The last day came,--the last hour. Sunny, her mamma, and her Lizzie,
had to turn their ways homeward,--a long, long journey of several
hundred miles. To begin it at four in the morning, with a child, too,
was decided as impracticable; so it was arranged that they should
leave overnight, and sleep at the only available place, an inn which
English superiority scornfully termed a “public-house,” but which
here in the Highlands was called the “hotel,” where “gentlemen could
be accommodated with excellent shooting quarters.” Therefore, it was
supposed to be able to accommodate a lady and a child,--for one night,
at least.
Fortunately, the shooting gentlemen did not avail themselves of it; for
the hotel contained only two guest-rooms. These being engaged, and the
exact time of the boat next morning learned,--which was not so easy, as
everybody in the neighbourhood gave different advice and a different
opinion,--the departure was settled.
Lovelier than ever looked the hills and the loch when the carriage
came around to the door. All the little boys crowded around it, with
vociferous farewell,--which they evidently thought great fun,--Sunny
likewise.
“Good-bye! good-bye!” cried she, as cheerfully as if it had been “how
d’ye do,” and obstinately refused to be kissed by anybody. Indeed, this
little girl does not like kisses, unless she offers them of her own
accord.
One only grief she had, but that was a sharp one. Maurice’s papa, who
had her in his arms, suddenly proposed that they should “send mamma
away and keep Sunny;” and the scream of agony she gave, and the frantic
way she clung to her mamma, and would not look at anybody for fear of
being kept prisoner, was quite pathetic.
At last the good-byes were over. For Little Sunshine these are as yet
meaningless; life to her is a series of delights,--the new ones coming
as the old ones go. The felicity of kissing her hand and driving away
was soon followed by the amusement of standing on her mamma’s lap,
where she could see everything along the road, which she had passed a
fortnight before in dark night.
Now it was golden twilight,--such a twilight! A year or two hence Sunny
would have been in ecstasy at the mountains, standing range behind
range, literally transfigured in light, with the young moon floating
like a “silver boat” (only turned the wrong way uppermost) over their
tops. As it was, the large, distant world interested her less than the
small, near one,--the trees that swept her face as she drove along the
narrow road, and the numerous cows and calves that fed on either side
of it.
There was also a salt-water loch, with fishing-boats drawn up on
the beach, and long fishing-nets hanging on poles; but not a living
creature in sight, except a heron or two. These stood on one leg,
solemnly, as herons do, and then flew off, flapping their large
wings with a noise that made Little Sunshine, as she expressed it,
“nearly jump.” Several times, indeed, she “nearly jumped” out of the
carriage at the curious things she saw: such funny houses, such little
windows,--“only one pane, mamma,”--and, above all, the girls and boys
barefooted, shock-headed, that hung about staring at the carriage as it
passed.
“Have those little children got no Lizzie to comb their hair?” she
anxiously inquired; and mamma was obliged to confess that probably they
had not, at which Sunny looked much surprised.
It was a long, long drive, even with all these entertainments; and
before it ended, the twilight had faded, the moon crept higher over
the hill, and Sunshine asked in a whisper for “Maymie’s apron.” The
little “Maymie’s apron,” which had long lain in abeyance, was produced,
and she soon snuggled down in her mamma’s arms and fell fast asleep.
When she woke up the “hotel” was reached. Such a queer hotel! You
entered by a low doorway, which opened into the kitchen below, and a
narrow staircase leading to the guest-rooms above. From the kitchen
Sunny heard a baby cry. She suddenly stopped, and would not go a step
till mamma had promised she should see the baby,--a very little baby,
only a week old. Then she mounted with dignity up the rickety stairs,
and began to examine her new apartments.
