PART I.

[Illustration: IN THE BULL-CIRCUS, MADRID.]

ALL THE WORLD OVER

_INTERESTING STORIES OF TRAVEL, THRILLING

ADVENTURE AND HOME LIFE_

BY

ELLA FARMAN, MRS. LUCIA CHASE BELL, FRANK H. CONVERSE,

LOUISE STOCKTON, AND OTHER POPULAR AUTHORS

[Illustration: ON A WILD GOOSE CHASE]

_FULLY ILLUSTRATED_

BOSTON

D. LOTHROP COMPANY

1893.

COPYRIGHT, 1892,

BY

D. LOTHROP COMPANY.

_All rights reserved._

[Illustration]

CONTENTS

(Created by transcriber. Not present in original.)

All the World Over Unknown

Queen Louisa and the Children Mary Stuart Smith

The Plaything of an Empress M. S. P.

Charlie’s Week in Boston Charles E. Hurd

A Wonderful Trio Jane Howard

Two Fortune-seekers Rossiter Johnson

The Little Christmas Pies E. F.

The Strangers from the South Ella Farman

Wi’ Wee Winkers Blinkin’ J. E. Rankin, D. D.

The Childrens’ Shoes Blanche B. Baker

Ethel’s Experiment B. E. E.

Cinders Madge Elliot

Tom’s Centennial Margaret Eytinge

Little Chub and the Sky Window Mary D. Brine

Little Boy Blue C. A. Goodenow

Ghosts and Water-melons J. H. Woodbury

Funny Little Alice Mrs. Fanny Barrow

“Pretty,” and Her Violin Holme Maxwell

Dolly’s Last Night Emily Huntington Miller

Nib and Meg Ella Farman

The Little Parsnip-man E. F.

How Dorr Fought Salome

Tim’s Partner Amanda M. Douglas

Unto Babes Helen Kendrick Johnson

What Happened to the Baby Magaret Eytinge

Mrs. White’s Party Mrs. H. G. Rowe

Queer Church Rev. S. W. Duffield

The Fun-and-frolic Art School Stanley Wood

Some Quaker Boys of 1776 C. H. Woodman

What I Heard on the Street Clara F. Guernsey

Kip’s Minister Kate W. Hamilton

Jim’s Troubles Grandmere Julie

The Christmas Thorn Louise Stockton

Midget’s Baby Mary D. Brine

A Nocturnal Lunch, and Its Consequences Lily J. Chute

Lulu’s Pets Mary Standish Robinson

What Janet Did With Her Christmas Present L. J. L.

Christmas Roast Beef A. W. Lyman

Granny Luke’s Courage M. E. W. S.

Billy’s Hound (PI) Sara E. Chester

Billy’s Hound (PII) Sara E. Chester

Pussy Willow and the South Wind A Poem

Little Sister and Her Puppets Rev. W. W. Newton

Spring Fun A Poem

The Lost Dimple Mary D. Brine

The Other Side of the Story Kate Lawrence

Jack Horner A Poem’s Meaning

Double Dinks Elizabeth Stoddard

Learning to Swim Edgar Fawcett

Sweetheart’s Surprise Mary E. C. Wyeth

The Cross-patch Mrs. Emily Shaw Farman

The Proud Bantam Clara Louise Burnham

The True Story of Simple Simon Harriette R. Shattuck

In the Tunnel of Mount Cenis Mrs. Alfred Macy

A Ride on a Centaur Hamilton W. Mabie

Lill’s Travels in Santa Claus Land Ellis Towne

Bob’s “Breaking in” Eleanor Putnam

The First Hunt J. H. Woodbury

Chinese Decoration For Easter Eggs S. K. B.

Il Santissimo Bambino Phebe F. MᶜKeen

My Mother Put It on Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney

A Child in Florence (PI) K. R. L.

A Child in Florence (PII) K. R. L.

A Child in Florence (PIII) K. R. L.

Seeing the Pope Mrs. Alfred Macy

Fayette’s Ride Clara F. Guernsey

Fanny Clara Doty Bates

Little Mary’s Secret Mrs. L. C. Whiton

How Patty Curtis Learned to Sweep Mrs. M. L. Evans

A Bird Story M. E. B.

A New Lawn Game G. B. Bartlett

How Philip Sullivan Did an Errand Mary Densel

Winter With the Poets The Editor

Bessie’s Story Frank H. Converse

A Difference of Opinion The Editor

The Grass, the Brook, and the Dandelions Margaret Eytinge

The Birds’ Harvest Mrs. J. D. Chaplin

Birds’-nest Soup Ella Rodman Church

The Story of Two Forgotten Kisses Kitty Clover

ALL THE WORLD OVER

Perhaps one of the most vivid impressions which the tourist receives

upon his entrance into any Spanish city whatsoever, is of its muscular

beggars--men of enormous size, with their ruffianly swaggering strength

exaggerated by the national cloak. This garment is of heavy, tufted

woollens, long and fringed, almost indestructable, and is frequently

worn to muffle half the face; and the broad slouch hat, usually with a

couple of rough feathers stuck in its band, does not tend to soften the

general brigandish effect.

These beggars are licensed by the government, which must reap a

goodly revenue from the disgraceful crowd, as they are numerous, and

therefore they pursue their avocation in the most open manner. They

will frequently follow the traveller a half-mile, especially should

they find him to be ignorant of that magic formula of dismissal which

is known to all Spaniards:

_Pardon, for God’s sake, Brother!_

This appeal is constantly on the lip of every Spanish lady. She utters

it swiftly, without so much as a glance, a dozen times of a morning on

her way to church, as a dozen gaunt, dirty hands are thrust in her face

as she passes; and hearing it, the most persistent fellow of them all

is at once silenced, and falls back.

Coming in from their kennel-homes among the ruins and the holes in the

hills outside, it is the custom to make an early morning tour of the

city before they take up their stations for the day at the various

church and hotel doors. Each seems to be provided with “green pudding,”

in his garlic pot, and he eats as he goes along, and prays as he eats,

stopping in front of the great oval patio or court gates of iron

lattice, which guard the mansions of the rich.

At these patio doors he makes a prodigious racket, shaking the iron

rods furiously, and all the while muttering his prayers, until some one

of the family appears at a gallery window. Then instantly the mutter

becomes a whine, a pitiful tale is wailed forth, and alms are dolefully

implored “for the love of God.” But although such mottoes as “Poverty

is no Crime” are very often painted on the walls of their fine houses,

the probability is that the unmoved Señorita will murmur a swift

“Pardon, for God’s sake, Brother!” and retire, to soon appear again to

silence another of the fraternity with the same potent formula.

However, each of the countless horde is sure to gather in centimes

sufficient for the day’s cigarettes and garlic, and, in the long run,

to support life to a good old age.

The Spaniards are a nation of dancers and singers. Every Spanish child

seems born with the steps, gestures, snappings and clappings of the

national _fandango_ dance, at the ends of his fingers and toes. A

guitar is the universal possession, and every owner is a fine player.

The solitary horseman, the traveller by rail, takes along his guitar;

and in car, or at cross-roads, he is sure of dancers at the first

thrilling twang. There is always a merry youth and maiden aboard ready

to make acquaintance in a dance, and anywhere the whole household will

troop from the cottage, the plowman will leave his team in the furrow,

and the laborer drop his hoe, for a half-hour’s joyous “footing o’t.”

One of the interesting sights of Toledo is the great city fountain on

Street St. Isabel, near the cathedral. It is a good place to study

donkeys and their drivers, and the lower classes of the populace. The

water, deliciously sweet and cool, is brought from the mountains by the

old Moorish-built water-ways, and flows by faucet. There is no public

system of delivery, consequently a good business falls into the hands

of private water-carriers. These supply families at a franc a month.

The poorer households go to and fro with their own water-jars as need

calls, carrying them on their heads. They often wear a cushioned ring,

fitting the head, to render the carrying of the jar an easier matter.

A picturesque article of dress among Spanish men, is the national sash,

a broad woollen some four yards in length, of gay colorings. This is

wound three or four times around the waist, its fringed end tucked in

to hang floating, and the inevitable broad knife thrust within its

folds, which also hold the daily supply of tobacco. A common sight

is the sudden stop on the street, a lighting of a fresh cigarette, a

loosening of the loosened sash, a twitch of the short breeches, and

then a tight, snug wind-up, when the lounger moves on again.

Another amusing sight is the picturesque beggar who seems at first

glance to be hanging in effigy against the cathedral walls, so

motionless will some of these fellows stand, hat slouched over the

face, the brass government “license” labelling the breast, a hand

extended, and, in many cases, a crest worn prominently on the ragged

garments, to show that the wearer is a proud descendant of some old

grandee family. To address this crested beggar by any other title than

_Caballero_ (gentleman) is a deadly insult.

[Illustration]

Among the many small sights of the Plaza about Christmas time, are the

sellers of zambombas, or Devil’s Fiddles. This toy, which the stranger

sometime takes for a receptacle of sweet drinks to be imbibed through

a hollow cane, is a favorite plaything with Spanish children. A skin

is stretched over a bottomless jar; into this is fastened a stout

length of sugar-cane, and lo! a zambomba. Its urchin-owner spits on his

palms, rubs them smartly up and down the ridgy cane, when the skin-drum

reverberates delightfully.

The fruit markets are of a primitive sort. The peasant fills

his donkey-panniers with grapes, garlic, melons straw-cased and

straw-handled, whatever he has ripe, and starts for town. Reaching the

Plaza, in the shade of the cathedral, he spreads his cloak, rolling a

rim. On this huge woollen plate he arranges his fruit, weighing it out

as customers demand.

From the old Moorish casements, the traveller looks down on the most

rudimentary sort of life. He sees no labor-saving machinery. Instead

of huge vans loaded with compact hay bales, he beholds the donkey

hay-train. The farmer binds a mountain of loose hay on each of his

donkeys, lashes them together, and with a neighbor to help beat the

train along, starts for market. These trains may be seen any day

crooking about among the steep mountain-ways.

The student of folk-life notes the shoemakers on the Plaza at work in

the open air. Formerly the sandal was universally worn, with its sole

of knotted hemp, and its canvas brought up over the toe, at which point

was fastened a pair of ribbons about four feet long, and these ribbons

each province had its own fashion of lacing and tying. But now the

conventional footgear of Paris is common, and one buys boots of the

fine glossy Cordovan leather for a trifle.

The proprietors of the neighboring vineyards visit the wine shops

weekly to bring full wine-skins, and take such as are emptied. These

skins, often with their wool unsheared, are cured by remaining several

weeks filled with wine-oil, and all seams are coated with pitch to

prevent leakage. The wholesale skins hold about eight gallons, being

usually those of well-grown animals. They are stoutly sewn, tied at

each knee, and also at the neck, whence the wine is decanted into

smaller skins by means of a tunnel.

[Illustration]

The beggars of Spain are a most devout class. Piety is, with them, the

form under which they conduct business; a shield, and a certificate of

character. They walk the streets under the protection of the patron

saint of the principal church in town, and they formally demand alms of

you in the name of that saint. It is Religion that solicits you--the

beggar’s own personality is not at all involved; and it is thus that

the proud Spanish self-respect is saved from hurt.

The tourist who has not tarried in French towns, is, at first,

astonished to behold women passing to and fro upon the streets with no

head covering whatever. Hats and bonnets are rarely seen upon Spanish

women of the lower and middle classes. Those who are street-venders

sit bareheaded all day long in their chairs on the Plaza, wholly

indifferent to the great heat and blinding dazzle of the Spanish sun.

About Christmas, dozens of a “stands” spring up along the Plaza. It is

at that season that the gypsy girls come in with their roasters and

their bags of big foreign chestnuts; and they do a thriving business,

for every good Spanish child expects roast chestnuts and salt at

Christmas.

Many of the mountain families about Toledo keep small flocks of

sheep--flocks that, instead of dotting a green landscape with peaceful

white, as in America and Northern Europe, only darken the reddish-brown

soil of Spain with a restless shading of a redder and a deeper hue.

These brown sheep are herded daily down on the fenceless wastes. The

shepherd-boys are usually attended by shepherd-dogs so enormous in size

that the traveller often mistakes them for donkeys. They are sagacious,

and do most of the herding, their masters devoting themselves to the

guitar, the siesta, the cigarette, and the garlic pudding.

Toledo, more than any other Spanish city, abounds with interesting bits

and noble examples of the old Moorish architecture, for the reason

that it has not been rebuilt at all, and that few of its ruins have

been restored, or even retouched. Color alone has changed. The city

now is of the soft hue of a withered pomegranate. Turn where you will,

your eye is delighted by an ornate façade, a carved gateway with its

small reticent entrance door, a window with balcony and cross-bars, and

everywhere there is the horseshoe arch with its beautiful curve. The

old Alcazar is standing, though occupied as a Spanish arsenal, and on

the height opposite is the ruin of a fine Moorish castle.

[Illustration]

One of the best “small businesses” in a Spanish city, is that of the

domestic water-supply. Those dealers who have no donkeys, convey it

to their customers in long wheelbarrows constructed with a frame to

receive and hold several jars securely. Stone jars, with wood stopples

attached with a cord, are used, the carrying-jars, being emptied

into larger jars in the water-cellars. The peasants have a poetic

appellation for the soft, constant drip of the water from the old

aqueducts: _The sigh of the Moor_.

With the Spaniard, as with the American, the turkey is a special

Christmas luxury. But the tempting rows of dressed fowls common to our

markets and groceries, are never to be seen. As the holiday season

draws very close at hand, the mountain men come down into the city,

driving before them their cackling, gobbling, lustrous-feathered

flocks, bestowing upon them, of course, the usual daily allowance of

blows which is meted out to the patient family donkey. These poultry

dealers congregate upon the Plaza, where they smoke, and chaff, and

dicker, keeping their droves in place with the whip; and the buyer

shares in the capture of his flying, screaming, flapping purchase, in

company with all the children on the street, for the turkey market is

usually great fun for the Spanish youngster.

In the cold season, one of the morning sights of a Spanish town is the

preparation of the big charcoal braziers outside the gates of the fine

dwelling-houses. The coals are laid and lighted, and then the servant

blows them with a large grass fan until the ashes are white, when he

may consider that all deadly fumes are dissipated, and that it is safe

to carry it within to the room it is to warm.

Nearly all the peasants in the near vicinity of cities are market

gardeners on a small scale. They cultivate small plots, and whenever

any crop is ripe, they load their donkey-panniers and go into the

cities, where they sell from house to house. These vegetable-panniers

have enormous pockets, and are woven of coarse, dyed grasses, in

stripes and patterns of gaudy blue and red. When filled, they often

cover and broaden the donkey’s back to such an extent that the lazy

owner, determined to ride, must sit on the very last section of

backbone. Some of the streets in Toledo are so narrow that the brick

or stone walls of the buildings have been hewn and hollowed out at

donkey-height, to allow the loaded panniers to pass. The buyers make

their bargains from the windows, a sample vegetable being handed up for

inspection.

[Illustration]

Travellers should deny themselves Spain during December, January and

February. The heating apparatus of the American and the English house

is unknown in Spanish dwellings--fireplace, stove, nor furnace. The

peasant draws his cloak up to his nose and shivers and cowers, while

the middle-class family lights a single brazier, and the household,

gathering in one room, hovers over the charcoal smouldering away in

its brass cage, and the cats sit and purr on the broad wooden rim.

These braziers are expensive--constructed of brass and copper--and

few families afford more than one, making winter comfort out of the

question, as the floors, of marble or stone, never get well warmed.

With the coming of pleasant weather Spanish families usually forsake

the blinded, draperied, balconied rooms of the gallery for the secluded

and garden-like patio. This court is often fifty feet square, and

in its enclosure there is generally a fountain; the floor is tiled

with marble, there are stately tropic plants in tubs, and orange and

palm-trees are growing. Should the sunshine become too fierce there

are smoothly-running screens and awnings to roof the whole court in an

instant. Some of the old Moorish patios contain quaint wells, dry at

some seasons, but often affording water sufficient for housekeeping

needs.

The water-jars come from the famous potteries of Seville, and, made of

a rude red clay, are similar in hue to our plant pots. They are brought

in high loads by oxen--and these pottery carts are often an enlivening

feature of the dull country roads.

The water cellar is not a cellar at all, but a stone-paved room off

the patio, delightfully cool and sloppy of a fiery July day, with the

water-carriers unloading, and filling the array of dripping red jars

with the day’s supply from the public fountain.

Every Spanish peasant wears a knife in his sash. These knives are

usually about eighteen inches long, with a broad, sharp, murderous

blade. The handles are of tortoise or ivory, often carved richly,

or inlaid with figures of the Virgin, the Saviour, or the crucifix.

The knife is kept open by a curious little wheel, between blade and

handle, and is used indiscriminately, to slice a melon or lay bare a

quarrelsome neighbor’s heart.

[Illustration]

Seville is celebrated for its oranges and its pottery. Nearly the

whole Spanish supply of water-jars comes from this city; and the

outlying country is agreeably dotted with orange orchards, as olive

oases enliven the vicinity of Cordova. The export of the fruit is a

considerable business. The most delicious orange in the world may be

bought in the streets of Seville for a cent, and the ordinary rate for

the ordinary fruit is four for a cent. In the Christmas season large

and selected oranges are sold in the outdoor booths. They are carefully

brought, and temptingly hung in nets, along with melons cased in straw,

fine bunches of garlic, chestnuts, assorted lengths of sugar-cane,

tambourines, zambombas, and such other sweet and noisy objects as

delight the Spanish youngster.

The decorative plant of Spain is the aloe--truly decorative, with its

base of long, dark, clear-cut, sword-like leaves, its tall slender

trunk often rising twenty feet high, and its broad candelabras of

crimson blooms.

A picturesque industry of Seville is the spinning of the green rope so

much used by Spanish farmers. It is manufactured from the coarse pampas

grass of the plains, and the operation is a very leisurely and social

one, requiring three persons: one to feed the wheel, one to turn it,

and a third to receive the twisted rope.

Plowing, in Spain, is still a very rude performance. The primitive plow

of the Garden of Eden era is yet in use--a sharp crotch of a tree,

crudely shod, however, with iron.

An indispensable article of peasants’ costume for both men and women,

should an absence of even two hours be contemplated, is the _alforja_,

or peasant’s bag. This, in idea, is similar to the donkey-pannier--a

long, stout, woollen strip thickly tufted with bunches of red and blue

wool, with a bag at either end, and is worn slung over the shoulder.

The pockets of the _alforja_ invariably contain, one a pot of garlic,

or green pudding, the other a wine skin.

The mouths of some wine-skins are fitted with a bottomless wooden

saucer, and are lifted to the lips for drinking; but the preferable and

national style is to catch the stream with the skin held aloft and away

at arm’s-length.

[Illustration]

A central point of interest for visitors to Seville is the Cathedral.

Its tower, known as the Giralda, is one of the most celebrated

examples of sacred Moorish architecture. It was erected in an early

century, and was considered very ancient when the Spaniards, in the

reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, built upon it the fine Cathedral. In

the interior, the Tribuna de la Puorta Mayor is much visited for its

lofty and beautiful sunlight effects, and there are several precious

Murillos. The ascent of the Giralda is usually made by tourists--an

agreeable variety in European climbing, as there are no stairs, the

whole progress being by an easy series of inclined planes of brick

masonry. Queen Isabella, not long ago, made the entire ascent and

return upon horseback. From the summit, one views the whole of Seville,

with its dark-green rim of orange gardens, set in the great flat

barrens that stretch out towards Cadiz. A comic sight usual at the foot

of the tower, significant as a sign of the complete contempt in which

the Catholic Spaniard holds all things Moslem and Moorish, is that of

a goat belonging to one of the custodians, tethered from morning till

night to a fine old Muezzin bell.

Another noted building is the Tower of Gold, on the banks of the

Guadalquiver, opposite the Gypsy quarter. Tourists visit it to get the

fine architectural effect of the Cathedral, also for its view of the

Bull Ring. It stands on the site of the old Inquisition, where hosts of

Moorish captives were tortured.

The Alcazar, always visited, is an ancient Moorish palace, and is

considered, in point of elegance, second to only the Alhambra. It is

now set aside by the government as the residence of the Queen-mother

Isabella.

San Telmo is also much visited. It is the palace of the Duc de

Montpensier, known throughout Spain as “the orange man.” He owns

numerous orange orchards, and lavishes much time and money on his

plantations and hothouses.

Another point of curiosity is known as the House of Pilate. It is

said to be an exact reproduction of the celebrated House of Pilate in

Jerusalem. It is remarkable for some exquisite tiles, and it bears many

interesting inscriptions.

Seville presents an odd aspect to the stranger between the hours of

three and six P. M. During this hot interval the streets and shops are

deserted, everybody, even to the beggars, being under cover and asleep.

[Illustration]

Most of the peasant girls in the vicinity of Spanish cities contrive

to keep a bit of flower-garden for their own personal purposes.

She is a thriftless lass indeed, who has not at least one fragrant

double red rose in tending, or some other red-flowered shrub. From

Christmas on through the spring fête-days of the Church, they reap

their tiny harvests. During this season every Spanish man and woman

who can, wears a red flower in button-hole or over the ear, and the

streets are thronged with bareheaded, black-tressed peasant and gypsy

flower-venders. Flowers are a part of the daily marketing, and two or

three centimos--a centimo is one fifth of a cent--suffice to buy a

fresh nosegay. New Year’s is a marked fête in Seville, as then “The Old

Queen” in the Alcazar rides out in state, the Alameda is thronged with

carriages, and the whole populace is a-blossom with red.

A custom noticed by the tourist who lingers about cathedral doors,

is one most observed, perhaps, by the poorer and more superstitious

classes. Men and women dip the fingers, on entrance and departure, in

holy water, and wet some one of the countless crosses which are set in

the wall just above the cash-boxes--the cash-box in Spain being the

inevitable accompaniment of the cross.

As in other Spanish cities, the noble Profession of Beggary considers

itself under the protection of the Church, and the entrance to the

cathedral is down a long vista of outstretched hands, the fortunate one

at the far end, who holds aside the matting portiere for you to enter,

feeling sure of a fee, however the others fare. The whole vicinity

abounds with loathsome spectacles of disease and distress, those

entirely helpless managing to be conveyed daily into holy precincts.

It is often amusing to witness an adult beggar “giving points” to some

young amateur in the art, the dignity of the national calling evidently

being insisted upon.

An agreeable sight in this city of churches and beggars, is the

afternoon stroll of companies of young priests and students from the

convents. They are very noticeable, as part of the panorama, with

their broad, silky shovel hats and black flowing gowns. Some are

scholastic and intent upon their studies even in the streets, while

others evidently take a most young man-of-the-world enjoyment in their

cigarettes and the street-sights.

[Illustration]

Revenues are collected in most primitive ways by the Spanish City

Fathers. As there are no important sources of public income, there are

few transactions, however trifling, that do not pay tax and toll. Every

man is suspected of smuggling and “false returns,” and it is a small

bunch of garlic that escapes. Burly officials, often in shirt-sleeves

and with club, lounge at all the entrances to the town, to levy duty

upon any chance donkey-pannier or cart bringing in fruit and vegetables

for sale. Frequently there are scenes of confusion, sometimes of

violence. The government is determined that not a turnip, not a carrot,

not a cabbage shall escape the yield of its due; and it is not to be

denied that the poor farmer hopes fervently to smuggle in a wine-skin

or two--a dozen of eggs, or some other article of price, among his

cheaper commodities. As a rule, he fails; for, suspicious of over-much

gesticulation and protestation, the official is quite likely to tumble

out sacks, baskets, bundles and bales, and empty every one upon the

ground, leaving the angry farmer to pick up and load again at his

leisure.

Andalusia is a brown region stretching gravely between Cadiz and

Granada. The effect of this landscape, all in low tones, upon natives

of the green lands of America and England, is most depressing. The soil

itself is red, and the grass grows so sparsely that the color of the

ground crops up, giving impression of general sun-blight, broken here

and there by the glimmering moonlight gray of an olive orchard, or

the dark-green of an orange garden. The huts of the farmers are built

of the red clay; the clothing of the population appears to be of the

undyed wool of the brown sheep, while to add to the prevailing russet

hue, the general occupation seems to be that of herding pigs on the

plains--and the pigs are hideously brown also. It is said that they

derive their color from feeding on the great brown bug, or beetle,

which abounds in the soil. The traveller counts these feeding droves by

the dozen, each with two lazy, smoking swineherds.

Travelling by rail over the Andalusian levels, one passes a succession

of petty stations, villages of half a dozen houses each, where the only

visible business appears to be in the hands of women, in the shape of

one or two open-air tables, with pitchers and glasses, and a cow or

goat tethered near in order to supply travellers, as the trains stop,

with drinks of fresh milk.

[Illustration]

Many of the public buildings of Spanish cities stand as they were

captured from the Moors. Sometimes, as in Cadiz, the town has received

a coat of whitewash; but more frequently the only Spanish additions and

improvements are a few crosses inlaid in the old cement, or a plaster

Virgin niched, in rude contrast, beside some richly wrought Moorish

door of horseshoe form. The town hall of Seville remains to-day as ten

centuries ago.

The Spanish towns lie, for the most part, in the valley. The Moors

usually chose the site for their cities with a view to the natural

defences of mountain and river. The hills of course, remain, but the

rivers, once full rushing tides, are now dried into stagnant shallow

waters, a natural result in a country long uncultivated.

A favorite business with the young men among the mountain peasants is

the breeding of poultry; not alone of fat pullets for the Christmas

markets--that is a minor interest so far as enjoyment goes--but of

choice young game cocks--cock-fighting being the staple, everyday

national amusement, while the bullfight is to be regarded as fête and

festival--“the taste of blood” is a welcome ingredient in any Spanish

pleasure. All poultry is taken to market alive; the pullets, hanging

head downwards, are slung in a bunch at the saddle bow, and the cocks

are carried carefully in cages. Fowls are not a common article of food,

as in France, but are, instead, a holiday luxury, and the costliest

meat in the market.

Looking idly abroad as he crosses the Andalusian plains, the tourist

on donkey-back notices the queer carts that take passengers from

one station to another. These odd omnibuses are but rude carts,

two-wheeled, and covered with coarse mats of pampas grass, and they

are drawn by two, three, four or five donkeys harnessed tandem. On

the rough, movable seats, gentlemen in broadcloth, and common folk

with laced canvas shoes and peasant-bags, huddle together, all eating

from the garlic-pots as they are passed, and drinking from the same

wine-skin; this good fellowship of travellers is one of the unwritten

laws of Spain. Meantime the sauntering boys of the roadside hop up

on the cart behind with the identical vagrant joy experienced by the

American urchin after a like achievement.

[Illustration]

You never can be sure when a Spaniard will arrive. Due at noon,

should he meet a guitar, he comes at nightfall; and as it is certain

that every second Spaniard, walking or riding, will have his guitar

along, it is best not to look for the return of any messenger before

evening. He may have chosen to alight from his donkey and dance an

hour, or he may have elected to sit still and clap and snap a dance in

pantomime--either is exciting and deeply satisfactory--and a fulfilment

of one of the obligations of daily life which no true Spaniard can

be expected to neglect for any such simple considerations as promise

given, command laid, or bargain made.

A peculiarly gloomy look is lent to the Spanish landscape by the

cypress, sometimes growing in groups, sometimes towering singly in

solitude. This tree, funereal in its best aspect, has a dead, dry,

white trunk, and the branches begin at a height of twenty, thirty, or

forty feet, and then drape themselves in a cone-like monumental mass

of purplish green. These gloomy evergreens are common, and the tourist

feels, even if he does not note, the absence of the lively sunny

greens of American and French landscapes, with the bowery shadows that

everywhere invite the wayfarer to stop and rest.

The Bergh Societies would find ample range for work in Spain, for the

beating and prodding of the donkey is one of the national occupations.

As a rule, poor Burro is overloaded. A whole family will frequently

come down into the city on his back, and tired though he be with

plodding and stumbling and holding back, the officer at the gate is

sure to give him a blow and a bruise with his bludgeon of authority as

he passes in; and the poor creature sometimes very justly lies down

in the street and dies without warning, allowing his owners to climb

homeward on foot.

Now and then one comes unexpectedly on an example of ancient enterprise

put to use. There are spots in the brown waste which are green and

fertile, because the old irrigating wells have been cleaned out and set

in motion--a pair of wheels studded with great cups operated by means

of a pair of poles, and a pair of donkeys, and a pair of drivers. The

land is cut in ditches, and often the farmer can be seen hoeing his

garlic and his cabbages while he stands in water ankle-deep.

[Illustration]

Greatly dreaded by the unmarried young Spanish woman is the Beggars’

Curse; and a goodly portion of the beggars’ revenue is ensured by

this superstitious national fear. The more vicious of the fraternity

keep good watch upon the wealthy young señoritas and their cavaliers

when they go out for pleasure. They do not follow them, perhaps;

instead they take up their stations around the doors of those

restaurants--whence they never are driven--where ladies and their

escorts are wont to stop for chocolate, or coffee, or _aguardente_,

on their return from calls or the theatre, or the Bull Ring. As the

pair are departing, the burly beggar approaches, half barring the

way perhaps, and asks for alms. It is usually bestowed; but he begs

insolently for more; and if it be not forthcoming, a bony and rosaried

arm is raised, “the evil eye” is fastened upon the doomed ones, and

the Beggars’ Curse--the Curse of the Unfortunate--which all Spaniards

dread, is threatened; and if it be evening, it is quite probable that

the group stand near some crucifix of the suffering Saviour, with the

red light of the street lantern shining down upon its ghastliness, so

that the feeling of pious dread is greatly heightened, and a frightened

pressure on the cavalier’s arm carries the doubled alms into the

outstretched hand.

The dress of Spanish people of fashion is singularly artistic and

pleasing. Although Paris styles are now followed by the señoritas, they

still cling to the national black satin with its lustrous foldings and

flouncings, to the effective ball fringes, and to the mantilla, draping

face and shoulder with its heavy black or white laces, the national red

rose set just above the ear. Nor is this too remarkable under the high

broad lights of the Spanish sky, though it might seen theatrical in our

cold, harsh, Northern atmosphere. The dress of the Spanish gentlemen

is as picturesque. The hat is usually a curious, double-brimmed silky

beaver, while the cloak is most artistic in color and in drapery. This

cloak, lasting a life-time, is of fine broadcloth, lined with heavy

blue or crimson velvet; and it is so disposed that the folding brings

this gorgeous lining in a round collar about the neck, while another

broad fold is turned over upon the whole long left side of the garment.

The peasant’s cloak, of the same cut, is lined with red flannel, but it

is often worn as gracefully. Long trousers are becoming general, but

in some districts the tight pantaloon, slashed at the knee, is still

seen, with its gay garter embroidered with some fanciful motto. One

just brought from Spain bears this legend: _There is a girl in this

town--with her love she kills me._

[Illustration: WHAT THEY ALL FEAR--THE BEGGAR’S CURSE.

MORE! SEÑORITA. MORE!]

Southern Spain is so mountainous that herding naturally becomes the

occupation of the peasantry, rather than tillage. Great flocks of goats

browse and frolic among the rocky heights and along the steep ravines

where it seems hardly possible for the tiny hoofs to keep foothold;

and the traveller often beholds far above him dozens of these bounding

creatures, leaping down the cliffs to drink at the valley streams. They

are generally followed, at the same fearless pace, by a short-frocked

shepherdess as sure-footed as they. Her rough, hempen-soled shoe,

however, yields her excellent support, being flexible and not slippery,

like boot-leather.

Along the narrow mountain highways, the traveller frequently comes upon

little booths built in among the cliffy recesses, like quaint pantries

hewn in the rock. Melons, and grapes, and garlic, and oranges in nets,

hang against the wall, and the heavy red wine of the country is for

sale by the glass, also goat’s milk.

Farming processes go on at all times of year in Spain. Subsistence is

a matter comparatively independent of care and calculation. Crops may

be sown at any time. The whole year round the peasant lights no fire in

his earthen, bowl-like hut of one room. He cooks outside his door, in

gypsy fashion. His furniture consists of some rude wool mattresses, a

table, and some stools with low backs. A few bowls, plates, and knives

and forks suffice to set his table. A kettle and a garlic pot comprise

his cooking utensils. Frequently he and his family are to be seen at

meals, leaning their elbows on the table in company, and sipping like

so many cats, from the huge platter of hot garlic soup, crumbling their

slices of coarse black bread, as they need. In contrast with this crude

bread of the common people, are the long, fine, sweet white loaves to

be had at the Seville bakeries--a bread so cake-like, so delicious,

as to require no butter, even with Americans accustomed to the use of

butter with every meal. The salted butter of American creameries, made

to keep for months, is wholly unknown in Spain, Spanish butter being a

soft mass, and always eaten unsalted. But with his strong garlic and

his fine fragrant tobacco, the Spaniard hardly demands or appreciates

the refinements of food, and his tobacco is of the best, coming from

the Spanish plantations in Cuba, and is very cheap, as it enters the

country free of duties.

[Illustration: SUNNY SPAIN: Sewing and Reaping in Winter]

Housework, among the sun-basking, siesta-loving Spaniards, seems to

be not the formidable, systematic matter that it is made in America.

Washing, as well as cookery, is of simplest form. “Blue Monday” does

not follow Sunday in Spain. A necessary garment is washed when needed;

superfluous ones are allowed to accumulate until it is worth while to

give a day to the task. Then, among the peasants, “the washing” is

carried to a mountain torrent, and the garments are rubbed and rinsed

in the swift waters, while picnic fun makes the labor agreeable, as

often several families wash in company. Among townspeople, the work

is done in great stone tubs in the patio, or in the water-cellar.

There the goods, repeatedly wetted, are laid upon a big stone table

and beaten with flat wooden paddles. The snowy array of the American

clothes-line is seldom seen. The washed garments are hung upon the table

edges, and held fast by stones or other weights until dried.

A frequent incident in mountain travel is the sight of some stout lazy

peasant away up the heights, holding fast by his donkey’s tail to help

himself along as the poor creature scrambles up the zigzag steeps. At

the base and along the face of these rocks cacti grow abundantly, often

presenting a beautiful cliff-side of cacti fifty feet high.

Another sight, not so agreeable, along many a Spanish roadside, is that

of the ancient wooden crosses, erected on the sites where travellers

have been murdered by banditti. These roads are often desolate and

dreary beyond description, unfenced, seldom travelled, and set with the

constantly recurring stones of the Moorish road-makers. Leading across

brown, treeless wastes, with habitations far apart, both peasant and

tourist would easily wander from these roads, were it not for those

rude mile-stones, which are often the only guide-posts and land-marks.

When a fence is required, a hedge of aloe is usually started.

Spanish children chew sugar-cane as American children munch candy. The

cane is brought from Cuba and is sold everywhere; carried about by

venders in big bundles of handy lengths, to capture all stray centimos.

Not so well patronized is the street dealer in soap--“old Castile”

soap--for this business is recognized to be a form of beggary, and

though bargains are made and money paid, the soap is seldom carried

away by the purchaser.

[Illustration]

Every male Spaniard is obliged to render three years of military

service; but usually this is no severe hardship, and loving his ease,

he leaves home cheerily enough. The government is rather embarrassed

than served, in the matter of stationing this soldiery, especially

since the close of the Carlist War. The conscripts are set to guard

the palaces, the parks, the national buildings; they are sent to Cuba

and elsewhere, whenever it is possible, in fact all opportunities and

pretexts are seized to set up a soldier on duty, or rather a pair of

them, as two are usually to be seen together. Leave of absence is

easily obtained, and but few days of actual presence and service are

required during the third year. However, the military requirements by

the government never relax, as “insurrections” are indigenous to the

country and climate.

As the ancient Moorish doors are still frequent, so is the old form of

knock and admission. The arrival raps smartly at the small door set

within the great nail-studded gate. Presently an eye, a face, appears

at the little wicket window to reconnoitre, to question. Should the

examination reveal nothing dangerous or disagreeable, the latch-string

is pulled, and entrance is permitted.

“Burro” must needs appear in all Spanish picture and story, for he

is prominent in all Spanish folk-life. He is to be seen everywhere,

with his rude harness tufted with gay woollens, and big brass nails,

moving over the landscape in town or country--the helpless slave and

abused burden-bearer, seldom petted, even by the children of the

family. There are very handsome mules in Madrid and a few elsewhere;

but the donkey is the national carrier. He is small, brown, brave,

and always bruised. The Spaniards’ “Get up!” is a brutal blow between

the eyes. He is seldom stabled, seldom decently fed. He is tethered

anywhere--under the grapevine, by the door, among the rocks, but always

at his master’s convenience; and his food is in matter and manner best

known to himself. His harness is heavy and uncomfortable, and his hair

is clipped close on his back where he needs protection most from the

burning sun. This clipping is usually done at the blacksmith’s, by a

professional clipper, and is a sight of interest to the lazy populace.

Under the great shears Burro’s body is often decorated with half

moons, eyes, monograms, garlands--whatever the fancy of his master, or

the clipper, or the bystander may direct. Poor Burro! from first to

last--poor Burro!

[Illustration: A DECORATIVE ARTIST.]

In Cordova, a sudden stir in the street often betokens “The Return from

the Chase”--not, however, the picturesque scattering of the “meet”

after an English fox-hunt, but the arrival home of some solitary mule

and rider, with a pack of harriers. The huntsman has been riding across

country all by himself, his cigarette, and his dogs, to ferret out

some luckless colony of hares in a distant olive orchard. The rabbits

are very mischievous in the young olive plantations, and the huntsman

and his pack are warmly welcomed by the olive-growers. These Spanish

harriers are a keen-nosed race of dogs; quite as good hunters as the

English fox-hounds. Nearly every breed of dog is found in Spain,

except, perhaps, the Newfoundland. In most Spanish cities the dogs are

one of the early morning sights as they gather in snarling, quarrelsome

packs of from fifteen to twenty, before the doors of the hotels and

restaurants, to devour the daily kitchen refuse--a very disagreeable

spectacle; but there seems to be no other street-cleaning machinery.

The chief streets of a Spanish town are usually thronged with

fruit-sellers, especially the Plaza, where the great portion of the

population seems to congregate to lounge and sleep in the sun all day

long, naturally waking now and then to crave an orange, a palmete, or

a pomegranate--“regular meals” appearing to be a regulation of daily

life quite unknown. These fruit sellers are girls, for the most part,

though sometimes there may be seen some old man who has not been able

to procure a beggar’s license. Oranges are always plenty. Palmetes, a

tender, bulbous growth, half vegetable, half fruit, are brought into

the city in January, and are consumed largely by the peasants and

beggars, who strip them into sections, chewing them for their rather

insipid sweetish juices.

The Spanish peasant cooks out-of-doors, like a gypsy. Often his kettle

is his only “stove furniture;” in it he stews, boils, fries and bakes.

Even in January, the cold month in Spain, he makes no change in his

housekeeping. The peasants’ daily bread is hardly bread at all, but

rather a pudding, a batter of coarse flour, water and garlic, stirred,

and boiled, and half baked in his kettle, and then pressed into a jar.

This “garlic pot” he always carries about with him in his shoulder bag.

In the patio apartments of some of the ancient, Moorish-built houses

there are quaint arches with stone ovens, which are sometimes utilized

for cookery.

[Illustration]

A drunken Spaniard is rarely seen, although the “wine-skin” keeps

constant company with the “garlic pot” in the peasant’s bag. The heavy

red wine of the country is used as freely as water, being sold for

four cents a wine-skin; this wine-skin holds a quart or more. Not

to drink with the skin held at arms-length, is to be not Spanish,

but French--their generic name for a foreigner or stranger. Fine and

delicate wines are made in the neighborhood of some of the great

vineyards, but they are chiefly for exportation.

There is a popular saying, that Spanish ladies dress their hair but

once a week. This is on Sunday, when they meet on one another’s

balconies to chat and gossip while their maids arrange their coiffures,

each maid taking care that she pat, and pull, and puff until her

mistress be taller than her friends, for height is a Spanish requisite

for beauty and style. Certain it is that the tourist sometimes looks

up and beholds this leisurely out-of-doors toilet-making. The glossy

black hair is universal, a fair-haired woman becoming an occasion for

persistent stares, although Murillo, in his time, seems to have found

plenty of red-haired Spanish blondes to paint. Happy is the gazing

traveller if he also may listen; for the music of a high-bred Spanish

woman’s voice is remarkable, holding in its flow, sometimes, the tones

of a guitar, and the liquid sounds of dropping water.

Spanish urchins are as noted for never combing their hair as Italian

boys are for never washing their faces. The change of the yellow

handkerchief dotted with big white eyes, which they knot about their

heads and wear day and night, seems to be the only attention they think

needful ever to bestow upon their raven locks.

That Spanish peasant is very poor and unthrifty indeed, who does not

contrive to own a foot or two of land upon which to grow a choice

Malaga grapevine. Owning the vines, he erects an out-of-door cellar to

preserve his crop--a simple arbor, upon the slats of which he suspends

his clusters for winter use. Hanging all winter in the current of wind,

the bunches of pale-green grapes may be taken down as late as February,

and still be found as plump and delicious and as full of flavor as

when hung. It is in this simple manner that they are preserved for the

holiday markets.

[Illustration]

One of the most picturesque features of natural scenery which the

traveller comes upon in Southern Spain, is that of the olive orchards,

especially those which cluster about Cordova. As the time of harvest

draws near, the coloring of these orchards is particularly pleasing.

The ripening fruit varies in tint, from vivid greens to gay reds and

lovely purples, while the foliage, of willow-leaf shape, restless and

quivering, is of a tender, shimmering, greenish gray, and the trunks

often have a solemn and aged aspect. Many of these plantations are

very ancient indeed, planted perhaps by the grandsires of the present

owners. They are usually a source of much profit, as the best eating

olives are those grown in Spain, and though the trees come into bearing

late, there are orchards which have been known to yield fruit for

centuries.

Each orchard has a guard, or watchman, who tends it the year round, for

the pruning, the tillage, and the watch upon the ripening fruit, demand

constant care. In the harvest season the watch is by night as well as

by day, for a vigorous shake of the branches will dislodge almost every

berry, and a thief, with his donkeys and his panniers, might easily and

almost noiselessly strip an entire orchard in a few hours. The olive

guard lives in a hut of thatch or grass in summer, and in a sort of

cave, or burrow, in winter.

The crop is mainly harvested by girls and women, and the scene is like

a picnic all day long, for Spanish girls turn all their labors into

merry-making whenever it is possible to do so. The gray orchards are

lighted up with the rainbowy colors of the peasant costumes, and the

air is musical with the donkey bells, while the overseer, prone on the

ground with his cigarette, “loafs and invites his soul,” evidently

finding great delight in the double drudgery he controls--that of the

donkeys and the damsels.

In regard to the great age of olive-trees, a recent writer says:

“When raised from seed it rarely bears fruit under fifty years, and

when propagated in other ways it requires at least from twenty to

twenty-five years. But, on the other hand, it lives for centuries.

The monster olive at Beaulieu, near Nice, is supposed by Risso to be

a thousand years old. Its trunk at four feet from the ground has a

circumference of twenty-three feet, and it is said to have yielded,

five hundred pounds of oil in a single year.”

[Illustration]

Cordova, lying in the beautiful valley of the Guadalquiver, surrounded

with gardens and villas, is well named the city of Age, Mellowness, and

Tranquility. It abounds with antiquities, and at every turn memories

are awakened of old Roman emperors, and the Arabian caliphs; the gates,

the sculptures, the towers, the mullioned windows and nail-studded

doors, the galleried houses and their beautiful patios fitted for idle

life in the soft Andalusian weather, the mosques and the great bridges

are all of those times. Even the streets are named after the old Roman

and Spanish scholars and poets.

The large bridge over the Guadalquiver was originally built by the

Roman Emperor, Octavius Augustus; it was afterwards remodelled by the

Arabs. The gate is very fine which leads into the gypsy quarter. The

Moors had three thousand baths on the banks of the river, but in their

day it was a full shining tide; now it is a muddy current, hardly in

need of bridging at all.

The mosques of Cordova are fine, and among them is the greatest Moslem

temple in the world, with its beautiful chapels, its Court of Oranges,

and its wondrous grove of marbles. This mosque, now used for Christian

worship, was erected on the ruins of an old cathedral, which it is said

had been built upon the site of a Roman temple. The Moslem structure

was erected by the Caliph Abdurrahman, in the seventh century, and was

a hundred years in building. The principal entrance is through the

Court of Oranges, where beautiful palms also grow, and other tropical

trees. Thence one emerges among a very forest of marble pillars, where

countless magnificent naves stretch away and intersect, and the shining

columns and pilasters spring upward into delicate double horseshoe

arches. One marble is shown where a Christian captive, chained at

its base, scratched a cross upon the stone with his nails. In some

sections the ceiling is dazzling with arabesques and crystals. Within

the mosque, in its very centre, rises a fine Catholic church, built in

the time of Charles the Fifth. It contains many illuminated missals and

rare old choir books.

The Cordovans, like the people of other Spanish cities, are indebted

to the Moors for the fine aqueducts which bring the cold mountain

water across the valley into the public watering places. These great

reservoirs are good points for observing some phases of folk-life.

[Illustration]

Granada, the beautiful city, with beautiful rivers, is named for a

“grenade” or pomegranate. At the time of the Conquest, King Ferdinand

on being assured how valiantly the Moors would defend their last

stronghold, replied, “I will pick out the seeds of this grenade one by

one.”

There is a tradition among the Moors that when the hand carved over the

principal entrance of the Alhambra shall reach down and grasp the key,

also carved there, they shall regain their city, the ancient home of

their caliphs.

The Generalife lies across the valley from the Alhambra. It was the

summer palace of the Moorish sovereigns, and is built on a mountain

slope by the Darro River, and its white walls gleam out from lovely

terraced gardens, and groves of laurel. The grounds abound with

fountains and summer houses.

The Alhambra--the great royal castle--a town in itself--is built on a

lovely tree-embowered height, its many towers rising high above the

mass of foliage. From these towers one looks across the vale of the

Vega to the spot where Columbus is said to have turned back, recalled

by Isabella, on his way to seek English aid in his discovery of a New

World. From these towers, too, can be seen the valley in the distance,

where Boabdil, last of the Moorish Kings, looked back on Granada for

the last time; and across the river, one gazes upon the sombre region

of the gypsy quarter, a swarming town of caves in the hillside.

Two relics of Alhambra housekeeping still remain; a great oven, and a

fine well. Both are utilized by the custodian of the palace. The palace

itself has many beautiful patios. The finest is known as the Court of

Lions, named from the sculptured figures which support the fountain in

the centre. Another is known sometimes as the Court of the Lake, and

sometimes as the Court of the Myrtles; and still another, entered by

subterranean ways, is the Hall of Divans, the special retreat of the

Favorites. There are many others, and all these patios and halls are

bewilderingly beautiful with arabesques, mosaics, inscriptions and

wondrous arches and columns, porticos, vistas, alcoves and temples--and

everywhere elegance of effect indescribable.

[Illustration]

At Granada, whenever it is desired, the proprietor of the Washington

Irving Hotel will engage the Gypsy King to come with his daughters and

dance the national dance at the house of one of the guides. This dance

is a most wild and weird performance. There is an incessant clapping of

hands and clatter of castañets, a sharp stamping of heels, an agonized

swaying of the body and the arms; and often the castañets and guitar

are accompanied by a wild and mournful wail from the dancers. The king

of the Granada gypsies is said to be the best guitar player in Spain.

The climb from the city up to the vast Gypsy Quarter, known as the

suburb of the Albaycin, is an adventure of a nightmare sort. The

squalor and horror of the life to be witnessed on the way up along

narrow streets swarming with the weirdest and dirtiest of brown

beggars, may not be painted, may not be written; yet now and then one

goes under a superb Arab arch, passes a door rich with arabesques, or

comes upon a group of elegant columns supporting a roof of mud and

rock. The long hillside seems honeycombed with the denlike habitations

of the gitanos, many of whom, among the men, are blacksmiths, while

others work at pottery, turning out very handsome plates and water

jars, while the women weave cloth, and do a rude kind of embroidery,

all selling their wares in the streets--in fact the spinning and

weaving and sewing is often carried on in the street itself.

But the little ones too (_las niñas_) add largely to the family income,

as they dance for the visitor; the traveller and his guide being

always invited to enter the caves. These gypsy children dance with

much spirit, and they also sing many beautiful old ballads of Spanish

prowess. The most beautiful ones among the girls are early trained to

practice fortune-telling.

With their dances, their songs, their fortune-telling, their

importunate, imperious begging, and their rude industries, these

Granada gypsies live here from century to century, in swarms of

thousands, never attempting to improve their condition, but boasting,

instead, of the comfort of their dismal caves as being cool in summer

and warm in winter. It is plain that they consider themselves and their

Quarter “a part of the show,” and hardly second in interest to the

Alhambra itself.

[Illustration]

Hardly is there a Spanish town of note, that does not possess its great

Bull Ring; and there are scores of inferior Bull Circuses throughout

Spain. There is but a slight public sentiment against the brutal sport

which is the favorite Sunday recreation of the whole nation. Spanish

kings and queens for many centuries have sat in the royal boxes to

applaud, and many of the Spanish noblemen of the present time breed

choice fighting bulls on their farms, and there is the same mad

admiration of the agile, skilful _espado_ or bull slayer, as a hundred

years ago. To be a fine _picador_ or _banderillo_, is to be sure of the

praise and the presents of the entire populace. Men, women and children

go; the amphitheatre is always crowded and always the crowd will sit

breathless and happy to see six or eight bulls killed, and three times

that count of horses--the rich and the nobles on the shady side under

the awnings, the peasants sweltering and burning in the sun. It is the

_picador_ who rides on horseback to invite with his lance the attacks

of the bull as he enters the arena; it is the _capeador_ who springs

into the arena with his cloak of maddening red or yellow, to distract

the bull’s attention from the fallen horseman; it is the _banderillo_

who taunts the wounded creature with metal-tipped arrows, the barbs

of which cannot be extracted, or with his long pole leaps tauntingly

over the back of the confused creature; but it is the gorgeous _espado_

with his sword, entering the arena, at last, who draws all eyes. With

his red flag he plays with the bull as a cat with the mouse, until the

amphitheatre is mad for life blood; then with a swift, graceful stroke

he ends all, his superb foe lies dead, and he turns from him to meet

the wild shower of hats, cigars, flowers, fans, purses that beats upon

him from all sides--it is a scene of unimaginable exultation, for there

are glad cries and plaudits, and royalty itself throws the bull-slayer

a golden purse and a pleased smile, and the beautiful Spanish señoritas

lavish upon him the most bewildering attentions.

The Spanish boy is born with a thirst for this sport. Their favorite

game is _Toro_. One lad mounts on his fellow’s back to take the part of

the _picador_ and his horse; another, with horns of sticks, represents

the bull; and the rest are _capeadors_, _banderillos_, and _escodas_,

while the audience of adult loungers look on with fierce excitement. It

is in this fierce, popular street sport that the future champions of

the Bull Ring are trained and developed--to be an _escoda_ is usually

the height of a Spanish boy’s ambition.

[Illustration]

Nowhere in Spain are you refreshed with the restful sound of water,

sometimes soft, sometimes gay, as in Granada. You hear the flow of the

Darro over its stones and rocks, you hear the splash of fountains, the

gay hurry of mountain brooks, the soft sound of springs--everywhere

flow, or gurgle, or drip. You hear it on the tree-bordered and bowered

Alameda in your moonlit walks, and you hear it through the windows

of your _fonda_, or hotel, when you wake. It is everywhere about the

Alhambra heights, and the Generalife terraces. The Spaniards call this

continuous water-sound, “The Sigh of the Moor.”

