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HOLIDAYS AT THE GRANGE, OR A WEEK'S DELIGHT.
Games and Stories for Parlor and Fireside.
by
EMILY MAYER HIGGINS.
[Illustration: Publisher's logo]
Philadelphia:
Porter & Coates.
Copyright, 1886,
by
Porter & Coates.
[Illustration: WYNDHAM GRANGE.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Gathering.--Christmas Eve.--"Consequences."--"How do you
like it?" 9
CHAPTER II.
Christmas Day.--"Rhymes."--"Cento."--"Genteel Lady."--The
Fairy Wood. 21
CHAPTER III.
"The Rhyming Game."--Orikama, or the White Water-Lily; an
Indian Tale. 62
CHAPTER IV.
"Proverbs."--"Twenty Questions."--The Spectre of Alcantra,
or the Conde's Daughters; a Tale of Spain. 98
CHAPTER V.
A Skating Adventure.--"What is my Thought like?"--"Questions."--The
Orphan's Tale, or the Vicissitudes of Fortune. 140
CHAPTER VI.
Sunday.--Bible Stories.--"Capping Bible Verses."--Bible-Class. 181
CHAPTER VII.
Sequel to the Orphan's Tale.--"Who can he be?"--"Elements."--The
Astrologers. 206
CHAPTER VIII.
"Confidante."--"Lead-Merchant."--"Trades."--The Rose of
Hesperus; a Fairy Tale. 246
CHAPTER IX.
New-Year's Day.--"Characters, or Who am I?"--"Quotations."--"Acting
Charades."--"Riddles." 281
CHAPTER X.
Whispering Gallery.--Potentates.--Three Young Men. 295
GAMES AND STORIES.
CHAPTER I.
THE GATHERING.--CHRISTMAS EVE.--CONSEQUENCES.--HOW DO YOU LIKE IT?
Not many miles from Philadelphia, in a beautifully wooded and hilly
country, may be seen a large rambling mansion, whose substantial walls
show that it was built at a time when more attention was paid to the
durability of dwellings than at present. It is, indeed, quite an ancient
house for this part of the world, having been erected by a certain John
Wyndham, a hundred years ago; and it has remained in the family ever
since, the owner of it generally inheriting the name of John, a taste
for rural life, and the old homestead together. It was constructed in
good taste, and with great regard for comfort; the broad hall, the
favorite resort in summer, was ornamented with family portraits of many
ages back, and a complete suit of armor, visor and all, struck awe into
the hearts of young visitors, who almost expected its former occupant to
resume possession, with his gauntleted hand to draw the sword from its
scabbard, and, seizing the flag over his head, to drive the modern
usurpers from the house. Large antlers, bows and arrows, and rusty
fowling-pieces against the wall, intimated that the descendants of the
grim warrior had exercised their valor in the chase; while a guitar with
blue ribbon, in the corner, told that gentler days had come, and spoke
of peace, domestic joys, and woman's influence.
Many were the bright sunshiny chambers in that cheerful home; but I will
describe one apartment only, the sitting-room, with which we are chiefly
concerned. The furniture is quaint and massive; but it is the rich
mellow light streaming through the room that principally attracts the
eye. Is it the western sun, tinted by the colored glass of the
bay-window, or is it the ruddy hickory fire? What a remarkable
chimney-place! few such can be seen now-a-days; they had gone out of
date a hundred years ago; but it was ancient John Wyndham's fancy, as
far as possible, to possess a fac-simile of the family mansion in
England, in which his childish days had been spent. What elaborate
carving upon the huge mantel-piece!--hunters with their guns and dogs;
shepherds and shepherdesses, with crooks and sheep; scriptural scenes
and rural incidents, afford endless amusement to the groups gathered
before the fire. Before, did I say? around, is the right expression; for
so large is the chimney, that while crackling up-piled logs blaze upon
the hearth, a number might be accommodated on the benches at the side,
as well as in front. It is the most sociable gathering-place in the
world, and the stiffest and most formal person would soon relax there;
while fingers are thawed, hearts are melted by that fire--warm and kind
affections are drawn out--sparkles of wit fly about the room, as if in
emulation of the good hickory: it is a chimney corner most provocative
of ancient legends, of frightful ghost-stories, of tales of
knight-errantry and romantic love, of dangers and of hair-breadth
escapes; in short, of all that can draw both old and young away from
their every-day cares, into the brighter world of fiction and poesy. In
the recess on one side is a small library, comfortable enough to entice
the student from the merry group so near him; on the other, is a room
looked upon with great affection by the juvenile members of the family,
for here does Aunt Lucy manufacture and keep for distribution those
delicious cakes, never to be refused at lunch time; and those pies,
jellies, whips, and creams, which promise to carry down her name to
posterity as the very nonpareil of housekeepers.
