A PLEASANT SURPRISE.
"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make
baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"
"Pick berries," suggested Grace.
And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susy and aunt
Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pincher
very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than the
one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning to
find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" when
you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happy
when you are doing right.
They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached
home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of
berries.
When Horace timidly told aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all
they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if
they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she
supposed it was for the soldiers.
"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did
not wish his aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills
in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."
"Ah," said aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret
drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it.
She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for
your mother wouldn't deceive you."
"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned
half a somerset, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum
would cost.
The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs.
Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the
letters "D.," "B. W.," "B. G. P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one
above another. But there were no figures before any of the letters but
the "B. W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller,
as you could see by looking carefully.
"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad
words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the
fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."
"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you
never talk anything worse than lingo."
"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."
"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and
slammed doors, and lost things; but you know I didn't set that down."
I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothers
as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I might
have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she loved
Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so,
and was always glad to have him do right.
Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissed
Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of their
lives.
* * * * *
One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the
mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of men
were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening to
the news, which some one was reading in a loud, clear voice.
Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a
newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace
rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large
tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses
hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.
He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle,
thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war-news.
But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to have
the daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will.
"I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody's
more'n a minute going to the office and back."
"Is this all?" said aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, one
to aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather.
"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, to
be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters; but as he could not
find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and said
nothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, and
soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strange
dream of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post;
and of the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into a
pair of shining gold muskets.
A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford sat
mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks,
jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattled
when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in her
finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, worn
letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin."
"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carried
the letter all summer."
But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washington
about two weeks before--"a soldier's letter." She carried it down to
Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.
"Let me see," said aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder,
and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do you
know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"
Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the
letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with
trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers
trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to
reel about.
There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She sat
reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and
the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her hands
together, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.
When she was sure her sister Maria had gone up stairs, she ran out to
the kitchen, whispering,--
"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.
"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.
Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.
"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really
dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."
"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said aunt Louise: "do
speak quick."
"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed
truth! Now hush! We must be so careful how we tell Maria!"
Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for breath.
Louise dropped into a chair.
"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at once.
"He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone. He
lay for weeks just breathing, and that was all."
"But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course Maria would
have gone to him at once."
"There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself there was no
hope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and after that
operation he was very low again."
"O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can see for
ourselves?"
But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to collect
her ideas, aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and then
the three looked over the surgeon's letter together, sometimes all
talking at once.
Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the letter
said. A young man was to come with him to take care of him, and they
were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a fort-night.
"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.
This letter had been written to prepare the family for Captain
Clifford's arrival. It was expected that aunt Madge would break the news
to his wife.
"It's such a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you the
letter in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days to
get used to it."
"Wait a minute, dear," said aunt Madge, as Susy came in for a drink of
water: "please run up and ask aunt Maria to come down stairs. Now,
mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the story, if you please."
"We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting her
checked apron nervously.
When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that something
had happened. Her mother, with a flushed face, was opening and shutting
the stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-plate, with tears in her
eyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggs
into it. Nobody wanted to speak first.
"What do you say to hearing a story?" uttered Louise.
"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford by both
hands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make you
happy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good news for you?"
"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.
"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the floor: "yes,
indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's a
mistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-night."
All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford was
shocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with
fixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother and
Margaret had not caught her in their arms.
"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so quick!
Henry is _almost_ dead, Maria: he is _nearly_ dead, I mean! He's just
alive!"
"Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly.
"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't mean to
be so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should have sent me
out of the room."
This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong: she had a
funny way of blaming other people.
It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but Louise's
thoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all feared. Mrs.
Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two was wonderfully
calm, looking so perfectly happy that it was delightful just to gaze at
her face.
She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with her own
lips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaring
it was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep still, while
as for Horace, he was too happy to talk.
"Then uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy: "hasn't he
been to heaven at all?"
"No, of course not," said Susy: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be here
to-night?--Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot
it up 'twill be awful."
"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas uncle Henry,
and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."
How the family found time to do so many things that day, I do not know,
especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children under
everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things,
the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adorned
with autumn flowers and green garlands.
Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, and
every candle-stick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a
sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was all
ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza and
part of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had been
unlatched for hours, and everybody was waiting for the carriage to drive
up.
The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like a
baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green
had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and aunt Madge had gone
with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was
with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about him
carefully enough.
I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in those
brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful
happiness falls to any one's lot in this world.
While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clinging
to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm,
embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take our leave of them
and the whole family for the present, with many kind good-by's.
SOPHIE MAY'S "LITTLE-FOLKS" BOOKS.
[Illustration: "By and by the colts came to the kitchen window, which
was open, and put in their noses to ask for something to eat. Flaxie
gave them pieces of bread."
SPECIMEN OF OUT TO "FLAXIE FRIZZLE SERIES."]
LITTLE FOLKS ASTRAY.
"This is a book for the little ones of the nursery or play-room. It
introduces all the old favorites of the Prudy and Dotty books with new
characters and funny incidents. It is a charming book, wholesome and
sweet in every respect, and cannot fail to interest children under
twelve years of age."--_Christian Register._
* * * * *
PRUDY KEEPING HOUSE.
"How she kept it, why she kept it, and what a good time she had playing
cook, and washerwoman, and ironer, is told as only Sophie May can tell
stories. All the funny sayings and doings of the queerest and cunningest
little woman ever tucked away in the covers of a book will please little
folks and grown people alike."--_Press._
* * * * *
AUNT MADGE'S STORY.
"Tells of a little mite of a girl, who gets into every conceivable kind
of scrape and out again with lightning rapidity, through the whole
pretty little book. How she nearly drowns her bosom friend, and
afterwards saves her by a very remarkable display of little-girl
courage. How she gets left by a train of cars, and loses her kitten and
finds it again, and is presented with a baby sister 'come down from
heaven,' with lots of smart and funny sayings."--_Boston Traveller._
_Any volume sold separately._
DOTTY DIMPLE SERIES.--Six volumes. Illustrated.
Per volume, 75 cents.
Dotty Dimple at her Grandmother's.
Dotty Dimple at Home.
Dotty Dimple out West.
Dotty Dimple at Play.
Dotty Dimple at School.
Dotty Dimple's Flyaway.
FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES.--Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents.
Flaxie Frizzle.
Little Pitchers.
Flaxie's Kittyleen.
Doctor Papa.
The Twin Cousins.
Flaxie Growing Up.
LITTLE PRUDY STORIES.--Six volumes. Handsomely Illustrated. Per volume,
75 cents.
Little Prudy.
Little Prudy's Sister Susy.
Little Prudy's Captain Horace.
Little Prudy's Story Book.
Little Prudy's Cousin Grace.
Little Prudy's Dotty Dimple.
LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES.--Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75
cents.
Little Folks Astray.
Little Grandmother.
Prudy Keeping House.
Little Grandfather.
Aunt Madge's Story.
Miss Thistledown.
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS,
BOSTON.
PENN SHIRLEY'S BOOKS.
[Illustration: Copyright, 1886, by Lee & Shepard.
SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION FROM "LITTLE MISS WEEZY."]
[Illustration: Copyright, 1833, by Lee and Shepard.
SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION FROM "LITTLE MISS WEEZY'S SISTER."]