BACK TO DIXIE
THERE was another mark on the kitchen calendar now; not a red star,
betokening some happy event to come, but a deep black border, drawn all
around the date on which Lloyd's visit was to end. The heavy black lines
marked the time as only a few days distant.
It was Saturday again, a week after the excursion to the Indian school.
Joyce had gone down to the ranch, for Mr. Armond to criticize the
drawings which she had made since the last lesson, and Lloyd, on the
seat under the willows, was waiting for Phil. He was to come at four,
and ride over to one of the neighbouring orange groves with her.
She had a book in her hand, but she was not reading. She was listening
to the water gurgle through the little water-gate into the lateral, and
thinking of all that had happened during her visit, especially since
the night she was lost on the desert, and Phil had found her.
Monday he had spent the entire day at the Wigwam, and, since Joyce had
forbidden him to come near the spot where the washing was in progress,
he and Lloyd had brought a jar of paste and the little wicker table down
to this very seat under the willows, and had mounted all her photographs
in the book she had bought for the purpose. There were over a hundred,
beginning with a view of the Wigwam and ending with the four laughing
faces around the table on the balcony of Coffee Al's restaurant. There
was Lloyd on her pony, coming back from the duck hunt, and again in the
act of dropping her cherry tart. There was Mary in the hammock watching
the bees, Jack in his irrigating boots, and Holland on a burro. There
were a dozen different pictures of Joyce, and family groups, and picnic
groups, in which was represented every acquaintance Lloyd had made in
Arizona. Turning the pages was like living over the pleasant days again,
for they brought the scenes vividly before her.
When the last picture was mounted, Phil proposed that they write an
appropriate quotation under each one. So they spent another hour over
that, Phil suggesting most of them, and at Lloyd's request writing the
inscriptions himself in his strong, dashing hand. Some of his apt
phrases and clever parodies seemed really brilliant to Lloyd, and they
had laughed and joked over them in a way that had ripened their
friendship as weeks of ordinary intercourse would not have done.
"Do you know," he said, when the last inscription was written, "I've
kept count, and I'm in twenty-five of these pictures. You won't have
much chance to forget me, will you? I haven't put my collection in a
book, but I have a better reminder of this last month than all these put
together."
Opening the little locket that hung from his watch-fob, he held it
toward her, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of her own face
within it. Then, closing the locket with a snap, he put the fob back in
its place. It was a picture he had taken of her one day as she sat on
this same seat under the willows, watching Aunt Emily braid an Indian
basket. He had cut out a tiny circle containing her head, from the rest
of the group, just the size to fit in the locket.
Lloyd, leaning forward unsuspectingly to look at it, was so surprised at
seeing her own picture that a deep blush stole slowly over her face,
and she drew back in confusion, not knowing what to say. If he had
asked her permission to put her picture in his locket, she would have
refused as decidedly as she had refused Malcolm the tip of a curl to
carry in his watch.
But Phil had not asked for anything; had not said a word to which she
could reply as she had replied to Malcolm. He had showed her the locket
in the same matter-of-course way that Rob had showed her the four-leafed
clover which he carried. Yet deep down in her heart she knew that there
was a difference. She knew that her father would not like Phil to have
her picture in his locket, but she didn't know how to tell him so.
It was only an instant that she sat in shy, embarrassed silence, with
her heart in a flutter, and her eyes fastened on the book of photographs
which she was fingering nervously. Then Jack came out with a pitcher of
lemonade, and the opportunity to speak passed. She hadn't the courage to
bring up the subject afterward.
"Phil might think that I think that it means moah than it does," she
told herself. "He weahs the pictuah just as he would Elsie's, and if I
tell him that I don't want him to, he'll think that I think that he
cares for me the way that Malcolm does. I don't suppose that it really
makes any difference whethah he has it in his locket or not."
He did not mention it again, but it did make a difference. The
consciousness of it embarrassed her whenever she met his eyes. She
wondered if Joyce noticed.
Tuesday he came again, and read aloud all morning while they ironed.
Wednesday he spent the day without bringing anything as an excuse.
Thursday he rode with them over to the Indian reservation. Her pony had
been brought back to her the day after it ran away. When he left them at
the Wigwam that evening he said that he would not be back the next day
as he had to go to Phoenix, but that he would be up Saturday afternoon
to ride with Lloyd to the orange grove while Joyce took her
drawing-lesson.
