His parents were very poor. When I tell you that they lived in a

log-house you might think so, although some people live very

comfortably in log-houses. But when I say that the snow drifted through

the cracks in the roof until the chamber floor was fit to go sleighing

on, and that it was so cold down-stairs that the gravy froze on the

children's plates while they were eating breakfast, and that the little

girls had no shoes but cloth ones which their mother sewed to their

stockings, you will see that they were poor indeed. Mrs. Boyd, Jack's

mother, generally went about her work with a shawl tied around her, and

a comforter over her ears, on account of the ear-ache; and on the

coldest days she kept Jack's little sisters wrapped up from head to

foot and perched on chairs near the stove, so they wouldn't freeze. No;

she didn't feel much like telling them about Christmas, when she didn't

know but they would freeze to death, or, may be, starve, before that

time. But Jack found out. He was going to school that winter, and one

learns so much at school! He came home one night brimful of the news

that Christmas would be there in three weeks, and that Santa Claus

would come down chimneys and say, "I wish you Merry Christmas!" and

then put lots of nice things in all the stockings.

Mrs. Boyd heard him talking, and was glad the children were enjoying

themselves, but hoped from her heart that they wouldn't expect

anything, only to be bitterly disappointed. Most of that evening little

Janey, the youngest girl, sat singing:

"Wis' you Melly Kitsmas!

Wis' you Melly Kitsmas!"

in a quaint, little minor key, that wasn't plaintive enough to be sad,

nor merry enough to be jolly, but only a sweet monotony of sounds and

words showing that she was contented, and didn't feel any of the

dreadful aches and pains which sometimes distressed her so.

For a week, Jack wondered and mused within himself how he could get

something for Christmas presents for his little sisters. He couldn't

make anything at home without their seeing it, nor at school without

the teacher's seeing it, or else the big boys plaguing him about it.

Besides, he would rather buy something pretty, such as they had never

seen before--china dolls in pink dresses, or something of that kind.

One morning, however, Jack discovered some quail-tracks in the snow

near the straw-stack, and he no longer wondered about ways and means,

but in a moment was awake to the importance of this discovery. That

very evening he made a wooden trap, and the next morning early set it

near the stack, and laid an inviting train of wheat quite up to it, and

scattered a little inside. He told his sisters, Mary and Janey, about

the trap, but not about what he meant to do with the quails when he

caught them. That afternoon Jack went to his trap, and to his unbounded

joy found an imprisoned quail, frozen quite stiff. He quickly set the

trap again, and ran to the house with his bird. All that evening he

worked at quail-traps and made three more.

It was so much warmer that their mother let the children stay up a

little later than usual; and Mary ventured to bring out her playthings

and Janey's. These were two dolls, some bits of broken dishes, and a

few little pine blocks. Mary watched her mother's face until she was

sure she was "feeling good," before she ventured to begin a play,

because on days when mother was very discouraged, it made her feel

worse if the children were noisy, and so they would keep quiet and

speak in whispers.

"Does Santa Claus bring dolls?" asked Mary, suddenly, of Jack.

"Oh yes; dolls with pretty dresses on; and little bunnits and pink

shoes; and little cubberds to keep their clothes in, and chairs, and

everything," said Jack, enthusiastically.

"Oh, my!" sighed Mary, as she looked dolefully at their poor little

heap of toys.

Reader, their dolls were cobs, with square pieces of calico tied around

them for dresses; and after hearing what Jack said, it wasn't so much

fun playing, and the little girls soon went to bed. After they were

asleep, Mrs. Boyd said, reproachfully:

"Jack, I wish you wouldn't say anything more about Christmas to the

children."

"Why, is it bad?" asked Jack, so astonished that he stopped whittling.

"No, of course not; but you're getting their heads full of notions

about fine things they never can have."

Jack's eyes twinkled.

"Oh, but you don't understand, mother," said he; "may be Santy Claus

will come this year."

His mother shook her head.

"You know I caught one quail to-day?" whispered Jack.

"Well!" said his mother.

"Well, I'm going to save 'em all the week, and Saturday take 'em to the

meat-man in the village. I guess he'll buy 'em. I heard that quails

were fetching two cents apiece. And I'm going to get enough money to

buy the girls something nice, and you must make 'em hang up their

stockings, mother, and then we'll put the things in after they get

asleep."

His mother smiled quite cheerfully. "Well," said she, "do the best you

can."

Their father was away that evening. He was generally away evenings,

because most of the neighbors had cozier firesides than his, besides

apples, and sometimes cider; and so he passed many a pleasant hour in

gossip and farm-talk, while his own little family shivered gloomily at

home.

By Saturday morning Jack had ten quails. The four traps had not been as

fruitful as they ought to have been, perhaps, but this was doing very

well, and he trudged joyfully to town with his game hanging on a stick

over his shoulder. The meat-man did indeed give two cents apiece for

quails, and he invited Jack to bring as many more as he could get.

The next Saturday was only two days before Christmas, and how beautiful

were all the stores on the village street! Even the groceries had

Christmas toys and Christmas trees. A good many boys and girls stood

around the store windows pointing out the things they most admired, and

wondering what Santa Claus would bring them. Jack had fifteen quails,

which brought him thirty cents; so he was now the owner of half a

dollar, which was more money than he had ever possessed in all his life

before. But when two dolls were bought, and they weren't very fine

dolls either, there were only twenty cents left. Jack _did_ mean to buy

something for his mother too, but he had to give that up, and after

looking over the bright colored toy-books in the show-case, he selected

two little primers, one with a pink cover and one with a blue one, and

with a big ache in his throat, parted with his last ten cents for

candy. How very, very little he was buying after all, and not one thing

for his dear mother who had sat up till two o'clock the night before,

mending his ragged clothes for him.

Jack's heart was very heavy as he walked out of the gay store with such

a little package, but it sank still lower when his father's tall form

loomed up suddenly before him right in front of the door.

"What you doing here?" he asked, sternly.

"Been buying a few things," said Jack.

"Let me see 'em," said his father.

[Illustration: "'LET ME SEE 'EM,' SAID HIS FATHER."]

Jack tremblingly opened his package.

"Where'd you get the money?"

"With quails," said Jack, meekly.

His father fumbled over the things with his big, mittened hand, and

said quite gently: "For the girls, I s'pose."

"Yes, sir," answered Jack, beginning to feel relieved.

"Well, run along home."

Jack was only too happy to do so. There wasn't much sympathy between

him and his father, nor, indeed, between his father and any of the

family--that is, there didn't seem to be; but I guess the stream was

frozen over, and only needed a few gleams of sunshine to make it bubble

on, laughing and gurgling as in the best of hearts.

Jack related his adventures to his mother in whispers, and hid the

Christmas articles in the wash-boiler until such time as they should be

wanted for certain small stockings. He told his mother how sorry he was

not to have a present for her, and that little speech went a long way

toward making her happy. That night she sat up--I wouldn't dare tell

you how late--making cookies,--something that hadn't been in the house

before that winter. She cut them out in all manner of shapes that

feminine ingenuity and a case-knife could compass, not forgetting a

bird for Janey, with a remarkably plump bill, and a little girl for

Mary, with the toes turned out. She also made some balls of brown sugar

(the Boyds never thought of such a luxury as white sugar), to make

believe candy, for she didn't know Jack had bought any candy.

Now I am going to tell what Mr. Boyd did after he met Jack by the

toy-store. He had gone to the village to have a "good time." That

didn't mean, as it does with some men, to get tipsy; but it meant he

was going to Munger's grocery, where he could meet people, and talk and

joke, and keep warm.

Mr. Boyd had been chopping wood for a farmer, and had received his pay;

but instead of going dutifully home and consulting with his wife about

what he should buy, he was going to "look around" and see what Munger

had. He was touched at the sight of Jack's poor little package of

gifts, but I doubt if it would have made much impression on his mind if

somebody hadn't walked in to Munger's and asked in a brisk, loud voice:

"Got any Brazil nuts, Munger?"

The man with the brisk voice bought I don't know how many quarts of

Brazil nuts, and walnuts, and filberts, and almonds, with all the

loungers looking on, very much interested in the spectacle. Then he

bought raisins, and candy, and oranges, Mr. Munger growing more smiling

every minute.

"Going to keep Christmas, I guess," said he, rubbing his hands

together.

"That I am; 'Christmas comes but once a year,' and there are little

folks up at our house who've been looking for it with all their eyes

for a fortnight."

Then he bought a bushel of apples, and, filling a peck measure with

them, passed them around among the men who sat and stood about the

stove.

"Take 'em home to your little folks if you don't want 'em," he said,

when any one hesitated.

There were three or four apples apiece, and Mr. Boyd put all his in his

pockets, with a slight feeling of Christmas warmth beginning to thaw

his heart.

After this cheery purchaser had gone, some one asked: "Who is that

chap?"

"He's the new superintendent of the Orphant Asylum," answered Mr.

Munger, rubbing his hands again; "and a mighty nice man he is, too.

Pays for all them things out of his own pocket. Very fond of children.

Always likes to see 'em happy."

There were two or three men around that stove who hung their heads, and

Mr. Boyd was one of them. He hung his the lowest, perhaps because he

had the longest neck. I don't know what the other men did,--something

good and pleasant, I hope,--but Mr. Boyd thought and thought. First he

thought how the "orphants" were going to have a brighter and merrier

Christmas than his own children, who had both father and mother. Then

he thought about sweet, patient little Janey, and quiet Mary, and

generous Jack, who had taken so much pains to give pleasure to his

sisters, and a great rush of shame filled his heart. Now, when Mr. Boyd

was once thoroughly aroused, he was alive through the whole of his long

frame. He thumped his knee with his fist, then arose and walked to the

counter, where he dealt out rapid orders to the astonished grocer for

nuts, candies and oranges; not in such large quantities, to be sure, as

the "orphants'" friend had done, but generous enough for three

children. And he bought a calico dress for his wife, a pair of shoes

for each of the little girls, and a cap for Jack. That store contained

everything, from grind-stones to slate-pencils, and from whale-oil to

peppermint-drops. These purchases, together with some needful

groceries, took all Mr. Boyd's money, except a few pennies, but a

Christmas don't-care feeling pervaded his being, and he borrowed a bag,

into which he stowed his goods, and set out for home.

