CHAPTER XX.

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[Illustration: THE NOON ENCAMPMENT. [See Violin Village.]]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.

OCTOBER, 1878.

No. 12.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

THE VIOLIN VILLAGE.

By Edith Hawkins.

On the borders of the Tyrol and the lovely district known as the

"Bavarian Highlands," there is a quaint little village called

"Mittenwald," which at first sight appears shut in by lofty mountains as

by some great and insurmountable barrier. The villagers are a simple,

industrious people, chiefly occupied in the manufacture of stringed

musical instruments, the drying of which, on fine days, presents a very

droll appearance. The gardens seem to have blossomed out in the most

eccentric manner; for there, dangling from lines like clothes, hang

zithers, guitars, and violins, by hundreds, from the big bass to the

little "kit," and the child's toy.

In this valley, one clear morning in August, as the church clock struck

five, a lad issued from the arched entrance of one of the pretty gabled

houses along the main street. He was not more than twelve years of age,

yet an expression of thoughtfulness in his clear, blue eyes, gave and

added an older look to his otherwise boyish face. His costume was a gray

suit of coarse cloth, trimmed with green; his knees and feet were bare,

but he wore knitted leggings of green worsted. A high-crowned hat of

green felt, adorned with some glossy black cock's feathers, a whip and a

small brass horn slung by a cord from his shoulder completed the outfit

of the village goatherd. He hastened along by the green-bordered brook

crossed by planks, over one of which Stephan--for that was our hero's

name--leaped as he came up to the simple wooden fountain, which, as in

most Bavarian villages, stood in the middle of the road.

A piece of black bread and a long draught from the fountain was

Stephan's breakfast, which being speedily finished, he broke the morning

stillness with repeated blasts from the horn, which seemed to awake the

valley as by magic; for scarcely had the more distant mountains echoed

the summons, than from almost every door-way scampered one or more

goats. All hurried in the direction of the water-tank, where they stood

on their hind legs to drink, jostled one another or frisked about in the

highest spirits, till fully two hundred were assembled, rendering the

street impassable. A peculiar cry from the boy and a sharp crack of the

whip were the signals for a general move. Away they skipped

helter-skelter through the town, along the accustomed road, high up the

rocky mountain-side. The little animals were hungry, so stopped every

now and then to nibble the attractive grassy tufts, long before the

allotted feeding ground was reached. There was, however, little fear of

losing them, as each wore a tiny bell round the neck, which, tinkling at

every movement, warned the boy of the straggler; a call invariably

brought it back, though often by a circuitous route, enabling the animal

to keep beyond the reach of the whip, which Stephan lashed about with

boyish enjoyment.

Noon found the goats encamped under the shade of some tall pine-trees,

and Stephan Reindel was busily arranging a bunch of bright red

cranberries at the side of his hat, when a shot arrested his attention.

He jumped up, and with boyish curiosity explored the pine wood; but

fearing to go too far on account of his flock, he was returning, when a

second shot followed by a sharp cry, convinced him it was some hunter

who had driven his game much lower down than was at all usual. The

second report had sounded so near that he continued his fruitless search

till it was time to go home, when, as usual, he drove his flock back by

five o'clock.

Directly they entered the village, each goat trotted off to its own

abode, and Stephan to his, where, after eating his supper of black bread

and cheese, he sat listlessly watching his mother varnish violins, by

which she earned a trifle every week. This was due to the kindness of

the chief manufacturer in the village, who, since her husband's death,

had supplied her regularly with some of the light work usually performed

by women, and to which she was well accustomed, having frequently

assisted her husband, who had been one of Herr Dahn's best workmen, and

whose death had left her entirely dependent on her own exertions for the

support of herself and child; for the last two years, however, Stephan

had bravely earned his mite by taking daily care of the goats belonging

to the whole valley. He was now discussing with his mother the

possibility of his ever being able to maintain them both by following

his father's trade of making guitars and violins, when a loud knock put

the future to flight, and caused Stephan to open the door so suddenly

that a very excited old woman came tumbling into the room.

"Oh! Bridgetta, how could you lean against the door?" said Frau Reindel,

hastening to her assistance. "I hope you are not hurt, and do pray

remember, in future, that our door opens inside, and that you must step

down into the room. Sit down, neighbor," she added, placing a stool for

the old woman, who was, however, far too angry to notice it; but turning

toward Stephan, whom she unfortunately caught smiling, she pointed to

her large fur cap, that had rolled some distance across the floor,

saying: "Pick it up, boy, and don't stand grinning like that, especially

as you must know why I have come here so late in the evening." Then

snatching it from him, without heeding his apologies, she added: "Yes,

indeed, you have more cause to cry than laugh. A pretty herd-boy you

are, to come home without people's goats! sitting here as contentedly as

if you had done your day's duty! You had better be more careful or you

will certainly lose your work, if I have a voice in the village!"

Stephan and his mother stood aghast at this angry tirade, and it was

only after repeated questions, sulkily answered, that they finally

understood that her own goat was really missing. She had, as usual, gone

into the stable to milk it, and after waiting in vain till past seven

o'clock, she had come to tell Stephan he must at once seek for it among

the neighbors' goats. He was quite willing, nay, anxious to do so, being

unable to account in any way for its absence; for he could not remember

having noticed the little gray goat with the white face since the early

part of the morning. There was consequently nothing left to be done that

night but to make an immediate inquiry at every house in the village. He

did not return till past nine o'clock,--a very late hour in that

primitive spot, where people usually rise at four or five and go to bed

at eight. No one had seen the goat, but almost all blamed his

carelessness, so that he was too unhappy to sleep, especially as he

could not forget how distressed his poor mother looked, knowing, as she

did, that somehow or other she must pay the value of the goat, though

how such a sum was to be earned was beyond guessing.

A week passed, nothing was heard of the strayed one; Stephan had

searched every possible spot up the mountain, and inquired of every

person he met coming from the neighboring villages or beyond the

frontier of the Tyrol,--but all in vain. A report had spread in the

valley that he had lamed the goat with a stone, and so caused it to fall

over a precipice. Many people believed this, which greatly increased the

unhappiness of Stephan and his mother, though he had denied the charge

most positively.

"I, at least, believe you, my son," said his mother, one day, when

Bridgetta was present. "You never told me a lie, and I thank God for my

truthful child, more than for all else."

"You can believe what you like," said Bridgetta, angrily; "but, as your

boy has lost my goat, and as I am poor, and have already waited longer

than I can afford, I must ask you to pay me by to-morrow evening, so

that I may buy another, for you forget that I have done without milk all

these days."

"No, I do not forget," said the widow, sadly. "I will do my best to get

the money for you. It is right you should have your own, and you know I

would have paid you at once had it been in my power. I will, however,

see what I can do by to-morrow, so good-night."

As they walked home, they discussed for the hundredth time the

impossibility of getting five florins; they could not save that sum in

six months. "There is nothing to be done unless Herr Dahn would lend it

to us," suggested Stephan. "We could pay him by degrees, and he is so

rich that I dare say he would be satisfied with that."

"I have thought of asking him," replied the mother, "and, even if he

refuses, he will do so kindly."

As she spoke, they saw the important little gentleman coming out of a

house, and hastened to overtake him. He greeted them with the extreme

politeness so noticeable among all classes in Bavaria, even in the

remote villages. After hearing the widow's request, he stood musing a

minute, looked up and down the street, took off his hat, and polished

his bald head, ejaculating the usual "So! so!" then, as if a bright

thought had cleared up all doubts, he said: "Now, don't you think it

would be pleasanter and more independent if you gave something in

exchange for the five florins? Something that can be of no use to

yourself--your husband's tools, for instance? I will give you a fair

price,--enough to pay for this unlucky goat, and something over for a

rainy day. But, my good woman, what's the matter?" he added, seeing

tears in her eyes and Stephan eagerly clutching her arm, as if to get

her away.

"Nothing, sir, nothing; you are quite right; I had forgotten the tools

would bring money; but you must excuse me if I do not decide till

to-morrow, for my boy here has set his heart on being a guitar and

zither maker, like his poor father, and always fancies he would work

better with those tools."

"What! Stephan make violins? How is he ever to do that, when he spends

all his days up the mountains? Have you not told me yourself that you

cannot manage without his earnings?"

"Neither do I think we could, sir, or I should have tried it long ago,

for it is hard for him to be minding goats, when he might be earning

something to help him on in life."

"Can he do anything? Has he any taste for the work?"

"Yes, I think so; he generally works at it in the evening, and has made

several small violins for Christmas gifts to the neighbors' children.

But they are toys. Perhaps you would allow me to bring one to show you

to-morrow," she ventured to add.

"Certainly, neighbor, but I don't promise anything, mind, except about

the tools. I shall be at the warehouse at six o'clock. Be punctual.

Good-evening."

"O, mother! Don't give him the tools. Give him anything else. There's my

new green hat--my best jacket--I can easily do with the one I have on,"

said Stephan, anxiously, as he watched the receding figure of the rich

man of the village.

"My dear child! of what use could your clothes be to the gentleman? He

wants the tools. I am very sorry, but there is really nothing else of

any value, and we have no right to borrow money when we can obtain it by

the sacrifice of something we should like to keep. We must never

hesitate to perform a plain duty, however disagreeable. So, now show

yourself a brave boy, and help me to do this one cheerfully."

The next day, Stephan began his day's work with a determination to look

on the bright side of his troubles. His goats, however, had in some way

become a greater charge than he had ever felt them before. He feared to

lose sight of one for an instant; so, what with racing after the

stragglers and searching, as was now his habit, for the lost one, he was

so tired and worn out by noonday, that instead of eating his dinner, he

threw himself on the ground and cried bitterly. The goats sniffed round

and round him, as if puzzled at the unwonted sounds. He often sang and

whistled as he sat among them carving some rough semblance of animals

with his pocket-knife, but these unmusical sounds were new to them and

seemed to make them uneasy. A sudden pause in the monotonous tinkle of

the little bells caused Stephan to raise his head, and he encountered

the amused gaze of two gentlemen in the Bavarian hunting costume of

coarse gray cloth and green facings; thick boots studded with huge nails

and clamps to prevent slipping in the dangerous ascent after game;

high-crowned hats, with little tufts of chamois beard as decoration and

proof of former success; the younger of the two having, in addition, a

bunch of pink Alpen-rose showing he must have climbed high up the

mountains.

"What sort of music do you call that?" asked the latter, resting his

gun-stock on the ground. "If you howl in that way, there will be no use

hunting in your neighborhood for a month; you would frighten the tamest

game over the frontier in five minutes. A little more of this music and

there wont be a chamois for miles round. But what's the matter? Have you

had a fight with your goats and got the worst of it? How many horns have

been run through your body, and where are the wounds?"

Stephan had fancied that his goats were his only auditors, so felt

thoroughly ashamed of himself, but jumping up, he answered with some

spirit:

"I have not any wounds, sir, and should never cry if I had. I lost a

goat some days ago and now my mother has to pay for it by giving up the

only valuable thing she has in the world."

"That can't be yourself, then," said the young man, laughing; "for such

a careless little chap would not be of much value, I should think. But

tell us the story. When did you lose it?"

After listening to Stephan's account, the hunters spoke apart with each

other for some minutes, and then the young one took out his purse and

gave the astonished boy six florins--about ten English shillings.

"There, you can get a very good goat for that, but remember, no more

howling, and if you ever find your own again, I shall expect you to

repay me this money."

"That I will, indeed, gentlemen, and I thank you heartily," said the

boy, so earnestly that both laughed, as, nodding him an adieu, they

began descending the mountain, and were soon lost among the trees.

Stephan threw his hat into the air with a joyous cheer, and the echoes

repeated his gleeful shout.

The day appeared very long, and glad enough he was when the sinking sun

warned him that it was time to return. He found his mother dusting the

tools, and looking sadder than he had ever seen her since his father

died.

"We wont sell them, dear mother," he cried exultingly, dancing round the

table and shaking the florins in his hat. "See what luck your blessing

brought me this morning!" and he related his adventure with the hunters.

They at once started off to pay Bridgetta the five florins, and, as

compensation for the loss of the milk for so many days, they offered her

the extra florin, which she coldly and decidedly refused, asking no

questions, and appearing very anxious to get rid of them. As they walked

home, they entered the church for a few minutes, and, after reverently

kneeling at one of the side altars, the widow dropped the remaining

florin into the poor-box. It was the largest thank-offering she had ever

been able to make in her life. The warehouse was at the corner of the

street on the south side of the church, and as the clock struck six they

hurried up the stairs of the long, low building, and entered a small

room fitted up as an office. Herr Dahn was busily writing in a large

ledger, but quitting it as they entered, he said approvingly:

"So here you are! That's right; business people should be

punctual--never get on otherwise! But where are the tools?"

The widow told him all about the six florins, and then placing a toy

violin on the counter, she asked him to give his opinion of it. He

twisted the little instrument about, carefully examining the workmanship

while he talked, and finally declared that it was a very fair specimen

for a self-taught lad. He evidently thought more of it than he chose to

say, for after some conversation with his foreman, to whom he showed the

violin, he greatly astonished the poor woman by offering to take Stephan

at once and place him under one of his best workmen if she could do

without his earnings for a time, as of course the goats must be given

up. Then, noticing the boy's delight and the mother's anxious, undecided

countenance, he added before she could reply:

"Perhaps, if Stephan is steady and careful enough, I can trust him here

alone every morning to sweep and dust the warehouses, for which I will

pay him thirty kreutzers a week (nearly a shilling). I suppose he gets

little more than that for tending the goats."