It was of all this that Lloyd was thinking now, as she sat under the
willows. And she was thinking, too, of the tale Mrs. Walton told her of
The Three Weavers; the tale that had been the cause of the Shadow Club
turning itself into the Order of Hildegarde.
Mrs. Walton had spoken truly when she said that "Little girls begin very
early sometimes to dream about that far-away land of Romance." Lloyd's
dreams might not have begun so soon, perhaps, had it not been for the
meetings of the Shadow Club at boarding-school, when Ida Shane fired
their imaginations with the stories of "Daisy Dale" and "The Heiress of
Dorn," and made Lloyd the bearer of her letters to her "Edwardo." The
unhappy ending of Ida's romance had been a grave warning to Lloyd, and
the story of Hildegarde in the Three Weavers was often in her thoughts.
Part of it floated through her memory now, as she realized, with a
start, how large a place Phil had occupied in her thoughts the last
week.
"Hildegarde worked on, true to her promise, but there came a time when a
face shone across her mirror, so noble and fair that she started back in
a flutter. 'Oh, surely, 'tis he!' she whispered to her father. 'His eyes
are so blue they fill all my dreams!' But old Hildgardmar answered her,
'Does he measure up to the standard set by the sterling yardstick for a
prince to be?'"
"That is just what Papa Jack would ask," mused Lloyd. "And he'd say that
little girls outgrow their ideals as they do their dresses, and that if
I'm not careful that I'll make the same mistake that Hertha and Huberta
did. Besides, there's my New Yeah's promise!"
For a moment she ceased to hear the gurgle of the water, and heard
instead the ticking of the clock in the long drawing-room at Locust, as
she and Papa Jack kept watch beside the embers, waiting for the old year
to die and the new one to dawn. And in the solemn hush she heard her own
voice repeating Hildegarde's promise:
"_You may trust me, fathah, I will not cut the golden warp from out the
loom until I, a woman grown, have woven such a web as thou thyself shalt
say is worthy of a prince's wearing!_"
A woman grown! And she was not yet quite fourteen!
"I'll not be the only one of all the Lloyds that can't be trusted to
keep a promise," she said, aloud, with a proud lifting of the head.
Resolutely shaking herself free from the day-dreaming that had been so
pleasant, she picked up her book and started to the house.
Listening to Aunt Emily's conversation over her stocking darning, about
the commonplace happenings of the household, was not half so
entertaining as letting her thoughts stray back to the moonlight ride,
to the smile in Phil's eyes as he showed her the locket, or the sound of
his voice as he sang, "From the desert I come to thee." There were a
dozen such memories, so pleasant to dwell upon that a girl of less
will-power would not have pushed them aside. Even Lloyd found it
difficult to do.
"It's like trying to drive away a flock of cherry birds," she thought.
"They keep coming back no matter how often you say _shoo_! But I won't
let them stay."
Such a resolution was easier to make than to keep, especially as she was
expecting to see Phil ride up to the door at any moment. But the time
set for his coming passed, and when a step on the bridge made her glance
up, it was Joyce she saw, walking along slowly. Usually she danced in
after her lesson-hour with Mr. Armond in the gayest of spirits. To-day
it was apparent that she was the bearer of bad news.
"Oh, mamma!" she began, dropping her sketches on the table, and fumbling
to find her hat-pin. "They're all so worried down at the ranch, over
Phil! Mrs. Lee says he went to town yesterday morning, expecting to be
back in time for dinner, but he hasn't come yet. Jo went in on his
wheel, last night, and he saw him at one of those places where they play
faro, and all those games, and he was so excited over his winnings that
he didn't even see Jo, although he stood and watched him ever so long.
This morning Mr. Ellestad went in, and he came across him, wandering
about the streets. He had lost not only every cent he had deposited in
the bank, but he put up his horse, and lost that, too. He didn't have
any way to get out to the ranch.
"He wouldn't drive out with Mr. Ellestad. He was so mortified and
disgusted with himself that he said he couldn't face them all. He said
his father would never trust him again, and that he had lost not only
his father's confidence, but our respect and friendship. He said he was
going to look for work of some kind, he didn't care what, and it didn't
make any difference what became of him now.
