in our circumstances might reasonably be expected to live."
"We must cut off something."
"That is what I think. If we give the park and the library building to
the town why not let the town pay the cost of caring for them?"
"Then we could save the interest on that other hundred thousand."
"Exactly, and nobody will suffer. The gift of the property alone is
magnificent. Who is going to complain of us? We will decide now to give
the real estate and then stop."
Two days later Mr. Grimes came home early from the bank with a letter in
his hand. He looked white and for a moment after entering his wife's
room he could hardly command utterance.
"I have some bad news for you, dear--terrible news," he said, almost
falling into a chair.
The thought flashed through Mrs. Grimes' mind that the General had made
a later will which had been found and which revoked the bequest to
George. She could hardly whisper:
"What is it?"
"The executors write to me that the million dollars left to me by the
General draws only about four per cent. interest."
"George!"
"Four per cent! Forty thousand dollars instead of sixty thousand! What a
frightful loss! Twenty thousand dollars a year gone at one breath!"
"Are you sure, George?"
"Sure? Here is the letter. Read it yourself. One-third of our fortune
swept away before we have a chance to touch it!"
"I think it was very unkind of the General to turn the four per cents.
over to us while somebody else gets the six per cents. How _could_ he do
such a thing? And you such an old friend, too!"
"Mary Jane, that man always had a mean streak in him. I've said so to
myself many a time. But, anyhow, this frightful loss settles one thing;
we can't afford to give that property across the street to the town. We
must move over there to live, and even then, with the huge expense of
keeping such a place in order, we shall have to watch things narrowly to
make ends meet."
"And you never were good at retrenching, George."
"But we've _got_ to retrench. Every superfluous expenditure must be cut
off. As for the park and free library, that seems wild now, doesn't it?
I don't regret abandoning the scheme. The people of this town never did
appreciate public spirit or generosity, did they?"
"Never."
"I'm very sorry you spoke to Mrs. Borrow about helping their church. Do
you think she remembers it?"
"She met me to-day and said they were expecting something handsome."
Mr. Grimes laughed bitterly.
"That's always the way with those people. They are the worst beggars!
When a lot of folks get together and start a church it is almost
indecent for them to come running around to ask other folks to support
it. I have half a notion not to give them a cent."
"Not even for Mr. Borrow's salary?"
"Certainly not! Half the clergymen in the United States get less than a
thousand dollars a year; why can't he do as the rest do? Am I to be
called upon to support a lot of poor preachers? A good deal of nerve is
required, I think, to ask such a thing of me."
Two weeks afterward Mr. Grimes and his wife sat together again on the
porch in the cool of the evening.
"Now," said Grimes, "let us together go over these charities we were
talking about and be done with them. Let us start with the tough fact
staring us in the face that, with only one million dollars at four per
cent. and all our new and necessary expenses, we shall have to look
sharp or I'll be borrowing money to live on in less than eight months."
"Well," said Mrs. Grimes, "what shall we cut out? Would you give up the
Baptist organ that we used to talk about?"
"Mary Jane, it is really surprising how you let such things as that stay
in your mind. I considered that organ scheme abandoned long ago."
"Is it worth while, do you think, to do anything with the Methodist
Church mortgage?"
"How much is it?"
"Three thousand dollars, I think."
"Yes, three thousand from forty thousand leaves us only thirty-seven
thousand. Then, if we do it for the Methodists we shall have to do it
for the Lutherans and the Presbyterians and swarms of churches all
around the country. We can't make flesh of one and fowl of another. It
will be safer to treat them all alike; and more just, too. I think we
ought to try to be just with them, don't you, Mary Jane?"
"And Mr. Borrow's salary?"
"Ha! Yes! That is a thousand dollars, isn't it? It does seem but a
trifle. But they have no children and they have themselves completely
adjusted to it. And suppose we should raise it one year and die next
year? He would feel worse than if he just went along in the old way.