It was a pretty heavy bagful, but its heaviness only made Mr. Boyd's

heart the lighter. When he reached home, he stood the bag up in one

corner, as if it held turnips, and said, "Don't meddle with that,

children." Then he went out and spent the rest of the short day in

chopping wood, which was very cheering to his wife. So many Sundays had

dawned with just wood enough to cook breakfast, that Mrs. Boyd began to

dread that day particularly, for her husband was almost sure to go

right away after breakfast and spend the whole day at the neighbors'

houses, while his own family shivered around a half-empty stove.

Mr. Boyd said never a word about the bag, and the unsuspecting

household thought it contained corn or some other uninteresting

vegetable, and paid little attention to it. It also stood there all the

next day, and the children grew quite used to the sight of it.

Sunday went by quietly, and, to the surprise of all, Mr. Boyd stayed at

home, making it his especial business to hold Janey on his lap, and

keep the stove well filled with wood. Janey wasn't feeling well that

day, and this unusual attention to her made the family very kindly

disposed toward their father, whom of late they had come to regard

almost as an alien.

Jack, whose shoes were not yet worn out, went to Sunday-school, and

after his return the winter day was soon gone. Then he began to fidget,

and was very desirous that his mother should put the little girls to

bed; while, strange to say, his father was desirous that the whole

family should go to bed, except himself. In course of time the little

girls were asleep in their trundle bed, with their little red stockings

hanging behind the door. Mr. Boyd sat with his back to the door, so

Jack slipped in his presents without his father's seeing him, and went

to his cold bed upstairs.

"Aint you going to hang up your stocking, mother?" asked Mr. Boyd after

Jack had gone.

Mrs. Boyd looked startled.

"Why, no," she answered, hesitatingly, not knowing whether the question

was asked in irony or in earnest.

"You better," said Mr. Boyd, going to the bag in the corner, and

beginning to untie the strings.

He laid out package after package on the floor. His wife knelt down by

them in a maze of astonishment. Then, with a great deal of enjoyment,

Mr. Boyd untied them one by one, showing candy, nuts, oranges, shoes,

and all the rest, except the calico dress, which he kept out of sight.

Aladdin felt very fine when he found the cave-full of precious stones,

but I don't believe he was much happier than Mrs. Boyd. Her eyes were

so full of tears that there seemed to be about eight pairs of shoes,

ten bags, and half a dozen Mr. Boyds; but she managed to lay hands on

the real one, and him she embraced fervently. Then she brought out the

cookies and sugar balls she had made, and said to her husband, in a

very shame-faced way:

"See my poor presents; I didn't know the children would have anything

nice, and I made these. I guess I wont put 'em in their stockings

though, now."

But Mr. Boyd insisted on their going in with the other things, and I

think they were prized by the children a little more dearly, if such a

thing could be possible, than those which they called their "boughten"

presents.

Now, I can't begin to describe the joyful time they had the next

morning, and particularly, the utter astonishment of Jack, who didn't

expect a thing, and hadn't even hung up a stocking. When that devoted

boy recognized one of his own gray socks crammed full of knobs and

bunches, with a beautiful plush cap on top, he was almost out of his

wits. Likewise, Mrs. Boyd's surprise was great at the discovery of her

new dress. The little girls were too happy that day to do much else but

count and arrange and re-arrange their delightful Christmas presents.

Mr. Boyd killed a chicken, and Jack contributed four quails which he

had caught since market-day, and the festival of Christmas was kept

with much hilarity by the Boyd family.

The neighbors, one by one, were surprised that Mr. Boyd hadn't dropped

in, as he usually did on Sundays and holidays. But Mr. Boyd was engaged

elsewhere. And this was only the beginning of good days for that

family, for, somehow, the Christmas feeling seemed to last through all

the year with Mr. Boyd, and through many other years; and the little

ball set rolling by Jack with his quail-traps, grew to be a mighty

globe of happiness for the whole family.

LEFT OUT.

By A.G.W.

One day, St. Nicholas made a complaint:

"I think it's quite plain why they call me a saint.

I wonder if any one happens to see

That nobody ever makes presents to me;

That I, who make presents to ever so many,

Am the only poor fellow who never gets any!"

MISS ALCOTT,

THE FRIEND OF LITTLE WOMEN AND OF LITTLE MEN.

BY F.B.S.

[Illustration]

Would the readers of ST. NICHOLAS, who are all admirers of Miss Louisa

Alcott, like to hear more than they now know about this kind friend of

theirs, who has been giving them so much pleasure by her stories, and

never writes so well as when she writes for boys and girls? Then, let

me tell you something about her own family and childhood, and how she

became the well-known writer that she is. She not only tells you

pleasant stories about "little women" and "old-fashioned girls," "eight

cousins," and children "under the lilacs,"--but she shows you how good

it is to be generous and kind, to love others and not to be always

caring and working for yourselves. And the way she can do this is by

first being noble and unselfish herself. "Look into thine own heart and

write," said a wise man to one who had asked how to make a book. And it

is because Miss Alcott looks into her own heart and finds such kindly

and beautiful wishes there that she has been able to write so many

beautiful books. They tell the story of her life; but they tell many

other stories also. So let me give you a few events and scenes in her

life, by themselves.

Miss Alcott's father was the son of a farmer in Connecticut, and her

mother was the daughter of a merchant in Boston. After growing up in a

pretty, rural town, among hardy people who worked all day in the fields

or the woods, and were not very rich, Mr. Alcott went down into

Virginia and wandered about among the rich planters and the poor slaves

who then lived there; selling the gentlemen and ladies such fine things

as they would buy from his boxes,--for he was a traveling merchant, or

peddler,--staying in their mansions sometimes, and sometimes in the

cabins of the poor; reading all the books he could find in the great

houses, and learning all that he could in other ways. Then, he went

back to Connecticut and became a school-master. So fond was he of

children, and so well did he understand them, that his school soon

became large and famous, and he was sent for to go and teach poor

children in Boston. Miss May, the mother of Miss Alcott, was then a

young lady in that city. She, too, was full of kind thoughts for

children, the poor and the rich, and when she saw how well the young

school-master understood his work, how much good he was seeking to do,

and how well he loved her, why, Miss May consented to marry Mr. Alcott,

and then they went away to Philadelphia together, where Mr. Alcott

taught another school.

Close by Philadelphia, and now a part of that great city, is

Germantown, a quiet and lovely village then, which had been settled

many years before by Germans, for whom it was named, and by Quakers,

such as came to Philadelphia with William Penn. Here Louisa May Alcott

was born, and she spent the first two years of her life in Germantown

and Philadelphia. Then, her father and mother went back to Boston,

where Mr. Alcott taught a celebrated school in a fine large building

called the Temple, close by Boston Common, and about this school an

interesting book has been written, which, perhaps, you will some day

read. The little Louisa did not go to it at first, because she was not

old enough, but her father and mother taught her at home the same

beautiful things which the older children learned in the Temple school.

By and by people began to complain that Mr. Alcott was too gentle with

his scholars, that he read to them from the New Testament too much, and

talked with them about Jesus, when he should have been making them say

their multiplication-table. So his school became unpopular, and all the

more so because he would not refuse to teach a poor colored boy who

wanted to be his pupil. The fathers and mothers of the white children

were not willing to have a colored child in the same school with their

darlings. So they took away their children, one after another, until,

when Louisa Alcott was between six and seven years old, her father was

left with only five pupils, Louisa and her two sisters ("Jo," "Beth"

and "Meg"), one white boy, and the colored boy whom he would not send

away. Mr. Alcott had depended for his support on the money which his

pupils paid him, and now he became poor, and gave up his school.

There was a friend of Mr. Alcott's then living in Concord, not far from

Boston,--a man of great wisdom and goodness, who had been very sad to

see the noble Connecticut school-master so shabbily treated in

Boston,--and he invited his friend to come and live in Concord. So

Louisa went to that old country town with her father and mother when

she was eight years old, and lived with them in a little cottage, where

her father worked in the garden, or cut wood in the forest, while her

mother kept the house and did the work of the cottage, aided by her

three little girls. They were very poor, and worked hard; but they

never forgot those who needed their help, and if a poor traveler came

to the cottage door hungry, they gave him what they had, and cheered

him on his journey. By and by, when Louisa was ten years old, they went

to another country town not far off, named Harvard, where some friends

of Mr. Alcott had bought a farm, on which they were all to live

together, in a religious community, working with their hands, and not

eating the flesh of slaughtered animals, but living on vegetable food,

for this practice, they thought, made people more virtuous. Miss Alcott

has written an amusing story about this, which she calls

"Transcendental Wild Oats." When Louisa was twelve years old, and had a

third sister ("Amy"), the family returned to Concord, and for three

years occupied the house in which Mr. Hawthorne, who wrote the fine

romances, afterward lived. There Mr. Alcott planted a fair garden, and

built a summer-house near a brook for his children, where they spent

many happy hours, and where, as I have heard, Miss Alcott first began

to compose stories to amuse her sisters and other children of the

neighborhood.

When she was almost sixteen, the family returned to Boston, and there

Miss Alcott began to teach boys and girls their lessons. She had not

been at school much herself, but she had been instructed by her father

and mother. She had seen so much that was generous and good done by

them that she had learned it is far better to have a kind heart and to

do unselfish acts than to have riches or learning or fine clothes. So,

mothers were glad to send her their children to be taught, and she

earned money in this way for her own support.