"Mr. Ellestad left him at a hotel, and he felt so sorry for him that,
tired as he was, he rode over to Tempe, after he got home, to see a
friend of his who is a civil engineer. This friend is going to start on
an expedition next week, surveying for some canals. Mr. Ellestad
persuaded him to take Phil in his party, and give him some work. Phil
said he didn't intend to touch a cent of his usual monthly allowance
until he had earned back all he lost. Mr. Ellestad telephoned to him
from Tempe, and he is to start in a few days. Mrs. Lee says that losing
everything is the best thing that could have happened to Phil. It's
taught him a lesson he'll never forget; and this surveyor is just the
sort of a man he ought to be with,--clean, and honourable, and strong."
As Joyce finished her excited telling with these familiar words, the
colour that had faded completely out of Lloyd's face rushed back again.
"Clean, and honourable, and strong!" These were the standards of the
yardstick that Papa Jack had given her. How far Phil had failed to
measure up to the last two notches, and yet--
Mrs. Ware finished the unspoken sentence for her.
"He is so young that I can't help feeling that, with something to keep
him busy and some one to take a helpful interest in him, he will turn
out all right. He has so many fine traits, I am sure they will prevail
in the end, and that he will make a manly man, after all."
Joyce openly wiped away the tears that came at the thought of this
ending to their happy comradeship, but Lloyd stole away to the tent to
hide her face in her pillow, and sob out the disappointment of her sore
little heart. She would never see him again, she told herself, and they
had had _such_ good times together, and she was so sorry that he had
proved so weak.
Presently, as she lay there, she heard Holland come clattering up on
the pony, inquiring for her. He had killed a snake, she could hear him
telling his mother, and had brought it home to skin for Lloyd. It was a
beautifully marked diamond-back with ten rattles, and now she could have
a purse and a hat-band, like some she had admired in Phoenix.
Lloyd listened, languidly. "An hour ago," she thought, "I would have
been out there the instant I heard him call. I would have been admiring
the snake and thanking him for it and asking a hundred questions about
how he got it. But now--somehow--everything seems so different."
She started up as he began calling her. "I wish he'd let me alone," she
exclaimed, impatiently. "Aunt Emily will think it strange if I don't
answer, for she knows I'm out heah, but I don't feel like talking to
anybody or taking an interest in anything, and I don't want to go out
there!"
The call came again. She drew back the tent-flap and looked out. "I'll
be there in a minute, Holland," she answered, trying to keep the
impatience out of her voice. As she went over to the wash-stand to bathe
her eyes, she brushed a magazine from the table in passing. It was the
one Phil had brought up several days before to read aloud. She replaced
it carefully, almost as one touches the belongings of some one who is
dead.
There were so many things around the tent to remind her of him, it would
be almost impossible to keep him out of her thoughts. She confessed to
herself that it was growing very hard to keep her Hildegarde promise.
She started to whisper it as one might repeat some strengthening charm:
"You may trust me, fathah--" She stopped with a sob. This sudden ending
of their happy companionship was going to shadow all the rest of her
visit.
As her eyes met her reflection in the little mirror hanging against the
side of the tent, she lifted her head with determination, and looked at
it squarely.
"I _will_ stop thinking about it all the time!" she said, defiantly, to
the answering eyes. "It will spoil all my visit if I don't. I'll do the
way the bees do when things get into the hive that have no right there.
I'll seal it up tight as I can, and go on filling the other cells with
honey,--doing things that will be pleasant to remember by and by. I'll
_make_ myself take an interest in something else!"
The same spirit that looked from the eyes of the proud old portraits at
home looked back at her now from the eyes in the mirror--that strong,
indomitable spirit of her ancestors, that could rise even to the
conquering of that hardest of all enemies, self, when occasion demanded
it.
Running out to the wood-pile, where Holland impatiently awaited her, she
threw herself into the interests of the hour so resolutely that she was
soon absorbed in its happenings. By the time the snake was skinned, and
the skin tacked to the side of the house to dry, she had gained a
victory that left her stronger for all her life to come. She had
compelled herself to take an interest in the affairs of others, when she
wanted to mope and dream. Instead of an hour of selfish musing in her
tent, she had had an hour of wholesome laughter and chatter outside. It
would be a pleasant time to look back upon, too, she thought,
complacently, remembering Mary's amusing efforts to help skin the snake,
and all the funny things that had been said.
"Well, that hour's memory-cell is filled all right," Lloyd thought.
"I'll see how much moah honey I can store away befoah I leave."
