IN THE WILLOW
The old tree saw and heard a good many little scenes and confidences
that summer, because it became the favorite retreat of all the
children, and the willow seemed to enjoy it, for a pleasant welcome
always met them, and the quiet hours spent in its arms did them all
good. It had a great deal of company one Saturday afternoon, and some
little bird reported what went on there.
First came Nan and Daisy with their small tubs and bits of soap, for
now and then they were seized with a tidy fit, and washed up all their
dolls’ clothes in the brook. Asia would not have them “slopping round”
in her kitchen, and the bath-room was forbidden since Nan forgot to
turn off the water till it overflowed and came gently dripping down
through the ceiling. Daisy went systematically to work, washing first
the white and then the colored things, rinsing them nicely, and hanging
them to dry on a cord fastened from one barberry-bush to another, and
pinning them up with a set of tiny clothes-pins Ned had turned for
her. But Nan put all her little things to soak in the same tub, and
then forgot them while she collected thistledown to stuff a pillow for
Semiramis, Queen of Babylon, as one doll was named. This took some
time, and when Mrs. Giddy-gaddy came to take out her clothes, deep
green stains appeared on every thing, for she had forgotten the green
silk lining of a certain cape, and its color had soaked nicely into
the pink and blue gowns, the little chemises, and even the best ruffled
petticoat.
“Oh me! what a mess!” sighed Nan.
“Lay them on the grass to bleach,” said Daisy, with an air of
experience.
“So I will, and we can sit up in the nest and watch that they don’t
blow away.”
The Queen of Babylon’s wardrobe was spread forth upon the bank, and,
turning up their tubs to dry, the little washerwomen climbed into the
nest, and fell to talking, as ladies are apt to do in the pauses of
domestic labor.
“I’m going to have a feather-bed to go with my new pillow,” said Mrs.
Giddy-gaddy, as she transferred the thistledown from her pocket to her
handkerchief, losing about half in the process.
“I wouldn’t; Aunt Jo says feather-beds aren’t healthy. I never let _my_
children sleep on any thing but a mattress,” returned Mrs. Shakespeare
Smith, decidedly.
“I don’t care; my children are so strong they often sleep on the
floor, and don’t mind it” (which was quite true). “I can’t afford nine
mattresses, and I like to make beds myself.”
“Won’t Tommy charge for the feathers?”
“May be he will, but I shan’t pay him, and he won’t care,” returned
Mrs. G., taking a base advantage of the well-known good-nature of T.
Bangs.
“I think the pink will fade out of that dress sooner than the green
mark will,” observed Mrs. S., looking down from her perch, and changing
the subject, for she and her gossip differed on many points, and Mrs.
Smith was a discreet lady.
“Never mind; I’m tired of dolls, and I guess I shall put them all away
and attend to my farm; I like it rather better than playing house,”
said Mrs. G., unconsciously expressing the desire of many older ladies,
who cannot dispose of their families so easily however.
“But you mustn’t leave them; they will die without their mother,” cried
tender Mrs. Smith.
“Let ’em die then; I’m tired of fussing over babies, and I’m going
to play with the boys; they need me to see to ’em,” returned the
strong-minded lady.
Daisy knew nothing about woman’s rights; she quietly took all she
wanted, and no one denied her claim, because she did not undertake what
she could not carry out, but unconsciously used the all-powerful right
of her own influence to win from others any privilege for which she had
proved her fitness. Nan attempted all sorts of things, undaunted by
direful failures, and clamored fiercely to be allowed to do every thing
that the boys did. They laughed at her, hustled her out of the way,
and protested against her meddling with their affairs. But she would
not be quenched and she would be heard, for her will was strong, and
she had the spirit of a rampant reformer. Mrs. Bhaer sympathized with
her, but tried to curb her frantic desire for entire liberty, showing
her that she must wait a little, learn self-control, and be ready to
use her freedom before she asked for it. Nan had meek moments when she
agreed to this, and the influences at work upon her were gradually
taking effect. She no longer declared that she would be engine-driver
or a blacksmith, but turned her mind to farming, and found in it a vent
for the energy bottled up in her active little body. It did not quite
satisfy her, however; for her sage and sweet marjoram were dumb things,
and could not thank her for her care. She wanted something human to
love, work for, and protect, and was never happier than when the little
boys brought their cut fingers, bumped heads, or bruised joints for her
to “mend up.” Seeing this, Mrs. Jo proposed that she should learn how
to do it nicely, and Nursey had an apt pupil in bandaging, plastering,
and fomenting. The boys began to call her “Dr. Giddy-gaddy,” and she
liked it so well that Mrs. Jo one day said to the Professor--
“Fritz, I see what we can do for that child. She wants something to
live for even now, and will be one of the sharp, strong, discontented
women if she does not have it. Don’t let us snub her restless little
nature, but do our best to give her the work she likes, and by and by
persuade her father to let her study medicine. She will make a capital
doctor, for she has courage, strong nerves, a tender heart, and an
intense love and pity for the weak and suffering.”
