[Illustration]
THE
PLAY-DAY BOOK:
NEW STORIES
FOR LITTLE FOLKS.
BY FANNY FERN.
ILLUSTRATED BY FRED. M. COFFIN.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY MASON BROTHERS,
108 AND 110 DUANE-STREET.
1857.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by
MASON BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of
New York.
STEREOTYPED BY
THOMAS B. SMITH,
82 & 84 Beekman St.
PRINTED BY
C. A. ALVORD,
15 Vandewater St.
PREFACE.
Since “Little Ferns” was published, I have had many letters, and
messages, from little children all over the country, asking me “to write
them soon another little book of stories.” Here is one that I have
prepared for you and them: I hope you will like it; for some of you, it
will be too young a book; for some of you, too old; those for whom it is
too young, will perhaps read it to little brothers and sisters; those
for whom it is too old now, can look at the pictures and learn to read,
little by little, by spelling out the words in the stories. I call it
“The Play-Day Book;” because I made it to read when you are out of
school, and want to be amused. If, while you are looking only for
amusement, you should happen to find instruction, so much the better.
FANNY FERN.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A RAINY DAY 7
THE BOY WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD 25
THE JOURNEY 35
A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW 61
THE CIRCUS 64
WHAT EVERY LITTLE CHILD MAY SEE 70
A STORY FOR BOYS 72
KATY’S FIRST GRIEF 76
OUR NEW DOG DASH 87
FUN AND FOLLY 89
HISTORY OF A FAMILY OF CATS 96
THE POOR-RICH CHILD 102
THE HOD-CARRIER 107
THE TOM-BOY 120
THE LITTLE MUSICIAN 124
LIONS 128
THE CRIPPLE 133
BESSIE AND HER MOTHER 145
RED-HEADED ANDY 150
LITTLE NAPKIN 155
THE SPOILED BOY 160
PUSS AND I 166
LUCY’S FAULT 169
UNTIDY MARY 176
A LUCKY IRISH BOY 183
THE CHILD PRINCE AND THE CHILD PEASANT 191
THE WILD ROSE 194
JENNY AND THE BUTCHER 204
THE TWO BABES 212
THE LITTLE SISTERS 215
OURS; OR, A LOOK BACKWARD 220
CHILDREN’S TROUBLES 224
THE VACANT LOT 230
“FOOLISH NED” 233
GREENWOOD 235
BED-TIME 242
SOLILOQUY OF OVERGROWN FIFTEEN 248
A TEMPERANCE STORY 250
ALL ABOUT HORACE 256
A WALK I TOOK 269
SUSY FOSTER 273
“FEED MY LAMBS” 276
TWO LIVE PICTURES 280
A RIDDLE 282
THANKSGIVING 284
A RAINY DAY,
AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
“Oh, dear, I knew it would rain to-day, just because I didn’t want
to have it; every thing is so dark, and cold, and gloomy;
drip—drip—drip—oh, dear! had I made the world, mother, I never would
have made a drop of rain.”
“What would the cattle have had to drink, then?”
“I am sure I don’t know; I don’t see why they need drink. I could drink
milk, you know, mother.”
“But if it didn’t rain the grass would all dry up, and then the cows
would give no milk.”
“Well, I don’t know any thing about that. I know I don’t like rain, any
how; do you like a rainy day, mother?”
“Yes, very much: it gives me such a nice chance to work; I have nobody
to interrupt me. I can do a great deal on a rainy day.”
“But I have no work, mother.”
“Ah, that is just the trouble: time lies heavy on idle hands; suppose
you wind these skeins of silk into nice little balls for my
work-basket?”
“So I will; won’t you talk to me while I am doing it? tell me something
about yourself, when you was a little girl—little like me; tell me the
very first thing you can ever remember when you was a tiny little girl.”
“Bless me, that was so long ago that you will have to give me time to
think. Can you keep your chattering tongue still five minutes, while I
do it?”
Susy nodded her head, and fixed her eye very resolutely on a nail in the
wall.
A long pause.
“Hum—hum,” muttered Susy pointing to her lips, as her mamma moved in her
chair.
“Yes, you can speak now.”
“Have you thought of it, mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s nice; let me get another card to wind that skein on, when
I have done this; I hope it is a long story, I hope it is funny, I hope
there ain’t any ‘moral’ in it. Katy Smith’s mother always puts a moral
in; I don’t like morals, do you, mother?”
Susy’s mother laughed, and said that she didn’t like them when she was
her age.
“There now—there—I’m ready, now begin; but don’t say ‘Once on a time,’ I
hate ‘Once on a time;’ I always know it is going to be a hateful story
when it begins ‘Once on a time.’”