There was not much more time, for Mr. Sherman came soon, with the
announcement that they would leave in two days. Numerous letters had
passed between the Wigwam and the mines, so Lloyd knew what was going
to happen when her father arranged for her and Joyce to spend part of
one of those days in town. She knew that when they came back they would
find a long rustic arbour built in the rear of the tents--a rough shack
of cottonwood poles supporting a thatch of bamboo and palm-leaves.
Underneath would be a dozen or more hives, humming with thousands of
golden-banded bees. And for all the rest of their little lives these
bees would spend their "shining hours" in helping Joyce on toward easier
times and the City of her Desire.
Something else happened that day while they were in town. Phil made his
last visit before starting away with the surveying party. Nobody knew
what passed between him and Aunt Emily in the old Wigwam sitting-room,
but he came out from the interview smiling, so full of hope and purpose
that her whispered _Godspeed_ seemed already to have found an answer.
She told the girls afterward a little of their conversation. His
ambition was aroused at last, she said. He was going to work hard all
summer, and in the fall go back to school. Not the military academy, but
a college where he could take the technical course this friend of Mr.
Ellestad recommended. Phil admired this man immensely, and she was sure
that his influence would be exceedingly helpful. She was sure, too, that
he would be all right now, and he had promised to write to her every
week.
As Phil came out of the Wigwam he heard Mary's voice, in a sort of happy
little chant, as she watched the settling of the bees in their new home.
She had heard nothing of Phil's troubles, and did not know that he was
going away until he told her.
"I want you to tell Lloyd and Joyce something for me," he said.
"Try to remember just these words, please. Tell them that I said: 'Alaka
has lost his precious turquoises, but _he will win them back again, some
day_!' Can you remember to say just that?"
Mary nodded, gravely. "Yes," she said, "I'll tell them." Then her lip
trembled. "But I don't want you to go away!" she exclaimed, the tears
beginning to come. "Aren't you ever coming back?"
"Not for a long time," he answered, looking away toward old Camelback.
"Not till I've learned the lesson that you told me about, the first time
I saw you, that day on the train, to be inflexible. When I'm strong
enough to keep stiff in the face of any temptation, then I'll come back.
Good-bye, little Vicar!"
Stooping, he kissed her gently on each plump cheek, and turned hastily
away. She watched him go off down the road through a blur of tears. Then
she rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. He had turned to look back, and,
seeing the disconsolate little figure gazing after him, waved his hat.
There was something so cheery and hopeful in the swing he gave it, that
Mary smiled through her tears, and answered with an energetic fluttering
of her white sunbonnet, swung high by its one string.
* * * * *
Joyce's delight on her return, when she found the long row of hives, was
something good to see. She could hardly speak at first, and walked from
one hive to another, touching each as she passed, as if to assure
herself that it was really there, and really hers.
"Joyce is so bee-wildered by her good fortune that she is almost
bee-side herself," said Holland, when he had watched her start on her
third round of inspection.
"That's the truth," laughed Joyce, turning to face Lloyd and her father.
"I'm so happy that I don't know what I'm doing, and I can't begin to
thank you properly till I've settled down a little."
There was no need of spoken thanks when her face was so eloquent. Even
the mistakes she made in setting the supper-table spoke for her. In her
excitement she gave Mr. Sherman two forks and no knife, and Lloyd three
spoons and no fork. She made the coffee in the teapot, and put the
butter in a pickle-dish. Only Mary's warning cry saved her from skimming
the cream into the syrup-pitcher, and she sugared everything she cooked
instead of salting it.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she cried, when her mistakes were discovered, "but if
you were as happy as I am you'd go around with your head in the clouds
too."
After supper she said to Mr. Sherman, as they walked out to the hives
again, "You see, I'd been thinking all day how much I am going to miss
Lloyd, and what a Road of the Loving Heart she's left behind her on this
visit. We've enjoyed every minute of it, and we'll talk of the things
she's said and done for months. Then I came home to find that she's left
not only a road behind her, but one that will reach through all the
years ahead, a road that will lead straight through to what I have set
my heart on doing. I'm going into bee culture with all my might and
main, now, and make a fortune out of it. There'll be time enough after
that to carry out my other plans.
"To think," she added, as Lloyd joined them, "when I first came to the
Wigwam I was so lonesome and discontented that I wanted to die. Now I
wouldn't change places with any other girl in the universe."
"Not even with me?" cried Lloyd, in surprise, thinking of all she had
and all that she had done.
