mans:
_Everybody keep still in their pew!_
Mammy’s gown I’ll get next,
And preach you a text.
Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri loo, loo, loo, loo!
Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!”
As the preacher in gown
Climbed up, and looked down
His queer congregation to view,
Said Dicky to Sammy,
“Oh, _dere_ comes our mammy!
Se’ll _thcold_ for dis hullabawoo.
Ri too, ri loo, woo, woo, woo!
Se’ll _thcold_ for dis hullabawoo!”
“O mammy! O mammy!”
Cried Dicky and Sammy,
“We’ll never again, certain true.”
But with firm step she trod,
And looked hard at the rod:
Oh, then came a hullabaloo!
“Boohoo, boohoo, woo, woo, woo!”
Oh, then came a hullabaloo!
THE BELATED BUTTERFLY.
[MORNING.]
Am I awake? am I alive? Then it was true, after all. Aunt Caterpillar
told me, that if I would cover myself over, and lie stock-still,
and go to sleep, I should wake up a beauty. She said I should no
longer creep, but should fly like the birds; and I do. She said I
would never need to chew leaves any more, but might feed upon sugar
of roses, and sip honey from the flowers. She said I should have
beautiful wings of purple and gold. And it is every word true.
Now I’m flying. Oh, glorious! This floating in the air—oh, what a
joy it is! Good-by, you little worms! Here I go up, up, up,—a trifle
dizzy, that is to be expected at first,—higher, higher. Good-morning,
Mr. Bluebird! We have wings, haven’t we? Down,—no, I will not
touch the earth: I will rock in this lily, brush the dew from the
mignonette, breathe the perfume of the heliotrope, and rest in the
heart of this damask-rose.