Three persons are sitting in the room, whom in common politeness I
should introduce to the reader: very pleasant people are they to know
and to visit. Uncle John and Aunt Lucy Wyndham, the master and mistress
of the house, are remarkable for kindness, and make their nephews and
nieces, and whole troops of friends, feel perfectly at home at once;
they are Uncle John and Aunt Lucy to all their young acquaintances, and
delight in the title. Perhaps they would not have been generally called
so, had they any children of their own; but they have none, and the only
young person in the house at present is Mary Dalton--Cousin Mary--an
orphan niece of Mrs. Wyndham, whom they have brought up from a child.
She looks like her aunt, plump, rosy, good natured and sensible; she is
just seventeen, and very popular with the whole cousinhood. She has many
accomplishments: she does not talk French, Spanish, or Italian, but she
knows how to play every game that ever was invented, can tell stories to
suit every age, can soothe a screaming child sooner than any one else,
can rattle off cotillions on the piano-forte of a winter's evening
without thinking it hard that she cannot join in the dance; and lastly,
can lay down an interesting book or piece of crochet work to run on an
errand for Aunt, or untangle the bob-tails of a kite, without showing
any signs of crossness. Self is a very subordinate person with her, and
indeed she seems hardly to realize her separate individuality; she is
everybody's Cousin Mary, and frowns vanish, and smiles brighten up the
countenance, wherever she appears. A very happy looking group they are,
but restless, this afternoon of the 24th of December; Uncle John
frequently goes to the hall door; Aunt Lucy lays down her knitting to
listen; and Cousin Mary does not pretend to read the book she holds, but
gazes out of the window, down the long avenue of elms, as if she
expected an arrival. Old Cæsar, "the last of the servants," as Mr.
Wyndham styles him, a white-haired negro who was born in the house, and
is devoted to the family, always speaking of _our_ house, _our_
carriage, and _our_ children, as if he were chief owner, vibrates
constantly between the kitchen and the porter's lodge, feeling it to be
his especial duty and prerogative to give the first welcome to the
guests.
And soon the sound of wheels is heard, and merry voices resound through
the hall, and cheeks rosy with the cold are made yet rosier by hearty
kisses; it is the young Wyndhams, come to spend their Christmas holidays
at the Grange with Uncle John. There is Cornelia, a bright, intelligent
girl of sixteen, full of fun, with sparkling black eyes. John, a boy of
fourteen, matter-of fact and practical, a comical miniature of Uncle
John, whom he regards with veneration, as the greatest, wisest, and best
of living men, and only slightly inferior to General Washington himself;
and George, his twin brother and very devoted friend, a good boy in the
main, but so very full of mischief! he would get into a thousand
scrapes, if his more sober companion did not restrain him. We must not
overlook little Amy, the sweet child of twelve, with flowing golden hair
and languishing eyes, the gentle, unspoiled pet and playmate of all.
Her cheek is pale, for she has ever been the delicate flower of the
family, and the winter winds must not visit her too roughly: she is one
to be carefully nurtured. And the more so, as her mind is highly
imaginative and much in advance of her age; already does the light of
genius shine forth in her eye. Scarcely are these visitors well
ensconced in the chimney corner, after their fur wrappings are removed,
before the sound of wheels is again heard, and shouts of joy announce
the arrival of the Greens. That tall, slender, intellectual girl, with
pale oval face and expressive eyes, is Ellen. Her cousins are very proud
of her, for she has just returned from boarding-school with a high
character for scholarship, and has carried away the prize medal for
poetry from all competitors; the children think that she can speak every
language, and she is really a refined and accomplished girl. She has not
seen Mary or Cornelia for a couple of years, and great are the
rejoicings at their meeting; they are warm friends already. Her manly
brother Tom, although younger, looks older than she does: a fine,
handsome fellow he is. The younger Greens are almost too numerous to
particularize; Harry and Louis, Anna and Gertrude--merry children all,
noisy and frolicsome, but well-inclined and tolerably submissive to
authority; they ranged from nine years old, upward. Just as the sun was
setting, and Aunt Lucy had almost given them up, the third family of
cousins arrived, the Boltons. Charlie Bolton is the elder of the two--he
will be called Charlie to the end of his days, if he live to be a
white-haired grandfather, he is so pleasant and full of fun, so ready
with his joke and merry laugh; he is Cornelia's great friend and ally,
and the two together would keep any house wide awake. His sister Alice
is rather sentimental, for which she is heartily laughed at by her
harum-skarum brother; but she is at an age when girls are apt to take
this turn--fourteen; she will leave it all behind her when she is older.
Sentimentality may be considered the last disease of childhood; measles,
hooping-cough, and scarlatina having been successfully overcome, if the
girl passes through this peril unscathed, and no weakness is left in her
mental constitution, she will probably be a woman of sane body and mind.