Most of the young Spanish women as well as the men, are accomplished

guitar-players. The guitar belongs in story to the Señorita, along

with her mantilla and her fan. It usually hangs on her casement, brave

with ribbons and gay wool tufts and all manner of decorations, and by

moonlight she will come out upon the balcony to answer her cavelier’s

serenade with a song as sweet as his own. You feel the atmosphere of

the Spanish night vibrating all about you, as you stroll along the

moonlit street, with the low, soft, delicate twinkle of a hundred

guitars, the players half-hidden in the dim patio balconies.

It is often the custom to drive the goats from door to door to be

milked, and often an accustomed goat, tinkling its bells, will go

along the street, stopping of its own will and knowledge at the doors

of its customers, and knocking smartly with its horns should no one

appear. The servant of the house comes out into the street and milks

the desired quantity, while the “milkman” lounges near by with his

cigarette.

Often it is as amusing to watch the dogs of the beggars by the churches

as the men themselves. While the noble _Caballeros_, Don Miguel and

Don Pedro, exhausted with the saying of prayers and the much asking of

centimos, have fallen asleep in the shade, their respective dogs remain

awake to glare at each other with true professional jealousy, and to

growl and snap, should a chance stranger drop a coin in one hat and not

in the other. The beggar is the last sight, as well as the first, which

greets the traveler in Spain.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

BY MARY STUART SMITH.

Queen Louisa of Prussia was the mother of William I., Emperor of

Germany, and although she has been dead over sixty years her one

hundredth birthday was celebrated elaborately throughout her son’s

dominions, with almost as many rejoicings as we made here over the one

hundredth birthday of these United States.

[Illustration: QUEEN LOUISA.]

When a child Louisa was very beautiful, and as she grew up did not

disappoint the promise of those early days.

She was married to Frederick William, Crown Prince of Prussia, when

only seventeen years of age, and brought down upon herself a sharp

rebuke from the proud mistress of ceremonies for the love she showed

to a little child as she was making her public entry into Berlin,

preparatory to the solmnization of her marriage. It happened thus:

The streets were thronged with people who had come to catch a glimpse

of the fair young bride, while every now and then select persons would

step forward and present complimentary poems of welcome, or some

pretty gift. A sweet little girl advanced to give the queen a bunch of

flowers, and Louisa was so struck with the child’s loveliness that she

stooped down and kissed her on the forehead. “Mein Gott!” exclaimed the

horrified mistress of ceremonies. “What has your majesty done?” Louisa

was as artless and simple as a child herself. “What?” said she, “is

that wrong? Must I never do so again?”

But the prince, her husband, was no fonder of show and ceremony than

herself, and asserted manfully the right of his wife and himself to act

like other affectionate people, in spite of being king and queen.

This royal pair had eight children, and upon these children was

lavished every care and attention. It is said that every night the king

and queen went together to visit their sleeping children after they had

been put into their little beds, and many a time were they surprised

by a bright pair of wide-awake eyes smiling back upon them a look of

love in return. Queen Louisa used to say, “The children’s world is my

world,” nor were the little creatures slow to reciprocate the love she

gave.

You know Christmas is observed in Germany with peculiar reverence,

and is a season set apart for mirthful recreation among all classes,

but more especially for the enjoyment of children. Berlin is gay with

Christmas trees and a brilliant array of toys etc., for at least a week

beforehand.

Like other parents the king and queen found delight in preparing

pleasant surprises for their little ones. While engaged in choosing

presents for them, on one occasion they entered a top-shop where

a citizen’s wife was busy making purchases, but recognizing the

new-comers she bowed respectfully and retired. The queen addressed

her in her peculiarly winning way and sweet voice. “Stop, dear lady,

what will the stall-keeper say if we drive away his customers?” She

then inquired if the lady had come to buy toys for her children, and

asked how many little ones she had. Hearing there was a son about the

age of the Crown Prince, the queen bought some toys and gave them to

the mother, saying, “Take them, dear lady, and give them to your crown

prince in the name of mine.”

But I must tell you a yet prettier story, showing the queen’s fondness

for making children happy.

There lived in Berlin a father and mother, who from some cause were so

poor, and low-spirited besides, that when the holiday came which all

children love best, they quietly resigned themselves to having nothing

to give their little ones. What can be more sad than a house which

no Kriss Kringle visits? Just think of it! They told their children

that there was to be no Christmas tree for them this year. The little

boy and his sister had been led to believe that the _Christ-kind_ or

Christ-child provides the tree and the gifts which are placed on tables

round it; only ornaments, sweets and tapers are hung upon the branches.

Under this disappointment the children, in the innocent simplicity of

their faith, sought the aid of the good _Christ-kind_ in their own way.

Christmas Eve came, and the poor troubled parents looked on with wonder

as they beheld their children hopping and skipping about with joy,

although they were to be the only children for whom no Christmas tree

would be lighted, nor pretty gifts provided. Still in high spirits they

watched at the window, and clapped their hands when the door-bell rang,

exclaiming: “Here it comes!” The door was opened and a man-servant

appeared, laden with a gay tree and several packets, each addressed to

some member of the family.

“There must be some mistake!” said the mother.

“No, no!” cried the boy, “it is all right. I wrote to the good

_Christ-kind_, and told him what we wanted, and that you could not buy

anything this year.”

The parents enjoyed the evening with their children and afterwards

unravelled the mystery. The postmaster, astonished by a letter

evidently written by a very young scribe and addressed to the

_Christ-kind_, had sent it to the palace with a respectful inquiry

as to what should be done with a letter so strangely directed. Queen

Louisa read it and, as a handmaid of the _Christ-kind_, she answered

his little children.[1]

[1] Mrs. Hudson’s Life of Queen Louisa.

Louisa’s sympathies were ever ready to flow for the sorrows of

childhood, which so many grown people will not stoop to even notice.

One day as the king and queen were entering a town, a band of young

girls came forward to strew flowers and to present a nosegay. Her

majesty inquired how many little girls there were. “Nineteen,” replied

the artless child; “there would have been twenty of us but one was sent

back home because she was too ugly.”

The kind queen feeling for the child’s mortification sent for her

and requested that she might by all means be allowed to join in the

festivities of the day.

Nor did Louisa slight the boys.

She was one day walking in the streets of Charlottenburg, attended

by a lady-in-waiting; a number of boys were running and tumbling and

playing somewhat rudely, and one of them ran up against the queen. Her

lady reproved him sharply, and the little fellow looked frightened

and abashed. The queen patted his rosy cheek, saying: “Boys will be a

little wild; never mind, my dear boy, I am not angry.” She then asked

his name and bade him give her compliments to his mother. The child

knew who the lady was, and besides having the pleasant memory of her

gracious speech and looks received a lesson in politeness which he

never forgot.

Sometimes the royal children were allowed to have a party, and this

indulgence young princes and princesses enjoy just as much as other

juveniles. A queer anecdote is told of the only daughter of the famous

Madame de Stael, in relation to one of these entertainments.

The little lady was about ten years of age, but had already imbibed

many opinions and prejudices. At all events she had a high idea of her

own importance, and was totally wanting in respect for her superiors in

rank. She was apt to be very rude in her manners and in her remarks.

On this occasion she took offence at something which the little Crown

Prince said or did to her, and very coolly gave him a sharp box on the

ear, upon which he ran crying to his mother and hid his face in the

folds of her dress. As mademoiselle, when remonstrated with, showed

not a particle of concern, and refused to say she was sorry, she was

not invited again, and her learned mamma found that she must keep her

daughter at home until she taught her better manners.[2]

[2] Sir George Jackson.

The annual fair at Paretz, the king’s beloved country home, took place

during the merry harvest-time. A number of booths were then put up near

the village, and besides buying and selling there was a great deal or

dancing and singing going on, and all sorts of games and sports. It was

then that the wheel of fortune was turned for the children’s lottery.

Lots of cakes and fruit were set round in order, which were given away

according to the movements of a pointer, turned by the wheel.

Queen Louisa encouraged the children to crowd around her on these

occasions; she could not bear to see them afraid of her, and placed

herself beside the wheel, in order to secure fair play and to watch

carefully that she might make some amends for the unkindness of

fortune. She had her own ample store of good things which she dispensed

among the unlucky children, many of whom thought more of the sweet

words and looks of the queen than of anything else she could give

them. Moreover she was glad to have a chance of leading even one of

her little subjects to be generous and self-denying. For, while she

liked to see them all happy, she at the same time interested herself in

giving pleasantly little hints as to conduct that might be of lasting

benefit.

All her life Queen Louisa watched beside the wheel in a higher sense.

She overlooked the whole circle of which she was the centre, anxiously

seeking to hold out a helping hand to any whom she saw likely to be

ruined by losses in the great lottery of real life.

Is it matter for wonder then that German children still cherish her

memory, and delight to place flowers upon vase or tomb that bears her

name?

[Illustration]

THE PLAYTHING OF AN EMPRESS.

BY M. S. P.

Doubtless the readers of GRAMMAR SCHOOL have heard it said that “Men

and Women are only children of a larger growth.” No matter how stately

the grand ladies that we often meet with may appear, you may be very

sure that they sometimes envy the pleasures of children, who have no

thoughts about fine houses and servants, and a hundred other cares.

Even wearing a crown does not bring happiness; the dignity it entails

often becomes burdensome.

Once a young prince, who had everything that he could possibly want

given him,--books, jewels, playthings of inconceivable variety, horses

and dogs, in fact all the nice things that you can imagine to bring

him pleasure,--was observed by his attendants to be standing by the

window, crying. When asked the cause of his tears he replied that he

was unhappy because he could not join the boys in the street who were

making mud pies!

The Indians who use the bow and arrow say that the proper way to keep

the strength of their bows is to unstring them after use and let them

relax. So it is with those whose minds or bodies are engaged in one

long strain of work; they must be relaxed or they become useless. The

late Pope of Rome was a very dignified old man, and was also surrounded

by learned and great men. He rode in a gilded coach drawn by four

horses, and was in public a very grand and stately person. But I read

the other day that the old gentleman and some of his cardinals were

once seen playing ball in his garden, for the purpose of amusing a

little boy.

More than a hundred years ago the great country east of Germany, known

as Russia, was ruled by the Empress Anne. It is a very cold country and

the winter is very long. The capital is St. Petersburg, and through

it the river Neva runs. This river freezes in winter, and the ice is

frequently so solid that it will bear up an army of several thousand

men with all their heavy guns and mortars, and these be discharged

without so much as cracking the ice.

At the close of the year 1739, during an extremely cold winter, the

empress ordered one of her architects to build an _Ice Palace_. The

great square in front of the royal palace was chosen for its site.

Blocks of the clearest ice were selected, carefully measured and even

ornamented with architectural designs. They were raised with cranes and

carefully placed in position, and were cemented together by the pouring

of water over them. The water soon froze and made the blocks one solid

wall of ice. The palace was fifty-six feet long, seventeen and one half

feet wide, and twenty-one feet high. Can you imagine anything more

beautiful than such a building made of transparent ice and sparkling in

the sun?

It was surrounded by a balustrade, behind which were placed six ice

cannon on carriages. These cannon were exactly like real metal ones,

and were so hard and solid that powder could be fired in them. The

charge used was a quarter of a pound of powder and a ball of oakum. At

the first trial of the cannon an iron ball was used. The empress with

all her court was present, and the ball was fired. It pierced a plank

two inches thick at a distance of sixty feet.

Besides these six cannon in front of the palace there were two ice

mortars which carried iron balls weighing eighty pounds with a charge

of one quarter of a pound of powder. Then, too, there were two ice

dolphins, from whose mouths a flame of burning naptha was thrown at

night with most wonderful effect. Between the cannon and dolphins, in

front of the palace, there was a balustrade of ice ornamented with

square pillars. Along the top of the palace there was a gallery and a

balustrade which was ornamented with round balls. In the centre of this

stood four beautiful ice statues.

The frames of the doors and windows were painted green to imitate

marble. There were two entrances to the palace, on opposite sides,

leading into a square vestibule which had four windows. All the

windows were made of perfectly transparent ice, and at night they were

hung with linen shades on which grotesque figures were painted, and

illuminated by a great number of candles.

Before entering the palace one naturally stopped to admire the pots of

flowers on the balustrade, and the orange trees on whose branches birds

were perching. Think of the labor and patience required to make such

perfect imitations of nature _in ice_!

Standing in the vestibule, facing one entrance and having another

behind, one could see a door on either hand. Let us imagine ourselves

in the room on the left. It is a sleeping-room apparently, but if you

stop to think that every article in it is made of ice you will hardly

care to spend a night there; and yet it is said that two persons

actually slept on the bed there for an entire night. On one side is

a toilet-table. Over it hangs a mirror, on each side of which are

candelabra with ice candles. Sometimes at night these candles were

lit by being dipped in naptha. On the table is a watch-pocket, and a

variety of vases, boxes, and ornaments of curious and beautiful design.

At the other side of the room we see the bed hung with curtains,

furnished with sheets and a coverlid and two pillows, on which are

placed two night-caps. By the side of the bed on a foot-stool are

two pairs of slippers. Opposite the bed is the fireplace which is

beautifully carved and ornamented. In the grate lie sticks of wood also

made of ice, which are sometimes lighted like the candles by having

naptha poured over them.

The opposite room is a dining-room. In the centre stands a table on

which is a clock of most wonderful workmanship. The ice used is so

transparent that all the wheels and works are visible. On each side

of this table two beautifully carved sofas are placed, and in the

corners of the room there are statues. On one side we see a sideboard

covered with a variety of ornaments. We open the doors and find inside

a tea-set, glasses and plates which contain a variety of fruits and

vegetables, all made of ice but painted in imitation of nature.

Let us now go through the opposite door and notice the other curious

things outside the palace. At each end of the balustrade we see a

pyramid with an opening in each side like the dial of a clock. These

pyramids are hollow, and at night a man stands inside of them and

exhibits illuminated pictures at the grand openings.

Perhaps the greatest curiosity of all is the life-like elephant at the

right of the palace. On his back sits a Persian holding a battle-axe,

and by his side stand two men as large as life. The elephant, too, is

hollow, and is so constructed that in the daytime a stream of water is

thrown from his trunk to a height of twenty-four feet, and at night a

flame of burning naptha. In addition to this, the wonderful animal is

so arranged that from time to time he utters the most natural cries.

This is done by means of pipes into which air is forced.

On the left of the palace stands a small house, built of round blocks

of ice resembling logs, interlaced one with another. This is the

bath-house, without which no Russian establishment is complete. This

bath-house was actually heated and used on several occasions.

When this wonderful ice-palace was completed it was thrown open to the

public, and such crowds came to see it that sentinels were stationed in

the house to prevent disorder.

This beautiful palace stood from the beginning of January until the end

of March. Then, as the weather became warmer, it began to melt on the

south side; but even after it lost its beauty and symmetry as a palace

it did not become entirely useless, for the largest blocks of ice were

transferred to the ice-houses of the imperial palace, and thus afforded

grateful refreshment during the summer, as well as a pleasant reminder

of “_The Plaything of an Empress_.”

CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.

BY CHARLES E. HURD.

Charlie was going to Boston.

The ceaseless clatter of his little copper-toed boots over all the bare

places in the house, and the pertinacious hammering he kept up upon

everything capable of emitting sound, rendered it impossible for his

mamma or the new baby to get any rest, and so it was that the decision

came about. Aunt Mary, who had lent her presence to the household for

the preceding fortnight, was to return home the following day, and with

her, after infinite discussion, it was decided that he was to go for a

week.

The momentous news was withheld from Charlie until the next morning,

for fear of the result upon his night’s sleep, but it was injudiciously

let out by Aunt Mary before breakfast, the effect being to at once

plunge the young gentleman into the highest state of excitement. He

had played “go to Boston” a thousand times with his little cart and

wheelbarrow, but to take such a journey in reality was something he

could hardly imagine possible.

“Am I going to Boston, real ’live?” he wildly inquired. “Where’s my

rubber boots, and my little chair, and my cart, and I want my piece of

gum mamma tooked away, and where’s my sled?”

“But, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, persuasively, “you are not going now,

and you don’t want to take all those things. There isn’t any snow

in Boston, and good little boys don’t chew gum. You must have some

breakfast.”

“I don’t want any breakfast. I want to go to Boston. I got to go, now

you said so.”

“Yes, but you must have something to eat first. It would make you sick

to ride so far without eating. And then you must have a nice bath, and

put on your new suit that papa bought last week. You’ve plenty of time.”

But Charlie, generally good to mind, was thoroughly demoralized by the

new turn in affairs, and had to be brought to the table by main force.

“It’s like taking a horse to water,” said Aunt Mary. “You can get him

to the trough, but you can’t make him drink without he likes. Charlie,

have a nice large griddle-cake?”

Griddle-cakes were Charlie’s weak point, but in a time like this he

rose superior to the temptation.

“Don’t want griddle-cakes; don’t want bread; don’t want toast; don’t

want anything. I want to get right down out of my little chair, and go

to Boston, awful quick!”

“The child will be down sick if he goes away on an empty stomach,” said

grandma from her bedroom, where she could see all that transpired at

the table. “Can’t you make him eat?”

“It’s all very well to say ‘Make him eat,’ but he won’t,” said Aunt

Mary. “You might just as well make a squirrel sit down and eat in a

respectable manner.”

“Let him go till he gets hungry, then,” said his father. “He’ll come to

it soon enough. There’s no danger of his starving.”

If Charlie had been a grown man, with whiskers, and going to some

European Court as Minister Extraordinary, he couldn’t have felt the

importance of his prospective journey more, or been more weighed down

by the preparations for it. The train which was to carry him did not

start until two o’clock, and in the six hours which intervened his

little tongue was in constant motion, and his little feet tramping up

and down stairs, “getting ready.”

“But you’re only going to stay for a week, you know, Charlie,” said

Aunt Mary, dismayed at the heap of toys he had industriously gathered

in a corner of the sitting-room for transportation, “and you’ll see so

many pretty things that you won’t care for any of these.”

“I want to carry my wheelbarrow. I will be cross if I don’t carry my

wheelbarrow. And my cunnin’ little cunnin’ watlin’ pot, and my high

chair, and some more.”

But Aunt Mary couldn’t get them into her trunk, and the railroad

man wouldn’t let Charlie take them into the cars. “Put them all away

nicely, and then Charlie will have them when he comes home.”

It required a great deal of judicious argument, intermingled with

promises, to gain the point, and final success was only achieved by a

formal agreement, to which grandma was made a witness, by virtue of

which Charlie was to become the possessor of “a speckled rocking-horse,

just like Johnny Baker’s, with real hair ears, and a tight tail,

that boys couldn’t pull out.” This compact having been made, Charlie

submitted to the washing and dressing process with comparative good

grace.

An exceedingly light dinner preceded the start, varied by excursions to

the front door to see if the depot stage was coming. It came at last,

and, after the leave-taking, Charlie and Aunt Mary were packed in among

half a dozen others. The whip cracked, the coach gave a sudden lurch,

and then dashed down the street at the heels of the horses, who seemed

anxious to get to the station at the earliest possible moment. There

was just time to get tickets and seats before the train started.

If Charlie was unmanageable before, he was doubly so now. At every

stopping-place he made desperate efforts to get out of the car, and

once or twice, in spite of Aunt Mary’s efforts, very nearly succeeded.

He dropped his hat out of the window; he dirtied his face beyond

redemption with dust and cinders; he put cake crumbs down the neck

of an old lady who had fallen asleep on the seat just in front, and

horrified the more staid portion of the passengers in the car by a

series of acts highly inconsistent with the rules of good breeding, and

the character of a nice boy.

Boston was reached at last, and the perils of procuring a hack and

getting safely home in it were surmounted. So thankful was Aunt Mary

that she could have dropped upon her knees on the sidewalk in front of

the door; but she managed to control her feelings, paid the hackman

his dollar, still keeping a tight grip upon Charlie, and, despite his

struggles to join the distant audience of a hand-organ, managed to get

him safely into the house, where he was at once delivered over to the

other members of the household.

“I never, never, _never_ will go out of the house with that child

again!” she declared, half crying, and sinking into a chair without

taking her bonnet off. “He’s enough to kill anyone outright. No wonder

they wanted to get rid of him at home! It’ll be a mercy if he don’t

drive us all crazy before the week is out. One thing is certain,

they’ll have to send for him. _I’ll_ never take him home again.”

“Why didn’t you drug him, Aunt Mary,” asked Tom, with a great show of

sympathy. “_I_ would.”

“I declare I would have done anything, if I had only known how he was

going to act! You may laugh and think it’s all very funny, but I just

wish you’d some of you try it yourselves. Where is he now? If he’s out

of sight a single minute he’ll be in some mischief. There he goes now!”

The last declaration of Aunt Mary was preceded by a series of violent

bumps, followed by a loud scream from the bottom of the basement

stairs. A grand rush to the spot revealed Charlie lying at the foot,

beating the air with his legs, with a vigor that at once dispelled all

fears as to his serious injury. He was picked up and borne into the

kitchen by the cook, where the gift of a doughnut soon dried his tears,

and he was returned to the sitting-room to await the ringing of the

bell for tea.

“Has he had a nap to-day?” asked grandmother.

“Nap! I should think the child would be dead for want of sleep. I don’t

believe he’s winked to-day!”

“He looks like it now, anyway,” said Tom, who was holding him in his

arms.

Sure enough, his eyelids were beginning to droop, and a moment after

the half-eaten doughnut dropped from his loosened fingers upon the

carpet.

“Carry him up to my room, Tom, and lay him upon my bed. Don’t for

mercy’s sake hit his head against anything. We shan’t have any peace if

he gets awake again.”

Slowly and carefully Tom staggered under his little burden up-stairs,

and laid it upon the clean white coverlet of Aunt Mary’s bed.

“That will do,” said Aunt Mary, who had followed close behind. “He’s

thoroughly tired out, and no wonder. You may go down now and I will

take care of him, dear little fellow.”

With careful fingers she untied the laces of his little boots, and

pulled them off. The stockings came next, and the hot little feet

were released from confinement. The tiny jacket was then removed, the

tangled hair put back, and then, with a sponge wet in cool water,

the dirty, sweaty little face was softly bathed until it became quite

presentable again.

“There!” she said at last, surveying him with a feeling of

satisfaction, “he will sleep at least a couple of hours. By that time

I shall get rested, and can manage him better. I suppose it’s because

he’s so tired, and everything is new.”

With this apology for Charlie in her heart, and a half remorseful

feeling for her lately displayed impatience, she descended the stairs

to the dining-room, where the rest of the family were already seated at

the table.

A few minutes later, and while she was deep in an account of matters

and things at Charlie’s home, the cook came up-stairs in something of a

fluster.

“Plaze, ma’am, there’s something on the house.”

“Something on the house?”

“Yes. McKillop’s boarders across the way are all at the windows, an’

the men is laughin’ and the women frightened.”

With one accord a sudden and informal adjournment to the parlor window

was made, the result being a verification of the cook’s statement.

“What on earth can be the matter?” said grandmother.

At this moment Mrs. McKillop, after a series of incomprehensible

gestures, which nobody could translate with any clearness, dispatched

her girl across the street.

“There’s a child, ma’am,” she exclaimed, in breathless excitement, “a

baby, walking about on the outside of your house like a fly! he’s--

Howly Father!”

This sudden exclamation was caused by the descent of a flower pot,

which, coming with the swiftness of a meteor, missed the head of the

speaker by less than a hand’s-breadth, and crashed into a thousand

pieces on the front steps.

The situation was taken in at once. With a succession of screams Aunt

Mary flew up the stairs two at a time. By this a crowd was rapidly

gathering.

“Bring out something to catch him in if he falls,” shouted a fat old

gentleman, pushing his way to the front.

Grandmother caught a tidy from the arm of the sofa, and, snatching a

volume of Tennyson from the centre-table, rushed frantically into the

street, closely followed by Tom with a feather duster.

A single glance told the whole story. There sat Charlie, utterly

innocent of clothing save a shirt of exceeding scantness, on the very

edge of the broad projection below the third-story window, his legs

dangling in space, watching with delighted interest the proceedings of

the excited crowd in the street below. No one knows what might have

happened, for, at that moment, while a hot discussion was being carried

on among the gathered spectators, as to the propriety of sounding

a fire alarm for a hook and ladder company, the arms of Aunt Mary

came through the window, and closed upon him like a pair of animated

pincers. There was a brief struggle, productive of a perfect shower

of flower-pots, and then, amid a hurricane of shouts and cheers, the

little white body and kicking legs disappeared within the room. When,

two minutes later, the entire household, with a fair sprinkling of the

McKillop boarders, had reached the scene, they found Charlie shut up

in the wardrobe, and Aunt Mary in hysterics, with her back against the

door.

“If he stays here a week we shall have to board up the windows, and

keep a policeman,” said grandmother, that night, after Charlie had been

guarded to sleep on the sitting-room lounge, with the door locked. “We

shall have to have watchers for him, for I would no more dare to go

to sleep without some one awake with him than I would trust him with

a card of matches and a keg of gunpowder. And that makes me think:

we musn’t leave matches where he can get them; and, father, you’ll

have to go down town the first thing in the morning, and see about an

insurance.”

Notwithstanding the universally expressed fears, Charlie slept like a

top all night, and really behaved so well the next morning that it was

deemed safe to give him an airing, and introduce him to the sights of

Boston. Right after dinner he was taken in hand, and dressed and curled

and frilled as he never had been before, creating serious doubts in his

own mind as to whether he was really himself, or another boy of about

the same size and general make.

At half-past two o’clock the party set out, Aunt Mary on one side,

tightly grasping Charlie’s hand, and on the other a female friend,

especially engaged for the occasion. Tom followed on behind as a sort

of rear guard, ready to be called upon in case of emergency.

First the Public Garden was visited. Hardly had half the circuit of the

lake been made, when Charlie, attracted by one of the gayly painted

boats which was moored a few feet from the shore, broke loose and made

a sudden dash to reach it, to the utter ruin of his stockings and

gaiters. In vain Aunt Mary coaxed and remonstrated and threatened; in

vain she attempted to hook him out with the handle of her parasol; he

was just out of reach and he kept there. He was brought out by one

of the gardeners at last, who seemed to look upon it as an excellent

joke. Tom, who had lagged behind, was sent back after dry stockings

and Charlie’s second-best shoes, which, when brought, were changed

in the vestibule of the Public Library, and the line of march again

taken up. The deer on the Common were fed, Punch and Judy viewed and

criticized, and the thousand and one various objects in the vicinity

visited. Charlie was delighted with everything, but through and above

all one grand desire and determination rode rampant--the desire and

determination to enter into possession of the promised, but as yet

unrealized, “wocking-horse.”

[Illustration: “MOUNTED UPON THE BACK OF THE LARGEST AND REALEST

LOOKING HORSE.”]

Down Winter Street to Washington, in the great, sweeping crowd of men,

women and children; past the gorgeous dry goods stores; past candy

and apple stands; past all sorts of strange and funny and bewildering

things, Charlie was slowly dragged, a helpless and unwilling prisoner.

He only broke silence once. Passing a window filled with braids and

chignons, and doubtless taking them for scalps, he inquired with

considerable interest if “Indians kept store there.”

“Oh! what a lovely silk!” ejaculated Aunt Mary’s friend, coming to a

sudden stop before one of the great dry goods emporiums on Washington

Street.

Aunt Mary stopped, too. The pattern was too gorgeous to be lightly

passed. She raised her hand to remove her vail, forgot her charge for a

moment, and when she looked again Charlie had disappeared.

“Charlie! Charlie! Why, where is he?” she exclaimed, pale with fright.

“I thought you had hold of him!”

“I dropped his hand not a minute ago, to be sure my pocket hadn’t been

picked. I thought you would look out for him.”

In vain they searched; in vain they questioned clerks and policemen and

apple-women. Nobody had seen such a boy, and yet everybody seemed to

think that they certainly should remember if they had. It was now half

past four. And Tom, who might have helped them so much, was gone!

“Perhaps,” suggested a pitying apothecary’s clerk, with a very small

moustache and very smooth hair, “perhaps the young man Tom has taken

him home.”

There was a small spark of comfort in this suggestion and, though

unbelieving, the two hurried homewards, only to find Tom sitting on the

doorstep, lazily fanning himself, and hear his surprised ejaculation:

“Why! what have you done with Charlie?”

“He’s lost!” said Aunt Mary, bursting into tears. “He’ll get run over,

or carried away, or something terrible will happen to him. I shall

never have another minute’s peace while I live!”

Tom listened impatiently to the details of the story, told by both

together, and, tossing his fan into the hall, started down the steps.

“Don’t fret till I come back. He’s all right somewhere, and I’ll bring

him home with me.”

“I’m going back. I can’t stay here. I can help search,” said Aunt Mary,

still in tears, and her loyal companion avowed her determination to

stand by her.

Tom had hurried away without stopping to listen, and was now out of

sight; but the two wretched women, heated, footsore and wearied,

followed resolutely after. The scene of the mysterious disappearance

was at last reached, and again the oft repeated inquiries were made,

but with the same result.

“Here is where I was intending to bring him,” said Aunt Mary, pausing

mournfully before the window of a toy-bazar crowded with drums,

guns, trumpets and wooden monkeys. “He had talked so much about his

rocking-horse, the poor lost lamb! And now--”

The sentence was never finished, for, with a half hysterical shriek,

she dropped her parasol upon the sidewalk and rushed into the store,

where the apparition of a curly head of flaxen hair, slowly oscillating

back and forth, had that instant caught her eye. It was Charlie, sure

enough, in the highest feather, mounted upon the back of the largest

and realest-looking horse in the entire stock of the establishment,

whose speed he was endeavoring to accelerate by the aid of divers

kicks and cluckings, while the proprietor and unemployed clerks looked

admiringly on.

Aunt Mary, despite her regard for appearances, hugged him and cried

over him without stint, and finally made a brave attempt to scold him,

but her heart failed her, at the very outset.

“He’s been here nigh upon two hours,” said the proprietor, as he made

change for the coveted horse. “He came in alone and went right to

that horse, and there he’s stuck ever since. I don’t let boys handle

’em much without I know they’re going to buy, but he made me think so

much of a little fellow I lost a year ago that I let him do just as he

liked.”

No mishap occurred in getting Charlie home this time. The toyman’s boy

was sent for a hack, and, with the rocking-horse perched up by the

side of the driver, and the doors tightly closed, nothing happened

beyond what happens to ordinary boys who are carried about in hacks.

Some little difficulty was experienced in getting him out on arrival

home, for it appeared that he had formed the plan on the way of

taking his horse into the coach and making a tour of the city by

himself. He could not in any manner be satisfied of the impossibility

of such an arrangement, and was at last taken out in a high state of

indignation by the driver, who expressed a vehement wish to himself

that “_he_ had such a young one!” Nothing took place worthy of mention

before bed-time, with the exception, perhaps, of the breaking of the

carving-knife, and the ruin of Aunt Mary’s gold pen in an attempt to

vaccinate his new acquisition.

For three days peace--comparative peace--reigned in the household.

From morning till night, in season and out of season, Charlie was busy

with his horse, astride of it, or feeding it, or leading it to water,

or punishing it for imaginary kicks and bites, and so keeping out of

mischief; but with the dawn of the fourth he awoke, apparently for the

first time, to a realization of the fact that he was not lying in his

own little bed, and a sudden flood of homesickness rolled over his

soul, drowning out rocking-horse, hand-organs, Tom’s music-box, and

each and every Bostonian delight which, until that moment, had led him

captive.

From that moment his mourning was as incessant and obstinate as that of

Rachael. He sat on the top stair, and filled the house with wailings.

Cakes, candy and coaxings were alike in vain, and even a desperate

promise of Tom’s--to show him a whole drove of elephants, had no more

effect upon him, to use the cook’s simile, “than the wind that blows.”

“No human being can endure it any longer,” declared grandma, and in

that statement every member of the household cordially agreed.

That fact having been established without discussion, but one thing

remained to do; to get him home in as good condition as when he left

there.

“One can hardly do that,” said Tom. “He’s got a rag on every finger but

one, and I don’t know how much court-plaster about him.”

Notwithstanding, the afternoon train saw Charlie on board, under the

double guardianship of Aunt Mary and Tom, and at five o’clock he was in

his mother’s arms.

“The silence in the house was a thousand times worse than the sound of

his little feet,” she said, with her eyes full of tears, “and made me

think of that possible time when I should never hear them any more.”

[Illustration: Johnny’s a drummer and drums for thᵉ King.

_MDC. VII._]

A WONDERFUL TRIO.

BY JANE HOWARD.

In a little stone hut among the mountains lived Gredel and her son

Peterkin, and this is how they lived: They kept about a dozen goats;

and all they had to do was to watch them browse, milk them, and make

the butter and cheese, which they partly ate and partly sold down in

the village, or, rather, exchanged for bread. They were content with

bread, butter, and cheese; and all they thought about was the goats.

As for their clothes, it would be impossible to speak of them with

patience. They had no ambition, no hope, no thought beyond the day, and

no sense of gratitude towards yesterday. So they lived, doing no harm,

and effecting little good; careless of the future, and not honestly

proud of anything they had done in the past.

But one day Gredel (who was the widow of a shepherd that had dropped

over the edge of a cliff) sat slowly churning the previous day’s milk,

while Peterkin sat near her, doing nothing at all, thinking nothing at

all, because he had nothing to ponder over, and looking at nothing at

all, for the goats were an everyday sight, and they took such capital

care of themselves that Peterkin always stared away over their heads.

“Heigho!” suddenly exclaimed Gredel, stopping in her churning; and

Peterkin dropped his stick, looked at his mother slowly, and obediently

repeated, “Heigho!”

“The sun rises,” said Gredel, “and the sun sets; the day comes, and the

day goes; and we were yesterday, and we are to-day, and we shall be for

some tomorrows; and that is all, all, all.”

Said Peterkin, “Mother, what is there in the world?”

“Men and women,” repeated the wise parent; “goats, and many other

things.”

“But is it the end of life to get up, watch goats, eat and drink, and

fall asleep again? Sometimes I wonder what is on the other side of the

hill.”

“Who can say what is the end of life?” asked slow-thoughted Gredel.

“Are you not happy?”

“Yes. But there is something more.”

“Do you not love me--your mother?”

“Yes. But still I think--think--think.”

“Love is enough,” said Gredel, who had passed more than half way

through life, and was content to rest.

“Then it must be,” said Peterkin, “that I want more than enough.”

“If so, you must be wicked,” remarked Gredel; “for I am at peace in

loving you, and you should be content in loving me. What more do you

want? You have enough to eat--a warm bed in winter--and your mother who

loves you.”

Peterkin shook his head.

“It will rain to-night,” said Gredel; “and you will be warm while many

will be shivering in the wet.”

Gredel was quite right; for when the sun had set, and the heavens were

all of one dead, sad color, down came the rain, and the inside of the

hut looked very warm and comfortable.

Nevertheless, Peterkin still thought of the something beyond the

mountain, and wondered what it might be. Had some wise one whispered in

his ear, he must have learnt that it was healthy ambition, which helped

the world and the worker at the same time.

Soon it began to thunder, and Peterkin lazily opened the wooden

shutters to look at the lightning.

By this time Gredel, having thanked Providence for a large bowl of

black bread steeped in hot goat’s milk, was nodding and bobbing towards

the flaming wood fire.

“Mother mother! here comes something from this world!”

“And what comes from the world?”

“Something like three aged women, older than you are a very great deal.

Let me wait for another flash of lightening. Ha! The first has a big

stick; the second has a great pair of round things on her eyes; and

the third has a sack on her back, but it is as flat as the palm of my

hand, and can have nothing in it.”

“Is there enough bread, and cheese, and milk, and salt in the

house?--We must consider.”

“Aye,” answered Peterkin; “there is plenty of each and all.”

“Then let them come in, if they will,” said Gredel. “But they shall

knock at the door first, for we go not out on the highways and in the

byways to help others. Let them come to us--good. But let us not go to

them, for they have their business, and we have ours; and so the world

goes round!”

“They are near the door,” whispered Peterkin, “and very good old women

they look.”

The next moment there was a very soft and civil tapping at the door.

“Who goes there?” asked Peterkin.

“Three honest old women,” cried a voice.

“And what do three honest old women want?” called Gredel.

“A bit of bread each,” replied the voice, “a mug of milk each, and one

corner for all three to sleep in until in the morning up comes the

sweet yellow sun.”

“Lift up the latch,” said Gredel. “Come in. There is bread, there is

milk, and a corner laid with three sacks of thistle down. Come in, and

welcome.”

Then up went the latch, and in stepped the three travellers. Gredel

looked at them without moving; but when she saw they were pleasant in

appearance--that their eyes were keen in spite of their many wrinkles,

and that their smiles were very fresh and pleasant notwithstanding the

lines about their mouth, lazy but good-hearted Gredel got up and made a

neat little bow of welcome.

“Are you sisters?” she asked.

“We are three sisters,” answered the leader, she who carried the

stick. “I am commonly called Sister Trot.”

[Illustration: IN STEPPED THE THREE.]

“And I,” said the second, who wore the spectacles, “am commonly called

Sister Pansy.”

“And I,” added the third, who carried the bag, “am styled Sister

Satchel.”

“Your mother and father must have been a good-looking couple,” said

Gredel, smiling.

“They were born handsome,” quoth Trot, rearing her head proudly, “and

they grew handsomer.”

“How came they to grow handsomer?” asked Peterkin, who had been

standing in a corner.

“Because they were brisk and hurried about,” replied Pansy, “and never

found the day too long. But pray, sir, who are you?”

“I am Peterkin, son of Gredel.”

“And may I ask what you do?” inquired Trot.

“Watch the goats.”

“And what do you do when you watch the goats?”

“Look about.”

“What do you see when you look about?” asked Sister Pansy.

“The sky, and the earth, and the goats.”

“Ah!” said Pansy, “it is very good to look at the sky, and truly wise

to look at the earth, while it is clever to keep an eye on the goats;

but Peterkin--Peterkin--you do not look far enough!”

“And when you look about,” queried Sister Satchel, “what do you pick

up?”

“Nothing,” said Peterkin.

“Nothing!” echoed the visitor. “What! not even an idea?”

“What is an idea?” asked Peterkin.

“Oh, oh, oh!” said the three sisters. “Here is Peterkin, who not only

never picks up an idea, but actually does not know what one is!”

“This comes of not moving about,” said Trot.

“Of not looking about,” said Pansy.

“And of not picking up something every day,” said Satchel. “And a worse

example I, for one, never came across.”

“Nor I!” “Nor I!” echoed the other sisters.

Whereupon they all looked at Peterkin, and seemed dreadfully serious.

“Why, whatever have I done?” he demanded.

“That’s just it!” said the sisters. “_What_ have you done?”

“Nothing!” exclaimed Peterkin, quite with the intention of justifying

himself. “Nothing at all!”

“Ah!” said Trot, “_that_ is the truth, indeed; whatever else may be

wrong--done nothing at all!”

“Nothing!” “Nothing!” repeated Satchel and Pansy, in a breath.

“Dear me!” said Peterkin.

Whereupon Gredel, half-frightened herself, and partly indignant that

her boy should be lamented over in this uncalled-for manner, said,

“Would you be pleased to take a seat?”

“Certainly!” said Trot. “Still I, for one, would not think of such a

thing until your stools were dusted.”

Gredel could _not_ believe her eyes, for actually Trot raised one end

of her stick and it became a brush, with which she dusted three stools.

“I think, too,” said Sister Pansy, looking out sharp through her

spectacles, “that if we were to stop up that hole in the corner we

should have less draught. As a rule, holes are bad things in a house.”

So off she went, and stopped up the hole with a handful of dried grass

she took from a corner.

“Bless me!” said Satchel; “here are four pins on the floor!”

Whereupon she picked up the pins and popped them into her wallet.

Meanwhile Gredel looked on, much astonished at these preceedings.

“I may as well have a rout while I am about it,” said Trot, beginning

at once to sweep up.

“Cobwebs in every corner!” cried Pansy; and away she went, looking

after the walls.

“No wonder you could not find your wooden spoon,” remarked Satchel;

“why, here it is, most mysteriously up the chimney!”

There was such a dusting, sweeping, and general cleaning as the place

had never seen before.

“This is great fun!” said Peterkin; “but how it makes you sneeze!”

“Here, dame Gredel,” cried Satchel; “I have picked up all the things

you must have lost for the last three years. Here is your thimble; and

now you can take the bit of leather off your finger. Here are your

scissors, which will cut cloth better than that knife; and here is the

lost leg of the third stool--so that I can now sit down in safety.”

“Why,” exclaimed Peterkin, “the place looks twice as large as it did,

and ten times brighter. Mother, I am glad the ladies have come.”

“I am sure, ladies,” said the good woman, “I shall never forget your

visit.”

To tell the truth, however, there was something very ambiguous in

Gredel’s words.

“There!” said Trot; “and now I can sit down in comfort to my bread and

milk.”

“And very good bread and milk, too,” said Satchel. “I think, sisters,

we are quite fortunate to fall upon this goodly cot.”

“Yes,” remarked Trot, “they are not bad souls, this Gredel and

Peterkin; but, they sadly want mending. However, they have good hearts,

and you know that those who love much are forgiven much; and indeed

I would sooner eat my supper here than in some palaces you and I,

sisters, know something about.”

“Quite true!” assented the others, “quite true!” And so they went on

talking as though they had been in their own house and no one but

themselves in the room. Gredel listened with astonishment, and Peterkin

with all his ears, too delighted even to be astonished.

“Now this,” thought he, “comes of their knowing something of what goes

on beyond the Great Hill as far away as I can see.”

“Time for bed,” suddenly said Dame Trot, who evidently was the leader,

“if we are to see the sun rise.”

The sisters then made themselves quite comfortable, and tucked up their

thistle-down beds and home-spun sheets with perfect good humor.

* * * * *

Peterkin awoke cheerily, and he was dressed even before the sun

appeared. He made the fire, set the table, gave the place a cheerful

air, and then opened the door to look after the goats, wondering why he

felt so light and happy. He was soon joined by the three sisters, who

made a great to-do with some cold water and their washing.

“Is it good to put your head souse in a pail?” asked Peterkin.

“Try it,” replied Dame Trot.

So by this time, quite trusting the old women, he did so, and found

his breath gone in a moment. However, he enjoyed breathing all the

more when he found his head once more out of the pail, and after Pansy

had rubbed him dry with a rough towel, which she took out of Satchel’s

wallet, he thought he had never experienced such a delightful feeling

as then took possession of him. Even since the previous night he felt

quite a new being, and alas! he found himself forgetting Gredel--his

mother Gredel, who loved him and taught him only to live for to-day.

“And shall I show you down the hill-side?” asked Peterkin, when the

three sisters had taken their porridge and were sprucing themselves for

departure.

“Yes,” said dame Trot, “and glad am I thou hast saved us the trouble of

asking thee.”

“A good lad,” remarked Pansy to Gredel, “but he must look about him.”

“Truly,” said Satchel. “And, above all, he must pick up everything he

comes across, when he can do so without robbing a neighbor, and he may

steal all his neighbor _knows_, without depriving the gentleman of

anything.”

Then Peterkin, feeling as light as a feather, started off down the

hillside, the three old sisters chatting, whispering, and chuckling

in a very wonderful manner. So, when they were quite in the valley,

Peterkin said, “Please you, I will leave you now, ladies; and many

thanks for your coming.” Then he very civilly touched his tattered cap,

and was turning on his battered heels, when Sister Trot said, “Stop!”

and he turned.

“Peterkin,” she said, “thou art worth loving and thinking about, and

for your kindness to us wanderers we must ask you to keep something in

remembrance of our visit. Here, take my wonderful stick and believe

in it. You know me as Trot, but grown-up men call me the Fairy

Work-o’-Day.” Peterkin made his obeisance, and took the stick.

“I will never lose it!” said he.

“You never will,” said Trot, “after once you know how to use it.”

“Well,” said sister Pansy, “I am not to be beaten by my sister, and so

here are my spectacles.”

“I shall look very funny in them,” said Peterkin, eyeing them

doubtfully.

“Nay; nobody will see them on your nose as you mark them on mine. The

world will observe their wisdom in your eyes, but the wires will be

invisible. By-the-by, sister Pansy is only my home-name; men call me

Fairy See-far; and so be good.”

“As for me,” said the third sister, “I am but the younger of the

family. I could not be in existence had not my sisters been born into

the world. I am going to give you my sack; but take heed, it were

better that you had no sack at all than that you should fill it too

full; than that you should fling into it all that you see; than that

you should pass by on the other side when, your sack being full,

another human being, fallen amongst thieves, lies bleeding and wanting

help! And now know that, though I am sometimes called Satchel, my name

amongst the good people is the Fairy Save-some.”

“Good by,” suddenly said the three sisters. They smiled, and instantly

they were gone--just like _Three Thoughts_.

So he turned his face towards home, with sorrow in his heart as he

thought of the three sisters, while hope was mixed with the sadness as

he glanced towards the far-off mountain which was called Mons Futura.

Now, Peterkin had never cared to climb hillsides, and, therefore he

rarely went down them if he could help it, always lazily stopping at

the top. But now the wonderful stick, as he pressed it upon the ground,

seemed to give him a light heart, and a lighter pair of heels, and he

danced up the hillside just as though he were holiday-making, soon

reaching home.

“See, mother,” said Peterkin, “the good women have given me each a

present--the one her stick, the second her glasses, and the third her

wallet.”

“Ho!” said Gredel. “Well, I am not sorry they are gone, for I am afraid

they would soon have made you despise your mother. They are very

pleasant old people no doubt, but rude and certainly ill-bred, or they

would not have put my house to rights.”

“But it looked all the better for it.”

“It looked very well as it was.”

“But the world goes on and on,” said Peterkin.

Gredel shook her head. “Humph!” she said, “a stick, an old pair of

spectacles, and a sack not worth a dime! When people give gifts, let

them be gifts and not cast-offs.”

“Anyhow,” said Peterkin, “I can tell you that the stick is a good

stick, and helps you over the hill famously. I will keep it, and you

may have the sack and the spectacles.”

“Let us try your spectacles,” cried Gredel. “_Oh!_” she said, trying

them on carelessly. “These are the most wonderful spectacles in the

world,” she went on; “but no more civil than those three old women.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“I see you, Peterkin--and a very sad sight, too. Why, you are lazy,

careless, unwashed, and stupid; and a more deplorable object was never

seen by honest woman.”

Poor Peterkin blushed very much; but at this point, his mother taking

off the glasses, he seized and placed them before his own eyes. “_Oh!_”

he exclaimed.

“What now?” asked Gredel in some alarm.

“Now I see you as you are--and a very bad example are you to set before

your own son! Why, you are careless, and love me not for myself but

yourself, or you would do your best for me, and send me out in the

world.”

“What? And dare you talk to your mother in such fashion? Give me the

spectacles once more!” and she clapped them on again. “Bless me!” she

continued, “the boy is quite right, and I see I am selfish, and that I

am making him selfish--a very pretty business, indeed! This is to be

thought over,” she said, laying aside the spectacles.

By this time Peterkin had possessed himself of the stick, and then, to

his amazement, he found it had taken the shape of a spade.

“Well,” said he, “as here is a spade I think I will turn over the

potato-patch.” This he did; and coming in to breakfast he was

admonished to find how fine the milk tasted. “Mother,” said he, “here

is a penny I have found in the field.”

“Put it in the bag,” said Gredel.

He did so, and immediately there was a chink.

Over he turned the sack, and lo! there were ten pennies sprinkled on

the table.

“Ho, ho,” said Peterkin, “if, now, the bag increases money after such a

pleasant manner, I have but to take out one coin and cast it in again,

and soon I shall have a fortune.” He did so; but he heard no chinking.

He inverted the bag again, and out fell the one coin he had picked up

while digging the potato-patch.

“This, now, is very singular,” he said; “let me put on the spectacles.”

This done, “Ha!” he cried, “I see now how it is. The money will never

grow in the sack, unless one works hard; and then it increases whether

one will or not.”

Meanwhile Gredel, taking up the stick, it took the shape of a broom,

and upon the hint she swept the floor. Next, sitting down before

Peterkin’s clothes, the stick became a needle, and she stitched away

with a will.

So time rolled on. The cottage flourished, and the garden was

beautiful. Then a cow was brought home, and it was wonderful how often

fresh money changed in the wallet. Gredel had grown handsomer, and so

also had Peterkin. But one day it came to pass that Peterkin said:

“Mother, it is time I went over the great hill.”

“What! canst thou leave me?”

“Thou didst leave thy father and mother.”

Gredel was wiser than she had been, and so she quietly said: “Let us

put on the spectacles. Ah! I see,” she then said, “a mother may love

her son, but she must not stand in his way as he goes on in the world,

or she becomes his enemy.”

Then Peterkin put on the spectacles. “Ah! I see,” said he, “a son may

love his mother, but his love must not interfere with his duty to

other men. The glasses say that every man should try and leave the

world something the better for his coming; that many fail and but few

succeed, yet that all must strive.”

“So be it,” said Gredel. “Go forth into the world, my son, and leave me

hopeful here alone.”

“The glasses say that the sense of duty done is the greatest happiness

in the world,” said Peterkin.

Then Gredel looked again through the glasses.

“I see,” said she; “the glasses say it is better to have loved and lost

than never to have loved at all. Go forth into the world, my son: we

shall both be the happier for having done our duty.”

So out into the world went Peterkin.

What else is there to tell? Why, who can write of to-morrow?

By the way, you should know that amongst the very wise folk sister

Trot is known as “Industry,” sister Pansy as “Foresight,” while honest

Satchel is generally called “Economy.”

[Illustration: Out For the Afternoon]

[Illustration]

TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.

BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.

One afternoon I went over to see Fred Barnard, and found him sitting on

the back steps, apparently meditating.

“What are you doing?” said I.

“Waiting for that handkerchief to dry,” said he, pointing to a red one

with round white spots, which hung on the clothes-line.

“And what are you going to do when it’s dry?” said I.

“Tie up my things in it,” said he.

“Things! What things?”

“O, such things as a fellow needs when he’s traveling. I’m going to

seek my fortune.”

“Where are you going to seek it?” said I.

“I can’t tell exactly--anywhere and everywhere. I’m going till I find

it.”

“But,” said I, “do you really expect to turn over a stone, or pull

up a bush, or get to the end of a rainbow, and find a crock full of

five-dollar gold pieces?”

“O, no!” said Fred. “Such things are gone by long ago. You can’t do

that nowadays, if you ever could. But people do get rich nowadays, and

there must be some way to do it.”

“Don’t they get rich mostly by staying at home, and minding their

business,” said I, “instead of going off tramping about the world?”

“Maybe some of them do,” said Fred; “but my father has always staid at

home, and minded his business, and _he_ hasn’t got rich; and I don’t

believe he ever will. But there’s uncle Silas, he’s always on the go,

so you never know where to direct a letter to him; and he has lots

of money. Sometimes mother tells him he ought to settle down; but he

always says, if he did he’s afraid he wouldn’t be able to settle up by

and by.”

I thought of my own father, and my mother’s brother. They both staid at

home and minded their own business, yet neither of them was rich. This

seemed to confirm Fred’s theory, and I was inclined to think he was

more than half right.

“I don’t know but I’d like to go with you,” said I.

“I don’t want you to,” said Fred.

“Why,” said I, in astonishment; “are we not good friends?”

“O, yes, good friends as ever,” said Fred; “but you’re not very likely

to find two fortunes close together; and I think it’s better for every

one to go alone.”

“Then why couldn’t I start at the same time you do, and go a different

way?”

“That would do,” said Fred. “I’m going to start to-morrow morning.” And

he walked to the line, and felt of the handkerchief.

[Illustration]

“I can take mother’s traveling-bag,” said I. “That will be handier to

carry than a bundle tied up.”

“Take it if you like,” said Fred; “but _I_ believe there’s luck in an

old-fashioned handkerchief. In all the pictures of boys going to seek

their fortunes, they have their things tied up in a handkerchief, and a

stick put through it and over their shoulder.”

I did not sympathize much with Fred’s belief in luck, though I thought

it was possible there might be something in it; but the bundle in the

handkerchief seemed to savor a little more of romance, and I determined

that I would conform to the ancient style.