“Any thing more, Susy?”
“Yes, mother: don’t end it, ‘They lived ever after in peace, and died
happily.’ I hate that, too.”
“Well, upon my word. I did not know I had such a critic for a listener.
I am afraid you will have to give me a longer time to think, so that I
can fix up my story a little.”
“No, mother, that’s just what I don’t want. I like it best unfixed.”
“Well, the first thing I remember was one bitter cold Thanksgiving
morning, in November. My mother had told me the night before that the
next day was Thanksgiving, and that we were all invited to spend it ten
miles out of town, at the house of a minister in the country.”
“Horrid!” said Susy; “I know you had an awful time. I am glad I wasn’t
born, then. Well—what else?”
“We were all to get up and breakfast the next morning by candle-light,
so as to take a very early start, that we might have a longer stay at
Mr. Dunlap’s. My mother told me all about it the night before, as she
tucked me up in my little bed, after which I saw her go to the closet
and take down a pretty bright scarlet woolen frock and a snow-white
apron to wear with it, with a nice little plaited ruffle round the neck;
then she laid a pair of such snow-white woolen stockings side of them,
and a pair of bright red morocco shoes.”
“How nice—were you pretty, mother?”
“Of course my mother thought so; I think I looked very much as you do
now.”
Susy jumped up, and looked in the glass.
“Then you had light-blue eyes, a straight nose, a round face, and yellow
curly hair? Did you, mother, certain, true?”
“Yes.”
“Well, mother.”
“Well, then, my mother went down stairs.”
“Didn’t she kiss you, first?”
“Oh, yes, she always did that.”
“And heard you say your prayers?”
“Yes.”
“Our Father, and, Now I lay me?”
“Yes.”
“How queer for you to say my prayers when you were a little girl. I am
glad you said my prayers. Well, mother.”
“Then I lay a long while thinking about the visit.”
“In the dark?”
“Yes.”
“Any body with you?”
“No.”
“Wern’t you afraid?”
“Not a bit.”
“You funny little mother—well.”
“And by-and-by I went to sleep, and slept soundly till morning. Long
before daylight my mother lifted me out of bed, washed and dressed me by
a nice warm fire, and then took me down in her arms to breakfast. I had
never eaten breakfast by candle-light before. I liked the bright lights,
and the smell of the hot coffee and hot cakes, and my mother’s bright,
cheerful face. It did not take us long to eat breakfast, but before we
had done the carriage drove up to the door. Then my mother wrapped some
hot bricks upon the hearth in some pieces of carpet.”
“What for?”
“To keep our feet warm in the carriage, while we were riding, and then
she pulled another pair of warm stockings over my red shoes and
stockings, and put on my wadded cloak, and tucking my curls behind my
ears, tied a blue silk hood, trimmed with swan’s down under my chin, and
putting on her own cloak and bonnet, led me to the door.
“I had never seen the stars before; they glittered up in the clear blue
sky, oh, so bright, so beautiful! The keen frost-air nipped my little
cheeks, but when they lifted me into the carriage, I was sorry not to
see the pretty stars any longer; they wrapped up every thing but the tip
end of my nose, in shawls and tippets, and though I could not see the
bright stars any more, I kept thinking about them; I wondered what kept
them from falling down on the ground, and where they staid in the
daytime, and how long it would take me to count them all, and, if one
ever _did_ fall down on the ground, if it would be stealing for me to
keep it for ‘my ownty doan-ty.’
“I was not used to getting up so early, so the motion of the carriage
soon rocked me to sleep, and when I awoke it was broad daylight, and the
carriage had stopped at the minister’s door. Oh, how the snow was piled
up! way to the tops of the fences, and all the trees were bending under
its weight; every little bush was wreathed with it; the tops of the
barns, and sheds, and houses, were covered with it; and great long
icicles, like big sticks of rock candy, were hanging from the eaves. I
liked it most as well as the pretty stars; I was glad I had seen them
and the soft white snow.
“Then the minister, and his wife and boys came out, and we went in with
them to a bright fire, and the coachman put up his horses in the barn,
and went into the kitchen into the big chimney-corner, to thaw his cold
fingers. They gave me some warm milk, and my mother some hot coffee, and
then the grown people talked and talked great big words, and I ran about
the room to see what I could see.”
“What did you see?”
