One summer we lived in a villa a short distance outside the gates
of Florence. For Florence had gates in those days, and was a walled
city, kept by Austrian sentinels. That was the time of the Austrian
occupation. Since then, Solferino and Magenta have been fought, and
the treaty of Villafranca has been signed, and now, “Italy’s one, from
mountain to sea!”--
“King Victor has Italy’s crown on his head,
And his flag takes all heaven with its white, green and red.”
But then the Florentines bowed their necks under a hated foreign yoke,
scowling when they dared at a retreating “maledetto Tedesco” (cursed
German).
The phrase “white, green and red” recalls to me the fire-balloons we
used to send up from our villa garden, on the summer nights of long
ago. We had, for our Italian tutor, an enthusiastic patriot, who had
fought in the Italian ranks in ’48, and who was looking forward to
shouldering a musket soon again. It afforded him intense gratification
to send the national colors floating out over Florence. Our villa was
built on a hill-side, commanding a fine view of the Val d’Arno, and
of the City of Flowers herself, domed, campaniled, spired. The longer
the voyages made by our balloons, the higher rose the spirits of our
Signor Vicenzo. He regarded these airy nothings, made by his own hands,
of tissue paper and alcohol, as omens of good or ill to his beloved
country.
I suppose he was a fair type of his countrymen intensely dramatic,
with a native facility of expression. One notices this facility
of expression among all classes. The Italians have an eloquent
sign-language of their own, in which they are as proficient as in
the language of spoken words. It is charming to see two neighbors
communicating with each other across the street, without uttering
a syllable, by the means of animated gestures. It seems a natural
sequence that they should be a people of artists.
Such long rambles as my sisters and I and our maid Assunta took,
starting from the villa! Assunta was the daughter of a neighboring
countryman of the better sort, who cultivated a grape vineyard and an
olive field, besides keeping a dairy. We had a way of happening by in
the evening in time for a glass of warm milk. Assunta’s mother supplied
our table with milk and butter daily, moreover; butter made into tiny
pats and done up daintily in grape leaves, never salted, by the way;
milk put up in flasks cased in straw, such as are also used for the
native wine. Was it the unfailing appetite of childhood, or was that
milk and butter really superior to any I have ever tasted since? What
charming breakfasts recur to me! _Semele_, as we called our baker’s
rolls; a golden circle of butter on its own leaf; great figs bursting
with juicy sweetness; milk.
How good those figs used to taste for lunch, too, when we would pay a
few _crazis_ for the privilege of helping ourselves to them off the
fig-trees in some _podere_ (orchard, vineyard), inclosed in its own
stone wall, on which scarlet poppies waved in the golden sunlight,
beneath the blue, blue skies. Am I waxing descriptive and dull?
Well, dear girls, I wish you could have shared those days with me.
Roaming about those hill-sides, my sisters and I peopled them with the
creatures of our own imaginations, as well as those of other people’s
imaginations, to say nothing of veritable historical characters. We
read and re-read Roger’s _Italy_. Do you know that enchanting book? Can
you say by heart, as Millie, Eva and I could, “Ginevra,” and “Luigi,”
and “The Brides of Venice”? I wonder if I should like that poetry now?
I _loved_ it then. Also, I date my knowledge of Byron to that same
epoch. We children devoured the descriptions in “Childe Harold,” and
absorbed “The Two Foscari,” which otherwise we would perhaps have never
read. Byron was the poet of our fathers and mothers; but in these early
days dramatic and narrative poetry was more intelligible than the
mysticism of Tennyson and the Brownings, so enchanting to me now.
[Illustration: A CHRISTMAS TREE FESTIVAL.--]
One evening, some friends who occupied a neighboring villa invited
mamma to be present at the reading of a manuscript poem by an American
poet, Buchanan Read. I was permitted to go, too, and was fully alive to
the dignity of the occasion. Mr. Read was making a reputation rapidly;
there was no telling what might be in store for him. The generous
hand of brother artists in Florence all cheered him on his way, and
accorded to him precisely that kind of sympathetic encouragement which
his peculiar nature required. The group of interested, friendly faces
in the _salon_ at Villa Allori rises up before me as I write, on the
evening when Mr. Read, occupying a central position, read aloud, in his
charming, trained voice.
I remember that, in the pauses of the reading, Mr. Powers, who was
present, amused one or two children about him by drawing odd little
caricatures on a stray bit of note paper, which is, by the way, still
in my possession. Doubtless Mr. Powers’ reputation rests upon his
statues, not his caricatures; yet these particular ones have an immense
value for me, dashed off with a twinkle in the artist’s beautiful dark
eyes.
There was also present on this occasion a beautiful young lady, for
whom Mr. Read had just written some birthday verses, which he read to
us, after having completed the reading of the larger manuscript. Those
birthday verses have haunted me ever since, and this, although I cannot
recall a word of the more ambitious poem.
Mr. Powers had lived for so many years in Florence that he was by
right of that, if by no other right, the patriarch of the American
colony there. He and his large family were most intensely American,
in spite of their long expatriation. His was emphatically an American
_home_, as completely so as though the Arno and the Appenines had been,
instead, the Mississippi and the Alleghanies. This was no doubt due
to the fact that Mrs. Powers was preëminently an American wife and
mother, large-hearted and warm-hearted. She never forgot the household
traditions of her youth. She baked mince-pies and pumpkin-pies at
Christmas and Thanksgiving, and dispensed these bounties to her
countrymen with a lavish hand. Then, too, the Powers lived in a
_house_, and not in an _apartment_, or, as we say, on a flat. The
children ran up and down-stairs, and in and out their own yard, which
lay between the dwelling-house and the studio, just as American
children do. And in this genial, wholesome home an artist grew up in
the second generation. A son of Mr. Powers is now making name and fame
for himself in his father’s profession.
It has been said that the beautiful face of the eldest daughter of this
family is suggested in her father’s “Greek Slave.” I looked up to her
then with the respect which a child feels for an elder girl, “a young
lady in society.” I can appreciate now and admire, even more than I did
then, the extreme simplicity and unconsciousness which so well accorded
with her grand, classic beauty. She was the good fairy at a Christmas
Tree Festival, to which all the American girls and boys in Florence
were bidden, on the twenty-fifth of December. We were all presented
with most exquisitely made _bonbonnieres_, chiefly of home manufacture.
We were feasted on doughnuts which brought tears to some of our eyes;
dear American doughnuts, that _might_ have been fried in the land
of the free. We had French candy _ad libitum_; but there was also on
exhibition a pound or so of genuine American stick candy, such as we
see by the bushel in this country, and which had been brought over from
the United States by a friend recently arrived, at Mrs. Powers’ special
request We examined this stick candy with patriotic enthusiasm. We ate
little bits of it, and thought it infinitely better than our candied
fruits and chocolate creams. Doubtless this little incident here
recalled will account for the fact that I always associate peppermint
stick candy with the flag of the Union. It is an unfortunate caprice
of mind; but, nevertheless, the national stripes always rise before me
when I see these red and white sticks.
I am inclined to the belief that exiles make the best patriots. We
American children stood up fiercely for our own native land, whenever
the question as to national superiority arose between ourselves and
English, French, or Italian children,--especially the English. With
these we fought the Revolutionary war all over again, hotly, if
injudiciously. And I am confident that we had a personal and individual
sense of superiority over them. No doubt we were endowed, even at that
early age, with the proverbial national conceit. Some one had told me
that every American was a sovereign, and that I was consequently a
princess in my own right. This became a conviction with me, and greatly
increased my self-importance. How glorious to be the citizen of a
country of such magnificent gifts of citizenship!
