heart. He felt lonely and forlorn. No one really liked him. To the
children he was only a thing to be played with and joked about. Nurse
Freeman called him a "nasty snow image." But though he was hurt and
troubled in his spirit, the warm bright nursery, the sound of laughter
and human voices, even the fire, that foe most fatal of all to things
made of snow, had an irresistible attraction for him. He could not bear
the idea of returning to his cold post of duty beside the lonely Fort,
and under the wintry midnight sky. So he still clung to the lattice and
looked in at the window with his unwinking eyes; and a great longing to
be inside, and to sit down by the cheerful fire and be treated with
kindness, took possession of him. But what is the use of such ambitions
to a snow-man?
Long, long he clung to the lattice and lingered and looked in. He saw
the two little ones when first the sand-man began to drop his grains
into their eyes, and noticed how they struggled against the sleepy
influence, and tried to keep awake. He saw Nurse Freeman carry them off,
and presently fetch them back in their flannel nightgowns to say their
prayers beside the fire. Snowy Peter did not know what it meant as they
knelt with their heads in Nursey's lap, and their pink toes curled up in
the glow of the heat, but it was a pretty sight to see, and he liked it.
After they were taken away for the second time, he watched Elma as she
studied her geography lesson for the morrow, while Reggie did sums on
his slate, and Paul played at checkers with Susan Sunflower. Snowy Peter
thought he should like to do sums, and he was sure it would be nice to
play checkers, and jump squares and chuckle and finally beat, as Paul
did. Alas, checkers are not for snow-men! Paul went to bed when the game
was ended, and Susan, and a little later the other two followed. Then
Nurse Freeman raked out the fire and put ashes on top, and blew the
lights out and went away herself, leaving the nursery dark and silent
except for a dim glow from the ash-smothered grate and the low ticking
of the clock.
Some time after she departed, when the lights in the other windows had
all been extinguished and the house was as dark inside as the night was
outside, Snowy Peter raised his hand and pushed gently at the sash. It
was not fastened, and it opened easily and without much noise. Then a
heavy leg was thrown over the sill, and stiffly and painfully the snow
soldier climbed into the room. He wanted to feel what it was like to sit
in a chair beside a table as human beings sit, and he was extremely
curious about the fire.
Alas, he could not sit! He was made to stand but not to bend. When he
tried to seat himself his body lay in a long inclined plane, with the
shoulder-blades resting on the back of the chair, and the legs sticking
out straight before him,--an attitude which was not at all comfortable.
The chair creaked beneath him and tipped dangerously. It was with
difficulty that he got again into his natural position, and he trembled
with fear in every limb. It had been a narrow escape. "A fine thing it
would have been if I had fallen over and not been able to get on my feet
again," he thought. "How that terrible old woman would have swept me up
in the morning!" Then, cautiously and timidly, he put his finger into
the nearly empty jam-pot, rubbed it round till a little of the sweet,
sticky juice adhered to it, and raised it to his lips. It had no taste
to him. Jam was a human joy in which he could not share, and he heaved a
deep sigh.
Drops began to stand on his forehead. Though there was so little fire
left, the room was much warmer than the outer air, and Snowy Peter had
begun to melt. A great and sudden fear took possession of him. As fast
as his heavy limbs would allow, he hastened to the window. It was a
great deal harder to go down the lattice than to climb up it, and twice
he almost lost his footing. But at last he stood safely on the ground.
The window he left open; he had no strength left for extra exertion.
With increasing difficulty he stumbled across the lawn to his old
position beside the gateway of the fort. A sense of duty had sustained
him thus far, for a sentry must be found at his post; but now that he
was there, all power seemed to desert his limbs. Little Susan's warm
fingers had perhaps put just so much life into him, and no more, as
would enable him to do what he had done, as a clock can run but its
appointed course of hours and must then stop. His head turned no longer
in the direction of the house. His eyes looked immovably forward. The
straight stiff hand held out the broken gun. Two o'clock sounded from
the church steeple, three, four. The earliest dawn crept slowly into the
sky. It broadened to a soft pink flush, a sudden wind rose and stirred,
and as if quickened by its impulse up came the yellow sun. Smoke began
to curl from the house chimneys, doors opened, voices sounded, but still
Snowy Peter did not move.