“Does your father know about it?” said I.

“Yes; and he says I may go.”

Just then Fred’s father drove around from the barn.

“I’m going away,” said he to Fred, “to be gone several days. So, if you

go in the morning, I shall not see you again until you return from your

travels.” And he laughed a little.

“Well, I’m certainly going to-morrow morning,” said Fred, in answer to

the “if.”

“You ought to have a little money with you,” said Mr. Barnard, taking

out his wallet.

“No, sir, I thank you,” said Fred; “but I’d rather not have it.”

His father looked surprised.

“I think it’s luckier to start without it,” said Fred, in explanation.

“Very well! Luck go with you!” said Mr. Barnard, as he drove off.

“Do you think it best to go without any money at all?” said I. “It

seems to me it would be better to have a little.”

“No,” said Fred; “a fellow ought to depend on himself, and trust to

luck. It wouldn’t be any fun at all to stop at taverns and pay for

meals and lodging, just like ordinary travelers. And then, if people

saw I had money to pay for things, they wouldn’t believe I was going to

seek my fortune.”

“Why, do we want them to know that?” said I.

“_I_ do,” said he.

“That isn’t the way the boys in the stories do,” said I.

“And that’s just where they missed it,” said Fred; “or would, if they

lived nowadays. Don’t you see that everybody that wants anything lets

everybody know it? When I’m on my travels, I’m going to tell every one

what I’m after. That’s the way to find out where to go and what to do.”

“Won’t some of them fool you,” said I, “and tell you lies, and send you

on the wrong road?”

“A fellow’s got to look out for that,” said Fred, knowingly. “We

needn’t believe all they say.”

“What must we take in our bundles?” said I.

“I’m going to take some cookies, and a Bible, and a tin cup, and a ball

of string, and a pint of salt,” said Fred.

“What’s the salt for?” said I.

“We may have to camp out some nights,” said Fred, “and live on what we

can find. There are lots of things you can find in the woods and fields

to live on; but some of them ain’t good without salt--mushrooms, for

instance.” Fred was very fond of mushrooms.

“And is the string to tie up the bags of money?” said I--not meaning to

be at all sarcastic.

“O, no!” said Fred; “but string’s always handy to have. We may want to

set snares for game, or tie up things that break, or catch fish. And

then if you have to stay all night in a house where the people look

suspicious, you can fix a string so that if any one opens the door of

your room, it’ll wake you up.”

“If that happened, you’d want a pistol--wouldn’t you?” said I. “Or else

it wouldn’t do much good to be waked up.”

“I’d take a pistol, if I had one,” said Fred; “but I can get along

without it. You can always hit ’em over the head with a chair, or a

pitcher, or something. You know you can swing a pitcher full of water

around quick, and not spill a drop; and if you should hit a man a fair

blow with it, ’twould knock him senseless. Besides, it’s dangerous

using a pistol in a house. Sometimes the bullets go through the wall,

and kill innocent persons.”

“We don’t want to do that,” said I.

“No,” said Fred; “that would be awful unlucky.”

Then he felt of the handkerchief again, said he guessed it was dry

enough, and took it off from the line.

“Fred,” said I, “how much _is_ a fortune?”

“That depends on your ideas,” said Fred, as he smoothed the

handkerchief over his knee. “I should not be satisfied with less than a

hundred thousand dollars.”

“I ought to be going home to get ready,” said I. “What time do we

start?”

“Five o’clock exactly,” said Fred.

So we agreed to meet at the horse-block, in front of the house, a

minute or two before five the next morning, and start simultaneously on

the search for fortune.

I went home, and asked mother if there was a red handkerchief, with

round white spots on it, in the house.

“I think there is,” said she. “What do you want with it?”

I told her all about our plan, just as Fred and I had arranged it. She

smiled, said she hoped we would be successful, and went to get the

handkerchief.

It proved to be just like Fred’s, except that the spots were yellow,

and had little red dots in the middle. I thought that would do, and

then asked her for the salt, the cup, and the cookies. She gave me her

pint measure full of salt, and as she had no cookies in the house, she

substituted four sandwiches.

“But,” said I, “won’t you want to use this cup before I get back?”

“I think not,” said she, with a twinkle in her eye, which puzzled me

then, but which afterward I understood.

I got my little Bible, and some twine, and then went into the yard to

hunt up a stick to carry the bundle on. I found a slender spoke from an

old carriage-wheel, and adopted it at once. “That,” said I to myself,

as I handled and “hefted” it, “would be just the thing to hit a burglar

over the head with.”

I fixed the bundle all ready for a start, and went to bed in good

season. Mother rose early, got me a nice breakfast, and called me at

half past four.

“Mother,” said I, as feelings of gratitude rose within me at the

excellence of the meal, “how does a camel’s-hair shawl look?”

“I don’t know, my son,” said she. “I never saw one.”

“Never saw one!” said I. “Well, you _shall_ see one, a big one, if I

find my fortune.”

“Thank you,” said mother, and smiled again that peculiar smile.

Fred and I met promptly at the horse-block. He greatly admired my

stick; his was an old hoe-handle, sawed short. I gave him two of my

sandwiches for half of his cookies, and we tied up the bundles snugly,

and slung them over our shoulders.

“How long do you think it will take us?” said I.

“Maybe three or four years--maybe more,” said he.

“Let us agree to meet again on this spot five years, from to-day,” said

I.

“All right!” said Fred; and he took out a bit of lead pencil, and wrote

the date on the side of the block.

“The rains and snows will wash that off before the five years are up,”

said I.

“Never mind! we can remember,” said Fred. “And now,” he continued, as

he shook hands with me, “don’t look back. _I’m_ not going to; it isn’t

lucky, and it’ll make us want to be home again. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye! Remember, five years,” said I.

He took the east road, I the west, and neither looked back.

I think I must have walked about four miles without seeing any human

being. Then I fell in with a boy, who was driving three cows to

pasture, and we scraped acquaintance.

“Where y’ goin’?” said he, eyeing my bundle.

“A long journey,” said I.

“Chiny?” said he.

“Maybe so--maybe not,” said I.

“What y’ got t’ sell?” said he.

“Nothing,” said I; “I’m only a traveler not a peddler. Can you tell me

whose house that is?”

“That big white one?” said he; “that’s Hathaway’s.”

“It looks new,” said I.

“Yes, ’tis, spick an’ span,” said he. “Hathaway’s jest moved into it;

used to live in that little brown one over there.”

“Mr. Hathaway must be rich,” said I.

“Jolly! I guess he is!--wish I was half as rich,” said the boy. “Made

’s money on the rise of prop’ty. Used to own all this land round here,

when ’twas a howlin’ wilderness. I’ve heard dad say so lots o’ times.

There he is now.”

“Who?--your father?” said I.

“No; Hathaway.” And the boy pointed to a very old, white-headed man,

who was leaning on a cane, and looking up at the cornice of the house.

“He looks old,” said I.

“He is, awful old,” said the boy. “Can’t live much longer. His

daughter Nancy’ll take the hull. Ain’t no other relations.”

“How old is Nancy?” said I; and if I had been a few years older myself,

the question might have been significant; but among all the methods I

had thought over of acquiring a fortune, that of marrying one was not

included.

“O, she’s gray-headed too,” said the boy, “’n a post, ’nd blind ’s a

bat. I wish the old man couldn’t swaller a mouthful o’ breakfast till

he’d give me half what he’s got.” And with this charitable expression

he turned with the cows into the lane, and I saw him no more.

While I was meditating on the venerable but not venerated Mr. Hathaway

and his property, a wagon came rumbling along behind me.

“Don’t you want to ride?” said the driver, as I stepped aside to let it

pass.

I thanked him, and climbed to a place beside him on the rough seat. He

was in his shirt-sleeves, and wore a torn straw hat. He had reddish

side-whiskers, and his chin needed shaving, badly.

“Got far to go?” said he, as the team started up again.

“I expect to walk all day,” said I.

“Then you must get a lift when you can,” said he. “Don’t be afraid to

ask. A good many that wouldn’t invite you, as I did, would let you ride

if you asked them.”

I promised to remember his advice.

“Ever drive a team?” said he.

“Not much,” said I.

“I want a good boy to drive team,” said he. “Suppose you could learn.”

And then he began to talk to the horses, and to whistle.

“How much would you pay?” said I.

“I’d give a good smart boy ten dollars a month and board,” said he.

“Git ap, Doc!”

“How much of that could he save?” said I.

“Save eight dollars a month easy enough, if he’s careful of his

clothes, and don’t want to go to every circus that comes along,” said

he.

I made a mental calculation: “Eight times twelve are ninety-six--into

a hundred thousand--one thousand and forty-one years, and some months.

O, yes! interest--well, nearly a thousand years.” Then I said aloud, “I

guess I won’t hire; don’t believe I’d make a very good teamster.”

“I think you would; and it’s good wages,” said he.

“Nobody but Methuselah could get rich at it,” said I.

“Rich?” said he. “Of course you couldn’t get rich teaming. If that’s

what you’re after, I’ll tell you what you do: plant a forest. Timber’s

good property. The price of it’s more than doubled in ten years past,

and it’ll be higher yet. You plant a tree, and it’ll grow while you

sleep. Chess won’t choke it, and the weevil can’t eat it. You don’t

have to hoe it, nor mow it, nor pick it, nor rotate it, nor feed it,

nor churn it, nor nothing. That’s the beauty of it. And you plant a

forest of trees, and in time it’ll make you a rich man.”

“How much time?” said I.

“Well, that piece of timber you see over there,--that’s Eph Martin’s;

he’s going to cut it next season. The biggest trees must be--well,

perhaps eighty years old. You reckon up the interest on the cost of the

land, and you’ll see it’s a good investment. I wish I had such a piece.”

“Why don’t you plant one?” said I.

“O, I’m too old! My grandfather ought to have done it for me. Whoa!

Doc. Whoa! Tim.”

He drew up at a large, red barn, where a man and a boy were grinding a

scythe. I jumped down, and trudged on.

After I had gone a mile or two, I began to feel hungry, and sat done

on a stone, under a great oak tree, to eat a sandwich. Before I knew

it I had eaten two, and then I was thirsty. There was a well in a

door-yard close by, and I went to it. The bucket was too heavy for me

to lift, and so I turned the salt out of my cup in a little pile on a

clean-looking corner of the well-curb, and drank.

The woman of the house came to the door, and took a good look at me;

then she asked if I would not rather have a drink of milk. I said

I would, and she brought a large bowlful, which I sat down on the

door-step to enjoy.

Presently a sun-browned, barefooted boy, wearing a new chip hat, and

having his trousers slung by a single suspender, came around the corner

of the house, and stopped before me.

“Got any Shanghais at your house?” said he.

“No!”

“Any Cochins?”

“No!”

“Any Malays?”

“No!”

“What _have_ you got?”

“About twenty common hens,” said I, perceiving that his thoughts were

running on fancy breeds of fowls.

“Don’t want to buy a nice pair of Shanghais--do you?” said he.

“I couldn’t take them to-day,” said I.

“Let’s go look at them,” said he; and I followed him toward the barn.

“This is _my_ hennery,” said he, with evident pride, as we came to a

small yard which was inclosed with a fence made of long, narrow strips

of board, set up endwise, and nailed to a slight railing. Inside was a

low shed, with half a dozen small entrances near the ground.

“Me and Jake built this,” said he. “Jake’s my brother.”

He unbuckled a strap that fastened the gate, and we went inside. A few

fowls, of breeds unfamiliar to me, were scratching about the yard.

“Don’t you call them nice hens?” said he.

“I guess they are,” said I; “but I don’t know much about hens.”

“Don’t you?” said he. “Then I’ll tell you something about them. There’s

money in hens. Father says so, and I know it’s so. I made fifty-one

dollars and thirteen cents on these last year. I wish I had a million.”

“A million dollars,” said I, “is a good deal of money. I should be

satisfied with one tenth of that.”

“I meant a million hens,” said he. “I’d rather have a million hens than

a million dollars.”

I went through a mental calculation similar to the one I had indulged

in while riding with the teamster: “Fifty-one, thirteen--almost two

thousand years. Great Cæsar! Yes, Great Cæsar sure enough! I ought

to have begun keeping hens about the time Cassius was egging on the

conspirators to lay out that gentleman. But I forgot the interest

again. Call it fifteen hundred.”

“Let’s go in and look at the nests,” said the boy, opening the door of

the shed.

The nests were in a row of boxes nailed to the wall. He took out some

of the eggs, and showed them to me. Several had pencil-writing on the

shell, intended to denote the breed. I remember _Gaim_, _Schanghy_, and

_Cotching_.

“There’s a pair of Shanghais,” said he as he went out, pointing with

one hand while he tightened the gate-strap with the other, “that I’ll

sell you for five dollars. Or I’ll sell you half a dozen eggs for six

dollars.”

I told him I couldn’t trade that day, but would certainly come and see

him when I wanted to buy any fancy hens.

“If you see anybody,” said he, as we parted, “that wants a nice pair of

Shanghais reasonable, you tell ’em where I live.”

“I will,” said I, and pushed on.

“Money in hens, eh?” said I to myself. “Then if they belonged to me,

I’d kill them, and get it out of them at once, notwithstanding the

proverb about the goose.”

After some further journeying I came to a roadside tavern. A large,

square sign, with a faded picture of a horse, and the words SCHUYLER’S

HOTEL, faintly legible, hung from an arm that extended over the road

from a high post by the pump.

I sat down on the steps, below a group of men who were tilted back in

chairs on the piazza. One, who wore a red shirt, and chewed a very

large quid of tobacco, was just saying,--

“Take it by and through, a man can make wages at the mines, and that’s

all he can make.”

“Unless he strikes a big nugget,” said a little man with one eye.

“He might be there a hundred years, and not do that,” said Red Shirt.

“I never struck one.”

“And again he might strike it the very first day,” said One Eye.

“Again he might,” said Red Shirt; “but I’d rather take my chances

keeping tavern. Look at Schuyler, now. He’ll die a rich man.”

The one who seemed to be Schuyler was well worth looking at. I had

never seen so much man packed into so much chair; and it was an exact

fit--just enough chair for the man, just enough man for the chair.

Schuyler’s boundary from his chin to his toe was nearly, if not

exactly, a straight line.

“Die rich?” said One Eye. “He’s a livin’ rich; he’s rich to-day.”

“If any of you gentlemen want to make your fortune keeping a hotel,”

said Schuyler, “I’ll sell on easy terms.”

“How much, ’squire?” said Red Shirt.

[Illustration: “HE TOOK THE EAST ROAD, I THE WEST, AND NEITHER LOOKED

BACK.”--See page 61.]

“Fifteen,” answered Schuyler.

“Fifteen thousand--furniture and all?” said One Eye.

“Everything,” said Schuyler.

“Your gran’f’ther bought the place for fifteen hundred,” said One Eye.

“But money was wuth more then.”

While listening to this conversation, I had taken out my cookies, and I

was eating the last of them, when One Eye made his last recorded remark.

“Won’t you come in, sonny, and stay over night?” said Schuyler.

“Thank you, sir,” said I; “but I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t be mussing up my clean steps,” said he.

I looked at him to see if he was in earnest; for I was too hungry to

let a single crum fall, and could not conceive what should make a muss.

The whole company were staring at me most uncomfortably. Without saying

another word, I picked up my stick and bundle, and walked off.

“Thirteen thousand five hundred,” said I to myself, slowly,--“in three

generations--four thousand five hundred to a generation. I ought to

have come over with Christopher Columbus, and set up a tavern for the

red-skins to lounge around. Then maybe if I never let any little Indian

boys eat their lunches on the steps, I’d be a rich man now. Fifteen

thousand dollars--and so mean, so abominably mean--and such a crowd of

loafers for company. No, I wouldn’t keep tavern if I could get rich in

one generation.”

At the close of this soliloquy, I found I had instinctively turned

towards home when I left Schuyler’s Hotel. “It’s just as well,” said

I, “just as well! I’d rather stay at home and mind my business, like

father, and not have any fortune, if that’s the way people get them

nowadays.”

I had the good luck to fall in with my friend the teamster, who gave me

a longer lift than before, and sounded me once more on the subject of

hiring out to drive team for him.

As I passed over the crest of the last hill in the road, I saw

something in the distance that looked very much like another boy with a

bundle over his shoulder. I waved my hat. It waved its hat. We met at

the horse-block, each carrying a broad grin the last few rods of the

way.

“Let’s see your fortune,” said I, as I laid my bundle on the block.

“Let’s see yours,” said he, as he laid his beside it.

“You started the plan,” said I; “so you tell your adventures first.”

Thereupon Fred told his story, which I give nearly in his own words.

He traveled a long distance before he met with any incident. Then he

came to a house that had several windows boarded up, and looked as

if it might not be inhabited. While Fred stood looking at it, and

wondering about it, he saw a shovelful of earth come out of one of

the cellar windows. It was followed in a few seconds by another, and

another, at regular intervals.

“I know how it is,” said Fred. “Some old miser has lived and died in

that house. He used to bury his money in the cellar; and now somebody’s

digging for it. I mean to see if I can’t help him.”

Going to the window, he stooped down and looked in. At first he saw

nothing but the gleam of a new shovel. But when he had looked longer he

discerned the form of the man who wielded it.

“Hello!” said Fred, as the digger approached the window to throw out a

shovelful.

“Hello! Who are you?” said the man.

“I’m a boy going to seek my fortune,” said Fred. “What are you digging

for?”

“Digging for a fortune,” said the man, taking up another shovelful.

“May I help you?” said Fred.

“Yes, if you like.”

“And have half?”

“Have all you find,” said the man, forcing down his shovel with his

foot.

Fred ran around to the cellar door, laid down his bundle on the grass

beside it, and entered. The man pointed to an old shovel with a large

corner broken off, and Fred picked it up and went to work.

Nearly half of the cellar bottom had been lowered about a foot by

digging, and the man was lowering the remainder. With Fred’s help,

after about two hours of hard work, it was all cut down to the lower

level.

Fred had kept his eyes open, and scrutinized every shovelful; but

nothing like a coin had gladdened his sight. Once he thought he had

one, and ran to the light with it. But it proved to be only the iron

ear broken off from some old bucket.

“I guess that’ll do,” said the man, wiping his brow, when the leveling

was completed.

“Do?” said Fred, in astonishment. “Why, we haven’t found any of the

money yet.”

“What money?”

“The money the old miser buried, of course.”

The man laughed heartily. “I wasn’t digging for any miser’s money,”

said he.

“You said so,” said Fred.

“O, no!” said the man. “I said I was digging for a fortune. Come and

sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They took seats on the highest of the cellar steps that led out of

doors.

“You see,” continued the man, “my wife went down cellar one day, and

struck her forehead against one of those beams; and she died of it.

If she had lived a week longer, she’d have inherited a very pretty

property. So I’ve lowered the cellar floor; and if I should have

another wife, her head couldn’t reach the beams, unless she was very

tall--taller than I am. So if _she_ inherits a fortune, the cellar

won’t prevent us getting it. That’s the fortune I was digging for.”

“It’s a mean trick to play on a boy; and if I was a man, I’d lick you,”

said Fred, as he shouldered his bundle and walked away.

Two or three miles farther down the road he came to a small blacksmith

shop. The smith, a stout, middle-aged man, was sitting astride of a

small bench with long legs, making horseshoe nails on a little anvil

that rose from one end of it.

Fred went in, and asked if he might sit there a while to rest.

“Certainly,” said the blacksmith, as he threw a finished nail into an

open drawer under the bench. “How far have you come?”

“I can’t tell,” said Fred; “it must be as much as ten miles.”

“Got far to go?”

“I don’t know how far. I’m going to seek my fortune.”

The smith let his hammer rest on the anvil, and took a good look at

Fred. “You seem to be in earnest,” said he.

“I am,” said Fred.

“Don’t you know that gold dollars don’t go rolling up hill in these

days, for boys to chase them, and we haven’t any fairies in this

country, dancing by moonlight over buried treasure?” said the smith.

“O, yes, I know that,” said Fred. “But people get rich in these days as

much as ever they did. And I want to find out the best way to do it.”

“What is that nail made of?” said the smith, holding out one.

“Iron,” said Fred, wondering what that had to do with a boy seeking his

fortune.

“And that hammer?”

“Iron.”

“And that anvil?”

“Iron.”

“Well, don’t you see,” said the smith, resting his hammer on the anvil,

and leaning over it toward Fred,--“don’t you see that everything

depends on iron? A farmer can’t cultivate the ground until he has a

plow; and that plow is made of iron. A butcher can’t cut up a critter

until he has a knife; and that knife is made of iron. A tailor can’t

make a garment without a needle; and that needle is made of iron. You

can’t build a ship without iron, nor start a mill, nor arm a regiment.

The stone age, and the brass age, and the golden age are all gone by.

This is the iron age; and iron is the basis of all wealth. The richest

man is the man that has the most iron. Railroads are made of iron, and

the richest men are those that own railroads.”

“How can one man own a railroad?” said Fred, amazed at the vastness of

such wealth.

“Well, he can’t exactly, unless he steals it,” said the smith.

“I should like to own a railroad,” said Fred; and he thought what fun

he might have, as well as profit, being conductor on his own train;

“but I didn’t come to steal; I want to find a fortune honestly.”

“Then look for it in iron,” said the smith. “Iron in some form always

paves the road to prosperity.”

“Would blacksmithing be a good way?” said Fred.

“Now you’ve hit it,” said the smith. “I haven’t got rich myself, and

probably never shall. But I didn’t take the right course. I was a

sailor when I was young, and spent half my life wandering around the

world, before I settled down and turned blacksmith. I dare say if I had

learned the trade early enough, and had gone and set up a shop in some

large place, or some rising place, and hadn’t always been so low in my

charges, I might be a rich man.”

Fred thought the blacksmith must be a very entertaining and learned

man, whom it would be pleasant as well as profitable to work with. So,

after thinking it over a few minutes, he said,--

“Do you want to hire a boy to learn the business?”

“I’ll give you a chance,” said the smith, “and see what you can do.”

Then he went outside and drew in a wagon, which was complete except

part of the iron-work, and started up his fire, and thrust in some

small bars of iron.

Fred laid aside his bundle, threw off his jacket, and announced that

he was ready for work. The smith set him to blowing the bellows, and

afterward gave him a light sledge, and showed him how to strike the

red-hot bar on the anvil, alternating with the blows of the smith’s own

hammer.

At first it was very interesting to feel the soft iron give at every

blow, and see the sparks fly, and the bars, and rods taking the

well-known shapes of carriage-irons. But either the smith had reached

the end of his political economy, or else he was too much in earnest

about his work to deliver orations; his talk now was of “swagging,” and

“upsetting,” and “countersinking,” and “taps,” and “dies”--all of which

terms he taught Fred the use of.

Fred was quick enough to learn, but had never been fond of work; and

this was work that made the sweat roll down his whole body. After an

hour or two, he gave it up.

“I think I’ll look further for my fortune,” said he; “this is too hard

work.”

“All right,” said the smith; “but maybe you’ll fare worse. You’ve

earned a little something, anyway;” and he drew aside his leather

apron, thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought out seven cents;

which Fred accepted with thanks, and resumed his journey.

His next encounter was with a farmer, who sat in the grassy corner

of a field, under the shade of a maple tree, eating his dinner. This

reminded Fred that it was noon, and that he was hungry.

“How d’e do, mister?” said Fred, looking through the rail-fence. “I

should like to come over and take dinner with you.”

“You’ll have to furnish your own victuals,” said the farmer.

“That I can do,” said Fred, and climbed over the fence, and sat down by

his new acquaintance.

“Where you bound for?” said the farmer, as Fred opened his bundle, and

took out a sandwich.

“Going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“You don’t look like a runaway ’prentice,” said the farmer; “but that’s

a curious answer to a civil question.”

“It’s true,” said Fred. “I _am_ going to seek my fortune.”

“Where do you expect to find it?”

“I can’t tell--I suppose I must hunt for it.”

“Well, I can tell you where to look for it, if you’re in earnest; and

’tain’t so very far off, either,” said the farmer, as he raised the jug

of milk to his mouth.

Fred indicated by his attitude that he was all attention, while the

farmer took a long drink.

“In the ground,” said he, as he sat down the jug with one hand, and

brushed the other across his mouth. “There’s no wealth but what comes

out of the ground in some way. All the trees and plants, all the

grains, and grasses, and garden-sass, all the brick and stone, all

the metals--iron, gold, silver, copper--everything comes out of the

ground. That’s where man himself came from, according to the Bible:

‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ And the first primary

foundation of it all is agriculture. Hewson, the blacksmith, pretends

to say it’s iron; and he maintained that side in the debating club at

the last meeting. But I maintained it was agriculture, and I maintain

so still. Says I, ‘Mr. President, what’s your tailor, and your sailor,

and your ship-builder, and your soldier, and your blacksmith going to

do without something to eat? [Here the farmer made a vigorous gesture

by bringing down his fist upon his knee.] They can’t eat needles, nor

spikes, nor guns, nor anvils. The farmer’s got to feed ’em, every one

on ’em. And they’ve got to have a good breakfast before they can do

a good day’s work, and a dinner in the middle of it, and a supper at

the end of it. Can’t plow without iron?’ says I. ‘Why, Mr. President,

in Syria and thereabouts they plow with a crooked limb of a tree to

this day. The gentleman can see a picture of it in Barnes’s Notes, if

he has access to that valuable work.’ And says I, ‘Mr. President, who

was first in the order of time--Adam the farmer, or Tubal Cain the

blacksmith? No, sir; Adam was the precursor of Tubal Cain; Adam had to

be created before Tubal Cain could exist. First the farmer, and then

the blacksmith;--that, Mr. President, is the divine order in the great

procession of creation.’”

Here the farmer stopped, and cut a piece of meat with his pocket-knife.

“Boy,” he continued, “if you want a fortune, you must dig it out of the

ground. You won’t find one anywhere else.”

Fred thought of his recent unpleasant experience in digging for a

fortune, and asked, “Isn’t digging generally pretty hard work.”

“Yes,” said the farmer, as he took up his hoe, and rose to his feet;

“it _is_ hard work; but it’s a great deal more respectable than

wandering around like a vagrant, picking up old horse-shoes, and

hollering ‘Money!’ at falling stars.”

Fred thought the man was somehow getting personal. So he took his

bundle, climbed the fence, and said good-bye to him.

He walked on until he came to a fork of the road, and there he stopped,

considering which road he would take. He could find no sign-board of

any sort, and was about to toss one of his pennies to determine the

question, when he saw a white steeple at some distance down the right

hand road. “It’s always good luck to pass a church,” said he, and took

that road.

When he reached the church, he sat down on the steps to rest. While

he sat there, thinking over all he had seen and heard that day, a

gentleman wearing a black coat, a high hat, and a white cravat, came

through the gate of a little house almost buried in vines and bushes,

that stood next to the church. He saw Fred, and approached him,

saying,--

“Whither away, my little pilgrim?”

“I am going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“Haven’t you a home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Parents?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are they good to you?”

“O, yes, sir.”

“Then you are fortunate already,” said the gentleman. “When I was at

your age, I had neither home nor parents, and the people where I lived

were very unkind.”

“But my father isn’t rich,” said Fred; “and he never will be.”

“And you want to be rich?” said the gentleman.

“Yes, sir. I thought I’d try to be,” said Fred.

“What for?”

“What for? Why--why--so as to have the money.”

“And what would you do with the money, if you had it?”

“I’d--I’d use it,” said Fred, beginning to feel that he had come to

debating school without sufficiently understanding the question.

“Do you see that pile of large stones near my barn?” said the

gentleman. “I’ll give you those, and lend you a wheelbarrow to get them

home.”

“I thank you,” said Fred; “but I don’t want them. They’re of no use.”

“O, yes, they are! You can build a house with them,” said the gentleman.

“But I’m not ready to build a house,” said Fred. “I haven’t any land to

build it on, nor any other materials, nor anything to put into it; and

I’m not old enough to be married and keep house.”

“Very true, my son! and if you had a cart-load of money now, it

wouldn’t be of any more value to you than a cart-load of those building

stones. But, after you have been to school a few years longer, and

trained yourself to some business, and made a man of yourself, and

developed your character, then you will have tastes, and capacities,

and duties that require money; and if you get it as you go along, and

always have enough to satisfy them, and none in excess to encumber you,

that will be the happiest fortune you can find.”

Fred took a few minutes to think of it. Then he said,--

“I believe you have told me the truth, and set me on the right track. I

will go home again, and try to make a man of myself first, and a rich

man afterward.”

“Before you start, perhaps you would like to come into my house and get

rested, and look at some pictures.”

Fred accepted the invitation. The lady of the house gave him a

delicious lunch, and he spent an hour in the clergyman’s study, looking

over two or three portfolios of prints and drawings, which they

explained to him. Then he bade them good-bye, shouldered his bundle,

and started for home, having the good fortune to catch a long ride, and

arriving just as I did.

“What I’ve learned,” said he, as he finished his story, “is, that you

can get rich if you don’t care for anything else; but you’ve either

got to work yourself to death for it, or else cheat somebody. You can

get it out of the ground by working, or you can get it out of men by

cheating. But who wants to do either? I don’t. And I believe it isn’t

much use being rich, any way.”

Then I told Fred my adventures. “And what I’ve learned,” said I, “is,

that you can get rich without much trouble, if you’re willing to wait

all your life for forests to grow and property to rise. But what’s the

use of money to an old man or an old woman that’s blind and deaf, and

just ready to die? Or what good does it do a mean man, with a lot of

loafers round him? It can’t make him a gentleman.”

And meditating upon this newly-acquired philosophy, Fred and I went to

our homes.

“Mother,” said I, “I’ve got back.”

“Yes, my son, I expected you about this time.”

“But I haven’t found a fortune, nor brought your camel’s-hair shawl.”

“It’s just as well,” said she; “for I haven’t anything else that would

be suitable to wear with it.”

[Illustration]

THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.

BY E. F.

Floris shut up her book, and looked at mamma. “Mamma, I wish we could

be s’prised Christmas!”

“Surprised.” It was a moment before mamma understood. “It is somewhat

difficult,” she said then, “to surprise little girls who feel at

liberty to go to mamma’s drawers at any time, and to untie all the

packages when the delivery-man comes. In a small house like this people

have to help surprise themselves.”

“Who wants to help surprise theirselves!” exclaimed little Katy. “You

ought to be cunning, mamma, and hide things; a ‘truly’ hide--you

know--and not just in bureau drawers.”

“_That’s_ not what I mean at all, Katy,” said Floris. “Mamma, I mean

a _surprise_, and not our Christmas presents. Of course, Katy and I

know what them’ll be, or _most_ know. It’ll be our new hats, or some

aprons, or something we’d had to have any way, and just one of the

every-day Christmas presents besides; a book, or a horn of candy. I

most know mine’ll be a silver thimble this year, ’cause I lost my old

one, and I heard you tell papa that Katy’d better have a workbox, so’s

to s’courage her to learn sewing more. Now, see ’f ’tain’t so.”

Mamma sat before her little daughters, her guilt confessed in her looks.

“Not that we blame you, mamma,” added Floris, kindly. “I’m old ’nough

now to know that if Santa Klaus brings us anything, he comes round

beforehand, and gets every cent they cost out of papa--great Santa

Klaus, that is!”

“But what did you mean by a surprise, Floris?”

“O, I d’no, quite,” answered Floris. “But I thought I sh’d like to have

something happen that never had before; something planned for me ’n’

Katy that we didn’t know a breath about, and there was no chance of

prying into, so that ’twould honestly s’prise us. I never was s’prised

in my life yet, mamma. I always found out some way.”

Mrs. Dewey smiled. She went out to prepare dinner, and nothing more

was said; and Miss Floris took up her book with a sigh.

But at night, while she was buttoning the two white night-dresses,

Mrs. Dewey returned to the subject. “My little daughters, if you will

keep out of the kitchen to-morrow, all day, I think I can promise that

something very strange and delightful shall happen on Christmas.”

Four little feet jumped right up and down, two little faces flew up

in her own, four little hands caught hold of her, four bright eyes

transfixed her--indeed, they came pretty near having the secret right

out of her on the spot.

“O, mamma! What _is_ it?”

“You must be very anxious to be ‘truly s’prised,’” remarked mamma.

Floris saw the point. She subsided at once. She smiled at mamma with

the first elder-daughter smile that had ever crossed the bright

child-face.

“I guess I _shall_ be ‘truly s’prised’ if we _are_ s’prised,” she said,

with a funny little grimace, as she laid her head on the pillow.

“Now, remember, it is to be a ‘truly keep-out,’” warned Mrs. Dewey.

“You are not to enter the kitchen at all--not once all day to-morrow.”

“Why, surely, mamma Dewey, you are not to do anything towa’ds it before

breakfast,” reasoned little Katy.

“I shall at least notice whether I am obeyed.”

“What’ll happen if we don’t?” inquired Katy.

“Nothing’ll happen then,” said mamma, quietly.

The little voices said no more, and mamma went down stairs. They said

not a single word more, because the little Deweys were so constructed

that had there not been a standing command that they should not speak

after mamma closed the door, their little pink tongues would have run

all night; but they squeezed each other’s hands very tightly, and also

remained awake somewhat longer than usual.

Mrs. Dewey smiled next morning to see her daughters seated at their

lessons in that part of the sitting-room furthest from the door

that opened into the hall and thus into the kitchen. They never

once directly referred to last night’s conversation; but they were

extremely civil to her personally, most charmingly civil, obedient, and

thoughtful. Indeed, Katy’s little round shingled head would bob out

into the hall almost every time mamma’s step was heard. “You must let

me bring you anything I can, mamma--anything I can, ’thout going into

the kitchen, I mean.”

But, to Katy’s disappointment, mamma wished no assistance. Floris

offered to go down town, if mamma needed. But mamma wished nothing that

Floris could do. However, to their delight, they saw the delivery-man,

when he came, taking down lots of orders in his book. “Would it be

w’ong to listen in the hall?” Katy whispered. “’Cause I could hear

everything she told him, ’f I was a-mind to.”

Floris told her it would be very wrong.

The elder little girl studied, and played, and sang, and amused her

doll all the morning, and refused to listen to any pleasant sound she

heard from the kitchen. She shut her little nose, also, against a

sudden whiff of deliciousness as some door opened. She even went to the

well, and brought hard water for her room, because the rain water would

have taken her near the forbidden regions.

But little Katy was as restless as a bee. She had a thousand errands

through the hall. When Floris reprimanded her, she said she didn’t

’tend to go a-near the kitchen door. Floris looked out often; but, at

last, the little one settled on the hall stairs with her paint-box, and

the elder sister felt at rest.

But even to her it finally grew a long forenoon. Before ten o’clock she

found herself infected with the same restlessness. Then the various

sounds which she heard distracted her, such busy sounds--she would, at

last, have given almost anything to know what was going on out there.

The mantel clock was just striking eleven when the hall door unclosed,

and Katy’s plump little person partially appeared.

“Come here, quick, quick! or she’ll be back. _I’ve found out, Flory!_”

“O, _have_ you--Why, Katy Dewey!” Floris over-turned the music-stool

as she ran. Katy, her head turned listeningly toward the kitchen door,

blindly crowded a spoonful of something into her mouth.

“There! isn’t that ’licious good? O, Floris, such things as I have

seen out there!--the box of raisins is down on the table, and all her

extrach Lubin bottles. I couldn’t stay to look much; but, Floris,

there’s twelve of the most beautiful mince patties--O, the most

beautiful! all iced, and ‘Merry Christmas,’ in pink sand, on every one,

and there’s twelve more in the iron ready to fill--_wasn’t_ that I gave

you _crammed_ with raisins!”

Floris’s eyes danced. “Kit Dewey, I’ll bet we’re going to have a

Christmas party--a party of little boys and girls! What else was there,

do tell me!”

“O, I d’no; there was heaps of raisins--and, _mebbe_, there was ice

cream;” suddenly remembering Floris’s fondness for that delectable.

Floris knew better than that; but still her eyes danced. Suddenly they

heard the back kitchen door, and, as suddenly, Floris turned white.

“The mince-spoon, Katy! You’ve brought the mince-spoon! Mamma’ll know!”

Katy’s little mouth dropped open.

“Quick! She’s coming this way!”

Floris softly got into the sitting-room, so did Katy.

“Where is the spoon?” hurriedly whispered the elder girl.

“I stuffed it under the stair carpet, where that rod was up.”

They could hear mamma coming through the hall. But she came only part

way. After a pause, she returned to the kitchen.

“Katy, what if she’s found it?”

“She couldn’t.”

They stole out into the hall. The spoon was gone!

“O, Katy! I’ll bet you left it sticking out!” said Floris, and burst

into tears. Katy did the same. With one accord they ascended the stairs

to their room.

When, with red eyes, they came down to dinner, they found mamma in

the dining-room as placid as usual. The kitchen door was wide open.

After dinner Floris was requested to wipe the dishes. Her work took

her into every part of the kitchen domains, and her red eyes peered

about sharply; but nothing unusual was to be seen--not one trace of the

beautiful patties, not a raisin-stem, even!

Christmas day came and went. Floris had her silver thimble, and Katy

her work-box. The dinner table was in the usual holiday trim. But

the little frosted pies, with the pink greetings, were not brought

forward--no, and not one word was said concerning them, not even by

mamma’s eyes.

[Illustration]

At night they cried softly in their little white bed, after mamma had

gone down. “And, Floris, I ’member now, there was something else, under

a white cloth, like a plate of kisses, I thought,” sobbed Katy, her wet

little face pressed into the pillows; “and I shall always think she was

going to make fruitcake, for there was citron all cut up, and there was

almonds--”

“Don’t, Katy! I don’t want to hear it! I _can’t_ hear it!” said

Floris, in a thick voice; “and don’t let us disobey mamma more by

talking.”

But what did become of the beautiful, frosted, pink-lettered little

pies--would you like to know?

Floris and Katy cannot tell you; for never yet have mamma and her

little daughters exchanged a word upon the subject--but I think _I_

can. At least I was told that a factory-weaver’s family, where there

were several little girls, had the most lovely of patties, and kisses,

and sugar-plums sent them for their Christmas dinner last year.

THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.

BY ELLA FARMAN.

Unless I take a long half mile circle, my daily walk to the post-office

leads me down through an unsavory, wooden-built portion of town. I

am obliged to pass several cheap groceries, which smell horribly of

_sauer-kraut_ and Limburg cheese, a restaurant steamy with Frenchy

soups, a livery stable, besides two or three barns, and some gloomy,

windowless, shut-up buildings, of whose use I haven’t the slightest

idea.

Of course, when I go out in grand toilet, I take the half mile circle.

But, being a business woman, and generally in a hurry, I usually

go this short way in my short walking-dress and big parasol; and,

probably, there is an indescribable expression to my nose, just as Mrs.

Jack Graham says.

Well, one morning I was going down town in the greatest hurry. I was

trying to walk so fast that I needn’t breathe once going by the Dutch

groceries; and I was almost to the open space which looks away off to

the sparkling river, and the distant park, and the forenoon sun,--I

always take a good, long, sweet breath there, coming and going,--when

my eye was caught by a remarkable group across the street.

Yes, during the night, evidently, while the town was asleep, there had

been an arrival--strangers direct from the Sunny South.

And there the remarkable-looking strangers sat, in a row, along the

narrow step of one of the mysterious buildings I have alluded to. They

were sunning themselves with all the delightful carelessness of the

experienced traveler. Though, evidently, they had been presented with

the liberty of the city, it was just as evident that they didn’t care a

fig for sightseeing--not a fig, either, for the inhabitants. All they

asked of our town was its sunshine. They had selected the spot where

they could get the most of it. Through the open space opposite the sun

streamed broadly; and the side of a weather-colored building is _so_

warm!

What a picture of _dolce far niente_, of “sweet-do-nothing,” it was! I

stopped, hung my parasol over my shoulder,--there was a little too much

sunshine for me,--and gazed at it.

“O, how you do love it! You bask like animals! That fullness of

enjoyment is denied to us white-skins. What a visible absorption of

luster and heat! You are the true lotus-eaters!”

The umber-colored creatures--I suppose they are as much warmer for

being brown, as any brown surface is warmer than a white one. I never

did see sunshine drank, and absorbed, and enjoyed as that was. It was a

bit of Egypt and the Nile life. I could not bear to go on.

[Illustration]

Finally, I crossed the street to them. Not one of them stirred. The

eldest brother was standing, leaning against the building. He turned

one eye on me, and kept it there. At his feet lay a bulging, ragged

satchel. Evidently he was the protector.

The elder sister, with hands tucked snugly under her folded arms,

winked and blinked at me dozily. The little boy with the Nubian lips

was sound asleep,--a baby Osiris,--his chubby hands hiding together

between his knees for greater warmth. The youngest sister, wrapped in

an old woolen shawl, was the only uncomfortable one of the lot. There

was no doze nor dream in her eyes yet--poor thing, _she_ was cold!

I didn’t believe they had had anywhere to lay their heads during the

night. Liberty of a city, to one kind of new arrivals, means just

that, you know. Sundry crumbs indicated an absence of the conventional

breakfast table. Poor little darkies!

“Children,” I said, like a benevolently-disposed city marshal, “you

mustn’t sit here in the street.”

“We’s gwine on soon, mistis,” said the protector, meekly.

“I ’low we ain’t, Jim!” The big sister said this without any diminution

of the utter happiness of her look.

“It’s powerful cold comin’ up fru the norf, mistis. I _mus’_ let ’em

warm up once a day,” said Jim.

“Up through the north! Pray, where are you going?”

Jim twisted about. He looked down at the toe of his boot, reflectively.

“I ex-pect, I ex-pect--”

“You _spec_, Jim! You allers spectin’! Mistis, we’s _free_--we kin go

anywhars!”

I suspect there had been a great deal of long-suffering on the part of

Jim. He burst out like flame from a smoldering fire,--

“_Anywhars!_ That’s what ails niggas! Freedom means _anywhars_ to ’em,

and so they’re nuffin’ nor nobody. You vagabon’, Rose Moncton, you

_kin’t_ go anywhars much longer--not ’long o’ me!”

“O, you white folksy Jim! I ’low this trompin’ was yer own plan. When

you finds a town whar it’s any show of warm, I’ll hang up my things

and stay, and not afore--ye hyar that! I ’low I won’t see Peyty and Kit

a-freezin’!”

She scowled at me, she actually did, as if I froze her with my pale

face and cool leaf-green dress, and kept the sun off her, talking with

that “white folksy Jim.”

I fancied Jim was hoping I would say something more to them. I fancied

he, at least, was in great need of a friend’s advice.

“Where did you come from?” I asked him. But the other head of the

family answered,--

“Come from nuff sight warmer place than we’s goin’ anywhars.”

“Rose is allers techy when she’s cold, mistis,” Jim apologized. “Ole

Maum Phillis used fer to say as Rose’s temper goose-pimpled when the

cold air struck it. We kim from Charleston, mistis. We’s speckin’ to

work out some land for ourselves, and hev a home. We kim up norf to git

wages, so as we kin all help at it. I’d like to stop hyar, mistis.”

“Hyar! I ’low we’s goin’ soufard when we gits from dis yer, you Jim,”

sniffed “Rose Moncton,” her face up to the sunshine.

Poor Jim looked care-worn. I dare say my face was tolerably

sympathetic. It felt so, at least.

“Mistis,” the fellow said, “she’s kep us tackin’ souf an’ norf, souf

an’ norf, all dis yer week, or we’d been somewhars. She don’t like de

looks of no town _yet_. We’s slep’ roun’ in sheds six weeks now. I gits

sawin’ an’ choppin’, an’ sich, to do once a day, while dey warms up in

de sun, an’ eats a bite. Den up we gits, an’ tromps on. We’s got on so

fur, but Rose ain’t clar at all yit whar we’ll stop. Mistis, whar is de

warmest place _you_ knows on?”

I thought better and better of myself as the heavy-faced fellow thus

appealed to me. I felt flattered by his confidence in me. I always feel

flattered when a strange kitty follows me, or the birdies hop near for

my crumbs. But I will confess that no human vagabond had ever before so

skillfully touched the soft place in my heart. Poor, dusky wanderer!

he looked so hungry, he looked so worn-out, too, as a head of a family

will when the other head pulls the other way.

“Well, Jim, the warmest place I know of is in my kitchen. I left a

rousing fire there ten minutes ago. You all stay here until I come

back, which will be in about seven minutes; then you shall go home

with me, and I will give you a good hot dinner. You may stay all

night, if you like, and perhaps I can advise you. You will be rested,

at the least, for a fresh start.”

Rose Moncton lifted her listless head, and looked in my face. “Laws!”

said she. “Laws!” said she again.

Jim pulled his forelock to me, vailed the flash in his warm umbery eyes

with a timely wink of the heavy lids. He composed himself at once into

a waiting attitude.

I heard another “Laws!” as I hastened away. “That young mistis is done

crazy. She’ll nebber kim back hyar, ’pend on dat!” Such was Rose’s

opinion of me.

I opened my ears for Jim’s. But Jim made no reply.

Father and mother had gone out of town for two days. Our hired girl had

left. I really was “mistis” of the premises. If I chose to gather in a

circle of shivering little “niggas” around my kitchen stove, and heat

that stove red-hot, there was nobody to say I better not.

I was back in five minutes, instead of seven. Jim stood straight up on

his feet the moment he discovered me coming. Rose showed some faint

signs of life and interest. “’Clar, now, mistis! Kim along, den, Jim,

and see ye look to that there verlise. Hyar, you Kit!” She managed to

rouse her sister with her foot, still keeping her hands warmly hidden,

and her face to the sun.

But the other head took the little ones actively in charge. “Come,

Peyty, boy! come, Kit! we’s gwine now!”

Peyty opened his eyes--how starry they were! “O, we goin’, mo’? Jim, I

don’t want to go no mo’!”

“Ain’t gwine clar thar no, Peyty, boy; come, Kit--only to a house to

warm the Peyty boy--come Kit!”

Kit was coming fast enough. But Peyty had to be taken by the arm and

pulled up. Then he stepped slowly, the tears coming. The movement

revealed great swollen welts, where his stiff, tattered, leathern shoes

had chafed and worn into the fat, black little legs. “Is dat ar Mistis

Nelly?” he asked, opening his eyes, wonderingly, at the white lady.

Rose had got up now. A sudden quiver ran over her face. “No, Peyty.

Mist’ Nelly’s dead, you know. Wish we’s back to Mas’r Moncton’s, and

Mist’ Nelly libbin’, an’ Linkum sojers dead afore dey cum!”

There was a long sigh from everybody, even from Jim. But he drew in his

lips tightly the next moment. “Some niggas nebber was worf freein’.

Come along, Peyty, boy--ready, mistis.”

I walked slowly along at the head of the strangers from the south.

Little feet were so sore, Peyty couldn’t walk fast. Kit’s big woman’s

size shoes were so stiff she could only shuffle along. Jim’s toes were

protruding, and I fancied he and Rose were as foot-sore as the little

ones. I dare say people looked and wondered; but I am not ashamed to be

seen with any kind of children.

I took them around to the back door, into the kitchen, which I had

found unendurable while baking my bread and pies. The heated air rushed

out against my face as I opened the door. It was a delicious May-day;

but the procession behind me, entering, proceeded direct to the stove,

and surrounded it in winter fashion, holding their hands out to the

heat. Even from Jim I heard a soft sigh of satisfaction.

Poor, shivering children of the tropics! I drew up the shades. There

were no outer blinds, and the sun streamed in freely.

“There, now. Warm yourselves, and take your own time for it. Put in

wood, Jim, and keep as much fire as you like. I am going to my room to

rest for an hour. Be sure that you don’t go off, for I wish you to stay

here until you are thoroughly rested. I have plenty of wood for you to

saw, Jim.”

I brought out a pan of cookies. I set them on the table. “Here, Rose,

see that Peyty and Kit have all they want. When I come down, I’ll get

you some dinner.”

The poor children in stories, and in real life, too, for that matter,

always get only bread and butter--dear me, poor dears! When I undertake

a romance for these waifs in real life, or story, I always give them

cookies--cookies, sweet, golden, and crusty, with sifted sugar.

I left them all, even to Jim, looking over into the pan. My! rich,

sugary jumbles, and plummy queen’s cakes? When I saw their eyes

dance--no sleep in those eyes now--I was glad it wasn’t simply

wholesome sandwiches and plain fried cakes, as somebody at my elbow

says now it ought to have been. I would have set out a picnic table,

with ice-cream and candies, for those wretched little “niggas,” if I

could! I nodded to them, and went away. It is so nice, after you have

made a child happy, to add some unmistakable sign that it is quite

welcome to the happiness!

I knew there was nothing which they could steal. I expected they

would explore the pantry. I judged them by some of my little white

friends. But the silver was locked up. China and glass would hardly be

available. If, after they had stuffed themselves with those cookies,

they could want cold meat, and bread and butter, I surely shouldn’t

begrudge it. Then I thought of my own especial lemon tart, which stood

cooling on the shelf before the window; but I was not going back to

insult that manly Jim Moncton by removing it.

Just as I was slipping on my dressing-gown up in my own cool, quiet

chamber, I caught a faint sound of the outside door of the kitchen.

Something like a shriek, or a scream, followed. Then there was an

unmistakable and mighty overturning of chairs. I rushed down. At the

very least I expected to see my romantic “Rose Moncton” with her hands

clenched in brother Jim’s kinky hair. With loosened tresses, without

belt or collar, I appeared on the scene.

What did I see? Why, I saw Phillis, Mrs. Jack Graham’s black cook, with

every one of my little “niggas” in her arms--heads of the family and

all! There they were, sobbing and laughing together, the portly Phillis

the loudest of the whole. One of Mrs. Jack’s favorite china bowls lay

in fragments on the floor.

Phillis called out hysterically as she saw me. Jim discovered me the

same moment. He detached himself, went up to the window, and bowed his

head down upon the sash. I saw the tears roll down his cheek and drop.

“Laws, Miss Carry! dese my ole mas’r’s niggers! dey’s Mas’r Moncton’s

little nigs, ebery one! dey’s runned roun’ under my feet in Mas’r

Moncton’s kitchen many a day down in ole Carline--bress em souls!” She

hugged them again, and sobbed afresh, The children clung to the old

cook’s neck, and waist, and arms like so many helpless, frightened

black kittens.

Phillis at last recovered her dignity. She pointed them to their

chairs. She picked up the pieces of china in her apron. “Done gone,

anyhow--dese pickaninnies gib ole Phillis sich a turn! It mose like

seein’ Mas’r Moncton an’ Miss Nelly demselves. Whar you git ’em, Miss

Carry?”

I told her.

“Bress your heart, Miss Carry! Len’ me a cup, and git me some yeast,

and I’ll bring Mistis Graham ober, an’ I’ll be boun’, when she sees dat

ar lubly little Peyty, she’ll hire him to--to--to--lor! she’ll hire him

to look into his diamint eyes.”

I know she herself kissed tears out of more than one pair of “diamint

eyes” while I was getting the yeast. I heard her.

“O, Maum Phillis!” I heard Jim say. “You think we’ll hire out roun’

hyar?”

“_Could_ we, Maum Phillis?” pleaded Rose, her voice soft and warm now.

“We’s done tired out. I’m clean ready to drop down in my tracks long

this yer blessed stove, and nebber stir anywhars!”

“Bress you, chilluns! You _hev_ tromped like sojers, clar from

ole Carline! Spec it seems like home, findin’ one of de old place

hands--Phillis knows. Dar, dar! don’t take on so. Miss Carry, she’ll

bunk you down somewhar it’s warm, and thar you stay an’ rest dem feet.

I’ll send my mistis ober, and dey two’ll pervide fer ye on dis yer

street; dis yer one ob de Lord’s own streets.”

Well, do you think Mistis Graham and Mistis Carry dishonored Maum

Phillis’s faith in them?

