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[Illustration: LITTLE GRANDFATHER.]
[Illustration: LITTLE GRANDFATHER.
ILLUSTRATED
LEE & SHEPARD, BOSTON]
LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES.
LITTLE GRANDFATHER.
BY
SOPHIE MAY,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE PRUDY STORIES," "DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES," "THE DOCTOR'S
DAUGHTER." ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED._
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
1874.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY LEE AND SHEPARD,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 19 Spring Lane.
DEDICATION.
TO
_LITTLE MARY TOBEY._
_LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES._
TO BE COMPLETED IN SIX VOLS.
1. LITTLE FOLKS ASTRAY.
2. PRUDY KEEPING HOUSE.
3. AUNT MADGE'S STORY.
4. LITTLE GRANDMOTHER.
5. LITTLE GRANDFATHER.
6. (In preparation.)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE.
I. THE PARLINS. 9
II. WALKING IN SLEEP. 21
III. THE TRUNDLE-BED. 41
IV. THE OX-MONEY. 53
V. THE BOY THAT WORE HOME THE MEDAL. 63
VI. THE BOY THAT MEANT TO MIND HIS MOTHER. 80
VII. THE BOY THAT CHEATED. 97
VIII. THE "NEVER-GIVE-UPS." 113
IX. THE MUSTER. 134
X. GOING TO SEA. 153
XI. TO THE FORKS. 173
XII. "I HA'E NAEBODY NOW." 197
XIII. CONCLUSION. 215
LITTLE GRANDFATHER.
CHAPTER I.
THE PARLINS.
He did look so funny when they first put him into "pocket-clothes!" His
green "breeches" were so tight that they made you think of two pods of
marrow-fat peas, only they were topped off with a pair of "rocco" shoes,
as red as bell-peppers. He had silver buckles on his shoes, and brass
buttons on his green jacket, which was fastened at the back. He had a
white collar about his neck as large as a small cape, and finished off
around the edge with a ruffle. His mother had snipped his dark locks so
they needn't look so much like a girl's; and then with his brown fur hat
on, which his grandfather Cheever had sent from Boston, he looked in the
glass and smiled at himself.
Do you wonder he smiled?
He had bright black eyes, red cheeks, and a rich, dark skin. He was a
handsome little creature; but when he was tanned, his brother Stephen
called him a "Pawnee Indian," which was a heavy joke, and sank deeper
into Willy's tender soul than Stephen suspected.
After he had viewed himself in the mirror, dressed in his new suit, he
ran to his best comforter, his mother, and said, with a quivering lip,--
"Isn't I _most_ white, mamma?"
His mother caught him to her breast and hugged him, brown fur hat and
all, and told him he mustn't mind Steenie's jokes; he was not an Indian,
and Molly Molasses--the squaw who came around with baskets to
sell--would never carry him off.
He was three years old at this time, and so full of high spirits and
health, that he was rather a troublesome child to manage. Mrs. Parlin
sometimes remarked, with a sigh and a smile,--
"I don't know what I _shall_ do with our Willy!"
If she had said, "I don't know what I should do without him," it would
have been nearer the truth; for never did mother dote more on a child.
He was the youngest, and two little children next older--a son and a
daughter--had been called to their heavenly home before he was born.
People said Mrs. Parlin was in a fair way to spoil Willy, and her
husband was so afraid of it, that he felt it his duty to be very stern
with the boy.
Seth, the oldest son, helped his father in this, and seemed to be
constantly watching to see what Willy would do that was wrong.
Stephen, two years younger than Seth, was not so severe, and hardly ever
scolded, but had a very "hectoring disposition," and loved dearly to
tease his little brother.
Love, the only sister, and the eldest of the family, was almost as
soothing and affectionate to Willy as Mrs. Parlin herself. She was tall,
fair, and slender, like a lily, and you could hardly believe it possible
that she would ever grow to be such a very large woman as her mother,
or that Mrs. Parlin had once been thin and delicate, like Love.
There was another, besides these two, who petted Willy; and that was
"Liddy," the housemaid. Lydia was a Quaker woman, and every "First Day"
and "Fifth Day"--that is, Sunday and Thursday--she went off to a
meeting, which was held over the river, three miles away, in a yellow
"meeting-house" without any steeple. It was not always convenient to
spare Lydia on "Fifth Day," for, Mr. Parlin kept a country hotel, or, as
it was called in those days, a "tavern," and there was plenty of work to
be done; but no matter how much company came, "Liddy" would leave her
pies half rolled out on the board, or her goose half stuffed, and walk
off to the Quaker settlement to meeting. But when she came back, she
went steadily to work again, and was such a good, honest, pious woman,
that nobody thought of finding any fault with her.