"Why, what is this?" cried Nurse Freeman, hurrying into the nursery from
her bedroom, which was near. "How comes this window to be open? I left
the fire covered up a purpose, that my dears might have a warm room to
breakfast in. It's as cold as a barn. It must be that careless Maria.
She's no head and no thoughtfulness, that girl."
Maria denied the accusation, but Nurse was not convinced. "Windows did
not open without hands," she justly observed. But what hands opened this
particular window Nurse Freeman never, never knew!
Presently another phenomenon claimed her attention. There on the carpet,
close to the table where the jam-pot stood, was a large slop of water.
It marked the spot where the snow-man had begun to melt the night
before.
"It's the snow the children brought in on their boots," suggested Maria.
"Boots!" cried Nurse Freeman incredulously. "Boots! when I changed them
myself and put on their warm slippers!" She shook her head portentously
as she wiped up the slop. "There's something _on_accountable in it all,"
she said. So there was, but it was a great deal more unaccountable than
Nurse Freeman suspected.
When the children ran out, after lessons, to play in their fort, their
time for wonderment came. How oddly Snowy Peter looked,--not at all as
he did the day before. His figure had somehow grown rubbed and shabby.
The buttons were gone from his coat-tails. The gun they had taken such
pains with was broken in two. _Where was the other half?_"
"What's that on his finger?" demanded Elma. "It looks as if it were
bleeding."
It was the juice of the strawberry-jam! Paul first tasted delicately
with the tip of his tongue, then he boldly bit the finger off and
swallowed it.
"Why, what made you do that?" asked the others.
"Jam!" was the succinct reply.
"Jam! Impossible. How could our snow-man get at any jam? It couldn't be
that."
"Tastes like it, any way," remarked Paul.
"I can't think what has happened to spoil him so," said Elma,
plaintively. "Do you think a loose horse can have got into the yard
during the night? See how the snow is trampled down!"
"Hallo, look here!" shouted Reggie. "This is the queerest thing yet.
There's the other half the gun sticking out half-way up the clematis
frame!"
"It must have been a horse," said Elma, who having once settled on the
idea found it hard to give it up. "It couldn't be anything else."
"Oh, yes, it could. It was no horse. It was me," said Snowy Peter in the
depths of his being, where a little warmth still lingered.
"He's very ugly now, I think; see how he's melted all along his
shoulder, and his hair has got out of curl, and his nose is awful,"
pronounced Susan Sunflower. "Let's pull him to pieces and make a nicer
man."
"Oh, oh!" groaned Snowy Peter, with a final effort of consciousness. His
inward sufferings did not affect his features in the least, and no one
suspected that he was feeling anything. Paul knocked the pipe out of his
mouth with a snow-ball. Harry, with a great push, rolled him over. The
crisp snow parted and flew, the children hurrahed; in three minutes he
was a shapeless mass, and nobody ever knew or guessed how for a few
brief hours he had lived the life of a human being, been agitated by
hope and moved by desire. So ended Snowy Peter; and his sole mourner was
little Susan, who remarked, "After all, he _was_ nice before he got
spoiled, and I wish Nursey had seen him."
THE DO SOMETHING SOCIETY.
Clatter, clatter, went a sewing-machine in an upstairs room, as the busy
mamma of the Newcombe children bent over it, guiding the long breadths
beneath the clicking needle, her eyes fixed on its glancing point, but
her thoughts very far away, after the fashion of mammas who work on
sewing-machines. The slam of a door, and the sound of quick feet in the
entry below, arrested her attention.
"That is Catherine, of course," she said to herself. "None of the other
children bang the door in just that particular way."
The top of a rapidly ascending red hat, with a pigtail of fair hair
hanging beneath it, became visible, as Mrs. Newcombe glanced across to
the staircase. It _was_ Catherine. Another moment, and she burst into
the room.
"Mamma, mamma, where are you? Oh, mamma, we girls have invented a
society, and we are all going to belong to it."
"Who is 'all,' and what sort of a society is it?" demanded Mrs.
Newcombe, by no means suspending her machine work.
"All--we six, I mean--Frances and the Vaughns, and the 'Tittering
Twins,' and me. We haven't any name for the society yet, but we want to
do something."
"What sort of a something?"
"Oh, I don't know. All sorts of somethings; but, first of all--you know
how sick Minnie Banister is, don't you, mamma?"
"Yes."