"Oh! thank you, sir," said the boy eagerly, anticipating his mother's

reply, "I will, indeed, be careful and steady."

"Gently, boy, your mother is to decide."

"I cannot thank you enough, sir," she quickly answered. "Your offer is

more than we had ever hoped for, and I trust my child's conduct will

prove how grateful we both feel. He would like to begin at once, I know,

but must, of course, wait a few days till another boy is found to take

his place as herd-boy."

Herr Dahn nodded approvingly, and told them to let him know as soon as a

substitute was found. How thankful they were that evening as they talked

over the happy termination of their troubles, and still more so when a

neighbor came in to tell them that Bridgetta and some others of the

village had voted against Stephan continuing his post as herd, alleging

that they feared to trust him any longer with their goats. This was, of

course, very unpleasant news, for it was a sort of disgrace to be thus

displaced, however undeserved. It also explained the cause of

Bridgetta's extreme coolness and indifference as to how they had

obtained the money. No wonder she was unfriendly after her action,

which, but for the fresh turn affairs had taken, would have seriously

injured them.

However, Stephan was now free to begin his new work the next day, when

all arrangements were made, and he was introduced as an apprentice to

his new master, Heinrich Brand.

PART II.

Stephan had been with the violin-maker about six weeks, when one day the

little Gretchen, his master's daughter, rushed in to tell them the cows

were coming down from the Alp.

It is the custom in the Bavarian Tyrol to send the cows to small

pastures high up among the mountains where the grass is green and

plentiful, being watered by the dews and mists, and less exposed to the

scorching sun. Here the cows remain all the summer under the care of two

or three men, called "senner," or women, called "sennerinnen," who are

always busily engaged making butter and cheese, and rarely come down to

the valley, even for a day, till the season is over, when, collecting

their tubs, milk-pans, and other dairy utensils, they descend the

mountain with great rejoicings and consider the day a festival.

This return is an event of importance in every village. Brand, like his

neighbors, hastened out with his little daughter, and told Stephan to

follow them. The gay procession wound slowly along the main road,

accompanied by a band of music playing a cheerful Tyrolese air. The cows

came trooping along, decorated with garlands of wild flowers, preceded

by peasants in their gayest costumes, carrying blue and white flags. The

"sennerinnen" wore their brightest neckerchiefs and gowns, and seemed

quite rejoiced to be down among their friends again.

Stephan joined his mother in the crowd, and they were in the full

enjoyment of the scene when he suddenly exclaimed: "See, mother, there's

the lost goat!" and sure enough there it was, limping along by the side

of a "sennerin." One leg was evidently broken or severely injured, but

otherwise the little animal looked well and fat.

Old Bridgetta had likewise seen it, and the three hastened to question

the "sennerin," who seemed very glad to find the owner, and told them it

had been brought to the Alp by a peasant, who gave her a florin to take

care of it and bring it down to the village as soon as she could. He did

not tell her where he had found it, or indeed any particulars, so she

supposed the poor little thing had fallen over some precipice and broken

its leg, which was, however, nearly well.

[Illustration: STEPHAN SHOWS THE BARON'S LETTER TO GRETCHEN. [SEE PAGE

775.]]

"Goats don't often fall in that way,--stones are much more likely to

have caused the mischief," said Bridgetta, with a meaning look at

Stephan, which was, however, only noticed by his mother, who replied:

"Well, Bridgetta, if you still think so badly of my boy, you can keep

the money as a recompense for the damage done to your goat, though I am

quite convinced he has had nothing to do with it Some day we shall hear

the truth of the whole affair, and of that I make no doubt."

"I don't want your money," said the old woman, testily, "and shall

return it as soon as I have sold the other goat;"--whereupon, she took

the leading-string from the "sennerin" and hobbled off with her

new-found property, apparently as little pleased as possible.

The next day, the five florins were sent back, and then Stephan told his

mother, for the first time, how he had promised to return the money if

he ever found the goat again. This now seemed impossible, for he knew

neither the name nor address of the gentleman. The money was, therefore,

put away safely, and the savings of a few months soon made up the

original sum of six florins, but still nothing could be heard of the

giver.

Time wore on, and the boy was rapidly becoming an expert workman. He had

regularly swept the warehouse for three years, then finding he could

earn more by violin-making during the time so occupied, he resigned in

favor of a boy as poor as he had been. Brand had pronounced him quite

worthy of regular work, having often tested his ability by leaving to

him the most difficult parts of the instruments. He had made himself a

zither, and could play all those national airs so peculiarly the

property of the mountaineers, and which are so suited to the plaintive

sweetness of that instrument.

Before Stephan was eighteen, his fame as a zither-player had spread far

and wide; no marriage, or festival of any kind, was complete without his

well-looking, good-humored face.

One day, Stephan was putting away his tools when he was sent for by a

nobleman, who had stopped overnight at the village, and he soon came

back with the news the Baron Liszt had engaged him to act as guide to

the Krotten Kopf mountain the next day, and Brand was also wanted to

help to carry the wraps and needful provisions.

Early in the morning the party started. The Baroness accompanied her

husband, and there were one or two gentlemen with their wives. Stephan

and Brand, laden with shawls, umbrellas, and knapsacks, then led the way

with the slow, steady pace always adopted by the mountaineers, who know

that speed avails nothing when great heights have to be climbed, as it

cannot possibly be kept up, and only exhausts the strength at the onset.

After climbing two hours, a turn in a very steep portion of the path

brought them suddenly upon a green plateau, walled in, as it were, by

mountain peaks, which looked of no particular height till the ascent

began. Though the sun had scarcely set, yet, at such an elevation, the

air was more than chilly, and as the Baroness put on a warm shawl she

said, one could easily account for the fresh looks of the "sennerinnen,"

who spend the intensely hot months in so cool and healthful an

atmosphere; for the Alps are never scorched and dried up as elsewhere

during the summer. The Esterberg Alp, as it is called, consists of two

large tracts of rich meadow, green and fresh as in our own fertile land,

with a border of underwood straggling some distance up the mountain, and

whence at midday issue the clear sounds of the musical cow-bells, the

only signs of life in that wild, solitary spot.

They soon came in sight of a long low house, one-half of which was

devoted to the cows and the hay. The earth around was trodden down and

bare; a few flowers grew against the house-wall, and some milk-pans were

ranged along it to dry. The door was opened by a wild-looking man devoid

of shoes and coat; his long, shaggy hair looked as if it had never

experienced the kindly influence of a comb or brush. He had evidently

been roused from a heavy sleep, but soon understanding that they wished

to spend the night in the hut, he told them, in a most singular German

dialect, that the "oberschweizer," or chief, was away, but that he alone

could arrange all that was needful; for he was accustomed to attend to

the visitors who came there in the warm weather.

The "senner" prepared the meal, consisting of a large bowl full of a

dark chopped pancake called "schmarren," often the only food of the

cowherds for weeks together.

The next consideration was a resting-place. They had been warned that

they would get nothing but hay, so it was no surprise when the "senner"

led the ladies out to one side of the house, where, mounting a short

ladder, he placed his lantern in the center of a large hay-loft, one

side of which was open to the free air of heaven, which blew in, fresh

and cool, as also it did from numerous chinks in the roof, through which

the clear moonbeams shone, rendering the lantern a matter of form. The

man proceeded to arrange the hay in heaps, so that each person could

recline or sit, as most conducive to rest. Only those accustomed (as,

indeed, most mountain climbers in Bavaria are) to spending a night

half-buried in hay, can sleep. The hours of the night were spent by the

ladies in laughing at one another and discussing the absurdity of

spending a night ranged against the sides of a hay-loft, with heads tied

up in handkerchiefs, like wounded soldiers in a hospital.

Meantime, the gentlemen sat outside enjoying their cigars by moonlight,

and relating their hunting adventures. "Ah," said the Baron, after one

of the stories, "that reminds me of a northern friend of mine who was

staying with us some years ago. He was very short-sighted, but

passionately fond of a hunt, so we made up several parties, at which he

appeared in spectacles, to the great amusement of us all. He took our

jokes in good part, and enjoyed himself without doing any mischief for a

time. One unlucky day, however, I missed our path, and had to descend

the mountain in search of some landmark from which to start afresh.

Suddenly, with the exclamation: 'Hush! a chamois!' he leveled his rifle,

and before I could say one word he had shot----a goat! He was too much

vexed to laugh, so I had it all to myself, and it was some minutes

before I could assist him to raise the little animal, whose leg was

broken. The flock was not far off, and the herd-boy was evidently

searching the wood, having heard the shot. Now it never would have done

to let such an unsportsmanlike event get wind, so we carried the goat to

some distance, when, meeting a peasant, we paid him to leave it at a hut

on a neighboring Alp, and request it should be taken down to the valley

at the first opportunity. I never mentioned the subject to any one but

my brother Heinrich. Some time after, he was hunting in the same

locality, and came upon a lad who was crying, with a regular mountain

voice, for the loss of that very goat, for which it seemed his mother

had to pay. I must confess, the consequence of kidnapping the animal for

a time had never struck me, and I was therefore glad to know that my

brother had given the lad money enough to pay all damages. But come, it

is time we tried our hay-berths, for if we can't sleep we can rest."

Stephan, who had been eagerly listening, exclaimed: "Oh, please sir,

wait a moment. I was that boy to whom the gentleman gave the money, and

he told me he should expect it returned if I ever found the goat. Some

time afterward I did find it, and I have always carried the money sewn

into my coat-pocket in case I should meet the gentleman again when I am

away from home, but I never did so; perhaps, sir, you will be kind

enough to give it to him," he added, beginning to unfasten the little

packet from the lining of his side-pocket.

Turning to Brand, the Baron asked if he knew anything of this romantic

goat story.

"Yes, indeed, sir, and so does every one in the village, for the boy got

into trouble with the neighbors, who all thought he had been throwing

stones at the animal, and they even turned him out of his situation,

but, as luck would have it, something else was offered the same day, so

that it did not hurt him or his mother either."

"It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I had always wished to

make violins and zithers, and owing to that accident I got my wish,"

said Stephan, in reply to the Baron's expressions of regret.

"As to the money," said the Baron, "we will make an exchange; you shall

have my purse, which contains about ten florins, and I will take your

little bag, just as it is, as a proof of Bavarian honesty and honor. We

shall see more of one another," he added; "meantime, don't forget that

we must be off by four in the morning. Good-night!"

The moon still shone when the travelers commenced their mountain

journey. Slowly they wound their way round the ever-ascending path.

About half-way up they came to a small rocky plain, where some young

cattle were grazing. Their alarmed wild movements proved how rarely

human beings passed their high-walled prison. From this point their

climbing became a real labor, but before long they arrived at the

summit, where, amidst much laughter and want of breath, they all threw

themselves on the ground and gave vent to their satisfaction at being

nearly 7,000 feet above the sea, and to their admiration of the glorious

view.

But their stay on the summit was short, as they wished to make the

descent of the mountain in one day. They did not reach Partenkirchen

till nearly midnight, nor Mittenwald till the following day, where, of

course, their adventures were related, and Stephan's story was soon the

talk of the village. He became a perfect hero for the time, and many a

neighbor shook hands and hoped he would forgive the doubt cast upon his

word, although years had since passed and the goat of contention had

been gathered to its fathers.

Some time after, a letter came to the Post Inn for Stephan, causing much

curiosity in the village, as it was the first he had ever received. It

came from the Baron, who offered him an excellent situation on his

estate, under the forester, who, being childless and old, would not only

instruct Stephan in his duties, but would soon leave the management in a

great measure to him; moreover, he himself might hope to succeed as

Forester, if he found the life suited to his taste. A week was given him

for consideration. He did not at all like the idea of leaving his native

place, to which he was attached with that intensity of feeling said to

be peculiar to the mountaineers; but so good an offer was not to be

refused, especially as Herr Dahn and Brand both approved of his going.

So the letter was written to tell the Baron he would come in a few

weeks, as requested. Meantime his old master gave him an order for a

zither of the best quality, to be made of handsome wood, inlaid with

mother-of-pearl, and as the price was of no consequence, he was to make

it quite a specimen instrument, to show how well he could work. Stephan

was very much pleased with the commission, and when, at the end of three

weeks, it was finished, his delight was great when Herr Dahn pronounced

it "One of the very best he had ever had in his warehouse, and quite fit

for the king." The day came for Stephan's departure, but it was not a

sad one, as everything was arranged for him to return in three months to

fetch Gretchen, his old master's daughter, who had promised to marry

him, and Stephan's mother was to live with them.

Stephan's letters were most satisfactory. He liked the new life and the

old Forester, and was sure Gretchen would admire the pretty houses, the

large balcony, along the rails of which he was growing some of the

beautiful dark carnations she was so fond of, and he knew she would

rejoice to see the glowing mountain-peaks rising from the dark pine

woods at sunset.

The wedding-day arrived at last, and in the course of the second

evening,--for the festivities lasted two days,--some strangers staying

in the village came up to see the dancing, which took place in a very

large room in the inn. Among them was the Baron Liszt, who, after

dancing the last waltz with Gretchen, requested the visitors would

remain a few minutes, as he had something to show them.