But she did not like to teach so well as her father did, and thought

that perhaps she could write stories and be paid for them, and earn

more money in that way. So she began to write stories. At first nobody

would pay her any money for them, but she kept patiently at work,

making better and better what she wrote, until in a few years she could

earn a good sum by her pen. Then the great civil war came on, and Miss

Alcott, like the rest of the people, wished to do something for her

country. So she went to Washington as a nurse, and for some time she

took care of the poor soldiers who came into the hospital wounded or

sick, and she has written a little book about these soldiers which you

may have read. But soon she grew ill herself from the labor and anxiety

she had in the hospital, and almost died of typhoid fever; since when

she has never been the robust, healthy young lady she was before, but

was more or less an invalid while writing all those cheerful and

entertaining books. And yet to that illness all her success as an

author might perhaps be traced. Her "Hospital Sketches," first

published in a Boston newspaper, became very popular, and made her name

known all over the North. Then she wrote other books, encouraged by the

reception given to this, and finally, in 1868, five years after she

left the hospital in Washington, she published the first volume of

"Little Women." From that day to this she has been constantly gaining

in the public esteem, and now perhaps no lady in all the land stands

higher. Several hundred thousand volumes of her books have been sold in

this country, and probably as many more in England and other European

countries.

Twenty years ago, Miss Alcott returned to Concord with her family, who

have ever since resided there. It was there that most of her books were

written, and many of her stories take that town for their

starting-point. It was in Concord that "Beth" died, and there the

"Little Men" now live. Miss Alcott herself has been two or three years

in Europe since 1865, and has spent several winters in Boston or New

York, but her summers are usually passed in Concord, where she lives

with her father and mother in a picturesque old house, under a warm

hill-side, with an orchard around it and a pine-wood on the hill-top

behind. Two aged trees stand in front of the house, and in the rear is

the studio of Miss May Alcott ("Amy"), who has become an artist of

renown, and had a painting exhibited last spring in the great

exhibition of pictures at Paris. Close by is another house, under the

same hill-side, where Mr. Hawthorne lived and wrote several of his

famous books, and it was along the old Lexington road in front of

these ancient houses that the British Grenadiers marched and retreated

on the day of the battle of Concord in April, 1775. Instead of soldiers

marching with their plumed hats, you might have seen there last summer

great plumes of asparagus waving in the field; instead of bayonets, the

poles of grape-vines in ranks upon the hill; while loads of hay, of

strawberries, pears and apples went jolting along the highway between

hill and meadow.

The engraving shows you how Miss Alcott looks,--only you must recollect

that it does not flatter her; and if you should see her, you would like

her face much better than the picture of it. She has large, dark-blue

eyes, brown clustering hair, a firm but smiling mouth, a noble head,

and a tall and stately presence, as becomes one who is descended from

the Mays, Quincys and Sewalls, of Massachusetts, and the Alcotts and

Bronsons of Connecticut. From them she has inherited the best New

England traits,--courage and independence without pride, a just and

compassionate spirit, strongly domestic habits, good sense, and a warm

heart. In her books you perceive these qualities, do you not? and

notice, too, the vigor of her fancy, the flowing humor that makes her

stories now droll and now pathetic, a keen eye for character, and the

most cheerful tone of mind. From the hard experiences of life she has

drawn lessons of patience and love, and now with her, as the apostle

says, "abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of

these is charity." There have been men, and some women too, who could

practice well the heavenly virtue of charity toward the world at large,

and with a general atmospheric effect, but could not always bring it

down to earth, and train it in the homely, crooked paths of household

care. But those who have seen Miss Alcott at home know that such is not

her practice. In the last summer, as for years before, the citizen or

the visitor who walked the Concord streets might have seen this admired

woman doing errands for her father, mother, sister, or nephews, and as

attentive to the comfort of her family as if she were only their

housekeeper. In the sick-room she has been their nurse, in the

excursion their guide, in the evening amusements their companion and

entertainer. Her good fortune has been theirs, and she has denied

herself other pleasures for the satisfaction of giving comfort and

pleasure to them.

"So did she travel on life's common way

In cheerful godliness; and yet her heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay."

THE BOY WHO JUMPED ON TRAINS.

BY MARY HARTWELL.

There was a boy whose name was Dunn,

And he was one

As full of fun

As any boy could walk or run!

His cheeks were plump, his eyes were bright,

He stepped as light

As a camel might,

And bounced and played from morn till night.

And whether he was here or there,

His parents' care--

Unseen like air--

Followed and held him everywhere.

[Illustration: "HE WOULD JUMP ON THE CARS TO RIDE."]

He really was their joy and pride--

Was good beside;

But woe betide--

He _would_ jump on the cars to ride!

There, hanging to a brake or step,

Tight hold he kept,

And onward swept,

Yelling with all his might, "Git-tep!"

Dunn's father learned that he did so,

And told him to

Decline to go

Where trains were running to and fro.

As for his mother, she turned white,

And gasped with fright

To think Dunn might

Come home a pancake some fine night!

[Illustration: "HIS FATHER'S STERN COMMAND."]

But his relations often said,

With shaking head,

That boy was led

To have his way if it killed him dead!

[Illustration: "THE FREIGHT-CARS DECKED WITH BOYS DID SLIDE."]

And sure enough when school was out,

And boys about

The trains flocked out,

Dunn followed too, with plunge and shout.

He did not mean to grab a ride,

But by his side,

With tempting glide,

The freight-cars decked with boys did slide!

Where was his father's stern command?

Out went his hand;

He gained a stand--

At least he _planned_ to gain a stand!

What is it? Crash! His head is blind!

That wheel behind--

He hears it grind!

And he is paralyzed in mind!

On cork and crutches now goes Dunn!

_Whole_ boys may run--

Grab rides for fun--

But, as I said, _this_ boy is _Dunn_!

THE TOWER-MOUNTAIN

BY GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN.

I.

Many years ago, I was roving in a land strange and wonderful to me. It

was a tropical country, and I was wandering alone among the grand

scenery of the mountains, and the luxuriant vegetation of the

hill-sides and valleys.

I had with me but few implements, and these, such as were light and

easy to carry. A hunting-knife, a small hatchet, a canteen and a few

marching necessaries made up my kit.

One day while rambling about, living on the bountiful supplies of fruit

nature provides in that charming region, I came to a deep lake

surrounded by steep hills. On the opposite side of this lake I could

see a narrow gap or cleft, which seemed to lead to the higher ground. I

therefore made a raft,--not without considerable trouble,--and paddled

it across the lake. I found the gap quite narrow at its entrance, but

it soon became wider, while far forward, at the end of the chasm, there

appeared to be a series of rude steps.

I fastened the raft to the rock, in doing which I had the ill luck to

drop my hatchet into the deep water, and, notwithstanding the evil

omen, made my way into the crevice. I passed over the rough bottom of

the chasm until I came to the steps; these I ascended. At a height of

about a hundred feet I came to a wall of rock, the top of which I could

just reach with the ends of my fingers. By a great effort, I got a good

hold of the edge of the rock, and drew myself up.

When I stood at last upon the upper ground, I saw before me the most

beautiful trees and flowers I had yet met with. On either side the

rocks retreated and rose steeply to the summits I had partially seen

from the lake below. As I passed on and surveyed the plateau, I found

it to be a valley about a mile in diameter, encompassed by precipices

more or less abrupt. With but little trouble I found a place of easy

ascent, and soon climbed to the top of the rocky wall.

The delight I now experienced surpassed everything I had ever known.

Spread out before me, as I stood upon an eminence somewhat above the

general level, was a vast expanse overflowing with vegetation and

extending for miles in every direction, whilst all round about rose the

mighty domes and pinnacles of snow-clad mountains. I stood in the midst

of the sublimest mountain scenery in the world. I could look down upon

the beautiful lake, and up at the giant peaks, and all about me upon

the fruitful verdure, whilst the atmosphere was charged with

delightful odors, and a pleasant breeze tempered the sweet warm air.

As here was a delightful climate, fruit in abundance, and scenery

soul-exalting, of whose glory one could never grow tired, I felt rather

pleased with the thought "Why not stay here? Why not remain in this

beautiful place as long as circumstances will permit?"

All nature seemed here so lovely that I resolved to wander no further.

While gazing around at all this grandeur and beauty, my attention was

particularly drawn to a group of lofty peaks which rose in the midst of

this smiling garden. The sides of the towering eminences seemed almost

perpendicular, and they were about three or four thousand feet high.

I soon gave up all hope of ever reaching the top, but in examining the

rock I found at its base a great cavern, so high and wide that a very

large building might have stood in it, with plenty of room to spare.

The sides and roof sparkled with crystals of all hues, and were

singularly and picturesquely variegated with differently colored veins

running through them; and, as the cave opened toward the east, with a

large clear space in front of it, nothing could have been more splendid

than when the morning sun shone full into the vast chamber and lighted

it up with dazzling brilliancy.

In that chamber I made my humble home.

Near one of the streams that flowed over the precipice into the lake,

grew several species of very tall grasses, with great bushy heads of

long silky fibers that adorned and protected their flowers and fruit.

Of these fine strong threads I made a hammock, which I suspended from a

strong frame bound together with these tough fibers, placing it a few

feet back from the mouth of the cavern. Thus, I had an excellent bed,

and if I should need covering there were plenty of palm-leaves at hand

for the purpose. But in that torrid climate there was little need of

extra protection; the air of the cavern was of just that delightful

coolness which refreshes but does not chill.