But to return to Mr. Powers. His statue of California was on exhibition
at this time. This is, to my mind, the most noble and impressive of
his works. The strong, resolute face, of classic outlines, and of the
sterner type of beauty, bears a distinct resemblance to the sculptor’s
second daughter, although by no means a portrait. It has been told me
that one of the fathers of our American church, traveling in Italy,
suggested an important alteration in this statue. California originally
carried in her hand a bar, supposed to represent a bar of solid gold.
The idea occurred to the bishop that were this smooth bar--which might
mean anything--made to represent a nugget of gold in the rough, the
point of the story would be far more effectively told; and on this idea
the bishop spoke. The sculptor was impressed directly, and with all the
unaffected simplicity of real genius he thanked his critic for the
hint. California now displays her symbolic nugget; and, moreover, about
her head is designed a fillet of bits of ore in the rough.
The America of Powers is another impressive and beautiful female form.
A vision of the sculptor comes before my eyes, standing in front of
this statue, and talking it over with a party of visitors. Such a
beautiful, simple-mannered man--with his mild dark eyes and serene
face! He wore the usual blouse and linen apron, and the cap of the
sculptor. He held his chisel in his hand as he conversed. Some of
his audience did not agree with him in the peculiar political views
he held. But Mr. Powers would not argue, and what need? Had he not
preached his sermon in stone and eloquently!
[Illustration:]
The wisest Child in the village in school
Was walking out in the evening cool
When she spied an Owl in a tulip-tree,
So a civil “Good evening, sir” said she,
Bu it gave her a shock (as it might give you)
When he solemnly answered “To wit:--to who?”
“Why, to you, to be sure!” said the little maid:
“But you’ve made a mistake, sir, I am afraid.
I don’t know what you mean by ‘to wit’
But objective is ‘whom’, I am sure of it.
The story-books say you’re a very wise fowl,
But that was a blunder, Mr Owl!”
[Illustration]
SEEING THE POPE.
BY MRS. ALFRED MACY.
It is only the young people of America who, in this age of the world,
have not been to Europe; therefore to them and for them I have written
down, in journal form, a few incidents of travel; among them, a
brief account of an evening spent with La Baronessa Von Stein, and a
presentation to the Pope.
_Wednesday._ This evening we have spent, by invitation, with the
Baroness Von Stein, widow of Baron Von Stein of Germany. The Baroness,
a German by birth, passed much of her youth in Poland. Skilled as a
horsewoman, she often joined her father in rural pastimes, shooting,
hunting etc. Being perfectly well, and of great mind, she acquired, as
do all the noble women of Europe, a thorough knowledge of the ancient
classics in their originals; also a familiarity with nearly every
spoken language of the Old and New World. Well comparing with Margaret,
Queen of Navarre in fluency of tongue, she readily changes from Italian
to French, from French to Spanish, quotes from Buckle, Draper, etc.,
in English, is quite at home on German philosophy, notwithstanding her
devotion to the Catholic Church. A singularly attractive old lady is
she now; rather masculine in manner, exceedingly so, in mind; a fine
painter in oil to whom the Pope has sat, in person, for his portrait.
We have seen the likeness. It is pronounced perfect. She is very
anxious for us to see his Holiness, and we certainly shall not leave
Rome without so doing. The Baroness has an autograph note from Pio
Nono, which is a rare possession. This she displayed with far more
pride than was apparent upon showing her own handiwork. When the Holy
Father sat to her, in order to get the true expression, conversation
was necessary and she repeated, with much satisfaction, snatches
therefrom, which were of the brightest nature. However learned _he_ may
be, in the Baroness Von Stein he meets no inferior.
As we entered her room, she was smoking: she begged pardon, but
continued the performance.
The cigar was a cigar, no cigarette, no white-coated article, but a
long, large, brown Havana, such as gentlemen in our own country use.
“You will find no difficulty,” said she, between her whiffs, “in seeing
‘Il Papa,’ and then you will say how good is his picture.”
During a part of our interview, there was present a sister of a
“Secretario Generalissimo to the Pope,” who told us the manner in which
the Popeship will be filled--she talked only in Italian, but I give a
literal translation. “The new Pope is approved by the present Pio Nono.
His name is written upon paper by the present Pope and sealed. The
document is seen by no one, till after the death of ‘Il Papa,’ when it
is opened, as a will, by the proper power. Unlike a will, it can not be
disputed.”
Pio Nono certainly had his election in a far different way, according
to the statements of the Roman Exiles of that day.
As the life of his Majesty hangs upon eternity, the matter of a
successor will soon be decided. “Antonelli gone, where will it fall!”
said I, but at once perceived that I was trespassing and the subject
was speedily changed.
We left the Baronessa, intent upon one thing, viz., a presentation to
the Pope, as soon as practical. Our Consul being no longer accredited
to this power, but to Victor Emanuel, we must apply elsewhere.
_Thursday._ Started early this morning, from my residence corner
of Bacca di Leone and Via di Lapa (doubtful protectors), for the
American College and Father Chatard, in order to get a “permit” to
the Monday Reception at the Vatican. On my way (and those who know
Rome as well as we do will know how much on the way) I took, as I do
upon all occasions, the Roman and Trajan forums, always walking when
practicable; by the above means, I am likely to become very familiar
with these beautiful views. They are so fascinating that I can not
begin any day’s work without taking these first. The Trajan is my
favorite. It may not be uninteresting to mention here that, on my
circuitous stroll to the said College, I saw, and halted the better to
see, one of those picturesque groups of Contadini and Contadine who
frequent the towns of Italy. There were, first the parents, dressed in
the fantastic garb of their class of peasantry, i.e., the mother with
the long double pads, one scarlet and one white, hanging over her head
and neck, while the father wore a gay slouched hat; then three girls,
severally garbed in short pink dress, blue apron embroidered with every
conceivable color simple and combined, yellow handkerchief thrown over
the chest, long earrings, heavy braids, bare-footed or in fancifully
knit shoes.
[Illustration: ROMAN CONTADINO.]
Two boys in equally remarkable attire, and a baby that looked like a
butterfly, completed the domestic circle. They did not seem to mind my
gaze. The father continued his smoking, the mother her knitting, the
girls their hooking, the boys their listless lounging, and the baby its
play in the dust. There was a charm in the scene. One sight however
(to be sure mine was an extended opportunity) is sufficient. A few
steps beyond this gathering, I found photographs colored to represent
these vagrants, and at one store pictures of the very individuals--I
purchased specimens to take to America, a novelty the other side of the
Atlantic.
After an hour or two, I reached the American College, was met by the
students who very politely directed me to the Concièrge, and my name
was taken to the learned Father. The students all wore the long robe,
though speaking English.
Being a Quaker by birth, therefore educated to respect every man’s
religion, and to believe that every man respects mine, nevertheless I
felt misgivings incumbent upon the meeting of extremes. I was ushered
into a large drawing-room and was examining the pictures, which
generally tell the character of the owner, when Mr. Chatard entered.
As he asked me to be seated, I thought, as some one has expressed
it before me, “the whole world over, there are but two kinds of
people,--‘man and woman.’”