No, indeed! The family found homes on “de Lord’s own street.” Jam is

coachman at Squire Lee’s. Peyty is at the same place, taken in at first

for his sweet disposition, and “diamint eyes,” I suspect. He is now a

favorite table-waiter.

Kit is Maum Phillis’s right-hand woman. Rose is our own hired girl. She

is somewhat given to sleepiness, and to idling in sunny windows, and to

scorching her shoes and aprons against the stove of a winter’s evening.

But, on the whole, she is a good servant; and we have built her a

bedroom out of the kitchen.

I have never regretted crossing the street to speak to the strangers

from the south.

WI’ WEE WINKERS BLINKIN’.

BY J. E. RANKIN, D. D.

Wi’ wee winkers blinkin’,

Blinkin’ like the starn,

What’s wee tottie thinkin’?

Tell her mither, bairn.

On night’s downy dream-wings,

Where’s the bairnie been,

That she has sic seemings

In her blinkin’ een?

Let her mither brood her,

Like the mither-doe;

When enough she’s woo’d her,

She maun prie her mou’:

Let her mither shake her,

Like an apple bough,

Frae her dreams to wake her:--

That’s our bairnie now!

There! I’ve got her crowin’

Like the cock at dawn;

Mou’ wi’ fistie stowin’,

When she tries to yawn:

She’ll na play the stranger

Drappit frae the blue,

Lest there might be danger

Back she sud gae through!

She’s our little mousie,

In this housie born,

That I tumble tousie,

Ilka, ilka morn:

She’s her mither’s bairnie,

Only flesh an’ blood;

Blinkin’ like the starnie

Through a neebor cloud.

[Illustration: LUCY’S PET.]

[Illustration]

THE CHILDRENS’ SHOES.

BY BLANCHE B. BAKER (_nine years’ old_).

Four pairs of little shoes.

All in a row;

Four pairs of little shoes

For to-morrow.

Four pairs of little shoes

Worn every day;

Four pairs of little shoes

Ready for play.

Four pairs of little shoes

By the fire’s glow;

Four pairs of little shoes

White at the toe.

Four pairs of little shoes

Travelling all day;

Four pairs of little shoes

Resting from play.

Four pairs of little shoes

Waiting for day;

Four pairs of little shoes

Never go astray!

ETHEL’S EXPERIMENT.

BY B. E. E.

White flakes on the upland, white flakes on the plain,

Frost bon-bons in meadow, in garden, in lane;

And wise little Ethel--the strangest of girls--

Puts on her grave thinking-cap, shakes her brown curls,

And talks to herself, in a curious way,

Of “snow” and a “ball” and a “hot summer’s day!”

Then, down to the brook, where the gnarled willows grow,

And the ice-covered reeds stand like soldiers in row,

Our brave little girl trudges off all alone,

And rolls a large snow-ball just under the stone

That lies on the brink of the streamlet, and then

In this wise begins her soliloquy: “When

The Fourth of July comes, what fun it will be

To have all this snow tucked away, for you see

Nobody will guess how it came there,--but me!”

Green leaves on the upland, green leaves on the plain,

And bluebirds and robins and south winds again.

The brook in the meadow is wide awake now,

And fragrant bloom drops from the old willows bough,

When Ethel remembers her treasure, her prize,

That under the edge of the great boulder lies;

And stealthily creeping close down to the brink,

Where the slender reeds quiver--now what do you think

Our little girl found? Why, never a trace

Of the snow-ball--O no! but just in its place

A tiny white violet, sweetest of sweet,

Because of the coverlid over its feet

Through all the long winter! And Ethel’s mamma,

When she heard the whole story said, “Truly we are

No wiser than children. We bury our grief,

And find in its hiding-place Hope’s tender leaf!”

CINDERS:

THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.

BY MADGE ELLIOT.

How artful the wind was that cold March morning, hiding away every now

and then, pretending to be quite gone, only to rush out with a fearful

howl at such unexpected moments that Carl was nearly blown off his feet

each time.

But he struggled bravely forward, bending his head to the blast,

and holding his brimless hat on with one hand, while he carried his

battered tin pail in the other.

There was not a gleam of fire in the wretched room he had just left;

and Tony and Lena, his little sisters, wrapped in the old piece of

carpet that served them for a blanket, were _almost_ crying with hunger

and with cold.

They would have cried outright if Carl had not kissed them, and said,

“Never mind, young uns--wait till I can give you each a reg’lar bang-up

lace hankercher to cry on,--_then_ you may cry as much as you please.”

Father and mother had died within a week of each other, when February’s

snows were upon the ground, leaving these three poor children without

money and without friends--a bad way for even grown-ups to be left.

So Carl, poor boy, found himself, at ten years of age, the head of a

family.

Of course he became a newsboy.

Almost all heads of families ten years and under, become newsboys.

Twenty-five cents given him by an old woman who sold apples and

peanuts, and who, by the way, was not much better off than he was

himself, started him in business.

But the business, I am sorry to say, scarcely paid the rent, leaving

nothing for clothing, food and fire, three very necessary things,--be a

home ever so humble.

So every morning, almost as soon as the day dawned--and I can tell

you day dawns very quickly in a room where the window hasn’t a scrap

of shade or curtain--before he went down town for his stock of morning

papers, Carl started out to bring home the family fuel.

This consisted of whatever sticks and bits of wood he could find lying

about the streets, and whatever cinders and pieces of coal he could

pick from the ash-barrels and boxes.

If the weather was at all mild, Tony, the eldest sister, and the

housekeeper, went with him, and helped him fill the old pail.

She carried a forlorn-looking basket, that seemed ashamed of the old

piece of rope that served for its handle, and stopped on her way home

at several houses, where the servant girls had taken a fancy to the

gray-eyed, shy little thing, to get the family marketing.

But alas! very _very_ often the supply fell far short of the demand,

for the winter had been a very severe one, and everybody had such a

number of calls from all sorts of needy people, that they could afford

to give but little to each one.

This particular March morning Carl went out alone, wondering as he went

when “the fortune” was going to “turn up.”

For these poor children, shut out from dolls, fairy-books, and all

things that make childhood merry and bright, used to while away many an

hour, talking of “a fortune” which the brother had prophesied would one

day be found in the ashes.

At different times this dream took different shapes.

Sometimes it was a pocket-book, oh! so fat with greenbacks, sometimes

a purse of gold, sometimes “a diamint ring:” but, whatever it should

prove to be, Carl was convinced, “felt it in his bones,” he said, it

_would_ be found, and found hidden among the cinders.

Once he had brought home a silver fork, “scooped,” as he called it in

newsboy’s slang, from an ash-heap in an open lot.

On this fork the family had lived for three days.

Once he rescued a doll, which _would_ have been _lovely_ if it had

had a head; and at various times there were scraps of ribbon, lace

and silk, all of which served to strengthen the belief that something

wonderful must “turn up” at last.

“Cricky! how that old wind does holler,” said Carl to himself, as he

toiled along, “an’ it cuts right through me, my jacket’s so thin an’

torn--I’d mend it myself if I only knew how, and somebody’d lend me a

needle and thread.

“Don’t I wish I’d find the fortune this morning!

“I dreamt of it last night--dreamt it was a bar of gold, long as my

arm, and precious thick, too.

“Guess I’ll go to that big bar’l afore them orful high flat

houses--that’s _allus_ full of cinders.

“It’s lucky for us them big bugs don’t sift their ashes! _We_ wouldn’t

have no fire if they did,--that’s what’s the matter.”

So he made his way to the “big bar’l,” hoping no one had been there

before him, and, leaning over without looking, put his cold, red hand

into the ashes, but he drew it out again in a hurry, for, cold as _it_

was, it had touched something colder.

“Hello!” cried Carl, “what’s that? It don’t feel ’zactly like the bar

of gold,” and, dropping on his knees, he peeped in.

A dirty little, shaggy, once-white dog raised a pair of soft, dark,

wistful eyes to his face.

“Why! I’m blessed,” said Carl, in great surprise, “if it ain’t a dog.

Poor little beggar! that was his nose I felt, an’ wasn’t it cold?”

“I s’pose he’s got in among the ashes to keep warm; wot pooty eyes

he’s got, just like that woman’s wot give me a ten cent stamp for the

_Tribune_ the other day, and wouldn’t take no change. Poor old feller!

Are you lost?”

The dog had risen to its feet, and still looking pleadingly at Carl,

commenced wagging its tail in a friendly manner.

“Oh! you want me to take you home,” continued Carl. “I can’t ’cause

I dunno where you live, and _my_ family eats all they can git

theirselves--they’re awful pigs, they are,” and he laughed softly, “an’

couldn’t board a dog nohow.”

But the dog kept on wagging his tail, and as soon as Carl ceased

speaking, as though grateful for even a few kind words, it licked the

cold hand that rested on the side of the barrel.

That dog--kiss won the poor boy’s heart completely. “You _shall_

go with me,” he cried impulsively. “Jest come out of that barrel

till I fill this pail with cinders, and then we’ll be off. He kin

have the bones _we_ can’t crack with our teeth ennyhow,” he said to

himself,--not a very cheerful prospect, it must be confessed, for the

boarder.

The dog, as though he understood every word, jumped from the box, and

seated himself on the icy pavement to wait for his new landlord and

master.

In a few moments the pail was full, and the boy turned toward his home,

running as fast as he could, with the dog trotting along by his side.

“See wot I foun’ in the ashes,” he cried, bounding into the room.

“Here’s the fortune alive an’ kickin’. Wot you think of it?”

“Oh, wot a funny fortune!” said Tony, and “Wot a funny fortune!”

repeated little Lena.

“It’s kinder queer,--the pocket-book an’ the dimint ring a-turnin’ into

a dog!” Tony continued. “But no matter, if we can’t buy nothin’ with

him, we can love him, poor little feller!”

“Poor ’ittle feller!” repeated Lina. “He nicer than dollie ’ithout a

head, ennyhow. _We_ can lub him.”

“An’ now, Carl,” said the housekeeper, “you make the fire, an’ I’ll run

to market, for it’s most time you went after your papers.”

And away she sped, to return in a few minutes with five or six cold

potatoes, a few crusts of bread, and one bone, with very little

meat--and that gristle--clinging to it.

And this bone--think if you can of a greater act of self-denial and

charity--the children decided with one accord should be given to

“Cinders,” as they had named the dog on the spot.

That night, after Carl had sold his papers, and come home tired but

hopeful, for he had made thirty cents clear profit to save toward the

rent, they all huddled together, with doggie in the midst of them,

around the old iron furnace that held their tiny fire.

Presently the Head of the Family began whistling a merry tune, which

was a great favorite with the newsboys.

Imagine the astonishment of the children when Cinders pricked up his

ears, rose on his hind legs, and, after gravely walking across the room

once, began to walk round and round, keeping perfect time to the music!

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Carl, his eyes sparkling. “Look at that! look

at that! Tony, it _’tis_ the fortune after all! an’ I _did_ find it in

the ash-box!”

“Why, wot do you mean, Bub?” cried Tony, almost as excited as her

brother. “Wot do you mean, an’ ware’s ‘the fortune?’”

“Why there, right afore your eyes. I mean Cinders is one o’ them orful

smart hundred-dollar dogs wot does tricks. He’s bin lost by that circus

wot went away night afore last, an’ he’s bin lost a-purpose to make my

dreams come true! I’ll take him out the fust fine day, an’ we’ll bring

home lots of stamps. You see if we don’t!”

“_I’ll_ sell the papers,” said Tony, by this time _quite_ as excited as

her brother; “I kin do it, Carl. ‘’Ere’s the mornin’ Herald, Sun, Times

an’ _Tri_-bune!’” imitating the shrill cry of the newsboy, and doing

it very well, too, “an’ the fellers’ll be good to me, ’cos I’m your

sister, an’ they like you.”

“You’re a brick, Tony!” said Carl, “an’ for sich a small brick the

brickiest brick I ever knowed; but I kin sell ’em myself in the

mornin’, an’ you kin take ’em in the afternoon, for that’s the

time Cinders an’ me must perform. ‘Monseer Carlosky an’ his werry

talented dog Cinders, son of the well-known French performing poodle

Cinderella.’ How’s that, Tony? O I’ve read all about ’em on the circus

bills, and that’s the way they do it. Yes, you’ll have to take the

papers in the afternoon, cos then’s when the swell boys an’ gals is

home from school,--’cept Saturdays, then we’ll be out most all day.”

“Dance more, Tinders, dance more!” here broke in little Lena; but

Cinders stood looking at his master, evidently waiting for the music.

So Carl commenced whistling--did I tell you he whistled like a

bird?--and Cinders once more marched gravely across the room, and then

began waltzing again in the most comical manner.

He had evidently been trained to perform his tricks just twice; for

when the music ceased _this_ time he proceeded to stand on his head,

and then sitting up on his hind legs, he nodded politely to the

audience, and held out one of his paws, as much as to say, “Now pay if

you please.”

The poor children forgot hunger and cold in their delight, and that

miserable room resounded to more innocent, merry laughter that night

than it had heard for many long years, perhaps ever before.

Cinders got another bone for his supper--the others had nothing--and

then they all went to bed, if lying on the bare floor, with nothing for

a pillow can be called going to bed, and dreamed of “the fortune” found

at last in the ashes.

The next afternoon, which fortunately was a fine one, for March having

“come in like a lion was preparing to go out like a lamb,” Carl came

racing up the crazy stairs, taking two steps at a time, and, tossing a

bundle of evening papers to Tony, he whistled to Cinders, and away they

went.

Poor Carl looked shabby enough, with his toes sticking out of a pair of

old shoes--a part of the treasures “scooped” from the ash-heap--and not

mates at that, one being as much too large as the other was too small,

his tattered jacket and his brimless hat.

But Cinders followed him as faithfully as though he had been clad in a

costly suit of the very latest style.

Turning into a handsome, quiet street, Carl stopped at last before

a house where three or four rosy-cheeked children were flattening

their noses against the panes of the parlor windows, trying to see a

doll which another rosy-cheeked child was holding up at a window just

opposite.

“Now Cinders, ole feller!” said Carl, while his heart beat fast, “do

your best. BONES!” and he began to whistle.

At the first note Cinders stood up on his hind legs, at the second he

took his first step forward.

At the beginning of the fourth bar the waltz began; and by this time

the rosy-cheeked children had lost all interest in the doll over the

way, and were all shouting and calling “Mamma!” and the cook and

chambermaid had made their appearance at the area gate.

The march and waltz having been gone through with twice, Cinders

stood on his head--“shure,” said the cook, “I couldn’t do it betther

myself”--tumbled quickly to his feet again, nodded affably once to the

right, once to the left, and once to the front of him, and held out his

right paw.

“He’s the cliverest baste ever _I_ seen,” said the chambermaid, “so

he is!” and she threw a five cent piece in Carl’s old hat; and, at

the same moment the window was opened, and out flew a perfect shower

of pennies, while the little girl across the way kept shouting, “Come

here, ragged little boy! Come here, funny doggie! Oh, _why_ don’t you

come here?”

And, making his best bow to his first audience, Carl went over to the

doll’s house, and was received by the whole family, including grandpa

and grandma, with great delight and laughter, and was rewarded at the

end of his entertainment with much applause, three oranges, and a new

ten cent stamp.

That afternoon Cinders earned one dollar and three cents for his

little master; and I can’t describe to you the joy that reigned in

that small bare room when Carl, in honor of his debut as “Monseer

Carlosky” brought in, and spread out on a newspaper on the floor, a

wonderful feast! Real loaf of bread, bought at the baker’s, bottle

of sarsaparilla at the grocer’s, and peanuts, apples, and a hunk of

some extraordinary candy from the old woman who kept a stand at the

corner, and who had started Carl as a newsboy. She also received her

twenty-five cents again, with five cents added by way of interest.

“Why! didn’t they look when they see me a-orderin’ things, and payin’

for ’em on the spot!” said “Monseer,” with honest pride, as he carved

the loaf with an old jackknife.

As for Cinders, no meatless bone, but half a pound of delicious liver,

did that remarkable dog receive, and more kisses on his cold, black

nose than he knew what to do with.

After that, as the weather grew finer and finer, and the days longer,

Carl and his dog wandered farther and farther, and earned more and

more money every day, until the little sisters rejoiced in new shoes,

hats and dresses, and the housekeeper had a splendid basket--not very

large, of course--with a handle that any basket could be proud of, and

actually _did_ go to market, fair and square, and no make believe about

it.

And Carl presented himself with a brand-new suit of clothes, from the

second-hand shop next door, including shoes that were made for each

other, and a hat with a brim.

By-and-by the cheerless room was exchanged for a pleasanter one; and

the story of the fair-haired Head of the Family, and the fortune

he found in the ashes, took wings, and returned to him laden with

blessings.

And five years from that bleak March morning, when Cinder looked up

so pleadingly in the boy’s, face, Carl found himself a clerk in the

counting-room of a generous, kind-hearted merchant.

“A boy who worked so hard and so patiently to take care of his little

sisters,” this gentleman said to his wife, “and who was ready to share

his scanty meals with a vagrant dog, _must_ be a good boy, and good

boys make good men.”

And Tony and Lena, both grown to be bright, healthy, merry girls,

befriended by many good women, were going to school, taking care of the

house, earning a little in odd moments by helping the seamstress who

lived on the floor below, and still looking up with love and respect to

the Head of the Family.

Cinders, petted and beloved by all, performed in public no more,

but spent most of his time lying by the fire in winter, and on the

door-step in summer, waiting and listening for the step of his master.

So you see Carl was right.

He _did_ find his fortune among the ashes.

But would it have proved a fortune had he been a cruel, selfish,

hard-hearted boy?

Ah! that’s the question.

[Illustration]

TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

_A FOURTH OF JULY STORY._

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

[Illustration]

“Hurrah! To-morrow’s the Fourth of July--the glorious Fourth!” shouted

Tom Wallace, careering wildly around the flower garden, as a Roman

candle he held in his hand, evidently unable to contain itself until

the proper time, went off with a fizz and a pop and flashed against the

evening sky, “and it’s going to be the greatest Fourth that ever was

known, because it’s the Centennial!”

“A _cent_-tennial!” said his little sister Caddy, “that won’t be

anything great.”

“Pooh! you don’t understand--girls never do--Centennial don’t mean

anything about money. Centennial means ’pertaining to, or happening

every hundred years’--if you don’t believe me ask Noah Webster--and

just a hundred years ago this magnificent Republic of America,

gentlemen of the jury,” he continued, mounting a garden-chair, and

making the most absurd gestures, “was declared free and independent,

and its brave citizens determined not to drink tea unless they chose

to, and our cousins from the other side of the Atlantic went marching

home to the tune the old cow died on.”

“What tune was that?” asked Caddy.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said Tom, “I’m astonished to find such

ignorance in this great and enlightened country. The name of that

memorable tune was and still is, as _Your Honor_ well knows, Yankee

Doodle;” and the orator, descending from the chair, commenced whistling

that famous melody.

“Well, then,” said Caddy, after a moment’s thought, “if a Centinal is

something about a hundred years old, Aunt Patience is one, for she’s a

hundred years old to-morrow--she told me so--and she feels real bad

’cause she can’t go to the green to see the fire-works, on ’count of

the pain in her back, and Faith ain’t got any shoes or hat, and the

flour’s ’most gone, and so’s the tea, and she says ‘the poor-house

looms.’”

“‘The poor-house looms,’ does it?” said Tom laughing; and then he stuck

his hands in his pockets, and hummed “Hail Columbia” in a thoughtful

manner.

“I say, Frank,” he called out at last, going up on the porch, and

poking his head in at a window, “what are you doing?”

“‘The king was in the parlor, counting out his money,’”

answered Frank.

“How much, king?”

“Twenty--thirty--thirty-five,” said Frank, “one dollar and thirty-five

cents. How do you figure?”

“Two, fifteen. Come out here, I want to tell you something.”

Frank, who was two years younger than Tom appeared.

“What’s up?” he asked, throwing himself into the hammock which hung

from the roof of the porch, and swinging lazily.

“Would it break your heart, and smash the fellows generally, if we

didn’t go to the meeting on the green to-morrow evening, after all the

fuss we’ve made about it?”

“_What?_” asked Frank, in a tone of surprise, assuming a sitting

position so suddenly that the hammock--hammocks are treacherous

things--gave a sudden lurch, and landed him on the floor.

Tom’s laughter woke all the echoes around.

“Forgive these tears,” he said, as he wiped his eyes, “and now to

business. You know not, perhaps, my gentle brother, that we have a

centenarian, or as Caddy says, a centinal among us?”

“A centinal?” said Frank, stretching himself out on the floor where he

had fallen.

“A centenarian, or centinal, whichever you choose, most noble kinsman,

and she lives on the outskirts of this town. Her name--a most admirable

one--is Patience. Her granddaughter’s--another admirable one--Faith.

“Patience has the rheumatism. Faith has no shoes. They want to see

some fire-works, and hear some Fourth of July--being centinals they

naturally would.

“What say you? Shall we and our faithful clan, instead of swelling the

ranks of the militia on the green, march to the humble cottage behind

the hill, and gladden the hearts of old Patience and young Faith with a

pyr-o-tech-nic display?”

“Good!” said Frank, who always followed the lead of his elder brother.

And “Good!” echoed Caddy; “but don’t spend all your money for

fire-works. Give some to Aunt Patience, ’cause she’s the only centinal

we’ve got.”

“And she’ll never be another,” said Tom,

“‘While the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.’”

So on the evening of the Fourth the people of Tomstown were somewhat

astonished to see the young Centennial Guards march down the principal

street, pass the green, where extensive preparations for festivities

had been made, and keep on up the hill until, beginning to descend on

the other side, they were lost to sight.

At the head marched Frank with his drum. Caddy came directly behind him

with a bunch of brilliant flowers. The others carried flags, Chinese

lanterns, and boxes of fire-works, while Captain Tom flew here and

there and everywhere, trying to keep--an almost hopeless task--the

mischievous company in something like order.

“Where away?” shouted Uncle Al--an old sailor home for the holiday--as

the guards passed his door.

“To Aunt Patience--our own special Centennial,” Frank shouted back with

a tremendous roll of the drum.

Uncle Al, always ready for fun, pipe in mouth, fell in line, waving his

tarpaulin on the end of a stick, and Ex, his yellow dog, and Ander, his

black one, followed after, grinning and wagging their tails.

Then the butcher’s boy, and his chum the baker’s boy, who were

going by, turned and joined the procession, and away they all went,

hurrahing, laughing and drumming, to the door of the very small cottage.

“Bless my heart!” said Aunt Patience, who was sitting in a wooden

arm-chair on the stoop, and who, hearing faintly, poor, dear, deaf old

soul, the noise of the approaching “guards,” had been thinking the

frogs croaked much louder than usual, “what’s this?”

And bare-footed, brown-eyed Faith came out with wonder written all over

her pretty face.

“Three cheers for our special Centennial!” shouted the boys; and they

gave three with a will, as Caddy placed her flowers in the old woman’s

hand.

“Now for the pyr-o-tech-nic display!” commanded Captain Tom; and for

nearly an hour Roman candles fizzed, blue-lights popped, torpedoes

cracked, pin-wheels whizzed, and fire-crackers banged.

Old Patience said it was worth living a hundred years to see.

And as the last fire-work went up a rocket and came down a stick,

the gallant company formed in single file, and, marching past Aunt

Patience, each member bade her “good-night,” and dropped some money in

her lap.

As for Uncle Al--that generous, jolly, warm-hearted old sailor, his

gift was three old-fashioned silver dollars; one for himself, one for

Ex, and one for Ander.

“No one should think,” he said, “that _his_ dogs were mean dogs.”

Then away they all went again, hurrahing, shouting, and drumming like

mad!

[Illustration]

LITTLE CHUB AND THE SKY WINDOW.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Little Chub sat on the curb-stone, dipping small brown toes into the

not very pure water which flowed along the gutter, and watching with

his large, blue eyes the fleecy clouds which far up above the narrow

court in which he dwelt with granny sailed lazily across the patch of

blue sky just visible between two tall buildings opposite.

Chub’s real name was Tommy Brown, but, on account of his roly-poly

figure and little round face, he was nick-named “Chub,” and even granny

called him so, till the boy forgot he had another name.

There had been a funeral that morning near Chub’s house, and all the

boys gathered about the spot, listening open-eared and open-eyed to the

service which told the mourners of that “happy land, far, far away,”

and was intended to comfort them.

But Chub was too little to understand much of all he heard, and could

only feel very sorry for the poor little girl who cried for her dear

mamma, and clung to her father’s hand terrified because that mamma

would not even open her eyes nor look at her. Then the carriages moved

slowly down the street, and Chub went home to granny and teased her

with questions.

“Granny, what’s up there?”

Mrs. Brown, at her wash-tub, half-enveloped in steam, scrubbed away and

answered:

“The other wurrld, honey dear,” reverentially raising her eyes to the

blue patch of sky to which Chub’s fat finger pointed.

“_What_ other world, granny?”

“The good place where yer mammy and daddy have gone, to be sure.”

“How did they get there?” from Chub, his little brow full of puzzled

knots.

“Arrah thin, ye ax too many questions, honey. Some good angel flew down

and lifted them up, of course, and--and--flew away wid ’em agin. Run

now to the corner and fetch me a bar of soap, there’s a dear.”

Chub went for the soap, and, returning, seated himself on the

curb-stone as we first found him, and calculating the length of

time it might possibly take an angel to fly heavenward with little

Jennie’s mother, watched the blue patch and fleecy clouds to see the

final entrance of the two into that other world granny talked about.

Presently two bootblacks strolled along, jingling pennies in their

pockets, and swinging their blacking-boxes independently.

“Hi, Chub,” they shouted, “want a penny?”

Chub held out his hand nothing loth.

“Who giv it ter yer?” he asked, delightedly, for so much wealth had not

been his since he could remember.

“Earned it shinin’ boots, ov course. _We’re_ rich men, Chub, don’t ye

know that?” passing on with a chuckle.

An idea seized our small boy. He withdrew his toes from the gutter,

forgot all about the flying angel and patch of sky, and startled

granny, who was bending over her wash-tub, with:

“Granny, I’m goin’ inter business, like other men.”

“Bless the boy! what does he mean?”

“Two fellers giv me a cent just now, and they earned it a-shinin’

boots, and I’m goin’ to ’sist you and grow rich, granny.”

Granny stopped punching her clothes, came out of the steam, and sat

down to laugh at the new man of business.

Chub’s round face glowed with honest determination, and his roly-poly

figure straighted as well as it could.

“Yes, _ma’am_! I’m a-goin fur a bootblack, and I’m goin’ to buy an

orange as soon as I earn a cent.”

“Where you goin’ ter git yer box and brushes, hey, Chub?” asked Granny,

renewing her attack upon the wash-boiler and its contents.

The boy’s countenance fell, and visions of oranges faded slowly and

reluctantly from his eyes. Suddenly, however, he remembered his friend

Sim Hardy, who frequently gave him the uneaten end of a banana, and

now and then part of a stick of licorice, for which favors Chub had

yielded in return a large share of his warm little heart.

“Sim’ll get me a box, ’thout it’s costin’ anythin’. Maybe he’ll hook

one fur a little chap like me.”

Granny rested from her labors and turned a stern face upon the boy.

“Thomas Brown, never dare you lift a finger of yourn to touch what’s

been stole. Remember who’s watchin’ ye all the time, and don’t go fur

to sile the family name of Brown. If yer do, I’ll trounce yer well for

it, there, now!”

[Illustration: “GRANNY, I’AM GOIN’ INTER BUSINESS, LIKE OTHER MEN.”]

It was probably the last awful threat that awed Chub into obedience,

for he gave no more thought to Sim’s way of getting a machine for

him, but tried to think of another plan.

It wasn’t long, however, before his friends among the bootblacks raised

a sum between them and presented Chub with the necessary capital with

which to begin business in earnest. And to granny’s delight her boy

started off one fine morning regularly equipped for his first battle

for daily bread--and an orange.

For a long time the little, six-years-old bootblack sat on the Astor

House steps awaiting custom. But big boys somehow grabbed all the jobs,

and nobody noticed little Chub, nor heard his weak cry, “Shine yer up

fur ten cents! Want a shine, sir?”

So when night came, the little fellow shouldered his box and went home,

minus his orange, and with pockets as empty as when he started from

home. He cried a little, to be sure, and granny comforted him with

kisses, and put him to bed tenderly. For nearly a week things worked

very badly for Chub. Business didn’t prosper, and sitting all day in

the hot sun made the little fellow sick of trying to be a man and do

business. He couldn’t somehow make the thing work, and Sim Hardy, the

friend who would have taught him, was busy on another route, and so

Chub sat swinging his little bare feet all day, with nothing to do but

watch the sky and wish he could fly up to “that other world” where he

didn’t believe the “angels would let him go so long without a job.”

One night he went home with two ten cent stamps in his pocket, and a

prouder boy never lived. But granny’s anxious eyes saw an unusual flush

on the boy’s cheeks, and the little hands felt dry and hot. And that

night the boy was restless and talked in his sleep.

It had been a fearfully hot day, and granny feared the child was

suffering from sunstroke. So she kept ice on his head, and with part of

the newly-earned money bought some medicine which quieted Chub and gave

him an hour’s sweet sleep just before sunrise.

Then he opened his blue eyes and told granny about a dream in which he

had seen a beautiful angel peep out of a little window in the sky and

look all about as if searching for something. And presently Chub heard

a voice say, “Oh, there’s little Chub! I’ve found him.” Then, as he

looked up to see who had called his name from the clouds, the window

opened wide, and the angel spread beautiful white wings, as white as

snow, and fluttered gently down with arms opened lovingly towards

Chub, who dreamed he was sitting with his box all that time on the

Astor House steps. But just before she reached him he woke up, and,

lo and behold, all the angel his waking eyes saw was dear old granny,

who stood with a cooling drink beside the bed, and fanned away the

tormenting flies.

So Chub told his dream. Granny wiped her eyes with the corner of her

apron, and hugged her boy closer.

[Illustration: “WANT A SHINE, SIR?”]

“The angels can’t have ye yet, Tommy,” she said. “Yer granny’s boy, and

this wurrld is good enuff fur ye this long while yet.”

Chub felt better the next day, and went out to his day’s business with

a stout little heart, and eyes full of sunbeams. Some of the sunshine

of the day crept out of the little room with him when he left granny

alone over her wash-tubs, but she knew when he returned at night he

would bring it all back again. So she scrubbed and rubbed and boiled

and punched her clothes, until the room resembled cloud-land, and the

white clothes hanging on lines shone out of the mist like the white

wings Chub had talked about.

* * * * *

“Oh, dear! Them big fellers don’t give a little chap a chance at all,

at all.”

A big sigh shook Chub’s breast as he muttered this, wiping the

perspiration from his face, and settling the torn hat more comfortably

on his curly head. He slid down from his seat, and stood on the edge of

the sidewalk a minute, waiting a chance to cross.

Hark! what a swift galloping of hoofs on the cobble-stones! Down the

street, the closely-crowded street, dashed a runaway horse, dragging

the light buggy, whose owner had just vacated it. Everybody scampered

right and left in the first moment of terror, but a wee child,

frightened from its nurse’s hand, stands directly in the path of the

swift-coming animal.

Impulsively Chub, the boy of six years, the brave little business man,

flings his blacking-box directly at the head of the runaway horse, and

as fast as his short legs can carry him he rushes for the child whose

life is in peril. In one instant the horse, startled by the well-aimed

blow, turns aside, and then plunges on despite the efforts of strong

arms to stop him.

That instant spared the little girl, but Chub’s box had opened the

sky-window for him--poor little fellow--for over his brave little

figure, crushing the life from his braver heart, passed the animal

which had jumped on one side when the box struck him, and directly in

Chub’s line.

They lifted him tenderly, and laid him on the broad step which had

been the only business office Chub had owned. But only once the blue

eyes opened, and then they sought the blue sky above, and even strong

men felt tears in their eyes when faintly and gaspingly the dying boy

cried, “Oh, angel! angel! here’s little Chub a-waitin’ fur yer; don’t

ye see him?”

Then upward reached the small, brown arms, and downward fluttered the

white lids, which were raised never on earth again, not even when

granny’s tears covered the round, white face, and her arms clasped

close the little roly-poly figure which had suddenly grown so stiff and

helpless.

Up to “that other world,” through the “sky-window,” the white-winged

angel had borne little Chub; and all that had puzzled him on earth was,

maybe, in his angel-mother’s arms, made clear to him at last.

[Illustration]

LITTLE BOY BLUE

BY C. A. GOODENOW.

Not the identical one that slept under the haystack, while the cows

trampled the corn; no, indeed, he was quite too wide awake for that!

Our little Boy Blue had another name; but he was seldom called by it,

and did not much like it when he was. For when he heard people say

“John Allison Ware!” he knew that he was in mischief, and justice was

about to be meted unto him.

Why was he called little Boy Blue? Because, when he was a tiny baby,

his eyes were so very blue--“real ultramarine,” Aunt Sue said; but baby

only wrinkled his nose at the long word, and mamma smiled.

However, the eyes kept their wonderful color as the baby grew up, so

the name was kept, too.

Boy Blue had four sisters: three older, one younger, than himself. He

used, sometimes, to wish for a brother, but mostly he was too busy to

worry over trifles. He had so much to do the days were not long enough.

He had to work in his garden; it was about as large as a

pocket-handkerchief, but it required a great deal of care. He had

to feed the kitty, help shell the peas for dinner, ride on the

saw-horse, and be an ice-man, a strawberry-seller, a coal-heaver and a

fish-monger, all with only the aid of his wheelbarrow.

Above all, he had to help Jotham.

What Jotham would have done without his help I cannot tell. With it, he

kept the garden in order, mended the broken tools, made sleds, swings,

skipping-ropes, carts and baby-houses for the five little Wares.

If Jotham could not have got along without Boy Blue, I am sure the

little Wares would have sadly missed Jotham.

One day Jotham was making a sled for Elsie. It was June, and people do

not usually wish to slide on the daisies and clover; but Jotham liked

to get things finished early. I suppose he knew, too, that when Elsie’s

sled was done he would have to make one a-piece for Lill, for Dora, for

Boy Blue, and for little Tot; so, perhaps, he thought from June to

December was not too long time for so much work.

The sled was ready to be painted; and blue paint, in a nice little

bucket, with a small brush in it, was waiting for the sled. Boy Blue

stood by helping.

Just then somebody called Jotham into the house.

“I might paint a little until he comes back,” thought Boy Blue. “Don’t

fink I’d better, maybe. Elsie said blue stripes; ’haps I shouldn’t get

them even. H’m!”

The blue eyes twinkled, and the funny little mouth was puckered in a

round, rosy button as their owner considered the matter.

“I might practice, first,” said Boy Blue.

So he tugged the paint-bucket down from the bench; he slopped a little

over, too. It did not fall on his trowsers; they were short, and

fastened at the knee with three buttons; the blue splashes were on the

white stockings below the trowsers, and Boy Blue saw them.

“But _they_ will wash,” said he to himself.

Then Boy Blue and the paint-bucket walked off behind the tool-house;

that was a good place to practice, because the clapboards were so

smooth, and of a nice gray color, on which the blue paint showed

beautifully.

“I’ll make five stripes, ’cause I’m most five years old,” thought Boy

Blue.

The first were crooked, and he had to make five more; they-were

too long, so he made some shorter ones. Soon all the side of the

tool-house, as high as his short arm could reach, was painted in blue

stripes.

“If I only had a ladder!” mused Boy Blue. “Fink I’d better get one.”

He trudged into the shed, still carrying the paint-bucket; it was not

so full now as when Jotham left it, and did not slop much.

There was no ladder in the shed, so he went on into the barn.

[Illustration]

“Ouf! ouf!” grunted Piggy White, hearing steps, and expecting dinner.

“I’m busy now, Piggy White,” said Boy Blue, looking over the side of

the pen. “I’m painting. Oh my! Piggy White, you’d look just beautiful

if you only had some blue stripes!”

Piggy White was a young pig, quite clean and pretty; the little Wares

made a pet of him. He had a fresh straw bed every night, and Jotham

took a deal of care to keep his house tidy. He was so accustomed to

visits from the children he only gently grunted in reply to Boy Blue’s

remark.

The next thing seen of that small lad he had climbed over and was as

busy over Piggy White as he had been on the tool-house. Piggy liked to

have his back rubbed, and was very quiet while Boy Blue painted a long

stripe down his spine and shorter ones across his sides.

“Piggy White, _if_ you wig your tail so I fink I’ll scold. I want to

paint the end of it.”

By this time there was not much paint in the bucket, but there was

a great deal on Boy Blue’s hands, on his stockings, on the short

trowsers, and on the front of his little blouse.

“H’m!” said Boy Blue, suddenly looking up. “I fink--Jotham--I fink I’ve

got frough.”

“The land of liberty!” said Jotham, looking down. “You’re _blue_, sure

enough.”

Then he picked up the little workman and carried him into the house.

When mamma had been out and looked at the tool-house and Piggy White,

and had come in and looked at Boy Blue, she said what she had said

about five hundred times:

“I don’t know what I _shall_ do with you!”

But she did. For she told Nurse Norah to give him a bath.

When he had been scrubbed and rubbed and dried, and stood very red and

warm to have his hair brushed, he sobbed:

“Somebody didn’t ought to look after me better!”

“Sure, ’twould take a paycock’s eyes, and more, to look after sich a

stirabout! Now run, see the organ-man with your sisters, and be good,”

said Norah.

The organ-man carried a monkey, and the monkey carried a tambourine,

with which he played such pranks the little Wares fell off the steps

one after another in fits of laughter, and Boy Blue decided at once to

buy that monkey if he could. So when the organ-man went away Boy Blue

followed. Only Tot saw him go, for the others were running back to the

nursery to see if the dolls were awake. And Tot could not make people

understand what her little, lisping tongue meant to say.

It grew late and later; it was almost dark. Boy Blue did not come home.

They began to wonder; they began to be anxious; they began to look for

him. They called his name everywhere. They shouted, “Little Boy Blue!

Boy Blu-u-u-e! Blu-u-u-ue!”

He did not come. They thought what if he should never come back!

Mamma cried.

“Somebody has stolen him!” said Norah.

“He is drowned!”

“He is run over!”

“He is--”

“_Here_ he is!”

So he was! They had looked everywhere and inquired of everybody, and

given up in despair. Papa and Jotham had gone to get help in searching

for him. Mamma was in distress. And there little Boy Blue came walking

into the house himself!

“Where have you been?” cried the sisters.

He had followed the monkey until he was tired, had come back unseen,

had climbed into the hammock in the orchard, and had been asleep there

ever since.

“And we just crazed about ye, ye bad boy!” said Norah, while mamma

hugged him.

“You needn’t fink _I’d_ get lost,” said Boy Blue, proudly. “_I_ don’t

do such fings. I want my supper!”

He had it. But at our house we still keep asking this question:

“What _shall_ we do

With little Boy Blue?”

GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.

BY J. H. WOODBURY.

Bobby Tatman was a little Yankee fellow, but he looked like an Italian

boy, with his tangly brown hair, and his soft, simple dark eyes. He

was very fond of water-melons; but he was very much afraid of ghosts;

and in his simple heart he believed everything that was told him, and

thereby hangs a tale.

There was a man, whom all the neighbors knew as Uncle Ben, who had some

very fine water-melons--which Bobby knew all about--for they were only

about a mile from Bobby’s father’s house.

These were the nearest water-melons that Bobby knew of, and he used to

go over occasionally, with his friend James Scott, to look at them,

and see how they were coming on. Both Bobby and his friend grew much

interested in the melons, as they were ripening, and Bobby wondered why

his father did not raise water-melons, too. This was not a large patch,

and it was in a sunny nook of Uncle Ben’s farm, out of sight from his

house.

“It wouldn’t be stealing to take water-melons,” remarked Bobby’s friend

one day, as the two were sitting on the fence alongside the little

patch. “It wouldn’t be any more stealing than picking off corn to

roast, when we go a-fishing, would be stealing, as I can see.”

“I don’t know as it would be,” Bobby admitted, musingly. “I _should_

like that old big fellow! Uncle Ben says that’s a _mountain-sweet_. But

it would _almost_ be stealing to take that one, sure! and Uncle Ben

would miss it the first thing, too.”

“I s’pose he would,” said James, “and then there’d be a row. It won’t

do to take that one. I tell you what, Bobby, we won’t take any of ’em

now, but we’ll come to-night, after dark, and then there won’t be any

danger of anybody’s seeing us. Of course it won’t be stealing; but

Uncle Ben’s just mean enough to make a row about it, I s’pose, if he

should happen to find it out.”

“I guess he would,” said Bobby. “I shouldn’t want to have him see us,

anyhow.”

And so, not to run any risk, they concluded to wait.

When it was night they came again, and sat together upon the same

fence, listening for a time for sounds of any others who might be

approaching, before they got down to select their melons. All was

still, and, feeling secure from detection, they got down and began to

search among the vines. They could tell by rapping upon the melons

which the ripe ones were, and it was not long till they had made their

selection, and were scudding away, each with a melon almost as large as

he could carry, along the fence towards Uncle Ben’s corn-field, which

was still farther from his house.

When they got to the corn-field they felt safe, and, as the melons

were heavy, they concluded to eat one before going further. So they

sat down in a nook of the fence--a Virginia rail-fence, as we used to

call that kind--and Bobby took out a knife that he thought a great deal

of--because his Aunt Hannah had given it him, and it had his initials

on a little silver plate set in the handle--and in a moment more they

were eating and praising the delicious melon.

“Of course ’tain’t stealing,” said James Scott, as Bobby again brought

up that question. “Uncle Ben always does have better water-melons than

anybody else, and he can’t expect to have ’em _all_ to himself. What’s

the use of living in a free country, if you can’t have a water-melon

once in a while? Help yourself. Bobby--but don’t eat too near the rind.”

Bobby helped himself,--though he could not help thinking all the time

that it was to Uncle Ben’s water-melon,--and the boys filled up,

gradually, till they could hold no more. Then each had a great shell

that would have almost floated him, had he felt like going to sea in

it, and the question was, what to do with them.

“Let’s tuck ’em under the bottom rail,” said James; “they won’t be

noticed there.”

So they tucked them under the lower rail--a broad, flat rail that

seemed to have been made on purpose to cover them--and then they both

got straight up on their feet to stretch themselves. In the same

instant they both started suddenly, and took to their heels.

They ran till they were out of breath; and James Scott got a long way

ahead of his friend Bobby. But Bobby came up with James before he

started again, and asked, as soon as he could get breath enough, “_Was

it Uncle Ben?_”

“It must have been him, or his ghost,” was the reply. “Did you see his

legs, Bobby?”

“No. Did you?”

“It didn’t look as if he had any. He was a queer-looking chap, anyhow.”

“I wonder if he’s coming?” And Bobby seemed almost ready to start

again. “Do you s’pose he knew us?”

“Shouldn’t wonder if he did. But, if ’twas Uncle Ben, he’d know he

couldn’t catch us. He must have been there all the time. I say, Bobby,

I’m afraid we’ll hear about this.”

“I don’t see how he happened to be right there! Oh, dear! I left my

knife, too!”

“I guess if t’was Uncle Ben he’ll take care of that. Of course he’ll

know who it belongs to. If he gets that knife, he hadn’t oughter say

anything about the water-melon. It’s worth more’n both on ’em.”

“I know it. Don’t you suppose it _was_ Uncle Ben’s _ghost_, after all?

I wish it was!”

“It couldn’t have been, unless he’s died since noon, you know. He

looked well enough then. Do you s’pose it would be of any use to go

back, Bobby?”

“No, indeed! I’d rather go home. I wish I had my knife, though. I

wonder why he didn’t speak?”

“That’s what _I_ don’t understand. I should have thought he would just

said something, before we got out of hearing.”

“Like as not it wasn’t him, after all.”

“Like as not it wasn’t, Bobby. S’posing we go back.”

“I’m going home,” was Bobby’s reply. “I don’t believe it pays to steal

water-melons, anyway.”

“’Twasn’t stealing, Bobby!--no such thing! Of course anybody’s a right

to take a water-melon. Uncle Ben had no business to raise ’em, if folks

had got to steal ’em before they could eat ’em!”

“That’s so,” groaned Bobby. “I shouldn’t have thought he’d have planted

them.”

And so, groaning in spirit, Bobby went home. He had lost his knife, and

everybody would know next day that he had been stealing water-melons.

He couldn’t help thinking that the folks would call it _stealing_,

after all.

What to do he didn’t know; but he must go home at all events. He was

never out very late, and when he went in his mother asked him where he

had been. He said he had been over to James Scott’s.

“I don’t like to have you over there so much, Bobby,” said his mother.

“I am afraid James Scott is not a very good boy.”

Bobby’s face was flushed, and he seemed very tired, so his mother told

him he had better go to bed. He was glad enough to go, but he lay a

long time thinking of his knife and the water-melons, and of Uncle Ben

standing there by the fence, before he went to sleep.

Bobby slept in the attic, up under the roof. There was another bed in

the same attic for the hired man. There were also a great many things

for which there was no room anywhere else,--large chests, piles of

bedding, and things that had got past use.

Bobby got to sleep at last; but he awoke in the night--something

unusual for him--after the moon had risen, and was giving just light

enough to show things in the room very dimly. He opened his eyes, and

almost the first object he saw caused his heart to beat very quickly.

Somebody was sitting upon one of those large chests. It was a dim and

indistinct form, but it looked ghostly white in the moonlight, and

Bobby could not help feeling afraid. He had never seen a ghost, fairly,

but he began to think now that he had one in his room.

Bobby lay and watched that ghost, feeling warm and cold by turns, till

at last he was sure it was beginning to look like Uncle Ben. The wind

had begun to blow, and to move the branches of the old elm outside,

thus causing the moonlight to flicker fitfully in the room. It seemed

as if it must be Uncle Ben! Bobby could see him laugh, though he could

not hear a sound except the sighing wind and the swaying branches of

the old elm, mingling dolefully with the snoring of the hired man.

The ghost laughed and shook his head by turns, and pointed his finger

at Bobby, as if to say, “_I’ve marked you!_”

Bobby began to imagine that Uncle Ben had been run over by a cart, or

killed in some way that very afternoon, and that his ghost was really

there. He was almost glad it was so, for he could endure the ghost,

disagreeable as he felt his presence to be, much better than meet Uncle

Ben alive, with that knife in his possession.

So he shivered, and sweat, and reasoned himself more firmly into the

belief that it was Uncle Ben’s ghost that was sitting on the chest. He

was glad of it, for now he could go in the morning and find his knife,

and hide that other water-melon before anyone else should pass that

way. Still the presence of the ghost was very disagreeable to him; and

at last he ventured to go and get into the other bed with the hired

man, rather than lie longer alone.

The hired man stopped snoring, turned over, woke up, and asked Bobby

what was the matter.

“There’s somebody up here,” said Bobby, ashamed to own that it was a

ghost.

“Who? where?” and the hired man sat up and looked around.

“On that chest,” said Bobby. “Don’t you see him?”

“Ye--yes; I see him.” And, as if afraid to speak again, the hired man

watched the blinking countenance of the stranger closely.

After a moment he got out of bed carefully, saying in a whisper as he

did so:

“How long has he been there, Bobby?”

“Ever so long,” was Bobby’s reply. “Ain’t it a ghost?”

“I guess so. I’ll find out, at all events,” and the bold fellow moved

carefully towards it.

He approached on tiptoe till he could almost touch it, and then he

stopped.

“It’s a ghost, Bobby,” said he, “sure enough; but I’ll fix him!”

He just drew back one arm, and planted a prodigious blow right in the

ghost’s stomach; and you ought to have seen that ghost jump!

It went almost out of the window at one leap; but fell short, on the

floor, and lay as if dead. The hired man went boldly back and got into

bed, remarking:

“That’s one of the ghosts we read about, Bobby; I guess he won’t

trouble _us_ any more!”

Bobby did not quite understand it. He began to think that Uncle Ben

might be still living; but he went to sleep again, at last, and the

next time he awoke it was morning. It was daylight, and the hired,

man had gone down-stairs. He looked for the ghost. There he lay, sure

enough, very quiet on the floor, but, after all, it was only a bag of

feathers!

So Bobby felt sure he would have to meet Uncle Ben, and that everybody

would know all about it; and he felt very miserable all day, waiting

for him to come. He did not go near James Scott, for he felt that it

was largely owing to him that he had got into trouble. It wasn’t at all

likely that he could or would help him out of it. He wanted dreadfully

to go and look for his knife, but would no more have done that than

he would have gone and drowned himself. Indeed, he did think rather

seriously of doing the last; but, being a good swimmer, he supposed the

probabilities would be against his sinking; and besides, he still had a

regard for the feelings of his mother.

It was a miserably long day, but after all Uncle Ben did not come. What

could it mean? Bobby did not know, but he went to bed and slept better

the next night. And the next day his fears began to wear away. It was

night again, and still Uncle Ben had not come.

The third morning Bobby was almost himself again. He was resolved, now,

to go and look for his knife. It must be that Uncle Ben had not found

it. If he had, he would certainly have made it known before this. He

was quite sure, too, that Uncle Ben could not have known who those two

boys were. So he went, with a lightened heart, early in the day, to

look for his knife.

Of course he took a roundabout way, that he might keep as far from

Uncle Ben’s house as possible. Judge of his surprise and relief when he

saw, on coming in sight of the spot, not Uncle Ben, but a dilapidated

_scarecrow_. It stood leaning against the fence, where, having served

its time, Uncle Ben had probably left it, neglected and forgotten.

Being arrayed in one of Uncle Ben’s old coats, it did have a strange

resemblance to the old man himself.

“It’s all right, after all,” thought Bobby, and he hurried confidently

forward to pick up his knife. But imagine now the surprise and fright

that came into Bobby’s soft eyes when he found that his knife was not

there! Neither the knife, the water-melon, _nor the water-melon rinds_!

All were gone.

Without stopping long, Bobby turned to retrace his steps. But as he

did so some one called to him. It was Uncle Ben; and he stopped again

and stood mute.

“I’ve been waiting to see ye, Bobby,” said the old man, coming up. “I

reckoned you’d come for your knife, and I thought you’d rather see me

here than have me bring it home to ye. Of course I knew you’d been

here, when I found this, but it wasn’t likely you’d come alone. I’m

sorry you’ve been in bad company, Bobby. Your father and mother think

you’re a good boy, and I don’t want them to think any other way. Of

course _you_ don’t want them to think any other way, either, do you,

Bobby?” And the old man looked kindly down into the soft eyes.

Bobby made out to say that he did not.

“That’s the reason, Bobby, why I didn’t bring the knife home. I thought

I’d better give it to ye here. Now take it, and don’t for the world

ever say a word to anybody how you lost it. And I want ye to come down

to the melon-patch with me, for I’m going to send a nice mountain-sweet

over to your mother.”

Bobby took his knife, and followed Uncle Ben, unable to utter a word.

As they went along, the old man talked to him of his corn and his

pumpkins, just as if there was no reason in the world why he and Bobby

should not be on the best of terms. He seemed to have quite forgotten

that Bobby had ever stolen anything from him. Arrived at the patch he

picked off one of the finest melons, as large as the boy could carry,

and, after a little more talk, sent him with it to his mother.

And so, after all, Bobby’s heart never felt lighter than it did that

morning, after he had left Uncle Ben. He had at last found words to

thank him, and to say that he was very sorry for what he had done, but

scarce more. But that was all Uncle Ben wanted; and, so long as he

lived, after that, he had no truer friend among the neighbor’s boys

than Bobby Tatman.

FUNNY LITTLE ALICE.

BY MRS. FANNY BARROW (“AUNT FANNY”).

Once on a time, not long ago, four little girls lived together in a

large farm-house. It was quite by itself--on the top of a hill with

thick woods all around it--but as it was full of people from the

city, thirty miles away, and as these people were always polite to

each other, and it was warm, sweet summer-time, they were very happy

together.

Daisy and May were sisters; Katie had another father and mother, and

funny little Alice was the only child of a lady whose husband was dead,

so Alice had no father. Poor little thing!