"Well, the society is really gotten up for her. We want to go every
Saturday, and take her presents. Surprises, you know, so that she can be
sort of expecting us all the week and looking forward. Don't you think
that is a good plan, mamma?"
"Very good; but what kind of presents were you thinking of?"
"I don't know exactly; we haven't thought about that yet. Something
pretty. You'll give us some money to buy them with, won't you, mamma?"
"No, dear, I can't do that."
"But, mamma!"
"Listen, Catherine, and don't pucker your forehead so. It's a bad habit
which you have taken up lately, and I want you to break yourself of it.
I cannot give you money to buy presents; not that I do not love Minnie,
or am not sorry for her, but I cannot afford it. Papa has his own boys
and girls to feed and clothe and educate. He cannot spare money for
things that are not necessary, even when they are kind pleasant things
like this plan of yours."
"But, mamma--little bits of things! It wouldn't take much!"
"You naturally feel that there is no bottom to papa's pocket, Catherine;
that he has only to put his hand in and take out what he likes; but, my
dear, that isn't true. Papa cannot do it any more than you can."
"Then we can't have our society," cried Catherine.
Her lip trembled, and her face flushed pink with the sense of
disappointment.
"I didn't say that," said her mother, smiling. "Have the society by all
means, and carry out your plans. That can be done without money."
"But, mamma, how can it? What do you mean?"
"The how I must leave to you. Set your wits to work, and you will find
out. There are plenty of ways in which to please sick people besides
buying them things. Notice carefully when you are there; ask Mrs.
Banister; use your eyes. Things will suggest themselves. What sick
people enjoy most are little surprises to vary their dull days, and the
sense that some one is loving and thinking about them. Small unexpected
pleasures count for more than their worth with them. Now, dear, run
away. Consult with the others, and when you decide what you want to do,
come to me, and I will do what I can to help you in ways that do not
cost money."
Catherine looked more hopeful, though not altogether convinced.
"I'll see what they say," she remarked thoughtfully. Then, after
lingering a moment, as if in hopes of something more, she ran downstairs
again.
She found the members of the future society looking rather crestfallen.
They had all rushed home to propound their plan, and each of their
mothers in turn had raised pretty much the same objections to it which
Mrs. Newcombe had raised, and had not tempered their denials with any
fresh suggestions. Catherine's report had, therefore, rather the effect
of raising their spirits.
"I'm--not--sure," said Frances Brooks, "but it would be more fun to do
it that way than the other. Don't you know how much nicer it always is
to make Christmas presents than to buy them? And I thought of something
while you were talking that might do for the first Saturday surprise."
"Have you really? What?"
"It came into my head because the other day when Mary and I were there,
Minnie lost her handkerchief. It had slipped under the mattress or
somewhere, and she worried about not finding it, and Mrs. Banister was a
good while in getting another, and I was wondering if it wouldn't be
nice to make some sort of a little case, which could lie on the bed
beside her, and hold it."
"Out of birch bark," suggested Mary Vaughn.
"Splendid! We could work little blue forget-me-nots on it in crewels,"
suggested Sue Hooper.
"Yes, and I have a bit of blue silk that would be just the thing for the
lining," put in Ethel Hooper, the second "Tittering Twin," Sue being the
first. "Sister had it left over from a sofa-pillow, so she gave it to
me. It is quite light, and will match the forget-me-nots."
"Now, isn't that delightful!" cried Catherine. "Here's our first
surprise all settled without any trouble at all. I know where we can get
the bark,--from one of those big birches in Mr. Swayne's woods, and
mother'll give us some orris-root for a _sachet_, I know. She has some
that's particularly nice. It came from Philadelphia."
Under these promising auspices the "Do Something Society," for that was
the name resolved upon, came into existence. Many hands made light work
of the little handkerchief-case. All the members went together to get
the birch bark, which in itself was good fun. Mary Vaughn cut out the
case. Amy, who had taken a set of lessons in Kensington stitch, worked
the starry zigzag pattern, which did duty for forget-me-nots, upon it.
Susy Hooper, who was the best needlewoman of them all, lined it.
Catherine made the _sachet_. Ethel, as youngest, was allowed to fasten
it into the case with a tiny blue bow, and they took turns in carrying
it, as they walked toward Minnie's house Saturday morning.