They were only two, and as homely as they well could be. Beside the
sitting-room was a tiny bedroom, with a “hole in the wall,” where
Lizzie was to sleep. This “hole in the wall” immediately attracted
Sunny; she jumped in it, and began crawling about it, and tried to
stand upright under it, which, being such a very little person, she
was just able to do. Finally, she wanted to go to sleep in it, till,
hearing she was to sleep with mamma, a much grander thing, she went up
to the bed, and investigated it with great interest likewise. Also the
preparations for her bath, which was to be in a washing-tub in front
of the parlour fire,--a peat fire. It had a delicious, aromatic smell,
and it brightened up the whole room, which was very clean and tidy,
after all.
So was the baby, which shortly appeared in its mother’s arms. She
was a pale, delicate woman, speaking English with the slow precision
of a Highlander, and having the self-composed, courteous manner that
all Highlanders have. She looked much pleased when her baby was
admired,--though not by Sunny, who, never having seen so young a baby
before, did not much approve of it, and especially disapproved of
seeing it taken into her own mamma’s arms. So presently it and its
mother disappeared, and Sunny and her mamma were left to eat their
supper of milk, bread and butter, and eggs; which they did with great
content. Sunny was not quite so content to go to bed, but cried a
little, till her mamma set the parlour door half open, that the
firelight might shine in. Very soon she also crept in beside her little
girl; who was then not afraid of anything.
But when they woke, in the dim dawn, it was under rather “frightening”
circumstances. There was a noise below, of a most extraordinary kind,
shouting, singing, dancing,--yes, evidently dancing, though at that
early hour of the morning. It could not have been continued from
overnight, mamma having distinctly heard all the family go to bed,
the children tramping loudly up the stairs at nine o’clock, after
which the inn was quite quiet. No, these must be new guests, and very
noisy guests, too. They stamped, they beat with their feet, they
cried “whoop!” or “hech!” or some other perfectly unspellable word,
at regular intervals. Going to sleep again was impossible; especially
as Sunny, unaccustomed to such a racket, began to cry, and would have
fallen into a downright sobbing fit, but for the amusement of going to
the “hole in the wall,” to wake her Lizzie. Upon which everybody rose,
the peat fire was rekindled, and the new day began.
The good folk below stairs must have begun it rather early. They were a
marriage party, who had walked over the hills several miles, to see the
bride and bridegroom off by the boat.
“Sunny wants to look at them,” said the child, who listens to
everything, and wants to have a finger in every pie.
So, as soon as dressed, she was taken down, and stood at the door in
her mamma’s arms to see the fun.
Very curious “fun” it was. About a dozen young men and women, very
respectable-looking, and wonderfully dressed, though the women had
their muslin skirts pretty well draggled,--not surprising, considering
the miles they had trudged over mountain and bog, in the damp dawn of
the morning,--were dancing with all their might and main, the lassies
with their feet, the lads with feet, heads, hands, tongues, snapping
their fingers and crying “hech!” or whatever it was, in the most
exciting manner. It was only excitement of dancing, however; none of
them seemed the least drunk. They stopped a minute, at sight of the
lady and child, and then went on again, dancing most determinedly, and
as solemnly as if it were to save their lives, for the next quarter of
an hour.
English Lizzie, who had never seen a Highland reel before, looked on
with as much astonishment as Sunny herself. That small person, elevated
in her mamma’s arms, gazed on the scene without a single smile; there
being no music, the dance was to her merely a noise and a scuffle.
Presently she said, gravely, “Now Sunny will go away.”
They went away, and after drinking a glass of milk,--oh, what delicious
milk those Highland cows give!--they soon heard the distant paddles of
the boat, as she steamed in between the many islands of which this sea
is full.
Then mounting an extraordinary vehicle, which in the bill was called a
“carridge,” they headed a procession, consisting of the wedding party
walking sedately two and two, a young man and young woman arm in arm,
down to the pier.
The married couple were put on board the boat (together with Sunny, her
mamma, and her Lizzie, who all felt very small, and of no consequence
whatever), then there was a great shouting and waving of handkerchiefs,
and a spluttering and splattering of Gaelic good wishes, and the vessel
sailed away.