But as she was only two and a half years old, she was too young to feel

very sorry for herself, especially as all the ladies in the house loved

and petted her; every gentleman rode her to “Banbury Cross” on his

foot, and “jumped her” almost as high as the ceiling; and Daisy, May

and Kate, who were each seven years old, let her come in to all their

plays--which I hope _you_ also do, my little reader, with your baby

sisters and brothers.

One day Alice was walking in the road with her nurse. She had seen one

of the ladies pick a checkerberry leaf out of the grass and eat it, so

she pulled up a handful of leaves and crammed them into her mouth.

“Oh, take them out, take them out! Do, Alice!” cried the nurse. “They

may be poison! If you swallow them you will die, and have to lie in the

cold grave, and the worms will eat you up!”

But the nurse had to pull her mouth open, and dig out the leaves, for

Alice had never before heard of the cold grave, and she did not care a

button about it.

That night her mamma, with whom the little girl slept, was awakened by

a feeling as if some one were choking her, and found Alice sleeping

with her curly head buried in her mother’s neck, and the rest of her

little fat body spread across her breast. She lifted the child gently,

and put her back on her own pillow. But the next instant Alice flung

herself again on her mother.

“Don’t, dear,” she said; “you _must_ lie on your own side. It hurts me

to have your head on my throat.”

“Well,” said the sleepy little thing, “if you don’t let me I shall die,

and have to lie in the _told drave_, and the _wullims_ will eat me up.”

Her mother was perfectly astonished at this speech. She could not

imagine where Alice had heard it; but _we_ know, don’t we?

The farmer had a poor old fiddle-headed white horse, whose stiff old

legs couldn’t run away if the rest of him wanted to, and the young

ladies used to drive him by themselves in a buggy. The morning after

Alice’s speech two young ladies took her driving with them. She sat on

a little bench at their feet, and went off in high glee.

It was cloudy, and, for fear it might rain, they took a big waterproof

cloak. Before they got back it was pouring down, so all were buttoned

up in the cloak, with Alice’s little round rosy face just peeping out

in front. The old white horse jogged on not a bit faster than usual,

though Miss Lizzie, who was driving, slapped his back with the reins

the whole time. At last he whisked up his tail, and twisted it in the

reins.

“Oh, now, just look at that horrid old tail!” said Miss Lizzie. “How am

I ever to get rid of it?”

“It is not a horrid old tail!” cried Alice, her sweet hazel eyes

flashing. “It’s a nice white tail! He’s a booful horse, with a nice

white tail.”

“Well, so he is,” said Miss Lizzie, laughing. “So hurra for the booful

horse!”

This reminded the funny little thing of one of her songs, which she

immediately set up at the top of her voice, and as they reached the

house in the pouring rain, the ladies inside heard Alice singing with

all her little might:

“Woar, boys, fevver!

Woar, boys, woar!

Down with the tritty!

Up with the ’tar!

We’ll rally round the f’ag, boys,

Rally round ’gain,

Shoutin’ the batter crider _fee_-dom!”[3]

[3] These are the words little Alice meant, as I suppose you all know:

“Hurra, boys, forever!

Hurra, boys, hurra!

Down with the traitor!

Up with the star!

We’ll rally round the flag, boys,

Rally round again,

Shouting the battle cry of freedom!”

That afternoon, when it had cleared up, Daisy said:

“Come, May, come, Katie, let’s take our dolls and have a picnic.”

“I want to picnic, too,” cried Alice.

“So you shall, you little darling,” said all the girls, running to her

and kissing her, “and you can bring Nancy with you.”

Nancy was a knit worsted doll, with two jet beads for eyes. She slept

with Alice, who loved her dearly, and who now ran off to get her, in a

great state of delight.

The children took a lunch, of course; for who ever heard of a picnic

without it? A stick of peppermint candy was broken in four pieces,

which, with four ginger-cakes and four huge apples, begged from the

farmer’s wife, were packed in a little basket, and then they set off,

all running, for no girl or boy can walk when they are so happy; at

least, I never knew of any--have you?

The warm, bright sun had dried up all the drops on the grass long

before. They ran merrily through the meadow at the back of the house,

and soon got to the entrance to the wood. There they found a nice,

mossy place, and, sitting down on the old roots of the trees, they

spread their lunch on a large, flat stone that was near, and commenced

to “tell stories.”

“Last night,” began Daisy, “I woke up, and I thought I would get out of

bed, and look out of the window; and what _do_ you think I saw?”

“Oh! what?” cried the rest, with their mouths wide open.

“Why, I saw ten thousand diamonds dancing and sparkling in the dark.”

“Oh, oh! I wish I had seen them!” cried May and Katie.

This was the first time that Daisy had seen the fire-flies flashing

their soft, bright lights. She did not mean to tell a falsehood; she

really thought that they were diamonds.

“My mamma went to a party last winter, and what _do_ you think she

ate?” asked Katie.

“What?” inquired May and Daisy.

“Frogs!” said Katie.

“Oh! oh! how awful!” cried May and Daisy--but all this time little

Alice had said nothing.

“Once I saw an elephant,” said May in her turn. “It was in the

menagerie. A little boy stuck a pin in his trunk, and he caught the

boy up by his jacket, and shook him right out of it, and hurt him so!

and he screamed like everything!”

“Oh, oh! how dreadful!” exclaimed Katie and Daisy, but little Alice

said nothing--because _she was not there_! While the others had been

lost in wonder over the stories, she had trotted off farther into the

woods, clasping her dear Nancy in her arms, and softly singing this

queer little song:

“By-lo-by, my darlin’ baby,

Baby,

Taby,

Faby,

Maby,

Darlin’ baby.”

“There, now, she’s fas’ as’eep,” said Alice. “Sh! sh!” She laid Nancy

softly down among the mossy roots of a hollow tree, and, sitting close

beside her, she heaved a funny little sigh, and said: “Oh, my! that

child will wear me out!” which was a speech her nurse had very often

made to her.

Soon there was a rustling sound. The hollow tree was full of dry, dead

leaves, and out of these a huge black snake came crawling. It slowly

curled itself round Nancy, and then lay quite still.

Alice looked curiously at a creature she had never before seen, or even

heard of. Then she put out one little fat hand, and gently patted the

snake on its head.

“Did you want to see my Nancy?” she asked. “Well, so you s’all, poor

sing!” Then she smoothed the snake’s head, who appeared to like it very

much, for it shut its eyes and seemed to sleep.

And the sweet little tender-hearted child, never dreaming of any

danger from the loathsome reptile, looked up and smiled at the birds

piping over her head, and kept on softly smoothing the head of her

plaything.

And this was how “Mitter ’Trong,” as she called the gentleman who rode

her oftenest to “Banbury Cross,” found Alice, as he was walking through

the wood that summer afternoon. No wonder that he screamed, and rushed

to her, and caught her up and kissed her, and almost cried, and then

went at the snake with his stick.

But it was as frightened as he was, and May, Daisy and Kate came

running up, just as it was squirming back into the hollow tree. Then

there were three more screams, and their six bright eyes grew perfectly

wild with terror--while little Alice looked on very much surprised, but

not a bit frightened.

The children had missed their dear little playmate at last, and, very

much alarmed and ashamed of their carelessness, were searching for her.

Mr. Strong carried little Alice home in triumph on his shoulder, where

she was kissed and cried over again, and Mr. Strong was thanked for

saving her.

The black snake might not have bitten her, but it might have squeezed

such a little thing to death, so Mr. Strong and another gentleman went

back, and poked the snake out of the hollow tree, and killed it; and,

finding Nancy patiently waiting for some one to come for her, they

brought her back to the arms of her cunning little mother. And after

this, funny little Alice never went out without her nurse.

We must bid her good-bye now, because this story is long enough; but

some day I will tell you more about her.

[Illustration]

“PRETTY,” AND HER VIOLIN.

BY HOLME MAXWELL.

Felice was a servant. She was just twenty years old, but she was like a

child in our land. She talked a little, soft, broken English; our words

were very, very hard for her fine, pretty Italian lips to manage. She

was tall, and extremely refined and delicate; every one admits this

now, but her little girl-mistress saw it at a glance, as Felice came in

behind papa, pausing, tall and slender, with her exquisite brown hair

and brown eyes, to be addressed.

“Here is your mistress,” said the papa to Felice, indicating the young

girl dressed in white. “She is the little woman of the house, and will

tell you about your duties.”

Felice bowed like a tall lily, as the “mistress,” so much younger and

so much smaller than herself, came forward, slowly and with irregular

steps, leaning upon a fairy sort of cane. “You are pretty, pretty,

pretty--pretty as I could ask for,” said the young girl.

Felice was not accustomed to be taken by her mistresses with two

tender, white hands, and called “Pretty, pretty, pretty.” A soft color

came into her pale, clear cheeks, and her eyes grew liquid as she bent

over the little girl without speaking. But when the little girl turned

away, looking so quaint in her stylish white dress, as she leaned upon

her little cane, Felice instinctively followed her. She placed the

velvet hassock under her feet as she sat down, and slipped the cane

into the “rest” attached to the small lounging-chair.

“Can you make a bed nicely, Pretty?” said the little girl.

“Yes, mees,” answered Felice.

“Can you put the room nicely, Pretty?”

“Yes, mees.”

“And do birds and flowers and gold-fish prosper with you, Pretty?”

“I cannot tell you, mees.”

“Can you sew nicely?”

“Mees say _nicely_--no, alas! I work not with the needle, none, in four

year.”

“Well, then, can you read,--our English books? you know,--and a long

while at a time? Pray, don’t say no.”

“Alas, mees, I know not to read the Ingleese, none. Ah, mees, I think

now to my heart this is one meestake. You wish not me. You wish not one

chambermaid.”

“You cannot know what I wish, my Pretty.” But the little mistress’s

face was downcast and clouded. From under her sunny eyelashes she

studied the long, slender, folded hands of poor “Pretty.” They were

browned and hardened with rougher labors than hair-dressing, and

embroidering, the mending of laces, or the tending of flowers.

She pointed at last to a door across the hall. “Your room, Pretty. Have

your things brought up.”

“_Felice_,” corrected the soft Italian lips.

“No, _Pretty_,” persisted the little mistress, with a lovely smile.

This little girl of fourteen--Lulu Redfern--was mistress of many

things: of a brown-stone mansion, of her papa, and of his immense

wealth. She was almost like a fairy in her willfulness and in her

power. Why might she not change her servant’s name if she chose?

While “Pretty” was gone, Mr. Redfern came back. “Papa,” said the

mistress, “of what were you thinking? Pretty does not sew, does not

understand flowers and pets, does not read, does not even dress hair!”

“Don’t she?” said papa, crestfallen. “Why, she looks as if she did.”

“Papa, did you ask at all?”

“No,” confessed papa, “I did not. I supposed, of course, she could;

else why did she apply. Can’t she be of any use, my birdie?”

“I don’t see how, papa.”

“Well, then, we shall have to send her away, I suppose. I fancied she

would be quite the person you would like to have about you--she is so

different from that fluttering, nervous French Adele. But you certainly

do not need another mere chambermaid.”

“Yet, papa, I cannot have her go, now that she has come. Can’t I keep

her, papa, to look at? She won’t cost so much as a Sevres vase.”

Felice, with her droopy face and soft steps, was passing. She had a

small satchel in one hand, and in the other--what do you suppose?

A violin-case, little, black, old.

“Whew!” said papa to himself. “That’s queer luggage.” But Miss Redfern

did not see the queer luggage.

So “Pretty” staid, on the footing of a Sevres vase; and drooped over

and about her little mistress like a beautiful lily wherever she went,

and that was nearly all she could do for many days.

Now, this little girl, who could have everything almost, could not

have everything quite. She loved music beyond all things else; but on

account of her little lame feet she could not play. The grand piano was

for the guests. Rare players used to come and play for her; and none of

the music ever seemed to depart from the house, so that all the rooms

were haunted by divine harmonies. When Lulu lay awake at night, kept

awake by pain, the wondrous strains played themselves again at her ear,

and the sweet, pure young soul took wings to itself, and swept away and

away among lovely scenes, until lameness and pain and a thwarted life

were quite forgotten.

It was one night, about a week after Felice came. She had lifted her

mistress into bed, and had said, “I wish you a most lofely good night,

Mees Looloo,” and had gone. It was not a “most lofely” night. “Mees

Looloo’s” little feet were throbbing with pain worse than ever before;

but about midnight she was growing hushed and serene. There were wafts

and breathings of Mendelssohn, and Wagner, and Mozart, and Beethoven

all about her; and she was falling asleep, when, suddenly, a fine,

sweet, joyous, living strain pierced through the dreamy songs and

harmonies.

Lulu lifted her head. She knew in a moment that _this_ was real

music. Enchanting as were her dreams by both night and day, no one

so clear-headed as the little mistress. She had sat and listened too

often for coming and going feet, for closing doors, to be mistaken as

to the source of any sound. This midnight music came from “Pretty’s”

room; and she who loved reed, and pipe, and horn, and string so well,

knew that it was the rarest violin-music.

It was entrancingly sweet. Air after air entirely unknown to the

little music lover floated out on the still midnight. Poor little Miss

Redfern! She buried her face in her pillows and sobbed in an ecstasy of

happiness. “Now I know what it is so pure, so high, that I see in my

Pretty’s face. It is that which is in the faces of all the artists that

come here. My Pretty is no servant. Papa said that she looked as if she

could do all these things--papa felt she was an artist. Papa could not

help bring her, I could not help keep her,--O, my own Pretty!”

By and by the music ceased; and, listening, Lulu heard the violin

deposited in the box.

She looked bright as a bird when her maid came to lift her to the bath,

next morning. “Ah, Mees Looloo, I wish you a lofely good morning.”

“It is both lovely and good, dear Pretty,” said the child-mistress,

stooping to kiss the long artist fingers busy with her sleeve-buttons.

“I understand these fingers now.”

“Haf you not always understood their mooch slow ways, Mees Looloo?”

“Mees Looloo” clasped the two strong, nervous hands close to her

breast. “Pretty! I know what they were made for; they are the

musician’s hands. I heard you last night. I heard a violin in your

room. How could you have it here, Pretty, and not bring it out when I

am often so tired and need to be soothed?”

“O, Mees Looloo, I haf not thought. I haf played when I could not haf

sleep to mine eyes, and haf thought of Etalee.”

Then Lulu heard the simple story. It was the violin belonging to

Felice’s father, and Felice had handled it from her babyhood. She had

brought it to America and had carried it from place to place with her.

Nobody had cared; nobody had questioned the poor young chambermaid.

But “Mees Looloo” cared. “Pretty” brought the violin as simply as if

bidden to bring a flower or a book. It was old, dark, rich--mellow in

its hues as in its tones.

“May papa come up?”

[Illustration]

“I haf always lofed to please you, mees,” said “Pretty.” “But I haf

nevaire learn moosic. I haf none other but vary old moosic.”

There were, indeed, some old, yellow sheets of foreign music lying in

the bottom of the case; but Felice did not take them out. “I know in my

heart this moosic--father’s lofely moosic.”

She lifted the instrument to her bosom. She laid her clear, dark cheek

against it lovingly, in the unconscious fashion of the true lovers of

the violin; her fingers, long, supple, dark, sounded the chords; the

bow gleamed and glanced as it sought the strings; and, bending over it,

“Pretty’s” young face paled and flushed gloriously, as the father’s

“lofely moosic” stirred her two listeners to tears.

The child mistress talked to papa in a very excited manner as he bore

her away on his shoulder to the breakfast-room. Papa listened, papa

thought, and, finally, papa assented.

“I think so, dear. She is worth it! There are only you and I to spend

the money, and why shall we not do as we like, birdie?”

So little lame Miss Redfern was to be a Patron of Music. That was

almost as good as to be a musician.

“Pretty” could refuse nothing to her dear little mistress. In her

loving simplicity she did as she was bidden, even to the trying on of

one handsome dress after another when she was taken to the fine shops.

And at night, after the hair-dresser was done with the soft curls of

her brown hair, and she stood before the mirror in her lace frills and

silk dress, she simply said in her soft, limited English, “You have

made me mose lofely, Mees Looloo.”

In the evening, when the invited guests--bearded and spectacled men,

and fine and gracious women--were gathered down in the gardens below,

among the lighted trees and the fountains and the arbors, the tall,

simple “Pretty” obeyed her mistress again without a question. Lifting

her violin to her bosom, she came out upon the balcony, and played

once more the old Italian music. With bared heads and silent lips the

company of musicians stood to listen.

Soft bravos, fluttering handkerchiefs, showers of fresh flowers,

greeted simple “Pretty.” They thought her some new star, and this her

private _début_.

What was their surprise to hear it was the little Miss Redfern’s maid

whom they had thus quietly been brought to see and pass judgment upon!

But, gracefully, nay generously, they acknowledged her as thoroughly

worth the musical education Mr. Redfern and his daughter were planning

to bestow.

To simple “Pretty” herself, simple with all the honesty and

unconsciousness of true genius, the great plan was not at all too

strange, nor too great. If one had offered her beauty or pleasure in

another shape, she might have drawn back from the gift--but not from

music. It did not seem to surprise her that she was going back to the

Old World, and not as a steerage passenger, but dressed in costly

robes, and under the care of friends, to study with the great masters

of music.

“I will come back, dear Mees Looloo, and sing to you and the kind papa

lofelier than you can think, when I sall haf staid long. Some other day

you sall haf to be proud of your ‘Pretty.’”

Yes, some day “Pretty” will come back to her little mistress, and to

us, with the sweet old Italian violin.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

DOLLY’S LAST NIGHT.

BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

The clock in the warm, bright kitchen was striking nine; not nine

in the morning, but nine in the evening, which is a very different

thing, as the old clock seemed to know, for it counted off the chime

with a soft, sleepy roll, as if bent upon making the least possible

disturbance.

Dolly put the cookies into the deep tin box that had held thousands

of such dainties in its day, set the lid a-tilt upon the edge, gave a

glance of satisfaction at the great loaves peeping out from the white

cloth that covered them, the row of pies on the shelf below, and the

plump chickens trussed up sociably on the platter, and then came out

from the pantry, and shut the door upon the savory smells. Dolly was

not a beauty, but she had a clear, fresh face, and was full of health

and vigor and content. She was a model housekeeper, too, as the old

clock could have testified, and this was the first time it had been

called upon to countenance such irregular doings as the turning of

night into day. But this was the night before Thanksgiving, and when

one is cook, chambermaid, housekeeper, and mistress of the manse,

she certainly has a right to regulate her own days in spite of the

almanac-man.

Yes, and nurse besides; for on the lounge lay Dolly’s mother, not

exactly sick, but weak from a long fever that had left her ankles so

swollen and painful that she could not walk a step without assistance.

Bess and Johnny had been away through it all, but now their father had

gone for them, and early in the morning they would reach home,--the

pleasant prairie home, with its broad, boundless fields, from which

they expected some day to reap a fortune.

The lounge was in the kitchen, for the Marshalls cared a great deal

more for comfort than ceremony, and Dolly’s kitchen, with its clean

yellow floor, bright rugs, white table, and window full of growing

plants, was a famous place for comfort.

“I hope you are through at last,” said Mrs. Marshall, looking up

sleepily at Dolly.

“All but the candy, and that’ll not take long,” said Dolly cheerily.

“For pity’s sake, do let the candy go; the children are just as well

off without it.”

“Oh, but I promised Johnny I’d have some for him, and it wouldn’t seem

like Thanksgiving without it. The nuts are all cracked, and I’ll sit

here and pick out the goodies while the molasses boils,” and Dolly

whisked out the clean iron skillet, and poured the molasses in so

quickly her mother could only say: “You’ll kill yourself working so

hard, and what good do you think that will do the children?”

“Choog! choog!” said the molasses in its hurry to get out of the jug,

and Dolly smiled as she coaxed it to make less haste and more speed.

“I’m tough as a pine knot,” she said, merrily; “but if I were really

going to die I should like to have the children say, ‘She always tried

to help us have good times, and the very last night she was here she

made us some candy.’”

There was a foolish little moisture in Dolly’s eyes as she dropped into

the low-cushioned chair, the same old creaky chair in which her mother

had rocked her when she was a baby, and in which she herself had rocked

Bess and Johnny scores of times. She was very tired, now that she came

to sit down and think about it, and her little speech wakened a sort of

pathetic pity for herself. She even began to fancy what they would all

do without her, but just at that point the molasses made a sudden rush

for the top of the skillet, and put an end to her musing.

Mrs. Marshall roused up a little also.

“It seems so strange to have Thanksgiving come without a flake of snow!

Joel says it is as dry as midsummer, too. I never feel easy about the

stacks until there’s a good fall of snow.”

“Joel is very careful,” suggested Dolly, “and father plowed a good

strip around the stacks before he went away.”

“Yes, I know. But what good would a few furrows do against a prairie

fire such a time as this?”

“Then we’ll hope the Lord’ll not let a fire start in such a time as

this,” and Dolly seized her boiling syrup at the precise moment of

crispiness, poured it over the plump white kernels spread thickly in

the shallow pans, and set the whole to cool in the back kitchen.

When everything was tidy, and Dolly was ready to help her mother to

bed, the old clock ventured to remark, in the same soft purr as before,

that it only lacked two hours to midnight; to which Dolly smilingly

answered that Thanksgiving only came once a year.

“How the colts stamp,” said Dolly. “I wonder if Joel could have

forgotten to water them before he went home.”

“Joel ought not to have gone home,” said her mother. “It isn’t right

for two lone women to be left with no neighbors within a mile. Are you

sure the fire is all right, Dolly? seems to me there’s a smoky smell in

here.”

“It’s the molasses, I dropped a little on the stove; but I’ll go out

and see that all is right after you are in bed, and then we shall both

feel better.”

Dolly went without her lamp, and as she passed the hall window she

caught sight of a dull red glow, down against the dark horizon. In

another instant she stood outside, her rosy color all blanched at sight

of the fire sweeping down the prairie on those swift, terrible wings of

the west wind. For an instant she was dizzy and confused with terror at

the thought of her utter helplessness, then, as if a voice had repeated

it to her, she recalled the verse she had read that morning, “_What

time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee_,” and, with a silent prayer for

help, she went back to her mother.

“The prairie is on fire,” she said, trying to speak quietly.

Her mother sprang from the bed, and sank down, almost fainting, from

pain.

“O Dolly!” she gasped, “we shall die here all alone.”

“I’ll make a good fight, first,” said Dolly, bravely. “I must go and

do what I can, and you must wait here and _pray_. Only perhaps you had

better get your clothes on again, in case of the worst.”

Dolly threw some heavy shawls upon the bed, placed her mother’s clothes

within reach, hugged her once, and rushed away. In two minutes more she

had put on Joel’s boots, tied up her curly head in an old comforter,

and buttoned herself into her father’s coat. She was ready to fight

fire, and she knew just how to do it. But first the colts must be

taken from the low thatched stable that would be sure to blaze at the

first spark. Already they were growing restless with the strong smell

of smoke, and that strange intuition of danger which horses seem to

possess. Dolly had some difficulty in leading them out, and then she

hardly knew what to do with them, for she knew well enough they would

go scouring off when the fire came near. She was a quick-witted little

woman, however, and she soon had the colts in the back kitchen, tied

fast to the old carpet loom. Then she filled the tubs and pails with

water, and set them along the line of the buildings, cut some heavy

branches of hemlock, and brought out the horse-blankets and dipped them

in water.

The house, behind its clump of evergreens, might possibly escape, but

there seemed little chance for the low barn, the granary, and the

immense stacks of hay, yet in them lay their hopes for a year, and

Dolly determined not to give them up without a desperate struggle.

She scarcely dared look at the fire, but she saw once how a brighter

light leaped up as the flames caught a barn or a stack of hay in the

distance. As rapidly as possible she broadened the circle about the

line of buildings, lighting the thick grass with one hand, and dashing

out the flame with the other, when it threatened to go beyond her

control. She felt almost guilty as she saw the blaze she had kindled

go sweeping away towards the east, carrying the same terror to others

which was rapidly coming down upon her, but it was her only chance of

escape, and there was not another house between them and the river. She

worked on in desperation as the air grew thick with smoke, and at last

she could hear the roar and crackle when the flames swept the great

corn-field, fairly leaping along the rows of dry stalks. It was almost

upon her, and she ran back within her burned circle, and waited for

doom.

Her hands were blistered, her eye-lashes were burned off, but she did

not know it. She only watched, with every nerve tense and throbbing, to

see if the fire would leap the line. It died down a little in spots,

crept sullenly along the edge, as if loth to go by, flamed up here and

there at a bunch of tall weeds, then, with a sudden puff, the wind

lodged a whirling handful of cinders at the foot of the great straw

stack!

Dolly sprang at it like a tiger, tearing away the burning straw, and

striking right and left with the wet blanket. Then a little blaze crept

under the fence, and she beat the life out of it in a breath. Another

whirl of cinders upon the roof of the stable, but they fell black and

harmless. Then another blaze running along the edge of the shed, but

the water was ready for it; and Dolly, with eyes everywhere, ran, and

beat, and trampled, until at last the fire veered away to the south,

and left the little homestead safe in the midst of a blackened waste.

Dolly walked back and forth, around the stacks and the buildings,

whipping out the smallest sparks, and then turned towards the house in

a stupor of exhaustion. She wanted to lie right down on the warm ground

by the side of the straw pile, and go to sleep, but she had enough

sense left to reach the house, and make her way to her mother’s room.

“We’re all right, mother,” she said in a husky voice, “the fire has

gone by;” and dropping upon the bed, smoke, dirt, boots, and all, she

sank into a heavy sleep. Her mother tried in vain to rouse her, so she

dragged the shawls over her, and watched anxiously for morning. But as

the gray light began to reveal Dolly’s face, she was terrified at its

ghastly whiteness, intensified by the soot and smoke which begrimed it.

She tried again to rouse her, but Dolly lay in a stupor, and she could

only clasp her hands and pray for help. She crept painfully from the

bed, and was trying to drag herself to the door, when Joel rode up on

horseback, with his wife behind him. She was a stout, red-cheeked young

woman, and, springing off without waiting for help, ran to the back

kitchen, where there were sounds of some one stirring.

“Miss Dolly splittin’ kindlin’s, I’ll be bound! Joel’s jest that

shiftless not to think on’t. My gracious Peter!” she exclaimed, as she

suddenly opened the door, and found herself confronted by one of the

colts.

She left Joel to settle matters with the colts, and made her way to

Mrs. Marshall and Dolly, carrying the poor lady back to bed in her

strong arms, as if she had been a baby.

“Don’t you worry about Dolly, ma’am,” she said, confidently, “she’ll

sleep it off, and come out all right, and I’ll just take off my things

and do for you. I can stop as well as not; our house was burned up, and

we just managed to save ourselves, so you see I ain’t got a smitch o’

work to do for myself.”

“Your house burned! Oh, Sarah, how hard that is for you and Joel,” said

Mrs. Marshall.

“Yes’m, it’s a kind of a pity, and I’d got the nicest kind of a chicken

pie ready for Thanksgivin’. We never see the fire till it was jest

ketchin’ holt of us, and then we got on the colt and raced it down the

gully to Dickerman’s pond ahead of the fire. We just made a go of it,

and set there till mornin’. Says I, ‘Joel, it’s Thanksgivin’ day; be ye

right down thankful?’ And Joel he looked at me and says, kind o’ solemn

like, ‘_Yes, I be!_’ And so be I, ’cause we might ’a been burned in our

bed, leastways I might, if Dolly hadn’t been so considerin’ as to let

Joel come home.”

Sarah had been all the time tugging at Dolly, pulling off boots and

coat, and undoing her scorched hair. She bathed her face and hands, and

lifted her upon the pillow, but Mrs. Marshall’s terror only increased

at seeing Dolly remain perfectly passive, never opening her eyes,

and allowing Sarah to lift her as if she were dead. Hour after hour

she slept on, only when Sarah raised her on her vigorous arm, and fed

her with chicken broth, forcing it patiently into the closed mouth,

until at last a little color crept into the pallid face, and the sleep

was not so death-like. But even at nine o’clock, when the travelers

arrived, Dolly gave them a doubtful recognition. She smiled faintly at

the children’s kisses, stared for an instant at her father’s anxious

face, and then went on dozing and muttering. Bess stole in and out on

tiptoe, the tears dropping down on her pet kitten, and Johnny blundered

about with his mouth full of delicious candy his very heart dissolving

with grief and gratitude.

Dolly talked about the candy, and Johnny was impressed with the idea

that she wanted some, and actually made an attempt to administer

a small chunk, but he was not very successful, and Dolly kept on

muttering: “The very last night she was here she made them some candy;

the very last night; the very last night; but they couldn’t find it;

they never could find it; the fire came and burnt them all up; the very

last night; the--very--last--night.”

If there had been a doctor at hand, Sarah would have given up her

patient to a course of brain fever, with proper deference; but as

there was none within twenty miles she was compelled to persevere with

her sensible applications of water, friction, and chicken broth, and

in a couple of days she had the satisfaction of seeing Dolly laugh in

quite a natural fashion at Joel’s story of the gray colt, which was

taken from the kitchen with one foot firmly bedded in a pan of molasses

candy.

“’Twasn’t all stepped on,” said Johnny, “and I saved you a chunk. I’m

awful glad you made it, ’cause nobody ’tended to Thanksgiving very

much.”

“I’m glad I made it,” said Dolly, “for I should not have seen the fire

in time if I had gone to bed earlier. I remember something foolish

about its being my last night,” and Dolly smiled doubtfully at her

mother, not feeling quite sure what she had said, and what she had only

thought.

“It was not foolish at all, dear,” said her mother, kissing the

scorched fingers. “Nothing better could be said of any life, than that

it was a sacrifice for others.”

“Shet yer eyes, Dolly, and never mind about yer last days,” said Sarah,

decidedly; “you won’t see ’em this fifty year, if things is managed

anyway reasonable.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

NIB AND MEG.

BY ELLA FARMAN.

And who do you suppose rang at the Doll Doctor’s door one Saturday.

Two noticeable personages, I assure you.

Three or four lovely phaetons were drawn up before the house; the

drawing-room was open; and pretty faces, set in brown, and black, and

yellow hair, and crowned with flowery hats, were looking out until

every one of Miss Chatty’s windows seemed like a painting thronged with

cherubs; small ladies, gloved and parasolled, and draped _à la mode_,

were coming and going up and down the front steps; and Miss Teresa Drew

was just stepping from the beautiful family carriage, that had its

coachman, and its footmen, and its crested panels, and her tall French

maid was behind her with a doll and a doll’s maid in her arms--but all

the gay show didn’t begin to attract the attention that was universally

bestowed, the moment they appeared in sight, upon the two queer little

beings who came across the street, unattended and on foot, right up to

Miss Chatty’s gate.

But, you see, _they_ were gotten up in their very, very best. I am not

a fashion writer, my dears, and I couldn’t begin to tell you, so that

you would have a clear idea, how Miss Teresa Drew was dressed; but I

must try to give you the _tout ensemble_ of these two new children.

“_Tout ensemble_,” my Wide Awakes, is one of those French phrases that

mean so much, and are so handy, but which take so many of our English

words in the translation; a little miss of my acquaintance renders it

as “the _all-over-ness_ of a person.” The costume of these children had

a peculiar _all-over-ness_. Their shawls, a pair of ragged and worn

broches, enveloped them to the throat and dragged after them; and the

effect over short dresses and bare legs was striking; and the shawls,

in both cases, were surmounted by old straw hats which looked, for all

the world, like two much-battered toadstools.

Miss Chatty happened to see them coming up to the door, all her

richly-dressed little people drawing aside to let them pass; and

she dropped her order-book and made her way through her _à-la-mode_

cherubs, and answered the door-bell herself.

“Be you the Doll Doctor, mem?” asked the elder of the children.

Miss Chatty intimated that she was.

“They told us as wot you lived here, mem, and as how you could put

the wust cases together.” Opening her shawl, she drew forth a bundle,

and, dropping upon one knee, undid it deftly. She was self-possessed

in spite of her bare feet; but Miss Chatty was much embarrassed. The

children, evidently, were street Arabs, and she hesitated, from various

reasons, to ask them in among her little girls; but neither had she the

heart to dismiss them; besides, she was, withal, considerably curious

and amused. The hands busy with the bundle were very hard, and very

tanned; the face, all intent upon the knot of the string, was strangely

quaint and mature,--indeed, the utter absence of childish timidity and

embarrassment was perhaps the chief reason why Miss Chatty hesitated,

with such a dear, funny, soft-hearted manner, in her treatment of these

new patrons.

Finally the knot was untied. A couple of dolls’ heads were displayed,

very much curtailed as to nose, badly rubbed as to their black china

curls, and sadly crackled as to their cheeks, as cheeks will after long

painting.

“There, mem, Nib and me, us found these in an ash bar’l one day,” said

the girl. “But jest heads hain’t much to hug; and Nib and me’s got

nither time nor patterns for bodies; and wen us heard as wot there

was a Doll Doctor, us done ’thout a breckfus mornin’s, and saved up

fer ter buy ther cloth an’ ther waddink. Ther cloth is ter cut out

ther bodies, and ther waddink is ter stuff ’em--Nib an’ me don’t like

sawdust--waddink won’t go ter run out ’f ther’s a rip. An’, mem, Nib

an’ me, us hopes as they’ll be done a-Saturdy. An’ here, mem, is wot

us hopes’ll make a dress for ’em both. An’ here, mem, is ther thread

ter sew it. An’ this here, mem, in this little paper, is some adgink

for ter trim ther things. An’ us is werry pertic’ler ’bout its bein’

a-Saturdy, mem, as Sundy gits ter be a-lonesum with nothink ter do.

Hain’t Sundy a-lonesum, Nib?”

“You bet!” affirmed Nib.

All the cherubs, haloed with the pretty hair and crowned with the

flowery hats, and Miss Chatty, too, would, doubtless, have been very

much shocked had Nib’s voice not been like a little flute, and the

eyes she lifted, like two great big violets, and the teeth she showed,

beautifully white. But when lips and lids closed again, she was as

homely as the other; and then everybody _was_ shocked at what they had

heard, the cherubs looking at each other, and the Doll Doctor’s face

becoming much suffused as she received the young rag-pickers’ spoils.

But she could not send them away. She shuddered at the old calico.

Still she respectfully took it.

“Us want’s ’em as tall as this, jest about,” continued Meg, showing

Miss Chatty a strip of paper. “Us thinks that’s the purtiest size for a

doll.”

Miss Chatty was scarce able to speak even now; for the audacity, the

simplicity, and the perfect good faith of the rag-baby “order” was

as paralyzing as it was funny. She was a dear, honest Christian, but

she couldn’t think quite what to do with her new customers much more

readily than would Sexton Brown had Nib and Meg gone into Grace Church

on Sunday. It was well for Sexton Brown that Nib and Meg had never

heard that God the Father was preached at Grace Church, or they might

have gone in.

Meg, at last, seemed struck by the silence of the Doll Doctor. “Mem,”

said she, hastily, “don’t you go fer ter be afeard us won’t pay. Us has

got ther money saved up--hain’t us, Nib?”

“I’m not afraid, not at all,” said Miss Chatty. “And they will be done

on Friday. Come for them on that day. I am always extremely busy on

Saturday.”

At that Meg looked much pleased. “Mem, ’f you do do us a nice job, an’

so prompt-like, ther’s lots of girls us knows as’ll get you ter fix

ther dolls. Us girls thet sells things hain’t got no time fer nothink,

and us couldn’t go fer ter sew and cut out if us had!”

Evidently not. Nib and Meg, under the shawls, were picturesque with

tatters.

“Us wants our dolls tidy and lovesome, mem,” she added, caressingly

touching the white cotton in Miss Chatty’s hand, and feasting her

eyes upon its whiteness perceptibly. Miss Chatty saw it; and she saw

something else at the same moment,--direful gaps and rents about the

childish waist betraying that there was sad lack of “whiteness” for

little Meg’s own wear,--poor Meg! that wanted her dolly “tidy and

lovesome,” feasting upon the one shred of wholesome white cloth,--Miss

Chatty knew the little girl’s soul to be clean by that token; and if

she had halted in her treatment before, she took the little ones right

into her heart now, which was a much lovelier place than her parlor.

“Don’t you think, mem, as ther’s likely to be adgink for all ther

underclothes, cos us’d get more ef ther wasn’t.”

[Illustration]

Miss Chatty was sure there would be plenty; and Nib and Meg went down

the steps and away, at their leisure. “My! wasn’t them thar swell

girls!” said little Nib, all aloud. “But I didn’t care; did you, Meg?

An’ I seed derlicious dolls in ther,--I’ll bet ourn’ll have flouncers,

or sumthink.”

Miss Chatty, hearing, resolved there should, at least, be “sumthink.”

Her little ladies all were looking at her as she re-entered the

drawing-room. They were ready to burst forth into a breeze of fun

and ridicule, or to be very sorry,--just which way their dear Doll

Doctor gave the cue. She laid the bundle on the shelf, the pink calico

by itself in a bit of paper, and wrote down the order. “Poor little

waifs,” she sighed. “Think of it, children, how hard they try to be

like other folks, and how much they seem to wish for something to love!”

There was a little hush, until Teresa Drew spoke. “I never thought of

it, but I wonder what street-children do do for dolls!”

“Madame ought not to have to touch objects from the barrel of the

ashes; it is very mooch disgoosted,” said Teresa’s French maid. She

stooped and whispered to her little mistress. The child directly took

out her purse, and laid a shining half eagle on the table by Miss

Chatty’s hand.

“Please buy them both a nice, well-dressed doll, with plenty of

’adgink’ on the clothes. Who would think they could care for lace! We

must tell mamma that, Hortense.”

Miss Chatty kissed her kind little customer. All her little ladies were

pleased if she shook hands when they came, and very happy indeed if

she twined a curl over her finger, or re-tied a sash,--for she had the

dearest and daintiest of mother-ways. “My dear,” she said, “I think

the little girls would feel tenderest toward the very dollies they

have worked so hard to get. But I should like to buy clothing for the

children themselves with your gold piece.”

The idea roused a creditable little _furore_ of benevolence among the

children. Every tiny pocket-book came open, and although there was no

more gold, Miss Chatty soon became the treasurer of a respectable fund

for the benefit of Meg and Nib, whom several now remembered to have

seen as rag-pickers and match-girls.

Indeed, there was so much generous talk about Meg and Nib that when

Miss Chatty went to bed she dreamed a very long and very nice dream.

In this dream all the pavements in the city were fringed with

toadstools, and the stems were little girls, each with a doll in her

arms, and they were all on their way to her house to be mended. When

all had arrived, a tall, white angel came, and stood in the door and

looked in. And she said, “Behold, I am she that weepeth over the woes

of children. I sit upon a cloud over this city. To-night, on the

evening air, I listened for the noise of crying and quarreling, and,

instead, I heard laughter, and playing, and lullabies. The thanks of

one that weeps are sweeter than all others. Take my blessing, O giver

of dolls, because you have learned that a little girl, to be good, must

have something to love.”

Then the children sang “bye-low-baby-bye” in soft tones; and after

they were through singing, they sat and nodded deliciously,--children,

dolls, and she, too; and all this while the Angel of the Children’s

Woes sat in their midst on a canopied coach that had a coachman, and a

footman, and a French maid, and rested from her tearful labors--indeed

her eyes grew every moment of a most bright and smiling azure; and

while she was resting, on a loom of silver she wove edging until there

was a great plenty to have trimmed all the dolls in the world.

It was quite a pleasant dream, in fact; and Miss Chatty woke with her

heart all soft, and young, and warm, and it staid so all day Sunday.

After breakfast, Monday morning, she put on her holland gloves and went

out to dig around her roses. She desired the circle of dark loam about

her trees to be exactly and truly round. So she found it necessary to

do her own digging.

As she set her foot on the spade, a little voice she knew called from

the bottom of the garden. “Please, Miss Chatty, were there a great many

nice dolls brought Saturday?”

And another little voice continued, “May we go and see them?”

It was Sylvey Morgan and Teddy. They were looking over the broken

paling of the garden fence, their little faces twinkling with smiles

and sunshine.

“Yes, birdies. You may go up through the basement, and I will step over

and see Mintie.”

The children flew to the gate and up to the house, for you must know

that it was very nice, indeed, to go up to Miss Chatty’s parlors and

look at the beautiful dolls all by themselves. They well knew they

“mustn’t touch;” and Miss Chatty was well assured they wouldn’t.

She picked some clove pinks and went over to the house of the children.

It was a small cottage in vines fronting a back street. She went around

to the sitting-room, where, by the window, sat a young girl with a

poor little pinched-up face. A cane, gayly painted, and adorned with

a flowing ribbon bow, leaned against the window, and told the girl’s

story.

The room was very plain only about this corner. This nook had a bird

cage and a hanging basket of ivy in the window; Mintie’s chair, with

its gay cushion, stood on a Persian mat; there was a little window

garden growing on the ledge; and on the elbow stand was a globe with

gold fish, while opposite hung some pretty water colors. Mintie’s hair

was tied back with a rose-pink bow, and her wrapper was a marvelous web

of roses and posies. Altogether the endeavor to surround poor Mintie

Morgan with brightness and beauty was very evident.

But Mintie herself looked peevish, and as if never anything in the

world had been done for her. It was plain she was no nice, ideal

invalid, but a girl whom to take care of would be a great trial.

She did smile, however, as she took Miss Chatty’s clove pinks. “You

always bring enough, and plenty of grass and leaves, so that there is a

chance to try a bouquet. I believe you do it that I may fuss with them

half the forenoon if I like.”

Miss Chatty colored a trifle at being detected. “Well, that is nothing

against me, I hope, Mintie. How do you feel to-day?”

“O, good-for-nothing, and all tired out just to think it is Monday

morning instead of Saturday night.”

“I do wish you had something pleasant to occupy yourself with,” said

Miss Chatty, sympathetically, instead of whipping out the little sermon

on contentment. She had always thought she wouldn’t thank anybody to

preach contentment to her, had she been broken-backed and with no feet

to speak of, like Mintie.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Of course there isn’t,” said Mintie. “I want something pretty if I

have anything, work which will make me forget I am in this chair. I

won’t sew the children’s clothes. Father and mother should contrive

that I was amused. And if you felt so very bad for me, Miss Chatty, I

guess you would have offered to let me dress some of them dolls before

now!”

“So I might, I should think myself,” said Miss Chatty, startled into

saying a very unwise thing; for, of course, a ten-dollar doll wasn’t to

be put in careless fingers.

“But, of course,” continued Mintie, fretfully, “you don’t have more

than you can do yourself.”

“No,” said Miss Chatty, much relieved, “I don’t. But, poor little

Mintie, you ought to have something nice to do!”

“Well, you need all the money, and I shouldn’t like to work, even at

anything pretty, unless I was paid. I don’t wish to talk about work at

all unless that is understood. You needn’t ever bring anything here to

do just to amuse me.” And Mintie looked,--only think of a young girl

looking as ugly as pictures of misers that you have seen!

As for Miss Chatty, she blushed clear up to her eyes. “My dear child!”

she exclaimed. “How could you think I should be unjust!”

And then she went and stood in the door. The dear little old maid was

dreadfully ashamed, and a trifle indignant, too, over Mintie’s bad

manners and selfishness. But after a moment she reflected that probably

the poor girl had no pocket-money at all, and couldn’t get any either;

and she recollected also that it had been said that physical deformity

often produced spiritual crookedness and halting. She tried to think of

some way to help her. She thought of offering Nib’s and Meg’s dolls to

make and clothe; but no, Mintie wished to handle only beautiful things.

All at once her dream came up before her, as pleasant as in her sleep,

and it seemed to turn inside out and reveal its meaning.

She went back and kissed Mintie. Then she went home and kissed Sylvey

and Teddy and sent them away. After that she made herself ready, and

went upon another eccentric little journey among her wealthy friends.

It is said that Miss Chatty talked a deal of beautiful and flowery

nonsense at every house where she called, all about the influence upon

poor children of a flower to watch, or a bird to tend, or a lovely doll

to love. She told everybody that she was going to send a missionary in

the shape of a pretty doll to every ragged and dirty child in the city.

They laughed at the idea of the doll-mission; but as she begged at

most places for nothing more than “pieces,”--bits of silk and bright

woolens, remnants of ribbons and laces, the natural leavings of

dressmaking, of which there is always plenty at every house,--Miss

Chatty did not render herself very obnoxious.

But at three or four houses there was far more weighty talk; and from

them Miss Chatty took away considerable money. Then she went down upon

Vesey Street, and one of her friends among the merchants gave her a

roll of bleached muslin, and the same good man also gave her a card of

edging in the name of his little daughter. She then went down farther

still, to Bleecker Street, where a jolly young importer of cheap toys

sold her a gross of china dolls at cost.

Tuesday, all day, she cut patterns of skirts, and polonaises, and

basques, and fichus, and walking jackets, all as fanciful as possible,

bearing in mind the temper of her seamstress.

On Wednesday she went over to Mintie, carrying the bundles and her own

walnut cutting board.

And when Mintie had looked at the great army of curly-pated dolls,

with their naked little kid bodies, every one of them wearing the same

rosy smile, and had laid all the lustrous silky velvets to her cheek,

and had sheened the silks over her knee, and had delighted with the

laces and the iris ribbons, she did smile, the first sunny smile of

her blighted life, I do believe; and she said she should be very, very

happy, and that she should dress no two dolls alike; and she never

mentioned her wages at all.

But after Miss Chatty had unfolded her plan, and told her how well

she was to be paid, Mintie became cross again. She said after the

dolls were done it was a shame for ragged children to have them, and

they would have to be taken from her house to be distributed, for she

couldn’t, and wouldn’t, bear the sight of such creatures!

But in what manner the Doll Mission was organized, and how the lovely

missionaries did their work, and whether the Angel really stopped

weeping, will make another long story; and it will be still more

beautiful than this and the other.

[Illustration]

THE LITTLE PARSNIP-MAN.

BY E. F.

[Illustration]

One year Mrs. Dumpling was ill all the summer, and there was nobody

much to tend the kitchen garden, except Dimple.

Dimple was extremely sturdy, but being shorter than the spade, he could

not use the spade at all; and he was so very much shorter than a hoe,

that the hoe kicked, and generally hit Dimple on the nose; and before

summer was out he was so much shorter than the weeds, that when he

went to pull them, the weeds felt quite at liberty to turn about and

pull him; they’d hang back and pull, and pull, until they got Dimple

all excited and puffing, and then they’d suddenly let go his little

hands, and down would go Dimple on the ground, over on his back, pulled

right off his little roots,--his little feet, I mean,--while the weeds

would just swing, and nod, and shake with laughter, and then they would

grow--oh, _how_ they would grow! A little rough pulling at one, if you

don’t get pulled clear off your feet and out of your place, is so very

good for anybody.

Dimple finally gave up the weeds, and tended the vegetables only. He

cultivated them with a stick, scratching along the roots, and making

the soil black and loose. One day he sat under a shady row of tall

mustard-weeds, and scratched along a line of some feathery green stuff

his mamma had sowed. He sat poking the dirt, and thinking what a pretty

green plants turned as the dirt was stirred, when suddenly, poking away

a big stone, he saw something white, and round, and wrinkled, just like

a head,--an old man’s bald head!

“Why,” said Dimple, “who’s here?”

He dug a little, and he came to some sleepy old eyes, all shut, and

wrinkled, and peevish.

“Why-ee!” said Dimple. “It _is_ somebody!”

He dug and dug, and he came to a nose,--an awful big nose.

“Why-ee!” said Dimple. “It’s a Roman nose. I fink it is a grandpa.”

He dug a little mite more, and there were some moustaches growing right

out of the big nose. He pulled and pulled with his two forefingers, and

loosened them up, and all at once they flopped out of the dirt; and

they were two long waxed moustaches.

Dimple was so surprised he said nothing this time, but dug away, almost

scared. Pretty soon he found a mouth, a large funny mouth, close up

under the nose, and the mouth was dreadful live and quirky.

“Why-ee-ee!” said Dimple. “I fink it _is_ somebody, and he’s waking up!”

For now the eyes did seem to twinkle, and the little bare skull to wink

and move its wrinkles up and down.

Dimple dug away again, and found a chin and some straggling beard.

“I fink what it is now,” said Dimple. “Mamma readed about him yes’day.

He lives down in the mines. He’s a Kobold, and he wants to get out.”

It was so bad to be stuck fast in the dirt, Dimple dug now just as hard

as he could. The little old man himself didn’t help at all to loosen up

his two long, slim legs. Finally Dimple, with a mighty effort, and by

shutting both eyes hard, pulled them out, and he tumbled over on his

back, and the little old man tumbled over on _his_ back, and lay like

one dead.

Then Dimple saw he had no arms. “Dee-me!” said he. “I be’eve he started

to bring up some gold, and the other Kobolds ran after him and cut off

his arms. Dee-me! I fink what if he has got up so far and beed-ed to

deff!”

Dimple scampered in, and his face was so white, and his story so wild,

that Mrs. Dumpling managed to walk up into the garden.

Dimple took her to the place; the little old man was there, sure

enough. Mrs. Dumpling saw him herself, in a glimmering dazed kind of

way, for just one moment,--his twinkling eyes, his bald skull, his

Roman nose, his long moustaches, and his straggling beard.

Then she sat down on the grass and laughed.

She picked him up; and the moment she touched him there was an awful

transformation. Even Dimple saw it was only a parsnip,--a pronged,

ill-shaped, tough old parsnip.

But that night something happened which Dimple never forgot. The old

Parsnip-Man came to his bed and spoke to him. But I regret to say that

he used many large words which Dimple could not understand.

“Kind sir,” said he, “naturally we are a fine and shapely race,--we,

and our cousins the Beets and the Carrots and the Salsify. If we

are brought up, as every new generation ought to be, with tender

surroundings, and kept out of the company of stones and clods and

weeds, we have a dear promise that many of us shall be placed on the

dinner-table when children eat, and be changed into rosy cheeks, and

white arms, and handsome young bodies, and live a long, merry life

above ground in the sunshine. But if we are neglected by those upon

whom we are dependent, we are changed underground, and become horrid

old fellows, with ugly faces; and when we are pulled up, we are carted

away and fed to cattle.

“_Do you know what it must be to be fed to cattle?_” he roared.

And then, after a moment, he smiled mournfully. “A word to the wise,”

he said. The low, pleading tone floated all about Dimple like a

cool, green leaf. When he looked up to ask what the “Word” was, the

Parsnip-Man had disappeared.

Dimple told his mamma in the morning. Mamma knew the “Word” very well.

She said it was too bad, and she would have the parsnip-bed hoed that

very day.

HOW DORR FOUGHT.

BY SALOME.

Little Dorr Eastman always wore his sword--in the daytime, I mean. He

would have liked to wear it at night--indeed, he tried it once; but

as the belt was indispensable, and that was exceedingly rasping and

uncomfortable with a night-gown, and as he often rolled upon the sword

itself, and the sword, being hard, hurt his soft, plump side, and his

soft, plump limbs, he gave it up, regretfully, since it was Dorr’s

belief that “real truly” soldiers always slept with their “arms” on.

And Dorr “knew”--for was not his brother Dick a colonel, and his father

a general, and his grandfather a general?

But, then, they had been at West Point, and got toughened. After he

grew up and had been at West Point, and had undergone discipline,

doubtless a belt would not be uncomfortable in bed, and a sword could

be worn with a night-gown!

The fancy-store in the village where Dorr’s papa owned a summer

mansion, drove a flourishing trade during the season in gilt papers,

and mill-boards, and tinsels; for, once a week, at least, the young

soldier fashioned new stripes and epaulets; one day being a sergeant,

on the next a major; and then, for days together, commander-in-chief

U. S. A., during which space mamma, and Trudie, and Soph addressed him

as His Excellency. Every stick which he could hew into the shape of

a horse’s head, became a gallant charger, until mamma’s hall was one

long, vast stable; mamma blew a whistle for _reveillé_; and the embryo

cadet thought nothing of turning out at five in the morning, and

splashing into a cold tub, especially on picnic mornings. But Dorr said

he was hardening for West Point and glorious campaigns.