Mr. Bhaer smiled at first, but agreed to try, and gave Nan an
herb-garden, teaching her the various healing properties of the plants
she tended, and letting her try their virtues on the children in
the little illnesses they had from time to time. She learned fast,
remembered well, and showed a sense and interest most encouraging to
her Professor, who did not shut his door in her face because she was a
little woman.
She was thinking of this, as she sat in the willow that day, and when
Daisy said in her gentle way--
“I love to keep house, and mean to have a nice one for Demi when we
grow up and live together.”
Nan replied with decision--
“Well, I haven’t got any brother, and I don’t want any house to fuss
over. I shall have an office, with lots of bottles and drawers and
pestle things in it, and I shall drive round in a horse and chaise and
cure sick people. That will be such fun.”
“Ugh! how can you bear the bad-smelling stuff and the nasty little
powders and castor-oil and senna and hive syrup?” cried Daisy, with a
shudder.
“I shan’t have to take any, so I don’t care. Besides, they make people
well, and I like to cure folks. Didn’t my sage-tea make Mother Bhaer’s
headache go away, and my hops stop Ned’s toothache in five hours? So
now!”
“Shall you put leeches on people, and cut off legs and pull out teeth?”
asked Daisy, quaking at the thought.
“Yes, I shall do every thing; I don’t care if the people are all
smashed up, I shall mend them. My grandpa was a doctor, and I saw him
sew a great cut in a man’s cheek, and I held the sponge, and wasn’t
frightened a bit, and Grandpa said I was a brave girl.”
“How could you? I’m sorry for sick people, and I like to nurse them,
but it makes my legs shake so I have to run away. I’m not a brave
girl,” sighed Daisy.
“Well, you can be my nurse, and cuddle my patients when I have given
them the physic and cut off their legs,” said Nan, whose practice was
evidently to be of the heroic kind.
“Ship ahoy! Where are you, Nan?” called a voice from below.
“Here we are.”
“Ay, ay!” said the voice, and Emil appeared holding one hand in the
other, with his face puckered up as if in pain.
“Oh, what’s the matter?” cried Daisy, anxiously.
“A confounded splinter in my thumb. Can’t get it out. Take a pick at
it, will you, Nanny?”
“It’s in very deep, and I haven’t any needle,” said Nan, examining a
tarry thumb with interest.
“Take a pin,” said Emil, in a hurry.
“No, it’s too big and hasn’t got a sharp point.”
Here Daisy, who had dived into her pocket, presented a neat little
housewife with four needles in it.
“You are the Posy who always has what we want,” said Emil; and Nan
resolved to have a needle-book in her own pocket henceforth, for just
such cases as this were always occurring in her practice.
Daisy covered her eyes, but Nan probed and picked with a steady hand,
while Emil gave directions not down in any medical work or record.
“Starboard now! Steady, boys, steady! Try another tack. Heave ho! there
she is!”
“Suck it,” ordered the Doctor, surveying the splinter with an
experienced eye.
“Too dirty,” responded the patient, shaking his bleeding hand.
“Wait; I’ll tie it up if you have got a handkerchief.”
“Haven’t; take one of those rags down there.”
“Gracious! no, indeed; they are dolls’ clothes,” cried Daisy,
indignantly.