"No, not even with you," answered Joyce, quoting, softly, "For me the
desert holds more than kings' houses could offer."
The last two days of Lloyd's visit went by in a whirl. As she drove away
with her father, in the open carriage that had been sent out of town for
them, she stood up to look back and wave her handkerchief to the little
group under the pepper-trees, as long as the Wigwam was in sight. Then
she kept turning to look back at old Camelback Mountain, until it, too,
faded from sight in the fading day. Then she settled down beside her
father, and looked up at him with a satisfied smile.
"Somehow I feel as if my visit is ending like the good old
fairy-tales--'They all lived happily evah aftah.' Joyce is _so_ happy
ovah the bees and Mr. Armond's lessons. Aunt Emily is lots bettah, the
boys have so much to hope for since you promised to help Holland get
into the Navy, and make a place for Jack at the mines. As for Mary, she
is so blissful ovah the prospect of a visit to Locust next yeah, that
she can't talk of anything else."
"And what about my little Hildegarde?" asked Mr. Sherman. "Did the visit
do anything for her?"
"Yes," said Lloyd, growing grave as the name Hildegarde recalled the
promise that had been so hard to keep, and the victory she had won over
herself the day she turned away from her day-dreams and her
disappointment to interest herself in other things. She felt that the
bees had shown her a road to happiness that would lead her out of many a
trouble in the years to come. She had only to follow their example, seal
up whatever had no right in her life's hive, or whatever was spoiling
her happiness, and fill the days with other interests.
"Oh, I'm lots wiseah than when I came," she said, aloud. "I've learned
to make pies and coffee, and to i'on, and to weave Indian baskets."
"Is that the height of your ambition?" was the teasing reply. "You don't
soar as high as Joyce and Betty."
"Oh, Papa Jack, I know you'll be disappointed in me, but, honestly, I
can't help it! I haven't any big ambitions. Seems to me I'd be contented
always, just to be you'ah deah little daughtah, and not do any moah than
just gathah up each day's honey as it comes and lay up a hive full of
sweet memories for myself and othah people."
"That suits me exactly," he answered, with an approving nod. "Contented
people are the most comfortable sort to live with, and such an ambition
as yours will do more good in your little corner of the world than all
the books you could write or pictures you could paint."
The engine was steaming on the track when they drove up to the station.
Waffles, the coloured man whom Mr. Robeson had brought with him as cook,
hung over the railing of the rear platform, whistling "Going Back to
Dixie."
"How good that sounds!" exclaimed Lloyd, as her father helped her up the
steps. "Now that we are really headed for home, I can hardly wait to get
back to the Valley and tell mothah and Betty about my visit. I don't
believe anybody in the whole world has as many good times to remembah as
I have. Or as many good times to look forward to," she added, later,
when, with a mighty snorting and puffing, the engine steamed slowly out
of the station, and started on its long homeward journey.
As they rumbled on, she began picturing her arrival, the welcome at the
station, and her meeting with her mother and Betty and the Walton girls.
How much she had to tell them all, and how many delightful meetings she
would have with the club! Her birthday was only two months away. Then
the locusts would be white with bloom, and after that vacation. With the
coming of summer-time to the Valley would come Rob to measure with her
at the measuring-tree, to play tennis, and to share whatever the long
summer days held in store.
With a vague sense that all sorts of pleasantness awaited her there, her
thoughts turned eagerly toward Kentucky. Even the car-wheels seemed to
creak in pleased anticipation, and keep time to the tune she hummed half
under her breath:
"My heart turns back to Dixie,
And I--must--go!"
THE END.
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All boys and girls who take an interest in school athletics will wish to
read of the exploits of the Millvale High School students, under the
leadership of Captain Jack Lorimer.
Captain Jack's Champions play quite as good ball as do some of the teams
on the large leagues, and they put all opponents to good hard work in
other summer sports.
Jack Lorimer and his friends stand out as the finest examples of
all-round American high school boys and girls.
=Beautiful Joe's Paradise=; OR, THE ISLAND OF
BROTHERLY LOVE. A sequel to "Beautiful Joe." By
MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe."
One vol., library 12mo, cloth, illustrated $1.50
"This book revives the spirit of 'Beautiful Joe' capitally. It is fairly
riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the
animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for
juveniles--old and young."--_Philadelphia Item._
='Tilda Jane.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS.
One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50
"It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and
charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished
it--honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will
be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.