The youth of this college may thank their stars that America has given
them one of her most learned and worthy sons, though the sect to which
his mother once belonged must deplore his loss.
In conversation with this Reverend gentleman, I obtained the
requirements necessary to an introduction to the Pope, and was a
little surprised that he should question my willingness to conform to
the same. It was however, explained. He had been much embarrassed by
the demeanor of some of the American women. Seeking the privilege of
meeting the Pope in his own palace, where common courtesy and etiquette
naturally demand a deference to the Lord of the Manor, yet these
ladies, having previously guaranteed a compliance with the laws of
ceremony, after gaining admission refused to obey them.
Seeing the Pope was not, to me, a religious service and is not
generally so considered.
My only fear was that my plain manners in their brusqueness, would have
the appearance of “omission.”
But the requirements are simple. Bending the knee, as a physical
performance, was a source of anxiety. I at once called to mind the
great difficulty which, as a young girl, I had in the play:
“If I _had_ as many wives
As the stars in the skies,” etc.
Notwithstanding the person who had to kneel in the game had a large
cushion to throw before her to receive the fall, I always shook the
house from the foundations when I went down. I can hear the pendants
now, of a chandelier in a certain frame house in my native town ring
out my weight, as I flung the cushion in front of a boy that knew
“he was not the one,” and took to my knees. True, the Vatican is not
shaky in its underpinnnings, and faithful practice upon the floor of
my apartment in Bocca di Leone, I thought, would be productive of some
good. Quickly running through this train of reflection, and finally
trusting that the gathering would not be disturbed by any marked
awkwardness, I returned home to await the tidings.
_Monday Evening._ Have seen Pio Nono--have committed no enormity.
According to directions, in black dress, black veil, _à la_ Spanish
lady, ungloved hands (what an appearance at a Presidential reception!)
we were attired. Took a carriage for the Vatican. Before we left home
the padrona viewed us, pronounced us all right, and earnestly sought
the privilege of selecting a coach for us. She had an eye to style. Is
it possible that she did not give us credit for the same “strength,”
and we traveling Americans? It is to be confessed that the horses were
less like donkeys than otherwise might have been. Trying the knee the
last thing before leaving the house, there was certainly reason for
encouragement, though still a lingering humility.
Our ride was subdued, but we reached St. Peter’s, passed through the
elegant halls of the Pope’s Palace, surpassed only by those of the
Pitti at Florence in their gold and fresco, and were ushered into the
reception room of Pio Nono.
This apartment, long and narrow, seemed more like a corridor than a
hall. Its beauties are described in various guide books, so that “they
who read can see.”
We were the only Protestants. The other ladies were laden with
magnificent rosaries, pictures, toys, ribbons, etc., for the Holy
Father’s blessing. Even I purchased one of the first, viz., a rosary,
to undergo the same ceremony, as a gift to a much-loved servant girl at
home.
We sat here many minutes in quiet (inwardly longing to try the fall.)
At length the Pope was led in. We forgot our trials. A countenance so
benign, beaming with goodness, spread a cheer throughout the assembly.
We took the floor naturally and involuntarily. Except in dress, he
might have been any old patriarch. The white robe, long and plain, gave
him rather the appearance of a matriarch.
It chanced that his Holiness passed first up the right side of the
hall. We sat _vis à vis_, so that we had the benefit of all that he
said before we came in turn. While addressing the right, who continue
on their knees, the left rise. As he turns to the latter they again
kneel, whereas those opposite change from this posture to the standing.
The Pope talked now in French, now in Italian mostly in the former. As
he approached our party, we were introduced merely as Americans, but
our religion was stamped upon our brows. Turning kindly to my young
daughter, who wore, as an ornament, a chain and cross, he said, as
if quite sure of the fact, “_You_ can wear your cross outside, as an
ornament; I am obliged to wear mine inside as a cross;” whereupon, with
a smile, he drew this emblem from his wide ribbon sash, showing her a
most elegant massive cross of gold and diamonds, probably the most
valuable one in the world. As he replaced this mark of devotion, his
countenance expressing a recognition of our Protestantism, perhaps a
pity for our future, placing his hand upon our heads, he passed on. The
blessing of a good old man, whatever his faith, can injure no one, and
may not be without its efficacy, even though it rest upon a disciple of
George Fox.
I shall never cease to be glad that I have seen Pio Nono.
[Illustration]
FAYETTE’S RIDE.
BY CLARA F. GUERNSEY.
“Hello, girls! I say, hello!”
This polite salutation was addressed to two young girls who were
standing at the parsonage gate in the little village of Valery’s
Corners. The taller of the two colored with vexation, and looked back
to the house as though she hoped no one had seen or heard.
The second answered in a clear, rather peculiar voice, “How do you do,
Carlos?”
“I say,” returned Carlos, “I was up to your place, and seen your folks
to-day.”
“I hope they were all well,” said the girl who had spoken before, while
the other took no notice of Carlos whatever.
“Well, no, they wasn’t, jest. I thought I’d tell you--”
“O, what is it?” cried Fayette Locey, running out to the wagon, while
her companion followed more slowly, looking rather annoyed than anxious.
“O, it ain’t nothing to be scared at, only Mr. Ford and Dick ain’t to
home. They’ve gone over to the cattle sale at Elmira, and young Mis’
Ford she’s there alone, with only your aunt, and the hired man, and the
baby.”
“Is the baby sick?” asked Fayette, troubled.
“No, not the baby.”
“Will you be good enough to tell us at once what _is_ the matter?” said
Helen Ford, speaking for the first time with a sort of cold irritation
and a certain dignity which Carlos, though it rather awed him, resented
as “stuck up.”
“Ye see,” said Carlos, letting the reins hang loose over the backs of
the two old farm horses, “I was a-going past your house this morning,
and I knew you was down here, and I thought your folks might have
something to send.”
“You were very kind,” said Fayette; but Helen made no sign.
“I see young Mis’ Ford, and she said the old lady was kind of ailin’,
and the men folks being away, and no one but Hiram, she felt kind of
lonesome.”
“Did she send you for us?” asked Helen.
“No, not jest. She said the old lady might be going to have one of her
bad spells, and as I was coming down to the corners I might tell you,
and you could act your judgment, though she didn’t want to disappoint
you of your visit. I could see she was consid’rable anxious.”
“Are you going back soon?” asked Fayette.
“’Bout half an hour or so. Tell ye what. I’ll call when I’ve done my
arrands, and then you’ll have your minds made up.”
“O, thank you, Carlos,” said Fayette, gratefully. “I wish you would.”
Helen said nothing; but as they walked back to the house, she looked
perplexed and annoyed. “So provoking of Sue,” she broke out at last.
“If there was anything really the matter, why couldn’t she send a note?
But she is so nervous and fanciful.”
“Sue’s not very strong, and you know Hiram is no one to depend upon. I
hope Mrs. Allison and Eleanor will be back before we go.”
“So you are going?” said Helen, as if the idea vexed her.
“Why, Helen, I think one of us should go. If aunt had such an attack as
she had in the winter, what could Sue do?”
“I dare say it is only her fancy,” said Helen. “But you are as ready to
fancy things as she is, Fayette. If there were any reason for anxiety,”
she continued in the even tones which had contributed to establish
Helen Ford’s character as a “superior girl,”--“If there were any reason
for anxiety, don’t you suppose I should be as anxious about my mother
as you can be, who never saw her till you came to live with us three
months ago?”
