“O children! come and look at me!
Was ever rain in such a glee
As I have been all day?
Drop chasing drop most merrily,
Jostling each other clumsily,
You’d think we were in play.
“And yet see how much work we’ve done,
And then you’ll see we’re not in fun,
Whate’er you thought before.
We’ve driven the sun out of the sky,
Made all the trees and bushes cry,
And tightly closed the door.”
Alas for the best-laid plans of children, mice, and maiden aunties!
Even in Providence (though only forty miles from Boston) the sun does
not always shine, and so it was that the first sounds that greeted the
waking ears of the little folk in the Funny house on Funny street, were
the patter, patter, on the window panes, drip, drip, from the house
eaves,
“The splashing, dashing,
Hurrying, skurrying,”
of the stream of water, which, starting from College Hill, plunges down
Funny street in its mad race to empty itself into the river basin,
before its hundred fellow-streams should outstrip it.
“Why didn’t this rain put in an appearance yesterday, I should like to
know? Of all the dry, poky days in a boy’s life, I do think a rainy day
is just the dryest. Why couldn’t we have had a rainy Sunday and done
with it?” petulantly demanded the Keeper, and even the wisdom of the
Owl failed to find answer.
The Keeper’s state of mind was not favorable to the peace and
well-being of the little animals in his care, and he hid Bear’s
stockings, flung the soapy sponge into Jacko’s eyes, and interrupted
Rosie’s eighty times of
“Rain, rain, go to Spain,
Never, never, come again;”
which was sure to bring sunshine, till at last Charlotte’s patience was
quite exhausted, so Papa was appealed to, and the Keeper summoned to
sit in the Library corner a full hour, without even a book to relieve
the tiresomeness; but when Papa’s morning visit to the nursery revealed
the fact that the same mischievous spirit had thickly powdered the
children’s strawberries, and flavored their goblets of milk with salt,
Master Keeper was sentenced to solitary confinement in his own room,
and in order to confuse the plans of the Evil Spirit,
“Who finds mischief still
For idle minds to brew,”
Papa administered a check in the shape of a poem to be learned before
the young gentleman should dine, and poor Master Artie feasted on a
few of his own salt tear-drops, whilst searching ruefully for the
ne’er-to-be-found handkerchief, and muttering--
“I wish I was out of this mean, old, rainy, gloomy town. Mamma would
have understood how I just went in for a little fun. I’ll have it out
of Charlotte yet, for this mess. She shall pay well for serving me this
shabby trick. Pshaw! I do despise tell-tales. She shall hear from me.
See if she don’t.”
I am afraid the rounds of Aunt Emma’s nice chairs were not improved
in their appearance by the Keeper’s state of mind, so strong is the
sympathy between little boys’ hearts and their feet; whilst the latter
help to flee from coming danger or evil, they also seem to help them
to bear present discomfort. Now, we don’t, for a moment, mean to
recommend little boys in trouble to relieve themselves by disfiguring
furniture--far from that--but we believe many a boy’s battle has been
fought successfully, with angry, bitter feelings, many a troubled mood
dispelled during a good, stirring game of foot-ball in the fresh,
clear air. Try it, boys, the next time everything “bothers” and life
seems “just one tangle,”--everybody saying, “Don’t do this,” or, “Why
_do_ you do that?” Sometimes it must seem to you as if there was no
place for boys, so apt are we, old folk, with our nerves and nice
surroundings, to forget our own “long ago.” If the foot-ball plan be
not possible, then make your own place for boys, by doing some helpful
deed for others, stifling your love of mischief, which, if you will
stop to think, you will soon find has its root in thoughtlessness and
love of self. All about and around you, may be found, if you earnestly
seek, plenty of material to make for yourselves places in good people’s
hearts, memories, and sympathies.
Try it, boys, only test the scheme, the very effort will discover the
means.
Let us go back to the Keeper caged. Is he dashing still, in fury,
against the bars?
No. There he sits, quietly studying his task, with a sunlit face which
bears tokens of showers lately passed.
It may be that, in fancy, he had caught a glimpse of Mamma’s sad,
disappointed face; very true it is that Mamma’s teaching has come to
his mind, and then the morning prayer, so hurriedly said, “Deliver us
from evil.” Then Artie looks upward, the promised Spirit descends as
a Dove, stilling the troubled waters of the passionate boy nature,
breathing in repentant feelings and helps to right doing.
The “nearest duty must first be done;” and Artie takes up the dreaded
task to find his Papa has kindly chosen
“How do the waters come down at Ladore?”
and very soon troubles, vexations, and the pattering drops without, are
all forgotten in the bright meaning and jolly rhythm of the
“Poet laureate to you and the Queen.”
In the nursery fair weather prevailed, for Nan has made her beds and
dusted her rooms in the twinkling of an eye, for her heart is in the
“nussry,” and there she sits on the floor, introducing to the delighted
children, Shem, Ham, and Japheth, with their wives, in their stiff red
and yellow waterproof clothes, for you know, children, the wardrobe of
Noah’s family must have been a very scanty one.
Nan had her own stories to tell, as the “two by twos” joined the
procession, stories so well and confidently told, that the little folk
feel as if they were standing on Mount Ararat itself, watching the
procession go by.
Presently Jack’s bright eyes discover a pale, wistful face pressed
against the window-pane of the next house, and immediately, Shem,
Ham, and Japheth, and the “two by twos” are deserted for the new
acquaintance.
The little boy disappears for a few moments, and then returns with a
paper, on which is printed, in large inky letters,
WHO ARE YOU?
Jack makes great endeavors to communicate to his new friend his name,
street, and number; and the “neighborhood boy,” as he calls him, seems
content to continue the acquaintance, and brings to the window toys and
picture-books for Jack’s approval.
