BROTHERS AND SISTERS
The summer passed away only too quickly, as summers do, and almost
before the children knew it the fall had come, and it was time to go
back to the city to school. It was very hard for Kenneth and Rose to
leave the island, with all its beautiful playgrounds and wonderful
playthings, so different from what one has in the city. And yet it was
pleasant to be back in the city, too, to see all their little friends
again, and to begin new studies at school. Kenneth and Rose soon forgot
to long for the beach, and the rocks, and the woods behind their little
summer home, they were so happy in their other home in the city. They
scarcely ever thought of the island nowadays, and when they did it
seemed very far away and unreal, almost like an island in a dream. They
forgot that there were people still living there to whom this was the
only home; people who would be there all through the long winter, when
the rough winds would sweep through those evergreen trees, _whew!_ so
loudly, and the waves would dash up over the bare rocks, _splash!_
so fiercely, while all the island lay cold and dreary and deserted,
wrapped in a blanket of snow.
One rainy Saturday morning Mrs. Thornton was dusting the shelves in the
play-room closet, where the children’s books lived. “Oh, dear!” she
sighed, “It is such a bother to take care of all these old magazines!
I wish I knew some one who would like these papers after you children
have finished reading them.”
“All the other children have more books of their own than they can
read,” said Kenneth.
“I know it,” said his mother. “But there might be _some one_ who would
be so glad to have the pictures and stories, if only we could know.”
Rose was playing with her dolls in the window seat, when she had a
sudden idea.
“Mamma!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Why can’t we send them away
off down to the island where the little Prouts live? Don’t you think
the little Prouts would like the magazines?”
“That is a good idea, Rose,” said her mother. “I fancy the poor little
things never see a magazine. They will be sure to like the pictures,
anyway, whether they can read or not. I wonder if any of them can read?”
“I don’t know what their names are,” said Rose, “but there are ever so
many of them, boys and girls. Mamma, I should like to send my magazine
to the little girl Prouts.”
“And I will send mine to the Prout boys,” said Kenneth promptly. “Won’t
they be glad to see it coming, every week?”
“Yes, indeed they will,” said Mrs. Thornton. “And you must be sure not
to disappoint them. If you are going to send the magazines at all, I
want you to do it regularly, every week. It will be a good practice
lesson in remembering. Promise not to forget, children, if I let you
send the papers this time?”
“We promise, Mamma, we promise,” said Kenneth and Rose. And that
promise was the beginning of a very interesting thing.
Every week after that, when they had finished reading their two
magazines, Kenneth and Rose rolled them up, each in brown stamped
wrapper, and Rose wrote on hers in big letters, “The Misses Prout,” and
Kenneth wrote on his “The Masters Prout,” and they sent them away down
to the island in Maine. It wasn’t much trouble to do that. But my! you
should have seen what pleasure it gave the little Prouts.
All the year round, in summer and in winter, too, the little Prouts
lived with their father, Captain Prout, in a tiny cottage on the
island, close beside the sea. It was a very nice place in the summer;
for then, like Kenneth and Rose, they were happy all day long, playing
out of doors, fishing and picking berries. But best of all, they
enjoyed carrying the milk to the Thornton cottage on the cliff, two
miles away. For then they sometimes had a peep at the wonderful things
which the strangers had brought to the island, and at the two children
playing at games which were so different from any ever before seen
thereabout. The little Prouts used almost to quarrel over their turns
to carry the milk.
But in the fall the summer people sailed away. Then the little Prouts
went to school for a time, as they did in the spring; and that was
pleasant, too. But in the winter there was no school, because of the
cold and the deep snow, and the long road which the island children
had to travel to the schoolhouse in the village. Also it was hard to
get a teacher for these bitter winter months. The winters were lonely
enough for the little Prouts. They seldom saw any other children, and
there was not much for them to do except housework and patchwork and
knitting, and helping father to mend nets and make lobster-pots for
the next summer.
The little Prouts had few playthings. They hardly knew what playthings
were. They had seen Kenneth’s express wagon and rocking-horse, and
Rose’s beautiful dolls on the piazza of the cottage. They had almost
dared to touch the wonderful things one early morning; but a terrible
alarm had warned them away, so they knew that these marvelous and
lovely things were not meant for children like themselves. They thought
that the city people were a different kind of creature.
Tom and Mary and Susan knew how to read, but they had no books. On the
island people did not read much, because there were no books. In some
houses there was not even a Bible. There was no public library. There
was no Sunday-school library, for there was not even a church on the
island. In summer a minister came there to spend his vacation, and he
preached every Sunday on the hill-top near the village. But in winter
every one, even the minister, seemed to forget the island. The little
Prouts were very ignorant, and they wondered if the Lord himself forgot
the island in the dreary months of snow and cold.
“Of course He forgets,” said Tommy, when they were talking about it one
day. “He lives in the city, and comes down here only in the summer,
just as the city people do.”
“But He must remember us,” sighed little Polly. “The minister said He
was our Father.”
“Pooh!” said Tommy scornfully. “He ain’t our Father, either! You know
he ain’t. He is _their_ Father in heaven. I heard them talking to Him,
one day, on the hill.”
“But the minister said He was everybody’s Father, Tommy,” answered Mary
wistfully.