When a man is fully adjusted to a thing it is the part of prudence, it
seems to me, just to let him alone."
"I wish we could--"
"Oh, well, if you want to; but I propose that we don't make them the
offer until next year or the year after. We shall have our matters
arranged better by that time."
"And now about Isaac Wickersham?"
"Have you seen him lately?"
"Two or three days ago."
"Did he seem discontented or unhappy?"
"No."
"You promised to help him?"
"What I said was, 'We are going to do something for you, Isaac'"
"Something! That commits us to nothing in particular. Was it your idea,
Mary Jane, to make him an allowance?"
"Yes."
"There you cut into our insufficient income again. I don't see how we
can afford it with all these expenses heaping up on us; really I don't."
"But we must give him something; I promised it."
George thought a moment and then said:
"This is the end of September and I sha'nt want this straw hat that I
have been wearing all summer. Suppose you give him that. A good straw
hat is 'something.'"
"You remember Mrs. Clausen, George?"
"Have we got to load up with her, too?"
"Let me explain. You recall that I told her I would try to make her
comfortable, and when I found that our circumstances were going to be
really straitened, I sent her my red flannel petticoat with my love, for
I know she can be comfortable in that."
"Of course she can."
"So this afternoon when I came up from the city she got out of the
train with me and I felt so half-ashamed of the gift that I pretended
not to see her and hurried out to the carriage and drove quickly up the
hill. She is afraid of horses, anyhow."
"Always was," said George.
"But, George, I don't feel quite right about it yet; the gift of a
petticoat is rather stingy, isn't it?"
"No, I don't think so."
"And, George, to be perfectly honest with ourselves now, don't you think
we are a little bit meaner than we were, say, last June?"
George cleared his throat and hesitated, and then he said:
"I admit nothing, excepting that the only people who are fit to have
money are the people who know how to take care of it."
OUR POLITE PARENTS
BY CAROLYN WELLS
SEDATE MAMMA
When guests were present, dear little Mabel
Climbed right up on the dinner-table
And naughtily stood upon her head!
"I wouldn't do that, dear," Mamma said.
MERRY MOSES
Merry, funny little Moses
Burnt off both his brothers' noses;
And it made them look so queer
Mamma said, "Why, Moses, dear!"
JOHNNY'S FUN
Johnny climbed up on the bed,
And hammered nails in Mamma's head.
Though the child was much elated,
Mamma felt quite irritated.
A MERRY GAME
Betty and Belinda Ames
Had the pleasantest of games;
'Twas to hide from one another
Marmaduke, their baby brother.
Once Belinda, little love,
Hid the baby in the stove;
Such a joke! for little Bet
Hasn't found the baby yet.
TOM AND GRANDPA
From his toes up to his shins
Tom stuck Grandpa full of pins;
Although Tom the fun enjoyed,
Grandpapa was quite annoyed.
BABY'S LOOKS
Bobby with the nursery shears
Cut off both the baby's ears;
At the baby, so unsightly,
Mamma raised her eyebrows slightly.
JEANETTE'S PRANKS
One night, Jeanette, a roguish little lass,
Sneaked in the guest room and turned on the gas;
When morning dawned the guest was dead in bed,
But "Children will be children," Mamma said.
A BALLADE OF PING-PONG
BY ALDEN CHARLES NOBLE
She wears a rosebud in her hair
To mock me as it tosses free;
Were I more wise and she less fair
I fear that I should never be
A victim to such witchery;
For at her wiles and lovely arts
I'm fain to laugh with her, while she
Plays ping-pong with my heart of hearts.
The play's the thing; I wonder where,
What courtier with what courtesy
First played it, with what lady fair,
To music of what minstrelsy?
I wonder did he seem to see
Such eyes wherein a sunbeam starts,
And did he love (as I) while she
Played ping-pong with his heart of hearts?
For battledore they called it, there
In courts of gilded chivalry;
No gallant ever lived to dare
To doubt its airy potency;
But now, that all the pageantry
Of those dead emperors departs,
I dream that she in memory
Plays ping-pong with my heart of hearts.
