AT GRANDPA PARLIN'S.
It was over at last--the long, tedious journey, which Horace spoiled for
everybody, and which nobody but Horace enjoyed.
When they drove up to the quiet old homestead at Willowbrook, and
somebody had taken the little baby, poor Mrs. Clifford threw herself
into her mother's arms, and sobbed like a child. Everybody else cried,
too; and good, deaf grandpa Parlin, with smiles and tears at the same
time, declared,--
"I don't know what the matter is; so I can't tell whether to laugh or
cry."
Then his daughter Margaret went up and said in his best ear that they
were just crying for joy, and asked him if that wasn't a silly thing to
do.
Grace embraced everybody twice over; but Horace was a little shy, and
would only give what his aunties called "canary kisses."
"Margaret, I want you to give me that darling baby this minute," said
Mrs. Parlin, wiping her eyes. "Now you can bring the butter out of the
cellar: it's all there is to be done, except to set the tea on the
table."
Then grandma Parlin had another cry over little Katie: not such a
strange thing, for she could not help thinking of Harry, the baby with
sad eyes and pale face, who had been sick there all the summer before,
and was now an angel. As little Prudy had said, "God took him up to
heaven, but the tired part of him is in the garden."
Yes, under a weeping-willow. Everybody was thinking just now of tired
little Harry, "the sweetest flower that ever was planted in that
garden."
"Why, Maria," said Mrs. Clifford, as soon as she could speak, "how did
you ever travel so far with this little, little baby?"
"I don't know, mother," replied Mrs. Clifford; "I think I could never
have got here without Grace: she has been my little waiter, and Katie's
little nurse."
Grace blushed with delight at this well-deserved praise.
"And Horace is so large now, that he was some help, too, I've no doubt,"
said his grandmother.
"I would have took the baby," cried Horace, speaking up very quickly,
before any one else had time to answer,--"I would have took the baby,
but she wouldn't let me."
Mrs. Clifford might have said that Horace himself had been as much
trouble as the baby; but she was too kind to wound her little boy's
feelings.
It was certainly a very happy party who met around the tea-table at Mr.
Parlin's that evening. It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp,
with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow to the pleasant
dining-room.
First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest bread, and the
sweetest cream.
"This makes me think of Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "I hope
she is living yet."
"She is," said Margaret, "but twelve years old."
Grace looked up in surprise.
"Why, that's only a little girl, aunt Madge!"
"My dear, it's only a cow!"
"O, now I remember; the little blue one, with brass knobs on her horns!"
"Let's see; do you remember Dr. Quack and his wife?"
"O, yes'm! they were white ducks; and how they did swim! It was a year
ago. I suppose Horace doesn't remember."
"Poh! yes, I do; they were _spin-footed_!"
"Why, Horace," said Grace, laughing; "you mean _web-footed_!"
Horace bent his eyes on his plate, and did not look up again for some
time.
There was chicken-salad on the table. Margaret made that--putting in new
butter, because she knew Mrs. Clifford did not like oil.
There was delicious looking cake, "some that had been touched with
frost, and some that hadn't," as grandpa said, when he passed the
basket.
But the crowning glory of the supper was a dish of scarlet strawberries,
which looked as if they had been drinking dew-drops and sunshine till
they had caught all the richness and sweetness of summer.
"O, ma!" whispered Grace, "I'm beginning to feel so happy! I only wish
my father was here."
After tea, grandpa took Horace and Grace on each knee, large as they
were, and sang some delightful evening hymns with what was left of his
once fine voice. He looked so peaceful and happy, that his daughters
were reminded of the Bible verse, "Children's children are the crown of
old men."
"I think now," said Mrs. Clifford, coming back from putting the baby to
sleep, "it's high time my boy and girl were saying, 'Good-night, and
pleasant dreams.'"
"Aunt Madge is going up stairs with us; aren't you, auntie?"
"Yes, Horace; your other auntie wouldn't do, I suppose," said Louise.
"That makes me think of the way this same Horace used to treat me when
he was two years old. '_Her_ can't put me to bed,' he would say; 'her's
too _little_.'"