“But how _can_ He be?” argued Tommy. “He is the Father of Kenneth and
Rose Thornton, and of people like them who live in the city. He can’t
be our Father, too; for if He was, we should be the brothers and
sisters of Kenneth and Rose. And you know we ain’t that.”
“Oh, no! We ain’t that!” echoed all the little Prouts sadly, and then
they were silent for a long time. The little girls sighed, and their
lips trembled. They admired Rose Thornton more than anybody they had
ever seen. Many and many a time when Rose did not know it, the little
Prout girls were peeping at her from behind some big tree in the woods
or rock on the shore; wondering at her long, golden curls and at her
pretty, pink skin, which never seemed to grow brown and rough like
theirs, and at the simple little dresses, which seemed wonderfully
beautiful to them. Rose’s blue cambric frock with the red leather belt
and red hair-ribbon was their favorite.
The Prout boys thought that Kenneth was the most wonderful person, with
his bicycle and his Indian suit and bow and arrows. But they never
dreamed of speaking to Rose or to Kenneth. They were ashamed even to
be seen by them, and always ran away and hid, especially after that
terrible morning of the early alarm. Oh, no! Of course these children
could not be their brothers and sisters!
It was at the end of that very same day, the longest, dreariest day
of early winter, when the little Prouts had agreed that the Father
had forgotten the island, that the magazines began to come. Tim Parks
drove four miles from the village to bring them, he was so curious to
know who could have been sending things to “The Masters Prout” and “The
Misses Prout.” For no one had ever before sent any mail to the Prout
family. These were postmarked from the city, too!
“Something for the Masters Prout, and something for the Misses Prout!”
he called out as he pushed open the door. “I thought I’d jest bring ’em
over for ye.” And he handed the packages to Tommy and Mary.
What an excitement there was then! They tore open the wrappers, and
behold! A boy’s magazine and a girl’s magazine, full of pictures and
stories. The children danced around, shouting and laughing. Somebody
had sent them papers from the city! They were not quite forgotten!
“Who sent ’em? That is what I want to know,” said Tim Parks.
But there was no word or scrap of writing to tell, and Tim could not
find out what he longed to know.
“Wall, I guess they jest came from the magazine shop,” said Tim at
last, as he went out of the door. But the children looked at one
another. They knew better.
“You said He had forgotten, and He sent these to show He hasn’t,”
whispered Mary to Tom. And the children looked at the papers with a
feeling of awe and pride.
What continued joy there was for the little Prouts in those generous
pages! Mary and Tom read every word aloud to the others, and to the
whole family; for the father and mother were as much interested as the
children. There was a continued story, and that was the most exciting
of all. For it was one of the best stories that Aunt Claire had ever
written. But, alas! it stopped short at the most thrilling part.
“Oh, dear!” cried Mary, when she had read the last word aloud to her
big-eyed audience. “Why does it stop? Now we shall never know how the
Princess got out of the Giant’s castle!”
Those papers lasted the little Prouts for a whole week. And they had
not begun to tire of them when--another set of magazines came! Captain
Prout happened to go to the village that day, and Tim Parks came
running out to him from the post-office.
“More mail for the Misses and the Masters Prout, Cap’n!” he called.
“I guess your children are goin’ to have ’em come reg’lar. Ain’t it
wonderful who sends ’em?”
What a shriek of joy went up from the little Prouts when they saw
what Father brought them that night! “Now we shall know about the
Princess!” cried Mary, and they could hardly wait for supper to be over
before they continued the wonderful tale. This part was to be continued
also; but there was no such wail of anguish when the last word was read.
“Oh, I’s sorry it’s done,” sighed little Polly; “but I guess the rest
will come next week. Don’t you?”
And somehow, even Tommy was hopeful this time. “Yes, I guess He hasn’t
forgotten us, quite,” he confessed to Mary before they went to bed.
If only Kenneth and Rose could have seen what joy their story papers
gave to the little Prouts! Every week through all that bitter winter,
in sun or in shine, through snow and sleet, as regularly as a Saturday
came, one of the Prouts tramped four miles to the village for the
precious magazines. And always the other little Prouts were waiting
breathlessly for him to return, fearful lest this time the papers might
not have come. They were always looking out of the window, a row of
little heads, one above another.
[Illustration: WHAT A SHRIEK OF JOY WENT UP]
“Did it come?” they would cry, making signs of eager question as soon
as the messenger appeared in sight, and he would shout and wave the two
wrappers over his head, whereat all the children would begin to jump up
and down with joy.
It would have been a dreadful thing if Kenneth or Rose had once
forgotten to send the papers. But they never did, though they could
not guess how much depended upon their remembering that simple little
promise which they had made.
No, Kenneth and Rose could not possibly know what the sharing of that
single one of their pleasures meant to the little Prouts, and to all
the other island children besides,--for in the end the whole island
saw the magazines. They were passed on from family to family all that
winter, and were literally worn to rags by the thumbing of many little
fingers, and big ones, too.
The Prouts were learning a great deal about many things, nowadays. It
was almost as good as going to school. All that winter they lived in a
new world of constant change. The little cottage was no longer dreary
or lonely. Their stupid tasks were no longer tiresome, for they had
the beloved magazines to read when all was done. They had the children
of those stories for their companions and friends, and they began to
understand, ever so dimly, that all the children of the world are
little brothers and sisters to one another.