Now, imagine me waking in the morning just as the dawn tinted the rosy

east, refreshed with sweet slumbers and rejoicing to behold the light,

rocking myself gently in my pretty hammock, and hailing the uprising

sun with a merry song,--and would you not suppose there was one happy

man in this great world?

While the day was yet young I would take a bath in the clear, soft

water of a little stream near by. Then, when all was sparkling and

bright in my humble house, I would partake with keen appetite of the

precious fruits of my unlimited and self-producing garden.

In the neighboring streams were many kinds of fishes, some of which I

knew to be very good eating, and I could have caught and eaten as many

birds as I wished; but the fruits and nuts were so plentiful, and of so

many different sorts, that I cared for, and, indeed, needed, no other

kind of food.

Thus, several months passed away, and I was not weary of this paradise.

There was enough to occupy my mind in the examination of the structure

and mode of growth of a vast number of species of plants. Their

flowering, their fruitage, and their decay offered a boundless field

for thought, and kept up a never-flagging interest.

For the first four months the sun traced his course through the heavens

to the north of me; I knew, therefore, that I was almost immediately

under the equator. For several days at the end of the four months, the

sun rose directly in the east, passing through the sky in a line

dividing it almost exactly into halves north and south. After that, for

six months, I had the great luminary to the south of me.

In all this time there was but little change in the weather. A short

period without rain was the exception. Otherwise, the mornings and

evenings were invariably clear, with a refreshing rain of about two

hours' duration in the middle of the day. In the afternoon the sun was,

of course, away from my cavern, shining upon the opposite side of the

mountain of solid rock, which rendered my abode delightfully cool in

the greatest heat of the day. Toward the end of the short dry period,

magnificent thunder-showers passed over my domain. Nothing could be

more glorious than these electrical displays of an equatorial sky, as I

sat snug and safe within the rocky shelter. The heaviest shower could

not wet me, the water without ran with a swift descent, from the cave,

and over the precipice into the lake below. It was not likely that the

lightning would take the trouble to creep in under the rock and there

find me out. And as for the thunder, I was not in the least afraid of

it, but gloried in its loud peals and distant reverberations among the

encompassing mountains.

It was during the violence of one of these tempests that a parrot flew

into my comfortable quarters.

"Hallo! my fine fellow!" said I. "Where do you come from, and what do

you want here?"

It flew about the room looking for a place to perch, trying to find a

footing against the wall, slipping down, and flying up again.

I left it free to find its own roosting-place, or fly out of the

cavern, as it liked. I had seen a few parrots of the same kind, outside

in my garden, had heard them chattering and shrieking amidst the

foliage, and had always been very much amused with their odd ways, and

pleased with the brilliance and the glitter of their splendid plumage.

But I never tried or cared to capture the gorgeous, noisy birds, or any

other of the creatures that were always to be seen around me. Indeed,

from the very first, the living things in this lovely valley appeared

to be uncommonly tame; and in time no bird or other animal showed the

least fear on my approach, regarding me no more than any other creature

that never did them harm. Of course, this came of my never molesting

them. But I never thought of getting on familiar terms with any of

them, although scarcely a day passed that some of these animals did not

come and eat of the fruit by the side of that which I was plucking. I

never laid hands on them, but always let them go about their own

business. They soon became accustomed to my umbrella even, for I early

made one of these necessities of a torrid climate; and although at

first when I had occasion to walk in the sun my appearance shaded by

the portable roof caused unusual chattering and commotion, I speedily

took on a familiar look to them. In the same way I became an object of

curiosity when I plucked a leaf and made of it a cup to drink from. But

at length all signs of strangeness vanished, and there even came to be

a kind of friendship between us.

[Illustration: THE VIEW FROM THE LEDGE.]

I therefore concerned myself no more about the parrot, thinking that,

of course, as soon as the rain should stop, the bird would fly away.

I had made a small table of three slabs of rock, where I frequently

placed fruits, nuts, roots and the like, that I might have in case I

should feel hungry when in my house, and yet not care to eat the fruit

directly from the plant, which I most generally preferred. Of course,

too, it was always desirable to have provisions on hand when it rained.

The next morning, when I awoke, the rain was still descending, for it

was just at this time that it rained for three or four days together.

I always had a healthy relish for the good things of this world, and,

as there was no rosy dawn to look at, my eyes immediately went in

search of the breakfast-table.

"What!" I exclaimed; and I sat upright in my hammock.

There was the parrot on the table.

I eyed him for some time, and then I cried out:

"You little thief! Stealing my food, are you?"

The parrot sat there, but said never a word. He merely raised one of

his claws and sleeked up the feathers on the back of his neck, in the

way his family know so well. Then, raising the feathers of his crest,

he gave utterance to a very faint shriek.

"Get out of this, you rascal!" I cried and immediately got up and went

toward him with the purpose of putting him out.

I approached the table very rapidly, expecting that the bird would fly

away. But he remained motionless. I was about to lay rude hands on him,

but I desisted.

"Why do violence to the creature? Why mar the serenity of this peaceful

vale?" I said to myself. "And why make such ado about a little fruit

when there is abundance on every hand?"

Happening just then to glance at the fruit, it seemed to me that it had

not been disturbed.

I examined it more closely, and began to feel I had done the parrot

great injustice. There it lay, just as I had left it the night before;

there was no evidence whatever of its having been picked at, and I came

to the comforting conclusion that the handsome bird had broken no moral

law.

The parrot rose greatly in my esteem at this happy discovery.

"Friend Parrot," said I, "I beg pardon for having so rashly jumped to

the conclusion that you had been guilty of theft. I believe that you

have touched nothing of the things which belong to me. Indeed, I am

sure that you have not. That you have so scrupulously regarded the

rights of property is to me the source of infinite gratification, and

fills me with the highest admiration of your character. To show you

that I am disinclined to let virtue go unrewarded, I accord you my

permission to stay here while I am eating my breakfast, and when I have

finished, you too may eat some, if you like."

Then, having arranged my toilet, I began to partake of the good things

that lay on the table, the parrot all the while looking at me with

lively interest. I could not help being amused at his significant

performances. He turned his knowing head one way, and then another, now

sidewise toward the fruits, and then obliquely up at me, as I sat

enjoying the repast, enlivening his gestures with gentle prattle, and

yet never making a single demonstration in the direction of my food. He

put me in such good humor that I was impelled to say to him:

"Friend Parrot, I don't mind being sociable; and if you are inclined to

do me the favor of honoring me with your company, I most respectfully

invite you to partake of this humble collation." And, taking up one of

the choicest nuts in the collection, I handed it to him forthwith.

He took it promptly, and proceeded to crack and munch it in regular

parrot fashion.

"You must excuse me," I resumed, "that my viands are not of the

choicest cooking, and that I have no servants to wait upon my highly

esteemed guest, and that there are no silver knives and forks and

spoons to eat with in the latest civilized style, but I have rid myself

of all those things, and am glad of it."

The parrot nodded his head approvingly, as much as to say, "Right,

quite right."

The poor bird was very hungry, and I let him eat his fill.

Breakfast over, my guest flew upon my shoulder and was disposed to be

affectionate. He delicately pecked at my lips, drew his bill gently

across my cheeks, and pulled my hair with his claws.

"Come, come! friend Parrot, none of your soft billing and cooing. Leave

that to women and children."

So I gave my friend politely to understand that I did not care for such

pretty endearments; and, soon comprehending the force of my objection,

he very sensibly desisted from bestowing further attention upon me, and

thenceforth kept his handsome person reasonably aloof.

I entertained my friend two days, during which I gave him much valuable

advice, and, which was more to the purpose and perhaps better

appreciated, plenty to eat.

On the morning of the third day, the sun rose in all his beauty again,

and I fully expected the bird would fly away. He was in no hurry to go,

however. I went out, wandered about, and toward noon returned home.

Still the parrot was there. So it was the next day, and the next. I did

not want to resort to force and drive him away.

Finally I said to him one day:

"Friend Parrot; since I see you are in no hurry to leave my humble

home, and that it evidently grieves you to lose the pleasure of my

society, I shall not eject you forcibly from the premises. Stay,

therefore, as long as it shall please you. I will share with you food,

and shelter from the sun and rain. And whenever you grow weary of this

my society, tired of this plain habitation, or disgusted generally with

civilization, and wish to return to the freedom of savage life, you are

at liberty to go. 'Tis a large door, always open, out of which you can

fly; and when you are gone I shall shed no tears over your departure."

The bird seemed really to comprehend the drift of my discourse, and

from that time forward we lived upon the most intimate terms, which,

however, never passed the bounds of mutual respect.

Now, if we were to live in such close ties of friendship, it was

necessary that my friend should have a name, and that he, too, should

be able to address me by mine. The title, "Friend Parrot," was rather

too formal, and his screeching at me in some unmeaning way every time

he wanted me could not for long be tolerated.

So, "Mr. Parrot" said I, "you are Mr. Parrot no longer. Your name is

'Pippity.'"

He soon learned his new name, and then said I:

"Pippity! my name is 'Frank.'"

It was incredible how rapidly he learned mine.

"Further, Pippity," I continued, "you must learn the names of the

things round about us."

Instruction began at once. For several days he had to be told the names

of things many times before he was able to repeat them correctly; but

after that, and apparently all of a sudden, he seemed to have caught a

bright idea and to thoroughly understand my method of teaching.

From that time on, when the name of a thing was made plain to him, he

seemed to grasp it immediately and never forgot it. This expedited

matters wonderfully, for I liked to talk to him and observe his efforts

to repeat what I said, so there was ample conversation, though somewhat

one-sided, going on in our ancient dwelling. I marveled at the parrot's

extraordinary power; but what astonished me above all was his wonderful

memory, and his unlimited capacity for taking in new ideas. Sometimes I

would ask him, after an interval of weeks, some name of a thing I had

taught him, and the answer was invariably correct. On such occasions I

would say to him:

"Pippity, what's that?"