"I remember," said Margaret, "how he dreaded cold water. When his mother
called him to be washed, and said, 'Ma doesn't want a little dirty boy,'
he would look up in her face, and say, 'Does mamma want 'ittle _cold_
boy?'"
The happy children kissed everybody good-night, and followed their aunt
Madge up stairs. Now, there was a certain small room, whose one window
opened upon the piazza, and it was called "the green chamber." It
contained a cunning little bedstead, a wee bureau, a dressing-table, and
washing-stand, all pea-green. It was a room which seemed to have been
made and furnished on purpose for a child, and it had been promised to
Grace in every letter aunt Madge had written to her for a year.
Horace had thought but little about the room till to-night, when his
aunt led Grace into it, and he followed. It seemed so fresh and sweet in
"the green chamber," and on the dressing-table there was a vase of
flowers.
Aunt Madge bade the children look out of the window at a bird's nest,
which was snuggled into one corner of the piazza-roof, so high up that
nobody could reach it without a very tall ladder.
"Now," said aunt Madge, "the very first thing Grace hears in the morning
will probably be bird-music."
Grace clapped her hands.
"And where am _I_ going to sleep?" said Horace, who had been listening,
and looking on in silence. His aunt had forgotten that he was sometimes
jealous; but she could not help knowing it now, for a very disagreeable
expression looked out at his eyes, and drew down the corners of his
mouth.
"Why, Horace dear, we have to put you in one of the back chambers, just
as we did when you were here before; but you know it's a nice clean
room, with white curtains, and you can look out of the window at the
garden."
"But it's over the kitchen!"
"There, Horace," said Grace, "I'd be ashamed! You don't act like a
little gentleman! What would pa say?"
"Why couldn't I have the big front chamber?" said the little boy,
shuffling his feet, and looking down at his shoes.
"Because," said aunt Madge, smiling, "that is for your mother and the
baby."
"But if I could have this little cunning room, I'd go a flyin'. Grace
ain't company any more than me."
Aunt Madge remembered Horace's hit-or-miss way of using things, and
thought of the elephant that once walked into a china shop.
Grace laughed aloud.
"Why, Horace Clifford, you'd make the room look like everything; you
know you would! O, auntie, you ought to see how he musses up my cabinet!
I have to hide the key; I do _so_!"
Horace took the room which was given him, but he left his sister without
his usual good-night kiss, and when he repeated his prayer, I am afraid
he was thinking all the while about the green chamber.
The next morning the children had intended to go into the garden bright
and early. Grace loved flowers, and when she was a mere baby, just able
to toddle into the meadow, she would clip off the heads of buttercups
and primroses, hugging and kissing them like friends.
Horace, too, had some fancy for flowers, especially flaring ones, like
sunflowers and hollyhocks. Dandelions were nice when the stems would
curl without bothering, and poppies were worth while for little girls,
he thought, because, after they are gone to seed, you can make them into
pretty good teapots.
He wanted to go out in the garden now for humming-birds, and to see if
the dirt-colored toad was still living in his "nest," in one of the
flower-beds.
But the first thing the children heard in the morning was the pattering
of rain or the roof. No going out to-day. Grace was too tired to care
much. Horace felt cross; but remembering how many messages his
grandmother had sent to her "good little grandson," and how often aunt
Madge had written about "dear little Horace, the nephew she was so proud
of," he felt ashamed to go down stairs scowling. If his good-morning
smile was so thin that you could see a frown through it, still it was
better than no smile at all.
The breakfast was very nice, and Horace would have enjoyed the hot
griddle-cakes and maple sirup, only his aunt Louise, a handsome young
lady of sixteen, watched him more than he thought was quite polite,
saying every now and then,--
"Isn't he the image of his father? Just such a nose, just such a mouth!
He eats fast, too; that is characteristic!"
Horace did not know what "characteristic" meant, but thought it must be
something bad, for with a child's quick eye he could see that his pretty
aunt was inclined to laugh at him. In fact, he had quite an odd way of
talking, and his whole appearance was amusing to Miss Louise, who was a
very lively young lady.
"Horace, you were telling me last night about Mr. Lazelle: what did you
say was the color of his coat?"