“Take one of mine; I’d like to have you,” said Nan; and swinging
himself down, Emil caught up the first “rag” he saw. It happened to be
the frilled skirt; but Nan tore it up without a murmur; and when the
royal petticoat was turned into a neat little bandage, she dismissed
her patient with the command--
“Keep it wet, and let it alone; then it will heal right up, and not be
sore.”
“What do you charge?” asked the Commodore, laughing.
“Nothing; I keep a ’spensary; that is a place where poor people are
doctored free gratis for nothing,” explained Nan, with an air.
“Thank you, Doctor Giddy-gaddy. I’ll always call you in when I come to
grief;” and Emil departed, but looked back to say--for one good turn
deserved another--“Your duds are blowing away, Doctor.”
Forgiving the disrespectful word, “duds,” the ladies hastily descended,
and, gathering up their wash, retired to the house to fire up the
little stove, and go to ironing.
A passing breath of air shook the old willow, as if it laughed softly
at the childish chatter which went on in the nest, and it had hardly
composed itself when another pair of birds alighted for a confidential
twitter.
“Now, I’ll tell you the secret,” began Tommy, who was “swellin’
wisibly” with the importance of his news.
“Tell away,” answered Nat, wishing he had brought his fiddle, it was so
shady and quiet here.
“Well we fellows were talking over the late interesting case of
circumstantial evidence,” said Tommy, quoting at random from a speech
Franz had made at the club, “and I proposed giving Dan something to
make up for our suspecting him, to show our respect, and so on, you
know--something handsome and useful, that he could keep always, and be
proud of. What do you think we chose?”
“A butterfly-net; he wants one ever so much,” said Nat, looking a
little disappointed, for he meant to get it himself.
“No, sir; it’s to be a microscope, a real swell one, that we see
what-do-you-call-’ems in water with, and stars, and ant-eggs, and all
sorts of games, you know. Won’t it be a jolly good present?” said
Tommy, rather confusing microscopes and telescopes in his remarks.
“Tip-top! I’m so glad! Won’t it cost a heap, though?” cried Nat,
feeling that his friend was beginning to be appreciated.
“Of course it will; but we are all going to give something. I headed
the paper with my five dollars; for if it is done at all, it must be
done handsome.”
“What! all of it? I never did see such a generous chap as you are;” and
Nat beamed upon him with sincere admiration.
“Well, you see, I’ve been so bothered with my property, that I’m tired
of it, and don’t mean to save up any more, but give it away as I go
along, and then nobody will envy me, or want to steal it, and I shan’t
be suspecting folks, and worrying about my old cash,” replied Tommy, on
whom the cares and anxieties of a millionaire weighed heavily.
“Will Mr. Bhaer let you do it?”
“He thought it was a first-rate plan, and said that some of the best
men he knew preferred to do good with their money, instead of laying it
up to be squabbled over when they died.”
“Your father is rich; does he do that way?”
“I’m not sure; he gives me all I want; I know that much. I’m going to
talk to him about it when I go home. Anyhow, I shall set him a good
example;” and Tommy was so serious, that Nat did not dare to laugh, but
said, respectfully,--
“You will be able to do ever so much with your money, won’t you?”
“So Mr. Bhaer said, and he promised to advise me about useful ways of
spending it. I’m going to begin with Dan; and next time I get a dollar
or so, I shall do something for Dick, he’s such a good little chap, and
only has a cent a week for pocket-money. He can’t earn much, you know;
so I’m going to kind of see to him;” and good-hearted Tommy quite
longed to begin.
“I think that’s a beautiful plan, and I’m not going to try to buy a
fiddle any more; I’m going to get Dan his net all myself, and if there
is any money left, I’ll do something to please poor Billy. He’s fond
of me, and though he isn’t poor, he’d like some little thing from me,
because I can make out what he wants better than the rest of you.”
And Nat fell to wondering how much happiness could be got out of his
precious three dollars.
“So I would. Now come and ask Mr. Bhaer if you can’t go in town with
me on Monday afternoon, so you can get the net, while I get the
microscope. Franz and Emil are going too, and we’ll have a jolly time
larking round among the shops.”
The lads walked away arm-in-arm, discussing the new plans with droll
importance, yet beginning already to feel the sweet satisfaction which
comes to those who try, no matter how humbly, to be earthly providences
to the poor and helpless, and gild their mite with the gold of charity
before it is laid up where thieves cannot break through and steal.