He would tell me immediately; and I laughed outright when, one day, as

we were strolling through the forest, I stumbled over a stone, and the

parrot, perching on it, pecked it with his bill, and then, looking up

at me askance, asked:

"What's that?"

That was a phrase I had unwittingly taught him. And now I began more

than ever to perceive his extraordinary genius.

Thenceforth it was "What's that?" and "What's that?" and actually the

fellow wanted to learn more quickly than I could teach.

Once, after this intelligent bird had been with me for some months, we

were sitting quietly in our domicile, shaded from the afternoon sun by

our lofty rock-built palace, enjoying the beauties of creation, when

all at once he broke out in his clear, melodious voice:

"Tell me something new!"

I looked at him in amazement. I had never taught him to say that; but

undoubtedly he must have heard me say, at some time or other, "Pippity,

now I will tell you something new." Yet how the bird had managed to

turn the phrase grammatically to himself puzzled me not a little.

However, I soon began to teach him something else that was new, for I

had been thinking that it was time that he should learn the names of

the plants,--at least of the most interesting and useful. So it was not

long before Pippity had a fair acquaintance with botany.

Nearly a year had now rolled round, when one day Pippity was missing.

What could have happened to him? Had he grown tired of my society? Did

he begin to think that, after all, savage freedom was to be preferred

to dull, systematic civilization? Had he come to the conclusion that

much learning is, at best, but vanity? Did he want to go babbling again

in chaotic gibberish rather than to talk smoothly by rote?

Two days passed, in which to drive away any natural feeling of

loneliness at the parrot's absence, I set down notes as concisely as

possible of what had occurred to me so far. For this purpose I used the

point of my knife and thin slabs of mica, wishing to save the small

stock of memorandum paper in my note-book and journals as much as I

could. At other times I had used bark and similar things to write on,

but the mica was more durable, and more easily stowed away. It was my

intention to make a still more condensed series of notes on the paper I

had by me, whenever I should feel like undertaking the task. The juice

of berries would serve for ink, and a feather or light reed would make

as good a pen as I should want. This plan I carried out afterward.

[Illustration]

On the third day Pippity returned, and, as he came flying into the

palace, "Pippity, Pippity!" I cried, "I thought you were never coming

back. Have you been to see your old friends?" He hung his head

demurely, and said nothing.

Although I had told Pippity, when he had first sought my hospitality,

that I would shed no tears over his departure, if at any time he might

see fit to leave me, I must confess that I was very glad when he came

back. His society was agreeable. He was a good listener, and he was by

no means an idler, as far as that kind of honorable work is concerned

which consists in keeping body and soul together. For example,

strolling through our fertile garden, if I should happen to see some

fine fruit high on a tree, Pippity would fly up to it at my bidding,

and, cutting its stem with his bill, would quickly bring it to the

ground.

"Pippity," I would say, "do you see that extra fine bunch of bananas up

there? Now, do you go up and cut the stalk, while I stand below and

catch the luscious treasure on this soft bed of leaves."

And, before I would be done speaking, Pippity would already be pretty

well advanced with his work. For getting nuts, and such fruit as it was

desirable to take carefully from plants at great heights, his services

were invaluable.

It is a remarkable fact that, although we had such an abundance of

tropical fruits, as well as a large proportion of temperate

productions, on our domain, the cocoa-nut was not one of them. I

remembered that, in coming up from the lake, I had seen large numbers

of cocoa-nut trees growing on the small flat at which I first arrived

about nine hundred feet below the level of our palace plateau.

It would be an agreeable diversion, I thought, to go down there and get

some of those nuts, and it undoubtedly would be quite a treat to

Pippity to share them with me.

"So," said I, "Pippity, I am going down this narrow gorge to the lake;

cocoa-nuts grow there, and I mean that you and I shall have some. Keep

house while I am gone. I shall start with the first peep of dawn, while

it is cool, and be back some time in the afternoon."

I had made some baskets, in which we hung up the fruit we gathered. One

of these I took, and went down the declivity. I soon filled the basket

with good cocoa-nuts, saw plenty of monkeys, and was much amused at

their lively antics, and at their astonishment at seeing one so much

like them, and yet so different. I then returned--not, however, without

being obliged to throw away quite a number of the nuts before reaching

the top, in order to lessen the burden, which was light enough at

first, but which seemed to grow heavier and heavier as I proceeded.

As soon as Pippity saw me, he cried out:

"Cocoa-nuts! Cocoa-nuts!"

We relished them so much that I went down after them quite often,

always leaving Pippity at home to mind the house.

On one occasion, while I was gathering these nuts, I was startled by a

loud shrieking not far off, and, looking in the direction of the noise,

I saw that there was a great commotion among the monkeys--about a

hundred of them squealing and yelling and gesticulating at once. It was

on the ground, where the monkey-crowd swayed to and fro like any

civilized mob. I ran up to see what the fracas was about, but not

without some misgivings as to the risk of meddling in other people's

business.

(_To be continued_.)

SINGING PINS.

BY HARLAN H. BALLARD.

It has been said, you know, that all the millions of pins which are

lost every year are picked up by fairies and hammered out on elfin

anvils into notes of music. There are some who say that this statement

must be received with caution, although they admit that the half and

quarter notes do bear a very singular resemblance to pins.

I confess that I shared the doubts of this latter class of persons

until a few evenings since; for although I knew well enough that pins

were bright and sharp enough in their way, I never had been able to

discover one of a musical turn of mind.

But having on a certain evening heard a choir of pins singing "Yankee

Doodle" till you would have thought that their heads must ache forever

after, I hereby withdraw all my objections, and express my decided

opinion that the above-named theory of the future life of pins is fully

as accurate as any other with which I am acquainted.

The chorus of pins who were singing "Yankee Doodle" were standing at

the time on a piece of pine-board, and were evidently very much stuck

up.

One of their number, however, when asked if they were not rather too

self-important, bent his head quickly downward, and replied that he

couldn't see the point, which was exceedingly brassy for a pin.

They looked for all the world as if they were a line of music which,

impatient of being forever kept under key and behind bars, had revolted

under the leadership of an intrepid staff-officer, and marched right

out of Sister Mary's instruction-book.

[Illustration: TUNING THE PINS.]

Indeed, from a remark which the staff-officer let fall, to the effect

that if they did not all see sharp they would soon be flat again,

nothing else would be natural than to accept that supposition as the

truth.

Pins they were of all papers and polish.

They were not ranged according to height, as good soldiers should be,

nor did they all stand erect, but each seemed bent on having his own

way.

Their heads varied greatly from an even line, and on the whole they

looked far more like the notes of music which they had been, than like

the orderly row of singing-pins which they aspired to be. They had a

scaly appearance.

My small brother had assumed the management of this curious chorus, and

I was much amused at the manner in which he drilled them. For he coolly

picked up the splendid staff-officer by his head and poked the first

bass with his point, as if to say, "Time--sing!" Whereupon that pin set

up a deep, twanging growl, to express his disapprobation of that method

of drill.

In like manner did my brother treat each of the pins in succession.

Then it appeared that each had a different voice, and was capable of

producing but one sound. Moreover, they had been so arranged that, as

they uttered each one his peculiar note, the sounds followed each other

in such a manner as to produce the lively and patriotic air of "Yankee

Doodle." This was very wonderful and pleasing.

"Well, Johnny," said I, as soon as I could stop laughing, "that's

pretty good. Where did you pick that up?"

"Oh, a feller told me," said he. "'T aint nothing to do. All there is

of it is to get a tune in your head, and then drive a pin down in a

board, and keep a-driving, and trying it till it sounds like the first

note in the tune. Then stick up another for the second note, and so

on."

"How can you raise a pin to a higher note?" said I.

"Hammer her down farther," said he.

"And to make a lower note?" I asked.

"Pull her up a little," said he.

"How do you manage the time?"

"Oh, when you want to go slow, you put the pins a good ways apart; and

when you want to go fast, you plant 'em thicker."

The next day I found that this ridiculous brother of mine had set up a

pin-organ in a circular form. He had made one of those little

whirligigs which spin around when they are held over the register or by

a stove-pipe, and then had connected it by a string with a wheel. This

wheel, as it turned, set an upright shaft in motion, and from this

there projected a stick armed at the end with a pin. This was arranged,

as is shown in the cut, so that when it revolved, the pin in the stick

played upon the pins in the circle, and rattled off the "Mulligan

Guards" at a tremendous pace.

[Illustration: THE PIN-ORGAN.]

Johnny says that he invented the circular arrangement, and that all the

boys he knows are making these pin-organs for themselves, which I am

not at all surprised to hear.

ABOUT THE PORPOISES.

BY J. D.

The porpoise is a long, sleek fish without scales, black on the back,

and white and gray beneath. He is from four to ten feet in length, and

his sociability and good-nature are proverbial among seamen of all

nations.

A porpoise is rarely seen alone, and if he by chance wanders from his

friends, he acts in a very bewildered and foolish manner, and will

gladly follow a steamer at full speed rather than be left alone. He is

a very inquisitive fish, and is always thrusting his funny-looking

snout into every nook that promises diversion or sport.

[Illustration: A SCHOOL OF PORPOISES.]

A very familiar spectacle at sea is a school of porpoises--or

"porpusses," as the sailors call them. As soon as a school catches

sight of a ship, they immediately make a frantic rush for it, as if

their life depended upon giving it a speedy welcome. After diving under

the vessel a few times to inspect it and try its speed, they take their

station under the bows, just ahead, and proceed to cut up every antic

that a fish is capable of. They jump, turn over, play "leap-frog" and

"tag" in the most approved fashion. Their favorite antic is to dive a

few feet and then come to the surface, showing their backs in a half

circle, and then, making a sound like a long-drawn sigh, disappear

again. Sailors call them "sea-clowns," and never allow them to be

harmed.