Nan seems suddenly to be struck with a new idea, which sends her flying
down the back stairs, and soon after the small boy disappears from the
window, greatly to the grief of the nursery party.
Presently a heavy tread is heard, and Hugh enters the room and deposits
on the floor a large bundle carefully done up in waterproof cloth,
which Nan, who closely follows, proceeds to unpack.
I wish you could have heard the merry shouts and clapping of hands,
when slowly emerged from that huge bundle the very same smiling little
fellow who had so few moments before disappeared from the other window.
What a Nan!
Just listen to what she has to tell:
“Mistress has given me the day to help amuse you, and here’s the key of
the big garret.”
Do you wonder that Jack’s heels were flying in the air, and Rosie
dancing around and around, and Artie’s rhyming genius inspired him to
cry out:
“O Nan of Nans, O Nan the Nanniest,
O plan of plans, O plan the planniest;”
and then he rushed to call Daisy to
“Leave her girl’s flummery and make tracks for the garret stairs.”
Daisy scarcely remembered to shut Aunt Emma’s great piece-box, with its
no end of remnants for dolls’ dresses, which had so captivated her.
Poor, poor little New York children, in your four-story brown stone
fronts, with their flat roofs, and six feet which make a city yard!
Little you know of the pleasure in a real-for-fair garret on a rainy
day!
Come climb with me to the top of the funny old house on Funny street!
Don’t be afraid! There are no bats to flap their dismal wings in those
shadowy corners. “It is but the first step that costs.” Plunge boldly
in!
What huge, strong beams for swings!
What unsuspected corners for hide-and-seek!
Those great smooth inclined planes for storing bedding are the jolliest
places for sliding, second only to Winter ice-hills, and a great deal
warmer and safer, too.
See those huge, broad chimneys! Your breath comes quickly as you think
of what _may_ be behind them--goblins, elves, or blackest of cats, with
their green, glaring eyes, ready to spring out and chill your blood
with terror.
There is all this to be said about an old garret, and yet it seems to
us peopled with the ghosts of the past, the rafters still reëchoing
the childish shouts of the “long, long ago,” and the very old trunks
telling their musty tale of the children who had once sported here, now
old men and women, with tottering step and silvery locks.
Little thought our frolicsome party of all this. Drip, drip, drip,
sounded the rain on the roof without, but child-life brought sunlight
within, as holding tightly to Nan’s and Charlotte’s dresses, at first,
they peer curiously and cautiously into all the shadowy corners, then,
grown bolder, drag out from their hiding places the old trunks, dress
themselves in pointed slippers, white wigs, laced bodice, ball dresses,
and short clothes.
Jack rides astride an old crutch, whilst Artie, mounted on stilts, with
curled wig and flying scarlet cloak, chases the screaming party into
the darkest corners, or sends them climbing up the smooth shelves,
where, on secure perch, they, with pillows, pelt their stilted pursuer,
till his uncertain gait makes him cry out for mercy.
Charlotte and Nan may sit on high perch and gossip by the hour, for
there are no disputes to be settled, wounds to be bound up, or new
plays to be invented. The old garret supplies merriment enough, and the
dinner-hour comes too soon, and the twilight gloom, stealing in through
the oval windows, finds the little party very unwillingly groping down
the dark, narrow staircase on their way to nursery tea.
Aunt Emma, sitting with Papa in the Library, a little later, hears,
through the key-hole, snatches of a whispered conversation, and
occasionally, loud tones.
“Oh, I can’t; you are the oldest. You ought to be the one.”
“Oh, pshaw! Don’t be such a spooney; it’s girls’ business to ask favors
of women, and you know if I ask they’ll be sure to think it’s a lark.”
Papa looks comically at Aunt Emma, over the top of his paper, saying--
“Some mischief is brewing. So Auntie be prepared to shake your head and
look grave. But mum, I see, is the word.”
Here the door slowly opened, and Daisy appeared, looking very shy and
ill at ease.
“Please, Auntie, may we have a little fun?”
“Pleasure,” was loudly whispered through the key-hole.
“Oh! I meant pleasure. Could we have a little pleasure?”
“What else have you been having all day long, I should like to know?”
asked Papa.
“Yes, Papa; I know, but we want, I believe--” and Daisy, quite at loss
for words, looked wistfully toward the key-hole.
“To amuse the children,” prompted Artie.
“Oh, yes, Papa! Artie and I want to amuse the children.”
“I should think Charlotte would rather be excused from having Artie’s
help, but Daisy, _you_ have our full and free permission to amuse the
children to your heart’s content;” saying this, Papa very suddenly
opened the door, and Artie fell in the room, headlong, whilst old
Carlo, dressed in Celia’s spectacles and cap, with black shawl and
white apron on, leaped over the prostrate form and sprang to his
mistress’s side.
When Artie, with face very red, rose from the floor, he felt very
much relieved to see Papa and Aunt Emma looking much amused at the
picture Carlo presented, standing on his hind feet, as if begging to be
relieved of his womanly attire.
“Papa, may we not take Carlo to the nursery, to make the children
laugh?” ventured Artie.
“Yes, my boy; but the next time you have any not very pleasant duty to
do, don’t put it off on your sister, and shield yourself behind the
door. It doesn’t look quite manly. Indeed, to use your own, not-at-all
elegant words, ‘it looks rather spooney.’ You may run along now.”
Through the open door the library party heard the creeping up stairs,
the suppressed titter and the loud knock, followed by such a screaming
and scampering that the Funny house on Funny street seemed to shake
on its very foundations. The sound of the uproar reached Celia in the
kitchen, who, armed with toasting-fork, accompanied by Hugh with the
carving-knife, rushed to the rescue.
The fun lasted till Daisy, Artie, and the dog were turned out by the
nurses, that the little folk might be quieted before bed-time.