[Illustration: “HOLD YOUR HAND, NOW.”]

His greatest anxiety was concerning these campaigns. “Mamma,” he said

to her one day, “I fears there’s no use in me growing up!”

“Why, Your Excellency? It grieves me to hear that,” said mamma.

“’Cause everybody will be fighted out before that, mamma. Colonel Dick

says they settle things now, and not fight.”

“Well, my little son, there will always be men who must wear swords,

to make people afraid, so that they will think it is the safer way to

settle without a war. My little Dorr shall be one of those men, and

a great share of the time he will be home on furlough and stay with

mamma. Won’t he like that?”

“No, he wouldn’t!” cried Dorr, stoutly, swelling up after the manner of

colonels and generals. After a turn or two across the room, he came

back to his mamma’s knee. “It’s likely, though, there’ll be Injuns.

There always was Injuns in this land, Trudie says, and if they’s lasted

s’long, it’s likely they’ll last s’long as I live; and Dick says

there’ll be always war s’long as there’s Injuns!”

“O! my little blue-eyed Dorr,” said mamma, “wouldn’t you care to be

scalped?”

“Why’d I care?” answered Dorr. “Wouldn’t my ‘feet be to the foe’?”

Mamma could not but laugh at her stern little man; and then she thought

he had better go with the girls in the garden.

And there he was not a moment too soon. The sacred inclosure was

already invaded by a ruthless hand--a fat, yellowish-black little hand,

which was thrust through the paling, evidently after one of Soph’s

treasures--the beautiful rose-pink dwarf dahlia.

Dorr saw it. “Soph! Soph! he’s breaking off your new Mex’can Lilliput

dahlia!” and headlong went Sergeant Dorr toward the fence; but, half

way there, he tripped in the tall asters, and crushed dozens of mamma’s

choice autumn blooms as he fell.

Soph and Trudie both came running down the gravel. The boy behind the

paling also ran, or would, had not the fat arm been thrust in too far;

for, turning it in haste, it stuck fast, and now held him Sergeant

Dorr’s prisoner.

His fall had made Sergeant Dorr very mad; and, picking himself up, he

drove toward the paling in hot haste. “You flower-thief! them’s Soph’s

flowers! You clear out of this, or I’ll shoot you with my sword!”

And the sword was brandished; and as Roly-poly couldn’t “clear out,”

much as he wished, he staid, his hand still clasping the stalk of the

“Mex’can Lilliput,” which he seemed unable to let go. Seeing that, down

came Dorr’s wooden sword upon the arm! It was a sturdy stroke, too, so

sturdy that the sword bounded and flew over on the other side, where an

angry little bare black foot kicked it far out into the road, while the

owner of the foot howled with pain.

“Dorr Eastman!” cried Trudie.

“You cruel, cruel boy!” cried Soph.

“He no bus’ness with your flowers, then!” said Dorr, crowding back an

angry whimper.

“I’ve a mind to shake you!” said Trudie. But, instead, she went to the

fence where the little bow-legged mulatto, still howling, was trying to

get free.

“Little boy,” said she, “I’m sorry; but it is wrong to steal!”

“But we done got no flowers of our own,” said he; “and besides, I

hain’t broke it. O, dear, where’s mammy? I hain’t gooine to stay

hyer--don’t! don’t!” He howled louder than ever as Trudie took his arm.

“Hush up, simpleton! I’m only going to get you out.” With a firm grasp

she turned his arm where he might draw it back. “There, I’ll let you

out now, if you will stand still a moment after I let go.”

The boy sobbed mightily, but stood still. “Stand there till I tell you

to go,” commanded Trudie. Then she broke one of her own flowers for

him, and also went into her pocket. “Hold your hand, now,” said she.

Sobbing, and with hidden face, the small ragamuffin held up his hand,

and Trudie poured into it a stream of pennies and candies. “The

flower,” said she, “is because you like pretty things. The rest is to

pay you for being struck.”

The tawny little hand dashed the “pay” to the ground. “I can’t be paid

for being struck!” he cried, baring his tearful eyes, and gleaming with

them at the “sergeant.”

“What’s all this?” asked mamma, coming down the walk.

Hearing the story, she went outside, and bared the beaten arm. There

was a frightful lump on the soft, black baby flesh. She looked up at

her little soldier ruefully, and he ran off.

She took the child in, and bathed the bruise with camphor, picked him

a gorgeous bouquet, and sent him home with various admonitions and

tendernesses. Then she waited for Dorr to come.

By and by he came. He was still without his sword. He rushed to her, as

she turned at the sound of the little footstep, and tumbled into her

arms head first.

“Mamma,” he said, “I have martial-courted myself! I runned after him,

but he wouldn’t strike me. Then I thought what you said ’bout ‘kisses

for blows,’ but he wouldn’t kiss me; but I know’d there should be a

kiss somewheres, ’cause ’twas your kind of a battle, not papa’s; so I

gave him my sword, and asked him to come to play--and--well, mamma, I

haven’t got any sword no more!”

The little heart heaved; but mamma hugged him close, and shed a glad

tear to think her teaching had had its effect as well as papa’s.

[Illustration: HE TUMBLED INTO HER ARMS HEAD FIRST.]

“My kind of battles are very hard, much harder to be fought than

papa’s,” she said, “and Dorr is braver than if he had killed a hundred

men.”

[Illustration: ALL THE WAY TO CANADA.]

[Illustration]

TIM’S PARTNER.

BY AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.

“Ain’t got nothin’, Miss May, to set up a chap in housekeepin’--have

you?”

“Housekeeping!” the young lady cried in surprise. “Why, surely, Tim,

you are not thinking of--” and she paused, suddenly eying the figure

before her from head to foot.

A strange, misshapen creature it was. He was barely eighteen, but

he might have been twice that from the looks of his face, which was

thin and sharp, and wrinkled about the eyes and forehead, surmounted

by a shock of sandy brown hair, and thatched with an old gray felt

hat going to tatters. A short, humpbacked figure, with a body out of

all proportion to the pinched, slender legs. The arms were long, and

finished by hands twice too large. A poor, pitiful object; yet there

was something wistful and touching in the great brown eyes.

“Of gettin’ married? Was you goin’ to say that, Miss May? He! he! A

gal would want a husband mighty bad, wouldn’t she, when she picked up

such a crooked stick? The good Lord knows why he made me this way, I

s’pose,” falling for a moment into a reflective mood. “But ’tain’t

that, Miss May. I’ve got a room of old Mother Budd, and a stove, and

a mattress, and now I’ve taken a pardner--Jerry; but you don’t know

nothin’ ’bout him. He’s a little chap what’s had a drunken father all

his life, and has to get about on two crutches--worse’n me, a good

sight,” looking down with pride on his thin legs and substantial feet.

“And now his father’s sent up to the Island, ’nd he had no place to go

to. So we’ve set up together. He’s smart in some ways, is Jerry--kin

sew like a gal, and cook, and we’ll get along just jolly. Only if we

had some dishes and things. You see we have to pay a dollar a week in

advance, for old Mother Budd’s sharp at a bargain, lookin’ out for

tricks. Then I bought some coal an’ wood, an’ that took about all my

spare capital.” He gave a sort of humorous grin, as he said “capital.”

He had shoveled off the snow and cleaned out the gutter to perfection.

Miss May had paid him thirty cents. After a moment she said,--

“Come down in the basement, Tim. I should not wonder if we could find

you an outfit. Two boys housekeeping! It’s rather funny!”

Tim scraped and wiped his feet, stood his shovel in the corner of the

area, and followed the young lady within. All winter he had been on

hand to clean the sidewalk and put in coal. Besides his wages she had

given him a few old garments, and his gratitude had touched her. Now

she felt rather amused.

Bridget gave him a somewhat unfriendly stare as he entered the

kitchen. She never could understand why a lady like Miss May should

take fancies “to beggars and that sort of trash.” Dr. May looked rather

serious about it, and wished her mother had lived, or that aunt Helen

knew how to interest her in other people. He saw quite enough of the

misery and wretchedness of the world without having his pretty young

daughter breaking her heart over it.

“Come and warm yourself, Tim. Bridget, where are those cracked and

checked dishes and old tins I picked out the other day? And there are

some chairs down cellar. O, and those old comfortables I laid away.”

“Sure, miss, I was goin’ to ask you if I mightn’t give the dishes to my

cousin, Ann Flynn, who is to be married on Sunday night. They’d be a

godsend to her.”

“We’ll divide them;” and Miss May smiled.

Bridget very unwillingly opened the closet door. The idea of giving

china dishes to a beggar! She grudged everything that could go to a

“cousin.”

Miss May picked out two cups and saucers, four plates, two bowls, and

several miscellaneous articles, including a block-tin tea-pot and two

or three dilapidated tin pails.

“O, Miss May! Why, we’ll feel as grand as kings!” and the eyes were

lustrous with gratitude.

“Here’s a basket to pack them in. Bridget, give him a little tea and

sugar, and some of the cold meat left yesterday. I’ll run up stairs and

find some bed-clothes.”

She came back laden. Tim’s face glowed to its utmost capacity, which

was large, seeing that he had been out in the cold all the morning.

“There, I haven’t any table, but all these will help. You are sure your

partner, as you call him, is a trusty fellow?”

“He’s good as gold, though he hain’t no legs worth speakin’ of. He used

to sell papers on the cars, but he stumbled one day, ’nd had one cut

off, and t’other hurt. His father used to keep him round beggin’, but

he’s bound to have nice times now along o’ me. If you could hear him

sing, Miss May--it’s like a bird hangin’ out a winder. When the weather

comes warm he kin sell apples and flowers, and sich. I’ll have a little

spare capital bimeby to start him with. An’ it’ll be next to havin’

folks of one’s very own. I never had any, you see. Not that I’d want a

father like Jerry’s. Poor little chap, he’s had rough times, what with

the beatin’ and the starvin’.”

Miss May winked a tear out of her blue eyes. How ready these street

Arabs were to stand by one another! Would anybody in her “set” take in

a poor brother unhesitatingly?

Tim was grateful from the very depths of his soul, and it was no mean

one. He bundled the articles in a great pack, and shouldered them,

chairs and all, and drew his rough sleeve across his eyes, while his

good-bye had a very husky sound.

If Miss May could have heard the rejoicing!

And yet it was a miserable little room, up three flights of stairs,

with only one window looking into a rear house. Their bedstead had been

made of dry goods boxes, and when they covered it with her clean chintz

comfortable, and arrayed their closet shelves with the dishes, leaving

the door open so they could feast their eyes on their new possessions,

they could not resist giving three cheers; and Tim was actually coaxed

into dancing a breakdown, while Jerry clapped “Finnegan’s Wake” with

his thin hands on the one good knee he had left. It was a blustering

March day, but they two had a delightfully warm room and a feast. What

amused them most of all was beautiful Miss May’s idea that Tim was

going to be married.

“Tim,” said Jerry solemnly, when their laugh had ended, “I don’t know

how girls feel about such poor cripples as you and me, but my opinion

is that my mammy would have been glad enough to had a husband with the

great, tender heart you’ve got. Poor mammy! I’m glad she’s in heaven

along of the angels, and I’m glad she don’t know about my legs. God

wouldn’t tell her when she was so happy--would He, Tim?”

“No, He wouldn’t,” said Tim over a great lump in his throat.

There never were such happy days in the life of either as those that

followed. Jerry cooked, kept accounts, washed, ironed, and mended,

and as the days grew warmer began to do quite a thriving business in

button-hole bouquets, standing on the corner as the men went up town.

Now and then he sold popular photographs on commission, or a lot of

choice bananas.

Tim was brisk and active, and caught up all manner of odd jobs. Now and

then he saw Miss May. Once he sent Jerry with a bouquet of flowers.

“I wanted you to see him, Miss May,” he said afterward, hanging around

until he caught sight of her. “He don’t look pale and peaked, as he did

when we first set up. It’s good livin’, you see, and no beatin’s. And

we have just the jolliest times you ever heard of. He don’t want me to

call him anything but pardner. I do believe that ere little chap would

give his life for me.”

“O, Tim, how good you are!” she cried. “You shame richer and wiser

people. It is very noble to take that poor little boy by the hand and

love and protect him.”

“Noble!” echoed Tim, pulling his forelock and coloring through the tan

and grime. “Why, Miss May, he’s a sight of help and comfort to me;

better’n any wife would be, ’cause, you see, no woman who’d take me

ever’d be half so good.”

“Tim,” she said, opening her dainty Russia leather pocket-book, “I want

to add a little mite to your happiness. I am going to the country soon,

for the whole summer. I want you to take this, and spend it just as I

tell you. You and Jerry must go on some nice excursion; there will be

plenty of them presently. Get a good dinner, and take all the delight

you can, and remember to tell me all about it afterward.”

“O, Miss May, you are too good for anybody’s folks! Indeed, I’ll tell

you every word. And can I come again next winter to shovel snow and do

chores?”

“Yes, indeed. I shall be glad to have you. God bless you and your

partner, poor, brave little soul. I shall think of you often.”

“I never see an angel ’xcept the ones in the picters with wings, but I

know Miss May is one,” said Tim to himself.

Tim and his partner counted their money that night. Business had been

flourishing of late.

“There’s twenty-one dollars that we’ve saved up free and clear, and the

lady’s five. Tim, you had better put it in the bank;” and Jerry’s eyes

sparkled feverishly.

“I’d have to hide the bank book then;” and Tim chuckled. “Think of

havin’ a bank account! Why, we’d feel a’most like Astor, or the old

Commodore.”

“But I wish you would, Tim. I’m afraid to have so much in the house.

It will be something against winter when business is dull. Now we’re

making plenty to live on. Won’t you, Tim?”

“To be sure I will--to-morrow. And we’ll hide the book in that same

chink in the floor. No one would think of looking there. And we’ll have

a rousin’ time on some ’xcursion. We’ll choose one with a brass band,

and have a little dance in one corner by ourselves. There isn’t the

beat of Miss May in this whole world.”

“She’s good, but then she’s rich, you know. Five dollars doesn’t look

so large to her as it does to you and me. But, Tim, I love you better

than a hundred Miss Mays.”

Tim chuckled and winked hard, but said never a word.

He was off early in the morning, as he had an important job on hand.

Jerry would have dinner all ready at noon, and he would put on his

“store clothes” and go down to the bank like any other swell. My eyes!

Weren’t they in clover?

Tim could not get home until three; but he had earned two dollars since

morning. They each had a key to the door, and finding it locked, Tim

drew out his. Jerry had gone to business; afternoons were his time.

There was no dinner set out on the table and covered with a napkin. A

curious chill of something like neglect went to Tim’s warm heart; but

he whistled it away, found a bite of cold meat and some oatmeal. Then

he decided he would run over on Broadway and tell Jerry of his good

luck. It was too late to think of going to the bank.

No little chap sat on the well-known corner. Tim walked up a block,

down again, and studied the cross street sharply. Had he sold out and

gone home? Or may be he had taken the money to the bank! Tim ran home

again. Yes, that was it. The money was gone.

He waited and waited. Somehow he did not feel a bit jolly; but he

boiled the kettle and laid the supper. No Jerry yet. What had become of

him? Had he put on his best suit?

They had made a clothes-press out of a dry goods box, and Tim went to

inspect it. Why--Jerry’s shelf was entirely empty. Shirts, stockings,

yes, everything, even to his old every-day suit, gone. Tim dropped on

the floor, and hid his face in his hands. Had Jerry--

It was funny, but Tim squared off and gave the box a thump that bruised

his knuckles. It seemed to him that the box had breathed a suspicion

that Jerry had stolen the money and run away. Then he kicked it, and

sat down and cried as if his heart would break. His pardner, little

Jerry, a thief! No, he would never, never believe it.

He sat up till midnight, and it seemed to him there had never been such

loneliness since the world began. Then the next morning he made some

inquiries. Their two nearest neighbors were washerwomen. Both had been

out all day. No one had seen Jerry.

If Jerry’s father were not in prison--but he had been sent up in

February for a year, and here it was only the last of June. Or if there

had been any evil companions hanging around; but Jerry and every scrap

of his belongings, as well as the money, had surely disappeared.

There was no gay excursion for Tim. He brooded over his desertion, and

grew morose, began to save his money again, and shut himself up like

a hermit. The poor, crippled boy that he had taken to his heart, that

he had warmed and fed! Ah! it was very bitter. Perhaps not even his

beautiful Miss May would care to remember him.

So he did not go near her. Autumn came on apace. One dreary November

day, when he could find nothing to do, he turned homeward, weary and

heart-sick. Ah, if there was only a cheery voice to welcome him!

Some one stood by his door, a lady in dainty attire. Some one caught

his arm, and cried,--

“O, Tim, I’m so glad you have come! I have been waiting almost an hour.

Tim, I’ve found little Jerry, and he is dying; but he asks for you

constantly. Come right away. Don’t lose a moment.”

“Jerry!” in a sort of dazed way, as if he but half understood. “Little

Jerry--my pardner? O, Miss May--no, you can’t mean it--dying?”

“Yes. Hurry, Tim. I’ve waited so long already!”

They walked down the stairs, scudded through the streets to a horse

car. It seemed to Tim as if they rode an hour. Then they alighted, and

a short walk brought them to a decent looking tenement house. Up one

flight of stairs, and the door opened.

“Is it Tim?” asked a weak voice.

Tim threw himself on his knees by the bedside, and kissed the sweet,

wan face with the tenderness of a mother. For some minutes only sobs

were heard.

“You told him, Miss May?”

“No, Jerry. We hurried so there was no chance. But I will tell him

every word.”

“O, Tim, you didn’t think I was a thief? It broke my heart to go. It

was father. He got out some way, and had been watching us. He came that

night when we were so happy counting our money, but he didn’t dare

offer to take me away then. The next morning he walked in with a paper,

which he said was a warrant for me, and that if I dared to say a word

he’d send me to the Refuge. I picked up my things--I was so afraid of

him--and then he wanted the money, and swore if I didn’t get it he’d

murder me. I told him I wouldn’t; so he tied my hands and bound my

mouth, lest I should scream, and then he hunted everywhere; and O, Tim,

he found it! He took me right out of the city with him to a vile den,

where they wanted to make a thief of me.”

“O, Jerry, dear, don’t talk; it takes away all your strength. God knows

I never could have a hard thought of you now;” and Tim broke down.

“Just a little. I couldn’t get back to you. They watched me, and beat

me until I was sore and stiff; and there I staid until only a fortnight

ago, when one night I gave them the slip. I wanted to come back and

tell you how it was, but the way was so far, and I was so tired, so

tired! Then I fell down in the street, and a good woman picked me up

and brought me in here, where it’s so nice and clean, Tim, and such a

quiet place to die in! And then I don’t seem to remember much until

yesterday, when Miss May came in, and this morning, when she brought

her father. And then I wanted to see you, to tell you--Tim, if I could

live and earn the money--you were so good to me--so good. Tim, if you

could hold me in your arms again! Miss May said I would find mammy in

heaven; that God cared for poor little boys. Does He, Tim? I like you

to tell me. And will you come and let me be your pardner again? Is it

very far? Kiss me, Tim. You know now I wasn’t a thief. Miss May sang

something yesterday about opening the starry gates--”

“At the portals Jesus waits;

All the heavenly host, begin;

Open wide the starry gates,

Let the little traveller in,”

sang the sweet voice over a tremulous sob.

Closer clung the thin arms, and the cool cheek was pressed against

Tim’s, hot with burning tears. The little hands that had kept their

house tidy, and prepared the simple meals, lay limp and useless. The

eyes could not see any more, but the lips smiled and murmured a few

incoherent words, soft, sweet, and then an awesome silence. The little

waif Jerry had gone over the river.

“O, Miss May,” cried Tim, “they _will_ take him in--won’t they? For,

you see, the poor little chap didn’t have a square chance in this

world! He’s been kicked and cuffed about, and had to go on crutches,

an’ been half starved many a time, but he wouldn’t lie nor steal for

all that. He ought to be happy somewheres. O, Jerry! Jerry! I loved you

so! And you was true to the last!”

“They will take him in,” Miss May says, with solemn tenderness. And

presently she unclasps the arms that are wound around Jerry’s neck,

lays the poor hands straight, and leads Tim over by the window. He

looks at her with dumb, questioning eyes, as if he would fain have her

fathom the mystery that he knows so little about. She brushes away some

tears; but O, what can she say to comfort him? For Jerry was all he had.

Presently Tim comes back and kisses the cold lips and stares at the

strange beauty overspreading the wan face.

“O, Miss May,” he cries, “do you suppose I could ever earn enough to

pay for his being buried in some country place, where there’d be a few

flowers and a tree growing over him? I’d work all my life long. For

he’d like it so. I can’t bear to think of having him carried away--”

“No,” she says, with a shiver. “I will see about it, Tim.” Then she

gives a few orders to the woman, and goes away, leaving Tim with his

“pardner.”

Dr. May shook his head at his daughter at first, and said it was folly;

but two days after he had him buried in a pretty rural cemetery, with a

white marble slab above his head containing two words--“Tim’s Partner.”

And Tim, who takes care of the doctor’s horse now, and does odd chores,

pauses occasionally and says to Miss May, “There never can be anybody

quite like Jerry to me again. Over in the other country we’ll be

pardners forever.”

[Illustration]

“UNTO BABES.”

BY HELEN KENDRICK JOHNSON.

“’Et, ittie oottie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter;” which, being

interpreted, means, “Yes, little rooster, I’ll get up when it gets a

little lighter.”

The same was uttered by a pair of cherry lips, opening below a pair of

laughing eyes, which were parted from the cherry lips by a cherry nose.

The nose was cherry because it stuck out from the face so round and

plump that the sun, which had been around painting cherries just this

time of the year, threw a glance at it and said, “There’s another!” and

gave it a good strong stroke with his brush. This little accident made

the whole face look funny; for, like most people who do their work in a

hurry, the sun had dipped up so much paint, and dashed it at the nose

so carelessly, that it had hit ever so many other places--a spot on the

chin, a daub on the cheeks, and a streak on the forehead.

Now there is some excuse for the sun; for while everybody knows that

boys never will stand still long enough to have their faces properly

attended to, everybody, little and big, and not only that, but every

tree and flower and blade of grass, keeps dancing and whirling about,

while the sun is trying to fix it.

The result is just what you would expect--apples with one red cheek and

one white one, blackberries with three colors on the same stem, so that

the boys can always quote the old riddle, “blackberries are red when

they’re green,” and cherries that make half your pail-full, “not fit to

eat,” according to your mother, and speckled little fellows, just like

this one.

On this particular morning there was great excitement in the towzley

head that popped up to make the lucid remark above quoted. His big

sister did not dream that little Wide Awake took it all literally when

she said, “Don’t get up the first time the rooster crows.”

She forgot that childhood’s sweetest trait is trust, and she was

startled to remember it when she heard the precious little fellow’s

sweet voice twitter out in the faint dawn:

“Et, ittie ootie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter.”

Long before the sun had fairly got his paints mixed for another dash at

the fruit and the children, Strut crowed again.

Was Wide Awake asleep? Asleep, indeed! Up went the head again, and this

time two flying heels followed, and the bright voice sang again:

“’E ootie c’ows, an’ _a’aw_ ’e do’s.”

He meant to say:

“The rooster crows, and away he goes,” meaning his little self.

“Little brother, it isn’t time to get up for an hour. Hop into bed

again,” called out Sister Laura.

“’Ou ed e _’econ’_ tine,” said a sorrowful, drooping little voice.

“Go to sleep--that’s a good boy!” was the answer, and Laura set the

copy for him by going off instantly herself.

But Wide Awake had not won his name without deserving it, and he passed

a long and lonesome hour trying to amuse himself with nothing.

Finally, dressing-time came. When he reached the kitchen, all was as

busy as a coming picnic could make it. Dinah was flying from cellar to

pantry, and from pantry to oven. As soon as he got to the back stairs

door-way, Wide Awake spied something wrong high up on Dinah’s back.

“Attieilly on ou olly,” he cried out.

“Keep still, Allie; don’t boffer me screaming,” said Dinah.

“_Attieilly on ou olly_,” said he, coming close to her, and pointing,

and pulling her dress.

“Go ’long, I tell you!” said she. “I’ll tell your sister, and you won’t

get no cake.”

Allie reluctantly stepped back a little; but he spoke volumes of

anxiety, had any one been looking.

No one was.

“Oh! what’s dat on my neck?” screamed out Dinah, in a minute. “Oh-h-h!”

“Allie _tole_ Dine attieilly on ou olly,” said Allie, as Dinah’s cries

brought Laura, who picked off from Dinah’s neck an immense caterpillar,

which the patient little fellow had been compelled to watch in its

upward journey from the shoulder where he first espied it.

At length the preparations were fairly finished, the horses were at

the door, Allie’s eyes were dancing almost out of his head with joy,

the refreshments were all packed in, and, almost in the midst of the

baskets a stool was set for Allie, and his happy little self deposited

upon it. The rest were finally seated, and the picnickers move off for

Dudley’s woods.

Everybody talked and laughed together; and Allie sang to himself, with

no fear of being heard. Presently he seized an end of his sister’s

shawl, and shouted with all his might:

“Doos, Laula, doos!”

“Yes, dear, Laula knows.”

“_My_ doos, Laula! my _doos_ ober dare.”

“Yes, dear, never mind,” was the answer.

“Ve’er min’ _doos_, Laula?” said the voice, anxiously.

“No, never mind, we’ll see another.”

“Where is the feather on your hat, child?” asked Laura, when they had

ridden two miles farther.

“Doos _dawn_, Laula; ’ou ed no min’ my doos.”

“Dear me! that was what he called his feather,--his goose,” said she.

“I might have remembered.”

“Laula, Allie’s feets feel ’et.”

“Wet, child? I guess not,” said Laura, and chatted on.

They were nearing the woods as she spoke, and soon the loaded carriages

turned into a wood so uninviting and full of underbrush that you looked

again all over the party to see if they appeared crazy from anything

but gay spirits.

No, they were sane, no doubt; and there must be an explanation for such

a choice. The explanation was, that it was not choice at all, it was

circumstance which guided them. Twenty-five years ago that very day,

a party of four young married people, with their older children, had

come to this wood to pick blackberries, which grew in great abundance

upon its borders. It was half a frolic; but still it was no accident

that sent them home with forty shining black quarts to enjoy by their

firesides. The next year they went again, and the next, and the next;

and every year the company grew larger. But, strange to say, as it grew

larger the quarts grew smaller, and finally, somehow or other, “the

blackberries are not worth picking this year;” or “the blackberries

are all dried up this year,” became the continual complaint when the

excursionists returned home with emptier and emptier baskets.

But the “Blackberry Party” grew as thick as its namesake fruit had been

of old, and now, for twenty-five years, fathers and mothers, sons and

daughters, grandchildren and neighbors, gathered to the time-honored

festival. To be sure, every year more of the elders stayed behind,

because they missed one and another who were there “last year,” and

life’s merriment was checked for them forever until they should follow.

But new ones had come to take the lead, and the merry scenes went on in

the gnarled old forest. It was a strange fact that in all these years

the day on which the picnic occurred had never been stormy. A glorious

succession of bright days had spanned the quarter of a century, and it

was taken as a sign that heaven smiled peculiarly upon the innocent joy

which the day was sure to bring.

This was the quarter centennial, and the procession had picked up

little Allie, as “big enough to go this year.” And so little Allie was

very happy, although, in spite of Sister Laura’s assurance, he _did_

think that his feet were “’et.”

Laura thought so too, in a minute; for she lifted a can that had once

held six quarts from the “morning’s milking,” and found “only a stingy

little pint or so,” left.

“Allie’s feet _us_ ’et, Laula,” said the voice, which did not dream

that it sounded like the silver trumpet of an unheeded angel.

“Fisk an’ Tarlo ginkin auty, Laula,” said Allie once more.

“Carlo naughty! drive him away. But he won’t bite Allie.”

“No, _’e bite auty_, ’pring auty.”

“Never mind,--he won’t hurt you. Carlo is a good doggie.”

“Go ’way, there! What are you doing, you scamps! I declare! Frisk and

Carlo have been drinking half that spring water!”

“Allie tole Laula.”

But Laula was bemoaning the loss; for the spring was almost a mile

away, and this wood was provided with no modern conveniences.

The cask of ice-water was too precious to be used for cooking purposes,

and away trudged the youths for another bucket-full.

This weakened the effective force of the dinner getters materially;

for, under the pretense of picking the traditional blackberries, nearly

all the party, in couples or in groups, had strayed off to parts

unseen. The remaining ones were lighting a lively fire, and going

through various manœuvres before it, and a certain odor therefrom said

plainly, “You don’t often get better coffee than I come from.”

Allie, meantime, was roaming about unnoticed. He gained an immense

amount of information in this leisure hour.

Presently Laura called out, “I have got the lemons ready; bring me that

box of sugar.”

The box was brought, a ten-pound one, and full to the brim.

“Laula, don’ pu’ dat! Dat au ’alt, Laula!”

“Allie doesn’t like to see his pet sugar thrown away in such a big

hole,” said she, gayly, as she emptied the box into the oaken cask.

“Run for the ice-water, I hear them coming from all directions.”

Great white lumps of ice, pure cold water,--in they went, and Laura

stirred violently with her monstrous ladle.

“Allie shall have the first taste,” said she, “to show him that his

dear sugar is not wasted.”

“Allie don’ wan’! Allie know e au ’alt.”

“All spoilt? No, dear, just see how nice it is!”

“Laula pu’ in ’_alt_,” said he, again. “Laula ta’!”

Laula did “ta’,” then; and she dropped the cup with a scream of horror.

For, besides the fact that ten pounds of salt in any combination do not

help to make either a refreshing or a thirst-allaying drink, here were

five dozen fine lemons, and many quarts of ice-water, a hopeless loss.

“How could that stupid Dinah bring the salt instead of the sugar?” she

muttered, as soon as vexation would allow her to speak at all.

One by one the party dropped in, and the first cry was for lemonade,

“Laura’s famous manufacture.” More famous than it ever had been it

became immediately, and, amid the general din of exclamations no one

heard Allie say:

“Allie knew. Allie _tole_ Laula ’bout _’alt_!”

Then was felt, with greater cruelty, the absence of milk for the

fragrant coffee; and the delicious cake, and sandwiches, and ham, and

turkey, and tarts, and pastry, were but half enjoyed.

It was with a heavy heart that poor Laura packed up the dishes, and

laid away more untouched food, than usual.

A row of lemon and berry pies had been set upon one of the benches; and

somebody, to keep the insects out, had thrown a table-cloth upon them.

Along came two lovers, whose visions were only fairy-like, and who were

in that state of mind when it made no difference where they rested or

went, so that they rested or went together. With their eyes entirely

occupied in gazing at one another, they wandered up to the temporary

cupboard.

A little voice close by fairly screamed out:

“Don’ ’it on ’e bys! Don’t ’it on ’e bys!”

A vague smile into his earnest face was all the reply he received, and

down sat the pair, too full of a fond trust in themselves to remember

to doubt anything created.

“Oh! oh! oh! oh!” resounded all about them, and an instant later their

own “oh” mingled in the chorus, as the groan of broken crockery rose on

the air, and table-cloth and drapery were pronounced a ruin.

“’Ou ’at wite on ’e bys,” said a voice which was not needed to confirm

the fact.

At length the light of the twenty-fifth glorious day began to steal in

long darting lines among the foliage that had been a shelter from its

rays all day. As the company assembled, it was found to have been an

unusually bad year for blackberries, though why it should have been the

most imaginative did not venture to suggest.

As they started homeward Laura said:

“Now sit right still, Allie, for fear you should fall out, for we shall

go very fast indeed.”

There was little need for the warning, as Allie was well wedged down in

front, and well wrapped up in an extra shawl of Laura’s, because she

forgot to bring his little overcoat.

But by-and-by the whip worked quietly out of its broken holder, and no

eyes but the two bright, observant eyes in the littlest head saw that

in a minute it must fall.

The little fellow tried to dart forward, but the great shawl held him

too securely.

“Sit still, Allie,” said Laura.

Poor Allie seemed to think he might as well, too. His warnings had

saved nothing, yet; but still from his huge roll of woolen he said:

“’E ’ip dop, Laula.”

Presently the horses lagged a little, and the driver, leaning forward

for his whip, discovered its loss.

The long procession halted, wondering what had happened to the first

carriage. The whip was found, “’way back,” and, as two carriages had

passed over it, it was a handsome whip no more.

“What a shame!” said the driver, as he tried to crack the broken lash.

“Allie tole ’ou. Allie’s patint am keen wown ou’!” fell from the cherry

lips.

Now came home and bed for the little child who had begun to be joyous

in anticipation at four o’clock in the morning. No wonder that in such

a long series of discouragements his “patience was clear wore out.”

His sleep that night was broken by a kind of baby-boy, Cassandra-like

murmur, which would have touched to its depths the heart of any tender

soul that heard it.

“Laula,” it said, plaintively, “Allie tole ’ou!”

But Laula was fast asleep.

[Illustration: A PRIZE FOR A SQUIRREL.]

[Illustration]

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.

BY MAGARET EYTINGE.

The Tutchy children were all mad.

I don’t mean they had lost their senses and required strait-jackets,

but they certainly did need something to smooth the frowns from their

brows and the pouts from their lips.

The Tutchy children were pretty children--when they weren’t mad--with

bright blue eyes, much the color of some of their grandmother’s

centennial dinner-plates, and auburn hair that looked as though it

would, on the slightest provocation, turn red.

There were nine of them, Susie, Willie, Robbie, Lizzie, Nellie, Annie,

Sallie, Maud and Baby.

Quite enough for such a little woman as Mrs. Tutchy to look after.

Captain Tutchy was away--he was away about half the time with his ship

“The Treasure”--named, he said, after his wife--and Mrs. Tutchy had

just received a letter from him saying he could not be home for the

Christmas holidays, and so the children must wait for their presents

and their party until he came, “and you may expect me, my dear,” the

letter ended, “the second day of the New Year.”

And this is why the Tutchy children were mad.

They said nothing until mamma, hearing baby cry, went out of the room.

Then they began:

“What will Christmas be without papa?” said Lizzie. “Who’s to laugh,

I’d like to know? Papa does most of the laughing.”

“I shan’t, for one!” said Willie.

“Nor I,” said Robbie.

“There won’t be a bit of fun getting up early on Christmas morning,”

said Nellie. “No boxes to open, and no stockings to empty!”

“_I’ll_ not hang up my stocking, and I’ll not get up early, either--so

there now!” said Annie.

“Why? won’t Santa Claus come at all?” asked Sallie and Maud, in one

breath.

“Yes, I s’pose he’ll come,” answered Annie, “but he won’t bring such

nice things as he does when papa’s home. He’s a very, very old friend

of papa’s.”

“No party! Just think of it!” said Susie. “’Twon’t seem like Christmas.”

“And the captain,” said Robbie, who was fond of giving the captain his

title, “isn’t coming back till the day school begins. He never did such

a thing before, and _I_ think it’s real mean!”

“Great old holidays!” said Lizzie.

“_I’m_ mad!” said Susie, who, by-the-by, was the eldest of them all.

“So are we all of us!” said the others in chorus.

Just then Mrs. Tutchy came into the room with Baby in her arms, and in

Baby’s arms was a funny, broken-nosed doll.

Baby was the sweetest, dearest little thing that ever played

“patty-cake” or said “goo.”

Her eyes were so blue that you thought of violets, blue-bells, and

summer skies, the moment you saw them, and then gave it up, for there

was nothing quite as blue as they were, and her silken hair lay all

over her pretty, round head in tiny rings just the size and color of

mamma’s wedding-ring.

Mrs. Tutchy looked both surprised and sad when she saw eight frowns and

pouts--perhaps I should say seven, as wee Maud’s almost disappeared

when she looked up at her mother--instead of eight smiles.

But she pretended not to notice the sixteen unlovely things, and said,

in a pleasant voice, “Baby is ready for a ride. I have wrapped her up

warmly. Get her hood, Susie, and, Willie and Robbie, fasten her little

wagon on your new sled. You may all go for a walk--I don’t remember

such a fine 24th of December for years--but I shall expect you home in

an hour, and whatever you do, take good care of Baby.”

Now if the Tutchy children had not been mad they would have jumped up

and down and shouted and half-smothered Baby with hugs and kisses; but

being mad, they went silently about--their silence, to tell the truth,

would have been considered noise by a small, quiet family--preparing

for their walk.

And when they were ready, if Maud had not set them the example, they

would have actually forgotten to kiss mamma “good-by.” Dear me! how mad

they were!

Off they started in a funereal manner, Susie and Maud ahead, the other

girls following two by two, and the boys dragging Baby, still holding

the broken-nosed doll, in her little wagon on the sled, bringing up the

rear.

Baby crowed and cooed and prattled to her dollie--there never was a

jollier baby in the whole world--but still Will and Bobbie frowned and

pouted.

“I wish we didn’t have to lug Baby everywhere,” at last said Willie.

“So do I,” said Robbie.

They had never thought, much less said such a thing before, but then

they had never been quite as mad before.

Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard, then the shrill blasts of horns

and the ear-piercing strains of a fife, and they could see a crowd

gathering in the distance.

“Hurry up!” called Susie, who had remarkably sharp eyes, “there’s some

men on horseback dressed awful funny!” and away she ran, dragging Maud

by the hand, and away went Nellie, Lizzie, Annie and Sallie after her

as fast as they could go.

“We can’t run with Baby,” said Willie, “and we’ll miss all the fun!”

“Too bad!” said Robbie, with two frowns rolled into one. “But I say,

Will, let’s go anyhow.”

“Pshaw! there won’t be anything to see by the time _we_ get there,”

said Will.

“I don’t mean to take Baby,” said Robbie. “We’ll leave her by the door

of this empty house. Nothing can happen to her before we come back.”

“That’s so,” said Will, “we won’t be gone a minute;” and they lifted

the sled, wagon and all, up the two steps that led to the door, and,

before Baby knew what they were about, they were off.

The other children were already two blocks away, but the boys soon

overtook them, and another block brought them to the spot where the

crowd was gathered.

The frowns and pouts, for the time being, disappeared, and the Tutchys

laughed long and loud at the antics of the queer-looking figures who

were parading about with a patch-work banner inscribed, “Old Original

Santa Claus Guards,” when suddenly Susie turned around, and with

frightened eyes cried out:

“Why Will,--Robbie, where’s Baby?”

Will hung his head, but Robbie, assuming a careless air, replied:

“The captain’s youngest daughter? O! she’s safe. We couldn’t bring her

and run after you too, and so we left her.”

But Susie waited to hear no more. “Show me where!” she said, and they

all started back again on a much faster run than that with which they

had followed “The Old Original Santa Claus Guards.”

The “house to let” was quickly reached.

No sled--no wagon--no broken-nosed doll--no BABY was there!

And now indeed the frowns and pouts took flight, and tears and sobs

came in their stead.

“O dear! O dear!” cried the Tutchy children, “what shall we do?”

Then they ran hither and thither, asking every one they met:

“Have you seen a baby in a little wagon on a sled?”

“A beautiful baby, with blue eyes?”

“A broken-nosed baby--O, no, no, no! a _lovely_ baby with a

broken-nosed doll?”

“A sweet baby, with golden curls?”

“A baby named ‘Snow-drop’ and ‘Diamond’ and ‘Bird’ and ‘Plum’?”

No one had seen her, and sadly the procession took up the line of march

for home.

How they told their mamma they never knew, but when the tale was done

she gave one great gasp, and tore out of the house like a wild woman,

with no hat on her head, and nothing but a small shawl about her.

“I must go too,” said Susie, and she flew after the poor distracted

mother, while the seven other children sat down on the floor and cried.

“O! how wicked we have been,” said Lizzie, “to say that to-morrow

wouldn’t be a merry Christmas, when we had such a darling, beautiful

baby!”

“And dear papa coming home in a few days!” sobbed Nellie.

“And mamma so good and sweet!” said Sallie.

“And all of us such very nice chilluns!” said Maud.

Willie and Robbie said nothing, but buried their faces in their hands,

and wept softly.

[Illustration: “I SEE DIS YERE BABY A-SETTIN’ ON A SLED.”]

The sun went down, and back came mamma and Susie, hollow-eyed and pale,

but no Baby.

Not one of the children thought of stockings, or presents, or parties,

or Christmas itself, that wretched Christmas Eve, but they clustered in

silence, real silence this time, about their mother, until one by one

they fell asleep.

But Mrs. Tutchy sat with dry, wide-opened eyes, listening--listening

all night long, until the joyous morning chimes rang out upon the

clear, frosty air.

As they ceased, the sharp ringing of the street door-bell echoed

through the quiet house.

Dropping wee Maud from her lap, where she had slept for several hours,

the poor little woman, her heart beating loud and fast, hastened with

trembling steps to the door and flung it open.

There stood a tall, straight negro woman, with a gaudy turban on her

head, a small boy, much darker than herself, clinging to her skirts

with one hand, and yes--O, thanks to the good God--holding the rope of

the boys’ sled with the other, baby in her arms!

Almost as wild with joy as she had been with sorrow, the mother

snatched her darling, and covered her with kisses.

“Come in, come in,” she cried, in her old, pleasant voice, the tired

gone out of her face, and her eyes shining bright with happiness.

Up jumped the Tutchy children from all corners of the room, and such a

hurrahing and shouting of “Merry Christmas,” and kissing of Baby never

was known, even in _that_ house before.

“An’ now, yo’ Abraham Ulysses, yo’ jess tell the lady yo’ information,”

said the woman to the grinning boy, pulling her dress out of his hand,

and pushing him forward.

“Needn’t push so,” said Abraham Ulysses, rolling his eyes about in the

most wonderful manner for a moment, and then fixing them solemnly on

Mrs. Tutchy’s face.

“I war a-goin’ along, an’ da’ war a drum down da’--I’s goin’ to have a

drum--”

“I’ll _drum_ ye,” interrupted his mother, giving him a smart slap on

the cheek. “Perceed on yo’ story widout no prelimnaries.”

“Yo’ jess stop dat now, Mary Ann Johnson. I ain’t tellin’ no story. I’s

tellin’ the truff, ebery word of it, an’ yo’d better mine yo’ brack

bisness, Mary Ann Johnson, and dat’s de fac’!”

“Lissen at dat ar sassy young nigger!” said Mary Ann Johnson, raising

her hands and eyes. “Go on, I tell yo.”

Abraham Ulysses went on.

“Da war a drum an’ sojers--I’s goin’ to be a sojer, a sword sojer--and

all de wite folks dey runned to see ’em, an’ I runned, too, but ’pears,

tho’, I couldn’t git da’, an’ I see dis yere baby a-settin’ on a sled,

an’ I sez to myself, ‘Bressed nippers! Abra’m ’Lysses, dat ar’s one of

dem angel babies dat done come done from hebben Chrismasses, an’ dat

ar’ sled she’s a-settin on, Santy Close’s goin’ to giv’ to yo’ sho’s

yo’ bohn!’ an’ I took hole dat ar rope, an’ drug dat ar’ sled--”

“To our premises,” interrupted his mother, “an’ he cum a-runnin’ in,

an’ a-shoutin’ ‘Hi! mam, here’s a little angel fer yo’! take her out de

waggin quick, an’ giv’ de sled to me.’”

“But bress yo’ heart, honey, I knowed dat ar’ baby was mislaid de

minute dese eyes beheld her, an’ I took de sweet thing in my arms an’

mollified her tears, an’ giv’ her some milk an’ soon she fell asleep.

“An’ I set up dis yere bressed night wid dat ar’ bressed chile,

’spectin’ ebery minute somebody’d come and require for her, an’ sho’

’nuff, a perliceman makes his appearment early dis yere bressed mornin’

an’ tole me--how he foun’ out war de chile was de Lord ony knows--to

fetch de pooty lammie here, an’ I done come tho’ Mr. Johnson is

a-waitin fer his breakfis’, an’ de pork a-sizzlin’ in de pan dis yere

bressed minute.”

“Thank you a million times!” said Mrs. Tutchy; and in the twinkling

of an eye Mary Ann Johnson was several dollars richer than when she

entered the room.

“Thank you a million of times!” repeated the children; and Will, after

whispering a moment with Robbie, went up to Abraham Ulysses, and placed

the rope of the sled, which he had dropped while telling his story, in

his funny little black hand. “The ‘Two-Forty’ is yours,” he said.

“Hi, mam! look a-yere, yo’ Mary Ann Johnson, wot I done tole yo’? Santy

Close _did_ send it to me,” screamed Abraham Ulysses, cutting a queer

caper, “an’ sho’s yo’s bohn dat ar’ baby _is_ an angel, too, ain’t

she?” turning to Mrs. Tutchy.

“Yes, my boy,” said the happy little woman, “the angel of _this_

house.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration: A TURKISH CARRIAGE.]

[Illustration]

MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.

BY MRS. H. G. ROWE.

“Now, Ef May, you go right straight back home! Lotty an’ I want a

little time to ourselves without a little snip like you taggin’ after,

an’ listenin’ to every word we say; so you go right straight back this

minute!”

Little Effie Maylie Marsh (called “Ef May” for short) turned her round

blue eyes for a moment full upon her sister, and then, without word

or sign, trotted composedly along in that sister’s wake, serenely

oblivious of the fact that she was the one too many in the little

party that had started, joyful at the prospect of a whole afternoon’s

confidential chat, for the blackberry patch over the hill, when poor Ef

May as usual intruded her roly-poly presence just when she was least

wanted.

“Did Mother know that you came?”

Sister Anne looked and spoke with all the dignity that her twelve years

was capable of, but the intruder never flinched.

“Yes, she did. _I_ said lemme go pick blackberry with the other girls,

an’ _she_ said”--

“What?”

“Yes, if they don’t pro_ject_.”

Both girls laughed, for Ef May was famous for her conversational

blunders, and good-natured Lotty whispered under the shelter of her

sunbonnet:

“Let her go, she won’t do any harm.”

“Yes she will. She’ll hear every single word we say and tell Gus of it

just as quick as she gets home. _I_ know her, of old.”

Poor Anne had had bitter experiences of her little sister’s quickness

of hearing and equal quickness in repeating whatever she had heard, and

she was far too shrewd to trust her on this occasion. But how to get

rid of the dear little nuisance--ah, that was the rub!

“May,” she whispered mysteriously, and Ef May pricked up her ears and

looked curious. “If you’ll go home now, like a good girl, you shall

(put your ear closer, so Lotty won’t hear) go to _Mrs. White’s party_,

to-night.”

Ef May had often heard older people talk about parties, and in her

inquisitive little soul she had longed many a time, to know more about

them, and especially to see with her own eyes what they were like; and

now she stood with her great blue eyes wide open like a pair of very

early morning glories, and a little flush of excitement deepened the

roses on her plump cheeks, as Anne continued in her most seductive

tones:

“Now, run right along, there’s a darling! and I’ll get you ready, my

own self, and see that you have a”--

“Rockaway?” suggested Lotty, in a voice that sounded suspiciously

hoarse, to which Anne replied, with an air of lofty disdain that,--

“Ef May had outgrown such babyish ways long ago, and would go to the

party as other folks did.”

Ef May was a very old bird for one of her age, and this “chaff” between

the two girls did strike her as a little suspicious. Perhaps there was

some hidden flaw in this magnificent offer, and jerking her little

yellow curly head one side like a shrewd canary, she fixed one round,

bright eye full upon her sister’s face as she asked solemnly:

“Now, Anne Marsh,--‘honest an’ true, black an’ blue,’ can I go to Mrs.

White’s party, this very night?”

“Yes, you shall, if I have to go with you myself.”

Ef May was satisfied; even Lotty’s half suppressed giggle passed

unobserved, and her face shone with happy anticipation as turning her

chubby feet homeward she smiled her parting salutation:

“Good-by,--I’ll go home an’ _’repair_ myself for the party.”

The girls laughed, but Lotty said rather regretfully:

“It was kinder too bad to _fool_ the little thing so. What will you say

to her when night comes?”

“Oh, I’ll coax her up, somehow--make her doll a new hat, maybe.”

And thus dismissing poor Ef May and her forthcoming disappointment from

their minds the two girls walked gaily on, laughing and chatting in

their pleasant school-girl fashion, as they gathered the rich purple

berries, heedless of scratched hands and stained finger tips, while

they listened to the partridge drumming in the cedars overhead, or

the social chatter of that provident little householder the squirrel,

who, perched upon some convenient bough out of possible reach of their

longing fingers, discoursed in the choicest squirrel language of his

way of preserving acorns and beechnuts by a receipt handed down from

squirrel forefathers as far back as the days of Noah--a receipt that

never had failed and never would.

It was after sunset when, with full baskets and tired steps, they

walked up the lane that led to Anne’s home, both starting guiltily as

they caught sight of Ef May’s little figure seated in the doorway with

her bowl of bread and milk and her blue eyes turned wistfully upon them

as they came slowly up the clover-bordered path.

“I was in hopes she’d be asleep,” muttered Anne with an uncomfortable

feeling at the heart as she saw the joyfully significant nod with which

her little sister greeted her, and hastily bestowing a generous handful

of the delicious fruit upon her, she said, with an effort to appear

natural and at ease:

“See what a lot of nice, ripe blackberries I brought you!”

The little girl smiled, but she shook her head with an air of happy

importance.

“I’ll put ’em away for my breakfast,” she whispered. “I must save my

appetite for _to-night_, you know.”

Anne could have cried with a relish.

“Oh, Ef May,” she began penitently, “I’m afraid I’ve done wrong in

telling you--”

“Come, Anne! Come right in! Supper is waiting for you,” called their

mother, and the confession was postponed until they should be alone

again; but when that time came, and, after her usual custom Anne took

the little one to her room to undress and put her to bed, the sight

of the child’s happy expectant face forced back the words that she

would have spoken and made her feel that she could not yet confess the

deception.

“You must curl my hair real pretty, now. I _do_ wish,” with a sigh,

“that mamma would let me wear her _waterwig_.”

And the bright eyes shone like stars, as she thus gave the signal for

the preparations to commence; and Anne obeyed, patiently brushing out

the tangled locks and curling them one by one over her fingers, while

she listened to the excited chatter of her little charge and vaguely

wondered how long it would be possible for those dreadfully wide awake

eyes to keep open. She was as long about her task as possible, but the

the last curl was finished at last, and Effie asked eagerly:

“What dress are you going to put on me?”

By this time poor Anne was fairly desperate.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said with a sudden determination to carry

out the joke to the end, “that this is a queer party, something like

the ‘sheet and pillow case balls,’ that you’ve heard of,--and everybody

goes to this in----in their nightgowns.”

Ef May looked up sharply.

“What’s that for?” she asked with a suspicious look at her sister’s

guilty face.

“Because--well, I guess its because its the fashion.”

Ef May pondered the subject for a moment, and then her brow cleared:

“I’ll wear my very bestest one, then, with the _tuckered out_ yoke an’

_Humbug_ trimming,” she said, complacently, “an’ my corals outside.”

Anne obeyed without a word, and the little lady surveyed herself in the

glass with a smile of intense satisfaction.

“Ain’t it most time to go?” she asked, and Anne detecting, as she

thought, just the ghost of a yawn in the tone, replied briskly:

“Oh no, not for some time yet. Come and sit in my lap,--there lay your

head on my shoulder, ea-sy, so as not to tumble the curls, and I’ll

sing, ‘Tap, tap, tapping at the garden gate,’ so you won’t get tired of

waiting you know.”

[Illustration: MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.]