By this time it was broad daylight, though no sun was visible. Indeed,
the glorious sunrises seemed ended now; it was a gray, cheerless
morning, and so misty that no mountains could be seen to take farewell
of. The delicious Highland life was all gone by like a dream.
This homeward journey was over the same route that Sunny had travelled
a fortnight before, and she went through it in much the same fashion.
She ran about the boat, and made friends with half a dozen people,
for no kindly face is long a strange face to Little Sunshine. She was
noticed even by the grim, weather-beaten captain (he had a lot of
little people of his own, he said), only when he told her she was “a
bonnie wee lassie,” she once more indignantly repelled the accusation.
“I’m not a bonnie wee lassie. I’m Sunny, mamma’s little Sunny,”
repeated she, and would not look at him for at least two minutes.
She bore the various changes from sea-boat to canal-boat, etc., with
her usual equanimity. At one place there was a great crush, and they
got so squeezed up in a crowd that her mamma did not like it at all,
but Sunny was perfectly composed, mamma’s arms being considered
protection against anything. And when the nine locks came, she
cheerfully disembarked, and walked along the towing-path for half a
mile in the bravest manner. Gradually, as amusement began to fail her,
she found several playfellows on board, a little dog tied by a string,
and a pussy-cat shut up in a hamper, which formed part of the luggage
of an unfortunate gentleman travelling to London with five daughters,
six servants, and about fifty boxes,--for he was overheard counting
them. In the long, weary transit between the canal-boat and the sea,
Sunny followed this imprisoned cat, which mewed piteously; and in its
sorrows she forgot her own.
But she was growing very tired, poor child! and the sunshine, which
always has a curious effect upon her temper and spirits, had now
altogether disappeared. A white, dull, chill mist hung over the water,
fortunately not thick enough to stop traffic, as had happened two days
before, but still enough to make the river very dreary.
Little Sunshine, too, went under a cloud; she turned naughty, and
insisted on doing whatever she was bid not to do; climbing in the
most dangerous places, leaning over the boat’s side to look at the
waves: misbehaviour which required a strong hand and watchful eyes to
prevent serious consequences. But mamma was more sorry than angry, for
it was hard for the little woman; and she was especially touched when,
being obliged to forbid some stale, unwholesome fruit and doubtful
“sweeties,” over which Sunny lingered and longed, by saying “they
belonged to the captain,” the child answered, sweetly:
“But if the kind captain were to give Sunny some, then she might have
them?”
The kind captain not appearing, alas! she passed the basket with a
sigh, and went down to the engines. To see the gigantic machinery
turning and turning, never frightened, but only delighted her. And
mamma was so thankful to find anything to break the tedium of the
fourteen hours’ journey, that though her little girl went down to
the engine-room neat and clean in a white pelisse, and came up again
looking just like a little sweep, she did not mind it at all!
Daylight faded; the boat emptied gradually of its passengers, including
the gentleman with the large family and the fifty boxes; and on deck
it began to grow very cold. Sunny had made excursions down below for
breakfast, dinner, and tea, at all of which meals she conducted
herself with the utmost propriety, but now she took up her quarters
permanently in the comfortable saloon.
Not to sleep, alack! though her mamma settled down in a corner, and
would have given anything for “just one little minute,” as Sunny says,
of quiet slumber, but the child was now preternaturally wide awake, and
as lively as a cricket. So was a little boy, named Willie, with whom
she had made friends, and was on such terms of intimacy that they sat
on the floor and shared their food together, and then jumped about,
playing at all sorts of games, and screaming with laughter, so that
even the few tired passengers who remained in the boat, as she steamed
up the narrow, foggy river, could not help laughing too.
This went on for the space of two hours more, and even then Sunny,
who was quite good now, was with difficulty caught and dressed, in
preparation for the stopping of the boat, when she was promised she
should see papa. But she will endure any martyrdom of bonnet-tying or
boot-buttoning if only she thinks she is going to meet her papa.