There was a covert sting in these words which Fayette felt and
resented, but she held her tongue.
“Then I don’t want to miss this lecture,” Helen resumed. “It is the
last of the set, and I feel it my duty to improve every opportunity
that is offered me.”
Fayette slightly raised her black eyebrows. She knew her cousin’s way
of squaring her duty with her inclination.
“I presume, too, that the boy has quite exaggerated the case. Persons
of that class always like to make a sensation, and I dare say Sue only
meant that mother had a little cold. She has such a habit of talking to
all sorts of people as if they were her equals.”
“Yes, I think Sue does rather look upon human beings as if they were
her fellow-creatures,” said Fayette.
“I don’t profess to understand sarcasm,” said Helen, setting her rather
thin lips very straight. “Papa and Dick will be at home to-morrow,
and one night can make no very great difference to Sue. It would be a
serious disadvantage to me to lose this lecture. I have the notes of
the whole set, and this is the last, and I should never be satisfied to
leave them in that unfinished state.”
“And suppose you were not satisfied? What then?” said Fayette.
For a moment Helen had an odd sensation, as though some one had
suddenly lifted a curtain and given her a glimpse of an unsuspected
near and unpleasing region; but the feeling passed, and left behind it
a sense of vexation with her cousin.
“Persons who do not care for intellectual pleasures can never
understand what they are to others,” said Helen, with a superior and
pitying smile, which provoked Fayette. “As the professor said last
night, it is the first duty of every one to develop his or her nature
to its highest capacities, and to seize every opportunity for mental
enlargement.”
“Fiddlesticks!” thought the irreverent Fayette; but she did not say it,
and that at least was something.
“Then it would not be polite to the Allisons to go off in this way, and
when company is coming to tea, too. Mr. Allison is gone, and the ladies
won’t be home till nearly tea time. How it would look to go off!”
“We could leave a message; and, Helen, if Sue were nervous and
fanciful,--and I don’t think she is,--it would only be one more reason
for not leaving her alone. I shall go,” concluded Fayette, with sudden
decision.
“You will do as you please, of course,” said Helen, coldly, but
secretly not ill pleased. “But it will look very strange.”
“I can’t help it. You can tell them all how it was;” and Fayette ran up
stairs to pack up her things.
She had hardly done so when Carlos came back. “I wish you joy of your
companion,” said Helen to her cousin, with something very like a sneer.
“I might easily have a worse one,” said Fayette, who liked the big,
simple young fellow. “One of us is enough to go, and it may as well be
I as you. I hope you’ll enjoy the evening. Remember me to Miss Fenton
and the others.”
It was with a little pang that Fayette spoke. She had been quite as
much interested in the lectures as her cousin, and she had found
herself very much at home with the Misses Fenton, the granddaughters of
Mrs. Lyndon, at the Hickories.
“Well, of course one is enough, and more than enough,” said Helen; “but
I suppose now you have alarmed yourself so, you will not be satisfied
to stay here. I shall come home with Mr. Allison Sunday. Good-bye.”
Helen went back to the house, and laid out her dress for the evening.
The party from the Hickories, and the stray professor, who had given
four lectures on geology in Valery’s Corners, were coming to tea at the
Parsonage.
Helen had met the professor before, and had been complimented on the
interest she displayed in science, and she felt, as she said, that
she could not be satisfied without putting down the notes of the last
lecture.
Helen was an intellectual girl--so said her teachers, and so she
believed. She liked to acquire facts, and rules, and classifications,
and dates, and range them all nicely away in her mind, as she put her
cuffs, and collars, and laces, and ribbons in her boxes; as she saved
odds and ends of silk and linen, and put them into labeled bags.
As it pleased her to look over her drawers, and count up her
possessions, so she liked to review her stock of knowledge gained from
text-books, and say, “All this is _mine_.”
She told Mrs. Allison that her sister-in-law had sent a message by
Carlos, and that Fayette had gone home.
“Sue is a little nervous sometimes,” said Helen, in her most superior
manner.
Helen’s evening was very successful. She was invited to the Hickories
by Mrs. Lyndon. She talked to the professor. She took her notes, but
some way, even when she had neatly copied out the names of all the
saurians, she did not feel as well “satisfied” as she had expected.
It was not till between seven and eight that evening that Carlos set
Fayette down at her uncle’s gate.
The roads were rough, and they had been a long time coming the nine
miles. Carlos lived at Scrub Hollow, a very forlorn hamlet, three miles
further away.
It was a wild March night, with a loud-sounding wind rushing through
the upper air. Fayette, as she stood at the gate a moment, and looked
out over the confused mass of rounded, rolling hills that formed the
dim landscape, felt lonely and half frightened.
Everything was so dim and gray, and seemed so full of mysterious sound!
The low roar of increasing streams, the multiplied whisper and rustle
of the woods, made the world seem something different from the ordinary
daylight earth.
She shook off the fancies that crowded upon her, and walked quickly up
to the house, which stood at some distance from the road--a pile of
gray buildings, with sharp, many-angled roofs rising against the sky.
A light shone from the “living-room” window.
Fayette opened the door, and was greeted by a cry of joy from young
Mrs. Ford.
“O, Fayette! I’m so glad it’s you!” and there was an emphasis as, if
the speaker were rather glad it was not some one else.
“I thought I’d come,” said Fayette, kissing her. “How’s aunt?”
“I think she is pretty sick,” said Sue, lowering her voice. “She’s gone
to bed.”
“Have you sent Hiram for the doctor?”
“Hiram has gone. I’m all alone. Word came over from Springville, just
after Carlos was here, that his father had broken his leg, and he had
to go, of course.”
“But why didn’t you tell him to send Dr. Ward over?”
“Mother wouldn’t let me. You know how she hates to send for a doctor,
and she thought she’d be better.”
A voice from the next room called to know who was there, and Fayette
went in.
Mrs. Ford was in bed, her face drawn and pinched. A look of pain
crossed her features as her niece entered. There was disappointment in
her voice as she said,--
“Is that you, Fayette?”
“Yes, aunt. I thought I’d come.”
There are women who, in Mrs. Ford’s place, would have been angry with
the girl for doing what one dearer had left undone; but Mrs. Ford, if
she had such a feeling, was too just to visit it upon Fayette.
“You are a good child,” she said, with uncommon softness, but with a
sigh. “Don’t be troubled. I shall get over it by and by.”
But Mrs. Ford did not get over it. The trouble was furious and intense
neuralgia; not such as young ladies have when they suffer “awfully” in
the morning, and go to a party at night, but blinding, burning pain,
reducing the life power every minute, and threatening the heart.
Sue and Fayette tried in vain every remedy in their power. Even Mrs.
Ford’s favorite panacea of seven different herbs, steeped in spirits
with pepper and spice, utterly failed.
The patient grew worse and worse, and at midnight it was evident that,
unless help came speedily, her hours were numbered.
The farm was not on the high road, and their nearest neighbors were two
old maiden ladies, a mile away, neither of whom could have been of the
least use.
Scrub Hollow lay three miles to the south. A nurse might have been
found there, but no physician. Springville, where Dr. Ward lived, was a
little further off in the opposite direction.
The road to Springville was rough and lonely, and lay over wind-swept
hill and through dark valley, by woods and swamps; for this portion of
the southern frontier is even now but thinly settled.
“What shall we do?” said poor Sue, wringing her hands. “What shall we
do?”
“There’s only one thing to do,” said Fayette, desperately. “I shall go
for the doctor.”