“Come up and rest while we sort the leaves; it’s so cool and pleasant
here,” said Demi, as he and Dan came sauntering home from a long walk
in the woods.
“All right!” answered Dan, who was a boy of few words, and up they went.
“What makes the birch leaves shake so much more than the others?” asked
inquiring Demi, who was always sure of an answer from Dan.
“They are hung differently. Don’t you see the stem where it joins the
leaf is sort of pinched one way, and where it joins the twig, it is
pinched another. That makes it waggle with the least bit of wind, but
the elm leaves hang straight, and keep stiller.”
“How curious! will this do so?” and Demi held up a sprig of acacia,
which he had broken from a little tree on the lawn, because it was so
pretty.
“No; that belongs to the sort that shuts up when you touch it. Draw
your finger down the middle of the stem, and see if the leaves don’t
curl up,” said Dan, who was examining a bit of mica.
Demi tried it, and presently the little leaves did fold together, till
the spray showed a single instead of a double line of leaves.
“I like that; tell me about the others. What do these do?” asked Demi,
taking up a new branch.
“Feed silk-worms; they live on mulberry leaves, till they begin to
spin themselves up. I was in a silk-factory once, and there were rooms
full of shelves all covered with leaves, and worms eating them so fast
that it made a rustle. Sometimes they eat so much they die. Tell that
to Stuffy,” and Dan laughed, as he took up another bit of rock with a
lichen on it.
“I know one thing about this mullein leaf: the fairies use them for
blankets,” said Demi, who had not quite given up his faith in the
existence of the little folk in green.
“If I had a microscope, I’d show you something prettier than fairies,”
said Dan, wondering if he should ever own that coveted treasure. “I
knew an old woman who used mullein leaves for a night-cap because she
had face-ache. She sewed them together, and wore it all the time.”
“How funny! was she your grandmother?”
“Never had any. She was a queer old woman, and lived alone in a little
tumble-down house with nineteen cats. Folks called her a witch, but
she wasn’t, though she looked like an old rag-bag. She was real kind
to me when I lived in that place, and used to let me get warm at her
fire when the folks at the poorhouse were hard on me.”
“Did you live in a poorhouse?”
“A little while. Never mind that--I didn’t mean to speak of it;” and
Dan stopped short in his unusual fit of communicativeness.
“Tell about the cats, please,” said Demi, feeling that he had asked an
unpleasant question, and sorry for it.
“Nothing to tell; only she had a lot of ’em, and kept ’em in a barrel
nights; and I used to go and tip over the barrel sometimes, and let ’em
out all over the house, and then she’d scold, and chase ’em and put ’em
in again, spitting and yowling like fury.”
“Was she good to them?” asked Demi, with a hearty child’s laugh,
pleasant to hear.
“Guess she was. Poor old soul! she took in all the lost and sick cats
in the town; and when anybody wanted one they went to Marm Webber,
and she let ’em pick any kind and color they wanted, and only asked
ninepence,--she was so glad to have her pussies get a good home.”
“I should like to see Marm Webber. Could I, if I went to that place?”
“She’s dead. All my folks are,” said Dan, briefly.
“I’m sorry;” and Demi sat silent a minute, wondering what subject would
be safe to try next. He felt delicate about speaking of the departed
lady, but was very curious about the cats, and could not resist asking
softly--
“Did she cure the sick ones?”
“Sometimes. One had a broken leg, and she tied it up to a stick, and it
got well; and another had fits, and she doctored it with _yarbs_ till
it was cured. But some of ’em died, and she buried ’em; and when they
couldn’t get well, she killed ’em easy.”
“How?” asked Demi, feeling that there was a peculiar charm about this
old woman, and some sort of joke about the cats, because Dan was
smiling to himself.
“A kind lady, who was fond of cats, told her how, and gave her some
stuff, and sent all her own pussies to be killed that way. Marm used to
put a sponge, wet with ether, in the bottom of an old boot, then poke
puss in head downwards. The ether put her to sleep in a jiffy, and she
was drowned in warm water before she woke up.”