L'ENVOI
Ah, maiden, I must sail a sea
Whereof there are no maps or charts;
Wilt thou sail too, and there with me
Play ping-pong with my heart of hearts?
BUDGE AND TODDIE
BY JOHN HABBERTON
My Sunday dinner was unexceptional in point of quantity and quality, and
a bottle of my brother-in-law's claret proved to be most excellent; yet
a certain uneasiness of mind prevented my enjoying the meal as
thoroughly as under other circumstances I might have done. My uneasiness
came of a mingled sense of responsibility and ignorance. I felt that it
was the proper thing for me to see that my nephews spent the day with
some sense of the requirements and duties of the Sabbath; but how I was
to bring it about, I hardly knew. The boys were too small to have
Bible-lessons administered to them, and they were too lively to be kept
quiet by any ordinary means. After a great deal of thought, I determined
to consult the children themselves, and try to learn what their parents'
custom had been.
"Budge," said I, "what do you do Sundays when your papa and mama are
home? What do they read to you,--what do they talk about?"
"Oh, they swing us--lots!" said Budge, with brightening eyes.
"An' zey takes us to get jacks," observed Toddie.
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Budge; "jacks-in-the-pulpit--don't you know?"
"Hum--ye--es; I do remember some such thing in my youthful days. They
grow where there's plenty of mud, don't they?"
"Yes, an' there's a brook there, an' ferns, an' birch-bark, an' if you
don't look out you'll tumble into the brook when you go to get birch."
"An' we goes to Hawksnest Rock," piped Toddie, "an' papa carries us up
on his back when we gets tired."
"An' he makes us whistles," said Budge.
"Budge," said I, rather hastily, "enough. In the language of the poet
"'These earthly pleasures I resign,'
and I'm rather astonished that your papa hasn't taught you to do
likewise. Don't he ever read to you?"
"Oh, yes," cried Budge, clapping his hands, as a happy thought struck
him. "He gets down the Bible--the great _big_ Bible, you know--an' we
all lay on the floor, an' he reads us stories out of it. There's David,
an' Noah, an' when Christ was a little boy, an' Joseph, an'
turnbackPharo'sarmyhallelujah--"
"And what?"
"TurnbackPharo'sarmyhallelujah," repeated Budge. "Don't you know how
Moses held out his cane over the Red Sea, an' the water went way up one
side, an' way up the other side, and all the Isrulites went across? It's
just the same thing as _drown_oldPharo'sarmyhallelujah--don't you
know?"
"Budge," said I, "I suspect you of having heard the Jubilee Singers."
"Oh, and papa and mama sings us all those Jubilee songs--there's 'Swing
Low,' an' 'Roll Jordan,' an' 'Steal Away,' an' 'My Way's Cloudy,' an'
'Get on Board, Childuns,' an' lots. An' you can sing us every one of
'em."
"An' papa takes us in the woods, an' makesh us canes," said Toddie.
"Yes," said Budge, "and where there's new houses buildin', he takes us
up ladders."
"Has he any way of putting an extension on the afternoon?" I asked.
"I don't know what that is," said Budge, "but he puts an India-rubber
blanket on the grass, and then we all lie down an' make b'lieve we're
soldiers asleep. Only sometimes when we wake up papa stays asleep, an'
mama won't let us wake him. I don't think that's a very nice play."
"Well, I think Bible stories are nicer than anything else, don't you?"
Budge seemed somewhat in doubt. "I think swingin' is nicer," said
he--"oh, no;--let's get some jacks--_I'll_ tell you what!--make us
whistles, an' we can blow on 'em while we're goin' to get the jacks.
Toddie, dear, wouldn't _you_ like jacks and whistles?"
"Yesh--an' swingin'--an' birch--an' wantsh to go to Hawksnesh Rock,"
answered Toddie.
"Let's have Bible stories first," said I. "The Lord mightn't like it if
you didn't learn anything good to-day."