“O, Fayette! Walk all that way alone!”
“I shall ride Phœbe. I can saddle her myself. Father taught me how. I
must go, Sue. I can’t let aunt lie here and die, and never try to save
her. It’s hard to leave you alone, but it won’t take long. Baby hasn’t
waked up once. What a mercy! Don’t say a word, Sue: I must go.”
“O, Fayette!” cried Sue, helplessly; but she made no further objection,
and Mrs. Ford had not heard the hurried consultation.
Fayette would give herself no time to think. She was a nervous little
thing, and she dreaded the long ride through the windy night more than
she had ever feared anything in her life.
She was not a very daring rider, though at the little frontier post
where she had passed two years with her parents, her father had taught
her to manage a horse with reasonable skill, and she had ridden many a
mile with him over the prairie.
“O, if father were here now!” she said, a sob suddenly rising.
Then she was doubtful about her own power to manage Phœbe, the great
chestnut mare, the pride of her uncle’s heart, strong, swift, spirited
creature that she was.
For two years Phœbe had borne away the prize at state and county fairs,
and the horse-racing world had tempted her owner in vain. Fayette had
mounted her more than once, and ridden around the yard, and up and down
the road, but always with some secret fears. She had never dared even
to try a canter; and now to mount at “mirk midnight,” and go, as fast
as might be, off into the darkness alone on Phœbe’s back, seemed an
awful thing to poor Fayette.
She knew that the mare was gentle, and she had often petted her, and
fed her, and led her to water. She did not much doubt but that Phœbe
would submit to be saddled and bridled by her hand, but still it was
with many a misgiving that she put on her hat and jacket. She did not
take time to find her habit, and, lighting the lantern, went out to the
barn.
Phœbe was not lying down. Disturbed, perhaps, by the loud-blowing wind,
she was wide awake; and as Fayette entered with the light, she turned
her head with a low whinny, as though glad to see a friend.
Fayette went into the stall in fear and trembling; but she loosened
the halter, and led Phœbe out unresisting.
The mare was so tall, and Fayette was so short, that she was obliged
to stand up on a box to slip on the bridle; to which Phœbe submitted,
turning her soft, intelligent eyes on the girl with mild, wondering
inquiry. The saddle was harder to manage, but Fayette strained at the
girth till her wrists ached, and hoped all was right.
Some faint encouragement came to her, as she saw how gently the mare
behaved. “O, Phœbe, darling,” said Fayette, “you will be good--I know
you will. You are the only one that can help us now.”
Petted Phœbe, used to caresses as a house cat, rubbed her dainty head
on Fayette’s shoulder, as if to reassure her.
Poor Fayette put up one brief wordless prayer for help and courage, and
then she led Phœbe out of the stable, mounted her by the aid of the
horse-block, and rode away into the night.
Sue, watching forlorn, heard the mare’s hoofs beating fainter down the
road; and relieved that at least Fayette had got off without accident,
listened till the last sound died away on the wind.
CHAPTER II.
It was a wild March night. The wind blew loud and cold, though there
was in the air a faint breath of spring, and the brooks were coming
down with fuller currents every hour to swell the Susquehanna. There
had been heavy rains for the last few days, and the roads were deeply
gullied, and somewhat dangerous by night.
The wild, white moon, nearly at the full, was plunging swiftly through
heavy masses of gray cloud, that at times quite obscured her light, and
the solid shapes of hill and wood, and the sweeping, changing shadows
were so mingled that it was hard to distinguish what was real earth
and what was but the effect of cloud and wind-blown moonshine. All the
twilight world seemed sound and motion.
Phœbe, as well as her rider, perhaps, felt some of the influences of
the time; for she snorted and turned her head homeward, as if minded
to return to her warm stable; but she gave way to Fayette’s voice and
hand, and, striking into a steady pace, picked her way down the steep
and deeply-furrowed road as soberly as an old cart-horse.
The Ford farm-house lay half way up the side of a high hill, and the
farm extended into the valley below in pasture and meadow land. Here,
for a space, was a hard gravel road; and Fayette, yielding to the spur
of the moment, let Phœbe canter, which she was only too willing to do,
and was relieved to find how easily she kept her seat, and how gentle
was the motion.
In a few minutes the bounds of the farm were passed, and Fayette’s
heart sank low as they drew near the roaring, sounding woods through
which the road lay. The trees stood up like a black wall, with one
blacker archway, into which the path ran, and was lost in the darkness
beyond.
People who have never been allowed to hear the word “ghost,” who know
nothing of popular superstitions, who are strangers to ballad lore
and to Walter Scott, will, nevertheless, be often awed and sometimes
panic-struck by night, and darkness, and wind, and that power of the
unseen which laughs Mr. Gradgrind himself to scorn.
Fayette, however, had not been properly brought up, according to Mr.
Gradgrind’s system. She had read all sorts of wild tales, and listened
to them from the lips of a Scotch nurse. She knew many a ballad, and
many a bit of folk lore, and old paganism,--pleasant enough puppets for
imagination to play with under the sunshine, but which now rose up in a
grim life-likeness quite too real.
The owls began to call from the shadows, and once and again came a
long, wild scream, which, in the darkness and wind, had an awful sound.
Fayette knew perfectly well that it was only a coon calling, but for
all that it frightened her. There came over her that horrible feeling
which most people have experienced once in their lives at least--the
sense that some unseen pursuer is coming up behind. In a sudden spasm
of terror, she very nearly gave way to the impulse that urged her to
rush blindly on anywhere to escape the dread follower. Nerves and
imagination were running wild; but Fayette, from her earliest years,
had been trained to self-control and duty. She checked the panic that
urged her to cry and scream for help. She used her reason, and forced
herself to look back and assure her senses that, so far as she could
see the dim track, she and Phœbe were the only living creatures there.
“I am doing what is right,” she said to herself. “God is here as much
as in my room at home. It is folly to fear things that are not real,
and as for living beings, not even a wolf could catch me on Phœbe.”
Resolutely rousing her will, she grew more used to her situation, and,
more able to control her terrors, she sternly refused to give rein to
her frightened fancy. She drew a long breath, however, when once the
wood was passed and the road began to climb the opposing hill, behind
which, and across the creek, lay Springville. She thought of William
of Deloraine and his ride to Melrose, and smiled at the remembrance of
that matter-of-fact hero.
“It’s a good thing, Phœbe, dear, that you and I have no deadly feud
with any one,” she said; and then she patted the mare and praised her,
and Phœbe, quickening her pace, broke into a gallop, and took the hill
road with long, sweeping strides that soon brought them to the summit.
Fayette began to enjoy the swift motion and a sense of independence and
safety in Phœbe’s gentle compliance with her will; but at the hill-top
she checked the pace, fearing a stumble down the deeply gullied hill,
which was still sending rivulets to the creek. The amiable Phœbe chose
to obey, and picked her way, careful both for herself and her rider.
Now rose a new voice on the wind. It was the sound of angry waters, a
long roar rising louder from time to time.
“How high the creek must be!” thought Fayette; and as the roar
increased, she began to have a sort of fear of the bridge, which she
knew must be crossed; but she classed the feeling with her ghostly
terrors, and soon found herself drawing near the bridge, the noise of
the water almost drowning that of the wind.
As she came to the bank, a heavy cloud came over the moon, involving
the whole landscape in sudden and dense blackness; and at that instant
Phœbe planted her feet like a rock, and refused to stir an inch.