A box was then brought in by the hostess, dressed in her best costume

and fur cap. She placed it with much solemnity before the Baron, who

lifted the lid, took out the beautiful zither that Stephan had made with

such care, and handing it to the pretty, blushing Gretchen, he said he

could offer her nothing better as a wedding gift than this specimen of

her husband's talent, which he hoped she would always keep and use as a

token of his respect and admiration for Bavarian honesty and truth.

Then, shaking hands with them both, he took leave amidst loud

acclamations and waving of hats; and so ended the wedding of Stephan and

Gretchen.

TROUBLES IN HIGH LIFE.

BY MRS. J. G. BURNETT.

[Illustration]

Two miniature mothers at play on the floor

Their wearisome cares were debating,

How Dora and Arabelle, children no more,

Were twice as much trouble as ever before,

And the causes each had her own cares to deplore

Were, really, well worth my relating.

Said one little mother: "You really don't know

What a burden my life is with Bella!

Her stravagant habits I hope she'll outgrow.

She buys her kid gloves by the dozen, you know,

Sits for _cartes de visites_ every fortnight or so,

And don't do a thing that I tell her!"

Those stylish young ladies (the dollies, you know)

Had complexions soft, pearly and waxen,

With arms, neck and forehead, as white as the snow,

Golden hair sweeping down to the waist and below,

Eyes blue as the sky, cheeks with youth's ruddy glow,--

Of a beauty pure Grecian and Saxon.

"Indeed!" said the other, "that's sad to be sure;

But, ah," with a sigh, "no one guesses

The cares and anxieties mothers endure.

For though Dora appears so sedate and demure,

She spends all the money that I can secure

On her cloaks and her bonnets and dresses."

Then followed such prattle of fashion and style

I smiled as I listened and wondered,

And I thought, had I tried to repeat it erewhile,

How these fair little Israelites, without guile,

Would mock at my lack of their knowledge, and smile

At the way I had stumbled and blundered.

And I thought, too, when each youthful mother had conned

Her startling and touching narration,

Of the dolls of which I in my childhood was fond,

How with Dora and Arabelle they'd correspond,

And how far dolls and children to-day are beyond

Those we had in the last generation!

A TALE OF MANY TAILS.

BY KATHARINE B. FOOT.

Carry stood in the door-way with her dolly on one arm and her kitten

hanging over the other. Kitty didn't look comfortable, but she bore up

bravely, only once in a while giving a plaintive mew. Carry gazed into

the bright white sunshine.

"It's melting hot," she said. "I guess, grandma, I'll take my doll and

Friskarina out to the wash-house and have a party."

"Well," said grandma, looking over her spectacles, "I've no objection;

only there's a black cloud coming up, and you may get caught out there

in a thunder storm."

"If I do, can Jake come for me with an umbrella, and can I take off my

shoes and stockings and come home barefoot?"

"Yes; I don't believe it would hurt you."

"Then I'll go;" and Carry picked up a box with a little tea-set in it,

and started off, saying: "Do you believe it'll rain cats and dogs and

pitchforks, grandma? That's what Jake says."

"No, my dear. You'd better ask him if he ever saw such a rain."

"So I will," and away went Carry through the sunshine. And she said to

herself: "Wouldn't it be funny if it did rain so? I guess grandma

wouldn't like it much if cats rained down, 'cause she says five cats are

too many now."

The tea-party on an old chair without a back wasn't much of an affair,

after all; for, although the doll--Miss Rose de Lorme--was propped up

against a starch-box more than half a dozen times, she would keep on

sliding feet first until she came down flat on her back and thumped her

head. The kitten went to sleep in the corner just as Carry put her down.

"Oh, dear!" sighed the little girl. "It's so lonely with cats and dolls

and things that can't talk!" And then she sat down in a corner by the

old wash-boiler, where she could see out of the open door, and took

Kitty into her lap.

The great fluffy clouds banked up higher and higher, and from being

white and dazzling they began to grow black at the edges; and the black

masses rolled up and up, until the sun was all hidden and the sky was

dark. Then came the rain, gently at first, in drops far apart, but soon

it fell faster and faster, and the little leaves on the currant-bushes

jumped up and down and seemed to enjoy the shower-bath. To Carry's great

delight, little streams began to creep over the path, now in separate

little trickles, and presently with sudden little darts into one

another, as they came to uneven places in the walk. She watched it all

with great wide eyes, and felt quiet and cool just to smell the damp

earth.

But soon the drops grew bigger, and all at once they weren't drops of

rain at all!

"Good gracious!" cried Carry. "Kittens,--little blind kittens! It'll

rain dogs next, I suppose!"

That's exactly what did happen; for down came puppies along with the

kittens. They squirmed and mewed and hissed and yelped, and all the time

kept growing bigger and bigger. Some came head first pawing the air as

they fell; some tail first, looking scared to death; but most miserable

of all were those that came down tumbling over and over. It made them so

dizzy to come down in that whirligig fashion, that they staggered about

when they tried to stand. Carry felt truly sorry for them, and yet she

couldn't help laughing. And the cats and dogs who had come first laughed

too.

"Dear me! That's sort of funny, isn't it?" she thought; but the surprise

didn't last long, for, in the midst of a tremendous shower, down came

two most remarkable figures, and, with them, what at first sight

appeared to be several long sticks; but, on looking again, Carry saw

these were pitchforks!

"Oh!" said she, "I thought they'd come."

Then she stared for a minute at the two odd figures, and cried: "Why!

it's Mother Hubbard's dog and Puss in Boots!" And sure enough, so it

was!

Puss had a blue velvet cloak on his shoulders, large boots, and a velvet

cap with a long plume. He turned toward Carry and made her a low bow,

gracefully doffing his hat.

"You are right, Mademoiselle," said he. "I am that renowned personage,

and your humble servant. Permit me to add, Mademoiselle, that my eyes

have not beheld a fairer damsel than they now rest upon, since last I

saw my beloved mistress, the charming Marquise de Carabas."

Mother Hubbard's dog was dressed in a suit of fine old-fashioned

clothes, and held tightly between his teeth a very short stemmed pipe

from which he puffed great clouds of smoke.

He came up beside Puss, and said, without removing his pipe: "Stuff and

nonsense! We don't talk so stupidly in our village. Don't waste your

time in silly yarns, but let's settle this fight at once."

Puss turned away and, addressing Carry, said:

"Mademoiselle, this plebeian does not understand the language of court

circles, to which I have been used for many years. Mademoiselle will

pardon his ignorance." And here Puss rolled up his eyes and placed his

hand upon his heart and bowed so low that he was actually standing on

his head before he had finished. But he turned a graceful somersault and

came right side up again in half a second, without looking at all

disturbed.

"Sir!" said the dog, with dignity, "this matter should be settled at

once, or the sun will be out, and then----" he stopped short and winked

at Puss in a very knowing manner.

"Ah! that is true," replied the cat, "I had forgotten. Shall it be a

general or a single combat?"

"Well," said the dog, gravely, sitting down on a large flower-pot

nearby, "I think, as we have been wanting to fight this out for some

time,--indeed, I may say, almost since time began,--we had better allow

every one to have a tooth and a claw in it. Then, perhaps, this matter

will be settled forever."

"Quite my opinion," responded Puss. "But first the ladies, infants, and

weak and wounded, must be removed from the field."

"All right!" said the dog. "But look here. You first stop that, will

you?" and he pointed to a fine gray cat that was rubbing herself against

a large, comfortable-looking Newfoundland.

"Immediately," said Puss, and he bawled in a loud voice: "There is to be

no friendly intercourse between soldiers of the two armies. It is in the

highest degree detrimental to military discipline."

And the dog shouted: "Stop being pleasant to each other, right off. I

can't have it. You always have fought, and you've got to fight now."

The big Newfoundland at once made a snap at the gray cat, and she put up

her back, spit and clawed at him, and ran off as fast as she could.

Then Puss waved his handkerchief, as a flag of truce, and said in a loud

voice, "There will be a cessation of hostilities for five minutes, until

the non-combatants are removed."

The able-bodied cats arranged themselves in rows, and the dogs did the

same. The two generals stepped grandly in front of the lines, and the

battle seemed about to begin, when a young and frisky cat, at the far

end of the front rank, took advantage of a dog opposite who had turned

his head, and jumped upon his back, clawing him in so cruel a way that

he howled dreadfully.

At this, Mother Hubbard's dog advanced angrily, and taking the cat by

the nape of the neck, threw her among the cat army, saying: "The trumpet

hasn't sounded, and we haven't begun yet. That was a real sneaky trick,

just like a cat."

"Sir!" cried Puss in Boots, loftily, "Do you mean to insinuate that I am

a sneak?"

"I didn't say so precisely," returned the dog. "But if you want me to, I

will." Then he added, in a taunting tone, "You are a sneak!"

Puss trembled with rage at this insult, and drew the little sword he

wore at his side.

"Prove it!" he cried, brandishing his blade.

"Didn't you sneak yourself and your master into a castle and fine

clothes that you had no right to?"

"Didn't you pretend to be dead once and frighten your poor mistress

nearly out of her wits? Take _that_, sir!" and he made a furious cut at

him.

But the dog dodged the weapon, and, with a cutlass suddenly pulled from

behind him, made a fierce blow at the cat. Puss leaped nimbly away, with

a scream of triumph and defiance. Then they set to with all their skill

and hate and cunning.

Presently Puss fell, apparently dead, and Sir John Hubbard, the victor,

was leaning on his cutlass, looking sorry, when suddenly Puss jumped up,

grasped his sword and made a savage lunge at the dog. "That was only one

of _my_ lives!" he screamed. "I have eight left. Cats have nine lives,

but you--you miserable dog--have only one."

Then they fought worse than ever, and neither seemed willing to yield.

[Illustration: RAINING CATS AND DOGS.]

But the fight ended in a strange way. Just as the dog again laid Puss

low, a tremendous shower of pitchforks fell, beating on everything with

dreadful effect. Sir John saved himself by getting under a tree, but

poor Puss couldn't move to a shelter, and his remaining seven lives were

being rapidly knocked out of him, when the brave dog rushed out into the

storm and proved himself a generous foe by shielding Puss from the

pitchforks with his own body.

"You are a dear good dog!" cried Carry. "I always loved you the best!"

But even as she was speaking there came a terrific clap of thunder, and

her own cat, who had been trembling with fear, sprang to her shoulder

and buried her claws there and as Carry shrieked with fright and pain,

Jake was holding her in his arms.

"Were you frightened, out here all alone?" said he. "I was busy and I

didn't think you'd mind the rain; but when the thunder began I came out

quick."

"Rain?" said Carry, "I don't mind rain, Jake; but I don't like it to

rain cats and dogs when they fight. Why, where are they?" She lifted her

face from Jake's shoulder, and looked about her amazed, for not a cat

was to be seen nor a dog, but only the steady rain, pouring straight

down.

"Cats and dogs!" said Jake, laughing.

"And pitchforks, too, Jake,--yes, really!"

"Well," said Jake; "if you aint the most _curious_ little gal!"

But Carry don't think she is half as curious as other people are who

wont believe what she saw with her own eyes.

[Illustration: WE CAME,--WE SAW,]

[Illustration: WE LEFT.]

UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SOMEBODY COMES.

Bab and Betty had been playing in the avenue all the afternoon, several

weeks later, but as the shadows began to lengthen both agreed to sit

upon the gate and rest while waiting for Ben, who had gone nutting with

a party of boys. When they played house, Bab was always the father, and

went hunting or fishing with great energy and success, bringing home all

sorts of game, from elephants and crocodiles to humming-birds and

minnows. Betty was the mother, and a most notable little housewife,

always mixing up imaginary delicacies with sand and dirt in old pans and

broken china, which she baked in an oven of her own construction.

Both had worked hard that day, and were glad to retire to their favorite

lounging-place, where Bab was happy trying to walk across the wide top

bar without falling off, and Betty enjoyed slow, luxurious swings while

her sister was recovering from her tumbles. On this occasion, having

indulged their respective tastes, they paused for a brief interval of

conversation, sitting side by side on the gate like a pair of plump gray

chickens gone to roost.

"Don't you hope Ben will get his bag full? We shall have such fun eating

nuts evenings," observed Bab, wrapping her arms in her apron, for it was

October now, and the air was growing keen.

"Yes, and Ma says we may boil some in our little kettles. Ben promised

we should have half," answered Betty, still intent on her cookery.

"I shall save some of mine for Thorny."

"I shall keep lots of mine for Miss Celia."

"Doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she went away?"

"I wonder what she'll bring us."

Before Bab could conjecture, the sound of a step and a familiar whistle

made both look expectantly toward the turn in the road, all ready to cry

out with one voice, "How many have you got?" Neither spoke a word,

however, for the figure which presently appeared was not Ben, but a

stranger,--a man who stopped whistling, and came slowly on, dusting his

shoes in the way-side grass, and brushing the sleeves of his shabby

velveteen coat as if anxious to freshen himself up a bit.

"It's a tramp, let's run away," whispered Betty, after a hasty look.

"I aint afraid," and Bab was about to assume her boldest look when a

sneeze spoiled it, and made her clutch the gate to hold on.

At that unexpected sound the man looked up, showing a thin, dark face,

with a pair of sharp, black eyes, which surveyed the little girls so

steadily that Betty quaked, and Bab began to wish she had at least

jumped down inside the gate.

"How are you?" said the man with a good-natured nod and smile, as if to

re-assure the round-eyed children staring at him.