“First, there was a Maltese cat, with five little bits of kittens, all
curled up in a bunch under their mother, eating their breakfast;
by-and-by the old cat went out in the kitchen to eat hers, and then I
took one of the kittys in my white apron, and played baby with it. It
purred and opened its brown eyes, and its little short tail kept
wagging. I could not help thinking the little country kitty was glad to
see some city company. Then I got tired of the kitty, and went up to the
corner of the room to look at some shells, and the minister’s boy told
me to put them up to my ear, and they would make a sound like the sea,
where they came from; I asked him if they were alive? and he laughed at
me; and then my face grew as red as my frock, so that I had to hide it
in my white apron.
“Then, after a while, the bells rang for church, for the minister was
going to preach a Thanksgiving sermon; and my mother said that she was
going with him and his wife to hear it; but that she would be back soon,
and that I might stay, while she was gone, in the warm parlor, with the
kitty and the shells; and that the minister’s boy would stay with me if
I didn’t like to stay alone. Then I crept up into my mother’s lap, and
whispered that I did not like the minister’s boy because he had laughed
at me, and that I wanted his mother to take him away with her to church,
and leave me all alone with the kittys and the shells; then the
minister’s boy laughed again when they told him, and said ‘I was a queer
one;’ but I didn’t care for that, when I saw him tie on his cap and pull
on his mittens to go off. So they opened the door of the sitting-room
into the kitchen, that Betty might see I did not catch my apron on fire,
and then they went to church.”
“Didn’t they leave you any thing to eat?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot that; I had a plate of ‘Thanksgiving cookies,’ as
they called them, and as soon as the door was shut, I took the plate in
my lap and never stopped till I had eaten them all up.”
“Wasn’t you a little pig, mother?”
“Not so very piggish, after all, because I was so astonished with my
candle-light breakfast, before starting from home, that I forgot to eat
any thing. So, you see, I was very glad of the cookies.”
“I am glad the minister’s boy did not stay, mother; I dare say he would
have eaten them all up. Didn’t you get tired before church was out,
mother?”
“No; I looked out of the window a long while, at the pretty white snow;
and by-and-by I saw a cunning little bird pecking at the window; it was
all white but its head, and that was black. I wanted to open the window
and let it in; I thought it must be cold, but I was afraid the
minister’s wife would not like it if the snow should fly in from the
window-sill on her nice carpet; just then Betty the cook came in, and
she told me that it was a little snow-bird, and that she thought it had
become quite chilled, for the frost lay thick on the windows; Betty said
she would open the window, and in it flew on the carpet; then I tip-toed
softly up and caught him; he fluttered a little, but I think he liked my
warm hand. Betty told me to put him in my bosom, and so I did; and then
he got warm as toast, and the first thing I knew; out he flew, and
perched on top of a rose geranium in the window; then I gave him some
cookie crumbs, and he ate them, and then he began pecking at the window,
and Betty said she thought he wanted to get out to his little mates
outside. I did not want him to go, I liked him better than the kittys or
the shells, but when Betty said that perhaps the cat would catch and eat
him, I said, ‘Let him go;’ so she opened the window, and away he flew.
“Then I did not know what to do; I wished the minister would not preach
such a long sermon, and keep my mother away. I wondered what we were
going to have for dinner, for I began to smell something very nice in
the kitchen, and I wished more than ever that sermon was over. I went
and peeped through the crack of the door into the kitchen, to find out
what smelt so good, and I saw, oh, such a big fire-place, you might
almost have played blind-man’s buff in it, only I supposed that
ministers would not let their children play blind-man’s buff; and front
of the fire-place was a great tin-kitchen, and in the tin-kitchen was a
monstrous turkey, and front of the turkey kneeled Betty, putting
something on it out of a tin box.
“I said, ‘Betty, what is that tin thing?’
“Betty said, ‘It is a dredging-box, you little chatterbox;’ and then the
red-faced coachman, who was toasting his toes in the chimney-corner,
laughed, and said, ‘Come here, sis!’
“I did not go. I did not like to be laughed at, and I was not his sis;
but still I kept smelling things through the door-crack, because I had
nothing else to do, and because I liked the good smell. I saw Betty take
out three pies to warm; one, she said, was mince, and I thought when I
got a piece how I would pick out all the nice raisins and eat them; the
other was pumpkin, and the other was an apple pie; then there was a
large chicken pie, and a cold boiled ham, and some oysters; I knew my
mother brought the ham and oysters from the city, because I heard her
talking about it at home; and then I wondered if folks who went to eat
dinner with ministers had always to bring a part of their dinners. Then
Betty came in to set the table for dinner; I was afraid she would not
put on a plate for me, and that I should have to wait in the corner till
the big folks had eaten up all the good things; but she did, and set up
a little high chair with arms, that the minister’s boy used to sit in
when he was little. I told Betty I did not like the minister’s boy’s
chair, and that I wouldn’t sit in it; and then Betty said, ‘Sho,
sho—little girls must be seen and not heard.’ I asked Betty what that
meant, and then she and the red-faced coachman laughed again, and the
coachman said, ‘Sis, it is fun talking to you.’ Then I heard a great
noise in the entry, such a stamping of feet, and such a blowing of
noses; sure enough meeting was done; I was so glad, for I knew the
turkey was.