In vain Fayette coaxed and urged, for she dared not strike, even if she
had had a whip. Phœbe was immovable as a horse of bronze; but at last
she began to pull at the bridle, as though she meant to turn homeward.
Just then the moon came out, and Fayette, looking eagerly forward, saw,
to her horror, that the bridge was gone. A post and rail only remained,
and beyond was a chasm where the furious waters had not even left a
wreck behind.
Had Phœbe’s senses not been more acute than her own, two steps more
would have plunged horse and rider into the flood.
Fayette turned sick, and felt as if she should fall from the saddle.
She rallied, however, for she knew she must. Her senses came back in
thankfulness to God, and she confessed humbly enough to Phœbe that she
had known best; and Phœbe, looking over her shoulder, said, “I told you
so,” as plainly as a horse could.
Fayette was at a loss. A mile further up the stream was another and
much better bridge than the rickety old plank structure that was
missing; but to reach it she must turn back and make a long detour,
that would nearly double her journey, while every minute lessened the
chances of the sufferer at home.
[Illustration]
She knew that just below the bridge was a ford easily passable in
summer, and she remembered hearing her uncle say that once, when the
bridge was down, he had crossed this ford on horseback. It might be
that even now she and Phœbe could make their way across.
A wagon track led down to the water’s edge, and Phœbe did not refuse
to follow this path to the stream’s edge, where Fayette checked her,
afraid to face the passage.
The creek was coming down ruffled before the wind into waves “crested
with tawny foam,” and the “wan water” looked eerie and threatening.
Fayette refused to think of the water kelpie, who just then obtruded
himself on her mind. She bent from the saddle and scanned the road.
Judging from the traces on the gravel, she thought that a wagon must
have passed not many hours before. Her courage rose, and she set her
will to the task before her.
“If Phœbe thinks it safe, I’ll try it,” she said; and as the rein hung
loose, Phœbe stepped cautiously in. She seemed doubtful at first, but
she went on, and the water rose and rose.
The moon cast an uncertain, wavering light on the dancing stream; the
roar filled Fayette’s ears like a threatening voice; the waves, as
they plunged toward her, seemed hands raised to pull her down; and
still Phœbe stepped steadily on, and the stream came higher and higher.
Fayette drew up her feet as far as she could, and glanced back to the
shore, half minded to turn; but it was now as far to one bank as to the
other. The water touched her feet; it flowed over them.
The next instant she scarcely checked the shriek that rose to her lips,
for she felt that the mare no longer touched bottom, but was swimming
for her life and her rider’s.
At the real danger her ghostly terrors fled. With a sense of wonder she
felt her mind grow calm, her courage rise, her senses wake to their
work.
To her relief she saw that Phœbe had not lost her wits, but was keeping
straight across the creek. She let the mare take her own way, only
helping her as far as she could by keeping her head in the way she
wished to go. She thought of nothing but the minute’s need; and of all
the possibilities before her, the only fear that shaped itself in her
mind was one for her horse.
The current was strong, but so was Phœbe, and her blood was up. She
snorted fiercely, as if angry with the force that crossed her will, and
putting out her strength, she breasted the storm gallantly.
It was but a minute, though it seemed an hour to Fayette, before she
touched bottom.
The water sank rapidly, and she reached the shore but a little below
the usual landing. The bank came down to the stream with a somewhat
steep incline; but mountain-bred Phœbe planted her fore feet firmly,
scrambled cat-like up the incline, shook the clinging water from hide
and mane, and with a joyous whinny, rushed like an arrow on the track.
The way was plain before her, and in a minute or two more Fayette, with
some trouble, checked Phœbe’s gallop at Dr. Ward’s gate. A light was
burning over the office door.
Fayette slipped from the saddle, but before she turned to the house,
she put her arms round Phœbe’s neck, and kissed the white star on her
forehead. As she ran up the walk, she felt, for the first time, that
she was wet nearly to her knees, and the wind made her shiver.
She rang the bell sharply, and to her relief the door was opened
directly by Dr. Ward himself, who had just come in.
Hurriedly, but clearly, Fayette told her story.
“Yes, I understand,” said Dr. Ward. “But, dear me,” he added, as the
light fell on her more clearly, “where have you been to get so wet?”
“In the water,” said Fayette. “The creek is so high, and the bridge is
down.”
“Child! You did not ride that ford to-night?”
“Not all the way, sir. Phœbe swam.”
“Phœbe, indeed! A pretty pair are you and Phœbe to race round the
country at midnight. Go to Mrs. Ward and get some dry clothes, while my
man gets out the gig.”
“O, sir, please be quick.”
“Yes, yes; only get off those wet things. Let Phœbe stay here till
to-morrow, for my old gig can’t swim the creek, whatever you and the
mare can do. We must go by the upper bridge.”
Mrs. Ward, called out of bed, supplied Fayette with dry things, and
Phœbe was consigned to the doctor’s admiring colored man, to be well
cared for before she took possession of her bed in the warm stable.
The doctor kept a trotter for emergencies, and in an hour and a half
from the time she had left home Fayette came back.
Sue came to meet them, white and scared; and, as she came, Fayette
heard a cry of anguish, which she knew that nothing but the direst
extremity could have wrung from her strong, self-controlled aunt.
The doctor took out his ether flask and sponge, and hurried to the
bedside.
Before long the ministering spirit did its good office. The tortured
nerves relaxed, and the patient slept.
Fayette put on her wrapper, and curled herself up on the sofa, leaving
Sue and the doctor watching by the fire.
When she woke it was broad daylight. All seemed quiet about the house.
She stole across the floor, and looked into her aunt’s room. Mrs. Ford
was awake, and held out her hand.
“Is the pain gone, aunt?” asked Fayette, kissing her, and feeling a new
love rising in her heart.
“Yes, child; but I am very weak.”
“It was the ether saved your life, I really think,” said Fayette, to
whom the past night seemed like a dream.
“No, my dear,” said Mrs. Ford. “It was you.”
[Illustration: “BOW-WOW.”]
FANNY.
BY CLARA DOTY BATES.
[Illustration]
What do the wistful eyes discover,
Full of their baby dignity?
Lips, I know, are as red as clover,
Cheeks like the bloom that flushes over
Peaches, sun-ripe on the tree.
Let but a merry play-thought brighten
Over the little pensive face,
Then how the sober shades will lighten,
Then how the dimples deep will frighten
Every grave line from its place.
Well, I know there is mischief sleeping,
Plenty of it, behind this guise;
Little brain has a way of keeping
Back the smiles; but still they are peeping
Out from the brow, the mouth, and eyes.
LITTLE MARY’S SECRET.
BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.
O larks! sing out to the thrushes,
And thrushes, sing to the sky;
Sing from your nests in the bushes,
And sing wherever you fly;
For I’m sure that never another
Such secret was told unto you--
I’ve just got a baby brother!
And I wish that the whole world knew.
I have told the buttercups, truly,
And the clover that grows by the way;
And it pleases me each time, newly,
When I think of it during the day.
And I say to myself: “Little Mary,
You ought to be good as you can,
For the sake of the beautiful fairy
That brought you the wee little man.”
I’m five years old in the summer,
And I’m getting quite large and tall;
But I thought, till I saw the new-comer,
When I looked in the glass, I was small;
And I rise in the morning quite early,
To be sure that the baby is here,
For his hair is _so_ soft and curly,
And his hands _so_ tiny and dear!