"Pretty well, thank you, sir," responded Bab, politely nodding back at

him.

"Folks at home?" asked the man, looking over their heads toward the

house.

"Only Ma; all the rest are gone to be married."

"That sounds lively. At the other place all the folks had gone to a

funeral," and the man laughed as he glanced at the big house on the

hill.

"Why, do you know the Squire?" exclaimed Bab, much surprised and

re-assured.

"Come on purpose to see him. Just strolling round till he gets back,"

with an impatient sort of sigh.

"Betty thought you was a tramp, but I wasn't afraid. I like tramps ever

since Ben came," explained Bab, with her usual candor.

"Who's Ben?" and the man came nearer so quickly that Betty nearly fell

backward. "Don't you be scared, Sissy. I like little girls, so you set

easy and tell me about Ben," he added, in a persuasive tone, as he

leaned on the gate, so near that both could see what a friendly face he

had in spite of its eager, anxious look.

"Ben is Miss Celia's boy. We found him almost starved in the

coach-house, and he's been living near here ever since," answered Bab,

comprehensively.

"Tell me all about it. I like tramps too," and the man looked as if he

did, very much, as Bab told the little story in a few childish words

that were better than a much more elegant account.

"You were very good to the little feller," was all the man said when she

ended her somewhat confused tale, in which she had jumbled the old coach

and Miss Celia, dinner-pails and nutting, Sancho and circuses.

"Course we were! He's a nice boy and we are fond of him, and he likes

us," said Bab, heartily.

"'Specially me," put in Betty, quite at ease now, for the black eyes had

softened wonderfully, and the brown face was smiling all over.

"Don't wonder a mite. You are the nicest pair of little girls I've seen

this long time," and the man put a hand on either side of them, as if he

wanted to hug the chubby children. But he didn't do it; he merely rubbed

his hands and stood there asking questions till the two chatter-boxes

had told him everything there was to tell, in the most confiding manner,

for he very soon ceased to seem like a stranger, and looked so familiar

that Bab, growing inquisitive in her turn, suddenly said:

"Haven't you ever been here before? It seems as if I'd seen you."

"Never in my life. Guess you've seen somebody that looks like me," and

the black eyes twinkled for a minute as they looked into the puzzled

little faces before him. Then he said, soberly:

"I'm looking round for a likely boy; don't you think this Ben would suit

me? I want just such a lively sort of chap."

"Are you a circus man?" asked Bab, quickly.

"Well, no, not now. I'm in better business."

"I'm glad of it--_we_ don't approve of 'em; but I do think they're

splendid!"

Bab began by gravely quoting Miss Celia, and ended with an irrepressible

burst of admiration which contrasted drolly with her first remark.

Betty added anxiously, "We can't let Ben go, any way. I know he wouldn't

want to, and Miss Celia would feel bad. Please don't ask him."

"He can do as he likes, I suppose. He hasn't got any folks of his own,

has he?"

"No, his father died in California, and Ben felt so bad he cried, and we

were real sorry, and gave him a piece of Ma, 'cause he was so lonesome,"

answered Betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look which

made the man stroke her smooth cheek and say, quite softly:

"Bless your heart for that! I wont take him away, child, or do a thing

to trouble anybody that's been good to him."

"He's coming now. I hear Sanch barking at the squirrels!" cried Bab,

standing up to get a good look down the road.

The man turned quickly, and Betty saw that he breathed fast as he

watched the spot where the low sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at

the corner. Into this glow came unconscious Ben, whistling "Rory

O'Moore," loud and clear, as he trudged along with a heavy bag of nuts

over his shoulder and the light full on his contented face. Sancho

trotted before and saw the stranger first, for the sun in Ben's eyes

dazzled him. Since his sad loss Sancho cherished a strong dislike to

tramps, and now he paused to growl and show his teeth, evidently

intending to warn this one off the premises.

"He wont hurt you----" began Bab, encouragingly; but before she could

add a chiding word to the dog, Sanch gave an excited howl, and flew at

the man's throat as if about to throttle him.

Betty screamed, and Bab was about to go to the rescue when both

perceived that the dog was licking the stranger's face in an ecstasy of

joy, and heard the man say as he hugged the curly beast:

"Good old Sanch! I knew he wouldn't forget master, and he doesn't."

"What's the matter?" called Ben, coming up briskly, with a strong grip

of his stout stick.

There was no need of any answer, for, as he came into the shadow, he saw

the man, and stood looking at him as if he were a ghost.

"It's father, Benny; don't you know me?" asked the man, with an odd sort

of choke in his voice as he thrust the dog away, and held out both hands

to the boy.

Down dropped the nuts, and crying, "Oh, Daddy, Daddy!" Ben cast himself

into the arms of the shabby velveteen coat, while poor Sanch tore round

them in distracted circles, barking wildly, as if that was the only way

in which he could vent his rapture.

What happened next, Bab and Betty never stopped to see, but, dropping

from their roost, they went flying home like startled Chicken Littles

with the astounding news that "Ben's father has come alive, and Sancho

knew him right away!"

Mrs. Moss had just got her cleaning done up, and was resting a minute

before setting the table, but she flew out of her old rocking-chair when

the excited children told the wonderful tale, exclaiming as they ended:

"Where is he? Go bring him here. I declare it fairly takes my breath

away!"

Before Bab could obey, or her mother compose herself, Sancho bounced in

and spun round like an insane top, trying to stand on his head, walk

upright, waltz and bark all at once, for the good old fellow had so lost

his head that he forgot the loss of his tail.

"They are coming! they are coming! See, Ma, what a nice man he is," said

Bab, hopping about on one foot as she watched the slowly approaching

pair.

"My patience, don't they look alike! I should know he was Ben's Pa

anywhere!" said Mrs. Moss, running to the door in a hurry.

They certainly did resemble one another, and it was almost comical to

see the same curve in the legs, the same wide-awake style of wearing the

hat, the same sparkle of the eye, good-natured smile and agile motion of

every limb. Old Ben carried the bag in one hand while young Ben held the

other fast, looking a little shame-faced at his own emotion now, for

there were marks of tears on his cheeks, but too glad to repress the

delight he felt that he had really found Daddy this side heaven.

Mrs. Moss unconsciously made a pretty little picture of herself as she

stood at the door with her honest face shining and both hands out,

saying in a hearty tone, which was a welcome in itself:

"I'm _real_ glad to see you safe and well, Mr. Brown! Come right in and

make yourself to home. I guess there isn't a happier boy living than Ben

is to-night."

"And I _know_ there isn't a gratefuler man living than I am for your

kindness to my poor forsaken little feller," answered Mr. Brown,

dropping both his burdens to give the comely woman's hands a hard shake.

"Now don't say a word about it, but sit down and rest, and we'll have

tea in less 'n no time. Ben must be tired and hungry, though he's so

happy I don't believe he knows it," laughed Mrs. Moss, bustling away to

hide the tears in her eyes, anxious to make things sociable and easy all

round.

With this end in view she set forth her best china, and covered the

table with food enough for a dozen, thanking her stars that it was

baking day, and everything had turned out well. Ben and his father sat

talking by the window till they were bidden to "draw up and help

themselves" with such hospitable warmth that everything had an extra

relish to the hungry pair.

Ben paused occasionally to stroke the rusty coat-sleeve with

bread-and-buttery fingers to convince himself that "Daddy" had really

come, and his father disposed of various inconvenient emotions by eating

as if food was unknown in California. Mrs. Moss beamed on every one from

behind the big tea-pot like a mild full moon, while Bab and Betty kept

interrupting one another in their eagerness to tell something new about

Ben and how Sanch lost his tail.

"Now you let Mr. Brown talk a little; we all want to hear how he 'came

alive,' as you call it," said Mrs. Moss, as they drew round the fire in

the "settin'-room," leaving the tea-things to take care of themselves.

It was not a long story, but a very interesting one to this circle of

listeners: all about the wild life on the plains, trading for mustangs,

the terrible blow that nearly killed Ben, senior, the long months of

unconsciousness in the California hospital, the slow recovery, the

journey back, Mr. Smithers's tale of the boy's disappearance, and then

the anxious trip to find out from Squire Allen where he now was.

"I asked the hospital folks to write and tell you as soon as I knew

whether I was on my head or my heels, and they promised; but they

didn't; so I came off the minute I could, and worked my way back,

expecting to find you at the old place. I was afraid you'd have worn out

your welcome here and gone off again, for you are as fond of traveling

as your father."

[Illustration: MRS. MOSS WELCOMES BEN'S FATHER.]

"I wanted to, sometimes, but the folks here were so dreadful good to me

I _couldn't_," confessed Ben, secretly surprised to find that the

prospect of going off with Daddy even cost him a pang of regret, for the

boy had taken root in the friendly soil, and was no longer a wandering

thistle-down, tossed about by every wind that blew.

"I know what I owe 'em, and you and me will work out that debt before we

die, or our name isn't B.B.," said Mr. Brown, with an emphatic slap on

his knee, which Ben imitated half unconsciously as he exclaimed

heartily:

"That's _so!_" adding, more quietly, "What are you going to do now? Go

back to Smithers and the old work?"

"Not likely, after the way he treated you, Sonny. I've had it out with

him, and he wont want to see _me_ again in a hurry," answered Mr. Brown,

with a sudden kindling of the eye that reminded Bab of Ben's face when

he shook her after losing Sancho.

"There's more circuses than his in the world; but I'll have to limber

out ever so much before I'm good for much in that line," said the boy,

stretching his stout arms and legs with a curious mixture of

satisfaction and regret.

"You've been living in clover and got fat, you rascal," and his father

gave him a poke here and there, as Mr. Squeers did the plump Wackford,

when displaying him as a specimen of the fine diet at Do-the-boys Hall.

"Don't believe I could put you up now if I tried, for I haven't got my

strength back yet, and we are both out of practice. It's just as well,

for I've about made up my mind to quit the business and settle down

somewhere for a spell, if I can get anything to do," continued the

rider, folding his arms and gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"I shouldn't wonder a mite if you could right here, for Mr. Towne has a

great boarding-stable over yonder, and he's always wanting men," said

Mrs. Moss, eagerly, for she dreaded to have Ben go, and no one could

forbid it if his father chose to take him away.

"That sounds likely. Thanky, ma'am. I'll look up the concern and try my

chance. Would you call it too great a come-down to have father an

'ostler after being first rider in the 'Great Golden Menagerie, Circus,

and Colosseum,' hey Ben?" asked Mr. Brown, quoting the well-remembered

show-bill with a laugh.

"No, I shouldn't; it's real jolly up there when the big barn is full and

eighty horses have to be taken care of. I love to go and see 'em. Mr.

Towne asked me to come and be stable-boy when I rode the kicking gray

the rest were afraid of. I hankered to go, but Miss Celia had just got

my new books, and I knew she'd feel bad if I gave up going to school.

Now I'm glad I didn't, for I get on first rate and like it."

"You done right, boy, and I'm pleased with you. Don't you ever be

ungrateful to them that befriended you, if you want to prosper. I'll

tackle the stable business a Monday and see what's to be done. Now I

ought to be walking, but I'll be round in the morning, ma'am, if you can

spare Ben for a spell to-morrow. We'd like to have a good Sunday tramp

and talk; wouldn't we, Sonny?" and Mr. Brown rose to go, with his hand

on Ben's shoulder, as if loth to leave him even for the night.

Mrs. Moss saw the longing in his face, and forgetting that he was an

utter stranger, spoke right out of her hospitable heart.

"It is a long piece to the tavern, and my little back bed-room is always

ready. It wont make a mite of trouble if you don't mind a plain place,

and you are heartily welcome."

Mr. Brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept any further favor from

the good soul who had already done so much for him and his. Ben gave him

no time to speak, however, for running to a door he flung it open and

beckoned, saying, eagerly:

"Do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you. This is a tip-top

room; I slept here the night I came, and that bed was just splendid

after bare ground for a fortnight."

"I'll stop, and as I'm pretty well done up, I guess we may as well turn

in now," answered the new guest; then, as if the memory of that homeless

little lad so kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of him,

Mr. Brown paused at the door to say hastily, with his hands on Bab and

Betty's heads, as if his promise was a very earnest one:

"I don't forget, ma'am, and these children shall never want a friend

while Ben Brown's alive;" then he shut the door so quickly that the

other Ben's prompt "Hear, hear!" was cut short in the middle.

"I s'pose he means that we shall have a piece of Ben's father, because

we gave Ben a piece of our mother," said Betty, softly.

"Of course he does, and it's all fair," answered Bab, decidedly. "Isn't

he a nice man, Ma?"

"Go to bed, children," was all the answer she got; but when they were

gone, Mrs. Moss, as she washed up her dishes, more than once glanced at

a certain nail where a man's hat had not hung for five years, and

thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting air that slouched felt

had.

If one wedding were not quite enough for a child's story, we might here

hint what no one dreamed of then, that before the year came round again

Ben had found a mother, Bab and Betty a father, and Mr. Brown's hat was

quite at home behind the kitchen door. But, on the whole, it is best not

to say a word about it.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE GREAT GATE IS OPENED.

The Browns were up and out so early next morning that Bab and Betty were

sure they had run away in the night. But on looking for them, they were

discovered in the coach-house criticising Lita, both with their hands in

their pockets, both chewing straws, and looking as much alike as a big

elephant and a small one.