Alice is much given to day-dreams, and to reading novels by stealth; she
is very romantic, and would dearly love to be a heroine, if she could.
The only objection to the scheme, in her mind, is that her eyes have a
very slight cast, and that her nose is _un petit nez retroussé_--in
other words, something of a pug; and Alice has always been under the
impression that a heroine must have straight vision, and a Grecian nose.
Hers is a face that will look very arch and _piquante_, when she
acquires more sense, and lays aside her lack-a-daisical airs; but, at
present, the expression and the features are very incongruous. It is
excessively mortifying! but it cannot be helped; many times a day does
she cast her eyes on the glass, but the obstinate pug remains a pug, and
Alice is forced to conclude that she is not intended for a heroine. Yet
she always holds herself ready for any marvellous adventure that may
turn up, and she is perfectly convinced that there must be concealed
doors, long winding passages in the walls, and perhaps a charmingly
horrible dungeon, at The Grange. Why not? Such things are of constant
occurrence in story books, and that house is the oldest one she knows.
She is determined on this visit to explore it thoroughly, and perhaps
she may become the happy discoverer of a casket of jewels, or a
skeleton, or some other treasure.
Thirteen young people there are in all, with pleasant faces and joyful
hearts; and none of them, I am happy to say were of the perfect sort
you read of in books. Had they been, their Aunt Lucy, who was used to
real children, would have entertained serious fears for their longevity.
They all required a caution or a reprimand now and then, and none were
so wise as not to make an occasional silly speech, or to do a heedless
action. But they were good-tempered and obliging, as healthy children
should always be, and were seldom cross unless they felt a twinge of
toothache. How fast did their tongues run, that first hour! How much had
all to tell, and how much to hear! And how happy did Uncle John appear,
as he sat in the centre of the group, with little Amy on his lap,
leaning her languid head against his broad and manly chest, while a
cluster of the younger ones contended together for possession of the
unoccupied knee.
After the hearty, cheerful country supper, the whole party of visitors
was escorted into a dark room adjoining the hall, while Aunt Lucy and
Cousin Mary were engaged in certain preparations, well understood by the
older guests, who were too discreet to allay the curiosity of the
younger ones, who for the first time were allowed to share the
hospitality of the Grange at Christmas. At last the folding-doors were
thrown open, and the hall appeared to be in a blaze of light; colored
lamps were suspended in festoons from the ceiling, showing how prettily
the old portraits were adorned with evergreens. Even the man in armor
looked less grim, as if his temper was mollified by the ivy wreath wound
around his helmet. But the chief object of interest was a stately tree
at the end of the hall, from whose trunk proceeded thirteen branches,
brilliantly illuminated with wax lights and pendant lamps of various
hues; while gilded fruit, and baskets of flowers and confectionary,
looked to the uninitiated as if the fairies themselves had been at work.
Many were the exclamations of delight, and intense the excitement; the
old hall echoed with the shouts of the boys. Uncle John, ever happy in
the enjoyment of others, declared that he believed himself to be the
youngest child there, and that he enjoyed the revels of Christmas Eve
more than any of them.
When the noise and rapture had somewhat subsided, Cousin Mary proposed
that they should try some games, by way of variety. Chess, checkers,
backgammon, Chinese puzzles, dominoes, jack-straws, etc., were
mentioned, and each one of them was declared by different members of the
group to be exceedingly entertaining; but Charlie Bolton said that
"although he was neither Grand Turk nor perpetual Dictator, he must put
his veto upon all such games as being of an unsocial nature. It was all
very well, when only two persons were together, to amuse themselves with
such things; but for his part, he did hate to see people ride in
sulkies, and play _solitaire_, when they could have such agreeable
society as was there gathered together;" making, as he spoke, a dashing
bow to the girls. "Has not any one wit enough to think of a game at
which we can all assist?"
"Do you know how to play 'Consequences?'" said Mary.
"I never heard of it," replied Cornelia; "how do you play it?"
"With paper and pencils. Here is my writing-desk full of paper, and my
drawing-box with pencils ready sharpened, and you have nothing to do but
all to write according to my directions, and doubling down the paper, to
hand it to a neighbor, so that each time you have a different slip. When
it is finished, I will read them aloud, supplying some words which will
make sense--or, what is much better, arrant nonsense--of the whole. So
begin by writing a term descriptive of a gentleman."
"Now write a gentleman's name--some one you know, or some distinguished
person."
"Next, an adjective descriptive of a lady."
"And now, a lady's name."
"Mention a place, and describe it."
"Now write down some date, or period of time when a thing might happen."
"Put a speech into the gentleman's mouth."
"Make the lady reply."
"Tell what the consequences were."
"And what the world said of it."