I stop in the midst of my pleasure--
I’m so happy I cannot play--
And keep peeping in at my treasure,
To see how much he gains in a day.
But he doesn’t look _much_ like growing,
Yet I think that he _will_ in a year,
And I wish that the days would be going,
And the time when he walks would be here!
O larks! sing out to the thrushes,
And thrushes, sing as you soar;
For I think, when another spring blushes,
I can tell you a great deal more:
I shall look from one to the other,
And say: “Guess, who I’m bringing to you?”
And you’ll look--and see--he’s my brother!
And you’ll sing, “Little Mary was true.”
[Illustration: NURSERY TILES. --THE SHEPHERD BOY.]
HOW PATTY CURTIS LEARNED TO SWEEP.
BY MRS. M. L. EVANS.
Nowadays nearly every school-room is furnished with a waste-paper
basket, dust-pan and brush, with which the pupils are expected to keep
the room tidy. But in the days when Patty Curtis went to school in the
old brick school-house in Sagetown, such luxuries were unheard of, and
the school-room during the greater part of the day was a haven for
dirt--rather clean dirt it was, but it answered the definition which
says, “Dirt is matter out of place.”
Certainly the school-room floor was no place for the scraps of paper
over which Patty industriously scribbled with her stubby lead-pencil,
but it was there she dropped them without thought of wrong-doing or
idea of further responsibility for her manuscript fragments. Cores of
haws and crab-apples, and shells of “pig-nuts” found the same resting
place, and soiled slate-rags were in such abundance as would have
delighted the heart of any “old rag man;” during flower season, too, a
desk proudly adorned with fresh flowers in the morning meant a floor
sadly strewed with wilted, trodden fragments in the afternoon, and over
all this litter was plentifully sprinkled the dust of the earth. Of
this we are all supposed to be made, and it needs but little faith to
believe that children are made of it, when one sees, in a school-room,
the quantity of it they can kick off their feet, and shake out of
their jackets and skirts.
The services of a janitor were as unknown to the old school-house
as were the basket, dust-pan and brush; the teacher was expected to
do the sweeping herself. This, Miss Kelsey, Patty’s new teacher one
spring term, found no pleasant ending to a hard day’s work. The desks
and seats were awkwardly constructed, and placed very close together;
if Miss Kelsey tried to sweep without looking under them, she found
she left more dirt than she swept out, and if she thrust both head
and broom under the seat, in order to see what she was doing, she was
sure to bump her head, and “jab” herself with the broom-handle, and in
either case she came out of the school-room tired and hot, and choked
with dust.
It is not strange, then, that she had not done the sweeping many days
before she came to the conclusion:
“It is the children who make all this labor necessary, and it is but
right that they should do it themselves; they are little and active
and could sweep under these troublesome seats more easily than I can;
besides the girls will soon have such work to do at home, and their
mothers will be glad to have them learn to do it here.”
So one evening when both hands on the little round clock pointed to
IV., and thirty-six boys and girls were waiting the tap at the bell
that should dismiss them, Miss Kelsey spoke:
“I have decided to ask you children to do the sweeping for me
hereafter, and I will choose two each evening from your names, as they
stand on my register, to do the work. To-night Sarah Adams and Aggie
Bentley may sweep. There are two brooms, one girl can take the boys’
side and the other the girls’ side of the room, and you will soon
finish the sweeping.”
For a moment each pupil eyed the dirty floor, and tried to decide
whether or not sweeping was a desirable piece of work. Sarah Adams very
soon decided to her satisfaction that it was not, and she raised her
hand.
“Well, Sarah?” said Miss Kelsey.
“Please, Miss Kelsey, mother’s at a quiltin’ at Deacon Smith’s, and
she told me to come home as soon as school was out, and help Nancy get
supper for the men.”
Sarah was the oldest girl in school, and Miss Kelsey knew that in
whatever she led the other children were sure to follow, but she did
not want to offend Mrs. Adams by refusing to allow Sarah to go home
when school was dismissed, so she reluctantly said:
“Well, then, I suppose I will have to excuse you. Hattie Bitner may
take your place to-night, and you can sweep to-morrow night.”
Up went Hattie’s hand as if worked by a spring. “Miss Kelsey, mother’s
making soap, and she told me to come home right away as soon as school
was out to tend the baby.”
It was natural, though perhaps not wise, for Miss Kelsey to lose
patience at this point.
“Then,” said she, “you may go immediately, and mind you run every step
of the way. Well, Patty Curtis, what is your mother doing that you
cannot stay to sweep?”
Now, Patty had been trying during all of the previous dialogue to think
if there was not something that her mother might possibly want her to
do after school, by which she might escape the sweeping, but all in
vain, for Patty’s mother was one of the women who “never want children
bothering around about the work,” and as Patty was too conscientious to
invent an excuse, as some children would have done, she had no answer
for Miss Kelsey’s question except a rather sulky, “Nothing that I know
of, ma’am.”
“Then you and Aggie Bentley take the brooms when the others are gone,”
said Miss Kelsey, as she tapped the bell.
Aggie Bentley was one of the pleasantest little girls in the world;
when appointed to sweep she did not think of trying to evade the duty,
it was enough for her that her teacher had asked her to do it, and
she took the broom so cheerfully and went to work with such a vim
that Patty was shamed out of her unwillingness, and soon was swinging
the broom as briskly and as awkwardly as was Aggie. Still it was not
a pleasant task, and when she came out of the school-room, coughing,
sneezing, and wiping the dust out of her eyes, she found words for her
disgust:
“Ugh! Nasty work! I’m glad there’s thirty-four more to sweep before it
comes our turn again. Let’s see, thirty-four, two at a time, that’s
seventeen days. Nearly a month before we’ll have to sweep again, Aggie!”
But Patty was doomed to disappointment, for at the moment she was
making this clearly expressed calculation, Miss Kelsey was also giving
the sweeping question serious thought.
“It is going to be a hard matter to persuade these children to do
the sweeping,” thought she. “I suppose most of the mothers can find
something for them to do, and the little rogues who have always
loitered and played half an hour or more on their way home, will come
to-morrow with a fine assortment of excuses, all to the effect that
they must be at home immediately after school. I think I had better
change the plan and make the sweeping a punishment for whispering.
They will not care to tell their parents that they are detained for
misdemeanors, and it will put a check on the whispering too.”
So the next morning as soon as school opened she told the pupils she
should appoint to the sweeping, that night, the first two that she
should see whispering.
“O, my goodness gracious!” said thoughtless Flindy Jenkins to herself
in a loud whisper, “I’ll get caught sure.” And sure enough she did, for
down went her name in Miss Kelsey’s “black book.”
Whispering was Patty’s besetting sin, and on hearing Miss Kelsey’s
decision she buttoned up her mouth very tightly indeed, and resolved
not to open it again until some one else was caught, and she would no
doubt have kept this politic resolution had she not soon after spied
little Biddy Maginnis in the act of whisking out of a knot-hole in the
desk a bunch of violets that Patty had, a short time before, fastened
there. They were the first violets of the season and Biddy wanted to
smell of them, but Patty did not like to have her treasures so roughly
handled and in the excitement of a moment forgot everything else.
“Give those back here,” she said, fiercely, and almost aloud.
