TRYING TO GET RICH.
With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper, who did little but hold
the nails and look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while Abner dug
his grave under a tree in the grove.
It was evening when they all followed Pincher to his last resting-place.
"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help crying."
"I don't want to help it," said Grace; "we ought to cry."
"What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susy, "he won't go to
heaven."
"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice: "wouldn't he if
he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?"
The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed as if
everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever thought
before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious a thing it
is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased with himself;
but alas, poor Pincher!
The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of little
sparkles. The soft sky, and the twinkling water, seemed to be smiling at
each other, while a great way off you could see the dim blue mountains
rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor Pincher.
It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new leaf. He
was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open when
puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the kitchen door with a
bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still kept his chamber in a
state of confusion,--"muss," Grace called it,--pulling the drawers out
of the bureau, and scattering the contents over the floor; dropping his
clothes anywhere it happened, and carrying quantities of gravel up
stairs in his shoes.
Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even she could not help seeing
that on the whole he was improving. He "cared" more and "forgot" less.
He could always learn easily, and now he really tried to learn. His
lessons, instead of going through his head "threading my grandmother's
needle," went in and staid there. The blue book got a few marks, it is
true, but not so many as at first.
You may be sure there was not a good thing said or done by Horace which
did not give pleasure to his mother. She felt now as if she lived only
for her children; if God would bless her by making them good, she had
nothing more to desire. Grace had always been a womanly, thoughtful
little girl, but at this time she was a greater comfort than ever; and
Horace had grown so tender and affectionate, that it gratified her very
much. He was not content now with "canary kisses;" but threw his arms
around her neck very often, saying, with his lips close to her cheek,--
"Don't feel bad, ma: I'm going to take care of you."
For his mother's grief called forth his manliness.
She meant to be cheerful; but Horace knew she did not look or seem like
herself: he thought he ought to try to make her happy.
Whenever he asked for money, as he too often did, she told him that now
his father was gone, there was no one to earn anything, and it was best
to be rather prudent. He wanted a drum; but she thought he must wait a
while for that.
They were far from being poor, and Mrs. Clifford had no idea of
deceiving her little son. Yet he _was_ deceived, for he supposed that
his mother's pretty little porte-monnaie held all the bank-bills and all
the silver she had in the world.
"O, Grace!" said Horace, coming down stairs with a very grave face, "I
wish I was grown a man: then I'd earn money like sixty."
Grace stopped her singing long enough to ask what he meant to do, and
then continued in a high key,--
"Where, O where are the Hebrew children?"
"O, I'm going as a soldier," replied Horace: "I thought everybody knew
that! The colonels make a heap of money!"
"But, Horace, you might get shot--just think!"
"Then I'd dodge when they fired, for I don't know what you and ma would
do if _I_ was killed."
"Well, please step out of the way, Horace; don't you see I'm sweeping
the piazza?"
"I can't tell," pursued he, taking a seat on one of the stairs in the
hall: "I can't tell certain sure; but I may be a minister."
This was such a funny idea, that Grace made a dash with her broom, and
sent the dirt flying the wrong way.
"Why, Horace, you'll never be good enough for a minister!"
"What'll you bet?" replied he, looking a little mortified.
"You're getting to be a dear good little boy, Horace," said Grace,
soothingly; "but I don't _think_ you'll ever be a minister."
"Perhaps I'd as soon be a shoemaker," continued Horace, thoughtfully;
"they get a great deal for tappin' boots."
His sister made no reply.
"See here, now, Grace: perhaps you'd rather I'd be a tin-pedler; then
I'd always keep a horse, and you could ride."
"Ride in a cart!" cried Grace, laughing. "Can't you think of anything
else? Have you forgotten papa?"
"O, now I know," exclaimed Horace, with shining eyes: "it's a lawyer
I'll be, just like father was. I'll have a 'sleepy partner,' the way
Judge Ingle has, and by and by I'll be a judge."
"I know that would please ma, Horace," replied Grace, looking at her
little brother with a good deal of pride.
Who knew but he _might_ yet be a judge? She liked to order him about,
and have him yield to her: still she had great faith in Horace.
"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war, and turn out a general; now
you see if I don't."
"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.
"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma needs the money now. I wish
I could earn something right off while I'm a little boy."
It was not two days before he thought he had found out how to get rich;
in what way you shall see.