"Well," said Budge, with the regulation religious-matter-of-duty face,
"let's. I guess I like 'bout Joseph best."
"Tell us 'bout Bliaff," suggested Toddie.
"Oh, no, Tod," remonstrated Budge; "Joseph's coat was just as bloody as
Goliath's head was." Then Budge turned to me and explained that "all Tod
likes Goliath for is 'cause when his head was cut off it was all
bloody." And then Toddie--the airy sprite whom his mother described as
being irresistibly drawn to whatever was beautiful--Toddie glared upon
me as a butcher's apprentice might stare at a doomed lamb, and
remarked:
"Bliaff's head was all bluggy, an' David's sword was all bluggy--bluggy
as everyfing."
I hastily breathed a small prayer, opened the Bible, turned to the story
of Joseph, and audibly condensed it as I read:
"Joseph was a good little boy whose papa loved him very dearly. But his
brothers didn't like him. And they sold him, to go to Egypt. And he was
very smart, and told the people what their dreams meant, and he got to
be a great man. And his brothers went to Egypt to buy corn, and Joseph
sold them some, and then he let them know who he was. And he sent them
home to bring their papa to Egypt, and then they all lived there
together."
"That's ain't it," remarked Toddie, with the air of a man who felt
himself to be unjustly treated. "Is it, Budge?"
"Oh, no," said Budge, "you didn't read it good a bit; _I'll_ tell you
how it is. Once there was a little boy named Joseph, an' he had eleven
budders--they was _awful_ eleven budders. An' his papa gave him a new
coat, an' his budders hadn't nothin' but their old jackets to wear. An'
one day he was carryin' 'em their dinner, an' they put him in a deep,
dark hole, but they didn't put his nice new coat in--they killed a kid,
an' dipped the coat--just think of doin' that to a nice new coat--they
dipped it in the kid's blood, an' made it all bloody."
"All bluggy," echoed Toddy, with ferocious emphasis. Budge continued:
"But there were some Ishmalites comin' along that way, and the awful
eleven budders took him out of the deep, dark hole, an' sold him to the
Ishmalites, and they sold him away down in Egypt. An' his poor old papa
cried, an' cried, 'cause he thought a big lion ate Joseph up; but he
wasn't ate up a bit; but there wasn't no post-office nor choo-choos,[1]
nor stages in Egypt, an' there wasn't any telegraphs, so Joseph couldn't
let his papa know where he was; an' he got so smart an' so good that the
king of Egypt let him sell all the corn an' take care of the money; an'
one day some men came to buy some corn, an' Joseph looked at 'em an'
there they was his own budders! An' he scared 'em like everything; _I'd_
have _slapped_ 'em all if _I'd_ been Joseph, but he just scared 'em, an'
then he let 'em know who he was, an' he kissed 'em an' he didn't whip
'em, or make 'em go without their breakfast, or stand in a corner, nor
none of them things; an' then he sent 'em back for their papa, an' when
he saw his papa comin', he ran like everything, and gave him a great big
hug and a kiss. Joseph was too big to ask his papa if he'd brought him
any candy, but he was awful glad to see him. An' the king gave Joseph's
papa a nice farm, an' they all had real good times after that."
"And they dipped the coat in the blood, an' made it all bluggy,"
reiterated Toddie.
"Uncle Harry," said Budge, "what do you think _my_ papa would do if he
thought I was all ate up by a lion? I guess he'd cry _awful_, don't you?
Now tell us another story--oh, _I'll_ tell you--read us 'bout--"
"'Bout Bliaff," interrupted Toddie.
"_You_ tell _me_ about him, Toddie," said I.