Minnie had been looking forward to Saturday all the week. It was the
only day when these special friends had time to come for a good long
stay with her. On other days they "ran in;" but what with schools and
music-lessons, and daily walks and short winter afternoons, they always
had to run out again long before she was ready to have them go. She had
been watching the clock ever since she woke, in hopes that they would
come early; nor was she disappointed, for by half-past ten the bell
rang, and steps and voices were heard coming upstairs. Minnie raised
herself, and held out her hands.
"O girls, how lovely! You've all come together," she said. "I've been
wondering all the week if you would."
"You darling, how nice it is to see you! Are you any better to-day?"
asked Catherine.
Then, after they had all kissed her, Amy laid on the counterpane the
handkerchief-case pinned up in thin white paper.
"There's something for you," cried the society, as with one voice.
It took a good while for Minnie to open the parcel, for her fingers were
weak, but she would not let any one help her. When the pretty birch-bark
case was revealed, she was even more pleased than her friends had hoped
she would be.
"How dear you were to make it for me!" she kept repeating. "I shall
never lose my handkerchiefs now. And I shall look at it when you are not
here, and it will give me the feeling that you are making me a visit."
Then they explained the new society to her and asked her to join, with
the understanding that she was not to be an "active member" till she was
quite well again, and Minnie agreed, and became on the spot number seven
of the Do Somethings. What they did not explain was their plan for the
Saturdays, because Mrs. Newcombe had dropped this word of wisdom into
their counsels, that sick people enjoy a little pleasure which comes
unexpectedly, much more than a larger one which they lie and think about
till they are tired of the idea of it. Catherine had to bite her nimble
tongue more than once to hold the secret in, but the eyes of the others
held her in check, and she remembered in time. And while they chattered
and laughed, Mary Vaughn kept her eyes open as Mrs. Newcombe had
advised, and with such good effect that, as the society trooped out on
to the sidewalk, she was ready to say, "Girls, I have thought of
something for next time."
"And so have I," added Frances.
"Not really! What fun! Tell us what yours is."
"A wall-basket full of dried leaves and things to fill up that bare
space of wall opposite Minnie's bed. It needn't cost anything, for I
have got one of those big Japanese cuffs made of straw which will do for
the basket, and there are thousands of leaves to be had for the
picking."
"What a good idea that is!" said Amy Vaughn. "We will make it lovely,
and it will be something bright for Minnie to look at. We'll do it. But
what was your idea, Mary?"
"Mine was a sand-bag. Didn't you hear Minnie say, 'Mamma, the sheet is
quite wet just where my foot comes;' and Mrs. Banister came in a hurry
and took away the hot-water bag, and said there was something wrong with
the screw, and it was always leaking? My aunt, who is an invalid, uses
a bag of sand instead. It is made very hot in the oven and slipped into
a little cover, and it keeps warm longer than hot water does, she says.
Don't you think we might make one for Minnie?"
"It's the best idea yet," said Catherine. "And we will have it for next
Saturday because it's something useful that she really wants, and that
will give us plenty of time to dry the leaves for the Saturday after."
The sand-bag, with its little slip cover of red canton flannel, proved a
remarkable success. It was the comfort of her life, Minnie declared; but
the joy of her life was the wall-basket which followed on the next
Saturday, and which made a beautiful spot of brightness on the bare
wall. Ethel Hooper, who had a natural instinct for color and effect,
arranged it. It held branches of deep red and vivid yellow leaves, with
sprays of orange and green sumach, deep russet oak and trails of flaming
blackberry-vine, amid which rose a few velvet-brown cat-tails and fluffy
milk-weed pods, supporting in their midst a tiny bird's nest poised in a
leafless twig. Minnie was never tired of looking at it. She said it was
as good as taking a walk in the woods to see it. The gay color
refreshed her eyes, and cheered many a dull moment when she was alone
and did not feel like reading; and, altogether, the wall-basket proved
one of the most successful of the achievements of the Do Something
Society that winter.
I have not time to tell you of all the many other things they did. One
Saturday the gift was a home-made sponge-cake. Another time it was some
particularly nice molasses candy, pulled very white, and braided and
twirled into M's and B's. A pillow stuffed with balsam-fir was another
of the presents. On Christmas Eve they carried her the tiniest little
fir-tree ever seen, a mere baby of a fir, planted in a flower-pot, hung
with six mandarin oranges, and lighted with wax matches which burned
just long enough to be admired and no longer. Later there was a comical
valentine, and on Minnie's birthday a pretty card, designed by
Catherine, who had a taste for drawing.