“I hope the cats didn’t feel it. I shall tell Daisy about that. You
have known a great many interesting things, haven’t you?” asked Demi,
and fell to meditating on the vast experience of a boy who had run away
more than once, and taken care of himself in a big city.
“Wish I hadn’t sometimes.”
“Why? Don’t remembering them feel good?”
“No.”
“It’s very singular how hard it is to manage your mind,” said Demi,
clasping his hands round his knees, and looking up at the sky as if for
information upon his favorite topic.
“Devilish hard--no, I don’t mean that;” and Dan bit his lips, for the
forbidden word slipped out in spite of him, and he wanted to be more
careful with Demi than with any of the other boys.
“I’ll play I didn’t hear it,” said Demi; “and you won’t do it again,
I’m sure.”
“Not if I can help it. That’s one of the things I don’t want to
remember. I keep pegging away, but it don’t seem to do much good;” and
Dan looked discouraged.
“Yes, it does. You don’t say half so many bad words as you used to; and
Aunt Jo is pleased, because she said it was a hard habit to break up.”
“Did she?” and Dan cheered up a bit.
“You must put swearing away in your fault-drawer, and lock it up;
that’s the way I do with my badness.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dan, looking as if he found Demi almost as
amusing as a new sort of cockchafer or beetle.
“Well, it’s one of my private plays, and I’ll tell you, but I think
you’ll laugh at it,” began Demi, glad to hold forth on this congenial
subject. “I play that my mind is a round room, and my soul is a little
sort of creature with wings that lives in it. The walls are full of
shelves and drawers, and in them I keep my thoughts, and my goodness
and badness, and all sorts of things. The goods I keep where I can see
them, and the bads I lock up tight, but they get out, and I have to
keep putting them in and squeezing them down, they are so strong. The
thoughts I play with when I am alone or in bed, and I make up and do
what I like with them. Every Sunday I put my room in order, and talk
with the little spirit that lives there, and tell him what to do. He
is very bad sometimes, and won’t mind me, and I have to scold him, and
take him to Grandpa. He always makes him behave, and be sorry for his
faults, because Grandpa likes this play, and gives me nice things to
put in the drawers, and tells me how to shut up the naughties. Hadn’t
you better try that way? it’s a very good one;” and Demi looked so
earnest and full of faith, that Dan did not laugh at his quaint fancy,
but said, soberly,--
“I don’t think there is a lock strong enough to keep my badness shut
up. Any way my room is in such a clutter I don’t know how to clear it
up.”
“You keep your drawers in the cabinet all spandy nice; why can’t you do
the others?”
“I ain’t used to it. Will you show me how?” and Dan looked as if
inclined to try Demi’s childish way of keeping a soul in order.
“I’d love to, but I don’t know how, except to talk as Grandpa does. I
can’t do it good like him, but I’ll try.”
“Don’t tell any one; only now and then we’ll come here and talk things
over, and I’ll pay you for it by telling all I know about my sort of
things. Will that do?” and Dan held out his big, rough hand.
Demi gave his smooth, little hand readily, and the league was made;
for in the happy, peaceful world where the younger boy lived, lions
and lambs played together, and little children innocently taught their
elders.
“Hush!” said Dan, pointing toward the house, as Demi was about to
indulge in another discourse on the best way of getting badness down,
and keeping it down; and peeping from their perch, they saw Mrs. Jo
strolling slowly along, reading as she went, while Teddy trotted behind
her, dragging a little cart upside down.
“Wait till they see us,” whispered Demi, and both sat still as the pair
came nearer, Mrs. Jo so absorbed in her book that she would have walked
into the brook if Teddy had not stopped her by saying--
“Marmar, I wanter fis.”
Mrs. Jo put down the charming book which she had been trying to read
for a week, and looked about her for a fishing-pole, being used to
making toys out of nothing. Before she had broken one from the hedge,
a slender willow bough fell at her feet; and, looking up, she saw the
boys laughing in the nest.
“Up! up!” cried Teddy, stretching his arms and flapping his skirts as
if about to fly.
“I’ll come down and you come up. I must go to Daisy now;” and Demi
departed to rehearse the tale of the nineteen cats, with the exciting
boot-and-barrel episodes.
Teddy was speedily whisked up; and then Dan said, laughing, “Come, too;
there’s plenty of room. I’ll lend you a hand.”