“Then the minister said, ‘Come to me, little one.’”
“Oh, mother! I am so sorry; I suppose he wanted you to say your
catechism, when you were so hungry; did you go?”
“I stood with my finger in my mouth, looking him in the face, and
thinking about it. I liked his face; it was not cross, and there was a
pleasant smile about his mouth, and a soft sweet look in his eyes; so I
went slowly up to him. I was glad he did not call me ‘sis,’ like the
coachman; I did not like to be called sis; I wanted people to be polite
to me, just as they were to my mother.”
“What did he say to you, mother? Did he make you say the catechism?”
“No; he pushed my curls back off my face, and kissed my forehead; then
he asked me if I liked to hear little stories?”
“Did he? Why, what a nice minister!”
“I said, ‘Yes; do you know any? I know some.’
“Then the minister asked me what I knew.
“Then I said,
“‘Two wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl; if the bowl had been
stronger, my tale would have been longer.’ Then the minister laughed and
asked me if I believed that; then I said ‘Yes, it is printed in a real
book, in my Mother Goose, at home;’ and then the minister told me to
‘say some more Mother Goose,’ and then I told him all about ‘Old Mother
Hubbard, who went to the cupboard,’ and ‘Jack and Gill,’ and
‘Four-and-twenty black-birds,’ and ‘Little Bo-peep;’ and then the
minister laughed and said, ‘Mother Goose forever!’ I did not know what
that meant, and I did not dare to ask, because the ministers boy came
into the room just then, and said, ‘What a nice baby you have got on
your knee, father;’ and that made my face very red; and I asked the
minister to let me get down, and then the minister’s boy came up to me
and said, ‘Sis!’ and I said, pouting, ‘I ain’t sis, I am Susy;’ and then
he laughed, and said again, ‘What a queer one!’ and began pulling the
cat’s tail.”
“How ugly—I wish I’d been alive then, I would have pulled his hair for
teasing my mother so. What happened next, mother?”
“Then Betty brought in the roast turkey, and the hot potatoes, and the
oysters, and things; and then the minister himself lifted me up in my
high chair, between him and my mother, and then he folded his hands and
said a blessing.”
“Was it very long, mother?”
“No, only a few words, and then he carved the turkey, and gave me the
wish-bone.”
“Why, mother, he was not a bit like a minister; was he? Well?”
“Then I ate, and ate, and ate; and the minister gave me all the plums
out of his pie, because he said that he could not find four-and-twenty
black-birds to put in it; and after dinner he picked out my nuts for me;
and when his boy called me ‘Sis,’ he said, ‘John, behave!’ After dinner,
I asked the minister if he knew how to play cat’s-cradle; he said he
used to know once; then he said to his wile, ‘Mother, can’t you give us
a string, this little one and I are going to play cat’s-cradle.’ He was
such a while learning that I told him I did not think ministers _could_
play cat’s-cradle; but his wife said he was stupid on purpose, to see
what I would do; he got the string into a thousand knots, and I got out
of patience, and then I wouldn’t teach him any more; then he told me to
see if I could spell cro-non-ho-ton-thol-o-gus, without getting my
tongue in a kink. Then the minister’s boy said, ‘Try her on
Po-po-cat-a-pet-el, father.’ Then the minister and I played ‘Hunt the
Slipper,’ and ‘Puss in the Corner,’ and ‘Grand Mufti,’ and I was so
sorry when a man drove up to the door, in a sleigh, and carried the
minister off to see a poor sick woman.”
“Why, mother, I never heard of such a kind of a minister as he was. I
thought ministers never laughed, and that they thought it was wicked to
play; and that’s why I don’t like them, and am afraid of them. I wish
our minister, Mr. Stokes, was like that minister you have been telling
about; then I wouldn’t cross over the street when I see him coming. Do
you think Mr. Stokes likes little children, mother? When he sees me he
says, ‘How is your mother, Susy?’ but he never looks at me when he says
it, and goes away after it as fast as ever he can; but what else
happened at your minister’s, mother?”