"That's as pretty a little span as I've seen for a long time," said the

elder Ben, as the children came trotting down the path hand in hand,

with the four blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly up

and down.

"The nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is the best goer, though

she's dreadfully hard bitted," answered Ben the younger, with such a

comical assumption of a jockey's important air that his father laughed

as he said in an undertone:

"Come, boy, we must drop the old slang since we've given up the old

business. These good folks are making a gentleman of you, and I wont be

the one to spoil their work. Hold on, my dears, and I'll show you how

they say good-morning in California," he added, beckoning to the little

girls, who now came up rosy and smiling.

"Breakfast is ready, sir," said Betty, looking much relieved to find

them.

"We thought you'd run away from us," explained Bab, as both put out

their hands to shake those extended to them.

"That would be a mean trick. But I'm going to run away _with_ you," and

Mr. Brown whisked a little girl to either shoulder before they knew what

had happened, while Ben, remembering the day, with difficulty restrained

himself from turning a series of triumphant somersaults before them all

the way to the door, where Mrs. Moss stood waiting for them.

After breakfast, Ben disappeared for a short time, and returned in his

Sunday suit, looking so neat and fresh that his father surveyed him with

surprise and pride as he came in full of boyish satisfaction in his trim

array.

"Here's a smart young chap! Did you take all that trouble just to go to

walk with old Daddy?" asked Mr. Brown, stroking the smooth head, for

they were alone just then, Mrs. Moss and the children being upstairs

preparing for church.

"I thought may be you'd like to go to meeting first," answered Ben,

looking up at him with such a happy face that it was hard to refuse

anything.

"I'm too shabby, Sonny, else I'd go in a minute to please you."

"Miss Celia said God didn't mind poor clothes, and she took me when I

looked worse than you do. I always go in the morning; she likes to have

me," said Ben, turning his hat about as if not quite sure what he ought

to do.

"Do you want to go?" asked his father in a tone of surprise.

"I want to please her, if you don't mind. We could have our tramp this

afternoon."

"I haven't been to meeting since mother died, and it don't seem to come

easy, though I know I ought to, seeing I'm alive and here," and Mr.

Brown looked soberly out at the lovely autumn-world as if glad to be in

it after his late danger and pain.

"Miss Celia said church was a good place to take our troubles, and to be

thankful in. I went when I thought you were dead, and now I'd love to go

when I've got my Daddy safe again."

No one saw him, so Ben could not resist giving his father a sudden hug,

which was warmly returned as the man said earnestly:

"I'll go, and thank the Lord hearty for giving me back my boy better'n I

left him!"

For a minute, nothing was heard but the loud tick of the old clock and a

mournful whine from Sancho, shut up in the shed lest he should go to

church without an invitation.

Then, as steps were heard on the stairs, Mr. Brown caught up his hat,

saying hastily:

"I ain't fit to go with them, you tell 'em, and I'll slip into a back

seat after folks are in. I know the way." And, before Ben could reply,

he was gone.

[Illustration: BEN AND HIS FATHER OPEN THE GREAT GATE.]

Nothing was seen of him along the way, but he saw the little party, and

rejoiced again over his boy, changed so greatly for the better; for Ben

was the one thing which had kept his heart soft through all the trials

and temptations of a rough life.

"I promised Mary I'd do my best for the poor baby she had to leave, and

I tried, but I guess a better friend than I am has been raised up for

him when he needed her most. It wont hurt me to follow him in this

road," thought Mr. Brown as he came out into the highway from his stroll

"across lots," feeling that it would be good for him to stay in this

quiet place for his own as well as for his son's sake.

The bell had done ringing when he reached the green, but a single boy

sat on the steps and ran to meet him, saying with a reproachful look:

"I wasn't going to let you be alone and have folks think I was ashamed

of my father. Come, Daddy, we'll sit together."

So Ben led his father straight to the Squire's pew, and sat beside him

with a face so full of innocent pride and joy that people would have

suspected the truth if he had not already told many of them. Mr. Brown,

painfully conscious of his shabby coat, was rather "taken aback," as he

expressed it, but the Squire's shake of the hand and Mrs. Allen's

gracious nod enabled him to face the eyes of the interested

congregation, the younger portion of which stared steadily at him all

sermon time, in spite of paternal frowns and maternal tweakings in the

rear.

But the crowning glory of the day came after church, when the Squire

said to Ben, and Sam heard him:

"I've got a letter for you from Miss Celia. Come home with me and bring

your father. I want to talk to him."

The boy proudly escorted his parent to the old carry-all, and tucking

himself in behind with Mrs. Allen, had the satisfaction of seeing the

slouched felt hat side by side with the Squire's Sunday beaver in front,

as they drove off at such an unusually smart pace that, it was evident,

Duke knew there was a critical eye upon him. The interest taken in the

father was owing to the son at first, but, by the time the story was

told, old Ben had won friends for himself, not only because of the

misfortunes which he had evidently borne in a manly way, but because of

his delight in the boy's improvement, and the desire he felt to turn his

hand to any honest work, that he might keep Ben happy and contented in

this good home.

"I'll give you a line to Towne. Smithers spoke well of you, and your own

ability will be the best recommendation," said the Squire, as he parted

from them at his door, having given Ben the letter.

Miss Celia had been gone a fortnight, and every one was longing to have

her back. The first week brought Ben a newspaper, with a crinkly line

drawn round the "marriages" to attract attention to that spot, and one

was marked by a black frame with a large hand pointing at it from the

margin. Thorny sent that, but the next week came a parcel for Mrs. Moss,

and in it was discovered a box of wedding-cake for every member of the

family, including Sancho, who ate his at one gulp and chewed up the lace

paper which covered it. This was the third week, and as if there could

not be happiness enough crowded into it for Ben, the letter he read on

his way home told him that his dear mistress was coming back on the

following Saturday. One passage particularly pleased him:

"I want the great gate opened, so that the new master may go in that

way. Will you see that it is done, and all made neat afterward. Ronda

will give you the key, and you may have out all your flags if you like,

for the old place cannot look too gay for this home-coming."

Sunday though it was, Ben could not help waving the letter over his head

as he ran in to tell Mrs. Moss the glad news, and begin at once to plan

the welcome they would give Miss Celia, for he never called her anything

else.

During their afternoon stroll in the mellow sunshine, Ben continued to

talk of her, never tired of telling about his happy summer under her

roof. And Mr. Brown was never weary of hearing, for every hour showed

him more plainly what a lovely miracle her gentle words had wrought, and

every hour increased his gratitude, his desire to return the kindness in

some humble way. He had his wish, and did his part handsomely when he

least expected to have a chance.

On Monday he saw Mr. Towne, and, thanks to the Squire's good word, was

engaged for a month on trial, making himself so useful that it was soon

evident he was the right man in the right place. He lived on the hill,

but managed to get down to the little brown house in the evening for a

word with Ben, who just now was as full of business as if the President

and his Cabinet were coming.

Everything was put in apple-pie order in and about the old house; the

great gate, with much creaking of rusty hinges and some clearing away of

rubbish, was set wide open, and the first creature who entered it was

Sancho, solemnly dragging the dead mullein which long ago had grown

above the top of it. October frosts seemed to have spared some of the

brightest leaves for this especial occasion, and on Saturday the

gate-way was decorated with gay wreaths, red and yellow sprays strewed

the flags, and the porch was a blaze of color with the red woodbine,

that was in its glory when the honeysuckle was leafless.

Fortunately, it was a half-holiday, so the children could trim and

chatter to their hearts' content, and the little girls ran about

sticking funny decorations where no one would ever think of looking for

them. Ben was absorbed in his flags, which were sprinkled all down the

avenue with a lavish display, suggesting several Fourth-of-Julys rolled

into one. Mr. Brown had come down to lend a hand, and did so most

energetically, for the break-neck things he did with his son during the

decoration fever would have terrified Mrs. Moss out of her wits if she

had not been in the house giving last touches to every room, while Ronda

and Katy set forth a sumptuous tea.

All was going well, and the train would be due in an hour, when luckless

Bab nearly turned the rejoicing into mourning, the feast into ashes. She

heard her mother say to Ronda, "There ought to be a fire in every room,

it looks so cheerful, and the air is chilly spite of the sunshine," and

never waiting to hear the reply that some of the long-unused chimneys

were not safe till cleaned, off went Bab with an apron full of old

shingles and made a roaring blaze in the front room fire-place, which

was of all others the one to be let alone, as the flue was out of order.

Charmed with the brilliant light and the crackle of the tindery fuel,

Miss Bab refilled her apron and fed the fire till the chimney began to

rumble ominously, sparks to fly out at the top, and soot and swallows'

nests to come tumbling down upon the hearth. Then, scared at what she

had done, the little mischief-maker hastily buried her fire, swept up

the rubbish, and ran off, thinking no one would discover her prank if

she never told.

Everybody was very busy, and the big chimney blazed and rumbled

unnoticed till the cloud of smoke caught Ben's eye as he festooned his

last effort in the flag line, part of an old sheet with the words

"Father has come!" in red cambric letters, half a foot long, sewed upon

it.

"Hullo, I do believe they've got up a bonfire without asking my leave!

Miss Celia never would let us, because the sheds and roofs are so old

and dry; I must see about it. Catch me, Daddy, I'm coming down!" cried

Ben, dropping out of the elm with no more thought of where he might

alight than a squirrel swinging from bough to bough.

His father caught him, and followed in haste as his nimble-footed son

raced up the avenue, to stop in the gate-way, frightened at the prospect

before him, for falling sparks had already kindled the roof here and

there, and the chimney smoked and roared like a small volcano, while

Katy's wails and Ronda's cries for water came from within.

"Up there, with wet blankets, while I get out the hose!" cried Mr.

Brown, as he saw at a glance what the danger was.

Ben vanished, and, before his father got the garden hose rigged, he was

on the roof with a dripping blanket over the worst spot. Mrs. Moss had

her wits about her in a minute, and ran to put in the fire-board and

stop the draught. Then, stationing Ronda to watch that the falling

cinders did no harm inside, she hurried off to help Mr. Brown, who might

not know where things were. But he had roughed it so long that he was

the man for emergencies, and seemed to lay his hand on whatever was

needed, by a sort of instinct. Finding that the hose was too short to

reach the upper part of the roof, he was on the roof in a jiffy with two

pails of water, and quenched the most dangerous flames before much harm

was done. This he kept up till the chimney burned itself out, while Ben

dodged about among the gables with a watering-pot, lest some stray

sparks should be overlooked and break out afresh.

While they worked there, Betty ran to and fro with a dipper of water

trying to help, and Sancho barked violently, as if he objected to this

sort of illumination. But where was Bab, who reveled in flurries? No one

missed her till the fire was out, and the tired, sooty people met to

talk over the danger just escaped.

"Poor Miss Celia wouldn't have had a roof over her head if it hadn't

been for you, Mr. Brown," said Mrs. Moss, sinking into a kitchen chair,

pale with the excitement.

"It would have burnt lively, but I guess it's all right now. Keep an eye

on the roof, Ben, and I'll step up garret and see if all's safe there.

Didn't you know that chimney was foul, ma'am?" asked the man, as he

wiped the perspiration off his grimy face.

"Ronda said it was, and I'm surprised she made a fire there," began Mrs.

Moss, looking at the maid, who just then came in with a pan full of

soot.

"Bless you, ma'am, I never thought of such a thing, nor Katy neither.

That naughty Bab must have done it, and so don't dar'st to show

herself," answered the irate Ronda, whose nice room was in a mess.

"Where is the child?" asked her mother, and a hunt was immediately

instituted by Betty and Sancho, while the elders cleared up.

Anxious Betty searched high and low, called and cried, but all in vain,

and was about to sit down in despair, when Sancho made a bolt into his

new kennel and brought out a shoe with a foot in it, while a doleful

squeal came from the straw within.

"Oh, Bab, how could you do it? Ma was frightened dreadfully," said

Betty, gently tugging at the striped leg, as Sancho poked his head in

for another shoe.

"Is it _all_ burnt up!" demanded a smothered voice from the recesses of

the kennel.

"Only pieces of the roof. Ben and his father put it out, and _I_

helped," answered Betty, cheering up a little as she recalled her noble

exertions.

"What do they do to folks who set houses afire?" asked the voice again.

"I don't know; but you needn't be afraid; there isn't much harm done, I

guess, and Miss Celia will forgive you, she's so good."

"Thorny wont; he calls me a 'botheration,' and I guess I am," mourned

the unseen culprit, with sincere contrition.

"I'll ask him; he is always good to me. They will be here pretty soon,

so you'd better come out and be made tidy," suggested the comforter.

"I never can come out, for every one will hate me," sobbed Bab among the

straw; and she pulled in her foot, as if retiring forever from an

outraged world.

"Ma wont, she's too busy cleaning up; so it's a good time to come. Let's

run home, wash our hands, and be all nice when they see us. I'll love

you, no matter what anybody else does," said Betty, consoling the poor

little sinner, and proposing the sort of repentance most likely to find

favor in the eyes of the agitated elders.

"P'r'aps I'd better go home, for Sanch will want his bed," and Bab

gladly availed herself of that excuse to back out of her refuge, a very

crumpled, dusty young lady, with a dejected face, and much straw

sticking in her hair.

Betty led her sadly away, for she still protested that she never should

dare to meet the offended public again; but in fifteen minutes both

appeared in fine order and good spirits, and naughty Bab escaped a

lecture for the time being, as the train would soon be due.