Unluckily there had been some mistake as to hours, and when she was
carried on deck, in the sudden darkness, broken only by the glimmer
of the line of lights along the wharf, and plunged into the midst
of a dreadful confusion,--porters leaping on board and screaming to
passengers, and passengers searching wildly for their luggage,--no papa
was there. To double her grief, she also lost her mamma, who of course
had to see to things at once herself. Through the noise and whirl
she heard the voice of the child, “Mamma! mamma!” It was a cry not
merely of distress,--but agony, with a “grown-up” tone in it of actual
despair. No doubt the careless jest of Maurice’s papa had rankled in
her little mind, and she thought mamma was torn from her in real truth,
and for ever.
When at last mamma came back, the grasp with which the poor little girl
clung to her neck was absolutely frantic.
“Mamma went away and left Sunny,--Sunny lost mamma,” and mamma could
feel the little frame shaking with terror and anguish. Poor lamb! there
was nothing to be done but to take her and hold her tight, and stagger
with her somehow across the gangway to the cab. But even there she
never loosened her clasp for a minute till she got safe into a bright,
warm house, where she found her own papa. Then the little woman was
content.
She had still another journey before her, and without her papa too. A
night journey, which promised to be easy and comfortable, but turned
out quite the contrary. A journey in which Sunny’s powers of endurance
were taxed to the utmost, so that it will be years before she forgets
the wind-up of her holiday.
Her papa put his family safe in a carriage all to themselves, and under
special charge of the guard. Then he left them, just settling down to
sleep; Sunny being disposed of in a snug corner, with an air-cushion
for a pillow, and furry shawls wrapped about her, almost as cosy
as in her own little crib, in which, after her various changes and
vicissitudes, she was soon to repose once more.
She fell asleep in five minutes, and her mamma, who was very tired,
soon dozed also, until roused by a sharp cry of fright. There was the
poor little girl, lying at the bottom of the carriage, having been
thrown there by its violent rocking. It rocked still, and rocked for
many, many miles, in the most dreadful manner. When it stopped the
guard was appealed to, who said it was “the coupling-chains too slack,”
and promised to put all right. So the travellers went to sleep again,
this time Sunny in her mamma’s arms, which she refused to quit.
Again more jolting, and another catastrophe; mamma and the child
finding themselves lying both together on the floor. This time Sunny
was much frightened, and screamed violently, repulsing even her mamma.
“I thought you were not my own mamma; I thought you were somebody
else,” said she, afterward, and it was a long time before she came
to her right self and cuddled down; the oscillation of the carriage
continuing so bad that it was as much as her mamma could do, by
wrapping her own arms around her, to protect the poor child from being
hurt and bruised.
The guard, again appealed to, declared there was no danger, and that he
would find a more comfortable carriage at the next stopping-place: but
in vain. It was a full train, and the only two seats vacant were in a
carriage full of gentlemen, who might object to a poor, sleepy, crying
child. The little party went hopelessly back.
“Perhaps those gentlemen might talk so loud they might waken Sunny,”
said the child, sagely, evidently remembering her experiences of five
weeks ago. At any rate, nobody wished to try the experiment.
Since there was no actual danger, the only remedy was endurance. Mamma
settled herself as firmly as she could, making a cradle of her arms.
There, at length, the poor child, who had long ceased crying, and only
gave an occasional weary moan, fell into a doze, which ended in quiet
sleep. She was very heavy, and the hours seemed very long, but still
they slipped away somehow. Nothing is absolutely unbearable when one
feels that, being inevitable, it must be borne.
Of course nobody slept, except the child, until near daybreak,
when a new and more benevolent guard came to the rescue, had the
coupling-chains fastened (which, they found, had never been done at all
till now), and lessened the shaking of the carriage. Then tired Lizzie
dropped asleep too, and the gray morning dawned upon a silent carriage,
sweeping rapidly across the level English country, so different from
that left behind. No more lochs, no more mountains. No more sunshine
either, as it appeared; for there was no sign of sunrise, and the day
broke amidst pelting rain, which kept drip, drip, upon the top of the
carriage, till it seemed as if a deluge would soon be added to the
troubles of the journey.