They are met with in schools of from two or three to thousands. They

often get embayed in the inlets and shallow rivers which their

curiosity leads them to investigate. A porpoise once came into the

Harlem River and wandered up and down for a week seeking a way out. One

day he suddenly made his appearance amid some bathers and scattered

them by his gambols.

When they change their feeding-places, the sea is covered for acres

with a tumultuous multitude of these "sea-clowns," all swimming along

in the same direction.

When one of these droves is going against the wind (or to windward),

their plungings throw up little jets of water, which, being multiplied

by thousands of fish, present a very curious appearance.

THE WILD WIND.

BY CLARA W. RAYMOND.

Oh, the wind came howling at our house-door,

Like a maddened fiend set free;

He pushed and struggled with gasp and roar,

For an angry wind was he!

He dashed snow-wreaths at our window-panes,

The casements rattled and creaked;

Then up he climbed to the chimney tops,

And down through the flues he shrieked.

He found Jack's sled by the garden fence,

And tumbled it down in his spite;

And heaped the snow till he covered it up,

And hid it from poor Jack's sight.

He tore down the lattice and broke the house

Ned built for the birds last week;

And he bent the branches and bowed the trees,

Then rushed off fresh wrath to wreak.

And oh! how he frightened poor little Nell,

And made her tremble and weep,

Till mother came up and soothed the wee maid,

And lulled her with songs to sleep!

Her tiny hand nestled, content and still,

In her mother's, so soft and warm;

While with magical power of low, sweet tones

The mother-love hushed the storm.

THE MAGICIAN AND HIS BEE.

BY P.F.

It was a spelling bee. The magician had never had one, but he thought

it was better late than never, and so he sent word around that he would

have his bee just outside of the town, on the green grass. Everybody

came, because they had to. When the magician said they must do a thing,

there was no help for it. So they all marched in a long procession, the

magician at the head with his dictionary open at the "bee" page. Every

now and then he turned around and waved his wand, so as to keep the

musicians in good time. The cock-of-the-walk led the band and he played

on his own bill, which had holes in it, like a flute. The rabbit beat

the drum, and the pig blew the horn, while old Mother Clink, who was

mustered in to make up the quartette, was obliged to play on the

coffee-mill, because she understood no other instrument.

[Illustration]

The king came, with his three body-guards marching in front. The first

guard was a wild savage with bare legs, and a gnat stung him on the

knee, which made the second guard laugh so much that the third one who

carried the candles had a chance to eat a penny-dip, without any person

seeing him. The king rode in his chariot, drawn by two wasps. He was a

very warm gentleman, and not only carried a parasol to keep off the

sun, but the head ninny-hammer squirted water on the small of his back

to keep him cool.

[Illustration]

The court tailor rode on a goat, and he carried his shears and the

goose he ironed with. He balanced himself pretty well until a bird sat

on his queue, and that bent him over backward so that he nearly fell

off.

The queen also came; she was bigger than the king and had to have cats

to draw her chariot. The cats fought a good deal, but the driver, who

was a mouse, managed to get them along. The footman was also a mouse,

and the queen had two pet mice that sat at her feet or played with her

scepter. After the queen came the chief jumping jack, who did funny

tricks with bottles as he danced along.

[Illustration]

Then came the ladies of the court. They sat in nautilus shells, which

were each borne by two bearers. The first shell went along nicely, but

the men who carried the second were lazy and the lady beat them with a

hair-brush. As for the bearers of the last shell, they had a fight and

took their poles to beat each other, leaving their shell, with the

lady in it, on the ground. She didn't mind, for she thought that if

they went off and left her, she wouldn't have to do any spelling. So

she stayed in her shell and smiled very contentedly.

[Illustration]

The town bell-man walked along in grand state ringing his bell, and the

cock-who-could-n't-walk rode on a wheelbarrow and crowed by note. The

old ram wheeled the barrow, in which was also a basket containing the

hen and chickens. The smallest chicken tried to crow in tune with his

father, but nobody could hear whether he crowed right or wrong--and

what is more, nobody cared.

The monkey didn't walk, but was carried in a bucket by a mountaineer,

and he blew peas through a tube at the palace steward who was having

his hair combed by the court barber. It was so late that the barber had

to hurry, and so he used a rake instead of a comb. The steward did not

like this, but there was so little time that nothing else could be

done, for the procession was already moving.

[Illustration]

There was a lion who lived at the Town-hall. He was very wise, and his

business was to bite criminals. When he heard about the bee he thought

he would have to go, but the moment he showed himself in the street all

the relatives of the criminals got after him. The wasps stung him, a

game-cock pecked at him, a beetle nipped him, a dog barked at him, an

old woman ran after him with a broom, a wooden-legged soldier pursued

him with a sword, a rat gave chase to him, while a rabbit took down his

shot-gun and cried out, fiercely, that he would blow the top of that

old lion's head off, if he could only get a fair crack at him.

[Illustration]

Two of the liveliest animals in the town were the donkey and the old

cow. They went to the bee, but they danced along as if they didn't care

at all whether they spelled cat with a _c_ or a _k_. They each had two

partners. The donkey had two regular danseuses, but the cow had to

content herself with the court librarian and the apothecary.

[Illustration]

Out in the green grass where the company assembled there were a lot of

grasshoppers and little gnats. The grasshoppers said to each other, "We

can't put letters together to make words, so let us dance for a spell,"

which they did,--all but one poor young creature who had no partner,

and who sat sorrowfully on one side, while the others skipped gayly

about.

[Illustration]

As soon as the people and the chickens and donkeys and wasps and cows

and all the others were seated, side by side, in two long rows, the

magician gave out the first word. It was "Roe-dough-mon-taide"--at

least that was the way he pronounced it. The king and the queen were at

the heads of the two lines, and it was their duty to begin,--first the

king, and then the queen, if he missed.

But neither of them had ever heard of the word, and so they didn't try.

Then one of the wasps tried, and afterward a ram, a rabbit, and the

head ninny-hammer; but they made sad work of it. Then each one of the

company made an effort and did his, her or its very best, but it was of

no use; they could not spell the word.

Uprose then the little chicken that had stood on his mother's back and

tried to crow in tune with his father, and he cried out: "Give it up!"

"Wrong!" said the magician. "That's not it. You are all now under the

influence of a powerful spell. Here you will remain until some one can

correctly answer my question."

They are all there yet. How long would you, my reader, have to sit on

the grass before you could spell that word?

[Illustration]

SCRUBBY'S BEAUTIFUL TREE.

BY J.C. PURDY.

I.

"Papa!"

"Well, dear!"

"Wont to-morrow be Kissmuss?"

"Why, no, darling! We had Christmas-day long ago. Don't you remember?"

"Yes; but you said we'd have another Kissmuss in a year, and then I'd

have such a pitty tree. I'm sure it's a year. It _is_ a year, papa; and

it takes so awful long to wait for some time--it's jess a noosance. I

fink ole Kriss was drefful mean not to let me have a tree only cos we'd

got poor. Wasn't we ever poor before, papa? Don't he give trees to

_any_ poor little girls? I _do_ want a tree--sech a pitty one, like I

used to have!"

It was little Scrubby said all that. She was only four years old, but

she could say what she had to say in her own fashion. When she saw her

father's sorrowful face, she thought she had said rather too much this

time; so she gave him a hug and put up her mouth for a kiss.

"I dess I can wait, papa," she said. "But he will bring me a tree

_next_ Kissmuss, wont he? Jess like I used to have? And then wont that

be nice! There's my baby waked up. She'll be cryin' in a minute, I

s'pose."

Old Lucy, the dearest baby of all in this little girl's large family,

was taken up and quieted; and then something happened that was really

wonderful. Scrubby, with her poor torn and tangled doll in her arms,

sat very still for at least five minutes. The little maid was thinking

all that time. She did not think very straight, perhaps, but she

thought over a great deal of ground, and settled a good many things in

that busy little head of hers; then she sang them all over to good old

Lucy.

"Hush, my dear!" she sang. "Don't stay long, for it beats my heart when

the winds blow; and come back soon to your own chickabiddy, and then

Kissmuss'll be here. S'umber on, baby dear. Kriss is coming with such a

booful tree; then wont you be s'prised? She went to the hatter's to get

him a coffin, and when she come back he was fixin' my Kissmuss-tree!"

The little singer grew so enthusiastic when she came to the tree that

she could not wait to sing any more; so she just danced Lucy up and

down and chattered to her as fast as her tongue could go.

"It'll be for me and for you, Lucy, and for all the babies, and then

wont you be glad! And for mamma too, and for papa, cos we's all good

little chillen, if we _is_ poor. Yes, indeed, Ole Kriss is coming with

his reindeer. And he'll bring me a horse with pink shoes on; and you'll

have a piano--a _really_ piano, ye know; and mamma, she'll have two

little glass s'ippers, and--and--"

Little Scrubby stopped chattering just there, and laid her head down on

poor old Lucy's kind bosom.

"Oh dear!" she sighed, "I do _wish_ ole Kriss'd come with that pitty

tree!"

The kitten curled up on the hearth, and the little broken dog that lay

tipped over in the corner, and good old Lucy, and the three dolls

tucked up in mamma's basket, all heard the wish of the poor little

disappointed child.

II.

Everybody has noticed that the kittens and the dogs take a great many

naps in the day-time, and that the dolls and toy-animals let the

children do the most of the playing. That is because the pets and the

toys are tired out and sleepy after their doings the night before, when

the children were asleep and the grown people out of the way. They have

rare sprees all by themselves, but just as soon as any person comes

about, the fun stops,--the cat and the dog are sound asleep, the dolls

drop down anywhere still as a wood-pile, and the rocking-horse don't

even switch the ten hairs left in his tail.