"Why," said Toddie, "Bliaff was a brate bid man, an' Dave was brate
little man, an' Bliaff said, 'Come over here'n an' I'll eat you up,' an'
Dave said, '_I_ ain't fyaid of you.' So Dave put five little stones in a
sling an' asked de Lord to help him, an' let ze sling go bang into
bequeen Bliaff's eyes an' knocked him down dead, an' Dave took Bliaff's
sword an' sworded Bliaff's head off, an' made it all bluggy, an' Bliaff
runned away." This short narration was accompanied by more spirited and
unexpected gestures than Mr. Gough ever puts into a long lecture.
"I don't like 'bout Goliath at all," remarked Budge. "_I'd_ like to hear
'bout Ferus."
"Who?"
"Ferus; don't you know?"
"Never heard of him, Budge."
"Why--y--y--!" exclaimed Budge; "didn't you have no papa when you was a
little boy?"
"Yes, but he never told me about any one named Ferus; there's no such
person named in Anthon's Classical Dictionary, either. What sort of a
man was he?"
"Why, once there was a man, an' his name was Ferus--_Of_ferus, an' he
went about fightin' for kings, but when any king got afraid of anybody,
he wouldn't fight for him no more. An' one day he couldn't find no kings
that wasn't afraid of nobody. An' the people told him the Lord was the
biggest king in the world, an' he wasn't afraid of nobody or nothing.
An' he asked 'em where he could find the Lord, an' they said he was way
up in heaven so nobody couldn't see him but the angels, but he liked
folks to _work_ for him instead of fight. So Ferus wanted to know what
kind of work he could do, an' the people said there was a river not far
off, where there wasn't no ferry-boats, cos the water run so fast, an'
they guessed if he'd carry folks across, the Lord would like it. So
Ferus went there, an' he cut him a good, strong cane, an' whenever
anybody wanted to go across the river he'd carry 'em on his back.
"One night he was sittin' in his little house by the fire, an' smokin'
his pipe an' readin' the paper, an' 'twas rainin' an' blowin' an'
hailin' an' stormin', an' he was so glad there wasn't anybody wantin' to
go 'cross the river, when he heard somebody call one 'Ferus!' An' he
looked out the window, but he couldn't see nobody, so he sat down again.
Then somebody called 'Ferus!' again, and he opened the door again, an'
there was a little bit of a boy, 'bout as big as Toddie. An' Ferus said,
'Hello, young fellow, does your mother know you're out?' An' the little
boy said, 'I want to go 'cross the river.'--'Well,' says Ferus, 'you're
a mighty little fellow to be travelin' alone, but hop up.' So the little
boy jumped up on Ferus's back, and Ferus walked into the water. Oh,
my--_wasn't_ it cold? An' every step he took that little boy got
heavier, so Ferus nearly tumbled down an' they liked to both got
drownded. An' when they got across the river Ferus said, 'Well, you
_are_ the heaviest small fry I ever carried,' and he turned around to
look at him, an' 'twasn't no little boy at all--'twas a big man--'twas
Christ. An' Christ said, 'Ferus, I heard you was tryin' to work for me,
so I thought I'd come down an' see you, an' not let you know who I was.
An' now you shall have a new name; you shall be called _Christ_offerus,
cos that means Christ-carrier.' An' everybody called him Christofferus
after that, an' when he died they called him _Saint_ Christopher, cos
Saint is what they called good people when they're dead."
Budge himself had the face of a rapt saint as he told this story, but my
contemplation of his countenance was suddenly arrested by Toddie, who,
disapproving of the unexciting nature of his brother's recital, had
strayed into the garden, investigated a hornet's nest, been stung, and
set up a piercing shriek. He ran in to me, and as I hastily picked him
up, he sobbed:
"Want to be wocked.[2] Want 'Toddie one boy day.'"
I rocked him violently, and petted him tenderly, but again he sobbed:
"Want 'Toddie one boy day.'"
"What _does_ the child mean?" I exclaimed.
"He wants you to sing to him about 'Charley boy one day,'" said Budge.
"He always wants mama to sing that when he's hurt, an' then he stops
crying."
"I don't know it," said I. "Won't 'Roll, Jordan,' do, Toddie?"