But these were not so bad now. Very soon the little girl woke up,
neither frightened nor cross, but the same sunshiny child as ever.
“Mamma!” she said, and smiled her own beaming smile, and sat up and
looked about her. “It’s daylight. Sunny wants to get up.”
That getting up was a most amusing affair. It lasted as long as mamma’s
ingenuity could possibly make it last, without any assistance from
poor, worn-out Lizzie, who was left to sleep her fill. First, Sunny’s
face and hands had to be washed with a damp sponge, and wiped with
mamma’s pocket-handkerchief. Then her hair was combed and brushed,
with a brush that had a looking-glass on the back of it; in which
she contemplated herself from time to time, laughing with exceeding
merriment. Lastly, there was breakfast to be got ready and eaten.
A most original breakfast! Beginning with a large pear, out of a
basketful which a kind old gentleman had made up as a special present
to Sunny; then some ham sandwiches,--from which the ham was carefully
extracted; then a good drink of milk. To uncork the bottle in which
this milk had been carried, and pour it into the horn cup without
spilling, required an amount of skill and care which occupied both
mamma and Sunny for ever so long. In fact, they spent over their
dressing and breakfasting nearly an hour; and by this time they were
both in the best of spirits, and benignly compassionate to Lizzie, who
slept on, and wanted no breakfast.
And when the sun at last came out, a watery and rather melancholy orb,
not at all like the sun of the Highlands, the child was as bright and
merry as if she had not travelled at all, and played about in the
railway-carriage just as if it were her own nursery.
This was well, for several weary hours had still to be passed; the
train was far behind its time; and what poor mamma would have done
without the unfailing good temper of her “sunshiny child,” she could
not tell. When London was reached, and the benevolent guard once more
put his head into the carriage, with “Here we are at last. I should
think you’d had enough of it, ma’am,” even he could not help giving a
smile to the “little Missy” who was so merry and so good.
In London was an hour or two more of weary delay; but it was under a
kindly roof, and Sunny had a second beautiful breakfast, all proper,
with tea-cups and a table-cloth; which she did not seem to find half so
amusing as the irregular one in the railway-carriage. But she was very
happy, and continued happy, telling all her adventures in Scotland to a
dear old Scotchwoman whom she loves exceedingly, and who loves her back
again. And being happy, she remained perfectly good, until once more
put into a “puff-puff,” to be landed at her own safe home.
Home. Even the child understood the joy of going home. She began
talking of “Sunny’s nursery;” “Sunny’s white pussy;” “Sunny’s little
dog Rose;” and recalling all the servants by name, showing she forgot
nothing and nobody, though she had been absent so long. She chattered
all the way down, till some ladies who were in the carriage could
hardly believe she had been travelling all night. And when the train
stopped, she was the first to look out of the window and call out,
“There’s godmamma!”
So it was! Sunny’s own, kind godmamma, come unexpectedly to meet her
and her tired mamma at the station; and oh, they were both so glad!
“Glad” was a small word to express the perfect and entire felicity
of getting home,--of finding the house looked just as usual; that
the servants’ cheerful faces beamed welcome; that even the doggie
Rose barked, and white pussy purred, as if both were glad Little
Sunshine was back again. She marched up-stairs, lifting her short
legs deliberately one after the other, and refusing to be carried;
then ran into her nursery just as if she had left it only yesterday.
And she “allowed” her mamma to have dinner with her there, sitting at
table, as grand as if she were giving a dinner-party; and chattering
like a little magpie to the very end of the meal. But after that she
collapsed. So did her mamma. So did her Lizzie. They were all so
dreadfully tired that human nature could endure no more. Though it was
still broad daylight, and with all the delights of home around them,
they went to bed, and slept straight on,--mamma “all around the clock,”
and the child and her Lizzie for fourteen hours!