As for talking, though, they might chatter all the time and nobody be

the wiser. People hear them, but not a soul knows what it is. Mamma

sticks paper into the key-hole to keep out the wind that whistles so,

papa takes medicine for the cold that makes such a ringing in his head,

and Bridget sets a trap to catch the mouse that "squales and scrabbles

about so, a body can't slape at all, 'most;" and all the while it is

the dolls and pets laughing and talking among themselves.

The bird in the cage and the bird out-of-doors know what it is. Very

tame squirrels and rabbits understand it; and the poor little late

chicken, which was brought into the kitchen for fear of freezing, soon

spoke the language like a native.

Scrubby understood all that any of them said, and they all understood

her and liked her immensely. Even the plants in the window would nod

and wink and shake out their leaves whenever she came about.

After little Scrubby and everybody else in the house had gone to bed

that night, Minx, the kitten, came out from behind the broom, and

prancing up to the little pasteboard and wool dog that lay tipped over

in the corner, pawed him about until he was as full of fun as herself.

Then she jumped upon the table and clawed the three dolls out of

mamma's work-basket, sending them all sprawling on the floor.

[Illustration: "OLE KRISS IS COMING WITH HIS REINDEER."]

They were a sad-looking lot of babies, anyway. There was Peg, knit out

of blue, red and yellow worsted, and with black beads for eyes. She was

a good deal raveled out, but there was plenty of fun in her yet, after

all.

Then there was Française. She was a French girl, who had been brought

from Paris for Scrubby before that bad time when papa "got poor." She

had been very elegant, but now her laces were torn, her hair would

never curl again, one arm swung loose, and her head wobbled badly; but,

for all that, she was still full of lively French airs. Lyd was the

last of the lot. Poor thing! She had been such a lovely wax blonde: but

now the wax had all melted off her cheeks, she was as bald as a squash,

one eye had been knocked out, and, worst of all, she had not a stitch

of clothes on. Scrubby had brought her to this plight; but, for all

that, Lyd loved the very ground Scrubby tumbled over; and so did all

the rest of them, for that matter, never caring how much she abused

them in her happy, loving way.

Very soon high fun was going on in that room, and it is a wonder the

neighbors did not come in to see what the uproar meant; but nobody

heard it.

Yes, Ned, the bird, heard it, took his head out from under his wing,

and laughed at the fun until he almost tumbled out of his cage. The

lively dog, Spot, heard it out in his shed, too, and whined at the door

until Jumping Jack contrived to undo the latch and let him in. The

little late chicken heard it also, hopped out of his snug basket, and

was soon enjoying himself as much as if they were all chickens and it

was a warm spring day.

Lucy heard it, too; but Scrubby had taken Lucy to bed with her, and had

her hugged up so tightly that the kind old baby couldn't get away, and

had to lie there and listen and wait.

They were having a good time in that room. The rocking-horse had been

hitched to the little wagon, and Jumping Jack was driver; Miss

Française had climbed into the wagon, and was sitting there as

gracefully as she could, trying to hold her head steady; she had the

pasteboard dog for a lap-dog, while Peg and Lyd sprawled on the

wagon-bottom, and Minx stood upon the horse's back like a circus-rider.

And so they went tearing around the room in fine style, Spot racing

with them and wagging his tail till it looked like a fan. Ned fairly

shouted in his cage, and the chicken jumped on a chair and tried his

best to crow.

After a while, Spot grabbed up a piece of paper from one corner, and

began to worry it. The fine Française saw that and tumbled out of the

wagon in a minute, as if she were only a very quick-tempered little

girl. She snatched the paper away from Spot and snapped out: "You

sha'n't spoil that! It's Scrubby's letter!"

The horse had stopped now, Jumping Jack jerked himself up to the

astonished dog, and said, very severely: "Spot, aint you ashamed to

worry anything that belongs to our Scrubby? I'll put you out if there's

any more of it."

"It's too bad, so it is," said Peg.

Lyd began to cry with her one eye, while Ned stopped laughing and went

to scolding; the chicken put his claw before his face, as if ashamed of

such a dog, and even the horse shook his head.

Poor Spot was under a cloud.

"I didn't know it was anything Scrubby cared for, and I don't believe

it is, either," he snapped.

"I saw Scrubby write it," said Minx, "and she stuck the pencil in my

ear when she'd finished."

"She was sitting on us when she wrote it," said Peg and Lyd together.

"Yes, and she held me on her lap and read it to me when it was done,"

put in Française.

"Of course it's her letter," spoke up the rocking-horse. "Don't you

remember, Fran, she hitched it to my bridle and told you to ride right

off and give it to old Kriss when he came around?"

"You're a nice crowd!" growled Spot. "Every one of you knew all about

this, and left it kicking around on the floor! You _are_ a nice crowd!

I'll take charge of it myself now, and see that old Kriss gets it. He

can't read it, of course. Nobody could read that; but it shows how much

_you_ all think of Scrubby."

Spot had the best of it now; but the French lady spoke up in a way that

put the others in good spirits right off, and made honest Spot feel as

if he had been sat down upon.

"Perhaps some people can read, if you cant," she said, "_I_ can read

that letter for you, and for old Kriss too, if he wants me to."

She could not read a word, but she opened out the scribbled sheet in

fine style, and just repeated what she had heard Scrubby say. And this

is what Scrubby tried to put in the letter:

OLE KRISS: I want a tree, please, ole Kriss, _right away_. And lots

of pitty things. And glass s'ippers for mamma. And moss under it,

and animals, jess like I used to have. And a pink coat for papa,

and not wait for some time, cos that's a noosance.

It was very queer how they all acted when they heard the letter. There

was not another cross word said--or a word of any kind for that matter.

Not one of them even looked at the others, and it was not until poor

Spot gave a big snuff that each of them found out that the rest were

crying.

"Well, I know what _I'm_ going to do," said Minx, at last. "I'm just

going to get that child a tree; that's what I'm going to do."

"And I'm going to help you," Française said, as heartily as if she were

not a fine lady at all. "She ruined my dress, and tore my lace, and put

my hair in such a state as never was; but I don't care. She wants a

tree, and she's going to have it."

"You ought to have heard how she talked to her papa and old Luce

to-night," sobbed the one-eyed baby. "It was enough to break a body's

heart."

"We did hear her," they all snuffled.

Then they wiped their eyes, and a minute afterward, with much chatter,

they began to make preparations for getting the tree.

All but Spot. Scrubby had used him the worst of all, she loved him so.

She had pulled every hair on him loose, and had twisted his tail until

it hung crooked; and yet Spot could not speak or do anything for crying

over little Scrubby's grief.

III.

Pretty soon, Lucy, who had listened to as much of this talk as she

could, heard the whole party go out of the back door and start off

somewhere. She was in a great state of mind about it. Not for anything

in the world would she waken Scrubby; but oh! how she longed to tumble

down-stairs and rush off after the rest!

What a party it was that did go out of that back door! And in what

style they went! Ned, the canary, was the only one left behind; and

those who couldn't walk, rode. For they had hitched the horse to

Scrubby's little battered sled, and made a grand sleighing party of it.

Jumping Jack drove, of course. The French lady had the seat of honor on

the sled, and much trouble she had to keep it, for there was nothing to

hold on by, and her head was so loose that it nearly threw her over.

Lyd had wrapped a dish-towel about her, and felt very comfortable and

well-dressed; while Peg had come just as she was, and they both rolled

about on the sled in a very dangerous fashion.

The late chicken held on with his claws to the curl of the runner, and

flapped his wings and squawked every time the sled plunged a little in

the snow. Minx rode horseback as before, while Spot went afoot, jumping

and barking, and snapping up a mouthful of snow every few minutes.

But not one of them knew where they were going, or what they were going

to do. They meant to get Scrubby a tree somehow, and that was all they

knew about it.

At last, Peg said (Peg was a very sensible baby, if she _was_ raveled

out):

"What are we going to do, anyhow?"

"Why, we're going to get a tree for Scrubby," they all answered.

"Well, what kind of a tree?--and where?"

That was a poser. None of them had thought so far as that. At last,

Minx said:

"Why, any kind--somewhere."

"There are plenty of trees in France," said Française.

"Then that's the place for us to go," said Jumping Jack; and at once

they raced off to the end of the garden, on their way to France.

"This aint the way, after all," Minx said, when they got to the fence.

"The world comes to an end just over there. I got up on the fence one

day, and there was nothing beyond but a great, deep hole."

"There's no use going off this other way," Spot put in, "for there's

nothing over there but a big lot of water with a mill standing by it. I

was over there one day."

"Then that is our way," said the French lady, decisively. "That is the

ocean. I know they brought me across the ocean, and I was awfully sick

all the way."

That last rather discouraged them, for nobody wanted to get awfully

sick if there was any other way to find Scrubby's tree; so they

concluded not to go to France.

"Well, let's go somewhere, for I'm getting cold," peeped the chicken;

and then there was a great discussion. At last, Spot said:

"We _are_ a stupid lot! There's that sparrow comes about the door every

day--he could tell us all about trees in a minute if we could find

him."

Minx knew where the sparrow kept himself, for she always watched him

with an eye to business.

"But," she said, "some of the rest of you will have to talk to him, for

he'll never let me come near him."

So then the chicken called to the sparrow, and the sparrow answered.

The matter was explained to him, and the bird fluttered down among them

as much excited as anybody.

"It's for little Scrubby, eh?" he said. "What in the world does she

want a tree for? I know. It's because she is half bird herself--bless

her heart!--and she likes trees just like any other bird. And don't she

come to the door every morning and give me crumbs and talk to me so

friendly? Of course, I'll help find a tree for her."