The little girl was nothing loth to accept her sister’s offer, for in

spite of her exertions to keep herself awake the heavy eyelids would

droop, the curly head press more heavily, and the lively, chattering

little tongue grow slower and more indistinct in its utterances until

at last it was silent altogether; not even the tiniest line of blue

parted the golden lashes, the dimples settled undisturbed into their

old places about the rosy mouth while only the faintest breath of a

sigh answered to Anne’s good-night kiss as she softly laid her precious

burden down among the snowy pillows of her own little bed, and stole

away, with the secret resolve in her heart that never again, by word

or act, would she deceive the innocent little sister who trusted so

implicitly in her truth and honor.

* * * * *

It _was_ a funny party, and Ef May looked about her in astonishment

as a servant in dressing gown and night-cap, announced in a sleepy

sing-song tone:

“Miss Ef May Marsh?”

Mrs. White, a heavy-eyed lady in an elaborately embroidered and ruffled

night-dress, gave her hand a little languid shake, and asked, in a

faint, die-away voice:

“How do you rest, my dear?”

“Very well, ma’am, generally, ’cept when I eat too much cake for my

supper.”

At this Mrs. White nodded intelligently.

“’S that you, Ef May?” murmured a voice at her elbow, and there was

Tommy Bliss, his brown curls all in a tangle, and--oh, horrible! in a

yellow flannel night-gown with _legs_. Such a figure as he was with his

short body all the way of a bigness, and his little yellow straddling

legs like an old-fashioned brass andiron.

Ef May turned away and pretended not to see him, while she remarked

with an air of kindly condescension to a little girl near her:

“It’s _impressively_ warm here.”

“Kick the clo’es off, then.”

There was a refreshing briskness in the tones that went straight to Ef

May’s heart and she “took to” the stranger on the spot.

“Who is that old gentleman with such a big tassel in his night-cap?”

The little girl rubbed her eyes and looked in the direction indicated.

“Oh, that’s old Dr. Opiamus. He gives all the babies paragoric, and the

old folks laudanum, so that they can die and not know it.”

Ef May shuddered. There was something in the idea that even to her

childish fancy was horrible.

“Don’t you want another blanket?” asked her new friend; but Ef May

shook her head.

“I hear some music?” she exclaimed, and just then began the funniest

medley of sound that was ever heard:

First, a low, soft, half-frightened strain as of some wandering

night-bird calling to his mate to set her glow-worm lamp in the window

to light him home; then the quick, cheery note of the cricket chimed

in; the owl’s solemn “too-whit! too-whit! too-whoo!” broke in at

stately intervals; and the “rain-call” of the loon burst forth like a

wild, weird laugh in the midst of the softer sounds, until the dancers,

who had tried in vain to keep time with the strange music, faltered,

hesitated, and at last stopped entirely, and dropped off to sleep upon

the couches and easy chairs with which the rooms were filled, to a low,

monotonous march that sounded exactly like the patter of raindrops upon

the roof.

The costumes were a study, and Ef May who strange to say didn’t feel at

all sleepy herself, found it rare fun to watch them.

There were old ladies, who minus their false fronts, teeth, and

spectacles, would never have been recognized by their most intimate

friends, in “calf’s-head” night-caps tied tightly under their chins,

short night-gowns with wide, crimped ruffles at neck and wrists, and

blue flannel petticoats just short enough to show the felt slippers

beneath; young ladies, whose wealth of curls, braids and puffs had many

a time excited the admiration and envy of their less fortunate sisters,

appeared here, looking like picked chickens, their luxuriant tresses

packed away in a drawer, their flounces, and ruffles, and panniers, and

overskirts, all safe in the closet, their jewelry and their smiles laid

aside together, and they nodded indifferently to stately gentlemen in

tasselled night-caps and gorgeous dressing gowns, or frowned aside upon

the boys, who, in all sorts of night gear, bobbed about in the most

desirable nooks and corners, disturbing everybody with their clumsy

ways and sleepy drollery.

In short, taken as a whole, a comical looking set they were,--and

_so_ stupid! Ef May felt somewhat hurt and a good deal offended when

even her new friend dropped off into a doze instead of listening to

her questions, and she was only too glad when a good looking young

gentleman with a pen behind his ear and a roll of manuscript sticking

out of the pocket of his dressing gown, walked leisurely up to her and

began talking in a queer rambling fashion about the people around them.

“What makes some of the sleepiest folks groan and grumble so, all the

time?” asked the little girl curiously, and her companion laughed, a

queer, dreamy sort of a laugh, as he replied:

“Oh, those are the ones that came here on nightmares,--that sort of

riding always makes people restless, it’s worse than a hobby for that!”

He spoke the last words with a sudden fierceness that startled her, but

he didn’t seem to notice her frightened face for he kept on talking, in

that steady but far off tone:

“Do you see that man there with his face all twisted up into a knot?

That’s the head master of the Boys’ Grammar School,--he ate toasted

cheese for his supper and he’s having a hard night of it,--no doubt the

_boys_ will have _a hard time of it_, to-morrow.”

Ef May thought of brother Gus’ careless scholarship, and trembled.

“There’s a little girl that told a lie to her mother,--hear her moan

and sob! She will confess her fault and ask to be forgiven, in the

morning, I think.”

Ef May silently took the lesson to heart.

“Do you see that old fellow in the corner? How he grasps with his hands

and mutters, and now he is trying to call ‘murder!’ He has spent all

his life hoarding up riches, and now, sleeping or waking, he lives

in constant terror of losing his gold that he will neither spend for

himself or others.”

“But here,” and the speaker pointed to a corner near at hand, where

rolled up into a round yellow ball, was the figure of Johnny Staples,

sound asleep in the velvety depths of an easy chair, his good-natured,

honest little face, calm and peaceful, with not a cloud of suffering,

remorse or fear to mar its innocent beauty.

“But here,” he repeated, “is one who will find in our friend’s party

the refreshment and rest that only health and innocence can reasonably

expect.”

Just then the company showed signs of a general breaking up, and the

assembled guests gave such a loud, unanimous _snore_ that Ef May

started up, terrified half out of her senses; and pulling vigorously at

her sleeping sister’s sleeve, she cried out with a burst of angry tears:

“It’s a nasty, mean old party, any how! They snore, an’ talk in their

sleep, an’ make up faces, an’--I won’t go again, _so_, there!”

But she _did_ for all that.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

QUEER CHURCH.

BY REV. S. W. DUFFIELD.

Of course Queer Church is on Queer Street, in the town of Manoa. And

all good boys and girls who study geography know just where Manoa ought

to be.

The Rev. Mr. Thingumbob is the minister, and among the principal

attendants are Mr. So-and-So, Mr. What’s-his-Name, Mr. Jigmaree, Mr.

You-Know-Who, Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Tom Collins, the Misses Glubberson, Mr.

What-d’ye-Callum, that distinguished foreign family the Van Danks,

Mr. William Patterson, Mrs. Partington, and Mr. Gradgrind. You have

possibly heard of some of these persons before. Besides, there is quite

a congregation, and there is also a very big number of little people,

aged all the way from five to fifteen.

Where there are so many of them it naturally follows that they have a

large number of things their own way. But probably my story would not

have been written if a little girl called True Gravelines hadn’t come

to town. “True” is short for Gertrude, which was her name.

True had been taken from the Orphan Asylum by Mrs. Potiphar. And

because she loved the little lady, Mrs. Potiphar had her taught and

trained as her own daughter, and even Mrs. Grundy said that she

was charming, and the Glubberson girls--who were old maids and not

handsome--allowed that she would make a fine woman.

Finally True came across the story of “Goody-Two-Shoes,” which that

great big child of an Oliver Goldsmith told so sweetly, and she had

some new ideas. One of them was that she would like to make some

changes in Queer Church.

So she got all the boys and girls together after school and proposed

her plan. Now True was tall for her age, with dark eyes, and beautiful

rich brown hair. And she wore lovely dresses, and _such_ kid slippers,

and _such_ a splendid real gold chain with a true and genuine watch

that ticked and kept time. So of course she had matters a good deal in

her own hands.

The “chatter meeting” (as she called it) was held in the summer-house

that cost ten thousand dollars, and that stood among Mrs. Potiphar’s

roses in the side garden back of the lawn. And it resolved to send a

committee to wait on Mr. Thingumbob--for Queer Church was the only

church in Manoa, and they all went there on Sundays.

They weren’t a bit afraid of him--not they! He had lots of boys and

girls of his own, and one of them had such rosy cheeks that he looked

as though the angel had forgotten to bring him to the front door and

had stuck him in the apple-tree, whence, when he was ready to be

picked, his father had taken him down.

To be sure True was the head of the delegation, and it started off,

twenty strong, on Saturday morning. How the people at the Manse opened

their eyes as the troop came in, just as grave as you please, and

asking to be shown up to the study. Well, so did the minister when he

saw them. He laid down his pen and he said: “How do you do, gentlemen

and ladies! Pray be seated!” So they all sat down wherever they could,

and waited for True to begin.

“Mr. Thingumbob,” she said, “why can’t we be somebodies in church, too?”

“I don’t know, my dear. Aren’t you somebodies now?”

“O-dear-bless-me-no,” says True, all in a breath.

“Well, what would you like to do?” asked Mr. Thingumbob.

“Why, we’d just like to have one week all to ourselves in the church,

and one Sunday all to ourselves, to have sermons, and sing hymns, and

all such things.”

The pastor looked very queer--just like his church. Now _that_ had in

it everything to make a church pleasant--but it was all for big people.

Said he “True, I guess I’ll try it. You stay here with me and let the

rest of these youngsters go.”

So the black-eyed ten-year-older stayed and talked and planned, and

then how they laughed, and then they talked some more and laughed some

more, and then it was dinner-time. And away went True.

On Sunday morning in that beautiful autumn weather, Mr.

Thingumbob--who did pretty much as _he_ pleased too told the church

about it. All that week the children were to have it their own way.

Nobody was to do anything but the children. As a special favor to

himself he wanted to have _them_ do just as they pleased all that week

and next Sunday, and he’d be responsible.

When I first heard the story I thought the children and he must have

loved each a great deal, for him to make such an offer. And I guess

they did.

Let’s see. Monday was his reception evening and he wanted nobody to

come but the children. So they all came, and played big people, and

asked about his health and how he enjoyed his summer vacation, and

talked of business, and said their children (doll-children you know)

had the measles and the whooping-cough, and what luck they had in

shooting (with a bow-gun) and how they hoped he’d call soon and all

that. Such a time! How funny it did seem, too.

And then there was Tuesday evening, and Mr. Thingumbob had a literary

circle who met in the church parlor. So all the children went, and

all the big people were to have stayed away--but _I_ know some who

_peeked_. And Mr. Thingumbob told them about the little boy, Tom

Chatterton, up in St. Mary Radcliffe church, and the boxes with the old

papers, and how this small chap wrote poetry and how he pretended to

copy it from the old papers, and how great learned men went to words

over it and some said ‘He did’ and some said ‘He didn’t’ and some

called him a ‘forger’ and some called him a ‘genius,’ and how he got

tired of it all, and how he took a drink of arsenic and water and died

when he was hardly grown to be a man.--For that was just what the big

folks expected to talk about.

And then there was Wednesday evening, and that was Prayer-meeting.

And the big grown-up people all stayed away and the little folks all

came. How they did sing! And what a pleasant talk they had _that_

night too--about the little Boy that heard the doctors and asked them

questions until his mother thought he had run away and got lost. And

Mr. Thingumbob sat right down in the middle of them and they got all

around him and he was the only big man there was there.

And then there was Thursday night--when the church people used to go

to their Mission Chapel and help the poor people to sing and pray

and find out how they did and what they wanted. So they all went

together--all the larger children of Queer church, that is--and saw the

mission people. And True Gravelines felt so badly for a poor little

girl that she gave her her warm gloves. And Tommy What’s-his-name let

another fellow have his brand-new jack-knife because he hadn’t got any

at all of his own. And there wasn’t one of them that didn’t give the

Mission people pennies, or promise things to them, like the big folks.

And on Friday afternoon they had a sewing-society and the girls came

and sewed--dear, dear, what sewing it was!--and they brought lunch

along and the boys came to tea, and it was just like a pic-nic. And Mr.

Thingumbob was there too. And afterwards they played “Hy-Spy” in the

church up-stairs, down the aisles and in the galleries and back of the

organ--and True Gravelines, for real and certain, hid under the pulpit!

And then they set back all the chairs in the Sunday-school room and

played “Fox and Geese” and “Thread the Needle” and ever so many other

things that I don’t know the names of--only I _do_ know that they were

bound to act all the while like gentlemen and ladies, and they surely

did.

And then came Saturday and they forgot all about being big men and

women, and went off to play and let Mr. Thingumbob alone so he could

_write_ his sermon. But he said he didn’t want to write his sermon,

he wanted to _talk_ it, and he asked True what he should talk about.

And she told him she wanted to hear about the little girl that was

sick and died and that Some One took by the hand and made her well.

So he said he would, and he promised to use real short weenty-teenty

words--“Because” said True, “there’s some that’s only little bits of

things and _they_ won’t understand.”

And then Sunday came. And all the big people took back seats. And all

the little people went in to play big people, and opened their bibles

and their hymn-books, and stood up, and sat down, and sang, and leaned

their heads forward in prayer-time, and did just what they saw their

papas and mammas do. And one boy, Peter Gradgrind, he went to sleep,

because he said that was the way his father did. And Mr. Thingumbob

laughed when he heard that.

And that was a real short service. It was all there, every bit of it.

But the sermon was only a quarter of an hour long and all the rest was

in the same proportion.

When it came time for Sunday school they all went. And the biggest one

in each class taught the others. And by this time they had all got to

be so good that they were trying to be big folks in earnest. And there

was Tom Collins Jr. for Superintendent and _he_ tried his best. And

True played the tunes on the cabinet organ. And you never did see how

well it all went!

Weren’t they tired when night came! But out they came again--that is

the bigger ones did--and then Mr. Thingumbob talked to them about

growing to be men and women. It was a little sermon in short words,

but I don’t think they will forget it--for it was about a Boy who did

what his father and mother wanted him to do, who learned his father’s

business and worked to help the family along, who always did good to

others, who tried to be a boy and yet to do like grown-up folks all the

while. And by this time all the boys and girls knew how it seemed to

play at big people, and make calls, and hear sermons, and do good.

Then, they all went to bed and slept like tops.

And they talk there to this day about it. And isn’t it funny?--the

Queer Church people actually have fixed some of the seats in front

low enough for the little folks, and they are very proud to see them

sitting there like small men and women. And every now and then Queer

Church has a sermon in short words, and a prayer-meeting where the

children swarm on Mr. Thingumbob’s chair, and a sewing-club of little

girls--O, and ever so many strange nice things for children, that came

of that week of playing at big people.

And when you ask the folks there “What does Mrs. Grundy say?” and “How

does Mr. Gradgrind take it?” what do you think they answer?

Why, they just say “We don’t care. We want the children to grow up to

love the church and to love things that are good.”

Wouldn’t you like to go to Queer Church and make a week of it?

THE FUN-AND-FROLIC ART SCHOOL.

BY STANLEY WOOD.

Cousin Joe had been sitting half asleep over a book in the library,

when all at once the door opened just a little and a row of eyes peeped

in at him, the eyes beginning somewhere near the top of the door and

ending pretty close to the bottom. There were just five of these eyes;

the one nearest the top being large and of a lovely soft brown color,

the next one gray, the next one brown, the next blue, and the last one

away down towards the bottom, a mischievous brown.

“Peep!” said a voice, which matched the mischievous brown eye, and a

fat little hand was thrust in through the crack.

“May we come in?” asked a soft voice, which sounded near the top of the

door.

“Certainly,” said Joe, shutting his book and trying to look as though

he had not been half asleep over it. The door opened, and the cousins

marched in. First came Bryant, a chubby five-year-old, with sturdy

legs, a large head, yellow hair and brown eyes full of mischief, next

to him Leefee, seven years old, slight of figure, a little lady with

light hair and sky-blue eyes; then Adale, ten years old, her brown hair

flying and her brown eyes dancing; after her Maud, only fourteen, but

quite a young lady for all that, with serious gray eyes, and last of

all, Cora, a slender young woman of seventeen with soft brown hair and

eyes.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said cousin Joe, when they all stood before

him, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Your Royal Highness,” replied Maud, who had read one of Sir Walter

Scott’s novels, “we have a humble petition to present, in which--”

“My top’s broked,” interrupted Bryant, suddenly.

“And we want you to tell us a story,” said Adale with eagerness.

“Have you learned your lessons, Adale?” asked cousin Joe, very solemnly.

“Oh yes, indeed.”

“Where is Terra del Fuego?”

“But cousin, I study geography only five days in the week; you can’t

expect me to know where Terra del Fuego is on Saturday.”

“Really, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And you’ll tell us a story?” said Leefee.

“One we haven’t heard before,” suggested Adale.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant with much emphasis.

“Friends,” said cousin Joe, “the demand for new stories is in great

excess of the supply. When I finished telling you my last story,

Adale there remarked that she had read that story in WIDE AWAKE. Now

there’s a moral in that remark of Adale’s, for when my friends and

fellow-citizens have grown old enough to read stories they are too old

for me to tell them to.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“But, I’ll compromise with you; instead of a story I’ll give you a

drawing-lesson.”

“I get drawing-lessons enough at school,” said Adale.

“I didn’t know you could draw, cousin Joe,” said Clara.

“I can’t; and that’s the beauty of my system. The teacher doesn’t need

to know anything about drawing, and the students never learn anything.”

“How absurd!” said Cora.

“How curious!” said Maud.

“How pleasant!” said Adale.

“How funny!” said Leefee.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant.

“The class will come to order,” said cousin Joe.

Then they all gathered around the library-table, and each one was

provided with a pencil and a bit of paper.

“Students of the Fun-and-Frolic Art School,” said Joe, “we have met for

mutual deterioration in art. As you all ought to know, but no doubt

many of you do not, Sir Edward Landseer was a great artist in dogs,

Rosa Bonheur is a great artist in horses and kine, but we unitedly

will be great artists in--pigs.”

“Pigs?”

“Yes, ladies and gentleman, I repeat it--PIGS! Is there anyone in the

class who can draw a pig?”

“I can draw one, such as the boys draw on their slates at school,” said

Adale.

“Please draw one then,” said cousin Joe. In a moment Adale had

accomplished the task and handed him the result.

“This,” said Joe, as he held it up in view of the class, “this is

[Illustration: THE CONVENTIONAL PIG.]

“You see it doesn’t look like a pig, but every boy knows it is intended

to represent a pig. If it looked a good deal more like a pig he might

not recognize it. Thus conventional politeness does not resemble real

politeness, yet everybody knows what it is intended to represent. There

is a moral in that remark somewhere--if you can find it--and now we’ll

go on with the lesson. The first thing you must do in order to become

an artist in my school is to _shut your eyes_.”

“Shut our eyes!”

“Why, cousin,” said Cora, “I thought all artists had to keep their eyes

especially wide open.”

“There are some who do not,” said cousin Joe, sententiously.

“I’ve seen people shut _one_ eye and look at pictures through their

hand with the other--so,” said Adale, making a fist of her little hand

and peeping through it.

“Those people were _connoisseurs_,” said Joe; “we are artists and must

shut _both_ eyes, Cora; will you begin? Shut your eyes, place your

pencil on the paper, and draw the outlines of a pig as nearly as you

can.”

“But, cousin Joe, isn’t this a play for little girls, not

for--well--proper young ladies?”

“Very well, Miss Cora; we’ll begin with Leefee then.”

Little Miss Leefee seized her pencil eagerly, and shutting her eyes

uncommonly close, drew this:

[Illustration: THIS IS A PIG.]

How the rest did laugh at poor Leefee!

“You’ll have to write under it, ‘This is a pig,’” said Adale.

“And I will do it too,” said Leefee, and she did so, as you can see by

the picture.

“It’s your turn now, Adale,” said Joe.

“This will be a conventional pig, like my other one,” said Adale,

laughing as she shut her eyes. When she had finished her drawing,

all confessed, amidst great laughter, that it was not at all a

“conventional pig;” so Adale wrote under her production:

[Illustration: “THIS IS AN UNCONVENTIONAL PIG.”]

“It looks more like a tapir than a pig,” said Leefee, mindful of

Adale’s criticism on her effort.

“Well, isn’t a tapir a kind of unconventional pig?” replied the artist.

“Your pigs are all too long,” said Maud; “you don’t make them fat

enough.”

“You can be guided by your own criticism, for you come next after

Adale,” said cousin Joe, merrily.

Maud drew her pig with great care. “There!” said she, as she displayed

the result of her labors, “what do you think of that?”

[Illustration: MAUD’S FAT PIG.]

“Oh what a funny rabbit!” exclaimed Adale.

“It’s more like a rat,” said Leefee.

“It _must_ be a pig,” said Maud firmly, “I’m drawing pigs.”

In the mean time Miss Cora, who had declined to enter into such

childish sport, had been closely observed by Adale. Suddenly that

versatile young lady seized Cora’s paper before she could prevent it,

and exclaiming with a triumphant flourish, “Cora’s pig! Oh, _do_ look

at Cora’s pig!” she displayed this:

[Illustration: CORA’S FEROCIOUS PIG.]

Cora blushingly acknowledged that she had been induced by the

enthusiasm of the others to try and improve on their efforts.

“What a fierce-looking quadruped,” said Maud.

“Yes; I have called it my ferocious pig,” replied Cora, evidently

greatly enjoying her production.

“Ladies and gentleman of the Fun-and-frolic Art School,” said

cousin Joe, oratorically, “your incapacity has exceeded my highest

expectations. Your efforts to draw the lineaments of the domestic

animal known as the pig having exceeded in grotesqueness and falseness

to nature the efforts of many more experienced artists, I am naturally

very much gratified. I now have the honor to announce to you that

‘school’s out.’”

“Oh not yet, cousin.”

“Not yet?”

“No; _you_ must draw a pig,” said Maud.

“You must draw a pig,” said Adale.

“You must draw a pig,” said Leefee.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant.

“Necessity knows no law,” said cousin Joe.

“Bring me my pencil now, my hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift

from my waked spirit airily and swift,” and with an air of vast

importance he began to execute his task. The little cousins were

so fearful that he would take a sly peep at his work, that they

blindfolded him, and his production was received with shouts of

laughter. When they took off his muffler he saw this:

[Illustration: THE ACEPHALOUS OR ONE-EYED PIG.]

“_Oh_ what a bad pig,” said Cora.

“Oh _what_ a bad pig,” said Maud.

“Oh what a _bad_ pig,” said Adale.

“Oh what a bad _pig_,” said Leefee.

“My top--”

“Shall be mended,” said cousin Joe, taking little Bryant upon his knee.

SOME QUAKER BOYS OF 1776.

BY C. H. WOODMAN.

In 1776, the eastern end of Long Island was over-run with the English

troops and mercenaries. There was no security to life or property:

everything was at the mercy of the wicked Hessians.

At this time there was living on the island, and not far from New York,

a Quaker by the name of Pattison. Henry Pattison, the father, was one

of the strictest of the sect; of a noble, generous nature, a kind

neighbor, and a wise councilor. He was universally loved and revered.

He won the name of the Peace-Maker.

He owned a fine farm, and was growing wealthy, when the war came and

sad days settled down upon the community.

Mother Pattison was the true type of the Quaker wife and mother.

Under her tidy white cap beamed the placid, tender face which is so

common among these pure-hearted people, and her skillful advice and

winning words of consolation were often heard in the house of the sick

and afflicted. Eight sturdy boys, and one little sweet, timid flower

of a daughter, blessed this good couple, and made their home one of

happiness and love.

Edmund, the oldest son, was a handsome, manly lad of eighteen. Beneath

his broad-brimmed hat, his quiet “thee” and “thou,” beat a fiery and

fearless heart that often broke through the mild Quaker training and

made him, notwithstanding his peace principles, a leader among his

fellows.

One day, as he sat in the barn, quietly enjoying his noonday rest, a

British trooper rode up to the door. Seeing Edmund he shouted:

“Come, youngster, make haste and stir yourself. Go and help my driver

there unload that cart of timber into the road!”

Now Edmund had just been hard at work loading that wood, to carry it to

a neighbor to whom it was sold.

Both wagon and oxen belonged to his father.

“Come, hurry!” said the horseman.

“I shall not do it!” said Edmund.

“What--sirrah!” cried the ruffian, “we shall see who will do it!” and

he flourished his sword over the boy’s head, swearing and threatening

to cut him down unless he instantly obeyed.

[Illustration: “SEEKING FOR SOME FIRM SPOT OF ENTRANCE”--PAGE 82.]

Edmund stood unflinchingly, fiercely eyeing the enraged soldier.

Just then a little boy, Charles, the son of a neighbor, ran into the

house and told Mrs. Pattison that “a Britisher was going to kill her

Edmund.” She rushed to the barn, begged the soldier to stop, pleaded

with her son to unload the wood and so save his life.

“No fear of death, mother; he dare not touch a hair of my head.”

“Dare not!” The horseman flourished his sword before the lad’s face and

swore he would kill him instantly.

“You dare not!” said Edmund firmly; “and I will report you to your

master for this.”

The fierce and defiant look really awed the trooper, and he mounted

his horse, although he still told the boy he would “cut him into inch

pieces.”

Edmund knew that such things were actually done by the soldiers, and

he appreciated the man’s terrible rage. He coolly walked across the

barn-floor, and armed himself with a huge pitchfork.

“You cowardly rascal!”--the boy’s words came fierce and sharp. “Now

take one step towards this floor, and I stab you with my pitchfork.”

The gentle Mrs. Pattison expected to see her boy at once shot down like

a dog. She ran to the house, and, meeting her husband, sent him to the

rescue.

Friend Pattison rode hastily up, and said calmly to the trooper:

“You have no right to lay a finger upon that boy, who is a

non-combatant.”

The man did not move.

Then Farmer Pattison turned toward the road, saying he would ride and

call Col. Wurms, who commanded the troops.

Upon this the horseman, thinking it best for him to see his master

first, drove the spurs into his horse and galloped away, uttering vows

of vengeance.

The little boy who had alarmed Mrs. Pattison was a lad of

fourteen,--the son of a neighbor who was in Washington’s army.

Sitting one day under the trees, with the little Pattisons, talking

indignantly of the “British thieves,” he saw a light-horseman ride up

toward a farm-house just across the pond. He guessed at once what the

man was after. He tried to signal the farmer, but in vain.

“They are pressing horses,” cried Charlie; “they always ride that way

when stealing horses.”

He thought of his father’s beautiful colt, his own pet.

“Fleetwood shall not go!” said he.

Running as fast as he could to the barn, he leaped on to his back, and

started for the woods.

The red-coat saw him, and, putting his spurs into his horse, rising in

the saddle and shouting, he tore down the road at headlong speed.

Charlie’s mother rushed to the door. She saw her little son galloping

towards the woods with his murderous enemy close upon his heels. Her

heart beat fearfully, and she gave one great cry of prayer as her brave

little boy dashed into the thick woods, and out of sight, still hotly

pursued by the soldier.

The trees were close-set and the branches low. Charlie laid down along

the horse’s neck to escape being swept off. He cheered on, with low

cries, the wild colt, who stretched himself full length at every leap.

With streaming mane, glaring eyes, distended nostrils, he plunged

onward. Charlie heard the dead dry boughs crackling behind, and the

snorting of the soldier’s horse, so near was his fierce pursuer. On, on

Fleetwood dashed, bearing his little master from one piece of woods to

another, till the forest became dense and dark. He had now gained some

on the soldier; and, seeing ahead a tangled, marshy thicket, Charlie

rode right into its midst.

Here he stood five hours without moving.

The soldier, so much heavier with his horse, dared not venture into the

swamp. He rode round and round, seeking for some firm spot of entrance.

Sometimes he did come very near; but every time sinking into the wet,

springy bog he was obliged to give it up; he could not even get a shot

at the boy, the brush was so thick, Fleetwood instinctively still as a

mouse, and finally, with loud oaths, he rode off.

But the lad and the colt still stood there hour after hour, not knowing

whether they might venture out; but at nightfall his mother, who had

been watching all the while, with tears and prayers, saw her dear boy

cautiously peeping through the edge of the woods. By signs she let

him know that the danger was past, and, riding up to the house, he

dismounted. Then, leaning against his beautiful colt, his own bright,

golden curls mingling with Fleetwood’s ebon mane, the plucky little

fellow told his adventures to the eager group.

The Quaker neighbors in this vicinity had at last been driven, by the

outrages of the hostile troops, to use some means of defense. They

agreed that, whenever a house should be attacked, the family would fire

a gun, which would be answered by firing from other houses, and so the

neighborhood become aroused.

But Farmer Pattison so abhorred the use of a gun that he would have

none in his house. He procured a conch-shell which, when well blown,

could be heard a great way.

One night, while Charlie’s family were all soundly sleeping, and,

without, the clear November air was unstirred by a breath of wind,

suddenly the grum report of the conch boomed in at the windows and

alarmed the whole house.

[Illustration]

Wakened so unceremoniously, all thought it was a gun; but no one could

tell whence it came. The venerable grandfather knelt in prayer; the

sick English officer, staring at the house, ordered his two guards to

prepare for defence; the mother sat trembling, while the two little

girls, Grace and Marcia, hid their faces in their mother’s night-dress.

But our Charlie was brave. He loaded the old firearm, and, going

down to the piazza blazed away, loading and firing, to frighten away

the unseen foe. Through the still air could be heard the guns of the

neighbors, all aroused to defend their homes.

But no burning building could be seen, nor were there any shouts or

noises of conflict.

The alarm subsided, but for the rest of the night the little family sat

anxious and waited for the dawn. In the morning they learned the cause

of the alarm. It seems that at noon, the day before, the Pattison boys

were trying their lungs on the conch, calling the hired men to dinner.

Little Joseph stood by, waiting his turn, but it didn’t come. Dinner

was ready, and the shell was put away on the shelf over the kitchen

door. The little fellow’s disappointment was great, and that night he

dreamed of robbers, of English soldiers and burning houses. He dreamed

that he must blow the shell.

Up he jumped, ran down stairs, and through two rooms, still asleep,

and, standing in a chair, got the conch from the shelf. Going to the

back door he blew it lustily, and aroused the whole family. They rushed

down-stairs in great alarm, and there stood the little boy, bareheaded

and in his nightgown, while great drops of perspiration stood on his

face, from the exertions he had made!

WHAT I HEARD ON THE STREET.

BY CLARA F. GUERNSEY.

Not long ago, while I was waiting for the cars at a street corner, I

heard two men talking together. The one was a young fellow of nineteen

or so, a big, tall youth, whose appearance would have been pleasing had

he not worn, in addition to a general air of discouragement, that look

of being on the down-hill road, which, once seen, is unmistakable.

His clothes were sufficiently good in quality, but they seemed never

to have known the clothes-brush, his coat lacked four or five buttons,

for which three pins were a very inadequate substitute, and he had an

aspect generally of having forgotten the use of soap and water.

Perhaps all this might not have been his fault. It is possible he had

no womankind belonging to him, though I don’t hold that an excuse for

missing buttons, and his work might have been such as bred fluffiness

and griminess, but no man’s work obliges him to slouch when off duty,

to keep his hands in his pockets, or tilt his hat on one side.

The other man was a brisk, middle-aged person, whom I take to have been

a worker in iron in one way or another. He had on his working-dress,

and his hands were black, but the blackness in his case was a mere

outside necessity, and went no farther than the surface. He looked

bright and sensible, and it was in a pleasant voice that he asked the

younger man:

“Well, Jim, got a place?”

Jim gave a weary, discouraged sigh, and shifted from one foot to the

other.

“Yes, I’m in Blank’s, but I might as well not be.”

“Why?”

“Oh,” returned Jim, in a forlorn manner, “what’s the use? I work all

the week, and when Saturday night comes, there’s just five dollars.

What’s that? Why, it’s _just nothing_.”

“No, it ain’t,” replied the senior, laying a kindly hand on the other’s

shoulder. “It’s _just five dollars better than nothing_. Put it that

way, Jim.”

“Well, now, that’s so,” said Jim, brightening up wonderfully after a

minute’s thought. “It does make it seem different, don’t it?” And he

walked off, apparently much comforted.

If you think of it, Reader, you will see that the difference between

five dollars and nothing is infinitely greater than that between five

and five thousand.

[Illustration]

KIP’S MINISTER.

BY KATE W. HAMILTON.

“‘_Jack and Jill went up the hill_,’” piped Bud’s shrill voice from the

hayloft in the barn where she was hunting eggs. “‘_To fetch a pail of

water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill_----’”

If Bud’s own name had been Jill she could not have come “tumbling

after,” any more speedily than she did. A board tilted, her foot

slipped, and in a moment she was sitting on the floor below.

Fortunately a quantity of hay had fallen with her, so there was no

broken crown or other crushed bones; but her dignity was considerably

jarred, and glancing around to see whether any one had witnessed the

mishap, she discovered Kip looking out toward the road from a door at

the farther end of the building.

“Kip Crail! what makes you stand there for?” she demanded, severely.

“I’m a-watching my minister,” answered Kip slowly.

It is not every boy who owns a minister all by himself, but Kip spoke

as if nobody else had any claim upon this one; and as he seemed to

have noticed neither her tone nor her downfall, Bud regained her

chubby feet, shook the hay from her yellow curls, and going to Kip’s

side looked curiously after the slightly grey-haired man, in clothing

somewhat worn, who was quietly picking his way along the road.

Her blue eyes discerned nothing remarkable, and she turned away

disappointed.

“Ho! Why he’s everybody’s minister; he a’n’t yours.”

Kip knew better than that. Did not he remember who always knew him,

and stopped to shake hands and say “How do you do, Christopher?”--a

name that made him feel nearly as big as anybody. And who always asked

after his mother? And did not forget when he told him little Bob was

sick? The people in the house hitched up their sleek horses and nice

carriage, and drove two miles to the city church every Sunday; but Kip,

with freckled face shining from soap, head wet and combed till not a

hair could stir from its place, and red hands thrust into his pockets,

trudged whistling over the hill to the little frame church where most

of the people from the straggling villages and the neighboring farms

gathered.

“So he is my minister,” said Kip stoutly as he considered the matter.

He would have liked to share the honor that day, however, with the

inmates of the large comfortable farm-house; for they were really

the most prosperous family in the village, while he, only a distant

relative, was “chore boy and gener’ly useful” as he phrased it. And

there was to be a “donation party” at his minister’s home that very

evening.

“If they’d just give something handsome!” he said to Nancy the “hired

girl,” who was busy in the kitchen.

“They won’t never think of it no more’n they will of flyin’,” replied

Nancy, dextrously turning a flapjack, and the subject also, by

requesting Kip to “run for an armful of wood.”

Somebody always wanted wood or water, or something from the cellar, or

something from the attic, whenever Kip was in sight. But he scarcely

thought of the constant calls that morning, so full was he of other

thoughts. Nancy might dispose of the question carelessly, but he could

not. He was connected with the house, and he felt that the honor of the

house was involved. Beside, he wanted his minister well treated and he

knew--few knew better than Kip--how sorely the “something handsome”

was needed in the shabby little parsonage. He did not mean they should

“never think of it” as Nancy had said! he would remind them by bringing

up the subject naturally and innocently in some way.

So he lingered in the room a few minutes after breakfast, while Mrs.

Mitchel was gathering up the dishes, and Mr. Mitchel consulting the

almanac. He coughed once or twice, and then, staring straight out of

the window, observed as follows:

“There goes our big rooster! He’s most as big as a turkey, a’n’t he,

Aunt Ann? Turkeys always make me think of Thanksgivings, Christmases,

Donations and such things--oh yes! there _is_ going to be a donation

down to the minister’s to-night!”

Kip considered that very delicately and neatly done!

“Eh? what?” said Mrs. Mitchel, paying no attention except to the last

sentence.

“Who’s going to have a donation?”

“Down to the minister’s,” repeated Kip. “Everybody’ll take ’em things,

you know--flour and potatoes and wood--something handsome, I hope--the

folks that can ’ford to.”

That was another masterly hint. Kip chuckled to himself at his success

in managing his self-appointed task but his spirits sank with Mr.

Mitchel’s first words.

“Well, now, I don’t know as I approve of that way. The folks here can

do as they please--it’s no affair of mine--but seems to me it’s better

to pay a man a decent salary, and let him buy his own things.”

“Don’t know as _I_ ’prove of that way either,” soliloquized Kip

indignantly when he found himself alone behind the wood-pile. “Don’t

know as I ’prove of folks giving me their old clothes,” looking down

at his patched knees. “Seems to me ’twould be better to pay me decent

wages and let me buy my own clothes. But seein’ they don’t, these

trousers are better’n none; and I guess if Uncle Ralph had a sick wife

and three or four children he’d think a donation party was a good deal

better’n nothing.”

Ideas that found their way into the brain under Kip’s thatch of light

hair were sure to stay, and the cows, the chickens, and the wood-pile

heard numerous orations that morning--all upon one subject.

“Now if I owned all these things, do you s’pose I’d go off to the big

city church every Sunday, and wouldn’t go down now and then to see what

was a-doin’ for the poor folks round here? And when I went, don’t you

s’pose I’d see how his coat was gettin’ shinier and shinier, and her

cloak fadeder, and all the new clothes they have is their old ones made

over? A boy don’t like that kind of dressin’-up partic’lar well, and

how do you s’pose my minister feels? Don’t you b’lieve I’d know when

she got sick, how the bundles from the grocery-store was smaller and

fewer ’count of the bottles that had to be paid for and the doctor’s

bill? And wouldn’t I hear the tremble in his voice when he prays for

them that has ‘heavy burdens to carry?’ Just wait till I’m a man and

see!”

Old Brindle looked at him meditatively, and one pert little bantam

mounted the fence and crowed with enthusiasm, but no member of

the barn-yard offered any suggestions; and going to a little nook

behind the manger, Kip drew forth his own offering for the important

evening--a little bracket-shelf, clumsily designed and roughly whittled

out, but nevertheless the work of many a precious half-hour. He looked

at it rather doubtfully. It did not altogether satisfy even his limited

conceptions of beauty.

“But then if you keep it kind of in the shade, and look at it sort

o’sideways--so--it does pretty well,” he said, scrutinizing it with one

eye closed. “I guess Mis’ Clay will, seein’ she’s had to look sharp for

the best side o’things so long.”

But how he did wish the others would send something--“something that

would count,” as he said. He was down on the ground gathering up a

basketful of chips when one of the well-kept horses and the light

wagon passed out of the yard and down the lane bearing Mr. Mitchel away

to the town. A host of brilliant possibilities suddenly trooped through

Kip’s thoughts as he watched the vehicle out of sight. His wish grew

into something deeper and stronger.

“Oh please _do_ make him think and bring back something nice for them!”

he murmured.

Bud, who had a fashion of appearing in the most unexpected times and

places, looked at him wonderingly from around a corner of the wood-pile.

“What makes you do that for?” she asked solemnly.

“’Cause,” answered Kip briefly, with a flush rising to his freckled

cheeks. “I don’t care,” he whispered to himself. “The minister’s folks

are good and care for other folks, and it’s ’bout time somebody was

takin’ care of them.”

Bud did not quite accept the lucid explanation given her. She seated

herself on a log and pondered the subject until she reached a

conclusion that she considered satisfactory; and after that, though

she said nothing about it, she watched quite as eagerly and much more

expectantly for her father’s return than did Kip.

There certainly was something new and unusual in the light wagon when

at last it drove up to the door again. Both children discovered that

at once--Bud from the window, Kip from the piazza--a great, easy,

luxurious arm-chair. Mr. Mitchel lifted it out and carried it into the

house.

“See here! What do you think of that?” he said to his wife

triumphantly. “I happened into a furniture store where they were

auctioning everything off and I got this at such a bargain that I took

it in a hurry. Isn’t that as comfortable a chair as you ever saw? Just

try it.”

Mrs. Mitchel examined and admired; Nancy who came to the kitchen door

exclaimed and interjected; and the household generally bestowed such

unqualified commendation that Mr. Mitchel’s gratification increased.

“I think I know a good thing when I see it,” he declared, “and this

couldn’t be bought anywhere else for that money. Nothing in the world

the matter with it either, not a flaw about it except”--showing where

the back could be lowered to make it more of a reclining chair--“this

spring works a little hard. But a cabinet-maker could fix that in a few

moments, and we’ll have it done right away. Kip!” as the boy passed the

door--“Kip, could you take this down to the parson’s this afternoon? I

want it to go at once.”

Kip could scarcely believe his ears. “Yes _sir_!” he said with his eyes

fairly dancing. “You mean to send it to him, uncle Ralph? guess I can

take it!”

He never called his minister “the parson”--it scarcely sounded

respectful enough--but of course he knew who was meant and he was

far too happy for any criticising thought. That handsome easy chair!

Wouldn’t the very sight of it rest poor tired Mrs. Clay? Kip could see

just how her pale face would look leaned back against the cushions.

[Illustration: “AND JILL CAME TUMBLING AFTER.”]

“It’s pretty heavy for you to carry so far though,” Mr. Mitchel was

saying when Kip recalled his wandering wits far enough to understand.

“’Jim could take it in the wagon perhaps”--

“I might put it in the hand-cart and wheel it over,” interposed Kip

with a sudden inspiration. He could bear no delay, and he wanted to

take it himself.

Mr. Mitchel commended that suggestion as “not a bad notion on Kip’s

part.”

“And what shall I tell him, uncle Ralph?”

“Tell him--why, he’ll understand; he can see for himself. Tell him I

sent it, and he’ll know what to do with it, I suppose.”

Kip supposed so too. He waited for no further directions, but made

a partial toilet very expeditiously, and was soon safely out on the

road with his treasure. To say that he was pleased and proud is a

very faint description of his feelings. He trundled that hand-cart by

no out-of-the-way route, and he was not long alone; the village boys

hailed him:

“Hello, Kip! What you got there?”

“It’s our folks’ present to the minister,” answered Kip grandly, and

one after another the admiring boys fell into line until the chair

formed the center of a triumphal procession. The village soon knew of

the gift, as the village always did know of everything that happened

within its limits, and Kip had the satisfaction of being stopped

several times, and of hearing that Mr. Mitchel had done “the handsome

thing,” and that the chair was “out-and-out nice.”

So, in a beatific state, he reached the gate of the little parsonage.

There was no lack of assistance. Every urchin was anxious to share at

least the reflected glory of helping to carry it, and it was borne to

the house very much as a party of ants bear off a lump of sugar--by

swarming all over it. The minister came to the door, the body-guard

fell back, and Kip presented his prize.

“Here’s something that Uncle Ralph sent you, sir; he bought it in town

to-day. He said tell you he sent it, and he guessed you’d know what to

do with it,” he said with shining eyes.

The minister’s eyes shone too, and then grew dim. This was so

unexpected, and it meant so much to him! It had sometimes seemed hard

to that kindly, tender heart that the one of all the village who could

have done most, had never manifested any interest in his work for those

poor people--had not lifted with even a finger the burden of care and

sacrifice, or shown any disposition to aid or encourage. But there

must have been sympathy after all. This was a generous gift in its

luxuriousness--a thoughtful one, for it was for the dear invalid. He

opened a door near him and said softly:

“Rachel, look here!”

How he had wanted just such an easy, restful cushioned niche for the

worn slight form! The boys could not understand what it was to him in

itself and in what it represented--“Only his voice had a tremble in it

like when he prays,” Kip said to himself on his homeward way.

However he hated “fixed up company” in general he would not for

anything miss the gathering at the parsonage that evening, and wood and

water, cows and kindlings must be looked after early. So it happened

he did not speak with Mr. Mitchel again until nightfall. Then that

gentleman bethought him of his commission.

“Ah, Kip, carried the chair safely, did you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, what did he say to it?”

“I wish you’d seen him, uncle Ralph!” said Kip radiantly. “Not, as he

said much either, only something ’bout he didn’t know how to thank

you--”

“How to thank me?” repeated Mr. Mitchel in amazement. “Why should he?

He isn’t so short of work as all that, is he?”

“Short of work, uncle Ralph!” It was Kip’s turn to open wide eyes

of astonishment. “I should think not, with all his preachin’ and

Sunday-school and poor folks! I don’t s’pose he thought he’d have time

to sit in it much himself; but Mrs. Clay, she’s sick--”

“What have the Clays to do with it?” demanded Mr. Mitchel with clouding

brow and a dawning suspicion of something wrong. “I told you to take it

to Mr. Parsons--the cabinet-maker’s--to have that spring fixed.”

Kip saw it all then, but he wished the floor would quietly open and

drop him into the cellar, or that he could fly through the roof. He

thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and his face flushed and paled.

“I--thought--you said the parson’s,” he stammered. “I s’posed ’twas for

the minister’s donation, and so--”

“You took it there?” Mr. Mitchel completed the sentence. “Now how in

the world--”

But it was too much to be borne. Kip waited for nothing more, but

rushed from the house, and if in the shadow of the friendly wood-pile

he leaned his head against the rough sticks and cried, there was no one

to see.

“They may fix it up any way they please,” he said. “I can’t do it! I

can’t and I wont!”

A little later he stood by the old gate watching the great yellow moon

come up, and digging his red fists into his eyes now and then to wipe

away some stray tears of shame, indignation and grief that still

gathered there. This was not a very nice world anyhow, he decided with

a queer aching spot at his heart. Almost it seemed as if he had asked

for bread and received a stone--a sharp heavy stone at that.

Indoors Mr. Mitchel had expressed very distinctly his opinion of the

carelessness and obtuseness that could have caused such a blunder, and

the “awkwardness of the whole thing,” and in no little vexation was

trying to find some means of remedy.

“I might write a note and explain, but then--I declare it’s the most

awkward disagreeable thing I ever knew! Such a stupid blunder.”

“Papa,” interposed the slow, wondering voice of Bud, “I didn’t know

there could be any mistakes up there.”

“Up where, child?”

“In heaven. Kip prayed you’d bring something for his minister--’cause

I heard him--behind the wood-pile,” said Bud with slow emphasis. “I

thought that made the chair come. I’m most sure ’twasn’t any mistake,

papa.”

Mr. Mitchel pushed aside pen and paper, put on his hat and walked out.

He really did not know the best way out of the difficulty. It was very

vexatious, and in his perplexity he journeyed towards the parsonage.

When he came in sight of the house he paused. What did he intend to do?

Go there when others were making their offerings, and explain that he

had not wished to show any friendship or appreciation, and wanted to

take back what had been proffered through mistake? Certainly not! He

turned, but at that moment some one joined him.

“Ah, Mr. Mitchel! Just going in? That was a generous gift of

yours--exactly the thing for poor Mrs. Clay.”

Others came with similar comment. There was no chance to say anything,

and scarcely knowing why or how, Mr. Mitchel found himself in the

well-filled room, saw the sweet, pale face, with its smile of welcome

for all, looking out from the cushions of the new chair, and felt the

quick warm grateful clasp of the minister’s hand. Something in look and

clasp and murmured words brought a sudden throb to Mr. Mitchel’s heart,

a moisture to his eye.

Then, before he had time to recover from his bewilderment, some one

had called on him to “make a few remarks,” and others echoed the

request, and he found himself pushed forward to the front and heard

his own voice saying, “How much cause all had to value Mr. Clay’s work

in the village,” and expressing the hope that he might “enjoy these

simple offerings as tokens of esteem and friendship.” Aye, and he

meant it too, for catching the spirit of those around him, and swiftly

comprehending more of the good man’s life and work than he had ever

done before, he only regretted that he had not sent the offering of his

own free will and pleasure.

He found an opportunity, however, to whisper to Kip who had slipped in

later with very sober face--a face that brightened at sight of him.

“It’s all right. Don’t say a word to anybody about it.”

He had a pleasant evening despite a feeling of strangeness about it,

and on his homeward way muttered something to himself about “a blessed

blunder.” What he told at home Kip did not know, but when the boy

arrived, a little later, Bud, wide-awake and listening for his step,

raised her yellow head from its pillow and called:

“Ke--ip! it all comed out right, didn’t it?”

Kip thought it had. He was sure of it afterward when he saw the

friendship that from that night began between the Mitchels and “his

minister.”

[Illustration]

JIM’S TROUBLES.

BY GRANDMERE JULIE.

[Illustration: Spot.]

“I know he didn’t do it,” said good Mrs. Martin; “he says he didn’t do

it, and I believe him.”

“Then you don’t believe _me_?” asked Mrs. Turner rather severely. “I

wish I had never seen that boy! I’m sure I have done my best by him,

and been a mother to him. And now he’s turned out bad, everybody blames

me for it. Father says, if he has done it, it is my fault for tempting

him; Nelly has nearly cried her eyes out about it; and everybody seems

to think it is more wicked to lose a spoon than to steal it--I declare

they do.”

“Well, he’s been a good, honest boy ever since he came here--a real

nice, obliging, pleasant spoken little fellow; and it stands to reason

a good boy don’t turn bad all in a jerk like that,” said Mrs. Martin,

shaking her head.

“I don’t know about jerks,” answered Mrs. Turner, “but I do know that,

as soon as I had done cleaning that spoon, I put it back in the case,

and as I was a-going to put it away, Jim comes in to get a pail, and

says he, ‘ain’t it a pretty little box!’ and says I: ‘yes, but what’s

in it is prettier.’ Then I smelt my bread a-burning, and I put down the

case right here,” said Mrs. Turner striking the corner of her kitchen

table, “and I ran to see to my bread, and when I came back Jim was

gone, and my spoon was gone too. And I don’t suppose it walked off

itself--do you?”

“Of course it didn’t,” said Mrs. Martin; “but some one else might have

come in, or it may be somewhere”--

“I’d like to know where that somewhere is, then,” said Mrs. Turner; “I

have looked high and low and turned the house upside-down for a week,

and I haven’t seen any spoon yet. And nobody could come in without my

seeing them because the front door was locked and so was the kitchen

door, and anybody who came in or went out had to go through the back

kitchen where I was. I saw Jim go out with his pail, but I didn’t

suspect anything then--why should I? And it isn’t the spoon I mind so

much, it’s the trouble, and the idea of that boy that had been treated

like one of the family--but I won’t say anymore about it. I’ll send him

back to New York, and”--

“No, don’t do that! I guess I’ll take him,” said Mrs. Martin. “He

hasn’t any home to go to, and if you send him back, there’s no telling

what will become of him. Where is he?”

“I guess he is sulking about the place somewhere,” said Mrs. Turner.

“He said he hadn’t done it, and now he won’t say another word. I’ll

call him if you really want him.”

Mrs. Martin said she really wanted him, and Mrs. Turner, stepping out

on the kitchen porch, called out, “Jim, Jim!”

There was no answer, but pretty soon a boy walked across the yard

toward the house, and stopped near the porch.

He was a boy about twelve years old, tall of his age and rather thin,

and with a round, honest face, which looked very pleasant when he was

happy, but which was at that moment very much clouded.

“I’ll speak to him by myself, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Martin,

shutting the door and seating herself on the porch step.

“Come here, my boy,” said she kindly, while her homely face looked

almost beautiful with goodness. “I don’t believe you are a bad boy; I

think it’s all a mistake, and it will come out all right some day. I am

going to take you home with me, if you will come.”

Jim’s brown eyes brightened, but he answered, not very gratefully,

“Thank you, but I’d better go away from here--they all believe I took

it.”

“No, they don’t; I don’t for one. You had better stay and behave like a

good, honest lad, and I’ll be a true friend to you. Besides, we mustn’t

run away from our troubles! you know they are sent to make us good and

strong, don’t you see, my boy?”

Having finished her little sermon, Mrs. Martin got up and gave Jim a

motherly hug and a kiss. And poor Jim “broke down” as he would have

called it. But it was a breaking down that did him a world of good, and

made a new boy of him.

“There, there,” said Mrs. Martin, “now go and get your things, and we

will go home.”

Jim went up-stairs quietly to the little attic room that had been

his own for two years. He made a small bundle of his old clothes. He

wouldn’t take the new ones. “They was my friends when they got them for

me,” he said to himself, “but now they ain’t my friends any more, and

them clothes don’t belong to me now.”