Thus ended Little Sunshine’s Holiday. It is told just as it happened,
to amuse other little people, who no doubt are as fond as she is of
hearing “stories.” Only this is not a story, but the real truth. Not
the whole truth, of course, for that would be breaking in upon what
grown-up people term “the sanctities of private life.” But there is no
single word in it which is _not_ true. I hope you will like it, little
people, simple as it is. And so, good-bye!
[Illustration: Finis]
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY’S
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=Ole Mammy’s Torment.= By ANNIE FELLOWS-JOHNSTON.
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=The Little Colonel.= By ANNIE FELLOWS-JOHNSTON.
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=Big Brother.= By ANNIE FELLOWS-JOHNSTON.
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Author of “Little Bermuda,” etc. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman.
“Chums” is a girls’ book, about girls and for girls. It relates the
adventures, in school, and during vacation, of two friends.
=Three Little Crackers.= FROM DOWN IN DIXIE. By WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE.
Author of “The Farrier’s Dog.” A fascinating story for boys and
girls, of the adventures of a family of Alabama children who move
to Florida and grow up in the South.
=Miss Gray’s Girls=; OR, SUMMER DAYS IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS. By
JEANNETTE A. GRANT.
A delightfully told story of a summer trip through Scotland,
somewhat out of the beaten track. A teacher, starting at Glasgow,
takes a lively party of girls, her pupils, through the Trossachs
to Oban, through the Caledonian Canal to Inverness, and as far
north as Brora.
=King Pippin=: A STORY FOR CHILDREN. By MRS. GERARD FORD.
Author of “Pixie.”
One of the most charming books for young folks which has been
issued for some time. The hero is a lovable little fellow, whose
frank and winning ways disarm even the crustiest of grandmothers,
and win for him the affection of all manner of unlikely people.
=Feats on the Fiord=: A TALE OF NORWEGIAN LIFE. By HARRIET MARTINEAU.
This admirable book, read and enjoyed by so many young people,
deserves to be brought to the attention of parents in search of
wholesome reading for their children to-day. It is something more
than a juvenile book, being really one of the most instructive
books about Norway and Norwegian life and manners ever written.
=Songs and Rhymes for the Little Ones.= Compiled by MARY WHITNEY
MORRISON (Jenny Wallis).
New edition, with an introduction by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney.
No better description of this admirable book can be given than Mrs.
Whitney’s happy introduction:
“One might almost as well offer June roses with the assurance of
their sweetness, as to present this lovely little gathering of
verse, which announces itself, like them, by its own
deliciousness. Yet, as Mrs. Morrison’s charming volume has long
been a delight to me, I am only too happy to declare that it is to
me--and to two families of my grandchildren--the most bewitching
book of songs for little people that we have ever known.”
=The Young Pearl Divers=: A STORY OF AUSTRALIAN ADVENTURE BY LAND AND
BY SEA. By LIEUT. H. PHELPS WHITMARSH.
This is a splendid story for boys, by an author who writes in
vigorous and interesting language, of scenes and adventures with
which he is personally acquainted.
=The Woodranger.= By G. WALDO BROWNE.
The first of a series of five volumes entitled “The Woodranger
Tales.”
Although based strictly on historical facts the book is an
interesting and exciting tale of adventure, which will delight all
boys, and be by no means unwelcome to their elders.
=Three Children of Galilee=: A LIFE OF CHRIST FOR THE YOUNG. By JOHN
GORDON.
There has long been a need for a Life of Christ for the young,
and this book has been written in answer to this demand. That it
will meet with great favor is beyond question, for parents have
recognized that their boys and girls want something more than a
Bible story, a dry statement of facts, and that, in order to hold
the attention of the youthful readers, a book on this subject
should have life and movement as well as scrupulous accuracy and
religious sentiment.