"_I'll_ tell you how it goes," said Budge, and forthwith the youth sang
the following song, a line at a time, I following him in words and air:
"Where is my little bastik[3] gone?"
Said Charley boy one day;
"I guess some little boy or girl
Has taken it away.
"An' kittie, too--where _ish_ she gone?
Oh, dear, what I shall do?
I wish I could my bastik find,
An' little kittie, too.
"I'll go to mamma's room an' look;
Perhaps she may be there;
For kittie likes to take a nap
In mamma's easy chair.
"O mamma, mamma, come an' look?
See what a little heap!
Here's kittie in the bastik here,
All cuddled down to sleep."
Where the applicability of this poem to my nephew's peculiar trouble
appeared, I could not see, but as I finished it, his sobs gave place to
a sigh of relief.
"Toddie," said I, "do you love your Uncle Harry?"
"Esh, I _do_ love you."
"Then tell me how that ridiculous song comforts you?"
"Makes me feel good, an' all nicey," replied Toddie.
"Wouldn't you feel just as good if I sang, 'Plunged in a gulf of dark
despair?'"
"No, don't like dokdishpairs; if a dokdishpair done anyfing to me, I'd
knock it right down dead."
With this extremely lucid remark, our conversation on this particular
subject ended; but I wondered, during a few uneasy moments, whether the
temporary mental aberration which had once afflicted Helen's grandfather
and mine was not reappearing in this, his youngest descendant. My
wondering was cut short by Budge, who remarked, in a confident tone:
"Now, Uncle Harry, we'll have the whistles, I guess."
I acted upon the suggestion, and led the way to the woods. I had not had
occasion to seek a hickory sapling before for years; not since the war,
in fact, when I learned how hot a fire small hickory sticks would make.
I had not sought wood for whistles since--gracious, nearly a quarter of
a century ago! The dissimilar associations called up by these
recollections threatened to put me in a frame of mind which might have
resulted in a bad poem, had not my nephews kept up a lively succession
of questions such as no one but children can ask. The whistles
completed, I was marched, with music, to the place where the "Jacks"
grew. It was just such a place as boys instinctively delight in--low,
damp, and boggy, with a brook hiding treacherously away under
overhanging ferns and grasses. The children knew by sight the plant
which bore the "Jacks," and every discovery was announced by a piercing
shriek of delight. At first I looked hurriedly toward the brook as each
yell clove the air; but, as I became accustomed to it, my attention was
diverted by some exquisite ferns. Suddenly, however, a succession of
shrieks announced that something was wrong, and across a large fern I
saw a small face in a great deal of agony. Budge was hurrying to the
relief of his brother, and was soon as deeply imbedded as Toddie was in
the rich black mud, at the bottom of the brook. I dashed to the rescue,
stood astride the brook, and offered a hand to each boy, when a
treacherous tuft of grass gave way, and, with a glorious splash, I went
in myself. This accident turned Toddie's sorrow to laughter, but I can't
say I made light of my misfortune on that account. To fall into _clean_
water is not pleasant, even when one is trout-fishing; but to be clad in
white pants, and suddenly drop nearly knee-deep in the lap of mother
Earth is quite a different thing. I hastily picked up the children, and
threw them upon the bank, and then wrathfully strode out myself, and
tried to shake myself as I have seen a Newfoundland dog do. The shake
was not a success--it caused my trouser-leg to flap dismally about my
ankles, and sent the streams of loathsome ooze trickling down into my
shoes. My hat, of drab felt, had fallen off by the brookside, and been
plentifully spattered as I got out. I looked at my youngest nephew with
speechless indignation.
"Uncle Harry," said Budge, "'twas real good of the Lord to let you be
with us, else Toddie might have been drownded."
"Yes," said I, "and I shouldn't have much--"
"Ocken Hawwy," cried Toddie, running impetuously toward me, pulling me
down, and patting my cheek with his muddy black hand, "I _loves_ you for
takin' me out de water."