At the first sound of the car whistle every one turned good-natured as

if by magic, and flew to the gate, smiling as if all mishaps were

forgiven and forgotten. Mrs. Moss, however, slipped quietly away, and

was the first to greet Miss Celia as the carriage stopped at the

entrance of the avenue, so that the luggage might go in by way of the

lodge.

"We will walk up and you shall tell us the news as we go, for I see you

have some," said the young lady, in her friendly manner, when Mrs. Moss

had given her welcome and paid her respects to the gentleman, who shook

hands in a way that convinced her he was indeed what Thorny called him,

"regularly jolly," though he was a minister.

That being exactly what she came for, the good woman told her tidings as

rapidly as possible, and the new-comers were so glad to hear of Ben's

happiness they made very light of Bab's bonfire, though it had come near

burning their house down.

"We wont say a word about it, for every one must be happy to-day," said

Mr. George, so kindly that Mrs. Moss felt a load taken off her heart at

once.

"Bab was always teasing me for fire-works, but I guess she has had

enough for the present." laughed Thorny, who was gallantly escorting

Bab's mother up the avenue.

"Every one is so kind! Teacher was out with the children to cheer us as

we passed, and here you all are making things pretty for me," said Miss

Celia, smiling with tears in her eyes, as they drew near the great gate,

which certainly did present an animated if not an imposing appearance.

Ronda and Katy stood on one side, all in their best, bobbing delighted

courtesies; Mr. Brown, half hidden behind the gate on the other side,

was keeping Sancho erect, so that he might present arms promptly when

the bride appeared. As flowers were scarce, on either post stood a rosy

little girl clapping her hands, while out from the thicket of red and

yellow boughs, which made a grand bouquet in the lantern frame, came

Ben's head and shoulders, as he waved his grandest flag with its gold

paper "Welcome Home!" on a blue ground.

"Isn't it beautiful!" cried Miss Celia, throwing kisses to the children,

shaking hands with her maids, and glancing brightly at the stranger who

was keeping Sanch quiet.

"Most people adorn their gate-posts with stone balls, vases, or

griffins; your living images are a great improvement, love, especially

the happy boy in the middle," said Mr. George, eying Ben with interest,

as he nearly tumbled overboard, top-heavy with his banner.

"You must finish what I have only begun," answered Miss Celia, adding

gayly, as Sancho broke loose and came to offer both his paw and his

congratulations, "Sanch, introduce your master, that I may thank him for

coming back in time to save my old house."

"If I'd saved a dozen it wouldn't have half paid for all you've done for

my boy, ma'am," answered Mr. Brown, bursting out from behind the gate

quite red with gratitude and pleasure.

"I loved to do it, so please remember that this is still his home till

you make one for him. Thank God, he is no longer fatherless!" and Miss

Celia's sweet face said even more than her words, as the white hand

cordially shook the brown one with a burn across the back.

"Come on, sister. I see the tea-table all ready, and I'm awfully

hungry," interrupted Thorny, who had not a ray of sentiment about him,

though very glad Ben had got his father back again.

"Come over, by and by, little friends, and let me thank you for your

pretty welcome,--it certainly is a warm one;" and Miss Celia glanced

merrily from the three bright faces above her to the old chimney, which

still smoked sullenly.

"Oh, don't!" cried Bab, hiding her face.

"She didn't mean to," added Betty, pleadingly.

"Three cheers for the bride!" roared Ben, dipping his flag, as leaning

on her husband's arm his dear mistress passed through the gay party,

along the leaf-strewn walk, over the threshold of the house which was to

be her happy home for many years.

The closed gate where the lonely little wanderer once lay was always to

stand open now, and the path where children played before was free to

all comers, for a hospitable welcome henceforth awaited rich and poor,

young and old, sad and gay, Under the Lilacs.

[Illustration]

HAPPY LITTLE FROGGY.

BY E. MÜLLER.

[Illustration]

Happy little Froggy, he

Was proud enough

Of his trousers and his coat,

Green and buff.

Came and caught him Rob and Bess,

Quick as flash,

Dressed him up in Dolly's dress,

And her sash.

Froggy gave a frantic leap,

And in three springs

Took into the water deep

All Dolly's things.

HOW TO KEEP A JOURNAL.

BY W. S. JEROME.

Autumn is as good a time as any for a boy or girl to begin to keep a

journal. Too many have the idea that it is a hard and unprofitable task

to keep a journal, and especially is this the case with those who have

begun, but soon gave up the experiment. They think it is a waste of

time, and that no good results from it. But that depends upon the kind

of journal that you keep. Everybody has heard of the boy who thought he

would try to keep a diary. He bought a book, and wrote in it, for the

first day, "Decided to keep a journal." The next day he wrote, "Got up,

washed, and went to bed." The day after, he wrote the same thing, and no

wonder that at the end of a week he wrote, "Decided not to keep a

journal," and gave up the experiment. It is such attempts as this, by

persons who have no idea of what a journal is, or how to keep it, that

discourage others from beginning. But it is not hard to keep a journal

if you begin in the right way, and will use a little perseverance and

patience. The time spent in writing in a journal is not wasted, by any

means. It may be the best employed hour of any in the day, and a

well-kept journal is a source of pleasure and advantage which more than

repays the writer for the time and trouble spent upon it.

The first thing to do in beginning a journal, is to resolve to stick to

it. Don't begin, and let the poor journal die in a week. A journal, or

diary, should be written in _every day_, if possible. Now, don't be

frightened at this, for you do a great many things every day, and this

isn't a very awful condition. The time spent may be longer or shorter,

according to the matter to be written up; but try and write, at least a

little, every day. "_Nulla dies sine linea_"--no day without a line--is

a good motto. It is a great deal easier to write a little every day,

than to write up several days in one.

Do not get for a journal a book with the dates already printed in it.

That kind will do very well for a merchant's note-book, but not for the

young man or woman who wants to keep a live, cheerful account of a happy

and pleasant life. Sometimes you will have a picnic or excursion to

write about, and will want to fill more space than the printed page

allows. Buy a substantially bound blank-book, made of good paper; write

your name and address plainly on the fly-leaf, and, if you choose, paste

a calendar inside the cover. Set down the date at the head of the first

page, thus: "Tuesday, October 1, 1878." Then begin the record of the

day, endeavoring as far as possible to mention the events in the correct

order of time,--morning, afternoon and evening. When this is done, write

in the middle of the page, "Wednesday, October 2," and you are ready for

the record of the next day. It is well to set down the year at the top

of each page.

But what are you to write about? First, the weather. Don't forget this.

Write, "Cold and windy," or "Warm and bright," as the case may be. It

takes but a moment, and in a few years you will have a complete record

of the weather, which will be found not only curious, but useful.

Then put down the letters you have received or written, and, if you

wish, any money paid or received. The day of beginning or leaving

school; the studies you pursue; visits from or to your friends; picnics

or sleigh-rides; the books you have read; and all such items of interest

should be noted. Write anything that you want to remember. After trying

this plan a short time, you will be surprised at the many things

constantly occurring which you used to overlook, but which now form

pleasant paragraphs in your book. But don't try to write something when

there is nothing to write. If there is only a line to be written, write

that, and begin again next day.

Do not set down about people anything which you would not wish them to

see. It is not likely that any one will ever see your writing, but it is

possible, so, always be careful about what you write. The Chinese say of

a spoken word, that once let fall, it cannot be brought back by a

chariot and six horses. Much more is this true of written words, and

once out of your possession, there is no telling where they will go, or

who will see them.

The best time to write in a journal is in the evening. Keep the book in

your table-drawer, or on your desk, and, after supper, when the lamps

are lighted, sit down and write your plain account of the day. Don't try

to write an able and eloquent article, but simply give a statement of

what you have seen or done during the day. For the first week or two

after beginning a journal, the novelty of the thing will keep up your

interest, and you will be anxious for the time to come when you can

write your journal. But, after a while, it becomes tedious. Then is the

time when you must persevere. Write something every day, and before long

you will find that you are becoming so accustomed to it, that you would

not willingly forego it. After that, the way is plain, and the longer

you live the more valuable and indispensable your journal will become.

But some practical young person asks: What is the good of a journal?

There is very much. In the first place, it teaches habits of order and

regularity. The boy or girl who every evening arranges the proceedings

of the day in systematic order, and regularly writes them out, is not

likely to be careless in other matters. It helps the memory. A person

who keeps a journal naturally tries during the day to remember things he

sees, until he can write them down. Then the act of writing helps to

still further fix the facts in his memory. The journal is a first-class

teacher of penmanship. All boys and girls should take pride in having

the pages of their journals as neat and handsome as possible. Compare

one day's writing with that of the one before, and try to improve every

day. Keeping a journal cultivates habits of observation, correct and

concise expression, and gives capital practice in composition, spelling,

punctuation, and all the little things which go to make up a good

letter-writer. So, one who keeps a journal is all the while learning to

be a better penman, and a better composer, with the advantage of writing

original, historical, and descriptive articles, instead of copying the

printed letters and sentences of a writing-book.

But, best of all, a well-kept journal furnishes a continuous and

complete family history, which is always interesting, and often very

useful. It is sometimes very convenient to have a daily record of the

year, and the young journalist will often have occasion to refer to his

account of things gone by. Perhaps, some evening, when the family are

sitting and talking together, some one will ask, "What kind of weather

did we have last winter?" or, "When was the picnic you were speaking

of?" and the journal is referred to. But the pleasure of keeping a

journal is itself no small reward. It is pleasant to exercise the

faculty of writing history, and to think that you are taking the first

step toward writing newspapers and books. The writer can practice on

different kinds of style, and can make his journal a record, not only of

events, but of his own progress as a thinker and writer.

SIMPLE SIMON.

[Illustration]

"Simple Simon went a-fishing,

For to catch a whale,

And all the water that he had,

Was in his mother's pail."

PRINCE CUCURBITA.

BY EDITH A. EDWARDS.

[Illustration: PRINCE CUCURBITA ON THE TRELLIS.]

Prince Cucurbita was very unhappy. His smooth, shiny face was all

puckered up into little wrinkles, every now and then a big sob shook his

jolly little person till you really felt like crying yourself at the

sight of him. Here was a prince living in a lovely garden full of birds

and flowers, surrounded by a large family of brothers and sisters, and

always dressed in a pretty green jacket, which could not get soiled or

torn. In spite of all this, he was not happy, for Queen Cucurbita, in

order to keep her children out of harm's way, had hoisted them all up on

a high trellis, and would never let them get down.

You may think the Prince might have been smart enough, or naughty

enough, to have jumped down when his mother's back was turned, but,

alas! how could he? for she held tightly to the tassel of his cap, and

his cap fitted so closely to his head that no effort of his was ever

able to get it off. Across the way lived another big family, the

Filberts. They were just the merriest set that ever was seen, nodding

gayly to Cucu now and then when they could spare the time from their own

fun, and telling stories to each other, which must have been very

amusing; for sometimes they all laughed together till they nearly fell

out of bed, and their mother was obliged to shake them all round. One

day, there was a great commotion among the Filberts. The eldest brother

had determined to go out into the world and seek his fortune, so he

climbed out of bed and quietly dropped to the ground.

"Oh, dear me!" cried Cucu; "it is too mean that I should have to stay up

on this old trellis."

"Naughty boy!" scolded his mother. "What are you talking about? That

ever I should be afflicted with such a fractious child; 'tis enough to

turn me yellow;" and she spread out her pretty green apron, and waved

her ribbons in the air, while she took a firmer hold upon the poor

little Prince's cap.

"Don't you know that if I were to let go, off you would fall flat on

your back upon the nasty wet ground, and very likely lie there all the

rest of your life, growing wrinkled and yellow and sickly, while great

ugly worms crawled over you, and everybody blamed me for a careless

parent? No! no! I shall take good care you don't get away from me, you

may be sure."

So, Cucu had to accept his fate as best he might, and amused himself

watching his neighbors. Every day, now, one or more of them left home

and disappeared among the grass and flowers below. Cucu imagined them as

traveling off around the garden, but if he had seen them lying half

buried in the earth, their bright brown faces dirty and streaked with

tears, their merry little hearts nearly broken with woe, he would not

have envied them so much.

Day after day passed, and the month of October came with its clear and

cool nights. Queen Cucurbita did not relish this at all, and, every

morning, when the sun peeped at her, he wondered how he ever could have

admired such a dried-up yellow old creature. Cucu's heart, on the

contrary, grew happier all the time, he lifted up his heavy head that

seemed to be lighter each day, and when the wind blew, he rattled

against the trellis and wondered how it was he could move so easily.

"Poor Prince!" the Cat-bird whistled, as she perched above him, "your

face is getting as brown and shining as one of those little Filberts,

your cap is no longer green and pretty, and you look so light that a

breath might blow you away."

"I don't care," returned Cucu, "for I feel delighted, and so long as I

can't see my own face, what's the odds?"

The next night was clear and very cold. The people to whom the garden

belonged brought out sheets and covered over the tender heliotropes and

other flowers they valued, but they couldn't have cared much for Queen

Cucurbita, for they never gave her a thought. When Cucu woke up bright

and early and said good-morning to his mother, she did not reply. He

turned his head to look at her. Oh, frightful sight! she hung to the

trellis wilted and dead; her green dress was brown and torn, but her

hard and wrinkled hand still grasped poor Cucu's cap.