=Little Bermuda.= By MARIA LOUISE POOL.
Author of “Dally,” “A Redbridge Neighborhood,” “In a Dike Shanty,”
“Friendship and Folly,” etc.
The adventures of “Little Bermuda” from her home in the tropics
to a fashionable American boarding-school. The resulting conflict
between the two elements in her nature, the one inherited from her
New England ancestry, and the other developed by her West Indian
surroundings, gave Miss Pool unusual opportunity for creating an
original and fascinating heroine.
=The Wild Ruthvens=: A HOME STORY. By CURTIS YORK.
A story illustrating the mistakes, failures, and successes of
a family of unruly but warm-hearted boys and girls. They are
ultimately softened and civilized by the influence of an invalid
cousin, Dick Trevanion, who comes to live with them.
=The Adventures of a Siberian Cub.= Translated from the Russian of
Slibitski by LEON GOLSCHMANN.
This is indeed a book which will be hailed with delight, especially
by children who love to read about animals. The interesting and
pathetic adventures of the orphan-bear, Mishook, will appeal to
old and young in much the same way as have “Black Beauty” and
“Beautiful Joe.”
=Timothy Dole.= By JUNIATA SALSBURY.
The youthful hero, and a genuine hero he proves to be, starts
from home, loses his way, meets with startling adventures, finds
friends, kind and many, and grows to be a manly man. It is a
wholesome and vigorous book, that boys and girls, and parents as
well, will read and enjoy.
=The Young Gunbearer.= By G. WALDO BROWNE.
This is the second volume of “The Woodranger Tales.” The new story,
while complete in itself, continues the fortunes and adventures of
“The Woodranger’s” young companions.
=A Bad Penny.= By JOHN T. WHEELRIGHT.
A dashing story of the New England of 1812. In the climax of the
story the scene is laid during the well-known sea-fight between
the _Chesapeake_ and _Shannon_, and the contest is vividly
portrayed.
=The Fairy Folk of Blue Hill=: A STORY OF FOLK-LORE. By LILY F.
WESSELHOEFT.
A new volume by Mrs. Wesselhoeft, well known as one of our best
writers for the young, and who has made a host of friends among
the young people who have read her delightful books. This book
ought to interest and appeal to every child who has read her
earlier works.
Selections from
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY’S
Books for Young People
[Illustration]
=Old Father Gander=; OR, THE BETTER-HALF OF MOTHER GOOSE. RHYMES,
CHIMES, AND JINGLES scratched from his own goose-quill for
American Goslings. Illustrated with impossible Geese, hatched and
raised by WALTER SCOTT HOWARD.
1 vol., oblong quarto, cloth decorative $2.00
The illustrations are so striking and fascinating that the
book will appeal to the young people aside from the fact even
of the charm and humor of the songs and rhymes. There are
thirty-two full-page plates, of which many are in color. The
color illustrations are a distinct and successful departure from
the old-fashioned lithographic work hitherto invariably used for
children’s books.
=The Crock of Gold=: A NEW BOOK OF FAIRY TALES. By S. BARING GOULD.
Author of “Mehalah,” “Old Country Life,” “Old English Fairy
Tales,” etc. With twenty-five full-page illustrations by F. D.
Bedford.
1 vol., tall 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $1.50
This volume will prove a source of delight to the children of two
continents, answering their always increasing demand for “more
fairy stories.”
=Shireen and Her Friends=: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PERSIAN CAT. By
GORDON STABLES.
Illustrated by Harrison Weir.
1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.25
A more charming book about animals Dr. Stables himself has not
written. It is similar in character to “Black Beauty,” “Beautiful
Joe,” and other books which teach us to love and protect the dumb
animals.
=The Voyage of the Avenger=: IN THE DAYS OF THE DASHING DRAKE. By
HENRY ST. JOHN.
Author of “A Middy of Nelson’s Day,” etc. With twenty-five
full-page illustrations by Paul Hardy.