One melancholy Saturday, when Minnie was too ill to see them, the
members all left their cards in a little basket. Another time it was the
cards of all their pet cats. And while they thus labored to make the
hard months less hard for their friend, their own souls were growing,
keeping pace with their growing bodies, as souls do which are properly
exercised in deeds of kindliness and unselfish love. So that when spring
came, bringing roses back to Minnie's pale cheeks, and strength to her
feeble limbs, and she was able to take her place among the rest and be a
"Do Something" too, all of them were eager to keep on, and to continue
the work begun for one, by service for the many who needed cheering as
much as Minnie had done.
And the best part of the lesson which all of them had learned was, so
Mrs. Newcombe thought, the great lesson that money, though a useful, is
not an essential, part of true helpfulness, and that time given, and
thought, and observation, and ingenuity, and loving hearts, can
accomplish without it all the best and sweetest part of giving.
WHO ATE THE QUEEN'S LUNCHEON?
You can imagine the state of excitement into which Otillie Le Breton was
thrown, when, one day in June, her father, the Seigneur of Sark, came
home and told her that the Queen, who was cruising about the Channel in
the royal yacht, had notified him of her intention of landing at Sark
the next Thursday and of lunching at the Seigneurie.
It sounds such a fine thing to be the daughter of the Seigneur of Sark,
that perhaps you will imagine that Otillie was used to kings and queens
and fine company of all sorts, and wonder that she should feel so much
excited on this occasion. Not at all! The Seigneur of Sark is only a
quiet, invalid clergyman who owns his little island just as other
English gentlemen do their estates, letting out the land to farmers and
collecting his rents and paying his taxes like other people; and Otillie
was a simply brought-up girl of fourteen, who knew much less of the
world than most girls of her age in Boston or New York, had never been
off the Channel Islands, and never set eyes on a "crowned head" in her
life, and she felt exactly as any of us would if we were suddenly told
that a queen was coming to take a meal in our father's house.
Queens are not common apparitions in any of the Channel Islands, and
least of all in little Sark. It is a difficult place to get to even for
common people. The island, which is only three miles long, is walled by
a line of splendid cliffs over three hundred feet high. Its only harbor
is a strip of beach, defended by a tiny breakwater, from which a steep
road is tunnelled up through the rocks to the interior of the island. In
rough weather, when the wind blows and the sea runs high, which is the
case five days out of seven in summer, and six-and-a-half days out of
seven in winter, boats dare not make for this difficult landing, which
is called by the natives "The Creux"--or hole. It is reported that some
years since when the Lords of the Admiralty were on a tour of inspection
they sailed all round Sark and sailed away again, reporting that no
place could be discovered where it was possible to land, which seemed
to the Sarkites a very good joke indeed.
There are four principal islands in the Channel group: Alderney and
Jersey, from which come the cows all of us know about; Guernsey, whose
cattle, though not so celebrated on this side of the sea, are held by
the islanders as superior to all others; and Sark, the smallest and by
far the most beautiful of the four. It is a real story-book island. The
soft, sea-climate and the drifting mists of the Gulf Stream nourish in
its green valleys all manner of growing things. Flowers flourish there
as nowhere else. Heliotropes grow into great clumps, and red and pink
geraniums into bushes. Fuchsias and white-starred jessamines climb to
the very roofs of the mossy old farm-houses, which stand knee-deep, as
it were, in vines and flowers. Long links of rose-colored bindweed lie
in tangles along the dusty roadside; you tread on them as you walk
through the shady lanes, between hedge-rows of ivy and sweet-brier and
briony, from whose leaves shine out little glittering beetles, in mail
coats of flashing, iridescent green, like those which the Cuban ladies
wear on their lace dresses as a decoration. There is only one wagon
kept for hire on the island, and all is primitive and peaceful and full
of rest and repose.
But there are wonderful things too, as well as beautiful ones,--strange
spouting-holes in the middle of green fields, where the sea has worn its
way far inland, and, with a roar, sends sudden shocks of surf up through
its chimney-like vent. Caves too, full of dim green light, in whose
pools marvellous marine creatures flourish--
"The fruitage and bloom of the Ocean,"