"I cannot think of any better book for children than
this. I commend it unreservedly."--_Cyrus Townsend
Brady._
=The Story of the Graveleys.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS,
author of "Beautiful Joe's Paradise," "'Tilda Jane,"
etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50
Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a
delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will
do the reader good to hear.
=Born to the Blue.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL.
12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25
The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this
delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry
stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the
gratitude of a nation.
=In West Point Gray.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL.
12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25
West Point forms the background for the second volume in this series,
and gives us the adventures of Jack as a cadet. Here the training of his
childhood days in the frontier army post stands him in good stead; and
he quickly becomes the central figure of the West Point life.
=The Sandman; His Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J.
HOPKINS. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin
Williamson.
Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50
"An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small
children. It should be one of the most popular of the year's books for
reading to small children."--_Buffalo Express._
=The Sandman: More Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J.
HOPKINS.
Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50
Mr. Hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that
this second book of "Sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager
children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his
inimitable manner.
=The Sandman: His Ship Stories.= By WILLIAM J.
HOPKINS, author of "The Sandman: His Farm Stories,"
etc.
Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50
"Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who put the little ones to
bed, and rack their brains for stories, will find this book a
treasure."--_Cleveland Leader._
"Children call for these stories over and over
again."--_Chicago Evening Post._
=Pussy-Cat Town.= By MARION AMES TAGGART.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated
in colors $1.00
"Pussy-Cat Town" is a most unusual delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a pure
Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois's beautiful snow white pet,
and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the widow,
Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really and
truly cats.
=The Roses of Saint Elizabeth.= By JANE SCOTT
WOODRUFF, author of "The Little Christmas Shoe."
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00
This is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of
the great castle of the Wartburg, where Saint Elizabeth once had her
home.
=Gabriel and the Hour Book.= By EVALEEN STEIN.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00
Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks
in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by
hand, in the monasteries.
=The Enchanted Automobile.= Translated from the French
by MARY J. SAFFORD.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
colors by Edna M. Sawyer $1.00
The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy,
discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland, where
they might visit their storybook favorites.
=The Red Feathers.= By THEODORE ROBERTS, author of
"Brothers of Peril," etc.
Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
"The Red Feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an Indian boy
who lived in the Stone Age, many years ago, when the world was young,
and when fairies and magicians did wonderful things for their friends
and enemies.
=The Wreck of the Ocean Queen.= By JAMES OTIS, author
of "Larry Hudson's Ambition," etc.
Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
This story takes its readers on a sea voyage around the world; gives
them a trip on a treasure ship; an exciting experience in a terrific
gale; and finally a shipwreck, with a mutineering crew determined to
take the treasure to complicate matters.
But only the mutineers will come to serious harm, and after the reader
has known the thrilling excitement of lack of food and water, of attacks
by night and day, and of a hand-to-hand fight, he is rescued and brought
safely home again,--to realize that it's only a story, but a stirring
and realistic one.
=Little White Indians.= By FANNIE E. OSTRANDER.
Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25
The "Little White Indians" were two families of children who "played
Indian" all one long summer vacation. They built wigwams and made camps;
they went hunting and fought fierce battles on the war-trail.
A bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the
"make-believe" instinct in children, and will give them a healthy,
active interest in "the simple life."
PHYLLIS' FIELD FRIENDS SERIES
_By LENORE E. MULETS_
Six vols., cloth decorative, illustrated by Sophie Schneider. Sold
separately, or as a set.
Per volume $1.00
Per set 6.00
=Insect Stories.=
=Stories of Little Animals.=
=Flower Stories.=
=Bird Stories.=
=Tree Stories.=
=Stories of Little Fishes.=
In this series of six little Nature books, it is the author's intention
so to present to the child reader the facts about each particular
flower, insect, bird, or animal, in story form, as to make delightful
reading. Classical legends, myths, poems, and songs are so introduced as
to correlate fully with these lessons, to which the excellent
illustrations are no little help.
THE WOODRANGER TALES
_By G. WALDO BROWNE_
=The Woodranger.=
=The Young Gunbearer.=
=The Hero of the Hills.=
=With Rogers' Rangers.=
Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, decorative cover,
illustrated, per volume $1.25
Four vols., boxed, per set 5.00
"The Woodranger Tales," like the "Pathfinder Tales" of J. Fenimore
Cooper, combine historical information relating to early pioneer days in
America with interesting adventures in the backwoods. Although the same
characters are continued throughout the series, each book is complete in
itself, and, while based strictly on historical facts, is an interesting
and exciting tale of adventure.