1 vol., tall 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 400 pages $1.50
A book of adventure, the scene of which is laid in that stirring
period of colonial extension when England’s famous naval heroes
encountered the ships of Spain, both at home and in the West
Indies. Mr. St. John has given his boy readers a rattling good
story of the sea. There is plenty of adventure, sufficient in
fact to keep a boy fixed near the fireside until the last page is
reached.
=A Child’s History of Spain.= By LEONARD WILLIAMS.
Author of “Ballads and Songs of Spain,” etc.
1 vol., small 12mo, with frontispiece, cloth, gilt top $0.75
Although the recent war with Spain has aroused general interest
and caused a great demand for literature relating to the subject,
there has not as yet been published a condensed history of Spain
for young people. Mr. Williams’s little book will prove a
desirable addition to the children’s historical library.
=Fairy Folk from Far and Near.= By A. C. WOOLF, M. A.
With numerous full-page color illustrations by Hans Reitz.
1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50
It is long since there has appeared such a thoroughly delightful
volume of fairy tales as that of Annie C. Woolf. An added
attraction to the book is found in the exquisite colored
illustrations, the work of Hans Reitz. As a Christmas gift-book to
children, these tales will be hard to excel.
=The Magnet Stories.= By LYNDE PALMER.
A new edition; new binding and larger size volume, 5 vols., 12mo.
Reduced price.
=Drifting and Steering= $1.00
=One Day’s Weaving= 1.00
=Archie’s Shadow= 1.00
=John-Jack= 1.00
=Jeannette’s Cisterns= 1.00
=Bully, Fag, and Hero.= By CHARLES J. MANSFORD.
With six full-page illustrations by S. H. Vedder.
1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $1.50
An interesting story of schoolboy life and adventure in school and
during the holidays.
=The Adventures of a Boy Reporter= IN THE PHILIPPINES. By HARRY
STEELE MORRISON.
Author of “A Yankee Boy’s Success.”
1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated $1.25
A true story of the courage and enterprise of an American lad. It
is a splendid boys’ book, filled with healthy interest, and will
tend to stimulate and encourage the proper ambition of the young
reader.
=Tales Told in the Zoo.= By F. C. GOULD.
With many illustrations from original drawings.
1 vol., large quarto $2.00
A new book for young people on entirely original lines. The tales
are supposed to be told by an old adjutant stork in the Zoological
Gardens to the assembled birds located there, and they deal
with legendary and folk-lore stories of the origins of various
creatures, mostly birds, and their characteristics.
=Philip=: THE STORY OF A BOY VIOLINIST. By T. W. O.
1 vol., 12mo, cloth $1.00
The life-story of a boy, reared among surroundings singular enough
to awaken interest at the start, is described by the present
author as it could be described only by one thoroughly familiar
with the scene. The reader is carried from the cottages of the
humblest coal-miners into the realms of music and art; and the
_finale_ of this charming tale is a masterpiece of pathetic
interest.
=Black Beauty=: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A HORSE. By ANNA SEWELL. _New
Illustrated Edition._
With twenty-five full-page drawings by Winifred Austin.
1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $1.25
There have been many editions of this classic, but we confidently
offer this one as the most appropriate and handsome yet produced.
The illustrations are of special value and beauty, and should
make this the standard edition wherever illustrations worthy of
the story are desired.
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY’S
Cosy Corner Series
FOR
Older Readers
[Illustration]
=Memories of the Manse.= By ANNE BREADALBANE. Illustrated.
=Christmas at Thompson Hall.= By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
=A Provence Rose.= By LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE (OUIDA).
=In Distance and in Dream.= By M. F. SWEETSER.
A story of immortality, treating with profound insight of the
connection between the life which now is and the life which is to
come.
=Will o’ the Mill.= By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
An allegorical story by this inimitable and versatile writer. Its
rare poetic quality, its graceful and delicate fancy, its strange
power and fascination, justify its separate publication.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.