“Well, by that time, the sun began to go down, and the frost began to
thicken on the windows; and though the large wood fire blazed cheerfully
in the chimney, my mother said we had such a long, cold ride before us,
that it was time we were starting. So I went out in the kitchen to tell
the red-faced coachman to tackle up his horses, and there he lay asleep
on the wooden settle.”
“What is a settle?”
“A rough kitchen-sofa, made of boards, with a very high back. I touched
his arm, and he only said, as he turned over, ‘Whoa, there—whoa!’
‘John,’ said I, ‘we want you to tackle up the horses; my mother wants to
go home, John.’
“‘Get up, Dobbin, get up, Jack,’ said John, without opening his eyes.
“‘John,’ said I, right in his ear, for I was getting tired.
“‘Oh, that’s you sis, is it?’ said John, springing up, and knocking over
the old settle with a tremendous noise. ‘Bless my soul, that’s you;’ and
then he burst into a loud laugh, and I found out that he had not been
asleep a bit, and only did so to plague me.
“Well, we warmed the bricks again; and wrapped them up with the old
pieces of carpet, to put under our feet, and I drank some warm milk, and
the minister’s wife put some cookies in my bag, and tied my soft blue
silk hood round my face, and as she did it, she sighed such a long sigh,
that I said,
“‘Does it tire you to tie my hood?’
“‘No—no—no—no’—and then a great big tear came rolling down her cheek,
and then she said, ‘There is a little silken hood like yours in the
drawer up-stairs, but I have no little rosy face to tie it round now;’
and I stopped and thought a minute, for at first I did not understand;
and then I said softly,
“‘I’m sorry.’
“And then she wiped away her tears, and said, ‘Don’t cry dear; you
looked like her, in that little hood; but God knows better than we do—I
shall see her again some day.’
“Then she kissed me, and put me into the carriage, and John cracked his
whip, and we were just starting, when the minister’s boy came running
out with my little bag, and said,
“‘Here’s your bag, sis; kiss me and you shall have it.’
“‘I wouldn’t kiss you, no—not for twenty bags,’ said I; ‘I love your
mother, and I love your father; but I ain’t “sis” and I don’t love you,
and I won’t kiss you.’
“‘Queer one—queer one,’ said he, tossing my silk bag into the carriage,
and making a great snow-ball with his hands to throw at John.”
“Hateful thing.”
“You must not say that, Susy.”
“Why not?”
“Because that minister’s boy is your father.”
“Oh—oh—oh,” screamed Susy, hopping up and down, “did I ever—did I
ever—who would have thought it, that such a hatef—I mean that such a—boy
should make such a dear papa, oh, mother; oh, I am so happy, it is so
funny.”
“Happy on a _rainy_ day, Susy. I thought an hour ago that you were the
most miserable little girl in the world, because you could not make the
sun shine.”
“_You_ are my sunshine, mother.”
“And papa, that hatef—”
“Now don’t, mother. I would never have said, so—never, if I had
known—but how could _I_ tell he was going to turn out my papa? any more
than you could—when he used to call you sis.”
“Sure enough, Susy.”
THE
BOY WHO WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD.
“Nothing but school, school—I am tired of it; I am tired of living at
home; I am tired of every thing. My father is kind enough, so is my
mother; but I want to be a man for myself. I am a very tall boy of my
age; I am sure it is time I had off my round jacket. I want to see the
world; I don’t believe it is necessary for a fellow to swallow so many
Greek and Latin dictionaries before he can do it. I have a great mind to
‘clear out;’ there is a quarter of a dollar up in my box, and I am a
‘prime’ walker; pooh—who cares? They should not tie a fellow up so, if
they don’t want him to run off. I can’t stand it; I will go this very
day; of course I sha’n’t want any clothes but those I have on my back;
they ought to last me a year; they are right out of the tailor’s shop.