"I said it was _blueberry_ color," replied Horace, who could see, almost
without looking up, that aunt Louise was smiling at aunt Madge.
"He is a _musicianer_ too, I think you said, and his hair _crimps_. Dear
me, what a funny man!"
Horace was silent, and made up his mind that he should be careful
another time what he said before aunt Louise.
Soon after breakfast he and Pincher went "up-attic" to see what they
could find, while Grace followed her grandmother and aunties from parlor
to kitchen, and from kitchen to pantry. She looked pale and tired, but
was so happy that she sang every now and then at the top of her voice,
forgetting that little Katie was having a nap.
Pretty soon Horace came down stairs with an old, rusty gun much taller
than himself. Mrs. Clifford was shocked at first, but smiled the next
moment, as she remembered what an innocent thing it was, past its
"prime" before she was of Horace's age.
The little boy playfully pointed the gun towards Grace, who screamed
with fright, and ran away as fast as she could.
"I don't care," cried she, coming back, a little ashamed at being
laughed at; "how did _I_ know it wasn't loaded? Do you think 'twould
look well for a little girl _not_ to be afraid of a gun?"
This speech amused everybody, particularly Horace, who was glad to have
Grace say a foolish thing once in a while. It raised his self-esteem
somehow; and, more than that, he liked to remember her little slips of
the tongue, and tease her about them.
It was not long before he had seen all there was to be seen in the
house, and wanted to "_do_ something." As for reading, that was usually
too stupid for Horace. Grace kindly offered to play checkers with him;
but she understood the game so much better than he did, that she won at
every trial.
This was more than he could bear with patience; and, whenever he saw
that she was gaining upon him, he wanted to "turn it into a
_give-game_."
"But that isn't fair, Horace."
"Well, ma, just you see how mean Grace is! There, she wants me to jump
that man yonder, so she'll take two of mine, and go right in the
king-row!"
"But, Horace," said Grace, gently, "what do I play for if I don't try to
beat?"
"There now," cried he, "chase my men up to the king-row, so I can't
crown 'em, do!"
"Just what I'm doing," replied Grace, coolly.
"Well, I should think you'd better take 'em all, and be done with it!
Before I'd be so mean as to set _traps_!"
"Look, Horace," said Grace; "you didn't jump when you ought to, and I'm
going to _huff_ your man. See, I blow it, just this way; old Mr. Knight
calls it _huffing_."
"Huff away then! but you stole one of those kings. I'll bet you stole it
off the board after I jumped it."
"Now, Horace Clifford," cried Grace, with tears in her eyes, "I never
did such a thing as to steal a king; and if you say so I won't play!"
"Horace," said Mrs. Clifford, who had been trying for some time to
speak, "what do you play checkers for?"
"Ma'am? Why, to beat, of course."
"Well, do you consider it work, or play?"
"Work, or play? Why, it's a game, ma; so it's play."
"But Grace was so obliging that she wished to amuse you, my son. _Does_
it amuse you? Doesn't it make you cross? Do you know that you have
spoken a great many sharp words to your kind sister?
"Shut the board right up, my child; and remember from this time never to
play checkers, or any other game, when you feel yourself growing
fretful! As you sometimes say, 'It doesn't pay.'"
Horace closed the board, looking ashamed.
"That's sound advice for everybody," said aunt Madge, stroking her
little nephew's hair. "If children always remembered it, they would get
along more pleasantly together--I know they would."
Grace had been looking ill all the morning, and her mother now saw
symptoms of a chill. With all her tender anxiety she had not known how
tired her little daughter was. It was two or three weeks before the
child was rested; and whenever she had a chill, which was every third
day for a while, she was delirious, and kept crying out,--
"O, do see to Horace, mamma! Mr. Lazelle will forget! O, Horace, now
_don't_ let go my hand! I've got the bundles, mamma, and the milk for
the baby."
And sometimes Mrs. Clifford would call Horace to come and take his
sister's hand, just to assure her that he was not lying cold and dead in
the waters of Lake Erie. It was really touching to see how heavily the
cares of the journey had weighed on the dear girl's youthful spirits.