Jim’s grammar was not perfect, but he meant well, and in his heart he

was very sorry to leave the friends who had been so kind to him during

two happy years.

As he turned to go down-stairs, he heard a noise in the hall, not far

from him, and he saw Nellie Turner who seemed to be waiting for him.

“Oh! Jim,” she said, and could not say more, because she began to cry.

Poor little Nelly had been breaking her heart about Jim’s trouble. She

was a nice little girl ten years old, with bright yellow curls, pink

cheeks, and blue eyes; but now the pink of her cheeks had run into her

eyes, and she did not look as pretty as usual. But Jim thought she was

beautiful, and her red eyes were a great comfort to him.

At last he spoke, “Good-by, Nelly; I am going away.”

“I know it,” said Nelly, “but, Jim, I don’t believe you are bad, and

you will be good, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will,” said Jim. Then he left Nelly crying on the stairs, and

went quickly to the porch where Mrs. Martin was waiting for him.

“Well, good-by, Jim,” said Mrs. Turner. “I hope you’ll be a good boy.

Remember I have been kind to you.”

“Yes’m, thank you,” said Jim, rather coldly. He wanted to see “Father,”

but Mr. Turner had taken himself out of the way.

While Mrs. Martin was walking home with her little friend, and talking

to him to cheer him up, they heard something running after them, and

Jim said, “Here is Spot, what shall I do? I am afraid I can’t make him

go back.”

“Well, we’ll take him home, too,” said Mrs. Martin. “I like dogs,

they are such faithful friends; they don’t care if people are pretty

or ugly, rich or poor, good or bad, they just love them, and stick to

them. Yes, we will take Spot, and make him happy.”

This remark made two people very happy. Jim brightened up, and laughed;

and Spot, who had kept his tail between his legs in a most respectful

and entreating manner, now began to wag it joyfully, and showed his

love by nearly knocking down Mrs. Martin, to let her know that he

understood what she had said, and approved of it.

Spot had been given to Jim by one of his school-mates, and Jim was very

proud of his only piece of personal property. Spot was a white dog with

a great many black spots all over him, and he was not exactly a beauty,

but he was the best, lovingest, naughtiest, and most ridiculous young

dog that ever adorned this world. He was always stealing bones, and

old boots and shoes, and burying them in secret places as if they had

been treasures, and no one had the heart to scold him much, because he

looked so repentant and as if he would never, no never, do it again as

long as he lived.

Since the silver spoon had disappeared, Spot had been very unhappy;

people seemed to give him all the benefit of their disturbed tempers.

Mrs. Turner spoke crossly to him, and would not let him stay in the

kitchen; Mr. Turner had slyly kicked him several times; Nelly cried

over him when he wanted to play, and Jim only patted his head, and

said, “poor Spot, poor Spot!” by which he meant, “poor Jim, poor

Jim!” But now Spot felt that a good time was coming, and he rejoiced

beforehand, like a sensible dog.

And, in truth, a pretty good time did come. Jim was not entirely happy,

because he could not prove his innocence, but he found that no one had

been told of his supposed guilt.

Mrs. Turner had not said a word about her missing spoon to any one.

“I will give him another chance to begin right,” she had said to her

husband. And Mr. Turner had replied, “I don’t believe he took it any

more than I did; so what’s the good of making a fuss about nothing?”

No fuss had been made; but Mrs. Turner had said to her little daughter,

when she started for school the morning after Jim’s departure, “Nelly,

you must be careful not to say a single word to anybody about Jim. But

I don’t want you to ask him to come here, and it’s just as well for you

not to play with him much.”

“It is too bad,” said Nelly. But she was an obedient little girl, and

the first time Jim came to school, when she saw that he hardly dared to

look at her she thought that it would be better to tell him the truth.

[Illustration: OPINIONS DIFFER RESPECTING JIM.]

So at recess she called him, and asked him to go with her on the road,

where no one would hear them; then she said:

“Jim, I want to tell you something. Mamma told me I must not ask you to

come to the farm any more, and that I must not play with you much, and

so I won’t do it. But I like you just the same, and I will give you an

apple every day to say we are friends.”

Nelly was as good as her word. Every morning, at recess, she gave Jim a

small red and yellow “lady-apple,” which she had rubbed hard to make it

shine, and which was one of the two apples her father gave her when she

went to school; and the “lady-apples” were all kept for her, because

she said they were so good and so pretty--“just like my little girl,”

Mr. Turner said.

And what do you suppose Jim did with his apples?

Eat them. No, not he!

Every time Nelly gave him an apple, he put it in his pocket and took

it home. Then in the evening before going to bed, he made a hole in

it--the apple, not in the bed--and strung it on a piece of twine which

hung from a nail in the window-sash in his little room.

The poor apples got brown, and wrinkled, and dry, but they were very

precious to Jim, but every one of them said to him, as plain as an

apple can speak: “I like you just the same.”

And so the winter passed away quietly. Mrs. Martin became very fond of

Jim; she said he was so smart and so handy about the house she didn’t

know what she would do without him, and she didn’t think boys were any

trouble at all.

But, alas, how little we know what may happen!

Spring had come, and house-cleaning had come with it. Mrs. Martin had a

nice “best-room” which she never used except for half an hour on Sunday

afternoons during the summer, and which was always as clean as clean

can be. But in Spring, it had to be made cleaner, if possible; summer

could not come till that was done.

So the carpet was taken up, shaken, and put down again, and as Jim had

helped in the shaking, Mrs. Martin kindly invited him to come in, and

admire the room.

“What a pretty room it is!” said Jim; “why don’t you live in it?”

“Because it would wear out the carpet, and it is more comfortable in

the sitting-room;” answered Mrs. Martin. Then she showed him a few

books, boxes, and other works of art which were spread out on the big

round table, and Jim admired everything.

Among Mrs. Martin’s treasures, there was a brown morocco “Keepsake,”

containing a pair of scissors, a silver thimble, and a needle-case.

It had belonged to Mrs. Martin’s little daughter who had died several

years before, and when Mrs. Martin went into the best-room on Sunday

afternoons she always opened the “Keepsake,” and thought of the little

hands that had played with it, long ago. And now as a reward of merit,

she showed it to Jim.

“It is the prettiest thing I ever saw!” said Jim; “when I am rich I

will give Nellie Turner one just like it.”

“She will have to wait some time, I guess,” said Mrs. Martin, laughing.

Then they looked at the pictures of George Washington shaking hands

with nobody, and of his wife, looking very sweet and handsome.

“You are so great at stringing up things, Jimmy,” said Mrs. Martin

with a funny look, “I want you to hang up these pictures for me, will

you?”

“I will,” said Jim, blushing a little as he thought of his string of

apples; “I will do it next Saturday.”

Jim kept his promise. The pictures were hung in the best light and made

the room look so much prettier, that even Spot, who had been a silent

observer, could keep still no longer, and barked his approbation. Then

the blinds and windows were closed, the door locked, and the best-room

was left to quiet and darkness.

The next day being Sunday, Mrs. Martin paid her usual afternoon visit

to the best-room. She admired the pictures a little while, then she

went to the round table to take up the Keepsake; but the Keepsake was

not there.

She looked all over the table and under it, behind every chair and

in every corner, but she did not find it. “I wonder where it can be?

Perhaps I took it to the sitting-room without thinking,” said Mrs.

Martin to herself.

She went back to the sitting-room and looked everywhere, but found no

Keepsake. Then she sat down in her rocking-chair and tried to think

about something else, but could only say to herself: “I wonder where it

is!”

Jim came into the room with a new Sunday-school book, which he began to

read. Mrs. Martin looked at him while he read, but for some reason she

did not say anything to him about the Keepsake.

The next morning she put off her washing, and as soon as Jim had gone

to school she began to search the whole house; but no Keepsake did she

find.

“It can’t be, it can’t be,” she said with tears in her eyes; “but I

_must_ look in his room--perhaps he took it up to look at--he said it

was so pretty.”

Mrs. Martin went up to Jim’s room, but found nothing there except his

clothes, the apples, and a few little treasures such as boys have.

Then she fell on her knees by Jim’s bed, and cried with all her heart.

“No, I won’t believe it till I have to,” she said at last. “Poor boy;

it’s hard on him and he has been so good, too! But I must speak to him

about it, and if he has done wrong I must try to be patient with him.”

When Jim came home from school in the afternoon, Mrs. Martin called him

into the sitting-room. “Come here, Jim,” she said; “I want to speak to

you.”

She had said it very kindly, but there was something in her voice that

made Jim feel a little queer.

He came in and stood before her, and she said to him: “Jim do you know

what has become of that pretty Keepsake I showed you the other day? I

can’t find it anywhere, and I have looked and looked.”

[Illustration: “I LIKE YOU JUST THE SAME! I LIKE YOU JUST THE SAME!”]

“No,” said Jim boldly, “I havn’t seen it since. I hope it isn’t lost.”

Then he stopped, and his face blushed crimson. There was something in

Mrs. Martin’s eyes, as well as in her voice, that reminded him of his

trouble about the silver-spoon.

“Oh! you don’t think”--he cried out.

But he could say no more--Mrs. Martin had him in her arms the next

moment.

“No, I _don’t_ think,” she said, “I don’t, my boy! not for the world I

wouldn’t! only I can’t find it, and--and--”

“Let me look for it,” said Jim.

They looked again together, but with no success. That night there were

two heavy hearts in the quiet little house, and the next morning there

were two pair of red eyes at the breakfast table.

“You must not grieve so, Jim,” said Mrs. Martin. “I hope it will all

come out right; we must try to bear it well, and go to work as if

nothing had happened.”

But she could not follow her own advice, and the washing remained

undone.

Jim did not go to school, and spent his time looking everywhere in the

orchard and in the garden, while Spot followed him, wondering what was

the matter.

No one had any appetite for dinner, and after trying in vain to eat a

potato, Jim went up to his room.

Mrs. Martin tried to sit still, and sew, but she could not bear it

long; and when she heard the children coming from school, she went to

the gate to look at them; they were so happy that it seemed to do her

good.

“Is Jimmy sick?” asked little Nelly, stopping on her way.

“No,” said Mrs. Martin; “but he’s been busy, and couldn’t go to school.”

Nelly wanted to send him a nice russet apple she had kept for him, but

she did not quite dare to do it because Mrs. Martin looked so sober.

Jim heard her voice from his room, but he did not dare to show himself.

“She won’t like me just the same when she hears of this,” he thought;

and he felt as if he had not a friend in the world. “I would give my

head to find that thing,” he said; “she don’t believe I took it, but

she believes it too; I shall have to go away from here, and I don’t

care what becomes of me, anyway.”

Mrs. Martin stood at the gate a little while watching the children,

then she went to the garden to look at her hot-beds--two large pine

boxes in which lettuce, radishes, and tomatoes were doing their best to

grow fast and green.

When she came near the beds, she saw Spot stretched on the ground,

enjoying an old bone, as she thought.

“This won’t do, Spot,” she said; “I don’t want you to bring your bones

here. Go away!”

Spot did not seem to mind her at all, so she came a little nearer to

make a personal impression upon him with the toe of her shoe.

Spot growled, and turned away his head a little, and as he did so, a

little silver thimble fell out of the old bone and rolled upon the

ground.

“My Keepsake!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. And, as she said afterward, she

was so taken by surprise you could have knocked her down with a feather.

She waited half a minute to get her breath when she picked up the

thimble and ran toward the house, calling with all her might: “Jim,

Jim, here it is! here, come!”

Jim never remembered how he got down stairs, but there he was staring

at the thimble, and so happy that he couldn’t even begin to say a word.

Mrs. Martin was just explaining to him: “you see it was Spot, and the

bone, and the hot-bed fell out of it, and I knew it was not you”--when,

they heard a big voice calling from the road: “Jim, Jim, come out here

quick!”

They looked round, and saw farmer Turner running as fast as such a fat

man could run, and waving something shiny over his head.

“Here it is!” he said, “here is that blessed spoon! I was a-plowing

in a corner of the orchard, when I turned up a soft stone made of red

morocco, with a silver spoon in it. Didn’t I tell you so? I never

believed it. Hallo! what’s the matter?”

The matter was a most wonderful scramble. Mrs. Turner and little Nelly

had run across lots, and here they were, talking, and laughing, and

crying. Everybody hugged everybody else, and everybody was so glad

she was so sorry, or so sorry she was so glad--farmer Turner vowed he

couldn’t tell which it was most.

At last they made out that they were all very glad, and Mrs. Martin

invited them all to stay to tea. They accepted the invitation, and such

a tea-party never took place anywhere--not even in Boston--for the

company had joy as well as hot biscuits, and happiness as well as cake.

Spot was scolded and forgiven, and wagged his tail so hard that it is a

wonder it didn’t come off.

As for Jim, he got kisses enough that evening to last him for a

lifetime.

This is the true end to a true story, but not the last end by any means.

For Jim is now a “boy” twenty-one years old, and Nelly “likes him just

the same,” only a great deal more.

[Illustration: “THEY’LL THINK I’M PAPA!”]

[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE BLOOMING.]

THE CHRISTMAS THORN.

BY LOUISE STOCKTON.

In the December of 1752, Roger Lippett was a boy of ten years, and

“Dan,” his dog, was six months old and had to be taught to swim. To

this pleasing duty Roger addressed himself whenever he had a chance,

and the only draw-back was that his mother would allow no wet dog upon

her sanded floor, and as Roger had to be wherever Dan was, he had often

a tedious time in waiting for such a very curly dog to get dry.

But this Sunday afternoon the two had taken a long walk after the swim,

and when they came back Dan was dry and uncommonly clean and white.

In the little parlor Roger found the usual Sunday company. In an

arm-chair on one side of the fireplace sat Simon Mitchels, the

school-master; opposite to him, on a three-legged stool, was Caleb

Dawe, the parish clerk, and on the settle, in front of the fire, was

Roger’s cousin, old Forbes the miller, and short Daniel Green, the

sexton. His mother sat in her high-backed chair by the window, and

Phœbe Rogers’ younger sister was near her playing gleefully with a

kitten.

“Christmas!” said Caleb; “there’ll be no Christmas! What between the

New Way and the Old Way, we’ll all go astray. It is a popish innovation

at the best, and if King George knew his duty, he’d put his foot on it.”

“Nonsense!” said Simon, testily; “when a thing is wrong, ’tis wrong,

and if you mean to make it right, you must not mind a little temporary

trouble. King George knows that just as well as any one, and so do you!

If you wanted a new roof on your house you would first have to take the

old one off.”

“Not Caleb,” said old Forbes. “Caleb ’d patch the old one until it was

new-made over.”

“Yes,” replied Simon, “that is just what we have been doing with the

year--patching and patching. Now here comes King George, and says,

‘Look here, this is 1752, and if we are ever going to have a decent

regular year with the proper number of days in it, ’tis time we were

about it.’ But you people who patch roofs object because it alters the

dates for one year a day or two. Thanks be to the King, however, he has

the power.”

“Alters the dates a day or two!” repeated Caleb. “You yourself said the

New Way would take eleven days out of the year.”

“Only this year,” Simon replied; “afterward it will be all right. It is

but to bring the first of January in the right place.”

“It was right enough,” persisted Caleb. “And I say no one, king or no

king, has any right to take eleven days away from the English people.”

Then Mistress Margery Lippett spoke:

“For my part,” she said, “I think the New Way unchristian. Mistress

Duncan, you know, has a fine crowing little boy, and when the squire

asked how old he was, she told him--’twas but a day so ago--three

months and two weeks; and he laughed, and told her she would have to

take the two weeks off. Now _that_ I call unchristian, and not dealing

justly with the child.”

At this the school-master laughed, and taking his pipe out of his

mouth, and pushing his velvet skull-cap a little farther back, he

replied:

“They were both right, Mistress Margery. Both of them. The mother

counts by weeks--very good--the squire by the proper calendar. One

makes the child three months and two weeks, and she is right; the other

deducts eleven days to fit the calendar, and he, too, is right.”

“Out with it,” cried Caleb; “out with such a calendar! Why, the whole

realm will be in confusion. None of us will ever know how old we are,

or when the church-days are due; but I doubt if, in spite of it all,

the Pope’s new calendar doesn’t keep the squire’s rent-day straight.

They’ll look out for that.”

“I suppose,” said Simon, “you all think the year was created when the

world was?”

“Of course it was,” said Mistress Margery; “didn’t He make the day and

the night, and do you suppose He would have passed the year over?”

“You are about right,” said Simon; “but the trouble is we are just

finding out what His year is? See here, Roger,” and he turned his head

to the boy, “do you know how many different kinds of years we can

reckon?”

“Not I, master,” said Roger.

“Well, I’ll tell you. Suppose you wanted a measure of time answering

to a year, you might reckon from the time the apples blow to when they

blow again, but if a frost or a blight seize them, you’d be out with

your count, wouldn’t you?”

“Truly,” said Mistress Margery, who delighted to see how well Roger

understood his learned master.

“Well, then,” resumed the teacher, “you would soon find that if you

wanted a regular, unchangeable guide, one unaffected by seasons, by

droughts, heats, or hostile winds, you would look to the skies. You

would, perhaps, if you were wise enough, and had observed--you would

single out some special star; you would take close notice of its

position, note its changes, then you would say, ‘When that comes back

to the very spot where it was when I began to watch it, that time I

shall count as my year.’ Do you follow me?”

“That I do,” said Roger.

“That, then, is one way in which a year was once calculated, and the

star chosen gave three hundred and sixty-five days for a year.”

“Now that is a calendar, true and unchangeable, and correct beyond what

a Pope can make,” said Caleb.

“That, Roger,” said Simon, taking no notice of Caleb, “is called a

Sidereal year. Now, come you here, Phœbe, and tell me what is a Lunar

year?”

“A year of moons,” said Phœbe, her bright eyes dancing.

“You have the making of a scholar in you,” said Simon; “’tis a pity you

are a girl. A Lunar year _is_ a year of twelve moons. This Lunar year

has but three hundred and fifty-four days, still it served the purposes

of the Chaldeans, the Persians, and Jews.

“Then there was the Solar year, calculated by the sun; and it and

the Lunar year agreed so badly that every three years another lunar

month had to be counted in to keep the one from running away from the

other. Now, I suppose you all think,” looking at the group around the

fireside, “that all these years began the first of January and ended

the thirty-first of December?”

“It is but just that they should,” said old Forbes, Caleb disdaining to

speak.

“But _they didn’t_,” said Simon. “The Jews began their year in March;

in Greece it began in June, and certain Eastern Christians began theirs

in August.”

“That isn’t England,” said Caleb, in a tone of contempt.

“Truly not,” said Simon; “but the English year used to begin the

twenty-fifth of December, until the coronation of William the

Conqueror--when was that, Phœbe?”

“In 1066,” said Phœbe, smoothing her teacher’s ruffles with the air of

a petted and privileged child.

“It was January the first, 1066,” resumed Simon; “and it was judged so

important an event that it was ordered that ever after _the year should

begin on that day_. But I can tell you worse than that of England.

There are places in England to-day, where they reckon their year from

the twenty-fifth of March!

“But long before William’s time,” he continued, “the Romans had ideas,

and they thought it wise to straighten up the year for their own use.

So Julius Cæsar--when did he begin to reign, Phœbe?”

“I don’t know,” said she.

“In 63, B. C.” said Roger, eagerly.

“No, that was Cæsar Augustus, and we are coming to him. Julius Cæsar

lived before that, and he arranged the years so that all the even

numbers among the months, except February, had thirty days, and all the

odd ones thirty-one. Do you understand that?”

“Not I,” said Phœbe, frankly.

“January is the first month; it is not an even number?”

“No,” said Phœbe.

“March is the third month, and so is not an even number?”

“No,” said Phœbe again.

“They each then, being odd, had thirty-one days, while May and July,

and the other even months, except February, had thirty days. That was

all very easy, and the length of the year seemed settled; but when

Cæsar Augustus came on the throne he was not satisfied. ‘What,’ said

he, ‘shall Julius Cæsar in his month of July have thirty-one days, and

I, in my month of August, have but thirty!’ And so he at once made

August longer.”

“He was very foolish,” said Phœbe. “I was born in February, wasn’t I,

mother? and _I_ don’t care because Roger was born in December, when

there are more days.”

“But you are not a Cæsar,” replied her teacher. “At any rate this Cæsar

made the year all wrong again; and in 1582 Gregory, who was Pope, set

to work to help matters. He had to drop some days, I believe, in the

first year just as we are going to now. The French and Italian people,

and some others, were wise enough to see this improvement at once, and

they adopted Pope Gregory’s year; but we, for nearly two hundred years

more, have been getting along with the old way, and our new year comes

ahead of almost everybody else’s, and those who travel get their dates

badly mixed.”

“Surely,” said Roger, “it _would_ be best to have the same year the

world over.”

“So King George thinks,” said Simon; “but Caleb here says not, and

quarrels because eleven days have to be dropped out of this one year,

so that for all aftertime the years, months, and days, will go on in an

even, regular and seemly manner.”

“And I rightly object,” replied Caleb; “and when the proper

Christmas-day comes I shall keep it, and no king, no pope, and no

Julius Cæsar, _nobody_, shall ever make me change the blessed day for

any other falsely called by its name.” And Caleb put his hands to his

three-legged stool, and lifting it and himself at the same moment,

brought it down with a bang.

“Well, we can’t go wrong about Christmas-day,” said Mistress Margery,

“if we but follow the blooming of the Glastonbury Thorn.”

“That we cannot,” answered old Forbes. “For hundreds and hundreds of

years, long before popes or calendars were thought of, that Thorn has

bloomed every Christmas Eve, and not only the one at Glastonbury, but

every sacred slip cut from it and planted has remembered the birthday

of The Child _and never failed to blossom_!”

“That is all superstition,” said Simon; “the plant naturally blossoms

twice a year--that is all.”

“Indeed that is not all,” cried Mistress Margery. “I was born and

raised at Quainton, but seven miles from here, and there, as you all

know, is a fine tree grown from a Glastonbury slip, and many’s the time

when, with the whole village, have I gone out to see the blooming.”

“And when did it bloom, mother?” asked Phœbe.

“Always on Christmas Eve. The blossoms were snow white, and by

Christmas night they were gone.”

“But, mother,” said Roger, “why is the Glastonbury tree the best, if

this at Quainton blooms as well?”

“Because it was the first one planted, of course,” said Mistress

Margery; “I know no other reason.”

Phœbe saw the little smile upon Simon’s face, and taking his coat

lappets in both hands, she bent her pretty little head in front of his,

and said:

“Tell us, master.”

“You think,” he answered, “that I must know all the old wives’ stories?

Well, I will tell you this one. Joseph of Arimathea, you know, gave his

sepulchre to receive the body of the Lord. Into it the blessed angels

went, and out from it, upon the third day, came the Risen Saviour.

From that hour, until the one in which he saw the Lord return unto

the skies, Joseph followed Him, and then all Palestine became to him

empty and weary. There were people who doubted the resurrection; people

who said that Joseph himself was one who aided in a deception; and

so, tired of it all, he took his staff in hand and wandered until he

came to England, and to Glastonbury. On Christmas-day he climbed the

hill where the old, old church now stands, and here, in sign that his

wanderings were over, he planted his staff. At once it rooted, it shot

forth leaves, it blossomed, and the scent of the milk-white flowers

filled the air. From that time to the days when Charles and Cromwell

fought, it has blossomed on Christmas Eve; but then it was cut down by

some impious hand, yet still all the slips, the twigs, which had been

cut off by pilgrims, have kept the sacred birthday; and as your mother

says, the one in Quainton can as well as the other decide between the

Old calendar and the New.”

“I am glad to hear thee say so,” exclaimed Mistress Margery, with

brightening eyes, “and if you choose to journey with us when next we go

to Quainton, you are heartily welcome to our company, and I’ll bespeak

thee a honest welcome from my sister who, like my Phœbe here, has a

strong leaning toward learning.”

“Nay,” said the school-master, looking a little ashamed of himself; “I

but told the story to amuse the child. The plant is merely a sort of

hawthorn from Aleppo, and regularly blooms twice in the year, if the

weather be but mild.”

But although Mistress Margery was much disappointed that he had no

desire to go to Quainton, she found both Roger and Phœbe bent upon

witnessing the Christmas blooming.

“I don’t know,” said she, lightly, “but that between the Old Way, and

the New, the Thorn will be confused, and not know when it should bloom.”

“It will not bloom on your new Christmas, take my word for that,” said

Forbes; “and if the children will wait until the true day comes, I

myself will take them along, for I have a mind to see it myself.”

“But, cousin Forbes,” said Phœbe, “it _may_ bloom on the new day.”

The little people had their way. On the morning of the twenty-fourth

of December, by the New Style, but the thirteenth by Caleb’s count,

Roger and Phœbe started off, mounted on their mother’s own steady

white horse, Phœbe behind her brother, with the bag containing their

holiday clothes, while to Roger was given their lunch, and a bottle

of blackberry wine for their aunt, with whom they were to lodge in

Quainton.

The morning was cold and bleak, but the children rode merrily on. It

was the first time they had been trusted alone on such an expedition,

and Phœbe at once proposed that they should play that Roger was a

wandering knight, and she one of the fair, distressed damsels who were

always met by knights when on their travels.

“I would,” said Roger, “if you could find another knight to whom I

could give battle, but it is rather tame to be pacing along here with

you behind me, and no danger ahead.”

“I wish then,” said Phœbe, “that mother had not wanted cousin Forbes’

horse, for, perhaps, he would have lent it to us, and then, with such a

horse, we could have been a knight and a lady out hawking, and I would

have given you a race.”

“That would have been a rarely good plan,” said Roger, looking up the

level road, “and I do not like to lose it. Ho, lady,” he cried, looking

behind him, “thy father is in pursuit!” And clapping both feet to the

sides of the horse, he put him to his speed.

“Oh, Roger! oh, sir Knight!” exclaimed Phœbe, “my hood--if I could but

tie it!”

“I cannot wait for hoods,” said the knight, in a stern voice; “when we

reach my castle thou shalt have twenty-two, and a crown beside.”

The lady would not have doubted this for the world, but she

nevertheless loosened one hand, clinging desperately to her protector

with the other, and pulled off the hood, held it, and clutched her

knight who, with cries of “on Selim, on!” urged poor old Dobbin to his

best.

There was, indeed, a clatter of horses’ hoofs behind, and with it a

loud cry, Phœbe turned her head.

“Oh, sir Knight!” she cried with very short breath; “my father _is_

near at hand! Hasten, oh, hasten!”

And sure enough, some one was! He was short and stout, and looked

much more like a butcher’s boy than a gentle lady’s father; and he

was certainly in pursuit, and he called again and again, but the only

effect was to make the flying knight more vigorously kick the sides of

his horse, and more vehemently push on. But as fortune would have it

the father’s horse was the swiftest, and in spite of the knight’s best

efforts he was down along-side.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, “by racing off in this way! If I

didn’t know that was Mistress Margery Lippett’s horse I would have let

you go on, seeing that you haven’t sense enough to know he has lost a

shoe.”

At this Roger quickly stopped his steed.

“Which one?” he exclaimed--“Here Phœbe, I must get down--the hind foot

shoe is gone.”

[Illustration: ON THE ROAD ONCE MORE.]

“Oh, Roger,” cried Phœbe, “what would mother say! She is so careful of

Dobbin, and she charged us to take heed of him; and Roger, _must_ we go

home, do you think?”

“Of course not,” replied Roger, “and see here Dick,” for he now

recognized his pursuer, “cannot you tell me where to find a blacksmith?”

“There is one at Torrey,” said Dick, “a mile down that road. It is the

nearest place, but it will take you out of your way, if you are going

to the Blooming as am I, who must be off, or my master will take my

ears in pay for my tarrying.”

It was easy enough to find the blacksmith’s shop, but the blacksmith

was not there, although he would soon be back, his wife said. Roger

tied his horse, and then he and Phœbe wandered about until he declared

it was lunch time; so they came back, and were about to eat their lunch

by the stile, when the smith’s wife saw them, and calling them into her

kitchen, spread a table for them, and added a cold pie and some milk to

their repast.

But still the man did not come, and Roger waited in great impatience.

He was almost ready to start off again for Quainton, but Phœbe was so

sure that the penalty of injuring Dobbin would be the never trusting

of them alone again, that he was afraid to risk it. Then there came a

man with two horses to be shod, and he waited and scolded and stamped

his feet, and then the blacksmith came, but he at once attended to the

man, and so Dobbin had to wait. But at last Dobbin was shod, and Roger

mounted, and then the blacksmith lifted Phœbe up.

“Where are you going?” said the smith.

“To Quainton,” replied Roger; “we are going to see the Blooming.”

“Why, so are we,” said the man. “It is late for you children to be on

the road. If I had known all this I would have shod your horse first.

You had better wait for us.”

“Oh, no,” replied Phœbe, “we have first to go to our aunt’s. It would

frighten her greatly to have us come so late.”

Roger looked down the road. It was certainly late in the afternoon, but

the road was direct, and so he said good-by, and off old Dobbin trotted.

It now seemed as if the mile out of the way had stretched itself to

two, and it was fast growing dark when they reached a mile-stone three

miles from Quainton. Little Phœbe was certain they should be lost

riding on in the dark; but not so Roger.

“There is no fear of that,” said he stoutly, “we will meet others

going.”

And Roger was right. The nearer they got to Quainton the greater became

the throng of people, and they were one and all going to the Blooming.

They came from the lanes, from over the fields, out of every hamlet,

from every road. They were in wagons; they were on foot and on

horse-back; two old ladies were in a sedan-chair, and at last they

overtook an old man carried like “a lady to London,” by two great sons.

As it grew dark and darker, and no stars came out to brighten the sky,

wandering lights began to shine forth and torches, candles, lanterns,

gleamed out on the roadside and flickered in the bushes and among the

trees. There was in every group much talking and discussion; and it was

easy to be seen that most of the people were of Caleb’s opinion, and

doubted the new way of arranging the year; but it was equally clear

that they meant the slip from the Glastonbury thorn to decide the

matter for them.

Roger kept close behind a travelling-carriage which was attended by two

horsemen carrying torches, and greatly to his joy it went into Quainton

and passed directly by his aunt’s home.

“There is no use in stopping,” cried Phœbe, as the house came in sight,

“it is all shut up and dark, and aunt Katherine has surely gone with

the others.”

This was so likely to be the case that Roger urged on his horse, and

again overtook the carriage. When they reached the field in which the

Thorn-tree stood it was already filled with flickering, moving lights,

and was all astir with people and voices.

Roger jumped down, lifted Phœbe, and then tying Dobbin to an oak

sapling which still rustled with dried and brown leaves, he turned to

his sister and, hand in hand, they hastened to where the Thorn was

growing, and around which stood a large group.

The tree was bare, leafless, and looked as if dead.

“If that blooms to-night,” said a woman, “’twill be a miracle.”

“It is always a miracle,” said a grave and sober-looking man by her

side.

Phœbe held closely to her brother’s hand; but the scene was too

wonderful to promise much talking on her part. The darkness, the dim

and shadowy trees and bushes, the tramping of unseen horses, the

confusion of voices, the laughing and complaining of children, the

moving lights, the thronging people, and in the centre of it all a ring

of light and a dense group around the tree, made a wonderful picture.

Nearer and nearer the people pressed, the parish beadle in advance,

with his watch in his hand, a man by his side swinging his lantern so

that the light would fall directly upon it. Many eyes were bent on it.

It grew late, and the crowd became silent, gathering closer around the

tree.

“Twenty minutes of twelve--a quarter of twelve--five minutes of

twelve!” proclaimed the beadle.

The tree was still bare, and gave no signs of bloom.

“_Twelve o’clock!_”

And off in the distance pealed the bells, ushering in King George’s

Christmas.

The torches flared upon the tree; the people in the rear of the crowd

stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to see the milk-white bloom.

But the tree was silent and bare!

King George could not be right.

The next day aunt Katherine came out of the room where she was putting

her bed linen away in the lavender-scented press.

“The church-bells have done ringing,” she said. “Run, children, and see

if any one has gone.”

Off flew Phœbe with Roger after her, and when she reached the

church-yard, the only person she saw was Marian Leesh, a neighbor’s

child, looking over the wall at the minister and the clerk who were

standing by the door. When the clergyman saw Phœbe he came toward her.

“Child,” he said, “what is the meaning of this? Is it possible that the

people refuse to keep the Christmas-day? Where is your family?”

“We do not belong here,” said Phœbe; “we came to see the Blooming. We

are at aunt Katherine’s, and she is looking over her linen press.”

The minister frowned.

“And the rest of the people?”

“They are all at work,” cried Roger, coming up; “the cooper has his

shop open, and the mercer is selling, and they have all put away the

cakes and the mistletoe, and there is to be no Christmas until the true

day comes.”

“Nonsense!” cried the minister. “Jacob, bring me my hat!” and without

taking off his gown he strode down into the village.

But it was all in vain; the minister talked and scolded, but the people

went on with their work. They would not go to church; they would not

sing their carols nor hang holly and mistletoe boughs.

“This New Way might do for lords and ladies,” they said, “but as for

them the Christmas kept by their fathers, and marked by the blooming of

the Thorn, was their Christmas,” and so the sexton closed the church,

and the discomfited minister went home; and he was the only person in

Quainton who that day ate a Christmas dinner.

When the news came to London and to the court of how these people,

and others in different villages, refused to adopt the New Style, the

little fat king and his lords and ladies laughed; but they soon found

it was a serious matter, and so it was ordered that the churches should

be opened also on “old Christmas” and sermons preached on that day

wherever the people wished them. And thus it was that our sixth of

January, known as “Twelfth Night,” “little,” or “old Christmas,” came

to be a holiday.

But Roger and Phœbe spent one year of their lives without a Christmas.

They returned home upon the twenty-sixth, and found that there the New

Christmas had been kept; and as they could not go back to Quainton when

the Old Christmas came, they missed it altogether.

As for the Thorn-tree! Who can tell whether it still blooms? In the

chronicles which tell of the Glastonbury bush, and of the Quainton

excitement, there is no mention made of its after blooming; and the

chances are Phœbe’s mother was a true prophet when she said it was

possible that between the Old Style and the New Style the Thorn would

become confused and bloom no more for any Christmas-day.

[Illustration]

MIDGET’S BABY.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

“O my sakes!” It was early in the morning when Midget stood on tiptoe,

peeping behind a large ash-barrel, and, with wide-open eyes, uttered

this exclamation. So early that only a few enterprising milkmen and

extra smart market-men were about the street, and nobody but Midget had

heard the feeble cry which startled her and led to an inquisitive peep

behind the barrel.

It was in an alley-way where piles of rubbish, all sorts of odds and

ends, and much that was impure and disagreeable, had it all their own

way from dawn till night, that Midget was standing this chilly morning.

And “O my sakes!” escaped her lips once again before she ventured to

stop staring and begin work. No wonder she stared, for on the ground,

surrounded by bits of broken crockery and discarded ale-bottles,

half-choked with the dust of ashes, and carelessly wrapped in a

dilapidated old shawl, a baby was lying, stretching little thin arms

helplessly into the narrow space between the high brick wall and the

barrel, and testifying by feeble wails its need of timely assistance.

Midget was so shocked and surprised at first that she could only give

vent to her favorite exclamation as above, but presently her small

shoulder was pressed against the barrel, and after much tugging and

some hard breathing it was shoved aside, and Midget had her arms around

the forlorn and neglected baby in a moment.

It was just at that part of the fall season when early mornings and

evenings are chilly and suggestive of shivers, and baby, who might have

been all night on the ground, was blue with cold and quite savage with

hunger. Midget’s shawl, ragged almost as that which was wrapped about

the baby, was made to do double duty, as she folded the little waif in

her arms, and realized the important fact that she was holding a real,

live baby.

It was not possible to carry a bundle of wood and baby at the same

time, so the bundle which was to help grandma get her cup of tea was

unceremoniously dropped, and the little girl hurried home with her

new-found treasure.

While she is hastening over the pavements, her blue eyes dancing with

joy and excitement, we may learn something concerning her and her

rather uncomfortable home.

Midget lived with her grandmother, who was both father and mother to

the little thing who had never known the care or love of either parent.

Her father had never, in his best days, been much of a man, and when,

soon after his wife’s death, _he_ was accidentally killed in the

factory where he worked, poor little Midget was left totally unprovided

for, and quite dependent, in her babyhood, upon grandma, who at least

was able to pay the small monthly rent of the cellar home to which

Midget was taken. The child, because of her small size, had earned

from neighbors the nickname “Midget,” and had reached the age of eight

years, still answering to the title, and almost forgetting her real

name was Maggie. A wild, wilful, and not far from naughty little girl

she was, but her heart was kindly disposed, and held a world of good

intentions and affectionate thoughts, that somehow nobody, not even

grandma, could often get a sight of. She didn’t understand why there

was not a little sister with whom she might play all day, instead of

having to go out early in the morning to pick up sticks and chips for

the fire which cooked their scanty meals.

Midget much preferred a game of “ring around a rosy” with the other

children, properly called “Les Miserables,” who swarmed about the side

street where she had lived so long, than to work for her daily bread

and blue milk, according to granny’s directions. And poor old granny

herself, possessing not much of the virtue called patience, was called

upon by her idea of training a child the way she should go, to give

little Midget many a “cuff on the ear,” and a shaking which roused all

that was naughty in the lassie’s heart, and made the blue eyes snap

very angrily. As for school, Midget had no time for education, but in

some way, she, with several other children, had learned their letters,

and could spell cat and dog as well as any school girl. During the day

she earned a little by selling papers on the street, and yet I’m sorry

to say most of her pennies went in sticks of candy down her little

throat, unknown to granny. “If I only had a little sister,” she would

think, excusing herself, “if granny would only buy babies, as other

women do, why I’d be as good as anything, and help her take care of it!

I would!”

[Illustration: “EH! WHAT’S THAT?”]

But granny _didn’t_ buy babies, and Midget still hated work, and

sometimes there were clouds and sometimes sunshine, and on this very

morning when Midget found the baby she had been saucy to grandma, and

grandma had boxed the little ears, and so it had begun a _very_ cloudy

day indeed.

But we must return to Midget, who, ere this, has reached home.

How glad she was, and at the same time how frightened, poor little

Midget! What should she do with the baby, that was the question; and

when at last the cellar was reached, and Midget laid her burden in

grandma’s lap, she asked the question over again.

“Eh! what’s this?” asked the old woman, lifting her hands and brows

together, while baby, who, in all its life of eighteen months had never

beheld such a queer thing as granny’s broad-frilled cap, opened its

mouth and screamed a terrified answer.

“’Tain’t only a baby, granny,” exclaimed Midget, patting the wee

stranger’s hands, and trembling lest her grandmother should rise and

drop it. “Only nothin’ but just a baby, and I’m so glad I found it,

ain’t you, granny? ’Cause you see it’s a kind of sister, you know, and

you won’t have to buy one.”

“Glad?” repeated the old woman, “that I ain’t!” But the rather snappish

answer was quite out of keeping with the impulsive kiss laid on the

little one’s velvety cheek. Midget brightened when she saw granny do

that.

“I say, do you think it’s got any mamma, granny?” she asked.

“_Did_ have, most likely, but reckon her ma wa’n’t good for much,” was

the reply, while the baby, amused by Midget, began to laugh.

“I shouldn’t have thought any mother would chuck her baby behind a

barrel,” said Midget, thoughtfully. Then she began to plead with her

grandmother that it might be allowed to stay with them, promising such

wonderful things, and such care of it, that granny, who loved babies,

and didn’t really know but what a reward might be offered for the

child, at last yielded, and promised to keep it at least a few days.

And Midget, delighted beyond measure, seemed to feel two years older as

she rocked the little stranger to sleep, and laid it in her own little

straw bed. “I was a stranger and ye took me in,” kept somehow repeating

itself in granny’s mind all that day. She had read it in her Bible long

ago, and had heard it from the pulpit once, but never before had it

come back so forcibly as to-day. “Well! well! The Lord will provide, I

dare say. And goodness knows, if he don’t, the child will starve along

with Midget and her old granny.”

No advertisement appeared in reference to the lost baby, and at the end

of a week the little one had grown so dear to the two who had taken her

in, that granny decided to keep her “a _little_ longer.”

But what had come over Midget? The frowsy head began to look smooth

as the clustering curls would permit, the little, active body, always

bent upon mischief, had busied itself in new ways, and began to look

tidy and neat as the unavoidable rags would allow. Hands and face were

clean as soap and water could make them, and Midget actually kept her

boots laced since baby’s advent into the family. Granny also noticed

that Midget grumbled less at having to go out in the early dawn for

sticks,--in fact, the grumbling in course of time ceased altogether;

for Midget was bent upon fattening the baby and making it grow. And how

could a baby grow fat unless she kept it nice and warm, and gave it

plenty of food? Granny’s cup of tea would not do for baby, but Midget

drank cold water most of the time, and baby had the blue milk all to

her hungry, healthy little self.

By-and-by, after the little one had been in her new home about three

weeks, and all the children had kissed it and admired it to their

hearts’ content, and all the old crones of the neighborhood had

speculated as to how granny would be able to provide for it, Midget

found pleasant work to do in selling cut flowers on the street for a

florist near by. Such an important little Midget had never before been

heard of in that neighborhood, and it was wonderful how long it had

been since granny had found it necessary to punish her. No more saucy

words, or frowns on the child-face, because there was baby always

watching her little Midget-mamma with wide eyes, and once, just once,

Midget saw the baby kick out its tiny foot just as she had naughtily

kicked a little playmate who ventured to provoke her anger. And as

Midget was determined _her_ baby should excel all others, of course

she was careful of her influence. Then, too, she continued to be neat

and tidy, lest the baby might turn her sweet face away when a kiss was

wanted, and that would almost have broken Midget’s heart.

The mornings were daily growing colder, and our little girl’s shawl

grew no thicker or warmer, sad to say, as she started early each day

for the flower-stand on Broadway. But Midget kept up a brave heart,

and was glad for the little custom she found. How closely she stuck

to business, and how patiently she looked forward to the hour when,

released from duty, she would scamper home for a frolic with baby, we

have neither time nor space to describe minutely, but we may say that

with this new happiness in her heart, and with the importance of taking

good care of her baby constantly in her mind, no wonder our little

Midget grew gentle and good, and found the sunshine oftener than she

used to.

[Illustration: “MIDGET AND HER BABY.”]

And all this time the wee stranger grew pretty and strong, and granny

began to fear lest somebody should claim this bright treasure, which

made the old cellar so happy a place, despite its scanty furniture and

lack of home comfort. But nobody came for it, and finally the winter

had slipped by and spring made its appearance.

Midget had laid up a few dollars--think of it, children who read this,

a few dollars! probably the sum that some of you spend in candy and

toys during one day and think nothing of--for a new dress for baby

and some trifles for granny and herself. She was eight years old, old

enough to feel very grand and important when planning her shopping

expedition; and indeed, the little girl sadly needed something to wear,

if she would still make herself bright and attractive to baby.

When the days grew warm she used to take her baby to the flower-stand,

and people passing paused often, as well to admire this bright little

nurse and her charge as to purchase the dainty blossoms offered for

sale. Then in an hour or so granny would come for the baby, and, taking

her home, leave the small flower vender free to attend to business.

Didn’t Midget get tired of selling her flowers all day on the street?

O yes, very tired; but the day’s hard work only made her evenings

merrier; and the bed-time frolics with baby made Midget grow fat from

laughing, if the old adage is true, “Laugh and grow fat.” There had

been so many bright days, in Midget’s opinion, since baby came; that

the little girl quite forgot that there were such thing as clouds.

And so one day, when she went home, it gave her a dreadful shock to

find poor old granny faint and ill upon the low bed, and two of the

neighbors watching beside her.

Midget looked around. Where was her baby? There was granny, so white,

and grown so suddenly older than Midget had ever noticed before, but

baby was crying in the arms of a girl-neighbor, who had volunteered to

“kape the spalpeen quiet” till Midget’s return.

It didn’t take our little mother a minute to secure within her own

tender arms the frightened baby, and then Midget sat patiently down

beside granny, who neither stirred nor opened her dim eyes until

midnight. If I had time I could tell you how, after days of watching

and sadness, grandma made Midget understand that her sickness could not

be cured on earth. But the end came, after all, too suddenly for little

Midget’s comprehension, and when the kind neighbors had laid the old

woman away, to rest forever from labor, our little heroine had only her

laughing, crowing baby to comfort and cheer her.

She went to live with a kind woman who had known granny for years, and

was but little better off in worldly goods than the old grandmother had

been. Still, Midget could not starve; and she and her baby were made

welcome in the new home. And after that she took the little one with

her to the flower-stand, and brought her home at noon herself each day

for two weeks.

And then another thing happened, which, for a brief time, almost broke

the child’s heart.

It was a beautiful day late in the summer, and baby, a big, fat girl,

was crowing and laughing in Midget’s lap, when a gentleman paused to

buy flowers. While Midget was giving him change baby reached out her

hand to touch the gentleman’s cane, and he looked at the baby face

first with indifference, then more earnestly, and finally with a

startled look on his own face which puzzled Midget.

Then he questioned her about the child, and asked if it had, under the

soft golden curls, on the back of the neck, a small red mark.

Midget innocently replied: “O, I’ve seen it whenever I’ve dressed my

baby; why, sir?”

Poor little Midget! Little she knew that with her own lips she was

giving away her baby, for the gentleman, raising the curls that fell

about the fat little neck, saw himself the mark which gave him back his

own lost child.

It would be too long a story to relate how, just as he and his wife,

so long ago, were going on board a European steamer, followed by nurse

and baby, the nurse, carrying out a well-laid plot, slipped behind and

sold for a large sum (promised) her little charge to an accomplice, who

hoped to claim the reward which he thought would be offered, when, too

late, the child’s loss was discovered; and, from that day until now,

both parents had mourned for their baby. The nurse, failing to receive

her promised share of money, worried and frightened the accomplice

until he deserted the baby, and when the nurse would have sought it,

Midget had taken her treasure home. The reward was offered, but, as it

happened, granny had not seen it, and thus the child of aristocratic

birth became indebted for life to Midget’s care.

All this the gentleman explained afterwards to Midget, after he had

bidden her return to the florist her flowers and come with him. And

then, in the presence of baby May’s mother Midget told her story, with

many sobs and tears.

But the sunshine was coming to our heroine again,--the clouds were only

for a little while. And when Mr. and Mrs. ---- engaged at a good price

the services of faithful Midget, as nurse for the baby she loved, and

took both baby and Midget away to the beautiful country-house, where

were birds and flowers and hanging leaves and grasses, which made the

fall so cheery a season as it never had been for Midget before--why,

then, the little girl wondered if it were not all a dream, and if the

beautiful house and charming meadows would not suddenly change into

dismal streets and old cellars and she a poor little flower-merchant

again.

Little Midget is still nurse to baby May, still a bright, tidy,

well-shod little girl, and best of all, baby still calls her “sissy

Mid’it” and loves her as dearly as when, in the old times, Midget fed

her on blue milk and crackers.

A NOCTURNAL LUNCH, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

BY LILY J. CHUTE.

There was one pet, secret fault which was the delight of Tot Sheldon’s

heart, and that was the eating, at night, after going to bed of such

goodies as she could previously lay her mischievous little hands on.

Anything whatever to eat between the five o’clock P. M. supper and

the seven o’clock A. M. breakfast was a forbidden luxury to the

Sheldon children, for their good parents considered it altogether an

unwholesome habit for little ones to give their stomachs work for

the night. It was only adults, in their opinion, who might indulge

themselves in rosy-cheeked apples, tempting nuts, or other dainties,

in the long winter evenings, with impunity. To be sure, these little

treats, seeming doubly delicious to the watering mouths of the children

because forbidden them, were only brought forth after the clock had

struck eight--the bed-hour of the youthful Sheldons, but, by some

mysterious instinct which children often possess, they knew well enough

the night custom of their elders, and were ambitious to grow up, that

they, too, might not go to bed hungry.

For it was not seldom the case that they were, notwithstanding their

hearty suppers of bread and milk, and such other food as was supposed

to be harmless to the youthful digestion, really hungry before they

fell to sleep.

Little Tot, however, had a special antipathy to hunger, either real or

imaginary, and a similar love, as has been said, for secret nocturnal

feasts. The other children being boys, Tot had a cunning little

bed-room all to herself, and so could indulge her eccentric appetite

without much fear of disturbance. To be sure, she often felt certain

guilty qualms of conscience, when her mother would look into her room

to kiss her good-night, and she feigned sleep, while clutching tightly

her prize beneath her pillow. Crumbs of gingerbread or cracker would

have betrayed her the next day, but Tot had been brought up to take

care of her own mite of a room.

She wasn’t afraid of nightmares. Not Tot! She had eaten too many

stolen suppers, and passed through the ordeal unharmed, to be afraid

of any such bugbears, as she termed them. Neither of illness, for

she considered her little stomach to be quite equal to that of any

feather-bearing ostrich that ever stalked.

Sometimes it was a rosy baldwin or a brown russet apple, a juicy pear,

or bit of cake, or even a “cent’s worth” of candy, that found its

way to Tot’s chamber. But one night it was a whole pint of roasted

chestnuts which her uncle Harry had given her as he met her coming from

school, and which she had hoarded away, beneath the snowy sheets of her

bed, till night.

For once Tot Sheldon was not unwilling to go to bed, a most remarkable

occurrence. She said her good-nights with such cheerfulness, and

started off with such alacrity that, unmindful of the many bed-times

when the contrary had been true of her behavior, Mr. Sheldon said

something, in a satisfied tone, about “the good effect of early

training,” etc.

Chestnuts were Tot’s special delight,--and _roasted_ chestnuts!

How she longed to get at them, that she might release the mealy meat,

white and fine almost as flour, from the bursting brown shells, and

revel in the peculiar, delicious flavor which she knew and loved so

well!

Having undressed and ensconced herself in her cosey little bed, she

waited with impatience for her mother’s nightly visit. She daren’t eat

any of the nuts before, for fear something of the nutty aroma might be

in her breath.

But she forgot that roasted chestnuts have a fragrance of their own,

even while yet in their shells, and she trembled with fear least she

should lose her treasures, when her mother, after kissing her, said

kindly:

“You haven’t been eating chestnuts, have you, Tot? It seems as though I

smelled them.”

“No, marm,” replied naughty, trembling Tot.

“That’s right, for you’d be sure to have dreadful nightmares,” said

Mrs. Sheldon, as she bade her child good-night, and closed the door,

distrusting the evidence of her own keen sense of smell.

“Well, anyway,” said Tot to herself, as her mother’s footsteps died

away, “I hadn’t eaten any, so I didn’t tell a lie.”

She thought the matter over a moment, thinking of the nightmares of

which she had been so often told, and half resolving to be so good a

girl as not to eat any of the nuts; but in the midst of her resolution

her hand strayed beneath her pillow, and into a paper-bag, and came out

with a splendid great chestnut, which she had no sooner tasted than she

sat up in bed, and with the bag in her lap began a feast.

The room was not very dark, for the light from the hall burner streamed

through the transom over her door; and, if it had been pitch dark, Tot

had no fear of it, for she had never been frightened with any of the

silly, wicked stories often told to children.

So she crunched away on the delicious nuts until they were about half

gone, and then stopped suddenly with a sense of fear lest she had eaten

too many, rolled the bag carefully about the rest, put them under her

pillow, and soon dozed off to sleep.

But she didn’t sleep as soundly as usual, and woke up sometime in the

night, when the hall-light had been put out, and it was perfectly dark.

Her hand was tightly grasping the bag of nuts, and as she didn’t go at

once to sleep, she thought she would try just one more,--which resulted

in her again sitting up in bed, and finishing the pint of roasted

chestnuts in the dark.

[Illustration: “SHE SAT UP IN BED, AND BEGAN A FEAST.”]

That was a fearful infliction for Tot’s little stomach, strong as it

was naturally, and although she didn’t have any nightmares--that she

could remember, at least--she woke reluctantly in the morning, to a