Mrs. Jo glanced over her shoulder, but no one was in sight; and, rather
liking the joke of the thing, she laughed back, saying, “Well, if you
won’t mention it, I think I will;” and with two nimble steps was in the
willow.
“I haven’t climbed a tree since I was married. I used to be very fond
of it when I was a girl,” she said, looking well-pleased with her shady
perch.
“Now, you read if you want to, and I’ll take care of Teddy,” proposed
Dan, beginning to make a fishing-rod for impatient Baby.
“I don’t think I care about it now. What were you and Demi at up here?”
asked Mrs. Jo, thinking, from the sober look in Dan’s face, that he had
something on his mind.
“Oh! we were talking. I’d been telling him about leaves and things,
and he was telling me some of his queer plays. Now, then, Major,
fish away;” and Dan finished off his work by putting a big blue fly
on the bent pin which hung at the end of the cord he had tied to the
willow-rod.
Teddy leaned down from the tree, and was soon wrapt up in watching for
the fish which he felt sure would come. Dan held him by his little
petticoats, lest he should take a “header” into the brook, and Mrs. Jo
soon won him to talk by doing so herself.
“I am so glad you told Demi about ‘leaves and things;’ it is just what
he needs; and I wish you would teach him, and take him to walk with
you.”
“I’d like to, he is so bright; but--”
“But what?”
“I didn’t think you’d trust me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, Demi is so kind of precious, and so good, and I’m such a bad
lot, I thought you’d keep him away from me.”
“But you are not a ‘bad lot,’ as you say; and I do trust you, Dan,
entirely, because you honestly try to improve, and do better and better
every week.”
“Really?” and Dan looked up at her with the cloud of despondency
lifting from his face.
“Yes; don’t you feel it?”
“I hoped so, but I didn’t know.”
“I have been waiting and watching quietly, for I thought I’d give you a
good trial first; and if you stood it, I would give you the best reward
I had. You _have_ stood it well; and now I’m going to trust not only
Demi, but my own boy, to you, because you can teach them some things
better than any of us.”
“Can I?” and Dan looked amazed at the idea.
“Demi has lived among older people so much that he needs just what you
have--knowledge of common things, strength, and courage. He thinks you
are the bravest boy he ever saw, and admires your strong way of doing
things. Then you know a great deal about natural objects, and can tell
him more wonderful tales of birds, and bees, and leaves, and animals,
than his story-books give him; and, being true, these stories will
teach and do him good. Don’t you see now how much you can help him,
and why I like to have him with you?”
“But I swear sometimes, and might tell him something wrong. I wouldn’t
mean to, but it might slip out, just as ‘devil’ did a few minutes ago,”
said Dan, anxious to do his duty, and let her know his short-comings.
“I know you try not to say or do any thing to harm the little
fellow, and here is where I think Demi will help _you_, because he
is so innocent and wise in his small way, and has what I am trying
to give you, dear,--good principles. It is never too early to try
and plant them in a child, and never too late to cultivate them in
the most neglected person. You are only boys yet; you can teach one
another. Demi will unconsciously strengthen your moral sense, you will
strengthen his common sense, and I shall feel as if I had helped you
both.”
Words could not express how pleased and touched Dan was by this
confidence and praise. No one had ever trusted him before, no one had
cared to find out and foster the good in him, and no one had suspected
how much there was hidden away in the breast of the neglected boy,
going fast to ruin, yet quick to feel and value sympathy and help. No
honor that he might earn hereafter would ever be half so precious as
the right to teach his few virtues and his small store of learning
to the child whom he most respected; and no more powerful restraint
could have been imposed upon him than the innocent companion confided
to his care. He found courage now to tell Mrs. Jo of the plan already
made with Demi, and she was glad that the first step had been so
naturally taken. Every thing seemed working well for Dan, and she
rejoiced over him, because it had seemed a hard task, yet, working on
with a firm belief in the possibility of reformation in far older and
worse subjects than he, there had come this quick and hopeful change
to encourage her. He felt that he had friends now and a place in the
world, something to live and work for, and, though he said little, all
that was best and bravest in a character made old by a hard experience
responded to the love and faith bestowed on him, and Dan’s salvation
was assured.