He didn’t know, when he made them, what a long journey they were going;
who knows but one of these days, this very suit of clothes may be shown
in a glass case, to crowds of people, as the very suit that the famous
traveler, John Sims, wore when he was a boy. I like that! I never could
see the use of keeping boys cooped up at home. Who wants to be a walking
dictionary? I don’t. I feel as if I could go round the world and back
again in twenty minutes; no—not _back_; you don’t catch me back in a
hurry! I should like to see myself come sneaking home, after Bill Jones,
and Sam Jackson, and Will Johnson, and all the fellows in the street,
had heard I had run off. Of course they’ll miss me awfully; I am ‘prime’
at ‘hop-scotch,’ and ‘bat-and-ball,’ and ‘hockey.’ I can stand on my
head longer than any fellow among them; and when it comes to leaping
over a post—ah, just ask my mother how many pairs of trousers I have
stripped out doing it. I guess Jack Adams will miss me in the geography
class; he always expects me to tell him his lesson; stupid dunce! I
guess the school-master will miss me, too, for I was always the
show-off-fellow, when company came into school; they can’t say I didn’t
study my lessons well; but I am sick of it, crammed to death, and now
I’m off. I wonder if I shall ever be sick when I am on my travels; that
would be rather bad; mother is so kind when a fellow is sick: pshaw—I
won’t be sick—who’s afraid? who’s a cry-baby? not I; I am John Sims, the
great traveler that is to be—hurrah! I wonder who will have my old sled
‘Winded Arrow?’ I dare say sis will be going down hill on it; what a
plague sisters are. Dora always has the biggest piece of pie; not that I
care about it—I am too much of a man; but it is confoundedly provoking;
if you try to have a little fun with girls; they holler out, ‘Oh, don’t,
you hurt!’ and they bawl for just nothing at all, except to get their
brothers a boxed ear. I can’t bear girls; I never could see any use in
them. Now, if Dora had been a boy—ah, that would have been fun; he could
have gone off with me on my travels; well—never mind about that, it is
time I was going, if I mean to go to-day; father will be home to dinner
soon, and then my plan will be all knocked in the head; I shall be sent
out of an errand, or some such thing. I guess I will go out at the back
door; it is ridiculous, but somehow or other I feel just as if every
body knew what I was going to do; but once round the corner—down ——
street—and off on the railroad track, and they may all whistle for
Johnny Sims, the famous traveler.”
“Thump—thump—thump! I wonder who that is, knocking at my front door,”
said Betty Smith; “I hope it is not the minister! I can’t leave these
preserves for any body! thump—thump! What a hurry some folks are in,
that they can’t give a body a chance to wipe their sticky fingers on a
roller; nobody comes here but the peddler and the tinman, unless it is
the minister; who can it be?” and Betty opened the door, and hurled from
between her teeth, her usual blunt, “What do you want?”
“A piece of bread, if you please; I’ve taken such a long walk, and I am
very hungry.”
“Where did you come from?” asked Betty, “and where are you going? and
why didn’t you put a piece of bread or something in your pocket before
you started, hey?”
“I did not think I should be so hungry,” said the boy.
“Well—where are you going now, any how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know? that’s a pretty story! how did you come by those good
clothes? I’ll bet a sixpence you stole ’em; they are genuine
broadcloth—fine as our minister wears—and you begging for a piece of
bread! I can’t put that and that together. You don’t get any bread from
me, till you open your mouth a little wider, my young mister, and tell
me what you are up to. I shouldn’t wonder if you were sent here by some
bad people, or something, to see if my man was to home; I can tell you
now that he ain’t, but there’s a gun behind that kitchen door that’s
better than forty of him, and I know how to handle it, too. Do you hear
that, now? I’ll have you taken to—taken to—I’ll have something done to
you—see if I don’t; if you don’t tell me in two minutes who sent you to
my house!” said the curious Betty. “I don’t believe you are hungry—it is
all a sham!”
“I _am_, really,” said the boy. “Nobody sent me here; I never did any
thing bad. Won’t you give me a piece of bread, and tell me what road
this is?”
“He’s crazy!” said Betty, looking close into the boy’s eyes.
“No, I am not crazy. I—I—I don’t know the way home.”
“Where is your home?”
The boy hesitated, and hung his head.
“Tut, now, if you want your bread,” said Betty, growing more and more
curious, snatching a fragment of a loaf, and holding it up before
him—“if you want this now, tell me where you live?”
“In the city,” said the boy.
“Ten miles off! Did you walk all that?”
The boy nodded.
“Did your pa and ma know it?”
“No.”
“Come now, here’s another slice,” said Betty, “and I’ll put some butter
on it, if you’ll tell me what you did it for?”
“I wanted to run away.”
“Goodness! What for? Did your folks treat you bad?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I wanted to travel.”
“Ha—ha—ha—ha!” said Betty, holding on to her sides. “That’s too good—too
good—and got tired a’ready—ha! ha!—and want to find the way home! Smart
traveler you are! How do you expect to get back to-night? It is most
sundown now.”
“I don’t know,” said the boy, sadly.
“Nor I,” said Betty. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll give you a
supper and a bed to-night; and my man is going in to market at four
o’clock to-morrow morning, with some vegetables; and he will give you a
lift, if I ask him. How’ll that do?”