THE LITTLE COUSIN SERIES
The most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child life in
other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures.
Each one vol., 12mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more full-page
illustrations in color.
Price per volume $0.60
_By MARY HAZELTON WADE_ (_unless otherwise indicated_)
=Our Little African Cousin=
=Our Little Alaskan Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Arabian Cousin= By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Armenian Cousin=
=Our Little Brown Cousin=
=Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. Macdonald
=Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland
=Our Little Cuban Cousin=
=Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus
=Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Eskimo Cousin=
=Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus
=Our Little German Cousin=
=Our Little Hawaiian Cousin=
=Our Little Hindu Cousin= By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Indian Cousin=
=Our Little Irish Cousin=
=Our Little Italian Cousin=
=Our Little Japanese Cousin=
=Our Little Jewish Cousin=
=Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike
=Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler
=Our Little Norwegian Cousin=
=Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike
=Our Little Philippine Cousin=
=Our Little Porto Rican Cousin=
=Our Little Russian Cousin=
=Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Siamese Cousin=
=Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn
=Our Little Swiss Cousin=
=Our Little Turkish Cousin=
COSY CORNER SERIES
It is the intention of the publishers that this series
shall contain only the very highest and purest
literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the
children themselves, but be appreciated by all those
who feel with them in their joys and sorrows.
The numerous illustrations in each book are by
well-known artists, and each volume has a separate
attractive cover design.
Each 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50
_By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_
=The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark.)
The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small
girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied
resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and
old family are famous in the region.
=The Giant Scissors.=
This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France. Joyce is a
great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her
the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays."
=Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= WHO WERE THE LITTLE
COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS.
In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but
with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of
the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights."
=Mildred's Inheritance.=
A delightful little story of a lonely English girl who comes to America
and is befriended by a sympathetic American family who are attracted by
her beautiful speaking voice. By means of this one gift she is enabled
to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and
thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one.
=Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.=
The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn
of the issue of this volume for young people.
=Aunt 'Liza's Hero and Other Stories.=
A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys
and most girls.
=Big Brother.=
A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small
boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale.
=Ole Mammy's Torment.=
"Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern
life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells
how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right.
=The Story of Dago.=
In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey,
owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account
of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing.
=The Quilt That Jack Built.=
A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the
course of his life many years after it was accomplished.
=Flip's Islands of Providence.=
A story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph,
well worth the reading.
_By EDITH ROBINSON_
=A Little Puritan's First Christmas.=
A Story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented
by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother
Sam.
=A Little Daughter of Liberty.=
The author introduces this story as follows:
"One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution,
the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is
another ride,--the ride of Anthony Severn,--which was no less historic
in its action or memorable in its consequences."
=A Loyal Little Maid.=
A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the
child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George
Washington.
=A Little Puritan Rebel.=
This is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the
gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts.
=A Little Puritan Pioneer.=
The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at
Charlestown.
=A Little Puritan Bound Girl.=
A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to
youthful readers.
=A Little Puritan Cavalier.=
The story of a "Little Puritan Cavalier" who tried with all his boyish
enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead Crusaders.
=A Puritan Knight Errant.=
The story tells of a young lad in Colonial times who endeavored to carry
out the high ideals of the knights of olden days.
_By OUIDA_ (_Louise de la Ramee_)
=A Dog of Flanders=: A CHRISTMAS STORY.
Too well and favorably known to require description.
=The Nurnberg Stove.=
This beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price.
_By FRANCES MARGARET FOX_
=The Little Giant's Neighbours.=
A charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the
creatures of the field and garden.
=Farmer Brown and the Birds.=
A little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best
friends.
=Betty of Old Mackinaw.=
A charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little
readers who like stories of "real people."
=Brother Billy.=
The story of Betty's brother, and some further adventures of Betty
herself.
=Mother Nature's Little Ones.=
Curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood,"
of the little creatures out-of-doors.
=How Christmas Came to the Mulvaneys.=
A bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an
unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. The wonderful never-to-be
forgotten Christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of
exciting incidents.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Varied hyphenation was retained as in yardstick and yard-stick.
Page 138, "kneeding" changed to "kneading" (and began kneading)
Page 321, the author of The Wreck of the Ocean Queen was not
small-capped in the original. This was fixed in this copy.