Their quiet talk was interrupted by a shout of delight from Teddy, who,
to the surprise of every one, did actually catch a trout where no trout
had been seen for years. He was so enchanted with his splendid success
that he insisted on showing his prize to the family before Asia cooked
it for supper; so the three descended and went happily away together,
all satisfied with the work of that half hour.
Ned was the next visitor to the tree, but he only made a short stay,
sitting there at his ease while Dick and Dolly caught a pailful of
grasshoppers and crickets for him. He wanted to play a joke on Tommy,
and intended to tuck up a few dozen of the lively creatures in his bed,
so that when Bangs got in he would speedily tumble out again, and pass
a portion of the night in chasing “hopper-grasses” round the room. The
hunt was soon over, and having paid the hunters with a few peppermints
apiece Ned retired to make Tommy’s bed.
For an hour the old willow sighed and sung to itself, talked with the
brook, and watched the lengthening shadows as the sun went down. The
first rosy color was touching its graceful branches when a boy came
stealing up the avenue, across the lawn, and, spying Billy by the
brook-side, went to him, saying, in a mysterious tone,--
“Go and tell Mr. Bhaer I want to see him down here, please. Don’t let
any one hear.”
Billy nodded and ran off, while the boy swung himself up into the tree,
and sat there looking anxious, yet evidently feeling the charm of the
place and hour. In five minutes Mr. Bhaer appeared, and, stepping up on
the fence, leaned into the nest, saying, kindly,--
“I am glad to see you, Jack; but why not come in and meet us all at
once?”
“I wanted to see you first, please, sir. Uncle made me come back. I
know I don’t deserve any thing, but I hope the fellows won’t be hard
upon me.”
Poor Jack did not get on very well, but it was evident that he was
sorry and ashamed, and wanted to be received as easily as possible; for
his Uncle had thrashed him well and scolded him soundly for following
the example he himself set. Jack had begged not to be sent back, but
the school was cheap, and Mr. Ford insisted, so the boy returned as
quietly as possible, and took refuge behind Mr. Bhaer.
“I hope not, but I can’t answer for them, though I will see that they
are not unjust. I think, as Dan and Nat have suffered so much, being
innocent, you should suffer something, being guilty. Don’t you?” asked
Mr. Bhaer, pitying Jack, yet feeling that he deserved punishment for a
fault which had so little excuse.
“I suppose so, but I sent Tommy’s money back, and I said I was sorry,
isn’t that enough?” said Jack, rather sullenly; for the boy who could
do so mean a thing was not brave enough to bear the consequences well.
“No; I think you should ask pardon of all three boys, openly and
honestly. You cannot expect them to respect and trust you for a time,
but you _can_ live down this disgrace if you try, and I will help
you. Stealing and lying are detestable sins, and I hope this will be a
lesson to you. I am glad you are ashamed, it is a good sign; bear it
patiently, and do your best to earn a better reputation.”
“I’ll have an auction, and sell off all my goods dirt cheap,” said
Jack, showing his repentance in the most characteristic way.
“I think it would be better to _give_ them away, and begin on a new
foundation. Take ‘Honesty is the best policy’ for your motto, and live
up to it in act, and word, and thought, and though you don’t make a
cent of money this summer, you will be a rich boy in the autumn,” said
Mr. Bhaer, earnestly.
It was hard, but Jack consented, for he really felt that cheating
didn’t pay, and wanted to win back the friendship of the boys. His
heart clung to his possessions, and he groaned inwardly at the thought
of actually giving away certain precious things. Asking pardon publicly
was easy compared to this; but then he began to discover that certain
other things, invisible, but most valuable, were better property than
knives, fish-hooks, or even money itself. So he decided to buy up a
little integrity, even at a high price, and secure the respect of his
playmates, though it was not a salable article.
“Well, I’ll do it,” he said, with a sudden air of resolution, which
pleased Mr. Bhaer.
“Good! and I’ll stand by you. Now come and begin at once.”
And Father Bhaer led the bankrupt boy back into the little world, which
received him coldly at first, but slowly warmed to him, when he showed
that he had profited by the lesson, and was sincerely anxious to go
into a better business with a new stock-in-trade.