“Thank you,” said the boy; “but—”
“But?” said Betty. “Oh yes, you are thinking of what a pucker your pa
and ma will be in about you, all night. Well, you should have thought of
that afore you started. It can’t be helped now. I know my man won’t
budge an inch before four o’clock in the morning; he’s just as sot as
the everlasting hills. There he comes now. I guess he’ll wonder where I
picked up you.”
“Halloo! Betty,” said Richard, rattling up to the door with his team.
“What boy is that?”
“Why, Richard!”
“Why, Johnny!”
“What does all that mean?” said the astonished Betty, as the little boy
flew into her husband’s arms. “What on earth does that mean? Did you
ever see him before?”
“Well, I should think I had,” said Richard, “seeing that I have found
his pa in vegetables all summer; and this boy, every blessed morning,
has jumped on to my team for me to give him a lift on his way to school.
Should r-a-t-h-e-r think I had seen him before, Betty; but how he came
out here, that’s what I want to know—didn’t know as ever I told him
where I lived.”
“You never did,” said Johnny. “I have been a bad boy, Richard—I ran away
from home. I read books about boys that went off to see the world, and I
thought it would be fun.”
“Well!” said Richard, laughing; “you are not the first fellow who has
found out that bread and butter and money don’t grow on the bushes. Now
I suppose you are quite ready for me to carry you back?”
“Yes,” said Johnny.
“Well, eat your supper, and then be off to bed, for I shall start before
the hens are awake; and mind you tell your folks that I had no hand in
your going off. It looks rather suspicious, you see—coming straight out
to my house. Lucky you did not fall into worse hands; and, Betty, you
might as well brush up his dirty shoes and take a little dust off his
jacket and cap. I can always tell a boy that hasn’t seen his mother for
four-and-twenty hours. Ah, Johnny, nothing like a mother. Don’t you be
too proud, now, to ask her pardon for running off; you young
scapegrace.”
“No I ain’t,” said Johnny.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Richard.
“I was thinking,” said Johnny, as he watched Betty dusting his jacket,
“what a silly boy I was, and how I thought that one of these days every
body would want to see the jacket and trowsers that the great traveler
John Sims had on, when he first started on foot to go round the world.”
“Never mind that,” said Richard, laughing; “it will be a cheap suit of
clothes for you, if it only teaches you that a good home is the best
place for boys, and a good father and mother the very best of friends.”
“Wake up, wake up,” shouted Richard, shaking John by the shoulder the
next morning, “my team is all harnessed, and at the door; and Betty has
some smoking-hot coffee down stairs; wake up, Johnny, and we’ll get into
town time enough to eat breakfast with your mother.”
Johnny jumped out of bed, and in his hurry, put his legs into the
sleeves of his jacket: he was not used to dressing in the dark; the hot
coffee was soon swallowed, and jumping into the market cart beside John,
they rattled off by starlight down the road. Richard did not talk much,
he was thinking how much money his turnips, and carrots, and beets, and
parsnips, would bring him, so that Johnny had plenty of time to think.
Every mile that brought them nearer to the city made him feel more and
more what a naughty boy he had been, to distress such a good father and
mother; so that he was quite ready when the market cart rattled over the
paved streets of the city, and up to his father’s door, to say all that
such a foolish boy should say, when his parents came out to meet him;
nor did he get angry when “the fellows” joked him about his “long
journey round the world.” And when they found _he_ could laugh at his
own folly, as well as they, they soon stopped teasing him. Johnny has
some little boys of his own now, and when they begin to talk big, he
always tells them the story of “John Sims, the famous traveler.”
THE JOURNEY.
CHAPTER I.
Did you ever go a journey with your mother? No? Little Nelly did; it was
great fun for her to see her mother pack the trunk. She had no idea
before how much may be got into a trunk by squeezing. She thought it
full half a dozen times, and laughed merrily when her mother pressed
down the things with her hands, and piled as many more on top of them.