After the sun had been up some hours, a lady came into the garden and

approached the home of the Cucurbita family.

"Oh, you beauty!" she cried, "what a lovely basket I shall make of you!"

and, placing a hand on each of Cucu's cheeks, she gave him a slight

twist,--his mother's fingers let go; he was free. The lady put him in

her basket, and now he was really setting off on his travels.

This was, in fact, only the beginning of his career. The lady with a

sharp knife lifted his cap from his head; then she painted him all over

a pale green. After the paint was dry, she bored three holes in his

sides. My! how it hurt! but it was soon over, and she had fastened three

slender chains through them, and hung the little Prince up in a sunny

window. "What next?" he wondered. If he had got to hang here all his

life, it wouldn't be much better than the old trellis. But that wasn't

the end, for his mistress filled him with nice black earth, and planted

delicate little ferns and runaway-robins which climbed over and twined

lovingly round his face. They patted his cheeks with their soft little

hands, and whispered pretty stories of the woods they had come from.

"Dear Cucu," said they, "how much we love you, and how kind you are to

hold us all so carefully!" When they said this, he felt so proud and

happy that he could not contain himself any longer, and sang at the top

of his voice; but the people in the house did not hear him, for mortal

ears are not adapted to such music. Only the Cat-bird flying past

understood and stopped to congratulate him.

"Plenty to do, and plenty to love," she sang; "that is the way to be

happy. I found it out last spring when it took me from morning till

night to find food for my four hungry babies. Good-bye! I am going south

with them to-day. I haven't a bit of time to lose," and away she flew.

[Illustration: CUCURBITA IN THE WINDOW.]

And the ferns and the runaway-robins clapped their hands and sang, "Yes,

that is the secret. Good-bye! Good-bye!"

MRS. PRIMKINS' SURPRISE.

BY OLIVE THORNE.

Our older readers will remember Nimpo, whose "Troubles" interested

them in ST. NICHOLAS'S first year. To our newer friends it is only

necessary to say, that Nimpo and Rush were boarding with Mrs.

Primkins during their mother's absence, by Nimpo's own desire, and

were very unhappy under the care of that well-meaning--but very

peculiar--person, who was so greatly surprised on the occasion of

the Birthday Party.

One morning, Mrs. Primkins received a letter. This was a very unusual

occurrence, and she hastened to wipe her hands out of the dish-water,

hunt up her "specs," clean them carefully, and, at last, sit down in her

chintz-covered "Boston rocker," to enjoy at her leisure this very rare

literary dissipation.

Nimpo, who was boarding with Mrs. Primkins while her mother was off on a

journey, was engaged in finishing her breakfast, and did not notice

anything. Having found her scissors, and deliberately cut around the

old-fashioned seal, Mrs. Primkins opened the sheet and glanced at the

name at the bottom of the page, then turned her eyes hastily toward

Nimpo, with a low, significant "Humph!"

But Nimpo, intent only on getting off to school, still did not see her.

Mrs. Primkins went on to examine more closely, covering with her hands

something which fell from the first fold, rustling, to her lap. Very

deliberately, then, as became this staid woman, did she read the letter

from date to signature, twice over, and, ending as she had begun with a

significant "Humph!" she refolded the letter, slipped in the inclosure,

put it into her black silk work-bag which hung on the back of her chair,

and resumed her dish-washing, for she was a genuine "Yankee housekeeper"

of the old-fashioned sort, and scorned the assistance of what she called

"hired help."

Meanwhile, Nimpo finished her breakfast, gathered up her books, and

hurried off to school, though it was an hour too early, never dreaming

that the letter had anything to do with her. After the morning work was

done,--the pans scalded and set in the sun; the house dusted from attic

to cellar; the vinegar reheated and poured over the walnuts that were

pickling; the apples drying on the shed roof, turned over; the piece of

muslin ("bolt," she called it) that was bleaching on the grass,

thoroughly sprinkled; and, in fact, everything, indoors and out, in Mrs.

Primkins' domain, put into perfect order, that lady sat down to

consider. She drew the letter from the bag, and read it over, carefully

inspecting a ten-dollar bill in her hands, and then leaned back, and

indulged herself in a very unusual, indeed totally unheard-of, luxury--a

rest of ten minutes with idle hands!

If Nimpo had chanced to come in, she would have been alarmed at such an

extraordinary state of things; but she was at that moment in her seat in

the long school-house, with wrinkled brow, wrestling with sundry

conundrums in her "Watts on the Mind," little suspecting how her fate

was hanging in the balance in Mrs. Primkins' kitchen at this moment. At

last, Mrs. Primkins' thin lips opened. She was alone in the house, and

she began to talk to herself:

"Wants her to have a birthday-party! Humph! I must say I can't see the

good of pampering children's folks do nowadays! When _I_ was young, now,

we had something to think of besides fine clothes, unwholesome food, and

worldly dissipation! I must say I think Mis' Rievor has some very

uncommon notions! Hows'ever," she went on, contemplating fondly the bill

she still held in her hand, "I do' know's I have any call to fret my

gizzard if she chooses to potter away her money! I don't see my way

clear to refuse altogether to do what she asks, 's long 's the child's

on my hands. Ten dollars! Humph! She 'hopes it'll be enough to provide a

little supper for them!' It's my private opinion that it will, and a

mite over for--for--other things," she added, resolutely closing her

lips with a snap. "I aint such a shif'less manager's all that comes to,

I _do_ hope! 'T wont take no ten dollars to give a birthday-party in

_my_ house, I bet a cookey!"

That night, when supper was over, Nimpo sat down with the family by the

table, which held one candle that dimly lighted the room, to finish a

book she was reading. Not that the kitchen was the only room in the

house. Mrs. Primkins had plenty of rooms, but they were too choice for

every-day use. They were always tightly closed, with green paper shades

down, lest the blessed sunshine should get a peep at her gaudy red and

green carpets, and put the least mellowing touch an their crude and

rasping colors. Nimpo thought of the best parlor with a sort of awe

which she never felt toward any room in her mother's house.

"Nimpo," said Mrs. Primkins at last, when she had held back the news

till Nimpo had finished her book, and was about to go upstairs, "wait a

bit. I got a letter from your Ma to-day."

"Did you?" exclaimed Nimpo, alarmed. "Oh! what is the matter?"

"Don't fly into tificks! Nothing is the matter," said Mrs. Primkins.

"Is she coming home?" was the next eager question.

"No, not yet," fell like cold water on her warm hopes. "But she says

to-morrow's your birthday."

"Why, so it is!" said Nimpo, reflecting. "I never thought of it."

"Wal, she thinks perhaps I'd best let you have a few girls to tea on

that day, if 't wont be too much of a chore for me," went on Mrs.

Primkins, deliberately.

Nimpo's face was radiant. "Oh, Mrs. Primkins, if you _will!_" But it

fell again. "But where could they be?"--for trespassing on the dismal

glories of the Primkins' parlor had never entered her wildest dreams.

"I've thought of that," said Mrs. Primkins, grimly. "Of course, I

couldn't abide a pack of young ones tramping up my best parlor carpet,

and I thought mebbe I'd put a few things up in the second story, and let

you have 'em there."

The second story was unfurnished.

"Oh, that will be splendid!" said Nimpo, eagerly. "But,--but,"--she

hesitated,--"could they take tea here?" and she glanced around the

kitchen, which was parlor, sitting-room, dining-room, and, in fact,

almost the only really useful room in the house. The front part Mrs.

Primkins enjoyed as other people enjoy pictures, or other beautiful

things,--looking at, but not using them.

"No; I shall set the table in the back chamber, and let you play in the

front chamber. We can put some chairs in, and I'm sure a bare floor is

more suitable for a pack of young ones."

Mrs. Primkins always spoke of children as wild beasts, which must be

endured, to be sure, but carefully looked after, like wolves or hyenas.

"Oh yes! We wouldn't be afraid of hurting that. Oh, that'll be

splendid!" continued Nimpo, as the plan grew on her. "I thank you so

much, Mrs. Primkins!--and we'll be so careful not to hurt anything!"

"Humph!" said Mrs. Primkins, not thinking it necessary to tell her that

her mother had sent money to cover the expense. "You're a master hand to

promise."

"I know I forget sometimes," said Nimpo, penitently. "But I'll try

really to be careful, this time."

"Wal," said Mrs. Primkins, in conclusion, as she folded her knitting and

brought out the bed-room candles, "if you don't hector me nigh about to

death, I'll lose my guess! But as I'm in for 't now, you may's well

bring the girls when you come home from school to-morrow. Then you'll

have time to play before supper, for their mothers'll want them home

before dark."

"Do you care who I invite?" asked Nimpo, pausing with the door open on

her way to bed.

"No, I do' know's I do. Your intimate friends, your Ma said."

"Oh, goody!" said Nimpo, as she skipped upstairs, two at a time. "Wont

we have fun! How nice it'll be!"

The next morning she was off, bright and early, and, before the bell

rang, every girl in the school knew that Nimpo was going to have a

birthday-party, and was wondering if she would be invited. At recess,

she issued her invitations, every one of which was promptly accepted;

and in the afternoon all came in their best dresses, ready to go home

with Nimpo.

At four o'clock, they were dismissed, and Nimpo marshaled her guests and

started. Now, the truth was, that the girls had been so very lovely to

her when she was inviting, that she found it hard to distinguish between

intimate friends and those not quite so intimate, so she had asked more

than she realized till she saw them started up the street. However, she

had not been limited as to numbers, so she gave herself no concern, as

she gayly led the way.

Meanwhile, the Primkins family had been busy. After the morning work was

done, Mrs. Primkins and her daughter Augusta made a loaf of plain,

wholesome cake, a couple of tins of biscuits, and about the same number

of cookies with caraway-seeds in them. After dinner, they carried a

table into the back chamber and spread the feast. Nimpo's mother had

sent, as a birthday-present, a new set of toy dishes. It had arrived by

stage while Nimpo was at school, and been carefully concealed from her;

and Augusta, who had not yet forgotten that she was once young (though

it was many years before), thought it would be nice to serve the tea on

these dishes. Not being able to think of any serious objection, and

seeing advantage in the small pieces required to fill them, Mrs.

Primkins had consented, and Augusta had arranged a very pretty table,

all with its white and gilt china. The biscuits and cookies were cut

small to match, and, when ready, it looked very cunning, with tiny

slices of cake, and one little dish of jelly--from the top shelf in Mrs.

Primkins' pantry.

During the afternoon, a boy came up from the store (Nimpo's father was a

country merchant) with a large basket, in which were several pounds of

nuts and raisins and candy, which her father had ordered by letter.

Everything was prepared, and Mrs. Primkins had put on a clean checked

apron, to do honor to the occasion, and sat down in her rocker, feeling

that she had earned her rest, when Augusta's voice sounded from

upstairs: "Ma, do look down street!"

Mrs. Primkins went to the window that looked toward the village, and was

struck with horror.

[Illustration: "DO LOOK DOWN STREET!"]

"Goodness gracious! Why, what under the canopy! Did you ever!" came from

her lips in quick succession, for there was Nimpo, the center of a very

mob of girls, all in Sunday best, as Mrs. Primkins' experienced eye saw

at a glance.

"Ma!" exclaimed Augusta, rushing down, "I do believe that young one has

invited the whole school!"

"The trollop!" was all Mrs. Primkins could get out, in her exasperation.

"I'd send 'em right straight home!" said Augusta, indignantly. "It's a

burning shame!"

"Mercy on us! This is a pretty kettle of fish!" gasped Mrs. Primkins.

"I wouldn't stand it! So there!" said Augusta, sharply. "I never did see

such a young one! I'd just send every chick and child home, and let Miss

Nimpo take her supper in her own room--to pay her off! Things have come

to a pretty pass, I think!"

"I never did!" ejaculated Mrs. Primkins, not yet recovering her ordinary

powers of speech.

"Shall I go out and meet them, and send them packing?" asked Augusta.

"No," said her mother, reluctantly, remembering the unbroken bill in her

"upper drawer." "I do' know's I have a right to send them back. I didn't

tell her how many, but--mercy on us!--who'd dream of such a raft! If

there's one, there's forty, I do declare!"

"That's the meaning of those enormous packages of nuts and things from

the store," said Augusta, "that we thought were enough for an army."

"But the table!" gasped Mrs. Primkins. "For such a crowd! Augusta,"

hastily, "fly around like a parched pea, and lock the doors of that

room, till I think what we can do. This is a party with a vengeance!"

Augusta obeyed, and was none too quick, for the girls crowded into the

front chamber before she had secured the doors.

Being a "party," of course they had to go into the house. But as soon as

they had thrown off their slat sun-bonnets,--which was in about one

second,--and began to look around the bare room, to see what they should

do next, Nimpo was seized with a bright idea.

"Girls, let's go out in the yard, and play till tea-time," she said; and

the next moment sun-bonnets were resumed, and the whole troop tramped

down the back stairs, Nimpo not daring, even on this festive occasion,

to disturb the silence of the solemn front hall, and the gorgeous

colored stair-carpet. In two minutes, they were deep in the game of

"Pom-pom-peel-away," and now was Mrs. Primkins' chance.