"And now allow me to enlighten the company. Here is one specimen:
"The gallant and accomplished Nero met the beautiful, but rather
coquettish Mrs. Wyndham at Gretna Green, that place once so famous for
runaway couples and matrimonial blacksmiths, upon the 4th of July, 1900
A.D. He said, 'Dearest madam, my tender heart will break if you refuse
my hand;' but she replied, 'La, sir, don't talk such nonsense!' The
consequences were, that their names were embalmed together in history;
and the world said, 'It is exactly what I expected.'"
"Are you sure, Mary," said Mrs. Wyndham, laughing, "that you are not
taking any liberties with my name?"
"Here it is ma'am, you can see it yourself; but I think you escaped very
well. Here's another: "The refined and dandified Jack the Giant-Killer
met the modest, retiring Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, at the Pyramids,
(ah! some one peeped!) those wonderful monuments of ages long since
passed away, on Christmas Day, in the year One. He said, 'I never
entertained a very lofty opinion of your ladyship;' she replied, 'I
perfectly agree with the noble sentiments you have just uttered: our
hearts shall henceforward be united in the strictest friendship.' The
consequences were that they parted, to meet no more; and the partial
world remarked, 'What a pair of fools!'"
"Here is another: "The brave, daring, thoughtless King Solomon met the
elegant, fashionable Queen Semiramis upon the top of Mont Blanc, that
lofty mountain, crowned with perpetual snow, on the 30th of February. He
remarked, 'Do you like the last style of bonnets, Madam?' She answered,
'Sir, do not press the matter. I am but young; you can speak to my
papa.' The consequences were, that they took an ice-cream, and went up
to the clouds in an air-balloon; and the amiable world said, 'Who would
have believed it?'"
After reading all the papers, which caused much diversion, one of the
party proposed playing "How do you like it." While Tom Green was waiting
in another room, the remainder of the company fixed upon a word of
double or treble meaning, which it was his duty to discover by the
answers given to three questions he was to ask of all in succession. If
unable to guess the word at the end of the third round, he would be
crowned with the dunce-cap, and must recommence his questions: if, on
the contrary, he hit upon the right word, the person whose answer led
him to conjecture it must take his place.
"Anna," said Tom, "how do you like it? Now, don't tell me you like it
very well, or not at all; give me something descriptive."
"I like it with a large capital."
"You do? Then it may either be a word, a state, a pillar, or a man of
business. Cousin Alice, how do you like it?"
"I like it shady and covered with moss."
"And you, Sister Ellen?"
"With vaults secure and well filled."
"What do you say, Gertrude?"
"I like it covered with violets."
"How do you prefer it, Charlie?"
"With a good board of directors."
"And you, Amy?"
"Covered with strong and skilful rowers."
"What is your preference, George?"
"I like it high and picturesque."
"How do you like it, John?"
"With numerous branches."
"It can't be a tree--how do you like it, Mary?"
"Very green."
"And you, Harry?"
"Of red brick or white marble."
"How contradictory! What have you to answer, Cornelia?"
"I like it steep and rocky."
"And you, Louis?"
"I like it warranted not to break."
"When do you like it, Anna?"
"When I have an account in it."
"When do you like it, Alice?"
"When I am in the country, and feel weary."
"And you, Ellen?"
"When I hold a check in my hand."
"And you, Gertrude?"
"In the spring of the year, when I feel languid and sentimental."
"When do you prefer it, Charlie?"
"When I want a loan, and can give good security."
"And you, Amy?"
"When I am in a boat, and becalmed."
"And you, George?"
"When I am at sea, anxiously looking out for land."
"What say you, John?"
"When I am a merchant, engaged in large transactions."
"When do you like it, Mary?"
"When my eye is weary of a flat, dull country."
"And you, Harry?"
"When I am a stockholder."
"So I should think, if it paid a good dividend. And if I were to ask you
my third question, 'Where will you put it!' one would place it under an
umbrageous tree, another by the sea, a third by a river, and a fourth on
a good business street, near the Exchange. My good friends, I would be
dull indeed if I did not guess it to be a BANK; and you, Sister Ellen,
may take my place; your well-filled vaults first gave me the clue."
After amusing themselves a little longer, they adjourned to the
sitting-room, as the tall, old-fashioned clock in the hall gave warning
of the rapid flight of time; and Mary, as was her custom, brought to her
uncle the large family Bible. When he opened the holy book, the very
youngest and wildest of the children listened with reverence to the
solemn words, and tried to join in the thanks which the good man offered
up to Heaven for bringing them together in health and peace, and
granting them so much happiness.
And then kisses and good-nights were exchanged, and the young group was
scattered; but not without a parting charge to each from Aunt Lucy, "not
to forget to hang up the stocking for Kriss-Kinkle, near the chimney
place; and not on any account to lock their doors--for they might easily
be taken sick in the night."