Nelly and her mother were going to Niagara; that is a long way from New
York. They went to bed very early the night before, for they knew that
they must be up and off by daylight, breakfast, or no breakfast; for the
cars do not wait for hungry people, as you may have found out. Long
before daylight Nelly put her hand on her mother’s face, and said, It is
time to get up, mother, and sure enough it was; so they both sprang out
of bed, washed their eyes open, hurried on their clothes, and, I wish I
could say, eat their breakfast, but unfortunately Nelly and her mother
were boarding at a hotel. Now, perhaps you do not know that the servants
in the New York hotels set up nearly all night, to wait upon people who
stay out late at theaters, and like a nice dainty supper when they get
home; and to take care of strangers, too, who arrive late at night; so
you can imagine how tired they are, and how soundly they sleep, poor
fellows, in the morning. Many of them are most excellent people, who
bear without complaint all the hard words they get from those, whose
chairs they stand behind, and who consider themselves privileged for
that reason to insult and abuse them. No matter how weary they are, they
must dart like a flash of lightning wherever they are sent, and get
sworn at and abused even then for not going quicker. I remember well a
middle-aged man who was waiter in a hotel where I once lived. He was as
truly a gentleman as your own father. I could not bear that he should
answer the bell when I rang it; it seemed to me that I should rather
wait upon him. I could not bear that he should bow his head so
deferentially every time he spoke to me, or be so troubled if my tea or
coffee was not just as I was accustomed to have it. I could not bear
that he should beg my pardon for every little omission or accident, so
seldom occurring, too. I almost wished he would say something impudent
or saucy; it made me so uncomfortable to see such a fine, dignified,
gentlemanly man waiting upon my table, waiting upon people in the house,
too, who were not fit to wipe his shoes; running hither and thither at
the call of capricious, ill-bred children, whose wealthy parents had
never taught them that servants have hearts to feel, and that they
should be humanely treated. Ah, you should have seen our John; his
manners would not have disgraced the White House. In fact I should not
be surprised any day to hear that he was its master; for he who fills an
inferior position faithfully and well, is he who oftenest rises to the
highest. Remember that!
Well, as I was telling you, before I began about John, when Nelly and
her mother got up, the poor, sleepy servants, who had not been in bed
more than an hour or so, were not up, so Nelly nibbled a cracker and
drank a glass of water, and she and her mother jumped into the carriage
and were driven to the dépôt. How odd Broadway looked by early daylight!
No gayly dressed ladies swept the pavements with their silken robes; no
dandies thumped it with their high-heeled boots and dapper canes; no
little girls, dressed as old as their mammas, glided languidly up and
down, with their hands folded over their belts and an embroidered
handkerchief between their kidded fingers. No—none but the useful class
of the community were stirring: market-men, from the country, with their
carts laden with lettuce, parsnips, cabbages, radishes, and
strawberries, covered over with a layer of fresh, green grass, the very
sight and odor of which made one long to be where it grew. Then there
were milkmen, driving enough to tear up the pavement; then there were
rag-pickers, gray with dirt, raking the gutters; then there were
shop-boys and office-boys by the score, who had crossed the ferries to
their work, for board in New York is expensive business; then there were
tailoresses and sempstresses, more than I could count, with their shawls
drawn round their thin shoulders, and their faces shrouded in their
barege vails; then there were poor, tired news-boys asleep in entries
and on steps, while others of their number rushed past with their
bundles of damp papers. Little Nelly saw it all, for her eyes were sharp
and bright; and now she is at the dépôt. All is hurry, skurry;
carriages, cab-men, passengers, and baggage. Nelly’s eyes look
wonderingly about her, and she keeps close to her mother, for the loud
shouts of the men frighten her; now she is safe in the cars—how pale,
sleepy, and cross every body looks! They hang up their traveling-bags on
pegs over their heads, they fold up their shawls for cushions, they
examine their pockets to see if their purses and checks are all right,
they shrug their shoulders and pull down the windows to keep out the
steam from the car boiler, for we are not yet out of the dépôt, they put
their feet upon the seat, coil themselves up into a ball, and wonder why
the cars don’t start. Siz—z—z, off we go—good-by New York, with your
dust, and din, and racket—good-by to your sleepy belles, who are
dreaming of last night’s ball, and getting strength to go to another;
good-by to the gray old men who toil so hard to find them in dresses and
jewels; good-by to their thoughtless sons, who spend so freely what they
never earn; good-by to the squalid poor of whom they never think, though
they may some day keep them wretched company; good-by to the poor old
omnibus horses, who trot and stumble, stumble and trot, till one’s bones
ache to look at them; good-by to the merry, sun-burned drivers, who so
courteously rein up their horses, when ladies want to trip across the
slippery streets; good-by to the little flower-girls, who manufacture
those tempting little baskets of pinks, geraniums, and roses; good-by to
the pretty parks, with their fountains and trees, nurses and children;
good-by to the prisons, which often shut up better people than many whom
the judges suffer to go unpunished at large; good-by to the hospitals
with their groaning patients, watchful nurses, and skillful doctors.
Good-by, we shall not be missed, no more than the pebble which some idle
school-boy tosses into the pond, and which disappears and is thought of
no more. Good-by, busy, dirty, noisy, crowded, yet delightful New York,
for we are off to Niagara.