She hastily sent Augusta out to the neighbors, letting her out slyly by

the front door, so the "party" shouldn't see her, to beg or borrow

something to feed the crowd; for, the next day being baking-day, her

pantry was nearly empty, and there was not such a thing in the village

as a bakery. As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Primkins cleared the table

upstairs, hid the small biscuits and minute slices of cake, and brought

tables from other rooms to lengthen this. She then carried every cup and

saucer and plate of her own up there, and even made several

surreptitious visits herself to accommodating friends, to borrow,

telling the news, and getting their sympathy, so that they freely lent

their dishes, and even sent their boys to carry them over, and their big

girls to help arrange.

For an hour, the games went on in the side yard, while a steady stream

came in by the front door--the grand front door!--and up the august

stairs, carrying bread, cake, dishes, saucers, etc., etc., till there

was a tolerable supply, and Mrs. Primkins was in debt numerous loaves of

bread and cake, and dishes of "preserves."

At five o'clock, they were called in, and, before their sharp young

appetites, everything disappeared like dew in the sunshine. It was a

queer meal,--bread of various shapes and kinds, and not a large supply;

cakes, an equally miscellaneous collection, from cup-cake which old Mrs.

Kellogg had kept in a jar two months, "in case a body dropped in

unexpected," to bread-cake fresh from some one else's oven; cookies of a

dozen kinds; doughnuts and ginger-cakes, and half a dozen dishes of

sweet-meats, no two alike.

But all deficiencies were forgotten when they came to the nuts and

candies, for of these there was no lack. Augusta had filled every extra

dish in the house with these delightful things, and I sadly fear the

children ate shocking amounts of trash. But they had a good time. The

entertainment was exactly to their liking,--little bread and butter, and

plenty of candy and raisins. It was incomparably superior to ordinary

teas, where bread predominated and candy was limited.

After eating everything on the table, putting the remainder of the candy

in their pockets, as Nimpo insisted, they flocked into the front room,

where Mrs. Primkins told them they might play a while, if they would not

make a noise, as a little sprinkle of rain had come up. To insure quiet,

each girl took off her shoes, and played in stocking-feet on the bare,

rough floor, "blind-man's-buff," "hunt the slipper," and other games,

for an hour more.

Suddenly, Nimpo held up her foot.

"Girls! look there!" Nimpo's tone was tragic.

The soles of her stockings were in awful holes! All eyes were instantly

turned on her, and forty feet were simultaneously elevated to view. The

tale was the same,--every stocking sole was black as the ground, and

worn to rags!

"What will Ma say?" rose in horror to every lip.

This awful thought sobered them at once, and, finding it getting dark,

shoes were hastily sought out of the pile in the corner, sun-bonnets

donned, and slowly the long procession moved down the back stairs and

out again into the street.

Nimpo flung herself on to the little bed in her room, and sighed with

happiness.

"Oh! wasn't it splendid?--and I know mamma'll forgive my stockings.

Besides, I'll wash them myself, and darn them."

(While I am about it, I may as well say that every girl who went to

Nimpo's party had a long and serious task of darning the next week.)

When it was all over, and Mrs. Primkins and Augusta, assisted by two or

three neighbors, had washed and returned dishes, brought down tables and

chairs, swept out front hall, and reduced it to its normal condition of

dismal state, to be seen and not used, and the neighbors had gone, and

it was nine o'clock at night, Augusta sat down to reckon up debts, while

Mrs. Primkins "set the bread."

Augusta brought out her account, and read: "Mrs. A., blank loaves of

bread, ditto cake, one dish preserves; Mrs. B., ditto, ditto; Mrs. C.,

ditto, ditto."

Mrs. Primkins listened to the whole list, and made a mental calculation

of how much of the ten-dollar bill it would take to pay up. The result

must have been satisfactory, for her grim face relaxed almost into a

smile, as she covered up the "sponge" and washed her hands.

"Wal, don't let your Pa get away in the morning till he has split up a

good pile of oven-wood. We'll heat the brick oven, and have over Mis'

Kent's Mary Ann to help. I guess the money'll cover it, and I can pay

Mary Ann in old clothes."

THE LINNET'S FEE.

BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.

Once I saw a wee brown linnet

Dancing on a tree,

Dancing on a tree.

How her feet flew every minute

As she danced at me-e-e;

How her feet flew every minute

As she danced at me!

"Sing a song for me, wee linnet,

Sing a song for me,

Sing a song for me."

"Oh, Miss, if you'll wait a minute,

Till my mate I see-e-e;

Oh, Miss, if you'll wait a minute,

He will sing for thee."

"Thank you, thank you, wee brown linnet,

For amusing me,

For amusing me;

You have danced for many a minute,

You must tired be-e-e,

You have sung for many minutes,

You must tired be."

"Thanks would starve us," cried the linnets,--

As he sung at me,

As she danced at me.

"Should you sing like this ten minutes,

You would want a fee-e-e;

Should you dance like this ten minutes

You would want a fee."

"Pardon me, I pray, dear linnet,

Fly down from your tree,

Fly down from your tree.

I will come back in a minute

With some seed for thee-e-e;

I will come back in a minute

With some seed for thee."

DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XX.

Dismally barren and lonesome was that desolate bar between the "bay" and

the ocean. Here and there it swelled up into great drifts and mounds of

sand, which were almost large enough to be called hills; but nowhere did

it show a tree or a bush, or even a patch of grass. Annie Foster found

herself getting melancholy as she gazed upon it and thought of how the

winds must sometimes sweep across it, laden with sea-spray and rain and

hail, or the bitter sleet and blinding snow of winter.

"Dabney," she said, "was the storm very severe here last night and

yesterday?"

"Worse here than over our side of the bay, ten times."

"Were there any vessels wrecked?"

"Most likely; but it's too soon to know just where."

At that moment the "Swallow" was running rapidly around a sandy point,

jutting into the bay from the highest mound on the bar, not half a mile

from the light-house, and only twice as far from the low, wooden roof of

the "wrecking station," where, as Dab had explained to his guests, the

life-boats and other apparatus were kept safely housed. The piles of

drifted sand had for some time prevented the brightest eyes on board the

"Swallow" from seeing anything to seaward; but now, as they came around

the point and a broad level lay before them, Ham Morris sprang to his

feet in sudden excitement as he exclaimed:

"In the breakers! Why, she must have been a three-master. All up with

her now."

"Look along the shore!" shouted Dab. "Some of 'em saved, anyhow. The

coast-men are there, life-boats and all."

So they were, and Ham was right about the vessel, though not a mast was

left standing in her now. If there had been, indeed, she might have been

kept off the breakers, as they afterward learned. She had been dismasted

in the storm, but had not struck until after daylight that morning, and

help had been close at hand and promptly given. No such thing as saving

that unfortunate hull. She would beat to pieces just where she lay,

sooner or later, according to the kind of weather and the waves it

should bring with it.

The work done by the life-boat men had been a good one, and had not been

very easy either, for they had brought the crew and passengers from the

wreck safely to the sandy beach. They had even saved some items of

baggage. In a few hours, the "coast wrecking tugs" would be on hand to

look out for the cargo. No chance whatever for the 'longshoremen, good

or bad, to turn an honest penny without working hard for it. Work and

wages enough, to be sure, helping to unload, when the sea, now so very

heavy, should go down a little; but "wages" were not what some of them

were most hungry for.

Two of them, at all events--one a tall, weather-beaten,

stoop-shouldered, grizzled old man, in tattered raiment, and the other,

even more battered, but with no "look of the sea" about him--stood on a

sand-drift gloomily gazing at the group of shipwrecked people on the

shore, and the helpless mass of timber and spars out there among the

beatings of the surf.

"Not more 'n three hunder yards out. She'd break up soon 'f there was no

one to hender. Wot a show we'd hev."

"I reckon," growled the shorter man. "Is your name Peter?"

"Aye. I belong yer. Allers lived about high-water mark. Whar'd ye come

from?"

The only answer was a sharp and excited exclamation. Neither of them had

been paying any attention to the bay side of the bar and, while they

were gazing at the wreck, a very pretty little yacht had cast anchor,

close in shore, and then, with the help of a row-boat, quite a party of

ladies and gentlemen--the latter somewhat young-looking--had made their

way to the land, and were now hurrying forward. They did not pay the

slightest attention to Peter and his companion, but, in a few minutes

more, they were trying to talk to those poor people on the sea-beach.

Trying, but not succeeding very well, for the wreck had been a Bremen

bark with an assorted cargo and some fifty passengers, all emigrants.

German seemed their only tongue, and none of Mrs. Kinzer's

pleasure-party spoke German.

"Too bad," Ford Foster was saying, when there came a sort of wail from a

group at a little distance, and it seemed to close with--"pauvre

enfant."

"French!" he exclaimed. "Why, they look as Dutch as any of the rest.

Come on, Annie, let's try and speak to them."

The rest followed a good deal like a flock of sheep, and it was a sad

enough scene which lay before them. No lives had been lost in the wreck,

though there had been a great deal of suffering among the poor

passengers, cooped up between-decks with the hatches closed, while the

storm lasted. Nobody drowned, indeed, but all dreadfully soaked in the

surf in getting ashore; and among the rest had been the fair-haired

child, now lying there on his mother's lap, so pinched and blue, and

seemingly so lifeless.

French, were they? Yes and no; for the father, a tall, stout young man,

who looked like a farmer, told Ford they were from Alsace, and spoke

both tongues.

"The child, was it sick?"

Not so much sick as dying of starvation and exposure.

Oh, such a sad, pleading look as the poor mother lifted to the moist

eyes of Mrs. Kinzer as the portly widow bent over the silent boy. Such a

pretty child he must have been, and not over two years old; but the salt

water was in his tangled curls now, and his poor lips were parted in a

weak, sick way, that spoke of utter exhaustion.

"Can anything be done, mother?"

"Yes, Dabney; you and Ham, and Ford and Frank, go to the yacht, quick as

you can, and bring the spirit-heater, lamp and all, and bread and milk,

and every dry napkin and towel you can find. Bring Keziah's shawl."

Such quick time they made across that sand-bar!

And they were none too soon; for, as they came running down to their

boat, a mean, slouching sort of fellow walked rapidly away from it.

"He was going to steal it."

"Can't go for him now, Dab; but you'll have to mount guard here while we

go back with the things."

He did so, and Ham and Frank and Ford hurried back to the other beach to

find that Mrs. Kinzer had taken complete possession of that baby. Every

rag of his damp things was already stripped off, and now, while Miranda

lighted the "heater" and made some milk hot in a minute, the good lady

began to rub the little sufferer as only a mother knows how.

Then there was a warm wrapping up in cloths and shawls, and better

success than anybody had dreamed of in making the seemingly half-dead

child eat something.

"That was about all the matter," said Mrs. Kinzer. "Now if we can get

him and his mother over to the house, we can save both of them. Ford,

how long did you say it was since they'd eaten anything?"

"About three days, they say."

"Mercy on me! And that cabin of ours holds so little! Glad it's full,

anyhow. Let's get it out and over here at once."

"The cabin?"

"No, the provisions."

And not a soul among them all thought of their own lunch, any more than

Mrs. Kinzer herself did; but Joe and Fuz were not just then among them.

On the contrary, they were over there by the shore, where the "Jenny"

had been pulled up, trying to get Dab Kinzer to put them on board the

"Swallow."

"Somebody ought to be on board of her," said Fuz, in as anxious a tone

as he could, "with so many strange people around."

[Illustration: "WHOM DO YOU THINK I'VE SEEN TO-DAY?"]

"It isn't safe," added Joe.

"Fact," replied Dab; "but then I kind o' like to feel a little unsafe."

And the Hart boys felt, somehow, that Dab knew why they were so anxious

to go on board, and they were right enough, for he was saying to himself

at that moment,

"They can wait. They do look hungry, but they'll live through it. There

aint any cuffs or collars in Ham's locker."

All there was then in the locker, however, was soon out of it when Mrs.

Kinzer and the rest came, for they brought with them the officers of the

wrecked bark, and neither Joe nor Fuz had a chance to so much as "help

distribute" that supply of provisions. Ham went over to make sure it

should be properly done, while Mrs. Kinzer saw her little patient with

his father and mother safely stowed on board the "Swallow."

"I'll save that baby, anyhow," she said to Miranda, "and Ford says his

father's a farmer. We can find plenty for 'em to do. They'll never see a

thing of their baggage, and I guess they hadn't a great deal."

She was just the woman to guess correctly, but at that moment Dab Kinzer

said to Annie Foster in a low tone:

"Whom do you think I've seen to-day?"

"I can't guess. Who was it?"

"The tramp!"

"The same one--"

"The very same. There he goes, over the sand-hill yonder, with old

Peter, the wrecker. We've got to hurry home now, but I'm going to set

Ham Morris on his track."

"You never'll find him again."

"Do you s'pose old Peter'd befriend a man that did what he did, right on

the shore of the bay? No, indeed, there isn't a fisherman from here to

Montauk that wouldn't join to hunt him out. He's safe whenever Ham wants

him, if we don't scare him now."

"Don't scare him, then," whispered Annie.

The wind was fair and the home sail of the "Swallow" was really a swift

and short one, but it did seem dreadfully long to her passengers. Mrs.

Kinzer was anxious to see that poor baby safely in bed. Ham Morris

wanted to send a whole load of refreshments back to the shipwrecked

people. Dab Kinzer could not keep his thoughts from that "tramp." And

then, if the truth must come out, every soul on board the beautiful

little yacht was getting more and more aware, with every minute that

passed, that they had had a good deal of sea air and excitement, and a

splendid sail across the bay and back, but no dinner. Not so much as a

herring or a cracker.