She was all the "regular help" Mrs. Parlin had; but Mrs. Knowles did the
washing, and often Siller Noonin came in to help Lydia with an extra
baking.
Caleb Cushing--or, as the country people called him, "Kellup"--was the
man of all work, who took care of the sheep and cattle, and must always
be ready to "put up" the horses of any traveller who happened to stop at
the house.
Mr. and Mrs. Parlin, the four children, and Caleb and Lydia, made up the
household, with the addition of great shaggy Fowler, the dog, and
speckled Molly, the cat, with double fore-paws.
Grandfather Cheever, with his hair done up in a queue, came sometimes
from Boston, and made a long visit; but you could hardly say he belonged
to the family.
Now, my story is to be about Willy, and I would like to describe him;
but how can I, when I have heard such various accounts of the child? I
suppose, if you had questioned the family about him, you would have
heard a different story from every one. His father would have shaken his
head, and said, Willy was a "singular child; there was no _regulation_
to him." Seth would have told you he was "impudent." Stephen would have
called him "a cry-baby," and Caleb, "the laziest little chap he ever
came across;" though "grandf'ther Cheever" thought him "very bright and
stirring." Love would have said, "He is _so_ affectionate!" which his
father very much doubted. Lydia might possibly have called him a
"rogue," because he would spy out her doughnuts and pies, no matter
where she hid them away for safe keeping.
But I know very well how his _mother_ would have answered your question
about Willy. She would have said, "Don't talk of his faults; he is my
own little darling."
And then she would have opened her arms wide, and taken him right in:
that is the way it is with mothers.
Thus you see our Willy was not the same to everybody; and no child ever
is. To those who loved him he was "sweet as summer;" but not so to those
who loved him not.
I suspect Willy was rather contrarily made up; something like a mince
pie, perhaps. Let us see.
Short and crusty, now and then; rich, in good intentions; sweet, when he
had his own way; sour, when you crossed him; well-spiced, with bright
little speeches. All these qualities made up Willy's "points;" and you
know a mince pie is good for nothing without points.
Some people brought out one of these "points," and some another. Seth
expected him to be as sharp as cider vinegar; and so I am afraid he was,
whenever Seth corrected him. But his mother looked for sweet qualities
in her little darling, and was never disappointed.
Willy slept in the bedroom, in a trundle-bed which had held every one of
the children, from the oldest to the youngest. After he had said his
prayers, Mrs. Parlin tucked him up nice and warm, and even while she
stood looking at his rosy cheeks, with the rich fringes of his eyelids
resting on them, he often dropped off into dreamland. She had a way of
watching him in his sleep, and blessing him without any words, only
saying in her heart,--
"Dear God, let me keep this last precious treasure! But if that may not
be, O, lay it up for me in heaven."
Willy was afraid to go to bed alone, which is hardly to be wondered at;
for he had a strange and dreadful habit of walking in his sleep. Such
habits are not as common now as they were in old times, I believe.
Whether Willy's walks had anything to do with the cider and doughnuts,
which were sometimes given him in the evening, unknown to his mother, I
cannot say; but Mrs. Parlin was never sure, when she "tucked" him into
his trundle-bed, that he would spend the night there. Quite as likely he
would go wandering about the house; and one cold winter, when he was a
little more than seven years old, he got up regularly every night, and
walked fast asleep into the bar-room, which was always full of men, and
took his seat by the fireplace.
This was such a constant habit, that the men expected to see him about
half past eight o'clock, just as much as they expected to see the cider
and apples which "Kellup" brought out of the cellar.
In those days cider was almost as freely drunk as water, and so, I
grieve to say, was New England rum and brandy; and you must not suppose
Mr. Parlin was a bad man because he allowed such drinking in his
bar-room. There were no pledges signed in those days, but he was a
perfectly temperate man, and a church member; he would have thought it
very strange indeed if any one had told him he was doing wrong to sell
liquor to his neighbors.
And now, having introduced Master Willy and the rest of the family as
well as I can, I will go on to tell you a few of Willy's adventures,
some of which occurred while he was asleep, and some while he was
awake.