“Patty Curtis,” said Miss Kelsey, as she wrote her name under that of
Flindy Jenkins, “I am sorry to say that you will have to sweep again
to-night.” And Patty with a gasp of shame and surprise, sank back into
her seat with her rescued flowers.
“It’s too bad,” she said to herself as she heard the children around
her giggle, and in spite of her efforts the tears chased each other
down her cheeks, giving the pretty violets a salt bath. The tears
stopped after a while, but Patty did not recover from her vexation: she
sulked all day, and was sulky still when she took the broom in hand
after school. She would show Miss Kelsey, she thought in her naughty
little heart, that the school-room would look but precious little
better for her being kept to sweep it.
Flindy Jenkins was a poor companion for a little girl in such a frame
of mind, and she really fell in with Patty’s suggestion that they sweep
so the school-room should “look like Biddy Maginnises’ house in the
Hollow;” and when Miss Kelsey came to school early the next morning
she found the room looking worse, if possible, than if it had not been
swept at all.
That afternoon Miss Kelsey sat at her desk thinking so intently about
the sweeping, that she did not see Aggie Bentley standing beside her
until the little girl spoke timidly:
“Please, Miss Kelsey, may Patty Curtis and I go out and play a little
while? we have got all our lessons.”
Miss Kelsey glanced over to Patty and saw an eager face shadowed by
a very doubting expression, for the little girl knew she deserved no
play-time after her conduct of the night before. So she was surprised
to see Miss Kelsey’s face brighten, and to hear her give a cordial
consent. The truth was that Miss Kelsey had suddenly solved the
problem that had been troubling her for several days. Offer as reward
to the two that would sweep, a half hour’s extra recess when lessons
were learned! Why had she not thought of it before? for if there was
anything more coveted than “reward cards,” it was these “half hours.”
Before school closed she made a simple statement of her new plan, and
was amused to see what an electrifying effect it had upon the children;
and when they were dismissed what a scramble there was for the brooms!
if there had been thirty-six of these, thirty-six children would soon
have been sweeping away at the floor of the little school-room; as
there were but two, great was the pulling and twisting they received,
and loud the uproar among those who wanted to use them. The trouble was
soon settled by Miss Kelsey, who took possession of the brooms and said
the two should sweep who came first in the morning.
Patty Curtis was now in luck, for the fact that her mother had nothing
for her to do at home, which had been such a draw-back to her before,
would be the greatest help now; she could come to the school-house as
early as she liked while other little girls had to wash dishes, or rock
cradles, and the boys had wood to split and cows to drive to pasture.
The next morning Patty was the first one at the school-house, and she
had nearly finished half the sweeping when Sarah Adams came, so she
and Sarah had the half hour play together. Sarah was two years older
than Patty, and a very quarrelsome girl, and she and Patty succeeded
in quarelling so over the play-house they were building that neither
little girl got much enjoyment from the reward of her labor.
As Patty intended to sweep the next morning, and did not want Sarah
for a playmate, she lingered after school was dismissed to make
arrangements with Aggie Bentley to assist her. They agreed that Aggie
was to prevail upon her indulgent mother to allow her to start for
school as soon as she ate her breakfast. Patty was to go at the same
time, and they would have the sweeping done before Sarah, or any one
else, should arrive.
But when the two little girls went into the entry to get their
sunbonnets they noticed that the brooms were gone from the corner where
they always stood.
“Perhaps they have been carried out of doors,” said Patty, and she
looked out on the steps and in various possible and impossible places,
but in vain; then she went into the house and told Miss Kelsey that the
brooms were gone, and Miss Kelsey helped the little girls search. At
last they all gave up. Then the teacher spoke:
“I suspect, Patty, some of the pupils think you have done enough
sweeping for a while, and want to give you a rest, so have hidden the
brooms. Never mind, you will have many more chances to do the sweeping,
and besides you ought not to want all the half hours for yourself.”
But this did not comfort Patty very much; you will see she was rather
a selfish little girl, and she did want all the half hours, as well as
all other obtainable good things, for herself.
“It is that Sarah Adams who has hid them brooms,” she said to Aggie as
they walked home together, “and she has just done it for spite. I wish
I could think of some way to get ahead of her, but I can’t.”
“Well, we won’t have to go to school so early,” said Aggie; “you come
over to my house and we will have a nice play before the bell rings.”
Before dark, however, Patty had thought of a way to “get ahead” of
Sarah Adams. This was simply, to take a broom with her when she went to
school the next morning. But a lion in the form of Patty’s mother stood
in the way of her getting a broom; Patty knew she would never allow one
to be taken away from home; if Patty took one she must take it without
permission. Now there were but two brooms in the house; one stood in
the kitchen and was in such constant use that Patty knew it would be
missed long before she could return it; the other was kept in the hall
closet and was used once a week, in sweeping the parlor and “spare
room,” and the day before had been the regular sweeping day. This she
must take if she took either, altho’ she knew she should not, but she
did not allow herself time enough to think about it to be persuaded
out of the notion; she took the broom from the closet, and in the
gathering darkness carried it to a hiding place between the wood shed
and the pig-pen, and then went to bed to be tormented all night with
visions of her mother’s best broom:--an old beggar woman stole it away;
a black witch mounted it, and rode to the moon, never to return; and
lastly, Sarah Adams found it, and knowing Patty intended sweeping with
it burned it up before her very eyes. Patty was glad when morning came,
and she hurried out to assure herself of the safety of the broom, as
soon as she was dressed. When she had eaten her breakfast she started
to school with the broom, and stopped for Aggie Bentley. Aggie found an
old broom which her mother said she might take. They swept and dusted
the room in high glee, and Patty had perched herself upon one of the
front desks, and sat kicking her heels in triumph, when Sarah Adams and
Hattie Bitner entered with the hidden brooms.
“Needn’t mind sweeping this morning, girls,” said Patty; “and the next
time you hide brooms you’d better hide all in Sagetown.”
“I’ll pay you up, miss,” said Sarah, when she had recovered from her
astonishment, and she and Hattie threw down their brooms and left the
room in high wrath.
Some way Patty did not enjoy her half hour play that morning; she was
fearful that she might not be able to get her mother’s broom back into
the house without being discovered, and Sarah’s threat troubled her;
what means Sarah would take to get her into trouble she could not
imagine.
That evening as Patty sat at home, swinging back and forth in her
little rocking-chair, who should come to make her a visit but Sarah;
that hypocritical young woman was as smiling and as amiable as
possible, but she declined all of Patty’s invitations to “go out and
play;” this made Patty uneasy, she wished Sarah would go home. Pretty
soon Patty’s mother came in and sat down, and Sarah immediately began
talking about school and Miss Kelsey’s plans for the sweeping. Patty
grew still more uneasy and made another effort to get Sarah out of
doors, but when Sarah said--
“My mother said she thought it was so queer that Mrs. Curtis should
let Patty take a new broom from home to sweep that dirty school-house
with,”--then Patty resigned herself to her fate.
“Patty Curtis! you don’t mean to say that you took my best broom to
the school-house,” said Mrs. Curtis, dropping her knitting in her
astonishment.
“Yes I did,” said Patty; “but I wouldn’t, if that mean thing there
hadn’t hid the brooms.”
“And I,” said Sarah, “wouldn’t have hid ’em, if you hadn’t been so
stingy as to want all the play-times yourself.”
“There, that will do for you both,” said Mrs. Curtis. “Patty, you may
get yourself a bowl of bread and milk for your supper, and go to bed
immediately.”