But he had not found one yet, and so the chicken told him.

"I don't know," he said. "Suppose I call Mrs. Squirrel. She can tell."

And off he flew, and had the gray squirrel there in a minute, cold as

it was.

Then they had to tell the story over again to Mrs. Squirrel and to Mr.

Rabbit, who had also hopped along to see what the fuss was all about.

"Scrubby's got to have a tree, and that's all about it," chattered Mrs.

Squirrel, as she whisked about in a state of great excitement. "I

didn't know old Kriss could be so mean as that. Call _him_ a saint! And

all because Scrubby's poor! Humph! Don't seem to _me_ she is so very

poor. Didn't I give her those eyes she has? And didn't the robin give

her his own throat? And hasn't she a sunbeam inside, that shines all

through? And didn't Miss June roll up all the flowers she had, and a

dozen birds beside, and wrap the whole bundle up in Scrubby's brown

skin? I don't call that being so very poor, do you? Anyhow, she is not

so poor but that she could make me feel jolly every time she came

out-doors last summer to run after me and chatter to me."

The rabbit had been standing all this time with one cold foot wrapped

up in his ear. He unfolded his ear now, and wiped his eyes with it.

"She almost cried," he said. "Just think of one of my little bunnies

wanting anything she couldn't get, and crying about it! It just breaks

my heart."

"Tree!" chirped the chicken.

"Yes," said Mrs. Squirrel, "why don't you go and get a tree for

Scrubby? What do you all stand here for, chattering and doing nothing?

I'd give her mine, only that great beech couldn't be got into the

house."

"We wanted your advice," the sparrow suggested.

"Advice! You don't need any advice. Why don't you give her your own

tree? That little Norway spruce is just the thing. Come along, and

don't be so selfish!"

"I'm not selfish; but really Norway is not fit, and, besides, I don't

believe he'll go."

"Nonsense! He's a beautiful tree, only there isn't much green on him;

and of course he'll go, for we'll make him go," answered the very

decided Mrs. Squirrel.

So they all whisked away to the sparrow's roosting-place. Norway was

not in good health, that was evident. He was very thin, and his temper

was in bad condition too; for when the sparrow asked him if he would

please step out and come with them, he answered:

"Not much I wont! It's bad enough standing here in the ground, poorly

as I am, without coming out there in the snow; and I'll not do it for

anybody."

"Oh dear! Scrubby will be _so_ disappointed! What will she do?" they

all cried out at once.

"What's that about Scrubby? What has Scrubby got to do with my catching

my death-cold, anyhow?" asked Norway.

And then they told him the whole story. He hardly waited for them to

get through before he broke out talking very fast.

"Why didn't you say so? How should I know it was for Scrubby? Of

course, I'll go! I'd do anything for her. She did enough for me, I

should think,"--and, as quickly as he could, he pulled his one foot out

of the ground and hopped into the snow beside the horse. Then he went

on talking. "You see if it hadn't been for Scrubby I wouldn't be alive

at all. She heard somebody say that I needed to have the dirt loosened

about my roots, and to have plenty of water. So she dug around me at a

great rate, and watered me until I was almost drowned. She cut off a

good many of my roots, and once she threw hot water all down this side

of me; but she didn't know. I'm not much of a tree, I confess; but

Scrubby did what _she_ could, and if she wants me she shall have me."

"Come on, then," said the chicken, "for I'm so cold my bill chatters."

And they went.

It was a very funny procession they made going back to the house,--the

horse prancing along with the sled, the three dolls taking a

sleigh-ride in their queer way, Spot racing about everywhere with Minx

on his back, and the tree hopping along after the sled as fast as his

one foot could go. The chicken rode back on one of Norway's branches,

and fluttered and squawked more than ever.

When they started, they looked about and called for the sparrow, Mrs.

Squirrel, and Mr. Rabbit, but they had all disappeared; so the rest

went back without them, shouting, laughing and singing.

IV.

It was a brave sight they saw when Jumping Jack opened the door to let

the party in.

Luce had got away from her little bedfellow at last without waking her.

She knew that the others had gone to get a tree for little Scrub, and

she knew that a tree was just no tree at all without plenty of things

to hang upon it. So she went to work, and by the time Jack opened the

door she had a great deal done. It was astonishing how many things she

had found to put on that tree; but then she had been rummaging among

Scrubby's old playthings up in the garret.

There were old dolls, little and big; there were old toys of all sorts;

there were pretty little pictures, and quantities of flowers made of

bright paper. A great many of the things Scrubby had thrown aside so

long ago they would be new to her now; and some of them mamma had put

away very carefully, so that the little girl should not altogether

spoil them.

Lucy had found them all and had brought them down-stairs; and now she

had them in a heap on the floor, trying to keep them in order, for they

were all very lively at being brought out again.

"Well, Luce, you _have_ done it!" Jack said.

"Of course, I have," answered Lucy. "Do keep that horse away, Jack, and

not let him run over these babies."

"Oh dear!" squawked the chicken, and fluttered under the table, for

these new-comers were all strangers to him.

Spot tried not to bark his astonishment and delight; Minx began to claw

all the old dolls and toys about; the French lady walked away into a

corner and waited to be introduced, while Lyd and Peg shook hands with

their old cronies until it seemed as though they never would stop.

The tree had hopped into the room and stood there, not knowing what to

do with himself. Lucy did not see him at first, being so busy with the

rest; but as soon as she did see him, she gave him such a hug as nearly

pulled him over.

"Oh, you dear old Norway! Did _you_ come? You're so good, and I'm so

glad! Come up to the fire and get warm. Here, Jack, and Lyd, and

Française, help me get this big foot-stool into the corner. It's

getting awful late."

Lucy flew about in a ragged kind of way until she had all the rest

flying about too, doing an amount of work nobody would have believed

possible. They were all glad enough to do the work, but they needed

just such a driving, thoughtful old body as Lucy to show them what to

do and keep them at it.

[Illustration: SCRUBBY'S FRIENDS ARRANGING HER CHRISTMAS-TREE.]

The big foot-stool was put where Lucy wanted it, and Norway warmed his

foot and hopped upon the stool, pushing himself as far back in the

corner as he could get, to make sure that he would not fall.

Then Lucy climbed upon a chair in front of him, ready for business. She

took Française up on the chair beside her to help arrange the things,

for the French girl had excellent taste, and nobody could deny it. Lyd

and Peg, and Minx and Spot, and even the chicken, brought the things to

go on the tree, and faster, too, than they could possibly be used,

while Ned shouted all manner of directions.

Poor Norway fairly bowed his head under the weight of all the things

that were hung upon him. And it was astonishing how pretty those

battered old dolls, broken toys, and torn flowers looked when upon the

tree. There were so many, and they had been arranged so nicely, that

they really did make a splendid show.

"But, oh dear!" Lucy sighed, when it was all done. "It's not your fault

I know, Norway, and you are just as good as you can be; but if you only

were not quite so thin, and were just a little bit greener! And then

we've no moss to put under you. But we haven't any nice little animals

to put on the moss, if we had it."

Just then, Jumping Jack heard a queer kind of noise outside, and opened

the door to see what it was. In whisked Mrs. Squirrel; the sparrow

hopped in close beside her, and Mr. Rabbit jumped along right after

them.

"How are you getting on?" asked the gray lady. "I brought this along

because I thought it might come handy. We laid in a great deal more

than we needed for our nest last fall, and we could just as well spare

it as not."

It was a big bundle of beautiful green moss she had brought, enough to

spread all around under the tree and make a fine carpet.

"Oh, you dear, good old thing!" said Luce. "That is just exactly what

we wanted. Here, Lyd! Peg! Help me spread this down."

"Chick," said the sparrow, "will you please take charge of this?"

And there was a great long vine of shining green ivy which the sparrow

had dragged in with him from some place in the woods. Lucy was so

delighted that she fairly clapped her brown leather hands.

"Quick, Française!" she cried. "Take this and twist it around the

tree. Just the thing to hide poor old Norway's bare places. Oh, it's

just lovely!"

All this time Mr. Rabbit had been holding his ears very straight up,

and now he shook a couple of button-balls and some acorn-cups out of

one, and a lot of mountain-ash berries out of the other.

"Do to hang around on the tree. Look kind of odd and nice," he said.

"Well, I should think so!" Luce answered. "I never did see such good

creatures as you are; and we all thought you had gone home to bed."

Speaking of bed made the chicken gape a little, and they all remembered

how late it was. They never stopped chattering and laughing for a

minute; but they went to work harder than ever, and soon had all the

moss spread down, the ivy twined over the tree, and the button-balls,

acorn-cups, and berries hung up where they would show best.

Then Mr. Rabbit got up on the stool and nearly covered himself with

moss; Mrs. Squirrel got under the tree and stood up on her hind-feet,

with an acorn in her paws; Minx curled herself up in the funniest way

on the moss; the sparrow flew up into the tree and began pecking at the

mountain-ash berries; Française and Lyd and Peg all sat down as well as

they could near the squirrel and the rabbit; Jumping Jack mounted the

horse and rode around beside the tree, to stand guard; Spot stood up on

his hind-legs just in front of the stool, with Scrubby's letter in his

mouth, and the chicken hopped up on Spot's head.

Then good old Lucy started to go upstairs after Scrubby, but she got no

further than the door. Scrubby had waked up and missed her dear old

doll, so she had come down to look for her, and there she stood now,

just inside the door, with her bright brown eyes wide open.

A minute before there had been only the scraggy little tree she had

taken care of, the battered old toys, the torn dolls and the little

pets she had played with and loved so well, the bird and the wild

creatures she had fed and chattered to, and a little bit of ivy and

green moss. But just as soon as she looked at them all, there was the

most beautiful Christmas-tree that ever was seen.